Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment Read online

  ANGELS OF APOCALYPSE

  PART I: ALIGNMENT

  by

  J. J. Harkin

  Text copyright © 2011 by J. J. Harkin

  - Follow the author on Twitter @authorjjharkin -

  - Author bio at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B006BHHOF0 -

  - Order the paperback direct at https://www.createspace.com/3711175 -

  Cover art and illustrations copyright © 2011 by Steve Harkin

  steveharkin.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  Also by J. J. Harkin:

  Angels of Apocalypse, Part II: Abominations

  Angels of Apocalypse, Part III: Apotheosis

  - Available in paperback or for Kindle through Amazon.com -

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  A Prayer of Opening…

  Exhortation: The Feast

  Chapter 1 – Western Queen

  Interlude: Chicago Dirge

  Chapter 2 – Victoria and the Messenger

  Vignette: The Sleepwalker

  Chapter 3 – A Meeting of Friends

  Vignette: A Kidney for the Goddess

  Chapter 4 – Sémeion at the Cemetery

  Vignette: The Email from Nobody

  Chapter 5 – Atop the Darkspire

  Bulletin: Internet Search It!

  Vignette: Phantom in the Green Zone

  Chapter 6 – Smoke and Mirrors

  Vignette: Long Walk, Short Pier

  Chapter 7 – The Sea Hag

  Vignette: The Whispers of Essien

  Chapter 8 – The Geometrical Quandary

  Vignette: Maria’s Controversial Interview

  Chapter 9 – Illicit Initiations

  Interlude: Path of the Mahdi

  Chapter 10 – The Adventures of al-Mahdi

  Vignette: Judaism Dies in Egypt

  Chapter 11 – The Bent King

  Vignette: Duet of Dreams

  Chapter 12 – The Cave

  Vignette: Press Release: Children Missing!

  Chapter 13 – The Devil and Den

  Vignette: An Early Passover

  Chapter 14 – Metaphysics and Romance

  Vignette: The Voice of Joseph

  Chapter 15 – The Mule

  Vignette: Harriet’s Dream

  Chapter 16 – The Dream of Ariadne

  Vignette: Florida Justice

  Chapter 17 – Spider Grandmother

  This book is dedicated to both my Heavenly Father and the Father of my body. Never could I have done this alone. Thanks again for what you’ve done. I don’t suppose that better words will ever come along.

  A Prayer of Opening…

  No world is a vacuum, by the same stars we steer.

  What has come to pass there will timely come near.

  So let paper burn hot between fingers, oh reader,

  And the Shining One’s sun descend to quench fear.

  For if all accept gifts of the loom from the Weaver,

  With careful swiftness and peace comes apocalypse here.

  THE FEAST

  Come one, come all to the final feast!

  The last to grace the cosmos!

  For after this old food will cease,

  And all be turned to compost.

  Scheherazade turned gothic mob,

  A web of lies, a web of love.

  An utterance, a last decree,

  Antithesis, an I in Three…

  Come near, come far to the final test!

  The dying Dove swoops nigh!

  Father will in child find arrest,

  When child births mother from sky.

  A final hour, a waning moon,

  A crackling shriek, the step of doom.

  A roaring fire, beneath the sea,

  An avalanche, the earthquake free…

  And in that hour the King will rise,

  Amid spinning apocalypse,

  To change the channeled paradigm,

  And evil plight of all eclipse.

  So let the hurt be in your brain.

  Come forth to victory!

  Allow your mind to realize

  This perplexed epiphany:

  The dueling two indeed are twins,

  The triune a subtle three,

  But the fourth, one step more,

  Now unfolds its mystery.

  So listen then for lightning,

  And be watching well for thunder,

  The Weaver of unnumbered webs

  Winds victory via valor.

  As candle sputters,

  Worlds tear asunder,

  And in every hollow

  The Voice of Truth mutters:

  Stand there tall, though you be small.

  Stay true, child of wonder,

  And know the Lord of Joseph

  To be the Lord of every other.

  Behold the Son, the Light of Lights,

  Dread Lord of time and space!

  He hones the very art of war,

  To pry us from disgrace.

  Though to her face no light will shine,

  His Bride in pride of place,

  He weds the darkness first of all,

  To lay all lies to waste.

  Behold the Sun, bright beyond bright,

  Nexus of time and space!

  His Dove has died since days of yore,

  Evermore first to mourn, unreplaced.

  Unto her face His light will shine:

  Child of the Bride He takes.

  He knows He couldn’t love her more:

  Brazen whore, washed ashore, saved by grace.

  Part I:

  ALIGNMENT

  Chapter I

  WESTERN QUEEN

  “The roof of a skyscraper is a damn fine place to burn a cigarette and ten minutes of your life,” muttered Maria to herself.

