by Brian Fuller
Is that her? Cassandra texted.
Yep, he returned.
Dahlia regarded him teasingly. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been millennia since my last confession.”
“Are you stalking me?” Helo asked, trying to keep his voice low. He glanced over at their seatmate, thankful to see the earbuds still in his ears, though he was keeping half, if not three-fourths, of an eye on Dahlia.
“Stalking would be a bit of hyperbole, though I confess I have been dying to ask you a question. When I said, ‘Get out,’ at your apartment the other day, what did you do? Pack a few things, do your taxes, watch a little TV, or what? Just wanted a little cage match with a Thrall? They did explain during your training that Dreads like to strike right before dusk so they have the benefit of healing, right?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t have time. He came right after you left.”
“If you would have left when I did, you would have been out with time to spare.”
“Sorry. I guess I should thank you, but nobody in the Ash Angel Organization can figure out why you would want to help me in the first place. They say the only reason you are doing it is to set me up for something.”
Little monitors in the backs of the seats popped to life, an attractive stewardess delivering the safety briefing. Helo knew no one paid attention, but with Dahlia on board, the instructions took on a new importance.
“Why, Father,” Dahlia teased, “you have forgotten to buckle up, and it appears you aren’t paying any attention to the poor flight attendant. You see,” she reached over and dug under his thigh, “you put this end in this end and then pull the strap.” She clicked it together and pulled it down.
“I know how to operate a seat belt. I’m not an idiot.” She was messing with him. Why?
“I’m not so sure, Father. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? You walked into the Hammer Bar and Grill full of creatures bent on killing the likes of you and foolishly defended a Dread woman from other Dreads. You’re either some kind of moron or something strange the likes of which I’ve never seen in my long, lugubrious existence.”
Helo didn’t know what lugubrious meant and vowed to look it up later. “I was just, I don’t know, brought up to, well . . . forget it. The real question is why you gave us a chance to run. Most of the Ash Angels I tell the story to think I’m a liar. They say Dreads’ hatred of us is instinctual, that they feel compelled to destroy us. Is that true?”
She thought for a moment. “Maybe for young ones who have only been around for a few decades. I’ve lived so long that nothing I do is instinctual anymore. But your Ash Angel compatriots are right about one thing. I’m helping you because I want something from you.”
Finally he could get to the bottom of this. “What could I have that you want?”
“I need to know why the man in the bathroom ordered you killed rather than processing you like he’s done other Ash Angels. He wanted you dead almost from the moment they threw you in the tub. Why? What did you say?”
“What’s his name?” Helo asked
“I can’t say it. I can’t say anything about him at all.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Her eyes bored into his. “Can’t. I literally can’t.”
Helo tried to read her expression. She seemed sincere. “You mean you’re forbidden to under threat of punishment?”
“It’s worse than that.”
The flight attendant walked by and reminded him to turn off his phone. He checked the screen. One message from Cassandra: Be careful. Duh. He killed the phone and stuffed it in his pocket.
“How could it be worse than that?” Helo asked.
She leaned in close, the smell of lavender tickling his nose. “Look, I can tell you’re a new Tra . . . Ash Angel, but I’ve got to believe that whatever the obvious defects of your trainers, you’ve surely been made aware that all is not normal in the shady world of Dreads. We didn’t all get together at a convention in Florida one weekend and drink beer and decide to elect a president and a treasurer and get to work dismantling the Ash Angel Organization. We are a solitary, selfish group of people who can hardly agree on anything or even care about the same thing, much less rally together and stage a massive attack on Blanks or your Trevex cover facility.
“Yes, there are those who are true followers of . . . the man . . . you saw that night. But believe me, the rest of us cannot escape his compelling will. I’ve known him for a long time—a long, long time—and he has never wielded this kind of power over our kind before. I think you know how he does it. Why else would he kill you rather than torture you for information when he was clearly ready to do so? Why else would he be so consumed with taking you down that he would force the Sheid to create a Dread Thrall to do it? You know something, and I need to know what that something is. It’s the only hope that I have to escape him.”
