Warlock - The Warlock Unlocked Part 5

"But is it to the interests of thy people?" the Abbot murmured.

Tuan fairly winced. "There, good Milord, thou touchest the quick. Yet thou wilt

understand, I trust, that the Queen and I must discuss these matters you have so kindly brought to our attention, at some length."

"That," Catharine warned, "will be a fulsome talk, and hot."

Tuan grinned. "Why, then, here I stand." Suiting the action to the word, he stood. "Wilt thou, then, hold us excused, Lord Abbot? For indeed, we should begin this while we're fresh to it."

"But of course, Your Majesties." The Abbot scrambled to his feet, and even inclined his head alittle. "Thou wilt, then, summon me, when thou dost feel further need of, ah, converse, on this matter?"

"Be a.s.sured, we shall," Tuan said grandly, "and so, goode'en."

"G.o.d be with thee," the Abbot muttered, sketching a quick cross in the air. Then the doors boomed wide as the two monarchs turned away, arm in arm, and paced out, in a hurry-but more, Rod suspected, to get to a chess game with a small boy, than to discuss affairs of state.

Still, he couldn't let the Abbot suspect that-and he had a curiosity b.u.mp to scratch. "Now, Milord-about your founder..."

"Eh?" The Abbot looked up, startled. "Oh, aye! I did say, when there would be time."

"All the time in the world," Rod a.s.sured him. '"The wife doesn't expect me home till late."

Air rang with a small thunderclap, and Toby stood there, pale and wide-eyed. "Lord Warlock, go quickly! Gwendy-lon hath sent for thee-thy son Geoffrey ham gone into air!"

Rod fought down a surge of panic. "Uh-he does that all the time, Toby- especially after you've just been there. Just lost, right?"

"Would she send for thee if he were?"

"No, hang it, she wouldn't!" Rod swung back to the Abbot. "You must excuse me, Milord-but this's got to be a genuine emergency! My wife's a woman of very sound judgement!"

"Why, certes, be on thy way, and do not stay to ask leave of a garrulous old man! And the blessings of G.o.d go with thee, Lord Warlock!"

"Thank you, Milord!" Rod whirled away, out the door, with Toby beside him. "Try not to pop in like that, when there's a priest around, Toby," he advised. "It makes them nervous."

CHAPTER FOUR.

"Someone's out to get me," Father Al muttered, as he flew through an underground tube in a pneumatic car, along with a dozen of his fellow pa.s.sengers from Terra. They had just filed out of the liner from Luna and up to the datawall. Father Al had found his entry, and seen that the s.h.i.+p to Beta Ca.s.siopeia was leaving at 17:23 GST, from Gate 11 of the North Forty terminal. Then he'd looked up at the digital clock and seen, to his horror, that it was 17:11, and he was in the South 220 terminal. That meant he was 180 degrees away from his next s.h.i.+p in both horizontal and vertical planes- which meant that he was exactly on the opposite side of the two-and-a-half-mile-wide planetoid that was Proxima Station!

So down, and into the tube. The only saving grace was that he didn't have to pa.s.s through Customs, as long as he stayed within the Station. That, and the speed of the pneumatic car-it could cross the two-and-a-half kilometers in three minutes. It could've done the trip in less than a minute, if the computer didn't limit it to 1.5 G acceleration and deceleration at the beginning and end of the trip. Under the circ.u.mstances, Father Al would've settled for the quicker time, and taken his chances on ending his existence as a thin paste on the front of the car. It had taken him five minutes to find the tube, and a four-minute wait before the car came.

Deceleration pushed him toward the front of the car, then eased off and disappeared. The doors hissed open, and he was on his feet, turning and twisting between other pa.s.sengers, threading his way toward the platform. "Excuse me... Excuse me... I beg your pardon, madame...Oh, dear! I'm sorry about your foot, sir..."

