Bedlam

by M. T. Miller

  If I keep guessing and being corrected, I will adapt sooner than if I remained silent, the Nameless concluded. He prepared for the unpleasant question. His gut tightened from the anticipation.

  “The woman who leads these Juicers,” he said, “she is strong, quick, and her hair is purple. What do you know of her? What do you know of her gang?”

  “They call her the Purple Lightning,” David said. “’Rush’ is most likely an informal name. She’s known as unstable, unpredictable, and completely psychotic. Her gang, and we presume she too, are known for abusing some kind of chemical cocktail that makes them essentially superhuman. The Juicers don’t grow crops or trade; the whole organization, if we can call it that, rests on looting and pillaging.”

  A whole gang of people like Rush? The Nameless prepared for another headache. “Why haven’t they killed us all by now?”

  “They lack discipline,” Wallace said. “And numbers. They can’t meet anyone on the open field, so they avoid direct combat and keep skirmishing instead. Smart. If I were their leader, that’s what I’d tell them to do.”

  The Nameless took a moment to think. “Can they be reasoned with? Specifically, can their leader be reasoned with?”

  The tent went silent. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

  “My Lord,” said David, “are you actually considering an alliance with the Juicers?”

  “I am considering a parley with their leader,” the Nameless said. “No more and no less. Can this be arranged?”

  David looked at the others, then the map. “It can be attempted, sure. We could send a messenger and try and arrange a place of meeting. It wouldn’t guarantee a thing, but it would be a start. However…” he hesitated. “Are you certain of this? My Lord?”

  He was certain of only one thing: he needed to see Rush with his own eyes, and speak to her. He still knew nothing of the nature of this reality, but perhaps seeing her would tell him something more. Would she know him? Would she have her old memories as he did… or would she not? Whatever the case, all paths led to Rush.

  “I will think about it while the word travels,” said the Nameless. “Should something change—say, my opinion on the matter—you will all be informed in time. Now…” He pressed his back against the chair. “What else do I need to know?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was dusk when the Nameless left the tent. As before, Lydia led the way.

  What she’d told him before was correct; there both was and wasn’t a lot of information to absorb. While the Nameless found the details on the surrounding geography useful, he had enough familiarity with the Church and the Movement to cut those lectures short. Perhaps he would hear more tomorrow, if his mood improved by then. Probably not.

  Some of the passing men still tossed him confused stares. He knew well what this meant: his outbursts were morale hazards he would need to fix soon.

  In time, Lydia brought them to another tent. While it shared the others’ color pattern, it was immediately apparent that it was meant for luxury rather than practicality.

  “This reminds me,” the Nameless said. “You are no soldier. What exactly is your role in this army, Lydia?”

  She smiled as she pulled the entrance open. From where he stood, the Nameless noticed relics and valuables that could have only been spoils of war. Some of these were familiar: they had graced David’s office before he had them moved away. The others were new, but no less impressive to see. And in the middle of it all, a king-sized bed with gilded legs seemed to beckon him.

  “My Lord,” Lydia said as she led him in. “Let’s say I’m here to… oh, I dunno, relieve you of your tension.”

  She released his hand, stepping back toward the bed as she unzipped her catsuit. Accentuated even further by the surrounding candlelight, her perfect breasts slid out. And she kept pulling the zipper down…

  “Stop,” he unwillingly said, stepping forward and preventing her from continuing. The least I could do is show Rush some respect. Even if his time with her might have been a hallucination, to him those memories were more real than anything else. He would honor them until he could confirm otherwise.

  “Well, this is a first,” she said in thinly-veiled frustration. “My Lord.”

  “No need for honorifics,” the Nameless said. He released his grip. Then, before she could zip herself back up, he came in even closer, wrapping both arms around her. He pressed them so close he could hear her heartbeat.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “You weren’t gone for that long,” she said. She wasn’t showing signs of unwillingness or discomfort.

  “I am not so certain,” the Nameless said.

  I am not certain of anything anymore.

  ***

  Though he’d spent the night at Lydia’s side, the Nameless refrained from touching her. At least while he was awake.

  When dawn struck and the camp awoke with an echoing clarion, he was among the first to rise. Still groggy and apparently used to sleeping through the morning, Lydia gave him a one-eyed side-stare. One of her hands fumbled over the side of the bed he’d slept on.

  “You don’t need to,” she absently said. “The horn is for the men’s discipline, not yours.”

  “Perhaps I am in need of some discipline myself,” he said as he put his clothes on. “Rest, Lydia. We will speak later.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice. For all he knew, she fell asleep before he finished his sentence.

  Now, he thought as he went for the exit, let us see what Tarantula meant.

  As he stepped out into the open, he ignored the stares of the nearby men who hurriedly marched to their posts. At the moment, there were more pressing matters. He proceeded along several rows of tents before he found what he needed: a small, closed-off yard surrounded by a high, sturdy-looking wall. He stepped into the tent beside it.

  “The yard,” he said to the man closest to the entrance. He was young and thin, but the uniform he was putting on had the markings of an officer. “I need to use it, perhaps for an hour or so. Where are the keys?”

