Point of Light

by Kelly Gay

  Spark had betrayed her.

  A tight ache squeezed her heart. He had taken the key out of her hand when he could have grabbed hold, could’ve taken her wrist and pulled her to safety.

  Of course, there had been no facial expression, no emotion or any way to read him in that small moment. No way to know if he’d been shocked or horrified or simply uncaring that a portal was swallowing her whole.

  Had he known this would happen?

  She rubbed both hands down her face to try to stir her blood. Every time her mind wandered, all she felt was that same shock of betrayal, followed immediately by chaos, blinding light, and the abject and complete fear of her body being pulled through space.

  So strong, those images. Invasive. Persistent.

  She hugged her knees, closed her eyes, and rested her head on her arm, too damned tired to keep the images at bay. They spilled in, tumbling, spinning through space faster than the speed of light. The horrific sensation of being without a buffer. Nothing between her and the void. The pressure in her ears. The inability to scream.

  And then something else…

  A voice.

  * * *

  Night has fallen across the plain. The songs of insects echo through air free of humidity and heat. The sky is a vivid canvas of ink on which billions of stars cozy up to the galaxy’s Dark Rift.

  “Forerunners take their first-form naked under the stars,” the Librarian says, continuing her confession, gazing up, remembering. “It is solemn and painful, a rite of passage from Manipular to adult that fills young hearts with excitement and apprehension. I was such a youth.

  “Harmony served as my mentor. This honor should have gone to my mother—a respected Lifeworker whose study of ice worlds was unsurpassed. Nurturing the life trapped beneath the ice, guiding it from the cold and into the warmth of evolution, was one of her greatest joys. She gave her life in the process.”

  There is pride and grief in her telling. Rion isn’t sure if she should offer words of comfort or simply listen.

  “I did not inherit her gentle gift for liberating ice worlds,” the Librarian says with a rueful smile.

  “Both Harmony and my father held high hope for my first-form mutation, but no one more than me. No… it was not hope; it was belief, complete and total, that I would shed the strange physical traits that plagued me since birth and emerge more… Forerunner.

  “I stayed in my living area for several days when it was over. Not from the pain of mutation, but from bitter disappointment and embarrassment. My abnormalities remained. I had let everyone down—my rate, my father, my mentor. To be so afflicted without sense or reason created a deep well of anger in me.”

  Holding up her hand, wiggling her long fingers, she gives Rion a faint smile. “Five fingers like you,” she says, before returning to her study of the sky. “How I longed for six. For hair and facial features more like my fellow first-forms…”

  Rion’s connection allows her to share in the Librarian’s intense longing to fit in with the young Forerunners around her and the pain it caused to see their distaste.

  “But, after my sulking period was over, I did as Harmony taught me: I turned my negative attributes into something worthy of study. I began to trace my abnormalities to their source.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Not much in the beginning. I assumed I would find it in my studies.

  “First-forms begin extensive rate studies almost immediately. Living Science becomes our lifeblood, nourishing our hearts and minds and shaping our very essence. There are fifty-two branches of Living Science within the Lifeworker rate. We must master them all. And I had already mastered more than half before my mutation.

  “During respites in my studies, I cultivated my navigation of Living Time, roamed the Domain for answers that eluded me, and worked my way eugenically backward to find the source of my abnormal congenital traits.

  “There were others like me spread across the ecumene, suggesting a far older ancestral source existed. Mapping the Forerunner genome and sequence had been done long ago. It is one of the first things that is done upon fetal development, to give parents and household monitors all relevant information in order to effectively serve. This information is also accessed and used to facilitate future mutations. Once first-form mutation is achieved and armor is fashioned, an individual ancilla is assigned. This ancilla routinely updates and monitors its Forerunner inside and out.

