See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Something was deeply amiss with the world.  Jorge’s sense for the divine was still barely a glimmer – something to be developed over years of study to come – and yet he could see by the way his comrades moved that they did not feel what he felt.  The world around him was boiling invisibly, rocked by explosions and impacts unseen.  Some voices were screaming as they were ripped away from the firmament, others were screaming as they were thrust down upon it.  Yet it was all just a wash over his skin.  Waves of heat and sound, weak like imagination, but easily understood to not be his own constructions.  It was something outside of him.

For all its fury, it was still faint enough that he could power through the sensations, and keep up with the squad.  Xihuani clocked his unusual expression, but it must not have been so outrageous that she felt at all compelled to ask about it.

Zochino felt something was wrong as well.  The astropuerto was dead.  As a major import site for a densely populated region, there should have been operations going at all hours, day and night.  They met no one as they hustled down the corridors.  The simpler kinds of autoesclavos, in very inhuman bodies, operated to the best of their abilities – but some of them stood inert, waiting for input.  Where were the operators?

It was a blessing, whatever the reason, because it would give them time to find an astronave bound for Laia 4 and properly stow away.  The abandoned halls lent the possibility of just taking a more direct route to the landing yards, but it was best to retrace their original route, and chance nothing on the unknown.

Part of the hustle involved coming out into a public area of the astropuerto, where proper clientele or security might glimpse them.  Time to act natural.  Would it be as abandoned as the rest of the complex?  They formed up behind the little door, and Zochino quickly opened it, stepping out.

It was a transition between two concourses, marked with a huge escalator.  They were on the upper concourse, with a vast hall behind them.  Zochino said, “Security.”  They could all see the dark figures in the distance, and quickly scurried out of that line of sight.  That led them to the top of the escalator, with an eagle eye view of the concourse below.  What they could see of it looked empty, the strangely colored night sky teasing the floor with flickers of rainbow light, mostly overpowered by the artificial lights in quiet business alcoves.

As they descended the staircase, less of the ceiling would block their view of the far reaches of that concourse, so they steeled themselves for unpleasant surprises.  If anybody saw them, would it have to be another massacre?  No, Zochino figured the authorities wouldn’t question every last person in the world, and a dead body would speak much more strongly about their presence at the astropuerto than a witness to some random guys.

Nothing on the concourse below, except a much clearer view of the skylight.  They were arrested by the sight of it.

Jorge murmured, “i’m not the only one seeing this?”

Xihuani said, “No, Jorge.  You study astronomy too, right?”

“That’s no natural aurora.  The star lights, flashing in and out… The shooting stars…”

Christina hated the nun habit and wanted to rip it off.  Look what they had wrought!  God was real, and he knew they had shown him to be impotent.  Why should they have to hide, just because some fools would never recognize greatness when they saw it?

Zochino asked, “Jorge, please tell me you know what that is.”

“I’d say a planetary spirit moved.  Possibly a solar angel.  They are so huge, just rolling over in their sleep could do all of this.”

Christina said, “Wait, so the astrocielo is all fucked up?  Can we even fly through that shit?”

Zochino said, “They have no choice.  The Stars of Weal depend on trade.  Gotta keep the economy moving.  How long does the turbulence last, Jorge?”

“I don’t think we have any way of knowing.  It’s never been observed in recorded history.  But I’d guess the worst of it will be over in a few days.  That’s a pretty wild guess.”

Christina yelped like a small dog, then quickly stifled it.

Xihuani asked, “What the hell was that?”

Christina shook her head, a platinum bleached lock falling free of her cowl.  “You wouldn’t get it, Huani.”

Zochino felt the cold of his sweat again, the weakness of his body more profound than it had been all night.  What the hell had they done?

–

 

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

The angel believed it was real – believed that it was holy.  It believed that it had watched over the world for ten thousand years, as it had believed of itself for hundreds of years by that time – yet the figure of ten thousand was never recalculated in its mind.  It believed the entity corresponding to the star of Dio was truly the creator of the Universe, and it believed in the infallibility of the pontiff.

But something had become different for it, and this was intolerable.  The Mandate of Heaven was shaken as it had never been before.  The Celestial Hierarchy was in peril.  For the first time in what it supposed was ten thousand years, the angel moved.  The astrocielo around Dio 6 burned with sudden disruption of ectonic energy on an unprecedented scale, rippling through the electromagnetic spectrum as well, terrifying all the creatures of the physical and spiritual realms at once.  The great astral cathedral of Usael was brushed by a wing and flames raced through it, killing nearly everything within and without, knocking the structure adrift.  Millions of spirits burned in holy flames, but were not destroyed.  Some became angels, some angels changed forms and ranks, some fell and became devils – all with the gentle sway of Michael’s vast corpus.

He did not truly understand any of that, seeing only the iconoclasts – the adversary – and their unimaginable moment of triumph over the Will of God.  He reached down, but his hand was too vast to touch a thing.  He reached, smaller still, but his hand yet larger than a continent.  He reached and reached, the concept of what he was changing, and with it the vast web of particles and energy that constituted his being.  Already every parasite and commensal organism that had dwelled in the surface of his body had been annihilated.  But the vacuum created by his descent dragged everything unfortunate enough to dwell in the astrocielo around Dio 6 together, into an impromptu asteroid field of chaos and destruction.  Thousands of astronaves were destroyed, many more were badly damaged and sent spinning, potentially still to crash and burn.  Hundreds of thousands more angels and spirits died in the celestial void he created.

And then he was a duende, mewling and scraping in his cosmic afterbirth, the chaos of his descent still burning in the skies above.  This was no ordinary elf or putti.  Michael’s incarnate form was of a man of great stature, with vast wings and white fire crowning his glossy black hair.  But the real difference between him and the swarms of angelflies lay inside his head.  Burning behind his eyes was the most energy that had ever been concentrated into single incarnate soul – a power that held unknowable potential for creation and destruction.

As he slipped his iridescent caul, he choked and lost the fluid content of his new lungs, taking in terrible burning air.  What a wretched thing, to depend upon breath of molecules and atoms.  In his pain he struck the ground, cracking the foundation of the basilica, and roared like a lion.  The flesh of every putti rippled in the wash of energy, every angelfly within a kilometer was banished to a burning spirit world, and every mortal that heard the sound was driven to the ground, mind reeling.

Michael jerked his new body upright with lurching motions, and burned the amniotic fluid from his eyes with internal flames.  His mind required some touchstone, something to ground it, or his imagination would destroy the city.  Then he saw it.

