by R. E. Vance
“I know,” Penemue said. “I never heard that point being debated either. Would have been interesting to hear it, though.” He took another gulp and then insisted I do the same. Then, in an exaggerated tone, he said, “Anyhooo … we designed the ultimate human. The perfect physical specimen who carried within them the ideal emotional and mental states. Someone who would be strong, brave and always capable of doing what is right.”
“Dr. Who?”
“Yes, Human Jean-Luc,” Penemue said with an exasperated sigh. “We designed Dr. Who.”
“Sorry, couldn’t resist. So when was this ‘ultimate human’ going to come about?”
“Oh … never. It was a state to aspire to, not a possibility. And that was the point of this blueprint: to keep you constantly improving, in every sense of the word.”
“Keep evolving.”
“Indeed,” the angel concurred. Penemue stumbled, his joints over-lubricated by his constant suckling of Drambuie.
“So, the perfect being, huh? And you, in all your once-sober glory, were a part of designing it?”
“Indeed.”
“And what in the GoneGods’ name were you in charge of?”
“The soul, mostly. Oh, and the liver. I was inspired to create that after a chance encounter with the designer for the catfish—water’s little filters.”
I suppressed an ironic laugh and shook my head. “OK—what did you do exactly?”
“With what?”
“The soul? You’re bringing this up for a reason, so what is it?”
Penemue hesitated. “I … I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, come on! Divine secrets are no more. Just spill it.”
“I can’t. I’m bound by Divine Law never to speak about what I know.”
I said nothing.
“I signed a Divine Non-Disclosure Agreement. To tell you what I know would cause my head to explode. And I don’t mean that figuratively. I can only speak of it in broad terms and—”
“Don’t give me that crap! The gods are gone! Your Celestial NDA is null and void. It’s got to be!”
“In theory, yes … but the person I signed the agreement with is still on Earth.”
“Who?”
“Archangel Michael.”
“Ah, I see—and given what a stickler Michael is, there’s no way I’m going to get permission to know what you know.”
“Indeed.”
“Crap. OK … broadly speaking, then. How does your knowledge of the soul’s design help us now?”
“I believe what I know will help in uncovering this current evil’s ultimate plan.”
“But you can’t tell me. And the one guy who can free you to tell me, won’t.”
“Indeed. But despair not. I know a guy, one of the nineteen. Of all the beings on Earth, he would have the most knowledge as to what Creation is. He is also the one who will most likely be free to speak.”
“And he’s in Paradise Lot?”
“Metatron. Yes, he’s on the lower east side.”
“Megatron? He lives in Paradise Lot?” I put an exaggerated look of fanboy excitement on my face.
“Megatron? No … Metatron. He’s a Virtue, a divider and a fixer of boundaries. Instrumental skills when designing humans.”
“So … not Megatron. Bummer.”
“Human Jean-Luc, I do not know this Megatron of whom you speak. Is he also an angel?”
“No, more of a gun.”
Penemue gave me a blank stare. “You are referring to one of your toys, aren’t you?”
“More of a collector’s item.”
“So a toy.”
“Yep, a toy.”
“Very well, then. If you are finished bringing unnecessary levity to the situation, shall we go find Metatron?”
I nodded. “Sure. What was this Metatron in charge of anyway?”
“Everything,” Penemue said. “Think of him as the Project Manager of the Universe.”
Chapter 7
Elevators and Angels
Penemue and I made our way to the east side of the island—something that would have been much easier with my Road Runner, a fact which made me groan in misery with every mile traveled. Yet another thing that Paradise Lot had taken from me.
We finally made it to Metatron’s building after two bus rides and a short yet embarrassing flight in which Penemue cradled me in his arms as if I were some bride being escorted over the threshold. It was one of those rundown, subsidized apartment complexes—drab, unkempt exterior that lacked all personality or vibrancy, ceilings made of asbestos (all the rage in the ’70s, like “cancerous popcorn” was fashionable in any era).
