by Stacey Berg
Indine shrugged again. “Patri Jozef finds this less burdensome.”
Before Echo could ask more, another group of juveniles clattered in for their meal. There, among them—pottery crashed, and the chatter in the refectory died to silence. Then there was a familiar howl of rage, and a tumbling ball of fists and kicking feet rolled across the floor as a fight erupted within the new arrivals. One of the watching hunters laughed and waded into the mess, unwinding arms and legs until she held one child, red-faced and spitting, by the collar while another bled copiously from the nose. The nuns cooed and clucked in sympathy, and the visiting cityens looked on aghast.
The hunter, still laughing, shook the girl she held. “Indine, I thought you were keeping an eye on—” She broke off with a grunt, clutching her knee. The child, seizing her chance with commendable speed, tore free.
And launched herself at Echo.
Echo barely had time to brace herself before the small body barreled into her. The girl’s arms grabbed both her legs in what might have been a good takedown if their sizes were more evenly matched. Instead, Echo reached down and grabbed the girl under the arms, swinging her up off the floor. The girl clung with both legs around Echo’s waist and her arms now tightly wrapping her neck. Echo crooked her chin into her shoulder to protect her airway against the grip. Then they stood like that, hugging hard, Echo’s cheek close against the girl’s, while the nuns chittered away and the hunters watched with expressions ranging from amusement to, in Indine’s case, outright disapproval.
“Okay?” Echo whispered when she managed to catch a breath. The girl nodded against her cheek. She was considerably heavier than she had been months ago, when Echo had found the children half starved in the desert, and there was new muscle in her arms. “Where’s your brother?”
“W’ the priests. Likes ’em. S’okay too.” The small body shuddered against hers. “They said you weren’t coming back.”
Some of them might have hoped not. “There is never a guarantee.” Echo thought suddenly of Netje. The girl must be bereft. She wondered what the vektere had told her. What Taavi thought, now that she knew Khyn was gone. “You do not need me now.”
The girl clung tighter. With a last squeeze, Echo set her down. The girl wiped a grimy hand beneath her nose, her tears already past. “Your escape maneuver was excellent,” Echo said, loud enough for those around to hear. “However,” she added, as Cara limped over, “You must be certain your opponent is disabled before you turn your back. I’m sure Cara will spar with you later if you wish. Now you may return to your exercise.”
Cara laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, not too roughly. “It’s Indine’s turn for sparring. Come Fury, we’ll try to get through the meal without eating any cityens.”
“Fury?” Echo looked at Indine, who shook her head.
“I was against the experiment altogether. Gem named her.”
Gem, when Echo had never seen the need.
“It seemed apt,” Gem said.
“Too much so,” Indine said. “She is not a hunter, and it is a mistake to try to make her one. She picks up fighting skills easily, but she has not learned to control her temper. And she hates cityens. Every time she’s around them it leads to some sort of outburst.”
“She has reason to,” Echo said, remembering the barren desert existence the girl and her brother had chosen over the abuse they had known in the city.
“That may be, but if she does not learn her place soon, she will be of no service to the Church.”
A juvenile hunter who could not serve would be culled. What would happen to the girl, who was neither hunter nor cityen? “You cannot judge her as you do the others, Indine. Give her time.”
“We are made to serve,” Indine said. “If she was not—” This time her shrug was eloquent. “You should have thought of that before you brought her to the Church.”
Chapter 10
Echo stalked out of the refectory without waiting for the priests to give the teachings for the day. She felt an unreasonable anger at the girl. Fury. In the desert camp she had absorbed Echo’s makeshift lessons with intent concentration. She’d been nearly as quick to learn as a hunter child would be, stealthy, patient, particularly skilled at the sharp strike that finished her prey cleanly. Why should she not be an equally apt student now? She knew the importance of the task.
