Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral

by Tony LaRocca

  He tried again to move his head. “I was sent to save the Sage. Not here, but in NorMec.”

  “Sent by who? Who could ever command you?”

  A moment of clarity flickered through his mind like lightning. A line of drool escaped his mouth, and ran down his cheek. “Please, please listen to me. I am not General Jaeger. I’m Matthew, Matthew Galbraith, Benjamin Dvorkin’s grandson. That’s who I —” His voice cut off as the thing behind him sliced through his mind. He shook as his muscles convulsed.

  “Your name is Malachi Jaeger.”

  “No.”

  “You had your way with a girl from your second generation. Her name was Zeta. Even though you had promised your love to someone else, you seduced her. You took her to your bed, and used her like the little whore that she was.”

  “No.”

  “And what is happening to you now, this other woman, the one that you swore you’d love forever, did to her. A misplaced neuron here, a closed receptor there. Not too much at first, just enough to make her unstable.”

  “I don’t know what…” He fell quiet as the words became too difficult to pronounce.

  The woman leaned in until her face was inches from his. Her creamy skin became dry and brittle, as if quilted from autumn leaves. Furrowed wrinkles carved themselves from the corners of her eyes and lips. A brilliant white luminescence shone from them, as if forks of lightning burned beneath her flesh. Blood, glowing and red, filled her spinning irises. It turned them into rings of hot coal, while the whites of her eyes clouded until they were black.

  “Then the Regular Army soldiers you had so foolishly trusted ripped your child’s tiny, unborn embryo from this whore’s stomach. And after that, your true, sworn beloved, your Lyubimaya, toyed with her a little more. A twisted nerve here, a dead synapse there, until all that remained was a squealing, psychotic teenager who could not even control her bladder.”

  Her blazing eyes widened in realization. “Did you say Dvorkin’s grandson? Did you yebát’ his spoiled little brat as well? Is that why you came up with this ridiculous fantasy?”

  “Muuuuthhh…” His lips and tongue, like dead slabs of meat, refused to form the word.

  Her paper–like skin peeled away in strips and ribbons until her head was a swirling ball of white fire with two crimson orbs at its center. Matthew could not close his eyes, or even look away. They stung and burned, as if he were staring into the sun.

  As quickly as the transformation had begun, it reversed. Her flesh wrapped itself back around her blazing skull as the rose–colored flames faded from her eyes. Within seconds, her perfect face was seamless once more, her aristocratic visage returned to that of a woman in her mid–twenties. She put her lips against his ear.

  “This is your doing,” she said. “Everything that is happening right now is your fault. We did not want it to be this way, but you forced us.” She leaned back, and breathed out a heavy sigh. “We tried, Malachi. We believed in you. We let you create your second generation, and because I was barren, I even agreed to let you artificially inseminate one of them to create a third. But you betrayed me. You took her body, instead.”

  She folded her arms. “You promised that the second generation would subjugate the ‘pures, but you allowed it to serve alongside them. You tried to give humanity a chance and guide them from their own follies, when we should have been bringing them to heel. You chose NorMec over your family, so we decided to take it from you.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and let it fall back to her shoulders.

  “I know why you’re really here. You think that you can use the Cathedral to control the mutants that siege your precious shield wall, but you can’t. Brandon, Jonathan, and I have been trying for decades and have made some progress, but even WesMec Gov.’s exalted Think Tank could not get it right. That’s how their monsters got away from them in the first place. Now, nothing is left. San Domenico is the last city. Los Angeles, Tempe, Phoenix, Las Vegas, San Francisco… We burned through all their survivors, all the cryogenic hives that WesMec built in their desperation.” She caressed his cheek, cupping it with her palm. Her hand felt like ice. “We did what you did not have the courage to do.”

  “We?” he asked, the word coming out in an elongated wheeze. “Who are ‘we?’”

  She smiled, and kissed his numb, unresponsive lips. “We are your true family, the first generation of Cylebs, the ones you betrayed for the sake of Biopures. Don’t you recognize your sister, your love, your Lyubimaya, the Holy Ophanim of WesMec?” Streams of scarlet flame flared once more within the depths of her eyes. “Don’t you recognize your Talya?”

