Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

  “Syl,” JACK whispers, grabbing my hand.

  I clamp down hard, pulling her near, making sure she can see my eyes. I’m not going anywhere, JACK.

  “Keep your witches from doing anything,” I say. “Aran’s met you before. I’ll explain everything.”

  “I don’t trust him,” JACK says.

  “Trust me then.” Then to 7, who’s pulse cannon is emitting a high-pitched whine and swiveling rapidly between the three wirewitches. Everybody’s standing their ground, but nobody’s advancing. “Please don’t shoot any of my friends, 7.”

  “Friends? They are dangerous. I must protect the Pure.”

  “Please don’t shoot. They won’t hurt the Pure.”

  (you don’t know that they

  hurt you)

  That’s all the time we have, as Aran descends, his wings wide, his boots slamming down onto the pier, right between 7 and me.

  “Syl, there are three wirewitches standing behind you,” he says. His body crackles with energy. I can barely tolerate the waves of heat radiating from him.

  bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!

  I avert my eyes and take two steps backward, the heat and the static becoming more bearable with each step.

  “Any way you can turn that off?” I ask, squinting and turning my eyes away. When I do, I see that the wirewitches have all pulled their hoods back. The secret’s out, boys and girls. Hide all your Pure. The energy around Aran decreases in intensity but doesn’t fade away completely.

  “7, stand down for now,” Aran says, his long hair falling across his face like a curtain. “I see you’re rebuilding the coven.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but realize he was talking to JACK, who steps up shoulder to shoulder with me.

  But the full force of Aran’s hard gaze is still focused on me, his eyes sparking with that power. “That stops now.”

  “I understand,” JACK says. “I promise—"

  Aran shakes his head, his eyes unwavering. “I don’t need you to understand. What I need is for Syl to understand. That if any of her wirewitches touch any of the Pure, I’ll kill the coven.”

  “JACK,” I say, grasping her shoulder.

  She grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m with you, Syl. We’re with you.”

  “Aran, we’re so thankful for all that you’ve done for us,” I say. “You helped us. You saved our lives. I don’t think that’s something we can ever fully repay. They just want to leave the island like the rest of us. They won’t touch the Pure. I promise.”

  “I don’t need your promise. You know the consequences—that’s enough. We’re trying to save as many people as we can. You and the coven are free to come aboard.”

  His body tenses, his knees bending, his wings fluttering as he prepares for flight again.

  “Why are you helping us?” JACK asks.

  Aran doesn’t answer, his body engulfed in energy as he lifts off, hurtling back toward the Rusted Whale.

  “Why is he helping us?” JACK asks again. Not sure who she’s asking.

  “Good men do good things,” 7 answers. “Aran is doing great things.”

  His words are rather poetic for somebody who doesn’t look as much human as he does somebody who can transform into a tank.

  “I think I like you, 7,” I say. “I think you’re one of the good men.”

  His face is an intricate metal mask, so I can’t see how he might be reacting. He does nod though before he turns and resumes his patrol, headed back toward the end of the pier.

  “I guess this means no private tour of the Rusted Whale?” I say. If 7 hears me, he doesn’t react.

  I take a couple deep breaths, feeling the static fading as my body relaxes. Nobody died, and I’m pretty sure when it comes to gatherings of technomancers and wirewitches, that’s a checkmark in the win column.

  2-85 and PIIX—who move up behind JACK—both look like they want to say something. JACK makes some motion with her hand that I don’t quite catch, but the two step to the side.

  This is a JACK I haven’t seen before. JACK, the coven leader. A large part of me rejects her like this. No, she’s just a youngling, she’s not ready for this. It’s only been a few weeks, but she’s not the wirewitch she was. Her transformation was as drastic as Tam’s.

  JACK takes my other hand in hers. “Syl, I have a promise to make to you.”

  I know what she’s going to say, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to hear it, not until we’ve had a chance to talk through everything.

