by Leon Castle
Seated on the golden throne is The Word.
‘Welcome, Ambassador William, and of course your lovely wife Lady Sheona,’ rising his full 102 cm frame up to stand in front of the throne, trying to create the illusion of grandeur. Flicking back his scarlet cloak, he descends the steps to stand eye level with Bill. He extends his hand to be kissed, instead Bill grabs his hand and shakes it. An evil smile creases The Word’s veiled scarred face. It will be a pleasure eradicating this vermin. The Word turns and ascends the steps and seats himself back on the throne.
Bill glances around him, in the gloom he senses the presence of someone concealed behind the pillars. With a feeling of foreboding he squeezes Sheona’s hand to reassure her.
‘My counsel is curious about you, Ambassador William and Lady Sheona. You seem to have popped out of nowhere. Step forward children of the Almighty.’
At his command six people appear from behind the pillars and step up to the edge of the light ring, each wears the same dark blue hooded cloak completely hiding their facial features.
‘Ambassador William, we know nothing about you, what did you do before becoming Ambassador for your country?’ asks a tall male voiced figure.
‘Well, we export and import produce for my province.’
‘So you have a large board of directors on your company, how many executives?’ asks a smaller Mazuban.
‘We don’t have a board of directors, our company is a privately owned one.’
‘So how did you manage to finance such a large venture on your own?’ asks a female’s voice.
Bill shifts his feet. ‘This is turning into an interrogation and I can’t lie about the origins of our wealth, not to this lot, they’ll see straight through it.’ he thinks.
‘I, err…we received it as a reward from our former employer.’
‘Who is?’ she pressed him.
‘The Croc of the United Kingdom of Sobektar.’
‘Didn’t they go off planet years ago? around the year…2600 perhaps?’
‘Yes that would be correct,’ swallows a now concerned Bill.
‘Where in the hell are they going with this?’ he wonders. He shoots a nervous smile to Sheona who is gradually losing the color in her face.
The female starts to go after Bill like a rabid dog, it soon becomes very clear where this is going.
‘Considering it’s now 2689, that’s 89 years ago Mr. Ambassador,’ her pitch and volume of her over-righteous voice rising slightly.
‘Can you please tell us where were you born?’
‘I was born in the western province of the Great Southern Land.’
‘And now if you please, when exactly where you born?’ she asks in a low hiss.
So this is what they are up to, they want to know how old we are, and how we’ve done it!
The atmosphere hangs like a hot, wet blanket over them sucking the air from their very lungs, after what seems like an eternity, with everyone except Sheona, who has turned very pale, leaning forward in suspense.
The Word hangs forward on his throne like a half starved vulture licking his lips in anticipation.
‘I was born on the third of July, 2116.’
‘That’s 573 years old! Yet you both look no older than 30!’ explodes the female.
Raising his claw-like hand The Word restrains further outbursts from the female.
‘Go and get Lady Sheona some water,’ he commands the female. She sulks off out of the room.
‘So Ambassador, how did you and your lady, manage to extend your lives for so long?’ he croons, trying to sound like a gentle father speaking with a naughty child.
‘I cannot answer that question. I will not endanger the lives of my friends.’
The Word leaps off the throne bounds down to the bottom step, thrusting his veiled face into Bill’s. ‘Your friend the Devil you mean, you are in league with him! Take them away!’ he shrieks.
Suddenly out of the gloom directly behind them step four figures dressed in black hooded robes, each one grabbing an arm of the now prisoners.
The Word’s scarred, veiled, face remains locked with Bill’s, extracting every ounce of pleasure he can from Bill’s realization that he has just been played. Before The Word can move away, Bill snaps his head back and smashes it forward into the Word’s crooked nose. A sickening crack reverberates off the walls as blood spurts from the Word’s ruined face. A loud roar escapes from The Word as he falls backward, the blue cloaks rush to his aid.
