3 HOURS, 22 MINUTES, AND 14 SECONDS
1 — Introduction (Got my hands up, celebrate like it’s my birthday / Five more shots of tequila, I’m thirstay / Feelin’ so good! Feelin’ so great! / Tonight! Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!)
What may at first seem like a cursory glance at the history of jam in Wurld quickly turns out to be something more like seeing the world in a grain of sand. Indeed, the beginning of jam is the beginning of the universe: when the Creator splattered him-and-or-her-self against the cosmic rocks, their eyes became the sun and the moon, and our planet. Their blood became the sea, their fur became the grassy plains and their bones became the giant bones you see scattered around the Abyss, if some tribal religions are to be believed. They are not. In fact, most theologians agree that the Creator’s bones were shattered into tiny pieces upon impact and fall onto our world in the form of snow. The important thing is the Creator’s heart, the heart shared many properties with blood: they are the same colour, and both contain blood. This is a very roundabout way of saying that in culinary terms the origins of jam are unknown to us, but it plays as crucial a part in the Creation story as any other force of nature. We can therefore ascertain that the recipe for jam was not so much invented as it was discovered, jam as we know it being a naturally-occurring feature of the early universe. It is first described in the Encyclopedia Scranatica, literally “On Food”, and the recipe is one of ancient civilisation’s great gifts to us in the modern era. If early humans (jam was most abundant in what would become the Empire of Man, but was allegedly discovered in frozen pockets throughout the mountains of Astor until the early 14th century) hadn’t discovered the means to replicate jam, all the world’s abundance of it would have been totally consumed by the end of prehistory. The identity of the person who unlocked the secrets of jam is anonymous, “On Food” being a collection of many household recipes whose first edition was compiled by Francis the Lesser near the end of the first century, but whose second and most famous edition was collated by Francis the Least. Some theorise that they would have been an alchemist in search of the Philosopher’s Stone, some theorise they would have been a peasant in search of something to put on bread and sandwiches. Whoever they were, it would have been impossible for them to fathom the ways in which their discovery would shape all of history forever.
2 — Jamarcho-Capitalism and The Ensuing Jam Wars
After the collapse of the Empire of Man, the south-eastern quarter of Wurld was plunged into chaos. The Immortal’s generals attempted to maintain order, but they and their armies quickly turned on eachother in ever-more fractal power struggles. Collisterra attempted to invade numerous times during this period, but the Western Wall provided enough protection that a relatively small army / state of about a thousand men were able to hold off a whole kingdom, for a time. This army’s vigilance created the conditions for what we would now recognise as anarcho-capitalism, and the rise of the jam barons.
It is worth noting at this stage that while the Empire of Man fell, the Empire of Woman, watching from the safety of their utopian island micronation, basically didn't see what all the fuss was about.
Of course, other resources provided more stable foundations for a budding fiefdom: for anyone who could seize and protect a gold or silver mine there was a dynasty with their name on it, but no bounty of gold or shipment of iron swords could hold a candle to the spiritual and cultural value of a jar of strawberry jam. So began the Jam Wars, a period of endless conflict between four or five militias all attempting to take over eachother’s strawberry fields or otherwise decimate their rivals’ jam-production capabilities. Of course, even within these little empires there was competition for the jam profits: workers in the fields would steal strawberries to make and sell their own artisanal jams to compensate for their poor wages. One might imagine that the sticky hand of the free market would allow jam-based economies to flourish unimpeded by state intervention, but on a similar timescale the jam barons each instituted a kind of police force to protect their financial interests, and so monarchy returned to those lands. And then the Collisterran state intervened by invading every fucker.
3 — God and Man, God and Jam
It’s hard to put a definitive year on the Collisterran jam
ban, spreading (pun intended) as it did over the colonies in
irregular fits and spurts of religious oppression over a 30-year
period. Shared religion had been a crucial part of social
cohesion after the fall of the Empire, and the ban merely drove
it underground, where it nurtured the various anti-Collisterran
resistance movements that quickly emerged in cellars and caves
across the land. A not-insignificant part of those meetings, the
elves of the Abyss would soon learn, was the serving of jam.
After the fall of the Empire, a few elves had ventured over the
Northern Wall but found that the Immortal’s former subjects were
still happy to enforce his ban with pitchforks and burnings at
makeshift stakes. That the lower reach of the Abyss had an
excellent climate for berries was no use, when it came to
diplomacy the small Elvin territory that did form below the wall
only traded spears. This changed when the occupying
Collisterrans enforced a policy of non-aggression towards the
elves. (Some scholars argue that not a hundred years earlier
King Aala Yujra himself was at least partly Elvin.) Despite the
opportunity for peace and even limited migration the
Collisterran invasion allowed the elves, they were not a species
used to being told what to do, and some human resistance cells
found their tenacity - but more importantly their white
blankberry jam - inspiring. The role this condiment played in
the eventual creation of the Dryadoran state cannot possibly be
overstated.
4 - Jam in Literature:
It was just about morning. The weak light of the sun yellowed
the edges of blue and cavernous clouds outside the bedroom
window. Aerin hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the first place but
he was dimly relieved to see Krieda lying still and quiet now;
fully clothed and dressed for winter, her arms choking out the
pillow beneath her head, black stains down her cheeks and
smeared on the white sheets. The bottom of her nose was crusted
with snot and red with friction. Krieda’s life would not implode
for at least another eight months, the oncologist had said, but
knowing was just as bad. As Aerin listened to her breathe, he
only now dwelled on the fact that his father was dead too,
somewhere below a worn-down stone in a field. He then thought
about breakfast. He carefully turned over to look at the digital
clock on the bedside table but only saw a sliver of his face
reflected in the black glass. The battery had run out some time
ago.
