NOVEL NEXT B2 Chapter 47
Angar awoke with a start, his chest heaving as if the walls themselves were pressing in on him, suffocating his breath.
He lay on a narrow cot in a dimly lit medical room, its white walls scuffed and peeling in places, bearing the scars of countless patients.
The air was heavy with the sharp scent of antiseptic, and machinery chirped and hummed around him.
A thick, invasive tube snaked down his throat, forcing air into his lungs.
His massive frame dwarfed the bed, his legs dangling awkwardly over the edge, his bare feet pressed flat against the cold, tiled floor.
His arms were pinned to the cot by sturdy restraints, and an array of wires and tubes pierced his skin, tethering him to the blinking, beeping consoles.
A surge of anxiety hit him as he noticed his air passage was blocked. His arms flexed, snapping the restraints like brittle twigs, then began yanking the tube from his throat with a choking gasp.
The machine beside him screeched in protest, beeping an alarm as he tore the long, slick tube out completely.
Relief flooded him, though the suffocating weight in his chest lingered. Blood speckled the sheets as he ripped the remaining wires and tubes from his arms.
Ignoring it all, desperately needing to be free and unbound, he pushed himself upright, standing tall in the cramped room, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling.
He wore a thin, ill-fitting medical gown, the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, which was too short, barely preserving his dignity.
The room had to be in a valetudinarium, meant for Lay peasantry, a far cry from even the modest aedificia medica for the military and Cloisteranages, or those with more wealth.
The walls were unadorned save for a Trey on one, and the equipment, though functional, bore the scuffs and dents of heavy use.
Angar's mind churned, clutching at fragments of memory. How had he ended up here? Flashes came to him, mostly blurred images of battle.
He forced his thoughts to sharpen, piecing together the puzzle, and it all came back in a flood.
He mulled over whether Hidetada had used him as bait again, dismissed it as an impossibility. His grand marshal had no hand in this.
But Duke Maximillian had given Angar all the excuse needed to crack his skull open. He'd ask Hidetada if they could swing by Zanaya before heading to Sulfuron 9.
As his lips curved into a grim smile, imagining himself slaughtering all Maximillian's household forces, the door slid open with a soft clang.
A plump, middle-aged sister bustled in, her medical habit swathed in the pale-blue scrubs of an apparitor.
Her face, lined with years of care and exasperation, twisted into a grimace. "By the blessed Mother, Sir Knight! What in the Lord's name are you doing?" she demanded, her voice sharp and filled with indignation.
Angar's jaw hurt, making talking difficult. He felt the bandage covering the injury. It was damp, with no healing pad beneath. He grunted out a reply as best he could. "Apologies, Sister. I awoke suffocating. I needed to breathe."
The sister let out a huff, her hands planting firmly on her hips. "Let me call the caput-apparitor and the medicus. We'll get you settled and hooked up again. You need rest. And please keep quiet, Sir, so you don't disturb the other patients."
"I feel fine," Angar said in a firm tone. "Where's my clothing and hammer? I'm leaving."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "No, no, no, no. Definitely not, Sir. I'll hear none of that nonsense. We need to monitor you, and the medicus will decide on discharge during morning rounds. If approved, a man named Simo will escort you out. He left a message. He's bringing fitting attire for Sunday Mass and asked you to attend with his family."
"What time is it?" Angar asked.
"Just past midnight, Sir, by Terran-reckoning. As this is a Gray Station, the day-cycles don't fully match our own."
Angar nodded. "Thank you, Sister. I feel fine. I'm discharging myself. My clothing and hammer? I had a pouch too."
The sister's face fell, her lips pursing in disapproval, and she let out another exasperated sigh. "Let me call the medicus. Wait here, Sir."
"No," Angar said, his voice like iron, leaving no room for debate. "I'm leaving, Sister. Bring me to my possessions. And tell no one I left until I'm gone."
Though visibly upset, the sister complied.
His clothing and gloves were tattered and stained with dried blood, but his credit stick remained hidden in his belt. The loose credits in his pouch felt about right, and it still contained all the items it should.
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And once hefted, his hammer's weight felt reassuring in his hand.
Dressed in his ragged attire, he strode through the cura-celeris. The waiting area, even at this hour, was still a crowded scene of the sick and injured, some families huddled in anxious clusters.
The artificial night of the megastation greeted him as he stepped outside, casting a dim glow across all below.
He looked up. The ceiling was a lattice of steel girders and holo-panels mimicking a starry sky, though the illusion was marred by patches of exposed wiring and rust.
Angar had no clear sense of his location, but passersby were eager enough to offer directions to a Crusader, despite his disheveled state and bandaged face and eye.
After some conversations, he gained a working knowledge of the Terran section's layout.
The bastion of the Wardens of the Ashen Veil was the only Terran Knightly Chapter with a permanent presence here.
Gateways never opened on stations, only on naturally forming bodies about the size of a moon, and only a celestial body orbiting a sun.
Rifts could, and were always a problem, but those rifts couldn't expand into gateways.
Thus, the Eyes of Providence rarely had a presence on megastations, leaving it to the Ordines Sanctus Puritas to handle inquisitorial duties.
