They Who Fell (8 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

V
omit covered the ground. Peter had ejected the entire contents of his stomach, and pools of dirty water were spreading everywhere. He pushed himself to his feet and stood unsteadily, facing the floor. Any notion that he was something other than a slave was gone. He waited in silence, hoping he could maintain his balance and hoping it was all done. Fortunately, Ecanus seemed to have been satisfied with his fun, and released Jana to turn his attentions back to him.

“Let’s go, boy,” said Ecanus. “We mustn’t dally. There’s work to do in my quarters, and it seems the yoke still doesn’t fit quite right. No matter. We’ll teach you who’s master yet, you wait and see.” He walked away, with Peter following as quickly as he could. The servants at the refreshment station rushed about to get towels and began wiping away the vomit, trying to eliminate any sign of it before another angel passed by. If anyone thought they’d been remiss in keeping the place clean it’d be their hides, and Ecanus’s display had given them a surge in motivation.

Jana was still in shock. This was the single most foolish thing she’d ever seen one of the servants do. She racked her brain, trying to think of something she could do to help, before she remembered—Nefta. She was still waiting back at the Conclave, thirsty, and Jana had been here for far longer than was likely to be tolerable. She grabbed her canteen and ran, praying she could rush back and slip inside before things became too suspicious. But it was too late.

As Jana rounded the corner to the entryway to the Conclave, she saw angels milling around in groups outside. The speeches were done, and the gossip and critiquing was just beginning. It was far more fun to talk about the proceedings than to listen to them, and the angels were busy chattering away. Jana could see Uzziel, surrounded by a half-dozen well-wishers who shared his desire to recreate an earthly version of the heavenly host to fend off the enemies they saw all around them. Flecks of spittle covered his beard as he continued on enthusiastically, rehashing his earlier speech and drawing imaginary plans for barricades in the air with his fingers.

A number of smaller pockets of angels who she didn’t recognize stood around in twos and threes, glad-handing and politicking. Some of them didn’t get out much, spending most of their time isolated in their quarters, and treated the Conclave as an opportunity to renew their social ties. Others just wanted to grandstand, and she could hear boasts about various interesting distractions they’d come up with to fritter away their ample free time. She weaved through the crowd, dodging wings and gesticulating arms as she tried to find Nefta. She made her way to the entrance, to a vantage point where she could see her former seat. Nothing. Most of the benches were empty, with just a few dozen of the angels remaining inside the amphitheater, congregating around the rostrum.

She turned to leave, and was interrupted by a call from the very center of the group. “Girl!”

It was Rhamiel, beaming. Apparently his speech had ended well, as he stood among a cluster of angels slapping him on the back in congratulations and leaning forward to offer him suggestions or support. With Rhamiel’s cry, all their eyes turned towards the entrance and fixated on her.

“Sneaking out in the middle of the entertainment is bad form, girl. Has Nefta taught you no manners?” said Rhamiel, a little tease in his tone. The angels around him laughed, and fortunately seemed to be in good humor. They were Rhamiel’s partisans in whatever political drama the angels were enacting, and didn’t seem to be in the mood for cruelties towards the servants just yet.

“Come here! Don’t be shy! You’re the picture of human beauty, and I’ve spent the last half an hour educating my detractors on the angelic one,” said Rhamiel. Jana’s stomach sank. She couldn’t leave, and had no idea where Nefta and Cassie had gone to. She wasn’t even sure she could find her way back to the chambers. She hadn’t paid much attention on the way here, and they’d changed floors once—or was it twice? The hallways and ramps in the tower zigzagged and spiraled into each other according to an architectural aesthetic that didn’t make much intuitive sense to humans. While it lent a strange beauty to the place in its own way, it played tricks on her sense of direction, and it wouldn’t do to wander around unsupervised.

