tracks cut into the floor.
“I knew it was you,” the Archon said. “You are the only one who uses that particular door.”
“I prefer to enter with more discretion than most,” Trevor said.
“Of course you do.”
No matter how often he’d been in the Archon’s presence, it still impressed him. It was the practice of the heirotimates to over-eat, to grow large, bellies bulging over their belts, as a sign of their social class. The Archon, however, had taken this practice to the extreme. Over the years, the man’s bulk had grown and grown, flesh that rolled and quivered, until it was forced to fold upon itself. Sweat glistened on his cheeks, protruding from a face that glared from the upper heaps, eyes sunken to black points. His body was so large it was difficult to assess with a single glance, one’s eyes forced to roam over its rises and crannies, exploring, seeking to recognize where one part ended and another began, belly and limbs one indistinguishable mass.
But perhaps more impressive still, was the Archon’s platform, which hissed and pumped, an entropy of tubes and canisters, some transparent, liquids of various colors sloshing and bubbling, all manner of drugs and substances used to prolong the Archon’s life, others to counteract side-effects of the primary drugs, and still others to counteract the side-effects of those. Above the snaking tubes, there were moveable platforms arrayed with various foods, many rare and unusual cuisines, including a multitude of live things wriggling in murky tanks.
“You have news?” the Archon asked, reaching his pudgy hand into one of the tanks, lifting out something that squirmed.
“Yes,” Trevor said, standing, looking up at the Archon, trying not to be distracted by all of the sounds and subtle movements made by the platform. “Good news. If it’s true.”
“What is it? Summarize it for me.”
“The hallowgeons have chosen a replacement for Galen.”
“Yes?” the Archon said, pushing his face out, stuffing the thing into his mouth, chewing.
“A young boy. They say he can—”
“The next chantiac?”
“Yes. He lives in Nova.”
The Archon began to laugh—his mouth full of chewed-up mush—unsettlingly high-pitched, punctuated by bubbling and burping sounds that could have been coming from either the man or the machine that sustained him, if it was still possible to draw a distinction between the two.
Repulsed, Trevor smiled.
~ FOUR ~
NOVA
ASH
His mom and his dad cried, of course. They held each other, his sisters huddled below, their faces growing smaller where they stood, Kya waving, the engine sputtering and groaning by his head, the buggy taking him down the road. It stank, the steam the engine produced. His mom was shouting something to him, but he couldn’t hear her words over the noise. He was in the back of the buggy with several others from the village he recognized, but didn’t really know. Brent was with him. He and Brent were the youngest.
He turned to look more closely at his new companions. The only one of them he knew by name was Austin, who worked in the general store, son of the man who ran it. The others looked a little rough, their faces grim, stunned, farmers mostly, as were most in the village of Fallowvane.
Brent was crying.
“Don’t worry,” he tried to comfort his friend. “We’ll be okay.”
Brent shook his head. “It’s not that.”
Ash turned quickly, realizing he’d forgotten to wave goodbye to his parents and sisters as he’d meant to, but when he peeked his head up, the buggy had taken them around a corner and out of sight of his home.
He sat back and enjoyed the ride; he’d never been in a motorized buggy before. He liked the bumps and the grinding sound and the kick of the wind in his face, even the stench.
He smiled and grabbed Brent and shook him. “It’s all going to be okay.”
Brent looked up at him, his eyes shining from the heap of his clothing, “Where are we
“I knew it was you,” the Archon said. “You are the only one who uses that particular door.”
“I prefer to enter with more discretion than most,” Trevor said.
“Of course you do.”
No matter how often he’d been in the Archon’s presence, it still impressed him. It was the practice of the heirotimates to over-eat, to grow large, bellies bulging over their belts, as a sign of their social class. The Archon, however, had taken this practice to the extreme. Over the years, the man’s bulk had grown and grown, flesh that rolled and quivered, until it was forced to fold upon itself. Sweat glistened on his cheeks, protruding from a face that glared from the upper heaps, eyes sunken to black points. His body was so large it was difficult to assess with a single glance, one’s eyes forced to roam over its rises and crannies, exploring, seeking to recognize where one part ended and another began, belly and limbs one indistinguishable mass.
But perhaps more impressive still, was the Archon’s platform, which hissed and pumped, an entropy of tubes and canisters, some transparent, liquids of various colors sloshing and bubbling, all manner of drugs and substances used to prolong the Archon’s life, others to counteract side-effects of the primary drugs, and still others to counteract the side-effects of those. Above the snaking tubes, there were moveable platforms arrayed with various foods, many rare and unusual cuisines, including a multitude of live things wriggling in murky tanks.
“You have news?” the Archon asked, reaching his pudgy hand into one of the tanks, lifting out something that squirmed.
“Yes,” Trevor said, standing, looking up at the Archon, trying not to be distracted by all of the sounds and subtle movements made by the platform. “Good news. If it’s true.”
“What is it? Summarize it for me.”
“The hallowgeons have chosen a replacement for Galen.”
“Yes?” the Archon said, pushing his face out, stuffing the thing into his mouth, chewing.
“A young boy. They say he can—”
“The next chantiac?”
“Yes. He lives in Nova.”
The Archon began to laugh—his mouth full of chewed-up mush—unsettlingly high-pitched, punctuated by bubbling and burping sounds that could have been coming from either the man or the machine that sustained him, if it was still possible to draw a distinction between the two.
Repulsed, Trevor smiled.
~ FOUR ~
NOVA
ASH
His mom and his dad cried, of course. They held each other, his sisters huddled below, their faces growing smaller where they stood, Kya waving, the engine sputtering and groaning by his head, the buggy taking him down the road. It stank, the steam the engine produced. His mom was shouting something to him, but he couldn’t hear her words over the noise. He was in the back of the buggy with several others from the village he recognized, but didn’t really know. Brent was with him. He and Brent were the youngest.
He turned to look more closely at his new companions. The only one of them he knew by name was Austin, who worked in the general store, son of the man who ran it. The others looked a little rough, their faces grim, stunned, farmers mostly, as were most in the village of Fallowvane.
Brent was crying.
“Don’t worry,” he tried to comfort his friend. “We’ll be okay.”
Brent shook his head. “It’s not that.”
Ash turned quickly, realizing he’d forgotten to wave goodbye to his parents and sisters as he’d meant to, but when he peeked his head up, the buggy had taken them around a corner and out of sight of his home.
He sat back and enjoyed the ride; he’d never been in a motorized buggy before. He liked the bumps and the grinding sound and the kick of the wind in his face, even the stench.
He smiled and grabbed Brent and shook him. “It’s all going to be okay.”
Brent looked up at him, his eyes shining from the heap of his clothing, “Where are we
Similar Books
