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Unlike so many others in his order, Knight-Captain Harland Jericho did not hate Matinsday. Matinsday was his duty shift at the spaceport, and while that meant standing in one spot for long periods between boring patrol strolls through the various concourses of Port Piety, it made excellent opportunities to meditate upon his duties and the weight of his sins. In truth, too many of his brothers avoided such introspections, and this stank of weakness. A man should know his own soul, both the good and bad. When the time came to account for the actions of his life before God, the Almighty would not find Knight-Captain Harland Jericho a stammering fool. A few hours a week counting your faults was a good thing. It molded doubt into resolve and confusion into faith.
If he got lucky, a ship with Penitents would arrive and he would get to perform an initiation. If God willed it, some terrorist or militant atheist would try something stupid, and he would be forced to take a life in the name of duty. The killing did not bother Jericho as much as it probably should, but he was commanded to love the sinners even as he cut them down. With decades of service to his name, Jericho still found this contradiction maddening. He knew the failing was his, for he did not love the sinners as he should. More to meditate upon, he supposed. Barring this worst-case scenario, Jericho would stand around and smile at tourists, businesspeople, and diplomats who filed through the corridors each day. He prayed for a ship of initiates. His role in guarding the first step upon the Penitent’s Path, while somewhat ceremonial, helped solidify the commitment that any Penitent who hoped to pass into the Garden would need. It felt good to represent something larger than himself, something larger than any person or even community. For all his faults as a worthless sinner, helping others achieve grace seemed the best way to account for his flaws.
He looked down at the overlarge gauntlet encasing his right hand. Lacquered in striking royal blue, the articulated fingers connected to a thick vambrace of smooth overlapping plates. He could neither see nor hear the dozens of coordinated actuators beneath the surface. He felt the reassuring tingle of signal feedback when he moved his fingers inside. The blue digits of the gauntlet waved in unison, a macabre parody of a human hand flexing. The armor had been fitted to his body so perfectly it felt as if the machines anticipated his movements rather than responded to them, which he knew was close enough to the truth. He closed his hand into a fist and squeezed, felt the crushing pressure and the overwhelming power there. It soothed his darkening mood to experience that strength. He bore the Iron Fist, the hand of obedience and the instrument of God’s will on earth.
His gaze slid over to his left hand. This one lay wrapped in a thin mesh of flexible armored material in the same blue as the rest of his armor. He wiggled the fingers here and smiled. They moved freely, the mesh hugging and flowing with the motion as if it were a second skin. He knew without feeling it that the surface would be warm and pleasant to the touch. This was the Velvet Glove, the hand of succor. It was the hand a brother extends to brother, a friend to a friend, God to his faithful. It reminded Jericho of his duty to aid and assist. To guide and protect. To raise the sinners up and help them find their way to grace. Battle was his skill, but when the fighting was over, God demanded compassion. He meditated on this every day, the familiar paradox still just ephemeral nonsense to his warrior’s mind. The devil knew Jericho’s failings well, and the allure of righteous battle often led to the destruction of the soul. Jericho knew all too well how much danger his soul was in. So did Satan. He whispered a quiet prayer under his breath in penance.
Above the wrist, his armor on the left was identical to the right side. Beneath the artful arrangement of overlapping plates, hundreds of actuators writhed in unison to mimic and enhance the movements of his body. This came with a strange tingling sensation, as the electrical impulses that signaled his muscles to contract had to be read through the skin to avoid the unforgivable sin of modifying his brain. Young Knights often found the prickling to be maddening. Vomiting into one’s helmet remained a time-honored tradition among new Knights. Some never learned to control the vestments and spent their service as technicians or in administrative roles. Old Knights learned to enjoy the sensation. The pain was penance, and a price to be paid for a suit of armor that behaved like an integrated armature. True Knights grew to love the agony. The strangeness became a barometer of how well the armor functioned in any given moment. When the battle was joined, feeling the electric feet of signal feedback dance across your skin was the most reassuring feeling in the universe. It meant you were strong, and God was with you.
The Brothers of the Teutonic Order were the first thing a pilgrim would see upon arrival to Gethsemane, and first impressions were important things. Jericho stood seven feet tall in his gleaming blue vestments. The powered elements that gave him the strength of Samson lent a bulk to his silhouette matching the height. Some armorer imbued with a flair for gothic drama had arranged each gleaming plate in a manner to move both the body and the spirit of those who looked upon it. He looked like a character ripped from a storybook, or perhaps the protagonist of a whimsical holovid program. Jericho, risking punishment for the sin of pride, had more than once caught himself staring at his own reflection. Even twenty-seven years after his dubbing, Knight-Captain Jericho experienced a flush of excitement whenever he saw himself in his armor. Jericho was no fool. He knew this effect was intentional. The uninitiated needed to see God’s power in a manner they understood. They needed to see strength, grandeur, wealth. They needed a sense of awe, and a Teuton in full regalia never failed to deliver awe in spades. In this, his armor served as both a metaphor and stern reminder to the Knight inside. Despite the magnificence of the appearance, what made his armor exceptional did not live in the shining surfaces or the artful sweep of each carefully crafted facet. The armor would be just as formidable without aesthetic flourishes. So it was with faith. The real power lay beneath the surface, behind the spectacle. The armor served as a vessel for the machines inside. Machines that did the bearer’s bidding, just as his body was merely the vessel for executing God’s will.
