Christopher Stasheff - Warlock 4 - The Warlock Unlocked

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Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock 04 - The Warlock Unlocked (v1.0) (html).html

PROLOGUE

Pope John the XXIV said his first Mass with the whole world watching through

its 3DT cameras. He said his second at sunrise the next morning, with a handful

of devoted clerics watching, in a little chapel adjoining his chambers. Not too

many were willing to get up at 5:00 AM, even for a Mass said by the Holy

Father.

After a frugal breakfast—he had resurrected the quaint, antique custom of saying

Mass on an empty stomach, in spite of what his doctor told him that thimbleful

of wine every morning was doing to its lining—the Pope sat down at his desk to

face his first day on the job.

Cardinal Incipio gave him just time enough to get settled before entering with an

armful of fiche-wafers. "Good morning, Your Holiness."

"Good morning, Giuseppe." Pope John eyed the bulging case, sighed, and pulled

over his wafer-reader. "Well, let's get started. What've you got for me?"

"An air of mystery." Cardinal Incipio produced an ancient envelope with a

magician's flourish. "I thought you might like to start the morning with a dash of

intrigue."

The Pope stared at the nine-by-twelve parchment container. "You've certainly

got my attention. What, by all the stars, is that?"

"An envelope." Cardinal Incipio handed it to him reverently. "Be careful, Your

Holiness; it's rather old."

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"An envelope." The Pope took it, frowning. "Enclosures for messages. So large?

It must be old!"

"Very old," Cardinal Incipio murmured, but Pope John wasn't hearing him. He

was staring, awed, at the sprawling, handwritten inscription:

To be opened by:

His Holiness, Pope John XXIV On August 23, 3059

Pope John felt a tingling spread from the base of his neck over his upper back

and shoulders.

"It's been waiting a very long time," Cardinal Incipio said. "It was left by a Dr.

Angus McAran, in 1954." And, when the Pope remained silent, he went on

nervously, "It's amazing anyone was able to keep track of it, buried in the vaults

like that. But it was hermetically sealed, of course."

"Of course." His Holiness looked up. "One thousand, one hundred and five

years. How did he know I'd be Pope on this date?"

Cardinal Incipio could only spread his hands.

"Certainly, certainly." The Pope nodded, glowering. "I can't expect you to know.

In fact, it should be the other way around—but I'm afraid Papal Infallibility is

only in matters of doctrine, and even then, only ex cathedra . . . Well! No sense

sitting here, contemplating in awe!" He took out a pocket-knife and slit the flap.

It broke with a skeleton's rattle. Cardinal Incipio couldn't restrain a gasp.

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"I know." The Pope looked up in sympathy. " Seems like desecration, doesn't it?

But it was meant to be opened." Carefully, gingerly, he slid out the single sheet

of parchment the envelope contained.

"What language is it?" Cardinal Incipio breathed.

"Early-International English. I don't need a translator." Even as Cardinal

Kaluma, Pope John had still found time to teach an occasional course in

comparative literature. He skimmed the ancient, faded handwriting quickly, then

read it again very slowly. When he was done, he lifted his eyes and stared off

into space, his dark brown face becoming steadily darker.

Cardinal Incipio frowned, worried. "Youf Holiness?"

The Pope's eyes snapped to his, and held for a moment. Then His Holiness said,

"Send for Father Aloysius Uwell."

The pitcher crashed to the floor. The child darted a quick, frightened glance at

the video pickup hidden in the upper right-hand corner of the room, then turned

to start picking up the pieces.

In the next room, Father Uwell nodded, and sighed, "As I expected." He turned

to the orderly, waiting at the back of the chamber. "Go clean that up for him,

would you? He's only eight years old; he might cut a finger, trying to do it

himself."

The orderly nodded and left, and Father Al turned back to the holovision tank

with a sad smile. "So many unbreakable materials in this world, and we still

prefer our vessels made of glass. Reassuring, in its way… and so is the boy's

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glance at our hidden pickup."

"How so?" Father LeBarre frowned. "Is it not proof that his powers are magical?"

"No more than his making that pitcher float through the air, Father. You see, he

made no use of the paraphernalia of magic—no mystic gestures, no pentagrams,

not even a magic word. He simply stared at the pitcher, and it lifted off the table

and began to drift."

"Demonic possession," Father LeBarre offered halfheartedly.

