Psychopomp

60 HOURS LATER

Up here…there is an effervescent emptiness. Coursing between the soaring spires and towers in a city of millions stacked upon millions, elation lies in any form of solitude found amidst its crevices. Below throb congested veins of gondolas and trams, tens of thousands of people alone bustling through an overwhelming tide of radiant lights, creaking carriages, and dueling enticements. Traveling at this altitude tier, above the maelstrom of the lower quarters, was one of the few perks of active rotation.

With all this silence, the hushed chorus of a crooning man’s silver voice and instruments of a big band hum through the radio to blanket the cozy cabin of the Corsair carriage. Not even the whir of the rail system that facilitates its movement dare interrupt the symphony.

“No-,” Ewain coldly says before cutting himself off with a frustrated grunt, “More light. More. Need I define the word for you?” He firmly holds his left hand under his bruised, scruffy jaw and wipes whatever blood he can with an already blood-soaked rag. Frenzied patterns of freshly gashed skin bisect older scars and jagged pieces dangle and drip with blood. Fragments of medical adhesive from much earlier clump into crimson pus. “I thought you had to possess some semblance of intelligence to be a Covenant Partner.”

A robotic arm, extending from the metal box mounted on the carriage wall, shines a bright light from its square head onto his left arm. The blood coating Ewain’s arm glistens as it seeps from countless slashes. A rigid voice echoes into the cabin as the robotic arm tries to adjust with Ewain’s movements. Palpable irritation strains its composure, “I’m try-,” it immediately interrupts itself. “I’m the one much more adept at medical applications. You delegate me with this menial task whilst you ineptly ‘treat’ your wounds, yet you have the audacity to question my intelligence.”

“Menial, he says,” Ewain mocks through his teeth and punctuates with a grimace. He accidentally pricks a laceration with the nozzle of a pen-shaped applicator and bites his lip to keep from giving any audible indication. “Why would I want a partner who cannot properly hold a light to tend my wounds?”

“I’m simply adjusting with your nonsensical technique,” the voice retorts sharply, “my performance is a reflection of your skill, or lack thereof. If you let me do this, we can be done and ensure it actually seals properly.”

Ewain blinks hard to ward off the creeping exhaustion, “I know what I did wrong before,” he grunts as he again strikes screaming nerves with the applicator. Now keeping it above the numerous jagged wounds, he presses the button on its shaft and applies the warm glue-like material in a messy zigzag pattern. “Just takes time.”

“In the ten hours since your previous attempt, I must say your technique has drastically improved.” The disembodied voice dryly remarks. “You put the medical expertise of the Asclepias to shame. Utter shame.”

The pen tip flashes red, “Applicator empty,” it informs.

“Couple more times,” Ewain pushes the pen back into its ringed slot until it flashes green, “I will be able to rip this damn box out of the carriage and throw it out the window. Should only require one instance to perfect as many times as I have rehearsed it in my head.” He finally covers all the open wounds he can see.

“Couple more times, and you won’t have the arms to even do such a thing. Amusing and satisfying as it would be to see you like an armless ape, I am sadly ethically obliged to mitigate that.” The metal hatch of the spherical center console closes, a faint whir buzzing beneath, “Though the way you treat and use your appendages, an argument can be made you’d be better off without them.” Suddenly the hatch reopens, releasing fresh steam.

“There is one thing I would unequivocally be better without,” Ewain counters as he pulls a warm, moist towel from the center console and begins cleaning off the blood and excess adhesive, “your commentary. If you truly wish to be ethical, then please for the love of all holy, shut up and just give me more light. More, Art.”

At first the robotic arm remains absolutely still and not another word is spoken. Then begrudgingly, its illuminated head moves at a mockingly slow pace and the volume of the music increases.

The extent of Ewain’s wounds grows clearer, his entire left forearm kept from being a barb of mangled flesh by the adhesive that sits inside each wound. It settles like glass, displaying the inside of his flesh, amplifying it even. Traces of a black fluid becomes more visible through the wounds and blood, running through each like oil.

Throwing the crimson-soaked towel back into the center console, Ewain finally releases his hand and lays it outstretched upon the arm rest. It quivers like a tuning fork and burns without mercy, forcing his hand to curl tighter and tighter.

