Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  The silvery white woman in miniature still stood there in midair before Ariadne, walking back and forth, a bright silhouette in the darkness. The glow of the hologram underlit the face of Talman, making him appear grimy, hairy, and monstrous. Almost the womanly projection appeared to be waiting for something. Then she held her hand to her ear as though answering the phone, yet the figure was too blurry to be certain.

  “Who is this woman? Tell me, Ariadne,” asked Talman of the head atop the statue.

  “Child is with child!” Ariadne blurted out the words as though someone might be disagreeing with her. “Her fertile womb barren of souls!”

  “What is her name?”

  “Great Harlot! Bride of the Beast! Whore of Babylon! Dove unmarked is dame of twain! Daughter sweetest, mother intrepid; cold as the grave, yet bright and brave! All these names they suit her!” Dajjal’s spine tingled with each movement of the dissected psychic’s lips. Though none of what she said made any sense logically, he could not escape the sneaking suspicion that Ariadne – or what remained of her – was no impostor.

  “Where is she now?” whispered Talman excitedly.

  “Across the sea she scrapes the sky, at continent’s center spins her lies! America, her dying cape; in elder East, for her we wait…” At first Ariadne’s head flailed somewhat as she spoke, like the stump of a recently amputated limb. Then the glowing, miniature vision of the woman before them disappeared at last, and Ariadne relaxed.

  “Must she always speak in these confounded riddles?” asked Dajjal irritably.

  “Can’t help it,” said Talman slowly. The effect of Ariadne’s last words seemed to have left him inexplicably thoughtful, though he said nothing of it. “She is dreaming while awake, Trenchant?” he said to the little man, who nodded back, still busily taking readings from the computer. “Officially speaking, we’ve got Ariadne metabolizing as though she were awake,” continued Talman, turning back to Dajjal, “though she hasn’t been truly awake in what we’d call months as far as her brain chemicals are concerned. The part of her brain we are attempting to pick at is a creative center, so her responses always come out drenched in disgusting rhyme and poeticism. It adds interest, if nothing else.”

  “So you’re using her as both a seer and a database,” said Dajjal ponderously, to himself as much as to anyone else.

  “Yes. Her main charge has been rendering the blueprints of Babylon through memory, as you’ve seen. On a daily basis the geometry of her memories are assessed by my archaeologists and added to our index of her other recollections. With her aid they are able to decide where and how to dig without the possibility that excavation will damage a millimeter of the city. Soon the full restoration will begin.”

  “And why have you given her the dragon wings?”

  “This was the very place where the Oracle of Tiamat, the Dragon Goddess, used to sit,” said Talman distantly. “There was once a massive carven throne here, made from the wood of a most ancient tree, upon which she sat, and it had great wings which spread out behind her. Yet for my purposes, I have adapted the idea into its current permutation, for the Temple now lacks any image of its patron goddess, as this place was repeatedly robbed and defaced down through the ages, until it was forgotten and smothered by the desert.”

  Talman was looking toward Trenchant again. “We’ll need to stomach-feed her, Trenchant.” The slender man, though previously seeming to have completed his tasks, sprang to life once again upon hearing the command, pulling several intravenous bags from a refrigerator beneath the table. Soon these were hung upon hooks, which Trenchant’s hands found deftly in the darkness, and were snapped onto feed lines connected to the woman’s stomach.

  “What is that stuff?” Dajjal asked woozily. “What are you feeding her?”

  Talman seemed to have been hoping for the question. “Let’s just say that in a couple days we’ll be calling it Haji Soup...” He laughed to himself jovially as he looked across at his apprentice, relishing Dajjal’s surprised, shocked reaction.

  “Oh, you’re…” began Dajjal clumsily.

  Talman was not listening, but leaning over another computer screen, which occupied a corner of the work table. “I suppose she’s ready to go fully back online now,” he said to Trenchant, as he tapped several buttons. Immediately Ariadne’s eyes relaxed further, and her breathing appeared to slow, as silence again swelled in the Temple of Tiamat. Dajjal’s stomach growled, which was just as well seeing as he had no idea what to say.

