This chapter was like pulling teeth.  It is lifeless and introduces too many boring guys.  In a subsequent draft, it should be much improved, but in the spirit of publicly posting the first draft, here you go.  If you want to read this novel from the beginning, see this article, read it, and hit the next button until you see more entries, stopping with II:V, starting again right here.  Meanwhile…

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In the absence of change, left to convalesce in bondage, Zochino’s mind began to slow.  The last novel thing to happen was the introduction of humanoid autoesclavos, who mutely pushed him out of bed, made him perform simple exercises to prevent muscular atrophy.  Had that been a month ago?  Half a year?  Why was it taking the Church so long to execute them?

For a while his mind had crept around schemes, imagining circumstances he could encounter when finally taken from that place, and how he could turn those situations into escape or a more merciful death.  For a while his mind had conjured the reproachful faces of his comrades, had composed soliloquies and poetic apologies.  Now all these thoughts were fragments of tele played at half speed, through a haze of distortion.

Then a man appeared, cutting through the haze of fantasy with the weight of his presence.  Zochino hadn’t fully apprehended this until the man was already leering over the foot of the bed.  Had he come from the door?  From a different entrance he had never seen?  Aside from the deep lines of advanced age, he had the bearing of an inquisitore – a government agent who used the divine science of angelology in pursuit of the worst enemies of the Church.  His eyes were focused but distant, like he could no longer see faces – only the souls behind them.  He had been athletic in his youth, and still had the heft and poise to inflict brutality however he desired.

“There are people who would like to see you, Señor Olivares.”

Zochino’s lips parted to speak, but he could not yet remember how to breathe a sound.  The pig read his lips, or perhaps read his mind.

“That’s right.  They would like to see you dead.  But that is not yet permitted.  It will be, rest assured, but for now…  We must take our consolation in other ways.”

“Torture?,” he managed to ask.

“You are to heal, that you may experience your final punishment with full awareness of your subjection to the Will of God.  Until then, we have arranged – for those who so desire – that they may look upon your face, that you may look upon them, and reckon on those you have wronged.”

“That sounds awkward.  They really wanted to do that?”

“The guards will not touch you, but do not think that you have the power to escape them.  The only reason they have been so restrained is that they could not resist causing you injury.  Should you give them an excuse…”

The old man gave a quiet whistle and papal guards entered the room, standing at either side of the door.  Zochino lolled his head about, realizing that even with the exercise and medical efforts of his captors, his strength was a fraction of what it had once been.  The inquisitore removed his restraints, cradled his back, and lifted him firmly to an upright position.  How very like the motions of the medical autoesclavos.

Amiralo Don Heitor Bazanii was less grand than his title, short and slim like a businessman, pressed into ceremonial military garb.  Epaulets and a bicorn hat were festooned with gold embroidery, their black velvet immaculate shimmering voids in the reality between the gilded lines.  The surfaces of his eyes glinted with surgeries and subtle implants to offset natural degeneration, sometimes giving the impression of joyous tears at inappropriate moments.  He stood before the Pontiff-Regent, less impressed than most of the priests.

They had all seen angels before, but so much of that was in the context of ritual and divine science.  The Amiralo had seen spirits of every size and form imaginable, every time he traveled the astrocielo.  The more powerful, like Michael, exuded oppressive psychic energy, and the most experienced naval officers had hardened themselves against it.

He was flanked by experienced marines in black greatcoats with shining armored elements, each looking down and away in respect, but without bowing their bodies in the slightest.  Michael was flanked by two unassuming papal guards in standard regalia, save purple sashes that marked them as the personal escort of the Pontiff-Regent.  Those men also avoided eye contact with either of the highly ranked figures, but they could not help staring at the marines.  Why did those loyal soldiers make the men uneasy?

“Amiralo,” the angel said, “You have news of your quarry?”

“Ximura Contreras Ortiz–”

“Blasfemia.”

“–has not yet been captured.  Intuitives have an instinctual psychic resistance that defies scrying.  The Leveret was easier to track through astrocielo than on the surface of an alien world, in long space.”

