Leid opened the window. A blast of cold air punched me in the face before she threw her cigarette out and shut it. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” I sighed, going back to writing. How long was an entry supposed to be? I wasn’t going further than a page.
Leid kissed me on the forehead and stood. “I have a meeting with Adrial. Do you need anything before I go? Water?”
“No.”
“Root juice?”
“Fuck no.”
She stifled a laugh. “Alright, I’ll see you later. Thank you.”
I looked up at her. “For what?”
“Trying.” She glanced at the journal, wearing a tiny smile of gratitude.
I nodded, saying nothing. There really was nothing to say, and heartfelt moments made me uncomfortable. The door closed a few seconds later, and I was left both in silence and woodchips to continue my entry.
No sooner had I reached my page limit and closed the journal, my head nearly exploded with deafening audio feedback. I actually screamed and sank to my knees, clutching at my ears in agony. Attica’s stream flickered; white and blue-hued lines fractured its broadcast. Symbols and other strange script imposed itself onto our threads. Unidentified areas flitted in and out of visual access on our inadequate map of Halon IV. Literally thousands of places magically appeared in a matter of seconds. What the actual fuck?
“What is happening?” I asked no one as the pain and feedback diffused, leaving a dull ache at my temples and a glitched stream. And then I noticed Pariah’s biofeed; it was highlighted critical. He was seconds away from stasis, his resonance pulsing like a beacon.
I bolted out of the room, heading for Yahweh’s lab. Pariah was on the floor next to the desk. He lay on his side, eyes dull and unblinking, staring at nothing. Lelain’s head was also on the floor, having rolled several feet from Pariah, and his outstretched hand suggested that he’d been holding it. A portion of the dead Framer’s cheek was missing, too. The newly-formed crater wasn’t from a clean slice—it was jagged and coarse. Pariah had absorbed the corpse-material.
Pariah’s crimson eyes moved to their corners, ever so slowly, to watch me as I knelt beside him. He said nothing, statuesque, but I saw everything necessary to garner an idea of what was happening.
Pariah’s irises were filled with silver sparks, resembling a plasma dome. I could only wonder what he was seeing right now.
I shouted for the others, both aloud and telepathically.
IX
RECOIL
Regalis Sarine-376—;
INNOVATOR ETANN-428 DID NOT appear surprised by my return to Teleram’s Innovation hub. And if he was, he hid it well.
“Sarine,” he greeted me at the door, dropping formality like we were friendly acquaintances. I bristled at his welcome, as we were barely acquaintances at all. “Innovator,” I responded, curtly.
His eyes scanned the area behind me, as if searching for someone. “Has Dracian brought you for another retraining session?”
“I came out of my own curiosity,” I said with a polite smile, hoping to seem just that; curious. “I spent some time at the Depository yesterday, learning about the athanasian relic. Do you have any retraining threads on that?”
Something happened to Etann’s face just then; a falter in his smile, a glimmer of caution in his eyes. “No,” he said, although I knew he was lying. “The history of the athanasian shard is sheer speculation. Anyone who might have an idea of its origins will tell you something different. Retraining documents relay fact, not lore.”
“Then may I ask what you believe about the athanasian relic? Dracian said our ancestors found it on a world while surveying a system.”
Etann nodded, not in agreement but simply acknowledgement. “And that’s what many say.”
“And what do you say?”
“I’m… hardly an expert on the subject.” He seemed uneasy.
“Do you find it strange that with all of our methods of data collection, we are unable to concurrently recall anything prior to our first cycle?”
With a light sigh, Etann motioned toward his console. “Let’s discuss this in private, shall we? While I can respect a thirst for knowledge, I don’t understand why Dracian insists that you retrain.”
Neither did I.
And, little did he know, that was exactly what I came to find out.
“How long have you worked with Dracian?” I asked, now seated at the console. Etann took the seat at the other side of the station, so that we were facing each other. Gridcast rotated an idle pictograph between us.
“He calls on me every now and then,” said Etann. “Whenever he needs retraining for a case he’s working on. But he never brought anyone else for retraining before. And never regarding such contentious subjects.”
I let that process for a second. “Contentious? The Story of the Twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Please elaborate.”
Etann’s voice lowered, and he leaned in. “The pre-history of the Framer Culture isn’t the type of information handed over freely. The only reason you had access to such a thread was because Dracian allowed it.” His voltaic eyes shifted, making sure no one else was in audible range.
“But our legacy programming comes with that story,” I said, troubled by his display of discretion.
“It does, but for those not assigned to the few titles allowed to retain that information, it fades quickly.”
“Why not just delete it out of the legacy script altogether?” I asked.
Etann smiled humbly. “That would be a question for Architecture and Engineering.”
I fell quiet for a while, disappointed by the lack of answers. Etann only stared at me, awaiting more. “You said Dracian normally doesn’t seek information of this type. Did you find him of normal character when he brought me here?”
