De Soya pulled on the amice that slipped over his head like a gown and fell to his ankles.
The amice was white linen and immaculate despite the incessant dust storms, as was the alb that slid on next. He set the cincture around his waist, whispering a prayer as he did so.
Then he raised the white stole from the vestment chest, held it reverently a moment in both hands, and then placed it around his neck, crossing the two strips of silk. Behind him, Pablo was bustling around the little room, putting away his filthy outside boots and pulling on the cheap fiberplastic running shoes his mother had told him to keep here just for Mass.
Father de Soya set his tunicle in place, the outer garment showing a T-cross in front. It was white with a subtle purple piping: he would be saying a Mass of Benediction this morning while quietly administering the sacrament of penance for the presumed widow and murderer in the front pew and the radiation-scarred cypher in the last pew.
Pablo bustled up to him. The boy was grinning and out of breath. Father de Soya set his hand on the boy’s head, trying to flatten the thatch of flyaway hair while also calming and reassuring the lad. De Soya lifted the chalice, removed his right hand from the boy’s head to hold it over the veiled cup, and said softly, “All right.” Pablo’s grin disappeared as the gravity of the moment swept over him, and then the boy led the procession of two out of the sacristy door toward the altar.
De Soya noticed at once that there were five figures in the chapel, not four. The usual worshipers were there—all kneeling and standing and then kneeling again in their usual places—but there was someone else, someone tall and silent standing in the deepest shadows where the little foyer entered the nave.
All during the Renewed Mass, the presence of the stranger pulled at Father de Soya’s consciousness, try as he might to block out all but the sacred mystery of which he was part.
“Dominus vobiscum,” said Father de Soya. For more than three thousand years, he believed, the Lord had been with them… with all of them.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” said Father de Soya, and as Pablo echoed the words, the priest turned his head slightly to see if the light had illuminated the tall, thin form in the dark recess at the front of the nave. It had not.
During the Canon, Father de Soya forgot the mysterious figure and succeeded in focusing all of his attention on the Host that he raised in his blunt fingers. “Hoc est enim corpus meum,” the Jesuit pronounced distinctly, feeling the power of those words and praying for the ten-thousandth time that his sins of violence while a Fleet captain might be washed away by the blood and mercy of this Savior. At the Communion rail, only the Perell twins came forward. As always. De Soya said the words and offered the Host to the young men. He resisted the urge to glance up at the figure in the shadows at the back of the church.
The Mass ended almost in darkness. The howl of wind drowned out the last prayers and responses.
This little church had no electricity—it never had—and the ten flickering candles on the wall did little to pierce the gloom. Father de Soya gave the final benediction and then carried the chalice into the dark sacristy, setting it on the smaller altar there. Pablo hurried to shrug out of his surplice and pull on his storm anorak.
“See you tomorrow, Father!”
“Yes, thank you, Pablo. Don’t forget…” Too late. The boy was out the door and running for the spice mill where he worked with his father and uncles. Red dust filled the air around the faulty weather-stripped door.
Normally, Father de Soya would have been pulling off his vestments now, setting them back in the vestment chest. Later in the day, he would take them to the parish house to clean them. But this morning he stayed in the tunicle and stole, the alb and cincture and amice. For some reason he felt he needed them, much as he had needed the plaskev battle armor during boarding operations in the Coal Sack campaign. The tall figure, still in shadows, stood in the sacristy doorway. Father de Soya waited and watched, resisting the urge to cross himself or to hold the remaining Communion wafer up as if to shield against vampires or the Devil.
Outside, the wind went from a howl to a banshee scream.
The figure took a step into the ruby light cast by the sacristy lamp. De Soya recognized Captain Marget Wu, personal aide and liaison for Admiral Marusyn, commanding officer of Pax Fleet. For the second time that morning, de Soya corrected himself—it was Admiral Marget Wu now, the pips on her collar just visible in the red light. “Father Captain de Soya?” said the Admiral. The Jesuit slowly shook his head. It was only 0730 hours on this twenty-three-hour world, but already he felt tired.
“Just Father de Soya,” he said.
“Father Captain de Soya,” repeated Admiral Wu, and this time there was no question in her voice. “You are hereby recalled to active service. You will take ten minutes to gather your belongings and then come with me. The recall is effective now.”
Federico de Soya sighed and closed his eyes. He felt like crying. Please, dear Lord, let this cup passeth from me. When he opened his eyes, the chalice was still on the altar and Admiral Marget Wu was still waiting.
“Yes,” he said softly, and slowly, carefully, he began removing his sacred vestments.
On the third day after the death and entombment of Pope Julius XIV, there was movement in his resurrection créche. The slender umbilicals and subtle machine probes slid back and out of sight. The corpse on the slab at first lay inanimate except for the rise and fall of a bare chest, then visibly twitched, then moaned, and—after many long minutes—raised itself to one elbow, and eventually sat up, the richly embroidered silk and linen shroud sliding around the naked man’s waist.
For several minutes the man sat on the edge of the marble slab, his head in his shaking hands. Then he looked up as a secret panel in the resurrection chapel wall slid back with less than a hiss. A cardinal in formal red moved across the dimly lit space with a rustle of silk and a rattle of beads. Next to him walked a tall, handsome man with gray hair and gray eyes. This man was dressed in a simple but elegant one-piece suit of gray flannel.
Three steps behind the Cardinal and the man in gray came two Swiss Guard troopers in medieval orange and black. They carried no weapons.
The naked man on the slab blinked as if his eyes were unaccustomed to even the muted light in the dim chapel. Finally the eyes focused.
“Lourdusamy,” said the resurrected man. “Father Duré,” said Cardinal Lourdusamy.
He was carrying an oversized silver chalice.
The naked man moved his mouth and tongue as if he had awakened with a vile taste in his mouth. He was an older man with a thin, ascetic face, sad eyes, and old scars across his newly resurrected body. On his chest, two cruciforms glowed red and tumescent. “What year is it?” he asked at last.
“The Year of Our Lord 3131,” said the Cardinal, still standing next to the seated man.
Father Paul Duré closed his eyes.
“Fifty-seven years after my last resurrection. Two hundred and seventy-nine years since the Fall of the Farcasters.” He opened his eyes and looked at the Cardinal. “Two hundred and seventy years since you poisoned me, killing Pope Teilhard the First.”
Cardinal Lourdusamy rumbled a laugh. “You recover quickly from resurrection disorientation if you can do your arithmetic so well.”
Father Duré moved his gaze from the Cardinal to the tall man in gray. “Albedo. You come to witness? Or do you have to give courage to your tame Judas?”
The tall man said nothing. Cardinal Lourdusamy’s already thin lips tightened to the point of disappearance between florid jowls. “Do you have anything else to say before you return to hell, Antipope?”