The Mandate of Heaven was a crown that existed in both the physical and spiritual realm simultaneously, but more fantastic than most of the artifacts that held that property.  Violence upon it had brought a solar angel down to Dio 6, and now it was within that creature’s grasp.  Michael stepped over the bloody x-marked corpse, took it in hand, and held it aloft.  The pontiff’s great hat.

The pope’s body had not yet completely cooled, had not been properly sequestered in the wake of the great crime, but a date was already being discussed for the convocation to replace him.  Those plans would have to change.  Michael placed the great hat upon his own head, and rested his great body upon the pontiff’s throne.

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

A strange creature walked the streets of the city outside the Holy City.  It was a spirit creature made flesh, but it was no angel.  Black fur erupted from most of its body, less like a cat than a tarantula.  It was as narrow as the thinnest human, with shoulders just a bit more narrow than humanly possible, and a single angry pink eye dominated the void of its face.  There was no visible nose, but the spiky black fur thinned and shortened enough to make out a mouth, in the naturally down-turned expression of a cat.

Nobody stared at the creature.  They had bigger things to worry about, and the fact it was clothed spoke to its civilized nature.  It was a duende, of the kind that were commonly seen on small astronave crews that transported smaller cargo between worlds.  To say “of the kind” might suggest there were others that looked the same, and this was not at all true.  They were truly unique creatures, but the more animalistic would typically run nude, and not be seen pushing mysterious metal cylinders around urban streets with a dolly.

The duende wheeled its prize down a garbage-strewn lane, half clogged with the improvised shelters of the homeless, and into a mysterious dark clearing, deep in the heart of an ancient block of buildings.  It had once been a plaza, but was now protected by a slumlord who rented it out to small astronaves.  The Leveret was one such craft, its four legs bunched like a resting spider awaiting ecdysis.  The machine was as unique as its duende pilot, seemingly made from white metal with gilt decor, each leg’s terminal length a carousel horse’s head.  It resembled the flying cabriolets of the cardinals, but was a bit larger, with a powerful spirit capable of navigating the astrocielo.

The Leveret’s owner positioned the big cylinder below the craft, then hoisted it into one of a series of six ports on its belly.  Past a certain length, the ship took over pulling the cylinder inside with a hydraulic shunk, and the pilot closed a hatch over the port.  Each port was covered then, presumable all filled with the fuel needed for its voyages.

A voice called from the shadows.  “Heyy, corsario.”

The duende cast about for the source, and saw a filthy corazona leaning on a pile of trash.  “Yes,” it said slowly, mode switching to her language, “I am a corsario.  And you are a disgusting vagrant.  Leave me alone.”  Its voice was high, less like a woman than a teenage boy.  It would have just gotten into the craft, to demonstrate its lack of fear, but it couldn’t trust that creature with its exposed backside.  The duende rested its hand on a belt, which sported a variety of tools.  Was one of those things a gun?

“You’re all fueled up.  I’ve been watching you work,” Blasfemia said.

Its big pink eye narrowed.  “I suppose you’re wanting to steal from me?”

“No.  I just need a ride to Corazon 2.”

“You’re covered in waste.  You are not climbing into my nice clean ship.”

“You got something to clean up with?  I’ll wipe myself down before I get in.  I don’t like gettin’ all nasty any more than you.”

“Then why’d you end up like that?”

“Killed the fucking pope.  You wanna be next, duende?”

The corsario considered its weapons, and considered the woman thing before it.  If it was telling the truth, its bloody little hands had turned the Wheel of Heaven itself.  It knew for a fact that wheel had been turned, and the death of a pontifex was a possible cause.  “If I take you to Corazon 2, can I leave you behind, and never see you again?”

“Swear on a dead pope.  Gimme a wet towel, man.”  Her teeth gleamed, cleaner than anything else on the surface.

“Just a minute.”  The corsario opened another hatch and clambered inside.

Blasfemia lunged forward and quickly blocked the hatch from closing.  The duende did some quick work, then produced a hot wet towel.  She banged on the inside of the hatch with her tools.  “Come out and wait for me.  Can’t have you flying off without me, can I?”

“Coming.”  It got down to the cobblestones, and she shoved it away from the craft.  It stood nearby, sullen.

Blasfemia didn’t have any modesty for spirits.  It’s not like they were real people.  She got naked there, in the dusky alley, rubbing herself all over with the towel before reluctantly putting her filthy clothes back on.  She at least whacked the biggest clods of gore off on one of the astronave’s legs first.

“She doesn’t appreciate that,” the corsario said.

“The astronave?”

“The Leveret is a duende like me.  I wrestled her out of the astrocielo, tamed her.  Or maybe she tamed me; I don’t remember anymore.”

“You’re a space vaquero?”  She cocked her head at the strange being, still lacing her last boot.

“Try to pay attention.  I said she doesn’t like getting dirty, or having people slap her around.  Don’t get her mad.  You’re about to depend on her, for your life.”

“Alright, Capitan.  Let’s get going.”

The bizarre spirit nodded, and made all the same gestures as a human.  According to some theories, all the spirits except for angels are reflections of things in the mortal world, and this cycloptic spider-cat-pilot was surely reflecting people, in its own way.

Blasfemia went first, but had to hang there over the portal until the corsario was inside, not knowing what to do with herself in the odd little room.  Nothing looked like a seat.  The duende pulled down a bench with safety belts, that had been folded against the wall.  It wasn’t much.

“How long will it take to get to Corazon 2?”

“A hell of a lot less time than in long space, but you’ll still get your beauty sleep in.”  It rolled its eye, as it made flight preparations at the front end.

“What was that look for, duende?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get the stench out of here.  Is that what happens when you kill a human?”

“Only if you do it messy.”  It was her turn to pull a solemn face.

The corsario’s back was to her, but it sensed a mystery in the moment of silence.  “You really set this all off by murdering the pontiff?”

“Yeah, I mean.  It’s probably no big deal, right?  I heard a guy say this happened the last time a pope died in office, y’know, all the angels crying and stuff.  Before my friend Christina shot him.”

“Oh, it’s a bigger deal than that.  Something terrible is happening, and I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“You know what it means?  It’s all just … too big for me to understand.  I confess, duende.”

“You know how in astrocielo, there are angels and spirits as big as whole worlds?  They usually just float there in space, like big lumps.  Well, one of them just moved.  I’ve heard that they can, but it hasn’t happened in my lifetime – which is a lot longer than yours has been, monkey.”

She nodded to herself.  “Yeah, it figures.  I just don’t get why his old ass was so important.”

“A pontiff wears the Mandate of Heaven.  It’s the linchpin of the Celestial Hierarchy.  They become a living bridge between Heaven and Dio 6.”

“Was that angel God?”  Concern rose in her voice.

