by Dyrk Ashton
Zeke mutters, “What the...?”
Edgar strides to them. “Not to worry. He can bite through the straps if the raft doesn’t deploy.”
Zeke and Fi both open their mouths to ask Edgar what the hell he’s talking about, but alarms buzz and red lights spin furiously along the ceiling.
Peter’s voice roars through the fuselage. “Incoming!”
“For Heaven’s sake,” cries Edgar. He shoves Zeke down into the seat, causing Zeke to let go of the blue backpack, which he still hasn’t put on, because it’s really heavy.
“I have Fiona,” shouts Mrs. Mirskaya, smashing Fi against the wall with her body, gripping handholds to either side, trapping Fi’s face between mountainous boobs.
In the cockpit, the missile approach warning system burps and blinks on the pilot’s console. Peter whips off his headset and flips the switches necessary to jettison the tip tanks—oblong storage containers for extra fuel on long flights, attached to the end of each wing.
Back inside the fuselage, there’s a loud pop and clunk as the tanks break free. Not a comforting sound.
Edgar finishes buckling Zeke in, then flips down the seat next to him and sits. With the parachute pack on his back, the best he can do is hang onto the safety belts to secure himself.
Peter flips more switches, deploying the plane’s countermeasures, then jams the throttle forward and leans on the yoke.
Zeke’s heart hops to his throat and his testicles feel like they’re crawling up into his kidneys as the plane accelerates and dives.
Fi says, “Mmf!”
The plane banks into a sharp turn.
Fi says, “Brmfp!”
Smothered by Mrs. Mirskaya’s bulk, Fi can hardly breathe, and she can’t see a thing, but Zeke’s eyes, wide in terror, catch sight of Baphomet and Dimmi clutching the sides of the truck to keep from flying out the back of the plane. Pratha, on the other hand, holds onto nothing. Her lips move in a silent chant as she somehow remains upright regardless of the plane's pitch and roll.
Behind them, streamers of light and smoke whirl away through the clouds, trailing from flares and chaff Peter has released in hopes of confusing the guidance systems of the approaching missiles. The flares flash bright as fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Still diving, the plane banks the other way, pressing Zeke hard against the back of the seat. Fi voices another muffled complaint, while Mol barks like a puppy, tongue flapping, tail wagging, as if he’s on Mr. Toad’s wild ride and enjoying the hell out of it.
The plane slams sideways and quakes, the concussion of a near miss louder than thunder. There’s another explosion on the opposite side, then two more above.
The fuselage quivers and groans, but the alarms cease blaring and the overhead lights stop flashing. The countermeasures worked. The drone of the engines drops in pitch as the plane levels out.
“The bloody gall.” Edgar drops the safety belts and thrusts to his feet.
Zeke never would have thought the incessant noise of the engines and wind could stand in for silence, but it does. He remembers to breathe and liberates himself from the safety harness. Mrs. Mirskaya releases Fi, whose eyes look far too big for her head.
Free of Mrs. Mirskaya’s protective mass, Fi says, “Fuck!”
“Fiona,” Mrs. Mirskaya scolds, looking her over. “You are all right?”
Fi glares at her. “Are you kidding?”
“You are all right,” Mrs. Mirskaya replies, satisfied.
Edgar retrieves Zeke’s backpack, which has wedged itself between the skid and the front tire of the truck. “Put this on now, lad.” Zeke fumbles the straps over his shoulders, too dazed to question. While Edgar tightens them for him, Zeke glances out the window, fully expecting to see the plane on fire and trailing black smoke. And it is.
The end of the wing is aflame where a broken fuel line from the tip tank has ignited.
“The plane’s on fire! The plane’s on fire!” he cries.
Peter comes striding from the cockpit. “It’s all right,” he says. “We’re not staying.” He twists a finger in the air and shouts in his big Peter voice, “Time to go!” He snatches Fi up in his arms and proceeds to the starboard hatch near the base of the ramp. Mrs. Mirskaya follows, protesting in fervent Russian.
On either side of the truck, Baphomet and Dimmi retrieve pneumatic ratchet wrenches attached to the walls by coiled tubing. They look to Edgar, who nods in confirmation. They remove the bolts that secure the truck’s skid to the floor. Mol hangs his head over the door to watch.
Edgar reaches into a storage panel on the wall, takes out his scabbard, sword sheathed, and belts it to his waist.
