Category: Writers Block
For fans of sci-fi, fantasy, mystery and conspiracy stories ... or for anyone at all interested. Your comments, suggestions and critisisms are always appreciated, and I am more than happy to return the favor. I will post more if people want it.
A Contract of Souls
Genrich Godra was getting old. There was no denying it. At 110, he should have been spending the last few decades of life in lavish retirement. But the work was too important. He tried hard to ignore the whispers directed at his back by the younger members of his order. They said he was slowing down, that he was too old for wet work. So much for respecting one’s elders.
Deep down, Godra knew they were right. Nevertheless he trampled Haven’s dusty Undercity streets with an air of self-assurance and brutal contempt. He was all but naked, girded by only a thick black battle skin which fell to the knee. Strands of crimson thread wove around the garment in intricate symbols which the casual observer might mistake as the product of a chaotic imagination. With each stride, thick slabs of muscle rippled under course black fur sprinkled liberally with patches of Gray. The force of his unwavering gait carried a certainty that anyone he came across would scramble to make room for him. It was not merely his physical presence which caused people to draw away from him. Nor was it the broadsword and axe crisscrossing his expansive shoulders, or the two guns holstered on his hips. It certainly wasn’t the short, heavily muscled tail sweeping from side to side, for no Magnian would dare hide his tail. It was his eye - that coal black murderous orb, flecked with undisguised malice, hooded by a ridge of metal studded bone. To see his uncompromising face was to know what he was, and to meet his eye, brimming over with murderous passion was an invitation to be a partaker in the macabre practice which he and his order considered the highest form of art.
Godra could have ridden to his destination, but he navigated the winding streets because he enjoyed the walk. He paid no more attention to the people around him then a corpse pays to the hands of the mortician. Instead, he let his body drive his mind, allowing the freedom of uninhibited physical exertion to slowly calm his indignant fury.
Genrich Godra despised dry jobs. Death was life. On the hunt, at that penultimate moment before the bloodletting filled him with unfathomable bliss, the anticipation left his heart racing. The seconds – the moments – the hours of pre-fatal agony when the blood pumped freely and the victim gasped and screamed painted such an extravagant portrait of suffering that he was often moved by a force within which he clung to with the frantic grip of a drowning man clinging to a rock. And that breath, that sweet mortal exhalation in which a life is snuffed out in a frenzy of primal terror was the very essence of what it meant to be truly alive and unconquerable. But this job – this spying through windows and from behind doors – this clandestine conspiring – this wasn’t a real job. And being a glorified delivery boy definitely wasn’t a real job. But if there was one thing Godra valued as much as murder, it was money. This job, as dry and inconceivably boring as it was turning out to be undeniably profitable. Still … he desperately wanted to kill. The need tasted like blood. It was not enough to be Death’s third party delivery boy. He needed to be the instrument. He hated dry jobs!
When his destination came into view, Godra slowed. From across the street, he studied the Haldren Imports warehouse with a scrutiny born of years of experience. Outwardly, the dilapidated warehouse was falling apart at the seams. Its slate-gray façade was marred by fading graffiti from a myriad of different worldly outlooks. Cracks and divots marred the old stone, and the corner of one wall looked in danger of crumbling in on itself. Publicly, it processed leftover imported silverbean vines into crates of second-rate beanshine. The real good stuff was reserved for Upper Haven. But Godra wasn’t interested in that particular business.
He circled around to the back of the warehouse and entered a gritty alley. He strode straight up to the wall, ignoring the security watcher which would be tracking his movement from the shadows high above. He wrapped a stupid pre-arranged signal on the wall and waited, scuffing his heavily callused feet and whipping his tail lazily against one wall.
A portion of the wall swung inward, and Godra stepped into a dim stone chamber. A gently flickering sun bulb in the ceiling illuminated little of interest: a wooden table, a chair, and stacks of small wooden boxes which looked out of place against one wall. The room’s only occupant was a glassy-eyed Therrian who stank profusely of low grade beanshine and lower grade human. The man retreated from the door and sat down on a table, leaving Godra the chair. It was a sign of respect which the old mercenary approved of, and ignored.
Godra approached the Therrian. The man grew tense. His eye darted towards the door as if gauging the opportunity for a quick retreat. Then, as if embarrassed by his own timidity the Therrian stood up. He looked squarely at Godra for the first time, but didn’t meet his eye. “You early, olo. They told me not to expect you for another half hour.” He had a high nasal voice, and Godra placed him as Haven-born, but with a studied drawl of eastern Therrian Isolationist culture. It was an accent meant to convey irresistible charm one moment and bad-boy danger the next, and on the faint of heart, it might have succeeded.
Godra offered the little pretender a winning smile. “I’m very efficient.”
The Therrian relaxed, clearly taken aback by Godra’s soft, almost jovial voice. His voice was his one disarming quality, completely at odds with the rest of him.
Godra withdrew a small clear bag from the pocket of his battle skin. A half dozen pink pills clustered together in one corner.
“I trust you know why I’m here and I don’t need to spell it out?”
The Therrian nodded.
“So you know who to give these to?”
“Yeah, olo you know it. But why, hey? This gets around and business is gunna suffer, ya know?”
Godra stopped smiling. “Just make sure those pills find their way into the right hands or I’ll really hurt you,”
The Therrian winced, but quickly recovered. Heeey, olo relax. No need for threats. ‘Ol Chibra’ll make sure it goes down just as it supposed to.”
