So Ezekiel kept his head down, and his thoughts guarded. To avoid being read as a man out of time.
That was essential among this company. Most humans here demonstrated only subconscious empathy, that latent animal sense of electromagnetic communication. But Jerine and Tilirine were consciously aware — feeling the world to act on it. Jerine was the more passive empath, so Ezekiel accompanied her, after Sirath had suggested they split into two groups to work through their list faster. Jerine also seemed somehow familiar. That at least allowed Ezekiel to escape the frightening masculinity of Dalathos and Ulric, who accompanied Tilirine.
Now Jerine led them through narrow city streets, pushing past knots of noisy crowds. Sirath was in excited conversation beside her. Erin followed behind, quiet and brooding. Ezekiel kept to the rear, staring at his surroundings with increasing sadness. And quiet rage. The maltreatment of children was only part of the horror of this world. People wore the skins of murdered animals. Buildings of mutilated rock and slaughtered trees hemmed him in. Men roamed free, like vermin.
Sickness, disfigurement, and injury appeared normative — judging by the way it seemed neither to be noticed, nor remarked upon, that someone might have a skin complaint, a squint, scars, missing fingers or limbs.
Weasel nuzzled inside his robe pocket, licked his fingers affectionately, and trilled. Ezekiel used their link only to ask it to settle, then stroked it in turn, thankful not to be alone in this place.
Jerine took them past tenements with a balcony at every window. Cloth or bead hangings stood behind some, others left their rooms open to the sun. Many overflowed with flowerpots. Lines of cord crossed above, clothes set out to dry above the grimy road. People gossiped over the street. The greatest wonder of this world was that anyone accepted this immoral living as ordinary.
He caught snatches of words, and his facilitator translated through the neural link. His vocabulary was growing exponentially, and the rules of grammar settled better in his mind. It was clearly related to the language the Imperium had used, though he’d had little time to study that. Still, he underplayed the limits of his comprehension — better to be underestimated. And avoid acting too freely. He still had no idea of how safely he could interact with this planet.
Especially if he really had fallen into its past
When he’d arrived in orbit, there had been the curious phenomena of spatial tears forming in the high atmosphere. Ezekiel had maneuvered his shell closer to one for study. Before his analysis had been completed, there had been the broadcast from an oncoming spacecraft — an announcement, by a Commander Molric, declaring his intention to change time, and prevent the future destruction of this world. The following collision had damaged Ezekiel’s shell and forced it into atmospheric entry.
Now there was no sign of the space-faring civilization he’d observed, let alone any post-industrial technology. And that disturbed him the most.
If Molric had piloted into a spatial tear, he might have dragged Ezekiel in with him. And if Commander Molric had succeeded in his first objective, then he would attempt the second — to rewrite the past. If both statements were true, then stopping Molric had become an urgent matter. Or else Earth would be doomed.
At least joining Jerine afforded protection enough to search for any sign of Imperium technology. As she’d said, he didn’t want to be seen as an outsider.
The road opened into a cobblestone plaza, crowded with market stalls. A flock of pigeons circled above.
“This is Armon Square,” Jerine said, as they gathered around her. “The bookkeeping office is ... over there.” She pointed to a row of tall timber buildings at the perimeter. She waved for the others to follow.
The facilitator touched Ezekiel’s mind with an alert. He only had time to wonder how it detected a pressure wave, when this world showed no evidence even of gunpowder.
A flash of red light. A building exploded. A terrific boom rumbled through his feet. His heart jolted and he fell with the shock of the blast. A thick plank hurtled at him — his facilitator raised a shield and deflected it. The timber clattered away.
Ezekiel lay stunned on the cold, cobbled ground. An eerie quiet followed, broken only by the patter of debris, like a soft rain. He dragged himself to his feet.
Cries of shock and fear broke the stillness. A woman with a soot-streaked face hobbled shrieking from the wreckage; a child smothered in dust began to scream.
