Day Twenty-Three

A low scraping, mandible on mandible.
I take a place beside him, squeezed between his side and that of another bond admiring the display (two suns circling a common point, a string of worlds in corkscrew orbits), and carefully do not look up to meet his eye. "A delicate balance, this system. Hard to keep the worlds from boiling or falling away entirely."
"Yes. Very delicate."
"So far it's the most expansive one here. I wish success to its creator."
"When it is time to build, it will be built. Regardless of any difficulties that may arise. < With no resort to dangerous and foolish tests >"
< It is for that reason I have told no one the truth >
< So you don't appear foolish? >
I shift from foot to foot. Already the incident has cast me and my siblings as somewhat less than competent. Foolish? Yes. Crazy? Yes. But an unfocused rumor is better than failure brought out in sharp relief.
To fail is to fulfill expectations, and I would rather be mistaken as one dangerous than one wrong.
The one beside me adjusts his weight at the wrong time, just as I sway in his direction, and I flash an automatic apology as we bump plates.
"A popular display," he replies. < No need to worry >
Heat-Traces raises his head over mine. "Whirling-Dances, did you hear about that shunt collision yesterday?"
The older Silence Hunter betrays nary a flicker of recognition, rolling one eye to regard my guardian and keeping the other on the display. "Yes, of course. Deliberate, they say. Seems the new place is having... interesting effects on people. And I don't mean the sickness." He chuckles. "Although that may be part of it."
“Were you aware that it was a test?”
“A test? Whatever for?”
Heat-Traces keeps his tone light. “To see if accidents can be prevented by intending to cause accidents.”
“You don't say.” Whirling-Dances shifts both eyes back to the display, arms curling. “Didn't work, did it?”
“It did,” I mutter. “It did work.”
“As a test, perhaps,” the other First allows, and I wonder how much of this was arranged beforehand. “Success or failure, and even failure has a measure of worth. Provided, that is, the correct parameters are set and the right questions asked.”
I raise a foreleg and rest my claws on the display rim. “If, perhaps, the bond responsible had asked the right questions, what worth might they have found? < Heat-Traces, please, I know it was wrong-- you don't have to bring outside evidence to tell me >
< Me? Bringing evidence? No such thing. Perhaps you should listen >
“What worth?” repeats Whirling-Dances. He flicks a tendril-tip and the system slides into measured motion, planets pouring like water between tangled suns. "If said bond had asked who was responsible for the accidents instead of what— then they may have found solace in failure."
'No such thing' indeed. "How so?"
Whirling-Dances shrugs. "Would you prefer that some outside agency was directing our actions? That we are, in fact, not responsible for what we do? That, in the grand scheme, we hold no power of our own?"
"But then a failure would mean—"
"That all problems are our own. A much more agreeable state of affairs, don't you think?"
"But that's not what...the bond... was testing," I point out. "They wanted to know what. Not who."
"If a what, what matters? Whats are nothing to a who. We can adapt to a what."
"We can remove a who."
Another chuckle. "Can we?"
Memory: a cylinder with jagged wings. Three swept fins around a flaming engine, rows of lights slowly spinning on a common axis, long swiveling protrusions on front and sides. Matte black. Little more than a shadow against the stars. Not ours. Strange, sinister, alien, but nothing to the sound accompanying it.
Gargling.
More precisely, long undifferentiated streams of high-pitched burps and burbles and sputtered gutturals, wet and loose and slurping like innards sucked through chitin.
I shake the vision away. Feed from one of the probes, it had to be. "What is it?"
Heat-Traces blinks, first one eye and then the other. "Reason to ponder."

Now, being infinitely more learned, I can tell you what the message said.
"Riches-kin, I think I love you.
Modest Rina, I think I'm pregnant."

It seemed much more menacing at the time.

A folly, now, to think that creatures such as yourselves would have been capable enough to eliminate the native Silence Hunters of your universe. Unlike us, they would have known the rules. Unlike us, they would have recognized the power of intelligence. If Silence Hunters had existed at your dawn you would have never lived to see the sun rise.
For it is intelligence that caused our problems. Yours, and ours.
You are the who that we feared.
We are the who that we never suspected.
There was no what. There never was a what.
Madwork is the effect of intelligence upon the universe, and without a who it is nothing at all.

