Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  The man led him through a maze of pallets, high shelving units, cardboard boxes, and plastic crates. Merrick could hardly see, though the sharp, biting smell of zoom was thick in the air and all too familiar. Soon the walls began to glow with an eerie red light, and they emerged into a nest of couches where the flame from an antique brass oil lamp flickered beneath its stained-glass shroud.

  Figures lay sprawled across the couches and low cushions, unmoving in the damp haze of the room, while tendrils of smoke twisted toward the high ceiling. Merrick tried not to breathe. I shouldn’t have come, he decided. I should’ve let Peymer and his cronies do this on their own.

  “Wait here,” said the man. “Sit.” He stood there until Merrick took a seat on an empty couch, then turned and vanished behind a stack of crates.

  Merrick was back on his feet in an instant. He wove his way through the room after the man, poking his head around a stack of crates to see what was beyond. A long hallway ran between the building’s brick wall and another stretch of shelves. At the far end, two gangers stood guard at an open doorway, where a cold blue light was shining through a curtain of clear plastic flaps.

  Merrick drew back as one of the gangers looked up, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. Then, feeling his way along, he slid into the space behind the shelves, heading away from the lantern’s glowing red light and squeezing into darkness again. He made it halfway down before he hit a dead-end and could go no further. Ducking down to peer through the shelves, he got a glimpse of what was beyond the doorway.

  A room, brightly lit in that strange blue overtone. Through the clear plastic, the blurred shapes of half a dozen naked figures were sifting through the contents of a rickety brown folding table. The flaps darkened, and the elderly-looking man brushed them aside and turned down the hallway.

  Oh, shit. Merrick darted back the way he’d come, trying not to stumble, struggling to remember the location of every box and beam he’d passed on his way there. His heart was pounding, but it wasn’t just nerves anymore. As he slipped into the red-lit nest and flung himself onto one of the couches, his head fluttered with an unexpected rush. The sensation that came over him then was like the first wave in a moment of pleasure, a gratifying surge like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  The man rounded the stack of crates a split second later, carrying something in one hand. He sat on the couch beside Merrick and lifted the object. It was a small pouch; a rectangle of plastic shopping bag, folded in half and stitched closed with fishing line. Inside the pouch, purple zoom crystals bulged like massive grains of salt.

  Merrick handed the man his copper wire and took the pouch, slipping it into the pocket of his tattered jeans. When he made to stand, the man barred an arm across his chest to keep him in his seat. Merrick felt weak and dizzy and serene, somehow unable to overpower him or too content to try. Something inside him melted, and he felt his trepidations breaking loose like a river’s tide.

  “Don’t you want to try first?” The lantern light turned the man’s smile the color of blood.

  “That’s alright,” Merrick said. “I’m going.”

  “What’s your hurry? We’ll get you purped in no time.” The man produced a small pipe and rapped it on the table to knock out the residue. With a snap and a flick of his fingers, he urged Merrick to hand him the pouch again.

  Merrick scanned the nest, trying to remember which direction he’d entered from, wondering if he could find his way back out. His head was foggy, his thoughts sluggish, and the shadows that fell from the towering shelves seemed to undulate like river weeds, straying from their familiar shapes to drift on murky tides. Merrick felt another moment of elation, followed by a flood of warmth in his cheeks, like a bath filling up and rising in over his ears.

  For a moment he forgot everything. Everything about where he was, when it was, who he was. He looked down to find the man’s bony fingers wriggling into his pocket like worms on the line, fishing out the pouch and spilling a few of the fat grains of purple salt into his open palm. Merrick was floating, wavering with the blur. The man reached out to pull the stained-glass shroud off the lantern, but he burned his hand and cursed.

  Merrick laughed. This was the funniest, most amusing thing he’d seen in all his life, and his laugh came easy, rippling from his chest, a stone in a pond.

  The man used a potholder to set the shroud aside and began to cook the pipe over the flame. The purple salt began to melt and flow into a bubbling morass. The first wisp of smoke rose from the soup, and the man shook it to loosen the rest.

