Dysphoria: Permanence (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 7)

by Terra Whiteman

  “Guh, fuck,” I moaned, unable to focus with her hand working me over. She licked the scratches on my chest, making them sting all over again.

  “Don’t initiate things you can’t handle,” she cooed.

  Oh, I could handle it.

  ***

  Yahweh Telei—;

  The meat was sliced and plated, the drinks distributed, and the tubers steamed in a pot that had just been pulled off the fire. We all sat around our makeshift dinner table using logs and whatever else for seats, staring at the two vacant spots beside Adrial.

  “I thought you said Qaira was coming to dinner?” asked Pariah.

  “He did,” I huffed. “Maybe he and Leid are having a moment.”

  And then a boom came from the ceiling, directly over our table. The thunder caused dust to rain on us, and Aela cursed, covering our food.

  Zira looked up at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. “Yes, they’re definitely having a moment.”

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake,” I muttered, not having meant it like that.

  Adrial reached over the table and grabbed a steaming azgan leg. “We’re not waiting. Let’s eat.”

 

  Please don’t hate me. I’m only doing what is necessary for you, for us. If I could make it easier, I would in a heartbeat.

  You are about to face many hardships; many lies in which you have always known as truths. You will feel things—pain, remorse, loss—that you haven’t felt in so long, and I know. I know it will be awful. But it must be.

  My love, I’m sorry. You must open your eyes. You must open your mind. The universe does not wait for us, and we are running out of time.

  VII

  SYSTEM ERROR

  Regalis Sarine-376—;

  I WAS COLD. THE AIR WAS GONE, and I was suffocating.

  Thrashing, thrashing—something held me down and I couldn’t move.

  Obey, it said. Submit.

  Burn, I seethed, as it chewed me up into a million pieces.

  *

  (System error. Rejuvenation partial incomplete, 83%. Replenishing console detected four errors; consult ENGINEERING immediately.)

  I sat up from the bench, my joints stiff and leaden. Grid warned me that my replenishing cycle was incomplete. I felt…tired, oddly, as I had never felt tired before and it was strange that I could even describe the sensation at all. But I knew it. Tired. Had I ever felt tired before? Maybe.

  There was something else within the white noise of exhaustion. Images flashed in fractions of a second behind my eyes. Burn, I heard someone say.

  Burn.

  Did I have a dream?

  (What was a dream?)

  “Everything alright?” asked Dracian, already perched at his station behind the console. I’d yet to see him stasis.

  I refrained from massaging my head and made sure to keep the grimace from my lips. He had noticed my discomfort. “The replenishing cycle didn’t complete. Has this happened to you before?”

  The concern on his face turned to something else; something darker. “No.”

  “Grid says my stasis console is broken. I have to go to Engineering.”

  Dracian frowned, then turned back to the cast. “Can it wait? We have a full day.”

  “A full day of what?”

  “Work.” He cast a map of Eversae Major across the console screen, zooming large enough so that I could see it from the stasis bench. “I’ve been able to code an algorithm attuned to the Vel’Haru obelisks scattered across the Multiverse. By tracing fluctuations in their resonance, I have programmed Grid to alert us whenever one is used.”

  Eversae Major. Sim-2.

  I sat up straight; now he had my full attention. So that was what he’d been working on tirelessly for days on end. “And?”

  A beacon flashed from a spiral galaxy, within a six-world system. “The coordinates of the obelisk relay its location as The Atrium, Aledon, Caro II. It was used recently.”

  “Is that where they’re hiding?”

  Dracian shook his head. “No, probably not. It was used twice in a short period of time. Entry and departure.”

  They’d visited there.

  The Atrium. Why did that sound familiar? Oh, right.

  “Qaira’s lineage code was traced to that world,” I said. “The Vel’Haru are an aegis race; they recruit and transform other individuals extramurally.”

  Dracian considered this, intrigued. “They must have an alliance with them. No, not just them. All the worlds at which these obelisks are stationed.”

  I assumed my position at the grid console station. “Have you determined how many there are?”

  “Not yet, but I’m going to bet there are hundreds. Thousands, maybe. That book you’ve been translating alludes to them providing services to countless worlds.”

  “A protectorate.”

  Dracian’s eyes flicked to me, a smile playing on his lips. “Like us.”

  Like us.

  Something stirred in my chest. A flutter—excitement? “Should we pay The Atrium a visit?”

  “No,” said Dracian, his smile fading. “I’d rather not disturb the local wildlife if we don’t have to. I also have something else to show you.” He left his station, pausing midway through the act. “Unless you need to go to Engineering?”

  Well of course I wasn’t going to Engineering now, not after he’d dropped such a volatile bomb. “It can wait. Are we leaving the aperture?”

  “You said you wanted to know more about the Story of the Twelve, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  *

  Ash’kanir; our central shrine in the Aphos Nebula.

  Shrine was a loose term, one that I used because it certainly felt that way. On a moon rotating a world with a halogen sun, it was the only tangible place in the physical plane where midcivs—if they were advanced enough—could interact with Framers for commercial and political gain. There was a lot of worshipping involved (hence shrine) in a way that they would shower us with praise and bribes if we could spare our attention to whatever conflict/ailing/architectural concept they presented us.

