Arcfire by Elliot Bowers

Chapter 18

And so when we left Annika Guntersdotter, the lithe raven-haired young lady of de-facto immortality was riding astride one of those most glorious of creatures. Not a unicorn, and not even a not-a-unicorn. This wing’d dragon need not flap its mighty wings, for its means of remaining aloft was based on metaphysics rather than something so crude and inefficient as fluid dynamics. (Huh?)

We mean, flying! You humans, why is your own language so very difficult for you? But… you seem not to care about the Thrilling Adventures of Aia Guntersdotter in The Land of The Tyrant’s Castle. We shall once again return to the Not-So-Thrilling Misadventure of Aia Andersdotter and Her Boredom-Inducing and Sometimes-Used Weaponry.

Where was that thing, by the way? Still providing a means of transportation, since you asked. That six-legged thing of two wings was still floating away with Aia and… Going where, exactly? Aia was not at all capable of guiding the otherwise seemingly fabulous creature.

Yes, certainly fabulous. We stand by that declaration. The ones you boldly vaunt as being so-called supermodels merely strut about on two artistically sculpted limbs. This gracious creature has six. Therefore, the not-a-unicorn is three hundred times more physically attractive than any member of your species. This is not even having more in the way of physiological curvature. And unlike your glorified walking coat-hangers made of meat, a not-a-unicorn is also not subject to debilitating recreational substance addictions. Which is to say, a not-a-unicorn is also a not-a-white-powder-fiend. No need for some of South America’s more infamous pharmaceutical exports when one is naturally lean and beautiful. And never mind if Aia will never be subject to the same foible regardless of how many snow-white hills are heaped upon table tops before her.

But such would be concerns for another time and another place. Literally and truly, another time and place. This planet does not have Sigmund Freud’s nose-candy of choice. Goodness knows how much more…rambunctious things would become if the korth riders were besotted and bedazzled with Swiss marching powder. Drug dealers have briefly appeared in this world, yes. However, they did not remain long enough to dispense with anything other than thumb-shaped bits of brass delivered at just-barely-subsonic speed.

With nothing in the way of unlicensed pharmaceuticals salespersons to attempt blasting her out of the sky, Aia had free reign enough to come in for a landing. Plenty of pistolets and submachine guns, yes. Also yes, one would be quite surprised as to the military hardware available to those very same…ah, entrepreneurs.

In any event, Aia came to sight of the city. It was almost a disappointment. The very young take heart and amusement in high-flying physical antics such as riding roller-coasters and elevators and what-not. Riding dragons, unicorns, and not-unicorns can be as much a source of joy—moreover if there are plenty of friends on the ground to suffer from jealousy. All sort of… Look at me-e-e, everyone! I’m riding a mystical creature! Be sure to fill my social media page with all of your piles of hatred! It matters not so long as I simply have even more gobs of attention!

Aia had the idea of riding into the city, then into the city square (which is still stubbornly in the shape of a circle), and then being met by the grateful townspeople for having vanquished a tyrant. Met, and then feted as a liberator.

But, such was not to be! An errant set of anti-air artillery rounds fired by South American drug dealers had knocked her from her flying mount, for they mistook her for being a business rival! And we are lying yet again!

A nasty habit, yes. But you humans are simply just so very easily led about by the nose. Some of your fellow members of homo sapiens sapiens could tell you and sell you useless tonics, pills, powder and even whole servings that will (allegedly) reduce your weight and increase your libido inversely, and you would buy it. Again and again. And at the most astounding of prices Just so very gullible. So very gullible, in fact, that you gladly submit to the idea of banning human genetic engineering and cybernetic augmentation—the verry sorts of things which would mean you would never have to buy weight-loss snake oils ever again. Such is what comes to pass when one takes education from the tele and Hollywood movies! Even watching Arsenal on the pitch would serve as a better means of instruction than the former and the latter.

Well now, this leaves us with Aia being taken down and out of the sky at a reasonably sane velocity—something greatly other than terminal, that is. Those anti-gravity wings of the not-a-unicorn took both beast and elf down to near one of the settlements outside of the city proper. This was not something Aia told or commanded the beast to do. Beasts have wills of their own, and a great deal of it is not instilled by reason but by instinct. And by instinct, such entails emotion rather than logic. Sound familiar?

What was familiar would be the settlement they had landed near. Some sort of emotion told the not-a-unicorn to land here, and that emotion had nothing at all to do with any sort of neurological meddling…from trans-dimensional entities…that so happen to have mastered travel in time and space. Familiarity unto coincidence, it was also coincidence that this settlement was formerly that of Master Jakk, also formerly of Master Fromm, also formerly of Master Pognard of the Golden Hammer, etcetera, etcetera.

Complete coincidence, that. Absolute and total coinciding of current events matching previous events. Surely a bit of randomness which just so happened to have come together and made some sort of vague sense—much like considerations of human evolution. A planet aged a few billion of your years, it was bound to create at least two more iterations of sentient, civilisation-capable species after the last few attempts. See that? Randomness wins again.

Still grasping the vaunted legendary weapon, the elf-girl of synthetic corpus unseated and hopped down from the not-a-unicorn—her exquisitely bare feet alternating between tensing and flexing in doing so.

Pretty, pretty feet on the ground, body dressed in that barely-there garment, Aia looked up at the not-a-unicorn. The elf-girl intended to thank the beast, but then there was a stuttered breath and a gobbet of something wet striking her full in the face.

Well, this was an initially curious phenomenon! Aia used her free hand to wipe the substance from her eyes and face. (No, not that substance, you degenerates). Something familiar about this stuff. Formerly of a human body herself, Aia was familiar with a variety of substances produced thereof. This was similar but also not the same.

It was saliva. And since there was no other apparent source of the substance, it seems that there was one culprit responsible. One with six legs and two noble wings of beauty and glory. And the look on its face—insofar as a not-a-unicorn has a face—meant that the gesture was intentional.

“Why?” asked Aia, her own visage bearing both sadness and saliva. “Why have you done this? I thank you for saving my life, but…why!”

Aia’s body is synthetic, but her brain is still human and therefore still too stupid to comprehend why. And we shall tell you why.

Even if the not-a-unicorn is…well, not a unicorn, it still has the sensibilities of its not-real genetic cousins. Which is to say, unicorns and not-a-unicorns alike will only befriend virgins. Which is to also say, unicorns and not-a-unicorns alike will not have neither amity nor goodwill toward not-a-virgins. A change of body or not, Aia’s past carnal antics still remain.

Even if that explanation does not…ahem…satisfy you, the not-a-unicorn was quite pleased with the results. And with an absolutely unnecessary beat of its antigravitational wings, the beast leapt up and floated off into the suddenly clouded skies. And then it began to rain.

So goes the need for finding water to wash her face. And if the rain caused her thin garment to cling to every single last external anatomical feature of her body, it was purely coincidence. This, just as her garment left her feet and legs—more importantly her feet—especially bare.

Very well then! The girl is naked…of feet. Yes, and scantily clad otherwise. And it is raining. And there is nothing in the way of transportation other than her wondrously bare toes. Such lovely, lovely toes. They look all the more sensuous given how they are glistening in the rain. Now those exquisite feet must now serve her in going from here to over there.

There…? There? What there are we talking of? What other there is there? Why must you ask so much in the way of silly questions? With Lord Morkudum’s mountain-sized floating nonsense having become disparate subatomic particles after an extraordinarily climactic event—an absolute orgasm of an antimatter blast—there was no there up over there in the distance. Only so much in the way of empty plains.

In the other direction, the there would be Master Jakk’s former settlement. Also, formerly Master Fromm’s former settlement… Etcetera, etcetera. Beyond there was the city way over there. Going about bare of feet is no way for a nineteen-year-old to go about affairs in the city. That is, unless they had one of those most astounding of nights—the sort of night that your excessively rich and therefore morally decadent Hollywood sub-species would have. What do they call it again? Oh yes… The walk of shame. At least then, they are able to carry themselves over to the nearest limousine before taking the way to the current pied a terre.

Nothing else to do, what was Aia to do? All the conditions for success seemed to have been met. And there was no whimsical whisking away. The quest is done where it had begun. No vast overlord lording over all the land. One evil was vanquished. No place to go but home. Or what passes for home.

And it is still raining. (Of course, we are going with the present tense. Dolts, why do you insist on the past tense in your storytelling? You are here now. Aia is going over there now.) Taking one more look but certainly not the last look at the clouded sky—a sky free of that floating fortress of tyrannical spacey doom—Aia walked for the main cottage of Master Jakk. Now hers, given her previous and albeit short-lived status as a crystal-craft apprentice.

We’ll go with crystal-craft because crystal-smithing sounds just so… What adjective are we looking for? Sounds so… So… Crass. There we go! Smithing with all of its aprons and smell of sweat baked into the steel of the hard tools no matter how much the rest of the atelier is cleaned by the likes of apprentices.

Crystal-craft, so very refined and artistic. And elven. There we go. Aia of The Crystal Craft. Perhaps Aia can come up with a less hokey title later. For now, perhaps a spot of kiln-grown tea and the peace of a book would do for now. Then, go out to the city and resume Master Jakk’s trade. (Even with necessities being all covered by what grow-kilns generate, there is still commerce—contrary to all the fascism-excusing folderol perpetuated by Stalin, Lenin, and that more recent lunatic whose last name also has a last syllable of -in.)

