The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  After several minutes, a short, dimpled man ascended the platform. Each table wobbled on brown metal legs as he crossed the makeshift stage. When he stood behind the podium, Merrick could just see the man’s chin over the top of the lectern. Tar-black hair was swept across his balding crown, and dark bristles clustered at the holes in his fat cherry nose. He was dressed like a high-ranking officer, but Merrick knew it was only for show. His name was Shelder Depliades, and he was one of Wax’s chief advisors.

  “Welcome, comrades,” Depliades shouted. No one seemed to notice he was there. He cleared his throat and repeated himself. It was clear he wasn’t an officer, or at least some number of comrades would’ve given him passing consideration. After he had repeated himself a third time, Depliades abandoned his quest for attention and forged ahead without it.

  “Commissar Wax is here this afternoon.”

  Before the last word had left his mouth, the crowd was drowning him in applause.

  “He is here,” the startled man repeated when the noise had died down, “to make an important announcement.”

  Merrick heard the creak of hinges to his right and turned to see Pilot Wax emerging from a recessed door in the side of the barracks building. Wax made his way toward the stage, surrounded by his armed entourage.

  The surprised expression never left Depliades’s face. “And here he is now,” the short man said, the words racing off his tongue as if he were afraid of interrupting something. He withdrew as Wax strutted up the stairs and took the podium.

  Wax was cleaner than the last time Merrick had seen him. His oatmeal-colored hair was trimmed, his face shaven, and his eyes rested and refreshed. “My lovely assistant,” Wax said, gesturing toward Depliades as the man retreated from the stage.

  Someone whistled. Laughter.

  Wax waited until the howls and cat calls had fallen off. “I’m here to talk to you about the future—our future.” Even in that small statement, there was a radiant, infectious passion in his voice. It was warmth and confidence and optimism, blended together to form a sound so pleasing it hushed the crowd.

  No wonder he is who he is, Merrick thought.

  “I’ll keep it short. No need to draw this out or leave you hanging in suspense. Through the long hours and years of hard work our Engineering Division has put in, I am very pleased to announce that we’ve finally been able to build a working prototype for our own hydroelectric power plant.”

  A murmur spread across the crowd. Heads bobbed like flowers on a windswept plain.

  When Wax lifted a hand, the silence resumed. “Before you get too excited, this doesn’t mean we’re going to have power again any time soon. Our plant is nowhere near as efficient as the ones in the old days. What it does have is a strong energy source, and a location that’s underground, better shielded from the starwinds. As long as we have water flowing through our natural springs, we have the hope of a better life. Please realize that I wouldn’t be telling you this if we hadn’t come a long way already. We’re nowhere near finished with our work. But if anyone has ever needed a reason to put their hope in the future, it’s us. And this is that reason.”

  The crowd erupted.

  Wax had to wait again for the noise to die down. “Now, I want us to expand. The time has come for it. Every time we’ve grown our borders before, it’s only served to make us more prosperous. There’s a huge area of this city that we don’t control. There are resources we need for this power station. Places we can rebuild. More jobs will need to be done, and we’ll need people to step up and fill those jobs. But I’m convinced that together we can continue to build the kind of life we once had. We’re killing our problems, one by one. Killing them with our pride, our ingenuity. Our steadfastness. And as long as we don’t stop until every last one of those problems is dead and gone, our lives are going to be the better for it.”

  More applause.

  The chubby administrator from the infirmary stuck his head out the barracks door and began to scan the crowd. Merrick fell to his haunches and leaned against the side of the building. Then he remembered he was naked underneath his gown, and snapped his thighs together. Depliades was entering through the door Wax had come out of. Merrick crawled over and coat-tailed him through, hoping the administrator hadn’t spotted him. He raced down the hallway, pausing to compose himself before he entered the waiting room. It was empty—the admin was still out in the yard looking for him, no doubt.

  Merrick was hunched over when he came through the infirmary door, gripping his stomach with one hand.

  “There you are,” said the physician.

  “I’m sorry, I thought I was about to hurl. I didn’t, but I still feel like I could. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Will you bring me a tub, just in case?”

