by J. C. Staudt
Sister Bastille was getting used to her normal, quiet life around the basilica again. She still hadn’t decided whether she wanted to accept Sister Gallica’s offer and become one of the Esteemed, and part of her had begun to doubt her decision not to leave the basilica with Brother Mortial when she’d had the chance. The smell had gone out of the East Tower, but since Gallica had taken her Arcadian Star, Bastille had been powerless to investigate further. Some mysteries, she decided, would have to be left alone.
As she went about her chores this morning, there was little to distract her from her thoughts until she caught a glimpse of something falling from the parapet outside. When she turned toward the conservatory windows, Father Rook hit the south yard like a bag of bricks. She could feel the impact thud from where she was standing. A cloud of dust rose up around him, and through the dust she could see him moving, trying to get up.
When a volley of projectiles rained across the wall like chunks of ice in a hailstorm, Bastille knew something was wrong. This was more than a Cypriest losing his balance and taking a spill. She went out to Father Rook as the daylight was beginning to harden the parapet’s shadow in the south yard. The Cypriest’s right eye had been ruptured. Blood was spurting from the stringy pulp trailing out from the wound. Father Rook was making slow writhing movements that dredged up dusty earth, struggling against some vague recollection of pain. Bastille cradled his head on her lap, trying to soothe him. There was little more she could do. She prayed that Brother Reynard and his hospital staff wouldn’t be long in coming.
On the ground beside Father Rook was a metal ball bearing, the same kind Brother Soleil had removed from Father Kassic’s shoulder. Bastille stood and climbed the parapet steps, peeking her head around the guardhouse at the top. There were gray-cloaked men hiding in the surrounds, darting back and forth among the ruins of vehicles and walls and windowsills. They wore long hooded trenchers in various shades of gray ranging from ash to charcoal. They would’ve blended into the scenery better, if not for the filtermasks that obscured their faces; most were painted to resemble some manner of fearsome wild beast or monster. Several were painted like skulls, while some resembled macabre clowns or green amarpids, the venomous sea serpents whose poison could paralyze a man within seconds.
Another storm of shots clattered over the guardhouse, punching holes in the sheeting and blowing chunks of rock dust off the wall within inches of Bastille’s face. The Cypriests returned a volley, firing and reloading their crossbows like perfect silent machines. The gray-cloaked men must have intended to take the Cypriests unawares, but Bastille knew they had detected the attackers long before their crossbows were even in range. The Fathers always knew when heathens were about.
In warfare as in all other things, the Cypriests seldom involved the Brothers and Sisters in their affairs. They had kept their single-minded vigil along the crumbling parapets all the same, conducting the business of battle as though it were a minor adjustment to their daily routine. But this was more than some ragtag bunch of hoodlums trying to cause trouble. This was a real attack; the first real attack the basilica had ever faced, as far as Bastille knew. She thought of Brother Mortial and the Scarred soldiers who had taken Sister Jeanette away. I’ll never forgive Brother Soleil if the Scarred are behind this.
The gray-cloaked men outside the walls were not wearing the camouflage fatigues of the Scarred, however. It gave Bastille a claustrophobic feeling to know that whoever these men were, they had targeted the Order for some reason unbeknownst to her. She wondered who they might be, and why they were doing this. If not the Scarred Comrades, then what other organized group of militants might have a bone to pick with the Order? she wondered. After this, I should think there’s no telling how deep and wicked Brother Soleil’s affairs might run.
Bastille ducked and retreated to the yard to watch the battle unfold. She’d always thought battles were supposed to be loud and chaotic, but neither the Cypriests nor the gray-cloaked men outside the basilica walls did anything to fracture the early morning silence. The crossbows operated with nothing louder than a series of soft clicks and thrums, and the attackers’ weapons gave no sound of exploding gunpowder or air-piercing velocity. It was an eerie thing, to see men killing one another in an atmosphere of such quiet. The Cypriests never telegraphed their pain. When they were hit, they never made it known, except by bleeding. They would fight with constant efficiency and fervor, Bastille knew, until their Enhancements gave up from lack of fuel, or until what remained of their natural bodies ceased to function.
