“Your parents may have been attacked by Maesalae Pirates if they’d taken you to get medical attention, and perhaps you would all have died in that scenario,” Colt added.
“But won’t I know for certain what would have happened once I know God?” he asked hopefully.
“It doesn’t work that way. You cannot process all the possible outcomes of every event in your life. Even if you did know the answer, it would torture you one way or the other. Peace can never be found in the past. At best, it is a wicked place inhabited by ghosts of melancholy.”
Nuri sighed and fell back into his thoughts again, trying to concatenate all her teachings into one linear truth. He was beginning to understand that it didn’t work that way either, though.
Nothing here is ever what it seems.
They continued on in silence until the building was a mountain before them with no beginning and no end. An ominous storm had settled over their heads in the meantime.
“How will we get in?” he asked, staring at the massive stone walls. “Is the door on the other side?”
Colt turned to him, her shape gradually fading back into the blue-white luminescence of her ethereal form. “We’re here.”
18
Though he’d logged plenty of hours training with steel swords and wooden staffs since arriving on the mountaintop, Nuri never handled an actual laser blade until the morning he departed for his eleventh colony cleansing, when his Duri Master approached him with the new weapon in tow.
“Use this on the mission today,” the scar-faced clergyman said. “I’m told your whole squadron will have them. Truthfully, you’ve been ready for the blade a while now.”
Nuri bowed and accepted the coveted weapon graciously, suppressing his excitement and subsequent dread the best he could. He couldn’t wait to test out a truly lethal hand-to-hand implement after using strictly blasters and steel-forged weaponry in battle to that point, but it also reminded him of the somber task at hand. Specifically, how the only way he would be able to test his skill with the blade would be to carve up the flesh of innocent colonists who’d rejected the proposed Duri theocracy in their solar system. The initial shock of taking lives had dulled to the point where Nuri hardly felt sick in the heat of the moment anymore, and he supposed that desensitization constituted progress even if it was in a direction he didn’t care to venture. Yet, no matter how comfortable he’d grown with the act, the memories still haunted him each night after he doffed his armor and blaster rifle, as did the girl from the river who visited whenever the Duri Master indulged in The Divine Incendiary’s midnight mania.
“Do you know why Called warriors must use laser swords during cleansings instead of blasters and air strikes?”
Nuri bowed noncommittally. He knew the answer, of course, but he also knew his Duri Master well enough to sense when he wanted to hear himself talk, particularly when it came to the beliefs of his religious order.
The scar-faced theologian gently retrieved the blade from Nuri’s outstretched hand and ignited the beam in the musty cottage stillness. Nuri found himself wishing that he would set the timbers aflame with his apparent carelessness, thereby releasing him from the day’s burden, but he had no such luck.
“Spiritual purification is most readily attained through an intimate act,” the man explained. “When you cleanse someone of sin while looking into their eyes and smelling their fear, the catharsis goes both ways. You receive just as much of a spiritual boon being a vessel for the Divine’s purifying wrath as those being purified. With a blade like this, you have the opportunity to live the transformation up close. Blaster bolts from snipers are no more intimate than targeted strikes from drop shuttles. They do not require close contact, nor the reaffirmation of faith against the temptation for weakness and undeserved pity. With this, you must make the choice to purge over and over again.” He waved the weapon back and forth through the air, forcing Nuri to slyly retreat to the rear wall of the wooden structure. “This is why the Divine Infinite deigned to become man Himself and experience spiritual purification firsthand by the whip, nail, and lance.”
Nuri bowed dutifully, knowing it was what the Duri Master expected. He couldn’t help eyeing the disfigurements that this particular teaching had wrought upon his superior’s face, though. Through careful observation of the clergymen and their psychological constitution, he’d found that the actualization of doctrine was, at times, an atypical symptom of lunacy. Some compulsions which would otherwise be categorized as strange and sinister among lay people were deemed sacred the moment a clergyman donned his ritual robes, and Nuri’s Duri Master was no better or worse than the others. Case in point, he truly believed self-mutilation was an expression of devotion to the Creator God. He truly believed that spiritual catharsis was best attained through suffering, when suffering brought its own forms of pleasure, especially when used to demonstrate holiness. The subject was transformed into a masochist through the act. It was astonishing.
Although Nuri knew well the basis for the cleansings and self-flagellations among the clergy, he’d never fully grasped the implications until he saw the sharply hooked grooves across the Duri Master’s cheeks by the white-blue glow of the laser blade on a crisp mountain morning. He shuddered to think what grisly marks littered the flesh of the man’s back. The practice repulsed him. If Creator God considered His creation so valuable that murder was a mortal sin (excluding, of course, the “justified” cleansings of heretics), and that any violence toward believers was wrong, then how was self-injury any different? Was it not still harming His creation?
