They Who Fell (6 page)

The night wound down, and eventually everyone wandered off to bed. Marv lent them some sleeping bags and pillows, and they started to settle down for the night.

“Faye, you okay? You’ve been quiet,” said Holt.

“I’m fine,” said Faye. “It just felt so strange, the total lack of control. You can’t move, you hear the stuff coming out of you, and you can’t do anything to stop it. You wonder whether we can really beat them. There’s so many. And they can do too much.”

“Well, maybe we can’t,” said Holt. “But there isn’t really anything else to do, is there? We could bow to them, but I don’t have that in me.”

“We’ve lost it all, though,” said Faye. “You know I was engaged? I was supposed to be wiping baby shit and changing diapers right about now. You probably can’t even see it in me anymore. I don’t even know if he made it, or where he is if he did. There was this perfect little life out there for me, picket fences and everything. And they stole it.” She paused, pushing the emotion down into herself so the others wouldn’t see. “I don’t have anything left but the fight. I know we won’t win. But I just don’t have anything else left.”

They sat quietly with their thoughts, and after a while they all drifted into sleep as the hours passed.

Sometime in the night, Holt awoke to a scratching sound against the metal door. He tapped at Thane, waking him, and both went on alert. Then the sound of voices, a crunching noise, and the door fell backwards into the dark.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“A
menace! Perils from every side, our own people being slaughtered at our doorstep, and here we sit doing nothing!” thundered Uzziel. He waved his arms about, agitated. Uzziel could speak for hours on the subject of military preparations once he got going, and it had been a common form of entertainment in recent years to prod him into a frenzy and snicker at the results. The mood was more somber, now, and he was milking every moment.

“They were common murderers, Uzziel. Nothing more,” said Zuphias, sitting in the first few rows of the audience. He’d recovered, but looked unenthusiastic about the prospects of further fighting.

“Nonsense!” shouted Uzziel, before barreling into a lengthy monologue about the immeasurable benefits of regular drilling and marching.

Jana listened patiently to his bombast for as long as she could before her mind finally began to wander. They were in a large amphitheater, with rows of benches looking down on the rostrum from which Uzziel was currently denouncing the corrupting influence on the Seraphim of the idleness and perfidy of other breeds of angels. Most of the angels in attendance looked bored, and while Jana was no expert on angelic politics, she gathered from the speech that none of the ones Uzziel was complaining of had been permitted to reside in the tower. The angels were clustered in groups, keeping a measurable distance between themselves. Some of the larger ones had their own standard bearers, with massive, colorful banners announcing their affiliations to the others. They knew, already, but for the groups with higher status it didn’t do to let the others forget about it.

Cassie and Jana sat behind Nefta, as was protocol. Cassie had said that an unusually large number of angels would be attending the Conclave, and the room certainly seemed to be full. All of them were dressed in their finest, a mish-mash of intricately decorated robes and imposing looking armors. This meeting was seen as an homage to Abraxos by some, and none of them wanted to hear about an important social event secondhand. The others might gossip about whether their absence was intended as some sort of slight, or someone like Uzziel might propose something ludicrous that could be agreed to in an emotional atmosphere if no one were there to oppose it. And besides, it was see and be seen, and everyone wanted to be seen.

Uzziel’s speech finally ended with an exhortation to begin building a complicated system of trenches and fortifications around the tower, and a reminder that this was a task too important to be left to house-servants, who might already be plotting all sorts of perfidies of their own. After scattered polite applause, another speaker rose and began monotonously reading from a prepared text about the visual blight caused by irregularly sized doorways in the angels’ quarters, and the need to establish a committee to resolve the problem. Perhaps even a subcommittee, should matters not improve expeditiously.

Jana had been warned by Cassie that this could be an intensely boring affair. The Conclave had been formed in a flurry of activity after the tower’s founding, and it had been thought that it would serve as a grand political body and act as a bulwark against any interference from Heaven. As the years passed, the angels discovered that they had no appetite for either ruling or being ruled, and that Heaven appeared to have little interest in their activities. Except for a few stalwarts like Uzziel, its regular attendees focused mostly on mundane matters and the resolution of any personal disputes that couldn’t be worked out otherwise without escalation to violence. Most had deemed the Conclave to be a farce, and had stopped coming in order to focus on whatever private pursuits they were currently absorbed by. On occasion, though, some matter of import caught the attention of the tower, and the regular meetings allowed them an avenue to air issues among any who were interested.

