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Roland felt the scrutiny upon him the instant he cleared the vestibule. His first steps into Port Piety elicited rude stares from the hundreds of human eyes present with the kind of abrupt disapproval usually reserved for mass murderers and tax collectors. He clamped down on an overpowering urge to snarl something vulgar back at the gawking faces, surprised at the violence of his reaction. Decades in Dockside left him inured to the wide-eyed terror and slack-jawed curiosity of the uninitiated masses. At this point in his life, people who did not give him a second look made him more uncomfortable than those who did. Yet something about those eyes lit an angry fire in his belly. It took a moment for the big cyborg to recognize that what he saw etched on the faces of the security staff and customs officials at Gethsemane went beyond fear or impolite inquisitiveness. Both were present, naturally. Roland’s nominally human appearance was a thin facade at its best, an unconvincing costume his enormous frame wore to prevent children from crying at the mere sight of him. Something else caught his attention this time, and he did not like it.
The dockmaster met them at the vestibule, and Roland witnessed the look of bland disapproval he wore shift through subsequent phases of shock, confusion, and apprehension in the usual manner. Then his features moved once more, the fear melting slightly as a new reaction replaced it. The security detail followed suit, each man enduring the same series of reactions when their eyes fell upon Roland’s bizarre proportions and waxy skin tone.
It was the customs agent that gave it away. As the scrawny man in an ill-fitting uniform ushered each of them through a scanning arch, he grew more and more agitated. Lucia and Catrina he ignored. Manny’s arm gave birth to a small frown that wrinkled the corners of his thin mouth. Mindy’s body scan sent a flush across his cheeks. When it was Roland’s turn, the agent stopped cold and simply stared. His eyes went from the scanner readout and back up to Roland and stopped. Roland met the look, and suddenly he understood what they were all feeling.
Disgust.
They were disgusted with him, and this stopped Roland in his tracks. Another surge of anger passed in those long seconds where the customs agent held his glare. Roland chose not to indulge it, and his success in doing so helped the ugly reaction to pass a little quicker. Roland used the time to study the agent. The man was thin, his uniform deep red with some obscure religious insignia emblazoned across the left lapel. His hands were delicate, the skin of his face pale and unmarked. Roland sniffed and settled his features into a mask of angry condescension.
“Something wrong?” He let the question hang, heavy and uncomfortable. The deep rumble of his voice startled the agent, who gasped and flinched at the sound.
The agent recovered quickly, to his credit. “You appear to be confused, Mr., ah, Tankowicz?” The agent fumbled over the name, butchering the pronunciation in a manner too egregious to be accidental. “Gethsemane is not a place for people like you, and your permits do not cover your... situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
“You, sir, are a cyborg. Furthermore, your level of augmentation is quite frankly unacceptable.”
“You really think so?” Roland replied with an even uglier smile. “You should see what I looked like before. Now that was unacceptable.”
Mindy snickered, drawing a sharp glare from the agent. He turned back to Roland. “Be that as it may, I’m afraid I cannot permit you to disembark.”
“Why not? My credentials are in order.”
“It would not be proper. Armatures are not covered under your travel permits.”
That answer sent Roland’s eyebrows climbing. “Proper, huh? Care to explain that?”
The agent’s face flushed. “You are a cyborg—”
“Covered that,” Roland interrupted.
“Your body is an insult to the perfection of God’s work!”
“I contend that blowing all that godly work to bits was the real insult. Take your issues up with the Red Hats.” Roland gestured to his chest. “This, on the other hand... I like to think of this as a respectful homage to the original.”
“Roland,” Lucia said with a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t make fun of the bigots. We have work to do.” She addressed the agent. “You will find all of our permits and credentials are in perfect order. Even for Mr. Tankowicz, who you will note carries several UEDF exemptions covered by interplanetary agreements. We have no intention of sullying any of your holy places with his presence while we conduct our business on Gethsemane. Can we go now?”
