The Subsector Project

Caomer Subsector – En Route to Placid – 790.M41

  Novitiate Primus Antonia hit the flagstones, snapping three ribs in an instant.

It was not the physical pain which wounded her, as she had been hardened by years of combative calisthenics. It was not the knowledge that she had been defeated in front of her peers which brought tears to her eyes, as she was facing a full sister of her order and thus loss was expected. It was not even that she had been tossed bodily during a reckless charge, as fervor in battle was the hallmark of a true battle sister.

It was the knowledge that they, she and her potential sisters, were failing, which smote her conscience more than any blow. They were failing, and the Superior who crouched over her as she gasped and choked for air like a wounded grox, wanted them to fail. They were failing, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Feel this!” The battle sister hissed, sweat glistening on her broad shoulders beneath her training shift as she dug her fingers into Antonia’s side, further intensifying her agony. “How dare you claim to have the fire to become my sister!” The older woman’s hands closed around Antonia’s face, forcing her to stare directly at her Superior, even as darkness clawed at the corners of her vision. “The abbot must be truly lacking to send you to my crucible so ill-prepared!”

She stood, sweeping an outstretching finger around at the other encircling novitiates who had been silently watching their sparring match. Antonia focused on not writhing, on laying still despite the flames coursing through her nerves. She had broken bones before, many times, yet never before had a teacher shown her such outright disgust. Never before had she been treated as so burdensome a charge. Even during her days at the Schola, her teachers had been trying to teach, only asking for willing clay to be molded into excellence.

She had thought excellence was enough. She had drilled and trained, recited and memorized, devoted her very soul to the teachers of her abbot that she might one day join the ranks of the Ordos Militant. Yet clearly, Superior Vanqueth saw something they had not, a weakness, a deficiency, a failure.

“I would not go to war with her, or with any of you, if this is the quality you think befits the battlefield!” Antonia felt the sting of the words. As Novitiate Primus, she had been deemed the very best of her cadre, obtaining the highest marks of the thirty-member unit. In all things, she was the best, but a standard month of beatings and beratings from Vanqueth had seen the certainty of that station shattered. The Superior continued to rage, shouting herself hoarse at each of them in turn, the dim sparring circle decorated with the blood toll of previous bouts.

“Do you not see your own weakness?! Do you not know that the enemies of the master of mankind will not treat you with such soft and gentle hands as I?!” Novitiate Ylla cringed as their teacher harangued her for her inadequacy. Antonia felt the icy teeth of rage in her stomach. Ylla had been her bunk mate for years at the Schola, a constant companion, yet now her hair was matted with blood from a scalp wound, a dark bruise stretching from her eye to jaw declaring a broken orbital courtesy of their erstwhile instructor. The girl wept blood, even as Vanqueth declared her worthlessness for all to hear.

“If you cannot push yourselves here, you will find naught but death on the fields of battle! Do you mean to embarrass our Canoness the instant you first deploy?” Vanqueth was red-faced, screaming and raving at them in turn. Her words were the same clipped, righteous anger as always, but the volume was unlike any they’d heard before.5

Antonia forced herself to her knees, almost blacking out due to the pain. She could feel the breaks clearly, each fracture tugging and rubbing in a demonstration of agony that she’d never before experienced. She was wrong. She wanted to scream at Vanqueth, to make her understand how unfair she was being to them. But fairness was an illusion, there was only faith in the Emperor that mattered, only a future he had foreseen for them to be achieved.

Antonia dragged herself to one foot, then the other, pushing against the ground, forging her path to verticality an inch at a time. Petra, her second-in-command, gave a minute head shake. Stay down. Was the message. It was not one Antonia intended to obey.

“Let the righteous not fear their end.” She quoted, causing Vanqueth to round on her, disbelief stamped across the Superior’s face. “For death is the sacrifice demanded of all His loyal servants.” She could tell the older woman was incensed, her pale hair falling in waves across her face giving her an unhinged countenance. For an instant, she thought she also saw something else, perhaps admiration? Or at least surprise?

Antonia may indeed have learned the truth of one or the other emotion, but for the spin of Vanqueth’s body, and the swift arrival of her heel into the side of the Novitiate Primus’ head. She felt herself crumple to the flagstones of the training ring once more, this time, boneless and utterly stunned.

What must we do? How might we prove ourselves to be true servants of Him? She mused as the darkness closed in upon her vision in earnest, reducing her sight to Vanqueth’s face. Years of training, of devotion, were pointless in the face of her Superior’s unbridled fury. The Superior stooped, bringing herself close to Antonia, closer than ever before.

“It is not enough to be willing.” Antonia could smell something fragrant, a spice of a flower from far away lingered on Vanqueth’s person despite hours of sparring, the scars bedecking her body a testament to her command of hand-to-hand combat. “It is not enough to be excellent.” Her eyes bored into Antonia’s own, as if daring her to speak. “You must be perfect, or there is no point.” The Superior straightened up, projecting her voice to the cadre. “You must be perfect, or you shall all perish, and start again with a fresh batch from the abbot.” She sneered at Antonia’s limp body. “In five days’ time, we will answer the call of His loyal servants, and you shall have no more opportunity to fail as you have here. If you die, you fail. If you do not live up to my expectations, you fail. If you embarrass me on the field, you fail, and then I shall kill you myself.” She swept her gaze about them one more time, and stalked from the sparring room, thirty sets of eyes fixed on her departing back.

Perfect. Antonia mused as she shuddered, feeling herself drop into unconsciousness. How can we be perfect, when all are imperfect compared to Him? She felt the question gnawing at her, the wrongness of the Superior’s words rankling her.

Yet she did not have time to ponder. Night closed in upon her, only the barest a golden glimmer in the darkness welcoming her through the doors of sleep.