by H. T. Kofruk
“Do you think we should build a new church?” he said suddenly. He saw that the question hadn’t taken his colleague by surprise.
“No. You are the Church, Sir Paul. You are the one giving faith to other Catholics and to the non-Catholics” she said. “And besides, we haven’t got the time or the resources to build a church.”
She left him standing wide-eyed.
That night, he had difficulty sleeping. What had she meant by ‘you are the Church’? He felt that Elena had a much firmer grasp of faith than he. To him, faith in God was a commitment to defend Catholics, to win their home, to obey the Church. Despite his piety and his record of proselytising, he realized that he had lacked fierce theological debates. It had always been a simple matter for him; the Church is good and just; the Church represents the will of God.
His mind drifted to Elena. He visualized her dark, maroon skin and her short black hair as she stood at his side on the cliff that afternoon. Hers was the last image in his mind before he succumbed to the warm embraces of sleep.
A loud banging sound awoke him. He looked turned on the ancient lamp by his bed and looked through blurred eyes at the round clock on the concrete wall. It felt like barely an hour had passed since he had fallen asleep but the clock indicated that he had slept a solid six hours. To his irritation, the banging started again.
“Who is it?” he said with his head between his palms trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
The soft, accented voice of Major Florian Abasi greeted him. “Sir Paul. We have detected military activity in the north.”
“I’ll be out in five minutes, major” he said.
The underground installation was full of salvaged equipment that hadn’t been used for decades or even centuries. Most of the current generation Web-Com sender-receivers were dependent on satellite data and continuous wireless energy. Nobody had really foreseen the destruction of two thirds of the satellites in Earth’s orbit or the sudden rationing of energy. Interconnectedness had been taken for granted and now people were starting to adapt to tjhis new world by creating small islands of data and energy transfer. Ancient thick cables of which the manufacturing methods had almost been forgotten had to be hauled on to the walls to feed the equally ancient machines.
“What’s the problem?” he asked Major Abasi who was standing next to a dirty screen.
The tall, pale-skinned Afrikan put a gauntleted finger to the screen which was displaying some kind of night time activity. “This was taken two hours ago on the west coast of Scotland.”
Paul squinted to see what was being displayed and soon realized that it was thermal hover-drone footage. The brightly coloured blobs seemed to be Rendens but he couldn’t make out exactly what they were doing.
Abasi switched the footage. “This was one hour ago, just after dawn.”
The footage was still dark but he could make out Rendens working on a large structure. A small army of armoured soldiers, otherwise invisible in thermal mode, appeared to be looking around warily. One of them suddenly seemed to spot the hover-drone and a few seconds later, the footage ended abruptly.
“Atlantic Alliance soldiers” said Paul.
Abasi nodded. “They’re at an old abandoned submersible factory. That big structure in the background is allegedly one of the few surviving military submersibles and it looks like they’re doing repair work.”
“And looking for spare parts and salvageable equipment from the factory. I want four marine battalions and two fighter squadrons with me. I’m going to pay them a visit. Don’t tell Grimly.”
The hilly terrain whizzed by in shades of brown and orange. The air was still damp from the downpour during the night. Paul could smell the autumn foliage even as he flew by. The word ‘autumn’ felt strange in his mouth; due to their long absence, the language of the Catholics could not describe many aspects of life on Earth. Seasons still mystified him, as did the excessive explosion of colours brought about by autumn. A whole cycle of life revolved around the annual rising and falling of temperature, an inexistent phenomenon on Constantine. For all his yearnings for Earth, he missed the monastery and the kind old abbot who had been like a father to him. He still sometimes fell into a silent melancholy whenever he remembered that the Grey Catholics’ adopted home was now a radioactive wasteland.
Lakes passed by shimmering in the morning sun. Within thirty five minutes, twelve Orca transport vessels arrived at the abandoned rubble formerly known as the city of Thorpe. The pilot of his Orca started repeating ‘you are surrounded, put down your weapons’ through a loudspeaker. Paul readied himself to jump out of the vessel.
“They are not complying, sir” said the co-pilot. “We count two hundred of them. No sign of air or orbital support.”
Paul nodded before the panel on which he stood gave way and he ‘fell’ two hundred feet to the ground. The concrete floor cracked as he landed though he barely felt any shock. Two dozen soldiers from the same craft landed behind him, all of them pointing their weapons at the Atlantic Alliance soldiers who were less than three hundred feet away. Troops started landing from the other crafts and an assortment of Atlantic Alliance Tiger Shark, Orthodox Storm and Afrikan Cobra I fighters descended from the sky.
Paul turned on a sound amplifier device on his shoulder and spoke to the opposing troops. “This is General Paul Camileri. You are trespassing on Resistance territory. Put down your weapons and this can end without bloodshed.”
Nobody from either side spoke for several seconds. Paul knew that the mutual silence would start to get the soldiers even more nervous and sooner or later, someone would start shooting. Though they had a tactical advantage with more troops and air support, he didn’t want any unnecessary death, especially since they were still like trapped mice against the Nikruk.
