The Seeds of Dissolution

by William C. Tracy

  How do I stop them? he asked, but the voice was silent.

  Through his magnifier, he could see Majus Ayama and his mentor reach the edges of the rotunda and signal the maji in the stands above, coordinating the houses. First a swath of green, then another of yellow beside it, then orange, blue, white and brown, making a circle. A vast network of maji, all connected. Why wasn’t the Council already doing this? The Etanela councilor was gesturing to those of the House of Grace, but the councilors for Strength and Communication were just standing there, watching frantically between the approaching army and the rest of the maji.

  The six Life Coalition maji paid them no attention. Their troops held position, a shifting mass of black, with multiple species represented. Many had crossbows cocked and aimed, but they weren’t attacking. What are they waiting for? Through his magnifying glass, Sam saw the six Coalitioners gather around the metal contraption and put their hands on the body of it.

  It begins. The voice echoed in his head, like his thoughts, but not.

  “No!” he called, but there was a puff of smoke, and a fraction of a second later, a boom shook the entire Assembly. Sam pushed back into the wall as his head was drawn up, following the path of something glimmering like glass. It tore through the air, up to the clear ceiling of the Assembly, then slipped inside the air, winking out of existence.

  There is a way to end it, the voice in his head told him.

  Who are you? he shouted back. No answer.

  The air far above rippled and bubbled, like plastic burning in focused sunlight. It darkened, until it was an ugly sallow off-white sphere, like a blister. Panic spread through the gathered diplomats and maji as a hail of crossbow bolts arced up and out.

  Sam rubbed at his arms as the first chill raked his skin.

  * * *

  Origon gaped at the Drain forming high above. Even through the sleeves of his robe, he could feel the temperature dropping. He stared at the cannon the Life Coalition used. How had they done it? They created something, using all of the houses, but the Drain was the negation of matter. It was a work of un-creation. It defied everything about the universe. It destroyed energy itself.

  “Majus, we are lost,” Caroom rumbled. “We must go.” Origon noted individual faces in the crowd, positions of the Life Coalition’s troops, lines of attack and defense running through his head. He was unaccountably clear-headed from the Effature’s System-imbued Nether crystal, but still, all scenarios ended with the Drain as victor. Yet it had been created. It could be destroyed.

  Something pulled at his sleeve, and he realized the Life Coalition troops were shooting at anyone who approached. There was a hole the size of his fist in the sleeve of his robe, and a trickle of blood ran down his arm. Sounds he had been ignoring reached him; people screaming, and dying. He smelt the sharp smell of his own blood. Some of the maji were down. Others were fighting. The diplomats and representatives of the Great Assembly were being herded away by the Effature’s guards. Several speakers were motionless, dead or knocked out. They had been closest to the incoming troops, but the Effature’s guards were fighting back, working with the Council and the maji. How long had he stood devising strategy? Where had that Nether crystal come from?

  Origon poured notes into the Symphony, but it resisted. Too many were changing it at once. He backed between two speaker’s chairs, finding the smooth rolling rhythm of heat and the tumble of notes in the circulating air. He bridged the two, heating the air even as he compressed it, forming a shield of air far harder than just the House of Communication could make. It was unique enough that the shield popped into existence between the two chairs barely in time to reflect a bolt back toward the black-cloaked figures.

  Origon inhaled, and hung on to the shield. In his weakened state, it was the most he could do. Then Caroom’s hand laid heavily on his shoulder, and a wave of well-being washed over him as the Benish passed a portion of their breathing and body regulation on. Origon nodded and stood straighter. If only Sam was here.

  Origon spotted the young man, back by the Effature’s hidey hole, scrambling to avoid the flying bolts. Ancestors take that anxiety of his. Together they might be able to reverse the Drain’s effect. He couldn’t do it on his own.

