Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  “You really believe men are the problem, don’t you?”

  “Course I do – I’m not blind! Listen, if there’s anything I want women to remember, it’s just that: men are the problem. We live in a world at war – all because of this ridiculous male quest for dominance. I’m here to remind the women of Earth that there is another way to live. We can grow sperm in a lab now, and women still hold the power of gestation. So…”

  “So… what, Maria? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that any woman who intentionally gives birth to a male child is opting against world peace. I’m saying that if a good woman learns she will be having a boy, that she should regard it as her responsibility to abort that child!”

  Chapter IX

  ILLICIT INITIATIONS

  Violet sunset lit the Chicago skyline, as lonely night advanced upon Maria Archangeline. Her daily performance had just ended. Attendants and technicians were on their way out the front door once again. It had not taken Maria long to notice that Archangeline Tower was far less comfortable without the human warmth Den had provided. Cold steel, laser-cut glass, and shocking current protected her from the dying masses below, but their emptiness pervaded in the absence of his touch.

  Did he really love her? She was wondering this more and more. Was it usual to be ignored so completely by the object of one’s affection? Her last contact with Den had been more than a week previous, just a couple days after Victoria’s funeral. Maria understood that Victoria had been Den’s mother figure, but this was beginning to seem a bit ridiculous. All he had revealed in their conversation was that he needed to take some sort of trip in order to put right the last of Victoria’s estate. It was almost as if he had hurried to end the call. What might that mean?

  Now whenever she attempted to dial him, Maria only got a message saying Den’s videophone had strayed out of range. Certainly settling the estate could not have led him off the continent, could it? Curiosity gnawed at her. It was no secret that Victoria had been a poor, middle-class nothing, just like Den would have been without Maria’s influence. Something about it all definitely did not add up. What could be going on?

  “Voice command:” she spoke lethargically to a nearby video-wall, “Connect: Daddy.”

  To her dismay, Maria got her father’s away message as well. Seriously, was there some sort of international sporting event going on which had spirited away all the men in her life? It was a maddening feeling that she was far from used to. Deciding to leave a message, Maria tossed aside her hair as she stood up to stroll into camera range.

  “Hi, Daddy, it’s me. Listen… Denny’s gone AWOL since his grandmother’s funeral, and I’m beginning to worry. Could you put someone onto that for me? I know you’re not a big fan of his, but it’s important to me. Call me back, okay?” Then she flounced out of camera range, ending the transmission.

  “Voice command: Display NewsCom1 at screen four.” As she reached for a cigarette, the unobtrusively tiny television on the table before her immediately came blaring to life, eagerly relating the day’s news:

  “Today, in a move which continues to divide top political experts, Israeli officials successfully concluded their negotiations with new Iraqi leader Mosi Mukasa. Their alliance, which has yet to be ratified by the citizens of either nation, stipulates not only that Israel and Iraq will stand together as a sovereign union in the absence of sufficient international peacekeeping forces, but also that they will stand down from any further violence against other Arab states. While the Charter of the Israeli/Iraqi Alliance makes it clear they will continue to defend their borders, it extends an open hand to the entire Arabian Peninsula, leaving open the possibility that other states might join the Arab Union at any time. From the beginning, Mukasa has said that his interest in a single Arab state arises from his exhaustion with the endless wars which have plagued the Middle East, and today he reiterated his hope that other nations will soon join up. Though nearby Jordan and Iran both claim they are still considering the possibility, highly placed sources continue to insist that neither nation is remotely interested. Saudi officials have, thus far, offered no comment.”

  “American officials regret they will be forced to extend their economic sanctions against Iraq’s new leadership to include Israel if the pact is not swiftly dissolved. The United Nations remains somewhat divided on the issue, but due to Mukasa’s known terrorist ties, is expected to confirm the proposed American sanctions within the week. American pundits continue to seize upon the issue as a sign that the United States should increase its presence in the Middle East. How they might afford to do such a thing, given their nation’s dire economic state of affairs, is anybody’s guess.”

