A World Unplugged

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, let alone much of anything. The valley was aptly named the Valley of Dust due to the acid rain melting the once marvellous canyon away. In the centre of the valley lay a bubbling lake of hydrochloric acid. The green lake acting as one of the few, surviving marvels of colour left on the surface of the ammonium rich planet of Esper; my homeworld.

The blackened skies remain as lifeless as always, like a void one does not wish to contemplate what lurks within. The air may be still, but the temperature is dropping at a frightening rate. It was minus seventeen celsius yesterday; today, minus twenty. Luckily, because there are no clouds, there can be no snow, but I miss the rain. Most of the surface of Esper is dried up, there is neither vegetation nor fauna left.

I sat atop the cold surface of the canyon’s cliff, trying my best to ignore the chill running down my spine and in between my cables. Palavins all get cables installed upon initiation. They start at the base of the neck, and continue all the way down to the lower back. They act like an insect’s antennae, sensing frost in the air, changes in weather, but most importantly, they let us know if something is trying to sneak up behind us.

I knelt down, trying to conserve my warmth. Here, I would wait and observe, and I would hope. I hope I will not have to draw my sword. The blade I call an extension of my right arm is dubbed the Devourer. Its inner strength lies in its ability to discharge a devastating aura. On the blade’s edge appear ancient glyphs wrapped in blue light, I have never been able to translate them. I call this trick the Cyber-Edge, one touch and my opponent is left petrified, motionless for the rest of eternity. How I came to call her mine is a tale best kept for another time.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, yet here they are. Stumbling around like toddlers, the reanimated dragons were clearly lacking any intelligence. Their skin a putrid grey, their eyes glowing yellow. Despite their rotting countenance, the area where their heart would be glows a vibrant red. They are like a grizzled, old widower working overtime. They try to beat their wings, but the process of flight is slow, and many are falling into the acid, precisely as I hoped.

The anomaly was made possible by the College of Neophages. A Neophage is a necromancer. The founder of the college painstakingly found the correct binary sequence in which to reanimate the dead. If I understand it correctly, the first thirty-two digits are the spell code, with the next five being the genus sequence. The high bishop believes they are testing every single number starting with quadruple zero one. Some Palavins whisper they won’t stop until they have summoned some kind of rigour mortis messiah, others, like myself, believe they merely enjoy creating havoc. To say that I am not fond of the Neophages would be an understatement, and Palavins are forbidden from targeting any member of the Neophages without the written consent of their dean.

One of the dragons appears restless, as if remembering the delights of food. It beats its wings feverishly, beating harder and harder. It works up a gust of wind, awakening a fellow, napping one. Unable to take off, it tries to run. In a laughable attempt, it breaks its brittle leg, then falls directly into the acid. Its death cry is deafening, but it’s sweeter than any music to my ears.

“Four down, one to go.” I say to myself. I gaze down at the final dragon. I hoped the disturbance would be enough to spring the lazy giant into action, but alas, it lowers its head back down. I shake my head in annoyance as my com link goes off.

“Answer call.” I command my neuro-feed.

“Palavin Asad, report. What is taking so long? Have you found the targets?” asked Salamul. The reception was poor, his voice was distorted by static. Salamul is my dispatcher. Palavin dispatchers tend to be sympathy cases amongst the order. Those unfit to join the ranks of soldiers, but demonstrate a deep knowledge of the faith and willingness to participate, are given the option to become dispatchers. Salamul, however, does not win my sympathy. He is stern, tough, and hard to rattle. This explains why he is one of the few that remained.

“Targets acquired, dispatch. You’ll be pleased to hear only one remains.” I respond finally.

