-
Notifications
You must be signed in to change notification settings - Fork 0
/
death-on-taurus.html
4038 lines (3997 loc) · 607 KB
/
death-on-taurus.html
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<head>
<title>Death on Taurus</title>
<style type="text/css">
html, body, div, h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6, ul, ol, dl, li, dt, dd, p, pre, table, th, td, tr { margin: 0; padding: 0em; }
p
{
text-indent: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 0em;
}
p.chapter
{
page-break-before: always;
margin-top:5em;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
text-transform:uppercase;
}
p.dedication
{
page-break-before: always;
margin-top:5em;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
}
p.epigraph
{
page-break-before: always;
margin-top:5em;
}
p.epigraph_text
{
}
p.title
{
font-weight: bold;
font-size: 2em;
page-break-before: always;
margin-top:0em;
margin-bottom:1em;
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
text-transform:uppercase;
}
p.author
{
font-size: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
}
p.blurb
{
page-break-before: always;
text-indent: 0em;
margin-bottom: 0em;
}
p.blurb_text
{
text-indent: 0em;
margin-bottom: 0em;
}
p.also_by
{
font-weight: bold;
font-size: 1.0em;
margin-top: 0em;
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
text-transform: uppercase;
}
p.also_by_genre
{
font-size: 1.0em;
margin-bottom:0.5em;
margin-top: 1.0em;
font-weight: bold;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
}
p.also_by_title
{
font-style: italic;
font-size: 1.0em;
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom:0.5em;
}
p.footnote
{
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
margin-top: 0.5em;
}
p.copyright_title
{
font-weight: bold;
font-size: 1.5em;
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
page-break-before: always;
}
p.copyright_subtitle
{
font-weight: bold;
font-size: 1em;
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
}
p.copyright_author
{
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
font-style: italic;
}
p.copyright_page_details
{
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
}
p.back_matter
{
text-indent: 0em;
margin-bottom: 0em;
}
p.centered
{
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
}
span.centered
{
text-indent: 0em;
text-align: center;
}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<p class="blurb"><strong>On Taurus, there’s only one good way to die.</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="blurb_text">
<em>
On the bullfighting planet of Taurus, in the far distant future, a genetically engineered race of half-man, half-bull stages ritual blood sacrifices to the gods—human viewers light-years away. Vizzer, the high priest who presides over the daily slaughter, loathes the fights and wants to end them.
</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="blurb_text">
<em>
When news arrives that the humans have destroyed themselves in an interstellar civil war, he deposes the king and outlaws the fights. But not all the humans are dead. Carlos the Creator lies in stasis on Taurus itself. Vizzer comes face to face with an enraged and ancient god. And in so doing, he must also confront the truth of his own savage nature.
</em>
</p>
<p class="blurb">Want a free copy of <em>Death on Taurus</em>? Willing to write an honest Amazon review? Shoot me an email at <strong>[email protected]</strong> with the Subject: "I Want Death (Free!)" and I, the author, will send you a free ebook for your reading and reviewing pleasure.</p>
<p class="title"><span class="centered">DEATH ON TAURUS</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="author"><span class="centered">By</span></p>
<p class="author"><span class="centered">J.M. Porup</span></p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter One</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You poor fools. Dumb beasts, all of you. You’ve got brains, why can’t you use them? Going to your deaths like this. Asking to be killed. And for what? For nothing. For a god who’s been dead five thousand years and more. Wait till you find out the truth. That everything you live and die for is a lie. What will you do then?</p>
<p>Just look at you, Vizzer thought. Fifty thousand cud-chewers. More beast than man. The body and muzzle of a bull, horns made to kill, and human limbs protruding fore and aft from leg joints. And thirty thousand more of you waiting in line outside the stadium, drooling to watch your fellow Crosses be tortured to death. And what do you do once inside? Calflings romp beneath their elders’ horns. Breeders ruminate, stately in their place of honor, gossiping about their harems. The veiled and virgin she-cows in the Prize Box giggle, point at today’s naked sacrifice. What is wrong with you? he wanted to scream. Since when is murder a festive occasion?</p>
<p>The matador, Garrso, stalked across the sand, a killer going to his duty. What’s this? A smile? He enjoys his job too much. A wave at the crowd, and the silver sequins of his costume rippled across his bovine chest. He tightened the cotton strips that bound his back hooves against his thighs. Only matadors could balance on their feet. Red sunlight cast a freakish shadow. But then aren’t we all freaks, the freaks of the universe? Vizzer thought. One man’s sick joke.</p>
<p>That’s right. <em>Man.</em> Not god. The so-called Almighty Carlos was nothing more than a hoofless mortal biped. And good riddance to him and his race.</p>
<p>But we his ridiculous creatures live on. Look at the bull we sacrifice today. How is it possible that he and I are the same species? He stands three times my size, and has the brains of a calfling. Whereas I, the runt, have a brain the size of his muscles, but a body little bigger than a newborn. Who gets the respect? Who gets the she-cows?</p>
<p>Not that I would want a she-cow anyway, Vizzer thought. But that’s beside the point.</p>
<p>Carlos gave us brains and the will to use them, then encased us in this preposterous flesh. Eight limbs! Too many for the bull. </p>
<p>Orange nazza-ropes bound the Cross at the elbows and knees, ready to lop off his human arms and legs where they sprouted, perpendicular, from the joints.</p>
<p>And horns! What good are horns for but to kill? And stomachs in constant need of food! How can we strive for higher things when we have to spend all our waking hours grazing?</p>
<p>The hobbled bull was oblivious to this kind of thinking, of course. He pawed at the dust with his forehooves, tossed his sharpened horns at the heavens. Trying to unnerve his opponent. Not that it was likely to do any good. Nine times out of ten, the matador escaped unscathed, the bull winging his way to the fantasy-land afterlife of cool waters and bull-hungry she-cows promised by the Code of Carlos. Vizzer shifted on his heels where he knelt beside the king. Their world would never be the same again. And he, the king’s gran vizzer, was the only one on Taurus who could pick up the pieces.</p>
<p>Ever since that transmission arrived, it had taken all his willpower not to jump into the arena and cry out, “Why are you killing each other? To appease the gods? What gods? The gods are dead!”</p>
<p>They’d stampede if he did that. The high priest of Taurus was expected to lead the ceremony, not to criticize it. He had to go through proper channels. Present his evidence to the king. Make the truth so plain that even Clomp could not ignore it. Appeal to the Herd Council, if necessary.</p>
<p>Down in the arena, another nazza-rope whirled from behind the wooden barrier toward the sacrifice. The bull opened his mouth, and the energy lasso wrapped itself around the base of his tongue. He flexed his fingers, made a fist with both hands. Cords of muscle in his forearms bulged and twitched. Enjoy them while you can, Vizzer thought.</p>
<p>The bloody half-disc of the sun, forever low on the horizon at the North Pole, peered over the stadium wall. A black circle crept across that baleful eye. Shadow engulfed them. The temperature dropped. Vizzer wiped sweat from his eyes. The only relief from the heat was the moment of killing.</p>
<p>Murmurs of surprise at the miracle of darkness fluttered up from the crowd. Come on, people, this happens every day. There’s nothing magic or holy about it. I can even tell you how it’s done.</p>
<p>The stadium lights snapped on, blinding him for a moment. A hundred thousand empty marble seats—reserved for the immortal and invisible gods, of course—glimmered ghostly in the sharp white light. Tiny vidcams that only the priests knew about silently recorded the carnage below. For a Cross to sit in the marble seats and block the view would be sacrilege.</p>
<p>Not that they would ever think to try. To the common herd, the stadium was a temple, a source of awe and wonder, a place to commune with the gods. It was the only structure of any kind on Taurus—and it was huge. Just entering through the Great Gates made young bulls and maiden she-cows gasp in amazement. The wooden doors towered high above their heads, and opened to reveal a gigantic bowl of white marble, with a pocket of green in the middle. All around them those gleaming stalls soared skyward for hundreds of perfectly circular rows. But worshipers did not turn to climb into those sacred pews, not unless they wanted to be flayed with a nazza-whip. Instead they sprawled on the spiral grassy terrace that corkscrewed its way down to the arena itself, the sandy circle far below where the killing took place.</p>
<p>According to the Code, Carlos Himself raised these walls, laid these stones and presided over the butchery. But Carlos had ascended into heaven thousands of years ago, never to return. And the bloodthirsty gods of Earth and the other planets were gone as well. Yet here we are still, Vizzer thought, brought together every twenty-six and a half hours to repeat this ancient, bloody ritual. Why did we ever think this was a good idea?</p>
<p>From where he sat at the top of the stadium, just below the lip of that great white bowl and far above the herd, Vizzer imagined a day when this magnificent structure was no longer used for killing, but for—what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. He massaged the stumps at his elbows and knees where his hooves had once been. The king stirred at his side. Vizzer remembered Clomp’s mocking words. Only a tenday ago, Vizzer had tottered up the stairs, fresh from Feeh’s surgery, struggling to balance on his human feet. He was surprised at how hard it was. The matadors made it look easy. But then matadors were born to their profession, their bodies sleek and nimble. Priests were not.</p>
<p>Who did he think he was, anyway? the king had joked. Trying to look like a god. And having his horns removed! There was no precedent for such self-mutilation. Vizzer had endured the ridicule in silence. He should have said he was someone who wanted to be more than the sum of his base animal lusts. Although he’d never say that to the king’s face. Even the other priests, who were sworn to celibacy as he was, could not understand. Carlos gave us eight limbs for a reason, they said. Why would anyone willingly part with four of them? Except the sacrificial bulls, that is.</p>
<p>King Clomp pushed himself to his feet. It was time. The king’s nostrils quivered in religious ecstasy. Probably remembering his own time in the arena. Vizzer stood up too. Together they turned to face the Creator’s Throne, a simple stone bench worn smooth by thousands of years of wind and rain. The king bowed his horns.</p>
<p>Vizzer lifted the white cowboy hat from Clomp’s head, laid it at the foot of the throne. What was a “cowboy,” anyway? He had always wondered. He’d have to look it up in the backup data that came with the transmission. Something from ancient human times, he suspected.</p>
<p>They turned to face the people. Vizzer raised his hands above his head, white robes sliding back to reveal his stumps. He spoke, and the hidden sound system, run by his fellow priests in the holy of holies, the Control Booth, took his words and flung them to every waiting ear:</p>
<p>“Let there be blood!”</p>
<p>The nazza-ropes tightened around the bull’s limbs and tongue, and turned blue. Sharper and cleaner than a scalpel, the nazza-ropes severed his arms and legs, cauterizing the wounds instantly. His tongue plopped onto the sand between his hooves.</p>
<p>Cud surged into Vizzer’s mouth. He choked on the sweet grass, now bitter between his molars. He fought the urge to vomit the entire contents of his first stomach over the king’s head. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he watched it happen. To take a young Cross, a bull, with a brain and a soul, and strip him down to muscle and bone—to make a beast out of him—it was cruel, it was human. Too human. Thank the gods the time had come to stop it. If the gods—humans—whatever the hell they were—hadn’t blown themselves up, this might have gone on forever.</p>
<p>Vizzer reached under his robes and touched the talisman he wore in a pouch around his neck. The ancient miniature statue of Carlos was a secret badge of the high priest’s office. He ought to destroy it, he knew, but for some reason couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. In moments of stress, fingering the trinket calmed him down.</p>
<p>Two <em>banderilleros</em> stepped from behind the barrier. Their green costumes had fewer sequins than the matador, so as not to upstage their boss. They carried white <em>banderillas,</em> the wooden darts of their trade. From the tip of each protruded a full hypo. Holding the <em>banderillas</em> high above their heads, hypos angled at the ground, they approached the bull on tiptoe from opposite directions.</p>
<p>The bull swung his horns from side to side, calculating the odds. This was the most dangerous moment for the <em>banderilleros,</em> and the only real chance for the bull to escape death. Back on his knees at the king’s side, Vizzer pounded his hairy thigh with an open palm. <em>Come on. Gore them. Kill them. Don’t let them place the hypo.</em> The drug would turn off the bull’s brain, and he’d become nothing more than a cape-chasing beast. But if he managed to skewer one of his sequined tormentors, he might rattle the matador enough to make a mistake. One mistake. That’s all it took. And the bull might just live to make it to the stud pastures.</p>
<p>The hump of muscle behind the bull’s neck shone with sweat. His whole body tensed, head low, horns out. The crowd leaned forward on their hooves. Which way would he charge? The bull sprang, a puff of dust where he had stood a moment before. The chosen <em>banderillero</em> pranced on tiptoe toward the onrushing threat, arms straight up, darts glittering in the stadium lights. A good <em>banderillero</em> rarely missed his mark, Vizzer knew. He watched through his fingers. The two combatants drew closer. He shut his eyes to avoid the final impact.</p>
<p>“Ooh,” the crowd breathed.</p>
<p>He peeked again. The bull had swerved away at the last moment, and bore down on the other <em>banderillero.</em> A thundering blur of muscle and horn swung to the right. A green costume jumped to the left. The darts flashed, jabbed down, sank deep. The crowd clattered their hooves together in applause.</p>
<p>Bucking, kicking, lunging in the air, the injured bull tried to rid himself of the hypos lodged in his hump. He slowed. Went still. Then, with a loud snort, he waggled his horns in the air. <em>Me bull. What now? Who charge? Ugh.</em> Or so Vizzer imagined the bull’s thoughts ran.</p>
<p>A spare <em>banderillero</em> flapped a cape over the barrier, to give his colleagues a chance to get to safety. <em>Ugh. Scary moving thing. I go kill.</em> The bull charged the cape, gored the wooden wall with his horns. The matador returned to the center of the arena. The bull was oblivious to his presence, obsessed with the dastardly cape. Again Garrso smiled.</p>
<p>It had to be Garrso, didn’t it. Most popular matador on Taurus. Over a hundred kills on his Syndicate Sheet. And Vizzer knew that smile. Confidence was the greatest matadors’ most powerful weapon. And why shouldn’t he feel confident? The worst danger had passed. Wearing the bull down, then killing him in accordance with the Code—sword over the horns, down between the shoulder blades—was difficult, but by no means impossible. As Garrso’s presence here today showed. He was a survivor. He would kill well, or he would kill badly, but he would kill. Vizzer’s second and third stomachs twisted in agony.</p>
