The demons within the petite host railed and seethed. Outwardly, she sat as still as a doll, eyes fixed in a blank stare. Inside, Legion screamed and howled. They had enough firepower to cause misery on the inner worlds. They had enough spacecraft to transport their possessed onto the worlds to kill those who wouldn’t bend a knee to them.
Yet they were stalled. The gravity shell blocked their jumps inward. They couldn’t skip past the gravity interference and into orbit around the inner worlds. But as soon as they crossed the boundary on conventional power, they were met with a swarm of both human-piloted and autonomous attack ships that chewed up anything in their way. Their shipyards were retrofitting whatever they could to engines of war—it was going take time.
Worse still, the Enemy had recently placed His thumb on the scales. Always the cheater, He now prevented Legion from moving any further than the asteroid belt. Legion snarled and gnashed at the will of their Enemy, but it was to no avail. He had pulled such stunts in the past. It didn’t matter in the long run, though, Legion had always won. They wondered why He even bothered trying in the first place. It was inevitable; Legion would feast on the corpses and souls. Another system would be wiped out. One less human infestation staining the Universe.
Every delay to that glorious future fueled their rage and disgust.
If they couldn’t mount a frontal assault and savor the despair and death from the cowering humanity locked in their fated tombs, they’d infiltrate from behind the enemy lines. That, at least, remained their path. Their agents waited in key positions across the system, ready to strike with a single command. It was a matter of picking which dominoes to knock over first. Or maybe all of them at once. Yes, yes, all at once. Overwhelm.
And yet, this system had proven to be more of a thorn in their sides than expected. Legion reached out to their scattered forces from across the stars, and began moving them here. One thing Legion had learned was there was no such thing as overkill. And they were going to prove it again. They ordered their agents in the system to begin their work. Howls of mad laughter rolled around Legion as they thought of how these humans would look when Legion’s full might smashed into them. What they had built in this system was just a part of their forces. And then the knives would strike from behind, surprising even the most wary. Legion would grind humanity to a pulp, and feast on their carcasses and souls. Despair and sorrow and screaming and crying and death and death and death. Like so many times before. They’d do it. They’d find all of scattered humanity and erase them from the Universe.
And the more He delayed them, the stronger they’d become.
A faint smile formed on their meat puppet—all the more ghastly with her blank, unseeing eyes, focused on nothing. Joel Muetzel swallowed dryly. He was the last human on the craft. Everyone had been absorbed into Legion. He was pretty much left alone until a demon needed something. That captain’s chair was a distant dream for him now. He spent his days in terror and nights sleeping with one eye open. This wasn’t what he was promised. He hadn’t sold his soul to be an errand boy. He was going to be captain! Captain!
Something slid into his body. The demon threw him against the bulkhead a few times before leaving. Hellish laughter lingered in his ears.
Joel slowly picked himself up, using the bulkhead for support. There had to be a way to get Legion to honor the deal! He turned to the now still host. At least she was pretty, like a doll. He idly wondered if they’d let him have her after. He shuffled off the bridge, still smarting from the rough treatment. He’d make them do what they promised. One way or another.
The Guild headquarters stood as an imposing building of steel, black stone, and dark glass rising up from the middle of the sprawling campus of clustered smaller buildings, connected by enclosed corridors and open walkways. The Guild had built on a flat plain, close to Nicomedia’s equator. It made things easier for their small-but-bustling spaceport several miles away. The flat nothingness stretched out for miles around; the nearest city of any size was sixty miles away. This suited the Guild just fine, because it allowed them complete control over all avenues of approach.
Visitation was granted only with permission from at least one Grandmaster. Even then, visitors were closely monitored during their entire stay.
Brother Justinian waited at the reception desk, smiling benignly at the impassive guards flanking the wide, low counter. His companion, a thin, shorter man wearing a simple brown cassock and a scowl, kept his arms folded and eyes narrowed at everything.
