The Shivered Sky

by Matt Dinniman

  “There's no way to talk to them,” Yehppael said. “But they must be told. This information can't be allowed to perish with us.”

  “What about the Sphere?” Tamael said to Ashia. “If we could somehow make it to that room, do you think you could absorb yourself inside and come back via a northern beacon?”

  “I don't know,” Ashia said. “I'm weak. While we absorb ourselves from the human realm back to the beacon, we become vulnerable to the Absolute Darkness. This form protects us for the short moments we are exposed. In my condition, I fear I would be too slow to survive. But I will try.”

  “You can mark someone,” a Principality whispered.

  Ashia nodded. “I suppose it is possible. But with the beacons detuned, the odds of it working are slim.”

  “What does that mean?” Tamael asked. “I've never heard this term before.”

  “I could find a human in the last moments of his life and mark him for salvation. It is a way to ensure he finds himself to Cibola upon death. I could direct him to any beacon I choose, but it doesn't always work even with the beacons functioning properly.”

  Tamael shook her head. “This is too flawed to work.”

  Ashia held her head up proudly. It shimmered brilliantly. “It is a good idea, one that must be tried.”

  “You just said you were too weak. You thought your wounds to be mortal.”

  “I will gather the strength from somewhere. I must.”

  “If we take them unexpected,” Yehppael said, “and we can get past that sealed door, then we could probably fight our way there.”

  Tamael sighed. “Then let us make it happen.”

  From there, much time was spent developing a way to breach the door in a manner that would be sudden enough to grant surprise. If they all concentrated a full blast upon the ceiling at the same place at the same time, it would surely buckle, leaving a hole for them to surge through. If they weren't buried under rubble. They worked long and hard. Drilling, etching out scenario after scenario of the assault. Praying. Tamael found it easier to talk to Him with Yehppael next to her, also silently conversing.

  Tamael and Yehppael even found time for each other. Alone, they worked to gather the remains of the humans on the charred third floor, piling them together. The two angels held hands, allowed their wings to intermingle while they both recited a prayer for the loss of their souls.

  Something had been eating at him, and Tamael had a deep suspicion at what it was. She could not bring herself to confront him about it. She felt him tensing, knew he was struggling with it.

  Once, when she was a young angel, barely awakening to the wonders of their world, she had found a massive field of flowers in the low, northern plains. The yellow lilies had spread out like a quivering sea. The aroma was like nothing Tamael had ever experienced, and when she blew upon them, a rainbow of seeds burst forth into the air. That discovery of life, that moment of pure peace was something she would never forget.

  Then the dark, roiling clouds of rain rolled in from the east. The storms are common in that area, but she had never seen one before. The mountain of black, angry clouds descended on her, dwarfing her, redefining her concept of huge. The moment was the first time she had ever experienced the sensation of fear.

  Tamael felt like that now, knowing she was about to lose the one thing she cared for above anything else.

  “Ashia isn't strong enough for this,” Yehppael whispered when the prayer was done.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I spoke with Indigo, and she still does not fully recall the manner of her death. But Dave's circumstances are ideal.”

  “Will he agree to it?” She felt it coming, knew it was going to happen, what he was going to say. Before her, the pile of human skeletons was impossibly high.

  “I think he will.” He paused, wrapped his arm around her. It felt good to be so close, so alone. “She isn't strong enough,” he repeated. “She can mark him, though. Before he returns.”

  “The effort will kill her. She wouldn't be able to absorb herself into the Sphere.”

  Here it comes.

  “I can do it. I know the way.”

  “Someone else can do it,” she said quickly. Saying the words were like falling and being unable to spread her wings. “You're too important to lose.”

  “No. I am the only one. The Principalities know nothing of the Sphere. I've studied it, read about it. It is His will, and we are His servants. I was created for this.”

  “You won't be able to come home.”

  “I know,” he said.

