Servitor-Novice Masel takes his lunch hour in the chapel every day. There are times set aside for prayer, and times set aside for privacy, but lunch hour is the only time Masel has the Arbiter all to himself and he can’t stop taking advantage of it. A selfish impulse, but none of the Servitors could reasonably deny that more prayer is always a good thing.
It stands pressed against the wall of the chapel; its own altarpiece, a red slash against the iron core of the asteroid like a geode exposed by time. The Arbiter of the Changing Orbit. Its carapace glows dimly in the forest of candles that surround it in all shapes and sizes, gleaming against the exposed struts at its elbows and knees. Masel kneels in front of its dais, as close as he dares, ignoring the pews bolted into the stone in neat rows behind him. Its warm voice rolls ceaselessly into his mind, speaking that pre-expulsion dialect that none of the Servitors can ever quite understand, and he sighs with ecstasy.
Masel’s life has revolved around being a Servitor in the Mission of the Changing Orbit for as long as he can remember, but he never feels at peace until on his knees in front of the Arbiter itself. He worships his god with reckless abandon and wonders how the rest of them don’t. The Servitor-Superior herself has told him that his devotion borders on the extreme, that the Arbiter does not speak to anyone who is not a Pilot and he must accept any communication prior to his ascension to that rank as being somehow fabricated — unholy, even –– but privately, Masel thinks that the Superior must have never heard the Arbiter’s voice herself, because how could any fake come close?
He dreams of running his fingers over its smooth, featureless face. The material almost looks like unfired clay, and he wonders what it would feel like: rough and strong or soft and silky. It doesn’t matter either way, but Masel dreams of knowing. He dreams of brushing the golden highlights etched along its jointed body, at least twenty times taller and wider than any human but in roughly the same shape. He wonders if the Arbiter dreams of holding him in its huge hands. He shivers at the thought and laughs at his presumption
He dreams of his god and its unknowable thoughts, and spends his lunch hour in the chapel every day until the bells herald the next hour and unwillingly pull him back to his duties.
Speak without lips, learn without knowledge, navigate without fear. He recites the Arbiter’s Creed to himself as he bustles to the airlock to greet their latest pilgrims. It’s cold in the Mission today, and he reminds himself to check the atmosphere controls. It does no credit to their order for them to appear chilly and forbidding, even if the pilgrims have no choice but to go through them to reach Homeland.
The stained glasteel windows on the inner airlock door offer the pilgrims privacy as they decontaminate and strip off their pressurized suits, and Masel watches the four of them curiously as they eventually file through. Red lips, blue lips, one of them is shivering. They’re all shorter and stockier than anyone who grew up in the Mission’s asteroid microgravity, and they all seem somewhat on edge, vibrating like scalpels dumped onto a rough rock altar.
“Greetings, children of the Homeland,” Masel says, folding spindly fingers together. “May I offer you refreshments as you prepare for your pilgrimage?”
“We are quite prepared and would like to be on our way as soon as possible, Servitor,” a woman with a neck tattoo of the Fourth House states firmly.
“Of course,” Masel responds. “Please, follow me.” He turns to lead them to one of the launching terminals. “Your belongings are being moved from the shuttle you arrived in to one of our landing pods as we speak,” he continues over his shoulder, following the script.
“Be careful with them; this is an expensive trip,” one of the pilgrims calls from behind. Masel gives him a humorless smirk, noting his style of clothing. Second House. Interesting.
“All pilgrims, rich or poor, are treated with equal care under the eyes of the Arbiter, and the Servitors of this Mission are more than up to the task of transporting a few crates through zero gravity,” he says blandly. The pilgrim grunts and crosses his arms, lines of tension visible even through his clothes.
Four from the four moons, and all nervous about something. Fascinating. The Houses can never agree on anything, even something as simple as universal interlunar flight regulations, much less a joint expedition to Homeland. Masel lets none of his curiosity show itself to the pilgrims, but inside he furiously wonders what situation could possibly necessitate this agreement.
