Geist, p.1
Geist, page 1
Geist: Scherezo
by
Fallon O’Neill
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
World Castle Publishing, LLC
Pensacola, Florida
Copyright © Fallon O’Neill 2021
Smashwords Edition
Hardback ISBN: 9781956788136
Paperback ISBN: 9781956788143
eBook ISBN: 9781956788150
First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, November 15, 2021
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com
Smashwords Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Cover: Nix Whittaker
Editor: Maxine Bringenberg
THE STORY SO FAR
Civil unrest brews in the slums of Holy Gothica. In the wake of tyranny and economic depression, the downtrodden masses plot to ignite a brighter future. Led by a visionary and vicious anarchist, Goro Ludwig, these street thugs, escaped convicts, and mercenaries from the Powder Kegs, and wage a guerrilla war in the name of revolution, no matter the consequences.
Such is the company Victor Roland found himself in.
Hailing from our dull, grey reality, two friends stand by his side—the erudite stoner, Charles Garner, and the punk rock biker, Beatrice Morrison. Together they search for the Dollmaker, an enigmatic serial killer whose “masters” brought them here, into this city of cathedrals. For upon the stroke of midnight, Holy Gothica contorts into a mockery of its daytime self, where televisions form portals to the Inferno—a labyrinth of waking nightmares which the Dollmaker uses to carry out his countless murders.
However, not all is mere deduction and mystery.
On this odyssey to an elusive truth, Victor witnessed the death of a dear friend, Ser Hector Thaddeus, a former agent of the Inquisition. In his latest misadventure, Victor was forced to confront his mentor’s killer, Helena Ingrid, a psychic child soldier of the Powder Kegs, whose vengeance spiraled into malice capable of destroying the entire city.
Even with the renegade defeated, Victor’s journey continues.
Weeks later, the investigation has reached a dead end, as a shadow lurks in the red-lit alleys of Yoshiwara; the Dollmaker conspires his next slew of murders….
CHAPTER ONE
Beneath the Iron Sky was a sprawl of junkyards and steel mills, fused by webs of electrical wiring. Even the slumlords lived in crumbling townhouses, while the destitute were left on the cobblestone streets to salvage whatever they could. Toxic gas billowed from vents, choking the old and frail and eroding the strong, while the clever often converted derelicts into shelters, “climbing the ladder” to pass the time.
A rare few, however, made a decent living.
He was still awake, eyes pried open by force of will. Alone in the workshop, overlooked by all, he sat at a varnished desk, mind glazed with grief. He hadn’t slept in days—it had to be done, and he would endure. Even now, his gaze was glued to a dead screen on the desk, filling a notebook with scribbled tirades. The mission was all that mattered.
“I’ll protect you all,” his voice was hoarse, “from the famine of our souls.”
Tools and equipment lay scattered, as did little bits and chewies—pork pies, bloody razors, and tubes of shaving cream. He couldn’t taste the meat, wracking his brain as to how to cleanse the filth of Yoshiwara. Then the television buzzed on.
He hadn’t touched the remote.
Slowly the room darkened, save for the screen, speakers droning with white noise, numbing the minds of whoever tuned in. It swept the masses into sweet dreams. They were ignorant to the wickedness of the world; its scalpels and syringes, carving into docile flesh, operations carried out by the lost and the damned. Not everyone was so lucky. The Inquisition called the realm beyond, “Hell.” They were fools, all of them, unable of comprehending the penance it offered. Some were left naked in the Devil’s Hour at the mercy of daemons. Some could not afford the luxury of sleep. He turned to the master chart—a patchwork quilt of the schedules of wayward souls, broadcast times, and a list of “missing” persons.
Lambs awaiting the butcher’s saw.
“If such fire can purge their sins,” he said, “so too will this hunger end.” He picked up a blurred photo of her. “Fear not. You’ll regain your purity soon enough.” As he closed his eyes, the whispers returned—calling to him. “In a place far purer than this starving city.”
