This particular alien kept his anime gaze on Erik, which visibly upset the wardens although they couldn't do a thing about it. Queen Cori's order was to never risk offending a Gelpie. The strangest thing for Erik was how such inhuman eyes seemed to radiate human compassion. . . .
A sadness more poignant than miserable stabbed Erik, making him yearn for things that would never be. He'd never find a mate or have children. He'd never get answers to those big, classic questions concerning reality and the meaning of life that so often filled his thoughts but never seemed to interest his parents, siblings, or friends. Likewise the lesser questions: who or what inhabited other levels? How had his ancestors gotten here? Where, in the universe, was the Tower? Was it actually a building with stacked levels, which seemed impossible, or some super-titanic horizontal structure? Did humans still exist elsewhere? And why the hell was that Gelpie staring at him?
He winced at a new thought. If his parents’ religious beliefs were valid, maybe he'd get more insight into the Big Secrets after being reincarnated. But he wouldn't necessarily return here, so his chance at the lesser answers could be lost forever. He'd always been dying to know what purpose the Tower of Worlds served. Now he was dying ignorant.
His left forearm itched but as he reached to scratch it, a warden with a triangular Kin tattoo grabbed his right wrist. Erik turned to glower at the man and then realized that every warden's attention was focused on the itching arm. With a twinge of anxiety, Erik looked down to see what everyone found so fascinating.
Halfway up his forearm, the skin had split along a hairline crack longer than his thumb. As he stared, the crack widened to reveal a streak of underlying tissue that gleamed a shocking yellow. The wound itself should've been agonizing, and the exposed tissue implied some novel form of cancer, yet all Erik felt was itchy—not counting the cold void of mortal terror. He clamped his jaw shut to block a whimper.
"Seems you're baked early, son,” Warden Fuchs pronounced. “Belamy, get the cuffs. Fleming, Donn, Zaiger, carry the poor bastard and follow me. Hustle."
But it's not noon yet, Erik wanted to shout if only his mouth worked.
Metal cuffs bound his wrists behind his back while a larger pair gripped his ankles. Two wardens carried him belly-side down using his arms as handles, which made his shoulders feel as if they were ripping apart. Meanwhile guard three, in front and facing forward like his fellow pallbearers, draped Erik's pinned feet over one broad shoulder and kept his crew in step with a marching mantra. It didn't help the prisoner that one guard stank of old sweat and rotten cheese.
To Erik, his new role as baggage in agony seemed interminable. Finally, the leading warden dropped Erik's feet while his two cohorts lifted him upright and hoisted him into a “slapshot,” one of the level's few powered vehicles. The cohorts pushed Erik into one of the padded chairs and sat on either side, never taking their eyes off him. When everyone was seated, Fuchs muttered something into a microphone then activated the transportation system, running a finger along his intended route to ensure that his path was clear and would remain so. Satisfied, he flipped a switch. The streamlined car rose to hover over buried maglev rails and Fuchs pressed a pedal. Turbines whined, scaling up in volume and pitch as they fed air to the rear jets. The car gradually accelerated.
The four-quadrant maglev system was reserved for Royals, and only used in transporting common people or goods to Chokorgon Castle when the Queen was in a tearing rush. It was never used to carry commoners anywhere but Chokorgon. Erik had no idea why the guards were taking him there; he'd been scheduled to die behind Laoyu's thick walls, far from the castle.
Outside the window, the ruins of Newton House flashed by, a skeleton of its former glory thanks to the constant demand for building materials. He wondered if any of his captors had fought in the battles that had cemented the Queen's position. The last rebel had been executed a year before Erik's birth, but as everyone knew, the Newtons had pre-avenged themselves by engineering the Royal Plague and releasing it some thirty years earlier. Only Royals knew the depth of their own suffering.
It seemed like no time at all before Fuchs killed the current rear jets and triggered the front ones. The slapshot eased to a stop. After it wafted down, Erik's outriggers hauled him outside. He stared at the fence of tall, close-set posts ahead and a nearby massive gate, recognizing the castle's back entrance from the many times he'd wandered by.
