Chapter Text
Stella Lybrand stood up from her desk. The echoes of her feet on the wooden floorboards joined the cacophony of the construction happening outside her window and the distant sound of gunfire. This was nothing frightening to her – those born and raised in Laterano were accustomed to that last sound. It was like the calm pattering of rain, something that ought to be familiar and grounding.
Yet today, the sound was uncanny. The echoes weren't right. Nothing was at the moment. She had been sleeping in this room for the past few days, but it wasn’t her bedroom. This place wasn’t her home.
Everything was wrong. So wrong. The way the walls felt, too coarse and porous. The material was the wrong shade of white, like a corrupted imitation of the pearly luster that lined the streets of Laterano. The metal embellishments were bronze rather than gold. And the lights, there weren't enough of them, which meant too many shadows everywhere.
Finishing her fifth lap, she slumped down in front of her desk again, staring at a blank journal with only her halo as a light source. She flipped through her scripture, trying to find an appropriate passage. She had been trying for the past thirty minutes. Ultimately, she decided to just close her eyes and pick something from whatever page she landed on.
As she picked up her pen, her other hand tugged at her sleeve to pull it down, to hide the blemishes that were the reason for her presence here.
The saints said: build a city. It will be the Sanktas’ paradise. The saints said: this city shall be called Laterano.
She remembered from school that starting things with a quote made it easier to write. She didn’t think it was a good one. Regardless, the doctors told her that writing down her thoughts would help her acclimate. Help her sort things out.
So hi, journal. I work, she paused, sighing before crossing out the last word. Worked in the Third Tribunal. Food distribution administration. My job was mainly logging how much food was being produced and seeing what needed to be sent where. It sounds boring, but it’s a really important job! Was an important job, I guess. I hope the others are doing fine without me.
She was proud of never missing a single shipment to a single grocery store or restaurant during her entire tenure. When she first saw the silos filled with grain and warehouses stacked floor to ceiling with sacks of refined sugar, she couldn’t imagine how the city could possibly run out of food. But her work there proved that assumption wrong: millions of people eat an unfathomable amount of food, and getting it all to where it needed to go was quite the undertaking.
She stopped writing to look out the window, to the unfamiliar street below. This was not the Pagus she lived in. This wasn’t even the city of Laterano anymore. She could never go back there.
Not because she was a sinner or a criminal – the last time she had done anything wrong was in middle school when her teacher scolded her for being too loud – but because she had just gotten sick. Sick with something that can’t be cured. That won’t go away on its own.
They didn’t revoke her citizenship. She wasn’t arrested when the test results came back. She was just sent to an overnight stay at a nearby hospital for quarantine and had woken up with an executor and a curate of the Sixth Tribunal standing over her. And they were nice to her the entire time, like they didn’t want to exile her.
I wish they didn’t, that there would be some obscure ruling that would allow them to change their minds, she continued writing. But what could I have done? I don’t know anything about this. I thought I would never have to.
After her diagnosis was confirmed, they handed her documents and pamphlets. Emigration forms to Columbia, Kazimierz, Leithanien, Victoria, wherever else. She had to pick one of those countries and move there. That was nonnegotiable.
I was given a week to pack my things and decide. A week. My life as I knew it was over and all I had was a week to figure out what to do next.
She pressed her pen deeply into the page, carving her grief into each stroke. How could she have decided? She never had any reason to leave Laterano. She didn’t even know any of the languages of those other places. The executor had tried to reassure her that she would get to live in enclaves of other Infected citizens, that learning a new language would be unnecessary if she just kept to her own, but what if she ended up somewhere where there weren’t a lot of Laterans? If she needed a job outside the enclave? What if local officials came around for surveys or an investigation and wanted to talk to her?
She set down her pen and gripped the edge of the page, wanting to tear out everything she had written and throw it away in shame. It wasn’t their fault. They were just following the law. If only the people who had been driving that truck had done the same. If the engine had been maintained, if they hadn’t crashed, no one would have been hurt.
She slid the journal aside to make room for her elbows. Clasping her hands together, Stella pressed her forehead against her knuckles, praying to the Lord to grant her the forgiveness that she lacked the strength to muster herself.
She prayed just like this on the night her diagnosis came back. With her life in freefall, she couldn’t sleep and wandered into the hospital’s chapel. She tried to not bother the Law with the small things, but that night was the closest she ever came to making demands.
She had done everything right. She had attended services regularly, only missing them when she was too sick to come; she has never wronged anyone; she always obeyed the laws set forth by His shepherds. Sure, she indulged in gluttony and sloth every once in a while, but even then, were those sins so great that it came to this? Was this some sort of trial? For what purpose? Why her?