  “My ancilla, however, was somewhat unconventional. And while she never admitted it, I believe Harmony had a hand in its selection. With my molecular map, my ancilla and I zeroed in on my extraneous genetic material, and I continued to hound the Domain with my questions. Why was I different? Where did these deviations originate? But it seemed the halls of memory enjoyed toying with the neophyte, only revealing a long line of those like me, going deep into the past, voices that said:

  “ ‘You are not alone.’

  “ ‘Look to the end.’

  “ ‘Look to the beginning.’

  “ ‘Unity.’

  “ ‘Division.’

  “And then finally a voice that curled around me in the shadowed halls and whispered, ‘Look to the lost rate.’

  “There were pivotal moments in my early life, of mergers and events and junctures—perhaps small to hear them spoken now—but all designed to guide me to a singular purpose. This revelation—‘Look to the lost rate’—was one of these moments.

  “This seemingly simple statement proved vastly difficult, even for my ancilla, and required my first of two visits to Keth Sidon to avail myself of the Master Library.

  “I had long wanted to visit the Library. It was one of the last great stores of old knowledge, containing the earliest writings known, preserved scrolls and books and copies of early digital data. Many considered its existence a miracle.”

  At the Librarian’s long pause, Rion spoke up—she didn’t want this story to end. “How so?”

  “By virtue of its location. As a planet in one of our original twelve systems, Keth Sidon escaped destruction when a series of supernovas annihilated much of our civilization; even our homeworld was not spared. Many began referring to it as the Fortunate One.

  “Its beauty certainly lived up to its reputation: towering primeval forests cut through by four long oceans, which effectively divided Keth Sidon into five landmasses. The Library, however, resides within the densest, most ancient of woodland and remains one of the greatest works of ancient Forerunner architecture in all of Path Tolgreth, what you now call the Milky Way galaxy.

  “When I arrived in the plaza outside its doors, my heart became fuller than it ever had been before. I stood in awe of its angled columns that rose from the foundation to meet at the top, forming a beautiful triad. Behind this first set of angled columns rose another set, a hundred meters higher than the first, each successive apex growing higher and higher, reaching its highest pinnacle, and then retreating in similar fashion.

  “Passing through the main hall made my heart sing with unmitigated joy.

  “ ‘Your heart rate is elevated, Light. I would offer to administer, but I am sensing you are not in distress,’ my ancilla told me with undisguised humor.

  “ ‘You sense correctly,’ I replied. ‘This, my dear ancilla, is called joy.’

  “The first three days, I did nothing but walk the ancient halls and marvel at millions upon millions of manuscripts. I enjoyed the manicured parks and areas for study and reflection, and the chambers for thought and simulated experience.

  “After this period, which was all too short, I made the most of my limited time. I submitted search requests for lost rates and any Forerunners of note who were similarly plagued with five fingers, blunt teeth, thin, smaller forms, flexible facial muscles, and hair instead of fur.

  “There were many lost rates in our past, absorbed into larger rates and thus forgotten. But then finally there was one that caught my attention—Theoreticals, forcibly folded into the Builder
rate a million years prior. Their rate studied ideology, philosophy, metaphysics, aesthetics, the esoteric, belief systems, the past, present, and future, and they in turn guided Forerunners of all rates.

  “Finding complete works proved difficult indeed, leading me to the same conclusion as others before—there had been a true, concerted effort to suppress these studies. What remained was a small patchwork, which, when laid out, suggested the Precursors, our esteemed and mysterious Creators, had given form and breath not only to us, but to humanity as well.

  “Brothers, as one ancient sage proposed.

  “The idea was preposterous. Humans, from what little I had read, were known to be a crude, uninspiring, and quarrelsome species.

  “ ‘You don’t believe it?’ my ancilla asked me on our last day as I reclined on a bench by the reflection pool. The water lay flat and as smooth as a mirror, reflecting perfectly the Library’s great peaks rising behind me. I had yet to share my disappointments and declined her offer to download the Forerunners’ shared knowledge about humanity directly into my mind. I remember gazing down at my fingers resting on my lap, hating them for their abnormality. Humans, according to what I found, shared a genetic structure homogeneous to our own.