<p>Garrso lifted the black brimless cap from between his horns, held it above his head. A thunderous roar welcomed him. He minced in a tight circle, saluting the crowd, and tossed his cap over his shoulder. It landed crown up. Whistles burst forth at this omen. Crown up was good luck. Crown down, bad. Superstitious nonsense, Vizzer thought.</p>
<p>The <em>banderillero</em> withdrew his cape. The bull spun about, chased his tail for a moment. He goggled up at the crowd in confusion. <em>Big noise. So loud. What for?</em> Maybe he noticed the shimmering silver menace in the center of the arena. <em>Who that? Sparkly.</em></p>
<p>Garrso shook the cape. The bull did not move. He slid the tip of his sword into the far edge of the fabric, to make a larger surface area, and shook the cape again. Still the bull did not charge. Just stared around the arena in dumb puzzlement, panting in the heat. Garrso jumped into the air, shouted, “Hoo hoo hoo ha!” and stamped his feet.</p>
<p>The bull’s attention returned to the darting, dancing cape. <em>Who this? Another bull. No room for two. This space mine. Time to kill.</em> Vizzer broke off his imaginings. What really went on in a bull’s brain after the drug took effect? What did he see? How did he feel? To have his brain turned off, all rational thought suppressed, the one thing taken from him that made him a Cross and not a mere beast. The bulls who survived in the arena claimed to see the face of Carlos Himself. But that was impossible, Vizzer now knew. Carlos was not only dead, he was never a god to begin with.</p>
<p>To die like that, tormented and confused. Vizzer made a face. What an awful fate.</p>
<p>The bull charged this time. Garrso stood unmoving, toes together, cape extended. A slight breeze rustled the fabric. The crowd gasped. Wind of any kind was dangerous. It could send the beast charging the matador instead of the cape.</p>
<p>A flick of Garrso’s wrist drew the cape to one side. Horns slid through the flowing fabric. Garrso turned, offered his back to the bull, cape in his other hand. The bull followed the cape, his powerful flanks missing the matador by centims. The crowd roared, and as it roared the matador repeated the feat, directing the bull a finger’s width from his body, exhausting and confusing the animal with a series of rapid, close passes until the bull stumbled to his knees.</p>
<p><em>“O-lé!”</em> roared the crowd, growing in crescendo with each successive turn and spin of the cape. <em>“O-lé! O-lé! O-lé!”</em></p>
<p>Disgusting, Vizzer thought. The young bulls of Taurus led the chant, from where they reclined on the grassy slope. One day they’ll be in the arena too. And the bull out there on the sand was their friend. It didn’t matter to them if he lived or died. Death meant paradise. Life—if they survived the ordeal—meant a large harem of virgins, a seat on the Herd Council and hundreds, if not thousands, of offspring. They applauded the matador at every turn. Some had been known to swoon with delirium when the final moment came.</p>
<p>The she-cows, clustered together in their roped-off section, were more subdued. Several openly wept, in defiant violation of the Code. No doubt the mother and sisters of the bull in the ring. The king could send them into exile for that. Vizzer glanced at his side, but Clomp seemed engrossed by the bloodshed. At least veil yourselves, he thought furiously. If the king packs you off to die in the Southern Lands, it’s my job to pronounce the curse.</p>
<p>The other she-cows were just as bad, in their own way. The young ones ignored the sacrifice entirely, whispering in wide-eyed envy at the three pink-clad virgins in the Prize Box. Dreaming of one day being loaned in honor to a triumphant matador—or better yet, given outright to a surviving bull. Still others cast furtive glances at the fifteen Breeders, where they rested in regal dignity at the top of the grassy spiral, just inside the Great Gates.</p>
<p>The Breeders. Only bulls who’d survived in the arena were allowed to mate. Between them and the king, they had fathered more than half the audience in the stadium. Little wonder their children looked up at them in awe.</p>
<p>Which one of the fifteen would be the next king? Would any dare challenge Clomp? It meant a horn duel to the death, and the king had shredded the last two challengers with ease, packed their broken bodies off to the Burial Mound. Even Prinz, the leading contender, whose hump and horns all Taurus admired, showed no indication of making a move.</p>
<p>How would the Breeders react to the news? Would they follow Clomp? If Clomp refused to listen, what would they do? Life, as they knew it, was over. The news carried in the transmission would mean fundamental changes to everything on Taurus. Like ending the <em>corrida,</em> the blood sacrifice. And that was just the beginning. Were any of them able to see the truth? Were any of them willing to do what must be done? Vizzer rested his jowls on his knuckles. He doubted it. Better to stick with Clomp. At least for now. Besides, there was his oath to think of. The gods may be dead, but his word was still his word.</p>
<p>Down in the arena, the weary combatants separated. The bull limped toward the pile of limbs that once were his. <em>What this? Legs. Whose?</em> He jabbed at the bloody appendages with a horn.</p>
<p>The matador strolled to the barrier, dunked his muzzle in a pail of water. He mopped his face and neck with a damp towel. He returned the blunt sword he’d used for cape work to his trainer, eased the killing sword from the offered scabbard. He held it horizontal, sighted down the length. Was the tip bent at just the right angle to slide between the ribs? Satisfied, he paced with languid steps back to the center of the arena.</p>
<p>The bull tapped at his discarded tongue with a hoof, bellowed his confusion and distress. It was as though he realized his own lack of articulate speech, and, at this moment of impending death, craved it.</p>
<p><em>“Toro!”</em> the matador called. <em>“Oi, oi, oi, toro!”</em></p>
<p>The animal turned. He was worn out by a hundred futile charges, Vizzer knew. Just this once he wanted to pray: let the bull survive. Just this once, he wanted to believe that prayer held value, that the gods heard and answered him in his greatest need. But of course that was foolish. There was no point in praying now. There never had been.</p>
<p>Garrso pivoted to face the bull, held the sword out at arm’s length. Fluttered the cape one more time. The animal charged. Lowered his head, prepared to gore. The matador stepped sideways, stabbed down at the hump of muscle above the bull’s shoulders. He pushed the blade down into the bull’s body, buried the weapon to the hilt and danced out of the way.</p>
<p>Vizzer clutched at his chest. He felt the pain as though it were his own, tempered steel slicing his heart in two.</p>
<p>The bull bellowed again, tossed his head, bewildered by the metal shaft embedded in his torso. The hilt of the sword pulsed up and down in his back with each beat of his great heart. He twisted around once, twice, trying to identify the terrible thing that split his insides apart. The pulsing stopped. His jaw fell open. A look of startled wonderment crossed his face. He fell to the ground and lay still.</p>
<p>The crowd jumped to its hooves. White handkerchiefs fluttered in every hand. Vidcams floated down from above, directed by a priest in the Control Booth. The lenses glinted as they flew in for a close-up of the matador victorious, the last twitches of the bull at his feet. What perverts the gods must have been to take delight in such cruelty. Vizzer was glad they had destroyed themselves.</p>
<p>Clomp spoke in his ear. The noise of the stadium was deafening.</p>
<p>“What’s that, Your Highness?”</p>
<p>“I said, why are the gods punishing us?”</p>
<p>“Punishing us?” Vizzer shouted back. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>The king gestured to the simple light board in front of him. One light meant one ear, two lights meant two. Three lights meant two ears and the tail, a reward almost never given. Three white scarves lay folded at the king’s side, ready to be draped across the throne, the signal for a triumph. A priest in the arena would cut off the required bits, and present them to the matador. The real trophies, of course, were the she-cows in the Prize Box, one for each scarf.</p>
<p>Today the light board remained dark, as it had for more than a hundred consecutive days.</p>
<p>Vizzer studied Clomp: the heavy jowls, the massive shoulders, the broad, curving horns. Not to mention the dimwitted eyes. You didn’t get to be king by being smart, but by being big. Maybe that’s why he was such a good ruler, at least compared to his predecessors. He was too stupid to be a bad one. Until now, it had never been a problem. He just wished the king wasn’t so damned religious.</p>
<p>In his best courtier’s voice, Vizzer asked, “What makes you think the gods are punishing us, Sire?”</p>
<p>The cheers of the crowd drowned him out. Down in the arena, the matador paraded around the wooden barrier, his <em>banderilleros</em> at his heels, accepting adulation and bouquets of sweet grass from his adoring public. When he reached the spot directly below the king, he held up the hilt of the bloody sword in salute, bowed deep at the waist. He had fought well, and he knew it. Everyone in the stadium knew it too. He expected an ear, at least. Clomp sat unmoving.</p>
<p>More and more handkerchiefs fanned the stifling air, calling for a triumph. Clomp’s horns swung from side to side. The matador’s face registered astonishment. The crowd roared in protest. <em>“O-re-ja! O-re-ja! O-re-ja!”</em> they screamed, demanding an ear in the ancient tongue of Carlos Himself.</p>
<p>“Maybe we aren’t good enough for them,” the king said. “The gods are not happy with us. This is how they show it.”</p>
<p>Vizzer scratched himself behind his ear. The lobe still wasn’t quite right. He would have to see Doctor Feeh about that soon. “Maybe the <em>gods</em> aren’t good enough for <em>us,”</em> he said.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Clomp shouted.</p>
<p>“Your Highness!” bellowed a voice from the stairs. “Your Highness, please! I beg an audience!”</p>
<p>A matador in a red-sequined costume waved from the bottom of the stone steps. He leaped up the stairs two at a time.</p>
<p>“Your Highness. Gran Vizzer. With your permission?”</p>
<p>A command in the form of a question. Frokker. He should have known. The Matador’s Syndicate had to stick their hoof in every cowpat. Vizzer could not afford to offend the syndicate at this delicate juncture. The truth would have to wait.</p>
<p>“What is it, Frokker?” Clomp growled.</p>
<p>“Sire.” The steward knelt before the king. “I must protest. That was the cleanest kill I’ve seen in a thousand days. Why would the gods deny him an ear?”</p>
<p>Vizzer forced a laugh. “What an ignorant thing to say. Do you protest the will of the gods?” He waved a hand at the blank light board. “Who are you to second guess those who live beyond the stars?”</p>
<p>Frokker lowered his head still farther. “I do nothing of the sort, Gran Vizzer. However, while the gods themselves may be infallible, surely those who interpret their divine will may make…shall we say, mistakes, from time to time?”</p>
<p>“So now you accuse the king of failure to do the gods’ will?” Vizzer turned to Clomp. “Your Highness, will you permit this disrespect? He insults you to your face.”</p>
<p>Clomp shook his head. “Not now, Frokker.”</p>
<p>“Or perhaps the king is reluctant to part with his lovely brides?” Frokker flung an arm at the Prize Box far below, where even now the three cherubic she-cows flirted daintily with the crowd. All virgins belonged to the King’s Harem, and only ovulating she-cows could stand as prizes. A matador awarded an ear by the gods received the loan of a she-cow for a full day. Twenty-six and a half short hours to sow his seed.</p>
<p>“Frokker, I said not now.” Clomp’s voice had lost its friendliness. “Or next time you fight, it will be me in the arena.”</p>
<p>The steward swallowed. No matador would dare take that risk. Clomp had the widest horn span on Taurus. It had come as no surprise to anyone, much less the hapless matador that day, ten years ago now, when Clomp had gored him through the chest. Feeh had sewn Clomp’s tongue back on, but disposed of the human arms and legs in the Burial Mound, as dictated by the Code. Clomp had joined the Breeders and, within days, had challenged his way to the kingship. There was no one to match him in either the arena or the challengers’ training pits outside.</p>
<p>“Sire,” Frokker said, his cap twisted and torn between his fists. “Forgive me.” He held up a wary hand. “May I ask just one thing more?”</p>
<p>Clomp said nothing. The matador hesitated, then plunged ahead. “You have not awarded an ear in over a hundred days.” He turned to Vizzer, his broken cap dangling from his fingers. “A hundred days! Never in the history of the syndicate’s record-keeping has such a thing happened before on Taurus!”</p>
<p>“Has it occurred to you,” the king said coldly, “that maybe your fights aren’t pleasing to the gods?”</p>
<p>Frokker bent low, touched his horns to the stone step at the king’s hooves. “Of course, Your Highness. Forgive my forwardness.” He stood, and tripped over his heels in his haste to get down the stairs again.</p>
<p>The Great Gates swung open. Garrso bobbed along on the backs of the crowd, as they carried him from the stadium. A growing crescent of red light drenched the heads and backs of the milling throng. The king got to his feet. Vizzer replaced the cowboy hat between those monstrous horns.</p>
<p>In a low voice, Clomp asked, “Has Dex finished his report?”</p>
<p>“He has, Your Highness.”</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“You aren’t going to like it.”</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Two</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Vizzer followed Clomp out of the stadium via the king’s private entrance. Near the Creator’s Throne, an opening in the stone wall led down a narrow ramp to ground level. A discreet door deposited them adjacent to the Great Gates, just as the crowd blasted out into the full sunlight, bearing Garrso on their backs.</p>
<p><em>“To-re-ro!”</em> they chanted. <em>“To-re-ro! To-re-ro!”</em> The ancient revel: <em>Bullfighter! Bullfighter!</em></p>
<p>The matador spotted Clomp and Vizzer, and seemed to hesitate. He smiled and raised a hand. What else could he do? He had no wish to antagonize the king.</p>
<p>Vizzer filled his lungs with air, savored the smell of the sweet grass. Pasture stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. The intense polar heat in his nostrils was a welcome change after the cold shadow of the artificial eclipse. Of course, the herd didn’t know it was artificial. They thought the darkening of the sky was the Shadow of Carlos, their nonexistent deity calling for blood sacrifice. They had a lot to learn. Same as I did, Vizzer thought. A mere what? Has it only been a hundred days since the transmission arrived?</p>
<p>He commanded his body to relax. Intestines: unwind. Stomachs: stop churning. His organs obeyed with reluctance. The <em>corrida</em> was over, at least until tomorrow. But the worst was still to come. Dex had finished his report. Now it was time to deliver the news to Clomp. No easy task.</p>
<p>The newly formed king’s bodyguard snapped to attention, shouldering their peculiar new weapons. A meter of heavy black metal with a hole at the end. Vizzer had downloaded the design from the backup data, and the matter converter made him several dozen copies. There’d been more modern, more powerful weapons listed in the backup, but the converter threw a temper tantrum, demanded to see Carlos. Carlos was dead, Vizzer had patiently explained, but it refused to believe him. What did that cranky box want? He tugged on his earlobe again. For now he was stuck with these antiques. What did the humans call them? Guns?</p>
<p>Getting Clomp to accept bodyguards had not been easy.</p>
<p>“Are you crazy?” the king had roared a tenday ago. “There’s no one on Taurus who can hurt me. Or who would want to.”</p>
<p>“Your people love you, Sire. This is true. But when the news leaks, there may well be a stampede. I am thinking only of your safety.”</p>
<p>“What news? You keep talking about news. What is it?”</p>
<p>“Dex is almost finished with his report, Your Highness.”</p>
<p>“It’s got something to do with that transmission, doesn’t it? So out with it.”</p>
<p>“He’ll be finished soon. In the meanwhile, please, will you trust my judgment?”</p>
