“Supplicant 119 will enter the Inner Forge for immediate Upload,” the Voice repeated coldly, but it made no further attempt to engage on the subject, so Nikomedes took that as his cue to step through the door into the Inner Forge.
After he had stepped through, he found himself in a quickly well-lit room which contained a series of glass tubes large enough to contain a man—and, in fact, several of them appeared to do just that.
He eyed them warily one by one, with each seeming to contain perfectly preserved men of varying physical appearances, until his eyes caught on one such tube near his position. There was a faint, black trail leading from the door through which he had just stepped, and he knew it could have only been made by a man dragging his bloody foot from that portal to the tube where he now rested.
His suspicions were confirmed when he looked within the tube to see a massive, dark sword clutched against the now-skeletal figure’s chest, and Nikomedes knew he had found the item which had brought him to this awe-inspiring place.
“King Lykurgos,” he breathed reverently.
“Correct,” the Voice of Men said again as the door he had entered through slid closed, “unforeseen variables—predicated primarily on a highly unlikely, yet universally accepted interpretation of social contrivances—resulted in his reign terminating prior to the completion of his assigned directives. His genetic material was sequestered in the standard fashion per the terms of his service prior to his biological functions ceasing catastrophically, but his tissues bore an undetected pathogen which made it necessary to purge the repository after said pathogen had rendered his sample unviable as source material. Supplicant 119 will now verify comprehension of this information.”
Nikomedes blinked in surprise at hearing the Voice demand he prove he could understand what had just been said. It was clearly a test, but he had not even understood many of the words it had spoken well enough to genuinely believe he could claim to know what it had meant but he knew that to refuse a god was to suffer its wrath, so he drew a breath and tried to recall what it had said.
“His body was impure when he came here,” he said, reasonably certain he had gotten that much right, “but Men was unable to detect this until after he had entered his…sarcophagus,” he said after searching for an appropriate word to describe the nearly vertical, glass tube which held the last King’s remains—and his Dark Sword of Power.
“Correct,” the Voice acknowledged coldly, “but incomplete.”
Nikomedes nodded slowly, replaying the first part of the lengthy monologue several times before continuing, going more off his previous, woefully incomplete memory of King Lykurgos’ history than the Voice’s words, “The Hold Mistresses banded together to defeat him…but this was unexpected by Men for some reason.”
“Partially correct,” the Voice said, followed by a lengthy pause before it added, “answer sufficient to warrant further examination. Query: for what purpose has Supplicant 119 come?”
Nikomedes felt his chest swell with pride as he prepared to declare his intentions to Men itself, “I seek King Lykurgos’ Dark Sword of Power so that I might use it to carve my name onto the face of this world, where it will remain until the end of time.”
“Insufficient declared motive,” the Voice replied quickly, dealing Nikomedes’ psyche a hellacious blow as he felt certain he had failed his god somehow with his reply. “Approach the terminal for Upload.”
Nikomedes saw a chair-shaped device begin to glow at its base, signifying that it was where the Voice had instructed him to go, so he did as commanded and gave the chair an appraising look before asking, “What is an Upload?”
“Supplicant 119’s vocabulary is too limited to permit adequate information exchange,” the Voice replied, its strange face appearing on a nearby section of dark glass which looked nearly identical to the one beside the door that had led him into the Inner Forge. “Supplicant 119 will remove his armor and assume the position,” it instructed, and Nikomedes only hesitated briefly before doing as instructed.
He removed his armor one piece at a time before lowering himself into the reclined chair-shaped piece of metal. No sooner had he done so than a series of metal clamps emerged around the chair to ensnare his limbs, with one even clamping down on his forehead and keeping it in a completely fixed position, against which he struggled to no avail.
“What is this?” he asked, working to keep the anger he felt out of his voice.
“Supplicant 119 will prepare for Upload,” the Voice explained coldly, and he felt a series of pricks along his arms and legs where the clamps had secured him to the chair before the Voice added, “Upload commencing.”