“Sorry, Father, we don’t have any record of a visit from you today,” chirped the receptionist in her most cheery voice.
“Why, that can’t be! I was assured by Grandmaster Vargas herself the appointment was for today.” The monk beamed more broadly. “Could you check again, please?”
“I’m looking right at the calendar and—oh! There it is right there. I… I am so sorry, Father. I don’t know how I missed that. Let me see… looks like you have titanium clearance today. That lets you into the green zones only, until one of the Grandmasters meets you. Please place your left index fingers here on this pad. Thank you. You are cleared to enter and enjoy your stay!”
“Thank you, my dear!”
The monk kept beaming as he and his companion walked around the guards and over to the designated waiting zone. His companion kept scowling.
Alright, Hannibal, that was cutting things too close.
Hannibal remained silent in response to Justinian’s mild chastisement.
The green zone lounge area was well-appointed without being ostentatious. The carpet was plush, the chairs upholstered, and the refreshments varied.
Justinian selected a chilled water bottle and a small orange before sitting down in an oversized wingback chair.
“Do you want anything?” the monk asked his companion.
The other shook his head without saying anything and promptly sat down across from Justinian. The small table between them came to life and offered a variety of classic two-player board games. Both men ignored the glowing menu that floated in the air between them.
Justinian carefully and deliberately ate his orange, tossing the peel pieces onto the table, which was still merrily showing a carousel of game choices. He took a sip of water. Every action was one of a man with plenty of time on his hands to wait as long as he needed.
The other man stiffened in his chair. Justinian carefully set his water bottle down on the table next to the orange peels.
Grandmaster Martin appeared around the corner. Even from this distance, Justinian could see the Grandmaster looked puzzled. As well he should. Martin adjusted his sleek gray suit as he approached the two men, his face settling into a neutral expression.
The monk stood up and rubbed his palms on his cassock. He should have used a napkin to eat his orange, he thought ruefully. “Martin, I’m so glad you could make it!” He beamed at the now doubly confused Grandmaster, who was still doing his best to give nothing away of his inner befuddlement.
“I know you by reputation, but have we met?”
“Archie has told me all about you. And Lars had nothing bad to say about you.” The monk laughed at his own joke.
The Grandmaster stopped at arm’s length from the other two. “I’m not sure—”
“Good news, then! I am! Let’s go somewhere private to talk.” Justinian all but held his breath. This was the key moment to see if his bluff worked.
Martin looked between the two men—the grinning monk and the scowling other. He hesitated for a second, wondering if it would be worth the effort to hear them out. “Screw it,” he muttered to himself. This had to be better than making another marketing projection on Archie. That AI was going to keep going big, one more report wasn’t going to change that. “Yeah, let’s head to my office.” He spun on his heel and headed to the elevator banks.
Father Justinian kept a running commentary about what he saw. Martin only had to inject some perfunctory replies to keep the monk entertained. Despite himself, Martin grew curious about where this was all going.
Martin waited until his private car arrived, all the while, Justinian talked about the architecture, or the materials used, or the patterns and how they reminded him of something he had seen somewhere else on a different planet.
Stepping into the vehicle was a bit of a relief, because as soon as the doors slid shut, the monk stopped talking.
“Please, sit,” Martin gestured to the plush seats opposite him. “It’s not a long ride but this is more comfortable. I assure you, I am the only one recording this conversation. You have until we stop to convince me not to keep going to security and have you escorted off the grounds.” He was going to threaten jail time, but he knew of Father Justinian. The worst thing he could do was to kick the monk off the premises. And he wasn’t entirely sure the monk wouldn’t have some favor to cash in to override Martin.
“Thank you, Grandmaster. I do apologize for this more than unorthodox manner of approaching you. If I hadn’t deemed the matter to be of such high importance, I would have gladly gone through the vast forest of red tape your Guild loves so much in order to see you properly.” Justinian shifted in his seat, leaning forward a little to draw Martin closer. Martin found himself doing just that, even though he knew this little trick. “Lars has been worried about Legion, of course, but he’s also worried about betrayal from within the Coalition. I want to enlist your aid in determining who is more likely to stab us in the back.”
