A Canticle for Krizhevsky: Part 3

Finis Homins (v2.8.6.793)

Generated by the author with Stable Diffusion, 2025.

Every Day After, Insula Sacra of the Atlantic Confederacy

Sister Frances Spear slipped quietly down the stairs into the labyrinth. While she wasn’t violating any rules per se, it was after evening pūjā when she was supposed to be doing her meditations with the other acolytes in their cluster. If Prior Arkos found her down here, he would be disappointed. Again. Even amongst the low hum of the labyrinth, she could hear the drawn-out way he registered his unceasing disappointment with her. Sssisster Franssess Ssspear, accentuating his esses like a snake, while his recessed eyes glowered down at her from a face framed with jowls like gothic columns.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs she quietly padded across the perforated metal floors. The cavern was dimly lit, with faint blue LEDs flickering here and there. She walked along the perimeter of the room until, picking a random row of servers, she turned toward the center of the maze. Walking past a handful of elaborately decorated sarcophagi overgrown with tubes and cables, her slippered footfalls were inaudible over the low hum of the server stacks. Satisfied she was out of sight, she sat down cross-legged between two of the Minotor sarcophaguses, quietly arranging her robes and prayer beads in her lap. Then, casting a glance in either direction to make absolutely certain that she hadn’t been followed, she reached into her robes and pulled out a small felt pouch the size of her palm. Delicately loosening the drawstring top, she glanced down at the handful of the almonds she’d purloined from the kitchen a week ago.

Settling back into her lotus pose, Frances pulled the hood of her robes back and absentmindedly tapped the left of two tiny pods on the sides of her temple. Calming music began to thrum through her bones. Slowly she relaxed and focused on her breathing, her eyes drifting closed. Inhale over four beats. Hold for one. Out for four. Hold for one. Without looking, she selected one single almond from the pouch. Her mind drifted with the music as she savored it slowly, barely registering the sound of the capsule next to her spinning up.

The Eye was suddenly awake and flying. There was no sound and no rush of cold air, only sight. An unending expanse scrawling across moonlit hills with sparse forest below. The Eye didn’t know how long it had been asleep. It only knew the deep itch it felt to find something. It wasn’t certain what it was seeking, but it began frantically sweeping in loops across its field of view. Small flashes of red popped up on occasion but The Eye quickly dismissed them all. The itch was growing with each second. More and more of the night was scanned, before looping back to start again. Silently the sky flew by.

Abruptly, The Eye caught a movement. Something that was trying to look small but displaced too much around it. The Eye slewed to the movement and zoomed in. And saw nothing. In the unfocused periphery it continued to see red sparks alight. These began to accumulate as The Eye kept scanning over and over the same spot until all but the core of its field of view seemed to be afire. The itch intensified with each unchecked red spark, but something else drove The Eye. It needed to see.

And then, it moved again; tiny at first, but each slow tremble cascaded into something larger. Something hiding. The Eye felt like it needed to scream, except it couldn’t comprehend the thought. It could only see. So, it stared harder at the spot and suddenly a cascade of small red boxes filled the spot where it had spotted the movement. As each box filled in, the itching receded, until suddenly a large spider-like icon had been painted on the terrain. Then it flashed white, and The Eye felt the glorious rush, pleasure unmatched. This was what it had needed from the moment it woke. The Eye relished the flood of energy and the relief for just a moment. But then it was back to scanning the ground as the hit of pleasure began to fade. The red sparks returned, and with them the itch.

The subtle beeping of an alert brought Frances out of her meditation. She peered up at the sarcophagus to her right, where a touchscreen panel was flashing with a low battery icon. The capsule had plenty of power, but the icon served to alert the Minotors’ minders whenever any of the fluids were running out. Frances stood up uncertainly, swiping at the panel twice to bring up a more detailed report. The dopamine canister was almost empty, which shouldn’t have been the case. She and the other acolytes had completed their weekly chem checks just yesterday, and regardless, someone would have noticed the low dope level when they did their feedbag and IV checks earlier in the morning.

Her gaze wandered from the touchscreen to the body in front of her. Two pale and atrophied legs lay still on a soft white sheet. Meanwhile, the mid-chest to the top of the head was obscured by a hulking mass: a mix of elaborate carved decoration and hardware, with tubes and wires woven throughout, the person beneath completely obscured. The cables and tubes coalesced above the bull’s head into two large bundles that flowed out the horns atop the hulking helmet and into the server stack at the end of the half-shrouded capsule. Frances felt a small shudder as she looked intently at the Minotor. She was in awe, but also there was always that tinge of fear.

It was this fear that Sister Spear could never escape, and thus a constant reminder she was not a very good acolyte. Deep down, Frances knew this. She was clumsy and not unknown to faint under pressure. But life outside the monastery was so terrifying and unthinkable that she chose to remain within its walls and endure Prior Arkos’s constant harangues. She could forgive herself her flux and live with her fumbling. But she could never escape her hesitation in the presence of the Minotors.

