Lucifer's Lottery

“As to the purpose of this wondrous undertaking.”

“Keep your spirit on your duty, Terrod. Compared to Lucifer and his Hierarchals, we are unworthy to even contemplate such things.”

“Yes, Commander!”

“We exist to receive our orders, which we obey to the death. Just as Judas betrayed Christ, I’m certain that we are but sheep against the greatness of the Morning Star, and therefore incapable of understanding his most unholy plans. It is not for us to muse upon, but only to know that lowly as we are, we are a small part of great black wonders.”

“I sing praises to his wretched name, Commander.” The lower Conscript looked back out of the scarlet churning. “It’s just such a glorious sight that I am beside myself!”

“As am I as well as all of us, good soldier.”

“And—look!” Terrod pointed with urgency. “What might those be, Commander?”

Favius peered through his visor. “Hmmm . . .”

“They appear to be kegs or casks of some kind—”

“Ah, yes,” Favius said, smiling when he recognized what the half dozen floating objects were. They bobbed like corks in the roiling mire. “Jail-Kegs, Terrod. Clearly much flotsam from the Gulf is finding its way here via the Pipeway. A delightful sight, indeed.”

“Jail-Kegs, Commander?”

“For sure. Lucifer’s Department of Injustice has recently embarked on cost-cutting measures. Rather than go to the expense incarcerating Human convicts in prisons, it is now deemed more preferable and efficient to confine them to the Kegs. Surely a Jail-Keg costs less than a physical prison cell.”

“Of course, Commander!”

Favius nodded, still eyeing the adrift casks. “They merely seal the convicts in the Kegs and dump them into the sea, where they can float sightless and immobile forever.”

“An ingenious punishment, sir!”

“Oh, yes—the very idea of it enthralls me.” But when the scream-tinged breeze suddenly picked up, Favius raised a concerned glance to the sky. The black clouds seemed aswirl—and seemed to be turning a pallid green— moving in involutionary patterns; in other words, in sixlike configurations.

“Those cloud movements bother me, Commander,” Terrod said.

“Yes. We must take no chances. Return to your post. A storm may be coming. Bring the rampart to the ready and brace for emergency conditions.”

“Yes, Commander!” Terrod exclaimed and jogged back to his command point, his armor clattering.

The next gust of fetid wind gave Favius a hard shove. He stared up. Yes, a storm is coming, all right—a formidable one . . .

But even when confronted with the threat, he gazed out yet again over the detestable churning inflow of Blood-water and noticed, now, that the level had risen to at least two feet.

Only sixty-four to go, Favius thought.

(II)

This high in the Regimental Balloon Skiff—over 600 feet—not Curwen nor any of his crew could hear the steady sacrifices below on the field. It was the massive putrid wall of the Demonculus’s chest they faced. So close to the creature’s body, the Master Builder could spy details of the miraculous pseudoflesh that composed the thing: like of tar, wet fungus, and putrefactive grave waste all enmeshed together. Curwen could even detect finger ends and teeth in the dread claylike composite, and remnant cartilage from ears long gone to rot, even gallstones and toenails. A dead colossus, Curwen thought, awaiting a glorious Unlife . . .

Indeed. Awaiting a heart.

Smaller ancillary noble-gas balloons had been rigged to the eyehooks of the titan’s chest plate, which had been previously unscrewed and detached by horned Journeymen. Then the plate was allowed to rise high enough to clear the Occultized area of space it had covered.

“We’re ready, Master Builder,” guttered the sloplike voice of the Project Teratologist. He—or it—was a part-Human, part-Ghoul Crossbreed whose brain volume had been doubled with Hexegenically cultured stem cells. This supplement of gray matter was contained by a clear silicon bolus nailed into the Crossbreed’s skull. Another physical addendum existed in the servant’s hands, which were transplants taken quite abruptly from unwitting Human surgeons who’d recently been Condemned.

“Proceed,” Curwen permitted.

“Bring the Auger to bear!”

A pair of goggled Imps advanced, carrying upon their shoulders the aforementioned implement, a Hexed and Incantated manual Auger, which looked like a giant corkscrew. The laborers carefully aligned the tool’s sharpened tip to the X inscribed in the massive thing’s chest. Amid grunts and great exertion, the Imps turned the Auger slowly counterclockwise, each turn sinking the screw deeper into the Demonculus’s chest. As the screw bore in, loops of reeking pseudoflesh shimmied out.

“Take care,” cautioned the Ghoul. “Steady . . . You mustn’t miscalculate even by half an inch.”

Sweating the most minute error, the Imps continued with their task. Three complete turns, then four.

Five. Then—

“Six!” shouted the Teratologist. “Stop! Right there on that mark! Perfect!”

“Yes,” Curwen’s voice creaked. The psychic patina of his Wizard’s vision told him beyond doubt. It is. Perfect.” You and your Journeymen have done fine work.”

“Thank you, Master Builder.”

“Extract the Auger.”

Chains were hooked into each end of the Auger’s handle, then rung through pullies fixed to the Skiff’s mast. The Imps grabbed the chain ends and planted their webbed feet.

“On the count of six!” ordered the Teratologist, and when he counted down—

“Pull!”

The Imps’ corded muscles tightened, and they gritted their fangs when in unison they pulled back on the chains.

“Yes!”

The Auger was smoothly extracted from the monster’s chest. It clanked against the Skiff deck.

Curwen rushed to the newly formed cavity.

“Great Lucifer! The Hexes are working pristinely!”

Indeed. The Auger’s removal left a roughly six-inch tunnel in the Demonculus’s chest. The tunnel’s walls as well as the all-important mounting seat at its terminus glittered with Anti-Light, a sign that the Animation Spells were regenerating.

A great day in Hell, Curwen thought, stepping back with steepled fingers as he appraised the work. His leaden surplice sparkled. “These newest Occult Sciences truly boggle the mind,” he muttered more to himself.

The Ghoul nodded, grinning with black teeth. “And I needn’t remind you, Master Builder, that these wondrous sciences were theorized and then executed by you.”

“Yes, indeed, but all by the grace of the Morning Star . . .”

“Bring the chest plate back down,” ordered the Teratologist, “and re-cover the cavity. The Diviners have predicted inclement weather in multiple Districts. We can’t risk damaging the cavity . . .”

Curwen watched as the great iron plate was pulled back down and rebolted to the Demonculus’s chest.

“All I can muse upon, Master Builder,” remarked the Ghoul, “is when? When might this miracle occur?”

The gravity-defying Skiff began to lower. Curwen’s black and yellow eyes strayed out over the smoking District trademarked by a million severed heads on pikes.

“Soon,” Curwen whispered. “Sooner than you or any of us may think . . .”

(III)