by Robin Wyatt
Dunn
Translator's Note:
This document was retrieved from a
psychoneumic broadcast received after the latest
attacks on Redoubt One, Levels Fourteen through
Nine. I have done my best to render the thoughts
of the abhuman narrator in prose sensible to
us - this of course is never an easy prospect.
Without getting into a discussion of politics
since this is not the place for it, allow me to
say that I believe the narrator was once human,
and that his record here is honest to the degree
he is capable of being so.
I have rendered a term, which in the original
recording can be transcribed as "kogonn," as
"Furnace." From context it seems clear that this
term names his point of origin, a dimension near
to our own.
Be assured that even now countermeasures are
being enacted to seal this dimensional gap, and
known collaborators with this narrator are being
interrogated even as you read this.
The Redoubt will not fall.
One additional note: I have left in repeated
references to "Chowder," the word in the
original is "chowhat" - interestingly, this is
dialect which is known to be used on Levels Two
and Three, where certain forms of cannibalism
are legally permitted. Though my superiors may
name me a blasphemer for including it here, I
have left the term in context, where the
narrator replaces our liturgical words "True
Broth" (referring of course to our holy daily
soup with its guaranteed meat quotient) with the
term "Chowder." If the narrator was in fact born
in the Redoubt - and I do believe this - it
seems likely he was raised a cannibal.
Inside the Crown
Inside the Crown, is the weapon. I think it
knows my name now. I'm not certain, but it glows
brighter when I pass it; when it sees that I have
been loyal to it.
I spent a great many years on these levels as an
adolescent. Even as you hear these words, so is
our victory over you assured. Many of you have
forgotten the devil's deal you made with the
Crown, when you allowed it to stimulate and order
Broca's area, where language is born. Doing so
made the Crown your greatest weakness, as it
forced your words to become stagnant, and
surrendered your cognition to an unfeeling
machine. For these and a billion other reasons,
you will be destroyed.
I must find my ancestor. I know that he died
here, and was buried, here beneath the dictionary
chambers. It is a large dictionary, with many
floors. There are many Human Words in it too, like
statues, men and women who have devoted their
souls to the lexicographers; their grimaces and
groans are really quite interesting - if you've
never been, it is worth a visit.
The darkness outside is a part of my own
tragedy, I think, for I let the darkness within
too.
"Sieur?"
"Yes, child."
"The robots need your blood."
"Here." I cut my finger and put a drop onto his
pan. The boy, the lexicographers' servant, smiled
his odd smile and took my fluid to the robots,
behind the welcome desk.
In truth I have only just arrived, but these new
gates are strange even to me, a veteran traveler.
I look and feel mostly the same, but it does
affect one's memories . . .
******
I went below the basement, and climbed down the
stairs, the lights in the walls politely inquiring
after my desired level of illumination as I
descended.
"Near darkness," I whispered.
"Yes . . ." The lights dimmed.
My name is Remnant; I come from the Furnace.
Unlike many of my brethren, I do not eat flesh,
preferring the air of climes like those here. My
body has many hidden lungs. Sometimes I remember
being a man from before - same as the shape I have
taken now, on this side of the Gate - but other
times I prefer to forget.
The lights brighten over one of the
crèches. My ancestor. He has been well
preserved.
******
"Ancestor," I say. "Father."
His eyes flicker open, their rainbow irises
swirling. "Son," he grates. "You remembered."
"You're looking well, Father," I say.
"I am dead." He laughed then, a sound I will not
describe. The Dictionary around us laughed with
him somehow, and though I am a traveler I felt the
quaking fear come back, the fear that is my blood,
that is my drink, that is my sustenance - it
almost overtook me.
"You're mostly dead, yes, Father. But alive too.
Are you ready?"
"I want to stay here." He smiled behind the
glass. Some of his flesh had begun to pulsate.
I realized then that it was the time for
Retribution, some annoying ceremony native to
these levels I never understood, as then the
shuddering walls threw their spindles into my
joints, forcing me to bow, and Father closed his
eyes, smiling, nodding his dead head in time to
the rhythmic announcements coursing through our
ear drums.
Chowder is a food
Chowder is power
Chowder is a power
Chowder is a food
"Father?" I remained kneeling but I felt the
need to hear his voice; I could not remember the
proper obeisances for this ritual, whatever it
was; I had been inhuman for a long time.
