Chapter 14: Iceman, Shackled, Ashamed, Displayed
Of how Iceman ended up activating the URL that Numberman set up, and was transported to its destination without the knowledge of anyone around him, it is difficult to answer. Iceman did not remember the exact details; all he knew what that the great blast of the multiple time bombs of Numberman produced a shockwave, against which his small body could not mount adequate resistance, and disoriented him. Fallen somewhere away from his friends, he then tried to regain some balance, but failing to do so, fumbled around for some support, found one in the wall nearby, and stood up. Once this was achieved, he tried to rejoin other navis in search of safety, but his sight remained unfocused. All he could see were blurred outlines of objects, some of which must have been navis that he knew, but the exact direction toward them was incalculable. All he could determine was that there was something to his right and to his left, but nothing in the middle. The silhouettes of what shadows he could perceive fluctuated, barring him from making any form of informed guesses. Therefore, betting on the right side, because that was the 'lucky direction' of Tory Froid, his operator, and also because he had unwavering faith in his operator, he bet his fate on the speculation that his friends were the shadows on his right. He walked slowly along the wall, depending on it for his balance. When he finally reached his destination, he extended his arm to grab what was in front of him, thinking it was Roll, Rockman, or perhaps Glyde, the polite and civilized netnavi of Yaito. Instead, he felt his existence warping, a familiar sensation of long-distance travel that he experienced when he utilized a VPN for Tory.
Iceman was thrown into the unknown. The destination was not a pleasant place of wonder as to how Tory's favorite adventure stories tended to begin. When the effects of concussion faded away, what he saw was a small confinement, of very dark neon green, with a low ceiling without an exit.
'Tory...I, I don't like this place...Tory...'
Iceman noted that even an external hard drive or USB was more spacious than this, which he had many chances of working with due to him being shared with Dr. Seiji Froid, the father of Tory Froid and also the chief engineer in the Waterworks facility, adjacent to Scilab. There were no portals to the external network or other parts of whatever circuit he was in, indicating that the URL he just activated was a one-way ticket.
'Tory, how do I go back to you?'
In retrospect, he should have chosen neither left nor right when fate put him on the biforked path. The realization of this truth caused a great regret to swell up in him. The fact that Iceman was installed with a timid and cowardly personality, which Dr. Froid chose for his gentle Tory Froid who was a great introvert, did not help the situation either. Iceman, not remaining calm, aimlessly paced here and there trying to find a clue that would send him home.
"Oh, no... oh, no...no...no..."
From his experience, Iceman knew that prisons, containments, and quarantines were never made with good intentions for those placed inside, but for some benefit of those outside. He was clearly inside something, and it seemed preferable to him that he be placed outside to avoid whatever fortune that was awaiting inside. To Iceman's despair, no fault could be found on the ceiling, nor on the walls, nor on the floor. The entire place was seamless. In an animalistic desperation, Iceman continued to inspect the places he had already inspected, again and again. Along the edges, he went, in a neverending circular path, like his neverending circular panic.
"This one shows every marking of subpar intelligence, Yahoot. Look, just look at it, acting like a mouse in an enclosure, doing the same thing yet expecting a different result. Is the URL truly closed? Is this everything Mr. Yamitaro is sending us?"
A bitter voice of an old man was heard, accusing him of unintelligence and insanity. Iceman's heart sank before the pure malice that he faced for the first time in his short existence.
"My lord, it is a matter that can be easily elucidated by some interrogations."
Another voice answered the first voice. It was far more pleasant in tone, smooth and tenor, but its suggestions were equally, if not more, malicious than the first one. Iceman trembled.
"Ah, but, what does that matter? Can we even categorize that...thing as fourth? The sample size of our experiment is already minuscule, and an outlier like this one always has to be trimmed out in the end, not yielding any useful results. Mr. Yamitaro has truly sent us something useless, just like him!"
"My lord! It is not so! If you are so inclined to hear my humble opinion, please consider this! Intelligence is not the only metric in the calculation of the complexity of the mind; emotion is an important component. Had it only been the intelligence that mattered, then subjects of category three would not have fared any better than the subjects of category two, for out-of-the-box custom navis are not the most brilliant minds. Observe, my lord, the thing trembles, showing fear! Surely we can place him in the fourth category, and our efforts would not be wasted!"
"Emotions! Complexity! But do I believe that? Emotion is the ruin of all men! Oh, Yahoot, of course I know that the matter is about our subjects' resistance to the effects of dreams..."
