The Question
Eternal
Yep!
BAD HABITS
Storm clouds scattered sunset’s dying flare as the man who called himself Joshua Tower sprinted through the alley behind Centennial Market. A siren wailed past the mouth of the alley, far behind him, and continued on into the distance. He didn’t rest easy; they’d realize they’d passed him soon enough, then they’d circle back -- and by now, he figured, there would be more in the area establishing a search grid. Being out of the open when that happened was going to be the difference between spending the night in a suite at the Hilton and spending it in far less appealing accommodations downtown.
A low rumble crossed the sky. He looked up as the first raindrops hit his watch cap, spotted the thickly stuffed olive-green bag slung over his shoulder. That’s when he saw the low spire of a church stabbing at the darkening sky.
They moved in silent unison, poetry in their limbs, fluid motion. The flickering amber light from wall sconces lent a warmth to their cold machinery, provided the sense of humanity that the cold precision of their activity stripped away.
One of them paused, looked up; the others froze as well, looking to her. None broke the silence. She focused on a sound it seemed only she could hear. Finally, she shook her head, the smallest trace of worry at her eyes. The others nodded and returned to their meditation, but there was now a palpable sense of vigilance in the simple, dimly lit room. Such was the order given, though not a word had been wasted. Words, for them, had long ago become unnecessary for communication, at least amongst themselves.
Another pearl of thunder rolled across the rim of the skies over their home.
Worst Cat-Burglar Ever
Striking on the idea of concealing himself from the police in a church had been exceedingly easy; actually getting into the building without being seen would not be. He’d grown up in a religious family -- it seemed like a million years ago -- but his familiarity with the run-of-the-mill church building wasn’t going to help him here, he reflected, because this was almost certainly not a run-of-the-mill church structure.
The perimeter of the church’s property was fenced, and this was not some pansy little waist-high decoration, either; this was a tall, very very serious fence. The topmost horizontal rail was a good six inches taller than his own six feet, and reaching further still to the heavens were closely set vertical bars that flattened and tapered into angry-looking spikes.
Beyond this obstacle was an expansive, flat and uncomfortably unobstructed lawn not of grass but of finely crushed rock; it looked to him like a Zen garden he’d seen in a book a very long time ago. There would be no cover between him and the street, and he would probably leave very visible footprints, especially now that the rain was coming down -- he’d never walked on anything like crushed rock, but looking at it made him worry that it would imprint like wet sand or thick mud.
The sound of a distant helicopter.erased all his hesitation, however. He heaved his heavy green bag to one shoulder, then straight-armed it up and over the fence. It hit the courtyard on the other side with a thick plop. Easy enough.
He wedged his fingers into the fence and pulled himself up, one handhold at a time. The metal was already slick with the rain, and cold. He almost got stuck at the top bar until, shouting with the effort of it, he pulled his leg up and over the top of the spikes so that for a split-second he stood straddling them. Then he swung his other leg over and pushed himself off of the fence, landing on his ass in the wet sand.
His palms were red and tender where they had caught him as he landed. He stared at them for a moment, confused as to why this should be. Then he bolted to his feet, remembering his exposed position, and grabbed his bag; he kept an eye on the road until he felt he was safely out of sight back along the wide, wet flank of the building.
He looked back in time to see a Harley-Davidson and its rider glide past the church; this, it turned out, had been what he’d mistaken for the sound of an approaching helicopter. He blew air through his teeth and rolled his eyes, then turned and continued along the wall as the rain thickened and the bike roared off into the distance.
Amber light flickered in a frosted-glass window up ahead. A candle? Was the power out here? He looked over his shoulder a second time; no, the street lights were coming on in rapid succession from one end of the street to the other. That didn’t rule out the power being out in this specific building, though, and that could be immensely helpful. He found a dry section of wall under an overhang and unzipped the side compartment of his back.
Inside was a 9 millimeter pistol in a cross-draw shoulder holster and two spare magazines of ammunition. He slipped the holster on and dropped the spare magazines into the left front pocket of his jeans, then closed the zippered compartment his weapon had been riding in.
