Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Ryo Jo manipulated controls with quick and easy movements, barked something into a radio, then turned about on the runway. As they increased speed Wodan felt his stomach pull back, fully aware that they could flip over in any one of the runway’s many huge puddles of sludge. They touched the sky, slammed back down such that Wodan was sure they were crashing, then sliced upward.

  “Gods!” shouted Wodan, swallowing his stomach.

  “Fun, isn’t it!”

  “Thing takes off like a pig over a fence! I guess I didn’t realize it was going to take off with so little runway!”

  Ryo Jo laughed over the roar of the engine. “This bad daddy made to land, take off, any surface. Oh, you make use of seat belt, these thing crash all the time!”

  “Now you tell me!”

  They rose upward until gray rock loomed before them, then circled the valley in upward spirals. Wodan saw mud lanes and hovels and bits of color of the village beneath the Temple, then saw the pale yellow fields that led down into the misted green of the Deepest Vale. Again Wodan realized that he had explored little more than a few square feet of the holy land. He wanted to see the Deepest Vale, but his resolve to see the Engels, and to follow the summons in his heart, was far stronger. He wondered if the guilt of leaving so much behind was even worth worrying over.

  They rose until Wodan saw the jagged peaks of the mountains overhead, crowned by violent gusts of gray cloud and rising columns of black snow. Ryo Jo turned their overhead lights on just as they plunged into the streaming mass. There was complete darkness and the close feeling of being shut inside a closet. The plane shook and its bolts seemed ready to give way.

  “Is this dangerous?” said Wodan.

  “Not at all,” Ryo Jo said with a whisper, blinking as sweat trickled into his eyes. “Not at all.”

  Timed stretched and they did not breathe as they tunneled through darkness, then, all at once, they broke into sunlight, sharp and white, and the gray stone far below stretched into pale pink sand and a gently rounded horizon.

  “Wooh! Ryo Jo need cigarette after brush with death.” The soldier’s hands shook as he produced a pack of Imperial Sun Number Ones, and Wodan rolled his own Valley leaf.

  “I don’t guess we can open a window,” said Wodan.

  Ryo Jo winked, said, “We turn on vent. This plane, it hauls many important dignitaries. They smoke big cigar all the time, so require accommodation. We put piss pot under seat for them too.”

  Wodan laughed, felt under his seat, and found a metal pot. “So I was important enough to warrant a piss pot?”

  “Of course!” Ryo Jo glanced at Wodan sideways, as if unsure of himself.

  Rank and station must be very important to them, thought Wodan. He wondered if there were piss pots of different sizes and materials, and if there had been arguments concerning the nature of a piss pot given to a wasteland king. Wodan wanted to know more about the people of San Ktari, but he was gripped by an overwhelming feeling that pushing the matter of piss pots would make Ryo Jo intensely uncomfortable.

  “Ryo Jo, why did you become a soldier?”

  “Ah... youngest son!”

  “So?”

  “So!” Ryo Jo laughed and shook his head. “So big brother worked with dad. He made enough money to not join army, but nothing left for little Ryo Jo. You see how it goes. Poor Ryo Jo. He have to join army and do push-ups. But, since I’m not a moron, I fly planes. It’s alright. Few years, I get license to open business, maybe, or have a big family.”

  They probably have complicated laws concerning conscription, labor, making and inheriting wealth, thought Wodan. The Empire doesn’t just expand against its neighbors, it also takes control of each individual life inside it.

  Wodan thought of simply asking Ryo Jo what he thought of the Empire, but he knew that that would probably be a good way to ensure a long flight in uncomfortable silence. Reckoning that he could skirt around the issue, he said, “You know that we’re going to meet with some of your Engels, don’t you? What do you think of them?”

  Again the seemingly carefree young man flashed Wodan a look of fearful suspicion. “Ah. Well. Ryo Jo just a nobody-nothing. Who cares what he thinks? Die Engelen, they are gods. So we worship them. Great Warmaster Josef, he tell us who to fight, how to fight, when to fight. So we do it. Who is Ryo Jo but a single nobody-nothing soldier? He take orders, like everyone else.”

  Wodan nodded thoughtfully, knowing full well that to press the man would only create a rift between them. A “nobody-nothing!” he thought. I hope none of my people ever think of themselves as something like that!

