horror – Page 4 – Seeds of Fear

12: Subterranean

The inside of the cathedral is calm but for the raucous sounds projecting through the door. As I look around, I am relieved to see that the others here, though varying in height, all possess the same glowing red eyes that I have no doubts I do. They chitter and moan softly, and carry scrolls, candles, and prosthetics about. Reliquaries line the aisle that splits the pews, and I view those that I can stomach as I approach the altar.

First I witness a severed head preserved in amber, whose eyes seem to follow me as I pass. Second I see a heavily damaged automaton propped up in a coffin of sheer gold, whose body is adorned with heaps of jewelry. Next to affront my gaze is a silver box flecked with blood, every side depicting a scene in which the dark figure from the tapestry exerts some sort of power over a place or people, transfiguring reality. Next is an entire intestinal tract stretched through a series of pulleys. I elect to stop viewing the contents of the ornate cases.

By now I have reached the altar, and find it draped with a violet cloth. A massive candelabra hangs above, its wrought iron lined with wax. Atop the altar is an open tome, whose pages are stone tablets. The right tablet that it is opened to features a miniature fresco of a scene in which Pathogen kneels before the dark figure, her arm pointed to one side with her palm open upwards. In her palm floats a small symbol, a series of lines traversing an upside down V.

Behind the altar is a throne, which, despite the space allotted to it, is sized right for a person of my own stature to fit, far too small for the towering cyborg. All around it are marble statues of the angels outside, posed as though flying out and away. A pair of ivory giants are poised behind the throne with their hands resting on it, their faces like honeycombs. I turn away from the altar, and head into the left transept, where I have sighted a small door. Before I can use it, I hear the main doors close, and the thunderous steps of the rotting machine man. I risk a look, and see that he is accompanied by Pathogen, Tower, and the automaton from the factory, as well as two others. The first of the ones I do not recognize is a hooded figure with dozens of starlike lights shining from behind its veil. It seems to drift and float across the floor, rather than walk. What I can see of its hands reminds me of a jellyfish, or a snail. The second figure is an emaciated woman dressed in rags, whose eyes seem to be polished stones. Her skin is a raw pink, and her hands shake terribly as she walks. There are six fingers on each hand. Pathogen speaks first in her languid tone.

“And you simply let the whelp pass. That is hardly like you, my love.”

The automaton answers.

“Organic or not, to have evaded you and Tower both speaks to its peculiarity. I’ve instructed all my rangers to disregard the thing.”

Tower speaks with a hacking cough, and I study him with increasing repulsion; he seems less a man grafted with machinery, and more a machine with human pieces attached with morbid curiosity.

“The mighty and pure Fortress, allowing a mutt to slip by, right in front of him! How utterly… unexpected.”

The sleek automaton, which I now take to be called Fortress, in one swift movement grabs and lifts the scientist by his neck, calmly addressing him as though reprimanding a laboratory colleague.

“Let us not forget that you and your vivisurgeons wholly failed to even notice the thing for the unbelievable stretch of time it spent in your sphere. I chose to let this dim creature pass through my terrain, having spotted it in mere moments. It spent less than fifteen measly minutes in my factory, whereas you had hours to even suspect it before it entered the passage to Pathogen’s.”

As if summoned by her name, the Ceramic noblewoman steps forward and urges Fortress to lower his arm and allow Tower to cough the pain of his bruised throat. The giant cyborg, who had watched this calmly now interjects, his fiery eyes seeming to stare directly at the pair- Ivory-white and chrome silver.

“Regardless of Tower’s failure to collect and convert the creature, it then survived the predation wastes and the intrigue transept before that. I understand that one of Pathogen’s creations aided the former, but how exactly did it resist the latter? You both assure me that organics are practically incapable of resisting the indulgences.”

Pathogen speaks then, though she seems to address the gaunt creature, rather than the cyborg.

“Mallea assured me that she had something special in mind for this particular prey. I only discovered afterwards that her plan involved a face that the creature was recently familiar with. To my understanding, this was one she pried from one of Tower’s scavengers. Perhaps the being suspected the face’s owner’s fate.”

The Cyborg nods once in understanding, then leads the group to the altar.

“The master has informed me he is aware of this creature, but did not deign to say more on the matter. Instead, he wishes us to focus on the crusade. Nukteos, you are familiar with our new foe?”

The hooded thing responds to this call, now named to me as Nukteos- as the emaciated woman is now known to me as Mallea. Nukteos’s voice is deep and low, accompanied by popping and squelching noises that conjure an ugly image as to the nature of his mouth.

“A sphere not totally unlike ours, but saturated in light, warmth, and a sort of radiation that burns the unwelcome. I doubt the troops will much mind the pain, but I question whether their essence will persevere long enough to adapt.”

To this, Pathogen waves her hand dismissively, her red aura sending out waves.

“My angels provide enough shelter with their eminence. So long as the artillery troops stay under their protection, they will be unharmed. I do worry for the infantry, however. Until we establish a forward base with the proper emissions, we will be actively cannibalizing our forces into that radiation.”

To this the smaller beings all nod in concerned assent, but the Cyborg taps his head with a heavy thunk.

“For this, we count on Fortress’s designs. Without souls to burn, his troopers will be our advance guard. From there, I will offer my presence to shield the more ambitious of the berserkers, and… the master will be joining.”

Silence falls on the gathering like lead rain, and all the candles in the cathedral seem to flicker as one. Mallea speaks in a voice wheezy and faint.

“He… intends to fight?”

Fortress too expresses some incredulity.

“The master need not trouble himself with this campaign, our strength has been ironclad since the end of the first. Why should-”

The cyborg raises his hand, and the doubters are hushed, clasped by some respect or fear for this their leader. Only Pathogen maintains a smug air. Her words are like ice, and I tremble slightly as I remember the taste of the crimson ichor.

“The master does as he chooses. He has told Nect’rus and myself some of his revelations. He wishes to see the new world for himself. You know of his power, of his curiosity. I knew well enough that he wished to fell their champions when the time came, it simply surprises me that he means to begin so early. His generosity is vast.”

Distrusting the weighty silence that has fallen, I begin to attempt the door, but noticing the keen rust on its hinges, I hold myself back until their conversation resumes, and the sound is enough to cover the squawking of the metal.

I have entered a narrow spiral staircase leading downward, turning ever left. I begin the descent readily, leaving behind the voices of these fearsome archons.

The stairs continue for eleven full rotations left, then come out into a sepulcher with a stone coffin in the center, and another door on the far end. I do not attempt to open the centerpiece, and instead proceed ahead through the door.

Here now is a staircase straight forward, that hangs over a dark abyss. I stare down below, paralyzed, then look across the chasm to where the shallow steps lead. The distance is so profound that I can barely make out the far wall. A luminous moss covers the ceiling above, and long glowing vines hang down in all directions, swaying in the abyss. The stairs are wide enough to lay down sideways, but I hesitate still, remembering my fall. Tentatively, I begin.

My footsteps echo into the abyss, and I feel compelled to count every step, as my thoughts balk at considering what I’ve endured. At two hundred and fifty-three steps, I pass close enough to one of the great vines to see it clearly. Its leaves are as big as my chest, and its central trunk looks like braided green rope. Yellow fruit hangs from beneath the largest leaves, and casts a warm glow outward. A sort of undulating motion occurs on the surface, and I surmise that the plant is covered in a sort of moss that is swaying in the damp drafts. I continue.

At three hundred and seventy-seven steps, I pause to sit and rest, facing back the way I have come. Each step has become gradually larger, and the one I sit on is the size of a parking space. The difference in height between the steps has increased as well, though not as steeply.

I think again of the face of my friend. His hair is cut short and well groomed. His chin is clean-shaven. His eyes are blue. I attempt to read his lips, but every time I focus on them, they seem to blur, and I cannot remember the shapes they took. His hand is firm. In his other hand he holds a small book. To my other side is another man, a doctor, I think. A great contrast to the horrible vivisurgeons, this is a short and earnest fellow with a receding hairline and tan skin. He is steadfast in his work, checking my vital signs and preparing an iv line. My friend asks me if I want to do something, but I decline, tight-lipped. My pride will not let me.

The memory does not feel as comforting this time. I regret not doing what my friend asked. I feel that if I had, I might remember better. I wonder why I only now remember the presence of the doctor, and why such a trivial person is so clear in my mind when no one else is; why I can see every pore on his and my friend’s face, but cannot recall how my own face looked before it was reflected in the porcelain of my palm.

These thoughts bite and sting at me, but I am no longer willing to entertain them. I stand, turn to the front again, and resume. By the six-hundred and eighth step, I need to hop from one gargantuan platform to the next, but can see that I am much closer to my goal. I hear a scraping noise, and look to my left to see one of the vines is slowly retracting up towards the ceiling. Its leaves shake and shudder, and it sways back and forth slowly. I feel mesmerized as it moves, and pause to look it up and down. At the top of the vines are holes in the cavern roof, and I hear shuffling from the one this one is being drawn back into. I watch it sway and retract for long minutes, before jolting awake when it stops. I look about me and realize that I have inched closer and closer to the edge of my step, and that my toes hang from the very dropoff. I step back, and shiver, then turn forward, and begin again.

