The Soul Consortium (16 page)

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.”

M
y examination of the abbot revealed nothing suspicious. To Brother Makeswift, however, my conclusions seemed to bring no relief, only frustration, and after leaving the room locked again, he wasted no time in gathering a small collection of monks to discuss the matter further. I was given directions to my own personal chamber, told to take as long as I needed to refresh myself and organize my things, then meet them in the dining hall.

I would leave most of that until later.

Stopping only to drop off my backpack and take a cursory glance at my new abode, I make my way to the dining hall. It’s a spacious area lined with tall ebony statues of the ever-present Mother Pandora. High stained glass windows leak just enough half-light in to complement the glowing candles and the wood fire spitting within its pastoral hearth. The many empty tables strewn with the remnants of recently consumed food are evidence that the main noonday meal has already passed, but a few stragglers are still chatting quietly and eating the last scraps of a carrot-colored broth.

In the far corner Brother Makeswift sits at the head of a table with four others. He waves to me. “You needn’t have troubled yourself to meet us so quickly. We would have waited.”

“It’s no trouble.” I walk over. “Besides, the situation seemed urgent.”

“More than any of us could have realized,” says one of Brother Makeswift’s companions.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” says a plump man through a mouthful of fresh broth before looking at me. “Pay no attention to our resident doomsayer. He loves nothing better than to make his first impressions on newcomers a memorable one.”

“As do you, Brother,” says the third of the four: a hulk of a man with deep and thoughtful eyes.

The fourth man skulks low against the table, and although he has said or done nothing offensive so far, he has the look of a scolded primate.

“Enough!” Makeswift says as I take my seat at the table next to him.

“Like I said, no problem.” I smile. “Can you introduce me? And if none of you mind, I’d like Brother Makeswift to tell me a little bit about each of you. First impressions about the people I’m dealing with often give me the context for the opening of my investigations.”

“Indeed,” Makeswift says.

The others say nothing.

He turns first to the man immediately to my left, the doomsayer, or so the fat man called him. “This is Brother Simeon Kayne, the longest serving member of our order apart from myself. His illuminations of the Codex are perhaps the most skillfully and swiftly applied, yet, as Brother Veguelle has already alluded to, his particular leaning has always been somewhat—how should I put it?—dark in nature.”

Brother Simeon Kayne shoots Makeswift a sour look before turning to me. “Good to have you here.”

“And this”—Makeswift nods toward the fat monk who raises his wooden spoon dripping with broth in a casual greeting—”is Brother Fordwyn Veguelle. He’s blessed with a brilliant mind and has invented some wonderful techniques of illumination that have served us greatly over the centuries, but I must forewarn you. He has, I’m sorry to say, one or two lessons to learn in social etiquette.”

“Bollocks!” Veguelle grins and offers me a wink.

Makeswift shakes his head, motions to the man next to him. “In contrast we have Brother Amen Brackshard. Most of us call him Sunny, though we can never remember why.”

Sunny stares at the table with a twitching smile.

“He rarely speaks,” Makeswift continues with a pat on the man’s shoulder, “and is the youngest of us, but Sunny has a rare mental condition that affects his ability to articulate language. It’s a simple enough ailment to cure, but Abbot Deepseed has never condoned artificial methods of treatment, and Sunny has expressed fears that he will lose his gift if we change him.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Sunny’s difficulty with speech has encouraged him to be an artist.”

As if to convince me of Makeswift’s claim, the timid monk draws a circle on the table with a piece of chalk, which he then starts to smudge and shade with his thumbs.

“It’s his preferred method of communication these days,” says Makeswift. “He can paint, sculpt, even sing, but his unique perspective on the Codex is what enchants us most of all. His gift has caused controversy and debate amongst the order, but it is also key to the mysteries we have called you in to investigate. I’ll try to explain more of that later, but first you will need some instruction on illumination yourself before you can understand.”

He moves on to the last of the four, the huge man. “And this is Brother Tennison Redwater, the chief gardener of the order. Nothing ever happens within these walls that he doesn’t hear about, and naturally he has heard about our little conspiracy, so we had no choice but to bring him in. But I’m glad he’s with us; he is often the voice of reason when fears run a little high.”

Tennison nods. “Now that you know about us, how about you, Brother Soome?”

There’s so much to tell, much I’d prefer to keep to myself, but to foster a degree of trust that may be useful later, I tell them anyway. About how I lived my formative orphan years in a monastery studying historical theology and cognitive design. About how I spent several years in disgrace after indulging in a brief but disastrous relationship with a visiting student who happened to be the daughter of a planetary governor. And about how the experience taught me to cope with the intricacies of law.

From that stepping stone I learned about criminal investigation and my own raw talent for problem solving. My career reached its zenith when I became senior intelligence officer for a royal household, but the eventual collapse of the monarchy forced me to become a freelance investigator, and that’s how I came to the attention of Brother Makeswift.

“So, Brother Soome, what do those astounding skills of deduction tell you”—Brother Veguelle lowers his head so his chin changes from double to triple and whispers in mock conspiracy—”about the mysterious death of our esteemed abbot?” His eyes gleam with the light of a person who revels in the knowledge that he knows something I don’t. But I’ll be able to know a lot more about him than he realizes by the reactions I’m about to provoke.

I lean forward, as if grateful for the opportunity to be invited in on whatever theory he’ll soon impart to me. “You seem to be enjoying this. Don’t you care?”

“Care?” He backs off slightly. “Why, dear boy, of course I fucking care. Why else do you think I agreed with the others that you should come here?”

“You have an interesting way of showing it.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” says Tennison. “Just ignore him for now.”

Veguelle rolls his eyes.

“Well,” I address the group, not just Veguelle, “there are no signs of struggle on Abbot Deepseed’s body. There are no suspicious marks or signs of foul play, either. I’d have to do a full anatomical analysis to be sure, but by my surface scan of the facial muscles and hormonal residues, I’d say the abbot died peacefully in his sleep.”

The men around the table exchange looks of assent. But beneath their expressions I also read fear, confusion, and the same frustration I noted in Brother Makeswift’s face earlier.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to help,” I say, “but you have to tell me what this is all about. You’re a reclusive community. You wouldn’t have called me out here unless you had a very good reason, and I’m sure you’ve got one, but all I’ve seen so far is the body of a man who died in his sleep and—excuse my bluntness—a group of monks apparently conspiring over nothing. Care to fill me in?”