Тим Пауэрс - Free Stories 2018

"Can we not persuade them to relinquish some of our ammunition?" asked the Camerlengo. "Perhaps, Archbishop Atherton-Clive, you might lend us the support of the Diocese of Rome and persuade the police to yield back to the Vatican that ammunition so critical to our protection?"

Atherton-Clive tapped a gold pen on the table top before replying.

"Prior to the ill-advised raid on the Salvator Mundi that might’ve been possible," he said, holding the gleaming pen upright like a stylized exclamation point. "But now, our contacts in the Municipali are most upset and our relations are tenuous."

The police force was rapidly crumbling. We’d received a pro-forma request for extradition for unnamed Swiss Guard personnel who’d participated in the purchase of vaccine and subsequent gunfight outside our walls. The extradition order lacked any of the signatures which would make it genuine—understandable since many of the senior bureaucrats were dead or had fled the city.

Before I could argue, a browned-cassocked monk glided forward to hand Crivetto some papers.

I hadn’t realized that at least one of the Camerlengo’s aides was a Cistercian as well.

Huh.

Cardinal Crivetto read for a moment and then rebutted his colleague.

"I ordered the operation and so their anger should be laid at my feet," he said, consulting notes now laid at his side. "But a business transaction is hardly a raid. As if they dare to add me to the extradition order. Yet everyone in this room has already benefited from the initial injections, including you, Your Grace."

"Respectfully, Your Eminence, one doesn’t bring machine guns to a business meeting," Atherton-Clive said, reminding everyone about my security precautions. He might have continued with that logic because the Curia wasn’t comfortable with the twin concepts of force and violence. Instead, he made a significant error.

"But quite apart from the provocation that Gagliardi offered the authorities, you may recall that I did not request to be vaccinated with medicine made from the bodies of the dead. If I accepted your order, it was because of your temporary authority and my calling to serve the Church takes precedence, even if I must endanger my immortal soul upon your order to do so."

More than one prelate inhaled sharply, both at the gall of the vice-regent as well as the impact of his words. It wasn’t the first time that they’d thought about it, but it was the first time it had been spoken aloud since the vaccinations had started.

As Americans like to say, shit just got real.

As much as the assembled survivors were wary of the Camerlengo, they were creatures of habit. They were accustomed to the certainty of rote ceremony and hierarchy. Even if the Camerlengo was slightly alarming, his authority flowed from centuries of tradition.

To a significant majority, as it turned out, internal revolt was a more terrifying possibility than either zombies or Crivetto with indefinitely extended authority.

"You could’ve tended your business from S’ant Angelo," the Camerlengo replied, smiling towards the archbishop. "You still could, if you feel the moral hazard is too severe to allow you to remain here."

Precious few of the staff inside Vatican City had declined the vaccine. Even though it was made with attenuated virus, it wasn’t uncommon to experience mild discomfort for a few days as one’s immune system adjusted to the deliberately weakened disease. We had been administering it weekly to the Guard and rotating by section, largely out of an abundance of caution to ensure that we had enough hale Guardsmen every day. Second section had just received their last shot. In another month, all of us would be fully protected.

There weren’t enough Guard to protect S’ant Angelo, though. It was far less secure, and certainly more austere. And of course, to be outside Vatican City meant to be excluded from influencing the selection of the next pope.

That last made this mildly voiced rebuttal equal parts reminder and threat. Atherton-Clive briefly clawed his fingers before hiding them in his lap. He glanced at Dutto, who dutifully noted his cue.

"Your Eminence, how are we to protect ourselves without arms?" he asked.

I took up the thread of my initial briefing again.

"We have some ammunition, sufficient to defend against limited criminal behavior by uninfected persons." I said. "However, other than in a complete security failure, all future defense against infected humans will be effected by Swiss Guard in full armor and equipped with hand weapons. Our polearms are well suited to this role. The Armeria has dozens of historical armors with provide full coverage, and even the modern issue of armor includes a curraiss and morion," I added, referring to our individually fitted back and breast plates as well as helmets.

"Then we’ll be trapped inside, with no way out!" Dutto bleated.

"Calmi, Bishop Dutto," the Camerlengo said, motioning with both hands palm down, over the table. "Our place is here. We’ll accept as many more refugees as we can inoculate, we’ll provide guidance for the global church and we will seek to gather the College of Cardinals as soon as is practical."

"And when will that be, Your Eminence?" asked Atherton-Clive. "The Faithful need their pope."

I didn’t like our vice-regent, but we agreed on his last point.

As the ranking surviving officer of the Swiss Guard, I’d taken to sleeping in my office, only a few steps from the guardroom. It was no surprise when I was woken in the middle of the night only a few days after announcing our switch in primary fighting weapons. Full armor was now the required uniform for all internal posts, while Kevlar-clad Guardsmen and Gendarmerie discreetly patrolled our walls the better to avoid attracting the attention of infected below.

"Feildwebel, rouse the Hauptmann, already!" a voice said beyond my door. I didn’t recognize the speaker. "We must advise him on the incident and it can’t wait."

It was the work of a moment to pull on boots and don a cap before striding out to find Muller stolidly arguing in a low voice that I wasn’t to be disturbed. Boivin’s instruction, presumably.

"What’s the matter?" I said, breaking up their argument.

The newly-arrived guard turned to me with relief visible on his weathered face. It was Wachmeister—literally watch-master—Lecuyer, a ten-year man. He held his partisan at the trail and saluted.

"Herr Hauptman, there has been an incident," Lecuyer said. "One of the refugees was screaming and one of my section found a prelate—ah—interfering with a small child."

Well, fuck. There wasn’t time to do anything but confront the situation. The last thing we could afford was an open confrontation between clergy and our refugees, and with a dependent involved, the potential for conflagration was, you’ll pardon the expression, alles abgefuckt .

"Muller, boots and saddles," I bit out. "Turn out the reaction team and send a private message to His Eminence that we will need his guidance very shortly." I turned back to the Wachmeister.

"Take me there, immediately."

It was a few hundred yards to the wing of the Palazzo which we had converted to a sleeping area but I didn’t tarry, and only a few minutes elapsed before I strode into the office indicated by Lecuyer.

Another guardsman, this one a newly minted hallebardier in Fourth Section named Taliaferro, held his halberd at the low ready. His breath rasped audibly in the stone room, even though we were the ones who had just finished running. The needle-sharp spike that projected past the bill of his weapon hovered only a handspan from his prisoner’s throat.

The man looked up, his terrified expression seeking delivery as our boots scuffed to a halt.