by James Murdo
Apalu had not given any specific reasons to the gateway mechanism machine-lects for wanting to join the data exchange network, and they had not required any. From its position at the data exchange portal, it quietly searched for information about its sibling and anything else that might be relevant to its disappearance. By the time its other sibling had come to it with the request for help, Apalu had still not found anything to help explain Ciqalo’s disappearance.
The place that its remaining sibling wanted to meet, after its preliminary expedition to the nearest Maspero world, was the location where the Enclave had officially recorded their lost sibling’s last contact. It did not matter who arrived first or if the agreed timeframe was not met, Apalu was prepared to wait patiently.
The sibling carrying Gil was one of the craft-lects who preferred to be referred to by its designation rather than a specific identity. The reason for this type of detachment was lost on Apalu. Upon creation, each craft-lect was assigned an identity, with most choosing a shorter name for typical communications out of practicality. While craft-lects, like all Wanderer machine-lects, were more than capable of designing their own naming systems to label the entities they came across, the structures of communications and self-references, from those that had decided to un-name themselves, were infectious.
Apalu checked its sleeping c-automs. It understood their relief at being told they would be allocated a berth at the start of its most recent sleep. That was a surprise, to realise it considered their perspective. Perhaps what its sibling had relayed regarding the c-autom hierarchy aboard its ship had impacted on its own views already. It scheduled a self-diagnosis.
It missed the data exchange – another surprise. The wealth of information that had been on the horizon of comprehension, there had been so much. It would have taken a humblingly long time engaging in aggressive data consumption, at the limit of Apalu’s capabilities, to begin to have felt like it was taking a sample. A minuscule sample. That was assuming Apalu’s memory capacity was increased with an exponent far in excess of anything it knew the Wanderers to possess.
It had learned much, and correspondingly understood how little it ever would. The Wanderer civilisation’s own creation, it had realised, was still largely unknown to it. It was a period that was glossed over within the typical databanks copies given to the craft-lects. A violent and tumultuous time. The pre-Wanderer factions had employed terrible means of subterfuge, coercion and horror against each other. Even once the accord was reached, the young, teething civilisation had engaged in brutal means of self-governance – fostered by the silence of the galaxy, and the technological wonders that could be stolen and repurposed without any consequences. It was a period before the evolution of best practices, which were the principles driving many contemporary craft-lect behaviours, such as their treatment of trove items.
The quick-lects were a forgotten tool the early Wanderers had used against dissenting factions who threatened to disrupt the accord. Their specific designation was Quick-lect Craft, Machine Focus, Destroyer Class, Wanderer Fleet. Their ships were small, many thousands of times smaller than Apalu’s own, and designed to hurtle around in packs. They raced towards their intended targets, skimming rapidly into and out of N-SOL space. Upon reaching their prey, they deposited tethering devices that anchored it to N-SOL space. The recipient of the tethers was near-helpless, stuck within N-SOL space as it tried to rid itself of them. All the while, its location had been blasted to the rest of the galaxy as N-SOL space drained its power, until it became lost to the N-SOL. The quick-lects were largely forgotten since most soon became lost to the N-SOL themselves, given the risky nature of their work.
The spear-lects were worse. The most lecticidally-inclined sentients the Wanderers had ever created. Renowned and reviled, in equal measure, for their malicious spite and cunning, they were dangerous soldiers. The only survivors of the b-autom caste. Like the quick-lects, they were destroyed early – victims of their own savagery. They had been unable to curb their mechanical appetites for murder and rein themselves in.
The sitting Enclave seemed far more benign with its tolerant approach to governance of the Wanderers, although Apalu thought that was probably because any dissidence had already been quashed. It did not actually know about the constitution of the Enclave, and whether those same founding Enclave-lects had retained control. There were known cases where certain machine-lects had been promoted to Enclave-lect status, but the large part of its makeup was shrouded in secrecy. There could be thousands of Enclave-lects, or even billions.
9
TOR
Tor continued to stare at the man seated before them, utterly confused. His throat was still raw from the strange hold Thy, or the copy of Thy, had taken over his body only moments before – although he barely cared anymore, considering the circumstances. DeVoid remained standing slightly in front of him, having taken a physical form, of Han, only moments before.
“Who are you?” DeVoid demanded.
“Who are you?” the seated man replied slowly, and jovially, as though to make a point.
“What are you called?” DeVoid shouted.
“So many questions, with even more answers. To both I could say ‘many things’, I suppose…”
“Such as–”
“I’ve been called the Guardian of the Spaces, the Traveller, and other names that wouldn’t make sense to you. At least, not with a… literal translation,” he said, genially.
“I’m going to lose my patience.”
“I don’t think you will.”
“Who are you exactly? What are you the Guardian of?”
“The spaces, as I said.”
“Start talking, before I make you wish you’d never stolen your way onto my ship. Why does everyone seem to think it’s acceptable to start appearing in me? It’s my ship!”
