by Edward Lee
“They appear to be kegs or casks of some kind—”
“Ah, yes,” Favius said, smiling when he recognized what the half dozen floating objects were. They bobbed like corks in the roiling mire. “Jail-Kegs, Terrod. Clearly much flotsam from the Gulf is finding its way here via the Pipeway. A delightful sight, indeed.”
“Jail-Kegs, Commander?”
“For sure. Lucifer’s Department of Injustice has recently embarked on cost-cutting measures. Rather than go to the expense incarcerating Human convicts in prisons, it is now deemed more preferable and efficient to confine them to the Kegs. Surely a Jail-Keg costs less than a physical prison cell.”
“Of course, Commander!”
Favius nodded, still eyeing the adrift casks. “They merely seal the convicts in the Kegs and dump them into the sea, where they can float sightless and immobile forever.”
“An ingenious punishment, sir!”
“Oh, yes—the very idea of it enthralls me.” But when the scream-tinged breeze suddenly picked up, Favius raised a concerned glance to the sky. The black clouds seemed aswirl—and seemed to be turning a pallid green—moving in involutionary patterns; in other words, in sixlike configurations.
“Those cloud movements bother me, Commander,” Terrod said.
“Yes. We must take no chances. Return to your post. A storm may be coming. Bring the rampart to the ready and brace for emergency conditions.”
“Yes, Commander!” Terrod exclaimed and jogged back to his command point, his armor clattering.
The next gust of fetid wind gave Favius a hard shove. He stared up. Yes, a storm is coming, all right—a formidable one . . .
But even when confronted with the threat, he gazed out yet again over the detestable churning inflow of Blood-water and noticed, now, that the level had risen to at least two feet.
Only sixty-four to go, Favius thought.
(II)
This high in the Regimental Balloon Skiff—over 600 feet—not Curwen nor any of his crew could hear the steady sacrifices below on the field. It was the massive putrid wall of the Demonculus’s chest they faced. So close to the creature’s body, the Master Builder could spy details of the miraculous pseudoflesh that composed the thing: like of tar, wet fungus, and putrefactive grave waste all enmeshed together. Curwen could even detect finger ends and teeth in the dread claylike composite, and remnant cartilage from ears long gone to rot, even gallstones and toenails. A dead colossus, Curwen thought, awaiting a glorious Unlife . . .
Indeed. Awaiting a heart.
Smaller ancillary noble-gas balloons had been rigged to the eyehooks of the titan’s chest plate, which had been previously unscrewed and detached by horned Journeymen. Then the plate was allowed to rise high enough to clear the Occultized area of space it had covered.
“We’re ready, Master Builder,” guttered the sloplike voice of the Project Teratologist. He—or it—was a part-Human, part-Ghoul Crossbreed whose brain volume had been doubled with Hexegenically cultured stem cells. This supplement of gray matter was contained by a clear silicon bolus nailed into the Crossbreed’s skull. Another physical addendum existed in the servant’s hands, which were transplants taken quite abruptly from unwitting Human surgeons who’d recently been Condemned.
“Proceed,” Curwen permitted.
“Bring the Auger to bear!”
A pair of goggled Imps advanced, carrying upon their shoulders the aforementioned implement, a Hexed and Incantated manual Auger, which looked like a giant corkscrew. The laborers carefully aligned the tool’s sharpened tip to the X inscribed in the massive thing’s chest. Amid grunts and great exertion, the Imps turned the Auger slowly counterclockwise, each turn sinking the screw deeper into the Demonculus’s chest. As the screw bore in, loops of reeking pseudoflesh shimmied out.
“Take care,” cautioned the Ghoul. “Steady . . . You mustn’t miscalculate even by half an inch.”
Sweating the most minute error, the Imps continued with their task. Three complete turns, then four.
Five. Then—
“Six!” shouted the Teratologist. “Stop! Right there on that mark! Perfect!”
“Yes,” Curwen’s voice creaked. The psychic patina of his Wizard’s vision told him beyond doubt. It is. Perfect.” You and your Journeymen have done fine work.”
