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~~*~~
Chapter Two
~~*~~
~~*~~
3
~~*~~
THE CORORM is Unsolvable.
That
was the thought that distracted him as he swung his axe the following weeks. He
wondered what else in the Cororm was Unsolvable, and if the young women trapped
inside it could use its Unsolvability to their advantage in order to protect
themselves. It didn’t seem likely, given that the Hadavsmoban had never
revolted. If any of them ever knew of the home’s Unsolvability, they never took
advantage of it.
He
couldn’t forget about Tzani. On the day he was ordered to accompany Pios to the
Cororm he stood outside and seethed, trying not to think of what she was doing
to sate the lust of the Lord of the Demons. He had had no idea if she was still
alive, but when Pios entered he caught a glimpse of her kneeling. She didn’t
see him. He closed the door behind the monster and waited and seethed.
She’s still alive, he thought. She’s
still alive.
Pios
and Trajan routinely killed the Hadavsmoban. Aside from the simple sport of it,
they did it because they grew tired of the same girls. Days later he heard two
Tracluse in the barracks laughing and saying how they envied them and wishing
they could have a constant supply of “fresh meat to play with.”
Tracluse
were violent, and sometimes fights erupted in the barracks. They were minimally
tolerated by the sergeants, who sometimes enjoyed watching them, and were on
occasion guilty of inciting them. Otoro, knowing this, waited for both Tracluse
in the morning, and when he saw them broke the neck of the first and drowned
the second in the toilet before heaving his dripping body on top of his
compatriot. The barracks sergeant watched it happen but did nothing but grunt,
“Guess it’s good another dreadnought came in last night, eh, Queril?” as Otoro
passed.
Otoro
went to his bunk and dressed. Tracluse watched him out of the corners of their
eyes. They had no idea why he had killed those men—he had killed one of his
fellow Tracluse only once before—but none of them dared ask.
At
the docks he swung his axe. He stopped long enough to look up when a double
flash of white light briefly brightened the skies and cast vivid shadows
everywhere, and then when the ground shook sometime later, startling everyone.
An hour after that a voluminous roar silenced the city. It sounded like a
dreadnought full of ordnance had blown up in the bay. The dock colonel snarled,
“Get back to work!” and back to work the Tracluse and Otoro got.
In
the afternoon the colonel ordered everyone to stop. The Lottery that had been
whipped and prodded to the Audience Chamber was brought back to the
dreadnought.
This
was unprecedented. It had never happened since Necrolius Anaxagorius rose to
power. Otoro went to the supervising sergeant to ask.
“No
one’s talking,” grumbled the sergeant. “Word has it that the Lord Emperor is
away and will be for a while. We’re to keep the Lottery alive and fed until he
gets back. We need extra Tracluse manning the ship, and the two due in a week.
So unless you’re on assignment with the Cardinals, you’ll be on board
babysitting, got it?”
Otoro
saluted and left. He cleaned his block and then marched back to the barracks,
where he witnessed another unprecedented event.
Imperials
were rioting.
~~*~~
He
sifted through the smoking rubble of the barracks days later searching for his
locker, which held his axes. He didn’t find it until enough of the barracks had
been cleared away—almost another week. Most of the locker had melted in the
furnace-high temperatures of the fire … but one of his two axes was unscathed.
A Tracluse noticed its condition.
“What
is it made of, Queril? Infinitum?”
Queril
hefted it and walked away. “It’s made of death.”
The
Tracluse hurriedly stepped out of his way.
Pack
over his shoulder and axe in hand, Otoro marched to the sergeant, who was busy
ledgering those who had died.
“What
do you want, Queril?”
“Permission
to store these off-base, sir, and for leave. You’ve got enough men on clean-up
here. The dreadnoughts are staffed to the teeth, and—”
“Permission
granted,” interrupted the sergeant. “Report back in four days.”
Otoro
saluted and left for the city, considering that there had never been a time
when “things” weren’t “normal.” The sergeant’s attitude was telling.
Imperium
Centrum was little more than a colossal slaughterhouse. It had one purpose: to
oversee the deaths of millions of non-Tracluse human beings, either by marching
them to the Lord Emperor himself, or by means of the axe or Mephastophians. Its
silence was blood-soaked, permanent, and impenetrable.
But
then the flashes … and then the earthquake … and then the great roar. The Lottery
had returned, and the Imperials rioted. It hadn’t been confined to the barracks
or even the Raped
City
Tracluse
were generally granted leave from their duties once a month. Usually they were
given five days. To sate them were numberless pubs and whorehouses. Tracluse
ran them, of course, as well as the various supply and food outlets needed to
maintain a minimally functioning state economy. Senior Tracluse were assigned
homes they could relax in during leave, though most preferred the barracks and
didn’t use them. The two who had been assigned to Otoro’s house with him were
long gone. He killed one of them, and that was all it took to keep the second
away.
The
home was one of the smaller ones lining the perimeter of what was once a grand
oval park. Otoro entered it and disappeared into the master bedroom, where he
placed the axe in the closet. He lit lamps and stoked the furnace, then busied
himself with dusting and cleaning, which were tasks for slaves, but it calmed
his mind, which was bubbling like a vat of acid.