  The thin cloud of smoke and ash that called itself Roger Cole flew towards the stone church at the outskirts of the city. He wondered why Tish would be in there. It was not their regular place of worship. In fact, he did not think that he had ever been inside. It was just one of those old landmarks that tourists liked to visit.

  The wasps within his plumes propelled him towards an open stained–glass window, but stopped inches from its frame. A shiver of annoyance rippled through his billows. Was she inside, or wasn’t she?

  The memory of Helen exploding into red Life Sands flashed through his mind. He tried to push it aside. He needed all of his will to keep his identity together, to preserve his sense of self. He knew that he would not be able to do so for much longer.

  I should have been kinder, he thought. I should have been more understanding. I should have…

  A tiny voice within him whispered that he had to focus. He had to hold on until he found his daughter, or the same thing would happen to her. There would be time for mourning later. He swallowed his grief, and forced himself to concentrate.

  Tish.

  He wavered in midair, as if Asher’s swarm was lost in indecision. Then his smoky body wafted away from the window, and veered to the west. Had the wasps been wrong, realized their error, and made a course correction? Perhaps they did not control his movements at all, and he was nothing more than a fool clinging to hope.

  A flash of purple light erupted from below, followed by a scream. He picked up speed. You have to stay calm, he thought as the residential and office blocks swept by. Just be smoke on the wind.

  He changed direction again, aiming for a two–story house with missing shingles and peeling yellow paint. Whatever unmasking had befallen the residents of San Domenico had taken its toll upon its buildings as well. The curls of his body stretched into a thin stream as they arced above the dilapidated roof. Then they poured into its chimney.

  Bricks scraped his sides as he fell, followed by iron and steel. He plummeted into a metallic cylinder. His descending wisps coiled upon themselves, reforming into a cloud. Furnace, he thought, I’m inside of someone’s furnace.

  He tried to collect his thoughts. There must be some way for the warm air to escape, he just had to find it. He wormed his way through the fan and heat exchange until he reached the ventilation outlet. He slid through, and followed the dusty maze of ducts embedded within the walls. At the first T–branch, a pattern of light fell upon him. It came from the crosshatch filigree of an air register. He squeezed himself into its largest opening, and spilled through onto a stained and slimy carpet.

  He looked up into the grinning, bone–white face of a tiny octopus.

  It let out a whistling cry, and scuttled away. Roger could see a parade of tiny skulls along the back of its head. They bubbled and grew as they marched towards its front, their minuscule faces twisted with sadness.

  “Oh great,” said the squid–thing in a high, reedy voice, “the house is on fire. Thanks, Ophanim, thanks a lot.” It wriggled its way to the paisley couch, where it proceeded to slap someone lying there in the face with its puny tentacles.

  “Come on, kid,” it said. “Come on, wake up.”

  Roger rose to the ceiling. He swirled, and pooled into a corner. The octopus looked up at him with fear in its black eyes. Then they narrowed in realization. “Hey,” it said, its voice a whispering s
queak. “Hey, are you… like me?”

  Roger looked down at the wistful creature. How could he make it understand? He glanced at the couch, and his billows roiled in shock.

  The sleeping boy was Asher.

  He watched the filthy, emaciated monk snore away, unaware of the tiny, slimy thing that tickled his nose. All at once, he understood.

  His nose.

  He dove, and wrapped himself around Asher’s face. He could feel his wisps being inhaled as the boy sucked them through his nostrils, and into the wet muck of his lungs —

  The monk coughed and wheezed, expelling him amidst a hail of snot. He shot towards the window, shaking the mucus and saliva from his plumes.

  Asher’s eyes blinked open. He bolted up, and looked to his left and right. “What…?” he asked as he rubbed his forehead. “What the hell?”

  “I’m sorry,” said the squid in its squeaky voice. “You were running on fumes, and I thought that sleep was the best thing for you. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Asher wiped a hand across his face. He looked at the miniature creature beside him. “Ralph?” he asked. The comedy mask nodded, its eyes drooped with sadness and fear. “You drugged me?”

