Science and Sorcery Box Set

by Ryan Tang

  When finished with his run, there was a black drink in a black cup placed outside his door. Peter's servants delivered the cup precisely after his morning exercises, right on time for the beginning of his experiments. The tray and cup were both black, but the drink stared through like a hole in reality. There was black, and then there was sin black.

  He quaffed it down as quickly as possible. To Falo's relief, the drink tasted a little less bad each day. His body was adapting. He was getting closer to godhood. The last time he cut open his arm to check, the slick black liquid had replaced almost a third of his blood.

  Today almost half of the cup tasted like just a lukewarm drink of water. But the remainder was thick and thin, and not in a good way. Some swallows were slow and lumpy, oozing as they went down his throat. Others were quick and greasy, leaving a nauseating slickness on his tongue.

  Falo still felt uneasy about Peter's compromise. The goddess was his patron, not some animal to be milked. It was the sort of task best done by his own hand.

  But now was not the time for honor. It was the time for compromise.

  He was a rebel surrounded by enemies.

  He had to be practical instead of honorable.

  If he went to the Spire, that meant a battle, and a battle meant death. Falo knew becoming king meant shedding blood. But he didn't want to kill billions.

  Falo grabbed the locked door to his room, and it instantly opened at the touch of his hand.

  The boy king took off his baggy exercise clothes and set his head back on the table. He watched carefully as he wiped himself clean.

  That was one major convenience of his severed head. It was so much easier to see the back of his body – the scars that were a permanent remnant from his father, the new muscles he'd proudly earned, and the red birthmark on his right shoulder that looked a little bit like the top half of a skull.

  As he dressed, the boy king smiled at the look and feel of the handsome and comforting cloth. The purple and gold twisted together, graceful in some parts and haphazard in others. Golden tentacles of all shapes and sizes locked together against a vivid purple background.

  Falo closed his eyes and thought of ruling the colony. He thought of punishing Stock and Waters for their countless crimes. He thought of tearing down the walls around The Wastes and freeing his friends.

  Then he pulled his model Paragon out of his pocket. The purple and gold dissolved into strands that twisted apart and wrapped around his arms as they fled his left hand. The holy metal danced along his back. The gentle tickling sensation made him smile. The gossamer-thin Eternium tendrils traveled over his shoulders and coalesced in his right hand. One flicker later and the model returned to normal, perfectly formed but now in his opposite hand.

  His mind was ready.

  Just like his body, it'd grown stronger and stronger since he left The Wastes.

  "Greta. Attend to me."

  Falo spoke just a touch louder than his regular speaking voice.

  He didn't need to raise his voice by very much.

  That was one of the first experiments he conducted. The Contract didn't enhance the signer's senses. Instead, it narrowed their focus. It removed their desire to process extraneous sensory inputs that didn't pertain to their task. They lived to OBEY. Even the vaguest whisper of an order was enough to awaken them.

  Soon there was a knock on his door.

  Falo paused for a moment before commanding her to enter.

  The experiments always made him feel a little guilty. But then his blood roiled pleasantly and pushed his shortsighted thoughts away.

  Warm heat spread from the chambers of his heart to the tips of his fingers as the door swung open.

  An old lady with dead eyes stood silently at the threshold.

  Her hair, a mix of dirty blond and stiff gray, was tied into a tight little braid. She wore a stiffly pressed white shirt beneath a black suit jacket. A prim skirt of the same color went down to her knees. Peter had dressed his servants in formal attire identical to what the Lost Lords' subjects had once worn.

  Falo thought about what else he needed to test.

  Peter said Falo needed to discover his limits and weaknesses in order to rule well. The boy king tested everything he could think of. Whenever he ran out of ideas, Peter was more than happy to give suggestions.

  He discovered the exact volume he needed to speak for his subjects to hear him.

  He discovered exactly what Contracted people could tell him. Even though they were usually stiff and silent, they still had all of their knowledge and memories and were happy to tell him if they asked.

  Instead of making people forget, he could teach them too. If he wrote about his goddess's true form and made someone sign the paper, the image of the tendrils beneath the shell would instantly be imprinted on their mind.

  Falo learned secrets and techniques that even the legendary Truthspeakers didn't know about, and that was worth a bit of discomfort. The boy king told himself he'd pay all his subjects back once he became king.

  Once his conquest was complete, he could be as kind as he wanted.

  Falo looked Greta in the eyes.

  He sorted through the papers at his desk and withdrew her Contract.

  He wanted to discover the specific terms required to dismiss someone from their Contract.

  He knew that destroying the paper would free them. But must he destroy the paper? Was it enough to dismiss them verbally? What about a thought? Perhaps he could severe the Contract with just his mind.

  He stared at Greta.

  His blood roiled as soon as the thought passed his mind.

  "You are freed from your Contractual obligations."

  To his surprise, the words echoed through the room. He hadn't meant to speak, but as soon as he thought to end the Contract, the words came tumbling out of his mouth.

  The woman blinked, then blinked again.

  She raised her hand and set it down.

  Falo swirled his tongue around his mouth.

