CHAPTER 46 - SABRA
The three of them descended into the depths of Promethea’s temple. The swirling, dancing motes within the passage lit their path, and Sabra caught glimpses of her reflection in the myriad of faces and angles around her. She wasn’t sure how long they walked for, or if those reflections were of her.
There was no frame of reference, no markers, nothing to orientate herself by. There was nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other and follow the stairs down to wherever they ended. Sabra was aware of the path rising, falling, and rising again. She was aware of it winding around, like a mad maze. She was aware of the ants behind her eyes—she ignored them.
She wouldn’t turn back until she’d reached the heart of the dark labyrinth. And if there was a monster there, she’d face it. She’d defeated one minotaur. She could do it again.
“Jack,” Sabra said, minutes later. “I’ve got a question.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“You said you’d dealt with Promethea before?”
“Yeah.”
“Is this what it was like last time?”
“Close to it,” he said. “The last time, she made her home in this crystalline temple, like it’d grown out of the ground. That was over in Eastern Europe. Wonder if it’s still there.”
“And the person?”
“Difficult to describe.”
“Well, we’ve got time. It’s not like we’ve got anything else to do but talk.”
“Impel mentioned the big one,” Leopard said. “Everyone thought she’s one of the Transcended. Maybe she is. But the rumor we kept hearing was that she was some IESA scientist on some crazy black box project. Whatever it was, it drove her mad. That, or she’s still their little project.”
“And she tore out her own eyes?”
“Yeah,” Leopard replied. “And it’s not even the weirdest thing. That’s just the one thing that people can easily understand.”
“Okay, so, what can someone like this even need someone like you and your group for? Because, really, I don’t see what someone like this needs with a bunch of assholes with guns. No offense.”
“None taken. She’d had a problem with an insane telepath stealing away her cult members.”
“Demiurge,” Revenant said.
“That’s the one. We got hired to take him out. Long story short, we all got trapped in his dreamscape and almost died, but Tiger put a bullet in his brain.”
Sabra nodded. “And the payment for that was an answer to a question?”
“Yeah,” Leopard replied. “And frankly, we got one hell of a bargain.” The hexagonal stairs leveled out towards a landing and Leopard’s attention snapped up. “Light, movement.”
The tight, gleaming corridor opened up into a vast space, bright green foliage contrasting against the black angular walls. One moment, Sabra had marble under her shoes, and then grass and dirt. She felt like she could breathe again. All around her was nothing but plant life—vibrant and striking, the air rich with moisture and humidity.
Sabra gaped at the beauty of it, at the precision of it. To call it idyllic was an understatement. It was a garden to rival Eden. Everywhere Sabra looked, there were trees and flowers and plants, and she recognized none of them. Far above, something like a miniature sun peeked out behind a heavy mist, bathing the cavern in impossible sunshine.
And they weren't alone: figures moved through the garden with purpose. Men and women in white robes, the hem trimmed in gold, and all of them were utterly silent. Sabra began a quick headcount, and decided it was pointless—there were too many to keep track of, and they were all too similar to easily differentiate. And she wasn't sure it even mattered. All of them were tending to the plants, like dutiful gardeners, and did not appear to notice their presence.
All but one.
An older man shuffled in their direction as if he had been expecting them. He looked ancient, with wisps of grey hair across his bare scalp, his wrinkled face sunken and gaunt. But he radiated a calm that Sabra figured even her father would envy.
“Well, at least she’s got the same speaker,” Leopard said, and stepped forward, bowing his head. “Greetings, honored one. We seek an audience with Promethea. I’m the one who helped slay Demiurge, and the payment for our service was deferred until a later date. I am here to collect.”
“She is aware,” the old man replied, clasping his hands before him. His voice was warm and tender, like how Sabra imagined a grandparent to sound. “But she will not speak with you.”