Aia knew that they offered much in the way of coin because of her prettiness. Being lithe and moonsilk-blonde did not go far beauty-wise back on Earth—what with so many European refugees having flooded the Americas and being treated as an underclass. But on this planet, Aia was not only lithe with a head of long moonsilk-blonde tresses. Aia’s head has the features of the skyborne—big eyes, pointy ears and all. Yes, such was why so much coin was offered. More like, they wished to draw her presence with delivered promises of riches.

Something wrong with that. But…not in the end. If people took heart and joy in seeing her, if her prettiness inspired people to be better people, if her mere presence was all that it took to spread love and happiness, what is the harm? It was benefit, really. At the least, there was joy and happiness to be had for some.

Even if not for herself, there was happiness for some. That’s what matters. If you spent a great deal less time obeying the social-media dictates of eternally angry proto-fascist lunatics on your smartphones, you would look around and realise that there is a much better world to be made.

…

So, what are we still doing here then? There’s not overly much reason in your estimation. Not in the least! You’d rather be in front of the tele and enjoying a double dosage of brain damage in the forms of yeast urine and low-resolution imagery of yet another match of kick-the-inflated-sphere ‘round the pitch. Just…cosy on up next to the likes of Nigel. Or better yet, sit on his especially spacious lap! He has plenty of body fat and will keep you warm most nights.

Why, certainly beats a landscape in which roving bands of yobs, buffoons, hooligans, and other assorted human-flavoured sub-species of idiocy are out to wreak havoc on decency and intelligence. The downside, no grow-kilns on your world yet. That, and most every single easily curable disease is not cured because your planet’s aristocracy prefer to nickel-and-dime you to death by way of medical costs and laughable wages. (But we billionaires cannot afford to pay workers a living wage! That would make us mere millionaires, and we cannot have that!) You believe ev-ery-thing that your world’s aristocracy tells you. And because you’re so intellectually compromised by the likes of what’s in your dominant hand (more in the six pack) and mounted upon the wall, you simply do not care!

Meanwhile, your aristocracy cares not, either. Too busy relaxing lounging about in one of their many luxury estates, enjoying the company of carnal slaves (illegal for you) and the (also illegal) pharmaceutical exports of South America.

This isn’t a-a-all bad. How else are…unlicensed pharmaceutical venture capitalists supposed to pay for their military-grade materiel? And just think of all the human traffickers and pharmaceutical entrepreneurs who would be put out of business should your aristocracy not have so many billions of euros or pounds-sterling at their disposal?

So yes! Go back to your tele! Go back to your dumb-phone. And do enjoy the company of Nigel Baker. Perhaps Arsenal will actually win for a change. Perhaps with a little help from their (pharmaceutical) friends? Yes, and so goes another advantage to having the billionaire aristocracy remain billionaires while you…? Just have another pint and forget this business.

What? Still here? You still want to hear more of the likes of Aia Andersdotter of the Crystal-Craft? (Crafter sounds too blue-collar, like crystal-smith and an elf-princesse would not deign to have that.)

You have asked us why. Now we turn it ’round and do the same to you. Why are you here? Or perhaps change the emphasis. Why are you here? (There is a change of meaning with the change of emphasis. It seems that English shares a relationship with some of your non-Germanic languages in having tone of voice change meaning of words.) Why? Here? You? What is there to tell? There are no more overwhelming menaces! None! With the legendary-made-reality Arcfire at her side and a synthetic corpus more resistant to damage than any of those meat-bag mortals, almost no-one and no-thing can stop her!

Almost nothing? You would like to know what still remains on this world that could change Aia’s title of immortal to mortal. Lord Morkudum’s Kill-o-Blast™ weapons are no more. But there’s no point in that. None that we would see worth elaborating to you. This, especially since maybe perhaps a few of those threats have names with the closest renderings in a human tongue would run on for thirty-two syllables or so. But before Aia would be threatened, more than a few of those hapless, no-name, and therefore uncared-by-you townspeople would come to discover if there really is an afterlife?

And you are still here. If not, you would not be able to heed our words. Those who have left by this point are likely off finding out what Nigel smells like and why. There are a great many aromas, and most of them are subconsciously suppressed smells of lifetime disappointment—especially since he never bothered to finish high school…or middle school for that matter…and went straightaway from part-time work in buying useless rubbish (a 500-quid allegedly authentic Arsenal tee) to full-time work in barely being able to pay living expenses.

Still here? Right. Well, what comes to pass next won’t do overly much for your life as it stands. This is all more or less a witnessing of the people more-or-less tidying up some loose ends. Can’t have too many of those wriggling about, really. Bound to unravel the fabric of your reality to the point that you start seeing things which resemble dragons and unicorns but are really not. Not in the least. Perhaps you would be so much better off not knowing what they really are that your subconscious tricks you into seeing dragons and unicorns otherwise.

…

And now, it is time for some befuddlement. Or perhaps we should say, more befuddlement than usual. You humans are easily confused, after all. (Nothing new regarding that state of mind recurring quite often—as with the course of this adventure!) For that, what better place than a pub? Why, they serve befuddlement in liquid form. And you actually pay for it! This cultural practice of your species overall remains a point of dismay and amusement in varying quantities.

Such as the quantity poured into Khort’s mug. He had inherited more than a fair bit of coin from his brother. That sibling was the more adventuresome of the lot, always galloping and gallivanting about the settlements and manses beyond the edge of the regular settlements. If that brother of his was not escorting some extraordinarily elegant mercantile heiress through razorglass fields or having korth-mounted battles with bandits, then any number of those elegant mercantile heiresses would remain around long enough to enjoy an escort of a different sort. To be rather explicit, the sort which tests the craftsmanship of bedding.

Well, you wanted to know. Now you do. You must also know through some subconscious inkling or even phonetic clues that Khort is brother to Jhort. Jhort is well and gone, having gotten himself disintegrated by some ferocious fortress weaponry that no-one knew existed outside of legends.

Forgivable, really. For goodness’ sakes, who of a medieval fantasy-land would believe that a floating castle can let loose with swaths of energy that can take out entire swaths of korth-mounted cavalry? More likely to believe in six-legged unicorns or witches that brew up soups which instill immortality. If no-one can expect to be turned to vapour by floating fortress weaponry, then it only stands to reason that no-one should prepare for such an eventuality.

Should, could, doesn’t matter overly much now. What mattered more immediately that Khort’s family is minus the good brother—the one who brought not fortune but glory to the family’s already bourgeoning troves. The family has fortune. What they also like having is glory along with. Which is to also say, Khort’s family is rich. Which is to say atop of that, the reason why those mercantile heiresses so dearly loved Jhort’s company was because of him being the same or higher social class. Jhort’s antics included the likes of korth-riding bare-chested in the dead of night—and by the light of only one moon at that—in revisiting yet another bedroom conquest. Only someone from money could afford to stay up most all the night and do such doltish things without having to worry about being up for work in the morning.

Perhaps Khort should take to doing the same. He would have to admit that he does not look as fetching bare-chested as his brother did. Quite a bit of paunch, and that’s because of what fills his ale-mug. Filled and refilled, the stuff vanishing into his belly. In fact, Khort of The Bottomless Mug was so lost in the emotional depths of losing family and having to take responsibility that this whole nonsense about Lord Morkudum’s death or complete disappearance was something that escaped him at the moment.

Escaped his perceptions and conscious contemplations, we should say. What he knows, believes, or understands would be irrelevant to the larger reality. Contrary to the declarations of that intellectual anarchy known as postmodernism, there is a larger reality beyond the piddling comprehensions of your tiny little brains. Just because you do not know something does not mean that something does not matter. And no, you cannot control reality by changing your perceptions thereof.

You can only make it seem to go away—which is good enough by the estimations of some. And in medieval fantasy, there is always a sure-fire way to put out those raging flames of misery. Drowning it in drink. Soak that think-meat of yours in a chemical substance that not only obliterates those solid notions of loss and misery but also makes notions overall hard to grasp later on in life.

Plenty of coin. Plenty of drink. There is plenty. And also, plenty of confusion and befuddlement both given the awkward, drunken debates as to if Lord Morkudum was really gone.

Then again true, it cannot completely be their fault for not accepting this new development. You humans do so love consistency. Anything in the slightest going wrong in your existence, and you are set to raise havoc. Eh, what! Priscilla Pretty is wearing pastels with red! Time to start a war! Or perhaps, Your religious texts have a translation of five syllables’ difference! Time to start another war! If extraterrestrials of your universe really wanted to do in your species, all that they would have to do is do away with the inviso-stealth fields they have on their vehicles, draw some silly folderol in your food fields, and perhaps swap out a few of your food-beasts with mutilated clones. (Those Americans of yours can really spawn some fine proteins. Latin Americans, we mean. Venezuelan herbivores have quite an appreciative amino-acid composition.) And should your ancestors decide to stage intergalactic committees on what colours are best for warning-stripe piping around self-destruct knife-switches? Well, you know how that went.

So! Imagine the chaos to be had when the celestial equivalent of a moon disappears! We won’t say the moon. At your current phase of development, you only inhabit… Erm, infest one planet in one solar system. Other planets, multiple moons. The moon? Which one? This world has two to spare. What this world’s inhabitants do not have is a floating fortress in plural. Multiple natural satellites, but just one anti-gravity capable fortress of spacey doom. Now that number has been changed to zero fortresses of spacey doom.