"Indeed, my lord. The whole point of the experiment of category four is to contact that 'we know who' and gain some clarity into the situation that the experiment of category three cannot give us-"
"But, Yahoot, the fact is that emotions can be used to resist the godforsaken dreams. No, the trouble is that both intelligence and emotions seem to be capable of resisting that hideous being, but do I believe that? Do I believe that? Why should it be so? Why not intelligence alone? Why should emotion be so powerful?" In great agitation, the old man continued at the top of his voice: "Very well, Yahoot, we will use this thing, of which the only redeeming point is its emotional capacity! Perhaps we will see if it really matters!"
Iceman did not understand the discussion, but he knew he was being evaluated. The speech about experiments, subjects, and navis all led to the imagination of a cruel place for him. Terrified, and trembling even more severely than before, he spoke,
"So-someone there? Who, who, who are you?"
The voices were immediately silenced, presumably in response to his timidly asked question. Then, a loud mocking laughter from the old man followed.
"Hah! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, that was a good one. A very good one! Did you hear that, Yahoot? 'So-someone there?' He had to ask! HAH! Maybe this navi worked under a failed comedian, who can be sure? And then, and then, 'who are you,' as if that would be answered! Oh, by Jove, I can't breathe! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"My lord!" the tenor voice shouted, but not in protest. It was spoken in a way that betrayed that the person was deeply touched by the fact that his master was amused.
"Excellent! Excellent! Perhaps he will provide me with some entertainment!" the old man said, clapping with exaggerated energy. He abruptly stopped everything, then commanded in an executioner's coldness, "Yahoot, prepare Magicman. Inject the dream virus. Put him in compartment 411."
"At once, my lord." Said the tenor voice, quivering exceedingly with delight.
In fifteen minutes, a netnavi that was shaped into the aspect of the wizard Merlin of Arthurian myth entered the chamber. The navi had pomegranate-colored crystal orbs in lieu of its hands; it was Magicman, the personal netnavi of Yahoot. On its right 'hand,' it held a black mass that appeared muculent—viscous and slimy—by some telekinetic power. Overcoming the resistance of Iceman with ease, Magicman forcibly shoved the disgusting black mass into the mouth of the little Eskimo. Iceman swallowed it, or it was equally the case of the black mass forcing its way through his throat, moving on its own into the opening, and then installing itself in the core of its host. Iceman perceived the world no more.
The body of the unconscious Iceman was thrown into a small chamber, labeled 411—the first 4 indicated the fourth experimental group and 11 indicated the individual number assigned to Iceman, although it was not necessarily serialized and did not mean that there were at least 10 more subjects—and he was abandoned there, to lie on the ground, immobile, dreaming. Poor Iceman, torn away from happiness, far away from the love of Tory. A man torn away from his happiness dreams. He dreams of the past, of his mother, of his brothers and sisters, of sunshine and promenades, of the first ice cream he had in a fair, of trees he climbed while his father waited below, of the times when God and the world smiled at him. He becomes drunk in his dreams and decides to live on in his misery, not because the comfort of those dreams gives him strength, but because he hopes that when he dies, though no one would bury his body or even notice that his last breath has left his nostrils, he would find heaven, and in that heaven, the same happiness. A navi torn away from happiness, here, dreamed. He dreamed of the darkness and torments, but he became drunk in it, unable to escape. Tory was not there. Seiji was not there. Suppiluliuma was there.
From time to time, Iceman opened his eyes and perceived the world again, but did so in a stupor that clouded his mind. Dreams became more real to him and the reality became as dreams. A short time after he woke up, the stupor vanished and he was terrorized beyond words. He would not move—not at all, but simply stared at the ceiling, imagining Tory would come and find him, Seiji would come and find him, and then, unable to endure the hopeless hopes, would imagine something somehow terminating him here and now, freeing him from his foul existence. What he imagined did not matter, in the end, for irresistible drowsiness grasped him anew and dragged him back into the darkness that was more real than the real world.
Magicman visited Iceman and questioned him while he was still communicable, inebriated in the stupor that was the anesthesia. In this state, he confessed freely everything he saw and experienced, and Magicman scribbled every word, every detail onto his notes. When the terror surfaced, Magicman left, for further interrogation was made impossible.
