by P. G. Burns
Ember bursts into laughter but all too soon it turns into tears. She begins to shake uncontrollably. Adam stares for a moment, completely taken aback by Ember’s response. He moves towards her awkwardly and contemplates putting his arm around her. The large man stands and walks over to the overawed girl. He places his huge hand under her chin, raising it so she can see into his eyes.
“Shush, you have had a traumatic experience, little bird, and you are right to be upset. But you are safe now. I will protect you.” A warm smile beams across his face and somehow Ember feels she can trust him. Baal gently squeezes her shoulder and then turns to Adam. “You need to sleep, the both of you have just passed through a collider formed vortex wormhole, and this is a hard thing for a human’s physical form. You need to rest. Come with me.”
Baal opens a trapdoor beneath the altar and leads them down some steps into a luxurious-looking chamber with floating hammocks. Happy to finally leave all responsibility in the hands of this big, warm stranger, the two teenagers follow willingly. Neither Ember nor Adam can keep their eyes open and almost on contact with the pillows, they fall into a deep sleep. Baal returns to the small room where Raphael waits.
“But we haven’t viewed the disc yet. She could have slept later,” complains Raphael.
Baal opens the door back to the noodle bar and the two make their way to a window seat.
“The message is for her. She has had a long and traumatic day and she needs rest. Heaven knows what will be required of her once she sees it. Let her have this one last night as an innocent,” suggests Baal.
Raphael nods in agreement and pours tea from an urn that has been placed on the table.
“So, it seems the Host is on to us and will soon know about the disc. He will move heaven and earth once he realises what it is and who Ember really is.”
Baal takes the tea and replies, “Yes, we must be careful. We all know what he is capable of. I will take the two of them to Chamuel but you will need to create a distraction.”
The chambers of the High Council of Jinn City
Freya is not a woman known for her nervousness. She is steely and strong, never showing any emotion. This is how she rose from the fat, ugly kid who was bullied at school and whose attempt to kill herself was thwarted by the Host Himself. That was forty long years ago. Now she is the one who is feared, she is the one doing the bullying.
Freya is not sure how her lord and master will react to the news about the Procurator’s daughter and the events of today. She knows even mentioning the disc could mean her death, but she is going to face her fate and tell him everything. If he chooses to exterminate her then so be it; her life is his to do with as he wants.
Freya enters the temple through the corridors that link to her own office in the security hub. Even as she approaches what could be her doom, Freya feels awestruck by the grandeur of the temple. Huge halls draped in the red and black banners bearing the symbol of the Crucifix and Eagle. Oak doors almost reach the ceiling and reveal the entrance to the great hall, which occupies the centre of the temple, giant steel sculptures of the Host adorning the four corners. Freya notices in the distance at the end of the hall the Host sits on his throne. He wears the golden robes and crown that he favours.
“Come, dear Freya,” calls the voice of Reuben. “What news have you?” Black conjoined twins sit at his feet. One boy and one girl connected perfectly asymmetrically, something not achieved by nature. A small blonde girl, who is perhaps four or five years old, sits on his lap.
Freya slaps her hand across her chest in salute and bows. “My Lord, I bring grave news. During our surveillance of the reprobate known as Raphael we were alerted to the fact that he had made a new acquaintance, which made us suspicious of his actions.”
Reuben dismisses the three children who are led away by an old woman. He holds his hands steeple to his chin and leans forward in his chair, his curiosity piqued.
“Who was this new acquaintance?”
“We saw Raphael enter the old warehouse with his Caucasian apprentice, Adam Costello. Also with them was Ember Jones, the Procurator’s daughter.”
Reuben pulls a stiletto blade from his cloak and casually picks at the long nail that protrudes from his forefinger. “And what, pray tell, followed?”
“Master, I ordered that officers apprehend the three suspects and question them. However, when we came across the two youngsters I discovered that Raphael had retrieved a disc. I was concerned this may be the message you warned me of and my first thought was to acquire the disc and eliminate any witnesses.”
