by C. A. Lang
“What kind of hell is this, brother?”
Everything looked fine. They did say there could be lapses into the present with the bodies that had suffered little real damage. He patted his sister’s head and moved on to his favourite one of them all: Iermo Juvihern—his only friend, and probably the only reason he had been successful in wresting power from the Tamish governor.
Sevari had told the engineers to make Iermo as whole as possible and spare no expense. The dead revolutionary sported the same old uniform style that Sevari wore on these occasions. Every three days, a maintenance man would come and dust off Iermo, make sure his medals and cap brass were in perfect shape.
“Iermo, how goes it today?”
“We finally did it, didn’t we? They are conceding. Sailing back to Tamarck.”
The routine never changed, but Sevari’s smile and warmth was as genuine as the first day he had glimpsed these restored bodies. “Yes. The King of Tamarck’s cabinet has allowed him to pull out.”
“They think these engines are a passing fad, eh?”
“They don’t know what they are leaving behind.”
There was a faint whirring, gears grinding, while Iermo cocked his head. “I see things sometimes, Till. Sometimes I think it is the future, what we made. But other times, I think it is some ghost. A grimace of history itself, as if none of my life ever happened.”
“Iermo, it is normal to become so confused with life.” His tone became haughty and pedantic.
“It wasn’t what we wanted. My hallucinations, I mean. I saw executions and you shaking hands with the king of Tamarck himself. You gave it to him, Till. Is that going to happen?”
“No, Iermo. Blightcross District is its own autonomous nation. It always will be.”
“We will defend it. Even the Hex. It is all ours.”
Sevari nodded and clapped his hand onto the living mannequin’s shoulder. “That is the best part, my friend. Now we are fully secure.” He made sure to leave out certain facts—things that Iermo’s living corpse could not process. “The worldspirits have caught us in their movement, their silent weaving.”
“Always with these damned spirits, Till.” Iermo began to stutter, then recovered after his respirator chuffed. “It’ll be the end of it all. It was about the people, Till. Forget about these worldspirits. Things just happen as they happen; there is nothing behind any of it.”
Sevari had heard that same sentence several times before during his pilgrimages. “You could be right, Iermo. Luckily I was also speaking of our dream. Remember it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It is done.”
“Really?” The thing’s eyes brightened, and more than should have been possible given its state of living death. “Bring me to see it, comrade.”
“Maybe in time. There are still some last minute additions. It needs a mind.”
“You have discovered a way to give it one?”
“Of course. You told me that my pursuit of the worldspirit was nonsense. Here is where we reap the rewards.”
And, once Helverliss capitulated, The Autonomous Naartland District of Blightcross would dominate the ethereal as well as the physical. A new centre of power— neither the dispersed concentration of vihs that the Ehzeri used to be, nor the industrial giant of Yahrein, but their ultimate synthesis...
Never again would anyone be able to repeat the horrible war that had driven him to this grotesque attempt to cope.
He knew it was insane, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t comforting.
Helverliss could see only the painting, its black glare from inside the case just a few steps out of his grasp. Everything else was shut behind a greyness. His bare feet felt tacky in the congealed blood puddle in which he stood. He would have laughed at the rubber sheet they had put under him if he were capable of laughter.
At some point during Sevari’s torture—perhaps around four-hundred lashes—he had broken out in hysterical laughter. But it couldn’t last forever, and now he was simply existing, bled of any emotive substance.
The bastards... the bastards...
Reversal, reunited with his prized work but not in the way he wanted...
He spat a blood clot to the floor and began to realize that it was all futile. Everything he’d ever done.
They wanted the painting? They wanted to know what horrible secrets lay beneath the canvas?
He grinned. The pain itself bled away. It bled away because Helverliss was losing any connection to the scarred thing he watched in the reflection of the glass cases. It bled away because Sevari had orchestrated his own doom, and ultimately, despite his crippling depression and self-imposed distance from reality, Helverliss could only take satisfaction in becoming the instrument of Sevari’s downfall.
A nice reversal, Sevari. J am with my paintings.
He bent to pick up the note pad, dropped it twice between stiff bloody fingers, and began to scrawl.
The complex signifier he scrawled nearly matched the one he had placed inconspicuously in the corner of the painting. Had he been meant, by some strange process, to do this? The decision to tame the power using these signifiers that were beyond language itself, could represent it in its totality, had puzzled him. At the time he had not thought that he would need to access the shadow beings by any means other than vihs manipulation.
Now he saw why.
All he needed now was to finish the last few strokes that would open up a void between his symbol and the one marking the painting. The metalanguage, the thing that the cutting-edge theorists ridiculed, the rip in reality that he could effect with mere pen strokes...
He chuckled, rattled his chains, rattled his bloodsoaked lungs. Sevari had spent a fortune on these Ehzeri slaves because he thought vihs could unlock vihs based on a silly assumption.
Only the gap between these two monstrous symbols of meaning could draw the shadow men from the painting— they would gravitate towards the space opened up by the symbols themselves. The only way to unlock the painting had nothing to do with utilizing magic.