  Merrick’s eyes were closed when he felt the pipe’s warm ceramic touch on his lips. He took it in his hands and pushed it away, resisting the man’s firm grip. The smell of it was suffocating, but also familiar. It made him think of his father, the man who had beaten him and emasculated him—the man who had left him in alleys like the one he’d just come through, afraid and alone.

  One time, when his father had left him in the street and entered a tall blue rowhouse with white shutters, a group of hooligans had chased Merrick for blocks and blocks, until he’d hidden in an overturned garbage can in a back alley. When he’d finally emerged hours later and gone back to find his father, the man had been delirious with paranoia. Reeking of zoom, he’d scolded Merrick for running away and given him one of the worst beatings of his life.

  “What are you up to?” the man sitting beside him on the couch asked him now. “You didn’t come here to get purple. What are you about, mister?”

  “I have to go,” Merrick insisted. “I want to leave. Show me the way out.”

  “Not ‘til you tell me why you’re here.” He held the pipe to Merrick’s lips again.

  Merrick leaned away and squirmed down into the couch, trying to escape but too disoriented to resist. “I don’t want to use it all up.”

  “Bullshit. Any junkie come in here wants it quick as he can get it.”

  “I want to leave,” he repeated.

  The man was furious now, dominated by his paranoia, just as Merrick’s father had often been while using. “You’re spying on us. You tell me who you are. Who sent you?”

  “I’m not spying. I just came for some dope. I want to go.” Merrick found his voice and his feet at the same time. He shoved the man aside, forgetting about the zoom, and lurched to his feet. He was stumbling over boxes and bodies with equal carelessness, hurrying into the dark with his hands stretched out in front of him.

  The supermarket’s backroom was large, however; maybe even bigger than the sales floor in front. Merrick felt his way past the shelves and pallets, moving toward some hope of daylight. The red light faded, and the darkness enveloped him. Hard objects struck his shins, his knees, his arms. Although his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the cloud of intoxication was making the dim shapes of the obstacles ahead wobble and twitch like some bizarre living maze.

  He’d gone the wrong way. He was lost among the stacks. And the mad, paranoid junkie was somewhere close behind him, shouting and screaming for his confession. Calling for the gangers to come and take him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Esteemed

  Wooden cups clinked on the refectory tables as Sister Gallica brought the Order to silence. The noon meal had been a light affair in advance of the feast to come later; mulled cider, fresh greens tossed in vinegar, and warm thinbread, straight from Sister Deniau’s ovens. Everyone turned their attention toward Gallica, who shushed the clinking cups and spoke aloud.

  “Tonight’s ceremonies warrant an announcement. First, we congratulate the nine new initiates who will pledge themselves this evening to become acolytes of the Most High Infernal Mouth.”

  The room burst into applause. The initiates blushed and smiled, though two of their number had not lived to finish their induction. The first had been killed by the Cypriests while trying to escape the basilica. The second had fallen ill and died of a sour stomach.

  “We congratulate Sister Bastille on the day of her calling,” said Gallica. “We are pleased t
hat she has decided to join the ranks of the Esteemed.”

  More applause.

  “Tonight will see the elevation ceremonies of Mother Armistead, Mother Fortier, Father Boudreaux, and our very own Father Soleil.” Gallica waited for the applause to die. “Tonight also marks a long-anticipated occasion for Brother Liero, Sister Dominique, and I. In the wake of Brother Soleil’s elevation to Father, we have chosen his successor. For those of you who have never met Brother Froderic, he has held charge of the storehouses for many years now. He has brought many souls into the fold, led many evangelistic excursions into the outside world, and served the Mouth faithfully in his dealings with the heathens. As a shining example of humility and virtue in all he does, we can think of no one better to elect as the fourth member of the Most High than our dear Brother Froderic.”

  Applause.

  “Unfortunately, Brother Froderic is away on mission even now. Despite his absence, we have decided to call him to the Most High during tonight’s ceremonies as a symbolic gesture of his new standing. We trust that those of you among the Esteemed will exercise reverence during the ceremony, behaving no differently than if he were himself present. Upon his return, we will equip him sufficiently to take on his new role.”

