Fallen

by Claire Delacroix

  "Not one bit." Lilia snagged another glass of wine. "If you find out anything juicy, you probably won't tell me."

  He set his lips, proof positive of that.

  Lilia was annoyed, not just by Blake's assessment of her, but by his alliance with the administration of the Society. She couldn't trust him anymore. He could be warning her off just to protect the Society, which was not one of her agenda items.

  All the same, this wasn't the place to fight it out. People were starting to notice. Lilia summoned her best fake smile. "Okay, Blake, let's call a truce. If the presidency is what you want, then I hope you win."

  He smiled, hiding his thoughts with an ease that made Lilia miss the Blake she had known. "Never one to mince words, are you?"

  "Well, I wouldn't wish the job on anyone, but then there's no accounting for taste, is there? I'd even vote for you, and put my little nail in your coffin if they hadn't revoked my fellowship today."

  He blinked. "They what?"

  "You must have known." He paled though and Lilia knew he hadn't known. Her judgment of him softened slightly. "Go ahead, ditch me," she advised. "Being seen with me is a liability to your campaign."

  "Oh, no, that's not true," he said without conviction.

  He wanted to run so badly that Lilia patted his arm with sympathy. "Go now. It's only going to get worse."

  His eyes narrowed. "What are you going to do?"

  Lilia smiled and indicated a woman on the other side of the room.

  "Don't provoke her..." Blake said, but it was too late.

  Lilia Desjardins had nothing left to lose. She charted a course toward Ernestine Sinclair, current Society president.

  Lilia's favorite piece of toxic waste.

  The lower netherzones were filled to the rafters with fog. Montgomery strode into the fog to find its source.

  He immediately felt dirty.

  It was a slithery fog, touching Montgomery in a strangely intimate way, like an unwelcome lover with fast hands. He remembered Lilia's words all too well. He descended into the fog as one slips into a pool of water. The fog engulfed him. He felt violated every place it touched his pseudoskin and had the unreasonable urge to scrub himself down.

  When it had closed over him completely, his response changed. Every hair on his body rose and he tingled from head to toe. It wasn't fear and it wasn't dread: it was lust that the fog awakened. He was raging with sexual desire as he never had been before.

  Montgomery wasn't easily spooked, but this fog was different. He froze, listening. He could hear the rhythmic squeal of a dozen treadmills close at hand. He could smell the perspiration of the shades who walked those treadmills, could hear their labored breathing. Gears ground and belts whined, evidence that even the labor of shades had to be maximized.

  "Munkar..." The voice beckoned him onward, deeper and louder than it had been.

  Who knew his old name? Montgomery had to find out. He could see his feet and an increment of the poured concrete floor. He held his laze high as he began to walk deeper into the labyrinth.

  He didn't know how far he walked before the lights brightened and then winked out.

  He was surrounded by silvery fog.

  Montgomery only hoped he saw whatever was stalking him in time to blow it away.

  It was almost too easy to hate Ernestine Sinclair. In her absence, Lilia wondered whether she'd missed some redeeming feature of Ernestine's character. In her presence, Lilia was too busy loathing Ernestine to care.

  First, she was the daughter of the founder of the Institute, Ernest Sinclair himself, one of Lilia's least favorite action heroes. Secondly, she was president of the Society, just finishing her term, a job that Lilia was convinced that no sane individual could want.

  Including Blake.

  Finally, she was a plain old-fashioned bitch. Inescapable, yet no one seemed to see this truth but Lilia.

  Ernestine pivoted and locked Lilia in her sights. As she strode closer—a stalker in evening attire—she smiled. Lilia smiled back, putting a bit more malice in her smile. Hungry barracudas had nothing on those smiles.

  Ernestine, Lilia noticed, had chosen a swastika for her third-eye tattoo, which meant that she was both Sixth Degree and insensitive. Lilia knew that it was an ancient symbol for the sun and protection from the evil eye, but everyone was aware that it had passed into the vernacular of symbolism with a nastier association.

