The God of Battles

by David Menefee

  Seeing the fright in Eric’s face and voice, Angela’s anger evaporated, giving way to pity. She raised a placating hand. “Eric. Relax, please. We’re on the same side.”

  The lines on Eric’s face deepened, and he nodded. Angela could feel the exhaustion emanating from him.

  “You’re right, hon.” His sigh was high, sad. “We can’t let strife divide us. We’ve got to win.”

  Angela stared at him, recognition dawning. She recalled a huge armored figure saying the same thing. “Iron Star!”

  “Who? What?”

  “Never mind. Eric, remember when the regulators wanted to shut Franklin down? They cited the uncontrolled biohazard conditions there, as well as numerous health-code violations.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I remember. It seemed impossible. There were about fifty malpractice suits on top of plain old civil lawsuits.” He chuckled, a little life coming back into his face. “You marched in there and…”

  “And I told them that San Francisco needed us more than ever thanks to what went down. I showed them our new protocols and the signed contracts with the VA and about a dozen corporate contracts for human resources support. Not only did we get the hospital out of trouble…”

  “It turned a huge profit three months after the disaster. I know. I was there.”

  “So.” She grinned at Eric. “I don’t think a few paper pushers are gonna stop us. Listen, why don’t you go home and get away from all this, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise. Can you meet me here tomorrow?”

  Eric nodded. “Sure.” He came over to her and hugged her. “I’m sorry, hon.”

  “Me too. We’ll get through this.”

  Eric exchanged hugs with Cassandra, as well, and left.

  After closing the door, Angela practically ran into her office, Cassandra trailing after.

  “What? What is it?” Cassandra asked.

  Angela didn’t answer but instead flipped open her laptop and entered the password twice before getting it right. She fired up the browser. “Something Eric said reminded me of one of the things Iron Star said during our fight.” She spoke rapidly while she alternately clicked the mouse and typed. “It was as if Iron Star spoke through Eric, somehow. Let’s see. Aha!” She pointed dramatically at the screen.

  Cassandra bent to read. “What’s this about?”

  Angela read the document summary with growing excitement. Then, glancing up, she locked stares with Cassandra, whose eyes widened. Angela pointed at the document. “This is a white paper discussing the use of the science of memetics, the study of memes, in clinical psychology. You know what memes are, right?”

  “You mean like LOLcats?”

  “Well, sort of. Those are internet memes. I’m talking about something bigger.”

  Cassandra shook her head uncertainly then bent to read what was on the laptop display.

  Angela continued. “A meme is an idea, something which conveys cultural thought. Like, shaking hands is a meme. It tells the other person you’re unarmed and friendly. Slogans are memes. They reinforce the norms of a culture or subgroup. But memes can make people do terrible things, like what Iron Star’s doing to Simon.”

  “What do memes have to do with anything? We’re fighting a real enemy, not cultural ideas.”

  Angela shook her head. This was familiar territory for her, but Cassandra was still new to it. “The Otherworld is full of real things that represent ideas. I deal with them all the time. That last girl, Joanna, had fear that gave her nightmares. In the Otherworld, her fear came in the form of a lynx.”

  Cassandra snapped her fingers. “And you think this Iron Star and his soldiers are memes.”

  “Something like that. Granddad warned me about these creatures—these ‘angels’ and the Egregores they serve. I think that, somehow, they’re causing trouble for a lot of people in this world. That might explain why I heard the soldiers shouting trite slogans and why Iron Star sounded like a recruiting poster. I think Iron Star and his Egregore are threatened by what we’re trying to do with Simon. I don’t know why, yet. But I think I’d like to try an experiment.”

  Her ideas took shape rapidly in her mind, driven more by intuition than by logic. “According to this paper, memes are transmitted from person to person like viruses. But they’re viruses of the mind. Maybe this is why I keep seeing traces of Iron Star in other people’s nightmares. It might be how we can fight him, too. I’m going to need your help.”

