Old Chapter 6 - v1.0

-6- v2.0

Inside the spires of Dur-Baqa, there is much vertically packed in tight spaces. Stairways and connected multi-floor rooms make a plan that demands from denizens and visitors alike to adapt to this tall, complicated design.

For the past thirty minutes, Varhas is going from elevator to elevator, from floor to floor, constantly unsuccessful on reaching his destination. Frustrated, he experiences unnatural, aesthetic choppiness as each floor holds a vastly different design on the other side of the elevator doors. When he exits on some new floor, to find that it is a doorless and isolated section, he thinks of how much of a maze this place is and how unfortunate he is to be stuck in this loop.

There were no instruction on how to find Jorj. Nobody had given him directions or coordinates on how to find the Contestant, not even the Claimant-doctor that Varhas had communicated with.

On another iteration of the loop now, the elevator doors open to a floor of red and velvet. A high-class brothel of soft curiosities appears in-front of the Claimant.

Varhas takes a step out and then he turns around, Makkaras cloak of black flowing along as he re-enters the elevator. The booth remains silent for a moment as he makes another try on the elevator's buttons.

The elevator whirs. There is certainty inside of the many modules that bring it to great acceleration. Certain, assured quality and services of security, overclocked solutions of engineering and even fateweaving cultural scrying, all these attributes make these places of high class, ordered and safe. This place here is rife with technology. Equally of kenophobic assortment, the fashion of the man is an imitation of the world around him. However, this assortment in the spire is concealed amidst the wallpapers, below the carpets and behind the chrome buttons of the elevator and also, this assortment wholly flows as waves of light and energy throughout. He is aware of heavy presence all around him. Other Claimants, perhaps even this planet's Pantokrator keep a close watch in these rooms. Nobles or servants, the people inside of the wires, those that march in the vastnesses of machine logic, they are all nearby. But as hint has it, he is eager to believe that these people are preoccupied in the manifold pathways of every day life. Varhas breathes the quiet and peace of this place and the place responds back by complete absence of elevator music, or even a ping when it decelerates to reach its destination.

Once the elevator completes its movement, a hospital ward for the elites of this world appears in-front of him. White tiles are everywhere and every wall, floor and ceiling is a smooth and sterile surface of technological marvel. The Claimant knows that these places have a coating of nanomorphic blades, so that every microbe, cell, loose strand of hair and flake of skin begins to break down when it touches them. Before he reaches the lobby, he passes by a sign that warns all visitors to not enter if they are wearing leather-soled boots, or if they are barefoot and to not touch the white tiles without gloves.

The Claimant smells nothing here but sterile absence. A very light chemical scent that is otherwise pleasant. Many white staircases lead upwards and there is always another door that is shifting to close, nurse or doctor hand to hand with a patient leading them deeper into the ward. The borders of this ward are of glass, raindrop-speckled windows that stretch three or four floors in height. Outside, the setting is of fading. Sunlight and fog give way to a deeper blackness that radiates from the streets.

Before Varhas can speak to the nurse that performs lobby duties, a doctor enters the room and waves with two left arms for him to come near.

The short, but otherwise skin-concealed man is only a reminder of a human. Ever-thinking, of two extra grafted arms, two smaller limbs begin from his ribs, folding into his surgical pockets. His two other arms appear otherwise normal, spindly fingertips at the end of thin wrists. All of his limbs are pale yellow in the plastic wrapping of surgical gloves. He hides behind an apron and a mask of various spectacles and lenses. His ears are grafted with jacks and open sockets that can connect with wires to various modules around a surgical bed.

Memphis takes Varhas by the shoulder. He gestures to the nurses and security staff to allow them through the ward. The pair climbs a circular stairway and then they enter another elevator, this one, wide enough to fit a bedridden person, or twenty standees.

'I hope you understand dear and fellow Claimant.'

'What?'

'These elevators are only for medical personnel or emergencies. Did you get lost Varhas?'

'Sort of. Maybe just a little bit.'

'Yes. When I first started working in Dur-Baqa I had the same problems. Verticality isn't really my forte. I thought Astral Claimants such as you were apt at calculating distances, architecture. That sort of logic.'

Varhas frowns at the public display of secrets. Equally quickly as this frown changes, he thinks privately of how it is best for others not to know the full picture, but instead only parts of it. Better for strangers to have the half-picture and feel confident, than to have them snoop around for hints and constantly pester with their presence and questions.

As Varhas completes this stream of thought, he opens his mouth to speak in a casual mannerism, as if unaffected by the doctor's effort to expose his inner magic.

'Would you consider a change of career Memphis?'

The doctor turns towards Varhas and then again focuses ahead. 'Such as?'

'The Contest. Have you thought of leaving medicine behind to, you know, go around dueling other Claimants and the sort?'

'Oh... Never, never. I love my work that is. I am not particularly fond of the Contest anyways. I don't even have a Tele-Stim device at my apartment.'

'Really? Never seen a match?'

'Not my cup of tea to be honest. I prefer the company of my six wives. They demand enough of my attention and energy when I am around. Don't get me wrong, the work does too. I am sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot here.'

The elevator arrives at one of the upper floors of the vertical hospital. The doors open to the life-expunging white of tiles on a densely packed corridor. Memphis leads the man through the light and into a small room. All throughout, Memphis' attention is shared between greetings and pleasantries with the various people there.

The door closes behind Memphis. The tiny room is concealed in thinning darkness. On one wall there is a one-way mirror that floods the space with dull light. Memphis stops for a moment so that his eyes can adapt. Varhas does not need to wait however. He steps quickly into the darkness and takes a seat facing towards the mirror.