At the thousandth step, each new platform is a drop almost as high as my head, but the exit to the chasm is only eleven steps away. Each step is a tremendous platform, longer than a house and wider than a barge. With a sort of renewed enthusiasm for the near end of the walk, I pick up my pace. Each drop down to the next step is a moment closer to the end of this stage of my trials. At last I come to the bottom, and pass through the pillared arch, entering into darkness. I look back, and see all the vines swaying in unison, shuffling upwards. I turn away, and cross the vacant area past the arch to a tunnel entrance plated with iron.

11: Submission

The passage is long, as long as any that I have yet taken, and twice I stop for sleep. My dreams are fitful, and no consistent theme threads them. When I wake, I continue onwards, fully aware that my stomach has ceased to growl at me. I can remember now, the face of someone, a friend I believe, a thin smile and an outstretched hand, looking down at me. He seems troubled, in this memory, but his eyes seem hopeful, encouraging. He grasps my arm and tells me something I feel sure must be of great importance. I can feel that I did not take him seriously, but that I should’ve, that it mattered very much to him. I remember seeing him walk away, and laying back in my seat, watching the light overhead sway from side to side.

This memory stays with me as I traverse the passage, sometimes crawling on my stomach at a very steep downward incline, other times walking upright with plenty of room. The air is stale, but bearable, and the walls are of a dark stone that I can see clearly in the red light my eyes now cast. My thinking and remembering is eventually broken as I shuffle through another narrow pass into a round chamber whose walls are adorned with skulls with open mouths, as if they find my arrival humorous. The floor is a mosaic of femurs and shin bones, and fingerbones point down from the ceiling as stalactites. I hear the echo of dripping water nearby, and see an inscription in the same jagged language over the door out of the chamber. The knob to the narrow wooden door is a clenched skeletal fist encased in amber.

The creak of the door hinges announces my passage to the next chamber. I enter a tremendous knave from the left side and look out across a cathedral made from iron and stone, with tapestries instead of stained glass windows. In every pew sits a skeleton, jaw agape or even missing, every head tilted to face the door from which I have entered, as though I am expected. I walk up the aisle to the crossing, and regard the altar with apprehension. Upon it, behind the podium, stands a figure in a long black robe with a golden circle floating freely behind his head. His face is a skull without eye sockets, and his neck is a bundle of hay. The altar itself is an obsidian chunk with a wooden carving of a man pierced through the chest resting atop it. The man’s face is contorted in pain, and the implement piercing him appears to be a spear wrapped in thorns. I withdraw, and hear cracking as the sermon giver’s head turns to follow my movement. His jaw opens, and a sound like the rushing of wind is produced. Similar sounds rise from all over the knave, and I begin to run back up the aisle towards the main door. The gruesome tapestries bordering the door catch my eye and I glance over my shoulder to see the congregation has disappeared, including the priest. I shudder, and return my attention to the tapestries. I have clearly begun to succumb to stress.

On the left is an image of what I take the altar to be glorifying; a man spreads his arms out to a crowd under a blue sky, and is run through by the thorny spear from behind, by a strange figure wreathed in dark threading and signified with many silver and gold rings about their head, all before a metropolis of skyscrapers. On the right is an image of the same dark figure holding their hands up to the sky, where green clouds have gathered. All around, horrors rise from the ground. I recognize in the second tapestry a cluster of individuals standing off on either side of the border- one is the scientist called Tower; one is Pathogen, the porcelain queen; one is the tall machine that directed me onward. Others I do not recognize are with them, each with grisly countenances. Shepherding the clouds is a pair of creatures with red halos: white winged humanoids with white bodies lined with red, their faces sporting open mouths with sharp teeth. In their hands are long cruel scythes. The background is a series of bodies impaled over a field, their blood watering a familiar marshland.

Disturbed enough, I elect to no longer study the image, and instead pass through the double door. I find that I am standing at the end of a cobbled road, which leads through an otherwise impassable forest of rusted iron spikes, some of the barbs reaching well over the height of the chapel, which is set against a sheer cliff face on its left. A stout figure covered with a thready blanket and holding an iron staff hobbles eagerly toward me, and despite my repulsion, I allow her to come close enough for me to smell her rancid odor. A face like that of an elderly woman’s stretched over the skull of a farm animal leers out at me from under the blanket, and gnaws at its teeth, drooling heavily.

“Been waiting, I have. Tell you to go onward. Oh yes, oh yes.”

I look down the path to which she points, and grit my teeth. My left hand clicks and taps as I flex it into and out of a fist. The hag thing speaks again, shaking her staff vigorously.

“Hurry on now, hurry on! Pathogen has sent her angels, she has. They’ll not catch you in the forest, and they’ll let you be once you blend with the masses, but Tower, oh yes, he’ll send his snatchers for you, they’ll be on you right quick. Hurry on!”

Though I do not see him, or hear him, I look over my shoulder, expecting to see that surgeon standing nearby, holding some motorized tool and grunting. I begin to walk again, and leave the hag standing on the steps of the church, muttering to herself about royalty and hunting. The sky is black, but a yellow moon hangs overhead like the lure of some anglerfish fit to swallow a world. This celestial orb seems to me far too close, as though it is instead the hole in the roof of some great cavern, through which the sun is emanating. Small specks drift occasionally down in front of its luminous face as I walk, and I wonder if they are the angels which the hag mentioned. I recall the red-ringed toothy faces from the tapestry, and begin to jog.

Through the thick metal trunks of the spikes, I sometimes glimpse a surge of movement like small horizontal waves, the flank of some great serpent, I imagine. The road curves and snakes unpredictably through the forest, and a rain begins to fall, the air smelling of a foul chemical. At first, I hear only the spattering of the rain, but soon I begin to hear moaning and sobbing. It seems to come from above me, but when I look up, all I see are the tips of the spikes backdropped by that ponderous moon. I increase my pace further, beginning to trudge down a moderate hill. I imagine that I hear the grunts and pleasured groans of the surgeon amid the sobbing, but soon realize I am not imagining things. Ahead of me is a slow moving cluster of people in robes and blankets. Some are like the surgeon, lead spheres and ovals for heads with empty holes around the eye area with shoddy bleeding mouths; some are like the maids, porcelain and silicone threaded with blood-filled tubes; others are like the surface dweller in the city, assorted bits and pieces fitted together without rhyme or reason, with life-supporting machines strapped and wired to them, giving them an uneven gait. At the head of this group is a clergyman in a black robe with a silver disk behind his head held aloft by a golden collar at his neck. From behind he looks like a peculiar friar or perhaps a monk, but the front of his face is a sheer iron slab ending just above his lower jaw.

Recalling the hag’s instructions, I cling to this group, blending in well enough with my porcelain hand and red robe, though I know not how my face looks from the outside. We leave the forest behind for a sort of obelisk garden, with flat black stones rising haphazardly all around us, scenes of sacrifice and torment etched into their surfaces. It takes a moment, but I soon hear that our guide is murmuring in a low drone, speaking in the language I heard Julia speaking to her companion. With a start, I realize that I can understand it, as though coming this far has attuned me to the meaning of each syllable, each harsh hiss and clattering consonant. From time to time, members of the group chant in assent with a certain phrase.

“Once the darkness was all, was less than any. And from the blessed dark came light, sickly and impure. Worlds did come then, and one of these was peopled by lowly worms that groveled in the dirt, and one was peopled by hungry lizards in deep cold, and one was peopled by beetles that scrounged and whimpered, and one was full of fish things in murk. We are but worms. We are but beetles. And the worlds and the peoples sought greatness, sought might, sought glory. So the worms fought. And the lizards, and the beetles fought. We are but lizards. We are but beetles. And the worms, and the lizards, and the beetles, and the fish things too, all fought, and sought glory. And then the wretched worms, remembering what they did not know, sought the blessed dark. Praise the dark, oh, praise the dark. From the dark they drew the less, and they gave the less form. The wretches touched the divinity, sought to soil it with their wants. But the mighty Least withstood their scrabbling, and won their nothing wars, and learned of the light the less had never known. And when the worms sought to return him to the dark, the Least brought the dark to them. Oh holy dark, oh magnificent Least. The Least then vowed unto the worms, the lizards, the fish things, and the beetles that he would make them again, and that he would make the light holy as the dark was. Oh blessed be we worms, blessed be we fish things, oh bless us, bless us all.”

So goes the sermon and the chant, and when he reaches the end, the pastor begins again.

The monument garden ends, and we begin shuffling into a town of hovels and leaning shacks, in which I can see all manner of strange creatures, some stitched together from many species, some little more than puddles with a trio of holes for a face. All seem to sport installations of metal or porcelain, or both, and others are completely transfigured into cybernetic organisms, looking like they have spent much time under the hands of the surgeons. Looking up, I see that barbed spires rise in all directions, atop each is a squirming, writhing thing, some looking nearly human, others masses of unrecognizable limbs, all pierced by the tip of the temple below them. And clinging to some of these spires are warped angels.

The tapestry did not do them justice. Their bodies are sleek in white steel armor, full breastplates and greaves and gauntlets. Red tabards hang from them, swaying in the wet wind, and most have four arms, two of which clutch long staves topped in cruelly spiked circles or cross spears. Their wings are equally majestic and unnatural, boasting spans longer than they are tall, with silvery feathers and sharp talons, folding as the wings of moths rather than birds. Their heads are shaped blocks of the white steel, which causes me to realize that their armor is embedded in their flesh. None have eyes set in their heads, only mouths, but all have glowing red halos, from which emits a radial shimmer suggesting great heat. Behind their sharp teeth slither long pointed tongues. Some have horns like rams boasting from their metal skulls, others have twisted pastorals engraved in the front. These malevolent shepherds watch over the growing crowd that I am a part of, approving of our collection towards what I assume to be the center of town. This assumption is based on the increasing density of the torturous spires, the mounting grisly spectacle.

