Amish Vampires in Space (64 page)

Crusader snapped his arm up and fired, catching the former Deacon between the eyes. The elderly man crumpled. Crusader stared down at his dead body, making sure that the parrot got a good image to prove he had succeeded. He turned and walked back through the carnage. A brief check on Balaam. Still out. Crusader grunted. Hadn’t meant to hit him so hard.

Then it was down the stairs to the ruined front door. He touched his shoulder, his cheek, dabbing at the blood. The flow had stopped. He rubbed his fingers together, spreading the fluid evenly over their tips, and stared at the crimson stain.

He paused in the ruined doorway. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and drew his palm across a jagged piece of metal. The skin tickled. He pulled his hand away, turned it over. Blood welled up in the new cut. But that was it. The tingle, the blood. Nothing more.

Crusader stared at his palm for a few seconds more before releasing his held breath. He knew nothing would happen. He still had to try. He rubbed the blood onto his pant leg and stepped over the threshold, leaving the mission behind.

“And will you, Horatio Siseal,
perform the duties of Deacon of Ministrix Intelligence to the best of your God-given abilities? Will you continue to comport your life with the same purity, chastity, and devotion that have marked you as an instrument of the Almighty’s Divine Will?”

Crusader glanced up from his sketch. The hologram of Siseal’s investiture filled the center of the pub. Although Siseal was only an illusion here, Crusader still got a good read on his new supervisor. Siseal wasn’t as old as Palti. Tall, straight backed, almost regal in his features, he exuded steely confidence.

In the hologram, Siseal met the Revered Hand’s gaze with his own cold eyes. “I shall with the help of God.”

The Revered Hand stepped back. He looked somewhat frail and withered, but fire still burned in his eyes. Several Intelligence sub-deacons darted forward. Crusader recognized a few of them: abd al Sami, in charge of Research and Development; Cuvier, who headed Information Control; Ramirez, overseer of Counterintelligence. They draped Siseal with the raiments of his office: the straight iron staff, the deep blue stole, the gilded cross with ruby starburst. The transformation was complete. Siseal was now Deacon of Ministrix Intelligence and Crusader’s superior.

More than that. Although it wasn’t directly stated, Siseal was also the heir apparent for the Revered Hand himself. Statistics didn’t lie. In the past two centuries, the Deacon of Ministrix Intelligence took up the mantle when a Revered Hand died every time but twice.

“Someone turn that junk off.”

Crusader examined the crowd in the bar, locating the offending individual. An asteroid miner by the looks of him, dingy from hours in a cramped drill-suit. He and his friends crowded around a table and sneered at the holographic well in the middle of the room.

“This ain’t no Ministrix post.” The miner’s voice was slurred from too much drink. “Who cares what Lord High Fancy-Pants there is now? Don’t make a quantum’s cuss worth of difference to any of us here. ’Sides, that mess happened a month ago.”

Crusader rose from his booth and started for the miners’ table. With each step, he prioritized his targets. Four men. An easy fight if it came to it. The one with his back to the wall would be the most dangerous. His thick arms crossed over a barrel-like chest. But he noticed Crusader’s approach and averted his gaze. He wouldn’t interfere.

Neither would the others. They spotted Crusader coming and nudged the complainer. The miner finally turned and looked up.

Crusader leaned in close. “I’m watching that.”

Sweat erupted across the man’s brow. “Then enjoy yourself, sir, as will we.” With a trembling hand, he raised his glass in a salute.

Crusader fixed his gaze on each of the man’s companions to ensure that none of them would attack when he turned away. Doubtful they would.

He plodded back to his seat and watched as the rest of the ceremony played out. The Revered Hand placed his hands on Siseal’s bowed head and muttered inaudible words, then loudly declared him invested in his office. No one in the Cathedral of Light applauded. The occasion was too serious for that.

Crusader glanced at his waitress and signaled for a refill. She brought him the water just as Siseal began his homily, a glowing endorsement of the Ministrix’s efforts to expand the reign of Christ to all civilized worlds. “The universe is His, for He made it. And it is He who founded His True Church, the Ministrix, and given us His authority. He has given us a mandate to bring all into our ranks and it is a duty we dare not shirk. While we face many obstacles within and without, we shall prevail. We must prevail. For His sharp sickle is almost in His hand and He waits for us to begin the harvest.”

Siseal continued his speech but Crusader tuned him out. What Siseal said was nothing new. Crusader had heard it all before. Instead, he turned his attention to the bar. He had no mission here. But he could earn extra favor if he brought justice to a truly unrepentant sinner. The miners? No, they ignored him. The bartender? He was surely a sinner, but in no obvious ways.

Crusader’s gaze fell on a young woman who entered the bar, a basket tucked under her arm. His eyes narrowed. Her clothing was just baggy enough to conceal her figure. And her hair, black as space, was barely restrained by a simple tie. A prostitute perhaps, dressed modestly to avoid detection? Crusader’s fingers flexed. That wouldn’t be much, but every bit helped.

No, wait. She sat at the bar, setting the basket on a stool next to her. She reached inside and fiddled with something, the edge of a rich blue blanket peeking over the edge. Tiny hands darted up toward her and she smiled, her tired expression melting to one of happiness. She turned to the bartender and spoke a few words. The man’s sour face wavered. Then he sighed and stepped away. When he came back, he set a tray in front of her, a steaming bowl with two pale white biscuits. The woman said something else, her posture relaxing. Then she dove into the food, pausing occasionally to check on her child.

Crusader’s fingers relaxed. Not a viable target. Yet he couldn’t stop watching her. The image pricked his mind. His hand darted into his pack and pulled out his charcoal pencils and a blank sheet of paper. He drank in the way the neon illuminated her hair, creating a halo that danced as she tore off hunks of bread.

