Without turning to look Volk said, “You’re late, Mr. Crusoe.”
Commander Sett stomped over to him. Volk took one look at the commander, and laughed. Sett was covered in muck.
Sett said, “The dolts back at the disgronifiers unfolded me over a quicksand pit.”
“Maybe they did it on purpose.”
“I didn’t see you at the pod station, wiseass. How long have you been waiting?”
“Awhile. I decided to go for a swim.”
“With your clothes on?”
“I’m bashful,” Volk said. “I didn’t want any of the native girls to see me naked.”
“The island is uninhabited, moron. And they couldn’t see you even if it were.”
“Yeah, well, you never know who is watching you these days. Right, Sett?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s why you chose this island to meet. It wasn’t for the beautiful sunsets.”
Sett didn’t reply to the assertion. “Hold this,” he said, handing Volk his ivory-handled demon duster. He jogged towards the shoreline and dove into the surf.
A minute later Sett returned, the muck rinsed from his dripping uniform. Volk handed him back his gun. Sett gave it a quick check and then took a seat on the log beside Volk.
“So, why meet here?” Volk asked.
“I thought you could use a holiday.”
“A Hawaiian five-star hotel is a holiday, Sett. This place is more like a safe house.”
“Okay, you’re right. I wanted to make sure we were far from prying eyes and ears.”
“Whose? The Academy’s?”
“I don’t know,” Sett admitted. “That’s the point of this meeting. I sent Captain Perseus and Lieutenant Jason down to do some recon on the Veetal woman. Their report was disturbing. I want you to tell me everything Cyrus mentioned about that match.”
“He didn’t talk about it.”
“Don’t BS me, Volk. You don’t owe him squat. Cyrus is dead and gone.”
“We don’t know that,” Volk retorted.
“Good as,” Sett said, turning down the rancor in his voice.
Volk stood up. He gazed at the blood-red sun that was quickly slipping out of view, and asked, “What did you find so strange about Perseus’s report?”
“For starters, Veetal and Matterson were demon free.”
“Big deal. We’ve seen that before. Besides, it’s not the number of fear demons that matters; it’s the species.”
“Did Cyrus clear out their nests?” Sett asked. “Or, did he find them that way?”
Volk hesitated, and then answered, “He found them that way.”
“And yet, he wouldn’t pull the trigger. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Not for Cyrus. He was—is very thorough. Had the Academy given him more time, I’m sure he’d have done the right thing.”
“Thank you,” Sett said, getting to his feet. “You just saved me a lot of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got yourself some new orders. You are going to finish that job.”
“Says who?”
“Says your new commanding officer—me.” Sett flashed a toothy smile.
“Back off, Sett. I’m a solo operation. Have been for over two centuries, and will be for another two.”
“That was then, Volk. Now you work for me, by orders of Eros himself.”
“Oh, really? So now you’re hearing voices, huh? Eros is whispering in your ear?”
“Not mine—Minos’s. He’s the high priest of the high waves. What he says goes.”
“He’s a charlatan, Sett. A self-appointed fraud, and you know it. He stepped in after Anteros’s attempted coup. No one said anything at the time because we were all licking our wounds and had plenty else to worry about. We mistakenly believed it was a temporary thing. Including you, if you don’t recall.”
Sett put a chummy arm around Volk’s big shoulders. “You see how much I care about you, Volk? That’s why we are meeting here. I knew you were going to start spewing blasphemy, and I didn’t want to chance anyone overhearing it.”
“You don’t need me,” Volk said, shrugging away Sett’s arm from around his shoulders. “Go sic Perseus and Jason on the couple. They know the case. Let them finish it.”
“You said yourself that with just a little more time you were sure that Cyrus would have done the right thing. I’m giving you that time, and the opportunity to redeem Cyrus’s blackened reputation. You have three days. No extensions and no excuses.”
Volk was boiling mad, but he kept a lid on it. “You know that I don’t work like the rest of the academy. I need two weeks.”
“One week, and that’s final. Another peep and it’s back to three days. Got that?”
“Fine, but Kohai stays with me.”
“Huh? Kohai? Who the hell is—? Oh, you mean that little runt you stole from me? What’s so special about the twerpy little weakling? What do you need him for? I don’t like it. It looks bad. He’s coming back to train with the rest of the cadets. We are all one big, happy family again.”
Volk’s two blue orbs burned with an electric brilliance. “I’m not asking you, Sett. Cadet Kohai stays with me. His training will be complete within the year. Surely, your ‘big, happy family’ can do without him for one measly year. When I’m done with him, you can test him and put him in whatever graduate level training you see fit. But, until then, he’s all mine.”
Sett ran his hand across his stubbly beard, his dark eyes meeting Volk’s glare without a flinch.
“All right, Volk. I’m a reasonable fellow. You’re right. What’s one year? But let’s get something straight. My orders override yours. You can keep doing whatever the hell it is you pussies do, but if I order a mission or want you or the wimp to participate, you are with me. Got that?”
“You’re a real piece of work, Sett.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Are we done here?”
