More than forty kilometers above me, a confrontation was in progress that, had I known of it, I would have been agog to witness.
Picture first the sequence of events that unfolded aboard the Chapel of Our Lady of the Holy Restriction Endonuclease, from the hijacking a year ago to the moment of arrival in orbit around Shin-Tethys. The designated leader of the mission, Lady Cybelle, is once again incarnate—and asking awkward questions of Deacon Dennett, who, in her absence, has been behaving most erratically. (His harebrained scheme to reboot her in a weakened, easily manipulable mind-set while making use of the chapel’s tankage for smuggling appears to have failed, thanks to the untimely intervention of a piratically inclined insurance agency.)
She is not enchanted to discover that two-thirds of her original crew have died or deserted. Neither is she charmed by her new and dubious minions, Cook and my stalkerish doppelgänger. And she is positively devastated by the discovery that her precious freight of Fragiles are all dead, killed in the same accident that cost her a body. That the Gravid Mother thinks she can gestate a fresh brood of neonates with which to continue the holy mission is scant consolation, for they will be immature on arrival and require years of additional curation and conditioning before the holy ritual of Planetary Colonization can be attempted (even if it terminates, as is usually the case, with the immediate demise of the Fragiles upon their exposure to the alien biosphere).
If it was necessary to select a single word to describe the atmosphere aboard the chapel after my departure, that word would be “poisonous.” And this condition prevails even before we consider that Lady Cybelle is now aware of the precious treasure beyond all comprehension that slipped through her fingers before she was sufficiently compos mentis to recognize me from her mission briefing.
(That’s got to hurt.)
Picture now the arrivals and immigration processing hall adjacent to the capsule dock through which Rudi and his minions—and I—entered Nova Ploetsk. A fast ballistic descent capsule chartered even before the chapel entered co-orbit with Highport sits, steaming gently, on the decking of one of the subsurface hangars in the reception suite. A motley crew of sacerdotal pilgrims are forming up beneath the critical gaze of their leader; all wear the ritual space suits of their order, joints subtly reinforced and motorized to provide support in the unfamiliar gravity well. Behind them, an automated loader is extracting body-sized capsules from the lander: the first strange fruiting of the chapel’s well-stocked ossuaries.
“Father Gould, if you would be so good as to wait here, with the relics”—Cybelle does not wait for him to acknowledge her instructions, but turns to Dennett—“you will accompany me. And you.” She makes eye contact with a figure that bears a disturbing resemblance to one Krina Alizond-114. “Stay with me. Do not speak unless spoken to. Remember who you are.” Or, more accurately, remember your role. “Now, attend.”
The priestess turns and, surplice flapping around the boots of her space suit, marches toward the immigration gateway with the curiously stiff-legged stride of one who is not entirely in control of her own endoskeleton.
The reception awaiting an ordained priestess, heading a formal mission from the Mother Church, is very different from that which is given to a suspiciously underdocumented accountant in the employ of a firm of insurance underwriters turned space pirates. Rather than a cramped capsule ride to an office staffed by a bored and paranoid instance of the Queen, there is a sweeping row of shallow steps descending into the hip-deep warmth of a receiving pool, where a mermaid stiffly awaits her arrival, an expression of hauteur on her face, and a retinue of secretaries and assistants and constables to pay court to her.
Cybelle advances on the queen-instance without hesitation. “All honor to Your Majesty! I am Cybelle, Priestess-exultant of the Chapel of Our Lady of the Holy Restriction Endonuclease, here by decree of our Mother Church to discharge our Holy Mission of Colonization in respect of Dojima System.” Something that might be mistaken for a smile twitches her cheeks. “May the peace of the Mother Church and the blessing of the Fragile be upon Her Majesty, Medea of Argos, Queen-creator regnant of this laminar kingdom of Argos, and all her subjects.”
She makes the ritual sign of the double helix; the mermaid ducks her head briefly, while behind her, the audience watches with appropriate respect.
“We are indeed Her Majesty, Medea of Argos, acting here in our capacity as immigration comptroller general of my own domain.” The mermaid fixes Cybelle with a direct, inquisitive stare. “Welcome to Argos.” There are no overt entry formalities here, although the chapel’s flight clearance and passenger manifest has been registered with Argos’s immigration database for over a year now. “May we inquire as to your intentions here?” Argos is not a huge nation, and to be singled out for the attention of the Church’s mission to the entire star system is cause for pride if not anxiety.
“Certainly.” Cybelle inclines her head. “We have brought our holy relics to meet their final resting place, to claim this planet in the name of Humanity Fragile But Triumphant. It is our intention to remain in orbit until we can conduct the Holy Colonization itself—alas, our actual incarnate passengers are not yet of an age to participate—while in the meantime tending to the pastoral needs of the people of this world. If Your Majesty approves of our proposal, we should like to base our primary mission to Shin-Tethys in your lovely and hospitable nation.”
Medea’s expression stiffens very slightly. “In principle, we believe your desire can be accommodated,” she replies. “However.” Her gaze tracks past Cybelle, taking in the members of the missionary delegation. “We have some questions that require answers.” Her gaze stops, locking onto one particular gowned and space-suited figure, sans helmet. “We see some faces that were not listed in your manifest. And one in particular that is disturbingly familiar.” She pauses for a couple of seconds. “Krina Alizond-114 disappeared under suspicious circumstances while helping the police with their inquiries, and who now appears to have returned. Constable!” A uniformed officer steps forward. “That person. Her presence is anomalous, and she is, in any event, assisting your department with its inquiries while awaiting possible indictment for immigration offenses. Arrest her at once, on my cognizance.”
Heads turn, surprised and disconcerted, as the constable salutes his ruler, then turns and strides through the water. It supercavitates on contact with his legs, churning up in a foam of bubbles that does not noticeably impede him: He might as well be walking across dry ground.
The doppelgänger, immersed up to her waist in the pool, doesn’t hesitate. Her suit seals burst open, and she erupts vertically from her garment’s embrace, her agility absurd, implausible; she leaps across the pool, using the backs and shoulders of the members of Cybelle’s mission as stepping-stones, punching any who try to catch her.
The cop spins round and charges after her, shoving apart the bunched clergy and the gaggle of courtiers who attend the Queen: More constables burst into sudden motion around the room. Two of them move to block the overwater exit, at the far end of the pool. Another moves to guard the entrance, while more move to encircle the impostor. The doppelgänger responds by changing direction, charging toward the Queen. Her feet splay out, toes webbed and impossibly long and wide as she races across the surface of the water, kicking up a wake. Medea slumps backward, sliding rapidly beneath the surface and reaching up to grab at the impostor from beneath.