  “I just… you needed someone to take care of you. I thought I was helping.”

  Asher stared at the squid, his mouth agape. He glanced at Roger, and looked back to Ralph.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Ralph said, “but he woke you up.” From the streets outside, a strangled scream cut through the air, followed by a lion–like roar, and the staccato of gunfire. “Yeah,” said the squid, its white, smiling face turned towards the rug. “That… that’s been happening for a while now.”

  Asher ran to the door, and yanked it open. His hands clenched and opened over and over as he took in the mutations and devastation that his nap had wrought upon his charges. Then he ran.

  Roger swept through the open doorway. He looked back at the dejected octopus that sat on the ugly, threadbare couch. He wanted to give it a word of warning, to tell of the avatar with smoking eyes that was cleansing the streets with violet flame, but he could no longer speak. Perhaps they would meet again, if Asher could reverse the insanity that had befallen his city.

  Tish, he thought, take me to Tish. He soared up to the sky, leaving the ramshackle house behind as his billows joined the wind.

  Matthew stared into the red flames of Talya’s eyes. His mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish. She shot a glance at the giant insect that stood behind him. He felt a tiny pop within his head like the firing of a spark plug, and the fog within his mind cleared. She met his gaze, and raised her eyebrows. It was obvious that she felt her revelation warranted some sort of response.

  The problem was that he had no idea what to say.

  He knew that decades ago, his grandfather had helped create the first four Cylebs for NorMec Gov., one of whom was General Jaeger. Much more powerful than those later to come, the quartet of cyborg super–soldiers was often referred to as the First Generation. While the general still commanded from his Sanctuary, the others had disappeared long before Matthew’s birth.

  As for the rest of it…

  He supposed that he should feel shocked, but he did not. He knew that his DNA had been the original, rejected template for the third generation. His embryo had been frozen and kept in storage for years, until “Grandpa Benjy” had implanted it within his own daughter, Alyanna. But while he and the third generation shared different biological mothers, his resemblance to them was almost identical. The rest was simple logic. General Jaeger considered himself a god walking amongst mortals. Who would such a man allow to sire his cybernetic bloodline, except himself?

  Talya leaned in closer. He knew that he would have to choose his words with care. He flexed his lips and tongue. They seemed to work. He coughed, clearing his throat.

  “For the sake of argument,” he said, “let’s say that you are right, and I am Malachi Jaeger, come to infiltrate your Cathedral. Let’s pretend that you have figured me out.”

  “So you confess?”

  “As I said, for the sake of argument.” He gave her a tiny, calculated smile. “So you’ve promoted yourself from Cyleb to goddess. That’s impressive.”

  “An Ophanim is just an angel. Don’t make me out to be some sort of sociopathic egotist. I’ll leave that to you. Besides, religion is a useful tool. We needed a way to keep the people in line, to unify them against an enemy, to give them purpose.”

  “To keep them from asking too many impertinent questions?”

  She nodded as the flames in her eyes receded. “Exactly. And although it was cliché, we formed our own sort of Holy Trinity. Me as the Sacred Ophanim, the omnipresent, celestial being. Jonathan as the Magistrate, born of man, my Chosen Prince, the bearer of my silver crown. And last, Brandon as the Ingegno, a sort of cerebral incarnation of the Holy Spirit. We also needed a devil, a Great Satan for our people to hate and fear. That was you, of course, the Clown.”

  “Of course.” He could still feel her creature’s forelegs and feelers within his mind. They idly scratched the folds of his brain, as if it were bored.

  She held up a finger. “One mutant,” she said. “One tiny insect, that’s all it took. One to breach your imperfect shield wall. One to infiltrate your precious Sage. One to corrupt the minds of certain members of your second and third generations. One to make them release the Burning, without even realizing it. And now, only a handful of you are left, cowering within your Sanctuary.” Her eyes narrowed. “You trusted Benjamin and NorMec Gov., and how did they repay you? With a virus made to kill us all, and then they entombed you alive, in lava.” She stroked his face. “I should have sent them flowers.”

