Lukas the Trickster

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘For you.’ Sliscus swept his blade out, parting the rain. ‘For me, it was pure tedium, enlivened only by the thought of a glorious ending. But even that you have denied me. So now, I must take what small pleasure I can from you in these last moments.’ He darted forward, moving more swiftly than the human eye could follow.

  Gymesh roared something in binary, and his automatons dropped the sedan chair and jangled to intercept Sliscus. They were thin things, designed for looks rather than lethality, but still fast. Blades sprouted from tube-like limbs and internal gyroscopes whirred to life, turning them into spinning dervishes.

  To a mon-keigh, they would have seemed impossible to predict or avoid. To Sliscus, they might as well have been moving in slow motion. The drugs in his system enhanced his perceptions to an almost painful degree. He could see everything, and reacted accordingly. A single blow was sufficient to send one whirling blade-storm into its fellow, and the two automatons tore each other to pieces in a cold frenzy. A third was dispatched with a precise shot to its central processing node. The fourth he simply avoided. It spun off down the street, making a doleful noise, unable to compensate for his evasion.

  Sliscus clucked his tongue. ‘Such shoddy workmanship.’ He heard the whine of the automaton as it finally circled back, and fired his splinter pistol without looking. The automaton exploded somewhere behind him.

  ‘Kill him,’ Gymesh growled.

  Courtiers scattered as the six cybernetic warriors darted towards him. They wore cowls and leather coats over their mostly artificial bodies, and segmented carapace armour. They were a parody of the more efficient killing machines produced by the mon-keigh tech-adepts. Crudely stitched and implanted, they were built for obedience and brute strength rather than combat efficiency. The work of gifted amateurs rather than experts.

  As they closed in, Sliscus gave a brief thought to calling for aid. Sleg and his coil-kin were close, shadowing their employer. The Sslyth were all the guards he needed, though there were Raiders full of corsairs within easy communications range should necessity warrant their aid.

  Their auto-carbines barked, filling the rainy air with hornets of lead. Sliscus darted to the side, running up a wall and flipping over the head of the first to reach him. He drove his blade into the warrior’s body as he landed and spun him around. The warrior spasmed as the shots from his fellows struck him. Sliscus braced the twitching corpse and advanced, absorbing the fusillade, until he was close enough to respond in kind.

  Unlike the machine-men, he needed no targeting array to place his shots. Two pitched backwards, their heads cracked open by the shards of splintered crystal. Three remained, and they advanced more slowly, firing steadily. Sliscus laughed as the body shielding him continued to twitch, and slid the barrel of his pistol beneath its flopping arm. He fired, knocking the legs out from under one.

  When he was close enough, he pivoted, wrenching his sword free. He leapt up, slashing as he landed. A gun barrel slipped to pieces, and its wielder staggered back in dull surprise. Sliscus lunged, piercing one of the machine-warrior’s artificial eyes and the brain behind it. He dragged the dying creature towards him and kicked it in the midsection, sending it crashing into the remaining warrior.

  Before the hapless machine-warrior could disentangle itself, Sliscus shot it through the head. The one he had shot in the legs lay where it had fallen, squalling in pain. Nevertheless, it kept trying to rise. Sliscus set a foot between its shoulder blades and slowly slid his sword through the back of its neck. It only had a dull understanding of pain, but waste not, want not. A corsair learned to take his pleasures where he could.

  He heard the grinding of gears and ducked. Gymesh snarled and swung his other hand. A hidden gun barrel emerged from the meat of his forearm with a wet sucking sound. It spat death, or would have had Sliscus been there to meet it. Instead, he was already moving. He holstered his pistol as Gymesh turned.

  ‘I will crush you,’ the tyrant roared, his amplified voice echoing from the surrounding buildings.

  ‘If you could, you would have by now,’ Sliscus said mildly. He bobbed and weaved, avoiding his opponent’s wild blows. Gymesh had been a terrifying warrior in his youth, but time had eroded his ability. He was slow now. Boring. ‘This is highly unsatisfying, Gymesh. I had pictured a rather more engaging duel. Where is that skilful murderer I once fought beside in the Arconis Tributary?’

