by Rod Rees
So he stood indifferent to the rain that beat down on him, oblivious to the water coursing over his shaven head and over his naked body, all his attention directed to the words spoken by the new Grand Vizier, Konstantin Pobedonostsev, as he addressed the fifty thousand Boys crowding along the line, his voice booming out over the HubLand.
‘Today you must show yourself ready to be a Man, to show your MANtor, to show your family, to show your Ancestors and to show ABBA that you are ready to take on the mantle of ManHood. You must show you are ready to use your ikiwa in the defence of HimPerialism and of NoirVille. Only those of you blessed by ABBA will be able to defeat the nanoBites and so be deemed worthy to embrace the sacred truths of Machismo.’
Xolandi had heard this message before. Every year he had accompanied his MANtor – Lungile – to watch the Rite of Passage, but the difference this year was he wasn’t listening as a spectator, now he was listening as a nearMan. This year it was his turn to pit himself against the nanoBites, to prove that he was worthy of being a Man. This was his moment of Destiny.
He fixed all his concentration on one thought, that soon he would wear the cheek scars that announced him to be a Man.
‘Five minutes,’ he heard Lungile whisper in his ear.
Xolandi began to shake his arms and legs, trying to keep the muscles warm, loose and ready for the trial to come, to slough off the cold of the rain and the chill of fear. He began to practise the meditative techniques of Coolness, to breathe slowly and deeply, to shut his mind off from the reality around him, gathering his inner force. All that mattered was, when the third gong sounded, that he should run so hard and so fast that he would outsprint the nanoBites, that he should outlast the other Boys and that he would come victorious to the end of the Run.
‘Remain Cool,’ advised Lungile, ‘and keep out of trouble by running at the tip of the horn. Remain aloof, especially at the beginning. That’s when the runners are bunched together and the dirty work is done … then and when you’re out of sight behind the Temple.’
The words ‘dirty work’ resonated. All of the First Families had sons and nephews running in the Rite of Passage and it was an opportunity not only for the reputation of a family to be enhanced but for a few of the next generation’s rivals to be disposed of. And now, with Shaka dead, the greatest prize of all – the throne of NoirVille – was there for the taking and that would tempt many to ignore Shaka’s wish that Xolandi be his heir. Death made all such bequests irrelevant.
Xolandi raised his gaze and stared out across the two miles of flat, grass-lush, rain-soaked HubLand that stretched before him, that separated him from the Temple … from the turning point. His sharp eyes could just make out the Temple through the falling rain, its Mantle-ite walls – shadowed though they were by the smoke and the flames emitted when the bomb had exploded just the night before – shimmering green in sunlight.
The Temple was Xolandi’s target: he must reach it, circle it and run back to the starting point in under eighteen minutes. Four miles in total and never once during that time could he falter or stumble as either would mean a certain and horrible death: the nanoBites would see to that.
‘Test your spikes,’ Xolandi heard Lungile order and automatically he pawed at the slick grass beneath his feet, ripping the inch-long tiger-teeth spikes into the ground. There were those who felt that the wearing of shoes somehow violated the spirit of Machismo but Lungile was a modernist and had no use for such reactionary nonsense. In the Rite of Passage survival was the first – the only – consideration. And today the rain was so heavy and the Hub so sodden that it would be almost impossible for those not wearing spikes to keep their footing when the route curved around the Temple.
‘Alexander is to your left,’ Lungile whispered, ‘but I’ve stationed Bheka and his SoulBrothers between you and him to run interference. He’s been boasting that today he will kill you, that it will be he who takes the throne, so be on your guard. If the worst comes to the worst, just open your legs and run: forget honour, forget vengeance, they can come later. Today you must think only of surviving the Rite of Passage and becoming a Man … becoming HimPeror.’
Xolandi nodded, though the warning was unnecessary. It would be unthinkable for a Blank to usurp his inheritance! But Alexander was a formidable competitor: tall – he was only a few centimetres shy of Xolandi’s own height of two metres – and possessed of a beautifully honed body that glistened as the rain coursed over it.
