“Clear here,” said the captain of the Swiss Guard.
“Confirm nothing moving in Arafat-kaffiyeh except your people,” came the voice of the captain of the Jibril
“Affirmative,” said Holy Office Security Commander Browning.
Feeling foolish and disgruntled, the Grand Inquisitor swept down the ramp and across the sandy commons. His mood was not lifted by the silly osmosis mask he had to wear, its circular boostirator slung over his shoulder like a loose medallion.
Father Farrell, Archbishop Robeson, Governor Palo, and a host of functionaries ran to keep up as Cardinal Mustafa strode by the kneeling security forms and, with an imperious wave of his hand, ordered a portal cut in the containment field. He passed through over the protests of Commander Browning and the other forms in black armor who were scuttling to catch up.
“Where is the first of …” began the Grand Inquisitor as he bounced down the narrow alley opposite the commons. He still was not used to the light gravity here.
“Right around this corner …” panted the Archbishop.
“We should really wait for the outer fields to be …” said Governor Palo.
“Here,” said Father Farrell, pointing down the street onto which they had emerged.
The group of fifteen stopped so quickly that those aides and security people in the rear had to catch themselves before bumping into the VIPs in front.
“Dear Lord,” whispered Archbishop Robeson and crossed himself. Through the clear osmosis mask, his face was visibly white.
“Christ!” muttered Governor Clare Palo. “I’ve seen the holos and photos for two weeks, but … Christ.”
“Ahh,” said Father Farrell, taking a step closer to the first body.
The Grand Inquisitor joined him. He went to one knee in the red sand. The contorted form in the dirt looked as if someone had fashioned an abstract sculpture out of flesh, bone, and gristle. It would not have been recognizably human had it not been for the teeth gleaming in the wide-stretched mouth and one hand lying nearby in the shifting Martian dust.
After a moment the Grand Inquisitor said, “Did scavengers do some or most of this? Carrion birds, perhaps? Rats?”
“Negative,” said Major Piet, the Governor’s Pax Fleet groundforce commander. “No birds on the Tharsis Plateau since the atmosphere started thinning two centuries ago. No rats … or any other moving thing … have been picked up by motion detectors since this happened.”
“The Shrike did this,” said the Grand Inquisitor. He did not sound convinced. He stood and moved to the second body. It might have been a woman. It looked as if it had been turned inside out and shredded. “And this?”
“We think so.” said Governor Palo. “The militia that found all this brought out the security camera which had that thirty-eight-second holo we’ve shown you.”
“That looked like a dozen Shrikes killing a dozen people,” said Father Farrell. “It was hazy.”
“There was a sandstorm,” said Major Piet. “And there was only one Shrike … we’ve studied the individual images. It simply moved through the crowd so quickly that it appeared to be multiple creatures.”
“Moved through the crowd,” murmured the Grand Inquisitor. He stepped over a third body that might have been a child or small female. “Doing this.”
“Doing this,” said Governor Palo. She glanced at Archbishop Robeson, who had moved to a wall for support.
There were twenty to thirty bodies in this section of the street.
Father Farrell knelt and ran his gloved hand across the chest and into the chest cavity of the first cadaver. The flesh was frozen, as was the blood that fell in a black icefall. “And there was no sign of the cruciform?” he said softly.
Governor Palo shook her head. “Not in the two bodies the militia returned for resurrection. No sign of the cruciform whatsoever. If there had been any remnant at all … even a millimeter of node or bit of fiber in the brain stem or …”
“We know that,” snapped the Grand Inquisitor, ending the explanation.
“Very strange,” said Bishop Erdle, the Holy Office’s expert on resurrection technique. “To my knowledge there has never been an instance where the body was left so intact where we could not find remnant of the cruciform in the corpse. Governor Palo is correct, of course. Even the slightest bit of cruciform is all that is necessary for the Sacrament of Resurrection.”
The Grand Inquisitor stopped to inspect a body that had been thrown against an iron railing hard enough to impale it at a dozen points. “It looks as if the Shrike was after the cruciforme. It tore every shred of them out of the bodies.”
