"welded" poem/chapter 1

Ancient poem from Techno poet Virgil

“The sword I hold in my hand,

Many metals did shape,

They were scattered across the land

Made orange in furnace agape

The fire brazened and burned

But the metal twisted and turned

When in this pain for them so sour,

(they were left in dower,)

But finally, came the hour-

When the fire’s work was done,

The sharpening had begun.

And when finally when all sharpeners bid adeu,

These metals were shaped anew,

And the welding, at last, was through.”

Chapter 1-Crudelis

I am a dead man. Every breath I have taken has been a defiance of some sort of natural law on one of the three realms, but usually those laws are not enforced by the state. Emphasis on usually. Painfully ironic, considering the fact that I am, or I was, the state.

I wore the crown, the cape, the septer, the cold stoic gaze. I was “The iron hand”. The “steel eagle,” whose sight and speed destroyed all who dared oppose me, who conquered worlds as easily as a predator capturing prey. I was Crudelis, god-emperor of the Technos, a proud and metallic people from the planet Eyrne.

The ungrateful fatherland that allowed me to become its leader has chewn me up and spat me out as a mutilated monster, a husk, a horror, a heinous, a half-being.

That is my lot. That is the life I was told to live. And now, here I am, forced to linger on. A liar to the only one who is able to look at me with a quiet sense of happiness.

My angel. My Amsterdam. My precious little weevil grub that I have raised-God curse me!-to be a cog in the system. To play the senate's games, just like her old man.

“Follow the senate’s advice,” I would say to her.

“We’re here today because of the senate.” was another common one I would gently tell her.

With nothing better to do, she believed my every word.

I believed it too, until that fateful day in our exact replica of Pompey’s theatre. They-the senators, who had once raised me and who I once loved like a son loves a father-surrounded me, my empire, and my family, not with knives, but with papers. And the way they cut and sliced my world with only paper, my God.

They were an apologetic bunch of snakes, full of “changed plans” and “shifting times.”

Was being the men behind the curtain not enough for them? Was all I was to them just a public embodiment of their plans and ambitions for the Technos? I will answer my own question-yes.

After the talk, my sad little walk out of the building would have been humiliating enough on its own-what-with my pathetic sign I was supposed to carry around for a week to fully communicate the new order loudly. I still remember, in big, red letters, with clean and crisp precision. These were words only those who had been taught how to write by scholars in schools of civics and government would be able to pen. That damn sign told the world: “non iam imperator, ecce, Roma, vir iners.” or to those of nymph make, or even the fleshbags that managed to stumble across this incoherent ramble, “No longer emperor. Behold, Eyre, an unemployed man.”

That on its own is horrible.

But, I could have gone home, made something up to appease Amsterdam, tell her that we were going on a super-secret mission and that we would have to disguise ourselves as common folk, wear normal clothes, and see how long we could go without food. I’d tell her it was all a game and we could move on with our now miserable lives.

But I can’t have nice things, can I?

Only a couple stadia from our palace, the smothering billboards that towered above everywhere you tread in the great city of Technotropolis flashed and screeched a violent red and white.

I dropped the sign. My mouth stood agape for only a moment as the woman walking past me stared. How could she not?

Apparently the deep state changed its mind. I wouldn’t be allowed to exist anymore, according to the frantic senator-Cassius-who screamed into the microphone.

I was now a wanted man. One million denarii for me, and 50 thousand for Amsterdam would be given to whoever would turn us in. As the woman who was walking next to me crowed hysterically and tried to run after me, I thought only of how insulted I was that our bounties were so low.

Especially hers. Those donkeys wouldn’t know a ray of sunshine like her walked in their midst if she hit them on the head.

I managed to get into the palace fine. Titus and Trajan, my beloved guard captains, just shrugged at the gate.

“What’s it now sire? Them alarms certainly don’t sound nice in me hearers”

Beautiful idiot Trajan, if only you knew.

“Oh my loyal guards! If only you knew the half of it.”

I am rather charismatic when I need to be.

“You’re wanted for a pretty penny!”

Titus was a perfect little mouse-like techno, frightened by the prospect of his cheese-giver vanishing.

“Indeed! Whoever turns me in would be as rich as Marcus Crassus himself!”

Lies. aaaaaaaaal lies.Crassius wouldn’t have done it for triple the denarii. Lies are so natural to me it’s frightening. But I continued.

“But I know you boys wanna secure your place in the history books as much as the next guys. And here’s your chance to do it. You and the other guards block off the troops ‘til nightfall, and when the clock strikes one in the morning, let ‘em in.”

Trajan spoke first.

“Anything for you crudelis.”

Titus chimed:

“It’s been an honour.”

I could’ve broken down crying in front of them. I loved all of them so much it stung. For them to most certainly die (from the mob's fury at not being able to make some money)with me like lemmings tears and rips my heart into a thousand pieces. They deserved much better to have a liar as emperor.

And now, in my place as central liar, from which all lies flowed like a spilt casket of nutrius, (sole foodsource of the planet) these noble men would be getting a bureaucracy of liars, making for more spilt caskets than one, increasing the lies by a hundred fold.

The next few hours until one flew by like a blur. Most of the court suspected what was going on, understandably. Most got their things together quickly, and most had the common sense to get the heck out of that cursed place, but a few stayed.

My most strong, loyal, and stupid hung around- Six were the remnant. They couldn’t see the writing on the wall. No one has told them that following me would give you almost guaranteed pain. Or more likely, they all probably knew well, but chose not to leave me out of pity.

Either way, all our suitcases were loaded onto the space train I had loaned from the senate, and we were off on an adventure to somewhere they won’t find us. We were off, like the ancient proverb states, to be burned, bruised, and reshaped. We would be, not by choice, welded together.