“No.  His name is Michael.  God is the thing in the astrocielo that corresponds to the star Dio itself.  I’d hate to see what happens if that moves.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m fresh out of popes to kill.”  The astronave lurched to its feet and she buckled herself to the bench.

The corsario worked the controls of the Leveret, readying her for astral flight.  It wanted to ready itself for what it would encounter in the astrocielo above Dio 6, but with Michael fallen, it had no idea what to expect.  If it survived that situation, surely things couldn’t get any weirder or worse than it already had, right?

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

The time of Morcheeba had ended, and now it was time for all the jams au courant.  The DJ spun faster, boosted the bass.  Spines shook, muscles tensed and released and tensed again.  Josefina was already down to the bikini top and pants, twirling and bouncing to the music.  Her body was not the most exciting thing going – small breasts, a bit soft but nothing outrageous – just gentle slopes and the relatively smooth, unblemished skin of the young.

For many that was enough – a young lady showing skin – and she wasn’t unloved on the dance floor.  But still, Noise haunted her steps.  It was a strange routine.  When Josefina would find herself in a moment dancing alone, Noise would lurch out of the crowd, getting somebody’s attention.  She’d point at Josie, point at her victim, and make lurid faces.  Checka this out, buddy.  Wanna piece of that?  If the person took the bait and danced with Josefina, Noise would lurk like a strip club patron, shaking invisible dollars at the edge of the stage.

In moments where she avoided her weird friend, she’d dance past the dealer man, giving him a chance to join, but also trying not to be too obvious.  How could shyness even find her strung out on drugs and half naked in a crowd?  The first two times she tried the maneuver, he didn’t bite.

At last, she a strong hand touch her bare side, and looked up to find herself in the man’s grip.  By then, the night was reaching a climax.  The crowd surged; security was unable to keep track of anything happening inside the club.  The lazy engineer had flicked a switch to get lights reeling and spinning.  Every breath was hot vapor, every glancing brush past a stranger was hot sex.  Josefina felt like she was in the whirling heart of a pansexual orgy, and personal attention from the handsome stranger was the thing to bring that to a perfect crescendo.

She let her eyes keeps spinning, not wanting his eyes to find them.  She took in the details she preferred – the shape of his ear, of his shoulder, the texture of his hair, the scratch of light stubble on his chin, the shape of his mouth… Unless he was saying something.  God, don’t let him be saying something.

He was saying something, felt more than heard under the tumult in the air.  take it off, girl.

No.  Josefina felt her breasts brush against his chest, the fabric of the bikini threatening to slip off the nipples that held it in place.  She backed away but was immediately caught up on somebody from the crowd.  Noise was behind her.

“Yeah,” she cackled, “Take it off!  Woo!”  Her face was that of a harpy, pink and beaked and framed with wild yellow wisps of hair.  She shook a chubby fist in the air.

Josefina bounced back against the man and he breathed into her mind, take if off, Josefina.  His eyes were American Psycho, his teeth were a primate threat signal.  But she couldn’t deny as she felt her flesh pressed against his tight body, sweat a salty ocean between them, that she did kinda wanna take it off.

No, it was too dangerous.  There was some kind of cruel electricity racing through the crowd, turning the touches from sex into pain.  Laughing eyes with champing piranha teeth for lashes.  Get away.  Now.  She called out, voiceless, “Peace?”  He could not be seen.  Again, it was Noise’s face she beheld.

“Take it off, Josie!  Wooo!”

Suddenly she grabbed that Del Taco T-shirt in her tiny fists and looked into her beady snake eyes, and yelled into her open mouth, “How can you do this to me?  Let me go!”

Noise looked confused, like Are you for real?, and made no move to get out of the way.  Josefina scrambled past her with thrashing limbs, smearing sweat all over the white girl, and tumbling away into darkness.

The club breathed, the soundproofing and lights and the flesh closing in and then breathing out.  Fingers grasped in the void.  Collapse was a definite possibility, until her hand sunk into the gentle mass of a big belly.

“Oof,” said Peace.

“Peace?  Oh God I need that water now.”  She was still blind, pawing at his limbs and clothing until she felt the surface of a plastic bottle, and hastily got into it.

“You get too high?  Gotta cool down, somewhere less wild?”

“It wasn’t no bunk,” she whimpered.

“This place has a basement.  I just think they store extra junk in it.  Nothing valuable, so they don’t care if people find it.”

“Really?”

She heard Noise’s cackle from somewhere in the light behind, and squeezed her eyes shut.  “That sounds great.  Take me to it, Brosefina.”

He pinched her nose.  How he found it in the dark was anybody’s guess.  “Got your Nosefina.  C’mon.”  He found her hand and led her further into the void.  She had seen Razzmatazz before with the lights on, and did not remember there being this much space.  She must have gotten turned around, ended up in a different corner than she thought.

Josefina’s sweat immediately began to dry in the cool dusty recesses of the building.  The high end of the music fell away, leaving only bass.  A dull glow ahead bloomed into buzzing fluorescents over exactly what he had described.  Racks of ambiguous junk.  It was all just terrain – canyons and valleys in an artificial world, no meaning to any of it.  They found a smaller bench, with room for only two, and crowded into it.

Josie said, “Peace, I wish you were there, when I was feeling bad.”

“But then you wouldn’t’ve felt bad, and I’d be there for nothin’.”

“Huh.  Well where were you?”

“Findin’ out about this place.  Though it’s kind of a waste of a good high for us to be down here.”

She shook her head.  “It ain’t good if it’s too much.  I hafta cool down.  This is perfect.  You’re the best.”  She leaned on his shoulder and put a naked arm around his back.  His long hair bunched around her face.

His breathing became a little erratic.  “Umm, Josie.  I wish you wouldn’t be so snuggly with me right now.”

She winced, her tired eyes disappearing.  “Too much like love?”

“Yeah.  I can’t be in love with you.  It would be too hard.”

She respected his request, withdrawing arms, folding hands in her lap.  “I forget.  Why do you say that?”

“You know I’m not enough for you.  It would make me too sad.”

“Aww.  You know that doesn’t mean nothin’.  All the people I dance with.”

“It feels like it means somethin’.”

She shivered, finally cooling down.  “Shit, where’s my hoodie?”

“Was your wallet in it?”

“No.”

“Easy come, easy go.  Don’t worry about it.”

“HEY!  Heyeee,” Noise came bustling down the stairs – the pusher close behind her.

“Oh no,” Josefina said.

The man affected a look of bashful charm – very badly, looking all the more like American Psycho Bale.  “I thought we were getting along, Josefina.  What’s the matter, boo?”

“You don’t know me, bro.”  She folded her arms over the bikini top.

Noise said, “C’moooon, he’s way hot.  What was so bad up there?  We’re just trying to have fun.”

