In the sewers of Imperial City, Nautica trudged down a pipeline that was foul with human excrement. A woman of determined spirit, her latex body suit did little to hide the ambition burning at her core. Originally disguised as a man for the Rumrim Pirate Armada, the Imperial marauding of her ship- coupled with the looting of its booty- had aggravated her beyond measure, transforming her into an assassin against the Enterprise. She had traced the ship back to its source and followed it with a sneaky crew of vagabonds she’d picked out from among thousands of eager swashbucklers who desired to raid the Imperial capital. All of them had died off, either in the deadly minefield of the bay or at the teeth of various monstrosities living off the sewage of the city. The last one had been the worst; a giant cephalopod had surprised the remaining survivors and killed off the last two members of her crew. Its slithery tentacles had paralyzed the men as it slowly lifted their torsos into its urine-stained jaws.
The going had been rough, but according to Nautica's map of the subterranean labyrinth, she was very close to the palace at the center of it all, the palace whose orderlies had caused so much disharmony to herself, her native fleet, and the entire world: Fagan’s Palace. Her escape from the sewer reminded her that waste didn’t hold the foulest stench in the world; it was the toxicity of evil that was truly the bane of the senses. In the dungeon of the palace, she stripped herself of the body suit, revealing an intelligent face and a slim, flexible figure. Being away from the Armada for so long, she no longer dressed like a man, which allowed her otherwise concealed organs to flail about her like a wildflower after a storm.
Even though she was spotted by both a camera hidden in the wall and the highly sensitive sound-detector of a drone, she scampered down the hallway of the dungeon as if it never occurred to her that anyone might know she was trespassing. She couldn’t have known that high up in the Ruehorn Tower security guards were already buzzing the dungeon keeper, who was busy trying to decipher the mysterious recordings of his drone. Nor could she have known that other drones were already headed in her direction, automatically signaled by the odd noise coming from the sewer grill. However, she did know that Fagan’s Castle might be one of the most intensely guarded places in all the world, so she wasted no time in making sure her pistol was unlocked and ready.
Noises she was unfamiliar with made her wary. These were mainly the distant rumblings of sewer vents and the electrical mutterings of various gadgets around the castle. When she came to a clearing in the hallway, some of them grew more distinct. She spied from across an enormous hangar the approaching of security androids that hovered in the air. The color of the air was fitting for the daunting ambience: a dry, dark blue. The color of the androids held a sharp contrast to it; they were a snowy white, making them seem out of place in a palace of horrors.
Nautica turned around and went through the nearest door, making her way through the passages of Fagan’s Castle. The possibility of a surprise attack kept her on her heels, attentive to any danger that would lead to mortal doom. The rooms of the castle were anything but conventional. One room sported a collection of glow-in-the-dark skeletons, their plethora of neon captivating her in austere dread. Their empty eye-sockets seemed to puncture through her soul, invading her sense of orientation and confidence. Brief as this moment was, she recovered from the unsettling boneyard of death, making her way into another room containing a well that was brimming with a black, oily substance with red dots rolling about the waves. The liquid was boiling, and through its magma-like bubbles there oozed the fleeting ghouls of tortured spirits that popped into the air and vanished into the unknown darkness behind the walls. In the next room there revolved a series of electric pulses of lasers, like strobes at a nightclub. They all converged briefly on a pathway that ascended higher into the palace before making their kaleidoscopic rounds again.
At the top of the pathway, Nautica came to a preservation tank of towering mushrooms. The mushrooms were enhanced by phosphorescent colors on their heads. Some of them had trunks that were decorated with stainless glass window depictions of wild fauna. All the mushrooms were bordered by Christmas lights, providing a luminosity that was both powerful and mesmerizing. As she weaved her way through this forest of illuminated fungi, she couldn’t help but feel a little awestruck by the strange castle and its contents. Soon it began snowing, but it wasn’t really snow- just puffs of cotton being churned by massive convection vents on the sides of the tank, making them swarm around each other in the air. The only way out of the tank seemed to be through the top, and to get there she had to climb the lights on the tallest of these mushrooms: a lanky one that stood in the corner. A tower within a tower, she thought.
Once she reached the top of the mushroom, several lasers nearly fried her feet, causing her to slip and fall on its oily surface. She looked back and detected several drones gliding towards her through the mushroom forest. There came a muffled sound of telecommunication coming from them, so she guessed that the Castle Guard was finally onto her. Quickly she gathered her footing, scrambling up the remainder of the slippery shroom. Luckily, she was able to reach the vent at the corner of the tank just before the next round of lasers reached her. She squeezed through the vent and became molested by the next storm of cotton. She fell to the ground and rolled through, all the way into the engineer room, where the automatic recyclers pumped their cylinders. Here she took a break from the action to gather her composure. She noticed a map of the castle on a wall nearby; that was when she realized how close she was.
Up she went, through art galleries that contained paintings of mutilated carcasses and rooms that had medieval torture devices. Other rooms were filled with sarcophagi and the tanks of nocturnal critters along the walls. When she finally reached the door that the map had led her to, she gritted her teeth and licked her lips with the moisture of destiny. The dark room before her beheld an ominous laboratory of things she couldn't even begin to guess were about. In the middle of it there was an elongated table that held the apparatuses of many different experiments. Sinks, test tubes, Bunsen burners, and steamy pots of chemical compositions lay across the table, leaving none of its surface visible.