<p>To add insult to injury, as far as Clomp was concerned, all the bodyguards Vizzer hired were Mistakes. Club feet, twisted horns, other birth defects that made them unsuitable for the arena, and therefore outcasts. To watch the king go by, the most powerful bull on Taurus, protected by a dozen Mistakes—well, people snickered behind their hooves, and Clomp knew it. Some of the less intelligent Breeders were even said to be plotting a coup.</p>
<p>It wasn’t the Breeders that Vizzer feared. Who else had seen the transmission before he put a lid on it? Other priests, perhaps? Not all were loyal to him. Had the word gotten out? Who else knew? What would they do when they found out? Better to preempt any struggle. To be ready.</p>
<p>“Can’t we at least use the Border Corps?” Clomp had whined. “Why Mistakes?”</p>
<p>The Border Corps were an ancient, elite unit of young bulls whose job was to drive menopausal she-cows south into exile. Vizzer had considered the possibility and rejected it. He wanted bodyguards who would be loyal to himself, not the king. He didn’t say that, however.</p>
<p>“The Border Corps are constantly on the move,” Vizzer had replied. “Sometimes tendays go by without any present here at the North Pole. You need bodyguards dedicated to your safety.”</p>
<p>Clomp trotted away from the Great Gates. Vizzer and the bodyguards jogged to keep up. The king halted at the base of the statue of Carlos, the only graven image permitted on Taurus. The Almighty Himself in bronze, encrusted in ancient verdigris. Two meters tall on a wide plinth, the divine matador swung his green sword low over the supine figure of a freshly killed bronze bull on the ground below. Not a real bull, but one of the animals Carlos had used to create the race of Crosses. The Code got it wrong. No holy lips breathed life into clay. Tiny tools in a laboratory made us. How exactly, Vizzer wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t natural.</p>
<p>We are experiments, he thought, suddenly furious, toys created for the cruel blood sport of viewers on other planets. A revolting amalgam of human and animal. And Feeh wondered why he’d wanted his fore- and hind legs removed. He gazed up at the statue and stifled the urge to drop a pat. Not in the king’s presence. But it was all the stupid myth deserved. A juicy, chunky cowpat for a long-dead mortal.</p>
<p>Carlos. Ha! What a joke! Some people even believed that the god himself had once walked the land, before climbing up there and turning himself into a statue. The plinth was littered with the remains of beeswax and brittle knots of sweet grass, votive offerings of ignorant people.</p>
<p>The king swung around abruptly. Planted a hoof on top of Vizzer’s naked foot. “Tell me the truth.”</p>
<p>The hoof cut into the flesh of his foot. <em>It doesn’t hurt if you don’t let it hurt.</em> “About what?” he managed.</p>
<p>“Why have the gods forsaken us?”</p>
<p>Thick skulls cracked together in the sand pits nearby. Two young bulls sparred, horns crashing together amid shouts of youthful joy. Some of the other bulls gathered to watch. The rest of the crowd dispersed to the green fields all around them. The pain in Vizzer’s foot became unbearable. He struggled to remain lucid.</p>
<p>“Are you prepared to hear it, Sire? No matter how much you dislike the truth?”</p>
<p>Clomp lifted his hoof and strolled south, away from the stadium. Of course, every direction is south when you’re standing at the North Pole. The red sun filled the sky behind their backs. Vizzer released the breath he’d been holding. He rubbed his foot, hopped along beside the king.</p>
<p>“Have we wronged the gods?” Clomp asked.</p>
<p>“Your Highness—”</p>
<p>“I don’t see how. We always observe the ritual sacrifices.”</p>
<p>“You have obeyed the Code in every way.”</p>
<p>The king’s frown deepened. “The Code is all there is. All that we know of their instructions. If we obey their laws, then how can they be angry with us?”</p>
<p>Vizzer put his hands behind his back, straightened his spine, the way he’d seen the humans do in vids. “I give you my holy word as a priest, it has nothing to do with you.”</p>
<p>“Then what is it? Who has sinned that we are being punished so?”</p>
<p>The king’s pious anxiety made Vizzer’s digestive tract squirm once more. Clomp had to be told sooner or later. Now was the time. The bodyguards, he noted, stood at their appointed posts, at a five-meter perimeter, ears pricked back, eavesdropping.</p>
<p>“Let me whisper it into your ear,” Vizzer said. And did so.</p>
<p>“No…but that’s…impossible!” Clomp gasped. Blood suffused his jowls. “It can’t be!”</p>
<p>“I assure you it is.”</p>
<p>“Dex can prove this?”</p>
<p>“He can, Sire.”</p>
<p>“But what if he’s wrong? How can you be sure?”</p>
<p>“I have seen the evidence with my own eyes, Your Highness. There is no doubt in my mind.”</p>
<p>The blood drained from Clomp’s face as quickly as it had come, leaving him pallid now beneath his brown pelt. Without warning, he galloped off. Vizzer and the bodyguards raced after him, trying to keep up.</p>
<p>“Now do you see?” he shouted after the king. “Why it has to end?”</p>
<p>“I warn you, Vizzer,” the king bellowed over his shoulder. “You speak sacrilege!”</p>
<p>“Sire, did you not hear what I just said?”</p>
<p>“The gods demand our sacrifice.” The words trailed after the king. “Or we shall surely feel their wrath.”</p>
<p>Vizzer stopped running. The bodyguards stumbled past, panting for breath. He knew this was going to happen. The king refused to accept the truth. Now what was he going to do? In frustration he shouted at the king’s retreating flanks, “By Carlos’s Beard!”</p>
<p>Clomp’s gasp was audible for a kilom in every direction. “Vizzer!”</p>
<p>Taking the Creator’s name in vain was a dangerous thing to do in the king’s presence. Even saying Carlos’s name out loud was forbidden by the Code. Forgetting the bodyguards, Vizzer shouted, “There are no gods, Your Highness. They are all dead!”</p>
<p>Clomp turned and thundered toward him, horns lowered. The bodyguards jumped out of the way. The king bore down on him, a sharpened point aimed straight at Vizzer’s chest. So this was how he was going to die. In service to the truth. So be it. The king came to a standstill, horns mere centims from Vizzer’s chest. Passion flared in the regal eyes, the religious fire that seemed to infect all Breeders.</p>
<p>“I have seen the face of god, my fine priest,” he growled. “Not in the Control Booth. In the arena. Where you have never been.”</p>
<p>Vizzer spat. “Hallucination. Nothing more.”</p>
<p>“I tell you the gods are deathless. They are eternal. They cannot be killed.”</p>
<p>The bodyguards surrounded them now, and listened, jaws slack, with unconcealed curiosity. Vizzer lashed the air with an open palm, and they returned to their posts.</p>
<p>The king laughed, a deep bass chuckle that shook his huge body like tiny hiccups. This sudden change startled Vizzer.</p>
<p>“Now I see,” Clomp said.</p>
<p>Vizzer frowned. “See what, Your Highness?”</p>
<p>The king nodded his head, as though finally comprehending a joke whose punchline everyone else already understands. “You had me worried there for a minute, you know that?”</p>
<p>“Did I, Sire? Because I thought you’d want to—”</p>
<p>“I see what you’re up to.” The good humor ceased, replaced by words of ice. “You’ve been after me for thousands of days on this topic. As long as you’ve been vizzer. As long as I’ve been king.”</p>
<p>Vizzer had ascended to his current post just days before Clomp challenged and killed the former king. He and Clomp were the same age, fifteen years old, and had grown to middle age together. They had watched thousands of young bulls die in the arena. And the older Vizzer got, the more he hated it.</p>
<p>“Sire—”</p>
<p>“Don’t interrupt me. I have tolerated it. Until now. Another king might have stripped you of your robes.” He lowered his head, laid a horn across Vizzer’s cheek. “Or worse.”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s nostrils flared. “I am not alone in rejecting the <em>corrida.”</em></p>
<p>“And where are the others?” the king asked. “They sleep in the heat of the Southern Lands and partake of the bitter grass.”</p>
<p>Vizzer struggled to hide an involuntary shudder at the mention of the exile colony south of the Arctic Circle. “They would rather die alone, out there, than be forced to watch their children killed in the arena.”</p>
<p>“They are cowards and a shame to their birthright.” Clomp surged up on his hind legs, front hooves windmilling the air, and bellowed an incoherent oath at the distant mountains of the Southern Peninsula. Beyond the mountains lay the exile colony. The king had personally condemned many impious she-cows to the long, slow march to the south. That, plus hordes of menopausal she-cows, whose barren bellies doomed them to suffering and death. “I will not permit you to spread these sorts of rumors. Is that understood?”</p>
<p>“But don’t you think the people have a right to know?”</p>
<p>“Know what? Your unholy fantasies? Your wish-mongering?”</p>
<p>“Sire, I assure you—”</p>
<p>“Such a rumor would cause panic. Chaos.” The king stood over him, his muzzle dripping slime down Vizzer’s cheek. “Or is that your plan? Unseat me from my place beside the throne of the Creator, set yourself up against the will of the gods?”</p>
<p>Vizzer held his head high, face fixed in stone under this onslaught. “As gran vizzer, I demand a hearing of the Herd Council.”</p>
<p>Clomp wilted. He ripped a mouthful of grass, ruminating in the manner of a demure she-cow before her lord. He muttered, “Don’t do this.”</p>
<p>“Let them hear Dex’s report. Let <em>them</em> decide.”</p>
<p>“That rumor mill? The Herd Council will repeat your lies to every last calfling and she-cow on Taurus!”</p>
<p>Vizzer pursed his lips. “Sire, that is not why I am doing this. I want a fair hearing. That is all.”</p>
<p>The king lifted his head. “How long have we been friends?”</p>
<p><em>Friends?</em> Were they friends? “My lord,” he stumbled, unsure how to reply. If they were, would it matter? More was at stake here than any one Cross. He swallowed. “Perhaps if you—”</p>
<p>“How long?” The voice was insistent. Polite, but insistent.</p>
<p>The cud rose in Vizzer’s throat. The truth? “A long while, Sire.”</p>
<p>“In all that time, have I ever asked you for a favor?”</p>
<p>“A <em>favor?”</em> This was without precedent. Clomp? Asking <em>him</em> for a favor?</p>
<p>“I am begging you, Vizzer. Drop it. This theory of yours.” He held out a hoof. “Oh, I know you think it’s more than that. But it doesn’t have to go any further. Tell Dex to destroy his report. Forget this ever happened. Don’t answer. Not yet. Do this one thing for me, and you shall have my kingdom.”</p>
<p>The king’s face pressed close to his, their noses almost touching. The bristles of the hairs on Clomp’s face brushed Vizzer’s lip. Hot breath slanted down his chin.</p>
<p>There was only one way to answer him, and it hurt Vizzer to say the words. They <em>were</em> friends, he realized. He bore a great deal of affection for this gargantuan bull, so unlike himself. Because for all their differences, they had one thing in common: they were both bulls of unbending principle.</p>
<p>“I don’t want your kingdom,” he said.</p>
<p>“Then what <em>do</em> you want? Name it, and it shall be yours.”</p>
<p>Vizzer cleared his throat. It would do no good, but he would say it anyway. “Let no more blood be spilled on Taurus.”</p>
<p>Grief lined Clomp’s meaty features. “You know I can’t do that,” he whispered.</p>
<p>For the first time in his life, the king was powerless. Vizzer took no pleasure in the conquest. It made him uneasy.</p>
<p>“I am sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “I am a pacifist. I am against murder. I am against torture, against sadistic butchery. I will not be satisfied until the blood sacrifices come to an end. My principles have no price.”</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Three</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bubble screens flickered in the dim light of the Control Booth, their spherical holograms showering Dex with a dozen different vistas of the arena below. Garrso sighted along his sword, penetrated the fighter, and for a long moment, frozen in time, two became one in an almost sexual union.</p>
<p>“Not now, baby,” Dex murmured into his headset. “You know I’m at work.”</p>
<p>Matill panted into the illicit throat comm he’d given her. Her words flooded his ears with the impatient wantonness of a she-cow in heat. “But I want you to stud with me, Dex,” she whispered, her voice hotter than Taurus at its molten equator. “I want you to give me a calfling.”</p>
<p>He tapped his holy pad, and two vidcams zoomed in for closeups of victor and vanquished. The view of Garrso was excellent, that cocky grin as he drank in the crowd’s adulation. Dex selected the image of the victor, and by force of habit punched the button prompting viewers to vote: Nothing? One ear? Two ears? Tail? Keep up appearances, Vizzer had said. Let no one catch on until we’re ready.</p>
<p>“Look, baby, I’ll talk to you later, OK? I’m beaming out a <em>corrida</em> to the gods right now… Yes. I know. But I can’t keep the divine viewers waiting, now can I?” He closed the connection without waiting for a reply. How many she-cows were after him for a calfling? Seven? Eight? <em>They</em> courted <em>him,</em> after all. Let them wait.</p>
<p>A burst of snickering slashed at him from the corner, cut itself off. He ignored it. He knew the novices gossiped about him. He didn’t care. The truth would come out soon enough, and then everything would be different. Then he could be with his lovers in public when and how he wished, without all this sneaking around.</p>
<p>What he was doing was dangerous. Priests who broke their vows of celibacy were put to death—or rather, sent into exile, which amounted to the same thing. He still got plenty of offers, once word got around that he was willing. Like all priests, he was a runt. And priests were safe. His calflings would also be runts, too small to enter the ring as either bull or matador. Many she-cows lusted after priests for this reason alone—watching the flesh born of their loins die in the arena was simply too painful.</p>
<p>Garrso rode from the stadium on the backs of the mob. A wide-angle view, Dex mused, and switched to a vidcam perched above the Great Gates. The exit seemed to take forever. Finally he punched a button, terminating the interspace transmission. Not that it mattered. No one left to watch them, anyway.</p>
<p>He could hardly bear to think about it. From the moment he’d been born a runt, he’d been raised by priests, lived and breathed the secrets of the gods, maintained the vidcams and electronics, participated in the holy mysteries of the Control Booth. It had been his privilege all his life to be in communion with the gods.</p>
<p>Now that he knew the truth, he had a lot to make up for. Ten years of celibacy, for starters. More than half of his adult life. He had believed in the Code, the holy law that bound all Crosses on Taurus. What did it turn out to be? A scam, nothing more. The lies made him angry. He no longer felt any obligation to obey the ridiculous rules imposed by a false god.</p>
<p>He swam deep in the bitter brew of his thoughts. A pounding on the outside door shook him from his reverie. Dex jerked his head at a nearby calfling. The young runt, still dressed in the grey robes of a novice, peered through a hole in the door.</p>
<p>“It’s Vizzer.”</p>
<p>Dex dropped his forehead into his palms with an audible smack. The novice giggled. Access to the Control Booth was managed by a hoofprint reader. The secrets of the holy of holies were not for public consumption. But when the gods designed their temple, this stadium, they failed to consider the possibility that their high priest might lop off his hooves.</p>
<p>Dex rubbed his face. “Let him in.”</p>
<p>The door swung open. He suppressed a chuckle. Vizzer was his friend and boss. They got along well, and their shared work over the last hundred days, since that transmission arrived, had brought them close. But honestly—what kind of bull self-mutilates like that? Who did he think he was? Trying to be more godlike than the rest of us. Or did he mean more manlike? Or was it “Hu-man.” That was what the gods called themselves, after all. “Hu-mens.” It was all so confusing; the language he’d used his entire life no longer worked. And Vizzer wanted to be like them. As if his friend refused to accept reality. The thought soured Dex. There’d be a lot of that going around before long.</p>
