Randall came over to me and rubbed my lower back. He chuckled again, then said, “None too bad. Yes yes. None too bad at all. Stand up now. Here they come.”
Even though Randall was small, he was running the simulation. He set the rules, but he didn’t have to live by them. Things like weight and size were a non-issue. He slid his small, muscular arms under my armpits and hefted, and with his help, I stood.
“I knew you’d make it,” I said as they approached, leaning a hand on Randall’s head, trying to act casual. But my voice was throaty and weak, and I must have started to fall again, because the next thing I knew, Rowsemn was at my side, holding me up.
Saiara reached up to my nose, touching her fingers to my nostrils. An instant later, I felt pure, clean air flowing into my body.
“Open your mouth,” she said.
I obliged, and she placed a small disc on my tongue, round and smooth and smaller than her palm. It dissolved in my mouth. My dizziness started to fade. I stood up straight, staring at her, impressed.
There was the hint of a smile on her lips, but she maintained her modest professionalism. “Nanoparticle filters,” she said. “They’ve expanded to fill the cavities of your nose and throat.” Her tone was matter of fact, as if what she had accomplished was a simple feat.
I filled my lungs again and let out a great, booming bellow of joy.
We had done it.
We all turned to Viziadrumon, smiling, expectant.
He tilted his head slightly, looking back at us. “Your approach was somewhat unorthodox,” he said.
“Yes yes,” Randall said. “Different thinking. Right results though.”
Vizia smiled and nodded. “Welcome to the academy, cadets.”
Then he and Randall were gone, and we were awake, each of us sitting in one of the countless field basins at the Academy, back on Forsara.
12 The Academy
History became a core aspect of our training right from the beginning, gleaning lessons from lives past. The sprawling academy was embedded into the Lantis mountain range, campus buildings forming the giant steps we saw when we first arrived to Manderley in Darpausha’s orbital hopper.
The archives were buried beneath Mount Sebedas, the highest peak in the range. The Library of Sebedas. A massive data center, always buzzing with activity, but lit in warm yellows and ambers, with soothing ambient tones piped in through the overcom. A perfect space for introspection, reflection, and study.
Gauldrumon, the library steward, was a genial fellow, but he was also fastidious. New students made him nervous. “Sebedas,” he intoned when we first met. “A scion of Eledar. He understood that we are nothing without our past. These archives would not exist without his vision, and we have sacrificed much to sustain that vision over the millennia. We stand here on the shoulders of the greatest minds who came before us.”
He leaned close to me as he said this, scrutinizing me with his sharp, dark eyes, wrinkled at the edges with the weight of years spent poring over the old histories. “Which brings me to my first and most important question. Do you like to read?”
He asked the question with such seriousness that I almost laughed. But I knew this library was his life. “I come to these hallowed halls with the greatest respect, drumon Gaul,” I said. “I spent the bulk of my childhood ensconced in our archives.”
“You had no brothers or sisters to play with? Or peers?”
“No. It was just me and my parents. A lot of the other kids… I was too strange for them. I was happiest whenever I found old stories to read. I always liked the stories the best.”
He nodded, curt and precise, and said, “I think I have just the lesson for you.” He turned, walking away from me, gesturing for me to follow. As we traversed the amber corridors, I imagined that I was wandering the pathways of his mind, an ancient labyrinth of forgotten knowledge and old legends, waiting for a witness.
We came to a crystal case. Inside of it was a thick sheaf of papers, bound together with a leather cord. Cryptic markings covered the paper.
“Is that… a book?” I asked with quiet awe.
“A very old book,” Gaul said, “and a very special one.”
I’d never seen a real book before. The moment felt almost sacred.
“Ancient printed texts like these,” he told me, “are preserved in a nanite solution. The machines consume and expunge all oxygen, preserving the book while simultaneously projecting a precise digital recreation of its contents into the field.”
He let me linger on the open pages for a moment, staring at the ancient language. Then he led me to a nearby field basin. The cocoon was just big enough for my massive frame. I grunted as I adjusted into the seat. He stood outside, waiting as I climbed in, patient and impassive.
Finally, I settled. He peered in at me. “How many hard decisions have been made, do you think, in the name of survival?” he asked. “In the name of progress?”
“I don’t know, drumon.”
“Of course you don’t. No one does. Our ancestors have sacrificed more than any of us can ever know. It’s easy to look backwards through the lens of this imperfect knowing and think we could have done better.
“But these gifts of knowledge have been given to us at great cost, and the only way we can truly build on what came before us is to learn from it. People speak of the gift of farsight as if it is something mystical, but the truth is that farsight is the fruit of clear hindsight.
“You must square yourself with stories like these, Oren. They are a part of our legacy. We forget them at our own peril.”
“I understand, drumon,” I said.
“No, young man. No you do not.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”
He stepped away and the door to the field basin slid shut.
