by Tony LaRocca
A look of shock crept across Asher’s face, and he changed the melody of his litany. After a minute, his children returned.
The song changed again. Matthew watched as the insects seethed around the Sands that they had unleashed. They built a long plastic hose, along with a tank that came up to his waist.
“Do you want my help?” asked Asher.
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I had that already,” he said.
“If you want my help, put that hose into the hole, and turn the spigot. You’ll have to move fast like you did before, but I know that you can. But whatever you do, don’t let that root touch you.”
“So you do know where the Cathedral is.”
“I know that you’re some kind of NorMec Abomination, just like her. You can’t expect me to trust you just because you say the things I want to hear. Do this, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Matthew doubted that, but some information was better than none. He dug his fingers into his shoulder, and opened its separation again. He rushed forward, and dropped the hose into the hole.
The long, stem–like wire dipped towards him. It was fast, even though his personal time was accelerated. He wrenched the valve, ran back from its reach, and let time snap back to normal.
A putrid tang filled the air, stinging his eyes. “What is that stuff?” he asked.
Asher did not answer. Instead, he sang again. His wasps created a pile of what looked like balls of cardboard, and a box of long matches. Asher picked up a ball, lit it, and lobbed it into the mouth of the hole.
“No, you idiot!” Matthew shouted. He tore his shoulder open, and lunged at the tank as the ball arced towards the opening. He ripped the hose away, grabbed the container, and ran. It was nearly empty, but it still held at least half a gallon of the noxious fluid. He threw it down the street.
A rush of heat and force slammed into him from behind, accompanied by the roar of a drawn–out explosion. He sprawled onto the asphalt, his hand slipping from his shoulder.
A pillar of yellow and blue flames accompanied by thick, black smoke shot out of the hole, and licked at the side of the building. The wire–root thrashed as if it were alive, and crumbled into ash.
He pushed himself to his feet. Asher stepped beside him, his eyes scanning the ledges, overhangs, and windows up and down the block. “I never should have left her down there,” he said. “I should have killed her, and entombed her in cement. Those things could be anywhere.”
Matthew coughed, his heart and head pounding in unison. “You almost killed us,” he said.
Asher ignored him. “I’ll have to remake it all,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll have to tear it down, and do it again.” Tears streamed from his eyes. “I’m so tired.”
“Then sleep,” said Matthew, forcing his voice to stay even. “Once you’ve rested, you’ll be able to make a better decision.”
Asher stepped away from Matthew, as if he had forgotten that the other man was there. His eyes narrowed. “You,” he said. “You’re with her. You don’t fool me.”
“Listen,” said Matthew. “Think, for once. If I were with her, would I have just helped you burn… whatever that was?”
The boy shook, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in air like a man about to drown. He pointed at Matthew, and his cracked lips parted in a snarl.
Matthew’s right hand shot to his shoulder as the seething mouths along the monk’s neck parted. He dug his fingers as far as he could into his pixelated cleft. Time slowed to a crawl. He reached into his pouch with his left hand, and dug out his first aid kit. He gingerly removed one of its ampules of iatric fluid, cradling it between his fourth and fifth fingers.
Concentrate, he said to himself, you can do this. He slipped his fingers from his shoulder, forcing the rent to stay open. His teeth clamped together as sweat ran down the side of his face. The separation held, but in this Sage, it was like hanging from a cliff. Sooner or later, he would have to let go.
He fumbled for the second ampule with his right hand, focusing on every movement as he positioned it in the same way. He could see tiny, insectile heads peeking out of the long mouths along Asher’s neck. Still holding the fragile iatric containers, he used his thumb, first, and second fingers to pinch the sacs’ lips shut. Squeezing them until his forearms bulged, he let time snap back to normal.
He fought against another bout of fatigue as Asher’s eyes bulged. He could feel the seething wasps beneath the boy’s loose, leathery flesh as they struggled to be free. The monk let out a cry that was a mixture of pain, confusion, and rage.
“Stop it,” said Matthew, his voice like iron. “Stop shouting, and stop struggling. Call off your children, or I’ll fill your sacs with iatric fluid. I’m guessing that it’ll undo whatever bio–modifications you’ve had done, and I can do it before you release the wasps in your chest. This stuff will see those damn things as parasites, shoot through your bloodstream, and kill every last one. So shut up, and put your babies back to sleep.”
The monk shook, yanked and twisted, but Matthew held on. He squeezed harder, his fingertips turning white. He felt the delicate capsules within his palms begin to bend. “Fine,” he said, “I gave you your chance.”
“Wait,” Asher whimpered as his eyes rolled in their sockets. “Please, don’t. I won’t hurt you, I promise, I promise.” The words dribbled from his parched lips.
“Put them to sleep, now.”
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Yes you can.” Matthew dropped his voice to a monotone. “You know you can. You are their master. You control them, they don’t control you. Say it.”
“I am their master.”
“You control them.”
“I control them.” The angry storm that raged beneath Asher’s skin began to subside. “I control them.”
