Geist Intermezzo

Geist Intermezzo

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 2019

Smashwords Edition

Hardback ISBN: 9781950890613

Paperback ISBN: 9781950890620

eBook ISBN: 9781950890637

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, October 28, 2019

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

It is a dark time for Holy Gothica.

Despite the Inquisition’s efforts, the Dollmaker Murders continue to sweep its steeples and shingles. Entangled in these investigations, Victor Roland is forced to collaborate with the cruel and bloody regime, if only for his own means. However, he is not some grizzled rebel of the Powder Kegs, nor among the saints of the Ecclesiarchy.

Victor is a high-functioning autistic, hailing from another world: Earth.

Dragged here by an unknown power, he is trapped in this city of cathedrals. Now, Victor searches for his missing friends—the erudite stoner, Charles Garner, and the punk rock biker, Beatrice Morrison. Eventually, he tracks their whereabouts to Yoshiwara, the red-light district. After a night with the mechanical courtesan, Yuko, his worst fears are realized.

Charles has been kidnapped by the Dollmaker.

As dread becomes desperation, Victor and his mentor, Ser Hector Thaddeus, are forced to play the killer’s game. For behind the television screen lies the Inferno—a labyrinthine hell mirroring the sins of man. There, Charles is imprisoned in a twisted carnival ruled by the Ringmaster—an abomination born of his own envy. After a fierce battle, Charles conquers his shame and rebukes this shadow self, gaining a power born of wisdom.

But such a victory is short lived.

Upon escaping the nightmare world, they are confronted by the Stormtrooper Corps. Wrongly excommunicated by the Imperium, Thaddeus is forced into heresy, and slaughters his own firing squad. Harrowed by the betrayal, the inquisitor swears himself to Victor’s cause.

And so, Victor’s search begins anew. This time for Beatrice….

CHAPTER ONE

A shadow befell Holy Gothica that sorry night. Beneath the cobbled streets, she recalled the voices in the crematoria. They echoed in her mind’s ear, all singing the same dirge. She saw their embers, burning away in the faithless abyss. She felt their clammy hands and tearstained faces, marching one by one to the mass graves, only to be evaporated by the infernos of industry.

Helena Ingrid could hear the cries of the lepers, and she wept with them.

However, those tears too dried in time beneath her raven-beaked mask. To think, she was once a twelve-year old schoolgirl, living in Jericho District, ignorant of the city’s troubles.

Now, Ingrid knew only hatred, as a child soldier of the Powder Kegs.

Gaslight shone through the storm drains into the sewers below. She stared at her reflection in the mottled water. Bald and gaunt, Ingrid was dressed in a loose straightjacket, trousers, and unbuckled boots. The sage in her mask filtered the reek of raw sewage. Her footsteps sloshed against its fetid flow. Not far away, Ingrid saw a trio of ragged lepers huddled around a cooking fire, faces hidden by bloodstained wraps. She knew their misery.

Pass the ladder, won’t ya? asked the first, reaching for a pouch of powder.

All right, the second coughed. This is all we got till the sabbath, though.

We’ll make it work. We always do.

Ingrid fiddled in her pockets, searching for a spare thaler. Nothing. She stared on, lingering in the dark. She almost wanted to join them, to tell them life could be worse. That they were why she fought as a terrorist. And yet, Ingrid thought better of it.

Heard them jackboots got Heiner the other day, the third said. Warrant he’s shoveling coal in the camps now. Assuming he’s not ash ‘n smoke himself.

The second drew a glass pipe. Let’s not talk about dead men.

Not that we’re much better off, said the first. Still, we’re safe down here.

To the people above, this was a maze of mildewed masonry. To the lepers, it was a sanctuary of a different sort. But to Ingrid, it was polluted by passing thoughts, echoing from the people of the slums. The psychic shuddered, forcing such whispers out of her head. All the talk of curfew and missing persons brought back memories of the lazar camps.

Strapped to an operating table….

Cold needles and syringes….

Forced to listen to the evil behind the screen….

Her anxiety returned, as did the image of him. That face was burned into her retinas, that voice pierced her ears, that name was all but stitched inside her skull.

Thaddeus, she muttered in a maddened mantra. Thaddeus.

