NOVEL NEXT B2 Chapter 22
The cargo shuttle's pilot's message crackled over the comms, "One minute from Rhiginia."
Angar felt bad for the man. They needed a vehicle with space enough to fit four large warriors in power armor and exosuits, so Harc commandeered the first cargo-shuttle he saw, this one manned by a gruff longshoreman at the spaceport docks, forcing him to fly them around Ierne.
He closed his System screens, and the holographic displays winked out. He leaned back, hoping the residents of this mining town wouldn't be as strange as those in the three others they'd visited on this world.
Ierne, with its population of just under a billion, was dominated by peasants of the Order of the Sacred Heart and Still Mind. Despite its name, it wasn't an Order at all, but a cult devoted singly to the scriptures preaching peace.
Their doctrine held that Heaven's gates swung open only for those who renounced violence and vengeance entirely.
They named themselves pacifists, refusing to lift a hand even to protect their own children. Instead, they'd drop to their knees in prayer. What they prayed for, Angar couldn't fathom.
There were too many odd sects and cults within the Holy Empire to know of, the distinction between the two being membership and the need to receive special permission and waivers from Divine Theosis to exist.
Cults, generally, had less than a hundred billion members. If it needed special waivers for abnormal doctrine, that placed its clergy outside the usual Ecclesiastic Ordinis, officially unrecognized, unable to attend full Seminary, and without ordination. The clergy's upkeep, temples, and monthly stipend weren't paid by the Church either.
As this cult's beliefs were based on Trinitarian scripture, both old scripture and the gospels of the blessed Mother Mi, they couldn't be named Heretics and purged, but that didn't mean they had to be tolerated.
This cult maintained a very sparse presence in the cities of prominent worlds, but only to recruit new members. Their beliefs made them pariahs, endured in large numbers only on fringe and trash planets like Ierne.
They clung to the notion that a life of non-violence, compassion, mindfulness, community, and simplicity shielded them from Hellspawn and all other malevolent forces that plagued the galaxy.
This was despite all the evidence contradicting their faith, and when calamity struck, they just blamed the sins of those outside their cult.
Their nonsensical peaceful ways also ensured they'd always be weak, stuck in the first Tier, unable to ascend.
As the shuttle approached Rhiginia, Angar spotted the telltale signs of the cult below.
The townsfolk wore vibrant orange robes with prayer beads swinging from their belts. Almost all of them were Laymen, but they shaved their heads like many Ecclesiastic sects did, their bald heads gleaming under the dome's artificially enhanced sunlight. Even the women shaved their scalps, and each pate bore a large tattoo of the Trey.
Rhiginia, like the other mining towns they'd visited, most likely housed fewer than ten thousand souls. It looked like much less, but it was hard to tell.
Roughly half would be farmers, all adherents of the sect, tending crops under the dome's controlled environment. The other half were miners, most also belonging to the sect, extracting resources from Ierne's many rich mountains.
As the shuttle breached the dome's field and Terra-normal gravity, it lurched upward, the engines roaring as it accelerated briefly before stabilizing. The abrupt shift jostled Angar, Rusak, and the two sisters, sending them bucking in the cargo bay.
The domes these town used were towering pillars that doubled as mobile platforms. These massive, vehicle-like structures allowed the dome to move down the mountain range as the miners depleted veins.
Because the dome moved, the farmers were forced to relocate their fields every generation or so, leapfrogging one another to new ground within the dome's boundaries.
Ierne's gravity, two-thirds stronger than Terra's, coupled with its thin, barely breathable atmosphere, meant mining outside a dome was possible but unfeasible without expensive specialized equipment and suits, especially in the long term.
The movable dome, imposing Terra's standards within its boundaries, was a far more cost-effective solution.
The shuttle touched down on a cleared patch of ground near the temple and church, its engines kicking up clouds of dust.
The temple sat as a large but squat and blocky fortress. Beside it stood the church, rivaling a small cathedral in size, though not grandeur. The sparse population of this world meant Ierne had only one diocese, and only one cathedral located in Eblana, the planet's sole city.
The temple served for the cultists' daily service, where the sect's devotees gathered to chant their pacifist garble.
The church hosted the mandatory Sunday Mass required of every imperial citizen, delivering a standard Trinitarian sermon to all worshippers, whether they belonged to a cult or not. It also served as the parish schooling facility all the town's children had to attend.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Both buildings would double as shelter during an attack, the windows sealed with retractable shutters, and their reinforced walls, constructed from extremely tough duracrete material, could withstand significant assaults. The lead lining the interiors were a critical defense to muffle or block the dark whispers of Hell, offering sanctuary to those huddled within.
That was standard across the Holy Empire, and most important buildings had to have a large room similarly constructed, called a vault, for the same purpose. Those who could afford it often had a small vault in their homes.
Hierarch Rusak and the two sisters disembarked, lumbering out as their exosuits clanked and ground with each movement.
Often mocked as poor man's power armor, these suits only shielding the chest with lighter-weight, reinforced plating, leaving most of the rest of the body exposed, necessitating another set of armor worn underneath its frame for adequate protection.
Exosuits also amplified strength and mobility, allowing the wearer to move with surprising grace despite the bulk, and allowed for the employment of much heavier weapon systems.
Outside the shuttle, Rusak took charge, his authoritative voice cutting through the murmurs of the few townspeople around.
