Fiction
Science Fiction
His eyes burning and watering, Commanding Admiral Christopher Reynolds peered through the acrid haze that enveloped the bridge of his flagship, Star Frigate Lionheart. He didn’t need the wails of alarm klaxons and the composed but strained exchanges of the bridge crew, or the sight of blinking red status lights and the worried expression on the face of Captain Andrzej Kazimierz seated beside him to know that Lionheart had sustained significant damage.
But his mind was not primarily on his flagship—that was Kazimierz’s concern—but on his fleet.
“Status?” he demanded, leaning forward, his elbows on the armrests of his command chair.
The Scan officer coughed and cleared her throat. “Five ships report operational, sir. The remainder disabled...or dead.”
Reynolds sank back, raising his left hand to his forehead and running it back over hair which was somehow still more brown than gray. Five ships—six, including Lionheart—out of twenty-five.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive, sir.”
“The enemy?”
“Regrouping. At least fifty-four battle-ready ships.”
Fifty-four. They’d accounted for about half of the enemy fleet, but at the cost of three-quarters of their own. He balled his fist and brought it down on the armrest.
“That’s it, then,” he murmured.
“Sir?” Lionheart’s captain asked, breaking off a conversation with a blood- and dirt-streaked engineer.
“There’s nothing else we can do,” Reynolds said. “We’ve lost.”
Kazimierz gaped. “But—”
“Do you have a miracle up your sleeve?” Reynolds snapped, suddenly annoyed. “Because I don’t.”
“We can’t give up!” Kazimierz pointed toward the viewscreen, which seemed clearer than it had a few minutes ago—the ventilators were already clearing the smoke from the air. “Admiral, we still have power, shields, weapons—even at less than full status we outmatch any of those garbage-haulers.”
“Do you have a death-wish?” Reynolds gestured around the bridge. “Do you want all these men and women to die for no reason?”
“In defense of Earth,” Captain Kazimierz retorted, “I would gladly die. And I expect everyone here would say the same.”
Reynolds nodded slowly and willed himself to speak calmly. Kazimierz was a good captain; he didn’t deserve to be the recipient of Reynolds’s frustration. “I know you would. I would too, if it would help. But think, Andrzej. We are all that’s left. If, out of our honor or our sense of duty, we go to destruction—because six damaged ships have absolutely no chance against that horde—then Earth will be totally defenseless.
Reynolds sighed, then continued. “It pains me to say it, but we have to retreat. We have to salvage something from this disaster.”
He studied Kazimierz’s face, seeing the conflict raging within the younger man. He felt it, too. Perhaps more.
The captain bore only the responsibility for this one ship, whereas he had an entire fleet to consider. Had had a fleet.
The First Fleet—the pride of Earth’s Interstellar Defense Navy—had just met crushing defeat at the hands of an enemy with inferior ships and obsolescent technology, but vastly superior numbers. The First Fleet—Earth’s final line of defense—had met the same fate as the Outer Fleets which defended Earth’s far-flung colonies.
It wasn’t for lack of dedication or effort; Reynolds’s ships and crews had fought valiantly—sacrificially—inflicting savage damage upon the enemy. They had simply been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of adversaries. Numbers...it always came down to numbers.
“Message to all ships,” Reynolds said heavily. “Retreat to Sol System.”
It was the first time he had ever issued such an order. The first time a ship—or a fleet—under his direct command had suffered defeat. The hopes of Earth had rested on his shoulders. Could he have done more? Could anyone have done more?
For five years—ever since the first colonies had fallen to the invaders—he had kept them at bay, harassing them, outmaneuvering them, inflicting any number of defeats on them. But the decisive victory that would eliminate the scourge once and for all remained elusive. For every ship destroyed, the enemy—unconcerned with loss—came back with more. After every skirmish, they regrouped and returned, remorselessly.
Reynolds had pleaded for more ships, but Earth’s government had vacillated between confrontation and appeasement, and somehow the funds were never enough. Too late, the World Council realized that appeasement had been a flawed policy. Dissatisfied with Earth’s concessions, the Venarii sent an armada straight toward Earth herself.
Everyone knew what that meant, as the Venarii pattern had become clear. They were nothing but pirates, interstellar barbarians bent on plunder. They ravaged worlds, took what they wanted, and departed, leaving death and destruction behind.
And there was no time for Earth’s government to reverse its policies.
Reynolds had done what he could. His tactics had been sound. His battle plan had worked. If only he had had more ships!
The First Fleet had been Earth’s last hope.
Now there was none.
Reynolds rose to his feet. “I’ll be in my quarters.”
His feet felt as heavy as if he was on a high-gravity world. His brother would have told him to pray. Normally he would have smiled tolerantly at such advice, more content to rely on his own abilities than the intervention of the divine. But at the moment it seemed as if it might not be such a bad idea. And perhaps it was the only thing for him to do.
But first, he had to contact Earth with the dire news.
No one knew where they came from. The location of their homeworld—if they still had one—remained a mystery. They came out of the darkness of interstellar space and returned there. Some speculated that they weren’t even from the Milky Way at all, that, despite the complexities involved and their technological deficiencies, they had discovered a hyperspacial route from one of the Magellanic Clouds or Andromeda.
