Greaper & Associates, Inc.

By Laurence Clark

Humans have dreamed of immortality for as long as we've existed. What if the ancient gods and demons of myths and legend dream of mortality. Who are they? What are they? In some cases, they are the humans, personas, and players of the game, a game that's been played for tens of thousands of years. There's William Drake who dreams of a prior life as Manacle, a crippled young man who hosted Greaper, an ancient energy sentient. There's Professor Fyren Chase, CEO of Chase Enterprises, who hosts Tharga the Chaotic; there's the beautiful and exotic Dennah, who hosts Naktia, the serpent goddess; and Jack who hosts Famdis the rotter. There's also Captain Ahmed Bin Halim who hosts Bemoth the Destroyer, and who's deeply in love with Princess Samirah. There's Chronsa the watcher who sees it all, hosted in the mind of Nicholas Stafford, CFO of Chase Enterprises. Behind it all are the Druindhi. Who are the Druindhi, and what is this game, and why are they playing it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurence Clark
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393266051

Laurence Clark

A technical writer by day, but at night, with the sounds of neighbors barking, dogs whining, caterwauling cats…  caterwauling, airplanes at full engine take-off, I'm a guy spinning yarns on a laptop on the back porch with his dog barking at everybody to shut the heck up!

Book preview

Prologue

FECUND ARE MY SORROWS, growing miseries twisting into my soul like maelstroms.—Anonymous

A HIGH-PITCHED RASPY voice echoed in the small stone chamber, overwhelming the murmurs of the others. You are the bringer of darkness, the balancer.

A tall man, broad and dark, slowly turned, squeezing his eyes shut to concentrate. Completing his turn, he said, I know you. He clenched his jaws and continued in almost a whisper. You’re Chronsa, that Player I balanced so long ago.

There was a moment of silence before the murmurs continued, followed by the voice. This time it was singsong, like an old man barely remembering a childhood rhyme, quiet and hesitant. Strangers lurking in darkness, Death hides ‘round every door, the Grim Reaper walks behind you—and Mortis strides your soul. The lyric ended, and the voice continued in its earlier raspy disembodiment. Wherever you go, death must follow.

Manacle clenched his fists, and his shoulders and arms strained and shook when he said, It was Greaper who ensnared your essence. He shook his head as he dropped his shoulders. I only killed... your host’s body. Only Silence answered him, before the indistinct murmurs continued. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled. It doesn’t matter. He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked around. Still nothing but an empty stone chamber. He left the chamber, its whispering murmurs growing more indistinct as he walked the long hallway from the depths of the fort, and left through its remaining open gate. When he stepped outside, a raven cawed and launched herself from an outcropping of rocks a few meters above the gate to glide and land on Manacle’s shoulder. Dakini. She nuzzled his cheek as he rubbed her neck. With his other hand, he retrieved a flat polished stone lavaliere from under his shirt and held it up. A lie escaped and twisted the truth until it became the lie. Their memories... our memories are corrupt, all of them, and yet, they’re all that remain of who we were, our identity, so we desperately hold onto them,—he sighed—and play the game, perpetuating the lie.

Chapter 1

THE TRAVESTY OF YOUR future is that you will die in exile—several millenniums after their entire civilization crumbles and disappears—without redress.—Anonymous

SUBTRACTING HIS TURQUOISE eyes, William Drake, with his bronze skin and reddish-brown hair, was an everyman, a genetic admixture, a man who could fit into almost any group on the planet without standing out. Looking intently at his son James, he said, The secret used in the manufacture of the sword was passed down through the centuries from father to son, father to daughter, mother to daughter, and mother to son. From a small pile of ingots, he picked up two and handed them to the boy. This is composed of a metal alloy from our ancestors. To this we add a single drop of blood, and these, he said as he held up tiny silicon rods, monocrystalline silicon ingots.

