Survival Aptitude Test: Sound (The Extinction Odyssey Book 1)

by Sheriff, Mike

  Daoren stared at her like she was the lost child. “You might ask me why I choose truth over fiction.”

  “Ah,” Laoshi said, chucklebucking. “You think we while away our time spinning falsehoods for the Cognos Populi?”

  “I think when it comes to educating the people, you go a finger deep. I wanted to go deeper.”

  Laoshi’s smile hinted at bemusement. “A finger deep,” he said to Heqet, eyebrows arching. “Faint praise indeed, wouldn’t you say, my dear?”

  Heqet’s smile hinted at surprise. “At least you’re able to pull words from his mouth. For me he reserves silence—unless he wants to argue, that is.”

  Daoren ignored her prodding. “Here’s a hard fact for you, Laoshi. If the Libraria started teaching unpopular truths, the Cognos Populi would start writing edicts that weren’t so respectful of your independence.”

  “That’s faint praise of your father’s chosen vocation,” Laoshi said, smile waning. “He did far more than write self-serving edicts, boy. Do you know how many denizens wanted to attend his funeral? Do you know how many had to be turned away because the aerostat couldn’t accommodate them? After what he did for Daqin Guojin and its people, I’d have thought you’d show more respect.”

  The comment sliced into Daoren’s heart, as sharp as shrapnel. In his head, he knew it had merit.

  Lucien had been a proud member of the Cognos Populi. Wearing the purple shenyi fulfilled his life’s dream of serving the people. Over the past few days, Daoren’s pain over his father’s death had clashed with his contempt for the Cognos Populi. The noxious aftereffect of that conflict ate away at his gut and might be contributing to his sense of unbalance.

  He groped for the right words. They still sounded wrong leaving his mouth. “My father was a good man.”

  “You say that as if I didn’t know,” Laoshi said. “What you don’t know is just how good a man he was.” He limped away with Heqet at his side.

  Daoren watched them recede, inch by inch and foot by foot, until a nagging thought burned through his headache. “What am I doing here?”

  The question hung in the air no more than a second before his attention fell on Heqet.

  In contrast to Laoshi’s hobbled gait, her strides struck an elegant mechanical harmony with every swing of her arms. Her twin braids swayed like lustrous pendulums, sweeping across her back and hips. Her toned calves flexed with each footfall. She was just as glinty from behind as from—

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her curious eyes met his.

  Daoren averted his gaze. He cursed himself for getting caught looking.

  While he bathed in his embarrassment, Heqet and Laoshi veered onto a tiled pathway leading to a single-level structure. Five tapered steps led to an unassuming door bracketed by mirrored windows. Faded yellow tiles dressed the flared eaves of a triple-tiered red roof.

  Daoren recognized the structure from his days as a young prospect. It was the chamber of the Primae Librarian, more commonly known as the Temple.

  * * *

  THE TEMPLE LACKED an entry nave. Its solitary door led into an open parlor with a sparse collection of abodewares; two divans, a simple desk, and not one piece of sculpture.

  Daoren surveyed the space. Its lone concession to aesthetics was the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the walls on either side of the door. They provided an unimpeded view of the Librarium’s grounds, including the Spires a few miles to the southwest.

  Thirty feet away, on the opposite side of the parlor, Laoshi and Heqet lingered before a set of gloss-black double-doors.

  “You have simple tastes,” Daoren said.

  “You may think otherwise when you see where I spend most of my time,” Laoshi said. The double-doors swished open. He led Heqet into an antechamber. “Come, boy. Don’t tarry.”

  Daoren eyed the stunted compartment. Its footprint couldn’t be more than forty square-feet, made smaller by its occupants. His palms grew moist. “In there? Why?”

  “You’ll see in due course.”

  “It looks . . . cramped.”

  “You have an issue with small spaces?” Laoshi asked.

  Try as he might, Daoren couldn’t stop another flush of embarrassment from warming his cheeks. He’d sooner go to a watery grave than admit to the psychological shortcoming.

  “It’s all right,” Heqet said. “We won’t be in here long. There’s plenty of air.”

