| |
It was in Scrapheap District that Ludor finally got to have his deciding brawl. He’d made a bet with himself. If he felt nothing after beating the brains out of a gang of street brawlers, then he would leave Dirt City, bringing closure to his ten lives in service to the Madrik Empire. If the thrill came, he would stay.
He stood atop the mound with a view across the rubble to the Madrik Empire headquarters that loomed in the distance when five – maybe six – brawlers dragged his feet out from under him.
‘Your life for mine!’ one of them cried out the common Gorgon pre-battle adage in a typical deep gruff voice.
‘Bring your best,’ Ludor encouraged in a tone void of harshness but still managing to cast impressive conviction, considering he didn’t give a fark.
The brawlers dragged him down into the ditch where he helped arrange them in order from weakest to strongest by knocking them out one by one. All it took was a punch here and a kick there to end it. His knuckles didn’t get bloodied, and he didn’t even get to use their own weapons on them. Not even an adrenaline rush. They could have jumped down from the dustlands, or one of them could have pretended to be passed out and then kicked his legs out from him for the others to beat up. The whole shitshow was unimaginative, unskilled, and unmotivated.
It was depressingly fitting that such a lame brawl would determine his future. The decision gave him no comfort. Ludor would happily go back to enjoying the farkery if he could, but lately it made him cringe. The tearing flesh and breaking bones, the spilling blood and guts, the pointless loss of limbs and lives... all of it irritated him, and not in a satisfying way. He couldn’t fathom his growing aversion to battle. The testing of skill on skill, the lure of victory no longer held appeal. Most weird was he couldn’t see the point of it anymore. The total futility of farking shit up for no reason, then more of the same on repeat, was exhausting. Not to mention having to do without stuff or spend time and energy replacing it. The worst thing about it was that he quite liked the peace and quiet, and that was a major problem for someone with the reputation as the most notorious farker around. For one thing, at least, he smelled change off in the distance and it was coming for him.
Head down, Ludor walked on. It was an hour after nightfall, but you wouldn’t know it from empty ditchways and carts that weren’t even properly armoured. Even with the torches mostly broken this close to HQ, no one lurked in the shadows. Ludor knew the route well enough to make the right turns and search the shadows for the exit. Soon enough, a metal signpost with the Madrik Empire insignia appeared. Faded and dented, it was the same design as the earmarks that locked every employee’s DNA to the Madrik Empire.
Ludor touched a hand behind his right ear and recalled the searing pain of the cauterising with the hot iron at the hand of the crown smith novice as the design fused with his skin, and the teeth-rattling throb as the punchgun delivered the small cubic blood transceiver underneath. At the time, becoming part of the Empire offered a sense of place and honour. Now, it was a painful reminder of his poor choices.
The rope ladder out of the ditchwalk had been recently scorched and was too threadbare to use so Ludor dug his fingers deep into the claggy dirt and clambered over the rubble. Most of Dirt City was below ground. Ditchways with rubble walls wound through rundown neighbourhoods of boarded-up squats burrowed into the remains of a once glorious city. Main ditchways were wide enough for carts and people, and ditchwalks were mostly so narrow only a few could walk beside each other before getting shoulders grazed by rock and rubble. Nothing but dust and debris lay above ground other than the Empire’s headquarters, the only building still standing in five districts.
Brushing dust from his good pants and clean vest, he walked the dustlands to tall gates in the near distance. They were attached with barbed iron to a fence so powered with impulses a light touch would unmake you from the inside out. It accounted for the mounds of corpses and skeletons scattered around the estate. The gates were the only colour in an otherwise bland landscape. Craned in from an off-world, abandoned Leffel palace, they jutted out from the rubble at different awkward angles making them look like they were about to come crashing down at any moment, which was highly probable. Most of the colour was high up where it couldn’t be scratched and sold off. It made the gates look like they’d been dipped in fancy paint.
Ludor had never really paid attention before, but this time something stirred in his belly. It wasn’t food or brew, but a feeling. It had been stirring a lot recently and Ludor wished it would fark off. Before the feeling, everything had been just the usual unappealing, careless drivel and he’d just sunk right down with them all. Now, he noticed gates. Change was almost here.
