by Clayton Wood
He deserved it.
Sabin thought back to the memory he'd re-experienced, remembering the hope, the joy he'd felt when Ampir had arrived to save him from Nespo's trap. And to think that it had been Vera who had convinced Ampir to question Nespo. That she had come to his rescue, quite literally saving his life.
He withdrew the rest of his consciousness from his vast network, retreating into his own mind. The pain intensified a hundredfold, and he screamed silently, feeling as if his flesh were melting from his bones. On and on it went, this agony. Minute after minute, until he lost track of time. Until time had no meaning anymore. Until there was only pain.
His penance.
At last he thrust his consciousness outward, his mind expanding across the Void, across the world, his pain lessening with every Chosen whose mind he overtook. Larger and larger his mind grew, until he was Xanos once more.
He gazed across his domain through the eyes of dozens of his Chosen, empires on nearly every continent in the world. Governments mankind thought of as their own creations, constructs of their mortal wills. It was necessary, this deceit. For all their searching for a higher power to lead them, their incessant clamoring for immortal God to guide them and give their lives purpose, mankind ultimately loathed a visible god. A tangible god.
And Sabin knew that, ultimately, mankind was corrupt. Leadership bred corruption, resulting in the creation and preservation of power at the expense of the governed. But it was a lie that absolute power led to corruption; a being with absolute power would not need corruption to maintain it. Only those with limited power required deceit to maintain that power. And man was, by definition, limited.
Xanos, however, was not.
Sabin observed his empires for a long moment, then pulled away, his visions of Doma's many lands winking out instantly. He turned his attention to yet another Chosen trapped in its Void crystal within the massive chamber they shared. He reached out to it, recalling the last words he'd heard Ampir say after he'd rescued Sabin from his prison cell. He'd pointed at Sabin's ring, then said five fateful words.
Do what you're best at.
He'd certainly done that.
Sabin reached into the Chosen's mind, feeling darkness come over him.
* * *
The air is cool and dry, with a musty tang that permeates every inch of the massive underground mining chamber. Liberated from the Empire's corrupt mining company only a week ago, the huge diamond mine has been converted into the center of operations for the Orjanian Resistance, a few thousand men and women dedicated to fighting back against the oppression of the Imperialists. Underground, the Resistance is invisible to the enemy, able to work in secrecy. And they are well-protected; with their ability to destroy the mine at any moment – and therefore its vast cache of diamonds – it is virtually guaranteed that the Empire will not make a direct attack against them.
The underground chamber, one of many man-made caverns hollowed out by generations of Orjanian miners, is linked to other chambers by long, winding tunnels. Magic lights hang overhead, casting a pale yellow glow across the rocky floor and walls. Hundreds of men and women toil in the chamber, carrying equipment to and fro, supplying food and water, and performing all of the other tasks needed to keep the Resistance thriving.
Sabin smiles from his vantage point in one corner of the chamber, his arms draped over the armrests of his chair, his feet propped up on a wooden table in front of him. He watches the men and women around him work, marvels at their energy, their drive.
Ours is a sacred mission, he muses. We fight for our freedom.
He turns away from the spectacle, dropping his feet onto the rocky floor and concentrating on the papers laying on the table before him. A series of quick sketches, drawn hastily with a thick piece of charcoal, of his newest invention. He finds it much easier to create new ideas with such a blunt instrument; unable to draw any real detail, it forces him to think in broad strokes, to avoid plunging into minutia too soon.
He glances up from the paper, spotting two men carrying a heavy-looking sheet of black metal toward him. They drop the metal onto a stack on similarly-sized sheets, then walk away to retrieve another one. To Sabin's left, a group of men sit along a wooden table some forty feet long, each hunched over a glittering diamond. After a moment, they each pass their diamond to the person at their left, then hunch over again. Sabin smiles, feeling a swell of pride in seeing them at work. Not only the men at the table, but all of the people working in this chamber. They are all here for the same reason: to bring Sabin's visions to life.