  Daoren gulped two lungfuls of air. He crossed the parlor and entered the antechamber.

  It felt even smaller on the inside. Recessed lights shone in its paneled ceiling, dappling three bare walls. The rear wall boasted a waist-high handrail.

  Laoshi and Heqet gripped the handrail.

  Daoren’s heart rate doubled, compounding his headache’s molten throbs. Icy needles pricked his hands and feet in an unnerving thermal counterpoint. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.

  “Better take a handhold,” Laoshi said, “if you want to maintain your footing.”

  Daoren eyed the handrail. Gripping it meant moving closer to Laoshi and Heqet. He needed space more than stability. He stayed near the doors.

  “Do as he says.” Heqet’s eyes gleamed. “Trust me.”

  The double-doors closed behind Daoren. “I trust no one but myself.”

  Heqet rasplaughed. “Then blame no one but yourself for what happens.”

  The antechamber shuddered. Daoren detected its descent in his stomach—a quavering hollowness that ballooned up his throat and into his head. His sandals broke contact with the floor.

  He shot his arms out to the side, legs pinwheeling for purchase. He rotated, floating free, and locked his panicky gaze onto Heqet.

  Her twin braids stood straight up. Her smirk hinted at glee.

  Laoshi whistled beside her, fingers curled around the handrail. He was still whistling when the elevating chamber’s free-fall descent slowed ten seconds later.

  Daoren sank to the floor and settled onto his hands and knees. He glared up at Laoshi once the motion stopped.

  Laoshi’s smile hiked his beard off his tunic’s lapels. “You said you wanted to go deeper.”

  The double-doors swished open before Daoren. A blackness more total than any he’d ever seen lay beyond them.

  He rose onto wobbly legs and edged to the doors’ threshold. For all he knew, another step would send him to the center of the Earth. He glanced at Laoshi, looking for confirmation it was safe to exit.

  “This is as deep as it gets, Daoren. Welcome to the Void.”

  Daoren stepped into the blackness.

  Lights flared, illuminating a cavernous void that rivaled the size of the Center. From nothingness, jagged rock walls resolved. They enveloped row upon row of glass tables. Hundreds, maybe thousands of objects covered the tables, each spotlit from beneath.

  The sensory overload assailed him from all points of the compass. He stumbled forward, trying and failing to fix his gaze on a single object, then he noticed the arches.

  Crumbling stone arches traced a partial oval along the southernmost wall. They extended at least six hundred feet, encompassing a third of the void’s perimeter. In several sections, the decrepit arches stood three-levels high and topped one hundred-fifty feet. The ruin’s shape implied it had once formed part of a larger, continuous structure, but what was it doing so far below the surface? When was it built? Who had built it?

  Daoren tried to impose order onto the swirling questions, but he couldn’t still his mind. He could only gaze at Laoshi in a bewildered haze.

  “This site was once known as the Roman Colosseum,” Laoshi said. “Untold millennia before Daqin Guojin became the western capital of Mother China, it served as the capital of another great empire.” He motioned to the arches. “An echolocation survey discovered these arches two hundred years ago during the Librarium’s construction. They’re the remnants of a grand stadium built for epic contests—a stadium that the ancients would have called ancient.”

  “And wh
at is it now?”

  “A vault for artifacts discovered during silica-sourcing expeditions around the world. And a place I can study, work, and write without the prying eyes of the ruling caste peering in.”

  Daoren gaped at Heqet. “How long have you known about this place?”

  “Since I came to live with Grandfather.”

  “Did you bring Mako down here?”

  “He had no interest in artifacts,” she said. “And he refused to enter the elevating chamber on the few occasions I invited him.”

  Daoren nodded. Mako’s discomfort with small spaces was more . . . had been more severe than his own. He wouldn’t have set foot in the elevating chamber, at least not without heavy sedation. Still, his brother had known about the Void while he’d been blissfully ignorant. What other secrets may lay buried, beyond his knowing?

  He crept to the closest table. On its transparent surface, three round podiums supported three artifacts. Each steeped in a well of light.