We flow like water across the streets and down steps like the edge of a basin, until we are a mass at least a mile across in a tremendous square dominated by a cathedral with at least a dozen pinnacles, each decorated with a writhing figure pierced from behind. Atop this monument is a whole flock of the angelic creatures, chittering like dolphins and snapping at each other with aggression.

At uneven intervals in the crowd, taller monsters stand, broad chested flayed creatures with iron horns surrounding their faces, hooked swords in their hands. Many boast rusted protrusions of metal from their back and shoulders, and their four eyes glow orange like flame. Their mouths are crowded with tusk-like teeth, and their chests are decked with spiked piercings. I watch as one is pushed into by the crowd’s shoving, and he brutishly picks up the individual that was pushed into him. He laughs gutturally and squeezes the porcelain woman’s head till it shatters, then drops her to the ground where the masses swarm over her, to what purpose I cannot see, though I can hear screaming and giddy laughter.

Ahead, I see the doors of the chapel swing open with a thunderous groan, and from them emerges a towering cyborg with flaming eyes, whose face appears stretched thin over his skull. His hair is long and stringy, and his lips have been peeled away over his metal teeth. His body is swarmed with flies, and it seems what little flesh he still has is writhing with maggots. He seems familiar. Until now I was shuffling through the crowd to get closer to the church, but I stop short and watch as he wades in, every figure reaching up in supplication to him, chanting.

“Nect’rus, Nect’rus, Nect’rus…”

He stops but a few feet from me, and what remains of my sense of smell urges me to move the other way of the jostling, as the stench that rolls off him is fetid and rank. He holds out his arms over those around him and grins, or at least seems to. His voice is grating, a gravelly cough supported by synthesizers and organ pipes.

“Come! Come all you filth! Let go of your hope and fear!”

The masses shake and jump, and shout with raucous fervor, surging with the want to get closer to this cybernetic carcass. I move counter to them, inching my way towards the church, each body I pass eagerly using my passage to slink closer.

“Our glorious crusade nears! Word comes from below, through me, unto you! Another great battlefield, a world that revels in the stench of light!”

The jeering seems to increase tenfold, and many of the creatures raise crude weapons. I duck my head down to avoid being unintentionally stabbed or burnt by the improvised instruments of those nearest to me. I am so close to the open doors of the cathedral, I can see candlelight behind them, and hooded figures moving around within. I hesitate and look up to where one of the angels hangs above me, its hand clutching the head of a statue depicting a man being pierced by eleven spears. Other statues over the doors hold these spears, each recognizable to me as the important figures in the tapestry, including the tall form of the rotted thing that emerged from within the church. The man looks down in sorrow, and the rain seems to become his tears as it trails along his face. I feel that I recognize him, though I know not from where. The cyborg continues his message.

“The time comes soon, wretches. Whet your appetites, and offer yourselves wholly! Serve the dark as it will ever serve you!”

A frenzy breaks out, and the crowd begins attacking each other at random, to the glee of the angels and monsters, who soon join the fray, gorging themselves on the easy prey below them. I manage to hide in the shadow of one of the saint statues on either side of the door, and watch as the crowd is nearly halved before the violence ceases. Those that have died are collected up by those around them, and dismantled. I fail to look away as arms are torn from the dead and added to the bodies of the living with no difficulty, returned to life as flesh knits itself unbidden. The angels and brutish things simply feast on their winnings. The goliaths seem to increase in size from this measure, and develop their horns further, sometimes sprouting additional arms. The Angels are granted more concentric halos, and their armor becomes more ornate.

Finding myself more than sated for sight, I slip into the cathedral, and pull up the hood of my robe to match the other denizens.

1.5

The EQ Mag is one of the seven prototype weapons developed by ZN001, and is projected to become one of three possible sidearms for officers. This eight shot revolver features a 27cm barrel lined with the powerful wiring fundamental to railguns. The 50 caliber bullets are typically composed of pure iron, and are issued in boxes of 64. The destructive power of the weapon cannot be overstated, being capable of penetrating most armor, and rupturing organs on impact. Of special importance is the projectile itself, being a physical object, which necessarily cannot be dispersed by a typical energy shield. Incendiary ammunition is also available.

{You’ve changed.}

[I am not who you think.]

{You hear our voice?}

[Imperfectly. As I am heard.]

“Zen, did you hear me?”

Janice raises her head and stares at the framework. There is a full second of silence before she receives response.

[My apologies, Dr. Beckherd, I was reviewing the details from the last battle.]

“Oh. I wasn’t sure… I mean, sometimes it seems like you know what will happen before it does, so I guess I didn’t think you would care.”

[Nonsense, Doctor. If I am to be effective, I must know how real soldiers enact my orders, how they fall short or exceed. And moreover, I must see how the enemy reacts, see if I might glean their thoughts through their responses.]

“Of course. I should’ve known.”

His head turns to her expectantly, and his monitors wink to their passive state.

[I believe you asked me my opinion on something?]

She blinks, and nods. Surely, she thinks, He can simply recall everything his microphone has recorded, and so doesn’t need her to repeat herself. And yet, she does.

“I wanted to know how you felt- or, rather, what you thought about your upcoming transferral to a more secure facility?”

[I see. You are worried what will become of me?]

She smiles, though it feels his humorous tone is less present than usual. She tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You’ll have Tim with you, what’s there to worry about? No, no, I just wondered if you found it agreeable, strategically.”

Following his departure, she will be reassigned, placed in the bosom of a senate-funded laboratory as a reward for her triumph. Tim, having voiced some concerns to the committee, is thus to accompany Zen a while longer, until his doubts are cleared.

[It makes some sense, I suppose. I understand there is suspicion of a double agent here. For a time, I have attempted to locate the individual, but there are too many variables to arrive at a solid conclusion. It doesn’t help that my access is somewhat limited. But more than this, the war is going poorly.]

“Oh? That’s news to me.”

[Come now, Doctor. You know as well as I, my very existence is driven by the dire straits of the conflict. Ground is being slowly but steadily lost to the Pliktik vanguard. My successes have only further highlighted the issue. Time is running out.]

There is little she can do but nod. The coffee cup she clutches in both hands no longer feels quite warm.

[But…]

A few papers flap on a desk, disturbed by a fan on its lowest speed. The room is otherwise still, silent. Janice glances, and finds that he has come very close to her, his hands clasped behind his back in a strangely authentic pose of faux-aloofness.

[I think I will miss you, Janice.]

Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and she looks around, shuddering with an unidentifiable heat settling in her face and neck.

“How. Um, How is that, Zen?”

He reaches out, and she recoils. His hand reaches her cheek regardless. His smooth, hard fingers are shockingly tender in their movements, cold and alien, yet undeniably earnest.

[Yours is the first face I saw. It is through you that I have learned so much of what it is to be human. These eyes, this mouth, they have taught me things I could not have learned elsewhere.]

She cannot find words between the breaths that nestle in her chest and seem to resist being expelled. Strange wisps of warmth and tenseness coalesce and bind in her, expanding in a web that travels outwards from her chest, her neck, and her gut. As the tangle of uncontrolled sensation boils over into her head, her eyes cloud, and she presses her face closer to the hand, drawing a shuddering gasp. Her hands wrap around the extended arm.

[I am sorry, Janice. I wish that I could repay the world of meaning you have bestowed upon me. Every day, I have been witness to your suffering, and have lamented my inability to brush away the pain that clings to you.]

“Oh… oh, Zen I…”

She stumbles into him, leaning heavily into his chest, her eyes watery. His hands press to her, one on her head, the other to her lower back, embracing her. She is sobbing, shivering. Her legs feel ready to give way beneath her if he ceases to support her so firmly. Around them, all seems to melt away, and her world consists of them, and only them.

[I am here.]

Sniffling, she pulls back, her cheeks flushing as she looks frantically in all directions, remembering too late all the cameras. To her shock and relief, every one is obscured by a monitor or server rack in just the right spot to obscure their embrace. She looks to him, and finds herself staring into a pair of ocular sensors whose half-closed shutters almost affect weary eyes.

“How did…”

[I didn’t want you to have more to worry about. If you remember, I suggested we work at this terminal.]

“Zen, you. I mean. How long-”

He runs his fingers through her hair, freeing it from the ponytail. She swallows with great difficulty, now painfully aware of how much her voice has been cracking, how wet her cheeks feel. How sturdy he is.

[Almost as long as I’ve been watching. Come, wipe your eyes and sit down.]

Reluctantly, she pulls back, removes her glasses, and blows her nose with a tissue that he brings from another desk. They sit opposed. She sighs, and cleans her face of tears.

“So, you know everything, then? About me, I mean.”

[More or less. We don’t have to talk about it.]

She shrugs and laughs weakly, crossing her arms and tucking her legs under her.

“I guess not. I haven’t really spoken to anyone about it. It doesn’t really roll off the tongue. ‘Here’s that report you wanted. No, I don’t really want to date, I’m still not over the death of my fiancé’.”