Web now dressed in his scarlet hooded cloak bellows the command ‘down, now!’ The platform shifts and starts to drop through the floor.
‘What the hell is going on?’ demands a struggling Bill.
‘You are charged with heresy and are now sentenced to death!’
‘Says who?’
‘Says you fool! By your own mouth you admit your unnatural age, you have to be in league with the Devil unless…there is some other way,’ Web coos.
Noticing Bill’s glance up the smooth vertical shaft to the now receding throne room, Web sneers ‘Up there is Heaven, down here where you’re going, is Hell!’
The shaft seems to descend forever, when it finally stops Bill looked up to see a tiny circle of light a long way up. No escape from this place.
The prisoners are roughly marched off the platform, which now rises back up the shaft to form part of the Judgment throne room floor again. The platform shaft opens out to a massive underground cavern hollowed out to look like a huge cathedral. It spans several kilometers in length and looks to be at least a kilometer wide, and maybe 3 or 400 meters high. The air is dank, thick, and rancid smelling from hundreds of unwashed prisoners living in squalid conditions. The stench makes Bill and Sheona want to throw up.
‘Get in there and strip off, clothes and boots in here,’ Web instructs, pointing to a large bag as they are shunted into a tiny processing room. ‘Personal effects and jewelry here,’ now pointing to a small tray on the bench. They are given a light gray shapeless garment to wear, nothing else.
‘I’m having trouble getting this ring off,’ comments Bill.
‘No trouble at all Lord William.’ A wicked sneer crosses Web’s face.
‘Bring in the jeweler,’ commands Web, now smiling.
Soon a small bot wheels itself into the room, approaches Bill and extends out a tube like apparatus, sliding it over Bill’s finger.
With a bolt of pain, the bot severs Bill’s finger, spitting it out of the tube. The bloodied ring slides out onto a tray at the front of the bot.
‘Mongrel!’ spits a pain racked Bill, ‘you stinking, bloody mongrel!’ holding the bleeding stump that was his finger.
‘Welcome to Hell, I hope you enjoy your stay, I know I will!’ laughs a demented Web. Already his pupils are starting to dilate, for him the excitement is starting to mount. Torture is his sport, his cruelty knows no bounds. The pair is marched off along a walkway, passing hundreds of caged up prisoners, the noise of their wailing and desperate cries reverberates off the walls of the huge cavern.
‘No…no way! I’m so sorry Lord William! I never meant for anything like this to happen. They are innocent let them go!’ yells a man from one of the cages. Looking back Bill recognizes the barman from The Tasty Dish, his face pressed between the bars, arms extended, imploring, pleading. In the cage with him huddled together is the young couple that Bill had seen arrested and disappear into the floor of that forbidding little building now it all makes horrible sense. Bill can do nothing as his burly guard’s steer him away.
‘Poor bugger thinks he got us into this mess,’ thinks Bill, shaking his head sadly.
After a long time walking on the cold hard stone floor their bare feet start to ache.
By no accident they approach a massive chamber cut into the side wall. The floor of the chamber has a circular platform just like the platform they came down on. To Bill and Sheona’s sheer horror three monstrous towering golden Crocodiles stand on the platform manacled at full stretch are three prisoners
. Standing spread out in an X, one prisoner for each Croc.
‘Oh stop! I want you to see this,’ commands an excited Web, acting like a small schoolboy.
‘Go on, get on with it!’ he barks at the black hooded figure at the controls.
The small diminutive Mazuban starts the sequence. The power beam of the laser is aimed through the prisoner’s feet up through their bodies to exit through their hands, its intensity is slowly increased, matching the volume and pitch of their screams. Their bodies and limbs start to glow bright red and swell until, with a sickening bang they explode in a spray of pink body fluid, their heads seared and ripped off, roll across the platform.
Both Bill and Sheona launch a fountain of vomit and dry retch as they collapse to their knees. A demented Web, meanwhile, is jumping around, clapping and laughing with glee.