  * * *

  Rilan bolstered the resonance of her voice with her notes, increasing the volume of the melody, and bellowed above the sounds of the battle. Vethis wasn’t here, of course, and Scintien was less than useless, though she was the councilor for Strength. Rilan would have to step in, where the members of the Council should take control. She shouted up to the first row of maji from the House of Strength above her, fixing on a senior majus she knew in the front row. “Give support to the others, Majus Rubin. Link up!” Beth Rubin was a few cycles older than her, a solid majus excelling in defense. The majus gave a quick nod and an aura of emerald and orange rose around her, spreading to the maji on either side. She stood quickly, leaning to one side to pluck a crossbow bolt from the air with a fist as dense as stone. With augmented muscles, she threw the bolt back into the mass of black-robed attackers at lightning speed, where it pierced a soldier, sending them tumbling backward.

  “We have this fight,” Majus Rubin called down to Rilan.

  Rilan nodded back, then turned away, to where Hand Dancer was frantically weaving a map of the power play in front of him, gesturing to the captain of the guard—an immense Etanela, who bellowed orders to her sub-commanders. Hand Dancer jerked the tall captain to one side, and a bolt passed through the spot where her head had been. Explosions echoed through the chaos. The Effature’s guards had blunderbusses against the Life Coalition’s crossbows. Both took time to reload, and close fighting would become an important factor as the two forces engaged. The rotunda was huge, but the guards would only have a few shots before they crossed the distance.

  Other maji were beginning to come down from their seats. A tall Kirian, his crest feathers unusually dark, vaulted down, then carefully adjusted his silver and blue robe to cover ankles and wrists. The majus—she thought his name was Magoula—stalked toward the Life Coalitioners, an aura of sapphire and pale green surrounding him, and he moved through a hail of bolts, using the House of Grace to pivot around shafts meant to take him down as easily as if they had been stationary. Nearer the attackers, he gestured, and ice began to creep across the floor, cracking and shifting, making black-robed forms slip and tumble. He pounced on one, punching down at a surprised face.

  But despite the maji’s help, they weren’t going to win. Even if they defeated the black-robed troops, even if the Nether maji overwhelmed the handful of Life Coalition maji, none of it would make a difference. She eyed the void increasing above her head, shivering in the chill air.

  Rilan ducked a figure running at her, swinging a scimitar. They had gotten through the ring of guards, and must have thought her an easy target. With the Effature’s System cleaning her notes, her opponent was moving in slow motion. She caught the elbow of the arm still holding the sword high, and pulled upward, using the sword-person’s momentum against them, turning and slamming the figure into the rock wall behind her. They didn’t get up.

  Rilan looked back to the void, now the diameter of a man’s height. Was there any way to stop it?

  * * *

  Sam scooted forward, keeping close to the ground. If crawling is the best I can do, I’ll do that. Every time he tried to stand, vertigo at the size of the arena, the noise of the two armies, sent him spiraling back down. It was safer down here anyway, away from projectiles. He ducked behind a speaker’s chair.

  Who are you? he sent inward. Those are not my thoughts. What are you doing in my head?

  Nothing. He rubbed the goosebumps on his arms, and wished he had earplugs to guard against the clangs and shouts. It would have been easier to push the panic away. The old-fashioned guns the guards used boomed again, making him wince. The shooters fell silent, frantically reloading, while a cloud of smoke rose around them. Others with spear
s and swords battled the Life Coalition troops. They were less ordered than the guards, but a steady stream of crossbow bolts flew in every direction.

  Flashes of green and blue showed organized efforts from the maji. The Houses of Strength and Grace were enhancing the guards. It wouldn’t do any good, in the long run, and Sam wondered why the Life Coalition was still here. They had gathered the speakers, diplomats, and representatives of the ten homeworlds in one place, with an army. It was like they were trying to assassinate both the Assembly and the Imperium.

