The Night Prior

  Simo stood under the shower’s hot spray and let the water hammer the back of his neck until the skin went red.

  The Paragon barracks for Free Agents were something else. Only four bunks to a room, but he had the whole thing to himself, nobody snoring in the next rack.

  Besides that, each room had its own latrine and shower.

  True luxury, by infantry standards. Hell, not sleeping in the mud was a luxury by infantry standards.

  The right arm, his original meat, was the only limb that still felt temperature right.

  The rest registered it strangely, like someone else’s hand telling him the water was hot.

  He watched the droplets bead and run off the alloy plating, then looked at the flesh arm and felt nothing at all.

  Not cold, not warm. Just absent.

  Something was wrong.

  Besides that, he felt too good.

  That was the worst part.

  He felt sixteen years old again, ready to run a forced march with full kit. His body buzzed with energy, begging to be used.

  He felt even better than after that healing dunk in the Vitaelux Apexium.

  But it was wrong.

  It was all wrong. He knew it.

  Inside his chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out what made him a man and poured in warm smoke.

  Detached. That’s how he felt. Like the world weren’t real no more. Like everything was fake. Like he was disconnected from it all.

  Like he was watching himself from the far bunk, wondering who the Hell that guy in the shower was, that lucky bastard who got to be a Paragon.

  Who was he?

  What was he now?

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it.

  He remembered dying. He remembered life fleeing, falling from the roof, his legs hitting a ledge before his body hitting the ground.

  And dying.

  Garioch had given him the short version. The Saint graciously gave up his valuable Puteus Vitae to bring Simo back, but there was some undead rot.

  Angar took the corruption into himself, saving Simo once again.

  And it worked.

  He hadn’t spoken to Angar since the Swarm. Couldn’t.

  Every time he pictured those brutal eyes looking at him, judging his soul, his gut twisted into knots.

  A man could only owe another so much before the debt started eating away at his pride like rust. Lose enough and there was nothing left to call a man.

  Paragon.

  Second Realm.

  He’d crawled his way up, all the way from a serf kid in a poor house, to something everyone whispered about in awe.

  Forty years bleeding for the Holy Empire, and now such luck, proof that the Three had blessed him.

  There should’ve been trumpets, his wife crying happy tears, his boys pounding his back, his girls hugging him with pride, throwing their arms around his neck until he laughed himself sick.

  Instead, nothing.

  Because it wasn’t the blessing of the Three, just dumb luck he met such a generous kid a couple years back.

  He didn’t earn shit.

  And Paragon wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Same old fears, same old fights, gateways still vomiting disgusting filth into the world.

  Just another day, only now the unholy filth had to work harder to kill him.

  His Annals even listed his employment occupation as servant still.

  He snorted, water running into his mouth.

  He lifted the cybernetic left arm to scrub his scalp. And the hand didn’t come with it.

  The whole forearm from the elbow down turned to black smoke, swirling like ink in water, drifting lazily under the spray, the fingers dissolving last, curling away into nothing.

  Simo stared. The smoke hung there a second, then snapped back into shape, the alloy dripping water.

  But he’d seen it. He’d felt it.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “No, no, no.” He slammed the water off with his real hand and staggered out, his metal feet leaving wet prints across the tile.

  Corruption. Some sort of undead taint.

  If not undead, something unholy.

  There was no doubt.

  It was part of him.

  Permanent.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He had no doubt.

  None at all.

  He dressed in a hurry, shaking so badly he could barely cinch his belt.

  He looked at his new, ridiculously valuable, and rare set of Infiltrator armor.

  Such luck.

  Memories came unbidden. He'd been a real bastard in his younger days, treating Veerta terrible, drinking, cheating while on deployments, and such.

  Fatherhood changed him, especially holding his first daughter, Esther, in his arms.

  Something broke in him then, looking at his little girl, knowing how much evil was out there, wanting to protect her from all of it.

  Protect her from men like him.

