Chapter Text
At the bottom of the Tether, I pull on the new vessel the Boss gave me, and shake hands with the waiting Seneschal. Currently a green-haired teenage girl, but with Kyriotates that's how it works. "Kai, Ofanite of Creation, in service to Lightning. Thanks for the ride." The room's a back storage area, and I've been spending too much time in storage rooms lately. At least this one's on Earth; I've done enough inventory to last my a lifetime, this last month.
"No problem," says the Kyrio, waving one hand, though I caught that slight frown when I mentioned my current tangle of Word-service. Not my fault most of the Sword has decided to get annoyed at Dad, and I've learned there's not much I can do about it, so I let that pass without comment. "We're always ready to serve. Mieczyslaw, Kyriotate of the Sword, and Seneschal of this Tether. You can call me Mick, I know that's a mouthful if they only gave you English. What can I help you with?"
I check my pockets. Nothing there but my phone at the moment. "I could use a change of clothes, or at least a pair of socks. And a backpack for them, if one's handy. I'm picking up my Role at my next stop, so I expect they'll get me better equipped there."
The Kyrio shoves open a closet door, to show hanging clothes, boxes of clothing, several sets of shoes. "Take your pick," she says. "Backpacks on the far right. Do you need any money?"
"A twenty for incidentals wouldn't hurt." I reach into the closet, and frown. "Wait a minute--oh. I'm taller."
"New vessel? There's a mirror in the corner." The Kyriotate points over her shoulder, and sits down cross-legged on the floor to continue what looks like math homework. "Not your first time down?"
"No, this is my...um." I count back. Two before Dad gave me the Malakite of Creation attunement to keep me out of trouble, one that lasted until that run-in with the Game, and then my last and most recently deceased vessel. "Fifth. I kept one for nearly fifty years, but I've had bad luck this decade." I pick up the mirror, and spin in front of it experimentally. "Oh, come on."
"What?" The Kyrio looks me up and down. "I don't see anything wrong with it."
"It's all...Seraphy!" Not only am I taller than any of my previous vessels, this face has the sharp-angled look Seraphim favor. I check inside the jeans I'm wearing, and it looks like I'm male again, at that. Slight pity, there; I got better reactions in certain situations by being female. Mirror set aside, I head back to the closet. "Who were they expecting to take this Role?"
"Not tall enough to be much like a Seraph," the Kyrio offers. "It's a good vessel."
"Oh, I know." I reluctantly pass by the swirly skirts in the closet, and settle on a spare pair of jeans about the right size, two shirts, and several pairs of socks. They wedge easily into the backpack I grab from the stack. "It's a good vessel, and I'm lucky to get it after losing the last one in such a stupid manner. I'm just fond of smaller bodies. Easier to keep myself moving when there's less weight to deal with." I drop down into a headstand, handstand, then to one hand, though I can't hold that for long with this body. I need to practice with the new balance. "Moves well enough. I'll get used to it."
I drop back to my feet, and scratch the back of my head. Not that it precisely itches, but there's weird feeling in my brain right now. "I'm heading south, with plenty of time to spare. Need anything delivered on the way?"
"Actually, yes." The Seneschal passes me a twenty dollar bill, and then scrounges through the desk. "A few things for a Malakite of Stone in Sioux Falls, if that's not out of your path. Did you need a car? I have a spare in the parking lot, acquired from a Balseraph of Lust I disposed of. It needs to disappear soon to avoid questions."
"I have my own transportation, but that's summonable, so I can take the car off your hands. See if the Stonie wants it." I take the file I'm offered and stash it in the backpack with the rest. "That's practically on the way. Where do I find this 'kite?"
"I doubt the car would be appropriate. She'll be in school, at this time of day. But by the time you get there classes will be out." The girl flips through bits of paper. "This is Thursday, so she's in kendo. You can catch her outside the class at five thirty. Tall, brown hair, glasses, name's Ruth. Tell her Mick sent you with those papers for the research project she's been working on. Address is on the folder."
