Another flash fiction friday story. Got tied up at work (no joke here) so I missed knocking out a graphic.
You can read the rest of my flash fiction here.
Sanctuary Mons
K-Bar moved among the rough brush of the Martian outland. He’d made his way out of the city, by hook, crook, and some light murder, and found himself winding his way past the venter--biological slave-- villages surrounding the Imperial Hold. He’d almost been caught out by three venter farmers, but a squirt of micro payments from his handset bought their silence. At least, temporarily. The Imperial Police would trace the transaction back to the venters and they would either beat or recycle the truth out of them. Imperial venters weren’t bright, generally low on the Maslow2 Hierarchy of Wants and as such were entities to be pitied, so sad, but right now that was not K-Bar’s problem.
He needed to put about as much distance as he could between himself and the Imperial Hold. He’d never make it to Sanctuary Mons, but time was on his side. Yes, the Emperor had effectively declared a death sentence on K-Bar.
But the Emperor had only a day to live.
K-Bar just needed to live longer than the Emperor, and then everything would be o.k.
K-Bar trudged through the rough brush, his herbi-venter skin boots sloughing off the overly friendly nanobiologics kneading the Martian playa. He kept moving. Stand still long enough and the nanobiologics would work through the tough Venter leather boots and start acting on K-Bar’s own carbon substrate. Not for nothing the outlands were, well, rather by agreement, a stupid place to run. But a good place to hide. The Imperial Police might hover, laze, JDAM, nuke, seed with tailored biological weapons target at Player Humans and generally disrupt the cycle of life about K-Bar, but they’d never actually land, and search for him on foot. Short of a direct hit from a crude nuke and it’s attendant disaggregation, K-Bar could handle whatever they threw at him.
Unless, thought K-Bar, unless.... No. That would really piss off the Seraphim, if they did that. But then so what? He’d be caught and judged before a Seraphim could even lodge a protest. Never, his beloved Moms Bekkah had said, have the faith of angels.
They would spawn them.
K-Bar ran.
***
Chamberlain Grimes-Champion stooped before the door to the bedchamber of His Imperial Majesty, Lord Creator, Benevolent Guide and Understanding Master, Valop II of the 3rd Pocket Empire of Mars (v2.11). Age weighed heavily on the Chamberlain. Nearing fifty in his current resurrection, the Chamberlain had served hundreds of Emperors, across multiple lives. Volop II was not his favorite, and he would not be sad to see him go. Not truly sad. But he was overdetermined to see Volop II’s last wishes carried out. The Chamberlain was loyal to the Throne, no matter what rotund hindquarter managed to rest upon it’s cushions. As Volop II, and Andrake before him, and Hester before her, and Veska before it, and so on and so forth, the Chamberlain served.
“Grimes-Champion. At the Pleasure of the Emperor,” he said to the door.
There was no security surrounding the Emperor. No guards, no bots, no biologics, no entities. In the entire history of the 3rd Pocket Empire of Mars (v2.11) no attempt had ever been made on the life of an Emperor/Empress/Impress. The punishment for such a sin was known well throughout the Empire and beyond. Emperors/Empresses/Impresses may try suicide, wander off, go insane or attempt to run for political office but no ruler of the Empire was ever at harm from another entities appendage, will or projection. The Empire was a model of stability, in that sense.
“Grimes-Champion, welcome,” responded the door. “His Majesty rested well, last night. But I fear that is only temporary. I fear his illness has progressed to the point that, well, G-Champ, can I call you G-Champ, I fear the Empire may soon see the visage of this great leader withdrawn from it, and and age of darkness will...”
“Door?”
“Yes, G-Champ?”
“Door, shut up. The Emperor will be dead in twenty-three hours and three minutes, according to his doctors. The only thing we can do to help him is to ease the pain of his august passing. The only thing you can do to help me, through this admittedly tragic time is to, well, shut up.”
“Hmmm, yes, I’m sorry, G-Champ, verily sorry, for not considering your needs in this time of tragedy...”
“Door, COMMAND:STFU and OPEN; Grimes-Champion Authenticates.”
