Yahweh barked the question at me again. I’d heard him the last time, but not the previous times. Apparently the volume of the orchestra in my head was inversely correlated to how much sleep I was getting.
“Yes,” I hissed, shooting him a look. I held the frame over my head. The surface of the metal was cool; the strings bit into my skin like a crown of thorns. “Flip the switch.”
Pariah watched us at the oscilloscope bench, sipping coffee from a glass mug. We’d forbid him from going anywhere near the shards. He didn’t seem to mind.
Yahweh did as I commanded from his post behind the amplifier. At first everything felt right—the gentle hum, the pinpricks of the strings and the loading sequence initiating message appearing within my conscious stream. However, the hum turned into scorching heat and the pinpricks into knife stabs as violent jolts of electricity threatened to turn my brain into mush.
I clenched my teeth and ripped off the frame. “Motherfucker!”
Yahweh killed the amplifier. “What happened?”
“The levels are too high. What frequency did you set it at?”
“The frequency you told me to,” replied Yahweh, annoyed.
“Which was…?”
“0.876 quaedrons.”
“I said 0.576 quaedrons! Are you trying to kill me?”
“Maybe,” muttered Yahweh.
“You two need to calm down,” advised Pariah, taking another sip of coffee.
We both gave him a death glare, saying nothing.
“Alright,” I sighed, massaging my head, “set the frequency to 0.576. Let’s try this again.”
***
Leid Koseling—;
“Here again,” said Zira, shoving his hands into his pockets with a shiver. He squinted against a blast of Gantzt’s cold air.
We were back at the fortress bridge, a layer of ice having spanned the surface of the riverbed and lake. I knew what he was thinking, here was not safe, yet nowhere was safe anymore if what Sarine had said was true. They would find us regardless—;
But how they would find us was still within our control.
Zira cast a somber gaze toward the tree line, where flocks of hidden azgans shrieked into the pale pink and blue horizon. I was not looking there, but toward the midciv ruins hung from the jagged mountains, cutting the sky like teeth.
“Not here,” I said, and he followed my gaze. “There.”
From my peripherals I saw Zira look down at me, then back at the ruins. He surrendered a brisk nod.
The trek was long and arduous, and numerous times either myself or Zira mis-stepped and nearly toppled off the cliff-face. We had our scythes out, using them to stab the rocks like one might a pickaxe, but even then our bodies were assaulted by torrents of wind that whipped us around like dual flags. Of everything which I was capable, flight was not one of them. If only Qaira or Yahweh were here. Zira lamented that thought more than once on our ascent.
I had to make sure this was the right place. We could not make a decision until I saw inside; gauged the playing field. It needed to be as difficult to reach for the Framers as it was for us. So far so good.
Hours later, as nightfall covered the icy terrain, we mounted the disc-shaped landing of the ruin. Its once smooth metallic base was marred with rust and dents from storm debris, lurched at a thirty-five degree angle off the mountain peak. Zira collapsed the moment we reached it, his scythes digging into the floor to keep him from sliding away. I took a few steps forward, peering into the dark tunnel beyond the landing.
“Wait,” gasped Zira, still trying to catch his breath. His black hair was peppered with frost, as was his scholar coat. His face was beet red. “I can’t feel my arms.”
I’d looked back at him with impatience, but seeing his state made my frustration wane. I was tired too, but he was not me. I’d pushed him too far.
I knelt behind Zira and wrapped my arms around his back. He flinched at my touch and stared back in surprise as I rubbed his shoulders, trying to get some warmth into them.
“Just a little further,” I whispered in his ear. “We’ll find something for you to absorb inside. Staying out here won’t help.”
Poor Zira—he’d spent so long dejected that he didn’t know how to handle any form of affection. All he did was avert my eyes and nod solemnly. “Lead the way.”
The tunnel went on for half a mile before opening into an expansive, deteriorating avenue. There had once been a city here, made evident by the carved out laminate roads, staircases and doorways sculpted from the cavern walls. Inside these doors were living abodes. Screens, now inactive, and other forms of higher tech suggested the citizens had lived more than comfortably. There were gardens, too, of stone carvings. Plaques, like gravestones, sat on each street corner. We couldn’t read what they said innately as it was a dead language, and neither of us had the energy to bother translating it in attica.
The city went on forever, burrowing further and further into the mountain. There was a metal, cylindrical bridge that connected two peaks.
I’d seen enough.
We sat on one of the staircases, replenishing with chunks of a plaque.
“Will this do?” asked Zira, casting me a sidelong glance.
“Yes.”
“If we bring the fight here, the caves might collapse on us.”
“The caves are reinforced with metal.”
Zira seemed unconvinced. “I’ve seen noble powers lay waste to entire cities.”
I stared at him, and he at me. “We’ll see,” I said then, my tone suggesting that he watch his own. All he did was grin.
“Let Adrial and Aela know the search is off,” I said. “We’ve found our battlefield.”
Zira sighed. “Qaira’s going to be ecstatic. He hates this place.”
“So?”
“So I’m not looking forward to hearing him bitch about it for days on end.”