I tap the Symphony politely, and get an answer about how I ought to drive to that city, and how long it ought to take me with the way I drive. "Can that car you're loaning me get over seventy?"
"Probably."
"I can make it by five." I tip the Seneschal a bow, and stride out through the little synagogue to the parking lot, where an adorable sports car waits for me. Convertible, even.
Maybe I won't give up the car right away.
I hit Sioux Falls at a quarter to five, and make my way through traffic to the address just as people wander out of the building that proclaims it teaches martial arts, self-defense, and yoga. I wonder if they'd be willing to teach ballet--but I'm not here to pick up the job Dad gave me so long ago, I'm doing a favor for the Sword on the way to be a proper in-service-to Sparky. Can't help regretting that, but this is the best choice I was offered. I'm doing good work, if not always work I understand.
Passing on the files is a matter of a few minutes, and then I'm off to my car before it can get ticketed for its not-quite-legal parking spot (maybe Mannie's right when he says the time I spent with Windies wore off on me), back on the road to jitter impatiently through traffic until I can hit the highways.
I usually spend long drives doing nothing but enjoying the speed, sheer pleasure of weaving between cars and going faster faster faster in the most perfect route possible to my destination. But this time it doesn't work that way, not with the itch inside my mind. I spend the drive going over my recent mistakes, how I could have avoided them, and generally feeling like I've been a little dim in the past. It's not much fun as past-times go, and even finding a radio station playing nothing but The Beatles for a stretch of Missouri doesn't help.
The directions I was given back in Heaven lead me to an old farmhouse surrounded by fields of...something; rural agriculture isn't my area of study. I sling the backpack over my shoulder, and lope up to the front door to knock, first few bars of California Dreamin'. Barely past dawn, which means I'm early. I can only assume they give me so much time to reach appointments to allow for message delivery and the occasional demon smackdown between departure and arrival.
I've paced the front porch three times and figured out how far it is to the nearest coffee shop (answer: too far) by the time the door opens. A very old man, with dark glasses and a white-tipped cane, nods politely in my general direction. "May I help you?"
I stick out my hand, pull it back in when I realize he can't see it. "Kai. You should be expecting me?"
The old man chuckles, and pulls the door all the way open, stepping aside so that I can enter. It's a cute little house, done up in doilies and watercolor paintings. "Kai," he says. "Yes, we were expecting you. In another half hour. We were in the middle of breakfast."
"Sorry to interrupt." There's a half-finished plate on the table, and an old woman buttering a slice of toast as if it's made of glass and would break if she went much faster. "I could come back in half an hour--"
"No matter, son. You're here." He leads me towards the back of the house, pausing by a truly dreadful painting of a simpering angel hovering over a child in prayer beside a bed. "Besides, I've been given a marvelous machine by certain friends, which will rewarm a plate of eggs that has gone cold. And this is the clever part, son, it does so without turning them rubbery. Don't we live in an age of wonders?" He reaches out and feels up along the side of the painting, touches the top corner of it. "Lucas, your Ofanite is pacing behind me in the hall. Shall I let him in? And would you like orange juice as long as he's heading down?" The old man nods after a moment, and I notice the hearing aid he's wearing. Trust Sparkies to work something clever into what he already needs. "You can head along," he says. "If you enjoy roast beef, lunch will be at noon. Just let Mollie know an hour or so before so that she can set an extra place."
A section of the wall swings out of the pink floral wallpaper, leaving me facing an elevator. "Nice setup."
"We think so too." The old man returns to his breakfast, and I step inside.
The doors slides shut. "Please speak for the voice recognition," says some hidden speaker.
I spin in front of the obligatory mirror. This body will take all sorts of getting used to; my last one was a few inches over five feet, this is a few under six. "I just got this body, how are you supposed to recognize the voice? I'm reasonably sure the Kyrio didn't have a tape recorder sitting around to send ahead samples."
