He had to wait for the right moment to use the periscepter. His chances of actually getting the thing to work were slim, but it was his last strand of hope. It had to land sometime; he'd have his chance then.
Something appeared in the distance, floating in the sky. As they came closer, the huge, ominous form took shape. It was a mountain hovering upside down, like it had been ripped violently from the ground.
A small but busy town of sorts was erected efficiently on the floating hunk of rock. About two hundred lightbulb-shaped buildings stood in triangular patterns of three. They were made of a brown mud, not unlike the adobe structures of his hometown. In the center was an impressive tower made of stone and glass. Even from a distance, he could make out features of the gigantic building. Its base was thin like the lesser structures, but its bulbous top was disproportionately immense, making it look like a mushroom cloud. There was no foliage anywhere, making the floating town dull and forbidding.
The demons were everywhere, flying to and from the platform, between buildings, and in countless groups around the rock base, which also seemed to house tunnels and structures. Most of the activity centered around the mysterious tower.
He wasn't going to get a chance to escape. Even if he could use the periscepter, by the time it would be safe to fire it, they'd be over the platform. He'd never be able to hold off them all. Defeated, he slid the periscepter back into his pack. Oh god, what was going to happen to him?
“I want to go home,” he said. But he didn't cry this time. He didn't think he could anymore.
Most of the demons he could see in the darkness were like his captor. Human looking, but taller with the bat wings. Most wore armor and weapons.
There were other demons too, creatures out of a nightmare. A swarm of tiny, glowing brown demons zoomed by Rico's head. They were like rats with insect wings and armor. Each carried a tiny gun, no larger than a peso coin. One stopped to look at Rico, only inches from his head. It had red eyes. It gave a smirk, then buzzed off.
They were now over the platform. They arced down between the buildings, which were taller than he had originally guessed. To his astonishment, a few humans were also walking about on the ground, almost swallowed by the shadows, but distinguishable. Some carried heavy bundles on their backs, while others just seemed to be aimlessly wandering the stone and dirt streets. They all wore the same black cloaks; they all walked in the same, hunched over manner.
“Hey,” he called. “Help me! Somebody!”
Only one human looked up. A woman with dark hair. He had a momentary view of her as they soared past. Her skin was covered with red welts, and she was peppered with black dots, as if she had been marked up with a pen. She watched him pass by with eyes devoid of life or hope. The blank look on her face was terrifying.
What were the humans doing here? Were they really people, or just something that looked human? They angled up towards the top of the main tower.
He was abruptly dropped to a small landing platform near the top of the mighty tower. He skid forward with a humph. He jumped to his feet, turning to face the demon. His legs were cramped and sore, a feeling completely foreign to him. His knees buckled, and he fell forward.
The demon reached down with a clawed hand and picked him up by his hair. His scalp felt as though it was ripping from his skull, a knife of fresh pain shooting through his head.
They were plunged into complete, utter darkness. His screams echoed, like they were in a cavernous chamber. He was swung like a handbag as they walked through the room. The demon could see just fine in the darkness. His footfalls were sure and steady. A rotten odor, like the smell of a dead dog abandoned on the curb, filled the room, and bugs buzzed about. A noise emanated from all around, a low humming. Occasionally his feet would scrape against the ground, which felt like polished stone. Marble, like the platform on the beach.
His sixth sense felt another presence here, watching them. The hair on his arms tingled. The stone ground smacked hard against his cheek as he was dropped. He lay there, no longer willing to move.
The demon began speaking with another creature in its mystic language. Whatever was in this room was coiled all around them, not touching, but close enough he could sense its aura. Like a snake. Its voice was strong, each word a physical blow.
The two creatures began to argue, the demon raising its voice and speaking quickly. A musty odor rose in the room, but it was soon replaced by a thicker, overpowering scent. Like vinegar.
The invisible creature seemed to have won the argument, because the demon made one last plea and was given a sharp, quick sentence in response. Rico was picked back up and once again dragged by the hair. The demon swung Rico about savagely. He struggled but was cuffed against the side of his head.
