Paradoxical [Destiny/Worm Post-GM]
- Thread starter ensou
- Start date
- Crossover
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Of course~
To be honest, some of the stuff in the expansion's lore was things I'd expected and counted on from the start: Mara being around since the beginning of the Awoken, having survived using the darkness somehow---likely a throne world, considering Crota and Oryx---the Awoken being near-immortal, Eris being buddy-buddy (or at least having a working relationship with) the Queen, people considering Petra a bit of an outsider and incredulous about her sudden advancement to the Queen's Wrath within months of coming back from exile, Mithrax showing up again, etc. etc.
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thefluffyone
Big Ego for Something so Small, eh?
- Location
- Earth
I used to follow the Destiny Lore, but I stopped after the flub that was Osiris. I take it Forsaken had some major lore drops by what I've been reading?
Twei
I have a face!
- Location
- the land where they write things
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Forsaken was the shit, yo. At least, the lore was the shit. The story was pretty damn alright, and I say 'was' but it's still developing with each week which is really hecking neat
Warmind was still kinda eh tho, even if I hear the gameplay was alright?
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- Location
- Philippines
Good to know!
Can't wait for the chapter where Taylor and Mara are in an actual interaction.
Raven
Twei
I have a face!
- Location
- the land where they write things
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Snippet posting because I keep writing things and Ensou keeps demanding I post them. 
I wrote up a Grimoire blurb based on A Golden Amputation. It has nothing to do with anything. Except Oryx, obviously, and the fact that we don't see weird alien Taken from previously conquered/defeated/destroyed races.
Inspired by Taken Grimoire cards, of course, and with some other references here and there.
I am the Tai Emperor Raven. I am the greatest of my people. My wingspan shrouds the stars, my feathers tickle gods. With my talons I rip open a moon and destroy its brood.
I have been taken.
There is no war here, no threat. My claws lay still.
What light sparkles on my plumage? What drives my talons into flesh?
I left my Bridge to soar among the stars, to bathe in the light of infinity. I returned and my people were dying, fallen upon by a ravenous hive. I fought the Hive but it was too late.
My will betrayed me.
There is a knife for me, here in the deep. It is shaped like [no will but death].
I take up the knife. I quiet my will. I take up my new shape.
I am perfect. I enact the will of Oryx.
I am the death of my people.
....
The Taken King sends me back into the bleeding between to rest. I am alone with the screams.
He does not call me back. I am alone.
I hear whispers among the screams. The Taken King marches onwards. He communes with the Deep itself on the back of the death of my people.
I was the weapon that dealt that death. And yet he spurns me.
My will is quiet, but my mind is not. For the first time since my death, I feel rage.
He spurns the weapon that propelled him to behold the Deep. Does he forget the death of my people? Does he forget who he killed? Does he forget the sword he wielded to prove himself worthy to the power he worships?
Do I not have the sword logic of ending the Taishibethi?
Am I not a sword in my own right, blighting worlds, shimmering with unlight?
Will he not wield me again?
I wrote up a Grimoire blurb based on A Golden Amputation. It has nothing to do with anything. Except Oryx, obviously, and the fact that we don't see weird alien Taken from previously conquered/defeated/destroyed races.
Inspired by Taken Grimoire cards, of course, and with some other references here and there.
Raven
I am the Tai Emperor Raven. I am the greatest of my people. My wingspan shrouds the stars, my feathers tickle gods. With my talons I rip open a moon and destroy its brood.
I have been taken.
There is no war here, no threat. My claws lay still.
What light sparkles on my plumage? What drives my talons into flesh?
I left my Bridge to soar among the stars, to bathe in the light of infinity. I returned and my people were dying, fallen upon by a ravenous hive. I fought the Hive but it was too late.
My will betrayed me.
There is a knife for me, here in the deep. It is shaped like [no will but death].
I take up the knife. I quiet my will. I take up my new shape.
I am perfect. I enact the will of Oryx.
I am the death of my people.
....
The Taken King sends me back into the bleeding between to rest. I am alone with the screams.
He does not call me back. I am alone.
I hear whispers among the screams. The Taken King marches onwards. He communes with the Deep itself on the back of the death of my people.
I was the weapon that dealt that death. And yet he spurns me.
My will is quiet, but my mind is not. For the first time since my death, I feel rage.
He spurns the weapon that propelled him to behold the Deep. Does he forget the death of my people? Does he forget who he killed? Does he forget the sword he wielded to prove himself worthy to the power he worships?
Do I not have the sword logic of ending the Taishibethi?
Am I not a sword in my own right, blighting worlds, shimmering with unlight?
Will he not wield me again?
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Because it deserves to be here :P
Also I've got a question for everyone. I just organized the entire loreset of... well just about everything relating to the
Would you guys like me to post it here? It'd be in spoilers to not be absolutely gigantic or anything.
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Yes please.
Go ahead! or maybe make a google doc?
Destiny's Awoken Lore in Chronological Order
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Destiny's Lore of the Awoken
(in chronological order)
(in chronological order)
Note: All of this is owned and copyrighted by Bungie. I'm just organizing it into a form that makes sense linearly, which is something I couldn't find anywhere else. Personally I find it really cool to see how Destiny 1 lore intertwines and connects to Destiny 2 lore in certain spots.
Marasenna
Secrets. Do you come in hope, o reader, for the secrets of My reign? A parable. In the nitrate earth of the lightning crater, where the firmament has joined in electric fury with the fundament, there lives a burrowing insect with two trembling antennae, thin as whiskers, long as life. A grasping hand reaches for the buried secret, finds the antenna, and pulls. Comes away with a single whisker, meaningless: the searcher disappointed. A wounded insect buried deeper: the secret now half-blind. That which digs for truth may bury deeper lies.
If you recognize My Authority then I command you to pass onward as gently as the lover passes a razor over beloved skin. If you do not, then I name you majescept, doubter-of-royalty, and I suggest you watch your edge. Cut too deep and too quick, and you will kill the thing you want to know. Think too eagerly, and as the digging hand leaves its print in soft earth, so you will find only the image left by your own presumptions. Beware the one who feeds on truth-adjacent lies! Beware the space between Reality-As-Imagined and Reality-As-Is, for it is abundant to those with appetite.
So then. The brave voyagers' fate, the timeless birthing-place, my Milton reenactment, the ruins made ours, the riven twice riven, the daughter's blood scabbed hard on mother's wound. All things told, all truth revealed, if through mist and mystery. If you have grace, then see our sorrows, but swallow back your tears. We were made to pay this price. I led us to our fate.
Seek me in my place. Hear these whispers from the lips of Queen-Egged God.