Earth’s first warning came when the colony world Rainer III—remote and virtually defenseless—was pillaged by unknown attackers. But they would not remain unknown for long. As planet after planet—New Aus, Peyton’s Hope, FarLanding—was plundered by assailants who arrived in vast hordes of motley ships, stripped the colonies of whatever they desired and left, leaving the stunned survivors to try to rebuild their lives and their world, Earth eventually learned the identity of her opponent.
Contact with other space-faring races revealed that Earth’s colonies were not alone in being targeted—the Venarii had cut a swath of destruction across this arm of the galaxy. No one knew how many fleets they possessed.
Venarii.
The word itself produced shivers when whispered in the taverns and spacers’ hang-outs of the known galaxy. Supplies, technology, ships, and sentient beings themselves—all were desired and taken by the marauders. Some, no doubt, joined the ravagers willingly, but who knew how many persons—human or otherwise—the Venarii forced into servitude?
At first, the threat to Earth was not taken seriously—or not seriously enough. After all, the worlds involved were far distant, materially unimportant, sometimes quite unknown to the average Earth-dweller. Who, other than a map-maker or starpilot, had ever heard of—or cared about—Dark Aurora or Last Gasp, perhaps the most remote worlds from Mother Earth? Even when larger, closer colonies came under fire—North Worthing, GreenGarden, Singer II—Earth didn’t realize the seriousness of her position. Surely the Interstellar Defense Navy—which had never faced a major threat—could cope. Surely the squadrons of massive star frigates that patrolled the major routes could fend off the interlopers.
Time, however, proved the folly of Earth’s overconfidence and complacency.
Somehow, from a captured ship or starpilot, the Venarii learned the route to Earth.
The towers of the city fell as he watched, crumbling into smoking piles of rubble. Hungry flames devoured the wreckage, and the air was thick with the miasma of destruction. People fled screaming into the night, into a vast, yawning darkness that swallowed them up. They disappeared as if sucked into the maw of a black hole—a black hole that mutated into an evil, leering face, laughing at the horrors it had created.
A solitary figure dressed in white emerged from the ruined city and ascended a hill toward the evil, where it halted—one tiny figure of white against the darkness that raged against the world.
The figure raised its hand; the darkness laughed in derision.
And then, from somewhere far distant, he heard a voice no louder than the whisper of wind among the pines, or the rustling of fallen leaves; yet he heard it clearly, calling his name, summoning him.
Here I am, he replied. Here I am.
The voice spoke to him in words that were not words but feelings, sensations, images.
Even as the voice faded into nothingness, he knew that he could not refuse, that the summons was one that he must answer.
His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, His Holiness, Pope Benedict XXVI, breathing hard, struggled to orient himself. Finally, his mind registered the familiar walls and decorated ceiling of his Vatican apartment, illuminated by shafts of golden sunlight slanting through cracks in the brocaded curtains. He relaxed, then sat up, conscious of a dull throbbing in his left temple and an ache in his neck. His pillow lay on the floor, and his cotton sheets were tangled.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and checked the time—six a.m., his normal hour for waking. He stretched, working out the offending muscle in his neck, then rose, acutely conscious of a nagging anxiety. He held his hands out before him, noticing with dismay a fine tremor.
Usually, he would have gone to his private chapel for devotions before partaking of a light breakfast, but even as he dressed, putting on ordinary robes since no audiences were scheduled for the day, he had the sensation that this would not be a usual day. Nor one devoted to work on his latest encyclical, as he’d hoped. He had barely shut the apartment door behind him when his secretary came hurrying along the corridor, his black robes swirling wildly in his haste.
The secretary, Fr. Mutambo Orombi, skidded to a halt.
Benedict raised his eyebrows. “Good morning,” he said mildly.
“Father—have you heard the news?” Orombi exclaimed.
Benedict shook his head. “I have only just arisen.”
“It’s on all the channels—the First Fleet has suffered a terrible defeat!”
“No—that’s not possible!” His throat tightened, and his hands clenched. A long moment passed before he could reply. “Were there any survivors?”
“A handful of ships—” Orombi broke off. Sudden understanding crossed his broad features. “Lionheart was one of them. The admiral is unharmed.”
“Praise be to God,” Benedict breathed, even as the thought crossed his mind that he was being selfish by so hoping, when so many others were suffering loss. Forgive me, Lord, he prayed silently.
“What is the reaction?” Benedict asked.
Orombi raised his arms, palms up. “Unrest. Panic in some areas. People fleeing to the countryside. Is it the end, Father?”
Benedict placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Our Lord didn’t know the day or the hour, and neither do I. But he did tell us we must pass through trials and tribulations.”
He began to walk down the corridor, and Orombi followed, a pace behind.
“Do you wish to issue a statement?” Orombi asked.
A statement. The anxiety intensified. He had been elected Pope not because he was charismatic (he wasn’t) or because he was an outspoken leader confronting social issues of the day (he was at heart a shy, retiring scholar) but because, in an age of theological laxity, the Church needed a confident theologian at the helm of the Barque of Peter. He had never imagined himself becoming Pope—let alone a Pope in time of war. But he wasn’t the first man to be thrust into that position; far from it. And it was unlikely—unless this truly was The End—that he’d be the last.
Orombi was waiting for an answer.
“Not yet,” Benedict said. “First, I would like you to summon my confessor, then I will pray and say Mass.”