Aerin slowly and quietly got up off the bed. He only pulled the
blanket over her shoulders before he crept out of the room. His
bare feet enjoyed carpets, as a concept, he mused as he quietly
descended the thirteen steps to the ground floor. He placed his
right hand on the mahogany orb at the bottom of the handrail and
swung around a little as he turned towards the kitchen, spotting
the…
He stopped and actually *looked* at the portrait of Jebediah
Jingles and his spurned heirs. What the hell was that about? Why
did they keep that there? Was it just funny? A
conversation-starter in the event they had guests? An ironic
antique from a charity shop? Were the Jingles actually related
to Aerin on his mother’s side? Or did Britain actually fake that
will? Then why would Aerin own a painting of them? None of these
questions, you may have noticed, were relevant.
Onto the cold tiles of the kitchen, all the fake marble gray in
the morning light. He took two slices out of the breadbin and up
to the black beast of a…
He picked The Thing up and inspected each face of it, hoping
he’d find out what it was actually called. He had seen Krieda
use it the morning before, and he knew that you put two slices
of bread inside, pulled the lever down, gave it a minute or so
and the bread came out… “Not quite ‘cooked’,” thought
Aerin. “More… ‘roasted’, like some kind of…”
He looked up at the blank wall. “Roaster.”
Jam was still good, it was not an art that had been lost these
two centuries. Aerin especially enjoyed the pop of the lid and
the sound of clammy resistance as he scooped some up, the
crackle as the knife spread across the golden slice. From the
full and colourful fridge he pulled a carton of orange juice and
carefully measured it by the pitch that rose in tandem with the
orangeline (that is, waterline, but for orange), something that
with half-closed eyes Krieda seemed to time through muscle
memory alone. He yawned and walked through to the living room. A
gulp of the orange juice washed away the stale taste of sleep in
his mouth, then he turned on the TV.
There’s a faint pop in its mechanisms, and it squeals
electrically as black glass turns to a gray picture, and the
gray picture turns to fucking Everybody Loves Comharril of all
things.
Seeking sweet mercy, AERIN hits the Channel 1 button on the
remote while he chews up the first warm mouthful of jammy toast.
On the TV, a FEMALE NEWSREADER is looking into the camera.
NEWSREADER: “-at least thirty employees and officers have been
confirmed dead as of reporting. The terrorists are thought to
have taken hostages and occupied the station’s control room,
where they remained for half an hour before the armed forces
arrived on the scene. The terrorists are then reported to have
fled the scene with hostages, but were captured alive in the
early hours of this morning in the woods west of the Dryadora
City. We’ve had news come in just an hour ago that the police
have performed a major operation in the city’s Coal District,
and have discovered a terrorist hideout beneath the city sewers.
Military personnel will continue to patrol each district until
further notice. We go now live on the scene to Nee Loreon, who
has the latest on this developing situation. Nee, what can you
tell us?”
EXT. COAL DISTRICT
An Elvin reporter, NEE LOREON stands with a microphone in front
of some derelict flats.
NEE: “Well Reanon, we’re still waiting on an official response
from government figures on the outcome of these raids but we
have been told just now the extent of what the police have found
down there. The police have discovered sophisticated radio
equipment which the attackers are believed to have used to
communicate with other Red Hand cells across the empire, likely
scattered across Collisterra. They’ve also found a fully stocked
armory of weapons and documents including the identities of Red
Hand operatives around Dryadora and the continent at large.
Looking at the bigger picture and reading back on official
statements, what the events of the past two days seem to
represent is a violent realisation that the government has not
been doing enough to combat the terrorist threat which has
reared its head once again. One member of the public said to us
‘it feels like we’re at war again’.”
The image jumps as the channel switches over.
INT. BEDROOM
An elven woman in jeans and a flannel shirt hurriedly opens the
door, her face carries all the exasperation of a housewife’s
Monday morning.
Elvin WOMAN: “-Comharril! Your boss wants to…”
CUT TO: Comharril, trousers around his ankles, slathered head to
toe in chilli sauce.
COMHARRIL: “This is *not* what it looks like.”
CUE LAUGHTER, FADE TO ADS
The sound cuts out and the TV goes black with a quarter-second
collapse of static. In the reflection of the slightly convex
glass wall we see AERIN LIETTE standing with the remote in his
hand. He falls back down onto the sofa, visibly shaken. There’s
a burst of static as if the TV has turned itself on again, but
it’s just a flashy transition between this shot and a close-up
on AERIN himself. He looks directly into the camera, horror and
tears build up behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and we
linger on this shot for some time, just long enough to be
uncomfortable. He takes on a look of grim determination. He
knows what he must do.
FADE OUT
It dawned slowly and awfully on Krieda Caishead, the fact that
she was no longer unconscious. She’d kept her eyes shut a long
while, hoping that sleep would accept her refusal to be alive
this morning, and that she could stay in this bed until it would
no longer be painful to leave. But she needed to piss
eventually. So.
She turned over because the side she’d been sleeping on became
sore, and heard footsteps going about the second floor, stopping
as Aerin noticed her moving. She wiped sleep from her tired eyes
and saw him at her side, kneeling down at the edge of the bed.
“Hey.”
It took a while before a whispered little “hey” escaped her
lips. “Why have you got your coat on?”
“There’s no milk.” He moved a strand of messy hair out of her
face. “You going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” She stared at the same spot in space. “Just not
now.”
“I’ll be back soon, okay?”
She nodded, and he kissed her on the forehead, and left her.
Aerin closed the front door, stepping back to take one final
look at what could have been his life. His heart rattled in his
hollow chest as he stepped off the landing where he’d seen
Krieda for the first time. The street was veiled in morning fog,
not quite the acidic muck from when he’d arrived, but just as
thick. He sat down on the bottom step, knowing what was coming,
knowing it was very soon, and more urgently than ever wondering
what happens to people when they die.
He stared at a line of moss growing between two paving stones,
wringing his hands and listening for the big black van to come,
as the big black van would come for every other name on every
list in every bunker they found. He felt like he felt when he
saw those people in the truck, listening to the dark and bloody
tremor of the world’s gears churning below the concrete. He
listened for the sound of the van’s wheels trundling down the
cobbled street, listened for the crunch as it stopped in front
of his doorstep, listened for the thudding of boots as the men
with guns formed a semicircle around him.
