Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 31
They were human. That much was obvious.
But those features could have belonged to anyone. She didn’t see herself in its large pale blue eyes, nor in the white wisps atop its head. She’d had shockingly red hair from the womb—and from the looks of this one, he was going to be a towhead, shedding his blonde fuzz at a later date.
The newborn buried its head against her warmth.
A new sensation radiated throughout her. Strange. Foreign, but somehow right.
Her anxieties melted away. Her desires no longer anywhere to be found. Her obligations to Heaven, to the Steel Demons, to herself—everything that had been of utmost importance mere seconds prior ceased to exist. In their place, she felt new obligations forming. Obligations to this new life in her arms.
Without warning, a tentacle sprouted from the child’s back and lashed out at her.
Fairhaven dodged. Despite these new feelings of responsibility, her first reaction was to get rid of it—to toss the offending specimen as far away as she could. But as she thrust her arms out, instead of hurling the child to the sands, she stopped, holding it at arm’s length.
The tentacle whipped at her again for good measure, then withdrew, dancing behind the child’s head like the tail of a scorpion.
“The hell is that?!” said Fairhaven.
“Like father, like son,” whispered a voice behind her. The presence was an icy finger running up her spine.
She recognized the voice.
Quon.
He had been their friend. Once. But now, he was dead.
Slowly, she turned, cradling the newborn in her arms, drawing it close against her bosom, protecting it from harm, despite the tendril thrashing and trying to push her away.
Quon looked as she remembered him—Korean features softened by several generations that his ancestors spent on American soil. He wore a robe. Only this was stitched together from conjoined bodies of squiddies that had willingly united to provide vestments for their host. Their tentacles constantly moved, never quite reaching out, rather shifting and readjusting to cover the naked flesh underneath.
He floated in the sky, an apparition, neither fully corporeal nor completely intangible. As he moved toward her, his presence spread across the horizon, growing larger and more prominent with each step. He outstretched a hand, turning it palm up. As his fingers splayed, sunlight erupted from his palm like an explosion.
“Come,” said Quon. “Be at one with us.”
“No!” Fairhaven wrapped her arms around the child. “You are not his father!”
“Of course not.” Quon bent on knee, bowing. His presence enshrouded mother and child like a living shelter. A ghostly protector. “He is the same as we are. One of Sindarhe’s children.”
The sky burst with golden radiance, blinding her. Sindarhe, the god-planet, appeared overhead, animate, flickering a rainbow of warm oranges, yellows, and reds, shimmering like scales on an angelfish.
Quon seemed to grow larger, though he was not moving at all. His presence was intrusive, becoming all-encompassing. He held his hand out in a perverse Buddhist mudra.
“He belongs with us.”
“No!”
Fairhaven sprinted across the shoreline, kicking up sand in her wake. But behind her, she felt Quon’s presence. She glanced over her shoulder. Still Quon had not moved, nor had he given up the chase. He pursued without flinching a muscle. His arms were spread wide, hands open, as if waiting for them to be filled.
She felt a tug against her arm. In defiance of all natural laws, her baby drifted away from her. She grabbed its ankle and pulled it back to her, but the force was so strong. The baby’s pink skin was so soft in her grasp that she worried if she held too tight, pulled too hard, she would do more harm than good. Despite a firm grip, she felt its leg slipping through her fingers.
Dozens more tentacles sprouted from pink flesh, tendrils wavering like seaweed in a flowing ocean current. They wrapped around her wrist, coiled her fingers, prying them from the child’s limb. Unlike his doughy flesh, these tendrils were hard and rigid, slick and covered in slime.
A pillar of light hit Earth from the Heavens, accompanied by a loud choral tone of millions screaming in abject terror, forced at the wrong end of a pitchfork to perform an ungodly opera.
Quon threw his hands to the sky, as if presenting an offering to Sindarhe. “The child is one of us.”