  * * * *

  Gramm looked around now, only able to twist his neck. A slight ringing still tormented his head, but his hearing seemed to be almost fully recovered. When he tried to move his body, it protested. To his left and right more rounded, black-metal cages hung by thick chains, each with a shadowy form within. The cages all swayed in the darkness.

  “Hitomi,” Gramm called. His voice echoed, like the room was huge.

  Nothing.

  “Hitomi!”

  “Be quiet you fool,” someone hissed from his left. It was a male, his exotic accent unlike anything he'd ever heard. Like Russian with a terrible lisp.

  “Where are we?” Gramm demanded, his voice louder. He remembered the marketplace. There had been people in cages there, too.

  “They will have your tongue cut out,” another voice said, this time a little girl to his right. “Or they will just cut your head off and take away your brain.”

  “Just let him,” a third said. It was a male voice, pitched in a high falsetto, like the way a clown might speak. “Keep talking, friend. Louder if you please. I'll get a prize. The wiggle will give me a prize.”

  “Who?” Gramm pleaded. “Where are we? Hitomi!”

  “Gramm!” The voice came from his right, several cages down. It was hoarse and weak. She coughed. “I'm here.” She began to sob. “I thought you were dead. They took it from me. My periscepter. I tried to use it, but I couldn't move. I saw them find your body and your periscepters, but you were limp and I thought you were dead.”

  “It's not your fault,” Gramm said.

  “Please,” someone cried. “Just be quiet. You'll bring them back.”

  The clown speaker giggled, his voice ripe with insanity. “Yes, you'll bring them baaaack.” He laughed again. “Wiggle! Come wiggle, come!” he shrieked.

  “Shut the fuck up,” a loud, gruff male said. He was speaking to the clown voice. “If I ever get free, the first thing I'm going to do it cut you down and kill you myself.”

  “You don't have hands. Remember?” the clown voice said. “They gave them to me. I ate them. And your little girl. They let me have her too. WIGGLE COME HERE. THEY ARE TALKING!”

  As Gramm's eyes slowly adjusted, he realized these weren't angels, but other humans. Gramm tried to pull at the spike holding his left foot down. It wouldn't move. All around the barb, his foot began to tingle, then itch terribly.

  “How long have we been here?” he called to Hitomi.

  “Not long. But we're really far into the city. We were put on an airplane, and we flew forever. Longer than a day, maybe two, and we went unbelievably fast. This city is so big.”

  He wondered about Indigo and Dave, then. If they had gotten out okay, if they'd discovered a way through the ice like Ashia had promised. They were so far away. He tried to turn on his navigational instinct, but it didn't work that way. He had nothing.

  Gramm didn't want to ask, but he had to. “What happened to the others?”

  “I ... I don't know. I heard shooting, but I couldn't see.”

  “Ha-ha,” the clown voice said. “Did they stick it in you? I will. I will when I tell wiggle that you're talking. They'll reward me. I'll stick it in you.”

  “You shut your hole right now,” Gramm said, anger rising.

  The clown laughed. “I'll stick it in you too.”

  “He means it,” the child said. “They let him have Abita.”

 
“Please, just be quiet.”

  “Be quiet. Be quiet,” the clown voice said, mocking.

  A loud creaking noise came from behind them, the sound of a giant door opening. Gramm's head suddenly began to ache, like a finger had slipped into his skull and pushed just in the right spot. Down the line of cages, they all began to whimper and snivel.

  “Oh God,” someone moaned. “Look what you've done.”

  “Come friend,” the clown voice yelled, so loudly it cracked. “It was him. The new one. He talked first. Then more of them spoke. I know which ones. I do.”

  You will tell me. And you will be rewarded, pet.

  Gramm thought he imagined it at first. It was spoken inside his head. The voice, almost a whisper, was spoken in halting angel. He could feel the demon's presence, invading his head, poking around and looking for things. He felt terribly dirty suddenly, and a little ill.