"Speech patterns match," says the voice, and the elevator drops so fast my feet nearly lift off the floor.
The door opens into a sparkling-clean lab, full of equipment I don't know how to use and the smell of coffee brewing. "That was fun. Can I do that again?"
"See? Ofanite." A man with cropped hair and a half-smashed nose leans across a table to shake my hand. "Lucas, Mercurian of Lightning. They do that to anyone new, see who gets annoyed. I told them it wasn't about to bother a Wheel."
"Hardly. Can you make it go any faster?" Once hand-shaking is done, I keep my hands tucked in my pockets. Don't touch the lab equipment, don't touch the lab equipment... The first Sparky lab I spent long in, I ended up with a Cherub following me around with a rolled-up magazine to smack me on the head every time I touched something I couldn't immediately name, describe, and explain the uses of. I learned more about not touching than I did about lab equipment, although now I can tell a beaker from a Bunsen burner. Doesn't mean I can't walk, though, so I scout out the whole area, and track down the coffee pot. With spare mugs!
"Not without adding a lot more power," says a woman with marvelously blue eyes. "Which we could do, but then we'd be taking power from other things, or requesting another generator, and if we ask for another generator they'll want to know why, and somehow I don't think 'we want a faster elevator' would fly well in the upstairs office." She takes a sip of coffee, and waves. "Welcome to the lab, Kai. I'm Penelope, Cherub in charge of this research station. I have a list of necessary items for you, but we'd be more than happy to give you a few other things to field-test, if you're up for the challenge."
"I'm up for a challenge, but I'm limited to what I can carry on a bike. Speaking of which, does anyone need a sports car? I left one outside that's fun, but too hot for me to use with a Role."
"I'll take it," says the third Sparky in the lab. Has a vessel built for contact sports, nearly absurd in the spotless white lab coat he wears. "Park it back in the garage, pull it out once in a while... Who owned it last?"
"Balseraph of Lust."
"All the more reason it should go to someone who will appreciate it, then." He tilts a wave at me. "Zuberi, Malakite. We don't run into many demons to smite down here, but I can appreciate a little vicarious smiteage by providing tools for others to do so better."
Penelope hands me a file, which I juggle with my mug of coffee without dropping either. "Your new Role. It's a sturdy one, so please take care of it. If you lose this vessel, we want to be able to pass the Role along to someone else. We expect you to put on a reasonable show of eating and sleeping at regular intervals, and all those human things. Any questions?"
"No, I've done long-term Role maintenance before. Shouldn't be a problem." I flip through the contents of the folder. The Role's name is Kyle Moss, twenty-two years old and licensed for all sorts of vehicles. Standard educational background, enough moving around to justify fuzzy memory if I run into any old childhood friends, and a B.A. in Drama with a minor in Dance. "I like the Role. What's Kyle been up to since he left college with a not especially useful major?"
"Photography." Penelope drops a heavy camera case in my hands, and then another case of some sorts of...bits. That go with a camera. I don't know what bits go with cameras that use real film. The closest I get to taking pictures is with my phone, grabbing snapshots of eyes for Mannie to Need-read upstairs. "Your Role has never taken a class in photography, so don't worry if your photographs are lousy. In theory, you're riding the country to take pictures of whatever strikes your fancy, intending to compile it into a book of the Real America. In practice, remember to shoot a few photos now and then. If they turn out marvelously, we can always get you published through one of our in-house presses, to give your Role more authenticity."
"I hope there's an instructions manual." I sling the straps over my shoulder. "Does it do anything special, or is that just Role-dressing?"
"It might do something special. In theory, the combination of film and camera you're using will show any Discord on a target, once the pictures are developed."
"In theory?"
"Oh, the design works fine up in Heaven. Where everyone is in celestial form and anyone can see the Discord someone wears. This is the first corporeal version. Thus the need for field-testing. Take pictures of any known demon you come across that you can manage, and especially if you happen to run into Calabim."
I consider the likelihood of me stopping to take pictures of a Calabite when I know that's what it is. "I'll try. What else do you have for me?"
