Dark Angels Rising

by Ian Whates

  Dark Angels Rising

  Titles by Ian Whates

  THE DARK ANGELS:

  Pelquin’s Comet (2015)

  The Ion Raider (2017)

  Dark Angels Rising (2020)

  THE CITY OF 100 ROWS:

  City of Dreams and Nightmare (2011)

  City of Hope and Despair (2012)

  City of Light and Shadow (2013)

  THE NOISE:

  The Noise Within (2010)

  The Noise Revealed (2011)

  COLLECTIONS:

  The Gift of Joy (2009)

  Growing Pains (2013)

  Dark Travellings (2016)

  Wourism & Other Stories (2019)

  NOVELLAS:

  The Smallest of Things (2018)

  Co-written with Tim C. Taylor

  THE HUMAN LEGION:

  Human Empire (2015)

  The War Against the White Knights (2016)

  Dark Angels Rising

  Book Three of

  The Dark Angels

  Ian Whates

  NewCon Press

  England

  First published in the UK April 2020 by NewCon Press

  41 Wheatsheaf Road, Alconbury Weston, Cambs, PE28 4LF

  NCP 233 (limited edition hardback)

  NCP 234 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dark Angels Rising copyright © 2020 by Ian Whates

  Cover Art copyright © 2020 by Jim Burns

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN:

  978-1-912950-58-4 (hardback)

  978-1-912950-59-1 (softback)

  Cover illustration by Jim Burns

  Cover layout by Ian Whates

  Text layout by Ian Whates

  One

  A reputation has to be earned, especially on Callia III, and Clay Arter took pride in his. When he walked into a room people noticed, and he loved that – the looks, the whispers, the subtle edging away as he took a seat at the bar. The curiosity in the eyes of some of the women as they glanced his way didn’t harm either. They respected him, feared him, maybe wondered what it would be like to bed him, and he sat a little taller for knowing it.

  Clay was aware of the things they whispered – that he wasn’t a man to be crossed, that he was responsible for the deaths of many and had witnessed the demise of still more – nor were they wrong. In recent times most of these deaths had occurred here in this hot and airless room without windows, or places that were indistinguishable from it. The meat room, they called it, for reasons that shouldn’t need explaining.

  The latest ‘guest’ currently hung from chains hammered into the long wall, where he had spent much of the previous evening. Clay didn’t know the man’s name, he didn’t need to.

  He wasn’t dead yet, but it wouldn’t be long now if Clay were any judge. He had offered no hint of resistance as they dragged him out and chained him in place this morning, and now slumped forward, legs sagging and head bowed, upright only because the chains wouldn’t permit him to crumple into a sorry heap. His naked torso was a mass of bruises and cuts and caked blood – the aftermath of the previous day’s ministrations – while more blood stained the stone floor at his feet. Not necessarily his, or not entirely so at any rate. Many had hung where he now did and the stone beneath was permanently stained. The floor slanted down towards a grated hole, allowing excess blood to drain away – a feature that caused Clay to wonder if the room might have been built with its current purpose in mind.

  Vissecz would be along shortly to finish the job. The previous evening had seen no attempt to interrogate, simply the application of pain, so it wasn’t about information on this occasion, it was all about punishment – whether a case of simple revenge or a lesson intended for others, Clay couldn’t say. Not his business. Unless told otherwise, he and his men were present merely to guard and provide a deterrent should any of the subject’s friends consider mounting a rescue. Not that anyone had friends that loyal, in his experience.

  Everyone reacted differently when brought in here, but generally they could be grouped into three types: some were defiant, challenging the torturer to do his worst – never a wise approach – some were pleading and broken even before they were touched, while others were resigned of their fate.

  This latest subject belonged to the latter category, but from the off he had stood out. There was something about him that spoke of more than the usual stoic acceptance, a sense that nothing mattered from here on in, as if whatever he had done to earn the boss’ displeasure was worth any punishment that might await him. Even as Clay helped chain him to the wall he knew that while they might break this one’s body they’d never crush his spirit.

  You had to admire something like that.

  Clay had watched Vissecz at work many times but that didn’t mean he looked forward to the torturer’s arrival. The man’s penchant for inflicting pain went beyond anything Clay had seen before. Nothing wrong with a bit of good honest violence, but that wasn’t what Vissecz was about. There was something chilling and unwholesome about him and his devotion to the suffering of others.

  None of which explained the vague sense of foreboding that Clay couldn’t shake that morning.

  Even the toughest of men have their weak points, and for Clay it was his nose.

  He had borne witness to beatings, gorings, dismemberment, subtle tortures and brutal murders, participating when appropriate. None of these fazed him in the slightest. A subject’s agonised shrieks, their pleading and whimpers, the crunch of bones cracking and the whirring of implements biting into flesh, they all washed over him unheeded… It was smells that did it, or rather one specific smell.

  Excrement; faeces, shit, call it what you will.

