Dread Uprising

by Brian Fuller

  Trace had barely let drop the last word of his account when Archus Ebenezer jumped in. “I would submit to my fellow members of the Seven that we be careful what credit we give to these stories. A Dread Blank, a mysterious object he can use to control them, a Dread woman who lets Ash Angels run free. These are wild assertions, and we need to consider that their source is a man under the influence of a woman who some believe may be a conspirator in these recent setbacks. It is much easier to believe we have a traitor among us than to think that there is some magical item from some magical Dread that suddenly has the power to unite evil creatures and bring destruction upon us. I am well versed in Ash Angel lore, and this tale is as wild as the persistent belief that there are Dread Loremasters running about. We’ve got to quit ignoring the Cassandra issue.”

  Cassandra shot from her seat, turning her back to the screen, eyes on the exit. Trace was about to follow. He wasn’t going to stand for her getting smeared by Ebenezer or anyone else. It wasn’t fair.

  Archus Magdelene surged up from her seat and grabbed Cassandra’s arm and pulled her back. “Again with the ridiculous Cassandra theory. This is quite simple to solve, Archus Ebenezer. We know that if an Ash Angel turns, she loses her divine gifts.”

  “Ah,” Ebenezer countered, “but many of our gifts are matched by Dreads.”

  “But not Glorious Presence,” Archus Magdelene stated. “Correct, Ebenezer?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Cassandra?” Archus Magdelene invited.

  Steely eyed, Cassandra crossed to Archus Ebenezer’s seat. Placing both hands on the armrests, she got in his face and pinned his eyes to hers. Divine light pulsed away from her in a rapturous wave, silence following in its wake. She extinguished the light, holding Ebenezer’s gaze a few moments more before jogging up the stairs. Only the whine of the projector fan accompanied her exit. Trace felt a pang of loss. For twenty-four hours he had known a Cassandra who could smile. Who could laugh. Who could care. When they let him find her after the meeting, that Cassandra would be gone again.

  “Proof enough, Ebenezer?” Archus Magdelene asked, voice a shard of ice.

  “Yes,” he replied quietly.

  “Good.” She sat down hard.

  “But Trace cannot be above suspicion,” Ebenezer said. “He has the gift of Strength, one the Dreads share. We cannot be sure he hasn’t turned.”

  Diarchus Joan popped in. “Archus Ebenezer, you are letting paranoia get the better of your reasoning. Trace was awakened after the Blank Massacre. He has slaughtered more Dreads in the last few weeks than most Michaels in a year. For pity’s sake, he got the hard drive back! I’d be more willing to believe that you were a conspirator than entertain the notion that he was. If you’re still not satisfied, we can take his heart and wait for Rapture in the morning.”

  The double doors to the room opened, Athena ushering in an unfamiliar Ash Angel, a woman morphed young with butched hair. The new Ash Angel descended the stairs, handed a tablet computer to Archus Magdelene, and left without a word.

  “Some good news,” Magdelene said, scanning the screen. “They preliminary tests from our tech group indicate that the drive has not been tampered with or decrypted. They say that the, um, ‘hardware bus’ that had been rather crudely removed to extract the drive had not been replaced or any of the data chips unseated. We will send it to Deep 7 to do a more thorough test. The weaponry Trace and Dolorem found in the SUV has just arrived at Zion Alpha, and they have nothing to report other than it is definitely not ours. The vehicle will take more time to break down, but we hope for answers within a couple of days.”

  “That is very good news,” Grand Archus Gideon said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. “We have a lot of work to do, people. We will rebuild Trevex, but Deep 6 will need to be the new home of the training arm of the Scholus for the time being. Other functions will be moved elsewhere.

  “Trace, we express our gratitude for your service. We would like Cassandra’s team to stand down for a week and enjoy a break from their recent efforts. The rest of you are dismissed until three this afternoon. Let’s see if we can get an update on the items Archus Magdelene gave us and speak with Dolorem. Meeting adjourned.”

  Trace let everyone file out before him, not anxious to get back to his supersized stack of report forms. When he emerged into the anteroom, he found that Archus Magdelene, Corinth, and Goldbow had cornered Cassandra, her face a stone. Magdelene had wrapped her arms around her friend’s shoulders, her words so low and soft Trace couldn’t make out what the Archus was saying. Cassandra’s clipboard was on the floor, the papers scattered about the room as if ejected from a whirlwind.

