Emperor-for-Life: DeadShop Redux (Unreal Universe Book 6)

by Lee Bond

  Was it possible?

  Samiel shook his head defiantly. No. As unprepared as he personally was for the appearance of Nickels, he'd come to accept the fact that the irritating worm existed at the will of some future version of himself, and that he was there, in the past, for precisely the reasons he'd decided.

  But Chezzik? No. The too-powerful, supremely weird cybernetic assassin was well known for his odd sense of humor and contrary nature, and so it was that Samiel decided that Chez was just being an ass.

  "Time for you to … what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Samiel watched on in absolute astonishment as the immaculately dressed assassin started wandering towards The Line machines, humming some long forgotten ditty. "Get away from there! That equipment is precisely calibrated for me, personally. Anyone getting too close will find themselves in dire straits. For your own health and continued existence, stop and stop now."

  Still humming, Chez reached out and tapped one of the weird machines with all the flickering lights with a perfectly manicured finger. The long rows of brilliant green lights, each with a nametag that'd been carefully affixed with Scotch tape, winked and blinked in apparent dismay at the intrusion, but other than that, nothing.

  Chez examined the fingertip which -if Samiel's expression was to be read properly- was supposed to've either blown itself clean off or perhaps disappeared as if it'd never been or some other, equally unfortunate occurrence. "Well, isn't that a bid odd, hey? Looks like things aren't quite as cut and dried as they once were, hey?"

  For the first time in living memory -and his memory was ancient, now, full of experiences and recollections- Samiel was at an utter loss for words. He could find no purchase, no explanation, no comprehension as to what was happening.

  Operating from the standpoint that Nickels -who was almost certainly unaware of his true reason for breathing- was working towards some undefinable yet Samiel-specific goal, present Samiel struggled to find any current necessity for Chezzik Elteren to have any recollection of traveling through time, or of any difficulties he may've endured in the 21st century.

  The whole of The Line, as it stood now, blossomed within Samiel's wondrous mind. Further fueled by the incongruity, every era, every instance as it stood right now, grew and grew and grew until, if he so chose, Baron Samiel could simply dive in to any one of those points and unfurl The Line further still, relive each second as easily as drawing breath.

  He did so now, experiencing the present 25th century as if for the first time, hunting through the voluminous now in the hope of uncovering some reason, any reason at all, that the future version of himself running this operation without his awareness would permit the foppish assassin to recall one single second of the past.

  Humming softly to himself, wandering through the workspace devoted solely to a madman trying to fiddle with time, Chez contented himself with the sure knowledge that everyone, everywhere, was going to get exactly what they all deserved. He could waste all the time he had left, for in the end, when Samiel came to whatever conclusion he was hunting for, he, Chezzik Elteren, would be responsible.

  And in being responsible, he would become the absolute greatest assassin. Everywhere. Everywhen. Throughout all of History.

  Not that it'd matter. Not in the long run, but for the right here and now, Chezzik figured you couldn't ask for a better addition to the old resume, hey?

  Watching Samiel try to figure out what was going right over his head was a treat to watch, wasn't it just? In so doing, traipsing through the man's laboratories, it was growing honestly harder and harder to ever imagine the bloated mockery of a man being anything other than a sight of genuine foolishness; bound to the giant wooden chair -large enough to hold the man, though it was doubtful he'd sat in it for decades- as he was with a confusing array of pulleys and leather straps, with those ridiculous welder-style goggles strapped so tightly to his vast head that from where Chez stood, he could easily see they'd dug themselves into the skull, Baron Samiel was nothing more than a vast, bloated human balloon.

  This man. The scourge of History. The terror that you dared not speak of lest his deadly minions arrive on your doorstep, them with their broad smiles and damnable strength.

  The man who worked tirelessly towards a goal that not even the Wayfarers themselves could hope to understand.

  Strapped there, face a growing storm of confusion mixed with disbelief, surrounded on all sides by growing tendrils of ropy purple energy. A foolish balloon. With more power than he knew what to do with.

  Chezzik couldn't contain himself any longer. The sight was so ridiculous. It was like something you'd see on a kid's television show. He tilted his head back and laughed long and hard, using enhanced cybernetic systems to drive his hilarity to the furthest corners of the Ziggurat.

  Buried deep inside his own mind, digging through the present tracks of history in order to see if Chezzik could be of any further possible use, it took Samiel altogether too long to realize he was being mocked. When the assassin's crude, mocking laughter did finally break through the barricade of deep concentration, Samiel levered another vicious gaze at the capering moron.

  "Who do you think you are?" Samiel howled angrily, his overwide mouth stretching even wider still, spittle and gobbets of mucus spilling onto The Line Monitor. "Coming here, acting this way? I've dug into the present, and there is nothing here. Nothing of you. You are of no importance. I will reach into your world and pull your Line loose, you freak of nature, you twisted goon, and I will unspool you. The Great and Powerful Chezzik Elteren, undone by his …"

  "I is have a question for you, squire." Chezzik rolled his eyes drolly at the impotent fury boiling from Samiel. While he nevertheless thought quite little of the Baron, it was still wise to keep aware of the static energy rising from the odd moon far above their heads. Wouldn’t do to get dissipated or absorbed or whatever by that honking uncomfortable stone, would it? "It isn't really all that important, but I would like to know for my own benefits."

