Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (12 page)

  
“Be vigilant,” he said, lowering his weapon.  “There is still conflict in the
other districts.”

  
They descended the stairs and begun ambling up the street, surveying goings-on.

  
“Any updates?” asked Celyn.

  
“They are doing the final sweeps of the buildings,” he said.

  
“Casualties?”

  
“Duguay is dead,” he said, after a slightly less than solemn pause.

  
“…He had a good run.” 

  
“I suppose it is just you and Malachi from now on,” said Saul.

  
“Well, I don’t know what Eli has planned, but I’ll probably be taking some time
off after this.”

  
“That makes two of us, then.”

  
Another group of POWs was led onto the main street.  They stopped and allowed a
drove of POWs to pass and he pursued them with a pensive stare.

  
“Don’t worry,” said Celyn.  “We won’t kill them … They’re worth more alive
anyway.”

  
“What will they do with them?”

  
“Wipe them clean.  Reprogram.  Rehabilitate.”

  
“Conversion?”

  
Celyn nodded.  “Today’s enemy, tomorrow’s ally,” she said.  “Loyalty doesn’t
count for much in this war.  For all we know, we could have been fighting on
their side once – maybe even more than once.  No way to know for sure…”

  
“
Vartanian.” 
An unexpected transmission cut the conversation short.  “
Vartanian,
come in!
”

  
“Malachi.”

  
“
Where are you?
”

  
“East end of North Street,” said Saul. 

  
“
Get to an elevated position with a full view of the bridges on the city
limits.  Bring all the heavy firepower we have
.”

  
“What is wrong?” asked Saul.

  
“
No time to explain.  You’ll see when you get there.  Move!
”

  
The line cut. 

  
“What the hell was that about?” said Celyn.

  
“It did not sound good.”  

  
“AS-13, IS-12,” Celyn called out over the transmission, “rendezvous at the
high-rise on North Street, east side, side entrance, double-time.  Bring the
big guns.” 

  
“
Roger that
.”

  
The new wave of adrenaline quelled the pains once more as they made swift way
to the high-rise at the end of the road.  When they arrived, two squads were
already there.

  
“Fifth-floor corridor, east side,” Saul instructed.

  
The glass walls were shot open and boots trampled over the shattered glass. 
The platoon divided and rushed up the stairwells.  When they came to the fifth
floor, more than a third of the corridor had been blown out.  The outer wall of
the high-rise and whole sections of the floor and roof were blown out so that
the fifth floor merged with the fourth, sixth and seventh.  He came out on the
edge of the jagged outcrops of floor and the snowflakes flayed in the cold
draft.  Daybreak was nearer now, but it was still dark. 

  
Despite the poor visibility, Poretsky Bridge was within view, a long bowshot
toward the northeast.  The dense crowds of fleeing civilians were making their
way across the north bridge, over the wide, sheer gorge bordering the city.  Farther
off to the south was the second bridge, and more civilians in flight.

  
“Malachi.”

  
“
Talk to me
.”

  
“I have the bridges in sight…  All I see are civilians.”

  
“
Look dead east,”
said Malachi,
“
across the gorge
.”

  
He did as instructed, turning his sights eastward. A small, neighbouring
borough of ruined buildings came into view.  There did not seem to be anything
of significance, until he raised his sights toward the distance beyond the
ruined borough.  Strange shifts in the land just below the horizon caught his
attention.   He increased the zoom on the scopes and when the image focused, he
saw with harrowing clarity what he had previously mistaken for a trick of the
fog and wind:  

  
Tanks.  A platoon of the metal behemoths rolled toward the city, with a
battalion of foot soldiers bringing up the rear.  When the zoom scopes
decreased, the platoon became a company and the battalion became an entire
division, and the wave of war steadily trundled toward them on the turn of the
tide.   His hands slowly lowered and the dread broke through the austerity in
his eyes.

  
“Oh hell,” cursed Celyn

  
“
Do you see them?
”

  
“Eli, where the hell are you?”

  
“
The office block on the corner of South Street.  The one with the red sign.
”

  
They spied out the tower block to the south. 

  
“
Listen to me,
” said Malachi.
“We have to take them out together.  If
they access the district there will be nothing we can do to stop them
.”

  
“There are too many,” said Saul. “The ATGs will not be enough…”

  
“
I’m not telling you to fire on the tanks
…”

  
He paused a moment on Malachi’s words and turned his sights back toward
Poretsky Bridge, and the mass of civilians, crossing over the steep canyon. 

