Excavation

Initial findings:

Shell architecture: macromolecules of Si (silicon) and H (hydrogen), specifically cubosiloxane (H8Si8O12) plus tectosilicates

Articulated arms: Si (silicon) nanotubes interfaced with Au (gold)

Joan tapped at the sheet of paper. So the arms of the nanoparticle contained gold, hence the hue of Substance Z. But what intrigued her more was the shell composition. It was mostly silicon. In nature, almost all biologic building blocks were based on hydrocarbons—molecules of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon. But here was a construct that replaced carbon with silicon.

“Hydrosilicons,” she mumbled, naming this new class of molecule. Though hydrocarbons made up most of biology, in geology, it was silicon that made up the dominant element in the earth’s crust. Could this structure be some link between biology and geology? Or as the young monk had proposed, was this the first inorganic nanobot to be discovered?

Lastly, her eyes rested on the last line of the report. The composition of the core. Unable to analyze. Here was the crux of the mystery. The exterior was known and quantifiable, but the inner workings were still an enigma. This brought her back to the ultimate question raised by the young monk in his own personal papers: What is the purpose of this microscopic machine? And who had programmed it?

Before Joan could ponder the mysteries any deeper, she heard the scrape of heel on stone from down the hall. She glanced to her watch and furrowed her brow. It was much too early for anyone to be fetching her lunch. She bit her lower lip. Whoever approached probably had nothing to do with her, but she could not take that risk.

Joan hurriedly straightened up the contents of her desktop. She shifted the research papers into a neat pile, then folded the worn sheet of legal paper with Friar de Almagro’s code and stuffed it in a pocket. Next she slid the single book allowed in her room, a King James Bible, over the ragged hole she had blown through the oak desktop, hiding the result of her experimentation last night.

Finally, she rolled the cigarette she had bummed from Friar Carlos off the desk and tucked it into her breast pocket. She surveyed her handiwork, satisfied that no sign of her secret experiment with Substance Z had been discovered.

And luckily she did. The footsteps stopped right outside her door. Joan tensed. A key was fitted into the lock and turned.

She swung around as the door was pulled open. It was Friar Carlos with his 9mm Glock. She stood, brows raised in question. “What is it?”

“Out,” he said brusquely, waving his pistol. “Come with me.”

Joan hesitated; fear that she had been caught iced her blood.

“Now!” Carlos barked.

Nodding, Joan stepped forward and through the door. One hand fingered the collar of her blouse. On the underside of the removable plastic stay of her collar were the two teardrop-sized pearls of Substance Z. She could not risk leaving the samples in her cell. The room might be searched, or she might be reassigned to a new cell. So she had devised this way to keep the golden drops hidden and in her possession.

Carlos nodded her forward. She followed his directions. She expected him to lead her down to the labs, but instead he herded her to a new section of the Abbey. She frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when you get there.”

The friar, never a warm fellow, was even more tight-lipped today. His tense attitude heightened her nervousness. What was going on? This wing of the Abbey was spartan. Plain stone floors with a string of bare bulbs illuminated the way. There were no lines of small doors opening into tiny domiciles. Joan glanced up and down the long hall. They had not passed a single of the Abbey’s denizens since entering this wing.

“Is th… there something wrong?” she asked, unable to keep the tremble from her voice.

Friar Carlos did not answer. He simply guided her to a small staircase at the end of the hall. It was only six steps and led to a thick oak door banded in iron. A small crucifix etched in silver marked the door. Above the crucifix was a pair of crossed swords.

Joan remembered Henry remarking on such a symbol found on Friar de Almagro’s heraldic ring. She remembered its meaning. It was the mark of the Inquisition.

Nervousness became a clammy fear as Carlos backed her to the side at gunpoint and knocked on the door. His rap was clearly a code. A latch was slid open from inside, the grate of iron on wood loud in the empty, bare hall.

Carlos stepped back as the door was swung open. Joan felt the heat of the next room flow out like the breath of a dragon. She was not allowed to back away. The 9mm Glock was pressed firmly into her side.

A heavy figure, his bared chest gleaming with sweat, stood in the doorway. He had shrugged his monk’s robes from his shoulders and let it hang from his sashed belt. He ran a hand over his bald pate, which was also gleaming, and spoke in clipped Spanish. Carlos answered. The big monk nodded his head and waved them inside.

“Go,” Carlos ordered.

With no other choice, Joan followed. The next room was something from old horror movies. To the left was a row of barred cells, straw-floored, with no beds. To the right was a wall upon which were hung neatly coiled chains. A row of leather whips hung from pegs. In the center of the room was a brazier, red hot with flickers of flames. Amid the glowing coals, three long iron poles were embedded.

Branding irons.

Joan glanced around the room. She was in a mock-up of a medieval dungeon. No, she corrected herself. She could smell a familiar scent. Something from her days at the emergency room. Blood and fear. This was no mock-up, no wax museum set. It was real.

“Why… why am I here?” Joan asked aloud, but in her heart she already knew the answer. Henry had made some mistake. As frightening as her surroundings were, Joan felt a twinge of worry for Henry. What had happened to him? She faced Carlos. “Am I to be punished?”

“No,” the friar said, his words as casual as if speaking of the weather. “You are to be killed.”

Joan felt her knees weaken. The heat of the room suddenly sickened her. She could hardly breathe. “I… I don’t understand.”

“And you don’t need to,” Carlos answered. He nodded to the large monk.

Using a pair of leather gloves, the thick man judged his irons. He pulled them from the coals and eyed their glowing tips. He pursed his lips, content, then spoke in Spanish.

Carlos raised his pistol. “Move to the far wall.”

Joan did not trust her legs. She glanced around the room, then back to Carlos. “Why all this? Why this way?” She weakly pointed at his gun. “You could have killed me in the room.”