Godra restrained himself from breaking the little pig’s neck, instead merely stepping forward, grabbing his throat and lifting him off the floor. He glared down at Chibra’s suddenly frantic eye. “I’m not your olo, Chibbs. You just make sure he gets those pills. You screw this up for me and I’ll make you swallow your ears.”
He let go. The Therrian fell like a sack, landing on his knees. Godra turned on his heel and stepped out into the night. He did not look back. For a moment he contemplated slipping shredded glass into the little degenerate’s next cup of beanshine. He decided against it. No reason to complicate the job.
Once outside and safely away from the security watcher, Godra stopped and leaned leisurely against the wall. He removed a chatterbox from a pocket and thumbed the stud on its glossy black edge. The chatterbox vibrated. It was the newest model, equipped with a sub-vocalization Anima link. Godra mentally spoke a command which would connect him to a secured contact frequency. A hand-size translucent window replaced the empty air over the device. A kaleidoscope of lazily churning colors bled in and out of one another in the rough approximation of a figure whose gender and race were indiscernible. The display made Godra’s head hurt.
“It’s done,” Godra said. “Kid won’t know what hit him.”
The reply came in a distorted voice which warbled across a variety of ear-burning pitches. “Very good. Were there any complications?”
“Don’t insult me.”
“My apologies. Once again your services are appreciated.”
“What about the hacker? If you’re source is right, he’ll be returning soon. Do you want him to discover the body, or should I chat the piffs after the kid’s dead?”
“Mr. Zell will be back in Haven in two days. By then the DZ should have worked its way out of Mr. Reed’s system. When Mr. Zell chats the piffs I’ll notify you. Bring him in before the piffs get there. I want a word with him.”
“do you really think he knows anything?”
“I know he was in contact with my daughter, and the work he did on Mr. Reed leads me to believe he may have had a hand in her disappearance.”
Godra shrugged. “More cloak and dagger games … Alright, understood. By the way, how are plans coming along for the centennial?”
“That’s something to be discussed in person at a later time. For now, suffice it to say it will be a celebration to remember.”
“I’m sure it’ll be quite a show. Save me a front-row seat.”
“If you can control yourself, I might let you participate. But back to the matter at hand. It is essential Mr. Zell is removed before the piffs have time to question him. This little indisgression must not be made public.”
“Of course. I imagine the political backlash and social criticism would be very inconvenient to a man in your position.”
At last his employer’s true emotions betrayed him. His voice rose in anger. “It’s more than that. She betrayed me! She betrayed the status quo! I want her found, Godra. I don’t care how.”
“I understand.”
“Good. If all goes according to plan, your payment will be delivered at the place and time we discussed.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Godra hesitated. “you know, you could have just let nature run its course. It would have been cheaper.”
“I’m paying for your results, not your opinions. Disconnect.”
The window dispersed in a small burst of flickering particles. Godra shrugged, putting the chatterbox away. Love was over-rated anyway.
This is well written, and has potential to be a very good story. The only thing I give constructive criticism about is that it is un clear. If this were the prologue, and you planed to explain later it makes since. Over all a very good read.
Hi there Saphire. Thank you very much for reading this and for your comment. This is in fact a prologue. Chapter one makes a bit more sense(I hope). I didn't refer to it as the prologue because I was afraid ifpeople saw the word "prologue" in the topic they wuldn't want to read it.:)
Hmmm. Interesting. Like the guy's name. You ought to continue it if you've not already done so; you've the makings of a good story here, I think.
Thank you. I certainly plan to continue it. I've gotten a fare bit written.
YOU truely did pick a good title. And yes do continue.
Thanks Sapphire. I may do that just as soon as I edit chapter 1.
I'd be interested to see more of it. Feel free to share.
Just a quick update. I'm going to put chapter 1 into this post, as well as all future updates. I don't want to clutter the board every chapter, and it will be easier for people I hope. Thanks to all you who are interested in this story. I'll be posting chapter 2 soon, I hop. But in the meantime...
PART I:
The day the Wolf Cried Vengeance
Chapter 1:
A Body Enraptured
Nick Parker trudged through Haven’s grimy Undercity streets in an emotional stupor. The pungent aroma of a man who’d forgotten the finer points of daily hygiene hung about him. He was vaguely aware of people edging away as he passed. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Not long ago, Nick had been another man with another name. Things had been simpler then. He screwed, stole and borrowed his way through life, unmoved by the people he hurt or the lives he ruined. Life was great, not to mention profitable. But a few too many trips to the Peace Enforcement detention center had gone and ruined it all. Two years ago the Department of re-offending citizens had burdened him with morality. Now Nick had a conscience, and he hated it.
A jarring thud sent Nick reeling, jolting him out of his moping reverie. A snappy curse rose to his lips as he looked up. The man he had collided with glared down at him, murder blazing in his green oval eye. Shaggy brown fur bristled over his nearly naked body. His huge biceps flexed. The curse retreated into a tight ball in Nick’s suddenly dry throat. This was a Magnian, and a damn big one.
The Magnian gritted his teeth. “Watch it skinback.”
Nick flinched at the racial slur. “Sorry.” The Magnian was already stomping down the crowded street, his heavily muscled tail whipping hazardously from side to side. Everyone gave him plenty of room.
