by B.T. Lowry
Pradah sat on a fender, a squared half-hoop with both ends embedded in the clay of the crater. He stared into a pile of burning garbage while nursing his bandaged hand. His team sat around the fire with him: Mahar and Gayant. They wore checkered working pants and thick green shirts, the covert uniform of their rebellion. There used to be more, but so many had disbanded since arriving in this city. They'd given up the fight and taken jobs pounding nails or carrying oil drums, or depended on charity.
The fire crackled green and purple and released noxious smoke, but it still reminded him of sitting by a real wood fire in the desert of Raiya. They'd performed ceremonies with drums and prayers. They’d eaten proper food that they'd hunted or grown themselves. Ayur Sona had recounted battles between gods and anti-gods, while they looked up at the very constellations where those battles had raged, and still did.
The air of this dirty city seemed all exhalation, with nothing fresh remaining. The night sky showed satellites, not stars. A police helicopter beat the smoke down as it combed the crater with a searchlight. It lit up some Raiyans at a nearby fire, then darted away. More fires burned here and there among the huts, flickering on worn fingers rolling cigarettes or teeth tearing processed meat.
Gayant rubbed his huge hands together. In Raiya, the young man had looked powerful. Here he seemed overbuilt, squat. He used to exult when he won a wrestling match, as though he’d conquered the world. Now he hardly spoke. Mahar stared into the fire. He was still clever and agile, but a remnant of his former self.
Children who'd never seen their real home played aimlessly in narrow lanes between the shanties. Old men and women sat unmoving and shut off from their senses, with eyes closed and mouths open. People bartered machine-generated food cylinders 'mercifully' distributed by Mata’s people twice a day. But Pradah and his team were different. They were still practiced warriors, even dwelling within this beast of a city. They kept their people's hope alive like a secret fire. The other Raiyans surely saw that, though they might not have the strength to help.
In his peripheral vision, Pradah recognized Heyo’s delicate movements. He sat on the fender next to Pradah, barely shifting it. Pradah didn’t turn, didn’t want to see a candle with an eye for a flame draped around his brother’s neck.
Pradah stared into the fire as he spoke, “You think I oughtn't to have done it?”
“You did what you thought was best,” Heyo replied.
“And what do you think?”
“She's helping me, Pradah." Heyo’s voice was musical and insistent. "You know all the interference we get when we try to pray here? I'm breaking through that.”
So Heyo saw Mata as a savior. This came from accepting the enemy's charity.
Pradah let out a haggard breath. “Are you no longer a Raiyan, then?”
“Of course I am. Mata’s teachings are all about the Creator, like ours.”
“She doesn’t think so. She thinks we’re heathens who worship false gods. She doesn't believe the Creator has any name or form.”
“Mmm... But she sometimes listens when I speak of our ways.”
Pradah had heard Mata’s rhetoric. She said that the ayurs were against God, and only her priests were pure. She’d have pointed out to Heyo the material success of the Ilunians, then claimed that this was evidence of God's favor. By contrast, the Raiyans were in such a sad state because they neglected the one true God. She'd tell him that the Creator was only a He, never a She, and certainly not both. God was far off, and even if He had a form, it was forbidden to speak of it. The broken Raiyans couldn’t give him the guidance he needed, so he’d crossed over to the enemy. Pradah wished he could give him spiritual association, but that had never been his focus. He didn’t really know much.
Pradah said to him, "You’re mine to protect. Don’t do this. You were an ayur, Heyo, a spiritual leader of our people!”
Heyo pulled away. “I’m still an ayur. More now than before. Mata’s helping me to connect with the Creator.”
“Her Creator.”
"There's only one Creator!"
“Don’t leave us!” Pradah threw a plastic pot into the fire and a man's grin opened like a wound as the plastic melted.
Gayant and Mahar stared into the flames. They ate Mata’s food too. Only Pradah refused it.
Perhaps it's time to go back to my old tactics, thought Pradah.
“What are you planning?” asked Heyo. He knew Pradah too well.
“If there’s no cactus then the spines can’t cut,” said Pradah, hoping that this was cryptic enough to put his brother off the trail.
Heyo insisted, “If I promise not to tell Mata, will you tell me your plans?”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I promise.”
Pradah hesitated, but reasoned, If I show him trust, he may feel that he still belongs with us.
He leaned near Heyo’s ear and whispered. “I’ll destroy her chapel.”
Heyo jerked back. “What? How?”
“We aren’t the only enemies this city’s made.”
Mahar glanced over from where he sat on a plastic barrel. He frowned and the firelight harrowed his sharp face. He was Pradah's age, but aging quickly. Gayant cocked his head.
Heyo’s voice went higher. “Who’s helping you?”
“I promised them anonymity. You won’t tell Mata what I’m planning?”
Heyo looked to the fire, his face torn. “No.”
Pradah found that he trusted Heyo to keep his word, even now.
It was a good plan. Heyo would stop visiting the chapel for fear of being inside when Pradah hit it. Maybe with time away from Mata’s influence, Heyo would reconsider his path.
Pradah would hit the chapel when no one was inside. He wouldn't kill anyone.
“I won’t stop going to the chapel,” said Heyo.
Pradah closed his eyes and chuckled bitterly. “Of course. What more could I expect?" The fire glowed inside his eyelids and pain pulsed from his injured hand, firing his thoughts. He didn't want this. Heyo should be onside. He should be a shining example of an ayur who didn’t fall, who remained uncorrupted.
When Pradah opened his eyes, Heyo was gone. In the edge of his vision, Pradah saw Mahar sidling closer. He sat on the fender next to Pradah, shifting the metal.