  The first artifact reminded him of a quantum tile. Its canted glass screen attached to a flat, silver base studded with six rows of black keys. Eroded letters and faded numbers flecked the keys.

  The object next to it was the length of his arm. Its slender black neck attached to an hourglass body that shone like polished sandstone. The slimmest part of the hollow body featured two S-shaped slots, suggesting an acoustic purpose. Four knobs jutted from the end of the neck, two per side. Closer inspection revealed a notched plate standing between the S-shaped slots. Four knobs; four notches. Could they have held four connective threads?

  “That’s a Stradivarius violin,” Laoshi said.

  “A what?”

  “A musical instrument. It was discovered seventy-five years ago in a cryocache buried near the city-state once known as Paris. Unfortunately, the strings weren’t preserved, so its voice is forever silenced.”

  Daoren shifted focus to the third artifact, overcome with burning curiosity.

  It, too, was a foreign entity. Thick, squat, and rectangular, the object’s cracked, brown covering encased a sheath of yellowed material.

  He ran his fingers over the covering’s raised letters.

  Biblio Sacra Latina.

  A shiver dimpled his skin. He drew his hand back. “This isn’t made of glass.”

  “It’s a book,” Laoshi said. “One of the earliest ever produced. The covering comes from the hide of a bovine species that once roamed the planet. The interior pages were fashioned from a type of vegetation that could be harvested, replanted, and re-harvested again and again.” He pointed at the acoustic instrument. “The same vegetation from which that was made.”

  Daoren blinked. Laoshi’s words were as foreign as the artifacts. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because your eyes have been closed to the world that once existed, Daoren. Every prospect’s eyes have been closed thanks to the edicts of the Cognos Populi.” Laoshi motioned to the cram of tables. “As you can see, our ancestors had an abundance of materials from which to construct their world. We have sand, and from sand we’ve fashioned our city-state, our clothing, our weapons and aeroshrikes, everything.”

  “If life gives you sand, make glass.”

  “Mako used to say that,” Heqet said.

  “It was our father’s favorite expression.” Daoren peered at Laoshi. “Is this why you brought me here? To see these artifacts?”

  Laoshi rummaged in his satchel. “I brought you here to talk about this.”

  He lobbed a small object to Daoren.

  Daoren one-handed the piece of grooll. He snorted. “You want me, a lowly prospect, to discuss grooll with you, Daqin Guojin’s Primae Librarian.”

  “There’s a method to my madness.”

  Daoren eyed the torus-shaped grooll in his palm. What in Sha’s name did the old man expect him to say?

  “Come, boy. Indulge an old man.”

  Daoren rolled his eyes. He’d play Laoshi’s game if it meant taking a step closer to learning the truth about his brother and father. “It was invented four hundred years ago. Some call it Sha’s Mercy for saving humanity from extinction.” He tossed the piece back to Laoshi. “You know as well as I do that it’s a synthetic, silica-based food.”

  Laoshi caught the grooll. “Is that all you have to say? I thought you were the smarter brother.”

  The barb stung Daoren. “It’s nano-engineered to maximize the surface area of the harvested protein, carbon hydrate, and triglyceride chains, and to minimize the energy required to break their chemical bonds.”

  Laoshi fingered the grooll like he was seeing it for the first time. “Why maximize the surface area of the macronutrient chains?”

  “Caloric equivalence. Maximizing the surface area at the molecular level provides a caloric equivalence that’s thousands of times greater than the caloric content of the unprocessed macronutrients.”

  “And why minimize the energy needed to break their chemical bonds?”

  Daoren tossed Heqet a pleading glance.

  She shrugged, displaying similar confusion over her grandfather’s inquisition.

  “Don’t stop now, boy. Impress me with the depth of your independent study.”

  “To increase metabolic efficiency in the body after it’s ingested,” Daoren said, irked by the prompt.

  Laoshi raised the grooll to his nose and sniffed it. “Shelf life?”

