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.
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
< Ready for transfer >
< Wait just a moment: Twist isn't finished setting his piece into place >
< Hasn't he had two days? >
< Yes, but he's one of those hit hard by reversion sickness >
< Why didn't his siblings— >
< Siblings, too >
< Ah. Well, I'm ready whenever he is. I suppose I'll just keep polishing >
< Make sure you leave enough to cover your portion >
< I will >
Our task: take apart every world, moon, and asteroid surrounding Echoes-Die. Process the resulting material into shell-shards, flat panels fitted with living chambers and concert halls and manufactories. Smaller than a vault, designed as part of something much larger, their surfaces polished to mirror-sheen. No two shards may be the same. When this is finished, transfer each shard into place around the star. They are to be separated by a gaps of a few hundred kilometers, and their edges must line up exactly.
The resulting construct will form a globular jigsaw of ten million pieces, starlight spilling from the cracks. A Shell-World of modest circumference. Auxiliary support structures will follow.
When all is complete it will be home for another generation, the first children of the Third Cycle. How fitting it is that we of the Second, the deprived, the crippled, the spawn of Echoes-Die, are building it.
This construct will show the First that we are fit to carry on the tradition. That place (or non-place, as it may be) of birth does not determine success.
Our humble gift to a new universe. Our pass to acceptance and redemption.
For now the outer surface reflects nothing, for there is nothing to reflect. The barriers deflect all. But when the shell is finished, our names chosen, our final step-stone taken, the walls will crumble. After years of waiting, the galaxy will gaze upon its own exiled light.
By now it is finished; it must be finished. A maze of fire-rimmed mirrors, a swarm surrounding the extractors at sun's edge, the stabilizers planted within the corona. chained vaults in polar orbit, five interconnected spheres to form a sort of pseudo-moon until further use can be found for them. The rift barriers drift dark and quiescent at system's edge.
All surrounded by forty thousand Imperial battlesails. There is no Fortress for protection, no colony for resupply: your vessels are rotated, in and out, representatives from the galaxy over assigned to watch as our great glittering homeworld hovers in silence. The Ember Patrol. The Invisible Eyes. The Tour of Not At All. Everyone takes their turn, and everyone watches while the builders of your Burning slumber.
What must they think, the ones who serve? To pass a lifetime fighting creatures armed with sticks and stone— and then to learn that their vessel will be going Nowhere to watch Nothing reduce to thin cracks the light of its sun?
Would would they think, if they knew? If they knew that my guardians helped to build an anchor with prongs embedded in countless other realities, a machine powered by the catastrophic collision of galaxies— that their efforts delayed annihilation at the cost of thousands of suns, melodic and harmonic, stripped and siphoned into Heart-Eater maws every moment until the end?
Would they think of the Maze artifacts, and make the connection?
Would they blame us for this, too?
What must it be like, to hold your greatest enemy in thrall and declare that fear does not exist?
We went to such lengths to escape oblivion. Not to suffer it again.
Remember, my scribe, that Silence Hunters never sleep.
But this is now: that was then.
Then we didn't know what would happen. Then we didn't know anything.
Then we were concerned with light pressure, and gravity-shunt, and stellar topography, and the question of interior decoration for each shard. Muted purity of form or cascades of elaboration? Hidden pillar-chimes or displayed as part of the concert? Blue or red? Or beyond-red? Or perhaps a combination of all three?
What about the mists, and their composition? The floor capillaries? The ghost-circuitry?
Do we name them now or after we receive our own?
And, if the former, what do you think we should name them?
I like the titles of trees.
We were responsible for eighty-four shards. Some sibling-bonds were assigned more, some less, according to the strictures of their guardians, but we envied none. Eighty-four was a good number, and we felt it best not to attract further attention from the Array.
We named all of them as they were finished. Chipped-Branch. Wobbles-in-Flight. Perverse-Tectonics.
I wanted one called Everything-Explodes but we decided this was a poor idea.