She walked down the steps to the speaker’s platform, the entire crowd watching her the entire way. She felt a mix of shame and fear. She didn’t think she was that beautiful, and was worried that his comment might be a prelude to one of their cruel jokes. From time to time, Sam had smuggled in frivolous magazines from before the Fall, and she looked nothing like the women in them. They’d had make-up for their face and tonics for their hair, while the servants in the tower made do with soap and water. Sam always called her a natural beauty, but a compliment from a friend is never truly trusted. She brushed at her hair involuntarily, moving a few wisps to the side that had fallen out of place.

As she approached the group, the other angels seemed to leer at her. She couldn’t tell for sure. They were strange creatures, and hard to read sometimes. They seemed to be appraising her, evaluating her as you might a prized farm animal. Rhamiel was the only one who didn’t, but his face was inscrutable. It all made her nerves fray. The encounter with Ecanus had deeply disturbed her. She knew how they could be, but back in the kitchens you’d normally only hear about it secondhand. You didn’t actually have to see them in action, just the awful aftermath. It was all starting to wear on her. In the games they played, the servants were ever the losers, and she worried about where Rhamiel’s toying might lead.

“You seem so withdrawn, girl,” said Rhamiel. “There’s no need for all that. We’ve just won a grand victory. I’ve convinced the Conclave to organize a raid. Not the wearisome sort of thing that Uzziel keeps demanding, but a real adventure. A reprisal for the scoundrel who did this to my face.” He pointed at his forehead to identify the alleged injury. Even up close, she couldn’t see anything. She thought for a second that maybe there was a little spot, or a freckle, but then couldn’t tell if she was just imagining it.

“It’ll be like the old times, before the Maker’s son came along,” said one of the angels. “He used to have a firmer hand. When someone got up to something, we’d rain down fire or flood the place and drown them like rats. But the boy’s been up there for nigh on two millennia, prattling on endlessly about mercy, mercy, mercy. It’s what addled the old man’s brain, I think.”

“Why the sulk on your face?” asked another, sneering at Jana. “You’ve got the attention of the one who’s the talk of the tower. I’d think a girl in your position would be fawning over him, or doing a little curtsy.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jana, and clumsily attempted one. She couldn’t think of what else to do. Sam had always taught her not to deny them anything, and to keep her responses to the bare minimum. They’d tell you if they were expecting more, and if you said too much—well, you’d end up like Peter had.

“That was very cute, girl,” said Rhamiel. “A fine attempt. We should have you practice. We’re always looking for new entertainments, and I think you’ve got something about you. A womanly wile I’d love to see more of.”

He was grinning, but something was welling up inside of her. A panic, overtaking her and hammering away from the inside at her self-control. She could feel her breathing quickening, and her heartbeat thudding faster and faster. All she could think about whenever they were talking was Ecanus, gripping her and forcing her to watch his ghoulish show. The curtsy had been too much. It was a performance of its own, and who knew where it would lead? Peter’s plight had started off with a sip of water, and Daniel’s with a clink of a plate. They would make her dance, and dance, and maybe they wouldn’t ever let her stop.

She looked from face to face, and her terror must have showed. The others just laughed louder, but Rhamiel’s expression turned from playful to a glint of compassion. He looked hurt at her reaction, like he hadn’t expected it, didn’t know what was wrong, and didn’t know exactly what to do about it.

“This is all new to us, Jana,” said Rhamiel. “We haven’t been down here long. We’re still learning to be ourselves. We were in service for so long. It was all rules, orders, and missions, and we never talked much to your kind. We just did as we were told, and now there’s no one who can tell us anything. Why don’t you go find Nefta? You shouldn’t be running about without her, anyhow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jana, scurrying away up the steps as quickly as she could. She thought she’d never really understand what was going on inside them. Rhamiel was a mystery to her, one moment acting as if he wanted to be her master and the next acting as if he wanted to be her friend. She thought maybe he was attracted to her, but she didn’t know how she felt about that. He was handsome to be sure, but he was one of them, and it was frightening to know that in the end he could simply do whatever he wanted. And this was all new to her. She hadn’t ever had any kind of romantic interests before outside of the fantasies she enacted in her head. She hadn’t really had any options. There were a few other men her age in the kitchens, but they were so—
cringing
. They’d been trained all their lives to be submissive, meekly obeying every order they received. So had Jana, and it was probably unfair of her to fault them for it. They wouldn’t have survived if they’d been any other way. But yin seeks out yang, and the feminine can’t be blamed if it’s drawn to the masculine. Rhamiel wasn’t the type to crawl on his belly. He wouldn’t have rebelled if he was. He and the other angels would have chosen to die before cowering to another, and all their cruelty aside, there was something alluring about that. But there was also danger. She knew she was a moth, but she couldn’t tell whether she was being drawn towards a beautiful light or a deadly flame.

