Word Carrier 9: Thou Hast Prepared a Table

by Heidi Kortman -

Douay Bede took two deep breaths, as Pangur Ban stretched. When the quarr turned its head and flicked its ears, Bede swallowed hard then followed the bishop and Brother Charles. He trailed three strides behind, which did nothing to avert his being the center of attention when he reached the refectory doorway. “Pangur Ban,” he whispered, as the bishop spoke the first syllables of the blessing, “do not hunt here.”

The table and its benches never seemed so long. Pangur Ban paced beside him, tail twitching. The scaled length struck Bede’s calf through his robe, as he walked behind the brothers, the manuscripts, and the other Bibles all seated beside their newly-assigned priests. Murmuring and indrawn breaths, audible beneath the bishop’s prayer, followed his steps.

Bede passed his parents, seated on the opposite side of the great table. After another eight paces, he reached the only open place. Bede hiked up his robe before stepping over the bench. When he settled on the seat, he felt the pressure of Pangur Ban’s weight on the backs of his ankles.

“Stay there,” Bede whispered. That earned him a bump from the elbow of the priest on his right.

The man to his left, his partner for this life’s mission, was shorter than Bede. The man kept his head bowed until the blessing concluded. When he reached out with his chopsticks for a curried seraph nymph, he handled them deftly despite the missing first joint of his right index finger.

“Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has visited and wrought salvation for his people.” Douay Bede said, as he reached for some wolner-grain bread.

The priest swallowed his mouthful. “To shine on those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace,” he said.

“Douay Bede.”

“Father Oaku. The cook here is good.”

Bede ladled himself a serving of the chowder, and poured aniila oil into the communal plate between them. Wolner-grain bread was tasteless without it. He dipped his bread in the oil.

“When the banquet is finished, I’ll begin work on my first homily for the mission. Be ready with Acts 13, verses four through twelve.”

About to take his first bite of the meal, Bede was forced to pause. “Yes, Father Oaku. But—” A large chunk of the oil-soaked bread fell from the slice and plopped into the thick chowder. The splash spattered the sleeve of the priest at Bede’s right, earning him another poke with the man’s sharp elbow.

“What? You are Published, are you not?” Father Oaku glared at Bede.

“Yes, Father. This morning. I know the passage you need, but Bishop Guash has ordered me to speak with him after the banquet.”

The priest with sharp elbows snorted. “They’ve saddled you with a trouble maker, Oaku.”

Father Oaku Mary, his lips contracted like the top of a closed drawstring pouch, leaned away from the table. His back made a crackling sound. He sighed. “I’ll keep him too busy for much.”

Under the bench, Pangur Ban shifted his weight. Bede ducked his head. He didn’t dare whisper to the quarr again. Instead, he poked his spoon at the oil slick in his chowder. Across the table, the other priests and Bibles were enjoying their food. Bede dredged the sodden bread from the soup, and ate it.

Maybe, if he focused on the food, the others would ignore him. The clack of serving spoons and utensils echoed in the ceiling vault. Bede took another spoonful. Lukewarm now, the chowder lacked appeal. “Father Oaku,” he whispered.

The priest crunched another mouthful of curried seraph nymphs. “What is it?”

“After the bishop has finished, may I please take a few minutes to speak with my parents?” Bede glanced down the table, and caught sight of his father doubling over. The explosive coughing fit made other diners lean away. Brother Reita, the assistant infirmarian, rose from his place to help Silas leave the table.

Father Oaku laid his chopsticks across the dish. “Douay Bede, speak St. Matthew 8:22, the Word of the Lord.”

Bede closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. “‘But Jesus said to him,’” he quoted, ‘Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their own dead.’” When he opened his eyes again, his lashes were wet, and he needed to blink. His mother was still at the table, and she was dabbing her eyes with the coarsely woven napkin.

Had she heard his voice through all the other sounds in the room? Did she think him cold-hearted? Bede prepared to stand, but Pangur Ban leaned more heavily against his calves, then wrapped his tail around Bede’s ankles.