  “That’s it,” said Trenchant as he stood. “She’s passed into remembrance.”

  “Let’s be off, then,” said Talman. “It’s time we had some dinner.” And with that Dajjal, starving indeed, followed his master from the ruins, hoping earnestly that no part of their meal would include soup.

  Florida Justice

  The Florida Everglades along the Shark River Slough teemed with twilight activity. The rustling of wind-blown sawgrass, the croaking of frogs, and the chirping of crickets were a lullaby to the lands beneath the overcast sky. All went temporarily silent as a minivan with intentionally dim headlights approached the waterway. The metallic rattle of the vehicle’s sliding door being thrown open sent a flock of disgruntled waterfowl flapping into the night sky.

  Quickly the three conspirators, disguised in camouflage face paint and fatigues, emerged to pull their captives from the van. Dragging their three respective victims to the shore took time, even though the imams were no longer struggling. Bound and gagged though they were, none of the dark-skinned clerics had been blindfolded, and thus had spent the entire ride into the swamp communicating in the language of steady glances. Now they lay upon the muddy ground as children, staring stolidly into the gracious beyond. Martyrdom would be an honor.

  As the tallest of the conspirators pulled a pistol from his belt, the eldest stayed his hand. “I said no guns! You’ll attract the park rangers!”

  “Let’s throw ’em in then!” snapped the third irascibly.

  “Hehehe…” The tallest man had already begun. Standing in the shallows, he seized the nearest captive by the shoulders, and pulled him easily up to eye level. “Well, well, well. I’ll admit I expected you to put up a better fight.” The ruffian glanced this way and that as he pulled the imam closer. “Where’s your Muslim President now, sandman?”

  “You like this better than seeing your Quran burned?” hissed the eldest henchman, as he tugged a second cleric into deeper water. “Somethin’s gotta go, you see…”

  The last man soon joined them, towing his victim along in a headlock. “Alright, boys. On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

  With a splash the martyrs-to-be were submerged, as the hate-filled fools held them under. The simple force of their automatic reflexes caused the bound men to resist at that point, but it made no difference. The murky water was an impenetrable cloud of condemnation, the strong arms of their captors a judgment. Laughter rang out across the bayou like a curse.

  “What the…?!”

  Suddenly a brilliant glow illuminated the water, shining upon the faces of the ruffians from beneath in a circle of inexplicable bioluminescence. Without warning the conspirators found their hands empty. Desperately their fingers searched the waters, but caught hold of absolutely nothing. Frantic anxiety swept over them as they dashed back toward the van to escape the light, yet all went black before they reached it.

  A pair of delighted eyes watched avidly from out of sight as the spluttering men realized they were not alone. The congregation of hungry alligators he had summoned were surrounding the van, and now they leaped upon the men with lightning-fast precision. Quickly the howling of the conspirators gave way to the sounds of shredding fabric, as the blood feast erupted into a full-fledged feeding frenzy. Florida justice had proved inescapable, and without the police having even arrived.

  All the while the Sea Man had remained just beneath the water’s surface, waiting for the perfect moment to rescue the imams. He was no phantom, though they guessed a
s much at the first otherworldly sight of him. Real and tangible as any man, the touch of his hand had set the genetic shift to work within them quickly. Still submerged, they now hovered here and there in the water about him, silently wondering at the continued effortlessness of their breathing. Bahari’s hair billowed around him as he touched down upon the riverbed, and they wondered again that his body seemed clear as glass, only barely visible by the faint light which shone from him. Though it took some noticing, they had all undergone a similar transformation as the biological chain reaction took hold, but already Bahari was beckoning to them warmly, and they were not afraid. So, still unable to see very far in the muddy water, the three clerics followed him audaciously as he led them out, out, out, deeper and deeper into the endless sea.

