Letters from the Spiral Arms

The Coronation of the Sky

At the end of the Low Age.

Another explosion shook the trench and Jyothi tried to reach for her helmet before realizing that she had lost it sometimes during the initial assault. She could have grabbed a spare one on the corpse of a fallen comrade but the teachings of her church forbid her from looting the dead, and more importantly she couldn't find one to her size. The holy cataphracts holding the trenches were shaped like machines. Even without their adorned armor they were almost twice Jyothi's size. The first holy cataphracts had just been regular soldiers, selected for their physical prowess and trained to death, but they had evolved beyond a simple elite guard to become the living embodiment of the star-faith. Their crude monads gave them more muscle mass than regular humans, while gene implants gifted them with the bone structure to support their inhuman bodies. They were machines of war as much as living propaganda, the ideal warrior-ambassadors of the Outer Church.

In the silver gospel cataphracts were said to be blessed combatants chosen by the Outer Stars themselves to defend the Church in battle. It was even somewhat believable; the gene artists that uplifted soldiers to cataphracts were under a sacred oath of silence and very few knew the exact process through which one became a silver warrior. Aside from their imposing appearance and commanding voice, the holy cataphracts were a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Their strength allowed them to wear heavy ballistic armor without the need for exoskeletons and to carry ponderous weapons that could vaporize light tanks in the blink of an eye. They were ideal shock troops, spearheading offensives deep inside enemy ranks, culling adversaries with unparalleled swiftness and brutality. Trench warfare wasn't their forte, however. With their higher-than-average energy requirements and their reliance on ammunition-hungry heavy weaponry, the holy cataphracts of the Outer Church could not sustain high intensity engagements for too long; yet Jyothi's units had already been defending their position for two days. They knew they could not hold for much longer, yet couldn't retreat. A holy cataphract of the Outer Church could not lose in a fair fight.

Or at least, could not be seen losing.

"How long until the coronation?" asked the leader of the unit, a middle-aged woman whose armor bore the emblems of the Northern Congregation alongside the six-tipped star. Jyothi glanced at her watch. Ten past midday.

"Half an hour."

"The enemy is gathering for another assault. They have shock troops and knights with them. We won't be able to hold them at bay for long."

"Did you manage to restore our communications?"

"No. Their augurs are still jamming us. Someone has to inform our artillery of the situation but I do not have any warrior to spare."

"I understand. It has been an honor to serve as your chaplain, Igraine."

Jyothi closed her eyes and bowed before uttering a prayer to the Outer Stars, and the pale seas beyond.

"Right back at you, sister Jyothi. Now go! Run like the wind and keep the demons at bay!"

***

A series of explosions shook the ground, their blast waves surging across the battlefield like hungry wolves. Jyothi ran through the trenches, eyes locked on the muddy horizon. She clung to the satchel containing her holy book and incense with one hand, the other ready to grab her pistol or the blade on her hip. She knew her ritual knife could pierce human skin, but she did not trust her arm, let alone her heart, if it would come to hand to hand combat with an enemy soldier. Jyothi wasn't part of a militant order; she was a sister of the Gray Moon, a diplomat and an ambassador. In normal times the role of a combat messenger should have gone to a sister of the Golden Crescent, perhaps even a militant mother of the Old Star — but the Outer Church was running out of these. The war with the petty empires had been raging for five years and it had bled the Church dry. So many lives, so much talent squandered, sent to the meat grinder that were the continental trenches protecting the heart of the Church's territory, sent to satiate the appetite of a crumbling empire.