Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

It comes to me then. What’s going on. What’s wrong. Mind staggers trying to deal with the implications.

  The wirewitches aren’t connected to Cyberspace. They’re disconnected.

  Oh, this is not good, so not good, the opposite of good. Because if wirewitches are always connected to Cyberspace, then one is inclined to ask why they’re not connected.

  Because something disconnected them. Could Cyberspace be offline?

  But Cyberspace can’t go offline.

  Can it?

  It’s a worldwide system. There has to be redundancy built in.

  Right?

  No more time for internal debate because the witches are moving. Fast and fluid, each one of them a blurring streak. Given no chance to react, I’m surrounded by writhing blue flesh. Indescribable smells, sweet maybe, but somehow machine-like. Witches and the warlock grabbing my arms, not gentle, but without inflicting pain. Foot still hurts, but it’s distant and numb, unimportant. Then I’m on my feet. Hair in face, back pressed to the wall. One of them pulls my hair out of my face. Four faces close, intense and direct. The youngest is short, below vision field. They’re not speaking, silently communicating amongst themselves.

  Warlock in my vision now, eclipsing the others. Hairstalk moving to the right of his face. It’s down there touching my foot. I can feel the ends brushing my toes. Probably getting blood on it. His eyes are blue spheres. No way to tell where he’s focusing, but I can feel his glare. He’s trying to read my eyes. I can’t look away. Circuit fibers in those globes rearrange themselves continually, tornados flowing. The current stops, and he becomes a statue for a moment. His mouth opens. Is he smiling? Circuit paths visible in his teeth, glistening in the dim light. I’m hypnotized, curiosity drowning in fear. Never seen one of them this close.

  Firm hand on my chin and another on my forehead. Warm metaskin. Head twisted almost to my shoulder. Jaw pulled down, my mouth open slightly. It’s a gentle, insistent force. He’s drawing nearer. I know what’s going to happen, and nothing can stop it. I want to scream, but I am quiet as his mouth touches mine, and it begins.

  The witchkiss takes me.

  5/Revelation During Osculation

  2195.12.06/Night

  Eyes open in disbelief. This is

  not

  happening. I can see it all, there in his eyes. Can’t seem to make my body move. It’s enjoying some part of this.

  Can’t stop this.

  Don’t want to.

  Skin contact is not unpleasant, but a witchkiss always ends badly for the one being kissed.

  My mind imagines the technosites—the infection present in all wirewitches—flowing from his body to mine, from his lips to mine. Want to scream, but I’m suffocating against his mouth. The rest of the coven watches. My senses are going haywire, the room spinning. My arms against the wall, held outward by strong, unseen hands. Wire hair brushes my knee, then my toe, then my knee again, swishing, lightly poking at my skin with bristled ends. The soft flesh of my chin cupped against the ridged metaskin of a firm hand. Another at my forehead, my blue tendrils like a handful of snakes in his fist. Alien lips on mine, harboring the heat of contagion. My meager attempts to struggle are futile, and I know that I’m going to die. Helpless, I surrender. My eyes close.

  And I can see—

  —the exhale of millions dying as a black shroud descends over the unreality—pull out before it’s too late—out now—almost safe—countless brainfrys—and then silence—because it’s offline now—the hopelessness of existence without home—cyberspace disconnected—something at the core missing—no sanity without cyberspace to escape to—to live in—to die in—a gnawing need to feel the comfort of the virtual dream—need it—want it—don’t want to live without it—what happened?—who did this?—the other four are not enough—need cyberspace—need the landscape of the mind—haltstopdesist—wait—intruder out there—shielding is sufficient—will hold—down?—how?—coming through—how did she get through?—how?—scared—she’s scared—need it bad now—can’t continue like this—realspace holds no warmth—trembling—bleeding—how’d she get through—she’s bleeding—communicate with others—take her—infect her—move forward—swift—forward—who?—do it—you who has been selected—take her—take her now—take her beforebzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!

