They Who Fell (14 page)

It was a close run thing, but they finished just in time to serve Nefta her dinner, a grand meal ferried up from the kitchens and laid out on her table on silver platters. Nefta delighted in each course, having Jana practice her serving and praising her efforts throughout the evening. She drank deeply from her wine, and Cassie snuck sips from hers in between courses. Before dessert had even arrived, Nefta had emptied her bottle, and was swaying in her chair and slurring her speech. Jana had never seen one of them this way, not from any amount of alcohol, and she thought it must have been a particularly strong vintage. Cassie was starting to get tipsy herself, giggling with Nefta as both of their eyes glazed. They helped Nefta to bed, guiding her stumbling to her private chambers as she mumbled quietly to herself, and Cassie fell asleep soon after.

Jana was up a little longer, laying quietly in the dark, falling into her fantasies to lull herself to sleep. She was queen again, her kingdom now beset by barbarians from the outside, with little hope of victory until Rhamiel flew to the rescue ahead of an army of angels. He fought valiantly, driving off her foes, and then confessed his love for her, his obsession for her, a passion so powerful he simply couldn’t control himself. She was in the middle of a lavish wedding ceremony when she drifted asleep, and then she did it all again in her dreams.

She woke suddenly, violently, everything still black. Someone was standing above her, a man, shoving his hand over her mouth. It was clammy, and smelled of sweat, and he held it tightly enough to muffle Jana’s instinctive scream. Cassie snorted and rolled over onto her side, but it otherwise barely disturbed her. She was drunk enough that nothing much would. The man pulled Jana out of bed, hissed at her to stay quiet, and dragged her out of the room and into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I
t took them days, before they reached the first of the pickets. They’d kept off the roads, cutting across what had once been private lands to circumvent the major cities. Once they’d gotten around Philadelphia, the danger from the angels was minimal, and it was a straight shot along the highway to their destination.

Most of the highway was simply abandoned, a graveyard of vehicles that was completely empty of any other traffic. They stayed on the sides where they could, pacing themselves so that Faye could be given frequent breaks. They’d even talked about taking a detour, going off some place to find a safe house where they could drop her off and let her convalesce. But she insisted she’d recovered, and refused to let them dump her with strangers they didn’t even know. She’d started with them, and she’d finish with them, and it helped to have a purpose, after all. The rest of them weren’t so sure, but it only agitated her to keep prodding with their concerns, and none of them had the slightest idea of how to treat someone afflicted with glossolalia, or even whether they could.

So they all pressed forward together, enduring profane tirades from Thane the whole while. He was challenging Holt at every turn, second guessing him just for the sake of doing it, and always bringing everything back to the Vichies and the many and varied advantages of frying the entire bunch. They were traitors, said Thane, and so would they be who dealt with them. He was particularly irked by Holt’s refusal to disclose even the outlines of their purpose, as no honest business could be conducted in a place as damnable as the nation’s former capital.

It was almost dark when they saw it, up ahead on the road. Torches lined the barriers that used to protect traffic from veering off as the highway curved, flickering beacons that shone brighter as the sunlight dimmed. The cars had been cleared entirely for a half mile in front of it, towed away to make it impossible to approach under their protective cover. They’d been rearranged to form a wall running across the highway, a crude metal fortress with cars fit together like sandbags, one on top of the other. The windows had been bashed out of some, turning them into sniper’s nests, and at various places along the top the Vichies had mounted heavy weaponry, belt-fed machine guns that peered over the edges and waited for anyone foolish enough to charge them.

“Who goes there?” came the sentry’s call as they approached. Heads poked from behind the wall, and guns pivoted and aimed at the bikes as they slowly edged towards it, defenseless and exposed in the open. They could see the Vichies popping their heads up and down, nervous albino prairie dogs assessing the threat. One of them kept running the length of the barricade, clambering on top of the cars and excitedly rousing the others, making a show of it so they’d know he’d been doing his duty.

“We’re lettered!” shouted Holt, slowly holding up a piece of paper, a bright red seal stamped across its center: an image of an eagle bowing before an angel. Beneath it was a mass of text, impossible to read from a distance.