“Are you sure this guy will know something?” I said. It was easy to doubt a person’s wisdom or capability when they lived in a building like this.
Penemue pulled out his bottle and took a deep swig. “He’ll know something.” We took three steps up to the building’s glass door entrance. Once inside, we found our way into a narrow hallway with graffiti so old its random streaks of red and blue and black were fading back into white. And to think, this creature once inhabited the highest echelons of Heaven.
Halfway down the hall was an elevator. I called it down and opened the accordion metal door, but the second I stepped in, I knew there was no way Penemue would be able to fit inside by himself, let alone beside me. “What floor does he live on?”
“Nineteen,” the twice-fallen angel groaned as he headed for the stairwell. “Nineteen Others consulted on the Creation of man … he lives on the nineteenth floor …” Penemue shook his head. “Nineteen is a big number for Metatron.”
↔
I could have been an asshole and taken the elevator up to the ninetieth floor and waited for Penemue at the top. I could have even exercised my obnoxious muscle to the max and gone up ten flights, met him on the stairwell to cheer him on, before getting back into the elevator and riding up the next nine flights. The GoneGods knew that Penemue had annoyed me enough over the years—a bit of payback would be well deserved. But in the end I decided that annoying an eight-foot-tall angel before meeting another angel who was pretty much responsible for Creation itself was a bad idea.
Besides—he was my friend. So I sucked it up and walked with him, sans elevator.
We meandered our way up the first six flights of more graffiti, broken beer bottles and discarded needles and—“Arrgh!” I exclaimed—used condoms. On the seventh floor we paused to take a breather, which resulted in me catching my breath and Penemue topping up his energy with another shot of honey-rich Drambuie, before climbing another three flights.
After that we pretty much stopped every ten steps or so, me cursing myself for not going the asshole’s route and taking the damn elevator.
But eventually we made it all the way up. Key word there: eventually.
“You know,” Penemue said between breaths. “Going down is a lot easier. Take it from someone who has fallen. A lot.”
I would have laughed, except there was no breath in me with which to do so. Once my heart slowed down to a brisk jog, I nodded to the angel. We opened the door leading onto the nineteenth floor landing and trudged to Metatron’s door. Penemue started to knock, but stopped, his fist hovering centimeters from the door.
“Jean-Luc,” he said. “Whatever happens inside, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” I asked, sucking in a deep breath. I noticed the elevator was right by Metatron’s door. Regret filled my pumping heart.
“Don’t look this guy in the eye. Trust me.”
“Really?”
“Really,” the angel said, and knocked on the door. There was a sudden noise on the other side and then the door burst open.
As in, exploded outward—splinters and the force of the explosion threw us against the opposite wall. As I hit the wall with a lung-emptying thud, I guessed looking this guy in the eye was the least of my problems.
Hellelujah!
↔
Crunched up and in pain, my back against the
wall, I looked past the splintered threshold to see—you guessed it—Evil-and-Cute. She strolled out into the dusty hall and stood over the angel. She held a curved short sword, an ancient acinaces blade, in one hand—
—and Metatron’s friggin’ head in her other hand.
Judging by the sheer enormity of his eyes, which took up over half his face, I got what Penemue meant … you’ve heard the expression “all forehead”? Well, he was “all eye.” Even dead, those massive orbs stared at me with such intensity that it felt like he was deconstructing my soul.
Evil-and-Cute sneered at me, turned and tossed Metatron’s head out the window like she was throwing a tantrum, or displaying her strength—or both.
It smashed through the glass like a bowling ball. With it gone, she cocked her head back to look at me over her shoulder. “Jean-Luc,” she said. “You’re here.” There was no surprise in her voice, no “Oh, you caught me in the middle of a murder!” It was all “I’ve been expecting you.” And then it hit me—she’d been waiting for me to show up. She even knew exactly when to set off the explosion and blow the door up to knock us off our feet.
Which meant that someone was watching us from the hallway.