“Thank you, Master Builder.”
“Extract the Auger.”
Chains were hooked into each end of the Auger’s handle, then rung through pullies fixed to the Skiff’s mast. The Imps grabbed the chain ends and planted their webbed feet.
“On the count of six!” ordered the Teratologist, and when he counted down—
“Pull!”
The Imps’ corded muscles tightened, and they gritted their fangs when in unison they pulled back on the chains.
“Yes!”
The Auger was smoothly extracted from the monster’s chest. It clanked against the Skiff deck.
Curwen rushed to the newly formed cavity.
“Great Lucifer! The Hexes are working pristinely!”
Indeed. The Auger’s removal left a roughly six-inch tunnel in the Demonculus’s chest. The tunnel’s walls as well as the all-important mounting seat at its terminus glittered with Anti-Light, a sign that the Animation Spells were regenerating.
A great day in Hell, Curwen thought, stepping back with steepled fingers as he appraised the work. His leaden surplice sparkled. “These newest Occult Sciences truly boggle the mind,” he muttered more to himself.
The Ghoul nodded, grinning with black teeth. “And I needn’t remind you, Master Builder, that these wondrous sciences were theorized and then executed by you.”
“Yes, indeed, but all by the grace of the Morning Star . . .”
“Bring the chest plate back down,” ordered the Teratologist, “and re-cover the cavity. The Diviners have predicted inclement weather in multiple Districts. We can’t risk damaging the cavity . . .”
Curwen watched as the great iron plate was pulled back down and rebolted to the Demonculus’s chest.
“All I can muse upon, Master Builder,” remarked the Ghoul, “is when? When might this miracle occur?”
The gravity-defying Skiff began to lower. Curwen’s black and yellow eyes strayed out over the smoking District trademarked by a million severed heads on pikes.
“Soon,” Curwen whispered. “Sooner than you or any of us may think . . .”
(III)
—you are there.
Your head spins like a proverbial top as your senses first alight and you think you hear . . .
A deep, incessant throb, like crickets in a vast field only much more intense. Before you can even contemplate the nature of the sound, it brings an immediate smile to your face.
It’s then that your vision turns crisp; you find that you are indeed standing in a vast, sweeping field of verdant grass a yard high.
It’s beautiful.
And the sounds throb on.
“Cicadas,” you dreamily mutter. “The seventeen-year kind. It’s one of my earliest childhood memories—that sound. It’s always been my favorite sound . . .”
“The powers that be are aware of that,” Howard tells you, your head-stick in hand as he walks along through the gorgeous, blight-free grass. The scent of the grass is intoxicating. “As a Privilato, everything you are endeared to, everything that brings you jubilancy and exultation will be heaped upon you to the very best of our abilities. And, mind you, forever.”
Then Howard turns and you see the castle.
“Noticing a familiarity?” Howard asked.
The castle’s great buff-colored blocks gleam atop the grass-swept hill, with five massive bastions rimmed with turrets, merlons, and arrow slits, a moat surrounding all. And come to think of it:
It DOES look familiar, you recall.
“You were quite an aficionado of the Middle Ages when you were in middle school—”
Then the memory sweeps into your head. “Château-Gaillard . . .”
&n
bsp; “Correct, the famed bastion of Richard the Lionheart, in Les Andelys, France. Of course, the real one is a ruin now, but Lucifer’s Architects have constructed this duplicate, down to every excruciating detail. It appears as it did, in every conceivable way, in 1192 AD. In your early teens, castles, knights, and the like had a tendency to fascinate you.”
And he’s right; you remember now.
“While the interior has been modified to a scheme you’re sure to be delighted in,” Howard added.
Incredible, you think. As Howard approaches the drawbridge you notice eleven other magnificent castles on eleven other hills in the dim distance. “Who lives in those?”
“Your neighbors. The other men—er, I should say, ten men and one woman who’ve won the Senary since it began in 4652 BC.”
“Ten men but just one woman?” you question.
