“Something wrong?” he asked.
“I nearly died.” Sabira felt both fearful and relieved to say it out loud. “In my last pit. Was certain I was dead. But now here I am. I even have a name of my own. And for tonight at least, I have this room and you to share it with me.” She sat down on the edge of the cot and picked up the hand drum sitting nearby on the floor. Her first drum, a gift from Grandfather Spear. She tapped out a short faltering beat similar to the rhythms played in the pit. Servant Discipline started tomorrow, and she would be learning the drum as she learned her weapons.
“Conqueror sees you,” he said.
Something about his tone felt off to Sabira. He sounded so much less sincere just then. Well, it wasn’t his sincerity she wanted.
“For some reason, the Gods have seen me and blessed me, Pillow. I don’t know why under the rocks, or how long it will last, so I will take all I can while the Gods still see me. And I remember you saying something about being a pleasing reward.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him down to the cot next to her, pulled his lips to hers. His hands were strong and sure. The simple glide of his fingertips sent chills up her spine. When his fingers slid up from her waist under her tunic and found her mutilated breast, he froze. His eyes went wide with confusion. He lowered his hands, leaned back from the kiss.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I told you, I nearly died in the fighting pit.” Figuring there was no point in being coy, she slid her tunic off and threw it on the cot. She heard him gasp, though he tried to hide it.
“It was a vleez,” she said. “With an axe.”
“Doesn’t it hurt? Aren’t you . . .” The pillow couldn’t find the words to finish the question and only stared, fixated on her scar.
“Aren’t I what? Angry? Ashamed? I was angry. But then I cut the vermin’s disgusting head off and showed it to the Divine Masters.” She pushed away and stood again.
“What more is there to be angry about?” She craned her neck down to see her scar. “And why should I be ashamed? For earning a name? For earning my way into the Servants and out of this Labyrinth? I may never be pretty, but at least I am somebody.”
The pillow stood too, slowly approached her. “I don’t think you should be ashamed. That’s not what I mean. Not at all. But maybe . . .” He briefly shut his eyes as he searched for the words. “Maybe you should be angry at the Masters. It’s because of them this happened to you. So they could have your blood for their entertainment, so that they can use your body for their wars. For what? A name? My brood-brother chose to be a pitter too, but he never earned his name. He died in his third fight.” The pillow crossed his arms over his chest, hands rubbing upper arms as if he was trying to warm up.
Sabira couldn’t help but wonder if she had faced his nameless brother in the pit, if she had speared him through or choked the last breath from his lungs. She could never know. They had no names, no identities, no stories of who they had been. They were nameless khvazol until the hour they won their ninth pit. And if that ninth victory never came, then all that could ever be left of them were the nameless memories of nameless humans.
Such was Divine Will. And if she had been the one to slay his brood-brother in the pit, then that was Will too.
“I didn’t have the courage for it,” he said. “Overseers said I could choose the Pillows or take my chances in the pit. I’ll never have a name like you, but at least I’m still alive. You know the last thing my brood-brother said to me before the overseers took him? ‘Live or die, the Divine Masters will see me.’ Do you really think they ever saw him? Or you? Do you really think the Divine Masters even exist?”
“Are you insane?” she said through gritted teeth, shoving his chest so he stumbled against the low cot. “What if an overseer heard your blasphemy? You’d be in much worse shape than a scarred tit, you idiot.” She looked to the door, half expecting an overseer to barge in and cart the fool pillow away to the ribs.
“Have you ever seen a Divine Master? I don’t know anyone who has,” he whispered. He sat on the bed, brought his knees up to his chest, and crossed his arms over his shins.
“Grandfather Spear has,” she said, whispering now too. “But he’s been sworn to secrecy. He said they were beyond words, anyway.” She sat next to him again. “And my blood-mother sees them all the time.”
“Who under the rocks is your blood-mother?”
“Gunna, Handmaiden to the Divine Masters.”
His jaw dropped.
“It’s true. Look, you can even see the glyph.” She bent her neck, so he could see her blood glyph atop her scalp.