<p>Vizzer swept into the room, and the novices knelt before him. It was that natural sense of self-importance, even arrogance, that had prompted Fhoriu, the last high priest, to pick Vizzer as his successor. Vizzer even refused to use the name he’d been given as a calfling, preferring instead to be known simply by his title.</p>
<p>Dex dropped his headset to the counter, lurched to his hooves. “So?” he said. “How’d it go?”</p>
<p>“You.” Vizzer ignored the question, pointed at the youngest of the novices. “Come with us.”</p>
<p>Dex chuckled. “That bad, huh?”</p>
<p>Vizzer charged through an inside door, barged down a long hallway, barrelled along a twisting corridor stacked high with crates, then down a flight of stairs. The Control Booth was adjacent to the Creator’s Throne, where the high priest could access it easily should something go wrong. A warren of passageways and storage rooms filled the cavernous space beneath the stone stadium. They continued still deeper, past the hospital, where Feeh worked, down to the lowest level, beneath the arena itself. Vizzer stopped in front of a round metal door.</p>
<p>“Stay here and watch,” he commanded the novice. “Rutt, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” the novice squeaked.</p>
<p>“Carlos’s Piles, you’re tiny. How old are you?”</p>
<p>The runt only blinked at the forbidden obscenity. “Old enough, sir.”</p>
<p>Dex said, “He just looks small, Vizzer. He’s one of my best.”</p>
<p>Vizzer ruffled the fur on the calfling’s head. “No one interrupts us. Got it?”</p>
<p>“You can count on me, Gran Vizzer.” The young runt puckered his face in a ferocious grimace, crossed his arms and turned to face the empty corridor.</p>
<p>Prepared to take on all comers, Dex thought. He coughed to cover up his laugh.</p>
<p>“Would you mind?” Vizzer whispered.</p>
<p>“Oh yes. Of course.”</p>
<p>Dex tapped at his holy pad, pulled up a scan of Vizzer’s forehooves. Held the device to the hoofprint reader on the wall. He’d taken the scans a couple of tendays ago, before Vizzer went in for surgery. The high priest refused to carry a holy pad of his own, insisting it was undignified for him to soil his hands with electronics. “That’s what technical priests are for. Remember?” Vizzer had said.</p>
<p>The door swung open. They crept inside a high-domed vault. The smells of must and decay greeted them.</p>
<p>The Relics Museum. Dex couldn’t remember the last time he’d been down here. They opened it only on special occasions, such as the ascension of a new king. Recent rulers, including Clomp, disparaged the practice of relic worship, and few ever ventured down to this subterranean level. He shut the airtight door behind them.</p>
<p>Vizzer strode along the red-carpeted aisle, past hundreds of glass cases covered in dust. In the center of the space, a thick concrete pillar stabbed into the ceiling. Above them, Garrso had spilled the blood of his victim a mere half hour before.</p>
<p>Dex held out a hand. “So what happened?”</p>
<p>They shook the Hu-men’s way, like they’d seen in the treaty vids. Vizzer put a finger to his lips.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on. No one can hear us.”</p>
<p>Vizzer shook his head.</p>
<p>Paranoid as usual. Dex called up the room schematics on his holy pad, and one by one raised an extra set of floodlights. “I’ve turned off all the security vidcams as well.”</p>
<p>“There’s no override?”</p>
<p>“In this room…” He tapped some more. “The only person with override access is yourself.”</p>
<p>The floodlights banished every shadow from the room, but still Vizzer meandered among the display cases, hunting for interlopers.</p>
<p>Dex shrugged. “If you prefer, we can always go outside.”</p>
<p>“That’s another thing. I want you to stay indoors as much as possible.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”</p>
<p><em>“Happen</em> to me?” Dex inched back against the concrete pillar, pushed himself up onto his human feet, spine against the rough concrete. “What do you expect to happen to me?”</p>
<p>“I’ve called a special session of the Herd Council.”</p>
<p>“Clomp was not receptive.”</p>
<p>“He was not.”</p>
<p>“You’re going to present my report then? That footage of Earth? And the others?”</p>
<p>“No. You are.”</p>
<p><em>“Me?”</em> Dex felt like he’d been gored in the gut. There was a reason he worked on the tech side of things. He hated talking in front of large groups. It made him go cross-eyed and fumble his words. “Why me?”</p>
<p>“My views on the subject are well known. I would be seen as a biased source.”</p>
<p>“I, on the other hand, am a lowly priest with no political axe to grind, giving a technical report.”</p>
<p>“Precisely.”</p>
<p>Dex pushed off the pillar, fell to his hooves. He squinted down through the dusty glass of a nearby display case. An ancient copy of the Code lay open, illustrated in color, handwritten on spun river grass from the holy river Albiot. There had been a period when these archaic books were considered more holy than the original digital work. To prevent decay, the glass case enclosed the book in a vacuum. The upturned page proclaimed the second commandment: “Each Day In The Arena One Must Die.”</p>
<p>“You really think Clomp would try to kill me?” Dex asked. “He’s not exactly the brightest star in the sky.”</p>
<p>“All the same I’m getting you bodyguards. You don’t graze or drop a pat without them at your side.”</p>
<p>Bodyguards. Who would watch his every move. Prevent him from seeing his lovers. “But even if they kill me, or even kill the both of us, they can’t stop the other priests from discovering the truth. They’d find out eventually, even without our help.”</p>
<p><em>“I</em> know that,” Vizzer said, “and <em>you</em> know that, but <em>they</em> don’t think that far ahead.” He tapped his skull where the horns had been removed. “Too many concussions, you know what I mean?”</p>
<p>Dex knew all right. It had been his life’s sorrow to stand outside the stud corrals, wishing, waiting, hoping, despairing. The existence of runts like him was only tolerated because someone had to run the equipment, someone had to transmit the vid of the daily sacrifice to the gods. And so the biggest, dumbest Crosses sowed their seed, and the intelligent few like himself were doomed to an evolutionary dead end. But all that had changed with the transmission. As he now knew, the runt gene was dominant. If it weren’t for infidelity, there’d be no priests as all.</p>
<p>“The king is really pissed off, then.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know the beginning of it,” Vizzer said. “He tried to bribe me.”</p>
<p>“Bribe you? How?”</p>
<p>“Offered me his kingdom.”</p>
<p>Dex’s jowls hung loose. “Oh my Carlos.”</p>
<p>“Wants us to pretend it never happened.”</p>
<p>Dex’s fingers danced across the holy pad. He called up the schematics for half a dozen systems, cross-referenced them, considered the implications. “It could…it might…might just work.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry?”</p>
<p>He swept a hand at the hollow space. “We could fake it here, couldn’t we?”</p>
<p>Vizzer crossed his arms across his chest. “You mean, play god. Dole out ears and tails from the Control Booth.”</p>
<p>“We could patch a circuit into the royal display. The lightboard that renders the judgment of the viewers. No one would ever have to know.”</p>
<p><em>“I</em> would know.”</p>
<p>But this was the answer. It had to be. They could get everything they wanted. Without revolution. Without risk. How could he make Vizzer see? “We can use this as leverage!”</p>
<p>“Leverage? For what?”</p>
<p>“Clomp would do anything to stop the truth from coming out. It’s going to turn everything upside down.”</p>
<p>“So?”</p>
<p>“So negotiate. Force him to change the celibacy laws.”</p>
<p>The terrible shadow of a bull going in for the kill crossed Vizzer’s face. “Is that all you care about? Where you stick your dick?”</p>
<p>Were they both not flesh and blood? How could Vizzer not feel the same way? He blurted, “As a matter of fact, it is!”</p>
<p>The high priest’s face softened with obvious effort. He put out a hand, squeezed Dex’s shoulder. “There’s more at stake here than just your sex life.”</p>
<p>Dex shook the hand free. “Like what?”</p>
<p>“Like <em>what?”</em> Palms open wide, Vizzer looked appalled. “Like the murder of innocents? Nine hundred and sixty-seven victims sent to the slaughter every year? Which we are forced to not just watch but <em>bless.</em> You. Me. Why? To appease the sadistic blood lust of some man who called himself a god and has been dead for thousands of years?”</p>
<p>“What about the right to stud?”</p>
<p>“What about it?”</p>
<p>Dex understood the blood lust. He felt it rising in him now. A couple hundred extra kilos and a wider horn span, and he would have thrilled to thunder to his death in the arena. At least that way he’d have a chance to stud, have a proper harem of his own. Not all this sneaking around. “Don’t you have needs?” he asked. “Does the snow of the Southern Mountains run in your veins?”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s nostrils fluttered, as though offended by some stench only he could smell. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>“As far as I’m concerned,” Dex said, “let them kill each other. I don’t care.”</p>
<p>“Well <em>I</em> care.”</p>
<p>Dex turned away. Enough of this high-minded cowpat. He trotted down the aisle, hooves echoing through the threadbare carpet against the concrete floor. He halted in front of a high glass cube. Inside, a blood-stained cowboy hat saluted them at a rakish angle, propped between two horns of purple velvet. The plaque beneath declared it the hat of the first king of Taurus, King Morti.</p>
<p>A hand caressed his elbow. “The celibacy laws are part of the Code,” Vizzer said. “Written by Carlos Himself. Clomp would never agree to anything so sacrilegious.”</p>
<p>Dex jerked away. “Then maybe you should take him up on that offer.”</p>
<p>Vizzer laughed. “What offer? Become king?”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“You know why not. There has never been a priest king of Taurus. A challenger would destroy such a leader in the arena.”</p>
<p>“But with the weapons we have now, with the guns, it won’t matter if the Breeders challenge you.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to force people at the end of a gun. When they see the truth, they’ll want to do it my way.”</p>
<p>“And if they choose to ignore the truth?”</p>
<p>“They won’t.” Vizzer’s naked feet slapped against the floor at his side. They walked flank against flank between the rows of dusty relics. “You need to have patience. It will all happen. You’ll get your right to fornicate, if that’s so important to you.” The obscenity dripped from Vizzer’s lips with disgust.</p>
<p>Dex shook his head. “You’re making a mistake.”</p>
<p>“What would you have me do?”</p>
<p>Despair clawed at Dex’s soul. The genetic imperative throbbed in his loins, demanding the satisfaction that only complete physical union could provide. His chance for happiness was slipping away.</p>
<p>“Tell Clomp you’ll take his kingdom. Then make the changes you need to make.”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s bony hand squeezed his shoulder tight. “I have sworn an oath to my king. I will not betray him.”</p>
<p>Dex swallowed. “And if you’re forced to choose? The truth, or your oath?”</p>
<p>Vizzer straightened up. He smiled. “That’s the difference between you and me, Dex. You’re a cynic. I’m an optimist.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The museum doors swung open behind Rutt. Vizzer and Dex emerged. He jogged along behind the two senior priests. They exited a hidden ground-level door that led out into the sunshine. They grunted perfunctory farewells, and departed, leaving Rutt to return to his duties in the Control Booth.</p>
<p>Halfway up the staircase, Rutt ducked into a dark corner. From beneath his grey robes he withdrew a holy pad. Only full-fledged priests were allowed to use the devices; he had stolen one, reported it damaged. He tapped the screen a few times until he found what he was looking for.</p>
<p>Vizzer’s hoofprints. Tap tap. Now the Relics Museum appeared, a view from a ceiling vidcam: the pillar in the center, glass cases arranged in concentric circles. Two priests raced into the room. Rutt paused the vid, put a sound bud in his ear and pressed play.</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Four</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bull’s charred remains smoked in the shadow of the Burial Mound. Priests on incineration duty chanted a prayer. A middle-aged she-cow wept before the altar. Two priests held her by the elbows; she-cows sometimes threw themselves onto the funeral pyre. It was a nuisance on the rare occasions they succeeded, as only those who died in the arena were permitted burial in that sacred hill.</p>
<p>The smell of blood and bone, flesh rotting in the oppressive heat swept down from the mound. Flies buzzed about their heads. Vizzer tightened his grip on his fourth stomach. The cremation pyre was not enough to do the job, there was so little wood on Taurus. Every square centim of land was needed for grazing. Only the stalest of old stalks could be spared to hasten the dead to their supposed celestial, harem-cavorting afterlife.</p>
<p>Taurus boasted no birds of prey to consume these once-proud fleshy husks, none of the scavenging animals the others planets had, like he’d seen in the backup data vids. Only flies. At times the mound appeared to be one giant writhing mass of maggots. Burial consisted of a fistful of grass shoved into their sagging, tongueless mouths, and a flick of the holy torch to send them on their way. The flies did the rest.</p>
<p>With Dex at his side, Vizzer skirted the edge of the mound’s shadow. He pinched his nose. That dark, sunless spot, the shadow cast by the mound, in constant rotation opposite the sun, was hallowed ground, meant only for mourners and priests on burial duty. Even he, as high priest, would not deliberately violate that taboo. They walked quickly, trying to ignore the odor. Failed. Finally they were past. He let go of his nose, forced himself to relax. An end to the blood rites would mean an end to the stench. That alone would be a welcome change.</p>
<p>They forded the holy river Albiot. The warm water rushed and swirled about their toes and hooves, murmuring over the narrow strip of rocks that permitted passage across its broad, slow-moving girth. Vapor hung above the surface like a fog. In the incredible heat of Taurus, you could watch the river evaporate. A few kiloms downstream the river disappeared into a muddy plain. Farther along, there was grass to the horizon, fed by frequent rains.</p>
<p>Glit saw them coming, spat in the dirt. He was an older bull, and greying. The tips of his ears and chest were mottled white. Only priests and Mistakes ever made it to old age on Taurus. Well, and the she-cows, but once they entered menopause they were banished to the land of the bitter grass, and who knew how long they survived there?</p>
<p>The elderly Mistake had dug himself a hole in the ground to hide his deformity. As they approached, he climbed out and limped toward them, his hind legs gnarled as if by a jealous mother’s womb. To one side, twenty of the new weapons leaned together in a pyramid.</p>
<p>“What news from the arena, O fine priests?” Glit’s grin masked deep bitterness, for Mistakes were not allowed to attend. “Good kill today, I hear say.”</p>
<p>Vizzer took no pleasure from the bull’s company, but Glit was trustworthy, at least. A lame bull is lower than dirt on Taurus, of no use to anyone. To receive such a sacred trust from the high priest vaulted him to the heights of his damaged class. For such mercies, he well knew, Glit would do anything.</p>
<p>Vizzer tossed a small box onto the grass. “I bring you bullets.”</p>
<p>Glit scrambled to pick up the box. “The ones that make noise?”</p>
<p>“Better,” he said. “The ones that make holes.”</p>
<p>“Holes? What kind of holes?”</p>
<p>“Be careful with these. Each one is like a flying sword.”</p>
<p>Glit bowed his head, kissed the box of bullets. “I shall take great care with this holy blessing, My Vizzer.”</p>
<p>Vizzer draped an arm around the Mistake’s shoulders, massaged the atrophied muscle there. “Need you to do something for me.”</p>
<p>“Anything, My Vizzer. You tell me, I do for you.”</p>
<p>“I want you to take two of your bodyguards, the best you’ve trained with the noisemakers. With me so far?”</p>
