Arcfire by E.E. Bowers
Chapter 16
Aia is bid to sit at Lord Morkudum’s side. They also had her sitting in the nude…according to the depths of your imagination, of course.
Nude? Of course not! No one gets to see Aia’s full serving of flesh. No one but the lord!
But this is medieval fantasy-land regardless of the level of technology actually involved. And in medieval fantasy-land, there are various amounts of clothing to be worn. While there is a great deal of revealing arrangements oft-times worn by females and males, there is nevertheless clothing to be had in public. (Yes, also talking about males in regards to various amounts of clothing. While the politicos of your planet go ranting madly about why female fantasy-land inhabitants see fit to only wear metal underwear to battle, little is said regarding the likes of Cardoc the Barbarian and his furry underpants.)
And so, they had her wearing a garment traditional to what the princesses of the Morkudum Line would wear…which seems to be quite similar to what Aia’s apprentice-raiment had been. A sort of clinging leg-slit robe belted at the waist and a hood at the back. But instead of there being a practical belt for all manner of apprentice-y bits and bobs, there was instead a jeweled belt that was jeweled for no other reason than to advertise her spouse’s wealth and status. The same occurs with your pets, for we have seen your so-called celebrities and their animals with collars more valuable than a hundred homes for the toiling underclasses. Unlike a pet cat or lartot, however, Aia’s legs are viewed with better appreciation.
Footwear, you seem to think we left out describing that. Why describe something that is not there? Yes, they had her deprived of anything to cover her feet—thereby exposing her feet. All of you foot-fetish circus products, look on in awe! This is your moment!
And with everyone else assembled? Yes, let us share in that moment. Her feet… Oh, they are such lovingly crafted means of physical support. Note the lean play of tendons across the upper surface. Every slight fidget sets off a wondrous interplay of ligament and bone. And to ignore her toes would be the most vicious of insults to aesthetics of the humanoid physique. Do note, whilst her lower manipulative surfaces of balance are of exquisite quality, they are also rather small. And tender. Quality, not quantity! Why, you could simply go about eating them! Your salivatory glands are simply gushing at the notion! But eating them would mean their destruction, and then they would be no more! No, the feet must last! To caress those feet with your mouth for as long as you like, you would very much like that. Just as you would enjoy a long-lasting bonbon—meat-related or otherwise—you would long-savour them with all the enjoyment of all the toes that you could fit into your wet, welcoming, warm mouth. Begin with the pinky-toe, then have all of the lovely little ones adjacent play across your welcoming tongue. To lick, to soak, to caress the meat hosted by those metatarsals. Drool…
And to think that you could sink no lower! There are a great many fetishes to be had throughout the galaxy, yes. We have come to tolerate most all of them! Should we mention something on the order of pheromone secretions being in conjunction with the digestive products of the mighty bird-people of Arp-Tendis Prime, you and a great many others of your species would in turn lose your digestive products. (Be that as it may, Arp vomitus has a rather striking similarity to a certain dessert foodstuff of yours. That it has both the physical texture and macro-chemical structure of your mint ice cream is one of those cosmic coincidences.) And to that end…
One of Lord Morkudum’s morons was enjoying a bowl of something with a surprisingly cool and minty disposition. But with a chemo-physiological incompatibility with Arp vomit, he promptly collapsed in his chair and died. What remained of his nervous system reacted to an acetylcholine antagonist analog to be found in the before-mentioned substance. (We said similarity. We did not state that the substance is a one-for-one match for mint ice cream.) As to how that very substance found itself in that moron’s bowl from across the thirty-two light-years of space, we will insist upon complete plausible deniability.
Now, back to Aia’s feet. Or rather, where her feet so happened to be located at this time. They were not in use. Hence, there was very little to be seen in regards to the flexing of toes and tendons thereof. That does not make them any less succulent to the likes of you.
Yes… Aia’s feet. Bare, lithe exquisite feet… The before-mentioned are co-located to the right of Lord Morkudum’s throne….
No, the other right. There is a rather simple means of remembering right from not-right for nine-tenths of your species. Just recall which hand bears the preferred fingers for…ahem, manually clearing your nostrils. That said, on top of pitifully little of your brain dedicated to higher conscious (a teaspoon’s worth located at the very front and very vulnerable to your head-butting antics), your air intakes are also subject to clogging! For all the asinine antics attributed to dogs or cats—especially cats, given your social-media antics—it remains true that you have never seen an actual feline clear its nostrils with a finger. Nor do cats manufacture napkins for the before-mentioned.
Genetically inclined to not have clotted nose-holes, you say? Pitiful excuse, that! Over a century’s worth of technology capable of tweaking your newborns into any superior beings possible, and you go about whingeing about ethics and designer babies. That said, without anything in the way of… Oh, never mind that. Just wait for the last of your Baby Boomer generation to die off. Then the fun begins.
Speaking of fun, we come again to the fact that the only substance-related fun to be had amongst humans is that of the neurologically destructive kind. Also again, this is a world without virtual-reality warfare to slake your thirst for murderous mayhem and all the lesser forms of madness therein. And most anywhere in which there is a distinct lack of computerised combat, there is alcohol! Note how each and every one of your elders that rants against video games is a prolonged and proud consumer of yeast urine! Yes, very proud of destroying their neurons along with most every part of their endocrine systems. Video games rot your brain! Then turning to ask someone else, Luv, where’s the Guinness? (Ah, leave it to the Scots to sell the means of mental destruction to the English. Consider it a parallel to indigenous Americans inventing tobacco consumption for those white skins coming from across the ocean.)
But while what they sell and drink in this realm does not bear any known trademark—not even Kill-o-Blaster™--it serves the purpose well enough. Which is to say, drink of this heady stuff, and you’ll soon have no purpose yourself! Indeed, blast that little conscious of yours into tomorrow—when you shall be somewhat capable of reclaiming it…along with another headache which leaves you to promise to never do that very same thing again.
Knowing full well the fate which await them, Lord Morkudum and his ilk accepted the massive mugs of beer presented by the liveried servants going about the throne-room. A group of randomly clad barbarians served by well-shod butlers to royalty, it seems that the sacking and fall of Rome is continually re-enacted here.
And for those of you who must know, the servants’ shoes are surfaced with velvet. But where does velvet come from? From grow-kilns, of course! Certainly not from the preserved skins to be found upon deer antlers prior to mating rituals!
Lord Morkudum took two mugs of beer…for each hand, of course. This brought the liveried servant into proximity of Aia—who just accepted one. And no, not one for each hand. As to why a nice European-born girl two years below America’s legal drinking age would do such a thing, it is all just a force of habit.
Europe’s legal drinking age is measured in days rather than years, after all. Especially regarding fans of Arsenal. Why, their children are practically dipped and bathed in it at birth.
Bathe in it. Drink it. Thinking that it gives you superpowers—much like your assumptions of using your genitals as often as possible makes you some kind of supernatural. Ah, beer. Seventy-five percent of your planet’s surface is covered with saltwater. Meanwhile, ninety-five percent of your populations are covered with alcoholism.
Which is exactly why Aia had herself a drink regardless of circumstances. Hey-ho, all your town-time friends are dead. Ho-hum, so goes the same for your surrogate family. Tra-la-la, open that doll-perfect mouth of yours. In goes a dollop. And then, down it goes.
Down to doing nothing! Nothing! Her synthetic corpus filters any and all poisonous substances, and toxins are merely poisons by matter of degree! A glass of one-hundred percent ethyl alcohol will kill you. A drop of nicotine on your skin will do the same. That said, substances shall not be permitted to enter the bloodstream feeding her brain. Did we not already insist upon the point?
