Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know what,” he said.

  I stuck out my hand and pointed at myself in an exaggerated Me-Tarzan kind of way. “Good man,” I grunted. I pointed at the TV. “Bad thing.”

  Conner eyed me with all the humor of a dwarf on coal (which is to say, very seriously—dwarves don’t mess around when it comes to their coal). “Debatable,” he said. Then he pulled out the files and asked, “So what’s the plan, good man?”

  I took Mr. Cain’s papers from him. Three households … four kids. Two were in the suburbs, near a national park, and one was more central. We read the files again, even though we practically had them memorized by then. Better than watching that friggin’ TV.

  Conner flipped through them, then scratched his head. “Something’s not quite right. It’s one thing that there are no clues. We’ve already established that these guys are using some major-league mojo to cover their tracks. But the one thing they can’t cover up is the kidnappings themselves. You can’t magically make a child not be kidnapped. Still, there’s no outcry, no moral outrage … no media frenzy.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t bug me. There’s no connection between them yet. The mainland police don’t have the Memnock Securities link yet. As far as anyone is concerned, there are at least three separate cases of missing children.”

  Conner gave me an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Boy, oh, boy,” he said, running his hands through his perfectly sculpted black locks. “You’ve been living in Paradise Lot way too long.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that Paradise Lot is a rough place. A lot has to happen to get on the news. But this is mainland stuff. One missing child and we’re talking photos on milk cartons, midnight vigils, outrage in the media. Everyone is a suspect—parents, teachers, neighbors … and it doesn’t calm down until either the kid is found or …” He stopped, not wanting or needing to say the obvious.

  Conner was right. I had been living in Paradise Lot for way too long. Fights, disappearances, murders—they were common place in the slums of my city. And since Others were second-class citizens, no one really took note. But kids from the mainland … crap.

  I looked at Conner. “Someone is suppressing this.”

  He nodded. “Who and why?”

  “Someone who doesn’t want this out there because they know it will create chaos. There are too many fingers pointing at guilty Others. With four missing kids … shit, Conner, that could restart the war between the species. How could I have missed this?”

  Conner nodded again. “So who could that be? A good Samaritan with an eye on the future and a lot of pull?”

  I shook my head. “Perhaps, but I’m too much of a cynic to believe that. I think it is more of a holding back than sweeping under the rug. Someone knows that they can make some major moves with this kind of fear-mongering. No, this isn’t a ‘protect lives’ kind of thing. Whoever is suppressing this is biding his time and waiting for exactly the right moment to use this.”

  “ ‘Biding his time’? Sounds like you know who’s guilty.”

  I pointed at the TV where Mr. Yew was still spewing muted vitriol.

  “I don’t, but if I had money, I’d put it all on that horse.”

  ↔

  “Think about it,” I said. “He waits until just before the vote, and then this comes out? He’s the only candidate talking about tests and IDs and tagging and worse. Who is everyone going to vote for? The candidates that are talking about moderation, reason and being rational? Or the guy who has been consistent in his message all along: ‘Get these Others in check’?”

  Conner groaned.

  “And you said it yourself,” I said. “Kids get airplay like no one else. More than mass graves, serial killers and a new kind of cancer making its rounds combined.”

  “So, what? He kidnapped them?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Too much at stake for him to be a part of this. I think he’s just taking advantage of the situation. I mean, whatever happens, he’s won, right? Also, I’m just saying I would bet on him. I don’t actually know anything. For all I know, he’s off happily campaigning his Other-hating policies, completely unaware that some Occultist group is kidnapping children. Maybe because it’s an election year, missing kids isn’t quite newsworthy. Maybe there’s someone behind the scenes doing very bad things. Maybe every journalist who wants to report on this has been murdered. Maybe the newspapers ran out of friggin’ ink.”

  “The Internet doesn’t have ink,” Penemue interjected, drinking from a bottle of Drambuie that he’d somehow snuck through security.

  “I know that,” I said, a bit too defensively. “But my point stands. Someone is suppressing this. I bet it’s him. But that’s the problem with bets. They’re guesses, mostly, based on nothing but a feeling. But right or wrong, one thing I’m sure of: once Mr. Yew over there finds out … he’ll have a field day.”

  Conner shook his head. “But if we get the kids home before the election, he—”

  “He’ll just point out that this happened and can happen again,” I said. “I’m afraid this is a done deal.”

  “So how do we keep this under wraps?” Conner asked.

  “I don’t think we can … I think that—”

  “A monster,” Penemue said, balancing his bottle of Drambuie on his wing. He stretched his feathered platter out to where Conner and I could reach the bottle. “Drink?” the angel offered.

  Conner shook his head, but I surprised myself by taking the bottle. “Sure,” I said, and downed a gulp. “And also, excuse me?”

  “A monster. You need something bigger than kidnappings. Something Mr. Yew can twist to his advantage.” He glanced at the Drambuie as I took a second drink. “If you’re done with the bottle …”

  “Yeah, sure … but a monster is just another Other problem that he can use,” I said, laying the bottle on his wing. “We’re at square one.”