She sniffed sharply, blinking away the mist in her eyes.
There was someone else there that night. A man, sick like her. He wore the uniform of the Pontifica Cohors Lateran. At first, she assumed he was someone who had been recently injured and infected in the line of duty, but his uniform was new and unblemished, and his eyes were filled with a hope that she could not understand. What was there to be hopeful of now that they were condemned to death far from home?
When she asked him this, he smiled and pointed to the insignia on his arm: a green chalice held up by two hands.
“The Sovereign Hospitaller and Military Order of Lazarus. A place where people like you and me can still serve Laterano. Can still serve God.”
She had never heard of such an order before. And it was a military order at that. What use was there for holy warriors in this day and age where everything was so peaceful? And yet, she felt compelled to seek out answers.
And that was how she found herself here, in the nomadic monastery Curionus Resarciens, the Restoring Herald if her liturgical was correct. Or maybe Mending Herald would be a better translation given its mission.
If she didn’t know better, she might’ve mistaken the monastery for a quarantine barge. In a way, it was. While some were like her, intending to stay as a laymember of the order, others were relying on the monastery to transport them to their destination of choice. They had made the decision she had shied away from.
She had mustered the courage to begin writing again. I was so eager to avoid exile that I didn’t read the fine print.
They were not going to be staying near Laterano after they dropped off all their passengers. Instead, the monastery and its order were slated to perform diplomatic missions that would take them away from home. She had wondered whether it was too late to change her mind, but she ultimately decided that as long as she didn’t have to personally set foot outside, the arrangement was acceptable. Better than having to settle down in an entirely alien land, anyways.
Her job now was basically the same as her job in Laterano: managing the food stores. Thankfully, someone else ran the cafeteria and commissary, so she only needed to focus on the back end, on filling in spreadsheets and predictive reports and recording inventories. It was almost like she never left. In fact, her present job was simpler than her previous one on account of the magnitudes fewer mouths to feed.
Based on the manifests, there were around three hundred people like her. Citizens, mostly Infected but some were not. Volunteers and other emigres, maybe. Since the monastery was new, they were allowed to take whatever residences they wanted. Even with all of them having their own rooms, the buildings in the residential sectors were still mostly vacant.
The building she was staying in was a three story apartment complex, with her on the top floor. The furnishings were on the ascetic side and everything smelled new and sterile. She and the others were the first people to dwell here.
The soldiers said that the monastery was designed to hold up to a thousand people. Maybe five hundred more in the short term. It was small compared to the six million living in Laterano, but still large enough that they had to maintain their own administration and institutions. They were effectively a parish on the move, and that would only become more pronounced the farther they traveled.
Speaking of the soldiers, she didn’t interact with them a whole lot, mainly because they scared her. The ones in the city were always approachable, affable. They could always be found sitting outside cafes with guns slung over their shoulders and friendly smiles on their faces. The soldiers belonging to this order, though, looked like they would glare at anyone who dared to waste their time.
Like monks, they woke up before sunrise everyday for prayer then drills. In the few days she’s spent on the monastery, their activities have become her alarm clock, one comprised of shouting and gunfire.
They also had a peculiar custom, one that Stella has never seen from the Cohors before. Their armor and uniforms were marked with red numerals, some with just a few strikes, others with V’s or X’s. She had been too nervous to ask outright, but from the conversations in earshot of her, it sounded like the strikes were to denote years of service.
The highest she has seen, from a healthy distance, has been XXXVI. Thirty six years of service, stitched onto the ballistic vest of a Sankta woman with a shotgun. When said woman turned to Stella and smiled, Stella had thought that she was about to receive and express ticket to Heaven, but thankfully the woman just walked away.
The order may be new, but the soldiers weren’t. Where did they all come from? Cohors units was her guess. Or maybe they’re all from the peregrinantes, the wanderers. Citizens who lived abroad and came back. Every once in a while, she would hear them speak foreign languages, or even weirdly accented Lateran.
All of this was a lot to take in. Looking through what she had written again, it was impressive how many lines there were even though she still had so much more to write down. But what she managed did help. The heaviness that had been plaguing her felt just a little lighter. Now if only the same could be said for her loneliness.
She looked to her wall. Her neighbor was in, but she couldn’t feel him. Couldn’t sense even the smallest shred of his emotions. He was a Sankta like her, but both of them were sick. To have their empathy ripped away, it was like someone had gouged out her eyes.