Nick withdrew back into himself, wondering how things had gone so wrong. He’d been doing so well. After the reconditioning, his life had been back on track. But he’d gone and screwed it up again, and this time he wasn’t the only one in trouble.
Nick’s foot landed on something spongy. He gave a little hop forward, another apology rising to his lips. A fat grizzled human was sprawled in the middle of the sidewalk. His pudgy little mouth was slack and his eyes were closed. He didn’t stir, even when Nick’s foot grazed his splayed hand. He was either sleeping off a hard-day’s drinking, or dead.
He left the old man behind and turned onto Black Iron Street. A row of cold industrial buildings lined one side of the street, while the other belonged entirely to an Aerophant graveyard protected by sparking raiser wire. Scaly sections of stripped hide, skeletal frames and cracked gray crystalline hearts lay in haphazard piles behind the barrier, waiting to be recycled. As he neared the warehouse at the end of the street he slowed. A sign post leaned precariously to one side, looking ready to topple over and crush someone. “Property of Haldren Imports. No trespassing. Unrecognized persons will be effectively sued.”
Nick felt his skin crawl. He swept the street, searching for the suspicious eyes he knew must be on him. A few battered aerophants were tethered to restraining pillars inside the warehouse’s stable. The acrid stench of their waste made his nose twitch. One stirred restlessly in the grip of what might have been a dream. Nick shuddered. Did aerophants dream? Could they dream?
He mentally smacked himself. “Pull it together you idiot. No one’s watching. No one even cares.” He felt better.
Two humans lounged against the wall smoking enormous Magnian cigars and talking shop. Neither man paid Nick any attention as he edged passed.
“Those new guys are trouble.” one man was saying.
“The Therrians? They’re harmless. Pull their weight, too.
“How do you figure?”
“I see them all the time. Sorting merchandise. Lugging crates. For Therrians they sure are strong.”
The first man spat. “If there’s Shiner in those crates I’ll tongue kiss my Aerophant’s poop shoot.
“That’s nasty.”
“I’m serious. Something’s going on we’re not supposed to know. Boss is tighter than the Therrian holy matriarch. And that Magnian! Damn! Got more weapons than a squad of piffs! You tell me why someone like that needs to hang around a Beanshine warehouse!”
“It’s a rough part of town.”
“The Velvet Strip’s a rough part of town. Psycho should go darken one of their doorways.”
Their voices faded as Nick turned down a deserted side street. It was approaching twilight, and the large luminous spheres floating high above gradually darkened in similitude of the setting sun. Most of the buildings here were boarded up and run down. Crude word art decorated their grim facades, proclaiming “I live to smoke on your pleasie pipe,” “all skinbacks need skinning”, “The Guiding Hand only pleasures the high born” and other ‘tasteful’ declarations. Nick figured if the gloom and depravity along this street could be distilled into a perfume, it would smell like the stable he’d passed. He hadn’t been in such a place since his other life. For a moment he almost turned around. But in light of recent events, mere want had swiftly transformed into burning need. And so he went on. Perhaps nothing had really changed.
The alley separating Haldren Imports from another boarded up warehouse was lit only by a small sphere mounted on the stone wall. Nick felt the hair on his neck tingling. He gazed up into the darkness. The tell-tale red eye of a wall-mounted security Watcher gazed back.
He stepped into the gloom, feeling his pulse quicken. “Hello? Shadows does silver moonlight banish?” The code phrase might have made him laugh if he hadn’t been so nervous. Some of the people who lived in the Undercity probably hadn’t seen real moonlight in their lives.
The sound of grating stone made him jump. A small slat on a door he hadn’t noticed before slid open, causing a small bar of light to shine on the opposite wall. One large green eye peered out. The skin around it was Therrian smooth.
“Reference?” Said a clipped male voice.
Nick fished in his jacket, closed his fingers over a small piece of paper, lost it, then pulled it out and looked at it. “U6392 I 419. I called about a –“
“You late, broto.”
Nick stammered an apology, but the Therrian cut him off.
“Show me your crystal.”
Nick stretched a trembling hand towards the slat, palm up.
“Inside, broto” The man commanded.
He complied, hating it. Cold fingers grabbed his wrist; nick held very still, barely breathing. “If you don’t have the cred I’ll break your fingers.” He felt a slight tingle as a hand scanner touched the skin between his middle and index fingers. There was a short delay as the scanner collected the funds in his bank account from the nanocrystal under his skin. When the scanner beeped, the fingers let go. The man placed something small in his hand.
“Heeeey, olo, you’re straight. Enjoy. And tell your friends, hey? Looking for an experience like no other? You come to us.”
Nick quickly removed his hand. The slat ground shut. “Yeah,” Nick said, “Pleasure doing business.”
As he left, Nick looked down at the little pink box in his palm. It was tied with a blue ribbon. He breathed deeply, as if already feeling the effects of the prize inside.
Rapture.
The Red Court Apartments stood in stark contrast amidst neighboring residences which looked like palaces in comparison. Chips and cracks marred the soiled gray brick of its façade. Trash littered the abandoned Aerophant stable, and the gate leading into the small weed-infested courtyard seemed to be held together by a sheer act of will. All in all, The Red-Court looked less fit for the monarch of a small country than the king of rats.
As Nick stepped through the sagging front door into the lobby, several of the aforementioned king’s little courtiers scurried into a small hole under the stairs, squeaking what sounded like “Big feet! Big feet!” as they disappeared.
