meteoric rise through the ranks, MoH.â Morph concentrated on each finger as she counted off my achievements, and it reminded me of the general pointing out why I should believe him.
I wasnât about to explain to Morph why I had applied to West Point, or how my rise through the ranks had more to do with my sex than any other grounds and that the Medal of Honor was a piece of tin awarded for the wrong reasons. And how, for all of these forged successes, it meant when I needed to be the hero, when it really counted, I couldnât take the shot. Soldiers had paid for my false life. And maybe Charlie was paying too.
âIâm not fit for duty,â I said. âI canât do this.â
Morph snorted and, when I didnât break the silence, grew rock steady.
âYou damn well better be,â she said, âbecause thereâs a corpse in there and a soul in some godforsaken deep fighting for you as hard as any soldier has ever fought.â The words were spoken in a hush, but they rang in my skull. âI donât know whatâs eating you, but if you have any chance at redemption, itâs not crying into a pillow.â
I stared at the pillow, darkened by tears and the ooze from burns. I nodded. I may have let my men down, but Iâd never done so on purpose. I wasnât drugged or drunk. Maybe within the context of the choices available here, I was the best soldier for the job. Whatever my pain, Charlieâs would be surely worse. And Iâd put him there.
I wiped my eyes with my palms. It was another few minutes before I walked back into Purgatory.
Chapter 11
Charlie struck stone, his shoulder dislocating and sleeve tearing from his black robe. He rolled until he lay still.
With his consciousness only freshly reacquainted with his body, the pain took a moment to register. But after the lull, it screamed into his skull. He clutched the injured shoulder. Lying face down, he was only dimly aware of the oven of the world above him, broiling his back.
The silence and heat of this place shocked him as much as the impact. Beneath the coarse fabric of the robe, the crystal lay cold against his spine.
He heaved himself over, cradling his arm, and checked for the wounds at his chest; his fingers probed his ribs and stomach, but the hole was gone. The pain in his shoulder ebbed. Looking up, his head lolled in disorientation. He stared at a roof of canyons as if he clung precariously to the ceiling of some elemental Earth. Green luminescent rivers ran through the canyons above him in a maze of glowing emerald that lit the deep. All of the rivers coursed to a distant horizon. While he watched, clouds of vapor exploded like fireworks, billowing up and down from the canyons and combusting in thunderous cracks of fire that shattered the quiet.
He levered himself to sitting and rubbed his head, stopping when he clutched a shock of hair. Brushing it into his eyes, it was sandy brown, as it had been in his youth. Charlie combed the hair behind his ear with his fingers, disused to the movement. On his handâveined and lacking the wrinkles and discoloration of ageâshone runes, each excised into his flesh. They spelled in Coptic script a name few would recognize, Yaldabaoth. More symbols, lion-headed snakes, circlets divided into fours, ankhs and rings, these trailed up his sleeveless arm over its thin, wiry muscle. The sigils glowed faintly. On his wrist, he wore the bracelet stolen from Joâs room, a gold serpent eating its tail. He flexed his young muscles, a smile finding his lips even through the pain in his shoulder, which was now diminishing.
He traced the seam on the other side of his robe and picked at the stitch until it loosened. Gripping it, he pulled until it tore, slipping the sleeve off like a snakeskin and dropping it on the ground of the rock spire.
Before he could again look around, a cold weight tapped at his back. Charlie snatched at it, but it hung from one of
I wasnât about to explain to Morph why I had applied to West Point, or how my rise through the ranks had more to do with my sex than any other grounds and that the Medal of Honor was a piece of tin awarded for the wrong reasons. And how, for all of these forged successes, it meant when I needed to be the hero, when it really counted, I couldnât take the shot. Soldiers had paid for my false life. And maybe Charlie was paying too.
âIâm not fit for duty,â I said. âI canât do this.â
Morph snorted and, when I didnât break the silence, grew rock steady.
âYou damn well better be,â she said, âbecause thereâs a corpse in there and a soul in some godforsaken deep fighting for you as hard as any soldier has ever fought.â The words were spoken in a hush, but they rang in my skull. âI donât know whatâs eating you, but if you have any chance at redemption, itâs not crying into a pillow.â
I stared at the pillow, darkened by tears and the ooze from burns. I nodded. I may have let my men down, but Iâd never done so on purpose. I wasnât drugged or drunk. Maybe within the context of the choices available here, I was the best soldier for the job. Whatever my pain, Charlieâs would be surely worse. And Iâd put him there.
I wiped my eyes with my palms. It was another few minutes before I walked back into Purgatory.
Chapter 11
Charlie struck stone, his shoulder dislocating and sleeve tearing from his black robe. He rolled until he lay still.
With his consciousness only freshly reacquainted with his body, the pain took a moment to register. But after the lull, it screamed into his skull. He clutched the injured shoulder. Lying face down, he was only dimly aware of the oven of the world above him, broiling his back.
The silence and heat of this place shocked him as much as the impact. Beneath the coarse fabric of the robe, the crystal lay cold against his spine.
He heaved himself over, cradling his arm, and checked for the wounds at his chest; his fingers probed his ribs and stomach, but the hole was gone. The pain in his shoulder ebbed. Looking up, his head lolled in disorientation. He stared at a roof of canyons as if he clung precariously to the ceiling of some elemental Earth. Green luminescent rivers ran through the canyons above him in a maze of glowing emerald that lit the deep. All of the rivers coursed to a distant horizon. While he watched, clouds of vapor exploded like fireworks, billowing up and down from the canyons and combusting in thunderous cracks of fire that shattered the quiet.
He levered himself to sitting and rubbed his head, stopping when he clutched a shock of hair. Brushing it into his eyes, it was sandy brown, as it had been in his youth. Charlie combed the hair behind his ear with his fingers, disused to the movement. On his handâveined and lacking the wrinkles and discoloration of ageâshone runes, each excised into his flesh. They spelled in Coptic script a name few would recognize, Yaldabaoth. More symbols, lion-headed snakes, circlets divided into fours, ankhs and rings, these trailed up his sleeveless arm over its thin, wiry muscle. The sigils glowed faintly. On his wrist, he wore the bracelet stolen from Joâs room, a gold serpent eating its tail. He flexed his young muscles, a smile finding his lips even through the pain in his shoulder, which was now diminishing.
He traced the seam on the other side of his robe and picked at the stitch until it loosened. Gripping it, he pulled until it tore, slipping the sleeve off like a snakeskin and dropping it on the ground of the rock spire.
Before he could again look around, a cold weight tapped at his back. Charlie snatched at it, but it hung from one of
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