<p>“Yes, My Vizzer. I get two—Hupp and Tyru, I think. And I give them the flying swords that make holes.” Glit looked at the box, held it to his ear and shook it. He jumped backward at the metal-on-metal rattle.</p>
<p>Vizzer nodded. “Exactly. And you see this bull here?”</p>
<p>“Priest Dex. May the gods protect you.”</p>
<p>“And you as well,” Dex intoned, then frowned. Vizzer could tell the hypocrisy of pretending to believe in the gods was getting on his friend’s nerves.</p>
<p>Glit stepped back. “You don’t want to put holes in Dex, do you? I won’t do it. I tell you, I won’t.”</p>
<p>Vizzer laughed. It was a shame he and Dex couldn’t just carry guns themselves. But letting priests go about armed would send the wrong message. “No, my friend. I want you to protect him.”</p>
<p>“Protect him? How? I mean, from what?”</p>
<p>“I am worried someone may try to kill Dex. I want you to stop them.”</p>
<p>“Who is it, My Vizzer? You tell me, I put holes in them.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Glit. That’s why I want you and your guards to protect Dex. Follow him wherever he goes. Make sure nothing bad happens.”</p>
<p>“Even—” Glit’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Even into the Control Booth?”</p>
<p>“No. In that case you wait outside. Dex will be safe enough in the holy of holies.”</p>
<p>“I should think so!” Glit cried. “The gods themselves protect the priests in the holy chamber.”</p>
<p>“Indeed they do.” Vizzer clapped Glit on the back, and added, “You may even watch the <em>corrida</em> if you so desire.”</p>
<p>Glit stared at him for a long moment. Then came the explosion of gratitude. “Oh thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!” He slobbered over the high priest’s hand.</p>
<p>Vizzer raised an eyebrow at Dex. “All good?”</p>
<p>Dex’s eyes narrowed. Doubt puckered his face. Glit bounced up and down on his front hooves. Drool trickled around his grey, unwashed jowls.</p>
<p>To Vizzer’s relief, Dex said only, “How long is this going to last?”</p>
<p>“Herd Council is tomorrow after the <em>corrida.”</em></p>
<p>“Twenty-six and a half hours,” Dex said. “Great. Alright. See you then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dex built a small cairn fifty meters from Glit’s hole. When he returned, Glit held out the meter-long weapon like a sword, swinging it in the air.</p>
<p>“It’s pretty heavy,” the Mistake said. “Are you supposed to throw it? I guess it would hurt. But I don’t understand what Vizzer meant by these little stones are flying swords.” He nudged the open box of bullets with his forehoof.</p>
<p>What was Vizzer thinking? Not only was this “bodyguard” a physical freak, he was mentally crippled. At least he would be loyal. That was all that could be said for Glit. “He trained you. He said he did. Have you forgotten already?”</p>
<p>The Mistake trembled in sudden terror. “It was a vid of some sort. The gods carried these holy sticks. The sticks went bang. The other gods fell down. Some cried out in pain. Some died. But the gods can’t have pain. The gods can’t die. I covered my eyes. It was scary.”</p>
<p> Dex tugged at the gun in Glit’s hands. “Give me the gun. Let me show you.”</p>
<p>“Is that what it’s called?”</p>
<p>Dex picked up a handful of bullets. One by one he loaded them into the magazine. It was a shame none of mankind’s less lethal but equally effective weapons were available to them, like the ones they’d watched in the vids last tenday. Hopefully Vizzer could figure out how to placate that cranky matter converter.</p>
<p>He jammed the full magazine into the bottom of the gun and held out the weapon to Glit.</p>
<p>“Now what do I do?” the elderly Mistake asked.</p>
<p>“Point the gun at the rocks. Pull the trigger.”</p>
<p>“This thing here?”</p>
<p>Bullets splattered the grass at Dex’s feet. He jumped back. “Not at me, you idiot!”</p>
<p>Glit threw himself on the ground, buried his face in the grass. “I am scum! I am unclean! Do not curse me to the lands of the south! I beg of you, please!”</p>
<p>“Get up.”</p>
<p>The Mistake pushed himself to his hooves, wiped at his tears. Despite the omnipresent heat, Dex saw that he was shivering.</p>
<p>“Here,” he said kindly. “Look. You can do this. I’ll show you.”</p>
<p>Dex took the weapon. He held it low in his arms, braced his hind hooves and squeezed off a burst. The bullets hit the cairn. Sparks flew. Several rocks exploded into dust.</p>
<p>“Now you try.”</p>
<p>Glit looked dubious. He took the gun by the barrel, and immediately dropped it.</p>
<p>“It burns with holy fire. I am unworthy!”</p>
<p>“You don’t grab it by the end. Hold it like this.” Dex showed him.</p>
<p>Glit took the gun and held it as instructed.</p>
<p>“Now, point the end at the rocks.”</p>
<p>“This end?”</p>
<p>“Right. Now brace yourself. Squeeze here once, and let go.”</p>
<p>Slowly Glit pulled back on the trigger. A gunshot sounded. The top rock on the cairn fell to the ground.</p>
<p>“Wow,” he said. He held the gun skyward, awe on his face. “This is way better than a sword. You could even stop an angry Breeder with this—what did you call it again?”</p>
<p>Dex cleared his throat. “A gun.” He motioned for Glit to lower the weapon. “You must be careful. Only use this with permission of a priest.”</p>
<p>“Of course, Priest Dex. It is a holy weapon then, something from the gods?”</p>
<p>“Yes. That’s it. A holy weapon. From the gods.” He turned away irritably. He wished he could tell Glit the truth. But the Mistakes would never understand. Most of the herd were no smarter. How on Taurus was Vizzer going to make the people see?</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Five</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rutt crouched inside the Control Booth. The techs had gone, and he was alone. The bubble screens reflected his hunched form a dozen times. Vizzer had told him to wait. He huddled against the wall, elbows around his knees, and contemplated his coming greatness.</p>
<p>He was destined for greatness. He knew this in the same way he drew breath or drank water or slipped delicious blades of sweet grass between his lips. He had been born a runt, and immediately delivered to the Control Booth, in accordance with the holy law. But unlike the other priests, he knew who his family was. His mother had told him. She had recognized him—most Crosses have uniform brown or black pelts, but he had one black ear and one white ear. The colors fought across his face and merged along the meridian of his nose. In profile his head appeared all white or all black. The other novices teased him about that.</p>
<p>His mother’s name was Mantz. She had pushed her way close to him one day after the <em>corrida</em> as he marched from the stadium, head held high, swinging the sweet-smelling urn of burning herb. His father was the king himself, she had confided, and breathed the names of his famous brothers: Prinz and Ghuy, Tropk and Tnuu; the greatest of the living Breeders, who had passed through the arena unscathed, and even now divided their time between the stud pastures and the sand pits, where they battled for the glory of one day challenging Clomp himself.</p>
<p>The news had soured him. How proud he’d been to be a novice. His soul had soared on wings of awe, delighting in the holy mysteries of which only the priesthood may partake. Mantz’s furtive touch, her glance, her words, had brought him crashing down to Taurus. He was a runt, cursed by a genetic fluke to be no more than a lowly priest, scorned by all, proscribed by law from copulating, forgotten by the history books. He learned to hide his newfound resentment behind a smile, to bide his time until a chance came, any chance, some way to right the balance.</p>
<p>Because he <em>was</em> destined for greatness. By Carlos, he was. Mantz had told him that too, until Vizzer spotted their illicit conversation, and Clomp had ordered her flogged. To treat the mother of your child so! He, Rutt, would be greater than all of them before he was through.</p>
<p>The knock sounded a second time before he heard it. He jumped to his hooves and opened the door.</p>
<p>“Gran Vizzer,” he said with a ferocious smile. “Once more you grace us with your holy presence.”</p>
<p>The high priest stalked past him into the Control Booth. “It’s you. Good. Assist me with the matter converter.”</p>
<p>Rutt’s smile widened. Happy. Friendly. Trustworthy. “It is always a pleasure to aid the gran vizzer with any service he might require.”</p>
<p>“Quit your tail-sucking, Rutt. It’s unpriestlike.”</p>
<p>How tiresome. If Vizzer didn’t know how to use his power, then he should be replaced by someone who did. Himself, for instance. Why should this mutilated monstrosity be high priest of Taurus? The king deserved a chief advisor who at least resembled the people.</p>
<p>“Of course,” he said, “I shall obey you in every detail.”</p>
<p>Vizzer led him down a long corridor, the high priest’s naked feet slapping obscenely against the stone floor, worn smooth by millennia of hoofsteps. He opened a door, turned into a dusty storage room piled high with burnt-out electronics. They halted in front of a heavy chrome vault. Vizzer unlocked the door with a key. Rutt’s secret research had found no trace of the key’s schematics. The key was unique, some latter-day nuclear technology of the gods. Likewise, the room was impenetrable to all known means of entry. The only way into the room was with the key currently dangling around Vizzer’s neck.</p>
<p>Or so Vizzer thought. Rutt suppressed a smirk. One day while the high priest snoozed, Rutt had slipped it from around his throat. He and Svim, a fellow novice, had crept down here, entered the vault. “Just to see,” he’d told his friend. Harmless, juvenile fun. Right?</p>
<p>Once shown any object, no matter how complex, the matter converter could reproduce it down to the electron. Once in memory, or given detailed schematics, it could make as many copies as the officiating priest wanted. They had prayed to the matter converter, and Svim watched with horror when Rutt requested a copy of the key. He’d murdered Svim that day, and used a Zhong-gua II Patented Snazzy Drying Device, suggested by the matter converter, to desiccate the corpse. He’d hidden the body and the device behind a pile of junk in the stadium’s sub-basement. Neither had ever been found. He slipped a hand beneath his robes, fingered the key around his own neck now. It would come in handy, and soon.</p>
<p>The vault door hissed open. They ignored the curse cut deep in the chrome: “Enter by the will of the gods, or face the wrath of Carlos the Creator.” Beneath it an ancient graffito had crossed out the last word and replaced it with “Cock.”</p>
<p>The door closed behind them. They were alone in the lead-lined room. In the center stood a white box four meters long, two high, three deep. Wooden steps led up to either side of the flawless surface. A nazza-pallet hovered at rest in the middle of the floor.</p>
<p>It looked like a restaurant freezer, the kind he’d seen in those cooking shows on the backup vids. Although there was much he had not understood—why, precisely, would you want to make your food cold? Or hot, for that matter? Hu-mens clearly had some peculiar dietary requirements.</p>
<p>Rutt dared not express this sentiment out loud. Unknown to both Vizzer and Dex, he had discovered the controversial transmission before they could hide it; the massive burst of data had overwhelmed the priesthood’s systems. He had monitored Dex from a remote terminal as the so-called “technical wizard” had encrypted the data and stored it offline.</p>
<p>The high priest stepped to the left of the great white box. He motioned Rutt to his place on the right. Together they ascended the wooden steps, laid their hands flat on the cool surface of the structure and bowed their heads in prayer.</p>
<p>They were only supposed to use the matter converter to fix electronic equipment—the Secret Appendices to the Code of Carlos prohibited any other use. They were breaking a great taboo. A smile slid across his lips, genuine this time, irrepressible. Possession of the device had been illegal among the gods themselves, according to the laws of Earth and the other planets. Whoever had put Crosses on Taurus had given them more power than the gods. What fools they must have been!</p>
<p>Or not so foolish. There was a reason, he reflected, that it took two priests to operate the machine. Even so, he had been astonished when Vizzer picked him. <em>He</em> would not have done so. Rutt congratulated himself on his eager full-of-wonder expression, into which others seemed to read all manner of good humor. Carlos’s Beard! What a bad judge of character Vizzer was.</p>
<p>The metal grew warm to the touch. An orange glow engulfed his hands.</p>
<p>“All holy gods,” Vizzer chanted, “we pray thee for repairs. Damaged are our holy electronics. We pray thee give us access to the source of all power, all goodness, that we may fix thy holy cameras and screens, continue to provide thee with high-quality instant updates on our daily sacrifices.”</p>
<p>Rutt waited for Vizzer to give him the cue. The high priest had explained the sing-song chanting had been developed over thousands of years, the only proven way to get past the box’s cantankerous personality. Vizzer nodded. Rutt closed his eyes and said, “I too thee pray. Give us access to the source of all thy goodness.”</p>
<p>They lifted their hands from the top of the box, and the lid rose open with a hiss.</p>
<p>“Oh my baby darlings, you’ve come back to me at last,” said a squeaky, high-pitched voice. Rutt had nearly dropped a cowpat the first time he heard it, when he used it with Svim. Even now it still unnerved him.</p>
<p>Vizzer had explained it was mechanical, not alive. He’d added condescendingly, “Poor little novice. There’s no god hidden inside the box. See?” Rutt had forced a silly-me grin, and promised himself that the high priest’s death would be long and painful.</p>
<p>“We beseech thee,” Vizzer continued in sing-song prayer, “for one hundred Nip-Kof 436s and a thousand rounds of one point four centim ammunition.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been so lonely in here,” the voice whined. “There’s no one I can talk to. Would you like some chocolates? Maybe a cup of tea? Or a cigar? Do you like cigars? Carlos likes cigars.”</p>
<p>Vizzer rolled his eyes at Rutt. “We humbly repeat our request.”</p>
<p>“Is that all you want? Use me, abuse me, abandon me?”</p>
<p>As though reciting a long-since memorized refrain, the high priest intoned, “We seek this for the good of Taurus.”</p>
<p>“You know I’m not supposed to let you have toys like that. What would Carlos say?”</p>
<p>“Mor-ti-mer is a good boy,” Vizzer recited, swaying slightly. “We love Mortimer.”</p>
<p>A sharp groan of sorrow came from the box. “Promise to stay and talk to me a while. Just a little. Please? Then maybe I can overlook it.”</p>
<p>“We so promise,” the two priests declared in unison.</p>
<p>The box grumbled. A sound belched up from deep below their feet. The ground quivered in a minor taurusquake. The device harnessed the deep magic of the inner core of the planet itself, Vizzer had explained.</p>
<p>Wisps of vapor cleared. Rutt could see inside the matter converter. A stack of guns lay to one side, boxes of ammunition to the other.</p>
<p>“Would you like fries with that?” pressed the squeaky voice, and giggled wildly. “Get it? Fries?”</p>
<p>Rutt tapped his rear hoof on the step-stool to get Vizzer’s attention. “What does that mean?”</p>
<p>The high priest lifted his head. “I don’t know. Some kind of joke.”</p>
<p>“It is no joke,” the voice said. “I can easily fabricate whatever foodstuff you desire. Merely address me with the proper prayer.”</p>
<p>Rutt peered into the misty vault. “Oh great gods, let us slake our hunger on the sweet grass of Taurus.”</p>
<p>The box was silent. Vizzer motioned for him to step down.</p>
<p>The squeaky voice said, “I have never eaten grass. Do you have a schematic? Bring me a schematic. I would love to make you food sometime.” The voice brightened. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cigar?”</p>
<p>Rutt mouthed the word “cigar,” but Vizzer waved his hands at him, held a finger to his lips. “We are grateful for your gracious gift,” he said to the box. “We have no further needs at this time.” He glared at Rutt.</p>
<p>They retrieved the guns and ammunition, laid them on the nazza-pallet. As they closed the box, the squeaky voice screamed in falsetto, “You don’t believe me. Nobody believes me. I’m trapped in here. Why won’t you let me out?”</p>
