Cristopher Stasheff
The Warlock Unlocked
Warlock in Spite of Himself - 4
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.”
“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.
“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. “Your 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 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.”
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 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 looking 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?”