It occurs to Zeke that Edgar is the only one wearing a parachute. “Um... shouldn’t—“
Peter tugs the hatch open, which multiplies the roar in the plane.
Fi gets a blast of cold wind in the face and an eyeful of yawning storm. “Ohh! Peter?!”
Mrs. Mirskaya shouts in English now. “Papa. She is not well!”
Peter peers down through the clouds. “She’ll be fine.”
“What?” Fi demands. “I’ll be fine what?”
Mrs. Mirskaya waggles a finger at Peter. “You do not throw sick person from airplane!”
Fi squeaks, “Throw?!”
Edgar raises a hand and whistles sharply. Baphomet and Dimmi train their eyes on him. So does Mol, who barks his readiness.
“I’m not throwing anybody,” says Peter. “You ready?”
Fi shakes her head. “No!”
Edgar holds up two fingers, signaling Baphomet to release the small drogue chute from the back of the truck’s skid. It flies out the back of the plane, pops open and twists on its cord in the tailwind. Mol barks and wiggles with excitement.
Fi tries reasoning with Peter. “Um, it might be the first time ever, but I think I agree with Mrs. Mirskaya.”
Mrs. Mirskaya props her hands on her hips. “You see, Papa? Listen to Mokosh.” She turns to Pratha, who has moved closer to the hatch. “You tell him, Starshaya Sestra.”
Pratha shrugs. “He’s older than I am.”
Edgar drops one finger. Dimmi pulls a lever to release the latches that hold the skid in place. Edgar makes a fist and Baphomet looses the larger extraction chute. It snaps out over the ramp and opens behind the plane with a whump!
Skid, truck, Mol and all are jerked out with frightening speed. Mol’s thrilled yapping fades as the cargo disappears in the mist.
Edgar places his hand over his heart. “God be with you, old boy.” He nods to Dimmi and Baphomet, who jog down the ramp and jump.
Peter faces Mrs. Mirskaya. “She’ll be fine.” He holds Fi out as if in presentation. His voice rises and pride glints in his eyes. “This is Fiona Megan Patterson!”
Fi says, “Yeah but—”
“Finale Omega Paterna! The final and last of The Father!”
Mrs. Mirskaya stamps her foot. “Papa!”
“She is Firstborn!”
Fi says, “I—WAAAHaaaaah...!!!” Peter has spun, cradling her tight to his chest, and stepped out the hatch. Fi’s cry dopplers to nothing as they plummet away.
Mrs. Mirskaya says some very bad words in Russian while Pratha leans out the door to watch Peter and Fi’s descent.
Mrs. Mirskaya yells, “Out of my way, Sister!” and launches herself after them.
Zeke is speechless as Edgar drags him to the hatch. “We’ve no tandem rig,” Edgar explains, “nor parachute large enough to accommodate two persons, should we care to rig one.” He straightens Zeke’s backpack, clasps the waist belt and pulls it tight. “Pratha’s plan is the safest.” He places a pair of goggles on Zeke’s head. “Most likely.”
Zeke finds his voice, which is much higher than he’d like it to be. “Most likely?” He looks to Pratha, who winks, and he breaks into a cold sweat. His voice goes even higher. “What plan?”
“It’s a sturdy pack,” Edgar says in reply, giving the shoulder straps one last check. “The finest craft
smanship.” He snaps the goggles down over Zeke’s eyes and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Chin up, cheerio, and all that.” He steps to the hatch and crosses himself.
“Wait!” Zeke pleads.
But Edgar is gone.
Zeke clings to the sides of the hatch, watching in terror as Edgar falls through the clouds, dropping fast—much faster than it looks on TV and in the movies—like he’s being sucked away by some powerful invisible force. Which he is. It’s called gravity.
Zeke’s stomach flops, scalp tightens and vision swims. He squeezes his eyes shut to clamp down the vertigo, but the alarms go off again, screeching, buzzing and flashing.
Strong slim hands take him by the shoulders and spin him around. Pratha puts a hand to his cheek. “Relax,” she purrs.
Zeke gulps.
Then her mouth is against his, her tongue slithering between his teeth, coiling around his tongue like a snake on a rat and flicking the roof of his mouth. Searing heat of involuntary passion ignites Zeke’s lips, spreads downward to melt his icy gut, inflame his loins and curl his toes.