  
The bridges…

  
“
If we fire on the pylons at the same time, the bridges will fall.
”

  
“No!”

  
“
There’s no other way
”

  
He focused in on the families marching across the bridge, battling against the
swelling snowfall, men and women shielding their children from the frigid
wind.  The images of the dying woman and the resounding echoes of his
nightmares recurred.

  
“There are over a thousand civilians on those bridges.”

  
“
If we don’t do this now, we will lose everything we just fought for.
”

  
“An army that size could plough its way through the whole damn city,” said
Celyn.

  
He set his sights out to the east once again. The oncoming division reached the
ruined borough and divided into two -- one brigade going north and the other
south.  He lowered the scopes and raised his hand to his temple.  “AS-5, AS-6,
come in,” he called.

  
“
Commander
.”

  
“Get to the city limits.  Stop people from crossing the bridges.  I repeat: Stop
people from crossing those bridges, now.”  The line cut before the reply could
come.  “Ready the ATGs.”

  
At once, the heavy arms came out and were quickly assembled for firing.  Two
martials propped up each of the big launchers on either shoulder and a third
loaded the projectiles.  In less than a minute, five ATGs were set in place,
locks set on to the large pylons supporting the bridges.

  
“We will wait until the last civilians have passed.”

  
“
We can’t wait that long.
”

  
“There is too much congestion on the bridge.  The tanks will not be able to
cross until the traffic clears.”

  
“
Have you lost your mind?  They’re not going to stop!”

  
The army was closing in fast, now less than half a kilometer away.  When they
came within sight of the civilians crossing Poretsky Bridge, a panic erupted. 
Some of the fleeing civilians raced forward, others turned around and started
to retreat.  Scenes on the south bridge had taken a similar turn. 

  
“
Take the shot”

  
“Wait for my mark.”

  
“We have to take the shot now,” said Celyn.

  
“Hold.”

   
A flash from the south blazed in the corner of his eyes.  Light and smoke
streaked through the air to the south and he looked on in horror as the
missiles shot across the dawn sky and slammed into the pylons of the south
bridge, exploding in white bursts.

  
“No!”

 
 The thick cables snapped and lashed out like titan bullwhips and the tall
columns of steel and stone toppled and crashed.  The bridge split, and the howls
and screeches carried in the wind as he watched them fall into the gorge. 

  
He had just enough presence of mind to hear the three sharp, distinct bleeps in
his right ear. 

  
He turned. “No…”

  
The ATGs were engaged.

  
“NO!” 

  
He hurled himself forward and a short, sharp blast sounded before everything
went white and the blast became a long, high-pitched ringing. 

  
When he came to, he was on his side clean across the corridor.  Dismembered
pieces of corpses hung from the wreckage all around him.  Fresh portions of debris
fell from the floors above, where an even larger hole was blown into the side
of the building.  He tried to rise but his right arm gave way under him and he
howled in agony.  Through the blurred vision, he saw Celyn rising from the
ashes, covered in blood, coughing and hauling herself out from under the
debris.

   “Eli…
El—i.... Eli!”

 
 He turned agonisingly onto his side just in time to see the long canons of the
prodigious firing line rotate and incline.  The wide muzzles of the tank-guns
flared.  A split second later, the tower block to the south exploded in a
succession of loud, pulverising explosions.

  
“ELIII!”  Celyn’s voice bayed through the wind. 

  
The tower crumbled and fell in the distance.  His wavering head lolled over
just in time for him to glimpse, through fading vision, the tanks ploughing
their way across Poretsky Bridge, trampling and crushing everything and everyone
in their path.

  
A pure light roused him gently to life.

  
For the first time he could remember, he was woken only by the warm kiss of
sunlight and the cool breeze.   In a sudden shock of recollection, he breathed
a fast, full lung of air, and as his senses slowly returned, the strange
sensation of waking in mysterious surroundings stole upon his consciousness. 

  
“Awake?” 

  
A quiet voice startled him. 

  
With great effort, Saul lifted his head off the bedding, shielding his eyes
from the light.  When his eyes adjusted, the speaker appeared, sitting on the
side of the bed upon which he laid. “You…” he murmured, half-dazed and
incredulous. “What… what…”

  
He tried to lift himself up, but a sharp stab in his abdomen stopped him
mid-rise with a growl. 

  
Celyn rested her hand on his shoulder and gently laid him back down. “Take it
easy,” she hushed.  “You’ve been out for a while.  The drugs are still wearing
off.”

