by Jeremy Flagg
“Holy shit,” Conthan muttered.
Standing where a train should be resting, he could see down the track to where it became a tunnel, feeding back into the web of routes. High above the tunnel, a poorly painted hawk spanned fifteen feet from left to right. The crude application of paint gave away the rushed manner in which it had been slapped on the wall. A roller? Perhaps a large brush? The symbol, obviously stolen from Gretchen, acted like a beacon, drawing him closer. He wanted to inspect, touch, and analyze its meaning in this underground chamber.
“It’s him.” A hushed voice.
On the passenger platform, a man with dark, tattered robes stared down at him. His bald head and plethora of tattoos reminded Conthan of the priests from the church. The man grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing the circular hawk. Conthan stole a second glance at the hawk painted on the wall. Next to the priest, another man stepped forward, revealing an identical tattoo.
Conthan grabbed the ladder leading up to the platform. For each rung he climbed, another priest came into view. Eight men in total and a single woman, each wearing similar robes, their bodies covered except for hands, feet, and head. As Conthan stepped onto the platform, they each revealed a neck, an arm, even parting the robes to show a chest. The circular hawk branded each of them.
Their shiny scalps reflected the light of a few dozen lamps suspended from the ceiling. The sight of Gretchen’s artwork adorning so many bodies mesmerized him. The ultimate form of flattery, a permanent memory of an idea created by an artist.
A single man, whose tattoos shone vividly against his black skin, approached him, clacking each step.
“You|He are|is one of the Children|Nighthawks.” His speech pattern startled Conthan. His voice had an edge of wonder to it, but firm enough to know he spoke the truth. As the man took another step forward, the clack of metal on the pavement turned Conthan’s eyes downward. Protruding from the tattered robes, thin metal crutches held the man upright.
“Azacca|He|I is|am betrayed by his|my body. Sickness|Disease|Multiple Scilorisis|MS.”
The disease had been eradicated years ago; nanites infiltrating the nerves repaired the damaged. Conthan started to speak, wanting to ask the man why he didn’t have it cured. The question danced on the tip of his tongue, but he bit his lip, not wanting his first words to be something as trivial as a moral dilemma about augmentations.
“Are you a Child?”
The words jumbled together, difficult to understand. An Asian man almost a foot shorter than Azacca had opened his mouth to speak. “He is confused.”
The number of Children beyond Conthan's immediate circle were few and far between. Relying on Dav5d to sort out of the gifts of a Child was his usual strategy. Now, speculation and guessing put him at the mercy of these gifted priests.
He decided to change the subject. “Why the hawk?” Conthan pointed to the painting on the wall.
“It|The hawk brings me|him|us closer to the Gods|Children.”
“Do you speak for them all?” First the Asian man lowered his head and one by one, the rest followed. The hairs on Conthan’s arms started to stand as the order bowed their heads, all but Azacca.
“You’re a telepath,” Conthan whispered.
“No.”
Each of the priests raised their hands to a small lump underneath their right ears. Despite their lack of hair, the bumps were small enough he’d never have noticed. Azacca was the only one without the subdermal node. Conthan had no idea what the augmentation did, but only Azacca seemed untouched by technology.
“You’re a Child?”
“He is,” said one of the priests. Conthan recognized him as the man from yesterday, the one who had spoken to him as if he were the only parishioner in attendance.
“Do not be alarmed, Conthan,” the priest said softly. “You are amongst believers.”
“How do—”
“You saved us and a church of believers from synthetics.” He held a hand up, inches from brushing against Conthan’s cheek. “To watch the Gods grace us with their—”
“I ain’t no God,” Conthan said. “I’m a barely functioning human most days.” The man had been standing on stage as the synthetics flocked into the church. Conthan looked to the priest from the attack. “You weren’t there, he was.”
“We have been blessed by the Gods,” the first priest said. “We freed ourselves from mortal limitations to become disciples of Nostradamus.”
“Can you make sense? It’d be appreciated.”
