“He’s gone isn’t he?” Malthus muttered, the color utterly drained from his face. Indeed, the contrast between Gavin’s glowing countenance and Malthus’ pale one could not have been greater. Malthus stood there staring at Gavin for the longest time, as if he no longer recognized him.
Raif and Von arrived, embracing Sierra and Adan excitedly, but when they noticed the solemn air which had settled over the group their excitement evaporated and their smiles were replaced by puzzled looks.
“Who is this?” Raif whispered.
“Someone who’s lost,” was all Adan had the heart to reply. For he could feel what Malthus felt at that moment and it was the exact opposite of all the joy Adan had experienced the moment before. It was a sadness that no joy in the world could ever fill because Malthus’s world was too overcome by pain and loss to allow any other emotion to enter.
Malthus slipped a segmented black band off his wrist and handed it to Gavin. As he did so, the flickering sheen around him vanished for good.
“Here,” he said. “I won’t be needing this anymore.”
“No, Malthus,” Gavin pleaded. “You don’t have to give up. You can come with us. You can leave the Collective. You can start a new life.”
But the vacant look in Malthus’ eyes made it clear he gave no thought to Gavin’s words.
“Thank you,” Malthus told Gavin, placing a hand on his shoulder. “For helping an old man die in peace.”
“No, Malthus, don’t—” Gavin said, reaching out for his hand. But Malthus raised it in a rapid salute. Then the assessor stepped backwards and vanished into the broad opening in the cargo bay floor. Gavin stretched out, but grasped only empty air. From the edge of the wide hole, Malthus’ body could be seen plummeting into the glowing morass below. It buried itself in the sprawling sea of neophosphorous and was gone within a matter of moments.
“I wish…” Gavin began, but he could not finish. And though his mind clouded over, Adan saw what he had meant to say: I wish the truth were not so hard to take.
“We’ve got to get the praxis out of this cavern.”
The thought was Von’s. And though everyone present was still in shock, they realized that now was not the time to try and process what they had just seen.
“Right,” Raif replied, “let’s get to the control room.”
Everyone marched off after Raif and Von, but Adan and Gavin took a short detour and passed through one of the ship’s decontamination chambers so that they could get the neophosphorous residue removed from their skin.
A chalky mist settled in around them, filling the translucent chamber. In a matter of moments, their skin and clothes had been cleansed of any trace of neophosphorous. Then they hurried on to the control room, but Gavin did not go as quickly as he might have and Adan sensed the weight of Malthus’ death laying heavy upon him.
Just as they arrived, Adan caught sight of two Sentients sealing Nox’s body in a black bag. The unexpected sight made Adan stop where he was.
Despite the cruel way in which the Wayman had spent his life, Adan took no pleasure in his death. Though Nox had never given any indication that he might somehow change his ways, Adan wanted to believe that if he had been given more time, he might have chosen a different path. When Adan asked Sierra what he was doing there, she gave him a brief summary of what had happened. Sadly, it seemed that Nox had died the same way he had lived: cruelly, and violently.
Adan sat down next to Sierra on the ramp, leaning against the railing. She had bandages on her legs, and her feet were wrapped up in a gauze-like material. He knew she had been treated with almamenth, but he was still worried about her.
His own injuries, even his bruised ribs, once again appeared to be mysteriously mending themselves. Though he had not yet completely healed, he knew from his bioseine that he was not in any serious danger. Once again, this realization troubled him and he wondered if he would ever learn what was going on inside of him. For now, he shifted his concerns to the helm of the ship where Raif stood scrutinizing the viewing screen.
Guided by Raif at the steering column, the praxis navigated its way through the spilling falls of neophosphorous and cascading rocks. By now the cavern was so completely consumed by the eruptions there was barely any sign left of the military complex which had once occupied its entirety. The landscape was one bright, churning blanket of bluish ooze sprinkled with showers of rock.
As they approached the exit tunnel, the opening shuddered as if daring them to enter. But it was the only exit large enough for them to fit through. Von operated the auxiliary controls and retracted the wings so that the ship would be able to navigate the narrow passageway. A moment later they plunged through the curtain of sludge and debris covering the tunnel, giving the ship a glowing bath.
Inside, the praxis increased in speed and, while it was only a marginal change, it seemed to Adan to be moving dangerously fast through such tight quarters.
“Is it safe to be going at this speed?” Adan asked Raif.
“Von just gave me a glimpse at our backside and it looks like the neophosphorous is rising quicker than before. This ship can handle a lot, but I don’t want to plow through any more shiny goop than we have to. It might ruin her paint job.”
The tunnels rushed by as the ship rose ever upwards through the Viscera. Von kept a view of the tunnel behind them in one section of the screen. They soon distanced themselves from the morass which had consumed Manx Core. Eventually, the tremors lessened as well, becoming quieter and less frequent as they ascended, until they disappeared altogether.