“Yeah you’d better run,” Nick said, but there was no heart in it. His walk back to the apartment had left him feeling a little better. The Rap burning a hole in his pocket promised a pleasant distraction. But now he was home, and as he climbed the protesting stairs, its presence seemed to add to the indomitable burden weighing him down. Faintly muffled shouts echoed from the floor above. Somewhere a baby was squalling, its needs going unsatisfied.
The lock barring access to his tiny shared apartment was old fashioned and poorly maintained. He fished the old key out of his pocket and slipped it into the lock. It stuck for a moment, and then the lock twisted open with its distinctive loud click. Nick entered and shut the door, leaving the outside world behind. Instantly the crying and screaming dulled to a tolerable white noise.
He kicked his shoes into a corner and looked around, feeling his body grow heavier. The apartment looked the way he felt, messy, disorganized and hopeless. A week’s worth of dirty laundry teetered precariously on the threadbare chair in the corner. The congealing remains of last night’s take-out oozed from an overturned container near his personal Encephalon terminal. A fine layer of virgin dust settled over all but the bare essentials: chair, sofa, desk and terminal.
He sighed, crossed to the fridge and selected something cold and alcoholic from its vacant depths. He would have to clean before Naran got home, and he would … just not right now.
He collapsed onto the lumpy sofa and took a swig from the bottle. The booze was pungent and sweetly acidic – definitely a taste he hadn’t acquired. He set the bottle carefully on the floor, picking up his chatterbox from where it lay.
The palm-sized metal cube beeped when he thumbed the small stud on its edge. A translucent window coalesced over its shiny surface. He barely registered the flashing icon indicating the chatterbox’s power crystal was nearly drained, instead fixating on the words “1 new message”. For a moment it was as if the past weeks had never happened. It was a split second of near weightless relief mingled with frantic hope.
“Play new messages.”
On command, his first and only message streamed from the vast Encephalon. Naran’s classic Therrian features winked into being. His wide smile caused his gray eye to twinkle. A vast sunlit vista stretched behind him.
Nick’s euphoric buoyancy vanished as quickly as it had surfaced.
“Hey Nick,” Naran said breathlessly. “Just thought I’d chat and see how things are going. You’re probably busy playing somewhere in the Encephalon. I’m still in Aluron’s Rising.” He paused to drink a long gulp of water from a canteen. “Sorry about that. The hill to the temple was way steeper than it looked. I still can’t believe I’m actually making my pilgrimage. Me! The reformed and rehabilitated bad apple. Can you believe it? Just take a look at this place!”
The view panned away from Naran to show the front of an enormous building. Its high arched doorway looked big enough to accommodate five people walking abreast. Its ivory façade was made all the brighter by the sunlight. Spires spanned by wooden walkways framed what appeared to be some sort of statue, but Nick was standing too close to get it in view. “Amazing, isn’t it?” The view returned to Naran.
Nick had to admit he’d never seen anything like it.
“I’m hoping to at least catch a glimpse of the Matriarch in the flesh. They tell me she’ll be back from her tour of the northern territories today. I’ll probably be back in the next few days. I hope things are good there. Hopefully those damned rats aren’t at the door begging for food again … You have opened the door in the last week, right? Anyway, I’ll talk to you soon.” Naran vanished.
“Erase message,” Nick said. A few more days. He was glad Naran was enjoying himself. He hesitated. “Play saved messages.”
This time a young Therrian woman filled the window. Long golden hair spilled down her back, framing a face whose beauty reminded Naran of happier days. At this moment her beauty was marred by a range of emotion, but only terror and sadness were visible to Nick’s limited perspective. Tears dribbled down either side of her thin nose, looking like pregnant drops of rain. Her sensuous lower lip trembled as words erupted from her.
“Nick. When you get this, chat me … Damn it! Nick … Nick I’m pregnant. I’m freaking out! What were we thinking? We were so stupid.” The woman took a deep breath, then stared resolutely at him.
A single tear escaped Nick’s clenched eyes. “Seera,” he breathed.
“I shouldn’t have chatted. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but if the Piffs get a hold of me I’ll keep you out of it. You’ve been through enough. Don’t try and contact me. I may need to disappear. I love you. I wish it could have worked. Goodbye, Nick.”
“Pause!” Her face froze before it could disappear. Nick gazed into her eye. Such a thing wasn’t easy to do with two eyes, but he’d always managed before. Now the emotion that eye could convey was all but lost in the still image of the ether’s reconstruction of her features.
Nick met Seera one night six months ago in an Undercity bar – the Gagging Maggot. It was the sort of place people went to put the cares of the world on hold in lew of a night of drinking and dancing. Nick, then unemployed had been working to rebuild his life. Seera, an Upper Haven girl merely wanted freedom from the constraints of hers. Neither had been seeking anything but escape.
They’d danced until closing time. Slow songs, fast songs, no songs … it didn’t matter. Their conversation was loose and natural – the booze probably helped. They hadn’t worried about being seen in such close proximity. In places like the Gagging Maggot nobody really cared who or what you were. The world and the taboos it held were left at the door.
They hadn’t meant to end up in bed. But the third time last call came, Nick had invited her back to his apartment. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. Naran was away, and he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Seera. It surprised him when she eagerly accepted. The two had left the bar laughing hand-in-hand. Nick couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so good – the booze had probably helped with that, too.