“I am twenty-two miles away. Twenty-two. Seven. I am giving a sermon. I am praying for a sick child. I am all of them. I see through many eyes. I speak with many voices. I am Legion…”
“For we are many,” Conthan finished. The pieces started to fall into place, a disturbing realization crept up his spine. A shiver worked its way through his body. Each of the disciples lifted their heads, eyes locked on to him. The priests were not priests, they were a single priest. Dav5d would have explained it in some lengthy technical jargon, but Conthan understood enough: somehow the disabled priest in the middle inhabited each of their bodies.
“The reckoning,” Azacca said. “It is upon us.”
* * * * *
“They’re not lying,” Needles’s Child assumed.
Dwayne shot the woman to Needles’s right a dirty look. Years of working beside Vanessa had awarded the telepath the luxury of meddling in his headspace. Needles’s lie detector, reading each micro expression, used his body against him. He resisted the urge to slam a bolt of electricity into her chest.
“You mean to tell me, you, a confused artist, a spoiled rich punk, a…” Needles pointed at Alyssa, sitting to Dwayne’s right, “whatever she is, and your sister is everybody?”
“Skits.” Dwayne pushed away from his sister’s chair until he bumped into Alyssa.
From Skits, there was no movement, no darting eyes, just a displeased expression directed across the table to Needles. Then her fingertips blurred as the air touching her skin started to rise in temperature. The effect spread along her hand until it reached her elbow. The air ignited, and her arm was engulfed in blue fire. The part of the table beneath her was vaporized instantly.
“Consider me underwhelmed. Sure, you get all blue fire and shit. I bet you can even take out a synthetic or two. How about a dozen? A hundred? What about the thousands holding Chicago hostage? Next, please.” Needles turned back to Dwayne. “It’d be so much cooler if you could get all frosty, maybe shoot snowballs from your eyes.”
“He’s useless to us,” Alyssa said.
Dwayne started to speak, but she held up her hand. He followed her eyes, straight to Needles’s human lie detector. Dwayne sat back in the chair, certain Alyssa could best the woman.
“You have no army. You’re nothing more than a hacker with a few friends. We can do better.”
“She’s lying,” the woman said.
“Soo Jung seems to think otherwise.”
Alyssa took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her face went blank. Breath steady, blinks perfectly timed, Alyssa’s circumvented Soo Jung’s abilities. Dwayne smiled, internally cheering for his teammate.
“Needles,” Alyssa said, her voice void of any emotion. “The sky is red. The Earth is flat. The first letter of the alphabet is Z.”
“I, I,” Soo Jun stuttered. “I can’t tell.”
“Are you ready to stop playing games?” Dwayne asked.
“Soo Jung, can you see if their comrade has woken?”
The woman huffed. If looks could kill, Alyssa would be dead right now. Apparently, Needles’s Child hadn’t been bested in a long time. Under the table, Dwayne gave Alyssa’s leg a squeeze to show his appreciation.
Bluntly, he asked Needles, “Why do you want Jacob?”
“You mean our fearless president? Our General in Chief? Do you recall voting for him? I certainly don’t. The man has singlehandedly used the American people as puppets for some deranged tyrannical game. W
hy do I want him? Cause he’s going to get us all killed.”
“So, you’re doing this for the betterment of society?” asked Skits. “I don’t seem to remember you being that selfless.”
“Sasha,” the man said, “you never had a problem with my motives when you needed something illegal.”
“Skits,” she spat back. “When did you go from a guy selling fake IDs to leading a resistance?”
Needles locked his fingers together on the remainder of the table and leaned forward. His unshaved face and stringy hair made him look more like a homeless person than a fighter. “I’ve been in this fight since the Nostradamus Effect. I know more about Jacob than you could imagine.”
“Try us,” Dwayne dared him.
“Jacob is the leader of a secret cabal, known as the Paranormal Society, that has utilized mentalists for more than two hundred years. Instead remaining in the shadows, they used their abilities to grow a no-name company into the leading technology empire in the world. Your turn.”
