The three fell in behind him as he exited the tower room. Loman glanced sideways and noted how Claus had moved in close to his left — the position of an advisor and one who shared in the ultimate position. He considered sending the man a pace or two back, then rejected the idea. The reality of the power game was that you needed the army on your side and, thus far, Claus had served a purpose, though he would be removed when the time was right.
"Reverend, I should also let you know that your brother has returned from Cheyne III with bad news: Brom has been killed and his organization is broken," said Claus.
Loman hesitated at the head of the spiral staircase which wound down beside one glass wall of the tower, as he checked this news through his aug. "No matter, there will always be others to fight the Polity on our behalf and they will never have sufficient reason to come here once Ragnorak has done its work." Glancing at the Major, Loman saw that the man looked dubious and wanted to make some comment on that. Loman went on, "It is all planned for. We are the Chosen, and we will not fail."
"As you will, Reverend," said Claus, which was not entirely the wholehearted response Loman would have liked, but that was probably due to the Major's weariness.
Feeling generous Loman went on, "After Ragnorak, I feel that you will have much work to do on the surface, Commander Claus."
They descended the stairs to the large chamber Loman had chosen for his own investiture later, and as they did so, he could not help but speculate on how much this tower of Amoloran's had cost in precious resources. Every step was a grav-plate, every one of the tower's fifty floors was tiled with them, and the security system — as he well knew — was particularly advanced. Of course that system had not proved sufficient when the power lines leading from solar panels mounted below the Up Mirror had been severed. It had been remiss of Amoloran to rely too heavily on the Gift — the men he, Loman, had sent to cut the power had been recruited from the surface, so were without augs to be detected; and, with a sufficient promise of future influence, the Septarchy Friars had clogged other channels that might have given things away.
Only half of the Council were present: those others who had supported the previous hierarch either taking their own lives maybe at that very moment, or, if they had the wealth to possess such, fleeing in their own crafts. The four hundred soldiers Claus had led in here were currently arrayed around the walls, or scattered through the crowd that was now, very quickly, growing silent. Loman moved out into the open space rapidly cleared at the foot of the stairs and gazed around. Many private channels were open, but he did not feel inclined to force his way in to them, as he knew what most of these people would be thinking. In the end it did not matter what they thought or discussed, just so long as they obeyed.
Set up at the back of the room was the pillar and the frame and he noticed how many Council members of questionable loyalty were glancing at this device nervously. After a moment, one member of the crowd broke away and approached to drop on one knee and take up Loman's hand. The Reverend Loman gazed down into the expressionless face of his brother.
"You return at an opportune time," said Loman.
"I would have come sooner, Reverend, but Brom was cowardly and was hesitating to send his people against the Cereb runcible. And he hesitated too long," Aberil replied.
Loman beckoned him to rise to his feet and opened a private link with him. "You were sent on a fool's errand anyway. Supplying Separatists gives the Polity an opening through which they can reach us. We must not overextend ourselves and we must be patient."
Aberil replied, "Amoloran was without focus or sufficient faith, and he would have destroyed us with his foolishness. You have done the right thing, brother."
"I have done what is required of me by God."
"As do we all."
Loman waved Aberil behind him, to his right side — a position Aberil took with some alacrity. Now Loman turned to Claus. "Let it be done," he said.
Claus gave the signal to his men at the back of the chamber, and the crowd parted as Amoloran was marched out, guards supporting him on either side as his legs kept giving way. The old man looked bewildered and terrified — as was only right. Loman noted with some distaste the bright yellow urine stains down the front of the disposable coverall he had earlier been dressed in. The guards dragged him to the frame and began tearing away his coverall as Loman advanced to stand before him. Amoloran resisted them, but to no avail, and soon he was naked and fighting only the obdurate metal that held him cruciform before the crowd.
Tilting his head towards Claus, Loman asked, "Did he have a way out?"
Claus held out his hand, in the palm of which rested three small translucent capsules. "Implanted under his fingernails. He also had a nerve jammer concealed in his neck jewel — and this." Claus held out a beautiful tool of old stainless steel — a spoon with its edges honed sharp.
"You think he would kill himself with a sculping tool?" asked Loman. "I think that gouging out his own eyes would not have been the way he would like to go."
Claus shook his head and pointed at the tool. "Neurotoxin in the handle, to be pumped through micropores in the edges, your reverence. Primarily used to cause pain, but there's the option to pump out the full amount, so one cut would cause instant death."
As he hung the tool on one of his own belt hooks, Loman nodded to himself: this was always how it happened — those of high rank always had a way to kill themselves should the situation require it, and always realized too late when that situation occurred. Himself, he had similar nerve-poison capsules implanted under his fingernails, and he would use them before it ever came to this for him.
"You left him his Gift, I see," he said.
Claus looked momentarily worried. "I thought it best to leave that decision to you."
"Remove it now."
Claus fisted his own chest then strode over to the old man in the frame.
"No… no, you can't," Amoloran gasped as Claus closed his fingers around the scaled aug behind the old man's ear. Amoloran screeched when Claus tore it off and cast it on the floor. There came an ominous muttering from the crowd, quickly stilled as Loman glanced around at them.
To all, through his aug, he broadcast, "He loved the Gift more than God. Will anyone here listen to his spoken confession?"
No one stepped forward.
"Have you chosen the program?" Aberil asked.
Loman glanced at him. "No, brother. Do you have any suggestions?"
"I have, and with a healthy individual it can last for eight hours." Aberil stared at the aged Hierarch, his expression now containing more animation than was customary. "Let me."
Loman waved him to go ahead and Aberil quickly went over to a console at the side of the pillar and started tapping away with relish. The frame began to rise, and all around it the knives and bone saws, electric probes and injectors began to sprout and revolve. Amoloran let out a yell, then bowed his head and began the prayer of the Fifth Satagent — the choice of many who faced this fate.
Loman gazed around at the crowd again. They were all watching with avid and in some cases slightly sick expressions — but they were all watching. Aberil's torture programs were legendary, so perhaps many of them hoped to learn something here.
"See the betrayer of God's word," said Loman out loud, holding up one admonitory finger. "He would have had us attack each other while our enemy encroached upon our world. He would allow Behemoth back amongst us. And in the end he would have had us sacrifice love of God for love of technology." Amoloran was now babbling quickly through the last verses of his prayer, which was somewhat distracting. Loman raised his voice. "See, this is what will happen to any who would undermine our destiny. Ragnorak comes now to lance the infection on the planet below us, and as it heals we can turn outward to face our enemy. We are—"