Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  “So minor sensations can be delivered holographically, while deep sensations must enter the body through a Nerve Jack?”

  “Yes. For the moment anyway.”

  Dajjal was still thinking as they began to walk once again, hoping he had not forgotten to ask anything vital, when a new question occurred to him. “What about that camel back in Nadi?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I know we told the villagers they mustn’t ride it, but what if someone tried to lean on it? Wouldn’t they fall over? I mean, there’s nothing really there, is there?”

  “Another good question,” said Talman, impressed once again by Dajjal’s forethought. “Yes. Though the children of Nadi were more than capable of running up to the camel to pet it, experiencing it’s convincingly wooly texture, they would have failed in attempting to make the camel support their weight in any way. Because of this I programmed the holographic beast to move away swiftly should anyone attempt to lean upon or ride her. Not that any of that matters, of course, as everyone there will be dead by tomorrow morning at the latest.” He laughed jovially, as though patting himself on the back.

  They had reached their destination: the last line of massive pillars which served as entrance to the sprawling Temple. As Talman and Dajjal entered quietly, they saw that the columns of stone gave way abruptly to a small open-air arena, surrounded in countless stone pews. On a patch of grass at the center of all stood a winged image like no other: the triumphant pillar of a woman. Already Trenchant had reached the bottom of the arena ahead. There he danced madly before the statue, positively brimming with disturbed excitement, spinning and leaping as though it all might somehow be real.

  “Meet Ariadne,” said Talman, gesturing toward the statue. He gave Dajjal no time to respond, but hurried hastily down the stairs toward the little green lawn, leaving the other to hobble after as best he could. The images of people, sitting quietly here and there in the surrounding pews, began to flicker into view as Dajjal attempted to catch Talman up, giving the impression that something like a meeting or performance might be about to commence.

  Then the music began. A recurring downbeat rang out, and resounded through the Temple, drawing even Dajjal more quickly inward to meet its source. He was there before he knew it, but stopped to rest upon the last stone bench at the edge of the grass. In the middle of the greensward stood the statue: a proud woman with the wings of a dragon. At that moment, as the drum beat droned on in the background, a high unbroken voice burst into song above all, causing every eye to train upon the statue. Continuously the melody ebbed from the seemingly lifeless idol, never pausing to take breath, nor even speaking in any recognizable language. At no time did the image of Ariadne run out of breath; the song simply persisted impossibly, uninterrupted and impervious. Before the statue stood Talman, now gesturing in the air in time to the music, as Trenchant danced a mad circle about him all the while.

  After a moment the tall, dark-skinned man turned to face the audience, folding his arms before himself stoically. There he began to strike the ground authoritatively with his foot in perfect time with the drumbeat. For Dajjal the immediate effect of this was quite startling, for it seemed as though a minor earthquake had begun. Talman was literally rocking their world somehow. Facing Dajjal and Trenchant with the feminine image of Ariadne thrusting upward, antennae-like, behind him, he continued to stamp in time to the melodious voice and booming drum beat. Through some creative twist of the templates, the world seemed to tilt almost sideways with each stomp of his foot, so that Talman appeared to take on the menacing power of a giant. Yet this could only be a holographic effect, Dajjal knew, as none of the surrounding stonework was taking any real damage.

  Abruptly the winged statue came to life. Her arms she lifted, appearing as moving plaster, beckoning. As ever her song hurtled onward, but now Ariadne’s mouth joined in, moving in timely expression of the unfathomable words. A glowing glyph appeared upon her forehead then, shining out to match Trenchant and Talman’s markings. The next instant a blinding flash burst forth from the foreheads of all three, so that Dajjal was forced to raise his hands defensively.

  When again he looked upon the scene, Dajjal was surprised to see that Ariadne’s legs had separated from the pedestal beneath, for she had stepped down to take Talman’s proffered forearm. There was a grand flourish as the two spun expertly in place, and then they were dancing perfectly across the grass with one another. Conspicuously they rarely touched, and never exchanged weight, which – at least to Dajjal’s eye – revealed Ariadne to be nothing more than a hologram. White clad women were dancing onto the lawn now – illusions all – to move in time with Talman and the dragon-woman, whose wings whirled behind her like a bridal train. The artificial audience around Dajjal seemed suddenly full as he looked around, its members looking more excited by the minute.