Their sex started out fast and frantic, as if by their coupling they were purging one another of their individual stresses. Nick had never been with a Therrian woman, and he was amazed by how naturally their bodies complimented one another. Neither had thought about contraception; it just didn’t seem important. But as the boundaries of night and early morning drew closer together, their pace slowed, softening into revitalizing bliss. They began tenderly experiencing one another as people, allowing their minds and emotions to share in their bodies’ pleasure.
The brightening rays of the Undercity sun spheres should have meant an end to the affair. But it was too late. They’d fallen hard and fallen fast. At some point during the night, their companionable need for escape and their drifting from unbridled passion to soothing intimacy had instilled in them something new. Neither was ready to call it love, but both were unwilling to let it go.
Nick put his head in his hands. It had been the best six months of his life. He’d worried about Naran, but his friend had been happy! He’d even hacked the registry of the hotel where he worked to give the two of them many evenings of privacy. Nick loved him for that. The rooms were far from romantic, but they were enough.
He and Seera spent long, happy nights in those rooms talking of the future. They knew their growing love couldn’t work in Haven. Humans and Cyrom might have been living as friends for the better part of a century, but that friendship had its limits. They talked of leaving Haven – of traveling through the northern wildlands. There were rumors of inter-species settlements there – places where no secrecy was necessary.
Nick allowed his gaze to return to Seera’s stricken face. The weight of his hurt, worry and frustration made his chest tighten. He couldn’t help thinking how close they’d come. Somehow they could have left haven. They could have gone north with their baby! In the worst case, she could have had the child terminated! Instead she had disappeared, leaving him alone.
Of course he’d tried to contact her. He was sure Haven’s Encephalon Communications Network Assistant was tired of his attempts. Each time she told him the same thing. No Chatterbox was tied with the chatter stream frequency he was trying to contact. Now a month had passed without a word between them. Where was she? Had something happened to her? Or had she simply cut him out of her life?
Her words came back to him. “How could we be so stupid?” But they hadn’t been. They’d been careful. What faith they hadn’t put into protection had been handed over to the Cyrum’s naturally low fertility. No, the question wasn’t “how could we be so stupid.” What she’d really wanted to say was “why did we do it at all?”
The chatterbox clattered to the floor; Seera’s image disappeared as the unit’s link with his skin was broken.
Nick reached for the package. He tore it open, scattering its wrappings. Ten pink pills were nestled inside. He hesitated for only a second before popping one and chewing. He grimaced at the taste. They weren’t meant to be chewed. Instantly his discomfort was replaced by a relaxing tingle. It radiated from his chest and spread throughout his body. His muscles jittered as the blissful sensation intensified. He moaned in ecstasy. Everything felt loose and free.
He chewed one, then two more. They went down easily. The taste no longer bothered him. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming at him to stop, but he silenced it.
In the room, the dust stirred. Nick began to laugh as the sensation of pleasure exceeded anything he’d ever felt. Even making love to Seera never felt this good. He never felt the sudden release as his bladder let go. The sheets of paper stacked on his desk lifted into the air and began to circle as though born on gusts of wind. The forgotten bottle of booze surged up and across the room. It struck the wall and shattered. Syrupy red liquid splattered the walls, running rivulets to the floor. The tower of laundry wobbled and then spilled. Instead of falling, it rose into the air and whipped around the room.
At first, when pain surged through his head, Nick didn’t feel it. He was in the grip of such intense physical stimulation that nothing else seemed to register. Each rapid heartbeat sent bursts of pleasure through his limbs. The chair across the room rose and flipped into the wall. The crash broke through the ecstasy, and at long last, the pain registered. A primal squeal rose out of Nick’s throat and filled his senses. The room was alive with violent objects. His mind was swarming with a thousand stinging insects and jumbled images. Then the sofa he was on rose and flipped. Nick tumbled off. As he hit the floor a searing pain spread from his chest through his left arm. Each frantic heartbeat was a lance of pure agony. The sofa crashed down on his legs at the same instant the world melted away.
The storm of debris ceased, leaving only chaos. Nick lay face-down, his legs pinned by the sofa. Blood trickled from his ears. He did not move. The only sound was the muffled crying of a neglected child.
Chapter 2:
Flowers for a Darkened Sun
It was a beautiful day. Years later, in the faded hours when the nightmares woke him screaming and the ghosts fluttered behind his eyes, the Night Wolf always remembered that.
It was the beginning of summer, and the mid-afternoon sun bathed the city in the tattered remains of a golden age many of its citizens still believed in. Back then, Upper Haven still sparkled, its many well-cared for towers and gardens mirroring the hearts of a majority of its residents. Sure there was growing unrest in the places the sun never reached, but they were trifling matters, helping to keep people like him employed. In those days his name was Angeles Creid. He was a Peace Enforcer during a time when the uniform was a symbol of honor and security.
When the chat from dispatch came, Angeles was visiting his mother’s grave with his wife, brother and little girl. It was an every-day Undercity tragedy. It should have been routine.
Instead, the case of Robert Reed cost Angeles Creed everything.
The Church of Healing Hands was a modest establishment, a weathered ivory tower dwarfed in the midst of larger and better kept buildings. But when the sun shown full upon its white stone, the building matched the purity of the hearts working tirelessly within. The unadorned white crown atop its simple spire was a welcome icon to the ill and the spiritually downtrodden. It represented Aluron the White, goddess of creation, and the mother of healing. Angeles saw it as a symbol of false hope. He knew that wasn’t fair. The sisters had tried all they could to save his mother. It wasn’t their fault the Goddess had other plans.
