corner and out of Lily’s life.
Her face pressed between two of the cool metal bars, her hands each grasping the fence, Lily closed her eyes, let the wind dry the tear-tracks from her face. She inhaled deeply, the inhalation barely masking the sob that snuck out of nowhere as they so often do in the upset child. She spoke, because she knew that Nan was there. She knew that Nan would be there until it was time for Lily to leave this planet.
“Can we go inside now, Nan?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Can I have some more chocolate milk?”
“Of course, dear. You may always have more chocolate milk.”
Lily released the bars from her grasp, turned to find Nan standing at her side, hand already outstretched. She reached up, tried to find comfort in that grasp, which felt enough like her own flesh, but still maintained an alien coolness. It had been explained to Lily, how the angels were not exactly like her, or even the people who walked by the compound and stared at her through the break in the shrubbery. The angels were special because they were made of light, not blood and bones and other nasty naughty things. The angels would always be there to look after Lily, long after all of the others had died.
She squeezed Nan’s hand, and Nan looked down at the little girl with a quiet smile. Lily knew that no matter how hard she squeezed that artificial hand, she would never be able to break it, burst it, invade it in the way that she would have been able to destroy a true hand made of flesh. The trillions of tiny machines that now swam through the air were much stronger than Lily could ever hope to be, and no matter how hard she squeezed, they would maintain the shape that the little silver ball told them to hold.
Nan could sense the question on the tip of Lily’s tongue, and she slowed her pace, eventually stopping completely and bending down on one knee in front of the child. Lily studied the ground intently, and Nan levered her head into an upright position by placing one finger under her chin. The girl’s cold eyes were tear-wet. Nan wiped one of the escapees from Lily’s cheek.
“What is it, little flower?”
She exhaled, breath stippled with those involuntary sobs. “They all hate me.”
The projection before her performed a very good rendition of sorrow, not that Lily would have recognized the difference. Nan leaned forward and embraced her. “No, little one. They don’t hate you.”
“They do. I killed their babies.”
Nan released Lily from her embrace then, her face suddenly sober and bereft of an attempt at empathy. Lily could almost see the communication between the angel and whatever controlled her, the faint flicker of thought between the light sculpture and the entity at the center of the planet. The wind seemed to pick up then, swirls of dead leaves skittering about the paved avenue that led to the main complex, skeletons scratching across brick and mortar.
“Who told you that, Lily?” Nan asked, knowing full well that the child had not been out of her field of senses since she had been delivered.
Lily was evasive, tried to find solace in the intricate brickwork upon which they stood.
“Lily, who?”
“A little girl.”
Nan frowned. “Lily,” she struggled with the words, “you know that that’s not possible.”
The wind was most definitely picking up, the same dead leaves that had been blowing around the force-shielded compound for years creating a visual cacophony between the child and the angel. Lily’s hair whipped around her head, snarling and tangling, a medusa halo in this gray expanse.
“She’s not here. Not with us. Not with them, either.” Lily’s arm reached up, hand and pointed finger indicating the break in the shrubbery.
If there had been blood beneath Nan’s skin, it would have run cold.
“Where is she, Lily?”
“She’s in my head. In my dreams.”
“Lily, I—”
“She lives down there.” Her finger pointed down at the brick pathway. “In the
Her face pressed between two of the cool metal bars, her hands each grasping the fence, Lily closed her eyes, let the wind dry the tear-tracks from her face. She inhaled deeply, the inhalation barely masking the sob that snuck out of nowhere as they so often do in the upset child. She spoke, because she knew that Nan was there. She knew that Nan would be there until it was time for Lily to leave this planet.
“Can we go inside now, Nan?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Can I have some more chocolate milk?”
“Of course, dear. You may always have more chocolate milk.”
Lily released the bars from her grasp, turned to find Nan standing at her side, hand already outstretched. She reached up, tried to find comfort in that grasp, which felt enough like her own flesh, but still maintained an alien coolness. It had been explained to Lily, how the angels were not exactly like her, or even the people who walked by the compound and stared at her through the break in the shrubbery. The angels were special because they were made of light, not blood and bones and other nasty naughty things. The angels would always be there to look after Lily, long after all of the others had died.
She squeezed Nan’s hand, and Nan looked down at the little girl with a quiet smile. Lily knew that no matter how hard she squeezed that artificial hand, she would never be able to break it, burst it, invade it in the way that she would have been able to destroy a true hand made of flesh. The trillions of tiny machines that now swam through the air were much stronger than Lily could ever hope to be, and no matter how hard she squeezed, they would maintain the shape that the little silver ball told them to hold.
Nan could sense the question on the tip of Lily’s tongue, and she slowed her pace, eventually stopping completely and bending down on one knee in front of the child. Lily studied the ground intently, and Nan levered her head into an upright position by placing one finger under her chin. The girl’s cold eyes were tear-wet. Nan wiped one of the escapees from Lily’s cheek.
“What is it, little flower?”
She exhaled, breath stippled with those involuntary sobs. “They all hate me.”
The projection before her performed a very good rendition of sorrow, not that Lily would have recognized the difference. Nan leaned forward and embraced her. “No, little one. They don’t hate you.”
“They do. I killed their babies.”
Nan released Lily from her embrace then, her face suddenly sober and bereft of an attempt at empathy. Lily could almost see the communication between the angel and whatever controlled her, the faint flicker of thought between the light sculpture and the entity at the center of the planet. The wind seemed to pick up then, swirls of dead leaves skittering about the paved avenue that led to the main complex, skeletons scratching across brick and mortar.
“Who told you that, Lily?” Nan asked, knowing full well that the child had not been out of her field of senses since she had been delivered.
Lily was evasive, tried to find solace in the intricate brickwork upon which they stood.
“Lily, who?”
“A little girl.”
Nan frowned. “Lily,” she struggled with the words, “you know that that’s not possible.”
The wind was most definitely picking up, the same dead leaves that had been blowing around the force-shielded compound for years creating a visual cacophony between the child and the angel. Lily’s hair whipped around her head, snarling and tangling, a medusa halo in this gray expanse.
“She’s not here. Not with us. Not with them, either.” Lily’s arm reached up, hand and pointed finger indicating the break in the shrubbery.
If there had been blood beneath Nan’s skin, it would have run cold.
“Where is she, Lily?”
“She’s in my head. In my dreams.”
“Lily, I—”
“She lives down there.” Her finger pointed down at the brick pathway. “In the
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