Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  Essien bowed, looking just as striking as he had during their teleconference. “Good day, Maria,” he said. “I am Prince Essien.”

  “I know,” she replied, nodding back a little uncomfortably. “Good to see you again.” Truly he was the perfect image of manhood.

  Maria walked carefully forward, thinking to take her seat, but he stopped her unexpectedly. “My Lady, I am pleased to inform you that you are here today to meet with a prince of even greater repute than I.”

  “Excuse me?” she said. This was not usual.

  Already Essien was raising his left hand, directing her attention toward a stooped figure which had begun to shuffle toward the table. “I am honored to present none other than the Exalted One, savior of the Arab Nation, our incomparable King: Mosi Mukasa!”

  Maria stood there, frozen. Part of her wanted to protest, while another part wanted to scream; yet a last bit of her knew that the greatest opportunity of her life may just have presented itself. She held her tongue, therefore, watching only as the newcomer approached.

  The little man had a sallow, wheatish complexion, and seemed very hairy. He was hunched over, as though he might suffer from some skeletal deformation, struggling forward on twisted legs. The King’s beard was long, though well trimmed. Drawing nigh, he reached out a woolly hand to receive hers, and a feeling like an electric shock passed right through Maria’s body. A strange, winding scar, intermittently retouched with tattoo ink, marked his forehead, extending down toward a withered left eye. He was ghastly to her, and she was afraid. The lithe figure of Essien had vanished completely from her mind.

  As Maria’s quivering hand remained extended, the other kissed it gently. His lips were rough and cracked, yet hot as embers. As their eyes met, Maria had difficulty concealing her disgust at the ungodly visage before her, for the man was a total wreck. Mukasa’s left eye was obviously blind, for the eyeball seemed to have been replaced by an unnervingly thick, flat object, which gave the appearance of a misplaced fingernail. Conversely, his sighted, right eye was notably protruding, bulbous, and streaked with red. On top of it all, his lips and nose had a disconcerting symmetry which suggested he might once have been a quite attractive young man. He wore no turban, which revealed twisted locks of medium length draped about his shoulders.

  “Maria Archangeline?” asked King Mukasa needlessly.

  “Of course.” She wasn’t sure where to begin. “Are you really who Essien said you are?”

  “Oh, please. One might think I hadn’t been in the news even more than yourself lately, Maria. And that is saying something, I believe.” He was very relaxed, though she was not, for Maria remained standing as he sat. “I am sorry to have frightened you,” finished Mosi.

  “Yes, I think I recognize you,” admitted Maria. “So you are the same Mosi Mukasa who’s taken up the throne in Iraq?”

  “The very same. I am sorry for all the secrecy, Maria, but I wondered if you would have come at all had you known it was I who wished a meeting.”

  “Perhaps not, though I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now, will we?” She paused to think. “My uncle adores you, obviously. I think my dad likes you, though you haven’t come up in conversation lately. From one country to the next nobody can agree on you. ‘Angel or demon?’ they wonder.”

  At this Maria lowered herself carefully into her seat at last. Without warning Mosi raised a sallow hand, to switch on a holographic template which made the couple and their little table appear suddenly perched upon a mountaintop, high above the world. Temporarily struck with vertigo, Maria found herself clinging to her seat. How was she to focus on eating in this precarious position?

  “What is all this?” she asked, utterly distracted by the other’s display of power.

  “I believe it is Peking duck surrounded by this table, the two of us, and a holographic panoramic taken atop Mount Everest.”

  “This is a hologram?!” It was a flawless illusion. Maria, Mosi, and the table were floating in midair, high above a completely convincing rendering of the mountain.

  “Absolutely,” he said, waving his hand again to extinguish the backdrop. Suddenly they were back in the wind-screened dining area by the sea. Maria was already astonished and impressed by the little man, for she had never seen such power displayed in anyone. “And this, here, is some incredible wine,” continued King Mukasa, handing her a freshly poured glass.

