When Faith Requests

The tithe came for us at the worst time. The red robed priests of the faith with their symbols of death on their robes. They reminded us of the glory of worship and service as they told us they would take our children. Behind them were their giants, with their guns. Their fists. They were silent, but they did more to remind us of the cost of worship. 

Johan was six months old, at the top of eligibility for the tithe. I held him in shaking arms as the priest came for him, murmuring words I couldn’t understand. 

The thick smoke of the censers made Johan cry. His bright red hair was the only part of him sticking out of the bundle when they came for me. I thought I could hide him, hide how well healthy he was. But he cried too loud, too forcefully.

So many of the children were sick. Twisted by the radiation and pollution of the factories we were forced to work in, for the glory of worship. Our service made so many of us die so young, made so many of us twisted.

I was told I was blessed to have a healthy son. One with strong hands, strong lungs. He cried as the priest took him from me, but I didn’t. There were no tears left for me. The ash of the furnaces had dried them up years ago. Silent sobs shook my body, but I kept my eyes downcast as the priest moved on. 

The giant that followed him was silent too. I stared at his feet as he passed. The red plates of armor with black trim. His presence was a threat, a reminder of what we had to worship. The whine of his servos in his armor were not enough to eclipse the cries of my son as they both left my tiny hovel.

He had such strong lungs.

I was not the only one to have to give a child to the tithe. Three on my work crew had to turn them over, but they were grateful. There was one less mouth to feed, a little more left in the rations they gave us. They didn’t have someone like my Johan at home. 

The acolytes tried to comfort me in the days following. They reminded me of the glory of worship, the glory of service. I was told of the rituals that Johan would undergo, to make his form more fit for that worship. That service only he could do.

The careful surgeries, done without anesthesia as pain was part of the service. I knew this myself, having worked on the assembly lines since I was old enough to see over the top of it. I had lost fingers to the snapping jaws of the rollers, an ear to the cutters. Pain was service. Pain was worship.

They told me of the augmentations that he would be given. That they would help him serve, help him worship. That by his worship, others would be saved. That the truth would pour forth from him and confront the enemies of the faith. 

I told the acolytes that I was comforted.

My reward for this service, for the service of my son, was a promotion up the line. I was moved away from the forges and their acrid smoke. I would work on more refined products, further from the raw cutting and smashing that had stolen my flesh. Away from the machine that I had serviced as an act of worship.

That worship that had stolen more of my flesh than I knew I had.

I was told to be grateful. Johan’s service would be one of pride in the faith, and his light would reflect on me when I finally died. Snatched up by a machine, or panting as my lungs filled with blood. The only two outcomes those of us who worshiped knew.

That worship bought us a place after this life, a brighter, better world. The acolytes would descend from their temples of death and pain and tell us that. They would assure us that we were fighting for the truth, for the faith, as surely as any soldier. That we would be rewarded in the end.

The temples would open their doors like jaws once a month and take us inside. We would march before the altars of bone metal, forged in the very factories we toiled in. Did my flesh go into their construction? Had my blood spilled across their surfaces?

The icons and trophies of the faith filled the rooms, and we were brough to our knees by the glory of what we worshiped. Music of war, of bloodshed, of the glory of pain filled the rooms as the choir of cherubs entered, and we knew that we were safe in the truth. We were protected by the silent giants, with their silent guns.

Censers were born aloft by their flight. The smoke moved among us, scented heavily with the incense and oils of that sacred place. So different than the smoke of the forges that tainted us even in this holy place, and even the music could not hide the bloody, hacking coughs.

Prayer scrolls trailed from their bodies, more symbols of death I couldn’t understand. These were repeated on the banners around us. Everywhere the same icons, hammered into the altars by the machines I now ran.

I raised my eyes from the altar, gazing at the cherubs. The wings stitched to their backs hid the propulsion packs that kept them aloft. Their eyes were a mirror of our own pain, even if they couldn’t understand it. 

The rituals were explained to me so clearly. How they would cut away the parts of him that made him grow, made him more than just a toddler. How the priest would pray as they cut into my Johan, anointing him for his new purpose. They would only take the purest white wings for my son.

I found him among the choir. His mouth was stretched wide, so the speakers could fit. His bright red hair was waving in the force from his repulsors. I could see the red flesh where the wings were stitched on. They were beautiful.

My son was singing. His lungs had been so strong, but not strong enough. Not for the benedictions he needed to sing now. Not for what he needed to do to protect us.

That strength wasn’t enough for the God-Emperor’s priests.