by Sean Allen
“Told me it was a personal item an’ that all I had to do was keep ‘im updated on a regular basis on the whereabouts of the ship an’ the weight of cargo an’ that he would know when his trinket was on board. Thought I was doin’ a good deed, luv.”
“You thought I was a thief all this time?”
“It was hard, it was. He described you to a ‘T’ an’ said you were a master of deception an’ not to be fooled.”
“Ha!” Dezmara said. “Look who’s talkin’!”
“Well, yeah,” Simon said cheekily, “but you gotta admit, luv, your behavior is a little odd—what with all the runnin’ round in masks an’ gadgets to disguise your voice an’ whatnot. When you told me you were Human, didn’t know how to take it. It explained all your peculiarities, but I didn’t know if you were onto me an’ tryin’ to trick me or somethin’!”
Dezmara understood now. She was sure Simon had made an honest mistake when he was blathering on in Trillis about ‘giving back what she had stolen,’ but hearing it from his own mouth set her heart at ease. “So what about this Kaniderelle? What did they take from you? What are you searching for?” Simon looked forward out of the viewing pane and over the slipstreamed nose of the Silverhawk with unseeing eyes. He was lost in the visions of the past, and for the first time in their friendship, Dezmara saw tears shimmer in his eyes, and the sight made her hurt too. It was the age of loss. No one escaped the destruction wreaked by the Durax.
“They k-k-k….” Dezmara looked over and Simon was clutching the sides of his head and grimacing.
“Sy, what’s the matter?” she said. “What is it?”
“They k-k-k –AAAARRRG!” Simon was trembling uncontrollably, his hands still gripping at his head, and he was screaming.
Dezmara hit the auto-pilot, unstrapped her harness and reached out for him. She had barely touched the fur on the side of his face when she choked on the foulest stench she’d ever smelled. It was like meat left to rot in the sun, and she felt like she was going to gag. But before she could retch, a blistering pain spiked into her head. Dezmara clapped her hands to her head and clawed furiously at her temples with her fingertips, but the agony only increased ten-fold. She wailed a horrible cry that would have split her own ears if they weren’t already on fire. And then she was gone.
The rasping, labored breathing of two creatures sliced through the darkness behind the cockpit and crept slowly to the lifeless figures in front of them.
“This one’s not Fellini,” one of the creatures gasped as it pointed at the unconscious form of Simon. To a mind without The Gift, the response would have been silence, but a wretched voice did answer, and it sounded in the brain of the first ghoul with crystal clear malice.
“It doesn’t matter,” the other groaned, “we have the supposed Human!”
“And the ship the Turillian promised us? The invisible ship of the pirates?”
“It will come to us in due time. After all, we have their bartering token with King Helekoth.”
Chapter 46: Monsters
Dezmara’s head was pounding when she came to. “Goddam spike,” she thought. “Oh, shit! We’ve been caught by the Durax—the fucking Durax!” The spike earned its name because that’s exactly what it felt like when a Durax ripped into your mind: like a giant spike with serrated, gnarled tines pricking from its rusty body being pounded through your brain.
The room she was in was dark, but by the smell of it she wasn’t sure if she wanted her eyes to adjust. The air was thick with the odor of rancid meat, and her throat quivered with every breath, constantly on the verge of gagging. After a few moments in the terrifying darkness, her eyes beheld the horror of her cell and she wished she could have burned the sight from her memory, but it was too late.
“Oh, my god!” she gasped as she jerked her hands up from the floor. It was moist and warm and she could feel it pulsating. She looked closer and could see patches of an alloy floor covered in some kind of organic growth. The stuff was pinkish in parts and marred by a blackened rot in others, as if she were inside the belly of a beast and could see the spreading infection of a flesh-eating disease. The patches of uninfected thew were riddled with branches of dark purple venation that she could see throbbing in the dim light. “Shit!” she yelled as she kicked up from the ground and scrambled to her feet. The walls and the ceiling were lined with the stuff, and her hair, matted and crusted to a sticky sheen from being pressed against the wall for who knows how many hours, pulled at her scalp as she stood up. “What in the fuck is this shit?” she said as she wobbled in the center of the room, turning in circles to inspect the extent of her gruesome cage.