  “I have them, my Lord,” the man said as he hurriedly buttoned up his shirt and stood at attention.

  The Nameless extended his hand. “At ease. Give them to me, and I will return them after I am done.”

  “But what about this squad’s training, my Lord?”

  “Take a day off,” said the Nameless. “Treat yourselves. You deserve it.”

  The man smiled as he pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them over. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  The Nameless took the keys and silently exited the tent. He came around to the yard, unlocked the gate, entered, and locked it from the other side.

  The training grounds were simple, yet had nearly everything a warrior needed: a fighting circle, a series of thick, hard pillows for the men to sit on, and a set of weapon racks at the sides. There was a notable lack of bows or archery targets, but the Nameless reasoned such training took place at other locations. Irrelevant for my current needs.

  He approached the fighting circle. He stepped into the center and sat with his legs crossed. As he prepared to enter a meditative trance, the Nameless found his thoughts gravitating back to the pyramid, to what happened there.

  She is alive, he told himself, in an attempt to curb the tension growing in his gut. If Lydia and Tarantula were still alive, then Rush could be as well. He didn’t know how or why, or what was real and what was illusion, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever it might take, if she was in this world, he would find her. The same went for SIM, though for him the result would be far less enjoyable.

  Why would he betray us, though? the Nameless wondered. For all intents and purposes, SIM was the third most powerful man in Babylon. Whatever he wished, he could’ve gotten. However, for some reason, he chose to deny himself every pleasure he possibly could, and seemed to only enjoy work and results of said work.

  If he wanted to pull a coup, there were less bloody ways of doing
it. By inviting Chastity, then causing the havoc that followed her visit, SIM ensured that his reign would be brief. If he’d done it, it made about as much sense as the chaos that preceded and followed it.

  Enough of this, the Nameless thought. It made his head hurt, and he needed to focus. Whatever the nature of this world, he was in it now, and if he ever wanted to succeed or, gods willing, get back, he needed to do what he always did and move forward. Tarantula supposedly did something to me. Time to learn more.

  The Nameless closed his eyes, steadying his breathing and forcing his consciousness to open up to the invisible. The overwhelming effect this had on his senses almost made him faint.

  This… this is the world around me? The lifeblood of the universe coursed around, under, and over him. This was completely unlike the scraps his cult had been feeding him with, and the bloody offerings he’d taken through murder paled in comparison. The magic now flowed freely and in all directions at once; vivid, animate, and waiting to be used.

  The Nameless grabbed a handful of this power, somewhere near his right foot. Initially composed of many shifting colors, this amorphous mass momentarily turned red and volatile, as if in reaction to his touch.

  He opened his eyes, eager to see what was in his grasp. To his surprise, the magic was still in his palm; pulsating with the color of blood. His eyes drifted down to where he’d taken it from. In the hard, beaten floor of the fighting circle, there was a fist-sized hole.

  Incredible. He closed his fingers around the magic-figment. There must be a way to use it. The blood that dripped down from his fist and onto the ground was proof that something had indeed happened.

  He turned his palm outward and spread his fingers, noting that he was already bleeding less. In the center of his hand was a small (yet sharp) piece of a jagged blade. Floating around it were the few still-unspent remnants of the magic he’d used. As if by command, they flowed into what was left of the wound, closing it shut within seconds.

  I created this. He looked at the blade from several angles. It wasn’t easy on the eyes, but there wasn’t any doubt about its sharpness. I wonder what else I can do.

  He shut his eyes again, letting himself see the world as it really was. Now with a clear idea in mind, he grabbed two handfuls of the magic and joined them in front of his chest. While keeping the end result clearly visualized, he stretched the soul-mass to some six feet in length, gave it a moment to solidify, then looked at it with his material sight.

  Before him was a serrated and ugly spear made from black steel. At a loss for words as well as thoughts, he rose with it in hand and took a fighting stance. The holes he’d made in the ground were sizeable, but he didn’t stumble.

  This is nothing to scoff at. He stabbed at the air a couple of times, then inspected the spear visually again. Pleased, he proceeded to the gate. In combination with his combat skills, this ability he’d just developed would be sheer terror.

  Terror, he thought as he left the practice yard. They used to call him that, way back in another life. The Nameless still had no idea what was going on, but he was certain of one thing: those who dared stand between him and Rush would learn how he’d earned his old moniker.

  ***

  The flag was high up in the air, dancing to the tune of the desert wind. In keeping with the omnipresent color scheme, it was black, with an oppositely-facing pair of long-bladed scythes joined at their grips so they formed the letter “N.”

  The Nameless stood near it, lost in thought. They even made me a coat of arms. Whatever he had done in the past, it must have been impressive. But if he was to keep these people’s loyalty after his recent outburst, he would have to keep impressing them. Especially given what I plan to do.

  “My Lord!” A familiar man’s voice called to him from the direction of the command tent. The Nameless turned around, clenching both fists when he found himself faced with Azarian.

  “General,” he said with subdued disdain. Even though it had happened so long ago, the scars from the man’s betrayal still burned hot in the Nameless’ memory. Now, like so many others, he lived again.

