Division Zero: Thrall

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Police were here within the hour.”

  “I didn’t know ghosts could use clairvoyance.” Kirsten climbed out and shoved her door downward, closing it with both hands. “How do you know that?”

  “We can’t.” He gestured across the street. “Notice how empty it is here? The only people in sight are those two tourists from East City who seem to be lost, and that PubTran employee fumbling for his NetMini by the apartment down the block. It takes about an hour and a half for societal equilibrium to return after police leave.”

  “You make it sound like I’m tainting the environment.” She stared at the approximate spot where a demonic ninja almost killed her.

  Dorian squeezed her shoulder; the solid contact snapped her out of the worry-trance. “We might slow down the process of recovery, but it takes at least three patrol craft to cause the scatter effect in this part of town.”

  She took a heavy breath, trying to forget the memory of an icy sword in her leg. “You’re touching my shoulder.”

  “I’m getting a lot of practice lately, hauling you out of the way of bullets.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Chuckling, she went to the door of the church and hesitated. “Am I supposed to knock here or just walk in?”

  Dorian didn’t stop, phasing through the wall.

  Kirsten found the door open and walked in. “Hello? Father Villera?”

  The front room of the Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary looked much as she remembered it, minus the patrol craft embedded through the window and the debris. The wall had been patched. From the outside, it looked no different. Inside, the newness of the section was obvious. The scent of food wafted through the air, the smell of something with an abundance of garlic that had lingered on a hot plate for too long. Rows of chairs still surrounded a small hand-made pulpit; a forgotten grease-stained blue cap was draped half-off the cushion of one.

  “In here,” said a voice with a mild Spanish accent. “First room on the left.”

  Father Villera sat on the edge of a Comforgel pad in a room just large enough to hold it plus a tiny desk. He looked as though he had fallen down a flight of stairs and landed on his face. Kirsten gasped, approaching in two quick steps and offering him a stimpak.

  “What happened to you? Here, use this.”

  He took the four-inch red, plastic cylinder from her, squeezing it in gratitude. Wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he smiled at her, muttering, “Not only the face of an angel, the heart as well.”

  Kirsten went crimson.

  He chuckled. “I guess you speak Spanish.”

  “Enough to get by. I can’t keep up with a pair of angry wives or two guys cheering at Gee-ball.”

  “Frictionless,” he said. “People from my homeland watch Frictionless matches. Gee-ball is a coalition abomination.”

  She found the inflated contempt in the voice of a so-called priest amusing.

  Dorian snickered. When Kirsten gave him a quizzical glance, he waved her off. “You’re too young to understand, and it wouldn’t be at all funny to you after a belabored explanation.”

  “Try me?”

  “I’m sorry?” Father Villera looked up.

  “Oh, I was talking to Dorian.” Kirsten gestured at him. “Sorry, it’s probably rude to talk to a ghost with a person around.”

  He gave her the look people always did when they heard the word ghost. His other eyebrow went up, presumably as he remembered Mariko’s violent demise in the center of his church. The bushy grey eyebrows settled down and he nodded. “Go on.”

  Dorian cleared his throat. “Well, Gee-ball is played in a large three-dimensional area about a hundred yards long and twenty-five yards tall. All the players wear grav suits and try to carry a metal ball through a ten-yard square goal suspended at the center point of each of the long ends. It’s pretty violent and dangerous for the players. Frictionless, on the other hand, involves a ground-skimming orb that players are only allowed to kick. They’re stuck on the floor, though their special boots can send the thing flying fast enough to break the leg of an unwary player. Sometimes they bank shots off the side across the entire field. In Frictionless, the goals are wider, and on the ground.”

  “You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know,” she said, frowning.

  “Europeans look down on Gee-ball. They always have, even the ancient sport it replaced. They used to make fun of the name ‘football’, since kicking the ball was a remarkably rare part of the game.”