Reuben nods in agreement.
“I killed the traitor Raphael myself but unfortunately, for some reason that I cannot fathom, Captain Cameron turned his gun on his own guards and aided the two teenagers in escaping.”
Freya looks at the Host expecting to see anger reflected in his face.
“Continue,” he says calmly, still using the blade as an instrument to manicure his nails.
“We pursued the captain and the two delinquents as they attempted to escape in the old car that Raphael was seen using. I did not foresee any problems in catching them as they were in such an antiquated vehicle. A road block barred their way and several of our vehicles surrounded them. The driver of the car seemed to deliberately crash it into the blockade causing an explosion. When I searched the debris for any remains of the car and its occupants, there were none, not a speck was left. Only the wreckage of two SC90s remained.”
Freya is tentative as she looks for Reuben’s reaction.
“Raphael has incarnated using his Geist and he is now the captain. His old body must have been ended for him to do that. So…do you remember what I said about Raphael?”
Freya looks at the floor as she remembers Reuben’s frequent demand: “I want Raphael alive.”
“I do, Master. I succumbed to his taunts. I am weak. It was like I was back in the playground and the kids were taunting me. I failed you.”
Freya kneels, her head bowed as if awaiting the axe.
“No, Freya, you are the strongest woman I have ever met. Raphael is a skilled Arc Hon. He would test anyone with his mind-fuck ways; he obviously knew which buttons to push when goading you. Don’t worry, we will catch him but first we must call for the Procurator and find out all about his daughter, this Ember Jones.”
Freya lifts her head, fear subsiding as she feels happy to be back on side. She straightens and resumes a stance of confidence. “I have taken the liberty of having him picked up by the PS. He should be here any minute,” she explains. “Very good, my beautiful muse. Come here, sit at my side,” Reuben says, pointing to the small bench next to his throne.
Freya tries to calm her breathing as she moves closer to her master. He takes her hand and every inch of her body tingles, her heart racing. Without encouragement the blood flows between her thighs and her face flushes red as he pulls her close. His arms embrace her and she squeezes her thighs together, involuntary hip movements and a sigh revealing her true feelings for her master. Freya feels she is on the very edge of orgasm before her master releases his hug. Reuben is aware of the effect he is having on his loyal servant and he enjoys toying with her emotions, even though she is a repulsive woman.
She coughs and splutters as she tries to compose herself before she stutters out her question, regaining her professional composure.
“May I ask, Master? Raphael… you say he incarnated? Does this mean the captain did not betray us?”
Reuben nods. “Your captain has gone. He is dead and in his place is Raphael. The Arc Hon are complex – they are like a spirit that attaches to a human form. They can attach to any living form within a certain distance. This is why, when you kill an Arc Hon, you must make sure they are confined and alone.”
Freya bows her head at what she fears is a dig at her failure but is soon reassured.
“You did not know this and I should have instructed you more clearly. I am sure next time you will be more successful.” He kisses her chee
k, taking her face in his hands. The heat between them builds again and sweat begins to drip from the brow and neck of the vile woman, adding to the stale biscuit odour that she omits.
She takes a deep breath, trying to control her panting and slow her beating heart. “May I ask what is on the disc he was carrying? It was signed by Shane Mills.”
Reuben is aware of her infatuation and leans over so she feels his warm breath on her neck before he answers.
“I don’t know exactly. My spies have reported that it is a message from that cursed Shane Mills himself, supposedly a message to the ‘Celestial One’, a legend, a myth that cannot possibly exist.” He looks Freya in the eye. “But this message can cause us all grief. A story that gives those ungrateful shits hope of a future where they will rule their own destiny could cause chaos if this recording is not recovered and this pretender left free.”
He places his hand high on her thigh, gently rubbing it, enjoying her ridiculous reaction. Freya is quickly close to orgasm once more. She bites her lip and thinks hard of some sort of distraction.
“Is this Raphael the Celestial One?”