Once the danger had passed, Adan and Sierra settled in and shared their memories of everything that had happened since they’d been separated. Of all the struggles Sierra had gone through, the one that was the most difficult for Adan to face was the death of Zain. As Adan experienced the memory of his passing, he felt something break inside of him, as if the world no longer made as much sense as it had before.
“He gave his life for me,” Sierra said.
“He saved my life many times, too.” Tears rushed down Adan’s face. Zain, why did it have to be Zain? “I don’t think I ever met a truer friend.”
Sierra grew even more thoughtful. “Something about the way he died struck me, though. As terrible as it was to watch, somehow I thought to myself afterwards that this is how a man is supposed to die.”
“It’s hard watching someone you care about die,” Adan said, his thoughts turning to Will. The two men could not have been more different, but their deaths both gripped him with the same sort of despair. Why was it that men had to die? All the answers seemed to run away from him, carried out through his tears and onto the floor.
“I’ve seen many people die,” Sierra said. “But it never hurt like this.”
Adan swallowed his tears, wincing at the bitter taste. “Sometimes I think it would be better not to know certain things,” he said, glancing over to where Gavin sat in the corner of the room. He had disconnected his mind from the others, but Adan could sense the hollow emptiness he felt. There are different kinds of grief, just like there are different kinds of fear, but the response is the same—it makes you want to run away.
“Adan, there was something you said before we were separated in the tunnel,” Sierra put in gently. Adan sensed a quiet intensity in her words, a tenderness in the midst of sorrow. He turned and regarded her, looking her earnestly in the eye, forgetting for a moment his grief. “You said, ‘I want you to know something.’ What was it you were going to tell me?”
He recalled that moment in the tunnel, living it once again with his memorant mind. He realized that he probably would not have been able to articulate what he was thinking then, even if their conversation hadn’t been cut short. But now, in the face of Zain’s death and his separation from Sierra, he had no doubt about what he wanted to say.
“Just this: I want to protect you, Sierra. I don’t even know that I can or that you would want me to, but I would like to be there for you in whatever trou
bles lay ahead. I’ve lost two people I cared about already. I don’t want to lose you as well. You matter more to me than anything in this world.”
She placed her hand in his. All was quiet in that moment save the gentle background hum of the ship’s engines. “I feel the same way.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.
Adan closed his eyes and shed one last tear. He couldn’t say why, but his grief and happiness were one and the same in that moment. Treachery, triumph, sorrow, friendship, he had experienced so much in the short part of his life which he could remember. But he needed to know that there were times when the curtain was rolled back and he could see the truth, see what really mattered in life. And somehow Sierra had just given him that.
She brushed the hair from her face, looking up at him with wide, clear eyes.
He would never forget this moment, he promised himself. And as a memorant, he felt certain that was one promise he could definitely keep.
Dedicated to the Yip family. Thank you for your endless encouragement and support.
S.D.G.
The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
Bring us farther from God and nearer to the Dust.
— T.S. Eliot, Choruses from the Rock
One
Quid Pro Quo
An emaciated man clawed his way up the long gray dune, his tattered coat barely shielding him from the incessant winds. The gusts pounded his paper dry skin, the withering rhythm sounding over and over like hammer strokes striking nails into the lid of his coffin. His death was all but certain, but that was not his chief concern. It was the utter failure of his perfectly crafted plans which gnawed at his soul, eating away what little dignity he had left. Once the master of all he surveyed, he was now made to wander the world alone like some dim-witted beast, and the wind—oh, that cursed wind! It was the reminder of everything that had been his undoing.
Tufts of wispy hair whipped across his face, like the veil inside his mind which kept him from seeing a way out of his torment. How had this happened? How had it come to this? He had lost so much. To him who is given much, much is taken away. He yanked on his hair as hard as he could, attempting to tear the curtain asunder and reveal the answers he sought. The indignant strands, insubstantial as they were, refused to come loose from his skull.
The moment he gave up and let go, the wind blasted him full in the face and sent his hair flying in all directions. His vision returned just as a small chunk of debris smacked him full in the forehead. He felt no pain, but flashes of light dotted his vision. The light jarred something in his memory.
“The shining one,” he babbled to himself. “Yes, that is who did this to me…I must be rid of him. But how? His hand is long if he can reach high enough to cast me down from my great throne. What was it they said of him—ah, yes, ‘none may look on him and live.’ Oh yes, he is terrible indeed. If he wished it, he could snuff out my life with a thought. And yet I must defy him if I am ever to be free of this curse.” He raised his eyes to the blazing green expanse above. It roiled threateningly, like water about to boil. He thrust his fist at the skies defiantly. “You followed me here. Yes, you have persecuted me from the beginning. You clothe yourself in light, but your heart is a pit of darkness. Whole worlds you have consumed in that black hole. You promise everything, but all you do is consume. Consume and devour.”