The diversion at the south wall lasted only a short while before there came a deep rumble from the west. Bastille felt an intense change in the air pressure, and an orange cloud rose beyond the basilica’s roofline, tinged in black. By the time she rounded the building’s corner, the basilica’s gates were a gnarled wreckage of burning splinters and bent wrought-iron rods. The gray-clad men were swarming through the opening, their faces shrouded by those frightful painted filtermasks they wore beneath their hoods.
Bastille slid up against the basilica wall and closed her eyes, praying to the Mouth that none of the intruders had seen her. Old habits, she scolded herself. As she waited for the crowd to pass, she found herself wishing she had taken Father Rook’s crossbow with her when she’d left him. She would sooner have refrained from confrontation altogether, but a loaded crossbow would get her further than a scornful word with these heathens.
The basilica’s front entrance consisted of a pair of arched doors, heavy wooden things with stained glass insets that depicted an image of Infernal’s amber rays shining down on a vibrant green land. The Cypriests on the western parapet shot after the masked intruders, cutting several down with their uncanny aim before they could reach the doors. Bastille lost sight of the rest as they shouldered their way inside.
Apart from the staging of a new Cypriest or the restorative work she had occasionally done on the older ones, Bastille had never seen the Cypriests come off the parapet in any great number. Now, they were leaving their stations in droves, stalking across the yard after the intruders like the cold-blooded murderers they had become.
Bastille found it hard to believe there were so many Cypriests. She knew about two dozen of them by name. There were others from the western wall that she only knew by sight, and others still whom she couldn’t remember having seen before. She realized that in the years since she’d come through the basilica gates for the first time, she hadn’t been back outside the outer walls more than twice. Her usual duties took her from her bedchamber on the north end of the basilica to the conservatory gardens and the southern courtyards, then to her rooms in the cellars. So there were several unfamiliar faces in the throng of Cypriests that came flooding across the yard after the intruders.
She waited until the Cypriests were inside before she followed them. Heathen bystanders had begun to gather around the ruined gates, most of them thin and undernourished, with eyes that hungered to know the comforts of the basilica. The Cypriests who remained on the parapets began to fire down into the crowd, and the onlookers dispersed.
The narthex was littered with bodies when Bastille entered. Brother Padrig was slumped against the moulding at the corner of the sanctuary hallway, his eyes wide open and his prosaics wet with blood. He was making little gurgling sounds, opening and closing his mouth like a grounded fish. He followed Bastille with his eyes as she hurried past him.
On the cloister grounds, the fighting had intensified. The intruders fought as though they were surprised to be facing such strong resistance. They were running around and diving for cover and huddling behind dead hedges and the low stone walls that bordered the arcade.
The Cypriests, however, waded in without fear or theatrics. Everywhere a gray-cloaked man hid, the basilica’s defenders converged on him, resolute and ruthless, even against the torrents of gunfire from the intruders’ strange silent weapons. Bastille watched an intruder duck behind a wiry brown hedgerow. Father Devereaux sent a bolt into
the shrubbery, and a cry went up from the other side. Another gray-cloak popped out of his hiding place to shoot at Father Xan, but the Cypriest put a bolt through his mask before he could take aim. When yet another man fled his position, Father Terrence drew a bead and loosed. The intruder toppled over with a bolt in his back, squirming and screaming in a heap on the walkway.
It took the better part of the morning for the Cypriests to root out the last of the gray-cloaked men. Those who lost hope and fled for the gates fell victim to the guardians on the parapets. When they rounded up the survivors in the west yard, there were fewer than ten left. The Cypriests bound their wrists, removed their masks, and put them on their knees before presenting them to the Most Highly Esteemed. Every priest, acolyte, and initiate healthy enough to stand and not on the hospital staff was present to witness the spectacle. Cypriests stood vigil over the gap in the wall as Brother Jaquar and his artificers worked to repair the damaged gates.