“Aerin?” said officer Alvus, not quite believing the
coincidence. “Aerin Liette?”
Aerin exhaled, his throat dry with worry. “Yes. Like the
author.” He rose and buttoned up his coat. “Now, listen.
Whatever it is you’re about to do, you must know that Krieda
Caishead is entirely innocent, and there is no reason whatsoever
for the police to question her or in any way disturb her
further. I infiltrated this city under an assumed identity, and
she knows nothing of my history.” He pulled up the arms of his
coat slightly, exposing his wrists which he held up to the
officer. “So arrest me, let’s go.”
Alvus hesitated as he took out the handcuffs. “Um, see that’s
the thing. You’re not actually under arrest.” He clicked the
sharp metal around Aerin’s wrists and escorted him to the back
of the van.
“Then why are you arresting me?”
“I’m not. I’m just handcuffing you and taking you into the back
of a police van. Executive orders.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Alvus sighed nervously as he unlocked the doors of the van. “It
means, Aerin, that the shit you’re in is far, far above my pay
grade.” He opened the cage, and Aerin climbed up the step and
sat down on one of the facing benches, alongside two heavily
armed officers, John Boss, Maurice Lockswell, Taïkur Soka, Chel
Hagar, and John Boss.
The second the metal box closed, Lockswell’s head snapped up to
face Aerin. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Sh.” John Boss the 41st sat still and quiet among the masses of
huddled flesh around her. “There is still time.”
The engine coughed into life, and the eight of them lurched as
the van pulled away from the kerb and down the street.
“aerin!”
Aerin’s ear perked up a millimetre as he thought he heard
something.
“AERIN!”
He stood up as Krieda’s palm uselessly smacked the bulletproof
glass that was receding away faster than her body could carry
her. “OH MY GOD NO, KRIE-”
“-SIT DOWN.” The two guards reached over, gripping him by the
collar and hauling him back. “NONONO,” he pulled himself forward
to the window, just for the half-second necessary to blow her a
kiss before her flailing, screaming form vanished into the mist.
They battered his skull with batons and pushed him down against
the wall, strapping him into place like the other, more
dangerous passengers. His vision was blurred by dizziness or
tears, but he was only looking at the drops of blood on his
shoes. Nobody asked.
Sometime later, when the van had escaped the city’s gravelly,
industrial borders, John Boss the 34th spoke up. “I’m thinking
of a baby animal.”
John Boss: “What?”
John Boss: “What do you call…a baby pig?” he sing-sang.
John Boss sighed. “What are you doing, Jacques?”
John Boss smiled reassuringly. “I’m trying to make you laugh. I
intend to die soon and you sound like a donkey when you laugh.”
Only this snapped John Boss out of her stoicism. “I don’t.”
At the other end of the huddle, Maurice audibly smiled.
“Oh, fuck you all.”
John scanned the rest of the group. “Taïkur, make the girl
laugh.”
“With all due respect,” the orc intoned, eyes closed, “I would
like to be alone with my gods now.”
Through the grotty, single window of the van Aerin could see the
populated country turn into the vast, grey and silent country,
and the vast grey silent country turn into groomed, hereditary
country, and the groomed hereditary country flatten out into a
domain of little outposts, hidden cars and watchtowers. Then a
gargoyle, perched on one side of a metal arch before an
unnatural corridor of pine trees blotted out the light in the
crowded tin. At the end of the shadow: another old stone
archway, and the crunch of tires on gravel. The engine quietened
down as the van gradually stopped, then silence. A few long
moments passed, and the police officers with guns became just as
anxious as Aerin and his fellow prisoners. There were voices
outside commanding and coordinating. The…army? Maybe?
“Tell his majesty that his audience has been delivered, are they
ready in the foyer?”
“Yes sir.”
“Open it.”
Royal guards?
The doors were pulled open by unseen hands. Light flooded the
back of the van, and as their eyes adjusted everyone inside
focussed on the eight-foot tall figure standing on the gravel
with their hands behind their back, wearing a suit of
bulletproof, possibly metallic armour and a reflective gold mask
fastened over a balaclava. An elf in a tuxedo and white gloves
opened the cage. One police officer stepped out in front of the
prisoners and gestured with his rifle for them to come out,
followed by the other.
The giant spoke in a low and muffled voice. “His majesty
appreciates your efforts and your discretion, officers. You are
relieved of your duties, you may return to your headquarters.”
“Hang on,” said Alvus as he walked out from around the van. “We
were told we’d be handing over the…” he glanced at Chel
“terrorists over to an elite security detail.”
“Indeed.” said the giant. “Hello.”
Alvus screwed up his face. “I’m looking around and there’s
nobody here except you and a butler. These are the five most
dangerous creatures alive today and you appear to be completely
unarmed. Wouldn’t you prefer some of Dryadora’s finest give you
a hand?”
A pause, silence except for the wind blowing through the pines.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly.” They extended a hand.
After an awkward silence, Alvus spoke first. “Neas Alvus, DCPD.”
His muscle memory kicked in for his rehearsed 'confidence'
handshake. He looked the gold mask in its rectangular eyes and
squeezed their hand just a little, just enough to establish
dominance.
They squeezed Alvus’ hand in return. When his last scream had
finally been wrung out, they dropped him and held out their hand
to the butler. A handkerchief was passed from his tuxedo’s
inside pocket, and they wiped the juicy red pulp from their
palm. “To spare you all the pun, no, I do not require
assistance. You are relieved of your duties, Neas. Walk.”
The two officers and nodded and stepped around the foetal Alvus,
setting off to retrace the hour’s drive on foot. The giant
turned to the prisoners. “Pheata, show our guests inside.”
Pheata nodded, only Chel hesitated as the group followed him in.
She struggled to take her eyes off Alvus, who lay still and
quiet on the gravel.