He knew he shouldn’t open the main compartment -- he couldn’t fathom a dumber thing to do, in fact, and considering his current circumstances, he wasn’t feeling much like a genius, so that was saying something. And yet... he wanted to see it. He had to see it, just to reassure himself that it was real. That he’d really pulled it off...
Slowly, he unzipped the main compartment, leaned forward and inhaled deeply, drawing the aroma of fresh currency into his nostrils, savoring the clean linen scent. He slid a small black box -- a cellular telephone jammer which had, at least so far, prevented anyone from detonating any dye packs -- off to the side to get a look at the thick, tightly-wrapped stacks of $100 bills which filled the bag to almost beyond capacity.
“Ahhhhh...” his eyes closed and a gigantic smile lit his face. Then a pair of headlight beams slashed along the wall and got him moving again. He rounded a corner to the back of the building and spotted a railing that bordered a short but steep flight of concrete stairs down to a door. Sinking into the shadowed stairwell, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He would have preferred to simply wait things out there, but the rain had by this time redoubled its ferocity, drenching him through his thick clothes; now the wind gusted, chilling him to the core.
He wasn’t even entirely sure about the Gore-Tex bag that held his stolen fortune; certainly the material was water repellent, but not water proof, and though it would most likely restrain the product of an exploded dye-pack, it probably wouldn’t keep the bills inside fresh and crisp for long in a downpour like this.
He placed his ear to the door, listening attentively for any sound that might indicate an inhabited room beyond -- the very last thing he wanted to do now that he’d gone to all this trouble to escape the sharp eye of the law would be to kick in a door and be face to face with a room full of Bible-thumpers. There was no sound from inside, at least that he could pick up over the hushed roar of rain and the whistle of cold wind.
He turned the knob to get a feel for how thick the bolt was. The door opened. “Huh!” he blinked.
He slipped inside, shut and locked the door behind him. The room was utterly dark; with no way to see where he was going -- or, indeed, anything at all -- he crept along the wall, feeling his way with his boots and fingertips.
Through a door at the far end of the room, he could barely discern what sounded like machinery. He continued along the wall, trying in the meantime to decide whether he should set his bag down here, where it would be out of sight and allow him to move unencumbered. Reluctantly, he did.
The sounds clarified; they were almost regular but the timing was just off enough. And there was nothing under them to suggest motors, just the clank of metal on metal. He paused; after what seemed like forever, the sounds faded. A door closed somewhere. He exhaled.
Sisters Of Power And Grace
“Something’s not right.” Sister Sixteen spoke quietly.
Sister Twenty-Four cast a worried look back at the door. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know for certain.” They turned a corner and entered the locker room, peeling un-self-consciously out of their plain black meditation clothing. “But the building feels wrong tonight. Something is missing, or something is here that shouldn’t be.”
Easing the door open an inch at a time, his eyes widened in surprise. Flickering amber light spilled from wall sconces, jumping and dancing across the cold concrete floor. That floor would be a problem; rainwater still dripped from his clothes and his shoes were filled with it.
He didn’t want to be that close to any door that could be opened for inspection from outside the building, though. He crept into the room and saw that the machinery he’d heard was gym equipment. “The hell…?”
What kind of a church was this? Continuing along the wall, he heard quiet voices. He flattened himself against it, immediately regretting the move as the cold water in his clothes pressed into his skin.
“… building feels wrong tonight. Something is…” the voice faded, moving away.
Okay, he thought. Probably not a good idea to move any deeper. He took a longer look around this bizarre room, half Gold’s Gym and half mediaeval dungeon. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere that would even begin to look like cover. Not a good idea to stay here,.not a good idea to go back. “Shit.” he muttered under his breath.
There was no choice; he had to move deeper. He cracked the door open just as the sound of showers echoed out into a long, sconce-lit corridor before him. One side of the corridor featured distantly-spaced, narrow frosted-glass windows. Probably the ones he’d seen on his way in through the sheets of rain.
