Gerun, the Heretic. William Maltese

And there were many attempts at reversal. Remember, too, that Melina-Lu was the first true believer. Would a woman merely interested in the physical perfection of a man be so anxious to record that man’s every word? On the other hand, maybe she needed something to rationalize the insatiable passion she, a princess of the royal blood, felt for a man who came to her damaged and with a slave brand marring his otherwise perfect body.”

      “Why must you always take both sides?” Gerun criticized.

      “Because I have seen both sides and still made my choice on the side of God,” Kalvin explained patiently. Really, Gerun was such a child. Was it too much to hope he would survive the careful planning of a skillful exterminator like Warluck? “You must see both sides,” Kalvin continued.

      “Why?” Gerun asked helplessly, ashamed when his mentat, for one brief instant, penetrated through Kalvin’s defenses and read there just how much of a child Kalvin really thought Gerun was.

      “Why?” Kalvin echoed, his defenses back up. The boy must act like a man. It did Gerun no good at all to see that others—his grandfather included—saw him as a mere boy. Kalvin cursed his slip that had allowed Gerun time to glimpse Kalvin’s true feelings. “Because from the moment I leave you, and that shall be soon, I shall be too busy saving myself to save you. You will be on your own. Alone. Warluck, the Religio-College, and all the considerable power that combination can bring against you: your enemy. Where will you be if you don’t have at least one god to whom to pray? Not a willowy phantom of a god that may or may not be there, either. What kind of help to you could that kind of god possibly be?

      “Melina-Lu planted the suspicion of Jon Missionary’s god in all of us,” Kalvin hurried on. “Flattered by the idea that we were the chosen people, seeing what others hadn’t seen, we grew powerful, rich and secure. We became prideful and arrogant. We made enemies and antagonized old ones among the Religio-College. The College was kept at bay, by the way, more because of our connection to the royal house than by any of them truly believing our god could outsmart any of theirs. We grew careless, failing to see that what weakened the Religio-College in Jon Missionary’s time was its assumed involvement in an assassination attempt on the life of Maxlima II— And that assassination, my young man, was what saved Jon Missionary from the incinerator, not the lusting of a princess desirous of taking him to her bed. If Jon Missionary arrived today, he would be incinerated along with his Book, because Warluck is far more powerful than Panrun-Ru ever thought of being, and Ruellin VI is far weaker than Maxlima II.”

      Kalvin’s long discourse had left him breathless and panting. Yet, he still had more to say, even through the pale cinolinis on the horizon hinted of the day’s first sunrise. “You need faith to survive your upcoming trials, Gerun,” Kalvin said. “Faith in God. If the god we’ve all worshipped in secret all of this time isn’t a real enough god for you, marred by your suspicions that He’s no more than a madman’s ramblings, a lusting woman’s rationalizations, an arrogant clan’s excuse for feeling better than their friends and neighbors, then cast Him out of your life and believe in Sillona-Xi, or Raglistim, or Gryphis, even in Jursimms. But do believe in some god, or you’ll die on your own. And that can be a pretty lonely business.”

      “Warluck must fear our god if he’s so intent upon killing Him by killing us,” Gerun said.

      “Who can truly know Warluck’s motivations but Warluck?” Kalvin argued. “They may have nothing to do with God. They may have everything to do with power and/or politics. Ruellin VI is a weak ruler. You and I both know it. By killing us in some holy vendetta, Warluck erodes Ruellin VI’s authority even farther by implicating the ruler’s Melina-Lu connection in heresy. Save yourself and, then, indulge in ponderings as to why the killer so urgently prowled your doorstep.”

      Yes, I will save myself, Gerun promised himself. I’ll save me, and I’ll save Jon Missionary’s god with me. For what kind of god would He be with no worshipers?

      “He found us, didn’t He?” Kalvin reminded, having once again read Gerun’s mentat. “And look how easily we were won over with just the merest suspicion of His existence. Don’t think He’ll need you or me when and if He should decide to win new converts. You, on the other hand, need Him to survive. Forget all the Missionary-clan arrogance and pride piled up over all of this time. We’ve been dropped so low that we’re liable never to crawl up out of this hole again. He’s not going to help you if you attempt blackmailing Him into giving you a helping hand.”

      Gerun scanned the horizon, cinolinis-to-blinish hues signaling the increasing nearness of first-day.

      “We mustn’t be out during the day,” Gerun warned. “We can both hole up here until another nightfall.”

      “And wouldn’t Warluck just love to stumble upon the last two eggs in the same basket!” Kalvin said, his voice resuming its confidence, his body thrusting off the accumulation of age which had so stooped it just an instant ago. “We must be together only in God, until the safety of the Missionary gene bank is once again secure without us. Until then.…”

      He took his grandson in one final embrace, his arms strong, his muscles—another legacy passed down to all Missionary men from Jon Missionary—hard against the hardness of Gerun’s youthful body.

      “Go with God, grandson,” he said. Then, he was gone, slipped into the night so silently that Gerun’s mentat couldn’t pick up a trace of it or know the direction the old man had taken.

      Gerun dropped to his knees, tented his hands beneath his chin, and shut his eyes. He prayed to his god, to Jon Missionary’s god, to Kalvin Missionary’s god, hoping—deep down in his heart of hearts—that he wasn’t asking help from a deity whom wasn’t there and, what’s more, never had been.