Cyrus said, “And so I’ve saved the best for last. Do you know about Solow?”
“Who?”
“Not who, what. The buzz at the Academy is that their policy geniuses are in secret talks with Anteros over a deal with the yetzers. It’s called the Solow Accords.”
“Where did you get such buzz?”
“From Judge Danaos. I eavesdropped on his typically disjointed, rambling thoughts when I brushed past him at the Academy. He wasn’t thinking in detail about it at the time, so I don’t have much, but clearly, someone is in talks with Anteros over a peace deal that would somehow include the yetzers.”
“A deal?” Volk repeated with incredulity. “With yetzers? What kind of deal could you possibly make with a yetzer? You can’t negotiate with a yetzer. Yetzers lie. That’s what they are, what they do. You can’t make peace with a lie. Yetzers have only one purpose: mankind’s complete submission to them, to the lie.”
“I know that and you know that, but according to what I picked up, the policy wonks at the Academy think that if they surrender half of the human world to the yetzers, they will leave the other half alone.”
“But they’re yetzers!” Volk said. “What part of evil demons don’t they understand?”
“Hey, I gave up trying to figure out these clowns a long time ago.”
“Well, that confirms it then. Anteros is back, and they are up to something big.”
Cyrus nodded and added, “There must be a connection between this Solow business and Ellen Veetal. I don’t know what, but there are no coincidences. Time is even shorter than I thought, V.”
“Agreed. Something is coming and coming fast. I’ll make sure Kohai is ready. But, C, you have got to let this Ellen Veetal matter go.”
“If she is a Swerver, then don’t you think we will need her?”
“We need you more. Say she is a Swerver. If finding out means you’re downdrafted to Earth to live as a mortal, what good could you possibly be to her, the world, or us? Saving the world is not in our job description, C. We eradicate yetzer scum and sow the seeds of love. That’s our job. The rest is out of our hands. You know what happens to cupids who get hurled down. They become hermits, go mad, or commit suicide. Usually in that order. Knowing what we know, trapped in a world that knows next to nothing is a lousy and lonely place to be, C.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll finish the damn match, and we’ll just have to play it as it comes.”
“Attaboy.” Volk lifted his glass and they clinked and drank. Volk wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “So why are you still clenching your brain cheeks?”
Cyrus grinned. “Why are you?”
17
Spitfire
“Okay Professor, show me what you’ve got.”
“Commander, I recommend you put on your goggles and stand back. Way back.”
Sett did as cautioned. Professor Hermes hitched his trousers, rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat, and pointed his shoulder-held, ruby-tipped canon at a nine-foot, growling Spleen Demon chained to a pole at the far side of the room. He aimed and fired—blam!
The demon wailed in ear-splitting agony as a sparkling red laser beam sliced across its body, severing it in two. The professor then proceeded to carve the monster into jigsaw-like pieces until it collapsed into a smoking heap; its decapitated, lizard-like head perched on top of its seared carcass like a trophy. The creature’s big, black eyes continued blinking until its forked, poisonous black tongue unfurled from its mouth and rolled to within a few feet of Commander Sett.
“Well?” Hermes said, clearly pleased with himself.
“Too slow,” Sett said.
“It’s a Spleen Demon,” the professor protested. “You have to be careful how you kill it. If any part of that slimy tongue touches you, you’re a goner. One drop of that acid will burn right through a cupid, and no armor can withstand it.”
“Look, we can’t send our men out there carrying a different weapon for every damn demon he meets. We need something that works on all of these bastards.”
“You can use this on any demon,” Hermes insisted.
Sett shook his head. “Too big and unwieldy. Shrink it to rifle size, then maybe.”
“We haven’t the technology.”
“Then back to the drawing board, Professor.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hermes grumbled. He turned and tromped over to the still-smoldering demon, mumbling curses under his breath.
Sett heard a crackle in the mini transceiver that he wore behind his ear.
“Commander Sett, do you read me?” said the voice.