The shape of the growth changed at one end, and Dezmara squinted to make it out. On the opposite side of the room, she could see a round portal. In the center of the opening, looping from the floor, were four ribbed bars, coated with rust from the putrid, humidified air. A large flap of the growth hung down from the ceiling and then separated into four thick hunks that tapered toward their ends. The strips of gunk were pulled taut and their tips were curled around each of the rings, blocking the exit. Small slivers of a dull, bluish light sliced between the beating bars, and Dezmara could make out movement on the other side.
She carefully stepped forward, and the mush under the soles of her boots retreated toward the walls with a wet, gurgling sound and an awful, high-pitched screech. “This shit is alive!” she said in disgust, and as she looked up from below her, Dezmara saw the bars uncurl themselves from the rusty ring latches and draw upward like the tentacles of a hideous creature. On the other side of the opening was one of her Duraxian captors. He was white as a ghost with horrible, black eyes, and he had needle-like teeth that overran his twisted mouth. There was a small shape clutched in his bony, sharp fingers, and before she could figure out what it was, he heaved it into the cell. The tentacles unfurled and gripped the latch rings once more, but instead of turning to go, the Durax lingered for a moment. The slits above his mouth opened wide and he took a long, rasping breath and then let out a wheezing cackle as he turned and disappeared.
The object thrown into the cell hit the ground in front of her, and the growth screamed again as it glugged and spluttered out of the way. When the object reached out with two small hands to brace itself on the floor, Dezmara realized it was another prisoner!
“Are you all right?” she said as she knelt down in front of him. He propped himself up on his forearms and looked up at her. He had small, dark eyes, and it looked like he had brownish fur, but she couldn’t tell exactly—it was too dark to see if he had any off-color markings. “Are you okay?” she asked again. He was trembling wildly and rambling in sporadic outbursts, and Dezmara could see that he was clearly in shock.
“It’s done! IT’S DONE!” he screamed.
“Whoa, there!” Dezmara said in a firm but calm tone. “Just take it easy. I’m a friend. What is it? What’s done?”
“I didn’t want to! They made me do it! THEY MADE ME!” He was hysterical.
“Hey!” Dezmara yelled, snatching him up by the collar and shaking him. “What in the hell are you talking about, huh?! What the fuck is goin’ on in this place—WHAT’S DONE?!”
“The weapon!” he breathed in a strained whisper. “THE WEAPON!” He stared through Dezmara with empty eyes. She seriously considered slapping some sense into him or writing him off as completely insane, but before she could make up her mind, the most terrifying screech she had ever heard poured between the bars of throbbing feelers and stole her breath. It wasn’t a cry of pain, it was a wail of pure malice, and although it was deadened by distance, the fury left in the muffled voice was enough to quiver the tentacled bars and send the growth around the portal screeching in terror from the entrance. A moment later, another wail—lower in pitch, but of the same ilk—answered the horrible call.
“What the fuck was that?!” Dezmara said, looking through the bars into the emptiness.
“We’re going to die! We’re all going to die! It’s ove
r! The weapon is done!”
Dezmara walked over to the wall and kicked at it until the growth cleared a bare space. Then she hauled her crazy cellmate over by the front of his tattered jacket and set him down. She stood over him and wondered what to do. “It’s done! No need for me now! They’re gonna kill me! There’s no need for me now!” He was still rambling on but in soft whispers that made it all the worse to Dezmara. His voice sliced into her mind as sharp as any blade, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this would be her fate too. She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. The gurgling sound of the bars releasing the rings in the floor and coiling up toward the ceiling drew her eyes back to a familiar figure.
The Durax that had thrown her cellmate in just a few minutes ago was back, and he was cackling in amusement again. He pointed a long, sinister finger at her and his purple, cracked lips curled around his teeth.
