Sit in the chair.
Rest your arm beneath the smaller elevated screen.
Wrap the cuff attached to the chair by a coil around your wrist.
Once vitals are presented, press SCREEN NOW.
Your blood is checked for a metabolite produced only in the presence of abdeakka spore activity.
It appeared the machine used nanotechnology, but the details weren’t clear.
“No, you’ll be fine,” I said finally, gesturing to the chair.
Laith set her satchel down and gingerly approached it. I directed her on how to sit, simultaneously distracting her from noticing the straps that hung from the lower and upper sections—akin to a gurney in a mental ward. Probably for the unwilling subjects brought here, like frightened children.
I fastened the cuff around Laith’s wrist, feeling it tremble against my fingers. “Stay calm,” I assured her. “I promise this won’t hurt.”
She didn’t believe me, and I didn’t blame her.
Her (elevated) vitals were scanned near-instantaneously and as the visual instructions had promised, a SCREEN NOW glyph flickered into view beneath them. “Ready?”
Laith didn’t respond, only stared at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.
I touched the glyph. The chair emitted a low-frequency whir. A percentage bar predicted two minutes until the scan was complete. I watched, still.
“Has it started?” asked Laith.
“Yes.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“I said you wouldn’t.”
“Just a bit of warm tingling on my arm. It’s kind of nice.”
I smirked. “Good. You have two minutes, so get comfortable.”
She shifted slightly, heeding my command. “What does your world look like?”
My gaze slid from the monitor and rested on her. I hesitated, unsure if it was breaking code by responding. But she was a frightened young girl in need of a distraction. “Red sky, yellow fields, islands and gorges so deep you can’t see the bottom.”
“Are there trees?”
“No.”
Laith thought a moment. “Oceans?”
“No.”
“Rain?”
“No.”
“How does anything survive on your world?”
“It doesn’t. The grass isn’t actually grass; more like threads of minerals that spur from the ground. The weather doesn’t change. Everything is always the same.”
“…Are there cities?”
“No.”
“Where do you live when you’re there?”
“We have one complex that we share. It’s about the size of your citadel, currently under construction.”
Laith looked thoughtfully at me. My eyes flicked to the monitor. One minute left.
“How many scholars are there?” she asked.
“Seven.”
Laith’s jaw went slack. “Only seven of you?”
I nodded. “There used to be more, but they died.”
“You can die?”
“Oh yes.” And we had, plenty of times. We were not impervious to exploding stars or primordial poachers. Or ourselves.
She said nothing else, and neither did I. When the scan was complete, the monitor beeped and presented the results. My heart sank. It was as I’d already surmised.
“Zira?” called Laith, sitting up in her seat. My expression had betrayed me. “What is it?”
I turned, frustrated that I wasn’t acting like myself. Unbeknownst to Laith, she had found a way to drive a stake into the shell of apathy I’d perfected for millennia. It was fractured; crumbling.
“What is it?” she asked again, desperation in her tone.
How could I tell her?
How could I tell her that her father had kept her infection a secret all this time?
How could I tell her the strange vial I’d seen the Housekeeper slip into her morning meal before we’d left was most likely a hormone suppressant that’d kept her from maturing?
How could I tell her that now, following her first bleed, she would soon experience the awful and horrifying effects of the abdeakka gift in full effect, followed by catatonia?
How could I tell her?
I couldn’t. So, I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “Come on, let’s go raid this place of supplies and get out of here.”
Laith blinked, confused. “I thought we were going to call for help?”
“No.” I offered no further explanation, heading for a door beside the wall screen. It was unlikely the OSC wanted Laith for ‘diplomatic’ purposes, especially if O-REACH was their subsect. Why they wouldn’t have just abducted and disposed of her was still a mystery, and I wasn’t handing her over until I found out. “Get your satchel and let’s move.”
I inspected the door, sighing once I realized it, too, required an access card. When I noticed Laith hadn’t moved, I turned toward her. She sat on the chair, legs crossed, beaming.
I lifted a brow. “Are you okay?”
“You were right,” she said, her smile causing a swarm of guilt to clench at my insides. “The gods are real.”
XII
BEYOND THE ROOM WITH THE CHAIR, there were networks of tunnels and smaller rooms which held strange glass containers large enough to fit a person, attached to wires and other machines I’d never seen before. I always thought military outposts had weapons and vehicles, armor and bunkers, but none of those were here.
Every so often Zira would force us to stop so he could inspect a room, moving from row-to-row of computers and glass boxes, fingers clacking away at panel buttons, eyes scanning illegible information across the screens through his luminary visor. I’d asked him what these rooms were for, but he would never answer me—not completely. He’d just kept saying ‘research’ in monotone, as if he himself was a computer. Eventually, I stopped asking.
I was hungry again, and tired; I could feel dampness on my inner thighs as the ligar soaked through. There was nowhere to change and I was too scared to tell Zira we had to stop. He didn’t seem in the mood to stop.
This place was a lot larger than it’d looked. The tunnels ran for what seemed like miles underground. Maybe it was the size of a town, but I couldn’t be sure. We’d spent what felt like hours exploring, until I was unsure of which way we’d come or how to find the exit. Each room looked the same to me, except for one.
