by Gafford, Sam
“Charazadon, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I can’t remember what it is to be light and I want to.”
She walked by him and out the door. This surprised him because demons normally don’t use doors. Those were for the common hordes of meat. C sat down on the bed (the first bed he had taken the time to rest on for a millennium) and thought.
The time had come. The players were arranged and the banquet hall was full. C’s three-way triumph had already spread through the convention and all the guests were anxiously waiting the final act. Would A come through? The betting demons were given odds that A would pull something out at the last minute and save the day. No one beat him, after all, that was what his reputation was built on. But there were still other issues as well. More than a few demons were hoping against hope that C would pull it off—that he would succeed where no other demon had before and win his freedom. Otherwise, what were they all bothering with this for?
The roast was still underway. Other lesser demons were making fun of C, bringing up times when things didn’t work out the way they were planned or other things intervened. C didn’t care for it but put up with it, laughing goodnaturedly but always looking for Charazadon. She was nowhere to be seen. A, however, was watching C intently.
“And now,” Dathon said, “we come to the main event. A!”
A stood up amidst much applause and motioned everyone down.
“Tonight,” he began, “is a very special night. This is an event that has never happened before in our shared history and may never happen again! Cluchach has done the impossible. He has secured One Zillion and Two souls!”
More applause. Still no Charazadon. C sniffed the air. Something wasn’t quite right.
“And so, we gather here tonight to honor him and to wish him well, for he is now leaving us for good.”
A smattering of applause.
C smelled violets. That stupid human perfume of Charazadon. But from where?
“So it is with great regret that we come to the end, Cluchach and I. For centuries we have worked side by side. I’ll miss him, but mostly I’ll miss all the souls he brought me!”
Much laughter. C looked around but still couldn’t see Charazadon. But he knew she was there. Then he looked up at the large panoramic windows through which one could see the lights of the city below. Except for one very large dark patch.
“But I am a man of my word and I am here tonight to keep my word. So without further ado . . .”
A pulled an ancient parchment out of his jacket. The dark shape on the window shifted. C tensed.
“This”—A held the parchment up high, letting everyone see—“is something most of you newer demons have never seen. It’s a written contract!”
A smattering of laughter. There was the sound of small cracks.
“With the burning of this,” A’s finger burned with flame, “Cluchach is released and his soul is his again! May God have mercy on his soul!”
More laughter. A’s finger moved closer to the paper as the large window collapsed and a black angry shape burst down into the room.
Demons scattered left and right as they fled like cowards. The dark shape fell upon the floor and drew itself up. It was Charazadon.
“No!” she screamed. There was no pretense at humanity, there was no false form. She was truly a demon in every sense of the word. And yet, C still smelled violets.
“He is mine!” she yelled. “He owes me a debt and I demand to be paid!”
“Demand?” A bellowed. “You demand of me? Who are you to demand anything from any of us?”
“I am Charazadon, daughter of the Seventh Circle. And I have come to claim what is owed me.”
“And that is?”
“Cluchach’s soul. It belongs to me. He promised it to me aeons ago and I will have it!”
C jumped to his feet. “I never promised you anything!”
Charazadon turned and glared at C. “Yes, you did—a long time past, but you did.”
“Enough of this,” A said. “Begone!”
“NO!” Charazadon screamed. Her very being seemed to come apart with the intensity of her shout. She leaped at A.
“Charazadon! What are you doing?” C yelled.
A stepped back. “She is completing her doom.”
White fire burst from A’s hand and engulfed Charazadon. C shrieked and jumped over the table to her.
“Let her go!”
C tried to pull her out of the bright flame, but she was held fast. Her very being was melting from the inside out. A gestured with his other hand and C went flying across the room. “This is none of your affair, Cluchach.”
Stumbling weakly to his feet, C looked quickly at Charazadon. She did not have much time left. Gathering his strength, he flung his arms together and sent a blazing white-hot sheet of pain toward A.
It hit him full in the face and caught him totally unprepared. A shrieked and fell backward, breaking his hold on Charazadon. C ran over to her.
Charazadon’s body was charred on one side, yet oozing and liquid on the other. A, on the other hand, was completely motionless.
Climbing out from under a table, Dathon stared at the scene before him. His brain could not take it all in. Cluchach had killed A. He had killed the Fallen One. He had killed the First. Dathon screamed. It was not unlike the sound of a cat’s claws being raked over a blackboard.
Dathon ran over to A’s corpse. Smoke was rising from it. Dathon was sobbing. This was the worst event he had ever organized. “He’s dead,” was all Dathon said.
Beneath him, lying in C’s arms, Charazadon began to laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” C asked.
“Because,” Charazadon said, “because you never could appreciate a good joke.”
Charazadon began to shimmer, her body acquiring a glow. C put her down and stepped back. Quietly, he called for Dathon.
The pudgy little demon rushed over. Charazadon’s body continued to pulse and undulate until finally there was a completely different being lying in her place. It was A and he was laughing.
C walked back to the podium. On the floor behind it lay Charazadon. She was completely and utterly dead.
A stood up, still laughing. Dathon, not believing what he was seeing, sat heavily down in a nearby chair.