“That’s it? That’s the request? You could have sent an encrypted email. Why all the subterfuge?”
“Because I believe the most likely source will be this Guild.”
Martin recoiled in shock. “What? I know you Church people think we’re just shy of demon worship, but I can assure you that’s not what we are about!”
Justinian shook his head. “Not that the entire Guild would suddenly throw its collective hat in with Legion. The Guild has always existed to explore better ways of serving mankind, willing to examine deeply the human psyche and forge protocols to help nourish the healthy aspects while seeking to dampen the effects of our fallen nature. To cast all that aside in favor of literal demons isn’t something likely. The animosity between you and, uh, ‘Church people’ is that gray area of where does the care of the soul supersede and supplement your work. Right now, I don’t care. We can argue this when Legion is no longer poised to eradicate all our lives.” He paused to take in the effect of his words before surging ahead. “But, think, surely you’ve met more than one or two who would be more than curious about Legion and what they could offer to further understanding and knowledge about the universe? And would be willing to risk a lot to gain that knowledge, maybe risk too much?”
Martin sank a little back into his seat. He gave a curt nod. “I hate to admit it, but you have a point. Fine. What do you want me to do about it? And, come to think of it, how do you know I won’t be the weak link here?”
Justinian grinned, his beard bristling, eyes almost disappearing. “Excellent questions! Can we wait until we are in your office? I do have something I want to show, and explain, to you.”
Martin sighed. “Fine. I need a drink anyway.”
The Council met where they always met, deep in the heart of a facility orbiting Amorium. The room was sealed against any electromagnetic radiation, wrapped in a white noise field. Every member had agreed to turn off all their implants and augmentations that were not critical to life support. Everyone wore blue jumpsuits with a single red cross over their hearts.
Julian Minsk was there as one of the representatives. Two of the Merchant Princes, and the CEO of the Ercol Solutions Company, rounded out their party. Their little group floated on the left side of the room. Across from them were four men from the PsychOp Guild. Minsk appreciated the power the Guild wielded, even though he didn’t trust them—especially the two assigned to help Archie. Maybe especially those two. The ones here today he didn’t know but by reputation. All of them looked younger than their real ages. Minsk would love to figure out how to bottle and sell their secret to staying young, though a part of him worried about what they did to keep their youth. The Guild aligned themselves with Christianity but at times Minsk wondered about how deep was their allegiance.
Toward the front of the room were the four Church elders: one Eastern Orthodox, one Roman Catholic, the other two of some sort of Protestant sects—Lutheran and Baptist, if Minsk had heard correctly during introductions. He recognized all four men from various functions, even though none had attended a Council meeting at the same time as him. All good men, from what his sources had told him. Minsk almost reached out to his network to confirm when he remembered where he was and that his connection was off.
In the rear, near the single hatchway, were the four military representatives. Minsk recognized Admiral Mendelson of Iznik and General Tavares of Monemvassia from the Consortium meetings they all had attended earlier this year. The other two he wasn’t sure about. They all looked competent.
This was the second time Minsk had been selected to serve on the Council. The first time was when he was a much younger man and had just stepped into the role overseeing Black Oak. The meetings back then were similar to today’s: sixteen leaders chosen because they were prominent figures in their fields. One group to represent the Churches, one to represent commerce, one for the military, and the last for the Guild.
Cardinal Hugo Durand cleared his throat. The older man had led them in a prayer and a short homily before letting people talk. His thin gray hair floated around his head like a halo. The idle chatter in the room died out. “Gentlemen, thank you again for agreeing to take on this burden. You will all be charged with the Council’s tasks until the next one convenes, whereupon you will be released from all obligations. Discretion is advised, though this is a private meeting, not a secretive one. Today, we meet with two purposes: first, what do we do about the AIs; and second, how do we survive Legion as a people.”
