The next morning begins in the ambrosia tanks. I don’t know how long we stay in there, floating in the honey-like liquid with oxygen masks over our faces. I keep my eyes closed as if to sleep but it prickles across my nude body. It’s not painful- it’s warm and dense, like a heavy duvet wrapped around me- but it’s just enough stimulation to make rest impossible.
The ambrosia dulls my senses enough that I almost don’t hear the door to the clinic shut. I do hear something faintly clicking around my tank. I jolt to attention. Even with my ears full of honey I know that sound. Opening my eyes, I discern the murky silhouettes of attendants outside, smudges of black lost in a world of amber. One silhouette passes by the glass door of my tank, posture straight as a spear. The Proxy.
She says something as she leaves my line of sight.
Beneath me, a sealed grate in the tank floor thunks open. The ambrosia begins to drain, pulling me gently down with it. It sucks at my ears as it inches down my head and runs tacky hands down my body. I settle with my head and shoulder against the steel side wall and drift down to rest against its base. Heat still pinches my skin through the thin layer coating me.
Outside one of the attendants asks, hesitantly, “Is this about the factories?”
The Proxy begins, “That isn’t a problem for the Virt—”
She’s cut off when a plate in the ceiling rasps open and a shower head hidden within hisses to life. I always flinch when the lukewarm water hits me, irritating my thaumaturgy scars and peeling away the leftover ambrosia. More than anything though, I’m faintly distressed by Proxy’s voice being cut off. Her word is our Queen’s word.
Wiping hair and thinning sludge out of my eyes, I look through the glass door again, squinting to see through the gold-brown fingers of residue streaking down it. I make out the group of attendants in white-and-green robes, bustling about the clinic. The Proxy, in her ivory jacket with her fair hair up in a tight bun, stands talking with one. “They’ll be ready for tonight, I trust.”
I quiver, excited. A chance to serve Her again, so soon? We only got back from the Salient yesterday.
“Of course, Officer,” replies the attendant. “They were a little worse for wear, but that’s to be expected after such a deployment.”
“Hm.” The Proxy turns away to another tank. Within it, the blurred form of one of my sisters rises to her knees to peer back out. “I’m not sure Her Grace expected that.”
“Well, whatever happened to the plans for portable tanks?”
The Proxy counters, “Whatever happened to the plans to increase ambrosia production? The tanks won’t do much without that.”
I sit up, prettily with my back straight and hands folded in my lap, hoping she’ll come to me next. The Proxy’s attention is Her attention. Songs of praise roil in my lungs, praise for our Queen and her closest retainer. But we Virtues are sworn to silence.
The attendant shrinks. “That’s... A complicated matter, Officer.”
“You’ll figure it out.” The Proxy snaps her fingers. “Release them.”
The water stops. An attendant comes to each of our tanks, undoing the locks on the outside and then passing in a towel and our masks before scurrying away. They’re afraid of us, I know. If their fear was a problem, however, our Queen or her Proxy would have addressed it. I replace the oxygen mask with mine and stand to dry off. The sickly sweet smell of the ambrosia lingers in the humid air.
After allowing us a few moments, the Proxy announces, “I have wonderful news, Virtues.”
We all freeze.
The heels of her boots click against the tile as she walks a slow circuit of the clinic. “The Goddess has sent our choir a new sister. You will retrieve her from the agricultural sector tonight.”
***
A new sister brings complicated feelings. More of us means we’ll serve better. We four can turn the tide of a battle. What will five be able to do? But it also means more competition. She may be swifter than me. She may be stronger, more focused. She may surpass me. I do what I can to push my fears down. What matters is that we serve well.
Just before sundown we load into the back of an armored truck, joined by the Proxy, and set out through Cratavn. Where we sit is a steel box, without windows and with only a dim electric light in the center of the ceiling. I already feel sweat prickling within my armor. The Proxy leans out under the light, jotting something down in a notebook she balances on her knee. Through the walls we can hear the muffled voices of the city- car engines growling past, horse hooves clopping against brick streets, pedestrians chattering. Their voices melt together into a mire I can’t get hold of.