#
Meanwhile, in a distant corner of the slums, Walter Leng was slouched over an outdated cogitator. Two-bit text scrolled against its black screen. A cigarette burned in his mouth. With a thin face and baggy eyes, his suit was cheap, and his tie looser than his belt—a man of few cares and even fewer ethics. He made it work. He always did.
God, this place smells like shit….
Punching the copper keys, Leng tried to forget where he was. In this “improvised chapel,” somewhere in Informatorium Square, he worked on his latest business—confessions. Intercept the call and collect the prepaid tithe. Technically legal, as he was an ordained priest. The booth itself was a rundown trailer, its engine repurposed to fuel the required hardware. Of course, a little extra on the power bill provided a decent proxy.
Enough to fool the Vox Networks, that’s for damn sure….
Just then, Leng felt something vibrate on the desk’s edge. He grabbed an old codec—a copper handheld with speakers for audio. A line of code crawled on the screen, reading…
PRIVATE NUMBER
Leng raised the speaker to his ear. It was either an Imperial office or—
“Forgive me, Father,” a penitent said, “for I have sinned.”
Leng wasn’t new to this script. About six months ago, he’d worked the graveyard shifts, plugging these sad sacks into the right channels. Most of those sermons were pre-recorded, but Leng took pity on a few people. He’d give them peace of mind, free of charge.
“All right.” Leng spun his chair around. “Last confession?”
“About four hours ago….”
“Someone’s been busy,” Leng said. “Anyway, what kind of sin are we talking here? Mortal or venial? And how many times? Need to know these things.”
“I…,” the stranger whispered. “Well, I may have committed adultery.”
Leng barely contained his laughter. “Who hasn’t?”
“With a prostitute,” the penitent added.
“Again, who hasn’t?” Leng asked. “Did she have big tits, at least?”
“I b-beg your pardon?” the penitent gasped.
“The hooker. Fun bags, or no?” Leng asked. “If you’re gonna sin, do it right. Let me guess, your wife’s a prude. Basically celibate. And a man has urges. Dates with Rosy Palms can only help so much.” He chuckled. “How many times?”
“Well,” the stranger managed. “It was my first time…bedding a woman.”
“Whoa. Back up,” Leng said. “You are—no, were a married virgin. How does that even work? What did you do for the honeymoon? Play bridge and bake cookies?” He rested his eyes for a moment. “How old are you? You sound sixteen.”
“Seventeen, actually,” the penitent snapped.
“Like that’s so much better.” Leng sighed. “What happened, kid? Did your parents set you up with a nun? Goddamn, sin’s on them.”
“Are you really a priest?” the penitent asked. “Can you use the Lord’s name like that?”
“I’m sure the Grand Conductor will pardon me for pissing on his ego. But yeah, I’m an ordained priest. Was plastered when I took that exam, but—anyway, I absolve you.”
There was a long pause. Leng could still hear the penitent’s breathing.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s nothing to forgive. Come down by the Sunset Pagoda. If we meet, I’ll pay for your next lay. Know a call girl there. A real sexbot. Trust me, life only gets—”
A surge of static severed the call, to Leng’s slight relief. He switched the cogitator off and leaned back, beginning to doze until white noise filled in his ears, sending tingles down his spine. Leng snapped open a pocket watch. 11:49.
Almost the Devil’s Hour….
Leng cracked open the front door and found the static’s source—a television display shining behind a boarded-up window. Behind the charred wood, he swore there was a silhouette writhing in the static. But when he blinked, it was gone. Leng rolled his eyes.
Whatever. The Dollmaker Murders don’t concern me anymore.
Victor was a decent sleuth, after all. Smart for a kid and catching on quick. Besides, it was best to lie low. He’d saved up and bought the tickets. Tomorrow he’d catch a train to the west border and seek asylum in the Kingdom of Lumiere. Burlesque there was world-class. For now, he’d settle for a midnight stroll. Leng knew all the right places, especially after curfew.
