The Revelator

by D W Bell

  Out in the living room the sheik’s bodyguards each chose a couch and began to settle in for the night. Looking around in disgust at his unaccustomedly small accommodations and the powder blue McMansion decor the larger man heaved himself horizontal, shoes and all, onto his chosen sofa and reached for the tv remote. “Dude, we should have stayed in Vegas.”

  The other man grunted his agreement as he sat quietly polishing his sword. It had been a strange, whirlwind trip around the states, but now it was time to head home. “See if Real Housewives is on.”

  ―

  The sheik awoke with a groggy, phlegmy cough. His body ached and his head pounded as if he had spent all day with Boudreaux’s coffee service again. Remembering where he was and his intentions, having stewed and simmered all night, his revenge on the incompetent staff of this hillbilly heaven could now be served in the cold light of dawn. He gently peeled back the covers to preserve the flowers and swung his legs heavily over the side of the bed to thud onto the floor, searching for his slippers. It was then he saw his meticulous care for the roses had been in vain, the petals were strewn all over the suite like an explosion of hopelessly romantic confetti.

  He strode naked, save for his heavily embroidered slippers, across the room to the lavatory for the morning eliminations. The pounding in his head seemed to lesson when he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, so he did, not caring if his stream fell in the bowl or on the ground. The negligent maids would see to that too. As he threw on a hotel robe and searched for his cellphone to send his retainers after some aspirin there was a soft knock at the bedroom door.

  “Enter,” he growled, hoping it was the head of housekeeping or some other cowering hotel luminary he could chew on in this laughable excuse for 5-star accommodations. He didn’t bother to close his robe.

  “Assalamu Alaikom, master.” It was just the swordsman, how disappointing. He was already dressed in his black suit with the dark sunglasses hung in his front pocket by the earpiece. Quickly scanning the bedroom, he eyed the rose petals scattered everywhere, “You slept well, I trust?”

  The sheik scowled at his man, “Why are you disturbing me before you are summoned?” He jabbed his fingers with commanding authority towards the espresso machine as he slumped down on the hotel room’s loveseat and rested his pounding head in his hands.

  “A package arrived for you just now, marked urgent.” The swordsman spoke softly so as not to further aggrieve his master beyond the unjust screeching of the espresso machine. He prepared the cup to perfection, practiced as he was, and presented it to his ailing patron to pacify the pounding in his head. A brief, quizzical look crossed his face as he was confronted with his master’s open robe, but he quickly hid it behind the mask of a passive servant.

  “What bloody package?” He hadn’t noticed his bodyguard’s inadvertent ogle but flipped his robed closed as the help he had intended to intimidate and terrorize with his savage nakedness were not yet in attendance. The soft whoosh of the heavy robe flapping closed felt a bit more breezy against his nether regions than normal, but he barely registered it in his sluggish and angry state.

  With a hesitant, nervous smile the swordsman reached into his inside left breast pocket and retrieved a small heart-shaped box attached to a square pink envelope and passed it reverently to the sheik.

  He snatched it irritably and tossed the box aside, assuredly just a feeble apology from the hotel, and read the beautifully yet masculinely inscribed letters centered perfectly on the square envelope:

  XOXO-

  Boudreaux

  ―

  “Hell’s bells, boy! Is that original recipe or extra crispy?” Boudreaux stood over Smith in the topflight trauma center contained within the slaughterhouse. He clucked his tongue disapprovingly as he assayed the damaged goods, “If you were too stupid for face work before, you definitely ain’t worth a shit now.”

  Remarkably, although exceedingly painful, Smith’s burns were mostly superficial with no damage to major organs. He retained his eyes, only saved with the rest of him by his comical leap from Vinestalker’s attic window, and would most likely recover full range of movement in all his limbs once the broken ribs healed, courtesy of his tree arrested landing, and the crispy scar tissue became pliable; such was the skill and funding of the medical team. Nevertheless, Boudreaux was right, he was much too scarred to blend in with any population, making him all but useless except for the most extreme, low-budget missions.