“Good,” said Matthew as the swarm fell dormant beneath his hands. “Very good. I knew you could.” He kept his fingertips clamped tight. “I want you to listen to me closely. I am not your enemy, I am not in league with your Church, or with the woman you came with. There is nothing I want more than to see your city rebuilt. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, whatever you say. But how —”
“Be quiet.” Matthew cut him off. “I can move faster than you can imagine. I don’t need sleep, and I’ll always be ready for you. I am not your enemy right now, but if you ever try to attack me again, I will make you mine. Do you want me as your enemy, or your friend?”
“My friend.”
“Say it again.”
“My friend, my friend!” The boy’s tongue tripped over the words, his voice a squeal. “I want you to be my friend. Please.”
Matthew released his grip. “So long as we understand each other,” he said. He pocketed the ampules. “Now, listen to me. Your improvements, they are aesthetically beautiful, but structurally unsound.”
“No…”
The world swam before his eyes. “Stop taking it personally,” he said. “It is what it is, and it doesn’t give a shit about your ego. We can fix it together.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” said Matthew, “but I need to find the Cathedral. You help me, and I’ll help you. You promised, remember?”
Asher nodded. “Okay,” he said, “but you have to answer one question first.”
“No, I’m sick of your bullshit. You said —”
“Did you know Leonard Dvorkin?”
The question hit Matthew like a blow. He swallowed. “No,” he said, “but I do know the last name.”
“Do you know his brother? Leo said that he had a brother in NorMec, one who was high up in the science community.”
Matthew’s mind whirled. He could not figure out where this line of questioning was headed. “He was my grandfather, sort of.”
“Did he send you?”
“No. He’s gone, but I loved him very much. I didn’t know that he had a brother, especially here in WesMec. He died when I was
young. An associate of his sent me.”
“Why?”
Matthew pointed to the dome. “Why is that there?”
“To keep out the Agents of Chaos, of course.”
“Well,” said Matthew, “the Agents of Chaos want to destroy NorMec, and I’ve been sent to stop them. The war has been over for a long, long time. Surely you don’t want millions of innocents to die.”
“That is for the Ophanim to decide.” Asher folded his arms. “What will you do, when you find what you’re looking for?”
“I honestly don’t know. I don’t think that the one who sent me really knew either. He made me forget a lot of things. It’s hard to explain. Your turn. My… Great Uncle Leo, is he still alive?”
“No,” said Asher. “No, he killed himself. But he said that his brother had sent him clues warning him of what was to come, and then he painted them into a picture of an old church.”
“My adoptive mother is also an artist,” Matthew said. “It makes sense. From what I understand, my grandfather excelled at holding his cards to his chest.” He felt a sudden tightness in his throat. “I miss him every day.”
“Leo said that we have to ‘pull back the curtain.’ What curtain? I’ve looked at the painting and walked through the original, but there are no curtains there. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve never even seen houses of worship like that before. It’s hundreds of years old.”
Matthew lurched forward, grabbed Asher by the corners of his cloak, and yanked him up off of his feet. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “There is a physical building that you’ve resurrected, along with a painting of it, and you knew that it was what I’ve been looking for all along?”
Asher nodded, his face puffy and red. Matthew took a deep breath, and choked down his rising fury. It did not matter now. He lowered the scrawny monk to the ground, and let go. “But you’re telling me that it’s just a church,” he said, “an old place of worship. Is it Christian?”
A look of confusion crossed Asher’s face. “There were over three thousand men named Christian living in San Domenico,” he said, “but none of them were especially related to the Church.”
“No,” said Matthew. “I mean, what religion is it aligned with?”
“There are chapels to the Ophanim spread throughout the city.”
“But what about Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, Jews, Unitarians, Buddhists, or Muslims?”
Asher shook his head, his eyes never leaving Matthew’s. “I don’t know any of those words.”
Matthew nodded as realization dawned on him. “I understand,” he said. “So, everyone in your city just worships the Ophanim?”
“What are you talking about? Everyone in the world does. They always have, since the beginning of time.”
“Of course.” Matthew looked up at the swirling dome. He was so close, so goddamn close, but his eyes stung with the burning need to close. He was on the brink of collapse. “You need to get some sleep and nourishment. We’re both running on fumes.”
Asher looked as if he were about to protest, then nodded, his head sagging. “What will you do?” he asked.
Matthew’s mind spun. He could avoid sleep, but he needed rest. He also needed more information, and from a more reliable perspective than that of this deranged monk. “I’ll watch over you,” he said, “and meditate for guidance. And then I want to see the church, and its painting.”
The boy shrugged as if the order was of no consequence, and walked off down the street. Matthew followed, his brain a swirl of exhaustion and excitement. I’ll watch you, he thought, and figure out where I can find your Sister Theresa. Because if General Jaeger sent me to find anyone, I’m certain that it’s her.
Chapter 10
The next morning the two men walked together through the streets of San Domenico, the rising sun casting long shadows beside them. The previous night, spent at the monk’s camp, had been uneventful. Asher had collapsed into sleep the moment his head hit his pillow. Matthew had lain in Sister Theresa’s cot, staring at the ceiling while his body repaired itself.
