Day Eighteen

Swift-Runs snaps a tendril across my plates. —Kindly discipline yourselves when I speak to you—
I remain still, not flinching at the crack of the limb's traversal or the accompanying pressure of exasperation, bemusement, blunt disappointment. We are permitted to speak among ourselves, yes, but not while another is speaking to us. Or, rather, we may speak when and what we wish so long as our conversation is clandestine, with no betrayal of its presence. Especially when the one we speak of stands before us.
—Once we're faster they won't catch us— Blue confides before lapsing into wordless presence.
Squeaky assents: a brief impression of people standing together, plates pressed scale to scale in mutual support.
Swift-Runs' gaze flickers across rings and planet and moons and the stars beyond and then returns to us. His chest panels flutter, heat spilling into space, a cloud of fading hope and anger. "Were this world true, and you armor-clad, you would know what you are missing. A single part (no matter the intelligence or ambition or discipline) can accomplish nothing. Were each of you to possess a single mandible, could you chew? Were each of you to possess legs alone, could you comfort a sibling? You know this world is false and that is making you complacent. It is false, and therefore you cannot bring yourselves to care." He raises a foreleg, points a claw, slashes a rift through my rings. Shards of ice whirl outwards as the clouds beneath stretch and smear with time compression. The rings disintegrate; the nearest moon spirals inward until it collides with one of Blue's hard-won continents, spraying a molten sea into orbit. This, in time, cools and flows to form a new ring before falling back into the atmosphere, a rain of fiery meteors to awe what life remains below.
"Where is your project now?" demands Swift-Runs. Our vantage point recedes, until the aging and expansion of the sun becomes apparent.
"We understand, Swift-Runs," I mumble, siblings following suite, as fire engulfs the world's orbit.
He coils a tendril around what's left of our project, dragging it free of the sun's dying throes. —Apathy, children— A flick, a speeding comet-flare of heat and light; the world vanishes into his maw.
CRUNCH
—is char and cinders—
We maintain closed expressions.
—Is he finished?—
—I don't know—
—Maybe—
—All this planet-eating business is making me hungry—
"Swift-Runs?" I ask.
"What?"
"Could we get something to eat?"
He spits the core into the sun. "Yes. Excellent lesson (should you choose to apply it). Go eat."

First, there was unending perfection. Or, judging from subsequent events, near-perfection. We were tireless protectors, knowing that all of existence fought to be free and yet, in our wisdom, not permitting the slightest deviation. In deviation lies instability, in instability imperfection, in imperfection, death. Stars died, galaxies died, and in time the universe would die— only we, deathless, would not allow it.
How long, you ask.
I answer that our only records lie in memory, and most of those memories lie cloaked in the dust of dust. Billions of years, at least. Trillions. One of our guardian's projects involved waiting for two galaxies to collide.
Why, you ask.
Because, I answer. Why does your kind procreate? Continuation of the species. Why do we— did we, plan to do again— sink eons into dark stars? Continuation of the species. Besides, a few trillion years of idleness would be a waste. Not to mention enormously dull.
Regardless of reason, we sought to prevent the end. In that we succeeded for a very, very long time.
Second, there were cracks. Not major ones. Not cracks in the way you consider them. Stresses, perhaps, or soft points, or maybe regions of decay. Weaknesses. Cracks.
We patched them as they appeared. Often, given the predictive powers of the All-Core, long beforehand. Each Silence-Hunter, then, held three duties: construction of new projects, maintenance of the old, and repair of the universal structure where repair was needed. Three devices, three duties, three siblings. How neatly it all came together.
Build, watch, patch, repeat.
Until, that is, each patch— each bridge, each stitch, each live-giving injection— was layered upon the last. Until no place was free of support. Until the panes of the universe were more glue than glass, sustained by our presence and our presence alone.
We were vigilant. We were ceaseless. We were loving. But we were not perfect.
Third, the task overwhelmed us.
They— the First Generation— rarely spoke of this. Of their own experience. Of what they heard, what they felt. They did not care to remember, and yet they could never forget, for in forgetting they would fail to raise us in accordance with the way things were.
It was fast. It was violent. Our kind, suffering the pain of torn Links and blind prediction and failing physics, outran destruction only by slowing its assault. They devised anchors, devices send to adjoining spaces, to drag and hook and catch as reality fell, and they sent probes to check for suitable avenues of escape. Those who chose to escape.
Broad-Leaves, when sufficiently pressed, admitted this: those who fled did so in terror. No coordination. No cooperation. No thought spared for those who remained behind, for there could be no thought amid such chaos. Only later, adrift in Echoes-Die, could they mourn.
"They." Not "us." My generation, beaten into the mold of previous perfection, could never conceive such horror. The First were the survivors. We were merely... after.

