Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

  Dust. Debris. Wailing. Blood.

  Forcing myself to a standing position, I’m running again, pushing through all sorts of complaining from my body. If there’s a part of me that doesn’t ache, I’m not sure what it is. The skinsuit Calamity Carl put me in has taken significant abuse, but it has very few punctures given what I’ve been through. There’s a new hole near my left knee. Through it, I can see skin, raw and irritated.

  The train comes back into view, the figure with wings landing on the roof. There’s no sign of the other person.

  I’m actually getting closer to the train, oh, because it slowed down, and because it’s descending—or maybe falling is a better word. Not as fast as gravity might demand, but at that height, it doesn’t have more than a minute. And even as slow as it’s falling, there’s no way that train is designed to take a hit like that; those things are supposed to hover, then glide down onto a long, narrow track, not drop vertically to the ground. Also, I seriously doubt there’s a place it can set down in the middle of the city.

  If there are people in there, they’re all going to die.

  From atop the train, there’s a flash of green light, then the figure with the wings simply steps off, dropping out of sight in less than a second. Abandoning ship I suppose. Then again, they have wings, so why do they need a train? Also, I want to know why the automatic me is so interested in it.

  Are there people inside that train? Do they know they only have seconds left to live?

  I turn a corner, intending to cut over a block or two so I can make sure I know where the train is going to come down. The street in front of me is completely devoid of people. Without the senseless throng around me, I’m able to deactivate the pulse dagger and slip it into one of the small pockets on the side of my backpack. The air is hazy and ash floats down all around, but nothing is burning on this street. Only a matter of time before that changes, but right here, right now, this street is safe. I jog another block, cutting down an alley where I pass a group of cloaked figures huddling against a wall. One of them looks up as I pass, giving me a glimpse of glittering blue spheres, swirling like storms.

  JACK.

  No.

  My heart does a weird thing where it tries to jump out through my ribcage. I clutch at my chest while I run, forced to drag one hand against the opposite wall to keep my balance.

  Witches.

  But not mine.

  Along with the aroma of fire and ash, the scent of the ocean is strong here.

  I exit the alley to see the train moving down the street, away from me, only about twenty meters above the ground now. The street opens up that way, into a large courtyard.

  The ground rumbles. The buildings shake. The air hums as if it’s alive. Deep in my chest, the ache that rose when I thought of JACK is replaced by a vibration that threatens to do real damage. My hair begins to rise from where it’s plastered to my cheeks and my neck, individual strands and matted clumps floating around my head as if I’m suspended underwater instead of standing in the middle of the street. Feels just like

  (shackleshockshackleshock)

  what Calamity Carl did to me. Only with this, I can’t escape. It’s in the air.

  In the middle of the courtyard is the winged figure, their body engulfed in blue fire. The light from that fire becomes a sphere of visible energy, expanding to touch everything in the courtyard and the surrounding area. Everything it touches—the street itself, the surface of surrounding buildings, street signs, abandoned vehicles—is pulled toward the center of the courtyard. Materials rip away, pulled into the air, reshaping and merging as they race toward their common destination. The air is filling with millions of pieces of debris, all converging on the winged figure, who has one arm raised. I’m close enough now that I can see blue sparks jumping between their fingers. The vibration frequency changes—can feel it deep in my chest—then a pulse of energy travels down the winged figure’s body, burrowing into the ground, then radiating outward in all directions, thousands upon thousands of intersecting streaks of lightning, pulverizing the surface of the courtyard. It’s like I’m watching a volcano being formed. The ground begins to rise, and I lose sight of the winged figure in less than a second. As the train continues to descend, the dirt and detritus coalesces, lurching upward. The earth groans, the street under my boots shifting, rushing to fill the void that’s created as the winged figure manipulates the world in a way I’d never imagined was possible. I don’t believe in magic, but what else could that blue fire be?