Ludor didn’t stop until he reached the gates. Up close they still loomed large with their ornate twists and curves in soft pastel pinks and greens and the occasional splash of gold, but there were patches of dried vomit, blood stains, and defecation smears. Ludor decided they looked better from a distance.
Dwarfed by the imposing gates, his deputy stood in the gap between them, unmoving. Burgundy-skinned and large, Debrov was a testament to pure Gorgon breeding, in attitude as much as appearance. She didn’t turn when Ludor approached. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. Her neck was locked in place after she’d lost her head in an altercation. Keen to finish the fight, instead of taking time out to get it stitched back on where it would heal on its own, Debrov had gotten someone to drive a large metal screw into her neck hole so she could fasten her head back on and finish the fight. That her head no longer turned didn’t bother her enough to fix it. Her posture was now excellent, though, as was her balance.
When Ludor reached the burly fighter, Debrov inquired in a voice deeper and gruffer than most Gorgons, ‘You encounter any brawls on the way over?’
‘One. If you could call it that.’
‘Better than none. There weren’t even any fresh blood splatters on rock, rubble, or dust on my route. It’s so quiet everywhere. Not the comforting eery quiet when you sense someone’s about to jump you and jab a sword in your neck. No, this is the empty quiet of when no one can be bothered bothering you. Where have the ferocious people gone? All you see these days are weaklings and cowards. We’re supposed to honour nightfall, but most can barely stay up until dawn these days. The real issue is that the quiet calms the rage too much.’
Ludor agreed. Trongarl used to suffer passionately and Dirt City, its infamously desecrated capital, was once the centre of chaos, its thorough destruction and exceptional farkery admired throughout Gorgonia. ‘You can’t stoke the flames of destruction when there’s no fire,’ he mused.
‘What?’
He really couldn’t be bothered explaining, but he did. ‘It isn’t they don’t want to, but that there’s nothing left to fark up. Look around. There’s nothing. Nothing!’
‘We still have each other! These bodies are made to break. Let’s break them! It sucks not to be invited at knife or gun point into a brawl. Also, where’s our usual welcoming party?’
Gangs with bets going to see who could take down the commander and his deputy usually tackled them at the gates but tonight, nothing. Ludor turned his large square head from side to side, checking the shadows, just in case. A dark-brown lock fell across his forehead as he flicked another off his shoulder.
‘Your hair is looking particularly voluminous this evening, Commander.’ She was in a habit of mocking his choice to let it grow long, down to his chin, instead of shaving it like most Madrik Empire troopers.
‘Voluminous? Where’d you learn such a word? Like I’ve told you, I’ll happily cut off a lock for you to keep under your pillow.’ He often jested that her scorn was unspoken affection, though most who knew her could verify she was partial to smaller people, mostly women, who in public acted as though they had something to prove but behind closed doors didn’t mind being pushed around.
‘And like I’ve told you, I’ll happily cut off your head to save your mouth from gushing muck.’
‘Spoken like a true driveller.’
The security device hanging from a gate scanned their chips and approved their blood. One half of the gate groaned and shook dirt up from the bit in the ground. The other half swung open and bashed against the fence with a resounding ting! They walked to the building that rose from dust and smoke a short distance away.
‘Apparently the Challenger is recruiting,’ said Debrov who didn’t care that her boss preferred to walk in silence.
‘I’ve heard.’ He was aware of the rumours. In the barracks, troopers said things. And it was true many were leaving the Empire. Those left behind claimed it was to join the notorious Challenger who allegedly plotted a hostile takeover of the vast Empire that spread across most of Trongarl, bar a coastline of volatile seas. Not that it mattered. Most troopers had gotten fat and lazy since Boss King had been distracted and wouldn’t be much use suddenly called back into action, even for a coup. Seizing the Empire was a grand ambition that would put the notorious Challenger in charge of most of Trongarl – if they succeeded. Ludor didn’t give two farks. It was a big enough effort to care about the very moment he was in. He didn’t even care about an impending future where he offered Boss King a deal that could very well end with his severed head in a jar.