  The rich sweet-metal smell of blood, the ammonia-tinged sourness of urine, he was fine with those, but the foul reek that rolled across the room when a subject voided their bowels turned his stomach. They knew this – the men who worked under him – it was a joke to them, though they soon learned not to show as much in his presence; not twice, at any rate.

  The worst times were when the smell manifested without proper cause, such as today. Clay could smell it from the moment he stepped out the front door, just a hint on the breeze, and it pursued him all the way to work, growing stronger with every step. He knew even before he entered the meat room that it would be worst of all here, and so it proved.

  The way Gethyn and Myers – one just finishing their shift the other about to begin – jumped to obey his orders and set about cleaning the place with barely a grumble bore testament to that reputation Clay was so proud of.

  Yet still the stench lingered, even above the antiseptic. It wasn’t the captive, they’d ascertained that much, even though the smell intensified when they dragged his limp form from the dark box cell in which he had spent the night and chained him to the wall once more. The foulness had sunk into the very bricks, it would seem, defying all effort to shift it.

  This was set to be a bad day, that was the only explanation he could think of.

  “What the hell?”

  Gethyn’s exclamation drew Clay from his brooding. He followed the bald man’s gaze to where a diminutive figure walked in through the open door. A doll; a pale-skinned, brown eyed mannequin, small enough that it reached only partway up his shin. Blonde hair tied in bunches, the doll wore the type of plastic, unreal face that could only be its owner’s choice in these days of hi-tech wonder.

  The doll stopped, turning its head to look up at Clay before smiling. “Hello,” it said in a jolly little girl’s voice. “My name is Jai. What’s your name?”

  The absurdity of the t
oy’s presence had thrown Clay for a moment, but the sound of her over-twee voice snapped him out of it, and he determined to deal with the two most immediate issues.

  “Geth, get rid of that thing,” and he gestured towards the doll. “Myers, go check on how it got in here.”

  “And what will you be doing?” Myers had the temerity to ask.

  Clay drew the compact pistol he always carried, its familiar weight in his hand a reassurance. “Guarding the prisoner, of course.” The words were accompanied by a glare that ensured no further lip came from the youngster.

  As the two men snapped out of their own surprise at the unlikely intrusion and went to obey him, something odd started happening to the doll. Its hands seemed to melt like heated wax, peeling back to reveal sleek tubes beneath. Barrels, Clay realised. Gun barrels.

  Before he had fully registered the threat he heard a twin popping sound, two noises so close together they were almost one. Myers dropped as if poleaxed. Geth looked puzzled, reaching to clutch a hand to his side where blood blossomed to outline his fingers in red. He went down in stages, collapsing to his knees and then his haunches before keeling over.

  Even as Geth crumpled towards the floor Clay reacted, advancing on the murderous doll before it could swing those barrels towards him. One more stride and he’d be able to stomp down on the thing, crushing it against the cold stone.

  He caught movement in the corner of his eye, from a part of the room where no one had a right to be, and swivelled in time to see a black figure lunging towards him. The shape rapidly gained definition and substance as he watched, transforming from the vague suggestion of humanity into a lithe woman who looked all too human… And knives; he registered knives. She was too slight to worry him physically, but the blades were another matter.

  Clay used to wear a stibre vest beneath his shirt as a matter of course – a sensible precaution in this line of work, the garment’s stiffened fibres designed to deflect precisely this sort of attack – but stibre wasn’t the most comfortable of fabrics and it was so hot in this damned room that he’d abandoned the habit a while back. A complacency he might yet live to regret.

  He was lighter on his feet than he looked – an attribute that had saved his life more than once. He leapt backwards and sideways, the doll forgotten. As he moved, he brought the gun to bear and fired, She was quick, this one, following his evasion as if she’d anticipated it, the gun’s short burst of lethal energy missing her to expend itself harmlessly against the wall beyond. In passing, the woman flicked out her right arm to draw one of the blades across his belly, an action that seemed almost nonchalant.

  There was little pain to begin with, just a stinging sensation – adrenalin acting as anaesthetic – but Clay instinctively reached for the wound with his free hand, dismayed to discover how deep it was, and how long; a slash that would have opened up his belly completely if he’d been a fraction slower to react.

  He looked around but there was no sign of the woman. Where’s the bitch gone to? She had disappeared as quickly as she’d materialised, leaving him alone in the meat room with the prisoner, the bodies of his two men, and… the doll!

  Almost too late he remembered the harbinger of this whole mess, the treacherous little twin-barrelled mechanoid. His head whipped around to find one of those barrels pointing directly at him. He tried to duck and leap aside but the effort was only half successful, hampered by a shaft of searing agony that coursed through his belly as he started to move, the pain breaking through in earnest at last.

  Pain exploded in his right arm too, a little below the shoulder. A detached part of him marvelled at the impact from what had to be a low calibre weapon. Most of him stopped thinking about much at all, as he was spun around to crash against the wall, blood welling with renewed vigour from his belly wound, the gun spinning away from his uncooperative fingers.