  Daoren released a despairing rasplaugh. How many questions was this damned Librarian going to throw at him? “It’s indefinite,” he said. “The silica substrate is inorganic, and the precursor is bio-stabilized using sixty enzymes derived from living tissue.”

  “Living tissue?”

  “Tissue harvested from living donors,” Daoren said, unable to temper his irritation.

  “Donors?”

  “Prospects who fail the S.A.T.!” Daoren took a deep breath to tamp down his anger. “Is there a point to this method of yours?”

  “Besides proving that you can speak fictions with as much conviction as the Libraria?” Laoshi deposited the grooll into his mouth and chewed. “The ugly truth of Daqin Guojin is that we eat our young. We’ve been doing it for so long, few question the practice anymore. But there’s an uglier truth about grooll that no one ever questions.”

  “We also use it as our currency,” Daoren said.

  “Clever boy.” Laoshi pulled a quantum tile from his satchel. “Come, both of you.”

  He led them past rows of tables to a lumenglass stage standing amid a clearing in the center of the Void. Its black panels shimmered.

  Laoshi mounted the stage with a grunt. He manipulated the tile’s screen as he spoke. “You asked about the forces aligned against you, Daoren. Let me show you what they look like.”

  He tapped the tile and disappeared behind a loom of brilliant white light.

  12

  Gross Manipulation

  JID 736390-112489-ZC-SUP

  PRIMAE JIREN’S EYES ONLY

  SUBJECT: LAOSHI AL EUCLIDIUS

  1. According to Gustar al Vlodisar, the subject spends the majority of his time in a site located beneath the Temple (as the chamber of the Primae Librarian is known).

  2. The subterranean site is part of an archeological preserve that pre-dates the Librarium’s founding. The purpose for the subject’s frequent visits is unknown and raises troubling questions.

  3. Gustar believes the tunnels used to excavate material from the site may be intact. He is investigating their possible locations, all of which lie within the Librarium’s grounds.

  4. While Jireni would be prohibited from using the tunnels and gaining access to the site, Gustar would likely be amenable to investigating the subject’s activities on our behalf if offered a sizable reward.

  Survival Through Sapience.

  Cang alum Aridian

  District Commander, Zhongguo Cheng

  * * *

  THE UNUM SPRAWLED on a low bench in his chamber, seeking distraction in the ceiling’s bas-relief panel
s. It was an old habit.

  He’d picked it up a year after gaining power, around the time his father succumbed to a mental illness. Despite offers of lavish reward and threats of appalling punishment, the city-state’s best medical practitioners couldn’t determine the cause behind the rapid deterioration of cognitive functions in a man for whom the most labyrinthian political calculations had been as effortless as breathing.

  The Unum suspected—then and now—that a neurotoxin was to blame. One derived from the few heavy metals still available to those with the right contacts and sufficient grooll. Mercury, perhaps, or lead. Delivered in trace doses over months or years, the toxin would have gone undetected. The question of who delivered it had also defied diagnosis, but the Unum wagered the Asianoid members of the Assembly could shed light on the mystery.

  At the time of his father’s death, the Unum was no more than a spindly youth, ill-fitted for the demands and responsibilities of rule. During his first year of reign, he’d directed the sum of his political calculus toward retaining power. In those days, the chamber had felt like a gilded tomb, and a vicious whisper-campaign among senior Asianoid members of the Cognos Populi had sought to bury him inside it. He’d spent untold hours staring at the panels, wondering if they’d be the final images he’d process after an assassin’s dagger found him, while he and his younger brother plotted to crush the mutinous factions within the Assembly.

  The Unum heaved a sigh, but only in part from nostalgia. A tomb-like atmosphere had again descended on the chamber. This time he faced it alone. His brother had joined their father in the Great After eighteen months ago under eerily similar circumstances. Mysterious mental illnesses, it seemed, ran in the family.

  After another minute of disquiet, he had to accept that the stirring scenes from the Siege of Havoc weren’t up to the task. The revelation still weighed his mind. Only one distraction would suffice.

  He loosened his tunic and unbuttoned eight layers of gleamglass undergarments. He ran his hand across his bare chest.