  She scowled. “Well that’s five minutes of my life I won’t get back.”

  “I warned you,” said Dorian. “Don’t be mad at me. I told you it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  The hiss of a stimpak spun her around in time to watch Fr. Villera’s facial bruising lessen. “Sorry, Father. Why do you think I can help you more than the patrol officers?”

  “You’ll see in a moment.” He sat back, hands on his knees. In seconds, all the bruises returned. Despite his best effort to remain stoic, he cringed.

  Her hand went to the small of her back, the spot where she had been scratched. “Abyssals?”

  “They looked like ordinary street thugs, except for their eyes. All black.”

  Kirsten shot a pointed look at Dorian. “Just like that body.”

  “Only these were still up and about,” said Dorian. “Perhaps poor Mr. Arris was dead a lot longer than we initially thought? Maybe something was just borrowing his skin.”

  She faced the priest again, putting a hand on his shoulder and closing her eyes. It took a few seconds, but she found it. Paranormal energy swirled around him. The sense of it was far weaker than the scratch, and she purged it with barely enough exertion to alter her sedate expression. She offered a second stimpak; the bruises stayed gone this time.

  “I am not sure what you did, but I thank you, child.” He held her hand. “I am concerned that these creatures, for I do not think they were men, will return. I wanted to ask you for your help. The regular police dismissed it as a common mugging.”

  “I don’t think they will set foot in this place,” she said, looking around until the presence of a wooden crucifix on the wall made her examine the floor, unable to bear the sight of it.

  Dorian backed into the hallway and glanced toward the front. “They don’t have to walk inside to shoot through the windows.”

  “If they were trying to kill him, they would have shot him already.” Kirsten studied the priest. “Why do you think they attacked you?”

  “I was hoping you would be able to explain that. I could tell there was something dark about them, something beyond ordinary. I invoked the Lord upon them and they recoiled.”

  Kirsten suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Something troubles you, child?”

  Not suppressed enough.

  “Umm.” She shot a guilty look at the door. “I don’t mean to offend you personally; I don’t have much love for religion. My mother wasn’t happy having a psionic child and thought I was something from the Devil. She was abusive.”

  Father Villera blessed himself, and again took her hand. “Perhaps you can find peace in talking about it?”

  Kirsten stared at him. Why am I even considering saying anything to this guy? Religion only exists to control how people think, to keep them complacent. She sighed, slouching. “She would lock me in the closet to have quiet time and wait for Jesus to come save me. She’d invoke the Bible at me as though she were trying to cast spells or some such bullshit. Ghosts talk among themselves. Word spread that I could see and hear them, and they came looking for help.” Kirsten sat on the Comforgel pad, half an arm’s length away from him. “I was happy to at first, I was so lonely in there. Mother thought I was talking to ‘my dark master’ and started burning me with the stove. When I ignored the ghosts because I didn’t want to get punished, they got mad and threw things around the house at all hours.”

  “And your mother blamed you for it.” He squeezed her shoulder.

  Something caught Dorian’s attent
ion and he drifted out of sight.

  “Burning escalated to beating. She broke my arm a couple times, leg twice, more ribs than I can count. Of course, she hid it all from my dad. All in the name of some invisible man in a toga who doesn’t even exist.”

  Father Villera chuckled. “Kirsten, mankind has always sought ways to explain things science has proven inadequate for. Humans have an elemental need to feel there is something greater than all of us, something that’s ‘got our back’ so to speak.”

  “How many people have died in the name of religion over the years? Heretics, witches, infidels? So many people claim to follow a ‘loving’ God, but they’re so willing to hate and kill anyone who doesn’t believe the same fairy tale. All the peace and love stuff goes out the window the minute someone questions their invisible man.”