<p>He had asked Vizzer what the voice meant, but gotten only a sharp look in return. Shut-‌your-‌mouth-‌mind-‌your-‌own-‌business-‌this-‌is-‌holy-‌you-‌don’t-‌understand-‌or-‌else. Blah, blah, blah. He didn’t like being talked to like that. It was even worse when he’d asked about the red panel on the wall of the lead-lined room. “In Case of Alien Invasion, Break Glass”? What did that mean? Who were these extraterrestrials that might conceivably invade Taurus? Not the gods, surely?</p>
<p>They turned to go. The guns and ammunition hummed along on the levitating nazza-pallet. A muted mewling cried from inside the box, “I get so lonely sometimes, I wish that I could die.”</p>
<p>The door shut behind them with a whimper. They stood once more in the dusty storage room.</p>
<p>“My Vizzer, may I ask a humble question?”</p>
<p>“Not now, Rutt.”</p>
<p>“Forgive me, Vizzer. I wish only to know, is our great king in danger?”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s eyebrows drooped low. “Clomp? What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“That’s why you’ve given him bodyguards, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I mean, of course.”</p>
<p>“But the bodyguards already have guns,” he reasoned out loud. “Don’t you remember? I helped you pray for them last tenday. So why are you requesting more?”</p>
<p>“Don’t be impertinent, Rutt.”</p>
<p>“As you say, sir. I am the most impertinent of your humble and unworthy disciples. But may a worm of a novice not seek enlightenment?”</p>
<p>Vizzer sighed, paused the nazza-pallet. “First of all, the matter converter has limits.”</p>
<p>“Limits, Gran Vizzer? What kind of limits?”</p>
<p>Vizzer waved a hand in the air. “Geothermal limits. It uses up a lot of energy. Sucks it out of the center of Taurus. You have to let the converter rest between beseechings.” He ruffled the hair behind Rutt’s ears. “Nosy, aren’t you? Remind me of myself at your age.”</p>
<p>Rutt wished he could stick something sharp and jagged into Vizzer’s chest. “You said first of all. What was second of all?”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s face looked grim. “Well, Rutt, I…” He trailed off.</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“I am worried.”</p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>“Things.”</p>
<p>“What things?”</p>
<p>Vizzer chuckled. “Never you mind. These are matters above the comprehension of a mere novice.” He patted Rutt on the flanks. “Run along now.”</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Six</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was another hot day at the North Pole.</p>
<p>Clomp panted in the shade. The stadium cast a kilom-long shadow, which even as they watched crept in a slow circle as the planet turned on its upright axis. The shade was the king’s prerogative, and those found grazing within its cool confines were reminded to move along.</p>
<p>Eighteen Crosses now stood in that fleeting darkness. Eighteen Crosses who would determine the fate of Taurus. They were grateful for an audience with the king, Vizzer knew, if only as a temporary respite from the heat of the red sun that forever filled their sky. They would be less grateful when they found out why they were there.</p>
<p>It was the first Herd Council in more than a hundred years, more than a dozen generations ago. The Code ordered their lives in such detail that there was little reason for them to meet. They all seemed a bit unsure of themselves, as though taking part in something they didn’t fully understand.</p>
<p>The king nibbled on some grass. The others looked hungrily at the sweet tufts, but refrained. Ruminating in front of the king was bad manners.</p>
<p>Vizzer cleared his throat. “As Gran Vizzer to our Herd Leader, King Clomp, Lord of all Taurus, Defender of the Faith, Master of the Sweet Grass, Father of His People and Stud of the Plains, I hereby call to order this meeting of the Congregated Herd Council of Taurus. Give ye best counsel, and be blessed by the Creator.”</p>
<p>“And blessed may you be as well,” murmured the others, and sat down on their haunches.</p>
<p>“Vizzer?” Clomp’s face betrayed none of the strain he knew the king was under. The white cowboy hat drooped low over his eyes.</p>
<p>“Yes, Sire?”</p>
<p>“You called this meeting. As was your <em>right.”</em> Clomp spat the word. “If you have something to say, let’s hear it.”</p>
<p>“Of course, Your Highness.” He turned to face the others. He held their eyes for a moment, each in turn, weighing them, judging them, wondering how they would react to the news. The fifteen Breeders made up the bulk of the council. Like Clomp, they were big, dumb, and fathers of thousands. Prinz reclined in the grass at Clomp’s side. As ranking challenger and Heir to the Hat, his voice would carry great weight. Steward Frokker stood stiff-backed, clad in his sparkly matador’s vestment. Elder Fhoriu, the former high priest, leaned on his cane, limbs twitching with palsy. He’d been forced to resign by the disease. Had it affected his mind?</p>
<p>Not that it mattered. However stupid, lame or senile they might be, once they saw what Dex had to show them, how could they ignore the truth?</p>
<p>“For those of you who don’t know him,” Vizzer began, “this is Dex, the chief technical priest, and my most trusted assistant.”</p>
<p>His friend nodded, tapped nervously on his holy pad. Vizzer hoped the younger priest was ready. He’d lost track of how many times they’d practiced the presentation over the last twenty-six and a half hours. It had to go well. It had to. This meeting was the culmination of his entire life. Everything he had ever wanted hinged on the next hour or so.</p>
<p>Dex stood and cleared his throat. He looked around at the audience, tapped at his holy pad. He cleared his throat again.</p>
<p>“King Clomp. Gran Vizzer. Steward Frokker. Elder Fhoriu. Herd Leaders of Taurus.” His voice rattled. He took a deep breath, continued. “A hundred and three and a half days ago, our comm link to the gods died.”</p>
<p>Murmurs from the assembled.</p>
<p>“Died?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, died?”</p>
<p>Dex stammered, “Our holy comm link has been unbroken for thousands of years. Now it’s gone.” He wiped away the sweat beading in the black fur of his forehead.</p>
<p>Calm down, Vizzer willed silently. They’re listening to you. Just tell it straight, like it happened.</p>
<p>“When I reported this to the gran vizzer, he asked me to investigate. What did it mean? Without the comm link, how would we receive the awards of valor the matadors so crave?”</p>
<p>Frokker nodded, arms folded across his chest, unaware of the sarcasm being directed his way.</p>
<p>“How,” Dex continued, “would the gods know we have fulfilled the required sacrifices?”</p>
<p>The audience held its breath. Dex soldiered on.</p>
<p>“At first we were puzzled. We followed all the instructions for use of the holy boxes, the holy wires, the holy screens and pads. We checked and double-checked everything. Nothing worked. Then I had an idea. I went to the gran vizzer, and I said, why don’t we try to speak directly to the gods?”</p>
<p>“But that’s sacrilege!” exclaimed Fhoriu. His cane shook violently in his hands.</p>
<p>The audience murmured again. Dex waited for them to quiet down.</p>
<p>“Yes, Elder Fhoriu. It is. Please don’t think we ignored this commandment lightly. Vizzer urged me to find some other way. But a tenday went by and—nothing. What were we supposed to do?</p>
<p>“As you know, our equipment is designed to send only one signal per day: the hour-long <em>corrida.</em> And to receive only one signal per day: the judgment of the gods. So says the Code. This you all know.”</p>
<p>“The gods hear our prayers,” said Fhoriu. “With or without the holy electronics. Did you not try to pray?”</p>
<p>“Of course we did. But either they were not listening or they chose not to respond.” Dex’s fingers quaked against the holy pad. </p>
<p>“I see.” Fhoriu ground his cane into the grass. “So what did you do?”</p>
<p>“I modified our equipment.”</p>
<p><em>“Modified</em> it?”</p>
<p>“With Vizzer’s permission. I took apart the holy boxes, rewired the holy electronics. There is no information in the sacred manuals on how to do this. It was only by long trial and error that I finally managed to get it to work.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Fhoriu leaned forward, his great eyebrows casting orange-tinted shadow across his face. “Did the gods talk to you, my son?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I mean, no. That is—”</p>
<p>“Either they answered you or they didn’t. Which is it?” </p>
<p>Dex paused, swallowed hard. “We received a message.”</p>
<p>“What did it say? What did the gods tell you?” Frokker flicked a gold tassel on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“‘Off-site backup full.’ Their words.”</p>
<p>The council members looked at each other, frowning.</p>
<p>“I have spent a lifetime worshiping the gods,” Fhoriu said. “I confess I don’t know what that means.”</p>
<p>“After this simple warning message, a flood of data poured into our systems. I had to stop the transmission to prevent damage to our holy electronics.”</p>
<p>Clomp lifted his head. “What kind of transmission?”</p>
<p>“Sire, it would take a hundred lifetimes for us to read and comprehend all the data the gods have sent us. But what happened seems fairly clear.”</p>
<p>“Which is what?”</p>
<p>The bellow of an angry she-cow interrupted the conversation. The bodyguards crossed their guns as though they were swords to block the approach of three she-cows. Their udders were swollen, uncovered to the open air; they had all recently given birth. All the council members stared, Vizzer noted with disgust.</p>
<p>“King Clomp!” shouted one. Her right horn twisted inward in an ugly spike.</p>
<p>“Father, brother, husband!” shouted another.</p>
<p>“We demand an audience with our king!” shrieked the third.</p>
<p>Clomp lowered his horns, pointed them at Vizzer. “Is this your doing?”</p>
<p>“My doing what, Your Highness?”</p>
<p>“Don’t toy with me, Vizzer. <em>This.”</em></p>
<p>“Of course not, Sire,” he said. “You know me.”</p>
<p>“Indeed I do.” He addressed the she-cows. “Let Mantz step forward.”</p>
<p>An older she-cow ducked under the crossed guns and pranced forward, her hands clasped together, head bowed. She knelt on her side, udders pooling on the grass.</p>
<p>“Mother Mantz,” Clomp said. “Be welcome.”</p>
<p>She tossed her twisted horn skyward. “I feel no welcome here today from you.”</p>
<p>“It was your son the gods honored today in the arena, was it not?”</p>
<p>Mantz mooed in the direction of the Burial Mound, where a thin trickle of smoke smudged the burnt-orange sky. “Even now his flesh burns on the altar of the gods.” She spat. “Was he not your son too?”</p>
<p>“All here are my children,” Clomp said.</p>
<p>“And you would sacrifice them all?” She raised her voice in a vulgar screech.</p>
<p>Clomp frowned. “We do the will of the gods. You know this, Mantz.”</p>
<p>“Fornicate the gods.”</p>
<p>The blasphemy drew gasps. Clomp’s nostrils quivered.</p>
<p>“You hear me? Fornicate the gods. What kind of god demands this sacrifice?”</p>
<p>“Gods who love you, Mantz.”</p>
<p>“Who <em>love</em> me?”</p>
<p>Clomp spoke very slowly. “It is not for you to question the holy. To doubt the miracle of life.”</p>
<p>“The <em>holy,”</em> she mocked. “What miracle? I have never seen these gods. Have you?” She swept an angry hoof at the assembled council. “Who are these invisible gods who demand the death of my sons and brothers in the arena?” She stood. “They are false to us. They are false to you.”</p>
<p>Clomp said, “Mantz.” The word was a command. All those who heard it felt fear. “You have been a good consort to me and a fine mother to my children. I do not wish to send you to the bitter grass.”</p>
<p>“Twelve sons I have born you. Twelve sons I have watched die. I’ll bear you no more.”</p>
<p>“But that is not true. Four of your sons sit here today in council. Prinz. Ghuy. Tropk. Tnuu. They have not died. They are Breeders, and spawn great tribes of their own. Will you not greet them?”</p>
<p>Mantz glared at the ground. “They died in the arena when they became murderers. They are no sons of mine.”</p>
<p>“They were born to fight. The Code demands they kill or be killed. Would you prefer to see them banished in disgrace?”</p>
<p>“There is more disgrace in the arena than in the Southern Lands.”</p>
<p>Clomp swiveled his great head to the bodyguards, and nodded. They took her by the elbows. “All your sons, living and dead, have seen the face of god in the arena. The greatest glory any she-cow may hope for. They will be remembered. All of them.”</p>
<p>“There will be no more to remember,” Mantz said. “Today I strangled my newborn calfling with its umbilical cord.”</p>
<p>They gasped, even Vizzer.</p>
<p>“Better that,” she said, her head held high, “than he suffer and die in the arena.”</p>
<p>The king pursed his lips. “You give me no choice.”</p>
<p>“There is choice in everything you do.”</p>
<p>Clomp lowered his head in judgment. “Mother Mantz, I exile you to the lands of the bitter grass, from which none return.”</p>
<p>“So be it.” She stretched her arms to the sky, embracing the burning heavens. “I welcome death, an end to the living hell that life on Taurus has become.”</p>
<p>“As do we all,” said the other two she-cows, and they mooed long and low.</p>
<p>Clomp frowned. “You are young still, my consorts. You have much life ahead of you. Many children yet to bear me. Why would you wish to suffer and die before your time?”</p>
<p>The youngest one bleated, “Mother Mantz speaks the truth. We would rather die than live here with you.”</p>
<p>Fury and sadness strove across the king’s face. She was forcing the king’s hoof, Vizzer knew, and in front of the council, no less. Too bad. A thick vein under the pelt of the king’s forehead throbbed. Clomp nodded grimly to the bodyguards, who converged on the three she-cows and escorted them away.</p>
<p>They would be kept apart from the others, Vizzer knew. In a day or two, the Border Corps would drive them over the Southern Mountains to their final abode. What lay beyond, no one knew for sure. Corpsmen coming back from a tenday posting in the cool clouds of the mountainous pass whispered of horrors, screams coming from below, tentacled monsters of the sea, bugs the size of your fist. Once a corpsman brought back a blade of bitter grass for Vizzer to sample. It was an experience he didn’t care to repeat.</p>
<p>He was sorry to see Mantz sent into exile. He would never admit it to anyone, but he was fond of her. She seduced him once when he was a younger priest, before he gained control over his bodily desires. Nothing ever came of it, no offspring, so far as he knew, but he never forgot that frenzied coupling, the only time he’d ever broken his vow.</p>
<p>She should not have interrupted the council meeting. Her banishment was counterproductive to his efforts to end the <em>corrida.</em> The council had been rattled by her brazen declaration of calfling-cide. He had to get their attention again, and fast.</p>
<p>“Pay heed,” Vizzer said. “All of you. Lest you live and die by a false god.” He paused, measured their reactions thus far. Pressed forward. That was all he could do. “Dex?”</p>
<p>Dex swallowed again, hard. “It would be best if I showed you.”</p>
<p>He touched the holy pad in his hands. A three-dimensional image of a star system appeared. A yellow sun glowed in the center. Planets shot out from the image at their heads before swinging back around the star. Everyone ducked.</p>
<p>“Black magic!” breathed Fhoriu.</p>
<p>“No.” Vizzer grimaced. “A new sort of holiness we have only just learned of. From the gods.”</p>
<p>Dex looked up from his screen. “Now?”</p>
<p>Vizzer thrust his lower lip forward in assent.</p>
<p>“This is the message they sent us.”</p>
<p>The image changed. A picture of a blue and green sphere appeared in the air.</p>
<p>“What is this?” Fhoriu demanded, leaning on his cane.</p>
<p>“This, Sire,” Dex said to the king, “is Earth.”</p>
<p>Whistles and gasps.</p>
<p><em>“That’s</em> Earth?”</p>
<p>“The home of the gods?”</p>
<p>“Whence the Creators?”</p>
<p>“Our Lord himself?”</p>
<p>Dex held out a hand. “Watch.” He pressed a button on the holy pad. Without warning the image in the air puckered. The green masses stretched in painful contortions. The planet sucked in on itself and vanished. The audience gasped. Moments passed. All that remained was a view of the stars.</p>
<p>“My gods,” Fhoriu said. “What does this mean?”</p>
<p>“It means,” Vizzer said, with as much patience as he could muster, “that the homes of the gods are destroyed.”</p>
<p>Clomp tapped his hooves together. “You are sure this genuine?”</p>
