Star Angel: Prophecy

by David G. McDaniel

  “Sure,” Zac agreed. He gave her a kiss, drank half his beer in one gulp and slid out of the booth. Jess leaned back, missing his presence already, deciding to slide closer into his warm spot. How he warmed the seat so fast … but he did, everywhere. Everything he touched. Zac was like a cozy little human heating pad; always the exact right, snuggly temp. She tingled with the warm feel of where he’d just been, pulled one leg up, heel on the edge, hugged an arm around her knee, reached for her glass and sipped her beer. Watching and smiling as Zac joined the group, listened to their instructions and got the gist of the game, lining up to make his first throws.

  “Make sure the next guy can pull them out of the target,” Willet advised and patted Zac on the back. Jess grinned.

  As always Zac fit right in, though he was taller—as tall as the rail-thin Cooper—and younger than all of them. He looked like one of the guys, the junior member everyone would give a hard time. Which was kind of what they were doing.

  “You’re assuming he can hit it,” said Heath. “He’s all muscle, remember. No finesse.”

  “Ha ha,” Zac gave Heath a Very Funny look. “So what should I hit first?”

  Heath scoffed. “Like it matters what we say.”

  “Twenties are a good place to start,” said Drake.

  “Just try to hit the board,” Willet joked along with Heath.

  Zac laughed. “The inner ring is triples?” he asked as he checked the toe of his boot against the throwing line. Drake confirmed, Zac lined up the throw and …

  Thwack! Triple 20.

  The others reacted, impressed.

  Assuming it was a lucky first try.

  “Beginner’s luck.”

  Zac kept his eyes on the board. “So what next?”

  They appreciated his cockiness. Gave him differing advice; try for the 19, hit the 20 again and score, go for a bull’s-eye, etc. Jokes, started by Willet and furthered by Heath, then Drake, that it didn’t matter anyway, he’d never do it again.

  “Tell you what,” he waved down their teasing. “I’ll do triple twenty again, and get sixty points. Right? Then I’ll hit the bull’s-eye. Will that shut you up?”

  They laughed, Zac too, and as they continued to rib him he stepped up and …

  Threw another triple 20. Right next to the other dart.

  “Whoa!” came the various reactions, more laughing—some of this directed now at Willet and Heath. Even Cooper laughed.

  “Can you mark the score for me?” Zac pointed Willet dismissively toward the chalkboard, waving the feathers of his final dart in that direction—barely managing to keep the smile from his face, though Jess saw he worked at it. She was laughing. The others made jokes at Willet’s expense. Willet, who’d been the ringleader, had just been schooled by the new kid.

  Dutifully he went and marked the board, even took a bow when he was done, then watched with the rest.

  “What did I say was next?” Zac teased. “Oh, right. A bull’s-eye.” He cocked his arm, eyeing down the length of the dart. “Dead in the center.” And … at the last second he looked across the bar, made some offhand comment about something he saw there—not even looking at the board as he threw—and …

  Whunk. Threw a perfect bull’s-eye.

  The others reacted and Willet overspoke them:

  “Okay, okay,” he said, waving Zac away. “I take back my offer. This isn’t going to be fun with you playing.” Zac looked now at the board, pretending to be surprised with what he’d done, then laughed and went to retrieve his darts.

  In the booth Jess continued to laugh along with them, thoroughly enjoying the show. The dusty old jukebox played in the background, something by Steely Dan, she thought—everything in the place was old, even the music—and she took another drink of her beer.

  Zac joked a little longer with the guys, agreeing it probably wasn’t fair, and left them to their game. Claiming he’d rather sit with his girl anyway. At that they all gave some attention to her, making exaggerated comments on her beauty and concluding that made him the smarter among them for sure, as Jess was great and if they had such amazing girls waiting on them none of them would be throwing darts either. It almost made her blush. She acted demure, still not sure how to handle such attention, but it was brief and they were back to their game and Zac was back in the booth sitting beside her, calling out a few more clever comments as they missed or threw badly. He lifted the beer he’d been drinking and finished it, set the glass aside and pulled the full one close.