  Staticfuzzstaticfuzzstaticfuzzstaticfuzz like never before! My whole body spasms, my feet leaving the carpet for a moment. The warlock staggers back, hairstalk a waving snake. Falling to my knees, fingers clawing into the carpet fibers, hair caught in my mouth, tears dripping, but I’m not crying. Something wet at one knee; landed in my own blood pool. I want to cough, but can’t. The noise fades. Don’t know what’s causing that, but at least it’s not painful.

  He kissed me.

  I’m going to die.

  Somebody speaks. They’re the first words I’ve heard since I woke:

  “There’s something wrong with her.”

  6/Disconnected

  2195.12.06/Night

  wrong

  wrong

  wrong

  wrong

  WRONG

  It was the warlock who spoke, leaning on one of the witches for support. He said it out loud, and that was strange. The witches look tired, sleepy almost, the warlock’s chest expanding and contracting as he takes long, deep breaths. The others seem to droop, as if they’ve just received some really bad news. They look defeated. There’s something wrong with me, but there’s something more wrong with them.

  I cough, dry heaving, wanting to expel what the warlock put inside me, even though I know it’s too late.

  “Fuck you,” I manage to choke out, my voice the croak of an old, dying woman’s final words. Just how long has it been since I last talked? “What’s wrong with me?” Am I going to die in the next thirty seconds, or did something go wrong with the witchkiss?

  The five of them stand there, stunned and staring at the human female who dared to respond. When’s the last time a human had the guts to talk to you?

  Blood is so red, so fresh, flowing around my knee. Can’t quite see my foot from this position, but it’s back there somewhere leaking another lake. Still seems distant, so far away that maybe it shouldn’t hurt at all. Going to bleed out if I don’t get that stopped. Life needs to slow down first. Got more immediate, witchy concerns right now.

  One of the witches steps out in front of the others. I guess she’s the leader. “Who made you?” she asks.

  What does that mean? Is that some formal wirewitch greeting?

  “Mom and dad, I guess,” I reply. Try to picture them; get nothing. Not good.

  “You’re not human.”

  Her declaration is so ridiculous; I have to defend myself. “I’m human. I mean, just look at me.” Naked. Bleeding.

  “You may bleed like a human, but a human you’re not.” Her voice is a decapitated musical note played on serrated vocal cords.

  I’m probably dying, and I’m here, wasting time arguing my humanity with a creature who bleeds blue and has skin that looks like the inside of a computer. Anyway, this argument is irrelevant if I’m turning into one of them.

  “You infected me. Why the fuck did you do that?” Should be panicking right now, probably, but it’s like that part of me is still waking up.

  The wirewitch pauses, a slight turn of her head toward the warlock. She has two hairstalks just above her forehead. They curve over her skull, travel down her back, twine down around her legs. “I commanded him to,” she says.

  I think she just lied to me. “You already have five. There’s no reason to turn me.”

  “Your ignorance is staggering, false-human.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Irritates me more than it should.

  “You resisted the witchkiss!” Outburst comes from the wide-eyed youngling prowling around behind the others.

  “I resisted the—” I begin, but end up interrupting myself. “Wait, does that mean I’m not going to turn into a wirewitch?”

  �
�You appear to be immune,” the older witch says. “That’s not possible for a human.”

  “You mean I’m not going to turn into a blue-skinned, technosite-infested abomination?” I should be giddy, but that part of me feels like it’s been amputated. Only the memory of what I should be feeling remains.

  “No, you will not,” she replies. “Now answer me. What are you?”

  I just stare at her.

  “You’re not human,” she says after a minute.

  Okay, got it. You don’t think I’m human. What’s going on? Senseless to talk to a wirewitch about humanity when they probably can’t even remember theirs. Still, they haven’t assaulted me again. Thankful for that. They’re not gonna kill me; I’m not a threat. Despite all the hype, wirewitches aren’t mindless killing machines.

  They’re intelligent killing machines.

  “It’s offline,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

  Not good at hiding their emotions, they all stop moving, even the youngling.