Echo could not spare time to assist her now. She had left Khyn alone with the priests too long already. Their interrogation would be more fruitful with Echo present to assure her that all was well. Echo marched towards the priests’ domicile. Above ground it was just an ancient building, hewn stone and narrow windows; the priests lived here in quarters more generous than the hunters’ spartan cells. Below, in a warren of tunnels and crypts built long before the Fall, lay the laboratories where the priests did their work to keep the Church alive. It was the central truth of all life since the Fall: without the Saint the Church would die; without the Church, the city.
But now Echo had found the Preservers.
In the hot and dusty Church compound, the Preserve already seemed like a fading dream.
A juvenile hunter only a few annuals older than Fury stood watch at the domicile entry. The duty was a mere formality, hot and miserable even in this season, and generally only assigned when a juvenile required time to contemplate a poor performance in some exercise. This girl’s blackened eye and swollen cheek suggested the area of deficiency. Echo herself had rarely stood here. But then, her failures had not come in training. Unexpectedly, the girl blocked her way. “I am required to secure approval for all entries today,” she said.
Echo swallowed an intemperate reply. The girl was here for training; she would make a contribution. “What is your name?”
“Deann Hunter 382.”
“What was the error for which you earned this duty, Deann?”
“I did not defend my position adequately in a simulated cityen attack. As a result, the Church was overrun.” The girl stared straight ahead. Even at eight annuals, the magnitude of her failure weighed on her. Echo looked more closely. It was common for hunters to suffer injuries in training, but this girl had been struck hard more than once in the face. The simulated cityens had been enthusiastic.
“What batch portrayed the cityens?”
“The 380s.”
“You must have been outweighed significantly then. Were you outnumbered as well?” The girl nodded. “Did you surrender?”
“No!” Deann practically squeaked in outrage. “I fought the best I could until they knocked me out.”
“And yet your position fell. Have you devised a more successful strategy in retrospect?”
“Not yet,” the girl admitted forlornly.
“Then I shall assist you.” Deann’s eyes widened with hope, at least the one that wasn’t swollen nearly shut. “When facing a superior opponent,” Echo continued, “a tactical retreat can lead to victory.”
“But I was ordered to hold my post at all costs. Would it not be disobedient to leave?”
“Yes. But if that task was impossible to complete, a reassessment might be more appropriate than a wasted death. You could be more valuable alive. But you must be completely certain that the ordered outcome is impossible to achieve; otherwise your action is merely cowardice. And even if you decide correctly, you must still accept the consequences of your disobedience.” The girl frowned, trying to reconcile conflicting imperatives. The concept was likely beyond her comprehension at this age, but the lesson would stick with her. To be certain, Echo added, “Now, Deann, we will practice. You have been assigned to defend that door, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“I intend to enter.”
Deann assumed a fighting crouch. “I must not let you.”
Echo crossed her arms. “I am a full-grown hunter, unimpeded by significant injury, and you lack the advantage of surprise. Do you think you can defeat me?”
“I will try my best,” the girl said stoutly.
Echo sighed. “Indine must be your primary instructor. You will only recapitulate your earlier mistake. Do you know why you’ve been assigned to guard this door?”
“Yes. The priests wish not to be disturbed.”
The lesson in not giving away information unnecessarily would have to wait for later. “If you attempt to fight me, I will overpower you, and then I will disturb them anyway. What other choices do you have?”
“I could try to enter ahead of you and give warning. Maybe I could even block the door from inside.”
“That is a better plan,” Echo said. She threw a punch at the girl’s injured cheek, just slow enough to be sure Deann could block it. The counter came faster than Echo expected; the girl almost hit her as Echo took a long step past her and spun. Her injured ankle protested, but she still ended up between Deann and the door. “However, its likelihood of success against a more experienced opponent is small. No, a counterattack will not work either; I will be inside the building before you can complete your move.” Deann froze on one leg, the other cocked midair in preparation for the aborted kick. “Now what?”
The girl’s features worked. Echo hoped that she wasn’t going to cry; she found herself wishing Deann at least a small success. Suddenly the juvenile whirled, taking off at a run across the yard. “I will return with reinforcements!” she called back over her shoulder.
