Geist intermezzo, p.6
Geist Intermezzo, page 6
CHAPTER SIX
The world beyond Holy Gothica was engulfed by industrial blight. Outside the catacombs, Victor beheld an expanse of grey dunes and scrublands, dotted with jagged spires and gorges—a salt-stained realm, long scoured of any beauty. From the Ash Mountains, storms of acidic rain rolled overhead, carrying a reek of rust, coarse and hot against their skin.
Charles squinted across the irradiated desert. “This is what’s outside the city?”
“Indeed,” Thaddeus said. “It has been like this for an age. But of late, our metropolis demands many resources to survive, and the waste produced by the Azoth reactors must be disposed of somehow. This is the frontier of our Imperium, a lawless place where only the strong survive, visited by no one save the tithe-collectors and raiders.”
“How can people even live out here?” Victor gazed at the sky, smothered by rolling clouds of smog. “I mean, how do you sustain yourselves off these badlands?”
“Mining or pillaging mostly.” Yuko planted a boot on the rocks. “It’s not a happy story.”
“The Gotland Wastes are barren, yes,” Thaddeus added. “But there is an abundance of steel mills and stone quarries for use. As for food and clean water, we rely on a few outlying hamlets, particularly those by the Mournweald.” He looked up, watching a host of zeppelins soar towards the city. “And we have many sky lanes to make such trade seamless.”
Ingrid remained silent, staring across the ashen sand.
Victor saw nothing but scrap-metal villages dotting the dunes, centered on grim churches and oil rigs, linked to one another by paved roads. And not far north, he saw Holy Gothica, its high-rises aloft a metal plate, shadowing the slums and braced by the Azoth reactors. A highway sprawled from its Great Gates as one of the city’s few links to its third-world fiefdoms.
“Jesus.” Charles whipped off his pea coat, hoisting it over his shoulder. He squinted against the dry wind. “How do we get to the base? I don’t see anything except the outback.”
Indeed, Victor heard throbbing motors on the horizon, imagining biker gangs out of a cheap ‘80s thriller. Shaking his head, he took a few steps forward.
“Just follow me.” Yuko pointed towards a ridge of mesas. “We’re not far off.”
Victor pushed his doubts aside. He and the others followed Yuko down roads of battered concrete, winding along the edges of high cliffs. Only derelict bridges connected them, as rancid rivers flowed into cesspools far downstream.
After another hour or so, the road became narrow and treacherous. One misstep would send them tumbling into an abyss of sewage and spikes, and Victor felt the vertigo take its toll.
Charles stumbled on a narrow ledge, catching himself on a boulder.
“Are you all right?” Victor bolted to his side. “Try not to fall!”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Charles brushed the ash off his shoulders, eyes still wide. “Just easy to get distracted by how fugly this place is.”
“These paths are treacherous,” Ingrid said, “but we are almost there.”
Around the bend, Victor saw a rare mark of civilization—a bent road sign reading,
ASHTRAY—1/3 MILE
As they crossed the final bridge, Victor saw a planetarium looming atop the tallest spire, braced by windmills and lopsided shanties. Its massive telescope was pointed at the smog-bound sky, while that dome was covered in blood-red graffiti and lyrics, and scribbled sheets of music a testament to the songs and spirit of the rebellion.
It was a true court of miracles.
“Is this it?” Victor asked. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Ingrid retorted. “This is the Ashtray, our bastion of freedom.”
“The natives call it Haizara,” Yuko added. “Best-kept secret of the Powder Kegs.”
“And I hope it stays that way.” Ingrid turned to the company. “No doubt you wish for a complete account regarding Beatrice’s capture.” She pointed at the hilltop dome. “Goro Ludwig should still be in the war room, meeting with the dynamos.”
“Haizara? Dynamos?” Charles’s brow furrowed. “I guess this does make some sense, with Yoshiwara and all. Still, it’s getting very Japanese here, and fast.”
“Not to mention punk,” Victor said. “Fitting.”
The leering gate was flanked with lines of pikes and gibbets, and they wandered into a town of trailers, dime stores, and saloons, all decorated with skulls and black flags, particularly The Whiskey Fountain and The Cigarette Tree. It was surrounded by a wall of scavenged metal and wood, all under the shadow of that planetarium. It was an anarchist’s sanctuary.