  Samiel went apoplectic with rage. He was in fear of losing his own mind over the temerity of this one man, and yet, still, deep inside him there was the even greater fear –more of a concern, really, now that surprising secrets had been revealed to him at last- that Chezzik Elteren was now an important part of the puzzle.

  As much as he wanted to discount the assassin altogether, there was no getting around the fact that Elteren recalled his time down The Line, that Nickels had somehow manipulated the cybernetic arrays to allow for it.

  Unable to keep the torrential wrath from his voice, Samiel responded. “I’ll allow it, worm. But you ask, and live, on my sufferance. This domain is mine. I am the sole power here. If I decide, it will be as if you’d never be born. And before you squander your one question, no, everything you’ve done? Everyone you’ve killed? Does not matter. Your path in this world is one of true insignificance. I’ve looked, and partaken of your life, and I am found parched. Does this bother you?”

  Chezzik flipped a hand saucily. “Nah. I have recently come to grips with my relative position in the Universe in relation to other notable figures, and I am okay with that. As improbable as that might seem, especially in light of my towering ego.” The once upon a time Englishman deciphered the dubious look on his captive host’s face and continued, nodding. “No, really, ‘tis true. Traveling to the past put things in perspective for me in a way I didn’t even think were possible. It’s amazing. But I is off point.”

  “You are indeed.” Samiel rumbled warningly. He had yet to decide what he was truly going to do with Chezzik Elteren. The man’s bizarre attitude was pushing him in a specific direction, but he needed to make certain that it was the right choice; a mutinous feeling in his gut suggested that he was –for the first time in a very long time- stuck atop a treacherous precipice, and that he needed to be extremely confident in his decisions.

  There would be no take-backsies.

  “Get on with it. Do not take further advantage of my good will, Elteren
. You have already stayed in my presence for longer than is advisable, and it is only out of unbridled curiosity to hear the sort of question someone like you might pose to someone like me that you are even drawing breath into those artificial lungs of yours.”

  Blustering, gusty windbag. That’s what he was. Hidden inside the massive machine called Ziggurat, stuffed full of limitless power, still just a man. And from the sounds of things, a man terribly insecure with himself and even more unsure of his place in the world.

  Chezzik fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket, displeased that they, too, were off kilter. “Simply put, squire, is your method of time-travel remotely similar to as how Nickels does it? I don’t see any tellyphones anywhere in the vicinity, but is it the same?” The EverKleen clad assassin held up a hand to prevent Samiel from answering too soon, adding, “I should say that, depending on the answer, I is have another question, sort of a follow up, don’t you see? So unless you don’t want to answer the second, don’t bother with the first. If not, I’ll pack up and head on out.”

  Samiel shifted his massive head once, brusquely. “His method is crude and unfinished, and very prone to causing physical trauma,” here, Chez’s hastily smothered bark of laughter had Samiel suddenly quite worried for Nickels’ well-being, “but, I suppose if I were to dumb it down so someone like yourself could understand the glory of my process, then yes. The methods are similar.”

  The Overlord of The Line chewed his crusty lower lip, felt amethyst-tainted blood spring easily to the surface. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s a bit much to swallow all at once, mind you, Baron, but as I were gettin’ ready to endure yet another round of bullshit with our man Nickels fucking with the local time stream, he did pull me aside and explained to me the nature of Everything in our lives.” Under normal circumstances, Elteren was absolutely positive that the bullshit story passing Nickels’ lips would’ve had the man laughed to death before being summarily stabbed through every major organ to make certain the deed were done, but time-travel … had sort of an eye-opening effect on you.

  Made you susceptible to a wider view of the Universe.

  Though hidden from view by the ridiculous goggles mounted to his face, Samiel’s keen interest was an unmistakable presence, all but shining like twin suns behind the streaked glass lenses.

  Chez resumed wandering around the workspace, keeping a precise distance between himself and Baron Samiel. The end was coming, and it was coming soon. That much the man had been terribly clear on; the closer he got to asking Samiel a very specific question, the sooner the end would come. There was no getting around it, and as he flitted from perch to post, intentionally distracting the bloated time-traveler to the point of delirium, Chezzik Elteren, the greatest assassin the world had ever seen, saw that there was no turning back now. Now he’d broached the topic, the road had but a single direction.

  “Out with it, man! Damn you! There are more important things in life.” Samiel slapped a hand down on the wooden chair. “Quit wasting my time!”

  Chez ran a casual hand across the pommel of one of his swords, silently doing the math of murder. He’d be done in less than five seconds. Shortly thereafter, unless Nickels was a maniac and a liar to boot, everything else would be done. “All right, all right, no need to go all steaming at me, squire, no need. My question is this: have you heard from any of your later selves in the last little while? Most specifically, since I’ve returned to the present?”

  Of course he had. Of course he was in constant communication. With all versions of himself, both past and future. That ceaseless bond was at the very center of who and what he was. Without it, he’d be nothing but a man in a room, staring down the long passage of time, bereft of any means of knowing whether or not his actions were fruitful or futile.

