Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral

by Tony LaRocca

  The voice called out again for security from a speaker mounted 3.07 meters above him, and 10.65 meters to his left. His eyes narrowed. Was his ability to calculate such things a gift that all those awake possessed, or was it residue from his contact with the Magistrate?

  He swallowed, and felt his esophagus rub against hard lumps beneath his skin. He put his hands to his neck and chest, and felt the tiny creatures that throbbed within. His lips curled into a smile.

  A spotlight shone into his eyes from above, making it impossible to see. Half a second later, a liquid–like warmth trickled through his eyes. The glare dimmed, as if he were wearing tinted glasses.

  The alarms fell silent. “You will stand still,” said the computerized voice. “Do not move, or you will be fired upon. Wait to be advised further. Until then, do not move.”

  He scanned the ceiling. A humming noise came from the shadows. His eyes struggled to discern between the light and darkness. He could just make out an approaching turret, running on a suspended rail. Its gleaming barrel swiveled towards his head.

  He opened his sacs, and sang.

  His children flew from their subdermal hives. Where the ones in the dream world had been microscopic, these were the size of houseflies, and much less numerous. Their bodies ticked like fine clockwork as they swarmed the weapon. After 3.89 seconds, a rain of steel, copper, plastic, and rubber shavings fell to the floor. He raised an eyebrow. His wasps were less effective than before, but they were still formidable. They returned to the folds of his flesh, and suckled.

  “You think that you’re clever,” the Magistrate’s voice sang from the speaker, “but you’re not. You have no idea what damage you’ve done.”

  Asher ignored the Chosen Prince, and studied the cylinder that had cradled him. It reminded him of a sarcophagus. Rows upon rows of them, covered in dust, stretched into the distance. He crouched, and read the plate at its base. Its code of letters and numbers meant nothing to him.

  A cube of light unfolded in the air. It flickered as it swirled into the image of a glowing, towheaded boy, maybe a kindergartner. Asher bit the inside of his cheek. He had heard of holograms, but had never seen one. The transparent projection wore a tunic that was pristine and white.

  “You’ve turned your back on your true family,” boomed the voice from above, “the ones who had counted on you.”

  The boy put a finger to his lips, and pointed at the ceiling. He turned his head from side to side. Asher gave him a slight nod. The child pointed to a panel on the cylinder’s side, and put his intangible hand upon it. Asher shrugged, and laid his palm on the same spot.

  With a muffled bleep, the panel slid aside. A white, silken cloak lay within its chamber, along with a silver, sleeveless cassock. The golden, embroidered icon of the moon within the eye of the Ophanim adorned its chest. He dressed, and examined his reflection in the sarcophagus’s glass.

  A gaunt man in his thirties with full lips and narrow eyes stared back at him. The short hair at the top of his head was thick, black, and wiry. He ran his hand over his rough chin and jowls. His cheeks were dark with stubble. Would he have to start shaving now?

  The boy walked off through the rows of glass–walled canisters. He glanced back at Asher, and then continued on his way. The monk followed, taking time to study the bodies that floated inside. Each was suspended in frozen gel. Their limbs all had the same exoskeletal reinforcements as his. All of them were naked, and old. Not one was younger than middle age. Some were shriveled, ancient prunes. He could see a flashing red light from within a cylinder to his right. He approached it, and peered inside.

  A wizened, bearded wreck of a man hovered within. Where a glistening, ribbed, metallic hose snaked from the backs of the others’ necks, something that resembled a mechanical arm protruded from his. Servomotors spun within its joint, churning tiny waves throughout the viscous fluid. Asher tried to identify the twitching features of his face, but could not make them out.

  “That is Brother Leo,” said the Magistrate. “Death within the Sage is not always permanent, but this time, he came close. The electrochemical makeup of the brain can be severely affected by trauma. It’s not the first time he committed suicide. If the automations are successful in repairing him, then it probably won’t be the last. Abbot Dinah is five rows down, by the way, if you wish to look at her mummified flesh, and gloat. We should have listened to her, she knew what a traitor you would turn out to be.”

  Asher laid his hand on the glass of Leo’s capsule. It vibrated beneath his touch.

  “Keep in mind, death out here is for keeps. That’s one of the drawbacks of being awake. One of many, actually. For a start, what will you do? Where will you go? The Agents of Chaos are real, Brother, and they’re waiting to devour anything that passes beyond our walls. What will you eat and drink? Most important of all, what will you breathe?”

  He jerked his hand away, and looked up at the ceiling. “I thought that might get your attention. There’s no longer any air circulation down here, did you know that?” The Magistrate snickered. “You could always go back inside of your tank and try your luck in the dream, but I don’t think that you’d trust me. In fact, I would lose respect for you if you did. And you have gained my grudging respect, boy. You lack discipline and you need to learn your place, but you have exceeded all expectations of willpower and resourcefulness. This is just a temporary setback. There is still great work to be done. The question is, can you be a part of it? I can see the possible roads ahead of you, and the roads behind. Do you want to know them, your true roads?”

