Star Angel: Prophecy

by David G. McDaniel

  Which meant there was no way Zac could do both.

  He could not go with her, and then go with Drake’s team.

  For any hope of success both operations—hers and that of the resistance—must be executed simultaneously.

  One required Zac.

  The other did not.

  And so she must go alone.

  And so after all the arguments, after all the lengthy reasoning as they walked, Zac fell into silence and remained sullen, only adding to her grief, and as they reached the Naked Lady and went in the front door she felt the unbearable weight of that friction and could not chase away the deeper sadness. They’d stopped talking, no way to an agreement in sight, and as she pushed past the thick wooden door ahead of him she felt the weight of the somber interior of the pub. The place was thick with despair. The usual handful of people were at the bar and at the tables, gathering for that odd time of afternoon where you could either call it day-drinking or just showing up early to get a start on the night.

  Only …

  The mood was, at the moment, being injected with a festive sound. Music. Cheery music.

  She found the source. Coming from the corner, a stark contrast to the bleak visuals within. Someone was playing the little studio piano in the corner, the one Jess had assumed was just forgotten there from some past decade, gathering its share of dust in the gloom. This afternoon someone was at the keys. A lively, upbeat tune issued from it, in direct contrast to the drab everything else, and Jess looked and saw the small team of American soldiers at the piano, one of them playing. It was Heath. Standing and leaning on the other side of the piano were the other Spec Ops guys on his team; Steve and Pete.

  “Superman!” Pete called across the pub as soon as he saw them enter. Heath stopped playing. Jess cringed. Though they were all in this together it was best not to get anyone thinking. Or looking too closely. Even among the motley crowd in the pub.

  Superman Zac might be, but there was no need to advertise.

  Zac smiled. His first smile in what felt like the last hour, and as Jess saw it she tried to open herself to a change in mood. She followed him as he headed over to the small group. Pete and Steve held pint glasses, a half-empty glass on the piano in front of Heath. They shared a few wisecracks as Zac walked up. Zac gave Pete a friendly smack on the back, eliciting a cry of mock injury (a broken shoulder from the look of it), and it was clear Zac had built a sort of camaraderie. Something Jess had so far missed. From the look of it Zac was, more or less, one of the guys. They were all young and athletic, which made the blend easy; that youthful, male, college/military testosterony grab-assery vibe guys like that shared. Visually, at least, Zac fit right in. Without his Kazerai powers he was pretty much one of them, sharing most of the things that made a guy like that, well … a guy like that. They cracked a few jokes, made comments on this or that crude or stupid thing and she found herself standing a little to the side, fascinated as she watched them, so similar, all the while imagining just how different they truly were. Four grown boys, looking healthy and fit and full of life yet …

  In so many ways Zac was nothing like them. To Zac every human was equally insignificant. Whether it be the baddest man on the planet or a feeble old grandma. All humans were irrelevant. Heath or Pete or Steve could no more keep up with him than a baby, and so in that sense Zac would always be alone.

  “I been meaning to ask,” Pete looked to her, and it startled her for a second to be included in the conversation. “What’s up with that armor you was wearing?”

  “The armor?”

  “Yeah. Where are you from? You sound American.”

  “I’m from Boise.”

  Pete shook his head. “How’d you end up in all this? You seem way too young. I mean, where did you get it? Like some kind of ninja samurai. Dude! That’s some weird shit right there.”

  And it hit her—though she knew it was the case:

  They knew nothing about her.

  Drake might’ve told them she was caught up in this, might even have told them where she was from—though from the sound of Pete’s question he probably hadn’t—and though she was American, just like them, with a back-story probably not a whole lot different than theirs, with shopping malls and grocery stores and watching TV she was, in fact, as it turned out, like some kind of ninja samurai.

  “Pete,” Steve admonished lightly.

  “What? You feel of it? Slick, feels like metal but light as hell. And she’s got a sword for crying out loud! Not some kind of costume prop, either. Like she uses it. Who does that?”