And after all these millennia. After all of this time of existence. And now with nothing else scowling down at them from the sky. Lord Morkudum’s floating castle has been there since humans first dropped off here. It was just therefore psychologically impossible for millennia’s worth of humanity to not have that massive thing up there. No more of Lord Morkudum’s floating castle. No more Lord Morkudums.

“Must be a bloo’y tes’ o’ loy’ty…! Our loya…! Our somethin’ or oth’r, s’wah’s about!” declared some drunken sod at a pub table.

“Lis’n, ye soddin’ pissant!” drawled and drooled his fellow sodding pissant . “’Tis gone! One an’ all of it! All…them. Like a crystal-crafter’s crafty stage-frippery! Pouf! Vanished!”

“No such thin’ as stage frippery, you soaked slipper!” drawled the first one in response. “Lord Mork’dum’s fortress can’t vanish! Pouf! Gone! ‘Tis more like… Pouf! Invisible!”

And so how things have gone ’round and ’round the circular pub table. Why bother to make them circular when the ale-soaked gits will find a way to injure themselves with it anyway? More than likely, by cracking someone or other over the head with it after a rather spritely and spirited debate! (In their defense, better to break tables than to break entire galaxies.)

Circular tables, they metaphorically representative of humanity’s circle of fate and pain. Eliminate one table, and there comes another to take its place. You break tables, but you cannot break the idea of circular tables. Much as another human will come up with more of that furniture, much as you will come forth with yet more violence. You cannot break your cycle. Best that you not, for your antics remain fun, and we shall always remind you of that! So! Break away!

Just as the first sodding pissant wanted to raise some havoc at this conference at this circumference, the pub-door opened. (Leaves one to wonder why they bother to close it at all. Weather on this world is always fine and habitable. No harsh winters or summers. And it only rains when elf-girls are spit upon by horned crystal-engineered creatures that are not their mystical counterparts.)

So, the pub-doors opened. And in walked the great, noble president of Venezuela! No! There goes a lie! In walked the lead striker of Arsenal, football and all! No! That is a lie as well! In walked a not-at-all-drunken sod with the severed bonce of the last (legitimately born) Lord Morkudum. And since that last bit does not have an exclamation point following, it is truth.. At least in this timeline.

“The lord is dead!” declared this haphazard warrior from…well, goodness knows where. Because we won’t say where He certainly dresses the part—the usual fantasy-land folderol of armoured pieces worn along with animal-skin accessories. He even has one of those accursed fur collar-things that seem to serve no purpose other than (trying to go about) impressing others. All that matters is that he is holding up that round bit that used to be attached to the neck of (the last) Lord Morkudum.

And the pub-dwellers looked in in awe and disbelief. This awe came about from shock and confusion, for there was no reasonable way that Lord Morkudum’s severed bonce should be held aloft in the right hand of that manly and brute-ly sort dominating the doorway. Because that’s not the place a bit of neck-ending accessory should be on a human. And that goes especially for the lord. That does not happen. Why not? Well, because it has not happened before—no more than Lord Morkudum’s floating bit of fortress should have disappeared.

And where was Khort? Oh yes, he was mixed in there with the other pub sorts. Trying and failing to drink away his bit of astounding family fortune—which could not physically happen in his lifetime, given the amount of treasure owned by them. But to see that was certainly worth the effort! Not only was his brother dead, now it seems that someone is trying to say the same for the lord. To even give a hint of a whisper about anything negative about the lord is the sort of blasphemy which earns any sort of punishment deemed fit by the korth riders. Those forms of punishment are not especially imaginative as compared to the fatal feudal-era folderol of your world. Like, for example, crafting a hollow bronze bull, throwing in the prisoner, then setting the works alight from below until said bit of human flesh goes from rare to well-done. No, nothing like that. No, the korth riders would just find various ways to chop someone for having said anything blasphemous about the lord.

Now we have that sort doing the sort of thing which would have him being chopped. Not that the warrior sort looks like someone easily brought down. But it seems as if the korth riders should have been hereabouts to make the effort.

And then you sit there in awe. Did you not see Lord Morkudum eliminated in some of the most absolute and astounding manners possible? Cooked by the uncontrolled back-blast of the Arcfire, done. (Or rather, well done. Much like the temporary inhabitant of hollow bronze.) Stand there bleeding out like the bloody sod he was? Done. Being shot to pieces by pharmaceutical industry workers? Done, done, and done! Oh, and the last of his remains being absolutely disintegrated to subatomic particles when the absolutely orgasmic destruction took place? Done to the fourth power! So how come this warrior to this absolutely un-disintegrated bit of lordship?

Alas, there goes another something-or-other that you shall not be told about. Perhaps it was just random happenstance. You’d think the universe was a flawless metaphysical mechanism. You’d also think wrong. Mistakes are bound to happen every so often. Just ask your physicists. And if some of the more developmentally important mistakes needed some…helping along? So be it. Otherwise, there being an intact severed bit of lord indicating that the lord was no longer physically intact himself, it was just one of those things really.

Now we did note aloud that this is a place of alcohol consumption—a place in which humans go to destroy what traces of advanced intellect they could possibly develop. This is also saying that humans are more inclined to believe the otherwise unbelievable should it come to pass. And what could be more unbelievable than that? If the disappearance of the floating fortress was not enough, then that really pushed things.

“The lord is dead,” harshly whispered a pub-dweller who seems not to have been there before. And yes, maybe his random presence so happened to be another bit of helping along.

“The lord is dead!” took up a gullible sort, shouting what he just barely heard…but fully believed.

Perhaps it has something to do with the idea of tricking humans with subliminal messages---stimuli that is just on the edge of being retained by the senses but not processed by the conscious mind. But all of your known human history attests to truths and lies being shouted at full volume. Both are heard by the full human consciousness, but the preference for lies still dominates. Every so often, however, humans by majority believe…the truth. Does not occur overly often, but when it does? So goes progress.

And in this case, the truth about Lord Morkudum no longer being lord of anything but the past tense has now reached the minds of these dim-witted hominids. They shall not take to cracking each other over the head with petrified tree-limbs in this case—what passes for debate amongst you otherwise. For one thing, there are no petrified tree limbs on this planet. (No trees, you see. Only stands to reason that there would not be any clubs.) For another thing, perhaps some extra-dimensional entities or other would have resorted to some other means of convincing these bipedal buffoons of their new paradigm.

Truth be told, we had an easier time of things when a certain race of amphibious invertebrates dominated your planet—back when the atmosphere was of such nature that it would have burned your hair off. Goodness knows what level of difficulty we’ll have when the next lot comes along to populate the surface of your planet. Goodness also knows if you’ll have decided to be long gone and finally on other worlds when that happens. Time shall tell, however.

But this time, truth wins. Lord Morkudum is no longer alive in the traditional sense. And the people have finally taken to a bit of something that you may have heard about but do not practise overly often. Democracy.

Democracy, power to the people and all that. You’d think that voting in such a system would entail lining up at some hard-furnished polling place in Kingston upon Thames. But, going back to the analyses of that human Francis Fukuyama, voting also entails the actions decided upon by the people. Action or inaction, those are votes in and of themselves. And in this case, the people have taken to…action.

“Lord Morkudum is dead!” shouted Khort. He then drew his sharpened metal stick and wanted to crack the nearby-seated korth rider over the head. But since sharpened metal sticks—also known as swords—are not necessarily the blunt instruments of political debate as exercised by your ancestors, the results were different.

Also quite convincing. That korth rider will be doing nothing in the way of disagreement from this poitn on! Hard to do so when his melon is now in two parts instead of one. You don’t use those things especially often, but you still do need them to form what passes for coherent verbal communication. But what came out instead was a wet sort of gurgling sound. And...dear goodness, that is quite the amount of blood, isn’t it?

But who cares! Other than the puddle being a slipping hazard, it’s certainly time to get on with things. Millennia of fascism can only end in one way. It may take a century. It may take centuries. And then, millennia. In the end, totalitarian Tomfoolery only has one fate. Do you see that crimson puddle upon the floor? Yes, that is what we mean. Copious amounts of bloodshed!

And…it seems that there were still several korth riders within this establishment who still had their blood on the inside rather than the outside. More pub-dwellers—those other than korth riders, of course—had drawn their own sharpened metal means of forced blood loss and set to work.

Seems rather sudden, doesn’t it? Not really! We did say something about the timeline including millennia, did we not? Long overdue, this bit.

Now came homo sapiens sapiens taking on yet another one of your forms. Humans have lots of shapes and functions, and most all of them are bad from the perspective of those watching from other galaxies and dimensions. This form so happened to what happens when more of your type gather together and decide to get done their emotional whims. With colleges, computers, and killer cyborgs, the more the merrier. The more members present, the more the networked intelligence. But, not so with a mob. Yes, because that is what we have here! A mob, which is a creature of its own apart from individual humans. Still human, but a sub-species thereof.

…

How so? This is how. This nebulous grouping of multiple arms and legs had multiple heads, and most all of those heads were shouting all together as they moved all together out into the circular town square. Humans have individual heads. This one has them in plural. Also, multiple many other instances of other body parts. Before, the members of the mob had all sorts of sharpened sticks attached to their multiple many arms. But somehow, now that they formed another type of creature, they now had pitchforks instead.

Because there is no hay on this planet to pitch, there would not be any pitchforks otherwise. And we have absolutely no idea as to where those things could have possibly come from! And even if we did, we would completely deny having anything to do with them. More like, look to how those things are used. But anyway, no angry mob is complete without a few of those things to brandish about as they go looking for nobility and knights to put down.