Bede subsided on the bench. The quarr’s tail weighed heavier across his insteps than such a thing should do. Brother Reita returned, pausing for a moment beside Bede’s mother before continuing around the table to his former place. “Please, Father Oaku—how else will I get word about my father?”

The priest shook his head. “The man has ash lung. You know there’s no cure.” He laid aside his chopsticks again. “You have word from the Lord, Douay Bede. Speak St. John 10:28. That’s the only thing you need to know about your father.”

Bede stared down into the bowl of chowder. It had reached the stage where it coated the spoon. “And I give them everlasting life; and they shall never perish, neither shall anyone snatch them out of my hand.”  It was true, but to spend the rest of his days with a man who could cast a chill on such a promise? Bede shuddered.

Morgenstar

by Edward M. Erdelac - 

Considine had to smile when he thought about how impressive Gorsh’s office had seemed to him only this morning.

It was a bug hunter’s bait shop compared to Aloysius Morgenstar’s plush, cathedral-like office, which was dominated by a smooth-lined desk in front of a dazzling viewport that looked down on Eclectia below.

He sat in a comfortable chair with two security officers standing over him for a half hour before a side door hissed open and Morgenstar himself entered in no great hurry.

He was younger and fitter looking than Considine had expected. His hair was the color of sandstone, not a strand out of place, and his sea-blue suit fit him better than Considine’s skin fit his skeleton. He was refined and assured in the extreme, but there was a hint of something in his eyes that was familiar, that twinge of madness Considine would know anywhere.

“Inspector Considine,” said Morgenstar, unbuttoning his jacket and easing into his chair. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long. I had an important meeting concerning what to do with you.”

“A meeting with Gorsh and the Peacekeepers’ Council?”

“Oh no no no,” Morgenstar chuckled. “I wouldn’t trust such an important decision to them. They were supposed to chaperone you and look how that turned out. No, it’s been decided that you’ll suffer a mental breakdown – shock, from having witnessed the death of one of your enforcers. You were apprehended by my staff after having wandered into a cafeteria and attacked and murdered one of my employees. You’ll be remanded to the care of the staff at St. Christina’s Clinic for the Neuro-Atypical. Not a top of the line facility, but the PKC insurance won’t cover anything better I’m afraid.”

Considine smiled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I was wondering if any of your employees will be able to get the taste of Orin Bantry out of their lunches. You can scour that autochef with a fleet of de-con bots for a year and they’ll still probably never eat there again. Office gossip travels so fast. They’ll be saying Bantry’s nose turned up in a bowl of soup a week after the kitchens reopen.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re able to amuse yourself. You’ll have a very long time to do so,” Morgenstar said.

“You won’t be able to keep me there, Morgenstar. You must know that.”

“I know you’re resourceful, yes. I’ve read up on your career. That’s why I’d like to make you another offer.”

“Money?”

“No, you’ve lived so long without it you’re accustomed,” said Morgenstar. “I was thinking more along the lines of salvation.”

“Here it comes at last,” said Considine.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think you know, Inspector? To amuse me.”

“I know you allowed Orin Bantry to provide Almer Croix with a substantial amount of detonite from your company’s stores, and that he intended to use it to destroy the angel colony on the lip of the Boatic Trench. I know there’s something down there. Something even the jelly rollers don’t know about. Something that wants out. It’s an organism, kept in check by the angels. Probably their opposite number. It got to Croix via some sort of parasite, and convinced him it was god.”

He leaned forward in his chair, studying Morgenstar.

“What I couldn’t figure out was what your angle is. But now that I’ve seen you, I think I know.”

“What do you know?”

“You’re not infected by one of these parasites. These pilot organisms, they extend the psychic influence of whatever’s in the trench, influence human minds, but they’re detrimental to the physiology of the host. And you don’t look sick, so you must be insane.”

Morgenstar stiffened, but quickly regained his look of arrogant indulgence.

“How did they convince you to help them, Morgenstar?” Considine asked.