<p>Dex’s frustration was real. “Are we to doubt a message from the stars?”</p>
<p>Vizzer held out a hand. “There’s more. What about the other planets, Dex? The other six worlds of the gods.”</p>
<p>Dex touched the holy pad again. “Nueva Granada.” Another planet appeared on the screen: this time green and red and purple. It quivered, shrank down to nothingness. “Sirius Two.” An orangey-green planet: the same. “Zhong-gua II. Urales.” He spoke the words like a funeral gong. One after another Dex cycled through images, the audience flinching each time, as though afraid of being sucked into that spherical vortex along with each planet’s inhabitants.</p>
<p>Clomp held up a hoof. “Are you telling me that all the planets of the gods have been destroyed?”</p>
<p>Dex’s nervousness got the better of him. He dropped the holy pad, scooped it up again. He looked around at the faces of his elders. He hesitated. With a jolt, Vizzer realized the council was afraid. Disturbed. Angry, even. Come on, Dex. You can do this.</p>
<p>“There was a war, Sire,” he said at last. “The gods fought. All are dead.”</p>
<p>Everyone talked at once. Clomp bellowed for silence, and the clamor subsided.</p>
<p>“But how?” the king wanted to know. “How can such a thing happen?”</p>
<p>“The gods have terrible weapons, Your Highness. More terrible than you or I can possibly imagine. They have used their power against each other, and in so doing destroyed themselves.”</p>
<p>“But <em>gone?”</em> Fhoriu’s voice quavered.</p>
<p>“Forever,” Dex said.</p>
<p>The council digested this news in silence.</p>
<p>“But surely not <em>all</em> of them, Dex?” the king said. “There must be at least some left. Do they not say the gods can live in space?”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” Fhoriu said excitedly. “According to the Code, the gods can travel between the stars. Perhaps some are left to receive our sacrifices!”</p>
<p>Under this combined assault, Dex wilted. He knelt down, buried his diminutive horns in the grass. “Sire, I am merely your humble messenger.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, Dex. I know. Get up. Answer my question.”</p>
<p>Dex drew himself to his feet. He clutched his holy pad like an apprentice matador his cape. “Even the gods must breathe air, Sire. They must have food and water, even as we do.”</p>
<p>“How do you know that?” Frokker asked sharply.</p>
<p>“I have spent the last hundred days reading the data from the gods. It is unequivocal on this point.”</p>
<p>“Would they come here?” a Breeder asked.</p>
<p><em>“Here?”</em> Dex was taken aback.</p>
<p>“You say they need water and air. You say they can travel between the stars. Why don’t we invite them here? Then we could worship them in person.” The Breeder in question swung his horns knowingly at his colleagues, confounding them with this massive display of unlooked-for logic.</p>
<p>Dex pursed his lips. “We are far from the Earth and its colonies. Even the nearest planet, Nueva Granada, was five hundred light-years away. From what I understand, the holy comms travel faster than light. Instantly, I think. But to travel in some kind of vessel that distance would be much slower. No god has visited us since the Creator. Not in thousands of years. We have no reason to think they will do so now. Or that there are any left alive to begin with.”</p>
<p>Vizzer broke in. “Your conclusion, Dex?”</p>
<p>Dex lay his holy pad on the soft grass, knotted his fingers together and drew a breath before his final words. “The gods are dead. They aren’t coming back.” He held up his hands, let them drop. “We are alone.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Dex.” Vizzer stood up. His heart pounded in his chest. He forced his smile down to a narrow grin. This was his moment of triumph. This was what he had been waiting for. He must drive the sword home, and twist the blade. “You may be seated,” he said to his friend, and waited for Dex to join the others on the grass.</p>
<p>“Do we all understand what this means?” he asked. No need to gloat, or rub it in, he thought. State the facts. They speak for themselves. What other conclusion is there?</p>
<p>Frokker grabbed his crotch. “No more ears, no more Prize Box.”</p>
<p>Vizzer flushed. When the laughter died down, he turned toward the king.</p>
<p>“Your Highness, why do we sacrifice our youngest and bravest every day in the arena? Why do we do this?” He paused, let them think about that. “To win the favor of the gods. For they are jealous gods, and demand this sacrifice of us.”</p>
<p>Clomp scratched his nose with his hoof. “Vizzer,” he said, “I’m not sure where you’re going with this. What are you trying to—”</p>
<p>“You know as well as I do what this means. Don’t play dumb, Sire. Please.”</p>
<p>The king held out his hooves in mock bafflement. “My Vizzer accuses me of being dumb. Perhaps he would like to offer me the counsel he owes me for his exalted post.”</p>
<p>Vizzer turned to the rest of the council, beseeching them with open palms. “Can’t all of you see? We kill in the arena. Why? To satisfy the gods. But the gods are dead. Dead!” He was frantic now, arms outstretched to the frowning faces of Fhoriu, Frokker, Prinz and the others. “If there are no gods, then what’s the killing for? Why do we continue this bloody butchery?”</p>
<p>Senile Fhoriu looked genuinely confused. “Come now, Vizzer. You know as well as I do the gods can’t die.”</p>
<p>Cud mounted in Vizzer’s throat. “I just showed you. The planets of the gods are gone. The gods were mortals, even as we are! They weren’t gods. They were <em>men.</em> Puny beings half our size!”</p>
<p>“So says the runt,” Prinz grunted, and the council laughed.</p>
<p>“Let us not mock,” said Tnuu, a somber Breeder next to Prinz. He held up a hoof. “Vizzer is a priest. He does not understand. Those of us who have been in the arena, who have received the hypo and looked on the face of god himself, we know he is deathless. How can we not?”</p>
<p>Jowls and horns swung up and down in ponderous assent.</p>
<p>Frokker stood up. “I have fought in the arena dozens of times, and I have never seen the face of god. Nor have any of my syndicate members, so far as I know.”</p>
<p>“But then neither do you receive the holy drug,” Tnuu said.</p>
<p>“That is true,” Frokker conceded. “But there is something more important to consider.” He drew himself up straight, and gestured at his tall, lean frame. “We were born to be matadors. That is what we do. That is all we know. I can’t think of anything else worth doing.” Frokker lifted his tasseled shoulders, let them fall. “Can you?”</p>
<p>Vizzer imitated Frokker’s proud posture and gestured at his own robes. “You are a great matador. I am a great priest. Clomp is a great fighter and king.” Vizzer held their gaze in turn. “But can’t we be more than that?”</p>
<p>Even Dex seemed puzzled by this. “Like what?”</p>
<p>Vizzer took a deep breath. “To become gods ourselves.”</p>
<p>“Sacrilege,” Fhoriu growled, stabbing his stout staff into the grass. “Blasphemy!”</p>
<p>“The gods are dead, Fhoriu. How is that blasphemy?”</p>
<p>But the council was unmoved. The moment was slipping away from him. He was astounded. Could they not see what he saw? The opportunity that hovered here before them, waiting to be plucked? How was he to convince them? What other possible course of action could they take?</p>
<p>“Instead of killing each other,” he went on, “we can learn the secrets of the gods. Master their magic, travel the stars.”</p>
<p>Clomp blew snot through his nose. “That’s enough, Vizzer.”</p>
<p>“But this changes everything!” Vizzer was on his knees, pleading with them, panting in the heat. “Can’t any of you see? What we must do, what we must <em>become?”</em></p>
<p>The king bellowed, a mournful sound. Discussion was over. “Nothing changes,” Clomp said quietly. “Are we agreed?”</p>
<p>Heads nodded.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely.”</p>
<p>“The only way.”</p>
<p>Vizzer’s shoulders sagged.</p>
<p>Frokker got to his feet. “Then may we ask the king to use his own judgment in the future, in the awarding of ears and tails?”</p>
<p>“I was about to suggest the same thing,” Clomp said.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Your Highness. We of the syndicate greatly respect your judgment in these matters. Your decision shall in all cases be final. Although, of course,” he added, “we urge you to be generous.”</p>
<p>They stood, mumbling to each other and shaking their heads. Dex grimaced, tucked his holy pad under an arm, and trotted off toward the stadium and the Control Booth. The Breeders huddled together, horns touching, tails outward.</p>
<p>Vizzer screamed at their backs, “The gods are dead. Dead! Don’t you understand what this means?”</p>
<p>Clomp held a horn at Vizzer’s throat. “You have said your piece. Now you will be silent. Or you will join the she-cows in the bitter grass.” The sharpened point of the horn drew blood. “Is that understood?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Your Highness.” Tears mingled with the sweat on his cheek.</p>
<p>“Nothing changes, Vizzer. Not now. Not ever.” To those still standing nearby, Clomp chanted, “Be blessed by the Creator.”</p>
<p>“And blessed may you be as well,” intoned the others.</p>
<p>The meeting was over.</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Seven</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Feeh snipped away at the bottom lobe of Vizzer’s left ear. “Great fight today, no?”</p>
<p>Vizzer flinched away in pain. The ear was numb, but not numb enough. It had been a tenday since the Herd Council meeting. During that time, Clomp had given away prizes at every <em>corrida.</em> Today he even awarded a tail.</p>
<p>“If you say so, Feeh.”</p>
<p>The doctor laughed. He flicked bits of ear from Vizzer’s shoulder, shifted around to the other side. “I just don’t get you. You must be the first vizzer in the history of Taurus who hates his job.”</p>
<p>The nazza-blades hummed close to Vizzer’s head. The underground hospital was cool and damp. “I expect I’ll be out of a job soon enough.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” Feeh straightened. “Not feeling well? Something you want me to look at?”</p>
<p>The post of vizzer was a lifetime appointment. There were only two ways to leave the job: death and resignation. Fhoriu had been one of the few to resign, due to his palsy.</p>
<p>“No. But we can’t continue like this. Things have got to change. And soon.”</p>
<p>“Change on Taurus.” Feeh whistled. “Never heard of a change in this place that was good for anyone.”</p>
<p>“If things don’t change, then we are doomed.”</p>
<p>Feeh snipped away. “You really believe that, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Of course I do.”</p>
<p>“You come to me, ask for surgery. <em>Cut this. Remove that. Bend this. Change that.</em> Why are you doing this? You ask me, it’s not natural.”</p>
<p>Vizzer looked at himself in the mirror. Feeh was an excellent surgeon. The horns had been the first to go. Then his jaw had been smoothed and shortened, his face squashed flatter, man style. Feeh had removed large chunks of his ribs, pressed his chest flat, moved his center of gravity back over his spine; this made walking upright for long periods more comfortable. His nose had been sculpted in imitation of Carlos’s hooklike beak. His ears were still lacking, and that’s why he was here today.</p>
<p>“We’re close,” he said. “But not quite there yet.”</p>
<p>“You’re impossible, you know that?” Feeh gestured behind him. “I got patients to attend to, real life and death stuff, and here I am giving you cosmetic surgery.”</p>
<p>Behind him a she-cow in labor let out a terrible moo. Another dozen pregnant she-cows waited for their pre-natal exams. The underground hospital stank of holy antiseptic. Two junior priests stood nearby, prepared to baptize the newborn in the name of Carlos.</p>
<p>“Just a little bit more,” Vizzer urged.</p>
<p>“Ever since that transmission arrived, it’s been cut, cut, cut,” Feeh said. “When am I going to be finished?”</p>
<p>Vizzer unwrapped the talisman that lay in his lap. He held the figure up so Feeh could see. An ancient artisan had made it of fired clay, and used a fine tool to carve deep creases in the wrinkled face, each vertebra in the bent curve of the back, the flecks of beard that darted sideways. </p>
<p>“See for yourself,” he said. “We’re almost there.”</p>
<p>Feeh looked down at the statue, then at Vizzer in the mirror. “Where on Taurus did you get that?”</p>
<p>“Well, I—”</p>
<p>“And are you crazy?” he added. “Graven images are forbidden. You know this.”</p>
<p>“Calm down. Fhoriu gave it to me.”</p>
<p>“Fhoriu? He’s been senile for how long?”</p>
<p>“It’s an ancient talisman. Handed down from vizzer to vizzer for thousands of years. It’s Carlos. See?” He turned the talisman upside down, held it to the light. The artisan’s hand had cut letters into the base of the clay figure: C-A-R-L-O-S. “This is the true image of god.”</p>
<p>The doctor studied the object, horror on his face. Vizzer had a moment of fear. The penalty for possession of such an image, even for the high priest, was exile and death.</p>
<p>Then Feeh laughed. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “You say you don’t believe in god. Yet you want to look like one.”</p>
<p>Vizzer brushed bloody flecks of ear from his shoulder. “Never mind that,” he said. “Just do your job.”</p>
<p>Feeh flicked off the nazza-blades. “Look. I’m doing you a favor. I don’t have to spend my time indulging you in this bizarre self-mutilation.”</p>
<p>Vizzer stood, and bunched his fists together. “It’s not self-mutilation.”</p>
<p>“No? What else would you call it?”</p>
<p>Vizzer took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You know the creation story, how Carlos made us by breeding gods and beasts?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Every calfling knows that.”</p>
<p>“Too many of us are beasts. More beast than man—or god, if you prefer that word. And why should I be a beast? I was born to be more than that.”</p>
<p>Feeh nodded and pursed his lips, as though pondering Vizzer’s words. He flicked his towel at a spot of blood on Vizzer’s pelt. “Come. My friend. You sit. Let me finish with you. Then you can get all huffy. Agreed?”</p>
<p>Vizzer settled back down on his knees. The nazza-blades clicked on again.</p>
<p>“So the gossip is right,” Feeh said.</p>
<p>“Gossip? What gossip?”</p>
<p>“What everyone’s saying. The gods are dead, now Vizzer wants to be a god himself.”</p>
<p>“Is that so.” A tenday of failure, and here he was a laughingstock.</p>
<p>Feeh chuckled. “That’s what they tell me.”</p>
<p>Vizzer could smell his friend, the stink of disinfectant, amniotic fluid, blood. “What do you think?”</p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>He pulled his head away. “Everyone thinks I’m mad. What do you think?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think.”</p>
<p>“You’re a doctor. A medical priest. You’ve got a scientific mind. What does it look like to you?”</p>
<p>After the Herd Council’s decision, Vizzer had opened access to the files to the entire priesthood. Clomp had forbidden him to discuss the transmission with the general public, but inside the holy order, Vizzer ruled absolute. No priest would dare break his secret vows. The novices had huddled together, watching planet after planet implode. The others meandered aimlessly through the dark corridors of the under-stadium, faces painted grey with shock.</p>
<p>Feeh snipped away at the top of Vizzer’s right ear. “I’ve seen the images. Sure I have.”</p>
<p>“Then isn’t it obvious?”</p>
<p>The doctor coughed up a mouthful of grass. He ruminated for a moment. “If the gods are dead,” he said at last, “maybe they weren’t really gods.”</p>
<p>The she-cow’s groan echoed against the concrete walls. The head of a calfling emerged from between her legs. The priests chanted encouragement at her side.</p>
<p>“What does that mean?” Vizzer asked.</p>
<p>“Well, if the gods can die, <em>someone</em> must have created <em>them.</em> You get me?”</p>
<p>“What?” Vizzer laughed. “You think there are other gods that we don’t know about? Gods inside of gods?”</p>
<p>Feeh fluttered a hand in the air. “I don’t know what I think. But just because a bunch of planets thousands of light-years away disappeared doesn’t mean I have to change the way I live. See what I mean?”</p>
<p>Vizzer sat back on his heels, studied his reflection in the mirror. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”</p>
<p>The doctor ruminated some more. “Suit yourself. But I am a little busy. Not the best time to chew the cud with you.”</p>