  The playful wind heard her not at all, but busied itself responsively arranging her hair to one side. All was silent at this perilous height, though far below the bustle of Chicago sprawled in every direction. She loved heights. Such vistas had been her birthright, for Maria seemed always to have an upstairs, even when living in a top-floor penthouse. Today the observation deck was blindingly bright; only an eagle eye could hope to spy her on this high perch. And her private lookout was not the sad, utilitarian mélange of gravel and machinery which shabbily adorned so many of the rooftops down below. She had seen to it that her secret garden was a lavish deck of mirrors, glass, and metal. Each corner of the tower held a powerful searchlight which roved the night skies after sundown, like an intergalactic lighthouse at the top of the world.

  Maria Archangeline had always been drawn to court danger. Even now she shuffled her feet cautiously, until she was as near the edge as she dared. The support rail steadied her as she peered curiously over, pretending this might be the first time she had enjoyed the toylike vision of the vehicles far below. She shook ashes over the side, as was her habit, and watched the gray dust fall out of site against the gorgeous building. As she had funded its construction, the spire had been built of the finest materials, and named Archangeline Tower to reinforce her connection to it. Tall and thin as Maria herself, the crystal tower glittered like diamond in the late afternoon sun, making even the tallest buildings nearby seem to shrink by comparison.

  Though Maria’s family name was actually Ahmad, she had always gone by her mother’s maiden name. Archangeline just had a better ring to it somehow. The world needed angels, and the name was an indication that Maria was willing to fill in until the real a
rticle arrived. She thought it appropriate that she lived in such a tower. No other had profited from freedom of speech and capitalism more than she, excepting perhaps her father. Yet he was just a man, as far as Maria was concerned, albeit a titan in his own right. Already Maria had surpassed him to become a social ideal, so that even the lowliest serf in the realm looked upon her as the image of perfect womanhood. She was the envy of all, the guilty pleasure of the Western hemisphere, and half a world’s dream; but Maria found herself utterly alone with remarkable regularity, for very few were gifted with the honesty to acknowledge the truth of her status.

  Letting the lonely cigarette butt fly, she turned to descend the stairs. At their bottom, Maria shivered in the conditioned air as she glanced about appraisingly. Though it was still a decent-looking place, the sterling minimalism of the penthouse remained somewhat diminished due to the mismatched oddments Den had brought from his condo. Den was her man. She was going to have to convince him to get rid of most of this stuff at some point, but that time had not yet come. None knew better than she that the manipulation of men was a subtle art – one which required infinite patience. Disgustingly middle-class oddments leered at her from every side – a nightmare – but somehow she still cared for the man.

  Den was not her husband, though only because Maria did not believe in such things. What woman in her right mind would believe in anything which exposed half of her hard-earned fortune to the whims of some silly man’s shifting definitions of love? He had actually asked her once, before he knew the cool determination of her heart, but that was already years ago. He was cute. It had been a sweet gesture, but sometimes Maria worried that he had absolutely no understanding of her. Suggesting that they move in together had been the best compromise she could think of.

  “Why doesn’t he quit his stupid job?” she wondered as she wandered. Den was an engineer of some kind, and inexplicably determined to continue working. In her mind it was a ridiculous choice, for Maria had long since made enough money to last both of them the rest of their lives, even if neither never worked another day. But he just kept going to work anyway.

  The sound of the door captured her attention. There he was, trudging over to visit her before ritualistically flopping down into his favorite chair. “Afternoon, baby,” he drawled, pulling her close.

  “Alright, Denny,” she coaxed, “don’t get me sweaty.” He had just come in from the heat. “You’re only just in time.” With that she scurried off to let in her attendants, a coven of her most talented and devout fans. Maria returned, therefore, in her element, surrounded by busy hands and subservient whispers. She stretched her arms out to each side in readiness as they immediately set to work undressing her, hurriedly applying makeup.

  Maria and Den’s cyclical relationship had persisted for some time. Every afternoon, upon his arrival, Den would sit and smoke in a leisurely fashion as Maria danced for him in the twilight sun. It had become a rarified ritual during their time together. Den’s eyes had been glued to Maria ever since the first time he saw her. Truly there was no more beautiful woman in all the world – her approval ratings said so. Yet her beauty was too great to remain appreciated by only one man, and he knew it. Though Den wished he could say she danced for him alone, the carefully positioned green screens and cameras scattered throughout the house insured that, at the same daily moment, nearly two billion of the world’s population tuned in to absorb the trance that was her dance. Today she sold her video feeds to the masses under the name “Shiva,” yet this was nothing but a passing fetish. She had changed her name many times, though he had always known her as just “Maria.”

  The attendants were now balancing an ornate headdress atop her head. Maria winked at Den playfully, but maintained stillness. Many believed she was the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the face of the Earth, so that competition for her hand had waxed violent until her choice of Den. Then all had asked the same question: Why had Maria Archangeline chosen the handsome scientist over every other prince and power-monger in the world? If Den had not known how hard she worked him every night, he might have thought he did not deserve her. Yet Maria had her own reasons for pursuing Den, though she kept them to herself.