In time the sounds of the city’s heart fade away, and the truck pauses a moment for the inner wall’s gate to groan open. It’s quiet then, until the pungent smog of the industrial sector hits my nose. Then we hear the shouting. Distant at first, before the truck slows down and it becomes a clamor surrounding us. Dozens, maybe hundreds of voices in an uproar, punctured every so often by the piercing trill of a city guard’s whistle. We all glance over at the Proxy but she’s still just writing.
Something thuds against the outside of the truck just beside Imeshan’s head. She twitches, her raven waves drifting in front of her eyes a moment. A moment later there’s another impact against the back doors, and then another closer to me, the metal vibrating against my back. Finally the Proxy looks up. But by then we’re coming out of the worst of the noise. With an irritated frown, she returns to her work.
We know we’ve entered the agricultural sector when the road becomes bumpy, jostling us on our benches. The truck goes a while further- the agricultural sector is vast- before it makes a final turn and comes to a stop. The Proxy closes her book and sets it aside. “Are we ready?”
We reply, “Yes, Proxy.”
She pulls something out of her overcoat and holds it out for us to examine. A photograph, all shades of black and grey, of a small temple on the grassland. A women is frozen halfway up the front steps, her face angled downwards. Between the lack of color and her moderate distance from the camera, there isn’t much detail to go on. However we can make out her athletic build through the fitted dress she wears, a priestess’s apron tied over the front, and the dark wild curls cascading to her shoulders.
“She’s based out of the Greenbed Creek Temple,” explains the Proxy. “Just east of here. You will know it because there is, indeed, a creek running near it.” She meets our eyes again. “Understood?”
“Yes, Proxy.”
“Then let us listen.” She puts away the photo and brings out the tape recorder, and clicks it on.
The Hymn blares tight around us, reverberating off the steel walls. It trembles against my skin as if the very air heeds the music. I wince from its power but my focus doesn’t waver. Whatever its chorus is singing, it is for me. A command. A compulsion.
The Hymn ends.
Standing up, the Proxy unlocks the back doors and throws them open. “Go.”
The Hymn ringing in our ears, we dart out into the cool night. The truck has stopped in a forest, elms and birches crowding on either side of the dirt road it had been following. We pick our way east through the thicket. Our weapons tonight are specialized rifles, a version of the bolt-actions the infantry use modified for tranquilizer darts.
Following the half moon through the branches, we emerge from the forest to find the terrain ahead covered with a wheat field. We wade single file through the rib-high stalks and listen through their soft rasping for running water. Once we’re about halfway across, we spot a faint glimmering ahead. Four orange glows, high off the ground. Firelight through a series of windows. We lower our stances, sinking until the tops of the crops brush against our masks. By the time we reach the edge of the field, our eyes have adjusted to the dark enough to see the modest building ahead, sitting atop a low grassy ridge. A temple. The temple? We pause and listen.
Very faint but not far away, the babble of shallow water.
We spread out. My rifle has been ready since we left the truck. My finger shivers on the trigger guard. Getye and Imeshan take the back while Brea and I go to the front. The mossy smell of the creek reaches my nose as we creep up the steps and take position on either side of the door. There are front windows but they’ve been shuttered. Only those high-up side windows are exposed.
Inside, a woman sings quietly to herself, her voice airy and lilting. The tune might be a ballad, slow and tinged with melancholy. At any moment we could storm in. I would have already, had I not caught Brea looking sidelong at me. In her eyes I see the same thought as I have in my mind. It must be me who claims her. Killing Host is one thing, even the more dangerous variants. We all destroy dozens of the abominations in every battle. Capturing a new sister is different. This is very rare.
Brea holds my gaze, staring through her black bangs. Her eyes show only empty calm. I wonder what the rest of her face is doing beneath her mask.
Our quarry is still singing. My finger slips onto the trigger.
Before I can act there’s a soft creak off in the darkness. Only one of our other sisters stepping in the wrong place, I hope, though that is bad enough. Our prey goes quiet. Then she calls, “Is someone out there?”
We are silent.
“A temple’s always open to the needful,” she adds, amiable. She speaks with a slippery brogue I can’t place. “You can come in.”