  Azarian stuck a hand inside his pocket, pulling out a note. It had been crumpled, but seemed to have been flattened again afterward. “We got a response from the Juicers.”

  The Nameless took the paper. “What happened to it?”

  “That’s the way it was delivered,” Azarian said. “These… these people, they’re not right in the head, my Lord. Everyone knows it. You can ask around the camp if you don’t believe me.”

  Even if you were right, the Nameless thought as he focused on the note, only a fool would take what you say at face value.

  The note had been scribbled in a childish, ugly handwriting that the Nameless recognized instantly. Only Rush was capable of making such a mess with ink.

  Dear shithead, she had written. You wanna talk, you come at me in the center of the Spine. You bring more than four people with ya, I bail. Fuck you.

  “Where is this Spine?” the Nameless asked as he folded the note and put it in his inner pocket.

  “My Lord,” Azarian said, “you are not considering…?”

  We have been here before, you and I. The Nameless closed his eyes. It did not end well.

  “Please,” Azarian said. “I mean no offense, Lord, but you aren’t well. That witch has done something to you, maybe as revenge for what you did to her associates….”

  He went on, but the Nameless stopped listening. Instead of Azarian himself, he focused on the energies that composed his body. Each piece of tissue, each muscle, each bone was, in essence, solidified energy.

  The Nameless re-opened his eyes. However, this time he kept the unseen eyes opened, so he saw both Azarian and the magic that comprised his being.

  “We will meet with Rush,” he said. “So I command. Any complaints, General?”

  Azarian’s stare darkened for the briefest of moments before his expression went serene again. “No, my Lord. As you say, so it will be.”

  Still the same, the Nameless thought. He tensed his muscles.

  “Death has changed you little,” he said.

  If Azarian had an answer for that, the Nameless didn’t let him say it. Within the blink of an eye he lunged forward, grabbing the piece of ephemera that swirled in the core of the general’s being. Pulling it out was easy as pie. As if the man was made of silk, the Nameless ripped his hand free, causing the lifeless body to drop on the ground.

  The red blob of power that used to be Azarian’s heart swirled around the Nameless’ fingers. He knew what to do with it, but for the moment looked around the camp. There were maybe about a hundred people around the flag. Before the execution, they had been minding their business. After it, their unblinking eyes were trained on the Nameless.

  “Behold!” he shouted, lifting the magic he’d ripped from Azarian for everyone to see. “The price of betrayal!”

  He closed his palm, and the energy took shape. From between each of his fingers, a single, black blade protruded. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but he paid it no heed.

  “He who will not serve me as a man,” he bellowed, “will serve just as well as an instrument of pain!”

  He let the blades drop beside his boots, his skin already recovering as he set course toward Tarantula’s tent.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He found Tarantula sitting in the center of her tent, surrounded by several dozen red candles. She was completely nude. Her supple, sun-tanned skin glistened with traces of sweat, making her even more desirable. The Nameless forbade himself from reacting. For all he knew, she wanted him to see her like that.

  “I have questions,” he said. “Can you talk, or are you full of hallucinogens?”

  She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “What I make is only for others, Lord Nameless. When I want to enter the spirit world, I don’t need any help.” She gave him a faint smile. “Ask away, my Lord, and I will answer as well as I can.”

  “Do you hear the rac
ket?” the Nameless pointed back. “The camp is reacting to me killing Azarian.”

  Tarantula’s expression didn’t change. “Oh? Might I ask why you would do that?”

  “No,” said the Nameless. “I did have good reason. What I came to talk to you about is the way in which I ended his life.” He reached down, grabbing a handful of magic from the soil. It swirled around his palm as he stood back up.

  “The world is mine to shape, Tarantula. When I focus hard enough, I see existence the way it really is. And when you know where to push or pull…”

  He joined his palms, separating them a moment later, and showing her the crude, serrated blade he’d created.

  “This becomes possible,” he said.

  Tarantula’s eyebrows practically touched her hairline. She rose, her soft parts swaying. “Can you… can you turn anything into anything?”

  “Apparently not,” he said, handing her the knife. “Whatever I do, I only seem to create weapons.”

  She turned the knife around. “And you can do this with living beings?” Her eyebrows lowered. “With me?”

  The Nameless looked at her with his second sight. The magic was much thicker than with Azarian, but she was still composed of the same stuff. He chose not to experiment on her.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Contrary to his expectations, she grinned.

  “You expected this?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” said Tarantula. She handed him the weapon back. “But this is a good thing, I’d say. Imagine what you could do with time and practice. This might just be the tip of the iceberg!”

  The Nameless thought about his response. There was no way in which this wasn’t a gift. Granted, it didn’t bring him any closer to deciphering this whole insanity, but it was a start. If only I knew what it means.

  The curtain behind him slid aside.

  “Nameless!” Lydia shouted angrily. She was flanked by a pair of guards. “Lord! They say you’ve killed General Azarian!”

  The Nameless lifted the blade above his head. He effortlessly turned it back into red mist. Slowly, the particles swirled around his fingers as he talked. “It is absolutely true. Azarian had treasonous aspirations, and I have nipped them in the bud.”