Monsignor Lucas Oddi had no electronic or mechanical bugs in his system, but connected to his optic nerve were seven fully biological nanorecorders. Four auditory nanorecorders were tapped into his auditory nerve system. These biorecorders did not transmit inside the body, but stored the data in chemical form and physically carried it through the bloodstream to the squirt transmitter—also fully organic—set into Monsignor Oddi’s left ventricle. Ten minutes after Oddi had left the secured area of Cardinal Lourdusamy’s office, the transmitter had squirted a compressed record of the meeting to one of the Grand Inquisitor’s nearby relay transponders. It was not real-time eavesdropping from Lourdusamy’s bugproof rooms—a fact that still worried Cardinal Mustafa—but it was as close to it as current technology and stealth could get.
“Isozaki is frightened,” said Father Farrell. “He thinks…”
The Grand Inquisitor raised one finger. Farrell stopped in mid-sentence. “You do not know that he is frightened,” said the Cardinal. “You do not know what he thinks. You can only know what he says and does and infer his thoughts and reactions from that. Never make unsupportable assumptions about your enemies, Martin. It can be a fatal self-indulgence.”
Father Farrell bowed his head in agreement and submission.
The EMV touched down on the landing pad atop Castel Sant’Angelo. The Grand Inquisitor was out the hatch and down the ramp so quickly that Farrell had to trot to catch up to his master. Security commandos, dressed in Holy Office red armorcloth, fell into escort step ahead and behind, but the Grand Inquisitor waved them away. He wanted to finish his conversation with Father Farrell. He touched his aide’s left arm—not out of affection, but to close the bone-conduction circuits so that he could subvocalize—and said, “Isozaki and the Mercantilus leaders are not frightened. If Lourdusamy wanted them purged, they would be dead by now. Isozaki had to get his message of support to the Cardinal and he did. It’s the Pax military who are frightened.”
Farrell frowned and subvocalized on the bone circuit. “The military? But they haven’t played their card yet. They have done nothing disloyal.”
“Precisely,” said the Grand Inquisitor. “The Mercantilus has made its move and knows that Lourdusamy will turn to them when the time comes. Pax Fleet and the rest have been terrified for years that they’ll make the wrong choice. Now they’re terrified that they’ve waited too long.”
Farrell nodded. They had taken a dropshaft deep into the stone bowels of Castel Sant’Angelo, and now they moved past armed guards and through lethal forcefields down a dark corridor. At an unmarked door, two red-garbed commandos stood at attention, energy rifles raised.
“Leave us,” said the Grand Inquisitor and palmed the door’s identyplate. The steel panel slid up and out of sight. The corridor had been stone and shadows. Inside the room, everything was bright light, instruments, and sterile surfaces. Technicians looked up as the Grand Inquisitor and Farrell entered. One wall of the room was taken up by square doors, looking like nothing so much as the multitiered human file drawers of an ancient morgue. One of those doors was open and a naked man lay on a gurney that had been pulled from the cold storage drawer there.
The Grand Inquisitor and Farrell stopped on either side of the gurney.
“He is reviving well,” said the technician who stood at the console. “We’re holding him just beneath the surface. We can bring him up in seconds.”
Father Farrell said, “How long was his last cold sleep?”
“Sixteen local months,” said the technician. “Thirteen and a half standard.”
“Bring him up,” said the Grand Inquisitor.
The man’s eyelids began to flutter within seconds. He was a small man, muscular but compact, and there were no marks or bruises on his body. His wrists and ankles were bound by sticktite. A cortical shunt had been implanted just behind his left ear and an almost invisible bundle of microfibers ran from it to the console.
The man on the gurney moaned.
“Corporal Bassin Kee,” said the Grand Inquisitor. “Can you hear me?”
Corporal Kee made an unintelligible sound.
The Grand Inquisitor nodded as if satisfied. “Corporal Kee,” he said pleasantly, conversationally, “shall we pick up where we left off?”
“How long… “mumbled Kee between dry, stiff lips. “How long have I been…”
Father Farrell had moved to the technician’s console. Now he nodded to the Grand Inquisitor.
Ignoring the corporal’s question, John Domenico Cardinal Mustafa said softly, “Why did you and Father Captain de Soya let the girl go?”
Corporal Kee had opened his eyes, blinking as if the light pained him, but now he closed them again. He did not speak. The Grand Inquisitor nodded to his aide. Father Farrell’s hand passed over icons on the console diskey, but did not yet activate any of them.
“Once again,” said the Grand Inquisitor.
“Why did you and de Soya allow the girl and her criminal allies to escape on God’s Grove? Who were you working for? What was your motivation?”
Corporal Kee lay on his back, his fists clenched and his eyes shut fast. He did not answer.
The Grand Inquisitor tilted his head ever so slightly to the left and Father Farrell waved two fingers over one of the console icons. The icons were as abstract as hieroglyphics to the untutored eye, but Farrell knew them well. The one he had chosen would have translated as crushed testicles. On the gurney, Corporal Kee gasped and opened his mouth to scream, but the neural inhibitors blocked that reaction. The short man’s jaws opened as wide as they could and Father Farrell could hear the muscles and tendons stretching.
The Grand Inquisitor nodded and Farrell removed his fingers from the activation zone above the icon. Corporal Kee’s entire body convulsed on the gurney, his stomach muscles rippling in tension.
“It is only virtual pain, Corporal Kee,” whispered the Grand Inquisitor. “A neural illusion. Your body is not marked.”
On the slab, Kee was straining to raise his head to look down at his body, but the sticktite band held his head in place.
“Or perhaps not,” continued the Cardinal. “Perhaps this time we have resorted to older, less refined methods.” He took a step closer to the gurney so that the man could see his face. “Again… why did you and Father Captain de Soya let the girl go on God’s Grove? Why did you attack your crewmate, Rhadamanth Nemes?”
Corporal Kee’s mouth worked until his back teeth became visible. “From… from… fuck you,” he managed, his jaws tight against the shaking that was wracking him.
“Of course,” said the Grand Inquisitor and nodded to Father Farrell.
This time, the icon Farrell activated could be translated as hot wire behind the right eye. Corporal Kee opened his mouth in a silent scream.
“Again,” said the Grand Inquisitor softly. “Tell us.”
“Excuse me, Your Eminence,” said Father Farrell, glancing at his comlog, “but the Conclave Mass begins in forty-five minutes.”
The Grand Inquisitor waved his fingers. “We have time, Martin. We have time.” He touched Corporal Kee’s upper arm. “Tell us these few facts, Corporal, and you will be bathed, dressed, and released. You have sinned against your Church and your Lord by this betrayal, but the essence of the Church is forgiveness. Explain your betrayal, and all will be forgiven.”
Amazingly, muscles still rippling with shock, Corporal Kee laughed. “Fuck you,” he said. “You’ve already made me tell you everything I know under Truthtell. You know why we killed that bitch-thing and let the child go. And you’ll never let me go. Fuck you.”
The Grand Inquisitor shrugged and stepped back. Glancing at his own gold comlog, he said softly, “We have time. Much time.” He nodded to Father Farrell.
The icon that looked like a double parentheses on the virtual pain console stood for broad and heated blade down esophagus. With a graceful motion of his fingers, Father Farrell activated it.