Ghost Legion (18 page)

"You never know," said Dixter, standing up, preparing to
take his leave. "Not so long ago, Archbishop Fideles was Brother
Daniel, a nurse on
Phoenix.
He served on a ship of war, and
while he may not have wielded a sword himself, he knew and understood
those who did. He's not as unworldly as some people believe. Tell him
that you yourself are in danger, Your Majesty. You . .. and the
galaxy. I think he'll help."

"Aren't you exaggerating?" Dion asked, smiling.

"No, son," said Dixter solemnly, this time not bothering to
correct himself. "I'm not."

The admiral bowed and left. Dion sat a long time at his desk, then
touched a switch. "D"argent, I want to speak to the
archbishop, the Abbey of St. Francis."

But D'argent was forced to report to His Majesty that the archbishop
was gone from the abbey and no one had any idea where he was or how
he could be reached.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

Still threatening to devour me opens wide,

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

Actually, Archbishop Fideles had not yet left the monastery when the
king's summons came through. The archbishop was scheduled to leave
and would have been on his private space transport, but his plans had
been disrupted by an unexpected visitor.

Fideles had sent the brother who served as his aide off on an errand
to pick up a breviary the archbishop had forgotten, and so the outer
office was empty and Fideles was alone when the respectful knock came
at the closed door.

The archbishop had his hand on the door's handle, having been just
about to walk out. Thinking it was the aide misunderstanding
instructions to meet the archbishop at his transport (the aide was an
extremely devout brother, who tended to have his thoughts on heaven
rather than on his more mundane and worldly duties, and was thus
often and easily confused), Fideles flung open the door, a mild
rebuke on his lips.

He was astounded to find not the wide-eyed and abashed Brother Petra
("Oh, dear. I was to meet Your Excellency at the
transport,
wasn't I?") but one of the lay brothers—those who had come
to the abbey to dedicate their lives to the service of God but who,
for various reasons, would never be permitted to take the vows or
perform the duties of a priest.

The brother stood in respectful silence, his head bowed, his arms
folded into the sleeves of the cassock that was frayed and
threadbare—cast-off clothing from other brothers. It was not
required of the lay brother that he dress in such humble garments; he
chose to do so himself Nor was it required of him that he keep his
cowl pulled low over his face or shun the company and conversation of
his brethren. That too, he had taken upon himself, just as he took
upon himself the hardest, most grueling, difficult, and demeaning
tasks in the abbey.

Fideles was too astonished by the sight of this brother, standing in
his doorway, to speak. Despite the fact that he could not see his
face, the archbishop knew the man immediately, knew him by his
above-average height and the extraordinary girth of chest and
shoulders—though somewhat thin from fasting— visible
beneath the shabby robes.

He was called Paenitens—the Penitent One. That was his formal
name among the brethren. Privately, he was known as the Unforgiven.
He had another name, too, his true name. But that name was known to
only two people, himself and the archbishop, and to God.

"Brother Penitent!" said Fideles, marveling. "I ... I
am extremely glad to see you!"

Extremely amazed to see you
would have been nearer the truth,
but Fideles trusted God would forgive him the lie. Never before had
Penitent sought his archbishop. Generally, the lay brother went out
of his way to avoid a meeting. Fideles could not recall the last time
they had spoken, though he had often seen the silent, unsociable man
working at his solitary labors about the abbey.

"I am pleased, very pleased, to see you, Brother," the
archbishop repeated, somewhat flustered. "I have long wanted to
speak with you, but now, I am afraid, is not a good time. As you see,
I was just on my way off-planet. The matter is quite urgent or else
I— I'm really afraid I cannot take time—"

"I am aware of this, Holiness," said the lay brother.
Talking seemed to require an effort of him, as if speech were a power
not often used, almost forgotten. "That is why I came. I must
speak with you now, before you leave."

The archbishop was already late, but he found he could not refuse
this dark and commanding presence any more than he could have refused
Death, if he'd discovered that grim figure standing in his doorway.

"Certainly, Brother," Fideles said.