Before leaving the base, Asher had shown him a copy of the painting on his data pad. Leonard Dvorkin, his Mother’s uncle, had apparently been an artist of minor renown. Perhaps she had mentioned him, and Matthew had forgotten. He missed Alyanna, despite everything that had happened between them.
He thought of his sister. He did not even know her name. Was the fourth generation project underway, back home? He had so many questions, none of which could be answered until he completed his mission.
“You said that you were adopted?”
Matthew looked at Asher. “More or less,” he said. “Perhaps surrogacy would be a better term. My life has been a bit complicated.”
“So you weren’t related biologically to Brother Leo?”
“I guess not,” he said. “Were you friends?”
Asher snorted out a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Leo was incapable of being anyone’s friend. So am I, apparently.”
Matthew glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe it would be easier if you stopped attacking people who offer to help you.”
The boy shrugged. “Everyone I’ve believed in has turned on me,” he said. “I’m not going to make that mistake again.”
They walked in silence for another two blocks. “How about your parents,” said Matthew, “where are they?”
“They’re in Austin,” said Asher. “I left them to join the order when I was twelve. They were extremely proud of me. It’s a great honor to be chosen.” He turned a corner, and Matthew followed. “You have to cut all ties when you join. I haven’t spoken to them in a decade.”
“You must miss them. I miss my grandfather terribly.”
“You said.” Asher looked down at the asphalt. “Look, I’m sorry for the way I behaved. You have to understand, I have a head full of millions who are screaming to get out.”
“So why don’t you let them?”
“Because it’s impossible for me not to heal them. You want to save your own people, right? That’s why you’re here. Well, it’s the same with me. I want to save them all. I can end prejudice, disease, depression, addiction… If you can save yours, why can’t I save mine?”
Matthew looked at the monk, unsure of what to say. How could he begin to explain? “Did you ever wonder where those souls came from,” he said, “how they could fit inside of your mind?”
“Through the will of the Ophanim, of course. Every child knows that.”
“Yeah, but think about it. A brain is just a ball of jelly, awash in juices and tiny jolts of electricity. Their collective electrochemical reactions are what we loosely term a personality. Such personalities can be recreated using artificial intelligence, but it is a huge undertaking.” He smiled. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“Well, it’s a miracle that a brain can do all that it does for just one human being at a time. How can it hold millions?”
“I told you, it’s the will of the Ophanim. Besides,” he tapped his scalp with his finger, “I’m living proof that it can.”
Matthew shook his head in resignation. As far as Asher was concerned, he lived in a magical universe with different laws than those of the outside world. How could he convince the monk of scientific reason when his own senses told him otherwise?
The church stood on a street corner that was dwarfed by skyscrapers. An iron fence, topped with spikes, surrounded it. A handful of tombstones dotted one corner of its lawn, their inscriptions illegible. Matthew found the one with the Celtic cross that he had seen in the painting. He squatted, holding his hands out before him to form a rectangle.
“What are you doing?” Asher asked from the pavement.
“I’m trying to get Leo’s perspective,” said Matthew. “I wonder why he chose this angle.”
“Maybe he just liked the way it looked.”
“Possibly,” Matthew said. “He did sell it, so comp
osition might have mattered to a degree.” He pointed to the ground. “Did you…?”
“Yeah,” said Asher. “It’s just full of bones.”
Matthew nodded, and stood.
Although the stone church was a few hundred years old, it was far from the ruins that Leo had painted. Its windows were not broken, nor was its mortar crumbling. Matthew turned the door’s brass handle, and entered.
Its inside was small, but cozy. The floor was paved with worn, polished bricks. The wooden pews that filled the chapel had been replaced patch by patch over the centuries. A few armrests and kneelers were on their last legs, but still serviceable. The stone walls’ interiors had been coated in plaster. Granite statues glared down from alcoves with expressions of stern benevolence.
The wall behind the altar was ornate, and laminated with gold. However, there was no crucifix. In its place was a mural of the moon, surrounded by the outline of an eye. It looked feminine. Asher knelt before it, and touched his lips with his fingertips. He tilted his head to Matthew, and glared. With a sigh, Matthew joined him.
Asher looked up at the iron chandeliers, and pointed. “There are crosses woven into their cylinders,” he said, “like on the tombstone. What do they mean?”
“They mean,” said Matthew, “that when whoever wrote your scrolls reimagined this place as part of your Church, they did a sloppy job of it. You’ve really never heard of Christianity?”
“It sounds blasphemous.”
Matthew forced himself not to roll his eyes. “It means that before the Shadows, this church belonged to a different faith. Think of it as a false religion, if you must, but it doesn’t change the fact. Even if you did resurrect it exactly the way the scrolls were written, it’s not how it really was. The question is, how much has it been modified?” He stood. “That assumes, of course, that whatever we’re looking for isn’t on the outside. But it also means that your charges’ memories must have been changed as well.”