  
He looked down.  His upper body was bare, and the minor abrasions and bruises
on his arms and chest made very little of his agony.  Through an open window,
he could see rows of tree branches rising up, and the noon sun soared high,
peeping through the cracks of the trees, and the branches stirred only with the
fluttering of the birds and the walls and roof over their heads was a purlin of
lumber logs oozing the scent of fresh pine. 

 
 “Welcome to Russian woodland.”  Celyn’s eyes were fixed on the view beyond the
window.  She was wearing civilian clothes, close-fitting around the curves of
her breasts and shoulders, and the rough scars in the dark, ebony flesh shone
in the light. 

  
“This place must have been abandoned after the wars broke out in this region,”
she said.  “We’re lucky we found it.  We’re not out of the war zones yet, but
should be safe here for now.”

  
He gazed intensely into the shimmering emeralds of her eyes.  Her face appeared
transfigured, all of the desperately suppressed sensuality presently revealed
in the subtle contours of a vague smile.  He was still trying to make sense of
his surroundings.  Everything came back in flashes. 

  
Nova Crimea…

  
What had happened in between?  How had they come to this place?

 
 “Malachi…”

  
Celyn looked away with the aspect of mourning, and then looked back up at the
wood through the open window.  “It’s alright,” she said.  “He chose his path. 
He knew where it would end.”  The twinkling of grief faded.  There was only the
sound of swaying branches and the melodies of the blackbirds and yellowhammers.
Unadulterated peace seeped into the fractures of his soul like an apothecary. 

  
He turned to face Celyn just as she reached into her pocket and took out the
black neural canister, and he watched her closely as she held it out in front
of her with a wistful sigh. “I had stopped the program a long time ago,” she
said, and fell silent.  “I couldn’t risk telling you.”  She grasped the
canister tightly and threw it out the window.  “Eli always said I was weak,”
she said, clenching her fist. 

  
He painfully sat up and brought his gaze level with hers.

  
“He was the weak one,” he said with a groan. 

  
Celyn looked up and nodded with the flicker of a smile that disappeared
instantly.  “Everyone was massacred…”

  
Silence.

  
“That means that we are among the dead,” he said

  
“Never thought death would be such a relief.”

  
“We cannot stay dead forever.”

  
“I know.” 

  
“We have to move on.”

  
“Soon… but not yet.”

  
He set his gaze beyond the treetops, toward the cerulean sky, and soared with
the flight of the eagles.  He could feel the rack of the world loosening, the
cool wind soothing the aching of his soul.  The pine air filled his nostrils
and the soldered pelt of his face bathed in sunlight.  For the first time, the
nightmares seemed a distant memory.  If he could preserve that moment for all
eternity, he would have gladly died there and then.

  
He pushed his weight up and flinched when the pain shot through his right
shoulder. When Celyn reached out to the origin of the pain in a reflex of compassion,
he, in an impulse of combat, intercepted and seized her tightly by the wrist. 

  
He froze.  Their eyes locked. 

  
His breaths quickened with his beating heart, and he slowly, almost contritely,
loosened his grip.  She leaned in and kissed him, gently -- first his forehead,
then the temple, the side of his face, then the lips, tenderly at first and
then with a steady-rising passion.  He could hardly twitch through the sudden
shock of it.  Then, slowly easing into her touch, he leaned back with her,
suddenly oblivious to the aches and pains.  His left hand glided up the curve
of her back, along the velvet skin, the other laced in the thick locks of her
hair.  His heart hastened past his breath. 

  
The deep, hard lovemaking seemed to last only seconds, but could have gone on
for hours or days.  In the end, her lips stopped moving and her head reposed
between his neck and shoulder.  He held her close to him, stroking through the
roots of her hair and caressing her nakedness against his. 

  
“I always thought that when I would leave, that I would have to leave alone,”
he murmured.  “There was a part of me that wanted you to come, but I was sure
that you would not.”

 
  She was silent.  Her body had gone completely loose, her whole weight
pressing down on his chest.  He looked curiously at the back of her head and
noticed that her hair was not woven into the thin, cascading ropes that he
remembered, and the feel of her body against his was different than the last time. 
She had lost weight since then. 

  
Her hand drooped and hung loose over the side of the bed.  

  
Asleep
, he thought. 

  
There was a peculiar heat against his neck, a moist heat, like spittle.  Not
wanting to wake her, he gently reached over to lay her on her back and felt the
moistness cover his chest.  

  
He stopped.

