Day Twenty-One

Shock— jagged, contorting pain— crackles through my body. A carnival of popping lights and sirens fills the corridor and I stumble backwards, nerves jangling, legs not quite working the way they should. Bone converted to wobbly organs, armor or not.
"We— we— we didn't—"
I bump into something. Someone. Squeaky. Weight falls across my neck: a pair of arms, trembling and twitching in electric spasm. As I try to regain some semblance of balance the pressure increases, and I realize that we're both falling. Us. Armored. Falling.
A broad back interposes itself between us and the floor.
"We were only trying to get through!" someone shouts, "This lock (stupid impossible obstructing lock) wasn't working and so we decided to try something else (and it would have worked, too, if you would only let us, if you would trust us like we trust you). This is a test, isn't it? Well, I'm—"
—YOU TRIED TO BREAK THE DOOR—
"Yes! Yes we did! And it would have—"
—THE DOOR IS PART OF THE VAULT—
"Yes, but—"
—WHO LIVES IN THE VAULT?—
The shaking has eased; I make certain all six feet are planted before easing away from Blue's support, interweaving my arms with Squeaky's to make sure he, too, is fit to stand.
"We do," replies Blue. "And— and—"
I sigh. —Another test—
The other siblings are staring. Smugly. Sure in their knowledge that their idea was right.
"There are multiple solutions," I snap, hoping that they will recognize this as truth and back away.
They don't.
One shrugs. "Evidently breaking the door wasn't one of them."
—BREAK THE DOOR. BREAK THE VAULT. BREAK YOURSELVES—
A click. The panels fold away, delicate as flowers.
—EXIT IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU ARE NOT TRULY DEPARTING—
Blue stands thwarted. His mandibles scrape one against the other like sharpened knives: shhk, shhk, shkk.
—They're done— says Squeaky. He bumps him with a shoulder, and after a moment Blue drapes an arm across the offered back.
—Couldn't let us go without a lecture—
I peek out the door. Nothing visible, in any spectrum, and nothing to hear, either.
"Is it really an exit?" asks one of the other siblings.
"Most likely," I reply. I reach over the threshold, half-expecting another shock. —It better be, for the Array to electrocute us like that—
—I'm okay now— says Squeaky.
—Just ask— mutters Blue, —We should have let them ask, and see if they got hit for it—
I withdraw my arm. —Probably would have. 'WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST ASK FOR FAVORS? HARD WORK, CHILDREN! HARD WORK!'—
—Yes—
—Should have let them—
—Should have—
—Indeed—

We eye the blackness.
Beyond lies work. Beyond lies truth. Beyond lies mystery, and maybe monsters.
Beyond lies.

It is a difficult thing to express, this sense of not-knowledge. You, with your scouting expeditions and your philosophies and your limited sense of space and time, are accustomed to not knowing. You expect to not know. Not-knowledge is a state of being, and one rarely questioned.
What then, is a culture that knows everything supposed to do? What, then, were we supposed to think when we gazed through that portal into... nothing?
I ask because I am a child of the Second Cycle. Born and raised to the twin quandaries of "when will we arrive" and "what awaits us." I, too, was accustomed to not-knowing, but it was clear that this was not normal. That to have no knowledge— or even limited knowledge— was transient, short and unnatural, the foolish notions of a child soon to be corrected. In time, I would know everything.
We do not call it the All-Core for our own amusement.
And yet...
What could they have thought, laboring in a place that folds its secrets close and smiles?

We tried to think of stars.

< They've closed everything off >
< We're wearing armor >
< It's what we want >
< We should go >
< We should >
< Together >
< Yes >

< We should link arms >
< Let us link arms >
< Jump together >
< Yes >
< Together >
< We should jump now >
< Yes, we should >

< It's just space >

< Yes >

< We know >

< IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN INSIDE, DO SO. OTHERS ARE WAITING >

A crowd of thirty. Curious eyes peering over curious heads. Several siblings half-hovering.
Scrapes. Whispers. Clinks of metal on stone.
The engines in absence.
"No," I mutter. "No, no, they're not."
< Stumpy? >
"We're going," I hiss. Then, louder, "We're going!"
Squeaky glances back at the others. Their stares. < Sure we're going >
Broken door. Broken ring. Broken bowl.
Insignificant things. There— out there—
< Whenever we want > agrees Blue.
That's what waits to be broken. Just like the last one.
"Why not now?"
< Wait, we haven't— >
I lean forward... and allow my legs to go limp.

We fall.

Again.

But this time, there are no stars waiting on the other side. This time, there is only a star: singular, yellow as scale, a blazing ball of fusion-fueled flame, a natural manufactory content in its role of converting hydrogen to helium to heaver elements for construction. It is more complex than the machines which might harvest it, churning with million-degree convection cells, roiling chaos erupting in great loops and flares. It carries with it a retinue of fifteen planets, residue of creation.
It appears no larger than a claw-tip.
A solitary beacon in an empty sky.
< The barriers > says Squeaky. His tone trembles. < They're blocking all the light. >
I close my eyes.
One star.
One.
Star.
< It's real, isn't it? > says Blue. His tendrils coil more tightly around mine.
Squeaky nods. < It is real >
When the Array is finished, they will raise the barriers. When we have our names, we will know glory. When we are perfect, the universe will be ours.
Every star.
< Yes > I rasp. < Real >
Elemental fire burns in the distance. It burns alone.
Mocking.

When I am grown my name will be Nova-Bringer. Slayer-of-Cold-and-Dark. Herald-of-Warmth-and-Light. Forger-of-Flowers-Which-Fade-and-Burn-Anew.
This star, Echo-Source... this star will be first.

This star, Echo-Source... this star will be first.

In this way we took up residence. We were ideal neighbors: quiet, deliberate, self-absorbed, interfering with no one and in turn receiving no interference. Or, at least, no interference reached us.
We came prepared. Each vault was self-contained, designed to sustain life for a journey of a million years and more through Echoes-Die, and each vault held its own stock of equipment to deal with what came afterwards. For every Silence Hunter, a Builder. For every Builder, a small fleet of collectors. For every collector, an exploratory probe.
Such simple devices, those probes. Identical to those the First Generation cast out in search. Bronzed spheres, like the vaults, surmounted by a trio of curved prongs. Like the vaults, "without protrusions or other external devices of any kind," at least to natural senses. Each half-again the size of your largest battlesails, suitable to cast shadows across cities. Within their shells they carry collectors of their own, scanners, basic construction tools, analysis centers, bottle-galaxies for fuel, engines for travel between universes (although, like those of the vaults, these engines no longer function), and other necessities for operating in a hostile environment.
No weapons. The power to slice a moon in two is weapon enough under most circumstances. Under duress, a probe will flee.
Simple devices. An ancient design, like all designs, fast and reliable. The First sent many millions to each potential destination.

Only people have names. People and the phenomena they forge. Probes play no part in art, and as such are not named beyond their function. A probe is a probe.
One, however, once bore an alien title.

A date, for your consideration: 0 Pre-Dynastic, 0 Central. Day and partition unknown, but traditionally 4-14 for festival convenience.
Day of the Burning.