The Wheel of Osheim

“I’m just a library entry, Jalan. Bareth Kell died many centuries ago in the third war.”

“But I know you. You’re Baraqel.”

The ghost shone brighter still. I shielded my eyes. “When the world burned I was one of the few who could leave their flesh and pattern myself onto the energy flux. I became a wraith, a spirit if you like. The Barry who lived in the meat where my mind was born . . . he burned. It was a sad time.”

“Baraqel? This is you, isn’t it?” I tilted the box and the ghost tilted with it. There was more to this ghost than some “library entry”—he felt alive, charged with energy and personality. I saw it as he leaned with the box, a peevish frown, something judgmental in the way he pursed his lips. “It is you!”

Baraqel gave a nod and a grudging smile. “It’s me. Or at least an echo of me resonating in this device. I won’t last long. Where’s the heathen? Bring him forward.”

Snorri stepped into the light. “Baraqel. You fought well.”

“You saved us.” I frowned at the angel, now just the ghost of a man who died a millennium ago, a man in his fifties, slightly balding. You wouldn’t remark him on the street—yet somehow he had through force of will set his stamp on the universe so deeply that it had carried his spirit all these years since his flesh had burned to cinders. “How . . . how did you get from this—” I tilted him back. Put a tunic on him and he could be a servant at the palace. “To that?” I nodded toward the unborn’s remains and the great smoking wounds that Baraqel’s sword had left in its flesh.

Baraqel grinned, waving a hand past his head in self-deprecation. “At the start it was as if we were gods, those of us who escaped into the . . . the elements you might call them . . . We ranged so far. This world is like one leaf and we had access to the tree. Years slipped by unnoticed. It was subtle at first. Men returned, just a few survivors emerging from bunkers after generations or spreading from the depths of places so remote they had suffered no direct damage. They drew us back. We thought it was our idea—that we’d come to watch humanity rise again, to guide it. But the truth was that their expectations reeled us in; and then their stories shaped us, degree by degree, so slowly we didn’t notice it happening or understand the process, and we became the stories they told about us.”

As Baraqel spoke the light from his data-ghost faded. “I’ve lived too long. So many years, so many regrets.” He grew dim. “I used to love to watch the sunrise. Before the change. Before the world stopped being so simple. I used to wake up just to watch it rise over the Pyrenees.” His voice grew soft, blurred around the words. “I didn’t watch the sun rise that last day. I had wanted to . . . I regret that. Perhaps . . . more than the rest of it.” He paused, more pale now than the ghosts the box normally produced. The box faded with him, its glow dying beneath my fingers. “I think sometimes that when the bomb vaporized me the real Barry Kell died that day, and all I am is an echo, a variation in the light.” He looked up at me, wraith-like, faint lines suggesting the man. “And what . . . you see here is just an echo of that echo, rattling about in a box of tricks, old Baraqel . . . the angel superimposed on a simple AI to speak his last words.”

“Thank you,” Snorri said beside me. “It was an honour to fight beside you, Baraqel, an honour to hold back the night.”

“I can see it.” Words so faint now you might think them imagined.

“What can you see, Baraqel?” I’d mocked him, I’d thought him a pain in my royal arse when we were bound, but now my throat tightened around the words and I had to grit my teeth to speak them unbroken.

“The sunrise . . . can’t . . . can’t you . . . see it?”

“I can see it,” Snorri said.

“It’s . . . beautiful.”

“Yes.”

The box was dark in my hands. Silent.

• • •

It’s a strange thing to watch the death of a spirit that has shared your mind. Neither Snorri nor I spoke as we walked back to the road. Stranger still to discover he was once a man with hopes and dreams like yours and all the foolishness that men carry around with them. I thought about what Baraqel had said in those final minutes—about how he had escaped the flesh and felt like a god, his potential without limit, only to find himself drawn into the stories people told about him, constrained by their expectations and finally fashioned by those tales, shaped into something new.

“I feel sorry for him,” I said as I crossed the ditch and turned back to see the others kicking their way through the remnants of the hedge. “Never getting to be his own man . . . or spirit . . . or whatever.”