“And then you will meet the press?”
“And then,” Benedict replied, drawing a deep breath, “I will attempt to speak to Admiral Christopher Reynolds.”
“But Father, the people need to hear from you—”
“Confession, Mass, and Admiral Reynolds. In that order,” Benedict said firmly. “And then we shall address the people.”
He closed his eyes and put a pair of fingers to his temple. He had feared this day would come—prayed that it wouldn’t, but feared it all the same. He’d wondered what he would do if the worst happened...
Now he would find out.
“A personal call for you, Admiral.”
Christopher Reynolds raised tired, aching eyes to the image of the Comm officer on the vidscreen in his ready-room. In company with the other surviving ships of the First Fleet—one of which, Star Frigate Valiant, was under tow—Lionheart bored her way Earthward through the nebulous realm of Roessler hyperspace. Reynolds had spent hours in conference with his ships’ captains as well as with the heads of the World Council and the Planetary Guard Alliance. As Commanding Admiral he had full authority over the ships of the Interstellar Defense Navy, but he still sought the opinions of such other admirals as remained.
The World Council, in emergency session, seemed mired in confusion and dissent, while the military experts debated and disagreed upon the effectiveness of Earth’s space- and ground-based defenses. The only spark of good news had been Captain Kazimierz’s report that Lionheart had not been as severely damaged as first believed, and was at nearly full capability.
In short, he was not in the mood for routine communications. He took a swallow from his mug of strong black tea—he’d gone through several pots—and set the mug down again.
“Put it in the message file,” he instructed irritably. “I’ll deal with it later.” When I have time, he added under his breath. If I have time.
“It’s from the Vatican, sir. It’s marked ‘urgent.’”
Reynolds sighed. “Very well, then.” He glanced away, at a datapad, trying to think of some way—any way—to organize further resistance based on the number of ships that remained to him. Two star frigates were nearing completion at Ceres Shipyards and could possibly be made operational, if not fully complete, in short order. He could pull a handful of ships from the colonies—all that remained of the Outer Fleets—if they could arrive in time, even though it meant leaving the worlds and the spacelanes totally defenseless. Otherwise, all that he had left were scoutships, supply vessels, patrol craft, and the like—nothing that could stand up to the firepower of the Venarii warfleet.
If only he had more ships like Lionheart, the newest, largest, most sophisticated, and most powerful vessel Earth possessed. Give him twenty Lionhearts and he would send the Venarii scurrying back to the dark crevices of the galaxy.
He shook his head.
There weren’t twenty Lionhearts.
But there had to be a way. There had to—
With a start he remembered his call from the Vatican. He looked up, expecting to see a functionary of some sort. It wasn’t.
“Josiah!” he gasped, seeing a middle-aged man in white robes, the hair of his temples shot with silver streaks, gray eyes regarding the world soberly from above a narrow nose and thin lips. “I mean, Your Holiness— I wasn’t expecting...”
The other man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No need for formalities, Chris. It has been a long time.”
“Too long. Don’t you wish we could sneak away to walk the Wye Valley like we did when we were boys?”
Memory softened the other man’s features. “The carefree days of childhood. Too bad we can only really appreciate them in memory.”
“Indeed,” Reynolds agreed. “Now tell me, why the call?”
“Is it true?” Benedict asked. “Is Earth at the mercy of the Venarii?”
“Near enough,” Reynolds said. “We made our last stand, and failed. The best I can do now is to pursue guerilla tactics against the Venarii, in the hopes that if I worry them enough they’ll tire of the harassment and won’t linger long.”
“But they could do immense damage in a short time.”
“They could,” Reynolds agreed somberly. “And, barring a miracle, they will.”
Benedict brushed back a strand of hair. “Chris, I have a very big request to ask of you.”
Reynolds gestured for him to continue.
“I need you to authorize a hyperspace-capable ship for me.”
“An interstellar ship?” Reynolds frowned. “Whatever for?”
“So I can rendezvous with Lionheart.”
“Rendezvous with Lionheart?” Reynolds repeated incredulously. “Forgive me, but that’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in ages. What possible reason could you have?”
“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I might think that already.”
Benedict was pleading. “Will you trust me, Chris?” he said, in a tone of voice that brought back further memories.
“Well—”
“Have I ever led you wrong?”
Despite himself, Reynolds couldn’t help the flicker of a smile. “You were always the good one, that’s for sure.”
“Well, not always. There was the incident of some cream cakes on Hergest Ridge...”
Reynolds burst out in a chuckle, then sobered. Also fully serious, Benedict returned his steady gaze.
Reynolds pursed his lips, and thought for a long moment. Then he tapped on his datapad and waited for the answer to flash up on his visual implant.
“Status reports indicate Scoutship Cheyenne is currently in Earth orbit.”
“A scoutship would be fine.”
“I think it can be spared,” Reynolds said. What difference would one measly scoutship make, anyway? “Take a shuttle from Rome Spaceport. I’ll give you the necessary clearance—civilian traffic is canceled for the duration of the crisis, so you won’t get off the ground without it. Cheyenne’s commander will be ordered to place his ship at your disposal.”
Reynolds folded his hands. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? It’s highly unusual.”