“Yes. Women seem to be more concrete about their notions of sin versus redemption. Our only female winner is a quite attractive Judean named Arcela, a concubine of a Roman governor. You’re certain to make her acquaintance, along with all the winners.” But then Howard clears his throat. “That is, if you decide to accept your winnings.”
“But I’ve already decided not to,” you remind your guide. “This castle looks like really cool digs . . . but it’s not worth my soul.”
“Of course, of course, but . . . wait till you view the interior.”
Your gourd-head sways along on the stick as Howard carries it across the magnificent drawbridge and through a barbican and iron portcullis. Next, up a stone spiral staircase, and suddenly the air feels cool as if climate-controlled. Through a spectacular archway, you’re startled by a brilliant shine, then—
“Oh, wow,” you utter.
“This is the Hall of Gold.”
You’re standing in a long room completely walled in pure gold.
“Stunning, eh? The decorative effect seems to awe Humans. Six hundred and sixty-six tons of gold have been used to wall this room,” Howard tells you as he walks on, through another arch, “while six hundred and sixty-six tons of diamonds wall this one—the foyer.”
The sight is dizzying. You’re now in the middle of another chamber walled similarly with diamonds. The effect is impossible to describe. “This really is beautiful,” you admit.
“I should say so!”
“But it’s still not worth my soul. Come on, be serious. I get to spend eternity in a neat castle full of gold and diamonds? Big deal. I’m still in Hell.”
“Um-hmm,” Howard consents. “But you haven’t met your house staff—sixty-six of them, by the way.” Howard snaps his fingers, and then a diamond panel raises, and through it saunter dozens of beautiful women—Humans and Demons alike.
The drove of smiling women don’t make a sound as they enter, stand in rank, and bow.
Yes, the most gorgeous Human women you’ve ever seen, but now you must confess that some of the Hybrids and Demons are even more gorgeous. Fellatitrines, Vulvatagoyles, Succubi. Lycanymphs and Mammaresses, and even a Golemess that puts your sultry chauffeur to shame.
“The sins of the flesh, Mr. Hudson, but not a bad thing in a domain where sin does not exist,” Howard’s voice echoes in the glittering hall.
You gulp. “Yeah, but I couldn’t get it on with all these women in a hundred years.”
“But of course you could, and a hundred after that and a hundred after that. Forever. And when you weary of these, more will be afforded you.”
Now you stare at them. That’s an awful lot of . . . sex . . .
“But now, we’re off to your bedchamber, where your very personal harem awaits.” And then Howard takes you up more steps, down a torch-studded corridor, and into a long room adorned with all manner of jewels and precious metals.
“Holy shit!” you yell.
Howard frowns.
You’re staring at the bed. “I’ll bet you didn’t get that at Mattress Discounters.”
The bed is circular, twenty feet in diameter, but the mattress itself is somehow a mass of Human breasts.
“The Breast-Beds are Hexegenically manufactured, for Privilatos only,” Howard informs. “I was never possessed of much of a sexual drive—much to my wife’s ire, and I’d bet my precious Remington she was committing infidelities in Cleveland.” Howard paused amid the digression. “Er, anyway, even I must admit, I wouldn’t mind stretching out on such a Breast-Bed.”
A bed made of tits, you tell yourself. And not just any tits—GREAT tits.
“But didn’t you also say something about—”
“Your personal harem,” Howard went on. “Oh, yes.” Again, Howard snaps his fingers.
A door clicks open and in walks a very perfect and very buck-naked—
“It’s Pam Anderson!” you wail.
And so it is. The woman curtsies for you, then stands in a displaying pose.
“She’s even better-looking than she was in Barb Wire,” you observe, but then your eyes bulge when five more identical Pam Andersons enter the bedroom and stand in formation.
Your gaze snaps to Howard. “Six Pam Andersons? All for me?”
“All for you, Mr. Hudson, should of course you accept the Senary.”
You stare at the impossible line of spectacular women. “But how did you . . .”
“They’re products of quite an impressive occult invention, called Hex-Cloning,” Howard explains. “They look—and feel—exactly like the genuine woman in the Living World you so desire, but they’ll do anything you tell them. Anytime you want.”
You gulp again, looking at those six pairs of legendary breasts . . .