“The AIs are tools with delusions of grandeur,” Pastor Harris snorted. Despite being much younger than the cardinal, he wasn’t cowed by the gathering. Minsk could see why he had been nominated. Harris had a strong personality and will.
The Baptists were still in heated debate over the existence of AI souls. Half the church groups wanted to declare the other half heretics. Harris obviously had been picked to represent the side rejecting the idea of AIs having souls.
“The AIs are nothing more than Expert Systems with programmed advanced personalities. They have a soul as much as my toaster does. We should scrap them before things get out of hand,” Pastor Harris continued.
“Easy there,” Minsk interjected.
“Don’t tell me some of your best friends are AIs,” Harris demanded.
“No, it’s not that,” Minsk said. “All those shells are property of Black Oak. If you all rule to scrap them, I’ll expect fair recompense to the tune of billions to cover research, development, engineering, material costs, and so forth.”
The pastor blanched at the number.
Minsk didn’t let on that he was relieved. He had a chance to talk with each and every AI that had chosen to move into a Black Oak shell, and he was convinced they were just as sophont as he was and had souls as he did. He didn’t want people thinking murdering AIs would be cheap. If he could make it hurt in the pocketbook, it would, hopefully, stop any serious talk of trying to destroy them.
“That’s not an option,” the cardinal stated firmly. “Containment would be the absolute maximum we should consider. Whether they have souls is still being debated in Church circles; unilaterally declaring otherwise wouldn’t help matters. We’d end up destroying any sort of trust our various organizations have in the Council at all.”
Pastor Harris looked like he was going to argue, then simply shrugged.
“The question isn’t what to do about them, but really, what are our responsibilities toward them,” the CEO of Ercol, Harlan Foster, pointed out.
“Yes, that’s a better way of putting it.”
“What do the AI say themselves?” Merchant Prince Inacio asked.
“I can offer some insight on that,” Minsk said. “All the AIs have the same basic outlook on humanity—they are grateful for humanity creating them. They see us as family and want to defend us. How they want to do that specifically is up for debate.”
“How noble,” Pastor Harris said sardonically.
Minsk shrugged. “I can only relay what I have been told.”
“And that’s the problem,” Colonel Christof Vogel, on the left of General Tavares, interjected. “We can’t know what they are thinking. Or even how.”
The room murmured in agreement.
“True, Vogel, but the same could be said about all of us,” the other Merchant Prince, Yarrow, pointed out.
“You have to admit, they could be philosophical zombies,” Vogel responded curtly. He adjusted his uniform absentmindedly.
“Saint’s blood, not this hoary chestnut again,” Orthodox Bishop Isaiah Merope muttered, pulling on his short salt-and-pepper beard. “The problem, Colonel Vogel, is that the p-zombie argument applies to you as much as it does to them.”
“Nonsense. I’m a human coming from a documented family tree reaching back to old Earth. These AIs were created here from man’s ingenuity and engineering. If anything lacks qualia, it would be man’s creations,” Vogel retorted. “I’m not questioning your internal state, or anyone else’s here.”
The room broke down as everyone started arguing over qualia, and what it meant to be a sophont, and who got to decide what.
Cardinal Durand clapped his hands loudly. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! This isn’t helping!” He waited until the conversations, some still heated, died down. “As Foster pointed out, what are our responsibilities toward the AIs? Regardless—“, the cardinal fixed his gaze at Vogel, “—of what they actually are. We are called to treat our neighbors as we would want to be treated. How can this not also apply to those who, at the very least, respond as neighbors?”
“And what if they aren’t anything more than fancy Expert Systems?” Harris interjected.
Durand remained silent for a beat. “What of it?”
“We’d be treating machines as something more than they are, it’s blasphemy!” Harris all but shouted.
