Kantharos, In The Presence of Mammon

//VENUS
//KYTHER
//13.27.5048 AV
//KANTHAROS CHAMBER LIFT

The elevator-lift shook with a start as it slowly descended further and further into the dark and depraved city- the countless pipes and portholes decorating this vast array of steel and iron. Smoke clouded at the roof of the vast cave as it slowly filtered into the many vents set upon the infinite ceiling. Millions, if not billions of men and women, seeming as little more than ants from her perspective, dotted the depressing landscape, herding themselves and each other like cattle to their designated destinations. Little difference could be seen between them- gender, hair, eyes, mouth, all hidden beneath their black suits. They seemed like little more than apparitions or ghosts- not in the sense that the body has died as the soul lives on, but that the soul had rotted away, leaving an unholy stench in the heart of these husks that now wander this oppressive atmosphere.
Unabated, the elevator continued on, the glass windows on its sides mirrors to an industrialized hell- the Cythereans had no penchant for decorative architecture nor art- instead, they found themselves attracted to efficiency- finding glory and beauty in a perfectly assembled and manufactured machine, and that was evident in all that they did. They saw the power in the iron that was the bedrock of their civilization, and through that power, they found salvation from the wicked flesh that encumbered them. The guards on each side of her wore thick, black armor and gear, masks hiding their expression, serving purposes beyond the purported filtering of gas from the mucky air. It, in its remarkable blandness and emptiness, bore the face of a demon, not of greed or of malice, but of undiluted oppression, as blank as the mind within.
The Cythereans find themselves not suffering from any sort of emotion but from the lack of it. They have no anger, no hatred, no greed nor wants, every need met at the absolute minimum. They are empty. And yet, on the battlefield, they fight with zealous valor, and opposing that, cold efficiency. The passion they exert as they tear through the enemy is remarkable, and yet none of that can be seen here in this palace of machinery. Ironic that they can only find peace on a battlefield- the cold feel of a gun in their hands their pathway to genuine emotion. Perhaps that is what they are designed for. They crave battle for the chance of feeling anything at all. It is a sad life, but they would never know that, for there is no room for sadness, only the endless work ahead, never-ending, never pausing, except to indulge in the wants of the flesh for sustenance and sleep.
The elevator shuddered as it reached its destination. While Kritha found herself thrown off balance from the force of the impact, the guards were unaffected in almost uncanny indifference. The doors slowly came open, and she saw before her a grand hall, filled not with art of normal beauty, but of cogs and pulleys, twisting and turning, clicking and contorting as they filled the otherwise oppressive silence with an almost constant, but not consistent, sound of ticking and churning gears.
At the end of it, she saw a massive throne, with wires and esoteric machinery surrounding and encompassing it, every cord connected to a thing that sat upon it.
To ascribe humanity to this thing would be folly- in fact, describing it as anything other than machine would be laughable were it not for the minuscule fragments of flesh and bone in its massive frame. It is layer upon layer of machinery stacked upon a distant fragment of a man, hidden beneath thousands of thousands of cybernetic implants, meant to drag on the “life” of the creature. It is a tragedy, the sins of the Cythereans brought to their peak. This is their objective and their damnation.
As Kritha approached the throne at the behest of the guards behind her, the creature began to speak. It did not sound like a human voice, but rather a series of sounds, clicks, and whirrs, assembled and combined into a horrid song that supposedly resembled speech.
“Mmmm…” Kritha was unsure if that was the thing thinking out loud or rather the ambiance of his extensive prosthesis. “This…thing you bring before me…What is it?” The guards do not respond. “I…jest, forgive…me.” He pauses constantly, dragging on certain words. Every syllable comes from a different source in his body. He adjusted himself upright to scrutinize Kritha, seeming so small compared to the massive mechanical thing. “You were a fool to come here. I am the lord of this realm, and you thought you could hide from me? I am all that encompasses this place. I am the machine, the walls, the ceiling, the very floor you walk upon is a part of me. As soon as you approached the atmosphere of my realm, I could sense your very heart beating, the sickening thud of flesh against flesh. You are bound to this world.”
