Part 5
So the snow, the everlasting snow, Kept falling out the windows, But within, the party went on long into the night. Both Saera and Marin were Compelled to stay a little while, Just to make it seem as though They both were high society; Just enough to keep the ruse up And permit their future plans. So they stayed, and Marin tried To like the taste of wine. Suddenly a dance was called. A tramping, thumping soon arose Upon the wooden flooring And gave off a vibrant feel. They played a music of the ancient world Old, before the Ravaging, A symphony of Haydn’s With a stirring, churning beat. So Marin, Saera too were gathered Up into the revelry. And so they went on weaving, dancing, Through the gold electric light. But as Saera wove and spun With swirling of her ice-white skirt She turned, and saw-- “Oh,” Saera whispered, And she broke and spun away. “What is it?” said Marin, worried, Coming closer to her friend. “Well, I thought I saw--” “Saw what?” “I thought I saw someone we knew.” “Is that good or bad?” said Marin. “I’m not sure,” said Saera, breathing, “I am worried, all the same.” Cordelia stood on the edges Of the lovely, vibrant dance. “Pardon me,” a deep voice murmured, Deep, but in a female way. “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Cordelia, Turning, moving swift aside. As she did she glanced along, And gasped At who went walking by. She was very, very tall And broad as well, of massive frame. Her long and dark green gloves could not Conceal the muscles bunched upon Her arms, and in her shoulders mighty And the great dark emerald dress She wore could not well hide the hips That must have been of quite a width. Her skin was pale, and finely clear, And she had hair of rich dark red That was done up into a knot That hung there, perched upon her head. Cordelia felt a twinge of fear And shrunk a bit as she went past. This caused the tall, strong woman To pause briefly, and to glance straight down And hit the other woman With a stare of keen gray eyes. And so the woman slipped away Far out of sight from those that gathered, Gathered in their finery, But she left them all quite behind, And climbed a dark and hidden stair Until at last she reached the roof Where snow was falling down. Thence she reached along her back To pull her stitching there apart, Until her dress With silky shrug Went slipping down her great broad hips And left her there, a naked thing, Amid the cold wet white. Yet from her middle back there came A silver shine, a gleam of bright That swelled, and grew. Until with a soft whisper of sharp metal In the moonlit dark, Two mighty limbs came growing, sprouting, Each sharp joint came pricking out Until the long, long, lengthy limbs Stretched vast to either side. Another whisper issued then, A shimmering, a flying swell Of silvermist Off of the limbs, and then they burst Into a shiny plume. Feathers, feathers, endless silver feathers Swelled off of the wings-- For wings they were, Bright silver wings that Glittered In the gloom. The wingéd woman, red of hair, With glinting bright gray eyes, So twitched, And poised her wings, and leapt Off of the rooftop high. With mighty flap she caught the air And flew, with speed, into the night, And soared above the city, Gray and black with warm orange glow. Fast and sharp and silver-edged Came on the angel, til at last She swelled her wings, And backwards flapped, And hovered gently down, Coming finally at last Onto a gentle balcony Where all the snow was swirled and blown By both her beating wings. She landed, and she drew her wings Back in, The feathers sinking back And both long limbs now shrinking, sinking, Back into her skin. Until, at last, she was once more A lone tall woman, finely shaped. And with a final, backwards glance She opened two large doors. “You’re naked?” said a voice as she emerged Into a large, plush room Upon a couch in which there sat A man, hunched over, bent. He was of brownish skin, with hair Dark brown, in a leonine mane He was not shaved; His face bore just The hint of facial, a bit. He wore a body suit, pitch black, With woven armor mesh. Its gloves were perfectly composed; His nimble fingers lost no touch As he bent low, and with a screwdriver Was gently tinkering Upon a long and mighty rifle, Gunnish gray, with sharp, long stock And with a long, long barrel. Its large sight glowed neon blue, Its muzzle-end was thick and dense. It was a sniper’s weapon, Meant to kill From very far. “YES, I’m naked,” said the woman, And she swiftly strode Into the room where he was crouched; It was a rich and luscious place. “I couldn’t take that dress with me, It was so heavy and so big. It would have been a burden, And have hindered me in flight. I paid for it with cash And it cannot be traced to us.” “I think you just LIKE prancing round Without clothes on,” The sniper said, “And if my body was like yours, I might like that as well.” “Hmm,” muttered the large woman, Who stopped then before a mirror, And paused a bit, and turned a bit, Regarding