“Fuck you!” Rico shouted. In anger, he yanked himself down, slipping away. He hit something, a fleshy mass of some sort. In a panic, he fumbled for the periscepter and found it. He pulled it out, not knowing where to aim. He squeezed the handle and prayed.
To his utter amazement, light burst forth. Only for a few seconds, and it felt as if he was hit by a bowling ball. He fell over, dropping the periscepter in surprise. The brief image of the room, and its colossal occupant, staggered him.
The chamber was a slaughterhouse. Creatures and animals of all sorts were hung against the wall and tied to stakes in the room. They were naked and dead. Tubes erupted from them, and blood and other fluids were being sucked out.
He hadn't bumped into the monstrosity, but a dead human on a stake. Or an almost human. She had gills on the side of her neck, but everything else looked to be in the right place. Her open eyes screamed in agony and terror. Her yellow flesh was bubbled like a tortilla. The tubes in her body slurped at nothing but dust and air.
But the keeper of this butchery. That was the true nightmare. Rico froze at the sight of the monster, the horror drowning him.
Its body was that of a millipede, curling around the room several times, like a snake in a basket, its black segmented body twitching, turning, pulsating. In the spaces around its body were the victims, hung like pictures on the wall, and the tubes draining them all led to various points along the monster's body.
Its oblong head was dominated by a pair of fragmented insect eyes. But the individual fragments weren't mirrors, like on flies. These were actual eyes. Human. Hundreds of them on each side. They worked independent of each other, moving all around. The mouth was a jagged opening between the eyes. A pair of hooked pinchers thrashed like scythes.
This mouth opened up and screamed with anguish as Rico's quick burst cut the millipede right in half. Several segments clumped off the wall like a severed rope and flopped several feet, knocking over a few draining bodies, getting the tubes jumbled.
Even with the darkness again upon him, the monster thrashed about the room, screaming. His captor demon was on him now, holding him to the ground, shrieking. It put its foot on Rico's head and began to crush. A clawed hand reached down and wrenched his hair.
The pain became unbearable. A thousand razor blades itching at his scalp. Digging. Finding the nerves and twisting them. Peeling away his skin violently. He slipped willingly back to unconsciousness, but even in the dark dreams he felt the undeniable pain.
* * * *
Mid-Commander Ungeo G'sslom stood before an irate Overseer. The worthless arch-demon kept pounding his enormous fist, larger even than Ungeo's head, into the wall in anger. Rock rained from the chamber ceiling, and Ungeo stood uneasily as the stone shattered dangerously around her.
Naked slaves crawled over the demon like ants on a hill. They were busy gratifying the Overseer's many pleasure nodes that sprouted like hair from his paunch and back. A rock bounced off a slave's head, and she tumbled down the fleshy mountain, landing in a heap on the floor. Attendants came and dragged the body away, replacing it with another human female, this one a child. The crying girl was prodded with shock sticks until she reached a pleasure node and opened her mouth as she had been tr
ained.
A jagged hunk of ceiling fell, sending bits of rock into Ungeo's wing. Damn this Overseer. How can soldiers respect their leaders if they're too stupid to maintain suitable headquarters? The previous one had collapsed, killing a quarter of his staff.
The demon's nostrils flared. Ko, the Overseer's Geyrun assistant, tittered nervously. Slaves tumbled off the Overseer like water droplets. The hard-at-work commanders tried with great difficulty to ignore their leader's tirade. Each had their wings discreetly poised, just in case.
“Ambushed! And no periscepters. I should've known it was a hoax.” He turned to a passing officer. “Send a communiqué to the council. Demand more support.”
“Uh ... yes sir,” he mumbled, then hurried off. The officer likely had nothing to do with communications, nor was it his duty to relay messages from the Overseer, but that was how the incompetent beast led. Haphazardly. A fool. Preoccupied with his own pleasure over duty, like all Overseers.