A short distance away, the HQ high-rise emerged tall and stark against a backdrop of dark smoke. It was a wide and bland building, nothing more than a rectangle with windows, and a pointy column with a large, high-speed security door underneath it. Over the centuries it had endured bombings, fires, and other experimental explosion devices. Now everyone thought it was indestructible. Before Boss King started collecting Leffel artifacts, he had encouraged massive all-out brawls around HQ. Their ruler liked to look out his window and see his people living short and brutal lives, as was the ultimate Gorgon experience. ‘Up at nightfall, brawl to dawn, blood-drained and broken, rebirth then go again! Respect the farkery!’ had been the cry of many. Now, Boss King’s window was boarded up and he didn’t care that the dust stayed on the ground instead of being kicked by bloodied limbs. Gone were the piles of lost body parts.
They reached the building without another word. In the security line, they got their earmarks scanned and unloaded their weapons for inspection. With the broken ones replaced, they headed through the security barriers into the foyer to collect their access tags. Eyes darting around, they headed for the executive lift that only top-secret clearance staff used. They kept an eye out for attacks while they waited. There was nothing worse than sitting in a pool of your own blood while in an important meeting. On the mezzanine level, four guards stood around expecting nothing interesting to happen, while three out of five weapon stations were unmanned, and the two troopers threw furtive darts at unsuspecting visitors. Debrov caught one that came her way and threw it back. It landed in the trooper’s neck. Smiling down at Debrov, the trooper pulled the dart out and let the blood flow.
‘I’ll either fark her or fark her up later,’ Debrov decided then looked around. ‘Now I know why the ditchways are so quiet. This place looks like it hasn’t seen any bloodshed for centuries.’ This was her first time in HQ since Boss King had locked himself in his office. She eyed up the gaudy artifacts splashed about the place and gawked at a large, stone six-legged hound that took centre stage in the foyer. ‘This is some farked up shit.’
It had been a few decades since Ludor had been inside the building and he’d forgotten what an eyesore it was. The vast and varied Madrik Empire collection was now unmatched in Gorgonia. Several impressive statues in the foyer of his 180-storey high-rise included some rare undamaged pieces, and other rarities could be found in the shelves that lined the walls.
‘Wait until you see his reception,’ Ludor warned as they walked around the mezzanine level to the executive lift.
‘Is it true that Boss King has locked himself in a tower?’ Debrov wondered. Rumours tended to exaggerate truth, but this was a black or white situation. He either had or hadn’t locked himself in a tower.
‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough.’
Broken statues adorned the walls. Imposing landscape and portrait paintings on the walls had burn holes and rips in them.
‘I mean, I get obsessions,’ Debrov remarked, ‘but broken Leffel crap?’
Ludor shrugged. ‘The less there is of something, the more you want.’ Debrov’s frown told Ludor that he should have kept the thought to himself. More and more lately Ludor worried that he didn’t sound like a typical Gorgon. A few centuries back he’d gone through a soft phase and even worried he would rebirth as a Leffel. Lately, non-aggressive thoughts had returned to influence his decisions. Even his skin had an umber tinge to it, appearing more yellow than red when the sun came out, which fortunately wasn’t often. ‘If there was nothing left to fark up, we’d be farked. We need Leffel shit.’
Debrov grunted. ‘Pretty things make you weak.’
Ludor thought of Boss King sitting in his office for centuries, growing flabby while waiting to complete his collection and couldn’t disagree. He shrugged. ‘They keep the farkery alive.’
Debrov raised a brow as she looked around. ‘That explains all the screaming and madness in here. It’s a total shitfight.’ A sweep of her hand indicated a total lack of activity as far as the eye could see.
‘Admins have a no-fight policy,’ Ludor explained.
Debrov scoffed. ‘You telling me they don’t brawl when the going’s good? That they do what they’re told? Oh, please... Commander, let’s straight talk here. People say Boss King’s turning so soft he’ll rebirth Leffel if he doesn’t get back on the job. That true?’ Debrov made no secret that she spoke for the squad.
‘Collecting Leffel artifacts doesn’t turn you into one, dimwit,’ he told her. ‘Anyway, this stuff isn’t worth shit compared to the real treasures.’
If Debrov could have turned her head, she would have done so fast. ‘Treasures? What treasures?’
Ludor’s need to get one over Debrov always got him in trouble, but she was always so smug. ‘All I’m saying is that the early retrievals weren’t just about artsy things. Some of their tech can give you the edge over your enemies.’
