The Rhevireon Chronicle: The Ascent of the West

by Maxwell F. J. Kaeser

  Pavilions of the estate expressed busyness, that of the servants and courtiers scurrying along the main concourse, in the direction of the hall where her Serenity Elle Ciel received her high muckamuck guests, regaled with parties, but also, where she prepared herself for occasional trips to the boroughs; the salon.

  ‘What do you think Stewie, should I request a salary increase?’

  ‘By considering how gold prices have gone wild recently, I’d say ya.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘A rise in gold means more expensive jewellery, hence the more to spend on your bling, your Serenity!’

  ‘You should’ve been a comptroller, Stewie!’

  ‘I did your Serenity,’ returned he, ‘prior to my coming here, I worked for the largest Regal bank by the hedge fund, the Rochesteron & Bros.; even before that, as a temporary resident in Juneauton, I brokered for many years at the Zentrum Stock Exchange; and up to this period my life was so great, I’d dreamed of promotion and settling down among many other things, until the bubble burst of the mid nineties, it all gone with the wind. But seriously, look at me now, the Palace Master of Staff, close aide and only advisor to our incumbent. Who’d have believed that after all this is what future had in store for me!’

  ‘Oh sweet Belhavenard! How on earth have I got no memory of your past?’

  ‘You must’ve forgotten,’ Stuarts said,‘‘cause it all was included in my curriculum vitae, which you read of course.’

  ‘No, I don’t read, I skim over.’ Magistrate Elle Ciel absent-mindedly responded, conversing with Stewie, her pastime slave rather than an —advisor— in the literal sense, her muse before her —aide— as he’d presume; this is while her personal seamstress made the final touches on the gown she tried out; and then, she out of the blue exclaimed,‘everyone may dismiss.’

  ‘I have the waist left to measure…’

  ‘Out, please.’ She firmly asserted,‘you too Stuarts, and don’t miss to procure arrival of my heli before tomorrow.’ Stopping her retinue in their tracks, and so they paid her obeisance, and sloped off from the ceramic tiled salon down a double-leaf door.

  Now, alone in the room, the crystalline chandeliers illuminated, the fireplace with curiosities lending a whiff of exotism to its mantelpiece, lit, and the Magistrate buried herself into the wall mirror over the sill of which needles were nattily placed, Elle Ciel gawked at her self-image, then she started to pierce her face with the needles, long thin needles, her facial acupuncture session. She hated dermal fillers, apart from being allergic to collagen supplements, repetitive use caused her skin to look swollen; therefore, it made her look older.

  Six day left, the Weltzentrumpoleis; the eighteen Maidens were brought to a destination spa, an attachment to the Abbey. Under the sun of May they plunged into a spring-fed holy well, the well of Saint Anaitiz; a groined pond, neither shallow to walk through nor deep enough to dive in, and which only was opened on the thirty-ninth day of the Harbinger’s Eve from every year, whose sanctity was forbidden for any animal or man to violate, it was reserved for the Maidens, for their rites of passage.

  ‘Your lover?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The lamen around your neck, was it from an admirer?’ the girl mellowing out besides Hoyden, with their bodies half immersed, amicably enquired; ‘you know, we all have left someone behind us!’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Was Hoyden’s diffident reply, when she hadn’t uttered a word until now, since her admission to the facility; after an instant of timid though cagey silence, she said,‘it’s a different innocent story!’

  ‘You must belong to the central boroughs.’

  ‘Yes I am, how did you—?’

  ‘You people are keen on your privacy!’ she explained, dipping her legs in the limpid water, and draping them she added, ‘plus, that accented tongue’s the least you’d hide from me.’ The girl said with a wink.

  ‘So I’d rather not talk at all!’ Hoyden returned the same manner she was weighed,‘but, how comes you did assume I had a lover, I guess you aren’t a religious person yourself!’

  ‘No I am, but I was raised a Gnostic!’

  ‘You’re one then.’ Hoyden, shocked at what she heard.

  ‘Yeah I’m one of the minority.’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘The Matron? of course she does, but they either don’t care, or they do it on purpose.’

  ‘Purposely, for what?’

  ‘Assimilation!’

  ‘It’s not a brooch by the way.’ Alerted, Hoyden sought to divert her attention.