More than the vulgar ornamentation of the palace’s façade, what
caught Aerin’s attention was the statue in the middle of the
circular courtyard. A mass of overgrown and suffocated plants
huddled around a dirty stone column, with vines snaking up
towards the toes of what appeared to be a statue of a human
skeleton with the skull of a stag. Its arms were raised like its
antlers, with two or three vines hanging down from either bone
like the muscles of decomposing wings.
John Boss scanned his surroundings out of habit, noting the
disparity between the statue’s brown gnarls and the saturated
mosaics of flowerbeds around the palace gardens, lining the
balconies and peeking out from on the roof; noting the guards at
the doors and the snipers in the watchtowers; noting what
smelled like cleaning or embalming as he stepped through the
tall palace doors, off gravel and onto a pristine stone floor
checkered black and white. The dizzying five-storey entrance
hall of the palace was somehow brighter than the world outside,
light from the arched glass ceiling bounced down the white walls
and scattered across the vivid murals of Elvin lore. The only
darkness in the room was planned: a bridge connecting the two
halves of the first floor was closest to the entrance, the
second-floor bridge was about a fifth of the hall’s length away
from the first, and this regularity continued in such a way that
the rectangular shadows on the floor got punctually thinner as
the butler led them to the end.
Here, two curved staircases curved around to a shared landing,
flanking a conspicuously empty black pedestal on the floor. The
emptiness was noticeable from the entrance, if you weren’t
immediately awed by the architecture of light, but up close it
began to tell a story. On the front of the pedestal the words
“PRAEON II” were engraved in large gold letters. On top, nothing
except the pale impression of a square with the outlines of two
feet poking out from the front edge.
“Do excuse the mess,” said Pheata, gesturing towards a scar of
exposed wiring and assorted toolboxes in the next room. “His
majesty has been redecorating. We’re hoping to have all the
interior work finished before the year is out, we can’t be
shooing the builders away every two days with diplomatic visits
and terrorists popping round for tea now can we?”
“HA! HA! HAHAHA!” shouted Lockswell, echoing through most of the
first floor and some of the second as they were led upstairs.
Neither the butler nor the bodyguard responded.
The halls grew darker and stuffier as they were led deeper into
the building’s velvet arteries. From candlelit shadows,
portraits of various kings stared each other down as the halls
became smaller and ceilings lower. As they turned a corner,
everyone’s attention was quietly absorbed by what seemed to be
the entrance to the throne room, an obscene-looking door painted
with gold leaf and emblazoned with jewels. On each side stood a
golden candelabra that gave the door an occult shimmer, and
below the lights stood two hooded figures wearing ascetic brown
robes and heavy gold chains around their necks.
Pheata approached the monks with anxious trepidation. “I trust
that you have made all the… necessary preparations.”
One of the monks nodded. “His holiness is not sedated for the
time being.”
Pheata tensed up. “But his nervous system would be-”
“We have been assured that these are circumstances both
unprecedented and…” John Boss could feel the monk glancing up at
him from under the hood. “…temporary. Opportunities for
communion become more precious by the year. His holiness shall
be returned to his usual state as soon as possible.”
The butler nodded. “Right. Shall we?”
“We shall.”
“A moment, before we enter,” the masked giant intoned. All
turned to face them without hesitation. “You are about to be led
into the throne room itself. Know that any movement, any
preparatory breath towards motion will be silenced and resultant
in your immediate demolition. If any of you should raise a hand
against the king, it will be removed. Is this understood?”
Out of everyone, only Aerin nodded infinitesimally. The monks
turned in their ritualistic way, and pushed open the gold doors.
On the left-hand side as they entered, the throne room had one
floor-to-ceiling window which a third monk was covering with a
single large curtain. A massive candle chandelier lit up the
room, its various layers of gold arms looking - to the humans in
the room - less like a show of wealth and more like some kind of
dormant, waxy crustacean held captive by the chains on which it
hung from the roof. Directly below that, a circular table with a
radial pattern of flowers and leaves burned into the wood.
Directly ahead of the group, sitting at the far end of the table
with another hooded monk and snarling behind a blue oxygen mask
was an ancient and visibly dying elf.
“John Boss, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” he
struggled, leaning off his chair and hunched over an ornate
cane.
Boss the 41st didn’t try to hide her smirk. “King Zaedar Valler,
I didn’t know you were such a fan of my-”
“Which-” The king was interrupted by his own deep breathing.
"Which one of you *is* the real John Boss? That is going to be
quite important, going forward.”
Boss the 41st looked confused. “As if there are others?”
The king leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look at
both of them. “If I remember correctly, you’re the little bitch
our intelligence has been trying to catch for years, while YOU,”
he pointed at Boss the 34th, “are the muzzled beast who killed
all those people in the arena.”
“The very one,” he replied, flashing his signature grin.
The monk at the king’s side leaned down to his ear and whispered
something. He nodded. “Yes, of course, the one-eyed girl should
go first. Perhaps it is his HOLE-y-ness,” he turned to the
group, “that will be delightful in two minutes - his holeyness’
powers of perception which have brought about her timely
capture. Bring her.”
The brute in the gold mask walked over to John Boss and placed
their hand on her back as they slowly but forcefully pushed her
forward. She walked past the table as the monk helped the king
out of his chair. She was stopped a certain distance away from
the tapestry at the far end of the room, upon which everyone’s
attention was now concentrated.
“Taïkur,” Aerin whispered. “You’re a spiritual guy, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Am I right in thinking that’s supposed to be Ai Shub’fhalma?”
“You’re an elf, your god has triumphed over all others. You
should know this.”
“I do, and I know that Ai Shub’fhalma is usually depicted in
their female emanation, more often than not on top of their male
one. But here there’s just…” He scanned the image, the talons of
fire and rays of light from the sun all pointing towards the
singular, masculine figure who dominated the image, “…nothing.”