  The physician opened his mouth to speak, but he frowned and started off toward the supply room instead. Merrick hobbled back to bed. The chubby administrator stormed in a few moments later and met the doctor at the door. Their lowered voices were almost inaudible from across the room. The administrator pointed an angry finger in Merrick’s direction. The physician put a hand to his stomach, then gestured toward his ear. The administrator wrung his hands and stormed out again.

  The physician set the pink tub on the floor beside Merrick’s bed. “My secretary swears that you said I sent you to get him.”

  Merrick shrugged. “I told him I felt sick and thought I was about to throw up. He must’ve heard me wrong.”

  The physician frowned, sighed, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 19

  Father Kassic

  The weight of the three-pointed star in the pocket of her robes made Sister Bastille restless. She’d fled the kitchen, where Father Kassic had been watching her through the window, and entered the conservatory to find Sister Usara educating the acolytes in the art of planting and harvesting. Though Bastille knew most everyone there, it felt as if each face she passed belonged to a stranger; every pair of eyes could see through her to the truth. At any moment she imagined someone calling out after her and pointing at the iron key in her pocket. ‘Fraud! Heathen! Liar!’ Though no one did, the fear ate at her as she passed through the gardens, past the sounds of the hogs in their pens, the rustling of the leaves as the harvesters picked the morning’s meal, the voice of Sister Usara as she guided the acolytes through their lesson.

  “Mulligraws are one of a family of non-fungal plants that can be grown underground, entirely without daylight,” Sister Usara was saying. “They form a staple in the diets of many in the Aionach, though many surfacers find them too dry and pithy to be enjoyable in environments where hydration is scarce.”

  “Kind Sister Bastille,” called a familiar voice, as Bastille shuffled through the room trying not to be noticed. She gave a start, but it was only Sister Adeleine.

  “Dear me, child,” Bastille said, putting a hand to her chest. “I’d swear you have a mind to startle me into an early grave.”

  “My apologies, kind Sister,” said Adeleine. “I—I’ve been looking for you since earlier. I had to go to my lesson, but I cleaned the courtyard like you asked. When I came back, you’d gone. Who were you after? Was someone listening to us?”

  “You fed the Cypriests, of course.”

  Sister Adeleine was rattled. “I… no, you… I thought you…”

  “You poor stupid girl. Where is the feed bucket?”

  “The blue one? I—I left it just outside, kind Sister.”

  “The Mouth, child. It’s no wonder Father Kassic has come down off the wall. He must have smelled his breakfast and wondered why it wasn’t brought to him. Follow me.” Bastille strode off toward the outer doors and burst into the courtyard, Sister Adeleine at her heels.

  Father Kassic was crouched there, his hands and face as dark as cherry pie, scooping handfuls from the bucket into his mouth.

  Bastille let out an exasperated sigh.

  “I’m… sorry, kind Sister,” Adeleine said, close to tears.

  “Stop your sniveli
ng. Father Kassic has far more machinery than most, you see. His feedings must be on time. When he starts going low, he feels it in every part. Look at him. He’s starved.”

  Sister Adeleine observed, trying to indicate through her expression that she understood. Soon a curious frown spread across her face. “Is that a wound?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “There. See?”

  Father Kassic’s black box-woven shirt was soaked around the inside crook of his shoulder, the edge of his dark armor vest smeared with blood.

  “That’s just feed he’s dropped,” Bastille said, growing less sure even as the words escaped her lips.

  “No it isn’t,” said Sister Adeleine.

  Bastille shot her a look, and the acolyte shrank away. “Run and fetch Brother Soleil. Have him bring a tranquilizer and four strong Brothers with him.”

  “Yes, kind Sister.”

  Adeleine’s footfalls faded from the courtyard walls, and Bastille was left alone with Father Kassic. She could see his usual post on the parapet, vacant now. The Cypriests can smell blood well enough. I wonder if Father Kassic can smell my fear. She took two steps toward him, wondering if he would try to protect his meal like some wild animal if she came too close. But Father Kassic didn’t look up from where he was chewing on something pink and stringy.

