Before the Shattered Gates of Heaven

by Bryan S. Glosemeyer

  The lead godseer addressed them all in Ihziz-Ri, her voice amplified to fill every corner of the great hall. “In the ancient times, during the early days of the First Labyrinth, the Nahgak-Ri chose two hundred and twenty-three of the fiercest overseers and reshaped them into the Gohnzol-Lo. They were to be the Unity’s captains in the great crusade to bring Divine Will to the galaxy.

  “Then, in accordance with the grace of Star Father and His son Conqueror, the Divine Masters granted the nameless khvazol two shafts of trials by which to earn their names and be seen by Heaven: the Shafts of the Chosen and the Servants.

  “When the first servants ascended their nine trials, Gohnarus Conqueror looked down from the Gates of Heaven and was pleased. ‘You are enforcers of Divine Will,’ He said to them, ‘just as Star Father has decreed. Remain faithful and self-sacrificing to Our Will and you may call on My strength.’

  “Conqueror’s sister, Ishkadil Dancer, also looked down from the Gates of Heaven and was pleased. She said to the first servants, ‘Remain faithful and self-sacrificing to Our Will, and you may call on My passion to join your flesh as one, unified in devotion and purpose.’

  “Servants of the Pyramid Ihvik-Ri, in three days you go forth to conquer and unify another infidel world under Divine Will. May the Akuh-Ori see you from Heaven and be pleased. Let the rites of Dancer and Conqueror begin. Remember servants, with faith and sacrifice you shall be seen, you shall be victorious, and you shall unify the galaxy!”

  Another low gong crashed, and the godseers departed. The chosen resumed their chant and descended from the dais. They branched into nine columns and began flowing into the servants. Within the nine columns, they separated into groups of three, one bearing a large canister of pitters brew, one holding a small trigonal pyramid in their hands, one with empty palms raised high above their head. They entered the crew formations and bestowed sacraments, beginning with the first drum then moving down in ranks to the skins.

  The chosen with empty, upraised hands, drew a razor-sharp, biomech thumbnail across the servants’ brows, then used the blood to draw the glyphs of Conqueror and Dancer across the servants’ faces. Once marked, the second chosen poured a ceramic cup of the pitters brew into their mouths. The third, holding the small pyramid, continued the chanting in unison with the other triads.

  Only after receiving the sacraments could the servant sit and begin drumming. Once all nine members of a crew were given sacrament, the triad of chosen moved on to the next. No one could invoke the Gods and call forth a challenge until every servant in the hall received the sacrament. Once the drum rites began, any servant could challenge any other, no matter their rank or their crew, and invoke either Conqueror or Dancer. No challenge could be refused.

  Sabira’s initiation into Ahzk Vohg's crew involved a smaller variation of the rites. Only her crew, Warseer Maru Ahzk Vohg, and a single triad of chosen had attended the initiation rite. After sacrament, all eight crew members called Conqueror or Dancer with Sabira, one at a time, as the others watched and drummed the ancient rhythms. Every crew initiated new members into their ranks with the rites this way for as long as there have been Servants of the Unity.

  As the chosen moved among the crews, their hypnotic chant grew increasingly punctuated by insistent drumming. With each additional crew blessed by blood and brew, the pattering of drums grew louder, more powerful, until the chant was drowned among the echoing rumble, a faint murmur amidst pounding, relentless rhythms.

  With hundreds of drums echoing around her, Sabira fell entranced long before the triad reached her. First Drum Lance stood at the apex of their crew. Caller Arrow and the right arm angled off to one side. Third Drum Misseila and the left arm angled off the other. After Lance received the sacrament and joined in the drumming, the pair of chosen zigzagged across the wedge, bestowing blood and brew in order of rank, starting with Caller Arrow and then Third Drum Misseila. As the last to be initiated, Sabira was the last to receive sacrament.

  Watching her crew members drink, faces dripping with blood, she witnessed the rush flow through them as the brew heightened their senses and ignited their passions. Eyes grew wide as they fell into the engulfing tide of drums. She paid closest attention to Caller Arrow. Having been raised in Warrens Ohna among the Chosen, he was the most deeply religious of the crew. If she was going to win his trust and respect, it would have to be through the results of deeds and sacrifice, in both devotion and fighting. Of course, invoking the Dancer could bring results too.