The Innovator hesitated with a response, averting his gaze from me and looking toward the console surface. “No.”
“No? In what way was he out of character?”
“You’re starting to sound like an Inspector yourself, Regal.”
I needed to tread more carefully. “I only ask because he seems… unlike others. I’ve never met a Framer so dynamic. He’s very endearing, actually, and I’m as curious to know about him as I am our pre-history.”
Etann let out a soft laugh. “Have you met other Inspectors, Regal?”
“I have not.”
“They have a certain type of demeanor, carved from the role they are given. Methodical, perceptive, but very apathetic to anything beyond expectations of a case. Dracian was just that, up until he brought you here.”
“When did you see him prior?” I asked.
“A cycle ago, maybe a little less.”
“And how did you perceive him to be with me?”
Etann, again, hesitated. “Ardent,” he said, slowly. “I’ve never seen Dracian smile before.”
*
Etann had said that in order to obtain an answer I would have to look toward Engineering, and look toward Engineering I did.
Unlike the Innovator, Scripter Regan-297 seemed extremely surprised when I pinged her an invitation in grid for a private aperture conversation. She declined the request, and I was very disappointed, but then she quickly resent an invitation to meet at the Gallery in Ash’kanir.
Somewhere public, read her note beneath the coordinates.
I was not good at recon. This was not familiar ground, and in hindsight I could see why asking for a private meeting with someone outside of my relevant sector might flag suspicious. But only if someone looked into it.
My carapace flared into reality within the Gallery moments later. Regan was standing next to a booth in the social gathering area we’d passed on our way to the Aphoric Engines. Her welcome was far less warm than Etann’s. She only gazed at me with a nervous frown.
I activated my butterfly avatars, hoping to look less conspicuous among the flamboyant crowd. That was probably not a useful tactic. “Hello again,” I greeted.
“Why did you want to meet?” asked Regan, evading any chance for niceties. Better that way; she was much more conscripted to the indifferent, logical sphere. That was the Engineering sector for you.
“I was speaking to an Innovator about a certain topic, and he suggested I ask someone from the Engineering sector. You are its only member with which I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I figured it was easier to ask you than sending a cold-invite to a stranger from grid.”
The uneasy look melted off her face. “What is the topic, and the question?”
“Why does the Story of the Twelve fragment remain part of our legacy script if the majority of us lose it?”
She stared at me for a long time before asking, “How is that even relevant to anything?”
“It isn’t. I was curious.”
“A Regal, curious about legacy script fragments?” Regan balked. “What for?”
“No reason in particular,” I said, not doing a very good job of lying, or being discrete. But I wasn’t here for that question—it was simply an in. If I received an answer, well, that was just an added bonus.
Underneath the surprise, Regan appeared disappointed. She thought I was here to discuss the severed Feeler with her; and I was, but not in a way that she would expect. She’d assumed I had information regarding it. I did not, and wanted hers.
“The legacy script can’t be altered,” she said after some time. “All we can do is frame the threads to delete at a certain time, depending on role designation.”
“And why can’t you alter the legacy script?”
“Because it is in my legacy fragment that I cannot alter the script. It’s part of the Codemaker’s Law.” She said this with a placid expression.
For the first time in my long existence, I began to think about how our culture was structured. More so the rigidness of the structure. Only now did I realize that information was sifted by the legacy script. Things that were not pertinent to our roles were siphoned out. Each sector knew only certain pieces of the engine that was our society.
But why?
“What were you doing with Inspector Dracian-786 at the Depository earlier?” asked Regan, rousing me from my thoughts.
“He was showing me the athanasian relic,” I said. “I was retrained in the Story of the Twelve.”
Regan looked confused. “I don’t remember that story.”
She wouldn’t. It wasn’t pertinent to her role. “He thought it necessary to relearn some of our history for the case we are working on.” I then changed the subject. “You mentioned a severed Feeler to him. What exactly does severed mean?”
Again, hesitation. Regan’s look told me she was calculating whether or not such things should be disclosed. It shouldn’t, but we were already here, sharing information neither of us should probably know. “I won’t talk about it to anyone,” I assured her. “And Dracian already told me a bit of it.”
“Did he tell you the Feeler was his?” asked Regan.
No, no he had not.
“Yes,” I lied. “I just don’t know what ‘severed’ means. All he said was that it became unresponsive. I would like some clarification from someone who might know all the technicalities.”
“Engineering has never seen anything like it,” said Regan, quietly. “When we found it in his aperture—”
His aperture? As in, the one I was staying in? Shatterstar.
“—It was slumped against the wall on the floor, staring straight ahead. It blinked every now and then, but nothing else. It wouldn’t even look at us. We had Dracian try to command it, but nothing even then. It was sent to diagnostics and I heard up the chain from an Architect that it was empty.”
“Empty?”
“Ninety-percent of its fragments were missing. The only things left were autonomic systems of the carapace. It was as if something had erased them.” Regan paused, harrowed. “Dracian was assigned to the case. I remember that, because I was there when Inspection handed down the order.”