Then he was through, and standing, hands clasped on his suitcase handle, glaring at the lift's readout. The minutes crawled agonizingly by while a discreet, impersonal voice from the ceiling informed him that Chairlady s.p.a.ceways' Flight 110 to Beta Ca.s.seiopeia was about to depart from Gate 11; last call for Chairlady s.p.a.ceways'Flight 110...

The lift doors hissed open. Father Al held himself back by a straining effort of will as the pa.s.sengers filed out; then he bolted in. That was a mistake; five people crowded in behind him. The doors hissed shut, and he began elbowing his way back to them. "Excuse me...I'm sorry, but this really is imperative... I'm sorry, sir, but my liner's leaving, and the next one's apt to be quite a while coming..."

Then the doors hissed open, and he charged out, with one eye watching to avoid a collision, and the other watching for signs. There it was-Gates 10 through 15, and an arrow pointing to the left! He swerved like a comet reeling around the Sun, leaving a trail of bruised feet, jogged elbows, and shattered tempers behind him.

Gate 11! He skidded to a halt, leaped toward the door- and realized it was chained shut. With a sinking heart, he looked up at the port-wall-and saw a glowing spot already small and diminis.h.i.+ng, the St. Elmo's-Fire phosph.o.r.esence that surrounded a s.h.i.+p under planetary drive, growing smaller and dimmer as his s.h.i.+p moved away.

For a moment, he sagged with defeat; then his chin came up, and his shoulders squared. Why was he letting it bother him? After all, it wouldn't be that long before the next flight to Ca.s.seiopeia.

But the datawall said otherwise; the next flight to Beta Ca.s.s. wasn't leaving for a week! He stared at it in disbelief, Yorick's warning to hurry echoing in his ears. Rod Gal-lowgla.s.s was going to disappear, and Father Al had to make sure he disappeared with him!

Then a nasty suspicion formed at the back of his mind. Admittedly, it was too soon to say-three times is enemy action, and he'd only been delayed twice; but Rod Gal-lowgla.s.s was about to discover some sort of extraordinary power within himself, and probably had some major flaw in his personality, as almost everyone had-well-hidden and well-rationalized, to be sure, but there nonetheless. That flaw could be a handle to grasp his soul by, and twist him toward evil actions-again, well-hidden and well-rationalized, not recognized as evil; but evil nonetheless. He could be a very powerful tool in the hands of Evil- or a great force for Good, if someone were there to point out the moral pitfalls and help him steer clear of them.

Definitely, it helped Evil's chances if Father Al missed contact with Rod Gallowgla.s.s.

And it was so easy to do-just make sure he missed his s.h.i.+p, and arrived on Gramarye too late! All h.e.l.l had to do was to help human perversity run a little more than its natural course. Perhaps the captain of the liner had been in a bad mood, and hadn't been about to wait a second longer than was necessary, even though one of the booked pa.s.sengers hadn't arrived yet... Perhaps the s.p.a.ceport controller had had an argument earlier that day, and had taken it out on the rest of the world by a.s.signing the s.h.i.+p from Terra to the South 220 terminal, instead of the North 40; so Finagle had triumphed, and the perversity of the universe had tended toward maximum.

Father Al turned on his heel and strode away toward the center of the terminal.

Father Al arrived in the main concourse and strolled down the row of shops, searching. The Church did all it could to make the Sacraments available to its members, no matter how far from Terra they might be-and especially in places where they might need its comfort and reinforcement most. There was one Order that paid particular attention to this problem; surely they wouldn't have ignored a major way-station on the s.p.a.ce lanes...

There it was-a curtained window with the legend, "Chapel of St. Francis a.s.sisi" emblazoned on it. Father Al stepped through the double door, gazed around at the rows of hard plastic pews, the burgundy carpet, and the plain, simple altar-table on the low dais, with the crucifix above it on a panelled wall, and felt a huge unseen weight lift from his shoulders. He was home.

The Franciscans were very hospitable, as they always were. But there was a bit of a problem when he explained what he wanted.