Everyone’s face was glowing with subtle beauty in the reflected and diffuse blue light of day, there in one of the outer halls of the temple.  Every slight tilt of Michael’s head swirled his hair in great waves of brilliant black.  He regarded the man with a bored expression, poorly able to mask his emotions in such moments.  “Then you have no reason to be here.”

The Amiralo, in contrast, perfectly concealed his anger at the being’s dismissive air.  The angel had, in deciding to vacate his position in orbit, destroyed a vast number of his astronaves – thus slaying far more soldiers than the assassins ever could have alone.  Nobody who beheld the creature thought to interrogate the necessity of its ruinous descent, or, so it seemed to Bazanii, none save himself.  They had all effortlessly transferred that blame to the assassins themselves.  “I am simply here to announce our presence and give a status report, as any pontiff would expect of us under normal circumstances.  The reason for that presence is to coordinate actions between the Holy See and the Navy in this matter.  You will not see me again unless I require approval of a course of action.  Or unless you decree otherwise, of course.”

Michael looked down at the little man as a child.  “I do not.”

“Your Holiness.”  Bazanii bowed slightly and took his leave, followed by the marines.

The angel threw his hands against the frame of an intricately decorated window and stared out into the Walled City.  His wings swept behind him, nearly flooring the weaker of his guards, and stretched one time before folding away.  This was the view from a prison tower.  He gained some small pleasure from the adoration of the people – particularly at Mass – but the baroque stones of the city, the little bodies walking around like mice, they were so painfully tedious.  The refreshed lamen held his aura in check, and he found the inhibition paradoxically soothing and alarming.  It was nice to see the world and not see so much of it at once, but in self-imposed blindness, what threats might he not see?

Michael’s guards were the bravest and holiest respectively of those who survived the terrorist attack.  Before their appointment as the angel’s personal escorts, their job had been one of marching in formation and trading posts where nothing ever happened.  Now they had to be ready for fluctuations in his psychic presence, ready for odd demands or requests that went far outside the usual for them.  They exchanged looks while they waited for their master to sort himself out.

Dante was the bravest, Pietro the holiest, and they looked the parts.  Dante had dark slate hair with a few premature greys though only in his thirties, a body hard from dedication to physical fitness and the experience to not waste that effort on vanity.  His sharp dark grey eyes never flinched.  Pietro was prone to distraction, fit enough for the job but barely so, tall and thin.  His hair was little darker than his olive-colored skin in a similar hue, his eyes green, and his features weak – almost those of a cartoon fool.

Dante spoke, stirring visible fear in Pietro.  “Your Holiness, may I speak?”

“If you will.”  Michael closed his eyes.  The sun began to burn on his face.

“If you’re convinced Blasfemia did not kill him, why tolerate the sailors?”

“If she was one of them, she belongs with them.  None should escape.”  He looked down at Dante.  “You noticed their impertinence?”

“I can’t lie.”

“It’s surprising to me.  If I allowed myself the power to see into his soul, it might be enlightening.  I know that he must have spent years of his life watching me in the astrocielo, just watching the world in my quiet way.  Was I just a statue to him?  Am I still?”

Pietro choked.  “There’s no way!  I can’t imagine it.”

Michael looked at him kindly.  “God made me imperfect as anything in His creation, that I would not forget the distance between us.  My imperfection is ego.  I regard myself as a self, with relationships now to other people.  It is a new experience in my long life.”

“A sailor can’t imagine himself to be the equal of an angel, or of a Pontiff-Regent!  Can he?”  Pietro averted his eyes and nearly whispered the words.  “You represent God Himself, more than any of us.”

Dante watched the younger man in cool concern, but did not speak.

Michael said, “We are all His humble servants.”

Zochino’s room had been too dark outside the lazy glaring corona of the medical lights, and his eyes had grown weak.  In the halls, without those lights, he was near blind.  The autoesclavos at his sides were exceptionally sensitive to his clumsy gait and didn’t miss a step, adjusting to hold him just so.  They were made of some kind of hard plastic that softened and smoothened at the fingertips, no mistaking that grip for a human’s.  He could hear the boots of guards to the front and rear, beyond reach – surely walling off any escape like a phalanx.  In an even darker room the automatons sat him, and only a vague sense of the space told him that it was as small as a broom closet.