  Chapter XVII

  SPIDER GRANDMOTHER

  As the weeks stretched smoothly into months, the rainy season descended upon the island. Local authorities had told Den the rains would wait at least until the end of October to fall heavily, but this year seemed to be an exception to the rule. By late September the rains had already waxed torrential, which brought out the lush green of the island as never before, though admittedly this was difficult to appreciate from indoors. Blustery winds buffeted the column of young trees which had been planted to line the way down from the mansion’s back entrance. Leaves swirled in uncontrolled eddies, and most of the driest places had become the abode of water-weary rabbits.

  Thus Den found himself dodging raindrops in the pre-dawn light one morning, as he darted from his new workspace. David had messaged him to come quickly – a rare occurrence – which spurred Den to run off toward the robotics lab with a reckless abandon, eager to see what his friends had accomplished. Anticipation was running high, for David and Rachel had remained sequestered in their workshop for some time, putting the finishing touches on the command robot which would serve as the communications hub for all of the electronics on the island. A clap of thunder punctuated the determined thrum of the rain on the roof, as Den hurried through the door of the workshop. There he found his friends at last, patiently awaiting his arrival, and they all exchanged greetings.

  “I find your taste in design rather scary, Dave,” said Den, gazing toward the sculpted figure of metal at the center of the lab. He was not kidding. The massive robot featured the shining upper body of a woman, rising disconcertingly from the terrifying abdomen and eight legs of a spider.

  “Okay, okay,” called David, from across the room, “but you’re going to have to blame all the design stuff on Hayao, here.” An excited face, though creased with concentration, nodded in acknowledgement of David’s accreditation from behind a nearby computer terminal. Den smiled jovially back at Hayao, and stepped toward Rachel to get a better view of the scene.

  The command cyborg was impressive, composed of so much polished metal that it looked like a new street bike. From the waist up the feminine robot seemed a collage of mobile metal plates, which interlocked and interleaved to create an armored appearance. Conversely, the abdominal structure from which the legs sprang revealed especially intricate electrical and mechanical workings beneath a more cage-like exoskeleton. Den was excited to see how it moved, for the robot was composed of so many multidirectional joints it might prove more agile than any woman or spider combined.

  “And now the moment of truth…” David announced, winking to Hayao. Hearing him, the electronic artisan entered a last line of code and hit the return button expectantly. Silence filled the room.

  Nothing happened. “Just wait,” whispered David reassuringly, “before long she’ll be reacting to at least one of our thought streams. There’s just no telling which one she’ll choose.”

  Statuesque, the android stood there for just a moment longer. Then, unexpectedly, the spider-woman sprang to life, her spine attenuating vertically in a long rolling motion, as she seemed to stretch for the first time. Her lustrous steel visage did not look around, but turned decisively to face the door. Suddenly the hind legs of the mechanical beast began to claw their way forward from back to front sequentially, as all spiders do when they wish to get moving. Out the door she shot with surprising speed, and the companions followed after to see what she might be up to. Did psychic robots favor scenic outdoor walks, perhaps?

  “Where is she going?” asked Rachel, as they ran along.

  “I think she’s going up to the house!” shouted David. “Come on!”

  “She’s waterproof, right?” asked Den of Hayao, genuinely concerned, if only unnecessarily.

  Hayao nodded back reassuringly, but said nothing as he ran breathlessly along beside Den. As their creation pulled ahead, it seemed there was nothing for it but to follow the ’bot, hoping her intentions might eventually become clearer. So they hurried after, noticing the robotic woman was still increasing her pace – the eight long, slender legs now a clicking blur of metallic motion beneath.

  “All this money and nobody ever thinks to invest in an umbrella?!” shouted Rachel caustically. Had she looked up more carefully she might have seen a hopeful break in the clouds approaching, but this went unnoticed.