  “Of course I …” Samiel clicked his jaw shut when the smug smirk on Chezzik’s patrician face was deciphered. It was too knowing, too smug. It spoke of …

  There was nothing there. The inside of his mind was as empty of the future as a newborn babe’s! Battling a searing sensation of utter loss mingled with stark terror over the barren state of his intellectual soul, Baron Samiel struggled to come to grips with what he was finding, and hunted for a solution. There had to be some reason for this … this … this bone quiet silence whispering through his eternal self.

  There weren’t many things he could do. Nothing that wouldn’t leave him completely vulnerable to Chezzik’s ministrations, and right then, with that simply delivered question rocketing through him at a million times the speed of light, Samiel wasn’t necessarily willing to trust the earnest look of interest in the other man’s eyes.

  But there was something he could do all the same.

  The Overlord of The Line reached deep inside, grabbed hold of as many side-experiential instances of himself –versions in the ‘now’ that hadn’t properly existed for eons anywhere other than inside his own mind- as he could handle at one time and, ignoring all the outraged squawks and demands for explanation, commanded each of him to see if one of them could find any version of himself –other than the who he was right then- past this particular point of The Line that was available for communication.

  Samiel battled to keep one eye peeled on the humming, strolling assassin, feverishly aware that he was now trapped into a very specific pattern of behavior. Where before there’d been the stink of a trap, the room now reeked of it.

  He told himselves what to do. They listened, but with reservations. This was a deviation from what had already happened but they were going to allow the violation of the terms if only for the sake of causality. They, too, recalled speaking with himselves from beyond the 25th, and so yes, they’d dig into the future to see what he had so say for himself.

  In the end, it didn’t matter.

  None of it mattered, not truly; he could no longer hear future versions of himself because he’d discovered the truth behind Nickels’ improbable existence, therefore making him the entity that’d gone out of his way to create the man. It was as simple as that. He was now hiding from himself so previous iterations of himself would do precisely as he had already done in regards to Garth Nickels’ presence in the 21st century.

  Cut loose, it was entirely likely he would become the Ultimate Samiel.

  Unless … unless he played it just right.

  Samiel knew it could be done. He was the master of time and space. Nothing was outside his abilities, beyond the scope of his magnificence.

  To do any less would be to bring about an entirely different set of probabilities, probabilities that might see Bishop’s inclusion into the fold play out in a way that would –based on how precisely how radical Drake’s response to temporal manipulation always was- see an unfurling contrary to what was in play right that moment.

  That, more than anything else, was the most important facet of … everything in the here and now. Maintaining that subtle skein of influence, with his ‘Nickels’ in play in the 21st, implausibly affecting Drake Bishop’s life … that was all that mattered.

  But he held within him memories of speaking to later versions of himself. Samiels in the 28th, 35th, and even the Ultimate. He’d spoken with all of him from those times, checking and rechecking, validating and cross-referencing every action, every decision, every motive. Same as he always…

  Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing and no one. The future was silent. An empty tomb. A barren graveyard, bereft even of the bones of history. There was nothing but a great, yawning emptiness waiting, and it wasn’t far off.

  Speaking as if from a very faraway place, Samiel’s voice was a mere whisper. “What have you done? What have you done?”

  Chez brushed fingers that’d gotten slightly dirty from fiddling with Samiel’s hardware, and he spent an idle second watching the EverKleen suit pull the soot from his digits and shed the offensive stains on the ground. It wasn’t until Baron Samiel asked the same question two more times before the assassin deigned to respond.

  St
ill strolling around, still humming under his breath whenever words weren’t on his tongue, one hand still idly brushing every now and again across the hilt of a deadly sword, Chezzik Elteren responded. “Ain’t my doing, squire. As you pointed out so kindly a few moments ago, nothing I do and nothing I am makes any impact on the present at all. And as I were learning in the past from our man Nickels,” here, his spare hand brushed the invisible blood circuit Nickels had burned into his forehead, “I … we … are even less than all that. He promised me that if I did as I’ve just done, that I pose you the questions I just did, that your answers would provide all the proof I needed for my own doubts, doubts the lad poured in through my ear just before sending me home.”

  “I brought you home.” Samiel snapped, finding anger close to hand once more. Silence. Barren, empty silence. It was a hollow, profound echo that filled the yawning space between his ears full to overflowing. Was this how it’d been before pairing with the incongruity? Nothing in or on his mind save his very own thoughts? From second to second? “Me. No one sent you.”

  It was painful, this bleak cavity. How could something so devoid of matter cause such pain? It was inescapable!

  Then, “What did he tell you?”

  Chezzik winked broadly at Baron Samiel as he pulled the sword he’d been playing with, then rushed the chair as fast as his cybernetic servomotors could function. He moved so quick he were a blur, but he knew it might not be fast enough for a man who could see through time, so even as he moved, the brutal blue edge of the blade was already swinging for the first of the pulleys keeping Samiel moored to the chair. “We isn’t real, squire. None of us are. All of everything we see, hear and feel ain’t nowt but a mockery, a sham.”