Arcfire
Chapter 15
by E.E. Bowers
And so, with the skyborne princesse over a shoulder like a pretty bit of pillaged treasure, the rightful protagonist of this story rides triumphantly upon his steed in going back to his floating castle. Victory belongs to him. Now he shall bask in the glory of victory over his vanquished enemies!
Not riding alone, of course. The worst and most emotionally stunted of your species cannot bear to be alone. Be it with the imaginary friends in your heads or the imaginary friends of social media—most of which are AI-run word-smash programs—you must have people around you. You must have them watching you.
Admiring you. You want to be worshipped! You want to be called a god among humans! And if that entails several thousand slaves toiling in the desert for a decade to produce a damned monument the size of the sphinx, then you would do so! With your face on it!
Idiots, the whole lot of your species. Wanting your face upon massive structures dedicated to your vanity, your arrogance, and your inbred stupidity. And in doing so, future generations will know exactly who is to blame for such boondoggles. Emperors, pharos, khans, all. You could have built universities, schools, or even a simple sheltered place for the rudiments of scientific research to advance your human existence.
But, alas. You chose vanity. You chose arrogance. You chose idiocy in lieu of scientific and technological progress. You choose to do a lot of things that are just so terribly wrong for you and your species.
This, just as Lord Morkudum was doing a set of somethings even worse in regards to the singular rather than the plural. (Don’t think too hard upon that sentence. Bound to hurt those little human minds of yours.) Lord Morkudum had chosen to do one thing. And then, he has…completely upon his own free will and with no trans-dimensional entities interfering…decided to do another. And if such a thing results in his demise? Or have we said too much already?
Not that we overly care much, either way or any which way. An idle-time call to a friend of ours, and your entire species could be rendered the way of your dinosaurs. Across multiple universes.
But…! For the self-same reason that your British decided to not kill a certain mustachioed lunatic in the course of your so-called second world war, we shall decide to not interfere. (Shall decide. Have decided. Past tense. Future tense. We have time travel, remember.) That said, we have decided to leave you to your own species-wide suicide. Like that mentally stunted and rather angry little man of your so-called Second World War, you are doing too fine a job in rendering destruction to your own cause! In any event, sitting back and watching your species self-destruct—across multiple universes of course—is far too good a pastime to pass up. Nothing quite like watching a train wreck, and yours is planet-wide.
Likewise, we won’t bother to comment on Lord Morkudum’s choice of facial-hair fashion, but suffice to say that his antics and astounding levels of incompetence are of similar bent. And therefore, of similar entertainment value!
And now, he is getting to the part that would confound your physicists and intrigue your engineers. Hold onto those tiny little minds of yours. On we go!
Lord Morkudum approached the manipulated gravitational field beneath the floating castle at such a point as to be borne away upward—lord, korth, shoulder-borne princesse and all. This, along with the rest of his ilk.
It must have been astounding, amazing, and amounting to all sorts of allegory the first few times it was done. But now, it is just business as usual. Gallop on over to the spot of gravity thingum beneath the massive floating fortress-thingum. Gallop straight on and then be borne away straight up—with korth still needlessly galloping with half-dozen hooves in air—as one goes up to that place.
As a child, you no doubt enjoyed the first few dozen trips on an elevator. And you most certainly did that thing in which you jumped exactly when the car was going down. Never mind the idea of a hundred or so metres of practically empty space beneath your feet, beneath the miserably engineered and barely-functional floor. (Lowest bidder, after all!) And should we mention a few hundred thousand parallel universes adjacent in which you actually did fall to your death as a result of your antics? All the better!
In some of those parallel universes, Lord Morkudum was born less dumb. (Still dumb, mind you. Just…less so.) In those parallel universes, he therefore did not partake of such doings as these. But we are not visiting any of those universes. We are dealing with the likes of this one.
This universe, yes. It has a galaxy full of you and all of your kind. In your time, you only occupy one planet—which is quite enough. But otherwise, it seems that the threat of a certain six-legged insectile mega-species taking over that one planet was just barely enough to get you going. And going to seed planets such as this one. Spread the accursed curse of your idiotic antics far and wide! Regardless of how brutally asinine and asininely stupid you and your descendants behave, you seem to persist regardless. The same can be said for hernias and fans of Arsenal.
