litranaut

The skull with the mandala eyes comes to you in the night.

Spinning, forcing you to watch. The twisting mouth telling you how the world is. It’s hissing voice seeping into your mind, coiling around you, snuggling close to you. Too close, too seductive. It’s passing marked by a collective shudder.

And it knows – oh, the things it knows.

Your neighbour’s money difficulties. Your workmate’s deviancy. Your children’s political indiscretions.

It warns you.

Tells you to keep yourself safe, to not have secrets. If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear from the Skull with the Mandala Eyes.

And then it changes, the mandala eyes of the skull burn, it’s voice now shards of glass dragging where before the voice caressed.

Now you are to be punished.

It turns you away from what you should not see. It promises you exactly what will happen if you persist to pursue the things that would anger it. Tells you with its spinning, slashing, gnashing mouth.

And it comes, every night, seducing and terrorizing, stroking and smashing.

Every night.

Through the hours of sleep, tossing, turning and shuddering.

Not all can take it. Those who wake screaming are questioned in the days to come. They are watched. And the skull knows – the skull tells the world of their aberrant behaviour. The skull makes everyone watch. Everyone witnesses.

Witnesses through its spinning, hypnotic eyes.

So now they wake, shaking and ashen; their screams swallowed down, killed before they can get out. But no sleep comes the rest of the night. As the minutes crawl by, those who can take no more rock in their beds, sweating, crying, too scared to reach the toilet.

And now the skull knows so much more.

And those who don’t listen? Those who rush too deep into sleep to escape, or float too high for it to see? What of those who do not know what to shun, who ask the questions they shouldn’t?

In the back of your mind there is a tingle, a nagging doubt. Was there someone? But then the headache begins. Dull at first but as you think longer stabbing. White pain behind the eyes as if something is drilling, gouging.

Well – there is none like that. You would surely remember.

We all dream.

All learn.

All trust the skull with the Mandala Eyes.

 

All love the skull with the Mandala Eyes.

It was the wif-wif-wif of chiffon on silk that alerted the perimeter guard to the imminent attack.

“INCOMING!”

“On Friday?” The guard was incredulous but moved to take up positions.

The rebellion had grown in strength and the State’s compound was of critical strategic importance. Attacks were a constant threat but special days were normally peaceful.

Being Friday, the streets were empty, and the rebels used this to raid the secure zone without the risk of civilian casualties. The first wave was supported with mortar fire, attempting to take out gun posts. Weighed down by their formal dress, the Rim Guard took longer to reach their posts. Which was just what was planned.

The Outer Wall was breached and sequined insurgents poured into the inner compound.

Mortars and missiles flew overhead, scattering troops, allowing the rebels to penetrate further than they had ever before. Bodies littered the grounds, jewelry was crushed underfoot as each side battled for every inch of ground.

Halfway through the attack, the rebels lost air support, the belief being that they would have penetrated the grounds enough at that stage that further mortars would kill their own people.

It was the opening the security forces needed. Regrouping, they used the advantage of home ground and began to return fire.

***

The main attack was, however, merely a diversion. At the other end of the camp, a sapper team had reached the ammo dumps. They plundered what they could carry before pulling explosives from their clutch-bags, creating a set of bombs.

Mission complete, they withdrew to detonate.

***

The force of the ammo store exploding rippled the ground and knocked troops to the floor.

Gunfire paused as the flames leapt into the night sky – a red and gold flare. The Rebels, heels breaking, scattered and hobbled away before the security team could react.

They didn’t move fast enough. Yells and cries of anger punctuated burst after burst of gun fire. Those that moved too slowly very soon didn’t move at all.

***

A lone corporal looked over the battle ground as the clean up teams were working.

Rebel bodies, clad in off the shoulder dresses, sequined ball gowns or small cocktail dresses, were being examined for anything that might identify them. In the distance he could hear the fire fighters trying to bring the blaze under control and save what ammo they could.

Corporal Ito spat into the ground and announced to whoever would listen, “These separatists, they chose today to inflict maximum damage to us and the minimum to the populace. They fight us while clinging to the same traditions we do.”

He shook his head. “Attacking on Ball Gown Friday.”

He pulled his skirt to him, turned on his heels, and walked towards the barracks, rearranging his tiara, trailing a muddy and blood soaked train behind him.

It is, as always, a question of scale.

Watch that fleet of craft entering the atmosphere. They have traveled distances that would make our minds recoil in horror. Make no mistake, this is an attack fleet. It has come to wage war on our home.

But we have our defenses, and no one will even be aware of our impending doom.
***

Antennae twitched. They had picked up unknown movement above the cloud above.

There was uncertainty, however, as to the size of the unknown. Was it many or one?

Adjustments were made – both height and positioning – but clarification was not forthcoming.

If possible, direct contact should be avoided. No matter how superior the force, combat was unpredictable. Losses would always be incurred. A gas was deployed. It should be enough to repel most enemies.

The unknown reacted, changed its path. Rather than passing overhead, it turned and circled.

There was nothing for it. A decisive strike was called for

Movement was tracked, trajectories calculated and, with lightning speed, an attack delivered.

**

The species was originally matriarchal. Though it had evolved beyond the triality of gender, the old nomenclature was hard to shake off.

“Mistress, we are detecting life below Cloud 2. It is moving slightly, and sensors suggest it could be scanning us.

The figurehead thought on this before announcing “If it sees us, it is of no importance. It will be crushed by the might of our attack. Proceed, sisters.”

 The fleet carried on.

“Mother. The hostile has released a gas. Initial readings say it is merely hormonal, but it could be how this species attacks.”

“Turn and analyse. If it proves hostile, we shall claim First Blood.