On the far wall was a pantheist shrine that was bordered by razorblades. An emerald Buddha sat at its bottom, which held a yin-yang sculpted from the Holy Mountains in its lap. Outstretched above it was the flayed body of Jesus on a crucifix: a centerpiece from the Crosswinds. Above that there glowed a red star of David, flanked by two illuminated menorahs. On the sides of the shrine, there were depicted several Hindu mandalas, each with dancing deities in their centers. Voodoo Dolls, chalices, totem poles, prayer flags, and wooden carvings of famous saints were displayed all across the shelves on the walls. Various texts were displayed on pedestals that stood before them: namely the Upanishads, the I-Ching, the Bible, the Avesta, and the Zohar, among others.
At the end of the room, reclining before the warmth of an ornate fireplace, a Rastafarian Prince sat reading. It was him, Prince Fagan, the schizophrenic ruler of the city, the mad chemist who had changed the world forever. When he turned to face her, there churned butterflies in her stomach, not because of his intimidating prestige but because of a recollection from her past. This was the same man she’d fallen in love with back in Rumrim, a man who'd ransacked her ship and stole everything she had ever owned, heaviest of all her heart.
“Be wary of the ghosts in the halls,” he said.
“It can’t be you!”
“But it can...”
A sly grin appeared on the prince’s face. Nautica was aware of his capacity for manipulation. She took no chances and reached for the pistol that was strapped onto her ankle by the nylon she wore underneath her body suit. She cocked it, releasing a grin that entirely failed to unnerve him. Fagan just laughed ominously, sending shivers down her spine. He knew she couldn’t shoot him.
“Instead of shooting me you'd be better off marrying me, Nautica.” He smiled again. “Marry me, and together we will rule the Empire.”
Her legs weakened. She had loved him once. It had been years since he had betrayed her, and years of hatred they were. There is nothing more frightening than a broken heart turned to furious scorn, especially that of a woman. Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned. Some poet had written that lovely bit of language centuries ago, but his name was forgotten. It was true though; the hatred that brewed inside her gave her life, fuel, gasoline. It made her feel alive. New goals made life worth living; goals shaped by the fury of revenge, and its mighty perseverance gave her enough strength to maintain her poise.
“After all you’ve done to me, my people, and my nation? The robberies, the rapes: your assault on my soul. How could you ask a question like that?”
The dark prince’s electric hair alighted the strange room with its mysterious aura as he bellowed into another uproarious laugh. That a mere woman had infiltrated his city, his palace, and made it all the way to the top unharmed; that it was the same woman he had once loved and lost, drove him mad with unbridled longing. Men want what they can’t have, especially princes. They live for challenges, and this one was promising to be his most ultimate yet- even more than conquering the whole western hemisphere.
“Your people didn't die in vain. They made sacrifices for the glory of our empire. Stand by me and we'll rid the entire world of war, famine, and suffering.”
“Those are all things you've caused your whole life. Why should I believe you? You can’t trick me this time, Fagan. I can see right through your bullshit.”
“Do you think killing me will solve anything? There are always successors. It’s the nature of power, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” He lowered himself to one knee, begging for her to love him as she used to.
Nautica lowered the gun and smiled; she had him now. “You’re right, Fagan. That’s why I’m leaving you.” He still loved her; she could see that. Walking out of his life would hurt him more than anything. Her vengeance was subtle, but effective. He could see that she had planned it all along, in whatever form they'd meet again- worst of all now- and when he realized it, his sly grin turned to a frown of disbelief.
“I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the Earth, you insipid little wench!” Then the Castle Guard broke into the room. “Guards, seize her!” But it was too late, she was already gone. Her image had disappeared from their very eyes. She had been a hologram; another ghost, as Fagan had put it, roaming the ancient palace. In actuality she had only used a laser projector she’d found in the engineer room to make herself appear real. Now she was on the move, retreating from the palace with every breath of the long, independent life that lay ahead of her.
Years ago they had been inseparable. Fagan had even considered renouncing his pledge of royalty for her. Even if he didn’t still love her, she would have busted open the door and killed him anyway. Or would she? Revenge is a two-headed snake. Who’s to say that her hatred wouldn’t have retreated into pity, and then into love again? One thing is certain; no matter which choice she'd have made, her actions would never solve the riddles of her heart. You can love horrible people, even if you’re not one yourself.
She never contacted him again. Her satisfaction was only temporary, but time would heal the remaining pain she felt because of him. However, Fagan's hatred would only reinforce the bottled-up emotions, denials, and insecurities that made him a ruthless dictator to begin with. They consumed him like it would any other predator. His schizophrenia worsened: the voices were louder, his doubts greater, his isolation more pronounced. His mental stability would quickly deteriorate into full blown madness. The world would never quite figure out why the brilliant and powerful prince spent the rest of his life in the city’s Asylum.
This is the quiet power women have over men. They can undermine a whole empire without even striking a blow.