And of course, the stupidity continues. There is the idea that humans imbibing substances of self-destruction take on the amplified traits of whatever ails them in regards to hobgoblins of personality. Speaking of which…
…
Most of the so-called middle classed in your world would have something used to store your pool of vehicles. But since the middle classed is as populous and as prolific as unicorns, that would mean talk of the wealthy. And like unicorns, the existence of a middle class is just another fairy tale told to the young and stupid—those demographics often one and the same—to keep your sanity under the most insane of socio-economic conditions.
Vehicles? What of them? This is fantasy-land! And in fantasy-land, the inhabitants live an existence of endless feudal existence of swords and sorcery! Well, sorcery as infused by nanotechnology and quantum crystals, but fantasy nevertheless! Magic never exists, but you humans and the lunatics among you especially simply demand its existence. And instead of something so sensible as an efficient little sensible car for getting to and from your places of daily travail, you want a pony! But since a pony would be more a show-piece than anything, you want a horse! No, no… A unicorn!
Back that up a bit, would you? Ah, there you go! You want horses. You want galloping gallant steeds to ride about your fairy-tale forests and mystical plains upon your plane of existence which holds host to all manner of mystical creatures. And since you are so very lacking in imagination, those creatures would be the usual menagerie of orcs, dwarves, elves, dragons, so on and so forth. Oh, and castles. Don’t forget castles. And with…wait for it…dungeons full of treasure!
Really now! Who in their right state of mind would store their greatest of wealth in a horrid, horrid subterranean landscape full of monstrosities? May as well store your ale in a sub-standard basement full of hanging bare electrical wires, exposed heating elements, radioactive cans of waste, and then have it infested with rabid rats alongside poisonous snakes. Oh, don’t mind me, dearie. Just going to nip down to the basement for a spot of drink. Of course I have the limo driver on standby to take me to hospital should things go awry!
That said, there is no garage or car-park per se in Lord Morkudum’s floating fortress of doom. (We would have gone with that moniker from the word go, but your silly little human brains could not possibly handle that many syllables that often for the description of one place.) No garage because, again, no vehicles per se. Or rather, these vehicles have six legs and are powered by occasional bales of razor-grass. Which, in turn, is harvested from a landscape that seems to grow the stuff.
But, since when do the wealthy actually work? As the wealthiest of all, and exactly because he is the most powerful of all in the land (politically, at the least), Lord Morkudum tends to nothing but his own whims. And in that regard, he has plenty! And so, with animals left to house staff, Lord Morkudum slung that bit of living female bounty over a shoulder and went straight-away to the room of the crystal prophet…
And some of you want to know which shoulder. Just…look for yourselves. Or did you simply ask that simply to bring about a bout of frustration? Oh, we are quite past that point, at this point. Just you wait until those rather oversized six-legged visitors make an appearance in your world—show you a thing or two about colonialisation and how to manage conquered societies.
…
In the meanwhile, whilst you await the final destruction of your planet’s human civilisation, there is the matter of Lord Morkudum consulting that crystalline artificial intellect. Big brawny brute. Small elfin female over a shoulder, the little thing was no burden at all. A prize, in fact.
Standing in front of exactly the sort of setup there was before, the moron began talking. “Oh, crystal prophet! I summon your wisdom again! The war is won. The prize is mine!”
With an absolutely unnecessary show of scintillating antics, the crystal prophet within and amongst the crystals brought itself to deal with the before-mentioned human-sized bit of sub-par intellect.
Now as to what happened next, some would argue that the crystal prophet is deriving some sort of sadistic pleasure in manipulating the moron. As for the remainder amongst you, you would argue that such pleasure cannot take place. Your thinking is such that machine-thinking is not real. Your thinking also makes you a human racist against artificial intelligence. That said, perhaps one of your fellow humans deserves this next bit of verbal antics.