  He had seen them training. They all limped or were visibly maimed in some way. The only ones that looked physically sound had wild, vacant eyes and were watched closely by extra guards with stun batons, not that he had ever actually witnessed them being brought into play.

  On the killing floor they were mostly employed as glorified tackling dummies when a particular training evolution was considered too dangerous to risk a healthy asset in the victim role. He had overheard the instructors referring to the poor bastards as the Away Team or Redshirts, being a dual reference to expendable Star Trek characters and football tackling dummies, and he was pretty sure the cleaning crew that had sanitized his life the night of his abduction was composed of these men. Fearing the worst, Smith lay quietly, submissively awaiting the pronouncement of his fate, the realization of his fears.

  Boudreaux sighed and shook his head in what almost appeared to be genuine concern, “I can’t believe they brought him back like this. Don’t those knuckleheads know that compromised assets are to be burned and abandoned?” The tension was palpable as the medical personnel exchanged nervous glances, eyes darting from one to the other. It wasn’t until his assistant Lilith let out a tiny titter of laughter that he realized what he had said began to laugh as well, “Well, I suppose they got that first part right.” The rest joined in with gallows humor giggles now that they knew that it was safe. Smith stared up at the ceiling, straight into space.

  All hilarity instantly ceased as Boudreaux cleared his throat and turned cold and businesslike. “Since the asset has been returned, is it salvageable or serviceable in any respect? What’s the prognosis, doc?”

  A white coat and stethoscope stepped from behind his protective wall of scrubs and tapped away at a digital tablet with shaking hands, “As you’ve said, sir, the asset will no longer be viable for missions containing the possibility of contact with the public due to the heavy scarification throughout.” The man’s voice grew stronger as he went over the chart, taking comfort in familiar territory of test results, “Beyond that, initial extremity tests have shown strong indications of a full and complete recovery of mobility and movement.” He even looked up and smiled with a joke, “Quite remarkable really, like it never happened, except half his face is melted,” and immediately regretted it as his eyes found Boudreaux’s and a chill filled the room.

  “Indeed.” Boudreaux stood in contemplation at Smith’s bedside, eyes continuously scanning the body in the bed from top to bottom. Finally, the trademark smirk and counterfeit tone of joviality as he addressed the scorched flesh under the sheets. “Well, sport, not exactly the outcome we had planned, but once again you got it done, didn’t you? The secondary objective with all the cannabis rigmarole is a lost cause, all the subtleties get a little muddled when the whole place blows up, but that’s a cost of doing business, I suppose.”

  John shifted uncomfortably trying not to wince knowing any sign of weakness, even in his physically compromised state, would seal his fate and the abattoir would briefly relive its original purpose in the disposing of his remains. Steeling himself, Smith turned his head to lock eyes with Boudreaux, his gaze hard and steady.

  “Ha! There’s my boy!” A pat to the shoulder elicited a sharp, painful intake of breath, but Boudreaux ignored it. “Once more unto the breach, shall we? Get some rest and the doc here will tune you up and get you back online. You’ll be back fighting the good fight in no time.” He gave Smith another fatherly pat with a wicked smile, relishing the gasp of pain as he turned to go, nervous doctor in tow.
“Get him on his feet and redshirt him. I think we can get a few more low-level missions out of him before he’s a total loss.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll adjust his treatment in accordance with the downgrade.” The doctor tapped away at his tablet for a few seconds as they walked, making the necessary changes to Smith’s file.

  Boudreaux lit one of his slim cigars as they passed through the hermetic seal of the oxygen-rich burn ward and smiled, “Waste not, want not, doctor.”

  ―

  “Boudreaux…” The sheik looked puzzled at the signed envelope and then interpreted the X’s and O’s, “Subhanallah! We’ve run the cunning old fox to ground!”

  Giddy with the prospect of his unexpected victory, the sheik tore open the envelope to reveal a video disk nestled within the fine stationary. Putting two and two together and deciphering that the contents of the disk may be libidinous in nature, hopefully a sneak preview of his prize before her arrival, he banished his retainer from the bedroom and prepared the in-suite entertainment system, with Bose surround sound, to access his gift and accept what could only be Boudreaux’s acquiescence in acknowledgement of defeat.

