In the Year of Our Lord 2202

by Edward Lee

  Sharon stared at the star system’s brightest offering at the end of the dipper’s handle. “Polaris, the North Star.”

  “Navigators have been using it for 3000 years,” Tom observed. “I think it changes every 5000.”

  “Because of earth’s ecliptic processional movement. It used to be Thuban in the Draco system, and one day it’ll be Alpha Cephei.”

  “I’ll take Polaris any day. Job called it the eye of God.”

  Perhaps it was. Sharon shuddered at the spectacle. Just then, the entire galaxy seemed a hand’s reach away.

  “I knew you’d dig this,” Tom said.

  “Thank you.” Only then did Sharon realize she’d not let go of Tom’s arm. She could feel the muscles beneath his uniform sleeve. All hard curves. With the cosmos distracting her, her focus skirted away…and forbidden images overwhelmed her.

  Forgive me…

  She was kissing him, sucking his tongue. Her hand rubbed his groin, marveling at the mysterious hardness that seemed to grow as she rubbed it. His strong thigh pressed up into her pubis, the sensation of which sent a gust of the most primitive pleasure through her guts. The hard pinpoints of her breasts ached as if bitten; then he was biting them literally after his firm hands had peeled her uniform down to her waist.

  She could barely breathe. Her lust was smothering her. His hand slid down inside her uniform, down her front, his fingers buried in her sex, which was now overflowing. Her own hand did the same to him, exploring what she’d never explored before. His testes felt like ripe fruit. Next, higher, to the shaft, the whole hot raw thing in her hand. She was squeezing out beads of enigmatic liquid, slicking it back and forth over the strange pulsing rod of flesh. Then—

  She was out of her jumpsuit altogether. Naked and flat on her back like a whore in a Gomorran fertility feast.

  Fuck me. …

  “Hey, hey, wait—”

  The sinful muse shattered; reality crashed back.

  Sharon was kissing him—for real.

  His hands urged her backward. “This isn’t right.”

  Her head swam in circles. “Why isn’t it?”

  “You have vows.”

  “I—”

  “I’m not going to do this! It’s illegal!”

  “Kissing is?” some part of her objected. “Touching? Fondness is illegal?”

  “Yeah. In the Army it is, and you know that. Let’s get out of here. I never should’ve brought you here.” She couldn’t believe what she was saying. “We won’t tell anyone. Let’s just—”

  “No! You’re a virgin! You don’t just give that away!”

  “But I—I—”

  More reality fell on her. What have I done! Dread fell on her like a heavy net. She brought her hands to her face. “Oh my God! I don’t know what came over me. I’m so embarrassed!”

  “Forget it.” He sleeved some sweat off his brow. “Come on, let’s check out the Solon Station.”

  Sharon sheepishly followed him back down to the accessmain. What is wrong with me? She’d never behaved like this in her life. What would the priest say at her next Confession? What would the General-Vicar say if they’d been caught? Behavior like this could ruin my conduct record…

  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I need a beer.”

  In her shame, she barely heard him. “Beer? That’s been illegal for almost fifty years.”

  “Sure, within all the Christian political borders. The Federate rents half of the Solon Station to the Japanese; it’s a space commerce post. The Christian Federate has no jurisdiction there. Booze, brothels, casinos, and—guess what? Solid food.”

  Sharon was totally unaware of this but, just the same, not very interested. Official jurisdiction or not, such indulgences were sins.

  And today she’d already committed her share.

  As they followed the accessmains to the debark bulkhead, Tom seemed uneasy. She could hardly blame him. Eventually their passage was stopped cold by a throng of crewmembers waiting at the processing point.

  “Jesus. I fuckin’ hate standing in lines.”

  Sharon dismissed the vulgarity. She squinted into the throng, standing on tip-toes to see past the crush of shoulders and heads. “I don’t see Brigid anywhere. I wonder where she is.”

  “Hey! Up front!” Tom shouted his complaint. “We’re growing old back here!”