Came a chorus of crystal-generated voices, “The prize is indeed yours.” Yes, stating the obvious for those who need such statements made. “And you have won the battle by exercising your might and wisdom. And as it has been foretold by prophecy, the skyfall princesse shall be yours for the rest of your life.”
Manipulation? What manipulation? Well, the crystal prophet did not state how long Lord Morkudum’s life would be. For the rest of his life? Let’s see how long that bit goes on. Wisdom and life-span, there is usually a correlation. Now, add to that an unhealthy amount of ridiculously high self-esteem.
“Then I truly am a god among men!” declared Lord Morkudum. “There is nothing in this land to oppose me, and I shall rule for-ever!”
“As it shall be,” agreed the crystal prophet. Unsaid was how the hyper-intelligent crystal-works had already begun to calculate just how long Lord Morkudum had to live. Not to give too much away, but Not talking about anything physical. There is nevertheless that medical diagnoses—unless one considers the psychiatric definition of hubris syndrome. “It is indeed also true that you shall see the reign of Morkudums throughout the rest of your days.”
Ah, there it goes again. Keep on with that praise! Just keep buttering him up, as a human expression goes. Perhaps the implication also continues a food-related metaphorical manner. Being buttered up, that a person is being prepared like a serving of something to be eaten. In this case, to be consumed by misfortune. Give a person enough rope, and that person will serve as his own executioner. You need not look any farther than your Nazi Germany or Hollywood celebrities for that consideration.
But rope is cheap. Words, cheaper still. It takes very little in the way of calories to produce a few seconds of verbal communication. Less so for a crystal prophet whose dimensional-induction power source could perpetuate so long as gravity exists in the universe. Then again, who said that the crystal prophet wanted to exist this long? An immortal device dealing with the likes of the Morkudums, it’s bound to drive most anything batty.
Time for more verbal rope. “You should go about feting you victory, Lord Morkudum,” said the crystal prophet. “The people are in need of celebration after this bout with mass death, are they not?”
“Indeed!” declared Lord Morkudum—as if a moron needs an excuse to start a party. Parties equal booze.
More rope still, the meta-crystal artificial intelligences also firming up those calculations regarding impending royal destruction—especially given the presence of the Arcfire weapon. Leave a loaded pistol in a room full of children. A pistol with no safety. See what happens.
“And the same shall be for your wedding with the skyfall princesse! A royal celebration following your royal wedding!” added the crystal prophet.
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“Or why not make the celebration the wedding itself!” declared Lord Morkudum. After all, he is ruler of all the land. He can make declarations—even ones leading up to his own savage self-destruction.
A celebration. With alcohol. And a full fete of imbeciles, morons, and assorted brands of idiots. What could be the missing ingredient to this wondrous gathering-to-be? (As in, a wonder as to how high the butcher’s bill is going to be.)
But instead of us saying it, instead of us helping things along—which is against the rules—the crystal prophet has things well in hand. And never mind if the crystal prophet or any other artificial intelligence would be trusted with having hands at all. Why, they can do a hefty amount of damage to the idiots of this planet without even having an actual finger to lift.
“Be sure to bring the vaunted weapon of the skyfall princesse as a…symbol of the union to be,” declared the crystal prophet, trying to sound as innocent and harmless as possible. Putting that factor in place…
“I most certainly shall!” declared Lord Morkudum, touching the very legendary weapon that had automatically fastened itself to his back by…some metaphysical means or other. (It is a weapon crafted by space-faring beings and can fires hyper-charged anti-particles. Adding features such as ergonomic grips or an auto-cling mounting grips are mere child’s play.)
Like most any tool, it cares not who possesses or uses it. And yes, this is a spite regarding your pitiful efforts of regulating projectile weapons. For all of your laws regarding the control of firearms, they are all useless. After all, every human largely qualifies as being some level of idiot regardless.
…
And so, there was soon Lord Morkudum, in yet another auxiliary throne-room, feting it up with his surviving korth riders and bearers of royal idiocy. Celebrating already, straight out of the field?
Firstly, such is unsanitary. You have all manner of dust and ride-beast sweat about your person. If not for the fact that korth waste is dark, powdery and free of scent detectable to humans, then matters would be a great deal worse. But worse upon worse still leaves one with the status of things being especially horrid.
