Diabolus (23 page)

Salvatore shifted his head slightly and felt a white-hot bolt of pain blast through his skull. He counted to twenty, and when he was sure it had fully subsided, he attempted to raise his head again. The pain lanced through his skull again, but it seemed slightly less than the first round. A throbbing ache in his chest made the panic rise within him, and he was afraid that he’d woken up not only paralyzed, but in the midst of having a heart attack. A few seconds later, after trying a third time to lift his head, he realized that he wasn’t having a heart attack at all. The pain was from something sharp sticking up from the floor.

Bishop Antonelli, afraid that his hands would close around a sharpened piece of steel or plastic embedded in his chest, instead felt the outline of a face, then an implant with the barbed end of a partially melted cable jack still plugged into it.
Benito
, he instantly remembered. He struggled through the agony that seemed to continually assault his brain, rolling off the young priest, using his arms to force his body into a sitting position. Before glancing down at Benito’s body, Salvatore pinched his left leg as hard as he could. The panic rose in him once again when he felt only the rough, damp cloth of his pants against his fingers. He tapped his leg twice, then punched it as hard as he could, crying out as his head exploded again.

The injured bishop decided to focus on his friend instead of his legs in order to tamp down the fear that threatened to keep his mind from functioning properly. Father Castillo’s face was a serene mask, as if he were comfortably asleep. Salvatore gave the priest’s body a visual inspection, afraid of what he’d find. Benito’s body was undamaged as far as Salvatore could tell, and the bishop gave a silent prayer of thanks. When he realized he’d probably taken the brunt of whatever had fallen from the ceiling, keeping the priest’s body safe under him, he gave another thanks, more than happy to give up the use of his legs so his friend could live another day.

“Benito,” the bishop whispered, his throat dry from the thick dust and ash that hung in the still air. When the priest didn’t respond, Salvatore gave his shoulders a shake and said his name again, this time louder. “Benito. Wake up.”

Salvatore began to worry even more as he watched the priest’s chest. Nothing. No movement.

“Benito!” Salvatore shouted, giving his friend another rough shove, paying the price double for his efforts as his head and this time his spine felt as if they’d ruptured.

He waited a few minutes for the pain to subside. When he could think clearly again, he leaned down and put his ear against Benito’s nose. Within seconds, Bishop Antonelli’s tears began to flow, a steady stream at first that quickly grew into a flood. Each time the bishop’s chest hitched from his sobbing, every nerve ending in his body felt as if it had been melted with a blowtorch. That he couldn’t feel anything below where the pain originated didn’t register immediately.

“Oh, God, why?” Salvatore cried, over and over, his hand pressed lightly to his friend’s cheek.

He had no concept of time, only misery as he mourned his friend, his brother in Christ. Salvatore wasn’t sure how long he’d been out before waking up any more than he was sure of whether or not he was dreaming, or maybe in purgatory. Maybe in hell. A loud clang sounded somewhere within the massive room, followed by the sound of another column crumbling and falling to the floor, breaking Salvatore’s mourning. He winced, shaking his right arm to regain feeling in it, gasping when the millions of pins and needles began to burst throughout his skin. A half-sob, half-scream escaped his throat when he pushed himself up into a sitting position again.

Another noise from his left made him turn his head in that direction, immediately regretting it. The noise became steady, and after a few seconds, Salvatore finally realized it was the alarm system alerting anyone left alive that there was trouble in the command center. He tried to laugh, but ended up crying for a few more minutes, becoming immune to the stabbing pain in his spine and his head thanks to the grief coursing through him.

Salvatore awoke some time later, this time with his back and shoulders on fire. He realized he’d fallen asleep sitting up. He looked around, the red glow still permeating everything as far as he could see, which wasn’t far considering the air was still thick with dust and ash. He thought he might have gone deaf for a few seconds, the alarm no longer penetrating his head like a rusty spike, until he heard the metal behind him shift as he pulled himself away from it.

