Apollyon Ex Machina
This first appeared in CHRYSALLIS 6, 1980.
Being the Angel of Death is a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.
He could feel it all around him, the fear and hatred. He could sense it in the air as he glided through the corridors: the scurrying out of his way; the waves of relief behind him that he had passed by them and would not be stopping just yet. And always, hanging in the air like an acid mist, his name—spoken in awed whispers by those he passed: “The Disassembler.”
After all this time, it still affected him. He knew the others would never—could never—accept him and his mission for what they were. He himself....
He blanked from his mind the magnitude of it all. It was a job; it was his job. He and the job were unique to one another, wedded for the length of h
