The aftereffects of hearing the Diviner’s awful voice left Curwen’s skin crawling, yet it was with relief that he sat down in his jeweled seat. “Praise the Dark Lord.”
“Yes.”
“But I pity those now in its midst. Is it the Great Emptiness Quarter?”
The visionary’s bald head nodded. Scarlet veins beat beneath the shining skin.
Curwen began, “I’ve heard—”
“So have we all—that something of grievous import is taking place there, but what it is, I’m not privy to, via my training and indoctrination.” Then the massive eye blinked once, clicking like the snap of a twig.
Curwen squinted out again, in the vicinity of the storm. What a ghastly thing to happen, even in Hell. A deluge of snot . . . But he must not worry over projects not his own.
Only the Demonculus and the success of its animation were his personal concern.
I must succeed.
Curwen’s gaze turned to his guest. “Diviner—”
The cadaverous figure smiled, showing black teeth. “Is there something you wish for me to divine, Master Builder?”
Of course, it could read his mind. But now that the very Human question had occurred to him . . . he was afraid to ask.
The Diviner’s voice screeched as the thing went slowly back down the spiral steps. “The answer to your question . . . is yes—”
The Diviner continued to descend.
“—and of this you can be sure, for I have foreseen it . . .”
Curwen sat semiparalyzed for some time—paralyzed by euphoria. He stared at the Demonculus’s immobile form through the master window, and the question he’d thought but dared not ask was this: Will the Demonculus be successfully animated?
(II)
The wind gusted from multiple directions, each gust resounding like the caterwauls of ravening beasts; and it was a pall of a diseased green that seemed to have lowered in churning layers over the entirety of the Vandermast Reservoir as well as a sizable portion of the Great Emptiness Quarter itself. The Sputum Storm raged, just short of breaking. Since the alert all lower-echelon Conscripts were ordered to tie themselves to the security lugs along the ramparts, while the Golems (much heavier and therefore less likely to be blown over the side) continued their foot patrols, on watch for signs of attack and also physical breeches that the storm might incur upon the black basilisk walls of the perimeter.
Favius watched from his own security barbican along the rampart.
The storm is spectacular but also deadly, he thought. During his entire Damnation, Favius had never seen a genuine Sputum Storm, he’d only heard of them. The black clouds would begin to congeal from the force of the wind, and then turn green in a hue like moldy cheese. His training apprised him the potential of a storm like this—whole Prefects had been destroyed by Sputum Storms, it was said, and in low-lying urban areas, the incessant rain of phlegm would bring mucoid floods that rose stories high and drowned residents in an oatmeal-thick, viscid horror. Favius eyed the grotesque clouds that now moiled above the Reservoir: he thought of an upside-down whirlpool of crud-green sludge. Any minute, he feared, the storm will break and those clouds will POUR . . .
All the while, though, the mammoth Main Sub-Inlets continued to roar as they siphoned still more of the Gulf’s horrific Bloodwater into the pit . . .
For as far as Favius could see, there were only the flat layers of storm clouds pressing down. The wind gusts picked up, and one actually caused the rampart wall to nudge . . .
Favius latched onto an astonishing moment of self-awareness. For the first time in my existence . . . I am afraid . . .
Perhaps a mile in the distance, over a conjoining rampart, the rain began to fall—the rain of phlegm.
Here it comes . . .
The sky, essentially, began to vomit.
The dark green sputum began to fall in sheets. Favius watched the splattering line of phlegm-fall move across the Reservoir’s scarlet surface; it was louder even than the sounds of the sub-inlets filling the pit. When it finally reached the Legionnaire’s own rampart, the 900-pound Golems wobbled in place in the gale force. Several merlons cracked in the macabre wind and fell into the Reservoir. A rising, whistlelike shriek now encompassed all.
The rampart walls shook again; Favius thought he even heard the very stone crack.
This storm may destroy the entire site . . .
Favius lurched when the barbican door banged open. He reached instinctively for his sword—
“Lucifer in Hell, Favius!” the sudden voice exploded in complaint.
“Grand Sergeant Buyoux!” Favius exclaimed. “It’s dangerous for you to have come here, sir!” He bulled against the door to reclose it; then he threw across the bars. “You should’ve summoned me, and I would’ve come to you—”
The Grand Sergeant stood dripping residual green muck; his helm and most of his plate-mail smock was en-slimed with it. “Help me off with this, Favius,” the commander groaned, and then the plates clinked. Favius removed the metallic garment and hung it in the stone corner to dry. Buyoux sat exhausted on the bench, now dressed only in a wool tunic emblazoned with the Seal of Grand Duke Cyamal. The Grand Sergeant brought scarred hands to his scar-badged face. “I’ve never witnessed a storm like this—ever.”
“Nor have I, Grand Sergeant. I have concerns about the physical integrity of the site—”
Buyoux laughed mirthlessly. “A Sputum Storm of this magnitude could knock the ramparts down—it could ruin the entire project.” He looked at Favius with his appalling face. “Whatever happened to the luck of the Damned, hmm?”
Favius peered back out across the Reservoir. The rain poured over everything, and then a sudden wind gust blew one of his Golems over the side, into the foaming pool.
“Impressive, yes,” his superior said. “At least the Golems are expendable. If only we can see to it that no men are blown into it as well.”
Now the stone barbican itself began to creak in the wind. “The rain seems to be letting up, Grand Sergeant, but the wind—”
“—is increasing in velocity, yes.” Buyoux rose and looked likewise through the small window. “The Channelers predicted as much; they’ve even predicted a rapid conclusion to the storm but . . . as you can see . . .”
Favius stared. Was it letting up even as they spoke? The sky’s green tinge seemed to be lessening . . . but then the wind shook loose several more merlon abutments and blew them into the Reservoir.
Buyoux was smiling. “My good Favius. Aren’t you even going to ask why I braved this dismal storm to come here?”
Favius stood at parade rest when addressed. “It is not for me to ask, Grand Sergeant.”
Buyoux sat back down, seemingly at ease even as the stone floor was shifting minutely. “I came to see you, Favius—to . . . tell you something.”
“I exist to follow your orders, sir.”
Buyoux shrugged. “In the midst of a storm that may well destroy us . . . you needn’t be so formal. The truth is, you’re the only one I trust on this entire site. I don’t even trust my own commanders. I only trust you . . .”
“Grand Sergeant, I am duly honored by your praise, and unworthy of it.”
The Grand Sergeant picked at one of his self-inflicted facial scars. He seemed to be reflecting inwardly now. “We’re the Human Damned, Favius—yes, we’re humans. Regardless of the extent to which we’ve been modified, no matter how much amplification surgery we’ve had, no matter how many demonic transfusions . . . we’re still human.”