Read Online Angels and Exiles by Yves Meynard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Yves Meynard
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structures of unknown import, spreads between the buildings. Some assert this is necessary for the unseen machines and agents of the Eldred; some say this is where Sweet Jesu makes his lair. None know for sure, for few venture deeper than a few metres into the darkened maze: as soon as you enter it, your baseline living fee drops by a full forty percent, and if that is not a clear sign of a dangerous area, what is?
As the three dreamweavers pass yet one more opening into the underside of the city, three pairs of enhanced eyes flick to the right; detect quasi-random stirrings in the deep shadows, but no telltale signature of danger. Three pairs of enhanced ears absorb the sounds emanating from the alley, reaching far into the high-frequency domain, beyond thirty thousand cycles per second. Three enhanced noses sniff at the air, glomeruli both natural and synthetic discharging in response to airborne molecules. All three brains, presented with this mass of data, effortlessly integrate it and return the final verdict: nothing meaningful there, just a man groaning, perhaps passed out, maybe dying, maybe not. No threat to them, no concern of theirs.
In the alley, the old man lies on his back, praying, and this is his prayer:
Sweet Jesu, please make it so I eat tomorrow
.
In Yerusalom everyone prays, for it’s true, verified, and certified that Sweet Jesu Himself walks the streets of Yerusalom, Whore of Cities, and verily He goes about granting prayers, left and right. It has happened to Edge Nain himself: years ago, newly arrived in Yerusalom, he found himself cornered by a half-dozen predators, robbed at knife point. They could take nothing as essential as assets from him, only possessions, and Edge Nain had already resigned himself to this. But then one of his assailants began playing the tip of a blade along Edge Nain’s face, and he realized he stood to lose a lot more than mere belongings. In his heart rose a fervent prayer to Sweet Jesu, a simple one, nearly wordless. And even before he could repeat it, just as the ceramic blade had begun to cleave his skin, there came flashes of energy, screams, the noises of the gang fleeing. . . . Edge Nain found himself alone, his possessions scattered at his feet, a hot line of blood along his jaw the only sign of the attack. He heard receding footsteps in the distance, among the blurry washes of light, going, perhaps, toward the darkened jagged-walled alleyways; he thought to follow for an instant, then came to his senses, gathered up his stuff, and fled toward safer streets.
Though there are cranks and charlatans aplenty claiming they (they alone!) have the truth of the matter, no one in fact can claim to know Sweet Jesu’s face, His dress, His age, even His sex, for in these days, morphing oneself along the gender spectrum is something anyone with a few thousand assets can afford, and if Jesu Himself couldn’t be Herself once in a while, it wouldn’t make any sense, now, would it? And so most everyone treats other people kindly, for any one of them might be Sweet Jesu Himself, and your behaviour is being watched; yeah, friend, you’re on the line.
And this is the thought that passes through all three dreamweavers’ brains at the same time: that a sin of omission is a sin nonetheless and that, if they want their prayers answered, maybe they’d better be extra good tonight.
So they step back, of a common and unspoken accord, and enter a little way in the alley. Edge Nain in front, Ras in the rear, keeping a suspicious eye on the street they have left, in case this is an ambush. In the light shining from their neon-implants, which carries its own flickering darkness within it, they see the old man lying in the angle made by two vertical slabs of self-assembled stone. They see his stained and pitted skin, the blue auras at the corners of the eye, the tremble at the lips. Edge Nain, in a mostly failed attempt to increase his asset-slope, has sunk a sizeable sum into
As the three dreamweavers pass yet one more opening into the underside of the city, three pairs of enhanced eyes flick to the right; detect quasi-random stirrings in the deep shadows, but no telltale signature of danger. Three pairs of enhanced ears absorb the sounds emanating from the alley, reaching far into the high-frequency domain, beyond thirty thousand cycles per second. Three enhanced noses sniff at the air, glomeruli both natural and synthetic discharging in response to airborne molecules. All three brains, presented with this mass of data, effortlessly integrate it and return the final verdict: nothing meaningful there, just a man groaning, perhaps passed out, maybe dying, maybe not. No threat to them, no concern of theirs.
In the alley, the old man lies on his back, praying, and this is his prayer:
Sweet Jesu, please make it so I eat tomorrow
.
In Yerusalom everyone prays, for it’s true, verified, and certified that Sweet Jesu Himself walks the streets of Yerusalom, Whore of Cities, and verily He goes about granting prayers, left and right. It has happened to Edge Nain himself: years ago, newly arrived in Yerusalom, he found himself cornered by a half-dozen predators, robbed at knife point. They could take nothing as essential as assets from him, only possessions, and Edge Nain had already resigned himself to this. But then one of his assailants began playing the tip of a blade along Edge Nain’s face, and he realized he stood to lose a lot more than mere belongings. In his heart rose a fervent prayer to Sweet Jesu, a simple one, nearly wordless. And even before he could repeat it, just as the ceramic blade had begun to cleave his skin, there came flashes of energy, screams, the noises of the gang fleeing. . . . Edge Nain found himself alone, his possessions scattered at his feet, a hot line of blood along his jaw the only sign of the attack. He heard receding footsteps in the distance, among the blurry washes of light, going, perhaps, toward the darkened jagged-walled alleyways; he thought to follow for an instant, then came to his senses, gathered up his stuff, and fled toward safer streets.
Though there are cranks and charlatans aplenty claiming they (they alone!) have the truth of the matter, no one in fact can claim to know Sweet Jesu’s face, His dress, His age, even His sex, for in these days, morphing oneself along the gender spectrum is something anyone with a few thousand assets can afford, and if Jesu Himself couldn’t be Herself once in a while, it wouldn’t make any sense, now, would it? And so most everyone treats other people kindly, for any one of them might be Sweet Jesu Himself, and your behaviour is being watched; yeah, friend, you’re on the line.
And this is the thought that passes through all three dreamweavers’ brains at the same time: that a sin of omission is a sin nonetheless and that, if they want their prayers answered, maybe they’d better be extra good tonight.
So they step back, of a common and unspoken accord, and enter a little way in the alley. Edge Nain in front, Ras in the rear, keeping a suspicious eye on the street they have left, in case this is an ambush. In the light shining from their neon-implants, which carries its own flickering darkness within it, they see the old man lying in the angle made by two vertical slabs of self-assembled stone. They see his stained and pitted skin, the blue auras at the corners of the eye, the tremble at the lips. Edge Nain, in a mostly failed attempt to increase his asset-slope, has sunk a sizeable sum into
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