  Steve gave Jess a pained look, then said to Pete: “Let it go. We’re in the middle of a whole bunch of new things right now.”

  Pete admitted of that, though it was clear he was curious and would probably ask more later. He’d already grilled her on her eyes. Scrutiny, especially here, was part of her life right now.

  Pete had no idea just how weird it truly was.

  The sword, more than a sword; an unbreakable key to a gate which, incredibly, went to another world. The small harness on the armor containing a device that could pop her instantly between locations in space. Sword and armor both, made of a material more advanced, stronger than anything any of them could imagine.

  Yeah, she thought, looking at the dimwitted but affable Pete, it’s some pretty weird shit.

  “Did you have a nice walk?” Heath asked in his mild Southern drawl, speaking directly to her. Trying to turn the conversation, she could see, for her benefit, and she appreciated the effort.

  “We did,” she said. “We went to the park.”

  Heath nodded. “It’s nice there.”

  “It has some good trails,” Zac agreed.

  “And it’s Saturday,” Pete noted with a hint of mystery. He reached and smacked Zac, hard, out of nowhere. Then, as a little aside to everyone else: “I love hitting that guy. You can’t hurt him!” He grinned at Zac. “Saturday in the park, eh buddy?” Zac was confused. Pete shook his head. “Only the best song ever. You’d love it.” He turned to Heath. “You know that one, Heathy?” He smacked the piano.

  Pete really was a trip.

  In response Heath raised an eyebrow.

  “Saturday … in the park,” Pete sang the title. “Chicago. Come on! Tell me you know it.”

  Steve, always a little embarrassed for Pete, excused him. “Pete knows all the classics,” he said. “Sometimes he forgets we aren’t all stuck in the past.”

  “Hey!” Pete complained. “That’s classic classic.”

  In fact Jess had been about to say she knew the song, wondering if Heath might actually know how to play it, but held her tongue.

  “I know it,” Heath confirmed

  “Play it!” Pete enthused. And, as Heath obliged, as he struck the first keys, solidly, loudly, with authority and full mastery, Jess found herself unexpectedly thrilled. No delay, no warm-up, no more talk and Heath was suddenly playing. An incredible rendition as he got into it, an incredibly nostalgic song, and as he started singing—he actually knew the words—and had an amazing voice—her troubles fell away. It took her back, to when she first heard it on some Oldies station, grabbing it for her play list and adding it to all her other so varied, so eclectic music.

  By the second chorus Heath only got better, his Southern drawl all but gone, belting out the Chicago lyrics and sounding every bit like the original.

  Pete began to sing along, what words he knew, and at some point Jess found herself singing too. Most of the words she didn’t know but many she did, and where she didn’t she just sang, “something something something” right along with the tune, making brass-horn sounds to go along with Heath’s piano at those parts, laughing in between. It felt great. The moment was completely impromptu, completely unexpected, the tension between she and Zac forgotten and Zac, for his part, watched her sing, entertained, nodding along with an ever widening smile. Even a few of the patrons looked up, captivated by the laughter and the commotion, recognizing the classic American s
ong filtering from the dark corner of the little Scottish pub.

  The whole bar seemed to elevate a few shades of gray.

  Heath played the whole thing, every verse, Jess and Pete singing along as best they could right to the finish, complete with the “Ooh-a-hooh-hooh, mm-hm-mm-hmm” at the end, and by the time Heath was done Jess was in a complete state of marvel at how good he was, thinking how many songs he must know if he knew that one by request—trying to equate that level of skill with his chosen profession. Top-tier Spec Ops soldier, a badass, an officer, a good-ol-boy … and now this.

  Skilled pianist and singer.

  Claps, scattered around the pub, and Heath stood and took a bow, Pete too, and Jess found herself looking at Zac. Not wanting to fight anymore. Zac didn’t want to fight either, she knew he didn’t, but as the moment passed and the tension returned, faster than she hoped, she let go of that futile hope.

  “That was amazing,” she told Heath.

