The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (61 page)

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
lamps 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?”

“Sister… Bastille,” he said, recognizing her with a faint
smile. “I’m… so glad you’re here. I know you’ll… make me proud, won’t you.”

“We’re going to put you under now, Brother Soleil. You’re not
going to feel a thing until you wake up, okay?”

He nodded. “Thank you, kind Sister. Thank you for doing
this.”

“It’s nothing at all,” Bastille said. “You rest, now.” She
motioned to Sister Mareau, who pierced the wax seal on the intravenous line and
began to push in the anesthesia.

Bastille yawned beneath her sterile facemask. She selected a
scalpel and lifted Brother Soleil’s nose with her thumb to find the incision
point. Soleil’s eyes began to close as the anesthesia took him. All Bastille
could think about was how wonderful it must have felt for Soleil, knowing he
would wake up undevoured. This was what he wanted. It was what he had been
wanting for years: the chance to remain.

Long life, and the tools with which to obtain it, were in
ever-shortening supply. Perhaps Bastille shouldn’t have faulted the Order itself
for the sins of its servants. Perhaps the Order wasn’t the important thing at
all, and it was the melding of Brother Soleil’s undevoured soul with these
machines that was the ideal. There was temptation in it—the thought of being
made more whole than the human body could ever manage.
Yes
, she decided.
Brother Soleil will trade his body of flesh for one of artifice. Even if the
Infernal Mouth doesn’t exist, Soleil will achieve glory in the completion of
his intended purpose, and he will remain undevoured.

Bastille set her blade below the left nostril, where she
would begin the first step in the lengthy process that lay before her. She
wasn’t thinking about the incision, or even about the procedure
itself.
The culmination of all Brother Soleil’s years of service is at hand,
and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s worse than a heathen, for all he’s done
.
Once
Soleil takes a Nexus, I become the last person alive with the ability to
perform the Enhancements. Soleil’s life is in my care, and mine alone. I choose
whether he lives or dies. This isn’t up to fate; it’s up to me
.

Bastille’s hand trembled, along with her will. The scalpel
was razor-sharp. Soleil’s skin was stretched and pale, tender and vulnerable.
If
Brother Soleil wants forever
, she promised
, then forever is what I’ll
give him
.

Bastille cut.

CHAPTER 55

Aftermath

Through the lens of Merrick’s filtermask, the world was
yellow-tinged and three shades too dark, but the carnage would’ve been just as
devastating in any color. Every one of the Gray Revenants who’d gone into the
church was dead. Now, he could only watch from his hiding place, tucked into
the roofline of a three-story school building, as the strange warrior-priests
dragged Caliber’s lifeless body away.

As well-armed and experienced as they were, Merrick had never
dreamed that the Revenants could suffer such a crushing defeat. It had sounded
so easy, to hear Caliber tell of the secretive, tranquil community behind those
high stone walls. Yet the religious zealots had somehow managed to defeat them
without superior firepower or numbers. The idea of bringing down Wax’s regime
seemed a lost hope now, a feat that was truly as impossible as Merrick had once
believed.

The warrior-priests prowled the walls with leaden resolve. Merrick
had seen several of them take shots to the chest, yet they moved as though they
felt no pain. Whatever force it was that fueled them, it made him nervous. If
they could ignore their wounds and fight with such unyielding brutality, there
was no telling what else they might be able to do. After what he’d seen them do
to his fellow Revenants, he wasn’t interested in finding out. He slipped from
his hiding place, leaving the church, the battle, and the bodies of his fallen
brothers behind.

The Revs had moved the bulk of their forces to the run-down
Fantique Theater in southwest Belmond. Merrick regrouped with the others there,
entering beneath the grand sign bordered in a rectangle of scorched and broken lightbulbs
that read STE HEN SALISBU Y PRES NTS THE SOUTHCAPE CH MBER ORCHE TRA in tilted
black marquee lettering.

The passage of decades had not stolen the smell of upper
class sensibilities from the lobby walls; the musk of furs, the stale astringency
of the elderly, or the sweet flowery scent of expensive perfume. In Concert
Hall B, the smells were stronger. Sweat and blood, skinned concrete knees and aching
leather. The men were strewn across the folding seats from front row to back,
dressing their wounds and cleaning their gear. Somewhere up in the balcony, a
woman was moaning while one of the men had his way with her.

Merrick was still a fledgling in the group; Caliber had not
yet made him a Gray Revenant, and he was in no position to take charge. But
after the defeat they’d sustained today, there was a hole; Caliber’s death had
left a vacancy that needed to be filled.
I’ll find a way to inspire them,
even in a time like this
, Merrick told himself.
That’s what Wax would do
if he were here. Soon the Revs will love me just like the comrades love him
.