“I think it is time,” said one of the older looking angels, “to get to the matter of honoring Abraxos.” Murmurs of assent sprang from around the chamber, a sign that most in the audience found the routine affairs to be just as tiresome as Jana did. Another angel rose, gave a short eulogy, and opened the floor to speakers.

“I should like to speak,” rang a voice from behind Jana. She turned her head to see Rhamiel, rising from his seat and approaching the podium. He tilted his head as he walked down the steps to the center of the room, and she could swear he was looking in her direction. Nefta herself seemed to confirm it. While Jana couldn’t see her face, her wings visibly tightened and then thrust upward in a quick, angry flap.

“Eulogies are an art filled with the stuff of fantasy. But The Maker warned us against dishonesty, so I shall of course stick to the truth.” Rhamiel paused and greeted the audience’s laughter with a smile. None of them were prone to honesty unless it suited them, and none could resist a shot against their former master.

“Abraxos was not a dear friend, not to any of us. I do not fault him for it. It was simply his nature. In heaven he wandered around the borderlands on his own, performing services he chose not to discuss. He rebelled for his own reasons, which none of us were privy to. And he spent his days here in solitude, living among us but not of us,” continued Rhamiel.

“Many here tire of warfare. A sentiment I understand. But someone has struck at us. A man I have seen, brazen enough to kill one of us and injure two others,” said Rhamiel, gathering energy as he spoke.

A voice interrupted, calling out from among the crowd. “Poor Rhamiel! Heaven’s ugly duckling, his face now scarred like the rest of us!” Jana saw no scars, and saw no ugliness. He looked as perfect as ever, and any sculptor would have been proud to call him their work. His hands had mild burns, but they only seemed to add character, and weren’t all that noticeable anyway. Titters among the audience, however, told Jana that she was missing something. Rhamiel frowned, brushing his forehead with his hand involuntarily. But it was just a moment, and then he was back to dominating the room.

“I’m still the fairest of them all, Orifiel,” said Rhamiel, smiling confidently. “My injuries from this scuffle with man are but mild, and whatever I was in Heaven, you’d all trade anything to have had the foresight to protect your own faces. Certainly your swollen, melted nose is nothing to envy.” He beamed, and heard no further jests. Jana still didn’t see any injuries, but then, she didn’t have the angels’ standards of beauty.

The sentiments of the room seemed to flip to Rhamiel’s side, as members of the crowd jeered at the heckler. Rhamiel reveled in it, railing against the criminals who’d dared attack him and rousing the audience. In the middle of it all, Nefta turned and spoke a word to Cassie.

“Get up, and bring Nefta some water,” whispered Cassie. Jana frowned, her face turning to a sulk. The speech was the first interesting thing that had happened in hours, and she wanted to see how it ended. But orders were orders, and Nefta was liable to inflict some punishment on her in front of everyone if she hesitated. She would die from embarrassment, even if nothing else. She got up, and quietly made her way to the back of the assembly, taking care not to obstruct the view of anyone in the audience.

Outside the chamber, she rushed straight to a small station in a nearby room that was manned by some of the mid-level servants. They weren’t bound to the service of any particular angel, and so were excluded from the Conclave. Anything needed to fulfill the most common requests was kept here, so as to avoid needless delay. Jana asked for water, and was handed a small leather canteen. She turned, hoping she could make it back in time before the dull droning resumed. Then she saw him.

“Peter!” said Jana, shocked. She was delighted—she’d thought she might never speak to any of her old friends again, and now she had a chance to get word to them that she was safe and well.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” said Jana. “I only have a minute, but you have to tell everyone. You’ll never guess who I’m working for.”

“Nefta,” said Peter. She stopped, stunned.

“You know I always had a crush on you?” asked Peter. “I should have done something. I was working my way up to it. Getting the confidence. Then you just disappeared. I can work for any of them without a hint of fear, but the idea of making a move on you turned my legs to jelly.”