“Let me tell you what you don’t know, Inspector,” said Morgenstar. “You believe you have evidence of the existence of an unknown submarinal species held under a false quarantine in the ZMB facility planetside. Perhaps it was your intent to deliver it to the council once you had amassed more evidence of a conspiracy.”

Considine’s face fell and his eyes narrowed.

“Your Dr. Kes has relinquished your evidence in exchange for more gainful employment.”

“With you?” Considine sighed.

“Now, a similar choice lies before you.”

“Is salvation more gainful employment?”

“Oh yes, much more. God has need of a vehicle, to complete the work you and your enforcers interfered with.”

He raised his hand, and the side door opened once more.

A woman in a sharp suit emerged, bearing an opaque, water-filled container, in which an eel-like shape, about the size of a kitten, undulated.

Considine started to rise from his chair and the guards shoved him back down.

“But you must accept the will of God yourself,” Morgenstar frowned. “Resistance can damage the pilot organism and the host both. Irrevocably.”

“What’s the alternative to salvation?” Considine hissed, gripping the arms of the chair.

“Lobotomy,” Morgenstar smiled. “St. Catherine’s may not be the most reputable institution, but they still have their admission standards. It wouldn’t be right to commit a mentally healthy man.”

“Maybe you should get a room, Morgenstar. You’re the one praying to a tapeworm.”

“This is not God, but a servant of God. A finger….”

“I’ve a finger for you,” Considine quipped.

Morgenstar waved the woman with the jar off. She backed out of the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

“I can see you’ve made your choice, Inspector. You disappoint me.” He rose from his chair and buttoned his jacket, shaking his head as though he truly were saddened. “Inspector Considine isn’t feeling well, gentlemen,” he said to his security guards. “Take him to see a doctor.”

The security guards hoisted him to his feet.

“Gorsh will be looking for me.”

“No, he won’t,” said Morgenstar over his shoulder, as he went to the side door.

They dragged him from the office. 

Equal and Opposite Reaction

by Travis Perry

Zana followed Jax as he climbed up a trail leading into the hills north of the Palmer camp, Cotton padding alongside her. The lesser whalelight and an unusually dust-free fiveday Summer night made visibility much higher than it would normally be at this hour.

There must be somebody else up there she realized. Why else would a hunter with money in his pocket and ale in his belly climb a hillside in the middle of the night? Normally someone like that would rent a locker for his gear and a cot for his backside and sleep in camp for the night…or even the next day or two…

So she scanned the hills very carefully, looking for any warning of danger, her rifle at the low ready. And then she saw it—a glint of light reflecting from what must be some sort of glass. She snapped up her rifle and looked through her scope. The optic brought the glint close but whatever caused it was already moving.

She lowered the rifle for better visibility and ducked into a branch to the left, veering off the trail Jax trudged up, which would put her in a counterclockwise rotation around the hill. If Mons were up there, she’d circle around until she found him…

#

“Looks like Jax’s had a good time,” muttered Ernsto as he looked through Jax’s binos, watching him stumble up the hill. The binos were his new friend’s most expensive piece of gear—so Jax hadn’t wanted to part with them. But he had insisted…

Some instinct told him to scan the area behind Jax. Two shapes moved there, in line with Jax, trailing behind by about one hundred meters. “Damnit! He’s being followed!”

And the larger shape suddenly changed shape. Ernsto saw light reflect of what probably was a rifle optic as it rose. He cursed and rolled over to all fours and scrambled forward, down the hill, scrambling downward in a circle going clockwise around the peak…

Game Changer, Part 3

by Mary Ruth Pursselley

Robin dropped his pencil into the pile of paper on the table and sat back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes and stubbled face. He’d taken the disk translation as far as he could. He was no linguist or angel expert, so most of the finer nuances and references in the inscription would have to be figured out by someone else, but he had understood enough.

Enough to make him laugh as he sat, face in his hands, exhausted and ecstatic. Enough to assure him that this was the find of a lifetime—maybe several lifetimes.

“Unbelievable,” he said aloud, referring not just to the disk and its writings, but to his own fortune in being the one to decode it. God was, as always, watching out for him… though His watchfulness and favor were surpassing even Robin’s wildest imaginings. He couldn’t possibly have deserved this.