Silent. I tense, a predator readying to pounce. It must be me.
Instead, Brea springs up and kicks the door open. She fires into the interior, then bounds back into cover as a handgun cracks two shots back at her. As she reloads I lean into the doorway but find only empty benches arranged around a crackling hearth, a discarded broom laid nearby. A mural of the Silver Goddess covers the back wall, reaching slender hands down towards the benches. The black spot of a dart is embedded in one of her fingers.
My eyes twitch. Where did she go?
I enter barrel first, Brea close behind. The temple isn’t large, smelling faintly of lavender incense along with the pleasant smoke of the hearth. The Goddess’s mercurial eyes watch us as we stalk behind the benches, checking to see if our quarry is hiding there. She isn’t. We examine the back wall but find nothing.
Then Brea taps her boot against the floorboards in one corner. The sound is hollow. I look over to find her looking down at a trap door.
Outside a rifle barks. A handgun retorts.
Brea tries to open the trapdoor but it won’t give, no doubt locked from below. I race back out into the night. Ahead, Getye and Imeshan are moving north along the ridge, taking turns firing down into the gorge below before having to fall back from our prey’s return fire. She matches our agility even without our Queen’s blessings.
I leap down into the gorge. The creek barely reaches my ankles but it’s choked with reeds and damp rock. Far ahead, I catch a silhouette fleeing further into the gorge, dark wild hair flying behind her. She turns to shoot back at me but her weapon clicks empty. It’s a clear night and a tapestry of stars light my way. I take aim.
Before I can fire my target erupts in light, blistering silver engulfing the world for a moment. I have to shield my eyes but my ears catch the thumping of vast wings taking flight. Blinking hard, I try to see through the white spots burnt into my vision. Our prey is disappearing over one lip of the gorge moving away from the temple, propelled on crystalline wings.
A second figure leaps across the gorge in pursuit- Getye, the smallest and swiftest of our choir. Narrowing my eyes I stow my rifle on my back and climb up the gorge wall, hauling myself up over the lip. The land here slopes downwards to a cornfield. Getye is racing down towards the crops, dirty blond ponytail bouncing. There’s no sign of our quarry or her light. I can only follow my sister’s lead. Brea and Imeshan fall in beside me as I go.
As always we spread out as we creep into the cornfield, sharp stiff leaves raking against our armor and the thick smell of moist soil and fertilizer filling our noses. Only Imeshan doesn’t enter, patrolling the perimeter in case our prey tries to take flight again. The stalks bunch close together and loom a foot or so taller me. I would see the light, but not her. No matter how carefully we move, the field rustles around us. I scan the dirt for footprints and signs of dampness. The hem of her skirt would be soaking wet after running through the creek.
This would ensure me, I think. Claiming a new sister would cement me in my Queen’s favor. Already I can imagine the light breeze as Her fingers brushing through my hair. I can imagine Her whispers in the rustling of the field, “Lakera, my sweet angel, my good and faithful servant.” Even the leaf which grazes the edge of my mask could be Her hand, Her touch. My eyes flutter. It must be me.
The field goes quiet around me.
I pause and listen. The tops of the stalks lightly sway above me but not enough to make noise. Just before the moment drags too long, the corn nearby starts to hiss and thrash as someone runs through it. I pursue. Before long I can hear her panting- our new sister, losing ground. I can already imagine my dart finding her flesh. Her eyes emptying as they stare up into mine, succumbing to the tranq.
But I also hear someone behind me, gaining fast. Getye’s ponytail and dainty form pass me through the stalks. Gritting my teeth, I push my body on but my height works against me here, the field obstructs me more. Still, I’m catching up. I won’t fail. I can’t.
Ahead, the rasping stops as our prey escapes the cornfield. Then another burst of light and beating of massive wings. The field breaks up the flare but I still wince. I don’t slow, though. Neither does Getye. She leaves the corn second, and fires.
In the distance, a yelp.
My heart sinks.
I erupt from the field to find Getye creeping towards a grassy hillock in the near distance. A shape is floundering up the slope, dragging a pair of shimmering silver wings behind it.