Oh, no! Not so for Aia! Now that girl wants to have herself another. See beer. Want beer. Want to be part of that ninety-five percent dedicated to destruction—be it of self, others, or both and all. Never mind if there won’t be a never-mind resulting from imbibing this substance. Like a sleight of prestidigitation, once that slop passes what passes for her esophagus, it is promptly rendered into composite atoms and subatomic particles. Such spare composite particles are kept in reserve should the current owner of the synthetic corpus decide to do something silly. Something on the order of…oh, say…ride astride a korth full into the path of a Kill-o-Blast™ beam. (Your parents or legal guardians should all have long since warned of doing such foolish things by now.) The designers of synthetic corpora know that there will be times in which refurbishment facilities for the before-mentioned will not always be present—or at least not present often enough throughout the various universes and…
What are you eating! Oh, damn it all! What a horrid concoction that seems to be! A motley collection of haphazard plant-and-animal matter. At the least, at the very least, do your fellow mortal travelers the courtesy of putting a napkin over your head whilst consuming it. Gastronomic blasphemy, that.
Aia was on her sixth or sixteenth mug of something intensely alcoholic (to everyone else, given their increasingly asinine comportment). Why, Lord Victory had commanded six head amputations this hour—well above the usual quota. He’s certainly keeping…ahead of the trend. That said, Lord Headroller should consume even more of the stuff and more often at that! Bound to wipe out his empire’s subjects faster than they can be popped out by parents-to-be—willing and otherwise.
Intoxicated head amputations? Not especially difficult, given how blades of grow-kiln metal are a lot sharper than most anything out of an actual medieval-era bit of humanity. After all, sharp blades seem to compensate for dull wits quite often hereabouts. Wits dulled and soused enough that a synthetic-bodied elf-girl is bound to hear a chorus of crystalline voices. Hullo? You can hear me, yes?
Aia blinked hard in surprise. Her mug was empty already. The results were not physically felt in the least (which certainly did not mean that Aia was giving up). Nevertheless, hearing voices in one’s head without the aide of artificial devices is seldom expected. This is despite a great many politicians boldly declaring that such comes to pass with them, that such voices are divinity when they may be in fact either neurochemical or diabolic.
Perhaps her synthetic corpus was allowing through a bit of something or other—through to her brain! In which case? Her slim pretty elf-hands reached for another double duality of neurochemical destruction. ’Twas a long day today, and alcohol is an excellent means of speeding the night along in a Foucauldian fashion.
You are not besotted by ale, Aia, went that chorus of possibly-insane voices yet again. But you remain a victim of having a human brain.
“What?” went Aia, then looking around worriedly. The elf-girl had realised her error before it even having left her mouth, but it was too late to stop that verbal train before it left the station.
Of course, had this been a bit of generic American cinema, heads would have turned in her direction. The usual follow-up is that of her something especially witty to defray suspicion. No-no, I have nothing in the way of a strange voice resounding in my head. Nothing to see here. Move along. Move along. If you want something to see, go see a right proper show at the cinema. Those Americans have filled our movie-houses with yet more of their formulaic, plot-predictable dreck. Go spend your pounds by the pound. And for goodness’ sakes, stop watching so much in the way of Arsenal matches.
But we are talking of the idiocy usually found in this world—which is on the order all the more worse than it is in yours, fortunately or unfortunately. Unfortunately for them. Fortunately for Aia. ’Tis a curse and a blessing to have stupid enemies, is it not? The curse, stupid enough of them to start a battle to start a war because… Oh, just because. But the blessing, their sort being so stupid that they are incapable of winning what they started. Could we be talking of Aia’s and her rabble alleged attempt at usurping the throne of someone who has a floating fortress bedecked with ancient space-combat weaponry?
In any event, this is a room full of stupid humans. A throne-room, yes. But it is nevertheless a room—an enclosed space where stupid human heads reside for the moment. Some of those heads are on the floor, and some of them are still attached to their owners. Who needs to be decapitated when alcohol does the deed chemically?
Which is to say, nobody has intellectual wherewithal enough to cares if an elf-princesse goes about talking to voices in her head—crystalline choral or otherwise. Given the blows they render each other and to themselves in moments of idiocy in extremis, more than a few of them are bound to hear things that are not there otherwise. So talk away, skyborne-girl!
You are not of this world, continued the crystalline chorus, continuing to speak in such high-quality surround-sound that it bypasses those funny-looking pointy-tipped things attached to the sides of her head. That much is certain. And it seems, you have a way out of this situation.
To that, Aia choked on a sob. A chance to win? In these conditions? It was one thing to just give up hope of that. Another thing to have even a slight chance of things actually coming out to the better.
The anaesthesia of hopelessness, that. Numbs the idea of anything good happening. Just…give it all up. But much like having sensation restored by warm water or heated air after exposed to numbing cold, it can hurt.
That was the hurt Aia felt at the moment. All the more so given her inability to enjoy a half-decent pint of bitter. Called such because of the taste on one hand and doing well in effacing feelings on the other.
“What am I to do?” asked Aia…again looking around. Those cinema-infused habits just won’t die as easily as Jakk did. Hah!
We need you to act correctly at the correct moment, declared the crystal prophet. Do not interfere when it comes time for the Arcfire to be used.
And…there we have that trickster wording again. The most obvious and short-wit interpretation of that would be for Aia to take up that bobbin and lay waste to the whole lot of all assembled! Weapon plus enemies equal death! Quick maths! Ah, but being short on wits is surely a means of also being short on lifespan. Just tidy up that old time machine, go back, and ask all of your feudal-era simpleton predecessors about what it’s like being dumber than usual. Have yourself an absolutely knees-up time about things…so to speak! And when you do get around to finally discovering a means of time travel, also do bring along a fluent speaker of Olde English. Do that, and you shall find that the average human lifespan back then was about thirty. And to think! Too many of you are attempting marriage and childbirth at around that age!
Think, Aia! Is it so very hard to accomplish that task? To think rather than to feel, such is the command of spirit over flesh. Of intellect over idiocy! For once in your thus-far-short life, let your mind accomplish something! May-haps, in your human years, if you had not flummoxed about with that trans-dimensional tome and consumed overly much in the way of brain-muddling substances—the accumulative effects of which are permanent—this situation would not have come to pass! And with that said…!
With stress-pressed lips, Aia bowed her head. The Arcfire was on the other side of the throne, and the massive moron over the masses was leaning forward with too much in the way of booze. Which is to say, there is too much opportunity to acquire the hallowed weapon.
But not now. Certainly not now. Her body was created to be resilient, not invincible. Oh, and recall that the girl was too preoccupied with crafting appearances instead of capabilities in designing her corpus. No super-artificial physical power. None. They could take her to the floor, tie her up, and laugh for a while. Laugh at her attempt at taking back the weapon.
So… No. Should have chosen inhuman physical strength during the creation of her body. Or maybe even able to throw bolts of lightning at religiously-other people. Not that such a thing would work, given how there seemed not to be much in the way of deity worship on this world. (Well, other than the worship of a certain throne-bound inbred sub-moron. Nothing new there regarding human history.) But lightning bolts jetting from fingers would certainly have come in handy.
Lord Morkudum’s right hand reaching down and clasping the Arcfire. Much of the laughter stopped. Much in the way of eyes looked in the direction of the hallowed weapon—crafted by the sky-borne, wielded by a skyborne princesse. And if that was yet another excuse to stare at the before-mentioned bit of female form—bare feet and all—then so be it.
“To all assembled!” declared Lord Morkudum… There he goes, doing that declaration thing again. Human politicians like to hear themselves speak. So goes just because they simply like themselves. “We shall repair to the uppermost throne! And to the sky above, I shall have my wedding to my newly beloved! A celebration beneath sky of my conjoining to a skyfall princesse!”
What a moment to be gobsmacked! He absolutely found the mental might to say more than one sentence at a single go! ’Twas a wonder that his hair did not go alight from the brain-heating effort of doing so. As it was, what little he has for a frontal lobe is catching its neurological breath from that brutal effort—which is to say that his seemingly dramatic pause was actually his brain doing its damnedest to stay in the game.