Dropping his small article of luggage on the floor, the archbishop
stood aside, allowing the brother to enter the office. Fideles
started to shut the door when a hand emerged from the rough robes,
prevented him. Penitent glanced around behind him, into the empty
outer chambers.

"We will be alone?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe so. I forgot my breviary and Brother Petra has
gone to fetch it. He is
supposed
to meet me at the
transport..."

Brother Penitent nodded silently, stepped inside the room, and stood
waiting in silence, unmoving, hands again clasped beneath the sleeves
of his cassock. Fideles shut the door and returned to his desk.

"Please be seated, Brother," said the archbishop. Placing
his hands on the desk, he was about to sit down himself.

"There is not time, Holiness," intoned the brother.

Fideles levered himself back to a standing position. He was suddenly
worried and alarmed, certain some dire catastrophe had befallen.
"What is it, Brother? What has happened?"

The lay brother did not respond to the question directly, did not
appear to want the waste of words that would be required.

He said only, "You must take me with you, Holiness."

Abbot Fideles was completely and totally confounded. He was also
troubled. "Brother," he said, his refusal reluctant, "were
it any other occasion, I would, of course, be glad for your company,
but I have agreed to undertake this mission in secret and I—"

"I know the secret, Holiness." Brother Penitent's tone was
low, his shoulders bowed, as if he bore some heavy burden. "I
know where you are going and why."

"That is not possible," said the archbishop.

Brother Penitent did not appear to hear him, continued speaking
relentlessly. "You have been requested to come immediately to a
sanitarium run by the Sisters of Magdelen on a planet in the Central
Systems. The sister superior herself contacted you directly,
convinced you that the matter was of the utmost urgency and should be
kept confidential, even to the extent of prohibiting you from telling
anyone where you are going or why."

"How do you know this?" Fideles demanded, amazed both at
the knowledge and the calm with which Brother Penitent recited it.
"The message was sent through private channels."

Again the words came slowly to Brother Penitent's lips. "Let us
say ... God revealed it to me."

"Did He?" asked Fideles, struck by the hesitating manner of
a man who had never in his life hesitated to do or face or say
anything.

Brother Penitent reached up his hand, slowly and deliber-ately
removed the cowl, lifted his head, fixed his eyes upon the
archbishop. The man's face was so deeply lined it appeared to be
scarred. His black hair was streaked with gray and fell lank and long
and unkempt on his shoulders. His mouth was thin-lipped, mirthless.
But it was the eyes that arrested Fideles, caused his heart to wrench
with pity. The man's eyes were empty, dark. The archbishop remembered
those eyes when they had been vibrant, burning, alive.

Brother Penitent said simply, "Let us say that He did."

Uneasy, bewildered, the archbishop pondered what to do and, trying to
find some clue, studied the brother standing before him. Fideles
became aware of a tension within Penitent, a tautness that made the
man's body quiver.

Fideles was suddenly afraid, but of what or of whom he couldn't say.
And that made the fear more awful. Yet he was not the type to give
way to fear or crumble beneath it. He had served as a nurse on a ship
of war, served with courage and distinction, had been cited for
bravery under fire. He had been forced, more than once, to make
terrible decisions—decisions that meant life or death.

The archbishop, troubled and upset, prayed for guidance. Brother
Penitent had done things during his life that were wrong. He had
committed crimes of a most dark and fearful nature. But he had
repented of these deeds and had since spent his life since in seeking
God's forgiveness. And if Brother Penitent chose to be mysterious
about this, then the archbishop must consider that God worked in
mysterious ways.

Penitent had never before asked anything of his archbishop ... or of
anyone. The lay brother knew details of the mission that no one could
have possibly known unless by divine intervention. There were
some—Prior John among them—who would have said that such
intervention came from a dark and unholy source. But as soon as this
thought crossed Fideles's mind, he knew the decision he must make.
His faith in God remained steadfast.

"Of course, then, Brother, you must come with me,"
Archbishop Fideles said resolutely. "Are you packed? Do you need
to bring anything?"

Brother Penitent did not reply. Drawing his cowl up over his head,
pulling it low over his face, he indicated silently he was ready to
proceed, empty-handed as he was.