More jarring than this uncommon depiction was the Black Crown,
which was known by every Elvin child to be a charred and
ghoulish thing created by a coven of witches during the elves’
return from the Abyss, cursed so that the circular branches
would tighten around and burst the head of any who tried to wear
it who was not the rightful heir to the Dryadoran swamps. So why
was it unburnt here? And why was it being handed down from a
god? But the thing that most troubled Aerin, more than this
parody of ancient Elvin religion, was the figure at the bottom
of the mural: a burning man with raised arms, which belonged to
no tradition he could think of.
John looked at the people around her impatiently. “Right we’ve
all seen the picture and it’s shit, now can we get on with
this?”
“Child.” Intoned the monk. “You are about to behold something
which has only been seen by four living people outside of our
order.”
“Five.” The king interrupted. “There was Dhubagèl Shaen’s
assistant last night.”
“And that is why, Zaedar, I was careful to specify ‘living’.”
The monk sounded furious without ever actually raising his voice
above a plainchant drone. “It is less than fortunate that he was
present during the emergency.”
“oooOOOOooOOooOooOOOooo” said John Boss, waving her hands
against their restraints.
“Quiet!” King Valler raised his cane to strike, and limply pawed
at her face. She laughed. “Jaros?”
“Of course.” The giant wrapped the fingers of one hand in the
curls of John’s hair, lifted her up off the ground and punched
her face, and punched her, and punched and punched again before
dropping her on the mess of broken glass and wires that used to
be her implanted right eye.
“COME HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!” shouted Maurice as he sprinted over
the table and jumped off towards the giant, stretching his arms
out forward to strangle the beast with his handcuffs, still
kicking and shouting but not totally oblivious to the sourceless
tendril of pulsing green energy which had fastened around his
neck and kept him dangling in the air.
“What!?” Taïkur blurted. The monk’s hood had fallen back in the
rush, and the light streaming out of the sockets of his golden
mask seemed to drain the light around him as he held his
exposed, gangrenous arm up to keep Lockswell in position.
“What do you intend to do now, little monkey?” Valler mused.
“I’LL KILL YOU!” he snarled and kicked at Valler, who stood just
out of his reach, only flicking spots of wet mud off his boots
and onto the king’s silk pyjamas. “I’LL KILL YOUR WORLD I’LL
KILL YOUR FAMILIES I REFUSE! TO DIE! UNTIL I HAVE BURNED YOUR
MANORS AND THROWN YOUR CHILDREN INTO CARPETS OF HUNGRY RATS,
I’LL-”
“Mo,” said John, her knees bleeding over the stone floor. “It’s
fine.”
“IT’S NOT FINE!” He spat at the king. “IT WON’T BE FINE UNTIL
EVERY KING AND QUEEN AND PRINCE ROTS BELOW THE FEET OF THE
ONCE-DOWNTRODDEN, NEVER-DOWNTRODDEN-AGAI-”
“Baby,” she stood up, despite the brute above her and the
wincing agony of each step she took towards her husband. She
reached up to him with both hands, ignoring his restraint - for
it was just a restraint like any other, and its composition did
not matter - and stroked the tight curls of his hair. “Yes, it
will. Everything will be fine. You know it will. Promise.”
“They’re going to kill me aren’t they? I’m Maurice fucking
Lockswell and I’m about to be killed by that fucking genital
wart.”
John smiled, glancing at the rotting monk from over her
shoulder. “I think they are.” She turned back to him, her sudden
maternal sweetness unaffected by the blood covering her smile.
“But I don’t want you to be scared if they do, okay? You only
get to feel your last feeling once and I don’t want it to be
fear, because there’s nothing to be scared of, be-”
“Oh, come on,” groaned the king.
“-because wherever you’re going, I’m right behind you. Always
was, always will be.”
Valler stepped forward. “Do you have any last feeble grunts
before I give the order?”
Maurice Lockswell looked at his wife for the last time, and
nodded. “No.”
“God, give me strength,” the monk declared. He closed his
gnarled, tumorous hand into a fist, and Lockswell’s neck
snapped.
John’s kindness faded as Lockswell landed on the floor. King
Valler crept over and squashed her cheeks with a large, meaty
hand as he inspected her bloody face up close. “You aren’t
crying. Why aren’t you crying? Do you not wish to mourn your
pet?”
A silence, which she swallowed. “I have the rest of my life to
mourn his.”
“And how long do you think that will be?” he smiled with two
rows of blackened teeth.
“You said everyone who sees what’s behind that curtain dies.”
“Yes?”
“Hurry up then, I’m bored already.”
Valler pushed John away, towards the mural of Ai Shub’fhalma.
“It’s time.”
The monk hid his face once more, and pressed a button on a
device on his wrist. The old clockwork machines at either side
of the room began to whir. Ai Shub’fhalma split down the middle
as the curtain parted. Valler’s old hands trembled as light
flooded this dark and hidden section of the room. Immediately in
front of John Boss was a step, the entire hidden section was a
raised platform, part of the medieval stone architecture that
made up the ancient heart of the building. What was not
original, however, were the wires. The platform was covered with
wires in all directions, other than a small clearing for one
person to stand as they operated a console of dials and meters.
At either side of the platform, two massive speakers sat like
monolithic statues guarding the thing at the centre of it all, a
tall, imposing and baroque… vat… of some sort, filled with murky
brown water and little ragged bits which slowly circled around
their source: tall and gold and emblazoned with filthy jewels, a
throne, and the corpse which reclined upon it.
“John BOss,” said a low electronic voice that crackled from the
speakers. “It has been an… incredibyl long time since I heard
that nmae.”
“Sorry, do I know you?” said Boss, feigning ignorance as best
she could.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.” the voice stabbed. “Have the cneturies really
been so cruel?” With great effort, the corpse lifted up what was
left of its face. The electric voice made sense now, since its
lower jaw had rotted off at some point and now lay uselessly at
the bones of its feet. The corpse wore the brown, disintegrating
remains of regal clothing with a soiled coat of jewellery draped
across its shoulders. Above the empty caverns of its cheekbones,
and above the one remaining eyeball - held in place by the
glacial collapse of the left side of its face - it wore what was
unmistakably the Black Crown of Dryadora.