I had exactly three seconds to react, which was about two seconds behind Penemue, who grabbed me by my shoulder and threw me bodily at Evil-and-Cute, as if I were some kind of weapon and not his best friend, before wrapping himself in his wings. Bullets ripped from both sides of the hallway—I guess these guys didn’t care about getting caught in the cross-fire.
I’d seen Penemue’s wings shield him from lightning strikes, blades and a particularly angry nasnās’s fists, so I figured that bullets wouldn’t do much. Fortunately, I was right. The little lead projectiles hit his wings with no effect and ricocheted everywhere—including the room I was now in.
I took a quick look around the studio flat and smashed through the bathroom door, jumping into the tub. Evidently Evil-and-Cute got the same idea and, given she was faster than me, she got there first. I was lying on top of her, our faces inches apart.
“I don’t suspect this is the part where we kiss?” I drawled.
She sneered up at me. “How is it that you can engage in mirth when death is so close to you, Jean-Luc?”
“The closer death is, the more important it is to laugh,” I said—and I meant it. “And death is always close.” I meant that, too.
She nodded and the room went silent. Evidently Evil-and-Cute’s minions had finally realized bullets weren’t going to do diddly-shit to a friggin’ angel.
I could feel her take a breath to speak. “Then perhaps it is time I told you a joke … What did the bee say to the annoying man?”
She pushed me off of her with super-human strength, hard enough to literally throw me against the ceiling. I fell down, raining asbestos particles with me, but instead of landing on her (comparably) soft body, she got up with preternatural speed and I hit the porcelain tub. Hard.
“Buzz off!” she cackled.
“Ow,” I said, sitting up. “I don’t think you know what a joke is, lady.”
Before I could get to my feet, she kicked me in the forehead, forcing me back into the tub.
“No fair,” I groaned. I planned my escape this time, by kicking my feet over the edge like a pole-vaulter, with my fist ready to punch her where it could land. Except my fist flew through empty air. Evil-and-Cute was already out of the room.
I heard a yelp and a smash from out in the hall. Penemue growled then yelled, “Jean-Luc, get into the living room. Now!”
I leapt out of the room, expecting to see Evil-and-Cute and her gang of minions closing in, but instead, Penemue dive-tackled me and the two of us went tumbling through the living room and out the shattered window.
Hellelujah!
↔
When we made it out of the window, he swooped down and I saw two more anomalies with limbs that weren’t arms, legs, wings or pincers, but looked more like digger equipment and shovels. They had Metatron’s head in their hands, raising it up to us in a taunting manner. Penemue didn’t stop—he just flew as fast and as hard as he could, heading directly for the cover of trees.
↔
We flew for ten minutes before Penemue set down on a patch of green a couple blocks away from Paradise Lot’s downtown. On the ground, my feet wobbly and refusing to cooperate, I turned to Penemue and said, “They were waiting for us.”
“Perhaps it was a coincidence. We happened to stumble upon them interrogating Metatron—”
“No. They’re following me. Keeping tabs. And when they saw us speaking, they knew you’d bring up the committee and lead me to Metatron’s apartment.”
“Are you sure?” Penemue took a quick sip of Drambuie from a bottle that miraculously didn’t break in the explosion. “A bit cocky of you, in my opinion.”
“Think about it! The desert, the anomalies coming to the hotel—it’s all connected. They want me out of the picture.”
“Why?”
“Remember Pan? That sadistic satyr asshole? He chose the Millennium Hotel because I was the guy who killed the Avatar of Gravity. He called me a hero of this world … a player that must be dealt with. I’ve stopped two apocalypses, my wife briefly reopened Heaven, I killed a creature that by all accounts was a god and I was the Scourge of Others. Whether deserved or not, these baddies think I’m a major player. And …”
“And what?”
“And what do you do when you’re being hunted?”
“I’ve never been hunted,” Penemue said.
“Well, I have. And the only way not to be hunted … is to hunt.”
“Profound,” Penemue said with all the sincerity of a feather duster. “But the last I checked you don’t know where they are.”