The other side of the corridor was lined with doors. Three doors down, the corridor broke in a three-way intersection. It was from here that the sound of showers came. He slid to the first door, tried the knob – locked up tight. The showers stopped. He reached the second door, also locked.
Voices came again:
“…tomorrow’s exhibition…” A drawer closing.
“…interference from the…” Footsteps. He caught the knob of the third and final door – his heart raced in his chest as he turned the knob – it opened. He slid through into darkness, cursing under his breath.
“Who is that?” a woman demanded in the darkness. He jumped, yelping as if struck, his already-keyed-up nerves slammed with ice. When the woman screamed, he screamed right along with her. The door slammed open, knocking him backward and into the woman, who had taken to her feet behind him.
The light burst the room into searing detail. The wooden floor gleamed as he saw it coming up to meet him and threw his arms out, landing gracelessly on ass and hands. The woman behind him had deftly leapt away when they’d collided. He stared up from the floor, alone, at two women.
The one standing in the doorway was dressed all in black; tall black boots, long pleated black skirts, some sort of frock and a black hood, all of this muted, non-reflective. Her skin was deathly pale, her eyes the color of new ice. The expression on her face was shocking – not for any emotion it bore, but for the utter lack of emotion he saw there until she arched a pale eyebrow in something that rested in the space between scorn, fascination and amusement.
The woman behind him wore a similar expression, though far less clothing. One hundred percent less clothing, in point of fact. Both were small of stature, and although he couldn’t see much of the one in the doorway, the one standing nude behind him was lean and lithe, with the faintest definition of muscle in limbs, chest, abdominals… it took him a moment more to notice the oddity they shared.
Like the woman in the doorway, her skin and eyes were the color of ivory and blue ice. He couldn’t tell if the two women also shared the same hair color, though – frost white. They shared nearly everything else. Twins.
“How did you get in here?” the nude woman asked, apparently over her shock at his unappointed visit.
“I have nothing to say.” he answered, climbing to his feet. This was exactly what he had not wanted to go through. He looked down at the five-foot-even women from his six foot height. Wiry as they were, they weren’t going to stand in his way for long, and his way now was out. There was a chance – however slim – that, so long as he spoke as little as possible and got out as quickly as possible, he might make it to a bus stop before anyone at the church could get the cops back here. It was his best shot now for getting away clean, and he meant to take it.
He moved toward the door. A slim arm slid through his, anchoring him. At the same time, the woman in the doorway moved forward with surprising speed, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him in an inescapable bearhug.
More soft footfalls approached the doorway; three more women stepped into the room as he struggled in the combined grip of the nude woman and her twin – wait… he craned his neck to get a better view of the three new arrivals to the room.
Not her twin.
Three identical hooded faces gazed impassively back at him. He looked down at the face of the woman who held him immobile. Same face. Same as the naked one behind him
“What the hell?” he choked out. “What are you bitches, clones?” None of them answered. The ones outside the door looked to the ones holding him captive. He felt the one behind him nod, and he was being carried, still upright, out of the room. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
One of the women standing in the doorway stepped forward, “Taking you to see The Mother.” she answered. The others stepped forward with her; together, they surrounded him, lifting him bodily from the floor between them, dampening his every move, carrying him inexorably toward the doorway.
They proceeded, mostly in silence, down the faintly lit corridor; his struggling and cursing made no difference to them, neither slowing them with its muted ferocity nor shocking them with its vulgarity.
They soon approached a cavernous basilica. High, narrow stained-glass windows, black except where the blaze of firelight reflected back from their marbled panes, gave the only solid indication of just how vast the room was. They bore him tirelessly, relentlessly toward what must have been the doors to the vestibule.