  Father Villera smiled with the face of a grandfather she never knew. Right away, she felt guilty for losing herself in her rant, as if she’d been trying to poke him with a stick to see how much he could take.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked down, voice soft. “I grew up with one extreme, and I’ve seen things beyond this world that I can’t explain either. There’s a silver doorway, there are voices of long-dead loved ones. I guess it could be some kind of Heaven out there. I still don’t think there’s a singular ‘god’ entity, just positive and negative forces―like cold and hot. I…” Saw an angel… or Seraphim as it called itself. Yeah, sure, he’ll think I’m freakin’ nuts. Oh, screw it. “I saw something the other day.”

  “Oh?” He seemed content to let her vent.

  “After my son crashed through your church, remember what I told you about Harbingers?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, there is something else, beings opposite to them… I get the feeling they are fewer in number and perhaps stronger. Maybe there are different kinds of Harbingers too, though. I’ve seen big ones and little ones. The other ones called themselves Seraphim. I don’t know what they are. I met one after I had my ass kicked back and forth for ten minutes. I could’ve been delirious.”

  “You would not be the first person to claim a visitation from such a being. It has happened numerous times in the course of human history.”

  “Yeah, and they get called nuts, put away, or burned at the stake. The people who use religion as a political tool can’t bear to hear things that break their grip.”

  Father Villera chuckled. “Perhaps it is a good thing so much of society these days is blind to it. The church has little sway in the life of the average citizen anymore. I am content to do what I can for those who need help. It does not matter to me what they do or do not believe. I know what I believe, and for me that is enough.”

  She stared at him. For the first time she could remember, she looked at a religious person without a trace of contempt or the urge to get as far away from them as fast as she could. Mother used God as a sword. Father Villera used him, her, or it, as a stimpak. Kirsten studied the soft orange glow in the gel pad, muted by the sheets.

  “You have a good heart, child. You did not deserve what was done to you. I ask only that you keep an open mind. Do not become that for which you harbor such contempt.”

  The strange urge came out of nowhere. Kirsten wanted to tell him about what she did, about why she fled the Beneath. For some unknown reason, she needed him to tell her it was not her fault.

  “Father…”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re back.” Dorian appeared in the doorway, pointing. “Three of them.”

  Kirsten stood. “Umm, never mind. My partner just said those thugs are back.”

  Father Villera paled.

  “I’m going to have a word with them.” She adjusted her utility belt.

  “I have a better idea,” said Dorian, following her to the front.

  Through the dim light in the main room of the strip mall store-turned-church, the shadows of three figures moved in a patch of light. Just past noon, the sunlight filtering through the haze above the city created a shadow puppet show upon the ground. Black sweatshirts, hoods up, and matte-black Nylcron pants fastened by a trio of silver buttons by each pocket lent them an ominous air. The sight reminded her of modernized Shadewizards from the Monwyn vids―only they lacked skull-tipped staves.

  “What’s your idea?” she asked.

  “Those three don’t look like the type who could mastermind anything more complicated than the self-cooking mechanism of a Nippy-Nom burrito, and even that may be asking too much.”

  She grinned. “I don’t think I can mind-read abyssals.”

  “Exactly why I was going to suggest you scare them off, and I’ll follow them. Maybe I can find their boss, or at least overhear something.”

  “Won’t abyssals see you?” She paused at the end of the hallway, just before it expanded into the front.

  “If anything, these morons are just possessed. I walked circles around them a minute ago and they didn’t react.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. If it doesn’t work, I’m sure they’ll come right back here.”

  Kirsten strode through the church area, shoving the double doors open with an authoritative heave. “You three,” she barked, drawing the E90. “Hands out of your pockets. You’re wanted for questioning in the matter of an assault.”

  Hissing chuckles leaked from them. The one to the far left lifted his head enough for her to see pale grey skin and black eyes.

  “Okay, we can play that game too.” She put the gun away and called the lash, spinning it around before flinging it to the side in a showy gesture. “You obviously don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  The middle one leaned into a hiss, causing an icy tickle at her heart. Kirsten gathered her psionic energy in a defense, resulting in a backlash that flung the teen on his ass. Wow, these guys are pretty damn weak.