  (impossible)

  (you don’t have)

  (that much time)

  “Not here,” I say, letting my grip on her relax. “You can make all the promises you may or may not break after we’re safe on the ship.” I hold her eyes until she drops my hand. When she does, the static dances through my brain. Wincing, both from the static and from the venom in my own words, I briefly consider grabbing her shoulder again to see if it would take the static away.

  (don’t try to find a pattern)

  (where there isn’t one)

  “I thought you were going to wait until we got onboard to yell at me,” JACK says.

  “So did I.”

  We walk down the length of the pier in silence. When we catch up to 7 on patrol, he escorts us the rest of the way.

  The Rusted Whale looms above us, its hull splashed in red and brown, paint peeling away in long strips. The gangway that leads from the pier up to the jagged wound in the side of the hull is a wide slab of metal torn from some other location—perhaps from some other part of the Rusted Whale itself. The end of it’s been driven into the surface of the pier to prevent it from moving.

  “That doesn’t look safe,” JACK says.

  PIIX grunts. “I’d rather swim to the mainland.”

  “The water’s right down there,” I say, an index finger pointing the way.

  “Oh, you’re a world of trouble, aren’t you?” PIIX asks. “But I think I like you.”

  “We all do,” 2-85 says.

  Why does he have to make this so difficult? I can do without his like.

  I want to whirl around and respond, but I step onto the gangway instead, hoping it looks like I didn’t hear them. Make it halfway up before I give in and stop. “JACK, tell your coven they need to shut the fuck up. Especially your warlock. He should know better.”

  Stepping off the top of the gangway, we find ourselves in what looks to have been a crewmember’s quarters before whatever caused the wound in the hull happened. The walls are all burned black, and the charred remains of a bed take up one side of the room.

  Our welcoming party consists of several Pure—two men and one woman. The men have short, graying hair, but the woman can’t be too many years older than me. Her black hair runs down to the middle of her back. Their clothes are simple, tattered and dirty, but their faces are alert, flawless and beautiful. Their eyes are striking, irises shining with splashes of bright color. All three of them have rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “One girl with blue hair. Three wirewitches,” the woman says as if she’s checking us off a mental passenger list. She smiles at me, but not at the wirewitches. “Aran told us you’d be bringing them onboard with you. He also said there wouldn’t be any problems, but—”

  She cuts herself off, the unspoken truth hanging in the space between us: but—my family is on this boat.

  “You can trust Aran.”

  She brushes hair behind her ear. “I hope so. I don’t have any other choice. None of us do. Follow me. You first, then the coven leader, the other female, then the warlock. These two handsome young men behind me will bring up the rear to make sure nobody gets separated and lost.” She holds up a hand, a small red device held between her thumb and forefinger. “You know what this is?”

  I do. “That’s a Skreamer. It’s a single-use transmitter. You push that, you can send a message to anybody anywhere on the planet. But with Cyberspace down, it probably doesn’t work.”

  “It doesn’t need to send a mes
sage to anybody anywhere, since Aran has the receiver, and he’s on this boat. Are we on the same frequency about what happens if your friends can’t control their urges?”

  Aran did this too, ignoring the wirewitches, talking only to me.

  (if anything happens it’s)

  (your fault angel)

  I nod vigorously, “Same frequency.”

  JACK and the others watch me without expression. They’re being good little wirewitches. That’s what I need, because right now, good wirewitches are living wirewitches.

  Our host nods. “Then follow me.”

  She leads us through the doorway at the other side of the room. We walk through a maze of long passages and steep staircases, all lit by dim fixtures on pale, dusty walls. For the most part, the interior is undamaged, though there are some areas that appear to have experienced some violence—scorch marks from laser weaponry, doors torn from their mounts, bullet holes in walls. There are endless hallways of crew and passenger rooms. My mind ponders what it would have been like to see this ship when it was new and fully operational.

