The Paradise Prophecy

“You made the right decision, Sebastian. God sent me to watch over you. Over all of you. I am your second chance.”

“But I don’t understand,” Batty croaked. “I was supposed to kill you.”

The angel shook her head. “No, Sebastian. It was the third choice that mattered. The hidden choice. The one not shown in the prophecy that demonstrated your humanity to God and told him there was still hope for humankind. The one that came from reason and emotion, with no promises attached to it. It was the right choice, Sebastian. The only choice.”

Free will, Batty thought. That’s what it ultimately came down to. And what so many people thought of as weakness-the ability to empathize, to care, the thing that seemed so absent in the world of late-was really man’s strength. His lifeblood.

The angel flicked a wrist and the sword at Batty’s feet suddenly leapt through the air and landed in her hand.

Then she was moving, gliding, sweeping the blade in wide arc, a wave of energy rolling out across the rooftop, drudges disintegrating in its wake, dark angels dropping their skins where they stood, their vaporous life- forms fleeing in terror.

With a roar of rage, Beelzebub broke from Michael’s grasp and flung an arm out, firing his own ball of energy straight toward the warrior angel’s chest. But she deflected it with the blade, hurling it right back at him, the impact slamming him to the ground.

He landed in a heap at the edge of the rooftop, his body twisted, broken beyond repair. Looking up at her in stunned disbelief, his eyes went blank-

– and he was gone.

And as the last of the demons abandoned their skins and fled into the darkness, the angel waved her sword once more. Thunder rumbled, and all throughout the city, the fiery crevices of hell sputtered and died, sealing up before Batty’s eyes.

Then the angel looked at him and touched her heart.

“Go with God, Sebastian . . .”

And before Batty could say a word, she let her wings carry her into the sky, taking her upward toward the heavens. As she disappeared from view, a ray of golden light broke through the darkness above and swept across the landscape, restoring everything in its path.

It looked to Batty as if someone were running the film in reverse, buildings rising from the rubble to their former glory as the city was restored.

And all around him, the favela began to shift and change-battered aluminum shacks turning into houses; trees and grass sprouting and growing, flowers blooming, as the moon faded away and the sky turned a brilliant, cloudless blue.

Batty looked at Callahan and Michael, all of them standing there, frozen in place, covered in fine black dust, their weapons limp in their hands, their mouths agape-

– as they stared in awe at the world around them.

54

It was almost as if it had never happened.

As if the clock had been turned back a few hours, leaving the city to blithely go about its business. Traffic in the streets, schoolchildren on buses, drive-time radio stations playing the latest hits from Sao Paulo and around the globe.

But it had also changed somehow.

They all felt it as they stood there in the center of the city. They couldn’t know for certain, of course, but it seemed as if a giant pressure valve had been opened, releasing all the tension from the world.

Replacing it with hope.

They had walked here from the favela, dazed and exhausted, the three of them looking as if they’d emerged from a coal mine. And as they paused to take it all in, Michael said, “You do realize this isn’t the end of it.”

Callahan gestured to their newly restored surroundings. “Looks pretty definitive to me.”

“Don’t let any of this fool you,” Michael said. “It’s a second chance, nothing more. A shot at redemption, not a return to Paradise. There are no guarantees for humankind. There are no guarantees for any of us.”

Batty nodded, a familiar line of poetry coming to mind. “Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.”

Callahan looked at him. “Milton?”

“Paradise Lost. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?” He turned to Michael. “This isn’t the last we’ve seen of Belial, is it?”

“If I know my sister, she and Beelzebub are already licking their wounds and planning their next move.” He paused. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t the same world our father created. We’ve entered a new age now. And the enemies of humankind aren’t limited to a handful of disgruntled angels. There are forces out there-human and otherwise-waiting, watching, looking for weaknesses to exploit. And if this second chance is to mean anything, we’ll have to remain vigilant, always alert.”

“We?” Callahan said.

“Custodes Sacri’s job is far from done.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

Michael turned to face them now. “You’ve proven yourselves today. There aren’t many who could do what you’ve done. Yet you prevailed. We prevailed.”

Batty instinctively touched the medallion hanging from his neck. He’d forgotten he’d put it on.

“I think it’s time we transform ourselves,” Michael said. “Broaden the view, so to speak. Become the eyes and ears of humankind and do what we can to help God’s new angel watch over the world.”

What he said made sense to Batty, and for the first time since Rebecca died, he almost felt whole again.

“But that’s an enormous undertaking,” Callahan said. “And there aren’t enough of us to go around.”

“Yet look what we’ve managed to do. Three solitary beings who came together to make something happen. Never underestimate the power of determination.”

“Or desperation,” Batty said.

They all laughed, but there was very little humor in it.

“We aren’t alone in this,” Michael told them. “There are others out there who remain unseen-human and angel alike.”

Batty thought of the anonymous D.C. connection and glanced at Callahan, wondering if she was sharing his thought.

“We can build a network of guardians,” Michael continued, “and work together to keep all of our travelers safe.”

They looked at one another, nodding in agreement, then Michael offered them his hand, palm up, and said, “Defende eos.”

Protect them.

Batty and Callahan exchanged another glance, then clasped his outstretched hand and said it again. In unison.

And as they watched Michael slice a hole in the atmosphere to lead them back home, Callahan turned to Batty.

“What do you think, Professor? A drink to celebrate?”

“Only if it’s orange juice,” he said.