Which also gave moment enough for the imbeciles, morons, and assorted idiocy assembled to send up a raucous cheer! Not that most of them were quite capable of comprehending more than one sentence at a go, and never mind if they all only speak one sole language. Quality versus quantity. Linguistically speaking, they have neither.
What they fail to understand in terms of semantics, syllables and the like, they make up for in understanding their overlord’s mood. He was especially happy about something, so it was something to do to be happy with him! Meat pies, all of them. Nothing but arranged chunks and lumps of human meat held together for the singular purpose of simply being an assemblage of living cells. They were nevertheless capable of such things as utilising gross motor functions, opening their gobs to put foodstuffs and other things therein, and also swinging too-sharp weaponry at other human-shaped arrangements of meat.
Again, a great many of them lacked understanding regarding what Lord Morkudum was on about. Again, they simply knew that there was some vague some-such reason to be especially happy. And with the pretty-pretty pointy-eared princesse going that way along with Lord Morkudum, they did not want to miss out on being in her presence. Especially her lovely feet.
…
There is going to be a ceremony. A wedding! Why, such is an absolutely splendid idea! No, it’s not enough that the princesse is going to wed the most powerful man in all the land. A marriage is not enough. The law is not enough. There has to be an overly-grand (and certainly overblown) event to celebrate it all! There’ll be a massive rented venue that would put all the Hollywood productions to shame. We’ll hire an entire platoon of caterers. And flower-arrangement professionals. (Strictly professional. They must have certifications in arranging severed plant genitalia.) And…
And… Oh, but what do we have here? What’s all this, then? An elf…marrying a human. Why, the idea of interracial royal marriage must certainly be cause for pause. All the racist buffoonery—and there seems to be a lot of it—are able to hold their buffoonery back in most daily business of the day. Going to work. Talking and tapping away at the keyboard and doing whatever.
But all that it takes is a few pints of bitter in the comfort of the home to lubricate those mental mechanisms. They can’t hold it back then. At home, off come the work-shoes. Time to doff the comfy slippers. Being in the home and making their guts home for those gallons of liquid neurological destruction, then they start to rant. It’s just barely tolerable in their estimation to have different beings of different ethnicities become married.
But when pure-bred (also inbred) royalty does it? Why, that’s a blow to their sense of being! Their imperialist, colonialist ruling family—their very symbol of racial purity—has taken to marrying something else! Humans must marry humans! No elves or leprechauns need apply! The buffoonery is thinking that such behaviour is to be kept amongst the quarters of the city in which their kind live. Keep it amongst the lower classes…
Oh, saying that out loud is rather gauche. We say working classes. But to do that is certain to raise the rabble. So simply say…middle class. They may earn ten pounds-sterling or six euro an hour. They may also live in a collapsing apartment with no heated water. But they are still to be called middle classed because it simply sounds better. And to the buffoonery, that certainly sounds a sight better than… Than…! Interracial mixing! A pointy-eared little strumpet marrying an emperor of all the land? What would their children look like? Half-breeds! And everyone knows that half-breed elves are simply worse than the pure-blooded of their kind. Inherit the worst traits of elves and humans combined.
Well! Fortunately for all those involved, the elf involved has a synthetic corpus. Should there be anything in the way of…ah, consummation of the marriage, there shall be no offspring. Not from Aia’s quarter, at the least. A synthetic corpus. May as well try to induce pregnancy in a store-front mannequin…
And there we go, setting off another rather wet storm of mass debate. As if your obsessions with disparate parts of the female form were not enough. That said, perhaps a spritely new spot of employment at a shoe-shop would be more your speed? See all the shapely bits of anatomy beneath the ankle. You can then polish your shoe all day long, so to speak. Given the sheer amount of sweating and grunting coming from your slick efforts, people will surely see you as being quite the hard worker.
Which still leaves Aia to be…ah, stuck . Lord Morkudum may not have overly much going on in regards to the frontal lobe. Much as how becoming deaf would improve your eye-sight and other senses, that diminishment of pre-frontal cortex leaves the hind-brain more than ready to show some enthusiasm. All the other ladies of Lord Morkudum’s court can attest to that. There are no horses on this planet, but there is quite the stud upon the throne.
But, where are his courtly manners? (Decapitated and dashed away into the matter-vapourizing disposal-bin, along with the last few court-manner tutors, that’s where.) Ah, but before he had rendered the etiquette tutors extinct, the few of them remaining managed to instill something in the way of politeness. If a princesse is to be ravished in what shall no doubt be an all-night session, there should be something vaguely resembling a marriage.
…
So, where did they go for this ceremony? Not to what the old American song says, the chapel of love. And no, not even to a chapel in Las Vegas—for that place has fallen to ruin along with the rest of Earth-bound civilisation after the Great Collapse. (Oh, do be calm. Parallel universe, remember? Alternate timeline? Don’t worry. Your planet is set to be doomed by some other means, anyway.) There is not to be any particularly religious place for this event other than a place in which Lord Morkudum believes himself worshipped by the masses that survived his latest purge.
To the uppermost level it is, then. Up and out to an open-air throne-room atop this floating fortress of dastardly and drastically deserved doom. As to why an open space would be called a room, so goes either the limited vocabulary of Lord Morkudum’s sort or some sort of fun with translation. It’s a place accessible to those in the floating castle, so they went on and called it a room. And because there is yet another throne here for the likes of his moronic majesty, his royal intellectual lowness, just tack on the word throne in regards to calling it a room. Just think of all the Arsenal matches you could watch if they were to set the tele right about…there. Perhaps an open bar in open air for the yobs. And since Arsenal is both far away and long extinct at this point in time and space, such is not happening.
Which means? Yes! We go straight on to the main event! Eventually! When most everyone has found a place to sit so very comfy!
Which would have to be just about anywhere but here. An open-air throne-room (worth a chuckle every time it’s said), which means that everything here is exposed to the elements. Which would also mean that setting up the tele would be a losing proposition given anything in the way of non-proofed electronics. That said, you will not have soft-cloth armchairs or chaise-loungers bedecked in silk or even a wooden contrivance made from wood grown not from trees but from grow-kilns. Everything here is hard-core, as the American yobs would like to put it. And if they are feeling particularly on the edge, they are inclined to spell it kore. (Leave it to Americans to have most every other word spelt in some haphazard manner. Especially if they are bored.)
And so, with most every bit of sit-down kit here being hard-kore, the beings here who barely qualify as people just sat down and lay down wherever. Servants were present to fill tankards of ale from a series of taps attached to the one wall here. It’s just as well. Liquid self-destruction also doubles as anesthetic not only for physical discomforts but also the anguish of being born a human. So, drink up, they did.
Which was so even whilst Lord Morkudum strode to the throne platform in the traditional manner befitting a Morkudum soon to be wed. Again, feudal fantasy-land. Also again, we speak of feudal customs. Pillaging the villagings and all that. And should among that pillage be a princesse, carrying over a shoulder also meant carrying her to the place of marriage confirmation.
And don’t you fret over this custom! Just look at your own! You have all of that pseudo-nobby nonsense with engagement rings presented with vows on bent knee. Then…! Oh-ho! And then you go about politely asking your presumably beloved to be chained to you for the better part of a decade or so! Why, you cannot even take time enough to care for a pet dormouse. What makes you think yourself capable of tending a marriage? It’s just as well, given how your engagement periods last longer than the time you hold your vows. Given how feudal societies had lifespans often ending not long after what you would consider legal drinking age, just grabbing a mate and bringing him or her to the place of tying nuptial knots is the way to do it. Never mind if vasi vats keep stupid humans alive longer and therefore with longer times to spread their antics of idiocy. This custom remains!
