Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

  Whoever pulled out the chair would topple the block of magtex. As it tilted, the battery would shift, closing the circuit. And bang!

  Checking his handiwork, Vartan used a wad of wrapping paper to conceal his bomb where it sat in the corner.

  Not that he was much of a demolitions man, but he figured the corner of the room would help to direct the force of the blast against whomever might pull out the chair.

  He heard steps. Looked up. Marta, her expression as lined and worried as Vartan had ever seen, stood in the doorway. “You about ready? There’s a graying in the east. We can see well enough to go.”

  “It’s raining like hell out there.”

  “And we don’t want to be here when the Supervisor’s people attack. We’ve got maybe an hour before they charge out of the science dome and start shooting.”

  He sniffed, tried to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Took two tries to stagger to his feet. “You ever wonder how we got to this point?”

  “We are the chosen,” she said, repeating the words as rote. “The forces of darkness are going to resist. They have no other recourse. Until we bring about the Annihilation and Purification, even the atoms will oppose us.”

  “Spoken like a true believer,” he said as he lifted the heavy rifle from where he’d leaned it against the doorjamb. Outside in the hallway, he picked up the drone controls. Wondered if the thing could even fly in the storm. Damn it, if the drone was grounded, they’d lost their most potent defense.

  Marta’s hazel eyes barely flickered. “And what are you, Vartan? You’re the only one of the Messiah’s Will left. What else do we have but faith? Those people out there want us dead!”

  “Not that we left them with much choice.”

  She indicated the drone controls. “That going to work?”

  “Hope so. Outside of the booby traps, it’s our only chance. I might shoot one or two, but they’ll get me in the end.”

  In a voice like acid, she said, “So good to know that you’re optimistic. Shall I go tell the Messiah we’re ready?”

  “I guess . . . Well, hell, why not?” Vartan winced, forced himself to plod wearily down the hallway to the double doors that opened out front.

  Peering through the windows, he could barely make out the faint shapes of aquajade across the flat, the square outline of the old shipping container. From this angle, he couldn’t see the low hump of the barracks where Bess Gutierrez and the other women should have been preparing the children.

  The children. Eighteen of them left. The rest taken by Donovan. Some vanished, others dead in pain and suffering.

  “They were supposed to be the future. Immortal.”

  The futility of it all, like lead in his heart, left him on the verge of weeping. He could see each and every one of those kids’ faces. Thin little girls and boys, the ones who’d laughed and jumped their way down the steps as they left Ashanti. Who’d bounced and played in Capella’s light. All that hope, about to be extinguished in Batuhan’s mad dash to the forest.

  So much for the Revelation of immortality.

  Flashes of lightning, like a staccato, illuminated the yard outside. Thunder banged, rolled, and echoed in reply.

  No one in their right mind would stumble out into a downpour like this.

  Come dawn, the Supervisor’s people were coming. They’d be toting rifles, and as he’d heard through the long-distance mic, they’d be coming for blood.

  He remembered the look in Shyanne’s eyes as she pleaded with him to leave. Not for the first time since she’d stolen the airtruck, he wondered if she hadn’t been the smart one.

  “Ah, Second Will!”

  Vartan turned at the Messiah’s enthusiastic call. The man came strolling down the hallway, his bone scepter in hand. Behind him came Ctein—the last of the First Chosen. Then Shimal, her arm interlocked with Marta’s.

  Time to go.

  It hit home like a thrown rock: The Messiah was leaving the throne of bones behind. No one remained to carry it.

  Vartan slung the rifle, retrieved a hooded poncho he’d hung by the door, and draped it over his shoulders. No way he could bring the rifle into action, covered as it was, but he’d be damned if he’d be soaked to the bone. And more to the point, he needed two hands for the drone control. He’d be last in line. Awaiting the moment the Supervisor’s group charged the admin doors.