  ‘What is it then?’ the foreign girl wondered.

  ‘The other half of a March equinox!’ was Hoyden’s answer.

  XII

  THE EBB OF THE VIRAGOS

  June the 21, the summer solstice.

  The Zentrum street lights were blackened out, only the rapid transit and the Obelisks were allowed empowerment; and at the hub of this megalopolis of murk, was Borough 9, the Grounds holding the Heidentor dazzling; the grounds of honor; the Heidentor Grounds, an open-end gargantuan amphitheater and landmark of the Juxtazone, was hemmed in by a myriad of anti-aircraft searchlights, transfixed high into realm of the gloam and quiescence. The disgraced quiescence, the trudged upon in a hundred thousand boots march; a hundred thousand Order Overseers rigged out in the metallic gray body armors, provoking a blend of fascination and eeriness, their close helms reminiscent of the visored sallet; and the homeboys hailed from balconies with candles adorned, they beguiled, as their champions rallied their strength trembling streets of the nine boroughs under their heels, carrying the burning bones, burning torches, a devotion to the Anointed Bones of the Harbinger; and all in progress they were, towards the inner ninth, the Grounds cradle of the Heidentor, besieged.

  Clutching the vexillums of argent, upward a ramp of stone in procession they traversed the propylaeum of travertine legged telamons, shawled with garlands of summer’s verdure, upholding entablatures they columned the arcaded courtyard, and to the interior of the marble venue this monumental gateway led. Scaled after theaters of the Hellenes; the Geometer, second architect of the Regnum and a historical figure who was neither a man nor a woman, not one person nor many, the virtuoso behind the synthetic Megalith Industrial school of architecture, a key tool in the nine-boroughs renewal planning of Juneau, and solo designer of the stadium, claimed a horseshoe shape over the oval for their world wonder; wholly contained in more blocks than the Pyramid of Chepos, marble blocks of metamorphic rock that weighed dozens of long-tons each and estimated at millions all, quarried from the geographic area of the Elk Mountains.

  And it was a mass sedation, when half a million spectator soundlessly ushered in entrance of the guardians; fifth of the Juneautonuan population accommodated by the six-tiered grandstand of the Heidentor; enormous barrel vaults underpinned the structure that rose to the heights of 150 yards, had a base width of 800 ft, and triple that long, the distance the parading Overseers bearers of the vexilloids crowned with spread Alaskan double-headed bald eagles, they had to cross before they’d attain the other closed-end of the stadium, and likewise, the torchbearers formed the human sonnen finsternis, in the haloed circle of eight radii orbiting around itself, as they were to leave the stage via vomitoria, situated at the corners below the Altar.

  ‘So this is the Baron’s take on a showdown of strength, what bravado!’ scorned a layman, at the closing of this solemnizing opening ceremony; so the patrons had a small interval as to stretch out and snatch themselves some junk food, from the vendors who walked by selling pretzels, snow cones, and churro, or at the concession stands that had it all, cotton candy, hot dogs, ice cream, seltzers, and BLTs; and then again were hawkers distributing copies of the LEXAUR and souvenirs.

  ‘Hooray, here they are!’ heedful to her painstaking commands to catch all the highlights on the lens of his camera, the photo guy Matt, told Natalya whose seat abutted his at the press box.

  ‘As if I didn’t notice it, back to work.�
�� Returned she, observed for herself the fury, dwelling on the event as it unfolded, when the first whistle was blown at the first sight of the twenty-two Viragos, cheers from a heated crowd followed, hurrahed the woman warriors the moment their feet touched the clay arena, when they stepped out of less dignified vomitoria, located on the east and west sides, equidistant. Under a falling cloud of despondent tones of the Marche Slave Overture, performed by the Zentrum Philharmonic, assembled on a purpose-built orchestra pit, eleven Viragos from each side, strutted one behind the other; they wore subligaculum and strophium garments leaving their midriffs and thighs exposed, roper-styled gaucho boots in their feet; they were voluptuous and slender yet toned, of medium height, facially symmetrical they were androgynous, their hair hued in vibrant turquoise, pink, or harlequin, and they all were fair skinned, except for one; she was black with auburn locks, her eye irises gunmetal blue.

