by Molles, DJ
Stuber went unconscious again, right about the time the spidery hands of the Surgeon they had him strapped to began probing through his lower abdominal cavity.
His hard-clenched bellows turned to the listless groans of someone passing out, and Perry could not decide whether that was better or worse. His mind had shifted as he’d watched the machine rip into Stuber from his ghostly vantage point, as though he were embedded into the wall of the room. All the things that had seemed important to him when he’d refused to talk to Inquisitor Lux now seemed like shallow considerations in the light of his friend’s agony.
What was the point of it all? What was Perry trying to accomplish?
Distantly, he had some knowledge of his real body, back at the end of the tunnel that had sucked him through to this place, and he thought he felt the breath tearing in and out of his lungs, and the sickness overwhelming his belly.
From his forced observation point, Perry began to crumble inwardly. He had already given himself up to the demigods. He had already failed his father. There was no way to accomplish his mission. Did he think that he would walk out of The Clouds at this point? Of course not. They would kill him and his friends. There was no life for them after this.
Why prolong the agony? Why let them be tortured?
The failure was a torture in and of itself, but it paled in comparison to his thoughts, as his imagination began to thrust him, against his will, into Stuber’s body, wondering what it felt like to be opened up and have your insides pried around with an obvious lack of anesthetic.
He couldn’t do this.
He was not equal to the task, and even if he were, what would be the point? Holding back information gained him no ground. It didn’t put him any closer to the East Ruins. It didn’t strike the irons from around his wrists, or the powered bindings attaching him to the stone floor where his corporeal body sat.
And really, what Inquisitor Lux wanted was such a small thing. He only wanted to know what was on the message. And if Perry was going to die anyways, then keeping the message a secret was pointless. In fact, if Perry were to tell Lux what the message said, it may have more of a positive effect for humanity than if he continued his silence. Perhaps the fear of being exposed would cause them to change?
Desperate thoughts. Unrealistic thoughts. But they were the ones that dominated his mind. It is easy to rationalize these things away when you are comfortable and far from danger, and the people that you care about are not being ripped apart. But in the terrible moment of truth, the mind contorts itself into all manner of fantasies in order to make the pain stop.
And so Perry was about to cry out for mercy for his friend, when Stuber slumped into unconsciousness. The Surgeon immediately stopped prying at Stuber. It rapidly pumped SanguinEx into his veins, and seaedl up the wounds it had caused. Healing him, so that the torture could continue in the future…
And then Perry was sucked back through the tunnel. He slammed back into his real body, in the room that he was trapped in, his vision returning as the strange mech’s fingertips left his temples.
The expression on the artificial face had not changed. It smiled at him as though it had not just torn his mind in two. “The Surgeon will return your friend to relative safety before it continues. The process can go on for quite some time. Your friend is strong, and the Surgeon is a very adept model at resuscitating all manner of life forms.”
The mech said it as though these words were a comfort to Perry, though all Perry heard was They can continuing torturing Stuber and bringing him back, and torturing him, and bringing him back, forever.
“Where’s Inquisitor Lux?” Perry squeezed out, not realizing that he was weeping until he felt the wetness of tears join together on his chin and drip off.
“The Inquisitor is busy at the moment, but he will return when you are ready to speak to him. In the meantime, we can look in on another of your friends. Please hold still.”
The fingers stretched out to Perry’s head again, and this time he had neither the strength nor the willpower to resist it. They touched, and Perry was sucked back through the darkness again, this time to another room, just like the last room, except that in this one, the body that lay upon the Surgeon’s bed was Teran.
The pure, animal response to seeing her lying there overcame his momentary exhaustion and he wished to resist. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could do nothing but stare, watch, unblinking.
The articulating arms of the Surgeon were gathered about Teran’s right leg. Her body was spread out, the limbs lashed down with restraining straps that didn’t move an inch despite her writhing body. The clothes had been cut away from her leg, and the flesh had been cut away beyond that, and was held aside by two pincers, like the flaps of an envelope, red on the inside, white on the outside.
They had not restrained Teran’s head. She was able to lift it, and watch in horror. She screamed wordlessly. Beyond the sounds that she made, Perry heard the calm voice of the Surgeon machine, narrating its actions.
“I have gained access to your femoral nerve. I will now stimulate that nerve with a small electrical current. In your present state of consciousness, you should expect the pain to be severe. Standby.”
Perry tried to scream for them to stop, but no sound came out of him, only the gush of his mind, the ferocity of his wanting.
But to his surprise, the Surgeon’s arm halted, inches above Teran’s flesh, a glowing pinpoint of light at the end of a needle-like device, aimed for her nerves.
A voice came to Perry, that was not a voice at all, but a foreign entity in his head.
You wish to speak to Inquisitor Lux?
Not knowing what was happening, only that he needed it all to stop, that he would do anything to make it stop, he screamed YES in his mind.
Back through the tunnel. Back through the darkness. Back into his own body.
His sight returned to him. The fingers of the child-faced mech retreating.
Inquisitor Lux was already in the room, standing at the mech’s side, regarding Perry with a single finger perched at his lips. He moved the finger to the side. “Something you’d like to tell me, Percival?”