Yoshiwara is always open….
#
The mists thickened. Yuko leaned against a brick wall under the streetlight. She ran a thread and needle through her wound, stitching it shut. It would heal in time, faster than r eal flesh. At least, she could rewire the pain. A rare perk of being “less than human.” Face powdered and lips painted, Yuko veered off High Street, propping her coat’s collar.
That dick’s blacklisted….
Although perverts usually paid well, Yuko never made an appointment with them unless she had to. Rent was coming up, and she’d prefer to keep off the streets. After all, sex was what people made of it, regardless of what the Ecclesiarchy preached.
Still, I’m not a sub. It’s on my goddamn resume.
Yuko knew she was a minority within a minority, an escort of synthetic flesh and genuine wit. A semi-independent streetwalker, using the Sunset Pagoda for incalls. She made the best of non-existent luck. With the industry taking a turn towards cabaret, Yuko kept her hopes up. Her line of work, although empowering at its best, was still a job—soulless and grinding.
Might catch my break soon if everything goes well.
With a sigh, Yuko passed the community boards, where all manner of posters were plastered about. One stood out most of all.
MUNCHAUSEN CANDY CO. PROUDLY PRESENTS:
THE WORLD’S XANADU EXPOSITION, GRAND OPENING IN FIVE DAYS!
Featuring A Live Production by The Sunset Pagoda
Raising her head, Yuko felt the rain on her face. Opening night was coming up, and she was the female lead in its stage production, Shogun. It had a minimalist plot, mostly a series of comedic sketches and melodramas, masked by trap doors and lavish set designs.
A celibate sculptor falls in love with his own creation.
Of course, the entire finale was rewritten. Edgar Munchausen put more effort into execution than ideas. Such fairytale endings were always entertaining if nothing else.
When Yuko continued down the narrows, a chill wafted through the dampening air. Soup kitchens leered over the alleys, half-timbered and shingled, shadowed by brothels and townhouses. Sickly coughs filled the air as vagabonds huddled against trash fires.
Lepers…?
Yuko covered her nose to mask the odor of unwashed bodies and opium smoke. She was reminded of Victor’s recounted battles in the quarantine zones. Fear turned to paranoia as she laid a hand over her switchblade. And yet Yuko knew they weren’t mindless wretches.
“Pardon, milady,” a beggar wheezed. “Spare a copper?”
A moment’s silence passed. Yuko opened her coin purse and tossed a silver thaler into his calloused hands. “What happened? Yoshiwara’s safe. You guys can find shelter easily.”
“Heh,” a crone spat. “Safe for you lot.”
“Seriously,” Yuko scoffed. “I know a few places, but….”
Their elder reached for his skeletal cane. When he staggered into the light, Yuko noticed his emaciated frame. “What’s wrong?” the beggar asked, revealing swollen gums.
“N…nothing,” Yuko lied. “Another food shortage?”
“We aren’t the first to go hungry,” the elder said, “and we won’t be the last. There’s something in the air. Even the Millfields away south can’t keep up. Meat and grain shipments spoil before they reach us, and with the tithes, well…. It’s worse than another recession.”
Yuko glanced at the kitchen windows—boarded shut, recently abandoned.
“Doesn’t Edgar still run poorhouses?” she asked.
“Not like he used to,” said another, rubbing his bandaged hands. “Ol’ Candyman’s been using his profits for ‘the long game.’ Whatever that means. Half the shelters closed in four months. Won’t be long till we join those sluts in an early grave.”
Yuko winced, but now wasn’t the time for a lecture on feminism and sex workers. As the flames died, she saw ribs poking under their ragged tunics. These urchins searched for scraps of offal, picking out the white worms. They paid her no attention, skittering like sewer rats, eyes dull with despair, wide with desperate hunger.
“Fuck it.” Yuko reached into her purse and handed the elder a fistful of coins. “Spread that amongst yourselves. I can’t fix anything, but…I’ll try to do my part.”