Gritting my teeth, I lag behind to let Getye close in first. No matter how I seethe, no matter how it burns in my throat, she’s the one who made the shot. The other half of our choir lopes up to join us. Brea and I exchange another look. Fine, then. We both lose tonight. I’ll win next time.
Atop the hillock our new sister flags to her knees, head slumped forward and shoulders rising and falling as she pants. Starlight dances across her feathers as her wings struggle to fold up. I spot the tranq dart discarded in the grass but enough of its payload should have been delivered. Getye, almost vibrating with excitement, starts up the slope. She doesn’t win very often.
Our prey reaches under her green priestess’s apron.
Before we can react a gout of pale light rends the night. Our target is up again and spinning to face us, brandishing a flaming blade of her own. She wavers, wings flapping weakly to try and steady her, but she bears her teeth in a defiant grimace. I didn’t see what color her eyes were before, when she was still playing the part of an unassuming priestess. Now they shine with the same gold as ours but without our serenity. Her eyes blaze.
We don’t approach yet. She’s strong but the drug is gaining on her. Instead we each begin to circle her in our own pace and direction, watching. Waiting. She tracks us with the point of her blade, whipping it between us, light and heat rippling from it in waves. The weapon trembles in her hands. Blinking hard, she fights to remain alert. Her wings spasm more than flap.
As her burning eyes dim, she seems to gain a sort of clarity. She catches on my face, follows me for a moment. Then she does with this Getye. Then Brea, then Imeshan. With each of us she registers, the defiance in her face withers more and more. Creeping in to replace it is a slack, staring horror.
She gasps, “S-Sist...?”
Her blade sputters.
Getye moves in from behind, claiming her victory. Our quarry barely even reacts as she wrests the blade out of her hands, its fire flaring out, and pushes her down to her knees. Our new sister flops forward, defeated. Rolling her over, the triumphant huntress crouches to examines the catch, brushing those dark curls out her fair face.
“G...” The catch tries to speak, her voice weak. “G-Getye, no.”
Getye runs a hand down her cheek, a reassurance. It’s over. You can let go now. Of course our quarry knows us. She’s our sister. We don’t remember her because she’s still in the Before- not yet anointed by the Queen-Minister’s authority. Once she accepts our Queen’s blessing- once she is reborn- we’ll we able to know her again, and will welcome her into our choir.
She heaves a single small, choking sob, before quietly sinking into the drug’s embrace.
We fold up her wings and tie a rope around her ribs to secure them, then bind her wrists and ankles. The truck rumbles up as Getye slips a dark bag over her head. The vehicle comes to a stop and the back doors groan open, and out the Proxy steps from around it. We stow our rifles and sit for her, prettily with backs straight and hands folded in laps.
The Proxy approaches and looks over our new sister, bound and anonymous. Even the light of her wings is dimming to grey now. Reaching into her overcoat again she pulls out a thin white bundle, which she unfolds into a narrow length of cloth, long enough that it still sags when she spreads it between her arms. Text from the Codexa Scodia is woven in shining green along its length. The Proxy crouches and slips one end under our new sister’s neck and then pulls it through to wrap three times around her throat, before laying the ends down over her chest. As she does this, the Proxy has that warm not-quite-pride, not-quite-fondness on her face. When she stands again, we lower our heads in observance. A holy thing has been done here tonight.
“Well done,” the Proxy says at last. She addresses all of us but reaches down to pet Getye’s hair. Getye nudges her head up into the touch. I try not to look. “Her Grace will be pleased. There may even be a reward waiting for you.”
We all perk up.
The Proxy smiles. “Of course, that’s for Her to decide.” She snaps her fingers. “In.”
Loading our new sister into the back of the truck, we lower her gently onto the hard metal floor and take our seats. Once the Proxy has closed the back doors and is seated as well, the truck starts off, tremoring over the grass until it finds a road and the ride smooths out. I keep my head down, still trying not to look at Getye. The note re-emerges at the back of my mind- my mistake at the Salient, that moment of distraction. This time, however, I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I simply wasn’t fast enough.
My fingers twitch in my lap. Next time. It must be me next time.