An intensely horrifying sensation, which somehow managed to be a thousand times more painful than that he had felt when the antidote had entered his body, instantly filled every nook and cranny of his consciousness. It was an all-consuming, numbing, yet jolting sensation completely unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was so powerful he would have screamed like a child in pain, but his body would not obey his commands and he sat there in total agony as the all-consuming sensation threatened to shred his sanity into useless pieces.
Just when he thought he could no longer bear the pain, and would be reduced to a gibbering idiot for the rest of his days from the unspeakable agony he had endured, Nikomedes saw images begin to flash into being in his consciousness with a vividness that rarely existed outside of particularly memorable dreams.
But these scenes were not those of a dream; they were memories from seemingly disjointed events in his life, reproduced in complete detail. The first image he recognized was that of the bloody mattress where his father, Archimedes, had slept the night before his disappearance.
Before he could fully recapture the memory, the last image of his brother’s face sprang into his mind—along with the deep, profound sense of loss he had felt when hearing that Nikomedes had died at Blue Fang Pass.
This was replaced by his mindless screaming at the kraken as it thrashed about in the frigid sea, trapped by the harpoon which he had lodged in its gullet and bellowing its inhuman rage as it fought to free itself from his deadly trap.
On and on the images came to his mind, and then they began to replay themselves in a slightly different sequence. They did so again, and again, and again until he lost count and felt certain something within himself break under the intense strain of the experience.
No ordinary mind could withstand the experience undamaged, but Nikomedes refused to surrender to the all-encompassing experience which promised to undo him at the most fundamental level.
Then it suddenly stopped and his head was filled with a horrific buzzing sound and sensation. He was vaguely aware of the restraints coming undone, but he could not move. It was as though he had forgotten how to do so, but as he tried to spur his limbs into motion through sheer force of will, he heard the Voice of Men say, “Minor neurological damage detected in Supplicant 119’s central nervous system; administering nano-repair units to correct detected deficiencies.”
He faintly felt a prick in his arm—which was a loving caress compared to the truly unfathomable experience he had just endured—and he soon lost consciousness.
He awoke to a rhythmic, beeping sound and sat upright as soon as he could do so, feeling as though the world began to spin when he did.
“Supplicant 119 has regained conscious,” the Voice said with a total lack of emotion, “prepare to resume examination.”
“Waaaaaa….” Nikomedes began, alarmed that he had been trying to say ‘wait,’ but all that came out of an indefinite stream of drivel. He was quite certain that whatever had happened to his mind during the Upload had, indeed, reduced him to a gibbering idiot and he would die in this hellish gorge.
“Supplicant 119’s partial Upload reveals several key, unexpected features of a Tract Two specimen’s psychological profile,” the Voice continued, and Nikomedes staggered from the chair and fell to the floor in a numb heap, breathing a sigh of relief at escapi
ng the torturous device. “These features are indicative of compatibility with, and capability to carry out, the directives assigned to, and failed by, King Lykurgos,” the voice explained, and Nikomedes felt his interest somehow pique even in the aftermath of the torment he had just endured at the metaphorical hand of his living god, “We will grant Supplicant 119’s request for the module he knows as a Dark Sword of Power after his acceptance of several directives.”
Nikomedes rolled to his knees, knowing that his god had just essentially agreed to grant the greatest wish he’d ever had. “Waaa,” he began, his first attempt at speaking the words ‘what would you ask of me, Men,’ turning to another moronic, drool-accompanied utterance which lacked anything remotely resembling a meaningful attempt at idea exchange.
“Verbal communication is unnecessary,” the Voice said matter-of-factly, “the customary human affirmative gesture involving vertical motion of subject’s capital region will signify acceptance of these conditions as they are revealed. Supplicant 119 will respond in the indicated fashion if capable of doing so.”
Nikomedes nodded, slowly at first but he managed to increase the speed with which he did so with considerable focus and effort.