  Trenchant had stopped dancing wildly for long enough to watch his master, and stood there before all, a perfect caricature of dumbfounded, slack-jawed awe. The sight of him disgusted Dajjal, who still sat not far behind, observant as ever. Shortly thereafter, at a hand signal from Talman, the music and dancing stopped in perfect synchronicity, and the audience members seated themselves. Ariadne took her position atop the pedestal in a state of perfect balance, and seemed to undergo petrification once again, though this time in a far more precarious position than previously, with Talman standing elegantly before her. Her robes had frozen, unfurled impossibly in midair, as she stood upon one leg at the last moment, a statue so delicate not even the most experienced artisan could have duplicated it.

  As he stood there, Talman addressed Dajjal, Trenchant, and the audience of holographic Babylonians. “Brothers and sisters! Companions of the Crown!” he shouted, waving Dajjal over. “Today I bring a new initiate: your King and my student: Mosi Mukasa!” An affirmative shout went up from everyone assembled: from Trenchant, the illusory dancers, and the host of computer-generated watchers. As he arrived, Dajjal bowed gratefully, though not sure the gesture was necessary among so many holograms.

  “Come, Dajjal,” said Talman. “Stand before Ariadne, and you too will receive the Dragon’s Blessing.” He indicated the tattoo of spinning cubes shining upon his forehead, and beckoned so the bent little man might come nearer.

  “But…”

  Talman was already interrupting him as he approached. “Don’t worry, Dajjal, it is a painless ceremony. Now, will you take your Mark on the forehead or the hand?”

  “There’s a choice?” wondered Dajjal. “I’ll take it on the hand, then.” He was quite glad to hear this, as he had no intention of covering up the all-important KFR tattoo scrolled across his forehead. Before Dajjal knew it, Talman had wrapped his arm around him, so that they both stood squarely before Ariadne’s statue, looking upward into her motionless face. She was beautiful, reminding Dajjal strongly of Maria, though he knew better than to mention anything of the kind with her father so near.

  “Oracle of the Dragon,” said Talman solemnly, “accept this new initiate.”

  Crisply Ariadne came to life, abruptly and briefly as ever, meeting his gaze with steely blue eyes as she extended her arm. Directly she found Dajjal’s hand, and touched its back gently, her skin surprisingly soft rather than stony. Dajjal did not need to see the brilliant red flash which issued from his right hand to know the Mark had appeared, for it teemed with sensation. As Ariadne returned to motionlessness, Dajjal felt as though a warm, tingling star had come to shine upon his hand – an electrifying experience. Behind them, the dancers had begun to file out of the arena.

  “How do you feel?” Talman asked.

  “A little confused,” returned Dajjal, “yet fascinated. But you seem to fit in well here, don’t you Talman?”

  “This is Babylon the Great,” announced the other, “exactly as it was in the days of my youth. And now you have finally received the Dragon’s Mark!” He smiled. “From now on you need only activate the Mark with a touch to gain access to private areas
such as these dungeons. You can modify your Mark’s visibility to others by accessing the proper menu in your ‘Templates’ folder. For instance, I have only ever set my Mark to be visible in secret places such as this, as is the automatic setting for all of my lesser servants. Yet that will change.”

  “In the days of your youth?” scoffed Dajjal, still clinging to the other’s first statement. “And just how old am I to believe you are?” As he spoke, Dajjal strayed from Ariadne’s side to explore the rest of the arena.

  “The point is that she was here. Ariadne remembers her life.”

  The words were simple, but left too much to the imagination for Dajjal. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What could a statue remember?”

  “I mean that, when I first met her, Ariadne was the Oracle of Tiamat,” came Talman’s simple reply. “She was beautiful, and my first love.”