The attack broke through the clouds while the sample was being processed

It was swift as it was brutal.

The Mothership was severed in a single blow. Two more strikes followed, destroying the Royal Guard Ships. None of the attacks even registered on the ships’ systems.

The fury stunned the rest of the fleet; a new fleet mother was hastily adopted, orders were given and the planet was marked “Hostile” by the rapidly retreating invasion force.

***

The event was witnessed by no one.

The Preying Mantis, on the branch of a tree, preened itself in the early morning mist. If it was able it might have pondered on what it had attacked.

The audience, however, may now meditate on the question of scale.

The pair pushed through the busy streets of Pod 5, neon lights casting multicoloured palls over master and pupil.

“But you keep telling me magic doesn’t work like this. You cast long. There are no instant combat spells.” The pupil struggling to keep up with his longer legged teacher.

The Master had seen the signs. They had been under magical attack for some time and it was ending today.

The Mage had refused to show deference to an established Sorcerer when he moved into Pod 5. The attacks were a prelude – a nod to the old ways of duels and formal rituals. The real battle would occur when they were face to face.

“How long have you been my pupil?”
The student thought. “8 months.”
“8 months, 2 weeks, 3 days,” the Master finished, smiling grimly. “Why do you suppose,” he continued. “That you know everything there is to know?”

He checked his watch. 23:37.

Still time.

The magician walked into a bar, ordered a couple of drinks and sat at a table. He breathed deeply, calmed himself and spoke.

“In every glass there are a series of minute imperfections. With the right focus, and the right training, it is possible to exploit this. To, in an instant, cause those cracks to widen, to become more volatile.”

He picked his glass up to drink, the student did the same.

“So, with a flick of the wrist…” The magician moved his hand. “It becomes weak and breaks.”

Nothing happened.

The student lowered his glass, both amused and horrified. His teacher had been wrong. Nothing had happened.

He put his glass down it and shattered into many pieces, his drink spilling into his lap.

***

“Is that how you’re going to do it? Exploit his weaknesses?” The student was scared. He had never been in a fight, let alone a magical fight.

They were outside again, heading towards the Meat Market.

“Watch and learn. But,” the master turned to face his companion. “When we enter the Meat Market you say nothing. You empty your mind. He must not know we are coming.”

The Meat Market. Pod 5’s Red Light District. Many limbed whores, some half-borg, some half alien – none as young as they looked – plied their trade. The pair moved through them without a second glance. They had a target.

The Brothel, built on the site of a Temple of some forgotten Love Goddess. At the back of a brothel was a fire escape. At the top of the fire escape, on the roof, waited the Sorcerer.

The Sorcerer was ready, and adopting an attacking posture, lips moving through the words of a spell. The mage, barking out a manic laugh, strode across the roof, and reached into his jacket.

The sorcerer’s eyes widened. The hand cannon roared. Volley after volley of high calibre plasteel ripped through the air, and then through his body.

The sorcerer lay, bleeding twitching. The mage turned to his pupil. The young man’s face twisted in horror.

“Here’s your Lesson. You never take a banana to a pear fight.”

“Excuse me, sir.” The butler’s polite cough broke the silence of the smoking room.

Four newspapers rustled angrily, behind another someone tutted.

Ezekiel grunted, snorted and woke.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The butler repeated. “But I have a message for you.”

Ezekiel rubbed his face. “Well, it better be about a knighthood. I was sleeping, man.”

“Yes, sir. But I fear that it’s the Empire. I believe She is in need of you. Again.”

More tuts from behind the papers.

Ezekiel took a small envelope from a silver tray in the butler’s hand. “Where did this come from?”

“I am informed that this time it is from Parliament, sir.”

Ezekiel read through the contents. “Well, well, well. I thought he was dead!” He chuckled. “My good man, I think we need to get the others. Harry’s at the bar, Gerald is playing billiards. And… that damn American.” Ezekiel thought. “If he’s at my bloody car…” He strode from the room.

***

“Hey, Zeke. Baby!” Gus was covered in oil.

“How many times do I have to tell you? My name is Ezekiel, you red necked yokel, and keep out of my damned engine!”

Harry and Gerald arrived, dressed like Ezekiel, perfect suits, tailor made for them. Harry carried a cocktail glass, probably not his first by the looks of him.

“What seems to be the trouble? Old Branstone almost up stumps and went back to the pavilion in his hurry to get us.”

Ezekiel handed them they note. Gus wiped his hands and slipped in behind them, looking over their shoulder. Gerald shied away in disgust, but Harry passed the note back.

“But, isn’t he…?” Gerald asked. Harry slung his drink down.

Gus sat down, staring at the note. “Well, I’ll be darned. If I didn’t put him in the goddamned ground myself.”

Ezekiel winced. “Gus. Will you please curb your excessive language and try and act like a gentleman.” It wasn’t a question.

Gus was oblivious to the awkward silence. “So, Zeke. What’s the plan?”

Harry stepped in. “Indeed. What is the plan?”

Ezekiel paced. “Well, we need to prepare. We’ll take the car.”

Gus coughed. Ezekiel sighed. “You good for nothing-”

“I was just improving it.”

Gerald cut in. “So, carriages?”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ezekiel shouted.

“Your engine blows. My ass moves faster than that.

“It’s called a donkey!”

The two men were nose to nose.

Gerald tried again, voice raised. “Gentlemen. We have been summoned by His Majesty’s Parliament to deal with an issue that threatens the Realm herself. I believe whether we take the car is of secondary import.”

Harry rang a bell and Branstone arrived, bringing soap and a bowl for Gus.

“We’ll need carriages, Branstone.”

“At once, Sir.”

“The…special ones, Branstone,” called Harry to the butler’s back.

“Indeed, sir.”