Squeaky, Blue, and I loom over Echo-Source like animate galaxies, huge and luminous and violent.
< If we work quickly> says Blue, indicating a point on the upper limits of the thin ring currently in place, < we can slot our four into their appointed spaces as Whistle-Twist-Creeper arrange theirs. Just because their bond is behind doesn't mean we have to wait >
< That will leave a gap> says Squeaky.
< Yes, but as soon as Twist delivers there will be nothing to worry about. One more day, at most>
I flow time forwards, checking to see if the gap will cause unacceptable perturbation of the surrounding shards. < We recovered from the sickness in less than one rotation. Why couldn't they have the good grace to do the same?>
< Some bonds aren't as cheerful as us> says Blue.
Squeaky nods. < Or as pretty>
< Or with the services of such a talented sibling>
< I told you never to talk about that. It wasn't my fault>
< Whose was it, then?>
< Gravity's. I'll be having a talk with him later>
< After we've moved the shards?>
< During. Gravity has to know who's in charge>
Squeaky rolls an eye.
< I hope you and Gravity reconcile before we start work on the next shard> says Blue. He shifts the view to our building-cluster, a tubular ringed grid of raw materials arranged by volume and composition. Part of the collection was gathered from the asteroid belts, part from smashed rocky planets, part from the cores of gas giants. Unfinished shards hang in the center, finished ones above the elliptic. < We're going to need him for those shunts>
< We'll make up, don't worry. Even if I have to punch him in the eye>
< Good>
Blue looks over our assemblage. < We should start. Before they object. I'll take Perverse-Tectonics>
< Laughing-Bones> claims Squeaky.
< Which leaves Swift-Kicks for me, and Rippling-Knife-Speaker for the three of us> I conclude. < We'll have our own gap for a time>
< A short enough time> says Squeaky.
< True> I sink closer, wrapping a tendril around my chosen shard. Blue and Squeaky do the same. Ensconced within our Builders, the action seems little different from the simulations... except that now there will be results when we exit. Now, when we aren't busy (when we're eating, mostly), we can watch the work of others as triple-pronged machines of burnished gold slice apart moons and rearrange molecules into the desired configurations. Reality over a prickly dessert.
< Transfer... now>
< Now>
< Now>
We jump perspectives once more, back to Echo-Source. The shards come with us: clutched between claws of remote force and threaded through transfer-space to their new destination.
< What> says a startled voice. Whistle, tending the bond's work until the gap is filled. His square-armored form appears over Echo-Source. < I thought you were waiting for Twist>
< Not anymore> says Blue, darting forwards. Our space awaits, the beginning of a new layer to the ring, building upwards to enclosure.
Whistle interposes himself between shard and position. < But you can't put anything into place until we're finished>
< Why not?> asks Squeaky. < You're watching, right? The gap won't be a problem>
< But the gravity—>
Blue snaps a tendril. < Not a problem>
The opposing sibling eyes me. < You're certain?>
< That was a fluke> I explain.
< It looked an awful lot like deliberate collision to me>
< One bond's collision is another bond's success>
< You meant to wipe out all that hard work? Just because you have fewer shards than us doesn't mean you can go exploding your own—>
< It wasn't an explosion>
< Destroying, then, your own—>
< Implosion. They imploded>
Whistle gnashes his mandibles. < It doesn't matter. I don't want someone who does that to their own work messing with ours>
Squeaky drifts sideways; Whistle follows. < We're not messing with anything> he says, moving back to his original position. < We're just putting our shards where they belong. The danger will last a day at most— the bond below us said so>
< What about trust?> asks Blue, stepping nearer with construct curled close, < To work wonders, we work together. I'm sure your guardians told you that>
< They told us—> he starts, and then another sibling appears. This one holds a shard in its tendrils.
Twist. Behind time, but finally finished.
Whistle regards us with scorn.
< Slow, but well-crafted> says Twist. < My apologies. I was busy shivering on the slab while Branched-Geometries-Shifting-Brown checked my internals>
Whistle shifts aside, permitting his sibling to slot the piece into place.