  (there are so many things you don’t)

  (understand)

  (so many you don’t)

  (remember)

  The train is shaking, buffeted by the sudden wind that rips through the city. I struggle to keep my hair out of my face, forced to squint against air thick with dust. My entire body slips forward. There’s a singularity at the center of the courtyard, and it wants to suck everything into its maw. I bend my knees and set my feet as best I can, but there’s not much else I can do right now.

  (this isn’t magic it’s)

  (energy)

  As the mountain grows to fill the entire courtyard, the train creaks, emitting the loud whine of metal under stress as the maelstrom grows to consume it. The train is completely hidden for a moment.

  The suck of the vortex increases, sending me onto my butt and sliding across the street. Flailing my arms out, but there’s nothing between me and the storm, nothing to grab onto, nothing to stop me from entering that violence.

  I’m just another piece of helpless debris.

  But then it all stops.

  The blue energy is gone, and with it the vibration in my chest.

  I exhale. The world sighs with me.

  The remaining debris in the air plummets to the ground. The clouds of dust are swept away by the wind.

  I stand, shaking dirt out of my hair, brushing my skinsuit until the grit is gone and its surface is smooth again. The wad of spit I expel is tinged with brown. I’m sure my face is an absolute disaster. Survival isn’t pretty. I need a shower.

  The train has come to rest on the top of a mountain of rubble that’s higher than some of the nearby buildings. Completely filled, the courtyard is no more, the surrounding structures all partially embedded in the newly formed mountain.

  Movement at the train. A door slides open in the side of the lead car, several tall figures emerging. Whoa, that’s a lot of muscle. Bulky, enhanced bodies, metal gleaming where skin should be, technology where limbs should be, exposed wires and hoses. Lots of weaponry. One of them has a cannon for an arm.

  Technomancers.

  But not all of them. Others are emerging. They look shaken and unsteady, but less…modified. The technomancers spread out, forming a semicircle. One of them appears to be wounded; he’s lying on the ground, just inside the perimeter.

  For a few precious seconds, the sun pierces the clouds, the smoke, and the dust. A beam of pure sunshine lights up the train and the surrounding area, causing the entire scene to take on an otherworldly aura, as if the technomancers and their charges have been granted some sort of divine blessing. Even if they’re a sickening fusion of man and machine, the glints of light off their metal appendages are dazzling, and it’s difficult to not consider them beautiful in that moment.

  I find myself walking toward them.

  A fist, glowing blue, punches up out of the surface of the mountain, sending debris flying. The technomancers ignore this new development, but the others skitter to one side, some trying to escape the perimeter their protectors have formed around them.

  Another fist breaches the surface. Then a shoulder and a head. The winged figure claws their way clear of the debris, emerging like a reanimated corpse, long gray hair plastered in mud, dirt pouring in countless rivulets. Wings flaring wide for a moment, then collapsing, the technomancer—that’s what he is; I can see that now—pauses, staggering, giving me a look at his face.

  He’s a wreck, flesh torn away to reveal his metal skel
eton underneath, but I can still recognize Aran, the technomancer who saved JACK and me from that eoa, who let us use his secret hideout, gave us supplies. Let us use his sonic shower.

  He’s the reason I’m here. The automatic me recognized him on top of the train and decided to follow. Looking at that inhuman infrastructure of his skull, the way the sunlight shines off the reinforced dome of his forehead, the way everything about him moves just like a normal human when he’s anything but has me wondering whether the automatic me has made a mistake.

  Aran’s body is glowing with cold blue energy. It flows across his body in waves, and as it does, pale threads begin to twist across the surface of his skull. It’s like watching vines grow. The threads knit together, creating a new layer of material over all that exposed metal.

  Skin. He’s growing new skin.

  It only takes seconds for his face to look like he just stepped off an assembly line.