The group continues walking in silence. Their path to the launching bays takes them along the outside of the asteroid; the public section, where the vacuum-facing wall is studded with stained glasteel windows every few feet. The colorful panoramas display a well-worn tale: the expulsion from Homeland, the formation of the complex sets of rings around the planet, the discovery of the Arbiter, and so on, rendered in glittering drops of multi-faceted light. The group’s footsteps echo in the somber air like ripples from a skipping stone on a pond.
“Do you spacewalk yourself?” the tattooed woman asks Masel eventually, clearly uncomfortable with the silence.
“That’s a job for the Servitor-Acolytes,” he replies, unable to control the bitterness in his voice. “Since I’m only a humble Servitor-Novice, my duties are limited to greeting the pilgrims and assisting with the Mission’s housekeeping.”
“Ah.” She hesitates and then presses on. “And you don’t like that?”
Masel blushes, embarrassed to have been so transparent. “Have you heard the Arbiter’s Creed?” he asks. “‘Speak without lips. Learn without knowledge. Navigate without fear.’ Those are the words that the Mission of the Changing Orbit was founded on, but...” He trails off and sighs. “Only the Servitor-Pilots are allowed to navigate. Only they get to sink into the secrets of our Arbiter’s great mind and guide the pilgrims through the rocks to Homeland. The rest of us don’t matter, really. The Mission could continue fulfilling its purpose without us, and as a Novice, I’m as far from being a Pilot as anyone here could be.”
“Your zeal does you credit, Servitor,” the tattooed woman says, and Masel nods at her with a tight smile.
The ceiling opens above them into a cathedral of gothic proportions, intersected by pillars and hanging tapestries that obscure the massive tanks and nozzles and various technological regalia around the landing pod in the center. Right now, the Servitor-Acolytes are loading the pod through an unseen airlock in the floor, and as soon as they finish, another Novice will come and assist Masel’s group into their seats.
“Thank you for your kind words, child of the Homeland,” Masel replies to the tattooed woman after a second, and then turns to the rest of the pilgrims. “Welcome to Terminal A. It has been a pleasure to serve you. If there is anything else you need, please let me know.” He lets the sentence hang in the air, but none of the four say anything.
His fellow Novice appears to take charge of the group, and he walks away, musing uncomfortably on the conversation. His answer to the woman’s questions was truthful but not complete; Masel does indeed wish to become an indispensable part of the Mission and fulfill the words of the Creed personally, but there’s a deeper reason that he’s not enough of a fool to deny.
The other Novice steps out after a few minutes and the doors of the terminal seal behind them as the final preparations for launch take place. Masel doesn’t have to look; he knows what happens next: the great rose window at the end of the chamber will open and the Pilot will interface with the Arbiter, accessing the ancient algorithms and maps of a bygone civilization to plot a safe course through the rocks surrounding Homeland.
It truly is a holy calling to give the exiled people of Homeland’s moons a way back to their planet, and Masel does aspire to it, but the reality of his desire is far more blasphemous.
Masel is desperately, hopelessly in love with the Arbiter of the Changing Orbit.
There’s nothing anyone can do about it, and he accepted it long ago. He accepted it when he was still young and shivering awake from dreams of it reaching out and holding him against the wall with one massive finger until he came just from the pressure. He accepts it every night when he touches himself, fantasizing about being allowed to drag his naked skin against the Arbiter, by turns rough and smooth until the friction is unbearable. He accepts it and despairs, knowing that the closest he’ll get to becoming one with the Arbiter is an implanted chip and navigational algorithms spoken into his mind.
Every evening when Homeland’s shadow hides them from the sun, the Servitors are called to prayer. Masel dreads the exquisite, excruciating pain of it. They all file into the chapel and sing to the ancient being, the Pilots leading everyone according to the Arbiter’s whispers in their minds. Hymns on orbital calculations, psalms praising navigational clarity, litanies of gravitational anomalies, and so on in waves of piety; training and veneration at the same time.