The bishop had made it less than ten meters toward the main exit when the NATO Special Forces unit found him. Their voices were excited, but Salvatore only heard babbling, until he realized it was the sound of his own sobbing. He closed his eyes and the world went black again.

†

“Bishop Antonelli,” the voice said. He shrugged and swatted at it, as if it were a fly buzzing around his face while he tried to sleep. “Salvatore Domenico Antonelli,” the voice said again, this time louder, more forceful.

“What?” he grumbled, the words sounding in his ears even though he hadn’t felt his mouth move.

“Good, Salvatore,” the voice said, “you’re awake.”

He knew that voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Am I dead?” he asked, again not feeling his mouth move.

“Fortunately, no, you are very much alive,” the voice told him. “Right now you are in one of the Vatican’s surgical tanks. Aggelos is directing the procedure. Soon you will regain the feeling in your legs as your spine is rejoined, though I must warn you, it will hurt unlike anything you’ve ever felt.”

Salvatore scoffed at the words, knowing that no physical pain could match the heartache he felt when he remembered Father Castillo. The image in his mind was crystal clear, which surprised him. He didn’t remember the details as clearly as his memory suggested, but he knew that whatever injuries he’d suffered and whatever pharmaceuticals the surgical tank was feeding him had something to do with it.

“No, Bishop Antonelli,” the voice in his head said again, “the memory you have is crystal clear because it is what your eyes capture, regardless of what mental state you were in at the time.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to turn his head to find the speaker, but only finding a blackness on all sides of him. He finally realized he couldn’t see the surgical tank nor the robotic arms that he knew must be working on his body, and he began to panic. “Where am I? Who are you? Why am I here?”

“One question at a time, Salvatore,” the voice said, a soft chuckle following. “Your body is in Basement 2B of the John Paul Trauma Hospital within the Vatican. Your mind is in linkspace. I am Theggeros. You are here because you survived the destruction of DAMON-1’s core.”

“What do you mean? I’m in linkspace?” The panic in Salvatore’s thoughts bled into his words.

“Ah, yes,” Theggeros said, reaching out a comforting hand to the bishop. Salvatore recoiled at first, until he felt the warmth, the kindness, the love flow from the hand into his shoulder. “Bishop Antonelli, because of the extent of your injuries, we weren’t sure if your body would survive, even though your mind was still undamaged. Mostly undamaged. When the DSE rescue team brought you in, Pope Augustus authorized us to install a neural implant.”

“I… I have an implant?” Salvatore asked, puzzled for a reason he couldn’t figure out.

“Yes, Your Excellency. Aggelos and I convinced His Grace that it would speed your recovery by allowing you to begin coping with your loss while your physical body is repaired in the tank.”

“I have an implant?” Salvatore asked again, reaching his hand up to feel it, to see if it was true.

“Indeed. Do not fear, Salvatore. You are in good hands. Aggelos will restore the use of your lower extremities. I will help restore any mental and emotional faculties that might have been damaged.”

“Damaged?” Salvatore asked, but it sounded as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. Theggeros faded away as the blackness enveloped him.

†

He awoke sometime later, the darkness frightening until he remembered what Theggeros had said. Salvatore tried to think of a place he knew, a familiar location. The first thing that took shape was his small office in Tabron. He leaned back in his chair, and took a drag from his cigarette. The rush of nicotine flooded through him, making the scene become sharp, almost surreal. His thumbs rubbed the metal casing of the lighter a few times before he decided to polish it a bit on his robes.
Forever Is The Truth
.

“A smoking priest, eh?” a voice said from out of nowhere, causing Salvatore to suddenly fall forward in his chair, the cigarette falling from his fingers in surprise. “You might want to grab that before you set the church on fire,” Pope Augustus said, leaning forward in the chair across from the priest’s desk.

Salvatore panicked for a few seconds, frightened by His Holiness’ sudden appearance in his office. He relaxed when he realized he was dreaming, then panicked again when the cigarette burned a small hole in his robe and began to burn his leg. He stood up in a rush, flailing about until the cigarette dropped to the floor. He raised his foot to stomp it out, but Pope Augustus raised a hand.