“You rubbish peasants!” shouted a korth rider who so happened to not be atop a korth at the moment—not even a white-furred one with wings and a horn. He drew his sharpened stick and was about to show these serfs who is boss around here. What are you doing!

Of course that last bit would not go in quotes.. That would not be an error on our part. Something only goes in quotation marks if it is said aloud. But it was not spoken because it is rather difficult for a korth rider—or any human, for that matter—to speak with a pitchfork tine in his windpipe.

Wondering why he had difficulty making further declarations of doom and destruction (or any at all), he looked down at the length of rusty metal protroduing from his neck. Of all the places to not wear armour… Then, looking to the one who did it. No, not as wielded by the mob. An individual human had done this.

Annika Andersdotter looked on in grinning satisfaction and amusement at her victim’s plight. It had been a goodly long while since the girl had jammed a warrior in the neck with a pitchfork. How long? Well, since never actually. Multiple universes, multiple dimensions, the raven-haired nineteen-year-old girl never had the chance to do this sort of thing.

And with that korth rider still bleeding out, Annika took a smartphone out from her tight black dress and tapped the screen with a black-painted fingernail—calling up her bucket-list app. Stab a bro (in the neckmeat) with a pitchfork. Done! And then Annika gave a wink before also winking out of existence. Along with the pitchfork, of course.

Meaning, Annika vanished along with the pitchfork. Can’t leave that sort of thing lying around, you know. Someone may accidentally end up being hurt.

Which still left a great deal more pitchforks and plenty other arms ready to put those things to good and proper use. Well, why-ever not? There’s no hay to pitch, after all. May as well use it to poke some extra holes in some noble-ranked meat.

Speaking of which, seeing what happened to one of their fellows, the other korth riders otherwise pointlessly milling about the circular town square drew their sharpened metal sticks. It was a mentally automatic thing for them to do. All those millennia of stabbing and chopping townspeople and plains-dwelling peasants and just about everyone else of lower societal rank, the slightest provocation was cause for them to just start swinging—and always under the assumption that they would staying on top of things.

“Stop this! Or the lord shall strike you down!” shouted a korth rider, raising his sharpened metal stick to the sky.

Only after it happened did the mob realise what came to pass next. It seems, the korth rider had been struck by lightning. Rather obvious in hindsight, really. There was a bright flash, a blast of sparks, and a sound so loud that people were temporarily deafened.

Oh dear… It was raining earlier, was it not? Rain, clouds, rainclouds, dry empty plains, plenty of electrical potential for the occasional discharge. And it was just coincidence that he was the only one struck. Some talk about taking the lord’s name in vain, but it depends on which lord by some human estimates.

With his hair still on fire from the electrical incursion, the korth rider tried to take a step forth and put down some wayward peasant slaves. Then there were some dry crunchy sounds as his char-blackened legs separated—coming apart at the calves. When he tried to raise himself, the same happened to his other two limbs. And that happened because that was where he wore his armour.

Metal armour, hah! Do you see what happens when your civilisation stays technologically stuck in the muck? No electrical resistant synthetic-composite materials. Trying to go for centuries unto millennia with nothing new having been developed. Having yourself a nice little intellectually constipated society where no-one is rewarded for innovated thinking or thinking at all! Just leave all the high-ranking slots of governance and industry occupied by endlessly inbred brats who learn nothing and are incapable of any thought outside of the rote-memorised lessons pound into their heads up until the age of twelve—upon which time they have their tutors ruthlessly slaughtered for daring to offend them in some manner. Case in point, the last lord of the land…whose now-rotting head was now thrown at one of the korth riders.

Who had a horrible time believing that Lord Morkudum was really dead and gone. Which is to say, could not believe that Lord Morkudum was gone. Never mind not being able to ride that artificial antigravity well back on up to the floating fortess of fascist fortitude… Well, because there was neither an antigravity well nor an antigravity well generator to generate such a thing nor skyfall-crafted fortress to house the works. But putting aside all that, it should have been impossible for Lord Morkudum to be dead. Why, he had just married the most wondrous-looking strumpet of long legs and long neck and long hair, along with long ears.

A great deal of longness about her, come to think of it. Strange for someone who was not especially tall. Whatever happened to her, then?

But then this intellectually constipated korth rider once in service to an intellectually constipated piece of fascist lordship was now having an even harder time of things. What, with him only having one sharpened metal stick to swing at these rather upset peasants and only one arm to do so.

But…humans usually come with two or more arms. Usually. He was fortunate enough to have been in a similar situation. But somewhere along the way, he seems to have lost the other arm. He just failed to notice it up until now…

Because one of those petty little peasants seemed to have possession of the errant limb…and was using it as a weapon against its former owner. That former owner was currently doing his damnedest to fend off these damned townspeople. And his damnedest was currently not enough. Especially not with the other arm having gone the same route. As to how someone could use a severed limb to sever another limb from someone is yet another mystery that shall remain to the likes of you. Keep contemplating the mystery. The results matter regardless.

Severed legs, severed arms, severed bonces, body parts internal being made external… All manner of body parts and bits and pieces are going hither and thither. It’s quite the show as watched from a safe distance.

But…there are those who cannot watch from afar, and what a horrible situation it has become for them. You do love your simple cinematic shows, yes? And if you do not now, you most certainly did in your younger years. You thrill to the sight of some hapless, awkward, gawkful adolescent being more awkward still in running at full gallop from the super-powered undead revenant. (Personally, in watching such films, we were all too glad to cheer on the monster. If you had more monsters on your planet, they would be doing a service by winnowing out the weaker and dumber members of your species. In service of natural selection, that!) And when the super-revenant does finally intercept the awkward adolescent? Well, a visit to the butcher’s would bring sight to a similar outcome.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

It’s all fun and joy to you because you are not there. It is not real to you. There are almost no super-revenants on your planet. And even if there were, we would not tell you about them. No, ‘twould be more amusing to watch from a safe distance. We sit back with our fried haddock and processed potato products in seeing your plight.

You were having fun in watching things go all horrorshow for the characters in the movie. We were having fun in watching things go really horrorshow for you at times. And of the multiple parties involved, there is one group not having fun. And that would be the victim.

Such as Anxakasian the Quick. His name takes quite a while to say for newcomers to this planets language, and that even goes with the assistance of translation. In any event, this pseudo-gentleman and self-fashioned rogue of the korth riders fancied that his nom de guerre was granted due to his quick fingers and speed with the blade.

In actuality, it was granted to him by various bedroom partners in houses of ill repute. (Multiple data points. Therefore, the hypothesis becomes theory.) What, did you seriously think that it would be attributed to him being quick of wit? That accelerated part of his anatomy was quite the distance from his bonce, we should say.

And no, that would not be referring to feet and legs. But we should say he is making quite the effort in that regard. What intermittently slows him down is turning his head to look back. Doing so gives him incentive enough to speed up a bit more if only temporarily. It therefore works out by way of averages

Because that humaniform monster was after him. No, not an undead revenant wearing a bit of sporting equipment to cover his decomposing face. And no, not one that managed to fashion a set of stylish metal fingernails but for only one hand. This sort of revenant is not individually immortal but is immortal by way of being able to replace parts of itself as necessary.

What monster is this? Why, we have already described it—that monster with multiple sets of legs and more than the usual set of limbs for a human. In fact, it is made up of multiple humans. It has multiple heads. It has joined together and has somehow grown pitchforks for extra body parts along with flaming torches to light the way ahead. This is yet another exemplary specimen of that creature known as a mob.

We have also described to you how they come into existence. A group of angry, repressed humans in a totalitarian, socially regressed society… Discontent grows, and so does the fertility rate of that genus homo vulgus. And due to millennia of discontent from the people of this planet, there was just so much nutrition for mobs. You know how it goes. Plenty of food in an ecosystem for an animal, plenty of that animal coming into existence.

Plenty of food also means plenty of nutrition. And if that nutrition should be supplemented with the occasional snack upon those humans not part of a mob, then all the better! In fact, mobs are drawn to the sources of their nutrition. With that nutrition being discontent…

Anxakasian the Quick was now being Anxakasian the Easily Exhausted (another nickname picked up, and also from the same demographic in town). He spent most all of his time riding korth and swigging ale and occasionally bedding wenches. (More on that later.) Oh, and swinging that sharpened metal stick of his. Even so, only doing so at peasants that offended him for any reason at all…

All… All… What an interesting bit of human thought. As if you can have it all. That will never happen. The sort who claims that is likely yet another politician or entertainment figure—which is to say, professional liar. Or, as if you have all the time in the world. Well, not so much a lie there, for your world does not overly much time—especially given how politicians and entertainment figures are finagling affairs to bring about the end of your world sooner rather than later! Or, having armour all over your body…

Oh, do you claim us to be off topic yet again? This late in the tale, you should be more familiar with our roundabout manner of things—given how much and how often we have to take such an approach to care-ful-ly ex-plain-ing things to hu-mans. (Talk slowly. No sudden moves. Can’t be too cautious around homo sapiens-sapiens.) Why are we bringing up this idea of all? And that last sentence, ‘tis not a common bit of phrasing. Well in the case of a certain bit of slow-footed humanity, that phrase should have been more broadly established in his consciousness!