Xolandi stifled a delinquent smirk. A Blank could never be called beautiful. Blanks were cursed with Lightness, as they had been since their colour had been stolen from them by Loki, the Trickster, in those distant days before the Confinement.
The Grand Vizier spoke again.
‘You who triumph today will have the honour of joining a HimPi, of standing shoulder to shoulder with your SoulBrothers in the battle to come. And make no mistake, soon comes the Time of the Mfecane, of the Crushing, when the HimPis must avenge the murder of His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu.’
The second gong sounded, the signal for MANtors to leave their charges and for the sacrifice to be made to the nanoBites. With an affectionate pat on Xolandi’s rump and a whispered ‘Stay Cool’ Lungile moved away to join Xolandi’s family in the stands. Now for the first time since he had been breeched, Xolandi stood alone without the support and advice of his MANtor, and alone, before all the gathered dignitaries of NoirVille, before his family and before the Spirits of his Ancestors, he had to prove he was worthy to be called a Man.
Four priests strode forward carrying the butchered carcass of an aurochs between them. This they threw over the line that marked the end of the Urban Band and the beginning of the Hub. From the moment the carcass landed, it took the nanoBites less than twenty seconds to devour it. The carcass seemed to slowly sink into the Hub, but this Xolandi knew was simply an optical illusion: the reality was that thousands upon thousands of the invisible nanoBites were devouring it from below. It was a chilling reminder of the fate that awaited any who fell during the Run.
‘Today is the first day of Summer, the day when all Boys who have become bearded in the past year must prove that they are worthy of the divine condition of ManHood. Your task is simple: you must carry your war shield and your ikiwa past the Great Temple and back to the starting point. On the third beat of the gong you may commence. May ABBA be with you.’
A hush fell over the huge crowd that had gathered to see the Rite, now only the pitiful and pitiable howling of the burqa-clad woeMen could be heard as they bewailed the fate in store for many of their sons. The third gong sounded and with a cheer from the crowd the runners surged forward. Several of the more headstrong Boys made a desperate sprint to be at the front of the pack, but this Xolandi knew to be a high-risk strategy. Certainly it minimised the odds of being tripped, spiked or surreptitiously stabbed, but the front-runners also risked failing to negotiate a hidden obstacle. Better, Xolandi knew, to bide his time.
Stay Cool.
He settled into the loping stride pattern he had been practising all through Winter and Spring. The secret of surviving the nanoBites was to keep to a steady, metronomic pace, ensuring that a foot was never in contact with the ground for more than two ticks of a running Boy’s body clock. Any longer and the nanoBites would strike.
Lost in his Cool, he only half-heard the screams that signalled the usual mishaps: one boy falling could bring down four or five running in his wake, sending them all plunging to the ground, where they would be consumed by the nanoBites wakened by the pounding feet of the runners.
Running fast and smooth, Xolandi’s long legs ate up the Hub and before he quite realised how far he had raced he looked up to see the Temple looming before him. Automatically he gripped the leather-bound shaft of his ikiwa – his stabbing spear – more firmly. This was the time of danger, the time when, out of sight of those watching from NoirVille, murder would be done.
The Temple was now only fifty metres or so away. The first two miles of
the race had considerably stretched the field; at the start there had been thousands of runners ahead of Xolandi but now there were no more than a handful and of these a couple had already begun to roll as they ran, showing that they were near to being spent.
Xolandi took a quick glance over his shoulder. Behind him ran Bheka and his SoulBrothers, adopting a formation designed to protect his back, and it was a back that would soon need a lot of protecting. A gaggle of running Boys – Blanks all of them – veered towards him and at their head was the unmistakable form of Alexander.
‘Bheka!’ he shouted. ‘To your left!’
Immediately Bheka signalled to his SoulBrothers, who peeled away to form a buffer between Xolandi and the Blanks.
