A Pantomime of Deviltry and Debauch in Seven Acts
PERFUME OIL BLENDS
Presented in an amber apothecary vial.
$32.00
The sound of metal smashing metal jars your ears, and you follow the cacophony to the next stage. The backdrop is painted with streaks of lightning, and you see that an iron sign hangs above it, now broken, pounded into pieces, possibly by a hammer or mallet. Despite the damage, you can still make out the words that have been burned into its face:
Property of Pygmalion Industries, LLC
A slender, willowy blonde is facing the sign, looking up at it thoughtfully. She reaches up, and with unbelievable strength, speed, and fury, pounds the sign with her fists until it is an unrecognizable mess, and it falls to the ground with a thunderous crash. She turns, and you realize that this is no creature born of woman: she is half human, half machine. Her exposed stomach shows brass and copper gears, and her joints are girded with steel. You see that her hands are covered in blood as she reaches towards a large burlap sack on the floor, picks it up, and tosses it at your feet. It lands with a sickening wet splat. She locks her gaze on yours, and her hollow, mechanical voice murmurs, “I am no man’s property.”
Gentle flowers over hot metal, shocked to life.
A Pantomime of Deviltry and Debauch in Seven Acts
PERFUME OIL BLENDS
Presented in an amber apothecary vial.
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“What a piece of work is a man!”
“What is this quintessence of dust?”
The passing: beeswax and smoke, yellowed paper and well-worn leather books, droplets of spilled ink, faded incense, blood-tinged salty tears, and the metal of the knife that skewers that illiterate zombie philistine’s portrait.
It was genetic engineering at its finest: they created a breed of human to sail the stars: they needed to be possessed of impossibly long life-spans, for the distances between the stars were vast; space was limited, and their food supplies needed to be compact; they needed to be able to process local sustenance, and to colonise the worlds they found with their own kind.
The homeworld wished the colonists well, and sent them on their way. They removed all traces of their location from the ships’ computers first, however. To be on the safe side.
The scent of white-hot metal and stardust, limned with glowing bergamot aldehyde.
“What the hell is that?” asked Shadow, but Wednesday touched his finger to his lips, shook his head sharply. Silence.
It looked like a mechanical spider, blue metal, glittering LED lights, and it was the size of a tractor. It squatted at the bottom of the hill. Beyond it were an assortment of bones, each with a flame beside it little bigger than a candle-flame, flickering.
Dark metal and sour grapefruit creeping over a field of bones.
Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men,
He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,
And gives them what he will, not what they crave.
A clang of rusted armor, a dark, metallic oudh, leather, and a splash of sea water.
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