He said, “This is the fun place.  I’m fun people.”

Noise added, “Yeah!  And check out his V-shape.”  She grabbed his side and shoved his pelvis forward, the tank top riding up to show the form of his muscles there.  Was he commando?

She shook her head.  “No!  Peace, I– Peace?”  He was gone.  “Jesus Christ, he was just here.”

“We’re both here for you,” said Noise.

“I am too,” the pusher said.

“Not you, Mac,” Noise said.  “I’m sayin’ Peace and me, we brought you here.  Together.  We’re both here for you.”

Josefina stood in a huff and waved them off.  “I need to find Peace.  Where the hell could he have gone?”  She looked at the far end of the room from where she came in, and it seemed there were stairs going down another level.  A sub-basement?

“Hey,” the dealer said, “Don’t turn me on and leave me hangin’!  Fuck I got feelings, y’know?”

Josefina ran to the stairs down, crying softly.

He was about to come after her, when Noise blocked him with a thick arm.  “Sorry Mac, time for you to fuck off.”

“Bitch!  Bitches.”

Noise went after Josefina.

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Blasfemia had tried to bully an autoesclavo into giving her a ride out of the garage, but it was to no avail.  All the machine wanted to do was call its master, set off alarms.  She killed it and moved on, finding a motorcycle with a simpler locking mechanism that she could brute force with the tools.  And then she was on the road.

There was more than one way to get off the planet.  The nerds were content to slink back the way they’d come, play it safe.  But outside of the walled city, there were a lot more places to hide, and who knows how many less locked-down astropuertos?  She didn’t know her way around, barely knew the language, but she knew she didn’t want to go the same way as the cowards.  She needed to get home to Corazon 2.

Not that she had a real home anymore.  Their mother rejected them, their village, the Church – the whole world, laughing at Josie, making her run away.  And then it was just Blasfemia and the Libertines, the violence…  Fuck the world.  She just knew that was the last place they had seen Josefina.

She rolled the bike to a stop, a quarter kilometer back from the gate, and squinted at the view.  Yeah, that gate was locked down, with guards checking everybody that passed.  Her eyes drifted over to the wall itself, and down its length, until it disappeared behind distant buildings.  The base of the wall was a curve to the ground.  She shrugged and took off again, driving away from the official exit, looking to make her own way.

The pavers were a rough surface, but at a high enough speed she was sliding over them smooth enough.  Nervous vaticanos awakened by angel tears walked the streets with tentative feet, and had to dive out of her way as she passed.  Residential buildings were a blur, people were phantoms.  And then she was heading straight at the wall, so fast.

The curve was just enough of a ramp to reorient the bike without tossing the rider, and it flew over the wall.  Blasfemia knew there was no way that would be a safe landing, and ditched, letting herself fall out of the seat near the top of the wall, and catching herself on the edge.  She clambered onto the surface, and watched the bike in concern.  Where was it going to land?

The arc was surprisingly tall but short, and it was coming right back down on the wall itself.  She leapt out of the way, and it smashed itself to pieces behind her, explosively.  Chunks of hybrid metals shrieked by in ragged chunks, sparks raining on the stone.  She stood again and brushed herself off, but the bloody sleeves just made a worse mess.  Frustrated, she turned to plan her next move.

Both sides of the wall had the same ramp at the bottom.  It could be used for a bike jump, but how about the reverse move?  The wall was too far from anything else to make a leaping reasonable, and the surface just a little to smooth for a climb.  She held the nun’s garb close around her and ran down the side of the wall.  Her feet were barely able to slow her descent – hardly at all – but the ramp at the bottom proved just enough of a momentum break to avoid injury.  She did fall on her back and tumble, getting banged up, but the thick uncomfortable clothes protected her skin.

She whipped off the ruined disguise and wiped the blood off her hands and wrists on pant legs.  Then she noticed she had dropped the rifle somewhere, and cast about in the few chunks of debris that had reached this side of the wall.  No dice.  When she looked up, a humanoid autoesclavo was watching her from a window nearby.  She asked, “You got a problem, man?”

“Are you well?  Not injured?,” is asked in flawless corazono.

“Oh yeah.  I guess that was kinda crazy.  No, I’m cool.  Don’t worry yourself.”

“Very well, señorita.”  It went back to some unseen chore, perhaps washing dishes.

“Thanks.”  Blasfemia couldn’t count on everyone to be fluent in her language, so she’d minimize the chit-chat.  The city was about to get hot, with everybody looking for the assassins.  At that point, everybody could be a snitch, or a vigilante, depending on their religious devotion.  She had to get herself sorted out in a hurry.

Where life inside the walls was sedate, with people resting indoors after dark, there seemed to an element of nightlife in the city outside.  People went about business with no special note of urgency or mystery.  There were not so many obvious spirits outside of those antique churches and pavilions – no sobbing creatures upset by the old man’s demise.

Why should Heaven care what happened to the pope?  Why didn’t it care about Josefina?  Blasfemia scowled.  But the chill night air was finally getting the better of her, and she buried hands in her pockets.

A drug dealer saw her shabby attire and offered her a hit of something she could not pronounce.  She ignored him and kept strolling, eyes darting around for anything she could use – a disguise, a vehicle she could steal, a mark she could roll for money.  Nothing easy, nothing that didn’t risk a scene, and more trouble.  After-work people prowled the bars for drink and affection.  Others just made long journeys home, or purchased groceries, or visited the all-night chemist.  Through it all, she stood out like a sore thumb – a corazona in a tank top, leather utility pants, and combat boots – scratched and smeared with blood that she hoped passed for oil under the warm streetlamps.

“Pir Dio, che diabolo i quello?”  “Nel cielo!”  Some old folks at a bus stop were gawking at the sky.  Were angels coming out of the city?  Winged baby rat rampage?  Blasfemia followed their gaze.

Strange bands of light towered over the world, like a magnetic aurora.  Angelic forms twisted and burned, shimmering in and out of existence.  Was the astrocielo opening up?  Surely nothing like this had ever happened before.  Within the aurora, one form was larger than all the rest – impossibly large, but less present in the physical realm as well, just a ghost image so faint everyone had to wonder if they were imagining it or not.  But no, it was just clear enough to know.

The angel of the world was descending.  His wings took up half the sky, and less by the second.  He was coming to land.

Just when everyone expected to be crushed under a holy spirit, to see the world end at the whim of Heaven, that part of the vision was gone.  The aurora and the other falling angels remained.  Blasfemia looked at her hands.  Had she done this?