“Want some Solace?” The disembodied voice asks with feigned concern. “All you have to do is ask. I’ve got the pharma ready to administer on a whimper’s notice.”

So tight the muscles in Ewain’s hand become they could snap his bones, yet he says not a word through his clenched teeth. When the agony recedes and his hand loosens, he keeps his palm up and takes a deep, greedy breath. Each finger sequentially touches his thumb, starting slow then getting progressively faster. “Damn you and your Solace to Tartarus.”

The voice gives an approving scoff, “Always good to see a Psychopomp unbroken. Your touch still good?”

“Perfect,” Ewain purports as he slows his Sequencing, as he and his brothers call it. Every fingertip still possesses sensitivity and feeling.

Years ago, this sight disturbed him, an arm so tattered he could not help but liken it to the carved glazed turkey legs so many street vendors had spit-roasting in their stalls. Just bone with barbed and shorn bits of flesh barely attached. His heart would race, mind in desperate chase at the unnatural sight of a part of his own body, his own flesh, so cut apart. And the panic which sought control in every moment begged for relief, if only from the pain. Never, his mentor’s voice reminds him, never should a Psychopomp give in. Bear it. Suffer in silence.

“You continue sustaining damage like this your blood will be completely black,” Art’s sigh blankets the cabin, “We need to conduct an anathema purge now.”

Suddenly the center console closes, the windows grow opaque, and the robotic arm retracts back to the metal box.

“Wait,” Ewain sharply commands as he rubs his forehead, “Wait. Give me a moment.”

So quickly Art replies he nearly cuts his partner off, “Every moment is critical. We must do this now or-“

“Quiet,” Ewain’s voice shakily interrupts, “Just one moment.”

Only the soft music speaks now, Art and all else silent.

One moment is all he asks, without the noise, without action, without pain, at least with as little of it as possible. Eyes closed, adrift in an orchestral dark, this is the only solace an unbroken Psychopomp is permitted. Yet it simply teases him. Sharp, tingling throbs in his chest make themselves more noticeable now, and from the darkness words take breath.

Life at your whim. You enjoy it. Grating and reverberating is the voice in his head.

His lungs feel as if they shrivel and choke his heart. No solace to be found for him, just a delay. Is this pain truly preferable? “Prepare the purge.”

Making them suffer…

Another voice speaks now, its feeble words squeezing through raging sobs.

I’m begging you. Please.

The windows are completely impermeable now, and the long amber filaments of the light bulbs dim. “Describe the pain you’re experiencing. Where you feel it, how you feel it.” Every syllable is wrought with gravity.

“The arm, starting to emerge in the torso. Feels like,” Ewain sits completely back in the leather seat, his inhalation offering fresh details for him, “like the blood in my arm is on fire, like a serpent with broken glass as scales burrows through my chest.” Pronounced clicks from the metal medical box punctuate his every statement.

“The affliction on your heart?”

“Mild.” Click. “Elevating.” Click.

“Burning?”

“Festering.” Click.

“Any sensory impairment?”

“How many questions must you ask?” Ewain’s aggravation palpable despite how hard he tries to remain stoic.

“As many as necessary. This isn’t a question of want. I need to tune the pharmas right or the purge could kill you or be ineffective.”

“If it kills me,” Ewain heavily says, “make sure it is a Worthy death. Bursting heart, seared brain, nerves so overloaded they fry.” The heaviness in his chest masks his sarcasm.

“Not here, not now, not by my hand and your ignorance,” Art brusquely answers. “If you’d like to reduce the questions, slot me back in, and I can run a physical diagnostic. It will be better for both of us.”

Ewain does not answer immediately. He did not want another voice in his head, couldn’t stand the ones speaking now. While he would never admit it, his partner spoke true, the purge will need to be as tuned as possible. Without saying a word, Ewain presses his thumb against a small glass panel on the carriage’s dashboard. Once racing blue lights of the panel become solid, he presses it down and from the slot adjacent a tiny wooden card white as porcelain and thin as a fingernail ejects.

A vascular pattern of a spectral pink glow flashes across the card, and its smooth grain is unsettlingly warm. Behind Ewain’s ears are beveled matte silver slots, two to each side. A dying emerald glow meekly radiates from the one behind his right ear, and a pink glow emanates from the left one once Ewain inserts the card.

