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“Ah,” said Mike.
 
“Right you are.”

“Yes,” said Zacharies.
 
“We should prepare for the end.”

“What?” said Mike.
 
“Hell no.
 
No space wizard is coming in here and taking over my city.
 
I’ve got
stock
, kid.”

Zacharies laughed.
 
“Ok, Mike.
 
What are we going to do?”

“Well,” said Mike.
 
“We’re going to meet up with… a contact.”

“A contact?”

“From Apsel Federate,” said Mike.
 
“He and I have…
 
Well, we have an understanding.”

Zacharies stepped forward.
 
“The angel?”

It was Mike’s turn to laugh.
 
“He ain’t no angel, kid.
 
Not even a little bit.”

“Is Laia with him?”

“I sure hope so,” said Mike.
 
“That’s what he said, anyway.
 
We’re going to meet him this afternoon.”

“Where?”
 
Zacharies took a step forward, his hand almost coming to touch Mike’s arm.
 
“Where is she?
 
Where’s my
sister
?”

“Easy, kid,” said Mike.
 
“There’s an old park, buried in the middle of the city.
 
No one goes there apart from pedophiles and muggers.
 
Actually,” he said, tugging at an ear, “that’s a problem I’m hoping will sort itself out.”

“Where?
 
Where in the park?”

“It’s why I brought Obie and Miles,” said Mike.
 
“We’ll be going to the heart of the park.
 
There’s an old fair ground there, got a ferris wheel, or what’s left of one.
 
They moved it from the edge of the sea when the smell got too bad.
 
Used to charge kids a couple bucks a throw—”

“Mike,” said Zacharies.
 
“What about my sister?”

“Sure,” said Mike.
 
“She’ll be there.
 
Laia and Mason Floyd both.
 
We’ll need Obie and Miles to be sure we can cut a path in, and then we’ll extract them.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Zacharies, looking around at the bodies on the ground.
 
“There is no time to waste.”

“There’s a little time,” said Mike, watching as one of the fallen bodies craned to look at them.
 
Zacharies looked between the fallen seeker and Mike, his brow furrowing as Mike spoke a little louder, a little clearer.
 
“Meeting’s not until 2pm.
 
Time enough for a warm beer and a cold hot dog.”

Zacharies looked at the sky, raising a hand to shade his eyes against the glare.
 
The star that looked down on Heaven was smaller and brighter than the one that sat, fat and orange in the sky of his home.
 
“You can eat?
 
At a time like this?”

“Calories, kid,” said Mike, still speaking loud and clear.
 
“It’s all about calories.
 
C’mon.
 
We’ve got time before that big meeting.
 
With Mason Floyd.
 
And your sister.”
 
He slapped Zacharies on the shoulder, rotating him away from the seeker watching them.
 
Zacharies let himself be turned and moved back along the street, Obie and Miles falling in behind them.

The seeker’s sightless eyes watched them.
 
The creature tried to pull itself after them, to continue to listen to what they were saying, but it didn’t have any legs.
 
It tipped its head to the side as if it was listening, and let out a hiss as they moved too far away to hear.
 
It didn’t matter.
 
It knew the time, and the place.
 
Its master must know everything that happened here.

Everything.

“Why,” said Laia, “do you drink this?”

“Same reason as you,” said Mason, across the small table from her.
 
“Maybe different reasons too.”

“Do you miss someone as well?”
 
Laia reached for the bottle, topping off her glass.
 
“Have you lost someone?”

“No,” said Mason.
 
“Not anyone important.”

“Who was it?”

“I said it wasn’t anyone important.”
 
The angel —
she mustn’t think of him like that, he said not to
— frowned at her, something reflected back in his eyes in the dim light of the room.
 
“He was no one.”

“I miss my brother,” said Laia.
 
“I want to go find him.”

“That’s not a great idea,” said Mason, leaning back further into his chair.
 
“Not right now.”

“But—”
 
Laia caught herself, tried to lower her voice.
 
“You’re an angel.
 
You could find him.
 
You could bring him here.”

She watched as Mason turned his empty glass over in his hands, a little liquid running out and down one of his palms.
 
He seemed to think for a moment, then placed the glass in front of him on the edge of the table.
 
He reached forward, picking up the bottle.
 
“Let’s say for a minute that I’m an angel.”

Laia said nothing, watching as he unscrewed the top of the bottle —
so precise, even the things they throw away as garbage in Heaven are created perfect, beautiful
— and poured splashes of the liquid into the glass.

“Let’s also say we’re in Heaven.”
 
He put the bottle down next to his glass.
 
“There’s a… a bit of a weakness in the plan of storming the gates and rescuing the fair princess.”

Laia frowned.
 
“Zacharies is not a…
 
He’s a boy.
 
He’s not a princess.
 
He’s a boy.”
 
Her voice slurred a little on the last word, stretching out the vowel.

She felt rather than saw Mason’s half-smile.
 
“Right.
 
Fair point.
 
But back to the problem.
 
What would Heaven be full of?”

“Angels,” said Laia.

“Right again.
 
And if we’re all angels, how easy is it to go storm the gates?
 
Me against another dude, that’s probably fair.
 
Against two, the odds look grim.”
 
He took a sip from his whisky.
 
“Three or more, and I’m toast.
 
I’m just another corpse, waiting for retrieval and memory uplift.”

Laia frowned.
 
“The prophecy says that the angel who saves our world will be strong, and valiant.
 
Fearless.”

Mason laughed.
 
“Fearless?”

