End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity)

by David S. Wellhauser

  At the door, Shea looked back over a shoulder—the head swivelling a little too deeply. “Come with us.” There was no rage in the voice any longer; even if he supposed it could reappear Matt was left with no choice as two Meta guards entered. Bolt? Where could he go? The windows were barred and appeared to be blast resistant; there was no back door, he could see, but the room was deep and filled with shelving and medical cabinets—as well as examination tables. There was no choice but to submit, wait, and hope Cynthia had the sense he needed to attribute to her.

  There was no escaping alive from this—not this time. At first the realisation brought a sense of dread with it, but once this passed there was clarity in the recognition and Feargal hoped only to last long enough to see his father killed in the strike. If that occurred then Monterrey would not happen and the Transhumanists and H+ would lose their focal point. All that would remain were the Metahumans without focus or agenda. That and he’d been over this many times in his own mind would leave only the integration of the two civilisations. Historically this had been problematic, but this wasn’t history and the Metahumans could not be so simply undermined by some stray, radical microbes. Nor could this occur in silence—social media would make this impossible where the Web still functioned. Of course, there were places, even in the US, where this was not functioning and others where it was spotty, but if Zakara’s enterprise could be brought to an end this would be quickly righted.

  And so Feargal followed Shea out. Several more guards were in the hallways. Outside the entrance to the building he’d his wrists zap strapped behind his back and was escorted to what he thought would be another of their carriages. To his surprise he found himself stepping into what he thought a late model Lincoln Town Car. The vehicle was running when he approached, but what he saw coming from the exhaust wasn’t the blue-grey of gasoline, but something more akin to steam—with a thin Metallic scent to this. Alt-fuel? There was no way he had time to more than consider the possibility before he was handled into the back seat. Shea and Hannah took another Town Car in front of his.

  For a moment he lay on the cool leather seat; then pushed up carefully—trying not to let the hard plastic bite into his chafed wrists. It didn’t work, but he needed to see where they were going. Although the windows were tinted, he could see enough to know that he was mostly lost by the third or fourth turn down streets, avenues, and boulevards. Eventually, once Matt had surrendered to not being able to find his way out—on the off chance this were even possible—the ride became almost enjoyable. There is little to compare to a Town Car for a smooth ride. Still, he’d little interest in or knowledge of what kind of rides different cars offered. For Matt, a car, or any vehicle, was about getting from point A to point B as effectively as possible.

  Finally, they turned onto a broad street that was heavily reminiscent of Colonial New England. Matt wondered if this had been a conscious choice—but much of the town seemed at odds with any system. At one moment there were Llama drawn carriages, no high rises, freakish Metahumans, R&D complexes, Meta-Science cheek by jowl with magic and myth. Then there was the Grimm nightmare at the other end of the valley and the escapees living in the copse and up the mountainside. If were as if elements of the superego and Id had gotten smashed together and improperly digested before being vomited over a new-born. The image brought Feargal up short and he twisted, violently, against this. A guard turned back to him. “Settle down, we’re almost there.”

  “Where?” But the Meta didn’t answer—the car was slowing, though.

  It was a square red brick building with high, narrow windows, and ornate, heavily carved soffits. Curiously the box was draped in red, white, and blue bunting. American nationalism was typical, but Zakara wanted to destroy this and every other state. Still shaking his head, he was pulled from the car.

  Shea and Hannah were already waiting for him. Although still rough looking, Burda had almost completely recovered from the beating. Shea smiled with that face that opened too deeply to be appreciated and the look was malevolent. “We heal fast.” Hannah attempted to smile but it came out more as a rictus.

  “He’s here?” Attempting to ignore the twisted woman beside his mother.

  “Inside.” Ignoring the question. Matt was pushed so hard from behind that he toppled forward and landed on the side of his face. The interlocking brick walk sloughed off a strip of skin. “Don’t hurt him.”

