by Chris Turner
Chapter 19
There was a lot more going on here than just passive monks going about their business, conducting hokey prayer habits. Activities abounded… Climb a ladder and stand straight on the top of a high pole, teetering with vertigo. Then jump from said pole that towers over the cement below. The bungee cord would catch you before you mashed your face in free fall. Anyone with a fear of heights was dead meat. I was about a six on a scale of ten, so was not as unfortunate as some. Men and women blubbered like babies, bawling their eyes out, retching their guts, white as ghosts, fighting tooth and nail not to go up that ladder and stand on that one foot square pole with the wind blustering. But Mong’s enforcers shuttled them up and pushed them over if they chickened out. Somehow it shattered their nerves. Did it accomplish anything outside of breaking those individuals’ spirits? I doubted it. Just another form of torture.
The activities continued. The browbeating, the physical conditioning, the brutal hand-to-hand combat. The repercussions high in cases of cowardice or failure. Also of interest, the fire walk. Walk slowly and you were doomed. The undersoles of your bare feet scorched by red hot coals. Move fast and keep an eye ahead on the target and one has a chance. Slip and fall in that 8’ by 30’ pit of ash and cinder, as one poor schmuck did and had to be carted away yelling with agony, the whole left side of his body charred and smoking, and you’d be sorry for not taking better care. Those who thought to dodge off the path were cane-whipped along by meslars on either side. Nowhere to go but forward. Mong had an endless supply of new recruits, so he didn’t care if a few got damaged beyond repair or lost their minds. “It’s the warrior’s way,” he quoted at a prayer session he had come to attend on one of the following days.
I growled under my breath. “Sick fuck.”
“Anything to add, Rusco?” Mong’s ears perked up with interest like those of an alert hound. “Please share with your brothers and sisters.”
I remained sullen. How I’d like to put a fishhook in the mongrel’s brain.
There was Seva too, a term he had coined from some ancient term of spiritual service. Out in the rice paddies, watering and weeding in the hot sun. One to two days a week, working for the common good.
A soothing voice rang over the loudspeaker, announcing that a time for rest had come—one hour, and that evening prayers would resume after.
A small grassy rise set back from the fire pit caught my eye. A solitary figure sat with a grass blade stuck in his teeth staring off into space. I approached and plopped myself down beside him, hoping to find out his story. He squinted up and I sighed. “I think of all the he-man exercises, the pole is the scariest of all, on account of my fear of heights. Something about plunging off into thin air. It unsettles the soul. For a spaceman I reckon that’s a bad thing.”
He replied in a dead voice, “This fire-walking stuff’s not too bad once you’ve got it under your belt, or done it once or twice.” He looked at me with minor curiosity, assessing me with his bushy brows lifting and a scar over his left cheek twitching under his skewed eye. Something about him tipped me off—I knew he was not like the others. A glint of deviancy showed in that skewed eye.
I stared in earnest at the bald man they hauled off from the fire. The bottom of his feet were fried, smoking. “Certainly he’d disagree.”
“He didn’t listen to Sister Kazu’s instructions.”
I laughed. “Name’s Rusco.”
“Zan Vulder. What brings you to Othwan?”
“Oh, a little birdie chirped in my ear, told me about this little utopia out here in nowhere-land. Mr. Mong took a big shine to me. Practically made me his bed mate since the get-go.”
“You don’t say?” Zan sighed. “One of those?”
“Yep, and you?”
“Master Mong’s captains initiated me into the pleasure of the brotherhood quite a while back. Recruited me from Bagrish when they ‘assimilated’ my home planet. Broke my brother’s legs, raped my sister. They told me I’d be next if I didn’t join his brigade of zealots. Said I had ‘all the qualities of excellent battle breeding’. ‘Fine-quality soldiery’.”
“That’s quite a compliment. Guess we all are indebted to Master Mong for some reason or other, bringing us here together.” I tipped my head at him. “Long live Master Mong.”
“Yeah, long live Mong.” His voice was edged with venom.