“Yes,” she said.
 
She looked down, ashamed.
 
“It is written.”

“I seen a lot of things,” he said.
 
“I’ve never met a man without fear.”

“I have,” said Laia.
 
“I have seen it.”

“Yeah?” said Mason.
 
“When?”

“When you faced down a hundred of those…
 
A hundred or more monsters, alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” said Mason.
 
“You were there.”

“No,” said Laia.
 
“You don’t let us in.
 
You’re always alone.”

Sadie paced the room, black boots slamming against the wooden floor.
 
She felt —
caged?
— stuck here, a prisoner of the empty town.
 
She wanted the crowd.
 
She wanted the mic.
 
She stopped to look out through the broken windows, the empty street.
 
If she leaned out enough she’d be able to see the edge of the bottle store where Mason was getting drunk.
 
Again.

Drunk, and not getting them back to the world.
 
Her eyes drifted back inside, and she looked at the radio.
 
Fuckit
.
 
She grabbed the mic, clicked the button.
 
“Yo.
 
Company woman.”

There was a hiss of static, then, “We don’t really like that term, you know.
 
It’s like calling you an illegal.”

Sadie snorted.
 
“It’s not like that at all, and you know it,” she said.
 
“We illegals don’t own the world.”

Something in the radio clicked to itself before the woman answered.
 
“We don’t own the world.”

“Yeah,” said Sadie, “near enough you do.”

“Call me Carter,” said the woman.
 
“Can you do that?”

“Ok, Carter,” said Sadie.
 
“Can you do something for me in return?”

“Uh,” said Carter.
 
“Maybe.”

“Is it always a contract with you people?” said Sadie.
 
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“I think I do,” said Carter.
 
“I’m good at that shit.”

“What shit?”

“People,” said Carter, the word softened in the middle by a rush of static.
 
“I’m good at people.”

“Are you good at modesty too?”
 
Sadie frowned at the radio.
 
“Among your many talents?”

“Yes,” said Carter.
 
“I assume nothing other than the truth about what I do.
 
You could almost say I was made that way.”

“You’re bizarre for a company woman,” said Sadie.

“Talked to many company women?” said Carter.
 
“I mean, you know, for longer than it takes to call them a cunt and spit on their shoes.”

Sadie laughed.
 
“You know what, Carter?”

“What?”

“You
are
good at people.”
 
Sadie walked to the wall where the guitar leaned, the strings glinting with the desire to be touched.
 
She reached out, hesitating for just a moment before grabbing the neck.
 
Sadie used the edge of her boot to turn the amp on with a flick of the big switch on the front.
 
It hummed for a moment before quieting down.

“What was that?” said Carter.
 
“Are you alone?”

“Sort of,” said Sadie.
 
“Mason and Laia are down a couple doors, getting drunk.”

“He does that a lot,” said Carter.
 
“It’s one of his many talents.”

“Talent?” said Sadie.
 
“I’m not sure I’d call it that.”

“I dunno,” said Carter, the radio chattering for a moment.
 
“The ability to forget?
 
That’s a unique talent in his line of work.”

“He doesn’t really forget,” said Sadie, dragging an old chair closer to the table where the radio stood.
 
She sat, threw her feet up on the edge of the table, and cradled the guitar.
 
“Does he, Carter?”

The radio was silent for a moment, long enough that Sadie looked up from her guitar, about to repeat her question.
 
“No,” said Carter.
 
“He doesn’t really forget anything.
 
It’s why I like him.”

“You like him?”
 
Sadie strummed the guitar, winced, twisted one of the tuning keys.
 
“Is that in your job description?”

The other woman laughed.
 
“Oh,” she said.
 
“I can see why he likes you.”

Sadie frowned, strumming the guitar again.
 
“He doesn’t like me.
 
He’s keeping me a prisoner in a city at the edge of the world.
 
There’s not even
room service
here.”

“Sadie?” said Carter.

“Yeah?”

“Sadie Freeman, if he didn’t like you, he’d have executed you and left you dead back in the bar.”
 
Carter paused.
 
“You’re a loose end.
 
A problem he needs to solve.
 
You don’t
fit
.”

“I fit fine, company woman,” said Sadie, something pulling the edge of her mouth down, her lips hardening into a line.
 
“It’s my planet too.”

“Didn’t you just say we own it?” said Carter, the radio stretching her voice thin.
 
“You can’t have it both ways.
 
You can’t hold us accountable for your fuck-ups and then say you own a piece of it too.”

Sadie sat for a moment, touching the strings, her hands moving without thought.
 
The guitar spoke to her from the amp, notes dropping out against the floor like lost memories.
 
“Maybe,” she said.
 
“I didn’t fuck anything up, though.”

“Sure you did,” said Carter.
 
“Aldo Vast.”

“Aldo Vast,” said Sadie.
 
“I know that music.”

“You sure you do?” said Carter.
 
“He was your drummer, right?
 
Your sometime lover?”

“Something like that,” said Sadie.
 
“He was an asshole.”

“Ok, rocker chick,” said Carter.
 
“Here’s what
I
know about Aldo Vast.
 
Here’s what I
mean
when I say you
fucked everything up
.
 
Aldo Vast, known in Oregon as Bernard Simmons.
 
Known in Wisconsin as Jean Macey.
 
Known everywhere as useless white trash.”

“What did you say?” said Sadie.

“Aldo Vast,” said Carter.
 
It didn’t even sound like she’d stopped to take a breath.
 
“Wanted for drug trafficking, assault, and rape.”