by Tom Abrahams
Phil knelt before him, rubbing his back.
“Enoch was a man,” said Phil. “He was a good man who traveled the world and saw good and evil. He was a religious guy. He saw things that were of this world and things that weren’t. There was a book written about him. Some people think he didn’t exist. Some think his life was allegorical. The book got some things right. It got others wrong. It—”
Uriel rolled her eyes. She interrupted Phil by putting a flat hand in front of his face. She stepped closer to Zeke. “Enough with the history lesson. We can do that later. Bottom line? We’re angels. Sort of.”
Still trembling, only half present, Zeke lifted his head and tried to focus. The world was spinning. All he could manage was a single, one-syllable word.
“Angels?”
“Yes,” said Phil.
“We need to wrap this up,” said Gabe. “They’re gonna see us here.”
“So you’re dead too?” asked Zeke. “But people can see you. Can they see me? Of course they can see me. They can see me?”
“That’s three questions,” said Uriel. She counted off the answers with her fingers. “First one? Sort of. Not really, but yes. Second, yes. Third, yes.”
“Are all of the Watchers in…at…with Pedro? Are they all part of your team?”
Phil shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Every once in a while, a Watcher goes on a mission and doesn’t come back. They disappear and so do their weapons.”
Uriel flexed. “Especially if their weapon is their body.”
Zeke rolled his eyes at her, then asked Phil, “Where do they go?”
“They stay wherever Pedro sent them,” answered Phil. “Maybe they get tired of the grind. Maybe they find a cause to which they connect.”
“That’s allowed?” asked Zeke.
“No,” said Uriel. “They’re rogue. They’re breaking the rules.”
“Pedro can’t stop them?”
“Sheesh,” said Gabe. “We’re going to be here for eternity if we keep answering questions. Enough.”
“Pedro doesn’t venture outside his territory,” said Uriel. “He stays put. The only way a Watcher goes back is when he’s ‘killed’. And if a rogue Watcher chooses the right situation, that’s unlikely to happen. The longer he stays rogue, the more powerful he becomes, the more influence he has over the imbalance of good and evil. Typically, it’s going to take another Watcher to find them and bring them back.”
“Or send them back,” said Phil.
“What about the weapons?” asked Zeke. “What happens to them?”
Phil shrugged. “They become the stuff of legend. Usually.”
“Usually?”
Gabe tensed. “We really should go.”
Phil held up a hand, stalling Gabe. “You’ve heard of the Bajiaoshan, the giant fan that creates whirlwinds?”
“No,” said Zeke.
“The Pasha? It’s a lasso.”
“No.”
“What about the Kalevanmiekka?” Phil asked. “It’s the Finnish sword.”
“Nope.”
“Sheesh,” said Uriel. “You’ve been living under a rock. What about all those books in your apartment?”
“They weren’t for me,” said Zeke, unable to restrain the harsh edge to his tone.
“All of those things are Watchers’ weapons,” said Paul. “They find their way into the mythology of every culture. But they’re very real.”
All of this was too much to digest. Gabe was right; Zeke didn’t need all of this thrown at him right now—Watchers, rogue Watchers, books, mythical weapons, Enoch, the undead. But he did have one last question.
“So what is all of this about?” asked Zeke, taking a step back from the trio. “Why are we here? What does any of this have to do with angels? And Li…and the Badlands and…everything? Who is Pedro?”
“That’s a bunch of questions,” said Uriel. “As for Pedro, that’s complicated. But the bottom line is it’s all about redemption, Zeke.”
“Redemption?”
“We have got to go,” said Gabe. “There are three Marines headed from that watering queue. They’re coming this way. This could get messy.”
Zeke glanced at his body again. Countless more questions ran through his mind, and he wanted answers to all of them.