She pulls away, leaving him barely able to stand. The alarms continue to blare as she places an elegant hand upon his chest, glances over his shoulder to the dark sky beyond, and gives him a good hard shove.
CHAPTER TWO
CHINATOWN
Two ancient and burly beings emerge from the Holland Tunnel from New Jersey into lower Manhattan—in a dented baby-blue minivan with soccer stickers on the back partially covering spots of rust. The man-made mountainscape of New York City looms before them, glass and stone shining in the late-morning sun.
Kabir drives, cloaked in his gray suit, white shirt and purple tie, while Cù Sìth leans far back in the passenger seat, as much due to his cloaked height of seven feet as anything else, appearing to be asleep. Between the width of his shoulders and Kabir’s there’s little space between them with the seatbacks side-by-side. Cù’s cloaked in his black fur coat, dark hair spiked as if by hair gel above new reflective sunglasses purchased at a turnpike fuel stop.
After the brutal demolition of Father’s home, Kabir and Cù Sìth had climbed the opposite bank of the river to the quiet streets of Maumee, a suburb of Toledo, Ohio. Walking the sidewalk, wondering at their options, Kabir had seen the van for sale in a driveway. He’d knocked on the door and purchased it from an elderly couple with a handshake and a promise. He had no money or identification, but his sincerity convinced them they could trust him. And they could, of course, though they couldn’t possibly know he was Zadkiel, trusted angel of God spoken of in the Old Testament. He’d picked up Cù Sìth, who waited in the shadows up the road. They’d driven to one of Kabir’s safe houses in Detroit to get cleaned up, pick up currency, his passport, and a slim canvas case he couldn’t leave behind. He also dropped an envelope of cash in a mailbox, far more than agreed upon when the couple sold him the van on faith, before setting off for New York.
Sunlight glints off the old coin sitting on the dash, the one Father left them on the islet in the river. A call for a gathering of the Deva, the Warriors of Old. A call to war. Kabir could have gone straight to the designated gathering place indicated on the coin, but with the recent attacks he’s compelled to check on two of his oldest friends and fellow Deva, Akhu and Mac Gallus. He has no idea whether either of them carries a phone, and if they do, he doesn’t have their numbers anyway. He hopes the trip is not in vain.
The van isn’t the ideal form of transportation but it’s inconspicuous, which suits Kabir just fine. They could’ve taken a plane, which would have been faster, but his traveling companion has no identification and Kabir didn’t want to take the time to obtain it for him, which could have taken days, or go through the trouble of trying to hire a private plane. It would be easier and swifter to obtain a passport for Cù Sìth through underground contacts in New York than Detroit. Kabir has done it before. It’s a part of life for someone who lives for millennia in this day and age. Alternatively, he can sneak Cù aboard a ship, bribe someone, or take the time to hire a plane—all of which they can worry about after they visit Akhu and Mac.
Kabir scans traffic signs with his sharp copper eyes, then glances at his unlikely companion. They’ve spoken little during the six-hundred-mile trip. Cù seems content to follow his lead, which makes Kabir nervous.
Cù’s first words were spoken halfway across Pennsylvania when he said, out of the blue, “You treat them with dignity, the parvuli.”
“Watoto,” Kabir corrected, using the less derogatory Deva term for humans. Cù grunted, the last sound he made for hours. Later, wondering at Cù Sìth’s rebellion against his master, Kabir asked, “Why are you here, Moddey Dhoo?”
Without opening his eyes, Cù replied, “Why not?” There was more to it than that, Kabir was certain, but he didn’t pry.
Cù Sìth stirs and raises his sunglasses, revealing his bright red eyes. “This is the exit.”
Kabir squints at the sign for Canal Street. “How do you know that?” he asks with suspicion as he steers onto the exit ramp.
“I’m aware of only two Firstborn living in New York City. Akhu, The Rat, and the one calling himself Mac Gallus, The Rooster. I’d assume we would go to Akhu first, considering her... gift.”
Kabir has wondered if he was making a mistake leading Cù Sìth right to Akhu. He still doesn’t trust him, even though Father has given Cù leave to join them, but discovering Cù knows where his friends are already, he’s even more worried for their safety. If Cù knows, Kleron does too. “Are you privy to the whereabouts of all the Deva Firstborn?”