If you recognize My Authority then I command you to pass onward as gently as the lover passes a razor over beloved skin. If you do not, then I name you majescept, doubter-of-royalty, and I suggest you watch your edge. Cut too deep and too quick, and you will kill the thing you want to know. Think too eagerly, and as the digging hand leaves its print in soft earth, so you will find only the image left by your own presumptions. Beware the one who feeds on truth-adjacent lies! Beware the space between Reality-As-Imagined and Reality-As-Is, for it is abundant to those with appetite.
So then. The brave voyagers' fate, the timeless birthing-place, my Milton reenactment, the ruins made ours, the riven twice riven, the daughter's blood scabbed hard on mother's wound. All things told, all truth revealed, if through mist and mystery. If you have grace, then see our sorrows, but swallow back your tears. We were made to pay this price. I led us to our fate.
Seek me in my place. Hear these whispers from the lips of Queen-Egged God.
The woman sits on a ledge that overhangs infinity. She looks down and kicks her legs.
The stars shine brilliant here, because the sun is only fractionally brighter than the rest of them. Sol lies almost perfectly below her. Of course up and down are defined only by the thrust axis of Yang Liwei. Upward, the black umbrella of the shield and the matter storage, and the docked ships which make Yang Liwei not just a mothership, but an entire traveling fleet. Down below, along the slim spine of the ship, the shielded bulb of the engine glows invisibly infrared. If she slips off this ledge, she will fall down the ship's length at one-third of an Earth gravity, not because there is anything pulling her, but because the ship is pulling away.
Yang Liwei is accelerating, slowly but inexorably, toward the stars.
She is of no single race or ancestry, and the light on her skin is the color of starlight: She drifts with her suit tinted clear so she can soak it up. She was nineteen years and nine months old at the moment the ship began its transtellar injection burn, although this is true only if you count by the calendar of a planet she has barely visited but will always love. She thinks you cannot help but love Earth if you grow up in space. You love Earth the way all adolescents secretly adore two-century-old video of nai nai and ye ye dancing on New Year's Eve. Earth does not ask too much. The colonies are demanding parents, but Earth is like a chill old grandam, simmering in weird art and weirder ideas, enthroned upon ecology older than Human time. Earth was the first terraformed world. Life made Earth livable.
She is going with Yang Liwei and the rest of Project Amrita to make new worlds.
She came because she saw an omen in a man's death. She was on EVA with him, repairing a jammed radiator fin on an uncrewed circum-Jovian platform. They worked in companionable silence, listening to the howl of the Jovian magnetosphere when it happened. A frozen rabbit embryo came out of deep space at forty kilometers per second and went through his faceplate. The rabbit must have been spilled in a biocontainer accident far from the sun to plunge back inward like a comet.
Immediately afterward—for reasons very clear to her because she has always had a sense for the meaning of things, reasons very difficult to explain to others because she has always felt this sense was secret—she asked her mother if the family could travel with Project Amrita.
Amrita: the drink that endeth drinking, the bottomless cup. It is the quest to spread far beyond the solar system and to end Human dependence on the Traveler. It calls to those who see Humanity as a cocoon, an instar, a form ready to be shed.
She is an Auturge 3rd Class, a self-motivating subsystem of the ship's inclusive ecology, a term that spans technology, biology, and behavior, all of which must be maintained for the mission to succeed. Her task is to locate problems and report them to an Auturge 2nd Class, who will give her the tools she needs to repair them. But she never speaks to her 2nd. She never tells anyone about the problems she finds. Instead she fixes them herself. Her work has therefore assumed a magical quality: She appears where there is trouble, and shortly afterward, the trouble goes away. People have begun to leave gifts for her. Some of these gifts are questions. She answers the questions with a quiet confidence some would argue she has not earned. She knows she sees more of their lives than they see of hers—and that this mystery, this seeing-without-being-seen, grants her a kind of power that is like wisdom.
She lives outside the ship, suited and cocooned in a layer of cytogel, which keeps her surgically clean. She misses the wild zero-gravity fashions of her upbringing, clothes like drifting jellyfish that squirm away from snags, self-correcting darts in the fabric, silk like cool spilled alcohol. She misses the sense of oil and sweat on her skin, for the suit leaves her so clean that she feels skinned raw.
Still, she stays out here because she wants to feel the changing taste of starlight as the universe ahead blue-shifts. As Yang Liwei accelerates toward lightspeed, it moves faster and faster into the light coming from ahead. If light were like dust, it would strike Yang faster, but light can never change speed, so it gains energy instead. Red light is low energy, and blue-violet light is high energy, so the universe becomes blue.
Even now, the very tip of the visual spectrum, violet-blue light, is shifting up into invisible ultraviolet, the color of speed, the color of future.
The stars shine brilliant here, because the sun is only fractionally brighter than the rest of them. Sol lies almost perfectly below her. Of course up and down are defined only by the thrust axis of Yang Liwei. Upward, the black umbrella of the shield and the matter storage, and the docked ships which make Yang Liwei not just a mothership, but an entire traveling fleet. Down below, along the slim spine of the ship, the shielded bulb of the engine glows invisibly infrared. If she slips off this ledge, she will fall down the ship's length at one-third of an Earth gravity, not because there is anything pulling her, but because the ship is pulling away.
Yang Liwei is accelerating, slowly but inexorably, toward the stars.
She is of no single race or ancestry, and the light on her skin is the color of starlight: She drifts with her suit tinted clear so she can soak it up. She was nineteen years and nine months old at the moment the ship began its transtellar injection burn, although this is true only if you count by the calendar of a planet she has barely visited but will always love. She thinks you cannot help but love Earth if you grow up in space. You love Earth the way all adolescents secretly adore two-century-old video of nai nai and ye ye dancing on New Year's Eve. Earth does not ask too much. The colonies are demanding parents, but Earth is like a chill old grandam, simmering in weird art and weirder ideas, enthroned upon ecology older than Human time. Earth was the first terraformed world. Life made Earth livable.
She is going with Yang Liwei and the rest of Project Amrita to make new worlds.
She came because she saw an omen in a man's death. She was on EVA with him, repairing a jammed radiator fin on an uncrewed circum-Jovian platform. They worked in companionable silence, listening to the howl of the Jovian magnetosphere when it happened. A frozen rabbit embryo came out of deep space at forty kilometers per second and went through his faceplate. The rabbit must have been spilled in a biocontainer accident far from the sun to plunge back inward like a comet.
Immediately afterward—for reasons very clear to her because she has always had a sense for the meaning of things, reasons very difficult to explain to others because she has always felt this sense was secret—she asked her mother if the family could travel with Project Amrita.
Amrita: the drink that endeth drinking, the bottomless cup. It is the quest to spread far beyond the solar system and to end Human dependence on the Traveler. It calls to those who see Humanity as a cocoon, an instar, a form ready to be shed.