< A shame> echoes Squeaky.
I glance at the shard in my grasp. < Shame. Might we complete our work?>
< Oh, certainly> says Twist. He finishes balancing his contribution— mass against pressure against gravity against timespin— and joins his sibling to the side. < It's hard sometimes, this collaboration. Adults off chatting it up and we're left to build this thing on our own. Stressful>
< They're not 'chatting it up'> I inform him, slipping in to complete the puzzle. Outside, without the benefit of false overlays, a many-toothed Builder shifts a thin platform the size of a small city closer to Echo-Source. < They're looking for people to chat with, or, at the very least, looking for what happened to them>
< Because it might happen to us> adds Squeaky.
Blue refrains from comment.
< Same effect> says Twist with a shrug. < We build, and they don't tell us what to do. So we tell each other what to do. Or argue. I apologize again for my weakness, but I recovered as quickly as I could. In the meantime—>
A third sibling appears, also carrying a shard.
< We have work to do> says Creeper.
< As soon as we're finished> says Blue.
< Who's behind time now?>
Squeaky sighs. < We concede. You're ahead of time. But, I tell you, we're directly on time>
< We congratulate you on your cleverness> I add, then switch to an aside. < We'd best get Rippling-Knife-Speaker into place before accusations draw guardians>
< One more piece> Squeaky promises. < One more, and then we go back to construction>
< One more> repeats Creeper, eyes slitted. < You won't be blowing it up this time?>
I click a negative.
It was an implosion, you idiots.
Blue twiddles his tendrils, watching his meal flail and nearly fall before hooking a tiny claw around his segments. < Have you ever wondered what they would say if you told them why? The real reason why?>
I crunch a leg between my teeth. < Why should I tell anyone why? It didn't work> Another bond passes, casting us a sidelong glance, and I reach for another shimmer-claw. < That's all that matters>
“This new batch turned out well, I think,” says Squeaky, flicking at the antennae of his own. < Bit odd, though. Hope the gene-spinners aren't losing their touch>
< They are rather acidic, aren't they> I agree, all disapproval silent by custom. “Different. But all in all, well enough.”
The other bond turns away. This is the fifth bond since we stopped work.
< But if you told them> insists Blue, < they might stop looking at us>
I shrug.
< I don't like them looking at us>
Another crunch. < I don't like them thinking I'm crazy>
< They already think you're crazy. That we're all crazy>
"I think I like the others better," says Squeaky, rummaging around in the other basket. "The snap-crisps."
Blue nods. "Those are good. < Stumpy, it was a perfectly logical thing to do and if you tell them they'll stop thinking we're crazy>
< But it wasn't logical>
< Yes, it was. Maybe— maybe not the best logic, but at the time...>
I sigh, rolling my eyes in their sockets. The light of Echo-Source burns above; we're eating aboard one of the shards, not of our manufacture, one with a Path of Sustenance set between concert halls. This business of being open to the sky is well enough, but distracting— all that anchors the atmosphere is gravity, and that force seems fickle as of late. < Not the best logic. Not the best idea. Not an idea most people would bother considering, much less acting upon>
< But what else could you have done?>
< Work through it>
< Through what shouldn't have happened? Through what shouldn't be happening?>
Squeaky swallows. < He doesn't want to say anything, Blue. I don't mind>
< But they keep staring at us!>
< I know>
Blue sets the shimmer-claw basket back on its shelf, and selects another. < You'll have to tell our guardians, when they ask. And you know they'll ask>
< When they ask, I will tell them> I reply, ambling down the Path. Something bigger, something harder, something to test my teeth... One of the racks at the far end looks promising; I flip open a lid and something with ten legs and a dark blue shell leaps at my face.
"Rock-cruncher?" asks Squeaky.
I pluck it from the air. "Yes."
"Those are hard work."
"Yes."
