Chapter 71: Sister Theresa
Looking at the sixteen-year-old girl standing before him, Kian asked, "Theresa?"
The girl was dressed in the humble habits of an Ecclesiarchy novice. She nodded weakly, her posture hunched as if trying to make herself invisible.
"You must be Master Voss," she whispered. "The savior of my bloodline. By the Emperor's grace, I offer prayers for you every day to repay the debt we owe."
Kian waved her off with practiced indifference. "It was a business arrangement. No need for the piety. Do you have any letters or tokens for your parents?"
Theresa looked up, her eyes watery. "Master... once a month, we novices are granted a day of 'Spiritual Reflection' outside the Cathedral walls. On that day, could I travel with you to the sub-levels? I just need to see my mother and father."
The request was sudden, and Kian shook his head immediately.
"No. The Underhive is a death trap. I can't guarantee your safety one hundred percent, and if anything happens to you, your father will spend the rest of his life trying to take it out of my hide. Not today. Later, once the sector stabilizes, I'll arrange a meeting."
Kian was essentially "drawing a pie" for her—giving her a promise of the future—but it wasn't entirely hollow. Once his amasec distribution in the Mid-Hive was established, he would need a permanent agent up here anyway. Moving the Joels back up to the Mid-Hive was part of the long-term plan.
Theresa bowed low, her frame trembling with anxiety. "Forgive me, Master. My request was far too forward. I am sorry, so sorry!"
She was like a startled sparrow, terrified of any potential friction.
The accompanying Cenobite tapped his staff on the stone floor. "Sister Theresa, your catechism begins in five minutes. If you are not in your seat when the Sister-Superior arrives, she will scourge your palms and revoke your evening nutrients."
Theresa's panic spiked. She hurriedly thrust an envelope into Kian's hand. "Forgive me, Master, I must go. Please, give this to my parents. I hold your kindness in my heart. I will pray for your soul before the Golden Throne every hour!"
Kian noticed how thin she was. Her cheeks were hollow, and her wrists looked like dried twigs. Life in the Cathedral wasn't the sanctuary her father had hoped for; it was a different kind of meat-grinder.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a stack of 500 Agri-Scrips, pressing them into her palm. Before she could protest, he shoved three Sanctified Rations (the Holy Pancakes) into her pocket.
"Master... I... I cannot accept such treasures..."
"Just study your scriptures, kid," Kian grunted, turning his back. "Don't let the hags in there get you down."
He walked out of the Cathedral without looking back.
"Master..." Theresa whispered, watching his silhouette vanish into the grey Mid-Hive smog.
Praise the Master of Mankind for sending such a man, she thought, clutching her Imperial Aquila pendant. He saved my family from the abyss. Please, let him be shielded by Your light.
The Cathedral of the Blessed Martyr was a sprawling Gothic complex. While the front was open to the public for the "paying" faithful, the rear was a fortress of dogma. It housed the Scripturiums, the reliquaries, and the living quarters for the clergy and novices.
The Ecclesiarchy was an empire within an empire. On some "Shrine Worlds," there was nothing but cathedrals from pole to pole. Billions of souls lived and died there doing nothing but chanting litanies and polishing brass.
Secundus-496b wasn't that extreme, but the church still held immense sway. Theresa had been sent here as a last-ditch effort to keep her "Pure" before the family was exiled to the Sump. In a Hive World, a literate and beautiful girl could be a novice—literacy was for reading the Creed, and beauty was for attracting donors.
Unfortunately, Theresa's beauty had earned her the spite of the Sister-Superior, the Matron of the Novitiate.
CRACK!
In the classroom, in front of a hundred other girls, the Matron's heavy hand slammed across Theresa's face.
"You faithless little slut! You are late for the afternoon sermon!"
Theresa's vision swam. She wasn't actually late. She had entered the room ten seconds before the bell rang. She was standing by her seat, but her dress hadn't touched the bench yet. In the Matron's eyes, that was a heresy of the clock.
Theresa didn't argue. Over the last few days, she had learned that the Matron enjoyed the "correction." To defend oneself was to invite a more violent penance.
"I have failed, Mother," Theresa whispered, head bowed.
The Matron grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the front. She snatched up a heavy rattan cane and began to strike Theresa's palms and forearms.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The sounds of the beating echoed through the silent classroom. The other novices watched—some with pity, others with the cruel smirks of those who enjoyed seeing a "favorite" fall.
The Matron didn't stop at ten. Or twenty. She rained over a hundred blows onto the girl's limbs until the skin was purple and weeping blood. Theresa grit her teeth, tears streaming down her face, until the agony became too much. She collapsed to her knees, wailing.
"Mother, I repent! Please! I repent!"
The Matron finally stopped, her chest heaving with the dark satisfaction of the act. She looked down at the shivering girl.
"Those who are weak in faith must be strengthened through pain. Stand outside the doors for the remainder of the lesson. No dinner tonight. Reflect on your sloth."
Theresa huddled in the hallway, clutching her mangled arms.
That evening, as the other novices ate their thin gruel, Theresa lay on her small, hard cot in the massive dormitory. Her arms throbbed with a rhythmic, bone-deep fire. Her stomach felt like it was eating itself.
She pulled out the letter from her family, reading the words of love and safety over and over by the dim light of a single glow-globe. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the small, wrapped wafer Kian had given her.
The Sanctified Ration.
She took a small bite.
At that moment, the Canon-Preceptor—the highest-ranking priest of the district—was walking past the dormitory hallway. He was a man of high psychic sensitivity, trained to detect the subtle "stench" of heresy.
Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't smell rot. He felt a sudden, piercing wave of Purity.
It was a faint but unmistakable aura of the Divine. A resonance so holy it made the golden icons on his robes vibrate.
The Canon-Preceptor turned, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the heavy wooden doors of the Novice Ward.
"What is this...?" he whispered, his voice full of wonder and suspicion. "Who in this house of dregs carries the Light of Terra?"
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