  ‘Stand still and I will show you, you preening lunatic.’ More weapons sprouted from Gymesh’s mottled flesh. Built-in stubbers and las-packs cycled up, spitting fire. The weapons had only a few shots apiece before they ran dry or burned out. His claws, however, never ran out of ammunition.

  Growing bored, Sliscus darted beneath Gymesh’s groping lunge and sliced through the feed cables that controlled his claws. Gymesh howled, and Sliscus repeated the manoeuvre, this time on his opponent’s legs. Gymesh sank down with a petulant groan. He shook his flabby head. ‘No,’ he mumbled. His heavy frame sagged as feedback from the damaged cables resonated through his life-support systems.

  ‘Yes,’ Sliscus said. He lifted Gymesh’s chins with the flat of his blade. He wanted to look his old ally in the eyes. The Autocrat’s optic lenses clicked and spun.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I told you, I was bored. And all things come to an end. Goodbye, Gymesh. Take some small pleasure in knowing that you provided poor sport.’

  ‘Wait–’ Gymesh began.

  Sliscus flipped the blade about and chopped through Gymesh’s neck. Gore spurted and his head rolled free. Sliscus sighed. He held the sword up, studying the fluids that dripped from it. It wasn’t every day that one killed an old friend. But Gymesh had ruined it.

  ‘Feh,’ Sliscus grunted as he cleaned the blade with the edge of his cloak. Still, disappointing as this had been, he had other things to look forward to. Thoughts of his impending celebrations surged to the fore. There was so much to be done. Invitations to be sent, preparations to be made. ‘Myrta,’ he called out.

  ‘Here, my lord.’

  He smiled and turned. His courtesan was stepping unhesitatingly over the bodies. Behind her, he could see Sleg and the other Sslyth corralling those mon-keigh courtiers too stupid to flee. The ophidians were coldly professional, unlike many of his followers. They could be relied upon not to get out of hand with his property, so long as they were allowed to indulge their simple-minded desires at a later time.

  Nearby, shuffling, broken shapes slipped out from between the buildings. Sliscus frowned as he caught sight of Jhynkar and his wracks. Trust the fleshweaver to wait until the fighting was done to swoop down. The wracks had prisoners of their own, and as they stepped towards the cringing courtiers, Sleg grumbled a warning. The ophidian reared up, drawing his blades. The barbed swords could part metal as easily as flesh, and Sleg was a master of their use. Sliscus had often employed the brute as a sparring partner, and he thought Sleg a better swordsman than most.

  Sliscus moved to head off the confrontation, Myrta falling into step behind him. Sleg settled as he approached, and Jhynkar waved his wracks back. ‘My apologies, my lord, I assumed that your warriors required aid…’

  ‘As you can see, they do not.’ Sliscus studied the cowering humans. Noble birth meant something different among the mon-keigh, obviously. ‘These are not for you, Jhynkar. Content yourself with the specimens you have already acquired.’ He gestured to the prisoners the wracks held. The humans had the look of gas-miners, their wasted frames clad in ragged environmental suits. They were bound by a fleshy cable that emerged from the back of one of the larger wracks. The meat-chain flexed and contracted constantly, compensating for the struggles of those ensnared in its folds.

  Sliscus smiled, decision made. ‘We shall make a gift of these royal survivors, I think. Parcel them out according to the status of my intended guests, and send them with my compliments. Myrta, you will see to it.’ He used the flat of his blade to li
ft her chin. ‘But do enjoy yourself before then, my lady. Let it never be said that Duke Sliscus is not as considerate as he is charming.’ His smile could have cut steel. He swept the blade aside, nearly cutting her as he did so. Then, laying it across his shoulder, he turned and strode away, accompanied by Sleg and several of his hulking coil-kin.

  There were some pleasures yet to be had on this depressing mud ball before they departed, and he intended to sample each and every one.

  Myrta watched her master go. She sighed and turned to watch Jhynkar extract genetic matter from the captives, as the remaining Sslyth saw to chaining the rest.

  ‘Do not sigh so, my lady,’ Jhynkar said. ‘Freedom is a burden on the soul.’

  ‘And what would you know of it?’