She is an Auturge 3rd Class, a self-motivating subsystem of the ship's inclusive ecology, a term that spans technology, biology, and behavior, all of which must be maintained for the mission to succeed. Her task is to locate problems and report them to an Auturge 2nd Class, who will give her the tools she needs to repair them. But she never speaks to her 2nd. She never tells anyone about the problems she finds. Instead she fixes them herself. Her work has therefore assumed a magical quality: She appears where there is trouble, and shortly afterward, the trouble goes away. People have begun to leave gifts for her. Some of these gifts are questions. She answers the questions with a quiet confidence some would argue she has not earned. She knows she sees more of their lives than they see of hers—and that this mystery, this seeing-without-being-seen, grants her a kind of power that is like wisdom.
She lives outside the ship, suited and cocooned in a layer of cytogel, which keeps her surgically clean. She misses the wild zero-gravity fashions of her upbringing, clothes like drifting jellyfish that squirm away from snags, self-correcting darts in the fabric, silk like cool spilled alcohol. She misses the sense of oil and sweat on her skin, for the suit leaves her so clean that she feels skinned raw.
Still, she stays out here because she wants to feel the changing taste of starlight as the universe ahead blue-shifts. As Yang Liwei accelerates toward lightspeed, it moves faster and faster into the light coming from ahead. If light were like dust, it would strike Yang faster, but light can never change speed, so it gains energy instead. Red light is low energy, and blue-violet light is high energy, so the universe becomes blue.
Even now, the very tip of the visual spectrum, violet-blue light, is shifting up into invisible ultraviolet, the color of speed, the color of future.
"Mara!" the fighter shouts, delighted, and a punch shuts him concussively up. It's a real good hit, a thunderous uppercut to the point of the jaw. Mara hears his teeth grind across each other, down into lip-flesh and shredded gums. She cringes in silent sympathy. He loses his grip on the equipment rack and tumbles out into zero gravity in a big arc of blood. His opponent goes for the coup de gras, kicks off hard and catches him in the stomach like a Human torpedo. They plunge together toward the killzone painted on the floor.
Uldwyn grins messily at Mara over his opponent's shoulder. He's fighting a big, brutal woman from Gravity Ops, a woman who's had her myostatin genes knocked out so she can swell up into a giant plug of brawn. Uldwyn doesn't have a chance. He took the fight for the same reason he wanted to join the Amrita expedition—he measures himself by the bravery of his losses. By what he can survive losing.
He applies a blood choke. It's the right move, but it doesn't matter. The woman groans, grays out, goes limp—but Uldwyn can't get out from beneath her sheer inertia before he hits the killzone. The bell goes off. Uldwyn groans as his rail-hard body forcibly decelerates his opponent's entire mass. Events have built up momentum, and he is just in the way.
"What did you lose?" Mara asks him.
He lies there panting and grinning, shedding perfectly round spheres of blood. "It's good to see you inside. What brought you?"
She and her fraternal twin never answer each other's questions directly. Mara is cool with this because she feels like words are a very bad system of encryption, and that if you really want to communicate with someone, you must develop your own special one-to-one cryptosystem. The ideal statement, Mara feels, would be indecipherable to anyone but the person it's spoken to—and even then, only if they know you are the one speaking.
"I got you some pictures," she says, pushing the big woman off him, eliciting a fuzzy "oh hi Mara." "Full sensorium captures. You can trade them for the parts I need."
Uldwyn helps the big woman pull herself vertical, but his eyes are narrow on Mara. Not because he's sore at the idea of helping her—he's always liked bartering, bargaining, the hustle—but because he knows what kind of black market wants these captures. "How far off the hull did you take them?"
How far off? All the way off. They are in zero gravity because Yang Liwei shut off its engines for an inspection cycle. So while Uldwyn got in prize fights, Mara kicked off Yang Liwei's forward shield and coasted ten kilometers into pure void, tethered by only a thread-thin molecular line. She ordered her suit's cytogel to gather around her face. Then, only then, she overrode every sanity system in her softsuit and commanded it to retract into storage mode.
The suit peeled away like rind and she was drifting in hard vacuum.
The void boiled the water off her skin. Her body swelled with unchecked pressure until her undersuit forced it to stop. Alarmed cytogel crawled down her throat, hissing emergency oxygen: not enough. Her skin blued with cyanosis. She was bathed in the most profound emptiness.
She recorded all of it at the neural level. The exquisite darkness. The sense of fatal independence from all things. There are those who will give anything to feel that void.
"You can't keep doing this," Uldwyn complains, as the big woman stares at Mara in awe. "Mom is going to die of worry."
Uldwyn grins messily at Mara over his opponent's shoulder. He's fighting a big, brutal woman from Gravity Ops, a woman who's had her myostatin genes knocked out so she can swell up into a giant plug of brawn. Uldwyn doesn't have a chance. He took the fight for the same reason he wanted to join the Amrita expedition—he measures himself by the bravery of his losses. By what he can survive losing.
He applies a blood choke. It's the right move, but it doesn't matter. The woman groans, grays out, goes limp—but Uldwyn can't get out from beneath her sheer inertia before he hits the killzone. The bell goes off. Uldwyn groans as his rail-hard body forcibly decelerates his opponent's entire mass. Events have built up momentum, and he is just in the way.
"What did you lose?" Mara asks him.
He lies there panting and grinning, shedding perfectly round spheres of blood. "It's good to see you inside. What brought you?"
She and her fraternal twin never answer each other's questions directly. Mara is cool with this because she feels like words are a very bad system of encryption, and that if you really want to communicate with someone, you must develop your own special one-to-one cryptosystem. The ideal statement, Mara feels, would be indecipherable to anyone but the person it's spoken to—and even then, only if they know you are the one speaking.
"I got you some pictures," she says, pushing the big woman off him, eliciting a fuzzy "oh hi Mara." "Full sensorium captures. You can trade them for the parts I need."
Uldwyn helps the big woman pull herself vertical, but his eyes are narrow on Mara. Not because he's sore at the idea of helping her—he's always liked bartering, bargaining, the hustle—but because he knows what kind of black market wants these captures. "How far off the hull did you take them?"
How far off? All the way off. They are in zero gravity because Yang Liwei shut off its engines for an inspection cycle. So while Uldwyn got in prize fights, Mara kicked off Yang Liwei's forward shield and coasted ten kilometers into pure void, tethered by only a thread-thin molecular line. She ordered her suit's cytogel to gather around her face. Then, only then, she overrode every sanity system in her softsuit and commanded it to retract into storage mode.
The suit peeled away like rind and she was drifting in hard vacuum.