Sett tapped the device with his forefinger. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“You have a visitor in your office.”
“Well, who is it?”
“I, ah, he won’t say, Sir.”
“Then tell him to get lost.”
“He said someone by the name of Anteros sent him.”
Sett instinctively reached for his gun, resting his hand on the leather holster.
“Anteros? Are you sure?”
“Sir, that was what he said, yes, Sir.”
“All right. Tell him I’ll be there shortly. And, Sergeant, keep this code nine for now. Not a word to anyone. Got it?”
“Roger that, Sir.”
Sett tapped off the device and then took another look at the diced Spleen Demon and its enormous black tongue. Beneath the unrolled appendage, the cement floor was dissolving amidst smoke and vapors.
“Professor,” he called out.
Hermes turned from his examination of the demon. “Yes, Commander?”
“This bugger’s tongue, what effect does it have on other demons?”
“Well, it depends on the demon and where it comes in contact. On the whole, though, I’d have to say none of those creatures would take very kindly to a tongue-lashing from a Spleen Demon.”
“Have you ever tried isolating its poison or acid, or whatever it is?”
“That’s messing with fire, Sir. I don’t think we have the instruments and safety procedures to deal with something so dangerous.”
“That nasty, huh? I like it. Get on it, Professor. See if you can extract its glands or synthesize that stuff. Turn it into some sort of aerosol or spray or something. Maybe a pellet we can shoot into the bastards, or something to tip our bullets.”
“I think I might be able to infuse the venom into this laser.”
“Still too big. I want something handheld.”
“A prototype to work from is all I’m saying,” Hermes rejoined, annoyed by the commander’s lack of understanding of the scientific method.
“Whatever then,” Sett said. “Just get on it. Time is short.”
“Yes, Sir. But even if I were able to manage such a thing, cupids would be in tremendous danger should even a drop of venom land on them. We’re damn lucky Spleen Demons can’t spit, or we’d be in a heap of trouble.”
“Then keep that all in mind while you work on it. Make this a top priority, and put as many technicians as possible on it.”
“But, Sir—”
“That’s an order.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You pull this off, Professor, and I’ll make sure you are appropriately rewarded. That new lab you’ve been begging for can become a reality. And, of course, Dean of Research and Development would have its perks as well.”
Hermes beamed. “Yes, Sir! I’ll keep you updated on our progress.”
“Good man.”
Sett exited and headed toward his office.
“Anteros, huh?” he muttered. “What the hell could those bastards be up to?”
18
Hamanaeus
A tall, dapper man with a perfectly trimmed black beard and briefcase in hand presented his card to Commander Sett.
Sett gave the visitor a soldierly once-over. He wondered why the guy was wearing sunglasses, and why he needed a cane. The man clearly wasn’t blind. Sett sniffed at the cologne-infused air, and grimaced.
He read from
the calling card. “Hamanaeus, Esquire. Well, Mr. Esquire, have a seat.”
The visitor smirked and pulled up a folding chair in front of Sett’s cluttered, steel-gray desk. He hooked his cane over the back of the chair, set his briefcase beside him on the floor, and sat down. Legs crossed and hands folded upon his knee, the stranger waited patiently as Sett reached into a drawer, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and poured three fingers into a dirty glass.
Sett glanced down at the card. “Says here, ‘Emissary for the Department of Anteros Inter-dimensional Relations, aka, DAIR.’ How darling. Well, sir, I’m going to be blunt with you. I don’t much care for suits, especially perfumed, girly-men in tailored suits bearing a smarmy smile. Furthermore, I think anyone representing the Anteros cult must be a nutjob. How do you like that?”
“I like frankness, Commander. That is why I’ve come to you.”
“What’s up with the sunglasses?”
“The light up here is…very bright. I’m not used to it.”
“How’d you get up here?”
“By disgronifier, of course.”
“I mean who let you in, smartass?”
