by Mark Jeffrey
She was still playing her flute when she reached the circle, but she was wild-eyed and exhausted. Now and then, she hit a bad note and her protection faltered, the carefully crafted melody of power fell apart with even the simplest mistake. But she would furiously play the note sharper and harder the next time she circled back on it — only to miss some other note this time around.
As such, her protection of the company was spotty at best. Jane Willow was cracking. She wouldn’t last much longer.
They all were cracking, Casey realized. Fell Simon saw this as well, for he began grinning in the middle distance, like a leopard ready to pounce on exhausted prey.
By degrees, she realized that their situation was hopeless.
It was just a matter of time until they were all gunned down. Vainly, she cast her gaze at the pyramid complex in the far distance; there was no sign of Max or Marvin Sparkle. There would be no miracle, last minute save from either of them; the company was on their own.
She could not see Cody’s face, as his back was to her. But she could see Sasha and Logan. Sasha was mostly worried about Ian, but Logan was clearly in a bad way. The great Indian warrior, medicine man, shaman and marksman was clearly worried. He too acknowledged that their situation was not a winnable one. Casey had never seen an expression like this on his face, not even when straights were at their most dire in Arturo Gyp.
He could not see a way out. And yet, he fought on. He defied logic. He knew they were doomed, doomed. And yet, he did not surrender. He accepted it, but fought anyway.
Once again, Casey felt exhaustion and its breaking point fall upon her. She was dizzy and seeing stars. Her own shooting was getting sloppy — she was missing. So was Sasha. He knees wobbled with every movement. Logan, defiant, was shaking now as well. His old bones could not match the fierce will of his warrior spirit.
Even Cody at her back felt less solid than he normally did. She could hear his ragged breath, feel his legs shaking as well.
This was it.
They would fall now.
And then from the east, a new figure emerged from the rocks. It was a small, thin, and wrapped in a shawl. It seemed to be a woman. She extended her arms and her hands formed claws. She made a ripping motion — and the remaining Sky Chambers were unceremoniously thrown into the void where they were consumed by blackness and static.
Then, she turned her attention to Fell Simon and his men. Cawing like a bird, she raised a spinning column of air from the ground. Within moments, it became a full-blown sandstorm.
Fell Simon yelled at his men to shoot the woman. But before even one of them could get a shot off, the sandstorm crashed into them, flinging them into the air, dashing their bodies against the stone spikes. Their cries of surprise and wild shots at nothing filled the air over the roar of the windstorm.
And with that, Fell Simon and his men and his Sky Chambers had been swept away.
The mystery woman approached while the company caught their breath. Who was this now? She seemed to be an ally … but here on this island, anything was possible. Perhaps she wanted the company for herself.
Soon, she was upon them. Anticipation crowded the company. They girded themselves, bracing for yet another fight with their mysterious benefactor.
It was Logan White-Cloud who first approached her — and bowed. “Great one,” Logan said. “Mother. It is an honor to be in your presence.” Logan regarded her with a reverence neither Casey of Sasha or even Cody had seen from him ever before.
The woman pulled the shawl away from her face and Ian gasped audibly.
“What — you know her also?” Sasha said to him, surprised.
“Yes,” Ian said softly. “Oh, yes.”
“I am Ninti,” the woman announced. “And I have come none too soon.”
Nineteen: The Bondsman
“SO HERE we are,” the Bondsman said, looking down at Max Quick from his Battle Throne. “Alone, at last.” He was dressed in a black cowl that surrounded his golden face — giving him the appearance of both a Pharaoh and a cobra. Crimson robes draped him like a velvet spill of dried blood. His hands were covered in black gloves, each finger adorned with multiple gaudy rings, linked to each other by silk-thin golden chains that tinkled gently whenever he moved his hands.
The room in which he sat — the throne room — was ovular, like being inside a giant hollowed-out egg, which surprised Max given that they were inside of a Pyramid.
The Bondsman’s black iron Battle Throne was set atop a giant stepped golden pyramid in the center of the room.