Only on the Path would Penitents learn that the real reward for faith is in the soul and the hereafter. That wisdom came later, though. At first, they would live in fear and awe of the Knights, as they would God. As their faith blossomed and their understanding of God’s true power grew, they would see the Knights for what they really were: Servants to the same higher power, no different than anyone else. Jericho took great comfort in this. He did not want to frighten sinners. The Velvet Glove was an obligation he took very seriously. His order existed to nurture and offer aid, not intimidate. His own penance lay in how often he had to remind himself of this fact. Satan loved to tempt his temper and arrogance, and Jericho had been found wanting more than once. His own journey along the Penitent’s Path had been slowed by such delictions for too long, curse this mortal flesh and the weakness of a sinner. Jericho discarded his frustration with a heavy sigh. His sins were between him, his Confessor, and God. The Path was not supposed to be easy.
Despite the boredom, Jericho took pride in his role on Matinsday. Every weary traveler seeking the grace of God would start their journey here at Port Piety. Their first step on the Path began with a Teuton. On Matinsday, that Teuton was often Knight-Captain Harland Jericho. As if on cue, a chime in his earpiece warned him that a ship was about to unload, and more than forty passengers had applied for the Penitent’s Path.
Jericho smiled at the prophetic nature of his own ruminations and began the trek across Port Piety. He passed beneath ornate arches and vaulted ceilings resplendent with moving frescoes. The stories of saints, martyrs, Knights, and clerics played out in melodramatic pantomime over his head without incident. The travelers and visitors would gawk and point at the magnificence of the spectacle, but Jericho had seen them all many times. Crowds parted for him, the weighty clump of his boots on the tiled floors signaling to even the most distracted people that a Knight passed close by. He kept his step as light as possible out of politeness. There was no profit in stomping around like some kind of angry stormtrooper. Nevertheless, his weapons and armor massed nearly eight hundred pounds with the man inside them. Even his most delicate footfall sent a shudder through the floor. The plates creaked and clicked in a soft tattoo with each swing of his arms, and the bright blue grabbed the eye like the pure light of Grace itself.
Humble penitents stepped aside and made the sign of the Iron Fist in respect. He returned each with the sign of the Velvet Glove and a nod of acknowledgement. A flush of pride at the visible awe on each of their faces shamed Jericho. He was a servant of God, same as they were. He was not better than the penitent or the sinner, and he would do well to remember that. More sin to reflect upon. Jericho made a note of it.
Long before he reached the receiving level for the latest arrival, Jericho paused to affix his helmet. It would not do to have the penitents gaze upon his naked face before they were initiated on the Path. They needed to see the Teuton first. They needed to fear the Iron Fist before he could extend the Velvet Glove. He unlocked the basinet from his belt and slid it over his head. The mag-locks grabbed it at the gorget and sealed on the first try. A soft hiss told him the helmet had pressurized, and the saltwater tang of over-filtered air tickled the hairs in his nostrils. Jericho’s field of vision exploded with illuminated reticles and blinking text while the AI booted up, then each blinked away while the display settled into Jericho’s default settings.
“Good morning, Captain,” his AI said in his ear. “And God’s blessings be upon you this day.”
“And also with you, Joshua,” he mumbled. Jericho kept his voice subdued even though no one could hear him talk unless he activated the public address system. Talking to a computer never sat well with him, but absent cybernetic implants to control the armor’s functions many systems required verbal cues to operate. Jericho had managed to keep the same AI for all his years in this suit of armor. Over time, the software learned to move with him and anticipate his needs on a level approaching the supernatural. The technicians bragged that the suit’s inductive and reductive prediction algorithms were so well integrated with Jericho’s patterns that no Knight would ever match his speed or tactics ever again. Pride remained Jericho’s greatest failing, and this boast did not help. An unbroken slew of tournament victories compounded the issue. It was no wonder his behavior as a young Knight led to so many long hours’ penance. A clever Confessor fixed the problem of Jericho’s burgeoning arrogance with one simple, yet surprisingly nefarious trick. The name “Joshua” was assigned to his electronic companion and codelocked by Elder Polito himself. The name served as both a reprimand and an un-subtle memento mori to the proud Knight. For as the children’s song told, “Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, and the walls came tumbling down.” Every time the Knight addressed his AI, he was reminded of how the walls of Jericho fell and that no one was so powerful that God could not bring them low. The Lord would just have to forgive him for not liking it.
“Pull up the manifest for the Campeon, Joshua.”