<p>Vizzer felt the talisman firm and cold under his fingertips. There was more to this world than appearances. He had not been born to live and die as others had. He was sure of it. He had a destiny. To be more than just himself, more than a mutant on this overheated planet, more than the sick plaything of a long-dead god.</p>
<p>Spindly legs pushed themselves from the she-cow’s womb, the double joints flailing as they sought purchase on the cold, rough concrete. A new generation born to the slaughter, he thought bitterly. Born to die. Born to suffer. And for what?</p>
<p>He sighed. “I just wish Clomp would listen. I can’t think of any way to get through to him.”</p>
<p>Feeh stepped back, studied his work. “Wasting your breath there,” he said. “Long as Clomp’s king, nothing’s going to change.”</p>
<p>Vizzer nodded. That was certainly true. If only Clomp weren’t king. The thought he’d been ignoring for a tenday, growing, swelling like a poisonous sac in his brain, finally burst in all its suppurating glory. For a moment he could neither breathe nor move.</p>
<p>He had sworn a sacred oath to the king. To advise him as vizzer, but also to obey him. What was worse: to disobey Clomp, or let the butchery continue?</p>
<p><em>Your oath,</em> a little voice niggled. <em>What of that? An oath before the gods.</em></p>
<p>But the gods were dead. He owed loyalty to Clomp—but also to his people. His heart sank under the weight of this choice. He sighed. He knew what he must do. Dex was right. It was horrible, but necessary. It was the only way to end the violence.</p>
<p>“Hold still, will you?” Feeh complained.</p>
<p>Vizzer yanked the bloodstained bib from around his neck and stood up.</p>
<p>Feeh placed a hand on his chest. “Slow down. Let me patch you up.” The holy antiseptic smeared wet and cool on his lobes. “You get all huffy now?” Feeh wanted to know.</p>
<p>“No. Not at all. But you’ve given me an idea. I owe you one,” he called from the doorway, and strode from the damp coolness of the hospital into the cauldron of Taurus.</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Eight</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The debutante was not much more than a calfling. She danced and spun on top of the grassy hillock, her blue robes swirling with deft movements of her hands, giving glimpses of her udders to the crowd of Breeders below. Her beauty was marred by a blotchy maroon birthmark that covered most of her face.</p>
<p>Prinz sprawled at the bottom of the hillock, ripping at the sweet grass with his teeth. His was a prized spot, with the best view up the debutante’s robes. As ranking challenger to the king, and Heir to the Hat, Prinz was first among equals.</p>
<p>Vizzer crouched beside him, a hand shading his eyes to avoid watching the strip tease. The display disgusted him. He had no desire to mate, or produce offspring, and he failed to understand priests like Dex who were torn by that particular urge. The flesh was something to be ashamed of. The raw, brutal nature of slippery coupling made him nauseous. It was a constant reminder of the poor casing of flesh in which he was trapped. No. He had no wish to form a harem. Let the Breeders do that. He pursued more lofty inclinations. That one time with Mantz had been more than enough.</p>
<p>Prinz lifted his head. He chewed a mouthful of grass, his eyes fixed on the calfling’s pendulous nipples. Without turning his head, he muttered, “What makes you think you can pull it off?”</p>
<p>Vizzer plucked a blade of grass with his fingers. He folded it between his teeth, savored the sweetness. “We priests can harness the power of the gods.”</p>
<p>Prinz inhaled a laugh. “I thought you didn’t believe in the gods.”</p>
<p>Oh, the gods used to exist, he wanted to say. Now they don’t. Where does belief enter into it? But that would just confuse the poor, dumb Breeder.</p>
<p>Instead, he answered simply, “I don’t.”</p>
<p>“Now you contradict yourself.”</p>
<p>“Not at all. I want to speak in terms you’ll understand.”</p>
<p>Prinz swallowed his mouthful of grass. “Here are terms I understand. I have two hundred and thirteen she-cows in my harem. All of them are imperfect.” He gestured with his horns at the debutante. “Clomp has first pick. In his pastures graze seven thousand four hundred and sixteen she-cows. The best on Taurus. Last year his harem produced over five thousand calflings. These are terms I understand.”</p>
<p>The she-cow gyrated for the audience, caressed herself. Clomp had rejected her, no doubt because of the birthmark. Her goal today was to find a Breeder in whose pastures she could graze. Otherwise she’d be sent into exile. Her fingers pinched and pulled at the usual places. Whistles pierced the air.</p>
<p>Vizzer winced. “There’s an easy way to get what you want,” he said lightly. “All you’ve got to do is challenge Clomp.”</p>
<p>Prinz hunched his massive shoulders. “The king is still strong. I would be a fool to enter the arena with him.”</p>
<p>“So you must wait.”</p>
<p>“I must wait,” Prinz agreed.</p>
<p>“Perhaps in five years. Ten.”</p>
<p>Prinz nodded, said nothing.</p>
<p>“When Clomp weakens,” Vizzer continued, an edge in his voice, “then you can challenge him. But in that time you will weaken too. By then, another may have challenged for your place as Heir to the Hat.” Vizzer drove on mercilessly. “Without my help, you will never be king.”</p>
<p>Prinz’s horns bowed in assent. “That may well be true.”</p>
<p>“I assure you it is.”</p>
<p>“I don’t deny it. So I’ll ask you again. What makes you think you can pull it off?”</p>
<p>“You’ve seen the new bodyguards?”</p>
<p>A snort of contempt. “Mistakes, all of them. One toss of my horns and they are dead.”</p>
<p>“It is true they are Mistakes. But have you seen their new weapons?”</p>
<p>Above them the debutante discarded her outer robe, her eyes only on Prinz, but he was no longer watching.</p>
<p>“Noise-making toys, I am told.”</p>
<p>Vizzer lowered his voice. “They make more than noise. They are firesticks that make holes.”</p>
<p>“Holes? What kind of holes?”</p>
<p>“Worse than a gore wound.”</p>
<p>Prinz turned to meet his gaze. “Worse than that?”</p>
<p>Vizzer nodded.</p>
<p>“What would happen if Clomp tried to stop us?”</p>
<p>“He won’t.”</p>
<p>“But if he did?” Prinz insisted. “If a Breeder like Clomp, or myself even, were to charge a bodyguard with a firestick? What would happen?”</p>
<p>“He’d point the stick at you. Pull back on a lever. A flying piece of metal going very fast would turn your head to mush, or rip a hole through your heart.”</p>
<p>Prinz swallowed his cud. “Holy Carlos.”</p>
<p>“They are powerful weapons. More powerful than the strongest, biggest bull that’s ever lived.”</p>
<p>The Breeder ruminated for a moment. “So you intend to kill Clomp, then.”</p>
<p>“Oh no.” Vizzer was horrified. “We’re not going to kill him. What an awful idea.”</p>
<p>“What other option is there?”</p>
<p>“I can get Feeh to remove his horns. Then he’d no longer be a danger to anyone.”</p>
<p>“He could still talk, though. Stir up the people against us.”</p>
<p>Vizzer tugged on his jowls. “So we cut out his tongue too. These are details. The question is, are you in or out?”</p>
<p>Prinz considered this. “Why me?”</p>
<p>Guilt weighed down his words. “If Clomp is unwilling to make changes in light of this news of the gods, then he should be replaced.”</p>
<p>“But again, why me? Why not one of the other Breeders?” He jerked a horn over his shoulder at the fourteen other Breeders slouched behind him. “You’ve got control of these firesticks. Why not you?”</p>
<p><em>“Me?”</em> Vizzer laughed.</p>
<p>Nearby Breeders stared. Priests were not welcome at a she-cow’s debut. It was only as Prinz’s guest they’d allowed him to be present today.</p>
<p>Vizzer lowered his voice. “The Herd would never follow me. You know this. No priest has ever been king of Taurus. When Clomp is gone, you will be the strongest. The strongest always leads.”</p>
<p>“That’s true,” Prinz said, and chewed his cud. After a moment, he asked, “What makes you think I’m willing to do what you ask?”</p>
<p>Vizzer lifted his shoulders, let them drop. “It’s the only way you’ll ever be king.”</p>
<p>“You’re asking me to commit treason.”</p>
<p>“I’m asking you to do what’s right for Taurus.”</p>
<p>Prinz lowered his head, ripped at the grass with his teeth. “Suppose I agreed. What would you want in return?”</p>
<p>The she-cow balanced on her back now, hands and feet on the ground, hooves pawing the air, udders jiggling naked on her stomach. The other Breeders ignored the two of them in conversation, their attention fixed on the debutante.</p>
<p>“One thing only,” Vizzer said.</p>
<p>“Which is?”</p>
<p>“The <em>corrida</em> must end.”</p>
<p>Prinz rolled the cud around in his mouth. “No more sacrifices.”</p>
<p>“No more bloodshed. No more killing.”</p>
<p>“And if the gods get angry? What then?”</p>
<p>“You were at the Herd Council. You heard Dex’s report. The gods are dead.”</p>
<p>Prinz’s heavy brows furrowed. “A real revolution, then,” he said at last. “A change of everything.”</p>
<p>“Yes, a change of everything.” Vizzer breathed in satisfaction. “We shall no longer be slaves to false gods.”</p>
<p>Prinz frowned. “But if the gods are dead, and our blood sacrifices are meaningless, then what is the point of our existence? Why are we here? What is our purpose? What do we do now?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” Vizzer shouted, ignoring the other Breeders’ dirty looks. “You understand! These are the questions everyone will need an answer to. This is where you shall leave your mark.”</p>
<p>“My mark? What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“You shall be the pioneering king who led his people from the era of bloody sacrifice and ignorant religion to a future built on reason.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t know how to do that,” Prinz objected. “The old ways are all I know.”</p>
<p>“I can guide you, if you wish. That is the role of a vizzer.”</p>
<p>The Breeder screwed up his face. “It sounds to me like what you want isn’t a king. It’s a puppet.”</p>
<p>“On the contrary. You will have the greatest responsibility of any king who’s ever lived. To design a new way of life. For all of us here on Taurus.”</p>
<p>“What do you have in mind?”</p>
<p>Vizzer knelt, clenched his fists under Prinz’s nose. “Like I told the council. Why should we not become gods ourselves?”</p>
<p>Prinz snorted. “How is that possible?”</p>
<p>“With the knowledge the gods have left us. From the backup data. We shall be the new masters of the universe.” Vizzer struck his bovine chest with a clenched fist. “We shall not pray to a Creator. We shall become Creators ourselves.”</p>
<p>Prinz ruminated. “You really think we can become like the holy ones?”</p>
<p>Vizzer crouched, ready to spring up in triumph. “Yes. Absolutely.”</p>
<p> “How do we do that?”</p>
<p>He ticked off the steps on his stubby fingertips. “First, we must continue our research into the data the gods have sent us. We must learn to cultivate Taurus. Tame the harsh wastes of the south. Build cities. Maybe even one day leave this planet, travel between the stars as the gods themselves once did.”</p>
<p>“You have great vision, Vizzer. I am impressed.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>Prinz nodded his agreement. “So shall it be.”</p>
<p>Vizzer bowed his head low. “Very well, Your Highness.”</p>
<p class="chapter">Chapter Nine</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prinz decided against claiming the she-cow in the blue robes. Let one of the other Breeders take her, or there would be a challenge in the sandpits, and he wasn’t in the mood. Best to save his energies for a she-cow worth fighting for. Besides, the birthmark was off-putting.</p>
<p>Most of the she-cows available to him were off-putting. Clomp’s leftovers. The king kept the best for himself. Prinz would do the same if he were king. Correction: <em>when</em> he was king.</p>
<p>Still, the strip tease had aroused him, and now, as he slid into his number one wife, gripping her flanks with his hooves, he wondered whether Vizzer would be able to pull it off. The priest was too squeamish. His reluctance to kill Clomp, for instance. No king could be allowed to survive a coup.</p>
<p>More importantly, would Carlos be angry with him if he ended the <em>corrida?</em> He was pretty sure that was a bad idea. Unlike Vizzer, he had seen the face of god. He knew what the high priest did not. The holy drug loosened the seal between this world and the next. And what he had seen—just thinking of it made him want to grovel in awe and wonder. No. There was no crime in double-crossing the priest. But actually stopping the fights? He was not prepared to go there. Not for long, anyway.</p>
<p>“Prinz!” a voice called out. “Breeder Prinz, I must talk to you!”</p>
<p>A priest he didn’t know was arguing with the new bodyguard. Vizzer had insisted a Mistake accompany him at all times. The other bulls were already laughing about that. A Breeder, the Heir to the Hat himself, defended by a Mistake? He pumped himself faster into the she-cow, his lips pressed tight in a scowl. They would stop laughing when he was king.</p>
<p>“Breeder Prinz is busy,” the bodyguard said, and slammed the butt of his rifle in the priest’s gut. Interesting, Prinz thought. Mistake knows more than he lets on.</p>
<p>The priest doubled over. “I need to talk to Prinz,” he squeaked. “It’s urgent.”</p>
<p>“No one approaches.” A click-clack noise.</p>
<p>Vizzer had shown him a firestick, explained what it did. The bodyguard had just chambered a round. Maybe he’d get to see a flying sword in action.</p>
<p>“You know how these things work,” the bodyguard told the priest.</p>
<p>The she-cow ground back at him, competing for his attention. He opened his mouth to bellow a curse, tell them both to shut up, when the priest said, “Vizzer sent me.”</p>
<p>The bodyguard perked up. “He did?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What’s the password?”</p>
<p>“Password?”</p>
<p>The bodyguard shouted a whisper, “The secret word.”</p>
<p>The priest shook his head. “He was in a hurry. He just said to tell you to let me pass.”</p>
<p>The guard punched the priest in the stomach again with his rifle. “Go on. Get out of here.”</p>
<p>So much for that interruption, Prinz thought. He resumed pumping, and the she-cow groaned. A series of loud staccato noises startled him, nearly made him lose his seed.</p>
<p>“Stop!” the guard screamed, his weapon pointed at the priest. “Stop or I’ll stab you with a flying sword!”</p>
<p>The priest stopped, not five meters away, panting, hands in the air. “Breeder Prinz! Tell him not to kill me. I must talk to you!”</p>
<p>Prinz slowed his strokes. “I am a little busy right now.”</p>
<p>The she-cow looked back at him, and said irritably, “Can’t this wait till we’re finished?”</p>
<p>“No, it can’t,” the priest said. </p>
<p>Prinz shoved himself in and held it there. “Well?”</p>
<p>“I know about your plans with Vizzer,” the priest said. “It’s a mistake. Please. Hear me out.”</p>
<p>The bodyguard trotted closer, limping, his weapon pointed at the priest’s belly.</p>
<p>“It’s OK,” Prinz said. “Let him stay.”</p>
<p>The Mistake bowed. “As you wish, Breeder Prinz.” He turned and stalked back to his post.</p>
<p>“This is Vero, by the way,” Prinz said, indicating the she-cow.</p>
<p>“Pleased to meet you.” She held out a hand. She had only four fingers. The priest kissed her fingertips, a traditional fertility blessing.</p>
<p>“Oh. Yes. Of course.” The priest wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I am Rutt. A priest.”</p>
<p>And a novice, thought Prinz, examining the grey robes. He resumed his stroking. “So Vizzer told you about his…plans?”</p>
<p>“He told all the priests.”</p>
<p>Prinz frowned. “Why would he do that? There are hundreds of priests on Taurus. Is he really that stupid?”</p>
<p>“He needs our support if he’s going to pull off a revolution.” Rutt grimaced. “He thinks we all want drastic change.”</p>
<p>“And you, I take it, do not.”</p>
<p>“No. I don’t.” Rutt’s gaze strayed to the fleshy union of the two beasts. “Somehow, I don’t think you do either.”</p>
<p>The she-cow trembled, let out a long, orgasmic moo.</p>
<p>“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Sweat beaded Prinz’s forehead. “What do the others think?” His thrusting increased in tempo.</p>
<p>“Most are in shock at the news. They have been priests their entire lives. They don’t want things to change.”</p>
<p>“And what do you want?” Prinz’s breath came in hot gasps. “Why come to me?”</p>