Crusader roughed out her face and her hair. He then added some gentle strokes, trying to reproduce the halo effect on the paper. He smudged one of the lines and grunted. Almost. Not quite perfect. He glanced at his subject again, letting his gaze drift across her lips, down her graceful neck. His fingers skimmed the paper, leaving delicate trails that slowly converged into the woman. Crusader leaned back, comparing his recreation with the woman.

He frowned. It was a reasonable resemblance. Yet, there was something wrong. The face was off. Something didn’t fit. The nose? The shape of her eyes? What was wrong?

Needles danced down the back of his head and across his spine. He froze, focusing on the sensation. Would he finally…?

No. The sensation was gone. He sighed, stashing the pencils back in his pack.

The parrot chirruped on his shoulder, indicating an incoming call. He waved his hand over the booth’s privacy controls. A screen slid out of the wall and surrounded the table. The noise died and the crowd disappeared.

Crusader tapped the parrot and a hologram appeared above the table, depicting an inverted steel triangle imposed on a starfield, the symbol of the Ministrix. It took a moment for the parrot to decrypt the data stream. When it did, the logo dissolved into a severe looking man, the same one he had seen in the holographic pit a few minutes earlier.

Crusader stiffened to attention. “Deacon Siseal.”

“Be at ease, Crusader. How has your leave suited you?”

“I am ready to serve, sir.”

Siseal’s narrow face pinched into a smirk. “As I thought. Know that the Revered Hand appreciates your aid in dealing with my predecessor. Palti surely faces a more stern Judge than any he would have in this life.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are yet more who must answer for their sins in this case. You know that Palti succumbed to the most odious heresy, correct?”

It wasn’t really a question, but Crusader nodded anyway. Some dared question the Ministrix’s rightful role as God’s chosen people, not in the way the atheistic Praesidium did. Instead, a heretical belief had spread through the lower ranks of the Ministrix. Crusader hadn’t studied those beliefs in depth. That was outside his duties. But he had heard his colleagues whisper about it.

“Our analysts sifted every iota of data in Palti’s files and have discovered his link to the heretics. That they dared to pollute someone so close to the Hand with their lies is an affront to us all. You must track down the one who corrupted him and eliminate her.”

A woman? No problem. Crusader had carried out similar assignments in the past. A target was a target. There was no longer Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male nor female. All would meet justice by His hand. Crusader was merely the instrument of His wrath.

“Very good, sir. Orders?”

“You are to leave immediately for Tower Station. Inquisitor will meet you there with the mission parameters. Questions?”

Crusader hesitated. The Ministrix always provided him with sufficient information but there was one detail he wished to know immediately.

“Will I be working with a partner again?”

Siseal laughed, a hard chuckle. “No, this mission will be yours alone.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Do your best. Stick to the mission parameters, and you shall earn more favor.”

The image blurred and vanished.

Crusader retracted the privacy screen, gathered up his belongings, and walked to the bar. He fished a credit chit out of his pocket, pressing it to the access slot to pay for his drinks. He turned to his left, meeting the gaze of the woman. She dipped her head almost immediately to avoid his gaze.

Crusader considered leaving, but hesitated. He fingered the sketch’s edges. Incomplete as it was, he knew it was wrong and always would be. No reason to keep it. He walked down the length of the bar and set it before the woman.

She looked at it, and then him, with wide eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Crusader waited for some sort of response within. Perhaps his heart rate would increase. Perhaps his cheeks would warm. Something. Anything.

He found only the numbness.

He turned and walked out of the bar. As he worked his way through the space port, he did the math. It would take five days to reach Tower Station by public transport. If only the Ministrix had provided a private ship for him this time. It would make his job that much easier. But surely Deacon Siseal knew how long he’d need to make it to Tower. Inquisitor would wait for his arrival. Or since Siseal arranged this, Inquisitor and Crusader would likely arrive within an hour of each other.

Didn’t matter. In five days, Crusader would have his target. He hoped she spent her last days well. Once he was on her trail, she wouldn’t last long.

To purchase
Numb
, go
here
.

Achan stumbled through the darkness toward the barn. The morning cold sent shivers through his threadbare orange tunic. He clutched a wooden milking pail at his side and held a flickering torch in front to light his way.

He wove between dark cottages in the outer bailey of the castle, mindful to keep his torch clear of the thatched roofs. Most of the residents of Sitna still slept. Only a few of the twenty-some peasants, slaves, and strays serving Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon stirred at this hour.

Sitna Manor sat on the north side of the Sideros River. A brownstone curtain wall, four levels high, enclosed the stronghold. A second wall sectioned off the outer bailey from the inner bailey, temple, and keep. Achan wasn't allowed to enter the inner bailey but occasionally snuck inside when he felt compelled to leave an offering at Cetheria's temple.

The barn loomed ahead of him in the darkness. It was one of the largest structures in Sitna Manor. It was long and narrow, with a high, thatched gable roof. Achan shifted the pail to his torch hand and tugged the heavy door open. It scraped over the frosty dirt. He darted inside and pulled it closed.

The scent of hay and manure drifted on the chilled air. He walked to the center and slid the torch into an iron ring on a load-bearing post. The timber walls stymied the bitter wind, and Achan's shivering lessened.

The torch cast a golden glow over the hay pile, posts, and rafters and made Achan's orange tunic look brown. A long path stretched the length of the barn with stalls on each side penning chickens, geese, pigs, and goats. Two empty stalls in the center housed hay and feed. He approached the goat stall.

"Morning, Dilly, Peg. How are my girls? Got lots of milk for me?"

The goats bleated their greetings. Achan rubbed his hands together until they were warm enough to avoid getting him kicked. He perched on the icy stool to milk Dilly and begin his tedious routine. He could have worse jobs, though, and he liked the goats.