I stand over the bodies of the Chosen. Petre and his members of the Will have carried the bodies of my dead friends to the cafeteria, have laid them out one by one on the tables. Blood drains from the holes blown in their chests. Their eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, the bodies limp in death.
Three friends, three believers. The repositories of so many of our dead. They were my priests. They helped me bear the burden.
Jon Burht was the first to declare his faith. I stare down at his face, remembering those terrible days during the Harrowing and Cleansing when he stood at my side.
Then came Felix Shyte. I step over, take his hand. It is cold and limp as I run my thumb over the scars running back in thin ridges from the tops of his fingers.
Will Wamonga was the third to join me. Now he lies shot clear through and bleeding, taken far too soon.
For the moment all I can do is stare down at them. At the terrible wounds that heartless bullets have torn through their flesh, bones, and organs.
Only Ctein Zhoa is left of the Chosen. He stands to the side, expression traumatized, as if he cannot come to grips with the horror. He is wringing his hands. Tears streak down, losing themselves in the maze of scars carved on his cheeks.
The Chosen must be processed, of that there is no doubt. We must attend to them first thing, before the dead they host can dissipate.
Or so I hope.
We are in uncharted waters here. What are the spiritual ramifications of so many living hosts all dying at once? How do we save the dead they contain, as well as themselves?
I glance over at the Prophets where they have been reinstalled in the cafeteria. Irdan isn’t moving. For the moment I wonder if he, too, is dead, and then I see his chest spasm. Callista and Guan Shi are staring out with empty eyes, but only Guan Shi still flexes her fingers as if she’s playing an imaginary piano.
Petre, a pistol in his hand, rushes in from the back, saying, “They’re in a stairwell, Messiah. I’ve got Vartan covering the doorway with that rifle we took from the marine guard. I’ve had the other stairwells sealed off. They can’t get out.”
He is looking at my dead Chosen, a barely suppressed horror in his eyes. Like me, he has to be wondering how this could have gone so terribly wrong. We are supposed to have the Supervisor and her people on the tables, to be preparing their bodies for sacrament.
Instead, my Chosen are murdered, and we have a single dead marine to show for it. He’s still outside and unclaimed, given as busy as we have been here.
“How did they escape the explosion?” I ask.
“Cut a hole in the wall, Messiah,” Petre says, swallowing hard.
“So we have armed and deadly intruders in our basement. How do we determine their whereabouts? How do we deal with them?”
“Vartan says we need a drone. I remember seeing some in the science dome. They’ll need charging—that is, if the batteries are still any good.”
“See to it. And have Vartan arm one with explosives. I want a flying bomb I can use to kill those people without additional casualties.” I close my eyes and let the rage build. As if the universe is staring over my shoulder, watching, waiting to see if I am capable of solving the crisis.
“No matter what the cost,” I mumble through gritted teeth, “I will see them dead.”
Nothing else is acceptable.