Father Al shook his head. "He's scarcely even naughty, from what you tell me; if

a demon possessed him, it would make him a very unpleasant child indeed."

"So." Father LeBarre ticked off points on his fingers. "He is not possessed by a

demon. He does not work magic, either black or white."

Father Al nodded. "That leaves us with one explanation—telekinesis. His glance

at the 3DT pickup was very revealing. How could he know it was there, when

we did not tell him, and it is well hidden, built into the ceiling? He probably read

our minds."

"A telepath?"

Father Al nodded again. "And if he is telepathic, it's quite probable that he's also

telekinetic; psi traits seem to run in multiples." He stood. "It is too early for a

complete opinion, of course, Father. I will have to observe the boy more closely,

inside this laboratory and outside—but at the moment, I would guess that I will

find nothing of the supernatural about him."

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Finally, Father LeBarre dared a smile. "His parents will be vastly relieved to

hear it."

"Now, perhaps." Father Al smiled, too. "But before long, they will begin to

realize the problems they will have, rearing a telekinetic and telepathic boy who

has not yet learned to control his powers. Still, they will have a great deal of

help, possibly more than they want. Telekinetics are rare, and telepaths are even

more so; there are only a few dozen in the whole of the Terran Sphere. And in all

but two of them, the talent is quite rudimentary. The interstellar government

realizes that such abilities may be of enormous benefit, so they take a great

interest in anyone found to possess them."

"The government again," Father LeBarre cried, exasperated. "Will they never be

done meddling in the affairs of the Church?"

"Beware, Father—the government might think it is you who violates the

separation of Church and State."

"But what was more natural than to bring him to the priest?" Father LeBarre

spread his hands. "This is a small village; only the magistrate represents the

Terran government, and none represents the DDT. The parents were on the verge

of panic when objects within their house began to fly through the air in the boy's

presence. What was more natural than to bring him to the priest?"

"Natural, and wise," Father Al agreed. "For all they knew, it might have been a

demon, or at least a poltergeist."

"And what was more natural than that I should call upon my Archbishop, or that

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he would call upon the Vatican?"

"Quite so. And therefore I am here—but I doubt not I'll find no taint of the

supernatural, as I've said. At that point, Father, the matter ceases to fall within

our jurisdiction, and moves to the government's. 'Render unto Caesar…' "

"And is this boy Caesar's?" Father LeBarre demanded.

A soft, muted chime spared Father Al from answering. He turned to the

comscreen and pressed the "accept" button. The screen blinked clear, and Father

Al found himself look-ing through it into a Curia chamber, hundreds of miles

away in Rome. Then the scene was blocked by a brooding face under a purple

biretta. "Monsignor Aleppi!" Father Al smiled. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I have no idea," the Monsignor answered, "but it should be a great pleasure

indeed. His Holiness wishes to speak to you, Father Uwell—in person."

" 'On September 11,3059 (Terran Standard Time), a man named Rod

Gallowglass will begin learning that he is the most powerful wizard bom since

the birth of Christ. He dwells on a planet known to its inhabitants as

"Gramarye"…'Then he gives the coordinates, and that's all. Nothing more but his

signature." The Pope dropped the letter on his desk with a look of disgust.

Joy flooded through Father Al; he felt like a harp with the wind blowing through

it. His whole life he had waited for it, and now it had come! At last, a real

wizard!

Perhaps…

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"Reactions?" His Holiness demanded.

"Does he offer any proof?"

"Not the slightest," His Holiness said in exasperation. "Only the message that

I've just read you. We've checked the Public Information Bank, but there's no

'Rod Gallowglass ' listed. The planet is listed, though, and the coordinates match

the ones McAran gives. But it was only discovered ten years ago." He passed a

faxsheet across the desk to Father Al.

Father Al read, and frowned. "The discovery is credited to a Rodney d'Armand.

Could it be the same man?"

The Pope threw up his hands. "Why not? Anything is possible—and nothing

probable, when you've so little information. But we checked his PIB bio. He's a

younger son of a cadet branch of an aristocratic house on a large asteroid called

'Maxima.' He had a short but varied career in the space services, culminating in

his enlistment in the Society for the Conversion of Extra-terrestrial Nascent

Totalitarianisms…"

"The what?"