  Reveling in the moment and wishing all to be perfect for the show, the sheik grunted from exertion as he yanked the couch through the forgotten rose petals into position as the best seat in the house of his theatre for one. Satisfied, and excited, he poised to leap over the back of the sofa and land in its comfy confines, but then reminded himself he wasn’t a teenager anymore and stepped around to the front of his makeshift opera box. He did give a little hop as he slumped to the cushions with enough force to blow his robe open again, but he barely noticed as the title scene came up on the large plasma screen.

  Die Walküre

  The first strains of Wagner’s opera filled the suite with sound as the screen went green and grainy, a night vision camera booting up it seemed. The sheik licked his lips in barely contained anticipation, “My goodness, Boudreaux! You certainly do have a flair for the dramatic.”

  The screen resolved itself to a very sharp image as the software kicked in and the camera slowly rose with the rising string section of the opera. The lens panned the green-tinged darkness, showing the interior of a hotel suite, his suite. The sheik’s face shifted from gloating victor to uneasy confusion as he recognized his sleeping form nestled snugly under the petal-formed heart in the bed across the room.

  Cold fear twisted the pit of his stomach as he watched the camera move across the room, made more horrible as it seemed to glide in concert with the music, and fill the video frame with a close-up of his sleeping, bearded face, mouth snoring agape. The image hovered in a slow orbit giving his dozing face a nauseatingly slow spin, and he watched his features begin to stir from slumber. Just as his eyes began to flutter open, the image was suddenly engulfed and obscured by a bright green fog disorienting the sheik, causing him to lurch forward in his robe as if he could will the forbidding smoke away.

  The cloud cleared quickly on its own with perfect special effects timing, as if driven away by powerful fans, but it was immediately apparent that the work of the vapor had been complete. The sheik’s face now rested completely comatose, neck contorted and an eye half open rolled back in his head. Dead to the world.

  In shock he leapt up and spun around to stare in fear at the bed, half expecting to see his senseless body still swaddled there, but he was here and at the mercy of the unfolding opera to ascertain what had been done to him.

  He sat on the floor in front of the couch and stared fearfully up at the glowing screen, rocking slowly as he wrapped his arms around himself like the self-hug of a frightened child. The image flew across the suite and stopped with the sliding glass balcony access perfectly framed. The camera hovered there, waiting, until a shadowy form could be seen flying through the sky toward the private balcony. Just as the shape became recognizable as humanoid the score switched seamlessly to the opening of Act III, Walkürenritt; “The Ride of the Valkyries.”

  ―

  “Cue Valkyrie. Camera drone is up and recording. Subject is gassed and gone.” The two men worked in perfect harmony, the rhythm of their rapid keystrokes almost a song unto itself.

  “Valkyrie airborne and inbound. Make sure to hit all the marks and angles. It’ll make editing much easier later. Let’s get it in one take.” His speech was accented by the ever-present crunch of snacks, but, as always, both men were strictly business when it came to the mission.

  “Roger Dodger. Cracked the door code. Open Sesame.” The tech smiled to himself as he briefly halted his frantic typing to sip at his energy drink, he loved this game. “Balcony ingress is clear. Valkyrie is cleared for approach.”

  “Acknowledged. Beginning my run. Tally-ho!”

  ―

  Freya flew through the air as if she were on wires, which, of course, she was. The boys in the engineering lab had developed some very powerful and exceedingly quiet drones for use as pack mules for mission resupply runs and optional equipment drops should the need arise, but it wasn’t long before calculations revealed that multiple drones running in tandem, utilizing swarm software borrowed from the smaller surveillance drone lab, could lift and fly a human payload at a respectable velocity with a reasonable level of safety. The flying wires anchored to the belly of the drones hooked to each hip point of a standard theatrical somersault harness allowing for all manner of acrobatic maneuvers. Freya was the first to use the technology in this way, so the engineers geeked out a bit and added a few dramatic flourishes to enhance the visuals. An angel must have her plumage.