His back was too stiff to sit properly, and he slouched in the seat awkwardly.  Lights flashed as they juddered to life, filling the space thoroughly, just shy of the medical glare.  The proper masonry of the side walls contrasted with the construction of the entrances, and the barrier in the middle, which were metal panels sealed in place with plastics — all sterile white.  The barrier in the middle of the space had a window, through which he could be seen by visitors on the other side.  Zochino realized this was a hastily converted length of hallway.  Where did the other side go?  He also realized the only guard that remained with him was the two autoesclavos, making themselves small against the walls behind and to his sides.  He was once again, and for the moment, without human company.

“Hey, you know what’s happening here?,” he asked the autoesclavos.  They remained silent, following the same orders that had left him alone in his head while they saw to his physical rehabilitation.  “I know you can talk, guys.”  He was too stiff to even look at them.

The door on the other side of the barrier opened, admitting two women – presumably a mother and her adult daughter, both in funeral black.  Their seats looked more comfortable.  The inquisitore stood behind them.  The sounds of their movements were muffled and tinny through the glass, but they would have no trouble hearing each other.

The women stared at him through their thin veils, rigid and intense.  The inquisitore spoke first.

“This is the leader of the student group — the leader of the assassins, Zochino Olivares.  He is, for the moment, at your mercy.  Say what you will, my dears.”

As they decided what to say, they held each other’s hands, occasionally opened and closed their mouths.  Zochino still felt alienated by his long isolation, and was having trouble making sense of them as human.  They had all the features of a real person, the signs of age and natural bodies so different from the simulated actors on tele, but they seemed like a flattened projection, like he was seeing a screen instead of real faces.  Were they unusually intense fish in an aquarium?

The older woman spoke.  “You killed a lot of people, assassin.  So very many lives.  But it was from afar, with a gun.  What was the closest you ever came to one of your victims?  Was it His Holiness?  Someone else?”

He hesitated as well, eyes drifting to the old man, but this could not be tolerated.  The inquisitore said, “Look at them, or I’ll have the autoesclavos hold your head.”

“I’ve been alone so long.  I don’t…”  They looked so fake to him that it was jarring.

“Answer their question.”

“There were a few times it was close.  A few feet.  I can’t believe we all lived.”

The older woman fumed.  “What did it look like?  I know what it looked like to us.  To see Rogerico’s body.  To see what you had done to his beautiful face.”

The younger woman, who had seemed ready to make a bitter statement of her own, broke at the memory her mother had evoked and shuddered in horror, sorrow wrinkling her face like wet paper.

Her mother continued.  “And you were close enough to see it.  To see the evil that you did!  Even if you repent, it can never be enough for the likes of you!”

Zochino did remember then what it looked like when a human head is melted or blasted apart.  Fake, like so much wax or leather.  This memory made the women look even more false to him, just dolls with waxen heads on springs.

The inquisitore spoke.  “Well?  What do you have to say to that, assassin?”

“I don’t see what anyone gets out of this.  They can only be satisfied by my annihilation.  I have imagined my torture and death so many times by now that there will be no horror as they come to pass – only the satisfaction of curiosity.”

“I hate you!,” the young widow suddenly cried.

“That’s fair.”

The women broke into swearing and scrabbling at the glass until they were escorted gently but firmly from the room.  The inquisitore returned alone, and sat opposite the young man.

Zochino asked, “Are we done now?”

“We’ll see how nonchalant you feel when we are done.”  His eyes flicked to the ceiling and he hummed in thought.

“What’s on your mind?  To see if you can make me grow a conscience?”

“You have an interesting mind, but that is to be expected.  It will likewise be interesting to see it ripped apart, and to see you die.  For now, more.  How long will the wait feel to you?  I’ll be back in seven minutes, and then you will see one of the bereaved after another, until it is time for good souls to sleep.  See you soon.”  He stood and left.

The strange flattery lit something in Zochino’s mind.  That’s right, he thought.  I had once been prideful.  It hadn’t died yet — that instinct to take satisfaction from recognition of his genius.  Then came the dread.

If he could remember that about himself, would he also soon remember the pain of scorn?