Only the most devout among the faithful were selected to be Minotors, and thus they were cared for, fed, and protected by those of lesser faith. It was the greatest honor of Amma Gyahwah to select those of demonstrated faith, to lie in repose in her everlasting glory for the rest of your days. Minotors were the mortal incarnation of Amma Gyahwah’s will on earth. But Frances looked at the tubes and hoses and she felt fear. She felt doubt.

How could one Minotor go through so much dope in just a single day? She jumped at the sudden start of a fan behind her. Another Minotor’s server stack was spinning up.

The Auricle was suddenly aware of the silence around it. It was unbearable, oppressive and overwhelming in its emptiness. It strained to hear. Small sounds came first, each with an accompanying tone. The rustle of leaves in the wind paired with a high-pitched chime. The dull thrum of an engine and a deep brass timbre. The Auricle slowly picked out sounds from the void, and with each attendant note it tried to weave a song.

But there was no rhythm to the discord, and it began to trail off into cacophony and noise. The Auricle felt pain at the sound, recoiling at a screech like that of a metal scrape. The pain of that sound stuttered The Auricle, but the dread of the punishing silence compelled it to try again. To find the signal in the noise.

Suddenly it caught a whine, almost lost in the dissonance. With it came a melodious string vibration, lilting up and down. The Auricle felt a small flush of delight at the sound, and it sought out more. And there was more, once it knew the pitch to find. The notes were disparate and jagged across the soundscape, but the more The Auricle found them, the more a pattern emerged. It began to build scales, to weave more and more notes into a concerto. The Auricle felt the music wash over it and it felt joy in its resonance. It wondered for a fermata if there was more music out there, before relaunching its search as it strained to compose a symphony of signal.

Frances felt her throat constrict at the sound as the rest of this row’s Minotors spun up. The dark blue hue of the labyrinth began to shift into purple as, one by one, five more Minotors booted up, only for their LEDs to switching to red within a few minutes. All seven capsules were quietly chirping alarm at their low dopamine levels, prompting Frances to dash awkwardly down the aisle to the shelves housing more vials of dope. Now was not the time for her characteristic clumsiness she reminded herself as she held out her robe, placing the vials delicately into the improvised pouch.

But she had only managed to sublimate the third Minotor when yet another row had awoken, this time all of seven at once. Something was happening, but Frances had no idea what it was. She only knew she couldn’t keep up. She felt her lungs begin to burn as her heart raced. She recognized the familiar haze as her field of view began to narrow, black nothingness slowly consuming her peripheral vision.

Amma Gyahwah forgive me, she thought as she fell to the hard metal floor.

A sharp pain in her side kept her from fainting like she’d anticipated. It hurt, and her hand met a second sharp pain, coming away wet as she had instinctively grabbed at her side. She rolled onto her hands and knees and looked at her hand. Blood and dope swirled in the jagged cut.

But she did not faint. In fact, she felt a rush as a cool tingle ran down her spine. Amma Gyahwah’s grace. She felt it surge through her for the first time ever and Sister Frances Spear shed all her doubts. She stood, unsteadily at first, but surprising herself. In her moment of greatest doubt, she had not fainted. Amma Gyahwah reached out and touched me! She must have a greater purpose.

Thinking quickly, Sister Spear decided she must get help. She ran.

Ungainly, hurried steps carried her along the narrow aisle of Minotors. She slowly gained firmer footing as she returned to the perimeter, sprinting to the foot of the stairs. Sucking down a gasping breath she vaulted up them, taking two at a time as she ascended out of the labyrinth. She pivoted around the railing as the stairs switched back and forth up three flights and threw herself at the push door at the final landing. The door slammed open and she sprinted down the hallway-

-slamming right into someone.

Both of them cried out involuntarily as they crashed, sliding across the marble floor. Before, Sister Spear would have been humiliated; but now she was just frantic to extract herself from atop the other person and get help. Then she took in the clothing of the person she’d collided with.

“Abbess!” she gasped, mortified.

The Abbess’ light grey vestments were so severely plain it showcased her stature. Only someone of great import could wear raiment so homely and yet unworn. They were a stark contrast to Prior Arkos’ purple robes with the elegant silk flourishes that swept about him as he snatched Sister Spear to her feet before pushing her aside to aid the Abbess.

“Who is this child? And why is she in such a flight?” the Abbess asked as she brushed the Prior’s hand away. She regained her feet with a grace and ease that stood in contrast with her age.

“This is Sister Spear, Didi,” Prior Arkos’s deep voice echoed in the empty hallway, his disdain palpable. “She is a cellarer for the labyrinth. And she is supposed to be meditating with her fellow acolytes in the Seventh Cluster. Not running around the hallways like a stack overflow.”