The agent made no effort to disguise his disdain. “The rest of you are free to go. Those of you bearing the works of men in place of what God has given must restrict yourselves to trade zones.” He pointed to Roland. “That thing may not take one more step. It must return to your ship and remain there.”
Catrina stepped up to the agent. Roland recognized something of her uncle’s tone in how she addressed the man. “What is your name?”
“I am Agent Jacoby, Miss Caulfield, and I have the authority to—”
A voice boomed from behind the agent, amplified and electronic. “You have the authority to do nothing, Agent Jacoby.”
As one, the group turned to see a giant in gleaming royal blue armor approaching. Jacoby’s face drained of all color at the sight of Knight-Captain Jericho, and his mouth slammed shut with a click. The Knight stomped up to the group and paused. Roland assumed he was reading his HUD and perusing the scanner data. Reaching some sort of decision, the Knight reached up and removed his helmet. The face beneath was middle-aged, clean-shaven, and not remotely friendly. Wisps of blond hair poked from beneath a tight coif in the same striking blue as the armor itself. He stared directly at Roland. “You are Tankowicz?”
“I am,” Roland replied, matching the flat tone with his own. “You are?”
“Knight-Captain Jericho, First Fist of the Order Teuton.”
“Is that a big deal around here?”
Jericho did not take the bait. “Before God we are all but sinners and penitents. I am as God made me and nothing more.”
Roland detected the veiled insult to his condition and could not resist returning fire. “Not counting about twenty million in armor, you mean?”
Jericho acknowledged the point with a twitch of his cheek. “It is the man who serves God, and the armor serves the man. I am merely that man. And a soldier, like yourself.” The hand with the enormous gauntlet gestured to Jacoby. “Agent, what is going on here?”
Jacoby found his voice. “Captain! This party contains several—”
“I have the data from the scanners, Agent Jacoby. I also know that your superiors among the Administrati have cleared this group already.”
Roland noticed that Jericho did not even bother to look at the agent. He kept his eyes on Roland at all times.
The agent stammered, “But... it’s clear that this—” he waved at Roland “—was not what they meant, right? It’s... blasphemous.”
Jericho squinted at Roland. Roland did not shrink from the scrutiny. The Knight acknowledged the agent’s protest after several torturous seconds. “It is not your place to question the will of the Order Administratum, Agent Jacoby. Nor, I might add, is it mine. Our feelings on the matter are less important than the will of God as dictated by our superiors. Am I correct in assuming that you intend to deny their permits without at least consulting your chain of command?”
“I would not have thought it necessary, given the obvious.”
“You commit the sin of pride, Jacoby. You are a tiny cog in this great machine. You behave as if you know the will of God better than those far above you. If that was the case, your position within your order would not be so trivial. I am alerting your deacon and recommending you remit yourself to a Confessor at your first opportunity.” At last, Jericho turned from Roland to fix the tiny man with a stern glower. “Any delay on your part will affect the cost of your indulgence, Jacoby. Are we clear?”
The agent wilted. “Of course, Captain Jericho. I’ll go right away if you wish to finish here.”
“An excellent idea. Dismissed.”
Jacoby fled the area with conspicuous haste, leaving the four fixers to face Captain Jericho alone.
“We good?” Roland asked the Knight.
“We are not good,” Jericho replied. “What we are is subservient to the will of God. Which, in this case, means letting you pass.”
“That is good enough,” Roland said and took a step.
Jericho stopped him with a hand to the chest. Roland looked down at the large gauntlet, then back up into the even gaze of Jericho. They locked eyes in an ancient and universal way. An unspoken promise formed between the two men, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
“Roland...” Lucia’s voice held a warning.
“Captain Jericho!” Catrina’s voice rang with the threat of command.
“You may pass,” Jericho spoke, ignoring the women. “But understand that your presence here, your very existence, offends me.”
“Don’t you mean ‘offends God’?” Roland asked through bared teeth. “Or do you speak for Him too?”