  Her father, Mr. Ahmad, was an internationally renowned oil tycoon, and their relationship was strained to say the least. Though the man had always been cordial in Den’s immediate presence, he felt certain this was only the kindly front which Maria demanded. The newspapers, most of which were owned by Mr. Ahmad, certainly went out of their way to make perfectly clear the extent to which Den had never deserved her. His favorite headline had gone something like: “The Goddess and the Gangrel: What Was Maria Thinking?”

  Maybe it was for this reason that Den worked so hard to insure these thoughts were always the last on his mind. Smoking was an excellent cure-all when it came to indomitable obstacles such as these. Moreover, Den found great comfort in the pleasant routine of it all. This afternoon was no different than any other; there was no need to focus on anything other than Maria. Ulrik was his family name, and he was the world’s most willing and comfortable slave.

  As Maria found her mark in front of a green screen, the lighting specialist struck the first cue. The still moment as she awaited the music always seemed the most pregnant. All around the world, her most devoted – or obsessed – viewers were tuning in to see her performance live. Den glanced briefly toward the nearest monitor, to see her image superimposed over a background of starlit space. Then the man behind the camera pointed firmly in her direction, and red lights came on all around her.

  Slowly she began to move to the music. Maria’s taste had always been impeccable. Her sound engineer was a genius on an international scale, imbuing her music always with stereophonic elements that influenced brainwaves toward transcendental states. Den smoked with slow enjoyment as she danced for all the world to see – naked perfection. If only all the men in every strip club on Earth could see him now! Certainly this was the American dream in its purest permutation.

  Den had seen Maria dance countless times, but had never spotted an ounce of prearranged choreography. She never, ever danced the same dance twice, though she did have her artistic tendencies. For instance, Maria always tended to begin more slowly than she finished. Her arms might start out carving through the air methodically, giving her the look of a moving statue. As she sped toward the music’s sonic climax she became harder to see. The appearance was electric, robotic, almost stroboscopic. Her balance was flawless, for she kept the mountainous headdress perfectly vertical, no matter what contortions her arms and legs might smoothly assume. Did she have just two arms? They had become a geometric blur.

  With a shout the dance ended; her performances were never very long. Maria had finished in a nearly catlike stance, her laser-like visage gazing past the camera into the very souls of the captive audience. It was difficult to look away from those icy blue eyes. Her attendants scurried forward to remove her headdress and makeup as the camera lights went out, and Den turned his attention to a nearby stack of mail. Atop the newspaper an intriguing little cube-shaped box had been set. The package was for him, having come from an old childhood friend whom Den had not seen in some time. He rustled with the box to open it, and found that it contained nothing but a shiny black ball, accompanied by a short note:

  Hey Bud,

  Just thought you might want to have a look at the latest in AI technology. It’s my souped-up version of the Magic 8 Ball. Remember those things? I call it the Magic U-Ball. Just hold it in your hand for a moment, and it will tell you exactly what the principle thought on your mind is, whether you want to hear it or not. Don’t believe me? Just give it a try. Can’t tell you in a letter how it works, but I’ll be sure to give a full explanation when I see you again.

  Big Love,

  David

  P.S. It’s solar, so if it ever becomes unresponsive, just leave it in the sun awhile.

  The last of Maria’s entourage was filing out of the penthouse as he
finished the letter. Den gazed into the black orb, smiling curiously as she approached. The little word which twinkled back at him in LED lights made him laugh to himself: “Sex.” Quickly he changed tack. “Honey, they’re calling you…‘The Capital Whore’ again,” he said, raising the nearby newspaper to her eye level.

  “Yep!” smiled Maria. “Every time the Anti-Defamation Leagues take exception, my downloads immediately go through the roof.”

  “You do enjoy being the woman everyone despises, don’t you?”

  “Despises? I am the future!”

  “Oh?” Den had always enjoyed baiting her.

  “The repressive religious relics of a bygone era are of no benefit to the highest interests of women! I’m doing them all a favor whether they thank me or not. This week it’s Shiva; next week it’ll be…”

  “Hillary?”

  Maria snorted out a little laugh. “Anyway,” she continued with a smirk, “I happen to know you dig it.” There was no arguing with this. She did nothing to impede their damp embrace this time.

  “Now who’s sweaty?” asked Den.

  Sunset distracted Maria, however. It was time for his nightly work to begin. Den’s tie was the perfect leash. With a kiss she pulled him onward into the marble shrine they called a bathroom, asking: “You tired, Denny?”

  “Not really,” he lied. Factually speaking, he felt absolutely drained due to a difficult day at work, yet he knew well that she was the rightful center of attention. So Den commenced their ritual without complaint, as he had faithfully done hundreds of times over already. It had become his nightly religion to obey Maria’s wishes until even she was tired out. First they washed together. It was his duty to soap her up, rinse, massage, and dry her off carefully.