Cardinal Mar Dak strolled down the hoary stone hallway, the thick metal boots of her Gaberlunzie suit echoed off the cold slate walls. She flexed her clawed hands inside the bulky protective suit, and yearned for the open ocean of her home planet. The Gaberlunzie suit was a necessity when traveling, but the claustrophobia it induced put her on edge.
She hated coming here. Even worse, being summoned by that buffoon, Pope Antiochus. Behind her, Prajma Kutkhu, her five-year-old ward walked silently, her simple brown robes ruffled faintly. Her head was bowed, and a cascade of dirty blonde hair covered her face.
Mar Dak’s boney, fanged mouth chittered and snapped, her purple eyes narrowed to slits. She hated the man who wore the white crown of the Five. Hated him. But like all the other Cardinals and Bishops in the Church of the Holy Ascension, she had to lick the deng from his gilded boots. At least in public.
Behind the scenes, Mar Dak had been negotiating and scheming for years. Antiochus was getting old, his health failing, and soon would come the election of the new Pope. Rumors had flown for decades that he might even step down, but Mar Dak knew better than that. The vicious old man would have to be buried before he’d relinquish the white crown.
She had been next in line, she was certain of it. But the old man had refused to die, and her dear friend and strongest ally, Cardinal Angelo Levada, had been murdered two years ago. Butchered in his sleep like a common animal.
She had suffered the brunt of the fallout as alliances shifted. Such was the nature of the College of Cardinals, a den of vipers if there ever was one. She felt her grasp on the white crown grow more tenuous each day. The reassuring certainty that, when the next Papal Conclave convened, she would ascend to the holy throne had evaporated.
She approached the titanic cathedral doors that led to the Room of Tears, where the Pope held audience. She paused for a moment, calming her mind before pressing her clawed hand against the door. It swung open without a sound.
The enormous chamber felt oppressive, its vaulted ceiling soared overhead, its intricate archways wove together forming a complex five-pointed star. In the center a single shaft of light shone down, bathing the red throne in golden light. The floor, carved of the purest white marble, glowed internally. Along the walls, five paintings hung.
They had been commissions by Pope Narada the Third, and never failed to make an impression. Each abstract, painted by what many consider the greatest light artist the Seven Systems had ever know, Nai Sinivali, represented one of the Five, the Gods who had brought knowledge and power to humanity, pulling them from the brink of self-destruction, and built the foundations of the Alliance.
It was said that the white crown had been forged by the Five themselves, shortly after the event that nearly destroyed the human species all those long centuries ago. It had been their gift, along with the Yassa, to bring enlightenment to the fallen race. For almost three hundred years, the white crown had endured, the central hub of power in the Alliance.
The CEO’s of the mega-corps would scoff at the idea, but Cardinal Mar Dak knew the truth. The Pope had a direct line of communication with the Five, and to know the will of the Gods was the true definition of power. Power she thirsted after.
Pope Antiochus sat on his throne, his bloated, pallid flesh wriggled as he tore a hunk of meat from the tray his servant Anoko held. Suckling the grease loudly from his fingers, his sharp green eyes narrowed.
“Cardinal Mar Dak, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
She bowed low, observing the formal art of approaching the holy throne. Her ward, Prajma, clumsily did the same.
Her mechanical voice was distorted and twisted as she spoke. Unlike the others of her race, she preferred to keep the Gaberlunzie suit modifications to a minimum, letting her real voice translate through an ancient metallo box, rather than the newer voice boxes that used an artificial larynx to perfectly mimic human speech.
Some part of her enjoyed the expressions of revulsion the sound of her words caused.
“His most Holy Archbishop, Vicar of the Five, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Holy Ascension, Servant of the Servants of the Five—“
“Come now,” he interrupted. “Enough with the formalities. Tell me why you’ve disturbed my dinner. No small matter would bring Cardinal Mar Dak to my holy chambers at this late an hour.”
Did she detect sarcasm in his voice? He was difficult to read.
She bowed low again. “As you wish.” Straightening, she approached the throne. “There has been a genetic prophecy read, a young girl pulled from the distant past.”
“And?” the Pope said wearily as he slurped the last of his wine from a golden goblet.
“The prophecy is… troubling.”
“I don’t have time for riddles, Cardinal,” the Pope said as he poured the last few drops from his wine pitcher. “Anoko, more wine.”
The twisted creature lowered the tray of steaming meats it had been holding and took the glass pitcher from Pope Antiochus’ swollen fingers. Mar Dak felt strangely sorry for the crippled brute as it limped, dragging its useless left leg across the ground as it moved.
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A member of the Faro race, Anoko had once been an ambitious and particularly sadistic Techno-Priest. She had seen the vids of its interrogations; it seemed to relish the cruelty and torture. It was, however, attacked by a mob during Tyre’s second battle of Independence, its implants torn from its rotund body, leaving it scarred and broken.
As punishment for its failure, the creature had been forced to heal naturally, the tech implants and vestments of its former calling denied, and its body had never been the same. Unlike the rest of the Faro, a race of round, bag-like creatures, Anoko’s body was emaciated, its thin yellow skin pulled tight around the wide ribs of its torso. Its face sagged with loose skin, and the scars that crossed its body were too numerous to count.
Pope Antiochus had kept it around as his trusted advisor. Or so he claimed. Mar Dak suspected it was meant to send a message to those who would seek the white crown. A demonstration of his abject power and cruelty.
“The genetic prophecy,” she said, choosing her words with care, “it speaks of the fall of the Church at the hand of this girl.”
The Pope sat forward in his chair, wiping the grease from his hand onto the clean white vestment he wore. “What do you mean?”