  The guards picked the stunned man up and negotiated, half guiding and half shoving him, down the walk; then up the three tiered steps with wrought iron railings and in through the wide, tall white doors with narrow stained glass windows. In each of these was an image of Zakara in a mythic pose. Pride goeth, but the thought never completed itself. Inside the architecture quickly altered from faux-Colonial to Industrial Sheik common in contemporary restaurant design. There were no dining tables or bar, however. Which was all to the bad, since Matt could have used something to steady his nerves. He’d been running on the last of these since being hammered by the Thin Man. Still, he’d not been broken yet, and he was depending on his sense of self and pride to carry him through the meeting, and whatever followed.

  Matt’s minders kept pushing him forward through the room and toward whatever was passed the swinging doors. He supposed this would be a kitchen but it turned into an auditorium cum conference room. Looking over to Shea he raised an eyebrow. The woman answered with a shrug, as if to say she did not get it either. If this were intentional and the by-product of Botrous’ mind there was something of a mental collapse in progress. This was assuming a great deal—most importantly, that Matt had any idea at all what constituted a mental equilibrium for the Cinn in general and Shaitan in particular. This also assumed what he thought had happened actually had. Considering the endless reflections of meaning in this hall of mirrors his guards dropped him into a swivel chair before the auditorium seats.

  ***

  There was the sharp clack of hard leathered shoes and women’s heels behind him, but when he attempted to turn the chair was wrenched back in place. “Let him see.” Shea said as she deposited Hannah in a seat at the far end of the first row. The young woman, not so young any longer—she should have been around 25, lolled forward a moment, but his mother steadied the sagging Meta with a hand and pushed her back. The woman’s head bobbled a moment; then took control. Looking over at Matt she smiled as her left hand rose and stroked the outer thigh of Shea’s leg. Responding, his mother leaned down and ran a tongue over a bloodied mouth. Hannah responded by allowing a red, mucosal tongue—the saurian he’d expected—to slip and guide the first’s into her mouth. As the women kissed there was a hollow chuckle behind him.

  Matt swivelled and there was Zakara flanked by several Metas on either side. None of these were the freaks he had half expected. All were traditional transformations—part human eccentric and part fauna extrapolation. There were no flora inspired architectures; no mythic re-inscriptions; no urban legend motifs; no plastic rhetorical flourish. Most were some form of lupus or feline blend. There was one which seemed to have something in common with a predatory bird, but only about the eyes and nose. All were dressed in lounge suits; the women, and there were two identifiable as such, wore suits as well, but one, the taller and more muscular, wore a Brooks inspired, dark trouser suit; the other, shorter and almost frail looking, wore a pencil thin skirt suit—a derivative of beige, but not quite brown.

  Botrous was as much as he had been. Their eyes were the same jet, still as lifeless, but deeper set or accentuated by the gaunt nature of the flesh in general, and the hollowed face in particular. Beneath the eyes were deep, dark circles. There was nothing of the Meta about him, but that, Matt supposed, was because there was nothing of the half-caste about him. Archaic? No, he was not that. There was something going on in there; what precisely this was difficult to determine. Though Feargal supposed the others were correct in their assumptions

  “Hello, Shaitan.” The son smiled up at his father as they entered upsta
ge right from behind a theatrically burgundy velvet curtain masking the backstage mechanics. But as he folded out from this there was the sound of industrious bustling, slamming doors, gears, pulleys, and the shouts of sprites and pixies. Matt dreaded seeing what he’d manufactured these from. The malignancy of the old man was beyond expectation and this ambiguous space was the Barthesian gap. Instead of anxiety, though, there lurked terror; no sublime safety net—this was a physical terror without that space of safety offered by The Haunting. Here was where bodies were inverted and organs epoxied to the exterior flesh with nerves and cartilage dangling from the tortured howls of the cinematic perversions.

  “Hello, Matteo. You’ve been listening to rumour.” Voice a gravelling, basso husk. The vocals seemed about as worn as the rest.

  “Rumour until I saw you. You’re wearing a bit thin there.” And it was then that he recognised the walking stick, but his father didn’t seem to be using this.

  “Zakara is still here; has been all along.”