Cardinals Domenico and Palladino sat at a shadowed table in a balcony high over the vestibule, watching the crowd beneath them and sipping tiny and exactingly prepared cups of coffee.  They both wore red silk skullcaps and black robes with red piping.  Domenico was broad-bodied but relatively narrow front to back, like a human tombstone, and the remains of his white hair curled.  Palladino was narrower from side to side, but with a pot belly and round face.  He was younger, with big dark sensitive eyes.  They could have had the balcony brighter, by chandelier or by admitting the sunlight, but did not want to be seen by the laity on that day.

A random wail of grief came from the crowd, inspiring a mild commotion.  Palladino winced.  “Does this truly help them?”

“It helps us to placate them.”  Domenico beckoned a guard closer, that he could issue commands more easily if needed.  “The people love their heavenly Pontiff-Regent, but that love can only go so far in ameliorating their need for justice.  This calamity has made so very many widows.”

“I’m still…”

“Hesitant about taking initiative where he has done nothing.  He has the power to turn everyone in this city to ash, and has a child-like temperament.  It is wise to tread carefully, but we still answer to the people.”

“Brother, we are supposed to be their leaders, are we not?”  His voice was weak.

“This was the right thing to do.  And look,” he waved the guard away, “They have calmed themselves already.  They know what they want, and do not want to lose that opportunity to a riot.”

Domenico shook his head.  “Nobody knows what they want.”

Below them a mature man and two younger women were allowed past a cordon, and escorted down a hall by a dark-haired man whose bearing, stiff collared white shirt, and black tie suggested was an inquisitore.  He spoke serious and short sentences, cautioning them about how to conduct themselves, and steeling them for an encounter with evil.

The first floor of the left wing of the building had been a very utilitarian stretch of drab offices that rendered the romantic architecture dull.  A once grand central hall had been turned into windowless archive and utility rooms, cut through with small hallways at regular intervals.  Four of those hallways had more recently been converted into tiny interrogation rooms.  The inquisitore allowed the three people into one, followed them in, and closed the door.

Across the glass sat a man with an otherworldly and vacant expression, soft features worn and sweaty, beard full and unkempt.  The hair atop his head was edging toward a baldness he might not live to experience.  The inquisitore spoke.

“This is one of the five who had been there, when your Tino was murdered.  Jorge Lactoque Salas, of Corazon 2.  One of the more heretical of the assassins, he was a student of Divine Science, corrupted by a fascination with sombras and duendes.”

The mature man spoke first.  “Did he..?  Was he..?”

“We cannot know which of them were personally responsible for the shots that slew your son.  It could have been one or all of them at once.”  He looked pointedly at an autoesclavo that read his intent and propped up Jorge’s head, stirring him to attention.

Jorge’s eyes were wet.  He could see the people now, but his eyes darted as much from one to the other as to the spaces between them.  “I will take this blame.”  In that long isolation, he had barely begun to recover from his ruined mental state.  The autoesclavos had been allowed to talk to him, which gradually drew him out.

The women clung to each other in fear; their father stared as if at a monster, unable to form words.  The young inquisitore said, “Whatever you wished to say or to ask, this is your time.  Signor?”

He shook his head.  “Surely even God will not forgive you.  How can you say that you will accept the blame?  It is not your choice, you dog.  You devil!”

One of the women asked, “What is wrong with him?  With his eyes?”

The inquisitore said, “We will try to correct that before his final judgment.  He should meet justice with clear vision.  Focus, assassin!”

Jorge clearly could not.  What he could not express to them was the reason.  To learn the application of divine science required a sacrifice or a crucible, to realign one’s will to those powers.  For most this was years of practice and meditation.  He had met this requirement, but now needed time to recover the focus to control those powers.

Where Zochino had seen his accusants as false people, Jorge’s vision was completely obscured by threads of meaning that bound those people together, by the intricate fire of their own wills and passions.  Their flesh was as meaningful as the furniture in the room, but their souls were utterly distracting.