The directness of it seemed to stun Leopard. Sabra’s eyes flitted to the gun at Leopard’s back, before remembering it was unloaded, but his hand stayed at his side.
“I understand,” Leopard said. “But my other associates are dead. I am the only one left able to collect. It is of vital importance that I am allowed my question.”
“She will not speak with you.” The warmth had faded, just enough to make it clear that Leopard should not—would not—press the matter any further. The speaker extended a crooked, calloused finger in Sabra’s direction. “But she will speak with you.”
“Me?” Sabra asked.
“You will follow me. The others must withdraw from this sacred place, especially the automaton.”
Leopard held his ground. “You know,” he said tersely, “you could’ve said that before we came all the way down here.”
Promethea’s speaker stared and said nothing. Sabra nodded to her companions. “I’ll be fine. Make your way back to the top, and I’ll see you both soon.”
Leopard sighed through his teeth, then turned and moved back towards the entrance to the dark path and, through it, to the park beyond. Revenant lingered, looked like she was going to say something, then reached out and patted Sabra on the shoulder. And then she left, too, leaving Sabra alone in the middle of Promethea’s cult.
“This way,” the speaker said.
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Just two paces behind, Sabra followed Promethea’s representative through the garden. In the wake of his even, measured steps, her long stride felt clumsy and awkward. The flat grass gave way to a gentle slope and a path of glittering stones that led up towards the summit. There, at the base, the speaker turned and paused, gesturing behind him for her to continue along the path.
“She communes with the source of all souls,” he said. “I can go no further.”
“Thank you for taking me this far,” Sabra said, but the speaker was already gone, shuffling off to attend to something else. No one else appeared to notice her. A horse—an actual horse, by Allah—poked its head out from between a row of perfectly spaced trees. A bright blue bird settled between its ears, utterly still, like it was watching her.
Sabra exhaled, clenched her fists to banish her trepidation, and stepped forward and onto the path. She followed it up towards the crest of the hill, where it gave way to a sandy expanse bordered by intricate, verdant topiary. In the middle of it, seated on a hexagonal plinth of black marble with her back to Sabra, was a tan-skinned woman with long dark hair. She wore the same robe as the others in the garden.
“Come,” Promethea said.
When Sabra had been younger, when she had visited Japan, her father had taken her to a Zen garden. She couldn’t recall why, but figured it was part of his quest for enlightenment (or his love of bonsai trees.) It was the memory that came to her as she stood at the top of the hill. There, they had raked intricate patterns into the sand.
Here, there were patterns in the sand, too—and they were moving. Pavel had said that the ability to manipulate sand was incredibly rare. Sabra steeled herself and stepped out onto the sand.
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She crossed toward Promethea. She had a glimpse of the patterns shifting with her, as if absorbing her into the wider design. Sabra turned back to look behind her and saw no trace of her footsteps.
Promethea was silent. Her attention remained wherever it was. Closer, Sabra made out silver lines riddling the skin that was exposed by her loose robe, all sharp lines and hard right angles. It reminded her of nothing other than a multitude of complex circuit diagrams.
It wasn’t like any body art she had ever seen. Not like the Maori tattoos she’d seen on some of her friends, nor like the scars her ancestors had. This was like something had grown under the skin.
“Do not be afraid,” Promethea said, like she was an angel.
Once, her parents had talked about angels. Her mother had said the Lord’s angels said such words as a commandment to not live in fear. Her father had said that they were beings of such power that humanity could only stand in fear of them, much like the angels themselves could only stand in fear of Allah. To Sabra, it seemed obvious—someone truly benevolent would not need to tell you to not fear them.
So, she stopped a comfortable distance from Promethea. The oracle rose into the air, limbs uncurling, the tips of her bare toes just barely grazing the surface of her dark island. Then she set down, turning to face Sabra. Her eyes—the eyes that she had ripped out—were covered by a white blindfold. And yet, Sabra could see recognition kindle on the woman’s features.