  But the Engels are different. The three I’ve seen don’t even look like the people of San Ktari. I can push them, learn about Ktari from them. That is, if they’re not caught up in their own propaganda yet.

  The tone lightened as the day wore on and Ryo Jo showed Wodan a few things about the controls. As soon as the sun set Ryo Jo crawled into the back and curled up beside Wodan’s backpack. “We sleep in shifts,” he said. “You know to fly straight. If it look like ground is rushing up suddenly, pull back on stick, but not hard enough to wake Ryo Jo. Tomorrow morning, we reach camp.”

  The excitement of flying the plane on his own ebbed quickly as Wodan watched the night. The nagging question of his destination, and the nature of San Ktari, needled at him without end. In a few hours Ryo Jo’s snores broke suddenly, and Wodan started awake too, thinking that the engine had died.

  “Ahhh,” said Ryo Jo, yawning. “What does fuel meter say?”

  “Hmm... it says zero,” Wodan lied.

  “Ah. Interesting. What altitude meter says.”

  “I don’t know. It’s spinning downward so rapidly I can’t read it.”

  “Oh well. You learn pretty good to fly plane, Wotan, but you also going to learn that anyone tries to make Ryo Jo move quick… will be disappointed.”

  Wodan heard Ryo Jo shifting about, then he drew still again.

  “Hey,” said Wodan. “You still awake?”

  Ryo Jo hummed.

  “I’ve been thinking. Where did the technology to make this plane come from?”

  “Hm? Someone ordered to make it.”

  “Well... what I’m trying to ask is, does San Ktari have a version of the Smiths? I mean, someone who protects and limits technology.”

  “Oh. Government in charge of technology. Great Emperor, he decides what is made, what is not made.”

  “Is this technology new, Ryo Jo? Has Ktari always had airplanes?”

  “Few years old, I guess. I dunno. I guess Emperor decide it was time for Empire to have airplane.” Wodan was unsure how to press the man, but in a few moments Ryo Jo spoke again, with soft deliberation, and Wodan heard his voice as some sort of disembodied narration giving form to the empty wasteland before him. “San Ktari is very old, oldest nation in world. And it was born out of revolution in nation that was oldest in the time of the Ancients. First Emperor fought beside the great philosopher Kon Fyutzu. With sword, with pen, they fought against corruption, decadence. They founded Ktari on philosophy of Kon Fyutzu, who taught that each man have his place in the grand scheme. Emperor is the man who sees will of Heaven and makes it real on Earth, and shows each man his place. This creates stability. Individual will is a wild beast... chaos can only make wild children, unfit to build tomorrow. Ktari has been, will always be. Only the Emperor... can think and do anything. They say that soon, the wild nature of the world will be tamed.”

  So only the Emperor can think outside the wasteland taboo against technology, thought Wodan. Sounds like their philosophy incorporates Smith beliefs as well as the charge of civic duty. But why the change? This plane, and the Engels themselves… they had to come from some idea. And that idea had to come from someone.

  “I see what you mean,” said Wodan. “I guess we do things a little differently in my land. Uh, Ryo Jo, do you have any dreams? Dreams of your own, outside of... what San Ktari might deem appropriate?”

  “Hm. Hnn.�
� Ryo Jo was silent for a very long time. “On a bombing run, one time I see a seaside fish and squid eatery. Just a little quiet place in a quiet town... was made of wood, surrounded by palm trees, even with hammocks to sit in. You imagine it? Anyway, as I drop payload of high-powered bombs that incinerate all life in area, I got idea that I would like to have such place. A relaxing little hangout, you know, lots of laid back people can go there. I don’t know. But ever since I dropped that payload... have been haunted by that dream ever since.”

  When a hint of blue crept up from the east, Ryo Jo shuffled up and he and Wodan danced in an awkward, zombie-like exchange of seats. Ryo Jo took the controls as yellow clouds tore across the land under sterile skies of dim white. Ryo Jo shook his head and muttered as sand raked across the windshield.

