Flight 12

Flight 12 – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: BALANCING ACT

Previously, at the Phallic Tower:

• Tim wakes up to find his body covered in feathers.

• Sean and Ian are hiding Stan's survival from Hamish: Ian because he is in love with Stan, Sean because he hopes that keeping a left-sider alive will sabotage The Project.

• A few days ago, a knife materialized in Seth's hand; the inhabitants have used it to cut fruit.

Underground:

• Due to an overall limit on testicles, when one of The Twelve arrives underground, a left-sider must be gelded (and is later Beta-executed). When Seth liberated several prisoners, however, the `ball count' decreased to a point where castrations were no longer necessary.

In flashbacks:

• Jesús unveils The Project to his stockholders: a dozen parallel universes are to be created, each with the power to extend life infinitely. After ponying up more funding to secure this virtual immortality, the stockholders all die in a cable car `accident'.

• Tim, while a soldier in Afghanistan, becomes attracted to a local boy, Shahbaz, a falconer; his sergeant discovers them together and demands sex from Shahbaz – and Tim.

• • • • • • • • SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22 * * * * * * * *

THE PHALLIC TOWER - SETH

Ian and Sean were asleep. Gary (Cody, from the way he mumbled `Morning') sat quietly against the wall. Neither Jasper nor Tim was inside the tower, and I went outside to locate them.

I found Jasper, returning from a trip to the latrine. Tim, however, was nowhere in evidence. He shouldn't be in jeopardy - his birthday wasn't until tomorrow – but the island was full of surprises: What if a dodecagon had sprung up and taken him early? That possibility was not something I had previously considered.

• Jasper, have you seen Tim?

• . . . You haven't?

• Does that mean you have?

• Yes and no.

• Jasper, the answer to the question Have you seen Tim?' can't be yes and no'. It can be yes', it can be no', it can be I'm not sure', but it can't be both yes' and `no.'

• Okay, then yes. I even talked to him. But . . .

• But?

• He's different, Seth.

I was not liking the tenor of this conversation.

• Different how?

• Are you familiar with Sesame Street?

• Of course, but –

• Remember Big Bird?

I was not liking the tenor of this conversation AT ALL.

• Are you referencing the feather in his hair yesterday?

• That feather had babies.

Just then Tim emerged from the woods, looking both dazed and angry, if such a thing is possible. At least he wasn't yellow like Big Bird. But, apart from his face, hands, feet, and genitalia, his entire body was covered in feathers, in shades of gray, brown, and black.

The only words I could form in my head had the initials WTF. Stimulever had covered him in feathers as if he was a bird. I knew that Tim was a sculptor who specialized in birds. I never stopped to ask him why.

FLASHBACK: TIM (AFGHANISTAN) – eight years ago (continued)

I became the cumdump of Sergeant Penn Ayers. Every night I reported to his quarters to serve as a welcome wagon for his cock. Every day or two we would visit Shahbaz, whom each of us would sodomize while the other stood guard. The fact that we guarded the barn – with guns – gave Shahbaz confidence that he would not be outed, and he relaxed and became more responsive, especially on his knees. His mouth opened up to me like fellatio was its only purpose in life, and he knew how to work his breath and his tongue to provide maximum pleasure. I shot directly into his mouth and he guzzled my load like pomegranate juice.

We reveled in each other's minds as well as bodies, sharing our stories. He praised the exploits of his falcons and related his dreams for the future: escaping Afghanistan and getting an education. Shahbaz wanted to study engineering – maybe he could get to Termez, across the border in Uzbekistan, or even Dushanbe. And then send money home to his family and help them escape as well. And maybe – just maybe – find his father. His brothers could take over the falconry – Mukhtar, sixteen, had already mastered the craft; twelve-year-old Ismat would be ready in a couple of years.

