Three Parts Dead

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God wasn’t answering tonight.

“Glory to Thy Flame, Thou Everburning, Ever-transforming Majesty,” Abelard chanted, kneeling, before the glistening brass and chrome altar. He hated this part, after the call, when he waited for the response—when he waited and tried to tell himself everything was fine. If there were a real problem, warning flags would fall from the ceiling, alarms would sound, and higher-ups of the Crimson Order would rush in through the side doors, angry and officious.

If there were a real problem, plain Novice Technician Abelard, so young he still needed to shave the inside of his tonsure, wouldn’t be all alone to deal with it.

Yet this was Abelard’s fifth repetition of the prayer in the last hour. Five times he had bowed his head before the glorious Heart-Fire of the Lord, crackling eternally in its metal cage, five times said the words and opened his soul, brimming with devotion. He felt the flickering warmth in his heart, felt the divine heat that flowed from the altar to power the massed, frightful city of Alt Coulumb beyond the Sanctum walls. But the numinous presence of the Lord of Flame …

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