  "Lilia," Ernestine said, showing her father's ability to command the attention of everyone within hearing distance. "How nice of you to make a final appearance at a Society event."

  "Final? Should I be careful what I eat here?"

  Ernestine's smile thinned. "I can only assume that you've received the official revocation of your fellowship and that this will be our last chance to see each other."

  "I came to present the award renamed in Gid's honor, and I'll happily retire my fellowship after I've done so."

  Ernestine laughed her throaty chuckle, the one that had every man within twenty paces looking her way. She'd laughed like that at the Institute, when the two women had lived in the same dorm, and Lilia was surprised that she hadn't upgraded any of her charms in the intervening years. "That's not how it's going to be, Lilia."

  "Why not? I came all this way, specifically to present the award. You knew that was why I was coming."

  "Lilia, don't pretend you don't understand. My father would have been appalled by your presence at our conference. It's a sad commentary upon our culture at large that so many individuals"—Lilia got a look to punctuate precisely which individuals Ernestine referred to, as if anyone had any doubt—"see only the potential for personal profit in their associations with the Society."

  "I don't know," Lilia said, helping herself to another glass of wine. "It could be argued that the Society itself was founded for the purpose of profiting from shades and mutants. How about those government research contracts?"

  This was a somewhat unpopular remark.

  "Securing the future of those unfortunates who have birth defects attributable to radiation exposure is a social responsibility," Ernestine scolded. "But surgical manipulation of subjects, many of whom are incapable of protesting their fate, well, Lilia, that's beyond the pale."

  "I don't think that minor surgical alteration of children who are already not passing as norms—even if they are— is any more morally suspect than enslaving those born with defects." Lilia took a restorative sip of wine. "Especially since those defects are the result of our species bombing the crap out of each other. Collectively, we're not innocent either way."

  "But surgical alterations are done despite the will of the child."

  "Tell me, how does a child in utero protest his mother being exposed to radiation?"

  "Lilia, it's not the same thing." Ernestine was impatient. "The importance of ensuring the defense of the Republic is beyond question, and ours is not to question the decisions of those with far more information."

  "Oh, I think as citizens, that's precisely our obligation."

  "We can hardly argue politics here."

  Lilia felt her temper begin to boil. Unlike her smug fellows, Lilia saw these altered kids all the time. They appeared with hopeful parents, who had effectively mortgaged their souls for the surgery. Every single one of those parents was desperate for a chance to see their child's future secured. Joachim hired the kids to do general labor, to take care of animals or cook, whenever he could.

  Which wasn't all the time.

  Lilia tried not to think about what happened to the ones he had to turn away. She didn't always succeed.

  Ernestine smiled her nasty smile. "Perhaps we should have invited you as a special guest for another reason this year, Lilia, given your recent infamy."

  Lilia had a very bad feeling. It might simply have been due to the venom in Ernestine's tone.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Ernestine smiled and lifted a single fingertip.

  Her gesture prompted the sud
den appearance of the official photograph of Armaros and Baraqiel, Lilia's angel-shades. Angels. They filled the wall display with their brilliant glory; their beaming smiles alone had to be a good ten feet wide.

  The room fell silent. Lilia had to think it was awe.

  "You look as if you're proud of this lie," Ernestine hissed.

  "I'm glad that we aren't going to pretend that this little exchange is about the circus or surgically altered children."

  "You're the one who's falsifying—"

  "Allow me to present the angels," Lilia said, casting her words over the room. "Two individuals whom I persuaded to join the circus earlier this year."

  A murmur passed through the crowd and Rhys ibn Ali looked daggers at Lilia.

  "Please refer to them by their assigned shade numbers." Ernestine snapped.

  "They don't have any." Lilia decided to push her. "They have names. They are Armaros and Baraqiel."

  Disapproval rolled through the room like a dark tide.

