Avenging Angels (The Seraphim Chronicles Book 1)

by Adams, Nicholas

  “But,” Campbell called over his shoulder, “send a message to General Reynolds? Tell him that I’m on my way to see him on a private matter. Tell him it’s urgent.” He walked away down the corridor with his voice echoing down the hall as he disappeared around a corner, heading toward the nearest lift.

  Sienna moved the messages off to the side of the display, activated a communicator, and selected the general’s office number. A low tone hummed until the face of another Angel appeared on the display.

  “This is the office of General James Reynolds,” the face greeted. The face illuminating the display could have been Sienna’s own reflection. She paused for a moment as she recognized the caller’s face.

  “Hello, Sienna. How can I assist you today?” she asked with an unchanging smile.

  “Hello, Sara,” Sienna answered with an equal amount of flat politeness, her face mirroring Sarah’s expression. “Mr. Campbell is on his way to see General Reynolds on a private matter. It is urgent.”

  Sara smiled and nodded her head in bland acknowledgement. “I will inform the General immediately,” she replied. “Have a glorious day.” Sienna gave her counterpart an understanding nod and ended the call. There was no need for further interaction between Angels.

  With the communication protocols deactivated, Sienna resumed her task of sorting incoming messages on her display.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Campbell stepped off the lift and entered the extravagant rotunda at the lowest level of The Crown, the uppermost structure of the Citadel, the highest levels in Olympus. Very few citizens of Olympus had ever been above the level of Campbell’s office. Fewer still had the security clearance to access The Crown, where the members of the Quorum of Zeus lived. Even Campbell had only ever seen a small portion of The Crown’s interior.

  Many of the objects adorning the interior of the rotunda were relics from the old world. Airtight cases filled with ancient books and artifacts of the world before The Great Collapse stood throughout the expansive entry. These treasures acted as reminders of the mistakes made by their ancestors, a warning against future misdeeds. Campbell knew any one of those objects would have fetched a handsome reward from a competing nation. He wondered how many people had died during The Collapse to preserve the icons of history displayed before him.

  The only member of the Quorum Campbell had ever met was Reynolds, or Mars, as those in the military knew him. He had never been able to learn even one name of another member of the Quorum. With all his assets and sources of information, those bits of information still eluded him.

  The level on which Reynolds’ office was located exceeded the opulence of the grandest estates Campbell had ever witnessed in the lower levels of Olympus, although such lavish displays were of little importance to him. The marble walls glowed with a translucence that evoked images of living among the clouds. Campbell’s eyes always needed a few minutes to adjust to the bright corridors, as they appeared illuminated from every surface. He noted the gilded moldings and real wood paneling veined with silver rivulets and wondered if the Quorum would still feel as powerful without such opulent finery all about them.

  Reynolds’ office was on the opposite side of the rotunda from the lift. To the left and right of the rotunda, corridors curved behind Campbell and out of sight. At the intersections of the rotunda and corridors there were barriers composed of floor-to-ceiling transparent panels that prevented him from further exploration, so he could only guess at where those corridors led to. Each barrier comprised of four pivoting panels, which were locked in place. He had yet been unable to determine a means to activate the panels and proceed past them.

  Campbell walked across the rotunda and opened the imposing doors to the General’s offices. Like the walls of the rotunda, they were large and self-illuminated. Sara watched him enter and greeted him with a generous smile.

  “Hello, Mr. Campbell. General Reynolds has been notified of your request to meet with him. He has asked you to wait at the office of Corporal Samuels.” Campbell nodded and walked around Sara’s desk, following his well-worn path to Samuels’ office on the far side of the suite.

  Ornate desks, luxurious chairs, and handcrafted fixtures filled the large open-plan space. The members of his staff bustled about like an industrious ant colony, each worker dedicated to his or her task with single-mindedness. The citizens of Olympus considered it a great honor to be on the personal staff of one of the Quorum members. Campbell, on the other hand, felt a deep contempt and loathing for those he considered no better than sycophantic elitists. He knew that even the most loyal of subjects would be devastated once the truth revealed itself. He kept his disgust to himself, reserving his scornful glares within the confines on his own office.