She exited the Conclave and went back into the flock outside, jostled around by angels pushing past her who didn’t seem to care about whether she was bumped over. Most were taller than her, and she couldn’t see over their heads to get a good look at whether Cassie or Nefta had stayed. She couldn’t ask one of the angels, but there were a few servants on the sidelines waiting for their masters to finish with their business here. One of them might know, or might be able to direct her back to the chambers. Then from behind, her hair was yanked and her head slammed backward. She wriggled to get free out of instinct, and then went limp as soon as she saw who it was. Nefta, looking furious, with Cassie attending her.

“I saw you with him,” said Nefta. “I should think you’d know better by now. You and I are going to have a long, unpleasant talk.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H
olt pulled the Vichy off, slamming him to the ground. But it was too late. The white of his shirt was now splattered with dark splotches, and a growing circle pooled on his chest where the bullet had torn through him. He started hacking, blood foaming from out of his mouth as his arms clutched at the wound. He made sounds, dreadful sounds, things that were a mixture of half-formed words and pleas for help. He wouldn’t find any. There were no doctors out here. Holt had some basic emergency medical training from the force, and Marv had a small library of texts he thought useful that included some medical encyclopedias. But this was too serious a wound for them to even attempt to treat.

“Are you okay?” asked Holt, reaching down to Faye to pull her up. She was shaken, but he couldn’t see any obvious injuries; the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to let him be totally sure.

“I’m fine,” said Faye. “I’ll be fine. God damn it. Why did he do that?”

Maybe they’d pushed him too far. Holt felt twinges of guilt. He was just a boy, after all. They’d only meant to frighten him. If he’d just waited a little longer, they’d probably have been able to set him free. All he’d have had to do was to understand why this had all been so wrong, and to give them a little intelligence on what the Vichies were up to in the area. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t wait, or was too scared to. Holt was kicking himself inside. It never got easier, trying to help people out of their own foolishness. He’d thought he could save him, and maybe he could have. Maybe if he’d backed off and played the role a little nicer, the boy wouldn’t have been so desperate. Maybe if they’d stood a little further away, he wouldn’t have thought his mad attack on Faye would have had any chance of success.

He used to think he’d eventually get numbed to this kind of after the fact questioning and doubt. He knew it didn’t really make sense. The boy had made his own decisions, and he was the one who had put them all here. Holt had tried the best thing he knew to get everyone out of that quandary with their lives intact. And nine times out of ten, you couldn’t save someone who had committed themselves to treading a darker path. You couldn’t just tell them the awful places it led to; they had to find that out for themselves. But he’d still be thinking of what-if’s for months, and maybe years. He couldn’t help it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be the kind of person who could.

The noises slowed, then stopped, and the Vichy’s eyes went empty. The ground around him was wet with blood, and his expression was locked forever in fear and confusion. Holt started to lead Faye away from the grisly scene, back to the Colony. But on the way her knees gave out. She swayed, dizzy, and collapsed to the ground. She gagged and retched, then dry heaved a few times onto the grass.

“Hey,” said Holt, lifting her up. “Hey! You’re okay. You’re fine. Hold on to me.”

“I feel like shit,” said Faye. “I think he hit my head.”

