Descended from Darkness: Vol II Read online

  "Why are you telling me this? You know I have a responsibility to take the information to the archbishops." David lowered his voice. "If they find out you're a seer---"

  "You will help me because you don't believe." She reached for his sleeve and pulled him closer. "I have written a gospel based on my father's prophesies."

  "So you do have a Bible."

  "It must not fall into the archbishops' hands, no matter what. You have to promise me you'll keep it safe."

  He started to speak, but an image cut his words short. His mind witnessed a tree near a small lake, the same lake they'd stopped at on the first day. Red daises surrounded the exposed roots. The Bible was buried there. The future was buried there. He suddenly felt like he had made a huge mistake bringing Jenna to New Hebron. "I don't understand---"

  "Don't understand what?" Archbishop Fletcher asked, as he entered the room.

  "How such an innocent girl could be guilty of murder."

  "Indeed. That is the question at hand." The archbishop walked to her bedside. "So this is Jenna, the miller's daughter? She doesn't look like a murderer to me. How are you feeling, dear?"

  "Better."

  Jenna relaxed when the archbishop reached for her hand. His Holiness had a way about him that put people at ease. Far from the traditional aged priest, he was a vibrant man with thick black hair and compelling green eyes. When he smiled, his dark vestments emphasized the effect. In another world, he could have been a movie star.

  "The archbishops see occasional requests for leniency, but I must admit we've never received one that quoted actual scripture, much less multiple versions of the Bible." He pulled her request from a vest pocket and cleared his throat. "Whoso killeth his neighbor ignorantly, whom he hated not in time past... he shall flee unto one of those cities and live."

  "A city of refuge," she said.

  "So I gather." The archbishop leaned closer. "You understand the responsibility that passage places on me?"

  "If any man hate his neighbor," she warned, "and rise up against him and smite him mortally... then the elders of the city shall deliver him into the hand of the avenger of blood, that he may die."

  "You can quote scripture from memory." The archbishop's eyes widened. "That is truly remarkable. How is it that you have hidden such a miraculous talent?"

  "My father had a photographic memory, but he was sick and fearful and hid his gift. He was afraid of what would happen if the church knew the truth."

  "And you do not share his fear?"

  "I want to live more than I want to keep his secrets."

  "Good," the archbishop said. "That shows an evolved understanding of the world. It is true our teachings here sometime diverge from scripture, but we have responsibilities that extend far beyond the old world church. If God's children are to survive, certain deviations from canon are necessary. Don't you agree, Cardinal?"

  "I do." David stumbled over the words, his mind catching up with the conversation. He couldn't decide what to make of Jenna's abilities. He felt compelled to tell the archbishop about the Bible, but something held him back.

  "Tell me, child," the archbishop continued, "did your father write down any of his memories?"

  "He refused to write them down, but he told me stories every night. Made me memorize them."

  "Then we only have you to guide us. With so many denominations lost to the Fallen, a mind like yours is a gift from God. Assuming you are willing to join our fellowship, I feel comfortable speaking for the others. We will grant your request for asylum. Your knowledge is far too important to waste on a question of guilt or innocence."

  "You don't need to hear my case?"

  "Rest now." The archbishop patted her hand. "Tomorrow we celebrate the Easter Vigil. Before the service, I invite you to join the archbishops for a communion ceremony to cleanse you of the past and prepare you to serve in the Lord's army."

  With a smile, the archbishop turned for the door. David couldn't hide his shock. If they were going to offer her communion, she presented a bigger threat than even he imagined. Or did Archbishop Fletcher see it as an opportunity? David wanted more time with Jenna, but Fletcher cleared his throat, reminding him there were preparations to be made.

  "Have faith," she whispered. "There are more of us than you know."

  Archbishops Thomas and Reynolds stood beside Jenna. The church had provided a white dress for her communion. David waited with the three of them at the roughly hewn entrance to the underground chapel. The level had been added after the archbishops founded New Hebron. He wondered if she had noticed their green eyes. He wondered if she really knew what she was getting herself into.

