Heresy: Part 2
This story is fan-fiction made in the Grimdark Future universe, by One Page Rules.
They met on a small hill a full league from the city’s wall. The land was barren, with only a few dried husks of trees and sparse tufts of weed drifting in the wind. The lazy drone of alien insects filled the chill air, and the bright blue spot that was the planet’s sun beat down on Pwanji’s head.
She met with a monster. He was half-again as tall as her, covered head-to-toe in ancient metal armor. She recognized the design as one of the ancient battle-suits from when humanity first came to the Sirius sector, and it looked well used. That it still functioned at all was impressive, given its age, but she had no doubt that the Battle Brothers of the Founder knew how to maintain even the oldest equipment. Given their lifespans, it was likely this was his original battle-suit.
“Hail,” she said as the giant walked closer. “I am Mother Pwanji Truevoice of Freecity Arpescious. Whom do I have the honor of meeting?”
“I am Lord Kiirson,” the soldier’s voice was hollow and metallic, coming from the vox-speaker implanted in the battle-suit’s helmet. “Captain of the Fourteenth Regiment of the Havoc Pantheon and Keeper of the Hollow Star.” The soldier came to a halt and pulled a sword from his side. Driving the point into the earth, he rested both hands on its hilt. “I come to parley, as requested.”
“I thank you for coming,” Pwanji shifted her grip on her staff. “Even though you come with clear intent, with swords, rifles — even a tank I see — you are willing to talk. That fills me with hope that we can come to a peaceful understanding.”
“Perhaps.” The helmeted monster raised a fist and pointed back at the walled settlement. “You say you are Mother…are you the leader of this city?”
Pwanji gave a half nod, half bow. “I am. We are a faithful people with a council of elders. Mother and Father are our titles, and I am one of ten.”
For a moment, the soldier didn’t respond. His scarred helmet slowly panned from her to the settlement and back again. After a moment more, his metallic voice broke the silence. “No, you are not a leader. You wear the trappings, carry yourself with an air about you…but you are not in charge. Who leads your city? A head council-member? Someone else?”
Pwanji fought back a sneer. “We are a communal people. We have no “leader” in the way that you understand it, I’m sure. I am, however, one who has been elected to help guide the citizens of our —”
“Stop,” the metal hand raised. “I understand more than you think. Me and my men march on a blessed crusade, and I have seen fires burn in the eyes of countless soldiers. I recognize the eyes of a holy servant. You may tell the people of the city you are their leader, but you serve something else. A God of your own, perhaps?”
Pwanji felt the urge to take a step back, to put distance between herself and this towering metal machine that had pierced through her mask. “I think we both serve something else, do we not?” She pointed a long finger at the symbol on the soldier’s chest. “That sigil is no sign of the Founder or his Conduit. Whom do you serve?”
“We serve the Quadrumvirate, the Gods of Havoc.” The helmet shifted upward, as if its wearer were reciting a poem. “By their mercy and blessing, we are graced with strength and purpose.”
Pwanji felt her heart lift; the response was calm and cold, free from the passion of true faith. “And you are come to join our settlement in the hopes of spreading word of their glory?”
“No,” the soldier didn’t rise to her light mockery. “By the will of the Quadrumvirate, this land is to return to their control.”
“Return?” Pwanji cocked her head, curiosity overcoming her ire. “This land once belonged to a Protectorate of the Founder, before we liberated ourselves from their yolk.”
“Before that,” the soldier answered, “centuries ago, a mighty temple stood here that praised the Quadrumvirate and their mercies. The temple was abandoned and a city built on its ruins. It is this city that the Conduit and your ancestors claimed for their own when they arrived in the Sirius sector, and this city that we will return to the Gods of Havoc.”
Pwanji shook her head. “I am afraid that is out of the question. We are free people. Too much blood has been shed into this earth for us to, what, pack up and leave? And where would you have us go?”
“The planet is large,” the soldier was as matter-of-fact as if he were describing the weather. “There must be fertile land nearby. We will not stop you if you choose to leave peacefully.”
“And if we choose not to leave?”
Slowly, the soldier’s metal hands shifted on the hilt of the sword, tightening their grip. All at once, Pwanji became aware at how heavy the armor must have been, and how strong the soldier must be to move in it so effortlessly. “Then we shall take it from you.”
“If you seek violence,” Pwanji struggled to breathe slowly, letting her faith be her own strength. “you will not find us unwilling. Yours would not be the first oppressors whose blood soaks our land.”
