The Last Dinner

It is common knowledge in some circles—the circles one rarely wishes to get involved in if one is not already involved in by force or fate—that there is a class of weapons that brings combat to a halt. These arms are not any classical spawn of conventional warfare: stick begets bigger stick and so on until the victor stands atop their scorched spoils, having lost as much as they had gained. These weren’t hastily planned in reaction to any other weapon, amor, or stratagem. They were created for the sake of art and war as art. The cost to own such a marvelous tool varies by degrees of magnitude but no customer ever disputes it once the price is set. The most certain odds become impenetrably obscure once one of these weapons enters the fray. The enemies who escape with their lives are rarely willing, if able, to describe what has happened to their fallen comrades. Every instrument, a pure, elegant, expression of genius. No two are alike, but all bear the fabled insignia, one whose language is long dead but whose meaning is unmistakable. It is the mark of the creator, Drahomir. In his youth, he was the unrivalled expert in biology and weapon design. Determined to put an end to the senseless death of his own species, he had begun studies his studies in modern warfare, as soon as he was eligible to pick a path in education and service, vowing to eradicate the remaining threats to Ourobonozhka society. He had an unparalleled intellect and was a loyal patriot, as well as an adamant student of worldly culture. As could be predicted, he was eventually invited to occupy a seat on the governing council. He eagerly accepted, knowing full well the titillating perks of power. After a year or so in office, with the considerable boon to productivity due to the endless resources his position received, he had finally completed work on his newest masterpiece, a biological weapon to change the course of modern warfare. A sort of living grenade, it could be programmed with the genetic code of the species using it. Then, after activation hundreds of leaping leeches would spring from inside, latching onto any living body in radius that did not possess the programmed genetic code. After latching on, the parasites would lay eggs immediately. The eggs would hatch in less than a minute and the second generation would emerge, equipped with wings and a haemotoxic venom. After stinging their victims the second generation would quickly drop dead and the battlefield would turn quiet as the last throats closed and last hearts ceased to pump.

He was invited to unveil his invention at a secret party, normally restricted to only the eldest members of government. The dinner was civil and filled with lively political debate and old war stories but there was a sense of uneasiness in the room, centred around Drahomir, a fidgeting from elders whom he had never seen lose their poise. At the end of the penultimate course, the oldest and longest elder Drahomir had ever seen slowly coiled into the room, and everything was silent except for the clacking of the hundreds of legs and sound of the dry belly being dragged across the floor. He took his seat at the head of the table and the kitchen, which hadn’t stopped churning out food and drink all night fell silent as well as the chefs were ushered out the back. Two elders exchanged glances and looked at Drahomir before entering the kitchen and returning with a golden food cooler that spanned the length of the hundred foot table. It was passed down until the end reached the Grand Elder. Some at the table looked anxious but most couldn’t take their eyes off of the seam of the cooler, drooling with a youthful lust over its mysterious contents in a way that Drahomir had never seen anyone over the age of eighty do, let alone any of the composed and restrained elders, most of whom were nearing their second millennia. A signal was given and the lid was ceremoniously removed, revealing; to the shock of none but Drahomir; thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of newborn infants, glistening and squirming, crying and gasping. None of them could have been over a month old and some even seemed prematurely hatched.

“My revered friends and colleagues,” began the Grand Elder, “Let this sacrifice go not in vain. Their weakness become our strength, their ignorance become our wisdom, their death become our life; their youth become our youth.”