Barbaric, you say! Savage! Evil! And worst of all, sexist! You seem to be all about being all against certain practices of the past—seemingly cruel and psychopathic. (Cruel, you say? Are you overly familiar with the term glirarium? What a delicious concept!) For all of your hatred and condemnation of customs past, certain amongst you nevertheless seem to worship the past. What, with your endless YouTube videos about traipsing off into some-such forest or other and singing the praises of chanting damnations regarding technology and wanting to go back to nature. Never mind if Mother Nature is the sort that eats children, makes mum drop her babies to distract predators giving chase, or simply has nothing in the way of law-enforcement in the least! And never-mind it if your glorious fantasy-land of feudal times past had slavery, slavery, slavery!
You must admit your love of past customs. This includes the sort of customs in which females of your species are given away by their fathers and into the waiting arms of some randy mate. Your day, you call it. It certainly is! Your day to be surrendered into the chattel servitude of asinine and stupid ideas regarding something called marriage!
Which is to also say, Aia seemed not to mind things overly much. What was there after this, after all? Versus, what was the alternative? Other than this, it would mean groveling about the land and listening to the ill-tempered grumblings and whingings of the elderly as they tell most everyone else how to live their lives—right down to how many centimetres apart their steps must be if they are to appear lady-like! (Happened on a happenstance visit to the town square…which is still actually a place in the shape of a circle.)
So, no whinging! The skyborne princesse is going to be wed to an absolute prince of a man, an emperor of all things! Be jealous on your own time. We are too busy watching the nuptial proceedings.
With her being a bit of pillage and also part of a traditional marriage ceremony, Lord Morkudum treated Aia respectively in both regards. He dropped her onto the throne platform.
“Ouch!” declared the skyfall princesse. Such is a suitable description. Close to the sky, given their current location. Fallen to the floor. “That really hurt!”
Said a bawdy, bawdy woman’s voice from the assembled ilk, “Ah, but only at first! Then, ‘tis roses!”
You can be sure that such commentary led to a great uproar of appreciation. And it seems that the customs of winking and nodding made its way here from across the gulfs of time, space, and places between universes. Anything to show proper appreciation for such improper humour. You’d expect the same from East-Enders, but not necessarily exclusively so.
Speaking of expectations, almost none of them are to be met for this ceremony. You shall have nothing in the way of a fluttery white gown for the bride. There is a more revealing version of her apprentice’s garment which is white—and certainly as pale as her delectably bare feet. And it is only ever-more fluttery given how there are neither mountains nor hillocks at this height to interrupt the breezes. No gown. No throwing of various bits of plant-matter—neither rice nor flower-petals. (There you go again, flummoxing about with dismembered plant genitalia.) No holy-man to perform the ceremony, either… Unless we speak of the emperor himself. Thinking himself holy.
We shan’t go back to that rant about your political and economic leaders—often one and the same—think themselves deities. We shan’t. We refuse. Calling themselves the Masters of The Universe. What gall. In fact…
…
New York City, in America (of course). Located in an American province nick-named
The Empire State. And in New York, there is a gleaming micro-biome known as Wall Street. There are no more physical walls here than usual for a human city. But, there are socio-economic walls as imposed by the wealthy and stupid.
One some-such simpleton has the legal name of Finn Catchford the Third. He and the wealth of his family was hailed all the way back to the times in which mergers and acquisitions took place by way of sticking swords into one’s neighbouring nobles. And if they were cousins, what of it?
Nowadays, he goes about making decisions that stick financial swords into the psyches of lower-classed sorts throughout the Western Hemisphere. With a mere gesture, rents were doubled throughout the eastern-most region of Florida. Meanwhile, another gesture from him meant the radical price-increase in chronic-pain medications sold in Sub-Saharan Africa. They could certainly bear to pay a thousand percent more for the same life-improving drug, could they not?
Finn Catchford Number Three thinks himself number one. In actuality, a great many on social media declare him a great big number two. But since Finn Catchford the Third is not a person for reading.
He has people to do so for him. In fact, Sir Catchford is not much for doing much of anything in particular! He therefore has a great many people doing a great many things for him. But such would lead to asking, why is he here in this crowded, polluted, stinking town? His transactions could be handled by any number of his peons and also handled much better—given Sir Catchford’s level of intellect.
But Sir Catchford’s family has funding, brokerage accounts and capital enough that his miscellaneous antics could result in a financial bloodbath for others whilst he continues to simply skate through life! An American politician once declared that there are those who push the cart of society (those with jobs) and those who ride in it (the pension-collecting poor). Left out of that talk—of course—would be those who never have to do any pushing at all in their lives exactly because not only were they born into the cart, they are part of the families that own the cart.
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And if he so chooses to muddle things up for those doing the pushing every so often, so be it.
He is a Master of The Universe! He is a member of the world-wide aristocracy! And the parts of the world that do not recognise the smell of his greatness? They are not worth visiting anyway! Perhaps much like…oh, say…one of those countries in South America where they have their own bevy of drug problems. It has been quite some time since he enjoyed hitting the slopes. But the snow he has in mind is not the sort which tumbles from above. That swift-acting white stuff. That delightful powder. Why, his nostrils trembled at the thought.
Which left him standing here on the sidewalk. He has never had such a strong urge for Columbia’s second-most famous export. But why did it have to be Columbian? And why was he thinking about Columbia at the moment? And why could he no longer move from this spot on the sidewalk? Before he could do anything like worrying, that’s when those Columbian gang-members appeared on the street.
They were still rather fresh from that running gun-battle alluded to earlier in our journey, and so they still had a great deal of ammunition. Plenty of revenue from their dealings with the likes of that gentleman standing over there. (Indirect dealings, of course. Families of means have a great many pharmaceutical consultants to make their transactions for them.) Plenty of revenue from plenty of wealthy clientele in the Northern Hemisphere. And as such, there was never a shortage of funds for acquiring more ammunition.
As to why they were here, the confusion still seized them. It’s not every day that humans experience a form of trans-dimensional transportation which their technology will not reach for quite some time. An apt comparison would be that of popping a Cro-Magnon onto a private jet without so much as a complementary beverage or strip of smoked meat to ease things along.
But the very self-same force which brought them here also seized their wills and had them open fire on that so-called Master of The Universe standing alone on the sidewalk. Completely alone. Because everyone else on the sidewalk still had the ways, means, wherewithal, etcetera with which to get the bloody hell away from here. When Columbian gang-members appear seemingly out of nowhere and completely not because a group of trans-dimensional beings have made it so, it is usually a good idea to not be in the vicinity.
Sir What’s-His-Name was no longer standing on the sidewalk. There was simply not enough left of him to do so. Physical and chemical reactions do not destroy matter. Therefore, he was still present—just not in the same place as before. Make that…places. Bits of him hither and thither.
From the looks of things, American laws regarding the banning of firearms are about as effective as those laws banning the sales and use of cocaine. Also from the looks of things? Well, let us just say that plenty of revenue also meant funds enough to purchase those exploding bullets which were supposedly as illegal as two other before-mentioned items.
But, why? These are businessmen, after all. Pharmaceuticals, you know. Which is to ask, Why did they waste perfectly good ammunition on destroying that grey-suited gentleman? A cost-benefit analysis would immediately reveal that there was nothing in the way of gain for doing so. He was certainly not of a rival gang that would cut into their revenues.
Such contemplations would take elsewhere because then they were gone—and gone well before the local constabulary arrived. Constables of New York City are not expected to be present immediately because nothing is expected to happen to the so-called Masters of The Universe. What, with a larger private budget for security than what the public sector would have to pay its own servants of law and order.