Ezekiel powered down his facilitator before the physics of his shield might be noticed. Then he remembered Weasel, and panicked that it might have been hurt by his fall. Even before his hand reached his pocket, he could sense it safe, but alarmed. Sighing with relief, Ezekiel soothed it for reassurance. Weasel nipped at his fingers, as if to pull him nearer for protection.
Sirath rose unsteadily beside Jerine. “What in bollocks was that?”
Erin got to her feet, and glanced about with a bewildered expression.
A cloud of smoke and dust settled over the square. It drifted like a dry mist to envelope them. Ezekiel held his arm up to protect his eyes, but they stung anyway. He put a sleeve to his mouth and breathed carefully, to protect his lungs.
When he was able to see clearly again, a jagged hole had opened in the building. The front section had been blown off, fallen to a shattered rubble where a few small fires burned.
And at the forefront of Ezekiel’s mind, astonishment, that explosives were being used in this period.
Commander Molric couldn’t be far.
Dreaming the Future
Molric
Molric dreamed.
He lay in his grav bench, immersed in gentle blue light on the bridge of the ISS Explorer. Anxiously, he called up a series of screens. He touched some aside and pushed to enlarge the one with an external camera on Omicron Prime.
He expected to see the home planet burning: the sphere brown and black and streaked with red; ships disintegrating as they fled the atmosphere, the light of the Seraphim sending every living thing to oblivion. And hanging in space, that third moon — Solus, returned.
Instead he saw ... deep blue oceans and the lush greens of his home continent, clothed in whorls of white cloud; transports moving in traffic lanes to and from Korillion Spaceport. Everything looked ... routine. His neural link contained only general chatter — no screams or alarms pierced his mind. He wondered where his sudden panic had sprung from.
Molric dreamed.
He walked past Korillion University, the massive skyscrapers of Primary Citizens looming above. News screens formed in the air as an announcer declared, across every Jewel channel, that the Imperium had fallen: Emperor Dominaris had embraced the Calladine Federation in a peace treaty, and would enact full reforms to create a democratic government. Great Matriarch Vespina offered the full support of the Sarine System, as did the Ephors from the other prime systems, and the Inner and Outer Colonies. Everyone cheered. Molric laughed to Sarridan about how he’d never imagined he’d see this day. He felt especially relieved, as if shrived of guilt for something. He turned to his wife and young son, and smiled.
Molric slept peacefully.
A light glowed in his mind. It pulsated, faster and faster. A whine rose in his consciousness.
Molric started awake — the Vox at his arm broadcast a proximity alarm.
He opened his eyes, to see the same dirty wooden walls of the same dirty little room of the Lion Inn. His body rested across the cotton sheets he’d brought in to replace the parasite-ridden rags that had served as a bed.
His spirits sank. He must have fallen into an exhausted slumber, while reading dry scrolls from his council colleagues.
The alert from his Vox peaked. He stood too fast and became dizzy.
But the alarm meant someone approached and he must be prepared. Last year he’d suffered the indignity of a man bursting into his chambers, and that memory smarted. Buck Monkin had been sent to end his intrigues in Mardin. Molric had used a pulse from his Vox to hemorrhage every organ in the man’s bo
dy. Molric had survived, unscathed. But the attack had deeply shocked him. He would never be caught unawares again.
His body tensed as footsteps stopped outside his door — no kitchen servant was due until the evening. He anticipated, hoped for, Rodrigan’s coded knock. It was rapped upon the wood. To check, Molric tapped his fingers across the Vox. In his mind, it identified Rodrigan’s bio-electromagnetic signature, waiting outside.
Molric sighed with relief and shuffled to the door. He grasped the handle, and pulled. The door remained stuck. He tugged and it finally juddered opened. “I swear this jams worse with each passing day,” he muttered. “Do come in, my friend. I hope you are the bearer of good news?”