  He turned towards the hologram. The boy’s wide–eyed gaze met that of the monk. Asher held up a finger, and ran back to his sarcophagus.

  He reached inside of the open cylinder, grabbed its mask, and sang. His children swarmed the connection between its hose and the base of the chamber, and severed it. He approached the remains of the turret, and placed the breathing apparatus beside them. He sang again, directing his wasps to build him an oxygen tank from the debris. When they were done, he picked up the fruit of their labors, and slung it over his shoulders. He strapped the mask onto his face, looked at the ceiling, winked, and turned the valve.

  Nothing happened.

  The Magistrate’s laughter echoed throughout the hall as Asher pulled off the mask. “That was precious,” he sang. “A valiant attempt, but everything within the Sage merely had form and function. They were just working props. You have no idea how an SCBA works, only how you think it’s supposed to look, and what you think it’s supposed to do. If you had earned your vestments and armor, you would have been issued your own Codex of Knowledge to draw such information from. But you… you are just a cowardly pretender. Now, are you ready to give up this nonsense?”

  The hologram popped into the air, pointing at something above and behind him. Asher followed the boy’s arm, and saw a camera. He let his children fly, and its debris fell to the floor. The hologram pointed at two others high up amongst the pipes and I–beams, and the monk dealt them the same fate.

  The child smiled, and walked into the shadows. Asher followed him once more.

  “You know nothing of honor, of sacrificing to do what you must,” said the Magistrate. “You’ve betrayed everyone who trusted you. What about Brother Jacob? He pled for your case, and look how you’ve forsaken him. What would he say, if he could see you now?”

  They reached a door beside a keypad. The boy bowed his head, and rolled his eyes. The lights behind the numbers winked out, and the door slid open.

  It was an elevator. Asher took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

  The door slid shut behind him, but the hologram was no longer at his side. He waited in darkness as the car hummed into life. His stomach made a tiny jump. He was going down. After 121.7 seconds, the sensation of movement came to a halt.

  He heard the door open, though there was still no light to see by. The hologram reappeared, its finger at its lips. Asher nodded. The boy walked, and he followed. Though the
transparent child glowed before him, his image gave off no actual illumination. Was it something that only he could see? He followed it through the twists and turns of the pitch–black passageway until they reached another illuminated keypad. The child’s eyes rolled into the back of his head again, and the door slid open.

  “Do you think this is a game?” asked the Magistrate from above as the lights in the room popped on. Its walls were bare, and white. A computer terminal protruded from the one opposite the door, alongside a full–length mirror.

  “Wait,” the bass voice cried, “You think that I’m cruel, but I had to be. There’s so much that you don’t understand. Just listen for a moment, would you? Why do you think I was the only one who interacted with the order? Why do you think I was the only member of our Holy Trinity that you ever —”

  Asher sang, and his children chewed the speaker into sparkling grit. The boy pointed to cameras and microphones hidden amongst the ceiling tiles. Within seconds, shavings of metal and plastic rained down from each.

  The hologram pointed to the terminal, and a handful of letters and numbers appeared over his head. They were the same as those that had identified Asher’s sarcophagus. The monk typed them in.

  The face of a thirteen–year–old boy appeared on the screen. His name was Peter Graziano, and he had lived in Monterey, California. Asher leaned to the side, and looked in the mirror. Though the name meant nothing to him, there was no doubt that he and the boy with the wiry, black hair were one and the same.

  The hologram’s eyes rolled back into his head. The computer hummed as its screen flickered. A panel in the wall slid open, and a tray extended. A polished, cerulean, enamel tube as long and as wide as Asher’s spread hand lay on its surface. A segmented metallic worm extended from its side. It ended in a gleaming, barbed point. He held the cylinder up to the light. The ribs that lined its interior matched those of the shells on his arms.

  “Codex of Knowledge has been issued,” said the computer in the same toneless voice as the one that had threatened to shoot him. He looked at the hologram. The boy tapped the back of his transparent head, and stared into the monk’s eyes.

  Asher understood. He slid the device onto his right arm, with the metal snake at its top. Its polymer shell was elastic, but once it was in place, it hardened around his bicep. He flexed his arm. The Codex felt much heavier than he had expected. It would take some getting used to. He reached behind his head, and pushed the end of the cable against the socket at the base of his skull. The barbed tip leapt from his fingertips, and jabbed its way inside.

  His eyelids fluttered as a flush of warmth spread throughout his mind. He steeled himself for another assault of flames and ice, but this time, the sensation was soothing. Still, he could not help feeling a stab of anxiety. He placed his hand over the heavy armband. Be careful, he thought, whatever happens to your brain out here lasts forever.

  The thought made him laugh. Before today, he had never assumed that it could be any other way.

  The boy watched him, his eyebrows raised. He pointed at the oxygen tank that Asher still wore on his back. The monk smiled, and opened his sacs. The song seemed to flow from his lips without him having to focus. His children surrounded the apparatus’s workings, devoured them, and passed them from their bodies reformed. The ticking insects then returned to their cells. He placed the mask over his mouth and nose, and turned the valve.