A sudden voice broke out. “We need just two more days.”
“Identify yourself” said Major Abasi who was standing behind Paul.
One of the soldiers facing them lowered his weapon and lifted his visor. “I am Captain Tito Da Silva, Atlantic Alliance Navy. We are here just for some minor maintenance work. We don’t want any trouble.”
Paul lifted off his grey helmet, his bald head shining from perspiration. “You know we can’t let you leave, captain.”
“Then you’ll have to kill us. Land is not safe, General.”
“We have sizeable combined troops and we hold the British Isles against the aliens. We could sure use more good men if you’re open to swearing allegiance to the Resistance.”
“And you’re the leader?”
Paul nodded.
“You’re a Catholic, yourself an alien and you want us and our leader to swear allegiance to you?”
Paul nodded again.
“Well you have a good sense of humour, General Camileri. But our leader doesn’t swear allegiance to anybody so either you let us walk, or we all die here.”
“Let me talk to your leader. Maybe I’ll talk some sense into him.”
Paul took Major Abasi and a squad of a dozen marines into the submersible to see the leader. It was his first time in an underwater vehicle and he found the experience disconcerting. The corridors were well lit but narrow. Though he was in arguably less danger than on a ship in space, it was hard for him not to imagine tons of water rushing through the vessel towards him. He suddenly became slightly anxious that he was being led into a watery grave because someone knew that he had never learned to swim. He shook his head to get rid of the irrational thought.
“First time in a submersible, General?” said Captain da Silva on noticing Paul’s evident discomfort.
Paul didn’t answer and merely clenched his jaw. Da Silva smiled in a slightly mocking way.
He soon arrived at a metal door guarded by a soldier in pure white armour, the same armour that Grimley wore. He then realized who the leader was.
Pope Andrew IV was in his early forties with thinning blond hair. Thought the flowing white robes in the sitting position made it difficul
t to discern his exact height, Paul could tell that he was tall and thin like most men of the Palini bloodline. The hereditary nature of the One God papacy ensured that the Palini family stayed in control of the Atlantic Alliance for the last six centuries, one of the longest dynasties in history. The war had taken its toll; grey hairs lined his sideburns and fatigue hung in the bags under his eyes. Another effeminate looking young man, Paul guessed the Chamberlain, stood to his side.
The Pope lifted his hand out of habit to have the papal ring kissed but then retracted it with an ironic smile. “A Catholic?” he said in a rich, deep voice that seemed unsuited to his appearance.
Paul didn’t say anything and merely stared wide-eyed at his nemesis. He had in front of him the embodiment of everything he had been taught to hate. If the One God Church was boiled down only to its essentials, the frail-looking man in front of him would be the final element.
The Pope smiled sourly. “You have every reason to hate me and my forefathers. Perhaps centuries of animosity between our two very similar religions should end right here with you killing me.” The Chamberlain shifted nervously at the last remark. “But perhaps after having mingled with Muslims, Jews, atheists and even One God followers, you have learned of a tolerance that we have always lacked. Perhaps that is our downfall.”
Paul still didn’t open his mouth. Was the leader of the One God Church talking of tolerance? The Pope remained still as a statue as if resigned to whatever decision reached by Paul.
“If I don’t kill you, what will you do?” he finally said.
The Pope sighed heavily as if deflating himself of anxiety and stress. “What is your name?”
“General Paul Camileri.”
“Well, General Camileri, you can see that our church, our state and our government are broken beyond repair. But it isn’t just the war and the aliens who destroyed it; we put in place a system of governance that was destined to break down. It’s almost a miracle that it lasted this long, in fact.”
“What are you saying?” said Paul after a few seconds of contemplation.
“That a system based on forced indoctrination, exclusion and fear will and should fail. We have led a super-state that preached and acted in two entirely different ways, two ways that contradicted each other and created a paradox of government.”
Paul couldn’t believe his ears. “Then why didn’t you change it?”
The Pope paused to think. “Because it was bigger than me. It was like a massive boulder gaining momentum as it tumbled down a hill. The strength of one man, even a powerful man, couldn’t stop it until it finally hit a wall and splintered into a thousand pieces.”
“It seems you’re just making excuses. If you knew and believed the wrongness of it all, you should have at least tried. You should have died trying.”
The Pope sighed again. “I am not as strong as you, General. In fact, I can actually say with some courage that I am a coward. A small man born into a hugely disastrous position.”
Paul was slightly taken aback by the Pope’s candidness. He was admitting cowardice, a strangely brave thing to do given the situation. “So what are you going to do?”
Tears appeared in the eyes of the young pope. “Live out my days. Yes, as a coward. I will stay hidden and perhaps beg mercy for my sins and those of my forebears. Hopefully, humanity will overcome the current calamity and rebuild itself stronger and smarter than it ever was. If I can see that happen, it will give me immense joy. If not, then so be it.”