  He tears off the sleeves of his shirt to reveal strips of skin hanging in ragged flaps like pieces of ripped paper. His tech’s exposed, intricate hydraulics banded with synthetic muscles. The new skin grows there too, replacing the old flesh until his arms are clean and unbroken.

  Aran says something. The technomancers all turn to him as one, except for the one lying on the ground—that one has a hand planted in the debris and looks to be making an unsuccessful attempt to get to his knees. At least half of the others—the regular humans—disappear back into the train at Aran’s words.

  Can’t make out what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that Aran’s in charge. When he speaks, the others nod or shake their heads. He points a finger at one of the technomancers—the hulking beast who has a cannon for an arm—and issues some sort of order that has the beast descending the mountain at a run.

  As Aran talks with a gray-bearded technomancer, one of the humans emerges from the train and tosses a package toward him. He catches it in one hand, gives it a shake, and it unfolds. It’s a trench coat—looks similar to the one he was wearing the first time I saw him.

  Aran’s wings unfurl. He looks like an avenging angel.

  No, I came all this way. I need to talk to him. I at least need to warn him about the Bleed and what they’re doing to the island.

  I’m running down the street now, toward him, pushing away thoughts of how unwise this possibly is, how presumptuous this is. Sure, he did help me before, but that doesn’t mean anything now. Just because somebody’s friendly doesn’t mean they won’t betray you.

  One misstep over a large chunk of rubble sends me diving face-first to the ground. I get my hands out, but just barely—enough to save me from a broken nose and a toothless smile—taking the majority of the impact with my shoulder, doing my best to roll with my momentum and take the some of the sting out of the hit. I skid for a good meter though.

  Ouchouchfuckingouch.

  The groan that escapes my lips is one I earned. Rolling over so I’m on my knees, I take a couple of seconds to make sure I didn’t do any permanent damage to myself while taking a quick glance up the street to see if anybody noticed my clumsiness. Nobody’s looking my way, so I get to my feet, seeing scraped skin through a new hole in my skinsuit. Wincing, I brush dirt off my hands. As if I wasn’t enough of a mess before. And God, I stink. I’d really like to get a shower and clean some of the dirt out of my various wounds. Not likely to happen anytime soon though.

  Approaching the base of the mountain of debris, I’m thinking about the last time I really felt safe—at the Haven—which is ironic given how everything ended there.

  Safety. The ultimate delusion.

  Tam’s body, writhing on the floor as his hairstalk sprouted, flowing like water down his body.

  I’m suddenly shivering. What am I doing here?

  The answer to that is easy: I’m doing whatever I think I have to in order to survive, and if that includes running toward a group of mean-looking technomancers with the idea that one of them helped me before so he might help me again, then that’s what I’m going to do.

  Oh, a couple of them see me now.

  I’m not a threat, please don’t kill me.

  “Aran!” I shout, immediately regretting my outburst. Everybody—the ring of technomancers as well as the normal humans—is looking down at me. As I continue to scramble up the base of the mountain, Aran pivots toward me.

  No turning back now.

  There’s a crack and then a whoosh as Aran takes to the air. It should be ridiculous—a man with metal wings—a concept that either defies physics or belongs in a youngling’s fantasy, but he moves with a brutal, powerful grace that has me suspending my disbelief without hesitation. Calamity Carl can teleport. A technomancer can fly.

  Also, added to the list of sights I’ll never forget: Aran’s wide-winged silhouette, a halo of sunlight framing his form in golden rays. The sunlight dies behind smoke and clouds an instant later, but for a moment there, Aran was downright angelic.

  I try to freeze as he descends, but my body takes a couple steps back at the sight of him zooming toward me. He slows as he approaches, not bothering to land, instead twisting sideways just before he reaches me. I recoil, but then I’m caught up in his arms and we’re swooping down the mountain in a stomach churning descent, my hands clutching at his neck, praying that he remembers me, praying that he isn’t going to just fly up really high then let me go. Part of me wants to fight him, to tell him that he can’t just do this to me without my permissions, but the rest of me doesn’t mind so much. Swooping down wasn’t an act of aggression.

