by Ada Hoffmann
Enga looked up numbly, opening her eyes. “Not for mortals. You’re a recruiter.”
He had told her before that she was meant for more than teaching fitness. That the Gods could use talents like hers. Omhon didn’t look like an angel, but some Gods employed hundreds of Vaurian angels, who could shift their shape and cover the telltale forehead plates with mortal-looking skin.
She was meant for less than fitness instruction now, she thought bitterly. Training gyms like hers required background checks; her job meant dealing with people in vulnerable positions, letting her touch their bodies to correct their form, letting her guide them through sparring matches that could injure them. Unless she was fully acquitted of every single charge, she’d never be able to work again.
“It’s not your only option,” Omhon soothed. “But the Gods have seen cases like this before. My God, in particular, specializes in redemption of a sort. She’ll believe you when you say you’re innocent. But even if you were guilty, She takes those types too. She’s not picky. She puts them to meaningful work; work that makes human space safer and stronger. Work that uses just those sorts of strength I’ve always seen in you. She even knows how to handle your neurotype; the Gods are more enlightened about these things than most mortals. I could guide you through it. This could be the beginning of something good, not bad. You could be more connected, more valued, than you ever were here.”
Enga took a breath. She was still in that space she inhabited after a meltdown, drained and hopeless. Everything felt heavy. Everything in the world felt like too much to handle. But Omhon–
She’d trusted Omhon for a long time now. And Omhon could take her away from all this. Omhon could make it make sense.
“What do I sign?” she said dully.
She went through the formalities in a haze. It didn’t surprise her that the God whose name Omhon danced around was Nemesis. Of course She was. But Nemesis was the bravest of Gods. She did necessary work, work that would use Enga’s strengths to their fullest. And Omhon promised that, if Enga was innocent, her soul after death would be treated gently. Not like the things one read about in books. Not like the real criminals, the ones she would help bring to justice.
Enga trusted him. It was her greatest mistake.
Becoming an angel involved, among other things, surgery. Her brain had to be modified, large parts of it removed and replaced with circuitry. The procedure itself was painless, because she was asleep; the aftermath, she’d been warned, could involve headaches and disorientation. After a few weeks, they’d pass.
She woke up in the worst pain she had ever felt. Enga had broken limbs at work before, dislocated joints, ruptured a tendon. Those injuries were nothing compared to the agony that coursed through her skull. For a long time, that was all she could process. None of her surroundings, no sounds, no sights, only pain – and a vague sense of loss, as if part of her had died. She wasn’t sure which part. But she felt, bone-deep, that it was never coming back.
She fell asleep and woke up like that a few times. Eventually other things penetrated her awareness. The padded medical cot that she lay on. Lights. Voices. Sensations that she’d never felt before, strange cold lines of data streaming through her mind in ways she could not yet coherently process.
Enga tried to move, but something was wrong. Her limbs felt heavy; they wouldn’t obey her instructions. Maybe that was the medicine. She might still be drugged into motionlessness. She managed to grunt, but her mouth would not move even a little.
Eventually, the voices around her coalesced into words.
“–knew this was a risk,” said one. There were people around her; when she opened her eyes, she could see their silhouettes. She could not move the rest of her face, but she could blink, eyes fuzzily open or darkly shut. If the silhouettes saw her eyes open, they had no reaction she could discern. “With methods like yours, the risk of soul damage–”
“Is within accepted limits,” another voice retorted, and Enga knew it was Omhon’s. The timbre was different but the tone, the inflection, was the same. “The ascension process still succeeds much more often than it fails. Or are you telling me Nemesis suddenly cares about collateral? I’ve brought more functional angels in to do Her bidding than most other agents. And you don’t have the rank to tell me off.”
“I have the rank to tell you that you’ve caused inconvenience for my medical staff and wasted my time. This one likely won’t even walk again, much less serve the Gods as you meant her to.”