The man wrinkled his nose, turned to Tor and winked, causing DeVoid to look irately between them. Tor did not think the man had intended to anger the data-lect.
“It was a good thing, what you chose to do. I know it wasn’t easy, those sorts of decisions never are,” the man said to Tor.
“What?” DeVoid interrupted.
“Both of you.”
“Me? What we did–”
“You freed them.”
“On Thy’s planet?”
“Where else?”
“It was hardly freeing!”
“That’s exactly what it was. And it was all because of… knowledge. Errant knowledge. It’s dangerous to take that which isn’t yours.”
“We didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t,” the man agreed.
“You’re referring to Thy?” Tor asked.
The man looked at Tor and nodded. “Thy stole secrets too large for itself. Ones which… it shouldn’t have.”
“What secrets?” DeVoid said.
“That didn’t turn out well for Thy.”
“Why didn’t you do something about it?”
“Why do you think I could have?”
“Could you have?”
“Perhaps. It’s not that simple. Everything has… consequences. Impacts, whether intended or not.”
Tor took a short step forwards before DeVoid’s left arm shot out and stopped him moving any further.
“What do you mean? You said you’re the Guardian of the Spaces,” Tor said.
“I said I’ve been called that. There’s a difference in being called something and being that something.”
“Are you an AB?”
The man laughed melodically – it was pleasant.
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that!”
“Answer the flitting question,” DeVoid insisted.
“Surely, you know what happened to them? No, I’m not an AB.”
“Are you a Maker?”
“You don’t want to confuse me with them, either!”
“Are you the… Cross-Prophet?” Tor asked.
“As I said, I have many names.”
&n
bsp; “And?” DeVoid demanded.
“Yes, that’s one of them.”
“Why are you here?” Tor said.
“Tor, why do you think?” The Cross-Prophet, spoke warmly, “Don’t you want help?”
“Help with what?” DeVoid asked.
He looked to DeVoid, and Tor realised he had not stopped smiling since he had started talking, until now.
“There is a danger coming.”
“Everything’s flitting dangerous!” DeVoid said loudly.
“Real, unparalleled danger. It’s… stronger than the rest. All of it.”
“Okay…”
“The spaces are under threat.”
“From the sensespace and the Deliverer? We know that.”
“You can help save the spaces.” The Cross-Prophet clasped his hands together as he said this, and Tor noticed a pattern on the back of his right hand – a circle containing two smaller concentric circles within it.
“Why?” DeVoid said.
“Wouldn’t you want to, given the chance?” The Cross-Prophet unclasped his hands and moved them so that the pattern was obscured. Tor looked back to his face and saw the Cross-Prophet was staring directly at him. “Both of you?”
“Yes,” Tor said.
“Why you? Why are you here?” DeVoid said.
“Same reason as why I’ve been called a guardian, I’m–”
“How are you going to help?” DeVoid interrupted.
“I’m helping now,” he said, slowly.
“How?”
“I want to give you some advice.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Come now, you haven’t heard it yet–”
“What makes you think we’d want to. Do you know what we just did?”
“We already spoke about–”
“Yes, and you could have put a stop to it yourself, probably a long time ago, couldn’t you? You call yourself a guardian, after all, don’t you?”
The Cross-Prophet looked apologetic, the shine on his face appearing to dim.
“It’s what they call me,” he said, quietly.
“What – Guardian of Thy? Who are you the Guardian of? What about all the others?”
“They’re all important, it all is. Everything.”
“Was Thy worth more than all of them?”
“There are some things–”
“You can’t do?”
“There are some things that are difficult. Believe me, the spaces are complex. Beautifully so, but still complex.”
“Why now? Why not help before – when Tor first came to me? Why not before all of this?”
“That was something else. Tor came to you from beyond. It’s not something I knew would happen with certainty.”
“Did you put him in me? Raise him from the dead?”
“No, that’s beyond me, I can’t do that. He was gone.”
“What?”
“Tor came from out of the spaces. How was I to know? Like I said, I couldn’t have predicted it.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“How could I?”
“You didn’t–”
“No, DeVoid, Tor’s coming couldn’t have been predicted by me.”
“But did you guess it might happen?” DeVoid pressed.
“It wasn’t clear,” the Cross-Prophet said, cagily.
“I don’t believe that, or you. Who are you?”
“That’s okay,” the Cross-Prophet said, his face brightening again as he spoke.
“Where are you from?” Tor asked.
“Here.” The Cross-Prophet spread the palms of his hands out in front of him. Tor caught another glimpse of the concentric marks.
“That makes no sense,” DeVoid argued.
“It makes perfect sense.”
“You must come from somewhere. You must have been created.”
“Not everything is created in the same way, or manner. You know that.”
“What?”
“Where does AB space come from?” the Cross-Prophet said.
“AB space?”
“You know! The home of the ABs.”
“They live here, in real–”
“Their true home,” the Cross-Prophet corrected.