“True—but you’re forgetting the ace up our sleeve.” I took Penemue’s bottle and downed a big gulp. The sickly sweet liquor went down heavy. “Yuk—how can you drink this stuff?”
Penemue took back the bottle with a more-for-me gesture. “You were saying something about an ace up one’s garments?”
“Sleeve. And not ace. Pirate.”
Penemue took another large gulp of Drambuie. “Argh,” he agreed.
↔
“She’s drawn to them. She has to be.”
I was sitting on the grass as Penemue leaned against a tree.
“To other anomalies,” Penemue agreed, “most certainly. She senses them, as they must sense her. Difference is, she is sentient and seeks them out. They are mindless monsters that only do their master’s bidding. What’s more—she is connected to whomever created her. The closer she gets to said creator, the more she will be able to sense and find him. Or her.”
“And you sure?”
“I’m positive,” Penemue said, pulling out his phone and looking at it.
I ran my hand through my hair. “OK … we’ll need to tell Conner to get an extra ticket.”
“Done.”
“What? When?”
“Just now,” he said. “Would have done it sooner, but … well, one can text, walk and talk at the same time. Flying and texting, however, is something I do not recommend.”
“And he agreed?”
At that moment Penemue’s phone beeped. He frowned down at the screen. “No, he does not agree. Hold on …” He typed something in and hit send. About six seconds later his phone beeped. “There, done.”
“What did you write?”
“I typed ‘Miral,’ ‘remember what,’ ‘have faith,’ ‘Jean-Luc’ and ‘in’ … But not in that order.”
I groaned. This so-called “faith” in me was beginning to wear thin, I was sure, but it seemed to work for Conner. Either he really did have faith in me, or Miral had him wrapped around her little finger. I suspected it was a bit of both.
Penemue put away his phone. “The bigger issue is that we cannot tell Conner about Sinbad.”
“Why not?”
“Because right now we’re throwing darts in the dark. Everythin
g we’ve got are half theories and far-fetched hypotheses.”
“So?”
“So, if we tell him that we believe Sinbad was created by human will, he might tell Miral … or worse—Michael.” Penemue drained the rest of his bottle and tossed it in a nearby trash can before wiping his mouth with the tip of his wing. “Creation is not something humans should be able to do, and the very notion will make both Michael and Miral rather uncomfortable. They’ll want to get involved—and not in a ‘save-the-children’ kind of way. Trust me … there are certain buttons you don’t push with angels of their ilk. Human-driven Creation is on top of the list.”
I nodded. Penemue was right. Conner might be able to keep a secret from Michael, but Miral was a different story altogether. Right now, she would only serve to slow the investigation down. I didn’t care about Creation or what humans should or should not be able to do. All I cared about was getting those kids home as quickly as possible … and maybe taking Cain up on his offer.
“OK,” I said. “We’ll do our best not to tell him.”
“He’ll play along,” Penemue said. “For a while.”
“There’s still one more problem … two grown men and an angel traveling with an undocumented little girl is bound to raise some eyebrows.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Why not?”
“I know another guy who knows a guy … I can get some documents for Sinbad lickity-split.” Penemue winked at me. “Uncle Jean-Luc.”
And before I could protest, he took to the sky.
↔
With Penemue gone, I pulled out my phone and called General Shouf. She answered on the first ring with a grating, “Jean-Luc … where have you been?”
“Hello to you, too,” I said. “And how long have you been working for Mr. Cain?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Working for Mr. Cain. How long?”
General Shouf’s breathing on the other end of the line sounded more like beer bottles shattering than actual breaths. General Shouf was an aigamuchab, and aigamuxa were incapable of lying. That was possibly the only reason the Army trusted her: simply ask her every now and then if she was planning on betraying the human Army and she was bound to tell the truth, no matter how damning it was to her. But even though she was incapable of lying, she could omit certain facts. From how long she paused, I knew she was carefully considering her answer.