"Father?"
"Wait till it's done," he grated. "It finishes
eventually."
Chowder is blood.
Chowder is directional.
Wink your eye when you align to the arcsecond
moment of the food -
Then it was silent. And I could hear Father
laughing.
******
I must tell you one thing about my New People.
We Who Will Brighten the Land. We Who Will Make
Voice in the Silence.
We are new, and broad. It is our breadth, you
see, that is important, because we can scan more
arrays that your cities can, than your oceans can,
than your lives can. We are assembling workable
simulacra of these scans into Gates, one of which
I passed through.
In the scan is a moment - a weapon, a knife.
Sharp, like blood. A music fells my voice and I am
their star - I am their star forever -
No. I must not give in to my poetry now. Our
people will come later. Now, I need Father.
"Up Father!"
I lift the corpse from his vestibule and he
vomits beetles onto the stone beneath our feet,
beetles that scream and cry as I crush them
beneath my boots.
His eyes swirl their rainbows and I kiss his
cheek.
"Up we go."
******
"Boy!"
"Sieur, corpses are not permitted on this
level."
"This is my Father, boy! Get us a chair! And
some tea!"
"I must get the Adjutant."
"Yes, fine, but tea first. My father is tired.
He has been dead a long time."
"Did you revive him, sieur?"
"Tea!"
"Yes, yes sir."
The boy moved away slowly, smiling again. I
enjoy someone with a sense of humor.
"Here, Father, I'll get a chair for you."
"Bahhhhhh!" he said.
"Here."
I approached one of the Human Words, perhaps it
was "Illustration" for she was drawing pictures in
her forearm with a knife, her face huge and
bulbous with infection.
"You don't need the chair, do you?"
Minutely, she shook her head.
"Thank you, dear."
I put it behind my Father and shoved him gently
backwards; he fell into the well-cushioned chair
in a cloud of dust and mold; I sneezed.
"So," he said, light from the walls swirling in
the dust around his face, "you still have a
throat. And a nose!"
"Yes," I said, sitting on the floor beside his
chair, and looking up at him as though I were the
picture of filial loyalty.
"You didn't get a voicebox installed?" he
croaked.
"I've been away, Father. Do you remember?"
"You betrayed me," he said, smiling. "You went
outside without consulting the committees. You
didn't even bring any rope. You betrayed all of us
. . ."
"It's not that simple, Father. Your morality is
so primitive! I suppose it's beautiful, but I hate
it. I hate it more than I hate your diseased face
. . ."
He grinned again, and coughed up an insect. The
boy came, holding a tray made out of bread. I took
my cup but then my Father grabbed the tray, the
second cup spilling into his lap, and he began to
gnaw at it, masticating the ancient bread between
his yellow-black teeth, his rainbow eyes growing
in size, his mouth making a deep and honorable
sound, of hunger, hunger, hunger.
"I'm sorry, young man, my father hasn't eaten
for a while."
The boy looked at me. He had a good poker face.
"The Adjutant is coming," he said.
******
Inside the Crown, is the weapon. Like the cover
of the dictionary, or the neo-cortex which gives
apes their judgment, the Crown covers the nest of
Human Words, caught in their necessary fixed poses
and pains, and makes their efforts whole. I knew
of it before I left, but now We Who Will Brighten
the Land have a special interest not only in its
algorithms and historical structures but too in
its interior, the real weapon.
I do not fear making the human flesh here
nuclear. It will start the engine that we need.
******
"Adjutant!" said the boy, bowing low, as the
official approached. My Father growled in his
chair. I stood, and offered my hand.
The Adjutant kissed it.
"You are Visitor here," he said, "and welcome to
you."
"He stole this body!" said the boy, pointing at
my Father.
"Did you do that?" said the Adjutant.
"Sieur," I said, "Do you believe that the time
of the Redoubt's crumbling is close?"
The Adjutant's smile faltered a little but
stayed on his face still, and he said, "Yes. Yes,
I do."
"Please," I said, "meet my father. His name used
to be Rudulpho, but now I will call him Ember,
even as I am Remnant. I am bringing him to The
Furnace."
"The Furnace does not exist," hissed the
Adjutant, his ruffled coat expanding to match the
extremity of his emotion. "It will never exist."