Columbian drug-dealers appearing out of nowhere to gun down a Wall-Street denizen! Literally nowhere! What human in their right mind would expect such a thing to happen? And what sick, twisted, absolutely psychopathic trans-dimensional beings would even bother to make such a thing happen? But before you answer that, we shall return to the doings of another self-proclaimed Master of The Universe. Oh, we’ll show him a thing or two about what it takes to be a master of existence…
…
We’ve skipped that bit about Lord Morkudum reciting something vaguely resembling a traditional poem regarding some-such or other about eternal love and unbreakable bonds and the legendary garter-clad thighs of Princesse Annika… Which is to say, there’s your Annika, for those wondering and waiting. That one died long ago, fortunately free from this freakish parody of a fascist regime. (Ah, but you still prefer the term monarchy, and you would still prefer yourselves to be the ones in charge of it.) And with Lord Morkudum’s intellectual training having about as much worth as a spilt dollop of day-old beer at a Manchester United gathering, you can largely guess that the traditional epic poem has been brutally mangled in its latest recitation.
But what’s tradition compared to the power of state? No, not that hackneyed American usage of the term. We refer to the state, as in sovereignty over a territory. Absolute power. So if he chooses to have that lunatic’s head lopped off…
Which he did—just because he thought that the lunatic’s dancing would be vastly improved if he were less top-heavy. To give another Americanism, don’t worry your pretty little head. Never mind that lunatic losing his head… Erm, losing his body, more like. (The state prefers to refer to a body, but the head is where the action is. Or are you humans still too stupid to change that legal distinction? Of course you are!) And…
Do you really want to pay attention to that latest victim of idiocy? A head amputation, certainly an improvement of his health—given how the source of his ailments were sourced from within his bonce. It also seems that Lord Morkudum was correct about something…for once. That lunatic’s movements truly were something both wonderful and strange.
And so, that lunatic’s topless body was now dancing a merry jig, being cheered on by others soon to be just as dead. Has this sort of scene has been done before? Of course! Does it make it any less entertaining? Of course not! Most all of your species has boozed itself into neurological oblivion over the course of billions of lifetimes, and each and every single last drink has proven itself no less entertaining than the one previous! You, drinking beers, wishingly so ad infinitum. Just as this is yet another instance of noggin-free traipsing, bonceless bouncing, you will take to yet another serving of liquid destruction. To infinity and beyond, indeed!
Headless dancing? Never mind that… (Do you see what we’ve done there? Of course you have, you clever little vertebrates!) It seems that we’re in for the main event! Everyone else has seemingly arrived for the sake of seeing the marriage. (And perhaps a bit of red-splashed step-work at that.) You have come for the sake of seeing Princesse Aia marry the love of her life—because the previous holder of that title is less than a bit of dust at this point. We came to see Lord Morkudum do himself in doing something completely stupid—as if there was ever a Morkudum doing something even vaguely wise or intelligent.
And why are we doing this? Pretty much guaranteeing that Lord Morkudum’s destruction will not be a surprise? Because you could not handle surprises.
Very well, then. Let’s get him over with. Of course Lord Morkudum had himself yet another mug of liquid oblivion. And of course he lifted the Arcfire. Faster than you can say no you fool, that man-sized serving of stupid pulled back on the drawstring, summoning some of those terrible energies from between the universes. Feeling the greatness and power of this ultimate weapon, daring anything like a deity to challenge his might, he aimed it skyward. And…let loose.
This resulted in the most obvious of outcomes! A pregnant lorry driver leapt out from his left ear! An angry wallaby from his right ear! And his charred, screaming form leapt nowhere! And only the last in that series was true.
One Lord Morkudum having burnt his epidermis and a layer of muscle to crisp? Where is the fun in that? No, his screaming simply does nothing regarding the entertainment value of this development. Just an inarticulate howl of pain and suffering. ’Tis more amusing to look on at what came to pass with all the party guests.
Guests? There were…guests here? How could one tell? Oh! You mean, those darkish smudges of powder upon the ground? Those guests? They will not be a bother to any-one, any-more. That much is certain. In any event, for all of your species’ hatred of members with varying levels of pigmentation, all of you humans are the same colour when burnt crisp! (No, we do not mean crisps. Horrible for your already-atrocious waist-lines.) The only way that Lord Morkudum’s ilk would be a threat now is if Aia were to step upon their ash.
Still bare of feet—lovely, lovely feet… No boots at the moment. But at the least, Aia was still fully clad in that bit of deeply side-slit gown. Not a trace of apparent physical trauma upon her. Not even a strand of her moonsilk-white tresses were singed. So very not sorry in regards to her clothing being intact this time. Aia was exposed to the energetic backwash of the Arcfire, not to the direct blast of a Kill-o-Blaster™ beam.
Speaking of which, such was an excellent means of personal hygiene, even for a young lady of artificial skin. The beyond-thermonuclear blast does wonders for any and all grit, grime, bacteria…. Wipe out the entirety of what little microscopic ecosystem can exist upon a body upon a synthetic corpus! Of course, micro-organisms have no sense and will return nevertheless—much like how a certain species of presumably-evolved primates would do the same.
What? Of course we are still at it! We never miss an opportunity to put your species in its place. Never mind if we would prefer that place to be somewhere in a cage at the farthest spiral-arm of the farthest galaxy at the edge of the current universe. Such would give plenty of space…in space…to fill with that infinite human quantity. “Aaaugh…!”
Oh, dear goodness. There he goes again. Wailing with those lightly-toasted lungs of his. Vocal cords still intact as well. “Aaaaugh…!”
And there goes yet another note. Screaming at A with semitones of C, to be more exact. “Aaaaugh!” There, a bit less diaphragm but also more consistent.
So… How was Lord Morkudum spared the very worst of outcomes—physically speaking? Most all of his fellows present were rendered burnt ash. They were well out of arms’ reach, as one should whenever dealing with idiots, morons, buffoonery, and other varying flavours of humanity. Moreover, such aspects grandly amplified by the power of liquid oblivion. (Paying for cups of chronic brain-damage? By the dog, you humans truly are askew.) In addition to being all the sorts of things that make human beings more human—i.e. more stupid still—such beverages are highly, highly flammable. Consuming them therefore makes you all the more flammable still. “Aaaaugh!”
Not that it matters overly much. Given the power of the Arcfire, human matter will end up being in a vastly different physical and chemical state regardless. So goes if you are not at a safer distance—as would be Master Fromm and Jakk whenever some hapless bit of mental inferiority pesters the two into letting loose with the weapon. Not that the before-mentioned need not ever have to worry of such things, there is still one who has to worry about a great deal for the first time in his soon-to-be-shortened existence. “Aaaaugh!”
We would say that Lord Muckabout was blinking in abject horror and pain, but he has no such means of doing so. No eyelids. Cannot blink without those bits of movable flesh for one’s orbs of sight. The eyes themselves were spared, and we will deny that we had anything to do with that bit of seemingly good luck. Which is to say, he can still see. He can still hear. And from the sound of things, still feel. “Aaaaugh!”
A clattering crisp sound of singing metal after striking a hard floor. He had dropped the Arcfire. (Too late for that now, luv. Should have considered not picking it up from the word go.) Some crispy crackily snickety sounds as the surface of his burnt flesh stretched when he took a step. “Aaaaugh!”
Baby’s first steps? Soon to be…baby’s last steps. But he refused to believe that these were to be his last steps. He simply refused! Of all the great things that he had done for this land! Keeping it within his loving embrace! Sending out his emissaries to maintain a sense of propriety! Giving all the people of all the land the glow of his glorious reign! There was noone else who could have done it better! No-one at all! Why was this to befall him? “Aaaaugh!”
Another crackling step, this one slightly less audible than the ones previous because the surface of his meat had loosened up a bit. He was still burnt crisp with wet red cracks all throughout where his movable bits are hinged. But at least it seemed as if he was moving along more easily. Had to…limber up. “Aaaaugh!”
And go where, exactly? To the vasi vats, of course! Now, where were they? There had to be one somewhere nearby—given his propensity to doing stupidly dumb things. Things so dumb as to stepping upon an ash-pile of someone dead, for example… To quote those Americans, whoops! Not quite a banana peel, but the effect was matching.