  In middle of the arena, the twenty-two offerings stood in line, they raised their left arms held out straight, the little and ring finger curved inward with the last three digits stretched pointing forward, what appeared to be a blend of the legendary Rutlischwur and Oath of the Horatii gesture, was in essence the Virago salute, their pledge of allegiance to the empty throne; the seat with a cushion centering the towering corporate suite, reserved for occupation by a deity, the Harbinger Himself; on the same VIP tribune, four seats of inferior echelon flanked the throne, on which sat the bureaucracy of the nation; to its right, Magistrate Ren Jin Aisin Gioro Elle Ciel, by the side of whom stood her advising slave, Stuart, decked out in a Harlequin’s costume at the urging of his master; Elle Ciel being actually her courtesy name; her fingernails polished in identical color to that of her lipstick, garbed in her usual luxury branded coat, putting fishnet hose with a little black dress and a cloche hat, waving a folding fan while she peeked through her pair of theater binoculars, her inherited quality; claiming she’d gotten the certificate asserting that, the Manchu princess Aisin Gioro Xianyu, who had served as Yoshiko Kawashima in the Kuantang army, as a spy during the interwar period, and the executed beauty traitor by the Kuomintang, was her greater great grandmother; then to the throne’s left, Baron Athanasius Eisbar in uniform, the black trimmed purple personal armour and scabbarded ceremonial sword, before him was his personal standard, the Larger-Than-Life on a mast, an argent field emblazoned with the double-headed bald eagle. On the third chair was the Archmatron; the fourth however, set aside for an outsider, an ambassador-at-large, sent by the Occidental Regnum only to make sure vigils of the night were respected, done the way it should in this secular Zentrum; and this person was, the Magus, the Occidental Organon nuncio, the titular delegate of the triumvirate, the Murdoghs.

  The Magus, then moved to act his role out, his full-length velvet cape and ruff, complemented by a cappello romano onto his head, scared the kiddies; he left his place stepping down the pulvinar, forth into a rostrum structure, he stood before a set of blimped microphones and with a gesticulation of hand, silence paralysed the stands, the squares catering for inflatable movie screens in cities across the Occident, and inside every dinning-room; all eyes on him, he mouthed the sermon.

  ‘It is like tonight, last of Forenoon of the Harbinger, forty days from the First Nosh, that the Harbinger was resuscitated from a rock, his anointed bones; and returning to his former state, on that same Morning of the Resurgence, the Arkhitekton creator and sustainer of the universe, who as punishment to their deed toward his hierophant, made the peasants sacrifice their daughters to him on the arena, on what became known as Night of the Viragos; forty days from that of their abominate cannibalizing of his redolent remains, after they’d had him caged in the gibbet, why? Because they were too infatuated with the unearthly being, feared he’d one day abandon them without saying goodbye. And so we are, millennia ahead of ethose times, on this night of ours here convened, we abide by thy judgment; under care of the Organon, bastion of Aurvanthilism, your word through Belhavenard the Harbinger, the incarnation of the Arkhitekton on earth. One completes the other, one destroys his creator, and He rebuilds his destroyer. Let the one-hundred and fifteenth Occidental Venatio Games begin.’ And with an other gesticulation of his, the atmosphere reanimated.

  The Venatio games, the hugely popular blood sport in Juneauton and her Occidental sisters, a national cultural icon, which rose to prominence as a reaction to the strong-arm tactics of the out of favor gridiron; the Venatio, was the practice of damnatio ad bestias inflicted upon the bestiarii, those forced into the arena unarmed, only to meet their fate in the face of wild animals brought from the far ambits of the taiga and tundra regions of the continent, so either they be maimed or survive; and with the progress of time instead of their biological daughters, the burghers adopted artificial intelligence, raised them to become the Viragos, to die a bestiarix, or, or live a gladiatrix on this night which had developed into the grand final of a season-long tournament.

  The searchlight projectors switched their focus to the ring, rendering its surroundings sunk in dimness, that one could not tell of who was next to them; all this while they illuminated every atom of soil on the ring to become like one of ice, nonplussing them, blinding the Viragos who’d arranged themselves in a defence formation, shieldless and weaponless they were on the ready; skycams hovered about for the slightest detail. On the dot-matrix the scoreboard was marked, Round I.