The engines spooled, pressing them back into their seats. The dull gray of the tarmac gave way to the blues and oranges of the lowering red sun as the massive plane powered down the runway and roared into the sky. Kansas City shrunk and faded, bathed in a haze.
Helo glanced at Dahlia. He knew what she wanted. Was it possible she hadn’t seen the man use his odd pendant? If she had known the man as long as she claimed, how had it escaped her notice? Helo had seen it twice and had barely been with the man above ten minutes. If the device could compel creatures of evil, they were wasting their time uncovering Dread funding and organization. They needed a manhunt. And if Dahlia honestly wished to be free of the man’s control, they might have an unexpected ally among the Dreads. Had Ash Angels ever partnered with Dreads before?
Helo turned toward her, scooting away from her red aura a little. “I think we can help each other here,” he said. “We would like for the Dreads to go back to behaving the way they were, and it sounds like you do too. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she said. Her playful smirk was gone, lips a thin line. Something had changed.
“Then here’s my deal. You tell me why I’m on this plane, and I’ll tell you what happened between me and the man in the bathroom that night.”
“You don’t know why you’re here?” she asked. “Doesn’t your Occulum tell you what is going to happen?”
“The visions aren’t always complete or clear. The Visionary simply saw four tickets with four flight numbers on fire.”
“Four!” she exclaimed loudly enough to elicit a glance from the man on the aisle. She grimaced, turning toward the window for several moments.
“Yes, four,” Helo whispered. Why did the number matter? “All of them Dreamliners. What is going on? Are you here for me, or is there another reason?”
She sat back, eyes sad but burning with something else. “Didn’t you hear me? I . . . I can’t tell you what’s going on. I literally can’t! You have got to tell me what happened in that bathroom. There might not be another chance.”
Her tone chilled his heart. He had to get her to tell him what they were planning.
“Oh,” Helo replied, taking a tone of mocking disbelief. “Just like you conveniently can’t talk about the man.”
Her face hardened, and she gripped his arm, fingers digging into his flesh. “There is nothing convenient about it. You have no idea what it’s like to be a slave to the will of another, so don’t get on your Trash Angel white horse and ride around like I’m some pathetic child who’s lying to protect her own skin!”
The flight attendant’s cart pulled into Helo’s peripheral vision.
“Excuse me, Father, can I get you something to drink?”
Dahlia released her viselike grip on his arm and folded her arms, turning back to the window. Helo shook his head at the flight attendant, and Dahlia waved her away.
“Look,” Helo said. “Dreads aren’t known for their forthright honesty and harvest-basket goodness. You’ve got to give me something I can use. For all I know, you’re here under orders from your mystery man. Maybe he wants you to figure out how much I know so h
e can decide whether it’s worth it to butcher a few more Dreads to make a Thrall or two to come after me.”
She kept her eyes out the window, tapping her lip for a moment, and then turned toward him. “Okay, this is all I can give you. It’s not much, but it will start you on the path. I’ll tell you my name. The one I was given when I was born. It won’t tell you everything, but it will get you close. It’s the best I can do.”
“Your name? Okay, what is it?”
“Aclima,” she said like someone trying to remember a word in a foreign language. “My name is Aclima,” she said again, the word coming more smoothly. Her eyes went distant, and she sat still, as if trapped in a memory. The plane bounced in the turbulence, and she shook her head and grabbed his arm. “Now tell me what happened.”
He opened his mouth, but an old lady scooting down the aisle caught his attention—Cassandra moving a bit more spryly than she should for her age. She frowned like an old hag who’d just found out the neighbor kids had killed her cat.
“Father,” she said, eyeing Dahlia angrily, “I’m afraid we have a little problem in the front, and we could use your priestly assistance.”
“You’ll have to wait, ma’am,” Dahlia said bluntly. “I’ve a few more sins to confess to the good Father.”
