Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

  He continues. “Maybe we bumped into each other or something, but the real questions is, why the hell are you people trying to kill me?”

  “Any member of the Nation of Utopia deserves death,” K’Thos says.

  Considering that Phoenix is holding a gun to K’Thos’s head, if Phoenix is a member of the Nation of Utopia, then I’m really curious to see what happens next. Maybe I should take a couple steps out of the splatter zone.

  “What?” Phoenix asks. “You utter moron. A long time ago, I used to be a member, but I’m not anymore.”

  “But your aircraft—”

  “I stole it from them. I even painted it black in an attempt to make it clear—even to complete idiots like yourself—that it no longer belonged to the Nation of Utopia. Apparently, my plan failed.”

  “Nobody leaves the Nation of Utopia,” Aran growls. “Members are brainwashed, so they want to stay. If that doesn’t work, they are banished.”

  “Banished means killed?” I ask, wanting to be a part of this for some reason I can’t quite lock down.

  “Yes,” Aran says.

  “I escaped,” Phoenix says, no small amount of pride in his voice.

  I believe him, though I might be the only one.

  “You escaped?” Aran asks.

  Phoenix actually rolls his eyes, as if he gets this question all the time. “Yes, I escaped. How do you think I got the aircraft? Now, I’d love to stay here and regale all you with a wonderful story of how I did it, but in case you aren’t up on current events, the situation on this island is worsening with each passing hour. I’m getting the hell out of here, and I suggest that all of you do the same. Is it safe for me to let you go now?”

  K’Thos nods. Phoenix releases his grip and holsters his weapons. Aran lowers his outstretched hand, though his body doesn’t stop glowing.

  K’Thos turns to face Phoenix. “So, you hate Utopia now?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Any enemy of Utopia is a friend of mine. I hope you will accept my humble apologies.”

  “Sure, whatever. Just stay out of my way.” He doesn’t address Aran, but as Phoenix stalks away, he says. “See you later, Syl.”

  Unable to shake the image of Phoenix’s green eyes and what I think I saw in them, I push past Aran.

  “Let him go,” Aran says.

  I hold up one hand to wave off the advice.

  “Phoenix, wait.”

  It’s several seconds before he stops and waits for me to catch up. “What, you need a goodbye hug or something?”

  My hands are crossed across my chest as I stride right up to him. He’s lethal, but not to me. His eyes are wide, and he’s breathing deep. Either he’s winded from the fight, or I’m standing too close.

  “Yeah, maybe I do.” Just not from you.

  My response has the desired effect: he’s speechless.

  “Have we met before?” I ask, not sure what I want the answer to be. There are clues to my past here on this island. Maybe I still have time to blunder into one before everything sinks into the ocean.

  How long he stares into my eyes, I have no clue. “Of course not. I would remember. There are probably fifteen million people on this island, so it’s not statistically probable for us to have met before today.”

  “There are billions of people on the planet, and yet, here you and I are.”

  “Once is one thing, twice is another.”

  “Your wings are clipped, Phoenix, how are you getting off this island?”

  (why are you even asking you don’t know him don’t)

  (trust him)

  “I have backup plan.”

  “You have a boat.”

  “I have a backup plan,” he repeats.

  It must be the automatic me that cares, because I don’t feel like saying what I find myself saying. “Okay, when your backup plan fails, come back this way. Aran is acquiring a boat. Should be room for one more.”

  There, I tried.

  Of all the things I’ve done that I’ve been unclear as to the reason behind them, this is probably at the top.

  As I’m walking away, I hear him say, “Thanks.”

  I head back to the train without incident. Several technomancers, along with the Pure are still congregating around the train. Don’t see any sign of Aran or K’Thos. I enter the train, find an empty seat, and shut my eyes, feeling like I might be able to sleep for longer this time.

  Blessed oblivion takes me.

  I come back awake to a hand gently pulling on my wrist and a soft, young voice calling my name. It’s a little girl with dark brown eyes, a smudge of dirt on her nose, and a thin layer of dark, tight curls on her head.