“Are you going to report what I said to the overseers?” Worry trembled in his eyes.
Sabira remembered the ritual sacrifice before each pit. The screams and the wet, meaty slap of heart against stone.
“No. I should, you know, if I was smart. Overseers find out I didn’t report your blasphemy, they wouldn’t even bother wiping your blood out of the ribs before they stuck me in next.
“Besides it’s not your heart I’m trying to get to. No, Pillow, I’m not going to report your sin.” She slowly draped her hand down his chest to his lower belly. “Not as long as you give me my just reward—my pleasing reward. Like I said, I’m victorious, and I have a name.” Sabira lowered the boy’s feet down off the cot and swung her leg around, straddling him.
“My name is Sabira, and godsdammit I’m still alive.” She pushed him down on the bed, hard. “I’m alive, and I’m going to see the stars, and I want to celebrate. And I want you, you foolish pillow-boy driller with the pretty face. I want you to celebrate with me.”
The pillows Sabira had been with before had been deep talented, but they drilled with a sense of duty. A pleasing one, but a duty nonetheless. Talented and dutiful is what drilling came to mean for her.
This was different. She didn’t understand why or how at first, caught up in the bliss of his touch, his movements. When they locked eyes, the mystery of him became clear. He was there with her now, inside her now, seeing her now, like no one ever had. His passion was for her, not for duty or Dancer or any other God. She gave him her passion too, giving in and opening up completely like she never had before. And for a fragile, electrified moment, there were no Gods and no Masters. They belonged only to each other.
6.
LATER, AFTER HER reward was spent completely, they lay curled together, each knowing these were the last moments they would ever share. The light strips on the ceiling were dialed low, shedding just enough light for them to make out the intertwined lines of their bodies.
“You’ve earned your reward,” he whispered. “Have I earned mine? You won’t snitch on me?”
“No, of course not. But you should never say anything like that again. Never. Trickster’s seed has taken root in your heart. So you’d better be careful, Pillow. Even if the Overseers never find out, the Gods will know. And when you die and go before the Gates, They’ll see your heart, and They won’t let you in. Even a pretty boy like you.” She punctuated her warning with a playful bite on his nose.
The boy laughed, and it turned into a yawn. He stretched and repositioned himself closer to her. “And how does a pitter from Warrens Zevna know so much about the Gods?”
“Because Grandfather Spear told me,” she said, fighting the urge to start yawning herself. Her fingertip traced little spirals, gliding across his smooth, tattooed scalp. “And I’m not a pitter anymore. I’m in the Servants now.”
“You’re right, of course. But what does the grandfather of a newly glyphed servant know about the Gods?”
“Everything. He knows Their names. He knows Their Will. He knows Their stories,” she said. “Do you want to hear Their story? It’s our story too.”
“Sure, tell me a story.” He cupped her wounded breast in his hand. She felt her own heartbeat against his palm.
“Grandfather Spear says that many thousands of years ago there were
the Nahg, the Old Masters. This is before the Divine Masters, before the infidels shattered the Gates of Heaven. The Nahg were the masters of machines. They thought they were wise and powerful, but they were lazy and weak, and they fought among themselves with their terrible war machines.
“And then the Gods came from the Gates of Heaven to gift the Old Masters with Their Divine Will. But the Nahg rejected Will and went to war with the Gods. Which they lost. Badly. First, the Gods destroyed their war machines. Second, the Gods destroyed their world, the world-above.” She pointed at the ceiling. “And third, the Gods destroyed the Old Masters. Only nine times nine were spared, the wisest and noblest of the Nahg. The Gods had chosen them to spread Their Will throughout the galaxy. They gave them the gift of mastery over life, and that is how the Nahg became the Nahgak-Ri, the Divine Masters.