James, a dark red-haired boy in his early teens, also with bronze skin and turquoise eyes, scrunched his upper lip and cocked his head. Monocry—what?

As he prepared the foundry, William sighed, remembering that even with the persona, James was still young, and said, Monocrystalline silicon ingots. I know, bit of a mouthful. It’s the same stuff used in computer chips. We’ll melt the alloy and the rods together, which will grow a silicon latticework throughout the blades.

What’s the blood for?

William lit the burner. I believe that it has something to do with our DNA, but I think... that neither our persona nor host memories know. All I know is that it won’t work without it. With a pin, he pricked his left ring finger, and squeezed a single drop of blood onto an ingot. He absently wiped his finger on his leather apron before he picked it up. Anyway, each time the now is right, we recreate our sword from the last one, one which our persona has become so familiar. He slipped on a pair of heavy leather gloves and picked up tongs to place a large quartz crucible into the furnace to let it heat. He waited a while until it glowed bright red, and then said, The now is right. He picked up the blood spotted ingot and carefully dropped it into the glowing crucible, then added several more, and when they had melted, several of the silicon rods, alternately adding them and the ingots until the molten metal and silicon slurry was nearly to the brim. He repositioned the two casting molds closer to the crucible, and with the tongs, removed the crucible to carefully pour its molten contents into each of the mold sprues. The alloy has certain properties that allow the molecules to align themselves into a granular structure along the spine, and a crystalline structure along the edge to channel the silicon strands into an integrated mesh, producing a blade that is light and flexible, with an edge that is exceptionally sharp. He glanced at James. A monomolecular edge, and a monocrystalline silicon latticework. As I said, I don’t understand how this all works, not even our persona knows. We’ve forgotten so much. All I know is that the silicon latticework somehow acts to interrupt the converged plasma-being, separating it from its host, and trapping it, Ghostbusters style. He chuckled, then dropped his shoulders. It is unfortunate, but the host almost always dies when the player’s essence is pulled into the sword.

James furrowed his brow. Sword? But you made two molds.

Right—well—in today’s society, we cannot exactly walk around with a sword, whereas knives and farm implements are often overlooked. One will be a kama, the other a Viking seax.

What are those?

William walked across the workshop to retrieve a pad and pen. When he returned, he sketched the weapons. The kama is a mini scythe used to cut rice. A seax, look, see how the bottom edge curves in, and the tip is along the edge? It concentrates all of the force of a strike into the point. A draw cut distributes force along— William looked at his son’s eyes, where he saw interest, but no understanding. Let’s just say that it’s better at slashing and stabbing with its point than a curved blade. Understand?

Uh huh.

Maybe the boy did not understand now, but he would be able to review his memory later to understand. He held up a small circular black stone, rubbing his thumb along its polished surface. Anyway, once the essence is separated from its host, it’s transferred to a convergence stone until we can place it in a chamber. William held the convergence stone in his left hand, staring at it, but looking deeply into his mind, into his persona’s memory to view a series of curious figures performing a ritualistic dance. He glanced at James who was now sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. It is the now. Still holding the stone, he imitated the movements while his mind went deeper into trance as he recited an ancient chant, a chant designed to achieve the perfect resonance for allowing a convergence with Greaper. A spark leapt from the stone to his finger.

A voice in his mind. It was the voice of the beast, of Greaper. It has been many years by your measure since the now I was called.

William was detached from his own mind’s voice, hearing it say what he wanted to say, but as if it was another who spoke. I felt the imbalance a few days ago, and two others, Tharga and Naktia.

Yes, it was the now of your persona’s memory, many thousands of years since I sealed them into the chamber—they swore to return when the now was right.

Images of ancient ruins flashed through his mind, ruins older than the oldest structures built by man.

We must prepare.

Memories flooded William’s mind, memories of the first host of his persona to converge with Greaper. William slipped deeply into the memory as an excruciating pain tore through his entire body.