Jana wasn’t sure how to take this. She’d never really thought of him that way, and hadn’t seen this coming. She’d known, of course, deep down inside. But it was easier to deny it to herself, to pretend that nothing was there. You could never be sure, and there had been no need to broach the issue when it would surely just hurt his feelings. Silent pining harmed no one, but things were out in the open now. She stammered something out, stalling with words to give herself time to collect her thoughts. “Peter, I’m… I’m up here. You’re down there. I just don’t….”

“You don’t understand,” said Peter. “I heard. We all heard. The woman. She talked to Sam. She told him she was taking you up. I didn’t know exactly where, but I had to try to follow. I should have done it a long time ago, anyway. I’m not meant to be down in the dirt. I’m better than that. We’re both better than that. We made it. I’m not at the highest level. But it’s just a few floors down from you. Close enough we can visit.”

Jana didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t even understand this. It just wasn’t done. Servants at the bottom didn’t simply rise in rank by snapping their fingers. “How?” she stuttered.

“I talked to one of them. I pledged fealty,” said Peter. “To Ecanus.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
lack shapes moved forward, advancing in the darkness. It looked like three, although Holt couldn’t be exactly sure. Little light found its way down here from the outside, and at night it was nearly pitch black. He drew his pistol from his belt, groping as he moved, and hoped Thane was seeking cover as well. Marv could be brilliant, in a deviously calculating way. He’d made sure to locate the guest rooms at the outskirts of the basement, between the families’ quarters and the exterior. His philosophy was that the welcome visitors should be the first to greet any unwelcome ones. If anyone else found their way inside, Marv himself would get plenty of warning.

Voices whispered to each other, and then a flashlight flicked on and off. They were definitely people. The angels didn’t like cramped spaces where they couldn’t stretch their wings, and Holt had never heard of any of them carrying flashlights. Another flicker, and he got a clearer look. They were Vichies, slowly creeping their way inside and trying to avoid being detected.

They were easy to identify by their clothing—all white, all the time. Probably it had been originally chosen for its symbolism, as the color most associated with angels in the common lore from before the Fall. It had the added benefit of being conspicuous from above, particularly when everyone in a group was wearing it. It would have been a rarely used color scheme even before the Fall, but now virtually no one else would wear so much as a white undershirt. The Vichies lived in packs and sought safety in numbers. Too many people wanted their heads, and it wasn’t uncommon to see a Vichy corpse strung up along the road as a warning to the others about the price of treason.

Holt felt his way behind a sofa—adequate cover, under the circumstances. He leveled his pistol to about where they seemed to be. It was now or never. They’d be approaching where he’d been sleeping, and Faye was probably still deep in her slumber. Dax certainly was. If he’d noticed by now, he wouldn’t have been quiet about it. Holt aimed, and waited for the next flash of light to guide his gun.

Then a blinding glare lit up the room, as a streak of fire scythed through the air. Thane had gotten in close without the Vichies noticing. Behind them, even, and he’d swung the angel’s sword in an arc that cleanly lopped off one of their heads. As it rolled to the floor, the room was illuminated by the blaze and filled with panic. Holt paused for just a moment, impressed. Then it was back to business, and time to take advantage of the pandemonium. There were two of the Vichies left alive, both armed with assault rifles, but they were in shock at what had just happened. They stared at what was left of their companion, paralyzed and unable to process what was going on. He didn’t give them the time to do it. He let loose a burst from his sidearm, downing one of the others.

As the second one fell, the third succumbed to terror. He dropped his gun, collapsing to his knees in submission and placing his hands onto his head. Thane looked like he was about to kill him anyway, but Holt motioned for him to stop. Now the room was filled with whimpers and crying, as the Vichy released a torrent of pleas to spare his life. Faye had woken up and scrambled towards him, kicking away the assault rifles on the floor in case he somehow rediscovered his courage. Dax was still frantically groping around for his glasses. He’d left them somewhere nearby before he’d gone to bed, but for the life of him he couldn’t seem to figure out where. His confusion was entirely a product of the sudden commotion, but by the time he’d finally gotten them on it was all over. Part of him felt like he’d missed his chance to play hero, while the rest of him just felt relief that he hadn’t been slaughtered in his sleep.

A door behind them creaked open slightly, and Marv poked his head through.

“We’ve got it under control,” said Holt, motioning for him to come forward. Marv entered, leading with the barrel of a military-style shotgun he was frequently bragging about. Soft voices followed into the room from behind him. The families were clearly up and about, but Marv wouldn’t let any of them leave their shelter until he was sure things were safe.

