The Soul Consortium (17 page)

“Gladly.” Brother Kayne glances behind me and raises his eyebrows in a manner that suggests I look too. “There is your first mystery. And there is the start and end of your woes in this place.”

I turn to follow the doomsayer’s gaze. A monk walks gracefully into the hall cradling a bowl of freshly served broth and takes a secluded seat by the fireplace. Although his features are fresher and younger than the corpse I observed upon my arrival, there is no doubt in my mind about this man’s identity.

“Abbot Thamiel Deepseed?” I say. “But I thought your genoplant was out of commission. How did he get resurrected?”

“He claims a miraculous restoration—a quickening of his flesh,” says Makeswift. “But as you have seen, we recovered his … recovered Deepseed’s body. I had hoped that your investigation might bring some revelation.”

“If you know he’s lying, why haven’t you challenged him about it?”

“I did,” Makeswift says, shifting awkwardly in his seat, “but he is … different … We cannot …”

I shake my head. “So if there’s no genoplant and you know he isn’t the real abbot, who is he?”

“You’re the fucking detective,” says Veguelle. “Why do you think we called you? We don’t know.”

I stare back at him, using the next few seconds of silence to digest what I’ve been told.

Sunny, the smallest of our group, shrinks even farther back into his seat, clutching the edge of the table. His lips wrestle against his tongue for a few moments as he tries to articulate the thoughts of his damaged mind, but as Makeswift rests a hand on his shoulder to calm him, Sunny presses his chalk into the table, drawing harder. “Not Abbot,” he whimpers. “He not Abbot.”

Sunny frowns at me, his eyes pleading as he points at the name he has written on the table.

Keitus Vieta.

I
didn’t sleep well that night. I tried to put my restlessness down to unfamiliar surroundings: the background rumble of the planet like an earthquake ready to happen, the bitter star bleeding her crimson rays through the slats in my window, the scuttling of large insects at the end of my bed, or perhaps even the return of the sour-sweet stench of death that first greeted me when I entered the monastery, but it was none of these things.

It wasn’t even Brother Makeswift’s descriptions of the murders that had taken place each month. A glassy expression of fear filled his eyes as he told me about the mark resembling the Eye of Pandora etched into the skin of each mutilated victim. He said everything seemed to change overnight. The Order of the Codex, once known for its atmosphere of tranquility and well-being, transformed into a place of dread. Even before the murders, a hideous presence—thick and heavy like tangible hate, as though a demonic spirit had squeezed its bulk between the walls—seemed to fill the air of the monastery.

I am used to the subtle trickery the human instinct can impress upon the mind. None of those things affect me now. What bothers me more than all of that is the reappearance of Abbot Deepseed. Not because of his mysterious resurrection—that could be explained in a number of ways, all of which I plan to investigate. No, it is the man himself. Something about him is utterly wrong. Wrong like a mute scream of terror or a living abomination acting out unspeakable but invisible atrocities before my eyes. The abbot should not be here. But here he is. And what was it Brother Sunny had called him? Keitus Vieta.

That name was the first crumb of evidence my investigative instincts sniffed out, but whilst I quickly discovered what the name meant, it told me nothing. Sunny, though gifted artistically with his hands, had difficulty with speech, and Brother Veguelle was keen to explain to me that when Sunny could not find adequate words to express his thoughts, he would often revert to phrases from long extinct language forms. I could hardly blame Brother Sunny; the abbot’s aura certainly did defy expression. Finding out the meaning behind Keitus Vieta was then a simple matter of spending time in the monastery’s reference library, which was antiquated by the use of indexed books (anything to avoid technology where possible) but comprehensive nonetheless.

My research was soon rewarded after flicking through the waxy pages of an old dictionary of ancient languages. Having refined my search to the native tongue of Sunny’s distant descendents on Old Earth—Litsu’an or Lithunarian—I found
Keitus
or
Kitus
to mean “other” and
Vieta
to mean “place.”

Other place. So this younger, resurrected abbot has come from another place. What does that mean? The question shifted uneasily among my thoughts throughout the night and into the morning (if you could call it morning in a place haunted by perpetual gloom) until I eventually prepared myself for my first full day as a monk.