“That’s nice, dear. But, Father Patrick, you are aware of what an Envoy is, aren’t you? One is flying our little plane.” Cassandra’s eyes bulged and flicked toward the cockpit. Helo understood. Envoys were Dreads given one gift from a Sheid, usually the ability to appear as anyone. Just as Thralls died in thirty-six hours, Envoys lost their gifts in thirty-six hours. The Dreads had replaced the pilots of four packed airplanes with Envoys. This was a suicide mission.
Helo turned to Dahlia, who wouldn’t look him in the eye. Disgust surged in his gut. “No.” He leaned in close. “Are you here to bring this plane down?” he whispered. “There are kids on this plane!”
She didn’t answer, jaw set, eyes watering.
Terror gripped Helo’s heart, and he pushed past the startled young man in the aisle, following Cassandra forward.
“Settle down, Father,” Cassandra reminded him quietly. “You look like a linebacker charging after a quarterback who just spit on his mother. We can’t alarm anyone. This will get ugly soon enough.”
Corinth waited near the middle of the plane, waving for them to follow. They gathered outside the lavatories near the galley and first class, pretending they were in line waiting for someone to get out, even though it was unoccupied.
“So what’s the Dreads’ play, here?” Corinth asked. “Is this another trap to kill Blanks?”
“If it is,” Cassandra said, “they’ll dump the plane in the water, but it seems an awfully brutal way to take down a few Ash Angels. This is going to bring a lot of press and a lot of heat. They’d do it right before dusk so they can heal and leave. How long till sundown?”
Helo flipped through his phone. “Twenty minutes.”
“Anytime now,” Cassandra ran her hands through her gray hair, mind racing. “The flight crew in the cockpit is likely dead by now. Either one of you know how to fly a plane?”
They shook their heads.
Cassandra closed her eyes. “Dammit. This is not going to end well. We’ve got to get into that cockpit. Hopefully someone on this plane knows how to fly one.”
“A lot of these planes can practically fly themselves,” Helo offered.
“Getting into the cockpit is the hard part. The doors are reinforced,” Corinth added quietly. “I only have Speed and Protection as my Bestowals.”
“Helo is going to have to use his Strength to do it,” Cassandra said. “As soon as he hits that door, all hell is going to break loose.”
The engines spooled down, and the plane tilted downward, the singsong warning for everyone to return to their seat chiming throughout the plane.
“This is your captain, here from the flight deck. It looks like there’s some turbulence up ahead. We’re going to decrease our altitude a bit and make a few zigs and zags to see if we can avoid it. We do ask that everyone return to their seats as it may get a little bumpy.”
Cassandra shook her head. “Here we go.”
“So how far off course does a plane have to get before they call out the F-16s?” Corinth asked.
“F-16s aren’t going to help us,” Cassandra said.
The vacant-eyed flight attendant approached. “The captain has asked that everyone return to their seats.”
“Can I use the bathroom first?” Cassandra asked.
“The lavatory is unoccupied, ma’am,” the flight attendant informed her.
“Oh! Silly me. I didn’t notice. I’m so sorry to make you wait, Father.”
“That’s all right, ma’am,” Helo played along. “You go on ahead.”
Cassandra stepped into the lavatory and closed it. The flight attendant wandered off, and Helo knocked on the door.
Cassandra came out. The plane’s rate of descent steepened, the shadowy horizon a slant in the passenger windows.
“It’s go time. Helo, you get in there. We’ll follow. If there’s an air marshal on board, there’ll be gunfire. After the 9/11 attacks, the forward passengers are likely to come after us too. Once the Dread is taken care of, just surrender. Hopefully Operations can find a way to get us out of jail before our Sixth Ascendancy. You ready, Helo?”
He wasn’t. It was crazy. Kick in a cockpit door?
Cassandra put her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to do this, Helo. There is no other way to save these people. We’ll be right behind you.”
