Vartan stood back in the shadows next to Petre Jordan, the Messiah’s First Will. Just behind Vartan’s shoulder, the Third Will, Tikal Don Simon, had his arms crossed, a sour look on his round Yucatec face.
The four Chosen—the men who originally accepted Batuhan as the Messiah—along with the First Wives who had offered themselves to the Messiah, stood in ranks behind the Throne of Bones.
As the holo that displayed the Corporate officers flickered out, the Messiah chuckled. For a moment he sat there, facing the hatch. His back to them, he waved his intricately carved thigh bone back and forth as though it were a cat’s tail. Then, standing, he turned.
Vartan studied the man, saw the cunning in his kohl-darkened eyes, the confusion of polished jewelry. Had to admire his audacity. Not only had he gone to the meeting nude, but they’d made a white paint from finely ground white duraplast. With the black accents on the eyes and lips, along with his hole of a nose, it had given his face a skull-like appearance.
If Vartan remembered anything about the Corporate mindset, it was that they liked things neat. According to plan. Without deviance. They wouldn’t have had the first clue about the meaning of the scars as offerings and self-sacrifice, or the pain the Messiah had endured as penance for past sins. Rather, his appearance would have shaken them to the core.
Walking around the throne, the Messiah paced his way down the hall, beckoning for the others to follow him to the cafeteria. There, he waited while the Chosen placed his throne in its traditional spot. Only after he’d seated himself did the rest slip into their chairs.
“Now you know the measure of the opposition.” The Messiah closed his eyes and looked at them, one by one, through the great blue “spirit” eye carved in his forehead.
A shiver always ran down Vartan’s spine when that gibbous blue orb was focused on him. As if the “spirit” eye really could see into his soul as the Messiah’s physical eyes could not.
“I see worry, hesitation. Some among you are unsure.” The Messiah’s voice came as a husky whisper.
“Messiah?” Petre asked, bowing his head so deeply that his long white ponytail rode up his back.
“You are my First Will,” the Messiah replied. “Speak.”
“You know they’re going to take precautions. Limit or even deny us access to the crew. After all this time, the moment has come to unleash our wrath, the long-held anger of the dead we host. We’ve promised—”
“They will indeed plan, devise, and do all in their power to keep us from the Ashanti and her crew.” The Messiah fingered his long-bone scepter. “The Prophets heard the universe last night and they sang. I heard them, and they allowed me to see.” He pointed a finger at the eye in his forehead.
“What did you see?” Petre asked.
“The time is not right to purify the crew. But it will be. When the universe determines we are ready. Look around you, at each other. We’re weak. Starved by their ration and tea. In the song of the Prophets I heard what their visions had seen. I have been given a glimpse.”
“Messiah?” Svetlana asked. “A vision of what?”
“Ah, Second Wife. An infant doesn’t run into battle before he can so much as crawl. In this ship, we are nothing more than a fetus. On the planet, at this Tyson Station, we shall become infants. Who then grow into children. Who finally become adults. When adults fight, they win. But only after they’ve grown, learned the arts of combat.”
“Messiah?” Vartan asked with respect.
“Second Will?”
“How, then, do we deal with the evacuation? What do the Prophets wish of us?”
“We will act submissively. Follow the Supervisor’s orders. Do as they ask. The Prophets tell me that our goal, and our only goal, is to get to the planet. To a place where The Corporation and its agents no longer control us.”
“And then?” Svetlana asked.
“Then we finally come into our own.”
Vartan chewed his lips, thinking back to the unending rage they’d lived with after the hatch was sealed. For so many of them, it had been the anger, the promise of retribution against Captain Galluzzi that had kept them alive. Given them purpose in the endless hell of their gopher-warren of a deck.
“Messiah,” Petre said. “We have detained five who would betray us. Just as you foresaw. They are bound, awaiting purification and immortality.”
“Five?” The Messiah shook his head, exhaled through the ruin of his nose. “The universe provides. This is my Will. Listen. Hear it. Make it so. We have but two days. At the end of them, we shall need our strength. To have fortified our bodies. To do that, we must feast. Each and every one of us must eat, fill our stomachs in anticipation. We are leaving the womb. Being born, and birth requires strength and energy.”
Petre reached down and removed the cleaver from its scabbard on his belt. Finely polished steel caught the light, gleamed along the razor edge.
Vartan ground his teeth. Glanced at the Messiah. Beneath the ruined nose, a grin split the man’s face. Raising his thigh-bone scepter, he said, “We shall need all of the buckets this time. I don’t want a single drop of the blood to be wasted.”