ARC10

Chapter 12.2

The angry echo of my boots on the metal floors is my sole companion on my descent through the Rotunda.

That and my ire.

What am I thinking? I never cared whether he ever paid attention to me before.

I should be concentrating on the mission. Not Dean, not the conception of this child. Not Kai, and not any of his bullshit.

I raise my PAHLM to PIM Dean again. Something angry, something hateful. Something along the lines of "You still make stupid faces when you pull up" when I hear a soft noise from below.

It's the faint songs of the Heapists on Level 3. It's a rare occasion when I come this close to the surface at night, so I never get the chance to hear the Heapists and their prayer services.

Simon, however, attends religiously.

Their melancholy songs warble from the tinker-toy chapel. Curiosity seizes me. I enter the tin mini-structure composed of crummy welding and prayers.

Dark on the inside, the fidgeting shadow of a thousand burning candles stifle me. I meander into the archway that leads to a long narrow aisle. Backless benches line the passageway in crooked rows. They bend in odd angles and appear torturously uncomfortable. But they they are half full of people with their heads raised and their voices touching the ceiling. I find an unoccupied bench in the back where the heat from the candles isn't so hellish.

They sing a few more verses of the song and return to their seats. The preacher, a young blond man, lifts his hands and welcomes everyone to Our Lady of the Impenetrable Heap Chapel's 2030 Wednesday service.

"Brothers and Sisters . . . " He smiles at the congregants. "Are there any among us today who are returning to our Mother after a long journey out of her presence?"

In the thick silence, one after another, multiple eyes stare at me, as if I'm supposed to volunteer that sort of information.

"Sister," the man at the front says with warm encouragement. "We have not seen you here before. Welcome to our family. Please, introduce yourself to us so we may receive the newest child of the Mother."

This is stupid. Half the loonies in here have my shift schedule memorized.

"Janika," I state loud enough for the person in front of me to hear.

He pauses and juts forward in what appears to be snap-recognition. "Welcome, Sister Janika. We will pray for all of your intentions today." He pivots to face the enormous statue behind him.

At the end of the small structure, a large, marble statue rests. When I was little, Simon told me it was a famous piece of art by someone called Michael. This statue was salvaged from the rubble of a famous old museum.

It's a woman, Our Lady, made entirely out of stone. A stone veil bedecks her head and frames her soft stone face that peeks from within her wrinkled and baggy stone dress.

She gazes  at the mass of rubble in her lap. Her left fingers invite and entice, hoping we, the people of the URE, will join her on her pile of stones and debris.

She withstood the invasion and came out slightly cracked in some places, but otherwise intact in comparison to the man, whom she held. The man crumbled. Pieces of his body still lay within her arms.

That is what Simon says we hope for. For pieces of us to be saved by The Lady and that we may all reach a place beyond Earth.

In a person's head, this sounds beautiful. But it's an idyllic fairy tale to me.

Once the congregation's attention drifts from me again, I'm drawn to the flash of silver pendants in the shape of a delicate hand flashing from their necks.

At least thirty necklaces hang from Our Lady's thumb. I always thought the people who bought these pieces were idiots, but when Simon came home sporting his, he neither attempted to defend nor explain it.

I remember the flash of gold in Hayomo's uniform and how I'm pretty sure she snagged some special edition charm. I wonder how often she wanders here to pray.

A few minutes pass before the people repeat their prayers. I venture off to an adjacent alcove where the flames dim from lack of oxygen.

In this room, the voices of the faithful fade into the background. Darkness engulfs me until I reach the row of mismatched candles drooping over rolling hills of streaky, white wax. The flames illuminate names the Heapists carved into metal slates.

Hundreds of candles line the wall in varying stages of melting. I scan for long minutes. My eyes hurt from the strain of finding the right words in the dark room with the dancing light.

But eventually, I find her.

MOYRA L. WHITE

(DOW)

The sadness churns like the same corroded metal in the stomach I felt the day I found out she didn't make it through the night—when I was told my best friend—my sister—was dead.

But she's not. She's not dead. She's alive and working on the same secret mission I am. Except she's been working on it since her fake death three years ago.

I lose myself in the heat of the room. An itchy sweat beads on my forehead. A presence looms over me, instantly raising all the alarms in my mind, striking my nerves until I'm on edge.

Calm down—it's the chapel. No one here is going to attack.

It's still unnerving. I rise to leave.

"No, please don't go for my sake. I was only coming in here to see if you wanted to talk." The Brother from the service, the young blond one who made everyone stare at me, hovers above.

"Just came to visit an old friend."

"Janika from General Education classes? It's me, Roy Maloney. We were in the same unit until you diverted to military training and I went to science and research."

I offer him a weak smile.

"Was she someone special?" he asks after a few minutes.

"Yeah. My dad's lover's little sister."

"I see."

"We grew up together. I found myself thinking about her lately, so thought I'd pop in."

"Well, the doors of Our Lady are always open to you. May the Mother's hand be always in your sight." He rests his hand on the top of my head for a few seconds.

"Thanks." I spin around and scurry out, making his hand slide off the back of my head and flop awkwardly at his side. Holy Maloney hasn't changed much after all these years.

I shrink from the chapel, suffocating as congregants mill around, reaching out to the hand of the Lady and lighting candles.

On my way back to the Rotunda, I recognize a familiar sound—a melodic drop of water in a steel tub.

The upbeat harmony defies the gloom of the gray-crusted halls. It comes to me, caressing my attention away from my indignation.

The ukulele. It's dazzling.