  He'd spoken without meaning too. That was very interesting.

  The strangest look appeared on Greta's face, a look Falo had never seen before.

  Wonder and fear and hatred all at once - hatred most of all.

  Without another word, she streaked across the room at him, her bony hands formed into vicious talons.

  ____

  Falo waved the Contract like a flag.

  "You are bound again by your Contractual obligations."

  When Greta saw the paper, she flinched backward. The elderly lady squealed out a wordless cry of terror and anger.

  But nothing happened.

  She took two stumbling steps forward then returned to a frantic charge.

  Apparently, once the Contract was dismissed, it couldn't be used again.

  Falo knew he was in no real danger.

  The false sun shone down through the spotless glass ceiling, imbuing him with its unholy strength. He'd spent the last month exercising for hours and hours each day.

  All he had to worry about was not killing her.

  He flung his head back to safety and caught both her arms at once.

  The woman surprised him.

  There was a lot of strength in those bony arms – the same strength that she had when she was under her Contract.

  Falo frowned.

  It shouldn't have been possible. It was the Contract that allowed his servants to access their full, primal strength.

  The boy king stumbled back.

  Her claw-like fingers reached for the stump of his throat.

  One of her manicured nails made it through. There was a sharp stab of pain. Red and black blood splattered all over his shirt. She dug in. Falo wheezed.

  He clamped his fingers as hard as he could on Greta's wrists. Her bones cracked beneath his fingers. She let out a howl of pain. Her leg jerked upwards. Falo brought his knee up just in time to stop the kick from going between his legs.

  He fell back, but a Truthspeaker never lost his foot
ing.

  When she tried kicking again, he caught her leg with his left hand.

  Falo brought his other arm back then shattered her knee with a devastating chop.

  Greta flailed on the floor, wailing in pain.

  Falo stared down at her. A haze was lifted from his mind.

  He hadn't meant to hurt her that badly.

  He didn't mean to break her wrists. He'd just been caught off guard.

  He didn't mean to smash her knee. Why had he done that? He'd already won. He'd already grabbed her.

  Greta's hands flopped uselessly at the end of her wrists. He'd powderized the bones in her forearms. They were just bags of flesh now.

  Sweat and piss stained her fine suit jacket and skirt. Her braid was in shambles. She couldn't use her arms, and one of her legs was broken, but she was still scrambling desperately away, pivoting in a useless circle around her one good leg with her eyes locked on the door.

  When she turned back and saw him, Greta made a pathetic keeling noise and thrashed harder. She spun faster and faster, whirling around her pitiful circle.

  Falo stumbled forwards. He didn't mean to hurt her like that.

  He suddenly thought about his friends.

  What would they think if they saw him right now?

  Greta screamed at the top of her voice.

  "Get away! Get away! Get away from me! You! It's you and the fat man! Get away!"

  She shrieked again.

  "Don't put me back! Don't put me back in the dark! Don't put me back!"

  Falo's heart somehow sank even deeper.

  The subjects were all stacked up in the same dark room. It was the most efficient way to store them. Falo hadn't realized they could see and feel what was around them.

  Greta's voice grew fainter and fainter.

  "Get away! Let me go! Please! Please!"

  If she didn't get to a hospital soon, she might die.

  Falo was too frightened to murmur. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

  "Chris! Chris! Chris! Come and take Greta to the hospital!"

  He didn't mean to hurt her. And he didn't know that the servants were still conscious beneath their Contracts.

  His hands curled around the scrap of paper in his pocket.

  He hadn't protected Greta, and he hadn't known her either.

  The door opened. Chris, one of the many Southern Robotics assembly-line workers Peter had convinced to sign a Contract, silently stepped in and took Greta into his arms.

  Falo spoke without even thinking.

  "How can I make this up to you?"

  Greta instantly stopped her whimpering and responded at once. Chris echoed her stiff tone.

  "Give up your quest. Surrender at once. Admit that Governor Waters is the rightful ruler of Plenty and that Director Stock is its rightful owner."

  As soon as they finished speaking, Chris walked out the door without another word. Greta's broken limbs splayed and drooped down to the floor. The severely injured woman whimpered and sobbed.

  Falo's anger returned all at once.

  The bitter taste flooded his throat. Tears welled at his eyes.

  How could this be?

  Peter had been right all along. The big man told him that everyone would support Stock over him. And he'd been right!

  Stock had locked his friends in The Wastes, and Waters had stood by and let it happen.

  But his should-be subjects didn't care.

  None of them would side with him if it came to war.

  It was their fault for forgetting.

  Falo didn't feel bad about the dark anymore. Waters and Stock had no problem locking people in the dark.

  It was only right to give their supporters the same treatment.

  ____

  Falo's foul mood persisted for the rest of the day.

  The boy king called in a different woman and asked her what she wanted from him. She repeated the same thing Chris and Greta said, only changing around a few of the words.

  "Waters is the rightful ruler, and Stock is the rightful leader. Don't conquer us. Let them continue what they're doing."

  He called in others.

  No matter who he spoke to, nobody wanted him to be king. All of them worshipped Stock and Waters.