He lie there stunned for a moment, then promptly stood up again. Can’t keep a good man down, you know! And not a horrid one either, from the looks of things. Yes, standing again. But not without leaving behind quite a bit of his back on the floor. Now there was just the exposed red wetness beneath back there. Oh, and those rather-wet footprints? His doing. “Aaaaugh!”
And in the meanwhile, what was that princesse doing? From the looks of things, the rather fetching young lady was brushing her long moonsilk-white hair. Sitting with legs bare, her gown clinging to her lithe body. Her heaving bosom yearning for the caress of her loving prince. With all of her being, Annika simply craving that bare-chested tower of man-flesh often astride his steed and traversing midnight roads on the way from his palace. And if none of this sounds like it has anything to do with what is going on hereabouts, you are quite correct. Because we are concerned with this other princesse.
Aia. Yes, yes… Back to Aia. Her legs were bare, as were still her feet. And the young elf-lady was sitting on this floor—which also serves as a roof to the chambers below. Which is to say, Aia was sitting on a section of roof. Sitting, because this was the sort of emotionally wrenching bit of deranged scenario. It is not every day that a human-turned-elf must sit idly by whilst the reigning emperor of a floating castle staggers madly about with his skin burnt away and exposed muscle turned to medium-rare.
Some of you prefer your human flesh so fresh that the surface is still slick with the blood of the body it was cut from. So fresh, in fact, that the rest of the creature is still screaming from the kitchen. “Aaaaugh!” Quite like that.
But neither Annika nor Aia were in any position to scream in reflexive, sympathetic horror. Annika was far away and upon another plane of time-space. Aia was physically present. It was nevertheless the case that her mind was not quite feeling all here.
Here. As in, here it is! Here is Aia’s chance to exact revenge—sweet, succulent, blood-soaked revenge—upon that…that…horrid man-sized stack of meat and evil. To kill Lord Morkudum. Which is also her quest—which was true even before the reason for vengeance. Revenge, blood-red soaked in claw and fang. Absolutely primeval.
So, so many reasons to kill him. To kill a man after all that he had done and would continue to do. But it still means, to kill a man. It was all so very jolly-good doing so from afar upon a battlefield—drawing back the cord of the Arcfire and unleashing a blast to sear away a third of the enemy. So very easy and so very convenient, for there were no remaining cadavers to deal with after the fact. Almost as if they were not human—just so many meat-sticks in barbarians’ garb as seen from afar. Meat-sticks turned match-sticks ever-so-briefly before they were rendered subatomic particles in the bright-white blaze of the Arcfire.
This weapon, which was somehow already in her hands. It was also raised. Her tender, delicate elf-girl fingers poised close enough to the cord that you could hear the preparatory hum of horrid energies being summoned from between universes. Such energies were not here yet because her fingers were not upon the cord yet. But you could hear those energies awaiting on the threshold of time and space—absolutely alien howls, sounds that no human would ever have heard in his or her lifetime. And perhaps to never hope to hear again.
Not. This. Time. How easy would it be to place fingers upon chord, pull back… And unleash? Take Lord Morkudum’s life—what little there was of it. To kill a man. You can do that, Aia. Can you not? Do what humans do second-best. Killing off your own kind! From the first legendary moment of raising the jawbone of an ass to commit the first of those acts.
Killing, killing, killing…! Had done it before, but somehow… Can’t do it now. There is a recent saying—a human saying, of course—concerning this situation. (Humans say a lot of things.) And that saying is, This time, it’s different.
Those howlings and growls from between worlds were cut off with a disappointed shriek. The echo of which faded suddenly off and away. That was because Aia had taken her fingers away from the cord!
Standing there with weapon clasped in her left hand, her right hand clenched in fear and misery. Misery? What of it? Her fingers were far away from the very cord which would have ended Lord Morkudum’s misery inducing—and now just miserable—existence. No more extradimensional howlings of energies not unleashed. Now there was just the sound of Lord Morkudum’s misery.
The before-mentioned medium-rare steak stared at Aia. One of the few activities which he was still capable of doing. What, with those hands of his quite resembling one of those presumably ready-to-eat breakfast bits sold at markets for those too lazy to prepare the meat themselves. “Aaaaugh!” Oh, and he could still scream.
That did it. That last bit of auditory stimuli was all it took for Aia to just mentally go… Nope. So the young elf of synthetic corpus turned just as there was the sudden sound of air being rapidly displaced. Which is to say, the skyfall princesse nearly came face-to-face with a murder squad of drug dealers.
They are called a murder squad even if their number is greater than four. We nevertheless have the word murder in their collective job title. Such means that they are here to handle the flower arrangements and strike the firewood boy for not keeping those embers quaint enough! And while you go about believing that, they were too busy aiming and opening fire.
At Lord Morkudum, of course. Just think! Someone with years… No, decades’ worth of experience in swinging a metal stick with sharpy bits all along the sides. Borne of families that had been playing with sharp objects for generations. Decades upon generations upon centuries. And all of that is killable in seconds by someone who just learned how to fire firearms yesterday.
For all this worlds’ love of sword-swinging hijinks and korth-riding folderol, there is almost nothing quite like the horizontal, brass-encased sparkless fireworks of death. Tiny things each the breadth of a lunatic’s littlest finger, and they can do the most astounding things to human meat.
Oh, we mean that… Great big heaps of chunks came off of Lord Morkudum’s rather natural corpus. Look! There goes his left bicep. And the right trapezius as well. Not to be outdone, his abdominals also took to ballistics-aided flying lessons. Flying away from the rest of him. Such means that his ale-soaked innards were exposed. Such also means that those very same innards were joining the rest of Lord Morkudum’s erstwhile tissues in no longer being a part of him.
At the very least, it can be said that he proved—in the end—to be quite a dancer. Never mind if his movements were largely aided by the kinetic energy transferred by horizontally mobile brass. Quite the bit of rhythm. Why, you should come up with a name for that jig. Perhaps…the Morkudum. The proper way to go about learning its most accurate moves would result in your death, however.
Then the murder squad of drug dealers stopped firing. Not because they had run out of munitions. (Some of those yobs have those belt-fed affairs. Can fire their weaponry all week and only have to stop for high tea.) No, it was because they felt there was nothing left shooting at.
Which leads to asking, who told them to open fire on the last surviving member of this world’s mobility? More importantly, whose horrid idea was it to add solid reds against pastels for a colour scheme? The clash is an insult to eye and sensibilities. Whoever decided that deserves to be shot.
Wait for it… Oh look, he already has! It actually was Lord Morkudum—or at least the latest incarnation therein—who had decided upon that very set of colour panels. He hoped to be bold and daring and other vaguely relatable terms translated from English to this planet’s tongue… Put that way, there is something in the way of aggressive, yet subtly astounding.
And so goes yet another human tragedy. What could have been this century’s most important colour-coordinating decorator of home and castle had instead his life consumed with being a warlord. He could have gone halves on affairs, you know. Nothing quite like an enlightened despot to bring about the light of art, literature, and progress. But alas, he was…enlightened in an altogether different sense. But then there was a plomph of air being sucked back into human-sized pockets of vacuum as the drug dealers disappeared.
“Take me with you!” shouted Aia, bare feet on stone making barefooted sounds (delicious sounds) having already taken a few hurried and harried steps toward the drug dealers. Or rather, where the drug dealers had been.
What? A pretty, pretty thing desperately wanting to accompany drug dealers? Or, shall we say…off-market pharmacists?
Unlike their licensed brethren, these sort will have a lifespan measurable in years rather than decades following their first score. Sleeping with a firearm or two under the pillow or on the night-table. And to be truthful, more than a few foreshortened existences have been rendered so when they grabbed a revolver when they though they were grabbing their ringing phone. Quite the night-owls, their clientele.
