Chapter 8 // The Citadel

The Citadel, 250 miles above Earth, the perfect breakaway civilization—that is, if you don’t mind being surrounded by pretentious rich people. Hmmm, look at those vile and profane masses below, yes, indubitably. From the perspective of neutrality, there was no denying its beauty when looking up at the technological marvel. The inhabitants had an ever better view of the glowing Earth. If you looked close enough, Luna Base was visible on the moon.

The interior of the Citadel was packed to capacity with exotics greens and artificial river streams and waterfalls. Holograms were rampant all over. The elites often joked how one day, there would only be 100 at MOST of actual humans; the rest would be holograms, drones, robots, etc… Peacocks, dolphins and flamingos actually lived on the Citadel; another flex of status and wealth. Don’t ask how many credits it took to make that happen—credits mean nothing past a certain threshold. If credits were made of physical material, the elite would use it as toilet paper. In the olden days before the war, they would print paper money whenever it was convenient; now they simply pressed a button to change numbers on the screen. The ultimate deception—have people slaving away for something that never existed in the first place. A concept crafted by the psychotic that worked very well to control the “vile and profane”.

The medical district was the Citadels most prized possession, where technology was intertwined with the dark arts. There was a bed that cured any disease. Immortality was the most coveted operation. It allowed decrepit, crusty, ancient old people the ability to prolong their lifespan indefinitely. Some who looked to be 18 years old were actually 40, 60, 80, 100… The unlucky ones were already wrinkly by the time the technology was gifted by their alien “gods”.

Anti-gravity ships were always coming in and out of the Citadel. These ominous crafts were supplied by the aliens. Many earthlings lost their lives trying to sneak into this breakaway civilization with the assistance of smugglers with a conscience. It was impenetrable; decades had passed since any attempts were made.

Meetings by the elite were conducted in a stadium illuminated by archaic tools known as candles for theatrical effect. These talks were held by ten people at most, with thousands of unoccupied seats acting as decoration, or maybe a symbolic gesture to remind themselves how “important” they were compared to the rest of humanity.

Emperor Kakaka held the meeting today with nine comrades and one Peacekeeper general. Kakaka held a staff that on the tip had a winged crystal snake wrapped in a double helix; the symbol of the Citadel. He spoke from his diaphragm with disgust how the filthy Genesis parasites had infiltrated Omega once again. His speech was exaggerated with the assistance of alcohol. The elites were almost always drunk or high. The older members were not concerned at all with the Genesis vermin. Let them play resistance… It will not change the prophecy. It was the younger ones (young being a matter of perspective and comparison) that feigned attention, but shared the same apathy as the rest.

Matriarch Ebiru was always present. Her burning red eyes were concealed by the black hood above her head. Her white hair spilled from the hood and sat atop her cleavage. Her minimalistic robe expressed the width of her bare hips and thighs covered in scars. Her feet were displayed in black platform heels that showed off her black toenails, matching the claws on her hands. She looked like a witch in her 30s, but her real age was far beyond comprehension. 

None of the leaders outranked each other, but there was an unspoken agreement of Matriarch Ebiru being of a higher class compared to the rest. This was because she was the only one with a direct line of communication with the aliens. None would dare defy her. It was like she was part of a separate dimension that could only be looked at from afar. No other person was ever seen standing next to her except for her personal minions.

Behind Matriarch Ebiru was her assistant, a girl in a similar revealing cloak with her eyes concealed. Her shoulders, arms and legs were bare, exposing scars all along her skin that spoke tales of self mutilation. Matriarch Ebiru carried ten times the same markings. Her assistant held a black chalice by both handles. Seemingly through a telepathic order, the girl placed the chalice on the table and backed away. Emperor Kakaka silenced himself and took a seat.

Inside the chalice was fresh blood of a newborn. Matriarch Ebiru cut her own wrist with a blade and dripped a fair amount within the black cup. She tossed a red transparent gemstone inside. Red smoke ascended from the chalice and buried into Ebiru’s eyes. She chanted an incantation with her head tilted up. Red smoke leaked out of her mouth with each word and a trail of scarlet liquid leaked out the sides of her lips and eyes.

The spectators were deeply enamored with the ritual; even the ones who ignored Emperor Kakaka’s rant about Genesis opened their eyes to the scene, and the Peacekeeper general who kept his head locked forward was tilting his eyes toward the Matriarch. Their status suddenly did not matter, for they were all beneath the entity Matriarch Ebiru interfaced with. No matter how many times they witnessed it, they would express the same marvel as the first.

She continued speaking in tongues until the smoke rescinded out her eyes like an entity departing to an unseen dimension. She wiped her lips dry and lowered the hood over her red-soaked eyes. The assistant grabbed the chalice and retreated behind her master.

“Send the husks,” Matriarch Ebiru said with a voice of gravel that was deeply seductive. The elite exhaled their rich-people laugh, including Emperor Kakaka.

“A toast to Matriarch Ebiru!” They all chugged their glasses and refilled them. Ebiru took a light sip. She never made eye contact with any of her comrades. The wound on her wrist had stopped bleeding and began to scab over. The Peacekeeper general left the meeting room. It took him 30 seconds to exit the stadium in a fast-paced march. His subordinates awaited him outside the conference room.

“Release the husks. Send Squad 3.”