The Soul Consortium (19 page)

“No.” Brother Makeswift sighs and shakes his head. “But I was afraid you might ask that question.”

“Afraid why?” Veguelle faces him.

“Something else strange about all the murders. Before the victims died, each appeared to lose a personal possession. Not usually anything important.”

“What? I didn’t know about this,” Veguelle says.

“Only myself and Brother Redwater knew. We hoped if we kept that detail secret, the murderer might slip up one day and say something.”

I smile. “It only works if the rest of the community couldn’t possibly know the facts you’re hiding from them. That isn’t so in this case. Perhaps the symbol would have been a better choice.”

“We tried that first, but nothing came of it.”

“You tell the fucking gardener but not me? That’s fucking fantastic,” shouts Veguelle. “My toothbrush has been missing for three days. Perhaps I’m next.”

My smile widens. “Then you’d better hope I find your murderer before he finds you, eh? Speaking of which, can you locate Brother Tennison Redwater for me?”

“Why?”

“Because that’s a gardening tool in Brother Flavius’s neck.”

T
he day passes after a number of interviews, and following the initial round, I continue the next day privately and unannounced with the same people. It’s a technique I’ve found useful over the years: a second unscheduled interview will often flush out the guilty party because they think I have discovered some new piece of evidence, and their body language usually tells me a different story to the one they speak. But nobody stands out to me yet.

Fresh from my final interview with Brother Tennison in the early evening, the two of us follow more than two hundred monks—the whole order—outside the monastery to gather at the outermost section of the gardens to witness the burial of Brother Flavius.

Despite the wind bringing an onslaught of hot, thin air, I find myself relieved. It takes me a moment to realize why, but as I inhale the air through my nostrils, I remember there is no stench of death outside the monastery; I started to grow accustomed to the smell.

Above us the face of the goddess Pandora glares down, the light from her single eye soaking the freshly dug soil. And like vast open doors of an ancient death casket, the murky shadows of the tsunami mountains loom over the grounds. The grave has been positioned like all the others in the area, with the headstone facing her gaze. On Old Earth it was said that the graves of the dead were positioned toward the direction of the rising sun so they would be ready for the Messiah when He came to resurrect them. Strange how these monks have rejected it now when resurrection can be a reality for them, yet they still mirror those old beliefs.

Brother Veguelle bustles over to stand at my right. “Got him yet?”

“Not yet but I’m confident I’ll find out the truth soon enough.”

“The Soomer the better, eh?” He nudges me with a grin.

I stare ahead, straight-faced.

There is no sign of Abbot Deepseed yet, but as the crowd settles, each of us waits patiently for him, gazing into the open grave at the monk’s resting body, losing ourselves in thought. I imagine most of the others are contemplating the loss of their comrade. I, however, am thinking about the interviews so far. I am not much closer to forming a workable hypothesis despite having analyzed most of the evidence and double-checking my findings. But not all my interviews are complete, and in some cases, additional questioning might be beneficial.

I glance at Brother Tennison, the gardener standing to my left, the intensity of his thoughts obvious by the V-shaped crease of his brow as he stares at a lost companion. My interviews with him suggested no clear motive. Yes, he is certainly a strong enough man to commit a murder of that kind, and the murder weapon was a gardening tool, but the previous murder weapons were not. Although I can read a guilty secrecy in the man’s eyes, I am not convinced it relates directly to any of the murders.

Brother Veguelle maintains his staunch belief that Sunny is the culprit. Sunny’s reputed tendency for violence makes him a suspect, but Brother Makeswift vouches for him, and for the moment, I am inclined to trust his judgement rather than Veguelle’s. There are others I prefer to question again before Sunny.

As for Brother Makeswift, he is the one who summoned me in the first place. Veguelle could also be a candidate, but his fear appears genuine, and I can’t help but like him.