She slid on her aglets and swiped the prophecy to his HUD. “I think it’s best you review the prophecy for yourself.”
She waited in silence as he listened to the prophecy. Anoko returned, the pitcher filled again with the dark red liquid the Pope was so fond of. When it finished playing, he sat back, rubbing his chin.
He held out his goblet, which Anoko dutifully filled.
“This cannot be…” he muttered to himself.
“That was my thought; perhaps some error in the code.”
“Blasphemy,” came a hushed whisper from behind her. The first words Prajma had spoken. Mar Dak turned and glowered at the girl, who lowered her flushed cheeks, her gaze glued to her feet. Her hands fidgeted under the heat of Mar Dak’s stare.
“Careful,” Antiochus clucked his tongue. “The girl is right, you are dangerously close to blasphemy. The Five themselves created the genetic prophecy code. And the gods do not make mistakes.”
“My apologies,” she said, biting her tongue and bowing low. “I meant no disrespect to the Five. I simply meant, perhaps there was an error in the particular genetic altar used to test the girl. Some corruption that had effected the perfect code the Five had created.”
Pope Antiochus rubbed his fat chin. “Perhaps… Yes, perhaps.”
He leaned forward in his chair, taking another guttural drink of his wine which dribbled red streaks down his chest. “Tell me more of the girl.”
“There is nothing to tell really,” Mar Duk said. “She’s an unremarkable ten-year-old girl from before the fall of man. A first-year student at Bavel. I suppose we’ll know more once the entrance exams are complete, but from what her processor reported, she’ll likely end up a mid-level commander in the military.”
“Anoko, I’m full. Fetch me my branks,” Pope Antiochus ordered. Mar Dak’s long fingers tapped on her thigh, the only betrayal of her annoyance as Anoko strapped the device to the Pope’s face. The silver mechanism tightened, wrapping around his nose and mouth, muffling his voice as the liquid metal coated his tongue and sinuses.
“Have you ever tried branks?” he asked.
Mar Dak shook her head. She didn’t have time for such frivolity. The Pope snorted derisively.
“Not surprising, I suppose, given your spartan habits. Remarkable devices. Sad really, to think of all the great artists, the chefs and cooks of the past whose art form was transient. Robuchon, Escoffier, Adria; their art buried in the grave with their corpses, lost to time.”
Anoko’s deformed right hand twitched awkwardly, manipulating its aglets. “Sezmu Niamye has a new twelve course program.”
Pope Antiochus nodded his head, his eyes lulling as the flood of tastes and smells bombarded his senses.
“Have the girl retested,” he said, his eyes fading into the symphony playing out in his mouth. “Ensure the alter is properly functioning, and test the girl for genetic mutations.”
“I shall inform Bavel of your command immediately.”
“No. I want you to see to it personally,” he said slowly, savoring each word
Mar Dak’s purple eyes twitched. “Your Holiness, surely a simple retesting could be handled—“
Pope Antiochus dismissed her complaints with the wave of a hand. “I’m reassigning you to the Academy.”
“What?” she said, her voice ice. She had served as the liaison between the Church and Microtech for fifteen years, a position of great prestige and influence. Bavel, also known as the Academy, was an appointment reserved for the elderly or invalid, an honorary position given to a Cardinal who was of no further use.
The Pope smiled as he watched her struggle to maintain her composure.
“But, your Holiness,” she stammered. “Surely I could be of more use to the Five where I am currently assigned.”
The Pope clucked his metal coated tongue. “This directive came directly from the Five,” he answered. “I did not fully understand their command until you brought this prophecy to my attention. It is not our part to question their will.”
Mar Dak bowed low again. Rage seethed in her throat. There were a great many things she wanted to say, but she knew now was not the time. She glanced at Anoko out of the corner of her eye; the twisted creature grinned, its deformed jaw twisting its smile into a horrible grimace. Black spittle dribbled down a scar that created a gnarled gap in its lower lip. It slurped, an annoying habit the creature had that made Mar Dak despise it even more.
“Of course, I did not presume to tell you the mind of the Five. It will be done as you command.”
The Pope closed his eyes, sinking further into the tapestry of tastes the branks played across his tongue and nose. “You are dismissed.”
The Cardinal bowed low again before storming out, Prajma silently trailed behind her. As the doors swung shut, the rage finally boiled over into an animalistic scream. Prajma cowered, terrified that she would make a convenient outlet for the Cardinal’s fury. Mar Dak’s mind raced. What has she done? What had she overlooked? How had she tipped her hand?
She inhaled the thick water inside her Gaberlunzie suit, the gills along her throat splayed wide as her jaw distended, each of the four pieces extending and unfolding. The Pope was reasonably clever, but not so smart as to piece together the plan she had been working for so very long.
No, this was something new. Someone had betrayed her. But who? Her jaw snapped shut. She’d have to arrange a meeting with Lucy Shara. She didn’t relish the thought of owing a Syndicate board member yet aother favor, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Perhaps this new position could be worked to her advantage. Who would suspect a lowly Cardinal at Bavel of arranging the assassination of the sitting Pope? The skeleton of a plan began to form in the back of her head.
She needed to think. There was much to do, and not much time to do it in. They would expect her arrival at the Academy shortly. Her jaw flexed open and shut again, her purple eyes narrowing to small slits. Greatness is not achieved by strength, she reminded herself, but by perseverance.
“Quat,” she said. “Call the Abraxas. Have Captain Mugasa meet me at shuttle bay eleven.”
“As you wish,” her A.I. replied.
She turned to the forgotten girl, her ward who followed like a silent shadow. “You embarrassed me.”
The girl nodded, her tiny frame shaking.
“See that it doesn’t happen again.”
Her pace quickened as she walked to meet her flagship.