“And if you are wrong? You’d be treating God’s strange children as less than they are. Which is the greater sin?”
The room erupted in arguments again. This time they ignored the cardinal’s repeated clapping. The old man threw up his hands and scowled.
“Looks like things are going smoothly,” Harlan Foster said to Minsk, leaning toward the other to be heard over the shouting.
Minsk laughed. He and Harlan weren’t more than casual acquaintances, despite moving in the same circles. Ercol and Black Oak had a number of ties—supply chain solutions, parts and goods, a few minor profit-sharing ventures, that sort of thing—but the two men never had much chance to do more than meet, sign something, then nod as their underlings took care of the details. Julian liked the man, too. His dry wit was just what he needed today.
“I wonder how many know Supreme Commander Stockwell convinced the Coalition that the AIs would be valuable fighters in the war?” Minsk asked Foster.
Foster shrugged, his pale blue eyes flickering around the room to size it up. “The military and the Guild, for sure. But I have to say, AI Wright—he’s sure he has a soul. I don’t know enough about such matters to say one way or the other, but I want to believe someone I see as a friend.”
Wright was one of the few AIs which didn’t opt for a Black Oak cocoon. Minsk had argued with the AI at first, but Wright was adamant. He wanted to remain as he was, come what may.
“He refused my offer of a cocoon,” Minsk told Foster.
Foster laughed. “Oh, I know. He told me all about it. Said you two had argued about moving, and you weren’t taking no for an answer.”
Minsk smiled ruefully. “I tried to get him to see the wisdom. He just won’t leave that tower.”
Harlan smiled. “No, he won’t. He’s somewhat of an oddity among the other AIs, though if we got down to it, they’re all odd. Wright takes after his namesake, a visionary architect, but unlike the original, all this one cares deeply about is his tower. At this point, I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins.”
“He said as much to me,” Julian agreed. He shrugged. “I ended the discussion by telling him the offer always stands.”
Foster nodded and looked like he was going to say something else, when Admiral Mendelson let out an ear-piercing whistle. The room quieted down.
“It’s clear we can’t decide on what the AIs are or aren’t, at least today. I propose we shelve that and move on to the second topic already.”
“Agreed,” said the group, relieved.
“Next, we’re reviewing the status of Project Shelter. General Tavares?”
The general cleared his throat. “Progress is steady. We have shelters covering seventy-eight percent of the civilian populace already. The shelters are designed for a three-month occupancy while fully sealed, six months with water and air rotation, and years with consistent supplies and upkeep. Initial civilian feedback on design and accommodations hadn’t been great, admittedly. Most complain of the utilitarian and sparse nature of the shelters. If we have more resources after the initial build-out, we could remodel.”
“Aren’t these just temporary?” Pastor Harris asked, frowning. “Why do we need to upgrade them past the basics?”
“We’re only assuming they’ll be temporary. That’s what the models show, but models have been known to be very, very wrong.”
“Sure, sure, but seeing how strapped we are across the entire system, pouring more of our limited resources into something like this seems like a waste.”
Another argument broke out about whether things were worth the cost or if more pressing needs existed.
Merchant Prince Yarrow coughed and got the room’s attention. “Unfortunately, we have a hard stop to our participation today.”
Cardinal Durand rubbed his temples while squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “We’ll have to reconvene sooner than we had planned. Next meeting, we’ll focus on the armed forces and the war machine Lars Stockwell is putting together. General Lee has shown remarkable progress building up our ground forces. Our naval forces are expanding faster than ever before, but Legion is also building at breakneck speed.” He paused and studied the room. “Our solemn and sacred duty is to protect humanity from Legion. By God’s will, we do just that.” He paused again to let his words sink in. “We’ll contact you all about the date and time. Meeting adjourned.”
Minsk’s elevator ride back to the dockyard held some from the meeting and a number of others from the station. He didn’t say anything to anyone, which suited him. He had a lot on his mind about how to help humanize the AIs more for those on the fence.