“Damn. Boy, you like ‘em crispy,” said Marv, nodding to Thane. He was still holding the sword, standing over the body of the one he’d dispatched. The corpse’s neck was singed to a pitch black, and its head had rolled over towards the surviving Vichy. No one felt like moving it away, and the nervous peeks the Vichy kept taking at it suggested he had no further interest in any kind of conflict.

“I want this one fried, too,” said Thane. He waved the sword to point it at the survivor, causing the Vichy to flinch away from the flame in fear. “You and your asshole friends come in here and think you’re gonna kill us? Sneakin’ around in the dark like a buncha pussies. You’re too afraid to fight like men.”

It was true, but then, these weren’t men. With the room well-lit, they could all see that. They were just boys—still teenagers, scrawny little things who never would have chanced something with someone like Holt or Thane by the light of day. The surviving Vichy’s face was sprinkled with uneven patches of stubble, the first sproutings of a nascent manhood he now had questionable odds of ever seeing.

True to his form, the Vichy started begging the second the fire came near him. “It wasn’t me! They made me come! We were just looking for some food! We didn’t even know you were here! Please!” Sobs replaced pleading, though Thane clearly thought it was all just for show.

“If you’re wearin’ the white, why do you need food?” said Thane, sneering. “I thought they gave you everything you ever wanted up at the Perch. You need those guns to find food? Guess y’all were just huntin’ something down here. Holt, let’s just kill this piece of shit and get on with things.”

“Let’s talk, Marv,” said Holt. “Your house, your rules. But this is just some kid. Faye, keep him down and we’ll go figure out what we’re going to do.”

“He’s a fuckin’ traitor!” shouted Thane. “You know who you work for, you little shit? Who you’re helpin’?”

“Thane,” said Faye, trying to calm him down.

“No, bullshit! He’s one of us and he’s helpin’ them! I lost so much shit ‘cause of people like you. I hadda life, a good life. I was workin’ oil patches, I made good money. I had friends, I had a bar I liked to drink at. All that shit’s gone. All those guys are dead. Wasn’t even the angels that did it. It was you fuckers. You come on through, kill anybody who doesn’t give you their stuff, burn anything you don’t want. Just so you can bow to those assholes? It’s treason. There’s only one thing to do with traitors.” Thane’s eyes flashed, and so did the sword.

“Thane!” Holt shouted, trying to regain control of the situation. It worked. Something in Thane snapped back into focus, and he turned away from the Vichy. He holstered the sword and then stormed out of the room, slamming his fist into the concrete wall and leaving a few smudged, bloody knuckle marks in his wake.

It must have hurt, but keeping things inside would have hurt more. Boys are trained from a young age to suppress their emotions. Something shifts, and one day their childish cries are met not with sympathy or caring but with insults, coldness, and looks of disgust. It’s not a pleasant process, but you can’t forge a man any other way. Thane was no exception. He’d learned through the years to keep everything within him. He hadn’t cried since he was grown, not even as his losses mounted after the Fall. He never talked about what he felt, and an outsider might not think there was anything there to discuss, anyway. But burying things doesn’t make them go away. They’ve got to be let out, and bursts of fury against the occasional object were a fine form of release. Directing his rage at the deserving would have been even better, but Thane didn’t always get what he wanted.

Marv gestured to Holt to follow him, and they withdrew to the family quarters, leaving Faye to keep the Vichy from making further trouble. He lay on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes, a boy who had tried to be older than he was. Maybe his friends really had made him do it, as flimsy as his story about searching for food sounded. Maybe they’d just dared him. At his age, that’s often enough. Whatever his real motivations, and whatever his intentions had been, he’d made a poor choice in targets and his fate was out of his hands.

Inside, the families were huddled near the door. A few of the men stood guarding the entrance, along with several of the older boys. They had their war faces on, but a serious fighter like Holt could see right through it. Only Marv had the steel for this sort of thing, which was why he was the one holding the Colony together.

“We gotta kill him,” said Marv, once he’d gotten Holt aside. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s what has to be. We gotta just go out there, put a gun to his head, and keep this place safe.”

Holt started to speak, but Marv didn’t even let him begin. He pulled a pistol from his waistband, offering it to Holt. “Either you do it, or I will.”