I will be blunt. Though we did not realize it, our machines were failing. The ontodynamics were only the beginning. They died quickly, and they died because madwork killed them: victim of the dominant force in a place where only minds may reshape reality.
The rest-- the Builders, the probes, our armor, even our Link-- was not foreign enough to destroy yet not native enough to survive untouched, and so it was replaced with the closest analogy. Your analogy. Madwork. All of our technology displaced by distilled force of will, concentrated impossibility, solid hope and belief. Your way depends on thought for its direction, and we thought nothing of it.
It worked because we expected it to work, and it failed because we knew it didn't exist.
You might say that we could fly so long as we never looked down.
As it was, the trajectory was gentle, and sloped, and descending.


CHAPTER SIX
Five years in the new place. Twelve shards placed. Five more under construction.
Shell-World one-hundredth of one percent completed.
Countless set-backs.

< Yours said that, too? >
< Indeed they did. 'Your work, it is fine enough when it is finished, but it is never finished. Always you encounter some imbalance, some discoloration, some imperfection in the materials or the calculations or the fitting of parts. Not acceptable. Not acceptable at all.' And all this when they've hardly managed to churn out ten shards themselves! >
< Ours have sixteen >
< Yours don't spend so much time nagging. We're doing our best, we really are, but... > A long-distance shrug, almost as though I've shrugged myself, plates rippling. < The Gap-Shift. What can we do? >
< What can we do >
I clamber over the arched prongs of my Builder. Gap-Shift. The sliding separation between now and then, here and there, Second and First. The lurking malefactor behind each jammed rock grinder, each broken flash mould, each twisted skein-spinner and inversed void-slicer and misplaced nondecimal. Small problems, but over time they gather force. Most sibling-bonds have been driven to regular maintenance; even guardians. Self-repair and self-cleaning mechanisms fail, too.
Recently I myself had to endure a stay on the slab, when my small-scale tensor manipulators gave out. For two frustrating days I found myself unable to crush diamonds. Given that I was, at the time, in the middle of a project involving the crushing of diamonds (for clouds, see), my siblings had to do it for me. Others have suffered more pressing mishaps.
Something has caught in the teeth of my Builder, and it almost chewed up one of our manufactory rings.
< Complain, I suppose > says Newer, no less amused for being on the other side of Echo-Source, < We can complain >
< As we are >
< All we have to offer each other, remember? Except for a modicum of support against our elders >
I drop beneath the offending prong, a gold-plated hook three kilometers in length, its underside studded with shifting protrusions and projectors. A single solid piece, a Builder, components all interconnected, but capable of change— part of the hull lifts away at my command and its insides reshape themselves to bring pinpointed problems to the fore.
< You know how it works, Crusher > Newer continues. He's working on a malfunction of his own, one of several hundred. We all commiserate. < You know what it means to go out and try managing things yourself >
I'm not sure why I don't block him.
< I wasn't the only one to try it >
< Doesn't matter. Our guardians would never permit such a thing >
< Neither would ours >
< All the same >
Blue's voice slips into the conversation. < Almost repaired? >
< Still working >
< A little while ago they were going on about their last project again— you know, the...

Day Twenty-Two

—NONE OF THAT—
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.
Blue confides to us, < Always optimism> The barest hint of a smile, and then he reopens conversation. < Thank you. A shame that others were forced to suffer>
< 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>

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.

Day Twenty

—We shouldn't have chosen so many rivets—
—We shouldn't have designed such complicated jointing—
—We shouldn't have added so many embellishments—
—Complain, complain. It will look good, right? Very unique. Very adult—
—I suppose—
—Something simpler might have done just as well—
—I thought we wanted to make a statement?—
—We do—
—We will—
—I still think we could have added more gold—

Silver. Gold. Diamond.
Traditional names. The actual materials, of course, are nowhere near so fragile.

—Now you rest within familiar chambers, closed and small. What lay beyond is open and vast. It, in time, will become familiar, as chambered as the confines that once bound you. It, in time, will offer wonders. As children you reside in the house of children. As adults you will reside in the house of adults. A house infinite, and beautiful, and yours—

I lay on my side. We all lay on our sides.
A shadow looms overhead, replacing outside illumination with its own brightness. Mouth, eyes, chest panels, joints. All glow. Its arms move with sure swiftness, flicking brushes across my head and limbs. Thin lines, hooks, dots, languid curves. Not symbols, for symbols we have none— but decoration, elaborations upon the joining of seams and the sweep of form. Paint in black and white and cobalt blue. Sometimes red or a beyond-red, names for which your language has no equal.
The color of iridium alloy, newly-cooled. The color of oceans, struck by sunlight.
The color of a smile-trace, the wonder after a well-told joke, the warmth after a well-told story.
The brushes sweep around my eyes, trail cold as rivers. Each finger boasts its own flourish.