  He twisted the best he could to see. The demon had entered the dark room, and Gramm stared at the monster, horrified. It didn't have arms or legs. Just a head floated there in the dark, hairy like a dog. He couldn't make out any of its features, but it was about the circumference of a wrecking ball, not perfectly sphere shaped.

  The clown started laughing gleefully. “Thank you, oh thank you,” he cried. “Can I have the new one, friend? The girl? The sweet young one with the black hair and funny eyes. I won't break her. Not all the way. I promise, I promise, I promise.”

  When we are done with her, she will be yours.

  The clown started giggling. His cage, just one or two spots from Hitomi's, started wildly swinging back and forth as he danced within like a crazed monkey.

  The phantom voice spoke, this time much louder in Gramm's head, and he knew it was addressing him. You are afraid of me. That is good. It'll help when we do the extraction.

  He had an incredible urge to scratch at his temples, get the voice out. His head pounded intensely. The pain was almost unbearable. To his left and right, the other prisoners suffered.

  The clown laughed. “I can hear him talk to youuu.”

  “What're you going to do to us?” Gramm demanded.

  The clown snickered again. “Wiggle is going to make you squirm. And cry for your mommy. Cry, cry, cry.”

  You will be brought into an interrogation room once your injuries are healed, and I will touch you. Everything you know will become mine.

  “I don't understand,” Gramm said, trying desperately not to let his voice quaver.

  “You will. Oh God, you will,” the clown said. If Gramm had a gun, he would've used it on the annoying prick already. “Wuj don't lie. They can't. It's gonna hurt, too. Tell him how much it's going to hurt.”

  Gramm imagined his head was in a vice, and every second this demon remained in the room, it got tighter. He leaned against the side of the cage, yanking with his feet, causing the wound to start seeping blood again, but the pain did nothing to distract him from the agony in his skull.

  If you injure yourself further, we will be forced to attempt a physical withdrawal.

  “That's when they chop your head off,” the clown said.

  The disembodied head left the room, floating like a giant hairy beach ball, trailed by a small cloud of buzzing demons he hadn't noticed until just then.

  “Don't forget me, friend! Don't forget my prize!”

  Once the heavy door closed, the immediate pain began to slowly recede, like a hot cup cooling down. But it still ached, sore from the intrusion. Gramm panted, like he had just run a great distance. And now his right foot was really starting to throb.

  “What are we going to do?” Hitomi asked.

  “They'll come for you soon, funny eyes. I'll have you then. You're not hurt like your friend. You'll go first. You'll come back a zombie maybe, but I don't care. I don't care.”

  Gramm did his best to ignore the taunting voice. He understood it, now. Anyone living in the presence of that floating thing for long would surely go insane.

  The clown had called it a Wuj, and it could force itself into his thoughts. Gramm shivered. He thought of Rico. Had this happened to him too?

  His hands couldn't stop shaking.

  His eyes finally finished adjusting to the strange darkness, and with some work, he could twist fully around without the pain being so unbearable. The semi-circle-shaped chamber was once a classroom or meeting chamber. It had steps and chairs, all facing down to a single desk and podium. A metal-lined door stood gloomily beside the desk. The cages, about fifteen total, were strung along the curved part of the wall, dangling about twenty feet from the top row of seats.

  To Gramm's left was a man who looked to be sleeping. Or dead. He was curled naked on the floor of the cage, his legs twisted oddly to accommodate the nails. The smell of rotten chicken wafted from that side of the room.

  To his immediate right, a naked young girl, absurdly thin and sheared of all her hair, stared back at him with eyes that almost glowed in the darkness. Gramm couldn't tell her age, but she was no older than seven or eight. She had one leg bolted to the floor of the cage, and the flesh was receded there, exposing her thin, red muscle. In her hand she clutched a doll made of hair and a few bones. It looked as if she had fashioned it herself. From herself.

  “How long have you been here?” Gramm whispered.

  “Forever,” she replied.

  Past the girl was a thin man with black skin and hair down to his waist. He rocked back and forth, his hands clutched to his ears. The tips of his fingers were all gone. He whimpered like a dog locked out in the cold.

