NOTHING

Beyond the clutches of stunted bodies, hanging like crippled goblins or imps, the great titan doors are protected by an atomization field. The air vibrates as a courtesy, preventing the careless from having their limbs divided into their most basic component particles and redistributed to waste dimensions. The thermodynamic order, as every solarin knows, is from something, nothing.

Nothing had never seen the vault doors move so quickly, as they did before the burning Eye and the Scribe. Nothing had not known they were capable of such agility — churning magnetic gears, and rolling into storage dimensions.

“My hearts. You do not keep him with the others?” The Scribe strokes his chest tenderly. “Such cruelty!”

Nothing struggled to conceal the sharp intake of breath.

Bands of light slammed their circuits with cracks that echo through the towering chamber. Stasis pods crawl over the walls in slowly moving magnetic channels, like the eggs of some giant insect, except that these eggs will never hatch.

Nothing had never seen the full height and breadth of the holding facility.

One light was as much as a nothing deserved, and it had illuminated only his steps, and barely.

*How could their be so many?*

Nothing bites down on its tongue. An unguarded thought — and worse, questions. Thinking in questions is worse than thinking in reasons, for questions are the source of reasons. A nothing does not have questions — a nothing is not permitted to know what it does not know.

“Isn’t this something, my sweet!” The Scribe clapped wobbling arms together.

Shallow breaths, shallow thoughts. The nothing repeats the mantra that is learned at its hatching.

“Come, come.” A bony knuckle scrapes the nothing’s ribs. “Don’t hide it, you fiend.”

“Forgiveness, Lord.” Nothing bows, extending a hand. “I have hidden it. And at your command, it appears.”

A single chamber hangs at the end of the walkway, unmoving.

“That!” A guffaw escapes the Scribe. “Hasn’t it been here all along?

Nothing’s eyes twitch painfully. “As you say, Lord. It…hasn’t been here all along.”

“Well, my sweet nothing learns,” The Scribe considers as the ambulator glides onwards. “I think you finally see things clearly, my sweet boy.”

Nothing stops. Its jaw tightens and neck strains against the tremor in its body.

Boy. Boy is worse than child. Boy is something else, something more. No nothing would let the insult go without an answer — at least, that is how it would be, if a nothing spoke to another nothing.

“Which one is in there?” The Scribe’s voice trails. “Is it the weapon, Omega? Or the prisoner, Alpha?”

The Scribe’s laughter booms through the open space, though if there is a joke, the nothing does not see it.

“It is, as you say, Lord, Omega.” The nothing jogs to catch up. “Or, if my Lord prefers, it is Alpha. With your permission…?”

“Yes, yes. Have a reason. Have ten.” Long fingers wave. “You can be so traditional sometimes.”

“They are kept apart, my Lord, with seven dimensions of separation.” Nothing observes the Scribe. “The dimensions…”

“Yes. Yes. They change constantly. A prime dimensional lock.” The Scribe shifts in the ambulator, narrowing the nothing’s path. “But seven? Seven shifting dimensions?”

“As my Lord knows.” Nothing sidles along the edge, glancing nervously downwards. “The three-dimensional lock was thought to be excessive — though not you, my Lord.”

“Yet it was broken.” The Scribe sighed.

“As you command, My Lord.”

***

Prisoner Alpha turns slowly upwards — on a grav table.

The eyes are wild with fury.

It shouts into the muzzle, squirms in its restraints. Small movements are the only movements available to it.

Electricity shoots through its body, through the network of living needles burrowing into its nerve centers. Triggered by movement, or mental quotients.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Heavy titan shackles cover its wrists, locking fingers in place. ankles and feet are similarly locked and fused to the table.

“Chains? Barbarous!” A long finger traces the steel. “When every other person is linked?

The Scribe pouts. “She has not even the diversion of otherworlds? Not even the lowest? Imprisoned in this cruel reality. Can anything live like this, unplugged?”

She. The nothing frowns, “The nothings above this nothing, do not fully understand how its mind works, and whether it is compatible with our links. They would know its secrets, without damaging the specimen.”

The body on the table arches. A wave of electricity follows a spasm of muzzled emotion.

“And how do they intend to discover her workings?” The scribe tested.

The nothing swallowed. “Pain, Lord. Pain.”

“And this approach has yielded results?” The scribe put a hand near the top of the floating table, in the aura of frizzed hair.

“Not as yet, Lord.” The words came slowly as Nothing puzzled over them. “Though they claim it is amusing.”

Nothing’s hand jerks, almost extending forwards. The Scribe’s long fingers stroke the side of the specimen’s face, somehow tolerating its smoothness.

“What have they done to you?” The Scribe does not look at the object of his concern, feeling the face blindly.

“They have investigates her…physiology.” The scribe shifts uncomfortably, working its feet into a spot on the ground. “They, eh, have run their scans and built their models to help their understanding.”

“Is it so different?” The Scribe’s face pursed in thought.

“The alienists — they set seem to think so. There are whole areas of the brain, they cannot understand or provoke.”

“Tusk, tusk.” The Scribe tutted. “They have theories, surely?”

“This nothing does not understand theories. Yet they speak about dimensional biology.” The nothing thought he kept the interest from his tone.