It was a suffocating thing, like her mind was gasping for the slightest bit of connection to another person. Would this be her life from now on? With that thought, her burdens returned in full force. If she cried, would anyone realize it?
Running a hand through her unkempt black hair, she moved numbly to retrieve her shoes and outerwear. Sitting around moping was just making her feel worse. There was no shortage of things that needed doing on the monastery. Maybe just helping out everyone else will make her feel better, even if that feeling couldn’t be shared.
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Begin audio log. Date and time: Tenth of March, 1100. 1420 hours local time.
The following information is classified as Restricted.
Speaker: Constantine Doukas. Nuntius Apostolici assigned as a diplomatic attache to the Sovereign Hospitaller and Military Order of Lazarus.
Location: Nomadic monastery Curionus Resarciens, currently docked in Pagus Faber’s port, facing Via Auriga.
It’s hard to believe I’m actually saying all this. I always figured this whole order would be a pipe dream. Something floated to the cardinals and His Holiness as a means of protesting the nation’s deficiencies. And yet, this time, they actually agreed.
What happened last year spooked them all. The world and all its changes are knocking on our door and the Curia can’t ignore it anymore, even if the general citizenry still choose to bury their heads in the sand.
The Summit of Nations had uninvited guests in the form of a terrorist attack. I remember helping evacuate foreign dignitaries sent from Sargon back then. No one I personally knew, sadly. The region I operated in is still gripped by civil war to this day.
Didn’t encounter any terrorists along the way, but apparently they were aiming for His Holiness. I guess they had a death wish. Can’t think of anyone capable of staring down a squad of Apostolic Knights. Can’t believe some of their accomplices are here, too, but that’s beside the point.
Then there was that whole fiasco with the monastery that suddenly showed up near our borders. Based on the records I could access, I’m personally ashamed that a former Legatus was involved in the mess.
But let me tell you, however mad I was doesn’t compare to how furious all the border commanders were when word came out that Cohors soldiers were mobilized behind their backs, the guiltiest of which was an SF unit. That alone made the grunts ready to storm the Curia to shout at whatever cardinal aide was unlucky enough to be nearby.
I won’t claim that the border units would’ve handled the situation better – they are loyal to Laterano at the end of the day. That means following the laws of our country, regardless of their personal feelings on the matter. “Soldiers are to execute the will of the nation and its people, not to decide it lest you wish for popes to be replaced with generalissimos,” as commander Faustina is so fond of saying.
While the other officers were screaming their heads off, she played the calm moderate, all so she could deliver the most radical proposal imaginable. The cardinals were obviously not enthused. In fact, the motion to found this order almost died had His Holiness not acted as a tiebreaker.
I wouldn’t call it a momentous occasion. In fact, aside from the people working to restore the monastery or load it up with supplies and passengers, the city is basically humming along as it always does. We’d be lucky to get an article in the Pagus’s local news at this rate.
Based on the primer they gave me, the monastery was constructed about a century ago. Originally named the Custos Collium, the Guardian of the Hills, it was intended to serve as a mobile base under command of the Pontifica Cohors Lateran’s northern garrison. After the War of the Four Nations, Laterano retreated inward, enacting its current policy of isolationism.
As a result, many of the grander military projects were axed. The militant orders that would’ve staffed monasteries like these were disbanded or pivoted towards more peaceful ventures. Landen Monastery, for example. More people know about them because of their beer rather than their guard these days.
This vessel was only partly finished and was never assigned a crew or order. It had already been fitted with armor and propulsion, but was still waiting for various life support units and structures. Since it was too much of a hassle to modify, our government back then decided to mothball the hull after stripping the vessel for parts.
They began restoration a few months ago. I only arrived back here about two weeks ago after picking up some dunces on behalf of their family, so I can only imagine how rusty it used to be when they just started. The motor systems are all new, as are the defensive systems being mounted. And the freshly constructed living sectors aren’t too shabby – certainly better than some landships I’ve been on. I’ve been given what amounts a moderately spacious apartment back in Laterano. Much more lavish than the bunks I’ve had to share in the past.
And because of the types of passengers and crew we’re taking on, the medical section is also much bigger than average for a vessel of this size. Most medbays would be the size of a small suburban private practice, but we’ve got ourselves a proper hospital with an ER section, a quarantine ward, and an incinerator to boot.
It’s also being equipped with a factory, some workshops, and even a motor pool. Mind you, being a new order with only the most begrudging of support from the government, the Lazarists aren’t exactly swimming in equipment. Most of their vehicles are up-armored civvie models and the like. They’ve managed to snag a couple of excavators and forklifts, too, but we’re not self-sufficient in the slightest. Any ‘industry’ we have is mainly going to be for maintenance and stopgap measures.