  “And with great resistance toward that idea, my real study began.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Spark

  After the crew enjoyed a meal with the Quarrie family, they convened back on the ship, anxious to get started. During their absence, I scanned the entirety of Pilvros, searching for signs of the captain and the Forerunner facility. Scans during our descent into Torba had proven fruitless; no returns on Rion’s signal and unclear readings on whatever might lurk beneath Hannibal Headquarters. I continue to monitor the area, however. Michelle was recovered and repaired from the mishap on Zeta Halo, and along with Niko’s second drone, Diane, they are now modified with new scan parameters and are currently high in the atmosphere over the site to work and avoid security detection.

  Lessa’s words continue to haunt me. The very idea that Rion might have landed in a situation unsuitable for life had of course occurred to me. To find friends again only to lose them is a horrifying notion I do not wish to entertain.

  The situation is unacceptable.

  My attachment to the captain and the crew is a weakness. An emotional liability. Easily solved, however. Keep them safe and the liability drops exponentially. Quite simple.

  Until… it is not.

  I cannot protect them from everything.

  Yet another irritating notion.

  But I must leave these notions behind and move on to other internal processes.

  The Pori Meteor, upon which Hannibal HQ is built, shows clear manipulation, and I surmise it may have once served as a beacon or power station, intentionally crafted to blend into the surrounding landscape. It is the void nearly three kilometers beneath the building, however, that proves most intriguing.

  Clear voids indicate natural chambers and caverns existing beneath the ground, but this is a different kind—an absence of readings altogether, which denotes the use of a dazzler, perhaps. Calculating the perimeter of this void tells me the facility might be a way station. If true, this bodes well for the captain.

  Simultaneous to this work, I gather information on the region’s tremors based on what the crew learned from Mac Quarrie. Their idea to cause an evacuation of the headquarters has merit. There is already precedence. However, creating a fabricated tremor without causing structural damage to the building and to the city’s thermonuclear reactor will require some deliberation.

  Lessa and Quarrie have already departed while his employees make additional repairs to the undercarriage of the ship. Quarrie knows the location of one of the seismic suppressors on the edge of what is called the Grieves. He believes it is possible to reengineer its damping technology to output directional sound waves at the proper frequency in order to create a tremor specifically for our purposes.

  He is correct.

  I pull from numerous sources—household ChatterNet and Waypoint relays, SATlinks, wave signals, working my way outward. The only thing of note is an anomalous signal of unidentifiable Forerunner origin. It is subtle and repetitive. Perhaps simply a persistent echo, but it is intriguing and unusual enough that I store it for later analysis.

  While I work, I have granted Little Bit the freedom to move through the ship’s local communications and optics. It gave me great pleasure to see the happiness on Niko’s face when he first heard the familiar voice. This Little Bit is not the original that the crew remembers—that copy now belongs to ONI—and he is but a shadow, or rather a fragmented seed, that I have pieced back together and nurtured into something more for no other reason than it was an agreeable activity.

  I am proud of the outcome thus far and like to think I have put something of myself into his revival.

  “Spark, are you ready to go?” Ram asks as he moves down the stairs and into the hold.

  Of course I am.

  Sometimes they ask the most ridiculous questions.…

  Ram and I plan to examine the Hannibal building more closely, to determine an expedient and safe point of entry into the facility below, and to allow me a closer look into its systems and security. My armiger must remain hidden on the ship, as there is no value in the chaos and knowledge its presence would cause.

  I manifest my avatar over the worktable as Niko reaches across and grabs a chip from one of the ports as well as the ID badge we have forged.

  Delightful amusement fills me at the sight of Ram Chalva in pressed trousers, button-down shirt, and polished leather footwear that appears a half size too small. I believe these must be the most proper clothes he’s ever worn in his entire life.

  “Quit smiling,” he growls at me.