  “I didn’t say anything earlier, and I figured Aran might have told you, but I’m (2)Syl,” I say as our host stops in front of a red door at the end of a long hallway.

  “Aran didn’t say much.”

  “That’s so unlike him.”

  “He’s bad, but not as bad as some of the other technomancers. With some of them it’s almost like they grunt once for yes and twice for no. By the way, I’m Pex.” She pushes the door inward and steps inside. “You’re safe here. The power’s still off throughout most of the boat, and the interior is a labyrinth, so don’t go wandering around. The wirewitches stay here unless you escort them.”

  “Glitch that,” PIIX says, pausing at the door.

  I turn around. JACK does something, and I’m not exactly sure what—there’s a twitch of movement from her hairstalk and a flick of her wrist—but whatever it is, PIIX gets the message, because she recoils, going down on both knees and bowing her head. Her hairstalk slithers out from beneath her cloak. She grabs it in both hands and holds it above her head to JACK.

  “Stand up,” JACK—who less than a month ago was a cowering, curious youngling—commands the submissive wirewitch. “Now’s not the time for this. You’re forgiven of course. Just stand up and be quiet.”

  PIIX does that, falling in line as we enter.

  Compared to most of what I’ve seen so far, the room we’ve been assigned is one of the nicer ones. It’s certainly one of the larger rooms. The ceiling is low—lower than it should be. Both 2-85 and PIIX have to duck down to avoid hitting their heads. It’s impossible to tell what the original purpose of the room was because it’s devoid of furnishings. The walls are a deep, dull red that reminds me of dried blood. The few working lights illuminate a thick layer of dust on the floor. There’s a door on the left side of the room that probably leads to a toilet and a sink.

  I realize I’m performing my survey while standing next to 2-85. I’d move away, but I’m stronger than that now.

  “Does this room come with turndown service?” I ask. The idea of sleeping on the cold hard floor is unwelcome. Also, the static is a persistent pain in my temple. It’s entirely possible I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.

  “Sure,” Pex says. “If you ask for anything, we turn you down.”

  “More importantly, is the plumbing working, or do we have to designate a corner to pee in?” JACK asks.

  I raise an eyebrow at her. I’ll handle the sarcasm here. “Do wirewitches do that?”

  “Let’s just say that, unlike this boat, my plumbing works.”

  Pex doesn’t smile, but her voice is friendlier than it’s been. “The plumbing in here is operational.”

  I take my backpack off, pick a wall, put my back to it, let my body slide down until my butt’s on the floor, and put my head in my hands. “Did Aran say when we might be leaving?”

  Pex answers from the doorway, “No. That’s a problem he and his technomancers are working on solving. Since there’s nothing you can do about it, there’s no reason to waste time worrying. Again, you’re safest here in this room. Stay together and stay here. You’re literally in the same boat as the rest of us—so, this is your only way off the island. Whatever you do, don’t get off the boat for any reason.”

  “I think we can do that.” Now that we’re in a safer place, I can feel my body relaxing. My adrenaline high is fading, and I entertain thoughts of sleeping for a year.

  “Good.”

  I have my eyes closed, but I hear Pex and her two companions exit the room, leaving me alone with the wirewitches.

  After a couple of minutes, I lift my head to see the wirewitches are just standing in the middle of the room, watching me—JACK flanked by 2-85 on her right and PIIX on the left. They’ve dropped their cloaks, their hairstalks swinging free like vines undulating in the wind. It’s a disconcerting sea of blue; they’re wearing skinsuits that are only one or two shades off from their skin color.

  (you’ve been here before)

  (remember?)

  “What is it?” I ask, and there’s no small amount of annoyance in my voice. The static is still buzzing through my brain, refusing to let its presence be ignored.

  “I want to go first,” JACK says, approaching me before going on her knees, which are almost touching my boots.

  The static rises. I force myself to look JACK right in the eyes. Twin cyclones greet me. Her hairstalks writhe across the floor, entangling like twin serpents.