  Tasting it, Maria was surprised to see how true this was, for it seemed the only wine she remembered ever enjoying in all the days of her life. “Incredible,” she agreed. “Yes, it is. I honestly don’t recall ever tasting a wine so gentle to the palate.”

  “But I should answer your question.”

  “What question?” Maria was confused.

  “I think you asked: ‘Angel or demon?’ Am I right?” He was looking directly at her, so that the strange bulging eye drew her attention disconcertingly.

  “Oh, yes,” she admitted. The statement had been utterly rhetorical, a forgettable throw-away, though she made no mention of the fact. “Well?”

  “I am not a man of belief, Maria. I do not pretend to be able to judge the good from the evil. Neither do I pretend to be able to judge what is beautiful or ugly. As a matter of fact, I do not pretend to know any of the things which the many who have rejected me for utterly superficial reasons claim they know. Rather, I remain a clean slate, ready to be taught a new flavor of beauty at any moment.”

  Maybe there was something refreshing about this strange little man. Maria was becoming genuinely curious about him now. As a result, they both commenced with the meal waiting before them feeling somewhat more relaxed. “So, are you going to tell me about your eye, and that scar, and the tattoo?” She had noticed that the most exceptional of his deformities lay strewn across his forehead.

  “I received the initial wound in Jalalabad almost twenty-five years ago. A mortar blast hit too close. I was deaf for a while, but that came back eventually. I never recovered the sight in my left eye, though. The further scarring and disfigurement happened more recently. We barely escaped the Americans, but once we found the tunnel we were safe.”

  “You are referring to combat in Afghanistan?” she asked.

  “Jalalabad is in Pakistan, of course; that is where I received my first wounds, and lost my eye. But yes, Afghanistan is where I ended up eventually. We had gone into hiding after the unprecedented success of the attacks on America. We couldn’t have known what was coming for us. When the missiles toppled our cavernous hideout, I had to be dragged to safety. I was barely resuscitated before we fled into the night. Never could we have imagined the years of exile that followed. My Lord escaped into Pakistan long ago, though I found my meandering way south, into Iran, only recently.”

  “Did you travel on foot?”

  “Yes, most of the way. I didn’t find medical help until at least a week after the attack at Tora Bora. I was bleeding constantly. When at last I found a tiny village, a woman there did her best to sew me up, but the wounds were all too far gone. More recently I had a friend tattoo across the part of the scar which obscured my forehead.”

  “It looks like you’ve spelled out the letters K. F. R. Why is that?” asked Maria, again urging herself to eat. Truthfully speaking, she had not been able to take her eyes off the strange letters upon Mukasa’s forehead, for they were written both in scar tissue and ink, giving him the look of a character from some forgotten horror flick.

  “Stands for kafir – means unbeliever,” he said. Yet he could see that Maria still did not understand him. “Well, part of my basis for ruling Iraq is the fact that I have no true religious leanings. I am impartial.”

  “So you’re not Islamic?” scoffed Maria, surprising even herself. “I suppose al-Qaeda isn’t Islamic either, then, is it?” Her eyebrows had drawn close together.

  “Actually, no – not as much as you might think, anyway. People believe that because of how our official statements always sound on those tapes, but the fact is that we wer
e really just a bunch of friends trying to do what was truly right. I was brought up in Islam, but I have lived a secular life – a life which I think could truly uplift the people of Iraq, and even the entire Arabian Peninsula. At the time of my injuries I felt I had been deserted by Allah, and my attitude was rather negative. So, you see, I had the letters KFR better worked into the scar because of my frustrations with God at that time. Yet I also did so because it fit so perfectly – as if by design. I keep this sign even to this day, and find it has become an increasingly ironic choice, for at this point I can think of no better outward sign I could give to assure doubters that I really do intend to rule with wise blindness as far as religion is concerned.”

  “Well, you certainly do sound serious about it all,” Maria admitted openly. “Honestly, when I saw you on the television looking like that I was sure you were some kind of nut-job!”