  "Names!" Ernestine spat, raising her voice to carry to the corners of the ballroom. "It is forbidden for shades to possess names, according to the law code, just as it is forbidden for a Nuclear Darwinist to capture a new mutation and not deliver that specimen to the labs of the Institute—"

  "Angels aren't a new mutation. We've been talking about them for millennia."

  "They are not angels!"

  Lilia turned to the image. "They look like angels to me."

  Ernestine seethed. "Anyone could tell you that the statistical probability of such a complex mutation occurring, even as a result of radiation exposure, is infinitesimally small..."

  "Thirty-three and a half million to one. Against."

  Silence filled the ballroom.

  Lilia had their attention.

  She could work with that.

  Lilia strode toward the display, knowing the amplifiers would be embedded in the ceiling there. "That a winged fetus would be born alive and survive to adulthood roughly doubles the odds against. That there would be two such mutations in close proximity to each other, both of whom would mature to adulthood and simultaneously avoid capture by the Society for those years of development is beyond the capacity for statistical computation."

  Lilia paused for effect. "I know this, not because I excel at the calculation of statistical probabilities—in fact, I stink at it."

  They laughed at that admission.

  "I know this because my late husband, Gideon Fitzgerald, could calculate the probabilities of anything, to nine decimal places, in his head. When I found Armaros and Baraqiel, Gid and I had our first argument ever. He was skeptical, perhaps even more skeptical than you are, and he told me the mathematical justification for his response. He calculated the odds to be less than one in seventy-six million."

  "Which only proves that they are surgically modified," Ernestine insisted. "We all know the accuracy of calculations by Gideon Fitzgerald."

  "No, it proves nothing," Lilia retorted. "The probability is overwhelmingly against anyone finding a pair of shades mutated to fit our mythical description of angels, but it's still not impossible. Improbable, but not impossible. In fact, that's exactly what happened: the lab reports prove that it is possible."

  "Lab reports can be adjusted to prove anything," Ernestine insisted. "How gullible do you think we are?"

  Lilia surveyed the group coldly. "Perhaps I missed something in my training, but I always believed that a Nuclear Darwinist of repute observed all of the data before making a decision. I was taught that an open mind was the greatest asset of an intelligent scientist. Let me show you the test results."

  Ernestine laughed. "We have no need to see the lab reports you bought to endorse this claim! We wouldn't even give them credence by asking to examine them." There were murmurs of assent from the crowd. "We have a reputation to protect—"

  "Where does it say that we know everything?" Lilia demanded. "The radiation levels in the atmosphere of this planet increase almost daily—we all know that—which means that humans are exposed to a constant and an increasing barrage of radioactivity. I don't think any of us can say where, or if, our species' mutational process will end." She paused for a breath. "We're all guinea pigs, boys and girls, in the greatest biological experiment of all time."

  Oh, that was a popular statement. There appeared to be a good chance of Lilia being stoned for heresy.

  Or would she be burned for that?

  "And now," she said, turning to the display. "Now, the angels have come. Maybe Reverend Billie Jo Estevez is right and they've brought a message to our kind. Don't you think we should ask what it is, instead of slicing them up into little pieces to see what they're really made of?"

  The room erupted in anger and remonstration then.

  She raised her voice in challenge. "Look into their eyes and tell me that they wouldn't know the difference if you subjected them to vivisection."

  The mood in the ballroom turned ugly.

  Ernestine looked daggers at Lilia. "Proud of yourself?" she hissed.

  "Pretty much, yes," Lilia said and accepted another glass of wine from a waiter who obviously appreciated her black lycrester.

  "Your own husband, Gideon, denounced you formally to the Society review committee, Lilia. The person who knew you better than anyone else believed that you were lying about this. That's why it was decided that you weren't the appropriate person to present the award renamed in his honor."

  "Fair enough," Lilia said. "I want my conference and travel fees reimbursed, because you invited me here under false pretenses. I want my hotel bill paid. I want my fellowship fees for this year refunded and I want my laze back."