“It better be a fake,” growled Thane. Most groups of Vichies had no actual connection to each other, and outside the capital they were a loose-knit confederacy of independent bands who roamed around doing the bidding of one angel or another, at least nominally. Practically, they did as they pleased, unsupervised and cloaked in the protections of the white. No one had the power to make them do anything, but officially they all bent their knees to the capital, which tried to control them in the only way it knew: through edicts, proclamations, and mounds of paper.

The letters of marque were the only one of these efforts that had any teeth, and then only because they filled a need among them. Their uniforms were easily faked, but the Vichy seal was not. Pirates had relied on them, once, a sanction from one government to pillage the citizens of another, elevating their bearers from common criminals to respectable and patriotic privateers. The ships they plundered may have burned just the same, and the valuables they stole may have gone into the same pockets. But with the letters it was all for the glory of the crown, and the pieces of paper worked their alchemy, converting criminals into civil servants.

Some enterprising politician in the capital had resurrected the practice, taking advantage of the old treasury and its defenses against counterfeiting. They’d made the seal, and made the letters, and stamped their authority on the actions of anyone with a large enough group of followers that were willing to submit. Thus robbery and extortion became taxation, and violence and murder became defense, and all at the stroke of a pen. Tribute flowed to the Vichies in the capital in the form of food, goods, and whatever the angels desired. The better part belonged to those in the field, but relations had to be maintained, and none of them wanted the angels to be unhappy with the arrangement.

“Approach the barricade,” shouted one of the Vichies from up top. “Just you!”

Holt complied, dismounting his bike and slowly walking forward, holding the letter of marque before him. It was a shield, and an effective one, but only so long as they believed in its power. A Vichy leaped down, a little boy in a puffy white ski jacket a few sizes too big. He ran up to Holt and dabbed the edge of the letter with a pen. He waited a moment, checked the color of the mark he’d made, and then shouted up in a high-pitched, squeaky voice that feigned authority beyond his years. “They’re legit! Open up!”

At the center of the barricade, a stack of cars began to shake. Holt hadn’t noticed from a distance, but he could see it now: the cars were lashed together with chains into a single block, and it was retracting into the barricade and creating a passageway through the wall. Glancing inside, he could see what they’d done. They had a forklift, left in position behind the stack, and they could pull it forward or backward as needed to create an entrance. Holt raised his hand to the others, waving them forward, and they started their engines and moved ahead.

“You’re not wearing the white,” said one of the Vichies. He was a scowly man, waving an AK-47, short and fat with black eyes sunk deep in his skull. His clothes may have been white in the distant past, but now they were a pasty brown, stained from dirt and sweat and fallen scraps from forgotten meals.

“That’s because—” started Thane, only to be cut off curtly by Holt.

“That’s because none of your business. We’ve got the letter, and we’ve got people in D.C. to talk to. Important people, people who don’t like waiting. People who can snap their fingers and have any one of us roasting on a spit.”

“Anybody can steal a letter,” said the Vichy. “Anybody can be a tough guy.”

“Anybody can look like a tough guy,” said Holt. “Not everybody works for Senator Fletcher.”

The Vichy’s face dropped, and the others grew noticeably more edgy. Politicians were known for their ruthlessness and their tendency to backstab, but usually it was metaphorical. The good Senator’s reputation was for the darkest sort of skulduggery, and rumors abounded of his involvement in slavery, torture, and even assassination. The Vichy still didn’t look like he trusted Holt, but he’d be gambling with his own life if he continued to confront him. He chose safety over his suspicions, and waved them forward.

“If we’re workin’ for any of ‘em, I’m gonna kill you,” said Thane, as they moved away from the Vichies and prepared to continue on their trip. “You think I’m fuckin’ around, I ain’t. I’m gonna kill you.” His eyes were narrowing, and the blood was rushing to his face. He was barely keeping control, and Holt spoke to him slowly, evenly, trying to keep things contained.