As with most other traditions of the Duri Order, the commoditization of suffering didn’t make sense to Nuri, but he’d learned not to question it openly. Better to acquiesce without thought than to risk angering the Beginning and End. At least if anyone ever challenged him on the practice, he could claim he was merely adhering to established doctrine and the commands of his spiritual counselor. He may not have been as keen on self-flagellation as his Duri Master, but each Called soldier had a requisite amount of suffering they had to endure to understand God’s sacrifice. That, at least, he understood to a degree. And when Nuri wasn’t strong enough to inflict the damage himself, his Duri Master was always eager to assist.
“Thank you, Master,” Nuri whispered.
The Duri Master bowed and clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, go and prepare yourself. I’ll meet you at the hangar in one hour to see you off.” He left with a shuffle of robes and the smell of dried sweat.
Nuri examined the hilt of the weapon for a few moments, then reverently placed it on his straw cot and began assembling his ceremonial armor for the cleansing.
Later, after the ship’s departure from a cave on the forbidden mountain, he sat among his Called brethren and prayed in silence. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about the blade strapped to his hip, nor the peculiar absence of the blaster rifle on his back. The Called still carried Colt VX-413 blaster pistols (named for the ancient Earth weapon rather than the cosmic entity, though Nuri suspected the Duri had carefully chosen the sidearm in place of the standard VP series used by the Human fleet and surely would have considered the title a benefit) in case their blades malfunctioned or were lost in the fray, but the bulk of the killing would be performed with the intimate weapon.
And will you feel the heat searing their flesh through your armor? Will you smell their blood and taste their horror when your blade severs heart and nerve and sinew? Will you feel their souls leave their bodies at your hand?
Nuri clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
Lord of All, be my blade and my resolve.
In the quiet of the drop shuttle, he wondered how many others among his squadron faced similar internal strife. Though he dared not shift his gaze, he could see a handful of armored Called soldiers on the opposite bench through his faceplate. Not one of them examined the new weapon clipped to their utility belts. Each sat with his or her hands folded over armored laps in deep prayer. Th
ough the Called were expected to spiritually prepare themselves in this way for any cleansing, he supposed the stillness among them was evidence enough that they were immersed in deep, troubled meditation, likely due to the new challenges awaiting them.
The intimate kill.
Beyond the battlefield significance of their modified arsenal, of course, the change held a deeper significance within the faith. The adoption of the sacred blade was the final step before one among them was declared ready for the trials. It was anyone’s guess who had earned the Divine’s favor, but Nuri doubted he would be selected. He still had significant room for growth in his faith, if not his training. He could handle a blaster and a blade as well as any of his brethren, but every so often, he was still plagued by the doubts that had tainted his youth.
Weakness, he scolded. Distraction.
Both were fatal on the battlefield and the stakes would only be raised on the colony once he was limited to the laser blade. There could be no room for distraction, hesitation, or preference when he was placed on even footing with the heretics, and it would be apparent to them the moment that the terrifying red armor emerged from the canyons on the dusty planet’s surface that it was a battle to the death. After all, every colonist knew what the arrival of the Called meant for their people. None would be left alive. Not unless they found another recruit.
“Forty seconds,” the new commander yelled.
Nuri stood in unison with the rest of the Called and turned toward the exit hatches on either side of the shuttle.
Lord of All, he prayed as he performed a final check on his suit’s internal systems, be my blade and my resolve.
The unease among his brethren was more pronounced now that they were forced to arm themselves for the surface. Few of them looked confident gripping the laser blade, and the others seemed to go out of their way to avoid glancing down at the weapon to make sure their fingers were ready to press the activation switch. Thanks to the winding canyons on the planet’s surface and the heavy, blinding wind, they would drop nearer the settlement’s perimeter this time around rather than landing miles off course and trekking across the rugged terrain. It was a welcome luxury but it also necessitated that every system and weapon was ready to go before they exited the shuttle. Had the stubborn soldiers avoiding the slightest acknowledgement of their blades truly been unfazed by the switch from blasters, they would have dutifully checked the power cells on the weapon to ensure it functioned properly when they engaged the enemy.
“Ten seconds!” the commander shouted.
The hatches slid open. Violent wind swept through the confined shuttle, causing the magnetic locks on Nuri’s boots to activate. It took a moment for his muscles to adjust to the sudden shift in control from his body to the spacesuit, but he adapted quickly and assumed his place in line.
This wasn’t his first cleansing.
“Drop!” the commander ordered.
The Called soldiers threw themselves out from the shuttle in practiced synchronicity with Nuri third to fall.
Lord of All, be my blade and my resolve.
The wind smacked into his suit as soon as he exited the shuttle. After the initial disorientation from the change of direction subsided, he activated the inertial compensators in his suit and triggered maneuvering thrusters to steer toward his drop target.
“Six seconds to impact,” his suit informed him.
He’d expected a shorter drop based on how close the surface of the planet had appeared from the shuttle, but he’d neglected to account for the gale-force winds resisting his descent which forced him to alter course several times.
“Two seconds…” the suit belatedly alerted him.
The artificial voice didn’t have a chance to finish before impact, but Nuri hadn’t needed the reminder anyway. He’d been through this all before.