“Come!” he hissed. His other hand was holding a gun, and as she approached, he pointed the barrel at her chest. He stepped to the side and motioned for her walk ahead of him. “Hands where I can see them.” Dezmara raised her hands as she walked through the cell door and continued through the goop-lined tunnel on the other side.
They marched on, and he commanded her in his mawkish, choking voice through the labyrinth of foul-smelling darkness. “Left!” he ordered. “Right!” he barked. Dezmara’s mind was on fire thinking about what she could do and then wondering if he was reading her mind, which made her think even more. She was beginning to see how the guy back in the cell had gone crazy. But she knew if she didn’t try something, she was going to buy it in this disgusting place, and she was certain it would be a slow and painful death. “Right!” the Durax rattled. She tried not to think too much about it, but it was impossible; Dezmara figured that as soon as she made the turn, she would launch a back-kick at his head that would take it clean off if she connected. If he was reading her thoughts, he would either have to fight her to stop her or shoot her. Physically, he looked like a stiff breeze might break him in two, so she felt confident there; as far as being shot went, she preferred that to death by mind-rape any day. She rounded the corner, and as she shifted her weight forward to start her attack, the sight in front of her made her hesitate.
The dockyard of the Durax compound was as vile and nasty as the rest of the place. The rotting growth oozed down from the high dome above and plastered the gangways and railings. Several ships of various makes hovered alongside the docks. There weren’t any cleats or mooring lines to speak of; instead, the vessels were held in place by thick tentacles that reached out from the pulsating sludge on the deck and attached to each hull in a sticky, dripping splatter.
“’Ello, luv!” Simon’s voice said from behind her. She wheeled around and expected to see the form of the Durax guard ripple away and her mechanic standing there, but the evil creature was still perched on his spindly legs and pointing the gun at her. “He’s playing with your mind!” she thought but then she noticed something peculiar. There was nothing about his expression that was out of the ordinary. He was still staring at her with those empty, unblinking spheres; the gun was still clutched at his side and ready to fire, but he had one thin finger pressed vertically across his lips. He motioned to the gnarled stumps on the side of his head with the same digit and then made a circular motion, pointing to the walls, floor, and ceiling. Dezmara got the picture. The fibrous outgrowth around them was alive and probably spread through the whole ship: a gory, rotting sentinel the Durax could read with their powers.
“I just thought I’d show you the way you won’t be escaping!” he choked. “I bet you wish you had this to help you!” He pulled out Fellini’s access box from his gun belt and then hid it again.
“How’d you?” Dezmara started, forgetting about the growth.
“I took it from that brilliant Kaniderelle mechanic of yours!” He rasped out an evil laugh, and if she had any doubts before, Dezmara was now positive this was Simon in disguise, and she rolled her eyes.
“And what about the guy you threw in the slam with me?” she said in a pleading tone, hoping Simon would play along. He didn’t know exactly how to respond, so he kept quiet. “He knows what you twisted assholes are up to and you’re going to kill him for it!” She motioned back toward the cell with her head and Simon nodded reluctantly.
“Perhaps we should drag him here and show him how he’s not going to escape!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Dezmara said, laying it on a little thick. Simon just shook his ghastly head and motioned for her to head back from where they came.
“Stop!” Simon commanded. “Step aside!” He waved his hand across his body and the tentacle bars rose once more. He ducked his head inside and Dezmara could see the sharp bones in his emaciated neck glide below the skin as he scanned the room. “My friends must be torturing him right now! Too bad it’s too late. Time for me to torment you some more by showing you how secure the dockyard is!” Dezmara stamped her foot down and glared at Simon.
“Please!” she cried in a double entendre. “I must see him!” Simon knew there was no arguing, and before he could hang his head in dismay, he snapped back into character.
“Very well, if you want to go to your death—and the deaths of others—that much sooner, so be it! I believe my fellow Durax are this way.” He jabbed the barrel of his gun in the opposite direction from which they came, and she turned down the passage, walking slowly, but deliberately into the heart of danger.