  “I have to ask.” The elder nodded. “Did he give himself to you, or was he taken?”

  “We have always had the same goal—the restoration of the Cinn. Yes, he willingly joined with me. For this to have worked he had to give himself—it’s always been that way with the Cinn.”

  “I’d ask why, but we’re beyond that.”

  “Simple, really—a better world and a space within that new power. What he could not get on his own we offered at little enough cost.”

  “Dad, I really don’t believe you’ll live to collect.”

  “You’ve done this. If you had not allowed Halton to lock your DNA we’d not be here. But, even if this body gives out, we’re one now and your father will continue on with me.”

  “Pop, you can’t really believe that?”

  “We do.”

  “They’re a god—you’d expect equal billing in that package?” There was a peel of laughter from the concatenation which was high and, if Matt were correct, fretful. All of the members of the entourage on the stage moved a little further from the discomfiting eruption.

  “Not a god, son. We are much further along than your species. Yours was never expected to have come this far, but that had more to do with the remaindered Metas from when we last ruled here. Without proper control and guidance they had to choose for themselves. Then there was their pride—this killed them off and left us, longer than we’d have supposed, in the space you’d found us.”

  “An interesting physics that.”

  “It is our natural state—there. Here it would be quite different, though, I’m certain, disturbing for you. That will only be the initial reaction—once you’ve sorted out your perceptions and the conversions are complete that misprision will adjust itself.”

  “That’s if any of this occurs.”

  “Admittedly, you, Salt, Edwards, Neruda, and some of your newer allies have been inventive and vicious in ways I’d not expected.”

  “I am your son.”

  “Yes, you are that—my fault for not calculating that into my plans. You were—are—still necessary, but not as much as you once were.” Matt considered following that up but let it go—whatever this was to be it would be unpleasant. From behind and to his left he heard a sniggering from Shea. Looking over a shoulder she was fondling one of Burda’s now exposed breasts. The younger’s face was buried in her neck.

  Looking back at his father, Matt gestured with his head toward his mother. “That’s your new world order—looks recidivist to me.”

  “Shea was an early sketch, and having left you two alone for too long has irreparably damaged her.” The woman’s lascivious laughter stuttered to a halt and Feargal sensed she was about to speak when his father glanced over. Nothing followed and he didn’t bother to look over for fear of what he might find there.

  “I’ve seen,” ploughing ahead, “what your later work in the Land Between the Lakes and out there looks like.” Nodding toward the valley. “Take those Lilacs and the Finnerin—and the extravagant Grimm at the end of the valley.”

  “Kabuki—nothing more.” That wasn’t going to work.

  “Theatre—that’s the sum of your argument?”

  “Pretty much—my Thin Men and I were having some fun.”

  “They’re your R&D folks.” Zakara nodded. “Wilson too?” An inclination of the chin. “He did those cockroaches?”

  “They were a failure that he was to have deposited in the forest, but he thought they might be useful deploying them on the Archaics—you and yours just happened to wonder into that.”

  “You certain of that? After all, William and I threw some serious hurt on him when we robbed his place back in Dilmun.” Zakara fiddled with his stick, but didn’t look at his son.

  “You need to kill us all.” There it was—the point of the conversation.

  “We have no intention of...”

  “Converting us then.”

  “That is only the next step. Once all are Meta, then the real work may begin.”

  “But you’ll be starting from scratch. The Archaics already have a complex infrastructure in place which could be very useful.”

  “The two systems are not compatible—sciences as well.”

  “If we joined forces we could do great things.” Feargal had not wasted his time with Salt, as well as the bureaucrats and diplomats they’d recently been forced to treat with.

  “No, humans, as they are now, are not capable of seeing anyone else’s perspective but their own. That is why we were favouring the Neanderthals over your ancestors.”

  “We’ve come a long way.” At this his father did look up.

  “Yes, and you are too much like us.”

  “I don’t understand—this is a problem?”

  “You were designed by one of our more creative and unconventional engineers. They thought by making you physically weak but inventive and independent you would be a useful tool if properly manipulated and prompted.”

