by Al Ewing
"You will be wishing your life away, Herr Oberstleutnant! Come, have a pot of tea... or perhaps..." He tailed off, swallowing, as Alexis turned his cold eyes to pierce his. He stepped back, suddenly conscious of the way his forehead glistened, the clammy feel of his own skin. "That is to say... I did not mean..."
Alexis only smiled. "My life, Master Plus? Surely not." He smiled wider. Carina moved away, giving no sign that Alexis was even in the room, moving to pick up one of her books and settle herself down with it. At one time she had been flattered by Alexis' attentions. He remembered her adoring smiles, how she blushed when he looked her way, how her eyes once shone for his entrance. But those had been the reactions of a girl of fifteen who had never met a handsome young man before. In the years since she had simply grown to know him too well. She understood him now, and as a result she had become cold and distant. He could hardly blame her, but that was neither here nor there. The wedding would go ahead, or Master Plus and his daughter would simply vanish and never be heard from again.
Of course, it was mostly for the benefit of the locals and the psychologists, one more piece of data for the Great Experiment. It wouldn't be a true marriage of equals - the subhuman girl was sublime in her beauty, but that was merely an accident of genes and presumably masked imperfection elsewhere in her. The match would be very pleasant for him - for a brief while - but could not be expected to last any serious length of time. The only real question - one that had arisen in Alexis' mind in recent months as his respect for Carina's sharp mind had grown - was which of them would kill the other. But then, in such matters, Alexis was the superior.
"My apologies, Master Plus. I was... woolgathering." He smiled, turning his head, and slowly walked over to Carina, measuring his steps. "Until we meet again, Carina."
She did not look up. Master Plus coughed, then spoke up. "Come now, little flower, you can offer Herr Oberstleutnant a kiss goodbye, can't you?"
Carina looked up at that, and looked at her father with a sweet smile, eyes like chips of green ice.
"Dear Papa, I am sure the dashing Herr Oberstleutnant will steal a kiss from my lips soon enough."
Master Plus almost choked. "Carina..."
Alexis chuckled. "I admire your... subtlety, Carina. It is, unfortunately, a skill I never learned... I will leave you with your father. Doubtless you and he have a great deal to talk about?"
Carina returned to her book as though he had said nothing. Alexis felt a wave of admiration for her, even as he nodded briskly to her coward of a father and silently walked through the oak door and down the steps. Admiration would change nothing, of course. It only made it clearer that Carina could not be underestimated. To allow himself the foolish cliché of the wedding night would be to sign his own death warrant.
He decided that she would not survive the carriage ride from the church.
After the meeting with Master Plus, Alexis needed something to take the taste from his mouth. It was always the same - the pleasure of seeing Carina's grace and beauty never lasted so long as the sickening feeling that came from standing in her father's obsequious, oleaginous presence. The man was like a ball of slime, a slug, a tainted creature who spread foulness - and worse, weakness - wherever he touched. The only way to cure himself of the pestilence that seemed to cover his flesh like a creeping tide of ants was to go to see Master Plus' opposite number.
Alexis strode purposefully towards the concrete bunker on the opposite side of the town, nodding to the menials as they performed their tasks. Already he began to feel better. Master Minus was a man after his own heart. Master Minus was in charge of Punishment.
The Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts, as it was known, was a grey concrete edifice that seemed like a simple blockhouse, but that was only what lay above ground. Beneath was a large complex of corridors and rooms - guesthouses for those who broke the rules of the town. There they were entertained by a man who was everything that the pathetic Master Plus was not - a true Aryan, a man who understood the meaning of iron will, an artist and a poet. By the time he reached the steel door, Alexis had a spring in his step.
"Hans! My good fellow. Is Master Minus inside?" It was a question that needed no answer - Master Minus was always inside.
Hans Bader smiled tightly as he performed the salute. "Jawohl, Oberstleutnant - the Master is in. He is, ah... working at the moment." Hans dropped his eyes to the ground. His duty for the past three years had been to guard the door of the bunker on the outside, and for this he was profoundly grateful. He had no desire to learn what lay inside.
