Creatures of Light and Darkness

SEXCOMP

Now everyone knows that some machines make love, beyond the metaphysical writings of Saint Jakes the Mechanophile, who posits man as the sexual organ of the machine which created him, and whose existence is necessary to fulfill the destiny of mechanism, producing generation after generation of machinekind, all the modes of mechanical evolution flowing through man, until such a time as he has served his purpose, perfection has been reached, and the Great Castration may occur. Saint Jakes is, of course, a heretic. As has been demonstrated on occasions too numerous to cite, the whole machine requires a gender. Now that man and machine undergo frequent interchanges of components and entire systems, it is possible for a complete being to start at any point in the mech-man spectrum and to range the entire gamut. Man, the presumptuous organ, has therefore achieved his apotheosis or union with the Gaskethead through sacrifice and redemption, as it were. Ingenuity had much to do with it, but ingenuity of course is a form of mechanical inspiration. One may no longer speak of the Great Castration, no longer consider separating the machine from its creation. Man is here to stay, as a part of the Big Picture.

Everyone knows that machines make love. Not in the crude sense, of course, of those women and men who, for whatever economic purposes may control, lease their bodies for a year or two at a time to one of the vending companies, to be joined with machines, fed intravenously, exercised isometrically, their consciousness submerged (or left turned on, as it would be), to suffer brain implants which stimulate the proper movements for a period not to exceed fifteen minutes per coin, upon the couches of the larger pleasure clubs (and more and more in vogue in the best homes, as well as the cheap street-corner units) for the sport and amusement of their fellows. No. Machines make love via man, but there have been many transferences of function, and they generally do it spiritually.

Consider, however, an unique phenomenon which has just arisen: the Pleasure-Comp-the computer like an oracle, which can answer an enormous range of inquiries, and will do so, only for so long as the inquirer can keep it properly stimulated. How many of you have entered the programed boudoir, to have enormous issues raised and settled, and found that time passes so rapidly. Precisely. Reverse-centaur-like-i.e., human from the waist down-it represents the best of two worlds and their fusion into one. There is a love story wrapped up in all this background, as a man enters the Question Room to ask the Dearabbey Machine of his beloved and her ways. It is happening everywhere, always, and there can often be nothing quite so tender. More of this later.

Now comes Horus who, seeing Bronze on the wall, deposeth and saith: “Open this damned gate or I’ll kick it down!”

To which Vramin makes reply over the battlement, saying:

“Since I did not fasten it, I am not about to undo it. Find your own entrance or eat dust.”

Horus does then kick down the gate, at which Madrak marvels slightly, and Horus then mounts the winding stair to the highest tower. Entering the room, he eyes the poet and the warrior-priest with some malevolence, inquiring:

“Which of you two denied me passage?”

Both step forward.

“A pair of fools! Know you that I am the god Horus, fresh come from the House of Life!”

“Excuse us for not being duly impressed, god Horus,” says Madrak, “but none gave us entrance here, save ourselves.”

“How be you dead men named?”

“I am Vramin, at your service, more or less.”

“… And I, Madrak.”

“Ah! I’ve some knowledge of you two. Why are you here, and what is that carrion on the table?”

“We are here, sir, because we are not elsewhere,” says Vramin, “and the table contains two men and a toad-all of whom, I should say, are your betters.”

“Trouble can be purchased cheaply, though the refund may be more than you can bear,” says Horus.

“What, may I inquire, brings the scantily clad god of vengeance to this scrofulous vicinity?”-Vramin.

“Why, vengeance, of course. Has either of you vagabonds set eyes upon the Prince Who Was A Thousand recently?”

“This I must deny, in good faith.”

“And I.”

“I come seeking him.”

“Why here?”

“An oracle, deeming it a propitious spot. And while I am not eager to battle heroes-knowing you as such-I feel you owe me an apology for the entrance I received.”

“Fair enough,” says Madrak, “for know that our hackles have been raised by a recent battle and we have spent the past hours waxing wroth. Will a swig of good red wine convey our sentiments-coming from what is, doubtless, the only flask of the stuff on this world?”

“It should suffice, if it be of good quality.”

“Bide then a moment.”

Madrak fetches forth his wine bulb, swigs a mouthful to show it unsullied, casts about the room.

“A fit container, sir,” he says, and raises up the down-turned goblet which lies upon the table. Wiping it with a clean cloth, he fills it and proffers it to the god.

“Thank you, warrior-priest. I accept it in the spirit in which it was offered. What battle was it which so upset you that you forgot your manners?”

“That, Brown-eyed Horus, was the battle of Blis, between the Steel General and the one who is called Wakim the Wanderer.”

“The Steel General? Impossible! He has been dead for centuries. I slew him myself!”

“Many have slain him. None have vanquished him.”

“That pile of junk upon the table? Could that truly be the Prince of Rebels, who one time faced me like a god?”

“Before your memory, Horus, was he mighty,” says Vramin, “and when men have forgotten Horus, still will there be a Steel General. It matters not which side he fights upon. Win or lose, he is the spirit of rebellion, which can never die.”

“I like not this talk,” says Horus. “Surely, if one were to number all his parts and destroy them, one by one, and scatter them across the entire cosmos, then would he cease to exist.”