  An hour later, Angela was still seated at her desk, typing furiously at the keyboard. Cassandra sat in another chair, peering over Angela’s shoulder.

  “Okay,” Angela said. “That’s the tenth Facebook account I’ve created so far. Let’s hook into the friend networks from the other ones.”

  Cassandra pointed at the screen. “Don’t forget to approve the friend requests in the other accounts.”

  “Right.” Angela’s fingers flew. “Now. Time to paste our little meme.” She posted the text then copied it to the Twitter accounts they had also set up.

  Angela was proud of her new slogan: “You don’t owe your dreams to Uncle Sam. So why keep fighting his wars in them?” It was short enough for Twitter, and it conveyed a message that she hoped would spread among PTSD sufferers who were fighting Iron Star and his minions. She had made sure to send a copy to Simon’s e-mail and Facebook accounts, of course, as he was the primary target for her work.

  She tapped a key triumphantly and beamed at Cassandra.

  Cassandra nodded, her lips turned up slightly, but her face was otherwise expressionless. “Cool. How about pics? Got any headshots? All those accounts look fake without them.”

  Angela’s smile faded. “I didn’t think about that.”

  With Cassandra’s help, she located enough photos in public domain collections to supply the accounts she had created. Finally, she opened her personal album, located a shot she had used for a recent article, and dragged it over to the browser.

  “Not my favorite look, but at least it’s professional.” She clicked the mouse and sighed.

  Cassandra touched her shoulder. “Angela, I’ve got an idea. You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

  Angela raised an eyebrow at her. “Too late.”

  Cassandra playfully punched her. “Seriously. I can track the meme.”

  Angela shook her head. “Track it? What do you mean?”

  “I can hit the streets,” Cassandra continued, “and pick up the thoughts of anyone who reads this.”

  This wasn’t one of the good ideas. “I don’t see why. This is going out on the Internet. Memes don’t have a physical location. It’s in the Otherworld that we’ll see an actual meme angel, if I’m right.” Angela stood and stretched. “Besides, it’s way too dangerous. Remember the grenade? If Iron Star is behind that, he could hunt you down. If I’m right, what appears as a dangerous entity in the Otherworld can translate into violence in this one.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “You’ve already helped so much. I’m no expert in social networking. We’ve launched a meme thanks to you.” She kissed Cassandra on the forehead then smiled. “Hey, Cassie. Let’s go celebrate.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  War in Heaven: A New Angel

  Realm of Diamond Angel

  Diamond Angel had established her realm in the Overworld, taking over a depopulated area once belonging to a now-dead Egregore. She was buttressed in her efforts by the indirect support of Serpent Lion and Dark Eyes, despite the isolation trap, as well as by her own considerable power. In addition, her new advisor, the strange angel she had met, had formally allied himself with her.

  Building a palace to consolidate her power, she patterned the edifice after the ancient designs of the prehuman culture of her old world, with mosaic tile walls inset with stained glass windows, elaborate groined arches, and tall, fluted columns. She planned to fill the near-empty halls with a store of knowledge as her power grew.

  Her body now had sufficient vitality to create
an independent servant to send into Bald Eagle to gather knowledge and disrupt her enemy’s access to the Root Hexagon. She exerted her will. Her vision blurred momentarily, and when it cleared, a new angel stood before her throne. Her servant was armed for war, but it was nearly doubled over, glowing fiercely from the fires of its birth.

  “Speak your name, angel.” Her command rang out, echoing from the surrounding walls.

  The creature straightened slowly from its crouch, shaking its head and groaning. Its body, limned with light, was somewhat indistinct at the edges, but the glow rapidly diminished, and its outlines sharpened. It—no, he—lifted his head and looked steadily at Diamond Angel. He bore a strong resemblance to her.

  “I am called Prescription, my creator.” His voice was a pleasant baritone.