But not the killing, he thought as he rolled into contact and allowed his suit’s equalizers to cushion the rest of his fall. Not like this.
“Reassemble,” the commander’s voice sliced into the eerie helmet silence. Once the sounds of the hurricane were blocked out, the haphazard trajectories of the windswept vegetation and the overall violence of the surface was a peculiar contrast to the peaceful atmosphere within Nuri’s combat suit.
Distraction, he cursed inwardly.
On this mission more than any other, he couldn’t afford to let his thoughts stray to his physical environment. The corporeal universe was not a godly one. Beauty and substance were both illusions, and if he allowed himself to be stirred by the terrible majesty of the colonial planet, he wouldn’t react appropriately when confronted with the death-stares of the heretics slain by his laser blade.
Will you hear them scream?
His grip tightened on the weapon’s hilt and he forced the girl’s voice away again. How could she reach him so far across the galaxy, he wondered?
It’s not important.
He stepped into the third position of the single-file line and his squadron promptly began their march through the winding canyons. None among them acknowledged the weapons on their hips, not even to make sure the environment hadn’t caused any unforeseen malfunctions. The oversight in tactical procedure troubled Nuri, but like the others, he said nothing.
“One hundred meters,” the commander’s voice boomed over his suit’s comm link. “You know what to do.”
They reached the end of the canyon where the ground opened out into a wide plain. One by one, the soldiers fanned out until their line stretched one hundred meters. Nuri was the third Called soldier in from the right.
“Activate weapons,” the commander said.
He thumbed the switch on the hilt of his blade, careful to give his squad-mates a wide berth to avoid injuring them with friendly fire.
Will you feel the heat of their blood?
His jaw clenched and his stomach churned.
Will you hear their screams?
“They have sentries,” the commander warned.
Nuri glanced at the watchtowers on either side of the settlement’s entrance and found the blue light of sniper scopes strafing across the line of Called soldiers. Evidently, the sentinels themselves were awaiting orders or simply unsure how to proceed. Fighting the Called was a hopeless endeavor, of course, and those who laid down their weapons to accept their fates were considered amply purified in the eyes of God, but many colonists saw the Duri as ruthless tyrants and would sooner fight to the death than acquiesce. The shock of seeing the armored death-dealers on their planet must have thrown the people into frenzy from the top down.
It will be like slaughtering pigs in a pen, Nuri thought. The comparison reminded him of the pig farmer he’d slain in the mountain village, however, momentarily diverting his focus.
Will you hear their screams?
“Steady,” the commander said.
Lord of All, be my blade and my resolve.
“Don’t let them see you flinch.”
The sniper scopes suddenly disappeared. Nuri immediately braced himself to track the incoming bullets from his faceplate’s holo-display.
“They’re coming,” a female voice whispered over the comm line.
Nuri shuddered at the sound. No one but the commander had spoken over that frequency since they’d departed the warship orbiting the planet. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected to hear anyone besides their leader at any point in the mission. The cleansing was straightforward enough aside from the wrinkle of using a brand new weapon on the killing floor, but it was that very wrinkle which negated the need for open communication during the mission. When employing blaster rifles and air strikes, it was necessary to check in with the rest of the squadron to ensure everyone had cleared the area before a blast or else to request covering fire while advancing your position. In hand-to-hand combat, all bets were off. The comm links were no more help than an extra day’s worth of oxygen. Whoever was left standing in the heaps of corpses when it was over would be extracted and returned to their designated training planet.<
br />
Is it because her voice reminds you of me?
Before he could process the loaded suggestion, the first wave of bullets crashed into their line and his thoughts were silenced by the steady impacts in his chest and helmet plating. The suit was built to withstand a barrage of the conventional ammunition colonists purchased on the black market, but it was still difficult to concentrate with the incessant jolts as the rounds found purchase.
Lord of All, be my blade and my resolve, he prayed.
It took a great deal of will and concentration not to break into a sprint or at least increase his pace to rid himself of the maddening, concussive pings as soon as possible, but that was not the way of the Called. The cleansings endeavored as much to grow the legend of the supernaturally endowed warriors and discourage colonists from rebellion as they did to actually purify the offending heretics. Perception, therefore, was always paramount on the off-chance that security nodes captured the massacre and transmitted before the settlement was destroyed, or in case a few targets survived somehow and carried the tale to other worlds. If he were to break formation and rush the city gates, it would lead to lashings from his Duri Master at the very least and public execution at the worst. Although Nuri had overcome most of his battle-nerves through the years, he still needed to remind himself of the consequences for recklessness each time he dropped in heretic country.
“Ready blades,” the commander said.
The Called soldiers raised their weapons in unison and held them at the ready. The gates were still a long way off but a defense force had assembled beneath the watchtowers for a charge. As Nuri watched, three-dozen armed men and women shrieked at the top of their lungs and rushed toward the line of Called soldiers.
Colt: The Cosmic Prayer (Hidria Book 1) Page 22