Fire and ice duelled in Paul’s heart. Everything in him told him that the man in front of him should die, less for the crimes of his ancestors and more for his own failings as one of the most powerful men in the galaxy. He was also a divisive figure for the fragile cohesion that maintained the Resistance; Atlantic Alliance soldiers accounted for almost half his forces. He was sure that the years struggling and fighting together had cemented a strong camaraderie among his assortment of soldiers but it was difficult to divine the effect of the sudden appearance of the most powerful religious figure alive.
All the teachings of his life screamed for him to sever the Pope’s head from his body. The man hidden behind the white robes was the embodiment of an evil that had killed millions of Catholics. His noble people had been reduced to homeless mercenaries for four centuries. His hand went to the hilt of Lordwroth.
The Pope’s eyes went to his sword hand and then came back to his face before closing. “You have every right to strike me down. Perhaps centuries of pain caused by my forebears can be washed away with my blood.”
The Grey Knight drew his sword. Lordwroth knew it was about to be fed and pulsated warmly in his hand. He could assure the downfall of a tyrannical religious movement with one swift swing. His muscles tingled with anticipation.
He had forgotten the existence of the Chamberlain who threw himself in front of his master. Tears were dropping off his chin as he looked up fiercely at the mighty knight. With a face of a man ready to die, he shook his head as if to promise the wrath of God.
“Stand down, Stephan” said the Pope. “Our time has come.”
Paul looked at the Chamberlain and then at the Pope. He had imagined it so differently; he wanted the Pope to grovel at his feet and beg for mercy. It felt like such a sin to kill someone so helpless yet calm and dignified before the threat of death. With trembling hands, he slowly sheathed his starved blade. The Chamberlain crumpled to the floor to a kneeling position as if the momentary courage had driven all the energy from him. The Pope opened his eyes with evident relief.
“Don’t you want to participate? Don’t you think you should beg forgiveness by partaking in the struggle and the rebuilding of the world?”
The Pope shook his head. “No, General. I am not fit to partake. So I ask you to just let me go. Let the few men still loyal to me complete their repairs and you will never hear of the One God Pope again. I am childless so the pure bloodline of the Palini family will die out with me as it should have centuries ago. Win, General, and rebuild.”
Paul could see this self-banishment was his way of penance. Despite his self-depreciation, he saw a stubborn strength in him and knew he would not be talked out of his decision. “You have three hours, Your Holiness, and then I never want to see you again.”
The Pope nodded. “Thank you, General Camileri and may God bless you.”
Paul climbed out of the submersible slightly disgusted, from what he did not know.
Chapter 10: The Universe
‘Is death such a terrible thing? Of course imposing death upon another is a terrible deed. But is death itself a thing to warrant such fear? I am sceptical about myths about pearly gates and rainbow bridges. All reason points to death being a finality, a dark end that is part of life. I equally doubt the existence of any lingering spirits in the mortal world. But couldn't that be the ultimate cleansing, a reset button for any good or bad deed committed during a lifetime?’ - Terry Southend, personal memoir, year 2917
Grinya waited impatiently for the ceremony to start. Nervousness and tedium both made him fidget his thick fingers much like he had done as a young boy. He had yearned for this night for the past few years, but everyone had neglected to tell him how boring the build-up to perhaps the most compelling experience of his life would be.
He and the other members of the Five were each dressed in the ceremonial purple cloaks that his kind had worn for millennia. Ten years had passed since the last Branialia, the ‘Watching of the Stars’. He quickly calculated that that was roughly forty-two Earth years. Grinya was the most junior member of the Five and it was to be his first Branialia.
“It is an exhilarating experience” said Hinroo, the next most junior member. She was nine years older than he but the Branialia experience had left its mark and she looked almost shrivelled. No amount of time spent in the rejuvenation springs could hide the ageing instigated by knowledge.
The gong sounded, its metallic reverberations singing into the deep night. He stood up and took two steps
towards the deep pool called Abantha, or Pool of All Things. The liquid was clear and light but Grinya knew that it wasn’t water.
A second gong sounded and a brilliant pink light filled the entire chamber. His nervousness jumped, sweeping away any scraps of boredom, and no amount of deep breathing seemed to help. He had been told that the ceremony would require him to ‘drown’. The thought terrified him, to be denied air until his body shut down. But he couldn’t back out now. He had spent all his life preparing for this most important role.
A third gong was the sign to disrobe and relax. He let the loose-fitting purple robe fall down to the floor to reveal his brawny body. His long, powerful arms hung loosely beneath hunched, muscular shoulders. The hair on his torso and arms stood on end from both the sudden exposure and his incrementing anxiety.
Hinroo stood next to him, as naked as he was. Her generous breasts sagged slightly down and her torso held the premature wrinkles that had resulted more from excessive knowledge than purely age. He knew that his body would also suffer the same fate after the ceremony.
The fourth and final gong sounded. The other members of the Five crouched down next to the pool and started lowering themselves into the clear liquid. Grinya was terrified and stood motionless. He didn’t want to seem a coward or an oath-breaker but had seen what Branialia could do to a person. Hinroo looked up and smiled as if to tell him it would be alright. The other members ignored him and slipped their heads under the surface of the liquid.