  No one on Reynolds’ personnel staff had ever met the man or been allowed in his office, with the singular exception of Sara. Campbell had learned that Reynolds had taken advantage of tissue and organ transplants for so many years that he had few original body parts left. Only a handful of loyal men and women outside the Quorum knew that Reynolds had been the head of Olympic security since before the arrival of the Angels. He had overseen their integration into the general population that started with the manual labor force in the LTZ.

  Once he saw that Angels had more uses than that of simple workhands, he convinced the Quorum to expand their integration and education beyond manual labor. Campbell suspected Reynolds was not the only one that had benefited from decades of replacement procedures. Campbell believed that one of the reasons no one alive had ever seen members of the Quorum in public is that they were no longer discernable as human.

  Much like the General, with his white skin and hair, and the dark blue eyes, people recognized extensive cosmetic replacement when they saw it. Corporal Samuels could get away with his Angelic appearance in public due to a well-perpetuated cover story.

  Campbell reminisced about the official story as he walked up to the waiting lounge outside of Corporal Samuels’ office. According to the cover story, Corporal Samuels was a nephew of Reynolds, and had been stationed off world when a Dissident cell destroyed his Corsair class scout ship, the Lycaon. The explosion gave him third degree burns over the entirety of his body, requiring a full-body dermal transplant, as well as eye replacement and multiple internal organs.

  The Samuels persona provided a great deal of protection for Reynolds. No one dug too deep into Samuels’ story because the rumor of his injuries evoked great sympathy, creating a buffer of privacy. His familial connection to Reynolds also bought him solitude, as Reynolds was feared and respected by all of Olympus.

  To those who did not know Samuels’ history or connections, his Angelic features made on-lookers uneasy, as they thought he was an Angel in military uniform. Pretending to be a simple messenger for the real General was the perfect camouflage, offering immense anonymity.

  Reynolds himself circulated the story that the reason no one else has seen Reynolds in several years was his pride. As Samuels, he leaked the rumor that Reynolds had become so frail and feeble that he only allowed his beloved nephew to enter his private office and home. By delegating many of his responsibilities to his staff, he spent most of his time on only serious matters of security with the Quorum.

  Campbell strode to the door bearing a large and ornate plague, and he knocked. The lettering on the sign read Corporal Samuels: Private Messenger to General Reynolds. Campbell stood outside the door, his hands folded behind his back, waiting and studying his warped reflection in the gilded etching. Reynolds was fond of keeping people waiting, but Campbell suspected there was another reason the door remained closed.

  Finally, several minutes later, the door opened and a female Angel carrying a tablet exited the room. She gave Campbell a warm greeting and walked away toward an empty chair next to Sara.

  “So,” Campbell thought to himself as he studied to two Angels side by side, “one plaything isn’t enough.” He swallowed the revulsion and contempt he held for Reynolds. He refocused his mind on
the more important matters at hand other than Reynolds’ appetites.

  Campbell closed the door behind him before he crossed the room to stand before Reynolds’ desk. Reynolds had not even bothered to button up his shirt. He could not help but notice the flawless alabaster skin underneath the unbuttoned, olive-colored uniform. In the quick flash of seeing the man half-dressed, Campbell was impressed by the level of care the transplant surgeon’s must have taken over the years. Reynolds’ chest lacked any of the telltale seams of tissue transplant. If anyone other Olympian had seen Reynolds without a shirt, they would have sworn he was, in truth, an Angel himself.

  Campbell stood and waited for the invitation to sit while Reynolds poured himself a drink from the various carafes behind his desk. He wore a very pleased look upon his face, and it was evident to Campbell he was filled with his own self-importance. One single word echoed in Campbell’s mind as he stood glaring at Reynolds’ pompous expression: narcissist.

