Epilogue

Hammurabi smoothed his silvery robe. The emblem on his chest, a black circle bisected by a red line, had a stain on it. The Chamberlain would note it for sure. As the elevator continued its way up, announcing each level as they passed, Hammurabi scratched at the embroidery, only making the situation worse. He sighed, the air escaping from gilded vents on the sides of his neck, the only real indications that he had replacements at all.

He had always preferred near-human replications. Smooth synth-skin, a few blemishes here and there, and fuzz and hair, something humanity in general forwent. He liked it, even though it was completely redundant. He could be a dragon, a leviathan, a lion, but this was best. It made him feel more human than the freaks around him. That, and his brain.

The elevator came to a soundless stop. A machine voice announced: “Apex. Concilium Fore-Ring, North.” The featureless steel doors slid open.

Hammurabi entered the Ring. The enormous circular structure, a high vaulted hallway that circled the Concilium chamber, curved into the distance to his left and right. The walls of the massive structure were lined with pillars and flying buttresses, atop which gargoyles, some sentient others not, watched grimacing. All along the walls were colorful reliefs, mosaics, and all manner of things one sees in a temple or cathedral. The ceiling was an eternal painting that Hammurabi had never studied nor cared to. There were doors too, many in make, behind which one could find taverns, gambling dens, grafters, splicers, mechanics, medics, prostitutes, and so on.

The Ring was the center of commerce, politics, religion, espionage, and war in the grand empire that was Neo-Ur. And that Ring revolved around its eternal axis, like the planet itself revolved around the sun. And that center was the Conclave.

“I am gladdened at your arrival, Seventh in Succession. I see you have gone through youth-treatment once again,” said a heavily machine-tinged voice from above and behind Hammurabi.

Hammurabi turned and smoothed his wavy red hair back over his ears. “It has been forty years since my last pick-me-up, Chamberlain.”

The four-meter tall creature, for one couldn’t call the Chamberlain human anymore, loomed over Hammurabi, watching him with his many glowing eyes cast into a titanium skull, half hidden by a tall collar. A long robe of silver striped with red covered a lanky body that no doubt had more than the standard amount of limbs. The two arms and hands that he presented openly were sharp and thin, with fingers like needles, always clasped before him in an affect of civility.

The creature’s eyes locked on to the stain like a miniature kill-bot its target. “Your regalia is stained.”

“Ah, so it is. Mayhap you’ve something for it?”

The Chamberlain leered at the youthful noble from over his collar, then an appendage with strange feelers at the end slithered out from under the hem of his robe. It twitched and caught mechanically, then rose like a cyber-ophidian charmed by a flute. One of the feelers stretched to the stain and touched it. Hammurabi could smell ink.

“That should suffice for the time being,” said the Chamberlain, the grotesque limb retreating back into the folds of his robes.

“Thank you, Chamberlain.” Hammurabi smiled, trying his best to hide his abject disgust at such an affront.

“Shall we continue, my Prince?"

Hammurabi nodded, and the two began south toward the closest Apex entry point. The Ring, as always, was crowded. Supplicants, merchants, delegations, smugglers, muggers, pickpockets, data-thieves, lesser nobles, courtiers and even some rogue Growers milled in a throng of flesh and steel, smelling of sweat, shit, perfumes and oil, each with their own agendas foremost in mind. Between them and the high ceiling, mono-task courier cyber-avians and individuals with flying capabilities soared around the ring on their own business. Kill-bot gargoyles held silent sentry above all, leering from high atop the eaves and flying buttresses. Some of them were bloody or oily from fresh corrections, while others were just mute stone.

The Chamberlain spoke in a subsonic frequency that only Hammurabi’s hardware could pick up. “Your father is troubled by the lack of updates from Babylon, my Prince.”

“Straight to the point, I see,” Hammurabi grumbled. “There is nothing to update. The settlement is doing fine, and the unearthing, reconstructing, and upgrading of the original temple-complexes are going as planned. See for yourself.” He waved a dismissive hand, sending the data from recent months straight to the Chamberlain’s mind. He was half in the mind to attach some benign malware to it, but zip-bombs of crude imagery or scrap-data had earned him severe reprimands too many a time to count, and he decided against it.

“I see. And the law code, it has been implemented and enforced?”

Hammurabi nodded, smiling at a youth that bumped into him. “Yes, Chamberlain, yes,” he sighed. “What of father? Has Shamash spoken to him yet?”

“No, my Prince. You know they do not speak. When he wishes to communicate he will through his Voice, for only she can interpret his data.”

Hammurabi rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so literal, Chamberlain, I know he doesn’t speak, per se. I meant that has anything new come form him since the edict to reconstruct Babylon?”

The Chamberlain shook his many-eyed head.

They continued through milling people, but stopped when a chorus of surprised exclamations sounded from behind. The clamor died down into whispers and gasps as quickly as it had arisen. Hammurabi and the Chamberlain looked up when they heard the sound of turbines whine above them. The people around them made space as one of the gargoyles landed heavily before the two. In its stony claws, squirming against the vice grip, was the child that had bumped against Hammurabi only moments before.

“Prince Hammurabi of the line of Shamash, seventh in succession, this individual has in their possession something with your ident-codes. Please, confirm,” a voice boomed from the gargoyle’s fanged maw as it offered up Hammurabi’s pocket-chron.

“Ah, yes, that’s mine. Thank you.”

Without another word, the gargoyle re-engaged its back thrusters and flew off with the screaming child in its talons. Hammurabi watched it glide around into the high rafters of the ring.

“Chamberlain, remind me, what happens to first-offenders?”

