Slumrat Rising

“What exactly is “Station Six,” and what exactly are we doing here?” Truth asked. Quite calmly, in his opinion.

“Station Six is shorthand for ‘National Agroforestry Research Station, South-West Region, #6.’ Originally it was set up to research ways to combine sustainable forestry management with the needs of agriculture.” Merkovah apparently saw nothing wrong with his tone.

Truth nodded, not seeing the connection to “little kinks in reality.”

“One day, approximately thirty years ago, people noticed that their understanding of reality started changing on a fundamental level if they stayed here for more than a few weeks. I don’t mean something as banal as “family is irrelevant” or “God, as a philosophical construction, is dead.” I mean things like they started conceiving the world as a collection of adjectives. No nouns, just adjectives.”

Truth had a hard time wrapping his head around that one. Frankly, he was vague on what an adjective was. Merkovah read the expression on his face.

“An adjective is a word that modifies or describes a noun or pronoun. For example- You are a tall man. “Tall,” in this case, is the adjective, modifying both “you” and “man.”

“Oh. Alright.” He thought it through for a moment, then frowned. “Hang on, how would that even work?”

“Not well, for either sane people or grammar.” Merkovah’s lip twitched. “That same sentence might read “Are tall,” or just “Tall.” But now imagine conceiving of a world that way. We aren’t on a road. We are on the long brown. But there is no “we” and quickly, there would be no “I.”

Truth winced. Yes, he could see how that would turn nasty, fast.

“They were able to evacuate, mercifully. There was a Level Four on-site, and they held it together long enough to get everyone out. However, no one was able to provide a reasonable explanation about what happened or why. We still can’t, though there are some pretty persuasive theories. The Crown sends teams every few years to explore and suppress whatever weirdness is going on.”

“What’s the leading theory?” Truth asked.

“Right now, the most persuasive theory is that there is a higher dimensional artifact that has, for some reason, intersected with our world here. The actual body of the artifact exists on a level we cannot perceive, and the strangeness we are experiencing is our interaction with the… shadow? Of that artifact. Perhaps “vibration” would be a better word.”

Merkovah shrugged. “There are rumors that such things happen on other planets, but coming by reliable information has proven prohibitively difficult.”

“Shattervoid clan not a chatty bunch?” Truth asked.

“Putting it very mildly, no. Most of the time, you just speak to one of their golems. I have never spoken to one directly, though I know those who have. Clannish and utterly disinterested in planetary affairs.” Merkovah looked over at Jember. He had stopped puking but was still shivering and unwilling to straighten up.

Etenesh was breathing well and looking much less rigid. Truth thought she might wake soon.

“Surely there must be Shattervoid tourists or even just kids slipping off the ship to get drunk and fuck locals?” Truth asked, trying not to sound like he was fishing.

Merkovah made a sputtering noise that slid and tipped into outright laughter. “Oh God! Oh, heavens above! No. No, young man, I can guarantee that never has happened and never will happen.” He wiped his eye and explained.

“The Shattervoid Clan are human, or were human at one point, but they so completely modify themselves through their lifecycle that they are inseparable from their ships. Only the youngest of their children would be able to leave the ship, and I cannot imagine one being so bored as to want to explore our dull planet.”

“Ah. I was always under the impression that they were our alien overlords, but someone later explained that they were basically a trucking company.”

“Both are correct, actually.

“Eh?”

“Well, neither is correct.”

“Eeeh?” Truth interrogated further.

“Not relevant right now. Ah, Etenesh is waking up!”

The party pulled itself together and made its way further into the derelict Station Six. There wasn’t much to it. A long building, stained with dirt and dust, metal roof rusting and collapsing inward. Some clearings that were being gobbled up by shrubs and saplings. The remains of what was likely once a greenhouse. It really wasn’t much to look at in the mid-morning light.

Truth felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise just looking at it. This was not a good place to be. Not at all. There were some street corners like this in the Harban Slums. Places that looked fine, but you could almost hear the bodies dropping.

“How many died here?” He asked, getting his sword loose in its sheath.

“Three. Two car accidents, and one person was stung by a wasp and died of anaphylaxis. Poor soul had an undiagnosed allergy.” Merkovah shook his head. Truth nodded but didn’t believe a word of it. Etenesh and Jember didn’t look persuaded either.

“This does not feel like a “three dead” kind of place.” Truth looked carefully into the shadows. Jember and Etenesh both pulled charms and were jerking their heads around.

“Shadow of some impossible thing, remember?” Merkovah said softly. “Now, it is crucially important that you try to touch nothing that looks… off. Tommy, I’m not expecting anything more dangerous than the occasional wild animal, but do keep an eye out. Jember, Etenesh, start laying out a Formation of Four Castles and Eight Gardens. No elemental energy focus, but do make sure you align QiVECH with BV’EL’meKA.” He frowned. “Take your time, be very exact with it.”

Truth started slowly patrolling the area, keeping his eye out and desperately wishing he had his trusty needler. The sword was very fine, truly wonderful, in fact, but there was something almost addictive about the ease of delivering violence with a needler. A lot more convenient to carry, too.

He carefully looked inside the collapsing building. He couldn’t really guess what it had been used for. There were tables, chairs, and some cabinets, then closed doors lead deeper into the building. He was not suicidal enough to want to go deeper. No need to go further, either.