"Ah, you are squeamish, Hans. Perhaps you could pass a little time with Master Minus yourself, hmmm? Help you get over these foolish attitudes. Open the door, Hans."
As Hans began to twist the handle that would open the heavy steel door, his hands began to shake. Alexis was not known for making idle threats.
Inside there was a small chamber with a number of leather suits hanging from pegs. Alexis stepped into the room and selected one of the suits as the door closed. The suits were baggy, shapeless and airtight, with a heavy faceplate, and every breath that Alexis took passed through filters over the nose and mouth, which cleansed the air of all impurities. It was a necessary precaution, for as the inner door slowly swung open, tendrils of sickly yellow seeped into the room, coiling around him like tentacles, attempting to catch him in their grip. Alexis stepped forward, lumbering in the bulky suit. He felt confined, weighed down. But he knew better than to discard the heavy leather. Only one man could keep his sanity in such a climate.
Stepping forward, Alexis entered The Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts.
The yellow mist contained massive doses of psychoactive chemicals - drugs designed to weaken the will, to bring paranoia, terror, euphoria and madness. This was the atmosphere a condemned man would breathe as he waited, chained and shackled, for Master Minus to reach him. Often, by the time Minus began his painstaking work on the flesh and psyche of his latest client, the victim would already be a broken, shaking wreck. Not that this would stop him.
Alexis wended his way down through the twisting corridors, listening to the unique sounds of the Palace - the sounds of screaming, sobbing, frenzied laughter, or that strange kittenish mewling, the guttural sound the throat made when all hope was lost. Beautiful thoughts, indeed! The spring returned to his step, even encased in the heavy leather, as he turned the corner to find himself in the main room that was reserved by Master Minus for the practice of his unique art.
The sight made him smile. An old man, more than sixty, was bound with iron manacles to a large metal rack, set at a forty-five degree angle. A corset of barbed wire had been wound around his stomach, and the bent, stick-thin figure of Master Minus was perched on a small set of steps, the better to reach his victim's face. Alexis watched the scalpel flash, the blade catching the light, reflecting as the blood seeped down across the neck and chest, which rose and fell like a bellows. Surely the man would have a heart attack at any moment! And yet, the touch of Minus was sure, and swift, and perfectly aligned with the planes of muscle and flesh, as the scalpel dug and carved and sliced. Scraps of pink and wet red, orange in the mist, flew with unerring accuracy towards a bucket reserved for such leavings. To Alexis, it was like watching a master sculptor putting the finishing touches to a great work of art.
"I will be right with you, Oberstleutnant, but I must not be interrupted at this critical stage. I'm sure you understand." The voice had the texture of old, dry parchment.
"Of course, Master Minus. Please, by all means - carry on." Idly, Alexis reflected that if Master Plus had spoken to him in such a manner, he would have been buried alive in a pit of caustic lime. But Master Minus was a different calibre of man altogether.
The scalpel flashed. The blade dug and stripped and cut. There were no screams - presumably either the victim was too far under the influence of the gas, or he had been properly anaesthetised beforehand. Pain was not the object, evidently.
Finally, Master Minus descended
the steps, and the work was revealed - a shining skull. Eyes gazing without lids from the raw sockets, the jaw held in place with threads of muscle, still working, opening and closing, as the hands opened and closed at nothing and the barbed wire cut and tore at the flesh of the stomach.
Master Minus smiled softly.
"One of my better pieces. He will keep for a while, but it's important that I bring him to his daughter's house without too much delay. She must learn that spreading malicious gossip about Der Führer has certain... unfortunate consequences."
It was like conversing with an aged beetle. Master Minus must surely have been more than ninety years old. The flesh of his face hung in wrinkled folds and his body bent as he walked in slow, shuffling steps. The dark monk-like habit he wore covered most of his body, leaving only the shining bald pate of his head, and his wrinkled hands - his terrible artist's hands, that worked with such tender skill. Alexis smiled.