The void boiled the water off her skin. Her body swelled with unchecked pressure until her undersuit forced it to stop. Alarmed cytogel crawled down her throat, hissing emergency oxygen: not enough. Her skin blued with cyanosis. She was bathed in the most profound emptiness.
She recorded all of it at the neural level. The exquisite darkness. The sense of fatal independence from all things. There are those who will give anything to feel that void.
"You can't keep doing this," Uldwyn complains, as the big woman stares at Mara in awe. "Mom is going to die of worry."
"I really don't care what risks you take," Mara's mother sighs. "That's the deal we made, my little yellow star—"
"Mom!" Mara protests.
"My discarded tube of sealant, my sweet little fleck of paint—"
Osana likes to compare Mara to small pestilent items that drift near spacecraft, like crystals of frozen urine. As far as Mara can tell, Osana is the apex of a centuries-long project to create the ultimate embarrassing mom. She is also very blunt: "Mara, even when you were little, you wanted me to treat you like an adult. So I have. But you remember what I told you, don't you? If you don't want to be my daughter, I can't watch over you like a mother would. I can't put you first, like a mother would. I will always be your friend, but I have to make my own choices too."
"That doesn't mean you had to tell the Captain!"
They walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the companionway to Captain Li's wardroom. Mara keeps trying to get a step ahead, to lead, but Osana somehow matches her every time. "Of course I did," Osana says. "You started a cult, Mara. If I didn't say something to the Captain, Behavior would've had this conversation with you instead. Do you want that?"
"I didn't do anything. People liked my captures. People left me presents, spare parts, tips—then Uldwyn got into it, you know how he is—"
"Don't!" Osana wheels on her. "For shame, Mara. You know your brother will follow anywhere you lead. You know he's not capable of the same, ah," her lips twitch, "imperial remove. You knew he'd brag about you living on the hull—and you let him do it. It is one thing to have a particular power over people, Mara. But it is another to deny that you are using it."
Mara thinks she can come up with a stinging retort, given a few more paces, but it's too late. The hatch to Captain Li's wardroom swings open. Mara is terrified of this place. This is where Captain Alice Li, divine presence in Mara's life, interfaces with the officers who are the manifestations of her will. Since Mara wants to be Alice Li someday, the wardroom makes Mara feel like she is an usurper princess scoping out her rival's court.
Captain Li offers them tea. Mara cannot imagine the ways in which she is butchering what must be an intricate and meaningful tea ceremony. Li serves some very battered pre-Traveler ceramic sloshing with hot green tea, then immediately adulterates her own cup with milk from the Cow Thing on the biodeck.
"Revolting, isn't it?" She smiles at Mara's bewildered horror. "You should've seen what I put in my tea when I was camping in Mongolia. I understand your colleague, who is also your mother, has some concerns about your relationship with the rest of the crew?"
"My darling Mara," Osana says, "has—entirely by accident, I'm sure—cultivated a reputation as a minor divinity. Her captures from outside the ship are hot items for barter. People draw fan art. There are… tips left for her."
"You take captures while EVA, sometimes without a suit?" Li nods. "Yes, I've played one. A remarkable sensation." This makes Mara grin impetuously. "Mara, you are an Auturge, a volunteer. I cannot order you to stop, and your work is exemplary. Are you putting anyone else in danger with your… art projects?"
"No," Mara says. "Just myself."
"False!" Li barks. "That is a selfish answer. You are now a symbol to my crew, a house god. If you were to die, they would lose something important, something Human that they have created out of loneliness and void. It would be an unforgettable reminder of the hostile nothingness that surrounds us. When you endanger yourself, you endanger that symbol. You are part of this mission's behavioral armor, Mara."
Mara is thunderstruck. She's never thought about it this way. "All I did was take some captures. I didn't ask to be anyone's… mascot."
"You presented yourself as a conduit to secret knowledge," Captain Li counters. "People made something out of you, Mara. Please take this from a starship captain: What people make of you, what they create of you—even without your consent—becomes a kind of responsibility. If the Mara they see when they look at you is good for them, then you have some duty to be that Mara." She looks to Osana. "What about your boy? He's in medical more often than any of the other underground fighters."
It does not surprise Mara that Captain Li knows about the fights. "My son," Osana says, "is determined to be his own worst enemy. Thank you for taking the time to speak to us."
"Of course." Li studies them coolly. "I keep an ear out for… curious personalities. People who might be suited to long-term isolation while the rest of us are in cryo. People who awaken when others sleep."
"Mom!" Mara protests.
"My discarded tube of sealant, my sweet little fleck of paint—"
Osana likes to compare Mara to small pestilent items that drift near spacecraft, like crystals of frozen urine. As far as Mara can tell, Osana is the apex of a centuries-long project to create the ultimate embarrassing mom. She is also very blunt: "Mara, even when you were little, you wanted me to treat you like an adult. So I have. But you remember what I told you, don't you? If you don't want to be my daughter, I can't watch over you like a mother would. I can't put you first, like a mother would. I will always be your friend, but I have to make my own choices too."
"That doesn't mean you had to tell the Captain!"
They walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the companionway to Captain Li's wardroom. Mara keeps trying to get a step ahead, to lead, but Osana somehow matches her every time. "Of course I did," Osana says. "You started a cult, Mara. If I didn't say something to the Captain, Behavior would've had this conversation with you instead. Do you want that?"
"I didn't do anything. People liked my captures. People left me presents, spare parts, tips—then Uldwyn got into it, you know how he is—"
"Don't!" Osana wheels on her. "For shame, Mara. You know your brother will follow anywhere you lead. You know he's not capable of the same, ah," her lips twitch, "imperial remove. You knew he'd brag about you living on the hull—and you let him do it. It is one thing to have a particular power over people, Mara. But it is another to deny that you are using it."
Mara thinks she can come up with a stinging retort, given a few more paces, but it's too late. The hatch to Captain Li's wardroom swings open. Mara is terrified of this place. This is where Captain Alice Li, divine presence in Mara's life, interfaces with the officers who are the manifestations of her will. Since Mara wants to be Alice Li someday, the wardroom makes Mara feel like she is an usurper princess scoping out her rival's court.
Captain Li offers them tea. Mara cannot imagine the ways in which she is butchering what must be an intricate and meaningful tea ceremony. Li serves some very battered pre-Traveler ceramic sloshing with hot green tea, then immediately adulterates her own cup with milk from the Cow Thing on the biodeck.
"Revolting, isn't it?" She smiles at Mara's bewildered horror. "You should've seen what I put in my tea when I was camping in Mongolia. I understand your colleague, who is also your mother, has some concerns about your relationship with the rest of the crew?"