  When the sandstorm died, Wodan’s heart pounded violently: The black finger of the Tower lay ahead in a pool of red sand. As they drew nearer Wodan saw the wrecked hulks of vehicles around the thing. Small dunes had piled up around the dead machines. Sunlight caught along the edges of melted glass in the sand around the Tower, arranged in wild sprays. Several tents and one fat plane lay far off to the side, in a camp ringed with red flags.

  The Tower grew, black and without detail, a slender blade of ink that swallowed the light of the wasteland.

  The radio hissed, then a voice barked at them. Ryo Jo barked in reply. The voice spoke again, and suddenly Ryo Jo cursed, jerked the stick, and the plane shook in a sickening sideways lurch. Wodan grabbed his seat and hung on, swallowing convulsively against a tidal wave of puke. Ryo Jo cursed all the while, leaning against the plane’s controls as the wings pointed perpendicular to the ground.

  Finally Ryo Jo righted the plane and Wodan fell back against his seat.

  “What the hell!” said Wodan.

  “Sorry, so sorry,” said Ryo Jo. “They tell me that I am too close to Tower!”

  “Like hell! We were miles away, weren’t we?”

  “Yes, well no, but yes, uh, but they say... difficult to repeat... they say terrible fire-light destroy any plane, any vehicle, or anything that come near. Wotan, we are lucky to be alive! The Tower, it kills many soldier already!”

  “Damn it, Ryo Jo,” said Wodan, overcome. “Just why do your Engel war gods want to see me out here?”

  “Wotan, I really don’t know! I only obey orders!”

  “Gods below,” Wodan hissed. He sat back and let his breath out slowly as Ryo Jo directed them toward the Ktari encampment.

  ***

  Heat blasted them as soon as they stepped out of the air-conditioned Gul-in Kami. San Ktari fighters scurried to form lines around them, all in red and gray but without armor, faces hard and suspicious. Tents shivered and red black-sun banners tossed in the breeze. Ryo Jo stood rigid while Wodan casually dropped his backpack, unzipped his winter gear, and tied it off at his waist. Wodan ignored the impressive throng and peered into the distance. Through a haze of sand and grit, he could just make out the long slender tower, so black that it seemed a doorway into the abyss.

  The lines parted as other unarmored soldiers pushed their way through. Two men, so tall they seemed like giants, led the newcomers. Wodan smiled in recognition. Matthias, pale-skinned and black-haired, now had a slight beard on his handsome face. He wore a rough black uniform, a jacket despite the heat, and two massive handguns hung on his hips. His face was unreadable, empty of expression. Beside Matthias walked Justyn Daaz, who seemed even larger and stronger than he was a decade ago when Wodan first met him. He wore only red leather pants and some sort of red scarf around his neck. A ridiculously oversized double-headed axe bounced on his back. Grit fell from his long brown hair with every step. Wodan saw that his eyes were slanted like the natives of San Ktari, but otherwise his features were large and animated, with an almost brutish brow. Unlike Matthias, he smiled openly.

  Suddenly Matthias jerked his head to the side, barked, “Halt!” and the soldiers froze. He gestured at Ryo Jo and the man scurried away, casting up sand behind him. The soldiers stood in a circle well out of earshot when Matthias and Justyn stopped before Wodan.

  “Wodan,” said Matthias. “Is that really you?”

  “You can tell it is,” said Justyn, still smiling.

  Wodan was filled with a sense of warmth and kinship. It was a wonder to him that these two men, who once seemed alien and larger than life, now seemed to be cut from the same mold as himself. He extended a hand and Matthias took it.

  “Hey, listen,” Matthias said after a moment. “I’m sorry that I said I was going to kill you. You know, way back when.”

  Justyn nodded. “Same here.”

  Matthias turned to Justyn and sighed. “You don’t understand. I went back to Pontius after we let Wodan go. I met him alone and I said some things that I regret.”

  “You did what?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Wodan, smiling. “I know what it’s like to be pulled between what you’re supposed to do and what you want to do. We were children back then. Now we’re not.”

  Matthias gave Wodan a strange look. “You looked like a child then. Now you look like… well, it looks like Big Dad was right about you. You were the target we were looking for.”

  There’s so much about them I don’t understand, Wodan thought. There’s so much I need to ask them!

  “Is Dove here?” he asked. “Langley, I mean?”