  Penemue retraced his wing and reclaimed his bottle. “Oh, Human Jean … you assume all monsters have claws or wings. But that is not what humans truly fear, not when there are far more monsters that can do far worse than maim or kill.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?” I asked.

  “Hit a human’s wallet. Take their money. That will get their attention—kidnapped children or not. A recession would be good. A depression? Even better. Hawks and warmongers do not do well when people are concerned with losing their houses.”

  I groaned. I was a shitty hotelier, not an economist, but that was neither here nor there. “OK,” I said. “I pray to the GoneGods for a recession, but barring that, I will focus on the only thing I have any power over.” I lifted up the files as Exhibit A.

  “Right,” Conner said. From the way he took the papers from me, he had tuned out Penemue’s little economic espionage theory and was back to more practical matters. “Seems that two of the kids were siblings and, according to the report, they had just gotten home from nursery. Why don’t you and the angel take this one? Start with the nursery and work back from there. I’ll take the other two. They’re right next to where I’m headed, anyway.”

  “Why the nursery? Walking in with an angel might not be the best strategy.”

  “True, but I’m also going to stop by my old precinct. A couple of cops down there still owe me a favor. They won’t talk if anyone else is around. Also, you’re the one with the kid.” He nodded in Sinbad’s direction, who sat under the muted TV, watching it like she was looking for clues. “Unless, of course, you’re going to drop the kid off with your … who was it again? Cousin?”

  “OK … nursery it is,” I sighed. “Nursery it is. But still, we need to—”

  “Ohhh, look!” Sinbad cried, pointing at the screen. “That’s a very pretty angel.”

  We looked up to see Colel Cab, the bug-god who had been debating Mr. Yew and Mr. Cain earlier on the Other Place’s TV—a
time that already felt like an eternity away. She was standing on stage with a whole host of Others and humans behind her, each dressed in formal wear of various religions from the past: a Catholic in traditional robes, an Imam in black robes, a rabbi in a tallit, a Buddhist monk in a civara, a Hindu archaka in dhoti, a whole host of religious figures from various faiths, denominations and orders. Everyone who once-upon-a-time was responsible for congregations of any kind was there. Hell, there was even a woman in a smart gray suit that could have been a Scientologist.

  Amongst them stood one Other: Miral. Conner’s girlfriend. She was wearing white robes synonymous with angels. Robes that fed into human stereotypes of angels. You know: big wings, white robes, hands outstretched in a welcoming manner. The only thing Miral was missing was a halo.

  “Holy shit,” Conner said, standing, and then he covered his potty mouth with a blush. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, Matt. Can you turn it up?” I asked.

  Matt gave me an exasperated shrug, like he was waaay too busy to deal with demanding customers, and fumbled with the remote.

  Little white lines appeared on the screen like reverse dominos, ticking up the volume, and we heard Colel Cab speaking. “Friends, fellow inhabitants of this good green Earth, thank you for taking the time to hear us. We are the United Front of Religions: an organization composed of leaders of religions that once held the tenants of the gods to heart.” Colel Cab held two of her hands out, gesturing to those standing around her. “The gods may be gone, but the morals they demanded of us, the goodness they preached, those still reside in each and every one of our hearts.” She bowed solemnly before continuing. “We do not ask that anyone pick of the mantras of faith—those days are gone. But we do ask that we continue to live good lives, together and with peace in our hearts. That is why we are standing united today with one message to you all: Please reject Mr. Yew and his sermons of hate.”

  Everyone on stage nodded, and the mics picked up several “Hear, hears!” and “Amens!” were picked up by the mics.

  “And to that end, we have asked Angel Miral to speak to both humans and Others alike.”

  She stood aside to let Miral take the podium. As soon as she stood before the mic, Miral bowed. Deeply. The humans on the stage all followed, and for a brief moment Miral was the iris of an open-handed flower, each petal connected to her radiant center.

  “Please, please,” she said. “I thank you for your respect, but, really, it is I who should bow to you, Colel Cab. You united us here on this stage. Your tireless efforts have done so much to bring peace between Others and humans. And for that and so much more I cannot articulate right now …”

  Miral took a step back from the podium and knelt before Colel Cab in a gesture of fealty, strikingly similar to the way Michael had knelt at the Tree.

  “Holy …” I turned to Conner. “Did you know about this?”

  The cop shook his head. “I knew she was meeting Colel Cab after the debate at the testing center, but this is so … so …”

  “Not Miral?” I offered.

  “Not Miral,” he agreed.

  Colel Cab put one of her hands on the kneeling angel’s cheek and gently guided her back to her feet, where Miral wiped away a tear from her eye before resuming her speech. “Dear Others, dear humans who know of my role in the worship you once held so close to your hearts … I have a message for you today. Reject Mr. Yew and his candidacy of hate. Protest at his gatherings, send letters to your representatives. Let the world know that we will not tolerate his kind of disgusting fear-mongering. Please … I urge each and every one of you to do so.” Miral looked at Colel Cab, her lips quivering as she spoke. “And also, believe in Colel Cab and her message of peace and love. We need someone to unite humans and others alike, and Colel Cab … she is the one who can bring us all together!” She raised a victorious hand in the air and everyone on stage did the same, hands united together.