"You must forgive me if I fail to understand, Mein Herr. Why not simply take the woman for her crimes? It seems a somewhat roundabout method of punishment."
Master Minus chuckled, and the sound was like dry twigs cracking underfoot.
"I could not expect you to understand the concept of guilt, Oberstleutnant. I barely comprehend it myself except as one more colour for my palette. But take my word for it - there is no torture like that of guilt. Pain is useful, I will admit - as useful as a hammer, for pounding nails. But take a hammer alone to a block of purest marble and all that is left is rubble. The hammer must be used in concert with the chisel, and... but I am an old man, Herr Oberstleutnant. I could talk you into your grave and then wake you with my noise. Instead, let me give you a demonstration."
A flicker of light danced in the old man's eyes.
"Let me show you the true meaning of torture."
The yellow mist swirled in the air. Master Minus walked slowly to a rope hanging from one wall, and tugged. A small silver bell rang in the silence. Alexis leant forward, straining his ears, curious despite himself about what the old man would show him.
A door at the back of the room opened, and a shirtless boy of nineteen years walked through it. Subhuman, yes, but uncommonly handsome - perhaps as handsome as Alexis himself in his own inferior way. Alexis nodded in appreciation. "About to demonstrate your skill, Master Minus?"
"I already have, my dear Oberstleutnant. This man has been tortured. He has been broken, torn to pieces, placed beyond the limits of endurance and left there to scream until his throat gave out. He is a finished masterpiece."
Alexis frowned. "There is not a mark on him."
"Once again, you place too much importance on the physical world. Tell me, Oberstleutnant - what would you say is this young man's best feature?"
Alexis studied the boy's face for long moments.
"I suppose if I was forced to comment... I would say... his eyes. He has very striking eyes."
Without hesitation, the boy reached up to his face. Fingers scrabbled and dug at the flesh. A rivulet of blood ran from each of the sockets as he worked his fingers deeper... then tugged. There was a sickening popping sound - a wet suction - as his eyes were drawn from the bloody holes they'd rested in, still clinging to the stringy optic nerves. A further tug and those nerves were dangling on his cheeks amidst the blood.
The boy spoke a few words of halting Spanish, his eyeballs in his palms. Master Minus chuckled.
"He is offering them to you, Oberstleutnant. As a gift."
Alexis reached and took one of the eyeballs, examining it. Still very striking. "How did you manage it without marking the flesh?"
"Shame, Oberstleutnant. Humiliation. These are finely-honed skills. Guilt and self-hatred cut as fine and sharp and deep as a scalpel in the right hands... in my hands. When the soul is tearing at itself with hot claws, the body can be made to do anything the torturer wishes. Once that point has been reached, there is no more torture. There is only sculpture and poetry. Creativity worked in flesh. Do you understand me, Oberstleutnant?"
Alexis turned the eyeball around and around in his fingers with a half-smile. "I believe I do, Master Minus. I will have to visit you again soon. Perhaps I will try without my helmet, hmmm?"
Master Minus laughed. "I would not advise it, my friend. The air I breathe... I am adapted to this, yes? I breathe it every day. I'm used to the feelings it brings... the wonderful, heated shame. At this point, if I were to breathe the air outside - I would go mad. I have a suit myself for use when I leave the Palace."
"The black one. I remember it now. It's been some years since you've worn it."
"It has been some years since I've needed to leave, Oberstleutnant. But that reminds me - the General was asking after you. He and I have been in consultation over a difficult problem and now he requires your thoughts on the matter. If you'll proceed to the Red Dome, I will return to my patients..." He waved a hand towards the stripped skull of the man in the rack.
Alexis smiled, nodded, and moved back towards the airlock to strip the heavy leather suit off and return to the normal atmosphere.
As he walked back into the sunlight, he placed the eyeball in his mouth and bit down.
It was delicious.
In the centre of the city, within sight of the great statue, stood the Red Dome. Here sat the government for Aldea, the infernal heart of the terrible machine that drove the people to and fro on their tracks, that flew the flapping, hissing wingmen through their owned sky.