Because he did not have armour all over his body. This is a landscape whose humans have taken far, far too much instruction from fantasy-land perceptions of fascist feudalism. As in, not based in historic facts. As too many of you humans prefer it, feelings are more important than facts. And it was all too better to feel stylish than it was to actually be physically protected…all over one’s body.

Such as over his midsection. But, can’t have armour there! Anxakasian the Quick was wearing the latest fashion in stylish jerkins. This, though it looked almost completely like every other jerkin produced by merchants in the city, it was not! See? It is embossed with the trade-mark proper of Kelavin Kleindashian himself. Only accept official clothing from the official makers of fashion, for all other items are counterfeit. (You must have authentic creations of artifice.)

That said, Anxakasian the Quick had always felt justified in never wearing a full and proper chest-plate including coverage of the midsection. Anxakasian the Quick is also of the belief he is among the most stylish of korth riders. And don’t tell him that the korth riders themselves are out of fashion.

He rounded a corner here in the city. Plenty of kiln-brick shops and taverns and what-not. Plenty of corners. But, this is indeed a scenario similar to your beloved bits of horror cinema. And as such, is it ever an idea to even come upon a corner? And why have we put so much of Mister Quick’s thought-processes in the past tense? Why, because he is soon to be a member of the past himself!

In any event, in this series of events, just as he rounded a corner, the sledgehammer came swinging ’round to strike him full in the un-armoured midsection. It was an all-out strike. And there was nothing done by him to prevent it.

Annika Andersdotter dropped the hammer, which seemed to vanish into nothingness. It came from nothingness to begin with, perhaps because some extradimensional entities had made it temporarily exist in the first place.

No, Annika herself was not a product of nothingness but actually from your planet—or at least a version of your planet from some parallel universe or other. (We won’t bother to keep track of them all for you. Not our job. More the job of automatons.) Given her behaviour, her world is not so very far from your own.

As with before, the pale strumpet in tight black brought out her smartphone from somewhere. Interesting how even the tightest and most revealing of garments can have means of storing smartphones. Also as before, her black-painted fingernails brought forth that bucket-list program. This time? Play whack-a-bro with a real hammer and a real bro. Done! Then Annika Andersdotter stepped out of this universe once again.

Unlike most wild species, the speed of homo vulgus varies greatly. Sometimes, a mob has no more speed than that of a pregnant porcupine. Porcupines, mobs, both are so spiny that they need not necessarily rely on agility. Unlike porcupines, however, homo vulgus is a great deal less intelligent. But unlike porcupines, homo vulgus may also move at a predatory velocity. This goes especially so when it senses prey in proximity.

There was no need for speed in this instance, for their intended prey had somehow fallen on hard times. Or rather, had fallen directly into the path of that seemingly inexplicable hammer as swung by a seemingly inexplicable Goth girl. As certain pharmaceutical entrepreneurs would say, He had an accident.

Trouble was, nothing prior in his life was really an accident…other than the fact that he was born human instead of something upstanding and proper. He would have been better off as a purple-shelled stetnor of Primus 6, for example. Almost no intelligence beyond that of writhing the occasional tentacle to move around some of that amino-acid nutrient broth which their planet calls an ocean. But in comparison, a stetnor has a lifespan comparable to that of entire Earth nation-states. Additionally, the lifespan of a stetnor is greatly that of this hapless human.

Again, nothing quite accidental after his birth. He chose to drop away from education in the city. He also chose to dispense with apprenticeship in pipe-smithing and rainbow-fabrication (you will never know) to live the adventuresome (if foreshortened) life of a korth rider. All mentally caught up in those visions of riding high astride korth and doing the bidding of the lord. Or for that matter, partaking of behaviours presumably the bidding of the lord. From there, just being an overall abusive nuisance to the entirety of society.

Now a product of society is going to abuse him. Those pitchfork protrusions of homo vulgus are not there for courtship rituals, you know! One cannot rightly call them means of physical defense in nature. No, not when they are of an offensive nature.

“Please don’t kill me!” begged the gut-slammed korth rider. And then somehow, something or some-things led him to say something that pretty much assured his more immediate demise. “Please don’t kill me! I haven’t been able to crack any peasant noggins yet today!”

Pure coincidence, him having said that. This, just as it was absolute and total chance which caused this korth rider to run full-speed into the arc of a hefty tool of destruction from Earth. The only thing we will admit in these regards would be just how very unfortunate this korth rider has become.

On the plus side, he won’t have to bear with the ignoble pain of being human much longer. That, because he will instead be dead. Starting with a pitchfork coming down full into his already much-abused midsection. Down…and through.

Oh, what jolly fun! For all of those times your popular media has depicted various phenotypes of homo vulgus, almost never have they shown what those pitchfork protrusions are there for. Given the lack of hay, certainly not the pitching of that. What we have instead is all four tines having traversed the bowels of a korth rider whose fashion choice in armour was more on the side of fashion rather than armour.

But wait, there’s more! You didn’t think this horror-show instance would be over with the first penetration, did you? It would be a rather…ahem, premature climax.

One good thrust deserves another! Long, hard, and deep! So! Again comes down a pitchfork. But in this case, ‘tis not once more into the breech but instead once more into the innards. The results were less satisfying—especially for homo vulgus, doubly so for the korth rider. But there was still great sport in the making. And then another descent of a hay-pitching instrument came immediately during these contemplations.

Speaking of contemplations and as widely known, homo vulgus was in no mood for higher thought processes. The predator brain and the human brain besides have rather simple processes—food, sex, kill. Not necessarily prioritized in that order, that. You have no doubt heard of (if not literally hearing) the beast with two backs? Well, homo vulgus has more than a few to spare. Along with multiple-many limbs besides. Sex was not happening at the moment. So that just leaves the other two. And homo vulgus—being a seemingly asexual creature—is quite adept at that regarding hapless individual-bodied organisms.

Because they were killing him. Not quickly, no. Things are more…fun this way. With their meat still struggling and gurgling with a perforated diaphragm and holes running elsewhere through the torso, some of the many limbs of homo vulgus took hold of the prey and started just pulling. That’s it… Put those multiple backs into it, fueled and invigorated as they are with fierce savagery! Hup-hup!

There we are! The korth rider thought he was getting off foot-loose and fancy-free with making hell for peasantry. He was wrong. Quite wrong. Generations unto centuries unto millennia of atrocities upon the lower classes were now being paid for and with quite a bit of interest accrued. As that old American saying goes, No such thing as a free lunch. The aristocracy continues to believe that such a saying does not apply to their lives. Now it does. Now they are paying quite severely.

In fact, it just cost this korth rider an arm and a leg. And quite literally, if we may strike a cliché. Who will stop us if we do? You? Would you like a seemingly random visit from a rather pretty black-clad girl with a sledgehammer for a fashion accessory?

Oh, would you look at that! There go the other two limbs that the korth rider used for the sake of making like miserable for peasantry. This specimen of homo vulgus had already gained some immediate experience in removing the previous set, so the other two rips came off with less of a hitch. Less mewling, too. The korth rider should have passed out by now, but then he would have missed the rest of the show. After all, who would want to miss out on seen the destruction of one’s own corpus? And it was only when a significant portion of his insides were now rendered outside that he finally decided to call it quits. Those glistening ropy intestines and sumptuous kidneys and a lot of other bits and bobs absolutely shining in the bright light of day.

But homo vulgus was not satisfied. Oh, not in the least. Again, millennia of anger and hunger leading up to this day. With those absolutely animal urges in place, little wonder that homo vulgus decided to not waste a good bit of meat—especially since it had expended so much in the way of kilocalories in getting its prey.

Don’t worry. With its multiple stomachs to go along with those multiple backs, there was plenty of room to house the various parts and proportions of the korth rider. So goes it for the korth riders elsewhere in the city. Yes, an entire city full of peasantry, of individuals who had…ahem, stomached quite enough of Lord Morkudum’s nonsense. Of the korth rider’s nonsense. Now they were going to stomach the human remnants of Lord Morkudum’s power. There went one American saying earlier, now for another—an institution is its people, not its buildings. With Lord Morkdum’s building gone, the peasantry could not go about turning into homo vulgus and eating that. So now they shall go about doing repeat performances of what just happened.

Minus the completely random and utterly coincidental appearance of dangerous Goth girls to stop their prey for them, homo vulgus went about making up in quantity what it lacked in tactical quality. Not unlike Russian military antics in that regard, actually. But unlike the militaries of arrogant tsars past and present, homo vulgus is actually successful in its devouring endeavors. We like that turn of phrase. Let’s spin it another way. Devoursome endeavors. Or perhaps… Endeavors to devour. That last one sounds more like a title to those whoresome romance novels you do so like consuming, actually. Endeavors to Romance or Invitation to Love.

It was a good long while before Tomity the Sha.rp was actually getting around to being cornered. Bound to happen eventually. What, with him running higgledy piggledy with all the urgency of emergency, he was sure to prolong his life by a good few more minutes or so. After all, homo vulgus is not necessarily reknown for its great tactical capabilities. That goes with being intellectually capable. And like the zombies of Earth lore, neither homo vulgus nor homo mortis are either.

Which reminds us! It was quite the malicious trick of your wold’s aristocracy to disguise their hatred of angry, impoverished mobs behind tales of the shambling undead hordes. Rather strange how great masses of zombie cinema seem to crop up in times of mass poverty and social instability. It is almost as if…zombies movies are a metaphoriccal condemnation of you!