* * *
Sitting back in the enclosed field chamber, I could plug in and absorb knowledge, the translated information passing into me like liquid through a sieve. The book was called Shugguth’s Curse, written in an ancient dialect native to the rugged highlands of Rosemel. Found in the tombs of a long-abandoned cloister on an isolated island in the fjords of Rist, it had been preserved in a stone coffer that also held the mummified remains of the woman who was presumed to be the spiritual leader of that forgotten religious community. We knew nothing else of the monastic order that built their secluded cloister on that fog-shrouded isle, except that the woman had been dead for almost a thousand years, and based on molecular signatures, the book was equally ancient.
But the histories it told were even older. More than twelve millennia old, which meant that the order had deep roots, and its monks had been devoted enough to protect the contents of the book across countless generations. They must have written fresh copies out by hand as the preceding versions faded and crumbled. The original pages were lost to time, but the monks gave their lives to ensure that the wisdom inside was not.
The book told of the second dark age of Forsara, when Shugguth immolated Gye, the Forsaran moon. Shugguth was not a red star then. It was bigger and bright orange. Then it swelled, belching out solar flares of unprecedented ferocity. The fires of Shugguth sintered the once-fertile moon of Gye, searing away its atmosphere, its mineral-dense mantle liquefying in the heat, then congealing in the cold vacuum left behind. The moon is called Cinis now. It still circles Forsara, barren and sterile, an iron cold reminder of the power of the stars.
Forsara itself fared better, but the flares still ravaged life on the already warming planet, causing massive amounts of disturbance and destruction on the planetary surface. Famine spread, scattering people to the highlands, away from the scorching equatorial heat. Many lives were lost, and even the mightiest cities were abandoned. Those who were left retreated deep beneath the mountains to escape the radiation and weather the catastrophe. Shugguth’s anger had stunted civilization, wiping out the early efforts of a world in the midst of unlocking the powers of the atom.
In time, the sun’s ferocity dwindled, the flares cooling and shri
nking. The great tectonic shifts that had been amplified by the sun’s aggression evened themselves out. As the impact of the flares receded and the planet stabilized, people began again, returning to the surface.
Tribes formed, ranging out across the mountains, building life on the fragments of old technology and repurposed myths, new ideas emerging from the old. For many generations, the suns were worshipped and feared, givers of light in the darkness. Life flowed back into the lands.
As I swam through this history, soaking it in, I came upon the story of a great seer who had emerged from the Nooroun desert; a desert that many people had thought was impenetrable. She spoke of the ways before the fall, now forgotten, when all people of the planet were joined as one, a unified spirit that had lived on the frontier of knowledge and method. The bones of that world could still be found crumbling in the vast desert, where the ruins of the city of Noo drowned beneath the sand.
This seer had been to the ruins. She had studied everything of the Nooroun that could still be salvaged. As evidence, she carried fragments of Nooroun magics, items that shone like silver in the darkness. And using simple parchment and coal, she had made tracings of the stonework symbols that had not yet been scoured clean by the relentless desert wind, pictures of men with wings and a woman with a third eye on her forehead. Even in ruins, she said, the cracked minarets and splintered obelisks were proof that the people of Forsara had once been capable of greatness.
Her name was Yaohanath. She was eventually murdered by the patriarchs of the greater tribes, who called her blasphemer, but not before she had amassed a powerful following. Her death only strengthened her message, accelerating the collapse of the tribal autocrats, and, ultimately, leading our ancient ancestors back to a unified path; a path that would split the atom, map the genome, and harness the power of the twin suns.
A path to the stars.
Centuries later, Eledar, who some claimed was a direct descendant of Yaohanath, followed that path and founded the Fellowship. Using the collective knowledge of humanity, he and his disciples architected a new vision for the future. The Scions of Eledar cultivated that vision to fruition. Now the Fellowship connects the links in an evolving chain of humanity stretching out across the galaxy.
* * *
“Hey, Siris,” Rowsemn said as I sat down next to him.
“Doba,” I replied, pinwheeling the monitor attached to my chair off to the side to make room for my long legs.
We were sitting in a lecture hall filled with over three hundred other first-years, waiting for drumon Petra to arrive. She was perpetually late, and we all knew we had time to kill. Some people were chatting in pairs or small groups. Others were hunched over their monitors. As my eyes flitted across different screens, I glimpsed an advanced angular theorem, a realstream newsfeed, an abstract of different shapes flowing and morphing together, and a seven-person video chat.
One cadet had a simglass covering her eyes. She might have been piloting an orbital satellite or merely playing a mindless puzzle game. There was no way to know. Her fingers danced and flicked as she navigated the simulation, light from the interior of the visor illuminating her cheeks and forehead.
“Did Gauldrumon show you Shugguth’s Curse yet?” Rowsemn asked, nudging my elbow.
“Yes, actually,” I said, bringing my attention back to him. “That was the first lesson he gave me.”
Rowsemn ran his long fingers through his tangled hair. “Unreal, right? I mean, can you imagine living in a time like that? Makes me appreciate how good we have it. I actually heard that they’re building a simulation that will let you play as someone who lived during the curse. I’d love to try that.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“A private partnership of game designers and virtualists. I’m sure they’ll make a killing on the galactic net once it’s released.”
“Maybe. But if they release it as recreational content, it means they’ll have to pander. Figure out how to make it rewarding and fun. No one wants a game sim that’s essentially an interminable litany of hardships.”
