MEMORY: 42

It's become something of a tradition of mine to offer up a bit of fiction for the holiday season. This year might be considered something of a cheat, as it is an installment of MEMORY, the ongoing, online serial project of mine. I choose to think otherwise, however, mainly because I've been so wrapped up with other things it's been an unforgivably long time since I chronicled the adventures of Flavius and Parric. I'm still far too busy with different projects not to mention far too slow a writer, but for today, at least, Flavius and Parric live on. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and yours!

First
Previous

Flavius leapt, the new sphere emitting a deep peal as he landed upon it. Upward they soared, knocking and jostling for position. Through the chaos of the spheres, Flavius glimpsed the service way, far to his left.

Gritting his teeth, he leapt again, and again. Each jump brought him closer. On his next jump, the sphere rolled, dumping him over. He hit the next sphere awkwardly, and tumbled sideways as it rolled as well. Again and again he fell, unable to regain his balance, until finally he landed and stuck, flat on his back.

Approaching quickly from above came the service way.

"Ach, this is gonna sting..." Flavius grabbed at the support struts underneath the walk an instant before the sphere hit. The impact knocked the air out of him, and for a moment Flavius knew he'd be crushed. The sphere rolled to the side then, and Flavius hooked an arm around the strut before he fell. Heaving a few deep lungfulls of air, he shoved Memory onto the walk, then hoisted himself over the railing onto the service way. His legs quivered warningly. Wiping his face with a sleeve, he scanned the service way for Anacaona, the Empress and the rest. There, far down the service way, amid the cascade of spheres, the orange bulk of Djserka lurched along, followed by the smaller figures of the women.

"Right then. Always the running after and catching up." Flavius stooped to pick up Memory, and suddenly the world twisted, stretched, then snapped back into place.

Flavius found himself lying prone on the walk, Memory beneath him. "What," he managed, climbing back to his feet, "in God's good name was that?"

He tested his limbs cautiously, wary they might break off at the joints or turn to limp strands of rope, but all seemed in order, save for the deep burn of over-exertion. Flavius charged after the others.

The service way grew steeper as he approached the others. It was impossible to see far through all the rising spheres, but Flavius was certain the walk hadn't torn loose from its supports. The Palace of Un-pic Ja'ab was listing.

Anacaona caught sight of him, waving and shouting. Then reality buckled once again. The palace turned inside out, boiling away in a thunderous gale.

As quickly as before, reality snapped back to normal. Flavius stared up into the sobbing face of Anacaona, her tears raining down upon him.

"Oh, Flavius, what's happening? What was that?"

"I donnae ken, Lass, but it cannae be good." Flavius shot a look to the others. "Empress?"

Empress Malinche, scowling imperiously, offered only a terse shake of her head. Even Papantzin's guise of cool confidence had cracked, as she scanned randomly about for a host of perceived threats.

The service way shuddered. A series of rolling booms echoed around them as the Ketza'qua strained against its bonds.

"If I may, there is an egress but a short distance ahead," Djserka said. "At this point, it is my belief the Ketza'qua will cast off its bonds long before we are able to make our way back to the Nexial gaps. The palace will not last much longer, I fear. Our best course would be to vacate."

"Then forward, ya beastie! Move!"

With Djserka in the lead and Flavius in the rear, they fought their way toward the door even as the way grew steeper. The tilt was unmistakable now, nearly ten degrees by Flavius' reckoning. The lifting spheres no longer rose directly past, but rather increasingly angled the same direction they moved. And the flow had slowed as well.

"The way forward is blocked," Djserka announced abruptly. "I cannot force a way through."

Flavius leaned over the rail, but couldn't see beyond Djserka's bulk. The way back, even if they wanted to retreat, was already blocked by coagulating spheres. "I could climb past ya, but I nae want to be skewered by yer spines there."

"It is possible for me to retract my defensive spicules temporarily."

"Then get retracting." Flavius swung himself over the railing, muscling for space against the spheres. "The rest of ya, follow along." Anacaona clutched his arm.

"Flavius... uh, please be careful."

Flavius patted her cheek. "Ah, lass, had ya only offered me that sage advice a week ago."

Flavius gingerly worked his way along the railing, wary of the warty black puckers of retracted spines. This close to the Naga-ed-der, he could smell the creature's astringent odor. Flavius blinked as his eyes watered. Anacaona followed close behind, with the Empress and Papantzin after. As Flavius reached the front, Djserka plucked him over the rail with a long, spindly arm, then helped Flavius pull the rest over.

"Stay close. When I start cutting," he said, "I donnae ken how long the path will stay open--"

"So keep pace or be left behind," finished Empress Malinche impatiently. "Yes. You've said that already."

"Right. But it, ah, bears repeating." Flavius swung Memory in a wide arc, shattering two spheres. Feather-light crystal shards rained down on him. He pushed forward, before the crush of spheres could fill the gap, and slashed again, breaking another. The women followed close behind, but the spheres pressed in quickly, making a tight fit for Djserka.

"I see it!" Flavius shouted, steadily smashing his way forward. "It's only about 20 more feet."

The doorway loomed ahead, a dark slash against the wall.

"Is it opening wider?" asked Anacaona.

"Opening?" Flavius peered forward. The opening was growing wider. And extending up and down the wall as well. "Sweet mer--"

A cascade of debris fell through the opening, smashing through the straining, buckled struts anchoring the end of the service way. "That's nae doorway, that's a break in the palace wall!"

The struts snapped. The service way twisted and bucked against the spheres, dropping from a ten degree rise to a twenty degree drop in rough, jerking fashion. Then it rumbled forward, smashing spheres left and right, through the growing fissure in the wall.

Through the cloud of dust and rubble they rode, through the breached wall, into the shrill night air. The length of service way snagged back inside somewhere, jerking to a stop. The railing collapsed, dumping Flavius, Anacaona, Empress Malinche and Papantzin into open air.

Flavius landed on something hard and metallic. Anacaona landed atop him, as did the Empress and Papantzin. "Get... off!"

Flavius pushed them off, and rose to a kneeling position. "Djserka?" he called.

"Here," Djserka said, lowering himself via thread. "You only fell seven mlara. Any farther and you may have sustained significant injuries."

A burning wej spun out of control in the distance, trailing smoke. Streaks of cuyab flame streaked here and there. Larger plasma beams lanced out from palace gun placements, burning moironteau into shriveled char. Moironteau... moironteau swarmed everywhere. Thousands of them, on the ground, in the air, illuminated by furious eruptions of crimson and emerald throughout the battlefield.

The steel-hard surface beneath them undulated then, and a fierce, rapid clattering in the distance rushed over them and past. It was a familiar clatter, one Flavius had heard before. "Oh, damn me sideways to hell. We're atop the wee beastie."

"Speak sense, Flavius," snapped Empress Malinche.

"I believe, Your Imperial Highness, that he means we currently stand upon a scale of the bound Ketza'qua," Djserka said.

"The Ketza'qua?" the Empress repeated with distaste. "For a servitor creature to debase the Imperial Personage with physical contact..." She shuddered. "No, no this is unacceptable. It will have to be disposed of."

"Oh, Yer Imperial Majesty's got much bigger problems than that just now," Flavius said, standing ready with Memory gripped tightly in both hands.

"The Ketza'qua is breaking free!" cried Anacaona. "It will kill us all!"

"Nae, Lass," Flavius answered, gesturing Memory toward the raging battle. "Yer wee beastie willnae get the chance."

Through the carnage of battle streaked a crimson blur, a serpentine body of scarlet propelled by wings blurred with motion. It raced toward them, its three pair of eyes locked on Flavius, antennae twitching in fury, casting off sparks of pure hatred.

Rapteer had come.

To Be Continued...

The long, slow A.I.

Considering that I edit three different short fiction venues, it might seem a little odd how rarely I read short fiction outside the slushpile. But I spent this afternoon reading the recent novella by Ted Chiang, "The Lifecycle of Software Objects," which is out in the current Subterranean Press. Like most of Ted Chiang's work it is dense, pedantic, and meticulously analytical. It is also about 30k words long, which means about two hours of delicately scrolling the browser page. But a well-spent two hours it was.

At issue with "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" is the banality of artificial intelligence and the tedium of child-rearing. We're used to the following structure for AI stories: mumbo-jumbo plus processing power leads to digital super-intellects, culminating in world-altering drama. This story, for all its insights into the development of intellect, follows a far more personal scope. And somehow feels all the more epic for having done so.

I've been thinking a lot about the value of short fiction, both as an editor and as a writer. It seems that even the good fiction comes in only two flavors: light and heavy. Ted Chiang is the poster-boy for heavy spec fic. It reminds me of what Cait Coker said about John Campbell and the golden-age crew coming into the spotlight after Hiroshima. Their short fiction had been processing the elements of the future for a long time, so they were the only ones not surprised by the man-made sun over Japan. "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" is that sort of story. It's our first glimpse of wonders that will be built in increments through the labor of everyday life.

Apostate Treasures, LTD.

Merry Christmas, folks. I hope the holiday season is treating you and yours well this December, whether you're celebrating the Noel, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or Festivus. Last year I offered up a holiday gift in the form of Lame Duck Christmas. It was received so well that the mood took me to offer another holiday gift of fiction to you good readers this year as well. This one's quite a bit longer than "Lame Duck" and not so political in nature, but I feel it is apropos of the season, even if it's not a Christmas story per se. I hope you enjoy.

Apostate Treasures, LTD.
by
Jayme Lynn Blaschke

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
--Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV,iii,22.

The bell jingled, barely louder than the squeal of the old hinges as Lauren shoved the door open. Twenty after. Twenty after. Edgar will not be happy, she thought. Not that he ever was. If he couldn't find something to be annoyed with, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

"You're late, Lauren," he said from behind the ancient, manual cash register, not looking up from this week's edition of the Cottonwood Gin. Wild, white hair framed the bald crown of his head, thick eyebrows meeting in a knot above his craggy nose. "I'm not paying you to come in when you feel like it, you know? You ever think maybe I didn't get breakfast this morning?"

"Sorry, Mr. Berger," Lauren said, slinging her backpack off a shoulder to set it behind the counter. She coughed twice, and brushed her ashen hair back from her face, scratching her parrot-like nose with the tip of her little finger. "I wasn't feeling very well this morning."