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Without Blasfemia, it was easier to fit everyone into the sedan.  Zochino and Christina rode in the front, Xihuani and Jorge in the back.  They were quiet as hell.  Nobody could hear anything above the siren anyway, but perhaps they hoped to minimize distractions – to sense danger coming.  Or maybe the shock of losing a member of the squad had them all feeling more vulnerable than before.

Searchlights washed over them again and again – automated things with no sensible arc to their movements.  And who even knew how to search for assassins, among all the people who had leapt into motion when the chaos began?  The colors of the world, the shadows of the little angels like bats in the night, the roaring siren fading in and out – it was the vibes of a fireworks show, sliding over the windshield.

Had they really lost a member of the squad?  Blasfemia had always been something apart from the rest.  They were college students; she was a radicalized farm girl, making news for iconoclast terrorism.  They sought her out, in their revolutionary zeal, and collectively talked each other into killing the pope.  Now that they were done with the human weapon, their shared bloodlust was bottoming out, replaced with bone-chilling dread.

The tires of the sedan were designed to minimize damage to the plaza bricks, thousands of independently firing and retracting rubber-tipped spines ringed each wheel.  Unfortunately, the engine was also designed to minimize damage, maxing out at fifteen kilometers per hour.  It was a slow ride to the astropuerto.

The leader of a passing phalanx of soldiers flagged them down.  Zochino stopped the car.  “Be cool.”  He rolled down the window.

“You need help, officer?”  Zochino spoke almost the language of Dio 6, vaticanes, with almost no accent at all.

The soldier raised his visor.  Despite being in charge of ten men, he looked like a boy of seventeen.  Had they called up the trainee classes?  “We need to scan your ID, father.  I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, I can barely hear you over the siren.  You need what?”

“ID!  To scan your ID!”

Zochino nodded, playing the part with a perfection that can sometimes come at the point of a sword.  “Of course.”  He handed the ID of an early victim over to the soldier.  The man scanned it with his mobile, a complex stream of codes and lights reflecting in the shiny surfaces of his helmet.

“Now the others, Father Teodoro, if I may.”  He hadn’t noticed the flag that the real Teodoro Saenzi was missing – a less colorful and obvious flag than the one indicating death.

“I’m sorry.  The noise!”  Zochino gestured vaguely at the sky.

Unknowable radio babble caught the guard’s attention and he waved them by.  After all, looking for six people, not five.  The passengers started breathing again.

They had smuggled themselves to Dio 6 on an astronave shipping grain, and used carefully researched back paths and side halls to creep out of the astropuerto unnoticed.  Their return plans hadn’t accounted for one significant unknown – the capitol’s reaction to a major alarm.  They didn’t know those security protocols at all, and had to hope the return route was still open.

Christina spoke, when the soldiers were small enough in the rear view.  “Sorry I doubted you Chino.  Even if we get caught, no way I could do better.  I wonder if we…”

“Should go back for Blasfemia?  Definitely not.”

“Not that.  I wonder if we did her wrong, by bringing her here.  Maybe she lost it, but maybe she never had it.”

“Crazy?,” Zochino asked.

“Cognitive disability,” said Jorge.  “Has she ever really understood what we were talking about, or did we just fool ourselves into thinking she did?  Maybe we fooled ourselves about a lot of things.”

Christina said, “Crazy.  I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about Jorge.  Anyway, she only sees what she wants from one minute to the next, like a fucking shark.  If we didn’t bust her out, maybe she could’ve had a long life in the looney bin.”

“Don’t care,” said Xihuani.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.  Let’s just go, please!”

Zochino felt the accelerator under his foot, already flat to the floor.  Useless.  “We could run as fast as this thing drives, but then we’d get there all fucked up and out of breath.  Just a little longer.”  He looked at the vehicles and crowds in the streets, and projected the best way to get past it all – to the extent it was possible.  They’d find out soon enough.  He was frustrated at how much faster he could think than the sedan could drive.

The slow ride, the noise, the lights, the elaborately decorated everything – it struck Xihuani as resembling a theme park for kiddies.  What happens when the theme park is overrun by ogres, and kiddies are on the menu?  The ride crept up the tracks and down again, past the biergarten and the petting zoo, and at last…

Zochino parked the car on a crowded thoroughfare, where many people had no choice but to park, and negotiate with soldiers for a way through.  Only he had no intention of negotiating with anyone.  They joined the crowd, while staying left long enough to disappear behind a tall hedge, then jump a rail.  For all they had been through, no one was injured, and they found it easy to clamber down the curved side of the canal.  They were very exposed then – anybody who happened to look could see them – but it wasn’t so easy from that chaotic street.

They made it to the bridge, which could conceal them as they entered a culvert that ran under the astropuerto.  Free from watching eyes for another good stretch of time, it was a big relief.  Jorge ran out of breath and asked the others to wait up.  As they stood around him, looking on sympathetically, he wondered aloud, “Would it be safer if we just lived down here for a few weeks, and smuggled ourselves out at that point?  I really don’t want to do this next part.”

Zochino shook his head.  “There’s no way to know what the best time will be, but staying on this planet can be nothing but bad.”

“Mmhm.”

Xihuani paced, seemingly immune to sore feet.  “You’re right, you’re right.”  She flexed her hands over and over.  “No safe time, no safe place.  Nowhere in the world.”  The electric lights of the plaza world were receding in the distance, replaced with nothing but the light of their mobiles.  Glints on skin.  The alarm still nearly as loud as at street level, but very different, echoing through the tunnel.

She was giving Jorge a case of nerves, which over-ruled his need for rest.  They moved on.

The culvert opened under a utility courtyard between two equipment silos, with not a soul in sight.  They checked the door they’d used to access the spot from the inside, and the lock was still foiled from their earlier efforts.  From the courtyard, the sound of the alarm was weaker, but something else about it felt off.  They were quick to get indoors, but Jorge paused there, last through the door, and looked at the sky.  Was it his imagination, or were larger forms falling from it now?  Larger angels?

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Razzmatazz was not the hottest nightclub in the grotty little California town, but it was jumping. In a way, being second rate was a good thing.  These weren’t all coked-up children of privilege and gymbunny starfuckers; they were people who came to get high or get laid, or some combination of the two.  Less bullshit, more flavors of decadence to choose from.  The night was young and the walls weren’t sweating yet.

Josefina was there to dance, but her skin jumped with anxiety, her eyes wheeled in their sockets.  Despite her youth, those eyes always seemed tired.  Physiognomy, or a result of constant stress?  A feeling of disjunction followed her through the world – that she did not belong in reality.  She had to loosen up, and the only way that had ever worked was ecstasy.  The pills were already dissolving in her stomach.  She imagined she could feel them, that her stomach itself was a glass bottle of hydrochloric acid, a hand dangling from her esophagus giving it a little swirl.  The pills fizzed like the product in an antacid commercial, losing their cartoon dinosaur shapes.