Skyrunner approached the church at a leisurely pace. The sleek Aerophant floated along the airways, held aloft on a bed of silver light. Towering buildings drifted by, rising amidst the plethora of parks and gardens which added patches of green to the pristine city streets. Neon beams stretched between tall thin pillars, fashioning an intricate layered airway which created order out of the chaos of air traffic. Aerophants of all shapes, sizes and purposes drifted and sped past, the sun glistening off scales of various shapes and colors.
Angeles tapped a node on Skyrunner’s synapse console. A transparent membrane slid into the creature’s scaly side. A light breeze ruffled his black hair. He leaned out and drew deeply on the fresh summer air and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
In the back seat, his elder brother Shaun broke the companionable silence. “You know it’s days like today you just have to feel sorry for everyone living in the Undercity. You just can’t beat blue skies and real sunlight. I’ll bet a million palms that’s the real reason the Consortium is up in arms.”
Angeles nodded. It hadn’t been that long ago he’d been living there, down amidst the dregs, of his own free will no less. He felt sorry for the Undercity alright, but the sky and the sun had little to do with that.
A hand brushed his shoulder. He turned. Alicia was studying him, a look of concern slowly melting into a soft smile. “Are you okay Angeles?”
He tried a winning smile, then gave up when it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m alright.”
“It never gets any easier for you, does it?” her hand enfolded his.
“It’s getting there.” He met her eyes, and when he smiled again, her wink told him he’d finally succeeded. She was so beautiful. Raven haired, a face like a summer sunrise and clear blue eyes which could stop a man cold with awe or terror, depending on her mood. Seeing her eased him now, as it always did. Screw the Undercity. She, Shaun and Tees were the only things that really mattered.
“Wow, I thought people only made eye contact like that in movies … in public.”
Angeles turned and grinned at his brother. “Oh don’t be so jealous. You’ll find her eventually. When you’re older.”
“Oh har har.” Shaun looked down at Theresa nestled in the seat beside him. “Daddy’s a real funny man, isn’t he?” The little girl didn’t respond. She sat, meticulously counting her fingers, oblivious of the world around her.
Shaun brushed back his dark hair and beamed at them. He had a round boyish face any woman could love. “I’ll have you know this mug has drawn the blushing stares of dozens of lovely ladies.”
“Well look at you,” Angeles said, “dripping with charm, and so modest too. Don’t know why you’re not happily married – oh wait, it’s because you go through girls like this beast goes through energy crystals.” He tapped Skyrunner’s soft wall affectionately.
“The man just knows what he likes” Alicia said.
Shaun grinned. “Exactly. The ladies come, I wine them and dine them, and then I find out all the ways each one is crazy.”
Before anyone could reply, a jovial, disembodied voice resonated through the interior. “No doubt this friendly banter is doing you all some good, but I thought you might be interested to know we’ve arrived. Shall I set us down, or would you prefer to hover.”
The three of them looked. Sure enough, the church’s white stone wall now blocked out any view of the city. Super-imposed over a small section of Skyrunner’s forward viewpane, the translucent blue face of the Aerophant’s Shepherd was grinning at them.
“Land us over by the cemetery,” Angeles said.
The Shepherd’s avatar bobbed in acknowledgement and Skyrunner circled the church in a graceful descent. Tall leafy trees rose up to embrace the Aerophant As it landed in the expansive stable. It came to a stop with barely a shudder. Instantly a chain of binding ether stretched from a heavy metal pylon and latched onto the Aerophant, securely tethering it. The chains were less to keep the creature from flying off than they were to keep them from being stolen. Some Aerophants didn’t care who rode in them.
The entry sphincters opened, and Angeles stepped down into a small bit of paradise with Alicia close behind. The shepherd’s voice followed them.
“Bye bye, enjoy your time. Be sure to feed the Aerophant soon. The poor thing’s ravenous.”
A few seconds later, Shaun emerged leading Theresa by the hand. Nearly ten years old, Theresa Creed was no bigger than a girl half her age. Angeles didn’t need Alicia’s animist gift to sense the aura of barely contained hostility radiating from his daughter. Her thin lips formed a tight line, and her eyes were squinted half shut. Her free hand idly fiddled with the ruffles on the front of her pink blouse. Angeles tensed, praying Theresa wouldn’t cause a scene in this peaceful place. She was in no mood to be touched. He cursed himself for bringing her to this place of death. It had been his idea. Tees loved her grandma. She didn’t understand why the woman never came to see her anymore. She didn’t accept it even when they all gently tried explaining it. “No.” She’d said stubbornly. “No.” What was he thinking?
For a moment Theresa didn’t move. Then, slowly she allowed her uncle to help her onto the soft grass without protest. When Shaun let her go, the little girl’s eyes fluttered open. The harsh wrinkles around her nose and eyes smoothed out as she looked at Angeles. She was his little Tees once more – just a small fragile girl with a mind inexplicably held in a world no one but she could understand.
Tees walked over to him and held out her hand. Tentatively Angeles took it. In a moment of lucidity rarely glimpsed, his little girl smiled at him.
“Happy, daddy,” she said. Her voice was as tiny as the rest of her. Angeles felt his chest swell. He felt a burning in the corner of his eye. He didn’t care.