The exercises continued into the evening after the final prayers and picked up again the next day until we were a battle-weary and sleep-deprived bunch. Then we were shuttled back to the prayer hall to listen to those monotonous liturgies of Sister Kazu and her company of meslars, chiming off items of dogma that Mong called Teachings.
We settled upon our usual cushions and I steeled myself for the usual rubric of dogma and drawn out lectures.
“The soul and spirit are one. They must be fed by constant purity and discipline.
“The mind that is weak and the body that is impure are ones that languish and die in a state of sloth.
“We must vanquish evil. Must hear no evil or see no evil! Let us put forth our vows and learn the moral conduct of warriors! All in favor say ‘Aye’.”
“Aye!” came the crowd’s forced, automatic response.
“Open your heart and mind to the path of wisdom as espoused by Master Mong!”
“Aye!”
“Cherish the teachings of the elder age. Let the brotherhood envelop you!”
“Aye!”
“Work hard, be humble. Serve and be faithful! Never let the darkness or the temptation of deceit enter your heart!”
“Aye!”
And so on. Maxims after maxims and mantras and affirmations with it, a vestibule of brainwashing, enough to come slopping out one’s arse like diarrhea on demand. I wouldn’t give a wrap of dirty baby wipes for half this stuff. Hours upon hours of slogans and half-baked spiritual syrup, until I was bug-eyed and my ears burning and wanting to shut out the world around me and put a blanket over my head and curl up and die.
Mong had a nice little setup, I’d give him that. A brain-washing crib as cute and cuddly as any unofficial, high-end think tank engineered by any autocratic government. He’d select the most promising recruits, make them lieutenants, train them to fly those nice little Warhawks out into the wild blue and blow planets to shit and nuke any suckers who didn’t want to play ball with him, cede their native land and governments. People who’d die for the cause, grinning, faithful to the end to dear old Mong. How could a man demand so much loyalty? In the same way all the dictators, did it, through personal magnetism, an iron fist and classic conditioning. Genghis Khan, Nero, Stalin, Wasgon, Farseid, a hundred others, though my tired brain couldn’t conjure all the mad, sick fucks throughout history who’d done it, and succeeded, for a time.
Grey skies graced the horizon that day and the following day. Zan caught my eye and approached me at the refectory as I cleaned up my tray of standard beans and rice fare. I gave him a dutiful nod of acknowledgement, tired and exhausted from the day’s rigors.
“If a man were to think of getting out of this place,” he hissed, “he’d think fire in the hole.” He jerked his head in the direction of the prayer hall. “Some wild animals must have made a gap in the fence, been in and out eating from the garbage bins filled with all that delicious food you just chucked out.”
“You’re suggesting burning the joint down?”
He shrugged. “Just saying.” He walked off.
I rubbed my chin.
As I was well on my way away from the refectory, Mong came sauntering by to check up on me. I gave him a salute. “All well on the battle front, general? Enjoying your little batch of insects from a new dimension?”
“You know, Rusco, we found an alien species there never before seen. Trapped in one of those tanks. To describe the creature would do it no justice. Suffice it to say it had six tentacles attached to a greyish-black bulbous body with no visible face that we could see. Even I have the good sense to stay away from it
.”
“A wise choice. These little nuggets of wisdom come from long experience. They leave one in the best of health.”
“Too true, Jet Rusco. Now to your health? Are Kazu and her people seeing to your comfort?”
“Kazu is simply marvelous. Couldn’t be better, especially my hand.” I held it up, showing my makeshift splint.
Mong gave an ear to ear grin. “I’m glad of that, Rusco. I see you have used your ingenuity to accelerate your healing. Bravo. That’s testament to a man of resource.”
We both laughed in our own dark way.
“What do you think of our program?” Mong asked.
I drew in a slow breath. “Where to start?—unique? Rigorous? Zany? A wild ride? A jaw-dropping experience? Bullying, invasive, a blatant mind fuck?”