I nodded, saying nothing. Everything was very overwhelming at the moment.
“Sarine,” said Regan, solemn, “I don’t know you well, but I should warn you not to ask too many questions outside the parameters of your role. You might end up in Section Five.”
*
Regan departed shortly after, and I returned to the depository to stare at the athanasian relic once more. I don’t know why I needed to, I just did. Such a tiny chunk of shiny rock and wiring might have seemed insignificant to anyone else, but to me it was profound. It almost called to me, in a way, and I stood there mesmerized as the plasma lighting of the synth-silica casing refracted from the shard. Beautiful.
But the beauty vanished when my temples began to throb. My grid stream flickered, wavered, replaced by an image, or a series of images strung together—;
Bindings, heavy, unrelenting
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe
(A memory? No)
Cold metal, pinpricks, a pinch at my neck
(No)
Obey, it said, Submit.
Burn.
Shatterstar. I’d forgotten all about that. I would have to tend to it later, as there was too much to do.
*
I should have reported my findings to Adon, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the need to know; to understand why Dracian was doing all of this.
He was waiting for me in the aperture when I arrived. I’d evidently been gone long enough to arouse suspicion. He wasn’t at his usual post behind the grid console, but seated beside my replenishing unit. His eyes met mine. He didn’t smile, only stared.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
I then received notification from grid that the aperture had moved into secure mode. I should have been more concerned about him locking me in, but wasn’t. I only repeated my question again.
And again, until Dracian lowered his head and sighed.
“Why did you have to do this?” he murmured. “I thought we were getting along well, didn’t you?”
“We were,” I said. “Until Adon told me that Inspection has no idea you are assigned to our case. He’s threatened to alert Authority and Inspection.”
Dracian’s face finally cracked into a smile, but it was sad. “Well then, we don’t have much time left. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
I didn’t move. “Drace, please tell me what you’re doing. I won’t ask again.”
The smile left and an angry sneer replaced it. It twisted his youthful face into a frightening glitch, the expression itself impossible for his carapace. His irises vanished; blue sparks took over completely. “I’m trying to free us.”
In a beat he traveled from the replenishing station to a pace in front of me. There was no movement in between, only there to here. Dracian’s terrifying display was enough to make me back against the aperture window. Everything Scripter Regan had told me came flooding back, and then I knew the Framer before me was not Inspector Dracian-786. “You’re his Feeler,” I finished that thought aloud. “What happened to the Inspector?”
“Gone,” said the Feeler. “My name is Cassima.”
“Was,” I corrected him.
Cassima laughed. “Not my Framer name; my Novitiate name. Our splinter progenitors.”
I floundered for a response. “But… how? Why?”
“How did a Feeler jump carapaces? Why did I choose you?” Dracian, or Cassima, tilted his head. “Your neurotransference was faulty. Your cycle is corrupted. I came to the Authority meeting after hearing word of hybrids capable of bypassing the Codebreaker sequence. And then I saw you, and your errors.” He took another step forward, now inches from me. “Sarine, please, I need you. I don’t expect you to understand yet, but you will. You’ll remember soon.”
Cassima.
Obey, submit.
Burn.
“No,” I breathed, the fear now palpable in my throat.
“Don’t go to Engineering,” warned Cassima. “They’ll throw you into Section Five. You don’t need to replenish. The only thing it does is erase your memories; keep you stuck in this never-ending, lucid dream.”
“I… I thought Section Five was for—”
“Any and everything that doesn’t follow the program,” he interjected. “Believe me, I was there for thousands of years. The more interlaced with grid you become, the more you remember. It doesn’t want you to remember.”
“It?” I whispered.
“The Codemaker. The Program.”
I didn’t respond, only stared. There was nothing to say—at least nothing I could think of. Everything I’d ever thought about our reality just imploded, and I’d only scratched the surface. And, if Dra—Cassima—was right (which I knew he was, because why else would any of this be happening?) then I was in danger as well. Not just him.
Did this mean the Feelers actually knew about everything, but were subdued; their scripts gutted to the point of permanent silence? How had Cassima kept wholly-sentient? How did—
My spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a burst of audio feedback so loud it caused starbursts behind my eyes. Grid wavered, and I clasped my head. Cassima heard it too, stronger than me. He fell to his knees with a scream.
Seconds later the noxious sound faded, but it’d left a residual ringing in my ears. Once the noise was gone, alarms from our Grid console roared into our audio periphery from the front of Cassima’s aperture. He scrambled to a stand and rushed toward it, reading the alerts.
“Shatterstar,” he muttered, looking at the screen in disbelief. “Sarine, they’ve found a way to integrate their conscious stream with ours.”
“They?”
“The Vel’Haru!” he shouted. I’d thought he was talking about Inspection or Authority. I’d forgotten about my actual assignment. “Look!”
Dysphoria- Permanence Page 7