“Not unless your name is Saiara Yta,” he said with a laugh. “I swear, that woman loves to push the limits.”
“That she does.” The thought of her made me smile. “She sends her regards, by the way.”
“I heard she snagged a coveted spot as one of Viziadrumon’s apprentices.”
“You heard right.”
“I’m jealous. She always gets the best assignments. Who knew that Vizia would turn out to be so popular? I was totally intimidated by him during our qualifiers.”
“Me too. But that’s why he is such a great teacher. He doesn’t hold back.”
“Speaking of teachers.” He looked towards the front of the room.
Petra came bustling in. She set down a mug of steaming liquid, splashing some on the surface of the classroom podium. One of her lapels had a dark stain, no doubt from an earlier spill. She looked up at the class with wide, charcoal eyes, like she was surprised to find us all here.
“I always thought the cliché about the daydreaming drumon was something of a myth until we met her,” Row whispered to me.
“Every cliché is born from some kernel of truth… or so the cliché goes,” I said.
Row gave me an ironic smile.
A moment later, Thurston came floating into the room behind Petra. People often claim that, given enough time, a person and her familiar will start to act alike. I have never seen a truer example of that than Petra and Thurston. The mobile intelligence hovered near Petra’s head, and as she stood to address the class, she stepped back and bumped right into him. The orb let out a chirrup of surprise.
She made an exasperated noise and swatted at him. “Please stop crowding me, bubble brain,” she said with the kind of habitual impatience so often reserved for those we hold dearest in our hearts.
Rose red blushed across Thurston’s surface as repressed laughter whispered through the room.
Petra smiled, unfazed by the response to their impromptu comedy bit. As the laughter died down, Thurston gathered himself, reverting to his standard somber matte grey, almost the exact color of Petra’s eyes.
I’m fairly certain she was aware of her reputation among the students. Either she cultivated her persona intentionally, or she truly didn’t care. Whatever the case, she was brilliant, and her youthful face and clumsy awkwardness belied centuries of study and praxis. Her lectures were always well attended, even though she inevitably kept people waiting.
“Humble apologies for the delay,” she said. “There’s some fascinating work happening down in causality. Instantaneous transfer of matter as information. Still lots of kinks to work out, but well worth a visit if you get the chance.”
As if a first-year cadet could just waltz down to the Causality Labs without clearance and poke around. Classic Petra. It’s why students liked her so much. She never spoke down to us.
In fact, she often seemed to forget about the huge gaps in our knowledge, speaking as if we understood all of the assumptions that grounded her thinking. Every time I left one of her lectures, I had dozens of conceptual threads to follow up on.
That suited me fine. I’ve always preferred to keep a low profile in large groups, more comfortable studying on my own. I made a note to talk to her in person and learn more about the work happening in causality.
“Now then.” Petra raised her index finger. “Shall we, Thurston?”
No response.
She turned to look at him. “Thurston?”
“Are you talking to me, madam?” Thurston had docked with the classroom’s local network, and his voice came in through the speakers, polished and refined. “My apologies. I normally answer to bubble brain.”
Another round of laughter ran through the class. Thurston tittered at his own cleverness, flickering emerald green.
“Fine then,” Petra said, unrepentant. “Can we please begin, bubble brain?”
“But of course, madam.”
Everyone’s individual interface turned off.
The cadet wearing the simglass tipped the visor up onto her forehead with a mild look of irritation at the interruption. Then she realized class was about to begin, and her face softened.
Rowsemn saw me staring at her and nudged me. “Easy there, Siris,” he whispered. “If Saiara saw the look on your face now, she’d eat you for lunch.”
“Who’s that?” I whispered back. “I’ve never seen her before.”
She had skin like alabaster parchment, and her eyes were shaded silver.
“Second-year,” Row said. “Her name’s Adjet, I think. She is part of Wesdrumon’s cohort. Probably just guesting the lecture today.”
“How do you know who-?”
“Today,” Petra said, cutting us short, “we’re going to talk about our hearts. Or rather, I shall talk, and you shall listen. You’ll want your glass for this one.”
I took one last glance at the beautiful cadet, then I reached under my seat and pulled out my own lightweight headset. I connected the nodule to my field port on the base of my neck, inserted the aural tubes into my ears, and pulled the simglass visor over my eyes, settling in for the lecture.
* * *
Later that afternoon, after the lecture was over, I went to visit Petra in her office. The space was dense with the clutter of a scholar’s life. A tapestry in the style of the southern islands of Kulai covered the wall behind her, intricate abstractions of ocean green and coral white curling and spiraling. A desert succulent stood as tall as a person in the corner, bright orange flowers blooming on its crown, bone white spines as long as my finger jutting out from its basalt flesh. And the decapitated head of a burnished chrome android sat atop a pile of books on her desk. I marvled at the sight. Each printed tome was probably worth a fortune, and there they were, just lying carelessly on her desk.
The android stared at me with its lifeless eyes while I stood at the threshold, waiting for her to notice me. She was scribbling something on paper with an old-fashioned stylus. I cleared my throat.
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