But whatever the case may be—their deaths brought about by horizontal brass precipitation or by loud deadly noises after answering the wrong bit of kit—at least they will meet their ends on Earth. Good old Earth. Good old Earth with its Eurasian continent contaminated by the aftermath of a so-called limited nuclear exchange and contaminated by human infestations everywhere else.
Limited nuclear exchange! That makes it sound so very polite and delightful. Something on the order of a jewelry exchange or an exchange of gifts during holiday. But instead of yet another dash of certifiably ugly Arsenal sweaters or naughty substances, ballistic thermonuclear warheads were received instead. Primarily by Moscow. And every other Russian city doubling as a nuclear-fireworks launch center.
But Aia would have taken a return to Earth over anything else. Anything but here. How long has it been since her craving fingers lovingly caressed the seductive hard dark plastic casing of a smartphone? It certainly would be helpful at this time. Aia could do a Goggle search for how the hell do I return from a bloody distorted joke of a medieval science-fantasy planet to return to the hell of Earth?
Who needs a smartphone when you’ve got crystal-prophets? Or rather, at least one in one’s vicinity. With its quantum-meta infrastructure integrated throughout crystals spanning the depths of an entire floating castle, having portability could be a problem. In
which case, one would simply have to carry the entire castle around with oneself. (Again, rather fortunate in that it floats.) But it certainly is leagues beyond having to pay those damnably irritable little fees every single last month. You and your idiocy-foreshortened human lives, such is not an overly grand inconvenience. (After you die, you won’t have to pay your smartphone fees. Yet.) But imagine the irascible idiocy of being immortal and having to do the same! Some among us would prefer oblivion to the likes of having to tap in several hundred numbers each and every single last time we must pay the piper.
Unlike a smartphone, a crystal-prophet need not have a cumbersome and personally intrusive network. A crystal-prophet does not need that to be intrusive. So goes because crystal-prophets have quantum intelligence enough to not only read your piddling little human minds but also be able to know where such minds are going. Usually.
That said, that little former human over there deserves guidance as granted by the great knowledge of George (alias Gus) Stratmeyer the Third of Palm Springs in the American State of California. A retired machinist, he spends his time between bowling and passing events at The Loyal Order of The Moose Lodge 993. Providing wise counsel to synthetic elf-girls across the vasty deep gulf between universes is just one of the many wonderful things done by those of The Moose.
Here goes something that no one of the Loyal Order would have likely foreseen. (In truth, they are most all soused beyond all wits and will not foresee anything beyond yet another pint.) And then, there is something none of the good among you would have expected. As for the worst of you? Such is another story—or another branching narrative thereof.
To go into explicit detail beyond that of her naked feet, imagine…a skyfall princesse borne of Earth. Also add to that how the girl has been politically stamped upon for all of her life. A refugee of a region of her planet which has befallen radioactive contamination due to idiocy. Give an idiot a pistol, expect murder. Give an idiot access to nuclear weapons, expect a threat of apocalypse. The problem was, idiocy had been allowed to run amok in certain countries, and those certain countries thought they could control the world by destroying it in the process. It did not work out that way.
It instead resulted in the likes of pale-blonde little girls having to leave their homelands for rambunctious and troublesome landscapes of America… Never able to see the gentle evergreen forests of Europe unless on vacation, and even then wearing the latest equivalent of a space suit because parts of it are just so intensely radioactive. Pockets of fallout will not die for the next thousand years or so. Stand next to the wrong puddle for merely five minutes, and your calculable lifespan is foreshortened by five decades! And there are lunatics in seats of power for that.
So, why not replace a lunatic? Why not be the monster raving loony? Certainly can’t do a worse job of things, so goes for certain. Politics and politicians, ‘tis a rather low bar when it comes to standards. Why-ever not? Politicians are the ones who set it, and they will do so as low to the marching surface as possible. Then someone giggled. Then someone else told him to hush.
Standing mere feet from the throne—or a throne, one of several—Aia whip-spun herself around so swiftly that the slits in her garment put on quite the display. Not wearing shoes. And perhaps, not wearing something else either! Ahem!
That giggle, followed by that hush. It was familiar. Aia had certainly heard it somewhere before. No, that’s not quite right. It would be more metaphysically accurate to say that Aia had heard it nowhere. And no, not capitalised. We won’t bother to give the place a name. Never have, actually. In fact, we can make places come and go as we please. For those who have not caught the implications and hints therein...
“It’s you!” shouted Aia, standing there with those wondrous feet together (mmm-hmm, feet) and little fists clenched in intense inefficacy.
Girl must have mentally regressed about fifteen years at this moment. The wind played with the ends of her moonsilk-white tresses. And for those of you with baser desires, also did the same for those slits in her garment.
“You’re here! Don’t you dare deny it!” said Aia, still looking up at the sky but in the completely wrong direction. “I have heard you!”
The fellows could have left well enough alone. More explicitly, they should have left Aia to do what a princesse is wont to do. That is, after having her last political enemy physically destroyed by drug dealers, ascend to the throne. There are certainly other means of dispatching one’s political rivals whilst in a fantasy-land setting. A Medieval fantasy-land setting. Lots more ways but also lots more messy. (Care for a serving of molten iron, m’lord? You most certainly do! Over the lip and between the gums! Look out stomach, here it comes!)
For those who are rather silly-pants squeamish about the more robust means of removing rivalry, arranging accidents can be rather amusing. In your time period, such would mean cutting brake lines. In this setting, it could mean a severed saddle strap coming aloose whilst riding near the edge of a cliff. Happens more often than some would care to admit, that.
For one thing, there were no cliffs in this world. Flat as can be… No, no! Not the planet. The landscape! This planet is round as are all planets. And if you still believe that your world is disc-shaped with horrible monsters roaming in the seas along the edges despite our continued counsel to the contrary? Perhaps the next actual flat surface you should frequent should be the mattresses at the mental-health therapist’s sofa.
In any event! No cliffs. Therefore, no semi-severed horse-saddle straps—and not just because there are no horses upon this planet. Imaginations may be fiercely strong enough to cause humans to disbelieve a great deal of reality, but your power of make-believe is not strong enough to change reality regardless of how hard you try. And if you believe that, then join your mentally misinformed comrade on the therapist’s furniture.
Aia took two of those few remaining steps before the throne when it happened again. The drug dealers reappeared and began blasting! No, not that. It was the familiar giggle which came to pass. (Really, fellows. A giggle is rather unbecoming of you. We are no longer school-girls beholden to the disciplinary strictures of the headmaster—as if we ever were. Human, that is.)
Which also means that Aia now had double confirmation of our presence. So goes because someone insists upon making a fuss about making Aia make a fuss. We are perfectly aware of her mental state and its proclivities to noisome protests.
In fact… “It is you!” shouted Aia. There we have it. There goes the princesse on one of her emotional tears. The emotional football pitch has been prepared. Prepare for emotional antics with only one goal in mind. Intent on a nervous breakdown by herself or others, so goes the plan.
And yet more theatrics still! Thrusting a left hand with pointed finger at the throne, Aia stared up at the sky. Yet again, still looking in the wrong direction even if her communications were spot-on regarding the nature of her communicative company—invisible as it may be to her.
“You are here! You always were! It was your plan all of this time, wasn’t it!” accused Aia, pausing as if expecting a response.
Which won’t happen. We could say something, just as we could have sent her back to her merry little saltwater-flavoured semi-molten rock-ball of a planet. But we won’t do that. It’s against the rules! Furthermore, we are having too much of a fine time watching her thrash about in her mad quest to complete the game. (This chocolate chip bit of biscuit is astounding, by the way.) We shan’t interfere. Unless we choose to do so.
Which is more than what we can say regarding Aia’s accusations. Such as… “You intended for me to kill Lord Morkudum! But I did not! He killed himself!”