Benedict nodded. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“Not yet. But I’ll give you a hint. I know history was never your favorite subject, but read the story of Attila the Hun. But don’t do it until I’m on my way in Cheyenne.”
“Agreed. I never could understand you, you know.”
Benedict spoke gravely. “There’s still hope.”
“I pray so. I’ll be expecting you. Lionheart out.”
Benedict’s image faded.
Reynolds puffed out his cheeks. Hope. Hope, as the adage had it, was not a plan of action. He resumed his inventory of ships, still trying to create something out of almost nothing.
Benedict studied Fr. Mutambo Orombi’s dark features as he changed into traveling clothes. He’d made a statement to the press—not a very good one, he feared, but his Secretary of State could improve upon it.
“I won’t order you to come with me,” he said. “Depending on Admiral Reynolds, it might be no more than the proverbial wild goose chase. On the other hand, it could be dangerous. It might even prove fatal.”
Orombi licked his lips. “I don’t wish to question your judgment, Father,” he said, “but are you sure this is wise? People are looking to you for guidance and direction; you are needed here.”
“I am needed wherever Our Lord calls me,” Benedict replied sternly. “If I am not where He wants me, then nothing I do will be of avail. Now, are you coming?”
Orombi straightened. “I am.”
“Excellent. Let’s be on our way.”
The dome of St. Peter’s shone like a giant pearl in the midday sun as the papal flitter lifted off, circled, and headed for the spaceport. Benedict wondered if he would ever lay eyes on the great basilica again. For more than a millennium it had stood as the center of the Christian faith; would it continue to stand? Crowds filled the squares and streets as if seeking solace in proximity to St. Peter’s. Were they, too, witnesses of its final hours?
“Have you ever been off-world before?” Benedict asked, sensing his companion’s unspoken tension.
“No,” Orombi replied.
“I made a tour of the major colonies early in my pontificate,” Benedict mused. “There really isn’t much to it. Some people experience brief nausea or disorientation when a ship transitions into or out of hyperspace, but otherwise it’s no different than flying in an aircraft. With artificial gravity it’s even smoother. There’s no sensation of movement.”
Orombi looked out the window as the spaceport came into view. “But there’s nothing outside,” he said. “No atmosphere. Nothing but cold and emptiness.”
“True. But spacecraft are so sophisticated there’s virtually nothing that can go wrong. We stand a greater chance of an accident in this flitter than we will on Cheyenne—and much more than on Lionheart.”
Orombi swallowed, hard. “If you say so, Father.”
Benedict wondered if he had erred in desiring his secretary’s company. He had almost asked Cardinal Benjamin White Antelope, a Native American currently serving as Prefect of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Extraterrestrial Peoples, to come, but decided against it. If anything happened to him, the cardinal would be needed on Earth. Orombi was devout, efficient, and normally levelheaded. Benedict hoped his disquiet would pass.
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament his handiwork,” he quoted. “Think of it as a chance to see them close up.”
“I’ll try to remember that, Father,” Orombi replied.
“Good,” Benedict said shortly.
The flitter descended at the spaceport.
“Welcome aboard Lionheart, Your Holiness,” Christopher Reynolds said formally, as a slender figure in white descended from the intra-ship shuttle parked in Lionheart’s landing bay. He gave a deep bow, and an honor guard of ships’ crew saluted smartly. Reynolds wore his blue-and-white full-dress uniform, as did the honor guard.
“The honor is mine,” Benedict replied. He clasped Reynolds’s hands in his own. “It’s good to see you again, Chris. Has it really been six years?”
“Going on,” Reynolds replied.
Benedict shook his head. “Incredible. You’re looking well.”
“As are you.”
Benedict motioned to a man of African descent who had followed him from the shuttle. “My secretary, Fr. Mutambo Orombi.”
Reynolds shook the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you, Father.”
“I’ve heard much about you, Admiral.”
Reynolds raised his eyebrows. “I expect the press is having a field day vilifying me.”
“Not at all—”
“No matter. May I present Lionheart’s commander, Captain Andrzej Kazimierz, and our First Officer...”
The introductions completed, Reynolds turned on his heels. “If you will follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
“Do you wish to resume course, sir?” Kazimierz asked.
Reynolds paused. “Not yet. Have Irresistible take over the tow of Valiant and continue to Earth. Cheyenne to remain with us.”
“Aye, sir.”
Benedict’s head swiveled, taking in details as he walked alongside Reynolds, with Orombi trailing at a discrete distance. “Quite the ship, Chris,” he said.
“Your first time on a capital ship?” Reynolds asked.
“Quite. I was expecting something more—”
“Austere?”
“Utilitarian. Inartistic.”
Reynolds recalled the first time he had laid eyes on Lionheart, when the ship first emerged from the dockyards. Even after a lifetime in space aboard the best warships Earth boasted, he had been impressed. It wasn’t just size—Lionheart wasn’t simply a larger, more imposing version of the average star frigate; the ship possessed what he could only describe as charisma. It was hard to pin down—but subtle alterations to the standard star frigate’s lines, the rake of her hyperspacial vanes, and the angle of her weapons batteries combined to add a certain elegance, nobility, or aura to her appearance.
He glanced over his shoulder. Orombi was engaged in conversation with a lieutenant from Security. He gripped Benedict’s arm.
