It was beneath the shadow of God that his most holy Technopont sat—High Bishop of the Mech-Divina, Shepherd of the Church of the Machine—enthroned upon his chariot. It hovered above the golden sands, and from its passing the earth was scourged, the storm of its wrath cast down in rolling clouds.

Before him rose the Temple, a harbinger of judgment: an inky sentinel thrust from the desert’s breast, gleaming as with holy oil, as with black honey poured in reverence.

Below, the Templar stood watch, and with them a scavenger of no worth. He was a small and grasping thing, his eyes bright with avarice, his tongue loosened not by faith but by the promise of exchange. What witness he bore was not offered in devotion to the undying God who lay beneath their feet and in the air around them, but bartered—knowledge for coin, to be squandered on vanities.

“…and then he bundled them up and sped off on the bike, due east, I think,” the man said, his mouth soft, his thoughts softer still.

“A single man entered the Temple,” one of the Templar intoned, “and two emerged. Is this your testimony?”

“That’s what I said.”

There was nothing more of value in him. No form, no mark, no sign by which the truth might be shaped. So judged the Technopont, for His Holiness turned then to me, who stood at his left hand. I fell to my knees and pressed my brow to the gleam of his presence.

“Discover what else he has seen,” the Bishop commanded, his voice untroubled and absolute.

“At once, Your Grace,” I answered, lowering my unworthy head before rising in a single, practiced motion. I signaled to the two technicians who waited nearby, and together we crossed to the edge of the chariot and stepped upon the elevator. It broke away from the hull and began its slow descent.

The sands roiled beneath us as we came to rest upon the earth. Our robes swept about our feet as we drew toward the Templar and the captive, who watched us with dull and uncomprehending eyes. I inclined my head to one of the technicians, and a long coffer was procured from within their sleeves.

The man asked, “Wassat?”

I offered him no answer.

The technicians unfastened the clasps of the ornate box and lifted the lid. Within lay a single instrument, long and bulbous, black as sanctified oil, its surface shining with a dark iridescence. One of the technicians took it up, and together they advanced upon the man.

He seemed about to speak again, his dull intrigue prying at what little sense he possessed, when one of the technicians moved behind him. In a moment, an arm locked around the man’s throat, holding him fast. A cry rose from him but was cut short as the second technician drove the instrument into the base of his skull.

Silence fell.

The man became as one without sense. His eyes were wide yet empty, his mouth fallen open. The technicians released him, and he remained standing, vacant and still, a vessel rendered obedient.

The instrument folded in upon itself and arched upward like the tail of a scorpion. Its blackened surface moved with life as globules flowed downward, entering the man’s skull. We stood without word or haste and waited.

One of the technicians reached again into the coffer and drew forth another device. It unfolded in their hands until it became a terminal, its screen dark and waiting. As the rippling within the embedded instrument slowed and began to reverse, the technicians took hold of it. A portion detached, folding down like an extending sinew, and was joined to the terminal.

I stepped closer as the screen flickered to life.

Images formed slowly and poorly—blurred, broken, torn through with lines of static like scars. The device was flawed, yet it was the sacred charge of the Children of the Machine God to discern truth even through distortion.

The vision began to move.

The Temple appeared, its vast maw opening beneath the first red stain of dawn upon the sky. From that forbidden threshold emerged a man—a blasphemer—carrying another in his arms, their form wrapped and hidden. He moved with urgency across the sand toward a dunerunner hovering idle nearby.

The Temple vibrated, its warning thrumming through ground and air—the same summons that had roused the Holy Technopont from rest and called the Templar to vigilance.

The man set his burden upon the ground and moved to rouse the machine. The figure shuddered, tipped, and dark fluid spilled from their nose to stain the sand. The man hesitated, alarmed, then seized them again, set them upon the dunerunner, mounted behind, and fled.

They vanished into the distance, westward, contrary to the scavenger’s account.

The scavenger convulsed.

His body seized, and one of the technicians caught him as his eyes rolled back into their sockets. Black fluid ran from his nose, his ears, his eyes. He fell to the earth, writhing, as the terminal’s screen flared and died.

“Apologies, my Vicar,” the technician said calmly, allowing the body to slump still. “We will recover nothing further.”

I exhaled. The instrument was limited, and its gifts were never without cost.

“If only we had obtained something more useful before his brain liquified,” the other technician observed.

“On the contrary,” I replied, turning and setting my steps into the desert. “It has given us something of great value indeed.”

I felt the weight of their gazes upon me—the technicians, the Templar, and His Holiness above—as I crossed to the place where the figures had last been seen. The ground was scarred, churned by the passage of the dunerunner, then softened again by the patient hand of the desert. What had been there was nearly erased.

Nearly.

I searched in silence, my eyes steady and discerning, until I found what I sought.

A stain.

Darkened sand, its color wrong against the gold.

I drew aside my robe and removed a small instrument from my belt, uncapping it as I knelt. With care, I gathered the bloodied grains and let them fall into the vessel, sealing it again. Rising, I returned to the others and placed the device into the hands of a technician.

Without question, they affixed it to the terminal.

The machine groaned as it worked—wet, grinding sounds issuing from within, as though it were feeding. The screen stirred to life, and lines of data poured forth: sequences of As and Gs and Cs and Ts, scrolling on and on.

I watched without expression.

Then—

Something struck me. A recognition so sudden and so profound that it stole the breath from my lungs. My eyes widened as the pattern resolved itself before me, unmistakable, undeniable.

No.

It could not be.

I lifted my gaze to his Holiness, the Technopont. He had risen from his chariot, seemingly moved to a degree I had never seen before.

“What is it, Vicar Huck?” one of the technicians asked, unease threading their voice.

I looked again at the screen, as though the truth might change if I dared to doubt it.

It did not.

At last, I spoke.