  To her credit, aware of the digital audience and knowing the importance of this maiden voyage of the technology and her mission as a whole, she flew the shit out of that thing. She flipped and soared like a beautiful bird of prey, relishing the cool caress of the night air as it clawed possessively at her scantily clad body, closing her tearing eyes as she wheeled through steep turns enhanced by centrifugal force. She was amazing to watch, a glorious spectacle streaking across the heavens.

  Chapter 16

  “Okay, we doing this?” His voice wavered slightly with nervousness and excitement as he flew the drone-borne Freya in on approach.

  “Shit yeah! Camera is set. This is going to look amazing!” With all in readiness he rested his head on his fists and stared intently at the video feed, partly not to spoil it with an accidental keystroke and partly overcome with the idea of the thing.

  “Yes, sir. Hold what you got. I’m bringing her in hot for full canopy deployment. Cable release in 3…2…1, release!” He practically slammed the key as if it were mechanically connected to the harness, rather than just a digital command, and immediately twisted, chair squealing in protest, to watch his partner’s monitor, silently praying he hadn’t muffed the timing.

  ―

  Freya straightened up and flew right as she neared the target building with her drone escorts. By nature of the building’s design, she would have to use the momentum of her flight to swing out and away from the drones to land in the target balcony. Steeling herself for the untethered portion of the flight plan, she was ready when the drones suddenly reversed thrust and stopped short, rocketing her forward in a powerful, rising arc, her body posed and streamlined not as Superman, but as a boyishly yet feminine Peter Pan. The metallic snick of the harness release was almost inaudible over the rushing air around her, but it coincided perfectly with the apex of her momentous thrust sending her diving powerfully towards her landing zone, still posing for the cameras despite the imminence of certain, crashing death.

  She saw the tiny red light floating in the dark suite as she streaked like an arrow to the target. The plan had been for her to deploy her canopy just over the balcony, float to touch down just inside the railing, tuck and roll through the open portal to scrub the last bit of momentum, and pop to her feet perfectly on the mark directly in front of the camera.

  Quite an impressive entrance to be sure, but Freya had decided to take advantage of the aesthetics of
her custom flying rig and really give the boys a treat. She was beginning to develop an unhealthy reputation for mission improvisation, but she knew Boudreaux’s love of theatrics, and this little stunt could redeem and even endear her to him.

  She heard the insistent tone of her altimeter, indicating it was time to deploy the chute. She ignored it with a devil-may-care grin and began her personal countdown inside her head.

  ―

  “Nailed it! Flawless release.” The video tech reached back and clapped his partner on the back as they sat enthralled by the wireless trapeze act playing out on the monitor before them. A fearless plummet that she made seem like a controlled swoop.

  “Wait…” Both men panicked when the window of time for the safe arrested landing passed by without deployment. “Shit! Chute failure. No system faults detected. All components are green for go. I don’t get it!”

  “Ha! She’s about to get it. I hope the hotel has a big-ass squeegee for the windows. Damn shame, but this is gonna get messy!”

  “Man, I can’t watch… Fuck it, put it up on the big screen. Hurry!” A couple of keystrokes and both men were staring in morbid anticipation at the large plasma screen mounted on the wall above their workstations.

  ―

  At just the right moment, on her terms, Freya pushed the button. She was only yards away from the balcony railing and diving at breakneck speed when the pop and whoosh of the deploying canopy billowed out behind her, yanking her upright with bruising force. She had braced for the arresting jolt and now prepared herself to absorb the shock of a hard, fast landing. Feeling the moment was right, she pulled the extra ripcord the engineers had installed to deploy the light-up angel wings she was to have floated gracefully down from the heavens with for the sake of the cameras.

  ―

  She hit the railing hard, but stuck the landing, crouched in a ball and gripping the banister with iron claws like a gargoyle, angel wings maximally unfurled against the force of her approach, the lighting system sparking and shorting as components tore under the strain, some small feathery sections even limned in flame. Like a beautiful fallen angel crashing down to hell. As she felt all the warring gravitational forces settle, Freya slowly raised her head and smiled directly into the camera.