“Well, well, it appears that we have a change of plans here. Cluchach, you’ve killed one of my demons. You know what the penalty is, don’t you?”
“Yes.” C said flatly. “What was her contract for?”
“Oh, well, you know, she was one of the earlier additions, back when there were a lot more people and inventory quotas were higher.”
“How much?”
“Not much more than your old one. Only two zillion.”
C straightened up and slicked his hair back. He dusted off his suit and tightened his tie. “I’ll make it,” he said.
A walked up and looked him straight in the eye. “I have no doubt that you will, Cluchach, I’m counting on it.”
In a small, remote corner of Hell, a young woman was writhing in torment, burning under volcanic fires. Every breath she took was an effort as her lungs filled with black smoke. Her flesh blistered and cracked, but she was smiling.
A man moved up near her. He was youthful and handsome and, though he no longer beamed happiness, he was still confident.
“Hello, Charazadon,” he said.
She spun about. “Cluchach! What are you doing here?”
“Shh. I’m not supposed to be here. A’s too busy with some earthquake and plague in northern Turkey, but it won’t be long until he notices I’m here.”
She wouldn’t look at him and dropped her head into the lava. When she pulled up, her burned flesh regenerated itself. “I didn’t want to, you know; he made me.”
“‘The Devil Made You Do It’? No, I don’t think so.”
She paused. “No, he didn’t. I suggested it actually. After you refused me.”
“That’s what I t
hought.”
They lay there in silence for a moment, their flesh sizzling in the molten earth.
“I am sorry, though.”
“I know.”
“I . . . I just wanted you to know that.”
“I know that too. He would have broken the bargain one way or another. Listen, I can’t change any of this, but I can leave you with something. Close your eyes.”
Charazadon closed her eyes and C waved his hand over her. A scent of violets filled the air.
“Cluchach! What are you doing?”
“Just a little gift. Thought you might need it. I don’t expect there’s much perfume down here. It won’t wear off. It’s a permanent scent for as long as you want it. I’ve got to go. Got something going down in Florida. Social Security scam with Dathon. Might be big. I’ll stop by again when I can.”
He moved away and became more indistinct.
“Oh, and Charazadon?”
“Yes?”
“You forgot that we can’t wear scents when in demon form. We can only wear them when we’re in human form and A never cared for violets.”
As his voice drifted away and the screams of the damned rose again in her ears, Charazadon silently cried to herself and said, “Thank you,” even though she couldn’t be sure if anyone else was listening.
Rising above the stench of burning flesh floated the fragile smell of violets.
Static
Dr. Sybaris looked at his instruments and frowned. This was not the result he had expected at all. Quickly, he double-checked the apparatus and made sure that everything was attached the way it should be. The omniscope had plenty of power, but the screen was still dark. What’s more, the signal he was picking up was completely wrong. He should have been tuning into the afternoon broadcast from New York, but this was something else entirely.
An angry frown carved itself into Dr. Sybaris’s forehead. His dark curly hair covered his head like a confused beaver, going in all directions at once. His beard and moustache, normally well-trimmed to the point of obsession, were wild and uneven. Even his clothes were unkempt. His shirt was wrinkled and, though his collar was attached, it was not closed and he was not wearing a tie. The full height of his lean, six-foot-two-inch frame was bent over and clenched. His very demeanor was a testament to the many days he had spent working on his latest invention. Dr. Sybaris’s eyes burned angrily. He had never accepted failure before and wouldn’t begin now.
Out of the speakers came a weird buzzing sound. It was almost like speech but not quite. Dr. Sybaris adjusted the receptors’ strength, trying to boost the signal. The frequency was higher than the standard atmospheric band so, technically, he should not have been receiving it at all.
His frustration was unbounded. The experiment should have been a success. Everything was perfect theoretically, and Dr. Sybaris had spent months on the calculations and construction of his device. He had even modified it to include Tesla’s newest designs of the electrical coil. It gave far more power than mere steam ever had but was also far more dangerous. Dr. Sybaris cursed at the fumbling of his fingers in the thick, insulated gloves. He needed more delicate, refined work but couldn’t risk using his bare hands. “Why isn’t it working?” he cursed.
He adjusted the omniscope again. The screen should have been showing something. It was designed to convert radio waves to images, but all it showed was lines of static. Perhaps it was the signal itself that was the problem. Dr. Sybaris moved to the instrument panel and glared at the settings. The dials reflected in his protective goggles. According to the oscilloscope, he was receiving several radio waves at once. “It’s some sort of electronic interference,” he muttered. “Have to try and isolate the correct wavelength.” He moved dials and adjusted levels on the console. Slowly, the other waves dropped off the scope until only two remained. One was definitely stronger than the other and had to be the one he wanted, but he couldn’t isolate it. Determined, Dr. Sybaris poured more power into the console. The connectors sizzled and crackled as the electricity leaped through the air. The system was quickly becoming overloaded and dangerously close to exploding. Dr. Sybaris was reaching for the emergency shut off when something started to come through the omniscope.