Merrick came down the aisle and trotted up the steps that led
onto the stage. His boots echoed on the black painted hardwood, a surface that
seemed to swallow the light from the makeshift torches along the walls. Looking
out over the tired remains of the group, he couldn’t believe how few of them
were left. It was as dim on the stage as it was out in the stands. There was no
warm spotlight to make him stand out in his viewers’ eyes, yet he could see
each pair of eyes shining back at him from the dark.

Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to say. His
mouth began to go dry. His throat felt scratchy, and his hands were already
cold and clammy. He cleared his throat, gulped. “Friends,” he said. His voice
broke like a pre-pubescent boy’s, and the word came out in half a squeak.
“Friends,” he tried again. It was better this time. “Today, we’ve been
humbled.”

“And we don’t need you telling us about it,” someone shouted.

That rattled Merrick’s nerves even more. He wondered if Pilot
Wax ever got this nervous during one of his speeches, or if he’d ever been
heckled.

At least they’re listening
. “We lost lots of good
dways, who we’ll never be able to honor with proper burials. Caliber, Leuk,
Varner, Ferriss, Draich, Rapter… good men. If you know the name of someone
who’s died today, call it out.”

There came a chorus of names from every corner of the room,
spoken with fondness.

Okay, good. We’re getting them involved. On our side
.
“To me, what happened today is just proof that things in this city are worse
than they’ve ever been. The balance of power is no balance at all. The Scarred
Comrades control everything. They
have
everything, and we have nothing.
The savages come in here and take what they want, and the Scarred give us no
protection from them.”

Someone else spoke up, a dark-eyed man called Peymer, with
thick eyebrows and wavy black hair. “The nomads bring good trade here. They’ve
been stealing from the caravans more than ever lately, and that’s to our
benefit. We don’t need the city north’s protection from them. We need the city
north gone.”

Several of the others voiced their agreement.

Peymer was right. Merrick had always been taught that the
nomads were the enemy, the biggest threat to peace and order in the city north.
But to the southers, the nomads were a welcome part of society. A necessary
part, in some ways.

“Okay,” Merrick said. “I agree with you. The only thing the
city north cares about is the city north. They’re in it for themselves. We’re
fighting over scraps down here while they live like kings. Well, I say, enough.
We’re not gonna live like this anymore. It’s time we saw the start of a new
era. We might be beaten for today, but we’re far from done bringing balance to
this city. Until the day when that dream becomes real, I won’t stop chasing it.
Will you?”

There was scattered applause. A few men even cheered.

Merrick smiled, confidence swelling inside him. It was
fitting, he decided, that he be standing on a stage at a moment like this.
Today
is the day my story begins. Things will never be the same for me again after today.
With the Revenants behind me, it won’t be long before the city south is behind
me, too. I’ll be a better Commissar than Pilot Wax could ever hope to be
. Merrick
even went so far as to tell himself that he’d always had the capacity for
greatness, even before he knew about his gift. “I know you’re ready to go this
distance with me,” he said. “The Scarred won’t have their hold over us for
long.”

“Why should we listen to you? You used to
be
one of
them,” shouted Rhetton, a man in his late fifties whose graying brown beard
surrounded several missing teeth.

“Sure, I used to be,” Merrick admitted. He felt his hands get
clammy and his throat go dry again. “I got banished to the city south because I
defied Commissar Wax. I’m here because I’m just like the rest of you. I dared
to stand up and oppose him. I’ve done as much for the cause as you have, old
man. More, if you count standing face-to-face with Pilot Wax and
telling him it was time he gave up his seat.”

“You did what you did. I didn’t see it. These dways didn’t
see it either. And I won’t be led into another deathtrap by a kid who’s younger
than the hairs on my mustache.”

“I speak,” said Oban, a baggy-eyed man with a long face, a
thin nose, and thinning hair to match. Oban lifted two fingers into the air. A
few others did the same.

“I’m not leading anyone to their deaths who hasn’t signed up
for it. Caliber is dead. Leuk is dead. Who’s going to take their place? Do it
yourself if you like, but remember—I’m the one who knows about the city north.
I know Pilot Wax, and I know all about the Scarred Comrades.”

When Rhetton stood, his seat flapped closed, squeaking. “You
can know all you want about the Scarred. The Gray Revenants are bigger than you
realize,
comrade
. You’ve been among us for a week, maybe two. In that
time, you haven’t proved a thing to me except that you’re another mouth to feed
and another back to clothe. We don’t know you, and I don’t trust you. You don’t
know who we are. You haven’t learned the half of what it means to be a
Revenant. Now… me and the dways here will ask you to be a good comrade, take a
seat, and keep your mouth shut until you do.”

“I speak,” shouted Oban and several others, saluting.