Her planet’s political leaders lie quite often. Little wonder that little Aia would do the same. Aia killed Lord Morkudum as plainly as if her fingers were upon the cord of the Arcfire and pulling all the way to term.
Oh, and even more chocolate! Your planet had a civilisation that revered the substance so much that they drank it from golden goblets. With such a substance to induce pleasure, why would they ever resort to human sacrifice? Probably for the same reason that you do the same regarding your murder by way of alcohol. Because of tradition.
“But I won’t be princesse of this land!” shouted Aia. Oh goodness, the young lady is still on about it. “I refuse to play your little game any more!”
Not a princesse if you reign, luv. That would make you a queen. But your Disney-brainwashed cohorts would hate to be queen. Queen sounds…old.
And evil. Little wonder that the before-mentioned entertainment mega-conglomerate was so fond of stories in which matriarchal regicide wins the day. Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, Stardream, quite the set of chronicles in which mothers are killed. Killing mothers. And you enjoy each and every one of those stories, you monsters. Never mind if you have not seen the last in that list. The fact remains!
Facts, indeed! Mum killers, all of you. The very same sort of gender that gave you life, and you would prefer her dead. Moreover, you would prefer that your boyfriends do the killing for you. If there is to be killing done of a royal parent, the least you could do is do it yourself. Or go standing about like an incapable weakling until drug dealers arrive from the space between universes. Even if their handiwork is more-or-less inept—especially given their propensity to shooting most everyone else but their initial targets—at the least they will get the job done. And they do it for free. Their fees are paid for by the nostril-oriented cravings of your millionaires and politicians.
Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The young princesse was intent upon the throne. If there was to be any decent sort of ruling to be done hereabouts, there was only one princesse fit for the job. The first thing Aia will do, let’s have her kill all the lawyers.
And then the crystal chorus of this crystal-controlled castle had to go about and interrupt her reverie. “Aia Andersdotter! The evil emperor is slain! You shall now have the way home!”
“Is that so?” went Aia, sitting down upon the throne. Even with the thing designed for someone twice her height and three times her width, there was a sort of ease with which the elf eased her synthetic corpus into place. As if her subconscious had been practising the movement since coming to this world. Then Aia silkily crossed her legs. “Speak, servant. Is there truly a way away? The maniacal yobs who sent me here have powers beyond time and space. They have not returned me yet. In all likelihood, their antics have taken them elsewhere. Another universe for all I could care.”
Do you hear that? The gall! We take strong issue with her criticism! We may be lunatics, but we are not maniacs! There is quite the difference! There is not a maniac in existence…in all the existences…that can recite the thirty-two odes of Kh’arnath whilst composing a half-dozen pocket universes! We can summon the worst of entities from the vasty deep, the well of un-creation! When we stare into the abyss, not only does the abyss stare back…but it also reels away in abject horror! Does that little whelp not realise her betters?
Really, her home-planet’s doctors must not have been able to resolve all of her early-life radiation poisoning. Traces of it must be affecting her still-human brain. Synthetic corpus or no, Aia is at her core still human. Such is excuse enough to explain away the very worst of behaviours and statements. But…just ever so barely. Bear that in mind.
Now, with us strongly resisting the urge to erase her memories of Earth and drastically reducing the size of her bosom, the crystal-prophet speaks on. “Oh Princesse Aia of the sky-borne people, this is not merely a floating castle but also a light-ship.”
“Light enough…to float?” quipped Aia. “Speak not in riddles, you silly collection of baubles, for my patience is at its limit.”
“To call this a starship would be very limited,” said the crystal-prophet. “Under the control of a true skyborne navigator, this floating castle…this fortress…may take to any planet or any space between. Or even any space at all!”
“Then why not send me back to…?” began Aia. And just like that, there were no more memories of…what exactly?
And there you have it! One cannot recall something that one cannot recall. ‘Twould be much like when your mum tells you to look where you last saw your favourite Manchester United skirt. How can you go about doing that if you do not know even that? And if your planet’s scientists were to understand that the key to de-facto unlimited clean energy involves allowing an artificial intelligence to design a fusion reactor, then your standard of living would drastically improve. But given your levels of intellect, you would prefer that bit of Manchester kit to solving half of your planet’s socio-economico-environmental problems.
“You are not of this world and cannot belong here,” declared the crystal-prophet. “Your memory is troubled by forces or entities you cannot fully comprehend.”
No-one knows of our existence! No-one! We are able to control the forces of time and space. And in doing so, we control what mortals are aware of us! How in the bloody blazes did…?
Ah, yes. The power of intellect can be a rather troublesome development for mortals and their creations. What the crystal-prophet did amounts to something more than educated conjecture. If a mortal has been transferred between universes, then some force or entity must be responsible for the transfer. If the results were deliberate rather than random, then some form of intelligence or agency must be involved to induce deliberate results.
How deliberate? There are an infinite number of universes, and an infinite number of them are infinite within the confines of their metaphysical plane. The chances of randomly appearing on a habitable and inhabited planet at random are the chances of a slightly intoxicated toddler bashing about on a computer keyboard and crafting a pitch-perfect rendition of War and Peace (Fourth Edition, Oxford University Press). Which is to say, Not bloody likely, mate!
Technology being so powerful that it appears to have magical properties. Perhaps next game, we should go about making the crystal-prophet somewhat less intelligent to the point of seeming less prophetic. Or perhaps, force the player to have something in the way of more intellect. An intelligent mortal is more likely to be less bothersome.
Even if Aia was suddenly and mysteriously struck by a temporary memory loss of her home-planet—with us having completely nothing at all to do with it—it was especially obvious that this was ever will be a nice place to live! Was, is, will be, past tense, future tense, that fails to matter. We have seen the future of this planet, have seen all the futures worth seeing, and they are all quite bad.
Again, you would not want to live here. Feudalism, you see. Feudalism to found the empire. Feudalism to keep it going. Feudalism, fascism with a royal face. If Sir Whacksalot decides to amputate your future spouse’s head—replacing the need for a messy divorce later with that of a messy cleanup closer to now—there is no legal recourse. Feudalism, because you asked for it!
Aia was no longer asking for it. Now there was a chance to be gone from it. Lord Corpse is dead. The job is done, dirty as it is. Now for her pay. They won’t give her the local currency, especially since it’s useless on other worlds. Which is to say, Aia had technically done this for free. To quote a poet from your planet, Dirty deeds done dirt cheap.
“So where is my new smartphone?” went Aia. Seemingly out of context to you. But in truth, that has been sitting in the back of her social network-craving mind for quite some time.
A sentiment lost in translation, for there are no phones—smart or otherwise. With no knowledge of whatever a sma’faan is supposed to be, the crystal-prophet therefore played things politely and courteously. Can’t be too careful around royalty, you know. Bound to have your bonce lopped off if they’re in the mood. And Lord Meat-Chunks was always in the mood. Never mind if the crystal-prophet has nothing in the way of an actual neck-cap
“You may have return to all the desires available of your world,” began the crystal-prophet. See that? Not knowing what the blazes a sma’faan is supposed to be, but just assuming it’s some folderol from Aia’s home-plane of existence. “In exchange for returning you home, there is but one very final request.”
Aia put hands on hips in a very American-learnt gesture. And if you ever see a Scandinavian or a Brit do it, then such a claim is to be firmly denied. “What is it, then?” The Arcfire was in her hands just like that. Grinning like a maniac who shall finally have her smartphone craving met again after all of this time. “Who do I have to kill this time?”
Ooh… Seems that her lil’ human brain just may have taken a liking to ending human life. Or rather, more a liking than usual. Are you going to lop our bonces off for telling you that?
The crystal-prophet spoke immediately. No remorse. No regrets. Its tone of voice did not sound suicidal, but its request certainly was. “You will have to kill us.”