  He heard a hiss from over his shoulder as fresh, sweet air flowed into his lungs. He took a deep breath, and exhaled. He had not realized how stale the atmosphere was. He inhaled again as he examined the room. Surely this base was full of items that he could turn into food, water, and fresh oxygen. Given time, he might even be able to repair its air circulation machinery, or access its computers. There was so much that he did not understand, so much to learn.

  He would find Sister Theresa and Tish, and beg their forgiveness. He vowed to do whatever his fellow former resurrector asked of him. She was a far more capable leader than he could ever be. He realized that now.

  He could try to make amends.

  He pulled away the mask. He got down on one knee in front of the transparent boy so he could look into his face. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve helped me more than I can say. But the truth is, I have no idea where to go next, or what to do.”

  A glyph appeared above the child’s head. He winked, and turned away from Asher to inspect the computer. The monk studied the combination of overlapping runes. They looked easy enough to sing, but he had never seen a shape like it. He shrugged. It might transform the debris of the security system into some sort of weapon, or an expansion module for the Codex. His head was full of questions that had no answers. Perhaps they lay within the glowing sigil. He opened his sacs, and sang. His children hovered before him, waiting until his song was finished.

  Then they bored into his skull.

  The gaunt man reached up towards the computer. He grabbed onto its protruding terminal, and pulled himself to his feet. He did not know how long he had lain on the floor, just that the muscles in his neck ached. He slipped his hand beneath his cloak, and kneaded them. He could feel the dormant swarm of wasps — his children now — seething beneath his skin. He examined his armored limbs, and flexed his muscles.

  He was strong.

  A lifetime had passed since he had been strong.

  He gazed into the mirror. A patch at the front of his forehead was bald and shiny, but it could not be helped. Hopefully his hair would grow back, given time. He inspected his reflection. If he leaned his head all the way back or turned it far to the side, he could just catch a tiny peek of a sparkling, opal glow within the depths of his ears and nose.

  He reached back, and extracted the metallic snake from the base of his skull. He pulled the Codex off of his arm, and dropped it to the floor. It felt light, and empty.

  He stretched out his arms, dropped to a front leaning rest, and pumped out twenty push–ups. He hopped back to his feet, ignoring the popping in his joints. A younger man’s body may have been better, but still, it felt amazing just to be able to move again. He slid the breathing mask on over his stubble, stared into his new eyes, and smiled.

  Chapter 22

  Tish stepped inside of the chamber, and closed the door behind her. She gave the thing — the woman — in the tank a wide berth as she walked towards the flickering rectangle of emerald light.

  “Please, don’t touch him,” said Marianne. “Not yet.”

  The young woman squinted against the glare as she examined the room. A bank of computers lined one wall. A torrent of data flowed across their screens. She peered behind the bubbling tank, and saw a steel capsule. It measured about eight feet long and three feet wide. It looked as if it had been scraped, hammered, and burned. Its top half was ajar. “What’s in there?” she asked.

  “A body,” said Marianne, “one of my third–generation brothers. I found it in this tank, alongside him.” She pointed her prosthetic at the painting. “You must have so, so many questions, and I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time to answer them all. Let me see what you’ve brought. My claw is broken, so you’ll have to hold it in front of my eye. My good one, please.”

  Tish untied the metallic paintbrush from around her arm, and held it before the woman’s glowing, swiveling iris. Her scarred lips parted as her shoulders sagged with relief. “At last,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know if I can.”

  “Just tell me who you are,” said Tish. “I mean, I know your name, but why are you here? Why am I here? Where am I? Why are you helping me?”

  Marianne let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I am here because once upon a time, I was used for bait and almost eaten alive by a swarm of mutant cybernetic insects, which you so dramatically refer to as The Agents of Chaos. I’m here because I am trying to help my family. You’re here because although I manipulated Asher into a battle with the Magistrate, I was not in any position to get a hol
d of his crown. The crown is the cypher by which a user can gain admin access, and piggybacking with you was the only way I could exit the Sage after the little shit trapped me within its vegetation.” The ribbed metallic tube that snaked from the base of her skull into the back of the tank throbbed and glowed. “I can still feel them you know, the roots, the trees, the vines, and the grass. All of it, even the ones that are on fire.” She erupted into a coughing fit.

  “Finally, I am helping you because… Well, I’m not, really. You’re helping me. Your life probably would have been better if you had stayed within the Sage and just waited for the next reboot, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

  “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying,” said Tish. “You said that the Sage is some kind of virtual reality?”

  “It’s more than that,” Maryanne replied. “While you’re inside, your brain’s electrochemistry is susceptible to alteration. Meanwhile, out here, they have been operating on you with robots. They were able to rewrite some of your memories. That way you would forget most of your former life, and not realize that they were ‘resurrecting’ you over and over. When you slept, you dreamt what they needed you to dream. They programmed your subconscious so you would see them as angels, and us as demons.”

  “‘Us?’”

  “Yeah. I should tell you, I’m a NorMec second–generation Cyleb. They called me Zeta. I’m an Abomination.” She held her mechanical claw out for Tish to shake. “Nice to meet you.”