The Scribe swept his gaze across the room. “Of course, of course. Fascinating.” The Scribe’s voice, for once sounded with matching emotions. “She is most fascinating, don’t you agree?”

Nothing’s words cut off in its throat.

Nothings were not curious.

“And most beautiful, don’t you think?” The Scribe’s hand rested over the specimen’s face, caressing it lazily.

“This nothing thinks nothing.” There it was again. The scribe worked at the spot of dirt with his feet. “And knows nothing, my Lord.”

“Oh, dear!” The Scribe reverted to exaggerated tones. “You don’t think she’s beautiful?” His tongue flicked his lips. “Answer me honestly. I command it of you.”

“Yes, Lord.” Said Nothing.

“You do think she’s beautiful!” Asked the Scribe.

“No Lord.” Said nothing.

“But you just said she was?” Said the Scribe.

“Yes, Lord.” Nothing sank into the trap he felt closing around him. He was tired of the footwork, the sparring.

“Look at her, Nothing. How can you answer my question if you do not look any her?” The Scribe raised the table, and the specimen bucked against its restraints. Tears dripped from the muzzle.

“Yes, Lord.” The nothing raised its unfocused gaze. A hand turned the specimen’s head with handfuls of frayed hair. Nothing could not bear the specimen’s blazing eyes.

“See her smooth skin. Her round eyes.” The Scribe peeled the eyes open, though the Nothing wished the Scribe would pull them out so that he would never have to see them again. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“No Lord — I mean…” The Scribe jerked away.

“So you do think she’s beautiful! Marvelous!”

“No!” Nothing blurted. His voice shook along with his body. “I mean, no, my Lord. My apologies, Lord. This nothing’s mind is whatever you think she is.”

“She!” The Scribe’s vision snaps into the mundane world. His hand snaps shut over the specimen, making its eyes bulge and water. “Who said she was a she? did I say that?”

“My mistake Lord.” Nothing became stuck in a repetitive bow. “I must have heard it from the nothings. You did not say it, Lord, if you do not wish it, Lord.”

The Scribe’s head wavers.

“Come now. Look again.” The Scribe spoke faster now. Long fingers peeled back the specimen’s eyelids. “Have you ever seen eyes this color? Do you like this color?”

“No Lord.” Nothing said firmly.

“No?” The voice cracked like a whip. “You would contradict me?” A free hand probed into soft flesh. “You make this heart quite angry. I am never angry. But my first can be quite…disconsolate when it senses rebellious children.”

“Look!” The scribe commanded.

Still another hand closes over the Nothing’s head pulling back its eyes until peeled back eyes matched peeled back eyes, but it was not eyes he was to look at. “Do you like the honey of her hair?”

“Honey, Lord?” Said Nothing.

The scribe throws up an arm. “Like oil, but yellow and clean.”

“Yes, Lord.” Said nothing.

“So you like it?” Asked the Scribe.

“No, Lord.” Said Nothing.

“I say! I am growing tired! Did you not receive enough punishment before?" Asked the Scribe.

“No Lord — I mean…nothing means…” Nothing struck his head hard with a fist, pain shooting through his face.

The Scribe sighed heavily. “You don’t find her beautiful, do you?"

“No Lord.” Said Nothing.

“Can nothings not like something?” Asked the Scribe.

“No, Lord.” Said Nothing.

“Well.” Said the Scribe. “I tell you she is beautiful. So look at her.”

The Scribe looked up, resigned to his fate — whatever it might be. “As you command, Lord, I think.”

“Do you want to see what is under her mask? Don’t — “ The SCribe gritted his teeth. “Don’t look away. I warn you.”

“If my Lord, wills it, then I do.” Nothing said. The specimen looked at him. But the Nothing did not have the will to interpret the stare or to avoid it.

“Well, Well. You seem to like her after all.” The Scribe slapped the table with a laugh. “Shall I play Cupid for my Cupid?”

“And what do you think of these ears? Have you ever seen anything like it?” The Scribe asked.

Nothing did not reply. Or maybe he did. Or someone else did. He was not quite sure.

“What do the alienists say?” The Scribe. “…blasphemies, is it? Tell me of their blasphemies, I command you.”

“It was not made. They say, it just grew this way, on its own. Something called, natural.”

“Hmmm…” The Scribe hummed. “What about her body? Do you like it?”

“If my Lord wills it.”

“Good, Good. There’s a good nothing.” The hand moved to pat the nothing’s face and it recalled that it had one. “Would you like to see what is under her clothes?”

The spidery hand crept to the fat deposits on the specimen’s chest. “Would you like to see her body?”

“You would?”

The Nothing’s slack jaw managed a single dry word. “No.”

“You really mean that, don’t you?” The Scribe’s processors were light years beyond the nothing’s basic hardware, yet for some reretso he did not understand this simple fact. “It is well. It is well. I have distressed you. You are a good nothing, truly.”

“There was a time, nothing.” Continued the Scribe. “When men found such things beautiful. They might have fought a war over one such as this. Do you believe it?”

“If my Lord says I do, then I believe it.” The nothing looked up. “But pardon, Lord, I do not know all your words.”

“What word?” Asked the Scribe.

“Men, Lord.” Said Nothing.