"Not much more. Most of our test-ready prototypes are too bulky to carry on a bike, especially with all that photography equipment. But Zuberi whipped up something just for you, when we heard you were coming." Which suggests they knew I was going to show long before I heard anything about this assignment. Lightning works on a need-to-know basis, and most of the time, they figure I don't need to know.
The Malakite yanks open a drawer, and fishes through clanging equipment. "I left it somewhere around--ahah!" He pulls out a small black case, and presents it to me. "I read your whole file. The parts I have clearance for, anyway."
I open the case, and inside on black velvet lies a perfect silver piccolo. I used to have one, my favorite instrument for the speed I could play it, but it went up in flames with the rest of my apartment when the Game burned that place down. "Thank you." It feels inadequate. Such a perfect gift from a near-stranger.
"That's not all." The Malakite pulls the pieces out, notches them together, and hands the instrument to me. "Come on, see if you can tell what it is."
Now that I'm touching the piccolo, it fits in my hands with the pleased feel of an item that knows its place within the Symphony. "You made me a celestial artifact?"
"Celestial Song of Tongues. A great way to send messages, especially if using the phone would be too noisy or you don't know the other party's number." He slaps me on the back so hard I stumble forward. "Never know when that might come in handy. It's gotten me out of a nasty situation more than once. Builds up one Essence a day, and stores that much, so you don't have to worry about keeping your own Essence handy to use it."
"Thanks," I say. And because Mannie would remind me if he were here that you ought to repay people for their kindnesses, "If there's anything I can do for you--"
"Don't worry about it." The smile he gives me is more personal than before. "I'm happy to help another one of Dad's kids."
So another Creationer in service to Lightning. I'll swap stories with him if I have the time, and ask him for a few spare paperclips. But for now Lucas is pulling me away to explain the basics of photography.
Hour and a half later I know enough to take a focused picture without catching my thumb in the lens, and enough terminology to sound like an enthusiastic amateur. Penelope and Lucas suddenly find excuses to go do work in other rooms of the lab, leaving the Malakite and I by the coffee machine. None too subtle, but many angels would say Sparkies don't do subtle.
"How long have you been working for Lightning?" Zuberi leans back against one wall so that he can watch me pacing my hands-in-pockets circuit without turning his head all the time.
"A bit over a year now. You?"
"Since a few years before Dad left. Didn't know at the time why he'd want me to work with a bunch of geeks, but he said they'd teach me different ways to make things. Turns out he was right." He takes a sip of coffee. "I mean, of course he was right. Always was. No doubt he's off working on some big thing right now. And if I don't get to hit demons so often, at least I get videos of what the things we made did to them. What brought you in recently? You have a perfectly ordinary file, and then out of nowhere, security clearances all over the place."
"It's complicated. But after I screwed up on some stuff, Judgment hauled me upstairs and told me I couldn't do corporeal work until I signed up with another Archangel, at least until Dad gets back."
"Why'd you choose Lightning? The shiny gadgets? The impeccable sense of retro-geek style? A chance to blow things up?" When Zuberi gestures with his mug, coffee sloshes over the edge. "Or did they not give you a choice?"
"Knew a lot of people in Lightning." One job for them when I got my last vessel, and then working to keep a brand new baby Tether together... I met more Sparkies between those two jobs than I met Windies in all the time I traveled with Jack. And Mannie, Lightning Servitor from head to toe to wingtips, who worries about me when he can't read my weekly reports. "And, hey, there's something to be said for gadgets." A phone that can dial up Heaven, so Mannie's never further away than that. Shiny speedy summonable motorcycle that needs a recharge at a Tether every ten thousand miles or so, a reward for calling Sparkies down when I realized where that baby Tether might go.
"And that's it?"