Brother Soleil was strangely absent from the proceedings. Bastille hadn’t seen him since the fighting broke out. The three other priests of the Most Highly Esteemed prowled the yard like mountain cats waiting to pounce on wounded prey. Gallica’s hair was tied back, revealing the river of blisters and boils running along her jawline. Sister Dominique was trying not to look uncomfortable, her pale skin reddening at Infernal’s touch.
Brother Liero’s face was hard-lined, his brow glistening with sweat. “Why have you come? Who sent you?”
The intruders gave no reply.
Liero’s brow darkened. “Father Xan, since none of these men wishes to speak with me, please choose one of them at random and shoot him in the head.”
Father Xan strode down the line of captives. He was bleeding from a handful of wounds, and his clothes and armor were soaking wet. He passed several of the men, moving at an even pace. Bastille saw them catch their breath as he passed them. When he reached the man fourth from the end, Father Xan whirled and brought his crossbow to bear.
“I’ll talk,” the man shouted, trembling. They were his last words.
The crossbow gave a thwip. The man’s head snapped back as the bolt crashed through it. Blood spattered on the men kneeling next to him, and he slumped over into the dust.
When Brother Liero spoke again, his voice was loud and sharp, as if a rage had taken him. “Father Xan, please choose another man and shoot him in the head.”
Father Xan loaded his crossbow and stepped over the dead man, his boots tracking bloody prints as he strode back the other way.
When the Cypriest pointed his crossbow at another one of the gray-cloaks, the man cried out. “Stop killin’ people,” he said. “I’ll talk to you.”
“Father Xan. Please stop.”
The Cypriest lowered his weapon and stepped aside.
Brother Liero approached the man and crouched in front of him. “Speak.”
The man’s dark hair was thinning on top. His slender face was clean-shaven, though the skin was full of fresh nicks and scratches. “We know y’all got some of the Ministry’s goodies in that church of yours. We wanted to have a look.”
“The Ministry’s goodies, you say. I’m afraid I don’t understand. What are you referring to, and where did you hear this?”
“Ain’t heard it from nobody. We just figured, is all.”
“You just… figured.” Brother Liero lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the man. “You decided that the most appropriate way to examine this compound was to break down the door and begin killing people. Is that right? Do I understand you correctly?”
“Well, if you’d invited us in, we wouldn’t ‘a had to shoot anybody. Them robots of yours weren’t too nice to us the first few times we tried to get in.”
Brother Liero was dismissive. “You should’ve taken the hint. You were better off minding your own business. Instead, you chose to continue meddling in ours. We have no secrets here, sir; not from you, not from anyone. We’re a simple, peaceful group of people, living to serve the Infernal Mouth. We don’t bother anyone, and in return we only wish not to be bothered. Our defenses are simply a preventative measure, intended to shield us from people like you. The only people welcome inside these walls are those willing to pledge their lives to the Mouth. Are you willing, sir?”
The clean-shaven man coughed and spat. “I just wanted a look, not a lecture. I know you’re hidin’ something.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Brother Liero. As he turned and began to walk back inside, his eyes met Father Xan’s. “Kind Father… kill the rest.”
While the other priests and acolytes hid their eyes or fled for the basilica’s doors, Sister Bastille stood and watched as the Cypriests made their own line mirroring that of the gray-cloaks. The captives raised a clamor, beseeching the Most Highly Esteemed for mercy. The high priests gave them none.
When Father Xan gave the signal, the Cypriests loosed their bolts, and the captives swayed and toppled over like drunken dominos.