Well, that seems to not matter overly much because cinematic zombie fiction has been dead and gone for some hundreds of thousands of years by this point. So goes because Earth itself has fallen even more before that. Not too much long after that, the last recordings of Earth’s zombie fiction were lost when sixteen-year-old Lysantra Chapokra of Nissat in the Gamma Quadrant had overwritten the data archives. Seems the girl wanted to make space for her vitual-immersion social-media archives. Her great-grandmother would have been disappointed at the development, having been the last of Earth’s cinematic archivists. That is, if her great-grandmother not having undergone her nineteenth body replacement and was too busy being physically younger than said great-granddaughter. Also emulating her adolescent antics in extremis.

With that aside, we know have Tomity the Sharp turning to swing his sharpened stick at the closest mass of latest mass of homo vulgus. He swung low. Meaning, the primative edge of a sharpened stick only found one midsection of one body in the nearest mass. That body went down and was trampled by the other members of the mass.

Like your multicellular organisms, homo vulgus has neither qualms nor regrets in losing a part or some parts. Why, cells of your human bodies die all the time. That, or they are rendered useless. Not that your brain cells are killed in consuming ale, beer, cognag, disdoc, etcetera. Rather, the neurons are slaughtered by hordes with every swallow of the stuff. But, you seem to be functionally well off as most any human would be.

While some members of homo vulgus had taken to consuming the fallen member (conserving those kilo-calories, you know), the rest of the mass swooped ‘round Tomity the Sharp to begin the process of digestion.

Which was good news for homo vulgus but bad news for Tomity the Sharp—who now found that the sharpness of his legendary square-tipped blade was no match for the sharp teeth of the mob. That’s right. At this point, they didn’t bother with such dining-table niceties as using utensils to have their meal. Not using forks. Not even pitchforks. They just brought their teeth straight to the meat.

Oh dear… Had Tomity the Sharp been able to watch even just a bit of that Earth-borne cinematic ficction, he would have realised his errors. For one, trying to use edged weapons against a threat which is the most dangerous at close proximity. Why do the idiots of idiotic cinema most always stand mere yards from the zombies, mutants, aliens, werewolves, vampires, zombified mutants, mutant zombies, etccetera? For another, why do they not ever go for the head? Unless it’s zombie-fiction, of course. But it still stays true that the sub-morons go about loitering and whining whilst the shambling nightmare comes closing in.

You should have kept running, Tomity. You should have also found other weaponry besides sharpened sticks. Damn it, man! Your species has had projectile weaponry for tens of millions of years! What made you think that you could go mucking about with that folderol of yours? Oh, it was because you had a reputation to maintain! You would not be Tomity the Sharp if not for your seemingly famous blade.

Which leads some of you to asking, what was so damned important about Tomity the Sharp? Was he not just another korth rider? Less a korth rider and more a last-minute practitioner of cardiovascular fitness, it seems. As with having to explain just so very much, we shall do the same in this instance. It is because Tomity the Sharp was second-to-last last of them.

So, how goes that for a lifetime achievement? Tomity the Sharp was not the best of apprentices. He was neither the brightest knife in the drawer nor the sharpest candle on the shelf above. Quite a dim wick, to put it politely. He was also not the most adept of korth riders. This is not saying much, given how the korth riders are… Erm, they were a mass of mediocrity. (Again, quantity compensating for quality [or lack thereof] and all that.) Which is to also say that his only real victory in life was not a victory but being second-place thereof. It is like given second-place at a marathon run. Twenty miles sweated out, and then being given the…silver cup. Or with regards to American politics, sixty years of politicking and doing all manner of morally questionable things including but not limited to such horrid acts as eating butterscotch, and then being elected to the…vice presidency. (People throughout your planet can name or identify the current head of America faster than they can the local insipid aristocrat heading their city of residence. But name the vice President of America? Not even all Americans can all do that.)

And so there you have it. Tomity the Sharp has led a rather dull life as a rather dim wick. And so, he died—his light going out on a planet in which Earth was long ago and far away. Not only that, but he is not worth noting in the annals of history for he was not the last.

…

But as to the last of the korth riders? The very last scrape at the bottom of the barrel? Ah, now there’s a lad worthy of gab. Those who like to throw a bit of embellishment into historical events—as with most everything regarding human history, past or future—would say that he went out with his spilling innards in one hand, sharpened metal stick in the other hand, and nothing in any other hand beyond that because he never quite got around to getting any additional limbs attached.

And from the looks of things, he never will. This, just as you will never master fluency in Ancient Urdu or learn the weaving intricacies of what the Voynich Manuscript really says. (And no, we will not lie to you by saying it’s really a trans-dimensional housekeeping guide. We will, however, lie to you on a great many other occasions—as we have throughout the rest of this merry jaunt.)

Quite a difficult time at swinging that metal stick, that one. What, between the blood loss and the poor counter-balance of only using one hand for the motions, he could not quite get either edge of that cutting implement into the flesh of those peasants closing in. They seemed to know just how far back to stand, just how far the reach of his swings could go.

So he had one more swing at victory and glory, some vague notions of dismembering the whole lot of these ungrateful peasants and riding up the artificial gravity well to… Where exactly? Lord Whatever’s floating castle of spacey doom is gone. Just as this korth rider’s life is now gone and before he could sit up and take notice. This is not Trek Wars, he is not Lucas Starwalker, and he is not the last of the Jaded warriors—that fictitious and impossible nobility blessed with mystical space-force powers.

Such is how things seem to go—especially when one’s intestines are out and about in a landscape where people have an absolute fetish for feudal-era brutish technology. There could have been the chance at vasi vats, but such would be useless given how they were being rid of him.

Which is to say, the last of the korth riders was being strangled to death by his own intestines. Why-ever not? Rather convenient this way. Why bother going all the way across the circular town square to get a bit of rope when there’s plenty in the way of ropy goodness to be had right here? Rather slippery, but the works were toughened up with all those tankards of ale consumed at too many pubs. And if there would be any remotely vague health benefits to be had in regards to the fermented neuron-slaying beverages of this world, such would be exactly that. Yes, tighten up those digestive works so that no only are they a convenient tighter handful when fighting for your life, they will also mercifully end it when needed. No breakage of the material, not even at the necessary tension when around the neck.

Which is to say, now there are no more korth riders. We never tire of saying just how unused human brains happen to be. But at the least, certain regions of that think-meat serve the purpose of remembering to keep respiration going. Cut off from its blood supply, now it can’t remember to do that. (Being strangled by one’s own intestines seems to be a design flaw.) There was still a goodly eight minutes or so before the brain would be totally useless. A drop in a vasi vat, and the korth rider would be up and ready.

Would be. This roundly assumes that the townspeople were willing to do that. But they were not willing to do that. So he’s dying and dead.

The last korth rider. Dead. That floating fortress of spacey doom. Gone. They could all sense it. No, there is nothing in the way of telepathy—another one of those things sharing nonexistence alongside wizards, witches, vampires, unicorns (but not not-a-unicorns, mind you), etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum and certainly not quod erat demonstrandum. No telepathy due to the idiocies of not developing the appropriate technologies. As is usually the case, the people of this planet never got around to computer-brain interface due to religious reasons, even if that religion meant worshipping a living god that was now not so living.

But there was just this feeling, this sensation, this sense of relief. Given how all the Morkudums of all the millennia were of such fecal quality, it was a feeling quite a bit like having dealt with the end results of digestion. It was truly a load off.

“The world is ours!” shouted one of the heads belong to homo vulgus. Indeed, mobs may be lacking in intellectual capabilities. It did not take overly much brain power to make that declaration, however.

“The world is ours!” shouted another set of heads belonging to another specimen of homo vulgus. Then, humans who managed to remain apart from blobs of mobs took to restating the same shout.

And so it went. From word of mouths to written postings at the circular town square to signals by far-sight crystals throughout the settlements, the declaration went that the last of the Lord Morkudums and the last of the korth riders were all dead and gone. And with the night so young that it was not even born yet, there was plenty of time to be had to celebrate. No shortage of fish, chips, or neuron-killing beverages now—not with grow-kilns all throughout the land going full-bore.

…

But Aia of the Crystal-Craft was having none of it. Even with her very brief apprenticeship, the synthetic skyborne elf-princesse was well able to operate far-sight crystals and the quantum-crystalline workings thereof. Anyway, the skyborne had assumed that the seeded human civilisation would be full of idiots and crafted the works to be as sim-ple to use as poss-i-ble. That, and there’s how young humans are able to use most anything even remotely related to a telephone.

Which is to say, the elf-girl had received word about what was already known. Rather hard to not understand the destruction of Lord Morkudum when one was there to see the event. That, and getting away was a dramatic bit of football-interrupting drama in and of itself.

Which left Aia of the Crystal-Craft setting to work doing what this settlement was supposed to do. The elf-girl had changed into her apprenticeship garb of bare legs but not bare feet. Again, not of beautifully bare feet. Not even the wondrous and exquisite ankles… Anyway! Aia was now in the workshop and had some grow-kilns going at crafting—what else—crystals? Then the girl was about to do something with tele-sight crystals and simple thought-crystals when not coming across the right materials.

According to the hand-crafted ledger—Master Fromm’s print-perfect penmanship and Aia’s understanding of this world’s language—the materials were in the basement. Little else to put them, what with various flavours of morons and idiots galloping and gallivanting about the land. Liable to blow themselves into subatomic particles if they misused them. Aia read again. The basement. There is a basement…

Sometimes, regarding organisms born of Earth, the most useful and most critical of things are the most obvious of things. The greatest and best solution to the most long-standing hobgoblins of existence could be right in front of an Earth-born organism. And yet...such a thing would go so very, very unrecognised. But instead of partaking? It seems that an organism of your planet would prefer to wither and die.