  David had seen what Jenna could do. He wanted to believe in her, but he had seen faith and delusion destroy so many. He went to her in the middle of the night, but she refused to leave. She was determined to see her father's vision through to the end. She talked about a world where humanity could live alongside the Fallen. She talked about her father's certainty there were others with gifts like hers.

  A single bell rang out three times, and Archbishop Thomas handed her the Paschal candle. With a deep breath, David moved to the chapel door and opened it. The cavernous space was devoid of any light. Jenna stood with the archbishops on the precipice of the abyss with only a candle to guide her through the rite of Lucernarium.

  David watched her walk inside the chapel with the same sense of grace he'd seen when she'd approached the gallows. Her faith was strong enough to bolster some small corner of his own, and for the first time in more years than he could count, he wanted to believe in something greater than himself.

  The archbishops accompanied her across the subterranean darkness. They stopped three times on their way to the nave. At each interval, the two men proclaimed, "Christ is the light."

  "Deo Gratias," the assembly responded.

  David's role was that of gatekeeper. He barricaded the doors and stood guard over the ceremony. If Jenna panicked or tried to run, it was his responsibility to stop her.

  As the candlelight approached the sanctuary, David closed his eyes and said a small prayer. When he opened them, he could see her lowering the Paschal candle to the baptismal.

  The surface oil ignited, spreading through a series of interconnected channels to illuminate the interior of the chapel. He waited for her to gasp, but she stood her ground, silent. Three full-sized crosses towered over her. One of the Fallen had been nailed to each cross.

  Shunts removed infected fluids from the crucified creatures, delivering them to a hidden room behind the nave. How these fluids were processed, David couldn't say. The archbishops did not allow him into that room. The end result, whatever it was, returned to an ornate wooden altar in the form of iridescent green liquid.

  Archbishop Fletcher waited for Jenna there, silver chalice in hand. On each side of the altar, a half dozen of his brethren stood, their eyes an identical green. The contaminated liquid had wiped the ravages of age and time away from their perfect bodies, but some profound aspect of humanity had also disappeared with it. They exuded warmth and caring, but David had caught more than a few glimpses of the sociopathic animal lurking just below the surface.

  "Life is in the blood," Archbishop Fletcher began, "Jesus gave his mortal life for us, and our drinking of this cup symbolizes our continuous sharing of his restoration."

  He filled the cup and brought it around the altar to Jenna. David couldn't see her face, but her body betrayed no fear. As a nonbeliever, he'd nearly wet himself the first time he'd seen the ritual performed. Was it possible she knew what she was doing? Could her lack of surprise denote a plan?

  "And Jesus took the cup," the archbishops chanted in unison, "and when he had given thanks, he said, 'Drink of it, all of you: for this is my blood of the covenant which is poured out that you might live forever.'"

  She raised the chalice to the three crosses and took a deep drink. David couldn't help himself. He moved closer. He had to know. When she turned to face him, he realize
d how much he needed to believe in her, in some divine act that could pull humanity out of this twisted abyss.

  Jenna's once blue eyes turned a vacant green. He could see that intangible spark disappear as the archbishop's communion coursed through her veins. He suddenly realized her knowledge of the Bible and the Fallen would be used to destroy everything she'd hoped to create. It would be used to hunt down others like her. It would be used to expose him as a co-conspirator and non-believer.

  The archbishops converged on Jenna now. They were welcoming her to the world they had carved out between humanity and death. Her father's visions would have told her this was going to happen. Why would she submit herself to the destruction of everything she believed? Why had she trusted him with her vision? She told him she was a messenger. If the message wasn't for the archbishops, then who was it for?

  Watching her now, he realized the truth. The message was meant for him.