The day came, all too soon, when we received orders to move out. My heart was heavy as I visited the family home one last time. Penn, of course, insisted on coming along `for one last shag'. He assumed that my only interest in Shahbaz was in burying my bone into his sweet behind; he had no idea of the emotional turmoil caused by having to leave the boy.

Shahbaz, however, was not at home. The only family member present was young Ismat. Penn demanded to know Shahbaz's location. The boy looked confused and didn't answer. Penn interpreted his lack of response as defiance, and aimed his gun at the boy's head.

• Sarge, he doesn't understand you. His English is weak. He's only twelve.

Penn had gotten a little training in Pashto, but Pashto was spoken in the south, and we'd been deployed in the far north, where the principal language was Uzbek. I tried the little Uzbek I knew with Izmat, but the terrified boy's response was so rapid that I had no idea what he said.

Penn didn't need to know that. I invented a story.

• He said Shahbaz is at another village, buying supplies. He won't be back for hours.

Penn eyed the boy carefully, activating alarm bells in my head. Penn, you're not thinking what I'm thinking you're thinking. He's only twelve, for god's sake.

Penn came to his senses, realizing that he didn't want to leave either a bloody corpse or a bleeding rectum for Izmat's mother to find and blame on the Americans. If this had been Mukhtar, I think he would have done it, but twelve was too young for even Penn.

• Well, if I can't have a farewell fuck, I've got to give this family something to remember me by.

Penn pulled out his service revolver and took aim at one of the family's prize Saker falcons. A squeeze of the trigger and the male falcon fell to the ground. The other birds took flight and Penn, a marksman, plucked them out of the air, one by one, until only the female Saker, a male goshawk and the lone Peregrine remained. The family could not afford to purchase mates for these magnificent creatures. What would they do when these mateless birds had lived their last, without progeny?

My only consolation was that Shahbaz would know I was incapable of such an act. But I would never have the chance to apologize for my NCO's inhumanity.

I never saw Shahbaz again. Eight months later, when my tour of duty was over, I left the army and set up my studio in Missouri. My first sculpture was never sold, nor did I intend it to be sold. I placed it prominently on my front lawn: a ten-foot tall male Saker falcon, accurate to the feather.

NORTH OF THE PHALLIC TOWER – STAN

The best I could say was that I was alive. Sean had told Ian that if I died on the island, I would still be alive in Alphaworld, but I didn't want to live in Alphaworld: Magda was in Alphaworld. While a divorce seemed inevitable, who needed all the bitter fights over the house, the car, and Harvey (our marmalade cat)? I wanted to stay here with Ian.

`Staying here with Ian' was more aspiration than reality. In the four days since we've separated, I've seen Ian exactly once: he can't easily slip away for long enough to get here and back. We didn't even have sex during his visit – we talked, hugged and kissed, which was great, but I wanted more. I wanted his body.

And solitary life was boring.

So I took a walk. I wanted to explore parts of the island that I hadn't seen. I knew I had to avoid the meadows, where I might be spotted and where there were penis gardens. So I stuck to the woods.

Which is where I saw it: one of those dodecagons they'd all been yammering about. This one was magenta. Dodecagons were dangerous – if it was your birthday and you were one of the Twelve. Well, my birthday was in April and I wasn't among the Twelve. And while all the victims had supposedly found the dodecagons beautiful, I didn't. It was just an interesting shape of a weird color. So I stepped onto it.

Suspicions confirmed: I was impervious to its charms. No big deal.

THE THRONE ROOM – HAMISH

After Percy's conniption fit about Barry's fucking Derisian, I'd had to bar Barry from using the boy. To make up for it, I allowed him unlimited access to anyone else he pleased. Of course, I needed to plug Barry myself every now and then to remind him that he was still my bitch. I was planted firmly inside him when Orson burst into the Throne Room.

Lieutenants don't just walk in without knocking unless it's urgent. I was irritated at the interruption of the coitus, but pulled out of Barry with a promise to return as soon as I found out what was so critical that it couldn't wait for my orgasm.