Which is to say that this auxiliary throne room was especially horrid—what with more than enough dusty, dirty buffoonery to make things not only look as bad as they were but also feel that way. Their stuff gets most everywhere. This would only be compounded with how the same is said for all the places in between. If you take that to mean between throne rooms or between portions of human anatomy, either-or is a valid interpretation.
And then there is the matter of security. Yes, even being lord and master of an entire world—if only the one inhabited landmass, which is all that matters—should also mean that one is beholden to security of treasure. Which is saying, would it have made more sense to first have one’s loot safely stored away in…oh, whatever passes for one’s lair of loot? A…treasure room, you would call it? How very simple-minded of you. No, wait… We seem to have found another vocabulary word of yours.
Treasury! Why, that is not a word originating of your language at all! You simply stole that term from another tongue, mutilating the pronunciation, and then the spelling besides! Rather than go about correcting your errors—and you seem to have oh-so-many throughout both political history and cultural psychology—you just continue on with more of the same! This is to also say you are well-deserving of both your hernias and your love of Arsenal. (It fails to matter how many times Manchester United was trounced by the likes of you. You just keep at it!)
By the way, you must no doubt have an inkling of concern as to why we mention mutilation so very much recently. Again, given our vast view of time and space and various permutations thereof, this is why.
“A flame sword!” went one of Lord Morkudum’s buffoonery. Should you be concerned over the fact that the before-mentioned is actually holding the former? And if that phrasing confuses you, we will hint that it is not quite possible for a flame sword to hold a human. You’ve simply got it all awkward backward.
In any event, the buffoon… No, not that one. The one holding the fiery sword of flaming fiery flame. He was going to demonstrate why a flame sword was never part of a Morkudum’s arsenal for long.
Nevertheless, as useless as it was, it was still a flame sword. Said with emphasis by a human voice because…again…saying something with loudness upon emphasis is supposed to amplify the worth of an argument. Oh, and perhaps add an interjection doubling as an adjective. A bloody flame sword, mate!
“I was wonderin’ why’s it’s not bein’ used,” went the buffoon still holding the before-mentioned weaponry.
“And I tell you, ‘tis naught but a bauble!” insisted the other buffoon. Why bother with just one specimen of idiocy? There’s an entire room… No, practically the entirety of a planet full of them. May as well put a bit of that surplus to use.
As so… “Useless bauble, says you? Then, ‘old out yer right arm, mate! We’ll see if this is as un-useless as you say!” And before anyone could recognise the severe flaws in that sentence—let alone correct it—the flame sword was already in mid-swing.
Which ended predictably enough. For you, there is anticipation. For us, there is full-on foresight into the future. And this is one of those timelines in which the flame sword had done what a sword was supposed to do when striking a limb. Or, half the job at the least.
That other buffoon was now bereft of his right forearm… No, that’s not literally correct. He could still have it. That is, if he bothered to pick it up from the floor. He’s still got one other good arm and a hand attached to do so.
No, not falling into unconsciousness. And no, not gallivanting about with even more verbal emphasis spewing from his oral orifice. There was no shock at the moment simply because there was no blood spewing.
Not even leaking. In truth, unlike most of your cinematic antics, a freshly severed human limb-stump does not spray life-fluid like a faucet. Not even a poorly serviced one. Some kind of evolution-imposed defense prevents blood vessels from letting loose all at once. Gives a human time to have something wrapt ’round the limb. Or time enough to regret the buffoonery resulting in this situation, at the least.
So, no blood. And this is because…? Some of you have guessed it. Others have used something resembling a passable level of intellectual competence and assessed the truth. Flames tend to cauterise wounds. As in, prevent blood from spewing forth as well as reducing infection. Which is to say that, a flame sword both causes a wound…and also immediately treats it. May as well kick a loony in the bin, and then lift him up from the ground after the fact... with an apology in tow.
“Off to the vasi vat, then!” said the currently one-armed buffoon. “Oh, but first…!” Right forearm in left hand, he turned and raised his stump at the other bit of human-shaped idiocy. The one holding the flame sword.
