by Lee Baldwin
“Do you think my heart attack will be unavoidable?”
Special Agent Constantine smiles. “If you would like to be checked out by a doctor at Bureau expense, we would be only too happy. We do apologize. You understand of course that our information came from State of California and Santa Clara County records. Sometimes those systems take a year or longer to fully update where real estate matters are concerned. You bought the home when?”
“In January this year.”
“Do you have the escrow documents?”
“At our bank.”
“I see, ma’am. Sometimes title companies or real estate companies delay recording. Perhaps you can give me the name and location of the escrow office? Now, is there anything I can do to make sure you overlook our visit?”
“Do give me your card. My husband will be in touch.”
In the lead van as they depart the quiet neighborhood, the Supervisory Special Agent barks, “Did we verify DMV?”
“I did, sir,” an agent answers via radio from a trailing vehicle. “No change of address has been filed by any Harrison from this address.”
“Well they are lawbreakers, then. Who the hell checked the tax records?”
“I did sir,” answers an agent in the rear seat. “I spoke to a clerk directly at the County offices. No sales activity within the last nine years. I cross checked that with filed title deeds. There is a Rodriguez that owned the home up to ten years ago.”
“Did you go to the title company?”
“Sir, I did not.”
“A Rodriguez sells to a Harrison who sells to a Rodriguez?”
“Find out who it is and pay them a visit. Track down what happened to the money. We need to find out where little Blondie and her mother went.”
Diversity Training
The massive taloned hand relaxes, slowly withdraws. Tharcia stumbles backward, gapes up at the enormous leather-winged thing with the hard scaly body. Her mind centers on a single vision, a personification large in gospel and folkloric myth, a being seldom mentioned directly by priests, the horned, scaly, pointy-tailed satyr, crotch hung with terrifying sexual parts.
“What did you say?” The creature’s voice booms among bare trees in the large enclosure. Teeth in that hard beak could bite her in two.
Tharcia shakes her head, uncomprehending. But her lips move of their own, clearly form the words, “Lian! It’s me! Don’t hurt her.”
Barefoot in T-shirt and black leggings, Tharcia loses control of her knees, plops on her butt. There is a frozen moment of comprehension. The winged reptile morphs to human form, again a man, dressed in slacks, polished shoes, loose-fitting long sleeved shirt. Drops to one knee beside the quivering girl, holds her shoulders in big, gentle hands.
“Lylit, is this you?”
“Lian I’ve waited forever.”
“Lylit?” Incredulity in his tone.
“It’s me Lian. Your Lylit. I have been ripped to pieces so many times.”
Arms enfold the small body, cradle her to his chest. Tharcia’s eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.
“What has happened here?”
Tharcia’s lips move, but it is not the unconscious young woman who speaks, it is another voice. “This girl did it. This poor child who you terrorized. She is my twin soul. She hid me her whole life. I saw her quest and guided her, so you and I could be together.”
“I am under her spell. I was about to break it by killing her.”
“No! I gave her that spell. That was me. It was the only way I could find you.”
“You did this, Lylit?”
“I was there when her life was conceived. I took refuge as her hidden twin.”
“Lylit we are united. Forever, for all time.” Gratitude rich in the man’s astonished voice.
“Forever, Lian. But I am pursued. Lian can you make us safe?”
“I have been killing them,” he says matter-of-factly. “They are trying to hide. You will be safe.”
Tharcia, cradled in strong arms, lifts her head. Her eyes electric blue look up at the godlike countenance. She cannot understand the language they are speaking, but when she opens her mouth, her own words flow out in the same strange tongue.
“Will you stop talking inside my head? I have to go to the bathroom.”
Arms lower her to the ground. The instant Tharcia’s bare feet touch, she runs. Directly toward the Ladies sign, that universal feminine refuge. She has parked herself in a locked stall, hands covering her face, alone at last, when a soft voice speaks.
“I am truly sorry.”
Tharcia screams, looks around.
“No my dear, I’m talking in your mind. There is no other way. For now.”