The door immediately went dumb. Grimes-Champion, in some vestigial bit of consciousness he’d not fully purged, felt a bit of shame at treating another entity in such a manner. Grimes-Champion the original had been raised to believe that hacking another was a damn near mortal sin. But a door? Doors were something that caused his medulla oblongata to raise it’s hackles. Doors were generally stupid, by intelligent standards. Concerned only with whatever was approaching them, doors were as one dimensional as you could get in the living universe. If Grimes-Champion had his druthers, he’d ban them as much as breath.
But the Emperor.
The door parted to reveal the Imperial Chambers. Volop II, like seemingly every ruler before him, choose to decorate his livingspace in pre-Century Zero splendor. Or decadence, thought Grimes-Champion. Immediately blocking the entranceway was “foosball table” as Grimes-Champion knees painfully reminded him. The Imperial Residence was decked out as a pre-bubble Siliconate Alleyway loft, replete with actual computers, widescreens, and a unicorn.
No, thought Grimes-Champion, that unicorn is odd.
“Grimey!” shouted the Emperor, from somewhere above him. Grimes-Champion raised his head, no small effort there, and saw the Emperor of all the Empire free hanging from an artificial rock sculpture done up to look like, hmm, an artificial rock wall. This was different, thought the Grimes-Champion. But then the dying, they always lived differently. Risk.
“Majesty, Lord of Creation, Emperor of the....”
“Grimey. Watch this!” Volop II detached the d-ring holding his (certified) safety harness with on hand and with the other let go. He fell twenty feet (or approximately 20 feet, seven inches, by Grimes-Champion’s eyes) to the floor below and promptly broke his leg.
“Ow.”
It takes the human body several minutes to process the breaking of a leg. The first minute is spent in disbelief. The second in trying to figure some way to easily right the situation. And the third is spent negotiating sheer agony. But the Emperors doctors went immediately to work. Deadening nerves, stitching bone, massaging muscle, the little doctors that animated his tissue, toughened it against even the Martian Outland were at work the instant the break occurred.
Sheer joy crossed the Emperor’s face, as the stored opiates in his hind liver were released into his blood stream. He dragged himself away from the wall (a break like this was healed in minutes, not mere seconds) and towards the unicorn who had been placidly observing the whole scene.
“Flickr me. That hurt.”
“But interesting,” observed the unicorn.
“You like that, hunh?”
“It seems an unnecessary risk to take, but nonetheless introduces some interesting stimuli. I/WE/UNDEFINED will take pleasure in analyzing your example, Majesty.”
"Yeah," responded the Emperor, thoughtfully.
“Vandiver sends his respects.” mewed the unicorn. "He asks after the entity K-Bar. Vandiver will know: have you been able to restore K-Bar to order?"
"Straight to business, hunh?" asked the Emperor, rubbing his leg. "Grimey?"
"My Most Benevolent Lord, I am afraid K-Bar murdered the spy I set upon him and escaped from the Imperial Hold to the outland."
"Murdered, hmm? I bet that's going to leave a mark. Well, Uni, see, no problem--the outland will take care of him." said the Emperor.
"Well, normally," began the unicorn, "but I believe, in this case, Vandiver would prefer to recover the person of K-Bar. Alive, if possible, but this is not entirely necessary."
"That seems like a lot of work for my police. Why, if you don't mind me asking?" said the Emperor.
"Mordechai." responded the unicorn.
The Emperor snorted: "The Mordechai meme is a myth; it's done. What, do you think: he's some sort of clone?"
"Vandiver has reason to believe he is another naturally occurring instance of the Mordechai genome. They instantiate with an irregular, but annoying, frequency, you know."
The Emperor squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and thought. "Wow. A Mordechai on Mars? They're pretty disruptive, if my memory serves."
"Vandiver serves all," said the unicorn, automatically. "Now you understand Vandiver's concern. If the Mordechai genome has found a way into the Player Human gene pool, then Green Earth will have to take a serious interest in the affairs of Golden Mars."
The Emperor blanched.
"Grimey!!" shouted the Emperor.
"My Most Benign Example of Justice..."
"Grimey, shut up and--god, I've always wanted to say this--release the hounds!!"
"M'Liege and Lord, we will spawn them," said Grimes-Champion, catching with the corner of his eye the unicorn doing something Grimes-Champion would have thought impossible.
The unicorn smiled.
Comments