I obliged, sitting in front of the white army. Before now he’d always been white, and I had no doubt there was reason behind giving it to me. I slid a pawn to C3.
He slid a black pawn to E5. “You’ve been convinced to stay,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Elating.”
I could tell from his tone that he wanted to know what had changed my mind, but I didn’t take his bait. Instead I moved another pawn.
“A daring plan you’ve formulated,” I said after a lengthy silence.
“Thank you.” Yahweh’s eyes rose to mine, and I studied his scar. The cut had been clean, made from a blade. I’d worn plenty of those in my previous life. “But I’ll have to give Leid most of the credit.”
I’d assumed as much. “Your men are very loyal if they’re willing to follow you right into their coffins.”
“You see a problem with our plan?” he murmured, unsurprised.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to sacrifice all of your best pilots, for one,” I said. “Not to mention your first general.”
“Seyestin will come out of this alive, believe me,” said Yahweh, pulling out a bishop. “We’ll lose a few, but you of all people know that death comes with the territory.”
I reclined, staring. He held my gaze, coolly.
Yahweh wasn’t a child anymore. That fact screamed from the square angles of his jaw and his broader, rounder shoulders that had once been so lithe and boyish. He’d grown a foot and a half in height, reaching my chin. He wasn’t strapping like many of his soldiers, but he was a man nonetheless, and nothing showed that more than his hard, apathetic look. He’d seen much in my absence—even much in my presence. An assassination attempt and the collapse of an entire civilization.
“How did you kill your father?”
That question took him by surprise, and he lowered his gaze to the chessboard. “He came to the Plexus with guards, looking to arrest Lucifer. The angels couldn’t have a demon Commander, and Jehovah sought the throne. He’d already rallied support. They… were going to execute him.”
I waited, listening.
“I stabbed him with a syringe filled with potassium chloride, and while he succumbed to cardiac arrest I beat his face in with a test-tube rack. He didn’t go down easily.” He smiled, tracing the scar. “Lucifer shot his guards. We spent the rest of that night formulating a plan to evacuate the demons and diplomatically end the Ring War.”
I raised my brows, impressed. “Lucifer took the blame for Jehovah’s death, and you rose to power, forming the Contest and the diverging houses.”
He nodded. “It’s not… something I am proud of, but I don’t regret killing him.”
The demons weren’t the only ones to fall.
Yahweh laughed sadly, lost in reverie. “I was so cemented in my belief that murder was inherently wrong. Back then I couldn’t understand why you did the things you did, but now I can empathize. A little.”
I was somewhat crestfallen, as Yahweh’s innocence had always been so grounding. There were a ton of men like me in the world—in the cosmos, no less—but seldom had I ever seen anyone like him. But now that child was gone, replaced by this.
“I will fight for you, but there’s a condition.”
“Of course there is,” he said, expectantly. Yahweh could play at intuition all he’d like; my proposal was going to knock his socks off.
“You have a laboratory here. Is it fully-equipped?”
Confusion settled in. I was the unlikeliest person to ever ask about a laboratory. “Mostly.”
I hesitated, trying to think of a way to explain this in one, nicely-wrapped sentence. “I want you to study Vel’Haru expiration.”
Yahweh’s confusion dulled into a blank stare. “… What?”
“If you’re capable of genetic manipulation on the scale of turning angels into Nehelian-Archaean hybrids—”
“That was an accident.”
“—Then you might be able to figure out how expiration works and whether it can be treated.”
Our game came to a dead stop.
He wiped hair from his eyes, perplexed. “Qaira, I know next to nothing about the Vel’Haru genome. They’re unlike anything else in the Multiverse, let alone our limited scope of sentient life.”
I grinned, tapping my head. “Well you’re in luck, because I have their genome memorized. I can draw it for you.”
“While that’s… impressive, I would have nothing to compare it with.”
“You might be surprised.”
That had piqued his interest. “Might I?”
I nodded. “Do we have a deal?”