“What the bloody hells are you doing, mate? Showing me what the ladies see when you drop trou?” went the un-bloodied buffoon.
“Why, giving you the finger, luv!” declared the temporary amputee. And faster than you can say two-tongued cross-finger filet-flap digital reconstruction, he then went off into the depths of this place for a hopefully short stay in the vasi vat to regrow his sword-arm. Little would he know that his stay there would be as short as his wits.
Oh, there we go again! Doing that foreshadowing thing again. May as well, given how the futures of these fools are of reduced entertainment value to us. Dead humans are a great deal less amusing than living ones. And should we put them out of our misery, such is simply done out of mercy and not frustration at your complete lack of mental acumen! You’d think that your brains were smooth rather than wrinkled. Like a shelled walnut! Except…a great deal softer. More nutritious, yes. But still especially softer. Human brains are no substitute ingredient when preparing carmelised celeriac mash.
But wait… Something seems amiss to your perceptions. Now, what could that possibly be? Or rather, who could it be? Oh! That’s right! Lord Morkudum’s left boot has a lace that is somehow three centimetres shorter than it was…well, some other day! Surely, such a rabidly astounding development is the scandal of the kingdom!
Or, rather… Is that banner belonging to the House of Morkudum just a tad bit off center? Just as with that left boot-lace, the abrupt change in décor must be astoundingly obvious! But it seems, such is not so obvious to the lord and master of all the land. If the banner has lost its white hue in favour of ecru, then he should have noticed. Or he would, had his central nervous system—and his brain in particular—not been ravaged by years of deliberately consuming neurologically destructive drink.
Then… The lighting! Yes, that must be what is the matter. This is a drastically indoor setting. And this is a stronghold at that. A castle. For all of your love of fantasy dealings and doings set in the sexist, fascist, tyrannically totalitarian times of feudal kingdoms in the Western Hemisphere, has no one asked a most obvious of questions? In the depths of a dank castle, how in the name of the infinite Hells is the throne room lit well enough to be a car showroom?
No! They did not have fluorescent lighting back then! Certainly not! Hells, those Neanderthals were just getting around to figuring out that not cracking each others’ heads open and eating the gooey stuff inside just may be a productive path to cultural continuation. It seems, perhaps people are vaguely more useful alive rather than…well, not alive? So, that said, how could you possibly expect them to get around to developing concepts such as electrical conductivity and fluorescent expression of photons?
You cannot! So! Castles are supposed to be dark… Da-a-a-ark… Such is why the inbred, idiotic likes of kings and emperors lived in palaces. Never mind if everyone around them would go months…or years, for that matter…without bathing! Compound this with how there were no ventilations systems and nothing in the way of air conditioning. And how everyone wears at least three layers of clothing—the likes of which are washed once a week. Or maybe the week after.
Unwashed clothing on unwashed bodies! All of your delightful ancestry jam-packed in those hot places with that lovely aroma floating around and filling rooms! And given the unhygienic means of food preparation, add to that an excess of flatulence! Ah, the smells must have been simply wondrous.
But at the least, this is less a bit of idiotically arranged pile of rocks set in place by morons. No, this is more a spacecraft doubling for a bit of medieval stupidity. And…
Oh, all right then! If you must know the whereabouts of your beloved pointy-eared princesse—the little whelp—then look no farther than the right side of Lord Morkudum. Lord Morkudum, who was laughing it up and downing the umpteenth… What is he drinking? All that matters is that the drink contains that substance which renders brain damage. Ah, but enjoyable brain damage, you argue.
Right, right… Princesse Aia was doing a great deal of nothing at the moment, actually. Given our extensive ability to know most anything we want in most any universe, we can tell you that the young lady was quite physically alright. Tough but not invincible, you recall regarding the product description of her synthetic body. Would you really think that the skyborne would craft a weapon to kill one of their own kind with one blast? Killing mortals, mere humans, such is the usual course of business. It would have taken two to take Aia out of the picture.