“Not possible,” said Bishop Erdle. “Simply not possible. There are over five hundred meters of microfiber in the cellular node extensions of …”
“Not possible,” agreed the Grand Inquisitor. “But when we ship these bodies back, I’ll wager that none are recoverable. The Shrike may have torn their hearts and lungs and throats out, but it was after their cruciforms.”
Security Commander Browning came around the corner with five troopers in black armor. “Your Excellency,” he said on the tactical channel only the Grand Inquisitor could hear. “The worst is a block over … this way.”
The entourage followed the man in black armor, but slowly, reluctantly.
THEY CATALOGUED 362 BODIES. MANY WERE IN THE streets, but the majority were in buildings in the city or inside the sheds, hangars, and spacecraft at the new spaceport on the edge of Arafat-kaffiyeh. Holos were taken and the Holy Office forensic teams took over, recording each site before taking the bodies back to the Pax base morgue outside of St. Malachy. It was determined that all of the bodies were offworlders—i.e., there were no local Palestinians or native Martians among them.
The spaceport intrigued the Pax Fleet experts the most.
“Eight dropships serving the field itself,” said Major Piet. “That’s a serious number. St. Malachy’s spaceport uses only two.” He glanced up at the purple Martian sky. “Assuming that the ships they were shuttling to and from had their own drop-ships—at least two each, if they were freighters—then we’re talking about serious logistics here.”
The Grand Inquisitor looked at Mars’s archbishop, but Robeson merely held his hands up. “We knew nothing of these operations,” said the little man. “As I explained before, it was an Opus Dei project.”
“Well,” said the Grand Inquisitor, “as far as we can tell, all of the Opus Dei personnel are dead … truly, irrecoverably dead … so now it’s a responsibility of the Holy Office. You don’t have any idea what they built this port for? Heavy metals, perhaps? Some sort of mineral mining operation?”
Governor Palo shook her head. “This world has been mined for over a thousand years. There are no heavy metals left worth shipping. No minerals worth a local salvage operation’s time, much less Opus Dei’s.”
Major Piet slipped his visor up and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Something was being shipped in quantity here, Your Excellencies. Eight dropships … a sophisticated grid system … automated security.”
“If the Shrike … or whatever it was … had not destroyed the computers and record systems …” began Commander Browning.
Major Piet shook his head. “It wasn’t the Shrike. The computers had already been destroyed by shaped charges and tailored DNA viruses.” He looked around the empty administrative building. Red sand had already found its way in through portals and seams. “It’s my guess that these people destroyed their own records before the Shrike arrived. I think they were on the verge of clearing out. That’s why the dropships were all in pre-launch mode … their onboard computers set to go.”
Father Farrell nodded. “But all we have are the orbital coordinates. No records of who or what they were going to rendezvous with there.”
Major Piet looked out the window at the dust storm blowing there. “There are twenty groundcar buses in that lot,” he murmured as if speaking to himself. “Each one can transport up to eighty people. A bit
of logistical overkill if the Opus Dei contingent here amounted to just the three hundred sixty-some people whose bodies we’ve found.”
Governor Palo frowned and crossed her arms. “We don’t know how many Opus Dei personnel were here, Major. As you pointed out, the records were destroyed. Perhaps there were thousands …”
Commander Browning stepped into the circle of VIPs. “Begging your pardon, Governor, but the barracks within the field perimeter here could house about four hundred people. I think that the Major may be right … all of the Opus Dei personnel may be accounted for in the bodies we’ve found.”
“You can’t be sure of that, Commander,” said Governor Palo, her voice sounding displeased.
“No, ma’am.”
She gestured toward the dust storm that had all but obscured the parked buses. “And we have evidence that they needed transport for many more people.”
“Perhaps they were an advance contingent,” said Commander Browning. “Preparing the way for a much larger population.”
“Then why destroy the records and limited AIs?” said Major Piet. “Why does it look like they were preparing to move out for good?”
