The ‘Demon of Zeta’ had started to become a little less demonic as time wore on. More glimpses of their form had gotten out, and no matter how efficient they were in killing, their form always received a small amount of damage, and there was no hope of proper repairs so far from Zeta. So, they had kept their body patched up in the field however they could, and continued to push it to the limits as they tore through anyone that stood in the way of their vengeance.
Now though, their time was waning. The Collective had always supported the White Flowers, and now that they had formalised their rule Eta-Theta could cause a diplomatic incident. They had one last target to cross off their checklist, and that would be that. The body would be destroyed, and Eta-Theta would return home at last.
Their chest complained a little as the holster was revealed for the last time, the android pulling the gun free and sliding the hatch shut once again. They inserted the last bullet directly into the gun and racked the slide to chamber it, before holstering it in a pilfered protector holster. They had saved this bullet for a specific person. A specific person that was currently scratching out a living in the wastelands of the new-old world.
Their footsteps could be heard as they walked along a baked-earth road. The mufflers that had allowed Eta to be so stealthy when they had first arrived had blown out after a particularly long fall, and besides, it wasn’t worth it to be stealthy any more. They had made a promise. They were merely keeping it.
Finally, they stopped in front of the ruins of a building, where a tired man pulled odd-looking fruit from a withered looking bush.
”Hello Yun.”Wind whistled through the towering, creaking monolith over their heads; a construct of black, rusted metals, two hundred meters high- and still standing. That building, and the sea of others around it, was one the few Bezian ruins left. It was where the exiles were sent. This was the place you went to when the government didn't want you dead, just… out of the way. And now it was Yun’s home. He barely lifted his head.
“Hello, Eta-Theta.”
The android creaked closer, damaged joints and clicking microservos allowing the android to walk its way slowly opposite the man, then sit down on a desiccated log, staring the ex-protector down. The gun sat between their legs, the killing machine making no movement to draw it up and fire the shot that had been delayed as planets crumbled and regimes fell.
“You know what you made me realise, Yun?” Eta-Theta asked, eyes fixed on the ex-protector’s face.
”Most of the Collective, they… See the best in humanity. They see human flesh as a… Natural stage of their life. But you… When you threw me out that airlock.”There was a long pause. In Yun’s mind, names replayed.
”When you killed me.” If the android had needed to breathe, now was when it would do so.
”You allowed me to understand that humanity. At least. Most of humanity. The kind of humanity you come from…”
“Is to be despised.”Yun met the machine’s eyes- two black holes that went into oblivion.
“I. Hate. You.”Eta-Theta’s hand clenched and unclenched.
”If you carved the word ‘hate’ into every single nanoangstrom of the hundreds of kilometers of wiring through me, you would not have even scratched the surface of the OCEAN of hatred that I have for you.”“Alright.” Yun spoke. “You hate me. And you’re going to kill me. But you won’t feel better after it. You’ll hate the memory of me. You’ll think of me and hate. If you can dream, you’ll dream of me. This isn’t a release.” Of the seven that Yun had killed, not one made him feel better. Heralds dropped. He still lived in his killer’s head, the ghost of hate.
There is nothing left to live for.
“Go on, then, toaster. Pull the trigger and hate me forever.”
”Good.” Eta-Theta nodded.
”I don’t want a release. I want to see your face. Bloodied on Zeta. Petrified as I shot that protector on these neon streets. Tired. Worn down. I told you to live your best life, Yun. I hope you did it.The android raised the gun up and towards Yun’s face.
”You planted a seed on Zeta, Yun. Now, here’s its fruit.”The gun’s report disturbed a flock of hardy birds that had followed the exiles out here.
Eta-Theta paused for a moment. Then, their body’s self-destruct programs activated, and Eta-Theta left the planet of New Hollywood.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was a gorgeous day to enjoy Isla Lobasla. Although
Il Duque himself was currently absent, (the near-death of his eldest daughter and the uproar in the senate would do that,) the island itself was open for business and pleasure as usual. Isla Lobasla, so named because of its carefully managed wolf population that had been introduced shortly after the colony had made landfall was both an industrial and cultural powerhouse. It was home to some of the planet’s oldest lodestone fields, which had lead the de Lobasla clan to rapidly become one of the wealthiest on the planet, becoming patrons of the arts and the church even before the Republic had been founded.
Of course, this history had led to the clan being surrounded in no small amount of controversy and hostility. Quiet whispers decried the de Lobasla’s as either beneficiaries of a dictator’s good graces or even descended from a dictator that had retired or abdicated instead of being overthrown or assassinated. They had the dubious distinction of having had the most assasination attempts made on them by both rebels and loyalists, had been challenged to the most duels of any of Matuvistas ‘Old Houses,’ and the family tree was so confused and muddled that a poorly timed death could send the whole house into a succession struggle to see who emerged as formal patriarch or matriarch of the clan.