  He vowed to be the type of man he’d want his daughter to marry right then, a good, God-fearing man, one that treated Veerta like she deserved, just as he wanted his Esther to be treated.

  Heretic.

  He was being consumed by blasphemous, evil Heresy.

  He knew that truth down to his bones.

  He’d known it since he'd awoken after the Swarm.

  Nothing had felt right since, the hollow eating away at him. He could feel the evil writhing inside.

  Everything he’d bled for, gone. Soul damned, name erased, family shamed forever.

  He couldn’t allow that.

  No.

  He certainly couldn’t allow that.

  He was a devout man, his soul clean.

  Until this.

  There was a whiteboard listing cleaning duties for those staying in this room.

  He picked up the marker and wrote, “Angar, thank you for everything. Tell my family their old man went out fighting, not like this. Tell them I love them more than anything. You should’ve left me dead. Something unholy came back. I won’t let Hell have me.”

  He stared at the words until they blurred.

  Angar would care for his family. He’d know what to do to get the insurance payout.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, performing the sign of the trey. “God, please forgive me. Please, accept my tainted soul.”

  Unholstering the sidearm, he shoved the barrel into his mouth, tasting gun oil and shower water.

  Against all odds, he’d ascended to Paragon.

  Veerta's tearful face on his first deployment flashed by, his kids’ laughter when they were young, his last sight of his wife on Tribute with her pregnant belly.

  “I’m so sorry,” he muttered around the metal.

  He pulled the trigger, the laser pistol’s discharge a dull hiss.

  The back of his head came off in a red mist that painted the wall.

  His body dropped sideways, hitting the tile with a thud, his cybernetic legs kicking twice before stilling.

  Then, silence.

  Now

  Angar shifted his armored bulk in the confessional, the kneeler creaking under his weight like it was confessing its own sins.

  The prefab chapel stank of cheap incense, stale wine, and the sour sweat of a clergyman who’d seemingly given up, the sounds of outside revelry bleeding in.

  Through the flimsy grille, Presbyter Clement slumped like a deflated sack on a folding chair, his cassock stained with grease and ash smudges, clutching a dented metal flask like it was a Holy relic capable of saving the Empire.

  Angar doffed his helm, placed it carefully beside his hammer, then traced the sign of the trey, touching forehead, right shoulder, left. The gesture helped anchor him in this ramshackle den of redemption.

  “In the name of the Father, God above, the Mother, blessed Mi, and Theosis, the Divine System,” he began, forcing the words out through his wrapped jaw. “Bless me, Brother, for I have sinned. It’s been about two weeks since my last confession.”

  A phlegmy cough came from the other side. “You need to speak up, Child. You’re mumbling, and too softly at that. Have no fear, no one can hear us.”

  “Sorry, Brother,” Angar replied, trying to speak louder and articulate. “My jaw's immobilized.”

  “I see. Go on, Child. Unburden.”

  “I've been plagued by impure thoughts, coveting a married woman,” confessed Angar bitterly. “She's a Heretic and disrobed in front of me, an unholy temptress out to corrupt my soul, but that hasn't curbed the lust. I've tried redirecting it to an imagined, unwed woman, so a lesser evil.”

  Clement let out a grunt that could have been disappointment or indigestion. “Ah, you again, Child. Same spiel as before. As sin goes, impure thoughts rate low. We're flesh and blood, and we stumble now and again, sometimes fall off the righteous path, blah blah, all that. Spend a Voluvicas Credit or two, flush the poison out, cleanse your pipes. Anything fresh blackening your soul?"

  Angar drew a slow breath through his broken nose, steeling himself. "I trafficked with the profane, willingly. A companion died in the Swarm's trial, but we others won. As an award, it infused a Puteus Vitae with fell power and said it’d bring Simo back. I knew it was tainted. I knew it was Heresy. Saint Garioch begged me to destroy the vial, to let Simo rest in the Lord’s loving embrace, his duty finally ended.”