“You have procedures for that,” said Omhon.
He walked away. She never heard his voice again.
Over the next year or two, as she trained and learned and adjusted to her new limitations, Enga pieced together the story of what had happened. Omhon had been the one who framed her, of course. Nemesis was not a kind God; it took either utter depravity or great desperation for a mortal to choose to serve Her. Omhon, in his recruitments, favored desperation. Enga had preferred her mortal life to the idea of being an angel, so Omhon had destroyed that life. Using his Vaurian skills to plant documents, alienating friends with Enga’s own voice, he had systematically removed anything that could keep her there.
But there was a reason why consent mattered, why there were contracts to sign and agreements to make with one’s eyes open. Even the first generation of Vaurians, born and bred at great expense for the Gods, had to grow to the age of majority and freely accept their destinies. Some had chosen otherwise, which was why there were Vaurian mortals here and there. This was not only a matter of the Gods being polite. Becoming an angel involved a change to the brain so deep, so radical, that it also changed the soul. The pain of ascension came not only from injured nerves but from the soul itself struggling to adjust to its new shape. If the soul was not willing, it might fail to adjust, resulting in permanent disability like Enga’s, or inability to use any of the circuitry installed, or instant death.
Recruiters like Omhon, using methods like his, deliberately courted that risk. It was frowned on by most, but he and a minority like him were as coercive as they dared to be, as much as they thought they could get away with. Occasionally they miscalculated. Enga had been one of those miscalculations. She had signed the papers, seeing no other option, in the miserable haze after a meltdown. She’d thought she meant it, but deep down her soul had not been willing enough. Now she was too damaged for much else but termination, after a brief testing phase, and the scrap heap.
In the weeks after surgery, struggling to stay awake or understand what was said around her, Enga did not know all this. But she knew that Omhon had betrayed her. He had harmed her, for his own ends, more deeply than she’d thought possible, and then, when things didn’t go as he planned, he’d abandoned her. Omhon, who she’d thought was her best friend, had left her here like garbage.
Her difficulty moving or speaking, as quickly became apparent, was not only because of the drugs. It was a result of her damage. It was not going to go away.
Fine, then.
There were tests, of course. Attempts at salvage. Brisk medical angels, accompanied by their bots, tried to poke and prod Enga into something resembling function.
“Open your eyes, please,” they said, politely at first. “Can you blink for me? Try moving your arm just a little. Come on – I know you can do it.”
She ignored them, holding still on purpose. Eventually, they stopped being so polite.
“Let me spell this out for you,” said a medical angel. She was lighter-skinned than Enga, and her hair fell down in ringlets around a titanium-plated face. She had cooed and cajoled at first, until Enga brought her to the end of her patience, and now her voice was cold. “You’re not ever going to be a good angel. You’ll never be fit for basic training. But there is meaningful work for angels who fail at that training. Your brain scans indicate that you’re capable of a partial recovery if you follow instructions. Good enough that you could walk and communicate, after a fashion, and be a helpful assistant for more fortunate angels. I
t would not be a worthless life; you would be helping Nemesis’ efforts to stamp out heresy, in your own way. But if you refuse out of spite, you will be terminated, and not kindly.”
Enga did not move.
She did not care if she died. But she cared, very much, what would happen if she lived. Omhon’s methods would be proved partly right, if Enga lived and was useful. Something good for the Gods, in whatever slight and disappointing way, would turn out to have come from what he did to her. Enga would not give him that satisfaction. She would make his failure complete if it was the last thing she did.
It would have been the last thing she did, if Akavi Averis, Inquisitor of Nemesis, had not one day ventured into her ward. Akavi had not been looking for her in particular. He had been curious in more general terms. It had not been long since he’d met his assistant, Elu Ariehmu of Nemesis, an angel who’d failed basic training thanks to his unusual personality type, and who’d been passed over and abused by better angels until Akavi found him. Akavi had seen intelligence in Elu, and capacities for loyalty and sensitivity unparalleled in the angelic corps. He’d quickly trained Elu to serve him, and he was satisfied with that choice. Now he’d grown curious over what other human resources might be hiding in plain sight, overlooked by an overly rigid approach to the angelic hierarchy.