  Dajjal was about to interrupt Talman again, but stopped short, as the statue came unexpectedly to life. “Oh great city!” shouted the image of Ariadne. “Oh lost city!” Were red tears forming at the corners of her eyes? “Oh fallen Babylon!” Her keening attained a shrill pitch. “Cradle of the Crescent!”

  “What is wrong with her?” asked Dajjal, plugging his ears with his fingers.

  “It seems she is falling out of the state of remembrance. When left to her own devices, this is what she does,” Talman explained. “Though usually we can keep her submerged in images of the past – of Babylon the Great, in this case – she will insist on slipping into the present if left unattended for too long.”

  “But what purpose might either state serve?”

  “When the time is right, every one of her memories will be transmuted into the New Babylon which we ourselves will build. In remembrance, every detail of her memories of the city constantly feed our database, revealing a little more each day. Soon the desert will be opened, and a full restoration of the lost city will begin. This is what the Oracle, Ariadne, is bringing about.” Then he stopped, and raised his voice sharply. “Cut Program!” All went black as their exalted Babylonian experience was extinguished instantaneously, incrementally returning them to the glowing world of night vision as their perceptions adjusted.

  “We’d better have a good look at her,” muttered Talman in the direction of Trenchant.

  “I do not know. I don’t know...” a voice like Ariadne’s was whispering, even though the vision of her image had vanished.

  Convinced that he had heard Ariadne’s voice speaking from somewhere slightly further back from where the illusory greensward had been, Dajjal hobbled curiously forward. Slowly the dim heat image of a woman resolved into view there, and he understood that something like a real statue had been present with them in the darkness all along. As he approached behind Talman, it glowed confusingly before them in shades of both dark and light green. Dajjal soon stopped cold in his tracks, however, as he realized this was no ordinary work of art.

  The tormented face of a living woman, battered and shrunken, stared horrified from atop the true image which stood before them, her eyes darting this way and that as if still in disbelief at her predicament. Ariadne’s body, it seemed, had been largely imprisoned by a thick layer of plaster, though here and there a warm elbow or other patch of skin peeked out hopefully. Behind her rose large carven wings of some sort – clawed, cold, and reptilian.

  “Talman…” the captive was pleading. “Talman…”

  It may come as a surprise to know that none of the above are what gave Dajjal reason to pause, for indeed, the longer he gazed upon the scene, the more gruesome it seemed to become. Before the woman a table had been placed, and issuing through a hole in the plaster, the entirety of her internals had been spilled thereupon. Back and forth the woman’s eyes raced, seeming ever unable to absorb the full gravity of her situation. As he approached, Dajjal saw tiny filaments – veins, arteries, and nerves – which connected the jumbled mass to her body, all glistening beneath a coating of shining glaze. Numerous intravenous bottles stood nearby, each connecting separately to the organ it appeared to be supporting. Trenchant had seated himself at a small computer console behind Ariadne, where he busied himself pouring over various medical data.

  “Ariadne,” began Talman, finally addressing the partially-dissected woman.

  “Talman… Talman…”

  “What frequency is she cycling at?” asked Talman to Trenchant. “Is this the usual cocktail?”

  “No. The needs of her new kidney required we discontinue the pain killers for eighteen hours at least,” the pale man answered, “but you’ll remember we’ve been upping her levels on the Dual Nerve Jack for a week now, so she barely needed them anyway.” He paused to look up at the horrified woman. “She’s just reached frequency nine. I say we discontinue using the pain killers entirely, and replace them with nothing but hallucinogens.”

  “Good. And are the antibiotics still working?”

  “Seem to be.” Trenchant unexpectedly turned on a flashlight at this point, blinding their eyes suddenly with real light, and paining their minds with horrid visions of the bloody, yet still functional, entrails of the disemboweled woman. Needles pricked here mercilessly, through pools of high-nutrient organ food that surrounded the separated body parts. The strings of human veins, arteries, and other connective tissues which still linked the organs to the woman had all been covered with thin layers of nutritive wax, and carefully laid upon soft, warmed plastic.