“Chief? I say we focus on Menco and forget the chapel.” Mahar's smooth voice held an edge. He and Gayant were Pradah’s own age. They’d trained and fought together. Pradah was the group’s chief, but they were also his peers. Anyway the whole context of Pradah being their chief had broken down. So Mahar felt he could argue Pradah’s orders.
“We'll hit Menco after,” said Pradah, eyes on the flames.
"If the government captures our flyer," Mahar pressed, "they'll learn its strengths and weaknesses. They might mimic the technology. We have to make this count, Chief, not just destroy some chapel."
“Farmer will give more flyers if we lose this one. He'll make even better tech.”
Farmer was a genius. He hailed from a tribe somewhere in the mountains. They didn’t have much technology there, but rumor was that he’d been mentored by a defected Ilunian leader. Pradah had never seen Farmer face to face, only through the Link. 'He' could be a young girl for all Pradah knew, but he or she was a tremendous asset.
"I agree with Mahar," Gayant boomed. "We should hit the Menco system." He stood and moved closer, crossing his arms, partly blocking the fire. The flames backlit his shoulders and shaved head. "It can alter our thoughts. It’s a better target.”
Gayant had been speaking out more and more, slipping out from Pradah’s authority.
There are only a few of us left.
“Menco was built to brainwash people into buying crap,” said Pradah. “We can resist it for now. I’m more concerned about our hearts than our minds or money belts."
"That chapel is their house of worship," said Gayant. "It's not right to destroy it."
"It's the enemy's nearest outpost," countered Pradah. "Look at it. Mata subverts our weake
st ones, then their families follow.”
“They go where the food is,” said Gayant, “where the warmth and money are.”
“Heyo’s not weak,” said Mahar, "but he's gone over."
“I know he's not weak,” spat Pradah. “He’s one of our best and if he converts, many will follow. We can’t have that. She blasphemes the gods. She's poisoning our connection with the Creator. The chapel is a poison dispensary and we'll destroy it."
Gayant uncrossed his arms and Mahar straightened his back where he sat. Pradah stared resolutely into the flames. Gayant broke the tension with a belly laugh. Pradah and Mahar turned to him, surprised.
"I'm thinking of a story," said Gayant, "that Ayur Sona told."
Ayur Sona’s long gray braid had hung to his waist. He had a round face, like Heyo. He wore ayur’s clothing: loose shirt and pants, with a red waist sash. Pradah remembered sitting around another fire, listening. He pushed the memory away. Gayant would push some moral point through the medium of the story, and Pradah didn't wish to be turned.
Gayant sat on an old tire, folding it beneath him. "Ayur Sona spoke of two villages which shared a common ancestry, a common heritage. Yet due to settling on opposite sides of a mountain range, their ways branched."
Gayant picked up a bent steel pole from the ground. He used it to make a line across the clay, then drew several abstract shapes on each side of it. "The sayings of each village became filled with their local animals and plants. Moreover, their ideas of Divinity, though originally drawn from a single source, gradually diverged."
"There's but one Creator," muttered Pradah.
"Indeed," said Gayant. "One root for all cultures."
Mahar took a breath as though to speak, but Gayant raised his hand. He pointed with the pole to one side of the line, then the other. "This village conceived the Creator as dressing in the manner of their people, this one in their manner. These people put stress on the male aspect of Divinity, these ones on the female."
"Make your point," said Pradah.
Gayant went on, unrushed, "Over thousands of seasons, a passage cleared through the mountains where before there'd been only ice. Trade began between the two villages, and with it the exchange of ideas."
Pradah interjected, "They fought over all the differences that had grown since they'd been one people."
"Yes. Each clung to their new traditions, forgetting the old. They fought for generations."
"I understand,” said Pradah. “You're saying that we and the Ilunians have a shared history, but you're wrong. We don't originate from the same village. We're nothing alike."
Gayant looked over at Pradah with deep blue eyes. "Ayur Sona told us that even the gods and anti-gods, whose battles have painted the firmament since the beginning times, originate from one source. All life comes from the Creator."
"And there's just one Creator," added Mahar.
“The gods forever battle the anti-gods,” said Pradah, “though they have one origin.” He smiled bitterly. “We are followers of the gods, so we must follow in their stead. We fight.”
Gayant threw the steel pole beyond the fire, where it clattered in the dark. "I've made my point. If you destroy that chapel, I'm out for good."
Pradah sat back on the fender and stared at him. "You're out?"
Gayant just held Pradah's gaze with hard blue eyes.
Pradah locked eyes with him. "We abandon our culture, or we fight."
“I think you’re taking this personally,” said Mahar. He leaned forward, wobbling the fender beneath them. “You wish to stop your little brother from adopting their religion, and you’ll use our best resources to do it.”
“No,” Pradah barked. “This is about protecting our people from the worst kind of attack. If this was just about Heyo, would I endanger him by destroying the chapel he visits?"
Mahar said, “To prove that this isn't personal for you, yes.”
Pradah stood, knocking the fender back. Mahar came to his feet as Pradah shoved him in the chest. Mahar caught his balance, but his heel landed in the fire. He pulled it out, stomped clinging sparks into the ground.
“Are you with me?” Pradah yelled. So many had deserted already. He had only Mahar left. A few Raiyans glanced over from another fire, then turned away with dull looks. Gayant just sat, watching.
“Well?” demanded Pradah.
Mahar didn’t appear frightened, more disappointed. “I’m with you,” he said softly.
Church