Echo laughed, surprising herself, then felt a wash of melancholy. If she survived long enough, Deann would recognize another lesson buried in today’s encounter. But by then she would be used to being used.
Echo strode down the stairs to the lower levels, making no attempt to conceal her approach. Before the Fall, the underground warren had connected the compound’s buildings, but now the tunnels were impassable much beyond the sturdy foundations of the domicile. Debris entombed the contents, and perhaps some of the occupants, of many of those ancient rooms. There was still more space than the Church required. The hunters had a work area at one end, but it was towards the priests’ laboratories that she turned now. There was no need for guards down here. Instead she found herself face to face with a young priest armed only with a broom. Plaster dust whitened his already light hair, and his face was streaked with grime. Perhaps he was performing some kind of priestly penitence. “What was your error?” she asked.
He eyed her askance. “May I help you?”
“I have been sent for the Preserver woman.” He did not challenge her, but led her down the long hall. Doors stood open here and there, the priests inside working with the intense concentration of hunters. A few rooms held desks instead of equipment, just like the hunters’ classroom in their domicile. Young priests, no more than boys, sat with their heads bent in silence over prints. One had dark hair, striking amidst the fair; and the small hands gripping his print were still tanned with sun. His face, fuller than it had been, was touched with wonder at whatever he read. Echo’s breath caught. Perhaps he heard; he looked up, meeting her eyes.
She had not seen him since the long and agonizing night she had carried him, near to death, to the Church. She took a step towards him, feeling acutely her failure to have his name to call. His expression froze; then he dropped his gaze back to the print and refused to look up again. Bewildered, she spun on her heel and rejoined the priest in the hall.
She heard Khyn’s voice, tight with frustration or fear, before the young priest opened the door. “If you let me look at the systems, maybe I can explain it better.”
“In good time,” a male voice said patiently.
“It will be easier to show you. And then you have to— Echo!”
Khyn flung herself at Echo, much as the child Fury had. “I kept asking for you, but they said I had to talk to them first.”
“I know,” Echo said, nodding over Khyn’s shoulder at the man leading the questioning. She knew him, Dalto, a sanctuary priest. “Are you well?”
“Fine, yes. They just have so many questions.” Khyn straightened. “I want to see this Saint of yours. And then I want to ask some questions of my own.”
“I will accompany you to the sanctuary.”
Dalto raised a pale eyebrow at her presumption, but before he could complain, Gem arrived. Perhaps Nyree had set her as another kind of guard. Her practiced glance took in Echo, the priests, Khyn with her arm still wrapped around Echo’s waist. “Echo Hunter 367. That explains why Deann needed reinforcements. Indine was displeased.” So, for some reason, was Gem, despite the lightness of her tone.
“She performed adequately. I shall speak with Indine.”
“It is Deann’s problem.” Gem turned to Dalto. “I will join you as well. With your permission.”
Dalto smiled thinly. “Your service is appreciated.”
At the threshold of the sanctuary Khyn stopped still. “Look at it!” she said, voice hushed. She squinted, trying to adjust to the dimness. Light angling though the rose window tinted the walls high up; the priests’ flickering boards provided the only other illumination. Shadow swallowed everything else, except the platform where the Saint lay in her glittering shroud. “This tech is ancient.”
“It has served since the Fall,” Dalto said, a trace of stiffness in his tone.
“Longer than that from the looks of it. It’s a miracle that you’ve managed to preserve it. Your skills must be incredible. Wait until Stigir—” Her voice broke off as she remembered that she wouldn’t be reporting to Stigir any time soon. Echo knew that feeling from her own bitter experience, the habitual internal dialog, the sudden dropping sensation in the gut that came with the realization of exile. Khyn closed her eyes briefly, then busied herself studying the panels. Gem stood by the altar, her gaze fixed on the Saint, her expression unreadable. Echo wondered with a peculiar twinge how often the young hunter had watched here in the long months of Echo’s absence.