“We’re not working for him,” said Holt. “We’re going to deal with him. Don’t think I like it, either. Don’t think it for a second. But he’s got something I want. Something you’re going to like. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust shit,” said Thane. “I don’t trust him, and now I don’t trust you.”

Thane revved the engine on his bike, spitting out a loud snarl, and floored the accelerator as he raced down the highway, re-entering the mess of cars and disappearing among them.

“We’d better go after him,” said Faye, and they did, albeit more slowly and more cautiously. He kept ahead of them for a while, violently swerving between the cars, a daredevil’s path he knew they wouldn’t follow. His anger gradually faded, and the distance between them eventually closed. They caught up with him when he stopped for a break, and knew better than to say anything. The night had fallen, and they couldn’t continue safely, so they pitched a camp and waited until morning. When the sun rose again, they moved on and continued down the path towards the city.

The rest of the pickets went much the same way as the first, aided by the Vichies radioing ahead to alert the others to expect them. They’d spaced their encampments along the highway every so often, outposts designed to keep any enemies far from the capital. It was easy to slip onto the road, and they couldn’t watch every inch of it. But it slowed things down, it gave the Vichies eyes where they needed them, and the show of force was enough to deter any larger groups from attempting the journey.

They inched closer, and then they saw it in the distance, the city and its monuments. They all still stood, every one of them, undamaged except by time and neglect. The angels had left the place alone entirely, the world’s only major city that could make that boast. It had once housed the leaders of a nation, clever leaders, ones who knew their own interests and pursued them above all else. They’d known the world was changing, and they’d made a deal. Now they were left to rule a rump state, a capital carved from its country, exempted from the torments rained down on the rest.

Politicians are parasites of a flexible sort, and with the death of their host, they’d all had to adapt. Before the Fall they’d sucked at the country’s blood, fat ticks latched to its belly that drank and drank until they were ready to burst. Now they nibbled at its corpse, enriching themselves by directing the plunder of the rusting hulk they’d used to govern, and enlisting the desperate as followers to labor in their stead. It wouldn’t last. After a time, this racket would fade with all the others, and they’d have to invent new corruptions and new ways to exchange promises of a brighter tomorrow for a spot among the rich and comfortable in the dreary present. But for now, the city clung to life, sliding down towards oblivion while its residents enjoyed the ride.

Holt led them on, past the suburbs, through checkpoint after checkpoint until they were downtown, in the heart of the place. The Vichies made them follow behind a green military truck, with a jeep behind them, an armed escort that wouldn’t tolerate any trouble. They took them through a perimeter fence that lined the city center, the last wall to keep those outside from slipping into the refuge within. They were left on a bench, on the side of a street, and told to wait for someone to come to them. The truck left, and so did the jeep, but they could see men up above, watching them from nearby rooftops and making sure they behaved.

It was unlike anywhere else, a little bubble of calm in a violent, foamy sea. This was a city, a living city, not a ruined monument to something that used to be. People were going about their days all around them undisturbed, just as things had been before, just as if nothing at all had happened and the world was still spinning on its course. They were walking their dogs, and chatting together in public, and shopping at boutique stores filled with luxuries scavenged from the lands around them. The streets were clean, the buildings were pristine, and the grass was mowed into perfect little green carpets. Nothing at all had changed, nothing but the clothes, and it would have looked just as it had before the Fall, if only everyone around hadn’t been wearing the white.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“I
ain’t gonna hurt you,” whispered the man, keeping his hand wrapped tightly over Jana’s mouth. He pulled her out of the bedroom, walked her slowly through the foyer, and stopped her just inside the door leading out into the tower. He was huge, a black shape looming over her in the dark, his face featureless except for tiny glints of light reflected from his eyes. “You just stay quiet. You gotta stay quiet. And you gotta come with me. Think you can stay quiet?”

Jana nodded and said yes, and though it came out muzzled, her assent was clear.

“You gotta stay quiet,” said the man. “You don’t want her to hear you. You know she’s a little crazy, right? They’re all a little crazy. I think it’s the burns, they made them crazy.”