He said a brief prayer of thanks, then looked at his watch. Doing so made him laugh again—he’d been sitting here for almost twenty-four hours. No wonder he was starving. He stood up and stretched, already working on a mental to-do list:  Arrange for the disk to be taken to Trinity University. Get a crew of interns assigned to Adagio to help him. Look into renting boats and diving equipment for an expedition to Funder’s Cove, where the fisherman had found the disk.

Oh—the fisherman. Robin remembered his promise to tell the man what the disk said. He rifled through the blizzard of papers on the desk until he found a blank sheet, grabbed his pencil again, and jotted down a basic outline of the translation.

As he wrote, he considered a few of the stranger points in the account. Strangest of all was the reasoning given for the angels’ decision to abandon their city, Light: an invasion that caused the loss of several lives, as well as considerable damage to the city itself. It wasn’t an invasion of humans—references to the Founders were very distinctly worded—but Robin was sure either he or Hanks must have mistranslated the symbol describing what the invaders were. It was too random, too bizarre. An invasion of crazy bugs, so crazy they nearly destroyed the city? Robin had no doubt that the linguist assigned to the disk would get a good laugh at his expense over that one. Oh well. He’d never claimed to be a linguist.

He was curious to find out what or who the invaders really were, though. Especially since the disk explained the angels’ realization that the event would take place again, because “such is their nature”. Whatever that meant.

As he headed for the bathroom to get a much-needed shave and shower—the last one he was likely to get for a while, if he set out on the expedition to Funder’s Cove as soon as he hoped—he suddenly stopped and grimaced. He’d promised that girl from the school in Zirconia that he’d contact her sister, the archaeologist, while he was in Adagio.

Well, he decided with a sigh, that shouldn’t take too awfully long—a day, at most. He’d get that out of the way, give the fisherman his rough translation of the disk, and then he’d be free to get to work.

Anjelika's Heritage: Bad Intentions

by Caitlyn Konze

Mia Meerstein rested her head against the patch-worn seat and sighed. Anjelika could not relax as easily. She had just cashed out her credit stick and bartered passage on the first shuttle off Avenir, paying no attention to its destination or condition. Her knuckles were an angry red from constant rubbing, and she kept glancing at the hatch as if Enforcers waited on the other side. A ridiculous fear since they had left Avenir’s docks twenty minutes ago.

The vibration of the shuttle grew violent for two seconds then faded back to a steady hum. Anjelika glanced down. Her hands gripped her arm rests so tight her irritated knuckles looked pale. She forced her her fingers open. Five crescents on each arm marked where her nails had dug into the seat.

With eyes closed, Mia spoke. “Relax, honey. You did better than I expected from a pampered heiress.”

The way Mia said her last two words made Anjelika’s mind race with uncertainty. Had she mentioned her social status, or was it just that obvious? Anjelika shook the worry from her head, reminding herself why she was here.  “Tell me what happened to your husband.”

Mia sat up and addressed the pilot though her eyes were on Anjelika. “Privacy please.”

A small slit lining the doorway to the cockpit grew white, blinked a few times, then buzzed as a the space blacked out. Anjelika opened her mouth, but Mia held up her index finger. The widow unbuttoned a pouch on her belt and pulled out a flat, diamond-shaped piece of metal twice the size of a thumbnail. She slid the only switch on it. A high-pitched tone screamed in Anjelika’s ears, then diminished.

Mia jerked her head toward the cockpit. “Privacy screens are light-proof and sound-proof, but there’s still the com system.”

Anjelika nodded. Once again, Mia slumped in her chair. She folded her hands over her stomach before she began.

“Almost nine Foundings ago, an investigation was ordered about a dock breach. Darl had the bad habit of being perfectly honest all the time. His report concluded the hull had to have been weakened intentionally.”

Anjelika realized her jaw was wide open. She shut it. “But that would mean. . .”

Mia nodded. “It means the explosion that almost killed your mother was no accident. Darl knew, and that’s why my husband’s dead.”