He leaned back, folding his arms, studying me. “I am the Commander of this ship. We are in the middle of a war. My time to play scientist is limited.”
“I can win you the war.”
He feigned doubt. “Can you?”
I said nothing, only stared.
“I was told Leid had several months left, at most. Even if I worked around the clock, I doubt I’d be able to find anything worthwhile. This kind of thing takes years, not months.”
“All I want you to do is try.”
“Does she know?”
“No, and it stays that way for now. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”
He smiled. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you. Do we have a deal?”
Yahweh looked away, conflicted.
I slid from my seat. “I guess my services aren’t that important to you.”
Two steps from the door, he said, “Draw me that genome.”
***
Half an hour later I returned on deck, having been forced to finish that chess match. Eight hundred years and a million IQ points later, Yahweh still wiped the floor with me.
Plasma and particle physics, sure. Chess? Forget it.
Soldiers were amassing at the port, preparing for departure. I felt the hum of Ezekiel’s engine underfoot, and watched aviation engineers prime jets for the selected pilots, whomever they were.
Belial was standing several feet away, watching as well, shaking his head. He’d transformed from a flamboyant aristocrat into a space-faring gunslinger. His top hat and feathery coat were gone, replaced by leather pants, a vest, bullet belts, and a cowboy hat. Where he’d gotten any of that was a mystery, but more curiously the duster he wore was emblazoned with the Ivienare symbol, Archaean for far-shooter. Yahweh had assigned him to their sniper team.
He turned, sensing my presence. A holo-lens hugged his right ear, covering his eye like a monocle. A rifle was strapped to his back, and two pulse hand-cannons hung from the belt across his hips, barely visible beneath the duster. I had a really hard time believing he was Belial Vakkar, demon entertainment kingpin and playwright.
“Morning,” he said, looking me over. I imagined similar thoughts circling his mind.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” I said.
He snorted. “That makes two of us. An Archdemon and the Regent of Sanctum onboard an angel warship, allied to take over Hell. This’d make one excellent screen production.”
Well, it was good to know his change was strictly superficial. “And what’s in this for you?”
“General Psychotic Cunt—Soran, pardon—framed me. Killed my wife and goaded me to act. My options were to come along for the ride or sway on a noose.”
I recalled the news report of Belial’s manor burning down, but that was the least confusing bit. “General Soran is dead.”
“The other Soran. The crazier one.”
“Lucifer made Samnaea his first general?” I asked, unable to hide my shock.
“Right, the first clue that he’s finally losing it,” grumbled Belial. “Not every demon is aligned with him, though. I’m proof of that. A lot of us don’t want this war.”
And then it clicked. Belial was the Archdemon set to take Lucifer’s seat. I didn’t know if that was such a good idea. In the hundred years I’d worked for the Houses, it was common fact that Vakkar was shadier than dusk. Then
again, I was certainly one to talk.
House politics was the least of my concerns. I was here to win the war and keep Yahweh alive long enough to ‘cure’ expiration. Whatever happened next was inconsequential. Trivial.
The port shook as dozens of jets ascended the docks, pulled by claw-cranes. Released and revved, they hummed quietly, awaiting pilots.
On cue, soldiers in aviation gear marched double-file from central headquarters and to the port. Seyestin led the charge—the only confident-looking one—decorated in white-plate, painted with commemorations and the Argentia crest. His head turned toward us, and I imagined him scowl.
“I hate that guy,” said Belial, offering a salute. “Snobbish bigot. I hope he dies.”
I tried not to grin.
My gaze strayed to the conference room above headquarters. The lights were on, casting hazy orange iridescence through the frosted panes. Leid was still in there, no doubt planning our next move. I could feel her. Time to wrap up that loose end.
I swallowed hard at the thought, leaving Belial to scowl at Seyestin’s team. We parted ways without a word.
Leid was not alone. Adrial and Zhevraine stood by her as they all studied a holo-map of the Lochai-Avernai borderlands. I’d heard them conversing until the door slid open. Then they looked toward me, silent.