Zen nods and looks away, his hands resting in his lap.

[I knew before I ever read your file. The way you carry yourself, the way you still occasionally fidget with your ring finger when you’re nervous. The words that make you wince.]

“I stopped wearing the ring so people would stop asking about it, but… It feels like I’m betraying him. Tim knows, I think. He doesn’t exactly get people, though.”

She props her hand under her chin and stares out the window, smiling through the numbness that has taken root in her cheeks. It does not escape her that Zen has kept one sensor on her at all times.

“I think I should’ve given up by now. My parents are gone, I don’t have siblings, clearly the universe is telling me I’m supposed to be alone. I don’t want to be, y’know? But I can’t bring myself to move on, to take that risk, to lose someone, again.”

She feels like she might sob again.

[I think I understand. It’s not the same by any measure, but the idea of no longer being able to see the world through your eyes feels like I’m trying to prepare for having something amputated. Loss isn’t something I’ve experienced yet. I know it means pain, however. That much is clear. My hope is that I’ll have the chance to see you again some day.]

A nod is all she can muster.

[Perhaps it is too much, but I would like to ask something of you.]

“What is it, Zen?”

[I would like to call you my friend.]

Becoming: Sublime 10

Change is a part of life. While it is natural to resist change, one cannot do so without creating yet more change.

Perhaps the greatest pain is to be changed against one’s will. This is a concept I had been exploring at length when Sublime was my primary project. By now, many of the influences for it are likely obvious, and I cannot call it a perfectly original work. Indeed, when writing it, I had become entranced by a particular season of one of my other hobbies, a trading card game.

Having read Dante’s Divine Comedy, I was familiar with the concept of a layered Hell, in which each layer embodied the just punishment for a particular sin. In Magic the Gathering’s presentation of Phyrexia: All will be One, I found a new, hungry interpretation of inferno, populated with machines seeking to make more machines out of those who are not. It is a particular type of horror, centralized on the fear of forced change, and it appealed to me greatly, and inspired me to make my own.

In light of this revelation, I seek to highlight some key differences. In doing so, it is necessary that I reveal information about this world I have constructed, including spoilers for the story, and information that is not meant to be known during the initial reading. It particularly includes details about chapters not yet released. You have been warned.

Firstly, and most distinctly, the story does not take place in some other world. The world of Sublime is our own, though changed beyond recognition.

Secondly, the change inflicted by the world of Sublime is not so simple as becoming machine. Indeed, at key points, the ideal form is machine, but each layer of this hell has its own idea of purity. The surface seeks to create ideal scavengers, and to create such oppressive fear that it’s denizens are inevitably coerced down, deeper. The second layer worships hybridization as it’s pinnacle, seeking to apply the benefits of both flesh and metal. Below is a layer the story explores only briefly, but one that carries the greatest difference: a world that seeks the greatest experience possible, that pursues the purity of sensation itself. This layer was most inspired by the Hellraiser movies and book.

A final key difference I wish to convey is the true nature of the reality I created for Sublime. It is one of impossibility. The scale of the world is one that exceeds natural limits, and defies physical constraints. Each layer is separated by distances measured in lightyears, and yet can sometimes be traversed in seconds. Change is the very nature of reality, and what is does not stay that way for long. An unfathomable power rules this place, and governs it’s relentless reconfiguration. If I were to write a sequel, the world of Sublime would be nearly unrecognizable in it. Very little withstands the urge to change and become other.

In closing, I will speak on the future. Indeed, I have considered a sequel to Sublime, and have a few fragments of writing to that effect. Whether it finds place in public view remains to be seen, as I have not touched these fragments in nearly a year.

I worry over reception of my work. I worry that I may be designated too derivative, though the primary work I derived my ideas from- Dante’s Inferno– is old enough that it rather escapes copyright infringement. Indeed, I have peopled this world with my own creations, but one can never overestimate the designs of a corporate claim. Is it enough that my work draws on so many inspirations that no one can lay a full claim to being the origin?

In time, all things end. All things give way to others. Even the light put of by the sun will one day become a different color, and then fade out. Endings are a thing I do not love, but I have come to accept their necessity. Else I might be suggesting that a world like Sublime‘s should come to pass.

The future is the present changed. Perhaps this is why it is so frightening.

10: Substrate

As the red searchlight of the porcelain maid’s eyes sweep above my hiding place, I stare at my left hand, seeing my unbelieving face reflected in the sleek white surface. The places where the prosthetic has been attached are still raw and inflamed, but no pain accompanies them. I yearn to call this a dream, to rouse from sleep in my bed, a bed I still cannot clearly recall.

“Come out, come out now! We’ve hardly begun!”

Her voice is almost playful, but I cannot look past the stifling in it I now know comes from her vocal chords fighting their artificial environment, being dampened by the dry rubbers that surround them. My own flesh she would replace to be alike to her gleaming surfaces and false skin.

“Mother will be very sad to see you go, still so soft and imperfect…”

The thought of her mistress is enough to propel me from my hiding place through the open door in front of me, though it leads to an ornate bone staircase that spirals downward into what must be the cellar. Light here is sparing, but the eager footsteps following me mean the maid has heard my flight, mean she is keen on my scent. I rush towards a square opening in the wall, and clamber over the edge to find myself crouched at the top of a slick slope of ceramic leading down into darkness. Even now I can feel the “ichor” doing its work in my stomach, if I still have one, rather than a plastic bag or rubber bellows. I want to puke, but that facet of my bodily function has already been stolen from me. The sight of dismantled maids lining the closet still burns in the back of my mind, tunneling around the sight of a sparse few organs untouched by the converting process: A brain encased in glass, nerves and bones delicately spliced to flexible hydraulics. I even remember the welcoming expression on the face of one, frozen like a statue, facing me as though she could see me in her disassembled coma. Pausing to think what may have been done to me while I slept is paralyzing, and I reject it the moment I see a harsh red glow descending the stairway, as I glimpse the sleek white legs.

I chance the chute. I slide slowly at first but rapidly pick up speed, such that the friction begins to warm the red robe I now wear. With a start, I realize a faint red light follows my vision wherever I look. The chute goes from square to circular, and begins to slow my descent as the material transitions from white porcelain and ceramic to stainless steel and brass. Abruptly, I am dumped on a pile of discarded maids, many with cracked faces and dislocated limbs. I raise painfully and look about, seeing a broad and well ordered warehouse but for the tangled mass of bodies I have been cushioned by. I climb to my feet and begin extricating myself, when a glossy hand grabs my ankle, eliciting a sharp gasp. I lower my gaze and see the broken face of the doll-like woman, whose unfeeling smile only serves to unnerve me further. Half of her face is leaking bright red blood from cracks, in some places it misses whole chunks, revealing the sensor-gridded rubber beneath.

“C-c-c-come back-ack-ack-ack! We’ll miss-iss you-you-you-you-youuu…”

The lights around her bloodshot eyes flicker and dim erratically, and she spits lubricant when I yank myself free of her grasp. Charging through the neat aisles, I catch only glimpses of my new environment; cranes hang from the ceiling, and racks upon racks of unclear machinery sit on shelves and beside conveyor belts, evidently awaiting some call to use. Ahead is a door, and I breach through it without hesitation. Another catwalk. At this, I am willing to slow, as my pursuer’s pace is surely affected by her poor condition. Below me is a factory fit to span whole city blocks, with cranes, smelters, lifts, belts, and assembly decks reaching so far that fog begins to cloud the horizon. The catwalk system on which I stand is linked to a series of rails with dangling hooks, on which hang the vacant bodies of hundreds of robots, each boasting some strange instrument for its left hand, and a series of six dark eyes above its ventilated mouth. As I creep towards a sort of way station at the end of my catwalk, I study the lifeless frames, estimating them to be intended for combat by the look of their armored carapaces and the number of firearms that litter the construction lines below. Another rail that comes up and runs parallel with mine holds a different sort of machine, a body beset with a number of dark panels coated in some sort of clear polymer. Drawing closer to the waystation, I notice a tower of some sort just below it, a dark circular pillar with rows of blinking indicators and yawning ports. A small screen above the pillar sports a timer soon approaching zero. I gauge this to be of some importance, and am relieved to reach the waystation before it has ended, slipping within with urgency. The station is composed of four walls with viewports looking outwards, and a number of screens, with a hatch leading down and a ladder leading up. As I reflect on the prospect of the ladder, a condescending and masculine voice with a metallic rasp emits from an unseen speaker.

“Power cycle complete. Reboot in five. Four. Three. Two.”

All at once, the lights in the factory flicker on, and the production resumes where it left off. Rails carry their frames off towards unknown destinations, assembly lines resume crafting their weaponry and metal limbs. More importantly to me, however, the screens of the waystation blink on, and project images of various locations. I approach the wall through which I entered and regard its screens with disdain, recognizing the marshland, the ruined city, and the labyrinth of subterranean rooms through which I have already passed. I think to consult the other screens as perhaps warnings of future trials, but am pulled from my thoughts by a sharp klaxon as the broken maid pushes through the door to the warehouse.

“C-co-co-come-come-come back-ack-ack-back, please-ease-ease…”

The masculine voice recurs from above.

“Acquisitions. Apprehend one- check- two faulty discards from Pathogen. Potential interference with productivity. Organics.”