Memphis whispers as he fumbles around for a seat. 'As I was saying on the elevator, I owe you a debt of gratitude. You admitted a spectacular body to our research Varhas.' The two sit shoulder to shoulder. 'The man you call Jorj is a spectacle really. I have never had the opportunity to explore such a broad body, let alone snoop around a golden-layered brain.'

'You are welcome?'

'Yes, yes, of course. Please, when your visit is over, allow me to escort you out. It is the least I can do. Let's go through the documents of what we found.'

Varhas thinks that it truly is the least this man can do. After all, he had to pull a few strings with Orichalcum Corporation to pay the bill and he also had to reach out directly to Memphis for this opportunity, managing a discount for the entire operation on Jorj and his recovery. One such discount, leveraged by the endless curiosity of the Claimant besides him.

During this thought he only half focuses on the documents Memphis passes to him. Instead, he looks through the mirror to see Jorj laying on a bed, alone in the complete peace of that room. His stance of sleep appears uncomfortable. The man ahead lays, head stooped to shoulder, hand outstretched and the other folded close to his chest. A nurse enters to wake the man up.

The image strikes Varhas and he swallows a shard of pride that has since long gotten itself stuck at the back of his throat.

As that image fades, he returns to a doctor that speaks in a torrent of excitement. Still of low voice, the covered body of Memphis moves. At every ebb and flow, there is a surprise of discovery in his voice. One man passes documents to the other plastering his words into test results, cranial scans and imaging reports.

Varhas listens to these words eagerly and as soon as they hit his eardrum, they warp themselves into bitter realizations.

-

As Memphis promised, Varhas was taken to the ground level. With a few minutes to spare, he decides to stay near as Jorj is soon to be released from the hospital.

He looks at the empty street both ways before crossing. A silly habit on such places that have no vehicles, but one that is common all across the galaxy.

Once on the other side of the street, a small, cozy coffee shop of wood and firelight, checkerboard floors, leather couches and emerald lamps, lures his eye. Through the drizzled window panels, the Claimant sees a long distance calling machine, next to the shop's counter and bar .

He decides to enter and the doors open to a creak. Then comes a wet sloshing sound of boots and a thrashing over a muddied fiber mat. Inside there are faces that regard him in a sly manner, sounds of conversations that change in their volume.

Under normal circumstances, a Claimant would pick hints such as these of intrigue and plan accordingly. However, Varhas misses these precious hints and he disregards the eyes that watch him with charged purpose.

One such pair, is a woman he does not know. A commoner that sits at the bar, regarding him only with the corner of her eye as her vision conceals itself behind the tufts of her black hair.

As Varhas strides through the coffee shop, this woman and another man in the distance get up and leave. As soon as Varhas reaches the calling machine, someone flicks their overcoat and wears it, someone else taps their glass and another begins some long-winded reply to a conversation.

The Claimant reaches the machine and then he parts his attention to a half-there entry of the Inverse Dream. In this microsecond of divided attention, the machine boots up and makes an outbound call.

Imperceptive, attuned only to his eardrum's frequency and darkly hushed, the machine translates language from a far away place directly into him.

The voice on the other side is gruff and grueling as it refines itself from mineral to metal. 'Hello? Who is this?'

'Anax? Its me Varhas.'

'Oh! Varhas. How are you doing dog?'

'Been better. I am currently on Dur-Baqa.'

The man on the other end thinks for a moment. Varhas is certain before he can respond, that he will put two and two together.

'I watched a Contest match two days ago. You were on the blue team, weren't you? You were the ones that fought two days ago on the crystal arena? It was you wasn't it?'

'For me, it was about five days ago. But yes, you are otherwise accurate as ever.' Varhas lets out a singular laugh. 'Its crazy how you Narrativist Claimants can distill such accuracy from random information.'

'Random?' Says the man surprised. He almost sounds as if he has taken offense and with a coarse voice he continues. 'You are just fucking with me. You and every Claimant on planet or orbit knows that there is nothing random happening in the universe.'

'Yeah... I know. I know. Let's not argue with semantics and our magic and whatever.' Varhas pauses. Memory and effort mingle and tangle in order to form one question and then another. 'Where do I find you? Can you help me with something?'

The man sighs. Varhas' eardrum pummels with heavy static. It is as if Anax is right there besides him, filtered by the speaker, but otherwise very near. 'I can go anywhere. Give me a place and I'll be there.'

'Am I interrupting anything?'

'Not really. Anywhere I am, as you know already, is but a momentary support to greater projects. I don't have something that important going on to be chained by it. It is as you said, last time we met remember? I am but a patch, a minute fix of bigger and more important things than me.'

-

Varhas finishes the call. He looks outside to see Jorj standing in the streets and quickly becoming drenched by a drizzle that has just started. The Contestant is dressed in casual clothing and he is at least, with some sort of of cover, as a leather jacket wraps around his broad form.

Before the Claimant can exit the coffee shop, it appears that Jorj has already left. In the haze and humidity, raindrops give way to light fog. The spires above break through the gray atmosphere and there is a hint of sun-setting orange that reflects on their jagged peaks.

In the asphalt distance, the Claimant sees a few forms, depressing and slow, trudging through the streets. A tall one, appears to chase after another. There is perhaps, meeting of man and woman, the curves of a shape luring and going, as mere hint over another.

Varhas realizes that it might be Jorj, but in another lack of greater attention or perhaps emotional charge, he lets him go his own way. The Claimant smiles sadly in private and opts for a meeting some other time instead.

Breaking the bad news was always a slow process and he knew not to rush it.