"Say Ma.s.s?M>M>? With respect, Father, it's six o'clock in the evening."

"But surely you have evening Ma.s.ses."

"Only on Sat.u.r.day evenings, and the vigils of holy days."

"I'm afraid it really is necessary, Father." Father Al handed the Franciscan his letter from the Pope. "Perhaps this will make the situation more clear."

He hated to pull rank-but it was satisfying to watch the Franciscan's eyes widen when he looked at the signature. He folded the letter and handed it back to Father Al, clearing his throat. "Yes. Well... certainly, Father. Whatever you'd like."

"All I need is the altar, for half an hour." Father Al smiled. "I don't think there'll be any need for a sermon."

But he was wrong. As he began to say Ma.s.s, pa.s.sersby glanced in, stopped, looking startled, then came quietly in, found a pew, and knelt down. When Father Al looked up to begin the Creed, he stared in amazement at a couple dozen people in front of him, most of them well-dressed travellers, but with a good sprinkling of s.p.a.ceport mechanics and dirtside crew-and a few gentlemen with three-day beards, whose coveralls were patched, greasy, and baggy at the knees. It was curious how any major s.p.a.ceport always seemed to develop its own skid row, even if it was millions of AU's from any habitable planet. It was even more surprising how many Catholics cropped up out of the plastic-work at the drop of an altar bell.

Under the circ.u.mstances, he felt obliged to say something-and there was one sermon he always had ready. "My brothers and sisters, though we are in a Chapel of St. Francis, allow me to call to your minds the priest in whose honor my own Order was founded-St. Vidicon of Cathode, martyr for the faith. In the seminary, he had a problem-he kept thinking in terms of what did work, instead of what should work. He was a Jesuit, of course.

"He also had a rather strange sense of humor. When he was teaching, his students began to wonder whether he believed more firmly in Finagle than in Christ. Too many young men were taking his jokes seriously, and going into Holy Orders as a result. His bishop was delighted with all the vocations, but was a bit leery of the reasons-so the Vatican got wind of it. The Curia had its doubts about his sense of humor, too, so they transferred him to Rome, where they could keep an eye on him. As an excuse for this surveillance, they made him Chief Engineer of Television Vatican.

"The term is confusing today, of course; 'television' was like 3DT, but with a flat picture; 3DT was originally an abbreviation for 'three-dimensional television.'

Yes, this was quite a few centuries ago-the Year of Our Lord 2020. "Well. Father Vidicon was sad to leave-off teaching, but he was overjoyed at actually being able to work with television equipment again... and he didn't let his nearness to the Pope dampen his enthusiasm; he still insisted on referring to the Creator as 'the Cosmic Cathode...' " "Praise G.o.d, from Whom electrons flow! Praise Him, the Source of all we know! Whose order's in the stellar host! For in machines, He is the Ghost!"

"Father Vidicon," Monsignor reproved, "that air has a blasphemous ring."

"Merely irreverent, Monsignor." Father Vidicon peered at the oscilloscope and

adjusted the pedestal on Camera Two. "But then, you're a Dominican.""And what is that supposed to mean?""Simply that what you hear may not be what I said." Father Vidicon leaned over to the switcher and punched up color bars."He has a point." Brother Anson looked up from the TBCcircuit board he was diagnosing. "I thought it quite reverent.""You would; it was sung." Monsignor knew that Brother Anson was a Franciscan. "How much longer must I delay my rehearsal, Father Vidicon? I've

an Archbishop and two Cardinals waiting!" "You can begin when the camera tube decides to work, Monsignor." Father Vidicon punched up Camera Two again, satisfied that the oscilloscope was reading correctly. "If you insist on bringing in Cardinals, you must be prepared for a breakdown."

"I really don't see why a red ca.s.sock would cause so much trouble," Monsignor grumbled.