  ‘More than I care to. What is the name of this world?’ he asked as he removed a syringe from a dying human’s spinal column. ‘I require it for my records.’ He shoved the limp body towards his wracks, who began to efficiently butcher the carcass.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask one of them,’ Myrta said as she kicked a loose head from her path. She looked up as the dark sky was riven by the shriek of Reavers and hellions. The cackling spire-gangers filled the skies like scavenger birds, and she could hear the screams of those seeking safety in the heights of the floating city.

  ‘I do not speak mon-keigh. Do you?’ Jhynkar gestured to one of his slaves, and the tongueless brute shuffled forward, pulling the edges of its ragged shift away from its back. With the tattered cloth moved down, it revealed a tumorous mass of knotted muscle, studded with contact-ports, each one holding a syringe. The haemonculus inserted the syringe he held in an empty port, eliciting a thin whine from the creature, before drawing another from its quivering back.

  Myrta frowned. The question was ludicrous. ‘Of course not. Why would I debase myself in such a manner?’

  He chortled. ‘Knowledge is its own reward, my lady. And it cuts as keenly as any blade, in the right hands.’ He flicked the end of a fresh syringe, and signalled for his wracks to bring him a new human. ‘How long have you been his slave, then?’

  ‘Courtesan,’ she corrected.

  ‘It is much the same thing, is it not? He will not let you leave him, whatever you or your sisterhood might wish.’

  ‘If I am a slave, then so too are you.’

  Jhynkar nodded absently as he bent to his task. ‘Oh, of course. There is no denying that. I sought refuge in servitude, as so many do. If you are not a master, you must be a slave. That is the nature of things. Rule, or serve. Some end up doing both.’

  ‘Vect,’ Myrta said.

  Jhynkar thrust his syringe home, into the squealing human’s back. He kept a tight grip on the creature’s neck as it arched itself in agony. Myrta closed her eyes, relishing the sensation. ‘Or our own dear Duke.’ He glanced at her, over the human’s twitching head. ‘Though, there are some who think his rule has been overlong.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Never. Long may Duke Traevelliath Sliscus reign,’ he said loudly. ‘May he stride the stars, a colossus, mighty and untamed, until the firmament crumbles and all songs reach their end.’ A cruel smile twisted his features as he jerked the now-full syringe free and eyed the substance within. ‘I was talking about you.’

  Myrta’s hand fell to her blade. ‘Careful, fleshweaver. I am his, and my blade serves him.’ But her words sounded hollow, even to her. If she had a chance to free herself from her eternal servitude, she would take it. There was no question of that.

  ‘Oh, to be sure, to be sure. I am no traitor, no backstabber. I am but a humble horrorist, cultivating entertainments for my betters.’ He deposited the second syringe as he had the first, and drew a third. ‘And it is in that spirit that I speak to you now. I have a name for you.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘A world. A world of monsters worse than any I can conceive. A world fit for a hunt.’

  Myrta frowned. ‘Why not tell him yourself?’

  ‘I make the blade a gift,’ Jhynkar said. A third human stumbled towards him, propelled roughly by the wracks. He caught the creature and easily forced it to its knees. The haemonculus was far stronger than he looked. Without pause, he thrust the syringe through the top of the mon-keigh’s hairy skull and into the brain meats within. The human gave a strangled groan and slumped. Only Jhynkar’s grip kept it from toppling over.

  ‘What do you mean by that? Speak plainly.’

  He looked at her, his stretched features expressionless. ‘Sliscus has ever been one whose reach exceeds his grasp. He drives himself to greater heights of arrogance, and ever closer to oblivion’s edge. It is his nature. Give him a sharp enough blade and he will cut himself.’

  ‘You think this world might mean his destruction?’

  ‘I think that if it happens, no one will blame you.’

  Myrta paused, considering his words. Then she smiled. ‘And what do you get out of this? I lose an enslaver, but you lose a protector.’

  ‘I lose nothing.’ Jhynkar jerked his syringe free and cleaned the tip with a fastidious gesture. ‘There is something on the world in question that will buy me forgiveness.’

  She laughed. ‘And there it is. That is why you need me to suggest it? So that he does not suspect your obvious ulterior motivations?’