“What’s the hurry?” Sett said, a new alacrity in his voice. “How often do a couple of old-timers like us get to hang out, huh?” He threw open his arms to the universe. “Look at those stars. Feel that breeze. Smell that salt air!” He took a long, deep whiff of the ocean air. “Savor the moment, Volk. Why always the sorehead, huh?”
Sett reached into the leg pocket of his uniform and pulled out a stainless steel hip flask. He undid the cap, took a swig, and then he pressed the flask into Volk’s hand. “Go ahead.”
“You drink too much, Sett.”
“Shut up and have a swig.”
“I don’t like whiskey.”
“You’ll like this whiskey.”
Volk rolled his eyes, grabbed the flask and threw one back. Sett chuckled at the surprise that registered on the captain’s face.
“Imo shouchu,” Volk said. “How’d you—?”
“Quit being so paranoid. Grace told me you fancy the stuff.”
“Yeah, what else has she told you?”
“That you’re a fag.”
Volk smirked and shook his head. “I see, and what business do you have with a celestial? Since when does the head celestial answer to cupids?”
“Minos sent me to her. He wanted us to coordinate some policy changes.”
“It’s all these damn policies that got us into the mess we’re in. You know that. What ever happened to good, old-fashioned demon slaying? This isn’t a game. We are losing ground to the fear demons every day. Our matches, when we manage to make one at all anymore, fail eighty percent of the time.”
Sett reached for the flask and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Volk. There was a time when the dumb-ass humans seemed to at least put up a fight, but not anymore.”
“Then what are you doing wasting time on policy meetings?”
“It comes with the job. I follow orders. That’s what we cupids do, remember?”
“Yeah, but whose orders do we follow?�
�
“Don’t go there with me, Volk. I’m not interested in your revisionist history.”
“The revision took place a long time ago, Sett. If you want to know what went wrong with the humans, and why the fear demons have grown so powerful, then you had better get your nose out of your whiskey bottle and wake the hell up.”
Sett took another swig from his flask, and then petulantly screwed the cap back on.
“You’re such a damn grouch, Volk. I try to make nice, be pals like in the old days, but you just won’t give this conspiracy crap of yours a rest. Look where it got Cyrus, huh? Listen, we agree on one important thing: we’ve got to stop these damn demons. That’s what I intend to do. Either you’re with me, or you are in the way. What’s it gonna be?”
Captain Volk snatched back the flask and unscrewed the cap. He took a swig. “Both,” he said.
30
Six Degrees of Separation
It was dusk and Cyrus had been walking most of the day. Along the way he stopped at a drugstore and picked up a few necessities with the money that Officer Jeffreys had given him. It left him just enough for a pastrami on rye at Saul’s Kosher Deli, the only kosher delicatessen in a part of town that once boasted a dozen such restaurants. But that was before the great ‘decade of misery’ that had befallen the country and the world.
As he ate, Cyrus reflected upon how powerful the carnal appetites were in the natural world. His sandwich, for instance, was delicious beyond words. His taste buds exploded with every bite. The tangy dill pickle, yummy potato salad, and sweet fruit slices added even more colorful fireworks to the mix.
He was gaining a new empathy for the humans who had to struggle daily with such powerful cravings. He saw how easy it could be to come under the sway of so many sybaritic urges, and what Herculean efforts in self-discipline were required if one didn’t want to live as a slave to his or her own appetites.
While Cyrus savored his meal, he mused upon the many persons and adventures he had already met with since his mortal manifestation into the world, and the tests they had presented him.
He reviewed how after leaving the homeless shelter he was hit upon by a number of prostitutes and drug peddlers. He recalled the three armed thugs who tried to mug him in an alleyway, and how after dismissing his smiling requests to back off, their belligerence resulted in them having to limp their way to a hospital with dislocated shoulders, cracked ribs, and lumps on their heads.
Cyrus’s recollections continued. He wandered into a government protest and was beseeched to sign various petitions. He told the activists that he wasn’t a registered voter and that he had entered the country illegally, but the activists didn’t seem to care. From there he passed through a number of side streets filled with thousands of bearded men kneeling on prayer rugs, unconcernedly blocking all traffic. He dropped coins into the hands and buckets of a dozen panhandlers, and even managed to dissuade a hopeless man from jumping off a bridge.
None of it was very pretty, but it all did make for an interesting and lively day.
He understood how very hard it was to keep one’s heart and mind high when so many crass forces were continually drawing one down. When Cyrus was an angel, he knew that the humans were up against powerful inclinations, but he didn’t fully comprehend how truly formidable these proclivities were. The yetzers he had fought for centuries were ferocious, but he could defeat them on the battlefield because he had trained for them, understood them, and was superior to them.
But here, in the fleshy, corporal, worldly plane, the yetzers dominated. The humans were putty in their hands. It was clear to Cyrus that the yetzers were close to total victory, and that the domination of the humans by their evil inclinations was nearly complete.
The humans had virtually no understanding of what they were up against. They had sunk so low over the centuries that most people had come to reject the very notion that they were supposed to struggle against self-defeating temptations and impulses. Such a conviction used to belong to the realm of religion or philosophies of a Stoic bent. But because religion in the Western world had been successfully mocked into timidity by powerful secular forces, notions of struggle and self-discipline had few adherents.