Fideles left the abbey, satisfied that he had done what the Creator
wanted. The two boarded the transport. At the last minute, Brother
Petra arrived, apologetic, out of breath, and clutching the breviary,
which he almost forgot to hand over, so astounded was he at the sight
of the archbishop's strange companion.

"Tell Prior John that Brother Penitent goes with me" was
all the archbishop had time to say, and he needn't have said that
much, he reflected, for the news would be circulated through the
small, cloistered community the moment Brother Petra had recovered
breath enough to tell it.

Again Fideles reminded himself he was doing God's will.

The transport headed out into deep space. And it was here, among the
stars, that the archbishop realized he was human after all, and that
to be human was to continually battle against doubt.

He had his breviary, but in his distracted state of mind, he'd gone
off and left his luggage sitting beside the office door.

Cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness.

Charles Wesley,
Sermons

Tusk—looking sharp and professional in the neatly pressed
combat fatigues he wore when he was transporting clients— stood
at the foot of the Scimitar's ladder, greeting his latest customers.

"Name's Tusk," he said, extending his hand.

"Don Perrin," said a man, blond, broad-shouldered,
good-looking.

"Cynthia Zorn," said a woman, blond, long-legged, and
good-looking.

They shook hands all around.

"Commander Link's already on board," said Tusk, "getting
everything ready. We should lift off right on time. Can I give you a
hand with your gear?"

The man and woman had arrived in a sleek new limo-jet. The driver had
unpacked travel cases from the trunk, placed them on the ground.

"Thank you," said Don. "Oh, uh, here, Charles, let me
handle that."

The driver had hold of something large and metallic, heavy and
ungainly, and was attempting to wrestle it out of the backseat of the
limo. He was making little progress and was obviously relieved to
stand aside and let Don take over. Tusk grabbed hold of the two
travel cases, which were light and small, hefted them easily, and
waited to see what would eventually emerge from the limo.

"You two vacuum cleaner salesmen?" he asked when Don had
the thing out and resting on the tarmac.

The woman laughed. "In a manner of speaking."

Don, flushed with his efforts, grinned. "I know she's not very
pretty, but she's good at what she does."

"Uh-huh," said Tusk, eyeing a large metal canister that
stood about one and a half meters tall and came complete with coiled
hose, nozzle, and various appendages. "What does 'she' do?"

"Her name is Mrs. Mopup. Get it?
Mop up?
She's the
Housewife's Dream. Or househusband's," Don added, casting an
apologetic glance at his partner."

Cynthia smiled. "Haven't you seen our vid ads? Or heard our
jingle? 'Let Mrs. Mopup mop up after your poppet?' It's quite
catchy."

"No, sorry," said Tusk, trying to keep a straight face.
They were customers, after all. "But then," he added,
hurriedly, "we don't own a vid at home. The wife doesn't believe
in them. Thinks the kid would spend too much time watching it instead
of studying."

The vid set was, in fact, now siting in Mike's Friendly Pawnshop.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it." Cynthia seemed
genuinely crushed.

Tusk made amends. "But I'll bet my wife would sure go for one of
those things."

"I know she would!" Cynthia brightened. "We could make
you a really good deal. Twenty-five percent off."

"Uh, sure," said Tusk. If nothing else, Nola would get a
laugh out of the contraption.

"Thank you, Charles," Don said to the limo driver, who
tipped his hat, shut the trunk, and drove off. Don Perrin and the
woman started for the Scimitar.

"Come along, Mrs. Mopup," ordered Cynthia, and the bot
trundled after them.

Tusk trailed behind, carrying the luggage and thinking what he would
do to Link once he got his hands on him. Steady job! A coupla
salesmen! Shit, we'll probably be lucky if they don't try to pay us
in Mrs. Mopups! Still, he reflected, eyeing the two, who were walking
along in front of him, there's something kinda fishy about all this.
People pay us for a quiet trip and no interference from the locals.
Unless they're going to a planet where vacuum cleaners are illegal,
why spend the money on
us
? Why not just take a commercial
liner? And I'll wager Cynthia didn't buy that smooth-fitting flight
suit she's wearing off her commission selling Mrs. Mopups
door-to-door. To say nothing of Charles and the limo.