  “I wonder what Uncle Ajay thinks of all this?” wondered Maria aloud. “And why do reporters always seem to smile through the gravest of news?” She ashed her cigarette as she scoffed. “Are they really so excited to be on TV?”

  A soft tone issued from the video-wall, interrupting her stream of consciousness. Onscreen text appeared, indicating that an international call of unknown origin awaited connection. Maria hurried into camera range, not forgetting her companion cigarette, hoping the call might perhaps be from Den or Talman. It was not. When at last the static shifted, an unfamiliar yet attractive man sat before her, smiling warmly. His skin was of medium tone, his hair was cropped short, and his brown eyes smiled as well. He was robed all in white, with a thick chain of gold circling his neck. Though he had the look of an Arab, he was clean-shaven – a defiance of the customary Muslim style. “This,” she thought to herself, “is one good-looking man.”

  “Good evening, Maria Archangeline,” he said, his voice deep and surprisingly soothing. “I am Prince Essien.” He bowed. “Your uncle mentioned I might reach you at this number.”

  “Did he?” said Maria lazily, pulling on her cigarette. “Now why would he do that?”

  “He is my neighbor, and I suppose I managed to impress him with the sincerity of my intentions.”

  “And what intentions are those?” Maria asked, giving him a wry sneer. “Let me guess… You’re a big fan, right?”

  “Yes and no. I think he most agreed with my view that you are an asset to the Arab race, but also that it is a shame to see you with so common an American.”

  “I am an American,” she said defiantly, straying closer to both camera and video-wall, “but I will take that as a compliment. Very well. This uncle of mine. What was his name?”

  “I speak of Ajay Ahmad, of course. We recently met in Isfahaan.”

  “Well, talk of the devil! I was only just thinking of him.”

  “He asked that I remember to convey his undying love, and impress upon you his deepest hopes that you might someday return to live in the land of your forefathers.”

  “Ajay is sweet,” Maria said reminiscently, “but misguided. He knows full well that I am just as Italian as I am Iranian. My mother would turn over in her grave if she ever learned I had returned to live in Iran, under the yoke of Sharia. The Ladies Archangeline run wild and free, submitting to no man.” Her fixed gaze held the Prince in check. She pulled on her cigarette again for emphasis.

  “Ah, but you must forgive humble Ajay, My Lady,” said Essien confidently. “He undoubtedly misses you, that is all. He thinks not of the personal sacrifices you might have to make should you unexpectedly take his advice.”

  “True, true,” replied Maria, “but who are you, Good Prince? And what is it that I can do for you?”

  “I am Essien, as I’ve said. Yet not just any Essien. We actually met long ago, Maria, when you were better acquainted with my sister, Dorri.”

  “Good Lord!” laughed Maria. “Are you that Essien? You were in diapers the last time we met, I believe.”

  “No, not exactly, though I do remember the meeting. I was six, Maria, and I believe you were sixteen.” He leaned closer to the camera. “I think you’ll find I’m quite grown up now, however.”

  Maria brightened. “Yes, yes, I remember
it well. We were in Saudi, at the palace of your adoptive father, King Abdullah. Am I right?”

  “Precisely right,” said Essien, smiling attractively back. “But it is as I said: I am all grown up now. I was just wondering if I could interest you in a traditional Iranian lunch. Or perhaps a not-so-traditional one, if you prefer.”

  “This is a bold man,” thought Maria. How often did she receive dinner invitations from eligible bachelors anyway? Next to never. Most men were too scared to death to even say “Hello” to her. This was an exciting development. “A non-traditional meal would suit me best,” she said, “but I suppose I’ll leave that up to you. Are you really serious about all this?”

  “Absolutely!” laughed Essien. “All I’m asking is that you grant me a lunch.”