Encoded Vellum: Part 6

by Jeff Chapman

The Abbot paused his monologue, apparently lost in some winding corridor of thought. The older brothers shared this habit of stopping in the middle of discussions to think. Sebastian found these pauses annoying. A life of prayer and contemplation no doubt diminished one’s sense of urgency.

Sebastian could suppress his curiosity no longer. “And what was that extraordinary event?”

“Your question suggests that something turned the course of his life, like an unexpected comet cutting across a ship’s course. But wouldn’t you say deciphering the Lord’s message is a type of puzzle, the greatest of all puzzles?”

Sebastian paused to consider the wording of his response, how to disagree with the Abbot. “I suppose his messages are sometimes cryptic to the uninitiated, but I don’t believe the Lord wants to hide anything from us.”

“Not hide. Not conceal. But the Lord expects us to struggle to answers and the struggle, which might last a lifetime, may be more valuable than the answer, for it is in the struggle that we find and achieve our purpose.”

Sebastian nodded, considering his own life--Christchurch, Trinity University, seminary, all of which had fallen into place. He had moved from one phase to another with the ease and certainty of a confident student following a well-lit and well-marked hallway to an exam for which he knew all the answers.

“You look pensive,” said the Abbot.

“I don’t believe I’ve encountered any such struggles. Either, forgive me for my bluntness, you are wrong or I am treading the wrong road.”

“Be patient,” said the Abbot. “You haven’t lived long enough. Now, back to the story of Brother Septimus.”

The Abbot drank several gulps from his glass of water. Depression clouded Sebastian’s judgment and he found his life’s journey wanting. How could he minister to anyone, exercise any sense of understanding and empathy? Patience did not number among his virtues.

“Like most young men, Brother Septimus was restless for adventure, eager to be part of something new. Dax and Macbane were organizing the first expeditions to Eclectia at the time. What ambitious young man would not leap at such adventure? At seventeen he had no skills, other than a quick mind and a persuasive tongue. Somehow he talked his way into a position on Macbane’s third expedition.”

“The third,” said Sebastian. “Wasn’t that...”

“Yes, the ship crashed in the vicinity of Mount Olympus during a dust storm. Septimus was one of the three who walked out of the hinterland to the coast. You might say he was the only survivor. The other two died of ash lung within months. The trek was a remarkable achievement without maps and only rudimentary knowledge of the land. I believe they were the first to discover that the bugs are edible. When Septimus returned to the Avenir, he enrolled to study for the priesthood.”

“Was he religious before his ordeal?”

“Not at all. He numbered among the young atheists, I believe.”

“What happened to him out in the desert?”

“We don’t know. The official report was lost in a core collapse and Brother Septimus wrote nothing else about it.” The Abbot turned toward the patient and the cryptic manuscript on the bedside table. “As far as we know.”

Chaplain

by Fred Warren

The claustrophobia was gone. Anya and Vicky had been guiding John through the restoration of his senses for what felt like several hours, and he could talk back to them now. He was still surrounded by thick darkness, but he could feel tactile feedback from his skin as he lay prone on some smooth, warm surface that conformed to his body’s contours, and when his nose itched, he could move his arm, hand, and fingers to scratch it. The air moving through his nostrils and into his lungs was cold and left a faint metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He knew all these sensations were part of an unimaginably complex computer simulation, but it felt so real. His consciousness was slipping into the Dreamers’ virtual world. It was frightening—and exhilarating.

He heard a series of high-pitched chimes, then Vicky and Anya began chattering excitedly to one another.

“Stage Three alert? You have got to be kidding me.”

“How could they have been overwhelmed so quickly? It must be a mistake.”

“No mistake. Look at the external feeds, Miss Sherikov—here, here, and…wow. There.”

“This is awful.”

“Cromwell doesn’t give a rip about the colonists. I want to see him explain this to Captain Aziz.”

“Hush. We told him we’d help if things got out of hand.”

“This is way beyond out of hand.”

“What’s the matter?” John called out. “What’s happening?”