No symbols, you say?
I will explain: when I first entered Victory's service, they told me her emblem expressed a wish for her namesake. That this half-circle and three-pointed star embodied a principle. That wearing it was meant to bring her thralls achievement and strength and inspiration.
Symbols are hopes. Symbols are placed to exert control over their surroundings. Symbols assume that their makers are powerless.
What use have Silence Hunters for such things?

—Now you are created. Now you are ready. Now you are two-thirds to the beginning, and once you have consummated your shaping you will have a name—

—We are finished?—
—We are finished—
—As much as we may be finished—

Still prone, I curl an arm across the floor. It moves as though nothing covers its segments, as though it were still yellowish shell rather than armor-clad, but I can feel the weight. Slight— hardly noticeable— but there. Each segment now covered with a micro-thin layer of gold. Articulation traced in red. Glittering gemstones, specks like stars, arranged in three lines from base to tip.
My arm, and yet... something else.
Something older.
The diamond-lines were my idea; they've turned out better than I expected.
"It's not so heavy as I thought," says Squeaky, clambering to his feet and turning in circles. His plates flash. Every motion is accentuated; every bend and curve urged to greater purpose. The embossed designs upon his shoulders both advance and recede, configurations shifting at each angle. The articulation is whisper-quiet.
He tosses his head and a fluted whistle sings through his crests. "Just as you said, Blue. Wind-catchers were a fine plan."
Blue gathers himself, joint by joint, standing slow as continents. "It worked. I knew it would work (but I had doubts)." He turns gold-rimmed eyes upon our guardians, waiting at the chamber perimeter. —I apologize for not trusting—
Heat-Traces inclines his head. His armored head, as we ourselves are now armored. —No apologies. You were afraid, and yet you submitted. This, child, is trust—
"And it is fine work, isn't it?" adds Broad-Leaves with a smile. "Your design is striking (and very complicated; we were almost worried ourselves)."
I place one foot upon the floor, and then another. No clatter. Again that sense of weight, a heaviness beyond its actual mass. Another foot. Another.
Broad-Leaves peers at me. "It is different, at first. Take your time."
"How is it that something so fine," I ask, casting about for some remnant of the molding-heat that bound the metal to my flesh and finding no difference, "can serve no purpose?"
Squeaky pauses in his prancing. "What?"
"It's... it's wonderful, but it's only ornament," I explain, stretching in test. Alloys strong as the hull of a vault, and yet close as skin, close as the Link. "A shame that it does nothing. It seems like it should."
Swift-Runs blinks. First one eye and then the other. "It does do something (everything does something). You designed it, did you not? You conceived it, and it is yours. You are yours. It has changed you for the better." He snaps his mandibles. "That's quite functional, for 'ornament.'"
"Yes, it is," murmurs Blue. He's almost upright, tail swinging with slow deliberation. "Quite functional."
"And pretty," says Squeaky. "We meant it to be pretty, and now we are pretty also (and prettier, I think, than any others of the Second Cycle). If this were a simulation, I say we succeeded."
I click my jaws together. No taste of metal. "No simulation. I am finished with simulations. Now we succeed for real."
"That is the idea," says Broad-Leaves.
Blue reaches for one of the walls, for a bowl tucked within. "I think we're forgetting something." A clunk, a shudder; the bowl scrapes along the niche rim, and drifts towards him. He wraps a tendril around its middle. A moment of consideration— so that is how it is done— and then he swivels an eye to regard us. "Something important."
I stare at the bowl. Only adults can do that.
Only adults.
Blue grins. —I thought I was going to drop it—
Our guardians remain inscrutable.
—Is it hard?— I ask.
—No—
—How did you know how?— asks Squeaky.
—I practiced—
—What? When?—
—What did you think I was doing, so slow?—
Heat-Traces stomps a foot on the floor and we quickly end the conversation.
"You're ready," he says.
I stop trying to coax a vase out of another niche. "Ready?"
He does not reply. Neither do the others. As we watch, searching the Link for information that isn't there, they step away. Heat-Traces to the left of the exit. Swift-Runs to the right. Broad-Leaves positioned before it, crouched low.
Squeaky hooks his arms together in confusion. —Are we supposed to jump?—
—No— says Blue.
—No? What, then, are we...— He hesitates. —Oh—
—Yes—
The voice comes, then. The same voice that greeted us within the Chamber of the Array, among the false stars. The same voice that accompanied us during our trial of blade and fire.
Voices. A voices.
The Array. Our people, living and dead.
—RISE—
What else to do? It is obvious, an answer that comes unbidden in a universe without.
We walk, single-file, to the exit. Stop before Broad-Leaves. Exchange clicks of encouragement.
And then Blue leaps. Squeaky leaps. I leap.
We fly from the chamber, and together we rise.
The city sphere scintillates: the reflected light of ten thousand.