"My darling Mara," Osana says, "has—entirely by accident, I'm sure—cultivated a reputation as a minor divinity. Her captures from outside the ship are hot items for barter. People draw fan art. There are… tips left for her."
"You take captures while EVA, sometimes without a suit?" Li nods. "Yes, I've played one. A remarkable sensation." This makes Mara grin impetuously. "Mara, you are an Auturge, a volunteer. I cannot order you to stop, and your work is exemplary. Are you putting anyone else in danger with your… art projects?"
"No," Mara says. "Just myself."
"False!" Li barks. "That is a selfish answer. You are now a symbol to my crew, a house god. If you were to die, they would lose something important, something Human that they have created out of loneliness and void. It would be an unforgettable reminder of the hostile nothingness that surrounds us. When you endanger yourself, you endanger that symbol. You are part of this mission's behavioral armor, Mara."
Mara is thunderstruck. She's never thought about it this way. "All I did was take some captures. I didn't ask to be anyone's… mascot."
"You presented yourself as a conduit to secret knowledge," Captain Li counters. "People made something out of you, Mara. Please take this from a starship captain: What people make of you, what they create of you—even without your consent—becomes a kind of responsibility. If the Mara they see when they look at you is good for them, then you have some duty to be that Mara." She looks to Osana. "What about your boy? He's in medical more often than any of the other underground fighters."
It does not surprise Mara that Captain Li knows about the fights. "My son," Osana says, "is determined to be his own worst enemy. Thank you for taking the time to speak to us."
"Of course." Li studies them coolly. "I keep an ear out for… curious personalities. People who might be suited to long-term isolation while the rest of us are in cryo. People who awaken when others sleep."
"Exodus Green to unknown maneuvering object. Please squawk your transponder and ident. Over."
Another silent quarter-hour passes in Flight. No response comes from the transient contact twelve and a half light minutes away. The ghost has stalked Yang Liwei for eighteen hours now, closing in each time it appears, and Captain Alice Li is wary of it. Other colony missions have vanished during their outward burns—victims of mishap or hostility—and because of these disappearances, Project Amrita did not hurl itself fearless into the void. Rather, they came armed to the molars.
"Let's give them a fright," she decides. "Cut the main engine."
The ship's AI executes the command, but a crewperson confirms and calls the order back. "MECO, aye aye."
"Launch a distributed antenna. Heat up the targeting radar for a full fusion-powered snapshot. We'll take their picture and see what we see."
"Captain," the comm officer calls. "I've got… something weird here."
"Is our phantom saying hello?"
"No. It's a neutrino tightbeam from SOLSECCENT. They've declared a CARRHAE WHITE emergency. The whole solar system is now… now under Warmind control." Comm dismisses her sensorium, goes to her hard controls, as if she thinks this might be some kind of virtual prank. "We're… being conscripted."
Alice smashes these ideas together in her head like a child banging rocks. They are so preposterous, so stupid, that she cannot even begin to manipulate them coherently. "We're WHAT?"
"We've been commissioned as an auxiliary warship. We are ordered to," Comm swallows in disbelief, "to kill our exit trajectory and assume a heliocentric orbit. That comes with explicit instructions to suicide burn our engines until they are destroyed. Rasputin will transmit targeting coordinates so we can use our Kinetic weapons as… long-range artillery. We'll be recovered 'after the crisis is concluded.'"
"Details! What kind of crisis?"
"It's a SKYSHOCK event, ma'am. Uh, that's a hostile extrasolar arrival."
Captain Li clamps the mask of command authority over her face. "Transmit a request for clarification."
"Belay the antenna, Captain?"
"No. Scale it up, add telescopes to the swarm, get me a full system survey. I want to know what's going on back home." Alice Li reaches out to call up a file, hesitates, and then selects the Project Amrita charter. "We have a decision to make."
Another silent quarter-hour passes in Flight. No response comes from the transient contact twelve and a half light minutes away. The ghost has stalked Yang Liwei for eighteen hours now, closing in each time it appears, and Captain Alice Li is wary of it. Other colony missions have vanished during their outward burns—victims of mishap or hostility—and because of these disappearances, Project Amrita did not hurl itself fearless into the void. Rather, they came armed to the molars.
"Let's give them a fright," she decides. "Cut the main engine."
The ship's AI executes the command, but a crewperson confirms and calls the order back. "MECO, aye aye."
"Launch a distributed antenna. Heat up the targeting radar for a full fusion-powered snapshot. We'll take their picture and see what we see."
"Captain," the comm officer calls. "I've got… something weird here."
"Is our phantom saying hello?"
"No. It's a neutrino tightbeam from SOLSECCENT. They've declared a CARRHAE WHITE emergency. The whole solar system is now… now under Warmind control." Comm dismisses her sensorium, goes to her hard controls, as if she thinks this might be some kind of virtual prank. "We're… being conscripted."
Alice smashes these ideas together in her head like a child banging rocks. They are so preposterous, so stupid, that she cannot even begin to manipulate them coherently. "We're WHAT?"
"We've been commissioned as an auxiliary warship. We are ordered to," Comm swallows in disbelief, "to kill our exit trajectory and assume a heliocentric orbit. That comes with explicit instructions to suicide burn our engines until they are destroyed. Rasputin will transmit targeting coordinates so we can use our Kinetic weapons as… long-range artillery. We'll be recovered 'after the crisis is concluded.'"
"Details! What kind of crisis?"
"It's a SKYSHOCK event, ma'am. Uh, that's a hostile extrasolar arrival."
Captain Li clamps the mask of command authority over her face. "Transmit a request for clarification."
"Belay the antenna, Captain?"
"No. Scale it up, add telescopes to the swarm, get me a full system survey. I want to know what's going on back home." Alice Li reaches out to call up a file, hesitates, and then selects the Project Amrita charter. "We have a decision to make."
Mara kicks off Yang Liwei's forward shield, aiming astern and inward, so she will cross the void to the ship's spine in a long slow curve. "Oh, come on," Uldwyn says in delight as much as horror. "You really do this all the time?"
"All the time." Yang is a big ship, newer than the antique trucks used in the other Exodus missions. Project Amrita demanded the cutting edge of Human science. It says that in the mission charter, which everyone's been rereading. The Captain has called a vote.
Should Yang Liwei turn home?
"What if the ship starts accelerating?" Uldwyn has already, of course, leapt after her. His envy-yellow softsuit glows with gentle bioluminescence. "We'd just fall forever."
"We'd fall into the stars. We're still on a solar escape trajectory. Yang would just outrun us."
"At least we'd still be going the right direction."
She doesn't think she's given anything away, but somehow he knows. "Mara." He looks up frowning, his face bigger and brighter than the distant Sun. "You want to go back, don't you? You're going to vote to return."