  One battle at a time, she told herself.

  Finally, the triad of chosen stood before her. Her palms and the small of her back moistened with nervous anticipation. The third ahno continued chanting as the other two approached. Just as the Servants bore nine tattooed glyphs for their pit victories, the Chosen bore nine for their trials of faith. The glyph of the Chosen marked their right cheeks. The glyphs of their name and ninth trial marked their left. Sabira read the names of the two approaching, Altaro and Scripturo.

  The chosen wore robes of deep green. The glyphs of the Akuh-Ori, the Gods beyond the Gates, printed in white and bordered in silver, were arranged in a triangle across their thin chests. Scripturo held a black cylinder inscribed with red glyphs. Chosen Altaro approached, and Sabira could smell the coppery tang emanating from ahns blood-drenched hand.

  “Remember, human, you are a Servant of the Nahgak-Ri and an enforcer of Divine Will. Your blood is their creation. Your life is their weapon.” Altaro quickly sliced ahns biomech nail across her brow. Entranced by the ritual, she barely felt the sting of the shallow cut. After drawing the blood glyphs across her tattooed brow and cheeks, Altaro prayed, “May the Gods see you.”

  Scripturo approached her, and she salivated from the scent of pitters brew. A drop of blood dripped into her right eye, and her vision blurred. “Should you find yourself before the Shattered Gates of Heaven,” Scripturo intoned, “may the Gods find you worthy of eternal service.” Ahn poured the contents of the cylinder into a small ceramic cup and brought it to Sabira’s lips. She relished the strong, bitter taste of the brew.

  “May the Gods see me,” she answered.

  Slowly lowering herself to the floor, she felt as if her mind was splitting in two: part of her falling deeper into the trance of the rites and the hypnotic pulse of hundreds of drums, part of her igniting with a building pressure demanding physical release. Her hands found the drum and began tapping at its taut hide, joining into the larger rhythm of the trident. Every few moments another drum added to the surging force of their collective beats, and the fiery tension of the brew grew stronger within her. Once every servant had received sacrament the gong would sound, and the invoking could begin. Until then she would lose herself in the flowing, seemingly autonomous movements of her hands tapping out the ritual beats.

  Sabira imagined how the rite would play out in sharp detail. Saw herself standing up from her drum and entering the center of the crew, gaze locked on the stark, pale eyes of Caller Arrow, fierce and wild from the brew. She would call him forth, but which God would she invoke?

  Lost in her drums and reveries, Sabira almost didn’t register the deep, low gong when it rang through the hall. She opened her eyes and took in the sight of her crew. Like her, each balanced on the sharp edge between frenzy and trance. Some sat with eyes open and intent, others with eyes closed or rolled back, revealing only bloodshot whites. Across from her, Bomb, a skin in the left arm, pounded frantically away at his drum. Beside him, Servants Hatchet and Hatchita leaned into each other as they played. To Sabira’s left, Daggeira and Cannon beat out a steady, focused pulse. At the wedge’s apex sat the three ranking servants. Arrow and Misseila were both deep in the trance of the drum, eyes closed, bodies swaying in languid circles as hands tapped intricate rhythms. Between them, First Drum Lance sat playing his drum as solid and steady as a stone pillar. His intense, pale eyes focused right on her.

  Something about his gaze gave her pause. Lance’s eyes were li
ke Grandfather Spear’s in a way. Pale, ice-blue eyes that had seen a lifetime of war and death. But his gaze lacked the warm golden affection she saw so often in her grandfather’s. There was no hostility or aggression, though, just an intense fierceness that held her transfixed. She remembered the same intensity in his touch during her initiation rites, neither loving nor cruel, but undeniably powerful.

  Conqueror sees this man, she thought. And this man sees me.

  Movement to her left broke Sabira from Lance’s hypnotic gaze. Daggeira rose to her feet and stepped into the wedge.

  No. The scar across Sabira’s chest felt tight and hot. Do not call forth Arrow. Don’t take this from me too.