"You wouldn't; you're a director. But these old plumbi-con tubes just don't like red." Father Vidicon adjusted the chrominance. "Of course, if you could talk His Holiness into affording a few digital-plate cameras..."

"Father Vidicon, you know what they cost! And we've been the Church of the Poor for a century!"

"Four centuries, more likely, Monsignor-ever since Calvin lured the bourgeoisie away from us."

"We've as many Catholics as we had in 1390," Brother Anson maintained stoutly.

"Yes, that was right after the Black Death, wasn't it? And the population of the world's grown a bit since then. I hate to be a naysayer, Brother Anson, bnt we've only a tenth as many of the faithful as we had in 1960. And from the attraction Reverend Sun is showing, we'll be lucky if we have a tenth of that by the end of the year."

"We've a crisis in cameras at the moment," the Monsignor reminded. "Could you refrain from discussing the Crisis of Faith until the cameras are fixed?"

"Oh, they're working-now." Father Vidicon threw the capping switch and shoved himself away from the camera control unit. "They'll work excellently for you now, Monsignor, until you start recording Monsignor reddened. "And why should they break down then?"

"Because that's when you'll need them most." Father Vidicon grinned. "Television equipment is subject to Murphy's Law, Monsignor."

"I wish you were a bit less concerned with Murphy's Law, and a bit more with Christ's!"

Father Vidicon shrugged. "If it suits the Lord's purpose to give authority over entropy into the hands of the Imp of the Perverse, who am I to question Him?"

"For the sake of Heaven, Father, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy's Law?" Monsignor cried.

Father Vidicon shrugged. "Entropy is loss of energy within a system, which is self-defeating; that's perversity. And Murphy's Law is perverse. Therefore, both of them, and the Imp, are corrolary to Finagle's General Statement: "The perversity of the universe tends toward maximum.' "

" 'Father Vidicon," Monsignor said severely, "you'll burn as a heretic someday."

"Oh, not in this day and age. If the Church condemns me, I can simply join Reverend Sun's church, like so many of our erstwhile flock." Seeing the Monsignor turn purple, he turned to the door, adding quickly, "Nonetheless, Monsignor, if I were you, I'd not forget the Litany of the Cameras before I called 'roll and record.' " "That piece of blasphemy?" the Monsignor exploded. "Father Vidicon, you know the Church has never officially declared St. Clare to be the patron of television!" "Still, she did see St. Francis die, though she was twenty miles away at the time -the first Catholic instance of 'television,' 'seeing-at-a-distance.' " Father Vidicon wagged a forefinger. "And St. Genesius is officially the patron of showmen."

"Of actors, I'll remind you-and we've none of those here!""Yes, I know-I've seen your programs. But do remember St. Jude, Monsignor.""The patron of the desperate? Why?""No, the patron of lost causes-and with these antique cameras, you'll need him."The door opened, and a monk stepped in. "Father Vidi-con, you're summoned to His Holiness."

Father Vidicon blanched.

"You'd best remember St. Jude yourself, Father," the Monsignor gloated. Then

his face softened into a gentle frown. "And, Lord help us-so had we all."

Father Vidicon knelt and kissed the Pope's ring, with a surge of relief-if the ring was offered, things couldn't be all that bad."On your feet, Father," Pope Clement said grimly.Father Vidicon scrambled to his feet. "Come now, Your Holiness! You know it's all just in fun! A bit irreverent, perhaps, but nonetheless only levity! I don't really believe in Maxwell's Demon-not quite. And I know Finagle's General Statement is really fallacious-the perversity's in us, not in the universe. And St. Clare..."

"Peace, Father Vidicon," His Holiness said wearily. "I'm sure your jokes aren't a threat to the Church-and I'm not particularly worried by irreverence. If Christ could take a joke, so can we."

Father Vidicon frowned. "Christ took a joke?"

"He accepted human existence, didn't He? But I've called you here for something a bit more serious than your contention that Christ acted as a civil engineer when He said that Peter was a rock, and upon that rock He'd build His Church."