  I’d only been here once before, so long ago that I couldn’t remember why. Regals of systems didn’t normally partake in Alpha-Insipian cross-civ delegations. I could only wonder why an Inspector would either.

  Dracian looked grossly out of place amid the more flamboyant, deific Framers in carapaces of lower-civ cultures, some dressed as the literal representations of their various spiritual idols. That was their role. Eye-candy for the diplomats and entrepreneurs, to make deals and receive proposals to take back to Teleram. Even with the modifications done on my generic carapace, I felt a bit self-conscious with my lack of flashiness and turned on my butterfly cloud.

  My partner noticed my discomfort and let out a slight laugh with an intake of air. He took my hand and gently guided me through Ash’kinar’s core gallery, weaving through crowds of midcivs and Framers alike. Many of the midcivvers paid us no mind, but almost every Framer whose attention we caught took more than a second look at us. They had no idea what we were doing here; neither did I.

  We passed a vector gateway for some kind of social gathering area, another which held an auditorium for presentations. I read each placard with apprehension. Columns of sparkling stone rose to the dome ceiling of the hall, a skylight showing a panoramic view of numerous constellations. Violet-midnight colored vines writhed along the walls, as if feeding off the energy of the crowd, their white flowers winking open and closed at steady intervals.

  “Drace, what—?”

  “We’re almost there,” he assured me. “Stay close.”

  At the north side of the gallery, the crowds began to thin. Varying worlds’ robotics were displayed in silica cases—primitive to my eyes, groundbreaking to theirs, surely—and giant skeletons of long-since extinct creatures hung from the ceiling. Some of them were from worlds long extinct as well. They, too, were wrapped in winking flower vines. I marveled at the rapid change of scener
y, having not seen this area of Ash’kinar before. Was it new?

  “This is the nebula depository,” said Dracian, sensing my confusion. “A modest attempt by the Ash’kinar collective to preserve the history of the Halon Unions.”

  “It’s… lovely.”

  Dracian tilted his head, as if having never considered that description. “If you say so.”

  We stopped in front of a vector gate bordered by scintillating red luminescence. The placard above it read APHORIC ENGINES. The code surrounding the gate was attuned only to our resonance. None of the midcivvers could access this vector. Odd for such a restricted area to be presented in a place as public as the Ash’kinar Gallery.

  With only a second’s pause Dracian released my hand. I hadn’t realized he’d held on so long until the warmth of him was gone. I looked down at him, and he up at me. Dracian gave me a youthful smile, one that was very different than his usual. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Although I still could not grasp exactly what I should be ready for.

  *

  The gate led to an open area where the air smelled stale and abandoned. Not at all what I was expecting; places reserved only for us were usually odorless. Even the décor reeked of midciv dwelling, with fabric furnishings designed by ancient, long-buried engineers who’d never known any better. It’d been ages since I had stood on anything other than solid stone or vector-silica, and so when my feet sank into the soft pads beneath us, I looked down in half-disgust, half-wonder.

  Beyond us were stations of marble and clear synth-silica; holographic images of instruments and other gadgets rotated slowly underneath illuminated digital placards. Atop the marble stations were cylindrical cases containing mechanical relics and other novelties. There were only a handful of other guests within the expansive walls of the depository. We might as well have been alone.

  Again, I was confused. It was beginning to feel like Dracian was trying to keep me in a permanent state of confusion.

  But if this was his intention, he didn’t make it obvious. Instead he peered across the depository with a somber gaze. “These are all Novitiate artifacts,” he said, eyes never leaving their post across the room.

  “How were they recovered?” I asked, surprised by the sheer number. “I thought that galaxy was destroyed when we were shattered.”

  Dracian shrugged; a casual response to a weighted question. “No one remembers. Convenient, isn’t it? The Innovators’ theory is that they were keepsakes taken on the voyage after our shattering. Some of them are only fractal memories—holograms, as you can see.” He waved a hand. “None that we still carry, but the Feelers were programmed to generate them.”

  “Does that mean the Feelers know more than us?” Remember more than us?

  Dracian said nothing, the whimsy on his face melting away. “There’s one contraption I want to show you.”

  I followed him across the depository, eyeing flashing gadgets and holograms in passing. There were cogs, circuit-boards, a jara crystal that we’d hybridized to form our razor-cages, and…

  We stopped in front of a jagged piece of metal and stone enclosed behind a bell of synth-silica. At first I thought it was some kind of weapon—a knife, maybe—but then I took a closer look and realized it was much too small to be that. The device was the length of my smallest finger, a blend of white crystalline shards and metal screws. And then there was a violent thud in my chest as cognizance brought me to the conclusion that this was—

  “The athanasian shard,” announced Dracian, on cue. “The first of its kind.”

  I marveled at the crudeness of the engineering, as our versions were much more pristine. Smaller, too. “The Novitiates designed this?”