Something in his gut had told him the world was off-balance from the moment he’d seen the Horde in his rearview mirror giving chase. His wounds had been too severe. He’d known it. And when he’d awaken in the cantina with those grave injuries all but healed, he’d known it. When there was ice in the glasses and nobody knew who the Tic was or who the Overseers were, he’d known it.
Yet he’d also believed, deep within the recesses of his consciousness, his soul hadn’t found a resting place. Racing. Searching. Aching redemption. And he’d never once considered the possibility he was dead. The truth was there all along and he didn’t see it. Uriel was right when she’d told him he was asking the wrong questions.
Seeing his body here, dangling at the end of a chain, crystallized all of that buried supposition. He was dead. The Overseers had killed him. The Tic had likely tipped them off.
Yet here he was, his heart beating, his body sweating, his adrenaline pumping. He was back in that same place where his natural life had ended. These angels had brought him here for redemption. They were giving him a chance to right his wrongs. A strange sense of comfort washed over him in the fraction of a second it took for him to process all of these things, this new understanding of the world around him and how he fit in. This was the proverbial second chance.
He stepped forward, between the Watchers and the trio of Marines marching toward them with their weapons drawn. Each of them had an M27 pulled tight to his shoulder. They were shouting commands.
In a swift series of seamless, skillful moves born of someone with far more practice than he, Zeke drew his revolver from his waist, raised it, leveled it, braced himself, and pulled the trigger.
A blast of energy pulsed from the weapon with a whoomp, expanding outward. The ground vibrated, warbling the air. Its barrel lifting upward, the weapon kicked in his hand, but his aim was true, at least as true as it needed to be.
The trio of Marines was lifted off the ground and spun awkwardly up and backward. They rose, tumbling head over feet, their limbs flailing, until they fell. Their weapons clattered and snapped. Clouds of dust rose into the air, marking the spots where their now twisted bodies had landed.
Incredibly, Zeke stood his ground against the recoil. He looked at his feet to see thin skid marks leading forward from his boots in the dirt that coated the pavement. He’d slid back six inches, no more, and had kept his balance.
He looked back at the Watchers, all of whom had large grins plastered on their faces. Uriel winked and blew him a kiss.
“Now that you know you’re dead,” she said, “the rules are different.”
“That is to say,” added Phil, “there aren’t any rules.”
Zeke looked at the gun. It glowed blue as it had before. “I’ve got two shots left.”
“Best not waste ’em,” said Uriel. “Let’s go. You lead the way.”
“I’ve got more questions,” said Zeke.
“They’ll be plenty of time to get them answered later,” said Gabe.
“Right,” said Zeke. “Redemption.” After the blue glow disappeared from his weapon, Zeke tucked it back into his waist.
“There is one thing you should know before we head to the Tic hideout though,” said Phil.
“Yeah?”
“Since you’re already dead, you can’t die.”
“What happens, then?”
The three Watchers exchanged glances and Uriel answered, “If your physical form gets offed, you go back to Pedro’s.”
“That’s it? It’s like a game? You lose and you go back to the start?”
“Not exactly. Once you get offed, you can’t come back here.”
Zeke tilted his head to one side.
; “This is your one shot to set things right,” Uriel explained. “You don’t do it now, you won’t ever get to do it again.”
Chapter Seventeen
Li tightened the belt around her waist and sighed. She wore the gear of a TMF Marine, down to the boots and the tactical belt. She looked like part of the monolith, the expansive collective of well-trained peacekeepers who were as adept at ending life as they were sustaining it.
Frederick and Archibald insisted that if she were to accompany a team of TMF Marines back to the underground compound in which the Tic had tortured her and held her hostage, she would have to blend. Although she’d agreed, she was glad there was no mirror in the room. Li didn’t want to see herself as a Marine. That was too much. She was never one for uniforms, never one to broadcast who she truly was, which was why being a spy fit her so perfectly.