“Ah,” Promethea said. “So I thought.” There was a transcendent, angelic quality to her voice—something just under the sound of her words, something deep in their meaning. “It is good for us to finally meet.”
Facing her now, Sabra could spy something glowing beneath Promethea’s robes, something pulsing with rainbow intensity over her heart—or, perhaps, where her heart should’ve been. Those angular lines proliferated from it. The meaning of it escaped Sabra, but there was that whisper of music.
The oracle stepped onto the sand, and the shifting patterns integrated her presence into the greater work. She radiated something warm and serene, unimaginable calm. Sabra crossed her arms, if only to guard herself against whatever aura the blind woman possessed.
She stopped just a few feet away from Sabra, and her words came right out of her nightmares.
“Or do you not agree, Sekhmet?”
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Memories in a flash.
Her mother regaling her with bedtime stories drawn from Ancient Egyptian mythology. Her favorite was that of Sekhmet, goddess of might and healing. But that was only later, when she was old enough to appreciate the duality of it. At first, the stories of the lioness-headed arbiter of destruction, divine instrument of Ra’s judgment, were nothing but a source of nightmares.
Sekhmet—glorious, terrifying, wrathful Sekhmet—wandered the deserts of Egypt under the auspices of Ra, restoring the cosmic balance that humanity had disturbed by going against the gods. But her divine mission became a mindless massacre, and she drank the blood of every man, woman and child until Ra, afraid of what he had initiated, tricked her into a cosmic slumber.
There was supposed to be some moral there, but Sabra couldn’t see it. The only thing she found in the tale was terror.
Her mother’s balm that her God would never condone such atrocities, that the old gods were fictional, didn’t help matters. Somehow, the notion that it was all fake only made it worse. Why, Sabra had asked, would anyone ever write such stories?
Not even her father could answer that question.
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“Did you think I would not recognize you, oh Mistress of Dread?” Promethea said, as if the words made any sense to Sabra. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Yeah? That’s a good eye you’ve got, given the blindfold,” Sabra said. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“That is where you are wrong. You know what I have seen. But where you have only glimpsed the shadows within the abyss, I have beheld the moment that cast them, and all that transpires in its wake.”
Despite the anxiety in her belly, Sabra was hit by a desire to know, to unravel the mysteries of her nightmares. Surely by knowing the future, she could take actions to stop it. But there was another thought, that the knowledge of it could make it real. That if she knew of what Promethea spoke, she’d never know anything else ever again.
“Okay, sure,” Sabra said. “Whatever you say.” She found her footing and powered on. Let the crazy oracle think she was some Egyptian goddess, that didn’t matter to Sabra. The only thing that mattered was getting an answer to the question they had come to ask.
The problem was, and it only occurred to Sabra now, that Leopard hadn’t shared the question he was going to ask. But this was an all-or-nothing downtown shot, and there was only one question he could’ve been planning to ask.
Where will we find Monkey?
The moment she had the question on the tip of her tongue, Promethea spoke: “The debt you are here for has already been fulfilled.”
Stunned, Sabra shook her head. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it? Or is it just unlikely?”
“No. Unless... Unless Monkey has already come to collect it.”
“He asked, I answered, and the matter is concluded.”
Then he was close by, at least. That was better than nothing. But what had he asked?
“If you knew that,” Sabra said, “then why did you even waste our time with this?”
“So we might have this conversation. So we can discuss what we’ve both seen.”
Something erupted out of Promethea then—flashes of thought, glyphs of images, pulled around her like a cloak. War, violence, death. Destruction on a scale that went beyond Sabra’s ability to see it as anything but an existential force. An apocalypse rendered in fragments and glimpses and frames, and everywhere she looked, there she was.
“I can’t think of anything I’d want to talk about less,” Sabra said, refusing to shut her eyes. “The man who is trying to trigger that, you gave him his answer. You should’ve killed him and saved us all the trouble.”