—Never seen the center from this angle before—
—What do you think?—
—Different—
—That's all you have to say?—
—The center is fine. The view is fine. The wind-rush is better than fine. But—
—But angles don't matter—
—Yes—
—Are you—
—Yes—
—I knew it—
—And why not? The center is the center. We know it already—
—We do—
—Very well—
—Every nook and corridor—
—The whole vault, in fact—
—Do you think it's time?—
—I think it's time—
—We all think it's time—
Legs folded, heads bent low, tails streaming turbulence, we change course.
—Stars?—
—Stars—
—Someone call ahead and tell them that we're coming to visit—

Our guardians make no move to stop us. We arc through the air, scattering mists in our wake, searching for the exit that we know is there. A portal to the outside, secret of secrets now divulged to all our generation. All these long years it was hidden; now it is found.
A gate deep within the city center.
We are not the only ones. Other sibling-bonds soar past as we angle for the nearest archway, all of them much more awkward and ungainly than we. We are buoyant; we are perfect; we are going to see the stars. Even the vacuum of space holds no horror for us: we are Second Cycle, born to Echoes-Die. We have known the deep. We have known true emptiness.
We are also naturally vacuum-proof.
—Hurry— calls Squeaky, —they're catching up. We have to be first—
—Or among the first— I amend, mindful of the probabilities.
Blue chuckles, buzzing laughter torn away by the wind. —Remember who you're following—
—Oh, yes— I reply, —I forget myself. I forget you. My apologies, Crusher-of-Continents-and-Carver-of-Cores—
—That's decent. I might use that—
We skim the archway floor, rolling onto our backs for the sheer simple pleasure of being able to do so. Cut stone whistles past our crests. Our wind-catchers drone a deep, whirring bellow. Clamor as replacement for the lost engines. New sounds for a new age.
The Path of Sustenance. Racks tucked to the sides, food trapped inside closed boxes and collapsed cabinets. Elder Silence Hunters interlace their arms as we pass. The ceiling blurs, rib by braced rib, above our heads, flowing patterns stretched by speed. Stretched and changed— and not so repetitive as we had thought.
—It's splitting—
—How did we not notice this before?—
—Not fast enough—
—True. Follow the branch, the speckled branch, like the shadows of stars—
—To the stars, then—
—To the stars. We'll have to give our guardians credit for this trick—
—And copy it—
—Of course—