The same goes for what passes for a greenhouse and hydroponics bay. Larger than a garden, but not nearly large enough to feed half of us, let alone all of us. At the moment, people are planting bell peppers, potatoes, and whatever else is small enough to fit. Can’t exactly grow sugarcane, but some enterprising individuals have brought over beets.
As for meat, there’s always hunting and fincatching. I’ve even requested a .22 caliber rifle for myself. If I used my usual anti-material rifle, there’s not going to be much game left.
But even with all that, the greenhouse, foraging, hunting, that’s all just to keep the malnutrition and boredom at bay. Keeping our stomachs full is another story. That’s going to require us to frequently dock and load up on supplies.
In fact, our first destination is going to be the port of Ligusca, right on Laterano’s northwestern border. Cargo ships have already departed ahead of us laden with preserved foodstuffs and other supplies.
It’s going to be one hell of an undertaking from a logistical standpoint. Laterano has never had to deploy people far from home in a long time. I guess that’s why some of the cardinals supported us despite still having reservations about the order’s actual mission – it’s a chance for the Cohors to practice how to conduct a protracted campaign should we ever need to.
And then there’s the diplomatic angle, which is why I and the other Legati are here. The official maiden mission of the Lazarists, in addition to ferrying out exiled Infected, is to reestablish contact with our estranged brethren in the west. People who have, for one reason or another, left the holy city for Victoria, Columbia, Bolivar, and so on.
His Holiness has decreed to us that all the children of God, wherever they may be now, must join together again, hypocritical as that might be given our passengers, but I digress. That, coupled with the canonization of new saints, doesn’t bode well. That’s a lot of change for a place that never changes.
Perhaps that’s why such a mission was assigned to a newly born order comprised of misfits and outcasts. A soft exile, so to speak. Stop bugging us and bugger off, if I may use some Victorian I picked up. Or maybe working so long on the outside has turned me into a cynic.
Hmph. While the Infected are fine, I could do without all the convicts let loose on board. Must be part of the compromises the grandmaster had to make. The sick are at least deserving of sympathy, these criminals not so much. Hopefully they’ll be smart enough to not mutiny while we’re underway in foreign lands, but considering what most of them are guilty of…
The others seem to be all forgive and forget, but if they try anything, I’m shooting them myself, fall be damned. It’s the least they deserve after making such a mess back during the Summit.
I realized that I don’t really think like everyone else anymore. I guess I never really did, but I never stayed around long enough to confirm it. Never interacted with my own countrymen for extended periods of time in a while. It’s only after helping everyone get accommodated that I’ve had living reminders of what Laterans are actually like.
I don’t mean that as an insult. They’re all good people, they’re just sheltered and a bit parochial. A lot of them are skittish, feel like just stepping off the monastery will result in certain death. Others are too cocky. They think that patrolling the woods for smugglers means they’re ready to take on barrenland raiders.
And then there’s the matter of the lights floating above our heads.
Hmm. Before I continue, let me check if there’s anyone eavesdropping. Leo isn’t here, I’d sense his idiocy in a heartbeat. Theodosia! If you’re listening, go away! Anyone else, you’re currently listening to information classified by the Nuntii Apostolici.
Huh. Footsteps. Guess there was someone listening in and it wasn’t Theodosia. She would’ve just stepped in and messed with my recording. I’ll speak quieter from now on.
Okay, where was I?
I don’t exactly consider our halos, our empathy, a complete blessing. At least, not in the way that the scriptures do.
Make no mistake, it is useful when it comes to reaching understanding, in sniffing out lies. That’s why our government is so efficient and honest. But there are times when it’s best to be alone with your own thoughts. That’s what I feel at least.
But for a lot of the Infected Sankta whose disconnect was not voluntary, they’re having a hard time adjusting to their new empathy disorders. They have to relearn all their emotional skills, which might as well be like learning a new language. It’s going to be hard for them, and I don’t blame them for beseeching the Lord for a miracle cure. Sadly, based on centuries of evidence, I don’t think there will be one.
Aside from that, I am still a Legatus. I still need to uphold the duty of my station: to negotiate smooth passage through the lands we’ll be visiting. We’ll have eyes on us, whether we like it or not. I can only hope they remain friendly after the hospitality we gave everyone at the summit. It’s as the grandmaster and His Holiness say, we must all stand together or fall together.
End audio log.
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