  The crowd behind the camera erupted in applause. Colel Cab returned to the podium, but the TV went mute again and an announcement came over the airport’s PA system: “Passengers boarding flight number LT0306, please have your tickets and passports ready to show.”

  Conner didn’t move, just watching as Miral silently clapped at Colel Cab’s words. I, on the other hand, looked over at Penemue. The angel held Sinbad’s hand, with two passports out in the ready.

  “Is this normal?” I mouthed to the angel.

  “Ohhh, no,” he mouthed back, wearing an expression I have only seen him wear twice before: fear.

  I got where he was coming from. It wasn’t that Miral was with Colel Cab or even that she supported the bug-god. Miral was one of the purest beings on the planet, dedicated to making things better for all of its inhabitants. In her brief years as a mortal, she’d ran a soup kitchen, worked at the hotel, headed up the Paradise Lot hospital and led several battalions into war, all with one purpose in mind: to make things better.

  But to bow to another? First of all, she was an angel of the highest order—and angels of the non-fallen variety bow to one being and one being only (and I’m sure you can guess who). Secondly, Miral was stubborn, rigid and wholly unimpressible (which I say in the best way possible, of course). In the fourteen years I’d known her, she’d never been enthralled, star-struck or impressed by anyone or anyOther around. She was an army of one, and that army bowed to no one.

  To see her on her knees before a creature that no one had ever heard of before was simply not her. It was possible she was up to something … but what? I couldn’t guess. And judging from Penemue’s apprehension, he had no idea either.

  There was nothing to do about this now. We had to get to the mainland and find those kids. But as I handed Matt—now “Matthew” once again—my ticket and passport, one phrase ran over and over in my head like ticker tape.

  This is bad … This is really, really bad.

  End of Part 2

  Epilogue to Part Two

  Over the next few weeks, General Shouf throws more and more of these “anomaly” creatures at me. And each fight ends the same: with them eventually turning into foam, with or without my help.

  Finally, Shouf utters the words I’ve been waiting for: “The program is being scrapped.”

  “Good,” I say.

  The part of her forehead that would have been the eyebrows—if she had brows or eyes—lifts, and she gives what passes as her version of confusion. “You’re happy? I am surprised. I would have figured you to want the program to continue, succeed even. You are, after all, a man who indulges in carnage and chaos.”

  I shrug. “I can dish out carnage and chaos just fine on my own. I want something that guarantees our side victory. But after seeing those guys in action, I realized that all you made was cannon fodder. We don’t need cannon fodder. Plenty of grunts for that—human and Other. We need warriors.”

  “Like you?”

  “Like me.”

  Now it is her turn to shrug. She runs her hands along the Brailled documents on her table. But her eyeless face is still looking at me. No—she can’t see. But her forehead plate is faced in my direction and it gives the illusion that she’s looking at me.

  I turn to leave.

  “I did not dismiss you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I say and continue to the door. Insubordination in the Army is an art form that hinges on two things: being needed and no witnesses. As for the latter, we were alone. And for the former—I am the Scourge, the Great Other Slayer. The Army will always need me. Much more than they need her, especially after her failed experiment.

  She doesn’t say a word until my hand is on the door handle. Then she asks me the only thing I am curious about. “Don’t you want to know why the program failed?”

  I do. GoneGodDammit, but I do. I sigh and turn around. She clicks, sending out her echolocation field, and senses that I am now facing her. She smiles. Little power games played by petty creatures older than sin. My kind of gal. “They lacked what the gods gave all creatures
when they made them.”

  “What’s that? A soul?” I offer.

  “No … a sense of self.”

  I roll my eyes, bored. “Speak plainly. I’m not in the mood for Other enigmatic bullshit. I had my fill in this morning’s training exercise.”

  “OK,” she grates. “I will. When you were a baby, your mind inchoate and barren, there was only one thought that you believed in with all that you were. That you existed.”

  “What? I think, therefore I am? Oh, please, don’t get all Descartes with me.”

  “Thinking implies logic, reason. As a child, you have neither. But you do have a sense of self. You know that you are. You get hungry, tired, cold, uncomfortable. Move over, you can be comforted, held by your mother or father.”

  She pauses at this. Undoubtedly she knows that my mother died bringing me into this world. And as for my father … well, I wouldn’t know him from Adam, nor would I want to. She clicks, and I guess that she is trying to sense if the thought bothers me on any level. Raised heartbeat, quickened breath. I doubt I give her any of those tell-tale signs. Then again, I might. It is very difficult for a human to sense a change in his own rhythms, no matter what this Other says about self.

  She clicks twice more before continuing. “On a very primal, very instinctual level, those things tell you that you are.”

  “OK,” I say. “So babies, instinctually, know they exist. Big woop.”

  “It is the same for Others. Whether born or created, each and every creature that lives has that very same instinct. You could say that this instinct is the one common factor amongst us all.”

  I shake my head, not buying it. “Are you telling me that they didn’t know on an instinctual level that they were alive? What? A kind of fucked-up Descartes where ‘I don’t believe, therefore I am not’? Bullshit, if you ask me.”