  Jhynkar smiled. ‘Even so, my lady. Is my gift satisfactory?’

  Myrta returned his smile. ‘What is this world called?’

  Jhynkar watched Myrta depart, hurrying to catch up with her self-absorbed patron. If Sliscus died now it would be amusing, but unsatisfying in the long run. Better that he perish at a time and place of their choosing.

  ‘My choosing,’ Jhynkar murmured. ‘Melianes, come here.’ One of his wracks shuffled forward. ‘Open a channel to my laboratory.’ The wrack shuddered, and the featureless faceplate of his helmet flickered with bands of light. The disparate sections of the faceplate slid aside with a wet hiss, revealing a flat screen behind. The helmet was a broadcast amplifier of sorts, and its wearer a living communications array. Melianes had been most put out, until that first transmission burned out most of his higher brain functions. Now he was merely one more piece of equipment.

  Jhynkar bent forward and fiddled with the control nodes implanted in Melianes’ chest and neck. He located and activated one frequency among the plethora stored within the wrack’s organic databanks, and his servant shuddered again. Melianes stiffened, and a stream of light erupted from the screen.

  The motes of light swirled about erratically for a moment before condensing into familiarity. A lean form, bent over its latest masterpiece. Jhynkar sighed, pleased that the signal was still active after all this time. He cleared his throat. ‘Honoured Xhact?’

  The hololithic shape turned from some unseen labour and sighed. ‘Who dares disturb me at my work? I am right in the middle of something.’ A thin hand gestured, and the something groaned weakly.

  ‘It is I, most esteemed master.’ The honorific tasted bitter in Jhynkar’s mouth. Khaeghris Xhact was no more his master now than he had been centuries ago. The master of the Hex was a dilettante and an unskilled provocateur, by Jhynkar’s standards.

  Xhact leaned forward. Jhynkar knew he was studying a similar hololithic projection. All members – or former members – of the Hex possessed means of discrete communication with other members of the coven. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Jhynkar, master.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Your protégé.’

  ‘The exile?’

  ‘Yes, ancient one.’

  Despite his pretence, Jhynkar knew Xhact recognised him well enough. It was Xhact who had sold Jhynkar into slavery, after all. Jhynkar knew the ancient haemonculus found his hardship amusing. Jhynkar was also well placed to feed useful information back to his old coven, when the mood took him. Many great works of art had only come to fruition due to his diligence.

 
‘It has been some time since your last visit, Jhynkar. I feared you dead.’

  ‘Really, revered one?’

  ‘No. I had, in fact, almost entirely forgotten that you still existed. Why have you reminded me?’ There was a familiar undercurrent of menace in Xhact’s tone. Jhynkar cringed dramatically, and was rewarded with a slight twitch of a smile on his former master’s lips.

  ‘I come bearing gifts, oh honoured teacher.’

  ‘Wise. Something interesting, I trust.’

  ‘A world, revered one.’

  Xhact snorted. ‘And what would I do with another of those?’

  ‘It is a special world. A vibrant, savage world, unlike any other,’ Jhynkar said. Quickly, before Xhact could reply, he sent the information. Xhact raised an eyebrow as he studied the data stream.

  ‘This is a mon-keigh world.’

  ‘But unique.’

  ‘Perhaps. Of what interest would such a world be to me, Jhynkar?’

  ‘I should have thought it would be obvious, revered one. The landscape alone is an inspiring riot of ferocity. Not to mention the inhabitants. The dichotomy between savage and civilisation, between superior and inferior – quite stimulating.’

  The hololithic Xhact turned, his eyes narrowed. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Even better is the opportunity that comes with it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Jhynkar licked his lips. ‘There is a… ah… a bounty, I believe, on a certain individual of our acquaintance. Quite a hefty one, as well. There may be an opportunity to collect it.’

  Xhact nodded. ‘I wondered when your treacherous nature would assert itself, Jhynkar. Have you grown tired of exile at last? Are you finally prepared to humble yourself before your teachers?’

  Jhynkar hesitated. ‘My talents will be put to best use in service of yourself and the others. Only through your guidance will I reach the heights to which I aspire. To that end, I bring you a bond price.’