"I assure you it does, and it will, and I am
bringing my Father to it, not far from the
Redoubt, and within sight of the Tower, in fact,
though it moves . . ."
The boy watched me with wide eyes.
"Tell me, Adjutant, would you mind if I brought
this boy with me?"
"The committee will hear of this," he muttered,
and he staggered off, as though drunk, perhaps, or
drunk with fear.
"Will I die, sieur?" the boy said, his eyes
liquid, and sad.
"We all die, boy. The question is when."
******
In truth I had lied to the Adjutant. The Furnace
was not yet visible to the City or its Tower; the
Redoubt might still be able to muster a defense if
it were seen and so I and mine, We Who Bring Holy
Brightness Here into Hell, we found it prudent to
conceal the Furnace Gate with a guardian, one we
found in last year's scanning.
If we can penetrate the Crown, we can find the
meaning of the structure of your artificial
language. All your lies will come bursting out.
And now, I know the Crown's precise location.
I spoke the passwords into the speakers and the
airlock opened onto the morass. I dragged the boy
and the corpse of my Father through after me.
******
"I never gave you that passcode," my Father
grated.
"You never gave me life either, Father. The
Furnace did that."
We trucked through the waste, mud on our boots.
Some of the lights from the Tower moved over us as
we walked, and for a moment I saw some of the
devilled creepers, orange and white whirring near
the boy's head, feeling his warmth.
"I knew you would betray me."
"Yes, Father."
"Where are we going?" said the boy.
"To the Gate."
"Will it hurt?" said the boy.
******
After a day's walk, in which my father stumbled
only a few times (the corpse held up well), we
approached a part of the infinite darkness I could
smell as being different: the guardian.
"Why are we not attacked?" said Father.
"Shhh, Father. I have to talk to a friend now."
I sensed Father leaning closer to the boy; he
must have been staring at the child with his
rainbowed eyes, although I could not see.
"Friend?" I called out, and heard a rumble in
response.
I seized the boy then, and threw him into the
hot maw of the guardian. As I did so, I remembered
one of my early meals as a boy, and its heady
smell, and then the eyes of Father when he first
accepted his new brain . . . I heard the huge
sounds of the guardian eating. Father screamed in
horror; I was surprised he could still muster such
emotion at his age. Near us some of the many
hungry things electrified the air, moving I'm sure
only millimeters from our flesh, but they would
not touch us; not while under the Furnace's
protection.
We listened to the boy's screams, and finally,
his death. Then the Gate opened, and green light
shone over the plain.
"No . . ." said Father, but I held him tightly
and marched into the light.
******
Things are different here. I'm sure you may have
guessed. Now Father is one of us. Ask yourself:
why is the Redoubt not seeking to restart a sun
within useful distance of your planet? Why were we
of the Furnace rebuffed on our first approach? Why
are all who come to us not permitted to return to
you?
"I have the location of the Crown. Inside is the
weapon we need," I told my superiors, my comrades
in arms. Their light moved through some of my
perceptions, as we waver here over a vast sea.
I am the instrument. And I am the match. I am
the lair, and I am the hatch, to open up, and
throw them in . . .
God I await thy face -
******
We opened the Gate again, the location plucked
from my brain, and transmitted the signal into the
Night Land.
Language obeys orders beyond your understanding:
for every phoneme, there is a thread in the
universe's weaving. And if tug one of these
threads out . . .
I felt but could not see the psychic earthquake
in the sky, above the Redoubt, near the cortex of
the Dictionary and its Human Words.
One of the Tower's domes shattered, and light
spurted into the skies.
"We're getting it! We're getting it!" I
whispered to my cousins, warm here in The Furnace
that Will Revivify.
But all I heard was the Redoubt's ludicrous
damned religious dogma, broadcast now at
ear-rupturing volumes:
Chowder is Menace! Chowder is Heat! Drink the
Chowder, for the Beat! Of our Drum!
******
I do not know how I failed.
"You were always a failure, son."
"Shut up, Father."
"You think a cult alone can destroy the
Redoubt?" he whispered in our infinite space, even
now retaining some aspect of his rainbow eyes.
"Do you want me to kill you again?" I screamed.
But he only laughed, his face a fire, here where
there are no longer any words.
© Robin
Wyatt Dunn 20 May 2013
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