“I was issued a permit through the Academy’s Office of Transdimensional Affairs.”
“Who at Transdimensional Affairs?”
Hamanaeus shrugged. “A celestial bureaucrat, I suppose. It doesn’t say.” He withdrew the stamped permit from his shirt pocket and handed it to Sett, who examined it.
Satisfied, but still suspicious, he flung it back and said, “What’s with your leg?”
“War injury.”
“What war?”
“The Civil War, of course. I was a young cadet at the time.”
“The civil war that Anteros started,” Sett snarled.
“As you wish,” Hamanaeus said, unoffended.
“All right, Esquire, what’s on your mind?”
“A business proposition.”
“I’m a soldier, not a businessman.”
“An outstanding commander who knows the value of good field intelligence.”
“Quit with the soft soap, Esquire, and I might let you out of here without my boot-print on your ass.”
Hamanaeus smiled patiently. “My people are well aware of the difficulties you are facing on the human plane. Things are not looking too promising. The fear demons have the upper hand and are gaining ground daily. Whatever you may think or believe about the Anteros movement—”
“Cult,” Sett interjected.
“As you wish,” Hamanaeus repeated genially. “We are on your side, and it is our belief that we can be of assistance to you in this righteous war.”
“What could you losers possibly know that we don’t know?”
“As you are aware, cupids are not the only entities that can penetrate the mortal domain. The Anteros Brotherhood have been doing the same for centuries—ever since we sought refuge there.”
“Ever since we kicked your hairy asses down there, you mean.”
Hamanaeus nodded again. “As you wish.”
“I know the stories,” Sett growled. “But I’ve been down to Earth on thousands of operations, and I’ve yet to run into one of you bastards.”
“Naturally, ever since the Anteros activists—”
“Fifth column traitors,” Sett corrected.
“—were outlawed and forced into exile, we have been understandably hesitant to come into contact with you or your mighty soldiers. Our peace-loving refugees know that you and your men would shoot first and ask questions not-at-all afterwards.”
“Spare me your victimhood propaganda. I fought in the Civil War that you pukes brought upon us. I saw for my own eyes what the Anteros Brotherhood stood for. I witnessed the fanatical savagery that they committed in the name of Anteros.”
“Times have changed, Commander. The Anteros Brotherhood renounced those strategies centuries ago.”
“Funny, I never got the memo.”
“With all due respect, Commander, if you hear me out, I think what I have to offer you may alter your opinion somewhat.”
“Screw my opinion, you plenipotentiary powder-puff. Either you are going to tell me something I don’t know or you aren’t, so get on with it.”
“Fine,” Hamanaeus said, unruffled. “There is a Swerver on Earth.”
“A what?”
“That’s right, Commander. An American. Her name is Ellen Veetal. Ring a bell?”
“Maybe,” Sett answered, knowing well that she was Cyrus’s latest objective. “But I’m no expert on so-called Swervers. Even if they exist, there is no historical case of us ever having been able to detect a Swerver’s presence until after the person had swerved. And even then, it has always been conjecture.”
“Miss Veetal, of course, hasn’t a clue she is a Swerver.”
“They never do, you dolt. Just like us.”
“Speak for yourself, Commander,” Hamanaeus replied smugly.
“Bullcrap. How the hell would you know such a thing?”
“That’s classified for now.”
Sett whipped out his gun and pointed it in Hamanaeus’s face. “Classify my demon duster between your beady eyes. This meeting is over unless you come clean.”
Hamanaeus looked into the barrel of Sett’s gun, and nodded. “During our long exile,” he said, “we learned how to capture and control the fear demons. We may not possess your technological wizardry, but we learned to adapt and find other ways to deal with the demons. Lacking your hard science, we perfected the soft. After all, stranded on Earth, we have been more vulnerable than you. We had to find a way to survive. Trial and error took a toll on us, but suffice it to say, we finally succeeded. I’ll be happy to share the details of our work with you at a later date, should you agree to work with us. I’m telling you that the fear demons are onto her, Commander, and they intend to stop her.”
