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Corroded piping covers the pumping chamber with malice and rust. At varying heights and angles, benches protrude, allowing a seat for each of the pipes' rowers. A thin isle weaves between the benches, winding about the length of the chamber. Mirroring its path, an ominous rail hangs from the ceiling. Festering, flapping things with glowing eyes provide a strobing, illumination. A drum beats with no discernible repetition. It seems as though only those who have lost their minds to this place can find a pattern to row accordingly to. Many of the chamber's laborers gibber quietly to themselves, their eyes corkscrewing about in their sockets as they rock back and forth. The lapses between screams of agony are rare.
Thick, greasy scabs coat the back of the man sitting in front of me. With every press and pull of the coolant oar, they chafe and crumble against each other. I am thankful for this brute before me. He is the reason I have not yet succumbed as so many others have. Somehow he found the rhythm. Only by aping his ludicrous jerks of the oar have I escaped the worst of the lash.
A sound breaks my train of thought. Overhead a mechanical whirring is heard. From behind me, the screams sound closer and closer. Some were no more than pitiful mewls. Panic strikes me. There is no way of knowing wether or not it is coming for you. Only those that have found the rhythm seem undeterred, as they continued their frenzied whispering.
A terrible wheeze clogs my air way. So many of the others seemed to be afflicted of it, yet I still had hoped that it would never claim me. I have had fits before, but never so violent. Clutching my Aquila pendant (a keepsake I have cunningly retained) was usually sufficient to ward off the warp-spawned ailment. With fervor I search through my fatigues in search of it. Such is my agony that I fumble with it and the pendant is flung out of my grasp. It lands with a clang that was far louder than it should have been.
In front of me, a face of boorish stupidity turns around only to erupt into horrified recognition. Bubon-flecked lips struggled to voice utter dismay at the object beside him. A hand with only three fingers sweeps the pendant away and it clatters once more to a grilled deck. Precariously it teeters on the grille, seemingly about to fall below, before coming to rest. The brute went back to rowing, whimpering in terror.
My wheezing, now all consuming does nothing to lessen the trundling along the rails. I loose all control over my once-practiced oar rows and simply become thrall to the motions that my coughs jerk me. A lank silhouette appears in my peripheral vision. I know not to gaze upon the isle when it passes. The whirring continues past and I manage to breath out a sigh in between hacks of phlegm.
Then it stops. I cannot help but look now at the events that are about to unfold before me.
Suspended from the railing by a length of curling spine, the servitor lowers it's skull to the deck. Like a corpse left hanging upside down, it dangles. It recoils on its spine to come eye level with my unfortunate acquaintance. Infected tears stream down the man's face as they reflect the pulsing lights cast from the servitor's facial augmetics. Glistening metal is caught within a corroded robotic claw. It drops the pendant and raises an accusing, syringe shaped digit at it's suspect. This time, the Aquila tumbles away into darkness.
The brute pleads and is only met with static bursts and the frantic tongue of the archenemy. Realizing his fate, he rises to face the overseer. He clubs the thing with a fist that lacked enough fingers to from a knuckle line. All around the other slaves halt their toiling to witness the unfolding drama. Even the drums cease their constant racket. With a frame too slight to weather the blow, the overseer simply goes limp, dangling as it had before. Wheels spin, screeching above as it attempts to escape. Klaxons screamed and distress lumens spin about.
Retreat was made impossible as the brute yanked on the tormentor's spinal fixture. This triumph was short lived. With a movement akin to a serpent it whips around so that its main body housing is behind him. Vile fluid drips from the finger-syringe during the descent towards a now exposed back. Three fingers grapple the robotic limb with surprising swiftness.
Two figures, each at total contrast of the other, grapple there for a few moments before the servitor's arm telescopes out and closes the slight distance between needle tip and flesh. A would be hero drops to the deck. His arms could not articulate in order to reach for his back, but he attempts none the less. Teeth were pushed deep into diseased gums as the brute clenched his jaw in agony.
What I had once taken to be scabs now burst all across his body spawning a murder of things that were not quite flys, nor carrion birds. They swoop and buzz as they join their kin in the niches above pipes, squirming in order to fit bloated bodies in nests of rust. Their faceted eyes cast a violent strobe across their gore-birth.
There is no sound now. Even my wheezing has subsided. Emergency protocols have halted. The servitor swivels, arms raised as if to challenge any other usurpers. The drumming resumes and the slaves go back to rowing as if nothing had transpired at all. Perhaps out of the commotion some had forgotten their rhythm. In the arm opposite the serum injector was mounted a barbed whip which met the flesh of many a victim. Anger, as well as other emotion, was something all servitors were supposed to be bereft of. Yet the retribution before me held testament to the contrary. Spittle and filth dribble out of the thing's speaker box while it blasts out harsh white noise and the hated language.
Rowing seems like the only option at this point. I look about me for some indication as to how I should now that my only guide has been disposed of. It seems that none are being spared the lash. Ocular scanners play their detection fields over me. Sparks flash from the ceiling and the overseer approaches. Panic over comes me. That and the blasted wheezing once more. With all my resolve I try to control myself. It inches closer and I am once more at the thrall of my coughs. Motions I had repeated for longer than I care to remember are reduced to wild spasms. Sparks land around me, ruminating from the damaged rail unit that is finally over head.
Scanners trace across my pitiful performance. Tensing up was something I was incapable of. It blurts out cursed words. The spine slackens. Terrifying limbs are lowered. With irregular jolts and arrests of motion, it trundles away in search of others deserving of the whip.
"I cannot believe it! I found it! The rhythm! I have it! It is mine!" I attempt to blurt out, only succeeding in adding odd syllables to my fit of wheezing.
Lost in my ravings, I barely notice the apron clad orderlies making their way down the isle. Globs of dark matter splurt about from my mouth. They land with mushy thuds. Even as the body is dragged away, I am engrossed with rapture. Bliss cleanses me of the fear. I will no longer dread the lash. I am free. I have found the Rhythm.
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