her impressive frame. “Rafiel,” the sniper said, “In seriousness, did you learn A thing worth learning at that party?” “Not much, Basil,” Rafiel Said then, and wandered to a sofa, To another sofa where there was a black, soft pile. It was another armored suit—her own, in fact, And as she spoke She dressed, and slid the bodysuit Upon her muscled frame. “The nobles and the higher folk Within this city have no knowledge Of what goes on unawares; They seem a very vain, old lot And not concerned with outsiders. If the Technocracy is here, operating in this city, They do so without the highborns Knowing they are here.” “Yet we know they are here Indeed,” Said Basil, with a twist of screw Within the rifle laying there upon the table cold. “And I’ve seen all the signs throughout The city here: The borders tight, The lack of great concern with what goes on Beyond the city walls. Even what you saw tonight Confirms their presence here. The nobles of the city have been cultivated to be kept Oblivious to what goes on In the wide world outside. We all know this is the Technocracy’s usual move. They like to keep their colonies Quite self-absorbed, from the outside, Far better for them then to operate Far out of sight.” “Indeed,” said Rafiel, Who now was dressed and stood up straight. She pulled her bun apart, and her Red hair Went falling down her back In waves and flows of deep, dark red. Casting round her eyes she found a corner of the room. There she saw it, there she found The thing that she had sought: A great dark cross-shape, leaning there against the plaster walls. “Our intelligence has pinned a canto here, A secret place, Wherein the Technocracy does some valuable work. So valuable, we have learned They’ve sent some High Technocrats here. That is why we’ve come—we’re on a mission to destroy.” She grabbed the shape. It was a sword. It was a greatsword, Long and broad, A mighty weapon, fell and cruel. It was shaped in a cruciform, With long, broad guards on either side Of its great blade, which stretched and stretched. With swishing whisper Rafiel Twitched the great sword within the air. Its blade was hard, and deadly sharp, And in the dim light glinted, sparkled; Light went falling cold and silver on its razor blade. “We ourselves have seen the photos, Printed out upon our screens. Arius is here—he’s here now! Arius is here! Arius, the master and the mover of the Technocrats, Arius, who made us both—made all the Seraphim. And so he’s here, and he will meet A gruesome end, before we’re done.” She stretched out her long, muscled arm And made the sword go glinting sharp, Amber in the soft bulb light That shone out of a sconce. “Do you need a whetstone for that?” Basil asked, and leaned full back, His work upon his sniper rifle finished up at last. “No,” said Rafiel And sheathed The sword against her hip. “I know your rapier needs, From time to time, A sharpening of its blade. But my greatsword does not.” “Ah, yes, I guess that’s what I’d heard,” Said Basil, “It’s because the Technocrats created it themselves.” “Right,” said Rafiel, And on impulse drew back out the sword And put it In its corner Just where it had been, Where it lay there, silent, still, But emanating Wordless wrath. “Your rapier, and all of the rapiers Lose their edge from time to time, Because we made those swords ourselves, And we have limits to our skills. But my sword, and the other three Weapons of the Arcseraphs Were made by the Technocracy And so they never lose their edge Or lose their weight, or lose their balance. They are perfect, just as good As when they were fresh made.” “Do you think on that, sometimes?” Asked Basil then, As he leaned back, And put a gloved hand to his chin. “Does it not seem ironic to you, Or to Michael, Gabrielle, Or Uriel That all you four, You Arcseraphs, Wage war on the Technocracy With weapons they gave you themselves?” “I think on it sometimes,” Said Rafiel, and she sat down. “But it only fills me with a sharp amusement then. It will be a pleasure great To turn my blade on Arius! To kill him with the sword he made Brings me tremendous joy.” At this she curled her upper lip And showed her white teeth in the gloom As her gray eyes went flashing fierce With hungry, killing wrath. “Well then,” said Basil, standing up, “Let’s see if we can see them now. We know they’re busy most at night. If we go out on our patrol, And fly above the city now We might, perhaps, perceive them moving Back into their Canto deep.” “Agreed,” said Rafiel, and rose, Her blackened armor hard and slick. The two of them went out again Upon the balcony, where fell The snow in gentle patterings; Not heavy now, but light and slow. “We’ll move across the east tonight,” Said Rafiel, whose wings emerged With quiet silver whisperings. “We’ll go along in straight clean lines To see what we can see.” She jumped, and flapped, and to the air Rose high, as Basil followed fast. The two of them, then, winged away Into the snowy night.
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