Mara thinks that if she looked him in the eye he would see the truth, the turmoil, the half-formed yes.
"Mara. You don't have to tell me how…" He swallows the hitch in his voice. "I've seen how bad it is. I've watched it long enough to know that it's not going to get better. They're gambling everything on the Traveler. We came out here to get away from it. To step off the easy path. Why would we go back?"
Because I asked us to leave, Mara thinks. Because something came out of deep space and killed the man next to me, and I saw the omen, and I said we should go. And now I feel like a coward.
"We might make a difference," she says. "There are other ships…"
"We'd be dead before we saved a single soul."
He's right. She doesn't want him to be right, but he's right. And she cannot withdraw into some silent place where she is above this choice.
They drift in silence until Yang Liwei's silver stem rushes up to meet them. Mara spins, uncoils, and lands in a crouch. Uldwyn comes down on his hands and springs up grinning. But the smile dies when he sees her expression. "Oh, Mara."
She's silent. "We left everything behind," he says, "and it turns out we did that for a very good reason. We don't owe… we don't owe those people our deaths. We don't owe them our dreams."
"I know," she says. "I know."
The EVA GUARD channel pops into her sensorium. "Everyone should get inside," Captain Li calls. "Our friend is closing in on us, and we need to maneuver."
"All the time." Yang is a big ship, newer than the antique trucks used in the other Exodus missions. Project Amrita demanded the cutting edge of Human science. It says that in the mission charter, which everyone's been rereading. The Captain has called a vote.
Should Yang Liwei turn home?
"What if the ship starts accelerating?" Uldwyn has already, of course, leapt after her. His envy-yellow softsuit glows with gentle bioluminescence. "We'd just fall forever."
"We'd fall into the stars. We're still on a solar escape trajectory. Yang would just outrun us."
"At least we'd still be going the right direction."
She doesn't think she's given anything away, but somehow he knows. "Mara." He looks up frowning, his face bigger and brighter than the distant Sun. "You want to go back, don't you? You're going to vote to return."
Mara thinks that if she looked him in the eye he would see the truth, the turmoil, the half-formed yes.
"Mara. You don't have to tell me how…" He swallows the hitch in his voice. "I've seen how bad it is. I've watched it long enough to know that it's not going to get better. They're gambling everything on the Traveler. We came out here to get away from it. To step off the easy path. Why would we go back?"
Because I asked us to leave, Mara thinks. Because something came out of deep space and killed the man next to me, and I saw the omen, and I said we should go. And now I feel like a coward.
"We might make a difference," she says. "There are other ships…"
"We'd be dead before we saved a single soul."
He's right. She doesn't want him to be right, but he's right. And she cannot withdraw into some silent place where she is above this choice.
They drift in silence until Yang Liwei's silver stem rushes up to meet them. Mara spins, uncoils, and lands in a crouch. Uldwyn comes down on his hands and springs up grinning. But the smile dies when he sees her expression. "Oh, Mara."
She's silent. "We left everything behind," he says, "and it turns out we did that for a very good reason. We don't owe… we don't owe those people our deaths. We don't owe them our dreams."
"I know," she says. "I know."
The EVA GUARD channel pops into her sensorium. "Everyone should get inside," Captain Li calls. "Our friend is closing in on us, and we need to maneuver."
The stars have gone out. The universe blackened: a shroud of nothingness drawn over Yang Liwei, its forty thousand sleeping passengers, its nine hundred crew, and maybe even the whole solar system. There is no way to know, because there is no way to see anything beyond the hull. The vacuum itself has become hostile to the propagation of light. Darkness surrounds them.
The ship bucks on a storm sea as space-time ripples with gravity tides.
"Report!" Captain Li calls. Her sensorium blazes with positional telemetry from ring-laser gyros, beacon satellites, pulsar fixes, cosmic microwave background texture, galactic EM-field terrain mapping: every single instrument useless, crashed, spitting nonsense. "Sound off by stations!"
"FIDO," the flight dynamics officer calls. "Main engine on safe. Thrusters firing erratically. Attitude control keeps crashing to manual."
"Guidance. I have no position. I cannot get a vector. We're moving, but I can't tell how or where."
"INCO. No external comms. Internal networks are dropping in and out."
An incredible sensation washes over Captain Li. A rumble and a thrum down in her gut, in her marrow, in the lowest, basest elements of her body. It is the vibration, the sound of the very fabric of her being scrunching up and stretching out; the distance between the atoms of her body collapses, then expands. The cycle repeats again and again. For a moment, she feels her fingertips and toes pulled away from her core, yanked by tidal forces. It feels like the lowest rumble of the biggest subwoofer ever built. It sounds like the deep voice of God whispering ASMR directly into her ear. It tingles, it thrills, and it leaves in its wake a subsonic tint of dread and anticipation.
She shivers. "Gravity wave," she says. "Talk to me, Geode."
The Space-Time Geodesics Officer looks like she's just been hand-delivered a Nobel. "This is amazing!" she crows, fully aware that she and everyone else are about to die, but transported away from such temporal concerns by scientific rapture. "Can you feel that growl? We're experiencing high-frequency, high-amplitude gravity waves. Phaeton strikes. Axions decaying through the hull. Sterile neutrinos. It's all coming from a source at bearing, uh, zero four five mark zero three zero relative, range—range highly variable."
Another wave tears through Yang Liwei. Everything in the ship simultaneously compresses and stretches as the gravity wave deforms the space-time metric. "Is it the phantom?" Li demands, as her ship thrums subsonically. "Is that phantom ship emitting these waves?"
"I have no idea!" GEOD says, exultantly. "None of this makes any sense at all! Wow!"
Alice Li has the distinct sense that something ancient and malevolent is operating upon them: a trillion-fingered hand reaching in to caress the very atoms of their being, setting protons a-spin, strumming nerves like guitar strings. A tongue with ten billion slithering forks tasting the surface of their brains. The sense of imminent doom crescendos. She knows, absolutely and utterly, that what is about to happen to her and to her crew is far worse than death. The darkness knows them now. The thing that has come to kill Humanity has their taste.
"INCO." She clings to her restraint harness as the ship growls through another wave. Her bones creak as they stretch. "Last report on the Traveler? Any sign of an intervention?"
"It was at Earth, Captain, and there were high-yield weapon discharges all over the signal. Nothing else."
"Understood." Well. She did not fly this far to look back and beg for salvation from an alien god. Pinned to the center of her sensorium is the blazing ledger of her crew's vote: We go onward. We do not turn home. Our fate lies ahead, not behind.
"Launch an antennae," she orders. "I want every probe and satellite we've got outside."
"Captain," INCO protests, "the vacuum's not signal-permissive—"
"We're still passing signals internally, aren't we? Use hardline! Run filament between the satellites! I want a transmitter sail out there, and I want to broadcast."
