At the request of the order, my shuttle dropped me off ten miles from the monastery, the distance ensuring not only my submissive humility at having to traverse the star-ravaged wastelands to reach them but the sense of isolation the monks crave.
The small craft jets off into the distance sucking up a trail of rusty soil and dust. Through the churning cloud, the mountain range forming the edge of a crater large enough to conceal a small town becomes visible again. With one hand I hoist my backpack into a position better suited to my four-hour hike, and with the other I shield my eyes to peer through the haze in search of my new home.
The journey will be difficult. Not just because of the constantly shifting gravitational pull caused by an unstable core but because of the hellish atmosphere. The oxygen processors and recycling plants were deactivated long ago, and the barely breathable air that remains is like breathing hot sand.
A star no bigger than the jewel in my ring, flickering nervously like the stuttering flame of a dying candle, is all that lights the sky. Nine centuries ago two suns lit this world, but at the end of the Seventh Golden Reign, when the Great Cataclysm turned most of the stars in this quadrant supernova, the dominant sun that brought life to this planet exploded, and all that remained was its lesser sister. The wounded star provided enough warmth and light to make existence possible but not without expressing its grief through violent storm and a sky the color of a deep wound, trapped permanently in a state of moody twilight.
Such was the force of devastation that the scarred landscape and ruined sky inspired volumes of poetry from the monastery, telling legends of “the mourning gods who wept tears of blood onto the land.” Some of the more colorful tales in The Book of Deeds describe the crater in which I now walk as the mark of Pandora’s first teardrop: the seal of abandonment precipitating the destruction of almost all life here.
It is no wonder that such poetry has been written. The descriptions are no exaggeration. All around me are intimidating mountain ranges resembling mighty tsunami that have been petrified in mid rush, as if the cataclysm simultaneously turned the planet’s crust molten, then froze the magma before it had the chance to splash back down again. There is little evidence of the civilization that once thrived here. No plant or animal life (save a few scuttling magma beetles), only blasted, ruddy rock tortured by an unrelenting hateful wind as far as the eye can see.
But it was not just the destructive force of the nebula that inspired such storytelling. Humans have a boundless capacity to personify the natural world: Mother Nature, the Man in the Moon, Father Time, and here visible most clearly on Castor’s World, Pandora’s Nebula. The cloud patterns created by the nova formed the unmistakable image of a woman’s face gazing down with bloody malevolence at the ravaged surface—two stormy hollows like spiteful eyes, one with the glowering star at its center, another murky patch stretched light-years wide as a screaming mouth, and a spectral hydrogen trail that suggests a mane of wild, fiery hair. An incredible but intimidating sight I have to stand and admire, even with the wind stinging my eyes.
It’s a sinister and harsh environment for a community to live out its existence, but the Order of the Codex is known for its discipline. Illumination of the Codex is a calling that has its deepest roots intertwined with the laborious calculations of artificial intelligence, yet all these men shun the gears, switches, and technology that bring the rest of the cosmos longevity and convenience. Instead they have built their small community on a semi-religious foundation centered on worshipping the Great Mother—Pandora. A strange setup.
Still, that won’t be a problem for me; I don’t plan to be a monk long enough to miss the luxuries of normal life.
Three and a half hours later I arrive directly under the oppressive gaze of Pandora’s Nebula to see the lush fields of the monastery. It’s quite astonishing, perhaps even a little suspicious, to see the way the monks have created such fertile soil within the barren grounds that surround their home.
Technology negates the necessity for ancient methods of cultivation, but centuries ago the order made it clear they prefer to live a primitive life, free from the cold rigidity of machine aid. Not surprising, considering the way that machine life threatened the existence of all humanity several millennia ago, but also quite ironic, for these monks live with a very special calling: to understand, illuminate, and ultimately share the AI Reductionist Codex, something the machines gave us before everything went to hell.
“Brother Soome?” A voice echoes from a darkened archway.
I find myself suddenly awed. I was staring too long and hard at the swaying flora and laboring monks, also averting my eyes from the furious glare of Pandora’s Nebula to pay special attention to the magnificent building at the center of it. Like a gothic cathedral plucked from the dark ages of Old Earth, the monks’ home towers upward in all its oak and limestone grandeur: turrets, gargoyles, stained glass windows, and mossy ledges embellishing the place with a sense of Byzantine ambience that only ancient history could provide.