At that moment, Fairhaven lost her grip. The infant floated away, bobbing and weaving in the air like a feather caught on an updraft. She swiped at it, trying to grab on to anything, but its sporadic movements made it difficult to recapture.
Freed from Fairhaven, the infant picked up pace, hurtling toward Quon’s open arms.
“He is one of us,” said Quon.
The ungodly chorus repeated: One of us.
“He belongs to us.”
Belongs to us.
The child slowed and rose to eye level as it approached Quon. The current rocked the child on its back, supporting it in a cradle of air.
“Yes,” said Quon. “You are the perfect specimen.”
He wafted a hand in front of his body, and the cradle of air floated forward. He cupped his hands around the child’s torso, raising it to the skies and the horrific omnipresent being hovering overhead, dominating the horizon. “See your child, my lord! Bless him!”
Fairhaven snatched him out of Quon’s arms. She landed hard in the sand, but took off in a dead sprint with the child tucked closely against her. Invisible tidal forces threatened to strip the child from her. The tendrils snapped to life, scuttling from somewhere behind the child, attached in some manner Fairhaven could not see or comprehend. They wrapped her wrists and pried her fingers.
“I will never let you go,” she screamed.
More tendrils erupted from the child, fanning around its head like a halo. The child cried in her arms. Here she was, rescuing it. The least it could do was be quiet. The child blinked. The whites of its eyes were missing, replaced by endless vacuum. Its cries turned to howls. It shrieked, baring rows of jagged teeth that came to a point.
“No.” Despite everything pulling against her, Fairhaven held the child even tighter to her chest, muffling the flailing tendrils whipping at her. The air itself seemed determined to pry her child from her, a constant pull, violently yanking at the infant. “No! I will never let you go!”
The tentacles flailed, whipping her all over her body. She cried, accepting her penance. Tears rushed down her cheeks, but she would not let go.
The child reared back its head and sank its teeth into her bosom.
Pain erupted. Fairhaven screamed in agony. The child was eating her chest, consuming her body. Flesh was torn from her. The tendrils joined their master, rending her flesh, pulling her apart, as her child buried its bloodied muzzle deep inside her.
“I will never let you go,” she sobbed. “Never.”
She felt every sensation. Chucks of flesh ripped away from the bone. Bites taken out of her. Consumed.
Leaving her empty.
She felt a hand on her forearm. Wilkins was with her. In bed. His arm wrapped around her body.
She was damp with sweat. Trying not to disturb him, she dabbed at her chest, surprised to find it whole. “Oh, thank god.”
Wilkins groaned and opened an eye—just one was enough. “What is it?”
“It’s…” Fairhaven surveyed the surroundings. The white plastic walls of the tent. The O2 cannisters on their charging units. The pressure suits on their hooks. “…it’s nothing.”
“You were making noises in your sleep.”
Her stomach churned. A sudden rush surged and her hand went to her mouth—too late.
She caught part of it.
Wilkins caught the other half with his face.
He sat bolt upright, wiping vomit from his cheek, as if the occurrence was so commonplace that it didn’t even register, nor needed to be acknowledged. Instead, his focus was on her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Gently, she pushed him away, creating space to breathe. “Just a bad dream. Unsettled me.”
“And you threw up because of it?”
“Was feeling nauseous. From the baby.”
“The baby? Is it okay?”
She placed her hand on top of his. “It’s fine.”
“This doesn’t seem fine to me.”
He was so worried about her. Worried about them.
She couldn’t do it. Not anymore.
She squeezed his hand. “There is something I have to tell you.”
Wilkins lurched forward, his face red. Tendons in his neck looked like overstretched surgical tubing about to snap. “What?!”
Fairhaven wasn’t afraid that he’d hit her. At least she didn’t think he would. But his sudden movement sent adrenaline surging through her body. She flinched, sitting back. Her arms raised, but she stopped before they reached a defensive posture.
Wilkins didn’t move. He just stared at her, waiting for a response.
She collected herself and repeated, “The baby isn’t yours.”