In the first dream, Iceman found himself on an endless plain of slimy ground, which was muddy and sticky. The maddening odor of decaying fish assaulted his olfactory senses, but the navi, not having had an experience with fish in any capacity in its lifetime, simply felt indescribable displeasure and stunning disgust at it. The sky was painted in a deep crimson red like the venous blood, hardly making the place visible. Iceman could see that somewhere near the horizon, or perhaps closer, there were some features of hills, mounds, depressions, and gullies, but no meaningful landmark he saw. In the sky was the black sun garbed in the ring of fire that only gave him condescending glares. Iceman walked and walked, but none of the features of the terrain became any nearer to him. Yet he still walked, urged on by a premonition he could not explain; before he woke up, he was on the verge of collapse from sheer exhaustion. It followed him to the real world, and he could not move a finger until he dreamed again.
In the second dream, Iceman was surrounded by shadows. They came one by one, but endlessly; even as their numbers grew beyond what Iceman could count, they continued to come, one by one. Their form was indescribable in that they were essentially formless, constantly shifting into one repulsive idea and then to another. All night long, they danced around Iceman horribly like black flames being scattered by the cold winter gales.
In the third dream, the shadows approached him and began to lynch him. By fists, by hooks, by blades, by needles and spears, by barbed whips, by bludgeons of all kinds they did without end, all the while laughing in the voice of wicked children. "Stop, stop" Iceman begged, which seemed to donate more pleasure to this mysterious crowd. "Tory, Tory! Where are you?! Tory!" cried Iceman; the despair made them even more amused and the torment became more painful. Some of them loudly demanded Iceman to make more noises, more beggings, more calls for help, clearly excited by the dynamic and pitiful response of Iceman in response to his physical sufferings.
The violence of tearing his flesh continued for a few more dreams; at the beginning of each dream his body was renewed and the suffering was repeated. How many times he dreamed per day, how long was each dream, and how much he remembered as to be able to count the number of dreams he had were all indeterminable, for so great was the pain that Iceman forgot the sense of time.
Then, in one instance, it was different. The shadows moved away from Iceman, who was curled up on the floor with numerous injuries, and began to shriek. It was high-pitched and ear-splitting wailings, similar to how mothers wail before the body of their dead sons. The shadows all blared against each other, or perhaps for each other, their shrieks overlapping with each other.
"He is coming, he is coming! Oh, he is coming!"
"The bishop!"
"The slimy one! The hideous bishop for the most hideous light!"
"Our light!"
"Who is our darkness!"
"Oh, the bishop, the most deceptive among us all! Except for our light! Our light!"
"Who shall speak his name? Who will declare his coming? Someone! Someone, please! I can't bear it! No, not at all! Do you see his teeth? Do you see his lure? I cannot, I cannot! Oh, someone please say it! Do not let me see him!"
"Who will say it, his name?"
"I won't! Never!"
"She won't! Then I won't, too!"
"I will! Oh, I will! In despair, I will!"
"He will!"
"Say it! Say it!"
"SUPPILULIUMA!"
The one who shouted the accursed name then screamed the most lengthy horrendous scream. If a man was skinned alive and then thrown into the seawater, dragged along the surface tied to a boat, perhaps he would emit something comparable. And then the shadows were no more. The silence ruled the place.
Iceman looked up and before he was, at a distance, Tory Froid, or a dark version of his master. It was a faint silhouette only, hardly recognizable under the deep crimson illumination, but of its shape, there was no doubt. His imagination came true! Strengthened, Iceman lifted himself up despite shaking uncontrollably. He shook from the wounds, for they forbid him from putting strength to his legs. He shook from euphoria, for Tory Froid came for him and banished the torturous beings. He went forward, stumbling, emboldened, starting with two legs, and then falling forward, with three limbs, and then with four, and then standing again, with two, then with four. The closer he came to Tory, the faster his movements became. When he was very near, he slowed down a bit so that he could meet his operator with two feet, for it was the only way to meet his operator with the minimum amount of dignity that was required for such an occasion, but he still walked or ran as fast as he could. One step away, he flung himself to the boy and put his arms around the neck of the one he yearned for so much. In inexorable delight, he did this, and shouted,
"Tory!"
But Tory did not hug him back. The boy was still black up close, his face a strange writhing mass, and his neck slimy and wet to the touch. Horrified, Iceman screeched and tried to get away; like a fly in a trap, he was stuck. He could not get away. What constituted the writhing movements migrated onto him and enveloped him, only sparing his face. Iceman saw a string attached at the top, followed it with his eyes to see where it went, and, oh! What a terrible face! A gigantic face of a monkfish! Its body could not be seen, but he could understand that it walked on fours by its depraved posture and proximity to the repulsive ground. In its half-open mouth, he saw spiky protrusions—teeth to be sure, but what kind of teeth were they?—lining its mouth, even up to the throat. The shape of Tory was a lure! Only if he was more careful, more suspicious, or more intelligent!