  Reynolds sat down in his chair and motioned for Campbell to take a seat.

  “Please, please, sit down. There’s no need to stand on ceremony here,” he said, gesturing to his office. Campbell lowered himself into the chair across from Reynolds, knowing they were shallow words. If there was one thing Reynolds relished, above himself and his pleasures, it was ceremony; the pomp and circumstance that his true position provided stroked his ever-inflating ego.

  Campbell did not bother to ease into it. “I came to give you updates regarding the pursuit of Captain Evans, as well as the status of your staff member, Silas Graham.” Reynolds took a sip of his drink and gave Campbell a warning look over the rim of his glass. He crossed his legs and balanced the glass on his knee, tapping out a meaningless rhythm with his fingers on the side of the glass.

  “I certainly hope there has been significant progress in the pursuit,” he replied without looking in Campbell’s direction. He pretended to see something outside his office windows. Campbell mirrored Reynolds’ body language by crossing his own arms and legs. He learned the subtle trick in his youth, matching the body language of the person he spoke to in order to create the illusion of trust. He used every chance he could to acquire useful information on people using it to manipulate them when it suited his needs.

  After a moment, Campbell cleared his throat and began to fill Reynolds in on the situation with the agents. He summarized the details of how another female agent had been lost to a surprise attack by the Dissidents, and their trek with Captain Evans out past the borders of the LTZ. He breezed over the decision to use the new female agent as a transponder while the male agent continued to track down Captain Evans. Reynolds’ brow furrowed with each addition Campbell added to the report. He finished his drink with one final gulp, and stood up to refill his glass. With his back turned to Campbell, he asked the question that was near the forefront of his thoughts.

  “How confident are you that the agent will find Captain Evans and the Dissidents?”

  Campbell knew where Reynolds was going with that question. Reynolds real question was if it would be prudent to plan an assault on one of the several forgotten cities. If that was the location of Dissident headquarters, he wanted to stop the threatening plague before the general population noticed it.

  Campbell cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we have enough reliable intelligence to support that course of action,” he began, choosing his words with care. “We simply do not know what lies at the end of this trail.”

  Reynolds turned around, frustrated by the continued lack of action taken against the people who he considered traitors and fugitives. “You’d better get some reliable intelligence fast,” he growled. “I’m getting tired of those people continuing to elude us.”

  Campbell nodded his understanding as Reynolds gulped down his third drink in one swig. He poured himself yet another drink and sat back down in his chair.

  “What was that other thing you wanted to report?” he asked. His voice came across as calm, but Campbell could tell he was fuming inside. He knew Reynolds had not abandoned the idea of attacking an unknown base of operations.

  “It appears that the contagion is becoming more aggressive,” Campbell began. “A month ago it caused only redness and irritation. Last week it started showing signs of creating open sores and tears in the skin.” Reynolds only half-listened, his eyes glazed over as he stared out the window. Campbell continued.

  “Last night, Mr. Graham experienced a rapid and violent exposure that caused his skin to literally fall away from his body in a matter of minutes, dissolving his eyes down to nothing. He was pronounced dead shortly after the medical personnel arrived at his home.”

  The gory description brought Reynolds’ attention back into the room. He set his glass down and leaned forward on his desk. “How contagious is this thing? How is it being transmitted?” he asked. His eyes radiated both anger and panic. His fear of dying from a horrible, debilitating disease had first motivated him to transplant failing body parts all those decades ago. Even with all the technology and Angel bodies at his disposal, the smallest microbe had the power to end his life.

  Campbell leaned forward and matched Reynolds’ posture, placing his own elbows on the desk and intertwining his fingers. “We haven’t yet been able to identify what kind of pathogen we’re dealing with,” he whispered in urgent tones. “Nor have we been able to identify how it’s being passed from one person to another. So far, only a few cases inside Olympus have been identified. Most of the victims have been scattered throughout the LTZ. There have been no evident connections between any of the victims. Most of the medics and doctors that have come across cases have misdiagnosed them as skin ailments. Graham is the first person we know of that has died after exposure.”

