by A. Sparrow
In the other world, the ‘real’ world, Wendell might have heard me. He stashed familiars as spies everywhere I went, not just in that black credit card but every leaf and dust bunny that drifted by in the breeze had to be viewed with suspicion.
I was more than ready to go back now. I had seen enough. There was nothing for me to do here. If Karla hadn’t come by now it probably meant she hadn’t crossed. Karla insisted that all Hemisouls could will themselves to Root by manipulating moods. That might be true for some people, but the reverse was most definitely not the case. Fades were always unpredictable. The Liminality decides when it’s time for you to go back.
The silence of the hollow was interrupted by a low rumbling. I looked out past the bluffs to see a large dust devil spinning out over the plains. This was no ephemeral whirlwind. It was stable, like an F4 tornado, and like the Horus, but a fraction of their height and breadth. It hovered in place over what had been the river valley and outflow plain.
I got up and plucked my sword out of the mud and walked out towards the bluffs for a better look. When I reached the edge of the broken ground, I climbed a little ways up a pile of scree. There were people out there, hundreds of them, tromping towards the whirlwind.
I left the hollow and went after them. Could they be refugees? Survivors of the cataclysm?
It was difficult keeping my bearings climbing up and down these ridges and rifts, but as I topped each ripple the whirlwind provided a guidepost.
High above the column of marchers I spotted something winged and dark, silhouetted by the low-hanging sun. I stood and stared for a long moment, unsure whether to hail them or to hide. But as it swooped about, I saw that it had the wrong shape. This was no mantid or dragonfly. I dove for cover in a cleft.
Chapter 15: Kitt
The winged creature cast long shadows over the rumpled terrain. I kept low, tracking it from beneath an overhang of frayed roots. Six wings, I counted. This was no insect. It had to be a Seraph, strapped into one of those multi-winged flying contraptions like the one I had seen in the Deeps.
Silhouetted against the glare of the setting sun, three pairs of wings beat in a graceful, loping rhythm. Yet somehow his arms stayed free, allowing him to carry a strange kind of crossbow-like weapon, sprouting multiple shafts and with no drawstring.
The Seraph hovered over the marchers, keeping pace as they swarmed towards the giant dust devil at the base of the valley, a miniature version of the Horus, only a fraction of its height and breadth, and so translucent I could see through it to the landscape beyond. It didn’t seem to be doing much damage. It was just blowing dust around. It could not have been the cause of all this destruction.
The marchers’ bodies were afflicted with grotesque distortions. Each of their left arms was misshapen—variously swollen, elongated or tapered.
A scattering of men with normal limbs guarded the flanks and tended stragglers. They had ordinary longbows and quivers lashed to their backs and they carried short staffs tipped with spikes and barbs. These had to be Hashmallim, the lower rank overseers of Penult.
Unlike those in the Deeps, these marchers were not pilgrims or refugees. They had to be soldiers. They were inhumanly disciplined. Not a word was spoken among them. They were uniformly and absolutely focused on their task. Where were they headed and what were they up to?
I chose a route that would angle me closer, gradually converging towards the marchers. My path kept to the deep gulleys between the wave peaks, deep enough to hide a small house. The ground, a mix of rubbled stone and severed roots, was rough on my bare feet. But I didn’t care. It was only flesh.
I poked my head up, once in a while just to make sure I was still on course. I spotted another more distant whirlwind on the horizon, guiding, I assumed, another contingent of marchers.
The Seraph descended to confer with his Hashmallim, before flying off in the direction they had come. I was close enough now to hear the marchers’ grunts and snorts. I pulled myself up to the lip of the groove and was startled to find them in the very next gully. They too had edged closer to my position.
I crawled over the top of the rise and settled into a crevice tangled with loose and inert roots. From here I could watch them without being noticed.
Their grotesque deformities repulsed me. They had to be product of extreme flesh weavers. They were naked, but armored with overlapping plates of exposed bone that protruded through their skin, helmeted with mats of hair, studded with more knots of bone protruding from their skulls. Their modified appendages resembled tentacles and elephant trunks more than human limbs.
