The Shivered Sky

by Matt Dinniman

  Her gossamer skin brushed lightly against his hand one too many times. She was driving him crazy. She wore a tight, mid-cut shirt with a flower pattern. It tied in the back; one tug and her prize would spill out like a piñata. He imagined they smelled like roses.

  “Mayra,” he said. “I got something for you. Want to see?”

  She eyed him warily. “What?”

  He produced the gold lady's watch he had nicked off a tourist earlier. He held it up for her, and it sparkled in the light through the round window. He had tried to sell it earlier but discovered it was a worthless fake.

  Greed flashed in her beautiful brown eyes. Her hands snatched forward.

  Rico pulled it away. He grinned. “You gotta do something for me first.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You think I'm some sort of cheap prostitute?”

  “It's not like I want you to fuck me or anything. Just let me see your tits. Let me touch them.”

  “Rico, we're in a church.”

  “The human body is a beautiful thing. Even the pope says so.” He dangled the watch again. “You know you want this.”

  She shook her head, but her eyes betrayed her. Mayra was a budding actress and model. Just last month she had appeared in a catalogue in Mexico City for bathing suits. But her family was still poor, and he knew she craved pretty things like this watch. “It's a sin,” she said. “You can't sin in a church. It's much worse than sinning normally.”

  “Show me in the bible where it says ‘thou shalt not show Rico your boobs.'”

  She sighed. He held his breath as he watched her indecision. “All right, but if you tell anyone, I swear on The Virgin I'll break both your arms.” She grabbed for the watch.

  “Nope. After.”

  She reached back and untied the knot that kept her splendorous breasts imprisoned. He leaned forward in his chair, the missives spilling to the floor. At the last second, she paused. The two ties of her shirt dangled ruthlessly at her side, and she clutched the fabric to her chest.

  “No touching,” she said. “Just look.”

  He mocked petulance, but he really didn't care. He'd seen plenty of tits in his lifetime, but none, ever, that were meant just for him. His heart pounded. “All right,” he said, licking his lips.

  She lowered her shirt, giving him a full view of her magnificent breasts. It was, perhaps, the greatest moment of his young life, and he was full aware of it.

  Then something very, very bad happened.

  Padre Montamos walked in.

  “Dios Mio! ” he cried, his face white as an American. His eyes were glued to Mayra's breasts. “What is going on here?”

  “Hola, Padre,” Rico said, planting a plastic smile on his face.

  Mayra burst into tears.

  “He made me do it,” she wailed. She hadn't even bothered to cover herself up. “He stole the watch my Abuela gave me and told me if I didn't strip he'd smash it up in front of me.” She collapsed on the floor, sobbing melodramatically. “He was going to rape me!”

  “You lying bitch!” Rico yelled. He turned his wheel to face the padre. “She is lying.”

  The priest seemed to be frozen with indecision. Then his eyes found the watch still in his hands. “Where did you get that watch?”

  Rico tried to slide it into his pocket. “It's mine.”

  “It's a woman's watch, Rico.”

  Mayra continued to ululate like a goat being castrated.

  “Padre, have I ever lied to you?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  Paco burst into the room. He had been out front, helping reattach the bulletin board to the wall. At the sight of his topless sister crying on the floor, he turned toward Rico, his eyes enraged.

  I can still get out of this. I just have to say the right thing.

  “It's not my fault your sister's a whore.”

  Padre Montamos had to physically hold Paco back. “You are dead. Do you hear me, Rico? Fucking dead!” Paco was dragged out of the room.

  The priest eventually believed Rico's story when the watch that had belonged to Mayra's grandmother suddenly became her aunt's. Rico got to keep the watch and he had gotten to see her boobs. Everything had worked out for the best.

  But he still had to face Paco and his friends.

  He turned the corner, puffing with the effort. Almost home.

  A shriek from behind let him know the pursuit was still on. He pushed himself beyond his limits. As he fled, his thoughts turned angry. They're always making fun. Always chasing me. I'm always the mouse, never the cat. Always the weaker one. If I ever get the chance, I swear to God I'll...

  He had no chance to finish the thought. A fast-moving car sped out of a dark alley and slammed him, launching him into the air.

  There wasn't much pain, just a loud crunch and he went tumbling. He was completely numb, and it didn't feel as if he was moving at all, but the world was spinning around him. He blinked and he was on the ground. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his chest felt wet, but there was no real pain. Just a dull ache that seemed far, far away. Smoke and the stench of burnt tar invaded his sinuses. He could see his chair, crumpled like a soda can. The two back wheels were gone, but the front one was still there, and it was still spinning.

  He couldn't move his neck. A car door opened. A footfall splashed, like it had stepped in a puddle. Whoever it was, walked slowly, almost casually. The whine of Paco's scooter faded. The sound of their laughter echoed in the night.

  A hard boot kicked the side of his head.

  “You still alive?” He spoke his Spanish brokenly, and his accent was European.

  Rico moaned. A head appeared just above his. It was a man with long, ratty hair. His breath stunk of cigars, and his bloodshot eyes glowed in the dark. They were piercing, as if they looked right through him.