“The Divine Masters knew that if they were to spread Divine Will throughout the stars and unify the galaxy, they would need soldiers. And even more workers. There were so few of them, and Divine Will forbade using machines to do what the living could do, so they dug deep underground and started the First Labyrinth. There in the tunnels, the Divine Masters created Humans to be the workers and the enforcers of Divine Will. Grandfather says that Humans are uniquely blessed: We know our place in the universe, when so many wander the stars, lost and confused, separated from the Will. Living without meaning.”
“I know what comes next,” the boy said, his words slow and sleepy. “Star Father dropped a giant pile of stinking shit and made the Overseers.”
“Boy, what is wrong with you? Listen, you need to hear this. There was also Trickster among the Gods. And while the Divine Masters were creating Humans in the First Labyrinth, Trickster crept through the tunnels unseen. Ahn found the first men and women and played ahns trick. In each of their hearts, Trickster planted the seeds of defiance and doubt. Grandfather Spear says we must never let Trickster’s seeds take root and bloom in our hearts or else we will be lost to Will. Lost to our place in the universe.”
“Our place in the universe is shit,” he sighed. “We’re khvazol. Nameless . . . Unseen . . . What’s so great about that?”
She felt like she should say something, but wasn’t sure how to respond to questions that shouldn’t be asked. Sabira had never heard anyone speak this way. Any human who dared to say half of his blasphemies soon found themselves in the ribs.
“That’s why you have to devote yourself completely, body and heart, to Divine Will. My grandfather grew up with the Diggers just like me. But now he travels the stars. He has a name. He has honors and privileges that would make even a chosen jealous. Our place in Divine Will is a gift, if you have faith.”
The pillow lay beside her, quiet and unmoving, for a long time before speaking again. “Does this mean that you’re going to report me after all?”
“No.” But godsdammit, you’re not making it easy. “It’s not that. I just don’t like blasphemy. I don’t want to think about what will happen to you if . . . I won’t snitch. Just be careful who you talk to. Probably better if you just don’t talk at all.” She turned over and rested her head on his chest. “You shouldn’t say those things again. I don’t know why you said it to me.”
“I know. I see you. And I’m sorry. You’re a good storyteller. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
“You think I’m a good storyteller?” she asked. “No one’s ever told me that before.”
“Since you promise not to snitch, I've got a story for you too.” He yawned deeply. “If I don’t fall asleep first. Look at me. Yes, come on, really look at me. Now say ‘zaicha.’”
“Zaicha? Like the old hens’ tales? Little rat-like beast with the long ears and all the hair? Steals the vegetables out of the caverns when the aggies aren’t looking?”
“That’s the one. Look me right in the eye, and say it,” he said, even though he barely had his own eyes open to look at her.
Sabira did as he asked. “Zaicha. Now, why am I doing this? And how is this a story?”
“My hen-mother used to tell me those old hens’ tales.” He caressed the back of her neck as he spoke. “I was a mine rat at the time. She’d tell all her broods those stories. But I was the only one . . . only child she’d call her zaicha. She called all her brood names from the old tales. Our little secret . . . Do you see me? That’s my story. I’ve got one, too. My name”—he yawned again, slowly and quietly—“is Zaicha.”
Sabira felt him soften, his breath becoming slow and deep as he drifted into sleep beside her. She lifted her head and propped up on her elbow. Studied his face in the dim light. No victory glyphs, no name glyphs, no scars. No blood.
How could he say he has a name? Have I made a mistake?
For a long time, she lay on her back looking at the scratched ceiling and the dim light strips, the pillow’s words repeating in her head. Even by the time she finally fell asleep, she wasn’t clear at all how she felt about it.
Sabira dreamt she was with her brood-sister. It was a recurring dream she’d been having recently. They were both round and heavy, their pregnant bellies ready to burst. Her sister delivered first. Two boys and a girl, all beautiful and healthy and strong.
The girl was very proud of her sister. But something went wrong inside her. The girl screamed and screamed in pain. She cried for help from the medics and her brood-sister. But she was all alone. Her stretched, overripe belly ripped open, and thousands of insects swarmed out, crawling and buzzing, antennae flailing. When the baby’s head emerged from her glistening wound, horned and scaled, looking hungrily at her breasts with orange, slitted eyes, she woke up gasping, struggling to breathe.