She realises from Reuben’s manner that she may have asked too many questions. He removes his hand from her chubby thigh, then looks away, exhaling loudly, bored of this game.
“No, he is an Arc Hon. Keep up, Freya. I assume that one of the two youngsters will be the pretender, the bringer of false hope. Now, where is Procurator Jones?”
As if on cue Conrad Jones, a stout, powerful-looking man with an air of dignity around him is escorted in by two PS guards. He looks concerned. He kneels at the feet of the throne after first giving a filthy look to Freya.
“You may stand,” directs Reuben.
“Thank you, Master. May I inquire why I have been dragged unceremoniously from my own home with no explanation or reason given?”
Freya’s sexual frustration only adds to her contempt for Conrad. She hates the disrespect that Conrad displays in front of the Host. How dare he? Reuben on the other hand quite enjoys it as he recognises the balls it takes for Conrad to do this. However, today is not the day to try Reuben.
“Where is your daughter?” Reuben asks.
Conrad is caught off-guard and shows real concern now. Freya cannot hide her delight in his discomfort as her smile exposes her tiny yellow teeth. Conrad shakes his head as he responds. “My daughter, you mean Ember?”
“Do you have another?” intercepts Freya in an aggressive tone.
“No, sorry, I meant… Why do you ask of my daughter’s whereabouts? She was with a fellow student completing some sort of assignment. I had expected her home by now. Has something happened?”
Freya coughs out a short laugh, savouring her moment. “Your daughter, Procurator, has been involved in a major incident today. One that resulted in the slaughter of six Protection Squadron personnel and damage to several company vehicles. We have reason to believe that she is in cahoots with a terrorist group led by a man you will know as Raphael.”
Conrad looks stunned. His first question does not please Freya. “Is my daughter hurt?”
Freya shifts her feet as if ready to launch herself at the Procurator. “She is a traitor! What worse fate could become her? I have lost six men today and all you care about is your lowlife, treacherous slut of a daughter!”
Conrad is not sure which of these insults tips his scale but without any thought for his own safety he storms towards Freya and squares up to her. “My daughter is no traitor. You have got this wrong. I ask again: is she hurt?”
Freya does not relent and keeps her eyes firmly fixed on Conrad. “I witnessed it with my own eyes, Procurator Jones! See for yourself. We have the drone record downloaded.”
Conrad looks up at a screen that appears from Freya’s handheld unit. He knows this is the bird’s-eye view from the PS drone that records all of their operations. He has no doubt it will have been edited just like all the others he has seen. The first image shows the suspect Raphael approaching his daughter and the Caucasian student, Adam Costello. Conrad is already regretting allowing Ember to go to this part of town. Several minutes later they all enter an old derelict house. A little later he sees Ember and Adam leave. A bit of distortion on the recording breaks as Ember, Adam and the captain can be seen fleeing the building and getting in the old car. The next thing he sees shakes him to the core: the car they are in crashes into a road block and the tape distorts as the explosion seems to engulf the drone.
Freya smiles at his horror. “She’s dead? My daughter is dead?” He asks.
Freya’s chuckles invoke a reaction not befitting the Procurator of the High Temple. He hits her, a crack on her jaw. Freya falls back over the steps behind her but as if on springs, the woman regains a vertical posture and runs her hand around her jaw while still smirking.
Reuben holds up his hand to stop any escalation. “Stop this, the two of you. Freya stop goading him. Conrad, sit!” Both Freya and Conrad reluctantly obey, watching each other like school children pulled apart at playtime.
“Now, Conrad, Freya lacks decorum in these matters but there is great cause for concern here. Firstly from what we can gather your daughter is probably not injured.”
Conrad’s relief is evident and he attempts to ask how that can be possible but Reuben cuts him short.
“Trust me, she is safe. She and the two insurgents escaped Freya’s officers this afternoon. I believe she will be holed up with them at this very moment, most likely in the ghettos of the Oriental District.”
