Authors: Edward Lee
“How’s that?”
“Because there’s no purpose in Lucifer keeping them here if you chose not to take up residence in the castle. Your friends and family would be redelegated back into Hell’s mainstream, where they wouldn’t fare well at all, I’m afraid.”
Your gaze at him shifts. “So it’s blackmail?”
“Lucifer has no qualms in revealing his motives. He wants something from you very badly, and he will go to great pains to urge you into giving it to him. By offering you the prize of all your dreams and all your fantasies, which you will be able to enjoy forever.”
“Sex, money, and luxury . . .”
“Yes, and let us not forget
envy
, for you will be envied, by everyone in Hell. The gift Lucifer wishes to bestow upon you—in exchange for the gift you will give to him—represents the distillation of what all Humans desire most.”
Now your eyes drift back to the sky. “I still don’t see what Lucifer gets out of the deal. Another soul? From what I can see, he’s got plenty of those.”
“Plenty, yes, but, lo, not yours. Not the Soul of one who willingly says no to God’s promise of Salvation. For someone so entirely on the plus side of the Fulcrum, to cast God aside in favor of Lucifer—
that
, Mr. Hudson, is the only satisfaction Lucifer can ever truly enjoy.”
Your vision reels again at the sight of the castle and its spectacular grounds, your friends and family, as well as the sheer carnal pleasures that await.
Carnal pleasure that you’ve
never
experienced . . .
Like a crack of mental lightning, you know.
You know what you are about to do . . .
Master Builder Curwen watched wide-eyed from his observation minaret. Thus far, the Sputum Storm appeared to be confined beyond the official limits of the Mephistopolis, its sickish green clouds leaving no doubt of its existence. From so far away, it looked like a mere phlegm-colored streak along the bottom of the scarlet horizon, but as Hell’s most dangerous type of storm, one could never rest assured. They’d been known to sit still and hang for extended periods, then suddenly move off with no warning at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. Curwen wasn’t certain, but he believed the storm was sliding over the Outer Sectors, probably the Great Emptiness Quarter.
Pray Satan, let it stay there
.
For such a storm to move here, over the Pol Pot District, there was no telling what damage might be inflicted upon the Demonculus.
Below on the field, the ancillary sacrifices continued, to keep the Electrocity Generators roaring and the Hell-Flux well charged. The boiled corpses of sacrifants were wheeled away in barrows by slug-skinned Ushers, only to be replaced by more. A wonderful sight, yes, but then Curwen gazed upward at the colossal form of the Demonculus.
Nothing can jeopardize my creation. Nothing
.
Footsteps could be heard winding up the minaret’s spiral
steps, and, next, a figure rose into the small open-windowed chamber: the project’s official Psychic Security Minister, a Kathari-grade Diviner.
“Master Builder Curwen,” the man-thing’s voice etched, and then it bowed. “It is my honor to be in your presence.”
Yet not mine to be in yours
, Curwen thought. Curwen was Human, and therefore distrustful of all that was not, especially creatures like this, things that could supposedly see the future. Additionally, the Satanic Visionary was
hideous
to behold: it was bald, emaciated, and brazenly naked. The sucked-in skin and stringlike muscles were repulsive enough, but even more repulsive was the Clairvoyant’s skin tone, a bruising blue beneath which maroon arteries throbbed. Even more unsettling was the psychic being’s eye—not eyes, eye, for it possessed but only one, set hugely in the middle of its gaunt face. An eye the size of an apple. The Diviner’s bald head shined, tracked by various suture scars from multiple telethesic surgeries; its ears were holes, and its genitals . . .
. . . were best left undescribed.
“What tidings do you bring me, Seer?”
The Diviner’s voice keened like nails across slate. “Great Master Builder, I know that the distant Sputum Storm rests gravely on your mind, but it is with the joy of serving the Morning Star that I tell you to put your fears aside. I foresaw this very storm, and I have foreseen, too, that it shall not venture here.”
The aftereffects of hearing the Diviner’s awful voice left Curwen’s skin crawling, yet it was with relief that he sat down in his jeweled seat. “Praise the Dark Lord.”
“Yes.”
“But I pity those now in its midst. Is it the Great Emptiness Quarter?”