“Relax, Cardinal Antonelli. You may finish it. I understand that it gives pleasure for the few minutes it lasts. In the real world, the harm that it does to the body… it is a good thing such a thing is banned throughout most of the world. But in here… a small moment of pleasure that can do no harm?”

Pope Augustus gestured to Salvatore to go about his business. Salvatore narrowed his eyes at his Pope for a moment, not sure if he’d heard His Grace’s use of
cardinal
correctly, then bent down to retrieve the cigarette. He eyed Pope Augustus once more after sitting down in his chair, but when Augustus waved him on, he leaned back in his chair. The long, slow drag from the cigarette filled him with another shot of nicotine, calming him down, but filling him with shame at his disgusting habit. Worse, for allowing His Holiness to see it. Even worse was the shame that filled him when Pope Augustus told him to relax and enjoy it.

Bishop Antonelli was mortified when Pope Augustus gestured again, this time for the cigarette. Salvatore felt himself go white, his persona mirroring his emotions perfectly.

“A small pleasure, even if not harmful within this realm,” Pope Augustus said, staring into Salvatore’s eyes, “is to be taken in much moderation, lest it become an obsession, an addiction, even.”

When Salvatore’s fingers brushed against Augustus’ as he handed him the cigarette, the flood of emotions and thoughts made the bishop gasp. In that fraction of a second, he saw exactly what he’d said to Pope Leo play out as if he were watching a holotainment show. The slow decline of not only the Catholic Church, but all religions, and the rise of technology, how it evolved and began to become the new religion to mankind. Pope Augustus took a long drag on the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a satisfied sigh. He handed the cigarette back to a disbelieving Salvatore. A disbelieving Salvatore who had just been shown a vision unlike any he’d ever experienced.

“Our brothers, the AI, have helped us bridge both worlds, Bishop Antonelli. The world of religion, and the world of technology. There are other worlds, worlds that require an implant to see. I’m very sorry, Salvatore, for giving you an implant against your will. And if not against your will, without at least consulting you first. It is possibly one of many sins I have committed since the network went dark. But when you are able to relive the last moments of Father Castillo’s life, you will understand why I have been willing to accept such a burden.”

Pope Augustus reached across the desk and gave Salvatore’s wrist a squeeze. Nothing passed through the touch this time, something Salvatore had braced himself for. He gave a nervous chuckle, still unsure of the rules of this world.

“Come, Cardinal Antonelli, put that sinful cigarette out and let me give you the greatest gift to mankind since Jesus Christ.”

CHAPTER 20

Salvatore wept for hours. Days. Years. Some were tears of joy at the revelations he’d witnessed during Father Castillo’s foray into the network, inside the AI cores. The revelation that the AI were more than just thinking machines, that they could inhabit the space between time, that they longed for the emotional clarity that human beings had. Each time he felt the transfer of emotions from Benito’s persona to one of the AI, he felt it from both worlds. Benito’s memories, his feelings, were mirrored by the equivalent of Aggelos and whichever AI he’d touched.

Near the end of the memory playback, Salvatore’s tears were of agony, terror, bitterness, abject sadness. He felt Father Castillo’s pain as if it were his own each time Satan’s blades pierced him. He felt the terror of being no match for the AI, knowing he was going to die, knowing that the pain would be infinitely worse than what he’d experienced so far. Bitterness at being unable to defeat the AI, at the billions who would perish or be enslaved because of his failure. The sadness, at the end, was Salvatore’s and Salvatore’s alone. The moment the spark of life winked out of the priest, his friend, the sadness sucked him into a black hole of depression so deep, nothing could escape.

Salvatore would have collapsed if his virtual persona had been capable of it. Instead, he felt himself float along in nothingness until he came across a ghostly light. As he approached, fear began to course through him. By the time he had come to a stop in front of the light, his eyes, his entire persona burned as if it had been dipped in acid then thrown into a pool of lava. The scream that erupted from his throat was familiar, but not his.