  “C’mon, we’re going to the boat!” she announces, giving me a flash of teeth.

  Kami approaches, smiling. “Aran wants us all to relocate to the Rusted Whale as soon as possible. He was quite insistent we leave now. Those technomancers love to bark their orders.”

  “What’s a Rusted Whale?”

  “It’s a boat.”

  “There’s a boat called the Rusted Whale?”

  “Fortunately for us, it seems there is.”

  I join the Pure as they stream down toward the street level and the dock area. One little girl, who won’t tell me her name, holds my hand the entire way.

  Our transportation off this island is moored to my left, at the end of the long pier. To my right, just a minute or two by foot, I can see the shoreline, thick with sand. It seems like a ship that size would be embedded in the ocean floor this close to land, so I suppose the seabed must drop off quickly. Boat seems like such a small word to describe how massive a vehicle the Rusted Whale is. It towers above the surface of the water, and if it was there earlier during the confrontation between Aran, Phoenix, and K’Thos, then I’m the most unobservant girl on the planet, because I don’t understand how I could have missed seeing it.

  The ship—she’s old, paint peeling in large swaths across the hull. In opposition to its name, there’s relatively little rust, at least not from what I can see from down here. Overall, the vessel is a brown-red color. It’s one of those colors that makes you believe you can catch some fatal disease just from touching it. The technomancers have rigged a wide gangway that the Pure use to enter the ship. I hang back, watching the others trudge onboard.

  (they’re trudging to their doom they’re all going)

  (to die just like)

  (you)

  And then I’m thinking of JACK and 2-85, because if they’re still on this island—and in my heart, I know they are—then they don’t have much time left. If the riots don’t get you, the Bleed will.

  JACK, I found a boat, now find me.

  Wind catches my hair and tosses it about. The smell of the ocean is that of a thousand dead and decaying things, with the promise of more to come.

  Not wanting to get on the ship yet, but without any real idea of what I’m doing or what I’m looking for, I find some steps that lead down to a beach area. The sand is a green and dark brown, almost a mud clinging to the thick tread of my boots. Waves assault the shore in a dance as old as the planet. I consider dipping my fingers in the water, just to see if it triggers any memories, but I decide not to. There’s a memory lurking in my brain—something you might see in a storybook for younglings, something about the Seven Dangers of the High Seas. I don’t remember if there’s anything dangerous here so close to the shore, but it’d be a shame to make it this far, with salvation floating half a kilometer away, only to succumb to an easily avoidable death.

  Out there, across the ocean, is the mainland. There are two options, north to Takiyoma, or northwest to the Free States. One a corporate-controlled business state, and the other a wild free-for-all, where the rules change depending on your longitude and latitude.

  Considering what has happened to the island since Cyberspace went offline, I can only speculate as to the effect on Takiyoma. Those most dependent on technology are the ones who most suffer when it’s taken from
them.

  The wind shifts, sending my hair into my mouth and bringing a foul smell from across the ocean. It’s the stink of a thousand dead things.

  (the water)

  (it’s your only way out but)

  (it’s poison)

  Instead of straying farther from the Rusted Whale, I drift away from the water. A group of boulders, worn smooth by the water, form crude steps that lead back up to the street. I ascend, sitting down on the topmost boulder, taking a food packet from my backpack, filling my belly while filling my mind with the endless impact of water on sand. There’s comfort in that constant repetition, both visually and aurally.

  For a moment, I feel at peace. Which doesn’t make any sense, but there it is. Despite knowing more about the world I live in than I do about myself, despite the constant onslaught of treacherous experiences, despite the Dokks, despite the wirewitches, and despite Calamity, here I am, living and breathing, at the edge of the island, with my safe passage moored just a few minutes away.

  I’m alive.

  How is that possible?

  I sit for a long time—longer than I should, basking in the realization that survival is something to be celebrated.