  Ernestine's eyes narrowed. "Is that all?"

  Lilia pretended to think about it. "I think so."

  "Then stop at the registration desk and have your I.D. bead updated. Your professional designation has to be removed from your file."

  "And my creds returned to my file."

  Ernestine sneered. "I should have known it would be about the creds for you."

  Lilia smiled. "I should have known you were evil, right to the core. The really sad thing is that I could spend all of eternity in your company in hell." She drained her glass and put it on a passing waiter's tray. "I'm thinking I should reform my ways, before it's too late."

  With that, Lilia walked out of the hotel ballroom, feeling lighter on her feet than she had in years. The Society of Nuclear Darwinists, after all, wasn't a club to which she had ever really wanted to belong.

  XVII

  "Welcome, Munkar." It was the same voice that had called Montgomery onward, at once everywhere and nowhere. "Somehow I knew you would answer my summons." The voice was deep and dark, an old voice worn as smooth as a serpent.

  It was masculine and beguiling. Ageless and ancient. Montgomery understood that he'd been summoned by the darkest angel of all.

  Lucifer.

  "Yes," the voice agreed easily. "Who could have anticipated that you and I would meet? Our teams don't mingle much anymore." The voice chuckled. "But then, there is that delightful Lilia, who doesn't seem to be allied with any team."

  At the mention of Lilia's name, Montgomery remembered the feel of her against him. He imagined her skin beneath his hands, her mouth beneath his own, her breath against his throat. He felt his erection straining against the reevlar of his codpiece.

  His companion laughed. "Perfect! That's precisely what I needed. How accommodating of you, Munkar, to see to my desires."

  Montgomery could discern a shadow then, a silhouette of a man against the fog. He seemed to be only a dozen paces in front of Montgomery, although it was difficult to be certain. The shadow was only a tone darker than the silver of the fog and became less distinct if he looked straight at it.

  "Who are you?" Montgomery asked, although he thought he knew.

  "That's not an easy question to answer. Maybe you should try another one."

  "What do you want?"

  "Focus, Munkar. All
inquiries benefit from a certain focus. We all want so many things, don't we?"

  Montgomery thought of Lilia again. It was as if the fog stirred his passion and manipulated his thoughts. He was tempted to shoot and ask questions later, but wasn't sure precisely where his companion was. If he was going to fire, he wanted the shot to be fatal. "What do you want from me?"

  "Well done! There's a veritable list, of course, but you've made an admirable beginning."

  "To what?"

  "Desire."

  Montgomery almost felt the exhaled word roll across his flesh. It could have been a caress, one that stirred him even further.

  Montgomery took a step back.

  "Preferably illicit desire. Maybe we should call it lust."

  "I don't know what you mean." But Montgomery did, all too well.

  "What's the point of falling, Munkar, if you don't enjoy the earthly benefits?" that voice whispered. "Why sacrifice so much and get so little in return? I don't have to be the one to tell you that the pleasures of the flesh are vastly underrated by the celestial crowd."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "When you lust, Munkar, you feed my manifestation. All of the seven deadly sins are good for me, of course, but lust is my favorite. How about you?"

  "I couldn't say."

  "You mean you won't say. I can teach you about pleasure, Munkar, teach you things you've never dreamed of knowing."

  He sauntered closer, looking more substantial with every step.

  "Why would you do that?"

  "For the fun of it, of course."

  "To serve your own ends, I'd guess. Lust feeds your manifestation because you haven't got a form of your own," Montgomery guessed, half remembering a story he had been told long ago. "Being cast into darkness meant that you can't take flesh, not really, and that you gain in power only when you can feed on wickedness. Human wickedness."

  His companion hissed briefly before continuing his persuasive argument. "Are you in human company now, Munkar? I'm thinking so." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Why don't you secret yourself away with Lilia for a week or two, and satisfy your every desire? Forget the rest of the world and its woes."