  Her hand clamped around his distended cheeks, and squeezed. Her nails dug into his leathery skin. “Where is your body, Malachi? How are you here, in the Cathedral? Where are you, really?” She shoved his head down against the cot before pulling away. Her jaw trembled.

  The giant insect tickled the walls of his skull. “Listen to me,” he said. Was it hard to move his tongue again, or was it just his imagination? “You have me. The other Cylebs and the people of NorMec, they have not harmed you. Whatever I’ve done to you, I’m… I’m sorry. You can do whatever you want to me, but please, stop the mutants, if you can.” Each word took concentration and effort to pronounce. “We’re facing extinction.”

  She flicked her midnight hair away from her neck again, and laughed. “Oh Malachi,” she said, “did you really think that I would help you? You, and your generations of sycophants and sluts?” She shook her head, a sad smile on her lips.

  It was difficult to breathe. The rise and fall of his chest, beyond his control, had slowed. “Why are the mutants trying to destroy us?” he asked. “Where did they come from?”

  She snorted. “Where do you think? They were WesMec’s final solution, a way to win the war. A swarm of cybernetic insects that could devour everything in their path, and then build more of themselves from their own waste. A battalion of elite soldiers was to guide them mentally from this Cathedral. At first, it worked. But as time went on, the true natures of the creatures bled through. Their DNA had been based on those of wasps and locusts, after all. Insects have a hive mentality, and such instincts cannot be suppressed forever. Months went by without incident, and Command declared their strategy a success. WesMec would finally bring our ‘glorious’ nation to its knees.

  “Then, during the Liberation of Chicago, the venture reached its crisis. No one is sure what exactly happened, but a series of conditions between the troops, the Cathedral, and the mutants combined to form the perfect storm. All of the controlling soldiers’ minds fused into a gestalt. It seems their scientists had not quite, what is the phrase… worked out all the bugs.

  “The creatures turned their grinding mandibles on everything and everyone in the city. It did not matter whose side they were on, or if they were animal, mineral, or vegetable. At first, HQ simply replaced their virtual
pilots. For short intervals, the new soldiers could instruct the insects not to attack WesMec troops or civilians, but they could not stop them from feeding entirely. They could not order them to commit suicide, or not to retaliate if attacked. But once connected to the hive mind, the new users’ brains would inevitably succumb to schizophrenia. And though it ravaged their own military, WesMec Gov. dared not sever the mutants’ link to the Cathedral. It is one thing to have an exponentially growing army of insects barely under your control. It is another to lose control of them entirely.

  “So, they did what any government would do. They used more soldiers. Why not? Throughout history, such men and women have always been expendable. They burned through thousands upon thousands of conscripts until eventually, there were none left.

  “With their military otherwise occupied, one by one, their cities fell. Their civilians were starving, and had begun to riot and defect. They had hundreds of automated tanks and planes at their disposal, but such simple machines could not last against your Cylebs, not when your second generation could just jam their artificial intelligences with their minds.

  “But even in the face of certain defeat, their politicians found surrender unthinkable. It meant admitting that they had created a doomsday weapon that might end the human race. They knew that their own people would lynch them. So instead, they hatched a plan. They told their remaining population that NorMec had created the ultimate weapon: the Shadows. They filled the public with hysteria. They told them that you personally planned to unleash a shroud of darkness that would suck every last degree of heat from their bodies, every last milliamp of electricity from their brains.

  “They had, within their silos, rockets armed with an airborne nerve agent. Their missiles could never breach your shield wall. So instead, they rained the gas down upon their own cities. Can you imagine it, Malachi? Men, women and children, wherever they were, losing all their motor functions, collapsing in the streets, behind their steering wheels, or in their bathtubs. They were not asleep or in comas, they were just paralyzed. The lucky ones had their eyes closed. The rest had to stare at the walls, floor, or sky as they waited for the automated clean–up crews to collect them. It is fortunate that a person can live for days without water, because some had to wait for over ninety hours. The war had already decimated WesMec’s population, and only a few million survived the attack. The robots did not even bury or incinerate the dead, they just left them to rot. Command knew that their runaway weapon would eventually do their dirty work for them.