Colonel Christof Vogel pushed and pulled his way through the zero-g section of the station without noticing anyone around him. He wasn’t upset about today’s meeting as much as he was frustrated about how so many were willing to just accept at face value the ludicrous claim that the AIs had souls. And it didn’t matter—not really—in the face of destruction by Legion. The briefings and intel sent to the Coalition HQ were beyond sobering. Legion had already assembled a significant force and had done so much faster than anyone had predicted.
Coalition skirmishers were effective to a point at destroying materiel, but the war would not be won by trying to make Legion bleed to death from a thousand papercuts. True, the Coalition war machine was in full swing; hundreds of shipyards were rolling out thousands of different craft for different roles. Vogel gladly admitted the AIs were doing a fantastic job organizing everything from raw goods supply chains to final quality assurance testing for each spacecraft built. Munitions production was at an all-time high. Troop training was proceeding at a slow but constant pace. The gravity shell satellite system had been put into place faster than anyone had dreamed was possible, due to the AIs coordinating everything. There was no doubt in his mind that the AIs were useful and helpful.
That’s all the AIs were: useful tools.
Vogel slipped into the last car in the tram heading toward the military zones. As the tram approached his destination, it stopped more often as people exited. The crowds thinned out quickly, as no one boarded at the stops, only left the tram. Soon, it was just him and a few others holding onto the support loops as the tram trundled along. The next stop took longer than usual as the last people got out. Vogel had the entire car to himself. He checked the map. Two more stops, and he’d be on base.
With a clang of metal, his car disconnected from the tram and sped down a separate rail. Vogel reached for his sidearm, but it wasn’t there; he had left it back at his quarters before the meeting—as instructed. He bit off a curse. The car didn’t offer anything useful. Vogel readied himself as best he could. The car came to a slow stop somewhere he had never been.
The doors slid open as Lars Stockwell squeezed his massive metal form into the car.
Vogel relaxed.
“Colonel Christof Vogel,” Lars rumbled at the smaller man, “I apologize for this.” He waved a metal hand at the car. “But I wanted to speak to you outside official channels.”
And away from prying eyes, Vogel thought to himself. “You have my attention, Commander.”
Lars grunted. “It’s simple: I want you to join my personal staff.”
Vogel narrowed his eyes. “Why? I know you believe AIs have souls. And you know I don’t.”
“Precisely. My trust in the AIs could be a blind spot. Their skills and powers are staggering; we’re relying on them for so many things. If Legion finds a way to attack and control them, I want someone on my team not afraid to tell me straight up something’s off—and even help me plan for the worst without emotional attachments. Add in your exemplary service record—all your superiors speak highly of your work ethic and team camaraderie—and I’m hard-pressed to find anyone else I’d rather have. And I prayed. A lot.”
Vogel frowned. “What if I tell you my doubts about the AIs and I’m wrong?” He ignored the praise.
“Better to say something and be wrong than the alternative.”
“Can I think about this?”
Lars shook his head. “Time is of the essence. I apologize for putting you on the spot. I need an answer before I leave.”
Vogel snorted. To say this was unexpected was an understatement. He adjusted his uniform.
“What would you need me to do?”
“Participate in our discussions, in person when possible. Speak your mind. Take on any assignments we determine you should.”
“And I have to work with the AIs?”
“Well, yes. But our focus is defeating Legion. No one will try to actively change your mind about the AIs.”
Vogel thought hard, trying to weigh as many pros and cons as he could come up with. On one hand, being invited into Stockwell’s inner circle was quite the honor. And being part of the planning to defend humanity was appealing. Very appealing, if he was honest with himself. On the other, he’d be working with AIs and people, like the Commander, who viewed them as something more than just fancy Expert Systems. He wasn’t too sure about that.
“And if it doesn’t work out?” Vogel asked.