Which is to also say, not physically injured in the least. We are including the status of her brain in that medical report. Ah well, as good as a human brain can be—which is altogether not saying much.
A human brain. May as well open up your crania, scoop out the contents, and pour in the pudding. And cinnamon! Don’t forget cinnamon! Can’t do any worse when switching a human brain with something else of similar intellectual processing capability! A perfectly bad waste of good pudding, but there you have it nevertheless.
What we are also saying, in so many words, is that Aia is completely demoralised. You must think that this would be a wonderful time for her to stick a knife in Lord Morkudum’s murderous back. But the dorsal armour there is reinforced against exactly that given what happened three generations back…so to speak. And Aia did not have a knife anyway.
But then again, who needs knives—surgical or otherwise—to do away with human brains? There are a great many chemical and social means of doing the same. It is not too often that human think-meat is wholly removed from crania. But it remains nevertheless true that you are far too busy imposing neurological self-destruction by other means. Slower means, yes. But destruction nevertheless. As a philosophy of yours once declared, Slow and stead wins the race! And when it comes to racing to the finish line of life, you are getting there all too steadily.
Such is courtesy of nicotine, of alcohol, of football, of television, and all the millions of substances and acts of leisure you have concocted to bring about your own ends. Whilst football has not been invented in any form on this world, even if dim legends speak tales of kicking about a rubber sphere for amusement, there is still clearly the existence of neurochemical obliteration by way of yeast urine.
Which is well in play here. Lord Morkudum was having a drink. His ne’er-do-well entourage did the same.
We would say royal court, but at least royalty has a vague semblance enough of government to give titles and functions to the various morons in its employ. What the bloody Hell is a chamberlain? Viceroys? Dukes? Pages? How many blows to the head did it take after how many centuries of inbreeding following likewise to come up with these titles?
But a human cannot simply have one dose of chemical destruction. Therefore, with Lord Morkudum being amongst the most human of humans, he had himself another. And his band had another. And so on, and so on, and into the temporary oblivion of unconsciousness.
There was no such respite from reality for the elfin princesse. This goes along with her having been granted the very means of physical survival in this humanly inhospitable world. A world of de-facto infinitely recyclable bounty. A world in which grow-kilns produce all that people need, and quantum-trait crystals do all the management. A world in which wealth only matters insofar as humans say it counts. A world made its own tyrannical hellish landscape to humans because such is exactly how humans are! Hell is other people, after all. And because it is hell, humans turn to drink and other substances. But Aia cannot.
Her synthetic corpus prevents the…ah, enjoyment of alcohol, of most all other substances. There is no boozing until one is blotto. And so, Aia was left here in a room of royal idiocy having fallen into slumber.
Oh look, the Arcfire is lying…right there. And also look! Most all of Lord Morkudum’s entourage was now in the neurochemical grip of unconsciousness. Yet more human philosophy applies. For all of a strength and dominance had by a powerful brute of murder and destruction, even the strongest must sleep sometime. And when that happens?
And when it does, Aia will do…nothing! Nothing at all! Other than her sitting throne-side with her legs tucked in sideways and her pale-blonde hair hiding her pretty face, other than that, nothing much was being done. So goes one additional advantage to having oh-so-long tresses, it seems. When a person does not want to be bothered with one’s surroundings, it acts as a curtain of privacy.
Doing nothing, because there was no will to do so. All of her friends were killed faster than you can say zap. A great deal faster, in fact. Destruction at the rate of Einstein’s so-called universal constant, that! The same came to pass with her proxy family—that awkward flummox of an apprentice and that irascible dwarf. And how can you hate a dwarf? If you look past the snippy and flustering attitude, that is. And you can look past a lot regarding a dwarf—commentary regarding their height in tow. (What? Did that metaphor go over your head, so to speak?) The townspeople on her side. The friends. The family. All of them, gone.
Which is to also say, Aia lacked that most important of traits required to win countries, to win wars, to win battles, to win fights, to win most anywhere. To win without cheating, of course. For that matter, it even takes something to do even that. We are talking of morale—the will to victory. But Aia had none of that at the moment—even with the Arcfire leaning against the other side of the throne.