James Baldwin - Stained Glass

He smiled at me, the lines beside his deep blue eyes creasing. “Don’t worry about anything. Just Everything.”

My body struck the bed so hard that I bounced, a jolt that woke me and sent the world reeling. No roof, no floor: a tangle of blankets and I hit a solid surface with a short, harsh cry of pain. There was little light in the room. A car thrummed from outside. Beeps and clicks, the tick of a clock. Everything seemed overwhelming, too hot, too intense.

Angkor was sitting beside me, head dropped down to his chest, eyes closed. He snorted, half-asleep, and his fingers tightened and then relaxed.

“What?” I croaked. The tube was gone, but my mouth was parched.

Angkor startled up, and dashed at his eyes as he mumbled something by way of reply. Then he focused on me, and relief flooded his face. “GOD underfoot, Alexi. You’re alive.”

“Guhh.” Orientation took a couple minutes. I had an IV in, and I was still in bed. The clamor of surgery was gone; there was only the quiet hush of the overhead heating vent, the beep of the monitor, and the squeak of cloth against cloth as I pushed myself up to sit. “I’m… not sure of that.”

“It’s been four days,” Angkor said. He frowned for a moment, and rubbed his face. “No… wait. Five. You died like three times.”

I’d been out for five days? “I feel like a washed up jellyfish. What did they have to do?”

“Not as much as they should have, but you were really not doing so great,” he replied. “Ruptured spleen, torn stomach, trauma to pretty much everything between sternum and bladder. Broken ribs, busted shoulder. They pulled a bullet out. I did what I could for you to stop the bleeding and passed out afterward. Did more on the sly when you were in ICU.”

“Why?” I squinted at him.

“Why would I do that?” Angkor shrugged. “I’m a doctor. Among other things.”

My dream was fading, but the warmth of the momentary contact lingered. When I closed my eyes, I didn’t see Vassily: The images of Jenner being lifted off the ground, of the shipping container tumbling off the back of the trailer flashed through my mind. “Where’s Jenner? Zane, Talya? The kids?”

“The kids are all safe,” Angkor said. “The ones we found.”

My eyes narrowed, and he sighed.

“There were only eleven of them on the truck. All Weeders.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The rest of them are AWOL. Either the Templum Voctus Sol shipped them to Texas already, or they’re dead.”

Three dead, twelve rescued… that left six unaccounted for. “Twelve out of twenty-one. It’s not good enough.”

“I know. But better than I expected.” Angkor pulled on one of his earlobes, then looked at his fingers: anywhere but at me. “I doubt the others are alive, or… HuMan. Like, they’ve probably been, uhm… re-purposed. Morphorde are like that.”

Exhausted or not, I knew guilt when I saw it. It was written in the slump of his shoulders and the way he kept touching his neck and face. “You know something about them. The Templum Voctus Sol.”

Angkor licked his top lip, glancing up and then away. “Not that much. Whatever new things I learned about them, I can’t remember because of The Deacon’s rape-and-torture-fest.”

“What do you know?”

“Well, they’re descended from a legitimate international fraternity that was around since at least the early nineteenth century. It’s less of a cult and more of a… a syndicate, I guess. A group of loosely affiliated interests.” He still didn’t look up at me, picking at his cuticles in his lap. “The Voctus Sol has money, that much I know, and human resources. Skilled operatives, maybe links to private security or military. Maybe even government.”

“Are they connected with the Church of the Voice?” I pushed the blankets back and had a look at my stomach. It was better than I expected: a clear plastic wet dressing, no drainage bag.

“I don’t know. I wondered that myself, and I remember looking into it before I came to the USA. The Church isn’t just big in America: It’s pretty much taken over the Evangelical scene in Korea, and also has huge missions in parts of Africa. Liberia, Ghana, Congo, Nigeria. Places where there are weapons and mineral resources, and some really fanatical believers.”

“Korea?” I squinted. “Christianity in South Korea?”

Angkor shook his head. “South Korea is majority Christian, and has been since the War. Specifically, Evangelical Protestant. So on top of this pre-existing faith, many people in Korea are very goal-orientated… it’s not universal, but we’re given a strong message in school and home life that we’re supposed to be successful in our lives, or we have failed. As you can imagine, the self-help aspect of The Church of the Voice is really appealing.”

“Kind of like how worth is measured by wealth here,” I said. “America is full of temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”

He smiled, but it was wan and bitter. His voice was orange. “That’s true in South Korea as well. Now, the thing is… the Church doesn’t just exist on this Cell.”

“Cell?”

“A Cell is a planet. You know, Cell of GOD. This world. I’m a sort of… euun … sort of a traveler between worlds.” Angkor scratched his head, grimacing. “I know you probably don’t believe that.”

While Angkor talked, I reached for Kutka. I felt as weak and rusty inside as I did outside, but he was there. The brief mental contact flushed my mind and mouth with color and energy, and the suppressed tension in my gut released. With it went some of the pain. “I don’t know. These days, I’m willing to believe some pretty weird shit.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, back to the Temple. I learned something about them before The Deacon took me out, but I really don’t remember any of it.” Angkor squeezed my arm and stood. He was creaky, but functional. “They kept hitting me in the head. When I have the energy, I’ll find a lab and try to repair the concussion damage. All I know that it was The Deacon who killed the Wolf Grove couple, but he was with someone else. I can’t remember who.”

“I think Lily and Dru had a revelation. They became lucid, and realized what they were doing.” I said. “They tried to break out of the business. They killed the courier from the bratva . Nicolai – the boss of Brighton Beach – was working with The Deacon from August, at least. What could temporarily cure them of this Yen virus?”

“Gift Horse blood, like I said.” Angkor cocked his head. “You know… It’s actually possible that they were out in their changing ground and encountered a Gift Horse in the forest. That’s kind of why Gift Horses exist. They turn up where they’re needed, often without any real idea why they’re there. If they caught a Gift Horse and ate them, they’d have a period of lucidity. Once you have a Horse in an area, they’re generally stuck here until their mission is complete. You Hunted in this area not long ago, didn’t you?”

“Do you count butchering someone after hauling them out of a giant shell to be hunting?” I leaned back, exhaling. I hurt, but I was okay. Walking was a possibility. Running… probably not. “There was a Gift Horse here, but she’s dead. I killed her.”

“Did you eat her?” Angkor’s expression was suddenly very intense, his eyes very steady. The rakishness and anxiety was gone in a flash. There was only a peculiar intimacy, his sense of entitlement to an answer.

I drew a deep breath. “Yes. Just blood. A little.”

Angkor relaxed, leaning back away from me. He nodded, and exhaled heavily. “Alright, that’s good. If you ate part of her, she’s come back to life.”

I digested that news for a moment. “You’re sure?”