  “Prescription, you will infiltrate Bald Eagle, using your staff.” She indicated a staff, which had just appeared by his side, sparking with energy. He grasped it.

  She continued. “You will gain influence in that realm. You will locate the controller for the isolation trap that Iron Star used on me and which Gray Suit now controls. Steal it and disarm it. I will send an army of larvae with you. Failing that, you will continue to attempt to create division between Bald Eagle and its bureaucratic ally, Gray Suit.”

  The angel nodded. Diamond Angel gestured at a wall, and an opening appeared. Beyond it lay the abstract forms and decaying relics of the outskirts of Bald Eagle. The angel strode through the opening, which closed after him.

  Her advisor, silent during those proceedings, nodded encouragement when she glanced at him. “Beautiful work, my Lady.”

  “And the others?”

  “Defectors from Serpent Lion and Dark Eyes are, even now, marching to your support.”

  “I cannot be entirely comfortable with them. If they have betrayed their masters, they will betray me.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “This is the first lesson of power, my Lady. When a tool comes to hand that fits your purpose, you use it but never become attached to it. And when it fails you, discard it.”

  She mused on this advice. Her own nature had always been that of peacekeeper and civilizer, but since arriving in the Overworld, she had adopted warlike traits. The first lesson of power had already taken root within her, and not for the first time, she wondered at the consequences. In the darker corners of her mind, she feared she might have been ensnared by a secret, cunning web spun by others.

  He cleared his throat, pausing before her throne. “Is there anything further you require of me, Lady?”

  Distracted from her reverie, she sat up straighter. “Do you still intend to return to your own realm?”

  He smiled. “You have already grown in power beyond any assistance I might offer you, and I believe you will accomplish your high goals. I shall return to my people with a great store of knowledge thanks to your wisdom.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment, comforted by his reassurances, and he vanished.

  War on Earth

  “You don’t owe your dreams to Uncle Sam. So why keep fighting his wars?” The question was rhetorical by now.

  —

  “Hey, I don’t want these nightmares either.” The old man shrugged. “Whaddya gonna do?”

  —

  “Therapy, man. They owe you.” Her gaze was intense. “You don’t owe them…”

  —

  “Owe them my dreams? Hell no…”

  —

  “I own my own..”

  —

  “…my own dreams.”

  Mr. Longsmith’s Living Room

  Will Longsmith gnawed on a stick of jerky and watched a report on the Iraq situation. He listened to the news with growing agitation. He started pounding his fist on the arm of his easy chair. Finally, he swore and dug out his smart phone. He poked the Facebook app open to message one of his buddies, but something caught his eye. One of his vet friends had reposted a slogan, something about not owing his dreams to the government.

  “Damn straight,” he muttered. Maybe he should see that therapist again. Dr. Cooper. She was the first one to take him at face value. And she didn’t freak out and try to prescribe more pills when he broke down. She deserved another shot.

  His Facebook message forgotten, he dialed her office number and left a message, asking to see her the next day.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Brief Success

  But ere her agent’s task is done

  And freedom for herself is won

  The Warlord brings an army foul

  To strike his blow, then homeward run.

  Early the next morning, a Saturday, Angela played a message from Will Longsmith. He sounded agitated, claiming that he’d had a breakthrough. Although the clinic was closed for repairs, she called him back and told him to come on over right away.

  When he arrived, Angela noticed that he had done something about his halitosis. Thank God. She welcomed him and asked him to recline on the couch. The session began.

  “It’s like, I don’t owe my dreams to the Army. So, I knew I should come back for another session.” He glanced at Angela.

  She returned his glance impassively, concealing her excitement. Her meme was already spreading much faster than she had expected.

  “You did the right thing,” she said. “Here’s what I’d like to do, but only if you’re comfortable with it. I’d like to hypnotize you. Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

  He shook his head. “No. Everyone I’ve been to wants to push pills. No offense.”

  “None taken. Why don’t you lie back and relax, and we’ll get you started.”