I let out a short laugh and stood.
“Should we place an obelisk here?” asked Zira.
“No. I don’t know if the Framers can use them. We’ll have our winged counterparts next time, so it’ll be easier.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll meet you back at Cerasaraelia.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, snapping my fingers and sending him back to the fortress before he could inquire any further. I captured the coordinates of the ruins into attica before blinking out of there myself.
Just one more thing to do.
*
Belial was having dinner with Samnaea at his manor when I materialized in one of the dozen vacant seats at his insultingly-long dinner table. The Demon Commander jumped out of his own seat with a startled cry, while his wife only blinked at me.
“Hello,” I said, reaching for a glass and pouring myself some wine.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Belial, holding his chest to gesticulate near-cardiac arrest. “Couldn’t you have at least knocked on the door?”
“I was told to keep a low profile, remember?”
“How did you do that?” he demanded, gathering his wits and returning to his seat. “I thought you had to use portals, or something.”
“Not anymore, at least not me.” I took a sip of wine. “I’ve changed a bit, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he muttered. “Your eyes look different every time I see you. What did you do now, swallow a taser?”
“Leid, with what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Samnaea, placating her husband. Even from her seat it was obvious that she was very pregnant.
“I would like something,” I began, looking between them. “Do you still oversee Tehlor’s entertainment business?”
Belial shrugged. “Not directly, but I’m the Commander, so sure. What would you like?”
I told him, and he laughed. After that he asked me to stay for dinner, and I did. Upon my departure I told him we would be vacating The Atrium within the next couple of days. H
e promised to deliver what I’d asked before that, and then wished me good luck.
And for once, it really seemed he meant it.
***
Qaira Eltruan—;
“Somebody just fucking kill me now,” I sighed, placing my head on the table. This was my response to learning that we were returning to Gantzt. “Just end it, please.”
Zira rolled his eyes.
“Oh, the melodrama,” said Adrial, eyes glued to the attica cast that showed the midciv ruin map. Then to Leid, he said, “Are you sure it’s safe? It looks to be barely hanging on.”
“That’s what I said,” added Zira.
“It’s reinforced with thick steel, right into the cliff-face. It’s not going anywhere,” assured my wife. “It’s a difficult climb with only one entrance. Perfect for what we need.”
“When do we leave?” asked Yahweh.
“That all depends on you,” said Leid. “How’s the progress on our uniform upgrades?”
“Close,” I said. “Another day at most. We’re planning the demonstration for tomorrow.” I shot a look at Yahweh. “If my partner doesn’t kill me first.”
Yahweh’s face twisted up. It was exactly the response I’d been looking for. “If you’d make your instructions clear, I wouldn’t have to guess.”
Pariah leaned into a hand. “And here we go again.”
“Does eight and five sound like the same thing?” I snapped. “I don’t know how clearer I can be.”
“I think we need some rest,” interjected Aela, looking to our leaders for help.
Leid and Adrial nodded concurrently. “We’ve done well; enough to reward ourselves with some sleep. We’ll pick back up at dawn. Two more days.”
With that foreboding announcement, the court was adjourned. We dispersed for the dining room to get an actual meal. No one stuck around, instead we loaded our plates and disappeared to our private quarters.
Anxiety had formed a knot in my stomach. Although I was starving, my appetite was non-existent and everything tasted like wet cardboard. My head was filled with knives, stabbing my brain to the delightful tune of a Nehelian symphony.
I swallowed my medicine, wishing I could curl in bed and sleep forever. The drive to finish our project warred against exhaustion. I ate what I could, then the medicine made me dizzy so I laid in bed—Alezair’s bed, since Leid’s room was still totaled—and stared at the ceiling, wondering how the fuck I’d ended up like this. Most of the time I was too occupied to dwell on the fact that I was both sick and a potential liability to others if I couldn’t keep my shit together.
Unfortunately there was nothing to keep me from thinking about it whenever I tried to sleep. It was a Catch-22; the less sleep I got, the crazier I felt, but how could I sleep when attempting to do so reminded me that I was crazy?
I sat up, clutching my head with a snarl.
Fuck this, and fuck the medicine. Everything was fine when I’d had malay.
Just as I’d thrown off the covers to do something I probably would later regret, the door opened and Leid appeared.
I froze.
And so did she after noticing my expression, sensing something was amiss.
My eyes lowered to the black cases in her hands. “Are those—?”
Leid came into the room and closed the door behind her, setting the cello and violin cases on the floor. “Belial acquired these for me from Tehlor. It appears you need something to take the edge off.”
The bedroom faded around us, Eroqam’s music room filling in the empty space. She had saved me once with music, and here we were again.
“Would you like to play?” asked Leid, snapping me out of my fugue.
The symphony in my head was gone. All that was left was the sound of my heart.
“Yes.”
XVII
LABYRINTH OF COILS
Cassima Shard—;
SCRIPTER REGAN’S CARAPACE GAVE ME ACCESS INTO places of which I’d only dreamed. She hadn’t been honest with neither Sarine nor I, having been assigned to a team whose sole purpose was finding a way to harvest Feeler script to feed the Vector engines without having to keep us around.