  “Expect I know what that means.”

  “Yes, but it didn’t work out the way they’d planned—the first batches turned out fine, but as your evolution was manipulated the species began to demonstrate an independence of mind and spirit which made you increasingly difficult to control. In the end the decision was taken to consign you to another forest as we have here. However, a few thousand escaped and managed to jump from Africa to the Arab Peninsula—all much earlier than Archaics now suspect. Still, we didn’t know they were gone—our focus for much of our time here was Africa—at least in this latest iteration of the continents. Before that it was what Antarctica became, but you are now calling Gondwana.” Matt had remembered something about that from a BBC documentary he’d scammed his last year in Dilmun, but it wasn’t speaking to the point that needed making.

  “So,” buying time now seemed the only choice, “we left the party early?”

  “I suppose, but we were less concerned with that, once we’d learnt of your communities in Arabia—Yemen I believe. We sent some of our Neanderthal Metas, some hominid Metas that pre-dated these as well, to deal with the problem and they were successful—but you’re bloody cockroaches. You kept popping up on our radar and we kept killing you—but you’d not stay dead.” Laughing Zakara shook his head.

  “Sir,” the skirted business suit asked, “is there any merit in this?” Matt wondered what level of commitment that kind of a question offered Zakara. At this Botrous stopped laughing and turned to the group—they were still edging away from him. As in The Wood he released another ball of energy at them and they were immolated in a heartbeat. Turning back to Matt he threw one at him again, but, as before, nothing happened—there remained that tickling sensation, however. However, the guards flanking the young Feargal were destroyed. There followed a shriek from the women to his left, but Matt merely smiled at the old man.

  Zakara had not killed all of his followers, Matt was thinking of them as his Cabinet or Councillors because they seemed comfortable offering advice, for he turned
to others of these, that had moved down into the auditorium seating, and spoke. “Any other suggestions?” There was no sound or movement from these.

  “Still finding it a bit difficult to perform?” Zakara stared at his hands; then everywhere but his son. “Best thinking is it is genetic—at least that part of the un-encoded DNA Shaitan had coded but Halton locked out, thereby preventing conversion. Nonetheless, your genetic matter had been preventing the meta-magic from working on me.”

  “Yes, my people have come to the same conclusion. But,” smiling he turned to Feargal, “we’re working on something.”

  “Work harder.” The already stretched, swarthy skin on his face tightened so he supposed the skull was about ready to burst out, but this did not happen. “Ever wonder if you are losing control, father?”

  When Zakara finally looked at his son, Matt saw that he’d been lost somewhere inside of Shaitan over the decades—perhaps from the first. The taut skin, sunken eyes, and the barely contained frenzy of hatred which burned from them. “Zakara?” He whispered.

  “Call me by my proper name.”

  “Shaitan.”

  “There seems little point in disguising this any longer—it will all be over quickly enough.”

  “You are that confident, Shaitan?” The death mask head, nodded stiffly—as though the muscle and ligatures had become ossified. “Thought you’d have learnt how dangerous that is with me.” Anything to keep them here and talking—all of them. With a gesture, which was hardly worthy of the name, from Botrous’ hand the remaining Meta guards closed on Feargal.

  “You don’t know when to remain silent.” Botrous spoke as the first blow slammed into the side of the young man’s head. There were others, and they did not seem to stop, but he didn’t feel them as more than the vagaries of pain through the stunning first blow. As the guards kicked, hammered, dragged, and spat upon Matt he could hear the high-pitched cackle of his father. The voice was in direct contrast to the deep basso that had typified this in Dilmun and even today. An elemental shift had occurred in the voice-box which tightened the cords and raised them to that of a cartoon pastiche. For a moment consciousness fluttered, but Matt knew surrendering to unconsciousness would defeat the purpose of his belligerence, so he fought to remain whole and aware. As he was dragged up a Meta attempted to head butt Feargal, but the Archaic managed to avoid the blow and sink his teeth into their neck.