Noise laid a comforting hand on her thigh.  The woman had naturally blonde hair, long and fairly straight, but wore no makeup, hadn’t dressed up at all.  She was still in a stained Del Taco t-shirt and khakis from work, unflattering to her rubenesque figure.  Without darkened lashes, her eyes looked tiny, with a reptilian glint, and without lipstick, the big but thin-lipped mouth looked like that of an albino ape.  Noise always bore a faint smile, deriving a crass amusement from the world of vice.  This was largely vicarious, as she never developed much taste for drugs and only got a laid a few times a year.  Mostly she was a chain smoker, always with a cigarette behind one ear.  “Hey Josie, you feeling it yet?”

“No, no.  I can’t.”  Josefina didn’t look at her, but Noise wasn’t offended – used to her ways.

Peace lay a comforting hand on her other thigh.  He was big round Cayuse man that had moved south from Oregon as a child, and joined one of the ambiguous brown people cliques at Josefina’s junior high.  He was a calming presence in her life.  Whatever his delinquency or foolishness, it was taken at a casual pace, arousing no anger from anyone who heard his soft, resonant voice.  Like Josefina, he had very long hair – mostly straight, but frizzed from a trace of natural curl.  Josie’s hair was dark and her skin light, while Peace’s skin was a shade darker and his hair lighter, like God turned down the contrast on him.  He wore an illegible death metal t-shirt, an open hoodie, and absurdly loose-fitting blue jeans.  Nobody would mistake him for a law-abiding citizen, yet he also did not provoke suspicion.  One could imagine no harm coming from his thick hands, even as he used them to feed MDMA to his friend.  “You’ll get there, Josie.  Clark and Mister Dougie don’t sell no bunk.”

“Thank you, Peace.  I can feel something, but I’m not there yet.”  She almost confessed that she felt a bit ill, but knew that would get her friends pouring bottled water down her throat, and she wasn’t ready to hydrate yet.

“They better not,” Noise cackled.  “I wanna see Josie go crazy.”

“I’m always crazy, Noise.”

“You know what I mean, girl!  Shit.  And what is this crap they’re spinning?”

“Morcheeba,” said Peace. “It’s ’90s stoner stuff.”

“How do you even know that?  I don’t care.  It’s putting my ass to sleep.”

“Go burn one?,” he offered.

“No.  I don’t wanna miss it when Josie gets up.”  She was clearly considering it, turning the lighter over in one hand, again and again.

“I’ll wait ’til you get back,” Josefina said.

“Liar.”

Whoever was working the lights was not feeling creative.  They’d left bands of different colors over the floor in discrete regions, spotlights staring straight down.  People changed colors as they crossed the floor, as bored with the music as Noise.  The closest color to the stoners was a wall of De Palma red.  They sat on one of the few benches at the back of the floor, under a looming maze of blue-grey geometric chunks – sculpted foam meant to quell noise complaints.

Josefina contemplated the bodies, ignoring eyes.  What did she want from them?  She felt like a vampire choosing its victims – but an incompetent one that would usually end the night thirsty.  Ladies and gentlemen and some other kinds of creatures in the mix, all dressed like myriad species of gangsters and sluts, the fashion not precisely mapping to assigned genders.  Their movements spoke of relationships – this woman connected to that woman and that man and his friends, that man connected to the bar staff and bouncers, and so on.

Nobody was alone – she would have to inveigle her way into another clique if she wanted to dance.  Peace would only dance with somebody he was courting and didn’t want to mess up their friendship, and Noise’s idea of dance was to grab a guy’s ass and stand there like a fire hydrant.  But Josefina would not go completely neglected that night, having slut gear under the hoodie, ready to go.  She was wearing a black bikini under her clothes, and would probably get away with stripping down to nothing but that, as the club heated up and the bouncers lost track of the chaos.

Her attention kept coming back to a drug dealer – a possibly older man, white, and wolfish – like a less interesting cousin to Christian Bale, dressed like Mac Miller.  He had come alone, though some people in the crowd knew him, and glanced by him for product, or to make a nominal amount of nice, to stay in his good graces.  In her experience, a man alone was a dangerous wild card, but this one was a professional, never jerked an elbow in anger, and seemed well-liked.  Further, he subtly moved his body to the music, with no thought to how he looked without a partner.  Unselfconscious, in a way that promised a good dance.  Still, would he want to be interrupted at work?

The drug hit and her head lolled dramatically.

“You should drink some of this,” Peace offered.

“HaHA!  It’s happening.  Get up, girl, get up!”

Josefina waved off the water, and stood up slowly, carefully.  Noise got a hand around her ass and pushed her into the crowd.  She crashed through a couple, pulling them apart, and caught angry looks.  But it was official.  She was dancing.

–

See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Down cavernous corridor through the haze of rose-hued chandeliers the assassins could barely see them – more guards, perhaps, but surely witnesses to their latest massacre of priests.  Zochino shouldered his rifle and let off a burst of suppressive fire.  The youths had been college students just a few months ago, but radical schemes gave them a quick education in the arts of war, and they advanced in the opening his volley had made for them.  The hall was encrusted with elaborate gold – frames for massive paintings, pedestals for sculpture, sculptural elements at every joint of the walls ceiling and floors, and cabinets for relics – which gave some amount of cover.

Christina was always the most bold, leaping sidelong into the next hall, laser bolts shrieking through the air all around her as she launched a burst of her own.  She survived, and Jorge and Xihuani moved into the opening to finish the job.  After another run and gun, the whole squad advanced into that hall and took new positions of cover.  There was a half dozen places for trouble to emerge, but they needed to be sure they’d finished the job.  Dead men lay in heaps, so many dark lumps behind a screen of smoke.

Blasfemia just abandoned her cover and walked down the hall, whistling.  It was the only sound besides the bubbling squall of grieving putti.  The ones in that hall, at least, had recovered their senses enough to buzz around seeking escape.  Most took the largest exits, back into the throne room where the pope lay dead and desecrated.  A confused straggler crawled on the tiles, almost like a human child.  Were its wings singed?  It pawed at Blasfemia’s feet as she walked by, slowing her progress.

“Get off me, baby!  Disgusting.”  She raised a boot and crushed the putti with a stomp.  It was the size of a human infant, too large to fit under her foot, but somehow it just disintegrated into a pile of meat under her power, chunks trailing strings and sprays of blood.

From his position, Jorge was revolted.  He understood that no real harm had come to the spirit creature – it was merely banished to the spirit world – but it was still a shocking sight.  Blasfemia was a natural exorcist, with the unusual power to banish spirits by violence.  Perhaps the fact she had struck the death blow on the old pontiff was the reason for the resounding shock to the angels, or perhaps as the old priest suggested, they cried every time a pope died in office.