He thought, for a moment, that they were going to simply throw him out, despite what they’d said about taking him to meet “The Mother.” Maybe they meant Mother Nature or something, he hoped. That would leave him with a pretty good puzzle to solve, getting his money back. On the other hand, maybe they’d just toss him out on his ass and not bother with cops; they seemed like a pretty fucking weird bunch here, maybe a cult of some kind. Nun clones. Our Lady Of Xerox. He thought to himself, and abruptly burst out laughing.
“You fail to appreciate your situation, Mr. Tower.” the voice of an old woman floated to him from somewhere beyond the curtain of hoods in front of him. He couldn’t immediately spot the source.
“Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck are you?!” this entire place was starting to seriously creep him out. He didn’t want to do it –– it would completely clusterfuck his plans for getting out of here sans police attention –– all the same, the gun inside his jacket was becoming more and more comforting.
One of the women off to his right slipped a hand inside his jacket, without even looking at him, and withdrew his pistol. “Hey!” he protested.
“I can’t let you keep that.” the sourceless voice scolded. “This is sanctified ground.”
“The fuck it is!” he shouted. “It’s a cult, or something!”
The old woman stepped out from a hallway separating the basilica and the vestibule doors. She was frail, stooped; clearly well beyond her time. She also bore an unmistakable resemblance to the women surrounding him. “You could not be more wrong.”
The women surrounding him lifted his feet from the floor again and carried him toward her. “What is this shit?” he asked, more quietly.
“I’ve lived in this building for sixty two years.” she said. “I was thirteen years old when I came to this country with my father, after the war. He was a brilliant scientist, what in English is called a geneticist. He was forced to work on research called Projekt: Spiegel-Engel.”
“Mirror Angel?” he murmured. He looked up. “How the fuck did I know that? I don’t speak German, what the fuck?!”
“You know, Mr. Tower,” the old woman sounded tired. “I grow weary of your vulgarity. I believe you could benefit from a spiritual awakening.”
With that, the women turned, pivoting him –– still inches off the floor –– between them, and moved back again in the direction they’d come.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Wait! What the fuck –– hey –– “ a delicate but iron-hard hand slipped over his mouth as the blazing firelight of the basilica faded into the softer flicker of the corridor.
BAD HABITS
Storm clouds scattered sunset’s dying flare as the man who called himself Joshua Tower sprinted through the alley behind Centennial Market. A siren wailed past the mouth of the alley, far behind him, and continued on into the distance. He didn’t rest easy; they’d realize they’d passed him soon enough, then they’d circle back -- and by now, he figured, there would be more in the area establishing a search grid. Being out of the open when that happened was going to be the difference between spending the night in a suite at the Hilton and spending it in far less appealing accommodations downtown.
A low rumble crossed the sky. He looked up as the first raindrops hit his watch cap, spotted the thickly stuffed olive-green bag slung over his shoulder. That’s when he saw the low spire of a church stabbing at the darkening sky.
They moved in silent unison, poetry in their limbs, fluid motion. The flickering amber light from wall sconces lent a warmth to their cold machinery, provided the sense of humanity that the cold precision of their activity stripped away.
One of them paused, looked up; the others froze as well, looking to her. None broke the silence. She focused on a sound it seemed only she could hear. Finally, she shook her head, the smallest trace of worry at her eyes. The others nodded and returned to their meditation, but there was now a palpable sense of vigilance in the simple, dimly lit room. Such was the order given, though not a word had been wasted. Words, for them, had long ago become unnecessary for communication, at least amongst themselves.
Another pearl of thunder rolled across the rim of the skies over their home.
Worst Cat-Burglar Ever
Striking on the idea of concealing himself from the police in a church had been exceedingly easy; actually getting into the building without being seen would not be. He’d grown up in a religious family -- it seemed like a million years ago -- but his familiarity with the run-of-the-mill church building wasn’t going to help him here, he reflected, because this was almost certainly not a run-of-the-mill church structure.
The perimeter of the church’s property was fenced, and this was not some pansy little waist-high decoration, either; this was a tall, very very serious fence. The topmost horizontal rail was a good six inches taller than his own six feet, and reaching further still to the heavens were closely set vertical bars that flattened and tapered into angry-looking spikes.