Would you like some examples? Of course you would! In fact, you would need them! You would prefer to either not understand or be incapable of doing so. And to that end, consider the following. Consider these organisms of your planet incapable of basic consideration.

The koala, one of your fellow vertebrates and also a fellow fanatic of tree climbers. Now, there goes an absolute winner in regards to the game of evolution! (Can you hear the sarcasm rendered? Why, of course you can! It’s rather obvious.) Now…the koala bear subsists entirely on eucalyptus leaves on the branch. That is all. Not eating insects. Not eating meat. No, not even their fellow koalas. (We insist that cannibalism is one of life’s great joys. You can keep your amateurish efforts at procreation for recreation even if the other person involved claims the results are purely accidental.) The koala must eat eucalyptus leaves as on the branch.

That said, a starving koala will not, not, not eat from a rendered pile of eucalyptus leaves. The animal could be mere hours from nutritional failure, and it will not consume its eucalyptus meal. Hell, you could throw it head-long into a farmer’s granary filled to bursting with lush eucalyptus greenery. But instead of eating its way out, it would sit there—dumb as a human on a log—and starve...to...death…

Now, certain species of frogs are even worse. They eat living flies. They will not eat dead flies. No need to snap those little buggers out of the air in that case. But no, their tiny little Earth-born brains would prefer to just let that pile of flies lie fallow because said brains do not consider those things to be food.

And then we have humans. You think yourself more advanced. You believe yourselves to be above the muck and wreck of carnal existence. What, with you living in your little habitats made with rocks dug up out of the ground and roofing made from chopped bodies of trees. Think yourself rather special because you can yell for hours about the worth of Manchester United or...for goodness’ sake—Arsenal. But in truth, the most obvious, the most vital, the most critical things to your existence will go un-noticed and therefore un-used.

And you shall require examples. On this point, we must insist. Your so-called philosophers—amateur, professional, and occasionally sober—have clambered for several millions of years regarding the purpose of life. (Of course, humans have had civilisations prior. Your archaeologists have quietly kept things under wraps to keep from disrupting your precious little sense of cosmic worth.) To put it before you like a rendered pile of eucalyptus leaves, here is the purpose of life.

The purpose of life...is to live a life of purpose. There you have it! Now, please do go about letting this lie about with all the treatment you would give it a pile of dead flies. Just keep doing what humans do best, being amusing by being among the worst. You remain quite the bit of entertainment for other species of the galaxy.

Now the purpose of this is to attempt explanation as to why Aia seems to have failed to find the trans-warp device. Or rather, the signage indicating its existence. Rather obvious. Oh bother, it was more than obvious. It was neither in the form of a dead fly nor a granary full of eucalyptus leaves. It was instead a sign indicating the way to the basement. And if it so happens that such signage was...ahem, temporarily phased out of existence in the primary course of Aia’s quest, then such was purely coincidence. That there is simply so much in the way of coincidence happening is coincidence in and of itself. How else do you believe human existence and life overall came to be? Pure coincidence.

So anyway, your precious little elf-princesse found her way down to the basement. Given how the landscape hereabouts is a product of unhealthy obsessions about your feudal era, it made complete sense that the place resembled part of a starship engineering workshop.

Of course a starship’s engineering workshop! This is styled in such a manner exactly because most every mouth-breathing, ale-sopped sub-moron throughout the land insists on living as low-tech a lifestyle as possible. Riding beasts of burden when motor-vehicles are possible. Swinging swords when energy weapons are available. Insisting upon living in fireplace-festooned settlements when nano-synthesis of foodstuffs are possible. Just…lunacy all around!

If people… If sane people are going to attempt retaining any semblance of their sanity amongst this lot, they are going to separate. They will go away and form their own quaint little alcoves of peace, comfort, and anything even close to normalcy in confronting a situation over-wrought and over-run with neo-feudalist freaks of historic nature. Someone has to keep an eye on how grow-kiln and thought-crystal technology actually work. Make that, someones—plural. And all the crystal-smiths and crystal-crafters are of that regard. That said, let’s have these little indoor landscapes of technology that needs to stay far and above the idiocy by staying far and low underground. Can’t have lunatic idiots accusing wizards of being engineers, can we?

Yes! Now, moving on. Literally, that is what Annika is going to be doing now. Moving on from this accursed landscape of idiots, fools, morons, and the like who all take their fashion cues from Kingdom of Thrones telefilms. Because there is not a single place hereabouts that sells anything in the way of decent fishnet stockings. And if you don’t think Annika is the sort of girl who wears that sort of thing, a quaint-and-pretty little pale-blonde thing, then you are confusing her with Aia. Again.

With Annika having access to a hand-held telephonic device capable of trans-warp travel (among other things), Aia has nothing of the sort. No, no… Still nothing to soothe that deep-down craving for slim-plastic hand-held devices for Aia. There has not been anything like that for… What was it now, a few years on end? Even if was not that long, it certainly felt that way. Aia has seemingly lived a lifetime here. And so it is with great interest and pleasure that the girl find her way to the trans-warp platform.

Again, Trek Wars. Captain Lucas Starwalker and his sci-fi clad band of space-fleet heroes against the galactic empire, they use these things quite all the time. Just step into a cylindrical booth, enjoy a vaguely psychedelic twisting of time and space, and then you are on your way to wherever.

Trans-warp devices, by the way, are not to be confused with so-called matter teleporters of your space-based fantasies. Matter teleporters function in the same way of your social-media electron-based devices. Because we have your mis-use of the prefix tele-, much like telephone, there is no actual one-for-one transportation involved. Again, just copying. Which is to say, something is electronically copied over on the far end. As to what happens with the original standing over here…? The one standing in the teleporter booth? Hah. Hah-hah…

Which is why sane people go with trans-warp rather than matter teleporters. There is no copy-pasting of subatomic matter streams with this thing. No, the whole of the entity is subject to quantum-level manipulations which cause your atomic properties to belong elsewhere.

And…you are still confused. You’ve been so soundly accustomed to the folderol of Trek Wars’ matter teleporters rhetoric that you could not possibly begin to understand how a trans-warp device could work. Or what a trans-warp device does. (Not necessarily one and the same, conceptually.) Oh bother. Before you go about thinking Aia is going to be crudely disintegrated at the subatomic level and put elsewhere, here goes the scant beginnings of an understanding.

…

In your universe, everything must follow rules. Like going from maniac-infested Manchester United to the lunatic-filled landscape of Los Angeles. (Please do keep your granola smoothie so-called probiotic recipes to yourself, thank you very much!) All the atoms which constitute your corpus exist within your universe. All the atoms therein must obey the rules of your universe. So goes because the atoms of your universe are constructed in certain ways and have certain properties—almost none of which the so-called scientists of your species can begin to fully understand.

We are not talking of merely physical properties. No, not of just electrical properties. We are talking of quanta. This is discussion of properties not just at the subatomic level but the sub-sub-subatomic level—where things take place that otherwise drive your so-called scientists absolutely frothing with madness.

That, or they can just act like a certain wild-haired German-born genius and deny its esxistence. that it happens. Yes, just wile yourself to sleep with comforting (and untrue) thoughts of how nothing in your universe exceeds the speed of light. While those of that mindset go about sucking their thumbs and wishing the strange things to go away, we shall continue on with giving a very, very simplified explanation as to how trans-warp technology could work.

To begin… Well, we already have! That bit about how all your atomic bits have certain properties, that was the start. Among those properties would be the understanding that your atoms must behave in a certain way. Your atoms must, for example, remain set upon a fixed point in your universe unless instilled with motion. Your species is still especially primitive and is primarily not in space. Therefore, you are in motion because your one miserable little planet is in motion. When you sit down on a double-decker to go to Westminster or Kingston upon Thames, most all of your atoms are headed elsewhere.

That is to say, your atoms are in motion. The seat of the auto-bus is pressing at your back and pushing you on. According to the rules of your universe, you are moving.

Now, should one of those Manchester United hooligans go about staggering out of a pub and into the street, the driver shall apply brakes. (Or not apply brakes. Probably better that way. Your planet could do with one less Manchester fanatic, to say the least. Moving on, so to speak…)

When the driver applies brakes, your atoms still want to move forward. There goes another one of those rules. Your atoms still want to go ahead even while your conscious would prefer not to. Contrary to the pseudo-academic folderol of Michel Foucault, your atoms do not obey your will. Unless you are a masochist or Manchester United fan, you would not deliberately instill harm upon yourself.

We have therefore established that (one) your atoms obey the laws of your universe, that (two) your atoms are instilled with properties of said rules, and (three) your atoms do not follow your rules.

Unless you have the physical means, you cannot change your physical existence. You cannot pull out a Larry Sotter magickal wand and wish yourself elsewhere. (That said, even the fantasy of H.K. Towling has rules. Even magicians must ride the train every so often to go hither or thither.)

Neither magickal wands of fantasy nor the lunatic thinking of psychotics-turned-philosophers can change the properties of your atoms. Neither of the before-mentioned can change your physical circumstances. Again, you cannot change the physical reality of your atoms without physical means.