Ingrid lay a hand against the slimy wall, gathering her wits. There was a reason she dwelled in the sewers. Above was the world of diesel and ducts, where piety was a tool of the powerful, used to oppress the helpless and gullible. There was still much work to do in the Serfdoms. If anywhere held information on Thaddeus, it was the Central Servitorium. She’d already interrogated a few curators. Not one of them knew anything, but there were no innocents anymore. However, there was one lead—an admin by the name of Brendel.

A wisp of exhaust chilled her scalp, and Ingrid slogged out of that wet tunnel, past the leaky pipes, fixed on the ghettos ahead. Tall houses loomed over the cobblestones, windows staring out from pools of blackness, roofs jutting towards the plates of the Iron Sky. She shivered and sighed. The scent of funnel cakes wafted from a food truck. A pair of boys ran past her, chasing a hoop and stick. Ingrid paused, if only for a moment, reminded of happier times.

A time before the leprosy….

Before the experiments….

Before my powers….

A church bell sang over the City Below. Attention, all serfs, a voice echoed over the loudspeakers. Curfew will begin in one hour. Please return to your homes immediately. The Stormtrooper Corps will now be on high alarm. Kyrie Eleison.

Ingrid chuckled. Such threats were hollow to her now.

Wading against the currents of pariahs and punks, she came before her destination, that bastion of bureaucracy—the Central Servitorium. With its office complexes and flying buttresses, the monastery loomed as a bastion, modern yet medieval.

That man will know my pain, Ingrid hissed. "He will pay for his crimes."

#

The Servitorium’s upper halls sang with bells and typewriter. Such was the Imperial house of administration and records. Brendel’s cubicle lay at the far end of the offices, just a lathe in the machine of paperwork and police tape. It was a beige workspace, devoid of sound or company—but at least it had a window. The ticking clock was a constant reminder of time’s passing, and to Brendel, the minutes dragged on endlessly.

Almost there, he muttered, gritting his wooden dentures. Almost time.

Brendel was an old man, weathered by decades of pen-pushing and soulless labor. His ink-stained fingers slammed against the keys. A sheet of paper scrolled off with a chime. He squinted through his thick glasses. The cogitator screen buzzed with two-bit infographics, but Brendel only used them for reference. His hands did the work, while his mind was always elsewhere. It was how he got through it all, one day at a time.

The Purgatorio Project was a covert operation overseen by Doctor Josef Murdoch, and Ser Hector Thaddeus of Her Holiness’s Inquisition. Although its purpose was to find a cure for the leprosy, its most notable result was the creation of the V-class of elite soldiers. After their further research was deemed heretical….

With that, Brendel pressed the DELETE key, and replaced it with the usual.

[RECORD EXPUNGED]

All in a day’s work for the Ecclesiarchy. This was one of countless black operations he had to cover up. It wasn’t like he wanted to send them to the camps. But someone had to do it.

That being said, something else bothered him.

Thaddeus….

The inquisitor from the other day—the one escorting the weird boy. Ser Thaddeus was a pious and devout agent, albeit with a soiled reputation. Rumor had it he’d been excommunicated, along with Walter Leng, not a day ago. It was best to forget it all, but he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern.

Brendel, said a slick voice. How’s the paperwork coming?

Fine. He did not look back. Onto page seventy-two of the revisions. We should register the next batch to Camp Four within a week. They’re beginning to stink up the cells.

Revision 2A? Samuel raised a bushy eyebrow. He was a corpulent manager with a mustache far too large for his face—like a snake oil salesman. He was always smiling, thumbs under his suspenders. Capital, we need that by the sabbath.

Understood, Brendel replied. I should send page ninety to the editor soon.

Samuel nodded, mouthing, Capital, over and over. Huh. He looked about the office. "Not gonna lie, Brendel, your space is a little bare. Do you like it this way?"

His office was devoid of decoration or personal touches, save a few star-charts and a telescope out the window—Brendel’s pride and joy. I distract myself too much as it is, he replied. Besides, I keep my best toys at home.

Honest answer, Samuel said. "You’re an interesting guy, Brendel. Your head might be in the clouds, but you’re sure better than Leng."

Brendel’s typing slowed.

He felt a lukewarm breeze from the window, reminding him of what lay beyond. That telescope was a gateway to a happier world of constellations, in-between the plates of the Iron Sky. Tonight the moon glimmered with a gibbous glow, its craters forming a clown’s frown, its ridges running as tears, as if possessed by cosmic tragedy.