Click, it rings inside his skull, unleashing a slight tingle throughout his body.

Forgiveness is for the weak, the grating voice returns, those without the strength for action.

I am so sorry, offers the sobbing voice, I-I never meant for this to happen.

The medical box starts to hum and clicks play like piano keys.

Breathing becomes fuel for the fire scorching Ewain’s arm and every heartbeat invigorates the slicing pain.

“Are you hearing voices?” Art asks, his voice ringing through Ewain’s bones. “Besides mine,” he quickly adds.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“What are they saying?”

Ewain hesitates before answering, “What does it matter? They are there. Their thoughts are not my own. That is all you need to know.”

“I need to know whom I am speaking to,” Art responds with undeterred patience.

Ewain’s seat resumes its movement to a more reclined position. Padded metal restraints buckle around his arms upon the armrests. Embedded in his fair skin, above the crease of his right elbow, is a round metal disk with crystal-encased tubes along its rim and a tiny hole at its center.

“To Ewain Gregor,” the young Psychopomp answers, “from the Rhymar, of the Vesperterra across the sea. Born in the year of the Ursine, one thousand two-hundred and thirty-one years after the Exodus.”

Those who take life forfeit the right to their own.

Guide me to your fields, enlighten me with your wisdom.

Oh, mighty Lords, I plead you make me better.

A compartment on the face of the white stainless metal box opens, revealing a two-inch needle attached to black silicone tubing. With caution, the robotic arm pulls the needle out and little by little, slides it into the center of the disk straight into Ewain’s arm. He feels its cold, sharp metal pierce through muscle and tissue. Prongs latch the needle onto the disk.

A slicing, intense pinch yields a grunt from the Psychopomp. The crystalline tube of the disk fills with blood. A brief, pressurized hiss speaks from the metal box, and the disk answers with mechanical ticks.

Inside the tube, the blood churns and bubbles before being pulled apart. Metallic, particulate matter is fiercely shorn from the scarlet fluid, clumping and collecting into this disgusting tar-like mass.

“This will require-,”

“Two shots,” Ewain interrupts with aching calm, his eyes closed as if the dark provides some muffle to the pain, “I know. Always does. Get it over with, Art.”

“Agreed,” the word gently travels through bone.

The robotic arm reaches into the console and pulls out two glass cylinders, each filled with a viscous, amber-colored substance. It slides them into two-fitted slots.

“Purge imminent,” Art warns with gentleness.

That demure orange glow of the filaments lined across the cabin ceiling filters into the dark of Ewain’s closed eyes. Quiet hushes the strings which played only a moment ago.

Heavy tendrils of exhaustion descend with the light, reaching out from its shadowy fringes to pull him into the most suspending part of active rotation. Where the accumulating fatigue of continuous hours batters at the dam of sanity. Where it blends his mind into bits and spits out the gashed pieces onto a chronological vortex. Time stands four-dimensional, enshrouding, robbed of any axis of orientation, spinning in every direction.

Sharp pain like scalding, flesh-melting lightning bolts through Ewain’s body, igniting every single nerve with what he could only imagine a plasma torch felt like. If ever man could know the scream of every cell in his being as it seemingly liquifies, it would be in this moment. He convulses as his body involuntarily tightens with every torturous millisecond, as if his skin and muscle will constrict his bones to dust. Every fiber of muscle twists and contracts, broiling like each strand is skewered by a flaming needle then cauterized with acid. His vocal cords beg to scream, to try and soften the pain through shrieking discharge, yet he denies it.

The black particulate matter begins to dissolve from the tube, bubbling away like boiling water, and with it dissipates the pain. Small blue lights on the edge of the disk blink; the prongs which held the needle inside relinquish their grip.

Silence. Utter. Undeniable. Uncomfortable.

Complete exhaustion sweeps in, weighing every bit of his body down like lead. Residual shivers spread throughout Ewain’s being as he keeps his eyes closed. The dark beckons him to its slumbering depth, yet a maddening buzz in his head keeps him tethered to this wakeful world. Sweat saturates his pale skin, each budding bead dyed pink by the blood still covering him.