Hunger stabbed at his insides again like some rough creature struggling to claw its way out. He fell to his knees and scratched at the sand with his gnarled hands, rooting around for something to eat. When was the last time he’d had anything? He could not remember.
“When will the torment end? How long must I pay for my sins?” he cried out, his voice echoing across the endless waves of sand. There was no answer. Just that infernal wind.
He gnashed his teeth and raked his ragged nails across his skull, dislodging the scabs that had barely begun to heal. For the thousandth time he contemplated ending his life, but no, he could not let that happen, not until he had exacted his vengeance upon those who had wronged him.
“Why does he not just kill me and get it over with?” he wondered aloud, beating against the ground. Each blow shot sand into his face. He spit and cursed and babbled on until at last his tantrum ran its course and he collapsed into the dust. Dizziness washed over him and the world faded. Where was he, again? Who was he?
At last he heard a voice which came to him upon the wind.
Long you have known of me, and known my will, but you did not listen. You followed the darkness as if it were light. You preferred to go your own way. And now see where your path has taken you. You have lost that upon which all your confidence was placed. And so shall you wander until my will is accomplished. For even when you defy me, you shall find that you serve me all the same.
The madman looked up, trying to find the source of the voice, but there was nothing. He was alone as always. So utterly alone. No, wait. Something shimmered into view before him. A glint caught his eye up ahead. It was something metallic. As he scrambled towards it, he realized that it was nothing more than an old piece of scrap, abandoned and useless like himself. Everywhere he looked he saw more bits and pieces like the first one. He was reminded how careless his enemies were with their creations, casting them aside when they no longer served their purposes.
But it reminded him of something else, too, something also made of metal which he had once possessed. A wave of terror rose up inside of him, a numbing shadow which slipped inside his coat and crawled along his skin. In his memory this…thing, this metallic monstrosity was the proof that what all the voices said were true. He was indeed a murderer and a villain, his heart blacker than any shadow. Worst of all, the apparition shocked loose another memory and he recalled the monster’s name—Nebula. This was the instrument of his destruction, the weight which hung about his neck, carrying all his guilt, pulling him down to death.
At that moment he might have given up hope of ever escaping the judgment which loomed over him had it not been for another memory.
“But I destroyed it. Yes, after the blood was spilled, I vowed to end my study of war. I became a man of peace. Yes! I repented, changed my ways. The Shining One has no evidence, no proof. He has no means to convict me. The Nebula was shattered. I am free. I am free!”
He grabbed handfuls of sand and flung them into the air. The grains rained down around him like confetti in his own private parade. His pain and hunger vanished. He leapt in the air, shouting for joy.
“No more shame. No more guilt. No more sorrow. The Nebula is buried in her sandy grave. She went down into the pit and will never rise again. She went down and she shall never be raised, never be raised, never be raised…” he went on chanting that last phrase as he jigged across the desert, a new man.
But in the midst of his celebration, his foot slipped on a piece of metal and he fell, crashing to the ground. As he lay there, the voice came back to him in answer.
Cast your eyes to the horizon. There you shall see the monster rising, rising up from its grave, a silvery resurrection and a monument to your condemnation. For they are building it again, restoring what you thought forever destroyed.
“No,” the madman shot back in response, though he knew denial would win him nothing.
You cannot escape your sentence of death. See. Look how it rises again.
And then he saw it, the met
al ventricles and alloyed veins stretched out before him in a vision which brought back with it the pounding inside his head.
“No!” he screamed. “They are rebuilding it once more. And when it is finished they will mount the leviathan and turn it loose upon me, its former master. This cannot be. I will not allow it. My claws and fangs have some sharpness yet. I destroyed it once, I can destroy it again. I am a murderer after all. Best to run headlong into judgment if one cannot escape it. And in so doing I will bring down judgment upon the heads of my enemies, those who are slaves to his will. This time no one shall escape the wrath to come.”
Strength infused his wiry frame from some wild, primeval reservoir. The very wind seemed to lift him back to his feet and push him forward. He had to stop them from finishing it or if not, then master the beast himself before they could seize control of it. Rage coursed through him. His feet pummeled the sand with each staggering step. He would find the monster and he would slay it again, for good this time, and all of his old enemies along with it. If oblivion was to come, then it would come by his hand and none other.
The praxis cruiser hovered above the crumbling remains of Oasis, a dark blue star over an even darker city. Mangled ribbons of metal lay trembling amidst three open gashes that cut through the heart of the metropolis, trenches that had opened up from the quakes which destroyed Manx Core, the underground military complex of the Collective.
Adan stood in the praxis’ Command Center with several of the ship’s crew and watched Von’s lancer approach through the wide viewing screen. He still found it hard to believe they possessed this massive battleship. The Maven wasn’t fast, it wasn’t streamlined, and it wasn’t even a very new design; the logs said the ship was over twenty years old, but what it lacked in spit and sparkle, it made up for by being nigh impossible to destroy.
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