A forlorn piece of art that not even the Ecclesiarchy could censor.

Then Brendel saw a silhouette on a nearby rooftop. As Samuel rambled on, he squinted. It was a child, by the look of it, standing tall and thin, staring on with stoic intent. Brendel felt a tingle run down his spine.

Sound good? Samuel cracked his knuckles, bringing Brendel back to attention.

W-what? he blurted. Oh, y-yes. It does.

Capital, capital. Samuel smiled. Well, good talk, Brendel. And thanks for picking up that extra shift. I’ll see you Tuesday. He winked. Have a good night!

W-wait, what…?

Samuel was already down the hall, back to his own office. Regardless, Brendel’s shift was over. Alone, he felt the weight of paperwork on his shoulders, but there was always tomorrow. He gave one last look out the window. The child was gone.

#

Ingrid stuck to the shadows as the train made its stop at Serfdom One. She recognized Brendel from what his colleagues had described. The old man shoved his hands deep in his pockets, black raindrops trickling off his raincoat. A church bell sang over the Residential Quarters, vibrating through the dull, drab townhouses.

Her eyes narrowed on that man, filled with rage.

The mask kept the thoughts of passersby at bay so Ingrid could focus, stalking her prey, unseen. Tonight’s forecast predicted more than one radio surge. Brendel’s pace quickened. Ingrid peered from an alley. A squad of stormtroopers marched through the street, all Stahlhelms and gas masks, like dead men walking.

Then, Ingrid turned to the clock tower. 23:59.

It was almost time for the predicted blackout. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Ingrid walked past the steeples and shops. Brendel moved down a final alley towards the grey apartments, looming, weathered by years of urban decay.

Three…Two…One….

The streetlights flickered out, punctuated by the buzzing static. All color faded from the city, while the buildings leered as phantom set-pieces, and pools of black blood dotted the ground. The only light came from a stack of televisions, flickering to dead channels, filling the alley with the whispers of daemons.

Good evening, Brendel, she called, veins burning with hate.

W-what the…? The admin turned around. Who are you? He drew a six-shooter. Are the Powder Kegs stooping this low? Sending a child after an agent of Her Holiness?

That would be counter-intuitive, Ingrid said.

The gun’s handle glowed with heat—Brendel yelled, tossing it aside.

I come for information on Ser Hector Thaddeus. Where is he stationed? Ingrid cocked her head. "Please, be honest. Lying will only be painful."

Brendel stepped back, his eyes widening. At that moment, Ingrid caught a glimmer of truth passing into her mind’s eye. The bureaucrat recognized her. He knew about the Purgatorio Project, the experiments that had ruined her life. Ingrid’s hands clenched into fists.

If you run, she said, calmly. I will kill you.

The air was still and silent. Whenever the Devil’s Hour struck, the world stopped spinning, and no one would hear Brendel’s screams. The fool was about to run for it, that much she knew. With a surge of mental power, Ingrid knocked Brendel onto his back. Wheezing, he reached for his gun again, but the girl kicked it aside. His eyes widened in terror. Sickly green cinders fell from Ingrid’s sleeves, inches from Brendel’s robes. She planted a boot on his chest.

I will ask again, the girl said, Where is Ser Thaddeus?

E-excommunicated, Brendel wheezed. I d-don’t know why.

Why are you lying?

Brendel said nothing, but Ingrid did not need a knife to extract the truth. She knelt before the bureaucrat, laying a finger on his forehead, shutting her eyes. Hatred. It gave her strength, igniting the rage in her soul. It was all she had left, and she channeled it into power. Brendel’s screams jolted her to reality. A hole was seared into his brow, burned to the bone. He cried and struggled, held down by Ingrid’s willpower alone.

Please, he wept. Please! I don’t know anything! H-he came through my office the other day. He was with his deputy, Walter Leng, a-and....

Go on, Ingrid said. "And who?"

A boy. I never got his name, but he might be the outsider that the Inquisition was sent after. He was dressed oddly, and not like the punks either. He shuddered. "It’s about that Purgatorio Project, isn’t it? I-I don’t know anything. Just let me go. Please, don’t kill me."

The televisions flashed with images of monstrous things.