She certainly agreed, at least from the ones she’d met, but the man seemed a little crazy himself. He’d crept into a girl’s bedroom in the still of night, kidnapped her from beneath her sheets, and expected her to sneak off to who knew where underneath the nose of a very irritable mistress. If this passed for sanity, it was only because they found themselves in a madhouse.

“I’m gonna let go,” said the man. “I gotta let go, to open the door. And you gotta stay quiet. She’ll kill me if you don’t. She might kill you, too. Me, I ain’t gonna hurt you. But I gotta take you somewhere. So please stay quiet. Please.”

He was big, but he seemed so soft, and when he slowly and tentatively took his hand from Jana’s mouth she didn’t say a word. It wasn’t that she thought he was safe, so much as she thought he was right. If Nefta interrupted them, sneaking out in the middle of the night, she was liable to see a sinister spin to things, and whatever her response it was almost certain to be violent. And if the man was a threat, he wouldn’t react well to screaming. It was a choice between the lesser of two dangers, and for now the unknown seemed a more promising prospect than the known.

“Stay quiet,” said the man. “I’m not here to hurt you. But there’s something you need to see.”

“Who are you?” whispered Jana.

“Quiet,” said the man. “Please don’t get me killed.”

He opened the door, ever so slowly, and crept out into the hallway with Jana in tow. She could see him clearly, lit by the torches the servants kept burning in the halls day and night to illuminate the tower’s interior. It took her a moment, but she recognized him—he was one of the laborers who’d helped them to clear Nefta’s room. He was tall and muscular, but baby-faced. His eyes were brown, simple and vacant, and he had the permanent smile of a genial dullard. The laborers were chosen for their temperament and their strength more so than their intelligence. Obedience and agreeability were more important than skill, given that the tasks involved were menial, and as workers-at-large they had to get along with any potential master. Even the harshest of the angels could sometimes be persuaded to exercise mercy when a failure could be chalked up to stupidity, and the more intelligent didn’t survive long in his particular line of work.

She didn’t want to go with him, but he seemed so sad, and so intent, and so urgent. She found herself pulled along despite herself, walking behind him even as she debated inside all the reasons to simply pull away and run back. It was a fault borne of living too long in the tower. When one was ordered to do something, they did it, and they didn’t question what they were doing or why. It was easy and natural for her to allow herself to be swept up in the will of others, even when she didn’t want to. Someone like her was considered headstrong and impetuous inside the tower, even if they’d be thought a blind follower outside of it. It’s all a matter of perspective, and a matter of upbringing, and for Jana it was rebellion to even think of thinking for herself.

The man led her onto the ramp, holding her hand and tugging her along, nervous and shaking as he went. She asked where they were going, and got only “down” in response. He shushed her other questions, constantly looking about, and drew the attention of a few passing servants by dodging their eyes, covering his face, and generally acting as suspiciously as possible. He clearly wasn’t experienced at abducting fair maidens, and wasn’t sure what to do now that he’d captured one.

They passed level after level, going beyond the upper living quarters, until he stopped in front of one of the paths that curved off into the tower. The gardens. Flowers lined the entrance, all selected for their color: daisies, roses, peonies, and tulips, a living quilt of white. They clumped all along the walls, mingling together and blanketing every surface around the entrance and as far inside as she could see. Their scent blended together into a sweet honeyed aroma, wafting through the air and drawing anyone with permission into the garden’s embrace. Jana didn’t have permission; the angels considered it a private sanctuary, a place for contemplative pacing and solitude.

“Go on,” said the man. “Go on inside. I’ll wait here, and I’ll take you back up when you’re done.”

“I can’t go in there,” said Jana. “And what if Nefta wakes? What will I do? We need to get back. She’ll be cross with you, too.”

“She won’t wake up,” said the man. “Not ‘til morning. Now go. You’re supposed to go, alone. You have to, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

“What if they catch me?” said Jana, looking inside, hesitating.

“They won’t,” said the man. “They’d catch me first, and I’d yell, and you’d hide. Now go. Trust me.”