Mong cleared his throat. “Privation, torture, hardship, renunciation, spurning luxuries and passion is a means to an end. If a man can see with a crystal clear mind, without frivolity and excess, he will rise above the rest. Burdened by them he will be distracted. You show promise. That’s why I spared your worthless hide. I could use someone of your multi-talents. Purpose can focus a man’s will, one-pointedly on a goal. Anything else may fail.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Mong. You indulge in these power-mongering no-nos on a daily basis. Who is it who controls vast wealth gained from war and plunder? Do you not waste worlds as if they were fly paper?”
“I need not justify anything to you. I’ve passed my tests. I’ve dug my destiny. I can do whatever the hell I want. That’s why I can wield power from anywhere I stand, and why you are in the monk’s robe.”
“Good point,” I jeered. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”
Though I wasn’t and Mong knew it.
Just keep playing this stupid game, Rusco. Dial it back, or you’re going to get yourself killed. You’re still alive and if you can keep your brain intact, you may get out of this tin can in one piece. Look for a way to get out of the pickle jar and save your ass.
Mong could see the gears working in my head and gave a moody scowl. “Rusco, I’ll not insult your intelligence. Most of this structure is set up as a conditioning farm, like what Pavlov did with his dogs.” He held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. A certain primitive part of the brain responds well to conditioning. The reptilian brain, the primal core of what drives us. We drill our initiates into obedience, so that when I tell them to act, they move without question. If I tell them to jump, they ask how high. I give them basic proficiency of body and mind through rigorous training then a diminishing confidence in themselves by forced association with the group and affiliation to our cause. I make them what I want of them. After training, they respond favorably to stimuli; good deeds prompt rewards, bad deeds prompt punishment. It’s a formula quite tried and true; maybe even dull and monotonous, but in truth, quite effective.”
“So simple that even an ant can follow it,” I added.
Mong exhaled. “Study the ant, Rusco and you’ll learn something. A creature that never gives up, never! Even when 90% of the hill dwellers are destroyed in a fight with a rival horde, they go on biting and gouging, protecting their eggs and territory. Such tenacity, such strength!” He lifted a hand. “If only humans could exhibit such concentrated power and competence. We humans would do well to study the insect species, Rusco. If a mere ant were the size of one of us, they would rend us limb from limb, crush us in their mandibles like soft fruit. Like these dormant Mentera, you have seen. They—”
“They lost the war.”
“You are mistaken, they didn’t. They are merely hibernating, biding their time in their cocoons, safe from the ravages of war before they will be resurrected. I may be the only Star Lord to resurrect them as my minions. You’ll see. The Mentera left enough of their technology behind to preserve their species forever.”
A cold shiver prickled my skin. I hoped to hell Mong was far off in that assertion.
He gave me an odd, faraway look—the look of the fanatic—as he strode off to confer with his prayer monitors.
Dumb bastard. I’d drive an ice-pick in his brain before this was all over.
Maybe not tomorrow though, Rusco. As illusively innocuous this place looked, it was a regular Fort Knox. Sneaking out at night from the barracks would not be an easy task…in fact, it proved downright foolhardy. One sod tried a sleepwalking gag and I recalled the dull wails and whimpering as he was caned from head to toe. He later revised his story to ‘getting out for a breath of fresh air’ which earned equal whaps and slaps. Night time was an obvious no-no to make a getaway; the grounds were then at their most heavily guarded.
Rotten pricks. I reflected on the week’s activities with a grimace. The Seven Serums—what a bunch of shite. Seven Validations of Reality: Truth, Pain, Vice, Love, Hate, Renunciation, Emptiness. Each day of the week we’d visit one meditation, or ‘Serum’, centering on the profundity of existence. “Focus your tiny brains, miniscule ones. Focus on one spirit medicine.” I couldn’t take much more of this shit. Soon I’d be spewing Mong’s dogma. It was time to act.
Chapter 20
Three days passed with much brooding over escape from this prison. Early in the day, I heard the roar of fifteen Warhawks buzzing overhead. They vanished in the clouds, their engines fading to oblivion. Seems as if Mong had taken a significant number of his warships with him.
Perhaps a good time to initiate an exit plan.