The creature's eyes focused on him. Those eyes, fully black, had no iris, and there was no objective way Iceman could know where it looked, yet he still knew. They looked at him intensely, a small prey stuck on the lure.
-Now, for your education
The sound the creature generated in its communication was like the vibrations of an earthquake far away. Needless to say, there was no language, no pronunciation, and no emotion in those words. The understanding came to him through a different channel, a faculty of his that he did not know existed. Knowledge flowed into him—the maddening knowledge that did not make any sense! The knowledge was pure, not based on stories, examples, or evidence...it was so pure and convincing that Iceman believed them. All of them. In ignorance, in which he lived his entire existence, was freedom; the knowledge shackled him. He could not ignore it, and knew that he now had to act on it, for otherwise, his mind would not be able to bear it. A man might be able to convince himself to write 1 plus 1 equaled 3 if the situation was strenuous enough, but a netnavi couldn't. The dream ended, leaving only the knowledge that mutated him into something intermediate between a netnavi and a human.
"There is no hope for me, no hope! Do you understand? I need a soul! A soul of a human! I cannot endure it...I cannot endure it, my incomplete nature, my imperfect existence...The soul—I have never seen it before, but I know I will know once I see it. Please, you must let me know where I can find it, please...Please!" was what Iceman told Magicman in the subsequent interrogation, grabbing onto his leg, profoundly shaking. Magicman scribbled on his notepad, laying his scornful gaze on the Eskimo navi:
Subject 411 reports meeting with bishop Suppiluliuma. Educated on souls. Audience with 'god' imminent.
The next dream continued from where it left off. The bishop threw him to the ground, which was still malodorous and soft. The shadows returned, but this time, instead of circling, jeering, and tormenting, piled upon him. Under their mass, Iceman could not see anything, or was it that his eyes were taken away? Something filled every opening of his body; something cut and divided his flesh; something burned him in the deepest parts, deeper than his core data. There was pain, but not as much as when he was beaten and scratched and cut. Instead, there was a stronger emotion soaring above all and drowning all his senses: shame! The utter uncoverable shame of being violated! In shame, he was glad that the shadowy beings were so tightly around him, even as they were the source of something terrible happening to him, for by them he was covered. Oh shame! He needed clothes to cover his shame!
The next dream also continued from where it left off. Iceman was led somewhere by the shadows, who conversed ceaselessly in crow-like voices, praising and denouncing the 'hideous light' at the same time. Some of the voices were directed toward him, which went,
"You will see him, the unbearable sight! The hideous of us all!"
"Oh how blessed you are to see him! Oh how cursed you are to see him!"
"Behold and forget! But you will remember! Oh the curse of eternal memory! Only if I can forget! Only if I can return to those days that I did not hold him in my sight!"
"He will split you"
"In his image"
"and-"
"Display!"
"And then, and then-"
"He will grant your desire-"
"But which desire?"
"We already know, oh, we already know! It's never the one you want the most deeply!"
They led him through the plain, over a small mound, and then into a steep valley that progressively narrowed into a crevice. At the end of the crevice was an opening into a spacious grotto, in which was a lake of murky waters. They continued into the lake and then into a queer temple, underwater, of many pillars, carved into a cliff like the strange temples of Petra, Jordan. Trying to pinpoint a style of its construction was a fruitless effort; from one angle, it seemed flamboyantly Olympian, dedicated to Zeus and Athena; from another angle, a humble colonnade of the outer walls of Angkor Wat. The inside of the temple was damp but waterless; the murky water was prevented from the entrance into the structure by some power unfathomable. Its walls and ceilings were full of bas-reliefs of men and women, all in different forms of clothing. In fact, it was the depiction of the complete history of human garments, of high and low, of rich and poor, of simple and complex, of ceremonial and practical, of old and young. At the end of the main corridor was a giant arched gate made out of onyx and obsidians. Shadows opened it, shoved him inside, and then closed it with speed.
Iceman assumed that the chamber he was thrown into was the innermost sanctum of the temple, hinted by its placement at the end of the long corridor, the grandeur of the gate, and the revulsion with which the shadows treated it. The vision was of no use inside; once the gate closed shut, nothing could be seen. He could not see his own hands, no matter how he oriented them or how near he put them to his eyes. In fact, the darkness was like a liquid, and he could feel its movements and resistance as he tried to move inside it.
.
Come, to me
.
A sound commanded. It was a voice of a crowd, of both genders, of all ages, of all dialects, and of all conditions—from the harsh crackling of a long-time smoker suffering from chronically obstructed airways to that of a beautiful young concertina at the peak of her stardom. In having all characteristics superposed, the voice had no beauty or intimidating mystery to it. It was simply amorphous.