  Dolorem, still morphed like a geek, stood apart, and Trace caught his eye. Dolorem glanced at Cassandra and frowned. Trace wondered what he could say to his trainer. Clearly Goldbow’s betrayal was not the only thing rotting in Cassandra’s heart. He joined the circle around her. She smoothed the emotion off her face, but vulnerability clung to her like an evil spirit. He didn’t like that look on her. After Magdelene released her, Trace hugged his trainer, and she returned it awkwardly. When he let her go, the hint of a smile bloomed on her face, but only a hint.

  “Don’t you quit on me, Cassandra,” he said. “I still can’t morph worth a turd, and I do tons of stupid stuff, including wearing brown suits, so I need you to stick with this until you’re sure I’m not going to get myself killed.”

  “That could be forever, Jarhead.”

  “Whatever it takes.” He smiled, squeezing her arm. “Whatever it takes. I like a good puzzle, so I’ll get your forms together. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit down here and fill out my enormous stack all by myself.”

  Dolorem joined him as he scoured the floor of papers while Cassandra’s friends consoled her. What more could he do? When Goldbow put his hand consolingly on her arm, Trace winced. But when she didn’t snap it in half or pull it away, Trace smiled. If Archus Magdelene was right, Goldbow was the key to healing Cassandra—if she could trust him again. Maybe this rally of support in the bowels of Deep 6 was the beginning of a new dawn for his trainer.

  Archus Magdelene was the last to leave Cassandra’s side, the platform taking the Archus up and out of view. Trace snapped Cassandra’s forms beneath the clip and handed them to her with a wry smile.

  “Gee, thanks, Jarhead,” she said. “So what are you doing with your week off?”

  “Not sure. Can I hitch a ride back with you to Phoenix?”

  “Well,” she answered, looking away, “can you find another way back? I’ve agreed to talk things out with, uh, Goldbow. I can’t keep this inside anymore, and he needs to hear it.”

  “Yeah, of course. That’s totally cool,” Trace wouldn’t trade places with Goldbow, even if the Michael offered to fill out all his forms for a year.

  “I’ll take him back,” Dolorem offered, though Trace thought Dolorem had ridden over with Corinth. “I’ve got to show him what it means to be a real Ash Angel and not some tool of the industrial military complex.”

  Cassandra shifted her weight and put her free hand on her hip. “Fishing for converts to the Old Masters, Dolorem?”

  “We don’t have forms,” he offered. “You might like it.”

  She regarded her stack. “You’ve got a point.”

  “I also need cheap labor to help me repair the Redemption Motorcycle Club,” he admitted. “You up for a little volunteer service work, Trace?”

  “Why not? Sounds like a nice change of pace.”

  Dolorem slapped him on the back. “Good! Now run along and fill out some forms for the man. I’ve got to scare up some transportation for us when they’re done with me . . . whenever that is.”

  Chapter 26

  Helo

  Dolorem wiped the pretend sweat from his brow. “Pass me the Skill Saw, Trace—er, whatever you’re called.” The Old Master had ditched his geeky persona, now morphed into a plump biker with a tanned head and a graying goatee. The detail was amaz
ing. Every hair, every wrinkle, every imperfection a perfection.

  “It’s Helo,” Trace reminded him.

  During his daylong motorcycle ride back to Phoenix, Archon Ramis had sent him an impersonal email informing him he had graduated from training and had been accepted by Archus Magdelene into full operational status in the Gabriels.

  Archus Magdelene had at least favored him with a congratulatory phone call. She even asked him what he wanted his Ash Angel name to be. Helo. He had picked it early. Now he had to get people to use it. Cassandra would likely call him Jarhead until one or the other of them got killed or Ascended. But in his own mind, he had reached a dearly bought milestone. Stepping into Helo meant more distance from a past he was sprinting away from.