Kill you? I can do worse than that, Ingrid said, soft and cruel. I can sear the skin off your bones. I can cauterize the wounds to keep you alive. Much like a leper in the oven.

Brendel’s eyes flashed with horror.

Do you understand now? Ingrid’s voice lowered to a soft hiss. You can either ‘confess’ everything, or yours won’t be a quick death.

I can’t tell you, he choked. I just delete the records. I don’t even remember.

You dare claim innocence? Ingrid said. "Your colleagues tell a different story, Brendel. They say you transfer lepers to the camps, herding entire neighborhoods to quarantine zones, without even a proper test. And you’re telling me you know nothing? What goes on behind those doors? The doors that you lock? I find that very hard to believe."

T-they’ll kill me….

Then, how do you choose to die?

Her serene voice sent chills through him. Whether silent out of loyalty or fear, Ingrid could not tell. Nor did she care. Brendel was one of them—one of the administrators responsible for the deaths of thousands. She didn’t even notice the fire rising, let alone Brendel’s dying screams—the smell of his burning flesh. After a grueling pause, she took a single, shuddering breath. The flames died, leaving only a charred husk in its wake.

Now, to dispose of this corpse.…

Ingrid turned to the televisions and their snowy screens. Lifting the smoldering skeleton, she tossed its bones into the rippling glass—it was absorbed into aether, beyond the screens. A treat for the daemons within, and the perfect way to destroy such grisly evidence. Something she’d seen often in the camps. As the lights flickered on, she pondered still….

The boy. That was an interesting detail. Three outsiders had been reported near Yoshiwara. One of them had even stumbled into their rebel ranks. Could they all be related? No matter. Such a phenomenon did not concern her. She was an agent of the Powder Kegs—the Leper Liberation Front—and her duty was to purge these fascists. That much she knew.

Turning her back, Ingrid drew a codec from her pocket.

Ser Ludwig, she said. My apologies for the delay. Is the newcomer prepared?

The bombing mission is still on, a voice replied. Beatrice will be joining us shortly.

Understood. I will be at the rendezvous point within the hour.

CHAPTER TWO

It wasn’t long before Victor heard the symphony of his soul.

Spacing out of thought and time, he drifted back to that cornerstone of cosmos. Beyond the world of Holy Gothica, he sat in a plush chair, staring at the cobalt chandeliers of the Opera House. The curtains opened wide, revealing the silver screen of a theater.

Such was his mental sanctum, a concert hall of creation.

Somewhere in-between dreams and reality, the Music of the Spheres serenaded Victor, fresh out of his own composition. Upon the stage, the Impresario sat as a shadow against the projected countdown. Leering from a wheelchair, the phantom mentor clasped his wrists, fiddling with a deck of the Imperial Tarot, his grimace shimmering in the deep blue twilight. For he was not quite human, a gentleman of puppet-like stature, fresh out of a bleak fairytale.

He was the enigma behind Victor’s survival thus far. He, who had cursed the young man with a blessing of imagination, the power of geist.

Welcome back, the Impresario said. You have triumphed over darkness, as another soul awakened. A dear friend who answered my truest calling. He chuckled. You have gained your first disciple on this messianic odyssey.

The aria continued. Victor remembered the battle with the Ringmaster, in the depths of Charles’s hell. A friend in dire need, whom he’d fought with, side by side, against the darkness in one’s own heart. So, you’re the one who awakened Charles?

The Impresario chuckled, laying a gloved hand over the tarot deck.

Your Charles faced himself, and absolved his innermost daemon. The daemon of envy. He drew a card, revealing the Magician Arcana. With such enlightenment comes awakening. Here, in the Opera House, the myriad facades of man’s psyche reside, waiting until they are summoned. And slowly but surely, they are stirring.

Victor felt the velveteen rabbit in his coat pocket, remembering Dante, his other self, the guardian who fought alongside him, whenever the time was right. A piece of his very soul, born from a wish, molded by a love of literature, under the guise of a Venetian knight.

Such was Victor’s gift.

Then, with a singing chord, the Impresario’s card flashed as the astral image of Cesare was projected onto the screen. An angel in a straightjacket, bound by chains inside a psychedelic coffin, a reflection of Charles’s true self.

Victor’s brow furrowed. So, you’re changing your mind?

After a fashion, the Impresario said. "For I sense potential in your dear friends. A power in their souls. A power yet to be awakened. If they carry