Xolandi lengthened his stride as the pack rounded the Temple, the empty and brooding edifice reminding him of the treachery of the swine who had killed Shaka Zulu. Once Pobedonostsev had discovered the identity of those culpable he, Xolandi, would make them pay.
Bheka sprinted closer, his stride mimicking Xolandi’s as they raced along, side by side. ‘They are coming,’ he panted. ‘Your enemy closes on you.’
‘Hold them, SoulBrother, and I will make such sacrifice to the Ancestors that your Soul will be taken into ABBA’s arms with much rejoicing and honour.’
Xolandi had no hesitation in ordering Bheka to sacrifice himself. It was the duty of all SoulBrothers from the Royal Kraal to protect him, to ensure that the Black Prince reached ManHood and that a Shade sat on the throne of NoirVille.
As the horde of running Boys reached the rear of the Temple where they were completely hidden from the view of the spectators, so Alexander and his phalanx struck, hurling themselves against Xolandi’s bodyguard, stabbing with their spears as they tried to cut their way to the Prince. But Bheka and his SoulBrothers fought back hard and the advantage ebbed back and forth. It was a surreal form of warfare, neither side daring to break stride lest the nanoBites take them so all the fighting was done at breakneck speed. For almost a minute the two sides raced alongside one another, the Blanks trying to stab or hamstring Xolandi’s bodyguards as they fought their way towards him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hephaestion – Alexander’s loveBoy – racing towards him, ikiwa cocked back ready to lunge. Automatically Xolandi increased his pace, forcing the Blank to attack him when he was off-balance. Infuriated, Hephaestion came at him in a rush screaming his battle cry but Xolandi, almost casually, parried the thrust with his own spear, amazed that everything seemed to be happening so deliberately … so ponderously. He must, he decided, be lost in what Lungile called the Slow Time, when the excitement of battle made a warrior’s senses super-keen, so much so that time itself seemed to dawdle. Exulting in his lust to kill, Xolandi grabbed the Blank by his shield, twisting him so that he was forced to pirouette and open up his unprotected flank. Xolandi’s ikiwa flashed, Hephaestion screamed and then sank to the ground never to rise again.
Xolandi had killed for the first time and it felt good. His Machismo was energised and his Spirit soared. But his euphoria was short-lived. When they emerged from behind the Temple, the fighting stopped but by then Bheka and five of his SoulBrothers were dead. That Alexander had lost more of his kin was little comfort. Xolandi vowed vengeance.
Desperately Xolandi tried to maintain his Cool, but there was no denying that Alexander by so openly threatening him had inflicted a huge insult to his Machismo. He felt his temper begin to rise and his body clock begin to pound. It took real effort to remember his training, to remember that the Man who lost his Cool generally lost.
Now the finishing line was in sight. He could see the bunting, he could see the cheering crowds and could see the MANtors pounding on their shields to celebrate their Boys moving to ManHood. But Xolandi felt no elation; all he felt was a cold fury. He had been insulted and his SoulBrother, Bheka, had been murdered. It was impossible for him to enter ManHood with such a stain on his Machismo. Fuelled by his anger, he pumped his legs harder and tore across the HubLand, outstripping the other runners, leaving them flailing ineffectually in his wake. Faster and faster he ran, willing himself to ignore the tightening of his chest, to ignore the heaviness infecting his legs, to ignore the pain in his stomach.
He was the first across the line, but even as the sheMen moved towards him bearing the Victor’s laurels he waved them disdainfully aside, spun on the ball of his foot, and, as Alexander charged over the line, he plunged the blade of his ikiwa deep into the Blank’s stomach.
‘Ngadla!’ he screamed as he turned the blade in the bastard’s belly. ‘I have eaten!’
1:11
Terror Incognita
The Demi-Monde: 1st Day of Fall, 1005
I will acknowledge it was with some small dread that I set foot on Terror Incognita, this strange land’s proclivity for swallowing without trace all those who violated its sanctity is well known to all Demi-Mondians: it is, after all, the infamous regnum mortis. But I placed my trust in ABBA and the words written in the Flagellum Hominum:
In the Final Days
All may enter
Terror Incognita
To struggle
And to strive.