Sabin continues to watch, remarking on how much his life has changed in the last year. After his escape from prison, Ampir had flown him to a neutral territory in Orja, not yet occupied by the Empire. Sabin shook his head, remembering that flight in the star-lit sky, the world zipping by in a blur below them. He'd never imagined traveling at such speed, would not have believed it possible had he not experienced it himself. After they'd arrived in Orja, Ampir had put a hand on Sabin's shoulder.
“Do what you're best at,” he'd said. And then he'd flown away.
Sabin glances down at his right hand, at the black and green ring there. A symbol of his greatest contributions to the Empire, it is a constant reminder of what he is best at...creation. And what incredible things he has created in the last year! Thought-activated weapons more sophisticated than any possessed by the Imperial army. Armor that made the soldiers of the Resistance one-man armies, able to withstand the best that the Empire's Battle-Weavers could throw at them. Sabin's inventions had turned a weak, fledgling group of revolutionaries into one of the most powerful forces in the world. They'd descended on the Orjanian mines like vengeful ghosts, winning back their land and sending the Empire's corrupt mining companies fleeing back to Verhan.
“Good morning, Sabin,” he hears a voice say. Sabin snaps out of his reverie, looking up to find a tall, burly man with short black hair standing opposite him. The man's countenance is fierce, his jaw square. He holds himself with utter confidence, and for good reason; he is Gunthar, the leader of the Resistance.
“Good morning sir,” Sabin replies, standing up from his chair and saluting. Gunthar waves away the formality.
“Sit, sit,” he urges, and Sabin complies. Gunthar sits down on a chair opposite Sabin, gesturing at the men and women busily working on creating Sabin's newest inventions.
“Are my men working to your satisfaction?” he inquires. Sabin nods.
“Beyond expectation,” he answers. And it's true; bolstered by their repeated victories, the men and women of the Resistance seem imbued with limitless energy, working day and night on Sabin's creations. They are not infected by the complacency of the Empire, believing that they are too powerful to fail.
“My Runics are sufficient?” Gunthar presses. Sabin pauses, then nods. Most of the Runics – the men sitting around the long table with the diamonds – are relatively unskilled, and none can hold a candle to his own skill. Sabin had devised a way around this deficiency, tasking each Runic to place specific runes in a gem, then pass it to the next Runic, who would inscribe different runes, and so on down the line. That way, no Runic needed to understand the entire device, only their small contribution to it.
“For the time being,” Sabin answers. He devotes each morning to training them, but most are not gifted students. Gunthar, of course, already knows this.
“We'll recruit more,” the leader promises. He glances at the Runics. “Ingenious, to have them work this way,” he adds. “Your Empire was stupid to cast you away.”
“Not mine anymore,” Sabin counters. “Orja is my home now.”
“Of course,” Gunthar agrees. “And the Resistance is lucky to have you,” he adds with a smile. “How are your projects progressing?”
“Very well,” Sabin answers. “We have three hundred units of the latest version of the invisi-suit in quality testing now,” he adds. Suits of armor with advanced defensive runics, they also allow the wearer to become
absolutely invisible – in multiple spectra of light – as well as completely silent. It had allowed for decisive victories against the Imperial military. Sabin had created new versions of the suit with each major battle, anticipating that the Empire's Weavers and Runics might reverse-engineer the technology and learn how to neutralize it. Each new version used a novel mechanism of promoting invisibility, making the Empire's efforts worthless.
“Excellent,” Gunthar replies.
“I've also developed something I call the Imploder,” Sabin continues. “A gem that shoots out of a miniature, hand-held cannon, and consumes all of its magic in a fraction of a second, creating an enormously powerful gravity field to pull in and crush anything around it.”
“Won't the enemy Weavers have runes to neutralize this?”
“They will, many of them,” Sabin agrees. “But they take time to sense the gravity field and activate a response. The Imploder discharges so quickly that those closest to it will be killed, and those farther away will expend much of their magic neutralizing its effects.”