  For a while he watched them, waiting, it seemed, to lay another zinger on Willet if he could, but then he noticed the music had stopped. She noticed it too. The song ended, the jukebox finished with whatever selections had been made, and that key part of the background tapestry was gone.

  It left a tiny little hole in the air.

  “Where’s the music?” Zac searched it out. As if expecting the jukebox to come back on. “Did someone turn it off?”

  “Someone needs to put money in,” she said.

  He turned to her. “Do you have money?”

  Before she could answer Heath heard their conversation and was reaching in a pocket.

  “I’ve got some,” he said. “Come on.” He motioned Zac to follow. “Somebody throw for me,” he called as Zac got up and followed him over to the jukebox. Then, as an afterthought: “Not Willet.”

  The others laughed, razzing Willet.

  “Thanks,” Jess heard Zac saying to Heath as they walked across the pub. “I love Earth music.”

  Inwardly she cringed. Every time he said something like that it gave her a little twinge. But it blew over without notice and then Heath and Zac were at the jukebox. She observed the reactions of the people that had been in earshot, scattered here and there at tables, some alone, some in small groups. It seemed one or two had taken notice of Zac; not because of anything he said, more like maybe they recognized him from broadcasts or something, pics or videos of him shredding Kel armored units on the fields in Spain.

  So far no one had said anything.

  Heath dug some bills out of his pocket and put them in the jukebox. She watched as he showed Zac how to choose songs. She tried to read Zac’s face as he scrutinized the selections, wondering what he would choose. Heath helped. Zac glanced at her a few times, then Heath, then both of them, and soon it was painfully obvious they were talking about her and she became curious what they were up to. Heath was making suggestions, probably for her, they made a few decisions, Zac pushed buttons and a song began.

  She recognized it from the first notes. Another classic. Elton John, Your Song.

  Zac turned to her with a smile. Remaining by the jukebox, proud as Sir Elton began singing, listening to the words of a song he’d never heard, and she could see the hope in his eyes, the promise that it would be as good as Heath probably said it was, and as Heath gave him a little space and the first lines went on she could tell Zac felt the emotion behind the words and that it was, in fact, perfect. In his mind it was written for her. Elton was probably singing about a boy back then, Jess imagined, but it didn’t matter. The words were wonderful and fit any two people in love.

  Zac turned to Heath and she could tell he was thanking him for the suggestion.

  The volume increased, an illusion, she was sure, but the song rose and it became the only sound she heard, as if everyone else was quiet for that short stretch of time, letting she and Zac share it, just the two of them, he across the room, standing by the jukebox, tall and in love, smiling at her like he couldn’t do anything else, she smiling back, everything fading to the background.

  At some point she felt the cheeziness of it all but brushed that feeling aside. No excuses. There was no one to make excuses to, no reason not to be in that moment, no reason not to let the song flow through her, and as Zac heard the words the look on his face beamed his wholehearted agreement. Hers were the sweetest eyes he’d ever seen. Life was wonderful while she was in the world. And every other meaning the song held, spoken or
not, and when it was done he looked so happy she nearly cried right there.

  Again he thanked Heath and started back over. Another song started up, another old one—the jukebox probably didn’t have anything newer than 1989—and just as Zac reached the table, before anything could be said between them … the waitress showed up. Of course. Perfect—which was to say terrible—timing. Jess wanted so badly to have a moment with Zac after this sweet gesture, but the waitress interjected herself between them and picked up Zac’s empty glass. She glanced at Jessica’s.

  “Doin ok?” she asked in her Scottish brogue. The woman might’ve been attractive in her day, maybe, but she was worn and Jess couldn’t tell if it was her age (she had to be in her late fifties or early sixties) or just the fact that she’d had a hard life. Thin and stretched, lots of makeup that only made her creases worse, what looked to be a bad set of dentures and long, dark, brittle hair.

  “I’m fine,” said Zac. He looked for a polite way around her. Heath was a few paces behind, maybe coming to the table or maybe going back to play more darts, it looked like he wasn’t sure yet, and the waitress looked at him over Zac’s shoulder.