“No,” Cù replies. “Kleron has kept his plans compartmentalized. Much like the manner in which the modern parvu—” he pauses and corrects himself, “watoto terrorist cells operate. Each Asura team knows only whom they are supposed to target, and has no contact with the others. I’m only aware of these two because I was there when Kleron hired The Rat’s assassin.”
Kabir’s grip tightens on the wheel and he speeds up. “No need to hurry,” says Cù Sìth. “She’s either already dead or has escaped and disappeared.”
That doesn’t make Kabir feel any better. “Who did Kleron send for her?”
“I found that to be of interest,” Cù answers. “A human, believe it or not.” Kabir gives him a questioning look. “But he is armed with Shiva’s bow.”
Kabir resists the urge to floor it and run every light.
Cù Sìth shifts in his seat. “The Rat, Akhu. Is it true? She is a telepath?”
This is the first sign of curiosity he’s shown the entire trip. Kabir decides it can do no harm to answer truthfully. “Yes.”
“But you aren’t communicating with her now?”
“No. She must ask for permission in person for it to work. And permission can be rescinded by either party, then must be asked for and granted again.”
“I see,” Cù responds.
“In her sorrow over the desolation brought on by the Second Holocaust she terminated all telepathic communication. Except for a few occasions, she now remains linked with none but Mac Gallus, as far as I know.” Kabir stops for a red light. “And probably her sifu,” he adds. Cù shifts again at the mention of Akhu’s teacher. Kabir understands his concern. Wise, calm, nearly always smiling, Ganesh is possibly the most kind and spiritually enlightened of all Firstborn. But in battle, he has never lost. Not even close.
Cù raises his head to look out the passenger window and says, “The Rat. She can also read minds?”
“Would that frighten you?”
“It would be disconcerting under any circumstance, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” is all Kabir says in response. He’s tempted to tell Cù that Akhu can indeed read minds, but that would be a lie. “The Rat can’t ascertain your thoughts, merely hear what you want her to hear. To speak, mind to mind, in silence.”
He eyes Cù Sìth, compelled to ask, though he can’t rely on the answer. “You mean her no ill will, do you, Moddey Dhoo?”
<
br /> Cù leans his head back, closes his eyes and sets the sunglasses down over them. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
Kabir wishes he could believe that. No matter what Cù Sìth may say or do, Kabir will always fear him. The healthy kind of fear. The kind that keeps you alive.
There may not be many Deva left, or Firstborn for that matter, but there are good reasons those who still live do so. They’re the most cautious, clever, strong, or the most gifted. Akhu is no exception.
In some cases, those who survive are simply the luckiest. Kabir’s a competent fighter, sharp in battle as in life, but he considers himself to be lucky most of all. And today, he owes his life to the creature next to him.
Cù Sìth and his Cerberus brothers have long been among the most feared of the Firstborn. Asura from the beginning. Powerful, cruel, lacking in sympathy or mercy. And now Cù has turned on his master, murdered his own brothers, saved Kabir’s life, and pledged fealty to Father. Why? What could have motivated Old Shuck to do such a thing after all this time? It’s not lost on Kabir this could all be part of a scheme cooked up by Kleron, as severe as it might seem. Kabir would put nothing past the Master of the Asura, or Cù Sìth. He had his guard down when he met Max in the alley in Detroit. He’ll have to do his best to keep that from happening again. More lives than his could depend on it.
He considered killing Cù Sìth at the first opportunity, just to be safe, but Kabir has never been a cold-blooded killer, and he isn’t about to start. Besides, even with Astra weapons, he may not be able to accomplish the task and would likely end up dead himself. Then he wouldn’t be able to help anyone. He hopes Akhu and Mac are still in a condition to be helped.
It’s also possible, as hard as it is to believe, that Cù really is an ally. An ally like him should not be easily discarded.
Kabir turns right on Mott Street and continues into the heart of Chinatown.
* * *
Andreo Ramos peers over the red-tiled cap of the low parapet wall on the roof, surveying the busy street four stories below. Colorful vertical banners with Chinese lettering hung above the sidewalks, red ball lanterns strung high across the street. The market is busy, the sidewalks lined with stands, bustling with locals and a smattering of tourists, buzzing from chatter in Cantonese, Min and broken English. It is an unseasonably hot day in Manhattan’s Chinatown for late September, and the air rising to meet the sun-hardened skin of Andreo’s face is thick with scents of overly ripe fruit, spices and automobile exhaust.