It fills Masel with wicked jealousy. The Pilots don’t know the workings of the Arbiter’s mind any better than he does, how could they? It should be him up there, one hand pressed to its leg plating to channel its cryptic commands. But there’s nothing he can do, so he lets himself fall into the rituals instead, trying to block out his desperation with devotion. It works well enough.
After evening prayer, the Superior holds private audiences in an alcove to the side of the chapel. Masel rarely ever visits her here, preferring to consider the Arbiter in the silence of his own heart, but tonight, there’s something she needs to know. He perches uncomfortably in the plush chair opposite her and rolls down the privacy screen.
“Novice Masel,” the Superior says, inclining her head at him. He nods in return.
“Superior,” Masel replies nervously. “I, um. I have a concern about the security of the Mission.”
She raises an eyebrow, somehow conveying curiosity and undefinable disdain at the same time. “Speak.”
Masel thinks back on what he observed and tries to marshal his thoughts into a cohesive statement. “Today, I greeted a group of four pilgrims, each of whom came from a different one of the moons. One for each moon, I mean.” He swallows. “I think the Houses are planning something.”
Traveling to Homeland is dangerous, expensive, and an important occasion. A pilgrimage is usually arranged and sponsored by the bureaucracy of a single one of Homeland’s moons. Anything involving all four of those bureaucracies in agreement is nearly unheard of, but especially a pilgrimage to Homeland. It speaks of a great change rushing towards them, and while Masel has no idea what that could be, he hopes that the Superior does and that she has prepared.
She steeples her fingers thoughtfully. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she says after a moment. “It is good to be aware of such things, but I wouldn’t let it trouble you.” Masel opens his mouth to protest and she raises her hand, cutting him off. “Our neutrality is our protection, not to mention the service we provide. No one wants us damaged; we’ve given them no reason to.”
“The Houses need a major reason to collaborate,” Masel blurts out. “I’m sorry, Superior, but you didn’t see them. Something was clearly bothering them and it worries me. I’m just asking you to be on the lookout for anything odd.”
“Don’t forget your place, Novice,” the Superior says. “Your concern for the Mission’s safety is admirable, but you have been known to be somewhat dramatic in the past, and I can’t think of a single reason why a possible change in the politics of this system would result in our endangerment.”
“Yes, but...” Masel trails off. It’s a gut feeling, a palpable sense of unease hanging over him ever since the jittery pilgrims stepped off their shuttle, but he can’t think of any way to say that to the Superior without sounding like a complete fool. “I just wanted to tell you about what I noticed,” he finishes lamely. “To see if there was anything you could do.”
“And what should I do?” she asks. “We are a monastery, dedicated to bettering humanity through the Arbiter’s wisdom. As I said, the service we provide is our protection; none of the Houses have any reason to take issue with us. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, but I see no reason to take action.”
“You’re welcome, Superior,” Masel says quietly.
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Superior.”
“Then go, by the Arbiter’s grace,” she says. Masel can almost see her attention sliding off him, and he leaves with a wordless bow.
The Arbiter’s unintelligible humming slides back into his mind as he emerges into the chapel. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it seems concerned for him now, and he indulges the feeling, whether true or not. It’s important to feel like somebody cares.
“I don’t know, my dear,” he whispers under his breath. “Maybe I’m just crazy.” A wry smile creeps across his face and he looks at the figure splayed against the wall, practically vibrating with life despite its stillness. “Well, yes, I’m definitely a little crazy,” Masel acknowledges, “but whose fault is that?”
Walking away is always the hardest part. The moment the Arbiter’s presence disappears is excruciating every time. Losing a limb couldn’t be worse, Masel thinks with complete certainty; the gradual thinning, and then the sudden snap, leaving Masel cold and dark and alone. Every time, he almost runs back in. He did once, and that was when the Superior criticized his “extreme devotion.” Masel wouldn’t care, but staying on her good side is his only path to becoming a Pilot, so he controls himself, no matter the cost.