• Boss, I'm so sorry, but there's been activity on the magenta portal.

• Activity?

• Someone walked on it. The magenta's the one scheduled to deliver Fallon tomorrow.

• You think it was Fallon finding it a day early?

• I don't know, sir – it's quite a ways from the tower. I called Sean, but he didn't respond. He only goes to his phone when he needs to contact us.

• Yes, damned inconvenient. Well, find out what's going on when he's in touch.

And now, back to some quality buttfucking.

NEAR THE PHALLIC TOWER – SEAN

They'd apparently decided to split Tim's transfiguration into two phases (without telling me, naturally). Transfiguration would be necessary for life in Simon's universe, and this was a sort of final test with a live subject. Phase One was a triumph: Tim was carpeted with feathers. I'd hoped it would fail, but no such luck.

Switzerland would be anxious for the news, so I trotted off to my phone to report to Hamish. I discovered that he had been eager to reach me – and not to ask about Tim.

• (Hamish) Who's missing?

• What are you talking about? No one's missing. Everyone's been here all morning.

• Define `everyone'.

• Me, Ian, Herrick, Fallon, Onslow, Adena. They're all congregating around Fallon, wondering why he's looking like Big Bird in old age.

• Old age?

• Gray feathers. Joke.

• Not a joking time, Sean. Sensors detected activity at the magenta portal.

Shit. All the tower residents were here. If someone was at the magenta dodecagon, it would have to be Stan. Whom I'd reported dead.

• That's impossible.

• Are you sure that Casey, Kowalczyk and Sebold are all dead?

• (Well, two of them are.) They should be. Casey's buried in three feet of dirt.. Kowalczyk and Sebold were pushed off a cliff. I don't see how either of them could have survived.

• Whoever walked on that portal can't be allowed to survive. Find him and take care of it, Sean.

Fuck. I need to know where Stan is, and Ian for sure won't tell me. All I know is that he's within walking distance of the magenta dodecagon. Which encompasses a wide range of territory.

• Got it.

• They're going to want proof.

• Proof? You want me to drag their corpses to a penis portal and send them down?

• Pictures will do.

• I can't photograph corpses that washed out to sea.

• One of those `corpses' didn't. Show them his corpse and Casey's – that will suffice.

• It couldn't be someone else, could it? Visitor to the island? One of your lieutenants popping up to the surface? Percy out for a stroll?

• No one new is on the island, and everyone down here is accounted for. It has to have been one of your dead bodies. Make sure he stays dead this time. And Herrick – they want proof he's met his final surface obligation.

• I haven't told him about it yet.

• Rightfully so. After Christmas – but they want proof. (Click.)

To quote Daffy Duck, what a revolting development THIS is. I pondered my strategies for sabotaging The Project. Plan A – keeping Stan alive – had just taken a major hit. A picture of him pretending to be dead wouldn't be proof – it could just be a picture of him pretending to be dead (which, um, it would be). The bell would have to toll for Beta-Stan – if I could find him. And Ian would just have to lump it.

Plan B called for Seth to fail to satisfy his one remaining surface obligation – the one he didn't know about yet. But now they demanded proof of that as well – I didn't see any work-around.

Plan C – the last resort – required getting Seth to refuse the triggering act on the 31st . Three problems with that: (1) Seth didn't trust me; (2) no one had told me what the triggering act WAS; it might be something Seth would agree to; and (3) it was literally the last resort – if Plan C failed, there would be no time to implement any potential Plan D.

Back to Plan B. Seth was to fulfill that obligation after Christmas. I wonder if acting prematurely might do the trick . . .

NEAR THE PHALLIC TOWER – SETH

Sean approached me, looking none too happy.

• I've just been on the phone with Hamish.

• Reporting on your surveillance of suspect number one?

• Seth –

• Joking. You work for them, they expect you to call in now and then.