Dahlia walking forward distracted them, and they tensed. She regarded them with a thin-lipped frown as she passed and opened the lavatory door. She looked at her slender, silver watch and threw them a meaningful look before stepping inside and closing herself in.
Helo steeled himself and marched forward. The girl with pigtails sat in first class and watched him go by, poking her mother.
“Why is he dressed like that?” she asked.
Helo didn’t hear the answer. Her next question would be “Why is that man trying to crash the plane?” The farther he went, the more the weight of his heart dragged against his feet. The forward lavatory of the plane prevented a run at the cockpit door. He would have to get to the very front. As he approached, the flight attendant rounded the corner, holding him up with a hand.
“Excuse me, Father,” he said. “The forward lavatories are for our first-class passengers only.”
Helo stopped and blinked, mind in turmoil and sluggish. “We’re all first-class passengers to God, ma’am. Is anyone in it?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Can you do me a favor? I’d really like to go before we hit the turbulence.”
Outside the window, the wintry brown horizon slowly rose to greet them, much closer than it should be for a commercial passenger jet in midflight. The flight attendant stepped aside to let him pass as the fasten-your-seat-belt chime dinged again. Helo strode forward past passengers absorbed in potato chips, cola, and electronics. One commented offhandedly to a seatmate that the plane seemed a bit low.
The flight attendant went back to the galley, and Helo turned the corner. There it was. He stood face-to-face with a state-of-the-art reinforced door. “Flight Deck Door. Authorized Personnel Only. Any attempt at unauthorized entry may result in death.”
He attacked it.
Calling forth his Strength, he lifted his right leg and kicked the door waist high. The booming thud and the whining cry of the locking bar bending reverberated through the plane. Gasps and silence followed. The bent—but not broken—door seemed to laugh at him. His assault had done nothing except stamp an imprint of his foot in the metal. Footsteps pounded down the unseen aisle behind him. Conserving divine Strength was not an option. He pulled it all in and let loose. The door shrieked inward in a blast of broken metal and plastic. He took a step forward, but the plane powered up to full, pitched steeply downward, and yawed to
the right.
Passengers screamed in terror. The klaxons and robotic warning voices of the safety systems demanded that the pilot pull up and level off. Helo tumbled to his left, an awkward weightlessness pulling him toward the ceiling. Fear burned away his confusion. He grabbed the edge of the cockpit doorway, pulling himself forward. With a yell, he wedged around the door and into the rear of the cockpit.
The flight crew was dead, the copilot’s head cranked at a ninety-degree angle, bobbing with the shuddering plane. The navigator was sprawled on the floor, back bent in half. The Dread Envoy gripped the controls, pushing the plane down. Several control panels had been pulled off, the innards of the control systems spilling out into the cockpit. Screens blinked red. Buttons flashed. The klaxons demanded attention.
All the racket and wild blinking in front of him, all the terrified wailing behind, all of it faded to nothing at the sight of the ground hurtling toward him in the cockpit window.
He couldn’t save the plane.
The engines burned full throttle in a missile shot at the waiting trees, their bony limbs and branches reaching out to tear the plane apart and enfold the passengers in death.
A purple fury burned in Helo’s heart. Nothing remained but revenge. He scrambled forward against the weightlessness, clawing at the copilot’s seat and propelling himself forward. The Dread Envoy raised his fist and hammered it down on Helo’s forearm, snapping it. Helo lost control, legs rising up behind him, but the Dread reached out and grabbed his head, pressing Helo’s face into the cockpit window with his right hand.
Helo fought, but his Strength was gone. The Dread laughed, pitched the plane up slightly, and rolled it hard left. The left wing hit the treetops first. An incredible howling chorus of screaming wind and roaring engines mixed with the irresistible force of ripping, devouring inertia. The soft flesh of the passengers, the carbon mesh of the hull, and the burning slime of jet fuel were thrown and spun together and then pulverized in the deafening impact. Trees snapped and burned as the fuselage shot through the forest like a mountain of fire.