‘Take them to the prep tanks!’ he yells at the guards. ‘I’ve got something better in store for you two!’ He stays to kick the freshly severed heads in to a holding basket.
Bill and Sheona are dragged roughly to their feet and led off to the start of their horrors. Finally arriving at the prep room, they are met by a rather short, round, nasty looking bald female. The tattoo on her bald head is the most hideous thing Bill and Sheona have ever seen, her skull appears to be split open down the middle with a large bird prying it open with its talons, while tearing and ripping out the skull’s contents with its vicious beak.
In her hand is a small pistol shaped inoculator.
‘Bend their necks,’ she hisses through broken, clenched teeth. Injecting them both in the back of the neck with a muscle paralyzing but nerve stimulating solution, they collapse on the floor.
‘Get them into the prep tanks,’ she commands the guards.
Still conscious but now unable to move, they are both stripped of their flimsy garment and each tossed into a separate small, cylindrical, glass tank. They are then chained and manacled by their feet, hands and neck inside their tank and stretched out. Tubes are then forced down their throats to supply air, their lips and nostrils are sealed off. The end of the tank is then sealed and water begins to pour in over the top of the tank. Terrified, they struggle to move but can’t, as the water level rises above their face they finally realize they will not drown. Unknown to them, a much more terrifying fate awaits them.
An hour, nearly two, passes before Web shows up.
‘Can I release our little friends?’ he asks with the excitement of a small child releasing his first goldfish into its pond.
‘Yes! Of course you can my lord, that privilege is for you alone.’
Web approaches a small tank which holds tiny fish resembling mosquito lava.
‘How many do you think?’ he asks.
‘How long do you want it to take?
‘A week or so, they are scheduled for their performance in six weeks.’
‘Excellent! Then four each should take about…two weeks.’ she replies.
‘Then four it is!’ He fishes out four for Bill’s tank and drops them through the little trap door on top of the tank. Wriggling slowly, they sink through the water until they touch Bill’s exposed skin, then all hell breaks loose. They go totally berserk, ripping into his flesh like great white sharks in miniature. Tearing open the skin and exposing the nerve ends is what they are genetically engineered to do. Bill’s eyes bug out at the intense pain.
The area of skin they strip in 10 minutes is less than the size of a pea. After gorging themselves for over three hours they will resemble golf balls, and will be swapped out for four fresh mini mouths.
Now it’s Sheona’s turn.
This will be a long two weeks.
The short term effect of the paralysis drug wears off after about 20 minutes, unlike the pain accelerator which shuts off the endorphin supply permanently. After watching the pair in the tanks thrashing about in their bonds and suffering for a couple of hours, Web grows bored and makes his excuses to leave.
‘I’ll keep you informed of their progress, my lord,’ smiling up at her evil master.
‘Thank you,’ replies a now tired Web. Today has been huge.
The two weeks pass quickly for Web as his palace duties keep him busy. This is not the case for the two prisoners, now finished the prep stage, the last two weeks have felt like two eternities. Web walks in rubbing his hands together as the water is finished being drained from the tanks.
‘Let the games begin!’ exclaims an excited Web.
He loves this part of the process. It does not matter what or where the prisoners are touched it will cause searing blinding pain. As the water finally drains away, the prisoners look nothing like they did when they entered the tanks. Their shredded flesh and exposed nerve endings are already starting to weep and fester. Their screams fill the hallway as they are dragged away to begin their torture.
Web strides ahead of the prisoners to wait for them in his adjustment chamber, implements of torture preselected for the job. During the course of the next four weeks of horrendous torture they each have to be resuscitated numerous times. The tortures themselves are too brutal to disclose. Neither of them betrays the Croc.
Chapter 8
Two weeks after the arrest of Lord William and Lady Sheona, preparations are finalized for immediate deployment of the ‘Hammer of God’ device on the Great Southern Land.
‘These sinners harbored the heretics for many years, now let them feel the vengeance of the Almighty Azeebar!’ screams The Word, as he slams his fist on the activation button.