  Peter had been right.

  Enemies surrounded him.

  Falo continued his experiments late into the night. He worked and worked until Peter knocked on his door.

  "Falo! Are you in there? I have something else to show you. The grandest gift of all!"

  Falo sighed.

  Maybe Peter would make him feel better.

  "Yes. Come in."

  The door opened.

  The big man was dressed in his stark white Southern Robotics uniform. The only ornament was a silver flask hanging on his hip. He stepped aside as two of his women wheeled in a burnt red Eternium pod.

  Falo gasped.

  Peter's smile went from ear to ear.

  The pod mirrored a Paragon's cockpit.

  The pilot's chair was a perfect replica of the ancestral Seat of Lies, the former seat of Plenty's rightful rulers. The Lost Lords were peerless warriors who kept their thrones inside the cockpits of their Paragons. The original Seat of Lies had burned alongside Plenty's last king, but now it was standing in front of him, completely reborn.

  The high chair was pearly-white and high-backed, held together by shining golden thread. Rubies and black diamonds studded the edges. But much like his goddess, the beautiful chair had a hidden darkness.

  It was held aloft by a mix of burnt red Eternium tentacles - some were thicker than Falo's legs, and others were as thin as his fingers. They pooled together in an unruly pile on the floor, creating the illusion the chair was emerging from an otherworldly portal. The pilot's controls - the mix of handles, buttons, gun-sights, and triggers, were of the same design. The tendrils that held them crept up the side of the chair and through the screens of the pod.

  For the first time that day, Falo smiled.

  It didn't matter what Greta or Chris or anyone else on Plenty thought.

  He had Peter, and Peter would do anything to make him king.

  "Southern Robotics finally figured out how to make Eternium. We don't have nearly enough a Paragon yet, but I thought this would be a pleasant bridge. People on Plenty are fond of playing on this piloting simulator. Of course, you will be training for your conquest instead of just playing. The day you take flight, everyone will curse themselves for forgetting the Lost Lords and their gods."

  "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

  Falo did not know how he could thank him enough.

  He thought about bowing, but that was improper. He was Peter's Truthspeaker. The pod was no more than what he owed him. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to say.

  The boy king shook his head then reached out for the pod.

  His fingers surged as soon as he touched the ice-cold metal.

  Eternium always bent before a resolute soul.

  Royal purple spread like dye through water. The colors spread across the pod then flashed into the chair. The traitorous white transformed into noble purple. The gold veins spread and multiplied, winding and twisting in no particular pattern as it overlapped the burnt red.

  This time it was Peter's turn to gasp. He pulled out his flask and drank deeply, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  Falo smiled to himself. His benefactor didn't know everything.

  Falo remembered the librarian reading about Eternium taking on the color of blood. As always, the Ignorants didn't know the full picture.

  The holy metal was generous. It would take on the color of any nearby material, whether it was paint or blood. It must have been how Peter colored the chair. But what it loved most was the thrum of a powerful soul. In the presence of a Lord, Eternium was willing to transform not only its color but its very nature. That was how Falo's ancestors sculpted their Paragons.

  Peter let out another awe-struck chuckle.

 
"Well, I'll leave you to practice then. I just need to collect today's Contracts. We need to gather more men to your cause."

  Falo always finished his stack of Contracts as soon as he woke up, even before his first exercise session. A pile of fresh papers waited for him every morning. The white pages were harder to write on, but they worked well with Peter's trickery. Very few people would willingly sign the rotting black parchment he gave to the librarian.

  The boy almost brought up his concerns about the subjects' living quarters.

  Then the flat voice echoed in his head again.

  "Give up your quest. Surrender at once. Admit that Governor Waters is the rightful ruler of Plenty and that Director Stock is its rightful owner."

  The boy king held his tongue.

  Anyone who supported those men deserved the dark.

  Peter took another deep swig from his flask as he gathered up the Contracts under his arm. Then he left the room.

  Falo stepped into his pod and set his hand on the twisted black controls. He smiled. He was already wearing his dress clothes.

  Unlike the Ignorants and their hideous pilot suits, the Lost Lords always wore their best into battle. They died rather than accept capture. If they were defeated, their Paragon became their funeral pyre.

  Peter had scribbled instructions onto a note, but Falo crumpled the paper without even a glance. When it came to piloting a Paragon, a Lord didn't need instructions.

  He spoke the words, and the machine came to life.

  "A boy pursues his greatest desire."

  The Ignorants had forgotten much, but they still remembered the words.

  Falo set his head on his lap and grabbed the controls. It would be impossible to use gun sights in his current condition, but Falo's shield was the only weapon he needed. The greatest of the Lost Lords all had signature weapons.

  He began customizing his machine, patiently ensuring that every detail was identical to the model in his pocket. Before long, his Paragon was complete, shining bright in the same royal purple and gold colors as the pod and his robes. Golden tentacles gripped down the arms from shoulder to hand. The bold suction cups winked back at him. He painted the glyph for Ignorance with flaring gold paint, slashing it down the right thigh of his machine. Of course, nobody he fought would know what it meant.