And so he filled with an almost childish smugness as he scribbled the last dot needed to complete the character.
Take me quickly, primordial tyrants.
In the air between the two symbols, a long jagged gash of black opened. A dark mist poured from the rift, this broken welt in reality, as though he had taken Sevari’s flail and lashed a wound in the universe itself.
The first being slipped from the rend and floated towards him. It was a slim, black figure, and as it edged closer, the blackness coalesced in mid-air. First, it collected into a solid form, or at least the illusion of one. It then dropped to the floor, as though it could obey gravity on a whim.
Helverliss grinned and thought of the peace awaiting him, of an end to the ridiculous condition of existence. How best to enter oblivion than by being dissolved by the shadows?
But once the shadow being took on the form of a human, he pressed against the wall and could no longer grin at his own unique death. A human was too familiar, too banal, and too brutal.
This one wore a black frock coat and leggings, along with a black hat. It reminded him of Sevari’s officials, only with a dour severity. Though he was shaking and stifling bile creeping up his throat, Helverliss could not avoid the thing’s eyes. Eyes of a cold blue, and besides the unnatural shade, showed all the fine details and veins of any normal human.
“You,” the shadow man said. Helverliss flinched, but the shadow merely gazed at him inquisitively.
“Send me back. Send me into that rift.”
More black shapes slipped from the tear. The painting lost much of its richness, and patches of faded red and green showed through the dwindling matte finish—an abandoned failure, which he had covered with his masterpiece.
“Is that what you really want?” The shadow’s tone was confident and steady. It could have been any one of the haughty artists from Orvis Dunes, or one of Sevari’s office managers. “I do not think so.” The shadow
brushed a gloved hand over Helverliss’ chest, and one of the bleeding gashes healed instantly. “Hmm. No, you are not the best choice.”
“Best choice? Please, this is agonizing. I want you to destroy me. You are going to destroy everything else, are you not? Destroy it in your own way, to achieve your uniqueness?”
“Hah. Is that what you think?”
“But the history...”
“We do not destroy, Noro Helverliss. We take, we create, we possess and consume. The fire giants are destruction and base urges.”
“But I thought...”
“You thought wrong. They are thoughtless. They are not noble. They exist as instinct made flesh, and of course they can only react superficially to any ordering presence, like us.”
“Void does not order!”
“Oh no? Did you not yourself write that your concept of zero is twofold? That there is the true void, and the notion of the void, which is a form that encircles it? A form of the void that thereby gives order to it?”
If it were not for the chains suspending him, Helverliss would have reeled and fallen from the sudden attack of dizziness. He frantically searched his mind for his theories and formulae, for the theories of others, even for religious explanations for what the shadow was telling him.
“You honestly do not care for the outside world, I see. Even if I wanted you, I doubt it would work out.”
The shadow slowly walked out of the room, while its unformed brethren continued to flow from the tear and dart through the walls.
“Come back, you ridiculous shade. I made you.”
The shadow stopped, stole a glance past his shoulder, and resumed his slow walk towards the door. “They tell me that there are better candidates here. People who want to make something of themselves, people who have a desire to direct and own this wincing cringe of truth you believe to be reality.”
“And who might that be?”
The shadow shook its head and disappeared into the hall.
Capra barely noticed her companions once dinner had arrived. They had been acting strange since Vasi had wowed her with the silly illusion, and her only thought was that it was an Ehzeri thing.
She stuffed a fragment of boiled potato into her mouth. Watery and starchy. This wasn’t the 4200s. It wasn’t like salt was a war-inducing rarity these days.
“I will never understand how you can eat as much as you do.” Dannac poked at a bowl of soup, and to her knowledge hadn’t actually put any of it into his mouth yet.
“The army told us that this was what you do the night before you do any really strenuous work. Athletes do it, apparently.” And how could she argue with that? Although, the food here lacked seasoning and she knew she could cook a thousand times better than whomever had tossed this dish together. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” She choked on a tendril of chewy spinach. “They can’t even cook spinach here.”
“So the Valoii faith does not warn against gluttony?”
She shrugged. “Back home we spend a lot of time in little shelters without much to eat. I don’t know about everyone else, but after going through that, I’m not going to starve myself. Not that I’m blaming you two for it.” Both peoples faced lack, she realized. But the Ehzeri dealt with it by rationalizing their starvation, rather than Capra’s occasional gorging to make up for lost meals.
Another boiled potato and slab of ham later, Vasi jumped from her seat. She gasped and stared across the pub.
“What is it?” Capra scanned the pub, found only a tired waitress with a skin condition attempting to appease three parties of loud beer hounds at once.
“I am not sure... look, that man over there. In black.”
Dannac reached inside his coat. By now he must have been burning to try his hand-cannon in a real situation.
“It’s just a banker or factory owner. What’s the problem?”
She watched the man lean into a table and whisper to a lone patron. They calmly left the pub together.
Vasi shook her head. “No, something is wrong. Those men did not know each other.”
