We both laughed in our own dark way.
“What do you think of our program?” Mong asked.
I drew in a slow breath. “Where to start?—unique? Rigorous? Zany? A wild ride? A jaw-dropping experience? Bullying, invasive, a blatant mind fuck?”
Mong cleared his throat. “Privation, torture, hardship, renunciation, spurning luxuries and passion is a means to an end. If a man can see with a crystal clear mind, without frivolity and excess, he will rise above the rest. Burdened by them he will be distracted. You show promise. That’s why I spared your worthless hide. I could use someone of your multi-talents. Purpose can focus a man’s will, one-pointedly on a goal. Anything else may fail.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Mong. You indulge in these power-mongering no-nos on a daily basis. Who is it who controls vast wealth gained from war and plunder? Do you not waste worlds as if they were fly paper?”
“I need not justify anything to you. I’ve passed my tests. I’ve dug my destiny. I can do whatever the hell I want. That’s why I can wield power from anywhere I stand, and why you are in the monk’s robe.”
“Good point,” I jeered. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”
Though I wasn’t and Mong knew it.
Just keep playing this stupid game, Rusco. Dial it back, or you’re going to get yourself killed. You’re still alive and if you can keep your brain intact, you may get out of this tin can in one piece. Look for a way to get out of the pickle jar and save your ass.
Mong could see the gears working in my head and gave a moody scowl. “Rusco, I’ll not insult your intelligence. Most of this structure is set up as a conditioning farm, like what Pavlov did with his dogs.” He held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. A certain primitive part of the brain responds well to conditioning. The reptilian brain, the primal core of what drives us. We drill our initiates into obedience, so that when I tell them to act, they move without question. If I tell them to jump, they ask how high. I give them basic proficiency of body and mind through rigorous training then a diminishing confidence in themselves by forced association with the group and affiliation to our cause. I make them what I want of them. After training, they respond favorably to stimuli; good deeds prompt rewards, bad deeds prompt punishment. It’s a formula quite tried and true; maybe even dull and monotonous, but in truth, quite effective.”
“So simple that even an ant can follow it,” I added.
Mong exhaled. “Study the ant, Rusco and you’ll learn something. A creature that never gives up, never! Even when 90% of the hill dwellers are destroyed in a fight with a rival horde, they go on biting and gouging, protecting their eggs and territory. Such tenacity, such strength!” He lifted a hand. “If only humans could exhibit such concentrated power and competence. We humans would do well to study the insect species, Rusco. If a mere ant were the size of one of us, they would rend us limb from limb, crush us in their mandibles like soft fruit. Like these dormant Mentera, you have seen. They—”
“They lost the war.”
“You are mistaken, they didn’t. They are merely hibernating, biding their time in their cocoons, safe from the ravages of war before they will be resurrected. I may be the only Star Lord to resurrect them as my minions. You’ll see. The Mentera left enough of their technology behind to preserve their species forever.”
A cold shiver prickled my skin. I hoped to hell Mong was far off in that assertion.
He gave me an odd, faraway look—the look of the fanatic—as he strode off to confer with his prayer monitors.
Dumb bastard. I’d drive an ice-pick in his brain before this was all over.
Maybe not tomorrow though, Rusco. As illusively innocuous this place looked, it was a regular Fort Knox. Sneaking out at night from the barracks would not be an easy task…in fact, it proved downright foolhardy. One sod tried a sleepwalking gag and I recalled the dull wails and whimpering as he was caned from head to toe. He later revised his story to ‘getting out for a breath of fresh air’ which earned equal whaps and slaps. Night time was an obvious no-no to make a getaway; the grounds were then at their most heavily guarded.
Rotten pricks. I reflected on the week’s activities with a grimace. The Seven Serums—what a bunch of shite. Seven Validations of Reality: Truth, Pain, Vice, Love, Hate, Renunciation, Emptiness. Each day of the week we’d visit one meditation, or ‘Serum’, centering on the profundity of existence. “Focus your tiny brains, miniscule ones. Focus on one spirit medicine.” I couldn’t take much more of this shit. Soon I’d be spewing Mong’s dogma. It was time to act.
Chapter 20
Three days passed with much brooding over escape from this prison. Early in the day, I heard the roar of fifteen Warhawks buzzing overhead. They vanished in the clouds, their engines fading to oblivion. Seems as if Mong had taken a significant number of his warships with him.
Perhaps a good time to initiate an exit plan.
I contrived to scout near the fence Zan had mentioned earlier on pretext of a morning walking meditation. Sure enough, the wire mesh had been pulled back and a gap about a foot off the ground gaped for a lean man to worm his way through. Very convenient, especially for a man who had lost much weight at this fat farm. Good on you, Zan.
An easy enough diversion, Zan’s scheme—torching the prayer hall. Any of the other structures in the compound would be too minor a distraction, so would sabotaging the Temple of Light be a call for suicide.
The nagging voice in the back of my
