Kaelyn sits with her heels under her thighs, eyes closed, while she is prepared. Richter himself escorted her inside to bequeath her into the care of her so-called 'sisters'. Sister Mai heads the procession with a welcoming smile and inviting commands, and the other two women disperse around the shack to do as she bids.

What Richter claimed was 'more appropriate attire' is a set of robes cut together from dark fabric and a strainer strapped to Kaelyn's chest via a harness of electrical wires. Her old clothes have been dumped in a corner with her satchel, and she routinely checks on the spot to ensure her belongings haven't been disposed of. But nothing, not even the wrath of a god nor the fury of a bomb, can make Kaelyn remove her wedding ring. Under her homespun robes hangs Nate's own ring, clinking on the chain against his dog tags.

Sister Mai takes Kaelyn's hand and turns it up, clicking her tongue. She wrings out a washer and drags it through the grime caked on Kaelyn's palm. The water is clean and warm and soothing, as are the hushed whispers of Sisters Patrice and Avila. Patrice sits on Kaelyn's other side and mimics Mai's motions with another cloth. Kaelyn's fingers twitch and curl despite her best efforts.

All the while, Confessor Tektus's voice booms through the facility. "They are doomed, brothers and sisters. The people of Far Harbor need only peer out their windows to look upon the face of Atom Himself, given form in holy Fog. Yet no matter how inevitable Atom's reign may be, they deny it!"

"If you'll hold still a minute, I'll clean this up." The lightest of touches tilt Kaelyn's head, and Mai rubs the cloth in circles over her face. Sweat, dirt and bunker slime give way under her gentle insistence. The graze on Kaelyn's cheek has since healed over, but she fights a flinch as the rough cloth abrades the spot. Her pulse trembles in her wrists.

Richter had recognized the woman-shade Kaelyn spoke of. The Mother of the Fog. It shouldn't be possible. And now Kaelyn is expected to present the icon to High Confessor Tektus himself.

"After years of skulking in the shadows like whipped dogs, our purpose is clear, brothers and sisters!" From Mai's little shack, they have a prime view of the submarine—referred to as the Vessel in these parts—where Tektus stands, arms flung high, his shouts resonating through the chamber.

Mai sets out a kit of inks and fine brushes on the ground. "A little something to mark the occasion. I don't know if you want anything permanent yet, and we don't have time for that anyway. Close your eyes."

And so Kaelyn does. There's a sound of a lid being unscrewed and tools shuffled, then Mai grips her chin again. The first brushstroke is sudden and cold, dragging a fine line of sticky ice along her cheekbone. Mai's work is both deft and delicate, aided by steady hands.

"Atom's veil will roll down its streets, holy Fog cleansing the land of their heresy! And when we are finally granted Division, it will be as heroes!"

Kaelyn presses her palms into her thighs and breathes carefully through her nose and very much regrets this plan.

"Glory to Atom!"

From all corners of the base: Glory to Atom!

The very walls chant: Glory to Atom!

"Are you ready, sister?" Maybe it's Mai who speaks. Maybe it's all of them.

She forces herself to say: "I am ready to follow His path."

Mai nods. "Then it will be so." Before Kaelyn can leave, Mai catches her shoulder and steps in close. "Look, it's a lesson worth learning now. Trust is a big deal in this family. Our members need to know how to, hm, steer clear of trouble. Just stay on the High Confessor's good side and you'll be all right."

When Mai draws back the curtain, Richter himself waits at the doorway to escort Kaelyn to the Vessel. The submarine is suspended in dry dock, with a network of shacks grafted onto the catwalks around it. The chamber is vast, sound reverberating off the concrete, morphing into a persistent background drone.

Reflections ripple and dance on the ceiling high above their heads; Kaelyn peers over the railing to find molten yellow water skulking at the bottom of the dock. It lights the chamber, inverting shadows, transforming what should be familiar into a thing of uncertainty. Bottles filled with more irradiated water dangle in strings from the shack rafters while evanescent fungal blooms spring out of the refuse piled in the corners.

A rickety gangplank connects the catwalk to the Vessel, and Kaelyn picks every step with care before following Richter down the rusted ladder. Even with her patchy knowledge of military vessels, the interior is hardly recognizable as a war sub. Control panels crouch along the walls behind draped banners of Atom's symbols, every flat surface swamped by skulls and bottle lights.