“Their youth become our youth,” echoed the other fifty or so elders. Then the Grand Elder rose to his full height, towering over seventy feet above the table, though teetering a bit, and dove into the cooler, using his legs to shovel scores of infants a second into his mouth. Greyish blue blood smeared the walls in a violent slosh and as he reached the end, the section of the cooler where he began was uncovered and the elders at that end of the table began ravenously devouring, slurping and crunching. The Grand Elder leapt off out of the other end and crawled straight up the wall until nearly completely upside down on the ceiling before stopping to catch his breath, then scurrying down and wrapping all the way around the table and returning again to his seat at the head of the table, a feat that would have been impressive even for someone a quarter his age. He sat and began to concentrate on something, though Drahomir couldn’t tell what, and was in too much shock to speculate. Then the Grand Elder backed slowly up the wall, pushed his most hind legs off from the wall so that his behind was dangling in front of his face. A clear pocket of fluid began to form at the end of his body, a biological change everyone experiences during maturation, between 25 and 50 years old, but never in someone past their nineties. As the last of the infants were devoured and the cooler licked clean, the other Elders began to do the same. Then each sprouted another pair of legs from the fluid filled sacks. Age cracks began mending and the air pulsed with young sweat.

“Our newest guest seems bewildered. Did you miss the chance to partake entirely, young Drahomir? Do not worry. You are still young and in another decade, you’ll again have your chance to share in the finest delight of power: ageless youth eternal! I’m informed you have a weapon that will revolutionise the way we see combat. Perhaps even finally put an end to the pests that plague the cities on the outer ring?” The Grand Elder’s voice boomed across the room and landed with a clap in Drahomir’s ears and chest. The room’s eyes sprung and snapped tight to him. He was now trembling with more rage and disgust than he knew could even be felt by one mind or heart alone. He rose from his place and knowing words would fail him, he bolted for the kitchen. He heard a roar so deep and thunderous it could only have been from the Grand Master, followed by metal clangs and ceramic cookware crashing on the floor. He didn’t look back until he got to his lab but the power had been shut off. He crawled through the third story window and raced to turn on the power generator in the basement. Barricading the weakest set of doors with one end of his body, he attempted to contact his younger siblings to warn them of the danger and inform them of what he’d seen. There was no response and when he hung up the comm, he caught a glimpse of the news display. “Rogue Terrorist: Former Elder Drahomir evades authorities. Guilty of infanticide, treason, and conspiracy to commit genocide. Militia called to action.” He heard the sudden sound of the outer gates and fences crashing down. There wasn’t enough time to disable the automatic defence systems and a hundred, then two hundred young civilians, most barely a century old, were mowed down. Another hundred dissolved before he could cut the power. Single handedly he had been responsible for the largest mass murder of his people in the history of the planet. It took him mere minutes to become an even worse monster than the one all over the news.

He narrowly escaped the masses that charged down his doors by way of a tunnel he had built below his basement. Meanwhile the elders continued to call in more support. There was no greater threat to their power than the release of this truth and they could always rebuild anything they lost as heroes, remembered for their sacrifice and decisive action in a time of danger. Drahomir was hunted for days but avoided surveillance long enough to find his sister’s house. If there was anyone he could trust and who would believe him it would have been her, his twin, with whom he shared a bond that he knew could not be shaken. When she saw his face though, she did not ask for explanation or attempt consolation. She charged at him with a terrified blood rage. He was forced to kill her and in so doing, lost his last attachment to his planet. The only thing he loved had been taken from him in the cruelest fashion. And the Elders were singularly to blame. He raced to the laboratory, activated the penultimate protocol from outside the gates, clearing all remaining militia from the area. More hell bent on his task with every step, he stormed into the doors and into the lab, slashing down every combatant in his path. He equipped himself with the full stock of biological grenades he had manufactured and programmed them to know the code of only one. An unstoppable force, he hunted down every last elder and consumed the body of each, an ancient post-mortem ritual of war and the greatest disgrace one could bestow upon an enemy. When it was all over, Drahomir had grown by twice his previous length. The last wave of militia died attempting tunnel into Drahomir’s lab from below, not expecting the subterranean minefield. Even if a few children somewhere survived, the planet was no longer fit to raise young. And there was no one there left to raise them. Within a year, Drahomir started and finished building a spacecraft that got him off the desecrated planet and delivered one last Parthian payload before searching the stars for a new start.

art credit, story collaboration: Declan McVerry