Something
had happened to the Lord Emperor—and that something caused Imperials to riot.
That was his working theory.
The
house warmed and he felt drowsiness creep up on him. He ordered the slave to
bring him hot water (the old man had seen the lights come on and had knocked);
when he returned Otoro bathed, then changed from his uniform into robes. The
slave readied his bed. Otoro ordered him to report back with food at nightfall,
then sent him off. He flopped down on his bed and fell asleep immediately.
~~*~~
He
stood at attention in full dress uniform with a thousand other men. A
translucent Tracluse—the actual parasite—floated just before his face, as one
did before all of them.
The
city’s Overseer stood on an imposing dais along with Dreamcatchers from the
Horg Audience. Behind them was the Audience Chamber, marble-white and gleaming.
The Lord Emperor, high, high above, stood at the edge of his throne, peering
down at them.
“Your
solemn and sworn duty is to serve the Lord Emperor,” the Overseer declared. His
gravelly voice echoed between the buildings. “Your eternal commitment to him
floats bodily before you. Once the Amgod is wedded to you, the Lord Emperor’s
will and your will become one. There is no higher glory!
“Only
the bravest and truest may become one with an Amgod! Be proud, my brothers, for
you are the Chosen ! Open your mouths now and
shout your joy!”
As
one, they opened their mouths wide, shouting. The parasites reached with black
tentacles and crawled inside.
Otoro
felt the parasite reach past his tongue to the back of his throat. He was told
that he would not gag, that it would prevent it from happening. He felt it move
farther in, and suddenly he had a violent urge to swallow. This too was normal,
he was told. Out the corner of his eye he watched the other men swallow hard.
He did too.
The
men were shouting anew. He kept his mouth firmly closed.
The
Tracluse settled, and then tried to vomit itself out. He kept his mouth firmly
shut, his jaw quivering. No one noticed.
The
beast clawed at his insides, trying to escape. He felt it tear at his throat,
at the back of his tongue. He did not flinch. He snorted and swallowed hard
again.
The
Amgod, thrashing, started to dissolve. But he was bleeding internally, blood
pouring into his stomach, and he didn’t know if he could keep from puking. The
men were still shouting. He looked up and spied the Lord Emperor, who was still
watching. He forced a vicious grin to his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead,
ran down the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth harder.
The
Tracluse inside him actually emitted a dying squeal that several around him
heard. A soldier slapped his back and said, “Queril, was that you? What was
that?”
He
held his gaze on Necrolius and let his grin widen a little. The Amgod was dead.
He fought the urge to vomit and brought his glare to the men staring at him.
His grin disappeared.
He
opened his mouth, and no Tracluse from that day on dared challenge him. For a
vile, foul green smoke issued from it. “My Amgod is very pleased,” he said,
blowing the smoke out. “How is yours?”
~~*~~
He
woke. The slave was knocking. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and
stood, stretched, then went to the door and opened it.
The
man bowed, a basket of foodstuffs in hand.
“Come
in,” said Otoro.
The
slave was scarred from whippings. The pinkie finger on his left hand was
missing. He walked past him into the kitchen, where he stoked a fire and began
cooking after chopping up vegetables.
Otoro
watched him, said: “Tell me about yourself.”
The
slave looked up from his work. He didn’t answer.
Talking
to slaves wasn’t illegal, but it certainly wasn’t an accepted practice. Otoro
needed to talk; he needed to find a way to quiet his mind.
“I
want to know something about you,” said Otoro, leaning against the door jamb.
The
man kept his mouth closed. He must’ve thought it was a test. Talking to
Tracluse was dangerous in the best of times.
“You
may respond,” said Otoro. “I will not punish you for speaking. Do you have a
daughter?”
The
slave looked up, alarmed. He went back to his cooking, staring down
unblinkingly.
“What’s
your name?”
The
slave said nothing.
Otoro
grunted and began pacing back and forth.
“I
was admitted into the Cororm recently,” he said. “The prince murdered five
women. He ripped them apart …”
The
slave winced.
Otoro
caught it, though the man was facing away from him.
“You
do have a daughter.”
The
man went back to stirring the pot, the contents of which smelled deliciously
like stew. Otoro’s stomach grumbled, and he thought of the dream, one he’d had
many times. It was a dream of pure and true memory, for it had all happened
exactly as he dreamed it. It was a dream he had when he felt frustrated and
ready for war, and so he’d had it many times these past weeks.
“I
met someone’s daughter in there,” he said. “Beautiful. Young. She was ready to
die that day, and tried to provoke me into killing her. I should’ve. Her sole
task is to entice the Lord of the Demons to spill his vile seed!”
The
last came out of him in a roar. The slave had stopped stirring and now stared
at him, terror stretching his face.
Otoro
fixed his glare on him. “Your name. It will be your ticket to wake another
day.”
Trembling,
the slave approached and rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and presented it
to him. On the soft underflesh was a brand:
Q3vvPLV-SLAVE
Otoro
grinned. He snatched the man’s wrist before he lowered it and squeezed. The
slave grimaced, his face bleached with fear.
