by Lee Bond
Clawing at loose strands of degenerating Filler sticking to her head and face, terrified of opening her eyes lest gobs of the mildly toxic bouillabaisse stick right to her eyeballs, the Shriven flopped forward and let instinct guide her; it was difficult to pull her way through –all unseen- away from the stasis pods because of the veritable ocean of liquefying Filler spreading outward, but she worked at it as only a Shriven could.
It took her a full minute of desperate, frantic activity to realize that someone was talking to her, very gently, very comfortingly.
“It’s all right, si, you’re going to be fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“Easy …” A sour-tasting dollop of Filler-strand flopped from the top of her lip right into her mouth, convincing Mayin that it wasn’t a terribly good idea to try and talk just yet. Her stomach warred with the rest of the Universe, and it was only through Shriven concentration that she got out of the situation without doing anything more than letting loose with a very unladylike 'yakking' sound.
“According to my AI, who has finally begun acting reasonably, once the liquefaction process for Filler has been activated, it’s actually a very short time before it solidifies once more into something infinitely less resili… ah, there, you see? Drying and cracking like sunburned skin even as we speak.”
Her unseen rescuer was right; as she struggled through the sea of liquid Filler, she felt more than saw strands of the stuff drying and cracking across her body as she moved, wafer thin flakes breaking down into dust only a few seconds later.
Now she was more or less consciously aware of who she was, Mayin stopped struggling to be free and simply waited for the Filler to complete it’s self-guided chemical destruction. She swung into a blind, seated position, ears full of faint crackcrackcrack sounds as Filler turned into dust.
A hazy scent curled under nose, almost but not entirely disguised by the harsh chemical smells surrounding her.
“Is the ship on fire?” she demanded ardently, heart picking up speed once again.
“Hardly, Mayin Chisolm.” Tomas took a deep pull on his pipe and held it in his lungs for a good thirty seconds before releasing a powerful plume of brilliant white smoke. “I had some time on my hands so I took advantage of the lull and decided to have a smoke.”
“You’re smoking a pipe.” Mayin couldn’t believe her ears and was about to chastise the man for being so reckless when the fine coating of Filler stuck to her face finally caught up with the rest of the stuff and broke away into a fine drizzle of chemically-created sand. She spared a few moments to carefully make certain that every inch of her face was free and clear of anything that might get into her eyes, nose or mouth.
When she was certain that she’d be able to look her rescuer in the face –all while determining whether or not said rescuer was going to remain alive much longer- Mayin did just that; she popped her eyes open and trained them in the direction towards where the pipe-smoking liberator was located.
And promptly planted her face against the deck, singsong litany pouring from her lips.
Tomas’ lower lip stuck out about as far as it was possible to go without detaching from his face.
“Well, this is weird.” He said to no one in particular, silently daring his AI to say one edgewise word concerning it’s continued and irrational inability to understand anything coming from his mouth.
The man hopped out of the chair and walked over to where Mayin Chisolm was trying to push her forehead through the steel VII deck plate. He poked her in the shoulder with his walking stick.
“Hey. What’s going on down there? This is making me kind of uncomfortable. You’re being weird. Did … did you swallow some of the Filler-goop? That’s toxic.”
Mayin kept up with the litany, terrified to slow or stop the flow of words. It didn’t matter that … he was being chatty and cordial. She’d seen this side of … of him before now and it was always a guess as to which direction the conversation would head.
Tomas tilted his head to one side, ears pricking as they picked up the occasional syllable here and there. EuroJapanese. Or, more specifically, Japanese. One of the oldest known variants as well. Far beyond his ability to decipher more than a few words.
“What’s this? Honor? Allegiance? Hrrm … what’s that? Undying … no … eternal … subse … no … no … eternal servitude? You, Mayin. Tell me what in the hell is going on here?”
Mayin reacted as if the man’s words were lightning bolts slamming through her spine. She swung immediately into the most subservient bow she could muster under the circumstances, took one ephemeral look at his face, then slammed her eyes shut. “All hail, Emperor-for-Life Etienne Marseilles. I am your humble servant and I will do your bidding in all things. I am not worthy of saving and I thank you.”