  “Rico, this is very important so you must listen carefully,” he said.

  “Huh?” It was getting harder to stay awake. With every breath, his lungs took less air. Like a pair of soaked sponges in his chest. Did I tell him my name?

  “You are my only hope. Obtain the periscepters and bring them to me.”

  “What? Who are you?” Colors danced before his eyes. The dark street seemed so far away. He had the sensation he was falling.

  “The fate of the human race depends upon it, Rico. You will find them. You will bring them to me.”

  There was nothing, then.

  * * * *

  Rico awakened, staring into the red eyes of the man who had killed him. He stunk worse than the demon, and his red robe was filthy with blood. But he was human. They were still in the yawning room of the temple, but now there was light enough for him to see. It was a nightmare. Hoses slid back and forth like enraged serpents, spewing the fluids of the attached creatures. The carcass of the huge worm still dominated the walls. It wobbled like a Jell-O mold.

  “Hello,” the man said. “Welcome back.”

  He shot up. His head protested, and he was nauseated. His shoulder and back screamed with pain.

  “I remember you,” he said.

  “You are fortunate the Dahhak was unable to kill you. It would be a great loss to our cause.” He spoke slowly, as if Rico was a small child.

  “Dahhak? Cause?” His head swam. “Wait. You are the one who killed me?”

  “Yes. I drove the vehicle into your wheelchair. I gave you the instructions that led you here.”

  “You killed me?” He wasn't sure how to react. He wasn't as upset as he thought he should be. “I did not come here on my own. That demon thing grabbed me and took me here.”

  He nodded. Specks of blood flaked off his beard. “Serendipity indeed. Disaster turned into a fortunate circumstance. I knew of your presence once you arrived here at the temple. It was a surprise, but you would have ended up here anyway.”

  Rico was torn between jumping forward to strangle him and gaping in utter bewilderment. The man looked like he had just crawled through a slaughterhouse, yet he spoke like Padre
Montamos. He was charismatic in a bizarre way.

  The man smiled. “Allow me to tell you a story. When it is over, you will know everything, and your confusion shall melt away like wax. You will learn of our great struggle, and of the two enemies we must overcome.” He reached forward and placed the tip of his icy fingers against Rico's forehead. “Close your eyes, child. Receive the truth.”

  Ascent

  Rico floated high above the city of Cibola. He was extended like a bird, yet he felt solidly in place, neither moving nor falling. The city was a sprawling metropolis, rising many levels into the sky. It teemed. The metallic and marble buildings rose like gargantuan rockets, and angels buzzed around them. The angels were tiny specks this far up, but the city flung as far as he could see. A flying train shot past, whining like a high-pitched whistle. Only moments later it was lost from sight.

  For a millennium, this was my world.

  The man was speaking in his head.

  Yes, it is me. Moloch.

  This is weird. I don't like you in my head. He fought against the strange presence.

  Like you, I was a human living in a human world. We had religion, of course, and I even believed in it enough to dream of this place you see before you now. I died an old man, and I was thrilled beyond imagination to find myself here.

  Like the others, I was given my quarters deep within the human realm. And I was assigned my duty. I was a member of the street cleaners at first. But I had been a doctor of the mind in my world, and soon I began working as a mentor for the newly-arrived.

  They give you a job?

  Yes. All new souls are expected to live by the rules of the angel nation.

  What if you don't want to do what they tell you?

  The angels have separated themselves into a barbaric caste system. There are nine tiers. The Seraphim are at the uppermost, and they are the leaders of the angel world. And the civilian angels, the people you are seeing now, are of the lowest caste. When the humans first began to arrive, a new class was added, a tenth tier.

  And we're at the bottom?

  Yes. Many were not happy with their new homes here, for they were meager compared to what they once had. They didn't understand why the angels despised them so. Many couldn't find loved ones, and they were distraught to learn only a fraction of the people on their world actually made it to this place.

  Soon I began to counsel even those who had been here longer than myself. There was a growing resentment against the angels. We held regular meetings in the human levels of the Athenaeum. There was talk of rebellion. Somehow I found myself at the forefront of the revolution. Among the human community, our cause spread like a fire.

  I don't understand. Why do the angels hate us? Rico remembered some of the living conditions in the shanty towns on the outskirts of Mexico City. Anything would be better than that. How bad could it really be?

  Rico plummeted. He screamed as he fell. He dove past the buildings, past angels who looked right through him with unseeing eyes. A hole was in the ground, a gaping maw big enough to fly an airplane through. A few tubes climbed along the side; perhaps elevators. He dove straight into the hole.

  Inside, it was another world. A monstrous cavern lit like eternal dusk. The walls were like the innards of a beehive. Honeycombs rose like support beams to the city above. Within the claustrophobic holes, humans dwelled. A bed, a table, and a chair were the only furnishings.

  Like above, this world swarmed with people. Most everyone wore blue of some sort, which made it look drab and depressing. Like those old pictures of the Holocaust camps he saw at school. Everything was moving, but it was completely devoid of life. The inside of a machine.

  We were a small network of rebels, just less than a million people.

  That ain't small.