"Oh," he said, the bluster bleeding from his voice. He pursed his lips, giving her a look halfway between pity and guilt. Lauren swallowed self-consciously, and coughed again. Makeup did only so much to cover the bags under her eyes and sallow complexion.

"I'm going to meet Florence and grab some lunch down at City Cafe," he said finally, hopping off his stool. "You watch things here. The truck came by this morning. Leon unloaded the boxes in the back. You can busy yourself with that if it stays slow."

Lauren nodded. Mondays were always slow, at least until the five o'clock crunch. She watched him leave, bell jangling at the end of its chain, then pushed through the swinging door to the back. Picking a utility knife out of the toolbox perched atop an old, chewed-up sawhorse, she sliced open the first box of the irregular pyramid before her. Bon Ami.

She hoisted the box, and tossed the knife back to the toolbox. It glanced off the corner with a metallic clang, imbedding itself in the hardwood floor, worn smooth with age and wax. Lauren backed through the doorway, carrying the box to the second narrow aisle, where she dropped it with a dull thump. She knelt in front of the half-empty shelf, her jeans worn through at the knees, less a fashion statement than necessity.

Taking a can of Bon Ami out of the box with thin, veined hands, Lauren mechanically went about her task, little coughs punctuating each move. A black, dusty ceiling fan droned on above her as she emptied the box. Standing stiffly, she kicked the empty box back to the storeroom like an unwieldy soccer ball, stopping briefly to take a swallow from the bottle of cough syrup in the backpack.

She booted the box off to the side, then jerked the knife free of the floor, slitting open the next one. Cascade.

The door jangled.

Sighing, Lauren set the knife atop the detergent and went to mind the register. She stopped short in the doorway.

An angel stood before her.

The proportions of his body were so close to perfect, not even the baggy Dockers and loose khaki pullover he wore could hide the fact. His face, with high cheekbones, straight, narrow nose and strong jaw could easily have come from a sculpture by one of the old masters. Skin like frosted glass. Hair of rich black silk. Eyes that almost glowed with an inner light.

"Miss, are you okay?"

Lauren stiffened, tingles running up and down her back. She'd felt the words within her as much as heard them. Resonant, strong, almost lyrical. Is he singing to me? She nodded, failing to stop herself from gawking.

"That's good. I was afraid you were about to faint on me," he said. His smile sparkled like a toothpaste commercial. "Could I trouble you to show me where you keep the salsa? I looked with the ketchup, but there didn't seem to be any."

"Chip aisle. With the bean dip and Velveeta."

"Thanks."

The moment he turned, Lauren slumped back against the stool, lightheaded. Lauren, get hold of yourself. Angels do_not shop for salsa. And if they did, it wouldn't be in Cottonwood, she thought, but her heart continued to race along, juiced with adrenaline.

"Found it," he called out, hefting up a half-gallon jug of Pace hot. Instinctively, she tilted her head forward, hair falling forward in a protective veil.

His footsteps approached, and Lauren tensed, her eyes darting around the counter in a near panic. So this is what close encounters feel like? Oh, my God. He's coming... Stop it, Lauren. Think. Angels' feet don't touch the ground. Oh, Jesus...

The jug of hot sauce slid toward her across the counter.

"W--" She coughed. "Uh, will that be all?"

"I'd like a fifty-count box of King Edward Imperials, too.
If it's no trouble."

He smokes. There you go. Angels don't smoke. She turned without looking up. Cans of Skoal and pouches of Red Horse packed the bottom shelves, Marlboros and Camels the top. From between the two she took a yellow box of cigars.

"So do you always hide from your customers when you check them out?"

She glanced up. That dazzling smile was still there. "Sorry. I'm not very good with people."

"You ought to have more confidence in yourself. You seem like a nice person."

"This is too surreal," Lauren whispered, ringing him up.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Just, um, talking to myself."

"Oh. Well, as long as you don't start answering." He paid as she sacked him up. He took the paper bag up in one arm, then hesitated, suddenly looking unsure. "I, ah, you don't sell any local stuff here, do you?"

"Local?"

"I mean like crafts. Artisan creations. I work with wood," he said, hopefully. "Nothing fancy. Pens, jewelry boxes, clocks. Ornaments, too. Sometimes furniture, but not so much. I don't find it as fulfilling. I'm new around here, and need to find some outlets. This is the only store in town, so... do you think we could work something out?"

Lauren blinked. New in town. He wasn't just passing through. "Geez, I don't know. Edgar Berger owns this place, so you'd have to talk to him. I don't see why not. He'll probably be back in an hour or so, if you'd like to come back then?"

"Afraid I'll be busy. Here, how about this." He fished his wallet out of a back pocket with his free hand, then pulled a business card from it with his teeth. "My number and address are on the back. Could you have him give me a call when he gets a chance?"

"No problem," she said, taking the offered card.

"Thank you so much," he said, pausing halfway out the door.

"If things work out, you might be seeing a lot more of me around here... I'm sorry. I haven't even asked your name."

"Lauren. Lauren Redwine."

"And a lovely name it is. You might be seeing a lot more of me around here, Lauren Redwine."

The door squealed shut behind him, and Lauren released a deep breath. She still felt light-headed, and was about to get a Dr Pepper from the cooler when she remembered the card in her hand. She looked at it. Simple, elegant grey, with sharp black lettering:

APOSTATE TREASURES, LTD.
Olivier Apostate, Woodworker, Woodturner

She opened the cash register, dropped it in for Mr. Berger, then glanced back toward the door.

"I don't know about you, Mr. Apostate, but I don't know if I could survive another meeting."

---

"Come on, Lauren. Get a grip. An angel?"

"You don't have to believe me, Kate," Lauren said, slowly stirring Half-And-Half into her coffee. "You don't have to believe me. I'm just telling you, is all. I have to tell
somebody."

"But, shit girl. That's just plain nuts." Kate dug through the fridge, ice so thick on the freezer it nearly held the door open for her. She found a Pearl Light and a Lone Star Light, considered them, then put the Pearl back. She plopped her wide girth down across the table from Lauren, twisted the cap off her beer with plump, brown fingers, and took a deep swallow. "Convince me. From what you've said so far, it sounds like you've just got the big-time hots for the new guy in town."

"Kate, it's not like that. Well, it is, but there's more." A fit of coughing interrupted her, and she pulled out the cough syrup.

"Are you taking your medicine? You sound worse. Maybe you should go to the doctor and get checked out again."

"And what do I pay him with?" She grunted, swallowed the thick liquid, and thumped her chest with the heel of her palm. "I take my pills, and they turn my pee orange. That means they're working, right?"

"I just worry about you, girlfriend. TB's nasty shit."

"It's okay. Those false negatives, they put me behind on my treatment, is all. Just going to take a little longer for those antibiotics to clean me out." She coughed again, wiped her eyes and took a swallow of coffee.

"Mmhm," Kate nodded, concern still lining her face. "So what's so special about this guy--apart from his being a fox. How old is he?"

"I don't know."

"Well, give me a guess."
"I'm telling you, I don't know. He seemed young--there was this air of eternal youth about him, but he also seemed kind of weary. You know, like old people get."

"Christ, Lauren. You know how cornball that sounds? Does he have wings? A halo?"

Lauren shook her head.

"I thought angels had wings and halos. Harps, too."

"Kate, he didn't have any of that stuff. He looked like a normal guy, except that he wasn't. You'd just have to see him." She leaned forward. "Look, he gave me his business card, right? After work, I went by the library."

"Did you find anything in the book? Or had somebody colored it?"

"Funny, Kate. Real funny. But believe it or not, they had a couple of books on Angels. And guess what name I found? Olivier."

"So what. Maybe his parents were big fans of Sir Lawrence."

Lauren rolled her eyes. "The book said he was an archangel. A prince."

"Which still don't mean shit. Why doesn't he have wings? Why's he in Cottonwood, and not strumming his harp?"

"I looked up Apostate as well. It means `one who renounces his faith.' I think Olivier's a fallen angel."

"Shit," Kate said, leaning back. "This guy of yours sounds like some kind of psycho to me. That's not a natural name. It's something an axe murderer would come up with. Damn, Lauren, he's probably some kind of devil worshiper!"

"He's not like that. Not at all. He's... you'd just have to meet him, is all."

"No thanks, girlfriend. You didn't tell him where we live, did you?"

"No, I didn't. But it wouldn't matter if I did. He's not going to do anything. You'll see."

"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm going to visit him tomorrow. I got his address off his card. Route 2, out toward Waterloo, past the Skull Creek bridge."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Lauren, what if you die?"

Lauren took the cough syrup bottle lid and balanced it on the tip of her finger, watching it intently. "All of us die, Kate. Some just sooner than others."

"Sorry. You know what I meant."

"I know. But I'm still going. Don't worry, I'll be okay. I promise."

---

Lauren coaxed her rusty Buick down the dusty, half-overgrown drive. Gnarled live oaks stretched their branches out to form a canopy over the road. The old car heaved to one side with every rut she hit, and the muffler and oil pan hit bottom a couple of times with a grating scrape. Shania Twain sang something lusty on the radio.

"He sure lives far enough out here," Lauren said to no one in particular, Kate's warnings about axe-murderers forcing themselves upon her. "God, I hope I don't get stuck. No one'd ever find me."

The Buick climbed down through a dry wash, strained to pull itself up the other side, and suddenly she was at the house.

The woods pulled back to form a clearing some fifty yards across, with a compact, yellow, two-story wooden farmhouse parked right in the middle. It badly needed a new coat of paint.

Lauren killed the engine. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath and got out of the car. The steps groaned ominously as she climbed up to the porch, and the porch did the same. Obviously, the house needed much more than a coat of paint.

Lauren rapped on the screen door--which had holes large enough to fly a grackle through--softly at first, then harder when no answer came.

"Wouldn't it be my luck if he wasn't home." Lauren leaned against the wall, frowning, and stifled a cough. Then she caught the faint sound of a metallic whine.

She followed the sound around back, realizing as she passed a clothesline overgrown with honeysuckle that she hadn't seen any dogs or cats. She couldn't ever remember seeing a house in the country that didn't at least have a dog lounging around in the shade somewhere.