Her flight crew stares. "Captain?" FIDO says. "Broadcast what?"
"A declaration of neutrality." Alice Li grits her teeth against another wave. It rattles her molars in her skull. "Whatever's out there, it came for the Traveler. We tell it we're not part of this war. We've seceded from Human existence under the Traveler. We demand to be treated as a separate species, not party to baseline Humanity's conflicts.
"And we pray there's something out there that cares about the difference."
The ship bucks on a storm sea as space-time ripples with gravity tides.
"Report!" Captain Li calls. Her sensorium blazes with positional telemetry from ring-laser gyros, beacon satellites, pulsar fixes, cosmic microwave background texture, galactic EM-field terrain mapping: every single instrument useless, crashed, spitting nonsense. "Sound off by stations!"
"FIDO," the flight dynamics officer calls. "Main engine on safe. Thrusters firing erratically. Attitude control keeps crashing to manual."
"Guidance. I have no position. I cannot get a vector. We're moving, but I can't tell how or where."
"INCO. No external comms. Internal networks are dropping in and out."
An incredible sensation washes over Captain Li. A rumble and a thrum down in her gut, in her marrow, in the lowest, basest elements of her body. It is the vibration, the sound of the very fabric of her being scrunching up and stretching out; the distance between the atoms of her body collapses, then expands. The cycle repeats again and again. For a moment, she feels her fingertips and toes pulled away from her core, yanked by tidal forces. It feels like the lowest rumble of the biggest subwoofer ever built. It sounds like the deep voice of God whispering ASMR directly into her ear. It tingles, it thrills, and it leaves in its wake a subsonic tint of dread and anticipation.
She shivers. "Gravity wave," she says. "Talk to me, Geode."
The Space-Time Geodesics Officer looks like she's just been hand-delivered a Nobel. "This is amazing!" she crows, fully aware that she and everyone else are about to die, but transported away from such temporal concerns by scientific rapture. "Can you feel that growl? We're experiencing high-frequency, high-amplitude gravity waves. Phaeton strikes. Axions decaying through the hull. Sterile neutrinos. It's all coming from a source at bearing, uh, zero four five mark zero three zero relative, range—range highly variable."
Another wave tears through Yang Liwei. Everything in the ship simultaneously compresses and stretches as the gravity wave deforms the space-time metric. "Is it the phantom?" Li demands, as her ship thrums subsonically. "Is that phantom ship emitting these waves?"
"I have no idea!" GEOD says, exultantly. "None of this makes any sense at all! Wow!"
Alice Li has the distinct sense that something ancient and malevolent is operating upon them: a trillion-fingered hand reaching in to caress the very atoms of their being, setting protons a-spin, strumming nerves like guitar strings. A tongue with ten billion slithering forks tasting the surface of their brains. The sense of imminent doom crescendos. She knows, absolutely and utterly, that what is about to happen to her and to her crew is far worse than death. The darkness knows them now. The thing that has come to kill Humanity has their taste.
"INCO." She clings to her restraint harness as the ship growls through another wave. Her bones creak as they stretch. "Last report on the Traveler? Any sign of an intervention?"
"It was at Earth, Captain, and there were high-yield weapon discharges all over the signal. Nothing else."
"Understood." Well. She did not fly this far to look back and beg for salvation from an alien god. Pinned to the center of her sensorium is the blazing ledger of her crew's vote: We go onward. We do not turn home. Our fate lies ahead, not behind.
"Launch an antennae," she orders. "I want every probe and satellite we've got outside."
"Captain," INCO protests, "the vacuum's not signal-permissive—"
"We're still passing signals internally, aren't we? Use hardline! Run filament between the satellites! I want a transmitter sail out there, and I want to broadcast."
Her flight crew stares. "Captain?" FIDO says. "Broadcast what?"
"A declaration of neutrality." Alice Li grits her teeth against another wave. It rattles her molars in her skull. "Whatever's out there, it came for the Traveler. We tell it we're not part of this war. We've seceded from Human existence under the Traveler. We demand to be treated as a separate species, not party to baseline Humanity's conflicts.
"And we pray there's something out there that cares about the difference."
She remembers everything about the moment she is born.
She has gone outside Yang Liwei to die in starlight. She cannot bear to let anyone see her fear or her awe at the scale of destruction or her pity for the billions of souls dying in darkness back around Sol. She cannot be among the other crew as they cling to each other and whisper reassurances; not even with her mother. She cannot surrender her mystery.
So she kicks off the hull on fifty kilometers of tether.
But there's no starlight to die in. The darkness is absolute. Gravity waves tug on her line, pulling her back toward Yang and then hurling her away. In time, she feels another vibration in the line. "Sister," the tether transmits. "I'm coming out to get you."
Brother, she thinks, you'll lose yourself trying to follow me.
Captain Li's voice breaks through the static, drawn out to a mumble and then compressed to a shriek. Spikes of hard radiation go through her words like bullets, spattering phonemes into eerie compression artifacts. "This is the interstellar vessel Yang Liwei to the entity interacting with us. We are not involved in your dispute with the powers around this star. We are on a mission to begin a new life elsewhere. Our purpose is orthogonal to yours. We request your indifference…"
Mara's tether trembles with Uldwyn's progress. She holds it in one hand and reaches out with the other, gripping the emptiness, feeling how the tides of broken space pull at her fingertips. She senses that the nothingness around her is not indifferent; that it is aware of all purposes, and that its own purpose encompasses them. It is infinitely hostile because it must be.
Suddenly, as if the void around her has just spontaneously Big Banged, she sees light.
A point of pure white shines in the cosmic distance. Not just visible luminance—her suit decomposes the spectrum—but light in the radio bands, in microwave, keening ultraviolet, a spike of gamma, a total and all-embracing radiation. It sings. It chatters. It speaks in a voice older than suns. She feels that she could Fourier the voice for a century and never decompose it into its parts. It is awesome and appalling and piercingly true. Mara understands how those who die in radiation accidents must feel: A single flash of invisible power sears away all possible futures except one. She feels her soul itself has been ionized, blasted into a higher energy state.
The light pierces the darkness. Not like the sunrise, not like a wall or a flood, but a single crepuscular ray—a finger of radiance that reaches out through deepest night to touch her. It illuminates Mara, Uldwyn, and Yang Liwei.
It is not quite enough. It cannot vanquish the shadow.
Thus Mara finds herself drifting on the edge of the Light and the Darkness, on the dusk-and-dawn gradient between the two.
