X. Promised Land
I guess most people expect angels to have big, feathery wings. Wear bathrobes, play harps, all that shit. But even an old killer like me knows an angel when he sees one.
It's wearing some sort of mask, with a tube running from the face to a canister at its side. But it's glowing, too, and the way it moves.... Like a dancer. Like an athlete. Like a scrawny little teenage girl I once knew, with a bad case of hero worship. It takes the mask off then, and I want to rub my eyes to make sure what I'm seeing is real. But my hands have decided they like it down on the ground with the rest of my body.
Jack o' lantern. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Jack and the beanstalk. Jack the giant killer.
Jack B. Badd.
She's older than I remember her--prettier, too--and she's grown her hair back. Nix the cue ball effect. How'd it grow so quickly? "Get up," she says, but I just chuckle at her. More of a grimace, really. It hurts too much to laugh. But what the hell's she doing down here?
"Get up, Richard!" Aw, hell. She only calls me that when she's really pissed.
"Where..." My voice cracks. I try again. "Where's the holy man?" We can't leave him behind, after all. He's got something important to do; something about slaves, about a two-faced planet. But then I remember.
"He's dead," Jack says. Her voice sounds strained. Is she crying?
"Dead," I echo. "She's dead." And if Jack thinks I'm talking about Kat or Carolyn--either of the Carolyns--I don't say anything to clarify.
She pushes the mask onto my face then, and I take a deep breath of clean, sweet air. My head clears a little, enough for me to remember the events of the past few days. I left her, and she followed me. I drove her away with words that must have hurt a hell of a lot more than fists, and she came back. I can't let myself just sit and rot away.
Because Jack came back for me.
* * *
"What are you going to do now?"
I'm lying on a sterile hospital bed with more stitches in me than Frankenstein's monster. The lights are dim, and Jack is sitting beside me, playing absentmindedly with my goggles. She's wearing the same glow silk shirt and pants she wore when she saved me, but the glimmer's not bright enough to bother an old beast like Ishmael. It was Jack who spoke, and it's Ishmael who answers now.
(I will wait, and I will watch.) The room seems smaller with Ishmael curled up in it. The last time I saw him was on Eclipse. A brief hello and goodbye, and then he was gone. He's grown tremendously since then. He's big enough that I think maybe he's approaching the age past which his kind don't die.
"What'll you do if you win the war?" And that's a whole new can of worms. The warships are already on their way here. When news reaches Janus and Eclipse....
(Then I will sleep, and I will dream... and perhaps I will fly again.) A superstitious thrill creeps up my spine at the mention of the not-death the ancient of Ishmael's breed experience. The oldest ones are damn near worshiped, but I know better--I know the living death firsthand.
I find myself unconsciously rubbing my wrists, and I brace myself for another attack, but nothing happens. It's then that I realize it: Carolyn and her creation weren't the only things left dead down below.
"And if you lose?" I ask. I have to know.
(If we lose, then I expect that I will die.) It's as if he said that rain was wet, for all the equanimity in his words.
He cocks his ugly hammerhead at me, and I know what he's about to ask. "No. I won't fight for you." Jack stares at me, her lips parting in surprise. Her hand finds mine, and I squeeze it.
And it's true. I'm done with it, with all of it. Darklin, Janus, even Eclipse--the winged people are headed for war, but I'm done.
I started out in a liquor store trash bin with an umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. I've lived longer than I ever wanted to. I have a family that I barely even know. Before too long, I'll be leaving this labyrinth of a world, where the idea of a promised land has made freedom fighters out of slaves. And just maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll have grandkids soon. It's almost more than I can imagine.
The galaxy's about to rip itself apart. But I'm going home.
The End. Really! I mean it this time!
I guess most people expect angels to have big, feathery wings. Wear bathrobes, play harps, all that shit. But even an old killer like me knows an angel when he sees one.
It's wearing some sort of mask, with a tube running from the face to a canister at its side. But it's glowing, too, and the way it moves.... Like a dancer. Like an athlete. Like a scrawny little teenage girl I once knew, with a bad case of hero worship. It takes the mask off then, and I want to rub my eyes to make sure what I'm seeing is real. But my hands have decided they like it down on the ground with the rest of my body.
Jack o' lantern. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Jack and the beanstalk. Jack the giant killer.
Jack B. Badd.
She's older than I remember her--prettier, too--and she's grown her hair back. Nix the cue ball effect. How'd it grow so quickly? "Get up," she says, but I just chuckle at her. More of a grimace, really. It hurts too much to laugh. But what the hell's she doing down here?
"Get up, Richard!" Aw, hell. She only calls me that when she's really pissed.
"Where..." My voice cracks. I try again. "Where's the holy man?" We can't leave him behind, after all. He's got something important to do; something about slaves, about a two-faced planet. But then I remember.
"He's dead," Jack says. Her voice sounds strained. Is she crying?
"Dead," I echo. "She's dead." And if Jack thinks I'm talking about Kat or Carolyn--either of the Carolyns--I don't say anything to clarify.
She pushes the mask onto my face then, and I take a deep breath of clean, sweet air. My head clears a little, enough for me to remember the events of the past few days. I left her, and she followed me. I drove her away with words that must have hurt a hell of a lot more than fists, and she came back. I can't let myself just sit and rot away.
Because Jack came back for me.
* * *
"What are you going to do now?"
I'm lying on a sterile hospital bed with more stitches in me than Frankenstein's monster. The lights are dim, and Jack is sitting beside me, playing absentmindedly with my goggles. She's wearing the same glow silk shirt and pants she wore when she saved me, but the glimmer's not bright enough to bother an old beast like Ishmael. It was Jack who spoke, and it's Ishmael who answers now.
(I will wait, and I will watch.) The room seems smaller with Ishmael curled up in it. The last time I saw him was on Eclipse. A brief hello and goodbye, and then he was gone. He's grown tremendously since then. He's big enough that I think maybe he's approaching the age past which his kind don't die.
"What'll you do if you win the war?" And that's a whole new can of worms. The warships are already on their way here. When news reaches Janus and Eclipse....
(Then I will sleep, and I will dream... and perhaps I will fly again.) A superstitious thrill creeps up my spine at the mention of the not-death the ancient of Ishmael's breed experience. The oldest ones are damn near worshiped, but I know better--I know the living death firsthand.
I find myself unconsciously rubbing my wrists, and I brace myself for another attack, but nothing happens. It's then that I realize it: Carolyn and her creation weren't the only things left dead down below.
"And if you lose?" I ask. I have to know.
(If we lose, then I expect that I will die.) It's as if he said that rain was wet, for all the equanimity in his words.
He cocks his ugly hammerhead at me, and I know what he's about to ask. "No. I won't fight for you." Jack stares at me, her lips parting in surprise. Her hand finds mine, and I squeeze it.
And it's true. I'm done with it, with all of it. Darklin, Janus, even Eclipse--the winged people are headed for war, but I'm done.
I started out in a liquor store trash bin with an umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. I've lived longer than I ever wanted to. I have a family that I barely even know. Before too long, I'll be leaving this labyrinth of a world, where the idea of a promised land has made freedom fighters out of slaves. And just maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll have grandkids soon. It's almost more than I can imagine.
The galaxy's about to rip itself apart. But I'm going home.
The End. Really! I mean it this time!