Beyond this obstacle was an expansive, flat and uncomfortably unobstructed lawn not of grass but of finely crushed rock; it looked to him like a Zen garden he’d seen in a book a very long time ago. There would be no cover between him and the street, and he would probably leave very visible footprints, especially now that the rain was coming down -- he’d never walked on anything like crushed rock, but looking at it made him worry that it would imprint like wet sand or thick mud.
The sound of a distant helicopter.erased all his hesitation, however. He heaved his heavy green bag to one shoulder, then straight-armed it up and over the fence. It hit the courtyard on the other side with a thick plop. Easy enough.
He wedged his fingers into the fence and pulled himself up, one handhold at a time. The metal was already slick with the rain, and cold. He almost got stuck at the top bar until, shouting with the effort of it, he pulled his leg up and over the top of the spikes so that for a split-second he stood straddling them. Then he swung his other leg over and pushed himself off of the fence, landing on his ass in the wet sand.
His palms were red and tender where they had caught him as he landed. He stared at them for a moment, confused as to why this should be. Then he bolted to his feet, remembering his exposed position, and grabbed his bag; he kept an eye on the road until he felt he was safely out of sight back along the wide, wet flank of the building.
He looked back in time to see a Harley-Davidson and its rider glide past the church; this, it turned out, had been what he’d mistaken for the sound of an approaching helicopter. He blew air through his teeth and rolled his eyes, then turned and continued along the wall as the rain thickened and the bike roared off into the distance.
Amber light flickered in a frosted-glass window up ahead. A candle? Was the power out here? He looked over his shoulder a second time; no, the street lights were coming on in rapid succession from one end of the street to the other. That didn’t rule out the power being out in this specific building, though, and that could be immensely helpful. He found a dry section of wall under an overhang and unzipped the side compartment of his back.
Inside was a 9 millimeter pistol in a cross-draw shoulder holster and two spare magazines of ammunition. He slipped the holster on and dropped the spare magazines into the left front pocket of his jeans, then closed the zippered compartment his weapon had been riding in.
He knew he shouldn’t open the main compartment -- he couldn’t fathom a dumber thing to do, in fact, and considering his current circumstances, he wasn’t feeling much like a genius, so that was saying something. And yet... he wanted to see it. He had to see it, just to reassure himself that it was real. That he’d really pulled it off...
Slowly, he unzipped the main compartment, leaned forward and inhaled deeply, drawing the aroma of fresh currency into his nostrils, savoring the clean linen scent. He slid a small black box -- a cellular telephone jammer which had, at least so far, prevented anyone from detonating any dye packs -- off to the side to get a look at the thick, tightly-wrapped stacks of $100 bills which filled the bag to almost beyond capacity.
“Ahhhhh...” his eyes closed and a gigantic smile lit his face. Then a pair of headlight beams slashed along the wall and got him moving again. He rounded a corner to the back of the building and spotted a railing that bordered a short but steep flight of concrete stairs down to a door. Sinking into the shadowed stairwell, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He would have preferred to simply wait things out there, but the rain had by this time redoubled its ferocity, drenching him through his thick clothes; now the wind gusted, chilling him to the core.
He wasn’t even entirely sure about the Gore-Tex bag that held his stolen fortune; certainly the material was water repellent, but not water proof, and though it would most likely restrain the product of an exploded dye-pack, it probably wouldn’t keep the bills inside fresh and crisp for long in a downpour like this.
He placed his ear to the door, listening attentively for any sound that might indicate an inhabited room beyond -- the very last thing he wanted to do now that he’d gone to all this trouble to escape the sharp eye of the law would be to kick in a door and be face to face with a room full of Bible-thumpers. There was no sound from inside, at least that he could pick up over the hushed roar of rain and the whistle of cold wind.
He turned the knob to get a feel for how thick the bolt was. The door opened. “Huh!” he blinked.