“Ugly bastards, ain’t they?”
The voice, feminine and with a mild Midwestern American drawl, came from nowhere. I almost knocked my head against a boulder flinching away.
A young woman in cargo shorts and a photographer’s vest straddled the cleft, hands on her hips, showing no concern for concealing herself.
“Get down! They’ll see you.”
“Nah. It’s cool. You can come on up out of your hidey hole. The Seraph’s gone and the Hashmallim all went forward. These drones won’t come after us without orders. They don’t let them use any initiative.”
“Who … what … are they?”
“Cherubim,” said the girl. “Volunteers, the Seraphim will tell you, but we know better. They’re slave soldiers. Brainless. Soul-less. This is a patrol unit. They travel in packs of forty nine. Seven squads of seven. See their arms? There’s four kinds here. Two Slingers, a Boomer, two Slashers and two Bashers per squad.”
I could easily match each of her descriptive nicknames with a different type of freak. The Slingers had one normal arm and one whip-like appendage that ended in a pouch. The Boomers had a hollow and flexible snout in place of an arm. The Slashers were clearly the ones with arms ended only in a curved blade while the limbs of the Bashers terminated in bony, fist-like bulges.
“There’s other kinds too. But these are your run-of-the-mill grunts.”
“What’s with the Boomers and that … trunk thing?”
“They shoot stuff. Rocks. Whatever. Don’t ask me how but they’re super accurate and forceful. Boomers they use mainly to pick off Dusters on those flying bugs of theirs.”
She reached out her hand to help me up and out of my hiding place. She had sharp features and jaunty eyebrows. Her arms and shoulders were pretty jacked for a girl.
“My name’s Kitt, by the way.”
“I’m James.”
She stared at me, squinting, for the longest time. The situation was starting to get a little awkward. “You’re not … ‘the’ James … are you?”
“The?”
“Moody?”
“Yeah, that’s me. That’s my name.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Holy shit! You’re like a celebrity.”
“Get out.”
“No, really. Luther and Olivier talk about you all the time.”
“How’s Olivier doing?”
“Great. He’s like Luther’s right hand man.”
“What happened to the other guy? What’s his name?”
“Harvald? He … uh … didn’t make it out. Went down with the ship, so to speak. He was in the city when it fell.”
“Sorry to hear. He was a bit of a jerk to me, but ….” I thought better of speaking ill of the dead. “Well, I should just shut up.”
“Penult hit Frelsi first, so we had some warning. Luther and Olivier took a bunch of refugees underground. So our losses weren’t too, too bad. Unlike … Frelsi.”
“What happened?”
“They tore down the whole mountain is what happened. The Frelsians never knew what hit them. If it wasn’t for the Dusters they would have been completely wiped out. We tried to help from Luthersburg, but we never had a chance. They tore into us just as hard.”
“So … you guys basically lost. The war … it’s lost.”
“Not quite,” she said. “Not yet anyhow. Word is … the Dusters are regrouping with their Old On
es and what’s left of the Freesouls under Master Zhang. Olivier wants us to join up somehow, but Luther’s not crazy about the idea. It’s not clear how we would do it. The resistance has been driven way the heck up the valley.”
“Zhang’s the one who wanted me here.”
She looked me up and down, admiring me like I was some kind of hot, new sports car or something. It made me feel real awkward.
“Shit yeah! James Moody. I heard stories about you. To think I took you for a newbie.”
“Yeah, well I kinda feel like one. It’s been a while. I’m not used to being here anymore.”
“Well, good for you! Managing to stay away for so long. That can only be a good thing. Too bad you had to come back and see the place like this.”
“Yeah. Everything all torn apart kind of sucks.”
“I should take you down below ASAP. They got falcons and condors patrolling all the time. They go after anyone they see on the surface, doesn’t matter who. They don’t bother us down below because that’s where they want us. Penult wants the surface for themselves.”