“I am not of this place.”
A laugh emanates from somewhere within the creature. “You think yourself separate from the whole. A foolish notion. You are Cytherean, a human as any other- you are one of the billions whose flesh was wrought here, borne from the flesh-vats as a clone whelp. You, like me, are a part of this place, borne of Kyther’s womb.”
The thing stared at her with hundreds of eyes, of which only one is of flesh and blood, although its milky appearance suggests it serves no purpose other than being a keepsake of his withered body, preserved beyond what should be feasibly possible.
“So, what is it then?” Kritha stepped forward, defiant despite the chains binding her arms to her back. “You could’ve killed me long ago- and I could’ve killed you. I will not obey some machine-slave. Release me if you are simply going to waste my time.”
“I could’ve. You couldn’t. Yes, you will. No, I will not.”
“I have my ways to kill a decrepit, rotting corpse."
“You threaten me with death, but I cannot die. Unlike the other cowardly Councillors, I have not forgotten the Old Path of Venus. The First Jurisdicator did not mean for us to become inhuman, but rather to build upon the human frame. That is the Work.”
“Fascinating. I did not think Cythereans were so religious.”
“A slight that will not be forgiven. We revere the material, not some abstract thing, like the Arbitra of the star-borne Vodranti and their…ilk.”
Slowly, every limb from his carapace extends outwards, arms outstretched to the ceiling, lights mounted upon him beaming bright as a voice resonating from every direction rings out, louder than the thunder synonymous with Venus’ cruel atmosphere,
“I
AM
MAMMON.
RULER OF THE SANDS OF CYTHEREA BY THE WILL OF THE IRON INCARNATE. I AM THE EMISSARY OF VENUS HERSELF, BOUND FOREVER, AS IS MY DUTY. I HAD FORGED THE VERY GROUND YOU WALK UPON AND YOU. WILL. KNEEL.”
The grand display soon ended as Mammon reverted to his neutral, albeit imposing, stance upon his throne.
“Now, child” he leans further towards Kritha. “With what authority do you speak? What power in this world gives you the gall- nay, the audacity to speak to me with such damning pride?”
Kritha, intimidated, falls back, confidence hurt, limping backward like a wounded animal, before recovering once more.
“I-…I ask you to tell me for what purpose you have brought me here.”
Mammon lets out a sort of hiss, perhaps intended to be a sigh, as various pipes and vents within his body let out steam.
“Hah. Of course, child.” She assumed the remark was sarcastic. The monotone voice gave no credence to any sort of change in mood.
Mammon shifts a little as an arm extends outward from deep within his body. At the end, a legitimate human hand sits, although doubtless operated by machinery within it. Another remnant preserved. Within its grip is a long sheet of paper. Mammon glances at it momentarily as it then rotates towards Kritha and lowers itself to her eye level.
It is a picture of people departing an atmospheric personnel-loader craft- among them, albeit with some difficulty, one can see herself, enclosed in armor, rifle upon her back, mid-stride. Surrounding the craft is flora covering every nook and cranny, the green almost palpable from the otherwise black-and-white image.
“You have gone to Earth. More importantly, you came back. Alive. I hope you understand the significance of this.”
“I do. And I also understand that means you can’t kill me. I’m too valuable now, aren’t I? I know the northern forests better than anyone else.”
A grumble- or, at least, that is what she assumes it to be, vibrates across the room.
“Yeeeesss. And you should not let pride make your decisions, for I assure you there are ways of motivating you beyond the threat of death, rebel-daughter.”
“And wouldn’t you like all the information in my head, hmm?"
The Councilor slowly extended its upper body from its frame, reaching further outward, like a hermit crab from its shell. Layers went out and stopped short, as Mammon’s actual body presented itself.