  “Where’s my Petey?” she wanted to know.

  “He’s gone to our next stop,” Heath told her. “But I’ll let him know you asked.”

  “You do that,” the old lady said and grinned. A wide, crooked grin.

  Definitely dentures.

  “You tell my Petey old Esmerelda misses him. Tell him I got something waiting for him.” She said this last with a wink and a lick of her lips, thick with innuendo, and Jess actually had to suppress a shudder.

  The mere thought of it took her off guard.

  But Esmerelda was on her way back to wherever she hid and Zac was sitting beside her, taking his other beer, and Heath came all the way over and decided to hang out a second, standing by their table.

  “She looks like an Esmerelda,” Jess noted.

  Heath turned up one corner of his mouth. “I know, right?” His slight Southern accent hid a deeper intelligence. Not only was he a bad-ass—how could he be who he was and not be a bad-ass—he was gentrified.

  “Pete is, like, in his twenties,” Jess said, a little uncertain. He so obviously was, yet … was he? Why would he be with a woman three times his age?

  Heath rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to do the math. It will only hurt your head.”

  Jess conceded the point. “I guess the main thing is he’s happy.”

  “Oh he is,” said Heath. “Unnaturally so.” He did a little shudder of his own and Jess laughed.

  Heath shook his head. “Old Pete’s really transformed. We all have, but where most of us are trying to hold on, trying to see hope for a future that doesn’t exist, Pete seems to be in his element. Been interesting to watch.

  “At first he was pretty torn up, more even than the rest of us, but now that it’s settled it’s kind of like he’s flipped the other way. He’s embraced the apocalypse.” Heath shrugged. “Guess the end of the world is affecting us all differently.”

  The door to the pub opened and the light of overcast skies spilled in from outside. Two men walked in, stopped in the entry and looked around as the door shut slowly behind.

  “That’s them,” said Heath. Jess followed his lead in being discreet, glancing at the new arrivals with only mild interest, unlike the rest of the pub which turned with plain curiosity. The guys who walked in looked the part; hard-edged, tough. Capable. One stood slightly behind the other, probably the right-hand-man in their arrangement.

  The leader spotted Cooper and headed over. Heath excused himself and went to make introductions.

  “I should be part of this.” Zac gave her a kiss, got back up and went over. He joined the group and shook hands.

  Cooper had ID’d these two as prospects, guys from a nearby town with connections. Jess admired them as she did the others for their willing sacrifice. This mission had every chance of producing deaths. It was possible, in fact, no one would survive. But it was for the greater good, for all of mankind, if successful, and so these men were prepared to be the ones. They and their team, along with the pros—Heath’s group, Willet and Zac, the SAS—would stage the raid on the refinery, create the distraction, draw down the Kel response—they hoped—then the Spec Ops guys and Zac would take control of the Kel landing craft and continue from there. The idea was that Fang and his hackers could block feeds long enough for the small tactical team to get aboard and travel into orbit with a ghost imprint of the crew.

  Their target: the Kel flagship. Aboard which they believed to be Satori. Their mission: rescue her. Their real mission: plant a Trojan, devised by Fang and company, refined using knowledge from the ancient Kel tablet; a hack that would insert control functions directly into the aliens’ command network.

  Everyone agreed it would probably fail.

  The two tough-looking men joined in on the game of darts, continuing the conversation as if it were a casual social meet-up, hanging out and chewing the fat on a weekday afternoon. Jess remained out of it, no need to get involved. This would be done entirely without her—she had her own mission—and besides, it would be hard to explain why a teenage girl was part of this tough-guy man-fest. These local boys were about to put their lives on the line and very likely lose them, over a cause they needed to believe in, and throwing any uncertainty or doubt into the equation, especially when not needed, was pointless.

  And so she’d agreed in advance to just sit by and be Zac’s girl, if they asked, just there with him, not really a part.

  She was a little surprised, therefore, when Willet came and sat beside her.

