Edicts



  Edicts.

  By S. R. Laubrea

  Contents

  Ignorance.

  Penalty.

  Harbinger.

  Disquiet.

  Truth.

  Restless.

  Edicts.

  Etc:

  Author Stuff.

  Ignorance.

  Ada; The great city of Justice; home and hearth to Pephistofar. Here the laws of Em-Gaiea were ratified. All of them, every single one that dictated acceptable social behaviour, and those that exacted precise punishment for unethical practices.

  Ada is the place where, if and when Pephistofar says 'spitting on the street is a crime,' you'd best not spit on any street. She has ways of finding things out. Her eyes are everywhere. Her ears hear all things.

  There is no privacy; nowhere in Em-Gaiea is safe; gods bless the Law.

  There was a joint that opened around midnight and stayed open only four hours. Out of a week, it was opened only two nights, and from week to week those nights varied.

  It was a clubhouse of sorts, an unnamed chain of bars in secluded, inconspicuous locations. I liked to attend when it came my way, opening at the place near where Naeyr and I stayed.

  We were staying in a two bedroom apartment. How we managed to keep it for the several months we had been in Ada was beyond me. We were penniless, and yet every time the landlord came to collect rent, she passed our place as if it was vacant.

  Do I believe in providential coincidences?

  When 11:45 popped up on the digital clock, I had only slipped my arms into the sleeves of my coat, when Naeyr rounded the open door frame of her bedroom.

  She appeared to be of Ptongaic descent: stringy jet black locks and pale skin with an off-white, creme hue with a gentle yellowish tinge. She had those narrowed, sexy eyes with the upward slant in the corners featured in a soft, rounded face.

  Her visage was one of concern. "Jaime," she said, "You shouldn't go tonight."

  I shot her a skeptical glance. It was the first time she had expressed something other than rigid indifference. "Why?"

  Her expression worsened. "The role of this god of Em-Gaiea's does not favor you."

  "So?" I either don't believe her, or I don't care.

  Her visage changed. Her lips leveled and her eyes reflected that apathetic gleam. "Suit yourself," she said, "Then say 'I was not warned!'" She ducked back into her room and shut the door. Meditating, I presume. She doesn't like to be disturbed.

  Whatever. I'm still furious with her, because she wouldn't respect me when I wanted out of this whole 'thing'. I had thought that deities respected a thing called 'free will'. I guess I was wrong.

  The allies are dark, lit by the occasional wall-mounted lamp. They're dim, dimmer than modern street lights. The entrance looks no different than any given business. An abandoned-looking place, the red brick a touch rundown and grime-y, faded, chipped. The door itself was cedar, with a tiny window, and in that window hung the sign 'Condemned'.

  These establishments took place in buildings that were to be torn down. Buildings that were about three stories tall, that were connected to other establishments. Like a chain mall. Despite the city having condemned the one section, they couldn't quite tear it down, as the joints the condemned section was attached to were up to code and thriving.

  To tear it down required more investment than it was worth.

  Ada was a typical city in that regard.

  The door wasn't locked. I waltz in, like I always do, and head up to the second floor, where the bar and lounge are. The basement is where the games happen. Card games, nerdy stuff. The third floor is reserved for VIPs. Masterminds; people pioneering philosophy; those who spread the propaganda; who advocate; who inform prospective ones of our cause; alerting receptive people to our way.

  "Jaime!" the bartender waves me over.

  If there's anything I love about this place, it's always the music. Jazz-y sounding stuff. The 'tiss' of the drums, and hollow 'boom' of the symphonic bass. It's an upright thing, like the traditional orchestral bass, but it's electric, like the electric guitar. Plugged into the speakers with an amp, the bassist sits on a stool and plucks away, while the drummer rolls the beat.

  "So what news from the inside world?" I ask.

  The 'tender pulls a mug, and after filling it with lager, offers it to me. "Eh. Still trying to get the city to see that the role of the gods, particularly Pephistofar, is unnecessary in determining right from wrong via divine mandates."

  I reject the beer with a wave.

  "No?"

  "You know me."

  "That's right." He takes a bottle of vodka from behind the counter, and kahlua syrup. Pouring a mixture of these two, a third of a mug of vodka, a fourth of it kahlua, the rest is orange soda, and he slides it to me.

  I take one gulp, and snap my fingers. I love the stuff.

  "What about you? Lay that roomie of yours yet."

  "No." I shake my head. "Don't think I want to. She claims that she's divine. Yet she despises gods."

  He cocks a brow. "Odd."

  "She also mentioned something bad was going to happen tonight. I swear, she's delusional. That's why I don't want to get my cock anywhere near —"

  Something booms downstairs, like the door swinging off of its hinges and thudding on the floor. There's the rush of feet, the clack of boots.

  There's the soft squeal of something charging. Then with a multitude of blasting sounds, the music comes to an abrupt stop. The bassist, the drummer, hell, everyone seated in the lounge slumps or otherwise falls over dead like thrown rag dolls caught in a volley of bullets.

  At that point my heart was racing so fast that everything seemed to happen in slowed time. While I'm in mid-leap over the counter, a charged, narrow beam pierces the bartender's head. He snaps back, and drops under the bar, dead.

  I fall on my ass, kicking wildly, damn near hugging my head in my trembling hands.

  The hell do I do!? I dive into the kitchen. A solitary window reads 'in case of fire, break glass.' At once I hurl a pot through it, and jump.

  The fire escape is a narrow passage, the metal stairs are rusted and rickety. Rushing down seems a terrible idea. Still, I make it —

  Into a dumpster. The stairs buckled and I fell through. The trash is so old its stench is more rank and putrid than anything I've ever encountered before. A stabbing, malicious odor.

  I wade through. I climb out. I cough. I puke. I immediately take off running.

  Half way back, there's a headline on one of the LED billboards, and I stare in morbid awe:

  God-hating cult exposed and executed. Praise Pephistofar!

  Penalty.