When Tees let him go, it was okay – she was still smiling. She turned suddenly and began walking swiftly towards the cemetery gate.
Shaun started after her. “Wait for us, Tees.” For a moment, Angeles could only stand there gazing stupidly at them. The whole scene was so … normal.
Alicia took his hand. “What does she feel?” Angeles asked.
The two hurried to catch up. “Right now? Peace. Before she was terrified, but now … now she’s … excited.”
The cemetery was immaculately groomed. Softly rustling grass spread like a blanket before them. Rows of fragrant flowers framed each polished headstone, their mingling perfume sweetening the gentle breeze. Short leafy everblooms dotted the landscape, casting soft shadows along paths packed hard by the many visitors.
Tees padded along the path, her steps so fine they made not a sound. Now and then she looked back. Her face glowed, and the corner of her mouth was curled in a mischievous smirk. “Hurry. You’re walking too slow.”
The three adults followed, mesmerized.
Angeles broke the silence. He spoke low, afraid to disturb whatever was happening. “We almost never see her smile. Why here? Does she even understand where we are?”
Alicia squeezed his hand. “I think so. Her mind is so … clear. Wherever she disappears sometimes, in her own way she’s with us right now. I can feel her. She’s … well, I guess enthralled is the best way to describe what she’s feeling.”
Tees stopped abruptly before one of hundreds of similar head stones. She knelt, putting one tiny hand on its polished surface. Angeles felt his skin prickle.
“How did she know?” Shawn asked.
No one answered. Carved into the stone was the inscription ‘Laura Anita Creed, 433-498 – Wife, mother, survivor.’
They all watched as Theresa Creed dug a single spot of dirt out of the inscription on her grandmother’s grave. Despite his wonder, Angeles frowned. “She’s so precious, Alicia. I wish we could keep her safe and innocent forever.”
Shawn sighed. “The perpetually innocent child – a monument to the sinless dawn of human kind.”
“Huh? What was that?” Angeles looked at his brother. He looked thoughtful.
Shawn shrugged. “Just some preacher nonsense about Eden. It was some mythical land in the old world I think. I heard it a long time ago.”
“I like it. There isn’t enough innocence left in this city … I miss her.”
Shawn patted his shoulder. “Me too, bro. Sometimes it feels like last year was just yesterday.”
“I spent most of my life hating her. I felt like she never really tried to understand me … all of that seems stupid now.”
Before anyone could answer, Theresa leapt to her feet. She spun around, and the smile that lit her face surpassed anything Angeles had ever seen. “Grandma's here! I can feel her!”
The adults exchanged glances. Angeles suddenly felt cold all over. “What do you mean, Tees?”
Grandma’s here!” the little girl repeated. “Don’t you see? She’s right there.” She pointed to their right. Caught up in her excitement, everyone looked. The cemetery was deserted. The only signs of life were the leaves and flowers swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze.
“I sure can!” Shawn declared. He shot Angeles and Alicia encouraging looks. They both nodded emphatically, smiled and said they could see her too.
Just like that, whatever miracle had briefly tethered Theresa’s mind to their shared reality shattered. The beautiful glow drained from her cheeks. Her lips curled into a pouty frown which might have been cute if not for the vacant look in her eyes. “You can not.”
“Sure we can, sweetie,” Alicia said.
Theresa’s fists balled. “You’re lying! You don’t believe me! But she’s here. She is!” Her fist drew forward.
“Grab her!” Alicia screamed.
Angeles and Shawn both moved with the ease of long practice. Before the little girl could hit herself, Angeles curled a big arm around his daughter’s slender waist and held her to him. He was a big man, with a wolf-like upper body rich with honed muscle. Despite that, Theresa drove him back, throwing herself against him. Her head bounced off his stomach. She screamed and thrashed, but he held her arms pinned. Then Shawn was there. His face worked as if he were trying to solve a difficult problem. Angeles felt the calming force of his brother’s talent as it washed over them both. Slowly his daughter’s screams and struggle’s subsided.
Cautiously, Angeles let her go. One hand shot up and Angeles moved to encircle her once more. Then the other hand joined it, and with the fingers of her right she began ticking off the fingers of her left. When she spoke, her lips barely moved. “One … two … three … four … five.”
“Come on,” Alicia said. “Let’s get her out of here.”
Angeles nodded. It was the same scene played out dozens of times in dozens of places … and yet, for a moment, Angeles had glimpsed the child his daughter might have been if he’d cleaned up his life just a little earlier. He felt sick.
Theresa changed hands. “One … two … three … four … five … everyone … is … still … alive.”
For a second time in less than five minutes, Angeles’s spine was gripped by icy fingers.
The chat came the moment the cemetery gate snapped shut behind them. The vibration over Angeles’s heart was almost a relief. He fished the chatterbox from his breast pocket. “Answer.”
An over-enthusiastic UMD dispatcher barely waited for the connection to be established before speaking. “Agent Creed, we have a possible code 13 at the Red Court Apartments. I’m forwarding the address to your Aerophant’s shepherd.”
Angeles’s heart sank. A code 6 – a robbery would have been great. He could use the distraction. Even a code 8 – domestic disturbance would have been alright. But code 13 meant homicide, and that meant loads of paperwork for a crime already too late to fix. Please let it be some high-strung rapist.
“We’re off duty.”
“No one’s off duty Agent Creed. You know that.”
“It was worth a try. What do you mean “possible” 13?”
“Witness isn’t sure it was murder or suicide.”