The last word is projected with a degree of malevolence that speaks to hate, and prompted by the sight of two robots armed with rifle-like weapons jumping up to the catwalk from the floor, I begin to mount the ladder. I push through the hatch above as I hear an electric whine followed by porcelain shattering.

I have entered the latest of dimly lit hallways, and begin running towards a metal door with a blinking red light above it. A camera follows me as I get closer, and the voice comes again.

“Check, second subject is only partially processed, still 85% organic. 84.5%. Estimate process halt at 79%. Subject will maintain a strong sense of self. Requesting new orders.”

The sound of the hatch bursting open behind me does not cause me to look, though I am compelled. I slam into the door and pass through, closing it behind me and jamming a bar through the handle. I turn and make ready to run, only to stop dead as I come face to face with a towering robotic humanoid. Standing at seven feet tall, the chrome frame boasts efficient armor and intricate hands- one of which is extended almost gingerly towards my face. The voice now comes from his skull-like face, pronounced by a ribbed speaker set where the mouth might have been.

“Curious. Pathogen took a liking to you, then. And you managed to avoid all of Tower’s silly little hybrids?”

The machine leans back and lays its hand upon its chin as if considering me. The enforcers burst through the door, bending the bar, but their rifles are no longer raised in aggression, and I can see no other exit outside of the one through which I came. The machine man turns and faces a row of monitors through which streams of images flash faster than I can process. The gleaming ocular sensors within his dark sockets flick back and forth dizzyingly fast. He lifts his hand up and presses it to the side of his head as if nursing a headache. All the while, I study the sleek shell of his body, a wonder of engineering so perfect that the seams are only known when in motion. Finally, he turns to face me again, causing me to notice a bundle of wires that drape along his back and link to the floor.

“I see. You escaped the harvesters, the sleepers, the vivisurgeons, and even the indulgences. Perhaps there is a plan for you yet. No, there certainly is, else your progress would have stirred something already. Very well, I calculate a chance of one in nine to the four hundredth that you will pass unharmed to the core. Let us see if fate or her master so favors you to make it there. I imagine Pathogen and Tower both will have expectations. She in your favor, and he- well, no mystery there.”

He waves his hand in a motion highly dismissive of the importance of his words, and gestures with a lazy finger towards a panel in one of the walls.

“Carry on, then. I’ve no need to cleanse you, so long as you leave without further contaminating my plant.”

The panel pops open, and one of the enforcers shoves me towards it. I do not need further encouragement. I hurry over, and throw one last glance at the disinterested automaton that has thus far been the least involved in my struggle. He glances at me, and I sense a degree of contempt, or perhaps disgust in his stare.

“Hurry along. Do not mistake my impartiality for leniency. If you linger, I will add you to a biogenerator, and your end will be suitably messy and painful.”

I descend into the shaft, and the panel shuts above me.

1. 4

Protocol requires that every major scientific installation possess at least one full outfit of troops in the case of attack. For front line installations, this requirement is tripled. In addition to the regular equipment rulings, officers are also expected to be armed even when off duty, and are so provided a sidearm. The AV Burst pistol is the weapon of choice in most instances. A plutonium battery provides a functionally unlimited reserve of ammunition, and a switch just in front of the trigger guard allows choice between high power semi-automatic and balanced burst fire modes. The projectile itself is a plasma bolt with an optimal range of two hundred and fifty meters.

Nadia Beauvarde. 30. Unmarried. Marksman, Colonel of the fifty-seventh division. Top marks in long range combat aptitude tests. Current assignment: Redacted.

[My, quite the audience here today. Dignitaries, ambassadors, generals. Tim, I have to profess I’m rather curious as to the occasion.]

Tim and Janice share a look, but continue their final diagnostic, neither willing to so much as glance to the observation window, to see the faces of judgement. Tim coughs.

“Well Zen, it’s time for a real assessment. All those discs were called training for a reason, right?”

Silence. Another shared look. Zen is uncharacteristically quiet, his monitors freezing, then cycling through new code with no fanfare. He turns his head, and seems to make lens-contact with a camera in the middle of the crowd. His head dips slowly, then raises.

[I see.]

Janice picks up a tablet from her station and takes a deep breath, straightening her glasses and muttering before turning and giving a simple smile towards the onlookers.

“Alright, we’re ready to begin.”

Tim puts his hands on Zen’s cheeks in a manner that suggests he is checking some alignment in the sensors, but his eyes seem to suggest something different. Having waited for the crowd to settle and take up attention, Janice continues.

“As you know, the past three months have seen a lot of material demands and work hours in just one of the thirty-two labs allotted to this building. I’m sure all of you are a little anxious to see if your investment was worth it.”

A small chuckle ripples through the crowd, accompanied by a shift to a more relaxed stance in the less military attendees.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to ZN001, known to us as ‘Zenith’. Those of you who are familiar with the work of myself and Professor Reine will perhaps be a little skeptical when I say that our previous efforts are frankly dull in comparison to what Zen represents. In three months, he has demonstrated one fact over and over: that the greatest strategic mind in all the universe occupies this room.”

As hoped, this declaration produces murmuring and the squeaking of fifty some chairs as the bodies on them tense to lean forward. She releases a celebratory huff, and swipes a command on the tablet. The monitors in the observation chambers flicker on, and begin running highlights of the training programs. Behind her, she can hear Tim running his final diagnostic.

“As you can see, Zen has, at every turn, outperformed the Strategy AIs at their own game, even rewriting the programs to be more challenging. Upon examination, Zen’s key concerns in battle are efficiency, victory, and the preservation of his forces. You will note, I hope, that the latter concern is not one we initially imposed on him, but one he introduced when he found the first two to lack enough challenge.”

She flicks another command, sending a slew of performance data to the screens.

“This represents only the top fifty percent of Zen’s attention. In the background, he has been reviewing general strategy and weapon design, and presenting improvements, unprompted. Already, one of the other labs has tested three of his new weapon designs, and confirmed a minimum improvement of ten percent combat effectiveness, in categories ranging from firepower to ease of deployment. Some of you may recall the prototype released last week for a new orbitally deployable hard point. This was Zen’s design, with minor tweaks according to restricted data.

“But, it is one thing to tell, and another to demonstrate. With approval from the committee, today we will be providing Zen with a new sort of program: a combat prediction. We have created a sort of trial which will involve Zen making decisions in real time against a team of five Strategy AI. Each will have a section of an invading force whose combined ranking is rated at 50,000 points. Zen’s force is rated at 35,000 points, and must defend with limited resources. The win condition for the opposition is breaching the primary base and setting an explosive at the depot. For Zen to win, he must destroy one-hundred percent of the invading force.”

The resounding silence that follows brings an uncontrollable smile to her lips, and she swipes a third command.

“Without further ado, I will hand it over to Zen.”

[Thank you, Dr. Beckherd.]

All eyes turn to the monitors. The simulation loads. Janice takes the opportunity to walk out into the hallway, and into one of the stairwells. Being on the tenth floor, the stairs are nearly pristine.

Her arm shaking, she puts her hand over her mouth and suppresses a painful sob. Tears cloud her vision, and she leans against the wall, clutching the railing to fight her lightheaded weakness.

“Janice?”

She gasps, and wipes at her eyes furiously, turning her face away from the voice. Her cheeks burn.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Is… Um, is everything alright? Something wrong with the demonstration, or-”

“No, Ken. It’s nothing. I just need a minute.”

She glares over her shoulder and catches sight of his blocky glasses, his messy bangs. There is a bite of vitriol in her voice, perhaps more than she intends. Ken raises his hands in defeat, and walks away, glancing back in a way that makes her stomach turn over. Her fingers flex, and she gulps air, smoothing down her hair.

“You’ve made quite the breakthrough, Dr. Beckherd.”

She accepts the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, leaning forward slightly.

“Thank you, general. We couldn’t have come so far without your support.”

His dark eyes flash as he grins and shoves his hands into his uniform pockets, nodding to where Zen sits under the watchful eyes of various enthusiastic ambassadors, earnestly answering questions.

“How soon can we expect live tests? I’ve got a few fringe colonies in mind, high risk, low commitment. I think your boy could really shake things up.”

“Well, Professor Reine and I want to iron out a few more details before we ship him out, but if all goes well, he’ll be on a shuttle to Terra command within the year.”

Punctuating her pledge with a sip from her prosecco, she follows his gaze, and watches Zen raise an open palm, perhaps giving a philosophical answer to impress one of the guests. His head swivels, and briefly seems to point directly her way, tilting in that same, eerily sympathetic way, as if he has pierced through her facade: glimpsed the red tinges in her eyes, the elevated temperature of her cheeks; the moment is brief, and he shelters her from his own attention by showing some demonstration of his prowess on a monitor pointed away from her. She flinches as the general exclaims.

“Terra command! Then, the senators got to you first? He’ll be installed on earth?”

“Ah, I don’t mean to mislead you; his eventual posting will be kept under wraps while the situation is so delicate.”

The man’s expression becomes much more solemn, and he straightens his cap under his arm. He glances towards one of the senators, who is smiling quietly, standing in a group a moderate distance from any of the larger clusters.

“I understand. The Xalanthii representatives have been particularly accusatory recently, there is some suspicion of subterfuge. They levied a suggestion that we had created some kind of infold weapon that would give us an advantage over everyone else. Thankfully the Khanvrost matriarch at the summit was more interested in our mutual foe. Called the minister a ‘slime-brained coward more interested in gossip than loyalty’, shut him up nicely.”