“Interesting.”
“I've also been developing a new set of armor,” Sabin states. “I've been working on the prototype myself,” he adds.
“What does it do?” Gunthar inquires.
“It automatically sizes itself to the wearer,” Sabin explains. “And uses thought-based technology to sense when the wearer is in danger. It neutralizes any potential damage – whether by heat, cold, electricity, blunt force trauma, or penetrating trauma – and neutralizes its own weight, leaving the wearer extremely mobile.”
“How close to completion are you?”
“A few months,” Sabin admits. “It's quite sophisticated, the most complicated invention I've ever created.”
“And you can mass-produce it?” Gunthar presses. Sabin frowns.
“Maybe one every few days,” he answers. “But anyone who wore it would become a one-man army.”
“Tell me what I can do to help, and you will have it,” Gunthar promises. “What are you calling this armor?”
“The Aegis of Athanasia,” Sabin replies. Gunthar frowns.
“Athanasia?”
“My mother's name,” Sabin admits, feeling rather foolish suddenly. But Gunthar nods.
“A good name,” he agrees. “Will this Aegis protect us against Ampir?”
Sabin blinks, struck by the abrupt change in subject. He shakes his head.
“Ampir is not a problem,” he replies, and not for the first time. Ever since Gunthar had learned of the legendary Battle-Runic, he'd been almost obsessed with the possibility that the Empire might send Ampir to end the Resistance. Ampir had promised Sabin he would not do so, as long as the Resistance remained in Orja.
“Any man who could destroy us is a problem,” Gunthar counters. “And from what I'm told, he can destroy us.”
“He will not.”
“Is he capable of it?” Gunthar presses. Sabin pauses, then shrugs.
“I've never seen him in battle,” he admits. Gunthar seems displeased at the answer.
“You knew him,” the man states. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Sabin answers, lowering his gaze and folding his arms across his chest. “...that whoever Ampir chooses to defeat, is defeated.”
“Even against you?”
Sabin sighs, running one hand through his hair. He looks up at Gunthar, and finds the man staring at him intensely.
“He's beyond me,” Sabin confesses at last. “He's beyond everyone. I don't worry about Ampir because it's pointless. If he wanted to destroy us, we would be destroyed.”
Gunthar stares at Sabin for a long time, then turns his head, tracking the men bringing the large metal plates into the cavern. He turns back to Sabin, his jawline rippling.
“No man is invincible,” he proclaims. Sabin nods.
“I agree.”
“Then out-think him,” Gunthar orders. “Create a weapon powerful enough to free us from the Empire's corruption once and for all.” He stands then, stepping around the table and stopping at Sabin's side. He puts one heavy hand on Sabin's shoulder. “If anyone can save us, it's you, Sabin.”
“I'll do everything I can,” Sabin promises.
“You always do,” Gunthar replies. “Thank you Sabin.”
With that, the man lets go of Sabin's shoulder, striding down the cavern toward one of the tunnels beyond. Sabin watches him go, then sighs, staring back down at the charcoal drawings laying on the table before him. His latest creation, existing in his mind, and in substantially cruder form, on paper. A vehicle of sorts, piloted by several Weavers, with weapons and defenses that would make it ideal for defending the Resistance's newly acquired territories. Sabin stares at the drawing, at the two thick legs supporting a broad body, two arms bolted on either side. His eyes lift to the domed head of the vehicle, a hollow cabin that will serve as a control room for the pilots.
It needs to be big, he thinks. It needs to be a symbol.
The Empire will strike back at the Resistance, that is certain. Two mines had already been reclaimed by the Resistance, constituting a devastating blow to the Empire's mining operations. A massive assault is coming...it’s just a matter of time. The Resistance doesn’t just need to win...it needs to send a message to the Council, to Nespo. One that will make it unmistakably clear what the Resistance stands for.
