Father Joseph rose from where he kneeled at the side of his bed. Usually, he would be in his favorite back-row pew in the Basilica’s smallest chapel, but he was weary of people and their subtle, probing questions. Since his elevation to the Pope’s senior aide-de-camp, every free moment was spent in conversations with bishops and priests plying him for information. His verbal evasions and empty answers pleased neither the questioners nor himself. It was easier to simply hide.
Joseph carefully folded his stole and placed it in his Bible. In the past, he would use the stole to mark one of favorite verses, but lately he placed it inside the front cover. He was self-aware enough to know this to be a sign of his discontent, but he continued to do it.
Another sign that disturbed the young priest was that he wasn’t completely frank with his confessor, especially the first time Father Gabriel asked about working with the Pope.
Joseph anticipated the question when he was elevated, and he temporized with “It is nothing like I expected.”
He knew Gabriel and others recognized his evasion, but all were too polite to push.
I’m consciously avoiding the issue because I don’t like the true answer.
God will provide. God will provide.
He powered on his pad and wasn’t surprised to see a summons from the Pope. They twice already that day on other issues, but that was before the Captain’s announcement.
He wants to vent his spleen about Charles Devereaux and talk about the Walsingham Channel too. And try to get out of dinner with Bishop Albert. Again.
Joseph pretended to read his pad as he walked through the Basilica’s hallways, politely nodding to anyone who greeted him in passing. What he was really doing was reveling in the dozens of art pieces that lined the hallways throughout the Basilica as his footsteps echoed off the granite shapes of cherubs and angels. Almost all of the old masters’ works were represented there in various sculptures and paintings, the latter with expansive landscapes of a planet light years in the wake of Salvation.
The landscapes were Joseph’s favorites. Green and brown rolling hills with verdant trees and distant mountain ranges topped with snow. And the open sky. Joseph tried not to think about how those gentle hills no longer existed, nor did he want to remember that the Pope was not a fan of Landfall.
But with Landfall, we may sleep under open skies again.
He knocked softly at the large, ornate doors of the Pope’s office and entered without waiting for a reply. The Pope was not behind his desk as Joseph anticipated. Instead, the leader of his church and the senior priest of the Ring stood at the window overlooking his garden, his hands clasped behind him.
A large, imposing man who towered over nearly everyone he met, the Pope was clad in white from the silk zucchetto on his head to the shoes on his feet, while his short cloak around his shoulders was lined in gold trim. The zucchetto was lined in gold trim, too. Otherwise, it would have blended perfectly with the older man’s white hair.
“Good afternoon, Your Holiness.” Joseph sat at his usual small table and opened his pad to take notes.
“Good afternoon, Joseph,” the Pope replied in his gravelly voice, the one attribute that did not match his perfectly groomed appearance. “Interesting day. Interesting announcement.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your thoughts?”
Joseph chose his words carefully, knowing the Pope would see through any evasions. “I have not met the new First Officer, sir, and I know you do not wish to hear gossip and rumors.” He lowered his eyes so not to betray his thoughts. The Pope loved all flavors of gossip, the more salacious, the better.
The Pope nodded. “I’ve met him, and I’ve heard the rumors. Suffice to say he is not…” He hesitated then added, “Impressive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“‘One should not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery.’”
“Ephesians, chapter five, verse eighteen.”
“Correct as usual, my son.” The Pope turned from the window and sat at his expansive desk. Joseph was certain it was genuine wood. “An odd conflict of statement in our Holy Book, considering we drink the wine of His blood every Sunday.”
“Yes, sir. In moderation.”
“In moderation.” The Pope’s cat, picked because its white fur matched his silk clothes, leapt into his lap. The older man made a gesture at the door, and Joseph stood to flick the switch that activated the physical locks on the door and window and that powered up the masking system to prohibit recording devices from listening in. He’d long gotten used to the low-level whine he felt in his molars.
“How is our little spy network working?” the Pope asked, smiling.