“And I suspect you’ll enjoy the next prospect: the Bath,” Howard says and takes you into what you guess is the bathroom.
Solid gold toilet. Solid gold sink. A claw-foot tub made of still more gold sits on the immaculate floor.
“Pretty nice bathroom,” you say.
“You’re welcome to partake in baths with pure water, or, if you prefer . . .” Howard snaps his fingers one more time.
Several large-bosomed and sultry She-Demons enter next, their bodies nearly as provocative as the half dozen counterfeit Pam Andersons in the bedroom, only these women have petite horns and various colored skin.
“What’s the big deal with these chicks?”
“They’re your Bath Girls, in the event that you don’t want to take a normal bath.”
You blink at Howard. “Huh?”
“Girls?” Howard addresses them. “Be so good as to show Mr. Hudson your surgical augmentation.”
All at once, then, the She-Demons open their mouths and stick out their tongues.
“Woe-boy!” you exclaim.
Each woman extrudes a tongue the size of a beef liver.
“Their tongues are huge!”
“Of course, they need to be. They’re Bath Girls. Only Privilatos, Exalted Dukes, and District Emirs are afforded this very expensive luxury—along with Satan himself, of course. Their sole purpose is to administer to you what’s known as a tongue-bath.”
You stare at the women’s tongues as much as you stare at the consideration. Tongue-baths . . .
“Anytime you so desire,” Howard says. “For eternity. It’s my understanding that the sensation is most stimulating.”
I’ll bet it is . . . I’ve got all these hot chicks here, that I can get it on with anytime I want . . . IF I accept the Senary . . . But then the reality sets in. “Look, I’ve never even had sex before but I’ve been told that a guy can only do it so many times before he gets worn out.”
“Ah, yes, refraction, the bane of all masculinity, but let us convene now on the north bulwark, and I will show you yet one more otherworldly benefit of Privilato status.”
The Bath Girls all wriggle their giant wet tongues as Howard moves you out of the chamber and onto a lofty balcony. From here you see the entire castle grounds, the inner wards, various stone buildings, intermediate towers. Birds that appear to be normal—falcons, doves, sparrows—sweep across the sky;
while the sky is normal, too. Blue, with wisps of white clouds.
“How can . . .” you begin.
“Hallucinosis Transformers at the fringe of each Privilato estate provide the preferred environment,” Howard answers. “Should you so desire, Mr. Hudson, your sky will always look exactly like the sky in the Living World.”
“Incredible,” you mutter, but then you think of something. “There’s an awful lot of—what?—supernatural technology here—”
“The proper term is Occult Science or Systematic Magic.”
“Fine, but it’s still the opposite of science in the Living World, right?”
“Quite right. It’s antithetical. As I explained previously. The subjective on Earth is objective here. The blacks and whites of the Living World is the all-crucial gray area in Hell. The hard science of God’s green earth is magic in Lucifer’s kingdom.”
“All right!” you exclaim, “but that’s my point. If Lucifer can do all of this with Occult Science, then what has God done in Heaven with Godly Science?”
Howard seems taken by your observation. “I am quite regrettably unqualified to render an answer but I must speculate . . . It must be rather dull when compared to all of this.”
Really? You stew on the words. I’ll have no way of knowing, will I?
“But to return to our former topic—there,”—Howard points over the parapet—“the Satanic Chapel. You will have to attend Black Mass on occasion, but I would think that little to ask in view of what you’ll be receiving, hmm?”
The black church sits in the corner, past the courtyard proper, almost quaintly were it not for the high upside-down cross erected on its steeple. Several bosomy nuns busy themselves about the small building.
“I mean your previous question regarding, um, sexual refraction,” Howard goes on, “and your potential concern about the prospect of being ‘worn out’ by the bevy of sexually available women at your disposal.”
“Huh?”
“Privilato status entitles you to your very own personal aphrodisial farm. Note the garden, Mr. Hudson.”
You see the area of space, a great square of flower beds tended to by sultry women in white cloaks and hoods. Only their breasts can be seen through apertures in the cloaks.