"What's going on?” he asked in a strained voice.
No one answered. The wardens looped a steel chain tightly around his neck, dragged him to the fence, and padlocked the chain's free ends to a post. Then they jogged away without responding to his cries for an explanation.
He was alone only for a minute. He heard the chonk-chonk of bolts snapping free of their housings and the gate opening. Next came the thud of heavy footsteps, but the neck-chain prevented him from turning enough to see what was coming. Then he didn't need to turn.
Two men stood before him, just out of his reach—not that he wanted to touch them. They wore Royal Janissary uniforms, but Erik had never seen even janissaries this big. He'd never imagined humans could get this big. When he looked up to see their faces, he wondered if these two were, in fact, human.
The taller one had a grotesquely extended jaw and sharp spikes jutting from his forehead, which distorted his Kin tattoo beyond recognition. The other bristled with thick, red hairs sprouting from every visible part of his skin including his hands, wrists, and face, hiding his own forehead tattoo.
A bushy right hand, clutching a key, reached down to open the padlock. An equally bushy left unwound the chain from Erik's neck.
"What'cha think, Larsen?” the hirsute giant asked. “Viable?"
"Seems so,” Larsen answered in a voice blurred by unnatural anatomy. “But Rinpoche showed me a picture of what they were aiming for. This ain't it. And the kid looks too alert to risk the . . . makeover. Her Majesty will be pissed, particularly after the screw-up with the girl, but she won't let this one live. Care to do the honors, buddy? No one kills as cleanly as you."
"Happy to oblige, but shouldn't we check with the assessor first?"
"Shit, Tomeo, I didn't mean kill him here; sometimes I wonder if you came through with any smarts.” Larsen bent down to peer into Erik's eyes. Erik recoiled at the spoiled-meat odor of the man's breath. “What's twenty times twenty? Answer me, kid, or I will hurt you."
"Four hundred,” Erik gasped. “I don't understand why—"
"Shut up or get shut down, that's all you need to understand.” Larsen straightened to his full height. “Check out his eyes, Tomeo. Someone really botched the recipe. The skin alone means he won't make the cut, and this far into the change, no way a candidate for Queen's pet could do math. But Her Majesty would flay us alive if we didn't make this official. Let's get him in the Compound."
"Yeah. The bite grass could use fresh meat."
"Screw the grass. After Netti got word from Fuchs that the kid had popped early, she told me the assessor would be waiting out front."
"Why the hell in front?"
"Maybe so the Queen can see some blood from her boudoir. She's been bored lately."
Leaving his ankles and wrists shackled, each giant placed a hand under one of Erik's armpits and carried him through the gate, into the Royal Compound, and around the castle, following a flower-lined path paved with gemstone gravel. The hybrid flowers seemed odd somehow, but Erik had bigger concerns. He heard the hiss and roar of the fountain long before he saw it.
His porters finally stopped just past a puddle where the morning pollination wind deflected spray from the towering geyser, batting it beyond the fountain's gem-encrusted basin. Erik's parents’ house, where he'd lived until the last lottery, would've fit inside that basin with room to spare.
A troop of armed janissaries trotted into the plaza, huge men all, but only one blond reached Larsen's stature, although this man had no obvious deformities. He looked to Erik like depictions of the Greek god Apollo that he
'd studied in Art History class. The giant pointed to various spots around the plaza and his subordinates rushed to take up the indicated positions. For an instant, Erik could've sworn Apollo winked at him.
The activity gave him a moment to drink in the scene: the sparkling fountain centered in an acre of multicolored glass tiles, the twin reflecting pools bracketing the Royal Plaza, in turn parenthesized by two curved lines of stately trees made uniform through topiary surgery, and the front edifice of Chokorgon Castle, its smooth architecture compromised by protruding gun-turrets. A hint of steam from the roof's giant rain-collector rose into the sky; the Royals only trusted their private water supply. He tried but failed to glimpse the Queen watching from behind one of a hundred tinted windows. Did she wear her body wrappings even at home? A minty smell in the air shifted to citrus as variable-perfume bacteria in the fountain released a fresh batch of esters. Then Erik's attention narrowed to the white-robed old man with a dorje tattoo standing nearby, leaning on a cane. The man sniffed and hobbled the few steps necessary to peer closely into Erik's eyes and palpate his neck.