Diverging halls. Walls sheathed in sheet-copper. Bands of gridwork along the roof. One is irregular, spattered with speckles.
—There—
—We see it—
—Left—
We are forced to slow. The way is narrow, the fluted supports obstructing. Ahead lies a door. Blue and silver, veined like the petals of a flower. A panel of complex brass locks sunk into one side.
I recognize it. We all do.
—This place again—
—This place—
—How do we get in?—
We halt. I drop to the floor, an action much like flipping a switch: flight off. One leg slips on the landing, but I reason that this is my first and mistakes are expected.
"Try the locks," Squeaky suggests, running inquisitive tendrils across the door.
I eye the device. How had Heat-Traces done it? A tap here, a pull there, a brush across the far rectangle...
Nothing happens.
Squeaky tugs at one of the door panels. "Maybe you missed a part."
"I could try," offers Blue, "I was standing closer."
I step aside. He takes my place at the locks.
"Maybe they've changed the sequence," says Squeaky when this, too, produces no results.
Whooping from down the corridor: another sibling-bond appears, bobbing through the air like broken chimes.
—Surely we didn't look like that—
—Surely not—
Like us, they return to the deck. Like me, two of them slip. Their armor gleams dark blue and white.
I join Squeaky in futile pulling at the door.
—They might have changed it— Blue concedes, glaring at the mechanism. —I'll try again. If that doesn't work we can test each combination in turn—
—That would take a while— I observe. A long while: I offer a flash-image featuring us stuck at the doorway, arguing with the lock, while other newly-clads find ways around the obstacle.
—Let me try again. Maybe all that metal-pouring burned out my memory—
The other siblings edge closer. Still, no one talks.
—Maybe all that metal-pouring burned out your sense—
—You have a better plan?—
Squeaky inspects the doorframe, checking for the swivels that move the panels themselves. —Maybe if we somehow disable the door motors—
—Then we'd have to dig through the walls— Blue replies. He taps out another sequence and still nothing happens.
—It's a test— says Squeaky. —It has to be a test. They want to know how fast we learn. How smart we are—
Blue snorts. —Well, we can't very well fly through it, now can we?—
The others are huddled, gesturing occasionally at the door or at us. Probably decrying us for our stupidity. Maybe they already know.
I stare hard at the door. Strong. Solid. Immoveable. —Why don't we try knocking it down?—
—Knocking it—
—Down. Yes—
Blue abandons the panel to stand beside us. —That is an idea—
—Like the bowl— says Squeaky, —but bigger—
—A lot bigger—
—Maybe if we all push together, we—
"Apologies."
We glance over our shoulders. The second sibling-bond has shifted closer, one approaching the locks.
—Who should—
—I'll do it—
—We'll start pushing on the door—
"What?" asks Blue.
The leftmost of the trio ducks his head. "We... we were just thinking. Since you weren't getting anywhere."
"Think away."
"Thank you. But we already have." He coils a pair of blue-clad arms together. "Have you tried asking?"
Squeaky and I exchange glances.
—Knock it down?—
—Yes—
—Go—
Legs braced, arms arced back at full extension, jaws clenched, we hammer forwards. Not a physical hammer, exactly— although armor does meet door. More a hammer of the will: we want this door to move, and therefore it will move. It will move, if it knows what's conductive to good health and what isn't, and if it doesn't know... well, it will move regardless.
That, at least, is the idea.
—CHILDREN, CHILDREN—
Our blow connects, a force that should have shattered each and every blue-laced petal.
—NONE OF THAT—

Day Nineteen

Squeaky breaks first. His next repartee dissolves into the stilted buzz and click of muffled giggles, clattered between clenched mandibles.
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.