“So?”
Vasi made to follow the man in black, but Dannac caught her sleeve. “Perhaps you are tired.”
“No, it is something awful... it feels like vihs only not—”
There was a scream just beyond the far wall, which faced the alley. A few patrons startled at the sound, but they soon settled.
Vasi tore free of Dannac and rushed outside. Capra dashed behind her, nearly catching the door with her face.
She had expected to find the man who had left with the other man in black lying against the wall with his throat slashed. They emerged into the alley only to find the same man strutting towards the main street, alive and well.
“I’m not sure what just happened,” Capra said.
“Look,” Vasi said, pointing to the sky, where ribbons of midnight rippled against the deep red of late afternoon.
The forms, which had been flying in unison, scattered and rained on the city. Capra shivered, though why she could not begin to guess. She had seen it all—massive explosions during Ehzeri attacks, whole cavalry divisions wiped out in a flash. A few black smudges on the sky could be anything, and probably nothing to worry too much about.
Although, there was a strange familiarity this time. “Do the Ehzeri fighters ever use vihs that looks like that?”
Dannac shook his head. “The number of capable people willing to give their lives is so low. We never resorted to fancy tricks like this, whatever it is. I can see no advantage to this. Valoii would not think twice about it, so it cannot even be called an attack against the enemy’s mind.”
“Then what is it?”
And just what was Vasi’s problem? Capra watched her, and the girl made no indication of being aware of the outside world. Her neck was bent awkwardly, like a puppet, and she stared into the sky. Was this some miracle?
Vasi clutched her hands at her chest and began to gasp. The shapes flitted about the sky like a swarm of bats, hovering and flying circuits until finally stopping to plummet to the rooftops.
“It is...” Her face turned ashen.
“What?” Capra wrenched Vasi’s trembling hand from her chest.
“They’ve done it. They’ve actually done it.”
“What?”
Vasi faced Capra, lips faintly quivering. “They’ve unlocked the painting. Whatever forces Helverliss had bound to it are free.” She rubbed her temples. “I have been working with these forces for months. To feel them free, and swimming through the air all around us...”
“What are they?”
“Shadow men. Anything that exists is their target—it is their nature. They must absorb everything into them. With them roaming free, their blind urge to dominate all matter means everyone, everything belongs to them.”
“Can you control them?”
“Of course not. I was unable to grasp the concepts.” She faced the looming clock tower. “Now Rovan is in grave danger.” She stomped, sending a cloud of dust to weave at their ankles. “I knew we should have left. Left before any of this happened.”
Capra exchanged glances with Dannac. She whispered to him, “Does this mean we can’t get the painting back? Does it still exist?”
Dannac grunted. “Does Helverliss?”
It was a good question, and she had wanted to avoid addressing the possibility that their rich benefactor was dead.
“We have to hurry.” Vasi bounded off, northbound towards the tower.
“Come on,” Dannac said. “The clock tower awaits.”
For the time being, she couldn’t think of a better idea. But there had to be a reason beyond loyalty to his own people that drove Dannac towards the tower without his usual deliberation. She was the reckless one, not him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Usually, Sevari fell into sublime joy when he gazed at the city from his window. It rose high enough to elevate him far above the layer of smog around the city, as if it existed in its own heaven
. But no longer. Now the strange shadows swam through the smoke below like minnows. Sevari stepped around his office, searched for some answer to the phenomenon, and ultimately found himself back at the window.
There crawled a sickness in his gut—the cause of these shadows had to have been Helverliss. But with the elevators malfunctioning, nobody could reach the floor to question him.
Could it be the worldspirits? Could it be that maybe Sevari himself could see them? The people moved through the streets and worked and chatted as normal. There had been no alerts from the guardsmen, no catastrophe.
Perhaps this show was just for him. A display of power, a sign of what would soon be his once he came into the secrets he deserved. He rubbed his stomach to quell the uneasiness roiling below his heart. Surely the elevators should have been repaired after so long.
He headed into the hall, and as he hurried to his elevator, realized that perhaps he ought to try appealing to Helverliss’ intellect instead of torturing him. The man was brilliant, after all. As much as he was a thorn in the Shield Party, maybe he deserved a token amount of respect and dignity.
The door lay just around the corner. There was a draft of cold at his back, and he felt his ears twitch, so he turned around.
Only an empty hall stared back at him.
For a few steps he moved faster, until the same eerie sensation harried him again.
Seconds passed, with his breath shattering a strange silence.
When he could take no more, he called out, “Who is there? Show yourself.”
Thump thump thump thump
“I said show yourself. I haven’t time for this nonsense.”
Thump thump
“State your business, damn you!”
“Hello, Mr. Sevari.” The voice was young, petulant. Out of the shadows near a window sill stepped his young assistant.
“Rovan? What are you doing up here?”
There was something about the boy... was he more mature? The way he carried himself, the way he swaggered, the look in his eyes. “I wanted to tell you something.”
“What is it now, boy?”
“I am in charge.”