“Who told you that, Lily?” Nan asked, knowing full well that the child had not been out of her field of senses since she had been delivered.
Lily was evasive, tried to find solace in the intricate brickwork upon which they stood.
“Lily, who?”
“A little girl.”
Nan frowned. “Lily,” she struggled with the words, “you know that that’s not possible.”
The wind was most definitely picking up, the same dead leaves that had been blowing around the force-shielded compound for years creating a visual cacophony between the child and the angel. Lily’s hair whipped around her head, snarling and tangling, a medusa halo in this gray expanse.
“She’s not here. Not with us. Not with them, either.” Lily’s arm reached up, hand and pointed finger indicating the break in the shrubbery.
If there had been blood beneath Nan’s skin, it would have run cold.
“Where is she, Lily?”
“She’s in my head. In my dreams.”
“Lily, I—”
“She lives down there.” Her finger pointed down at the brick pathway. “In the 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 face.
“Mr. Pierce. Tea?”
“No thank you.” He was a middle-aged man, or at least what had once served as middle age, before she had shown them the possibilities that existed between the stars. He placed his hat on the tabletop, tried to appear relaxed as he sat back in his chair, unbuttoned his jacket.
“Cigarette?” She held her metal case out to him, but he shook his head and waved her off.
“So what brings you down?”
He looked away from her, at these blank walls carved into rock, at the generally-featureless home of this non-woman. Eventually his gaze swung back to her face, that perfect, beautiful face that he loved and feared.
“Mr. Pierce, what is it?” Her voice had taken on an edge, and he knew that if he insisted on his silence, she would further hone that voice to cut into his mind.
“It’s the child, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed as she sat forward in the chair. “What about the child?”
“She’s starting to realize—Well, she knows that she’s different.”
“Of course she’s different.”
“Yes, but…Have you been contacting her?”
She tapped her fingertips in succession across the desktop, each nail issuing a crisp rap that echoed in the cold stone expanse. “What do you mean?”
Pierce cleared his throat. “One of our angels reports that Lily says she hears voices in her head. In her dreams. She knows far too much already.”
“No. She doesn’t know nearly enough. It’s time that we introduce her to her purpose in life.” She took a thoughtful sip of tea. “It’s time I meet with her.”
Pierce swallowed nervously, sat upright in his chair.
“Bring Lily to me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“What?” She looked as if she had been slapped at the utterance of the appellation.
Pierce immediately turned a deep shade of red. He sat up in his seat, his hands instinctively wringing together once more. “I’m sorry, it just slipped out. I—”
“What did you call me?” She knew full well what he had said, but simply wanted to hear it again.
Pierce swallowed hard, the old man folds of flesh at his neck bobbing up and down. “Mother.” His voice was a whisper.
“And what is my name?”
“Maire.”
“And what will you call me from now on, Mister Pierce?” She leaned toward him, silver swirls clouding her irises as she frowned.
“Maire.”
“Thank you, Mister Pierce. Now go.”
He grabbed his hat, awkwardly bowed, and nearly jogged out the open door, held by the Artificial. Maire signaled the machine to leave her alone, and the door shut.
It was time that she met the girl. After centuries of waiting, it was time.