“In my… Can you get out of me? It is freaky weird!”
“I don’t hear what you think, only what you speak.”
Long pause from the girl on the commode. Then, “How did you get in there?”
“Dr. Munoz explained it. Your DNA. You are a chimera. But the doctor does not understand that you also have two souls. One of them is mine.”
“This is really invasive. Can you just butt out?”
“Dear Tharcia, I owe you so much. I need to find an avatar. I’ll leave soon.”
“An avatar? Like in online chat?”
“No. I mean a body. I have to find one.”
Tharcia gives up trying to understand. “Who are you?”
“I am Lylit. That’s my love outside. My Lian.”
Long pause while she chews on that one. “You’re dating a giant lizard? With wings?”
“That’s only his business suit. He has always treated me very well.”
“Business suit? WTF is his job?”
“Oh dear. You conjured him yourself but you don’t yet understand this language.”
“What language?”
“Early Sumerian, what we’re speaking with you now. You learned it from your language course CD.”
“The label said François Boudoir.”
“My demons have a macabre sense of humor.”
“You have demons? What about your dude?”
“His name is Lian. My sweet boy. He has been called by so many names.”
Tharcia knows she is dreaming. No. Tripping, must be. Most likely the residue of some party drug from her early teens has picked this morning to dump from her liver.
“Names such as what?”
The feminine voice in her head continues. “Some call him Belial, the Angel of Light, Appolyon, Defender, Teacher, Deceiver, The King of Tyre. Mammon.”
“Mm. Sounding pretty Biblical.” Tharcia cannot believe she is having this conversation.
“Yes. Every mortal religion has a place for him, and many names.”
“And you’ve been dating him how long?”
Musical laughter inside her mind. “Tharcia, you are a dear. I will be happy to talk to you at length, about who we are. Lian and I have a rich history. As do you and I.”
Tharcia exits the stall, stands before the mirror, studying herself critically. Adjusts the black leggings and Goddess Culture T-shirt she slept in, wishing she could shower and change. She has no idea where she is. Her sense of who she is likewise has a blurry outline. The voice inside her head makes no comment.
She registers another shock to notice her hair has turned completely white. The same length and glossy sheen, but she is now a winter blonde. On an up note, it makes her complexion appear warmer. Just to keep herself this side of sane, Tharcia’s mind reassures her it’s the harsh fluorescent lighting of the public restroom. She examines her eyes closely, searches for any traces of drug haze, of another person peering out, this Lylit. But no, what she sees remains uniquely her, the expression, the desires dreams and fears she’s lived with all her life are reflected there. She is Tharcia. Her breathing deepens, slows.
“Biblical names?” With both hands she is checking that her head is still the right shape. Maybe this is some kind of seizure.
“Oh yes, and not only
from the Bible,” the disembodied Lylit-voice informs her. Serpent, Leviathan, Lucifer…”
“Hold up. You said Lucifer. Do you mean, as in…”
In Tharcia’s mind, a delighted laugh. “Oh yes Tharcia. Some mortals know my darling Lian as Lucifer.”
Tharcia’s mirror image reflects a flat, dead stare. She does not speak. Or think. Belief and disbelief pursue one another through distant corridors in her mind. A fleck of saliva appears on her mouth. Staring at her eyes in the mirror, she wills herself simply to breathe. In. Out. A parade of alphabet letters begins a merry chase in her mind, entwine in ribald song and dance, hinting the first thin edge of madness. It gradually resolves into something familiar: LGBT. LGBT. LGBT.
“Tharcia, are you alright?”
“LGBT.”
“What? What is that?”
“LGBT. You know, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender. The acronym of social diversity.”
“What does that have to do with…”
“I dunno. Diversity. Being able to accept people who are different from you. The opposite of prejudice. You know.”
“I believe I do.”
“My noggin needs a way to deal with you guys. You are deep different. So, Lian’s the devil, right?”
“No. Common mistake. Please be calm. You’ll feel better when I am out of your hair.”
“My head, you mean.”
“That, too.”