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—

Day Seventeen

A division of labor, at first: we all know how every form is done, but personal preference dictates who shall do which and when. Blue dips down to the planet, arms coiling outward in embrace, to begin adjustment of the crust. Squeaky vanishes; he will begin his inspection at the molecular level, to stir life into being if nothing lives already. I expand outward in search: one of the moons, asteroid belts, ice comets flashing far away on the periphery. Raw material for the rings.
This is how it is done. For now only in simulation, yes, but there is little practical difference between the false and the real. I carry a collection-basket in my tendrils and sweep debris into it as though gathering gifts; in the new place I will also carry a collection-basket, and one of the Builders now in transit with us will shatter the asteroid belts with planed force and sweep debris before it as though gathering gifts. A hammer, in our hands, will split worlds.
Materials-gathering is easy, but essential. Every project involves a shift in mass, a change in shape, and for this one must gather.
I scoop up rock after rock, calculating the amount needed. Not so much as the last project. Ringing a double gas giant was rather more difficult than beautifying a single body, though the small size of the project brings its own difficulties.
—Natives— announces Squeaky, voice clear despite his apparent absence, —Microscopic, deep below—
—The usual?— inquires Blue. He drives a chisel into one of the lakes, carving at the shallow bottom. It hisses, flashing vapor, iron boiling into the gaps.
—The usual. Radiovores—
—Your work's cut out for you—
—Like a mold—
—Like a mold—
I collect a drifting cluster of ice crystals, grit-contaminated sheets the size of living chambers or larger. The outer cloud is full of such formations: glassy lumps like icebergs, delicate leafy structures that collect and refract starlight, fine mists of droplets frozen long ago, husks of failed stars and failed worlds. Here and there whirl dark almost-planets denied that status due to their frigid composition; planets that would boil away if exposed to their sun; planets like gargantuan comets, which I have also found and added to the basket.
One comet was larger than a vault. If hollowed, home to millions.
I smashed it.
—Almost have those rings ready?—
—Almost. This system is not so rich as the last; Swift-Runs seems to enjoy frustration—
—Hurry— says Squeaky, —I just modified several colonies and we need to start cooling the surface—
"Concert," calls Swift-Runs, hanging huge and distant. His chest panels burn bright slashes across space: galaxies, edge-on, stacked four atop the other. "Always in concert (work without gaps or worry or conference). Make it flow. What you do cannot be accomplished naturally: your task is to make it effortless. Your work must be there (always there, it has always been there, fully-formed)." He cuts off, switching to Link-only instruction.
—I am too doing it right— Blue grumbles. —It wasn't a slip, it was a chasm carved on purpose. See if it wasn't—
—Yes, Blue— I agree, sheparding my herd of captured comets and comet fragments and assorted rock towards him.
—Yes, Blue— agrees Squeaky, still hidden somewhere far beneath the clouds.
—Stumpy— says Swift-Runs, —you're not moving fast enough. It would have been more efficient to make use of the third world's moons—
—Yes, Swift-Runs—
—As it is, you'll have to adjust a few orbits—
—As you say. I'll set up the shepard moons as soon as the last of my material arrives—
—Ring form River-of-Glass, variation six—
—Yes, Swift-Runs—
I compact the mass into a convenient planetoid, placing it within the orbit of the old third moon. The tidal effect on the world below will be severe, but temporary. Squeaky's creatures will survive.
—I'm thinking six legs— he says as I nudge the first moon outwards. When completed each of the remaining two will mark the inner and outer ring boundaries. —Photosynthetic epidermis and six legs—
—When I get these rings in place— I snap. The moon isn't cooperating, its low orbit and Blue's mass adjustments making the process more complicated than it should be.
—I can help— he offers, —I'm just waiting for you—
I flash him the orbital calculations and a schematic of the planned rings. —Move that other moon, then—
—Coming—
A volcano spews ash and fire into the upper atmosphere.
—Stupid tectonics— mutters Blue. —Stupid stupid unstable disorderly lonely monstrous tectonics—
—Sorry— says Squeaky. He emerges from the clouds as though departing a steam chamber, trotting towards the second moon.
—We're trying to minimize the disruption— I add.
—Minimize more— Blue replies. Images of magma spilling out between his fingers flicker through the connection.
—Working— says Squeaky. He prods at the moon, clatters his mandibles, and then rolls an eye at me. We're managing the same area; he speaks aloud. "Mine isn't so tricky as yours. Should I start on the rings when I'm finished (smash up their holding-space and distribute)?"
"I'll do that. You should help Blue."
"Right."
"Concert," exhorts Swift-Runs. A massive arm coils from the outer reaches of the system, banded plates flexing gold.
—Do I concentrate too much on my monsters?— asks Squeaky as he tugs the moon outwards, —Swift-Runs says I concentrate too much on my monsters—
I blink at him. —Do you?—
Exasperation. Sorrow. —I like my monsters—
—I like my nebulae paintings—
—You like the collisions—
—You like the little legs—
He sighs. —It's so much fun watching the little legs—
"Concentrate," interrupts Swift-Runs. "Who requires assistance and where?"
"Blue," I reply. "With the tectonics."
—Perverse tectonics Swift-Runs must have weighted the probability counters stupid stupid—
Squeaky checks the last calculations. —Moon's in place. Blue, where do you need me?—
—South continent won't split. I need you to drive a row of accelerator wedges. Rings?—
—In-progress— I reply, relaying my plans for atomization and recombination. These will be uniform rings, five major and three hundred minor, tilted across the poles. As instructed.
Squeaky departs to join Blue in tormenting the world below. I step towards the ungainly mass of collected material, ice and rock smashed together with little regard for style or stability. To reduce, to destroy, to smear across the cosmos—
Not in reality. Not yet.
When we arrive, finally arrive, and we begin on our first project... then, then is when these gestures will have meaning. For now they are merely exercises. Exercises that the previous generation performed on actual worlds, actual stars, actual masses of rock and ice and metal. Exercises closed to us while we traverse the nothing-void.
Were this real, we would be wearing armor. The second marker of adulthood, granted at the beginning of one's first true project. A marker deferred.
Also: at project's completion the makers choose names.