  This is all wrong, Bastille thought, as the tables erupted in applause once more. Brother Froderic is dead. I saw him die. I took the key off his neck and used it to re-enter the basilica. Gallica knows it. Liero and Dominique must know it too. They’re lying to us all. Bastille supposed the lie itself didn’t matter all that much, except that it made her wonder what they were up to.

  “One final announcement of a more serious nature,” Gallica was saying. “Some of you have been asking about the three acolytes who were rumored to have disappeared sometime before the attack a few weeks ago. We wish to assure you that these acolytes have been accounted for. Brother Mortial, Sister Jeanette, and Sister Adeleine were, in fact, killed during the fighting.”

  Sympathetic murmurs and mournful sighs rose across the room.

  “In the confusion, it seems they became disoriented and ran through the gates, where they were—” Gallica paused for effect, “—attacked and beaten to death by the vicious gray-coated heathens who assaulted our fair basilica. Their bodies were stolen away during the ensuing tumult, likely to be desecrated by the undevoured heathens, and are thus lost to us. The Most High have chosen to honor these three martyred acolytes with nameplates on the Wall of the Lost.”

  The applause this time was somber and brief. Bastille knew this, too, was a lie. She had watched Brother Mortial and the others leave with the Scarred Comrades long before the day of the attack. Deceit upon deceit; falsehood upon falsehood, she thought. Liars, all. And now, she was prepared to become one of them.

  That night, in the great subterranean den beneath the basilica’s north wing, where the Mothers labored among the tombs and the Order’s most sacred ceremonies and rituals were held, Sister Bastille stood before the assemblage to pledge her life to the Most High Infernal Mouth as a member of the Esteemed. The initiates-turned-acolytes were arrayed across the stage’s limestone steps in their brand-new purple robes. Bastille stood before the altar, her own robes sullied with traces of the bloodstains she hadn’t been able to remove.

  Fires burned in braziers of hammered bronze, their shadows dancing along the carved stone pillars lining the room. Smoke vented from Brother Liero’s censer as he waved the bright golden canister around Sister Bastille’s head, enveloping her in a sweet flowery perfume. Bastille had been nervous earlier, but now that she was here, it all seemed so right. Despite what she had discovered about the Order’s true purpose, becoming one of the Esteemed was a great honor. She felt humbled to finally see the fruition of her hard work and dedication.

  When Brother Liero finished the commencement ritual, the lower priests and acolytes were dismissed. The outer doors were closed and barred. A panel opened in the wall behind the altar. Brother Liero led Bastille through the opening while those of the Esteemed classes filtered through behind them. Mothers Thayer and Vicault closed the panel, shutting everyone into the cramped inner sacristy.

  Ornate wooden cabinets ran along the chamber’s rear wall, their high peaks jutting beneath vaulted ceilings that made the room feel deceptively large. Spare robes hung from hooks on one side; cups and dishes containing sacramental materials lay on the counter. Brother Liero lowered his hood, prompting everyone else to do the same.

  “Those beyond our walls believe that the end of the world has come and gone,” said Brother Liero. “We alone know the truth behind such fallacies. The end has many names, but we are the keepers of its true name. Sister Bastille, you are here today to accept the knowledge of that name. You have chosen to give yourself wholly to the Order as one of the Esteemed. In doing so, you take up the mantle of ascendency and affirm your calling as Guardian of the False World. Repeat after me.”

  The high priest spoke the words, and Bastille repeated them. “Upon pain of death, I do swear to protect the secrets of the Order with my whole life, and with my unlife beyond. Nothing I say or do in the hallowed presence of the Esteemed from this day forth shall I repeat in the presence of any other. The secrets I protect are absolute. My life is forfeit in all things concerning their protection. As Esteemed Priestess of the Most High Order, I pledge to oppose the True World with every cord of my being, and to the fullest extent of my ability. The Aionach is the only world—the False World—and my actions are bound to its fate.”