  He had to time it just right. Dive the thing—kamikaze like—right into the middle of them before he hit the detonator switch. One shot. Damn it, he had to do this right.

  Vartan led the way out into the deluge, rain battering at the hood. Barely able to see, he slopped his way to the barracks, praying that the Messiah would declare the weather too wretched for the evacuation.

  78

  “Tal?” Kalico’s voice sounded in Talina’s com bud. “Batuhan, two men, and two women, just left the admin dome. They’re headed south. Can’t see Carson’s rifle, but one of the men was holding something in two hands. Some kind of controls.”

  Talina wiggled into the lee of one of the sheds, partially sheltered from the downpour. Peering around the corner, she watched the cannibals splash their sodden way to the barracks, where one by one they ducked inside. Draped as he was in a poncho that shadowed his face, she couldn’t be sure if the last one in line was the dark-haired shooter, or carried a weapon, but he did hold something in his hands.

  Accessing her com, she said, “Sort of argues against them making a try for the science dome, doesn’t it? Unless they’ve decided to relocate the Messiah out of harm’s way.”

  “Roger that. Makes us wonder where all the rest of them are. They had twenty-five men, right? Lost three to Talbot, and another fled to the Briggs place. We saw one being eaten by a tooth flower.”

  “Yeah, and you’d figure that Donovan got a few more of them along the way.” She made a face. “But how many?”

  “Maybe a lot, Tal. Think about it. They’ve only had women on guard. Is that because the men are missing or reassigned to some other task?”

  “Like preparing a hot welcome for us when we arrive outside the admin dome?”

  “Got me. Wish we had a drone.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Listen, we’re not in a hurry. I’m going to slip over to where Kylee’s keeping watch. Maybe she and Flute know something.”

  “Roger that.”

  It took Talina ten minutes to ghost her way around the sheds to the south side where Kylee was supposed to be. Even then, she almost missed the girl.

  “Ta Li Na. You going somewhere? Or just enjoying the rain after being half cooked for a couple of days?”

  Talina craned her neck, which let cold water run down into one of the last warm and dry places on her body. Kylee lay belly-down under a piece of duraplast sheeting. Stared up as a flash of lightning illuminated her stony blue eyes.

  “What do you see, kid? According to our count we’re suddenly short of a bunch of cannibal men. Like all the ones we expected to make an attack on the science dome.”

  Kylee shifted her duraplast, water sheeting down the back. “I’ve got nothing.” She hooked a thumb. “Flute, however, is prowling the rim. He could give a fuck about a bunch of human-eating humans. Something out in the forest’s got him creep-freaked.”

  Talina glanced out at the dark trees beyond the escarpment. “Our mystery beast?”

  “I catch a whiff,” Kylee told her. “Just every once in a while when the wind’s right. Nothing I’ve ever smelled before. Nothing that triggers quetzal memory with an image. It’s more of a scary feeling. The biochemical kind that says, ‘Run!’”

  “Yeah, I’ve smelled it, too. Like rotted blood mixed with old hunger.”

  The rain began to let up, easing from a head-beating downpour to a gentler soaking. Looking east, the first graying of dawn cast silhouettes across the station.

  “How about
one menace at a time? We’re not out of this mess yet. Let’s deal with—”

  “Tal?” Kalico’s voice interrupted. “Got action. Batuhan and a bunch of women and kids are pouring out the doors of the barracks. Looks like twenty, maybe twenty-five of them. All lining out in the rain and headed south.”

  “What about the men?”

  “Muldare counts three in addition to the Messiah. Where are you?”

  “South of the domes, just north of the farm.”

  “They should be in your sight any second now. We’re making a try for the radio.”

  “Hey! Wait! We’re still missing a bunch of—”

  “There’s three of us, Tal. Armed. Tired. And pissed off. Besides, they’re not expecting us this early.”

  Talina’s heart skipped. “Damn it, Kalico, wait for me.”

  “Too late, Tal. We’re going. Fast. Before they can react.”