“So what are you doing up here?”
“I scout for Luther. Me and the other scouts, we spend all day out and about checking on things. We’re always back by sundown. ‘Cept when we’re not. If you want I can take you to the new bubble. I’m pretty much good to go. Finished my rounds a while ago. I was just waiting for the sun to dip a little lower.”
The idea of heading down into those stinky tunnels did not appeal to me in the least. But I knew how to keep myself safe down there. This Penult thing was a whole new ball of wax. I would need time to figure out what was what.
“Um, sure,” I said. “That would be great. Any chance there’s a guy a name Zhang down there. I’m supposed to meet up with him.”
“Zhang? You mean Master Zhang?”
“I guess.”
“He and Yaqob are leading the resistance. They’re up the valley at New Axum with their armies.”
“They’re still fighting … on the surface?”
“Oh yeah. And they seem to be holding up quite well. They control both valleys and the head waters. The Pennies only took the plains and the foothills. Their offensive stalled about a week ago and ever since it’s been a spitting contest.”
“Cool,” I said. “Well, that’s certainly good to hear. If I wanted to see them, is it safe?”
“No. Nuh-uh. But we might be able to get you there at some point. Luther’s planning on sending a contingent. We caught a Seraph a while back and we’ve been keeping him down below in a pod. But Master Zhang wants us to do a prisoner swap for Victoria. You know Victoria?”
I nodded. “The Weaver.”
She looked at me funny. “Not just a Weaver. That’s like calling Usain Bolt a jogger. Heck, I’m a Weaver. Victoria’s … special. But anyhow, she got taken when the Pennies hit Frelsi. Luther’s not crazy about getting her back but Yaqob and Zhang keep pressuring him to give up his Seraph. Zhang, especially, is real anxious about getting this done.”
“Victoria for a Seraph? This guy must be special, too.”
Kitt smirked.
“Well, he certainly seems to think so. The bastard’s full of himself. Not the kind of person you would think would ever end up in Heaven. Not that I’m saying Penult is supposed to be Heaven.”
“Doesn’t sound like an even trade.”
“You don’t know the half of it. He’s a real loser. Snooty fucker. Good for nothing but insults.”
“But the Pennies want him back?”
“Yeah. Go figure. They leave no soul behind, I guess. Or whatever.”
We watched the patrol of Cherubim disappear towards what was left of the foothills that had flanked the massif that had harbored Frelsi and several other ancient and forgotten cities that had been founded by the Old Ones.
“They’ll split into sevens when they reach the hills. There’s still lots of half souls hiding out in the woods and stuff. The Seraphim won’t rest until every last one of them is exterminated or driven underground.”
“Why do they care so much?”
“Because they think we’re pests. Human cockroaches. In their eyes, Root was broken. They think they’re fixing it.”
“Broken?”
“Well, yeah. Because Root was always supposed to be a kind of sorting bin, not a final resting place. Souls who come here were either supposed get taken into the Deeps or returned to life. We’re not supposed to be sticking around long term.”
“Says who?”
“Says them. Whoever they are. They’re no angels, I’ll tell you that, if the one Luther’s got is any indication.” The sun was hovering just above the horizon. “Come on!” She flicked her chin and a shock of dark hair flew across her face. “It’s quitting time. I’ll show you the way down.”
Chapter 16: Below
As far as I could see across what had been the pitted plains I could see no end to the destruction. The ripples were arranged in overlapping circles, mounding up wherever two waves had met. At the center of each circle stood a patch of intact plain, standing tall over the collapsed ground surrounding them.
“Man. What kind of bomb does this?”
“No bomb. Crackers,” said Kitt.
I grew up in Florida where a cracker meant a native Floridian of the redneck persuasion. White trash, in other words. Somehow, I don’t think that was what she meant.
“See that pole over there?”