It was little more than the upper torso and above- everything below that slowly transitioned from flesh to steel as a mechanical bridge to the remainder of his form resting upon the throne. His right arm was removed and replaced with a robotic one, only his right hand remained, covering it like a sleeve. His left arm hung limp at his side, hand removed, and his head was old, bald, and rotted, and absent of his legitimate brain which was likely sheltered in a more sterile and well-defended area within his body. This was all that remained of Mammon, or, at least, what Kritha considered Mammon.
His one organic eye- while blind- looked at her with more precision and depth than any of his mechanical organs ever could.
“There are secrets of this place. Old ritual created before even I tread this sacred ground. There are means of extracting information, child, tearing truth from the fibrous membrane of your mind. I can reduce you to a slavering shell, if I am so inclined, to little more than an animal after I have removed the fragments of your memory that prove useful.”
He slowly rose upwards and back into his shell.
“Yet I am a merciful god, and I feel that would not be entirely beneficial to our purposes. I know well the benefit of keeping you alive, never mind the likely uproar such procedures will cause. So, to a limited degree- yes, I want to keep you alive. Do not think that this is from any sort of respect or compassion- I despise you, yet I am not so inclined to give in to the hateful desires of the flesh.”
Kritha raised an eyebrow. The gesture was lost on a Cytherean such as Mammon, but it gave Kritha a momentary sense of control over the conversation. “And?”
The brief comment angered Mammon ever so slightly, his hands tapping against the ground with increased frequency. “Mmmm. Yes. You, alongside some of our soldiers, will go to Earth. You will guide them and work alongside them in recovering certain pieces of ancient technology, of which you are not cleared to know. That is the simple summary.”
“How am I expected to find something I do not know the appearance or nature of?” Why was the Councillor so vague? What purpose does that serve?
“Your comrades will be well informed of the subject. You will be given the supposed location and a general description of their appearance, but it is in both of our best interests to not share the exact nature of these…artifacts, for now.”
Both of our best interests. Kritha knew that Mammon had a perfectly good idea of what Kritha’s goals were, but she was unsure if that made her more or less confused. Mammon’s pause before ‘artifacts’ suggested that there was certainly something more to them than what he has said- a blueprint? Info? She assumed he wanted something from the Northern Forests of Old Earth, but there is not much there that had not been overtaken by the Epoch so long ago.
Kritha shrugged. “I suppose not.” She assumed that Mammon did not want the information to be shared until she had already left for Earth. This was meant to be hidden from the other Cytherean realms on Venus. The other Councilors had so many spies and assassins and hitmen watching each other, it was a miracle they kept anything secret or hold office for more than a day. That was what made Mammon so intimidating- despite all the efforts of his political and military opponents, he has remained the most powerful Councillor for millennia, bearing the title of ‘Jurisdicator of the Council’ for so long that the previous holder can scarcely be remembered. The First Jurisdicator had not even lived for that long.
“Consider this a mercy, child. Cythereans, as you likely know by now, are not inclined to spare traitors, criminals, or heretics, of which you, of all people, fall into every category. It is only by my power you remain alive, for surely those such as Alyk Pso would prefer your head on a platter.”
“Calypso doesn’t worry me.” Alyk certainly did worry Kritha, as all Councillors did, but Pso has certainly proved herself the most deranged.
“And I am sure you believe that, too. A more detailed debrief will be given to you later. For now, these two-” Mammon points with several of his hands towards the guards. “Will escort you to your cell, and ensure you remain there, until the ship and the team is prepared. I estimate the process won’t take longer than a dyn.”
She was quickly seized and taken back to the lift by the guards, who were stoic as ever. Mammon slowly retreated back into his mechanical frame until little of him was visible as they descended further to the holding cells. She had little else to do than to wait for a chance to escape, but something made her increasingly curious as to the purposes of Mammon's quest. Time would tell, she supposed.