< I thought it was a good idea>
< You and Blue and no other bond>
< Now we know, at least>
I bite off the struggling creature's head. < Now we know>
< You... did what?>
I stare down at a model world. Divided neatly in two, one half a full three kilometers above the other. < Back-directed the gravity shunts>
Heat-Traces gazes at the same model. He didn't make it— no friend of his made it— but it's an example of what may exist in future systems, and a curiously unambitious one at that. < Thus crushing your own shard into a singularity>
< Yes>
< And severely damaging another>
< Yes>
< And you did this on purpose>
< Yes>
He flutters his chest panels, a rapid-fire pop-pop-pop of astonishment. < Why?>
< To see what would happen> I reply, moving on to the next display. This one a wide region of empty space, defined by a loosely-distributed scatter of polyhedrons. Radio emitters. The entire region a maze of beamed transmissions, differing by breadth and flavor, decoration for a region rarely decorated. Again, lacking in ambition; this is an exhibition of masters and never have I seen them so subdued. < To see if all functions truly would collapse>
Heat-Traces flicks a cube in the display; it wavers and expands, displaying its internal components. < Was there any reason they wouldn't?>
< Yes>
< Oh?>
< The... instances. Ask Blue and Squeaky, they know, too>
< So we have asked them. But I ask you to explain, in your own words, your own purposes>
I scrape a claw against the floor. < The difficulties encountered in construction— how close they are to the high-probability failure simulations... we thought there may be some agent responsible, just as you were responsible for the probability of failure. I know our generation is inexperienced, I know yours is busy, but it seems like it should be easier. There are more problems than there should be, and we wanted to know why. So we tested it>
< And this was your idea>
< The manner of testing, yes. The observation, no. We are not the only bond to complain of undue difficulty>
< This is a new universe. One without evidence of Silence Hunter occupation. One without evidence of what removed them. Difficulties are to be expected>
< Yes. I realize this now. I realized it then. But then we had just heard of the Falling-Sun accident and we thought that such a thing could not be random, that no guardian-bond could make a mistake so great>
< It happens, on occasion> Heat-Traces glances away, at the wall mosaics. < We try again>
Another reminder. Always another reminder.
< They did try again> I allow, < but that it happened at all, especially after so many other mistakes, was surprising. To us. And so we decided to test it, as I have said>
< By destroying your own work?>
< By not destroying our own work>
< Explain>
I pause. How to explain? The only true explanation is that we ourselves were making a mistake, that something, somewhere had led us to false conclusions. Upon second inspection the idea doesn't make sense, just as the problems themselves still don't seem to make sense.
They would, if we knew the true reasons— but we do not yet know.
You know, of course. The culprit is clear as space to you, but to us it remained another of those many, many mysteries we had yet to pierce. A strange concept, perhaps, but how were we to suspect the truth? Mazers, madwork, the effects of sapience upon reality... these things, in the old place, did not exist. Just as our ontodynamic principles, in this place, do not exist.
We had adapted, without our knowledge, and adapted badly.
So I hesitate.
< If there is a force working against us, causing these problems, it would seek to foil our intentions>
Heat-Traces wanders to another exhibit, calling perfunctory greetings to another as he passes. An old friend, perhaps. The First have many old friends. < If there is such a force>
< If there is> I agree, abandoning the radio project. < With this in mind, we set out with certain intentions for it to foil. We would— or, rather, I would, for Blue was watching from a distance and Squeaky standing by with containment ready— deliberately back-direct the gravity shunts on one of our shards, causing an accident>
< Such was your intent>
< Such was our intent>
< And this force was supposed to stop you?>
I make my way towards him, weaving between a ringed world and a String-of-Sighing-Lights. < That was the logic>
Logic, however flawed, that seemed valid at the time.
Heat-Traces says nothing for a long moment.
< It didn't> I explain helpfully. < Didn't stop us>
< Why would a force that causes accidents bother to stop one?>
< This was a question that occurred to us afterward>
No comments:
Post a Comment