John Boss took a step back in dawning confusion. “You’re…” She
turned to Zaedar Valler. “You’re not actually the king then are,
you? You can’t wear the crown because…” she turned back to the
corpse, and very quietly the words left her. “Oh my god.”
“Yes.:” The speakers crackled as the voice spoke up. “I am Kinf
… King … Praeon… Valler THe …Secondg. You are a liar, you are
non John BOss.”
“I…”
King Praeon Valler II glacially shifted his gaze to the group at
the back of the room. “John Boss.”
Zaedar stepped forward. “We have brought John Boss to you, you
requested her here. Remember?”
“no,” stated Praeon. “I wanted to speak too… ” he heaved his arm
up and attempted to point at John Boss the 34th. “An old
friend.”
Everyone turned to where Praeon was pointing, Aerin began to
sweat. “John, what’s happening? Have you met him before?”
“Apparently,” Boss whispered. He casually sauntered over the
room, past Zaedar and the guard and stood next to John. “It’s
been a long time, Praeon.”
“An understatement to say hte leasst. Ha. Ha. I thought i’d see
nthe last of you, but two hundred yaers later, you have been
delivered to me once agaiun.” Theoretically there was no way
this programmed voice could take on a quality of warmth, and
yet… “Where did you come form, John Boss? Did I dream you here?”
“I don’t know, what does King Praeon II dream of these days?”
In the corner of the room, one of the monks was scribbling down
every word said with a quill. He stopped, and waited anxiously
for the next line.
“I dream of… the old dayus. I dream og the soprtsmsnship and the
games. NOt sratecraft, npt the snakes you see around you in in
my court. I dream of th ebattles. I dream of the day you died.”
Boss perked up. “Oh? And how was the dress rehearsal? What did
you like and what do you think could be improved for the real
thing?”
“Ha. Ha. Do not think I have grown careless in my old age,m
firend.”
“That is *amazingly* cautious,” John smiled.
“If you are not a vision, you are still an threat.”
“Oh come on Praeon,” Boss goaded. “Are you suggesting that Aerin
and I have somehow managed to leap two centuries forward in time
and we did it all just to visit you in your decomposing dotage?”
King Praeon considered for a moment. “Very well, iwhat what
moral authority do i ‘ of all people ‘ have to deny a rewrite on
history? Ha. Ha. The battle came down to too combatantws. You
fouhgt well, and died… wellm, I wanted i have always wanted to
as kyou abrerout that.” The voice enunciated.
“Oh?” Boss raised an eyebrow.
“In my dreams, I see you dying a number of ways. I don’t deel
the forceful push rowards fantasy, yet every time I rry to
remember our fbattle you die on a diferent patch of land, or
pile of rubbles nad deaeth, or on andother fortess wall. The
tactics you used beforehand are differentt, clebever er every
time I remininsece. Every time I rememeber wa our batt;e, Jhn
BOs, whay entertains me is that you seem to get a little bit
further every time.”
“Does that not worry you?” asked John, a challenger’s smirk
growing on his face.
“Not in the slightest,” the voice said, clearly and perfectly.
“These conflitcting dreams are variaotonws on a theme: every
tkme you die the same way……h…… hliariously1”
John Boss was silent for a few seconds, then his face burst into
a grin. He turned to John Boss. “I like him. Don’t know about
you lot, but I like him.”
“He’s a-” Boss the 41st stalled, confused and getting angry.
“He’s the most prolific murderer in all of history! I don’t know
who the fuck you are or what the fuck you’re doing talking to
that corpse, but-”
“AAaeriiiii-iiin!” Everyone looked at him as Praeon stuttered.
“AAerin liette!:”
“…Yes?” Aerin mumbled after a moment.
“I remmebr tyou too! Are you and John still traipsing around
thoe continnent? Having adventure sand getting into scarpes? are
you still doing your lityle stories?”
“…Yes.” Aerin mumbled after a moment.
John turned his attention back to Praeon. “Never mind the good
old days, look at you! Set yourself up really nicely: you’ve got
your own empire, a circle of creepy monks tending to your every
need. Hey, if you do something wrong, you’ve even got a decoy
king for the people to blame!”
“I AM NO DECOY!” Shouted Zaedar against the ruins of his vocal
chords. “I HAVE RULED THIS KINGDOM FOR DECADES IN THE ABSENCE OF
THIS CORPSE! I HAVE KEPT MY PEOPLE SAFE FROM THE LIKES OF YOU! I
HAVE SENT SO MANY MARVELLOUS YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN TO DIE BECAUSE
OF YOU FUCKING APES AND YOUR BLOODY RED HANDS! You say you fight
for freedom, freedom from what? The surveillance that keeps our
cities safe from crime? The Siran, the wall between us and total
anarchy in these turbulent times?” He coughed violently. “I
have- I’ve-”
“Child.” Purred the voice of Praeon, reverberating off the walls
in every direction. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Zaedar turned to face his ancestor. “What is it…” he hesitated
“…your hole-Y-ness?”
“You have kept nobdy safe. Every death, every move in this
little gang war has been in accoradacne with my will. Remember
that they exist at my allowance, remember their purpose,
remember who whose arm controls the fmous READ HAND.”
“The Red Hand has no ‘arm’!” Spat John Boss the Younger. “We
have no leaders, your fucking thugs found the Manor months ago
and killed everyone inside! Or does your rotting fucking lettuce
of a brain not remember that?”
A monk stepped in front of her. “You will not speak to his
holiness unless spoken to.”
“No, no, no.” Said Praeon. “Why do you think I brouhgt you all
here? speak, and screa n and shot.” He used one of his few
remaining motor functions to gesture across the room, what
should have been an indulgent unfurl of the arm was an
animatronic pivot that began with Praeon’s elbow resting on the
arm of his throne and his right hand resting in the hollow
cavity of his crotch. He lifted his arm slowly and began the
laborious process of moving it horizontally, his atrophied wrist
pointing towards the monk on his left and pivoting across the
room, past the John Bosses stood in front of him, and moving
towards his descendant. The gesture, which had at this point
lasted fifteen seconds, was interrupted when - having no
remaining muscles to support it - Praeon’s arm flopped to the
side of his throne and - being sealed inside this tank of fluid
- was fated to stay there forever.