Sett holstered his weapon, but he wasn’t ready to commit to any deal.
“Even if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t matter because one of our best cupids is matching up the Veetal woman as we speak. The demons won’t succeed.”
“It appears that I must remind you that a love made in Heaven can be bypassed by a love made on Earth. The demons are playing cupid, Commander.”
Hamanaeus grinned and leaned back, allowing his words to drop with a thud into the Commander’s cranium. He could tell by Sett’s eyes that his mind was scrambling like a soldier chasing a ricocheting grenade inside a pillbox.
“What are you talking about?” Sett said, coming up empty-handed. “The match came from the top, which means it is unalterable, and that this guy she’s being set up with is the one she is destined to marry.”
“You don’t say,” Hamanaeus replied wryly.
“I do say. And, as for Captain Cyrus, he may be a weirdo, but he’s also one of the best damn cupids I’ve ever known. He and I have our disagreements, plenty of them, but he’s a soldier’s soldier and as loyal and brave as they come. I’ll give him that much.”
“Ah,” Hamanaeus said. “Now we’re moving. Commander, the demons know that Cyrus knows who she is too.”
“Bull,” Sett said. “How would Cyrus know such a thing? He’s a cupid like me, and as you have already admitted, no one can know who the Swerver is.”
“Perhaps ‘know’ is not the correct word,” Hamanaeus conceded. “Suspects. He suspects that she is the Swerver. That is why he continues to hesitate with the match. Unlike you, he understands that to interfere would mean disqualifying her. The point of a Swerver is true love; a love made without any assistance or interference from a cupid. The Swerver conquers his or her own fear demons. A Swerver cannot have a cupid. If Captain Cyrus interjects himself into the couple’s affair, he annuls the woman’s status as a Swerver. It could be a generation before another Swerver comes around, and by that time, it will be a generation too late.”
Sett chewed on Hamanaeus’s words. “I suppose that would explain Cyrus’s waffling,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Ha
manaeus. “But hell, I just figured he was being extra cautious, making sure this match was a total clincher. He’s a perfectionist. Annoys the crap out of me, but he is who he is. He said he thought this match was some sort of test, and so I assumed he was just dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”
Hamanaeus said, “The fear demons are very near to tipping the scales to their favor, and victory is so close that they can taste it. A Swerver now would stem the flood of darkness and give the humans one last chance to wake up and save themselves. The fear demons don’t want that. They know that if Cyrus interferes in any way, the Swerver will be disqualified—no swerve—and they finish off the humans once and for all.”
“And if the humans go, we go.”
“Exactly. You may hate what Anteros stands for, but if human love is finished, so is everyone who exists on account of it. So, you see, it is in our mutual self-interest that we work together on this.”
Sett grimaced at the thought. “Surely Eros knows about the Swerver.”
Hamanaeus sensed the commander’s desperation and had to stifle a chuckle. “Since when does Commander Sett believe in Eros?”
“I don’t believe all the mystical gibberish that surrounds him,” Sett answered testily, “but I do believe in smoke and mirrors. Some Wizard of Oz-like robe is pulling the levers and strings up here. Someone is signing my paychecks, so to speak.”
“That being the case, then maybe your Mr. Oz doesn’t have the faintest idea about the true identity of Ellen Veetal.”
“Probably not,” Sett allowed, his disdain for the Academy’s judges in the forefront of his mind. “But should Cyrus do something stupid and disobey his orders, the old coots in the black robes are going to give him his shipping orders, and blast his cupid ass down to mortal moron land.”
“Right,” Hamanaeus said. “And then?”
“Replace him with someone else to finish the job.”
“And who might that be?” Hamanaeus said, cocking an eyebrow.
“Me, most likely. And then I’d be in the same lousy position Cyrus is in. Matching a Swerver.”
Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Book 1: Hell-bent (Shooting Eros Series) Page 10