"Oh." Father Vidicon tried to look appropriately grave. "If it's that feedback squeal in the public address system in St. Peter's, I'll do what I can, but..."

"No, I'm afraid it's a bit more critical." The hint of a smile tugged at the Pope's lips. "You're aware that the faithful have been leaving us in increasing droves these past twenty years, of course."

Father Vidicon shrugged. "What can you expect, Your Holiness? With television turning everyone toward a Gestalt mode of thought, they've become more and more inclined toward mysticism, needing doctrines embracing the Cosmos and making them feel vitally integrated with it; but the Church still offers only petrified dogma, and logical reasoning. Of course they'll turn to the ecstatics, to a video demagogue like Reverend Sun, with his hodge-podge to T'ai-Ping Christianity and Zen Buddhism..."

"Yes, yes, I know the theories." His Holiness waved Father Vidicon's words away, covering his eyes with the other palm. "Spare me your McLuhanist cant, Father. But you'll be glad to know the Council has just finished deciding which parts of Chardin's theories are compatible with Catholic doctrine."

"Which means Your Holiness has finally talked them into it!" Father Vidicon gusted out a huge sigh of relief. "At last!"

"Yes, I can't help thinking how nice it must have been to be Pope in, say, 1890," His Holiness agreed, "when the Holy See had a bit more authority and a bit less need of persuasion." He heaved a sigh of his own, and clasped his hands on the desktop. "And it's come just in time. Reverend Sun is speaking to the General a.s.sembly Monday morning-and you'll never guess what his topic will be."

"How the Church is a millstone around the neck of every nation in the world." Father Vidicon nodded grimly. "Priests who don't pa.s.s on their genes, Catholics not attempting birth control and thereby contributing to overpopulation, Church lands withheld from taxation-it's become a rather familiar bit of rhetoric."

"Indeed it has; most of his followers can recite it chapter and verse. But this time, my sources a.s.sure me he intends to go quite a bit farther-to ask the a.s.sembly for a recommendation for all U.N. member nations to adopt legislation making all these 'abuses' illegal."

Father Vidicon's breath hissed in. "And~~with so large a percentage of the electorate in every country being Sun-nite..."

"It amounts to virtual outlawing of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes." His Holiness nodded. "And I need hardly remind you, Father, that the current majority in the Italian government are Sunnite Communists."

Father Vidicon shuddered. "They'll begin by annexing the Vatican!" He had a sudden nightmarish vision of a Sunnite prayer meeting in the Sistine Chapel.

"We'll all be looking for new lodgings," the Pope said drily. "So you'll understand, Father, that it's rather important that I tell the faithful of the whole world before then, about the Council's recent action."

"Your Holiness will speak on television!" Father Vidicon cried. "But that's wonderful! You'll be..."

"My blushes, Father Vidicon. I'm well aware that you consider me to have an inborn affinity for the video medium."

"The charisma of John Paul II, with the appeal of John the XXIJJ!" Father Vidicon a.s.serted. "But what a waste, that you'll not appear in the studio!"

"I'm not fond of viewing myself as the chief drawing-card for a sideshow," His Holiness said sardonically. "Still, I'm afraid it's become necessary. The Curia has spoken with Eurovision, Afrovision, PanAsiavision, PanAmerivision, and even Intervision. They're all, even the Communists, willing to carry us for fifteen minutes..."

"Cardinal Beluga is a genius of diplomacy," Father Vidicon murmured.

"Yes, and all the nations are worried about the growth of Sun's church within their borders, with all that it implies of large portions of their citizenry taking orders from Singapore. Under the circ.u.mstances, we've definitely become the lesser of two evils, in their eyes."

"I suppose that's a compliment," Father Vidicon said doubtfully.

"Let's think of it that way, shall we? The bottleneck, of course, was the American commercial networks; they're only willing to carry me early Sunday morning."