I had been told I would be given a brief introduction to the potential of the Codex at the breakfast table—nothing too taxing as an initiation but an exercise I was looking forward to with a mixture of nervous anticipation and greedy awe. For the Codex is the mathematical oracle that every civilized culture has fantasized about since mankind first learned to speak. It holds the key to complete omniscience but leads each of its pursuers along a never ending tightrope of revelations suspended over an abyss of insanity.

It was the Codex—or to be specific, the knowledge the Codex brought—that took the peace of aeons and decimated it with universal war and chaos. Even
The Book of Deeds
had no name for that era of history. It took millennia for humanity to recover, but with such terrible power still available, new laws had to be conceived to protect us. Only a select few specifically disciplined and isolated communities were permitted to study the Codex, the most celebrated of which is this one. To be granted the opportunity to look into the mind of the universe is an honor that cannot be passed up.

“Good morning, Brother Makeswift.” I sit opposite my new mentor who is settled at the same table as last night. A selection of exotic fruit, dried cereals, and a jug of liquid resembling milk is on the table, and I help myself to a modest breakfast, still marvelling at how the monks are able to produce crops of this standard in such a hostile environment.

“Brother Soome, good to see you.” He chews thoughtfully on a fleshy fruit that could be an apple. “Did you sleep well?”

“I was comfortable enough.”

“Fucking liar,” Brother Veguelle says in my ear and nonchalantly drops his plate of fruit next to mine.

“Veguelle!” Makeswift snaps.

The rotund monk raises his hands in mock apology, then grins. “Nobody can sleep for more than ten minutes since the murders started … Could be you with the Eye of Pandora branded on that fresh young skin of yours next. Who knows?”

“I apologize, Brother Soome. Veguelle can sometimes—”

“It’s fine.” I turn to Veguelle, study his face. He seems to be taking all this too flippantly, as if the murder of his colleagues is a huge cosmic joke. “You seem to be in good spirits. Do you rest easier at night than the others?”

He sniffs loudly. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “it’s because you think you know who might be responsible for the murders.”

“Of course I do.”

“Really? Care to share?”

“I’ve made no secret of that,” he says, with a jocular wobble of his chin. “The answer is obvious, dear boy.” Veguelle holds Brother Makeswift with an accusing stare. “And I don’t know why it isn’t equally as obvious to certain other people in this shit hole.”

“Not everybody shares your opinion,” Makeswift counters sternly.

“Opinion? Is
that
what you call it?” Veguelle coughs. “I tend to refer to it as plain and simple fact.” He takes a bite from one of the fruit and munches openmouthed while turning to me. “But then I suppose that’s why you’re here. To be the eyes of Great Mother Pandora. To sort the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. To sift the opinions from the facts.”

“Are you going to tell me who you think it is or not?”

“Forceful, isn’t he?” Veguelle beams at Makeswift. “I like him.”

“Force isn’t my way, Brother,” I say, tilting my head to make my neck crack, “but if provoked …”

“Great winds of Prometheus!” He laughs. “There’s no need for that sort of talk. Why, it’s Sunny, dear boy, Sunny! He’s your murderer. It’s as plain as the troglodyte brow on his cretinous head.”

“Because he has a tendency toward violent episodes?”

“Yes, that’s one reason, but—”

“Nonsense,” says Makeswift, “these murders are premeditated. Sunny would be mortified if his outbursts ever led him to take a life.”

“Mortified.” Veguelle chuckles. “Now there’s an appropriate word.”

“Do you have any other reasons to believe it’s Sunny?” I ask.

“Well”—Veguelle leans forward, pauses for added drama—”his eyes are too close together for one thing, and—”

“I think we’ve heard enough. Brother Soome is not here just to investigate the crimes within the order; he’s also here to learn our disciplines.”

“I know; I know,” Veguelle says with a smirk, poking at the fruit on his plate. “It’s why you wanted me to join you both for breakfast … Paper, rock, scissors, is it? That the one we’re doing for our first timer? It usually is.”

