The Crystal College

by Nathaniel Sullivan

  “Perhaps…” But I’ll always know the truth. She did not wish to. She would have done almost anything to get Nandor back. But the amount of murder the bot had done… the lives, the souls… is any man worth so much death for his life? Nix did not know the answer.

  But if any man was worth it, it was Nandor—and that she knew without a doubt.

  “So, will you help me?” The bot pointed at Nandor, “Will you help him?”

  “Yes.” The word fell from her mouth before she knew she had said it. “But we’ll need more energy than what I can provide. I can channel parts of my mystic force into him, to try to bring him back, but if I give too much… I’ll risk losing myself.”

  “Oh! I see,” Dorin pondered the new dilemma through furrowed cogs. “Very well!” it suddenly proclaimed happily, and made for the door. “I’ll go fetch us some more humans to draw from!”

  Nix watched the creature pass, and saw the gleam of its bloody saw that it reattached to its arm. Should I try to stop him? Would he let me even if I tried? How many more lives is he willing to spend before he allows Nandor to rest in peace? Am I responsible for all this death by aiding the creature?

  She looked to the bot, and whispered as the door opened, “Are we becoming the very types of villains that Nandor himself would fight to end?”

  Dorin slowly spun, and removed its hat to place it over where its heart would have been, if it had one. “Madam, perhaps we are villains, in this moment. But has Nandor not earned a few evil acts in his life of good? Wouldn’t we be doing more of a disservice to not cash in his good deeds for him? The weight, the balance, perhaps I am not the best at determining such things, but I, for one, think that he has earned our crimes.” A gleam of lustful fire burned within the robots eyes, and she was not so sure if its actions were purely out of altruism. In fact, it seemed very likely not. “And I intend to withdraw as much cash as needed.”

  The bot turned back, and walked out the door, leaving Nixie with the smell of rotting flesh and twisted souls…

  Chapter 15: Life for Life

  What makes a man or a woman evil? Is there even such a thing, or is evil a matter of perspective—for what is good to you may be wrong to another, and what is right to them may be evil to you—but does that mean that there is no universal good and evil, or simply that there are variations depending on worldly outlook?

  I, for one, believe that there is a true form of evil, in this world.

  At the most root level, evil is destruction. Ripping something apart. Turning something beautiful and priceless into something ugly and worthless—like the murder of an innocent soul.

  But evil does not come inherently from every man and child.

  Like everything in this world, evil is bred by a very particular set of circumstances. Flowers may only grow and bloom if the seed lands in the right spot, at the right time, with just the right amount of fertile ground and freshly milted snow. But in some ice fields, there are thousands of flowers because the right set of circumstances happened enough times and the land was ideal for growing. More seeds and ideal lands cause flowers to blossom and continue en masse.

  Evil can crop up the same way. Sometimes in isolation, but more often in clumps and batches of foul growth. But what are the circumstances that create evil? I find, there can be many, but at the base of every evil act there is always a driving force—desperation. Be it desperation over the death of a loved one, and the need to seek vengeance, or desperation to prove ones worth by dominating another, the emotion always plays on fear, and ignorance. Fear of loss, inadequacy, ridicule, or blind hatred caused by ignoring the perspective of another.

  Can this evil be stopped?

  Nothing in life will ever be perfect. Struggle is defined by the issues of the age you live in, so there is no such thing as a “utopia”, in the purist form, even when things get objectively better. Evil will always exist, at least to some degree. The goal is not to eradicate all evil actions, but to minimalize and reduce them as much as humanly possible. In order to do this, raising children properly is essential. Inflicting violence upon a child, or even yelling in an unbecoming voice results in the child perpetuating such actions, and continuing a cycle of ignorant, and, possibly, evil actions. However, raise the child right, and the child will become a good person.

  Good people are far more unlikely to cause evil acts. But still, even good people, in the right set of circumstances, will resort to evil.

