The Heretic

The Hestinga market square was a group of temporary stalls. In Lindron, most of the merchants had permanent shops.

And in the market square were women. Not just at the market, either. Abel spent a great deal of his time inside walls behind which females were not allowed. Here, they were simply…everywhere. He knew enough to hold his status and not to allow his head to jerk about like a springleg every time someone of the opposite sex walked past. He liked it better when he and his father approached from behind. That way, he could spend lots of time staring at swaying hips and shoulders without being noticed, and then steal a glance at the face in profile as he and his father, who were walking at an soldier’s pace, passed its possessor.

After several blocks of temptation, Abel began to forget who he was with and where he was going. He began to think instead of the problem of how he was going to get laid for the first time. Xander had told him about a whorehouse on the outskirts of town, but Abel somehow didn’t want this to be his first experience.

But if this feeling kept building inside him, and he never got a chance to meet any girls-well, then, the whorehouse might have to do.

Any advice on that, o inner voices? What, nothing to say?

When the time comes, I am capable of providing the proper physical instructions.

One world at a time, lad. But here’s one that’s all right. Looks like she bathes in butter and honey does that one.

A raven-haired young girl who looked only a little older-and a little taller-than Abel wafted by in a cloud of flowing vermillion robe, silver belt and bracelets, and clean-smelling soaps and unguents. She was gone as quickly as she arrived, and Abel fought mightily the urge to stop in his tracks and gaze longingly after her.

It was only when they arrived at the temple gates that Abel was jerked from his female-induced reverie.

The district temple compound differed from the surrounding edifices in that it was mainly built of stone, and Redland stone, at that. It was at least five hundred strides wide, and housed all manufacturing facilities that were allowed under the Law. This was where nishterlaub was reworked into permitted materials. A plastic casing for an ancient nishterlaub machine might be fitted with a wicker handle and made into a bucket, for instance. A plough might be made from a piece of the incredibly light, incredibly durable pre-Collapse ceramic.

Spacecraft tile beaten to ploughshares, Center had once said of it.

And it was here and only here, in the temple compound, that bullets could be forged and cartridges packed. There was an entire team of priests who did nothing else. Abel had once spoken with one of the priest-smiths, as they were called, and had learned of the intricate prescriptions and prohibitions the priest-smiths must take account of. One slipup, and an entire run of bullets or cartridges would have to be scrapped and recast in the proper manner.

In the center of the compound, a stepped pyramid rose a thousand spans into the sky. It was visible throughout Hestinga, and from quite a few leagues outside the village, as well.

Abel and his father struggled up the oversized steps of the temple pyramid as best they could. There was an easier path with human-sized steps on the backside of the structure, but this method of climbing was reserved for priests.

At least the steps keep Father occupied, Abel thought. I hate even watching his face. His being disappointed is ten times worse than his yelling at me.

A wise parent, Raj said, followed by his low, not-so-nice chuckle.

Finally, they reached the apex plaza and entered the small stone building that occupied the center of the plateau.

District Prelate Zilkovsky’s office was an inner chamber within an inner chamber. It was the chilliest room Abel had ever been in. A temple priest outside the entrance was on fan duty. He continually pushed and pulled a cane rod through a slot in the wall. The cane connected to a rush-woven fan inside set on a dont-leather hinge. The rod kept the fan continually moving air across the chamber.

Zilkovsky was fat. There was no way around that fact. The folds of his priestly robes could not hide the belly that lurked behind them. He was also nearly bald, with a wispy layer of hair that he combed to the side as if to hide the shiny skull beneath. It did not.

Yet for all his girth, the prelate moved gracefully. His eyes, though small and closely set, sparkled with animation.

Don’t underestimate this one, Raj said. I’ve known his like before. He’ll never be your comrade, but he’s best to keep as an ally, not have as an enemy.

Zilkovsky had no desk, but instead worked in a sitting area with several chairs gathered round. When Joab and Abel entered, he motioned Joab to sit. Abel, not having received such permission, remained standing.

“Commander, correct me if I’m wrong, but is this not the young man who once managed to drop a rock on his own head in the nishterlaub house?”

“You’ve got the right one, Mr. Prelate.”

“And now he’s managed to destroy a wagon transporting munitions to the Redlander scum, but, at the same time, has used proscribed methods to accomplish this?”

“That’s about the size of it, sir.”

“And only one casualty to the Scouts?”

“That’s correct.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

Zilkovsky settled back in his chair. He took up a clay mug of beer, nodded toward a pitcher and cup on a nearby side table. Joab shook his head, indicating he didn’t want any. Zilkovsky had a sip, smiled a mild smile of peaceful pleasure.

Abel had a feeling the beer had a much better taste than the vinegary wine in his father’s office.

“Allow me to scan with Zentrum,” the priest said. He closed his eyes, breathed out.

And for a long moment, his body jerked and shuddered. Then it relaxed.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Yes.” Zilkovsky opened his eyes. “Alaha Zentrum.”

“Alaha Zentrum,” Abel and Joab murmured in the automatic response inculcated by years of Thursday school lessons.

“Scan completed,” Zilkovsky continued. The priest finally turned his head and looked at Abel. It wasn’t merely a look, but a stare, as if Zilkovsky was peering deep within, seeing things Abel would prefer hidden. Could he detect the presence of Raj and Center?

No, Center replied. No known methods of quantum broadcast discovery are in use. Zentrum is unaware of our presence on Duisberg. We, however, are faced with another issue. The encryption mechanism within the implant Zilkovsky is employing to communicate with Zentrum in Lindron is secure. Breaking the code will take some effort on my part but should be possible in time.

“It seems that your dual actions cancel one another out. So you are not to be punished for the breach in edict, but you are likewise not to receive a commendation for your admittedly brave behavior in helping to torch the wagons. What do you have to say to that, young man?”

“Alaha Zentrum,” Abel said, “I accept this judgment.”

Zilkovsky nodded. “Good, good.” He motioned for Abel to take a seat next to his father. Abel gratefully sank into the chair and, when the prelate offered beer, took a half cup-even though this action caused his father to raise an eyebrow. When he took a sip, he found he had not been mistaken-it was great. He could almost chew on the sweet barley that had gone into the brew.

Zilkovsky turned back to Joab. “So we have a problem, my friend. These wagons with the gunpowder, there was no semaphore traffic concerning a raid up north?”

“None whatsoever,” replied Joab.

“I, too, have received no message flitters.”

Interesting. He speaks of message-carrying animals. His implant must not allow him to communicate with his fellow prelates, but only with the central computer. No doubt he really does believe he is hearing the voice of God. An interesting choice on Zentrum’s part.

Do I have one of these…implants, then? Is that how you do it?