  Already the she-bot was turning the knob, entering the house as if she had done it a thousand times, skittering inward faster and faster by the second like an over-caffeinated mollusk. None of them could have kept up for long had the cyborg been heading for a more distant destination, yet she turned quickly aside at the Chapel of Endless Stairs. The rain outside was slackening, and the clouds rolled aside, as the spider-bot entered. At last the sun rose, in blazing defiance of night, illuminating brightly its own rendition in miniature: the stunning stained-glass sunrise which had been assembled as the massive organ’s backdrop. As the group caught up to her, they found the android had reached the top of the dais already, to stand tall before the organ’s keyboard. Den stepped forward before the others, his eyes surveying the scene carefully as he started up the stairs.

  Living dawn lit the spidery form of the android without hesitation, drawing attention to slender arms which raised glimmering hands to cover her mouth. Perhaps it was only because of the form in which the ’bot had been rendered, but Den felt strongly that he was literally viewing a “she.” Was she crying? No tears fell; the gemlike droplets which covered her had come from the sky. Yet there was no denying the robot’s posture communicated intense emotion, unexpected as that might be. As he came to stand behind her, Den could not shake the feeling that the strange cyborg seemed both beautiful and sad.

  The spider-bot’s gleaming countenance turned to him, flashing like a dame in shining armor before the morning sun. The spider’s abdomen scuttled around to her backside quite independently in response, leaving the android facing imperiously down the stairs before the organ. Then, to his utter horror, Den found the ’bot suddenly upon him. Without warning the precise steel sinews of the cyborg pulled him close irresistibly, so that the whirring of the workings within was evident to his ear, now pressed against her shoulder. A strange truth dawned upon Den at that moment: this was not an attack, but an embrace.

  “Denny-dear!” exclaimed the ’bot, as temporary insanity gripped him. She released him to arm’s length to look him up and down appraisingly, but Den remained as tongue-tied as he was wide-eyed.

  “Yes?” asked David, hurrying hopefully up behind.

  “And David too!” The robot was already awarding the other man a massive hug as well, though none of them understood why.

  “This is Rachel,” continued David experimentally, extending an arm in her direction, as Den looked on in undisguised disbelief.

  “A woman?” wondered the oddly familiar voice of the cyborg, issuing from somewhere within her. The ’bot descended the stairs slightly, to greet Rachel as she approached, adding: “And so beautiful…”

  Certainly Rachel seemed the least confused of the group. “And who might you be?” she asked politely, certain a direct approach was the best approach.

  “Me?” said the ’bot, pausing thoughtfully. “Oh, yes
: me. I am Victoria. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She reached out to shake Rachel’s hand vigorously.

  Den could not believe his ears. “Grandma?!” Before he knew it he was hugging her solid form again, though awkwardly from the side, as David’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  “That’s right, Denny,” said Victoria, now remembering to hug her grandson back. “Thank you for all your hard work. Did Rachel help?” Den finally released his grandmother, but remained close, still eyeing the strange android in hopeful disbelief as David answered her.

  “Along with many others,” confirmed David even more slowly, also watching the behavior of the ’bot very carefully. “So you say you are Victoria?”

  “Naturally, David. Who else did you expect to hear from after building a robot capable of housing human frequencies so readily?”

  “Umm… No one, really,” said David.

  “Well, I suppose you can consider this a pleasant surprise, then,” concluded Victoria. “I’ve been looking for a sensible place to call home ever since I died, and I think this contraption will do nicely.”

  “Wait. So you remember… dying… and everything?” asked Rachel, both curious and uncomfortable at the same time.

  “I remember going to sleep and not waking up, certainly,” confirmed Victoria.

  “And then?” Though David had expressed the thought first, they were all wondering the same thing.

  “Then I saw a few flitting images blow by, and ended up here quite rapidly,” said Victoria. “Why? How long has it been?”

  “Oh, not long – just a few months,” offered Den helpfully.

  “And Harriet and Henrietta are here too!” announced Rachel, beaming suddenly.

  “Really? Excellent!” exclaimed Victoria. “But who is Henrietta?”

  “She’s a relative of Harriet’s, apparently,” said David. “Sort of a helpful chaperone…” Victoria raised her folded hands to her lips, nodding, as this was said – a thankfully bemused gesture amid the glories of the room.