  NewTech devices used everything their hosts ingested, so a Cypriest had no need to sleep or make waste. They watched from the parapets day and night, except when they were eating. Aside from members of the Order, the Cypriests killed without prejudice; anyone who came close enough to the walls and wasn’t accompanied by a priest or acolyte could count on that being the last thing they did. Few dared come near the walls anymore. The Cypriests dragged in the unfortunate souls who did so Bastille could harvest them. Otherwise, they kept to their own, meeting in the guardhouses that had been tacked on in recent years to serve as their shelter. Bastille left the buckets filled with feed in front of the south guardhouse door, and they were empty when she returned.

  In the two years since she’d joined the Order, Bastille had never been this close to one of the Ancients—those Cypriests who had been guarding the walls since the Order’s founding. She’d gotten a closer look at the nomads today, too. She tried to picture their leader, the one they called Lethari, standing next to Father Kassic, imagining who would win in a fight if the nomads ever attacked the basilica. The savages were fearsome and wild, but the Cypriests were resolute. They felt little pain and they didn’t need wages or food or plunder. They could get all the nourishment they needed from eating their slain foes. Perhaps most importantly, their loyalty to the Mouth was absolute.

  “Father Kassic,” Bastille said, crouching down to his level.

  The Cypriest stared at her through hollow gray eyes, sweat beading on his brow, his cheeks slick with blood and bits of flesh. He smacked his lips as he chewed, his jaw working tirelessly. Bastille could see the hole in the fabric of his shirt, where the blood was soaking through. Sister Adeleine had been right; Father Kassic had been wounded somehow, and that was his own blood coming through.

  “I’m going to take a look at that for you. Does it hurt?” Bastille put a finger to her breast to indicate the site of his wound.

  Father Kassic kept staring at her, averting his eyes only long enough to glance down into the bucket and scoop out another handful. He never stopped chewing. Bastille heard him make a sound, a soft nasal grunt, as if to say he was so busy being hungry he didn’t have time for conversation.

  It took a long time for anyone to come, but Bastille wasn’t about to let the Cypriest out of her sight until they did. When Sister Adeleine returned with Brother Soleil, there were only two others with them: Brother Padrig, a balding acolyte with bug eyes and a flaky skin condition, and one of the initiates, a scrawny middle-aged man who walked with a limp.

  “What is the trouble, kind Sister?” Soleil asked, his voice tremulous. A brown leather satchel was in his hand.

  “It seems Father Kassic has been hurt. Is there not another ounce of brawn in the whole basilica?” Bastille eyed Sister Adeleine sharply. “Even Brother Mortial, with the gnarled spine, looks stronger than this creature. And by the way, this is a task for members of the Order only. Now get out of my sight and go find some real help.”

  Brother Soleil gave Bastille a sudden look, as though the phrase get out of my sight had triggered something within him. The image of the nomad severing Brother Froderic’s head replayed itself in Bastille’s mind, and she realized then that she had repeated the savage’s words. I always keep my word. Now get out of my sight before I keep it again. That was what the savage had said.

  Sister Adeleine and her two aides began to turn away.

  “Not you,” Bastille said, waving Brother Padrig over. “Brother, if you would be so kind as to circle around behind Father Kassic to prevent him running off. I don’t think he will, but one cannot be too careful.”

  “Certainly, kind Sister,” said Brother Padrig, eager to please.

  She watched him pass to the far side of the stone walkway and place himself between Father Kassic and the courtyard’s exit, assuming a wide stance as if he were expecting to be tackled. Brother Soleil was preparing a syringe, drops of clear yellowish liquid spilling from the needle point.

  “We may not need that,” Bastille said, “if I can convince him.” Turning back to Father Kassic, she sought his eyes. When he looked at her again she heard the whirring of their mechanisms, focusing. Those eyes. Even in the heat of midday, they’re so cold. “Father Kassic,” she said, standing. “We will clean and dress you now. Please, follow me.”

