“My thralls are hungry,” Ay rumbled, standing amidst a crumbling stone ruin. Dust and sand were kicked up from its broken arches and fallen walls by the wind as he addressed the Tumour Keeper of the Oasis. The fat, bloated beast reared up on his podium, laughing as it swatted its swollen hand at a passing servitor. The little one fell, scrambling on weak legs to return to its feet.

“They are all hungry,” the Tumour Keeper said, spilling pungent oil from his wide, frog-like mouth. “Look at them, slowly purifying! Embracing the source!”

Ay clacked his beak, then slowly looked around the court of starving, emaciated attendees. All around, their heavy heads were bent low, both in reverence and by the weakness of their gaunt limbs.

“Their hunger is cleansing,” the fat one said. Behind the corpulent beast and his pulpit, there was a pit to the lower levels of the ancient structure. Ay could smell the meat kept just out of sight, just beyond the reach of the common freak.

To the side of the chamber, an executed freak was strung up high onto an iron frame — displayed for all to see. Some act of perceived heresy doomed him to his fate, though no records of his alleged crimes were displayed. Stooped at its side, a monster carved at his flesh. Slowly and expertly, it took a bright knife to the meat of the heretic, slicing carefully around its exposed augs. Each muscle was carefully taken apart. Each deliberate cut released a slice of flesh, wafer-thin, held up to the light. Translucent to the wicked sun, the meat was checked for perfection. Then, it was arranged upon a platter of gold for communion.

Devour your enemy and let their meat be purified within the crucible of your body. Free the biomass from the living cities back out into the world. Neoglosmic fantasy. Ay had heard it all before. It was just another band of freaks with their laces stuck on repeat, dreaming of escape. No different than the Axiamati or the Xenozygotes in the end.

“You have never come before me, traveller,” the Keeper said, hands clasped together on his rotund abdomen. “Until now. I have heard of you though. Sent to drag meat back to your city. You are so full of vigour, I can see... Succulent. One of gluttony, one who has eaten more than their share of biomass. Such a strong body.”

Ay grunted, a hand on his lance, propped down against the sands, where his long body coiled.

“Just my fair share,” Ay said, wet eyes returning to the Keeper.

“So it is. So it is,” the Keeper murmured, vaguely placated by the acknowledgement of his scripture. “Yet now you are here.”

“I want to trade.”

“I’m listening,” the Keeper said with saccharine sweetness, his mouth peeling into a gibbous smile, teeth blade-like and far too sharp.

“I’ve got a live one,” Ay said. The Keeper chuckled, then tapped a fat hand against the heavy bench that he rested upon.

“I have many live ones in this court,” the Keeper said, his oily tongue flicking out to clean his eyes.

“Not like this one,” Ay said. “The Vat-Mother of Sestchek’s final creation. She has a face like the old ones. Probably all sorts of other rare gene-stuff, too. I’ve been sent to retrieve her by those on high. It’s the real thing, too. Seen it with my own eyes. You can have one of Her afterbirth. All I ask is food for the journey.”

The Tumour Keeper of the Oasis lost his smile. With beady eyes, he regarded Ay with considerable scrutiny. The weight of his gaze was tremendous and suddenly very cold.

Every freak in the chamber looked on with bated breath, antenna and claws twitching. Even the butcher ceased carving, turning towards Ay, blade in hand. Ay could taste their fear, coiling his tail, ready to strike first, lance in hand. Tense, his beak clacked again.

“And if I simply took this child?” Asked the Keeper.

“Then I would kill every last one of you.”

There was a sudden cacophony of gasps, hisses, and cries from the court. Ay swallowed beneath his nearly sealed beak, sweat forming around the joints in his bioarmour. He tried not to show even a moment of weakness.

“Would you?” The Keeper grinned again, a hissing sound escaping from its wet mouth, glistening fat scleras starting to mist over. “I would enjoy seeing that.”

A howl interrupted the stand-off. It came from the pit beyond the Tumour Keeper. Something down there that cried out a blood-curdling sound stretched out into a helpless whimper.

The Keeper worked his fleshy palms upon each other, deciding.

“You asked!” the Keeper said, then rolled forward, fat body rocking. He addressed the court. “The meat! Feed the traveller!” he roared, spittle flying, knocking a poor misguided attendant from the stand. Its legs scrambled to keep itself up, then failed, dropping onto the sand with a thud. A surge of servitors emerged, crawling up from the pit. They were small, dirty things — scurrying scarabs in rags of sun-bleached cloth, masks covering their misshapen heads. With them, they brought an offering of flesh.