He thought it must have all been too much. She could have a concussion, and he’d need to check her for that inside. Or it could be a mild form of shock. Sometimes people just couldn’t take being that close to another person’s death. Faye had assumed the role of sniper in the cell, shooting at her targets from a distance. She said it was because she didn’t trust herself in close combat. She wasn’t athletic in any way before the Fall, and freely admitted that the average man could overpower her in a fight. She’d killed a Vichy before, though, and didn’t seem to have been troubled by it. But he’d been an adult, and the deed had been done from far away as he was threatening another. Holt knew they’d help her through this one. This type of tragedy couldn’t be avoided these days, and you had to stick together to cope as best you could.

He led her back to the Colony, and they went inside. Marv ran her through a checklist of symptoms from one of his books, playing at doctor and doing what he could. She seemed to be fine, if still a little shaken, but the signs of a concussion were pretty clearly there. There wasn’t much they could do, but Marv dredged up some Tylenol, and Dax volunteered to stay beside her as she slept to keep watch. The rest of them sat up talking and speculating about what the Vichies had been doing there, and the older boys from the families enthusiastically took up guard duties at various windows in the upper levels of the sanitarium. Nothing much happened, and there ended up not being a need for any of it, but Marv was of the opinion that a little more vigilance might have avoided the situation in the first place. Nobody but Faye got much sleep; their adrenaline was still flowing and they couldn’t quit thinking about all the excitement.

In the morning, the cell took their leave. Faye was up and feeling better, and their belongings were already packed. They gathered their things together, as Marv directed a flurry of preparations for his own exit. Children ran around searching for their favorite toys, the women fretted about how much of their clothing they’d be able to carry, and the older boys had a grand time installing dangerous traps around the premises to greet anyone who stopped by while they were gone.

“We’ve got to get on the road,” said Holt. “We’ve got a package to pick up, but then we’re going to be heading back to the City to keep up the good fight. We’ll check in on the place. If you’re not here, we’ll leave a note at the trees out by the old bathtubs.” Some scavenger had created a pile of them before Marv had ever gotten there, dragged out from the Colony’s various buildings, but whoever it was had ended up just leaving them there in a heap of cracked porcelain. Now they were a convenient landmark, located near a copse of trees that Marv used as canvases for the carving of coded messages. If you were just passing through, you could leave him a message there and know that he’d find it.

“Go on, now, and good luck,” said Marv. “We’ll be gone for at least a few weeks. We’ve gotta few other spots. They ain’t as safe, but I’m staying away and scoutin’ the island until I know what’s what.”

They all said their goodbyes, and Holt led his team onward and outward. They hiked back out into the forest, making their way as far south as they could without leaving its protections. The greenbelts would end, and they’d have to switch to the roads at some point if they wanted to make any time. It wasn’t the safest way to travel, but it was still the fastest. And the further they got away from the Perch, the lower the risk. Outside of its immediate vicinity, you might see a solitary angel flying overhead from time to time, but it was nothing like how it could get in the City. There were other dangers, but Holt had a plan for that, too: speed.

When they came to the edges of the forest, they reached a small, hidden tarp just inside that was covered in brush. They’d left it there on the way up, camouflaging their preferred mode of transportation: three motocross bikes, and a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle for Dax. The bikes were faster, but he didn’t have the coordination to use them at top speed, and they’d needed something to haul the Stingers with anyway. All of them could go off-road, and Holt had made them all practice various group evasive maneuvers beforehand in case there was an emergency. The roads were clogged with cars, rusting away after having been abandoned in the decade or so that had passed since the angels fell. People had tried to escape all of the cities, all at once, and when a car or two ran out of gas everything behind them had ground to a halt. Even the shoulders were often covered with cars that had tried to go around the traffic snarl, only to create yet another one. But you could usually squeeze through on a small bike, and all of the bridges on the island were still standing and offered the quickest way back to the mainland. They were going to have to be out in the open anyway, and Holt thought that this far south of the Perch it was best to just make a dash for it.