The visionary’s bald head nodded. Scarlet veins
beat
beneath the shining skin.
Curwen began, “I’ve heard—”
“So have we all—that something of grievous import is taking place there, but what it is, I’m not privy to, via my training and indoctrination.” Then the massive eye blinked once, clicking like the snap of a twig.
Curwen squinted out again, in the vicinity of the storm.
What a ghastly thing to happen, even in Hell. A deluge of snot
. . . But he must not worry over projects not his own.
Only the Demonculus and the success of its animation were his personal concern.
I must succeed
.
Curwen’s gaze turned to his guest. “Diviner—”
The cadaverous figure smiled, showing black teeth. “Is there something you wish for me to divine, Master Builder?”
Of course, it could read his mind. But now that the very Human question had occurred to him . . . he was afraid to ask.
The Diviner’s voice screeched as the thing went slowly back down the spiral steps. “The answer to your question . . . is
yes
—”
The Diviner continued to descend.
“—and of this you can be sure, for I have foreseen it . . .”
Curwen sat semiparalyzed for some time—paralyzed by euphoria. He stared at the Demonculus’s immobile form through the master window, and the question he’d thought but dared not ask was this:
Will the Demonculus be successfully animated?
The wind gusted from multiple directions, each gust resounding like the caterwauls of ravening beasts; and it was a pall of a diseased green that seemed to have lowered in churning layers over the entirety of the Vandermast Reservoir
as well as a sizable portion of the Great Emptiness Quarter itself. The Sputum Storm raged, just short of breaking. Since the alert all lower-echelon Conscripts were ordered to tie themselves to the security lugs along the ramparts, while the Golems (much heavier and therefore less likely to be blown over the side) continued their foot patrols, on watch for signs of attack and also physical breeches that the storm might incur upon the black basilisk walls of the perimeter.
Favius watched from his own security barbican along the rampart.
The storm is spectacular but also deadly
, he thought. During his entire Damnation, Favius had never seen a genuine Sputum Storm, he’d only
heard
of them. The black clouds would begin to congeal from the force of the wind, and then turn green in a hue like moldy cheese. His training apprised him the potential of a storm like this—whole Prefects had been destroyed by Sputum Storms, it was said, and in low-lying urban areas, the incessant rain of phlegm would bring mucoid floods that rose stories high and drowned residents in an oatmeal-thick, viscid horror. Favius eyed the grotesque clouds that now moiled above the Reservoir: he thought of an upside-down whirlpool of crud-green sludge.
Any minute
, he feared,
the storm will break and those clouds will POUR
. . .
All the while, though, the mammoth Main Sub-Inlets continued to roar as they siphoned still more of the Gulf’s horrific Bloodwater into the pit . . .
For as far as Favius could see, there were only the flat layers of storm clouds pressing down. The wind gusts picked up, and one actually caused the rampart wall to nudge . . .
Favius latched onto an astonishing moment of self-awareness.
For the first time in my existence . . . I am afraid
. . .
Perhaps a mile in the distance, over a conjoining rampart, the rain began to fall—the rain of
phlegm
.
Here it comes
. . .
The sky, essentially, began to vomit.
The dark green sputum began to fall in sheets. Favius watched the splattering line of phlegm-fall move across the Reservoir’s scarlet surface; it was louder even than the sounds of the sub-inlets filling the pit. When it finally reached the Legionnaire’s own rampart, the 900-pound Golems wobbled in place in the gale force. Several merlons cracked in the macabre wind and fell into the Reservoir. A rising, whistlelike shriek now encompassed all.
The rampart walls shook again; Favius thought he even heard the very stone crack.
This storm may destroy the entire site
. . .
Favius lurched when the barbican door banged open. He reached instinctively for his sword—
“Lucifer in Hell, Favius!” the sudden voice exploded in complaint.
“Grand Sergeant Buyoux!” Favius exclaimed. “It’s dangerous for you to have come here, sir!” He bulled against the door to reclose it; then he threw across the bars. “You should’ve summoned me, and I would’ve come to you—”
The Grand Sergeant stood dripping residual green muck; his helm and most of his plate-mail smock was en-slimed with it. “Help me off with this, Favius,” the commander groaned, and then the plates clinked. Favius removed the metallic garment and hung it in the stone corner to dry. Buyoux sat exhausted on the bench, now dressed only in a wool tunic emblazoned with the Seal of Grand Duke Cyamal. The Grand Sergeant brought scarred hands to his scar-badged face. “I’ve never witnessed a storm like this—ever.”