"Tell me your name,” the ancient wheezed.
"Erik. Erik Bateson."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir. We met two days ago, when you gave me the final injection. You are the Tenth gSoba Rinpoche, Queen Cori's personal physician."
"I am also your judge and jury for this trial, but not your executioner. Do you understand me? What is my name?"
"I don't—I only know your title."
The man nodded, loose flesh under his chin waggling. “So we've now ascertained that your facilities remain intact."
"Check out his color, Doctor,” Tomeo demanded.
Erik turned his head and twisted his arms around his back far enough to peer down at his left arm. It looked like a molting python. Sheets of dead skin dangled from the forearm, and the underlying tissue was glossy, gold, and scaled. The sight made him realize he'd been itching all over for some time; he'd been too scared to notice. Meanwhile, the old man's head rotated like one of the castle gun-turrets until it was aimed at the hairy giant.
"And who anointed an ox to instruct the level's leading medical expert?"
Tomeo bowed stiffly. “My apologies, Rinpoche."
The doctor sniffed and returned his attention to Erik. “This,” he said, reaching over to pull a clump of dead tissue off Erik's nose, “doesn't signify. Your eyes alone decree that you must be put down despite your continued health and intelligence; the Queen feels that such unintended variations may indicate deeper unreliability. Still, I suspect you will find death preferable to the alternative."
"I don't understand. What does any of this have to do with the plague?"
"The plague? A convenient fiction."
Fiction? Erik's sense of shock and betrayal almost dwarfed his terror for a moment.
The old man's face shifted into an expression suggesting regret but colder. “A pity. I would love to see your completed transformation, but the autopsy will provide sufficient data and we all have our duties."
"Wait—won't you at least tell me—"
The doctor was already walking away. “Dispatch him now,” he muttered over his shoulder.
"Might as well hold still,” Tomeo suggested. “It'll hurt less."
It seemed Erik's body had developed an independent mind of its own. He felt a bizarre melting sensation in his arms. Suddenly, his hands were free of both the manacles and the janissaries’ grips. The giants tried to grab him, but he hopped out of reach. Overwhelmed with terror, he threw himself toward the basin. Unfortunately, he slipped on the damp tiles and fell short, smashing into the rim with his chest. The pain would've ended his escape attempt right there, but momentum slid to his rescue and he only had to add a tug to pull himself over the rim and into the water. Holding his bruised ribs with one arm, he dived to the bottom, surprisingly far down. Waterfall roar filled his ears.
At least it's a clean getaway, he thought with hysteria-induced humor. The surface above was a blanket of bubbles, hiding him completely, but this deep, the water was amazingly clear. He'd never, while submerged, been able to see so perfectly.
But he had no place to go and couldn't keep holding his breath. How the hell had he gotten out of the handcuffs? He pulled his sandals off and tested the leg restraints. They remained tight as ever. With that unhappy thought, his ankles tingled, his feet seemed to fill with jelly, and they twisted into twin helices. As he gawked, the cuffs slid off his now screw-like feet, making a double clunk when they hit the bottom, nearly masked by the general racket. The freed feet un-kinked and he felt the bones within harden.
What had he become?
The submerged light around him had a wavering quality, producing the illusion that his new scales were pushing in and out. No—they were moving.
An idea popped into his head, one so horrible that he tried to shove it right back out. Things had gotten too damn weird. Could all this be nothing but a hallucination? Maybe his transformation had gone wrong last night and he was actually in his own bed, dying. That would explain why he felt no need for air.
He ran his fingers over the jeweled surface beneath him. It looked pretty but felt slimy. The sensation was so distinct and unexpected that he rejected the hallucination theory. This is reality, he warned himself. And you don't have much time left to experience it.