“Your
name. I will not ask again.”
The
man whimpered. Otoro squeezed harder and he dropped to his knees.
“F-Firr!”
he cried out. “Firr Rourn! Please, Mr. Queril, spare me! I beg you …”
Otoro
held the grip, then let him go.
“Stand,
Mr. Rourn.”
He
watched as the slave got unsteadily to his feet, shaking visibly and rubbing
his wrist.
“When
is the stew ready?”
Almost
inaudibly: “You may eat it now.”
“Only
if you share a bowl with me,” said Otoro. “Don’t refuse, and don’t give me more
trouble. Eat with me. Serve me, then serve yourself. You’ll have seconds.”
Would
the slave report him? Otoro’s actions were as the events of the past days:
unprecendented. Tracluse took great pleasure in abusing and killing slaves, not
feeding them. So completely compassionless were they that no Tracluse had ever
been disciplined for showing mercy to a slave.
He
watched as Firr Rourn fetched a second bowl and, after serving him, poured a
single scoop of stew into it.
“Fill
it,” ordered Otoro, glaring.
The
slave did as told.
Otoro
was seated at the table. “Come. Sit with me. Keep me company.”
The
man came and sat across from him, spoon in hand.
Otoro
held his glare on him, then dug in after twisting a loaf of bread and giving
half to him. The stew was good. The slave took a spoonful and brought it to his
mouth. He sipped it, then shoved it full in. His eyes glazed over with tears.
It was obvious that he struggled mightily with taking his time and enjoying the
meal, probably the first good one he’d gotten in six years.
“Vanerrincourtian,”
said Otoro.
The
old man wiped his mouth and stared down at the table. He nodded.
“Tell
me about your life before the Lord Emperor. Speak, Mr. Rourn.”
The
old man held up. Very quietly he said, “Portmaster. I was … the … the
Portmaster. Here.”
“Quadris
Empiricus,” said Otoro.
The
man blinked. Speaking of one’s life before the Imperium was punishable by
death, and so was speaking the former name of Imperium Centrum.
Otoro
noticed that the slave’s bowl had almost magically emptied, so quickly had he
eaten.
“Go!”
Otoro motioned impatiently towards the big pot. “I said two servings!”
The
slave hurried to it and refilled his bowl, came back. But he didn’t eat. He
stared at Otoro, who knew exactly what he was thinking.
Otoro
stared at him, and then shook his head.
The
old Portmaster stared disbelievingly back, then resumed eating.
“What’s
your daughter’s name?”
Firr
Rourn held up.
“I
have … I had … two,” he finally answered, eyes wet once again. “Permose and
Entia.”
“Dead?”
He
nodded.
“Wife?
Dead too?”
He
nodded again.
“I
need your help,” said Otoro.
The
slave stared.
“Finish
your stew,” ordered Otoro, who rose and went to the big stock pot and ladled
himself a second bowl.
They
ate in silence. Once again, the old man’s bowl emptied at an astonishing rate.
Otoro noticed. “There’s some left,” he said, motioning with his chin. “Finish
it.”
This
he did. When he put his spoon down, he did so with a long sigh. Tears spilled
down his cheeks. He wept without sound.
“Veteran
Tracluse can make slaves exclusive to them,” said Otoro. “My barracks were
burned. Tracluse are currently doubling and tripling up in those they didn’t
torch. It won’t last long. The sergeants will tire of them and assign the
senior Tracluse to their homes in Quadris until new ones are built in order to
relieve the crowding. Without the constant presence of the sergeants, they’ll
treat it like it’s leave. And you know what’ll happen then.”
The
old man stared.
“I
don’t have to tell you that killing slaves is a sport to Tracluse,” continued
Otoro. “With them barely in control of themselves, a great many slaves are
about to die very horribly. The more horrible a death they can put a slave
through, the better. With two dreadnoughts waiting to be offloaded, there will
be a fresh supply of slaves to take the place of the murdered ones. Demons will
get their share too. Something has happened to the Lord Emperor, and those
Lotteries stuffed in the dreadnoughts will require food and drink and care if
they are to survive to ‘bless’ him, which, I’m guessing, might be quite some
time. Understand?”
Firr
Rourn nodded. He closed his eyes when Otoro said, “They’ll tire eventually of
all that work. The demons too have become erratic. The Mephas Lord, it is said,
can barely keep them under control. You know what’s going to happen then, don’t
you?”
The
old man clenched his jaw.
“You’ll
be my personal slave. You’ll leave now and bring your belongings here. There is
a cellar. For appearances’ sake you’ll put your stuff down there. But you’ll
sleep in the second bedroom like a man does, and you’ll help me. You are still
a man, aren’t you, Mr. Rourn?”
The
Portmaster, his eyes still closed, nodded again. It seemed to take all his
effort to do so.
“What
am I to help you do?” he asked very quietly. He didn’t look up.
“You’re going to help me kill Lord Pios and free the Hadavsmoban,” said Otoro.