Needles let a self-satisfied expression settle on his face. His hands rested just short of halfway across the table. Dwayne imagined grabbing the man’s fist and letting a low charge jump between them. The smug expression wouldn’t survive an electrocution.
“Don’t hold out on me, sparky, what do you have?”
“Jacob is dead, at least in a metaphysical sense. He’s been possessed by the former Warden of the Facility. We killed him. He possessed Jacob’s body. The Warden was given his position by Cecilia Joyce.”
Needles's expression faltered, revealing his concern. The cocky, arrogant know-it-all was replaced by a straight, direct man. “I killed Jacob’s predecessor, Franklin.”
Skits whistled. “You sure we can’t trade him for Vanessa?”
“Quiet,” Dwayne said. There were questions, questions he didn’t even know he had. He decided it was time to put all the cards on the table and finish the work of a dead psychic. Secrets brought them together, but it was time to cast a net wider than the Nighthawks.
“Eleanor P. Valentine gave each of us a letter,” Dwayne admitted. “She brought us together. We thought it was to stop the Warden. But now we think it is something bigger. We think…” Dwayne stopped as Needles leaned back in his chair. Something he said had changed the man’s demeanor from arrogant to contemplative.
“A letter, you say?”
“You didn’t get one too? Jesus, didn’t that woman have any hobbies?”
Dwayne’s eyes rolled at his sister’s outburst. Needles stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. While Dwayne appreciated a man willing to disrobe, the gesture came across as awkward. As the fabric parted, though, he understood the man’s motivation.
“I wasn’t the one who received a letter.”
Needles revealed what was scrawled across his abdomen in large block letters. Dwayne let out a small gasp. “Dav5d.”
The man sat down again, opting to leave his shirt unbuttoned. The arrogance vanished and for the first time Dwayne saw a serious mood wrap itself around Needles. “I knew David before he was David with a 5. I thought he died almost a decade ago. Sparky, you have my attention.”
* * * * *
“I can read the confusion in your eyes.” The single female priest spoke as the others dipped their heads. Conthan noted how as each of the humans took control of the conversation, the others bowed their heads, disconnecting. “You are amongst disciples…”
“Disciples?” he asked.
“Would you prefer acolyte? Adherent? What we are called does not diminish our devotion to the Children.”
“I’m not a God.”
The woman lifted her hand, nearly brushing his cheek. The gesture mirrored that of the priest from earlier. Conthan resisted the urge to pull away as she grew uncomfortably close. He found it difficult enough to accept Dwayne’s admiration or even the respect of his teammates. For a complete stranger, a woman who knew nothing about him other than a evolutionary mistake, to elevate him to such a status made him uncomfortable.
“Perhaps not Zeus.” Her arm retreated. “But the Greeks believed their pantheon a vast and complex hierarchy. Conthan Cowan.” She smiled at his name. “Do you know how the Children came into existence?”
“I, I…” He paused. Scientists grappled valiantly with that exact question. The sooner the race to a scientific explanation was won, the faster it could be reproduced, or worst, cured. The smartest minds in the world theorized their source had been a cosmic occurrence, while many believed that explanation was the scientific equivalent of, “No clue.”
Being a Child, it might seem he’d have some special insight. But he not only had no clue, he was surprised to realize he'd never dwelt on the question before. “I don’t know.” Was he chosen? Did he earn this? He found himself believing in a chaotic randomness—how else could he be a Child?
“I don’t want to be this messiah. I’m a fuck up.”
“No Child is without faults.”
“But why? Why me?”
“The weight of the world pushes at your shoulders, attempting to force you to your knees. It demands you submit. Why, Conthan? Why do you continue to fight a battle you feel is a lost cause?”
“If I don’t—”
“Who will?”
He nodded slowly.
“And you question our devotion to a man willing to sacrifice himself for a greater good. I see you, Conthan. We see you.”
“I see you.” The words were barely audible. They rolled off his tongue as if the phrase had been natural.