  A detached voice from behind caught them both by surprise: “Specialist, Private. I’m afraid your debark privileges have been revoked. Both of you—follow me.”

  Tom was about to fire off another vocal objection…until he noticed who’d just spoken.

  General-Vicar Luke.

  (IV)

  Sharon and Tom hustled to keep up with the General-Vicar as he headed back to the command levels.

  “Sir, uh, with all due respect, I haven’t had any leave in fourteen months,” Tom explained.

  “And perhaps you’d like to spend the next fourteen months in the brig,” the commander calmly replied, “which, if you ask me, is where a brazen, impertinent punk like you deserves to be in the first place.”

  This is it, Sharon felt sure. There must’ve been surveillance chips in the ob-cove. They saw me trying to seduce Tom…

  “But, uh, again, sir, with all due respect. You just gave me a three-day pass.”

  “What you deserve is a three-day ass-kicking for that ungodly mouth of yours. Can it, Private, or I’ll bust you so low you’ll think the bottom of my boot heel is the ionosphere.”

  Sharon was wilting, shame piling upon shame. It took all of her courage to ask: “Sir, are we being…reprimanded?”

  “Reprimanded? Of course not.” Luke passed through a security door with his chip-pin. “You’re both on the classified duty manifest.”

  Tom took more exception. “Sir, we weren’t informed about any—”

  “Shut your hole, Private, before I kick it closed.” The General-Vicar explained directly to Sharon: “You’ve both been selected for a special mission. Regrettably, I can’t disclose many details at this point.”

  “So, this really never has been a routine resupply flight?” Sharon asked.

  “That’s correct. We’re letting most of the crew debark at the Solon Station. They have no idea that we’re going to leave them there. They’ll all be picked up and taken back to the moon by the next freighter. We launched with a full crew to avert suspicion. This mission was planned in advance.”

  Sharon’s excitement collided head-on with her complete puzzlement. A classified mission—and I’m on the manifest. This might very well explain the bizarre analysis transmissions that the ship had been receiving. And, now that she thought of it—

  “If I may, sir. In spite of the lengths that have been taken to keep the mission secret, isn’t it advisable to suspect the possibility of infiltration?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Luke agreed. “The Red Sect member who tried to kill you, for instance, could’ve been tipped off, could’ve been stowed away on the ship by Federate collaborators. We have to consider it possible.”

  “Who else knows about the mission?” Tom had the audacity to ask.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Private, the only member of the original crew who knows anything…is me. And to return to Sharon’s point, the possibility of a security breach is the reason why we’re abandoning most of the crew. We’re only proceeding with the mission with a dozen techs. Mostly Security Corp and anyone else with a sufficient clearance.”

  “A dozen?” Tom nearly railed. “Who’s going to run the ship?”

  “To reduce the chances of human infiltration,” Luke explained, “all manual control stations have been locked out. Everything—propulsion, life-support, course-projection—is all discreeted. The ship’s Macro-Analysis Computer will take over from here—in auto-mode based on a previously initiated program. Human tampering is not an option.” Luke looked directly at Sharon. “Navigation is discreeted too, but you’ve been retained to survey the navigational status
monitors for a potential abort display.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “What about me?” Tom asked. “Why was I retained for this mission?”

  Luke’s facial expression seemed to be one of total disgruntlement. “Because—unfortunately —you’re the only securitech onboard who’s qualified to fly the ship’s lenticular re-entry vehicle.”

  Tom stopped in his tracks. “You mean…we’re going to another planet? You want me to land an LRV on another planet?”

  General-Vicar Luke didn’t stop walking. His only response to the query was a simple, unequivocal “Yes.”

  — | — | —

  PART FIVE

  “He stretcheth out the north

  over the empty place,

  and hangeth the earth

  upon nothing…”

  —Job 26:7

  — | — | —

  (I)

  “Group! Ateeeeeeeeen-hut!”

  Everyone in the command briefing cove snapped to attention as Luke entered, Sharon and Tom trailing behind. “At ease,” he said. “Be seated.”