  A group that large is infinitesimal compared to the bulk of the population of angels. A trillion souls here is worth less than your own soul on your home world.

  That's insane.

  Despite our weak numbers, we fell into the same trap you just did. We assumed we were powerful enough to overthrow any angels who opposed us. Very few of us survived. I cast myself into the ether to avoid my own death, and an angel, so bent on my capture, fell with me.

  Descending in the ether is not an unpleasant experience at first. You are simply falling, no real sensation other than your own thoughts. Sometimes black mounds streak past. Different planes of existence they are. The demon worlds.

  Angels can not survive the fall from this plane, while humans can. While the True Light slays the demons, the Absolute Darkness is fatal to angels. But they don't turn to dust, either. Their skeleton, light like a bird's, stronger than any element, survives.

  It was sheer luck I landed upon the astral plane of the Dahhak. And the skeletal remains of the angel draping my body like armor. I was blind, of course. But even a short while in Absolute Darkness, and your third sight grows. Yours is already being born in the simulated darkness of this temple.

  They tried to capture me of course. Human slaves are especially valuable, especially back then in the early days. But each time one of them even came close to that angel skeleton, he was slain.

  They fell to their knees, worshipping me. I did not know what was happening. Later I learned their arch-rector had a vision of their messiah, draped in armor. He would bring them all closer to their Pri, their view of perfection. They thought it was me. I was named Moloch. For an eon they had already worshipped me, but now they had a face. And I had a destiny.

  In their realm I honed abilities I never knew I had. Like the ability to freely move from one plane to another. All humans possess it, you know. In time you will learn, too.

  I don't understand any of this. I thought the angels are the good guys.

  They despise us.

  But why?

  Because we are the true masters of eternity. And they know it. Their jealousy burns deep.

  A distant explosion rocketed Rico back to consciousness. “What's that?”

  Moloch kneeled before him. He slowly opened his wild eyes, a crooked grin on his bearded face.

  * * * *

  The helmet visors automatically slid down before the eyes of all twenty-four angels. The landscape instantly transformed to a virtual world. Threats were easily targeted and identified, and from the home base, information was relayed on the screen. Each soldier had his own personal “wingman” sitting back at the base.

  Levi knew the real reason the helmet displays were designed this way. Officially, it was so battle simulations and actual combat were as similar as possible, but the reality was, the computer images didn't show the true carnage. When a fellow soldier was killed, he simply disappeared off the screen. No blood. No pain. Even his screams were filtered.

  “May He bless your swords,” Colonel Tamael said, her voice grim. He briefly wondered for how many trillions of angels were those the last words they ever heard.

  He could now make out the forms of the demons as they flew about the floating temple. They glowed a blinking red on his visor. Hopefully only a few were armed. Their target, the temple, was marked green. Several entrances dotted the gargantuan building, and each team member would be assigned a different one. It was risky, but they could cover more ground. A group of five would assault the top perch, the one the Dahhak and human had gone through.

  The computer began assigning each of them an entrance and plotting a course that would be most efficient. A moment later, the courses were altered slightly by the wingmen. Levi noted his assigned wingman was Colonel Yehppael, a mixed blessing. He was an excellent strategist. But he was also known for taking wild risks.

  Orders began pouring in. The angels split off in different directions, many sinking low or fanning out. His group of five rose sharply and increased speed.

  The floating temple was on them now like a gaping maw ready to swallow them all. A countdown appeared on his screen. Here we go. His whole body quivered with both fear and a strange battle lust. Three, two,
one.

  A whole group of bulbous-shaped dwellings exploded. The angels fired again, then split off into different directions. The response was immediate. Fireballs rocketed towards the angels. One, a soldier named Deannian, was caught in the conflagration. She disappeared off his scope before she even had a chance to burn away.

  Levi allowed a prayer to escape his lips.

  * * * *

  Tamael was still awed by the control center. It was made entirely of scavenged parts, but it was easily the most impressive work of technology ever created by the angels. Computers and radar screens sprouted like stalagmites. Workers huddled over every machine imaginable, all of them concentrating intensely on their tasks. A low booming filled the room, constantly in the background. The energy reactors.

  The room was hidden in one of the many underground caves. The engineers promised it could take a direct blast from the biggest bombs out there. She prayed they'd never have to find out for sure.

  It was spacious enough to accommodate an individual wingman for up to 1000 soldiers. And each of the cubicles could be quickly modified to seat a battalion commander instead. If the time ever came, they could fight the entire war from this room.

  It was unfortunate the engineers didn't show such genius until after they were trapped underground.

  She sat at the center console. She had the ability to patch into any individual soldier and to give general orders. Yehppael had been assigned the strike force's leader, the engineer Levi. The angel's muttered prayer boomed through the central loudspeaker. His fear was unsettling to them all.

  Once again she questioned the use of these angels in the assault. None were true Powers. They had been trained well and were more than able soldiers, but far from the best they had. The truth was difficult to admit to, but it was the truth all the same. This mission was suicide. Pure folly. The death of any angel was horrific, but she wouldn't allow her best soldiers to be so ... wasted.