 
 A smell like rusted iron rose up to his nose.  He held his hand before his
eyes.

  
Blood.
 

  
Stale blood.

  
He pulled back on the tuft of hair and lifted a face as white as marble; gaunt,
wide-mouthed, eyes writhing up to the back of the skull in bulging sockets.  The
viscous blood poured over him, colouring his vision red, and his soul fell like
lightning from the heights of ecstasy into the depths of the dead, writhing
eyes.  And when his falling soul struck his lifeless corpse…

  
His eyes opened. 

  
He drew a sudden and rapid breath.  His throat was locked with terror.  He
panted, wheezed, convulsed and wanted to yell something – anything – but was no
more able to bring words to his mouth than he was to wince.  His eyes darted in
all directions, but for long seconds all he could see was the image of his own
reflection in the dead eyes, through shades of crimson blood.   When the image
faded, the light that had been the warm noon sun became a pale and sickly orb
shining feet above him.  A voice echoed in his head:

  
“
He’s awake
…”

  
Two alien figures appeared standing over him, and when his vision focused he
saw that the figures were dressed in white. 

  
The mask was removed from his face.  The two ghostly heads disappeared and he
heard a door open and close a minute later.  He mustered enough sense to realise
that he was lying on his back, immobile and half-mummified in a viscid caste
like liquid glass, encasing half his face from the right temple to the left
collarbone and all the way down the left side of his body in a tight-fitting
cocoon.  Through the viscous exoskeleton, his flesh was charred and mutilated
to black and red rawness.  The slightest movement gave the sense of
excoriation.  The throbbing pain from the dream-turned-nightmare now engulfed
every inch of his flesh, seeping into the marrow of his bones.

  
“Good morning, Saul,” spoke a voice of stone. 

  
Slowly, excruciatingly, he turned his head over to his left, his enflamed
eyeballs stretching to their corners. 

  
“Nightmares?”

   
The neuralist was sitting beside the bed.  The solid blue orbs appeared through
the glare in the lenses of his pince-nez and a marble smile carved into the sides
of his face.  He no longer knew whether he was asleep, waking, dreaming,
hallucinating or tumbling ever deeper into some new and abysmal nightmare. 
But, even as the thought occurred to him and Pope was still there, staring back
with those bleak, cold, blue eyes, he knew that it was no dream. 

  
“W… Wha…” He attempted to speak, and his voice was a dead whisper.  “Where… am
– aaarrgh!”  He barely shifted his weight before the swift sensation of flesh
tearing off from his bones broke through the receding anesthetic. 

  
“Seragon Medical Complex,” Pope replied with a low drone. “Noble District.”

  
“Sodom,” he gasped.

  
“Yes.”

  
The answer cut deeper than the deepest wound.  The one-sighted eyeballs
swivelled in their cracked sockets as he regarded his own mutilated body once
again.

  
“What… happened?”

  
Pope leaned forward, took a small clipboard-shaped device from the narrow slot
on the side of the bed.  “According to this medical report,”  he answered in a
narrating voice; “pulmonary lacerations, cerebral lacerations, second- and
third-degree burns, two cranial hairline fractures, radial compound fractures,
rib fractures (he dragged his finger over the screen as he listed), all manner
of abdominal trauma, multiple hematomas, puncture wounds, abrasions…”

  
He stopped, looked up and laid the medical report aside.

  
“You have been in an induced coma for the last two weeks,” said Pope.  “Truly,
were it not for your exceptional resilience, you would almost certainly be dead. 
No shortage of donors for high-casters, fortunately for you… As you can
probably tell, your reconstruction is not quite finished yet.  If the matter
which I have come to discuss had not demanded you immediate attention, we would
not have woken you.”

  
On a table-top to Pope’s right, the same cubic device from the evaluation
activated on order with a glow and started to record.  Next to the device,
there were two files -- one brown and the other black.  Pope took his slim,
crystal tablet and laid it on his lap and the luminous screen reflected in the
lenses of his pince-nez.  “You owe your life to a certain Martial Celyn Knight,
Third Tier Elite,” the neuralist narrated, scrolling down the tablet screen.  “According
to the mission record, she carried you to safety from a building moments before
it collapsed, at great personal risk – for the life of me I cannot understand
why.  UMC law
does
accord half the earnings of a recovered martial to
his rescuers, among certain other caste distinctions, but, of course, that only
applies in the event of a successful assignment…” 

  
Pope’s lifted his head, put aside the computer tablet and removed the pince-nez.