Across the plaza outside, at a window of the great temple, an angel looked at the building with alien eyes, both young and ancient.  Michael knew the assassins were kept inside the old abbey, and he wondered at them still.  What possible punishment could he decree that would satisfy justice, that would satisfy God?  Another feeling dragged below the surface of that, threatening his sanity.  He could only think of looking at them again — at her again — not of the torment and demise that would follow.

In the fullness of his power, he could see causal chains extending into the past and future, could predict with some accuracy what would come to pass.  But where his own will was involved, there was something obscuring the way.  He knew that the only thing that could be hiding the future from his eyes was himself.

Cristina’s face.  The bloodlust, the derision, the falsity, the terror.  What would she look like in serenity?  In love?  Could she experience such things?  He suddenly felt an intense need to know the answer, but also knew it would not be easy to get the answer from her – if it was possible at all.

A look into her past, perhaps.  Inquisitores had gathered for his perusal every minute detail of their lives, including who had been their family and friends and lovers, and during which times.  It was a lot to sift through, to put it together, and infer the things that would never have been recorded.  Recordings weren’t usually good for much as everyone replaced their likeness with a digital doll like the actors on tele.

However, they just might have some use for a Pontiff-Regent.  The Celestial Hierarchy had access to the unfiltered visual information behind everyone’s personal videos.  What if he had a picture of her genuinely smiling, in all of that?

“Come with me to the surveillance center, and stand outside the door,” he commanded his guards, and set off at a pace that showed no consideration at all for their shorter strides.  They jogged to keep up.

Xihuani stared at the brothers through thick glass.  In a way they were just more dreams, more phantoms to flicker through the tele of her mind.  It was a countdown to the end.  But these boys, they were more significant than all the people in the memories and imagined futures from her isolation.  She had just enough awareness to know these ones were truly real, and as such, they were part of the final stretch of this countdown.  Were they number seventeen or number one hundred and three?

They took turns barking questions in vaticanes while one of the autoesclavos on her side of the glass tried to translate to corazono, but they never stopped long enough for the machine to finish its own translation, and all meaning was lost in the jumble.  The inquisitore in charge of this scene was less capable of maintaining control than those in the other rooms.

At last one made a demand she understood.  “Well?  Answer us!”

“Which ones are you?”

The autoesclavo translated, and they just looked at each other in confusion.  She tried again.

“How many are left?  How many?”

They still didn’t know how to answer, the inqusitore replied, and the autoesclavo translated.  “As many as time allows.”

“Time?  How much time?  How much..?”  She broke apart into useless sobbing, and remained that way no matter what prodding was applied as the parade continued.

Michael spoke to the computers, asking them to play all the video they had of Cristina, using his security clearance to see the unbeautified versions.  A few screens at a time wasn’t enough, and soon the display was divided into sixteen, each playing a separate video on loop until he tapped that area to move onto another.  He looked at all the images, eyes gliding, trying to glean whatever emotion he could from them.

Despite everything he thought he understood about childhood, he quickly realized children aren’t fully human in the way of an adult.  Innocence made them into beasts, and that version of them was not of interest.  Any joy she felt at that age was genuine, but not felt in the meaningful way of a more mature heart.  It was the joy of a dog with a toy, not what he was seeking.

The older Cristina got, the more stark her problems became to him.  She smiled all the time.  She only ever seemed honestly happy when her eyes were cruel or lost in hedonism.  Was her soul truly broken?  When she looked at her friends, it wasn’t love that she felt.  It was whatever her use for them was in a given moment – lust, amusement, a like mind to condone whatever misdeed she was then pursuing.  None of her friends were so bereft of heart.  They would look at her with the same dark emotions, but also with companionship, with loyalty — like love for an animal that wants nothing more than to devour you.

“No!  My eyes bedevil me!”  He didn’t know why, but he was certain this was not all that it seemed.  What would it take to draw out her heart?  A vulnerability, perhaps.  Something she felt precious about, that she truly loved, when tested..?  It couldn’t have been her assassin friends.  There were pictures of her with them — one in a romantic embrace with their leader — but her eyes betrayed no love there.  He knew that he could discover her heart quickly enough if he allowed himself to read her mind, but he could not control his energy precisely enough to ensure she would survive the process.