Everyone—man, woman, and child—wore a badge or patch, no doubt the mark of an undesirable, retailored with the Flayed Man’s Cross. And the gunslingers and guerillas carried makeshift rifles and katanas—a militia of the mohawked and diseased.
“I take it back.” Charles smiled to himself as an electric guitar echoed from the saloon. “Reminds me of when punk rock actually meant something. I can dig this place.”
Victor’s eyes fell upon the guillotine in the town square. He shuddered, noticing the bloodstains on its great blade. Meanwhile, the freemen stared at them, eyes narrowing, keeping firm hands over their arms, spitting wads of grey mucus on the ground.
Thaddeus pulled his hat low, keeping to himself. “How?” He murmured, lagging behind. “How could such a place exist under the Imperium’s nose all this time? Truly I was a fool.”
Victor turned back to Ingrid. “How do we meet Ludwig?”
“The Leper King is just up ahead.” She gestured to a deep alcove further up the spire.
“And I’ll wait here,” Yuko said. “See you guys at the bars.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Victor asked.
“I know Ludwig’s temper better than most,” she scoffed. “I’m not that stupid.”
Oh, how comforting.
#
Inside the observatory, Victor was welcomed by dancing lights and the scent of hash oil. It was a circular chamber, its domed ceiling a series of mirrors showcasing the countless constellations of the Gothic sky. All the panels faced a massive reflective telescope—gilded, laden with archaic script, as a window to the moon and the stars beyond. Brass-wheeled automatons tended that great machine, not even noticing the onlookers.
“It’s beautiful,” Victor said, awestruck. “Like a museum of eldritch-ness.”
Charles smirked. “You keep on saying that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.” He glanced at the starlit dome. “Yeah, these were always your thing, huh?”
“Enough,” Thaddeus growled. “We have business to attend to.”
As they came to the far door, a pair of gas-masked soldiers recognized Ingrid and moved aside. Down a flight of stone steps was the war room. Here, tribal banners hung low, made of faded linen and spray paint, flanked by saw-toothed naginatas and tribal masks. To the side was a massive table, where the revolutionary council gathered and debated. They were a motley lot, ranging from street shamans to road warriors, all dyed hair and corpse-paint. Ludwig stood at their head, caressing his pepper-grinder, raising his head at the unwelcome guests.
Victor winced. Ludwig’s lips were dried and stretched wide by dental instruments, like a berserker’s grimace. Even then, Victor knew it was an intimidation tactic. It also worked.
“Who put Marilyn Manson in charge?” Charles whispered.
Ludwig’s eyes narrowed sharply, shutting him up. “Ingrid?” Ludwig’s voice was gritty yet charismatic—like a metal singer who smoked way too much meth. “The hell is this?”
Off to a great start already.
“Ludwig.” Ingrid stepped forward. “I was requested by Yuko to allow these…,” she turned to Thaddeus, “political dissidents into our headquarters. I was told they are friends of Beatrice Morrison. The new recruit who got herself captured.”
“You don’t say.” Ludwig glanced at Charles. “Yeah, I recognize you from the brothels, back in Yoshiwara. You’re harmless enough. Or you better be. But you two?” He glared at the others. “Just who are you?”
“Victor Roland. A-at your service.”
“Ser Hector Thaddeus. Former agent of Her Holiness’s Inquisition.”
Ludwig clutched a bottle of sake, breathing heavily with rage. “Ingrid? Did you lead the Inquisition to our secret base? Did you miss the memo as to how we keep it a secret by….” His voice rose to a sudden roar, shattering the bottle effortlessly and slamming his pepper-grinder onto the table. “Not leading Imperials here?!”
“We were excommunicated,” Thaddeus’s voice quivered. “The Empress—”
“Johanna,” the Leper King hissed. “We don’t use titles. Especially not for her.” He launched up, knocking his chair back. “You don’t know shit about the common folk, do you?”
“Your pardon?” Thaddeus stepped back. “I don’t follow.”