• Exactly. He told me something you're not going to like. I don't like it either.

• (sigh) What now?

• Another mandate. Another requirement of `the physics'.

• What do I have to do now? Eat the feathers off Tim's body? I presume that particular monstrosity is part of your precious Project?

• It is, and it's not MY precious Project! But The Project will keep Abe alive, so it's fucking time you took it seriously, Seth.

He was right (if he wasn't lying through his teeth). I couldn't bear the thought that, if this Project failed, that Abe would be dead within a year. And if it failed because of something I did – or didn't do . . .

• Okay, what do I have to do?

• I'm not supposed to tell you yet.

• Sean, you can't hold out on me. I intend to go back down and rescue Abe. If there are pieces of the puzzle I don't even know about – it's just not fair. You say you love me. So be honest with me. Tell me what I'm supposed to do. If you want me to continue to cooperate.

• It won't be easy.

• So I understand. Get on with it, Sean.

• You have to collect three balls.

• What fun, a scavenger hunt! What kind, billiard balls? There must be dozens on the island. Basketballs? Baseballs? Beachballs, perhaps. Meatballs? Melon balls? . . . Debutante balls?

• Male balls.

• . . . You mean testicles?

• Exactly.

• They want me to `collect' three testicles.

• Yes, three.

• How am I supposed to do that?

• I guess that knife wasn't intended only for fruit.

• Fuck, Sean. That's ridiculous. I'm supposed to geld one guy and half-geld another?

• That would add up to three.

• Can I start with you?

• (smiling) Sorry. Has to be a Twelve. And not you. So three balls from the other three.

• One from each?

• That would also add up to three.

• They'll bleed to death.

• No they won't. This is the island, Seth. You saw what happened downstairs. People heal.

• So if I cut off a guy's nuts, they'll be back the next morning?

• Sorry, no. Severed is severed. But it will only last `til the thirty-first. Then The Project goes through, and everyone goes back to Alphaworld. A better Alphaworld, a happy Alphaworld.

• With testicles?

• With testicles.

• So you're asking them to sacrifice one ball each for nine days. What do they get out of it?

• They get to avoid the fate that awaits them if the Project fails.

• Which is?

• I can't tell you.

• You told me about Abe – that he would die.

• I didn't tell you how. And I won't.

• Will they all die in the next year if the Project fails?

• Seth, I wish you'd trust me. I can't tell you that. All I can say is that the Project will spare them from a future they'd want to be spared from. More importantly, you'll get Abe, safe and sound. And you can achieve all that at a total cost of three testicles for no more than nine days.

• You sound like a salesman: You can achieve happiness in just three easy installments of one testicle each.' Are you going to say but wait – there's more!'?

• Seth.

• They'd be losing their nuts, Sean!

• More like renting them out.

• Gary's been Ray or Cody most of the last few days – can you see either one of them giving up a nut? And then spring that surprise on Gary when he emerges? Jasper, MAYBE, would sacrifice one; he's oversexed anyway. But Tim – after he's turned into the Birdman of Alcatraz, I'm going to lay THIS on him?

• I don't see a lot of choices. And tomorrow's Tim's birthday, he may be gone.

• I know damn well it's his birthday, Sean. And I'm going to make damn sure he doesn't get sucked into the earth by a fucking dodecagon!

• Your record on that front hasn't been stellar so far, Seth. If you're going to ask Tim, I'd do it now.

• I'll think it over.

• But, Seth, if I were you – I wouldn't ask them. I would tell them. You are their leader, you know.

Yeah, I know. But I never asked to be.

THE PHALLIC TOWER – SEAN

My version of the story will be this: Ian let slip that Seth had a task I hadn't told him about. Seth demanded to know what it was, threatened to go on strike unless I told him. Was it my fault if he acted on it prematurely? (Don't answer that question.)

