Steel Fire

On an island in the West Sea, far from the interests of Serenissima traders and the prying eyes of the Federation, stood a facility that wasn’t marked on any map. From a birds-eye view it was a camp arranged as a rectangle with a large open space in the middle. It didn’t have a name, though many of its inhabitant thought of it as Hel or simply ‘the end’. A small army of masked individuals herded naked wretches around the rectangle, all separated by chain-link fences that reached high into the sky. The sea’s climate was unforgiving, and for a majority of the year rain battered those who were imprisoned here into complete submission. They spent days in each separate section, before the gate opened and they were ‘motivated’ to move onto the next, starting from the large double doors at the surrounding bunker complex and ending at a small bunker in the center. Somewhere beneath their feet, rainwater carried the bodies of those who had completed the cycle out to sea, where new boats filled with unfortunate souls arrived every day. Nothing was produced here except death. Essentially, Arakiel thought as he looked out the window at the churning sea, it was just a big queue for an inevitable end; a model of life itself.

Arakiel had spent a lot of his time in training here. He was still young for a knight of an Order, but it felt like an eternity since his first days at the Academy. In that eternity, he had lived out his life and nothing had come to fill what was left behind. His service to the Republic was all he had. For years he had stood between the fences, shouting and beating the criminals that were brought to him. He had never stopped until the siren rang and the gate opened again, allowing them to move on. They always did. It was their choice. Some sections had food, some had shelter from the rain. He had hated them at the start; so low and base, like animals. At the end of his training, he had only observed their suffering with disinterest. He knew now that was the entire point. Only a very small fraction of the Republic’s prison population ended up here. In the Federation, more people starved on the street. At least here, they served to fuel the fire that cauterized the Republic. The Republic never killed its own citizens, but citizenship could be revoked.

“Tell me your thoughts, Arakiel.” Samyaza said, her voice effortlessly commanding. They were sitting in her office, just above the entrance gate through which prisoners arrived. The room was utterly colorless and utilitarian.

“I feel nothing, Grandmaster.” Arakiel said, “I think about that sometimes. Even in my memories I have forgotten how I felt. I only remember that I did.”

“Good,” the mask bobbed as she nodded. “It is for others to feel. We are meant for greater things.”

She graced him with one of her penetrating stares, her brown eyes stabbing into him from behind the featureless white of the ceramic mask. His own felt transparent under her gaze. The scars on his back started to itch, but he refused to move.

“You will leave us,” she said, finally. “There is boundless evil in this world and others, and you will strike back at it. That’s what I say to all knights on their first mission, but I estimate that you will succeed in striking great blows in your life. Do not fail us. Do not fail the Republic.”

“I will not, Grandmaster.”

“Some in your position said to me that they would rather die then let that happen.” The eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if you die. Do not fail me, Arakiel.”

“I will not, Grandmaster.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I feel nothing.”

“They will fear you, Arakiel,” she said and leaned in closer. He didn’t move. “We are justice. Only the guilty fear justice.”

“I am justice.”

“Yes, and not just in the service of the Republic, but also mankind. Some might tell you about a greater good or an ideal worth fighting for, but we know what those are.”

“Distractions.”

“Right,” she nodded again and pushed a stack of folders across her desk towards Arakiel. “This will be your first assignment. You will receive the next one once this has been completed satisfactorily. Perhaps I will someday welcome you back to this island, and if I do not, I want you to use your death efficiently.”

“I will not fail you, Grandmaster.”

“You said that already. Now go.”

I will not fail the Republic.

Arakiel watched the ship battling the waves as it approached. Wind and rain almost swept him from his feet, but he refused to move as his black longcoat flapped around. He held his mask by the chin with one hand, even though it was securely fastened to his head. He didn’t want to take the risk. A red-masked knight stood next to him, fussing with a long syringe.

“This will last you for a month,” he said, barely audible through the wind and mask. “We will find you before it runs out.”

“I do not doubt it.” He held out his arm and drew back the sleeve. The other man inserted the needle into a vein with an ease developed from years of practice. It barely hurt as the clear liquid flowed into his bloodstream. There were still parts of his arm that weren’t scarred. At some point they would have to use his legs or necks, which would be more inconvenient.

“Until next time,” the man said after drawing back the needle. He walked off holding his own mask. Arakiel continued to watch the ship approach.

Arakiel’s mind was empty and clear as he stepped aboard and was greeted by the captain. The man was fat and suffered from a twitch he tried to hide by stretching his neck. The knight did not return the mans greeting.

“Where to, Sir Knight?” the captain asked in correct Standard Language with a Serenissima twang. His skin was too pale to be a native of the city-state; a descendant of refugees returning to the fold of the Republic. Disposable.

“City 77,” Arakiel said. “Now show me to my quarters.”

The man shivered when Arakiel turned away from him.