He knew why the others had turned from God.  They allowed intellectual vanities to blind them to the beauty of the Celestial Hierarchy, and seeing only the flaws they perceived within it, gradually came to justify a violent course of rebellion.  Once upon that path, the carnal pleasure of sin compelled them on.  Cristina had no intellectual descent.  It was as if she was born for sin alone, bereft of grace.  It simply could not be.  If true, her punishment would be as meaningless as putting down a diseased animal.  An incredibly beautiful animal.

She would only lie to Michael, should he ask her anything.  Whatever words he used must account for that.  How could he get her to reveal her truth?

Cristina found it hard to resist smiling.  One little family after another, they were brought before her — whoever dared to face the Devil.  This may have been the prelude to her execution, but it was not nearly the torture they expected it to be.  If anything, it was a consolation.

Putting on a face for it, oh, that was the worst.  At first shell-shocked was the easiest expression to pull off.  Whenever she felt like laughing, she’d widen her eyes, stiffen her lips, and roll her head back.  Look crazy, she thought.  As time wore on, this became more difficult, but she could hardly switch tactics.  The same inquisitore came into the room every time, and would notice her inconsistency.

“You whore!,” they yelled, in vaticanes she barely understood.  That phrase was popular and about the easiest one to get.  The autoesclavo that translated for her omitted the most emotionally charged language, communicated the general intent of sentences too full of obscenity to be sanitized.

The language was not so far removed from corazano that learning was impossible.  After the first few hours of repetitive abuse, she began to put it together – the way the words differed, the sounds to substitute in her mind to better understand them.  At last, she fully comprehended an old woman, who gripped the counter in rage, doddering.

“You took my brother from me.  I saw you on the video.  You were smiling when you killed him.”

“BuHA-!,” Cristina barked, barely stifling a laugh.  She doubled over, burying her head in her arms.  Let the convulsions look like sobbing, she hoped.

The woman began to yell and cry, worse than those who had come before.  Cristina kept her head down, couldn’t let herself slip now.  They showed them the video?  The survivors must feel so powerless.  The priests and police she had killed all felt so comfortable, so powerful in their positions of voluntary subjection.  Cristina took their pride from them, took everything they would ever have, and left their survivors feeling the pain those dead tools had been spared.  Delicious.

At an entrance to the balcony, mild commotion heralded a new arrival.  The papal guards negotiated with some other security component, out of sight in the hall, and then a man came into view alone, passing through the dim light in that corner of the room, out into the darkness of the balcony itself.  There was only one man with quite that uniform in the Stars of Weal, so he needed no introduction.  Amiralo Bazanii gave a casual salute to the cardinals and took a seat without asking.  He leaned forward and Palladino kissed him on the cheek.  The sailor half embraced the cleric, before they disentangled and relaxed into their chairs.

Palladino said, “Heitor, brother, have you visited Alessa yet?  She is in the City.  You know she adores you, and it’s been so long.”

“I’ve only been ashore a few hours.  Is she at your palazzo?”

“Always!  It’s so good to see you, you beautiful boy.”

“I love you too, brother,” and to Domenico, “Your Eminence.  Pleased to see you again as well.”

“I won’t interrupt your reunion.  Talk as much as you please.”

“But I do wish to speak with you both, as a servant to the Celestial Hierarchy.  His Holiness is too concerned with the Heavens to discuss tactical matters, and someone in the Holy See should be aware of what’s going on.”

Domenico took a quiet pleasure in the recognition of his own authority, knowing the Amiralo had meant to make it clear he considered that more important than that of his dear relation.  “Then enlighten us, please.”

“My own mission is confused by a basic point of fact you could clear up.  First, that.  Respectfully, who slew the Pontiff?  My quarry, or this Chaco woman?”

“An ancient superstition – that there should be no cameras in the temple’s throne room – has foiled our own clarity, but all the best evidence points to your quarry.  The assassins have not had even a moment to communicate with each other since their capture, and have been largely broken by isolation, but within that?  They have pointed to ‘Blasfemia’ as the killer.”

“And why is this Cristina’s name on so many lips?”

Palladino sadly answered, “The Pontiff-Regent is convinced she was the killer.  He is moved by the heart more than by reason.”