That leaves Brother Simeon Kayne, the doomsayer. And Abbot Deepseed. Everything points to the abbot. My intuition and logic tell me that he is more likely to be the murderer than anyone else—the killings began after his mysterious resurrection (a mystery which, once solved, I fear may add yet further complications to my investigation), he was there at the scene, and there is an atmosphere of evil that broods in his wake like a cloud. For that last reason alone I find myself reluctant to give in to the obvious evidence and confront him. The abbot is the final authority here at the order too, so even if I can prove his guilt there is little I can do. With all these things considered, I am not content with accepting Deepseed as the murderer; over the years I have learned never to jump to conclusions in this line of business.

So today after the burial of Brother Flavius, I plan to question Brother Kayne. And as I have yet to be taught my next lesson in Codex illumination, I will combine the two.

“Good evening, Brothers.” Abbot Deepseed steps up.

The low light reflects our mood, and the wind, calming to a steady breeze, hot, like the burning of ceremonial coals, disturbs our robes.

The abbot drifts slowly around the oblong pit. He holds a small book in each hand. The pages flap as the wind ruffles them, but the abbot is not even looking at the words while he quotes from the text. “‘At the end of things, he will find the beginning of things. It is the way of things … At the end of days, our brother will be caught up together with the others in the clouds to meet Pandora in the air. And we will be with the goddess forever … For those that choose this path are blessed among all …’”

“Is this normal procedure after a death here on Castor’s World?” I whisper to Veguelle.

“Only since he came.”

“Abbot Deepseed? But he’s been here since—”

“Dear boy, you
know
that isn’t Deepseed. He’s dead, you saw his body, and people don’t come back to life here like they do where
you
come from.”

Two other monks glance at us.

Tennison snarls at them before turning to me. “Veguelle’s right. It isn’t him.”

Veguelle nods. “I don’t know who’s prancing around in Flavius’s body over there, but it isn’t our fucking abbot.”

“Is it just your little group that think this?”

“No! Can’t you feel it?” says Veguelle. “The man just isn’t … right.”

“Before the abbot changed, death was treated differently,” Tennison whispers. “We buried the bodies with hardly a word of ceremony. But whoever this man is, it’s as though he never knew that.

“After Deepseed supposedly resurrected himself, it wasn’t long before Brother Caltus died, and then, from what we’re told, Deepseed looked through the library for books on death. At the burial, he started quoting randomly from
The Book of Deeds
and other holy books nobody has even touched for centuries.”

“Of course we were suspicious and baffled”—Veguelle takes over—”but nobody dares challenge him.”

Deepseed sets the books aside and scatters spices into the pit. “‘From the soil man came and to the soil man must go … At the end of things is the beginning of things. It is the way of things.’” Without further address other than a signal to two of the closest monks to begin filling in the grave, the abbot turns and heads inside the monastery.

The rest of us start filing back inside too.

B
rother Simeon Kayne is old. Perhaps the oldest of the monks in the monastery, but he shows none of the signs of infirmity that I have learned to expect from the inhabitants of Castor’s World since my arrival.

Ordinarily there is nothing unusual about a youthful demeanor in advanced years: technology has taken human beings to an almost miraculous level of biological security. We rarely die, we cease aging at a time of our choice, and sickness and disease are concepts as old as the age this order was modeled upon. But therein lies the problem; these monks, believing the comforts of this modern era are a distraction from true enlightenment, are proud of their detachment from technology. So much so that they have withdrawn themselves not just from the negatives of the machine age but the benefits too.

Yet they are not immune from hypocrisy, and they are not as detached as they claim to be. The environment outside could not possibly support the crops they need to survive without artificial support. The monks still accept imports and communicate with neighboring star systems when they are in need, and they use data brains to help them in their study of the Codex. But most of all, many of the order have the blessing of longevity that came with the introduction of optional genomic stabilization.

Brother Kayne, however, makes no effort to hide his love of machine assistance, and this is a possible connection to Deepseed’s suspicious resurrection. Aside from his good health, Kayne’s work with the Codex boasts the technological aids he uses.

