(II)
Archlock Curwen, the Supreme Master Builder, felt a nearly sexual exhilaration as he watched sixty-six Mongrels drop simultaneously into the Central Cauldron. The sulphur-fire beneath the great iron vessel roared; its contents—liver oil from a single Dentata-Serpent—crackled and boiled at a thousand degrees. All those filthy Mongrels dying at the same time, and at temperatures so high, caused the things to scream in unison, and for many of them the pain was so heinous that chunks of their lungs flew out of their mouths with the screams. The rush in the Hell-Flux trebled then, bringing to the air a heady, gaseous brew that enlivened all who inhaled it. Furthermore, it amped up the power in the constantly running Electrocity Generators, whose storage cells were crucial to giving the Demonculus otherworldly life.
Curwen sighed at the tingle of pleasure.
He was on rounds now, on the field itself, as the various Occult Engineering crews busied themselves in the gas balloons above. Those Curwen could see from down here were but floating specks, while most couldn’t be seen at all for their sheer altitude.
Sweet, he thought in his shimmering surplice. This is MY project, entrusted to ME by the Morning Star himself. I will not fail.
Fanged and leprous-skinned Metastabeasts—a team of six, of course—hauled Curwen’s Hex-Armored carriage about the field. The foul sky’s eternal bloodred light coruscated high above; its dread illumination covered half the entire field in the shadow of the spiring Demonculus. But when another shadow approached, the Conscripts and Ushers of Curwen’s bodyguard regiment parted.
It was a shadow shaped like a man—but a man with horns—that strode down the divide created by the bodyguards. The field fell silent.
Aldehzor, Curwen knew at once, Lucifer’s Grand Messenger. It was this shadow-shape’s duty to deliver all-important ciphers from the Morning Star himself. Only a precious few of Hell’s Hierarchals were on the list to receive Aldehzor.
The carriage door was opened; the semisolid figure came in and sat down. When the door was closed again, the ranks of bodyguards stepped backward, turned, and readied their weapons, forming a wall of monsters to protect the two occupants.
“Exalted Aldehzor,” Curwen greeted.
The shadow nodded. “Supreme Master Builder.” The eyeless black face peered upward through a window. “Your progress is exceptional. I’m impressed, and I’m sure our lord will be, too, once I’ve reported back to him.” Aldehzor’s voice existed much as his physical being: indeterminate. He came from a pre-Adamic line known as Incorporeals—he was a living shadow who disguised his movements by slipping into the bodies of passersby, wearing them as camouflage. He was simply a silhouette with no discernible details save for his basic outline—a horned, wedge-shaped head atop a Humanlike body. No eyes could be seen within the wedge. If anything his voice bubbled like the ichors of Hell’s deepest trenches. “And as you might suspect, I have a message for you.”
Archlock Curwen struggled not to betray his unease. With Aldehzor, messages were either good or bad. Was a terrorist attack imminent? Had a flaw been discovered in the Demonculus’s cabalistic programming?
Am I being usurped? the Master Builder wondered in restrained dread.
“I am ready for your message, Aldehzor.”
“It has been calculated that there exists a minor chance of a power shortage here.”
Curwen sat stiff. “We’ve always known that. A minor chance.”
“Any chance is unacceptable,” the hideous voice intoned. “However, in his genius, Lucifer has devised a solution.”
“Pray tell . . .”
“Much is astir in the Mephistopolis, Archlock.” The wretched voice burbled on. “Plans and projects that even one as exalted as yourself have no clue . . .”
Curwen stared. Was the Grand Messenger trying to insult him? To belittle his status? Aldehzor’s jealousy of the exalted Human Damned was well-known. He WISHES he could be me, he felt sure, but wasn’t comfortable voicing it.
The ink-blot face looked back at him. “Your own constant sacrifices in the Cauldrons won’t be enough. I’m alarmed that your own engineers weren’t able to verify that.” A protracted pause. “However, my own alarm was apparently not perceived by our lord. For some reason he holds you in the highest favor, higher than any of the Human Damned.”
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Aldehzor?”
A wet, slopping chuckle. “Certainly not, Supreme Master Builder. I honor you. Surely you’ve heard of a crucial endeavor at the Vandermast Reservoir?”
“I’ve heard bits and pieces. Some mode of transposition, perhaps even a Spatial Merge, it’s been guessed.”
“Yes, but a permanent one.”
Astonishment caused Curwen’s guard to fall. “Permanent, you say? But that is . . . impossible.”
“Once upon a time, yes—if time existed. The Bio-Wizards at the De Rais Laboratories cracked the code.”
“But a permanent transposition would require multiple millions of Hellspawn and Humans to die simultaneously.”
The black shadow nodded. “Sixty-six million, to be exact. And a solution has been devised. It’s quite simple, actually. Those millions will die, all in the same instant. This shall bring the amperage of the Hell-Flux to immeasurably high levels. That much occult energy will be more than enough to effect the Merge. And the reserves will be transferred to you and your . . . Demonculus.”
Curwen felt light-headed. True, the possibility of insufficient power had already been cited, but with this?
It’s more power than has ever been generated in Hell, in all of its history . . .
“How,” the Master Builder demanded next. “How can this be, that multiple millions shall die simultaneously?”
Did the warped shadow actually shrug? “The Municipal Mutilation Squads throughout the entire Mephistopolis will do it—”
“But that’s not feasible at all! How could they all be calibrated to strike at the same moment?”
“By psychic command.”
Curwen stalled.
“The De Rais Labs have recently invented the process,” the shadow added. “So, in spite of your own miscalculation, you needn’t worry yourself. Indeed, we are in the hands of a great lord, are we not?”
“We are,” Curwen croaked.
“You’re a brave one, Supreme Master Builder, and I must say”—Aldehzor’s invisible gaze strayed upward again, at the immense Demonculus—“that you have my utmost admiration.”
“Why?” Curwen nearly spat.
“To sacrifice forever your Hell-given Spirit Body in order to become . . . that thing?”
“You refer to the Demonculus with vehemence, dear Messenger. It is the greatest entity to ever be manufactured here, and it is the Demonculus you’d do better to admire, not I. I am blessed like no other in this opportunity to serve Great Satan. Be he forever praised.” Curwen’s silver teeth flashed bladelike with his smile. “It almost sounds as though you’re afraid of the Demonculus’s success; for when, through me, it rids the Mephistopolis of all opposition . . . whatever shall you do to stay in our lord’s good graces?”
Aldehzor seemed to hiss.
Yes. What use will there be for a messenger with no messages to deliver?