  Liero blinked away a drop of stinging sweat and cleared his throat. “With this Arcadian Star, I hereby entrust to you, Sister Bastille, the fate of the False World. Kneel.”

  Bastille did as she was told, falling to one knee on the cold stone floor.

  “The name of the end is Arcadia. The key which opens paradise; the world the Aionach was meant to be.” He slipped the pendant around Bastille’s neck, and she felt the familiar weight of the three-pointed star come to rest between her breasts. “I now proclaim you benefactor of the false existence—past, present, and future. I grant you unrestricted privilege to the mysteries therein. Rise, Esteemed Sister, and go forth as Protector of the Aionach.”

  There were tears in Sister Dominique’s eyes when Bastille came to her feet. So the witch-woman really does believe in this hogwash, Bastille thought. I’ll waste no time in putting these unrestricted privileges of mine to good use.

  Her portion of the ceremony finished, Bastille took her place beside Liero as the Mothers and Fathers shuffled forward to be elevated. When it was Soleil’s turn, the old man stepped to the front and stood like a ruin, staring straight ahead with a sort of off-kilter slackness. He’d recovered well from his Enhancements, and he made no sound or movement as Brother Liero doused him with the sacraments and spoke the incantations.

  Good riddance to you, you old degenerate, Bastille wanted to say. Making you a Father is the best thing I’ve ever done. I hope some heathen skins you alive and chokes on the NewHeart I put inside you. It’s what you’d both deserve.

  When the ceremony was done, the Mothers opened the panel to let everyone back out into the larger, cooler sanctuary. Sister Bastille felt no different now that she was one of the Esteemed, in the same way a birthday seldom makes one feel a year older in an instant. Still, part of her knew the answers she’d been seeking were at her fingertips now, closer than they’d ever been. I’ll find out what it all means; I’ll learn the secrets of the past and uncover the Aionach’s fate, she resolved. This paradise that was meant to be. Then, and only then, will I decide whether it’s worth protecting.

  From the nine new acolytes, Sister Bastille selected two. The first was the frail blonde woman who had eaten the mouse during the devouring ritual. Her sacred name was Sister Severin. She was scrappy and uncultured, and Bastille liked that. The woman might have a strong stomach, but she’d have trouble grasping the anatomical and scientific concepts behind the Enhancements.

  The second acolyte she chose was the dreadlo
cked Farstrander, whom the Order had named Brother Travers, and whom Bastille had pinned as keen but plodding. She chose him for precisely that reason; if there was a hidden spark of intelligence somewhere in that head of his, he seemed at first blush to be far too dull to use it. She’d have little trouble teaching these two at a snail’s pace, she predicted.

  She did not start them off by giving live demonstrations, as Soleil had done with her. They would learn slower, she decided, if she shoved a stack of books in their faces and forced them to study. They would have no choice but to respect her teaching methods, lackluster though they might be. The first week of classes, however, proved her prediction sorely mistaken.

  On the first day, Brother Travers was tardy. He strolled in half an hour late as if no one were waiting on him, long knotted dreads swaying about his shoulders. Bastille looked up from where she was washing and polishing her instruments.

  “You do realize you’re quite late,” she said.

  “Yup,” he said, sliding onto the high stool next to Sister Severin.

  “And why is that, Brother Travers?”

  He shrugged, drumming his fingers on the table. Sister Severin’s eyes cut away from the pages of her book to stare at him. She frowned, wholly distracted.

  “Choose a book and start reading,” said Bastille.

  “Huh?”

  “You do know how to read… don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I suggest you begin doing so now.”

  Brother Travers slapped his hand onto a heavy tome and dragged it toward himself across the table with a look of utter disinterest. Flicking the front cover open, he yawned, then gave a loud sigh that made Sister Severin glare at him out of the corner of her eye. Travers pinched a cluster of pages between his fingers and fanned them off his thumbnail, smiling at the zippy fluttering sound they made. When Bastille glanced up again, Travers was looking around the room through distant, half-closed eyes as if searching for a way to amuse himself.