‘What kind of tech?’
Near the public lifts an admin talked with recruits. He sounded bored as he read from a script. ‘If your skin is toned red, your voice gruff, and you can fight off ten enemies at once while remaining nimble and alert, you’ll fare well.’
Debrov looked Ludor up and down. ‘Yours is more purple than red.’
‘And I’m not nimble or alert.’
Debrov chortled. ‘You don’t have to be. You’re the farker. The twenty-meaty-giants tale gets them every time.’
Ludor groaned. ‘You’re still telling it at the tavern? I keep telling you, they weren’t that big.’
He spoke so loud the admin and recruits looked over, then a shower of questions and remarks rained down.
‘Commander?’
‘The farker?’
‘Is it true you’ve been here for ten centuries? It’s a miracle you haven’t been head-jarred!’
‘You must have seen some brutal shit. I heard you single-handedly annihilated three squads at a tournament.’
That one took him back. It had been a pivotal moment. Fresh off a spacecart from a monotonous world, he’d arrived in Dirt City chasing a better fight. Barely a month later, Boss King had made him commander of the prestigious A-Squad. But that was so long ago, and he was done being owned by the Empire.
Debrov dragged him to the executive lift. They swiped their access tags and up they went.
‘What kind of tech?’ Debrov asked again.
Ludor grunted. ‘The sort that isn’t any of your business. Get your head in the job, Deputy. You make me look bad and not in a good way.’
‘Is that why you’ve been demoted?’
‘Reassigned,’ Ludor corrected, growing impatient. ‘I didn’t have to take the job.’
‘Then why did you?’
‘To get away from you squad bastards.’
‘Didn’t work. I’m still here,’ Debrov pointed out.
‘Not for long if you can’t follow simple orders,’ Ludor countered.
‘Maybe I’ll turn on you,’ Debrov threatened.
‘Maybe you already have.’
‘What’s the job?’ Debrov asked, changing the subject.
‘A retrieval, apparently.’
‘We’re not trievers.’
‘Apparently it’s top-level strategic status.’
‘Which probably means something lame. This lift’s taking forever,’ she complained.
‘It’s a long way up.’
Finally, the lift stopped and the door opened on a large round space with windows all around and a closed section in the middle.
‘Fark me, it’s a farking tower,’ Debrov marvelled, her rough voice turning rougher.
‘I thought the long lift ride would have given it away. Go stand rigid somewhere and look menacing.’ He barged past Debrov, only peripherally seeing the garish artifacts that lined walls and filled cabinets. There was a striped head on a wooden block and a painting of a blue rock with hammers sticking out of it.
At a desk in front of a dark purple door Naye, the receptionist, sat filing long nails to sharp points. They didn’t look up when Ludor and Debrov entered. Ludor leaned over the counter and spoke in undertones, ‘Any idea what this is about?’
Naye waved Ludor closer. ‘The Leffel toy. He’s a farking mess over it.’
‘It’s for real?’ Rumours and speculations had headlined the Gorgon Gossip for several years now about a specific model of some long-forgotten fad he needed to complete a collection. Ludor had often wondered if there were any truth to it.
Naye nodded. ‘It’s beyond an obsession.’
‘The job’s retrieving a toy?’
Naye shrugged. ‘I’m guessing.’
Isn’t that just a farking privilege, thought Ludor. He couldn’t honestly believe that Boss King had called him up to steal a toy and yet it fit in with all the other bullshit going on around the place. All of a sudden, he had an urge to be alone. If there was a place without people, he would give lives to go there. Maybe someplace with water where he could do something constructive with his hands and walk without a destination. It would be interesting to make things instead of break them. For anything like that to happen, though, he needed to negotiate his freedom with a tyrant.
Ludor nodded towards the purple door. ‘Mood?’
‘Impatient, borderline explosive. Your charm may appease him.’
Ludor gave a slight chuckle. Naye secretly listened in on Boss Kings conversations and enjoyed Ludor’s wily and precarious retorts, particularly when they crashed.
‘I’ll show the appropriate amount of enthusiasm and be duly assertive.’
‘Maybe ramp it up a notch.’
Ludor pressed his ear to the ID pad in the door. It slid open; he walked inside.