“This thing has been done. And over the centuries have his followers collected him and assembled the engine again. This man, this Wakim, whose like I have never seen before,” says Vramin, “voiced a similar sentiment before the fugue battle which racked a world. The only thing which keeps them from laying waste-excuse the poor choice of words-to this world Marachek, is that I will not permit them to awaken again from a state of temporal shock.”

“Wakim? This is the deadly Wakim?-Yes. I can believe it as I look upon him in repose. Have you any idea who he is really? Such champions do not spring full-grown from the void.”

“I know nothing of him, save that he is a mighty wrestler and a master of the fugue, come to Blis in her last days before the dark tides swept over her-perhaps to hasten their coming.”

“That is all you know of him?”

“That is all I know.”

“And you, mighty Madrak?”

“… The sum of my knowledge, also.”

“Suppose we were to awaken him and question him?”

Vramin raises his cane.

“Touch him and I shall dispute your passage. He is too fearsome an individual, and we came here to rest.”

Horus lays a hand upon Wakim’s shoulder and shakes him slightly. Wakim moans.

“Know that the wand of life is also a lance of death!” cries Vramin, and with a lunging motion spears the toad, which sits immediately beside Horus’ left hand.

Before Horus can turn upon him, there is a quick outward rush of air as the toad explodes into a towering form in the center of the table.

His long golden hair stands high and his thin lips draw back into a smile, as his green eyes fall upon the tableau at his feet.

The Prince Who Had Been A Toad touches a red spot on his shoulder, says to Vramin, “Did you not know that it has been written, 'Be kind to bird and beast’?”

“Kipling,” says Vramin, smiling. “Also, the Koran.”

“Shape-shifting miscreant,” says Horus, “are you the one I seek-called by many the Prince?”

“I confess to this title. Know that you have disturbed my meditations.”

“Prepare to meet your doom,” says Horus, drawing an arrow-his only weapon-from his belt, and breaking off its head.

“Do you think that I am unaware of your power, brother?” says the Prince, as Horus raises the arrowhead between thumb and forefinger. “Do you think, brother, that I do not know that you can add the power of your mind to the mass or velocity of any object, increasing it a thousandfold?”

There is a blur in the vicinity of Horus’ hand and a crashing sound across the room, as the Prince stands suddenly two feet to the left of where he had been standing and the arrowhead pierces a six-inch wall of metal and continues on into what is now a dusty and windy morning as the Prince continues to speak: “… And do you now know, brother, that I could as easily have removed myself an inconceivable distance across space with the same effort that it took me to avoid your shot? Yea, out of the Middle Worlds themselves?”

“Call me not brother,” says Horus, raising the shaft of the arrow.

“But thou art my brother,” says the Prince. “At least, we’d the same mother.”

Horus drops the shaft.

“I believe you not!”

“And from what strain do you think you derived your godlike powers? Osiris? Cosmetic surgery might have given him a chicken’s head, and his own dubious strain an aptitude for mathematics-but you and I, shape-shifters both-are sons of Isis, Witch of the Loggia.”

“Cursed be my mother’s name!”

Suddenly, the Prince stands before him on the floor of the chamber and slaps him with the back of his hand.

“I could have slain you a dozen times over, had I chosen,” says the Prince, “as you stood there. But I refrained, for you are my brother. I could slay you now, but I will not. For you are my brother. I bear no arms, for I need none. I bear no malice, or the burden of my life would be staggering. But do not speak ill of our mother, for her ways are her own. I neither praise nor do I blame. I know that you have come here to kill me. If you wish to enjoy an opportunity to do so, you will hold your tongue in this one respect, brother.”

“Then let us speak no more of her.”

“Very well. You know who my father was, so you know that I am not unversed in the martial arts. I will give you a chance to slay me in hand-to-hand combat, if you will do a thing for me first. Otherwise, I will remove myself and find someone else to assist me, and you may spend the rest of your days seeking me.”

“Then this must be what the oracle meant,” says Horus, “and it bodes ill for me. Yet I cannot pass up the chance to fulfill my mission, before Anubis’ emissary-this Wakim-achieves it. For I know not his powers, which might exceed your own. I will keep my peace, run your errand, and kill you.”

“This man is the assassin from the House of the Dead?” says the Prince, looking upon Wakim.

“Yes.”

“Were you aware of this, my Angel of the Seventh Station?” asks the Prince.

“No,” says Vramin, bowing slightly,

“Nor I, Lord”-Madrak.

“Arouse him-and the General.”

“Our bargain is off,” says Horus, “if this be done.”

“Awaken them both,” says the Prince, folding his arms.

Vramin raises his cane, and the green tongues come forth and descend upon the prostrate forms.

Outside, the winds grow more noisy. Horus shifts his attention from one to the other of those present, then speaks: “Your back is to me, brother. Turn around that I may face you as I slay you. As I said, our bargain is off.”

The Prince turns.

“I need these men, also.”

Horus shakes his head and raises his arm.

Then, “A veritable family reunion,” says the voice which fills the chamber, “we three brothers having come together at last.”

Horus draws back his hand as from an asp, for the shadow of a dark horse lies between himself and the Prince. He covers his eyes with one hand and lowers his head. “I had forgotten,” he says, “that by what I learned today, I am also kin to thee.”

“Take it not too badly," says the voice, “for I have known it for ages and learned to live with it.”

And Wakim and the Steel General awaken to a sound of laughter that is like the singing wind.