He slipped inside, shut and locked the door behind him. The room was utterly dark; with no way to see where he was going -- or, indeed, anything at all -- he crept along the wall, feeling his way with his boots and fingertips.
Through a door at the far end of the room, he could barely discern what sounded like machinery. He continued along the wall, trying in the meantime to decide whether he should set his bag down here, where it would be out of sight and allow him to move unencumbered. Reluctantly, he did.
The sounds clarified; they were almost regular but the timing was just off enough. And there was nothing under them to suggest motors, just the clank of metal on metal. He paused; after what seemed like forever, the sounds faded. A door closed somewhere. He exhaled.
Sisters Of Power And Grace
“Something’s not right.” Sister Sixteen spoke quietly.
Sister Twenty-Four cast a worried look back at the door. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know for certain.” They turned a corner and entered the locker room, peeling un-self-consciously out of their plain black meditation clothing. “But the building feels wrong tonight. Something is missing, or something is here that shouldn’t be.”
Easing the door open an inch at a time, his eyes widened in surprise. Flickering amber light spilled from wall sconces, jumping and dancing across the cold concrete floor. That floor would be a problem; rainwater still dripped from his clothes and his shoes were filled with it.
He didn’t want to be that close to any door that could be opened for inspection from outside the building, though. He crept into the room and saw that the machinery he’d heard was gym equipment. “The hell…?”
What kind of a church was this? Continuing along the wall, he heard quiet voices. He flattened himself against it, immediately regretting the move as the cold water in his clothes pressed into his skin.
“… building feels wrong tonight. Something is…” the voice faded, moving away.
Okay, he thought. Probably not a good idea to move any deeper. He took a longer look around this bizarre room, half Gold’s Gym and half mediaeval dungeon. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere that would even begin to look like cover. Not a good idea to stay here,.not a good idea to go back. “Shit.” he muttered under his breath.
There was no choice; he had to move deeper. He cracked the door open just as the sound of showers echoed out into a long, sconce-lit corridor before him. One side of the corridor featured distantly-spaced, narrow frosted-glass windows. Probably the ones he’d seen on his way in through the sheets of rain.
The other side of the corridor was lined with doors. Three doors down, the corridor broke in a three-way intersection. It was from here that the sound of showers came. He slid to the first door, tried the knob – locked up tight. The showers stopped. He reached the second door, also locked.
Voices came again:
“…tomorrow’s exhibition…” A drawer closing.
“…interference from the…” Footsteps. He caught the knob of the third and final door – his heart raced in his chest as he turned the knob – it opened. He slid through into darkness, cursing under his breath.
“Who is that?” a woman demanded in the darkness. He jumped, yelping as if struck, his already-keyed-up nerves slammed with ice. When the woman screamed, he screamed right along with her. The door slammed open, knocking him backward and into the woman, who had taken to her feet behind him.
The light burst the room into searing detail. The wooden floor gleamed as he saw it coming up to meet him and threw his arms out, landing gracelessly on ass and hands. The woman behind him had deftly leapt away when they’d collided. He stared up from the floor, alone, at two women.
The one standing in the doorway was dressed all in black; tall black boots, long pleated black skirts, some sort of frock and a black hood, all of this muted, non-reflective. Her skin was deathly pale, her eyes the color of new ice. The expression on her face was shocking – not for any emotion it bore, but for the utter lack of emotion he saw there until she arched a pale eyebrow in something that rested in the space between scorn, fascination and amusement.
The woman behind him wore a similar expression, though far less clothing. One hundred percent less clothing, in point of fact. Both were small of stature, and although he couldn’t see much of the one in the doorway, the one standing nude behind him was lean and lithe, with the faintest definition of muscle in limbs, chest, abdominals… it took him a moment more to notice the oddity they shared.
Like the woman in the doorway, her skin and eyes were the color of ivory and blue ice. He couldn’t tell if the two women also shared the same hair color, though – frost white. They shared nearly everything else. Twins.
“How did you get in here?” the nude woman asked, apparently over her shock at his unappointed visit.