They had won the war despite the Overseers, not because of them. It was the one rank within the Dominion monopolized by a specific race. Of all the aspects of the Angel hierarchy to emulate, their caste system had to be the worst. The Council of Twelve had agreed to Overseer control of the military in exchange for their joining the twelve other worlds in war. They hadn't wanted a seat on the council, but a promised rank for all their kind, regardless of competence. In exchange they'd offer the mighty towering beasts that had been necessary in the initial assault.
“There'll be an investigation, of course,” the Overseer said, stroking its long chin. The corpulent demon still trembled with anger. He flicked at a slave, and she flew across the room, hitting the wall with a crunch. Ko snapped his long fingers, and she was quickly replaced, this time by a terrified-looking male.
“Of course, my Lord.” The Charun tried not to let her anxiety show through. This was the all-important moment.
“Very well, then. You're dismissed.”
She saluted and quickly turned from the Overseer. Too quickly. An unfamiliar jolt of fear ran through her. The Overseer cleared his throat. Damn that fool.
“It's your duty to investigate these matters, is it not?” he said.
She slowly turned back to face the demon. She had to choose her words carefully. Her career, her very life, depended on what she said next. “I will relegate it to an uninvolved third party, Lord.”
He regarded her for a long moment with those lecherous eyes. She imagined herself leaping forward and grabbing one of his pleasure nodes with her talon and yanking it off.
“Very well,” he said. “But this investigator isn't to be a filthy bird like yourself.”
She cracked the knuckles in her talons. Easy. Easy.
“Of course, my Lord.”
* * * *
Hekka wailed in fury. He fell to his knees, begging Moloch for forgiveness. A Rector was dead. Surely Moloch would smite his entire clan. The Rector lay before him now, a gaping section of its magnificent body rent by the murderous True Light.
How could he have allowed the periscepter to be brought into the temple? The Decretal stated clearly that most weapons were forbidden on such hallowed ground. It was an offense far worse than what his brother had committed.
When he had disarmed the human of his gun, he had assumed he had been neutralized. The boy hadn't been wielding the light, which was a far superior weapon. He had been so quick to bring the Child of Moloch, he hadn't even considered searching him. A terrible mistake. Unforgivable.
Ritual suicide wouldn't be enough. He trembled. Nothing would be. His entire clan would die. The complete Book of Ancestors would be burned. His brethren would be slaughtered by the angry masses.
He was crushing the human's head with his hand. He almost allowed himself to do it. What did it matter anymore? The Rector was dead, and there would be no one left to perform the ceremony. The ceremony itself was likely useless, for the sacrifice of a single human, Child or not, couldn't possibly sate Moloch's thirst.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the periscepter. He half expected it to burn or even melt his fingers away. But nothing happened. The long black metal tube was surprisingly light, and a little warm. He squeezed the handle. Nothing. Such an innocent looking thing. So deadly. He could understand why the angels would want such a weapon, and why the Dominion desperately wanted them not to have them.
He searched the human. He had another one! Two periscepters, worth more than the pay of a thousand cycles to any Overseer. At any moment an acolyte or another worshipper was going to come into the room and discover what had happened. The fluids of the draining corpses were already spilling freely on the temple floor, filling the room with the sweet smell of death.
“Fear not, Lamb. You have done your duty well.”
Hekka looked up in astonishment. Standing before him was a human figure swimming in a flowing red robe. Incredibly ancient, old like the trees in the forest. A tangled gray beard hung to his knees, and it was caked and matted with blood. His eyes were a sea of milky white, stabbed with streaks of red, and black pin prints for pupils. The distinct odor of carrion rose with him. His presence filled the room.
Moloch!
Hekka dropped the periscepters and threw himself flat on the floor, too frightened to even look up. He struggled to lower himself as much as he could, trying to bury his own body into the stone. He felt himself groveling and whimpering, the noises rising from him like an injured animal. His mind reeled. Was that really Him? Moloch rarely showed Himself. Those who did bask in his presence rarely lived to speak of it. Was He here to ferry the faithful Rector away? Or perhaps he had angered the God so considerably, He had come to exact His justice in person. Hekka sniveled like a beaten slave.
