Chapter Six
Chapter Six
The vaporetti landing was a small pier in front of the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, at the right end of the Palladian façade. To the right was the world’s oldest continuously-operating Benedictine abbey, founded in 982, somewhat oppressive-looking in contrast to the splendid basilica. Even after the suppression of the monasteries in the early nineteenth century, a small number of monks had by sheer persistence won the right to remain in residence. They were still there, although the former monastery now housed the Cini Foundation.
The trip had been a short one, and Jason had had only a brief time to try and formulate a plan. He and his companions were seated at the stern of the boat, with a handful of early-rising tourists in front, along with Father Ernetti and the Transhumanist among them. He would simply have to wait until they were ashore and then play it by ear.
The boat docked, and the tourists began to disembark. Jason’s party was unable to shove through the press, and by the time they were able to step onto the seawall and get past the tourists, Father Ernetti was walking briskly to the right . . . and the Transhumanist was hastening after him.
Jason thought frantically. The tourists were moving in a group to the left, toward the church. He motioned for Mondrago and Casinde to follow him. But by this time Father Ernetti was well ahead . . . and the Transhumanist had caught up with him. The two exchanged a few inaudible words, and then proceeded toward the heavy door in the abbey wall, continuing to talk.
The tourists were still outside the church, waiting for a tour to begin. Jason couldn’t afford a scene. He continued to follow the two men ahead, trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt them. But then Father Ernetti reached the door, marked Monaci Benedittine, or “Benedictine monks,” pushed a buzzer, and opened the door, admitting himself and the Transhumanist, who he evidently trusted. The door began to swing slowly shut behind them.
Jason shot a glance over his left shoulder. None of the waiting tourists seemed to be looking in their direction. He decided to take a chance. He sprinted forward and, without engaging in any attention-drawing acrobatics, managed to get his foot in the door before it closed. Mondrago and Casinde hurried up behind him and, carefully holding the door open, they slipped inside.
The interior corridors were no cheerier than the outside view. There was no one about. Father Ernetti and the goon—as the Temporal Service called Transhumanists of his caste, normally human to all outward appearances, but gengineered to be enforcers—had gone off in one direction or another, and Jason’s implant was of no help in here. But he thought to hear a murmur of voices, and led the way in that direction.
After turning a couple of corners, they glimpsed a light ahead: a door opening onto a cortile, or cloistered courtyard. The monks’ schedule must have had them occupied inside, for there was still no one in evidence—or so Jason thought at first. Then he looked to his left, down the colonnaded covered passage.
In the shadows, the Transhuanist had thrust Father Ernetti against the wall and was holding him there, his left forearm against the Benedictine’s throat. He was muttering in low tones, as though trying to choke an answer out of him.
Jason let combat-trained reflexes think for him. He couldn’t chance a shot with his laser weapon without risking hitting Father Ernetti—which, even on stun setting, would require some explanation. And he couldn’t use his “cane” as a club without damaging the laser’s delicate components. So, forgetting his pretended limp, he dropped the cane and launched himself forward, grabbing the goon by the wrist of his upraised right arm and bringing it down behind him and then sharply up, forcing him down on one knee so that he had to release Father Ernetti, who sagged back against the wall, gagging and clutching his bruised throat.
But only a heartbeat was required for the goon’s genetically upgraded reflexes to snap his equally enhanced muscles into action. He sprang to his feet like a released steel spring, simultaneously jabbing his left elbow back into Jason’s ribs. The two actions together caused Jason to lose his grip on the right wrist, and flung him back against a column with a force that momentarily winded him. With almost insectlike swiftness, the goon pivoted on him, poised for a killing blow.
At that moment Casinde dived forward, landed on his hands, and brought his legs around in a sweeping roundhouse kick that caught the goon’s ankles and sent him sprawling, face forward. Before he could spring upright, Mondrago landed on his back, locked his right arm around his neck and, with his left hand, twisted the head around just so far but no farther, holding it at a precise angle.
The goon’s caste was lacking in imagination and initiative, but was perfectly intelligent within its narrow scope; he realized at once that Mondrago could instantly break his neck. He stopped struggling and relaxed. Mondrago was not deceived into loosening his grip by so much as a dyne of force.
Jason took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said to the other two. He was particularly impressed by Casinde’s performance. So, it seemed, was Father Ernetti, who was staring wide-eyed at the man in the clerical collar even as he continued to make faint choking noises while gasping for breath.
“See if you can help him,” Jason told Casinde, who nodded and moved to Father Ernetti’s side. Jason knelt, brought his face within a few inches of the goon’s, and spoke in twenty-fourth century Standard International English. “All right. We know what you are. Why are you here, and what did you want with the good Father?”
Mondrago released his pressure on the goon’s throat just enough to allow him to speak. “Why should I tell you anything?” he wheezed. “I’m as good as dead anyway.”
Jason did not bother to deny this. “It can be quick . . . or my friend here can make it last.”
The goon actually smiled. “No, he can’t. And,” he added mockingly, “you can’t save the Pope, either!” And with that, he jerked spasmodically in Mondrago’s grip and his eyes rolled up. There was the stench of death.
Jason sighed. He had hoped the Transhumanist wouldn’t have one of their neurally activated suicide devices, or at least that if he did it would be one of the models activated by the mission leader. Evidently, this particular goon was operating alone and had been given one he himself could use to commit suicide in a manner undetectable by the medical science of the period. It also, Jason knew from past experience with captured Transhumanists, destroyed the brain beyond even the capacity of twenty-fourth century technology to retrieve information from it—not that he had any such technology available anyway—and caused all bionic implants to biodegrade tracelessly. He stood up, as did Mondrago after letting the corpse slump to the paving stones. Their eyes met. They had both heard what the goon has said about the Pope . . . and they both knew what it meant.