“Whose is it?”
Fairhaven raised her brows, surprised he couldn’t figure out the answer for himself. She bobbed her head at him, hoping he’d put two and two together.
“Not like it’s a trick question,” said Wilkins. “Who have you been fooling around with?”
“You really think so little of me?”
“No, I don’t, but…I don’t know. How else does this happen?”
Fairhaven glared at him. “You already know.”
“I thought we were exclusive. I have no clue who you’ve slept with.”
“You do.”
“No. I don’t.”
“No. You. Do.”
Wilkins opened his mouth, his pointer finger extended, his brow furrowed, and then his expression completely changed. “Quon?”
“Winner. Winner.”
Wilkins put a hand to his forehead. “Not during that squiddie org—”
“Okay, enough of that.” Fairhaven grabbed his arm and pulled him to a sitting position next to her. “We don’t need to relive that particular bit of history.”
“But—”
“Do I need to remind you who you were with?”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“My point exactly.”
Wilkins folded his hands into his lap. Periodically, he twiddled his thumbs. Literally, twiddled his thumbs, watching one rotate around the other. “Right. So what do we do now?”
Fairhaven touched his arm. “I guess we decide what we want from this.”
“This?”
“This relationship. Us.”
“It doesn’t change anything.” Wilkins caught himself. “For me, I mean.”
It was sweet and sappy. And a bit wimpy and pathetic, if truth be told. Under different circumstances, she thought she’d lose respect for any man that would willingly allow his partner to cheat on him. And then to raise a child that wasn’t his…
She kissed him on the forehead.
“What was that for?”
She put a finger to his lips and shushed him. “Let’s just go to bed.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Char was in the Painbringer, doing aerial cartwheels in the morning sun. Which, of course, meant Marcia had landed her MSRV at the destination minutes ahead of her. Char performed a final loop, spreading her arms wide and letting the weight of the Painbringer slow, come to a halt, and fall backward toward the Earth. Her head swam, not just from the euphoria bond with the machine, but also from the momentary zeroing G-Force. A building pressure pushed against her as she and the Painbringer plummeted toward terra firma.
At the last second, she ignited the main engines on her back, kicked her boot thrusters on, and gracefully rolled the Painbringer into a level flightpath like a diver entering a pool.
Sand kicked up in whorls, as she blasted past mere meters from the ground. She threw her feet forward, and the Painbringer copied the motion, coming to a hovering standstill. Straightening her posture, arms pinned to her side, she lowered the mecha into position next to Marcia’s MSRV.
Marica was already outside of her mecha. She wore a suit Char was unfamiliar with. It was more than a pressure suit, big and bulky, squared off at the shoulders, with a strange rectangular hood. She thought she had seen them on Heaven when she was little. If she was remembering right, they were biohazard suits that scientists wore on away missions, but there had been little reason for their use, stuck in Earth’s orbit.
Until now.
Marcia also had her kit with her, a white nylon satchel with a large strap slung over a shoulder. At her waist, a belt was overloaded with various tools. Char would have called it a toolbelt, but then she’d imagine hammers and screwdrivers—but the implements hanging from Marcia looked like they belonged in a dentist’s office.
Char was behind schedule, but was in no hurry to catch up. Her mission was to ensure Marcia’s safety—and there she was, safe and sound. Char’s presence wasn’t making her any safer.
Instead of landing on the beach as they had the previous day, they landed inland, near the church. Char could make out the words Balboa Blvd. on one of the faded signs dangling by a single aluminum bracket on a streetlight. Occasionally, it creaked as the sea breeze caught it.
The Painbringer’s canopy shushed open.
The sky was spotless blue, forever. Not a single cloud as far as she could see.
The sun, a speck in the sky.
So different in appearance, dulled and diffused by atmosphere, than she was accustomed to on Heaven’s catwalks.
The only thing out of place, horrifyingly so, was Sindarhe.