  And that, I’m afraid, I have little knowledge of how to stop.

  —The Light of Igra

  While the bot was gone, Nix cleaned the house. Dorin, being a mechanical creature, had little concept of what was considered to be gross or unclean, and so the mess had piled up to an unbearable amount. The body parts, the organs—she did her best to drag them all away without gagging, but it was the most disgusting work she had ever done in her life. The dead child was the worst, and she had to pause several times as she moved it, both to weep, and to reconsider her actions.

  What am I doing? Nandor would not wish to be brought back like this…

  But she had little choice. Dorin was a Jack-Bot, theoretically with human emotions, but it acted more machine than man, and it was utterly determined to do whatever it took. Or, perhaps, and this was the thought that scared her the most, Dorin was not a machine or man—it was a madman.

  Once the bodies were safely disposed of deep inside the forest, she worked on draining the blood from the room. Sweeping shards of frozen and dried blood worked in the beginning, but the parts that were still liquidated required more hands-on work. She scrubbed with the clothes and cloth that had belonged to the small family, now dead and discarded—treated worse than farm-animals. The dead child caused her to shiver again, and she wondered if the memory would ever leave her mind. I didn’t kill the child, she told herself, but it did little good. She was helping the creature who had killed the child—did that make her just as bad?

  The whole night she worked, cleaning as best as she could, but there were some stains that would never be cleaned. Although she had not eaten in many hours, she did not find herself hungry as the day passed. The gruesome sights she had seen allowed only for feelings of disgust.

  It was dawn by the time the home was suitably clean. A whole night had passed without a wink of sleep, but even when she sat still her nerves were on end. What is the bot doing right now anyway? She wondered, is it really going to grab some humans for me to sacrifice—channel their energy into Nandor so that he might live?

  Suddenly she realized she would never be able to do it. Not only was she untrained in the art of energy transfer, but she did not have the heart to see any more people die. Dobry, the people Dorin had killed—the war—it was too much. No more lives would suffer. Nandor would not wish it, and she could not stomach it.

  She found her feet wander over to the table Nandor was sprawled across. His body felt cold, and he was deathly still—but upon further examination, she realized that the bot was right in his assessment. There was a healthy glow about Nandor’s skin, and he looked impossibly well-preserved for a man who had been dead for days, or, indeed, for any man who had spent years in the wilderness at all. It was almost like he had reversed in age, or the wear and tear of age, at least. He was soft, and fresh and healthy looking—it would have been the most natural thing in the world if he had suddenly stood up and come alive as if nothing had ever happened.

  But he did not. He would not. Not without, as the bot put it, a spark.

  But what could she do to create a spark to set his body back in motion? Was mystic energy really the right way to go? To drain the life of another to fill into Nandor? Would that even make him the same man, or another person entirely?

  Mystic life stones had already been used to heal him—would that change who he was? His abilities? The souls and energy of six long deceased mystics all drained and wasted to heal his wounds, what are the repercussions of it?

  She pulled up a chair and grabbed the book the bot
had mentioned, Rorgjor’s Enlightened Powers.

  The first page showed a drawing of an ice drake—it was a terrible looking creature, with giant claws, wings and wicked teeth. The writing underneath the illustration was written: Defy death. Purify life. Enlighten yourself. She shuddered and turned the page. The table of contents was erratic. It mentioned everything from journal entries, to discoveries, to what sounded like different experimental powers that Rorgjor had personally attempted, or planned on attempting at a later date. The book was dated at over a hundred years old, and she found some comfort in the fact that the author was long dead. Some of the experiments sounded more than inhumane—they were torturous. Cruel only for the sake of results.

  Under a section labeled, The Potential Uses of Mystic Stones, she found the passage that Dorin had likely followed when healing Nandor’s wounds. It described unnatural powers.