  “Cyberspace. It’s offline.” Standing up, thin trickle of red connecting knee to foot.

  Their stillness breaks. They’re shifting, moving closer together, bunching.

  “Cyberspace is offline, and you tried to kill me!”

  “You would not have died.”

  I can’t take my eyes off their hairstalks. “It would have been the same as dying.”

  She looks like she wants to respond, but doesn’t.

  “But it didn’t work.”

  “You are not human. The witchkiss only works on humans.”

  I

  am

  human

  am

  I

  “I am human,” I spit.

  “She is human, NAAQ.” It is the warlock again. Beside the wirewitch, a little shorter. He just gave away her name.

  “The witchkiss didn’t work,” NAAQ says. “Your opinion denies what happened, 3-43.”

  Two names now. Warlocks are numbered and witches aren’t.

  “I kissed her,” 3-43 says. “The girl is human.”

  Girl? Just how old do I look? I mean, I’ve been through puberty. I have breasts.

  Warlock’s acting strange. Wirewitches don’t need to talk out loud to each other. Other communication forms are much faster. No need to bother unless…

  “You can’t communicate,” I say quietly.

  Their focus shifts back to me. They all pause. Just when I think they’re gonna make me repeat myself, the warlock says, “You’re correct. We’re cut off from each other. Cyberspace is down, but this is something more.”

  7/Two Somethings

  2195.12.06/Night

  I can see it in their eyes, how unstable they are. There’s an aloneness in being forced to have your preferred form of communication taken away from you, each of them independent operators now. The young one keeps in physical contact with one of the others, sheltering herself in the shadow of her elders, never taking her eyes off me. Is she scared of me? Is she going to attack? What’s going on inside her head? The wirewitches are wondering too. Ironic.

  Somehow the danger from them seems less now. Still…

  (be on guard)

  Sudden feeling, a torrent of dizziness. Legs bent, hand touching forehead and hand grabbing air. Body staggers and falls. Vision degrades. I descend into the bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!

  and

  then

  the

  curtain

  slides

  over

  my

  eyes

  Dreams of opaque.

  Nightmares in tar.

  Drifting. Falling.

  Cloaked figure.

  Chrome face.

  Images swirl.

  Flickering light.

  I’m awake. What happened? I’m on my back. Light is different here; not the same room. Carpet itchy against my calves, my forearms. I’m covered by a thin, yellowing sheet. Body feels warm for a change, a good feeling. Almost feel safe, eyelids droop, closing. I wallow in warmth. Wait. Something’s changed.

  Clothes. I’m wearing clothes.

  I throw the sheet off, wanting to look at myself. Foot’s been mummified with white bandages. I can still see my toes and there’s no pain. On my knees, I look at my body. Black shirt up here, black shorts down there, cut off just above the knees. No shoes, my good foot covered by a single gray sock—its twin against the far wall. The garments are thin, synthetic and unnatural against my skin, but nothing’s tight. I can breathe, and nothing’s exactly hanging off of me. Mind takes refuge that I won’t be naked in front of strangers anymore.

  “I found some shoes for you,” a gravely-grindy voice says. Two blurs tumble on the carpet beside me.

  It’s the young one, coming around in front of me now. Her two hairstalks flow from the base of her skull, down to the backs of her thighs. Her hairstalks will be long enough to reach her ankles in a few years, if she survives. Fear does strange things to people, and wirewitches are greatly feared. Sometimes, they don’t survive the results of that fear.

  I grab the lone sock and stretch it over my bandages. Foot looks ill-constructed, lumpy. Found some shoes? I guess they don’t live here? Actually, not sure where wirewitches live, but I’m pretty sure I pictured something scarier. Something underground. A lair. Yeah, wirewitches should live in a lair.

  This whole situation feels wrong. A wirewitch coven giving me clothes? They’re not behaving like they should.

  “Who are you?” the young witch asks, cross-legging before me.

  Can’t think of an untruth so I just say, “(2)Syl.”