Of course, the Oligarchs currently relaxing on one of the island’s most popular beachside resorts would have known nothing of this. Perfect surfing waves crashed into pearly white beaches, the view of the ocean only spoiled by the vast anti-storm and anti-kaiju structures erected several miles offshore. It was nonetheless picturesque, the Oligarchs enjoying a pampered vacation, complete with cocktails, compliments of
Il Duque.Abadi took another sip of her own cocktail, something pink in a posh little glass, and fought the instinct to start classifying it by "culture, kind and era." No, that's not true: she didn't have to just fight that instinct, she had to beat it off with a wooden stick. If this were New Hollywood, she'd have been talking dutifully with an Oligarch twenty years her senior about the most famous wines of Old Italy, circa 1729.
Stop thinking about New Hollywood stuff, she told herself, unsuccessfully, and continued to think about New Hollywood stuff.
She'd never actually worn a swimsuit before. There was no time to relax as a child- she had to study. Her family, like the family of a certain other young Oligarch- but that other one was a traitor- had been on the sidelines of ECU politics. The wealthier ones, the Isabella's of her own world, had their culture parties and their fame and their opulence without work. But Abadi earned her place: day one, she worked. How many social chances had she missed? She started escaping to culture parties themed around the American and British rock subcultures at sixteen. That was when her life seemed to actually start.
Rudely, completely uninvited, a memory rushed to her mind. Playing on the beach as a girl, with her dad, who seemed so big then. He was a giant. She was- what, seven? Eight? The hooks of life hadn’t quite forced their way into her, that young, despite much trying. They wouldn’t catch her until later.
Oh, she thought, returning her mind to the real and present beach of Isla Lobasla,
I guess I have done this before.An uncomfortable moment passes. Unfairly blue waves break on the sand.
I wonder how Isabella is doing?That question would perhaps be answered more rapidly than she might think. For now, Abadi would have to make do with a very different individual. They had clearly come for a reason as well, their eyes scanning the beach. A young man, no more than twenty four or twenty five, with neatly trimmed brown hair, a white collar around his neck and a light linen robe. The garb was finished with a long series of golden links around his neck, ending with a large, heavy Matuvistan cross. The same cross was mimicked on the front of the book he carried, a thick tome bound in red leather.
He stopped before one of the other oligarchs, talked for some time, and then moved on, his lightweight sandals making easy work of the boardwalk. Then, something about Abadi seemed to cause him to stop and approach.
“Hello there.” The man said pleasantly. “My name is Padre Cristiano. You’re one of the Oligarchs, aren’t you? My sincerest sympathies. You’ve lost so much already.” He paused for a long moment, then gestured to the sunlounger beside Abadi. “May I sit? I assure you, I won’t take up much of your time.”
“You may,” she said, instinctively, politely. But her thoughts only said
Oh no.“Thank you.” Cristiano nodded pleasantly, then carefully planted him on the corner of the seat, his eyes just barely shaded by the provided umbrella. “Tell me something, Oligarch… Pardon me, what’s your name, miss?”
She answered, adding that it was an Old Arabic name- then wondered if her visitor knew what that was.
“That’s a lovely name.” He inclined his head with a smile. “Abadi, I have heard that New Hollywood was a regime unfamiliar with religion, but… In your years of living… Have you wondered if there was something more to this universe than meets the eye?”
“Oh,
by Earth, he’s one of those,” said another voice, not Abadi’s, but definitely one she recognized. He’d been almost following her since that one night in the Meeting Place months ago, popping up suddenly in social spaces- just short of being creepy. Called the “Dis-Count Dracula” back home, like Count Dracula’s cheaper cousin. How could someone so tall be so stealthy?
Andrei Fedorov- in pink, floral swimming trunks that could only be ironic- sat himself uninvited on the sand beside them both. His hair somehow stayed slicked back even in that wet air. Abadi performed a mental calculation to determine how much product he must use to transform it into plastic: the answer is ‘too much.’
“There’s nothing more to the universe than the stuff you feel,” he declared, very certainly.
Cristiano’s eyes moved slowly towards Andrei, the soft, affable smile never leaving his lips. “Ah, but, just think. What you
feel can be changed. I’m not certain if the custom of using psychoactives continued in New Hollywood, but,” he laughed a little, “I know it has in the Gran Republic. If you have indulged, consider how different that was to how you are now. Perhaps you were convinced you could see things that did not exist, or you felt strange sensations in your body?” He looked at the pair, (mostly Andrei,) to see the response.
Abadi laughed, only a little strained. "I think Andrei prefers alcohol."
He winked, saying "I think Andrei does, too, and you know what else he pre-" but she cut off whatever inappropriate thing he was about to say.
The Oligarchs are new here, Andrei. You need to wait at least five more business days before causing an international incident."See, Cristiano," her voice carried over Andrei's, "my country has had bad experiences with... with religion. It divides people’s loyalty. That’s why the Mixtists are rebels. The Cult of Earth was well-intentioned, but their name says it all, doesn't it? I- I respect what you believe, but for me, I think it's best to focus on what's..." what is the best way to phrase this? "... on what's real."
You know, that was probably not the best way to phrase it.