  Will reclined, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his nervousness. “Are you gonna make me look at a swinging watch?”

  Angela smiled reassuringly. “Not at all. I’m simply going to help you get into a state of relaxation. You might not even notice that you’re hypnotized.”

  She proceeded to lead Longsmith through a standard induction procedure. Soon his face slackened, and his eyes began to flutter.

  “Now. I am going to lightly touch your forehead. You need to concentrate on the sensation. That’s all.”

  There was no reaction. He was already in a trance, so Angela reached out to touch his forehead. She transitioned smoothly to his meadow and looked around. Stagnant pools choked with brambles formed an intimidating labyrinth. The tattered trees swayed in an ominous wind. The sky, a swiftly changing tapestry of dramatic clouds, churned darkly overhead. She was alone, and she paused to think.

  So, I know he’s been affected by my meme. How am I going to see if it’s real? What does a meme angel look like? A soldier?

  Angela looked for a tall tree, hoping that perhaps there would be a gateway in his meadow to what she believed was the world of memes. However, none of the trees looked suitable. They were all scrawny scrub oaks, draped with moss and gray with lichen. Angela picked her way around the meadow, exploring.

  She heard a sudden cracking sound, coming from the forest eave. She stopped. Something thrashed in the underbrush. Skirting a stagnant pond, she approached it. It appeared to be a deer with a crippled leg. As she neared it, it snarled, revealing fangs, and she jumped.

  “Good grief. You guys are everywhere.” Angela crouched and stared at the deer, an idea taking shape in her mind. After a moment, it calmed, eyeing her warily. Guided by her chovihani instincts, she waited. Something flickered in her peripheral vision.

  These creatures were guardians of traumatic memory. If her meme was helping Longsmith, maybe it had done this. Carefully avoiding its fangs, she reached out to touch the broken leg at the hoof. The creature screamed in pain, and she jerked her hand back. Now that she had touched the creature, perhaps she could establish rapport with her creation if it had done this to the deer.

  Angela stood and closed her eyes, concentrating on the words of her meme. The faint sounds of combat became audible. She nodded and opened her eyes. Above the trees to her ri
ght, an image flickered, resembling an old-fashioned newsreel. Two warriors, armed with swords, traded furious blows. Though she could not say how, she recognized one of them. It was her meme, her angel.

  She turned back to the deer. The sounds of swordplay faded. “He’s the one who did this to you. Be grateful you’re not dead.” With that, she walked around the animal into the forest. Just beyond, in the darkness, someone or something small huddled on the ground. As she approached, he looked up at her. A younger version of Longsmith, he sobbed quietly, his eyes red with weeping.

  She stopped a short distance away, her stance open and relaxed. “Hi. I’m Angela. Who’re you?”

  “I’m Willy,” he choked out.

  “You’re a long way from home, Willy. Can I help you?”

  The wretched man nodded. “They killed my friend.” He pointed to a dark pile of forest detritus nearby. Angela stared at it, and gradually the pattern of leaves and bracken resolved into the sketchy form of a dead man, spattered with blood. Then the form shattered, becoming a pile of debris once again.

  She nodded at Willy, understanding. “I’m sure your friend would want you to remember him by living a good life. Willy, the past is done.”

  He looked at her, his chin trembling, but his sobbing stopped.

  “It’s time to let go,” she whispered.

  The lines around his eyes smoothed, and after a quiet moment, he reached a hand up to her. She touched it, and he vanished. A powerful wind swept through the meadow, and a patch of sunlight appeared as the clouds began to part. Then, with unnatural swiftness, the sun dropped out of sight between the rapidly darkening trees.

  Angela returned to the center of the meadow. Looking around her, she saw fewer stagnant pools—a sign of the emotional release that had occurred. Hurriedly, she hunted for tiles in the fading light, returning to the treatment room.

  Longsmith was lying on the couch asleep.