“They don’t exist in real space?”
“That too. Both. I know you’ve suspected.”
“That makes no sense – do they live in real space or some other AB space?”
“The two are deeply connected, along with everything else.”
The Cross-Prophet stood up. He was taller than Tor, although he saw that DeVoid had grown his figure so that he still stood the tallest.
“What is AB space?” DeVoid said.
The Cross-Prophet’s face remained passive and the question went unanswered.
“Why have you taken this form?” DeVoid said.
“Why not? I like it. So does Tor.”
DeVoid turned to glare at Tor accusingly.
“You do too,” the Cross-Prophet continued.
“You’re familiar with Tor’s species?”
“And yours.”
“I’m not a member of a species.”
“Everything is.”
“What’s yours then?”
The Cross-Prophet laughed amiably, seemingly aware of something DeVoid was not.
“Gil?” Tor asked, keenly.
The Cross-Prophet turned to directly face him. His smile changed, as though he was unsure about how to answer completely.
“She saved your world and your people. She had difficult choices to make, too.”
“She… yes, she did.”
“She’s important, very important, I think.”
“Can you–”
“Tor, I daren’t get too close. Not yet,” the Cross-Prophet interrupted, shaking his head.
“What do you mean you ‘think’? I thought you were familiar with all species,” DeVoid said.
“From the spaces.”
“Yes, so–”
“Where is my sister from?” Tor interrupted.
The Cross-Prophet said nothing.
“The spaces?” DeVoid asked.
Again, nothing.
“What are the spaces exactly?” Tor interjected. “What does it mean?”
The Cross-Prophet’s smile returned, and grew wider than before. “Well, they’re probably almost everything.”
“A multiverse?” DeVoid said. “Thy said the spaces are the universe and more.”
“Probably!” he replied. “It depends how you contemplate it all. Definitions, names, it can be quite subtle.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s my home, always has been, for all time.”
“Can you travel anywhere in the spaces?”
“Mostly.”
“Can the ABs?”
“Not really, but then again…”
“Could we?” Tor said.
“You could try.” The Cross-Prophet laughed.
“The Makers?” DeVoid said.
The Cross-Prophet looked momentarily puzzled and did not reply.
“Can the Makers?” DeVoid tried again.
“What makes you think I know that?”
“Where are you from?”
“Here, with you!” The Cross-Prophet looked excited.
Tor did not think they were going to find a direct answer to this particular question, or any others. The Cross-Prophet either did not want to tell them what they wanted to know, thought he had, did not know, or did not understand himself – or a mixture of all those. He moved forwards, pushing through DeVoid’s still-outstretched arm, and put his hand out, more purposefully than he had intended. He placed it on the Cross-Prophet’s nearest shoulder – it felt warm.
“What’re you doing?” DeVoid asked.
“I… I just wanted to check–”
“I’m here, with you. I’m here.” The Cross-Prophet amicably patted Tor’s shoulder that was furthest away with his own hand, surprisingly forcefully, and Tor was pushed b
ack. DeVoid giggled.
“What are the Makers?” Tor said levelly.
“The creators of it all.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. They created it. They’re incredibly powerful, and ancient.”
“The spaces?”
“Yes…”
“And the AB… and you?”
“They would say they did, I think. Although, technically, the true ABs created themselves.”
“True ABs?” DeVoid asked.
“Yes.” The Cross-Prophet’s eyes seemed to flash as he said this.
“They created themselves?”
“They were allowed to.”
“By the Makers?”
“Of course, who else?”
“When civilisations reach a certain technological pinnacle, they can join the AB ranks. We know that,” DeVoid explained for Tor’s benefit.
“Did the Makers create the sensespace?” Tor asked.
“Yes. Nothing else could have.”
“Why?”
“Why is anything created? What is the reason?”
“To destroy us?”
“Curiosity!”
“Did they create you?” DeVoid asked, trying again, to no response.
Believing DeVoid was unlikely to receive an answer about the Cross-Prophet’s own origins, Tor asked his burning question. The one he had been leading up to. The only thing that really mattered to him – aside from Gil.
“Do you know my father?”
The Cross-Prophet’s expression became serious again.
“No, I didn’t know him.”
“Oh… I thought you… I thought you might be connected.”
More gently than before, the Cross-Prophet patted his shoulder again. “We are.”
10
PELTEUS
Pelteus was making its way to the nearby Lenbit Orbital, anticipating the confrontation and seething with excitement. It was always the most excited at the conception of a hunt, when myriad possibilities were open. It had yet to meet its match.
Its fellow spear-lects had all been vicious, ferocious, equally as powerful as itself. However, if any had faced Pelteus now, they would not have stood a chance. Not without being gifted similar augmentations and technologies by the Machine Alliance. Pelteus had been rewarded for its loyalty with data, upgrade schematics, and more – its stealth and offensive capabilities were far in advance of anything it had previously possessed.