A tall man, fluid in his movements, greets me with a warm smile and open arms. At first it seems that the half blood light is playing tricks with his looks, but as he approaches, his face becomes clearer, and I can make out the skin on his hands and face that looks like the surface of an overripe fruit bleached of color. His brown eyes have a milky haze, and his long hair, tied back into a shoulder-length tail, is as gray as a dead moon. I try not to look shocked.
Like the other monks, he wears modest brown robes, no doubt woven on a loom, but the golden sash tied around his thin waist tells me this is one of the senior members of the order, the man who called me here.
“And you must be Brother Jon Makeswift,” I say, responding with a smile of my own and accepting his embrace.
He slaps my back twice. I guess this to be a habitual gesture, born of customary greetings amongst his brothers, but the embrace that follows is heavy, like that of an old friend not seen for many years. Or of someone in terror who welcomes the comfort of a rescuer. Through the cloth I can feel the evidence of recent perspiration, and the tension of the serratus anterior muscles in his back suggests he has been moving quickly, carrying something almost as heavy as he is.
“I am indeed,” he says, pulling back. “Forgive me for such a brash and inappropriate welcome—”
“But you need me to examine the body before you dispose of it,” I whisper.
Brother Makeswift’s eyes widen with shock, and he glances furtively at the other monks working in the grounds before recovering his expression and nodding. “How did you … ?”
I shrug. “It’s why you requested my services, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” He places a hand gently on my back and leads me inside the monastery.
Through the archway the gloom gives way to a lobby much warmer in its welcome than the outside. Faded tapestries displaying various warrior poses of Mother Pandora grace the far wall, the soft glow of rosemary candles lights the chalky walls, and rustic chords of an old hymn are being practiced somewhere close by on some sort of wind instrument.
Incense and subtle smoke wafting from behind nearby doorways remind me of roasting meat and royal banquets, and my prejudice of all things ancient mellows a fraction. But behind the incense is another odor, hard to place but vaguely familiar—pungent, offensive. I’ve smelt it before on previous investigations when the trail has led to a hidden corpse or a place of neglect and decay: it’s the rare smell of death.
Brother Makeswift keeps his voice low as he speaks. “I … we need a detective of the finest ability but also someone who understands the kind of life we live here. Such people are hard to find. I knew of your background but had no idea that your skills of deduction were so … tuned.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, but I must admit I was unprepared for …” I make an uncertain gesture at his face.
He touches his cheek, trying to understand, then with realization crossing his expression, he smiles. “Ah, of course, I should have realized. You refer to my appearance.”
“Yes.”
“It’s old age. An unfortunate side effect of our order’s rejection of technology. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“Old age? You mean cell degeneration? You don’t even have a genoplant here?”
“The abbot had it switched off hundreds of years ago, and we never go there anymore. You can check if you like. The power lines running from the genoplant generators have been physically severed.
“Abbot Deepseed believed, you see, as does the order in general, that a greater value is placed on life without the aid of machine interference. And without the advantage of any regenerative technology, we eventually …”
“Die? People actually die of old age here?”
“Yes.” He shrugs. “And disease.”
“But what happens then?”
“Nobody knows,” he says, smiling. “Just like in the days of Old Earth.”
I stare at him in horror for a few moments, trying to digest this unexpected information. I knew the order rejected technology, but I didn’t stop to consider how much of that technology I have taken for granted for so long. The prospect of real death—not waking up inside a genoplant after an accident—sends me cold. “But it’s … barbaric. How can you live like this?”
“You’d be surprised how much more meaningful life is when you understand the prospect of death. Surely your investigations have involved death before?”
“Of course, but I’ve only ever known one case when a person died outside the range of a genoplant. There have been hardly any recorded cases of final death since the Great Cataclysm and the AI War.”
“I’m afraid that’s not so here. Death has become a familiar presence on Castor’s World … This way, please.”
I follow in stunned silence as Makeswift proceeds along a wide passage, carpeted in deep red as if stained by the glare of Pandora’s Nebula through the windows. Then he takes me through a low arch, warning me to watch my head as we duck into a small chapel. Makeswift glances about the place, checking that we are alone, then pulls a key from the fold of his robes and opens another door in the side wall.
And there, lying serenely on a plump mattress in white linen, as if in carefree sleep, is the body of a monk. But not just any monk. I look closer at the wrinkled face, the hollowed cheeks, and the wide nose. There is little doubt in my mind.
“This must be Abbot Thamiel Deepseed, the founder of the order.”