  “What’s up?” she asked as he slid in. He put his glass on the table and held it. Her beer was nearly finished. She took another drink.

  “Just haven’t really spent much time together,” he said. “Thought I’d come sit with you.”

  “They don’t need you?”

  “Yeah. I guess. They won’t miss me for a few minutes.”

  She put a hand on his arm. She loved Willet. She knew he, in turn, thought the world of her.

  She looked across at the group, throwing darts and chatting. With the arrival of the militia the mood felt a bit more reserved, no joking or cutting up. Partly she suspected it was the new guys, they had a definite edge about them, partly she suspected it was because the conversation had turned to business. Each took turns at the line, expressions intent. Continuing with their cover even as they discussed the thing they hoped would change the fate of the world.

  Willet was shaking his head. His eyes were also on the group; six of them, Drake, Cooper, Heath, Zac and the two guys, definitely looking like they were up to something, no matter how casual they tried to appear.

  “There’ll be specifics soon enough,” he said. “We’ll go pick up the weapons and munitions in a day or so. For now I could use another beer.” He looked at his nearly empty glass, then round the bar in vain.

  “Good luck with that,” Jess gave a lopsided grin.

  They sat a moment in silence.

  “I’m afraid she’s dead,” Willet came quickly to what weighed on his mind, and the switch was so sudden that, for a second, Jess thought he was talking about Esmerelda. She almost laughed—it was true, the woman might as well be—but caught herself.

  He meant Satori.

  “We’re never going to make it back,” he said matter-of-factly, staring out at the bar, grim, holding his glass with both hands. Then: “I just want to see her. One last time.”

  Jess squeezed his arm.

  Instead of propping him up with false hope—they’d been through too much for those sorts of thin, hopeful reassurances—she tried simply to be there for him. And wondered; why did she ever tell him what she did? Back in her house, before the Kel attacked, she told him “We’ll get her.” Why did she say that? Was it another future sense? Suddenly she was panged at the possibility of having given him false hope.

  He sighed. “In a way I wish you wer
e coming with us. Not really, but you always manage to get through these things. If you were with us I know we’d make it.” He smiled thinly.

  Willet knew as much as everyone else about what she intended to do, why she was going on alone, the Bok and the secrets they might be hiding. Which was to say not much. He could’ve taken her aside at any time and asked her more. But he hadn’t, and she appreciated him for that. He trusted her.

  The people around her were amazing. She could not have done anything she had without them. From Willet to Zac to Nani to Darvon to Galfar to Arclyss and, yes, Satori. Her most combative supporter, who’d given her balance, and she hoped against hope and against any and every impossibility that Satori lived and that they would all see each other again.

  Willet drank the last of his beer and set down the glass with a vacant stare.

  “Say we do make it,” he wanted to know. “Say we actually pull this off, say we complete our mission and the Anitran forces fight off the Kel …

  “What then? Say we win this. Say humanity actually drives out the invaders? What happens after that?”

  Jess took her hand from his arm. It was a thought that had also been on her mind. She lifted her last drink of beer, swallowed, put the empty pint glass next to his and stared at the white foam sliding down its emptiness.

  “This whole thing,” she said, “the war, the invasion, everything. It’s bigger even than it seems. And what we’re about to do …

  “Our entire future depends on it.” Her focus expanded as she stared into the empty glass. “What that future will be …

  “I think, part of me thinks, this may be our chance. It seems like the end, but I think it’s our chance.”

  She turned her head to the side, eyes locked directly to his. “To wipe the slate clean.” This was a global reset. A reset for all of humanity, and it was the one thing that gave her hope. “Maybe it’s time. When all this is done …

  “It may finally be a chance to make this the world we’ve always wanted.”

  CHAPTER 23: THE PHARAOH RIDES

  Galfar had heard the legends. And Arclyss, he thought, as he watched the ebon giant mount his mighty steed in full, golden-armored regalia, was legend incarnate. A “pharaoh”, as the ancient kings were called, from the time of the godmakers, and here stood the living embodiment of those legendary figures.