Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral

by Tony LaRocca

  The rag doll sat on the giant’s lap. It looked more or less new, except that its patchwork skirt was torn almost to its waist. It held a needle, threaded with twine, in its burlap hand. Its frozen sackcloth arm had pushed the silvery point through its mouth. Five small, crisscrossed stitches covered half of its embroidered lips.

  “There you go,” cooed the colossus. “This has to be our secret, you know that. If you told anyone what you’ve done they would hate you — especially Mamochka. She would know what a bad little girl you are. Because you are a bad girl, now. You —”

  Matthew roared from the back of his throat, and lunged for the creature. His serpentine arm spread its jaws, revealing swirling rows of needle–shaped teeth. He sunk them into the white light, and bit down.

  His snout passed through the giant’s insubstantial glow. The fiery titan ignored him, as if he were not there.

  Matthew looked down at the doll. He scooped it up in his right hand, and held it to his chest. Only then did the mask of his father turn to look at him. He threw open the door, and ran into the hallway.

  At first, his boots thudded on a soft, plush carpet. But as he ran, the rug became more threadbare, and spotted with mildew. Worn patches revealed a splintering wooden floor beneath.

  The further he went, the darker the world around him grew. He could no longer see the hallway’s floor, or its walls. He turned his head. Far, far off in the distant gloom, he saw a shining pinpoint of white.

  He stretched his mind into the libraries of the Cathedral, and searched for light absorbing materials. He found the chemical structure for the blackest substance ever invented, crafted from arrays of carbon nanotubes. Let there be a shell of it around us, he thought. One inside of another, and then another inside of that, and then one more inside of that one.

  Though he could not see them, he could feel the presence of the insulating spheres as they formed in the air. He cradled the doll in his arm. He caressed its cloth with the face of the Snake, but it had no more secrets to tell. This was as deep into Talya’s soul as he could go.

  “What will you do now?”

  He bit his lip. The raspy, female voice that came from nowhere was long and drawn out, as if from a slowed recording. It reminded him of the voice he had heard in the art gallery, whispering from the tree. He realized that its speaker must be his mother. She was a second generation Cyleb after all, and would be able to accelerate her mind up to a point. He thought back to the flooded crypt. On that lower level of the Sage, his tail was still entwined within her roots. How much time had passed there since he had transformed? It could not have been more than a few seconds.

  “I don’t know,” he said, drawing out his words and lowering his voice as much as he could. “She’s helpless right now. I could destroy her, or… I can try to heal her instead.”

  “I’m sure that the keystones of her life are tragic and heartbreaking, but none of it changes the things she has done. None of it changes the people who will die if you don’t complete your mission.”

  His breath came out in a long sigh of annoyance. “I’m not a bleeding–heart,” he said. “Don’t forget, she’s the Ophanim. She controls the mutants through everyone’s dreams. If I kill her, there’s no guarantee that they’ll stop their siege. They may just keep attacking NorMec until they break through. Given time, I’m sure that I could learn how to direct them. But in the interim, we may lose control entirely. If that happens, I can’t promise that we’d ever get it back. Besides, she may be the only thing keeping them from attacking this base, and all the other cryogenic hives. Killing her may sign all of the WesMec survivors’ death warrants. But if I can heal her madness and pain, then maybe I can convince her to turn the destroyers away from our home.”

  There was a long pause. “You’re just trying to justify what you want to do,” said Zeta. “Don’t. Don’t ever be ashamed of kindness or mercy. But as hard as it seems with that pathetic thing in your arms, you need to do your job.”

  “I know my goddamn job,” he snapped, “don’t talk to me like that. Something more is going on here, and I don’t understand it. None of those men could have been the general, that’s impossible. So who or what is trying to convince her that they were, and why? If I can remove that thing from her memories, or at least lock it away where it can’t feed her delusions, then we might have a chance.”

  Time that was probably only a few seconds to her but felt like minutes to him stretched by. “I’ve waited so long to talk with you,” said Zeta. Even drawn out, he could hear the desolation in her voice. “The last thing I want is to fight with you now. But please, just understand that she is who she is. We all are.”

  He felt for the sackcloth face with the snout of his serpentine arm. “Then I have to give her the chance to be herself.”