Other than that, the vividly spacious, cathedral-like chamber was entirely empty. Open air yawned in what seemed like miles radiating in every direction.
A very long strip of crimson carpet stretched from the entrance to a spot right in front of the Bondsman’s raised chair. Max would have to walk for quite some time before he reached it, and this was the point: the Bondsman wanted you to feel his immensity, he wanted to watch as you squirmed your way towards him.
Max thought about whooshing up there in a mere moment just to defeat this purpose. But instead, he opted to walk slowly, savoring each step.
To make the Bondsman wait for him.
“Just you and me,” Max replied. He flinched inwardly; his voice was louder than he expected. The acoustics of this cavernous room were seemingly attuned specifically for amplification. Even the sound of his footsteps thrummed and resonated like he were a nearby ant listening to a giant plod past.
“I apologize,” the Bondsman said. “This room is usually filled from end to end with individuals in various states of torture, screaming in agony from the various contraptions my good Fell Simon is able to contrive. I like to sit up here and sup amidst the pitiful sounds. It’s like dinner music. A little classical or baroque torment to accompany a fine wine. But I’ve had all — ah — distractions removed. So we can hear one another properly for our little chat.”
Max noticed than that in the stone blocks of the floor there were little pits and round holes, and sometimes a box-shaped depression. These were undoubtedly where poles and heavy torture equipment would be laid into. Rough stains punctuated the surface here and there — stains that looked as if they had been meticulously cleaned with valiant attempts at removal, but which had been soaked too deeply into the stone.
“That’s okay,” Max said, strolling. “I like the minimalist thing you have going on here.”
Max continued his slow approach, whistling and looking around. The Bondsman sat motionless. If he was annoyed, he didn’t show it.
After several long, drawn-out minutes, Max arrived at the foot of the pyramid. The carpet ended in a circle, like a little cul-de-sac.
A stool had been set out for him. It was very small, as if for a child.
Max looked at it for a moment and gave a laugh. Then, he tipped it over softly and climbed the stairs of the step pyramid.
When he had reached the midway portion, he looked down — and realized he was still at the bottom. The stairs hadn’t actually moved, it wasn’t like he’d just tried to ascend a down escalator. But the effect was the same.
The Bondsman chuckled.
So did Max.
“That’s a good one,” Max said. “Do you have a rubber chicken to go with it?”
“You know, I did provide you with seating arrangements,” the Bondsman replied, raising one gloved hand and pointing at the stool. “I was not inconsiderate of so famous a guest as yourself. Though I had hoped you would arrive with your own chair.”
“You mean a Battle Throne,” Max said.
“Yes,” the Bondsman said. “I do believe that I made certain that those wretches in the Resistance were able to obtain not only one, but two of them. I even gave you a nice selection! Each of those Thrones has a rich, prestigious Niburian history. Each was owned by a long line of the Old Kings. But alas … you chose to arrive thus. Poorly. Without a Throne to properly cup your buttocks. So …” And again, the Bondsman indicated the stool with a deep sig
h.
Max returned to the cul-de-sac of carpet. He ignored the stool and sat down on the rug, crossing his legs.
“Oh, suit yourself,” the Bondsman with a wave. His tiny gold chains clicked loudly in the cavern. “So. Have you figured it out yet?”
“No,” Max said. “I don’t know who’s under that mask.”
Then, Max stopped and waited. So did the Bondsman. Silence.
“Well. Go on,” the Bondsman encouraged. “You were just about to give me a little speech about how ‘it doesn’t matter who I am; what really matters is who you are, deep inside’. That this is the whole point of this little morality play, isn’t it? Everyone runs around going, Who’s the Bondsman! Oh my God! Is it me? Is it you? Enki? Casey? Maurice? An android? A chicken? An amoeba?
