by A. Sparrow
“South Carolina,” she said. “Not the best family situation. But you know how that goes here. Everyone’s got a sob story, or else they wouldn’t be here.”
“Any idea what Luther wants from me?”
“You’re in his bubble. That’s enough reason to want to see you.”
“Mr. Moody is an honored guest,” said Mr. Meredith.
“Whatever. Later guys.” She strolled off with her bread.
Mr. Meredith led me across the ‘square’ to the ‘palace,’ which had no doors or windows. Maybe someday Luther would get it to look like his last abode, but for now I guess one just had to use their imagination.
Mr. Meredith placed his palm over a small hole in the wall and the aperture curled open into a gaping cavity large enough to step through. The walls were at least a foot thick and formed of densely packed roots. The dog stayed outside.
Inside was a large, open space furnished like a gentleman’s drawing room, with paintings of long dead men hung over dark wood paneling. Persian carpets covered a floor strewn with bulging armchairs upholstered in brown leather interspersed with crimson velvet chaises and couches.
Luther, Olivier and a weathered old Duster sat facing a pale man spread-eagled on the floor, his limbs embedded in a thick slab of clear gel. I had learned to expect anything around Luther. This could be some kind of performance art, for all I knew. A conversation starter.
It was startling but gratifying to see Olivier with a full set of limbs. I had known him in the Deeps only as a quadruple amputee.
Luther watched me intently as we approached, maintaining a steady, subtle smile. He wore none of the cosmetic improvements I remembered from previous encounters in Root. He looked pretty much like the old man I had met in that nursing home in Geneva, with a little more hair, a few less wrinkles and much more vigor and mobility.
Mr. Meredith took a seat next to Olivier and motioned for me to take the one empty armchair.
“So … Mr. Moody. We meet again. What brings you here this time? Did your dog die?”
“Karla wanted me to come and see. And then she … disappeared.”
“And so this makes you … sad? Is that why you’re here?”
“I guess,” I said, but of course, it was the only reason I was here.
“If I knew that’s all it would take to bring you back, I would have arranged for an earlier disappearance.”
My stomach churned. My fingers curled into fists. “Was it you guys? Did you take her?”
“No. It wasn’t us. We don’t do such things, though maybe we should, the way things are going. Anyhow, now that you’re here we can get down to business. You might have noticed that there have been some hostilities up on the surface world.”
“Wait. Don’t you even care? What happened to her?”
“Why should I?”
“She’s your own grand-daughter.”
“So? She never cared for me. Her parents turned her against me from an early age. I was the freak of the family. Once she got older, she blamed me for their father being the man he was, as if I could control what became of him.”
“But you must care about her even a little bit. You gave her shelter once.”
“Of course. I am not going to turn my own grand-daughter away to become Reaper chow. A grandfather has certain obligations.”
I couldn’t help but stare at the guy embedded in gel. He seemed more bored than distressed. I wondered how and if they let him to go to the bathroom, or if creatures like him even had to worry about going potty.
He was human enough. His body might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He was not overbuilt, yet every muscle in his body was perfectly defined and fully developed. He had no wrinkles, no blemishes, no head hair, body hair or eyebrows.
Luther caught me staring. “Isn’t he a pretty one? What we have here before us is a genuine Seraph. Petros is his name. He hails from Crete. He lived on Earth in the early twentieth century and passed into Penult during the Second World War. We captured him as he and his Cherubim attacked my city on the plains.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“That … has yet to be determined. We hoped he would agree to consult with us … but … he has proven incorrigibly stubborn. A ransom is out of the question because his so-called ‘brothers’ refuse to speak with us. They murdered one of our envoys. Poor Alec escaped only by the skin of his teeth. But Master Zhang is hoping we can trade him for one of our own.”
“My brothers will come for me,” said Petros. “You will meet your ends in these caves. In time.”
“Your brothers are too busy,” said Olivier. “I hear our friends are making a stand up the valley.”
“Mere pests.” Petros sneered. “Their eradication is inevitable.”
Olivier stood and prodded the gel with his thumb. “Considering the casualties they inflicted against your first wave, and the fact that they retain much of their strength, I’m not so sure. I predict a protracted stalemate.”
“We will prevail in the end. Our might is infinite.”
“See this young man?” said Olivier. “He’s the one who took down your last Horus and opened a channel from the Deeps. Now you have the likes of him to contend with.”
“And … he brought my grand-daughter back from death,” said Luther.
“Nonsense,” said the Seraph.
“It’s true! Tell him, James,” said Olivier.
“Actually, I thought it was your will-bomb that did it,” I said. “I was just a bystander.”
“Ah, but you were the catalyst,” said Olivier.
“None of it was any of your doing,” said Petros. “So don’t fool yourselves. We know the interface to be faulty. It has failed us before.”
“No use arguing,” said Luther. “Mister Petros will believe whatever Mister Petros wants.”
Luther sighed and caressed the Seraph’s brow. “Oh my dear Petros, whatever will we do with you?”
“How’d you catch him?” I said.