Cyrus turned his hand over and looked at his palm. The three words he had written on it before he had been banished were already smudged and fading. He borrowed a ballpoint pen from a hurried waitress and retraced the words.
He had only been away for about a day, but his memories were becoming more distant by the hour. The truth of his previous life remained, but memories of the life he had lived were fast departing. He couldn’t be sure if by tomorrow morning everything from his previous life would be little more than a dream. Moreover, he feared that gone with these memories would be all his accumulated knowledge, including such things as his fighting skills.
Cyrus closed his eyes and thanked God for having looked after him, adding a prayer that God would direct his course so that he could fulfill his mission. He prayed for strength, and for the means to hold on to, retrieve, and unleash the knowledge that he believed still had to be in his mind somewhere.
“Sir? … Mister? … Excuse me, sir, can I have my pen back?”
Snapped away from his meditations, Cyrus quickly composed himself and smiled up at the pretty young woman standing beside him, arms at her sides, fingers tapping at her thighs, as if she had been waiting awhile already.
She wore tight blue jeans and a red T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo across the front: Saul’s Kosher Deli. Your Bubby’s Matzo Balls and More. Her hair was short, feathered, and inky black, which made her captivating blue eyes stand out all the more.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, handing the waitress back her pen. “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“No, I just lose a lot of pens that way. It adds up, you know?”
“You are a very good waitress,” Cyrus said. “Have you been waitressing long?”
“A few years. Like with most jobs today, I’m just part-time.”
“And the other part of the time?”
“Um…well, I used to be a student at the university.”
“What did you study?”
The young woman sighed, rolled her eyes, and answered, “History. And don’t start in with me about that. Believe me, I’ve heard it a million times.”
Cyrus cocked his head uncomprehendingly. “Heard what?”
“You’re sweet,” the waitress said, delivering a white-toothed, double-dimpled smile. “Look, I know it wasn’t the most practical of majors. I should have studied community organizing so I could get a government job or work with some NGO. But I liked history and have never been very practical-minded, I guess.” She shrugged.
“I like history too,” Cyrus said. “You needn’t apologize. Believe me, if more people studied history, the humans—I mean the world—would be a lot better off.”
“I think so too,” the woman said, relieved that the stranger wasn’t going to lecture her about her future, as so many others had done.
“Well, good for you,” he said.
“Good for me?” she snorted. “For dropping out? All I have to show for my waste of time is 120,000 globals worth of debt!”
Cyrus smiled. “For caring about the truth.”
“Most people tried to talk me out of it,” she admitted. “‘Grin and bear it. Pay your dues. Get your piece of paper, and move on.’”
“And for most people that would probably be good advice,” Cyrus said. “But maybe you are not most people. That’s something only you can decide.”
She observed the pleasant man in the odd attire as he set about cleaning up his own table. He neatly stacked his dishes and ran a napkin across the Formica top. She considered him Hollywood handsome, and guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. Maybe younger after a shower and a shave.
Cyrus reached into the zippered pocket of his sleeve and retrieved the remainder of his money.
“Are you okay?” the waitress asked with
concern.
“Yes, why?”
“I thought you were crying or something. I said ‘Sir’ three times before you heard me. And when you looked up, your face was flushed and your eyes were misty.”
“I’m fine. I was praying.”
“You were what?” the waitress said, incredulous.
“Praying.”
“Friend,” the waitress said in a hushed voice, as if worried that someone might have overheard him. “Public prayer is banned in the NPF and carries a stiff fine. Unless you’re, well, certain people. Then the authorities will look the other way.”
Cyrus smiled. “I’m not of that persuasion. Are you going to inform on me?”
“No, it’s just…”
“I understand. Well, it seems your boss is getting curious, and I certainly don’t want to get you into any trouble.”
The waitress looked over Cyrus’s head towards the deli bar in front of the kitchen, catching the quizzical look in her boss’s eye. “…Yeah,” she said, wondering how the stranger could have known such a thing with his back to him.
“I’m pretty observant,” Cyrus said, reading her perplexed expression. “I saw his reflection in the window. Also, table two wants more water, and the ketchup bottle is empty on table five.”
The waitress checked, believing him to be joking. “Oh…thanks. Well, I’d better be going. It was nice talking to you.”
Cyrus smiled. “You too, ma’am.”
“‘Ma’am?’” she repeated with a furl of her brow. “Aren’t you old school. Look, I’m only twenty-seven, so call me Malkah.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Malkah. I’m Cyrus.”
Malkah lifted the stacked plates from his table. “Have a nice evening, Cyrus.”
She smiled and strolled off, snatching up the ketchup bottle on table five on her way to the kitchen.
When she reemerged with a refilled ketchup bottle in hand, she saw that the man had vanished. The only sign that he had been there were some coins left on the table.
A stout, balding man with a short beard strolled up to Malkah. The restaurant’s namesake and owner, Saul wore the restaurant’s T-shirt, and on his head a knitted kippa, or yarmulke.
Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Book 1: Hell-bent (Shooting Eros Series) Page 18