It was blurry at first, with no real definition. Straining, Dr. Sybaris was barely able to make out a vague shape, but it didn’t look anything close to humanoid. The head looked all wrong—and the hands! He could have sworn that they weren’t hands at all but some sort of claws. Suddenly, the speakers roared into life: “ . . . go out among men and find the ways thereof, that He in the Gulf may know. To Nyarlathotep, Mighty Messenger, must all things be told. And He shall put on the semblance of men, the waxen mask and the robe that hides, and come down from the world of Seven Suns to mock. . . .”
Then the power grid exploded.
Several days later, Dr. Sybaris discussed the incident with his good friend and colleague, Morgan Rice. They were enjoying drinks at the Autonomic Explorers Club on High Street after a particularly heated lecture called “Artificial Intelligence and Morality” given by Cormac 217. Years ago, the mere appearance of Cormac, a free-floating brain encased in a robotic body, would have inspired fear or at least interest. But after the Biogenic Revolution of 1901, such sights were becoming more commonplace. It had become the standard method of prolonging life after the human body failed. But, of course, only for the wealthy. The poor still died as humans.
“That’s extraordinarily interesting,” Morgan Rice remarked as he brushed the ash from his cigar off his waistcoat. Although they had been friends for many years, Rice and Dr. Sybaris were polar opposites. Rice was plump where Dr. Sybaris was lean. Rice was slow moving and calm where Dr. Sybaris was manic and animated. Rice was grounded and content with the world where Dr. Sybaris was a malcontent and gadfly. Despite their differences, Rice had always had a soft spot for his often overly animated friend and sometimes could not resist the urge to tease him just a little bit. “Do you mean to say that you picked up something beyond the standard radio waves?”
“Completely,” Dr. Sybaris responded. “Analyzing my data after the explosion, I found that the corresponding wavelength has similarities to that of radio waves but has altogether different qualities.”
Morgan rubbed his walrus whiskers thoughtfully. “Are you sure you didn’t simply latch on to some new video transmission? I’ve heard recently that Gatworth is experimenting on giving video three-dimensional depth. I believe he’s calling it ‘holography’ or some such thing.”
Dr. Sybaris was insulted. “Do you believe I can be fooled with something so simple? Really, Morgan, you insult me!”
Morgan laughed. “Oh, Anton, do be calm! I was simply pulling your leg! Stop taking yourself so seriously!”
“This is serious! My experiment creates video from a purely audio source. Think of it! Sound creating images! The implications are phenomenal—everything from a new art form to new methods of teaching or even military applications. But none of it will matter if I can’t get it to work properly!”
Dr. Sybaris fumed as he finished his drink.
“Look here,” Morgan said, “let us assume, then, that this is some new sort of wavelength. Perhaps it’s something that’s never been used before. Or, just possibly, something we’ve never known was there. What about that message you said you intercepted?”
“Yes,” Dr. Sybaris agreed, “that does concern me. It simply doesn’t make any sense. It’s not logical. It was almost like some sort of religious ritual. The voice wasn’t right either. The way it buzzed!—it was almost as if it were mechanical. It’s just not right. It’s out of place . . . as if it didn’t belong . . . just like everything else.”
Morgan’s eyes rolled. He had no wish to be subjected yet again to Dr. Sybaris’s pet theory that something was fundamentally wrong with their world, out of place. Morgan was about to try to divert the conversation off this well-beaten track when the telescreen behind the bar flashed a news bulletin. A calm, decidedly British a
nnouncer was seated behind a desk, his rigidly starched collars seeming out of place with the mechanical eye and microphone mounted on the side of his head. “Attention, attention! This is a bulletin from the Ministry of Air Defence. We have just received video of today’s attack by the Royal Airships on the vastly inferior German fleet at Rheinsbach.”
The screen changed to show a division of British airships steaming through the sky as they opened fire on a formation of German airships that were still standing on the ground outside their hangers. The guns of the massive zeppelins fired mercilessly on ship and German soldier alike. “Our forces, led by General Kitchener, conducted the early-morning raid. The German airfleet suffered significant losses from which they are not expected to recover.”
At the sight of the bombing, loud cheers rang through the barroom as the British victory was celebrated. “God Save the Queen!” was chanted loudly to everyone’s satisfaction except Dr. Sybaris, who merely glared at the screen. He knew, unlike most of the men there, that Queen Victoria had died several decades ago and that what passed for the Queen today was nothing more than an intricately designed robot with fake skin. He knew because he had designed the robot’s power system, but he could never speak about it—not if he wished to stay alive.
“I need some air,” Dr. Sybaris growled as he pushed through the cheering crowd followed by Morgan. Outside, the air was hardly better. The choking fog of the various steam-powered cars hung in the air. The steam-horsed carriages chugged down the street while, above, the richer denizens of London rode their electric bicycles through the air. “No matter what,” Dr. Sybaris grumbled, “status prevails.”
Morgan looked at his friend. It was a song he had heard many times before. “This is 1902 England, Anton. Would you prefer Germany?”
“What I would prefer,” Dr. Sybaris retorted, “is to be able to breathe without coughing.”
Pained, he looked at his friend and patted him on the shoulder. “My apologies, old fellow, I am assailed by a foul mood today. Pay me no mind. Better we speak later, hmm?”