  “Kalico?”

  Nothing.

  “What’s happening?” Kylee asked.

  “Kalico’s making a try for the radio. I just hope she—”

  “Yeah, well you might want to get under cover. Here comes trouble.”

  Talina spun, staring north. Seeing the first woman leading the way past the geology dome. And behind her came a parade of children.

  Talina had barely ducked behind a rusted evaporator when a hollow detonation—as distinct from thunder as could be—carried on the gently raining air.

  79

  The downpour had let up enough that Vartan could chance the drone. As the Messiah’s column plodded south through the wet and mud, he activated the flying bomb.

  Using thumbs, he directed it up, the camera penetrating the early-dawn gloom with ease.

  After it rose above the admin dome, he sent it scooting north to the science dome. Studying the image, he let it circle the building. Peered into the windows, finding all of the rooms dark.

  Didn’t mean the foe wasn’t still hidden inside, but somehow, he doubted it.

  Damn it. They were spread too thin. The smart play would have been to have someone up in the admin dome hatch with the long-distance mic. Someone to keep watch.

  Instead he’d been called down to make bombs.

  So what to do? Somewhere the Supervisor’s killers were loose in the compound, armed to the teeth, and prepared to unleash a blood bath.

  Got to find them.

  Vartan blinked against his fatigue as he sent the drone high, turned its camera down. He had to believe they’d try for the radio.

  “Come on, think, damn it. Where would they be?”

  What would have prompted them to leave the safety of the science dome, head out into the teeth of the storm?

  What was the old adage? That the best time to attack was before the crack of dawn?

  When else would the supposedly unsuspecting Unreconciled be as vulnerable? Their sentries dozing? Groggy with sleep? Most still in their beds?

  He switched the flight path, taking the drone south to focus on the approaches to the admin dome. Saw the first furtive figure burst from the shipping container, making a run for the admin doors.

  “Gotcha!” Vartan’s thumbs sent the drone plummeting as two other figures charged out in the wake of the first. Now it was just a matter of timing.

  As the camera angle zoomed, he fixed on the first figure in line. She ran with that swinging stride of a woman. Long black hair was soaked, matted to her back. Had to be the Supervisor.

  A feeling of giddy glee filled him.

  He was descending too fast, applied lift, and watched the drone shiver as it struggled to slow.

  The trick was to get all three as they reached the doors.

  As the image continued to zoom, Vartan applied more power to the fans in an effort to achieve a hover.

  Wasn’t working.

  Too much weight with the magtex? The batteries too old? Some complication with the rain?

  As Vartan fought the controls, the straining drone must have given itself away. In the camera, the Supervisor looked up. Must not have seen the dropping drone against the storm-dark sky. Seemed to be searching.

  Desperate as he was to get them all, the drone was falling too fast. He set his index finger on the switch. Was about to press when the Supervisor threw herself face-first into the mud.

  The image vanished an instant before the boom of the explosion echoed through the soft patter of the rain.

  Vartan stared at his finger. Tried to remember if he’d pushed the button. Couldn’t. God, he was so tired. So defeated.

  I just want this all to end.

  THE BETRAYAL OF KALKI

  At the sound of the explosion behind us, I turn to stare back through the falling rain. My warrior has prevailed. Not being versed in such things I wonder if the detonation was the drone or one of the booby traps we left in the admin dome.

  Either way, the Supervisor, or someone in her party, has received the final comeuppance.

  Everyone has halted, looking back across the farm field with its wealth of crops.

  I stare up at the graying sky as raindrops patter on my head and face. How long has it been? Twenty? Thirty years? The last time I felt rain on my head was outside Ulaanbataar. And then it was but for a moment as I ran for cover.

  Here, now, I tilt my head to the falling drops. Water runs down through my hair, trickles across my face. I can feel it trace down the scars, following the path of souls. A symbol of life and renewal.