“Ubaldo here took him down, knocked him right out of the sky,” said Olivier. “Unfortunately, he lost his mantid in the process.”
The lone Duster in the room did not react. He was younger and less weathered than Yaqob, but he had the stoic demeanor of someone who had awakened from the Long Sleep – an Old One.
The Duster looked at me like a crow eying a squirrel. “I’m sure you’ve seen these Dusters do their thing with their wooden rods … their scepters,” said Olivier. “They conjure these whirling blobs of plasma, like flying bolos of stickum. Wreaks havoc with wings.”
Luther bounded up from his chair, limber and energetic for a man who was wheelchair-bound in life. “Have you seen their fantastic contraptions?” He strolled over to the six-winged flying machine they had captured from the fallen Seraph.
“It took us forever to clean the mess off, but the mechanism behind this apparatus absolutely defies physics. Once it is strapped on, a simple squeeze of the shoulder blades is amplified a hundredfold to beat three sets of wings in succession through one complete cycle. This makes Da Vinci’s work look like the doodlings of a dunce.”
“How is that even possible?” I said.
Luther raised his eyebrows. “Magic?”
“Science,” said Olivier. “The material they use to line the wing joints stores energy better than any spring. We’ve tried our best to replicate them but … no dice.”
“Maybe James could help us,” said Luther.
“Me?”
“You do have a reputation … as a Weaver.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I don’t really have much control over what I do. It sort of just happens. Usually when I’m under stress. Unless, of course, I freeze up.”
“Stress? That can be arranged,” said Luther.
Chapter 19: Wings
Olivier brought me into an adjoining room where they had stashed a collection of war material taken from the forces of Penult. There was a cracker column, sliced open down its leng
th, revealing an intricate network of channels and ducts. A root cannon, flared like a blunderbuss had a bulbous base fed by diverging pipes that were apparently meant to tap into the root system below, reloading in place, shaping shredded roots into whatever property they needed in a shell—density and mass, high explosiveness, toxicity. Two sets of wings—one crumpled, one intact—completed the collection.
Olivier showed me one of the wing joints, a dense agglomeration of intertwining rods and ratchets and cogs.
“This one’s the real deal. We can copy all its parts, but we can’t get the damned thing to work. Want to give it a shot?”
“Not really.”
Olivier cuffed my jaw. “Oh come on. See what you can do. If we make any progress at all then it’s all worthwhile.”
He dragged a stool over for me to sit on. The table before me was crowded with at least a dozen failed replicas of the wing mechanism.
I touched the real one. The material was waxy and slick. I twisted one the rods and the whole mechanism responded in force, throwing my hand back into my face. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? In this case, the reaction was opposite, but far from equal. The stuff responded to perturbations with an almost spiteful vengeance.
I tried the same with one of the replicas and it was no more springy than a rubber band.
“Gosh. This thing is like magic.”
“Which, according to Clarke, any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from.”
“Has Petros given you any clue what makes it go?”
“As if he would help us. He was begging Luther to take his life today.”
“Isn’t he already dead?”
“On Earth. Not here.”
“So where would he end up? The Deeps?”
“No. Not someone like him.”
“Then where?”
“Some other realm the likes of us will never see, most likely. Lethe. Limbo. Whatever is out there.”
“I’ll never get my head around this afterland business. Why so many places? What’s the point?”
“Don’t look at me. You’re talking about something way above my pay grade,” said Olivier. He picked up the real wing joint, taking care not to touch the business end.
“The key to fine weaving is getting a feel for the properties of roots. Their size and shape and number can be modified without limit.”
“But this isn’t like making a napkin into a leaf,” I said. “Nothing like this exists on the other side.”
“No, but it exists right here, right in front of us. We just need to find a way to grok it.”
“Grok?”
“I guess you never read Heinlein. It’s a term from the sixties, not widely used anymore but I find it appropriate in describing masterful weaving. It means to understand something inside and out, intimately and intuitively.”
“Why bother?”
“Because … Penult has the edge on us right now. We need to even things up.” He slid the salvaged wing joint over to me. “Keep this close to you. Play around with it. Get to know it. I’m hoping you’ll have better luck than me. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
“Why do we need wings? We have … bugs.”
“It’s not about having wings. If we can figure out how they do something simple like this, maybe we have a chance to figure out how they do the other stuff. The root cannons. The cracker columns. Then we have a chance of making this a fairer fight.”
I just stared at the thing, but Olivier scooped it off the table and placed it in my hands.
“Lights out in one hour. Here. Take it with you. It’s yours. Just make sure you handle it with care.”
***
I sat for a while in the dimness of Luther’s little museum of captured Seraphic tech. The stuffy air and the way the walls closed in overhead and merged into the ceiling made me feel claustrophobic. I couldn’t stand the lighting in the place, washing everything in a yellow pall that could have originated from a jar of piss.
I went back into the main room where Luther was having a heated discussion with a group of residents dressed in shaggy wraps and breech cloths—newbies at weaving from the looks of it. They didn’t even notice me enter.