  “Yes. It’s how they first developed neurotransference shattering. The ones we carry here,” he placed a hand on the center of his chest for emphasis, “is very different than the prototype design. If I recall correctly, those were inserted into our heads.”

  I was amazed that he could recall at all. How did he know so much?

  As if reading my thoughts, Dracian smiled guiltily. “Etann and I spent a lot of time discussing our lore, remember.”

  “While I’m impressed with your knowledge, I don’t see why you would need any of it.”

  Dracian looked back at the primitive athanasian shard. “Sometimes our roles don’t fill the void.”

  I blinked, having never heard of a Framer with a hobby. That meant we weren’t kept busy enough. But then I, too, looked back at the shard with a sense of yearning. I couldn’t deny the intrigue that our history had surfaced in me. “Why the head?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” said Dracian. “I don’t think we had cycles yet.”

  The athanasian shard was the material imbedded into our carapaces. It alone held the ability to attune to the basewave and integrate our conscious streams to Grid. “How was it discovered?”

  “The Novitiates found it on some world,” he said, crinkling his nose. “I don’t remember which Etann said. I don’t even know if he told me. All I know is that we can’t make it; we’ve tried to synthetically produce athanasian shards and it’s gone horribly wrong every time.”

  “So where are we getting it now?”

  Dracian looked up at me with a lofty grin. “Good question. Apparently none of us are required to know, not even the Innovators. In fact, when I asked Etann the same question he practically shut down and told me not to ever ask that again.”

  “Maybe he does know, then.”

  “No.” Dracian shook his head. “But I think he knows that’s a dangerous question to ask, maybe from experience.”

  I fell silent, pondering on that for a while. “It must have been painful,” I said, finally.

  “Hmm?” responded Dracian, having been lost in his own train of thought.

  “The shard; in your head.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Inspector?” called a voice from behind us.

  We turned simultaneously to see a Framer in a female carapace approaching us. Her smile was one of confusion, with a hint of surprise. Grid told me her name was Regan-297, a Halon I scripter from Engineering. She, like the other Framers I’d seen at the Teleram Gallery, was adorned in a red suit with gold skin paint. Her hair was tied into two knots on both sides of her head, anchoring threads of beaded jewels. Her carapace appeared young. Not as young as Dracian, but still young.

  Dracian wore the same look at first—confusion—but the surprise was substituted with a moment’s flick of a frown. That of course was quickly followed by a smile, but it was clear (to me, at least) that he was not happy to see the scripter. “Hello, Regan.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her expression relaying curiosity instead of suspicion. Her eyes wandered to me for just a moment.

  “Educating my partner in the Story of the Twelve,” he said. And that was it. Nothing else.

  Regan tilted her head, looking at the athanasian shard behind the bell-shaped case. “I didn’t realize you were working the Breach, too. Careful you don’t take on too many investigations at once.”

  I looked to Dracian in question. He only kept smiling at Regan. “I’m a talented multitasker.”

  “That you are. Have they found anything out about your severed Feeler?”

  Another brief frown. “Not yet. It’s still ongoing.” Before Regan could say any more, Dracian added, “We’re dealing with a time-sensitive matter, I apologize.”

  Regan’s smile iced over, but she did well to keep it alive. “Of course. Sorry to have interrupted you.”

  And with that, she receded to another aisle, looking back once before rejoining a group of engineers at a gear-oriented machine on display. It wasn’t long after that when Dracian cast me an uncomfortable look and concluded our trip prematurely.

  *

  I’d been excited for more discussion about the Novitiate athanasian relic when we returned to Dracian’s aperture, but he fell into a withdrawn, quiet state and worked on the Vel�
�Haru obelisk-portal mapping instead. I occupied myself with more book translations, reading over what Grid had already completed. However thoughts of the shard crept from the back of my mind, along with the scripter and her mentionings of a severed Feeler.

  I’d never heard of this term before. Severed.

  It was obvious Dracian wanted to avoid the topic, but I didn’t care. “What did Regan mean?”

  He didn’t respond for a moment, although I knew he’d heard me. “About what?”

  “The severed Feeler. Your severed Feeler. What does that mean?”

  Dracian sighed. “One of the Feelers assigned to Inspection fell into a vegetative state, right before I started working on the Breach.”

  “Vegetative state?”

  “Unresponsive. Won’t comply with commands. It was taken to Engineering. Last I heard, Innovation was investigating the matter,” he said.

  “Has this ever happened before?” Because I certainly hadn’t heard of it.

  “No, which is why the investigation is confidential. The last thing Teleram needs is controversy and gossip.”

  Which is also why he had shut down when Regan asked him about it. He was avoiding the topic like I had avoided intrusive questions regarding my ‘true death’. I could empathize, to a degree.

  Grid notified me of a ping from Adon. He asked me to report to Authority at once. Dracian did not receive a ping, so I took that to mean they wanted to see me alone. I could only wonder why. Our briefing wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow.

  I told Dracian I would be back shortly. He only nodded, attention kept to his grid map, quiet and solemn as ever.

  *

  I accepted Adon’s aperture invite, but the coordinates shown wasn’t an Authority vector. It was in Control. I’d never been to Control.