High Confessor Tektus sits on a throne, hunched over with his chin in his fist like some contemplative statue of ancient Greece. His tattooed, papery face blends in against the gray-tan banner behind him. His headdress evokes the movement of the atom, of circling electrons. And the guards in all corners watch her every move with a contained zealousness. If she so much as twitches wrong, they will defend their leader to their last breath.

Richter's boot presses into the back of Kaelyn's knee. A jolt rushes up her thighs when she hits the ground. She clutches the bundle to her chest, feeling the imprint of its head against her breastbone. Behind her, Richter says, "Confessor, I present to you a new believer, who has tasted the spring and seen Atom's glory."

Tektus's boots shift, and Kaelyn wonders how he hasn't yet set the hem of his robes on fire given the cluster of candles that wallow at his feet. "Ah. I'd heard whispers of a new convert. Welcome, sister. Let me look at you."

Licking her lips—and fighting a grimace at the tang—Kaelyn tilts her chin so the ragged ends of her hair peel away from her face. She makes it as far as the tattooed hands that grip the armrests of his throne.

Tektus chuckles, the sound rasping like sackcloth. "Shy, are we? No matter. Be not afraid, child, for we are all Atom's devoted here."

In lieu of a response, Kaelyn unwraps the bundle and presents the icon to Tektus. "Confessor. When I drank from the spring, a woman guided me to this."

"Ah." Intrigue twangs in his voice. Her mouth goes dry. "You saw the Mother of the Fog—Atom's messenger. His prophet, if you will. How curious that she chose you for the honor. Many spend their entire lives wishing for such a sign."

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of her neck. "I cannot hope to unravel Atom's will, Confessor. I don't know enough to presume."

"None of us would be here but for the will of Atom, child." Tektus leans back in his seat, his hands tightening into a white-knuckled grip on the armrests. "There are many who would squander Atom's grace. You've been to Far Harbor, yes? Seen its barriers and its citizens' blasphemous refusal to vacate what is clearly His domain? Tell me, child: what would you do with such a place?"

A test. It has to be a test.

Kaelyn bows her head in every image of a humble convert. In truth, it's because she can't risk him detecting the defiant resentment kindling behind her breastbone. "Forgive me, Confessor, but are you saying the Fog's boundaries mark the extent of Atom's domain?"

"That is correct, child." Tektus shifts more firmly in his throne.

"Does the Fog not come and go? If it rolls back, would we not have to concede the land Atom sought to give Far Harbor?"

Tektus snares her chin with a gnarled hand, his pointed nails digging into her skin, and drags her face up. From where she kneels, she's reminded of her own vulnerability. Contempt glitters like black stones in his narrowed eyes. "You are new here, child, and had best learn quickly what it means to be Atom's chosen. I entrust your education to your brothers and sisters. For only through unity will our family survive and, soon, thrive."

My family is dead, she thinks. "Yes, Confessor."

"Good. Go now." With a final warning squeeze, he releases her and bids she stand.

Kaelyn climbs the ladder and draws in a deep breath of the comparatively fresher air of the base. Before she can make her escape, Richter grabs her arm to halt her in her tracks. His eyes glimmer in the low yellow light with a canniness that is not to be underestimated. "Know this—we are all devoted servants of Atom here. Messenger or no, actions against the family will not be tolerated. Don't presume rank or status because of the Mother."

Her mouth is dry. "Understood, Grand Zealot."

Richter holds her a moment longer. He nods once. "Welcome, sister."

There's a celebratory feast, because of course there is. It takes several hours of cooking to prepare enough for the several dozen members of the commune, but that time is passed by teaching the most basic of prayers to Kaelyn. At the sound of a stick beating against a metal drum—only after Tektus has finished praising Atom—people move towards one of the shacks. Kaelyn follows the crowd to a communal eating area, where low-set tables have been pushed into three rows. Bottle lights are tucked away in corners of rooms, away from clumsy feet. Cushions, sometimes little more than bundles of cloth, are passed around to ease the discomfort of rickety floorboards.

Being a religious retreat on a hostile island, the fare is simple. To make up for it, the gathering is a frenetic affair, with the Children shouting praises and trading gossip—and asking all sorts of questions of their new convert. Kaelyn picks at her food as radiation and stress curdle her stomach. She doesn't want to know where the meal was prepared, either, given the general lack of cleanliness in the Nucleus. After describing the Mother of the Fog for the sixth time to awed and jealous sighs, she moves to the window to get some space, away from the cloying smells of greasy angler haunch and irradiated water.