The sound came from a shed just a few steps from the back door of the house, underneath the sprawling branches of a sycamore. It stopped a moment, then started again. A dusty blue Chevy S-10 pickup sat parked in front of it, a big dent in the driver's door. Branches and logs filled the bed.

Lauren stepped around the truck, and looked in through the open door. Band saw, table saw, routers, drill press, a dozen different sanders along with shelves of varnish and lacquers cluttered the room. Olivier sat at a wood lathe, shirt stained with sweat, sawdust in his hair, cutting a pattern into a spinning stick of wood.

Lauren sucked in her breath as her heart skipped a beat.

The lathe whine died away, and Olivier turned to her, a look of surprise on his face. "Lauren. What are you doing here?"

She felt a sudden sense of shame, like she'd intruded upon some place she had no business. "I-- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just stopped by to visit, but if you're busy I can go."

"No, no. You're not interrupting." He stood, brushing sawdust away but only succeeded in moving it around a little. "You just surprised me. I don't get many visitors. Well, I don't get any, but that doesn't mean you're not welcome."

"Gee, thanks." Despite herself, Lauren began to relax.

"It's hot out here. You want to go in the house? It's not air-conditioned, but there's ceiling fans."

The briefest hesitation flashed through her mind, Kate's panic of devil worshipers. "Sure. If you like."

He led her to the house, and Lauren found herself watching his butt as they walked, much to her embarrassment. In the kitchen, he closed only the screen--this one had only a couple pencil-thick holes in it--and yanked the chain to turn on the fan.

"Like some tea? Water? I'm afraid I don't have much else."

"Water's fine."

He filled a plastic gas station mug at the sink, and added a couple ice cubes from the freezer. "If it looks a little dirty, that's because some rust got into the well pump. It's okay, though. Won't hurt you."

Lauren took the mug and eyed it dubiously. She thought she detected a slight browninsh tinge, but took a sip and it tasted fine.

"Lauren, I don't mean to be rude, but I've been working in the shop all morning. I stink. I'm going to jump in the shower right quick and rinse off, okay?"

She nodded.

"Great. Make yourself at home while I run upstairs. I'll just be a few minutes."

He gave her that smile again. She watched him go into the hall, then listened as his footsteps clomped up the stairs. Lauren took a sip of water, and heard the pipes rumble and clatter as he turned the shower. She closed her eyes, and imagined him stepping into the shower, lathering up...

"Stop it, Lauren," she snapped at herself. "It's not going to happen, so quit torturing yourself."

She walked into the hall, briefly glancing up the stairway. She started coughing, and took a big swallow of water. It didn't help any, but at least it felt good to make the effort. When the fit passed, she pushed open the nearest door.

It had been a dining room once, or maybe a large bedroom. Olivier'd apparently converted it into a library. A smallish, kidney-shaped table of burgundy wood sat in the middle of the room, with an odd half-reclining chair and a standing lamp. Threadbare drapes covered the lone window, thin streams of sunlight filtering through. Bookshelves lined the wall, smelling of cedar. Lauren touched the table, running her fingertips along the polished edges. She looked at the chair, then the shelves.

Did he do all his himself?

She pulled the drapes open a little to let more light in, then examined the titles in his library. Paradise Lost by John
Milton sat next to Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy and Bart Ehrman’s Misquoting Jesus. There was the Bible, Talmud, Torah and Koran sharing shelf space with the complete works of St. Thomas Aquinas. Those books being there didn't surprise her. Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time did.

Lauren scratched her head. She didn't recognize the vast majority of the books, but they didn't strike her as what one would find in an angel's collection--not even a fallen angel's. Books like Dreams of a Final Theory, Superstrings, Theories of Everything and a pair by some guy named Davies, The Mind of God and God and the New Physics. The only Davies she'd ever heard of sang in some 60s rock band her father used to listen to.

She noticed a small end table in the corner. A large box sat atop it, a case made of cherry wood. Grooves ran along the lid, and two separate rows of bas-relief whorls adorned the sides. Lauren traced the patterns, then lifted the lid. Rows of cigars filled the case. A humidor, she realized.

Then the stench hit her.

Gagging, she slammed the lid shut and backed away, coughing furiously. Her nose burned with the foulest rotten egg odor she'd ever smelled. Wiping her eyes, she grabbed her glass and took a swallow--spewing half of it on the rug as she continued to cough. The clenching in her lungs eased, although the smell still hung in the air. She twisted the doorknob of the room's side door and stepped through.

She gasped. Woodwork filled the front room of the house. Endtables, chairs, china cabinets and desks were literally heaped atop each other, separated by thick quilts to avoid scratches. Each had intricate designs and patterns carved into them, each one unique. Clocks filled the walls, cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, wall clocks and mantle clocks, some carved with woodland scenes, others geometric patterns, and some with simple, elegant lines. Statues dotted the room, a craggy mesquite Santa Claus here, a pecan jackrabbit here. In the corner, a lifelike woman sat serenely nursing her baby, indistinguishable from the living except for the uniform grain of the oak she was carved from.

Lauren stepped forward into the room. A box on a table beside her held dozens of polished oak and mesquite pens. Another held letter-openers. A stack of wooden plates climbed to her shoulder, as did a stack of bowls next to it. Rows of delicate vases lined another table--their mouths shaped like the blossom of roses, tulips, lilies. Clotheslines ran along the ceiling, with ornaments dangling from them. Brightly colored wooden balls, diamonds, stars, even snowflakes.

Upstairs, the water cut off. Lauren turned to go back to the kitchen, and stopped short. Above the door hung a carving of The Creation of Adam from the Sistine chapel.

She stood there, drinking in the detail--God's finger, the muscles in his arm, life rushing into Adam, the curls and waves in his hair...

"It's for sale if you want it."

Lauren snapped back to reality, unsure of how long she'd stood there, staring. Olivier stood there in the open doorway, watching her with an amused look on his face. Barefoot, he'd put on a pair of cream colored shorts and a light blue tee-shirt. His still-damp hair was combed back.

"You're an angel, aren't you," she said softly, more a statement than a question.

Olivier paused a moment, brow furrowed, then began to laugh.
"That's certainly a unique conversation starter. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but not too many people would choose `angel.'"

"That's not an answer," she said. "I think you're an angel. Or rather, a fallen angel. Your name's Olivier Apostate. I looked it up. Olivier was an angel who renounced his faith and was cast out. Apostate."

He shook his head. "My great-gandfather's name was Oppenschtadt. When he came over, they misunderstood him at Ellis Island and wrote down Apostate. It happened a lot. As for Olivier... my parents were big fans of the actor."

"I think you're lying."

"This is the strangest conversation I've ever been in, Lauren, you know that? If I'm an angel, where are my wings?"

"Maybe they're ethereal. Maybe they're just symbolic. Maybe that's where the falling comes in--they were taken from you as punishment."

"You've got an imagination, I'll give you that."

"But you haven't answered me yet. Are you an angel or not?"

"Okay, let's say--just for the sake of argument--that I am an angel. What difference would it make? What would you want from me?"

"Nothing. You're... fascinating. Interesting. You work wonders with wood. It's magical. You're truly an artist."

"And if I'm just a man?"

She bit her lip. "It doesn't change anything. Not really, but... you aren't just a man. I know it."

"You're not going to be convinced?"

Lauren shook her head. "You're not going to admit it?"

"Would you want me to admit to something that wasn't true?"

"Humor me." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to go. Edgar'll blow a gasket if I'm late again."

"But you just got here."

"It took me three hours just to work up the nerve to start my car," she said. "Who knows? If things work out, you might be seeing a lot more of me around here."

Olivier grinned. "I think I'd like that. You're a very... interesting woman."

---

"You never talk about yourself," Lauren said, staring up at the stars. "Tell me something about yourself. Your past."

They lay atop the farmhouse roof, on either side of the open attic window. A warm breeze carried the scents of honeysuckle and pine. Venus shone brightly above the fading purple-rose glow of the sunset. A thin crescent moon chased the horizon.

"I thought you already knew all about me. Being an angel and all that."

"Come on. I'm serious." She flicked a pebble from a shingle at him. "Even a fallen angle's got to have some things about him that aren't in books. Where've you been. Where you're going. How you got so hooked on wood."

He laughed. "You aren't a shy one, I'll give you that."

"Sidestepping?"

He frowned, shadows playing across his face. "No. Yes. It's just that I don't like to talk much about my past. I was young. Did some stupid things. I was really messed up for a long time."

"What, you do time in da joint?" she said, affecting a Brooklyn accent.

"Yeah. Something like that. And you're right about one thing. It was hell," he said softly. "But it's all a sham, you know? We put ourselves there. It took me a long time to figure that out. The world doesn't ask much from us. They wouldn't break me down, I swore. Defiant. Principles and all that. No sir. Never give in to the system. Then I realized I was just dragging myself down. What was I proving? Who was I impressing?"

He fell silent. Lauren breathed softly, her heart thumping in her chest. "So what did you do?"

"I walked away."

"Get out of here. You walked away from prison. Just like that?"

"Well, no. Not just like that. And it wasn't exactly prison. It was more like a mental health facility."

"You mean..."

He shrugged. "Most insanity is voluntary, at least in my direct experience. They only keep you 'til you're cured. Once you realize the things you've done are wrong, realize why they're wrong, and admit that, you're cured. Well, not cured. It's like alcoholism. Always recovering. That last part's the toughest. Admitting you're wrong. I know I stayed there much longer than I needed because I wanted--no, needed--to believe it was the world that was screwed up, not me."

"You weren't... criminally insane, were you?"

He laughed. "I'm not the Joker. I didn't kill anyone. People that far gone aren't getting out. They don't want out. You know what the sad thing is? Most everyone there could do the same thing I did. They're just too damn stubborn."

"Are we talking about the state hospital or eternal damnation?"

"Doesn't matter, does it? You're going to believe what you want to believe no matter what I say. Don't think either place would miss me, though. I sure don't. Especially the stink. I couldn't wait to get away from the stink. Talk about irony." He reached up to the sky, spreading his fingers wide. "You know what I missed the most, though? Trees. Never saw a tree my whole time. I used to love to lie under this big old oak, just listening to the river rolling by, cicadas humming away above me. I missed maples turning color in the fall. I missed palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze. I missed the rough bark and skinny pine needles and apple blossoms and... I just missed trees."