I went to the entry and placed my palm over the hole. Nothing happened. I just stood there feeling foolish until the aperture flew open to let in another group of people dressed in rags. We stood and stared at each other through the hole until I hopped through and strode off across the plaza.
The light under the big dome was easier on the eyes, and the air, if not fresh, was fresher. At least it moved. I carried the wing joint by the broken spar that had connected to the foremost set of the Seraph’s wings. I handled it like it was a bomb, taking care not to bump it.
By the time I reached the cabin, the lights overhead had begun to dim, simulating dusk. I found Bern and Lille sitting on the porch in their bed clothes.
“See? I told you he would be back tonight,” said Lille.
“Call me surprised,” said Bern. “So did the interrogation go?”
“You were right about Luther toning down his act. It’s amazing how normal he can be when he tries.”
“He’s been trending that way ever since Victoria put him in his place,” said Lille. “It’s as if something snapped inside of him.”
“To tell you the truth. I miss the old Luther,” said Bern. “He was always good for a laugh. You never knew what he would do next.”
“He still has his taste for flamboyance,” said Lille. “He’s just a little more subtle about it.”
I noticed a lumpy mattress and pillow with a fuzzy blanket set against the porch rail.
“Is that all for me?”
“Yes,” said Bern. “Sorry to make you sleep out here, but it’s a mite too cozy inside at the moment. Lille and I actually make our bed on the kitchen table. Once we finish the expansion we’ll be able to offer a proper guest bedroom.”
“Oh, this is more than fine,” I said. “I don’t even need a bed, really.”
“There’s a towel with toothbrush and soap by the basin on the front walk. Those are yours, freshly woven. Feel free to put on a glow, though I’m afraid there’s not much to read but the local rag. If you’re still around in the morning, we’ll break our fast together. How does that sound?”
“Sure. If I’m still here. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. I mean, this must be a record for me.”
Lille latched onto my gaze and wouldn’t let go. “It must mean you are taking it hard on the other side. Losing a love isn’t easy.”
“I … suppose. But I don’t know for sure … that she’s lost.”
“Not knowing what happened only makes it worse.”
“Well, I’m bloody knackered,” said Bern. “Come on, dear. Let’s not stir the boy up this late.”
“Good night James,” said Lille, as she pecked me on the cheek.
“Don’t let the Reapers bite,” said Bern.
“No worries James,” said Lille, chuckling nervously. “No beasties have broken into the dome since they added the extra layer to the outer shell.”
As they retired to the interior of the cabin, I leaned back in the wicker chair my nerves all abuzz. It had been a confusing and disorienting. It had been so long since I had been back to the Liminality and then I get here to find everything all upside down and people expecting big things from me. I should have stayed back in the hollow, the only place so far where things had stayed pretty much the same. Who knows? I might have faded back by now if not for all of this extra stimulus.
As I sat there, things just got quieter and quieter. The community shut down once the lights went out. There were no radios or televisions here, no musical instruments, though I could hear someone singing softly in the square, faint laughter from an adjoining hut, the muffled moans and outside the dome the collisions and groans of Reapers on the prowl.
I wasn’t the slightest bit sleepy. I rarely ever felt fatigued in the Liminality. Some people ar
e creatures of habit, I suppose, and liked to crawl into a bed every twenty-four hours. Not me. I generally listened to my body. But it was pitch black under the dome now. I could have made something glow but was the point? What was there to see?
So I laid down on the mattress, after first making sure the wing joint was secure on an end table. It wouldn’t do to have that thing fall onto the floor. I crawled under the blanket, not bothering to remove my clothes.
I never expected to fall asleep, but I did, after a fashion. I dreamt, or at least I thought it was a dream. It resembled one of those visions I had been having lately, head hopping and hovering near strange men I had never met, except this time I was cruising through the Singularity. It was even vaster than I remembered spanning a massive network of realms nested and linked by bridges and membranes. The whole structure was there to see but too huge and intricate for my imagination to grasp. These were the after-realms spread before me for me to see, but I was scared to take it all in. I just wanted to crawl up in a corner and hide my head.
And then I was back in the world of the living. I thought I had faded, but I was not in my own head. I was still cruising the dream space, flitting between souls, hopping from household to household, skipping down highways from driver to driver, lingering just long enough to absorb the essence of these strangers and to recognize that they were indeed people I had never met.
Me and my consciousness crossed the entire UK coast to coast, north to south. But I was a passive observer, at least consciously. My soul on autopilot seemed to know what to do, where to go. Though I had a feeling it was being actively assisted by that continuum of souls of the Singularity. Whatever. I just settled back and enjoyed the ride.
And then like a Tiger spotting easy prey, it (they? we?) pounced, swirling into a girl walking down a sidewalk in some unidentifiable city-scape. I had lost track of where we were geographically. I would have been paying closer attention if I should have realized what they were up to.
Because this girl was Karla!
***
She was carrying a bag of groceries. She was calm and collected and in no big rush. She was thinking about ice cream. She had a pint of strawberry ice cream in that bag and she wanted it.