Perry hung his head, unable to even meet Lux’s gaze, the defiance drained out of him so completely that he felt an emptiness inside of him, like something that had kept him alive had been suddenly excised from him, and the rest of the structure of who he was had crumbled in on itself without that base to support it.
“I’ll tell you,” he whispered, his eyes clenched shut. “Just…put them back together.”
He heard the soft footfalls of Lux approaching him. A warm hand on his shoulder. A voice, so gentle. “They are being healed as we speak. Now. Tell me about the message from your father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LAST REQUESTS
Mala strode down the white stone streets of the inner city of The Clouds. All around her were riches and beauty that no man on the scorched earth below them could dream of seeing. Even the praetors were not allowed into the Inner City. Only the demigods of humanity were allowed here, in this place of dreams.
And yet Mala saw nothing but decay. Opulence. Excess.
A fantasy world, wherein every demigod believed themselves the future rulers of the universe, alongside the All-Kind, who would return and take them to the stars as their warriors, to fight for glory.
But what would the All-Kind find if they returned? Spoiled children. Weak beings, a far cry from what they had left behind generations before. Beings dependant upon bits of technology to render their Gift into reality. Dependant on the luxuries that they had been born into, knowing no other way of life.
They would find no warriors here. And they would strike The Clouds down, and it would plummet into the sea below in a thousand fiery pieces, and they would eradicate all life from this useless planet.
Would the All-Kind even return? That was up for debate. They would only return if they had need of beings to replace the Ferox, and that mig
ht never happen. The Ferox were obsolete by the time they sinned against the All-Kind. The universe beyond this filthy, spinning rock was one of peace and tranquility.
But even if the All-Kind never returned, that did not mean the demigods would be spared for their slide into decadence and uselessness.
She glanced skywards, into the clear blue of the thin atmosphere. Unlike down on the ground where the sky was hazy, here in The Clouds, the crescent godsmoon shown bright and crisp and white, like the blade of a longstaff overheated.
Somewhere out there, the Watcher gazed down upon them with its constant, unlidded eye. Judging them. Scrutinizing them.
Had the other paladins forgotten? Or had they tricked themselves into believing they still matched the scale of their ancestors?
How long until the Watcher decided that they were too far gone? How long until it rendered its final, irrevocable judgment?
Mala turned down a wide street. A couple floated down the sidewalk on a glider, looking serene and laughing amongst themselves. Mala stomped past them in her scuffed and battered battlesuit, not hiding her glare at them. They caught her look but continued on, unperturbed.
Two able bodied demigods, their limbs just as lithe and muscular as Mala’s. And yet they chose to use a glider, rather than put their genetic gifts to use.
She turned into the House of Blades and was met with the more welcome sounds of un-energized longstaffs clashing, the smell of fresh sweat, the grunts of hard work. She breathed it in deeply, the scents as fond to her as a lover. Of all the places in The Clouds, this was the place she felt most at home.
A towering cathedral of all that was left of the true paladins. Only the Gifted entered here. Those without Confluence had no business learning the longstaff, and certainly would never enter the dueling arena.
She crossed down the center aisle, the pits of white sand on both sides, some freshly raked, others scattered through with the signs of fighting—bootprints, back and forth. Her eyes scanned their patterns and saw thrusts and spins and parries.
She saw a few faces that she knew, but many were younger. Newer to the training. She rarely came to the pits anymore, preferring to spar in the private rooms where the rules were…more realistic.
Past the pits, she entered one of those private rooms, not bothering to knock or announce herself, but simply sliding the door open with a push of Confluence.
Paladin Rixo stood on the far side of the sparring room, his bare back to Mala, and his hands against the wall. A blonde paladin giggled between his arms, her leg hiked up over his hip. She jerked when Mala entered the room and lowered her leg, trying to stuff her breasts back into her robe.
Rixo sighed and turned at the interruption. He raised a single eyebrow. “Mala. You always know just when to barge in unannounced.”
Mala left the door open behind her. She stalked towards him, raising the muzzle of her longstaff at the probably un-Gifted blonde he had backed up against the wall. “The tart can leave.”
“Pardon me?” the tart bristled.
Rixo shoved his index finger against her plump lips, cutting off whatever else she was about to say. His eyes glimmered with amusement, still looking at Mala. “That’ll be all, Beatrix. Your services are no longer required.”
The tart named Beatrix managed to look hurt and indignant and haughty all at once. She finished stuffing her ampleness back where it belonged and raised her chin, then attempted to sachet out with as much dignity as she could muster.
Rixo watched her go, shaking his head. “She’s not a tart. Just…giving.”
“Giving. Easy. There’s no difference.” She narrowed her gaze at Rixo’s eyes. His pupils were dilated. Face flushed. “How much have you taken?”
Rixo rolled his dilated eyes, then swept around, scooping up his longstaff and twirling it in his hand, settling into an easy stance. “Enough to keep me light on my feet. Fast with my mind.”
“It’s a crutch,” Mala remarked. “You claim to despise the decadence and decay, and yet you breathe enough War to kill a normal man and think that makes you a good fighter.”