“Well,” said Mondrago, “we’ve cleared up one mystery, anyway. Now we know how John Paul I died.”
“And the Observer Effect won’t let us do a damned thing about it,” nodded Jason. He turned to Father Ernetti, whom Casinde now had sitting down, his back propped against the wall, and knelt beside him. “Are you all right, Father?” he asked in Italian.
“Yes . . . I think so,” said the Benedictine, still speaking with difficulty. “Thank you, my son. God bless you. But . . . who are you? Where did you come from?” He sounded bewildered—understandably, Jason thought. “And what was that language you were speaking? It sounded rather like English, of which I can follow a little, but—”
“We came here hoping to see you,” said Jason hastily, and launched into their cover story, including the connection with Father Brune, hoping it would distract the shaken Benedictine from pursuing the question of language, and from asking how they had gotten in without using the buzzer. “Then we saw this man attacking you.”
This reminded Father Ernetti of his attacker, and he stared at the body. “Is he—?”
“Dead. Yes, Father. I’m afraid he must have had a heart attack or something.” Actually, Jason was sure a 1978 autopsy would declare it a particularly severe cerebral hemorrhage.
Father Ernetti crossed himself. “But this is terrible! I must summon the brothers and—”
“Yes, of course, Father. But rest a moment longer, after the experience you’ve been through. Speaking of which . . . why did he assault you? What did he say he wanted? Did it by chance have anything to do with your chronovisor?”
The Benedictine’s mild brown eyes grew round behind his thick glasses. “How did you know—?”
“Remember, Father,” said Casinde, “we know Father Brune. He told us of his conversations with you.”
“Yes, of course.” Father Ernetti seemed to be recovering his composure. “To answer your question, this man approached me outside, and expressed interest in it. I was willing to discuss the theory with him. But then, once we were inside, I mentioned to him that I had destroyed the actual device. At that, he grew angry and accused me of lying, and began to use force and threaten me with death if I didn’t give him the specifications for the machine . . . which was when you appeared.”
The three time travelers’ eyes met, and they exchanged a wordless So the Transhumanists want the chronovisor. Jason had already reached more or less this conclusion. The Observer Effect wouldn’t have allowed them to kill Father Ernetti—history stated quite clearly that he was to die in his bed in 1994—but of course he couldn’t have known that the threat was empty. And the Observer Effect wouldn’t have prevented them from seizing the chronovisor, of whose existence there was no accepted proof. And besides, come to think of it, the Benedictine had said ‘the specifications for the machine.’ The plan must have been to copy it.
The thought of the Observer Effect reminded Jason of another matter. “Father,” he said earnestly, “I have no time to explain why, but I have reason to believe that this man was involved with organized crime.” That, he thought, should be easy enough for a twentieth-century Italian to swallow. “I must ask you a question, and it is urgent. Do you know of any reason why he and his criminal associates would have an interest in the Pope—even to the extent of posing a threat to his life?”
If Father Ernetti’s eyes had widened before, they almost bugged out now. “Oh, God!” he moaned. “No! God forgive me!”
Jason and his companions exchanged puzzled looks. “But Father,” said Jason, “you’re not responsible for these evil men’s actions.”
“But I am—at least arguably.” Father Ernetti drew a deep, unsteady breath. “You see, I spoke a falsehood earlier—first to this man, and then to you. I have not destroyed the chronovisor, although it is important that the world thinks I have. It is here, in a vault of the Cini Foundation. And a few weeks ago, shortly after his election, I obtained an audience with the Holy Father and told him of it. He was intensely interested, and commanded me to bring it to Rome. He even spoke of setting up a new Order within the Church, under my direction, charged with secretly investigating the past and seeking for confirmation of the faith. I am to go back to Rome in another week. And now you are saying that this may have something to do with a threat to . . .” He trailed off, staring into nothing, alone with his sense of guilt.
Jason stood up. “Father, you must make the arrangements for the proper disposal of this man’s body. We have to go to Rome immediately.”
“Yes!” Father Ernetti stood up too, and grasped Jason’s lapels frantically. “You must warn the Holy See! You must protect the Holy Father’s life!”
How am I supposed to explain the Observer Effect to him? thought Jason miserably. How can I tell him that history says John Paul I is going to be found dead two days from now? The Transhumanists are going to kill him in some seemingly natural way that will be assumed to have been heart attack. That will be part of history, and will have always been part of history. And there’s nothing anyone can do to prevent it.
But now I know the Transhumanists are in Rome. So I know where to look for them.
“We’ll try, Father,” was all he said, trying to hold his dishonesty to a minimum. “Later, we’ll return here to Venice and talk to you at greater length. But now we must go.”
“Yes, go at once! And God go with you.”
“Thank you, Father.” Jason retrieved his cane and motioned to his followers. They departed hastily, with Jason not even bothering to simulate a limp.
As they left the abbey and hurried to the dock, Jason consulted his optically projected map. Yes: a couple of vaporetto connections would take them up the Grand Canal to the Venezia Santa Lucia railroad station.
In one of his previous twentieth-century sojourns he had been told that the one thing Mussolini had done right had been to make the trains run on time. Now he devoutly hoped that was true.