“I’d like to speak to our noble,” I said. “Alone.”
I was expecting them to object, untrusting, but to my surprise Adrial and Zhevraine cleared out without any protest. That wasn’t to say they hadn’t responded at all. Zhev shot me a warning look as she passed, which I took to mean ‘lay a finger on her and I’ll break your neck’, and Adrial gave me an assuring pat on the shoulder.
The door slid shut, and we were alone.
Leid stood unflinching in the center of the room. She hadn’t moved since my entry. Her eyes burned into mine, cautious, the holograph spreading blue shimmers across her face.
As I descended the aisle, she turned inward, trying to deflect my energy. I stopped a foot away, staring down at her, placid.
Leid looked just as I’d remembered her, pre-Alezair, except now she was sickly. She seemed meek, frail, her frame gaunter and her cheeks slightly sunken in. I’d lost nine hundred years, returning for these few final months.
No, not if I could help it.
“Qaira,” she whispered, lips quivering, “I’m—”
“Don’t.”
She winced, blood tears brimming her eyes. “Please, let me say it. I’m sor—”
“Don’t.”
I cleared our distance and cupped her face in my hands. My thumb grazed her bottom lip, and then we kissed, viciously.
Our embrace brought warmth and ice, bliss and gut-wrenching agony, as memories of times lost—for better and for worse—flooded back too quickly for me to handle. I broke away and sank to my knees, forced to finally come to terms with everything. It had all been thrown into a blender, minced, and we were the only ones left standing in this regurgitated mess. Though we were here, we were hardly whole.
And it hurt.
Fuck, it hurt.
My vision blurred; my eyes were wet.
Leid combed her fingers through my hair as I began to sob. I hugged her waist, pulling her against me. Pressing my face into her stomach, I let it all out. She held me through it, trembling in shock. This was my apology, my plea for forgiveness—;
This was the first, and last, time that I ever cried for Sanctum.
XVII
THE PRAETOR
Lucifer Raith—;
THE JUDAS WHIRRED AT THE WDR PORT, spanning four of the eight docks. It stood the height of Junah’s tallest high-rise, black metal shimmering under the crimson halo that rotated across the hull.
The halo was an ion charger and pulse shield, capable of protecting the ship and acting as an airwave radar detector with a long-range of three hundred and fifty miles. Charger cells were stored beneath the hull, keeping power to the halo. For all intents and purposes, the halo of any command ship was a jet stream of its operational brain.
How beautiful the Judas looked, floating weightlessly in the dark. Oscillating lights on the deck swept across the port from time to time, illuminating the awaiting crowd of soldiers, supporters and media personnel alike. Everyone had come to witness Judas’ departure and show their support to the Obsidian House.
Our craft landed across the dock, where guards kept the crowd held back. Simeon released the lock and four armor-clad Obsidian soldiers slid open the door. Samnaea and I stepped out, greeted by a thousand camera flashes and roaring applause. Side-by-side, we walked the length of the port to the dock housing Judas’ glowing entrance. Although people were celebrating us, General Soran and I kept stoic. We were about to join the war, and there was nothing celebratory in that.
“The crew is still putting the final touches on the AI navigation,” informed Samnaea as we ventured inside. “They’ll be finished before dawn.”
I nodded as she and the guards led me to the command station. Four elevator rides and two glass bridges later, I stood at the top of a tower overlooking the deck—a one hundred and fifty count craft carrier, complete with port—through a window the size of a wall.
The Director of Junah WDR, Caelis Jonarr, stood beside the navigation panel. A holo-projection of a fiery sphere floated several inches off the panel, a LOADING message blinking above it.
“Commander,” greeted Caelis, eyes glued to a thick manual as he programmed system controls. “Welcome aboard.”