“I followed your suggestion,” he hissed, “and read about Leo and Attila. Have you totally lost it?”
“Do you find my suggestion unconventional?” Benedict replied good-naturedly.
“Unconventional? Harebrained, cockamamie, and lunatic suggest themselves as apt descriptors.”
“What about divinely inspired?”
“That’s your domain. I wouldn’t presume to offer an opinion.”
“But will you do it? That’s the question.”
Reynolds came to a halt. He pressed his right hand to a sensorpad and the door slid open. “This is your room. Set the sensorpad to your handprint, and you’ll have complete privacy. Only senior officers and ship’s security have universal access.”
“Thank you.”
“Your secretary will be across the corridor. The ship’s purser will be along directly to ensure that you have all you require.”
“My needs are simple,” Benedict replied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Holy Father?” Orombi joined them. “I have been talking to Lieutenant Jeoffroi. He tells me there are a number of Catholics on board, and wonders if you would be so gracious as to say Mass for them—that is, if you have time.”
“I would be delighted,” Benedict replied. Then he frowned. “Where is the ship’s chaplain? Surely on a vessel of this size—”
“Father Limwris was killed during an engagement some weeks ago,” Reynolds said. “His presence has been missed.”
“Then the Mass shall be for the repose of his soul, and for the souls of all who have given their lives in defense of our world,” Benedict said. “Please make the arrangements, Fr. Orombi.” He beckoned to Reynolds. “Perhaps we can finish our discussion in private?”
Inside the cabin, with the door closed, Benedict perched on the edge of the berth. “Well, Chris? What is your decision?”
Reynolds stood with his hands on his hips. “As I said, I don’t presume to know about divine inspiration. What I do know is this. The leader of the Venarii is one Venar’na’hari’i’stsr’yka. In English this translates roughly to “Implacable Face of the People,” though it’s not clear if this is a personal name or a title.
“The Venarii are utterly ruthless—ask any survivor of a Venarii attack. They neither ask for mercy, nor give any. They seek solely their own benefit—they care nothing for the rights or lives of others. Whatever cannot benefit them is worthless.”
“But they’re not of uniform race, correct?” Benedict asked.
“No. Most are Venarii. But we know, from examination of bodies found on destroyed ships, that among them are members of a half-dozen or so races. Even humans.”
“Humans?” Benedict started.
“Oh, yes. Although whether they are renegades or slaves, we don’t know.”
“This Venar. Have you ever communicated with him?”
“Not directly, no. All contact with the Venarii has been made by the diplomatic corps. Most of that, of course, up until recently, had to do with procedures for paying tribute.”
“So you have no personal grounds on which to base any opinion of him as an individual.”
“I don’t need personal grounds—”
“Do you speak their language?” Benedict interrupted.
“I do,” Reynolds confirmed. “An important aspect of understanding your enemy is to speak his language.”
“Do they have words for non-Venarii?”
“Of course,” Reynolds frowned. “But what relevance has that to do with anything?”
“In English...” Benedict prompted.
“Expressions such as ‘the others,’ or ‘the outsiders,’ or ‘foreign people.’”
“Excellent.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Reynolds said, his forehead furrowed.
“Simply this,” Benedict replied. “Those expressions indicate that the Venarii regard other races as legitimate beings in their own right. If they used terms such as ‘non-people’ or ‘inhuman enemies’ or ‘soulless ones’ or the like, then we’d be facing a much different situation.”
“Still—”
“It gives us the chance,” Benedict continued, “to relate to them as fellow spiritual creatures.”
“If you think they’re open to conversion, or to reason, then I advise you to think again. They want what they want when they want it. If they don’t get what they want, they take it. It’s as simple as that. Bargaining with them hasn’t worked. The only way to oppose them is by force.”
“Which, at the moment, is not a viable option, is it?” Benedict pointed out. “I am merely asking you to allow me to try another way. What have you got to lose? What does Earth stand to lose?”
“Your life.”
Benedict shrugged. “My life is God’s. Please, Chris, put emotions aside and give my approach a chance.”
Reynolds strode around the cabin. “All right, but on one condition—that I accompany you.”
Benedict opened his mouth to protest, but Reynolds forestalled him. “Those are my terms.”
Benedict spread his hands. “I accept.”
Reynolds tapped a comlink. “Captain Kazimierz. Have Nav plot a course to the last known Venarii position. Try to contact Venar himself. Tell him we wish to talk.”
He studied Benedict. “I hope you’re not making a dreadful mistake.”
The weird, unearthly colors and shapes of hyperspace swirled across Lionheart’s main viewscreen. Benedict had seen them before on transport liners, but still they fascinated him. He felt himself fortunate that he had been allowed a seat on the bridge for this journey in Roessler-space. His secretary stood behind him, equally entranced, if still nervous about it. He was thankful that Orombi seemed to be adjusting to space travel—he’d been keeping himself busy by ministering to the spiritual needs of Lionheart’s crew. Orombi, in fact, seemed to have a pastoral side to him that Benedict hadn’t noticed before.
Some people, the medics said, could become so mesmerized by the phantasmagoric experience of trying to view hyperspace that their minds locked into a repetitive pattern of synaptic firings and they became oblivious to the real world around them. In susceptible brains, the condition could be permanent. Fortunately, such cases were quite rare.