“Loss of limb. Seeing as the child already had one replacement arm, it appears he will soon have another.”

“What about second offenders?”

“The same, but also a mandatory internment for a period set by a judicial council.”

Hammurabi scratched his chin. “Third?”

“My Prince, should you not already be acquainted with the legal code by now? You’re already seventy-one.”

“Humor me.”

The Chamberlain shuddered. Something he tended to do when swapping between integrated data-sets. “Third offenses are punished with consciousness-digitization and internment in statuary.”

“How macabre,” Hammurabi mumbled. He eyed the myriad statues peppered all over the interior wall of the ring, and a question arose. How many of those were mouthlessly screaming? Hopefully the child was only on his first offense.

The two continued on, forgetting the incident, and soon they were at the northwestern gates. Massive bronze doors atop a flight of granite steps depicted a scene of triumph. The Conclave, still human, shown before the Pyramid, their crowning achievement, and an adoring crowd before them. Shamash was there, square-cut beard and tall headdress unmistakable. Beyond those gaudy gates was the Apex, the Concilium chamber.

The Conclave.

Hammurabi and the Chamberlain stood waiting by the flight. Neither of them were authorized to enter the Apex. As they waited, the Chamberlain asked, “what of your other project, my prince?”

Hammurabi smoothed his red waves back over his ears. The gilded tiara he wore didn’t fit right with so much hair. He’d have to get it refitted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Chamberlain bent down, bringing its many-eyed head level with Hammurabi’s. Instead of a typical hip-hinge, the creature’s spine bent into a grotesque curve. “I am referring to the vaulted asset from the Grower conflict that has gone missing. I’m referring likewise to the missing Doctor Moeris.”

“Whatever do you mean, Chamberlain? Has Moeris gone missing?”

“He has been missing for a long time, my Prince. So too has the asset. Need I remind you that if it were to be identified by the wrong parties, it could spark a new conflict we are not prepared for.”

Hammurabi frowned. “Need I remind you that you are a Chamberlain, and I a prince?”

The Chamberlain’s grotesque head inched closer. “Need I remind you that you are seventh in succession… Your father works tirelessly to see that the family represents the line of Samash with dignity. If it were to come to light that you’ve squandered one of the most adaptable and expensive weapons that our house has, with nothing to show for it, you would be removed from the line.”

Hammurabi locked eyes with the Chamberlain. “If I were to succeed, our house would be elevated over the others, and my prize would guarantee my inheritance as heir to the seat.”

The Chamberlain remained still for a moment, then rose back up from its unnatural stance. “I pray you’d illuminate me on your plans.”

“So you could tell father, or worse, my brother?”

The Chamberlain shook his head. “I’ve watched over you since you were conceived. I am your guardian and advisor. I am loyal to you, my prince. I only wish to see you succeed. Even if you don’t admit it to me outright, I know it was you who activated the asset. I’ve been covering for you since.”

Hammurabi said nothing.

It was true that the Chamberlain had lied on Hammurabi’s part, and woven many-a-lie, but still, the prince couldn’t trust him. He was, merely by being nigh on full machine, compromised. Any stranger or, far worse, spy from another house, could jack into the Chamberlain’s consciousness and find the truth. He had to keep his guardian in the dark for now, just in case.

Besides, it was his brother who had utilized the bounty hunter who had stolen the Neptune handgun. That breach had been the talk of the entire Conclave for a whole twenty four hours, (an inordinately long time considering the Conclave), and had dropped that fool from second in line to fifth. Now Hammurabi could rectify that mess, and, of course, inevitably profit from it. How lucky he was that the cyborg had happened to be hired to find the Grower. Two avians with one slug.

“Chamberlain, do we have low-orbit satellites that cross the Europan dead-zone?”

“No, my prince. The ionizing radiation there interferes with signal transference too much. But our top scholars do predict that in fifty years it will be open to communications once more. Why?”

“No reason.” Hammurabi bit his thumbnail.

The bronze doors groaned, heralding their opening. Slowly they split apart, between them an inky line fattened until suddenly they stopped again, and a form appeared. It was the Voice of Samash. A stick-thin woman, taller even than the chamberlain, draped in layers of gossamer-thin silk. Her pale face with its fist-sized eyes gazed down at Hammurabi, who, as always when she looked at him, felt a twinge of unease.

“Prince Hammurabi, Seventh in Succession of the line of Samash, First of the Dynasty of Neo-Babylon, Master of Weapons, come forth.”

As was custom, Hammurabi took the first two steps up towards her, then hesitated, and on the third he knelt. “To be this close suffices me,” he said with practiced gravitas.

The Voice nodded sagely.

“Pray, why have I been summoned?”

“You are to attend thine father. He has received concerning news of a raid on the northern coast of Afric against a See outpost. High-cost assets are missing. A Wraith and a Kill-Bot unit, and regiments of your house militia.”

“Shit…” Hammurabi grumbled, then quickly, “I shall endeavor to allay any worries my father might have. Please, have I leave to enter the vestibule so that I might converse with him?”

The Voice gazed at him unblinkingly for a long moment, then nodded, and waved a hand towards the open doors.

Hammurabi had been in the vestibule before. A midway between the Concilium and the Ring, where all the important people, his father included, sat in their own little mockeries of the Conclave. He would spin a yarn and give his best roundabout excuses, and they couldn’t verify anything, because, unlike them, he had decided to keep his brain organic.

Hammurabi stood up and rose the rest of the steps.

“Enter, Master of Weapons,” said the Voice as he passed her.

Hammurabi frowned. Damn right. He was the Master, and he would make sure everybody knew that. And they all would, once he had the Verdancy Pathogen.

 

 

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