  “I am emitting no human expression.”

  “You don’t need to. I can tell you’re smiling on the inside.”

  Niko hands him the chip and bursts out laughing. “Are those dress shoes?”

  “Yeah,” Ram says with disgust, “and I’m about to barf out a sport coat any minute now.”

  He has removed his piercings and trimmed his beard close to his jaw. His shoulder-length hair is contained in a knot. It would have to be good enough.

  I am struck by the realization that if my friend Riser had been born a human, he might have shared similar features to Ram Chalva’s.

  Little Bit suddenly speaks up. “Permission is required to enter this vessel. Who are you? State your business.”

  The flat expression that settles onto Ram’s face is priceless. He levels a death stare at Niko’s uncontained laughter. “LB, it’s me—Ram.”

  I offer my assistance by pointing Ram to the closest camera in the cargo bay. He turns and stares directly into it. This will provide Little Bit with a clear view.

  “Ram Chalva! Why didn’t you say so? You appear exceptionally unslovenly tonight. Those shoes are practically gleaming!”

  Ram lets out a pained sigh. “Thanks, buddy.… You test it already?” he asks of me, indicating the chip he has now placed into the portable datapad on his wrist device.

  “Of course. My fragment will accompany you and record your time in Hannibal HQ, ascertain security levels and defenses, as well as scan for signs of Forerunner technology.”

  “And what about the evac plan?”

  “I am working on it.”

  Ram finishes a comm check and then we depart.

  Quarrie has offered Ram the use of his roadster. It is completely devoid of the necessary components to allow me any semblance of control. Ram appears quite thrilled with the prospect, however.

  More than once during our journey, I must caution him to slow down. But he only increases speed, the roadster hugging the corners and taking off on straightaways, his heart rate and adrenaline increasing. After many of my urgings, he slows the vehicle to root around in the console, pulling out a pair of smart shades and slipping them over his eyes. “Link up, my friend, and enjoy the ride
,” he says, downshifting the roadster and then punching the accelerator.

  Smart is a relative word, apparently.

  The eyewear is positively archaic. But, curious, I link up and suddenly view the road the way Ram sees it. Headlights illuminate our forward motion, creating a focused tunnel effect. The arid landscape speeds by in a blur, the sudden emergence of curves and the ever-changing delineation of the road making it, I admit, an exhilarating experience. I now understand the appeal, and Ram’s innate desire for such thrill seeking.

  By the time we arrive in Pilvros, I am stunned by the effect such a basic machine has on me. It was quite… enjoyable.

  Pilvros—and Kotka, for that matter—is a city that would not exist were it not for the machinations of JP Hannibal. The growth of his business brought hundreds of thousands of workers, which spurred the need for office buildings, housing, services, entertainment, transport… As it stands, the city is reliant on Hannibal Weapons Systems.

  The downtown campus is control central and consists of several high-rises gathered around a manicured parkland with Hannibal HQ at its center, a sleek tower of mirrored glass soaring over the other local buildings. The main plaza around the headquarters holds sculptures, outdoor seating, a few eateries, and a water fountain. A few people sit at tables talking, or using the raised rail system that takes them to points throughout the campus and city.

  “Are you sure this badge is going to work?” Ram now asks, walking away from the parking area and tugging his shirt down.

  “Your faith in my abilities is truly astounding,” I say through his earpiece, then, “There still are no returns on Rion’s signal.” The facility is directly beneath us, and yet there is no feedback.

  “Are you picking up anything else?”

  “Just the void.”

  We come to the main doors. Despite the late hour, Hannibal HQ runs constantly with four shifts over New Carthage’s twenty-eight-hour cycle. Our arrival should pose little concern. “The doorframes are equipped with small generators,” I tell Ram. “They create a constant field, which reads your badge and bio signature.” Earlier, I used local signals to work my way into the human resources department, which has its own building on the campus, and from there initiated Ram’s ID and signatures.