"I don't think I could say it again," His Holiness sighed. "It seems to be a sort of

government bureau that combines the worst aspects of both exploration and

espionage. Its agents are supposed to seek out the Lost Colonies, decide whether

or not their government is headed towards democracy and, if it's not, put it onto

a path that will eventually evolve a democracy."

"Fantastic," Father Al murmured. "I didn't even know we had such a bureau."

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"Any government that's overseeing three-score worlds should have a bureau that

just keeps track of all the other bureaus." His Holiness spoke from personal

experience.

"I take it, then, that this Rodney d'Armand discovered a Lost Colony on

Gramarye."

"Yes, but the Lord only knows which one," the Pope sighed. "You'll notice that

the PIB sheet doesn't tell us anything about the inhabitants of the planet."

Father Al looked. Sure enough, any human information on the planet was

summed up in one word at the bottom of the page: CLASSIFIED. It was

followed by a brief note explaining that the planet was interdicted to protect its

inhabitants from exploitation. "I'd guess it's a rather backward culture."

Excitement thrilled through Father Al's veins—were they backward enough to

still believe in magic?

"Backward, indeed." The Pope peered at another paper on his desk. "We checked

our own data bank, and found we did have an entry on the planet—just a very

brief report, from a Cathodean priest named Father Marco Ricci, that he'd

accompanied an expedition by a group calling themselves the 'Romantic

Emigres." They found an uncharted, Terra-like world, seeded a large island with

Terran bioforms, and established a colony, four or five hundred years ago. Father

Ricci requested permission to establish a House of the Order of St. Vidicon of

Cathode—your own Order, I believe, Father Uwell."

"Yes, indeed." Father Al tried not to let his disappointment show; the

Cathodeans had to be engineers as well as priests. No planet could be too

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backward, if they were there. "Was he granted permission?"

His Holiness nodded. "So it says; but apparently the Curia was never able to

convey the news to him. The Interstellar Dominion Electorates fell about that

time, and the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra was established. As you know,

one of the first things PEST did was to lose the Lost Colonies. There was no way

to communicate with Father Ricci."

"Well, mat's hopef… I mean, that might create problems."

"Yes, it might." The Pope fixed him with a glittering eye. "We may have another

splinter sect there, calling themselves Roman Catholics, but out of touch with us

for centuries. No telling what heresies they'll have dreamt up in that time." He

sighed. "I'd hoped to have a rest from that sort of thing for a while."

Father Al knew what the Pope meant. Just before he'd been elevated to the Chair

of St. Peter, Cardinal Kaluma had conducted the negotiations with the

Archbishop of Burbank, a Lost Colony that had been found about twenty years

before. They'd managed to keep the Faith fairly well, except for one heresy that

had taken firm root: that plants had immortal souls. It turned out to be a

fundamental point of doctrine on Burbank, since the whole planet was heavily

involved in botanical engineering, with the goal of creating chlorophyll-based

intelligence. The talks had become rather messy, and had ended with the

establishment of the Church of Burbank. Its first act had been to excommunicate

the Church of Rome. His Holiness hadn't been quite so drastic; he'd simply

declared that they were incommunicado, and that the Church of Burbank could

no longer really be said to be Roman Catholic.

A shame, too. Other than that, they'd been so sane…

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"I will be discreet, Your Holiness, and only report accurately what I discover."

"Oh?" The Pope fixed Father Al with an owlish eye. "Are you going

somewhere?"

Father Al stared at him for a moment.

Then he asked, "Why else would you have sent for me?"

"Quite so," His Holiness sighed, "I admit to the decision. It rankles, because I

have no doubt that's what this McAran intended."

"Have we any choice, really?" Father Al asked quietly.

"No, of course not." The Pope frowned down at his desktop. "A letter that's been

lying in the vaults for a thousand years acquires a certain amount of credibility—

especially when its sender has managed to accurately predict the reign-name of

the Pope. If McAran could be right about that, might he not be right about this

'wizard?' And whether the man is really a wizard or not, he could do great

damage to the Faith; it has never proven terribly difficult to subvert religion with

superstition."

"It's so tempting to believe that you can control the Universe by mumbling a few

words," Father Al agreed.

"And too many of those who are tempted, might fall." The Holy Father's frown

darkened. "And, too, there is always the infinitesimal chance of actually

invoking supernatural powers…"

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