“…And this is our problem,” Domenico added.  “Which of these vile women slew His Holiness is not important.  They all conspired to the same end, and will be punished accordingly.  But the truth will assuredly come out, and if it is contradicted at every turn by this peculiar faith of that angel…”

“It undermines the authority of the Holy See at a most crucial time.  This makes me grateful to be a simple marine.  I will leave that problem to you.  Now, as promised, the debrief.  Inquisitores have turned up a wealth of intelligence on the enemy.

To what extent are the people in her life to be considered collaborators?  Again, for better minds than my own to decide.  But at minimum, Blasfemia’s sister should be arrested as well, for participating in her flight.”

“The Beast Girl?,” Palladino asked.  “How has this sucia not taken her own life?”

“Would she be a sucia if she possessed shame, brother?  She is an intuitive, of unknown power.  With her youth, she should not be able to do anything impressive, but before her fall, she commanded an unusual amount of fear in her village.  She studied under a more experienced witch, and might have some surprises for us.  Blasfemia also is reputed to be an intuitive, with brute powers of exorcism.”

“And they are together,” Domenico asked, “in the Heathen Worlds?”

“About a star called Borland.  Its people are few and far between, which should make finding them easy enough, but it’s a savage place.  It would be a waste of good marines or even good autoesclavos to send them door to door.”

“At the Wall of Ice, are there not monsters you may deploy?”  Domenico steepled his fingers.

“The hellhounds, yes.  Some few have been loosed upon that world.  Should any be banished, our seers may be able to narrow down their location.  However it’s possible Borland 1 has exorcists of its own, in which case, that would tell us nothing.  Worse, the dogs might kill the girls, and ruin the whole point of the hunt.  Deploying them was not my idea.  It is sometimes necessary to allow capitanos the freedom to act without requesting permission from light years away, though their decisions can complicate things.”

“What is left to be done then?”

“Since the dogs are already deployed, we can use their presence to intimidate.  Threaten the locals into giving up the witches.  We have reason to believe the heathens there have little experience of spirits.  It is not a certainty, but ectobaryonic interactivity is extremely low on the planet.  Its angel is long dead.”  Bazanii noticed emotional looks in their eyes at the mention of a world angel, and glanced back and forth between the cardinals.

Palladino said, “Our own has blessed us with his presence, but I cannot help wonder, will he return to the astrocielo when his work here is done?”

“And if he transubstantiated again,” Bazanii wondered aloud, “would it be as destructive as his descent?  I will initiate a plan to evacuate the near astrocielo if the event seems imminent.”

Michael was going to see her, and had begun to walk in that direction before he was even aware of his intention.  Was it something of his power to see the future, expressed as unconscious action while suppressed by the lamen?

Another aspect of this power connected some dots he had not previously noticed.  When he had looked from the temple windows at the plaza, seen the people moving like ants, he had not considered where they were going.  A crowd had been massing at the old abbey where she was being kept.  There was little else in that building to draw that many people.  What was happening, and how had he not noticed it?

There were not as many gathered outside the abbey as he descended the temple steps, and they began to take notice of him, to bow and pray, and quail away from his path.  The angel of the world, in the crown of the fallen pope.  Michael had developed enough self-consciousness to try to put on a calm and beneficent face, but he could barely restrain himself from flying again.  Dante and Pietro again hustled to keep pace.

They were all too caught up in the rush to notice the nosebleed and vertigo left in his wake, the trembling hands and dilated pupils.  Michael came into the foyer, which had been divided by velvet cordons into a snaking path.  The people in line shrank away as those outside had, panic rising inside them but not quite breaking the surface.

On the balcony, the cardinals and the amiralo leapt to their feet, Palladino knocking over his chair and almost losing his footing.  Domenico gripped the balustrade and spoke loudly enough to pierce the rustle of the crowd.  “Your Holiness, Pontiff-Regent, do you require any assistance?”

The wings burst from his cassock and flapped powerfully, chasing away any who still had the psychic fortitude to remain close to him, and he flew through the cavernous space right to the balcony, perching on the railing.  The men there backed up to make room for him.