A list of names began to scroll down one side of Jericho’s HUD. The prickling in his legs intensified as the AI took over the task of walking him toward his destination so Jericho could read the information undisturbed. Among the ship’s one hundred and forty, he saw farmers, bankers, android technicians and a few businesspeople on the list. Nine passengers traveled on diplomatic tokens. The forty passengers applying for the Penitent’s Path were a motley assortment of laborers, middle managers, and at least four had criminal records. God would forgive them if they truly repented their sins. Knight-Captain Jericho, on the other hand, did not have the omniscience of his deity. He would watch those four travelers rather closely and let God sort out their intentions in such time as his Plan dictated. Other than that, the passenger list was as uninteresting as most. “Exit,” he said. The list disappeared.
The receiving area stretched out before him in diverging swaths of polished obsidian and gold pathways. Holograms of the thirteen Elders floated twenty feet in the air, offering blessings to the travelers and welcoming all to Gethsemane. Each spoke a different language, though all beamed the same benevolent smile down on the milling crowds below. If a person did not understand the importance of the men behind each translucent effigy, the effect could be misconstrued as condescension. Jericho suffered no such prejudice. The Elders spoke for God and executed His will. To be acknowledged by an Elder, even by proxy, was a great honor.
He let his HUD direct him to the unloading ramp for the Campeon and took his position at the end of the vestibule. He locked his armor’s joints, turning his towering azure bulk into a statue. The regular passengers were already slipping past, eyes glued to comm handhelds or chattering into their headsets. Most spared him only a passing glance and probably assumed he was no more than yet another ornate piece of the architecture. The applicants filed through after, as was fitting people preparing to abandon their lives to the service of God. None took special notice of the blue figure at the end of the ramp, other than to remark upon his striking appearance. When the stewards finished assembling the group and verifying identifications for each, Knight-Captain Jericho keyed his microphone on and addressed them all as one.
“Rejoice!” he thundered. The applicants started as one, a chorus of yelps and gasps washing across his armor like a spring breeze. “For on this day you have chosen light over darkness, peace over strife, and Grace over damnation.” At this point, some of the applicants realized that he was no statue, and his words no recorded message. Eyes grew wide among the sea of terrified faces. Jericho raised the Iron Fist to his chest, revealing the mark of the Teutonic Order across the vambrace. “I am Sir Harland Jericho, Knight-Captain of the Order Teuton. He raised the gauntlet high. “This is the Iron Fist! It is the hand of obedience and hammer with which we poor sinners forge God’s great works. Vengeance belongs only to God,” he paused for effect, then finished with a touch of gallows humor. “But it is with this hand shall he deliver it!” Jericho let that sink in, watched the crowd shrink before his might.
God’s might, he corrected himself.
Chagrined, he lowered the Fist. With a big breath to collect himself, he raised his left hand to chest height, palm up. It was a gesture of welcome and an offering all at once. “This is the Velvet Glove. It is the hand of succor. It is the hand that raises our brothers and sisters from the darkness of sin and into the light. Today, I have shown you the Iron Fist. But it is the Velvet Glove I offer to you now. For we are all sinners, and all of us wanting in the eyes of God. If you take my hand this day, know that it is yours forever. The Path you have chosen is a difficult one, but so long as you hold on to the Velvet Glove, your quest will not be undertaken alone. Take it now, and start your journey.”
The stewards organized the properly terrified Penitents into a line in front of Jericho. He addressed the first. “Come forth, sinner. Take my hand in succor and start your journey along the Penitent’s Path.” The first person in line, a harried-looking man in worn clothes, stepped forward. Jericho extended his left hand. The man stared at it for a second before placing his own trembling hand atop it. Jericho closed his fingers around it and watched surprise dawn across the man’s face when he realized the glove felt warm and soft against his skin. “Go, my brother. Give your name to the steward and sign your contract.” He squeezed, gentle and fraternal. “And when the path becomes too hard, look to the Teutons and the Velvet Glove for help.”
The man smiled into the black visor. “I... uh, I will, sir. Thank you.”
“Go with God.”
Jericho repeated the ritual with each applicant, basking in their fear and adulation a touch more than strictly appropriate for a divine servant like himself. His confessor would not be pleased, though Jericho suspected that God did not mind so much if his employees took joy in their work. No theologian of any kind, Jericho found it easier to simply pay the indulgence than it was to debate a Confessor on such matters. He had just completed the final penitent when the security channel chimed in his ear.
“Captain Jericho?”
“What is it? I’m busy.”
“We have a situation. A privateer corvette just applied for a berth and permits.”
A docking bay number began to flash in Jericho’s HUD. “Whose ship is it?”
“Pike’s Privateers, sir. Their paperwork is in order, and the Order Administratum has instructed me to clear them.”
“What?” Jericho turned on his heel and began a stiff march toward the indicated dock. “Do the Teutons take orders from the Administrati now?”
“Sir, I—”
“It was a rhetorical question!” Jericho forced a calming breath. Shouting at a junior comms officer over something well above his pay grade would not be productive. “Clear them but hold all passengers at reception. I’m on my way.”