Li was in a room on the third floor of the Fascio. Frederick had led her there himself. The third floor was full of offices and bureaucratic niceties. This room, it appeared, was for small meetings, containing a conference table and six chairs. A large monitor decorated one wall, split into a multi-display of security cameras on the perimeter of the building. On the opposite wall was a cherrywood sideboard topped by a bowl filled with engineered or genetically modified fruit. There was a cluster of bananas, a pair of bright red apples, and an orange. Next to it was a silver tray with four leaded glasses atop it. Adjacent to the sideboard sat a large keg of water, a tap at the front.
Li moved across the room to the keg. She noticed the water was vibrating from a low hum at this end of the room. She carefully approached the keg, reverent in her movements, and placed her palm on the side of the barrel-shaped glass container. She spread her fingers apart on the glass, sensing the vibration and feeling the hum.
The keg was cold, the glass wet with condensation. This was refrigerated water. No doubt about it.
Despite working in a Tic bar, living with a bootlegger, being a spy for the highest levels of Overseer government, among other things, Li couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a sip of cold water. Room temperature, sure. Even hot water wasn’t as much of a delicacy. But cold water was something altogether different.
She reluctantly pulled her hand from the glass and eyed the tumblers on the sideboard. She rubbed her wet thumb and fingers together. Her eyes danced between the tap on the front of the glass keg, the shimmering surface of the water inside, and the empty glasses inviting her to partake of the rare treat.
Li leaned over and picked up a glass. It was heavy in her hand. She drew it to the tap. With her other hand, she gripped the tab atop the tap’s nozzle and was about to turn it open when a knock at the door startled her.
Spinning in time to see the door opening, a portly man dressed in fine clothes a size too small entered the space. A knowing smile spread across his cherubic features when his gaze fell to her hand on the unopened tap.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said. “Please, fill your glass.”
She appraised his appearance. He was wearing purple, and upon closer inspection, the clothes were more like two sizes too small. It was as if he’d put them on and then inflated himself to the popping point. His hands looked soft and swollen, his face clean shaven, assuming he shaved. There was a cynical quality about him despite the youthful glow of his skin.
He waddled a few steps closer to her, shutting the door behind him. He motioned with his hands for her to pour the glass. “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “You’ve earned a glass of cool refreshment, don’t you think? Of anyone in the protectorate, I’m the one to tell you it’s okay to drink.”
Then she knew who he was. He was Louis Donne, the man in charge of water for the city-state. He’d risen to his position through nepotism and wasn’t well-liked. Commander Guilfoyle protected him, though she wasn’t quite sure how they were related.
He’d come to power after Li went undercover in the Tic, so she’d never gotten a firsthand assessment of the man. Everything she’d learned about the Overseers during her time undercover was second, third, or fifth hand, all rumor and conjecture. But everybody knew who Louis was, if not by appearance then by reputation.
“You’re Louis,” she said, removing her hand from the tap. She held the glass. The air in the room suddenly felt lacking. She tried sucking in a deep, calming breath. His presence made her deeply uncomfortable.
“And you’re Adaliah Bancroft,” said the lieutenant. A low belch escaped his mouth as he spoke. Cheeks vibrating with the baritone of the burp, his face flushed. He pulled a closed fist to his mouth. “I apologize. I had a large breakfast,” he explained. “More of a fine dinner, actually. I’m not sure it’s agreeing with me so early in the day.”
Li gulped. What was he doing here? What did he want?
A waft of foul air that smelled like a cross between stale coffee and lemons hit her nose and she winced. Louis must have noticed the sour look on her face. The rose color of his cheeks shaded darker.
“Get yourself some water and take a seat,” he ordered.
“I’m okay,” she said, moving to return the glass to its tray.
His expression tightened. “That’s not a request, Adaliah. Pour me a glass too, would you?”
Louis gripped the back of a chair and rolled it out from under the table. He shuffled his feet, plopped into the seat, and used his heels to scoot himself forward until his belly touched the table. Elbows thunking onto the table, he drummed on its laminate surface with his palms, playing pretend drums. At the far end of the room, security images flickered on the wall-mounted monitor.
