Plump, nay swollen, succulent red orbs popped between his teeth with a savory slurp. He let the slimy seeds slip lazily down his gullet. There was simply no time to spit them out. A groan of voracious pleasure escaped him after each crush and gulp of the sweet little cherries.

He had developed a rhythm to the plucking, biting, chewing, and swallowing. It was a song he called Indulgent Delight, and it was the sound of decadence mingling with the Dvorak that bounced across the tapestries before finally settling between his ears. A meal such as this was a fluid, phosphorescent dance of flavors and ambiance. Why, he would have thought it the quintessential meal were they not all as equally superb.

In fact, the only thing dampening this extravaganza of the senses was the drone of the evening report. That he allowed the intrusion was a sign of his gracious character. Besides, the dirge of the report was all but drowned in the scrumptiousness of his splendor, bobbing along the meandering current of victuals like chocolate covered grasshoppers, each cocoa dipped hind leg rubbing out sweet accolades from insect heaven.

True, there were discordant notes peppered here and there in these daily intelligence briefs, but he had come to see that as simply the indigestion that goes hand in hand with any indulgent feast. Accounts of peons bucking the rules or taxes waning was like the occasional undercooked pheasant. The world he had created could easily be described as an endless smorgasbord, for him at least; one that he had taken great pains to prepare; one that was tailored solely to his proclivities and lusts. It was, he mused, high society’s equivalent to cannibalism. When you are at the top of the food chain the world really is your oyster, each person ripe for the plucking.

His methods for structuring this society were well-rounded and well-established. Economists handled currency with the ease of magicians, allowing the masses the illusion of wealth without any of the substance. He found that people became accustomed to poverty fairly easily … once the memory of the last generation’s affluence had dissipated.

His forefathers had done well in laying a groundwork of dependence to government. Politicians ensured that every class, sect, and caste was lethargic, no one bothering to attempt the insurmountable climb above their station. This was a mindset cultivated with Bonsai-like care. The higher caste all but shut themselves willingly into cells, content to plug themselves into pretend palisades they called virtual reality. The lower caste was a bit more challenging to control. It turned out to be a matter of assisting some in the belief that they might actually be making a difference while convincing others that change was just around the corner if only they would trust the ruling class a little while longer.

Psychological reconstruction was the way to go if you were a closet dictator. Forcing these sorts of pathetic attitudes through genetic manipulation had proven a damned waste of time. It seemed the human genome was more resilient than his biologists had theorized; resilient to a point but then shattering into insanity at inopportune moments. There was no gradient, no happy balance between nature and scientific tweaking. Humanity’s genome was precarious indeed. Sure, certain traits had been isolated and perpetuated through breeding of that lower caste to particular studs and through simple in-breeding of the higher caste. The lower caste, known as the Biocaste, was the earthy type to be sure … brawny more than brainy. There had also been a semi successful sense of devotion and submissiveness added … yet the plaguing seeds of curiosity, all too often sprouting into unsightly weeds of rebellion, were never able to be plucked out genetically. In the end biological engineering was set to the side and social engineering took the forefront. All that Orwellian 1985 crap worked like gang buster.

The insatiable drive for fulfillment through, dare it be said, freedom, seemed to exist in all humans, but less strikingly in those highborn idiots, known as the Technocaste, plugged in to computers all day. Social engineering was barely even needed for them. The ruler of this world would have loved to simply do the low caste in, but his engineers had not been able to bring automation and artificiality to the place where human sweat and muscle could be rendered obsolete on a large scale. In short, he needed someone to do his dirty work.

Thankfully there had been no uprisings whining for their freedom for quite some time. The ruler had finally discovered that the Biocaste actually found fulfillment in the physical work he gave them. He simply had to be careful not to let that work feel as oppressive as it was. One of the few times he caught something interesting from today’s report was when he noted that production had obtained a net increase of five percent this quarter. They just could not help but pride themselves in their hard work, seeking ever to improve themselves, dreaming of the day they might chomp down on the carrot dangled just out of reach.

This thought caused him to choke with laughter, the droning voice pausing politely. The ruler wiped tears from his eyes and motioned for the voice to continue.

“Enough about the chattel,” he said. “Tell me of the pitiful creatures in their dens, mining their precious data. Have the unauthorized codes been contained? This … dragon code or whatever?”

“Not … as of yet,” the underling admitted. “Most of the distributors and users have been identified, but we are holding out for the leader; this digital dragon lord they admire so much.”

“The Neuromancer is what they call him, yes?” the ruler sneered. “Honestly, the words they come up with … very entertaining.”

For the most part, except for a few charismatic individuals, the upper caste had been so easy to deal with that he sometimes forgot they existed. Nearly all that they wanted was located in another world; a fake world where they could pretend they were all gods. He was more than willing to give them that virtual realm in exchange for being crowned the god of the real one. The funniest part was how they desperately lined themselves up in neat rows to make this exchange, more than willing to throw away reality. And yet … some measure of control had to be maintained, even in the virtual realm. It had to be confined and kept from bleeding into the ruler’s reality through these pesky, unsanctioned codes and programs.

In order to keep their minds otherwise occupied he benevolently dangled new color schemes and sharp displays; version after minutely tweaked version. He was the Fulfiller of Future Happiness and the Magistrate of Flashy Stuff. But the ruler was not smiling at these thoughts as he usually did. He was frowning at an overwhelming ache in his belly. The rich food was creating pangs that twisted within him. A familiar discomfort, sure. A necessary demon, yes. But today the meal had been particularly snide toward his stomach.

“Are you well, Sir?”

“Something I ate stirs in the belly,” he said.

“That would be the cherries,” the other said. “Have you eaten the pits again?”

“Perhaps in my fervor,” the leader replied in disgruntled acquiescence, “I did just that. Why in the heavens didn’t you stop me? Isn’t it your job to look after me?”

“No, Sir. I only deliver reports.”

“Oh. Well then. I shall have to add it to your duties. Don’t they make pitless cherries yet?”

“I think so, Sir. But these were … special. In fact, I was counting on you eating them.”

“What are you talking about? Are you really stupid enough to be impertinent? I was actually starting to like you … What was your name again?”

The young ruler … well, young at heart … looked toward the underling. He read the ID badge. “Eleven.” He raised his eyes to the man’s face and his anger transformed to furrowed surprise. Realization dawned that this man was not familiar. True, they all looked the same to a point, but he would have recognized that fat nose and unpruned brow, wouldn’t he? Also, there was a proud light in the servant’s eyes which was certainly not typical and might have even been against regulations were he to check thoroughly. There shall be no proud looks toward your ruler, or some such phrasing. There was also, as if there needed to be more, the audacious beginnings of a smile at the man’s lips. Now that just made the youngish ruler angry all over again. A genuine smile was certainly not allowed under these distressed belly type conditions. Then the thought finally surfaced that this might not in actuality be his minion and instead an infiltrator unfamiliar with the unwritten rules of meal time facial expressions, not to mention underling nose size qualifications.

“A message from the Neuromancer,” the heavily browed man explained. He closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath. “Thou hast reached zerohood.”

The ruler had no time to question the strangeness of that pronouncement or to call into question whether zerohood was actually a word, for it was at that moment that all words and all thoughts, actual or made up, became completely unimportant to him. This was because his stomach, his cherries, his tapestries, his Dvorak, and his entire world had just exploded, leaving little more than a stain upon the era to come.