I maintain my own decorum only by calling up the dullest treatise on void-cutting I can find. Reams of technical jargon and explanatory recordings spill through the Link and into a now suitably distracted mind, although one or two choked whistles escape.
"What are you doing?" demands Blue. He leaps ahead of us, smashing gracelessly onto an adjacent strip, and flails all six arms in crude mockery of ocean waves. "There's work to be done! Why are you laughing? (You're not allowed to laugh at such disrespectful things!)"
Adjust the backspin to prior levels and knot each cold-tendon back into its proper place, making certain not to overstep the existential limits of-- kkkkkgh.
—Hold, Blue, please— I beg, unable to speak through a paralyzed vocoder, —Someone might call us out—
He glances upwards at the city center. —True—
—And what if Swift-Runs heard us?— Squeaky adds, swallowing what chuckles remain.
—He's still working in Linkspace— I reply, though not without an ear primed for the sound of approaching footsteps or the whoosh of armor through air, —He can't hear anything except the drone of Heart-Eaters—
—Why are you laughing?— inquires a new voice, weighted with the familiar resonance of years.
—Oh no—
Broad-Leaves.
He drops from above, outline wavering with the tell-tale heatglow of armor in operation. A comet, perhaps, or a rogue sun, movement all but silent. We step back, crowding the edge of the strip, as he slows to hang just above our heads.
"Off to eat, are you?" he says, arms fanning above folded legs, —Time to assuage your mistakes?—
"Yes, Broad-Leaves," replies Squeaky. He doesn't bother to crane his neck, instead rolling his eyes to peer straight up. "We were hungry."
"And we were planning to attend the carver's exhibition," I add. "To learn."
—Not to release some delectable near the dust statics?—
—No, Broad-Leaves—
He drifts to the left and halts flight, unfurling his legs just in time to land with a trio of staggered thuds. "Very good. Shall I join you?"
Blue stares up at the center; a chorus of tinkling chimes rings from somewhere above and then fades. "If you wish."
"So I wish."
"Then it is done."
—So much for our repast— I sigh to my siblings, out of Swift-Run's field of vision.
"Squeaky," says Broad-Leaves, taking up solitary position behind us as we resume our walk, "there is a work at the exhibition by a friend of ours, one of whom was much like yourself (all his effort spent assisting others, no work of his own). They cite their early problems as incentive towards greater effort."
Squeaky nods. "I am duly encouraged."
"They are a tribute and an inspiration," agrees Broad-Leaves.
"Oh, yes."
"Why, even in the worst of times (no reminders needed) they always held to their optimism, their faith in themselves (as artists) and others (as coworkers and friends). Blue, Stumpy, you would do well to learn from your sibling's example (he does what he is asked, and cheerfully)." He scrapes a foot across the strip, as though reminding us that such surfaces are not needed to one of his age. "When you, too, are armored and able to hear the echoes-to-come, such faith will serve..."
He halts.
I twist my neck around, siblings doing likewise. "Broad-Leaves?"
—Why stop?—
—Is he testing us?—
—What do you feel? What—
—LISTEN— he snarls, eyes darting.
We listen, as the center creaks and sings above our heads. The fluttering of ornamental masts. The layered strains of a concert, chant and footfall and mechanical rumble. The hollow conversation of thousands, a hissing murmur that permeates all of the city sphere. The trickling of the mists.
Nothing added. Nothing removed.
No.
No, it is impossible to remove nothing. Something must be taken, if there is to be any removal at all.
"The engines," whispers Squeaky.
The ontodynamics— their slow sibilation, gentle as wind— have stopped.
Twenty-three years. Thirteen that I remember. During that span, the engines never stopped.
One moment exchanging jokes, one moment enduring lectures, one moment discovering that your battery has failed and your pulse gone silent.
We're here, children. Now what?
"Stars," I gasp.
Broad-Leaves' glossy faceplate reflects my own. "What?"
—Stars real stars we're here and so are they—
—If the engines are off— wonders Blue, —that means we've arrived—
—and now Echoes-Die is gone— continues Squeaky
"—and now there are real stars!" I finish.
Broad-Leaves, after a long pause, nods. "Yes. Stars. But first we—"
"We should go," says Squeaky, tail whipping, "and look at them. Listen to them. So that... so that we know they're there."
I have to be certain: I check the Link.
—ARRIVAL REVERSION ARRIVAL ALL VAULTS SAFE ARRIVAL ARRIVAL—
—WE'RE HERE WE'RE HERE—
—WHERE ARE THE OTHERS THEY SHOULD BE HERE TO GREET US—
—NO ACTION UNTIL WE KNOW IT'S SAFE CHECK THE LOCAL GEOMETRIES—
—SO QUIET IT'S SO QUIET—
—SO LOUD—
—SO OPEN SO FOREIGN SO PROMISING SO BEAUTIFUL OURS OURS—
Images flood my consciousness: the obsidian of space, flecked with sparks of light and cloud, the hard point of a slow-spinning world and the glow of its sun. Constructs as familiar as the vault itself. Nothing special. Just space.