A priest turned in his seat to address Dalto. “Good news. We were finally able to turn off the beacon. I still have no explanation for the delay, but the command was finally accepted.”
“What about the power fluctuations?”
“Still present intermittently. The one this morning was stronger than any we’ve seen. That was when the beacon finally shut down. We think something in the system may have reset itself, but it is difficult to be certain. The patterns are so irregular compared with the old Saint—and so strong, the panels have difficulty compensating. But I suppose too much power is a better problem than not enough.”
Dalto grimaced. “Try to damp the surges as best you can. I fear a burnout of the panels. If that happened . . .”
Khyn eyed the tangle of wires that connected one board to another and the boards to the Saint’s crown. Her gaze traced the thick cable winding from there up the wall, where it passed outside to the spire with its charge panels and rotating dish. “One steward to run the whole city? Incredible. The power it takes—and the strain. They must be a mess when they come out of the link.”
The pulse pounded in Echo’s throat. The priests at the boards glanced up in puzzlement. Dalto must not have shared all he’d learned yet. “Come out?” one asked. “What do you mean?”
Khyn’s confusion matched theirs. “You know. Remove the interface, detach themselves from the circuits. Whatever you call it when they leave the link.”
“There is only one Saint,” a priest said.
“One at a time, I see that. Preservers. It’s amazing. How long is a turn?”
There was a long pause.
Echo said, “The Saint is married to the Church forever.”
Khyn’s face stilled. “Forever?” She stared at the body on the altar. “That’s impossible.”
“It is true,” Dalto said.
“But that would be . . . Preservers help us. I can’t even imagine . . .” Khyn turned to Echo in appeal or accusation. “How could anyone ever agree to that?”
A body slipping over the edge. A hand grasping at empty space. “The Saint is made to serve,” Dalto said briskly into the silence. “But
this is not what we came to discuss. You said that your priests—controllers,” he amended, “can modulate the inputs. Can you show us what you mean, please?”
Khyn looked from the altar to the boards and back, then swallowed. She studied the priest’s panel, then reached over his shoulder to tap on the glass. When she spoke, her voice was almost normal. “This is the readout for your input channel?”
The priest cast a questioning look at Dalto.
“The Patri desires her opinion.”
Echo wondered how directly Jozef had expressed his desires. There was more than a trace of excitement in Dalto’s voice, though his features were composed as always.
The priest said to Khyn, “That channel shows power coming from the mast. The primary feed is coordinated through Stepan’s board”—a priest a few seats away nodded—“but the signal shows here.”
“There are still gaps,” Dalto added. “The connections should be self-healing, but that one was missing from the beginning. The defect is on the Saint side.” Echo drew a sharp breath to protest, but he continued, “It is a miracle that she was able to marry the Church at all.”
“Which one is the signal from the dish?”
“Incoming here. This dark strip—that would be the outgoing beacon, but it’s off now.”
“Keep it that way,” Khyn said, voice tightening. “If Birn and the others are still trying to track us down, they could follow it straight here.”
“The signal does not carry all the way to the Preserve,” Echo said. Surprise or dismay flashed through Khyn’s eyes, only partly replaced by relief.
“In any event,” Gem added, “we have taken precautions.”
Khyn forced a smile, then turned back to the priest. “So when you talk about damping the power fluctuations . . .”
The conversation quickly outstripped Echo’s limited comprehension. Hunters learned what was necessary for their duties: how to maintain weapons, fly an aircar. The sanctuary was the priests’ domain. Even the Saint was not required to understand, only to serve. Unlike the hunters, who were bred in batches, priests made one Saint in a generation. It required a special mind, made to be exactly like the very first woman who had put on the crown, or the Church would reject her, destroying her instantly, as the forcewall rejected intruders. Echo wandered to the altar, again stood studying the Saint’s empty face. The priests did not make you, Echo thought fiercely. She still did not understand how it was possible. Small bits of denas, the Patri had said, scattered among the cityens and only recombining now, to create a Saint not made, but born.