ground, far away, but she talks to me when I sleep.”
Nan looked away from that confused, innocent gaze. “And what does she say to you, little flower?”
Lily almost recoiled from that appellation. Nan made a mental note that was immediately integrated into the collective angel consciousness.
“I’m the last little girl. Because of me, the rest died.”
Nan exhaled slowly. The angels had not predicted this development. The catalyst was becoming aware at a phenomenal rate, already communicating with the Exile. It was almost time to begin her ascent.
“Come, Lily.” Nan stood again, the child’s hand still held in her own. “It’s getting cold out. Let’s go have some hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate milk?”
Nan smiled to herself, noting the profound concern in the child’s voice. What else but hot chocolate milk?
“Yes, dear.”
They returned to the compound. They sky was bruising, the first hint of a rain that would never actually fall. Another transport thrust into the late afternoon, cleaving the frigid air with fire and silver.
She never understood the human fascination with inhaling smoke.
It was a dirty habit, or so they told her, but she did enjoy it. She enjoyed the way it set their minds at ease, the way it made her feel sophisticated. She unceremoniously crushed the last of her cigarette into the ashtray on the obsidian desk before her, its soul spilling up from the wreckage and floating off to cigarette heaven on the final wisp of smoke.
A newspaper was folded near her left hand, a saucer and cup of tea chatting neighborly with the dead soldiers strewn about the ashtray at her right hand. She fidgeted. She did not know why; she certainly had nothing to fear from this meeting. First the left hand smoothed the crease in the newspaper, then the right hand smoothed back her hair as severely as it could, given the innate behavior problems of the curly dark coiffure she had chosen to present to these animals. An unruly curl popped out of confinement and tickled her nose. She sighed and pushed it back into place.
She was a beautiful woman, without a doubt. They still feared her, without a doubt. This was helpful in the initial phase of this project, but now it was becoming an annoyance. She could barely communicate with these people, so insistent were they on submission. They were making the job entirely too easy.
There had been resistance at first. There had always been resistance. Through the centuries, she had watched them, lived and laughed and loved among them, but she had never truly been one of them. She never could be one of them. When she finally sensed that the time was right to begin her project, she had in truth been bored of the species, just as she had been bored prior to the exile.
She stirred her tea half-heartedly, swished the teabag around once or twice, took a sip. Awful stuff. Worse than smoking. And this was supposed to make you look sophisticated? At least smoking had the addictive properties of nicotine. Tea had nothing.
There was a quiet knock at the door. “Yes?”
It opened a crack to reveal a nearly-featureless Artificial, this particular machine fashioned to look like a human female, although without the decorative elements of hair, eyes, or flesh, this Artificial more closely resembled one of those plastic constructs this species used to display clothing in storefront windows. It spoke in that androgynous tone that she had not taken the time to remedy as of yet.
“Mister Pierce to see you, Ma’am.”
“Thank you. Please show him in.”
The Artificial opened the door wider to reveal Mr. Pierce, hat in hand, wearing a stylish charcoal gray suit to match her own. His hands, however, were nervous assemblages of flesh and bone and gristle, writhing across the clenched brim of his hat as he entered the room. Her own hands were now quiet, clack in black leather, folded on the desktop in front of her almost as severely as her hair was swept back from her
Nan looked away from that confused, innocent gaze. “And what does she say to you, little flower?”
Lily almost recoiled from that appellation. Nan made a mental note that was immediately integrated into the collective angel consciousness.
“I’m the last little girl. Because of me, the rest died.”
Nan exhaled slowly. The angels had not predicted this development. The catalyst was becoming aware at a phenomenal rate, already communicating with the Exile. It was almost time to begin her ascent.
“Come, Lily.” Nan stood again, the child’s hand still held in her own. “It’s getting cold out. Let’s go have some hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate milk?”
Nan smiled to herself, noting the profound concern in the child’s voice. What else but hot chocolate milk?
“Yes, dear.”
They returned to the compound. They sky was bruising, the first hint of a rain that would never actually fall. Another transport thrust into the late afternoon, cleaving the frigid air with fire and silver.
She never understood the human fascination with inhaling smoke.
It was a dirty habit, or so they told her, but she did enjoy it. She enjoyed the way it set their minds at ease, the way it made her feel sophisticated. She unceremoniously crushed the last of her cigarette into the ashtray on the obsidian desk before her, its soul spilling up from the wreckage and floating off to cigarette heaven on the final wisp of smoke.
A newspaper was folded near her left hand, a saucer and cup of tea chatting neighborly with the dead soldiers strewn about the ashtray at her right hand. She fidgeted. She did not know why; she certainly had nothing to fear from this meeting. First the left hand smoothed the crease in the newspaper, then the right hand smoothed back her hair as severely as it could, given the innate behavior problems of the curly dark coiffure she had chosen to present to these animals. An unruly curl popped out of confinement and tickled her nose. She sighed and pushed it back into place.
She was a beautiful woman, without a doubt. They still feared her, without a doubt. This was helpful in the initial phase of this project, but now it was becoming an annoyance. She could barely communicate with these people, so insistent were they on submission. They were making the job entirely too easy.
There had been resistance at first. There had always been resistance. Through the centuries, she had watched them, lived and laughed and loved among them, but she had never truly been one of them. She never could be one of them. When she finally sensed that the time was right to begin her project, she had in truth been bored of the species, just as she had been bored prior to the exile.
She stirred her tea half-heartedly, swished the teabag around once or twice, took a sip. Awful stuff. Worse than smoking. And this was supposed to make you look sophisticated? At least smoking had the addictive properties of nicotine. Tea had nothing.
There was a quiet knock at the door. “Yes?”
It opened a crack to reveal a nearly-featureless Artificial, this particular machine fashioned to look like a human female, although without the decorative elements of hair, eyes, or flesh, this Artificial more closely resembled one of those plastic constructs this species used to display clothing in storefront windows. It spoke in that androgynous tone that she had not taken the time to remedy as of yet.
“Mister Pierce to see you, Ma’am.”
“Thank you. Please show him in.”
The Artificial opened the door wider to reveal Mr. Pierce, hat in hand, wearing a stylish charcoal gray suit to match her own. His hands, however, were nervous assemblages of flesh and bone and gristle, writhing across the clenched brim of his hat as he entered the room. Her own hands were now quiet, clack in black leather, folded on the desktop in front of her almost as severely as her hair was swept back from her
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