Here sat the Generaloberst.
Entry to the red dome was guarded by a platoon of soldiers below, and a flock of wingmen above, circling in formation, a halo of angels atop the devil's brow. Once all passes and permits had been checked, stamped and copied in triplicate for filing - a process that even Alexis was not excused from - the visitor was allowed to take the great spiral staircase to the waiting room. Here the soldiers would wait to have their leaves granted, to apply for transfer, to lodge a grievance, flirting with the pretty secretaries as the wheels of bureaucracy slowly turned and the clock ticked around to the time when they would be granted their belated audience. The General was a busy man.
Alexis needed no appointment, however. He nodded curtly to the secretary - a cool blonde of no more than twenty-two, most likely with a sweetheart among the officer class - knocked sharply on the oaken door and then walked into the main office.
This was the seat of power. An immense window dominated the east wall, looking out onto the town, and the statue. There was a red tint to the glass - plush red leather on the walls, the carpet a rich burgundy. Subdued lighting and gleaming gold furnishings gave the office an air of regality - a cross between the headquarters of a great banking company and the study of some deposed French king. The furniture itself, however, was paradoxically austere - a picture of the Führer (in happier times) and a picture of the General sat side by side on the wall, but neither were overly large or ostentatious. Indeed, the only things in the room which could properly be described as such were the desk of polished mahogany and red leather, and the sumptuous chair behind it, large and imposing, like the man seated in it. General Eisenberg.
His name meant 'Iron Mountain', and he was one of those lucky individuals for whom sobriquet and self unite in harmony. The General stood at six feet and seven inches. Even when sitting down, he seemed to loom over those he spoke to like some great outcrop of desert rock. A carpet of grey, close-cropped hair topped his great stone head, and his eyes were like hailstones. His face carried that certain touch of rugged fascination that came with the authority of war - in other aspects, it was like a fist, his stare or scowl a weapon to brutalise and subjugate those who dared oppose him.
His parents had died as part of an unsuccessful black operation on behalf of the Führer - the attempted coup, against the wishes of Victoria, which would have opened up Belgium and left Western Europe ripe for conquest. His first clear memory was being shown a lithograph of his father and mother hanging from a gallows in a Brussels jail.
An or
phan at six years old, he had carried ammunition and medicine in the great assault on the Maginot Line, where so many thousands had died. He had seen men torn apart by the great Vickers guns, still living, men with bandaged eyes who eternally begged the orderlies to please remove their boots - they would do any favour if the doctor would only remove their boots and scratch that terrible itch that nagged even through morphine. Their boots were always a kilometer or more away, of course. With their feet. By eight, the boy carried a knife and pistol, and slit the throats of the wounded on the battlefield as they begged. No one had ordered him to do this - it was as logic dictated. While the French might take prisoners, and fatten them on good bread and cheese while their soldiery starved for bullets, Germany should never be so foolish. His voice was not yet broken, this boy, and yet he was stronger than grown men in this regard - or so the Führer would say, on the day they met.
Eisenberg grew to manhood and his place remained with the military. He participated in the bloody push into Italy, when Il Duce finally fell from favour. He had carried a clip of silver bullets in Hitler's terrible eastward push, fighting both the biting winter and the things that lurked on the Russian front. And he had returned alive to tell the tale when Der Führer finally had to choose between losing his face or losing his country under the terrible pressure of Her Majesty and her Soviet helpmeet, the man the British lovingly referred to as 'dear old Colonel K'. Be it the jungles of South-East Asia, the foothills of Spain or the endless deserts of Saudi Arabia, the Iron Mountain had been the Führer's implacable fist, his crushing hand. He had taken more and more power, greater and greater accolades, until finally his tireless work had led him here, to the plush, red leather chair, and the governance of the clockwork-town. This was the greatest reward - the most important duty. This was not just another of the Führer's plays at conquest, not a simple grab for more of the global pie. This was the future of Germany - and perhaps also the world.