  “Hold tight,” Aran says, his long gray hair flicking across my face, his strands twisting with mine.

  The world tilts to one side, and I’m pressed deeper into his arms as we bank, buildings—still intact—streaming by, then we’re up above them all, turning slowly. My stomach’s probably somewhere closer to the ground, but I snatch a peek at the city. Smoke hangs over it like a sickness. Spots of red where unchecked fires burn are like inflamed wounds. I can see the building—easy to spot; it’s the tallest one—where Calamity Carl imprisoned and tortured me.

  His body is warm, but nothing about him seems human. The way he moves. The way he smells—like a machine wearing a human disguise.

  We reach our apex, where we level out. Aran’s wings high above us like a protective shield, we make a slow descent. When Aran releases me, and my boots are back on the semi-solid ground of the mountain of debris, I place one hand on his arm to steady myself. The remaining technomancers and the crowd they’re protecting are watching me with keen, distrustful eyes.

  “You’re glowing?” The question is mumbled because I’m short on oxygen after my flight. Apparently, I was holding my breath the entire time.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  The man of few words has none to spare on answers. I guess that’s about what I expected.

  Aran gestures toward the city. “Doc can patch you up as soon as he gets back. Until then, I’d like you to stay with the Pure.”

  “The Pure?” I let my eyes lock with his.

  “Pure humans. No degenerate genetics, no environmental poisoning, no mutation. We’re putting them on a boat and getting them off this island.”

  “A boat. You have a boat? Big enough for everybody?”

  “I’m in the process of acquiring one.”

  “Good, because this island is fucked. You saw all the orange streaks in the sky, right? All those things that landed on the island?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Well, if you want to save these Pure, then you’d better get that boat soon.”

  “I agree, but what makes you say that, other than the obvious?” He gestures toward the core of the city.

  “Those things. They…dissolve anything around them. They’re—” The memory of what the Bleed are is repugnant. “—mechanical, but also, they’re alive.”

  “Where?” Aran asks, his silver eyes still aligned with mine.

  He believes me. He doesn’t know me, n
ot really, but he believes me.

  “All over the city. I don’t know how you haven’t encountered them yet.”

  “I’ve been really busy.”

  I shrug, pointing over my shoulder, where I last saw the city glowing gray.

  Aran looks where I point. I imagine his optical implants running enhancement algorithms to reveal details us unmodified humans aren’t capable of seeing. “Yeah, I’d really like to get you on that boat.” Still staring into the distance, he sighs.

  Such a strange sound coming from a technomancer.

  Aran interrupts the question on my lips with, “After you get patched up, you can do what you want. Hell, I’ll even help you, just hang on for a while until I have our transportation worked out. The Pure need something to stabilize them right now. Another Pure with real-world experience would really help them.”

  With as much conviction as I can muster: “I’m not one of them.” He’s not the first person to make this claim. Memory loss. The static. The automatic me. My life is too complicated for me to be pure.

  “You’re close enough,” Aran says.

  I find myself being directed into the train along with the rest of the Pure.

  In opposition to the exterior of the train, which betrays the battle scars that it’s endured, the interior is clean and tidy. And even though it’s half-buried in the debris mountain, the train is intact. Each segment of the train is lit by light filtering in through dusty windows. Still, something’s pushing cool air in here, so maybe not all of the train’s power systems are offline.

  (just wait angel)

  (how much time do the pure have before)

  (they bleed)

  An elderly woman directs me to a padded chair in the corner of the second train car. Four columns of seats run the length of the car. It’s darker in here than in the first car since only a few of the windows are free of debris.

  “Hello there, I’m Kami,” the woman says.

  “And I’m (2)Syl.” I sit down, placing my backpack between my boots. All the children in the car are looking at me. I’m the attraction of the moment I guess.