Thousands of kilometers away, a lone small flight drone carrying the ‘Hammer of God’ crosses the center of the huge inland sea that was once in the interior deserts of the Great Southern Land. The Hammer device is small, the shape of a dinner plate, only 3cm thick and weighing less than 4 kg. This is a lethal surgical strike weapon way more effective than the old style nukes. As the drone hovers for a short time transmitting its position, a small green light flicks on in the Hammer’s outer case. The switch is set for a lethal blast radius of 2500 kilometers. In a blinding flash the drone and Hammer are vaporized in the blast, the pulse wave traveling at the speed of light.
In an instant the entire Mazuban population of the Great Southern Land falls to the ground stone dead.
Close by the fallen Mazuban’s, life goes on. Bees collect nectar from delicate blossoms.
Butterflies ride the breeze looking for a place to settle. Confused dogs nuzzle and whine at their now still, silent masters, trying to rouse them.
Not since the last world war has this lethal surgical strike weapon been deployed. Sixty three million souls are extinguished in an instant. Once noisy, vibrant towns, and cities are silent, pristine buildings stand undisturbed.
Now only four stolen Hammers remain locked away in the secret vault of The Word, the Hammer’s creator made only six. He never drew up any blue prints, the design died with him. As a failsafe mechanism, only the blood of the Croc can unlock and arm the Hammer. Any attempt to open the case or probe within it to reverse engineer the Hammer will result in instant detonation, the default blast radius envelops the entire planet, wiping out all unprotected Mazuban life.
Chapter 9
‘The awakening of the dead Crocs and their families starts in nine days,’ states the Trade Ambassador. He is becoming a little agitated.
‘Have Lord William and Lady Sheona been contacted yet?’ he asks Nolack-2.
‘I sent the invitation to Lord William’s home communications unit precisely 3 weeks, 1 day, 12 hours, 3 minutes, and 17 seconds ago. I have since initiated contact precisely every 30 minutes for the last 27 hours. My last probe to the Great Southern Land failed to find any Mazuban life, a most disturbing anomaly. Either my programming is compromised or Mazubans have suddenly left the Great Southern Land. There is not one Mazuban left.’
‘Poppycock! Prepare a shuttle immediately, I’ll go and check this out myself!’ snorts a now annoyed Trade Ambassador, storming off to his apartment in the north end of the uppe
r level of Sky Jewel to prepare a small travel bag.
The buzz of excitement is contagious on Star Jewel, the first asteroid city. She is now home to more than two million people.
A small elite research and development team have had access to the staronium isotope and blue prints for the first Croc’s original Reanimation Ark and enhancement chamber to develop this new technology to harness staronium’s amazing power.
Starting with an interface with the second super bio computer Nolack-2, the team built a tank not unlike a flotation tank, for Mazuban enhancement. In simple terms, Nolack-2 scans a naked body to create a data base line, then projects a hologram image of a person standing next to themselves. The person then instructs Nolack-2 to take a little away here (flabby belly?) or add a little there (bigger arms for the boys?) There are, of course, limits, otherwise subjects would not be the same person, at least not physically.
To perform these tasks, Nolack-2 takes the ‘new person data and uses a molecular converter to disassemble the ‘old’ person, converting carbon based molecules into an energy lifeform, then using staronium’s power to use non organic energy (electricity), restores the organic carbon based matter back to its prime which is 25 years of age. In short rebuilding the person free of any disease or disability to their own specifications, all while the subjects lays floating comfortably in the tank.
But there’s more. With further development Mazubans are now able to awaken loved ones from the dead! It’s a little more technical, and will be demonstrated soon.
Nolack-2 powers up shuttle TS 82063 for the Trade Ambassador.
‘I leave immediately Nolack-2, I’ll contact the Croc as soon as I’ve got some answers,’ remarks the Trade Ambassador as he straps himself in for take-off.