Caelis, like Yahweh, had been a child prodigy. Where my son had prevailed in biomedical science, Caelis had mastered engineering physics. Before the fall they had often been compared, and Yahweh always harrumphed anytime Caelis’ name was brought into a conversation. They had worked together at the Plexus until its bankruptcy during the Ring War. Dr. Jonarr was well known for designing biomedical equipment and military technology. I was grateful to have him onboard.
“How is it coming?” I asked, eyeing the holograph.
“Slow, but steady,” responded Caelis, the yellow of his eyes muted by the flames. If setbacks were frustrating him, his halcyon expression failed to show it.
Samnaea had moved to the window, watching crafts descend the port. They were military grade, like the one we’d arrived in, the seal of Obsidia decorating their doors.
“The Primers are here,” she announced, pointless as I was watching, too.
General Soran hung back to oversee Dr. Jonarr’s progress and organize the soldiers bleeding across Judas’ deck. I left to greet the Primers.
They had arranged themselves in a line outside their crafts, anticipating my presence. Each Primer was covered head to toe in black plate, their visors emanating soft, green light from digitized readings, shown to their eyes only. Crimson horns of various shapes and angles protruded from their helmets, black wings framed by razor-sharp knives. They were the elite of the elite, and would serve as Judas’ specialized assault team.
In my presence they knelt, bowing their heads—all but one, who stood sentry front and center. Smaller than the rest, both in frame and height, the soldier before me hadn’t ascended to Praetor by brawns. Primers were rarely selected based on fighting skill alone, albeit that was a crucial part.
“Commander Raith,” said Praetor Delvori, nodding once, tone raspy and androgynous from the voice modulator of the suit, “it is an honor to serve you again.”
“The honor is mine,” I said, motioning for them to follow me into headquarters. “My General will show your Primers around. I would like to speak to you alone.”
“Sir,” said Praetor Delvori, parting from the others as Samnaea appeared at the entrance to welcome our guests.
A guard led the two of us to my private quarters, half a mile across the ship. It was furnished like a suite one might find in Tehlor, and I frowned my disgust. Luxury was silly at a time like this, not to mention a waste of money.
The door slid shut and I activated the digital lock. The Prae
tor threw an armor case on the satin-covered bed, kneeling to pop the latches. The rigid, formal air Delvori had carried across the ship was gone. We were alone; no formalities needed.
I snatched a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket on the table and poured myself a glass. “Would you like any?”
“Wine gives me a headache,” said Praetor Delvori, tugging off the helmet. Fawn hair spilled down the back of her armor, woven in tangled braids. She looked at me, sullen, before assembling her weapons.
“Don’t tell me you’re still angry about the Convocation.”
Delvori said nothing, loading a cartridge into her mini-cannon. She tossed an ion blade beside the case, not at all mindful of slicing the sheets.
I reclined on the couch near the window, leaning into a hand. “Ava, that was a hundred years ago. Are you really going to give me the cold shoulder forever?”
“I’m not giving you the cold shoulder,” she muttered, strapping the cannon to her belt. “I’m doing my job. Was this why you called me in here, Commander Raith?”
“The ice between us isn’t good for our endeavors,” I said, smirking at her indignation. “I want assurance that whatever happened is set aside, at least for now.”
Ava shrugged. “Water under the bridge to me. You’re the one kicking up debris.”
“I suppose if you really hated me you wouldn’t have come, so fair enough.”
“Even if I really hated you, I would have come. You are Commander of the Obsidian Court, and demon liberation is more important than a grudge.”
“If it’s of any consolation, I had no idea how you felt about me.”
Ava hesitated, narrowing her steel-colored eyes. “Because sleeping with you wasn’t evidence enough.”
Scathed, I looked away.
The topic died then, and Ava moved to the window, watching all the parts of Judas fall into place. “Declaring war on Yahweh Telei. I bet the biggest war waged right now is inside of you.”
I sipped at my wine, aloof.
“I can still remember when he was this tall,” she said, holding her hand flat against her hip.
The Antithesis- The Complete Pentalogy Page 74