Yesterday, it had been roughly the same size as the moon. But today, it was nearly four times as big, occupying much of the southwestern horizon. It was impossible to miss, and harder still to be unaffected by its sheer scope, size, a beacon and a reminder.
Char wondered how big it would appear in the sky when the engines finally started pushing it away. She couldn’t imagine it getting much larger than it already was.
Marcia was in one of the alleyways between buildings, scraping at the bubbling purple cottage cheese substance growing on the walls. Char was surprised to find her so close to the church, but Marcia seemed to pay it no more mind than any other building. If Char asked, she was sure Marcia would tell her that they had to go where the science was—and by the looks of the Spanish-style stucco wall covered in purple alien cottage cheese, this was where the science was.
To the right was a view across the church parking lot and beyond to the cathedral entrance. The side windows were blown out from the squiddies. Shards of shattered glass were still on the ground, catching sunlight and projecting rainbow colors across the courtyard.
A few squiddies milled in the double door opening. Apparently, they had moved out of the church catacombs and were doing rounds throughout the neighborhood, occasionally dragging bits of flesh from the desiccated parishioners into the catacomb nursery below. Either they hadn’t spotted Marcia or were too uninterested in her to perceive her as a threat.
Char approached, loudly shuffling her feet to make sure she was heard, but Marcia didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned in toward the wall, examining a bubble in the purple cottage cheese that was about to pop. Char scuffed her feet louder. When that failed to generate a reaction, she kicked a gravel stone at the wall.
Marcia turned in her direction. “Oh, Charlotte, my dear. I didn’t notice you there.”
Faster than the speed of light, a scowl replaced Char’s grin. Her brows furrowed and she grunted, “It’s Char.”
“I hope the early morning hours weren’t too much of a strain on your beauty sleep.”
“As you can clearly see”—Char made a circular motion around her face—“they weren’t.”
“I went to your tent this morning to get a jump on the day, but you weren’t there.”
“Nope, I sure wasn’t.”
“Interesting.”
Char skipped up next to Marcia, placed her hands on her hips, and glanced back at the purple substance climbing up the side of the wall. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I was?”
“My dear, I am sure I could not care less about your sleeping arrangements.”
Char rolled her eyes and mouthed Marcia’s response, mimicking her. Mocking her. She dabbed at the purple cottage cheese substance with her glove. Her pointer finger sank in.
Next to her, Marcia was using something that looked like a tartar scraper and carefully flicked purple chunks into a vial.
Char grabbed a large handful, kneading it into a blob the size of a baseball. “So, this stuff? What is it?”
Marcia didn’t bother looking up, gaze locked on the specimen. She scraped another sample into the vial before corking it. “It seems to be some sort of organic byproduct from the nursery below. It’s growing up through the sewer.” Marcia nodded toward a manhole cover that was covered in the purple substance. A faint trail zig-zagged across the alley, where it kissed the wall and climbed the stucco surface. At the roof-line, it rose off the building, reaching for the sky. “It’s also giving off a substantial amount of C02.”
“Is it alive?” asked Char.
“It’s organic, that’s certain enough. But sentient? We’ll have to take it to the lab for more substantive results.” Marcia squinted at Char. “Weren’t you the one telling me it was alive in the catacombs?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m no scientist. Was just a guess.” Char rolled the gloopy substance over in her hands. Ripples formed in the surface as she played with it. She couldn’t be sure if it was the viscous nature of the gelatinous substance, but it appeared as if it was moving on its own. “Sure seems like it, though, doesn’t it?”
She tossed the blob up in the air and caught it. “What’re we doing with this stuff anyway? What’s our end game here?”
Marcia shot her a look. Maybe she had explained it to her before. Char couldn’t remember. But there was a one hundred percent certainty that if Marcia had, she wasn’t listening.
“We’re gathering samples to try and discover how the Sindarhe neutralize the neurotoxin from the air and perhaps discover a way to replicate the process. But I’d also like to find out if this substance is harmful to humans on contact.”