Lauren choked back a cough. "So that's why you work with wood?"

He nodded. "It lets me get close to the heart of the tree. Feel it, touch it, shape it. Let whatever form that's inside it break free. I like the sawdust in my hair, to breathe it, fee it under my fingernails. Absorb it. You must think I'm pretty flaky now, eh?"

"I guess so. I don't know. I've never really felt that strongly about anything."

"There must be something. Someone bright as you has got to have some kind of hobby. You paint? Write? Play piano? Something?"

"No. I used to go out dancing. A lot. You know, two-step, Cotton-eye Joe. I even picked up a little jitterbug. I got to be pretty good, but I don't anymore."

"Why not?"

"Why else? This cough, among other things. Guys don't want to dance with someone who's going to hack up a lung before the first chorus."

"Have you seen a doctor about it?"

"Yeah. It's TB. And don't you get that look everyone else gets. I'm on medication. They gave me some stronger stuff the other day. And I'm not contagious. Well, not very. Just don't drink after me or kiss me, and you'll be fine."

"Oh. I, ah..."

"That was a joke." Lauren smiled, turning onto her side. "You can get pretty skittish sometimes, you know? Must've hit a nerve."

"Oh really?" Olivier said, sitting up. "And just what makes you think I'd want to kiss someone fresh out of high school? This is Texas, Lauren. You're father'd probably come after me with a shotgun."

"I doubt that," she said softly. "He's dead."

Olivier bowed his head, clenching his hands together. "I'm sorry, Lauren. I didn't know. Well, of course I didn't know, but still--"

"It's okay." She shrugged, looking away. "My mom's dead too, in case you were wondering. My kid sister, Vicky. She would've been eighteen next weekend."

"Lauren, I-- I don't know what to say. If you want to talk about it, I'm willing to listen."

"There's nothing to talk about. I killed them."

"Lauren, no. You didn't."

"And how would you know?" she snapped, turning to him with venom dripping in her voice. "Were you there? I don't think so. You were in Hell, or Huntsville, or wherever, but you sure weren't around when my parents died, so don't go making judgments on who's at fault!"

"But you're not the kind of person--"

"Who kills people? Then you don't know me very well, do you?" She pressed her palms over her eyes, and a short, furious bout of coughing wracked her body. Gasping, she looked up at Olivier. "I was a kid. Without a license. Trying to show off in the family car. There was a wreck. I lived. They died. What does that tell you?"

"That must've been hard on you. I'm sorry, really. But you can't go on blaming--"

"Bullshit, bullshit and bullshit," Lauren said. "You sound just like those know-it-all shrinks they made me see after the wreck. You disappoint me, Olivier. I expected more from you. I thought you'd understand a person can't rationalize away responsibility."

"Well," Olivier said after a long silence. "What do you expect me to say to that?"

"Nothing. I don't expect you to say anyth--" Lauren broke down coughing again, doubling over violently. Olivier scrambled over to her, gently taking hold of her shoulders. She shuddered, pushing him away. Gagging, she forced down the burning itch in her lungs. Shaking, she wiped her eyes, then her mouth.

Olivier watched her carefully, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I don't feel very well," she said, her voice dry and scratchy. "I think maybe I should go home."

"That might be a good idea. Let me help you."

This time she didn't push him away as he eased her over to the open window. She held him for support as she climbed back into the house, and he held her steady, following once she made it inside.

Behind them, on the shingle where Lauren had rested her hand after wiping her mouth, a smear of blood glistened in the starlight.

---

The router bit into the walnut, crafting the wood even as fine sawdust clouded about it. Olivier worked along the grain, and gradually the vague outlines of the face grew more distinct. He nicked at the still-irregular shape of the figure's cowboy hat, not quite sure what form he wanted to draw from the wood. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he set the little cordless drill down and studied his work.

"So you are a fox. I guess I'll have to give Lauren that much."

Olivier jumped at the voice. "Who are you?" he demanded, turning to the door.

"Kate Montavo. Lauren's roommate. You remember Lauren?" Kate leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, scowling.

"Of course I remember Lauren. What kind of question is that," he said, brushing away sawdust. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored him. "What's that supposed to be?"

He glanced back at the foot-and-a-half high figure. Not yet half finished, it was still distinctly female--in the midst of some sort of dance step. "Lauren. Dancing. Well, when it's finished, at least."

"Mmhm. I figured as much." Kate gestured with a finger. "The hat brim needs to be more pointy at the front. Like Dwight Yoakam's. That's the way Kate wears it."

"Ah, thanks--" he began, when Kate suddenly stepped over and slapped him hard across the top of his head. He jerked back. "Ow! What's the matter with you?"

"Me? Me? What's the matter with me? What's the matter with you is what I want to know. How could you do this to Lauren?"

"Do what to Lauren? I haven't seen her in a week."

She smacked him again.

"Quit hitting me!"

"You make me sick. Waltz into town, get her all worked up with this angel bullshit, then disappear when things get rough. Shit. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Kate set her fists against her hips and gave Olivier a sideways stare. "Lauren's sick."

Olivier nodded. "Yeah. TB. She told me her doctor gave her some new medicine--"

"Christ, how dumb can you make them," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You listen up. Lauren's sick. It's not just coughing anymore. She's in the hospital in Waterloo. Been there since Monday, and it don't look like she's going to be coming out again. She's been asking for you, Lord knows why. So I'm asking you again: what's the matter with you?"

"I... I didn't know. We weren't on the best of terms last time I saw her."

"So you two had a fight. You got a phone? Seems to me your sorry ass could've picked it up any time and found out. And get yourself an answering machine. I tried to get you all day yesterday and this morning and you wouldn't answer the damn phone."

Kate turned and stomped out of the woodshop, casting a glance back over her shoulder. "You coming?"

Olivier scrambled up. Outside, Kate climbed into a dusty tan and white El Camino. "Get in," she said, pushing the passenger door open as the engine growled to life.

"I don't understand," Olivier said as Kate guided the car across the rutted drive to the graded county road. "I mean, I knew she was pretty sick--she'd said as much herself--but she told me she'd gotten some new medicine that'd take care of her."

"Would. If she'd take it," Kate said, watching the road. "I found her on the bathroom floor a month ago, puking and coughing her guts out. She'd had a false negative skin test to begin with, and a resistant strain of TB on top of that. She's been in bad shape for a while, but hid it pretty well. The doctor wanted to hospitalize her then, but Lauren said nothing doing. It was all I could do getting her to accept a new prescription. Sometime later she flushed the pills. Maybe that night, for all I know."

"But... why? People don't die from TB anymore."

"There's a lot you don't know about Lauren. She's sick in a lot of ways." Kate looked at Olivier. "You know what happened to her family?"

"She said she had a wreck and killed them."

"Humph. That figures. She was fifteen. Had a learner's permit. They were driving home from a football game when a drunk swerved into their lane and hit them head-on. She blames herself. Thinks the crash should've killed her, too. Now, I'm afraid she's going to let it."

"That doesn't make sense."

Kate bit her lower lip. "A blood transfusion infected Lauren with the AIDS virus. Some rare strain they didn't screen for at the time. Italian or some shit like that. Symptoms started showing up a couple of years ago, when she turned eighteen and her parents' social security benefits cut out, wouldn't you know it. Edgar and Florence Berger, they were friends of her folks. They gave Lauren a job, but it's been rough on her. Expensive. All these damn-AIDS illnesses, and then she goes and catches TB.

"The wreck messed with her head. I know. We've been best friends for a long time. We were on drill team together." Kate wiped fiercely at her eyes. "She wanted to die with her family. She still does. She's talked about killing herself--a lot. But she never tried. Now... there are a lot of ways to commit suicide."

Olivier looked at her, tears now flowing freely down her plump, brown cheeks. He reached out, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

The rode in silence the rest of the way. Kate parked the El Camino in front of the squat, grey-bricked hospital and led Olivier inside past the unmanned reception desk. Three doors down the wing, she stopped.

"I'm not going in. I can't stand to see her like this. Besides, it's you she wants now," she said, not looking at him. "I, uh, I don't want you to get the wrong idea or anything, because I don't think you're an angel. Fallen or otherwise. But, if you could, I mean... She's hurting real bad. If you can do anything for her, please." Kate turned and walked quickly down the hall, her steps echoing after her.

Olivier pushed the door open, and the stench hit him. An odor possible only in hospitals, sweat and antiseptic mixed with just a tinge of sour urine.

Lauren lay in the far bed, the room's dividing curtain pulled halfway back. IVs wound up her bare, blue-veined arm. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose, a wet fog blowing from the open end of the hose connected to it. Dermal sensors wired to the softly humming stack of monitors behind her bed dotted her arm, with other wires disappearing beneath her green hospital gown.

Olivier stepped softly into the room, sitting down on the bed opposite Lauren's. The plastic mattress lining crackled. Lauren's eyelids slit open, her red eyes casting about until they focused on him.

"Hi, there," he said softly. "How you doing?"

She managed a weak smile, then screwed up her face as a cough forced its way out. It was a dry rasp, lacking any force. "Knew... you'd come," she said, her voice weak, brittle.

"Kate got me. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. She told me you've been here since Monday. I didn't know. I would've been here."

"S'okay. Edgar and... Florence been here. They take good care of me."

"But you haven't taken good care of yourself. Why, Lauren? Why didn't you take your medicine?"

"Threw... pills out."

"I know that. Why didn't you take them? They could've cured you."

She shook her head slightly. "No cure. You showed me..."

"I showed you? I showed you what? Lauren?"

She lifted her hand, and he took it. It was thin, cool. "Nothing to fear. I was too chickenshit before. I can... see my family. I was right, wasn't I? A... about you?"

Olivier swallowed, gripping her hand. "Yeah. I couldn't fool you, could I?"

"Knew it." Lauren seemed to shrink then in the bed. "Tell me. I don't want to be afraid."

"You don't have anything to be afraid of. Nothing at all. I guarantee it." He cleared his throat, clasping his other hand over hers. "It's been a long time, you understand, but I kind of remember there wasn't much harp-playing. Unless you were into that, of course. Lauren, have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?"