  It was their second day repairing the Redemption Motorcycle Club, the damaged building healing board by board in the bright Phoenix sun. Trace handed the saw to Dolorem and went to grab the level. Trace couldn’t shake the nagging feeling someone had pressured Ramis into letting him graduate. Mars was his first guess, but Trace doubted Archon Ramis would elevate him out of training just because Mars said so. The two men could hardly stand each other, and Ramis didn’t seem cowed by Mars’s superior rank. Archus Magdelene could be persuasive, but Ramis had already shown he wouldn’t cave in to her recommendations. The only other benefactor Trace could think of was Diarchus Joan, who took his side during the debrief. All considered, he didn’t care. He had graduated. And he wanted his halo sword pin.

  As for an assignment, Archus Magdelene informed him he would remain on Cassandra’s team along with Goldbow and Corinth. Marching orders would come in a week. When he hung up with Magdelene, he had raised his arms and whooped. Dolorem offered his not-so-sincere congratulations and then put him to work collecting debris from the wrecked club.

  With tireless bodies and combined gifts, they cleared the rubble in less than twenty-four hours, hauling the garbage into a dumpster delivered during the day. They salvaged what they could. Repairing the busted garage door and frame would take a day; Trace doubted a week would see the mangled chapel anywhere close to done. But Dolorem plowed into the project with vigor and enthusiasm, and Trace tried to keep up.

  Dolorem sawed the board and then handed it to Trace. “I’ve invited some of the members of my flock over this evening so I can continue the real work of Ash Angels, which is to save souls. I know your cover is Jason Storm the computer guy, but you may want to at least put on some facial hair for my little sheep. They are a colorful lot, with more troubles between them than the Middle East, but our gifts can be used to make people’s lives better. Getting rid of Dreads doesn’t have to be done with bullets and hearts burned in a fire. We can get rid of Dreads by creating people who would never do anything to deserve becoming one.”

  Colorful didn’t cover it. Thirteen of Dolorem’s flock showed up driving an array of street bikes, choppers, bullet bikes, and even street-legal dirt bikes. Tattoos. Do-rags. Shaggy beards. Sacramental whiskey. In a haze of cigarette smoke, they gathered around Dolorem, a swarm of black leather offering condolences and committing themselves to find whoever had wrecked the place and kicking their asses until kingdom come. Dolorem reminded them of mercy and forgiveness and passed out the power tools.

  For two days Helo rubbed shoulders with Dolorem’s congregation. He learned their names. They shared their struggles. They were addicts and ex-cons, deadbeat parents, the ignorant and uneducated. And they all loved motorcycles. Save souls, not slaughter Dreads, Dolorem said. He’d put his motto to practice and his Ash Angel gifts to work. On the bus, Dolorem used Pacify to turn the Dreads from their violent purpose. At the Redemption Motorcycle Club he used it to console a brute of a man brought to tears by losing his child in a custody hearing. After each work session, he used Inspire to convince his sheep to mend their ways and repair the wrongs they had done. When night fell, Dolorem hugged each broken man and woman and offered words of encouragement.

  “So what do you think, Trace?” Dolorem asked after the work crew left. They stood in the mostly empty garage, now with a functioning door.

  “About the ministry?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see your point,” Helo conceded. “You are doing good work with these people. It feels right. But you can’t ignore what the Dreads are doing. It’s not just ones and twos anymore.”

  “We Old Masters don’t ignore them,” Dolorem explained, crossing to the cabinet and pulling out the katanas they’d used to hack up the Dreads a few nights before. “I believe, however, that the Ash Angel Organization has forced them to become organized as a matter of survival. That’s why they have become more powerful. The ways of the Old Masters have been around since the first Ash Angel, the disciple John. They are, I think, the ways the Almighty intended for Ash Angels to work.”

  Dolorem tossed him a sword, and Helo caught it. “And how do swords figure in?”

  “Well, not counting sturdy clubs, they are the most ancient of Dread fighting weapons, and one of the most effective if used properly. They are a bit impractical in the modern age, and if the Dreads are building guns of their own, then the sword’s day may be done for good. But I want to show you how a particular Bestowal works, though it is one of the rarer ones.”

  “How many Bestowals do you have?” Trace asked.

  “Six.”

  “So you’re going to Ascend! When is it?”