Perhaps, Benedict mused, as he studied the amorphous yet strangely beautiful shapes, the sights and glories of heaven were, by analogy, like this—yet as different from the colors and shapes of hyperspace as those were from the normal sensations of the universe. Just as the colors of hyperspace were impossible to describe, so too the glories of heaven.
He wondered what hyperspace sounded like—if it had a sound. Just as the human brain couldn’t process higher-order dimensions except in mathematical terms, so too if hyperspace had music, the human brain wouldn’t be able to process it. But what might hyperdimensional beings hear?
In his ears still rang the familiar Gregorian chant of the Mass, which he had celebrated for a significant portion of the ship’s crew. He had been gratified at the number of non-Catholic Christians who had attended as well. Some came forward to receive a blessing, since they weren’t permitted to partake of the Eucharist, while others remained in their seats, but all had joined in the prayers for the success of their mission and the safety of Earth. He was glad that in this hour of Earth’s greatest need, all who claimed the name of Christ could come together.
“Approaching transition.” The voice of the Helm officer broke into his reverie. He gripped the arms of his seat as the countdown began. With a blaze of rainbow light, Lionheart reentered realspace. The bright colors on the viewscreen faded to the black of space, punctuated by the pinpoints of stars. But some of them weren’t stars.
“Scan?” Captain Kazimierz demanded.
“Twenty vessels within range, sir.”
“We could take them on,” the Tac officer enthused.
“Belay that,” Admiral Reynolds snapped. “We will fight only if attacked. Hold position here.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Shields up, weapons armed,” Captain Kazimierz ordered.
Reynolds glanced toward Benedict, eyebrows raised in inquiry.
This was his last change to back out if he wanted to. “I’m ready,” Benedict said.
“Very well,” Reynolds said. “Comm, hail the Venarii. Audio only. Inform them that we are ready to meet.”
“Aye, sir.”
Benedict noticed Reynolds drumming his fingers on his armrest as he waited for a reply. It wasn’t normal for the admiral to display signs of anxiety.
“Confirmed, Admiral,” the Comm officer said. “You’re to take an unarmed intra-ship shuttle. They will rendezvous and escort you to their flagship.”
Reynolds rose. “Your Holiness?” he said, and Benedict also rose. Addressing Captain Kazimierz, Reynolds said, “I want no heroics, Captain. If anything goes wrong, your job is to get Lionheart safely to Earth, understand?”
“Understood, Admiral.”
Fr. Orombi cleared his throat. “Holy Father,” he said, “may I be allowed to accompany you?”
Benedict pursed his lips, then nodded. “I think that would be acceptable.”
Reynolds allowed Benedict and Orombi to precede him as they made their way to the shuttle bay and boarded a small flyer piloted by a single ensign. As the imposing bulk of Lionheart was left behind, finally dwindling into a tiny speck of light, Benedict felt suddenly small and alone, as if he was a lad heading to his first day of school in a strange town. The words of a psalm came to him: Some trust in horses and some trust in chariots, but we will remember the Name of the Lord. He repeated them silently to himself.
The Venarii vessel that met and scanned them was considerably larger than the flyer, and bristling with weapons.
“Let’s hope the Venarii have a sense of honor,” Benedict said, trying to lighten the tension.
“I’ll give them this to their credit,” Reynolds replied, “we’ve never lost a diplomatic vessel.”
Orombi’s lips moved in quiet prayer.
Apparently satisfied, the Venarii indicated they should follow, and the pair of ships approached a cruiser. Though he was no student of ship design, Benedict had no trouble discerning that the ship was vastly inferior to Lionheart. That impression was emphasized when docking was completed, and he stepped out of the flyer. Yet, he reminded himself, this apparently unsophisticated ship was one of those that had brought Earth to her knees.
“The atmosphere is safe,” Reynolds said. “Remarkably close to our own, in fact.”
Benedict wrinkled his nose. It might be close in composition, but it smelled very different...like... He sought for an apt comparison. Like ferret, he decided, having once been introduced to one on a visit to a children’s school. The lighting was dimmer than on a human vessel, and the gravity a shade lighter. The temperature was cool, but not unbearably so.
A quartet of unsmiling, unspeaking humanoids met them, and directed them along the cruiser’s gloomy corridors. Benedict saw other figures in the shadows, and couldn’t help but feel chilled by knowing that he was watched by hostile eyes.
Reynolds handed a small device to him, and another to Orombi. “Translators,” he said tersely. “To go in the ear.”
The two clergy inserted the devices. “What are you going to say to him?” Reynolds asked.
Benedict had been wondering that himself. He had spent long hours in prayer; no words had come to him, but despite that, he felt fully calm. “I have no idea.”
“You mean you don’t know?” Reynolds stared at him incredulously. “We are standing on the Venarii flagship and you don’t know?”
“I don’t. But our Lord does. He said, “‘When they bring you before the synagogues, the rulers, and the authorities, do not worry about how you are to defend yourselves or what you are to say, for the Holy Spirit will teach you in that very hour what you are to say.’”
Reynolds shook his head. “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.”
“Not at all. It is faith—without which, if you recall, it is impossible to please God.”
The room to which they were directed was spacious and comparatively well-lit, although the ceiling was low by average human standards. His gaze went immediately to the raised dais on the far side. About a dozen humanoids were standing, but the one that attracted his attention was reclining on a curiously uncomfortable-looking couch-like affair.