“She’s not my Empress, and if you want me to believe you, she’s sure as fuck not yours.” His eyes roiled with rage. “And why, pray tell, did you all come here?”
“To seek asylum,” Thaddeus replied, “for my company’s sake.”
There was a dreadful pause. Ludwig’s filed teeth glistened in the torchlight.
“For your company’s sake?” He hissed. “How many of my company—no, brothers—have you tortured and executed in the Palace of Justice?” He pointed the pepper-grinder at Thaddeus’s chest. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blast your ass into sweet oblivion.”
Victor’s legs moved on their own. He stepped forward and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He had no idea what to say. One wrong word would get them all riddled with bullets, and he heard the chambers in Ludwig’s cannon warming up.
“I’m waiting.” Ludwig raised his voice.
“Hang on,” Charles whispered, placing a hand on Victor’s chest. He cleared his throat. “Let’s all calm down. I know this looks suspicious, but there’s a reason we’re here. The Imperium has screwed all our shit up. Hard. So, why just bicker and divide ourselves?”
Ludwig kept his eyes fixed on Thaddeus. “You get three words.”
“Dude—”
Ludwig turned his aim to Charles. “That’s one.”
Victor could feel Charles’s blood run cold, and yet, by some feat of courage, the hipster stood his ground. “Serial. Killer.” His eyes cut through Ludwig. “Two can play this game.”
Jesus.…
Ludwig’s eyes narrowed until he lowered his grafted firearm. “Okay, you’re obviously after that Dollmaker. But how do you know Beatrice?”
“Charles, her, and I come from the same place,” Victor said. “Which is…n-not here.”
“That can mean a lot of things.” Ludwig picked up his chair and sat back down. “Enlighten me, will you?”
“A-all right.” Victor recounted his journey to Ludwig and the dynamos, from his descent, to meeting the Inquisition, searching for and saving Charles, and their betrayal at the hands of the Imperium. “See? No need for v-violence.”
Ludwig was still unreadable. “So,” he said, “it all comes down to an investigation that got out of hand. The Imperium tossed you out like yesterday’s garbage. And now, you fugitives come to us?” He laughed, shaking his head. “If it weren’t for recent events, I’d string you up, have your heads on pikes, and feed your guts to the pigs.” He glanced aside, to a dynamo in a scarlet executioner’s hood. “Johnny Redcap would have fun too.”
“It wouldn’t be in that order,” Johnny growled.
Victor shuddered, trying to keep his wits together.
“Truth be told,” Ludwig said. “I wasn’t planning on doing anything about her. That being said….” He leaned on the table, his smile genuine. “You said your name’s Victor, right? Word’s been spreading about you playing detective. Trying to stop that psycho.” His eyes glistened with curiosity. “They also say you have powers, or some shit—”
“How much do you know of the Dollmaker?” Thaddeus changed the topic.
“Not as much as you would think,” Ludwig said. “Rumors and random bits. But we do use the Thirteenth Frequency for the same reasons—to go unnoticed. We time our bombing runs around the surges, while he uses them to get away with his modus operandi—throwing people into Hell. Feeding them to the daemons.”
“Yeah,” Charles spoke up. “I was going to be his most recent victim.”
“I guess you want to know what happened to Beatrice then.” Ludwig nodded. “She was our newest recruit. We took her on the bombing mission last night, and the blackout didn’t last that long. Then…we got caught by the jackboots.”
“Indeed,” Ingrid said. “While Beatrice was captured by the stormtroopers, there was also another presence. A ripple in reality. Something pursuing not us, but her.”
“All suspicions were confirmed when we got this.” Ludwig flipped a torn envelope from under the table. “And that means only one thing. Beatrice was that psycho’s target.”
Victor took the letter with trembling hands. He recognized the handwriting, as the word LUXURIA was typed on the envelope. He read the letter, closely and carefully.
Dear Victor,
Congratulations. Charles is safe. You saved one soul, yes, but I found another. Beatrice was a fickle bitch to throw in. Stormtroopers make excellent wardens for the common prisoner. But we know better, don’t we? You’re intent on dragging this on. I must say, while I’m impressed, I’m getting annoyed, so I’ll make this quick. The novelty is wearing off. If you don’t let me have my way—well, you really won’t like what’ll happen. Someone you care for deeply will be next. And there will be nothing you can do.