  He clamped the jaws of the Snake around the needle, and pulled. It came out, and fell in the darkness. It hit the nanotube shell at their feet with a light ping. He prodded at the rough twine that crisscrossed the toy’s lips, and tugged its stitches free.

  “You have to realize the harm that you’re doing,” he whispered. “You have to stop them. Malachi and the people of NorMec aren’t the ones who did these things to you.” He pulled at the last stitch, and the thick thread came out in the Serpent’s mouth. It spat the piece of string to the side. “You’re safe now,” he said, “I won’t let that thing hurt you anymore.”

  He could feel its embroidered lips part beneath his touch. He took a breath. What would it say, after waking in the darkness? Would it understand?

  He felt something drip from his nose, and down the back of his throat. It was thick, and tasted of blood mixed with snot. Icy pain shot across his temples and sinuses as a white, incandescent glow blazed from the seams of the rag doll’s mouth.

  Tish pulled the transparent hairs of the stylus away from the painting. She shifted her weight from one knee to the other as she examined her work, and smiled. She had cleansed Matthew of the Clown, and returned his visage to that of her friend.

  One second later, he tore his arm off.

  For a few moments, his body lay at the bottom of the canvas, while his severed limb whipped across its surface like a demented cobra. Its appearance was in constant flux, changing in size, width, and color. Then, within an instant, he was on his feet again, his snake–arm flailing at his side. He was older though, and still aging. His hair grew whiter as it receded. Its strands were finer than before, almost like corn silk. His cheeks and chin sagged as crow’s feet, lines, and wrinkles etched their way across his painted skin. She watched in fascination, but also felt a little scared. How old was he going to be before he stopped? Sixty? Ninety? She looked at her brush. Could she possibly help him, in some way? She took a deep breath, and laid it on the floor. Marianne had said that she had tried, but had only made things worse.

  Footsteps echoed from the hallway, over the muffled cries of the klaxon. She whipped her head from side to side. There was nowhere to hide, apart from inside of the capsule with the dead Cyleb. The latch turned, and the door flew open.

  Her hair stood on end as a man in a bright cloak and silvery cassock strode into the room. He had what looked like a small scuba tank strapped to his back. Its mask covered the lower half of his face. It made a soft hissing noise as he breathed.

  She stared at him. He was handsome in a weird sort of way, but his arms were gross. They were bare, muscular, and covered in armored shells that wove in and out of his skin. She looked into his eyes. Their near–white, glistening irises reminded her of pearls. Even with the mask, his face was familiar. Her jaw dropped. She scuttled back, almost knocking over the flickering green laser.

  “Brother Asher?”

  He turned his opal eyes towards her, and cocked his head to the side. His cheeks sported a five o’clock shadow and someone had given him a bad, uneven haircut, but he was definitely the monk that had both resurrected and terrorized her. He looked well fed, and healthy. His formerly cracked and grimy skin seemed to g
low, as if he had finally taken a bath. She looked at the distended wasp sacs that ran down his neck and into the collar of his cassock. Her chest and throat felt tight, as if they were being squeezed. Was he going to take her apart with his nanowhatevers, right here and now?

  He said nothing as his pale eyes scanned the room. He walked towards her, but she realized that his true interest was Matthew. Without thinking, she pushed herself to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was soft and high, and trembled as it came from her lips. He looked into her eyes again, and she was suddenly aware of how naked and vulnerable she was. She swallowed, placed her legs apart, and balled her shaking hands into fists. “You can’t touch him,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

  Asher raised an eyebrow. Then he opened his sacs, and sang.

  Tish squeezed her eyes as tight as she could. Would it hurt, being chewed to pieces? Would she die right away, or would she feel every bite on her stomach and face until the robot bugs ate her brain? A whining drone, underscored by a rapid, clockwork ticking, filled the air. She screamed, and waited for the end.

  Nothing happened.

  She half opened one eye, and looked down. “No,” she said. “Please, you can’t!”

  His children had smothered the painting. They took their time, as if they had found their meal surprisingly delicious. Then they returned to Asher’s neck, their tiny bodies shining with a myriad of colors. They slipped into their subdermal cells, and the monk closed the folds of his skin around them. She stared at the canvas, and sobbed.

  Its cloth was bare.

  She took a step away from him, and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Why?” she asked. “You were supposed to be good. You were supposed to take care of us. What did he ever do to you?”