Anya’s voice swirled around him. “Victoria and I must attend to a minor emergency that will require our full attention. Continue to lie quietly in place and limit your movements. Father Sukahara will monitor the remainder of your integration into the network and begin your orientation.”

“But I still can’t see anything!”

“Oh, quit bellyaching.” The disdain in Vicky’s voice was palpable. “Vision is the most complicated piece of the interface, so it takes the longest.  If we energize the connections any faster, it’ll fry that lump of oatmeal you’re using for brains.”

“Sukahara’s the chaplain, right? Wouldn’t it be better to have somebody with a technical background at the controls?”

“Well, if we get a power surge, you’ll need someone to administer Last Rites, and…”

Anya cut in. “Stop it, Victoria. John, Father Sukahara has sufficient medical training to keep you stable in the event of a mishap until we can return.”

“That’s comforting.”

“The process is almost finished. Relax. You’re in good hands.”

A rush of cool air flowed across his body, and a tapestry of sound unfurled within the void. Leaves rustling. Birds chirping. A high pitched buzzing that waxed and waned in the background. The whisper and chuckle of water. The smell of flowers, intense and sweet. A strange, hollow knock that repeated at a long interval.

Then, a new voice—a soft tenor. “Hello, Mr. Milton. I’m Jiro Sukahara. We met at the welcome banquet a few days ago, though I’m sorry we weren’t able to exchange more than pleasantries.”

“I remember. I was surprised to find a chaplain there. Why are you part of all this?”

“It was a nod to tradition on the part of the original crew. Some of them were devoutly religious. All of them recognized a need for someone with whom they could discuss delicate matters in complete privacy, outside the military command structure, without fear of disclosure.”

“Wouldn’t a psychologist have served the same purpose?”

“The crew wanted something more than expertise in treating mental or emotional distress. They knew they’d have to make difficult decisions…life and death choices on behalf of the people under their care. Their technical skills weren’t sufficient. They needed a moral and spiritual compass.”

“And now? Do they still feel that need?”

“Hmm. Not as often as I’d like.  Anya and Victoria consult with me the most.”

“I’m having trouble imagining Vicky seeking advice from a priest.”

“Beneath her bravado is an anxious little girl who misses her father terribly. She’s been forced to grow up much too fast, and her responsibilities weigh heavily upon her.”

“She hides it well enough.”

“I wish she wouldn’t. It would help her to be more open to others about what she’s feeling.”

John decided not to argue that point. “I hear a knocking sound. What is it?”

“It’s a shishi odoshi, a traditional garden decoration from the land of my ancestors on Earth. You’ll understand better once you’re able to see. I’ve arranged to bring you into my personal space…my virtual residence, you might say. I thought it might ease your orientation.”

“I think my vision’s coming back now. Is this some sort of test pattern? I’m seeing orange fish and white birds with long legs on a blue background.”

Jiro chuckled. “No, that’s not part of the process. Look closer.”

It took a few moments for John to realize he was staring up at a delicate watercolor painting of birds and fish cavorting in a broad blue lake. It formed what seemed to be the ceiling of a room, though the proportions were odd. The place was warm and sunlit, filled with the flowery aroma he’d noticed earlier, plus a pleasant, spicy odor he couldn’t identify. Turning his head to one side, which caused a brief moment of mild vertigo, he could see the light filtered through the pink-blossomed branches of a huge tree visible beyond the threshold of a wide opening. It made the space feel more like a porch than a living room.

There were no furnishings aside from the cushion that supported his body and a low table at the center bearing a stack of thin books on one side. Several large sheets of paper and a collection of writing instruments—brushes?—lay in a loose pile on the opposite end of the table. Jiro knelt behind it, and he was as John remembered him—a small, solidly-built man with close-cropped black hair and facial features similar to the Asian genetic subgroup on Avenir. He wore a dark blue robe decorated in the same pattern as the ceiling.

“Ah, it seems the integration is complete. Welcome to my home.” Jiro smiled, his face as warm and comforting as the room, and every lingering suspicion that all this was an illusion vanished from John Milton’s mind.