S. Swann - Prophets

The last man received a bullet in the side of his helmet at the same time a razor-fine stream of flechettes tore across his throat, melting his armor and most of his neck in a cloud of blood and metallic vapor.

Nickolai leaped down from the top of the wall, a deep growl resonating in his chest. As Kugara got up from her crouch, he asked her, “Do you have more ammo for that weapon?”

“Only one clip; I wasn’t expecting an ambush.”

“Grab a gun from them,” Nickolai said. “We need to leave.”

She reached down and grabbed a gamma laser from one of the disabled soldiers. She pulled the faceplate off the disarmed man and stared into his face. “Fuck,” she said.

Around her, about half the men groaned. The one Nickolai had gut-shot rolled over on his back and fumbled clumsily for his weapon.

“None of you move,” Nickolai growled, gun braced. He aimed, but didn’t fire. He only had four shots left in the magazine. Fortunately, the man stopped moving.

“Kugara, move!”

Kugara backed away from the man on the ground, shaking her head. “I know these guys,” she whispered. Her voice got harder. “I worked with these guys! I was part of this unit!”

“Not anymore,” Nickolai told her. He stepped forward, looking at the man who had tried to grab a gun. Nickolai’s slug had pancaked against his armor, but that was the extent of his injury. He was probably in the best shape of the men left back here. Nickolai kicked the man’s weapon away and dragged him to his feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Do you know this one?”

She walked over and removed the helmet, revealing a light-skinned man with graying hair and a bushy mustache.

“Wolfe?” she whispered.

“Nothing personal, Julie,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Nickolai.

“Lead us out of here,” Nickolai told her.

“What are you doing with him?” Kugara asked.

“He needs to answer a question or two.”

She stared at him a moment, then quietly said, “Yeah.” She backed past the fallen men, covering them with the laser. She looked around and pointed with her other hand toward a narrow accessway that ran behind a suddenly empty series of storefronts. “That way.”

Nickolai followed, pulling the stumbling Wolfe after him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Limbo

Faith is the first casualty of economics.

—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom

A bad peace is even worse than war.

—Cornelius TACITUS (55-130)

Date: 2525.11.22 (Standard) Bakunin-BD+50°1725

Fortunately for Mallory’s spiritual well-being, Staff Sergeant Fitzpatrick, like 80 percent of the Occisis military, was Roman Catholic. So it didn’t threaten his cover to spend his early morning hours attending the Church of St. Thomas More, the only traditional Catholic Church in Proudhon.

Mallory had discovered that, despite Bakunin’s origin in a strain of socialist anarchism that viewed organized religion with the same zealous hatred as they did the State, the planet’s current incarnation was much more tolerant of the former than the latter. In fact, just searching a directory for a house of worship he had found nearly a hundred “Catholic” churches. Almost all of which represented some splinter faith or apostate creed, ranging from Vodoun variants to a conservative sect that held to Latin service, mortification of the flesh, and the denial of nonhumans into the Kingdom of God.

But the Church of St. Thomas More recognized the same pope Mallory did, and fortunately the recognition was mutual.

The church itself was a windowless ferrocrete-and-steel structure that looked as if it started life as some sort of maintenance structure, perhaps a power substation. The building made up for the lack of architectural detail by being wrapped in a massive mural showing the Stations of the Cross in sequence around the walls of the building. The artist had used some sort of active paint, so each scene looped through a simple animation; in one scene Jesus repeatedly falls under the weight of the cross; in another, a Roman soldier pounds a nail into Jesus’ hand over and over; in another, His body is taken down, repeatedly, never reaching the ground.

Above the entrance, He is placed in his tomb. As Mallory entered, the picture showed Jesus rising and taking a step toward the sealed doorway. Unlike Mallory, the painted Christ never reaches the entrance.

Inside, the layout was more utilitarian; no giant distracting murals, just a large crucifix on the wall above the altar bearing an elongated and strangely antiseptic Christ carved in unpainted black hardwood. Mass had yet to start, and people were still finding their seats on the long pews. Mallory stopped by the basin and crossed himself before finding an unobtrusive seat in the back.

He couldn’t help thinking how appalled this diocese’s namesake would be at the very nature of Bakunin. Mallory suspected that, despite the protests of Bakunin’s socialist founders, Thomas More, the man who wrote Utopia, a man who prized harmony and order, would find on this planet its antithesis.

When the priest came to officiate, Mallory did his best to abandon his worldly thoughts. He didn’t know what was ahead of him, but he had an uneasy feeling that this could be the last chance he would have to receive communion in the Church.

The unease redoubled when he walked back down the aisle after receiving the Eucharist. Sitting next to the aisle, alone on a pew, was Jusuf Wahid. Mallory wanted to ignore the man. He didn’t like the feeling of his spiritual life mixing with the fictitious Fitzpatrick’s.

Wahid gave him no choice.

Mallory walked past Wahid’s pew without acknowledging the man’s presence. However, as soon as he walked by, Wahid stood and slipped into the returning line behind Mallory. “Keep going toward the door,” he whispered, breath hot and sour against the side of his neck.

Mallory tried to gauge Wahid’s intent, but he couldn’t get a feel from his whisper. It could have been a threat, a request, or a plea.

Mallory kept walking past all the pews and went outside ahead of Wahid. As soon as they got outside, Mallory turned around to face him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving our asses, Fitz.” He pushed Mallory’s shoulder, turning him toward an aircar that was parked crooked on the pedestrian walkway in front of the church.

“What are you talking about?”

“Apparently, our boss has a good reason for hiring us.” He ran over to the aircar, pushed back the canopy, and jumped in. “Come on,” Wahid hooked a thumb at the rear seat.

Mallory climbed in and found himself next to a duffel bag. The top was partly unzipped, and inside he could see the barrel of some sort of plasma weapon.

The aircar lifted off before the canopy had closed completely. Looking over the seat in front, Mallory could see a similar duffel bag resting on the seat next to Wahid.

“What’s going on?” Mallory asked.

“Someone has taken objection to Mr. Mosasa’s little field trip. The lady and the tiger were ambushed last night.”

“What? Kugara and Rajasthan? Are they all right?”

Wahid slid the aircar into the frenetic mess that passed for air traffic in Proudhon. The dashboard began a plaintive beeping as proximity alarms began calling for attention that never came. “They’re fine,” he said as he pulled the aircar up in a climb to pass above a slow-moving taxi. “I think the frank bitch might have cut herself. They took out a hit team of at least ten guys with a pair of effing handguns. And they took prisoners. You believe that?”

For some reason, Mallory thought about what Parvi had said last night about Mosasa.