He glanced up at the choppy surface. Could he grab a quick breath but stay hidden in bubbles and spray? Surely he'd been underwater for at least a minute; he was bound to run out of air soon. What choice did he have?
He swam closer to the central fountain then came up slowly, just far enough for his eyes to rise above the water line. As he'd hoped, visibility was terrible from this position; surely, no one would notice his head sticking up. Then the spray cleared for just long enough for him to see that the plaza had filled with soldiers. They were armed with enough rifles, rocket-spears, and devolvers to take on an entire rogue Kin. Panicked again, he forgot about air and dove for the bottom.
Any moment now, he thought, some genius up there is going to shut down the fountain. He swam along the bottom seeking an escape that couldn't possibly exist. Then he came upon a drain hole, blocked by an inset grate secured by knurled bolts. He managed to untwist the bolts barehanded. His head fit into the hole with room to spare, but his shoulders were too broad.
Or were they? If he could . . . jellyfish himself from the neck on down yet survive, maybe he'd fit. But then what? How could he propel himself through the pipe? And, of course, he'd drown. By all rights, he should've drowned already.
Something small zipped past his head, bounced off a garnet cabochon inlaid into the surface below, and came to rest near the hole: a ceramic bullet, slowed enough by water to remain intact. He heard multiple hisses as more bullets followed, none coming close to him. The janissaries had apparently had gotten so eager to kill him that they were willing to risk cracking one of the Queen's gems.
Suddenly, the drain hole seemed quite appealing. He pushed his arms inside and willed his body to follow. The melting sensation in his shoulders, ribs, hips, and legs was becoming more familiar. His arms and hands felt weak in this configuration, but they found enough traction against the ringed circular wall to pull him deeper. A mild flow of water helped him move along. A few meters down, the pipe gently curved to nearly horizontal while maintaining a slight downward vector.
Guess this part of the system, he thought, runs on gravity.
His ribs no longer hurt, a small miracle since he'd hit the fountain rim hard enough to break several. Maybe his new flexibility had extra benefits. Thinking about ribs, it dawned on him that in his present condition, he couldn't breathe even if the pipe were dry; his diaphragm had no purchase. Yet he also had to admit that his hunger for air was purely psychological. Something was meeting his oxygen needs and he suspected the moving scales were responsible, a cheering thought in a bleak situation. Another oddity: his presently tubular body had to be blockin
g what little light could get into the pipe, yet he could see. The wall containing him glowed an eerie red as did passing bubbles. Why would anyone put illumination here?
The noise level fell to near silence. Erik surprised himself by grinning. He wished he could see the janissaries’ faces—through strong binoculars—as the pool calmed to perfectly clear.
Pull right, pull left, do it again. His progress remained steady but slow enough to have made him frantic if he'd had a destination in mind. Still, he strained to keep moving, amazed he wasn't already exhausted. He felt fine except for the itching. Perhaps a last-instant save from death was particularly energizing. Or maybe the water contained stimulants. Certainly water was entering his body; right now he tasted tamarind.
Since the ester-generating bacteria only thrived under full-spectrum light, the flavor faded with dilution. His clothes began to abrade, tearing in places, releasing clumps and occasionally sheets of his former skin. Small wads of tissue worked their way past him, pulled by the drainage tide; others brushed his feet or clung until he kicked them away. His scaled hands and forearms appeared pumpkin-colored in the ruby light. I can't wait, he thought grimly, to look in a mirror.
Gradually, the solitude and hard work eased his tensions and numbed his mind. With no possibility for answers, what was the point in asking questions?
After what he guessed was an hour, he reached a junction where his pipe merged with three others into a conduit that seemed roomy by comparison. He felt his shoulders and ribs expand a bit, giving his arms and torso muscles better leverage. From then on, he dragged himself along faster, but the journey went on so long that if he weren't angling mostly downward, he might've concluded he was going in circles.
Then again, he thought, maybe I'm heading down an endless spiral.
Analog SFF, May 2011 Page 2