The problem was, Seth acting prematurely might not be enough. Maybe the physics wouldn't mind if a testicle or two came from Tim. But without many cards left in my deck, I had to play this one – and hope.

For I CANNOT let The Project go through. And not just to fulfill my dream of making Seth my slave or to become Ari's second-in-command if he successfully ousted Jesús. My role in the Project was intolerable. In-fucking-tolerable. Jesús didn't know I knew that. But I did.

In the meantime, I had another job to do – one which there was no point in trying to sabotage. At two in the morning, Phase Two of the transfiguration test would take place. I was to wait up, sneak out, and report on the results; if anything went wrong, they'd still have time to make course corrections.

Normally the tower was pitch-dark at that hour, but there was a full moon and if I opened the door, it would let in enough light to see the area near the door where Tim slept; that was all I needed, wasn't it?

It was.

• • • • • • • • SUNDAY, DECEMBER 23 * * * * * * * *

SWITZERLAND – JESÚS

The transmission was received at nine a.m. – three a.m. on the island. I notified Thibaut and Falcon, the primary engineers, then called in Simon.

• It worked, Simon. The body modification software was a hundred percent successful.

• I was sure it would, the simulations have all been perfect.

• So it looks like Aquaworld is good to go.

• I never doubted it for a moment. Still, I'm relieved. If it hadn't worked –

• Aquaworld would be the one not activated.

• But I'm safe. I didn't draw the metaphorical short straw.

• . . .

• It's obvious, Chief. If I had, you wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble with Fallon.

• . . . I suppose that's a reasonable deduction.

• So who did?

• You know I can't tell you that.

FLASHBACK: JESÚS (ST. MORITZ) – four years ago

The stockholders, soon to die in a tragic `accident', had longed to learn the nature of the twelve universes The Project would beget. I had withheld that information, partly because of a glitch in the physics that my own board members were unaware of: As currently configured, the multiverse would be out of balance.

There were to be twelve worlds, one for each of us. Originally, I was to rule Alphaworld, its inhabitants oblivious to the existence of other worlds (or to the fact that it had a ruler). I intended to be a benevolent dictator – reversing global warming, increasing food availability, stemming overpopulation – without overdoing it. It had to resemble life as people knew it – while avoiding some of the worst excesses that collective human negligence had induced.

The other eleven worlds were each so specialized that some of them lacked the means to generate necessary goods and services – whatever was lacking was provided automatically and taken for granted by the populace. In a world with no farms, food would just exist. In a world with no manufacturing, equipment would just exist. In a world with no women, reproduction would be by cloning.

There were three worlds without women. There were no worlds without men. Hence the imbalance.

As it turned out, it was not necessary to balance exactly, as lesbians were welcome in all mixed-gender worlds. But the physics required at least one exclusively for them - we needed to create Lesboworld; it was all part of the balancing act.

That made thirteen worlds - one of them had to go. The physics pointed to the elimination of Alphaworld; the specialized universes could all exist. But Lesboworld needed a resident overseer, which certainly wasn't going to be me. I'd have to evict someone from their desired domain and saddle them with this all-female universe. What was worse, it would be an all-desert climate, to balance Simon's Aquaworld.

The elimination of Alphaworld, however, gave me another option. As chairman, I could be an Overlord, presiding over all twelve universes, hopping here and there as I pleased. Which meant that, if Hamish did a good job of running the island, I could reward him with his own world. To give Hamish Lesboworld would seem like a punishment, not a reward – but SOMEONE had to preside over this unwanted universe.

I gathered the Board plus Hamish, and summarized the problem. I proposed a rotation system, each trading their own world for a month of Lesboworld; this went nowhere. Not only did they balk at spending a month in Lesboworld, but they didn't trust the stewardship of a guest ruler in their own coveted domains.