Stepping into his room is like stepping into a sophisticated Observation Sphere on one of the Consortium moons. It has the same antique furnishings and rustic design as the other monks’ chambers, but a few seconds after my entrance, all of it is washed into black oblivion by the intricate projections of subatomic design. I feel I have intruded upon holy ground—a trespasser within realms only ventured upon by gods and angels.

And at the center of the void, like a medieval sorcerer, stands Brother Simeon Kayne, his arms festooned with ribbons of roaring fire, tracing circular motions in the air and leaving trails of glowing dust, which form the twisting, turning molecular models that build our solid world.

“Brother Soome,” he greets me without turning. “You’re a little early. I’m just making sure the firmament is ready for your pleasure.”

A blast of hot air ruffles his dark beard as molecular patterns chase each other above our heads.

“I can come back if—”

“No.” With a final swoosh of his left arm, the molecules vanish to leave darkness in the room. “Everything is ready now.”

“It’s an impressive study you have here. How long did it take to create?”

Kayne turns, smoothes his hair, and straightens his robes. “Longer than I would have liked. The abbot—the
real
abbot, I mean—was strongly resistant to all technology as I’m sure you’re aware. It took decades for him to even allow me the pleasure of multidimensional projectors.”

“So what changed his mind? How did he end up allowing all this?”

His eyes narrow. “Results, that’s all.”

“Brother Makeswift said that you may be one of our most accomplished illuminators. Is that correct?”

“Only through experience. There are others here—Sunny for example—who are far more naturally gifted than I. And I am somewhat ashamed to say that my particular skill has a certain morbidity about it. Not my fault, you understand. While the abbot was still alive, he saw things that caused him grave concern. Sunny confirmed some of them, and the abbot asked me to focus my own studies on them too. It brought me a rather unfortunate epithet.”

“The doomsayer?”

“Yes.”

“What was it you, the abbot, and Sunny saw that caused such concern? The murders?”

“I saw many of the atrocities here at the monastery before they happened, though not in precise detail. The predictions were confused … contradictory …”

“In what way?”

Kayne stares past me into the dark, a frown deepening into a contortion of fear. “I’d rather not—”

“I’d rather you would.”

The monk’s sallow face flashes with anger for a second before melting into resignation. “I know I must be one of those under suspicion, but I urge you not to leap to conclusions.”

I don’t have any conclusions yet, only questions, and he has just added more to my list. A few answers would be welcome at this stage. “I need facts before I can draw conclusions, and getting facts involves asking questions. I’m sorry to insist but … you understand?”

Kayne takes in a deep breath, appearing pained by my persistence. “Would you mind if I began the lesson first? I find the subject difficult to express without finding comfort in my illuminations.”

“Will it help answer my questions?”

“It will make the answers easier to understand.”

“Then please go ahead.”

“Good.” Kayne lifts a single finger, points directly ahead of us. An illusion of distance produces a pinpoint of firelight far ahead. “The first spark of existence,” he says, not without a tone of drama, “gives birth to all of this.” And like a conductor in an orchestra of millions, he sweeps his arms through the air.

Unprepared, I take a step back, knocking against an invisible chair as the pinpoint bursts outward into an inferno. Stars explode into life over my head, planets rush into view to my left and right, and grassy valleys and snowy mountains rush to greet my feet. People, places, events, disasters, creations, dreams, and art churn like individual whirlpools of time all around me until I stand in an exact mirror image of the monastery within its vast crater.

“In ancient days when our primitive ancestors believed in magic,” Kayne says, taking a step back to stand beside me, “they used to say that to name a thing is to control a thing, and their beliefs had a certain ironic poetry about them.

“As soon as mankind named all the building blocks of nature and finally understood the immutable laws of the universe, the uncertainty principle wasn’t quite so uncertain anymore, and the rest, I am sure you know, is history.”

“The AI Reductionist Codex.”

“Exactly. The image you see around you now is not a recording. It is a simulated image constructed by the data in the Codex.”