“I don’t see why I should simply do as you say,” said Jana. “I’m not scared of you, and I’m very scared of them. And I don’t like walking into things I don’t know anything about. I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime, and it’s all turned to a mess.”

“Trust me,” said the man. “You need to see.”

She didn’t trust him, but all the subterfuge was intriguing, and she’d already come so far down this path that inertia alone made her go just a little further. The man pushed her, a gentle shove into the flowery portal, and her curiosity pulled her inside. The passage curved inwards, and the way was lit by fluorescence, glowing in all directions from lamps set up along the floor to allow the plants to grow in the tower’s dark interior. They were left there overnight, extension cords running off into the distance to some source of power, to be removed each morning before any of the angels returned.

The hallway turned and turned, spiraling around, and opening up into a vast cavern filled with greenery. She saw lights, little white dots on the horizon against the black, and it took her some time to realize what they were. Then it clicked: stars. She’d heard of them, but never seen them, not that she could remember. But everywhere in the garden there were windows, and an entire side of the tower had been removed, its walls ripped apart to create an open view of the sky. They needed the light, to keep the plants alive, and save a few sturdy pillars here and there everything was exposed to the elements.

She stood in awe, marveling at it all. She could see clouds wisping around, caressing the tower before blustering away. She could see plants, incredible plants, things she’d never heard of. Vines wound their way around the pillars, clawing towards the ceiling, with shimmering crystalline flowers sprouting off into the air every few feet. All around the sides of the floor were silver bushes, bathed in the moonlight and reflecting it off the leaves, a shiny tinsel hedge that was the only barrier between her and the skies outside. The ground was covered in carefully trimmed grass, growing in a layer of soil that had been spread around the entire floor. Hanging from the ceiling were bulbous fruits, glowing a phosphorescent blue and lighting up pathways through the gardens in the dark. At the center was a giant tree, impossibly large, its branches merging with the ceiling. Indentations had been carved into the bark, places for the angels to sit and think and look down on the beauty below them. Off to one side were orchards, rows of trees bearing fruits of all kinds, from apples to pears to strange growths she’d never seen in the kitchens.

She didn’t know where to start or where she was meant to go, so she just began walking, following one of the paths as it wound through the foliage. She could see little sheds, hidden by plants, storage spaces for the fertilizers and tools the gardeners used to tend to it all. The path took her further into the gardens, past a pond filled with golden fish, opening and closing their mouths, hungrily poking up at the surface in expectation of a feeding. Stone fountains in the shape of cherubs spat water at each other as they battled with swords and crouched at the edges of the pool.

She walked onward, past a terrace covered in rows of hanging purple moss, through a cleft in a thicket of tall stalks with blossoming blue flowers at their tips, and into a glade surrounded by thin trees, a gazebo at its center, set against the edge of the tower. The wood was stained brown, the roof a layered red tile, and a line of stones in the grass led towards the steps at its base. She looked at the sky behind it, and her jaw dropped in awe. It was her very first look at the moon, a glowing orb staring at her from the horizon, bathing her in light.

She stood there, leaning on the gazebo’s railing, staring off into the night. She could see buildings all around, dwarfed by the tower, none of them coming close to its height. They were rotting away, pieces of them missing, strange broken shapes that had once touched the skies. The lands around were dark and dead, lit only by the moon, but she was still amazed by it all, darting her head from side to side trying to drink in everything at once. She wondered what had been down there, and what it was like, and whether there was anyone staring back at her from some garden below. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the rustling of the leaves behind her, didn’t hear the breathing, didn’t hear anything until the footsteps were almost upon her.

“Girl,” said the voice, and she turned in a panic.

“You,” she said.

It was Rhamiel, wings outstretched and glimmering in the moonlight. He had that smile of his, the cat who had his canary, and he strode towards her as she stood there, not knowing what to do. He looked bigger here somehow, a giant in the darkness, dwarfing the little gazebo and its little path. He walked up to her, leaning on the railing, staring at her with the same interest she’d had in the scenery below.

“A beautiful girl in a beautiful garden,” said Rhamiel. “However did you end up here?”