Her grip loosened.

"Well, imagine the majesty and awe of that, and throw in the savage beauty of the Amazon jungle and the living sculpture of the Great Barrier Reef. Put that all together, and multiply that a million times, and it's still only a fraction of what you feel when you stand at the gates of Heaven with your eyes closed." He spoke quickly, throat tightening. "There aren't words to describe it. It's complete happiness there, total fulfillment. But it's not artificial, like a drug. It's pure. And it's not boring. Oh, no. It's the most exciting place there ever was, because it's at the center of all realities. I mean, the secrets of the universe there to explore, and believe me, the Angels aren't anywhere close to all-knowing. And this isn't the only universe. There's an infinite number of creations out there, each one more wondrous than the last--"

"Olivier," she said, eyes closed. "I love you..."

"And I love you too."

She shuddered slightly, and stopped breathing. Olivier bowed his head, holding her hand to his forehead. He sat there, motionless, body tensed, as if he would prolong her life through sheer force of will. Suddenly, he spoke, voice firm and resonant. "You can't have her, Michael."

A pure, crystalline voice answered. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Olivier." Michael stepped from the shadowed corner of the room, feet scant inches above the floor. Flowing platinum hair framed bright eyes. Robes woven from the fabric of the sky itself wrapped his perfect, muscular body, snowy wings flexing absently.

"I said, you can't have her." Olivier finally looked up, tears streaking his cheeks.

Michael shook his head sadly. "It's her time, Olivier. You know that as well as I. And I'm not `taking' her anywhere. I just help souls find their way."

"It's not her time. It can't be. It's not fair. You don't know what she's been through."

"Fairness has nothing to do with it. That's not the way things work--you haven't been gone that long. These twenty years she's lived were only preparation for what's to come. The rules haven't changed, Olivier. They're still the same as they've always been."

"Damn you and your Goddamn rules!" He stood suddenly, anger flaring. "Lauren's not going with you."

"Don't even think it. You were never a match for me, even before. I don't want to have to hurt you again." Michael's wings pulled in tight, flinching at the bitter memory.

Olivier glared at Michael, then, slowly, unclenched his fists.

"A nasty business, this death. Dying. It's not something we've ever had to face up to, is it?" Michael said, stepping forward to rest a hand on Olivier's shoulder. "I've seen every death of every person that ever lived, and even I still don't understand it. It frightens me. But it's part of what they are. We just have to remind ourselves what awaits them afterward."

"I loved her..."

"I know," Michael said simply, hugging him tightly. "But now you have to let Lauren go. It's her time. She's ready."

Olivier nodded, pulling away. As soon as he did, he felt a presence beside him, one he couldn't see. His skin prickled, but then a soothing calm fell over him. A moment later, the feelings moved on.

"She's on her way," Michael said. "I suppose I should thank you now. A'albiel gave me twenty-to-one odds you'd take a swing at me before giving in."

Olivier managed a wan smile. "And you took him up on it?"

Michael shrugged. "What can I say? I have faith in you."

Olivier sucked on his lips, began to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he knelt beside the bed, stroking Lauren's hair.

"You've got as much time as you need," Michael said, turning
away. "The doctors won't come until you're gone."

"Thank you."

"And Olivier?" Michael said, growing transparent. "A word of advice."

He looked up.

"You should know that He's watching you. Closely. Don't disappoint Him again."

Olivier stared after Michael long after he was gone, then
slowly turned back to Lauren's still form. Silently he rose,
bending forward to kiss her brow.

"Farewell and Godspeed, Lauren Redwine," he whispered, then left the room, the door closing silently behind him.

-XXX-

MEMORY: 41

First
Previous

Flavius cautiously backed away. The black pupil, taller than Flavius by half, narrowed, straining to focus on his too-close form. The lid slid down smoothly, shifting spheres out of the way as it moved, closing with all the gentleness of a steel door.

Flavius sat in the dark, barely breathing, praying the Ketza'qua would go back to sleep... or whatever the gigantic serpent did.

The eye snapped back open, the strange, emerald glow spilling over Flavius. A subsonic rumble rose up from deep inside the Ketza'qua. Its massive scales clattered against themselves like a cavalry charge across a field of cobblestones. The buoyancy spheres shifted again, and Flavius hastily considered the inherent instability of his footing. All around, the protesting groans and whines of cables and scaffolding reverberated through the spheres.

The Ketza’qua sensed opportunity amid the chaos. The opportunity for freedom.

Flavius clambered between the translucent spheres, away from the Ketza’qua. The glow from the beast’s eye cast an odd illumination, reflected and diffracted in unnatural ways by the spheres. The beasts rumbled again, and the spheres resettled, threatening to alternately crush Flavius between them or pitch him away entirely.

His boots struggled for traction on the hard shells. The spheres weren’t slick, but they were smooth, offering little upon which to grip. He wriggled and heaved himself up through the ever-shifting gaps, smaller spheres slipping between the house-sized ones, obstructing his way and forcing him to retreat to find a different route. Steadily, he put as much distance between himself and the Ketza’qua as possible. Every so often, he heard Acaona call out for him. He shouted in reply, but amid the incessant chiming of the spheres, clattering of the Ketza’qua scales and distant explosions and alarms, he had no hint that she’d heard him.

He reached up and sought a hand-hold against one sphere, a smaller one that spanned maybe twice the width of his outstretched arms, and froze. It hadn’t chimed when his palm struck it as the others had. He rapped it with his knuckles and got a dull, hollow echo in reply. Quickly he ran his fingers across the surface in the weak light. Were those cracks he felt? Flavius peered through the surface, but could see nothing. He looked over the top of the sphere. Nothing. He slithered down onto his belly--grunting in the tight confines, and craned his neck to see the underside. There, at the very edge of his line of sight, he could just make out a sword pommel adorned with the whortleberries.

“So there’s where ya got yerself.” Flavius tried to squeeze through the gap, but his shoulders wedged hard against the abutting spheres and blocked any further progress. He pulled back and reached for it, straining with one arm, but Memory remained a good arm-length away from his grasp.

“Come on, come on, ya bugger,” he muttered, climbing atop the sphere. A larger one blocked his way directly across the top, but he worked his way around the side enough to peer down through a narrow gap. He had a clear view of Memory now, just a couple of feet away. The sword had buried itself up to the hilt in the sphere, and a spider web of cracks radiated out from it.

A deep-throated growl burst from the Ketza’qua just then, and a violent shudder jolted Flavius as the creature strained against its bonds. The spheres shifted, and he barely avoided having a leg pinned as one large sphere shifted enough to allow a smaller one slide closer to Flavius’ perch.

Breathing heavily, he turned back to Memory. “Bastard,” he muttered through clenched teeth. The sphere had rotated, carrying the sword just out of reach. “Why is it that these things can never, ever work out easily? That’s what’d I’d like to ken.”

He tried a different angle, then looked for a different vantage with no luck. Memory was well out of his reach, and unless the spheres shifted again, it would remain so.

Of course, another shift could just as easily crush him into pudding.

Somewhere above, Acaona was calling his name. For a moment, he marveled at the fact she hadn’t been devoured by the moironteau yet, and then a rage at the injustice of his situation welled up so that he felt he’d burst. For lack of ability to do anything else, Flavius kicked, bringing his boot down onto the sphere. A dull snap answered, and he heard a new fissure snake across the surface.

That gave him pause. He pursed his lips in thought, then checked Memory again, shifting so that he wasn’t directly over where he judged the blade to be. Then he kicked again. And again.

Suddenly, with a crisp report, the sphere shattered. Flavius dropped with the shards as the spheres rushed to fill the void. He grasped wildly for Memory, his left hand closing over the end of the blade. Flavius cried out as the edge bit into his palm, but he refused to loosen his grip, even as spheres battered him from below.

He lay gasping, finally, wedged between two spheres, blood from nicks and scratches streaking his forearms and face. Ever so carefully, wincing from the pain, he reached over and grabbed the flat of the blade with his free hand.

"Ya damn near got away from me that time, dinnae ya? Donnae try that again," Flavius said, lifting Memory over himself and wedging it securely beside him. He then tore several strips from his tattered sleeves and tied a makeshift bandage over his wounded hand.

The Ketza'qua rumbled. Flavius could no longer see the creature, or its eye, but the menacing green glow cast a faint sheen over everything.

"Right. Time to find our way out," he said. "I cannae be far enough away when that beastie breaks--"

The Ketza'qua snarled, thrashing against its bonds more violently than before. The spheres lurched and shuddered. They shifted and rotated, two coming together to press Flavius between them like a vice. He struggled to squirm away, but their grip was too tight. He gasped for breath, but could not overcome the constriction on his lungs. Desperate, he tried to shatter either sphere with Memory, but could manage barely a tap. His vision began to swim.

From above came a string of high-pitched twangs in rapid succession. Then music.

Soft at first, only a few ethereal notes cut through the cacophony of the Ketza'qua's struggles, moironteau roars and the moaning of abused palace foundations. The music grew, more and more pure notes joining together in a disordered, elegant chaos.

Flavius gulped in air as the crushing sphere lifted from him. He gazed wonderingly as it soared above, joining a cloud of hundreds. Spheres rose all around him, suddenly loose as those holding them down from above soared to freedom.

His sphere hummed softly as it rose up, muted by Flavius perched atop it and weighed down by his bulk. Other spheres bumped them from below. Flavius wobbled, crouching to maintain the best balance possible, and rode the sphere up into the swirl of music.

The restraining netting had completely torn away. The buoyancy spheres were free.

Continued

MEMORY: 40

First
Previous

There was no time to tumble, no chance to leap free. The catwalk plummeted. Screams echoed from the sleek walls and shattered gestation tanks, mixing with the roars of the moironteau.

Flavius jerked violently, ripped away from the catwalk. It vanished into the darkness amid a continuing shower of debris. An instant later a pure, bell-like tone washed over him from below.

Flavius shook his head to clear away the fog, then took his bearings. In the feeble light spilling out of the hole above, he saw Acaona dangling beside him. As did the Empress Malinche and Papantzin. Djserka em Naga-ed-der gripped each of them with a long, spindly arm, his own flabby bulk suspended precariously by a single silken thread.

