Angelos Odyssey

by J. B. M. Patrick

  -

  An hour later, I'd used what was left of my resolve to ascend up the landscape and continued to climb a small but, nonetheless, unforgivingly steep mountain offering a view of the horizon over the ocean. What happened to the sunshine? I remember wondering this as I peered up at skies painted a shade of grey. The universe was indifferent to my problems, my hopes… my dreams; the human race had been left to fend for itself against threats it didn't know how to cope with or engage in battle. I watched as an immense ship crossed the Pacific, possibly completely unaware of what had happened to the rest of society. Those on board were better off never reaching land if the rest of Earth was composed of the same dangers. The yacht coursed through shimmering waters and echoed “Distant Land” from a bellowing sound system.

  It ceased raining hail, and the twisters I'd viewed before had reduced in number. There were still colossal giants in the distance, appearing to carelessly demolish the ground below them and simply move without aim or purpose.

  Eventually, after sobbing over my husband and my beautiful, brilliant boy… I was granted the unexpected privilege of watching the End for myself:

  A massive aerial craft flew directly over my head and toward the yacht. I spectated helplessly as its shutter doors slowly opened outward and a large, oval object with a rectangular tail descended while still attached to the end of a slender, metallic beam. After a period of several seconds, the massive object dropped from the aircraft, which altered its course and accelerated into the skies above to escape.

  The released warhead plummeted through what remained of my world before connecting with the yacht…

  As soon as it made contact, my vision flashed white as a fiery cloud erupted from the ship; a powerful emanation tore through my eardrums. The quake that followed pushed me to the ground, and, as I struggled to stand, I witnessed as more of the same nuclear warheads were dropped from incoming forces around me. Explosives were released across the Earth followed by enormous emissions… some manifesting in the image of mushroom clouds while nearly all produced a horrifically powerful sonance.

  It was an event precipitated by a universal crisis: mankind's desperate and devastating response to the First Rift. The War of Reunification had come to a conclusion as major powers were divided and panicked before deploying vast arsenals all over the world.

  Everything humans had built was obliterated.

  I continued gazing far into depths of the first huge mass as increasingly dense fallout hundreds of miles ahead of me began to form. It was already too late; I was damned.

  Memories of making love to the man of my dreams filled my head. I thought about the day we were told we'd be having our first kid. It was after I'd fainted at my old job; I was so embarrassed that I’d let myself succumb to the weakness. I thought more recently about our son just starting preschool for the first time…

  —And then, a scene burned into my mind of them in the truck. Faces. Casualties of GAIA.

  I was able to do it now.

  While standing over the edge of the cliff, I pressed the barrel of the gun I’d found earlier against my temple. I imagined my family beckoning me to come with them.

  I decided my fate with a bullet that very day in the same way that others had before me. As I was momentarily granted a view from outside of my own body, I watched as my form descended into the tide and was swept deep into the ocean amidst the destruction…

  -

  Fate has a peculiar way of arranging our lives.

  Some look to a god or even pantheons to aid them in building individual paths, but often we're faced with so many obstacles to our goals that the journey to them can warp us and our own plans in various ways. The frustrations of the journey become one's destination.

  I wasn't allowed to pass over like most.

  Even though my physical body was gone, I continued my existence between worlds. Whatever God had afflicted those who worked with the dead had taken an interest in me, quite possibly because my misery was so great during that time that I managed to attract its attention.

  This Being gave me a new body as well as a new purpose:

  I became as the Solace.

  In the past, I was known as Janelle. Now, I bear the same appearance as others like me. After the First Rift, I was sent to find and retrieve souls overly attached to their mundane existences. Souls with no identifiable corpses, seeking remnants of their former lives. I tried desperately to find the souls belonging to my own family; I wanted to speak to them one last time, to apologize for not being the mother I had always believed I was.

  … However, after centuries had passed, I'd accepted that they'd been taken long before I'd been made into a member of the Solace. I nurtured the frightened souls of sons and daughters who would never know the joys of driving their first cars or meeting their first loves or even earning their first paychecks; it was over before it had ever begun for them.

  I met with the souls of the elderly, who'd accepted their fates or hadn't even realized that they'd passed away considering most days had become the same for them. Everyone I retrieved I would try to reassure as much as I could, but for some it was too difficult for them to process my resemblance to other demons. Many of them couldn't recover from their own shock, becoming speechless and unable to move on their own. I resigned myself to silence in most of my later encounters and only answered what was asked of me by the stronger-willed souls; there were no secrets to keep once they’d crossed over.

  I know of this blessing given unto me: extensive knowledge and the power to restrain anyone who would corrupt the path of a soul.

  Several centuries passed, and I watched as the New World adjusted to decreasing levels of fallout. The Sun slowly expanded, and the Solar System itself progressively aged with the Earth still intact as it had been in the past. Amazingly, humanity demonstrated impressive resiliency and thrived in small colonies while compelling themselves to grow against the odds. Although the number of souls I collected lessened by several million, I was able to watch civilization form itself once more while I visited Earth time and time again.