“I have nothing to say.” he answered, climbing to his feet. This was exactly what he had not wanted to go through. He looked down at the five-foot-even women from his six foot height. Wiry as they were, they weren’t going to stand in his way for long, and his way now was out. There was a chance – however slim – that, so long as he spoke as little as possible and got out as quickly as possible, he might make it to a bus stop before anyone at the church could get the cops back here. It was his best shot now for getting away clean, and he meant to take it.
He moved toward the door. A slim arm slid through his, anchoring him. At the same time, the woman in the doorway moved forward with surprising speed, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him in an inescapable bearhug.
More soft footfalls approached the doorway; three more women stepped into the room as he struggled in the combined grip of the nude woman and her twin – wait… he craned his neck to get a better view of the three new arrivals to the room.
Not her twin.
Three identical hooded faces gazed impassively back at him. He looked down at the face of the woman who held him immobile. Same face. Same as the naked one behind him
“What the hell?” he choked out. “What are you bitches, clones?” None of them answered. The ones outside the door looked to the ones holding him captive. He felt the one behind him nod, and he was being carried, still upright, out of the room. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
One of the women standing in the doorway stepped forward, “Taking you to see The Mother.” she answered. The others stepped forward with her; together, they surrounded him, lifting him bodily from the floor between them, dampening his every move, carrying him inexorably toward the doorway.
They proceeded, mostly in silence, down the faintly lit corridor; his struggling and cursing made no difference to them, neither slowing them with its muted ferocity nor shocking them with its vulgarity.
They soon approached a cavernous basilica. High, narrow stained-glass windows, black except where the blaze of firelight reflected back from their marbled panes, gave the only solid indication of just how vast the room was. They bore him tirelessly, relentlessly toward what must have been the doors to the vestibule.
He thought, for a moment, that they were going to simply throw him out, despite what they’d said about taking him to meet “The Mother.” Maybe they meant Mother Nature or something, he hoped. That would leave him with a pretty good puzzle to solve, getting his money back. On the other hand, maybe they’d just toss him out on his ass and not bother with cops; they seemed like a pretty fucking weird bunch here, maybe a cult of some kind. Nun clones. Our Lady Of Xerox. He thought to himself, and abruptly burst out laughing.
“You fail to appreciate your situation, Mr. Tower.” the voice of an old woman floated to him from somewhere beyond the curtain of hoods in front of him. He couldn’t immediately spot the source.
“Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck are you?!” this entire place was starting to seriously creep him out. He didn’t want to do it –– it would completely clusterfuck his plans for getting out of here sans police attention –– all the same, the gun inside his jacket was becoming more and more comforting.
One of the women off to his right slipped a hand inside his jacket, without even looking at him, and withdrew his pistol. “Hey!” he protested.
“I can’t let you keep that.” the sourceless voice scolded. “This is sanctified ground.”
“The fuck it is!” he shouted. “It’s a cult, or something!”
The old woman stepped out from a hallway separating the basilica and the vestibule doors. She was frail, stooped; clearly well beyond her time. She also bore an unmistakable resemblance to the women surrounding him. “You could not be more wrong.”
The women surrounding him lifted his feet from the floor again and carried him toward her. “What is this shit?” he asked, more quietly.
“I’ve lived in this building for sixty two years.” she said. “I was thirteen years old when I came to this country with my father, after the war. He was a brilliant scientist, what in English is called a geneticist. He was forced to work on research called Projekt: Spiegel-Engel.”
“Mirror Angel?” he murmured. He looked up. “How the fuck did I know that? I don’t speak German, what the fuck?!”
“You know, Mr. Tower,” the old woman sounded tired. “I grow weary of your vulgarity. I believe you could benefit from a spiritual awakening.”
With that, the women turned, pivoting him –– still inches off the floor –– between them, and moved back again in the direction they’d come.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Wait! What the fuck –– hey –– “ a delicate but iron-hard hand slipped over his mouth as the blazing firelight of the basilica faded into the softer flicker of the corridor.