  Before he could question this solemn belief or lose the resolve that came with it, he raised his ceremonial pistol, aimed for her head, and pulled the trigger. Her secrets had to be protected. He turned the gun on the archbishops, not waiting for her to fall to the ground from the fatal head wound. The assembly scattered for the door that he had locked to protect their secret ceremony.

  He could feel his future unfold with each pull of the trigger. He would retrieve her gospel. He would travel with it from haven to haven. He would restore the Word of God. He would find others like Jenna and make peace with the Fallen. As the last of the archbishops dropped, he felt certain this had been Jenna's plan all along. She had only been the messenger. It was his responsibility to make her sacrifice mean something.

  Moving past the archbishops' bodies, he opened the doors of the underground chapel and took his first steps toward saving the world.

  Sol Asleep

  Naomi Libicki

  Solange looks around nervously, then hoists herself over the metal rim. She wriggles a bit. The coffin is tight. Her eyes point blankly at the ceiling, as she struggles to get her breathing under control. No one is coming in. Marcia promised---Sleepies know Solange has paid her enough. She waits until her breaths come slowly, evenly. She imagines them misting the lid of the coffin, which in reality leans up against the wall, temporarily disabled. Then she closes her eyes. She forces her toes to stop wiggling, her knees to stop jumping. She forces her hands to unclench. Soon she's asleep. She dreams of planets.

  It's stupid, but there it is---it's not the pain, or the fear, or the embarrassment of being raped in a tool locker by your younger cousin; it's Mickey's teeth glinting in the low light that Solange can't get out of her mind. So white, she remembers thinking.

  She should get back to her dormitory. She's been off-shift for more than an hour. But she's a mess: there's blood at the side of her mouth and down her legs, her smock is torn, and she can't see it but she thinks her face is blotchy with crying. If people see her they'll ask questions, and she doesn't want to have to talk to anyone.

  She levers herself to her feet and takes an experimental step. It hurts a bit to walk, but it's not that bad. Looking out the small window in the tool locker door, she can see a woman walking a catwalk above the eucheuma pool and occasionally taking its temperature. Other than that, and a bar of light from Uncle Matt's office, there doesn't seem to be anyone around. Ducking her head, she pushes open the door and heads for the showers.

  Solange doesn't know when Mickey got so strong. He hadn't been when they were kids. Marcia could usually give him a good pounding. Solange had tended to run whenever any of the cousins looked her way when they were in a violent mood. Even when they'd caught her, she'd usually got away again with no more than a bruise or two. But back in the tool locker, she was pinned securely, and no amount of twisting seemed to help.

  When she bit the hand covering her mouth, he laughed. His eyes glittered. "Madwoman," he said.

  The pain that followed was brief. Solange tasted blood and felt it trickle down the back of her throat, but Mickey seemed absorbed in what he was doing.

  Shortly after, he sat back. Manic energy had given way to his usual air of self-satisfaction. Solange drew herself into a crouch and turned away, trying to shield herself from his view. She wasn't quick enough to hide the fact that she was crying.

  "It wasn't that bad, Sol," said Mickey.

  Solange realizes that she's cold. The water has automatically shut off, and there's nothing left but a pink puddle around her feet. She collects her clothes and does what she can with them---if she ties her smock on the right, the damage isn't so obvious. She can mend it later.

  She makes her way back to her dormitory through corridors dimmed for the night, and mostly empty. The few people she does encounter glance at her and then away, uninterested. If the floors and walls suddenly blinked out and there were nothing between them and the stars but space, they probably wouldn't notice that either. Most people never notice anything.

  Five cousins sleep in the same room as Solange. Elara and Karen stand in the hallway engrossed in conversation. Hallie works night shift, and Callie is probably asleep. Levana, the new girl who moved in after Marcia moved out, is reading, judging by the light coming from her bed-place. Solange manages to avoid them all and climbs the ladder to her own bed-place, two up on the left. Sleep doesn't come.

  After some time staring at the ceiling, she pushes herself out of bed, climbs down the ladder, and lets herself out into the corridor. She walks nowhere in particular. It takes up the time.