Akavi was a Vaurian, which did not sit well with Enga after Omhon. But he sat next to Enga’s cot with a frank, cold interest that felt different from that of the medical angels.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said. “That’s rare. I’m not sure if you appreciate just how rare. Most angels of Nemesis would do anything rather than risk termination and damnation at Her hands. Why are you different, Enga?”
Enga did not answer, but some part of her, faintly, considered it. None of the medical angels had asked why, only doled out explanations and punishments and the hint of vague, small rewards. None of them had wanted to know how she felt.
Akavi made an impatient noise. “It can’t be that you’re simply giving in to despair. Even angels like Omhon choose their targets better than that. Are you truly so weak?”
Enga remained silent. She couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted to. She’d tested that when she was alone. She could still move most of her body, clumsily, a little. But her face was much worse than the rest of her. The muscles in her face would not move to make words at all.
Or, Akavi added abruptly, are you trying to accomplish something?
This was not verbal speech. The words appeared in her head. She wasn’t literally seeing letters, and her eyes weren’t what detected them, but it was more similar to seeing text than to anything else she’d ever experienced before. It hurt to focus on the words, in the maelstrom of other strange electronic sensations that had appeared since her surgery, but Enga was determined, and she could puzzle out their meaning.
There was something else, too. An emotion, or the feel of something that could hold emotions. Akavi had sent her a message through her new circuitry, and through that same circuitry she could feel some scrap of his mind. How odd. Akavi’s mind felt cold and intrigued, like a strange scientist, poking at her to see what she would do. Enga had never much liked the psychologists who had studied her, in Kutaga, when she was younger. But she did not fully understand her current state, the half-electronic thing that had been made of her, and if this Akavi person wanted to understand, then that piqued just the tiniest edge of her own curiosity.
She pushed some part of her mind in the direction of the letters, tried to send letters back to him with some spiteful message. She had never done this before. She was clumsy.
NKN..N, said Enga.
“Fascinating,” said Akavi aloud. He continued via those same strange, mental words. It takes time to learn to text-send. You haven’t been trained. But you’ve found the correct channel, and even a few of the letters. Was that your first try? What is really going on in there, Enga Afonbataw Konum?
She did not reply.
You are so angry, he mused. Why was he using this mode of communication when it hurt so much to read? Later, Enga would realize that he’d wanted to keep his words private. He’d been saying things that it wouldn’t have been politic for a passing medical angel to overhear. I’ve rarely seen such rage, even in hardened soldiers. Let me take a guess. You are angry at the man who recruited you.
Enga’s fingers twitched.
You are damning yourself out of spite for him.
S^E%ST^6, said Enga.
“Impressive,” Akavi said aloud. He continued over text. You’re not unsuited for Nemesis at all, are you? You’re nearly perfect for Her. Your only problem is that you’re focusing all that destructive capacity inward. Rage like yours is a gift. Turn it outward, focus it, and it will keep you going on your darkest days. The man I think you’re angry with is only a junior Inquisitor. What do you think would happen if you rose in the ranks above him? What would you like to do to him then?
It was probably another lie. He was probably stringing her along, just as Omhon had. How could she rise in the ranks when she could barely move? Yet Akavi’s interest in her seemed sincere. He believed she was useful for something more than the menial tasks that the medical angels had promised. He believed she was worth spending time and effort to heal.
She did not trust him. But his promises were enough, just enough to make her weak.
Enga Afonbataw Konum of Nemesis opened her eyes.
Now
Akavi had abandoned her. Elu had abandoned her. The worst crime, the crime she’d driven herself for fifty years to avenge, and now it was theirs, too.