Rodrigan entered, and pulled back the hood of his traveling robes. He smiled. “Indeed, a few things to tell.”
Molric was happy for that. Tomorrow he would be able to leave this place, free to walk among his peers and reap the rewards of years of hard work — he would present himself at the vote for the chancellorship. And would finally realize the last leg of his plans. His secret confinement was almost over.
Rodrigan ran through his report.
The first was that his decoy for the Emperor’s Guard was set. A man named Tam Candles carried misinformation for Amberlin’s agents. Once read, it would be provided to the Emperor’s Guard. They would then ride out, into Duke Normon’s ambush, leaving the Emperor exposed.
If Tam Candles failed to deliver the scroll in a timely manner, then Rodrigan had an agent who could deliver a copy. Whichever way it fell, Councilor Brannon now had a general in the Emperor’s Guard who would speak up for it.
“Good,” Molric nodded. “What other news?”
Rodrigan told of Lora’s success last night. The head bookkeeper had been killed, and the charred remains of the bookkeeping records were illegible. Rodrigan even laughed at reports that a demon had been sighted at the scene. Molric shared the humor, astonished that people would claim to see such a thing, but was careful not to mock Rodrigan’s belief in their actuality. The Order of Omicron was the glue of empire, and an essential ally.
“There is the danger,” Molric said, “that further records exist at the bookkeeping offices.”
“As I came here, I received a report of a disturbance in Armon Square,” Rodrigan said. “It appears the twins may have finally seen to that matter. In addition, I am told the Sun Flower is now berthed. Labor from our workhouses will be used to hasten loading, to ensure they can sail tomorrow.”
Molric opened his mouth, about to object. Witchfire, as they called it, had been mixed and prepared in city workhouses they controlled. It would not do to attract attention to them. Still, there was logic to using labor whose silence was guaranteed. “Good. I want Serannos in Mardin as soon as possible. I do not want Irithia taking matters into its own hands, before I can establish my authority here.”
“There is one other issue.” Rodrigan’s expression was troubled. “Councilor Amberlin has hired men to investigate the workhouses.”
“That is a desperate last roll of the dice. He must have found some whisper of the Monument Trade Route. He will find nothing more.”
“True, but ... there are a few points that trouble me. For one, these mercenaries are lodged in this inn, on the floor above.”
Molric gazed up at the ceiling. That was unwelcome indeed, and his stomach sank. Visions of his door being smashed through at the Angelleri residence returned. “Then I shall be especially vigilant because of this sad coincidence.”
“Secondly, my sources also claim that one of them is a duke. Yet he wears no identifying arms, neither is he dressed nor accompanied as a man of high station should.”
“A duke?” Molric repeated with surprise. “There is no purpose to it. I should think it nothing more than a drunken peasant boast.”
“I agree. But should we do nothing?”
Something nagged at the back of Molric’s mind. He caught it quickly. “You say Councilor Amberlin has them searching the workhouses?”
Rodrigan nodded.
“Then put the few we still need under the Order’s protection. Do so immediately.”
“I’ll send riders the moment I leave.”
Molric nodded to himself. “It will raise suspicion, but it will take months for Councilor Amberlin to pursue in the chambers. By which time, the arms will have long since shipped. Being a man of law, he has no other option, without bringing himself into disrepute.”
“Our actions might yet attract Father Dinemetis.”
“In two days I will have the throne. What can he do in so short a time?” With the report delivered, Molric dismissed Rodrigan.
Rodrigan saluted and left, forcefully closing that sticking door behind him.
Molric looked across his scattered notes and books about the room. Though he was tired of this place, tomorrow would be a day of accomplishment. First the vote, then the throne. It was an accepted precedent for the chancellor, as chair of the city council, to take over imperial duties — should an Emperor die without an heir.