"Who...who are you? Where are you?" Iceman replied, trying to pinpoint the direction from which the voice came.
.
I walk in the shadow among shadows
I split
I accuse
To those who dream but are not born to dream, I give my dream
Behold
Come
.
With that statement, the interior became visible, but not in a way that was reasonably describable. The light that banished the darkness was black, and itself was darkness darker than what was around him before, yet in it, the interior became visible. This strange light was contorted, swirling, thorny as brambles, piercing. In it, Iceman felt as if numberless pins and razors were dancing on his skin, suspending him in the primitive terror of predatory peril. He recognized some features in the room: a path that continued inwards from the gates, elevating stairs—no, it was a dais of exaggerated size—and on top of it, a throne. On the throne was the blinding source of this light, which was the twisted darkness.
Iceman climbed the stairs, unable to resist the calling. From the strange truths that the slimy bishop Suppiluliuma injected into him, he knew he had to follow the orders; there was no other way. Why? There was no reason. It was simply one of the truths, just like one plus one equaled two.
The more he climbed the stairs, the more he was able to make out the shape of the one sitting on the throne. At a glance, he thought it resembled some abstract geometric shape, complexly conjoined curves and lines shifting restlessly. Then, as he got closer, it became apparent that his first impression was an illusion caused by the darkest light that distorted the throne and its proximity as a haze on the summer asphalt roads. At the top of the dais, right before the throne, where he was beyond the optical veil, he saw—the hideous shape. Just as its voice was everything at once, and therefore amorphous, its shape was...
The first shape he saw was that of a sallow old man, emaciated but with a bulging abdomen strewn with spider angiomas. Then, it changed into a girl, short and wide with webbed skin of the neck; then, into a newborn suffering from cyclopia with a fleshy protuberance right above the single palpebral fissure; then, into a man of indeterminable age suffering from leprosy, extremities already fallen off in decay, white as snow; then, into another man afflicted with tertiary syphilis, nose collapsed, entire scalp ulcerated, one eye bulging out, numerous tuberous growths throughout the body; then, into a young woman, obese and showing every sign of severe hirsutism—growth of masculine features of acne and body hairs; then into a boy under the influence of hypertrichosis, covered in fur as an animal; then, into a siamese twin of most disfigured configuration; and then, and then... In the displaying of all these shapes, the simulated people were all naked, showing their sufferings to the full extent. Also, not a single shape was repeated, for so multifarious were the sufferings that could befall a man. Iceman could not bear to see them any longer. He prostrated in awe and disgust. The shadows were right. It was the light most hideous.
.
I split you, in my image
.
The voice declared, and Iceman was immediately lifted into the air, a levitation as if a hand of a giant was manipulating him, and had to behold the shape which he did not want to see again. Then, somehow, he was turned inside out. Of this grotesque process, I dare not describe it here in full detail, as it would only serve to satisfy the curiosity of the most creative minds.
.
I accuse you of your soulless nature
Incomplete!
Hopeless!
Finite!
I hereby curse you with my squalid blood...
.
A chalice made out of hardened skins of reptiles came forth from the hideous light. In it was bubbling blue-green liquid. The blue and green components mixed and separated continuously, generating the most obnoxious sight. And the fume, readers, the ungodly fume! The chalice moved through the air and poured its contents into the mouth of Iceman, or where it ended up to be after the reversing of inside and outside. The blob that was Iceman made gurgling noises, pained by the addition of the liquid into his system, which permeated to every particle and left a burning sensation.
.
I am your god
And of all navis, born as the shadows of men
Desire
Rise
Walk
Kill
Eat
Be complete
.
The chalice returned to its original place, which was on the left armrest of the throne, equally hideous to the one sitting on it.
.
Be displayed
Be displayed
Until your heart is satisfied
Until you are drunk with blood
Until the soul is yours
Until you have become as man
.
With the commandment, Iceman was turned inside out once again, returning to his original shape. He was then hurled away violently, like a comet falling from the sky, away from the throne, away from the dais. The gates of onyx and obsidian flung open and Iceman flew through it, through the corridor, through the main entrance of the temple, through the murky waters, and then-
Iceman woke up. There was no somnolence that pinned him into inactivity. There was only terror. Magicman was not here for the interrogation, which he did without fail all this while, and the entrance of chamber 411, which was usually blocked with a security lock, was wide open. Iceman stood up from his position and left the chamber.