The Grand Inquisitor stepped into the circle and held up one black-gloved hand. “We’ll end the speculation for now. The Holy Office will begin taking depositions and carrying out interrogations tomorrow. Governor, may we use your office at the palace?”
“Of course, Your Excellency.” Palo lowered her face, either to show deference or to hide her eyes, or both.
“Very good,” said the Grand Inquisitor. “Commander, Major, call the skimmers. We’ll leave the forensic teams and the morgue workers out here.” Cardinal Mustafa peered out at the worsening storm. Its howl could be heard through the ten layers of window plastic now. “What’s the local word for this dust storm?”
“Simoom,” said Governor Palo. “The storms used to cover the entire world. They’re growing in intensity every Martian year.”
“The locals say that it’s the old Martian gods,” whispered Archbishop Robeson. “They’re reclaiming their own.”
LESS THAN FOURTEEN LIGHT-YEARS OUT FROM OLD Earth System, above the world called Vitus-Gray-Balianus B, a starship that had once been named Raphael but which now held no name, finished its braking run into geosynchronous orbit. The four living things on board floated in zero-g, their gazes fixed on the image of the desert world on the plotboard.
“How reliable is our reading on pertubations in the farcaster field these days?” said the female called Scylla.
“More reliable than most other clues,” said her seeming twin, Rhadamanth Nemes. “We’ll check it out.”
“Shall we start with one of the Pax bases?” said the male named Gyges.
“The largest,” said Nemes.
“That would be Pax Base Bombasino,” said Briareus, checking the code on the plotboard. “Northern hemisphere. Along the central canal route. Population of …”
“It doesn’t matter what the population is,” interrupted Rhadamanth Nemes. “It just matters whether the child Aenea and the android and that bastard Endymion have come that way.”
“Dropship’s prepped,” said Scylla.
They screeched into atmosphere, extended wings just as they crossed the terminator, used the Vatican diskey code via transponder to clear the way for their landing, and set down amid Scorpions, troopship skimmers, and armored EM Vs. A flustered lieutenant greeted them and escorted them to the Base Commander’s office.
“You say that you’re members of the Noble Guard?” said Commander Solznykov, studying their faces and the readout on the diskey interphase at the same time.
“We have said it,” Rhadamanth Nemes replied tonelessly. “Our papers, order chips, and diskey have said it. How many repetitions do you require, Commander?”
Solznykov’s face and neck reddened above the high collar of his tunic. He looked down at the interphase holo instead of replying. Technically, these Noble Guard officers—members of one of the Pope’s exotic new units—could pull rank on him. Technically, they could have him shot or excommunicated, since their ranks of Cohort Leaders in the Noble Guard combined the powers of both Pax Fleet and the Vatican. Technically—according to the wording and priority encryption of the diskey—they could pull rank on a planetary governor or dictate Church policy to a world’s presiding archbishop. Technically, Solznykov wished these pale freaks had never shown up on his backwater world.
The Commander forced a smile. “Our forces here are at your disposal. What can I do for you?”
The thin, pale woman named Nemes held a holocard over the Commander’s desk and activated it. Suddenly the life-size heads of three people floated in the space between them—or, rather, two people, since the third face was obviously that of a blue-skinned android.
“I didn’t think that there were any androids left in the Pax,” said Solznykov.
“Have you had reports of any of these three in your territory, Commander?” said Nemes, ignoring his question. “It is probable they would have been reported along the major river which runs from your north pole to the equator.”
“It’s actually a canal …” began Solznykov and stopped. None of the four looked as if they had any interest in small talk or extraneous information. He called his aide, Colonel Vinara, into the office.
“Their names?” said Solznykov as Vinara stood poised with his comlog ready.
Nemes gave three names that meant nothing to the Commander. “Those aren’t local names,” he said as Colonel Vinara checked records. “Members of the indigenous culture—it’s called the Amoiete Spectrum Helix—tend to accumulate names the way my hunting dog back on Patawpha collected ticks. You see, they have this triune marriage arrangement where …”
“These are not locals,” interrupted Nemes. Her thin lips looked as bloodless as the rest of her pale face above the red uniform collar. “They’re offworlders.”