Laser blasts shook her out of the distraction – somebody firing from cover down the hall.  They shouted in the language of the Dio 6, which she barely understood.  It was defiance, no doubt, rage at having his cushy young life as a papal guard subject to unprecedented violence.  Well, little soldier, what did you think that weapon was for?  Blasfemia mocked him, “Blah, blah, blah!”

The squad showered his position with fire, disintegrating his scant cover and most of his body in seconds, then regrouped. Zochino gestured for them to follow, and cut across the throne room to get back on course.  By now the putti were all in flight, like panicked doves hauling a few plump kilos on stubby wings.

Christina slapped Blasfemia’s arm.  “Put your fucking hood up and get the rifle ready.”

“Oh yeah.”  She was still royally distracted, but beginning to make some sense of the world again, and complied.

The evening sky was filled with light pollution, a royal blue haze admitting only a phantom glimpse of the starry void above.  Every pavement stone was a dedication to holy works, every ornately chiseled holy building transformed by shafts and sprays of lamplight into cerulean ghosts.  The lights at the plaza level were more amber-hued, blending with the red stone to irregular shades of orange and blood.

Thousands of putti and millions of angelflies buzzed madly through the sky, and people cautiously emerged from every shadow to find out what was going on.  The assassins mirrored the body language of the curious as best they could, while still following Zochino’s lead.  Nobody else was moving with such purpose, so it was a poor disguise indeed.  Nonetheless, it held out long enough.  They reached the grand stabling, where myriad strange vehicles were filed in stalls or suspended from skyhooks.  The only security present had never felt the need to question priests, and were distracted enough by the strange air to let them pass with little notice, and they were quickly alone again, in dimly lit passages, the concrete beneath them now an unadorned smooth grey.

Blasfemia smiled wearily at the stalls.  It was a shopping trip.  Would they reach the skyhooks to take a flying cabriolet?  Motorcycles?  Autoesclavos shaped like headless horses?  A simple wheeled sedan?  Take the pope’s personal carriage, as they had taken his life?

Zochino looked up to the skyhooks.  “Those are the best bet.”

Jorge said, “They are harnessed celestial spirits like the astronaves, and might rebel at our touch.”

“Alright, it will be quicker to boost a sedan anyway.  Xihuani?”

Xihuani was their best mechanic, and got to work on opening the nearest stall, as the others stood guard.

“Aww, man.  Why you gotta be so boring?”  Blasfemia was still shaking blood out of her sleeves.  “The pope’s cab is in this place somewhere.  We could tell it what to do.”

Christina agreed.  “You’re talking out your ass, Jorge.  Just because those flying rats figured out the old man was dead, it doesn’t mean they can magically sense that we did it.  Were they swarming us?  No.  Let’s take a flyer.”

Blasfemia said, “Yeah, maybe we can splat some of those bambinos on the windshield, haha.”

Zochino got in their faces, judgmental glare suiting well his clerical disguise.  “You know what the odds are we get off this fucking planet alive?  This isn’t a game.”

Christina spat.  “Don’t be a coward, Chino.  We all knew we could die.”

“I’m just being practical.  I want to get away with this as much as you do.”  He looked at the dark rafters, imagining the stars beyond.  “The easiest world to disappear will be Laia 4.  Lots of big cities with corazono neighborhoods.”

Blasfemia cocked her head at him.  “We’re going to Corazon 2, Zochino.”

“Are you mad?,” he looked at her again.  “We’d be caught there in a heartbeat.”

She shook her head.  “We’re going to get Josefina.  I’m going to get Josefina.”  She stopped fiddling with her sleeves and balled fists.

Christina turned her sharp features on Blasfemia.  “If you wanna go die, do it alone – after we get to Laia 4.”

“Oh, now you’re with him?”

Zochino said, “You were all with me.  I got us this far; I’m the only one that can get us out.”

Christina rolled her eyes at his self-importance.  “He’s right about this, Blasfemia.”

Their attention was drawn by the clunk of the stall’s locks hitting the concrete.  Xihuani had finished her work, and Jorge opened the side-rolling door.

Blasfemia said, “No.  No!  Xihuani, get me a ride too.  I’m going my own way.”

“I still have to get this one started.  I don’t have time!”

Zochino was getting heated.  “Blasfemia, I don’t want to see any of us die.  If we don’t stay together until we’re free, it’s over!”

“No, man.  Xihuani, get me a fucking ride!”

Jorge nudged Xihuani toward the driver side door of the sedan and stared forlornly at Blasfemia, hoping she’d snap out of it.

Zochino said, “We’re staying together.”

A great keening blast arose in the air, a chord of bending, whining notes that flattened as they peaked at brick-shaking volume.  It cycled again, then again – an alarm that had not sounded in centuries.

Blasfemia backed away.  “I’m going to get Josefina.  Fuck you guys.”

–

See my previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  Meanwhile, a wee bit of this bullshit…

Blasfemia withdrew one knife from the pontiff’s chest, but left the other in his heart, a hand still on the grip.  The spasms of dying muscle sent a jolt of dark pleasure through her hand, the scarlet ribbons coursing down his chest thrilled her eyes.  His head rolled dramatically, with an air of finality stealing the gaze from her handiwork.  “No no no,” she said, “Stay with me, papi.  You need to feel this.”  She dropped the loose knife and slapped his cheek with her free hand, little smacks.  “Come onnn.  Know why this is happening.  Don’t forget her!”  The pontiff died abruptly, and his dead weight dragged itself free of Blasfemia’s blade, collapsing on the floor.  “Josefina!,” she yelled, and stabbed him again – perpendicular to the fatal wound, marking his corpse with an X.  She crouched over his body like an ardent lover.

The witnesses – the band of assassins – all bore different burdens within their hearts.  Zochino had spent his entire young adulthood in study of political philosophy and its history, and became as obsessed as the dreamers of old with the idea that a more perfect system must someday be born.  Cristina had come to see all the sanctimony of her pious homeworld as bars in a cage, had grown to see all priests and police as icons of her oppression – just so many targets.  Jorge was a scholar of the spirit world, who saw how The Church’s angels press-ganged innocent entities into their host, twisting embodiments of nature into foot soldiers of celestial fascism.  He felt their pain and sought their liberation.

Xihuani had only wanted the people of her world to live their own culture free from the foreign influence of The Church, but it all seemed so remote, as she stood drenched in cold sweat on an alien world.  They all beheld a savage murder, the culmination of a hatred divorced from all sense and ideal.  Xihuani, at least, could not feel her ideals anymore, not in the slightest.  They would return to her later in some quiet moment, if she survived the consequences of their terrorism.