  Via its solid lox engines, the ship had already thrusted off from the Solon Station, leaving almost the entire crew behind without explanation. Sharon counted only eleven people in the cove. He said a dozen, didn’t he? Commander-Deaconness Esther was here, and so was Warrant Officer Simon. Everyone else seemed to be Security Corp personnel, everyone except—

  Brigid sat at the conference table’s far end.

  What’s wrong with her?

  The raven-haired civilian looked blanched, anemic.

  “As you all know by now,” Luke said, “we’ve all been selected to take part in a classified mission. Details will be forthcoming, as the need to know progresses. The mission objectives forbid me from outlining the details at this point.”

  Most everyone in the cove looked either dismayed or aggravated.

  “All I can say right now is that we will soon initiate a sub-light nuclear-drag into the north celestial quadrant. This is not an exercise.”

  A multitude of questions bloomed on the faces of all present, but no one dared ask anything.

  Save for Tom: “Sir, if I may, who authorized the mission orders?”

  “The Pope himself, under advisement from the Vatican Security Council.” The ship’s commander scanned the faces of everyone in the cove. “Sometimes God’s work is secret, yet it remains God’s work. So it says in Deuteronomy, ‘The secret things belong unto the Lord our God.’”

  “Amen,” the room replied.

  “From here on, the Edessa will run in auto-mode. Most of you are here strictly to maintain security.”

  Tom instantly spoke up: “Then how come Major-Rector Matthew isn’t here? Why wasn’t he selected for the mission?”

  The question left Luke’s eyes downcast, troubled. “Major-Rector Matthew’s name was indeed on the personnel manifest, which leads us to our first dilemma. He is unaccounted for and presumed dead.”

  “What!” Tom belted out. The others seemed shocked, with Brigid as the only exception.

  What is going on here! Sharon thought.

  Luke glanced at Brigid, gave a grim nod. “For those of you who don’t know her, Sister Brigid is from the Federate’s Civilian Branch. Sister?”

  Brigid stood up, still clearly distraught from some unnamed torment. Her voice sounded dry, hoarse. “I’m a remote-viewer,” she said, “from Meade Cathedral’s Psychical Services Center. Earlier today, I was practicing what we call a ‘run,’ and I saw a dead body. Somewhere on the ship.”

  “You mean in the morgue unit, right?” Tom said.

  “No. I sensed it was somewhere amidships, in the command levels. I could tell by the blue service lights at the thresholds.”

  “Was it Major-Rector Matthew?” Dr. Esther asked in alarm.

  “There was a sack of some kind over the corpse’s face so I can’t say for sure,” Brigid continued. “But I did make out major emblems on the uniform. After I saw this, I immediately reported it to the General-Vicar, whereupon he informed me that Major-Rector Matthew had been missing for several hours.”

  “So,” Luke added, “it’s fairly safe to assume that this is the Major—deceased, probably murdered.”

  “Murdered by someone on this ship,” someone piped in.

  Maybe even by someone in this room, Sharon considered.

  Tom was frowning, addressing Brigid. “Wait a minute. You’re saying that you saw this dead body psychically?”

  “Yes. I was not physically present at the time.”

  “Then how do you know he was actually dead?”

  “Believe me. When you have the sensitivities that I have…you know. The absence of a life-force projects a particular psychic reaction.”

  “I’m not buying that crap,” Tom said, standing up. “We’ll just have to search all of the fuckin’ command levels. Cove by cove. He could still be alive and we’re all sitting around like a bunch of putzes.”

  “Very well, Private,” Luke approved. “Take the rest of the securitechs, designate search parties, and commence. You’re in charge.”

  “Come on, let’s roll,” Tom said to the rest of the techs. They all quickly filed out of the cove.

  Luke appraised those who remained: Esther, Simon, Brigid, and Sharon. “The rest of you, come with me.”

  ««—»»

  “Due to our technical specialties,” Luke was saying as he led them down a corridor, “the four of us have the highest-level security classifications of anyone else on board. That’s why I’d like you all to see this. I’ll need your input, and your discretion.”