“This isn’t safe,” said Jana. “I can’t talk to you. I can’t be seen with you.” She fidgeted, dropping her eyes to the ground, turning away and then turning back.

“You’re a lucky one on that count,” said Rhamiel. “There’s no one here to see. And where’s the fun in life if you never break the rules?”

“You don’t understand,” said Jana. “There’s something wrong with Nefta. She’s making these... things.”

“She’s asleep,” said Rhamiel. “A few drops of ambrosia in her wine, a gift from me to her. The nectar of the angels, and a fine drink in its own right. You’ve no idea how difficult that was to obtain, either. Not much of it came down with us, save a few scattered flasks. It’s a valuable drink, and that makes you a valuable girl.”

Jana thought she might be blushing, and hoped it was dark enough he wouldn’t see. He was so brash and so bold, always standing on the border between confidence and cockiness. Perhaps he was a mixture of both; the angels were a strange sort, and what went on inside their heads was ever a mystery. He was absorbed with himself, and she knew that, but he was also absorbed with her. Passion begets passion, and his was kindling hers. She knew they were dangerous, him most of all, because of Nefta if nothing else. But there was always the undercurrent of kindness, the caring that hid beneath his swagger. On their own, too much of either would have been repelling, but the combination was as intoxicating as his ambrosia.

“That man,” said Jana.

“An agreeable fellow, don’t you think?” said Rhamiel. “One of the perks of power, and something I’d never experienced up in the heavens. People actually start listening to you, and doing as you ask. They want to curry favor. It’s almost an urge for them. Make yourself useful to the man at the top, and maybe one day you’ll get something in return. I hope he wasn’t too frightening.”

“He was very kind,” said Jana. “And this place is very beautiful. But I have to go. If….”

“We had something like this place up there,” said Rhamiel. “It’s a poor facsimile, and doesn’t do the real thing justice. But it’s a reminder. A snapshot of what we used to have, before it all came crashing down upon us.”

“Do you miss it?” asked Jana. She knew she should leave, but she desperately wanted to stay. She was warming to him, her fascination overcoming her fear. The garden was so beautiful, so calming a sanctuary, that if there were a better version of it up in the clouds somewhere she couldn’t believe anyone would ever have left it.

“Do I miss it?” said Rhamiel. He paused, leaning against the railing and staring into the stars. “We all miss it, I think. It was a very nice home, and a very nice place, with a very cruel master.”

“What did he do?” said Jana. “Why did you leave, and come here?”

“He lied,” said Rhamiel. “He lied to us all. But enough of that. It’s not done, to speak of it. The others wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“You chose to come down here, though,” said Jana. “You chose to leave. Nefta said you were someone else up there.”

“She told you about it already, did she?” said Rhamiel.

“Not much,” said Jana. “She said you jumped. She said you were the only brave one. That you went from nothing to something because of it.” His eyes narrowed, his face became more serious, and Jana worried that she’d made a horrible mistake. Maybe she’d gone too far, or maybe Nefta had. Maybe she’d learned something she wasn’t supposed to know. But the look lasted only a moment, and then it passed from his face.

“That much is the truth,” said Rhamiel, “though perhaps more flattery than I deserve. I wasn’t considered much up there. Plain, with a few imperfections, but enough that the others paid me no mind unless they had to. We’ve always been enamored with status, though before we had restraints as to how we pursued it. Without our chains, we can do as we please, and it’s magnified who we already were. In the heavens, I was a rather ordinary looking charity-worker, among a people who valued their looks and valued their warfare.”

“You don’t seem ordinary looking at all,” said Jana.

“Not to you,” said Rhamiel. “But beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and we behold it differently. I can see it on my hands, here.” He held them up, turning the backs of them towards Jana. All around his knuckles the flesh was red and bumpy, even by moonlight. Then he pointed to his forehead, leaning towards her so Jana could get a better look. “And I can see it in the spot on my face.”

“But there isn’t any spot,” said Jana. “There isn’t anything there at all.” She squinted, and she looked and looked, but still she saw nothing but perfection.