Except that this is no recording. No picture.
This is real.
"We should go," Squeaky repeats. "There are exits, right?"
"Exits," muse Blue. He unwinds the tendrils of an arm and stares at them, as though he could leap through their coils into the void. "We could... go out. Outside the vault. Into space."
"Real space," I insist. "It's real space."
Squeaky loops an arm around one of Broad-Leaves' legs. "Could we go find a—"
—STOP IT—
Broad-Leaves rears away, lifting a hands-span into the air.
We recoil; the words are accompanied by crushing pressure, fear and stress and uncertainty fluttering around the edges.
"There are things we must do," he says, voice tight. "Questions we must answer. No one (NO ONE) is to leave the vault."
I want to argue: there's so much out there, all new, all true, all the wonders we have learned so much about and never touched.
But we cannot argue. Something is wrong, for Broad-Leaves— for everyone, I can feel it— to be so afraid.
"What questions?" I finally manage.
"We want," begins Broad-Leaves, and then halts. He lifts higher, head tilting, and then sighs. "We want to keep everyone safe (to keep you safe). No one is leaving— not even the adults. Not yet."
I know the response. I know that it will do no good.
Still, I repeat, "What questions?"
"The only questions we have yet to answer," replies Swift-Runs. He approaches from behind, chest panels stuttering. —Now return to the living chambers, and stay there. We do not have time for personal inquiry, not now, not while all remains crucial—
—But our food— Blue protests, a complaint heard by Squeaky and myself alone.
We will complain, yes, but only among ourselves.
Also: we will go hungry.
Kshht. Kshht.
“I like to think we have some sort of valuable input.”
Kshhhhht.
“Some sort of insight, or perspective, or new approach, you know?”
Ksht-ksht-ksht.
“New place, new approach. Or the old one with some new changes. I mean, they keep reminding us we weren't raised like them. That has to count for something.”
Kshhht.
“Besides, no one knows anything here. If we were to go off and find some new incredible thing, it would be a new incredible thing and not something they've found already.”
I put the chisel down. “Like what?”
Blue drums his claws on the floor. “I don't know. That's the point.”
Stone shavings are clogging my river. I brush them away, scattering flakes of beyond-red across my folded legs. “Even if they don't know everything, they still know more than us.”
“That's only because the have the All-Core.”
“Which we don't have.”
“I still think they could at least tell us what they're planning
“I don't know that they're planning anything. Not yet.” I set my world-sphere against the wall, a lumpish piece of rock not so much a sphere anymore with most of its left half missing. It begins to roll towards Squeaky, slumped in a heap in the fifth corner, and I halt it with a foot. “They've moved the vaults, put up the barriers, and named Echo-Source. What else is there to do until we know more about what should be done?”
Squeaky thumps his tail and sighs. “Let us see the stars, maybe?”
“Or figure out who built that thing Deep Carillon found, or why there aren't any other Silence Hunters here, or what happened to them if they were here.” Blue picks up my chisel and inspects it edge-on. “I think something ate them.”
“Maybe they were never here in the first place,” I suggest.
“No, no. Something definitely ate them. Probably a long time ago.”
“So long ago that animals learned to build little miniature vaults?”
“Yes.”
I consider that proposition for a moment. “But if something ate them— and I'm not saying something did— then it's good thing we're staying behind our walls, then. Because whatever it was might still be around
A nameless horror because nothing exists to give it a name, shapeless because nothing exists to give it a shape, something vast and amorphous and cold as rejection, Echoes-Die itself given life. But not life, oh, no, nothing so ordered. A monstrous semblance only, a lie that feeds on what's solid and real. It moves in absolute silence, save for the low, hideous gargle of distilled screams.
Blue stops tapping. “You don't think?”
“I do.”
“No.”
“If there's anything that ate them, it would have to be something like that.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of... a big mouth. A really big mouth. With teeth.”
A non-creature of terrors, all mouth, all teeth, all gaping maw and mandible. Touch it and away goes your hand, taken as sustenance... and you won't even notice it's gone. Because, by then, you'll be dead. More than dead-- never alive in the first place, your whole life erased and—
< Stumpy, I think you're done now. Please be done >
< You thought of it >
< Yes, but I didn't elaborate >
To place events in context, I now bring to your attention a rather famous document. Warmazer Dedana secured a copy for me some years ago, at my request, and I include it in this narrative both to encourage understanding and to honor the risk she took in smuggling these words to me. Smuggling anything to me, in fact. Even a Firebird is not above the whims of law.
> Incidence Report, Date 6-11, 362 Kia, 2994 Central
Origin BlazeSail Nimble Tidings
Mission successful. More so than anticipated.
In brief:
Arrival in unexplored system SSAI-P267-F4163-R24-A9-4508-1 “Inra's Brood” went as planned. All planets surveyed. Evidence of a Primitive-level society discovered on the third moon of the fifth planet (full survey details available in attachment). No contact was made. Remained in orbital surveillance for 2.8 days, and during this time compiled the standard reports (also attached, though incomplete for reasons detailed below). Determined that the native sapients were indeed Primitive and no threat.