  “Have a beer,” Pete encouraged, turning to head for the bar and grab her one.

  Jess held up a hand. “Drake’s expecting us.” She checked the tac watch and turned to Zac. “We should get down there.”

  And just like that the moment was gone.

  “You guys in the meeting?” asked Pete.

  She nodded. “You coming?”

  “Nah. When it’s time to start figuring out how to blow stuff up, then we’ll be in. They ain’t up to that yet.”

  Jess smiled. Pete was dumb, sure, but he was probably one of those guys you could count on no matter what. He gave her a wink and she laughed. A few more comments between the group, some “See ya laters”s and she and Zac were heading back through the kitchen and into the rear of the building.

  Short minutes later they were in the safe house.

  “Ah,” Cooper met them at the door as they entered, though it was more that he happened to be passing than that he was actually waiting for them. “Just in time for tea.” He went on past, on his way for some trays, which he picked up and took over to the planning table. Zac and Jess followed.

  Cooper was a stereotype, stodgy British dude in his late forties or early fifties, severe expression—always—graying hair and, according to Pete, looked like he had a corncob up his ass. Pretty much he did, thought Jess, watching as he crisply poured tea into a set of cheap china cups, probably borrowed from the bar. He poured enough for everyone. It looked like the meeting was about to start.

  Jess came closer with Zac; they found random chairs and sat. Everything in the safe house was random; nothing matched. From the odds-and-ends tea service, to the chairs, to the tables, the computers and everything else. Even everyone’s clothes were random, a mix of uniforms or half uniforms, civilian clothes and so on. A true gathering of the fallout of war. As such she didn’t feel out of place, though she wore used jeans and the button-up shirt she’d been given, the UGG boots and a big, clunky, bad-ass watch. This was a table surrounded by some of the brightest minds on the planet, and if it looked like they’d just survived the Apocalypse it was because they had.

  Drake got the meeting started. Jess took a sip of tea and settled in to listen.

  With Drake’s endorsement she’d slipped right into their little cabal and was being made a part. He knew everything she’d been through, he had an idea what she was capable of, amazing though it was, and he vouched for her. Zac, of course, her own personal champion, indisputable in their eyes, made her inclusion official. And so there she was, a teenage girl, recently pregnant, a high school dropout from Boise, sitting at a table with a bunch of guys who were, in Earth terms, far more experienced and, presumably, far more capable.

  In many ways she exceeded them all.

  Willet was there, an integral part of the planning, and as the meeting began he caught her eye from across the table and smiled. That same grin he usually flashed, the one shared between co-conspirators; a sly sort of nod with a funny little expression and an eye-roll that said they both knew things no one else did. That they’d been through more than the rest of these people could ever imagine.

  She smiled across the rim of her cup and took another sip of tea.

  Willet was so awesome.

  Drake kicked it over to Fang. He and Bobby briefed the group on the latest on the Kel tablet. The one Jessica dropped in the club in Spain. Since Zac unlocked it they’d been diving in. Now, according to Fang, using what they found they’d been able to make refinements to the Kel override codes, changes which should allow them to work some real magic when the resistance group staged their little flare-up.

  For which they now had solid ideas. The general plan had taken form, ideas tossed around, coalescing, and what was being settled on was this: a strike, a ruckus, in effect, that would be impossible to ignore, the resulting Kel response, and the commandeering of the responding Kel vessel.

  The strike was to be on a critical item of infrastructure. The goal, the only objective being to draw a Kel lander down to the ground. For that they needed a worthy target, not too extreme, but not too mild. The Goldilocks plan. Just right. General consensus was that the Kel placed value on certain items of infrastructure, their long-term goal being to keep the machinery of humanity running, thus avoiding total societal collapse in these early stages of occupation. Such a strategy aligned with their overall actions, destroying humanity’s ability to resist while simultaneously letting them continue to live their lives, feed themselves, fuel their machines of commerce and so forth. It was a hedge against broader riots, worse resistance and, so far, it was working. Frighteningly well. Their alien masters sat up there in orbit, untouched, crafting their next plans, all the while their prize, the Earth, remained relatively intact and incredibly useful to any future designs, mostly just taking care of itself and waiting. It was not a ruin.