Appearing at the Wardens' bastion unannounced in the dead of night would be discourteous, especially as a guest.
Instead, he turned his thoughts to the trade district, where the bazaar operated at all hours.
Better yet, this station had an Enlightened Scribes Library, a place he had long yearned to visit, and it faced the trade district, its doors never closed to seekers of knowledge.
If he had time, he'd like to confess before meeting up with Simo, accompanying his family to Sunday Mass, and get that done and over.
After three tram rides, changing layers twice, Angar stepped into the trade district. The streets were quieter now, the shops shuttered for the night, their signs dim and their windows dark.
Only a handful of bars and clubs pulsed with life, their neon lights casting colorful shadows across the walkways and streets.
Angar headed north, his eyes drawn to the towering silhouette of the Enlightened Scribes Library in the distance.
These libraries were monuments to history and wisdom, this one's grandeur unmatched even among the station's architectural marvels.
Its facade was majestic display of towering marble pillars, each intricately carved with scenes of Divinity and heroes from the Holy Empire's history, their surfaces bathed in the soft glow of floating luminary orbs.
The building stretched skyward, seemingly touching the dome high above, its upper half adorned with a mosaic of celestial bodies, crafted from shimmering stones that seemed to thrum with an inner light.
Wide, sweeping steps led to four entrances flanked by statues. Each door was a monument to a species' heroes. He recognized some of the aliens, but not all. High above the four doors, was an etching of the famed Eeshek'tik, the Gray's first Saint, as well as their longest serving Pontifex Maximus.
On the right side of the Terran door, three statues, heroes of the first Knightly Chapter, Knights of the Black, its grand marshal, Dentatus the Black Wall, and his two captains, Grim Jashobeam and Zawisza the Penitent.
On the left, five statues dominated, the largest depicting Pontifex Maximus Addai the Dragon.
He had decreed radical bio-forging, transforming weak citizens into hulking berserk abominations, infused with chimeric gene-splices and alchemical serums, warping flesh into grotesque, muscle-bound titans lost to frenzied bloodlust, an affront to God during the Genesis Apostasy of AE 1367.
The Arm of the Divine chapter, believing the Holy Empire had to fight fire with fire, and that the Parousia Protocols tied imperial hands enough, seized Addai, subjecting him to days of brutal torture in a vain attempt to force his recantation.
Unyielding, Addai was martyred, his death igniting outrage across the Holy Empire.
In response, the new Pontifex Maximus, Dominiko the Giant, ascended and issued a Decretum Congregationis Amplissimae, the most sacrosanct and binding decree of the Church, signed and enforced by the leaders of all major Ecclesiastic Ordines of each species, each species' Pontifex Maximus, and sealed with each's Papal Bull.
A scry-capture of the signing was played in Sunday Mass, dispersing this decree across the Holy Empire, setting it in stone.
The four statues in front of Addai the Dragon were of Dominiko the Giant and the other three species' Pontifices Maximi during this major event.
Above the doors, under Eeshek'tik, was an etching of the Great Scribes, their stern visages clutching tomes and quills, as if guarding the knowledge within.
The library's vast entrance hall emerged beyond the doors, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, where the air carried the musty scent of ancient parchment and the faint buzz of preservation fields.
The lower library's pale stone walls were etched with ancient dialects of the four species, a testament to its united imperial purpose.
As Angar drew closer, he was startled to hear the rough, guttural chanting of the Grays, their alien voices rising in the Litany of Heroes.
He had expected Terran Ecclesiastic liturgical exchanges in the Terran sector, but the library's intersection with the sectors of all four species explained the presence of the Grays, as it was their station, and their library.
Their language, a cacophony of clicks and squeaks like a d'klar mimicking a dolphin, grated against his ears.
The Grays, with their long, feeble necks and oversized heads, stood in their flowing robes, positioned about every five meters along the library's perimeter.
Before each stood a small crowd trying to speak the Litany's refrain, but the alien garble made it difficult for them.
And before each stood a pedestal bearing an open copy of the massive book, the Litany of Heroes, its pages worn but revered.
The Grays sang in unison, but their voices created a discordant harmony, as each chanted from different sections of the litany.
Angar, unarmored and without his translator, couldn't decipher their gibberish.
Curious, he peered over the shoulder of one Gray brother, or sister maybe, as the species' sex was impossible to distinguish, his eyes scanning the open book.
The page alternated alien and Terran script, all gleaming gloriously in gold lettering, beginning with 'Maddin' on the first page and ending with 'Maden' on the second.
He watched as the clergyman or woman chanted, noting the time between the page-turn, and it took long minutes.
At this pace, it would take half a day for the Gray to reach the section with his last name, Mecia, the passage he wanted to hear.
His gaze shifted to the library's entrance, where a throng waited in a long, orderly line.
Security was tight, with armed guards checking everyone invasively, scanning each visitor's credentials. The crowd included many Pleiadeans and Reptiloids, likely returning to their sectors after a day visiting the Terran shops and bazaar.
The wait would be too long. With a grunt of frustration, he turned away from the library's majestic allure, heading east toward the bazaar, where he'd see what was on offer.