  Commander-Deaconness Esther queried, “My clearance is only mid-level, sir. Are you sure you want me to—”

  “Yes, I am,” Luke cut her off. “Your experience as a Federate physician makes your opinion most crucial. It’s a medical situation.”

  Sharon couldn’t guess what he meant, but with all that had happened over the last hour, she wasn’t surprised. But what did surprise her then was their current destination: Sharon recognized it at once.

  The Property Vault. The restricted morgue suite.

  For the second time in a solar cycle, Sharon was entering this strangest of stations. The first time she’d entered, she’d nearly been killed by a bomb…

  The body of the Red Sect terrorist remained bagged on the exam-slat. Luke quickly debriefed Brigid as to what had really happened, and why this body was here.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Simon asserted.

  Luke looked at him with calculation. “It’s interesting that you’d say that, Simon—since you’re the one who performed the autopsy scans on the decedent.” Suddenly Simon looked less weaselly than usual.

  “I can vouch for Mr. Simon’s qualifications, sir,” Esther said.

  “I didn’t ask you to, Doctor.”

  “Is there a problem with the autopsy?” Simon asked.

  Luke faced him sternly. “As a matter of fact, there is. All of the autopsical analyses — the tomographs, the blood screens, and the DNA probes—were forged. Someone switched the genuine test results,” Luke turned on the holochart above the corpse “with these counterfeit results.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Simon finally stood up for himself. “Your insinuation is out of line. And if those aren’t the real results, then where are they?”

  Luke popped a data-chip into the holoscreen’s drive. “Right here.”

  The chart was completely different from the previous one. “No mention of ABZ Genotype Syndrome,” Sharon muttered, staring up.

  “Correct,” Luke said. “The fake DNA probe didn’t match with anyone in the global ID base. This man, in other words, isn’t Red Sect at all, he was topically altered to appear so. The Red Sect mark, for instance, is artificial. It’s the result of a deliberate skin graft that was genetically pigmentated to look like the real thing. And whoever did this thought they were deleting the genuine results and substituting them with the fakes. Unbeknownst to
them, the Exploratory Corp changed their processing discriminators before we launched. The MAC picked up the discrepancy at once.”

  “If he’s not Red Sect,” Brigid asked, “then who is he?”

  “Timothy Peter,” Luke reeled off. “Surname Dunne. He is—or I should say was—a field operative for Federate Intelligence.”

  The rest was easy to see. “Our own Federate Intel service tried to sabotage the mission!” Sharon exclaimed. Brigid finished, “And make it look like Red Sect.”

  Luke nodded. “That much is clear. But what’s not clear at all is why.”

  Esther was bristling. “Sir, I feel it my duty to point out that quite a few rumors were circulating about Warrant Officer Simon—”

  “That’s uncalled for!” Simon shouted.

  “—that he’s a Federate Intel plant! Simon performed the autopsy, which means he had the best opportunity to substitute a phony diagnostic chart—”

  “You’re the one who processed the chart, Esther!” Simon yelled back. “It wouldn’t matter that they were discreeted!”

  “—and it also means that he knew about the bomb!”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Luke ordered. “It’s been interesting gauging your reactions to all of this—”

  Simon again: “Sir, I assure you, I didn’t have anything to do with this. The more logical suspect is Esther.”

  “I said shut up!” The room hushed; then Luke continued. “I don’t suspect either of you—you both passed the polygraph; in fact, everyone now on board passed it before launch. This was all prepared beforehand.”

  “I still don’t believe it,” Simon griped. He roughly opened the body bag, revealing the nude corpse from the waist up. Everyone winced at the sight of the faceless skull. The incision that Tom had made—to extract the bomb—remained hanging open, but the large scarlet mark across the chest was essentially intact. Immediately, a chill bolted up Sharon’s neck.

  The face of the demon, she thought. Surkulik.

  Simon pointed to the mark, challenging the General-Vicar. “You’re telling us that’s fake? That it’s some kind of genetically cultured skin graft? I’ve seen them before, sir; they all look the same.”