The two scarred sister-warriors began setting up the equipment for the ritual and service as Rusak fielded questions from the clergy emerging from the temple and church.
Angar helped the longshoreman connect the shuttle to a recharger, then slipped into the church's shadowed interior, alone in silence, only the sound of his armored boot and cybernetic thudding against the stone floor breaking it.
He walked through the nave and knelt before the sanctuary and the large stone Trey at its rear, meditating and praying in the strange way he did, replenishing the resources his dusty Crusader Armor had drained.
More than that, he sought refuge from the bustle of setup outside. Rusak had no use for him during these preparations.
His presence disrupted the Hierarch's carefully curated atmosphere of authority and reverence. His mentor said Angar's armored form radiated too much hostility, and without his helmet, his gaze tended to unnerve or frighten others.
Rusak preferred Angar out of sight, so he always lingered in the church until the sermon began.
An expected clang shattered the silence. In stark contrast to the peals that summoned worshippers, the church's bell tolled in reverse with a jarring rhythm, signaling an emergency, an end to work, and for the townsfolk to gather.
Minutes later, Angar felt the summoning ritual blaze and warm his chest, and the bells rang backward again.
This summoning ritual was for a call to faith, not at all similar to the challenge beacon Martyr Varko had employed to draw Hellspawn.
Another hour passed, and the bells shifted to their familiar toll, announcing worship service would start in minutes.
Angar exhaled, rising from his knees, ready to get on with it.
He emerged from the church and joined Rusak, the two sisters, and the church clergy near a large projector, its beam casting a radiant glow of a giant Trey across the temple's side behind the makeshift pulpit.
Before it, thousands of mostly orange-robed townsfolk stood in orderly ranks, their prayer beads clacking together annoyingly every time one shifted.
Like in the other towns, there were a lot more children than usual, as the cult was prolific, and even tithing one of two to Cloisteranages, the average family here had about five or six offspring in tow.
While Rusak preached, and while the scry-capture he'd soon play was watched, Angar's role was to search the crowd for anything strange or amiss.
He doubted he'd spot anything. It always played out the same way in these towns. There'd be no real Heresy.
Rusak's sharp eyes swept over the flock, pausing on an older Layman, his orange robes caked with grime from the mines. The man's weathered face and the deferential glances of those around him marked him as a respected senior worker, a figure of quiet influence among his peers.
"You," Rusak called out, his loud and authoritative voice cutting through the soft murmurs, his gauntleted finger pointing at the Layman.
The man froze, only his eyes darting around warily, uncertain why a Hierarch from a militant sect singled him out. "Come, lead this congregation in the Litany of the Layman."
That wasn't usually how worship service went. They always started with the Hymn of Holy Vengeance, and this unexpected change sent confusion rippling through the congregation.
The man hesitated, then shuffled forward, pushing through the crowd. Rusak stepped aside with a commanding nod, ceding the makeshift pulpit to the nervous miner.
Clearing his throat, the Layman put his mouth closer to the sound-amplifier. He raised his voice, stumbling at first but gaining strength. "O Almighty Lord, whose hand shaped the stars, bless the sweat of Your humble Laymen, for our toil is Your glory. Grant no rest for the faithless, no mercy for the idle. We are the foundation of the Holy Empire, our backs bent under sacred burdens, our hands calloused by unending strife. Our sweat drowns out our wickedness, our blood fuels glorious Holy War."
The crowd's voices rose as one, a fervent chant. "For You, we toil."
Emboldened, the Layman pressed on with his words ringing clearer. "Blessed Mi, Mother of sacrifice, who purged Mammon and the Nexus with your blood, hallow our labor as a bulwark against sin. The evil that tempts the faithful, we answer with the hammer's clang, the forge's roar, the hoe's till, the unyielding grind of our mortal effort. Each rivet we drive, each stone we hew, is a blow against the unholy, a testament to your sacred sacrifice."
"For you, we bleed," the congregation intoned with voices swelling in devotion.
The Layman's shoulders squared, his earlier nervousness gone. "Holy Theosis, Divine System, who guides our weary hands, forge our work into blades of righteousness. Let no soulless machine steal our purpose, for labor is our prayer, and toil our salvation. Let our muscles ache, our bodies break, for in struggle we are redeemed. Let the fires of our labor burn brighter than Hell's malice."
"For you, we endure," the crowd responded fervently, the chant amplified off the temple's wall.
Now standing tall, the Layman's voice boomed with conviction. "We offer our exhaustion, our pain, our lives upon Your altar, O Lord, that the Holy Empire may stand unbowed. Until the Hellspawn are banished or our last breath fades, we work, we build, we fight, we die, sworn to the Three's eternal glory."
The congregation's final refrain thundered through the air. "Our sweat is the Empire's shield, our labor its sword. Amen."
Strange cult or not, Laymen were Laymen. Rusak's choice to elevate one of their own to lead the litany dedicated to them was masterful. It was one of the few that didn't heavily contradict their nonsensical beliefs. It softened the crowd's wariness and kindled their trust.
The Hierarch knew his business well.
Angar scanned through the crowd, spotting nothing amiss.
Now came the crucible of Rusak's task, the tricky part. He needed to forge a horde of spineless pacifists into a seething cauldron of righteous fury.
He needed their blood to boil with zealous conviction, to cast aside bonds of kin and comrade, inciting fervor enough to brand family, friend, and neighbor as Heretic and vile apostate enthralled by the Underworld and blasphemous dark whispers.