Brother Fist had not revealed why He wanted this man brought to Him. She had not dared ask; it was not her place to question His purposes and plans. Now that he was here, she had to ackowledge the possibility that her master might wish to speak to him alone.
That prospect troubled her deeply. Marchey was not cowed. He could not be trusted. He might even be a devil sent to hurt her master.
Brother Fist had not seemed quite Himself of late. He said that the Hand of God was heavy on His shoulders. Was it possible that He might overestimate His ability to control this strange, unpredictable man?
She certainly had.
Just thinking that her master might be wrong about anything made the pain and nausea she already felt spike so high that her head swam, and she very nearly lost her balance. Such thoughts were unworthy. Forbidden. Blasphemous.
But she had become used to suffering such pain on the trip back here. She accepted it, endured it.
The silver chain she clung to was the knowledge that she was Brother Fist’s angel, His servant, and— most of all—His guardian. His holy person was to be protected at any cost. Pain was a small price to pay when her life and soul were already pledged to that sacred duty.
Scylla knew where the hidden pickups covering this section of tunnel were mounted. As they moved into a blind spot she reached into the pouch at her hip and pulled out one of her Ears. It was a thin, transparent chip the size of a fingernail, perfect for being hidden in the homes and workplaces of those suspected of laziness, ill faith, or blasphemy.
She scraped her finger across its back to activate the adhesive, carefully keeping her Angel eye averted in case Brother Fist was watching through it. By the time they came in range of the next pickup the Ear was stuck tight to her prisoner’s belt.
Scylla permitted herself a small, secret smile. There was some risk that Brother Fist would frown upon what she had done, were He to find out about it, but it was worthwhile.
Now she could do her duty, guarding her charge no matter what happened.
Marchey hurt. More every minute.
The slashes across his chest were lines of fire. His back felt like one massive bruise. He could feel his lips ballooning, and his jaw felt half-unhinged. He moved it experimentally. At least it wasn’t broken.
He’d been lucky back in the landing bay and knew it. Scylla had only backhanded him—and pulled her blow at that. That exo gave her enough strength to have literally knocked his block off.
Some angel! It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic.
He was beginning to see her in a new fight shed by the abject obedience that had saved his life. Could it be that she was just another pawn in whatever reprehensible game was being played here? He was beginning to think so. Someone—this Brother Fist character, most likely—had turned her into a killing machine with that exo, and somehow brainwashed her into believing she was an angel. That would explain her truncated personality, her flat, knee-jerk responses.
He wished he’d spent the time coming here trying to learn something about the woman hidden—or trapped—inside that demon-faced, silver-metal monster. But he hadn’t bothered, had he? Such matters had exactly nothing to do with him, right?
Sure. Besides, why think when you could drink? He shook his head sadly. He might as well admit that she wasn’t the only one operating under flatworm-simple programming.
All right, he told himself sternly, stop using your head for a proctoscope for a change. Pay close attention to everything in this cut-rate Eden. Your life might—and probably does—depend on being on your toes for a change.
Not that what he’d seen so far was easy to ignore. The only way to describe the place was unrelentingly grim. The cramped tunnels were cold and poorly lit, the floor grid patched and curling, the unsealed walls and ceiling rough-hewn and in some places crumbling. The flat floor meant that the tunnel’s builders had planned to give the moon more spin, making up and down more than a hazy theoretical concept.
The air was only minimally breathable. Not only did it stink of sweat and poorly recycled waste, it seemed saturated to the weeping point with a suffocating miasma of fear, misery, and despair, like the air in a dungeon. Unscavenged water vapor had condensed on the walls, making them and everything else damp and clammy. Every other surface was covered with mildew.
Other than those poor bastards in the bay, Marchey had seen only a few of the inhabitants of this horrible place. Those he and his escort had encountered reacted by either cringing back against the walls as they passed with their heads bowed and eyes averted, or scuttling back out of sight like frightened mice.
If this was an Eden, then it was of the sort created by such infamous Utopians as Jim Jones, Pol Pot, and Gerald Van Hyaams. He didn’t need to see the mines to know what sort of conditions these people worked in; he’d already observed evidence of enough injuries to close down any normal operation.
It was obvious that human life was as cheap as dirt here. The people he had seen so far were clearly bereft of such basic human rights as comfort, freedom, or dignity. This was not a place where people laughed, or even smiled.
Nor did it appear to be some nest of religious zealots. It was not fanaticism he saw on people’s faces, it was fear and exhaustion. Service to God might have been the name of the game here, but the rules were from an old, old practice that went by the name of slavery.
It had been a long time since Marchey had felt anything like real anger or fear. Since he had really felt much of anything at all.
Much to his surprise, he found that the machinery for such emotions was still intact, the rusty gears grinding faster and faster. He felt like some piece of equipment that was coming back on-line after years of being on standby.
They turned into a wider tunnel. Scylla stalked beside him now, tight-lipped and impatient. It was all he could do to keep up with her.
He watched her out of the corner of one eye, finally giving the reason she had brought him here some serious thought. Did she know the reason, or was she just unquestioningly following orders? The latter seemed the most likely.
He plotted it out in his mind. She had been sent for him, specifically. She’d known his name and where to find him. How? He had no idea. Why?
Only one answer made any sense. He was a Bergmann Surgeon. Not only competent at all conventional medical procedures, but also able to treat conditions no regular physician could. The inescapable conclusion was that Fist had ordered him kidnapped and brought here because of who he was and what he could do.
According to Scylla, this Fist preached that medicine was a cheat and a deception. She acted as if she believed him, even though she was the one bringing a doctor to him.
Marchey knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Fanaticism and blindness to reality always went hand in hand; they were ultimately different faces of the same spurious coin. He was tempted to point out the contradiction to her, but felt fairly safe in predicting that her reaction would be vehement denial at best. More likely it would be violent.
That made him wonder if this Brother Fist had taken into account the chance that she might find out he was lying to her. He seemed to have her on a short leash, but still…
Watching her surreptitiously, so superhumanly fast and strong in that indestructible silver exo, he knew that he wouldn’t want to be in her master’s shoes if her illusions were shattered.