“Stand.”
He snapped to his feet with military precision, though he could do nothing to mask his trembling.
The resplendent form of Moloch bent down and snatched up the two periscepters. “These are the only two he had on him?”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper.
“Go. Speak of my presence to no one, and all shall be forgiven.”
Hekka ran. He sped through the dark, labyrinthine hallway, past the grotesque masks of protection, past the gallery of leather, toppling a surprised acolyte as he hammered a new skin to the wall. He dove from the perch into the sky. Tears spouted like blood, and he dove straight for his quarters. No time to seek out a commander for debriefing. No time to ponder the implications of what had just happened. He needed to meditate and pray, for he had just been in His presence.
* * * *
The assault team of twenty-four Powers skirted low on the field as they screamed like arrows though the sky. Keeping pace behind them were several automated drones which would aid them in their assault.
Levi dodged the crashed remains of a Foray, one of the strike planes used to defend Cibola. He tried to keep focus, but the sight of the smashed vehicles burned him like a blade of fire. The fighter planes had been hailed as indestructible. Unstoppable. A remarkable achievement of engineering.
They littered the field like rodent mounds. He remembered watching in horror as they were swatted out of the sky. Mere insects. Their missiles ineffective. Their pilots burned to grain.
Levi had designed them himself. Each wreck was a hook in his soul. Each fallen angel a stone to carry on his back.
The engineer corps had gleefully designed weapon after weapon, gadget after gadget, after the first raid so many cycles ago. Each device was better than the last. They'd compete with each other to make the deadliest machines of destruction. They created tools, like the seeker drones and the anima bots. They ignored fine details like ejection maneuvers while the fighter was flipped horizontal. Or how the unfired missiles were excessively sensitive to shock.
After all, they were just designing these things for their own amusement. No one thought they would ever actually have to use them.
These things were in the past, he told himself. You can't shape clay that
's already been fired, one of his dear friends had once told him. All he could do now was attempt to atone for his mistakes. He checked his weapon. It hummed dangerously, quivering with power. He had adjusted it before they left, doubling its energy output.
A nod from Jullishia told him what he dreaded. The Dahhak's destination was a temple. He shivered. They were too small a team. They were but twenty-four soldiers, while the Dahhak likely numbered several thousand near the temple. The floating hunk of rock wasn't actually within the city. But that was lukewarm comfort against the dark backdrop of their target.
The radio was silent. Nothing but the heavy breathing of twenty-three other soldiers, dealing with the knowledge they chased certain death.
* * * *
There was something wrong with his wheelchair. After so many years, his chairs had become part of him. He knew every nuance, every peculiarity of each one, like it was a physical part of him. The front wheel on his A-frame racer was wobbling. The damn thing could go at any minute.
He had gotten the chair used, through a local I-can-make-myself-feel-better-by-giving-away-used-crap-to-handicapped-people drive. He hated the thought of taking stuff as charity. But his Mamá insisted. New, they cost several thousand American dollars.
It was fast, though. And driving it was like riding on the back of a cheetah. It raced through the unlit, angled street. Though night had descended on the tired village, the ominous form of Popocatepetl rose against the horizon, blocking even the stars.
A few tourists were out. Drunk, wandering the streets. If it was another time he'd approach them, maybe bully them into giving him some money. Some cars too, but not many. No one paid heed to Rico in his wheelchair, racing for his life.
Not far behind him was Paco, Manuel, and Humberto. All three were piled onto a undersized moped, which whined like an overburdened donkey. Paco was screaming at the top of his lungs. But screams, even murderous ones, were not rare here.
It was all because of Paco's sixteen-year-old twin sister, Mayra.
He had been alone with her in a back room at the mission. They were both helping clean up from the minor earthquake that had hit the previous day. A shelf had fallen off the wall, and the missives were spread everywhere. Mayra piled them on his lap, and he handed them to her in order as she placed them back.
The Shivered Sky Page 11