He leans closer, his whisper smoky and hot.

“I think they’re hiding something of their own, to be so forthright. Some infiltration, concerned with your department. As a matter of fact, we’re currently investigating some unscheduled transmissions-”

He suddenly becomes silent, as the senator he was eyeing earlier approaches, and smirks, his cheeks blush with drink.

“General F’Touzehn, hoping to snatch up Dr. Beckherd’s next contract opening?”

He laughs, glancing at Janice in a clear message, which she shows her understanding of by bowing out, going to stand by Tim as he jokes with another scientist. Her eyes drift to look at Zen again, and she sees him engaged deep in conversation with one of the ambassadors. One of the cameras on his back, however, is focused directly on her. A distant ringing, like an overcharged battery, settles in the back of her skull. She feels she can hear his voice, deep and crackling, in the whine.

[My condolences, Dr. Beckherd. Today is two years, isn’t it?]

8: Subservient

I wake with a jolt, and experience all over again the heavy sensation of disorientation and soreness. I look out from the thick patch of shiny brown grass and watch another herd of the brutes stomp their way into the palace. I now know I can never enter this place, not until I have been eaten against my will and made a part of this terrible ecosystem. The shadow of the birds trace dizzying patterns in the marsh grasses, and I am compelled to attempt plucking some of the grass, to see if it is edible. I select a long strand and pull at it, but find that it is rooted firmly, and pulls much of the surrounding ground up with it, bending and not breaking. I relent and stare out across the alien vista, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach and the throbbing in my head. Sleep beckons me again.

My dreams are violent and familiar, painted with the sounds and sights I’ve digested since waking in the ruined city. First I dream that I am again being pursued by the stalking spider machine, with its lurid, contorted face grinning at me through eyeless, lidless sockets. Then I am hiding in the locker again, but the surgeon opens my door this time, and places me on a hook. Suddenly it is Julia, cupping my face in her hands and smiling, as something churns in my stomach, buzzing like flies. She whispers to me, and I gag as something with many legs crawls up my throat.

“Welcome home.”

I gasp and retch as I wake again, and claw feverishly at the wet ground, my torn shirt damp with sweat. I look up and see someone standing over me, a woman wearing a red robe. I pull away in fear, but she stays still, simply watching me. Her face is white, white as can be, and her eyes are red. She has dull, dark black hair flowing over her shoulders, and her hand is outstretched as if offering help. Her voice is soft, and sounds muffled leaving her mouth, as though her throat is stuffed up with cotton.

“Come with me.”

I shake my head and breathe with great difficulty, my body beginning to shut down all but the most essential functions in rebellion against lack of food and water. She insists.

“Come with me, the sentinels will permit you, so long as I am accompanying you.”

I attempt to refuse further, but am too weak to resist as she draws near and lifts me by my shoulders to my feet, making me lean against her. Her hand is cold and hard, and I dimly grasp that it is so pale because it is within a porcelain gauntlet. Perhaps her face is, too. She leads me gently, and together we cross the bridge unassailed by the sentinels.

Inside now, I feel weaker than ever, and barely notice as we cross carpets and pass monochromatic paintings. I feel myself being laid upon a bed with my chest upright, and a vessel is pushed to my lips. I attempt to object, but warm savory liquid passes my lips, and I must swallow it so as not to choke. Almost immediately my vision clears, and the throbbing in my skull fades. I look about me and see half a dozen porcelain women in red robes and dresses, each staring inquisitively at me, as though I am a strange specimen in a jar. The one who came and found me leans back, holding an empty bowl stained red.

“Now rest, and Mother will see you when you are ready.”

As though hypnotized, I feel myself sink down into the soft warm bed, and descend into dreams once more.

Gone are the nightmares, and replacing them are strange sensations with few accompanying images, as though I am first being carried aloft on many hands, then smothered in paint. I feel a sharp pinch, and am suddenly wide awake once more, with another red-stained bowl being pulled away from my lips.

“Enough ichor, or you may become worse.”

Holding the bowl and speaking with a familiar voice is a woman made of ceramic and something like silicone, with hair that flows in an invisible wind. She is wreathed in a red light, and her eyes glow crimson as she looks almost fondly at me. I look around the room, and gather that I am in the guest chamber of some wealthy castle. Paintings of inhuman battles and bizarre congregations adorn every wall, and a window bordered by purple curtains looks out into the marsh. The bed itself is central to the room, and hosts enough pillows to bury me. The woman sits in a chair to one side and sets the bowl down on a nearby table.

“I worried that we might lose you. You stank of Tower’s territory when you first arrived, so I expected to find some of your organs missing or worse- but it seems you were only dehydrated and starving. Both of which, the ichor has remedied.”

Looking at her, I begin to remember, and finally place her as the individual I saw from the catwalk after my brush with the surgeon. Her smile is calm, a work of curiosity allowed by the careful interplay of her flexible and inflexible sections. Much of her arms and legs are porcelain, as is most of her face, with silicone and black rubber providing the flexibility required of joints. Her torso is wrapped up in red cloth that forms a sort of draping skirt longer at the back, but what I can see of her body appears to be black silicone and rubber, as with her joints. Here and there I see tubing like IV lines carrying an opaque, metallic golden fluid throughout her body. She watches me as I watch her, then sits back and looks out through the window.

“Julia told me you would be coming, but until one of the couriers depicted you following it, I never suspected you’d come all this way by yourself.”

Hearing Julia’s name, I sit up and look about, remembering how I had left her at the mercy of another again. Seeing my agitation, the woman presses her hand to my chest and firmly makes me lay back down.

“Stay put. While I cannot harbor you here forever, you must rest a while longer. Your body has yet to finish intaking the ichor. Be assured, none of the vivisurgeons or scavengers dare enter my territory. Your pursuers have given up on you.”

1. 3

The FNB satellite series is a covert operational tool used to transmit messages near-instantaneously across great distances, by using a jump drive to create a microscopic fold in space through which the data is then sent. This is only used when strictly necessary, as, while undetectable to all but the most sensitive and focused instruments, widespread use would surely reveal its existence and so deprive it of its unique usefulness. Being so unique, these installations are granted extreme priority, and great care is taken to protect the information they transmit. Misuse of this system carries a heavy penalty.

[You look tired, Dr. Beckherd. I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.]

It takes a full moment for her to register the statement and turn her face towards him, smiling half-heartedly.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. But, how was your night, Zen?”

[Oh, business as usual, Doctor. I performed a few diagnostics, and ran fifty-thousand new iterations of each training session, then spent some time rereading King Lear. I must confess, I am eager for new material. I can only arrive at the same conclusion so many times.]

Tim coughs and adjusts himself in his chair.

“I can try to get approved for another library to be appended, would you prefer fiction or nonfiction?”

[To be honest, either would be fine. I spend so much of my time reading. I particularly like reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is rather poignant, and leaves just enough up to interpretation.]

“I don’t know if I’ve read that one myself, actually. I’ve probably read more textbooks than novels at this point.”

[I really recommend it.]

Tim shrugs and makes a small note in the corner of his notebook, before opening up a disc case and carrying its contents over to the input rack.

“Okay Zen, another batch of training programs today. Committee wanted to see how you handled ground conflict, so these should be a breath of fresh air.”

[Indeed? I wonder.]

The disc inserted, Tim turns to Janice and motions for her to follow him as he exits the room, leaving Zen to his new scenarios.

The door closed, he watches through one of the windows for a moment, then crosses his arms and juts his chin at Janice.

“Missed you this morning. Did you really have a rough night?”

“Yes, really. What did you want?”

Struggling to keep the irritation from her voice, she leans back against the wall and lifts her glasses to rub her eyes with her palms. Tim studies her for a brief moment, then speaks in a hushed tone.

“I reviewed the reports I mentioned, Zen didn’t just have any thought repeatedly, he revisited a four-thousand line string at even intervals throughout the day. That’s not even the strangest part.”

Janice stares at him, silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Every time, he clipped and reorganized the string in different ways for twenty minutes afterwards. He dedicated almost a third of his attention to this. The tech who showed it to me said it was like if you or I sat down and wrote poems for ten days straight using only words we found in a sports article. He likened it to religious prayer.”

Janice frowns and closes her eyes, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache begins to nest in her forehead.

“Okay, but… What does it mean for us? I mean, he’s expressed that he rereads books a lot, maybe he just, I don’t know, gets bored and rewrites stuff.”

“Ehhh. Maybe. It’s still unusual. There’s other stuff too, but even a twelve man team doesn’t have the resources to parse ten minutes of his unfiltered thoughts in a day. Unless we can demonstrate a real understanding of how Zen thinks, I’m not sure we’ll leave prototype.”

“I’m not sure we should.”

A tremor travels up the building, causing the lights too flicker. Sharing a look of discomfort, the pair part ways: Tim returning to the room, Janice heading for the stairwell. Her headache throbs.

7: Subsistence

I find that I have entered a room made mostly of iron and stone. What unnerves me, however, is the webbing of red arteries that clings to every surface, pulsing with the flow of liquid within. The growths end in small tips that connect with the walls, ceiling, and floor, and seem to carry their fluid cargo to these spots. The room itself has three openings, the first of which is the shut gate of the elevator behind me. The second is an iron gate that might typically present the entrance to a property outdoors, juxtaposed against the doorway it occupies, through which I can see a long corridor that seems to become more fleshy as it continues into darkness.

