“I-I,” Favius stammered, “I did not know, your wretched Grace.”
“Well, it is, and you know what that means . . .”
Favius’s eyes bloomed. “Soon, then, they’ll begin to fill the Reservoir . . .”
“Indeed. With exactly what, I’ve not yet been apprized, but the sooner it is filled, the sooner its actual use will be realized, and, hence?”
“The sooner our duties here will have been discharged.”
“Quite correct. So who says hope does not exist in Hell, hmm?” Buyoux studied Favius in his stance. “I’m feeling charitable today, Favius.” He held up his own pair of Abyss-Glasses. “You’re a loyal servant and inexhaustible soldier; therefore, you deserve a glimpse. Would you like a glimpse?”
Favius could’ve collapsed from the joy of the prospect, but he answered via protocol. “I am unworthy and undeserving, Grand Sergeant. I am but rags in your presence.”
“No, you’re not,” Buyoux’s word came, drained. “We’re all the same, if you want to know the truth.” He gave Favius the Abyss-Glasses. “Go ahead. You have my permission.”
Favius’s large hands trembled when he took the glasses. The model supplied to Grand Sergeants was hundreds of times more powerful than the pair Favius had been requisitioned.
Very slowly, the Conscript turned and raised the Abyss-Glasses to his jaded eyes . . .
The sights took his breath away: the blazing scarlet sky shimmering above the illimitable city. Here was Osiris Heights with its gleaming black monoliths and ceaseless pillars of smoke from the Diviners Stations. Next, the recently rebuilt Bastille of Otherwise Souls, the eternal black prison for Humans damned only for the sin of suicide. Bosch Gardens was a frenzy of giant beaked Demons pitchforking a pitiable Human horde into steaming crevices or feeding the children of Crossbreeds into the mouths of mammoth Gastrodiles. Gremlins prowled through subcorporeal footholds in the coal black clouds, while Gargoyles skulked the ledges and sills of leaning skyscrapers and pointed pinnacles rising to titan heights. Between the drab buildings of the Ghettoblocks stretched cables from which the Damned unwisely hanged themselves, only to learn that the death they longed for would never come, leaving them to hang by their necks, alive, for time immemorial. Gryphons and Wolf-Bats, some the size of airships, glided serenely through the soiled air. Favius zoomed in on a middle school’s playground, where sinister and often-fanged teachers fired young students back and forth on catapults, punishment for earning superior grades. On a foul street corner—the Filth District?—several slug-colored Ushers torqued the arms and legs off a Hybrid man for evidently double-parking his steam-car; and on another corner, a pack of Broodren were raping a half-bred Succubus while simultaneously disemboweling her by a hook shoved down her throat.
“It’s-it’s . . . beautiful,” Favius whispered in awe.
“Yes, it is,” his superior replied in similar awe. “Look to the North Quadrant. There’s something there you’ll find very interesting . . .”
Favius followed the instruction, then paused, locked in a rigor of shock and wonderment.
“It’s the Pol Pot District, and as you can see, fine Conscript, good things are all about.”
Favius could barely maintain his train of thought. There, spiring from the middle of the smoke-hazed District known for beautification via staked heads and “cubing” the Human Damned in massive industrial compactors, was a great statue-like obscenity higher than any building in the vicinity. An enormous, horned thing standing perfectly still.
Parched, Favius uttered, “Antichrist Almighty . . . A Demonculus . . .”
“So it is. The myths are true. While we’ve been guarding this wasted post for centuries, the De Rais Academy has built that. I can scarcely believe they did it. We all thought it was impossible . . .”
“The sorcerial technologies must have multiplied by leaps and bounds,” Favius, in his awe, postulated.
“And why not? It does in the Living World. Stands to reason the same should be true here.” Buyoux’s blemished lips turned to a sharper smile. “Who knows when they’ll be able to bring it to life, but when they do? Our troubles with the Contumacy will be finished in short order.”
“I pray Satan . . .”
The Grand Sergeant pointed down off the rampart. “Now, follow the Pipeway, and maximize your magnification . . .”
Favius did so, training the supernatural binoculars on the massive pipeline sixty-six yards in diameter.
“A hundred miles, a thousand,” Buyoux uttered, “no one really knows. But pay heed. What is your interpretation, Conscript?”
Favius followed the perfectly straight line of the Pipeway from its connection here at the Reservoir all the way across the black, blasted plain of the Great Emptiness Quarter. It took minutes to follow the Pipeway’s complete terminus at the Mephistopolis, and there, where it seemed to officially end, he noticed the features of the Sector District it disappeared into . . .
Gushing smokestacks pumping endless soot into the air, squat buildings stained black from said soot, and the workers atop those buildings stained as well. Yet this zone’s most salient feature clearly existed in its composition. The outline of its high buildings, towers, and industrial structures appeared fuzzy, blurred, imprecise. Spongy, Favius thought. The mishmash of colors—all drab reds, greens, and yellows—offered the most bizarre contrast. Then, Favius knew . . .
“Rot-Port?” he asked rather than stated.
“I think so, almost assuredly,” Buyoux said.
“The District where all within is composed of some type of rot. The walls of the skyscrapers and buildings, the streets and sidewalks, even the very bricks themselves are manufactured by using deliberately cultured strains of rot, waste, and mold.”
“You know much, Favius.” The Grand Sergeant seemed pleased. “You’ve performed duties there in the past?”
“No, Grand Sergeant, but I have heard of the place.”
“Splendid. Then what else is Rot-Port known for other than its plaguey composition?”
“I believe, sir, that Rot-Port is the most active harbor in the Mephistopolis, and the largest guarded District along the Gulf of Cagliostro.”
“You’ve learned well,” Buyoux approved, “for that is quite true. It’s the most elaborate Port District in the city.” Now the Grand Sergeant eyed Favius narrowly. “Speculations?”
An excited hush caught in Favius’s armored chest. “It must be the Bloodwater of the Gulf itself that the Engineers mean to fill this Reservoir with . . .”
Buyoux nodded, arms crossed as he looked out. “And it’s no stretch to assume. Rot-Port is guarded nearly as well as Satan Park and the very domain of Lucifer’s new manse. If any District is impervious to insurgent meddling, it is there. Therefore, we may well have the answer . . . or at least half of it.”
Favius understood at once. “Yes, Grand Sergeant. The other half being this: what purpose could there be in tapping six billion gallons of the Gulf and pumping it here?”
Yes. All at once, like a bomb going off, it made perfect sense now, but that only left the even more bizarre question.
“Until that is answered, soldier, we can only tend to our tasks—to the death, if need be—and wait.” Buyoux’s voice ground lower. “At least we’ll have something to ponder until the time comes when our Great Dark Lord deems that we should know.”
Favius felt an ecstatic privilege having the conclusion shared with him. Joy was little felt here—save for the joy of serving Satan—but now he’d been blessed with a joy greater even than that of slaughtering the innocent.