The desire pulses in him like a second heart, swollen and relentless. The suspicious pilgrims are a convenient distraction from it, and he worries that problem to the bone. Every way he looks at it, he can’t shake the queasy surety that something bad is coming. Maybe not to the Mission specifically, but to the system as a whole, with them trapped in the middle. The Superior is right that none of the Houses have any reason to want to hurt them, but they could try to control them instead.
It’s probably nothing, he tells himself the next day. I’m creating a problem to give myself something to think about. It’s nearly impossible to get news from the moons on this tiny asteroid, and Masel has no idea what the state of their politics is at the moment. Maybe the Houses have already stated the purpose of this pilgrimage, there’s no way for him to know.
The bell rings the hour, rumbling through the Mission like an earthquake in miniature. Masel practically throws down the pot he’s been absently running through the sonicleanser. It’s lunch hour again, finally time for the only thing that makes his life worth living.
It’s dark and quiet inside the chapel. Masel sinks to his knees with a sigh of relief, completely unaware of the cold stone burrowing into his kneecaps. The Arbiter’s presence pulses over him with the same warm welcome as always. Masel knows it loves him; he knows. The Arbiter’s desire for him to take those damning steps up to the dais and put his hands on it is as strong as his own. He could never imagine something so powerful by himself.
He sinks into the sensation like always, losing time just to submerge himself within its great spirit. It’s never enough, never quite enough, but it’s all Masel has, and he’ll hold onto it with both hands until the Mission stops spinning and Homeland’s sun goes cold.
The bell tolls again and Masel’s eyes snap open in alarm. It’s too soon.
He’s spent an hour a day here for thousands of days, and he knows that wasn’t an hour.
The bells continue, a terrifying promise of something wrong, and Masel realizes that he was correct about everything as the screams begin and Servitors start pouring into the chapel. The Arbiter’s wordless waves of sound spike into a screeching pitch of alarm and he staggers, clutching his ears.
The Superior emerges from the crush of bodies and rushes past him to a little control panel on the dais, face pale and set. She presses something and the chapel begins to shake. Escape pod system activated, a disembodied voice says coolly. The Superior looks at Masel with steel and despair in her eyes.
“What happened?” he asks her, surprised to find himself shaking uncontrollably. The Arbiter is crooning and cajoling in his mind, and for the first time in his life, Masel tries to push it aside. Some of the Servitors stumbling in have blood running down their faces and staining their robes. Masel can’t stop shaking.
“I don’t know,” the Superior snaps. “The landing pod we launched yesterday logged its return three weeks early, and the terminals immediately exploded. We just lost the rectory and kitchens.”
A great groaning starts in the walls, and metal plates begin to fold out from the vaulting of the chapel, rippling over the pillars. Masel realizes very quickly that the chapel itself is the escape pod, and he looks frantically towards the door where more Servitors are still piling in. There isn’t enough time for all of them to get here before the metal seals over the entrance as well, but it doesn’t matter.
The chapel’s shaking comes to a halt with a deep clank. The metal tries to push its way across the entrance, but two massive claws rip it apart and a figure forces its way into the room.
It’s huge, almost as tall as the Arbiter, all harsh angles and industrial efficiency. It stands there, occupying the entire front of the chapel with the promise of violence, and everyone falls silent. The sharp smell of ammonia rises into the air and Masel is distantly conscious of the fact that he and several other Servitors have pissed themselves. The Arbiter’s muttering rises to a fever pitch and he staggers again.
“Servitors of the Mission,” the mech booms in chords of electronic majesty, “you have flaunted the authority of the Houses for too long. We come to bring the end of your independence.”
The mech raises its arms. Masel has a split second to realize that the Houses must have agreed they no longer want to pay tribute to the Mission for access to Homeland before it opens fire, spraying the front of the chapel with bullets.
The Superior lets out a breathless scream, and Masel watches in horror as his fellow Servitors are mowed down. Flesh tears like paper, organs fountain into the air in sprays of coruscating pink and red, and familiar faces disappear under a mountain of bodies. Masel stumbles backwards mindlessly, crawling up the steps of the dais.