  “I’m JACK,” she says.

  Was that a smile I saw? Brief, but there. She’s cute, entirely unaware of her prepubescent glow, fingers fiddling with the strands in one of her hairstalks. Like the rest of the coven, she’s wearing a dark gray skinsuit, a tight one-piece that clings to her body like a second skin. It’s high-necked, and covers her all the way down to her ankles and to her wrists, leaving her feet and hands exposed. The skinsuit is dirty and scuffed, with numerous punctures across its matte surface.

  “Where are the others?” I ask.

  “In the other room. Why is your hair blue?”

  “I don’t know.” The walls are bare. There’s only one door, small like the room. First shoe fits nicely enough, the second one more snugly because of the bandages. There’s a price to pay for not bleeding.

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “I—”

  There’s a thud that cuts me off, followed by a tremor that passes through the room.

  “What’s that?” JACK asks, her voice vibrating at some new frequency.

  A second thud and a second tremor.

  “I don’t like that,” JACK says. “I’m scared.”

  Can hear voices, movement in the adjoining room.

  Another thud, the tremor powerful enough this time that small pieces of the ceiling fall to the floor, the air thick with dust now.

  “Make it stop,” JACK says, sneezes, then repeats, “I’m scared.”

  Something heavy rushes into my chest, as if my heart is pumping lead instead of blood. Gasping for breath, I just sit there, wirewitches rushing in, pulling me to my feet.

  NAAQ is in my face. “What is that?”

  Don’t know. How could I know?

  “What did you do?” NAAQ demands.

  Another thud. Whatever it is, it just hit the building. There’s a grinding whine, which is momentarily overshadowed by something roaring.

  “What the glitch is that?!?” NAAQ demands, close enough that our noses bump.

  (a monster)

  (returning to its)

  (lair)

  “I don’t know!” I choke out.

  “Whatever it was, it just hit the pulse shield,” 3-43 says.

  THUD!! The entire room shifts. I maintain my footing because NAAQ has a tight grip on my shoulders, but a large part of me wants to crumple to the floor in the tightest fetal position I can manage.

  The whine stops.
“Shield’s down,” 3-43 says.

  Fuck.

  Through the door I can see the outer wall crack as something big collides with it.

  I’m just a frail thing here, thin and breakable. NAAQ is beside me, but the other wirewitches are backed up against the far wall.

  “This is your fault,” NAAQ says.

  I squeak, “I don’t know what—”

  THUD!! The impact is so jarring, I lose what I was going to say. A piece of the wall out there falls inward. In the dark outside, there is movement, quick and angry.

  “There’s something out there!” JACK says, voice uneven with grinding terror.

  A roar fills the room, quickly answered by a second, different roar.

  Actually, I think there are two somethings.

  THE SLAUGHTERING BEASTS

  8/First Fall

  2195.12.11/Morning

  Wonder how long I was unconscious when the static hit that last time. Minutes or milliseconds? Days?

  THUD THUD. More banging follows.

  stay calm (peacebestill)

  don’t let (heartbeatsofast)

  loss of control is loss of self.

  loss of self is loss of life.

  loss of life is death.

  must avoid death.

  (survival)

  the only option.

  THUD THUD. Pieces of the outer wall bending inward, like an egg being battered apart from the inside. My mind sends me images of what it thinks is about to be birthed through that wall.

  I look past NAAQ, to the others. “What’s out there?” I ask.

  “We don’t know,” 3-43 says, almost solemn, and part of me doesn’t believe him, but still, there’s a faint tremor in his voice. I don’t like that. Illusions of power and strength shattered, replaced with the sight of a group of beings that are just as vulnerable as me. Cyberspace’s absence has revealed the fatal weakness in these superhuman death dealers. It’s not right. I need them to defend themselves. To defend me. Wirewitches don’t act like this. Wirewitches don’t cower.

  THUD THUD. The wall is being pummeled in two places. Two nasty, big things out there. Gonna be two nasty, big things in here in a few minutes.