“Teacher? You should come and see this.”

Floating a few centimeters above the floor was a little spinning droplet. Of what, Truth couldn’t tell. He couldn’t even really say what color it was, as the light seemed to shimmer and distort around it. His head ached.

It’s not the light! It’s trying to force your eyes to see a color you physically cannot. It’s trying to overrule local reality so that you can see its colors. Back away, now! NOW!

Truth kicked off the ground hard enough to leave holes in the dirt. He shot back in an explosion of dirt, launching so hard that he did a flip in the air and landed on his feet, still skidding backward. He yanked the sword out of the sheath and carefully aligned the point with the door. Eyes to point, point to door. Ready for whatever came out of there.

Hopefully.

Merkovah appeared next to him in the barest blink of an eye. “What is it?”

“Something that looks off. A spinning droplet of liquid. Be careful.”

Merkovah produced a little silver tablet. “Watch carefully, young man. This is the real Sword of Moshe.”

The old monster drew on his deep cultivation. The silver tablet began to glow with a pale light, then shake. There was a moment like a single pluck on a harp’s string. Merkovah started glowing, and then the long building lit up. The darkness inside the door seemed to twist and shimmer as though the light within was trying to escape.

Merkovah whispered a few words, and the pale light seemed to twist. There was a sense of cosmic disapproval, of pure rejection. The light drew back in from the building, dragging the droplet along with it.

The pale light shook around the droplet. Odd patterns of colors and repeating shapes grew, faded, and repeated in seemingly endless variation. They seemed to form… almost glyphs, or sigils, at the very edge of comprehension. With just a little effort, you could understand the symbols. Understand the power they promised. Truth was sure of it.

The silver tablet flew out and wrapped around the droplet. The carved incantation burned with white flames as the metal refined itself into a sealing bottle. Once the droplet vanished, so did the compulsion to study the patterns it made. Merkovah called the bottle into his hand, examined it with a glance, and tucked it into his coat pocket.

The clearing was very still. Off in the woods, a bird made a tinny racket. Trees shook and whispered to one another with their leaves.

“Teacher, what was that?” Jember asked. His voice was a little high.

“Tommy came blowing out of there looking like he was about to do battle with Hell. Again.” Etenesh added.

“Hell would be preferable. Or perhaps it is from some distant corner of that dark realm, one unexplored by even the bravest of Teachers.” Merkovah tried to sound as casual as always without complete success.

“It was trying to change me.” Truth muttered.

“It seems to be a feature of all the things that emerge from that place. They can only bend so much to the whims of our little dimension and insist we meet them partway.” Merkovah was looking a little more composed. More of the tinny-racket birds were making themselves heard. The forest stirred with life.

“A little adventure, but no harm done. Jember, Etenesh, please see to the formation. We need to pacify this place. The formation will keep the local reality reasonably stable for another few years.” Merkovah had to raise his voice a little by the end as the birds were making a wretched racket.

The cousins fell back to the middle of the clearing, picking up their surveying equipment, chalked string, salt, sand, and all the usual equipment used by competent ritualists everywhere.

Truth kept sweeping around the clearing, peering deeply into the windows of the building and trying to see if there were any other dangers lurking. The building looked as it should. Like an abandoned ruin of a building that was nothing special when it was first built. No treasures or dangers winked at him.

He looped around to where the vehicles were parked; his iron horse huddled next to the suspect carriage for all the dubious protection it offered. To his immense offense, a bird was perched on the handlebars of his trusty steed.

It was gray, with an enormous wide yellow beak. The beak was hooked at the end, a fine ripping hook, in Truth’s opinion. And the bastard was big, 153cm, and mean-eyed. Big, brutal looking, and pissy with it. And the fucker was perched on the handlebars of his ride.

“Oh, a Shotibl! It’s a long way from home. Don’t worry. It’s actually quite docile.” Jember shouted from the circle.

More gray figures flapped their way over to the clearing. Perching up in the trees, on top of the carriage, and lining the roof of the ruined buildings. The one on the iron horse opened its beak and screeched. Up close, it wasn’t just a tinny noise. It was horrible. Sharp, stabbing, painful. But you could understand it.

“I am thirsty.” Then another opened its beak, and another horrid screech escaped and again- “I am thirsty.” Over and over, the huge gray birds screamed, “I am thirsty.” “I am thirsty.” “I am thirsty.” “I am thirsty.”

Truth slowly drew the angelic blade once more. “Jember?”

“They aren’t supposed to talk, no!”

“Teacher?”

“So long as they don’t interfere with the ritual, I see no problem. Just leave them be.” The exorcist shrugged. Though he had slipped on the enchanted thumb ring he favored.

One of the Shotibl stared directly at Merkovah. A long, upsettingly human tongue flopped out of its beak. Thorns slid out of the pink flesh, the tongue stretching and stretching longer until the thorns were carving thumb-wide furrows in the dirt. It whipped the tongue back into its beak, screamed once more, and leaped into the sky. The rest of the Shotibl followed.

The Shotibl didn’t fly away. They circled about twenty meters up, watching. Merkovah sighed.

“Never mind. EVERYONE! Get ready for a fight!”

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