Then she pressed her head against the deck plate once more.
“Well, that's all sorts of wrong. I think the Filler melted your brain or something.” Tomas poked her in the shoulder again. “My name is Tomas. Tomas Kamagana from … well, I suppose from Hospitalis. That’s in Latelyspace. I … might have a passing similarity to the Emperor, I suppose. Upon a time a long time ago, he announced to all the Yellow Dog Clans that the Kamagana Line were direct descendants of his, so …”
“My Emperor, I have gazed upon your visage many times before now.” Mayin mumbled into the cold metal. “I am one of your most loyal Shriven agents. You have entrusted unto me missions of great importance. I know your face as I know my own. You are the Emperor-for-Life. If it pleases you to play these games, then so be it, but I know who you are.”
Tomas didn’t know what to say. The fervor in Mayin’s tone was undeniable. Undeniable, but wrong, and he’d be a terrible old man if he allowed the fallacy to continue for one more second. “Si, I’m not the Emperor. I can’t be. I’m an old man, a relic. The Emperor … is the Emperor-for-Life. Eternal.”
“My Lord Emperor,” Mayin shifted into a kneeling position and risked looking upwards just enough to see His face, “are you feeling well? Your visage is considerably younger than the last time I was graced to be in your presence. Have you undergone rejuvenation since then? I am not terribly familiar with the process, but I have read somewhere that it can sometimes affect the recipient’s memory.”
Tomas snorted. The woman had gone mad. The stasis chamber –or the events leading up to her climbing inside- had driven her completely insane.
If she was Shriven –and there was no reason to deny her claims- then she wasn’t entirely sane to begin with, which led Tomas to the most plausible determination; her utmost devotion, her genetically-bound loyalty to the Emperor-for-Life, combined with whatever had cracked her mind wide open, had left her addlepated, forcing her to bond with the one person who’d saved her life. And because he was, in her eyes, EuroJapanese, she’d automatically deemed him ‘Emperor’.
Tomas explained all this as kindly and as gently as possible, using his experiences in talking with depressed and moronic Goddies as a kind of template. Mayin was by no means as dangerous as an enraged and monstrously strong simpleton, but she was more than he could handle, so it was best to treat her very similar.
When he’d reached the end of his logical assessment of the situation, he added, very politely, “I should like to thank you for the honor of being mistaken for the Emperor-for-Life, Mayin. Regrettably, it’s not possible. I am an old man, on the hunt for his daughter.”
“I know nothing of daughters or hunts, my Lord Emperor,” Mayin stood, eyes looking this way and that until she spied a nicely reflective piece of metal, “but I do know one thing for certain.”
Tomas watched lithe Mayin rescue the shiny piece of metal from a pile of clutter with interest. “What’s that?”
“That you are no old man.” The Shriven held the piece of metal up so the man calling himself Tomas Kamagana could see his reflection. When he gasped, she dropped to one knee. “As I said, my Lord Emperor. All hail, Emperor-for-Life, Etienne Marseilles. I am yours to command from now u
ntil the end of Time. What is your bidding?”
Tomas Kamagana stared at the mildly warped reflection staring back at him from the piece of metal, long, thin fingers probing at his face.
Long, youthful fingers. Probing at a face lacking all the seams and wrinkles, all the laugh lines and crows’ feet, all the signs of sorrow and joy that he’d earned over the last ninety years. He tilted his head this way and that, utterly dumbfounded. Even his eyes were crystal clear, oozing vibrant youth.
“What in the actual fuck is going on here?” Tomas demanded, startled suddenly to realize his voice had gone deep and rich. He’d gotten so used to the dry old whisper that he was immediately filled with nostalgia. “AI. How long have I been like this?”
“Like what, Tomas Kamagana?”
Tomas snatched the piece of metal from Mayin’s hands and danced away, staring at his reflection from as many angles as he could contrive. “Young! How long have I been young!”