HOWEVER
During the last eighth of the third day contact was made with what appeared to be a vessel of unfamiliar design. There was no warning regarding appearance, and no indication of a standard Jump. The vessel was by best estimation (difficult to ascertain: recordings enclosed but unreliable due to “hazing” effects that obscured the vessel's surface) built in the form of a large sphere, at least six million wingspans in diameter, without protrusions or other external devices of any kind, and colored a uniform bronze. If it noted our presence it made no attempt to open communications.
THE ENCOUNTER
instead waited for a span of some seconds before the surface of the moon boiled away. The destruction was uniform, world-wide, and instantaneous. What weapon or what unknown race of mazers was used to do so is unknown. At this point Nimble Tidings elected to depart orbit. Damage tallied. Reports composed.
Summary:
Primitive species discovered in named system. Decidedly non-Primitive device discovered in named system. Primitive species and native moon destroyed by device. Origin of device unknown. Means of such action unknown. Reason for such action unknown.
Actions:
Request for further investigation and cautionary preparation of all scouting sails for repeat incidence.
Request for naming of Encounter: Inra's Burning Ball.
Request for use of shipboard leave.
>Filed and Authorized by BlazeSail Scout-Captain Inra, Patient Gorra, Fourth House Rank Five
The Nimble Tidings returned to Inra's Brood a few days later, leave denied, hoping to find no further evidence of “Burning Balls.”
In this task they succeeded.
The Array was fast and the Array was efficient. Each of the five vaults had emerged over a world, and each world held some form of sapient life. That alone was an indicator that any local Silence Hunters were experiencing difficulties. If, indeed, they existed at all.
Ever optimistic, we cleaned up a bit. They could thank us when we met.
The question of why the vaults arrived where they did was another troubling quirk-- the chances of appearing within sight of a planetary body, much less within touching distance, should have been laughably low-- but that concern took a distant second to more pressing issues.
Where were the native Silence Hunters?
What had happened to them, if they no longer existed?
Why, on all five vessels, at the moment of emergence, had every ontodynamic engine spontaneously converted itself into a transdimensional cylinder of rattling useless scrap?
Perhaps, as I thought, Echoes-Die was unwilling to let us go.
But!
Not to worry. They had it under control. They always had it under control.
They removed the vaults to a rendezvous equidistant from each point of emergence, and then selected the nearest star system to this center. Echo-Source, they named it, and began adjustment of the local sun. No longer would it trace a regular path around the galactic center. Our sun-- a Silence Hunter sun, the first of many-- would arc high, high above, solitary and far-removed from whatever menace might threaten.
When this was done they joined the vaults together-- Bright Sun to Toothed Chisel, Chromium Memory to Deep Carillon, Caressed Breath-of-the-Devourer to all four others-- and then walled off the system.
Rift barriers. Planes of warped expectation, shunting our new home just beyond reality.
We would be undetectable.
Safe.
Then, and only then, did they grant us armor.
Here. And here. See the scars?
That's from the drilling.
CHAPTER FOUR
—You are shaped as you will shape, formed as you will form, marked as you will mark. Changed in perpetuity. Worked, as you will work, into an masterpiece of your will. You believe that your first project is yet to come; this belief is untrue. Stumpy. Squeaky. Blue. You yourselves are your first project. Let us begin—
The bit whirs into my shoulder, screeching against plate and scale. My eyes are closed, but I can see the sparks, feel the burning, track the device's passage into my flesh. It screams like a sibling lost, a grating parasite clawing its way towards my core.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Two thousand three hundred forty six to go.
I clench my mandibles and picture plate-dust floating away on the mists.
We designed our own, of course. Sheet silver, with highlights in gold and cobalt blue, layered across each major plate. Spirals. Flame-brushes. Embossed abstracts. Shoulders set with strips of opaline crystal, tiny diamonds pressed in parallel lines along neck and torso and tail. Dark accents around our eyes: underlined with rows of black dots and highlighted with rims of gold. Each natural chink of our bodies outlined in flecked stone. Every element fitted with exacting precision, overlapping enough to form an impenetrable barrier and yet flexible enough to permit full range of movement, flaring where flair is needed and curving close in the name of restraint.
Our crests we adorn with golden filigree, in honor of our guardians.
—To understand, you must become. One day you will carve rivers, raise mountains, direct stars in their courses, reverse time and chain galaxies. These rivers we carve in you. These mountains we raise in you—
Molten metal courses through the molds. Hundreds of them, laid across back and torso and limb, skirting the gaps of my chest plates. I hang airborne, jaws agape. Fumes swirl between my teeth. The taste is sharp. Acrid. Ash and cinders.
Silver courses over my face and neck, and I imagine it seeping into my eyes, my throat, my brain. Would I see silver?
It hisses.
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