  I need to see this for what it is, not the disaster that I have been fearing it to be. I have a new Prophet, though she has yet to experience the depth of her gift. As with Irdan, Callista, and Guan Shi, she will learn and finally surrender herself to the universe.

  I have the children. The immortal ones. How silly of me not to recognize that it is they who are of greatest importance. Not the adults. All of which causes me to ask if I have mistakenly interpreted the Revelation. But it seemed so simple: Adults who could reproduce would be the logical repositories for the souls and flesh of the dead.

  Think, now. Be smart. Just because the universe has turned my attention to the children for the moment doesn’t negate the value of the adults. Ctein and I remain. As do the women. Nine of them. And, though not among the Chosen, there are Vartan, Fodor Renz, and Marcus Santanna. The five of us men would not remain if we were not to be the vehicles through which the dead are inseminated into the women.

  Though how all but Ctein and I ended up as repositories eludes me. Irdan’s Prophecy back in the early days on Deck Three made it clear that the First Chosen and I were to be the breeders.

  But if that been the case, wouldn’t my First Chosen still be alive? Has the universe been waiting to correct my mistake?

  “Come!” I cry. “Let us move on.”

  As they start forward, many of the children are shivering in the downpour, their hair plastered to their heads, arms tight about their chests. I see that some are crying. The women are burdened with the neonates and those too small to walk. Many carry two in hastily contrived slings. All but Marta; I have assigned her to assist Shimal.

  The women look miserable, their hair streaming water from locks that lay tight against their skin. Gooseflesh covers their arms, their nipples tight from the cold. Each is wracked by shivers as they plod through the mud in clumsy footwear.

  In the rear come Marcus and Fodor, each bearing a pack that contains food for the journey. I have no idea what the universe will provide for us when we reach the forest floor. All I know is that forests have always been rich in resources. I have faith. The universe will provide.

  As we pick our way past the five big solar collectors, lightning traces a brilliant design across the roiling clouds. The instant, bone-jarring bang of thunder scares the children into sobs and tears. One little girl drops to the mud, screaming her terror as tears mix with rain on h
er face.

  A woman pulls her up, fearful that one of the slugs will get her.

  I can only suspect that the girl will learn something from this. Perhaps it is a wake-up call for her reborn soul. A way to trigger some forgotten memory that will remind her of who she was before the Cleansing.

  Up ahead I can see Ctein in the lead. He has reached the head of the trail that leads down the steep and rocky slope. There, he hesitates, looking back to ensure that we are all following.

  I am about to wave him ahead when I hear a shout behind me.

  Turning, I see Vartan coming at a trot. Everyone stops, staring back. The women are shivering, teeth chattering as they shift the children they carry.

  “Yes, First Will?” I call back—realizing only at this moment that Vartan is the only one of the Will left.

  “We can’t do this,” Vartan declares in a most insistent voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  The man has a tortured look on his weary face as he trots up, feet splashing in the puddles. He stares out at me from under a poncho patterned by droplets and trickling water. The ugly military rifle is in his hands. Vartan’s dark eyes are like holes in his face. “I said we can’t do this.”

  A tight sensation in my chest is like my heart crabbing sideways and constricting. “The Prophet has told us—”

  “Fuck Prophecy!”

  I blink, suddenly find it hard to breathe. Has he gone insane?

  Vartan looks past me. “Go on! All of you. Back to the barracks! Get those kids inside, and get them warm and fed.”

  “They’ll do no such thing!” I roar. “You are relieved! You are condemned. I declare you an apostate!”

  In a shockingly mild voice, he says, “All right.” Then, ignoring me, orders, “All of you! Turn about. Head back.”

  “No!” I scream so loudly the hole in my nose whistles. I look to Shimal. “Prophet? What does the universe decree?”

  Shimal is looking terrified, her dark eyes pleading as she shifts them from Vartan to me. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Speak!”

  “I . . .”