  “I am glad to see you are relieved,” smiled Mosi.

  “So you guys were really responsible for the attacks, then?”

  His eye trained upon her doubtfully, as such things were best kept silent. “Miss Archangeline, are you a journalist or my dinner companion?”

  “I don’t know,” she shot back rapidly. “Are you the man I see before me, or the handsome stand-in you so slyly lured me here with?”

  “Touché,” he smiled. “Very well, I will speak more clearly. Yes, my men at arms and I planned for the planes to strike the buildings. We planned it all collectively, though Osama himself was the lead thinker. It was our idea, though none of us could have ever imagined how well it all came off…”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The American President gave us more credit than we deserved, I think. Those buildings must have been on the verge of collapse already, or there is no way they would have fallen. At the time we were more than willing to take credit for every bit of the attacks, because the whole Muslim world was cheering us on for striking the first blow against the Americans. That turned out to be an unwise decision, however.”

  Here the King raised his hand to the scar which issued from his left eye toward his tattooed forehead. “Ever since then al-Qaeda has been hunted down like a pack of dogs, though not all has been lost. The Americans say our efforts hurt them, yet in repayment they have given me the respect of every Arab in the modern world. I was Lord Bin Laden’s closest advisor. If it were not all in exchange for permanent injury and never-ending exile, I might be inclined to thank them.”

  “You would not believe how generous the people I’ve met have been to me,” he continued, “but that is not the point I should be driving at. Let me say that I am sorry for tricking you about my identity and appearance, Maria. Perhaps it is just that… for years now my brethren have touted me as the world’s greatest man; and though I don’t know them to be right about that, I must admit I’ve been hoping and praying I might one day meet the world’s greatest woman.”

  “It is forgivable, Mosi,” she said. This was no lie; Maria had already forgiven him, though she remained forcibly repulsed by his appearance. “Don’t worry about it. I am more than familiar with the necessary conceits and deceits that go along with fame, and you do seem to be proving worthy of my attention after all.”

  “I had hoped you would find me worthy of respect at the very least.”

  “I respect that you are the perfect rival for all of the Western world, King Mukasa. And it is true that I certainly could use a new ally at the moment.” She paused, eyeing him analytically. “What is that little remote you keep pushing?” It was small, like a keychain, and Mosi had held it clasped in his hand throughout their entire conversation.

  “It is a switch. Simply a switch, though an important one. Actually it is a remote for the rheostat at my beltline, which is directly connected to the very nerve centers in my brain that control the functions of pain and pleasure. I was badly hurt at Tora Bora, you see; I will never fully heal.” At this point he turned to show her something that looked much like a headphone jack, though it was implanted into the left side of his skull. From it extended a long cord, mingled inconspicuously with his hair, which connected to a small pack with a knob at its top, attached to his waistline. “They call it a Nerve Jack,” he said.

  “So you’re all rigged up? You’re forcing away the pain by activating a pleasure center?” Maria’s shining blue wig touched the edge of her plate as she cocked her head confusedly to the side.

  “Basically. This way I don’t have to put up with the side effects or withdrawal symptoms of opiates.”

  “That’s smart, then. And cost-effective, I presume.”

  “Thank you, My Lady. Yes, it is. But you should see what it’s like when I hook it up to my stereo. I have a gadget, like another little black box, that transforms every sonic pulse of the music into vibrations of pleasure throughout the body, if only I plug this remote into it. It is the greatest ecstasy in the universe. I promise you, soon everyone will be getting a unit installed.”

  Maria knew it could not be just anyone whom could make her jaw drop like that. The blighted monster before her had just accomplished what no skilled artisan of language, science, sex, or chocolate had ever done in her life. He had surprised her twice – no, three times now – and he had done it within the course of ten minutes to boot. King Mukasa had also scared her just as many times, though Maria could not think what might be gained by admitting such things.