  “Was that supposed to do something?” She advanced, raising the lash. “Don’t worry, boys. If you’re still alive, this won’t hurt at all.”

  They scattered, scrambling off to the left at a full run. Dorian set off after them, vanishing down a side street. With a faint whoosh, the tendril receded back into her hand. A brief gust of cool wind carried the scent of Mexican spices. Damn, now I want one of those instant burritos. Bright light pulled her gaze skyward as a billboard-sized hologram slid out of an alley. A newsbot as big as a two-seat car turned ninety degrees to its left, and glided down 500th street. The panel contained a full-on view of a nude corpse; a three-second loop of the image before a blue-gloved crime scene worker grabbed the lens. NewsNet slowed it down, giving the public a lingering view of a tall, slender woman with short, blonde hair. An ad panel opened at the corner, claiming she “looked this good dead” because she used Lifespring™ beauty care products.

  The revulsion of such public disregard for the deceased gave way to Kirsten’s notice that the body appeared to be in too-good health to be a streetwalker. The posture, arms at the sides, reminded her of Mr. Arris.

  I wonder if her eyes are black too. Gah, how can they show that? Have a little respect.

  Kimberly Brightman’s voice entered her awareness as the angle of the newsbot brought her within reach of its directional speakers. “…discovered earlier this morning has been identified as Miss Uma Donn.” The image shifted to a beige-paneled century tower behind a sculpture resembling a massive cybernetic component cradled in a number of incomplete circles. Kimberly stood in the shadow of the oversized neural interface unit in its nest of giant steel C’s, attempting to interview a stern-faced woman in tan security armor. No sound came from the brief clip, until the reporter’s face took over the holo-panel. “Tara Lawrence, chief of security for EnMesh Corporation, Miss Donn’s former employer, had no comment about the events. Some on the GlobeNet claim Miss Donn fell victim to corporate espionage.”

  Kirsten sighed, finding herself unable to pull her gaze off the thirteen-foot holographic image of a dead woman flying through the air past the church. The ad now offered funerary services. The i
mage changed to show Kimberly standing in an ancient-looking Victorian-era room, adjacent to a man apparently crafted from bronze. Several parts of his face had open spaces that provided a view of whirring gears and blinking lights inside him. The words ‘Live from Cyberspace’ scrolled along the bottom of the image.

  “I’m here with Anachronis, one of the preeminent figures of the GlobeNet inner circle.”

  “Thank you, Kimberly. Clearly, there is some conspiratorial angle to this event. I have information which leads me to believe Miss Donn was attempting to defect to a rival corporation. In all likelihood her”―his face took on a forced smile amid a fluttering of clicks and snaps― “transfer failed. EnMesh, or any corporation for that matter, does not often let its top-tier talent go too easily.”

  “Anachronis, you are accusing a UCF-held corporation of assassinating one of its own employees? Surely, you don’t think such things happen here?”

  The grating metal chuckle slithered down her spine. He sipped from a martini glass that appeared to contain oil, with a gear on a toothpick. “I assume by your question you also believe this illusion of difference in our gov―”

  An advert for EnMesh Neural Interface Units took over the screen, promising six percent improvement in all cybernetic component response time. Kirsten went back inside the church, wondering about the second body found in similar circumstances. It nagged at her as odd, but with no clear evidence of a paranormal event, she had no standing to get involved.

  Fr. Villera tended to a large food reassembler, connecting a fifty-gallon drum of OmniSoy to its pick up line. She jogged over to help him move it, laughing as the elf-thin girl and the old man did all they could do to jockey it into position. She felt weak until she realized she had done eighty percent of the work. Maybe those sessions with Gabriel are paying off.

  “They’ll be here soon. Would you mind helping out a bit until your”―he cast an uneasy glance at the front doors―“partner comes back?”