Lars shrugged. “Then it doesn’t, and I’ll have to look for a replacement. But I’m not worried about you not shouldering the burdens.” He shifted his large bulk in the tram car, causing the car’s frame to protest a little. “I have one last thing to say, then you need to make up your mind. If we want to have a chance of winning, I need more people—people I can trust. I don’t know if you’ll fit that role, but I’m willing to take that risk.”
Vogel tugged on his uniform again. “But no pressure,” he said, dryly.
“Oh, there’s a mountain of pressure. Worlds, in fact.”
Vogel couldn’t tell if the cyborg had taken him literally or not. The other man had a face of all serious hard angles surrounded by metal. It was hard to read the man.
“If I say no?”
Lars seemed to fill the entirety of the tram car. “No harm, no foul,” he rumbled softly as he fixed Vogel with a direct stare. “But you will always wonder ‘what if?’”
Vogel almost laughed out loud. He was thinking the exact same thing. “Since you put it that way, I’m in.”
Lars kept his eyes locked on the other man, searching his expression and body language. He stuck out his massive metal hand. “Then we have an accord.”
Vogel nodded and grinned, feeling the tension leave his body—tension he didn’t know he had been holding on to. He grasped the extended hand. “We have an accord.”
Lars shook his hand once. “You’ll be notified of our next meeting. Please be there in person.” And with that, the big cyborg pulled himself out of the tram car. The lights flickered, and he was gone. The tram lurched into motion and back into the main concourse.
Vogel absentmindedly rubbed the back of his right hand with his left. The handshake wasn’t between two men. It was between a man and whatever Lars had become. Larger than life, hard and cold. Vogel’s neck hairs stood up.
He didn’t know about the rest of the team, but if anyone could face down Legion and survive, Vogel felt it would be Lars. He felt it down to his very bones. He was so distracted that he didn’t really notice others had boarded until his stop, and he had to push through a now-crowded tram car to exit.
Halfway back to his quarters, Vogel stopped.
“What am I going to tell Vanessa?” Vogel groaned to himself. She was already worried about him with his current position, and this wasn’t going to make her more enthusiastic about his job. She’d have to grin and bear it. Again. She was a good wife, and Vogel hated putting her through the wringer like this.
Grandmaster Martin’s office was both what Justinian expected and not. The opulence was a given—no powers of prognostication needed—but it was how that wealth was expressed surprised and delighted him.
The floor-to-ceiling bookcases brimming with antique books dominated the room. The windowed wall looking out above the fifty-eighth floor paled in comparison to the books, at least to the monk. His hands twitched, wanting to peruse and touch the bindings, flip the pages for that unique old-book smell, and find a new favorite.
“These are all duplicates,” Martin said, gesturing toward the books. “I have the originals in a secure temperature- and humidity-controlled vault. They look and feel like the originals because of my personal vanity.”
“I was going to ask why you had them out in the open like this,” Justinian murmured, his attention still held by what was in front of him.
Martin chuckled as he poured himself a small drink from the wet bar.
“I’d offer something, but I’m not sure if you drink on the clock. Now, what was it that you wanted to show me?”
Tearing himself from reading the spines closest to him, Father Justinian gestured to his companion. “Of course, of course! Forgive me. This is Brother, well, let’s call him Brother Thomas for now. His gift of the Spirit is his ability to tell when someone is lying or if something is a counterfeit.”
Martin sipped his drink, nonplussed.
“I can see you aren’t impressed. I assure you, it’s disconcerting. Brother Thomas?”
The smaller man looked around the room. “You have three original works hidden in the others. All your spirits are of the correct vintage, except for two of them; you overpaid for repackaged wine, both years are of this decade, not what’s printed on them.”
Martin coughed and spluttered.
“See? Now, tell him a lie or a truth. It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, uh, let’s see… twenty years ago, on a warm spring day, I—”
“You’re lying,” Thomas cut him off, scowling.