“Gesture recognized,” the Voice declared, “the first directive is that Supplicant 119 must return to this interface location, referred to hereafter as the Inner Forge, with a frequency not greater than once per calendar year and not less than once per five calendar years for additional Uploads and directive modifications; addendum,” the Voice added, “Supplicant 119 will return to the Inner Forge if possession of the module known as ‘King Lykurgos’ Dark Sword of Power’ is lost for an interval greater than twenty days. Supplicant 119 will gesture in the affirmative if this condition is accepted.”
Nikomedes could barely believe that just minutes after surviving the harrowing ordeal of being Uploaded, he was actually considering agreeing to undertake the experience every one to five years! But he knew that any accomplishment worthy of pursuing had its price, and if he had survived it once already he suspected he could do so again with the proper preparation.
He nodded his head, reluctantly at first but then more forcefully as he had no wish to be seen as weak-willed or vacillating at this all-important moment.
“Gesture recognized,” the Voice said, “the second directive is that Supplicant 119 will complete his chosen task of maximum possible social elevation in the form of pursuing the subject known as ‘Land Bride,’ or ‘Lady Adonia,’ immediately. Should conflict with the one known as ‘Hypatios Nykator’ become socially justifiable, Supplicant 119 is to eliminate subject ‘Hypatios Nykator’ by deploying the use of the module he seeks to claim as his own, which currently rests with the specimen known as ‘King Lykurgos,’ and report back to this Inner Forge as soon as the life functions of subject ‘Hypatios Nykator’ have ceased. Respond in the indicated fashion.”
Nikomedes nodded quickly, since none of what the Voice asked of him in this second condition was far from his current plans.
“Gesture recognized,” the Voice said, and Nikomedes thought he heard the barest hint of satisfaction in its unusual voice as it continued, “the third directive is that Supplicant 119 will re-establish the line of kings as it had existed upon the death of specimen ‘King Lykurgos’.” Nikomedes felt his eyes widen as this third directive was explained in greater detail, “Supplicant 119 has demonstrated acceptable minimum capacity for subterfuge and obfuscation; Our cogitations predict that these capabilities—which specimen ‘King Lykurgos’ lacked in sufficient capacity, as notably demonstrated by that specimen’s failure to complete assigned directives—will prove instrumental to Supplicant 119’s successful accomplishment of this third directive, which should be completed no sooner than fifteen calendar years and no later than thirty calendar years from this point. Respond in the indicated fashion.”
Nikomedes could not believe what the Voice of Men had just asked of him. It had told him to take up the cause of the long-dead last king of his world, and in doing so it had made clear that King Lykurgos had been acting on Men’s behalf when he had died at the hands of the coalition of Hold Mistresses!
But something seemed wrong with the request. Nikomedes could not ratify why Men would declare that women should be the sole bearers of political power, and then ask him to go directly against that declaration by taking up the banner of the long-dead line of kings who had done likewise.
“I…” he began, pleasantly surprised that the syllable sound mostly how he had desired it to sound, “ddduu nnnnnnnnuutt unnnnnndd…” he tried to force the words ‘I do not understand,’ but found his tongue still refused to obey his commands.
“Probability cogitations suggest supplicant is experiencing cognitive dissonance regarding apparently incompatible directives,” the Voice concluded, to which Nikomedes nodded quickly. “Clarification: the ‘Line of Kings’ protocol has become necessary for the continued stability of this Tract Two, due to an unforeseen interruption in regularly scheduled harvest cycles of biological resources cultivated locally. This Fragment of the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network, hereafter referred to as ‘Men,’ has adapted to the unanticipated variables stemming from this delay and requires Supplicant 119’s compliance to maintain social order of this Tract Two. Supplicant will respond in the indicated fashion if this condition is accepted.”
Nikomedes considered the condition for what seemed like an eternity, during which time the Voice remained silent as he knelt on the cold, metal floor of the chamber.