  The ashes on Maria’s forgotten cigarette were building up, for Essien had proved to be a mighty distraction. “Good,” smiled Maria. “It’s a date, then. How about I come to you? It’s probably best I visit lonely Uncle Ajay beforehand anyway.” This was certainly true. Maria had not been to visit her Iranian relatives in ages.

  “Have you been to Abadan?” asked Essien.

  “Not since I was a girl. Yes, an island lunch would be nice. Can I reach you at this number?”

  And so it was. Enticed, Maria wasted no time calling her producer, to let him know she would be doing the show remotely for a few days. She often did this; it was not very difficult. Before long everything was packed and the jet was prepped, yet still neither Talman nor Den had returned her calls. Where were they? Maria was not the type to wait around. The flight would be long, and she was eager to get started. Thus it was in a dour mood that Maria boarded the plane to fly swiftly away to the clandestine tryst in Iran. She was on her own; the men in her life had failed her.

  After a long flight, Uncle Ajay met Maria promptly at the family airstrip in a stretch limousine. The traditional family compound was not far away.

  “Hello!” he cheered jovially. “How is my little Maria after all these years? It has been forever since I’ve seen you!”

  Maria prayed this was true, as the only other way he might have seen her during the interim would have been through her daily performances, which had always been performed nude. “Good to see you too, Uncle Ajay! Thanks for the lift.” She really was glad to see him, though he was a man like all the rest.

  “And what is it that brings you here, my dear?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

  “It is you, of course, and your would-be matchmaking. Now what gave you the idea that I might be open to receiving random calls from obscure bachelors?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just a guess…” he insisted unconvincingly, but her responding glare broke his spirit. “Oh, very well. I may have happened to notice the continued rumors of a breakup on the internet gossip feeds. I promise I don’t watch the videos though.”

  “That’s a relief...”

  “Please understand I mean no disrespect to your current relationship with… uh…” Ajay pretended to be attempting to remember the name.

  “Denny?” offered Maria.

  “Yes. My dear, he is an American. And he’s named after that sad restaurant chain, famed for its close relationship with social excrement.”

  “Actually his real name’s Den – it’s Japanese,” she said, “though I do hear what you’re saying.”

  “I am glad to see your receptivity,” said Ajay, seeming to sigh with relief. “So I take it you’ve agreed to meet with Essien?”

  “Oh, yes – I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll need to borrow your chopper tomorrow for transport, if that’s alright.”

  “Certainly! Certainly. Yes. And what did you think of him?”

  “Well, surely he was handsome and confident, but so are many men. I intend to hear him out.”

  “And he is very respectable as well, Maria.” Ajay was leaning forward to put his fat old hand on her knee, now speaking in a solemn whisper. “I was introduced to him by none other than Mosi Mukasa, the new King in Iraq!”

  “All the better, then,” said Maria lazily, gazing out the window into her imagination.

  At that moment the limo turned into the family compound, and Maria was surprised to see that innumerable relatives expectantly awaited her arrival. Dinner that night was a merry meeting, as Maria had never met any of her younger cousins. After many games, stories, and several awkward conversations concerning her occupation, they all finally went to bed. Yet Maria found no rest, and her mind remained riddled with confusion. The shadow of doubt had fallen upon her, for still she had heard nothing from Den or Talman. The night was long.

  Path of the Mahdi

  The Mahdi was an ancient man, a travelled lord of desert sands.

  The light of Allah lit his eyes, in crevasse deep, on mountain high.

  A standard, robe, and sword he bore: the Prophet’s talismans of yore;

  For secret chances led him nigh, to hidden halls, where dead things lie.

  There bringing dawn became his charge; at last a worthy goal.

  His haloed, undisguised image, emboldened, hides no more.

  Oh Guided One, do tip the scales! Erase the lies of hate!

  The fallow field of fallen minds awaits the stroke of fate.

  Chapter X

  THE ADVENTURES OF AL-MAHDI

  Ppppp-p-p-p-p-pop! With a pathetic stutter the silly car finally sputtered to a halt, completely out of gas. Angrily the harried driver pounded upon the steering wheel; the car had given up on him at last. He scanned his surroundings from horizon to horizon.

