The steam vents screamed as Vesper wrenched the wheel.
She didn't use a lever. She didn't use a wrench. She gripped the rusted iron valve with both gauntleted hands and twisted.
Metal shrieked, paint flaking off in showers of rust. The valve, fused shut by a decade of corrosion, groaned and turned. A hiss of superheated vapor erupted from the floor, clearing a path through the labyrinth of pipes.
Kaelen watched her, his breath shallow. He had tried that wheel five minutes ago. He had put his entire weight on a pry-bar and barely scratched the paint. Vesper didn't even grunt. She just turned, her chest heaving slightly inside her armor.
"The service tunnels are clear," she said. Her voice was muffled by the roar of the steam. "They lead to the filtration sumps. We can bypass the street patrols."
Kaelen followed her into the dark. The tunnel was cramped, smelling of wet iron and the sickly-sweet decay of the sumps. Vesper had to hunch over, her pauldrons scraping sparks against the ceiling. Kaelen walked upright, his Null physiology feeling the oppressive weight of the rock above them, but not the claustrophobia of the believers who felt the earth pressing down on their souls.
They walked in silence. The only sound was the clank of Vesper's boots and the wet rasp of Kaelen's breathing.
"You're slowing down," Vesper said, not looking back.
"I'm dying," Kaelen corrected. "There's a difference."
"Inefficiency is inefficiency."
They reached a bulkhead door. Vesper scanned the biometric lock with her gauntlet. It flashed red. Access Denied. She stepped back, raised her leg, and kicked the locking mechanism.
CRUNCH.
The door buckled inward, the steel frame tearing like paper. She kicked it again. The door flew off its hinges, clattering into the darkness beyond.
"Technique is for people who can't break physics," Vesper said, stepping through the hole.
The air beyond tasted different—heavy, metallic, and thick with the scent of consecrated oil. The floor vibrated with a low, subsonic thrum, like the purring of sleeping beasts. They were beneath the Sternum.
The Mount
The garage was a cavernous space carved into the bedrock. In the center of the room, suspended by heavy chains, hung a machine of war.
It was a Strider—a bipedal walker, three meters tall, built of blackened iron and brass. It looked less like a vehicle and more like a suit of armor for a giant. The cockpit was a cage of reinforced glass, glowing with the soft blue light of a Resonance Core.
"It runs on faith," Kaelen noted, stopping at the edge of the maintenance pit.
"Resonance," Vesper corrected. "Purified belief. High-octane conviction."
She climbed the ladder to the gantry. Kaelen followed, his legs burning. Vesper keyed a sequence into the Strider's chest panel. The cockpit hissed open. It was cramped—barely enough room for one pilot, let alone two.
"Get in," Vesper ordered. "You take the auxiliary seat. Do not touch the controls. Do not breathe on the core."
Kaelen squeezed into the small jump-seat behind the pilot's chair. The cockpit smelled of leather and stale sweat. The Resonance Core hummed in front of him, a sphere of swirling blue light.
Vesper slid into the pilot's seat. She plugged her helmet into the neural interface. "Sequence start," she commanded.
The machine shuddered. The core flared bright... and then flickered. The hum dropped in pitch. The lights dimmed. Vesper frowned. She tapped the console. "Output is dropping. 80%. 60%."
She spun around in her seat, glaring at Kaelen. "You," she hissed.
"I didn't touch it," Kaelen said, holding up his hands.
"You're existing near it," Vesper snapped. "You're a Null. You're a black hole for faith. Your proximity is dampening the reaction. The core can't draw belief from the environment because you're neutralizing the field."
She looked at the core, then back at him. She realized the tactical problem instantly.
"If we run at full power, you'll kill the engine," she calculated.
"We have to run silent. Manual hydraulics. No shields. No weapons."
"Stealth mode," Kaelen said.
"Suicide mode," Vesper corrected.
She turned back to the console. Her fingers flew across the switches, overriding the safety protocols. The core dimmed to a dull ember. The machine settled, its weight shifting onto the mechanical pistons.
"Hold on."
The Strider lurched forward, its metal feet clanging on the concrete. It didn't glide with magical grace. It stomped. It was heavy, loud, and entirely mechanical. They walked out of the garage and into the light of the Sternum.
The Sternum
The Middle Districts were a lie painted in gold.