Merrick began to despair.
This is not going the way I
pictured it. How will I win the love of an entire city if I can’t even win over
the room? If I don’t have the support of these men, I have nothing
. He was
starting to worry that the only way he’d ever gain anyone’s allegiance was to
reveal his gift. There were wounded men all around him, and yet he couldn’t
bring himself to heal them.
It’s too easy to become a commodity when you
have something everyone wants. I’ll do it the hard way; I’ll prove myself
without showing them my gift. I’ll earn their trust. I’m not a tyrant. I’m not
a bad dway, and I’m not just some hotshot kid who thinks he’s better than
everybody else. Better than Wax, maybe, but not too good to be a worthy part of
this group
.

Even as Merrick tried to encourage himself, the voice of
doubt slithered in like a serpent.
You
are
just a kid, by their
standards. You said you would prove yourself to the Scarred time and time
again, but each time you failed worse than the last. You’ll never prove
anything except that you’re a lost cause. You’re twenty-four years old and your
stint in Mobile Ops was the high point of your life
. “What’s next, then?”
Merrick said. “What are we doing with ourselves now that we’ve suffered a
defeat? If there’s more to the Revenants than I know, tell me. Tell me
everything there is to know.”

“What we do next,” said Rhetton, “is nurse our wounds.
Nothing need be decided ‘til we’re done lickin’ ‘em. Impatience like yours’ll
get you thrown out of here faster’n you can blink. Caliber ain’t around to
coddle you like a whelp anymore. Now sit down, and let the dways who did the
real fighting worry about how they’re gonna stop bleeding.”

Merrick trudged down the stage steps and flung himself into a
seat, defeated.
There’s a difference between impatience and ambition, old
man
, he wanted to say. There were lots of things he wanted to say, but none
of them would get him anywhere with these Revs, the shadows masquerading as
men.

A hand came to rest on Merrick’s shoulder. “I believe in
Merrick Bouchard.”

Merrick turned to find Cluspith seated in the row behind him,
an austere man with a high forehead, a narrow chin and wide-set eyes. Cluspith
was always moving his lips, even when he wasn’t speaking with anyone, and there
was a permanent look of concern or skepticism in his eyes. He was wearing the
long leather duster of the Gray Revenants, but Merrick had never seen him
carrying a weapon.

“You believe in me,” Merrick repeated, to be sure.

Cluspith muttered to himself and looked at the floor.
“Merrick Bouchard knows the city north. We have the intuition and Merrick
Bouchard has the proximity. Merrick Bouchard is green, but he knows how to take
the upper hand. Yes. I speak.” He held up two fingers, though no one else was
listening to him.

Merrick tried to make eye contact. “Cluspith?”

“Mmhmm. Yes, Merrick Bouchard.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying.”

“I was offering Merrick Bouchard a liberal portion of
approval. I relish and savor Merrick Bouchard’s instruments and components.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Cluspith.”

“There you are, Clus,” said his brother Swydiger, coming over
to sit with them. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to. I’m sorry if he’s
bothering you, Merrick.”

“Oh, not at all. Don’t worry about it. Clus just came over to
give me some encouragement after my big foul-up. Didn’t you?”

Cluspith rocked in his chair. “Merrick Bouchard knows his
stuff.”

Swydiger laughed. “He’s quoting me, I think. He’s been
restless all morning. I wouldn’t let him come on the raid, and he’s been asking
about Leuk ever since we got back. He really liked Leuk. I don’t know what to
tell him.”

“Leuk is a good dway,” said Cluspith, nodding.

“That’s right,” Swydiger agreed.

“Leuk has a ‘fernal-may-care attitude about this
shate
.”

“Clus. Language,” Swydiger said. He had the same facial shape
as his twin brother, but his forehead and eye separation were less pronounced.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Cluspith.

“What do you say?”

“Sorry to Merrick Bouchard. Sorry to Swydiger Porter.”

“There you go. Thanks, buddy.” Swy put a calming hand on the
back of his brother’s neck.

Cluspith’s mouth stretched into a plastic smile, then snapped
straight again. “Swydiger is welcome.”

“I’m with you on this whole thing, by the way,” Swy said.

“What do you mean, carrying on the crusade Caliber started to
assassinate Wax?”

Swy nodded. “And doing it while the time is right. The more
effort we spend turning over rocks looking for ancient relics downtown, the
less we’ll have left to tackle the big ones. Like Wax.”

“Half these dways are a hair’s breadth away from giving up on
the city north altogether,” Merrick said. “They’d rather keep patrolling the
south like some renegade police force, breaking up gangs and burning down zoom
labs. That’s all fine work, but how can they not realize that the city south will
never be what the north is while the borders stay closed? We have twice the
people and half the resources down here.”

“I think most of them know that,” said Swydiger. “It’s just
easier for them to ignore the north than to deal with it. As long as they have
food in their bellies and enough lowlifes to sell to the nomads as slaves, why
should they care?”

“Because Wax’s shadow gets longer every year. He’s got plans
to expand again. Right now, land area is the only thing the south has more of
than the north, besides people. Soon this will all be Scarred territory, and
we’ll be crawling all over each other for an empty patch of pavement to stand
on.”