  Like the life of any human soul, mystic life stones contain an enormous amount of potential energy. Much as a trained mystic may drain the soul of a human in order to transfer it into a bot, life stones may be drained for all different sorts of uses, and no mystic is required, only fire. Milt the stone down and pour it over a bodily ailment, and it may be healed in full. Crush a stone under the weight of a hammer and it may cause an explosion large enough to destroy an entire mansion. Indeed, although the colleges would wish it to be otherwise, wisdom and knowledge is not the only thing the stones are good for. The more I get my hands on, the more uses I am discovering.

  True, many may shun the use of life stones for anything other than their intended application of passing down knowledge—they may say that other uses are unnatural, or immoral, but most people have such a petty understanding of morality to begin with, and I have never been one to bow to the unassuming idle whims of the masses simply to save my name. For all power has a cost, and I am prepared to pay it in full. Even if it means using the lives of others, my path to enlightenment will never cease.

  She slammed the book closed. Rorgjor was a foul man. She was glad his teachings were forsaken at the college. Her eyes landed on Nandor again, and she was at a loss.

  Was there any humane way to restore him back to life? The worst parts were already done by the Jack-Bot… the murder, experimentation, and the stone transfers—surely that was enough.

  Just a spark to get it all moving again… she thought on it again, and her eyes landed on the nearby stun-stick. It was, perhaps, Nandor’s second-most prized possession. Nix had seen him use his trusty weapon on more than one occasion, and it always proved to be potent, but it had never actually killed anyone, merely rendered them unconscious, or motionless for several moments.

  Perhaps, she thought long and hard as her hand fell to the electric weapon, perhaps it could work…

  In the most literal sense, the stun-stick could certainly produce a spark. Stun-sticks operated by harvesting static and free-flowing energy from the surrounding air. But was electric energy what was required, or was mystic life force the only way to get his body moving again?

  Would it hurt Nandor to try?

  A sudden knock at the door caused her to jump and lose her train of thought. Then she recovered, and realized that Dorin had probably returned. She hid the stun-stick behind her back and swiftly walked to the doorway.

  Then she paused. There were human voices outside. Strange.

  She unlatched the small peephole on the door, and peered outside. A lone man stood in freshly fallen snow. He was old, dressed in furs, and there was a large hatchet slung across his back.

  Nix gulped. This was not a man brought by the Jack-Bot. This was someone else. Perhaps a friend, a neighbor, or a relative. Damn! What should I do, what should I do? If she ignored it, she risked him barging in and discovering Nandor’s body—or poking around the nearby woods and finding something even more gruesome…

  Damn!

  She tried in vain to calm her nerves, and with a swipe of her hand she brushed back her hair. She realized that she probably looked like a mess. The travel had been hard on her, her wounds needed new bandages, and the cleaning and moving of bodies had taken its toll. Too much time without sleep had caused shadows to form under her eyes, and what’s more, she had changed into the only fresh pair of clothes that she had found in the home, and they were far too large to fit her tiny frame. She looked like a child inside them.

  I can do this, I can do this… she lied to herself, and opened the door.

  A chill air rushed through the open door, sending shivers up her spine as she faced the stranger. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties—perhaps a farmer, or a woodcutter, on the verge of passing down his lands to his offspring. She tried her best to smile up at him, but he did not return the look.

  His gaze was suspicious, and critical, as if he knew something was wrong. “Girl, who are you? Where is Egold?”

  She calmed her breathing to not appear as nervous as she was, then she replied, “I am his niece from the city. My parents were killed by looters, and I came here. Egold is out hunting right now, if you come back he should be done by the end of the day.”

  Her words felt twisted on her tongue, and she knew she had taken several risks. One, judging by the bodies she had thrown into the woods, she resembled nothing like Egold’s family. They were all large boned and blonde or brown haired. She was small, both in height and structure, and her hair was as white as a snow bear. But perhaps the stranger can overlook that much, she hoped.