Zaedar spoke with strained breath. “Your holiness, memory
betrays you again. I brought John Boss here, remember? Me! He
destroyed a symbol of our authority and I ordered him brought
here because you said his name, yes? Because the name set some
trigger off that brought you back up to the surface. It just so
happens that in doing so I took the terrorists’ Dryadoran cell
along here with him. All of these things, *I* have brought to
*you*.”
Praeon was quiet for a moment, and another. And another. “Ha.”
“What?” Zaedar’s bony hand clenched around his cane.
“Tell them the storu of my wires, do you remember their
pirpropse?”
“You had those wires attached when I was just a boy, your
holiness. The monks told me you radiated holy light on the
inside, that you would anchor yourself to one place for the rest
of time so all the lights in the Dryadoran empire would shine
forever.”
“It is true, the previous order of mlonks bound ancient magicks
to my mortal form that it would burn with the numinous
degenergys to power the world. This is not why I did this. Your
father was just as much of a teachareous little turd as his
spwan, I knew he wanted the throne for himself so I anchored my
self to it, I made myselef the bedrock of this empire;s
prosperity. If I ever fall, the world comes odwn with me.”
Chel’s eyes widened a little as she spoke up. “Oh! That’s why
the electricity’s been patchy all over the country the past
month or so, isn’t it? You’re-” She laughed a little. “Right, so
every time the power cut out, what was happening is that you
were having a little die and it came back on once these monk
guys brought you back to…whatever it is you call this. And the
outages are getting more frequent every decade! Which means
you’re on your way out soon!”
“That’s a very impressive deduction Chel!” Shouted Boss across
the room.
“Kill her.” said Praeon.
“[I call upon the unknowable with a wave of the hand. Chel
Hagar’s horrified face becomes a dissonant polyform of genetic
expression as her ancestors claw out through their double-helix
prisons, a thousand potential bodies trying to surface at once.
They all scream, die.]” wrote the monk transcribing all this.
John Boss the 34th didn’t turn away from what, among other
things, was once Chel Hagar.
John Boss the 41st shouted furiously, “ME! Do me next!”
“Not quiteiteite yet,” jittered the voice of Praeon. “I want you
to knpow just how the baord lays, the sTWATE of play. I did not
‘ifind’ your Manor, it’s locarion has been knowon to me since
the begginning, sincece you roganisation made it;s home there,
since before anyone in thois eoom wasborn. I allowed it to
flourish because it was conventietn. Nothing unites anation like
an enemy, but what of the nation that has dominated every knwon
land? Who can it fight then but an enemy within> AN enemy on
yout street, an enemy in your heda, an anenmy in a sunken church
next ot a minor vein of your city;s sewers? Having crushed all
nations, I allowed you to gorw like a cancer that you might be
diagnosed, that we may strain every sinew to fight you for time
immemorial.”
Zaedar Valler’s breath clouded up his oxygen mask. “Praeon, what
are you talking about? You knew?! You’re deranged! This is
absu-” He erupted in a coughing fit.
“That you did not is a testemenat to your ignoresance. Ha. HA.
HA. How does it feel, little child, to feel your beody decay
beneth you as I sit here, statueesqyqer, ruling over the course
of hiustory with wisdom beyond comprehensio-”
Zaedar Valler struggled over to the console, grasped the
“volume” dial, and muted the king.
“Give Praeon his medicine. You know how painful it is for him to
be fully awake.” After a silence, one of the monks nodded and
disappeared through the side door. “Close the curtain too, then
get out. All of you.” The monk at the golden lectern closed his
musty old book with a thud, and carried it out with him. When
the door creaked shut, and the curtain had finished its
whirring, Ai Shub’fhalma gazed once more over the throne room:
over the proxy-king Zaedar, the Bosses, Aerin, Taïkur, Pheata,
the corpse of Lockswell, the liquefying pile of Hagar and the
guard in the gold mask.
“Bring those other two over,” Zaedar croaked. Pheata gestured
for Aerin and Taïkur to move forward and they did; Taïkur taking
his place next to John Boss the 41st, and Aerin standing next to
the 34th - furthest away from Zaedar and his brute. “Do you have
it with you?”
Pheata nodded. “Of course, your majesty.” He reached into the
inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a small revolver which
he handed to the king. Zaedar pulled back the hammer and
shuffled over to Taïkur, placing the gun to his forehead.
The king’s sigh whistled through the holes in his mask.
“Formality dictates that I inquire about any last words or
requests.”
“Your decorum is appreciated,” said Taïkur. “You fucking
impotent incontinent zombie.”
Aerin jumped as Zaedar pulled the trigger, the recoil of the gun
sending his wrist flying back. The squeal of the oxygen tank’s
duff wheel got closer as the king got to John Boss the 41st.
Hammer back, gun between her left eye and the bleeding hole in
her face.
“Anything?”
“Yes, actually.”
Zaedar lowered his gun. “Oh?”
“Is it true?” She’d gone quiet now. “What Praeon said? Is it
true that you let the Red Hand exist as a scapegoat? As a threat
to keep the population under control? A justification for all
of…this?”
Zaedar didn’t respond for a moment, looking back at the burning
figure on the tapestry, the mythology behind him. “I hope not.”
“Isn’t the doubt enough? If Praeon lied about us, what else
could he be lying about? What shit has he been drumming into
your head since you were little? What history? What sciences did
he dream up to relegate our species to common beasts?”
Zaedar paused, and lowered his gun slightly.
“I don’t know.” He drew a long, strained breath, and sighed.
“But I know the people must be protected, the wheels of
civilisation must turn.” He placed the gun back to her head.
“That’s what you think, but look around you. This planet is
dying. The clouds are becoming poisonous fog, the water’s
turning brown and the coastal towns are drenched in it.