  The world would never be the same, but people would find a way to survive no matter what happened—even with new life forms evolving and developing their own cultures alongside them… It was a new Earth with no prior history to draw from other than ancient artifacts left behind by previous civilizations fallen subsequent to the events of the First Rift.

  One particular set of artifacts happened to be records, CD's, and other formats containing music existing from before the conflict between the Globalists and Isolationists. Among the popular music from that time, mostly hip hop, soul, and jazz had survived intact; a testament to what those genres mostly stood for as people continued to sustain themselves via sheer strength of will. As humans struggled to discover new place and meaning in life, they consistently relied on past artists to comfort them in their own personal endeavors. During what's now considered the Reconstruction Period, human conflict was shared equally in the face of annihilation—and all contributed their efforts in surviving the times.

  Hip Hop was a muse to those raised from birth only understanding how to defend their homesteads; it inspired strength in communities on the brink of war with those monsters.

  Soul music was a testament for those who longed for a time when food was no longer scarce and when people could finally come together without having to fight for their lives. Humanity had felt abandoned and despaired at the possibility of a bleak future. Only their faith in themselves could lead them.

  Finally, Jazz was a calm mediator for those enduring the daily grind while supporting families and dreams waiting to be built in a new society contingent on hope and innovation.

  It was music that spread across new History being written by colonies surviving all over the world who no longer adhered to governments or corporations but who had to fight and overcome threats presented by the First Rift.

  My name is Janelle, one of the Solace who walks in the midst of
humans and other beings wherever Death looms closest. This is the chronicling of the trials of Tavon, the one who inspired hope in me again. A man who defied Fate itself in order to protect the ones he loved. He struggled against Death at the cost of everything, and he restored the faith I once had in people when I was still a human… a wife… a mother.

  This is a story about determination, fortitude, and about a professional assassin who became known as Jackal's Fist.

  8

  Inside Out

  AND THE NIGHT CONTINUED FOR TAVON, who returned to his home to receive medical treatment from his roommate before he showered and changed into a suit. He'd strolled by a quiet Brock after getting dressed and felt zoned out as he did his best to prepare for his date with Aaliyah.

  I have no idea what I’m doing…

  “You good?” Brock looked over with concern.

  Tavon didn’t return his glance right away.

  “Dead kid today.” He shook his head.

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. People do the same things to each other wherever they go.”

  “Is that why you can’t hit the gym tonight?”

  “Ha,” Tavon scoffed in an attempt to appear less nervous. “I'm actually living up to my commitments for once.”

  “Aaliyah?” Brock raised an eyebrow.

  Tavon checked his tie in the mirror and chuckled “Who else?”

  “Buddy, I'm telling you that she's going to marry you faster than you can leave this damn city. Your dreams of making Officer are over once she starts taking up all of your time.”

  “You'd know better than anyone, wouldn't you?” Tavon walked over to the television monitor for a closer look.

  Brock wasn't smiling anymore, however. “That's not funny.”

  On the news, Executive Joel Petrus from Zone B was under indictment after attempting to pin the Zone's most recent trafficking incident on his own Vice Executive, which turned out to be a shortsighted effort to shift blame for general negligence. The Vice Executive had stepped down as a result; notwithstanding, the Dawn Federation demanded a trial of Executive Petrus that could see him incarcerated in the Citadel Prison for decades as punishment for ignoring his civil responsibilities.

  He turned to Brock. “You sure you’ll be okay here all alone?”

  Brock sneered. “Shut the fuck up. I’m as good as I can be…”

  Tavon already knew what the problem was, but he didn’t press it.

  “How's work?”

  Brock moved into the kitchen and began cutting up various fruits to make a smoothie. “The Department started laying off its manpower… said it wasn't in the budget to have a bunch of staff without more advanced credentials.”

  Tavon turned off the television and went over to him. “They laid you off, brother—You?!”

  “Don’t act so surprised!” Brock laughed. “Zone A’s going through some cutbacks. If I wanted to keep the job, I'd need a mark from at least another year in a trade school… looks like being a veteran doesn't count for anything in this city.”

  “They think you’ll be better qualified to work for them after… more classes? A few thousand dollars later or something like that, right?”

  “Ha. Close enough,” Brock responded, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It doesn't help when everyone I work with is terrified of me…”

  Brock loomed over most men and was twice as wide as Tavon.

  “The Citadel finally gets its shit kind of together after years and suddenly decides we need to take tips from old governments—you know, the ones that failed.”

  Brock had worked for several months as an entry-level paramedic for Zone A. The next highest position, known as Advanced Emergency Operative, was only available through a selection process following many hours of additional, federally-mandated training.

  “I don't know what else you expect.” Tavon put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  Brock was one of the few companions he had left in this world.

  “You've always been a mercenary, brother; I think you should stick with what you know.” Tavon said and grinned deviously.

