"Supply and Demand"- skekTek, skekSo
The Emperor has never had any qualms about barging into the Scientist’s lab, but his footfalls and slamming of the door lack the strength they once had. SkekTek courteously says nothing of that- the last time he had offered anything but essence to boost vitality, he had received still-powerful fingers wrapped around his throat, and the essence has been short for over a trine now. The loss of that first battle has all but trapped them here- no tithes, no trade, no gelfling foolish enough to come near the castle. After enough of a taste of such a miracle to crave it, they are growing desperate, and quickly.
Still, if nothing else, the Scientist’s work is thriving- and finally getting the respect it deserves, now that the others realize he is their best chance at survival. (Not having the General around to belittle him constantly has helped too, but it would likely attract the Emperor’s wrath to be too gleeful about that.) Desperation breeds innovation, after all, and the room is overflowing with new and fascinating creations- jars of sickly yellow fluid with lumps of flesh suspended in them, pulsating, living, growing. They hadn’t thought that he could do it. They were wrong.
The Emperor runs a finger down the smooth surface of one of the jars, and skekTek struggles not to cringe at the smell of rot clinging to his robes, somehow distinguishable even amid the ever-present stink of chemicals and old, acrid blood. He does not have to ask how the progress fares- skekTek already knows the near-daily question.
“The growth continues well, my Emperor!” he exclaims, failing not to sound too proud. “I have synthesized enough tissue for three more, provided we have the arathim required for assembly.”
“How long?” the Emperor croaks, uninterested as always in the details.
A pained gurgle comes from the far corner of the lab, and skekTek clicks his tongue in annoyance- the creature has spent so long full of sedatives that it has begun to grow immune and to wake at the least opportune moments. The Scientist usually delights in the myriad sounds pain can wring from a creature under his knife, but too much of it can stop a heart, and dead flesh is no good to him. This creature is precious- the very last one after the two he had thoughtlessly slaughtered, dug out of some obscure hideaway by skekSil after unum of searching. He needs it alive, tied down securely, available whenever he needs another sample to begin a new growth.
After all, one cannot make something from nothing.
“Soon, Sire...soon.” It is a less than specific answer, but then, skekSo has been less than specific about how many garthim will be enough. He ventures a familiar proposal. “These new garthim will make seven- perhaps if we send out just a few, they could bring back enough gelfling to-
“No!” the Emperor snaps, banging a fist on the table, with barely enough force to rattle the glass containers. The exertion still seems to have quickened his breath. “We cannot afford to lose any, or to give the gelfling time to learn how to destroy them. We wait….until the time is right.” He turns on his heel and looks back over his shoulder, sunken eyes burning. “We will crush them in a single blow.”
If we survive that long, the Scientist thinks, but keeps such musings to himself. He fills a syringe with more sedative, ignoring the rising pitch of the creature’s cries as it sees him coming with the needle.
He will have peace and quiet again soon. There is always more work to do.