  The Drain overhead was gaining speed, growing faster. The crystal dome of the Great Assembly arced above, lines of frost reflecting the morning light from the walls. There has to be a way for the Symphony to stop it. Majus Cyrysi huddled behind a shield of air, his head also turned upward, and Sam scuttled to the next speaker’s chair, trying to close the gap.

  I am the Symphony. The voice resonated in his head, jerking Sam to a halt. It was the first direct answer from the voice.

  He frowned. You aren’t the Symphony. If you are, tell me how to get rid of the Drain.

  There was a different tone to the other thoughts. I can show you knowledge. There is so much you don’t know.

  Right now, I only need to stop this thing, Sam furiously sent back. What was he doing? This was insane.

  You are not crazy—no more than I. Let what you call the Drain persist. I can show you how to protect yourself from it. It is a natural thing, a harbinger of what must come. It is merely a seed of the coming Dissolution.

  Sam frowned. It’s not natural—show me how to stop it! Or are you not what you claim? Maybe you’re a majus from the Life Coalition, messing with my head. He glared through the chaos at the six maji surrounded by their troops. All of them were ringed with color. Which house could do that? Communication? Healing?

  I am no house member, came the voice, and a strange feeling came along with the sending, like…laughter?

  The Assembly maji were fighting back, and the Symphony was fitful in his head, resisting changes from the large group of maji. They were not working together. Several of the House of Healing were climbing down the steps, ready to fight the Life Coalition hand-to-hand. Many others in the Dome were fleeing toward the doors.

  You aren’t the Symphony either, Sam thought. Help, or get out of my head so I can fight against the Life Coalition.

  Now the feeling of laughter stopped, became a colder emotion.

  You are no fool. I am bigger than the Grand Symphony. I control it.

  The coldness gripped the inside of Sam’s mind as the Drain’s cold gripped him outside, like an icicle plunged down his spine. Leave me alone.

  If I was not what I say, could I do this?

  The panic climbed up into his mind.

  Sam gasped and scrabbled at the ground. The crowds, the newness and size of the Assembly, all crushed him down, a frog beneath a tire. He curled around his knees, covered his head. He hadn’t had such full paralysis since the first day here. The floor was freezing, but he couldn’t push up from it. If he did, he would float away, into the crowded rotunda.

  He gripped the leg of the chair he lay behind with one hand, the other holding his watch to his ear. He was so close he could smell the wood and varnish. Recognize small details. Accept them. Make landmarks. His eyes flicked to the Drain, sitting like a blind and jaundiced eye. He began to hyperventilate, breath far faster than the ticking of the watch. He looked down again, saw little cracks in the material of the Nether, then looked away before it could affect him. If I stay here, I’ll be killed.

  He expected a retort from the intruder in his head, but none came. What did you do? he called, but there was no answer. Eyes closed, Sam reached for the Symphony. Like his heartbeat pounding in his head, the melody fretted and started, describing his own body.

  What can the House of Communication do? If he could get rid of this fear, even for a few moments, he could go to the others. They would think of some way to the stop the Drain.

  The melody was a mess of intersecting rhythms around his brain, connections firing in a way that created his own private brand of suffering. He sorted through it, trying to recognize a tune he could adjust.

  Underneath was an ouroboros of music, ever repeating, different from the rest. He slipped through and around the tune. Was this the key? He blocked the repeating section with his notes, and the music slid apart into separate themes.

  Pathways appeared, spearing from one thought to another. He opened his eyes and saw paths in the air, following actions, showing him cause and effect. A crossbow bolt flying to a target, hitting it, and being cocked in the crossbow, all at once. That guard would be cut down. This majus would change the Symphony. The battle was won, and lost, and not even begun, all at the same time. He looked at the Drain, where all pathways died, save one. It was hidden in shadow, difficult to bring to fruition in reality. He could almost see how to make it happen.

  Sam blinked, and the pathways were gone, the ouroboros whole again. What was the answer? The clarity was fading, as the fear crashed back, bending him to the floor. His eyes swam in and out of focus.