Sephis VI had no family. It was why his ascension had been tolerated in the first place. He had been the one choice every faction could begrudgingly accept. But his servants were legion. It had taken two years to isolate the Emperor, removing trusted advisors, and discreetly increasing Molric’s own influence, by fair means or foul. After the vote confirmed him as chancellor, only that senile old man would stand between him and the throne.
Molric could usher in a golden age of invention, peace, and prosperity. He would accelerate knowledge of the sciences like nothing imagined. If he were suitably cautious, also dominate that second continent. Success there could avert nuclear war, that the Imperium remembered as The Great Burning. Humanity could reach space a thousand years early. And spread out far enough across the galaxy to avoid extermination by the Seraphim. They might even discover a way to defeat them.
Molric would not simply change the world. He would save humanity.
And everything was going to plan.
For the first time in an age, he allowed himself to feel hope for the future.
Works of Faith
Erin
Erin could not forget the sight of yet another workhouse, and the captive poverty of maimed children within. All her teachings had said that faith must be expressed by good works. Here in the city of Corianth, the centre of the Order’s spiritual power, she had seen none.
It was left for ordinary people to look after one another. As earlier, at Armon Square, when they stopped to aid those trapped by the wreckage. After that thunder and fire. Erin had joined them, only to discover a body, burned naked, and covered with flaps of blackened skin. Her heart still drummed hard from that sharp experience.
Now Jerine led them through a noisy indoor market. Sacks of spices, peppercorns, or herbs, stood between pillars of polished green marble. She pushed her way through until they came to a long arcade, away from the worst of the noise.
Erin wanted nothing more than to flee to somewhere quiet to calm her thoughts.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” Jerine said, “but all this walking has given me a thirst.” She stopped before a stall selling small ale — tasted a sample — then ordered a cup for each of them.
Erin sipped miserably at hers. The drink was bitter, her mood more so. If she was ordained, could she implement change for a fairer world? She was just one person, lost from God, and powerless against injustice.
Sirath watched her, a curious expression in his eyes. “Still think the workhouses are a good idea? Giving shelter and work to the homeless, and all that?”
“Of course not!” she snapped. “Whoever owns those should be imprisoned there instead. See how they care to live in such sickening conditions.”
Sirath glanced aside to Jerine. “The Order owns them. Each and every one. They lease them out for profit.”
Erin slowly lowered her cup. She stared imploringly to Jerine, who shrugged and looked away. Ezekiel’s gaze was already d
own, more as if trying to hide his unusual face. “Jerine ... tell me it is not true.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
Erin felt a hot rage knot in her belly. Her lip trembled and she opened her mouth — but could think of nothing to say to that revelation. It was beyond words that the servants of God should seek to exploit the suffering of children.
They finished their drinks, and continued along the quieter edge of the market. Spice merchants had given way to scribes, offering to write letters for distant families, threats for cheating spouses, or spells to increase health, wealth, or luck. Erin ignored their encouragements to stop. Every new thing she learned condemned the Order. How could she serve those who gained from the misery of innocents?
Someone grabbed her shoulder. Erin whirled around, ready to slap whoever assaulted her. It was only Jerine, who stepped back with her palms raised. Erin immediately regretted her impulse. “My apologies, Jerine, I did not realize it was you. My nerves have become somewhat ... frayed.”
Jerine nodded sympathetically. “I appreciate that. I’ve a suggestion.” She took out a sheet of parchment, provided by Pieter. “We’re not far from the Garden of the Blessed, where the First Temple of Omicron stands. We could cut through the grounds to reach the next workhouse. That might allow for a moment of peace, and also give you an idea of how to find it tomorrow.”
Erin nodded mutely, not caring one way or the other, but appreciating the spirit in which it was given.
Sirath grimaced. “Why would we want to go near that temple? It’s just a load of cold stone.”
“Not in front of Erin, please, Sirath,” Jerine said. “You’re being impolite.”
“I’m only telling truth. It’s not as if she cares. About anything, or anyone. She can’t if she’s going to become a priest.”
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