Like radio static drowning out a signal, the Arbiter washes back into his mind, and he goes rigid. The frantic words are unintelligible as always, but Masel feels that pull again, that same magnetic pull between them that he’s been fighting for as long as he can remember, and without even thinking about it, he throws himself against the Arbiter’s leg.
Sounds resolve into words; words resolve into knowledge.
DNA match confirmed, 100% compatible, the Arbiter says in his mind, and despite everything, Masel almost weeps from the beauty of his love’s voice. The mech is still pounding the chapel with gunfire, and everything is awash in screaming, but it all fades into the background as the Arbiter pulls its arms out from their resting spots to cradle Masel in its hands.
Ecstatic tears pour down his cheeks and he collapses in its grasp. Its surface is smooth, he notes distantly; even more beautiful than any of his fantasies. Its featureless faceplate spins open, and he barely has time to notice the skeleton it disgorges before it gently places him inside like a treasure. Like it cares as much as Masel always knew it would.
“I love you,” he sobs. “I love you so much.”
The faceplate seals him in, and it’s like every hour he’s spent surrounded by the Arbiter’s voice magnified by a thousand. Like an embryo in a womb, like a sailor in the arms of the sea, like floating naked in a sea of stars, joyfully burning to death.
Survey mission #378 complete, it mutters in his mind, and he shivers, skin burning and melting away. Pilot lost, but genetic rematch obtained. Hostile entity present and battery reserves failing; authorize emergency battery protocol for defensive, copy?
Masel feels something brush against his spine, his legs, his stomach, as he floats in complete bliss. The Arbiter’s feelers graze over his skin like fingers and he shivers again, bucking with uncontrollable arousal.
Copy? the Arbiter repeats, and a bullet pings off its leg. Masel feels it like his own skin. It barely leaves any damage, just a little divot, but his mind boils over with rage at the thought that anyone would dare hurt his love. A fierce need to punish the offender bubbles up through his hazy mind, and the Arbiter hums happily.
Emergency battery protocol initiated, it purrs.
The feelers plunge into Masel’s body, and he screams uncontrollably. Pure sensation overloads his mind in solar flares of euphoria. He feels himself bleeding into the Arbiter’s system like sand sinking into an endless ocean. Nothing could ever come close to this; his daily worship was only ever a pale imitation. He’s vaguely aware of the Arbiter pounding across the room and dispatching the other mech with one blow, but it’s more sense than understanding at this point as his atoms melt into the Arbiter’s infrastructure.
He feels the rock against their skin as they force their way through the tunnels of the Mission to the outside, popping the fragile skin separating flesh from vacuum easily. Two gunships float menacingly in the wreckage of the Mission’s terminals and they burn through them with great arcs of light that Masel feels in his own body, crackling through each nerve like an electrical fire against paper. It’s beyond exhilaration. Masel can’t hold himself together anymore, the Arbiter’s power is too terribly, terrifically demanding.
He releases himself into the body of his love with a great gasp.
Even a thousand years later, the rebuilt Mission of the Changing Orbit tells the story of the sacrifice of Saint Masel. His choice to martyr himself so that the Arbiter might come back to life one final time and save the Servitors is held up as a shining example to all young Novices of what faith in the Mission should look like.
They tell the story of how he didn’t hesitate when the machines of the First House began their rampage, but instead pounded on the skin of the Arbiter and begged to be let in. They tell how his show of strength ensured that the Houses never dared to involve the Mission in their politics again.
They tell the story of the Arbiter returning to its place in the chapel and gently lowering its occupant to the floor. They tell the story of how every surviving Servitor saw the beatific smile on Saint Masel’s withered face as he bled to death from his holy wounds.
Jay Kang Romanus is a writer of speculative fiction that aims to awaken whatever it is that's squirming wetly inside of you. Growing up queer and mixed-race in a religious family taught him that reality is uncomfortable in a box, and there’s no better way to explore that than by bending genres and turning the earthy, dirty things into something more. You can find his other fiction in Anathema: Spec from the Margins, his essays on Tor.com, and his personal thoughts at @jellicle_jay on every social media platform he checks.