“We do not want to fight,” the soldier protested in spite of their aggressive demeanor, “but our Gods will not be denied. The city will be ours, the temple will be rebuilt, the Gods will be honored.”
“We have our Goddess as well,” Pwanji felt her chest grow full. “A Goddess who sits now under the city, whose strength and wisdom brought us victory in an impossible war and whose blood fills our veins even now. Turn back, and we will show you the mercy we did not show our slavers.”
The metal helmet shifted, clanking in the dull air. “Do not mistake me; our Gods are not mere folk-tales to scare children. We are made for war, and our Gods themselves command us to return the temple to its former glory. You will not survive conflict with us.”
“Do not mistake me,” Pwanji felt her mind expand as she locked her eyes with the helmet’s viewing port. She felt her words cloak themselves in horrific darkness, reaching for the hidden corners of her adversary’s mind to fill him with terror. “I’ve heard tell of the Gods of Havoc and their lackeys. I hear the dying embers of your faith in your voice and find it wanting. You are not crusaders of the Dying Pantheon; you are mere parasites, making promises in exchange for power. You are petty-merchants who treat your Gods like children, to be set against each other like a spy trading loyalties. You ply them promises and petty manipulations for scraps of power, rather than serve them out of respect and love. Does serving them enrich your soul?”
A barking laugh broke from the monster’s helmet, snapping the black tendrils of Pwanji’s words. Her mind clicked back into her body as the soldier stood, unaffected by her will.
“Enrich my soul?” The soldier’s head shook back and forth. “You have never starved alone on a desolate planet with monsters stalking the darkness surrounding you, living in fear for your next breath, or you would not care for such luxuries. You called them your slavers but it is clear to me that they treated you quite well. We, the Brothers of Havoc, lived for decades by eating poison, drinking acid, and sleeping under burning skies. What use is a soul in such conditions? I respect the Gods of Havoc more than you shall ever guess. It is their creed, their law, that strengthens us daily: through struggle we thrive. War and disease culls the weak, while knowledge and practice perfects the survivors. We carry the promise of our Gods in our hearts; they live through our devotions, and following their word of suffering and conflict is the only path to survival.”
Pwanji sneered. “I have gone to bed hungry many nights. I have feared for my next breath under my masters anger, and feared too that I would never find freedom from this fear.” A thought crossed her mind. “But I grew up with this fear. I was born into it and lived with it my whole life. You…you were once a soldier of the Founder. You never knew hunger or fear until you were pulled to Sirius, did you?”
The soldier did not answer at first. After a long pause, a metal hand waved dismissively. “What does it matter? The strength of our arms is tenfold greater than yours, no matter the strength of your faith.”
“So you say,” Pwanji stood tall, “but while you trick your gods into giving you strength, I was not being poetic when I said our Goddess has gifted us her own blood.” She pulled off her cloak and extended her third arm. Her undershoulder ached as her muscles pulled further than they were used to, her claw-tipped fingers spreading wide. “We do not improve ourselves through clumsy guesswork like the Founder, but through proven success. Our Goddess has taken her own genetic code and spliced it with our own.”
Now the soldier took a step back, his hand reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there. “You are — I have seen that skin before. Your god is a Hive alien?”
Pwanji nodded as she pulled back her hood, revealing her smooth and inhumanly-shaped skull. “Who better to teach us the ways of manipulating the code of our own bodies? They have changed themselves for centuries and their fleets are greater than any of the Sirius sector. Through the grace of our Goddess, our children will ascend to an even superior form of life than you, the Founder’s childish toys.”
“You are a fool,” the monster stepped forward again. “A child playing with weapons that will destroy you. You corrupt your body in hope of power and call it faith.”
“How is our faith any less pure than yours, filled as you are with your own gods’ twisted blessings? Were you not injected with the Founder’s gene-mods as we are shaped by our Goddess’s hand? We both may have changed our bodies, but you have corrupted your very soul.”
The soldier’s grip tightened again, his anger clear even through the vox-speaker’s distortion. “Whose souls are pure? Our brothers who seek to exterminate us, calling us traitors to the Conduit? The Machine Cult who replace their hearts with fusion cells? You, who profess peace only after hundreds of bodies from your rebellion fertilize your fields?”
“Perhaps we are both heretics, then,” Pwanji sniffed. “Perhaps nothing is holy — there are no gods, only powerful monsters that you hope to control through smug manipulation.”