  He paused. The silence from the other side grew. “I injected him anyway, out of my own selfish desire. He came back screaming, and the taint began turning him undead. I performed the Absorptio Profana ritual, drawing the corruption into myself. I rebuked it, of course, as I’m incorruptible, but some compulsion had me infuse Simo’s ‘death’ into a chapter token I'd earned weeks prior.”

  Angar took another breath. "I’m not sure what that means, Brother, but it can’t be good. And I used an unholy object to keep a friend unnaturally breathing. I chose my want over God."

  The flask clinked as Clement set it down after taking a swig. "Unlike the parvitude of impure thoughts, lying’s a grave sin, Child, venial by nature, but mortal if causing significant harm or scandal."

  Angar let out a frustrated breath, irked at the disbelief, at being called a liar during the Sacrament of Penance, no less.

  But he did realize his story sounded farfetched.

  Thoughts of Simo stirred unease in his gut. The old veteran had skipped his New Year Mass, a compulsory service that couldn’t be missed.

  “Understood,” replied Angar evenly, “but I’m not lying. I swear before the Holy Trinity, every word is truth.”

  Silence stretched out, broken by a tired sigh reeking of libation. “Anything else, Child?”

  “No, Brother.”

  Another sigh, softer this time. “Continue, then.”

  Angar bowed his head, preparing for the Act of Contrition, but the Presbyter cut in. “Speak it true, Child. No lies.”

  Nodding, Angar began. "Oh Lord, I’m sorry for coveting a married woman, as well as the imaginary woman that looks very similar to the unholy seductress I covet. I’m so sorry for choosing blasphemy, selfish desire, and my friend’s life over duty and obedience to Your glory.

  "I detest these sins because they offend You, and because they make me less the Knight You call me to be. I strive to never place anything above You, but even as I say this, if Simo lay dying again, I might do the same. Apologies for the hypocrisy in my contrition, Lord. I readily accept the harshest punishment to cleanse my tainted soul."

  Another long pause. From the other side came the familiar words, slurred only slightly. "God, the Father of mercies, through the martyrdom of the blessed Mother, has redeemed this realm to Himself and sent Holy Theosis to govern us in justice and wrath. Through the ministry of the Church, may He grant you pardon. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Three."

  Angar performed the sign of the trey. "Amen."

  Clement cleared his throat. "The good work to perform as penance shall be two weeks of genuflection for an hour daily, pondering sin and reflecting on its vile nature, especially how lies can destroy trust and lives."

  Angar exhaled sharply, braced for a hammer blow of penance that never came. The drunken Presbyter had chalked the Heresy up to a lie, just a tall tale.

  Though it wasn't his duty to prove his sins, only to confess them sincerely, the light punishment was insufficient.

  He'd impose his own, a worthy penance.

  "Amen," said Angar, snatching his helm and hammer as he rose. "Thanks be to God, our wrathful Master."

  Helmed, he stepped out into Fort Acre's raucous clamor.

  His HUD sat blank, seeking Simo's signature.

  Nothing still.

  Simo was unarmored, unlinked. No HUD trace, no comms, just silence where the veteran should be.

  As he pondering the best way to go about searching for the man, that's when he spotted them.

  Three broad-shouldered men in Crusader Armor closing in, helms tucked under their left arms, blasters gripped in their right hands.

  Like him, they kept their heads and faces shorn, not unlike Cloisteranage students, their too-pale skin, even after all the exposure to artificial sunlight, and massive necks and jaws shouting their heritage.

  Sons of Tribute, no doubt.

  Cold tile pressed into Simo's back.

  He sat up, his cybernetic fingers sliding through a wet mess, and coughed brains and blood onto the floor.

  He stared at the pistol in his trembling hand, remembering what happened, then felt the back of his head.

  It was whole.

  “Damn it all to Hell!” he spat out in a raw rasp, forced through a sore throat.

  The dark smoke curled around his arms like it was happy to see him.