***
Simon led them to Dezmara’s intended destination—and the last place he wanted to go in all the universe—without a single wrong turn, and she made a mental note to ask him how the hell he knew where he was going. The tunnel opened into a tiered command room, and they stopped in the shadows just before entering. Most of the bridge, except for the banks of controls flickering at the back of the top level, was covered in the sentient meat-fungus—even the viewing panes were masked. Four figures on the second tier were surrounding a helpless form writhing on the ground at their feet: it was Dezmara’s cellmate, and he was twitching in spasms of pain as two of the Durax flanking him clicked and choked in ecstasy. The other two were surprisingly silent, and when she looked harder, Dezmara understood why.
Dezmara had heard stories about the Durax’s sick devotion to their powers. Pubs were rife with tales about The Butchers: a group of Durax whose sole purpose was to operate on an individual when his powers advanced beyond certain physical capabilities. But these demons weren’t skilled surgeons or healers; their work was horrifying and brutal. The removal of body parts was performed in a twisted ritual with no anesthetic, and the subject was expected to rely on his powers to endure the pain. Haphazard cuts were made with ragged blades and the Durax wore the resulting disfigurement with twisted pride; a symbol of devotion to The Order and their rank in Duraxian society.
The quiet ones were seated in devilish-looking chairs. Their legs were shriveled to the point where Dezmara was uncertain if either one could support the paltry weight of their deathly thin torsos. Both had thick, jagged scars—slick and purple—that crept up their necks, and Dezmara guessed that neither creature possessed vocal chords any longer. They had mouths with meshes of spiny, translucent teeth that separated slightly and then clamped shut over and over again. Fleshy, ringed craters directly above their fang-lined cavities pulsed open and closed in time with their breaths. They didn’t gaze through pitch black spheres like the other two but rather stared at the hell they helped create through unblinking, cloud-white eyes that looked ready to spill from their shallow sockets and roll away at any moment.
“Your turn!” one of the standing Durax said to the other as he pointed at the defenseless body on the floor. They all fell silent, and it looked like the one who had been razzed by his companion was concentrating hard. Dezmara was relieved when nothing happened. She continued to watch for a few moments; then the man on the floor shook wildly and cried out. The two talking devils cackled again. She noticed the vile mouth
on one of the seated creatures was flexing open and shut more rapidly than the other, and his chest was pumping with effort. He was torturing the broken little man with his mind to show them how it was done. The two standing, talking Durax were less advanced than their more grotesquely deformed commanders, and this was a cruel training session.
“Where is Gundu with the Kaniderelle?!” one of them screeched.
“You’ll never advance to the level of general,” the other said as he motioned to their superiors with a bony claw, “if you can’t fight your compulsion to speak, Runca. But if it’s beyond your abilities to use your mind for such a simple task, I’ll help you stay a soldier!”
“Screw you, Creteo!” Runca spat. “We didn’t get to kill Fellini, and I want the pleasure of seeing the brain of the one who came in his place bubble from his pointed ears!”
“It doesn’t matter if Fellini showed or not. We have the supposed Human and not that pirate scum, Feleon Gulkar—just as the Turillian promised. Now we can deliver her to Lord Helekoth and reap the rewards!”
“Yes, yes. But what of the Kaniderelle, huh? When does he die?” Runca moistened his lips with his tongue like a ravenous animal. Suddenly, Dezmara saw movement from the man in the center of the floor, and her heart swelled with hope and fear for what they would do to him for showing such amazing courage; then hope turned to utter horror. The man got to his feet, but his movements were unnatural, as if invisible hands were dragging his limp body upright. His head and shoulders were slumped and his clawed toes barely skimmed the glop-ridden surface of the deck. The man’s chin lifted from his chest, and his hand stretched to single out Runca with a scolding finger.
“He’ll die when we say so!” the man said in a haunting moan. His own voice was present, but it was overlaid with another, demonic reverberation that turned Dezmara’s blood so cold, she could have gone into cryo all on her own.