Li turned from him without acknowledging the command. She squeezed the tap and turned. Water splashed into her glass, which grew cold in her hand. When the tumbler was full, she turned off the tap and delivered the glass to the lieutenant.
“Thank you.” Louis raised the glass in a toast and then gulped like an infant with a sippy-cup. The man appeared enraptured with the drink, as though in the moment there was nothing else in this world, or any other, that could draw his attention from the invaluable commodity.
When he’d finished the glass and set it back onto the table, he drummed his palms again. Li poured herself half a glass and found a seat as far from the lieutenant as she could.
Louis stopped drumming. He spread his fingers wide on the table like a child about to trace them. “Adaliah Bancroft,” he said, testing the sound of her name. “You’re thinner than I expected. I’ve heard tales of your beguiling beauty, the soft angles of your face.”
Where is he going with this? she thought.
“I know about this Tic raid,” he went on. “I know Frederick and Archibald are hoping you can give them their smoking gun, so to speak. So when I say you’re the face that launched a thousand ships, it’s not hyperbole,” he said.
A condescending smile, the kind she’d seen before on powerful men, spread across his face.
“That’s correct,” said Li. “But it’s more specific than just Greek. You’re referring to Helen of Troy. It was her beauty, and her kidnapping, that started the war between Sparta and Troy. She was the daughter of Zeus and Leda. And her legend is just that, it’s mythology.”
Louis nodded. He lifted his index finger and wagged it at her. “You’re the reader,” he said. “I know this about you. Old books, right? The kind of stories not acceptable to the protectorate, yes?”
Li shrugged. Her half-empty glass of water was untouched. How did he know about her books?
“Tales of intrigue,” said the lieutenant, “subversive allegories, stories of military heroism. There’s even one on your shelf about a famous woman spy.”
“You could say famous spy,” said Li. “There’s no need to add the qualifier to it.”
Where had he gotten his information? She noticed the wall display flip from one set of images to another.
“You’re right,” he said, lowering his head in deference for a moment. “But I only use the qualifier because you’re a woman spy.”
The lieutenant pushed back from the table and rubbed his hands on his pants so fast Li wondered if he might spark a fire.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m aware. You’re going back from whence you came, to the Tic torture chamber. Somehow you convinced the twin conspirators, Frederick and Archibald, that returning there with valuable resources was a good idea.” He waved a hand. “You’ve got time. The team is prepping for your mission.”
“Conspirators?”
“The two of them are always working to consolidate power,” he said, sighing. “But that’s an unrelated story and I need not digress. Back to your questions. Ask them again.”
“Why are you here? What do you want? And how do you know about the mission?”
Louis stared at her before answering. It was long enough that Li shifted uncomfortably in her chair and took a sip of the water. It was cool in her mouth, not cold, having sat at room temperature for several minutes now.
“That’s three questions,” Louis said. “I’ll take them in order. Is that acceptable?”
Li nodded. Setting the glass down, she gave him her full attention. It was unlikely that he’d answer her questions honestly. More than what he said, she wanted to study his body language.
“This is a meet and greet,” he began. “I’ve heard so much about you, Adaliah. Your reputation precedes you. That the protectorate Overseers are content to let you keep contraband in your apartment says something about the esteem with which they hold you and your value. I had to meet you.”
There were always signs someone was lying. Tells. The most important of which, comparing current to typical behavior, wasn’t relevant here. Li didn’t know him and had nothing with which to compare his tone of voice, his nonverbal cues, and his tics.
She could say he hadn’t changed his demeanor since entering the room. What he’d just told her was consistent with how he’d behaved during the entirety of their encounter. He hadn’t tightened his body, pulled his legs underneath him, or hidden his hands. The man had appeared relaxed the entire time, save his embarrassment after belching.