  “Perhaps it’s fine,” he thought to himself nervously. “Perhaps I’ve lost them.”

  There was no doubt about this, really. Though the crowd of obsessed worshippers had prodded him through the streets of Mecca all day, they had done so on foot, and he was fairly certain the majority of them were not sufficiently well-off to have owned their own transportation. Though a couple cars had pursued him on the north road out of the city, Muhammad was sure he had lost them when he veered violently leftward off the highway onto a crumbling desert trail. Their vehicles had been of the hilariously small, economy car variety; they could not hope to follow the SUV he had stolen, not out into harsh lands such as these.

  It seemed his only option was to walk. Muhammad gathered what he had into his pack – several bags of dried fruit, a few bottles of water, a flashlight, a compass, and his extra cloak – and set out. Yet an approaching cloud of dust on the road behind nearly stopped his heart.

  “No, no, no!” he shouted, to no one at all.

  How could this be?! Had they hitched a ride on a passing dune buggy or something? First he had been found in Medina, and only barely escaped. Then his new hiding place in Mecca had been discovered. Was nowhere safe?! The nearing dust cloud was growing larger, and the honking of squeaky horns could be heard. That did it. All fear left him; he did not care anymore. Grabbing his pack, Muhammad ran headlong into the westward sea of sand, determined to find precious solitude.

  Had anyone seen him there, as he trudged along, they might have been struck by Muhammad’s handsome appearance. His forehead was broad, and his nose was long and high, features which he had always been told meant that he was good looking. His skin had always remained rather pale for an Arab, perhaps due to the fact that he ventured out into the sun so rarely, though he did have a prominent birthmark on his left cheek. The general lightness of his skin contrasted strongly with the darkness of his shoulder-length hair and well-trimmed beard, yet the overall effect remained alluring, having always drawn the interest of observers disobligingly. His welcoming brown eyes were the capstone on it all, and he hated himself, for no one was ever going to leave him alone again. This he knew.

  What was wrong with all these people? In fact, what was wrong with the whole world? Bitterly he wondered all these things, as he lumbered along on his long shanks, and the wind whistled back from across the desert, calling him onward. It was likely that wandering off the beaten path into these barren lands
would be the end of him, as he had never received training by anyone experienced in such endeavors, yet Muhammad had ceased to care. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the cruel sun would overpower him. Then the jackals might enjoy eating him under the sickle moon, and he would be free of this awful place.

  The mob had burst into his hotel room that morning. Evidently, and despite his every effort, word had gotten out that “the man with the halo” was staying there. This had been poor Muhammad Abdullah’s problem ever since his birth, you see, for a vocal minority of those people whom managed to catch a glimpse of him had always claimed they could see a shining halo hovering atop his head. Of course this was a ridiculous delusion, he thought. If such a thing were truly there, one would think Muhammad might at least have seen it on one occasion or another, at some point down through the years. Yet, try as he might, the poor man had never seen a thing.

  For this reason he had always been obliged to live indoors and in utter secrecy, not knowing what was wrong with the world. Had not every prophet of antiquity warned against such idolatry? What were they thinking? Such were the questions he often asked himself. After all, though the obsessed fans had only ever claimed they wished to swear fealty to him, they had always made sure to do so in the most worshipful way, bowing right down to the ground while calling him “Al-Mahdi,” which meant “The Guided One.”

  This was ridiculous, and Muhammad knew it. Nothing had ever guided him, not for a minute. His entire life had been spent on the run, for he knew not what the world required of him. Calling him “The Chased One” would have made more sense. What made it all worse was the fact that these mobs never took “No!” for an answer. Ever upon his discovery they would drag him along to the nearest shrine or mosque to pronounce their undying loyalty, for unfortunately the prophecies of old claimed that to be a part of the Army of al-Mahdi was a blessing of eternal import.