“Since prior to boarding Odd Savant, Tomas.”
Mayin rose and moved to a spot five feet from her panicky Emperor. It had to be a rejuvenation gone wrong. It was the only explanation. For reasons that she couldn’t hope to understand, the most powerful man in the known Universe had come to rescue her, and had undergone risky rejuvenation procedures en route to accomplish that task instead of doing as he normally did during such times, which was … disappear from view for long, lonely years.
“My Lord Emperor …”
“Stop calling me that!” Tomas bellowed. He couldn’t believe it. He was … he looked … he … “My name is Tomas Kamagana.”
“Whatever name you choose to call yourself, Emperor, we need to get away from here as soon as possible. Prior to arriving wherever here is, I fell afoul of a Heavy Specter Elite named Devlish Cormack. I can’t be certain, but there’s every chance he’ll want to find me and deal very harshly with me. I caused significant damage to his ship during my escape. We need to be gone from here.” Mayin reached out to put a hand on her Emperor’s shoulder. “Do you understand, my Lord Emperor? Heavies will be hunting me. We need to flee.”
Tomas nodded dumbly, allowing Mayin to guide him from the room. He wasn’t the Emperor. He couldn’t be. He was Tomas Kamagana. He’d fled from his homeworld, hotly pursued by vicious Yellow Dog Clans eager to erase his Clan from the face of the Universe. He’d become a Latelian citizen, had met and fallen in love with the most amazing woman he’d ever seen. He’d become a father. He’d risen to the heights of academia, only to falter and fall. He’d escaped Latelyspace to find his daughter.
And that was it.
Right?
Finish Line
There’s a Flag on the Play
Garth ‘Nickels’ N’Chalez opened his eyes up into a room.
A boring old room with very little in the way of adornments or even furnishings, which wasn’t all that surprising; why go whole on the hog here, in the mostly-real world, when you were a literal God inside the virtual realms created by the temporal incongruity? Why struggle with Feng Shui and getting the color scheme right or sourcing out ten thousand year old drapes when you could simply snap your fingers and have your wildest dreams pop, fully formed, from your head?
So. The room. Bland walls, a single well-built, sturdy looking door. A few security cameras lurking here and there, but then again, what was the point of them? Garth wouldn’t want to meet the being who could push his, her or it’s way through the brilliant blue shell surrounding ‘Emperor-for-Life’ Eddie Marshall’s domain, because not only was that entity capable of doing something that should be against the odds, but because that guy could prolly also destroy the Universe with the snap of his fancy fingers.
Beyond the boring walls and the unnecessary cameras and a few other lame chairs and a table –really, Garth had to admit to himself as he came more and more awake, that even though they hadn’t seen the need themselves, Eddie and Drake should’ve sparked the joint up a bit, you know, for those awkward moments when you find yourself playing host to one of the displaced Gods of the Proto-Reality- there was the device.
“Because of course there’s a device.” Garth pulled himself to a seated position on the gurney-like affair someone –probably Eddie, the wiry bastard- had strapped him into, felt some kind of rigging pull loose from his head. He heard the tech clatter to the floor in a sprawl of wires and metallic leads. “Really? Did you fucking Matrix me? If I got a fucking hole in my head …”
The Engineer probed the back of his skull in search of either incredibly unsightly ports designed for the traditional ‘incredibly horrifying and unnecessary skull-stabbing brain connections’ or equally unsightly –for other, more important reasons- chunks of missing hair. When he found neither, Garth nodded firmly. Good. Even mostly insane fake eternal monarchs knew better than to fuck with a guy’s hair.
On the far side of the room, Eddie and Drake were slowly getting themselves into the same positions as their friend, muttering and groaning enough for an entire group of eighty year old men being asked to get out and play in the sunshine before afternoon tea.
The scene brought a wistful smile to Garth’s lips. In probably less than a minute, that smile was going to be wiped solidly –almost certainly forever- from those same lips, but for right that second, right then, right there, it was nearly worth the trouble that was destined to crash into him to see his two best friends, live and in the flesh.