Joseph suppressed the flash of irritation at the casual words. You really don’t understand the seriousness of what we are risking.
“In the Back, quite well, sir. We have at least two hundred contacts across all decks and positions. The feathers in our caps are an Assistant Engineer who sits in the Engineer’s inner circle and a trusted Badge named Brian. We are bringing others along, and I have drafted two more trustworthy Brothers to serve as their managers.”
“Good. Good to hear. What are we learning about the Engineers, then?”
“No surprises so far. We always knew their family and social structures were flexible, for lack of a better word. We see all flavors of cultures and religions like those on Old Earth, though Catholicism is the most prevalent, falling in line with how Salvation was populated in the first place. The Engineer is loved and hated in equal measures, but I believe that’s the case with most authority figures, if you’ll forgive me, sir.”
“I understand better than you know, my son,” the Pope said as he stroked his pet. If the cat was purring, Joseph couldn’t hear it. “Anything else?”
“If I were a clean slate, sir, I would have a difficult time finding reasons not to live in the Back. Morale is generally good, everyone is fed and cared for, and they work toward the common goal of keeping all aboard safe from disaster by maintaining Salvation. Aside from their questionable, uh, home arrangements and general lack of organized spiritual congregations, I would almost call it the perfect Christian community.”
“But for those two exceptions, I would agree. However, they are significant exceptions, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Pope pushed the cat off his lap. “I assume less success in the Front with the Crew?”
Joseph nodded. “Especially after the mutiny, sir, but we were always going to have limited success there. The Crew are fewer in number, and their loyalty is more upward by design. More militaristic, if you forgive the description, due to their need to control and guide the ship. I’ve identified some Crew members who used to work in the Ring that may be persuaded, but their professional positions are not the equal of those in the Back. The wall between the Front and the Ring remains metaphorically impassable at the moment.”
“Understandable. We knew that going in. Keep chipping away, Joseph.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask… why?”
“Pardon me?”
Joseph kept his voice calm. “Sir, we are dedicating resources and energy to the Walsingham Channel only to confirm things we already knew. If you’ll forgive me for saying this, when we are found out, we’ll be viewed as trespassers and voyeurs of unreliable character, and we will be judged harshly for these actions—and correctly, in my opinion. The return on our investment is questionable, and the political ramifications could be significant, including with some members of the College of Bishops.”
“You have strong feelings, my son.”
Joseph nodded. “Again, forgive me for saying this, Your Holiness, but my primary duties are protecting the Church and your soul, sir. I believe giving you this assessment is in line with those responsibilities.”
The Pope held up his hand. “No forgiveness is needed, Father Joseph. I prefer an honest priest to a compliant one. Would you agree we should move forward for now, considering the effects of the Captain’s announcement?”
“Yes, sir, with the caveat that we assess weekly on whether we should continue or end the Walsingham Channel. I believe that discovery may be imminent, especially since the network is larger than our initial projections.”
“So ordered, Father Joseph. Make it a standing commitment, would you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
The Pope turned his chair to look out the window. “I’m weary, Joseph. Does Bishop Albert still want to meet over dinner?”
The young priest knew what the Pope was really asking. “Sir, if we cancel, it will be for the third time.”
“Drat. He’ll blather on about the reproduction lottery for an hour, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh well. Some burdens must be borne.”
“A clean frock has been placed on your bed, sir.”
“Reading my mind again. Thank you.” The Pope stood and stretched his back. “May I impose and ask for another cup of your most special tea, sir?”
“Of course, Your Holiness.”
As he stood to gather his things, Joseph realized he was not satisfied with the Pope’s responses. Maybe you got the message this time, but I think you still believe we’re playing a game. Either way, it will be my head that rolls when the Channel is discovered, not yours. And it will be discovered one day, probably before Landfall, and the fallout will be significant.
“O Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”
Unlike before his ascension to his current post, the words gave Joseph no comfort.