But whilst all
May come
Know you that
Few will leave.
Extract from the diary of Aleister Crowley, entry dated 1st day of Fall, 1005
Trixie Dashwood stood for a moment on the shore of Terror Incognita trying to still her racing heart. She didn’t know whether she was excited or terrified to be entering the most dangerous place in the Demi-Monde, the place from which no one had ever returned. Perhaps, she decided, she was a little of both, excited by the thought of what she might discover and simultaneously terrified that her discoveries might be the stuff of nightmares.
Unnerved by the unnatural silence – there wasn’t so much as a chirp of a cricket or the call of a bird to leaven the foreboding quiet – she unclasped the holster holding her Webley, never having met anything in the Demi-Monde that couldn’t be deterred by a .455 bullet.
Wysochi came to stand by her side. ‘Disappointing, Trixie,’ he said. ‘I’d expected a more exciting greeting than this.’
‘Oh, I think we can promise you excitement aplenty, Sergeant Wysochi,’ boomed a voice and out of the trees strode a tall man clad rather incongruously in a white robe. ‘It’s good to see you both again.’
It took Trixie a moment to recognise her father, if indeed this strange man was her father. She hadn’t seen him for two Seasons and had hardly given him a thought in all that time: it was as though she had made the subconscious decision to expunge him from her life. The last time they’d been together his refusal to follow her orders had hurt … almost as much as her later realisation that he’d been right and she’d been wrong. To protect herself from her remorse she’d tried to forget about him. A childish thing to have done, but …
Trixie gave a mental shake of her head: she despised sentimentality. She was a soldier and soldiers had no use for regrets. Dressing her face with a stern look, she strode across the beach. ‘Hello, Father. This is a surprise. I never expected to find you here.’
‘Oh, you’re not the only Dashwood with a penchant for surviving, Trixie,’ he said as he bent forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘You’re looking well. A trifle dishevelled, but that, I suppose, is to be expected in your line of work.’
Automatically Trixie ran a hand over her head and through her stubble of hair, then stopped herself. She was a soldier, not a mannequin. ‘How long have you been here, Father?’
‘That’s difficult to say. Time in Terror Incognita seems to be very wilful and to proceed at a pace of its own choosing. It would help if you would tell me what date it is.’
‘It’s the first day of Fall, one thousand and five.’
Her father gave an absent-minded nod. ‘Then I’ve been here for two Seasons. I suspected something of the sort. I remember landing on Terror Incognita at the end of Winter, but then … n
othing. I woke up a little while ago and had an urge to come down here to the beach. And when I did there you were landing from your boat.’
‘Are you saying that you can’t remember anything since you came to this place?’
‘Not a thing. I seem to have duplicated the experience of Rip Van Winkle, though whoever has been looking after me during my slumber did, at least, do me the courtesy of changing my linen.’ He looked down at his robe and gave a rueful smile. ‘I would, however, take issue with the fashion sense of those responsible for the governance of this island: robes are not to my taste.’
‘And who, Father, is in charge here?’
‘ABBA, I suppose. But that’s just a guess: as I say, I seem to have slept through my time here.’
‘Then Terror Incognita remains as perplexing as ever … most notably regarding its purpose.’ Trixie took a look around her. ‘I never could fathom why ABBA created such a strange place.’
Her father shrugged. ‘I once thought that it was created to fulfil HumanKind’s need for adventure, to provide Demi-Mondians, beset as they are by an incorrigible need to explore, with an outlet for these pioneering inclinations.’
‘You once thought?’
‘Yes. I suspect its purpose is more subtle than that. And now, Trixie, we have been given the opportunity to study this strange realm at first hand.’
‘If we survive long enough,’ grumped Wysochi.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant?’
‘It’s Major Wysochi now, Baron, and my worries about surviving concern the SS who are currently landing on the other side of the island: I think they might be a more pressing danger than any bogeymen who might call Terror Incognita home.’