The choice is yours,
The Dollmaker
Victor was harrowed, even after the dread subsided. The world’s color dulled then. Maybe he was conditioned to accept this horror. Maybe he wasn’t attached to her. But he thought it over, and then, asked himself that armor-piercing question.
Do I really care?
This wasn’t like Charles’s kidnapping. He’d known her for less than a day. Beatrice was a goth girl he’d met in class, exchanged literary quips with, and tried to drunkenly hit on at a bar. He barely remember her face. Why did he care at all? It was a simple. He wanted to save her because it was the right thing to do, and maybe, just maybe, he would get—
“Like I said, I’m not going after her,” Ludwig said. “If you really want to use our equipment to rescue her, I’ll turn the other cheek.”
“R-really?” Victor asked. “We can get to the Inferno from here?”
“It’s not like I want her to die,” Ludwig said. “But should you breathe a word about this….” He pointed at Johnny, who cracked his knuckles. “That being said, I think you’re all trustworthy. For the most part. Congrats, you’re working with the Powder Kegs.”
Thaddeus said nothing, but Victor could sense his anxiety rising.
Ludwig stood up and turned his back. “When the surge strikes, I’ll take you to the mines and our tech caches.” He nodded at the child soldier. “Ingrid, show these crazy bastards to the Whiskey Fountain.” That stretched smile widened. “They deserve one last drink.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beatrice’s eyes opened to stinging smog, squinting as lights throbbed into vision. She lay there, dazed, on some kind of runway stage, as familiar music played on unseen speakers—a fusion of goth rock and techno, fresh out of ‘95. Above, she saw a labyrinth of lattices and floodlights, swallowed by darkness, much like her own racing thoughts.
Where…am I? Behind that telescreen?
Beatrice couldn’t remember quite how she’d gotten here, only that it wasn’t accidental. Wherever she was had the hallmarks of a strip club—images of nude women projected on black wallpaper, tables covered in white powder, as dancing poles disappeared into the unseen heights. Past the dive bar’s facade she saw polystyrene and voyeuristic cameras, revealing the abyss beyond. It was a film set of erotic nightmares, and Beatrice took center stage.
Is this Hell?
She stood and shivered, feeling a draft from behind the tacky curtains, reeking of gin and vodka. Feeling her way, she could hear the voices, calling and hissing like a serenade for a drunken grave. Beatrice’s sword was gone, taken by the stormtroopers in the Palace of Justice—she was defenseless against whatever lurked here.
Then she slipped on a puddle of booze, falling with a crack onto the tiles. Pain throbbed past numbness on her shin as she mouthed a scream.
Why did I do this to myself?
Such questions coursed through her mind. Why had she joined the Powder Kegs? To prove something? Was it the need to belong, to be recognized? Perhaps so. It wasn’t like she had lived a life of fortune. Considering the shit “Mom” had thrown her way, Beatrice always had an issue with authority. Still, she never thought she’d become a terrorist.
Past the pain, she remembered the little joys, too.
Shutting her eyes, Beatrice could almost see the red lights of Yoshiwara, that pocket of freedom where she’d explored brothels and opium dens. There she could be herself, sipping on absinthe, drawing with charcoal on canvas. On “batwave night,” the bands would perform at the Sunset Pagoda, one lyric away from Rob Zombie. It reminded her of the concerts and dive bars back on Earth. When she first kissed a girl, and—
What the—?!
With a shifting creak the floodlights shone on her, and Beatrice’s shadow was cast upon the runway. Warped by smoke and light, its features manifested from the depths of her mind.
“About time you’ve come to,” it said.
The “other” Beatrice was a black-eyed fetish model, with thigh-high combat boots and duct tape strapped over its breasts. Topped with a commissar cap, its makeup was smeared to a clownish degree. With skin of cracked porcelain, it clutched a whip and a bottle of cheap vodka. Taking a swig, booze leaked from the fissures along its neck, only for its lips to curl into a smirk.