  It's been two days. For the past two mornings, Solange has arrived at work early for lack of anything better to do with her nervous energy. Her head feels as if it's been in the desiccator, her arms and legs are weak, and she can barely feel her fingers. She's tested the same spot's salinity five times in a row; she's ruined a new plant with clumsy fingers; she's almost tumbled into the nama pool. Occasionally, a speck of light dances across her field of vision.

  After the first day of work, returning to her dormitory more exhausted than she's ever been, she climbed to her bed-place and lowered herself onto the mattress, grateful and expectant. But sleep didn't take, and she no longer expects anything. Instead, when she isn't working, or in the canteen trying to force down a meal of some sort of seaweed that she can't really taste, she walks. After a while, the corridors all start to look the same. She tries to hold distinguishing details in her mind---this pine has a broken lower branch; that door is painted red---only to have them slip away. At one point, she finds herself standing in front of a door, hand hovering over the button, unable to decide whether it leads to her dormitory or not. Solange is no great reader, but a word floats to the surface of her mind, familiar from old stories: lost. So that's what it means, she thinks, and wonders if people who live on worlds bigger than this ship feel like this all the time.

  Mickey has been acting a bit nervous around her. Solange supposes he is wondering whether she's going to lodge a complaint against him. But that seems like a lot of work. She can't prove anything, and if she could, Uncle Matt is her boss and not likely to thank her for venting his chance of grandchildren into space. Anyway, what's in it for Solange? She just wants to get some sleep.

  Still, she hasn't discussed this with Mickey---he hasn't asked, for one thing---and for the past day and a half he's leapt up like he's suddenly remembered an urgent errand if he found himself so much as working the same pool as Solange. So she's slightly puzzled when she looks up from reeling in a line of mature eucheuma to see Mickey on a catwalk not five meters from her, and looking in her direction.

  "Sol," he says, with an impatient edge to his voice, as if Solange has failed to respond the first three times he's said her name. "You should get that looked at."

  "What?" says Solange.

  With a few quick strides, the catwalk ringing under his feet, Mickey covers the distance between himself and Solange. He grabs her left hand and stretches out her arm, underside up. Then he drops it, quickly. The line she's been hauling on has cut d
eeply into the flesh just below her elbow, and her forearm and both hands are bloodied. The far side of the line bleeds into the water for a good meter and a half. "Oh," says Solange. She hadn't noticed.

  Mickey takes a step backward and holds the hand that touched Solange's away from his body awkwardly, as if it doesn't belong to him. "Shit, Sol," he says.

  After some seconds, he says, "I'll walk you to the hospital." This decision seems to cheer him up immediately. With brisk authority, he takes her by the elbow---the uninjured elbow---and steers her toward the supervisor on duty. Solange can't recall her name, but she's struck by the woman's resemblance to her cousin Elara, who sleeps one bed-place down from Solange. She shakes her head to clear it of the sudden frightening conviction that they are, in fact, the same person.

  "I'm taking Sol to the hospital," says Mickey, displaying her injury. "I think she's in shock."

  Elara---no, space it, not Elara---winces and flicks her eyes slightly to one side. "Ouch," she says. "I hope that doesn't feel as bad as it looks."

  "I don't think she can really hear you," says Mickey.

  Solange can hear fine, although there are odd echoes, as if the supervisor is speaking through a metal tube, from a long way off. Still, an excuse not to talk to somebody is an excuse not to talk to somebody. Solange lets herself be led quietly to the hospital.

  The medic whom Solange eventually sees makes Mickey go away before starting on her arm. Which is nice. He gives her an anesthetic which is probably useless---she can't feel the needle pierce her skin in the first place---and sews up the cut. Then he tells her to wait in the recovery room for half an hour. "Let me know if you have any problems," he says.

  I can't sleep, thinks Solange. If I don't get some sleep I think I'm going to die, I need help...