  Daggeira stood in the middle of the crew with her back to Sabira and faced the ranking drummers. Sabira was sure she’d challenge Arrow by invoking Dancer. Caller Arrow was the deepest handsome of the crew. She had to grudgingly admit Daggeira’s beauty as well. And with two breasts, full and unmaimed, of course Arrow would see Daggeira.

  What a fool I was, thinking Arrow would see me, that I could invoke Dancer and Conqueror with such a warrior.

  But Daggeira did not call forth Caller Arrow. After bowing to the ranks, she turned and faced Sabira. Again she wore that knowing smile, this time beneath wild, brew-ignited eyes. She stomped her foot and called out over the frenetic drums rumbling through the great hall.

  “Gohnarus Conqueror, God beyond the Gates, see me,” invoked Daggeira. “Sabira, Servant of the Divine Masters, see me. I call you forth.”

  14.

  SABIRA BOUNDED TO her feet and locked eyes with Daggeira. This wasn’t how she planned for the rites to play out, but hopes weren’t lost down the shaft yet. If she could beat her quickly enough and call forth Arrow, then all the more honor in the eyes of her crew.

  “Conqueror see me,” answered Sabira, stepping over her drum and into the wedge. “Servant Daggeira, I see you. I hear your call.”

  The pounding rhythms inundated her, rising in intensity with the brew’s accelerants pumping through her blood. Carried on the shuddering air, the collective anxiety and passions of thousands of servants surrounded her. With her senses enhanced by pitters brew, the musky scent was as overpowering as the resounding drums. The campaign for Target System Thirteen-Nine-Seven launched in three days, and this may be the last drum rites for many of them. The fear of death brought an unmistakable odor to the hall.

  Determined to beat Daggeira quickly and without expending too much energy, Sabira lunged forward. She swung her fist at Daggeira’s face, trying to get her attention to go high as she ducked low. The misdirection worked. As Daggeira’s hands came up to defend, Sabira dropped her shoulders and drove into her. The same moment Sabira collided with her hard belly, Daggeira slammed her knee up into Sabira’s chest, right along her scar. The blow knocked some air out of her, but Sabira had her off balance and kept surging forward. Daggeira’s other foot came out from beneath her, and the two slammed to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

  The accelerants in the brew urged on Sabira’s violence. It would have been easy to give in to the chemical rage. As much as Sabira wanted to earn Arrow’s respect, now she wanted to settle her grudge with Daggeira even more. She was the one who woke the grank, who called down the Warseers’ punishment, who ruined Sabira’s standing with the crew. Sabira didn’t want to just beat Daggeira. She wanted to dominate her.

  But years of discipline reined in her hostility. Shift after shift the new servants had been fed pitters brew, getting them accustomed to thinking clearly and acting according to orders even as the accelerants tempted them with rage. It would mean even more punishment and dishonor if she seriously injured another servant in the rites before the upcoming invasion.

  The rites were not only meant to honor the Gods and bring cohesion to the crews through the intimacies of pain and pleasure shared by the entire trident. The rites also gave them a chance to fight out their grievances while building trust that they would both stop before killing the other. When it came time to face the enemy, old grudges and rivalries would be settled and left behind.

  Scrambling for position across the floor, Daggeira caught her wrist and slung her long, nimble legs across Sabira, trying to capture her arm in a lock that could potentially snap it in two. Sabira knew she was supposed to trust her not to break bones, but after what Daggeira did in the grank pens, she would be damned if she would submit. Before Daggeira could lock her arm tight, Sabira bucked, twisted, and rolled, relieving the pressure on her arm. She rolled again, pulled her arm free, and positioned herself behind her crewmate.

  Without hesitation she snaked her arm across Daggeira’s throat and her legs across her hips. She pulled Daggeira’s spine against her chest as she clasped hands together, tightening the choke. Daggeira’s firm buttocks pushed into Sabira’s pelvis as she locked her legs around Daggeira’s hips. Sabira focused on controlling her breath even as she squeezed her crewmate tighter. She rolled onto her back so Daggeira was stretched out and off balance on top of her. With Sabira’s backside grinding into the floor, the nine eyes flared across her ribs and spine, but the painkillers in the brew kept it to only a minor irritation.

  “No granks to hide behind now,” Sabira whispered into her ear. “Conqueror sees me this time. You’re going to sleep.”

