On board the St. Laurentia bound for (24475) Ada IV Jokim. One month to destination.
Natan Goss woke up before his heart did. He could feel the organ, frozen and cold behind his ribs. He was physically and mentally weightless, but felt that his heart, like an anchor, was sinking him into oblivion.
A familiar chant came to mind—Pater noster, qui es in caelis—but he gave it up before he could begin.
The darkness returned.
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“Welcome aboard, Holy Father.”
Natan’s chest heaved as he coughed up some of the gelatinous lavender slim he’d been immersed in.
“Swallowed a bit of it? That happens. Entirely normal,” the Captain said. He was a thin, hollow-cheeked man in his fifties who Natan just barely recalled meeting when he’d boarded the St. Laurentia. , if he remembered correctly.
The captain squatted before him, the perfectly pressed fabric on his navy blue pants bunching at his thighs, pristine white boots planted to the tiles. His expression said he could squat there all day, and would do so happily if he had to. His calloused hands held the clear plastic bucket Natan was coughing into, still dispelling purple tinted liquid from his lungs.
With shaking hands, Natan managed to grasp the bucket himself, putting it between his bare knees in case he had further need of it. He was seated on the floor, wet, naked, and shivering from the strain of heaving.
“I’ve never had a trip like that,” Natan said between gasps.
“Cryo’s different every time. I’ve had my share of rough awakenings.”
Captain Joyce retrieved a white jumpsuit from a cubby in the wall of the small cryo cubicle. It was plain except for the small Papal coat of arms in the left corner: two crossed keys below the papal tiara, embroidered in red, silver, and gold.
“Thank you.” Natan took the garment and ran his thumb over the crest, feeling where the stitching puckered the soft fabric.
So it wasn’t a dream, he thought. In fact, his slumber had been entirely void of dreams, so far as he could remember. Some said dreaming was impossible in cryo, that even your brain was temporarily shut down. Others claimed to experience vivid dreams. Rumor was that if you woke in the middle of one it would latch on to your consciousness like a parasite, visions overlapping with reality, like two overlaid photographs. It was supposed to be an unpleasant sensation, an awful warping of reality, but Natan still wished it’d been a dream.
“You’re Holiness?”
Natan met the Captain's searching look. I’ll never get used to that title.
“Sorry,” Natan said. He set the bucket aside and stood on unsteady legs. The Captain reached out an arm to assist, but Natan pretended not to see it. He was already naked and had spent that last five minutes puking before this man, he didn’t need to further his embarrassment by being aided like a invalid. Unperturbed by Natan’s ignorance, Joyce stood with him, watching as if he thought he might fall, but not going so far as to touch or steady him.
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Natan looked at the tub in the center of the room, illuminated from beneath by fluorescent lights. The cryo bath was still draining of the purple gel. He couldn’t recall getting out, but somehow after the lid had popped with it’s customary hiss of freezing white smoke, he’d managed to climb out over the lip on his own, if only to crawl on the floor and huddle against the wall until Joyce had arrived.
Natan teetered and put a hand against the cold, sterile white wall. The floor had holes along the perimeter for drainage, but the tiles were still wet beneath his bare feet, puddles reflecting the lights and purple haze of the bath. He was still naked, but someone had hosed him down, ridding him of the purple gel. He vaguely remembered the warm spray of water washing over his skin, but he couldn’t recall if it had been Joyce manning the hose, or someone else.
“What’s the gravity here?” Natan asked, carefully stepping one leg into his cotton suit, steadying himself again before managing to get his other leg to follow.
“Same as Earth’s,” Joyce said.
Great.
Natan hadn’t spent much time on Earth lately. He’d been stationed on Deimos, the smaller of Mars’ two moons. He’d been a missionary at the refugee base there. Natan had only returned to Earth for a short, and unplanned visit at the behest of the Archbishop, and he’d only stayed long enough for the Church to have a covert coronation before they sent him off world again.
The Pope would be safest on Nova Roma—New Rome, the lonely, lifeless planet they’d colonized where they’d decided to resettle the Vatican and the Apostolic Palace. Later, more infrastructure would be built to accommodate more of the faithful until they could populate the small planet. The Pope and Religious went first, but lay people would soon follow, granted land and homes and jobs upon arrival. The purchase of the planet wasn’t public knowledge. Sometime in the coming weeks Earth would wake to discover that the Chair of Saint Peter had been relocated. Off world. Natan wasn’t a fan of clandestine operations, but he’d understood the need for safety. He’d wanted nothing more than to see his Pope kept alive and safe, and he’d said as much when the Archbishop had asked him about the plan. He’d had no idea that less than two years later he’d be the Pope in question.
But you are Pope now, so let’s get moving, Natan chided himself. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of the suit and zipped up the front. Joyce pushed a large silver button on the wall with his knuckles and the frosted glass doors to the cryo cubicle slid open.
Natan followed him out into a long hall lined with cryo cubicles. All but five of the doors stood open, their occupants already milling together in the hall. Two dozen or so men and just over a dozen women chatted amongst themselves, remaining segregated though pleasantries were exchanged. The men wore slate gray jumpsuits while the woman wore vibrant blue, matching that of their typical monastic garments. Besides colour there were no similarities to their normal dress however, a fact that seemed to make most of the Religious uncomfortable. The monks usually wore long robes, tied at the waist, with sleeves that covered their hands and hoods that fell down their backs. The nuns were accustomed to their habits and head coverings. Unlike soldiers and the Sisters of Sorrow, these were not men and women used to dressing for battle. They weren’t used to much interaction with anyone outside their cloisters and monasteries. They’d broken from their lives of contemplation and prayer to make this journey.
One of the nuns stood back from the group, watching her sisters chat and stretch after the long trip. She was young, with tawny skin and two long black braids, one hanging over her shoulder and the other down her back. She was the first to notice Natan. She held her hands before her as if in prayer and gave him a slight bow. The movement caught the attention of the others, who performed similar gestures of greeting along with a mumbled “Holy Father” or “Your Holiness”.
Natan felt like puking again, and it had nothing to do with the bad cryo trip.
“Alright,” Joyce said, saving Natan from having to decide on an appropriate way to respond to the crowd of faithful. “You’ve all been hosed down but you’re likely going to want a real shower. You’ll find your usual garments waiting for you in your rooms, cleaned and pressed. The ship is limited so everyone is sharing. I apologize for those of you who are accustomed to a little more seclusion. We’ve still got little less than a month to go so we’ve got to learn to be friendly.”
They nodded until the nodding wore out and everyone returned to a steady awkward silence. They were used to simple, regimented lives, each day planned, every hour scheduled. There was unease behind their silence, and even though Natan was accustomed to the sometimes dangerous and unpredictable life of a missionary, he shared in that unease.
Joyce let out an exasperated sigh, the sound loud enough to jar everyone to attention.
“Go on, go find your rooms,” Joyce said, smiling wide and waving his hands like he were herding sheep. “Welcome aboard the St. Laurentia."