  The power portals to four other vomitoria upright slided, the carnivores were unchained; and before they’d a chance to see them, from their ferocious bellowing the bestiarii could recognize their kind; starved polar bears ran amuck out of the arched caverns rounding them up, but Maschinenmensha, the dark skinned Virago and her squadron showed no dread, neither mettle, no expression, no emotion, not they were unable, they were restricted to.

  The audience who got too carried away watched how quickly the bating animals chomped on the limbs and crushed skulls of one Virago after the other, reducing their numbers at full tilt, driving the fiesta to an end in a matter of couple minutes; triggering displeasure and unrest among the spectators, they hissed the orchestra and booed the show.

  ‘Take them back to labor!’ shouted out a child, for which he’d got pinched by his nanny.

  ‘Those are figaros not Viragos!’ gibed a heckler.

  ‘Why do they refuse to fight down?’ questioned someone else.

  Comments like these caused vexation to the Baron and embarrassment to his Magistrate; hence, just about when the Magus was to intervene, an impulsive change of attitude held sway, the instant tongue of the bear was extirpated by the platinum blonde’s bare fist, one of the seven to endure so far, this was ensued with pepping up cries from the stands, ‘Vermillion, Vermillion, Vermillion…’ The nickname the aficionados gave this Virago with a mane of orange dye; she who gorged eyeballs of an other, disengaged throats of an extra five consecutively; so she turned to blow her fans a kiss; Maschi jumped onto the necks disjointing the jaws, to the last predator.

  Nineteen eliminated, four to go. The twenty-three Virago identification numbers and front-view mugshots popped up on the scoreboard; and against the odds, four bestiarii pulled through, which qualified them to compete in the finals as gladiatrices; blood of their preys stained their contorted faces, as they materialized on the suspended video screens while departing from the arena, receiving back a warm mass Virago salute, ‘they like us!’ exclaimed Vermillion.

  Immediately thereafter, the Janitors had access to the ring, those people were by no means a typical stock of cleaners, their responsibility sat on cleansing the field from the wounded; the animals or gynoids who were yet alive but critically injured; and their method in executing such task was quite simple, point-blank range shooting; a behind-the-scenes extended section of entertainment.

  The gynoid, reality of the Virago, just as the Virago the supreme-most epitomization of the Andropoid. The heroic Viragos were synthetic organism, no more, no less. Establishment of the Terra Sphaira Alliance as an intergovernmental organiza
tion, alternative to the UN and rise of the Occidental Regnum to superpowerdom, was the strand of events that typified the tempting environment and the drawing force behind creation of the denominated, Andropoid, AI type; the bright hair and eye pigmentation being sui generis about them.

  Synthetic biology in the Occidental Regnum had compassed cutting edge advancement, promoting artificial intelligence, into eminent stages of on-going development, funded and regulated by the state. Inside laboratories of its universities, the andropoid were designed, in a handfull few of licensed manufacturing plants they were built, more and more organic, subjective, sentient, conscious, real; conscious of their advantage in knowledge management over our innovation, multitasking over our duplicity, logic over our illogic, total recall over our imagination, physical stamina over our sexual reproductivity; every failure a stepforward en route to the fulfilment of a nation’s obsession with an idea, the Transsapience; a race of the above-human, superior to modern man, the objective the Harbinger had set for humanity to achieve, the meaning behind life itself. And they saw in the andropoid a fulfillment for the mythical goal, be one, or made one; the andropoid who they created, mastered, indoctrinated, enslaved, freighted down from there aboard rattlers to conk out, to work in labor camps and on the megastructures across the country; the andropoid had built the Regnum.

  Fueling their burning desire for a place in the sun, against the one thing envisioned to be immutable in them under whatever contingencies, and it was their quintessence, the crux of their beingness, Weltanschauung of the Andropoid:

  The andropoid live and die for the progress of the Transsapience.

  02:19 a.m., right after the Janitors were done, done with the dead mutilated bears and gynoids, the scattered meat and iron; the blood-tarnished clay ring was divided into parallel squares, separated by approximately half an inch each side, thereof in a chain reaction mechanism the large squares overturned, their soil-clad surface went down, and similar to a domino effect, furbished granite floor tumped over.