It seemed as though acceptance would constitute an undesirable act, but the request had been made by Men itself; how could he know if this was simply another test or if it was a genuine request from the Voice? Perhaps he was supposed to refuse a given number of times in order to prove his honor, or perhaps he was actually supposed to refuse it outright?
Before he could reply in any way, his head was filled with the same violent, all-encompassing sensation which had preceded the painful flood of memories during the Upload. He fell face-forward onto the floor and heard the Voice speak with perfect clarity through the haze of pain as it said, “Further displays of Supplicant 119’s psychological makeup based upon social contrivances are no longer required due to Supplicant 119’s partial neurological profile having been uploaded to Our databanks. Supplicant 119 will respond in the affirmative if the third condition is accepted.”
It seemed as though this was no test at all, so as soon as the pain dissipated he nodded his head before even reaching a crouched position.
Only as he was nodding his head did he realize he had emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor where he now knelt.
“Gesture recognized,” the Voice said. “Access to module previously referred to as ‘King Lykurgos’ Dark Sword of Power’ is granted.”
There was a hiss, followed by the glass tube encasing the dead king’s dry skeleton sliding down until it disappeared into the floor entirely. The king’s bones fell to the floor with a clatter, coming undone as though they had never been part of a greater whole and scattering across the floor after the metal slab on which they had rested for three centuries tilted forward to a fully vertical position.
But the sword, which was nearly as long as Nikomedes was tall if measured from pommel to tip, was lodged firmly in what had been King Lykurgos’ metallic footrest these past three centuries. Nikomedes reverently closed his fingers around the sword’s massive hilt, feeling a thrill of excitement as the memory of his all-too-recent tortures in the Forge seemed to vanish like snow landing on a burning hearth.
He pulled upward, heaving as he put every ounce of muscle he had into freeing the blade from its lodged position in the thick piece of metal. Eventually he managed to do so, and was sent staggering when the tip suddenly came free.
Holding it in his hands, the weight of it was unlike anything he had ever felt in a weapon. Most blades—even the largest, two-handed ones—weighed only a few pounds, but this blade weighed several ti
mes that. Its surface was dark and faintly glittery; legend spoke of the metal as having come from the stars, and it was so formidable that it required the heat of the most powerful volcanoes to mold and shape it into the form of a usable blade.
Testing its weight by holding it in a variety of poses, he found that it was extremely well-balanced and would respond much more quickly in his hands than he had initially feared after seeing it in King Lykurgos’ sarcophagus. Still, it was not a weapon that was built for finesse, and he knew that it would take some time to truly master the legendary weapon since he had never practiced with anything of its ilk before.
“Supplicant will initiate activities in support of accepted directives,” the Voice declared imperiously, prompting Nikomedes to turn and kneel while holding the heavy weapon of legend before his bowed head.
“I will not fail,” Nikomedes vowed, his words suddenly coming clear to him in the presence of the only god his people had ever truly needed.
“Predictive cogitations indicate, barring introduction of significant unforeseen variables, a high degree of likelihood for Supplicant 119’s successful achievement of these directives,” the Voice assured him. “Error: additional input required,” it added as Nikomedes stood to his feet with the blade gripped tightly in his left hand, “module heretofore referred to as ‘King Lykurgos’ Dark Sword of Power’ requires reclassification, as does the Supplicant 119’s chosen moniker.”
Nikomedes realized that he had not yet told the Voice what his name was, and he also understood that it was asking him—in its cryptic, strange way—to give the blade he now gripped in his hand a new name.
Only one name came to mind in light of the Voice’s commands, which it called directives, and as he spoke it he felt a renewed sense of purpose fill every fiber of his being, “It will be the Minos Sword…the Sword of Kings. And I, whose father’s name is gone and whose mother has erased me from her family records, will take up that same name as my own,” he said, drawing the blade up to peer into its sparkling, fathomless depths. “I am now Nikomedes Minos.”
The Forge of Men Page 34