Just a nightmare, she told herself. Just a dream that will never come true. Go back to sleep.
Servant Discipline began next shift. She would be taken to a whole new Labyrinth and most likely would never see her brood-sister or this pretty pillow again. And in a year, when discipline was completed, it wasn’t underground pits and endless tunnels that awaited her, but the most fantastic things a human could imagine. Things she only knew of from Grandfather’s stories: the world-above, the boundless sky, an infinity of stars.
And war.
It was everything she ever wanted. And there, in her victor’s private cell, curled up beside her sleeping reward, she was afraid. All she knew were mines and Overseers, digging and fighting. Always in the same tunnels, always surrounded by the same faces. Tomorrow it would all be gone.
Savoring the sound of the one thing in the galaxy that was hers, she whispered into the dark.
“My name is Sabira.”
Part 2: Infiltration Crew
7.
SERVANTS CALLED THE game obezya, after the mythical animal. The goal was to race from one end of the deck to the other without ever touching the floor. New servants often played obezya when they pulled a boring and unsupervised duty shift, like maintenance of the grank pens on one of the lower tiers of a battleship pyramid.
Sabira raced against the other two members of her crew’s right arm, Servants Cannon and Daggeira. Along with the left arm, they were all skins, the lowest ranking servants in the crew. Though they shared the bonds of drum and weapon, each of them had started out as pit fighters. Competition created and defined them, one and all. As the newest initiate in the crew, even after two battles and the new tattooed glyphs that came with them, Sabira hadn’t fully earned their respect. Not yet.
A small service enclave along the gallery at the far end of the deck acted as the starting line. From there the gallery branched off left and right, overlooking the perimeter of the grank pens. The first suspended gantries over the pens branched off from the gallery in about fifteen meters in either direction.
Columns of shelving lined the walls of the enclave, each stuffed with containers of spare grank parts and organs. Servant Cannon won an early lead and was the first out of the enclave. He jumped from a shelf, caught a line of piping overhead, and started swinging down the gallery to th
e left. His arms were long, his grip was tight. Going that way was a good strategy for him.
Sabira reached the enclave’s entrance a heartbeat after Daggeira. Just as Sabira went to jump to a handhold in the gallery, Daggeira leaped across the entrance, landing where Sabira was about to step. Sabira slipped from the shelving, but caught herself by her fingertips.
“Don’t fall down too quickly,” Daggeira taunted. “What will caller think?”
Sabira had lost at obezya twice already. Both times to Daggeira. A darker corner of her mind would have preferred a pit fight to a race.
Forced to stop and steady herself to keep from falling as Daggeira swung from handhold to handhold down the gallery, Sabira realized there was only one way for her to win. She launched from the enclave entrance to the top rail along the gallery, sprung into the open air, and arced down into the pens. Landed right between the horns of the nearest grank and took off running along its spine. She needed to race over twenty-seven rows of slumbering granks to reach the other side of the pen, with more than two meters to leap across from beast to beast to get to the next row.
Granks were big, armored biomechs crafted by the Divine Masters. They slept standing on four legs. Most stood more than three meters high. The three long horns on their heads were bioengineered to act as rupture field generators. In addition to the four eyes on their faces, they also had a mound of eyes just above their big, armor-plated asses, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on them when they were awake.
Platforms were grafted to each flank, where various weapons arrays could be loaded and socketed into their spines. Hover pods could also be installed, bringing their destructive potential airborne. Between the plates of their belly armor, two long gills could open to release gaseous bioweapons.
Because they were so dangerous, while in transport aboard the pyramids the Warseers kept them sedated and penned, their horns deactivated and their weapons platforms unloaded. The pens were recessed down into the deck itself to accommodate the biomechs’ size. In each row, the beasts were clustered into pods of three. Tangles of ducts and biotubing hung down to each pod like vines in a fighting pit and plugged into the granks’ various orifices and sockets.
Before the Shattered Gates of Heaven Page 4