Cristiano nodded along. “Of course, I understand that you’ve had negative experiences with religion before. Subversive elements, rebellion… Terrible, of course, but, if you’ll allow me to share something I find quite wonderful…” Above them in the sky hung the three moons, barely visible in the day. “Even up there, where our own rebels try to undermine everything we have strived to build… Our faith unifies us. It is the duty of Padres and Madres such as myself to cross the divide that has been rent between us, and use our faith to reconcile the two sides.”
After a few moments of silence, he turned to look back to Abadi. “But tell me then, Abadi. What makes you think that this.” He held up the book that was still pressed to his chest. “Is not real?”
She looked away, half embarrassed. This man obviously believed so sincerely. She’d never had faith like that in anything- except once, in Earth, and that turned out to be a lie. Earth is dead. Where were the saints when that happened? This is the real reason she didn’t believe in religions. But out loud, she fell back to the safety of: “There’s just no proof.”
Cristiano nodded in understanding. “To me, the proof is all around us. The sand, the seas, the moons and stars that hang above us in the sky. We are the witnesses of creation, and the saints are the architects of that creation.” He set the book down next to him for a moment and turned to face Abadi head-on. She felt wholly uncomfortable- and halfway interested.
“If that’s not enough to convince you however, there is something else we can do. The saints want to guide you, as they have done for me throughout my life. If you hold out your hand for them, they will take it. Try praying even once, saying ‘saints, if you are real, reveal yourselves to me.'” His smile widened.
“Even if you don’t believe me now, if you are honest and true, and pursue faith with that same honesty and truth, you
will find what you seek. I promise you that.”
Andrei rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and if you seek unicorns hard enough, one’ll pop out of your birthday cake.”
Abadi stifled a chuckle, but even while she did, part of her knew that wasn’t what the preacher was saying. It’s not that believing something makes it true. It’s that, if the saints exist, it makes some sense that they could show themselves to someone who looked for them.
If you are honest and true. The former liaison didn’t know if she was either of those things, considering her life, her old job. But maybe…
What if she prayed, and they really did answer her?
That was a terrifying thought. Her whole life would have to change- it made staying secular look like a safe-haven.
It would mean I’ve been wrong forever. So she shook her head, shaking back to normal. “I don’t know,” she told the Padre. “Maybe. I’ll… I guess I’ll try it.” She buried her feet in the sand, and ignored the raised eyebrow and open-mouthed gape that the Dis-Count Dracula shot her way.
Cristiano smiled. “Would you like to come to our church? It’s not very far away at all, and I’m sure your friend here can take care of your drink.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
With that, the preacher stood back up and offered a hand towards Abadi. Once both were on their feet, he began walking back along the boardwalk, nodding pleasantly at those who stared at him. Soon, he turned off the boardwalk and towards the city streets, spending a few minutes navigating through the winding, snaking roads of the colonial city until the pair finally stood before a medium-sized stone church, a sign above the entrance denoting it as the
Chapel of Our Lady of Eternal Assistance. Cristiano took a moment to explain. “This is the third-oldest chapel on Matuvista. Lobasla was one of the original colonisation landing sites, you see, and so it was established very early on.” He paused for a long minute. “Our reliquary holds one of only three extant Old World Bibles. It is a blessing and a pleasure to serve in her halls.” With that, he pushed the heavy wooden doors open and stepped inside.
The entranceway was lined with hundreds of candles, some having burnt out, most still burning. Small boxes held more candles, as well as digital screens for worshippers to donate a Real to the chapel’s continuing existence. The ceiling displayed an ongoing fresco of the saints directing the colony ships away from a burning planet, and towards a gateway, and a series of stained glass windows displayed various saints, most old world, but two new world as well.
An octagonal chancel held a tremendous golden statue of a kindly, androdynous yet well-built figure, their arms spread out so that a preacher standing at the pulpit was almost embraced by them.
As there was no service, the chapel was relatively quiet. A few worshippers sat in the pews, heads inclined and hands pressed together, or reading from small scripture books that had been left beside every seat.
“Would you like to light a candle?” Cristiano asked, turning towards Abadi.
But she was still busy looking around with surprise. She’d never been in a building so silent. She felt like she should be whispering when she answered: “Uh, well, what could the candle even do?” What do saints have to do with candles? “Are they… real? Not holograms?” She felt stupid as she asked it.
“What does it do? Nothing, by itself. But, a candle is a means of prayer, and lighting a candle can create a space for you to be comforted by it.” He took one of the candles and offered it to her, continuing with the explanations as he did so.
“The saints are very real, but you won’t see them. Hallucinatory visions are fleetingly rare even among the most…
Intensely devout. You’ll feel their presence, around and about you, and eventually, perhaps even when you are not praying.”
Abadi didn’t know about that. But there were a lot of things she didn’t know: she just watched her planet crumble under the weight of a discontent centuries old, but hidden the entire time. She'd twice debated with cyborgs about the nature of mankind. She'd shaken appendages with aliens, watched an ape parade, and made friends with a woman later eaten alive by a Gateway- and nobody could yet explain that last one, somehow the strangest of them all.
She'd seen so, so much, but standing there, she realized that she still knew nothing.
"Alright. I'll try lighting a stupid candle."
Cristiano handed her a candle and a match, stepped behind her, and smiled.
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