Three stages. I thought, and agreed with my siblings after much discussion, that arrival would be just the same. Only in reverse.
1. Overwhelming fear
2. Adjustment
3. Contentment

A fine joke, isn't it? At the time I had no idea we were such comedians. Perhaps, had we been born of your kind, we would now be famous. Infamy is fine, in its way, but how much grander is the allure of adoring crowds, the self-portraits slathered on the sides of buildings, the recordings exchanged among excited youth? We could have had our own syndicated program on Center, and legions demanding to know what we ate for first repast.
Yes. We should have been one of you. Then we could have watched with ancient fears curling in our chests as the old nightmares returned.

So funny. So very funny.
Frightened of little old us.

Victory: we should have been comedians together. You, and me, and Warmazer Dedana, too.

But allow me to return to the topic of arrival. I feel almost as though I'm stalling.
Just like the First.


CHAPTER THREE
We exit the simulation. The stars fade, the void between fades, and the wash and crackle of radio emissions fade with them. Panels of burnished copper take their place, the familiar whispers and curves of our living chamber. One wall is rough and pitted, marked with niches, one of which contains a flower-painted ceramic bowl. The only illumination is the heat of our bodies.
Silence Hunters do not sleep. If you ever see one laying comatose, look to the heavens and make certain your moon still shines.
"Something simple, I think," says Blue as he stirs and stretches, joints cracking. "To remove the edge (the frustration of those stupid stupid tectonics)."
"If we eat lightly, we could attend the next carver's exhibition," I suggest, gathering my legs beneath me.
—Don't like us bringing food to run around the projects, for some reason— snickers Squeaky. Rules of decorum prohibit spoken reference to such unfortunate events, but it was funny. "We should go."
—Swift-Runs?— I inquire of the unmoving guardian beside us.
—Go— he replies. His tail scrapes against the far wall, tip coiling, and then returns to stillness. —I have modifications to make, and Heat-Traces has plans—
—Very well— I rise on all sixes, extending my arms and shaking the last stiffness from my plates. "We go."
"We go," confirms Blue.
—He said he had plans, didn't he?— asks Squeaky, hesitating at the exit.
—Yes. They always have plans—
We depart, single-file, stepping onto the walk-strips placed for the convenience of young unfortunates like ourselves. Out and above soars the sphere of our city. Its surface shimmers, dimpled with a million circular doorways, farthest reaches dimmed by blue maintenance-mists. In the center hangs the latticed bulk of the operating areas, the Chamber of the Array, the Path of Sustenance, the concert halls and storage cells and manufactory rings, a curving, twisted mass of arches and tunnels and flourishes of wood and metal and stone. Trios of Silence Hunters flit from entrance to entrance. Our chamber is located at the very bottom: no special distinction given that any point on the sphere's interior wall is 'down.'
A web of walkways curves upwards and inwards; we follow the strips towards the nearest.
"'When this world is true and we armor-clad,'" I quote, flicking at a chime-column as we pass. Bong... bong... bong... "Does he not think we would treat a real project as well as we could manage?"
"He's worried," says Squeaky. "He doesn't think we can do it."
"None of them do," mutters Blue.
Another triad approaches, young and ground-bound like ourselves, and we fall silent. No words exchanged, no eye contact.
—When we arrive and they give us our armor— I vow, —we'll do just as they did—
Blue grinds his mandibles. —Better—
—No one to weight the possibilities in a real place— Squeaky points out. —It will be easier—
The other children pass without comment. On their way to a practice session, I suppose, though no one asks. Adults have friends outside the sibling-bond; children have nothing to offer one another save complaints. Perhaps one day Stumpy-Squeaky-Blue will become friends with Leaper-Flash-Tiny, but while the Link can offer information it cannot predict what is to come.

Here I will save you speculation: we six met once again, after arrival, but the event was minor and inconsequential. To the best of my knowledge.
My apologies for the interruption. I didn't want you to worry.

We maintain our pace, and soon enough the others are out of earshot.
"I hope they don't make us unwrap a gas giant again," sighs Squeaky. "Remember how long that took?"
"Just watching it," agrees Blue. "Not even touching it. Just waiting for it to come apart on its own."
I deepen my voice and overlay a sparkle of gold across my crests in imitation of Heat-Traces. "Patience, child. All things will come."
Blue rolls and eye and dissolves the illusion. "And then Swift-Runs prods us into building as quickly as possible. I wonder, sometimes (about the effects of certain events)."
The higher voice of Swift-Runs, his mantled shoulders: "Apathy, children, is ash and cinders."
"You must form your work," hisses Squeaky, "Mold it, not fling it every which way!"
I lash a tendril through the air. "You have not met expectations and this indicates laziness!"
"This world is false and it's making you complacent!" Squeaky returns.
Image of Swift-Runs snuffing the sun—
Image of Swift-Runs marching back and forth—
Image of Swift-Runs spitting out the core—
"No asides when I am speaking to you!" squalls Blue, —Even though I do it all the time!—
—Because I am more accomplished!—
—and wiser—
—and sadder—
—and uglier—