I considered imposing such a system on them anyway, but when Dolph ran exploratory simulations, the power-sharing arrangement proved too unstable, risking a rift in space-time. In short, we needed one permanent ruler for each world, period. The system would hold if a switch were effected for one day a month (the twelfth, naturally). I would even take my turn, giving Lesboworld's governor one day a year where he could oversee everything – a tiny fillip indeed, but at least something for him to look forward to.

Fine, but we still needed to dump Lesboworld on somebody. I considered arbitrarily assigning Dion, but he was popular among the Board for his social (and sexual) skills, and I wanted no blood on my hands. The Board agreed to the choice being made randomly, leaving their fates to chance. I insisted that the identity of the unfortunate loser be withheld until the last possible moment – if he knew about it now, he would have no incentive to advance the Project. What if it was Thibaut or Falcon? It would be a disaster. They saw the logic in this, and consented.

They would write their names on identical slips of paper. Later, when I was alone, I would record the selection process using analog technology and lock the tape safely away in a vault. The vault would stay locked until five minutes before activation of The Project, when the Unlucky Loser would learn his fate.

I closed my eyes, reached in and selected . . .

Sean. Oh, motherfuck.

Of all people, it had to be Sean? Sean, to whom I had given the responsibility of grooming our Trigger Man for the role he was to play. If not for the fact that the Board – including Sean – had agreed to this random method of selection, I would have overruled the decision and spared him this horrible assignment.

There was one silver lining. Sean's proposed domain, Prisonworld, would now go to Hamish, who was ideally-suited to it. Prisonworld, among my favorite universes, was also a place I would frequent myself.

Maybe there was a way, in a century or two, to reassign domains. I had Dolph investigate. He said it was indeed possible – in twelve hundred years.

FLASHBACK: ARI (ST. MORITZ) – October, this year

I have never known Jesús to be careless. But everyone is human – which means they have vulnerabilities. And vulnerabilities are things you need to exploit – ask Machiavelli.

I was in his office for a meeting when he left the room for a restroom break. I noticed a piece of paper on his desk. It had a series of numbers on them – twelve rows of twelve symbols each, some numbers, some letters – in multiple alphabets and Chinese characters. Something that cryptic just might be the combination to the vault. I quickly snapped a picture of it before he returned.

It was, indeed, the combination to the vault. Jesús never discovered that I had it. And so I found the video from four years ago, the one that would reveal which of us was to be condemned to rule Lesboworld.

I had to be sure it wasn't me. If the Project succeeded, Warworld, under my reign, was going to be spectacular. If it failed, there was a good chance I could, with Sean's support, oust Jesus and take Stimulever in the direction I desired – no multitude of universes – a single one made in the image of Warworld. I'd have my druthers either way – unless I was condemned to Lesboworld. I had to know who was.

A classic good-news, bad-news result. It wasn't me. But it was Sean. My closest ally, the one whose support I needed to oust Jesús – which could only happen if The Project failed.

I realized how I could turn this to my advantage: I simply had to tell him. Now he would surely devote all his energies toward defeating The Project. And Jesús would never suspect it.

THE PHALLIC TOWER – SETH

Okay, I'll admit I didn't expect this. I would say that things were getting out of hand, but they'd gotten out of hand long ago. Tim with feathers wasn't enough?

This morning, Tim had wings.

Let me repeat that: Tim had wings. His arms had morphed into long feathered appendages identical to a bird's wings. His legs were still human (though covered with feathers), his head was still human, and his cock and balls were still human and prominently displayed. But everything else said: Bird.

Why? Tim was beside himself with worry; I had to remind him that Betaworld was only temporary, and maybe he'd have to put up with this for eight more days, but then he'd go back to normal (I thought). That was little consolation.

Then Gary – who was actually Gary this morning – asked an interesting question:

• Can you fly?

If they had given him wings, perhaps he could fly. Why else would they give him actual wings?

He flapped his arms, jumped slightly, and an updraft took him up in the air.