She pointed at an intact chunk of the original plain that had remained standing after the land surrounding it had collapsed. Atop it stood a slender tower buttressed at the base with spindly legs. It looked like a cross between a totem pole and a macrophage—those lunar module like virus particles that attack bacteria.
“The Pennies drive these things into the ground. When they’re activated, they send these huge ripples spreading all directions. Cracks the ground wide open and stirs it all up and the damage gets worse the farther out you go, peaks at about a mile then fades. It brought down the city right on top of our heads.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know. Our Seraph prisoner calls them harmonic dissonance engines. No one knows how they work. Maybe … magic?”
We struck out across the rubble. More dust devils popped up, forming an arc around the base of the valley. I could only assume that each was associated with another group of those strange cherubic soldiers.
More Seraphim had appeared in the sky along with some larger, more angular contraptions, too slow and clumsy to be mantids or dragonflies. Other than that lone honeybee in the hollow, the only flying insects I had seen so far had been dead on the ground.
Kitt saw me staring. “They won’t bother us. They’re busy sealing off the valley.”
We came to the base of one of the intact islands, whose walls were draped with sheets of tangled roots. She pulled back a flap and slipped behind it.
I followed her down a deep and slanting cleft so narrow we had to turn sidewise to squeeze through. At its base, we found ourselves in a dark chamber dark lit only by the occasional bead of light passing down the length of some of the intact roots. Several narrow tunnels branched out from this node.
“These little tubes are Reaper-proof,” said Kitt. “Too small for them to squeeze through. But we gotta watch the bigger junctions. That’s where they like to sit and set ambushes.”
She led me into a tunnel the diameter of a truck tire. On hands and knees, we continued down a gentle spiral. When it too, leveled out, Kitt knifed her arms into the wall and we crawled into a tangle of unconsolidated roots as dense as a mangrove forest. We bushwhacked a good fifty yards or so before we broke through to one of the big, smooth-walled tunnels that I knew from my early days in Root.
These were Reaper superhighways, their tops bristling with the stalks of long-harvested pods, well lit by with glowing conduits shuttling globular beads of colored light in cryptic patterns.
The patterns seemed coherent. I suspected they conveyed informa
tion via some code, but to whom and about what no one could ever tell me. I doubt it could be the Reapers messaging each other. They were way too dumb.
We came to a place where the big tunnel had collapsed and twisted shut. Several impromptu bypasses had been torn into the root matrix around it.
We clambered over the bypass and continued onward. The tunnel here was dark and still, as if the damage had interrupted the transmission of those light-borne messages.
The darkness here was absolute. We stumbled along. I bumped my head against an occupied pod, eliciting groans from its occupant. Kitt didn’t bother to rescue him. She took my hand and pulled me through another weak spot in the tunnel wall.
We passed through another loosely consolidated section, this one dimly lit by roots that gave off a static faint, blue glow, like those phosphorescent jellyfish. We made our way towards a huge black dome, one of those hollow tumors or ‘bubbles’ in the root structure, some created by natural processes, others engineered by master Weavers. An enormous one of Luther’s creation had housed the original Burg and Karla had resided in a much smaller but Reaper-proof chamber when I first met her.
“What happen to the old Luthersburg? Crackers wreck it?”
“No. It was gone long before that,” said Kitt. “It was left undefended when we moved up to the surface. A bunch of Reapers broke in and destroyed everything, gobbled the stragglers.”
“I thought these things were Reaper-proof.”
“They generally are,” said Kitt. “But they need tending and mending or else they get weak spots.”
“Like fences with goats. I know what you mean.”
She pressed her palm against a dark spot in the wall and a hole appeared. The roots separated, dilating until it was large enough to step through.
“I have to warn you, things are kind of rough inside. We haven’t had a chance to weave it up good and pretty.”
The interior of the dome looked like a construction zone for a movie set. Roots were being shaped, crudely in some cases, into the general outlines of houses and buildings with walls that were lopsided and warped. Only a few had finished exteriors of clapboard, stucco or stone.