“Nor have I, Grand Sergeant. I have concerns about the physical integrity of the site—”
Buyoux laughed mirthlessly. “A Sputum Storm of this magnitude could knock the ramparts down—it could ruin the entire project.” He looked at Favius with his appalling face. “Whatever happened to the luck of the Damned, hmm?”
Favius peered back out across the Reservoir. The rain
poured
over everything, and then a sudden wind gust blew one of his Golems over the side, into the foaming pool.
“Impressive, yes,” his superior said. “At least the Golems are expendable. If only we can see to it that no
men
are blown into it as well.”
Now the stone barbican itself began to creak in the wind. “The rain seems to be letting up, Grand Sergeant, but the wind—”
“—is
increasing
in velocity, yes.” Buyoux rose and looked likewise through the small window. “The Channelers predicted as much; they’ve even predicted a rapid conclusion to the storm but . . . as you can see . . .”
Favius stared.
Was
it letting up even as they spoke? The sky’s green tinge seemed to be lessening . . . but then the wind shook loose several more merlon abutments and blew them into the Reservoir.
Buyoux was smiling. “My good Favius. Aren’t you even going to ask why I braved this dismal storm to come here?”
Favius stood at parade rest when addressed. “It is not for me to ask, Grand Sergeant.”
Buyoux sat back down, seemingly at ease even as the stone floor was shifting minutely. “I came to see you, Favius—to . . .
tell
you something.”
“I
exist
to follow your orders, sir.”
Buyoux shrugged. “In the midst of a storm that may well destroy us . . . you needn’t be so formal. The truth is, you’re the only one I trust on this entire site. I don’t even trust my own commanders. I only trust you . . .”
“Grand Sergeant, I am duly honored by your praise, and unworthy of it.”
The Grand Sergeant picked at one of his self-inflicted facial scars. He seemed to be reflecting inwardly now. “We’re the Human Damned, Favius—yes, we’re
humans
. Regardless of the extent to which we’ve been modified, no matter how much amplification surgery we’ve had, no matter how many demonic transfusions . . . we’re still
human
.”
Favius stood, trying to comprehend. Was his superior having a breakdown?
“That’s why I’m here, friend. It is my human frailty that brings me.” Buyoux’s voice lowered in a secret excitement. “I
have
to tell someone. I feel as though I’ll burst if I don’t . . .”
“Grand Sergeant, in my utter inferiority, I do not understand.”
The barbican rocked from another gust. Outside, someone screamed.
“You’re the only one I trust,” Buyoux repeated but now was staring off into nothing. He was smiling. “Not too long ago—just before the storm, in fact—I received a coded cipher, as did every Grand Sergeant on this reservation—”
Favius tensed up. He yearned to ask . . . but knew that he couldn’t.
“It was a cipher from the Ministry of Satanic Secrets, Favius, and they finally disclosed the true nature of this project—the reason for the Reservoir’s construction, and everything else . . .”
Favius cringed. Why would Buyoux brave a deadly storm to come here and say this?
Unless it is to tell
ME,
because he cannot contain his excitement
. . .
The drone of Buyoux’s voice seemed to gleam. “It’s for a Spatial Merge, Favius,” came the whisper. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yes, Grand Sergeant. I learned about the process in one of my Clandestine Sorcery classes.” Favius had to stress his
ancient memory. “It’s a secret technology whose goal is to substitute a finite perimeter in Hell with an equal perimeter in the Living World. Objects and even living beings in Hell are then able to occupy space on Earth, but it requires a massive Power Exchange, and the Merge is only temporary.”
The scar-tissue mask that was Buyoux’s face continued to beam as he shook his head. “They’re not temporary anymore, my friend. After eons of research and repeated trials, the De Rais Academy has perfected the process. Theoretically, at least, a permanent Merge
can
be effected—”
Favius froze. “But, but, sir . . . Such a feat would require an unthinkable transfer of Deathforce—”