• (Tim, aloft) Omigod, I CAN fly! I can actually fly! This could be useful, Seth! I could scout for things. I could find fruit trees. And other sources of water. I could fly to the top of coconut palms and toss down coconuts that hadn't fallen. This is incredible!

THE PHALLIC TOWER – SEAN

This gave me a brilliant idea. After Tim landed, I called him over for a private consultation.

• Tim, I'm wondering if you could do a job for us.

• Sure, anything.

• But you have to keep a secret.

• I was in the military, Sean. I can keep my mouth shut.

• Stan wasn't captured by a penis garden. I lied about that.

• . . . Wow. Okay. Why?

• They wanted to castrate him downstairs. You know, he and Ian got close, and I didn't want them to do that to him.

• Sure, of course not.

• So he's hiding, but I need to contact him. I want to surprise Ian by letting the two of them have a rendezvous tonight. I want Stan to go to the creek tonight, just after sunset. Could you get that message to him?

• Yeah, okay, I suppose. But where is he?

• He's up north of here a couple of miles, along the beach.

Okay, that last part was a guess, but it was logical. It wasn't far from the magenta dodecagon, and the beach was more comfortable than the woods.

• Best to fly over the trees, though, so he doesn't see you approach. If he sees something flying over the coast, he'd probably panic and hide.

• Ah. Good point.

• Go now. They'll think you're just practicing flying.

• You don't want to tell them where I'm going?

• I don't want Ian to know. He thinks Stan is underground. I want it to be a surprise – an early Christmas present.

• Cool. I got it.

And off he flew. To everyone's surprise (and Seth's obvious consternation) he didn't perch on a nearby tree.

And then I realized how stupid I had been. Acting on a spontaneously `brilliant' thought, I'd just unconsciously sabotaged my own plan. Seth couldn't collect Tim's testicle now, could he?

It was unlike me to be so reckless.

OVER THE ISLAND – TIM

I feel like bursting into a chorus from "Peter Pan" – "I'm flying!" This is the most exhilarating feeling I've ever had.

Yes, it totally weirds me out. I was like something out of "The Island of Dr. Moreau", with his half-human, half-animal grotesqueries. But as long as I stayed half-human, as long as I stayed Tim, I could live with that – for eight days. Sean had assured us that Betaworld was only temporary, and the joy I got from flying – well, it was compensation for looking like the result of a scientific experiment gone wrong.

I felt like the result of a scientific experiment gone right. If I had to be an animal, I'd want to be a bird. My life since Shahbaz has been birds. Birds and sculpture.

I can't believe how easy this is. DaVinci tried to build flying machines based on birds, and failed miserably. I'm not built like a bird, my center of gravity is all wrong – I shouldn't be able to lift off the ground. It should be a tough balancing act. And yet, by the simple act of replacing my arms with wings, I can soar, I can maneuver at will, I can rise and fall and glide and catch updrafts and downdrafts and it's like I instantaneously know how to utilize them, like I've been born to it.

Just as I'm thinking that, I'm feeling a downdraft. It's harder to stay above the trees. I suppose I could land in one of them, though the top branches don't look too sturdy and I weigh a lot more than a sparrow. Ah, there's an opening in the trees; let me glide down toward it and –

Oh, it's a dodecagon. The opening is a dodecagon. My goodness, it's magnificent, magenta in color. I must land there.

I manage to flutter down and land – effortlessly! And here I am, atop this twelve-sided figure, with a mammoth magenta phallus that seems to call to me like Bali Ha'i. The exhilaration from flying is carrying over to the feeling I'm getting standing here, and I know I have to embrace this phallus. It's wonderful!

Below me there's the image of – a rooster? I remember Harry's talk about the Chinese calendar. I was born in the year of the rooster – another bird! How fitting. How glorious.

I wrapped my wings around the phallus as my feet seemed to sink into something gooey, which then hardened around my ankles. And what was that slithering up my legs?

