Staying back with me, Father Traven has fallen behind the others. I don’t like being the gimp in the group.
“Who made it is an interesting question. Most texts say it was the Angra, as a way to destroy our God. But there was speculation among a group of Byzantine scholars that God himself made it. That it’s not a weapon against the Angra but against himself.”
“God was going to take a bullet for the team?”
“Even that’s disputed. Maybe God intended to sacrifice himself in hopes that it would appease the Angra.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If our God made it, and Ruach let Aelita have it, she’d know how to use it, only she doesn’t. She got lucky killing Neshamah, but she can’t count on getting all the brothers on luck.”
“There’s one more theory. A minority theory, but an interesting one. It says that a high priestess is the only one that can bring the Qomrama into this universe from where the Angra are exiled.”
“How?”
“No one knows, but the theory continues that the reason the Qomrama is hard to control is that it’s not just an inanimate weapon. That it’s a kind of Qliphoth.”
“A demon? Then it’s a piece of one of the old gods. That means it’s alive.”
Traven shrugs. I can breathe again, so we start walking.
“As I said, it’s a minority opinion, but with the Qomrama, I wouldn’t put anything out of the realm of possibility.”
“Neither would I. Ever notice that we live in a very strange universe?”
Traven brushes dust out of his eyes and off his deeply lined face.
“What’s left to believe in? The God in Heaven isn’t to be trusted, and a piece of that very same God is also Lucifer in Hell? How are we supposed to go on knowing these things?”
“Cheer up, Father. It could have been ten.”
He gives me a look.
I say, “It’s a Hellion joke. When God threw the rebel angels out of Heaven, they fell for nine days.”
Traven nods and says, “I get it. Things could always be worse. I suppose that’s true.”
“I won’t tell you any other Hellion jokes. Most sound like the Three Stooges riffing on farts and vivisection.”
“I appreciate that.”
This part of the corridor is all raw drywall with Spackle smeared along the edges where the panels join. I feel woozy. I stop to lean against a section. And I’m falling. Not onto the floor but right through the wall.
I land flat on my back, knocking the wind out of me. It takes me a minute to get my senses back. My stitches hurt from the impact. Faintly, like he’s talking through water, I can hear Traven calling my name. But I’m in no shape to answer.
I came down on a pile of mall trash and building materials. Broken drywall panels, a layer of old cups and napkins, moldy clothes, and broken beanbag chairs. A million gnat-size Styrofoam pellets float to the floor, like I’m lying in a blizzard in a garbage dump. Thin, airy laughs come from the edges of the room. They sound like the wind from the other side of a hill.
“Who’s there?”
The laughter tapers off but no one answers. Looking up, I can see the hole where I fell through. It’s not that far. Shadows move across it. Someone is looking for me.
I shout, “Traven. Down here. Hey!”
“He can’t hear you.”
Another voice says, “None of them can.”
“Who is that?”
More laughs. A bunch of people down here think I’m fucking hilarious.