Swift-Runs: You must concentrate, Stumpy. Feel it. Touch and listen and—
Dark-Star-Devouring-Binary-Suns-in-Bursts-of-Blinding-Hue-and-Pressure: That's fine advice, Swift-Runs, but whoever are you talking to?
Broad-Leaves: No, no, look at this example again. That's how you do it, Stumpy, that's how we—
Rippling-Currents-Threaded-Through-Layered-Stone-River-Frozen-in-Time: I don't know who this Stumpy is, but maybe he just wants to work?
Heat-Traces: That's wrong. It's all wrong. Start over, Stumpy.
Everything-Even-the-Universe-Explodes: Excuse me?

That last name, of course, would have been rather controversial.

Rings in place, monsters seeded, tectonics finally settled. The planet begins to cool.
We array ourselves before Swift-Runs, framed between ring and cloud. Sheets of particulate matter, a curtain of light, the skeleton of a rainbow. My work complete.
Our work complete, for the moment.
"A passable effort," says Swift-Runs, inlays glistening, "but always you forget: the universe wants to change. If you don't listen to its every creak and squall it will run away (keep running, overload, chain-reaction, disaster following disaster, must I mention the greatest disaster of all) and you will waste effort dragging it back to the way it should be. You must form your work. Mold it. Not fling the pieces every which way and hope it comes together. That is bad engineering and bad art. Heat-Traces is preparing a new simulation for you and this time the probability counters will not be so kind. Blue—"
—Swift-Kicks, more like— mutters the accused.
"No asides when I'm speaking to you (you are not so skilled yet). Your handling of the crust fragmentation was below standard and you know this. You will correct this in future and--” cruel word, laden with menace, “manage the same process on your own, without sibling assistance, at least three times in succession."
Blue lowers his head. "Yes, Swift-Runs."
Swift-Runs snaps his mandibles together, once, twice, in sharp emphasis. "You decry this form as a simple one. You must realize that even the most basic of patterns contains a hidden complexity, tones within tones (choir of a thousand voices, each voice produced by muscular distortion, charge differentials, circuit and synapse). The most basic of patterns is not simple." His eyes traverse us, narrow as knives. "Problems arise in the most banal of circumstances and then (then, then, we stand as witness) they grow."
We are duly reminded. We are always duly reminded.
What if we had worked harder? What if we had corrected flaws earlier? What if we had put into place the final perfection, halted expansion, halted entropy, halted time? Are children worth the price of loss?
We appreciate our existence.
"Stumpy," continues Swift-Runs, "while your completed portion follows all the rules of form, it is not finished. There are unacceptable flaws in its construction, flaws which will tear it asunder in less than two million years."
"This simulation was never specified as running for two million years," I point out. A useless assertion, but on behalf of myself and my siblings some explanation must be made. Why are we inept? Because we choose to be. We choose to be this way.
Swift-Runs closes his eyes. "You know very well that all simulations have no set time frame and that each structure is expected to last for eternity, given proper maintenance. You have not met this expectation and this indicates laziness. (Laziness and gross disregard for our teaching, as well as dismissal of our art as something fit for beasts. You must not do this. You will not do this)."
Must not. Will not. A command and an assumption that it will be followed; indeed, by all intent, has already been followed, with no further need to worry.
—Simulation time runs forever, just as all things run forever—
I copy Blue's posture, crests tilted low. "Yes, Swift-Runs."
So much for Everything-Even-The-Universe-Explodes.
It was a juvenile name, anyway.
—My turn— says Squeaky dejectedly. —Monsters. It's going to be about the monsters again—
Swift-Runs, as expected, levels his gaze on the last of us. "You, Squeaky, have shown more initiative than either of your siblings, assisting where needed and doing so ably. I've spoken to you before about your preoccupation with living creatures at the expense of the symphonic whole (many times). No need to remind you once again."
—What— says Blue.
I stare at Swift-Runs. —Congratulations?—
—But the monsters— wonders Squeaky, wilting in anticipation.
"During this simulation," continues Swift-Runs, seemingly oblivious to our reaction (although he and our other guardians possess a remarkable facility for noticing such things), "you acted flexibly, and, while never completing a form of your own, provided optimism and stability for your siblings. Failure is a matter of expectation: expecting success, and acting upon that success, brings rock to flower."
Squeaky joins me in supplication, unsure what else to do. "Yes, Swift-Runs."
—We did something right— I say, idea strange in my hearing. Not unwelcome, no, but unusual.
—We did do something right— agrees Blue.
Squeaky fights to control a chuckle. —Flower. He said flower. Had to remind me of the ones I've made—
—They were good flowers— I tell him, gracious in surprise. —They'll be better when they're real—
—Truth. Real flowers can be touched—