Frances felt her throat tightening again as the remnants of Amma Gyahwah’s grace begin to trickle out of her. Her reply was lost in a series of stammers. But, as the Prior moved to grab her and no doubt escort her back to the cluster, the Abbess stopped him with a raised hand and a serious expression.

Ignoring a strand of grey hair that had fallen down over her eye from the neatly manicured bun on her head, the Abbess asked “What is it, neoi?” She placed her hand on Sister Spear’s chest and Frances felt her heart slow at the touch. She managed a deep breath.

“The Minotors!” she gasped.

“What of them?” Prior Arkos boomed impatiently. The Abbess cast him a sharp glance, prompting him to shut his open mouth, though his stance evinced his impetuosity.

“They’re all spinning up,” Frances wheezed. Prior Arkos rolled his eyes.

“Yes, they do that, Sister Spear. It’s what our most devout give their lives to do,” he said patronisingly.

The Abbess cast a glance at the light pouring out from the stairs down to the labyrinth, noting its hue. “How many?’ she asked quickly.

“I don’t … know,” Frances sputtered, feeling the panic rise again. “At least… fourteen when I… left.” At this, even Prior Arkos grew serious.

“How many of them had drained their dope?” the Abbess asked, even faster now. She steadied Sister Spear with both hands.

“I think all of them had … when I fled.”

“A raid” Prior Arkos gasped. “Not in decades…” The Abbess just nodded.“But how? None of our sensors have reported anything?”

“Overfit and edge cases,” the Abbess replied as she stared off into space, visualizing what must be done. “Our sensors can’t look away. We’ve been rumbled.” It was why they had the Minotors, the sacred volunteers.“Quickly, wake everyone. Get everyone to their battle stations and spin up the printers in the hangars. We might still have time.”

Prior Arkos stood stunned, unable to believe what he was hearing. The Abbess turned to him, and with one severe movement, slapped him across his face. “Now!” she shouted.

The Prior stumbled for only a moment before he bolted down the hallway, his robes swirling around him.

The Abbess looked over at Frances, who was unsure if she should go wake others, get to a battle station, or just replay over and over the satisfying image of Prior Arkos getting slapped. “Come neoi, join me.”

Frances fell in step beside the Abbess, lost in the sweep of those faint grey robes. “Where are we going?”

“To the clean room, child.”

Frances’ eyes grew wide and she began to sputter. “But I am not ordained- I … I … have not been given sacrament. I am still kegare.”

The Abbess took Frances’ hand in the crook of her arm and guided her through a series of turns. “But you know the dharma, yes? And you have studied the kiyome?”

Frances nodded at each.

“Then there is nothing to worry about. I will show you the rest.” The Abbess reached a large glass door and placed her palm on the panel to its right. A rush of air surged out as the glass door slid open. Both stepped into the brightly lit anteroom and up to a cistern in the middle.

Following the Abbess’ lead, Frances washed her hands in the cistern. She repeated after the Abbess as she softly recited the sacraments. “Devs lux mea est.”

The two slipped their feet into the polyester non-linting coveralls, pulling them over their robes. They were sterile white; no vestments could contaminate the clean room’s sanctity. Frances moved in a haze, overawed as much by Amma Gyahwah’s earlier grace as she was to be now standing here with the Abbess. “Devs vult.”

Pulling on their hoods, they stepped through to the next room, another rush of forced air surging past them.

There, in the center of the narrow room, sat a small metal dome on a tapered altar. Before it, a codex rested on a stand, its ornate golden binding encrusted with gems of blue and green. Sister Spear stepped forward slowly, peering reverently at the intricate seal on its cover. There was a globe of the world enfolded at the top in the wings of an eagle. Across the bottom of the globe the letters G-A-I-A were illuminated in silver leaf, though Frances did not know why.

She was startled as the silence of the antechamber was disrupted by the whine of alarms in the distance and reflexively, she grasped the rim of the altar, knocking over the codex in her clumsiness. The fear rose in her throat as she felt a staccato of whumps underfoot. Guns that had sat silent since her childhood roared back to life.

More sharp rumbles echoed as the monastery shook. She did not know if these were from incoming or outgoing, but the Abbess paid them no mind. Instead, the Abbess gently replaced the codex in its place of honor before clasping Frances’ hands within her own, locking eyes with her.

“Devs ex machina.” And then, in a moment of motherly softness, the Abbess touched Frances’ cheek. Frances felt the gentleness through the polyester hood. “Amma Gyahwah wills it, child. She reached out to you, and we are saved because of it.”

Frances swallowed slowly, and nodded, still doubting herself. “Why me? Why did Amma Gyahwah choose me?”

“Devs vult,” the Abbess shrugged, and guided Frances through the final door, into a room of blinding white. “Sic transit mundus.”