Jess Lebow - The Darksteel Eye

Alone in his laboratory, Memnarch closed the latch on the arm cuff and finished strapping himself in. A giant humming construct covered by tubes and funnels crouched high over his bulbous frame.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Everything is working properly.”

Memnarch eyed the straps and glittering lights covering the artifact.

“So much effort for something so simple,” he said. “Would it have taken so much if you had built it?”

He listened.

“I thought not.”

He cleared his throat and fingered a tiny lever. Gargantuan articulated arms on the back of the device unfolded then unfolded again. They moved with a practiced precision, a simple grace that belied their size and the bulky tubes attached. The metallic limbs enveloped Memnarch in his cushioned restraints. They buzzed with magical power.

“You see that,” he said, admiring the leather straps that held his body. “These bonds, Memnarch, endure in your name. The self-imprisonment of worship. If ever you doubted, now you know. Memnarch is a true disciple.”

Memnarch’s right appendage moved. Three red beams issued from each of the mechanical arms, crisscrossing his flesh. Tiny pinpricks of light moved over his skin, illuminating the tissues and vessels underneath with an eerie orange glow. A soft click echoed through the laboratory, and the arms shook a bit as they locked into place.

“But you never doubted. Memnarch knows.”

Memnarch closed his eyes and leaned his head back into a padded cradle. The soft curve held him firmly, and for a brief moment, the being strapped inside his device relaxed, breathing a gentle sigh. This would be the most peaceful instant of his day, and he wanted to enjoy it. In that brief moment, there would be a balance of pleasure and pain, darkness and light, good and evil.

After that, there would be work to do.

With a deep breath, Memnarch focused on the mana that would start the infusion. He felt the warm glow of power flow up his spine and out his finger tips, and he braced himself against the restraints. The hum of magic filled his ears then the sound of bubbles coursing through thick liquid filled his laboratory.

The serum transference began.

The magical process did not hurt, but the infusion was not without pain. The liquid was thick, thicker than his blood, and it took a while to enter his blood stream. As it crossed from the storage vessels into his body, he could feel the strain on his body. It felt almost as if he were drowning but from the inside out.

Slowly the serum made its way through his body. When it hit his heart it burst into flame, and he felt as if he were being burned alive, an excruciating pleasure that both exhilarated and tormented him. This was the moment he had built the artifact for-the reason he strapped himself in before each dose. After several pumps of his heart, his whole body was flooded with the serum. It hadn’t been like this before. It hadn’t taken so much effort, but he hadn’t needed so much of the serum then.

Every muscle tightened as he tried to hold back the unbearable pleasure. He screamed, or at least he thought he screamed, lost in the overwhelming sensation that he couldn’t honestly say what the rest of his body did while he suffered. After a moment more, the fire entered his brain, and he opened his eyes.

Every morning he followed the same ritual. Rarely did he see anything-nothing definitive. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. The dark gray tiles lining the floor of his laboratory swirled together with the blue of the walls. Light coming through an enormous window mixed in reds and yellows. The artifacts, weapons, and scrying instruments inside his laboratory were invisible through the pleasure. What Memnarch saw resembled a puddle of liquid silver, reflecting and distorting the colors of Mirrodin.

“Master, you’ve come.”

Memnarch held his eyes open, fearing that if he blinked the distorted image before him would disappear.

Then the burning would peak, climbing to the point where it could get no better-or no worse.

Lingering at the height of pleasure and pain, he held his breath. The serum’s effects receded slowly, leaving him soaked with the memory of its presence.

As the burning slipped away, turning back into a knife blade and drifting again into the dull sting of an insect, it revealed to Memnarch a new power. His mind became clearer, his thoughts more brilliant, his understanding of all things more perfect. His overlarge, bulbous felt more nimble, less burdensome, more alive. His four hydraulically enhanced limbs felt stronger, and his six magically perfected eyes now revealed the true secrets of the world.

The tears ran away, clearing his sight-his vision of the creator, his master, slipping away. The floor and walls took shape. His scrying pedestal rose up from the ground, cradling in its basin a pool of silvery liquid, and the massive window that formed one whole wall of his laboratory came back into view. Beyond it, the glowing blue-white ball of pure mana at the center of Mirrodin pulsed, and its rays warmed his face.

Memnarch gazed out the window. Crystal-shaped chrome spires rose up from the curved ground, reaching for the mana core like plants to a sun.

“Odd how organic life copies artifice,” he said. “Is it the same on all the other planes?”

He listened.

“Yes, that is what Memnarch thought.”

The door slid open, and a figure entered the room. It was a metallic bipedal creature, similar in shape to the elves or humans of the outer world-noticeably lacking the enhancements and improvements Memnarch had given himself.

Memnarch recognized the creature immediately. “Malil,” he said. “Come in. Come in.”

“Is everything all right, Master? I heard screaming.”

Memnarch maneuvered controls, and the articulated arms withdrew. The straps holding his body inert during the ritual released, and the device let out a long slow hiss.

“Yes, yes, everything is fine, just fine. Is it not?” Memnarch scuttled across the floor toward his servant, the tips of his metallic crablike legs clicking as they tapped the stone tiles, the base of his gigantic abdomen dragging along behind him. “Thank you for asking us.” He could feel the muscles in his back relax and a sensation of simple calm wash away the last remnants of exhilaration from the infusion.

Malil stepped to one side, looking past Memnarch at the huge device.

Memnarch watched Malil examine the device. He smiled at the metal man’s obvious wonderment. Pride swelled within him, and he looked down on Malil’s face-a face nearly identical to his own.

“He is curious,” said Memnarch, looking away from Malil. “Shall we tell him what we have created?”

Malil turned to Memnarch and blinked. “Yes, Master.” He turned back to the device. “What does it do?”

Memnarch smiled. “Many things, Malil. Many things.”

“What kinds of things?”

Memnarch crossed his laboratory again. Looking into a glass funnel full of milky white liquid, he stroked it gently as if it were a favored pet. “To begin,” he said, not turning away from the device as he spoke, “it harvests and stores blinkmoth serum. Is not that right?”

Malil stood completely still, not making a sound.

Memnarch laughed, slowly at first. The problems he had faced only the day before seemed trivial now. Why had he been so concerned over such insignificant thoughts? His laughter became hysterical, and his body convulsed.

“Is not … is not … is not that … wonderful?” he asked between breaths.

“Yes, Master,” replied Malil.

Memnarch abruptly stopped laughing.

“Why must we be surrounded by such puny minds?” he said, slamming his fist against the edge of the device. “On one side Memnarch is in the presence of greatness, on the other, the presence of nothing.” Lifting himself to his full height, he moved around to the control unit, touching one of the arms. “Yes, yes, Memnarch knows. You are right.”