“What’s the hold up?” Salamul is also notoriously impatient. In his mind, the faster we finish an assignment, the faster he can send us out on a new one. The Palavin life is a penniless one, but we are housed, well fed, and implants and prosthetics are top of the line and free of charge. Although, one of our veterans, a cyborg named Cyrus, is now ninety-four percent synthetic, including a missing lower jaw and prosthetic right eye. To many, he is a horrid sight. We argue if he should be allowed to die, but life is sacred to a follower of Dragonath. A brighter tomorrow, that is the promise of our fabled beast-god. Dragonath’s teachings claim that one day, the darkness will fade, and an eternal light will bring long dead crops back to life. We now know this to be a lie.

Why am I still here? I keep asking myself that very question over and over.

“I’m afraid the beast still has its guard up. A direct approach would be suicide.” I lied. I watched as the final dragon lazily rose its head, only to set it back down. Is it trying to fall asleep?

“Asad, you are going well over my ETA for this assignment. Please finish the beast off so I can bring you back.” Salamul said with urgency. I touch the hilt of my blade, comparing the textures of sleek, cool steel and the soft fabric wrap used to improve grip. I think about the lives I’ve cursed to a living hell when it hits me. My stomach turns, my vision begins to blur, and a bead of sweat escapes my forehead.

“Negative, dispatch. I’m feeling a sudden nausea spell.” I explained, pausing at every second word to catch my breath.

“Another one? I thought you told me you were fine.” Salamul noted skeptically.

“I said I was fine to work.” I replied. I’m still recovering from a nasty, radiation spill at the Battle of the Threshold. A battle took place at the border of Angel’s Lament, one of the Core cities. A small corps of Palavins teamed up with border security to challenge a horde of Grizzes, bat-like humanoid creatures native to the subterranea. They had unearthed some primitive mech-deity from deep in the hollows. It was immune to pain therefore impossible to stun. Out of its maw spat molten lava, its two forelegs like a pair of mantis blades, impaling anything stupid enough to get in its way. After too many casualties, we became desperate. Angel’s Lament brought up a radioactive fuel hose and aimed it at the whole battlefield. We were going to drown each and every one of them. The hatch valve broke and I was forced to do it the hard way. I climbed up, hanging just beside it. I sliced the hatch open, ensuring no fuel got on me, but we all know what just being around live radiation does to someone.

Over the next few days, all my hair fell out; eyebrows, lashes, everything! Aside from the projectile vomiting I endured for days, I have a series of black, vein-like tendrils creeping all along my head, just beneath the surface of the skin. The healer requested I come see him if the tendrils ever reach my eyes. In case you’re wondering, we fried the Grizz, but the deity got away. No way something that old could be destroyed so easily. I hope to see it again someday, perhaps to finish what I started.

“So what’s my response? Do I send someone out there for relief?” asked Salamul, snapping me out of my day dream. I want the satisfaction of being able to finish this first mission back on my own. A cold wind blows. The chill down my spine is amplified by the cables, like a sore scalp that’s being forced the opposite way from where it normally sits.

“Just give me one more moment.” I whisper. I don’t want it for me, I want it for the dragon. It rises, slowly, awkwardly. Stepping forward like a critter fearing to leave its nest, it makes its way around the lake. It’s learning. I sigh. In a surprising turn, the dragon looks up at me, as if peering directly into my soul. How does it know I’m here? That’s when it hit me, the sheer melancholy in its eyes. It wants to die.

I watch as it takes the first, tentative steps into the lake, the sheet of ice was broken by the first and second victims. The lake is now back to its former, flowing glory, but nightfall will come, and begin to freeze it anew.

The dragon roars. It’s cruel to give something so decayed a nervous system. I say a prayer for the beast. I wish a swift end to its pain, and hope it reincarnates as something prouder.

“May Dragonath escort you to the gates of paradise.” I finish.

“So it’s done then.” Salamul says, noting rather than questioning.

“It’s done. Requesting evac.”

“Beginning dematerialization. Teleport sequence initiated.” Salamul recites. There is a tingle, like when your arm or leg falls asleep, then sheer cold, as if feeling the blood beneath your skin freeze over. I am digitized, therefore I am not.