  The mind of Mosi would never be the same again. These were things one could not unsee. “I must try harder to be Dajjal,” he thought. “I must forget my older, weaker self.” Then he spoke aloud at last. “If you wished to torture her, Talman, then why did you have her on pain killers?” He had many questions, but this was the first which came to mind.

  The woman’s face was staring starkly into the distance again, as Trenchant finally turned off the horrible light, restoring the blessed darkness, still lit simply by the greenish Wolf Eye holograms. “Our purpose is not to torture her,” said Talman confidently. “No, we want her to live a long and comfortable life.”

  “Then why have you sliced her up into so many pieces?” asked Dajjal, hoping the question would not prove too daring.

  “Better reception,” the other explained. “She’s a psychic.” Talman was happy to finally see signs of recognition in Dajjal’s face. “We’ve found that psychics tend to get a better reception if you spread them out as far as possible, without killing them of course, and therein lies the challenge.” Talman laughed to himself at the cruelly serious joke. “I was going to have them locate her hands on opposite sides of the room,” he reminisced fondly. “You know, just connected to her by some transplanted blood vessels, but the doctors were pretty sure she wouldn’t survive that. So we opted just to do this. It’s simple yet effective, and allows us to change out an organ now and again, on the off chance that one becomes tired or cancerous. Ariadne should live for a very, very long time.”

  “But for what purpose, exactly?”

  Talman stepped closer to Dajjal. “Mainly for finding things out – for learning the deepest of secrets. That is what having a good psychic in one’s employ is good for, isn’t it? Yet there is more. As it turns out, you see, a normal person’s memories of a place such as this – should they have any – would tend not to contain any hard metric data on their surroundings. When the subject is a gifted psychic like Ariadne, however, the tables turn. For this reason our primary focus for her has been to restore our records and city plans of Old Babylon, mainly for the benefit of the archeologists whom are working to restore it.”

  “Oh?” Dajjal, though verifiably starving at this point, was beginning to feel quite fascinated by every aspect of the ruins. It seemed Talman had embarked on quite a project.

  “Listen,” said Talman, in an aside to Trenchant, “let me just question her quickly before we send her back into remembrance.” He turned to the woman. “Ariadne,” he called gently.

  “Talman... Talman…”

/>   “I touch your forehead; bring me news,” said Talman, as indeed he placed his middle finger upon her forehead, softly soothing her toward trance in the flaring light of the Dragon’s Mark beneath it. Though her gaze remained fixed, Ariadne’s eyes slid shut, as if perhaps seeing truly some other world in the beyond.

  “This technology,” said Talman, gesturing toward Trenchant’s computer and the countless wires which spilled from it, “allows us to view Ariadne’s thoughts as they are projected holographically.” Dajjal shrugged his shoulders in confusion, and the other explained further. “It takes a bit of extra tech,” Talman continued, “but this is the beginning of our research into the possibility of full-on human domination. At this point I can force her to change gears mentally, from one mood state to another, or even implant powerful suggestions into her mind. Yet Ariadne has plenty of power of her own, for we give her capabilities of perception free rein to express themselves through the holograms, and ever these have proved to be her most profitable currents of thought. Most often we keep her in a state we refer to as ‘remembrance,’ which you’ve heard me discussing. In this state her brain plays back perfect reproductions of nearly anywhere we remind her of, whether her visit occurred in this life or in the last, all which is recorded.”

  As Talman finished, Ariadne’s eyes fluttered, and a flashing, green ball emerged from nowhere to hover, rotating slowly, before her. As she began to speak, the orb expanded quickly until it vanished, leaving the lone, white figure of a woman floating there in the darkness for their consideration. Before the tiny glowing wisp, Ariadne recalled the most proverbially daring child at any sleepover, wickedly grinning, perhaps, before the lone candle lighting a Ouija board. “The child with no soul is bred in the bone,” began Ariadne slowly, “the body of mother no secret. And soon will arrive the queen of red tides, her girdle the West, woe her eaglet.”