“Great. Any good news?”
“You’re stalling, agent.”
Angeles sighed. The whole thing was just for show. “Alright, alright. We’re on our way.. Disconnect.” He put the chatterbox away. “Great. A nice romantic evening in the Undercity. I need a vacation.”
“Oh quit grumbling.,” Alicia chided. “It pays the bills.”
“Remind me to start buying lottery tickets.”
“They’re fixed,” Shawn said.
“Of course they are.”
Alicia looked apologetic. “Shawn, can you take Theresa to Mom’s?”
“Hang out with the little princess, or spend time in our palace’s dirty toilet? You two sure give a guy some hard choices. Tees and I will get some freezy cream and pay grandma a visit.
“Thanks.” Angeles held out his hand. “Here’s a few palms.”
Shawn waved it away. “Oh please.”
“You sure?”
“Yes I’m sure. You kids go have fun. Call me if the locals get too frisky.”
Alicia went to her knees, gazing into her daughter’s vacant brown eyes. “We have to go sweetie. You be good for Uncle Shawn okay?”
Theresa frowned. “Kay.”
“Love you Tees,” Angeles said.
“Love you,” Tees said mechanically.
When Shawn and Theresa left, Angeles pulled a fat metallic disk from his pocket. One side was embossed with the HPA’s seal – a featureless amalgamation of human and Cyrom super-imposed over a stylized silver shield. The sigil signified protection and security for all the creatures of Haven. He placed the bare side of the disc over his heart and pressed the seal. The disc glowed with a soft blue light and the specifications stored in its memory crystal issued forth.
A glossy gray liquid spread outward from the disk. It flowed over his chest, down his arms and legs, over his shoulders to his back. The liquid bonded with his skin and clothes, hardening into a thick flexible exoskeleton which conformed to his build, accentuating his forceps, triceps, pectorals and abdomen. A scabbard grew around his waist, and a short, thick-handled sword was suddenly a comforting weight on one hip. A concentrated ether dispersion gun materialized in a holster on the other.
The uniform was polythiate – organic metal. It could be shaped into any form by any talented aurist with the understanding to manipulate it. Polythiate made up the standard uniform of all HPA field agents, though some agents chose to wear it differently.
Angeles went through a short series of stretches, allowing the polythiate to grow accustom to his movements. Looking over, he saw Alicia similarly garbed. The HPA grays conformed to her athletic figure with calculated distracting curvature. Alicia was one to take every advantage. He couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t so long ago he’d been on the wrong end of her distractions. He still had the scar.
“You ready?” Alicia asked.
“Always.”
They boarded Skyrunner. The entry sphincters cycled closed. The Shepherd’s avatar materialized.
“Shepherd,” Angeles said. “Drop the civilian screening and get us out of here.”
“I thought you‘d never ask. We were getting bored. Dispatch has already given me directions. To the Red Court Apartments?”
“You got it.”
The stable tether winked out and Skyrunner took off like the ground was on fire. In the air, its non-descript grey body darkened. A snub-nosed cannon elongated from its nose and the HPA’s sigil faded into being. In the space of a breath, Skyrunner had transformed from a civilian carrier to an HPA rapier. It sped along an empty airway designated for all HPA traffic. It weaved around buildings, performing turns no human or cyrom would have tried. In the distance, a wide glass tube rose above the surrounding buildings.
“It’s like an open wound,” Angeles mused, “leading right into the rotting innards of our founder’s ideals.
“Well aren’t you melodramatic.”
“But it’s at least half true.”
“Homesick?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The glass tube loomed before them. Skyrunner rocketed up, and plunged straight down the middle ... down into the wilder, untamed and perhaps truer part of Haven.
The Undercity.
What's wrong with Angeles' little girl? Sad.
The tech stuff is interesting, too. I do hope you post more of it.
Theresa has a neurological disorder akin to, but somewhat different from Autism.
I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'll post more when I've finished the next chapter. Thank you for reading, and for commenting.
Ah, okay. I figured it was something similar. Looking forward to more!
Hi everyone,
For anyone who was interested in this story, please check out the audiobook rendition I've created for the first ten minutes. I was working on it for quite a while, but it's finally done. I'm curious what you all think.
It can be found in the Broadcaster's lounge section of the forums.
Thanks to all of you who listen and comment (honestly)
Remy
This is amazing! hope you keep posting more!
Thanks Metal Angel. I hope to write more over the holidays. Christmas planning and the audio production have taken up much of my time lately.
I meant to comment sooner to tell you how much I enjoyed this! I love how there are just so many different intertwined parts to it! Can't wait to see more!
Thank you very much Kathy for your comments. I appreciate them, and the time you took to comment on them.:) I'm hoping to work on it more over the holidays.
Hi everyone. Once more I'd like to express my appreciation at your comments and suggestions both on this topic, and via private quicknotes. I'm pleased to announce chapter 3 is finally progressing smoothely. I've spent most of the time editing the previous chapters; adding details to bring the world to life a little more. But now I'm done, and I hope to finish the next chapter soon. It's going to be a slightly longer one I think. I hope you all enjoy it!
Remy, this is good. I love the writing and the imagination. In fact, if I've been ignoring any of your QN's, it's because I've been sitting here reading lol. I wish I had some constructive criticism for you, as I know it can make a writer wonder when only good things are said about his/her work, but there you go. I am glad I came to read your stuff.