“I cannot speak for God. I have no tongue for it.” Jericho tapped Roland’s chest with an armored finger. Then he stepped back and held his hand up in a clenched fist. “But this does my talking for me.”
“Wrath,” Mindy said aloud.
Jericho spun to look down on her. “What did you say?”
“I said you need to see a Confessor about the sin of wrath.” Her eyes blazed, and she pointed to his oversized right fist. “You just raised the Iron Fist to a stranger before offering the Velvet Glove.” She shook her head and waved a finger. “Tsk, tsk, Captain. What’s that Teutonic motto? ‘Help, Defend, Heal,’ right? I’m pretty sure God wants you to offer help before you, you know, hurt people. At least that’s how I remember it.”
Roland did not understand what Mindy had just said, but the effect on Jericho was profound. A deep red flush rose from beneath his collar to flood his cheeks with crimson. “I know who you are, woman. Degenerate whores do not get to lecture me on the rules of my order, or on sin.”
“Why not?” Mindy asked. “I am an expert on sin, after all. Hey, Catrina?”
“Yes?”
“If you go ahead and call your friends in the Administrati, they can probably talk to the happy captain’s superior officers about his little boo-boo here. You see, he absolutely has to offer us aid and help before anything else. That’s his job, see? He’s got the Velvet Glove on the left hand and the Iron Fist on his right.”
“What a quaint little ritual,” Catrina said, eyes twinkling. “I did not notice the Velvet Glove because the good captain here forgot to offer it. You think I should tell Deacon Morris about that?”
“Oh yes. The Order Administratum just loves that sort of thing. They’ll give a shout to the Teutonic command and make sure Captain Grouchy-pants gets sorted out.”
“Oh, I don’t know if all that is really necessary,” Catrina said. “I’m sure Captain Jericho doesn’t mean anything by all this rudeness. Right, Captain?”
Jericho stood and fumed. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides while indecision turned his face into warring expressions of rage and frustration. He spun to look at Roland, but before he could speak Roland stopped him with bared teeth.
“Just give me a reason, asshole. Please.”
For a moment, it looked like Jericho might oblige. The hostility radiating from Jericho blazed hot enough to burn the skin, and Roland gobbled it up like a black hole consuming starlight. Both men wanted this. Both men welcomed it. Still, neither man moved, and the moment passed with all its violent potential unrealized. The tension melted into the background as quickly as it had solidified, and Jericho seemed to deflate. Something in his eyes spoke to Roland about conflict and self-loathing. Roland recognized the look, knew the endless battle between a man born to fight and all the important reasons he should not. “I am still a sinner, it seems,” Jericho said at last. “But though I beg God’s forgiveness for the weakness of my spirit, I do so look forward to the day we get to cross hands, Roland Tankowicz. I am but a poor contestant in wars of words and ideas, I admit it. I suspect you and I share a preference for a purer sort of contest.”
“You’re not wrong, Captain,” Roland said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Nor I. Go with God, Tankowicz, for if you don’t, we will have that conversation all the same.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Jericho turned to walk away. As he stormed off, he stopped to call over one shoulder. “Confine yourselves to trade zones. Familiarize yourself with our laws as well. I do not know why the Order Administratum has allowed you to come here. It is not my place to know such things. But know that you will be watched. No matter how much sway you hold over them, the Administrati cannot protect you from the Iron Fist if you step outside the laws of God and man on Gethsemane. That is the province of the Teutons.”
“Pleasant fellow,” Manny remarked when the Knight at last disappeared through the exit door.
“What’d you get?” Lucia asked. “Did we buy you enough time for a good scan?”
“Plenty,” he replied. “That armor is fantastic. It pulls signal data through the skin, so the whole rig can be driven like an integrated armature without implants. It will move like a high-quality cyborg and not like power armor. External surfaces are the same composite used in top-tier military stuff. It’s crawling with chained actuators too.”
Roland nodded his approval. “Strong and fast, huh?”
