Spiceday
satirical sci-fi miniseries (part 3)
See HERE and HERE for parts 1 and 2
The story so far: The Empire seeks to control the spice so that the speculative economy can be sustained beyond the bounds of reason and imagination. Trooper Simon has been ambushed and captured by rebel forces near Truehome, where the Grossdesert Serpent shits the spice essence.
Down and down and down. These people do not speak, only descend. Simon Gettson, lightened by the jettisoning of all his gear, his gauss flailer and all his body armor, moves as fast as his turbanned captors into the tunnels below the wreckage of Truehome, for what choice does he have? He blurts out the odd work of protest but receives only slaps from the flats of scimitars and the bursts of pain tutor him in silence.
Soon he notices that the tunnel is lit, but not by lamps, by some phosphoresent lichen that spreads across the walls and rubs onto the black robes of the warriors escorting him so they begin also to glow. Only Simon, urged into the dead center of the tunnel by their proddings, remains endarkened.
Down and down and down. The earth is a warm belly at this depth, a glowing gut that seems set to digest them all, captors and captive, turn them all into one single nutritious slush winding through the intestinal chambers.
At last they hear a tune, a zither or something, and emerge into a well-lit chamber like a rounded basketball court. Shafts of daylight burst in through cavities with mirrors, and other shafts carry cool breezes of freshness. On bleachers set around the court are men and women in regular clothes, not the turbanned warriors in black skinsuits that escort the prisoner. A musician plays on a dais set to one side, and Simon feels soothed by the melody, though clearly his life is in grave danger. The escorts motion him down in the center of the court, and he feels those many dozens of eyes settle on him as he sits cross-legged in his underwear.
There is a pause. In order to imagine Simon's experience at this moment, consider delicate zither music conveying a sense of transcendental peace while many strangers contemplate you in your underwear as you sit there with a full bladder sweating gently in the warmth of a subterranean chamber and wondering if you'll be alive five minutes from now. He drinks deep the lungfuls of fresh air and thinks of the rhythmic marvel of each moment's breath and puzzles over why he's never thought of it before.
He calculates how many times he snuffled up close to death in his life so far: running wild in the slums of District City, while held in the Lawforcer cells or on the risky transit over to Truehome, or only a short time ago when his squadmate Jurube Bloot was snuffed out right beside him. Never thought about what it meant to be alive before this, how strange. But now - having cheated death so many times, why not this one more time? he demands of the vague notion in his mind that corresponds to God or Providence.
At length the zither or whatever the fuck fades away and a silence falls on this great room. The shafts of light form silver columns made of the dust of all those present here and all who've gone before. A person shuffles onto the dais in front of Simon and sits on a cushion to face him.
On taking off its mask likeness of an old hag, a crone-like woman with a wart on its long nose, the figure is revealed as an old hag, with a single wart on a long beak-like nose. The mask conceals what is beneath, revealed to be the same as what is shown by the mask which conceals it. In some obscure part of his mind Simon feels that there is some parable here.
Before he can start in on this enigma, the woman speaks. Her voice is direct, strong and simple, engaging him like fingers locking in on an opponent's knuckles in a wrestling bout:
"I am Vozin, delegated to speak for the collective of the Truehome Survivors. What is your name?"
"I'm Simon Gettson, private second class, service number 805-"
The crone holds up her hand to silence him. "We're not interested in your service with the Imperial Stormforce. That part of your life is over now. You're not a prisoner of war, and no conventions of war will be observed by us, just as no such conventions are observed by your Empire, as you well know. Why pretend that any rules are in place when there is nothing between us but blood straight and simple?"
The collected watchers in the chamber murmur their low approval. Simon flushes with the fear and the freedom of knowing he is a dead man already. That fear is not of the dull fact itself of death but of the excruciating manner that it might come upon him. He speaks, emboldened by the thought that a visible display of courage is unlikely to earn him any greater torment than what is already proposed for him in this place.
"I'm surprised to see such as yourself as leader of the Truehomers, lady Vozin."
"And why is that, captive Simon?"
"I thought the Snake Priests of your religion were always men. Yet I see none of them here in their headdresses, and no altar of the Grossdesert Serpent."
"Is that what you think, that we're religious fanatics devoted to a strange cult? How very exotic for you to believe so."
She gestures round at the people seated on the bleachers. "Do these look like wild-eyed religious fanatics to you?"
"No, lady Vozin, these people seem quite normal to me. They do you honor as their queen."
The old lady on the cushion cackles once, and there's a murmuration of amusement among the congregants.
"Queen? That's kind of you, I'm sure, but I'm nobody's queen. We have no leaders like you imagine, chiefs and queens and warlords. I told you: I'm like the spokesperson. I was delegated to speak to you because I am one of you. That is, years ago I was one of you, I was from where you are from. From the Empire, from District City."
"I'm from District City!" blurts Simon, grasping at anything that might create a bond.
She points to herself: "G Street Blockbuster Crew." She flashes what could be a gang sign, but her arthritic hands make the gesture pained and awkward. Simon doesn't recognise the name or the sign, though he smiles at her. "H Street and 16th. Klipper Killaz." He flashes his own gang sign, for what he now knows to be the last time ever.
The assembled watchers giggle again and murmur at each other. It's not clear at all that they understand this exchange but they see some kind of dumbshow of understanding and it amuses them.
"Well, young mister Simon," says Vozin. "We're communicatin' just like two homies should. Catchin' up on the happenin's. But that's not really why we're here. We need you for a particular thing,"
"What's that?" demands Simon. "You know I ain't got no intel. I ain't nothin' but a footgrunt, they tell me less than nothin'."
"No, not for intel, little bro," says Vozin. "We need you for trainin'. Some new warrior adepts just come up. They need to learn how you Stormforce troopers fight."
She nods behind him and he turns. Two turbanned warriors have come in unheard and stand behind him. They carry those short scimitars and one of them holds a Stormforce utility dagger in his offhand. He tosses it to the floor so it lands right beside Simon.
He turns back briefly to see the old hag Vozin moving away from him. She holds up a hand without turning to face him. "Fight," she says.
And Simon takes the utility dagger and stands, turning to face the pair of warriors who are in a fighting stance.
Silence falls on this arena like a blanket. None of the watchers on the seats around the court breathes or speaks. Simon hears the blood thud in his ears and adopts the stance.
=== // END OF PART THREE // ===
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