“What can be happening here, where the assassins are kept in isolation?  Why this riot?”  His expression was wild, but his voice still held at least enough composure to command respect.

Only Domenico spoke.  “This was my idea.  You had commanded they be kept apart from each other; I did not know you meant to keep them from others as well.”

“And the idea is..?”  He took an unconscious step forward and looked down at the thick priest, making him seem very small.

Domenico was unbowed, though he felt the aura of psychic menace as much as the people below.  “To let the families of their victims see them, and to have their say.  They have grown impatient for justice, and I thought to ease their pain until such time as you make your final judgment.”

“These people are lined up to see them?  To interrogate them, or excoriate them?”

“We will end it, of course, should you so decree.”  He bowed subtly, arms out, palms down, like an effort to calm a wild beast.

The huge angel stood to his full height, looking away in thought, mind racing.  He imagined them all crying for forgiveness, shackled before the funereal mob.  Of them, he saw her most of all.  Thus abused, off balance, might she let slip the true nature of her heart?

“Tell them it has been stopped for today, promise nothing for tomorrow.  It is all being recorded, yes?”

“Yes it is.”

“I will view the recordings, and decide if it shall be allowed to continue.  One more thing…”

Cristina hoped that she hadn’t blown her act.  The young inquisitore did not change his routine, and so it seemed unlikely she would face consequences for it.  But then the flow of visitors abruptly stopped.  It was taking too long for the next one to arrive.

Usually the inquisitore would be the first through the door, holding it for the family to follow, but this time the visitor came first.  The great angel crouched deeply to fit through the door into the tiny room, and the little man had to tread carefully to avoid stepping on wings.

He sat in the chair across from her, his natural height and the papal crown making him seem so absurdly giant, and stared at her – an expression equal parts baleful and sad.  “Cristina, child, this is your last visit for today.”

Some unseen power followed him into the room, filling the humans with dread.  Cristina’s skin shivered.  “What is it now?  What are you doing to me?”

Confusion rewrote his expression, but the bad energy remained.  “I am not…”

The door opened behind him, and a man unseen behind his mass spoke quickly.  “Pontiff-Regent God’s mercy, but we may need your power.  Some in the crowd have fallen ill!”

The inquisitore spoke from his corner, mustering all of his courage to do so.  “I believe your aura is the cause, Your Holiness.  Whatever your will…”  He bowed deep, as if offering his neck for a death blow.

Michael turned his head one way, then the other, wings starting to strain in place, then settled his focus on Cristina.  She visibly sank beneath his stare, as surely as if he had thrust his arm through the glass and pressed down on her forehead with his massive palm.  Veins pulsed at her neck and temples.

His expression softened and tears ran from the eyes of every human in the room.  “I did not will this.  I did not…”  He closed both hands over his face and reeled in his power.  Somehow it had escaped the magic seal!

In response to his fear, Cristina and the two human men shrank away and tried to flee.  The men had an unlocked door and were soon in the hall, but Cristina could only slam herself against the door to her side, uselessly, doing herself violence.

The angel had to not let that disturb him, for her sake, for everyone.  He forced his emotions to go as blank as possible, and while successful at the conscious level, his heart still raced, still affected the people around him.  He envisioned this all as rays of colored light exploding from within, and willed each to recede into his chest, one by one, as the people around him began to recover control of themselves.

But it was too late.  Once the people’s emotions were set ablaze, they could only cool so fast.  Cristina slumped against the floor, crying and incoherent with fear.  Knowing that to stay would only expose the city to more of his uncontrolled aura, he had to flee.

Again, stuck in the door frame, was a single huge feather to mark his passing.

In the hall, Dante and Pietro ran again in pursuit of their Pontiff-Regent, barely recovered from their intervention in the interrogation room.  Pietro had expressed the need for God’s blessing for the afflicted, and Dante had the courage to bring that need to Michael directly.

The three inquisitores watched them go, then conferred with each other.  The eldest – Questore DiMartigna – said, “We’ll need to take protective measures of our own.  There is a reason why Man was given Dominion over the angels.”

His subordinates were shocked at his daring, but clearly did not disagree.

“Secure the prisoners.  I’m going to have a word with Cardinal Domenico.”

–