  All that mattered was that there was a way to stop the Drain, even if he couldn’t remember. Part of it was so easy any majus could do it. Think. What was the solution? He rolled, pushed his feet to the floor, and levered up on the chair. With his eyes trained on the base of the Assembly wall, he backed to its safety. Slowly, one hand on the stone at all time, he made his way to Majus Cyrysi.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Fate of the Assembly

  -The maji of the House of Potential are the least like other houses. Their abilities lie in the transfer of energy, and conversion from kinetic to potential and back. Their house fuels the Systems underlying our society. Without them, no change to the Grand Symphony could be sustained barring direct involvement from a majus.

  From a lecture on the House of Potential, by Mandamon Feldo

  Origon saw Sam coming closer, one agonizing step at a time. The young man must be fighting another of his attacks. Understandable. Origon was sweating even in the chill air, his crest flaring as he searched for anything he could do to stop the Drain. If Sam could change the Symphony in his state, there was a chance they might be able to do something to the Drain together.

  Origon turned to Caroom. “Can you be helping with more than one change to the melody?” The Benish was still feeding him strength, but didn’t look very sturdy. They oozed thick fluid from their chest wound, and from a large cut along their left arm where a bolt had passed Origon’s shield. But Caroom’s eyes were bright on him, and the chill at least might numb their pain. It would soon be cold enough to freeze water.

  “Hmmmm,” Caroom rumbled. “This one will try, but the effects to the body are draining.” They gestured down their body with a thick hand.

  They still needed to keep the shield going while Origon tried his idea. Hard to handle both changes at once, in his diminished state. He eyed his apprentice, halfway to him. The likely key was to use all six houses. He could only test his theory with Caroom. Once Sam got there, they could make their way around to Rilan and Hand Dancer. Then they would only need the Houses of Grace and Potential.

  “We may be able to use a containment, as we began with the Aridori in Gloomlight,” Origon explained.

  “For, hmmm, a full containment, there are only—”

  “Yes, I am aware,” Origon cut in testily. “We need all six houses, but we can test the validity. Join with me, but keep the notes in your other change. If I am losing your strength, this shield will fall, and we will be cut down in moments.”

  The Benish nodded—more of a small bow from their torso—and their flickering eyes dimmed for a moment as they looked inward. Origon did the same.

  The Symphony was in chaos with this many maji affecting it, and it pushed back against changes. He didn’t hear the chords of a containment circle though. He placed his notes in a perpetual repetition, not bor
rowing from the existing Symphony, but crafting an arpeggio. He felt it harmonize with something he couldn’t quite hear—Caroom was doing the same. Origon panted at the effort, but kept his head up and his shield stable. What irony, if he were finally to affect the Drain, only to be cut down by a stray piece of iron.

  “Give me control of it,” he told Caroom, his eyes shut, the better to listen. He heard a hitch in the rhythm as something was thrust on top of his notes, making the music more complex.

  Origon pushed the partial containment up, making his arpeggio rise several octaves to circle around the growing Drain. There was a horizon to it, where the Symphony crumbled to meaningless notes. If he could get it close enough to encircle without touching, this one small melody by itself, maybe he could contain—

  Something drew at the warding, dissolving part of the rhythm. Origon desperately pulled back on what notes he could, but most were gone, sucked into the Drain. His eyes snapped open as he bent forward, and Caroom grunted like they had been hit with a club. Origon’s shield wavered, and he clung to it like a raft in a torrent of water. He could not lose that too.

  “That won’t work,” a voice said. Sam was pale, pressed against the wall, and shivering. He shook his head as if clearing it, and his eyes slowly focused on Origon. “It’s a good idea, but I don’t think it will work,” he repeated.

  Origon felt his crest surge in annoyance. What did this refugee know? He had been using the song for all of a couple ten-days, against Origon’s more than fifty cycles.