“Why are you so afraid of her?” Promethea asked. “The thread of your song is so powerful that there is nothing you couldn’t achieve if only you would draw upon it. The fear of your potential leads you to strangle it so tightly, to pluck single notes when you could weave a chorus, that it’s a miracle that you can hear the song at all.”
“Shut up,” Sabra said.
“I know precisely who you are, Sabra Kasembe, Sekhmet scion, and I know precisely what builds in your nascent wake. I know that you despise injustice, and I know the fury that such naked abuses and imbalances awakens within you. I know that you desire victory everlasting.”
“Shut up.”
“I have witnessed you defying the machinations of heroes and tyrants. I have walked upon the paths your bare feet have left across blistering desert sands and frozen desolate mountains. I have seen your conclusion at the end of the world. I have seen you hold her starfire heart in the palm of your hands, and cast the world into the fire.”
“Shut up!”
“I have stood in your shadow at the head of your dread Sekhmetarii. I have seen the mountain sundered, the lion rising and the dragon falling and the concord signed. I have heard the echoes of the shouts from your followers and the screams of your victims. And I know that you have seen this too.”
“I said, shut up!”
Her shout was so loud and harsh that she wondered, for a moment, in the silence, if it had echoed across the entire garden. Around her, the steadily shifting sands paused.
“Don’t for a second think that your prophesying scares me, Promethea,” Sabra snarled, jabbing a finger at the blind demigod. “I’ve seen more than one future, and none of them are set.”
“Yet you worry that they will all lead to the same point,” Promethea replied, and the sands were moving again. “Such is the curse of prescience. If it all comes to pass, then it is prophecy. If it does not, then it only metaphor. You are out of time, Sabra Kasembe, but she is not.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. With all of your power, you could fix the world—instead, you’re here, hiding in your perfect little garden. I’m going to save the world, and no one’s going to die for it. Whatever you think you’re doing here, it won’t work.”
Promethea was silent.
“And if there’s nothing I can’t achieve,” Sabra said, “then don’t you dare think you can ever stand in my way.”
“Ah,” Promethea said, and her lips split in a calm smile. “There she is. I have beheld this woman. Similar to you, defiant and scarred, but so different. Your nose makes it obvious that you are not her, at least not yet—but that is her voice.”
“Then hear this, by Christ and by Allah,” Sabra said. “I will stop that future from happening, whether it’s by me or Monkey or anyone else! There won’t be a Sekhmet. I will never be that monster.”
“We shall see,” Promethea replied. “Your opportunities to elude the end of all things are already fewer than you think. We shall see if your zeal will give you conviction enough to make those choices when the time comes.”
Sabra didn’t realize how heavy her heartbeat was, the blood rushing in her ears, until neither she nor Promethea were talking. Despite everything, the blind oracle didn’t seem at all concerned about how heated the conversation had become. An unsettling feeling crept up Sabra’s spine: that this was precisely what Promethea had seen, or had wanted to see.
“I have said all that there is to say between us,” Promethea said. “Whatever will happen now, will happen. Whatever is willed, will be.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Perhaps. But there is something you must do before that.” Promethea reached into her robes and produced a scrap of paper, holding it out to Sabra.
“What is that?”
“A favor to one of your friends from one of their friends.”
Sabra reached for the paper and found it an envelope. On the front was a single word: Spots. No guesses as to who it was for. She slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“Well,” Sabra said, “This has been thoroughly enlightening. But if that’s everything, then I’ll be going. I hope we never meet again.”
Sabra turned on her heel and walked away. The sands shifted a new pattern in her wake. She had just reached the edge of the sandy expanse when she heard the blind oracle say three words: “Sabra, I’m sorry.”
Gone was the transcendent serenity of Promethea’s voice, replaced by nothing but bare, confused humanity. Sabra turned back, bewildered. “For what?”
“For this. For everything. I don’t know what I’m doing.”