The restraints retract.

A receptacle swings open from the dashboard, and Ewain leans forward to close the distance.

Guttural, hacking coughs that gouge the throat precede the vomit. His stomach can offer nothing but stinging bile. He could not remember the last time he ate.

A metal canister extends from another slot, “Water,” Art’s voice gently informs.

“Thanks,” Ewain takes a swig and thoroughly swishes it around his mouth before spitting it out. Another swig washes most of the foul taste away. He runs his grime- and blood-coated fingers through his gilded bronze hair, messy from days without tending. His head lingers upon the dash, hoping to remain fixed as his mind floats through the paradoxical void of stimmed exhaustion. Formulating thoughts feels as futile as molding shapes with dust.

Around him the windows return to transparency, showing the endless spires and fringes of lavender lights they emit.

“Art,” the young Psychopomp mumbles as he continues trying to spit the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

“Psychopompos,” his partner replies.

“Where…” words escape him, “where are we in our rotation?”

“Sixty hours, five cases done,” Art is snappy and energetic. “Our rotation is completed. I have us en route back home to Apeiron where we can get you fed, properly attended, and some much-needed rest.”

Sixty hours…sixty hours…that is…. Hell, he can barely even comprehend the number. “That leaves thirty-six hours left for us. Our rotation is not complete.”

“Thirty-six hours until the break line,” Art is quick to specify, “Twelve until the red line. Exceed the break line, your mind teeters toward implosion. Exceed the red line and you stress its joints. I have been with you through three rotations, and through each you exceed the red line. More than a Psychopomp is permitted in a month’s time. Were you to heed my recommendations and take Reposes between cases, this would not be a debate, however you defy me every time and insist on going straight through, stim shot after stim shot. No Repose, no mercy for your mind or body to nourish on. Your mental constitution must be fracturing. It would explain much.”

“Ninety-six hours,” Ewain retorts with as much sharpness as he can muster as he leans back from the dash and into his seat, “we are given to complete cases. Five is the minimum expectation, not the totality. There are dead out there still awaiting extraction, and we have an opportunity now to give it to them. Should they wait longer because you refuse to make use of the ample time remaining to us?”

“That is not your true reason for wanting to do this,” Art points out after a pause.

“But it is a valid reason, nonetheless.” Ewain’s hand itches to remove Art’s chip from his cranial implant. Being able to detect his every micro expression disadvantaged him in this argument, gave his partner more and more reason to veto his request, yet ejecting the chip would also be an admission that would severely weaken Ewain’s position.

“Which does not nullify its recklessness.”

“I will take a Repose.” The statement stings to say. “We will take a case in one of the Outer Wards, something which will take time to reach. An hour-long Repose minimum, more than is standard. One more case, Art, and you will get no veto from me to return home. One more soul.”

An unusual bout of quiet lingers, giving not a hint of when and what his partner will say. If he vetoed the young Psychopomp’s request, then they would be in a deadlock, and the decision sent to Master Varus, his Chapter Master, for the final verdict. Varus would have them return to Apeiron, Ewain knew, and surely Art did, too. No unnecessary risk, every keeper of the Order seemed to spout. Yet their forefathers risked all, beyond the limits of mortal man.

Art rewards Ewain’s patience finally, “All right. One more.” Dread drifts upon the approval. Every case a Psychopomp undertakes presents a very real possibility of death, enough so that when they make it through their assigned five it is considered a blessing.

With a deep breath and nod, the Psychopomp commands, “Bring up the Consular Files. Filter for cases in the Outer Wards with no recent Psychopomp visits. Prioritize the oldest from those.” Finally, he presses two switches on the slot behind his left ear, its pink glow fading with the ejection of its frost-white chip. When he places it back into the console, blue lights race throughout the cabin’s wood surfaces.

“You truly have a death wish.” Art’s voice now echoes within the cabin.

“Cannot be a Psychopomp without one, Art,” Ewain quips. “Besides, these will only become more dangerous with time. If it is not me, then it will be another with a pain-in-the-ass CP that will no doubt complain about it.”

Before him two silver telescopic rods descend from the roof, and between them materializes a canvas put together pixel by pixel from digital ash. From a port in the wall behind him, a small, lensed nozzle projects and clicks on. A mosaic of faces manifests, filling the entire canvas with what is only a fraction of its catalogue.