“Paper, rock, scissors it is,” Brother Makeswift confirms. “It’s always the first lesson but more of a demonstration really. If you’re willing, Brother Soome, we can begin as soon as you’ve finished eating.”

I nod and continue my breakfast while Veguelle witters on to me with questions about what possessed me to take on such a mundane quest as this one and how it is that none of the other monks do anything interesting with their lives other than engross themselves in ancient equations.

My strongest instinct is to grill Veguelle more about the murders, but Makeswift is right; I’m here to find out how they study the Codex too. It may unearth the motivations of these monks, perhaps even the murderer.

At the end of breakfast, Brother Makeswift signals for someone to clear the table, then pinches his finger and thumb together and taps them against his lips while nodding, as if inwardly reciting or measuring something. “Sorry. Just making sure I’m ready. It’s not always easy to remember every last detail. The lesson is very brief and a small taste of what we do here, but it still requires significant preparation for the teacher. Are you ready?”

“Perfectly. What do I have to do?”

Veguelle stands. “Want me next to you, Brother Makeswift?”

“Yes, please.”

Veguelle’s grin, which never seems to leave his face, widens a touch as he moves around the table. “I love this. It’s going to scramble your head when you try to work it out. Then it’s going to blow it right out of your ears, especially when—”

“Thank you, Brother Veguelle. I’m sure Brother Soome will discover the value of it himself without the aid of your colorful embellishments.”

Veguelle shrugs, sits down again, and watches me with an excited lick of the lips.

“Now,” says Makeswift, “all you have to do is beat Brother Veguelle in a simple game of paper, rock, scissors. But you must beat him twenty rounds in succession. Do you think you can do that?”

Veguelle’s eyes widen in amusement. “Think you can take me, Soome?”

I take a long breath through my nose, raise my eyebrows, and grin. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Statistically,” says Makeswift, “it’s unlikely you’ll beat him more than three times before he beats you. Unless …” He opens his hands, waiting for the obvious response.

“Unless I already know what he’s going to choose,” I say.

“Correct. If peoples’ speculation about the Codex is true, then something like that should be no problem. So, let us assume that I am the Codex, an all-seeing oracle with full knowledge of the future, which you can freely access. You can ask me for the information you need, then say go when you wish to challenge your opponent. Understand?”

“Yes, but wouldn’t I win every time?”

Makeswift smiles. “That’s the general assumption people make about the Codex. If we have the full knowledge of the universe, wouldn’t we know the future before it happens? Wouldn’t we
win
all the time?”

I smile back at him. “I presume I’m going to learn something about that idea today.”

“Precisely. It seems like a pointless exercise, I know, but please give us the benefit of the doubt for now. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He drops his smile in concentration. “Shall we try?”

Veguelle spits on his palms, slaps his hands together, then balls one into a fist holding it out toward me. “Let’s go.”

“Veguelle, you know how this works,” says Makeswift. “You have to whisper to me what you’re going to pick.”

He whispers something in Makeswift’s ear.

Makeswift looks at me expectantly.

“What did he tell you?” I ask.

Makeswift leans toward me, whispers in my ear, “He said rock.”

I study Veguelle’s grinning face, then say, “Go.”

Veguelle and I bang our fists on the table three times and reveal our choices. Veguelle keeps his fist in place while I open mine to represent paper.

“That’s one to you, Soome. Again.”

Veguelle whispers in Makeswift’s ear.

“What did he choose?” I ask.

“He chose paper,” Makeswift whispers to me.

“Go,” I say and with three more thumps to the desk, Veguelle opens his fist while I make a scissors shape.

“Two to you, Soome. All seems easy enough, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, standard calculation and response technique.”

“Exactly, so we’re going to make a little addition to the rules. Now you also have to whisper to me what you’re going to choose and both of you must agree to say go before the challenge begins.”

I think about it for a moment, then whisper in Makeswift’s ear, “Scissors.”

“What did he say?” Veguelle asks.

Makeswift whispers into Veguelle’s ear.

Veguelle whispers his choice.

“He must have chosen rock,” I say. “If he knows I said scissors, he
must
have chosen rock.”

Makeswift smiles and shrugs. “What will you do? Are you ready?”