  Matthias and Justyn exchanged a look. “That’s what this is about,” said Matthias. “I think we need your help.”

  ***

  The three sat alone in a large, dimly lit tent where Justyn slowly prepared some kind of food without the aid of fire and Matthias smoked with quick, nervous gestures.

  “So,” Wodan said finally. “You guys… you’re like me, right? You’re… not natural… just like me?”

  Matthias nodded. “You got it. We’re products of synthetic evolution, unnatural selection, gene-tweaking, bio-engineering, human optimization, performance enhancement, transhuman development, or just good old fashioned hubris – whatever you want to call it. You ever wonder why your skin looks like something from an advertisement, but the guys you hang out with have to use moisturizer and mud-packs to keep their faces from looking like a ball-sack? Well, there you go. Your “dad” wiped a little spit and polish on your genes, and now you can be used for the benefit of others in ways that normal humans can’t even imagine. Unfortunately, our dad doesn’t like your dad.”

  “My “dad”?”

  “You know. The Head of Haven’s Departments of Science and Research. That old prune-head, Didi.”

  Wodan hadn’t liked Matthias’s sarcastic tone concerning the great mystery that made up his very being, and hearing him slander Didi seemed too much. “Didi’s a great man,” he said quietly.

  “Is any man really all that great?” Matthias said without pause. “What kind of man holds an invisible gun to your head at all times? Keep in mind, I’m not trying to say that your dad is any worse than our dad. Big Dad holds a gun to our heads, too. His finger’s always on the Switch.”

  “Switch?”

  “Killswitch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one would make a weapon if they couldn’t turn it off, would they? All of us – you, me, Justyn, the other Engels - we all have tiny nano-scale machines in our bodies tuned to a certain frequency. That frequency is given off by our respective Killswitches. If one of our Switches is thrown, we’re incinerated. You didn’t know? It’s great. Theoretically, there would be a minimum amount of cleanup afterward. You could fit us all in one ashtray!” Matthias unholstered and spun one of his handguns in a nervous gesture, then holstered it forcefully. “And that, Wodan, is the main power that Big Dad and the Emperor have over us. Didi has that power over you.”

  Wodan felt suddenly cold. “That’s... terrible,” he said. “How could they…?”

  “You remember that, Wodan,” said Justyn, vehement, eyes hard. “To them, we’re nothing but tools. We only seem
like gods to people if they don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Your “dad” told you all this?” said Wodan.

  “He’s an asshole,” said Matthias. “But he’s an honest asshole. He made the twelve of us, the so-called “gods” of San Ktari. Die Engelen. I guess he didn’t like the idea of competition, so he sent me, Justyn, and Langley to find you... and kill you.”

  “But you didn’t. You followed me instead.”

  “We’re not tools,” said Justyn. Wodan heard resentment in his voice.

  “We thought you were interesting,” said Matthias, shrugging. “You started out like a normal untermensch, but no matter how much shit you got into, you refused to get killed.”

  “Unter... mensch?”

  “You know,” said Matthias, flicking his wrist dismissively. “Like those little unremarkable nobodies out there. The guys who worship us and do anything we say as long as their noose is around our necks. Does that sound familiar? They’re the guys who run the world, and they always wonder why the world is such a shitty place. You know. Those guys.”

  “You mean human beings,” said Wodan.

  “If you’re feeling generous with your labels, sure. I don’t know about you, Wodan, but my patience is running thin with human beings these days.” He looked at Wodan with an intense, probing stare. “We’re talking about the creatures that crucified you.”

  “Those were the Ugly,” said Wodan. “I stamped them out of existence.”

  Justyn laughed loudly.

  “But you guys saved my life that day,” said Wodan. “And Langley… she healed my hands. Matthias, they were ruined, I know they were. Her power, is it-”

  “Just like a Cognati. But hundreds of times more powerful.”

  “So was she trained in Srila?”

  “No. She figured it out on her own. She’s smart, man. She came along with our occupation forces to see if she could learn anything more from the people of Srila. She can do more than just bend spoons and stop bullets. Have you ever heard of a Cognati using their powers to put flesh and bone back together? She spent hours fusing the bones and flesh in your hands, Wodan. I’d never seen her do anything like it before.”