Each portrait focuses upon the face, and each stares at him with haunting eyes. Whether they are smiling, frowning, or are expressionless, their glares are unsettling as though they bore witness to their own end. The Grid, as Psychopomps came to know it, always arrests Ewain, and while the eyes demand the most attention his gaze often deviates to the many random features. A broad, inviting smile of someone no doubt once lovely, the crooked teeth of the person adjacent who tries to hide them with their lips, the busted nose of another. Each a faded echo of personality isolated into waning shadows of a whole.

“If a Covenant Partner fails to be a pain-in-the-ass for their Psychopomp, then they are a pathetic one. We are oathbound to counter your suicidal natures. We are a reflection of our partners, a pain-in-the-ass for a pain-in-the-ass.” As Ewain closely examines each portrait, Art continues, “We must make sure a Psychopomp is in good enough condition to at least put up a fight.”

Many are young, perhaps no older or barely older than himself. “You should know damn well by now that I always put up a fight.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Art says instantly, “a good fight.” He pauses but a moment, “It’s not just your soul at risk here. Psychopomps may be ready for death, but they are not expected to charge into it haphazardly.”

The delicate features of an elegant young woman occupy the top left slot. Her smile is warm, unafraid to display straight white teeth from behind glossy lips. Beneath her portrait is a timestamp, ticking up with every second.

4D 13H 28M 45S

4D 13H 28M 46S

4D 13H 28M 47S

Her portrait transfixes him before he gazes at the numbers, contemplating with each tick.

“We are oathbound to not be imprudent with Extractions,” Art continues, “If we die upon a trauma site, we put the life of another Order member at serious risk. Our death must be earnest, not suicidal. If you wish to continue, I will not argue further, but I must know this decision is the conclusion of serious conscientiousness, Psychopompos.”

Over four days the trauma site has festered, Ewain mulls. He glances upon the scars visible on his arm, barely healed and numerous in count, at his hands, cracked and chalked red. A faint reluctance crosses his mind…is he overestimating himself? Are faded memories obscuring his judgment? Deep within a feeling chirps, go back, it says. You have survived this rotation. Tempt it no further.

Yet there also sings joyous laughter of rose gold, beloved and oft visited. Do not stop. Continue.

He motions to the young woman’s portrait, “A-1,” and dismisses the feelings. They cannot loiter too long. “Reroute us, Art. Notify the local Consul and Warden.”

The carriage soon diverts to an exit rail, cutting through another blue lit district. “So be it. ETA to local Mission…two hours twelve minutes.”

The projection dissolves into dust and swirls, a new slide reconstructing the woman’s portrait with both magnified detail and greater scope. Ewain leans forward, her face just a foot from his own.

Great care and thought went into this picture. Her autumn hair is conditioned and brushed with dutiful attention and styled in the elegant waves and voluminous curls so popular now among the patrician ladies of the Keep. Flowery pink blushes her peachy cheeks and rich gloss shines her lips bright like cherry. Long, thickened lashes curl up from encapsulating cerulean eyes encased by dark eye shadow. “Who selected this picture?” Ewain had to ask.

“Consul’s log indicates it was submitted by the victim’s mother,” Art answers in a tone of wonder as he, too, absorbs the picture.

“This picture seemed important to her, anticipated. She looks more like an actress than some plebeian girl of the Outer Wards.”

“I imagine that was her point.”

Ewain agrees with a nod, “She imitated the aesthetic precisely, yet…” he glances to the text adjacent.

Name: Norma Jean Mortenson

Case ID: NJM06011237-10111256

Age: 19

Veneration: Iris

“she could not hide the innocence her idols lack,” he finishes. Iris. Goddess of fortune and seduction.

“Then she had yet to have any significant encounters with folks that would be interested in her.”

“Depends on the age of this picture. It need only provide an accurate physical reference to be accepted by the Mission. Innocence like this…people prey on it.” Ewain’s own cobalt eyes resume studying it, though now focusing on a different aspect. “Faint cheekbones. Straight, petite nose with a pointed tip.” He mutters, “Attached earlobes. Small mole along the jawline, left side. Widows’ peak hairline. Soft, angular jawline. You log all that?”

