to recovering his remains’.
The Pope was calling for another crusade. But it was something he did at least once a month, so it was hardly news at all. But as the commander of the largest battle fleet in the universe he was not a man any ruler could ignore for long. This month was Panathenaea, the great festival celebrating the Empire’s religious glory. The Pope would be visiting. The spectacle would feature a monumental procession through the Avenue to the Necropolis, followed by unfathomable animal sacrifices, before the Inquisition executed a select mob of heretics.
So it was a busy month.
The magistrates had also voted to extend the Workhouse Act into the foreseeable future. This act made it legal to sell the children of debtors into slavery in return for erasing their outstanding balance. ‘It is necessary, given the current challenges and chronic shortages our Empire faces, to continue to depend upon the valuable contribution that children make to our economy. They are the “good oil” keeping our Empire moving. Additionally, their fleshy young parts require no oil.’
‘Widdibgulusk,’ said Fabrigas, which is the sound you make when you try to say ‘Ridiculous’ with a mouth full of toast.
The slave girl finished her work and hurriedly left the room.
‘Do I sense you are excited today?’ said Carrofax.
‘Certainly I am!’ said the wild-faced old man as he swallowed his toast. ‘Today I will no longer be a prisoner of this Empire, no? Today I will be free!’ His eyes were shining moistly. He crunched into his second slice and chomped merrily.
‘Sir is not … nervous?’ enquired Carrofax.
‘Nerbusch! By wub I be nerbusch?’
‘Well, there is the faint possibility the Queen may … oppose your wishes.’
‘Nobsensch!’ said Fabrigas.
Two attendants arrived to take them to the docks. Soon they were crossing the stretch of space to the palace in a glass taxi. Fabrigas knew this view like his own face. The sphere on the right – the mid-sized sphere of deep blue steel with sunburst crest – was the Great Royal Hall, where entertainments were performed to millionfold audiences. The tickets were expensive, certainly, but you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the Mutant Opera Company perform Modesto Bazruski’s The Princess and the Megasaurus . Just to the left was the Library of the Golden Gate, a magnificent gold cube designed to seal itself at the push of a button (because every now and again a ruler came along who thought books were a bad idea). There was the Spielmuseum, the Botanical Complex, Aquasphere X, the Grand Pleasure Dome, the Perihedral Signum, and a host of other imperial sights. And in the centre, contaminating the heavens with a light that stung the eyes, was the Royal Palace of Her Majesty Queen Gargoylas X. He could tell preparations for a brand-new sphere were under way because demolition crews had cleared the charred debris left by a city whose core-sun had exploded, vaporising every object, and each remaining citizen – mostly just the sick and elderly – within. Such was the price of progress. Somewhere in the distant starfields a construction fleet would be building a vast iron frame around a new young star. When finished, the alchemists would do their work, transforming the raw iron from the core of a depleted sun into brass, silver, even gold, until finally the new palace wouldbe dragged to its position, there to remain for countless millennia.
Beyond, the spheres spread out as far as he could see. Some were small and elegant – the exclusive estates, the private schools – while others were unspeakably huge – the prisons, the slum cities. So many stories were contained within them. The universe was like a cloud of gold and silver balloons around them, and as they sailed the breech Fabrigas felt bubbles of excitement rise in his belly to tickle his beard.
BY ORDER OF THE PROPHET
There are eight chambers to reach the Queen in her Slayer’s Pavilion. As
The Pope was calling for another crusade. But it was something he did at least once a month, so it was hardly news at all. But as the commander of the largest battle fleet in the universe he was not a man any ruler could ignore for long. This month was Panathenaea, the great festival celebrating the Empire’s religious glory. The Pope would be visiting. The spectacle would feature a monumental procession through the Avenue to the Necropolis, followed by unfathomable animal sacrifices, before the Inquisition executed a select mob of heretics.
So it was a busy month.
The magistrates had also voted to extend the Workhouse Act into the foreseeable future. This act made it legal to sell the children of debtors into slavery in return for erasing their outstanding balance. ‘It is necessary, given the current challenges and chronic shortages our Empire faces, to continue to depend upon the valuable contribution that children make to our economy. They are the “good oil” keeping our Empire moving. Additionally, their fleshy young parts require no oil.’
‘Widdibgulusk,’ said Fabrigas, which is the sound you make when you try to say ‘Ridiculous’ with a mouth full of toast.
The slave girl finished her work and hurriedly left the room.
‘Do I sense you are excited today?’ said Carrofax.
‘Certainly I am!’ said the wild-faced old man as he swallowed his toast. ‘Today I will no longer be a prisoner of this Empire, no? Today I will be free!’ His eyes were shining moistly. He crunched into his second slice and chomped merrily.
‘Sir is not … nervous?’ enquired Carrofax.
‘Nerbusch! By wub I be nerbusch?’
‘Well, there is the faint possibility the Queen may … oppose your wishes.’
‘Nobsensch!’ said Fabrigas.
Two attendants arrived to take them to the docks. Soon they were crossing the stretch of space to the palace in a glass taxi. Fabrigas knew this view like his own face. The sphere on the right – the mid-sized sphere of deep blue steel with sunburst crest – was the Great Royal Hall, where entertainments were performed to millionfold audiences. The tickets were expensive, certainly, but you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the Mutant Opera Company perform Modesto Bazruski’s The Princess and the Megasaurus . Just to the left was the Library of the Golden Gate, a magnificent gold cube designed to seal itself at the push of a button (because every now and again a ruler came along who thought books were a bad idea). There was the Spielmuseum, the Botanical Complex, Aquasphere X, the Grand Pleasure Dome, the Perihedral Signum, and a host of other imperial sights. And in the centre, contaminating the heavens with a light that stung the eyes, was the Royal Palace of Her Majesty Queen Gargoylas X. He could tell preparations for a brand-new sphere were under way because demolition crews had cleared the charred debris left by a city whose core-sun had exploded, vaporising every object, and each remaining citizen – mostly just the sick and elderly – within. Such was the price of progress. Somewhere in the distant starfields a construction fleet would be building a vast iron frame around a new young star. When finished, the alchemists would do their work, transforming the raw iron from the core of a depleted sun into brass, silver, even gold, until finally the new palace wouldbe dragged to its position, there to remain for countless millennia.
Beyond, the spheres spread out as far as he could see. Some were small and elegant – the exclusive estates, the private schools – while others were unspeakably huge – the prisons, the slum cities. So many stories were contained within them. The universe was like a cloud of gold and silver balloons around them, and as they sailed the breech Fabrigas felt bubbles of excitement rise in his belly to tickle his beard.
BY ORDER OF THE PROPHET
There are eight chambers to reach the Queen in her Slayer’s Pavilion. As
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