  Daggeira clawed at Sabira’s arm, trying to create enough space to breathe and grunt out a few words. “If you wanted to drill me, you should have just said so.”

  Shocked, Sabira loosened her grip a little. It was all Daggeira needed. In a sudden explosion of movement, Daggeira twisted hard and fast. Sabira completely lost her grip.

  Now she was flat on her back with Daggeira in the dominant top position. Sabira snapped her legs back around Daggeira’s hips to keep her from gaining an even more controlling angle. Daggeira ground the points of her hips into her while pressing her forearm hard beneath Sabira’s chin. Sweat rolled down Daggeira’s smooth scalp, mingled with the blood smeared on her brow, and dripped and dribbled onto Sabira’s eyes, blurring her vision.

  Sabira clung to the back of Daggeira’s neck, trying to keep her low so she couldn’t pivot up and drop down fists and elbows. But Daggeira didn’t struggle against her to rise. Instead she pressed down harder. Sabira felt the soft pressure of Daggeira’s breasts against her scarred chest. Her mind raced to find a way out and regain dominance.

  More blood and sweat dripped into Sabira’s eyes, forcing her to squeeze them shut. She would have to rely on the feel of her opponent above her until she could wipe them clear. Sabira felt another soft but firm pressure, this time on her lips. Daggeira was kissing her. A moment later the lips pulled from hers and drifted across her cheek until they brushed warm and moist over her ear. The fiery pressure building inside Sabira transformed from rage into something else.

  “Ishkadil Dancer, see me,” whispered Daggeira. “Sabira, see me. I call you forth.”

  Sabira lost her grip, and Daggeira rose. Sitting back on her heels, she released the grinding pressure of her hips and forearms. Sabira took the chance to wipe the blood and sweat from her eyes. She could almost see her clearly now. Daggeira looked down at her with that same knowing smile she had given her in the pens, blood dripping from her curled lips.

  “What are you doing?” Sabira asked, gasping for breath.

  “In three days we may be dead, so let’s show the Gods and Masters how we live,” Daggeira answered, also breathing heavily. She bent down and kissed her again, lips soft and warm and sweaty.

  Sabira kissed her back.

  15.

  “THANK STAR FATHER’S balls, finally a rest shift.” Cannon scrubbed himself dry with the coarse membrane strip as he stepped out of the enzyme showers, his thin, taut frame half-hidden by steam. “And thank Dancer’s tits, I still have pillow deck privileges to spend. Who’s coming with?”

  “What’s the point of privileges if you don’t spend them? I’m with you,” answered Bomb.

  For the
last two duty shifts since the rites, Vohg’s crew sweated through hard discipline, preparing for their upcoming mission. They had drilled maneuvering through holo-simulated crowds in full infiltration armor. Subduing and neutralizing armed and unarmed opponents. Endlessly climbing up and down ropes of tangled vine. Then each drill was repeated with the artificial gravity set to varying levels. The six skins of the crew were all exhausted and bruised when they finished up their showers.

  A few short hours after the rites had completed, a Unity convoy had arrived to resupply the two pyramids. Cargo ships unloaded munitions, armor, vats of biomech oils, and foodstuffs. Brig ships took on prisoners of war to take back to the homeworlds. Commerce haulers remained docked to the pyramids for the next two days. Most of the haulers’ decks were strictly for Warseers, but lower decks provided varieties of meats and beers, pillows and gambling, for any servant with privileges to spend.

  “Who you trying to trick, Cannon?” asked Daggeira. “You’ll be sleeping like a mine rat on his hen-mother’s tits before your drill even gets hard.”

  “I should have invoked Conqueror on your ass when I had the chance,” Cannon answered. “Besides, better to sleep on a nice soft pillow than to have to hear you snoring like an old cug all shift.”

  “You might have stood a chance, Cans, after I softened her up for you.” Sabira threw her membrane strip in the mulcher and grabbed her uniform. “Doubt it, though.”

  “You softened me up?” Daggeira also threw her strip into the mulcher and turned to face Sabira, both of them completely nude. A dozen scars and prod burns told stories of pain and survival across Daggeira’s flesh. Every muscle, long, lean, and whip-crack fast. “That’s not how I remember it.”