“But Lylit, who are you? Are you an angel?”
“Lian is the first being the Creator made, at least in this universe. The most perfect, powerful living thing. Lian had a dream for a companion, what I should be like. He petitioned the Creator to make this creature using his image. Lian gave half his soul and substance for me, and I was created. We have loved each other from that moment.”
“This Creator, meaning…”
“Yes. Humans use names like Yahweh, Gitche Manitou, God or Elohim, Allah or Brahman, hundreds more across human cultures and religions down the ages. But these are only names which pass into accessible forms of thought, forms which mortals can grasp.”
“Accessible forms of thought,” Tharcia repeats, tasting the concept. “So what are you?”
“I am Lian’s split-apart, the first feminine being ever made. I was made from Lian, a supreme angel, just as he is. I am the prototype for all women. I do have flaws, which are magnified in the myths about me. Every religion and religious cult tells different stories about me, not all flattering. But I am true to Lian’s design, I am whole in what he desired, and joyful to be that, for him.”
Gazing at herself in the mirror, Tharcia struggles to take this in. “But wait. When did all this happen?”
“When was I created? Tharcia, it was before time began. Before galaxies, before the solar system, the Earth. Lian and I came into being long before Eden. One thing you must realize. Most myths were written by the patriarchy of their cultures. Most stories about me are therefore told by males. ”
“The patriarchy.”
“Indeed. Patriarchy is the opposite of what’s on your shirt. Old bearded guys who run everything, or pretend to, for their sole profit and pleasure. But after the Creator finished making me, Lian was vulnerable. We became separated while the universe was being formed, so many fierce energies were at work. Lian sought soul-support looking for me and found this by inventing his ego.”
“Hold up. Lian invented the ego?”
“Practically. The supreme angels in those days were tasked to discover the glorious infinities the Creator had made and to bring back the interesting ones. All the angels were finding wonderful things. Lian found the ego. The Creator considered it a survival tool for sentient beings, and used it. In my absence it became Lian’s downfall. It made him unhappy and the two of us separate.”
“So where did you guys hang out? Like, you couldn’t just walk around and breathe air, right?”
“We are of One Spirit, universal consciousness. We cross all time and all space. Beings like us know the entire past and the entire future.”
“Eww. Sounds like buzz-kill, knowing what will happen.”
In Tharcia’s mind, a melodious laugh. “Only to one who is trapped in three dimensions. Freedom in the dimension of time means we can choose the conditions that appeal to us. We have wide tastes, we move around freely. We die. All of us who are created can suffer misfortune, all of us can die.”
“Wait, Lylit. May I call you Lylit?”
“You may call me by all my names.”
“Do you know about your own death?”
“Yes. I go to that time occasionally to meditate and feel gratitude. It is a magnificent moment when I rejoin universal consciousness.”
“Lylit, does that mean you can appear and disappear?”
“Yes. But to continue, I was on my way back to Lian when I was raped by a dark angel who crippled and imprisoned me. Other angels pursued me. They gave me to the first earthly male, thinking that purpose would keep me out of the way. It did not. There is more, often misinterpreted. What is mistaken in myth and folklore is that the Creator is an evolving being. It would not do today as it did long ago. The ultimate spiritual being does not hold on to any moment.”
“You said it.”
“Mm?”
“You called the Creator guy an ‘it’ instead of a ‘he.’”
“Oh that. Well. Why do you suppose all the world’s creation myths depict gods in human form?”
“Because people were created in God’s image?”
“No supreme angel, certainly no mortal, can know the mind of the Creator, or its form, or its will. We are not designed to know that. Even we must look at the Creator through a safe filter, like seeing the sun through smoked glass.”
“It would burn us out, you’re saying.”
“To a crisp. There is an infinity of sentient races in the universe, millions in this galaxy. Humans are not alone. Which one would the Creator pick to make in its own image?”
“I guess you are saying none of them?”