None of the assassins had been truly prepared to see Blasfemia’s passion consummated like this, and it broke the energy of their movement.  Zochino had already been feeling the absurdity of their quest as they stole into the Tiemplo Santo Pietri.  Who wanted to kill the pontiff?  Who wanted The Church gone?  Just a few isolated radicals.  The main run of the people truly loved and trusted the institution.  Without popular support, any revolution was doomed to fail.  They were bringing the wrath of several worlds down upon themselves for no lasting benefit, just for a single moment to satiate their bloodlust, to feel like they could do something important.

He was the first to speak, an attempt to dispel the haze of war, to restore sense to his comrades.  “Blasfemia!  Put those things away!  We need to get the fuck out of here.”  Nominally the leader, he might have ordered Christina to restrain her, but Blasfemia’s knives were the claws of a bear enraged.  They would kill anyone in the hot moment.

Blasfemia paid no heed, rocking on the knives, barely resisting the drive the keep savaging the corpse.  Christina rapped the ground with the butt of her rifle, just out of reach, and whistled sharply.  “Crazy bitch.  Move it!”

A strange murmuring sound rose in the world around them.  Had it begun when the first knife entered the old priest’s heart, and only then grown loud enough to overcome the blood pounding in their ears?

“what is that,” Xihuani muttered, terror stealing her breath.

“The angels.  They’re crying,” said Jorge.

“Bullshit,” said Christina.  “They’re animals, like a bunch of flying fish.  They didn’t notice shit.”  She still readied her weapon.

Jorge shook his head.  “He was bound to the celestial hierarchy.  You know the Church wasn’t lying about that, right?  We took a linchpin out of a bridge.”

Zochino readied his rifle.  He hoped he would not have to kill them.  They had passed hundreds of them in the cathedral halls, clustered in slumber at the rafters, or lolling around the floors in mindless play.  They were alien things, but they did rather convincingly resemble winged human infants.  “Ximura,” he used Blasfemia’s birth name, “come with us.”  He hustled to the door, deftly skipping through the bodies of papal guards, and paused at the threshold.

Blasfemia cocked her head at the words.  Who was Ximura?  Two people ever used that name, two voices in her memory.  One whose memory made her spit.  One whose name had just been in her mouth, spoken in hatred.  Why would she ever say Josie’s name like that?  Sweat beaded around her dark eyes, and she finally freed herself from the corpse’s embrace, staggering.  “Josie?”

She looked at the blood-soaked knives in her hands, and they responded to her will, the blades shifting shapes, twirling to shake off the red, and dulling to soft curves.  They were never meant to be weapons – just adjustable farming tools.  She hadn’t engaged in agriculture for a hectic little eon.

Seeing the blades go dull, Xihuani picked up the courage to get close.  She even put a hand on the brute’s shoulder.  “Ximura, Josie isn’t here.  You just killed the pope.  We all need to hide, just hide away forever.  Right now, honey.”

Blasfemia flicked away sweat with long curling eyelashes, and her coal-black eyes burned again.  “Hey.  Hey I did what we wanted to do.  Where are you going?”  She called over Xihuani’s shoulder to Zochino, not shy about shouting.

Zochino grimaced in frustration.  “We need to go!”

“Where’s Josefina?,” she asked.

Xihuani said, “You know this.  She went to her abuela at the north pole.  Why are you asking?  Please… Snap out of it.”

Blasfemia sheathed her tools and went to Zochino.  “We’re going home, to Corazon.  How?”

“We’ll be lucky to get out of this building alive.  Are you ready to try?”

“We can do whatever we want, man.”

He shook off his annoyance, but was glad the squad was ready to move again.  “Maybe the mewling putti will distract the guards.  Pull up that habit.  We’ll cross the plaza to the stabling, steal a ride to the astropuerto–”

“It’s no good,” Jorge said.  “The Church’s astronaves are part of the Hierarchy too.  They won’t fly for us.”

Christina scoffed.  “They’re less than animals.  They don’t know shit.  We could ride them up God’s asshole and blow the Universe to Hell.”

“Could that be true?,” Xihuani asked, obviously ignoring Christina’s take.

Zochino’s sweat felt like ice water.  “Did you know that was possible before we came here, comrade?”

“I didn’t imagine.  I knew it would have an effect.  Maybe I hoped they’d all just lose their wings.”

Christina grabbed him by the scruff of his collar.  “We kinda need wings to fly the fuck out of here, Jorge.”

Zochino waved a hand to hush them, and in that moment the squalling of unnatural babies sounded like an industrial farm full of goats.  “Animals fly around with fleas all the time.  Christina’s right enough.  Everybody on me.”

Blasfemia felt the coagulating blood glue the sleeves to her arms, and rubbed them idly, disgusted, annoyed.  But she followed the squad, not knowing what else to do with herself in the moment.  They’d go home, she’d go north, and she’d find out where Josefina had gone to hide.  It was the only thing that made sense, with her rage finally spent.

They were a little flock of priests and nuns again, walking briskly in the temple halls, heads bowed, rifle-shaped parcels under their sleeves.  But one nun’s habit lay askew at her shoulders, curly hair hung heavy, sweat making serpents of it – a frame for a bestial face.  They marched past clots of putti, the winged babes thrashing on the tiles with eyes squeezed shut and mouths agape in tantrum.

A golden door opened at the end of the hall ahead, and priests rushed out, to make sense of the chaos.  On seeing their fellows of the cloth, they waved for their company.  Zochino let Jorge out in front – his seminary studies gave him the vocabulary to talk with these clerics.  He met their approach with palms down, eyes trying to meet theirs – draw attention away from the squad’s numerous suspicious details.

“Brothers, what has come to pass?”

The most senior of their number pushed up his glasses.  He was also taller than anyone present, with an eagle’s nose.  “This happened when Pope Sincerus VI died.  Be still.”

His head jerked back, charred brain sputtering into the air, and as his friends came to grasp the situation, they were already being gunned down with laser bolts.  It was Christina who had pulled the first trigger.

Zochino glanced down a hall in alarm.  “That way.  We gotta kill ’em all fast!  Go!”  They could leave no witnesses, if they wanted to reach the astropuerto in peace.  A general alarm would be the end of that.  The vision was taking shape in the young man’s mind.  Chase down one group of witnesses to slaughter them, behind them two groups, behind them a hundred, behind them the world bearing witness.  They had only gotten as far as they had because nobody in a thousand years imagined anyone would be foolish enough to strike at the pontiff.  The scheme had been foolish, and it was unraveling.

–