“Er... ’preciate the catch,” Flavius managed.

“You’re welcome. You’re also most unbearably heavy,” Djserka hissed through clenched mandibles. “And, might I point out, that at any moment a sliver of glass may sever my line?”

“Right, right. Parric! Parric!” Flavius called, but the Crafter of Ominik was nowhere to be seen. “Damnit, Parric, nae around when I need you. Acaona! Can ya give us some light with that wee torch of yers?”

She held out her cuyab and a cool green brilliance blazed forth.

Flavius whistled.

“What is this place?” wondered the Empress Malinche.

“The underneath,” answered Acaona. “We’ve gone all the way down.”

Not more than thirty feet below, straining against taut, crystalline netting, gleamed iridescent spheres the size of cottages. The twisted remains of the catwalk impaled one broken, motionless moironteau. Two others lay a short distance away, their splattered blood virtually luminous in the cuayab light. A fourth moironteau twitched feebly, it’s body nearly severed through in several places by the netting. As chunks of shattered glass, peq and other debris rained down, soft, ethereal tones rang out from the spheres as if giants were running fingers across enormous wine goblets.

“Over there,” Flavius said, pointing to a narrow service way with a single hand rail crossing the steep mass of spheres. Along the way, it intersected other service ways cris-crossing the space above the netting. “They mound up toward the center. There’ll be access back inside there, most likely. Djserka, will yer thread hold enough for us to swing over?”

“I’ll have to spin another length or two for us to reach, but yes, my thread will hold our weight.”

“Do ya want us to--”

“Please, no. Just be still and let me do this on my own,” Djserka said, spinning out a length of thread to drop them lower. “If you start thrashing about, you’re more likely to dislocate and arm or three than anything useful.”

Djserka shifted its bulk subtly, and they swung back several feet. A moment later they’d moved twice as far forward.

“You’re good at this,” said Acaona.

“Dear girl, I’ve had plenty of practice,” Djserka answered. “It’s what we do.”

A large block of floor tumbled past, barely missing them. Flavius looked up to see two moironteau climbing through the hole. The beasts hadn’t yet noticed the thread amid the poor light and chaos.

“Let out more thread!” ordered Flavius on the backswing. “Enough to drop me down there without breaking my neck!”

“I do that and we’ll overshoot the service way,” Djserka protested.

“Donnae argue with me! Just do it!”

Djserka let out another ten feet of silk, the lurching extension imparting a wobbly spin to the party. As they swept through the lowest part of the arc, Djserka swung Flavius out and released him. With an involuntary shout, Flavius soared for a moment before planting his feet squarely atop the two dead moironteau.

Djserka fed out more thread as their arcing path carried them along, passing underneath the service way. The thead pressed taut against the bottom support rail, and Djserka’s momentum carried the em Naga-ed-der and passengers up and over the opposite side. Djserka quickly grabbed the safety rail with its hindmost suction pads, balancing precariously before setting Acaona, the Empress and Papantzin down roughly. Djserka hung precariously on the narrow service way, wrapped nearly all the way around it and dwarfing the three women.

“That was...” gasped Malinche, “entirely unacceptable.”

“Donnae just stand there yammering!” shouted Flavius as he clambered down the dead moironteau. “Them beasties are still coming! Get a godamned move on!”

The moironteau had spotted them, letting out squeals of recognition. One pushed off from its jagged perch and dove at Flavius, teeth bared in all eight footheads.

Flavius slashed Memory across the strands of netting. They separated with a whipping snap, and three iridescent spheres burst through like shot from a canon.

The first sphere hit two footheads a glancing blow with a beautiful, ringing tone, enough to send the moironteau spinning. The second struck it more solidly before shattering with the sound of a thousand jingling bells. The moironteau flailed as it fell, crashing through the service way scant feet ahead of Acaona before slamming into the netting below.

The impact caused a lurching shift among the spheres, and two more escaped from the rent in the net.

“Back this way,” Flavius shouted. “We’ll follow the perimeter until we find another connecting service way.

One escaped sphere rolled uneasily upon the ceiling above, its movement hampered by various utility pipes and vents protruding from the palace’s underside. The second moironteau clung to the ceiling, footheads keeping wary watch on both the spheres and Flavius. The third and fourth escaped sphered had found the gaping hole and escaped through into the ruined peq cloning chamber. One took a startled moironteau along for the ride after it chose an inopportune moment to pass through the hole. Through the opening shadows mingled as more moironteau joined the hunt.

The women passed over Flavius, followed by Djserka, almost comical as it clambered along the too-small service way. It dropped a loop of thread down to Flavius as it went.

“Thanks again,” Flavius said as Djserka hauled him up.

“There certainly is a prodigious number of those vile creatures,” Djserka said as they moved. The damaged service way wobbled with every step.

“That there is. And to ken it only took one to kill me before.” Flavius cast a worried glance back. No fewer than six moironteau had gotten through and were following along the roof. “Acaona, lass, can ya give us some cover fire?” he shouted past Djserka.

In answer, Acaona sent a spray of emerald bursts back at the moironteau. A few even struck home, slowing their pursuit noticeably.

“We’re nearly to the perimeter, Flavius,” Empress Malinche announced. “It looks wide enough to land a wej on.”

“I ken Djserka will appreciate--”

The rumble came upon them like rolling thunder, but at a much deeper pitch. Far more menacing. Flavius grabbed at the railing a hair’s breadth too late. The shockwave struck, throwing him from the service way. His innards slammed against his ribcage as he fell. Massive fissures snaked through the underside of the palace. Steam burst from ruptured pipes. Moironteau fell like rag dolls. The cut Flavius had made in the netting zippered open under the strain, and hundreds of buoyancy spheres launched themselves up, some shattering along the way, but all of them singing their ghostly music.

Flavius hit a sphere, snagged his foot on a strand of netting and tumbled. He slipped and slid through the gaps in the spheres, losing his grip on Memory along the way. The thought of skidding all the way through the spheres to fall to his death on the other side flashed through his mind, but he abruptly came up hard against a rough, unyielding surface.

“Ow. Ach,” he muttered, twisting his body a less mangled position. He felt his throbbing forehead and found it wet, hot and sticky. Flavius quickly realized he was thoroughly soaked, and more than a little disconcerted that in the darkness he couldn’t tell if the blood was his, peq or moironteau. As he stared at his hands, a soft green glow illuminated them, black with blood.

“Acaona?” he said, looking up. She was nowhere to be seen. The illumination grew stronger. “Acaona!”

“Flavius!” Her answering call was distant, high above him. “Where are you? What happened?’

Flavius flexed his fingers, intensely aware of Memory’s absence. He swallowed, then deliberately turned to look behind him.

The blazing green eye of the Ketza’qua stared back.

Continued

Apologies for the long delay in this installment. It wasn't intentional, I swear. I've posted some personal thoughts about chapter 40, as well as the whole "Memory" experiment thus far, over at my personal blog for anyone who's interested.

MEMORY: 39

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Flavius leaned forward against the railing, mouth agape, staring at the thousands of cylinders filling the vast chamber.

“Those are peq!” Flavius said, half bafflement, half accusation. “Yer growing goddanmed peq in here!”

“Of course we grow our own peq. You don’t expect us to rely on wild populations, do you?” Empress Malinche said weakly, rousing from unconsciousness. “Captain, you may put me down.”

“Certainly, Your Imperial Highness,” Pacal said, setting the Empress on her feet. Papantzin came instantly to her side, offering support.

“Ya grow yer own peq?” Flavius repeated, pronouncing the words slowly as if looking for some nuance he’d overlooked. “Am I the only body here what finds that just a wee bit mad?”

“You haven’t met many peq in the wild, have you, dear Flavius?” Malinche looked at him as she would a particularly dim child. “They are a brutal and uncouth breed of lesser sentients, wholly unsuited for contact with the Eternal Dominion. It took centuries of selective breeding to produce a suitably docile servitor. Given the established genetic unpredictability of the breed, cloning was the only rational course to pursue.”

Flavius looked to Acaona. She shrugged. “They’re peq. What do you expect?”

“Ah, nevermind I asked. Ya people scare me sometimes, ya ken? On second thought, ya scare me all the time.” Flavius nodded at Parric. “Which way?”

“Alonging this way,” Parric answered, motioning to a catwalk that ran along the perimeter of the chamber. “Then downing more levels to the bottom.”

“Down where? Where are we going?” Malinche demanded.

“To the portal chamber, the nexial gaps,” Pacal answered.

“Absolutely not. We will not so much as flee the palace. When--”

The skylights far overhead shattered. Shards of glass rained down as multilegged forms surged into the cloning chamber.

“Move!” shouted Flavius, shoving Acaona along the catwalk. Djserka heaved its bulk after her, flabby flanks spilling over the guard rails. Flavius winked back at Malinche as he followed. “Be seeing ya around!”

The wall crumbled above the entrance, a spray of stonework shattering the closest peq tanks. A scarred and bleeding foothead forced its way through the opening, snapping wildly.

Captain Pacal grabbed Empress Malinche and chased after the others, with Papantzin close behind.

The columns of tanks buckled under the weight of the moironteau. Flavius dodged chunks of jagged acrylic and fetal peq. Viscous amniotic fluid.splattered in great globs, smelling like a dead fish left under someone’s bedcovers too long.

“Up there! Up there! Burn the bastards while they’re far enough away!” shouted Flavius.

Acaona unleashed her cuayab at the moironteau above, but her erratic aim did little more than bathe various peq clones in fire. Pacal followed her lead, though, sending up quick, precision bursts of emerald flame, the well-placed streams searing several footheads. There were at least four of the otherwhereians, clambering from column to column as the support grids buckled and moaned. After the first volley from Pacal, they quickly moved to keep peq cylinders between their bodies and the cuayabs, exposing only their footheads.

“They’re coming down too quickly!” Pacal said. “We’re exposed like bulbous gloids here.”

“Parric! If yer going to work yer magic, now’d be a bonny time!”

“Craftings are not magicings,” Parric snapped, antennae twitching with concentration. “This is more than I’m wanting to Crafting, but under the circumstancings-- uh-ohing.”