“But really, in the end, the Bondsman is just a metaphor. A mirror, an ink-blot test. It tells us more about ourselves that it does about the identity of the Bondsman. And when we dig really, really deep … well, it’s this vital insight that lets little Max Quick defeat the Bondsman in the end! Quack quack quack quack quack. Right? Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
“Something like that,” Max said. “And what about you? Aren’t you going to do ‘the big reveal’? You know, rip the mask off dramatically and laugh like a maniac?”
“Hmmm,” the Bondsman mused. “That would be fun, you know. Just to see your face. And I might do just that presently! But not quite yet. Instead, I’d like to do the obligatory ‘offer for you to join us’ thing. After all, that’s what we really want from you. The Archons, I mean.”
“Is that who I’m talking to right now? The Archons?”
“Well … yes. And no. I am a separate entity from the Archons. I’m not one of them. But I am in continual communication with them. I speak for them.”
Max rubbed the back of his neck. He had to admit this craning to look up thing was already kind of annoying. “Really. Are you talking with that table of crows that talked to me that one time? You know, through —”
“The Whispering Stone,” the Bondsman said at the same time as Max, nodding. “Yes, they’re here. Up in my golden noodle, that is.” He tapped the forehead of his mask.
“Tell them I still remember the taste of that wine. ‘The drinking of the dreadful things’. It wasn’t my style. It still isn’t.”
“No? Not even after the vision we sent Sasha to give you?” Abruptly, the Bondsman’s had voice changed. It now sounded exactly like the head crow had in Max’s Whispering Stone-powered vision. “That was more what it’s like, you know. That’s what it would be like for you all the time. Every second of every day! This Bondsman here has this bliss right now. But he doesn’t have your talent as an Imaginal. What you have is rare and potent. You are capable of experiencing a much higher tincture of undiluted ecstasy, bliss, rapture. But only if you join with us.”
“What do you want?” Max asked. “Say it.”
“I want you to become me. I want you to take my place.”
“You want me to become the new Bondsman,” Max said.
“Yes. I want you to wear the golden mask.”
“Why me?”
“You are an Imaginal. You are the most powerful Imaginal who ever lived. We made you that way. And through you, we would achieve apotheosis, grandeur, sublimity. Through you, we would achieve perfection — and surpass it, redefine it.”
Max shrugged. “Jane Willow’s an Imaginal also. Why not her?”
“Meh,” the Bondsman said, waving his hand in disgust. “Women aren’t cruel enough. They empathize too much. Tell me — how many mass murderers are female? Or dictators? There are no female Hitlers or Stalins. Women lack a certain quality required for the job. No. We need a male Imaginal.”
Max snorted. “Well, good luck with that. I’ll never become the Bondsman. You must know that.”
“But I don’t know that,” the Bondsman sneered. “You only say this because you are weak — your will is sapped by empathy. We can cure you of that, you know, it’s not a problem. Such weakness need never bother you again. But your real problem is that you lack the morality.”
“No. I won’t join you because of morality.”
“Ah. Now there you are mistaken.” The Bondsman sat up straight, like he was about to administer a lesson to an errant pupil. “You lack the wisdom to comprehend true morality. You refuse to become me because you lack the strength of morality. You wobble! But you want to become me! Deep in your heart, you really do.
“Consider the things you’ve done. Consider what you did to poor Giovanni di Cyranus. You destroyed his life! Are you not a Bondsman of sorts already? You merely lack the discipline to be correctly wrong. But you’re so close! You must choose now whether or not to complete your apotheosis.”
Max felt reptile breath on his neck. The room suddenly stank of things that slithered.
Then Max smiled. He turned a beatific gaze up at the Bondsman like that of a cherub, and said: “I know your true name.”
“Oh?” The Bondsman seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought you didn’t know who was beneath this mask?”
“I don’t. But that’s a different question altogether and completely irrelevant to your true name.”
Max could almost feel the Bondsman smiling beneath his mask.
“Very good. Enlighten me.”
Max drew in a deep breath. “The Bondsman isn’t a single person. The Bondsman is a mind-virus, living information. You infect people.”