  His friend sighed, despondent. “I can't spend my whole life behind a gun, Tavon… going into the field for months takes away any chance I could have of a normal life.” Brock's resolve strengthened, and he stated, “It ruined me once; I want to find something I can just… settle into, you know?”

  Tavon grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door to the hallway. “You've got too much skill for that. Don’t stop putting yourself out there; someone's going to need your abilities one day—just keep your head up, brother.”

  -

  The assassin departed from his condo and traveled down a hallway belonging to the Angelos Embassy in the Citadel. He entered an elevator and stopped at the third floor. Tavon exited to emerge in a narrow passage echoing a collage of moans coupled with the ambience of several people speaking and laughing to each other.

  Tavon knocked on a plain door to his right, which subsequently cracked open to reveal an older female who recognized him immediately. “Good evening.” She smiled and allowed him to enter into a dark, quiet chamber lined with several private areas offering the resources to imbibe or inhale “company-approved” products. One side of the room offered its own small escort service many lower agents made frequent use of once starting out in the business.

  Tavon walked toward a masked clerk and asked for “Tu'Zul,” a substance widely distributed in a country across a large river dividing Gaspul from neighboring territories. After receiving what appeared to be a clumped, golden-toned and earthy material, he took his seat in a private, inner room and layered the Tu'Zul inside the bowl of an aqua-hued water pipe as he lit it with a spark generated from his unique ability to produce heat.

  The assassins' club, known as Lake De Angelos, issued a seemingly nonstop marathon of acid jazz in the background. Tavon allowed it to be his muse for a time as he attempted to relax himself following the completion of his contract. “Inside Out” by Odyssey sounded from the speakers…

  He’d lied to Brock to avoid being lectured about his drug use. Deaux Tut was a date only a few hours away, leaving him some time to get high and decompress.

  He felt a fog come over him and creep through the crevices of his mind. The tension in his body slowly subsided but, in turn, withered into a softer, chilled sensation. Tavon sank low in a love seat the club provided for its many customers. There were those in the Embassy who could be experiencing their last hours alive depending on whether or not they were “working” tonight, and so Angelos decided to implement their assortment of benefits for all associates as heavily as possible.

  A scantily clad, attractive woman peeked in to check on him.

  “Hi there! Is there anything else you'd like tonight?” She winked. “Maybe someone's company, handsome…?”

  Tavon considered it for a moment but brushed her away and barely managed to form the words, “No thank you.”

  Isaac’s face refused to exit his conscious thought. He couldn't prevent himself from the ensuing grief; feeling helpless, he allowed the Tu'Zul to commandeer his body.

  None of it matters.

  Tavon's thoughts became synchronized and changed to focus on the Executive soon to undergo trial: that someone could be so removed from a situation like that… how much does he know? Perhaps Aaliyah has a better understanding of it, but human trafficking as far up as the Mid-City?

  The makeup of the Citadel was structured with the intent for crime to be funneled and concentrated mostly at its lowest, most impoverished levels. The Lower-City's deepest slums were generally considered a population either in and out of the prison system or “irregulars” in the government nomenclature, meaning those unregistered officially as citizens.

  Tavon reclined in his seat, feeling reminded that he was an irregular himself and realized that he'd never disclosed his story to anyone.

  Everything I know… is it dangerous?

  Looking back, Tavon
was once a lost orphan. He’d earned a small reputation as just “T” but now was nearly just as unknown. Rising to the top of the Angelos pyramid meant less and less anonymity. No one was supposed to know who Tavon was anymore, but they would soon. He was just another soldier trained and hardened by the city and led the kind of lifestyle most couldn't cope with other than those who resided within his inner circle.

  Tavon looked up a suitable taxi on his Kom Cell and decided to plan for the night.

  -

  Eventually, after lazily pulling himself together, Tavon arrived outside of Deaux Tut that night.

  He'd cleaned up with more effort than ever as far as he could remember, and he’d gotten there early to grab a table for the two of them. Deaux Tut contained a large escalator designed to carry passengers high into the atmosphere and halt before a set of immense glass doors complemented by gigantic braziers set in a large, perfectly symmetrical square in the following antechamber. From the ceiling, there hung an orb shining with patches of black and white reflected onto everyone present as it rotated in a disco-inspired fashion.

  Tavon met with the hostess, initiating an interaction uncommon to him, and was escorted into a section containing an elongated glass balcony overlooking all of Zone A—widely considered the wealthiest Zone in the Mid-City. He was seated in a chair that was a combination of a couch and bar stool before positioning his elbows over an opaque table crafted from mirror fragments formed in the shape of an apple.

  “Could you grab us both a water? —And lemme get a bottle of whatever your best wine is.”

  “Do you mean best as far as food critics' go or consumers’ choice?”

  He shrugged.

  “You can surprise me.” Tavon followed with a noncommittal smile, and the waitress turned to leave after placing a lit candle at the center of the table.

  On the speakers above, he heard the sound of a xylophone being played lightly over a collage of steady, repetitive percussion beats. He then gazed out over Zone A for a while before receiving a text which simply read:

  “Groovy work, brother.”