“Hey!” Garth shouted. “Hey you fuckers are lucky you didn’t fucking fully Matrix me! My hair is too pretty!”
“I thought about it!” Eddie shouted from his side of the room, trying to figure out in the back of his mind when the last time he’d been outside the incongruity. He felt like it’d been some time either shortly before or shortly after he’d booted Drake off to Purgatory with his truly rotten family. “Big ole spike jammed right up into your brain. Thought that’d be letting you off easy.”
“You couldn’t have been more wrong.” Drake smacked Eddie gently in the back of the head, a laugh on his lips. “Should’ve just let him do his thing.”
Eddie smiled along with everyone else, though there was still more than a hint of that old anger, that old rage at being cheated out of something greater. He smothered it easily enough, though, because, if there’s one thing you learn after thirty thousand years of life, it was how to get over things. “Hindsight is twenty/twenty, Drake-O, that much I can admit.”
Garth hopped off his gurney thing and made a beeline for the device, fingers trailing across the controls just as soon as he got there. It held an awful lot of similarities to the rig used by the Zionites in the Matrix films, no doubt an intentionally done thing; all three of them had loved the films, with Eddie taking the lead on introducing the kinda-sorta weird kid from Switzerswedenland to the wonderful world envisioned by the Wachowskis.
“Nice attention to detail.” Garth rapped one of the sideways monitors with his knuckles. On it, gibberish very similar to the films streamed on an endless loop, though of course, instead of Matrix Green the font was Incongruity Purple.
“Go big or go home.” Eddie shook his hair loose. Were it not for the anti-aging effects emitted by the incongruity, he’d have everything from bed sores to bald patches –and maybe even grooves worn directly into his skull- from the softnet that dropped you into the Incongruous Worlds.
“Actually mean anything?” Garth spun a few dials, flipped a few switches. Nothing happened because of course nothing happened. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
If he knew anything about the entity that’d yanked them loose from the virtual world, it’d fall on their melons pretty quickly after someone actually addressed what the fuck was going on.
Until then, they had time to be themselves. Because after that, it was all going to quickly come to an end.
In a real permanent way.
Drake rolled his shoulders and his neck, eagerly trying to work out a knot that’d settled directly between the blades. He’d been too hurried get
ting into the Worlds to pay closer attention to how he’d settled in. Machines designed to check on their physical health and comfort would’ve gotten around to it sooner or later, sure, but …
“Hey, uh…” The golden-haired ex-surfer swung his legs around and dangled them loosely, “I don’t wanna be that guy in the room, but since I’m the only one apparently interested in current affairs at the moment, uh, how in the fuck did we get pulled out? Nothing in the Universe could…”
“Ahhh, shitballs.” Garth sat right where he was, fixing both Drake and Eddie with a look that suggested they stay right where they were as well, even if the natural thing to do when the room suddenly drops something like eighty degrees and shadows started popping off the walls was to run the fuck away. “You couldn’t of waited one more minute? Fuck.”
“What in the fuck?” Eddie shouted, turning his head this way and that, tracking one blurry shadow after another, shivering so ferociously he worried with absurd clarity that he might possibly shake his skin right off.
Drake wasn’t far off in terms of responding to this strange threat, though he did have a better grip on his emotional status. He reckoned he had five thousand years of Spur-life to thank for that, but even still, this … strangeness … was beyond his ability to comprehend. So while his red-headed best friend howled at the shadows turning the room into a rave scene, he sat there, trying to assess, trying to …
Their other friend, Garth ‘Nickels’ N’Chalez was sitting on his enhanced gurney, twiddling his thumbs and looking terribly unimpressed.
“The hell, bro?” Drake strove to be heard above the din.
Garth cupped a hand to his mouth. “It’s all for show. He hasn’t been out in a while, and is trying to strike fear into the hearts of men. Give him another minute or so, he’ll tire himself out and then we can all have a chat. He’s like a puppy, really. More energy than he knows … ah, there, you see? Already coalescing like a good boy. Wish I’d brought some treats.”