For some reason he had developed a mental picture of Venar—for surely this was the Venarii leader—as a barbarian or pirate out of human history. He’d imagined Venar as big, raw-boned, and muscle-bound, clad in outlandish garments prolifically sprinkled with jewelry, and equally liberally slung about with weaponry.
The reality was completely different. Venar probably would have been hard-pressed to weigh a hundred pounds, Earth standard, or to top five feet, although that was difficult to judge from the recumbent position. His skin was covered by a layer of fine fur, gray except where it shaded into a steel blue on the top of his rounded head. His ears were stiffly erect, and his eyes, shielded by a fringe of fur, gleamed with intelligence; Benedict surmised they probably shone animal-like in the dark as well. Venar’s short muzzle reminded Benedict of both a dog and a cat, and yet not either. The hands crossed on a flat abdomen had four long fingers and no nails.
His clothing, far from being exotic, comprised a simple garment of some metallic fabric draped from one shoulder and circling the waist. If he carried weapons, they weren’t visible. In short, he looked harmless. But he wasn’t—this was the leader of the most feared race in the known galaxy.
The guards brought them to a halt some feet from the dais.
“Yallani’i’fatulihi,” the alien said.
“Greetings, Your Holiness,” Benedict heard.
“You know who I am?” Benedict started.
“But of course,” the alien replied.
“Greetings to you. My secretary, Fr. Mutambo Orombi,” Benedict indicated.
Venar accepted the introduction with a small, nearly undetectable head motion. “Randa formosa’Rynolds, istcha’ pon-garni,” he said. “And Admiral Reynolds. Welcome to my humble vessel.”
“Pont’a-ahinayi’conta’ mishrallou,” Reynolds replied. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
“Your accent does you credit, Admiral.” Venar gestured with a minute movement of one slender hand, and Benedict realized suddenly that what he had taken for a strange couch was actually a medical apparatus, connected to the alien leader by a network of fine wires and tubes.
“Why does Earth’s most illustrious admiral, who has caused me no end of difficulty over the years, put himself in my power?” Venar continued. “To bargain? To hand over his ship, perhaps?”
“I’m not here for myself,” Reynolds replied.
The fur-rimmed eyes narrowed and turned to Benedict, assessing him. “Are you here to plead on behalf of your world?” he asked. “I assure you, there is nothing you can say that will stop me.”
“I am not here to plead for Earth,” Benedict said.
Venar bared a row of short, pointed teeth. “Do you hope then to convert me to the religion of your Christ?”
“How do you know of Christ?” Benedict asked.
“There are humans among the conscripted workers we have acquired,” Venar replied. “Some believe in other gods, some in no gods, and some in your god—several have even been priests of your god. I am told that they have made converts among the People. Such things have not escaped my attention.”
It wasn’t likely that much escaped the alien leader’s attention, Benedict thought.
“What is your opinion?” he asked.
“There are many peoples in the galaxy who believe in many gods. I see little difference between them—and no reason to discuss the issue.”
“I am not here to convert you, either,” Benedict replied.
The alien’s ears quivered, although whether that meant interest, annoyance, or something else, Benedict had no way of telling. “Why then, have you come?”
“You are ill,” Benedict said, avoiding a direct answer. But the question, he knew was the right one.
Again, the bearing of teeth. “I have a degenerative neurological disease peculiar to my people for which there is no cure. At the moment, I can move only the muscles of my face and minimally, one hand. In time, I will not be able to move at all—I will be ‘locked in,’ totally immobile, totally dependent on my medical equipment, able to communicate only by my thoughts. Not a pretty picture, is it?”
Benedict shuddered inwardly. “Can no one help you?”
“Our best scientists have failed. So have all those captured on our wanderings—including those of your race. No, my condition is hopeless.”
“What is the point of this?” One of the other Venarii standing nearby stepped forward. By difference in body build, Benedict inferred that the individual was female. “This is a waste of time! These humans have nothing to offer—they’re desperate, that’s all.”
“I did not ask for your input,” Venar replied.
“I say, kill the humans now—or take them hostage; perhaps they’re worth something to their miserable kind.”
“That is enough, Ce’erra,” Venar gritted from between clenched teeth.
“We could be nearing Earth by now if not for this stupid delay.”
“Enough, I said! The decision to talk to them was mine.”
“Because of your disease? How much has been wasted in your search for a cure?” Ce’erra retorted. “Now these Earthmen are going to try to buy you off with vain promises!”
“I will handle the Earthmen.”
“As you have handled them for the past five years?” Ce’erra whirled to face the other Venarii. “I say that it is past time for a change of leadership. I, for one, am tired of following the orders of a brain-damaged paralytic!”
“Then you no longer have to follow me.”
Even though the words came flat and uninflected through the translator, there was no mistaking their menace. Benedict didn’t know what Venar could do, but surely the alien leader wasn’t as helpless as he appeared.
“No!” Benedict exclaimed. “Let there be no violence, no killing! There has been enough already.”
Venar’s glittering eyes regarded him unblinkingly. “You are bold, Earthman.”
Benedict didn’t reply. After a moment’s silence, Venar motioned with a finger. “Return to your place, Ce’erra.”