  His suspicious look grew, and he peered over her inside the house. She was glad she had just finished cleaning. “I saw his butcher shed—looks like it hasn’t been properly tended to in days… and he wasn’t at the gathering neither. Where is your aunt? Your cousin—the boy? Is something wrong?”

  Again, she tried to calm her nerves. He was asking a lot of questions that she could not answer. But then she realized she did not have to answer them. Who is this man, anyway? Why is he here? Perhaps I should be the one interrogating HIM! “What are you doing here, sir?” she asked, attempting to turn the table to her favor.

  He glanced downwards, examining her again. “You sure don’t look like any niece of Egold’s. What are you hiding, girl?”

  “None of your business!” she suddenly blurted, unable to contain herself. “These are dangerous times and you are a stranger! GO AWAY!”

  “Why, I’ve been a friend of Egold’s for over twenty years! You don’t be tellin’ me what to do, little wench!” He pushed her aside, and glanced in the corner of the room, “Is that a body on the table?” he roared, pointing at Nandor.

  She jumped behind him, and avoided his gaze. Suddenly she realized she had no choice. She pressed a button on the stun-stick’s grip, and it hummed to life. Then, she swung it for the stranger’s head.

  The old man dashed sideways, and twirled to face her. Her swing hit empty air, and she cursed. He was faster than she expected.

  The stranger pulled out his hatchet. “That was a very dumb move, girl,” he growled. “I don’t know what you’ve done with Egold and his family, but I’m going to find out!” He charged towards her, swinging his weapon.

  She ran outside, knowing that it was her only hope.

  The man ran after her, but he was slower, and he slipped in the snow. Nix darted behind a tree, clutching Nandor’s stun-stick with both hands. She could not run far and risk leaving Nandor behind, but if she tried to fight, she wagered on it ending badly for her.

  As the stranger cursed and climbed back to his feet, she yelled, “I’m being attacked—strange man with an axe! Help! Egold! Help!”

  She glanced around the tree, and saw the man pause mid-stride. He looked to be questioning himself for the first time. “You aren’t really his niece!”

  “I am too! He’s out hunting! My aunt and cousin are gathering herbs! Why are you attacking me? I swear, he’ll kill you when I tell him what you’ve done!”

  The old man did not come any closer. “B-but who was that man on the table! And why haven’t I heard of you befo
re!”

  “He was a man wounded in the war! I’m helping to tend to his wounds! Now leave before I have my uncle kill you like the woman-assaulting coward you are!”

  She half stood away from the tree to meet the man’s gaze in full. Her words were having the effect she desired. He was doubting himself, she just needed to strike a little harder. “Egold! Help!” she yelled again.

  The man almost turned as if he would walk away, but then a clever look came to him. “What is the name of your cousin, girl? The boy. Do you know it?” he asked, and took a step closer, his grip on his axe growing tighter.

  “Umm…” She bit her lip, and tried to think quickly. She had no reply. “I’m not telling you his name! Leave now!”

  Her opponent nearly grinned. “Ah, indeed. As I thought. You are a vagrant. You don’t even know Egold, do you? Nor his family. What have you done with them?”

  “O-of course I know him! I’m his niece!” she said, but her words lacked their former confidence. The man had seen through her little lie, and there was no putting the mask back on.

  “Then tell me his son’s name. Or for that matter, tell me his last name. Surely you can say that much?”

  But she could not. She had no idea who the people were. To her they were just a pile of bodies and organs, with little trace of anything else left.

  “That’s what I thought…” The man walked closer, raising his weapon. “Now tell me the truth or die by my axe.”

  He would kill her either way. The truth was too terrible to tell. Your friend was murdered by a heartless robotic creature, and his family along with him, all so it could bring back a man from the dead…

  No. It was either run, or fight. And she would not leave Nandor’s body again. Not when she was so close to saving him. She stepped out from behind the tree, held up the stun-stick, and instinctively prayed to whatever god was listening to give her strength. “Sir, I’m begging you one last time to leave. Forget this place. Forget your friend. Don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”