“Or you through cheap flattery.” The soldier reached down and pulled his sword up from the earth, spraying clumps of dirt at Pwanji’s feet. “You think to mock our Gods by calling them the Dying Pantheon? It is not mockery, it is your downfall. You will fight and die to honor your goddess? We fight and die to save ours. Do not test our faith; stand aside. There need be no blood shed today.”
Pwanji fought the urge to step back. She could feel it now, the strength of the monster’s will, but so too could she see his lies. “You make it sound as if it is my choice. You are not a glacier, a force of nature with no will to guide it. Both you and your Gods have wills of your own and any one of you may turn away. Know this. If death comes it is not because we stayed, but because you came.”
The soldier nodded as he replaced the sword at his side. “So be it. For the sake of our Gods, many will die tomorrow.” There was a brief pause. “I hope your goddess forgives you for their blood.”
“I hope you can forgive your gods,” Pwanji said in reply.
Lord Kiirson, Captain of the Fourteenth Regiment of the Havoc Pantheon and Keeper of the Hollow Star, looked up into the rancid sky.
The fighting had been fierce. The priestess’s words had done their work, driving him to act hastily. Foolishly. He had underestimated their fanaticism to say nothing of their fiendishly clever tactics and home-field advantage.
The Fourteenth Regiment had been seriously wounded in their latest push. They had claimed merely a third of the city and were laying siege to the rest. Artillery batteries fired regularly, sending death down on the heads of their enemies…but they were a wily quarry. Less than half of the artillery rounds scored any confirmed kills, and their foes attacked without warning from every direction. It was a horrific war of attrition, and while it was clear the Fourteenth would succeed, it was less clear how pyrrhic their victory would be.
At least, it had been. Now, as Lord Kiirson stared up into the sky, he felt his certainty ebb away like dust in the wind.
Overhead, a massive Hive vessel hung like a lazy fly. He recognized the type; he had fought the Hive many times before in desperate bids for resources and territory. By his estimation — confirmed by his warmasters over their comm-link — the soldiers of such a ship outnumbered the Fourteenth by almost three to one.
Lord Kiirson was not a fool; he knew a hopeless fight when he saw one, and his humbling at the fury of the citizens of Arpescious was fresh in his mind. He could not retreat — he had promised the Quadrumvirate victory and their punishments for breaking an oath were unpleasant to say the least — but neither did dying on the battlefield serve their will.
Withdrawal was prudent, but to his surprise he was not the only one who thought so. Across the smoking remains of what had once been a major city thoroughfare, he saw the troops of Mother Pwanji as they quit the battlefield, casting their own nervous eyes upward.
They too were afraid? Were the Hive not their allies? Could Kiirson order his men to withdraw and let the two armies fight it out until one exhausted the other? Then, refreshed and prepared, they could sweep in to claim the territory as their own…
Lord Kiirson looked up again. No, according to the reports, the cult’s remaining numbers would be barely enough to survive one assault from the Hiveship. They didn’t have any ships, heavy batteries, or armored vehicles; and the Hive wouldn’t succumb to guerrilla tactics. Neither would they care about keeping any buildings intact or killing innocent civilians.
Where his certainty had fled, now a new certainty was growing. The city of Arpescious had one shot at survival and the Fourteenth one shot at victory. Was it fear for his Gods’ survival or his own that brought him to his answer? Only the Quadrumvirate would know for sure, and if he was judged wanting his punishment would be severe.
Lord Kiirson raised his arm, as heavy as lead, to press his comm-link. “Warmaster Prime,” his throat was raw, “Send a broadcast message to the enemy warlord. We need to discuss an alliance.”
“My Lord?” the voice on the other end of the link was shocked. “Will the Gods countenance such heresy? And the heathen warlord will surely not accept any such proposal!”
The bidding of the Quadrumvirate warred in his mind. The God of War sought conflict, not accord; but Disease favored life over death. Change urged wisdom and pragmatic results, while Lust desired purity and perfection instead of muddled compromise. Then too, if an agreement was struck with a heathen faith, War would brook no breaking such an oath and Lust would demand the temple remain unmarred by conflict…
The temple could be rebuilt, but the real question was whether the Quadrumvirate would accept a tainted success; a victory by letter of Lord Kiirson’s oath rather than the spirit. Would they welcome a temple raised not a league from a heathen faith? If Kiirson had one hope, it was that all four of the Quadrumvirate venerated survival, and this was his army’s best chance.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lord Kiirson watched as the Hive ship began to shed a thousand black specks; a swarm of alien soldiers descending towards the city like rain. “But I have faith.”
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