Here, the smog of the Ribs was filtered into a thin, pleasant mist. The buildings were clean stone, carved with intricate reliefs of the God's history. Streetlamps glowed with captured starlight. People walked the streets in orderly lines. They wore clean robes. They smiled. But their eyes were glassy, focused on a middle distance Kaelen couldn't see.
Inside the cockpit, Kaelen felt the Static intensify. It was a smooth, oppressive hum—like the sound of a high-tension wire pressing against his temples. He watched a family buy bread from a vendor who was floating slightly off the ground.
"They look compliant," Vesper said. She piloted the Strider through the back alleys, keeping to the shadows. "Happiness is a variable the Dictum doesn't track."
"Is that why you hate it?"
Vesper didn't answer immediately. She maneuvered the Strider around a patrol of Silent Observers. The crimson-robed figures didn't look up. They were scanning for Resonance spikes. The Strider, dampened by Kaelen, read as cold metal.
"I don't hate the order," Vesper said finally. Her hands tightened on the controls. "I hate the lie."
She fell silent, letting the heavy footsteps of the machine finish the sentence. Kaelen looked out the window. He saw a beggar sitting on a corner, holding a sign that read PRAY FOR ME. A wealthy merchant walked past, tossed a coin, and the beggar's sign briefly glowed gold. The merchant walked on, feeling lighter, his sin absolved.
Kaelen's skull throbbed. Transactional theology.
"We're approaching the Cathedral," Vesper said. Her voice tightened.
The Perimeter
The Cathedral of Saint Harrow didn't just touch the ceiling of the cavern; it seemed to pierce it. It was a monolith of gothic stone and stained glass, looming over the district like a judge. It sat in the center of a massive plaza, surrounded by a shimmering field of golden light.
"That's the Truth-Field," Vesper pointed.
Kaelen looked at the golden shimmer. A young acolyte was walking toward the barrier, carrying a crate of supplies. As he crossed the line, he stumbled. He dropped the crate. He fell to his knees, retching, his hands clawing at his throat as if he were choking on smoke.
"He lied about his inventory," Vesper noted coldly. "The field reacts to deception like nerve gas. It burns the nerves."
Kaelen watched the acolyte convulse. "And you?"
"I endure it." Vesper touched her chestplate. "Pain is information."
She looked at Kaelen. "You're a Null. The field won't burn you. You don't have the receptors for the divine judgment."
"Lucky me."
"Not entirely," Vesper said. She pointed to the base of the Cathedral.
Surrounding the plaza were hundreds of figures in white robes. They stood in concentric circles, holding hands, swaying in unison. A low, resonant chant drifted across the square.
"The Choir," Vesper said. "They maintain the field. If one of them sees us, they all see us."
Kaelen looked at the army of monks. He focused on the sound. Three-part harmony. 4/4 time. Perfectly synchronized. It was a loop. A mathematical construct made of human voices.
"So we don't sneak," Kaelen said. He looked at the Strider's dead weapons panel. "And we don't fight."
"Then what do we do?" Vesper asked. "Ask nicely?"
Kaelen pulled the Cylinder from his pocket. He looked at the Choir, listening to the rhythm.
"We don't break the wall," Kaelen said. "We introduce a discord. How loud can this thing get if you override the safeties on the vox-caster?"
Vesper looked at the console. A small, cruel smile touched her lips.
"Deafening."
"Good," Kaelen said. "Wake them up."
The Discord
Vesper flipped a switch. The Strider's external amplification array crackled to life. The hum of the Resonance Core spiked, fighting against Kaelen's dampening field.
She didn't broadcast a prayer. She didn't broadcast a threat. She keyed the mic. She looked at Kaelen. He nodded.
Vesper took a breath. She waited. She let the silence inside the cockpit stretch until the tension was a physical weight.
Then, she screamed.
It was a raw, primal sound of rage—the sound of the Steam Works, of the Purge, of the dead acolyte. The scream blasted across the plaza, amplified to a decibel level that rattled teeth.
The Choir faltered.
The chant broke. The weeping monk in the front row flinched, clamping his hands over his ears. The harmony shattered into dissonance. The golden field flickered, destabilizing as the collective focus snapped.
"Go!" Vesper shouted.
She slammed the throttle forward. The Strider surged from the shadows, its pistons pounding the pavement. It charged toward the flickering barrier, a juggernaut of cold iron smashing into a world of fragile light.
Kaelen gripped the restraints, his knuckles white. The golden field shattered like glass.
They were inside.