  After that was Hitomi. Gramm couldn't see her too well, but the sight of her foot bolted to the base of the cage made him cry out. She leaned against the wall of the small cage. He wanted to grab her and hug her and tell her it was all a dream.

  And after her was the clown thing. His cage still waved back and forth. His features were muted in the poor light. His cage was wider than the others. The person within was overweight, grossly so. But he couldn't see him too well.

  Most everyone else looked the same. Thin, hollow eyes with a long, long stare.

  “What's your doll's name?” he asked the little girl.

  “Little Pilheluff.”

  “That's a nice name. Did you make it up?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here? What do they do to you?”

  “I am here because my master died fighting the terrible angels, and all his things were given back to the Dominion. I am a clean mind for the Wuj to hide in.”

  Terrible angels? What did she know? “Clean mind?” he asked.

  She danced her bone doll along the rungs of her cage. “Yes. For the Wuj to clean themselves in, stupid.”

  “Do you always talk to your neighbors like that?”

  “They're usually not alive long enough to talk to me.”

  He shivered. “Why do you call the angels terrible?”

  She put her doll down, then. “They kill everybody. They came into our building where me and my master lived and they made us all go together and they killed all the masters, and then they killed all the slaves. Only me and Abita hid. My master was never mean to me. I'm glad they got their stupid city taken from them.”

  “Is the Wuj nice to you?”

  “No. But I was bad. I let my master die. Only bad slaves come here. The Wuj can look at your brain. That's his job. He learns why you were bad.”

  “But maybe the angels are mean because the demons have taken their homes.”

  “The angels started it, my master said. They just wanted to be left alone, but the angels were building things that hurt them. They had to come to turn them off. They had to, or they'd all die.”

  Gramm didn't know what to say to that. He turned away from her, staring at the marble wall. Was it true? And if so, did it matter? He was so conflicted over the angels. At first he had nothing but adoration for them. After all, that's what you were supposed to have. Angels were good. Demons bad. Everyone knew that. Then he hated them. But Xac and the
other Principalities, and even Colonel Yehppael eventually changed how he felt once again. Some angels were good, some were bad. Just like people.

  The cage swung slowly, the chain creaking under its weight.

  * * * *

  For Rico, the equivalent of three years had passed since he first found himself in the apartment of Moloch. He thought of Gramm and the others a lot. Gramm mostly, because he had saved his life. He was his Blood Brother. He wondered what they were doing, if they were still alive. He prayed they weren't captured by the demons. And he prayed even harder that they avoided the angels.

  He hooked his arm and sent the curved knife flying through the air. It sliced right through the neck of the first angel, a wooden dummy dressed in genuine angel armor and helmet, continued through the air and struck the chest of the second, a moving target. He teleported himself away before the third and fourth dummy angels could fire their shock charges, reappearing behind them.

  The two dummies whirled around to face him, but he struck forward with his palms, the force powerful enough to knock their heads clean off.

  Enormously satisfied, Rico set to work repairing the damaged dummies. His muscles ached. The two girls descended from the raised chairs from where they controlled the dummies. They knew once he cleaned up, he would be in the mood to use them. As Moloch said, the pleasures of the flesh were the feasts of the mind and body.

  His former life was far, far beyond him. When he tried to picture his Mamá, the image was fuzzy around the edges. Even the sensation of walking, running, and jumping was completely natural to him now. He rarely thought of having to push himself through the streets of his town in his chair anymore. He didn't remember what it was like to struggle up a too-high curb or deal with a front wheel stuck in a door.

  Rico admired himself in the full-length mirror. The image stood proudly on the wall amongst the hundreds of knives. He could use and throw each one. He was almost fifteen when he came here, and if he observed the time correctly, he was about eighteen. His pudgy stomach was gone, replaced now with rows of finely developed abdominal muscle. His arms, always muscular, were almost twice their original size, and eight times as powerful.