  “I… don’t know what to say,” she said, downcast.

  At this Mukasa seemed to realize he had made her uncomfortable. “I am sorry if I have concerned you. I assure you I am not some sort of pleasure addict, Maria. On the other hand I do have a lot of pain to deal with. And I have already learned the dangers of altering the body’s delicate chemistry with the foolishness of drugs.”

  “Yes, I see,” replied Maria. Good. Maybe his odd surgical decision did have a lighter side.

  “I should also mention that I have truly enjoyed your daily performances.”

  Was he really saying what she thought he was saying? Were all heads of state so perverse? Maria soon mastered herself, but wished she were better at changing the subject. “Really?” she returned presently. “Which ones did you find most enjoyable?” It had better be her sense of rhythm he was about to complement.

  “Let’s see. I liked ‘The Twelve Incarnations of Desire.’ And when you did that duet with Elegance everyone thought it was amazing. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve only just been around a television again for the last couple months. It’s unbelievable!”

  At this Maria made up her mind at last. He was actually being cute. Had she become his first video crush? She looked across at his twisted, injured form. Mosi was not actually all that old – perhaps fifty years of age – it was just that he had seen a lot of mileage. “Since you’re being good, then,” she said, hesitating slightly, “perhaps I’ll let you sit in for the recording of today’s show.”

  “Cool!” replied Mosi. He could be quite profound when he wanted to, but that time was not now, for her beauty had transported him into a far less analytical mode of thinking.

  Maria was pretty sure he was grinning like a deviant teenager, but she was too busy trying not to stare at his face anymore to be certain. She paid closer attention to the delicious meal before her. As she ate, Maria wondered exactly what Den’s face might look like if ever he were to see her at Mukasa’s side. How jealous and confused might he be? It was an intriguing thought that tickled her sense of justice. All the while, King Mukasa watched her as they finished their meal, discerning more of her thoughts than she ever could have guessed.

  Duet of Dreams

  With a gasp David escaped his dark dream at last. Where was he? The room around him was utterly dark, but eventually he remembered. He was on the island with Rachel, Den, and Dogie. He had fallen asleep on the soft bed in the room he had chosen for himself, which overlooked the Chapel of Endless Stairs. A soft knock at his door brought him to full wakefulness.

  “David?” whispered a familiar v
oice.

  “Come in, Rachel.” He was always glad to entertain her presence.

  Light from the hall beyond flooded the room as her nymph-like silhouette tiptoed in. David sat up, pulling the covers toward his neck, as worry over his disheveled appearance unexpectedly overcame him. She took no notice of this, but quickly arranged herself into a comfortable sitting position on the far corner of the bed. Rachel’s pajamas were made of a gauzy green fabric, but David quickly noticed the similarity of their cut to the jumpsuits she wore so often.

  “I heard you muttering,” she began. “I’d been wandering the halls ever since I…

  “Had a dream?” finished David, knowing somehow that he was right.

  “Well, yes.” She gave him a surprised look. “But I heard you saying words in your sleep from all the way down the hall. I thought you yelled something about a fire. I hurried over to check on you,” smiled Rachel, “but I suppose you’re fine.”

  “There was a fire, though only in my dream.”

  “Tell me.”

  David strained to remember the details of the visions which had awakened him, as Rachel listened intently. “Somehow I saw the Promised Land, Israel, but from far above. I was looking down upon Jerusalem when it seemed suddenly to catch fire.” He glanced across at Rachel to discern her initial reaction, and was comforted to see only rapt attention evident in her fair features. “It was not an ordinary fire, though, for it burned neither land nor sea, but people only.”

  “That is strange.”

  “Yes, but the strangest thing was that the fire seemed to effect each person in only one of two distinct ways as it approached. Most of the people who ran from the blaze caught fire, screaming in agony. They were burned to cinders, and then their ashes seemed to blow back toward Jerusalem’s heart. But the majority of people seemed kindled in a different way.”