“Both. Very. Venus has tons of armatures and armors, and I used to think I knew about the good stuff...” Manny shook his head. “This is next-level, Mr. Tankowicz.”
“I didn’t see any weapons,” Roland said. “Internal munitions? Is it all ceremonial?”
“He’s a Teuton,” said Mindy. They all looked at her and waited for further explanation. “His weapon is supposed to be the Iron Fist. His right hand. Did y’all not notice how big that stupid thing was? Everything is symbolic here, guys.”
“So he just punches his problems?” Lucia sounded incredulous.
“I get it,” said Roland without a trace of irony.
Manny answered her question before she could turn on Roland. “Honestly, Boss? In that armor I’m guessing a punch is a pretty serious thing. The gauntlet has a lot of weird stuff inside that I assume makes it punch harder than it looks.”
“I can do punching,” Roland said, but no one was paying any attention to him.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Mindy said. “They have lots of guns too. All top-quality gear. They have these big old vibroblades made to look like old swords too.”
“You can’t be serious,” Manny said. “Swords?”
“How do you think I learned to use this?” Mindy patted the dagger on her hip. “This place has a serious hard-on for a particular aesthetic, okay? All the theater and pageantry stuff keeps the rubes distracted from how shitty they’re being treated.”
“And I thought Venus was in bad shape.”
“Venus is in bad shape,” Mindy replied. “But Gethsemane is its own special kind of awful.”
“As long as I get to punch that guy at some point, I’m fine with it,” said Roland.
“Please don’t,” replied Lucia. “James wanted intel on the armor, and we got him that. There is no reason to pick a fight.”
“More so than you already have,” added Mindy. “You can’t just piss in a Teuton’s cereal like that and not expect some trouble.”
Roland’s reply was curt. “Did you see how they looked at me?” He snorted like a bull. “Trouble is inevitable. People like that can’t help themselves.”
Mindy’s answering smile looked more sad than anything else. “You’re not wrong, Ironsides. Welcome to my homeworld, y’all.”
“How old were you when you ran away?” Manny asked, his face twisting with disgust.
“Fifteen.”
Manny hefted his satchel. “Why’d you wait so long?”
“Another time, kids,” Lucia said. “It’s time to get bivouacked and meet the DECO team. We have eighty-six hours to get set up for Grimes, and that is a lot less than it seems like, I promise.”
They all followed her out of Port Piety station, pretending to ignore the angry and fearful looks from the other travelers. Roland’s irritation waned as they walked. Like most things that bothered him, their ability to affect his mood weakened as time passed.
Lucia noticed the shift in his mood. “Feeling better, big guy?”
“Yeah. Fuckers got under my skin for a second is all. Good now.”
“How do you do that?” she asked. “Just... turn it off, I mean.”
“I just remind myself that these are harmless idiots. They are no threat to me, and they don’t have anything I want. If every one of these rubes goes home tonight and writes in their diary about how much they hate me, literally no part of my life will be any different because they did.” He snorted. “Fuck ‘em.”
“That’s...” Lucia seemed at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to make of that.”
Manny tried to help. “Being angry takes a lot of energy, boss. It’s easier to just move on and save yourself the hassle.”
“More efficient,” agreed Roland.
“Not everyone gets to move on, though,” Mindy said. “Sometimes the idiots aren’t so harmless and maybe you aren’t so tough yet. That’s when you learn to hide the anger. Save it up for when you need it. Right, Ironsides?”
Roland curled a lip. “I might recognize that sentiment, yes.”
Mindy bit each syllable off as if it tasted bad. “Anger is fuel, boss. No sense wasting it.”
Lucia was saved from the uncomfortable turn the chatter had taken by a man in casual clothes. He waved to them as if they had known each other for years and smiled. “Hey, guys! Over here!”
Roland’s brow furrowed. “That can’t be the DECO guy, can it?”
“Shush,” Mindy hissed. “You’ll blow his cover!”