“I did.”

Two hours to destination. With a swipe of his hand, the projector clicks off and suddenly the portrait and canvas fade away. From the roof he unfolds a mirror. A battered face greets him, bruised, cut, and coated crimson. “I need to clean up.”

“The Mission there is equipped with bathing facilities and attendants. You can rest until then.”

“I am not going to wait and rest in this filth nor waste time there bathing.”

“The cleanup there will be thorough and professional.”

“And how exactly do you propose we clean this up?” Ewain motions at his bruised and scarred face, “A bubble bath? Perhaps a lighting technique you have been keeping from me? Pray tell, oh enlightened one.”

There is a momentary pause, a few seconds where Ewain starts to think Art had nothing to counter him. “I suppose any improvement would be an improvement. You look horrendous. Frightening to children and adults alike.”

“I look beat to hell, which I am,” he grunts as he slides his armor vest off over his head, the Order sigil engraved on its front plate nearly scratched beyond recognition and places it with his coat and hat onto the seat next to him. “Hopefully when people see that, the four days it has taken for someone to take on this case will be more palatable.”

“Some can also interpret it as you have barely made it this far and hardly look in acceptable enough condition to complete this case. That after four days this is what the Order has to send: an afterthought.”

“The Order does not have many to send,” Ewain concludes with a wince, one of the abrasions over his cheekbone scalding to the touch.

“We don’t, but we do not need to carelessly advertise this. Presentation matters, Psychopompos. We are the deliverers of the lost, the only ones capable of finding them.”

Ewain could not deny the temptation to simply fall into rest as he is, how the exhaustion and cloudiness of his mental faculty so persuasively advocate for it. Yet the way this filth settled on skin, crusty, dry, and irksome, is intolerable to him, and a proper bath felt…unnecessary, simply a delay. No matter how warm the water, how therapeutic the pressure, how refreshing the cleanliness, the case would loiter nearby and monopolize his thoughts and rob any pleasures. “Give me a couple of fresh towels, Art. I shall stick with the usual.”

Art sighs, and the gears of the center console grind away. Steam billows out of the hatch, “Luxurious whore’s bath ready for you.”

Ewain smirks, “Thanks,” as he pulls out a freshly steamed towel. Starting at the top of his forehead, he closes his eyes and starts scrubbing. Beads of pink water drip down his face, blood once dried now rehydrated. When he reaches his bruised, probably fractured cheeks, his inflamed, torn arm, every little wipe becomes agony to even the slightest touch. Fast losing warmth and moisture, the towel only grows more abrasive, yet he continues, just as meticulous.

Only after many minutes and many stained towels does Ewain fail to find another speck of blood upon his light skin, not even after three full inspections. He could almost pass for clean, were it not for his clothes. Stains came off his leather surcoat well enough yet left their mark upon the wool trim. Even the padded gray linen shirt that was beneath the armor and coat had stains upon it, and his thick, polymer-stitched coyote brown trousers had streaks and spots all over them.

“Approximately one hour forty minutes to the Haas Ward, Psychopompos,” Art breaks the silence with ease, “Now is an optimal time to get that Repose we agreed upon.”

Ewain loosens a breath of distaste, “Yes.”

Again, the cabin lights dim, Ewain’s seat reclines, and the robotic arm inserts the tubed needle into his arm, “One hour. I intend to submit you to a dream simulation.”

“I thought you might.”

“You remember the parameters for them, correct?”

“Yes, whatever I experience, I must remember.”

“Indeed. If we are truly going to engage this last case, we need to ensure your recall retention is still satisfactory.”

“I know,” Ewain dismisses unworried. He did not oppose simulations. They made sleep feel much more than an erasure of time, where one simply closes their eyes to open them and all measure of time between gone in a proverbial blink. Often, he wondered how close they are to the genuine dreams experienced by man when the Ichorians still walked the earth. He asks Art.

“Who’s asking questions now?”

“Mine are interesting.”

“And unnecessary,” Art was having none of it. “Remember: detail. We need at least an 85% retention rate to consider you still mentally fit to conduct a case.”

Ewain nods, suddenly unable to muster words and plunging into a limitless dark.