She hated both of them for it, but she hated Akavi less. He hadn’t had much choice. His mission had failed, and there had been only two options: submit to summary termination or flee. Enga would have lost Akavi either way.
Elu, though. Elu.
Elu was her friend. Elu had taken a liking to her as soon as they met, and he had stayed with her all through that long, agonizing process of recovery. When it became clear that Enga’s arms would never regain useful function, Elu had helped her design the replacements. Akavi was inherently selfish; his only virtue was a flexible mind. But Elu had been genuinely kind. Elu, she’d believed, had cared.
And then he’d left her too, freely, of his own volition. Without an explanation. Without a goodbye.
Enga would find both of them, him and Akavi. And she would make them burn.
CHAPTER 14
Now
Elu had begun to look forward to Qiel’s next visit almost as much as he looked forward to Akavi’s return. It was dangerous; it was a thing he shouldn’t want. But being alone here was getting to his head. He liked Qiel. She cared how Elu felt about things, despite their differences. She talked about things that weren’t just the next task she wanted him to do.
She’d offered him friends, and that was the most forbidden and lovely thing of all, the thing he’d believed he’d never have again.
When he heard a knock at the Talon’s door, he opened it immediately.
Qiel stood there holding tightly to Lingin’s hand. Lingin’s other arm was still in a sling, but there was healthier color in his cheeks now, and more alertness in his eyes.
Two young Riayin adults – about the same age that Qiel was, and that Elu appeared to be – stood nervously beside them. One was a long-haired woman who stood, self-consciously poised, in the most fashionable attire an impoverished survivor could reasonably cobble together. The remains of a chic dress, the fabric violet and still bright, patched over in an abstract, modernist pattern, and set with pockets and practical accessories in colors that more or less matched the original. The other was a shy young man with matted bangs that fell over his face, with a softness to his body that suggested he’d once been overweight. He looked at his feet. The other one, the woman, was already curiously looking Elu over.
“Hey,” said Qiel, smiling at Elu.
“Hey,” said Elu. He didn’t think he was smiling back, though he wa
nted to. He felt a tightness in his chest. Now that they were actually here, he was slightly overwhelmed.
“I’m holding up my end of the deal,” she said.
“I see that,” said Elu faintly, and then he remembered his manners. He made himself smile. He bowed, which was the usual gesture of greeting on Riayin. “Hi. I’m Elu Ariehmu.”
He wanted to add of Nemesis at the end, but he didn’t. Elu would never be of Nemesis again.
“This is Bannah Nin,” said Qiel, gesturing to the woman, “and Mes De. Both people I’ve known forever. Both of them I’d trust with my life.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Bannah, bowing. Mes mumbled something similar and nodded a bit more clumsily.
Elu’s microexpression software, which for a long time had been dormant without any faces to look at, flared to life. His vision lit up with dozens of small annotations. Mes was almost certainly non-neurotypical. Bannah might or might not be, but she was better at making the kinds of faces and poses most people expected. They were both paying close attention, nervous and excited to meet a thing like Elu. Whatever kind of thing he was now.
“Pleased to meet you, too,” he said. Maybe they could see his nervousness and maybe they couldn’t. He would not think about what he would say about all this when Akavi returned. He would not think about that.
“You’re the fallen angel?” Bannah asked, looking at the titanium plates on his forehead. “The healer?”
“Yes,” said Elu. How strange it was, hearing himself called those things. Fallen angel was what he was, but he and Akavi didn’t tend to say it aloud. Healer was not a word anyone in the angelic corps would have used – at most, Elu should have been called a medic, someone who knew enough to guide the medical bots that did the real work. But healer was the word people used on a planet like this, because Elu healed. How quickly and easily he’d been placed in a category they could make sense of. Maybe healer was a thing he could be. “Would you like to come in? It’s comfortable in the ship, and there’s room for a few to sit–”