  The Cypriest slipped a veined purple tongue over his lips, wiping away the viscera that had clotted there. He stood, and there was a splash in the bucket as he dropped what he’d been holding. He came toward her, hands dripping, moving as though it was difficult for him. She beckoned him onward while Brother Soleil packed up his bag and came after.

  “The Mouth, he’s bad off. I can’t tell which blood is his and which he’s been drinking.”

  “Let’s bring him below and have a look at him, shall we?” Brother Soleil said. “All will be revealed in time.”

  “Indeed,” Bastille said. You of all people should not be the one to wish for such things.

  They escorted Father Kassic down the closed staircase and into the cellars, past furniture laced with cobwebs and layered in a century’s dust. There was a wall where panes of filtered window glass leaned against one another, extras from the conservatory’s construction, kept on hand for repairs. It was only by the favor of the Infernal Mouth, Bastille knew, that the basilica contained such a surplus of this specialized material, which was the only thing that could resist enough heat and light to make farming in the above-world productive anymore. Without the conservatory, the Order could never survive here.

  Past the privy, below which the city’s derelict sewer system only carried waste downstream when it rained, they entered a wide hallway whose doors led off to the old closets and storage rooms the Order had converted to classrooms and laboratories. Father Kassic was obedient, though his pace was sluggish.

  “Take your time,” Bastille said, wishing he wouldn’t.

  She heard the soft thudding of feet on the flagstones, and Sister Adeleine was there with three new Brothers, though the men were hardly strapping. Bastille thought again of the savages, their powerful frames, the sheen of sweat on tanned skin. She wasn’t sure there was a Brother among the Order who could boast such a physique. Perhaps my request for brawn was unrealistic, she thought, looking them over. “By the Mouth, slow down,” she said, her voice shrill. “I’m getting used to your bounding about everywhere, startling people. Father Kassic is not. His nerves are wound up tight as a steel wire. Be careful, or he’ll wind us up with them.”

  Sister Adeleine was shamed.

  If I can’t scold her into behaving, perhaps I can scare her into it.

  Two of Adeleine’s chosen were priests o
f the same rank as Bastille, Brothers Ephamar and Chaimon. Ephamar was stunted and plain-looking, with fair skin and short hair. As librarian in charge of the athenaeum, Bastille knew him well and saw him on a regular basis. Chaimon was a tall one, shy and handsome in the eyes behind his straight brown locks, a master in the spinnery. The third was Brother Reynard, one of the Greatly Esteemed and a constant companion of poor headless Brother Froderic, though he was none the wiser yet.

  Bastille wondered how long it would be before Froderic’s true fate was discovered. The key poked her thigh through the inner pocket of her robes. In a way, Brother Froderic’s death was the only thing that had saved her from the labyrinth’s confinement. The thought gave her a chill.

  “All is well, I trust?” said Brother Reynard.

  “It’s fine,” Bastille said. “Just a bit of touching up to be done. Kind Sister Adeleine, the services of these men are no longer required. You took too long in getting them here. Apologize to them for wasting their time and come with me, please.”

  Bastille opened the door to the large room that served as the Order’s hospital. Brother Soleil guided Father Kassic inside. Bastille lit the lamps, set the brakes on the wheeled operating table, and cleaned the surgical implements while Brother Soleil removed the Cypriest’s armor and trappings. Father Kassic twitched when Soleil reached for his crossbow.

  “No need to be frightened. It’s only me,” said Brother Soleil, backing off.

  Kassic turned to look at him, eye lenses whirring. As if he’d only just recognized Soleil as a friend, the Cypriest bent and unslung the weapon. Soleil unstrapped Father Kassic’s armored vest, then removed his shirt, belt, gear, sidearm, and the rest of his external clothing. His skin was pale white where the clothing had covered him and baked brown everywhere else. It had the texture of smooth plastic except along the scars of his previous surgeries, eerie signs of the machinations by which he now defied age and disease.

  Bastille patted the mechanical table. Without power it was stuck flat, no longer adjustable. Father Kassic climbed up and lay on his back over the white sheet, resting his head on the soft sentyle pillow.