She hesitated.
“Now,” Venar emphasized.
No other Venarii moved to support her; Ce’erra finally complied.
“Thank you,” Benedict said to Venar.
“Since you have come neither to plead with me nor to convert me, why are you here?” Venar asked.
Benedict hesitated. The creature before him was the leader of an alien race that had pillaged untold worlds. And yet seeing him, almost totally paralyzed, his mind trapped in a non-responsive body, Benedict felt compassion well up within him. He could scarcely imagine what the alien must be enduring.
Love your enemies, the Lord had said. Do good to those who hate you. The words were not a suggestion, but a command.
And suddenly, as suddenly as the moment of transition between hyperspace and realspace, Benedict knew what he must do. He took a deep breath and issued a silent prayer.
“May I approach you?” Benedict asked.
“Do so.”
Conscious of Reynolds’s and Orombi’s curious gaze, Benedict approached the dais, and showed his empty hands.
He made the sign of the cross over himself, and then over the recumbent form of Venar. “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up,” he said. He bent over and took Venar’s furry hand in his own, feeling as he did so a thrill of power course through his body. He raised the alien to his feet.
Wide-eyed, Venar stood motionless. Then he turned his head to look at his stunned companions. He lifted his arms. He took a step. Then another. Then he ripped the wires and tubes from his body. A torrent of speech burst from him, too rapid for the translator to handle.
Benedict clasped his hands beneath his pectoral cross and watched. He didn’t have to look at the admiral to feel Reynolds’s astonishment and confusion. He could imagine the thoughts that must be crossing through Reynolds’ mind: You have just healed the arch-enemy of Earth! He might have died soon from his condition—instead, you have given him a new lease on life. Isn’t that the act of a traitor?
He couldn’t blame Reynolds for thinking them.
Venar halted directly in front of him, barely reaching above his mid-chest. Benedict looked down upon the alien leader.
“What can I give you as an expression of my gratitude?” Venar asked. “You have only to ask.”
Benedict shook his head. “I will not ask for anything, as I—who am only a man—have done nothing. But if you were to ask me how you could show thanks to God, the One God of all creatures, human and Venarii alike, there would be but one request.”
The bright eyes, which Benedict noticed now had a purplish tinge to them, registered comprehension. “It shall be as you desire,” Venar said. “And I—Venar—the Implacable Face of the People—have a petition to make of Your Holiness. Perhaps you would care to remain with us and teach us.”
Orombi cleared his throat to attract attention. “With respect, Venar,” he said, “the Holy Father is needed on Earth to look after all his children. But I would be honored to remain with you as the Father’s representative.”
Benedict, surprised, could hardly find his voice. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It will mean leaving Earth—possibly forever.”
“I am sure,” Orombi replied.
“If it is agreeable to Venar—”
“It is,” the alien said.
“So be it, with my blessing,” Benedict said, placing his hands on Orombi’s head. “I commission you as papal legate to the Venarii with authority to speak and to teach on my behalf.”
He glanced at Reynolds, who said in a shaken, awe-struck voice, “We should return to Lionheart.”
“I keep my word,” Venar said. “You may depart in peace.” Turning toward Reynolds, he raised a clenched fist to his forehead in what Benedict suspected was a gesture of respect. “We shall not meet again, Admiral.”
Reynolds snapped a salute. “If we do, let it be on friendly terms.”
Venar motioned, and the same quartet of Venarii who had directed them to the audience room came forward to escort the two men away.
Benedict’s last glimpse of the Venarii showed them gathered around Venar and Orombi in excited conversation.
Benedict and Reynolds stood on Lionheart’s bridge, watching the giant viewscreen with its twinkling starfield.
“Venarii fleet has transitioned,” the Scan officer said. “Trajectory away from Earth.”
“In one moment,” Reynolds commented softly, “you won the war that I couldn’t win.”
Benedict shook his head. “It was a different war.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Reynolds said. “I saw it—but I can’t believe it.”
“Surely your skepticism isn’t that inflexible,” Benedict chided.
“Give me time. It’s not easy to change the habits and philosophy of a lifetime.”
“Mother always said you were a tough case,” Benedict chuckled.
“No,” Reynolds said, “it’s you who are the tough one—Father knew you had a lion’s heart concealed inside that scholarly exterior.”
“He never mentioned it to me.”
“He wouldn’t, would he?”
“I suppose not. That was never Father’s way.”
“I guess we’ve both learned something,” Reynolds concluded. He raised his voice. “Navigation, lay in a course for Earth. Helm, initiate when ready.” He put his arm around Benedict’s shoulders. “We’re going home, little brother.”
“That’s ‘Holy Father Little Brother’ to you,” Benedict retorted.
Admiral Christopher Reynolds burst out laughing, and after a moment, unable to restrain himself, Pope Benedict XXVI joined him.
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Copyright 2009, Andrew M. Seddon. All rights reserved. A native of England, Andrew M. Seddon is the author of three novels (Red Planet Rising, Iron Scepter, Imperial Legions), a devotional, "Walking With the Celtic Saints", and about 100 articles and short stories. With his wife Olivia, a veterinarian, he enjoys running marathons, playing classical music, and hiking with their black German Shepherd, Finzi. His "day job" is as a staff physician at the Billings Clinic.
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