I contrived to scout near the fence Zan had mentioned earlier on pretext of a morning walking meditation. Sure enough, the wire mesh had been pulled back and a gap about a foot off the ground gaped for a lean man to worm his way through. Very convenient, especially for a man who had lost much weight at this fat farm. Good on you, Zan.
An easy enough diversion, Zan’s scheme—torching the prayer hall. Any of the other structures in the compound would be too minor a distraction, so would sabotaging the Temple of Light be a call for suicide.
The nagging voice in the back of my head warned me about how hackneyed such a plan was, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything better. Hard to come up with a quality plan in a micro-controlled environment with a mangled hand.
The refectory would be teeming with its regiment of robots at midafternoon, precisely 3:30. The prayer hall would be empty, or near empty. If I could sneak out, do my deviltry and be off with none the wiser, I might be able to pull this caper off. Shamble to the hills, any hidey-hole would suffice, better than being stuck in this madhouse, captive to Kazu, the meditation-meister.
A section of the west fence was unguarded from what I could see. There’d be fewer meslars now as the lunch bunch tucked into their flavorless fare, seeing as it was the only meal of the day—one of Mong’s innovations to make recruits more disciplined, and better fighting, loyal, iron-willed machines. Or half-starved, sleep-deprived zombies eager for scraps and any chance at betterment.
I took an early exit, chucking out my beans and rice, grimacing with distaste at the soggy paste. Didn’t doubt Mong spiked the food and water here with a brainwashing compound. I snuck out to the prayer hall. The doors were always open, for keeners who wanted to get in some ‘extra meditation’ or some shit like that. I crept to the front altar where Kazu usually delivered her guided meditation. Long burgundy tapestries hung from ceiling to floor behind the altar, starched and stiff. A kerosene lamp burned away amidst assorted knickknacks: candles, incense, medallions commemorating Mong and other soul-stifling memorabilia. Very convenient. Minimal electric lights outfitted this place. Old school.
Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I grabbed the kerosene lamp and kindled the fabric behind the prayer altars. The wood paneling and spray-painted stucco would go up like tinder. Because the devotees loved this prayer hall so much, they’d naturally not want to see it go up in flames, so they’d come running to douse it in a bucket brigade. A perfect bit of cover I needed to get away from this funny farm.
I paused at the door long enough to see flame
s licking up the wall. My lips curled in a grin. In minutes this place would be a raging inferno.
I turned and ran across the green, my stumbling feet taking me to the west fence and the gap I’d scouted earlier.
I wasn’t half way there when a figure came sprinting up next to me—must have seen me scurrying away. I turned, baring my metal fist for a strike, halting in midstride.
Zan hissed at me. “You actually did it, Rusco? You’re crazy! Mong will skin you alive.”
“You only live once. Are you in on this, or do you want to go back to playing disciple at prayer meet?”
He grinned. “Hell no. Let’s blow this scene.” He charged after me.
We hurried to the fence and squeezed through the hole, Zan first.
Shouts and activity drifted from behind.
I looked back to see a bright funnel of flame eating at the prayer hall’s roof. Frantic figures scurried around the doomed building like beetles, waving hands and shouting commands. Fools!
We took off toward the river, abandoning the plan to strike out for the hangar.
We didn’t get a hundred steps before Mong’s security people were all over us like muggers in a back alley. Intercepted us from a place down the fence. Didn’t take them three seconds to figure out who’d pulled the fire stunt either.
I took down the first wanker with my bare right fist, though two more came at me with truncheons. I kicked out with fury and lashed out with my metal fist, smacking down a big brown-robed figure, elbowing another in the teeth with as much Jet Rusco street fighting 101 as I could: keep your head down and keep punching. Never let up on your guard, unless absolutely necessary for a winning hit or you’re going to get creamed.
Three of them surged in to smack us down, but not kill us. A significant detail. Three more lay groaning in the grass with broken bones.
Yet my fucked up left hand would not win me this fight and with no weapon I could seriously do little against these shitheads’ superior numbers. My strong right hand made contact with another face and I relished the crunch of cartilage and bone. I lost track of Zan in the melee. Floundering arms and legs were all around me.