“Ahh, well,” said Solznykov, relieved that he would not be dealing with these Noble Guard freaks for more than a minute or two more, “then we can’t help you. You see, Bombasino’s the only working spaceport on Vitus-Gray-Balianus B now that we closed down the indigenie operation at Keroa Tambat, and except for a few spacers who end up in our brig, there’s no immigration at all here. The locals are all Spectrum Helix … and, well … they like colors, they surely do, but an android would stand out like a … well, Colonel?”
Colonel Vinara looked up from his database search. “Neither the images nor names match anything in our records except for an all-points bulletin sent through via Pax Fleet about four and a half standard years ago.” He looked questioningly at the Noble Guardsmen.
Nemes and her siblings stared back without comment.
Commander Solznykov spread his hands. “I’m sorry. We’ve been busy for the last local two weeks on a major training exercise I had running here, but if anyone’d come through here who matched these descriptions …”
“Sir,” said Colonel Vinara, “there were those four runaway spacers.”
Goddammit! thought Solznykov. To the Noble Guardsmen he said, “Four Mercantilus spacers who jumped ship rather than face charges for use of illegal drugs. As I remember it, they were all men, all in their sixties, and”—he turned significantly to Colonel Vinara, trying to tell him to shut the fuck up with his gaze and tone—“and we found their bodies in the Big Greasy, didn’t we, Colonel?”
“Three bodies, sir,” said Colonel Vinara, oblivious to his commander’s signals. He was checking the database again. “One of our skimmers went down near Keroa Tambat and Med dispatched … ah … Dr. Abne Molina … to go down-canal with a missionary to care for the injured crew.”
“What the hell does this have to do with anything, Colonel?” snapped Solznykov. “These officers are searching for a teenager, a man in his thirties, and an android.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vinara, looking up, startled, from his com log. “But Dr. Molina radioed in that she had treated a sick offworlder in Lock
Childe Lamonde. We assumed that it was the fourth spacer …”
Rhadamanth Nemes took a step forward so quickly that Commander Solznykov flinched involuntarily. There was something about the slim woman’s movements that was not quite human.
“Where is Lock Childe Lamonde?” demanded Nemes.
“it’s just a village along the canal about eighty klicks south of here,” said Solznykov. He turned to Colonel Vinara as if all this commotion were his aide’s fault. “When are they flying the prisoner back?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir. We have a med-skimmer scheduled to pick up the crew in Keroa Tambat at oh-six-hundred hours and they’ll stop in …” The Colonel stopped speaking as the four Noble Guard officers spun on their heels and made for the door.
Nemes paused just long enough to say, “Commander, clear our flight path between here and this Lock Childe Lamonde. We’ll be taking the dropship.”
“Ah, that’s not necessary!” said the Commander, checking the screen on his desk. “This spacer is under arrest and will be delivered … hey!”
The four Noble Guard officers had clattered down the steps outside his office and were crossing the tarmac. Solznykov rushed out onto the landing and shouted after them. “Dropships aren’t allowed to operate in atmosphere here except to land at Bombasino. Hey! We’ll send a skimmer. Hey! This spacer’s almost certainly not one of your … he’s under guard … hey!”
The four did not look back as they reached their ship, ordered an escalator to morph down to them, and disappeared through the dropship hull. Sirens went off across the base and personnel ran for shelter as the heavy dropship lifted on thrusters, shifted to EM, and accelerated south across the port perimeter.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” whispered Commander Solznykov.
“Pardon me, sir?” said Colonel Vinara.
Solznykov gave him a glare that would have melted lead. “Dispatch two combat skimmers immediately.… no, make that three. I want a squad of Marines aboard each skimmer. This is our turf, and I don’t want these anemic Noble Guard pissants doing so much as littering without our say-so. I want the skimmers there first and that rucking spacer taken into custody … our custody … if it means harelipping every Spectrum Helix indigenie between here and Lock Childe Lamonde. Savvy, Colonel?”