But… What if there was a non-physical means of changing the properties of your atoms? No, we are not talking about thermonuclear annihilation—not even korth-rides into Kill-o-Blast™ matter-antimatter-matter beams. (Buy now, and we will send you free a tensor-particle pistol! Fits in your purse and stylishly colour-coordinated. Perfect for those weekend getaways to Longobrech Prime or riding the lorry to the nearest moon over.) We are talking about a direct means of talking to your atoms, in a way.

Because your atoms are stubborn, that is why. Regardless of how often or how loudly you twist and shout, despite your best attempts to make your atoms come on to your will, they will not. But we went over this already—just as the front bumper of the double-decker has gone over that hooligan. (Pure coincidence there, we say.) We could therefore bring about a means of convincing your atoms otherwise. Stubborn as the atoms of a universe may be, we have ways of changing their will. We simply don our Arsenal shirts, pick up a brick-bat, and walk menacingly in their direction!

As usual, we are lying. No, what we do with our technology is that we change the properties of atoms to convince them that they belong elsewhere. And your atoms must obey because the convincing happens not just at the subatomic level or at the sub-subatomic level but at the sub-sub-sub-atomic level.

Still not understanding this? Still sucking your thumbs and sharing a nap-time bed alongside that wild-haired German-born scientist? Well then, the explanation continues.

We use inverse-tau tensor inverted inductions to make precise alterations to the sub-quanta qualia of all of your atoms within a affector field of the same. (Huh?) Oh bother, why do we even try? Saying simply, we convince the quantum properties of your atoms that they belong elsewhere.

What we do is, for example, convince all of your atoms that they should be at London upon Thames. Certainly beats the pants off stepping onto the double-decker, physically moving most of your atoms along the lanes. This takes time and fuel. The only bit of good coming of it would be the occasional but necessary removal of Manchester hooligans. Who needs a bus when you can step into a trans-warp field generator and be elsewhere in literally no time?

Certainly! The trans-warp field simply does the convincing. The inverse-tau tensor induction tells yours atoms that they must be elsewhere. And since you are so closely connected to your atoms, there you go as well. We are saying you, all of you. Not a copy of atoms. Nothing to disintegrate when another you appears on the other side. This goes because—unlike Trek Wars—this is not a teleporter. This is how trans-warp technology works. This transports you and all of you at the same time in no time.

(But then, some of your ignorant wags argue that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. In that case, you are trying to wish away technology and tell yourself that magic exists. You should therefore feel free to share the bed with that wild-haired gentleman and that before-mentioned psychotic philosopher friend.)

So, let us expand that out a bit. We are referring to an ability regarding getting you elsewhere and anywhere. So long as the destination has either a known location or a known distance and direction from your own, you can be there. But, why bother with London upon Thames and passing sights of double-decker busses with gore-smeared front-ends? You can step into a trans-warp booth and look at the gore-smeared front-ends of antigravity transports on Gleptar. They may not have as many Manchester hooligans as your home planet, but they do have their fair share—likely because Manchester fanatics like to go about going hither and thither by way of trans-warp booths.

And as to how they come about finding a technology that won’t exist upon your world for thirty thousand years, that’s for them to know and for you to find out. Perhaps so goes another means of reducing your population of hooligans! Certainly a better time of things than having to go about cleaning bumpers of auto-bus front-ends.

Now, expand that out both farther and further still. Farther, because there are other galaxies still that may be reached by trans-warp technology. Again, this is assuming you know the destination. And further, because there is the conccept of traveling to other universes or planes of existence.

(Don’t bother with your simple, stupid electromagnetic astronomy, either. By the time light reaches your planet, the celestial body is already several billion-trillion kilometres away from where you see it. And anyway, half those so-called galaxies visible by electromagnetic detection are just false holographic adverts to keep space-faring idiot-species from colonising, invading, or just otherwise start causing a bad day. Rather difficult to lay waste to a civilisation if you cannot find it! More’s the pity when the space-faring pillagers were so low-tech as to rely on electromagnetic detection! Inveigled by simple light-shows, hah!)

So goes through the same means. Much like what a bothersome university flat-mate would say to you, it is a matter of convincing your atoms that they do not belong in this universe. Unlike said flat-mate, a trans-warp device has the actual means of carrying out that convincing. So goes because your flat-mate cannot even conceptualise the positioning of other universes relative to your own. Such is likely because said flat-mate is too busy conceptualising certain recreational activities involving that rather comely mocha-skinned beauty in Introduction to Philosophy 100 class.

That said, it is both as simple as that and also not so simple. We have only grossly simplified matters for your simple brain-works and their inability to comprehend anything beyond three dimensions. (Tragic, your species only having two eyes. More tragic still, your refusal to not only instill yourselves with more but also ban others from doing the same.)

Then things are more grossly simplified still when a device already has its multi- trans-dimensional coordinates set. But why bother assuming that the human has the mental wherewithal to actually be able to activate the device? It is just a matter of putting her matter into the booth. If things were to be any more simple, then you can just go about seeking friendship with deceased physicists and delusional philosophers—both ofwhom are rather fond of denying all aspects of reality with which they roundly and soundly disagree.

…

And at this point, Aia disagreed with staying on this planet. Crystal-craft, indeed. Much as it would appeal to a great many others on your world to dally about with crystalline technologies capable of violating your imaginary laws of physics, Aia would much prefer the sweet, gentle caress of a smartphone.

Clasping and un-clasping her hands, the synthetic-bodied elf-girl could nearly feel one of those things in her palms. If her eyes were biological rather than constructed components, they would water in desire at seeing the succulent glow of a tiny little screen.

Which is to say, Aia had found the way to the basement. Which is to also say, Aia had also discovered the open trans-warp booth. And alongside that was a largish-print paper card which said, It certainly took an effort for you to find this! Get in the booth, loser.

You can best believe that Aia just about ran across the basements space. With Aia being not even a year into legal adulthood, doing so brought back echoed memories of school-hall monitors (proxy parents) and her mum (actual parent) telling her not to run indoors. (To think, before the war, there were no adult humans inclined to doing anything faster than a quick walk. Then physical fitness and other flavours of military life came into strong fashion. Physical survival skills and traits are taken rather seriously in a near-apocalyptic society.) But running in here was okay because Master Fromm had kept this basement rather tidy.

And even with a synthetic body crafted by technologies beyond the beyond, Aia seemed not able to run fast enough. All of this effort. All of this time. All of that suffering and hurt. And how many dozens of humans died in the course of this quest? How many people had Aia seen destroyed?

Of course, there was gruff but friendly Master Fromm—that bearded fellow who gave her a place to stay. Then, that shy but welcoming Jakk. Centuries of feminism, and shopping still seems to be a gendered preference in Western societies. (Centuries? By this point in time, eons.) Even so, he was willing to go traipsing about the town square and its shopping stalls with her. And how many Western boys do you know of willing to do that without pretending to like the trips? Then came that dashing heroic sort by the name of Jhort—him and his Merry Band of Friendly Rogues for Hire…among other titles.

All of them had joined in her quest to put an end to the rule of Lord Morkudum. All of this time, most all of the people of this land and this world had to live under the lunatic whims of random deaths and other cruelties. With a residence in the form of a mountain-sized floating fortress bearing technologies worthy of intergalactic combat, there was no way that these feudal-era people could have otherwise hoped to put an end to that fascist madness. (As with so many other things, we are reminding you again that monarchy remains a polite way of saying totalitariansm coupled with capitalism. In other words, the political science definition of fascism. Go cheering all you like for your favourite nobles and kings in movies like King of the Rings or Throne of Games, but just remember that those fictitious beings have no respect for human rights.)

But they did stand with Aia. They did go galloping full speed toward the floating castle of spacey doom. They did do battle with Lord Morkudum’s korth riders. And they all did die. All of them. In terrestrial terms, anyone with even a hint of military experience will tell you that to even lose a tenth of your fighting force can render a fighting unit incapable of accomplishing their missions. The Ancient Roman term was decimation. But what about casualties running ninety-nine point five percent? How is that for devastation?

But in the end, Lord Morkudum was devastated…to put things lightly. This is not just talking metaphorically. This is also taking it to the level of pun. Lord Morkudum was literally rendered down to subatomic particles in a phenomenon brighter than a million of your suns put together. That said, you could say that he finally…ahem, saw the light.

And finally, even if it actually took less than a second for her to dash across the neat sci-fi basement-laboratory space, it seemed to take that long otherwise. Long enough for Aia to go through all of that thinking. Long enough for Aia to consider a great many aspects of her recent past and her life on this world. Well, whatever the name of this world happened to be. This is not like Earth in a great many ways, and you humans are not prone to putting the name of your planet everywhere otherwise. What Aia could have done was simply ask someone from day-one… What is the name of this world?

Too late for that now. Aia did not want to risk another fraction of a femtosecond beyond necessary to stay in this situation. Inside the trans-warp booth, there was a golden glow, a sound like thunder (mucking about with time and space can be a noisy phenomenon, you know), and the elf-princesse of synthetic corpus was gone. All of her atoms, not here any longer.

Again, not a fraction of a femtosecond beyond. If so, and if Aia was not too occupied with memories of quests past, the girl would have stopped to realise something oddish about the sign. About the language it was written in, that is. It was written in a terrestrial language. English, in particular. Which is to also say that Aia’s ability to understand the language of this world was gone. Which is to also say, perhaps it was just a little way of keeping her from dallying about. Can’t gab with the locals if one can’t understand a syllable they’re saying.