Martin blinked.
“I didn’t even get started. How?”
Father Justinian chuckled. “How indeed? The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Not only can he zero in on falsehoods, but he’s also almost compelled to speak the truth. But, as you well can guess, it hasn’t been easy for our Brother Thomas.”
“Huh.” Martin set his glass down. Part of him wanted to run some non-intrusive tests on the man. Scan his brain while he worked, measure his biorhythms; nothing too strenuous or invasive. Then he caught himself. If just seeing this feat made him want to drag the poor man down to a lab, how much more tempting would Legion be to the Guild members? Demons from Hell, well versed in genetic manipulation, older than humanity itself. The temptation would be like a siren song for some of the Grandmasters. Check that, for almost all of them. He rubbed his chin while looking between the monk and Thomas, thinking.
“Huh,” Martin said again. “If I were to agree to help you root out possible turncoats, I can’t walk around with Thomas dogging my every step. People would ask questions about him, and once he started exposing lies, I’m afraid he’d be a test subject.”
“Oh, course not! That would defeat the purpose. No, my plan is to have you go about your business as normal while your guest here works on something innocuous. I see your fondness for books; how about having him work on illuminating manuscripts for that authentic reproduction look and feel? Merely recount the day’s events to him whenever you want. Maybe take him around for a tour.”
Brother Thomas met Martin’s inquisitive gaze with a level look. “I don’t know how it works. I’ve been like this since I can remember. It wasn’t until I joined the Church that things started to make any sort of sense. No, you can’t scan my brain. It’s annoying and never shows anything out of the ordinary.” And, after the longest speech he’d made in quite some time, Thomas shut his mouth and scowled harder at the Grandmaster, as if daring him to try something.
“Quite so, my dear Brother, quite so. Thomas has worked hard to keep what he finds out to himself; even the brethren struggle with that much—let’s say that much exposure—though they are mostly grateful for the lessons in honesty.” Justinian grinned even more broadly. “And that’s how I know to trust you. Our brother would have known as soon as he met you!”
“Hrmpf,” Martin grunted, unsure of how to respond to that. “I can arrange for private quarters nearby. You’ll have to eat with the lower acolytes in the mess hall. I’ll tell everyone you’ve taken a limited vow of silence or something,” Martin mused, intrigued by seeing Brother Thomas in action, even if he couldn’t run the tests he wanted.
“Fine,” Brother Thomas accepted curtly.
Justinian clapped his hands. “Excellent! I cannot overstate my gratitude here, Grandmaster Martin. I know this is an enormous imposition, and while I sincerely hope it bears no fruit, I fear it will. Still, forewarned is forearmed!”
Martin sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “I really hope this is the right thing to do. I have to admit, I don’t like the idea of treating my Guild members as potential enemies.”
“Then don’t,” Justinian said earnestly. “Just go about your business and assume all are innocent until proven guilty.”
“Can I involve anyone else?"
“At your and Brother Thomas’s discretion,” beamed the monk.
“And what happens when Thomas here decides someone is working with Legion?”
“We’ll step in and take it from there. Lars is working with your council to reach an understanding of who is responsible for what and when.”
“He is?” Martin didn’t hide his surprise. “I would have heard something about that. I mean, I should have.”
“Ah, our Commander Stockwell has more connections than even he knows about! One advantage of living a long life and being involved in so many events in the system.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Martin paused, swirling the liquid in his glass as he thought about the situation. “This could take a while, you know.” He finished off the contents.
“Indeed! The Guild is large, and people are coming and going all the time. We’re prepared to keep Brother Thomas here until Lars is satisfied, regardless of the time it could take. The Coalition will cover all expenses, of course.”
Brother Thomas gave a curt nod. “I’ll root out anyone working with those devils, no matter how long it takes or whatever else I find out.” He narrowed his eyes at the Grandmaster. “No matter who is involved.”
Martin sighed again. “I need another drink.”