  He ignored her, and stepped up to the tank. “Stop,” she said. She grabbed onto his cloak, and tried to jerk him back. “Leave her alone!”

  He whirled, grabbed her neck by one hand, and slammed her against the glass. Her eyes bulged as she thrashed. She waited for him to choke the life from her, but he simply held her at bay as if she were an annoying puppy. All she could do was watch as he leaned over the side, and thrust his arm into the bubbling fluid.

  Then he tore the flashing, throbbing cable from the back of Marianne’s head.

  The amputee’s eyes flew open. She cried out from beneath her mask as she thrashed. Tish winced as the panicked, disorientated shriek came over her earpiece. She felt ashamed of her powerlessness, but what could she do? Her only hope was to pray that his wasps did not devour either of them as well.

  He pushed the barbed jack of the cable into the base of his skull. His fingers gripped the metal trim of the tank as his eyelids fluttered.

  The alarms from down the hallway stopped. “Announcement,” echoed a digitized, female voice. “Subterranean transport Foxtrot is charging its engines. Estimated time of departure from platform six is nine minutes and forty–five seconds.”

  Asher pulled the glowing tube from the top of his spine, and dropped it back into the tank. Marianne’s body lay at its bottom, shaking as if from a seizure.

  “Subterranean transport Foxtrot departing in T minus nine minutes.”

  The monk raised his head. He let go of Tish, and walked to the door. He stopped, and turned to look at her, as if truly seeing her for the first time. She felt her face grow warm, and turned away, wrapping her arms around her body.

  She heard a rustling noise followed by a clang, and then the sound of running footsteps on cement. She looked back over her shoulder.

  Asher had gone. His white, shining cloak and breathing gear lay on the floor.

  She stepped into the hallway. She peered into the darkness, but could see nothing beyond the light of the room. Far off, she heard the computer continue its countdown, followed by the faint ding of the elevator.

  She looked back to see Marianne’s scarred and battered face come to the surface. The Cyleb stared at the bare canvas. She said nothing, but Tish could see tears glistening in her one good eye.

  She went back inside, and closed the door.

  To be concluded…

  About the Author

  Tony LaRocca is a carbon–based life form, animator, occasional actor, U.S. Army veteran, blogger, karaoke crooner, electrician, and chronic doodler from Basking Ridge, New Jersey. He currently resides with his family in Queens, New York. Please visit him at www.EgotisticalProductions.com. He has lasagna.

  To any who have (cough) come across this book without purchasing it — except, of course, for promotional giveaways: If you have enjoyed reading it, may I suggest visiting Amazon and purchasing a copy, and/or perhaps leaving a review? Your tortured conscience and I thank you.

  Other Works

  Debris of Shadows Book I: The Lies of the Sage

  “This story is a breakneck ride through a dark landscape illuminated by flashes of lightning that slowly reveal a complex and surprising world. I can usually see where a story is going, but not this time.”

  “I was instantly imported into the old/new world and able to picture it perfectly with the detailed descriptions. This author can really paint a picture with words bringing you right into the story.”

  “While the environment in this story seems so unfathomable, LaRocca’s descriptive narrative takes you there without question, and with great emotion, drama, and suspense.”

  In the late twenty–first century, North America is a divided continent. NorMec is a nation of prosperity, while the West is a wasteland, ravaged by metallic insects that devour everything in their path.

  Alyanna Galbraith is one of NorMec’s most sought–after zhivoi–painters: artists who create living works of artificial intelligence. But when the enigmatic Cylebs take notice, she finds herself and her son trapped within a cybernetic world of imagination — one from which they may never escape.

  False Idols and Other Short Stories

  “LaRocca has fashioned a collection of sci–fi and fantasy stories that should delight lovers of the genre.”

  “I highly recommend this book to everyone who is a fan of science fiction short stories.”

  “Tony LaRocca thoroughly brings you into his stories and paints vivid pictures of worlds both foreign and familiar.”

  A man tortured by pre–programmed nightmares, a steampunk bull, a planet of deadly insects and the idols they create and worship, a nightmare world caught between dimensions, ancient rivalries, lost souls, reality–weaving angels, and an army of demonic chickens. Nine science fiction short stories so amazing they will make your temporal lobe spontaneously combust!