“Not yet,” she said. “You will only see us once you see yourself as Nostradamus foretold.”
“The reckoning? What did Azacca mean?”
“War,” she said as if that explained it all.
“We’re already at war. Jacob—”
“Not between humans,” she corrected. “There is a war between the Gods. The Children of Nostradamus are preparing for a war. A great darkness prepares to descend upon the world. The striking of sword and shield by titans will lay waste to the world as we know it. The future holds a darkness—”
“Darkness,” he repeated, a phrase written by Eleanor in multiple letters. “You’ve said that twice. What do you know of Eleanor Valentine?”
“If you are a Child of Nostradamus….” The woman’s lip curled at the thoughts running through her head. “If you are Children, Eleanor Valentine is the mother.”
“Mother?”
“The mother of Nostradamus, the creator of the Nighthawks, the maker of destiny itself. Nostradamus predicted the rise of the Children. Eleanor foresaw a future in need of saving. The night grows thick and the darkness rises.”
“How do you know about darkness?”
“The preacher.” The woman’s mouth moved, but it was Azacca who spoke. “I|we am|are the voices of the Child|Preacher who revealed to me|us the potential of Nostradamus.”
“Who is this Preacher?”
Slowly, the priest from months ago raised his head. As the woman stepped back, he took her spot, awkwardly close to Conthan. The man studied him, starting at the eyes and then making his way up and down his body. Conthan may have saved the priest all those months ago, but he barely remembered the man himself.
“Is he like you? Like all of you?”
The man shook his head. “Azacca has blessed us with an immense gift.”
“Yeah, the whole legion thing.”
“The processors,” the priest tapped the small bump behind his ear, “allow us to transmit information to and from Azacca. His gift allows him to send and receive signals that make us greater than the sum of our parts.”
“He really does speak for each of you?”
“And we for him. I know every sensation Sister Adelae is experiencing. Brother Henryki is praying for his ex-wife. Brother Edwards is in the middle of a sermon where a dozen parishioners just watched a young mute boy speak for the first time in his life.”
“A hive mind? Do you ever worry having somebody know your
every thought?”
The disciple shook his head slowly. “Azacca sees us. We see him. Our faith in ourselves is as absolute as our faith in you, Conthan Cowan.”
The hawk hung overhead, a reminder of their faith. For a moment, Conthan pondered what it would be like to have absolute faith in himself. Since Jed handed him the letter, he felt like he had been living in a dream. Alyssa firmly believed a higher power had bestowed these abilities on her and she wielded them in the name of Allah. Even Dwayne and Skits owned their abilities. He, he found himself playing superhero, hoping someday the imposter syndrome would fall away.
“Until the path is lit for you, I will have faith for—”
The man cried out. Each of the disciples raised their heads, faces trapped in agony. Azacca’s blood-curdling scream didn’t terrify him as much as the soundless faces of pain. Conthan debated whether to run back into the winding tunnels to get help.
A hand clasped his own. Still shouting, Azacca struggled to maintain upright, his spine bending backward. “I’ll get help,” Conthan said.
The woman's face relaxed, tears streaming down it. She blinked, clearly unnerved by what transpired. “Azacca,” she whispered, barely audible between the man’s screams. Conthan tried to connect the pieces, still confused by what he witnessed.
“We, he…” She paused. “No, we, we just died. Azacca, you stubborn bastard.” Conthan’s eyes locked with hers, and with the lift of an eyebrow he tried to signal his confusion. “Azacca, he, we, I mean…” Her face filled with panic. “I’m alone. Instead of experiencing the death of our brother, Azacca cut me free.”
“Why?” Conthan asked.
“Conthan.” Her eyes pleaded with him, begged him before she spoke the words. “The Preacher,” she whispered, “he needs you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1996
The spires of the church reached to the heavens surrounding by storm clouds moving along the sky. Only thin beams of moonlight penetrated the dark masses reaching the ground. In either direction, the street vanished, swallowed by darkness.