“Wha? What’s this ‘uh-ohing’? There’s be nae of that!” Flavius shouted as he ducked away from a falling peq arm. “Ya do that Crafting thing with yer antennae and we go on our merry way, that’s what ya do.”

“Blockings,” Pairric said softly. “Blockings of my Craftings.”

“Who? What? That’s nae possible!”

“Rapteer.”

“Rap–? Oh, bugger!” Flavius kicked at the railing in fury. “Why the hell dinnae ya contract with the Junsturs? Their particular style of violence would be a wee bit handy about now, eh?”

A tremendous crash behind them wrested their attention from the moironteau above to the one beind. The battered and scarred creature had broken through completely, destroying hundreds of peq tanks in the process. Footheads clawed at the wall, jagged teeth biting into the solid surface. The moironteau came after them.

Pacal leapt past Papantzin and the Empress, dropping to a knee and throwing a full blast of his cuayab into the moironteau. The fire washed over the beast, blackening a foothead. The burning foothead whipped wildly back and forth, trailing flame as it smashed dozens of peq tanks. The amniotic fluid smothered the fire, filling the air with choking, bitter smoke.

“Get her back!” Pacal ordered Papantzin while keeping a steady fire trained on the moironteau. “Protect the Empress!”

Engulfed in flames, the moironteau reared back a foothead, and lightning-fast struck hard, crushing the catwalk and Pacal. The foothead pulled away from the wall, and Captain Pacal’s shattered body tumbled away.

The moironteau crossed the break in the catwalk, the foothead teeth grinding menacingly as they dug into the wall. The moironteau was breathing heavily, rumbling groans surging up from deep within.

Empress Malinche crouched in a ball, her arms covering her head. Papantzin stood between her and the moironteau, slender stiletto in her hand.

“Flavius!” Malinche called, voice wracked with sobs. “Flavius save me!”

Instinctively, Flavius moved to her defense, but pulled up before Djserka. The em Naga-ed-der’s girth blocked the way.

A foothead lashed out. Papantzin nimbly ducked away. The open maw bit hard against the wall, the bulk of the limb passing over Papantzin and the Empress and shoving hard against Djserka’s back.

Angry crimson blisters erupted across the foothead. The moironteau recoiled in pain, wrenching the foothead free of the em Naga-ed-der spines embedded deep in its flesh. The blisters grew at an alarming speed, bursting open to release a black, watery puss. More blisters formed even as the moironteau convulsed violently then released its grip on the wall.

The moironteau shattered cloning column after cloning column as it fell. Undercut, the towering pillars toppled, breaking apart in a chain reaction. The moironteau above found themselves falling among the shattered tanks, flailing arms wreaking destruction as they plummeted.

The first moironteau hit the distant floor with a resounding crash. Fissures radiated out from its carcass, broad lines clearly defined even amidst the debris and dismembered peq. The second hit with greater force, and the fissures grew three fold.

The battered catwalk shifted suddenly, pulling away from the wall. Flavius grabbed the railing, sheathing Memory as he did.

The next two moironteau hit nearly simultaneously, and the floor dropped away into nothing. All the shattered columns and tanks and peq followed into the darkness.

“Grab something lass!” Flavius yelled to Acaona. “We’re going for a ride.”

The catwalk shuddered, then tore free, plunging them through the cavernous hole below.

Continued

MEMORY: 38

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Flavius jabbed at the moironteau with Memory, skewering one of the glassy black eyes rimming the gaping maw. The foothead flinched back. Then it roared, thick trails of slobber flicking over concentric rows of jagged teeth.

“We’re cut off!” shouted Acaona.

“Tell me something I dinnae already ken, lass,” growled Flavius, scanning the walls of the passage. “Do ya ken we can muscle our way through these walls here? In another minute or two this beastie’s going to figure out it can come down on top of us through the ceiling.”

Captain Pacal struggled to direct his cuayab at the foothead blocking the other end of the hall while carrying the empress’ limp form. The green stream of fire seared the foothead, which thrashed and snapped in response. Dust and rubble rained down from the hole. The walls around the foothead smoldered from the blast.

“It’s not enough,” Pacal said. “I can’t hit it with anything stronger–the blowback’ll burn us all.”

Acaona shrieked, cowering against the wall.

More debris rained down on them. Ominous fissure spiderwebbed across the ceiling.

“Whole damned place going to come down on us at this rate,” Flavius muttered. “Right then. Captain, try blowing yer fire down this other one’s gullet-- And ya cannae understand a word I’m saying.” Flavius grabbed Pacal’s shoulder and spun him around, relaying his intent with emphatic gestures clear in any language.

“Acaona! Acaona, lass, look alive. When I cut into that foothead blocking our way, yer only going to have a few seconds to get by,” Flavius said, pulling her up by the elbow. Acaona looked at him with eyes wild with fear.

“I don’t want to go. Not anymore. They’re too big. Too many.” The words tumbled out of her in a panicked rush.

“Keep yerself together just a wee bit longer, lass,” he said, clasping his hand to the side of her face. “When the beastie pulls back, ya get yerself down that hall as fast as ya can. Can ya do that? That’s a good lass.”

He motioned to Pacal, who loosed a stream of flame at the snapping maw of the pursuing foothead. Flavius lunged at the blocking foothead, stabbing and twisting with Memory. The foothead jerked then slammed Flavius broadside, throwing him to the floor. Memory fell to the floor beside him. The foothead thrashed wildly, crushing sections of the wall and ceiling to rubble.

“Cover yerselves! It’s coming down!” Flavius shouted.

Abruptly, the footheads pulled back from either end of the hall with startling speed.

The sounds of fighting and explosions echoed from distant parts of the palace, but the hall was otherwise silent, save for the crumbling, shifting debris of the hall.

“Is it gone?” Pacal wondered.

Flavius held up a hand of caution. He pulled himself deliberately from the remains of a partially collapsed wall, his right hand picking Memory up. “There’s something up there,” he whispered.

His eyes followed some unseen threat above them, moving this way then that. A blur of motion swept in through the hole in the ceiling. Flavius pivoted to meet it, Memory’s point halting less than a finger’s breadth from Parric’s clicking beak.

“We are leaving now,” Parric said, antennae contorting in extreme agitation as the Crafter hovered in midair. “Must be hurrying. No time to be losing.”

“Damn it, Parric!” Flavius shouted, mock-clutching at his heart. “Don’t do that! This poor man’s heart cannae take the shock!”

A fat, orange-segmented creature the size of a horse slid down a silken thread through the hole in the ceiling behind Parric. Nictating membranes blinked over its dark compound eyes. Its back bristled with hairy spines.

“Is the, ah, kitchen help here with ya?” Flavius asked.

“Yes,” answered Parric. “And Djserka is wanting muchly to be departing.”

“I am hardly ‘kitchen help,’” Djserka rumbled. “I am Djserka em Naga-ed-der former head of the Imperial--”

“And it’s a right bonny pleasure to meet ya, too,” Flavius interrupted before turning away. “Listen up, the lot of ya. Follow Parric. He’s the only one what kens where to go. He moves fast, so if ya don’t keep up, ya get left.” He cast a warning look to Acaona, who answered with a terse nod as she wiped her eyes. He took his pack from her and fished out a long, white shirt.

“Here. Ya put this on. It’ll nae fit worth a damn, but at least ya’ll feel less, uh...”

“Naked. Thank you.” She slipped it on. It hung tent-like over her slight frame. “I– I’m sorry for–“

“Nae time for that now, lass. We’re on the move.” Flavius gave her a quick kiss, then whispered in her ear. “Remember, follow Parric if yer still serious about taking yer chances at Tradefare. If nae, well, yer going to have plenty of chances to slip away in these next few minutes, I’ll wager. Nobody’ll think worse of ya if ya do.”

She managed an uncertain nod.

“I’m not understanding,” Parric said. “Are you sayings goodbye, or are you merely delaying us to all be victimings of the moironteau?”

“Right. Everyone, after Parric!”

Parric darted off down the hall, and the troupe lurched after him. Flavius fell in at the rear, beside Papantzin.

“Ya seem to have recovered from yer earlier mishap,” Flavius said.

Papantzin narrowed her eyes.

“Not enough, though, to use those unexpected fighting skills of yours against the beasties what were trying eat us. Or stomp us. I dinnae quite ken which.”

“It seemed reasonable,”she answered in measured tones, “that the odds of your surviving would be somewhat enhanced with my participation.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, why didn’t ya say so earlier?” Flavius slapped her on the back hard enough make Papantzin stagger. “I’m very glad we’ve had this talk. Remind me to garrote ya in yer sleep next chance I get.”

Parric led them down several flights of stairs and into a maze of corridors. The finely maintained carpets and paneling gave way to bare walls and exposed pipes. Alarms continued to pierce the air and so often they caught a whiff of smoke. The tremors came steadily now, although abrupt lurches had subsided. An oversized pair of doors blocking the passage flew open with a flick of Parric’s antennae.

Blazing white light blinded Flavius as he entered the chamber, and he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his had as they adjusted. Blinking hard, he took in his surroundings. He cocked his head to the side.

“Well,” he finally said. “There’s something I donnae see every day.”

Crystalline cylinders floated in stacked columns extending above and below as far as the eye could see. The columns were arranged in hundreds of rows to the left and right, each one extending back a seemingly infinite distance. Within the cylinders, suspended in buoyant translucent fluid, floated peq curled in fetal positions.

Continued

MEMORY: 37

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“Flavius!” Acaona screamed.

The foothead reared back suddenly. As it did so, a dark fissure snaked its way across the mottled skin. A great crescent slice of jaw fell away, streaming purple blood. Neatly bisected lip-to-lip, the foothead thrashed wildly, jagged teeth gnashing against others no longer there.

Flavius stood in the same spot, drenched in purple blood. The point of Memory had buried itself a good foot into the ground from the momentum of Flavius’ stroke. Flavius twisted his wrist to free the sword, holding it defiantly overhead.

“I am Flavius MacDuff, of Clan MacDuff,” he bellowed, his words echoing off the palace walls, “descended of Bellona's bridegroom, the great Thane of Fife who slaughtered the Norse and Cawdor, and toppled the tyrant MacBeth! I am the bane of both the Whistard Holdchau and the Phatrical of Koor! Death has claimed me a thousand times over, and I jam my thumb into his rheumy eyes and rise to live another day! Yer chase ends here, beastie. I am yer doom!”