As they pulled out the bikes, Dax insisted on doing a check of each of their engines. He wanted to tinker with them, and to make sure that everything was okay before they started a long distance journey. A mechanical problem out on the road could be a disaster, particularly as one was most likely to happen if they pressed the vehicles’ limits during an emergency. He had a little tool kit in a trailer that he’d hitched to the ATV, and he pulled it out and got to work with his inspections while the others milled around.

“You ain’t exactly the mechanic type,” said Thane. “You work on cars or somethin’ before the Fall?”

“Nope,” said Dax. “Learned it all from my Dad. He was a blue collar guy, big into cars.”

“That apple didn’t land too close to that tree, did it?” said Thane.

“He was an asshole and a drunk. But I wanted to be just like him,” said Dax. “I thought I’d impress him if I learned how to help him out in the garage. But he and his friends just flicked bottle-caps at my head. I gave it up and spent a bunch of time alone in my room on my computer.” There was a tension in his voice. Dax had been nothing like most of his family. They’d considered him an odd duck, poking at motherboards with a soldering iron when he could have been watching a perfectly good football game. Dissimilarity can create distance, and he’d never really connected with any of them. He’d spent most of his boyhood trying to be something he wasn’t, something they all seemed to think was better than what came naturally for him. Bookishness got you dirty looks, while athleticism got you pats on the back and proud smiles. The drive to be someone else had never really left him, and it was in large part what had drawn him here, to the cell and their quixotic battles.

“I ended up as a software application developer out in San Francisco,” said Dax. “We were working on an app that would automatically like all of your friend’s social statuses, so that you could pretend you were paying attention to them without actually having to.”

“I’d have used it,” said Faye.

“I thought I was going to be a millionaire,” said Dax. “But that was before everything all went to shit.”

The Fall had come out of nowhere, for the residents of Earth. There’d been no warnings and no time to prepare. One evening streaks of fire started appearing in the skies, all around the globe. The newsrooms initially reported it as a meteor shower, a sudden and freak celestial display. But meteors didn’t just appear out of thin air. These objects seemed to materialize from nothing, appearing everywhere at once and with no discernible pattern. As they fell to the ground, darker reports began to trickle in. Videos began circulating of winged beings, screaming in anguish from their burns and creating havoc and destruction wherever they’d landed. At first, things seemed to be contained. Most of them had landed in the vast oceans rather than on land, by simple laws of probability. A few Indian cities were claiming massive casualties, both from violent rampages by a few of the creatures and from the mass hysteria that had resulted among millions of people living together in confined spaces. For the rest of the globe, things seemed to calm down for a day or two as the angels recovered and disappeared into the skies.

No one was sure what had happened, but speculation was rampant. Millions found religion and gathered to worship, while newscasts filled the ticking hours with guesses and commentaries. Governments didn’t do much of anything. They seemed paralyzed with indecision, facing something they’d never planned for and didn’t have the slightest clue what to do about. They talked in circles about who had the proper authority to respond and how. In the end, it wouldn’t have mattered. The angels had fallen, remnants of a heavenly army, and they started doing what armies in disarray tend to do. They regrouped.

Anarchy took hold soon after. The angels began a series of calculated attacks, destroying anything of strategic importance and slaughtering anyone who resisted. It quickly became every man for himself, and most people soon stopped fighting and started focusing on hiding or escaping. The actual warfare didn’t last long. The angels began squabbling among themselves immediately after it was clear that their victory was a foregone conclusion, breaking into factions and even attacking each other. That just made things even worse. Rogue angels flew around doing as they pleased, killing people and panicking entire populations. They finally tired of it, settling down in permanent locations like the Perch. They were military-minded enough or bored enough to continue striking at any human military targets, keeping them forever off balance and preventing any kind of organized response to the chaos. Probably the death toll could have been minimized with some basic humanitarian relief, and most people thought it would be as the angels withdrew into themselves and finally left humanity alone.

But that was before the Vichies sold the rest of them out.