  Clay fell heavily, half sliding down the wall he’d struck as his legs went from under him. He gazed across the room to where the prisoner still hung from his chains. His right arm was useless, bones shattered, the pain growing with every passing second. He clutched his stomach with his good left hand, trying to hold the flesh together, knowing that he was in danger of bleeding out if help didn’t arrive soon.

  Taken down by a woman and a toy, and a woman made of smoke at that. It didn’t bear thinking about. He struggled to stay conscious; it would be so easy to relax and succumb, but he worried that if he did so he might never wake up again.

  Where the hell is Vissecz? The torturer ought to have arrived by now, surely.

  The smoke woman appeared again, seeming to emerge from the very wall itself, solidifying into a very feminine figure that seemed to be dressed from head to foot in a coating of crude oil. Someone else entered the room – via the door this time – another woman, a little shorter and stockier than Smoke Woman but in every other regard her antithesis, light to her darkness. The newcomer shone with silver, like an angel.

  Why did that ring a bell: a shining woman clad in silver, another in black who stepped from shadows… Angels…? He wasn’t thinking clearly enough to make the connection. Maybe later, assuming there was a later.

  He watched numbly as they freed the prisoner, who stirred at last, showing vague signs of life. The two women took the man’s limp form between them, one under each arm, and half-led half-carried him from the room. The doll regarded Clay for one last moment, before turning and following after.

  In their wake, stillness enveloped the room. The only thing to disturb it was the sound of Clay’s own laboured breathing. As darkness reached out to claim him despite his best efforts, he reflected on how wrong he had been. Evidently some friends were that loyal after all.

  Two

  “Come on, Mosi, move your feet for Elders’ sake.”

  Who said that? Mosi bobbed back to consciousness despite himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Where are the chains?

  He seemed to be moving, being carried. Who was holding him up? They looked like… Jen, Leesa? He tried to say their names but all that emerged was a groan. No, it can’t be them. I’m hallucinating, conflating the past and the present. After all, Jen and Leesa had saved him the last time; they couldn’t possibly be here to do the same again…

  Darkness claimed him, and his thoughts slid backwards into the past.

  It took nearly dying to remind Mosi Jalloh what life was all about and that he had some unfinished business to attend to before he could even consider abandoning it.

  When he first washed up in the Callia system a little more than a decade ago he had been a lost soul, choosing Callia III purely because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. His family were all dead – at least everyone he had ever counted as family – and now he had lost his sister. Again.

  This time it was final, he knew that. The Dark Angels were never likely to get back together again and without them Najat would be forever beyond his reach. He felt bereft, as if a part of him – the better part at that – had been brutally ripped away and the wound left to bleed unchecked, uncauterised.

  This time around, losing Najat hit him even harder than when she had died the first time, and there wasn’t even anyone he could talk to about it, because the only friends he had in the universe had just parted company, scattering across the inhabited worlds. The worst part was that he didn’t even know why, not really. Cornische had given his reasons for disbanding the crew but none of them rang true to Mosi’s ear.

  Where else could he head but Callia III, the last place he remembered being truly happy? They’d only been kids then, him and Naj, and inseparable: ‘the tandem twins: joined at the hip… peas in a pod… gender swap clones…’ They had been called that and more in those days, and took delight in every affectionate epithet.

  That was then. Now was proving to be a whole lot harsher. Callia III had changed. Either that or it was a very different place when viewed through the filter of adult eyes. This wasn’t the world he had
been born on but it was the one where he and Naj had spent their formative years, before their mother’s work had seen the family uproot again and move to a different world and a different culture entirely.

  Coates World. Not a place he would ever consider returning to. Coates was where Naj had died. His childhood had ended abruptly that night. Now that she’d gone for a second time, he felt that his adulthood would soon follow.

  Mosi didn’t go back to Callia III to die as such, but nor did he arrive with any plans to live.

  The house his family had called home was long gone; in fact the whole street had disappeared. In its place stood an edifice that rose like a sore thumb to tower over the area. He was so flummoxed by this grotesque building – a concoction of smoked glass and plating that would have looked more at home among the cloud scrapers of New Sparta than here – that he had to double check to ensure his memory hadn’t playing him false. But no. A quick glance through local records confirmed that the Arkel Centre – a ‘nexus for creativity and culture’ – had been erected some eight years previously. Half a dozen residential streets whose names he recognised, whose corners he had hidden round and surfaces he’d pounded along, had been purchased and knocked down to facilitate it, with an equal number truncated or diverted. His past: compulsory purchased and demolished.

  So much for coming home.

  It wasn’t just the house and the physical landscape, the whole community had changed. The Khdayin – a pale skinned race from the south that he had never knowingly encountered before, had settled here in large numbers. The Walk, an upmarket shopping street he recalled spending long hours in with his dad, was now unrecognisable. Fads changed – real time shops were considered so sophisticated one minute and passé the next. E-shopping was in vogue once more it would seem, the stores of his childhood consigned to history, to be replaced by a strip of VR arcades, drinking dives and the occasional grocery stall selling unfamiliar food stuffs.