The man swallowed hard.
“Ys’m,” he nodded.
Sister Dee kissed the man’s hand, leaving a black-and-white smile on his skin. “Then I forgive you. This once. As does the Lord, your God.”
“Th-th—”
“Amen is the proper response, Disciple Leon.”
“Amen.” Leon cleared his throat, licked at dry lips. “Ma’am.”
Sister Dee returned her attentions to Brother Dubya. The paint on his cheeks was now smudged on her hand, under her fingernails. Cricket noted how every Disciple and Brother in the room stared straight ahead. How Abraham had retreated into the shadows, eyes averted. How even Brother War steadfastly refused to meet the woman’s bottomless stare.
“Should I forgive you also, Brother War?” she asked. “As Our Savior forgave his transgressors? Or should I punish you, as Our Lord punished the sinners of Sodom and Nooyawk and Ellay? The Goodbook speaks of four Horsemen, true.” She ran a hand over his bloodstains. “But men is something I have no shortage of. And what use is a Horseman who can’t bring down two teenage trashbreeds?”
“Three,” he said softly.
The woman tilted her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“The abnorms have added another to their number,” Brother Dubya replied. “A redhead. Girl. She…God’s truth, I don’t know what she did. But she snapped her fingers and knocked our combat drones right out of the sky.”
Cricket felt another electric thrill at the girl’s description. It was her. It was…
“LEMON?” he blurted.
All eyes in the room turned on him.
“…What did you say, Paladin?” Abraham asked.
“N-NOTHING.” The logika shook his head, electric panic washing over his circuitry. “I—I’M SORRY, I’LL BE QUIET.”
Sister Dee narrowed her eyes.
“Do you…know this deviate, Paladin? The one Brother War just described?”
Cricket remained silent, fear flooding his sub-systems. How could he have been so stupid? He was too used to being around humans he could trust, humans who cared about him and cared about each—
“Answer me,” Sister Dee said softly. “Do you know her?”
A robot must obey.
A robot
Must
Obey.
“I…I THINK SO, SISTER DEE.”
“Tell me who she is,” the woman commanded.
He wanted to scream no. To run. To do anything except comply. But…
“HER NAME IS LEMON FRESH,” he heard himself reply.
“Tell me where she is.”
“I DON’T KNOW,” Cricket moaned. “I LOST HER IN THE CLEFTS A FEW DAYS AGO.”
Sister Dee turned to the dusty war party. Dark eyes glittering.
“It seems the Lord has granted you a reprieve, Brother War,” she said. “Take the other Horsemen to the Clefts and search for any trace of this girl or—”
“PLEASE DON’T HURT HER,” Cricket begged.
Sister Dee pointed to the logika, spoke without looking at him. “Never speak in my presence without being spoken to first. Acknowledge.”
“…ACKNOWLEDGED,” Cricket whispered.
“Go to the Clefts,” she commanded Brother Dubya. “Do not return to New Bethlehem without captives. I want them alive, do you understand? I want to know where they nest. These trashbreed mongrels grow bolder by the day. Deviation cannot be tolerated. Only the pure shall prosper.”
“Only the pure shall prosper,” he repeated.
“Saint Michael watch over you,” she said.
Brother Dubya grunted acknowledgment and marched from the room, his dusty posse trailing behind. Sister Dee watched them leave, her face a mask. The Brotherhood members in the black cassocks relaxed their stances, and Cricket realized every one of them had placed their fingers on the triggers of their weapons. That with one word from this woman, every man in that crew would have been stone-cold murdered right here in front of him.
And every one of them had known it.
As the double doors slammed shut, Sister Dee finally glanced over her shoulder. Abraham was busy at his tools, his face pale, blue eyes shining and wide. She walked over, touched his chin, forced him to look at her.
“Your grandfather always said it was better to be feared than loved.”
The boy swallowed hard and nodded. “I remember.”
“Do you love me, my son?”
“…Of course I do.”
Sister Dee’s skullpaint face twisted in a gentle smile as she kissed his cheek.
“It’s all for you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, Mother.” The boy nodded slowly. “I know.”
With a final glance at Cricket, Sister Dee spun on her heel and swept from the room, her black-cassocked thugs marching behind her in unison.
“Remember the paintjob,” she called over her shoulder. “And fix Solomon!”
The doors slammed shut. The light seemed to brighten, the tension flee the room. Abraham dragged his hand back through his hair, rubbed his eyes.
“I…”
Cricket’s voice faltered. Sister Dee wasn’t in the room anymore, so he could speak freely. But in the end, he still wasn’t entirely sure about this boy. He seemed a decent sort. Gentle, when all the world around him was hard and sharp as glass. But Abraham was that woman’s son, and that woman was the bloodthirsty leader of a fanatical murder cult. What kind of person might he really be?
“IS…IS SHE ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” he finally asked.
The boy glanced at the double doors, heaved a sigh. “She has to be.”
“HOW DO YOU FIGURE THAT?”
“This is a cold world, Paladin. Its leaders have to be colder. My mother’s a good person, in her heart. But when my grandfather died, it fell on her to hold the Brotherhood together. All of this, all we have, is because of her.”
Cricket wasn’t sure what to say. He’d always spoken his mind with Evie—Silas had programmed him to keep her out of trouble, to be her conscience, to never be afraid to speak up. And even though he knew he wasn’t safe here, some part of that programming was surfacing now. Truth was, he liked this kid. Liked that he didn’t want to be called master. That he referred to Cricket as “him” instead of “it.”