It didn’t have any monitors or glass boxes or wires. It had two chairs in the center of the room, secured to the floor by metal squares fitted around the legs. The chairs had straps on the arms and legs, and even around the headrest. I shivered, imagining someone sitting in it, unable to move. The chairs faced a wall covered in a kind of black sheet, speckled with sparkling white gems that made me think of Zira showing me space on the bridge of the cruise ship.
The scenery seemed to confuse even Zira; he circled the room with a look of puzzlement, his gaze trailing back and forth between the black wall and chairs. I studied his body language, trying to determine the moment when he figured something out so I could ask him what this place was.
But the confusion never left his face, and he slowly walked toward the wall with his visor swirling against the surface. He lifted a hand toward it, lightly brushing the material. It was bumpy, not smooth, judging by the path his fingers took. A residue, like soot, came off the wall and he studied his fingers, rubbing them together.
The more I stared at the wall, the more I began to see patterns. I unfocused my eyes, witnessing blurred, animated spirals. It no longer seemed flat; sections of the wall stood out further than others. The sound of distant whispers filled my ears; carried by a windy roar, like the howling of a storm. I took a few steps forward, as if the sound commanded me closer. The spirals had opened what appeared to be a tunnel, leading into darkness.
Halfway across the room Zira grabbed my arm, snapping me out of whatever trance I’d been in. I looked at him, studying the concern on his face before glancing back at the wall. The spirals and c
ontours were gone. So were the sounds.
“What were you doing?” he asked.
“I… heard something. I saw something.” I pointed to the wall, confused and disoriented.
“What did you see?”
“Patterns. Swirls. I don’t…” I shook my head. “I don’t really know.”
Zira didn’t reply; only looked toward the wall, pulling lightly on my arm in gesture that it was time to leave. I followed him out, paying the room one more look over my shoulder. The image of those chairs would be seared into my mind forever.
*
I’d spent enough time with Zira now to know when he was talking to someone. His face would bleed just a tiny more expression; a flash of a lifted brow or a frown of concern. His eyes would defocus and stare off at nothing. Sometimes he would sneak a look toward me when he thought I wasn’t aware.
The identical rooms with glass boxes, wires and computer panels stopped abruptly after another hallway, opening into a spacious area with tables, food dispensaries (long since emptied), more lockers, more posters, and a staircase that led to a secondary loft-like hallway with sealed doors. Zira said it was a mess-hall, agbitzere, but I’d never heard that term before and for all I knew he was making it up.
There was a kitchen-area, filmed over by dust and mold. It hadn’t been cleaned properly after being used last. It was like the main entrance room; everyone had seemingly dropped what they were doing and left. There were cooking utensils still on the countertops, covered in ancient black grunge. I’d been hungry, but this sight left me nauseous. A wave of sickness followed lightheadedness. I wanted nothing more than to lay down on the floor and sleep.
Zira was pulling open doors surrounding the kitchen awning, casting me a side-look of annoyance. ‘How dare you be tired?’ said his eyes. “Help me look for supplies.”
“I need to change.”
“Fine. Change, then help me look for supplies.”
“This place is dirty,” I said. “Anything here could make us sick.”
“Make you sick, but no,” I heard him open and shut another door, “we’re looking for non-perishables.”
“What are those?”
“Things in cans.”
“Tinned food,” I said, correcting him in Evgani. “Stores.”
“Are you going to change?”
I clicked my tongue and stalked off with my satchel to a shadowy corner for more privacy. When I returned minutes later, Zira was leant against the wall in front of an open door. Dozens of tins and other packaged foodstuffs had spilled from the little closet and scattered around his boots. He was talking to someone again, and didn’t look at me. All he did was nod toward the stores, as if commanding me to sort through them.
In a small act of defiance, I dropped my satchel on the floor and walked toward the lockers. Zira’s burning glare followed me, but he said nothing. He couldn’t—whatever conversation was happening in that swirling visor of his seemed important. With a mischievous grin I rummaged through the lockers, happy to be as far away from that moldy kitchen as possible.
Most of the lockers contained nothing—loose sheets of paper that I couldn’t read, trinkets that held no meaning to me; in one there was an empty cache bag much larger than my satchel. I snatched it, somehow knowing we’d need more supplies this time around. Zira hadn’t told me where we were headed next. Maybe he didn’t know.
He appeared behind me as I set the cache bag on the floor. “Are you keeping that?”
“We can hold all those tins you found.”
Zira frowned at my playful jab. “Traveling light is necessary.”
“It’s not too heavy for you to carry,” I argued. “And with this we’ll have enough for you to eat, too.”
Zira’s expression softened, and he looked away. He seemed uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about me.”
“If something happens to you, I’m next.”
He didn’t reply, but grabbed the bag and tossed it clear across the room. It landed in a crumpled pile next to the spilt cans. Seemed I’d convinced him. As he started on about not wasting any more time, I opened the last locker and gasped.