  Reynolds tilted his head in confusion. “I read a report that there was a TRTV pilot that contracted the disease, was expected to make a full recovery after skin grafts, but he died due to complications.”

  Campbell took a deep breath.

  “He was expected to survive,” he said with little emotion. “His own epidermis was eroding off of his body, but the surgeons were confident that the Angel skin grafts would successfully take hold. However, he died while in recovery after his first skin graft procedure.” Campbell leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Reynolds. “The autopsy showed a lethal dose of neuroleptics in his system. It seems that whoever infected him either did not want him to live or they didn’t want us to discover the cause or a cure.”

  Reynolds stood up from his desk and walked over to the door. Campbell stood as well, knowing that their meeting was over. Reynolds gripped the door handle, but made no motion to open the door yet.

  “You’d better find something out there in that wasteland,” he warned with a menacing glare. “Or so help me I’ll put you in a room with the next person that contracts this disease and watch the two of you fall apart, bit by bit. Do we have an understanding?” He stared down Campbell like a wolf on the hunt.

  Campbell gave a low bow, showing deference to Reynolds. “Of course, General!” he said unfettered. “I assure you that I’m more eager to find a resolution to these issues than you are.”

  Reynolds opened the door for Campbell, a display that would be visible to the rest of his staff and continue the illusion that his rank was lower than that of his visitor. He donned his biggest false smile on his face and slapped Campbell on the back, as if he were saying goodbye to his dearest friend. Campbell played up to the ruse as he stepped through the door.

  “I’ll be sure to pass that on to General Reynolds, Mr. Campbell,” he crowed with enthusiasm. “Have a wonderful day, Sir!”

  Campbell turned and gave Reynolds a final bow and a smile, then turned back toward the main door that headed out to the rotunda and the lifts. As he reached the door to leave, he overheard Reynolds calling out to a member of his staff.

  “Sara, would you come in here please? The General has some messages he’d like you to transcribe.” Sara stood up and retrieve
d the tablet that the other Angel had carried out of his office. Reynolds closed the door behind her as she walked in and, once again, detestation boiled within Campbell for Reynolds’ affinity for the pleasures of the flesh.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Jack choked on the dust that permeated the ancient stairwell with each step that took him deeper beneath the ground. While they descended level after dim level, he told Evangeline about the visit from the agent posing as a Counseling Angel, their dangerous scuffle, and his rescue by Felicia. Evangeline filled him in on what happened after her visit to see Daryl and the grotesque scene she witnessed there.

  An uneasy look flashed across Felicia’s face. Her fatal injection had killed that pilot. She had done it out of mercy, to put him out of his misery. But she worried if Evangeline ever discovered how Daryl had contracted the disease in the first place and what measures had been taken to end his life, she knew Evangeline would never trust her again. And Felicia was starting to warm up to Kevin’s former protégé.

  Jack’s laborious breathing echoed throughout the stairwell as the group tramped down a dozen flights of stairs into the depths of the building abandoned centuries before. The dust and exhaustion had flared Jack’s asthma, and now rasping coughs accented his footfalls down each step. The most physical exertion Jack ever endured in Olympus was dashing through his SimCom arena; his farm years well behind him, he was not suited for the demanding descent after his easy programmer’s lifestyle in the luxury of Olympus society.

  Evangeline was not tired like Jack. Her daily fitness sessions of calisthenics and other combat training on the base made her better prepared for physical exertion, but she still felt the searing in her thighs and calves as they reached the bottom floor.

  Kevin and Felicia seemed even less effected by the expedition. They took in a single breath for every three breaths that Jack needed. Life outside Olympus, and even the limited comforts of the LTZ, had made them stronger and more resilient.