A SMALL CROWD HAD GATHERED in the town center around the governor and his retinue to listen to his declaration. His voice was thin and haughty when he said, We are not without compassion. He paused to scan the crowd. For the Solarian Cycle Festival, we have chosen this young man, who will be forgiven his family’s debts—and released.

A tall squalid young man was standing behind and to the right of the governor, chained, manacled, and flanked by two burly guards. He was crippled, feverish, sickly and gaunt, wearing oily rags that barely covered his deeply scarred body. He listened as the governor declared his freedom, free now that he had been forgiven his family’s unpaid debts? Debts? He wanted to scream, scream his rage at the lies pouring from the man’s mouth. He dared not, even now, even though it would have come out as a garbled grunt. He dropped his head further and thought of his parents. They had disappeared ten years ago, presumed dead, and their property confiscated by the governor and his cronies. He glanced side-long at the man, the governor. Despite the time and pain of the last ten years, his mother and father’s faces still burned in his memory. Freedom? No, there would be no freedom for a cripple. He was partially blind, with a mangled tongue, nearly mute, half deaf, and with his severely damaged hands and limbs, a cripple. With his good eye, he looked around at the crowd gathered for this spectacle. They knew this charade of exile was a death sentence, but even now, even him, a mere crippled curiosity, an official execution of an indentured servant would have been questioned—so it was exile.

His dark greasy unkempt hair hid his eyes, hiding his smoldering hatred of the governor as he remembered it all. He looked around at the townspeople again. He thought that their worst sin wasn’t their gawking curiosity, it was their indifference as most of them had forgotten his parents; although, in time.... He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. In time he intended to help them remember. He had waited too many years for justice—or was it vengeance? Something deep in his mind muted his growing rage, replacing it with a calm, impassive curiosity. This thing was like a shadow memory with an observing presence, a voice that wasn’t a voice, not like his thinking voice. It did not directly control his actions, but somehow, he knew that it could if it desired. It guided him to question his motives, his purpose. Nevertheless, he had not lost his resolve—biding his time through years of agony—and with it he had survived. He had not noticed when the governor stopped speaking.

Get moving, Cripple. One guard grabbed the boy by his arm and yanked him sideways, and shoved him along the street.

This jolted him out of his thoughts and memories. He had expected jeering and laughter from the crowd, so when they did not, he was mildly surprised. He watched their blank faces. They seemed oddly content to merely watch the ragged broken curiosity as they walked alongside him, his guards goading him to move faster than his crippled limbs would allow.

AT THE EDGE OF TOWN, one of the guards positioned the boy’s hands onto a large stump while the second guard, wielding a hammer and chisel, struck the bolts that attached the chains to his manacles. After a few carefully placed blows from the hammer and chisel, they were each broken and the chains dropped. He stood and glanced down at his still intact manacles before looking at the guard.

That’s your reminder to stay out, said the guard, the one who had shoved him earlier, then shoved him again, sending him sprawling.

The young man struck the ground hard with a grunting yelp, the pain of the fall twisting his body into writhing spasms. The guard advanced and kicked him. The young man grunted, and managed to bring his knees under him, and braced his hands next to his crippled feet. The guard was about to kick him again when he scrambled to stand, and stepped and dragged himself as quickly as his crippled mangled limbs could move him. The guard grunted his approval, and watched impassively. The crowd also watched him with their strangely detached curiosity as he limped along the road from the city. A voice in his mind said something about not giving them the satisfaction of seeing him fall, seeing him crawl, so he proudly limped and dragged his crippled leg and foot, pushing himself far past exhaustion and pain, and well into the surrounding woodland. Pushing himself half a kilometer more, he waited until he was well out of view of the town before he dropped to his knees, and sick, bedraggled, and exhausted, fell over, rolled into a shallow ditch on the side of the road... and slept.

