0394: The Assembly

Ziggurat #309

"You look lost," Lamont observed, flicking a bit of ash on the faux grass of the colonist deck floor. He was watching Constance with a thoughtful expression, cupping his clean-shaven jaw with his hand and holding the lazily smoking cigarette between two fingers near his lips.

"I don't know why I'm here," Constance agreed. Behind her, countless stars glittered coldly in the black, visible through the large windows of the deck. In front of her, the Wednesday evening service was in full swing. Through the transparent walls of the assembly hall, she could see the milling movements of the other colonists, reminding her of a churning cauldron; the heat of their bodies was palpable on her face in the otherwise cool air. Fragments of lilting hymns drifted past her ears, equal parts melodic and discordant.

The newspaperman nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette. "The spirit has always eluded you."

"Let's go somewhere else," Constance suggested uncomfortably.

"What about the children?" Lamont asked.

Constance sighed. "Alright, if this is the game you want to play." On evenings like this, she would invariably resort to plucking Maggie Downs out of the sweaty arms of one of her parents, beckoning the twins from their fidgeting seats. Like the Pied Piper, she would leave the assembly hall with a trail of children in tow, and then she would bring them around to their respective cabins, settling them in their beds and keeping watch until the assembly petered out in the small hours. It was this habit that had given Constance a reputation as the colony's babysitter; a role she reluctantly tolerated because it gave her an excuse to extract herself from the uncomfortable assemblies.

Constance stalked toward the assembly hall, impatient for the situation to play itself out. The wave of heat that radiated against the skin of her face and neck was comically exaggerated. As she passed through the wide threshold of the hall, she felt as if she was walking into an oven. She unconsciously loosened the collar of her blouse, glancing back at Lamont. Dressed suavely in a turtleneck and jacket, he showed no apparent discomfort as he followed her into the fray.

The meeting was chaotic. The colonists were swaying in gyrating movements, each person seemingly caught up in his or own ecstatic fervor. In the heat of the enclosed space, jackets and shawls had been tossed carelessly aside, and shirts clung to sweaty limbs. From the rear of the hall, Constance could see Anna Lightfoot-Owens standing in her usual spot on the raised platform, her brown arms lifted high. Orange light flickered ominously on her face, its source obscure.

"Find the children," Lamont urged.

"I'm trying," Constance complained. Pushing her way through the undulating crowd, her eyes scanned in vain for the Downs children. She saw the distinctive red hair of Joan Howard near the front and made her way toward her, expecting to find little Reese in her arms. But Joan's arms were empty, as were those of Roy, her husband. Instead, the couple clasped their hands fervently to their chests as they looked at the space between the assembly and the platform.

There, Constance finally discovered the true source of the excessive heat—and she screamed.