  “It’s my fault that 2-85 attacked you.”

  “You told me I’d be safe.”

  “I know, I know. I was wrong, and I’m never going to forget that. You asked, and I should have refused. I should not have left you with him. I thought he was more stable than that. I thought I had more control. I’m sorry.”

  “What about you?” I ask, looking over at 2-85. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

  “Yes, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m going to tell you the truth.”

  The static increases.

  JACK opens her mouth to say something, but I stop her with a raised finger. “No, it’s okay. If we’re going to work through this, we have to be free to say what we think. 2-85 can say whatever he wants to me. I mean, he’s already tried to kill me, what else can he do?”

  “Being a wirewitch is not death,” 2-85 says. “Far from it.”

  “I’m not going to debate you on what death is. Say what you have to say.”

  “May I come closer?”

  I suppose that he asked is a sign of something. Not sure what I want, but I nod. He kneels beside JACK. PIIX remains where she is.

  “Syl, I am a wirewitch. I witchkissed you because of what I am. Still, I know that I hurt you, and I am sorry for that. I don’t fully understand it, but I am glad that the witchkiss didn’t work.”

  “Me too,” JACK says.

  “But you have to face the truth about what happened,” 2-85 says, pausing like he’s making sure I’m paying attention.

  “And what truth is that?” I ask, the static intensifying another notch.

  “That it’s your fault. Not JACK’s. Yours.”

  “What do you mean?” It comes out in a stammer.

  “You insisted on being alone with me. You knew what I was.”

  “I trusted what JACK said, that I was as safe with you as I was with her.”

  “No, you ignored reality. You knew her control was tenuous. You should have kept your distance. Why did you want to be alone with me?”

  “What do you—"

  “If you needed to process that I was a wirewitch, you should have done it from a distance.”

  “I needed to understand,” I say quietly, because he’s right.

  “You were impatient.”

  “Yes.”

  “Pathetic,” PIIX grunts.

  “Be careful with your words here,” JACK says
. “You are new to this, and you are not her friend yet.”

  “I’ve heard enough. What is the use of determining fault?”

  “If you don’t understand that, then you’ve lost more of your humanity than JACK or 2-85,” I say.

  PIIX crosses her arms across her chest. “It’s in the past. You can’t change it. Placing blame isn’t important. Anyway, the witchkiss didn’t work.”

  “It not working isn’t the point.”

  2-85 is shaking his head. “My goal was not to place blame, but to convince Syl to accept her part in this.”

  “You know what we are,” PIIX says. “You willingly choose to be near us, and the coven chooses to be near you.”

  “Can you accept that?” 2-85 asks.

  “Can you accept us?” JACK asks.

  (you know

  what we are)

  Don’t know how long it is before I answer, but it’s awhile. One of JACK’s hairstalks brushes the side of my boot. I reach down and lay my fingers against it. JACK’s breath catches.

  I take a deep breath. “You’re right, it is my fault. I pushed. I was impatient. I admit that, and I accept it. But that doesn’t excuse what happened to me. It was a betrayal, not just of me, but of JACK.”

  “2-85 has already paid a great price for his actions,” JACK says. “If that matters to you.”

  “What about her?” I ask, gesturing toward PIIX. “Is she waiting for her turn?”

  “You’re cute, but you’re not my type,” PIIX says. “And you’re immune.”

  “Wirewitches have a difficult time believing that.”

  JACK leans forward to grab my hand. “No wirewitch in my coven will ever witchkiss you again.”

  “In this coven, or another, I will kill anyone that tries,” 2-85 says.

  (wirewitches are just)

  (animals behave like animals)

  “What about other people?” I ask. “Are you going to witchkiss other people while we’re together? Or will you wait until my back is turned and then try to complete the coven?”

  I glance at PIIX. She laughs, her hairstalk sliding off her shoulder to hang down in front of her body.

  JACK says, “We did not perform the witchkiss on PIIX.”