Screaming to wake the dead, he charged the moirontea. The great beast stomped at him with a snarling foothead, but Flavius neatly pivoted and with an upswing nearly severed it from the leg. He stabbed upward, Memory slicing though the knobby hide as if it were paper. Violet blood rained down. The moironteau howled in agony, lurching and stumbling to escape its tormenter. A quick slice here laid open a hip joint, and the foothead slumped to the ground, crippled. Another foothead bit into the air, desperately hoisting the beast’s enormous bulk away from danger. But Flavius leapt up onto the crippled foothead, and from there struck the other with Memory, splitting the jaw. It’s extra-dimensional hold faltered. Flavius leapt away as the moironteau crashed to the ground.

Moaning pitiously, the moironteau pawed at the ground, unable to support itself. Flavius quickly and methodically worked his way around the beast, dispatching the remaining four footheads with cold precision. Upon reaching the last one, Flavius held up his right thumb, then, without a moment’s hesitation, jammed it roughly into one of the many cold, black eyes ringing the foothead’s maw.

He climbed atop the moironteau’s body, setting to work with Memory. The beast’s twitches and moans ceased as Flavius located the vital organs. Satisfied, he leapt down from the butchered carcass, wiping his bloody brow.

“God damn, that felt good!” he said, then noticed Acaona, Papantzin and Captain Pacal--still carrying the Empress--gaping at him. “What? These bastards never faced me in a fair fight. Killed me a hundred times or more. I ken I’m entitled to a bit of enjoyment.”

“You... you...” managed Acaona. “How did you do that?”

“Well,” Flavius shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, “Memory here’s a wee bit sharper than most other swords. That helps. And then there’s my memories stored in the bonnie blade. Turns out to be more than just my thoughts. My body’s remembering things...” He grimaced slightly, rubbing his shoulder. “But I ken I’ll be hurting come morning.”

Across the garden, a wall buckled. Smoke rose from the rooftops beyond.

“Ah. That’d be more of the beastie’s friends. I ken we’d best be moving along.”

“Where can we go?” Acaona asked.

“Same place as before, yon opera hall,” Flavius answered. “At least now we dinnae have to worry about the doors being locked.”

They skirted the dead moironteau and made for the gaping hole in the opera hall. The palace shuddered continuously now, punctuated every so often by abrupt lurches. All around, flames flickered among the towers and rooftops and the air stank of bitter smoke. A flight of wejii hummed past overhead, rushing to intercept a moironteau.

“These creatures, they’re everywhere,” muttered Pacal, listening to the fractured communications through his earpiece. “There’s not enough of the Eternal Militia in the palace to turn them back.”

“Which is why I want to find Parric and abandon this cosm,” growled Flavius as he clambered over the rubble into the ruined opera hall. “Lass, tell the captain this is where we part ways.”

Pacal’s face tightened as Acaona relayed the message.

“Absolutely not,” Pacal said. “I cannot hope to defend Her Imperial Majesty against these creatures from otherwhere. My squad is dead, injured, scattered. I’m following him.”

In the distance, bursts of green flame roiled around a rampaging moironteau. The creature ignored the attacking wejii, instead loping across the gardens toward the ruined opera hall.

Flavius glared at Pacal and shook his head. “Hell of a time to start making sense.” The floor of the opera hall had collapsed, offering a treacherous path of broken seats and beams down to the level below, where a gaping hold led to levels still lower. Flavius shoved Acaona roughly down into the wreckage, then Pacal and the Empress, and finally Papantzin. “Quickly, people! Quickly! I ken ya’d all love to see me cut another of them beasties to ribbons, but-- oh, hell. The bastard’s got friends.”

Two more moironteau had joined the fray, one plucking a wejii out of the air and smashing it to bits against the ground. The other wejii fell back out of easy reach of the newcomers, dividing their marginally effective cuayab fire among the three moironteau.

“Damn it, this innae imperial receiving line, people! Move!” Flavius bodily heaved Papantzin to the lower level, and gave Pacal a kick to the bottom as well. Hazarding a glance over his shoulder, he saw the lead moironteau was less than 20 yards away. Flavius leapt down himself.

Acaona knelt at the edge of the jagged opening in the lower floor, trying to find a handhold to lower herself down.

“No! There’s nae time for that,” shouted Flavius, running the opposite direction and dragging Pacal along. “Down this hall--quickly!”

The ceiling above shuddered and groaned as a tremendous weight landed on top of it.

“Keep moving,” Flavius ordered, his claymore held ready in one hand. The hall was a narrow one. If it came down to a fight, his use of Memory would be restricted. “Get as far down the hall as ya--”

The ceiling ahead of them collapsed, sending a cloud of splinters and dust into the hall. Acaona cried out. A fat, green-mottled foothead blocked the way.

“Back!” shouted Flavius. “Back the other way!” No sooner had the words left his mouth then a foothead lunged into the open end of the hall, black eyes gleaming in the flickering light as row upon row of knife-like teeth gnashed and snapped their way toward the trapped party.

Continued

MEMORY: 36

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The militia bodyguards shoved the Empress and her handmaiden roughly through the gaping window. An instant later, an explosion of white-hot plasma geysered out. The concussion threw Flavius to the ground.

“Ach! God... damn!” he muttered, blinking streaks away from his eyes. “Who’s the mad bastard what gives militia weapons that can wipe out a whole battalion if they get knocked about?”

He staggered up, using Memory for support. Acaona lay dazed a short distance away, but apparently unhurt. The force of the blast had snuffed the fires she’d started amid the bloodnettles, but that same blast seemed to have stunned the wretched plants as well.

The several of the militiamen stirred. Several others did not. Flavius picked his way over them to the crumpled forms of Empress Malinche and Papantzin.

“Stop...” demanded Captain Pacal in a wobbly tone. Blood streaked his face. “Don’t you dare--”

“Dinnae be a git. I was nae ever going to hurt them. Well, nae the Empress at any rate,” Flavius answered, then frowned. “It’d help if ya could understand me, though.”

He knelt down over the still forms. The Empress and Papantzin had landed at odd angles, but the bloodnettles appeared to have broken their fall. At least they were breathing and didn’t appear to have any broken bones.

The thunder of distant explosions echoed across the gardens. Smoke billowed out of the ruined apartment above. More smoke rose from various points around the palace, dark streamers against the starry sky. The ground underfoot shuddered urgently.

“Right. That settles it. Up ya go.” Flavius scooped up the Empress’ inert form and threw her over his shoulder.

Papantzin grabbed his leg. He kicked free.

“I’m nae about to hurt yer Empress, but I’m nae going to carry ya as well,” he snapped. “Come along if ya want, but yer on yer own to keep up. And that goes for ya too, Captain.”

Papantzin caught Captain Pacal’s questioning look. “Follow him,” she said. Pacal nodded.

“Why?” Acaona fell in beside Flavius, his pack balanced awkwardly across her back.

“Why didn’t you leave her?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because... I dinnae leave behind women, that’s why.”

“You were perfectly willing to leave Papantzin,” Acaona pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I havenae been naked with Papantzin, have I?” Flavius stopped as he reached the footpath through the gardens, kicking away a last, die-hard bloodnettle tendril. “And God help me if I ever am... Where the hell are we? I’m turned around.”

“A better question is where are we going?” Acaona said.

“Right. Finding a Nexial gap is my priority now. Parric’ll meet us there. I hope,” Flavius said, scanning the grounds for signs of the Crafter. “If we cannae get to a gap, then my second choice is one of those flying things.”

“A wej?”

“Aye. Can ya pilot one?” he asked hopefully.

“No.”

Flavius sighed. “Nae matter. There’s always a first time for everything.” He looked back. Papantzin, Captain Pacal and three stood warily watching him. “Lass, translate for the captain here. We’re going to try and find some shelter, someplace safe--” The ground lurched again. “--nae that I’m confident that’s possible. I give ya Her Imperial Majesty here, and ya let me and Acaona here be on our way. Agreed?”

Acaona repeated Flavius’ ultimatum. Captain Pacal swallowed uneasily, then nodded.

“That’s a smart man. Let’s move.” As they started down the trail, Flavius bent to Acaona. “First likely spot, eh? She’s damn heavy, and my back’s killing me where that bastard speared me.”

Acaona nodded and pointed to an ornate archway ahead. “That’s the palace opera hall. There’s a direct hall leading to the Imperial wing, and backstage we can--”

The entire façade collapsed outward. Dust billowed up, a thick cloud obscuring the stars above. Through the destruction lumbered a massive, many-legged form.

“Bugger me,” Flavius whispered. He sloughed the Empress off his shoulder and pressed her into the Captain’s startled arms. “She’s all yers, now. Good luck keeping her safe with these bastards roaming about.”

“Flavius, what is that thing?” Acaona whispered.

The moironteau had stopped moving. Three of its footheads scanned the gardens. The dust obscured the party for the moment, but it was quickly settling.

“That nasty piece of work is evil incarnate, so far as I’m concerned. Killed me a hundred times or so. I’d like to not make it a hundred and one.” He swapped Memory from right hand to left and back again. “Lassie, that beastie is hunting me, and it’s going to spy me any second. You need to get yerself as far away from me as ya-– Too late. Here it comes.”

Flavius pushed Acaona along the path after Captain Pacal, who’d already begun retreating with the Empress. The moironteau stomped inexorably toward Flavius, unsure of its quarry, but gaining confidence with each step. It stopped abruptly, it’s great bulk looming above Flavius, two great footheads clicking their teeth as the rings of black eyes studied him.

Feet planted apart, Flavius stared up at the moironteau. He flexed his fingers along the hilt as he held his claymore ready. “Memory, I ken we two’ve faced down worse than this in one life or another. But yer still new to me and there’s a lot in ya that’s still foggy to me... so if ya’ve any past experiences what are particularly relevant to this situation, now’s a good time to share.”

Without warning, a foothead stuck. The lightning-quick blow hit with such force to send up a spray of dirt and gravel as it swallowed Flavius whole.

Continued