“Bless you!” His eyes widened as he bit at a gold thaler. “Bless you, milady.”
Yuko smiled and walked off without another word. Moments later, in the gathering dark, her boots clomped against the silence. Then she heard louder footsteps. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. Yuko continued down the narrows, coming to a halt under a dim lamp.
The clock had struck midnight, jolting to a halt.
As the warping of reality set in, surges buzzed from every speaker. Yuko clenched her forehead. A choir of whispers and salacious moans filled her skull. She couldn’t even see the way forward. Her systems sizzled and sparked—something was trying to worm out of her mind. A power buried deep within her circuitry until Yuko felt someone looming over her.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called. “You good?”
When Yuko’s vision cleared, she saw Leng offering her a hand.
“I…I’m fine. Thanks.” Staggering up, Yuko brushed her scarlet bangs aside. “Really….”
Leng lit another cigarette. “Why out so late? Thought you knew better.”
“I can take care of myself,” Yuko sighed. “Was heading back from a client’s. How’d you get this far from Gin Lane, though? I’m shocked you didn’t get mugged.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” Leng said. “Really, though. You’d best be careful too, what with the Dollmaker on the loose and all. C’mon, I’ll walk you home, babe.”
“Don’t call me that,” Yuko muttered.
As the Devil’s Hour dragged on, they walked in mutual silence, keeping an eye on the distorted shadows. No screams or guttural cries were heard—a welcome respite.
“Still coping, I take it?” Yuko asked. “With her?”
“Why else would I be out tomcatting?” Leng scoffed. “Anyway, how’s your boy-toy?”
“Edgar’s been distant lately,” she said. “Company’s expanding. Fast. I think he’s stressed about Xanadu, too. Rehearsals aren’t going so great. Nini passed out ‘cause her corset was too tight, Baby Jane’s got TB for real this time, and Sally hasn’t shown for days.” She shook her head. “Still, if the bouncers keep the freaks out, I’ll play my part. Might even get noticed—”
“I meant your other boy-toy,” Leng interrupted.
“Huh?” It took Yuko a moment to catch on. “Oh, Victor. He’s fine. Aloof, writing music, drinking more than he should. We haven’t met up for a day or two.”
“Glad to hear nothing’s changed.”
Yuko cracked a smile. “That’s for damn sure.”
“With you,” he added.
Yuko raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me—?”
“Listen, Victor has real feelings for you,” Leng said. “Try not to fuck with him too much. He’s not like your other clients. Or me. He’s…innocent. And I’m positive you were his first lay. Hell, he might actually love you, for all I know.”
Yuko bit her lip as her eyes darted away.
“Oh shit,” Leng said. “He dropped the L-bomb?”
“A few days after the freebie,” she managed.
“So, you’re trying to push him away? Gotcha.”
“It’s not like that!”
“Please, I know you’re terrified of commitment.”
“Shut up,” Yuko snapped. “You don’t know….” Her glare was fixed on Leng. Behind that smug smirk, he was in pain. Perhaps for the first time in his life, the slimy bastard was trying to protect someone—a friend. “Dammit,” she sighed.
The clocks ticked once more as the street lamps flickered on. The Sunset Pagoda shone as a crimson searchlight, rising from a world of darkness. Yuko was far from at ease.
With that, Leng walked ahead, turning onto High Street.
“Give the poor kid a chance,” he called. “You might be surprised.”
CHAPTER TWO
Victor’s eyes opened to a chandelier of cobalt lights. To the familiar pillars and balconies of his only sanctuary—the Opera House. Before the stage of velvet curtains, the Impresario sat in his oaken wheelchair, leering as he always did. Dressed as a gentleman of arcane majesty, his eyes bulged out of his porcelain skull, nose pointed as a whittled puppet.
“Welcome back,” the Impresario said, tapping his fingers on a desk. “The board has been set, and the pieces are moving once more. Checkmate is drawing nearer in our great game.”