Everything’s about to go to shit. And when it does, when the
wheels start flying off the runaway train, they’re going to turn
on you. And while the peasants drink royal blood at the end of
the world, the humans in the cages and on the farms will get
free and devour what’s left. They do not have mouths, but you
will learn the hard way that they still have teeth. You can’t
protect your people, because they were never yours. So shoot me,
Zaedar. Because if I fall, your sad old world is coming down
with me.”
John Boss was smiling when she died. This was in no way a
sufficient consolation.
Before the gun had finished firing John Boss the 34th and only
ripped it from the old man’s frail hand. He ran behind the
curtain, pulling the hammer back as he disappeared. Jaros chased
after him, throwing the tapestry out of his way. BANG! Click.
BANG! Click. BANG! Click. BANG! Nothing. John Boss the 34th flew
out of the curtain and slid off the ancient round table as he
landed on it, sent rolling in the puddle of flesh near the door.
Jaros strode out from the tapestry, bleeding in three places.
Boss shot back up onto his feet and on the table, holding his
hands up in a boxing stance. The handcuffs were stained and
warped at their ends where he’d shot them apart. The brute
charged forwards and John jumped up as they dived under him. He
gripped onto the chandelier, swinging his feet up and scaling
its underside, gritting his teeth through the shower of hot wax
as it swayed. The brute stood up on the table, trying to reach
for the bottom of the chandelier.
“Oh, don’t bother.” The butler pulled out a second gun,
stoically fired off a few rounds into the mess of gold chains,
and John Boss the 34th’s corpse slapped onto the stone floor.
Pheata sighed. “Finally.” Jaros made their way back to Aerin and
Zaedar.
“AS IF A FUCKING GUN WILL PUT A SCRATCH ON ME!” cried John,
coughing on the floor. “COME BACK HERE YOU FOUL CREATURE, BE A
MAN AND FACE ME IN THE RING!”
Jaros turned around and sauntered over to the far edge of the
table. “I am no man.” They jumped off the table, flattening
John’s chest beneath their boots. The colossus stood there for a
few seconds, to make sure, then walked back over leaving a trail
of bloody footprints. Pheata checked his gun. “Still one more.
Your majesty?”
“Certainly.” Zaedar took the gun, and pointed at Aerin.
“Anything you’d like to say before I can get on with the rest of
my day?”
Aerin exhaled, his hands shaking in their restraints. “One
question.”
“Yes?” Zaedar sighed.
“Who am I?”
“You’re…” He paused. “Hm. Actually, you weren’t mentioned on the
files. How is this important?”
Aerin cleared his throat. “Think about this: King Praeon
remembered me. He remembered me from a long time ago. Does this
not raise multiple questions about mortality, the nature of time
itself and - most importantly to you - my actual identity?”
“Praeon’s deluded.”
“But he remembers! The name ‘John Boss’ set him off. Why? He saw
the girl on the floor and he knew - he *knew* - she wasn’t the
one he was looking for. He recognised John Boss and he
recognised me. Why?”
Zaedar furrowed his brow in exasperation. “Even if Praeon wasn’t
hallucinating, the same would apply to your friend the corpse.”
Aerin raised a finger and pointed. “See here’s the thing though:
I’m not a corpse, am I? I’m still living, I’m still useful!”
“If it’s information you’re trying to bargain with, don’t
bother. The Red Hand doesn’t have the infrastructure to organise
anymore, we’ll find the last scraps soon enough. I will
personally ensure your organisation’s total elimination from
life, thought and memory.”
“I don’t have information, Zay-zay.” Aerin shrugged. “I don’t
know anything about the Red Hand, I’m not even *in* the Red
Hand, the opportunity presented itself so I lied my way in.”
“Why would you do a thing like that?” Zaear narrowed his eyes in
their cavernous sockets. “If you weren’t already with them, if
you’re just a civilian…”
Aerin, betting on the fact he was probably dead whether or not
he tried to flee, took a step back from the gun, and started to
aimlessly stroll away from Zaedar, smiling as he stayed alive.
“Because it was fun.” He took on some of the swaggering
mannerisms of Dhubagél. “Shits and giggles, my guy. I wanted to
get a taste of the underground life, you know? I’ve spent too
long in cloistered halls like these. I needed to get out there!”
He gestured grandly at the large window. “Mingle with all sorts,
see things from the other side, get both points of view.” He
looked down at the city of Dryadora on the horizon. “Sorry to
have pulled a fast one on you babes but…” he clicked the corner
of his mouth and looked back at Zaedar. “I’m no collaborator,
and I’m *certainly*,” he pointed “no civilian.”
Zaedar, either through curiosity or fatigue, actually put his
gun down. “So who are you?”
Jaros stopped prodding at their wounds and looked alert. “Do
you-”
The king raised a finger. “Shh!”
Aerin spun around on his heels and walked back over to his
audience. “My name is Aerin Seane Curtach Liette, I'm the
official biographer slash” - he made a cutting gesture with one
hand - “hagiographer to our pal, King Praeon Valler II.” He
stopped, and grinned. “You may have heard of me.”
As the giant strode over to John Boss the 41st’s dead body
behind him, Zaedar turned to Pheata for any kind of input.
Pheata looked at Zaedar, looked at Aerin, Zaedar, and back at
Aerin. “Well, your majesty, we’d have to check the portrait
gallery to be sure… but now that I think about it…” he
swallowed, “…I have seen that face before.”
The mood was interrupted by the sound of Jaros tearing open John
Boss’ replica police armor with their bare hands. “Oh for fuck’s
sake.”
Zaedar snapped. “What!?” He turned to see what the fuss was.
There was a plastic circle, sort of like a plaster, stuck to
John Boss’ chest. From that, a wire taped down to her breast and
side came down to about her stomach, and vanished into a newly
cut stitch about the length of a hand. There was a lump there,
under her skin, and a blinking red light shone through.
Jaros ran away from the bomb, and dived towards their king.
And the world came down with her.