High above the depression, the Horus hunkered down like a tethered beast, grinding its stalk into the bedrock, flaunting its power, howling, roaring, taunting all who approached. Karla felt like an Eloi responding to the Morlocks’ siren. Arm in arm with a fellow cripple, she limped after it, her mind resolute, her heart equivocal.
She should have had nothing to lose, nothing to fear. The Deeps was not a tolerable place. Any change was a change for the better. The Hashmallim promised the Horus was a step up in the universe, but could they really be trusted? But who cares if it was a portal to some place worse? At least it would be different. Not this Arbuda—the cold hell of the Hindus—as some of the more negative nabobs in the crowd liked to call it.
But inside her, another smaller voice of dissent said no. Maybe it was better to roam. Though all this futile wandering got tiresome, at least she knew what to expect here. She would not complain if the Horus turned fickle. She could simply return to this hopeless but comfortable limbo.
She took some comfort in the storm’s history of quirky, unpredictable movement. She had never seen it sustain a steady course or linger very long in one location, especially not with a mass of humanity about to cross its doorstep. Rarely did it sample more than a taste of each horde before slinking off like some runaway groom.
Every step she took, her knee crunched like a sack of shattered marbles. At least the joint worked. No swelling. No pain. A small consolation for the permanent damage, but the implications were huge, making the difference between independence and immobility.
Gasps propagated up and down the column. A gap had appeared in the curtain dust and cloud shrouding the Horus, providing a rare glimpse of its inner structure—braided cords like bundles of rope, writhing like a nest of snakes. And then even that peeled away, revealing the brilliant shaft of its central vortex. Streaked with hints of turquoise and gold, it glowed as if illuminated from within by worlds beyond. It peered out like some reptilian iris until a wall of cloud drew the veil closed.
Fellow cripple Amy rested her arm on Karla’s shoulder. “You would think … if that was such a good place, if we were being rewarded, God would have made it pretty.”
“Maybe it’s pretty on the inside,” said Karla.
“Or we don’t deserve pretty.”
Seven pale specks emerged from the haze, darting through the outer bands of the storm, further exciting her fellow chasers. The Seraphim, normally as rare as raindrops, had been numerous of late. Necks craned en masse to track their flight over the depression.
“Look at that! A whole flock of bird men,” said Amy. “What the heck’s going on? They going south for the winter?”
“I wish you would not call them that,” Karla whispered. “It is disrespectful. They are not ducks. They are angels. And not only angels, but Seraphs.”
“Listen to you, Miss Goody Two-shoes. What’s gotten into you?”
Karla shrugged. “People overhear. People report … to Junger.”
Amy sighed. “You’d think these dead people would mind their own business.”
“I don’t blame them. People are desperate. Eager to please.”
“Been a while since the hash goons came around. Wonder what’s up.”
“Please! They are Hashmallim. They are angels as well.”
“Pfft! Yeah, right. Angels. In name alone.”
“Let’s not talk about it here. People are looking at us.”
