Outlanders 53 - Infinity Breach by James Axler

Author:James Axler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

IN THE CIRCULAR control room, the angels stepped away from the spot where Simona Jurist had been, turning as one to look at the fallen body of Dr. Winterslow.

“There were impurities in the child,” the first angel said, astounded at the revelation. Her name was Abariel.

“Corrupted,” one of the others replied in a voice like a song. His name was Damiel.

Another angel spoke then, the beautiful one called Abariel, her voice like a river glade. “Not all of the children. That cannot be.”

“We must test them,” Damiel said.

“Judge them,” the angel Bateliel agreed. “Each in turn.”

One of the glowing angels, this one with a tangle of locks flowing past his shoulders, crouched before the corpse of Dr. Winterslow, touching his hand against the late doctor’s face. The angel’s name was Domos.

“This one has no spark,” Domos stated, the words like the flapping of a bird’s feathered wing. “It is not his time, yet his spark is missing. I cannot locate it.”

“Is he corrupted?” Damiel asked in his voice of song.

Domos considered the question for a long time, pressing his hand harder against the corpse’s cooling flesh. “I cannot tell. There are impurities,” he decided. “It is difficult. He has no spark. He should have his spark.”

“His spark is gone,” Bateliel said, the licking of flame in the sound of his voice. “We shall find others and judge.”

“What if they are all impure?” Abariel asked. “What if all of the children have been corrupted?”

“Then we shall cleanse the system,” Bateliel stated, “and the cycle shall start anew.”

“Cleanse the system,” the others agreed.

As the angels were reaching their conclusion, several of the braver Millennial Consortium men edged into the room, their Calico subguns thrust before them.

While most of the consortium men had made their way to safer cover when they had seen Simona Jurist disintegrate, hoping to box in the angels, these three had stayed. Their leader, a man called Irons, had egged them on, encouraging them to return to the control room. “You heard Carver,” Irons had growled. “Come on, we can take them.”

Irons and his two colleagues, Blythe and Denning, lined up their weapons and began to spray the seven glowing figures with 9 mm bullets.

“Kneecap them,” Irons instructed. “Shoot to wound.”

The angels watched as the first of the bullets raced across the room toward them. Beautiful Abariel stepped forward, watching the bullets fly through the air, wondering at their purpose. To Abariel, the bullets looked like insects, their shells a lustrous silver. She saw them moving through the air and thought them pretty, shiny, new things. And so Abariel reached out with a chalk-white, glowing hand and plucked the first bullet from the air. It moved so quickly that it stung, burning her fingers as they clasped at it. She had misjudged its speed, having never seen a living thing move so fast as this. To her angel eyes it moved slower or faster depending on how she interpreted it, but it still burned when it was plucked from the air, such was its speed.

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