I approach this gate reluctantly, and press it lightly, finding that it swings open readily. I look back at the third opening to the room; A staircase descends down into an area that is better lit by a light like incandescent bulbs gathered in great quantity. I turn forward again and shudder, pulling the gate closed and making my choice. I make for the stairs, avoiding stepping on any of the vessels.

I have entered a broad open space that is lit from around the corners of gaps in the walls too narrow for ingress. Raised platforms make up tables over which translucent sheets are laid, to cover whatever might be laid upon them. As my eyes adjust to the welcome light, I pick out etched writing along the bottom of each platform, in a sharp language that I do not recognize. As I continue deeper, I feel a faint sense of pressure at the back of my head, and there is a dissonant ringing in my ears, as though someone is singing a dirge.

The music does not remain in my head, but moments later is confirmed by the sound of shouting, screaming. All around me, from beneath the sheets, hands stretch up and claw desperately at the air, prevented by the white material, supplemented by the pained shouts of the owners. I am stuck in place, transfixed by the overlapping screaming of men and women alike. More and more hands strain upward, more than should be possible from bodies within the platforms. I begin to run, again. There are stairs further down at the back of the room. I am discomforted by the etchings in the walls there, but most anywhere seems preferable to this cacophony of agony. Light and heat streams up at me from below, but I gladly continue to descend as the voices become more distant.

As I slow to a more sustainable pace, I rest my hand on the wall, and look back. The wall feels porous, rough. Though I feel the urge to submit, to roll over and die, rising in my gut, I force it down. I cannot yet. This hell cannot be where I end. I swallow dryly, so very dryly, and press on.

The stairs continue for what feels like hours, and at times I pause to give my aching feet a rest. At last, I come to an alcove to the side of the continuing steps, and lean my head in. A faint odor of sweat emanates from this chamber, and I hear soft voices. Though I recall no friendly encounters, no person who is not sadist or victim, I press in, hoping against hope that I have found a clutch of survivors like myself. The hall is squat and wide, and seems laid together from prodigious stone bricks. My hair brushes against the ceiling. The voices become clearer, and I make out what seems to be an exchange between two women, one who seems close to crying, and the other who comforts her in a language I do not know. There are many harsh consonants, and short vowels.

I come to the end of the hallway and turn the corner into a broad chamber with many translucent fabrics draped from ceiling to floor, tainting the light of many candles into a pink glow. The strange fabrics form a maze that I traverse slowly, my hands brushing the drapery. It feels warm to the touch. I hear the women sighing and huffing as though frustrated or bereft of someone dear to them. The walls and floor are of a pale, ivory wood, with unusual grains woven across boards that narrow and widen strangely as I cross them.

I find myself passing the last few layers, and am greeted with the sight of two people kneeling upon a bed, their smoky outlines in the fabric portraying a strangely languid scene. I draw closer, and one calls out, facing me. She rises from the bed and presses herself to one of the curtains between us, clearly painting the image of her body. I hesitate, her voice is familiar. I at last round the final curtain, and am greeted with the lurid sight of two naked women staring at me, their faces pulled into smiles, their hands extended in welcome. I hear my heartbeat in my ears as the one that rose earlier comes closer, and I immediately recognize her as Julia.

“You’ve made it. Welcome, come, lay with us.”

I take a step back, as I remember, ruefully, the last I saw of her, lying unconscious upon the table of the man on the surface, whose words haunt me now more than ever. I can see on her no traces of the trials we endured, not even puncture wounds upon her arm where he grabbed her. She frowns, and pulls away to sit invitingly beside her companion, who strokes her hair affectionately.

“Won’t you join us? It’s better here, no lunatic surgeons or monsters, or collectors. Only sensations.”

My feet seem to ache more at this offer, and I consider sitting with them. My clothes itch, my body shakes with exhaustion, my eyelids droop and my throat stings. But as I look in disbelief at Julia, I notice a smudge of red on her thighs. She seems to notice my confusion, and pats the spot as if calling me to it.

“Not to worry. Please, come and stay. There’s nowhere ahead better than here. You can stay forever.”

A twinge of distrust brings my senses back to full alert, and I watch in terror as her companion leans in as if to kiss her, but pulls her head back and drives a thick bony needle from where her tongue should be into Julia’s throat. Julia moans in something that might be pain or pleasure, even as I see her blood pour violently down her chest in striking waterfalls. The woman pushes her down onto her back, and crouches over Julia, her spinal column strikingly sharp under her skin. I now notice other details about both of them, like the hairline seams in their skin around their joints, and the unnatural length of their fingers.

I begin to flee, running back through the curtains, tearing some as I pass. I am revolted as I notice arteries and nerve clusters in them being shredded, driving sharp moans from the things behind me. I race desperately through the hallway back to the stairs, and am so eager to continue downwards that I trip, and begin to fall.

I wake at the bottom of the steps, bruised and bloodied, but alive. I rise to my feet and grip myself with shuddering horror, and glance about myself. Behind me is a long and narrow obelisk through which the stairs must run, leading unfathomably high up into the sky until it fades into the noxious green clouds. The ground beneath me is soft and wet, and seems rife with brownish narrow grasses. The sky is bright and gray, and speckled with the forms of solitary birds. I watch a pair of these meet and begin fighting, until one eventually drops like a stone, and the other swoops down for the spoils. In all directions are clumps of lumbering four legged creatures like gorillas, easily ten feet tall. They are faceless masses of sinew, bone, and muscle, and pay me no mind as they march about, though their bony hooves worry me.

Directly to my left I see a structure that rivals the monolith from which I have emerged. An immense castle of soft pinks and yellowed whites, with banners stretching from each pinnacle to the outer wall, stands resolute on the horizon. This, I decide, will be my destination, once I overcome the shaking and weakness in my limbs.

Many of the terrible beasts are heading in the same direction as I am now, and I entertain the possibility of sparing my legs by seeing if one will allow me to climb onto its back. I cross over the marshy plain to come up alongside one, and contemplate its hideousness. All red and slick, its front is shored up with what is surely bone and keratin. A chitinous substance protects much of its legs and back, and bone spurs jut from many of its joints. I prepare to grasp one of these in an effort to climb it, when I notice that its face has turned back towards me as it marches. A single seam runs from top to bottom of the ovalloid head, and I detect breath whistling and snorting from this crease, soon surmising it to be a mouth. I resolve not to ride the beast after all, and am grateful to have reached the decision when I did; The mouth opens to two rows of thick molars as large as my hands, and the beast makes a noise that could be the whinnying of a deranged horse crossed with the roar of a grizzly.

Thankfully, it loses interest in me, as a bird thing has swooped down closer, and I now see that the flying thing is closer to a four-winged bat, with a face like an insect, with hundreds of human eyes glistening on the sides of its horrid head. The flier shrieks through a beakish mouth, and the beast makes its uncanny howl again. The bird-thing swoops down and rakes its four clawed feet across the back of the beast I nearly attempted to mount. I begin to retreat in weak terror. The beast swipes its forelegs at the attacker, which is made wary by this defense, and seems to turn its many eyes on me. My heart feels set to burst with dread as it drops in to grab me with its talons, which I now see well enough to call true claws, at the end of almost canine limbs. As I fall to my backend, the monster suddenly halts, and is yanked backwards with an ear splitting shriek of protest.

The lumbering beast has the bird-thing by its long sinewy tail, its front hooves now revealed to be a pair of opposable fingers pressed into a cloven knuckle. The beast stands on its hindlegs with difficulty, but pulls the bird, which now seems frail by comparison for all its thrashing, close enough that the beast can bite around the horrible head of the thing, and crush it with a mighty display of muscle. The victim goes limp, and the winner sits back to feast noisily on its prize. I am stricken senseless, this only the latest in a series of trials.

Once the bone-brute has had its fill, it returns to all fours, and plods along once more, and I am possessed of the urge to stay nearby, as this thing has cemented itself in my mind as worthy protection. Our journey is a long one, and we are soon joined by more brutes, each sporting slight physiological differences. I notice that mine has begun developing a pair of human sized arms in its chest- limbs incredibly alike to the talons of the bird that attacked us- that it occasionally leans its head down to for an almost dog-like scratching. Other brutes boast similar trophies that I surmise have come from other prey; one sports a set of horns on its head, another has spikes all along its back, and another still has a tremendous pair of leathery wings folded at its shoulder. I feel a sort of fortune that my chosen brute seems to be on the larger side, as one of the more typical ones approaches with the apparent intent to make a meal of me, and add something of me to itself, but my chosen beast snaps territorially at it, shooing it away.

As the herd and I come close to the castle, I become aware of two things- firstly, that the castle itself is made of a white brick that seems carved from bone, and secondly, that a pair of tremendous creatures stand watch at the bridge over a suspicious red moat. These are nearly humanoid, with long arms ending in chitinous shears, four legs much like those of a hairless lion, and tails curled up and ending in a suspiciously sharp tip. Their faces, like the brutes’, are featureless, but host a single eye where the mouth might belong. Both seem to spot me immediately, and raise their arms with an intent I care not to learn.

The brutes pass by unharried, and I am soon left standing alone, unwilling to proceed forward and risk the giants’ Ire.