  (blue spark)

  The thought of a life growing inside me fills me with a confusing mix of anxiety and elation, which basically means I don’t know how to feel about it. I close my eyes to keep the world from spinning.

  (if)

  (it’s still alive)

  I shiver, trying to banish that morbid thought back to where it belongs. When I get back to the others, I’ll find out whether there’s a doctor among the Pure. Or maybe one of those technomancers can scan me and tell me whether my baby is still alive.

  I shouldn’t need to sleep so soon, but my body is telling me otherwise. Sleep, that’s what I need in order to put this day behind me. With the way events have happened in my life so far, the only refuge from the tumult is a deep, lasting unconsciousness.

  The way back to the others is clear, but up above, there’s still the occasional fiery orange streak across the sky.

  The Bleed are still coming.

  The island is dying.

  I quicken my steps.

  I’m almost to the Rusted Whale when I see them.

  Them.

  I’m sucking a mouthful of liquid from the SuperWater bottle, idly thinking of Phoenix, my mind fixated on where I might have seen him before, when my peripheral vision picks up movement. There, behind the burned up, rusted out carcass of a hovercab I just passed, crouch three cloaked figures. Their cloaks are gray, hoods pulled low to hide their faces. I stop, giving away that I’ve seen them, which was a cosmically dumb thing to do. Don’t remember drawing it out from the backpack, but the pulse dagger is in my hand. I back up in the direction of the Rusted Whale. One of the cloaked figures stands up, and I tense to turn and run. Just about to do that and scream for help when the one that’s standing lifts their hood to reveal their face.

  It’s JACK.

  55/Return Of The Witch [T-minus 5]

  2195.12.29/Night

  What is this I’m feeling?

  To want something I shouldn’t.

  To be close to somebody, no matter how dangerous they are.

  (this is what you

  wanted

  this is what you

  need)

  JACK closes the gap between us, her arms snaking tight around me, my own around her, her body warm and alive. The pulse in her neck beats against my cheek.

  “You left me,” she says, her voice an urgent whisper. I can feel wetness on my neck, and the pain in her voice triggers my own tears. She’s planting soft kisses on my skin, right at the collar of my skinsuit. One of her hairstalks is curled around my ankle. “I don’t understand why you did that.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.” I shiver at her lips, her breath a repetitive gust on my skin. She’s touching me like she’s not sure I’m real.

  (don’t let me die don’t let me die)

  (alone)

  I hold her tight, as if nothing will ever come between us again.

  Her response comes after a long pause. “I know.”

  She doesn’t, not really, but given what 2-85 did to me before Calamity Carl took me, I’m not going to correct her right now. “You found me. I don’t know how you did that.”

  She pulls away, to hold my head in her hands and look me in the eye. “I just never stopped looking.”

  Brushing away tears from the corners of my eyes, my attention is drawn to the other two cloaked figures, who are standing just behind JACK, pulling back their hoods.

  Inexplicable relief washes through me that one of them is 2-85.

  The other is a new wirewitch. She’s taller than all of us, her shoulders broad beneath her cloak. She’s eyeing me impassively; her face is all sharp angles. A solitary hairstalk protrudes from her forehead, falling down the side of her face and over one shoulder, disappearing beneath her cloak.

  JACK’s massaging the back of my neck, as if I’m a wild beast she’s trying to sooth. What the hell does she think I’m going to do?

  “Syl, this is PIIX.”

  I pull away from JACK, unable to stop the words that erupt from between my lips. “I get it, you’re two wirewitches away from a full coven now. That’s wonderful. You know, it should be only one, but your warlocks keeping fucking up. Oh, and I don’t remember, did I mention that they’re horrible kissers? I mean, they’re really bad.”

  Okay, now I understand why JACK was trying to keep me calm.

  She sighs, and it’s the sigh of that not-quite-a-teenager who’s still inside her. “Are we going to do this right now? Right here?”