“Fascinating.” The Bondsman rested his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his gloved hands. “Go on.”
“But you’re also a personality— that is to say, you have a specific consciousness, with experiences and memories of your own. You’re information, but living information. You’re exactly like Words in a Book, but self-aware Words. You can modify and rearrange yourself — reWrite yourself — and augment yourself. You can grow. And you have backup copies of yourself.
“Which is why, incidentally, it doesn’t even matter if I kill you right now. Whoever you’re inside of right now is just a host body — probably some nobody. Any head, neck, arms and legs will do. And undoubtedly you’ve backed yourself up in countless other bodies.”
“Undoubtedly. Go on.”
“You’re the master copy. But you synchronize yourself with all the copies now and then, just to make sure all of you have all the knowledge of the others. That way if one of you gets killed, all the other you’s don’t lose anything.
“For example, there was Stevie James back in Raffle’s Pass. That was you — or a copy of you. And when I ran from you, you synced yourself with the master copy. That gargling noise — it was like a modem. You transmitted living information, Words. In fact, that’s what all those rings you wear are. Whispering Stones. So all of you can keep constantly syncing up with one other. How am I doing so far?”
“Spot on,” the Bondsman said, holding up his hand as if to demonstrate his Whispering Stone rings as merchandise. “Really. Quite impressive. Most people don’t get anywhere near this far.”
“You can upload yourself into anyone, whenever you want. For example, you once uploaded yourself into Jane Willow back in 1943. She was the original Bondsman, the one who conquered Jadeth and then the world. You were probably in Jadeth’s head first … which means you come from Nibiru, ultimately. Thats where you were Written. And then you used the Singular Eye to make your first jump into someone else — into Jane Willow. And with her, you got an upgrade from Jadeth — now, you possessed the mind of an Imaginal. Not a perfect deal — she wasn’t me, she didn’t give herself over freely, but still: a much better deal than Jadeth’s mind.
“And — ah. So that was why you needed the mask! You didn’t want anyone to know that the Bondsman was really a woman! It was the forties: people wouldn’t have been nearly as frightened of a woman tyrant. But with the mask, everyone would just assume you were male, and probably hideously disfigured, which made you even scarier. And then after that, you were j
ust stuck with the mask thing. But it also made switching bodies easy.
“That’s also why Jane’s DNA was a perfect match — Jane Willow had once really been the Bondsman. But then … by 1968, you discarded her.” Max stopped and mused. “You let her go. Why?”
“I needed her help to find you, of course. I wanted another upgrade, to take the Bondsman program to a whole new level.”
“So where did you go …? Ah.” Max snapped his fingers. “I know. Maurice. In 1968, you got wind of someone who could remember the original timeline. Not an Imaginal, but still a pretty powerful mind nonetheless. A temporary downgrade, but a necessary one if you wanted to send Jane Willow out to find me. You kept him until 1976 … and then you went to … well, probably Stevie James. Oh, you had backup copies in other people all the time as well. Bogenbroom, for example. I’ll bet that was you also.”
“Ah — wrong at last,” the Bondsman cut in. “Your only error, though. Bogenbroom is what I am, but a lesser program. He is designed to do errands, gather information, deflect suspicion — or even be sacrificed, if necessary — that sort of thing. He is merely a pawn, wherein I am the King.”
“Got it,” Max said, resuming: “And then you uploaded into Sasha. That’s obvious. But here’s the big question. If you can just take over people at will, why haven’t you jumped into me? After all, I’m the Imaginal you want. What are you waiting for?”
The Bondsman sighed. “That is the rub, as it were, with such things. In order for this to have the potency we desire, we need you to choose to become the Bondsman of your own free will. Only then will we truly have an Imaginal in our service. Our aim was to take you at birth, raise you to love hate, and to hate love, as we do. We would haven given you the gift of our mind. And then, when reached maturity, you would have chosen to become the Bondsman readily, greedily. But we were thwarted by the deceit of Anu and of Enki, and you were hidden from us for millennia.