“No. All of them. All sentient beings are made in the Creator’s image, yet each is different. Each one is special, each one is loved by the Creator, each one deserves to live. Tharcia, it’s time to start things moving. Can you rejoin Lian? I will leave you in silence. I must reclaim my avatar. My enemies…”
“Chill, dude! You’re leaving me alone with Mr. Business Suit?”
“Oh don’t be afraid of him. Underneath the smoke and wings he is really a softy.”
“He is a dragon lizard.”
“Oh yes, it’s an illusion. He will not hurt you. Not if I have anything to say about it! But there’s a bargain you must make with him.”
“I’m supposed to make a bargain?”
“The reason you are here. Tharcia, I was selfish. I used you. I am responsible for that. Providing you with the Sumerian verses was the only way I could join with Lian without being captured again. Caught and cruelly punished. But larger things were already in motion.”
“What kind of bargain?”
“Oh, the usual, what Faust and others in your history and literature have always desired. Many of your film actors, financial wizards, pop singers, some inventors have done so. Most of the hyper-rich. Some even admit it. You just ask for whatever earthly advantage or pleasure you want for the rest of your life.”
“And?”
“His minimum is usually to take your soul. Followed by an eternity in his special class.”
“An eternity in hell. Oh whoopdee.”
“Not hell, actually. But I hear it’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”
A Storm of Photons
The Boeing YAL-1, a heavily reworked 747, lifts off from Andrews AFB in Maryland, on a four-minute course for the Pentagon. Hastily re-commissioned, the only YAL-1 in existence had until three days ago sat in canvas wrap at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson, Arizona, among thousands of other aircraft the U.S. military doesn’t want or need. The order had come down direct from the Joint Chiefs: fly it
to Andrews as quickly as humanly possible if not before, bring her to full operational readiness at Andrews. Crews had swarmed the plane for eighteen hours in Arizona, making her airworthy. When the plane lifted off for its 5-hour flight to Maryland, sixteen metalworkers and technicians continued to work aboard. Components of the onboard missile defense cannon, an oxygen-iodine laser, caught up three hours later, arriving on other flights and truck shipments into Andrews.
Now, five minutes from the runway, the large aircraft with bulbous projections on the nose banks steeply, port wing pointed toward the Pentagon 5,000 feet below. With the YAL-1, the Department of Defense had hoped for a laser cannon of surgical accuracy that could destroy enemy missiles in flight. The program, like so many other expensive attempts, had failed, but present circumstances have brought this weapon back to operational readiness. In her belly, a 40,000-pound multi-stage chemical reactor is given the final security code to commence firing.
Onboard the YAL-1, the Beam Control Officer issues a lock command to a rotor-ball laser ranging and video camera beneath the fuselage. A second crew member adjusts the laser beam’s setting to maximum. It’s a power level that will melt a full size battlefield tank in seconds. The gunner unsnaps the safety cover over the Fire button and pushes down.
In milliseconds, the chemical reactor mixes jets of chlorine and hydrogen peroxide gasses, releasing high-temperature free oxygen. Streams of pressurized nitrogen drive the oxygen through a fine iodine spray, energizing the iodine molecules. Intense light floods the weapon’s interior and challenges the cooling system.
As an optical resonator reflects this light between mirrors, more iodine is injected and the beam’s intensity climbs. From the resonator, the light traverses a sealed pipe above the crew cabin to the optical chamber. At the aircraft’s nose a swivel turret widens the beam to manhole size and aims it, adjusting focus on the distant target, where two people sit unsuspecting in the Pentagon courtyard.
Designed to take out tanks and airborne missiles, a six-second burst can burn a smoking hole in whatever it hits. However, what it encounters above the Pentagon is the invisible field that surrounds the courtyard in all directions, the same force envelope that holds suspended the various sniper bullets, RPGs and other projectiles. The beam does not penetrate to the courtyard grounds, or the two small figures there. What is not trapped can only heat the air above the impenetrable field, creating a turbulent, super-hot and noisy updraft, ripping water molecules into hydrogen and oxygen, which spiral upward and recombine to send down misted rain, with the roar of a jet engine.