Displayed behind the rust-thin door was armor. I wasn’t sure exactly what kind, but the perfect state of it was what had made my breath catch in my throat. Everything else in here was dirty and old, yet the armor was like new: thick animal leather, sun-bleached violet, embroidered with stitches at the waist. Metal plates covered the chest, shoulders and legs. Their shine made me squint. There was barely enough light in this place, yet the armor was shining. Impossible.
Zira loomed behind me, looking inside the locker from over my shoulder. His shadow dimmed the armor’s glow. He said nothing at first, and I continued to stare in awe of the locker’s spoils.
“I’ve seen that before,” he murmured after a moment, his tone relaying a bit of confusion. “That’s elite OSC armor. They guarded the System Headquarters on O-1.”
I’d seen it before, too. On the soldier at Jabron port. The design was slightly different, but the colors were the same.
“It… looks fashioned for a girl,” I stammered.
“So it does.”
I looked back at Zira; he was frowning, already knowing what I was about to say.
“No.”
“But—”
“There’s no use for it. It’s just added weight we can’t afford.”
“It could be a disguise.”
I counted ten seconds that Zira stared at me before he said, “Shiny purple armor isn’t much of a disguise, is it? Would you call that blending in?”
“I want it.”
He sighed and massaged his forehead, the visor evaporating like a cloud of smoke around his hand.
“It can be my keepsake from this place,” I pressed.
The frustration on Zira’s face melted. What I’d said was so ridiculous that he actually laughed. The laugh itself was brief, but I was a bit shocked that his stony-face could even hold any humor at all. “A memento, hm?”
His smile was infectious, and I found myself grinning as well. “Yes, so I can always cherish this beautiful vacation that we’re having.”
Zira only shook his head, stalking back toward the kitchen. “I’m too soft with you.”
I reached into the locker for the armor. It was heavier than I thought, and with a twinge of regret I held fast to my pride and dragged the armor out, working hard to keep my breathing steady.
“You’re carrying that, not me,” called Zira from the other side of the dwelling, a clinking sound accompanying his voice indicated that he’d begun piling tinned food into the cache. Before I could respond something clattered to the floor, making me jump. There’d been something else behind the armor, which had fallen loose when I’d grabbed it.
There, at my feet, encased in a sheath of black metal and red crystals, was the largest sword I’d ever seen.
***
ATCA_QRY_09b.G201
Search term: “_communications-hub9 “!”
Ophal System Confederacy Transmission Records
Ophal-II, 136th Cycle
Satellite transmission; language Fevarian, dialect Nara-ko
Unknown, O-REACH Hub-9
OR-Initiative, Mekkal Region
Twelve subjects are prepped and ready for deployment. Synth-5 has proven successful in suppressing the dispersal of contagion while keeping basic cognitive functions stable. Rudimentary commands can be followed, but the suits have to stay on. I repeat, the suits have to stay on. Let us know how many more you need.
There were a lot of things put to light once the right search queries had been applied. A large part of our infamy and success was attica—our neural network database that connected to… well, just about anything with an energy or heat pattern. The old society had fine-tuned our quasi-omniscience in regards to the Multiverse, long before I’d shown up. The True-Nobles, as we called them, of which none remain, had created a legacy specialized to us alone.
Multiversal surveillance
and information-storage. To become a scholar was to acquire the cosmological memoire. We were contracted agents but also librarians, historians and scientists. The qualifications for this type of job were staggering. We held in our neural-databanks the entire history of existence. Anything, past or present, could be traced if we knew how to search for it. And with knowledge, came burdens.
Over the course of a two (or three?) day onslaught of queries, I had discovered the following about our situation:
1) The OSC—to which I was contracted—had conducted immoral experiments involving the Evgani-Svissans from Ophal-III by releasing known-contagions from their mid-lateral forest region. How deep this knowledge went in regards to the natives wasn’t known. It was evidently known by some, as Evgani children trafficked from Jabron for decades wasn’t something that would go unnoticed by an entire population.
2) While the contagion was publicized by the system as a health-emergency and the relocation of infected natives was conducted under the guise of quarantine, ulterior motives were at play. And still are, judging by my current surroundings and circumstances. Transmissions depicted both physical and mental tests conducted by an OSC funded research corporation, O-REACH, on quarantined children in underground laboratory hubs posing as military outposts on Ophal-II. From Pariah’s findings after the REF-2 query tweak, there were at least a dozen other hubs in this region alone. My map looked like a light-show celebration. The hub Laith and I currently occupied had been abandoned 26 years ago. It is unknown if the others are the same.
3) From the meager amount of information gleaned from the hub’s database, the tests performed were to investigate the untapped potential of the contagion’s ability of altering brainwave activity in its hosts. From outgoing transmissions, the contagion’s health hazards had been suppressed and the hosts were deployed elsewhere for an unknown purpose.
I summarized these findings in my thread, seated on the floor with my back to a cold metal wall. Laith sat a little ways from me on my coat (I was going to need a new one by the time this contract was finished), eating tinned food. She chewed slowly, her face a mask of despondence.
Covenants: Elegy (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 8) Page 10