And this was all before I had escaped Section Five. I couldn’t have done so at a better time.
Orders from the Reticulum were passed. The program wanted to limit the number of Feelers allowed to ‘live’ in the Halon Supercluster. With how long we’d existed—and how long we would continue to exist—our numbers would eventually outgrow those of the drones still capable of program manipulation. Why not just throw the encumbered into a machine that chewed us up and digested our script to keep the engines running?
Regan had been so invested in the ‘rogue Feeler’ investigation because she believed she was the one who’d caused it. The return of my sentience was due to a glitch that occurred while the architects had experimented on Feeler scripts in an attempt to have them self-destruct at a designated cycle. The experiments were supposed to have taken place in a non-reflex mode but somehow one of the trials had seeped into our scripts. Why it had affected only me was still a mystery—one that I wasn’t particularly interested in solving.
Therefore I had no qualms with taking Architect Durian-345 after a de-briefing on the status of the ‘rogue feeler’ investigation.
The Reticulum was a vector like no other I’d visited. Its gateway was hidden in plain sight within the Teleram Gallery, visible only to those with certain permissions. Scripters did not have such permissions, but the Architects exclusively operated there. The gate itself, situated just a little ways from Etann’s previous dwelling, was distinct. The gate frame was coiled with white plasma, its placard held symbols warning of unauthorized entry, giving off a curious blue-violet glow. Humbling to think I had passed by it dozens of times, imperceptible even to my Feeler eyes.
I stood at the gate, conflicted. Once I crossed the threshold, there was no turning back—no second guessing. And I’d never see Sarine again. I only wished she’d remembered before reaching this point.
But the longer I stood here the stranger I looked; to anyone besides an architect, I appeared to be staring at an empty space on the gallery, frozen in place. Surely they would be coming for me soon. Best not to make their job easier.
“I promise that if anything goes wrong, I’ll fix it.”
Here went nothing.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped into the light.
*
The Reticulum Cloister environment mimicked old midciv temple ruins beneath a night sky. It had even generated stars. Taking in the scenery, sadness weighed heavy on my chest. I knew this place; the Garden of Thasadem. The sadness quickly turned to indignation.
How dare they?
Slithering vines pulsed open and closed along serrated pillars and broken statues as I traversed the decaying path. It meandered chaotically, floating on nothing but dark space. A halo of light traced every step. Whomever had dreamt up this vector held a twisted memory of the garden—one that had turned nightmarish. Which Feeler was it? Perhaps a copy of me, crying out from their hollowed carapace, knowing what was wrong but unable to act.
I was surprised by the lack of Framers. It was only me here; but the Reticulum was vast and architects seldom left their headquarters.
The scenery made me uneasy, and so I hastened my pace. Throwing caution to the wind I began showing my true colors (for no one), leaping from ledge to ledge across recesses rather than following its time-consuming curvature.
Another gate came into view. I checked Grid to see where it would lead, as strangely it didn’t possess a placard. Grid was inactive.
There was nothing on Grid.
I had reached the heart of the program, where script was moving outward; never within.
Unable to process this, I froze, looking back toward the way from which I came. My eyes relaxed and I saw that I was wrong—there was script here, but it was legacy and jumbled, flitting through this version of reality like the epitaph of a dead world.
None of this was what I’d expected of the Reticulum. It was supposed to be more… organized. This place looked like a broken collection of tainted memories. The heart of the program was diseased, and justly so.
I studied the unlabeled gate for a second more before passing through, emerging on the other side to the sound of blaring alarms.
***
Regalis Sarine-376—;
I bowed my head in respect of the Halons II and IV Regals. The IQD symposium had grown thrice-fold in headcount since my envoy.
The last three-quarters of an hour were spent debriefing the attendees of my attempt at tracking the Vel’Haru obelisks. They had scripters and architects working on the resonating-signature map Cassima had constructed while in Dracian’s carapace. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be able to discern their activity. Hopefully Leid and her ilk took my advice, or we would both be in a lot of trouble. For now, I did my best to spin the truth.
“I traced the coordinates to The Atrium,” I continued, after having spent some time explaining the functionality of Cassima’s map. The Regals followed along on my expanded gridcast from a lectern in the center of the room. “An obelisk is located there, having shown recent activity. The world is inhabited by a winged species collectively called Celestials. From evidence gathered in Exo’daius and from speaking to these Celestials myself, the Vel’Haru have a sort of covenant with them.”
“What kind of covenant?” asked Genzophi, intrigued.
“The Vel’Haru call themselves the Court of Enigmus, claiming the title of Scholars. The hundreds of obelisks situated across Sims 1 through 13 each represent a covenant with that particular world. They teach them things, or offer protection. I get the feeling they are a governing body of sorts.”
Like us, said everyone’s expressions, but no one dared to speak that aloud. How could we want to destroy something so much like us, was what I wanted to ask, but I knew the answer: fear. If they were like us, they could replace us, and that was at the forefront of everyone’s minds.
Dysphoria- Permanence Page 13