  Far from it.

  And so the human resistance had chosen a target. A key petroleum processing facility down the coast. Grangemouth Refinery, just to the south. A willing militia was already being recruited. Munitions and even military-grade weapons had been identified; plus a handful of hidden stores at the nearby RAF base, intact after the fierce battles and the mop-up that occurred following the war with the Kel.

  It was said Grangemouth could be alerted in advance to keep casualties low, when their makeshift “terrorist” group struck. An early morning raid, humans versus humans, blowing up as much as they could—or at least appearing to have that intent—thus eliciting a Kel response. Terrorists, it would appear. Not hard to believe, considering humanity’s history of reaping destruction upon themselves. The Kel, it was expected, would send a squad or two in response, to interdict the effort and prevent the humans from destroying their own stuff.

  That was the hope, at least. It seemed sound. At least one Kel unit would respond, that seemed certain.

  That was all they needed.

  Once the lander was on the ground Zac, Willet and the Spec Ops boys would go to work. Under cover of Fang and Bobby’s signal spoofing they would seize the craft. From there it got dicey, and those plans were still being worked out. The objective was to fly the lander to a capital ship and plant the Trojan hack. Specifically the flagship holding Satori. That would be their cover; the whole thing appearing to be a rescue operation for the one captive the Kel held who was unique among all other humans. The prisoner from their next target world, Anitra. The Kel would believe she held some clue they’d missed. And the rescue attempt would be real. They were really going after Satori and would see that through all the way, to its success or failure, and Jess could see Willet harbored optimism that it would actually work, that they would get her back, and Jess was right there with him.

  Of all the long shots they planned that was the longest, and she prayed Satori, more than anything, might be saved.

  It was hoped the Kel attention would be so fixed on that, that they would miss the fact that the Trojan had been planted. Slipped in quietly amid the chaos, such a quick, tricky little jab of a device into a port and a remov
al and it was done.

  The scope of the operation was immense.

  If successful it meant a control vector for the Kel hardware.

  No one was talking about the suicidal aspect of it. Everyone knew what was at stake. And as they sat there talking Jess could not express the degree of admiration she felt for those who might give their lives. Zac would survive. He would make it back somehow, or be retrieved later, floating in space, or be the last one alive aboard a Kel derelict, but the others …

  It was too much, but it had to happen, and the fact that they were willing, sitting there planning so calmly about what had to be, spoke such volumes of the human spirit …

  When the time was right to divulge her own plans she became briefly nervous. No one was expecting her to speak but she was about to take the floor, and the additional edge as she felt Zac’s eyes hard upon her only made it worse. Knowing he was completely opposed, knowing he’d barely learned of her plans himself, and now here she was announcing it for the group and, more or less, making it official.

  She was going to hit the Bok.

  Reactions around the table were varied. Mostly no one seemed to take her seriously. Infiltrate the Bok? The new leaders of the world? Only Drake, and to some degree Bobby, seemed to digest the gravity of what she intended. Perhaps they were mentally connecting the dots with what they already knew, what they knew of her, the Icon and all else, assuming there was a connection in what she, clearly, felt was important. She gave little details—maybe she would tell them later, maybe even divulge what she was really out to get—but for now she just needed the help of this group to get her there. She would do the rest.

  And so she watered it down, making them understand that the Bok had a history, saying little more, and that they were a threat and that she had a way.

  Mostly all she got was raised eyebrows and blank stares, and in fact many still seemed to wonder what she was doing there at all, but she laid it all out, knowing this was only the beginning.

  She decided to end her little segment with a positive, and spoke again about the force response Nani was preparing on Anitra, and how that could tie in with the Trojan, which could, in fact, make the Anitran assault even more effective. Her removal of the Bok, she insisted, would only further its effectiveness.