ST. MORITZ, SWITZERLAND – JESÚS

At four o'clock, Germán delivered the news that Fallon had arrived on schedule. We hadn't had to move the dodecagon to entrap him; Sean had had the bright idea of letting him fly over it. Once he saw it, our bird-man's goose was as good as cooked.

I wanted to make sure that things were in balance regarding the Ball Count, and I exchanged a series of transmissions at one-minute intervals at 4 p.m. with Hamish.

• Hamish, by my count Fallon puts you back up over the limit. So you need to geld another left-sider.

• We do, and there's only one left from the plane, aside from Derisian.

• Thompson?

• Yeah, Thompson. Geld him today, chop him tomorrow, that's the plan.

• Okay, sounds like you've got things under control.

• It's all a balancing act, Jesús. But under control.

THE DARK ROOM – TIM

I should have known not to trust Sean. I realize now that his story about Stan was probably a complete fabrication, designed to get me to fly over the magenta dodecagon on my birthday. And I fell for it. It was my birthday, dammit. I should have stayed firmly inside the tower, wings and all. But no, I had to show off my newfound ability to fly.

The thing crawling up my leg found its way into my ass, of course, and started screwing the daylights out of me. And, to my lack of surprise, the floor underneath me collapsed and I fell into the depths below. Just like all the others foolish enough to venture onto their personal dodecagons on their birthdays.

I knew from Augie what to expect: total darkness in the arrival space. Landing on a chair with a dildo sticking out of it, which went right up my ass. Straps quickly fastening themselves around my torso, arms and legs, keeping me totally restrained. None of this was pleasant, but it wasn't surprising. The surprise was that I was cold. With all the feathers covering my body, I shouldn't have been cold.

But I couldn't feel feathers covering my body. And my arms . . . felt like arms, not wings. As quickly as I had morphed into a bird-man, it seemed I was again wholly human. Making me avian had, it would appear, been for the entire purpose of getting me to the dodecagon so I could be captured by this weirdo Hamish that Augie and the others had told us about.

Augie had said that everyone from `The Twelve' had met someone from their past. And Augie had described his enemas as being administered by two guys – one of whom was named Penn.

Penn. It couldn't be a coincidence. Not that common a name. My army tormentor, Sergeant Penn Ayers – he who had slain Shahbaz's falcons, he who had raped my lover and turned me into his personal cocksucker – was, I had no doubt, here.

I was not alone in the space. To my left I heard a rhythmic noise, occasionally punctuated by a grunt.

• Hello?

• I see another one has arrived. Pardon me if I'm not too coherent. I'm being fucked right now.

• So am I.

• No, you've just got a dildo up your ass. I've got a machine under my chair that's literally fucking me. Which one are you?

• Tim. Tim Fallon.

• Piers Thompson. Have you seen Theo Sebold? He's my friend.

• I know Theo. . . . I'm sorry, but I think he's back down here. They recaptured him.

• Oh, shit.

Just then the door opened and someone flicked on a light, which hurt my eyes. I closed them in defense, then waited a few seconds and gradually let the light in. I looked at myself – my arms were just arms, my feathers vanished. I was the same naked human being I had been two days ago.

• Hey, Fallon, welcome. Have a good flight?

To my relief, the man who spoke was not Penn Ayers. He looked me over, then turned to Piers.

• Thompson, you should have seen Fallon an hour ago. He had wings, and feathers. Actual wings and actual feathers. But it looks like he's had a little body modification when he dropped down here.

The man inserted a key into the side of Piers's chair and twisted it.

• (Piers) Who is it this time, Stefan? (to me) They only release me for bathroom breaks or when one of them wants to fuck me personally.

• (`Stefan') Not this time, Thompson. You're getting freed from this chair for good.

• I am?

• You are. That's the good news.

• What's the bad news?

• You're getting a body modification of your own.

And he reached between Piers's legs and gently patted his balls.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER FORTY – MERRY CHRISTMAS]