Sabin stares at the drawing, then glances to his right, spotting his black ring on his middle finger, the green diamond-shaped crystal glittering in the light from overhead. The right corner of his mouth twitches, then curls up into a smirk. He picks up a stick of charcoal, then draws a diamond-shaped eye on the vehicle's domed head. He stares at this for a long moment, then leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He feels a sudden giddy satisfaction, and allows himself the indulgence.
“There's our symbol,” he murmurs to himself. It's perfect, really. He closes his eyes, imagining how Nespo will react when he hears of it. A final gesture, reminding the corrupt Grand Runic exacting what finger Sabin had worn the ring on.
Sabin chuckles to himself.
The greatest accomplishment of his life, indeed.
* * *
Captain Barram leaned back in his plush, oversized leather chair, setting his boots atop an equally oversized wooden desk. It was the same desk he'd had in his quarters on the Defiance, and indeed the same desk his father had once sat at when the old man – rest his righteous soul – had served as governor of a small city west of Verhan. It was extraordinarily well-made, the desk, sturdy yet decorated with elegant curves and various grains of wood in spectacular patterns. Everything it contained, both on and within, was well over fifty years old. His father's journals, old maps, a collection of old books on philosophy, a few others on various theories of governance. Captain Barram's father had been a virtuous man, always of the inclination to work toward his own improvement as well as the betterment of his fellows.
If ever he was raised from the dead to see me, Barram mused, he would die again of shame.
He pretended that the prospect didn't bother him, but inwardly he knew it did. His father had set impossibly high standards, standards no man but himself could have met. As such, Barram had rejected his father, joining the Verhanian navy to escape his father’s control. A few years at war had shown Barram the truth about mankind...and it had been far removed from the noble views espoused by his father.
Black and white only at the ends, Barram thought, with an infinity of gray in between.
He fidgeted, ill at ease for reasons he couldn't put his finger on. He'd been thinking a lot about his father recently, after the near-sinking of the Defiance. Perhaps his brush with mortality had done it; his father had died in a duel, defending his honor against some slander or other. He got to keep his honor, but not his life.
Barram sighed, looking about his spacious office, one of two in his new home in the Shimmering Isle. He'd purchased the house just this morning, and his crew had seen to it that
Barram's things were brought in to furnish it. With eight bedrooms and six baths, he had a long way to go before it was fully furnished, but there would be ample time for that.
He turned his gaze back to his desk, his eye drawn to one of the books there. On the Inherent Virtues of Man, the binding read. He smirked. Not because he thought that Man was not virtuous...indeed, he'd witnessed more virtue in the last few days than most men had the opportunity to witness in a lifetime. And a surprising amount from two children. No, he smirked because of what that virtue had won.
A perfectly legal military vessel, conducting a state-sanctioned and entirely justified attack on a smuggler’s ship, destroyed by men and women – and children – acting virtuously.
He took his boots off of his desk, lowering his feet to the floor with a thump. He leaned over the desk, grabbing the book and flipping through the pages. Then he set it down, suddenly too tired to read it.
Virtue was a matter of perspective, of course. That was something his father had never understood. He'd been an academic, devouring books by other academics, building a worldview without ever having truly viewed the world. And he'd placed all of his self-worth in his beliefs, quite literally dying for them. That had been his father's final, unintended lesson to him, the most valuable lesson of all.
Beliefs are more often wrong when they're strong, he recited to himself. It was a mantra of his, one that had served him well. Had allowed him to see through the smoke and mirrors of society, and of his own mind, to grasp the true nature of the world.
That it was all just a matter of perspective.
There was a series of knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Barram called out. The knocking had been in the proper rhythm, notifying him that a member of his crew was on the other side. The door opened, and a young woman stepped into his office, accompanied by one of his former sailors. The woman was tall, slender, and quite lovely. She had long, wavy black hair that fell in waves to the small of her back, and bronze skin. A native of Meros, a nearby island. She was just the kind of woman he found irresistible.