Rixo shrugged, relaxing out of the pose. “Perhaps when you can beat me in the arena, then I’ll take your advice on fighting. Until then, I’ll partake in whatever I see fit.” He winked at her. “Maybe if you breathed War you would be able to beat me.”
“At least I know my skills are my own. How will you fair when there’s no vials within reach of you? Will you still be any good to us if you have to fight out beyond the comfort of The Clouds?”
“Speaking of,” Rixo gestured to her dirty battlesuit. “You look like you’ve been doing a bit of fighting out there yourself. What happened?”
Mala shook her head. “It’s irrelevant.” She took a step closer to Rixo so that she could lower her voice. “How many do you have that are ready and willing to fight?”
Rixo grew serious. “That depends. When are we fighting?”
“Very soon.”
“Very soon as in next week?”
“Very soon as in within the hour.”
Rixo’s flushed face contorted, his eyes slashing about. That was the downside of breathing too much War. It made you jittery. Yes, it made your mind quick in the arena, but sometimes you needed your mind to slow down. To be proactive, instead of reactive.
“You’re serious,” Rixo observed.
“They have him,” Mala answered. “In the House of Inquisitions. And when they get what they want out of him—which will be sooner, rather than later—they’ll kill him.”
Rixo clutched his longstaff in both fists and leaned on it. “Other opportunities will arise. We know that the Gift can be passed to humans. That is enough for now. We can use that knowledge to achieve our goals.”
“We can use him to achieve our goals right now.”
“You’re rushing into this. You always rush.”
“That is incorrect. I never rush. But I move with urgency when time is of the essence.”
“Time is nothing to us.” Rixo smiled. “We can spawn a new halfbreed.” His smile became licentious. “Send me to one of their towns with a few decent brothels and I’ll give you a dozen halfbreeds.”
“And then how long?” Mala snapped. “Another twenty years until their grown? And how long before they can be effective with Confluence? This one—this Percival—he’s already effective. Very effective. Rough around the edges, yes. But he’s quick to learn. He may be the best chance that we ever have. And if we wait for another twenty years, it may be too long.”
“Mala, we’ll live for another hundred and fifty years. Time is on our side.”
“Yes, we’ll live for another hundred and fifty years. If the Watcher doesn’t descend on us. And when will he do that?” Mala thrust her hand out, as though all of The Clouds were visible to them through the marble walls of the sparring room. “Look around you, Rixo. I know that you see our days are numbered. The rot will only be tolerated for so much longer. If we wait, we may never get another chance. Strike now, or be stricken.”
At the mention of the Watcher, Rixo’s eyes shifted to the skylights over their heads, then back down to Mala. When he met her gaze again, his expression was stiff.
“Ten,” Rixo said. “That is all the ones I trust enough to be ready and willing in such short order.” He shook his head, his eyes moving about the room as though wistful. “Primus help me, I knew the time would come, but now that it’s here I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Fate never waits. When it calls, you answer.” Mala nodded. “And ten will be enough.”
***
Inquisitor Lux looked down at the broken man, lashed to the pillar of white stone.
He didn’t feel good about what he’d done. But there was a certain satisfaction in reaching the truth. He had been honest when he’d told Perry that he hadn’t wanted to use these brutish means. But getting to the bottom of the message was the most important thing. You could say that seeking out the truth was in Lux’s blood.
Since the rise of the gods, House Rennok had always been the mediary. With nine houses filled with egos and opinions, many of them opposing, it had always been necessary to have a neutral party.
Lux had never wanted to be appointed as inquisitor. But it wasn’t up to him. His house had voted, and they’d elected him to route out the truth of this particular incident involving Selos, and Mala, and the halfbreed, and whatever it was that Legatus Cato McGown had told him.
Now, in retrospect, he regretted the torture even more. Even though they were only peons, it still managed to turn something in Lux’s soul, that all of it had not really been necessary.
The truth was far more banal than he had expected. Provided, of course, that the halfbreed had told the truth. Which Lux’s attending mech had indicated was the case—no inconclusive readings this time. Percival McGown had been honest in what he had revealed.
Which was essentially nothing. The truth of the matter was, twenty years ago, Cato McGown had been irate at the discovery of Selos’s sordid affair with his wife. He sought something that would undo the demigods out of a desire for revenge. But his understanding of what he’d found was lacking.
He’d sent Percival on a purposeless mission, to discover something that didn’t actually exist. There was nothing in the East Ruins that could turn humans into demigods. Whatever Cato had found that led him to that conclusion was either fiction, or wishful thinking on the part of Cato. Perhaps both.
Lux kept all of this to himself. There really was no purpose in revealing to Percival that he would never find what he hoped to uncover in the East Ruins. And it was likely that even trying to explain that to Percival would only be perceived as more demigod lies.
What was hidden in the East Ruins was far more dangerous than even this fantasy of a “Source,” but Lux had no concerns that Percival or any of his friends would ever realize what it was, and certainly would have no chance of unleashing it. Their time upon this earth had grown short.
Lux took a deep breath. “Who else did you relay the information on this message to?”