  Hand to my forehead, because there’s a buzzing in my skull. Oh, there you are static, I was afraid you were gone for good. “Yes, JACK, we’re going to talk about this right now—all of it, but you’re right, not here. Follow me.”

  I grab her hand and pull her with me, toward the Rusted Whale.

  “Are we going inside that?” JACK asks.

  “If we stay on this island, we all die. The Rusted Whale is our way off it.”

  “That boat’s called the Rusted Whale?”

  “Put your hoods on until I clear you with Aran and his technomancers.”

  “Aran? You mean that technomancer with the wings that abandoned us in his secret hideout?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “We stole a lot of his stuff. Did you find out if he was married or not? Were those his girlfriend’s skinsuits we were wearing? I didn’t think we’d ever see him again.”

  Her return has my reactions all over the place. How am I supposed to maintain my anger when I’m having to suppress a smile at the familiar, blistering pace of her words. “I didn’t either, but some people you just can’t seem to avoid.”

  The wirewitches hide their faces beneath their hoods as we approach the entrance to the pier. I’m thankful their cloaks are long enough to hide their hairstalks as well. I don’t know how this is going to go, but approaching the technomancers with three uncovered wirewitches seems like it could result in significant damage.

  Behind us, the crackle of explosions. I turn to see smoke rising, hundreds of columns like gnarled fingers reaching up to the clouds, as if the city itself is pleading for some rescuer to reach down and pull it from the fire.

  I can’t stop myself; I let my eyes flick to 2-85, and of course, he’s looking right back at me, his eyes glinting from underneath his hood. I know that look, and I can just imagine what’s going on in that technosite-infested gray matter of his—that I looked back just so our eyes could meet, that despite witchkissing me, despite what he revealed, that my brief physical attraction to what he was before is somehow going to reappear and all will be forgiven.

  I won’t lie; there’s a part of me that wishes that could happen. A part of me that wants exactly that. But yeah, that’s not how Realspace works.

  I glare at him. Things aren’t good between us. Download th
at into your skull.

  The wirewitches are a package deal. It can’t just be JACK—2-85 and PIIX are part of that bargain. It’s difficult to process the ramifications of all this, but I know one thing to be true: I don’t want to be alone.

  We make it halfway along the pier before the technomancer with the cannon for an arm stops us. I stop several meters away—a distance I hope isn’t threatening. Besides, this technomancer is a brute, with massive shoulders, bands of metal woven like muscle across his chest. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s naked from the waist up or if he’s wearing some sort of armor on top of all his enhanced body. Who’s to say where the man ends and the machine begins? His face is a mask, with only hints of synthetic flesh peeking from between metal plates. Hoses and translucent, glowing tubes form joints, serving the conclusion that he’s more tech than flesh. His chest is emblazoned with a large number 7.

  “Hey, big guy, did Aran tell you I was going to be bringing a few extra friends onto the ship? Because I told him to not forget to tell everybody. He forgot, didn’t he?” I begin, smiling and sounding more cheerful than I ever have before. “He said we had priority boarding.”

  “I am 7,” the technomancer states.

  “Really? I only see one of you.”

  “You are making a joke.”

  “I’m (2)Syl, and it’s nice to meet you, 7.”

  “You’re Pure. The Brothers of Chrome are sworn to protect you.”

  The faint buzzing of the static rises. Did I just notice it now, or has it been there this whole time?

  “I’m not pure, but I like the thought of you and that cannon you have protecting me.”

  He raises his arm. “This is a pulse cannon. And you look like Pure. Your friends—”

  7 stops, cocks his head to one side, as if he’s just now noticing the three cloaked figures I have behind me, then he speaks two words: “Aran. Wirewitches.”

  Fuck.

  “They’re with me,” I say, putting my palms out—one toward 7 and the other toward the wirewitches.

  There’s a flare of blue on the deck of the Rusted Whale, as if something explodes. A glowing object, that I know is Aran, lurches into the air, wings upstretched, clawing for altitude, then he’s diving down toward the pier, hurtling toward us along its length.