Conrad again attempts to speak but Reuben’s raised hand tells him not to interrupt.
“It may be that she was taken by force or coerced by some means. It may be that she was misled or forced into helping them. Whatever the reason, I am sure the one thing we all agree on is that we need to get her back home.”
Now Reuben invites Conrad to respond with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Yes, Master. I can only think that she is a prisoner of this Raphael. My daughter has not a rebellious bone in her body. This I know.” Freya scoffs but is tamed by Reuben’s stare.
“Well, you are one of my most loyal servants,” he says. “So I will give you the task of finding her. You have twenty-four hours after which I will have to delegate the task to Freya and her PS guards. Do you understand?”
Conrad exchanges another dirty look with Freya before replying. “Yes, thank you. I will have her back in half the time and I promise all the confusion will be cleared up.”
As Conrad storms out of the court he’s already talking into his communicator. “I need you and ten of your best men to meet me at the gates. Also liaise with the Mackies. Tell them we will be on the ground in their district in thirty minutes.” He is giving these instructions to Red, his loyal captain in the Civil Guard: highly trained men who come under his jurisdiction and not Freya’s. Conrad is more than aware that this is now a fight for survival and he needs to stack the cards in his favour. He will make sure the Civil Guard takes the lead in this investigation and, to the best of his ability, keep Freya’s PS lackeys away. His concern, however, is with the Mackies, a private police force who patrol the non-white areas of the city. A group he does not hold in high regard and has chastised publicly many times for their heavy-handed approach to keeping law and order. If Ember is truly in the Oriental District he has no choice but to liaise with these cowboys but he will make damn sure he makes the calls. Reuben stated but didn’t explain to Conrad Raphael’s transformation to the PS captain, exacerbating his confusion over the whole situation.
As Procurator Jones exits, Freya looks at her lord and master inquisitively, her face screwed up even more than normal.
“Don’t fret, my pet. The girl will run to her father. Then we will have her and the others ready for your questioning.” Freya smiles once more.
As Conrad finishes his call he is desperately trying to hold it together, the fear and worry for his only child causing his heart to beat out of his chest as he heads for the armoury. Con
rad does not like to carry weapons but he knows how dangerous the ghetto can be. Recent reports estimated over three per cent of the population there have removed their chips through self-mutilation, which means a few thousand non-white anti-establishment rogues are roaming those streets.
While walking Conrad tries to contact Ember’s chip and his worry only increases as it fails to connect. He has taught her how to “code red”, which will disable a chip temporarily while sending him a link to her last location – this is highly illegal and she knew only to do so if ever she was in serious trouble. It was not on his mind that she would ever have to but he always put her safety first, even ahead of the High Council and the Host. If she’d done this, why hadn’t she sent her location? The only explanation he can think of is that she has been kidnapped by these Raphaelites and her chip has been disabled by them. He pauses as his concern for his only daughter overwhelms him. With a quick check to see that no one is watching, he squats down, holding his head, tears beginning to appear. Then a cackle of static from his coms shocks him into action. He must be strong, he must find her before the Host lets that fat bitch loose.
“Pull yourself together man, your little girl needs you,” he says to himself before standing tall and marching towards the Aircopter station.
Conrad meets Captain ‘Red’ Carter at the Aircopter station.
“Your craft is ready to go, Sir,” he says.
“Thank you, Red. Are you piloting?”
“Of course, Sir, we need to get that little lady home safe and sound.”
“Thank you.” Conrad feels genuine gratitude to his loyal friend as he seats himself, the safety harness automatically engaging.
The Aircopter takes off vertically then accelerates at breakneck speed towards the Oriental District. The city below him speeds by and within five minutes they are landing on top of the Central Admin building, part of a large barracks where the Aryan curator, Alan Mackie, administers his control over the millions of non-whites that live here. The Mackies are a formidable family-run security agency, founded by Alan’s father, Dermot Mackie, to keep order in this region. They rule with an iron fist and quickly crush any subversive actions.