  “Eight months from today. I am looking forward to it,” he added. “I’m a bit tired of the game and would like a rest. I’ve been doing this for almost fifty years. But first the sword. Do you remember how I gave you the ability to use the sword for a few hours?”

  “Yes,” Trace replied. “That was the Impart Bestowal, right?”

  “Correct. Now, what you may not realize is that while the Impart Bestowal can be used to give a temporary gift, used properly, it can dramatically speed up learning a skill. That’s what I want to show you over the next couple nights. The physical Bestowals like Speed and Strength are always coveted, by men in particular. But these softer gifts, Inspire, Pacify, Heal, Impart, and Bless are wonderfully powerful in doing the true work of Ash Angels.”

  “But you don’t get to choose which Bestowals you get,” Trace said.

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Dolorem said, running his thumb along the blade. “That’s the conventional wisdom, but there is some evidence that the circumstance and the desire of the Ash Angel play a role in which Bestowal he or she gets. You are the perfect example. From what I’ve been told of your exploits saving Sapphire, you received a Bestowal you desperately needed at the time, but even more telling, you received it far earlier than a Blank is supposed to. This points to the hand of God being aware of your needs and providing for them. By introducing you to these other Bestowals, I’m hoping to prime the engine in your head so you can start seeing where these gifts could benefit you and maybe, just maybe, influence the divine selection process.”

  “With swords?”

  “Well, just as a demonstration. I love the things, and I don’t want you to get the impression that I’m a pacifist—though there are Ash Angel groups that are. I’ll take a Dread down whenever I can. I’m just not going to devote my life to doing it. Can you imagine the immeasurable good it would do for the world if you could take every Ash Angel who’s filing papers at some desk job or who just sits around waiting for the call for another mission, and put them out on the street preaching good and doing good? I think the world would be a much better place, and not just by a little. Killing Dreads and Shedim should be an occasional pastime, not a profession. That said, if you’re going to kill a Dread, do it right and with a little style if you can. I think you’ve got the style. Let me show you how to use Impart to do it right.”

  The technique was simple. Dolorem would give him the ability to do a specific skill for a brief amount of time. They would practice until the effect wore off and then continue with another. A residue of the Impart would remain, solidifying the skill in
his mind. Before the second night was out, Trace felt like a sword master. And, he had to admit, flinging a sword around in precise, energetic moves felt satisfying. He almost suggested they go on a Dread hunt to try it out, but then he remembered who he was talking to.

  “So, in the thick of things,” Dolorem explained, “I dumped my entire knowledge of sword fighting into your mind. When using Impart to aid in learning, you start with simple bits and pieces of the overall skill and reinforce it. And you can use this technique to teach just about anything, from cooking to how to defeat thought patterns that led to an addiction. If used properly, it can be one of the most powerful gifts an Ash Angel possesses.”

  With two days remaining of Trace’s vacation but several days of chapel repair left, Dolorem told him to go enjoy the rest of his time off. As a gesture of thanks for Trace’s help with the club, Dolorem gifted him one of his katanas and an old but powerful Harley street bike Trace thought forty times cooler than the evil, camper-laden truck the Ash Angels had dumped on him.

  Dolorem hugged him, then looked him in the eye. “Come by again,” he said. “Come soon. There’s more to learn about the real path of an Ash Angel.”

  Helo thanked him, straddled the Harley, and shot off down the road.

  Time to go home. Helo’s home. He stopped for a puzzle and junk food after outfitting himself with a helmet and some leather riding gear, then it was back to apartment 3B. He hadn’t set foot in his apartment for over a week. Mindy and Scarlett would demand an explanation. Thinking of his flirty neighbors set him to morphing back to normal, ridding himself of the weight, facial hair, and long locks he had worn at the Redemption Motorcycle Club. It still took too long.

  He pulled into the Sao Paulo apartment parking lot midmorning, noticing a dark-green puddle beneath his ridiculous truck. He hung his helmet on the handlebar and shoved his chaps in his leather saddlebags. A quick examination revealed that the radiator fluid had bled out. Maybe the truck had committed suicide. No matter. He was done with old “Roaster.” He would have it towed or soak it in gasoline, set it on fire, then dance around it like a savage until it burned to the ground.