The Order sustained heavy casualties that day; four priests, two acolytes, and eleven Cypriests lost their lives. By evening, the basilica’s tiny hospital had been filled to capacity and was overflowing with the wounded. There were funeral services scheduled in the Hall of Ancients for every day the following week. The Mothers bore the work with their typical fervor, digging new graves, carving urns and plaques, making space in the tombs, building coffins, updating records, and stoking the crematorium’s fires.
From what Bastille witnessed, not one gray-cloak who came through the basilica’s gates made it out alive. That was the way the Order preferred it. When she thought of the damp room filled with its abandoned machines and moldy stacks of paper, and the dark being that lived behind the door in the back, she knew why.
Scouts gathered a dozen more bodies from the streets outside the basilica walls—some gray-cloaks, some bystanders who’d gotten in the way. Bastille ran out of cold lockers to put them in, and she had to work through the night to process fresh corpses and harvest NewOrgans and Nexus apparatuses from the deceased Cypriests before the Mothers came to carry their bodies away.
By the time morning came, Bastille was so tired, she forgot to wash the blood off her hands before she left her preparation rooms. She headed up to her bedchamber to try to get some sleep. Her head felt like it had just been through an earthquake, and her back ached from carrying bodies and leaning over her slab for hours at a time. She was halfway down the hall next to the cloister when Sister Gallica appeared at the far end.
The high priest hailed her, then hurried over to speak with her. “You’re just the person I was looking for, kind Sister Bastille. I’m afraid we have an emergency.”
Bastille could hardly keep her eyes open, let alone tend to an emergency. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath and listened.
“Brother Soleil is in dire health. He was wounded in the fighting yesterday, and his condition has worsened significantly. In light of the circumstances, we’ve elected to honor him as the next inheritor. Your presence is required in the hospital. He must be operated upon immediately, and you’re the only one who can do it.”
You choose to acknowledge my qualifications only now, when it’s necessary, Bastille wanted to say. She refrained from doing so, but she was still in no mood to be polite. “I’ve been up all night, kind Sister. Are you sure it must be done now?”
Gallica nodded. “There is no time for sleep. Brother Reynard has agreed to be present for the surgery, though his expertise with the Enhancements is limited. Brother Soleil is too injured to be brought down to your chambers. We’re setting a room aside for the operation. He needs this, kind Sister. Without the Enhancements, Brother Soleil will die.”
Bastille gave a wide yawn. “As you wish, kind Sister.” And all the better if he does.
She turned back and made her way down to the hospital, where one of Brother Reynard’s staff led her to the room where she was to perform the surgery. She donned a set of sterile garments before she went inside. Mirrored lamp
s bathed the room in warm light, rendering it several degrees hotter than the afternoon hallways.
Brother Soleil lay on the table, delirious and feverish. He was shivering, despite the room’s heat. He was naked except for the thin surgical dressing that covered him from knees to waist. Brother Sartiere was standing by at the pump oxygenator, a massive device that Brother Jaquar’s artificers had modified so it could be cranked by hand. Sister Mareau was preparing a syringe of anesthesia to add to the intravenous line sprouting from Soleil’s arm.
Bastille checked the instruments on the side table and inspected the NewNexus she was to implant in Brother Soleil’s nasal cavity, which the hospital staff had sterilized for the occasion. Sister Rousseau came in carrying a lump of something wrapped in plastic and set it down beside the Nexus, then took her place next to Brother Reynard on the opposite side of the surgical table.
“He needs a NewHeart, Sister Bastille,” said Brother Reynard. He looked as tired as Bastille felt, his gaze hollow above the dark crescents under his eyes.
That was not what she wanted to hear. Implanting the Nexus and transplanting the NewHeart would take her and her bedraggled team most of the day. Bastille lifted the plastic cover to look at the NewHeart. It was large, white, and spongy to the touch. When she put her hand on it, it pulsed with a latent energy, as if alive. The NewOrgans were amazing things; miracle devices from a time far beyond the reach of this primitive existence.
She tapped Soleil on the shoulder. “How are you feeling, kind Brother?”