I pour myself more coffee, and add sugar until I want to go into more details. "And Jean...offered. I said no, and he told me the offer was still open." Too sweet coffee, but I can deal with that. By caffeine it's made holy. "When they told me I had to find someone who'd take me, or not get out to do Dad's work at all... I knew he would be there." I chuckle into my coffee. "Made an appointment and showed up for it. Isn't that weird? Making an appointment with your Archangel?"
"It is." Zuberi smiles back at me, and that's something I haven't shared in a long time, this flavor of understanding. "Back when I was working for Dad, I'd drop by once in a while and say, hey, killed some demons, lost a vessel. Can I have another? Or he stop in for lunch and over dessert tell me about some place he wanted me to hit, a few new things I ought to try making. Now I submit weekly reports. Reports! Never once submitted a report while I was with Creation. It takes getting used to."
"Tell me about it. For the first two months, Gariel kept sending back my reports covered in corrections, comments, and all these new restrictions. Don't write your reports in crayon, Kai. Don't write your reports on napkins, Kai. Don't forget to date your reports, Kai. Don't give your reports to Windies to deliver, Kai." I scratch the back of my head at the tingling feeling, though the action doesn't really help.
Zuberi steps away from the wall. "Something the matter? You keep touching your head like something hurts."
I shrug, and spin in one place. Embarrassing to admit. "This is a brand new vessel. Lost my last one in a really stupid way. And so I wake up, I do about two months of inventory and filing and other such things to give me time to reconsider how to do my job better, and then the Boss calls me in to give me this job, this vessel, and. Um. Another Ethereal Force. As he put it, 'So that you might form more successful plans of action.' And it itches. I've had it for less than a day, and my mind still feels all strange. Like things have gotten too sharp around the edges."
The Malakite pats me on the shoulder, and it reminds me terribly of how Dedan, ever formal Cherub of Judgment, used to do the same thing. "Poor kid," he says, and he is likely older than I am, knows it full well if he's been reading whatever file Lightning has for me. "Force-grafting can be disconcerting for the first few days. How many Ethereal Forces did you have before?"
"Two."
He winces. "I can see how that would...yeah. What happened?"
"I was working on this little Impudite, see. Fuzzy side of redemption bait, not the obvious type that just needs a little shove, but close enough to be worth the time. Servitor of Baal, you know how those War-types can get about honor and the like."
"They don't have any proper honor," says the Malakite, who would know.
"No, but some of them believe they should, and it's something to work on. Anyway." I keep my hands locked behind me, gripping each wrist, and pace around a table. "We meet up this one time and he's starting to flip out, babbling about how much trouble he could get in. What they would do to him if anyone found out. And what I should have done was push harder, get him to break through and make a commitment. But. Instead I backed off, told him to think about it a while longer. No rush."
"He thought you were weak," murmurs Zuberi.
"Exactly. It was stupid. That might have worked with some types, but it was an inappropriate response for the situation, Word, demon in particular, you name it. The next time we were supposed to meet..." I let one hand free to wave in the air. "It's a bit fuzzy around the edges from Trauma, but I got jumped by...I don't know how many of them. Went down hard. I'm told my vessel ended up in pieces. Double-digit pieces, even."
"Rough. Especially for your type, that goes through Trauma." He says that as if he's forgotten his is the only Choir that doesn't. "But you must be doing good work in general, or the Boss wouldn't be giving you this job."
"Oh, sure. I've done pretty well, as 'achieving stated mission objectives' goes. Right down the checklist. But I really screwed up on that."
"So you'll do fine on this job, and get back into the swing of things."
"I hope so." And because I would rather admit it than not, "You know what makes it even worse? Going after that demon wasn't my job. Was working on it at the same time as another project. Got too confident, or something."
"Hey, don't beat yourself up over it," says the Malakite. "You recognize the mistake, you'll do better next time." He grabs the mug I left behind in the pacing, fills it up, and hands it to me. "So you really like the piccolo? Hadn't ever made one of those before, so it took a few tries to get it right."
"It's great. Best gift I've received since the motorcycle."
"Coming from an Ofanite, I'll take that as a serious compliment."