Someone else is already there, pools of yellow light highlighting his deep umber skin. He grunts when he sees her. "Yeah? I mean, glory to At— wait. You're the new convert."

"That's right. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you." Note to self: 'glory to Atom' acceptable hello. 'Yeah' isn't.

He grunts again, softly. "Not a problem. You see Brother Devin? Sickly guy over there, praying by himself?"

Kaelyn follows the thrust of his chin to one of the catwalks around the Vessel, where a man kneels. "I see him."

"Kid's been on a fast. Long one. No food. Only irradiated water. Waiting for a sign from Atom. Most folks would say that's real admirable, giving yourself to Atom like that. What do you think?"

Kaelyn cocks her head. This man doesn't seem like the other cultists here, even if his enquiry is far from idle. It could be a test, a part of her warns. "I think that while it's an honorable thing to devote himself so fully, he can't serve Atom if he's dead."

He tilts his head, an assessing glimmer in his black eyes. "Just so. Everyone else here thinks what Devin's doing is brilliant, but he's going to kill himself. He won't listen to me anymore, but if there's a chance you could get through to him, I've gotta ask you to try."

Be careful. It could be a test. "I'll speak to him."

"Oh, thank you. Just do it quick. He's starting. To look—bad."

Unlike most organized militias, most of the guards—zealots, they call themselves—halt their shift for the evening meal. Only the entrance guards are fortified with doubled numbers. This makes it simple enough for Kaelyn to slip down the stairs, hoping that her identity isn't immediately obvious to anyone looking out across the dock.

"Excuse me? Brother Devin?"

He starts. "What, I— oh, hello, sister." He tries to find his feet and teeters dangerously.

"No, no, it's okay. You don't have to get up." Kaelyn hooks a hand under his armpit and eases him back onto his knees, following him down to sit beside him.

The man who sent her is right: Devin's bloodshot eyes are glassy and sunken in his eye sockets. His sallow skin gleams with sweat in the yellow light, save for the red splotches of fever that no tattoo can hide. His hair has fallen out in clumps, and what's left is lank with grease.

"If I can ask,"she begins, "what are you doing here?"

He licks his lips. "My saving grace. Jet has been my crutch for many years. One day I was in the woods, polluting myself, when a radiant stag strode from the sky. It commanded me to return to the Nucleus, to leave behind my iniquities and give myself fully to Atom. For my dedication, Atom would send another messenger who would free me from my shackles once and for all. That, sister, is why I must wait."

Kaelyn raises an eyebrow, opens her mouth to speak, the pauses. "If you've been here for days, what makes you think you haven't already endured the worst of the withdrawal?"

Devin trembles. "Be— because I am weak and Atom is strong."

Biting back a sigh, Kaelyn slides her hands under Devin's palms and lifts them. She makes a show of inspecting them both, brushing her fingers over the dark veins in his wrists. "Then I have good news for you. Your shackles are gone."

Devin gasps. He pulls his hands free to raise them before his eyes, turning them this way and that in the dim yellow light. "I can't believe it—they're gone? They're really gone? You—you're the messenger?" He chokes on a sob. "Oh, thank you, your Brilliance, thank you! And you, dear messenger, dearest sister—"

"Shh, Devin." Kaelyn presses a finger to his lips. They're dry and cracked and bleeding. "This needs to stay between you, me and Atom."

"Of course, dearest messenger. If that is Atom's will." He stares down at his hands in wonder. "I'm free? I'm free!"

"Now, are you ready to clean up and get some food?"

"I need to give thanks to the most Radiant One, but—after. Yes, after."

Upon her return to the communal eating area, the man who requested her help glances at her but does not immediately accost her. After several toasts in honor of Atom, Tektus, and their new convert—in that order—Kaelyn pleads exhaustion to excuse herself from the table. It isn't even a lie: her eyelids drag and her nerves have since frayed.

"I'll show her to a place to sleep," the man says, to a nod from Tektus. They take several turns through the network of shacks before he asks, low and pointed, "Any luck?"

"Devin will end his fast. But I don't know if he's strong enough to walk up the stairs, let alone take care of himself."

"I'll look out for him. Thank you, friend. Sister. Here, pick a sleeping bag. My bed's in the next room over if you need me. I owe you one. Name's Ware, by the way."

Curling up to face the wall, Kaelyn clutches her belongings to her chest. She doesn't sleep.