IT WAS DARK WHEN HE opened his eyes, his throat swollen and parched, his entire body aching, but otherwise numb. He briefly raised his eyebrows; for now, this moment—he did not feel pain, just the aching. How odd. He had no idea how long he had been there, and could not see very much, just enough ambient light to make out the silhouettes of trees, and looking up and over his shoulder, the edge of the road. He turned his head further and rolled partially onto his side and sniffed, earthy water, almost mud. He wriggled, pushed, and squirmed himself into a half-seated position. Pain wracked his body. There it is. Pain, he welcomed pain, not reveling in it, but taking a strange comfort in its familiarity. Pain meant he was still alive. He clenched his teeth to help block some of it as he used his backward rocking momentum to roll onto his side, and then slowly, he completed the roll onto his stomach. With his four mangled limbs underneath him, he pushed, and wriggled, and clawed his way up the slight embankment of the ditch. Reaching the top, he flopped himself over it, and one leg at a time, dragged himself completely onto the road, greedily gulping air from the effort.

It took a few minutes, but when his breathing had calmed enough, he sniffed again; it was close, the water. He pushed himself onto his knees and slowly stood. He needed water. He knew where he could find it; he knew this land as well as any; he had worked it for years, in the surrounding forest, the farmlands, in the mines, doing every foul job that even peasants refused to do. He clenched and ground his teeth thinking about it. Water, he shook his head, leaned forward slightly, and one drag-step at a time, moved toward the small creek-fed basin formed by the gnarled roots of an old oak tree. When he reached it, he let himself fall to his knees, and bracing himself as well as he could, he fell the rest of the way, pain lancing through his body when he hit. He pushed and pulled himself close enough to the surface of the water and plunged his face into it to drink. Full of mud and silt and algae, it was water, and at that moment, tasted as fresh and pure as anything he could imagine. He drank deeply until his thirst was slaked. He crawled away from the basin, dragged himself around the tree and onto the twisted roots closer to its base, curled up, and slept.

HE SLEPT FITFULLY FOR two more days, with intermittent moments of fevered wakefulness, before his fever broke sometime during his second night by the tree. He woke for a moment, and then drifted into a deeper dream-filled sleep. Cradled comfortably in the tree roots, he dreamed he was carried in his mother’s arms. She was massively strong, a bear carrying a doll. He woke with the gentle light of dawn, taking a few moments to realize that he had not been kicked awake. He looked around at the trees, at the small creek and smiled. His voice was more of a mangled utterance than words when he said, I’m free. He knew no one would have understood him, but it felt strangely good to say it, to speak freely. He crawled down from the roots, over to the water basin, and looked at himself. He knew he looked hideous, so was prepared for what he saw, a hideously crippled and broken stranger. He twisted and pushed himself into a kneeling position, still looking into the basin. He shook his head and grunted more than said, What’s your name?

He could remember his parents’ faces, but no matter how hard he tried over the years, he could not remember his own name. He looked down at his still manacled wrists, and then back at his reflection. At first, he managed only a strangled grunt. He looked away as he took a deep breath. He concentrated on his mouth, especially controlling his mangled tongue, and this time he spoke clearly enough, he thought, to be understood. Manacle, my name is Manacle.

He had watched his reflection speaking the name. Manacle, that’s fitting. He spoke again, this time slowly, and enunciating as clearly as he could. Well, Manacle, we are free. He looked around smiling, and then frowned. Free until we die, or free until... we are not free.

His reflection shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head. Yes, free. Free to die.

Manacle looked around and smiled his broken scarred smile. The forest was beautiful, luscious green trees and bushes everywhere. He could not remember contemplating beauty before. He figured that beauty, the only way to see and appreciate it, was as a free man—and it was. His stomach grumbled. And bountiful, there were plenty of berries and tubers, and with whatever he could find or catch, he just might survive. A crippled indentured servant boy learned early to eat whatever he could find, or a crippled indentured servant boy would starve. Rats, insects, fish, reptiles of every description, Manacle had learned to subsist on