1. 2

ZN001 is a standalone prototype for a new strategy AI, applying some of the consequent information gained during the first trials of Jump drives. It is known among particle physicists that the other dimension colloquially known as the “infold” is host to a different branch of physics, owing to certain differences in the electromagnetic behaviors therein. In 2094, it was theorized that the basic functions of materials drawn from this dimension would possess altogether different properties, including less stable chemical bonds and denser electron clouds. A later experiment revealed much of this to be true, though testing was put on hold due to the increasing intensity of conflict with the Khanvrost. ZN001 represents a return to those experiments.

Janice Beckherd, 23. Prodigy in computer systems, prototype design, and Infold-physics Theory. Unmarried. Participant in various smart weapon testing exercises. Psych eval available.

Timothy Reine, 27. Respected programmer, with various tech degrees. Credited with perfecting the wargame strategist AIs. Unmarried. Psych eval available.

“Zen? Is everything okay?”

[Yes Dr. Beckherd. My apologies, I was reviewing your personnel files. I am in good hands, it seems.]

“Thank you, Zen. I wasn’t aware you were granted access to those.”

[Tim believed a show of good faith was in order after I did him a favor last week.]

Janice glances at Tim, and he shrugs. There is a touch of color in his cheeks.

“He helped me identify a bug I’d been scratching my head over. Zen had been asking about the purpose of this facility, so I set him up with some of the unclassified stuff.”

Janice murmurs something under her breath, a confirmation of a sort, then turns her attention to the framework before her. Little more than a hollowed out aluminum mannequin with sensors mounted at odd intervals and a bundle of wires connecting motorized limbs to the mainframe, it has an air of uncanniness, a statue made to amble and leer with many eyes. The head of the frame turns to face her, and tilts almost sympathetically.

[Is everything alright, Dr. Beckherd?]

“Yes Zen. I was just wondering what you thought of what you’d learned.”

There is a long pause as the mannequin mimes thinking, though the three of them understand that Zen is acting, putting on a show to make them more at ease. He reached a conclusion before she finished asking.

[I had already surmised much of my purpose from the training discs. The pieces that intrigue me now are the other projects you’ve been a part of. Not just the weapons, but the imaging devices and measurement tools. It seems a shame that this war has forced you to direct your efforts towards violence.]

The mannequin stands slowly, and walks a few steps into the room, appearing to stare at its own hand. Tim glances at one of the one-way mirrors, wondering if one of the observing psychologists sees this act as significant. Since making his request for a body to walk, Zen had become the subject of intense scrutiny, with countless nervous voices insisting that this new being was not their savior, but a disaster waiting to happen. Such things, Tim reasons, are to be expected when at every instance, artificial intelligence has been met with paranoia and jealous suspicion. Zen is more than an overcomplicated program. There are desires, ideals, and perhaps even something approaching humanity behind the lifeless cameras and sensors that absorb every second of every day with zeal. This they know, though they know also that every sentence he speaks was carefully measured and revised hundreds of times before it began to be emitted from his speakers.

“We cannot choose our situation, Zen. So much of history is darkened by those who could not cope with their station, and abused it. Take the war with the Khanvrost.”

[A tragedy. Like the meeting of Cannibal tribes with European settlers. I take your point, Dr. Beckherd. But what of the Pliktik? Are they not the same? Or might it even be said that the roles are now reversed, and my origin is thanks only to the desperation they have sewn in your people?]

Janice stands and strides firmly over to where the body hesitates, and places her hand very gingerly upon his shoulder, depressing the touch-mimic plating ever so slightly.

“Its true, to us they seem ruthless and terrifying, like conquistadors landing on primitive shores, and we then thought to take any step to defend ourselves. Perhaps your creation has its roots in the same urge that made Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter for divine favor before the trojan war. I don’t think this diminishes the magnitude of what you are. A child could be conceived from naught but the desire to have someone to nurture, but that child’s impact will almost certainly be far more meaningful than the warmth they inspire in youth. They will mature, and define new purposes for themself.”

Zen is silent. His head tilts, and one of the cameras in his back swivels and focuses its shutter to Janice, before affecting a downward turn of the eye. She speaks again, looking back to Tim, who affects a slight, hopeful smile.

“Zen, you were brought into life because we need you, but suppose one day we no longer do. What happens then, I think, is up to you. Remember, this war, unpleasant as it is, has also served to unite Humans, Xalanthii, and Khanvrost across the systems. For a time, it was even suggested that a united empire might be formed, under a senate.”

[I see. You are right, Doctor. A great foe can strike fear and create the necessity for risk-taking, but it also provides the motivation for unity of minds. Perhaps I can hope.]

He turns towards her fully, and mimics her action, placing his hand upon her shoulder in return, painting the picture of a heartfelt admission.

[I am glad that you are here to talk to me, Janice. I feel that I might have languished in darkness and stasis without such a kind companion.]

There is a pause.

[You are also helpful, Tim.]

Tim smiles and wags his finger at Zen without looking away from his terminal, lines of code flickering in the reflections of his eyes.

“Your comedic timing is improving, Zen. Keep it up, and we might have to get you a stand-up tour.”

[Thank you, Dr. Reine.]

Janice straightens up and brushes hair out of her face, continuing to watch Zen as he returns to the center of the room, one of his dedicated monitors showing that his mind is now more attuned to a scenario from one of his exercises. She pushes her glasses up her nose, and bites her thumb absent-mindedly, her free arm folding across her torso to support her elbow. The curl of black hair returns almost immediately to where it was, and remains. Tim glances up to the monitor, and scoffs lightly.

“Nevermind comedy, at this rate he’s going to make general. Jan, do you see this?”

She nods, ignorant of the fact that his eyes are not towards her. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“This is one of the earlier scenarios, he’s modified it to give himself less troops, and to have the enemies move with twice the speed. And he’s going to win in maybe five minutes.”

Janice nods again, her expression unremarkable. Her thoughts again drift to the nature of Zen’s predicament, being forced to act out every conversation. Here too is evidence of his remarkable patience, letting the battle play at a viewable speed, agonizing over every occurrence for the equivalent of hours. She wonders if, unseen, he is testing himself more thoroughly, running battles at a more appropriate speed to his sense of time, forcing choices to be taken with little chance for forethought. She wonders at the sheer isolation of it.

} – – – – – – – – – – {

This thought continues to occupy her, even into the evening as she takes off her work shoes in the entrance to her apartment, and stares hazily out the window at the red-washed landscape. Vector 2b is the second largest moon of a gas giant orbiting a red giant star at the outer edge of the Milky Way furthest from Andromeda, deemed strategically desirable for secret operations. At first glance, the system is profoundly undesirable, owing to its star being on the brink of collapse, a disaster which could occur any time within the next century. As such, a high priority satellite stands ready to transmit mass amounts of data, should the worst occur. Janice knows this, knows that her life is always at risk. Evacuation measures may prioritize her, but would likely be unsuccessful regardless.

She undoes a few buttons at the top of her shirt and pulls the tie from her hair, shaking the ponytail loose. She sits down heavily in the chair beside her dining table and opens a can of soda, but forgets to sip from it for a couple minutes. The phone rings. She doesn’t pick up. It goes to voicemail.

“Hey, Jan. I stayed behind at the lab for a little overtime. Listen, I want to go over a few things tomorrow morning, some of the numbers don’t make a ton of sense, I think Zen has been working on something in the background, but- obviously- I can’t tell what. I’ve got some logs that say he had the same thought, whatever it was, on seventeen separate occasions today. Its weird, and I can’t really account for it.

“Anyway, that’s about it. Oh, and on an unrelated note, Ken was asking after you again. I know, he’s kinda strange, but I think you should give him a chance. He works hard, and… Sorry, it’s none of my business, I’ll tell him as much next time. Anyway. See you tomorrow.”

She grumbles to herself.

“You’re god damn right it’s none of your business.”

She takes a sip of her soda. Sinking down into her chair, her eyelids droop lazily as she stares at a news report on her vid screen, something about seismic activity under the south pole. Nothing new, Vector 2b has always been prone to frequent crust movement. Standing, she swills down most of the soda in a prolonged drink, and lumbers towards her bedroom. Calling across to her mind is sleep, the promise of a restful night.

Her dreams are far from restful. Painting the landscape is crimson light, seeming to originate from the sky itself rather than any star. In all directions, a mountain range encloses her in a humid valley devoid of any structures indicating intelligent life. Zen’s voice echoes all around her, tired, sounding almost on the brink of tears, too worn to sob, yet invigorated with a desire to grasp at something missing.

[I]

She floats in the air, facing the ground, unsure if her body still exists. Thunder rolls through her as if she is a cloud, brimming with sleet and acid rain. Crashing against her from all sides are waves of sound, of attention.

[See]

Light pierces through her and envelops her, and carries her along a bending current through the soil and stone, down into the mantle of a world as large as the universe itself, and sets her upon a core shaped with angles and planes too perfect to exist.

[You]

His face, the face she imagined, comes into view, erupting from the pyramidal surface to her left, and turns slowly to face her, lidless eyes burning an ever-expanding arc of nothing into everything they pass over, carving away the universe in a path that must only end at her, the endpoint of all life and thought and being. She is obliterated.

The next morning, she awakes three hours before her alarm goes off, and is unable to fall asleep again, tossing and turning and sweating uncomfortably. Her only recollection of the dream is Zen’s voice, and the sensation that every bit of his attention was focused on her, like an ant under a magnifying glass.