She feels a contest. A battle fought, an equilibrium reached: not a truce, but an infinite limit, like an equation dividing by zero, a collision of two violent eternities. Mara queries Yang Liwei for telemetry and her sensorium fills with the terrified scream of gravitational instruments. She howls too, a feral sound, ecstatic and lost: a wolf baying at the stars. She knows what's happening. Too much power has gathered here. The universe is appalled by the paradox. Nothing that has glimpsed this collision of infinitudes can be allowed to escape. The cosmos must censor its embarrassment. It must sequester the anomaly.
The slope of warped space-time around them has become too steep, and now every path outward or forward bends back to the center where Light and Dark collide. The definition of "future" has become synonymous with the definition of "inward." This is why it's called an event horizon: For an object within the horizon, the path of all future things that can be done or seen leads inevitably down to the center. All events lead inward.
A singularity is forming around her. A kugelblitz: a black hole created by the concentration of raw energy.
"Mara!" Uldwyn shouts. "Mara, you're too far out!"
Mara thinks of her mother's face. She hears Osana say: I can't watch over you like a mother would. I have to make my own choices now.
She fires the detach command into the tether.
Gravity seizes her. She falls forward in space and time, into the future, into the mystery. Yang Liwei is behind her. Uldwyn is behind her. She wants to be the first.
She has gone outside Yang Liwei to die in starlight. She cannot bear to let anyone see her fear or her awe at the scale of destruction or her pity for the billions of souls dying in darkness back around Sol. She cannot be among the other crew as they cling to each other and whisper reassurances; not even with her mother. She cannot surrender her mystery.
So she kicks off the hull on fifty kilometers of tether.
But there's no starlight to die in. The darkness is absolute. Gravity waves tug on her line, pulling her back toward Yang and then hurling her away. In time, she feels another vibration in the line. "Sister," the tether transmits. "I'm coming out to get you."
Brother, she thinks, you'll lose yourself trying to follow me.
Captain Li's voice breaks through the static, drawn out to a mumble and then compressed to a shriek. Spikes of hard radiation go through her words like bullets, spattering phonemes into eerie compression artifacts. "This is the interstellar vessel Yang Liwei to the entity interacting with us. We are not involved in your dispute with the powers around this star. We are on a mission to begin a new life elsewhere. Our purpose is orthogonal to yours. We request your indifference…"
Mara's tether trembles with Uldwyn's progress. She holds it in one hand and reaches out with the other, gripping the emptiness, feeling how the tides of broken space pull at her fingertips. She senses that the nothingness around her is not indifferent; that it is aware of all purposes, and that its own purpose encompasses them. It is infinitely hostile because it must be.
Suddenly, as if the void around her has just spontaneously Big Banged, she sees light.
A point of pure white shines in the cosmic distance. Not just visible luminance—her suit decomposes the spectrum—but light in the radio bands, in microwave, keening ultraviolet, a spike of gamma, a total and all-embracing radiation. It sings. It chatters. It speaks in a voice older than suns. She feels that she could Fourier the voice for a century and never decompose it into its parts. It is awesome and appalling and piercingly true. Mara understands how those who die in radiation accidents must feel: A single flash of invisible power sears away all possible futures except one. She feels her soul itself has been ionized, blasted into a higher energy state.
The light pierces the darkness. Not like the sunrise, not like a wall or a flood, but a single crepuscular ray—a finger of radiance that reaches out through deepest night to touch her. It illuminates Mara, Uldwyn, and Yang Liwei.
It is not quite enough. It cannot vanquish the shadow.
Thus Mara finds herself drifting on the edge of the Light and the Darkness, on the dusk-and-dawn gradient between the two.
She feels a contest. A battle fought, an equilibrium reached: not a truce, but an infinite limit, like an equation dividing by zero, a collision of two violent eternities. Mara queries Yang Liwei for telemetry and her sensorium fills with the terrified scream of gravitational instruments. She howls too, a feral sound, ecstatic and lost: a wolf baying at the stars. She knows what's happening. Too much power has gathered here. The universe is appalled by the paradox. Nothing that has glimpsed this collision of infinitudes can be allowed to escape. The cosmos must censor its embarrassment. It must sequester the anomaly.
The slope of warped space-time around them has become too steep, and now every path outward or forward bends back to the center where Light and Dark collide. The definition of "future" has become synonymous with the definition of "inward." This is why it's called an event horizon: For an object within the horizon, the path of all future things that can be done or seen leads inevitably down to the center. All events lead inward.
A singularity is forming around her. A kugelblitz: a black hole created by the concentration of raw energy.
"Mara!" Uldwyn shouts. "Mara, you're too far out!"
Mara thinks of her mother's face. She hears Osana say: I can't watch over you like a mother would. I have to make my own choices now.
She fires the detach command into the tether.
Gravity seizes her. She falls forward in space and time, into the future, into the mystery. Yang Liwei is behind her. Uldwyn is behind her. She wants to be the first.
to occur the unhappened world; to grip glass-hooped eternity in bloodslick hands and snap it from its circle. Know her as the Flaw, the Isotropy, the spike that pierced eternal recurrence and made the wound of time. Tautologies end on her fingertips, in the crease between skin and nail. Name her AILILIA, Broth Captain. Begin with her this subcreation.
First. A mandala. Rings of rippled light. Pinpricks like stars, selected elements of a Lie group: the math-skeleton of this new place.
What is this? Where am I?
A sheet of paper, blank with static. Her hands flat upon the face. A plasma of quarks and electrons, so hot and bright that it is pitch black. The mean free path is too short for photons to travel. The fire is too thick for light.
She has been here forever. AILILIA. The end is the beginning is the end.
She folds the paper into Space and Time. Now that there is light, she can read the paper, and she finds it is the Amrita Charter. "Sun is the cradle of life, but we cannot remain in the cradle forever." She was a seeker. The I of AILILIA, the arrow that points to new worlds: She sought new sun, new earth. Her mind passes across the words like a comb. Word becomes world, paper folds under nimble hands. The sting of a papercut: so God may yet be surprised.
From that cut her blood scatters through the void, and the isotropic universe nucleates around her droplets.
I am AILILIA, the guiding principle.
Bend the center. I am A L I S I L A, the arrow of time, sinuous but progressing.
I am A L I S I L I, one step forward, one element changed: This is how the world-clock ticks, by the letterwise permutation of secret names.
I am ALIS LI, the coalescence into entities, the compaction of drifting fire into sun and world.
I am Alis Li, the power that seeks new worlds. I have a crew. I had… a ship. I wanted to bring them to a place like—
(A paradise world: twin-ringed, impossible beauty, and a sky milk-bright with stars. She makes it real with a thought, and in that thought she falls herself, undoes her transient divinity, binds herself and all those after her into the law. The omniscient cannot explore. The omnipotent cannot struggle. She refuses that God-trap.)
—this.
This is how Alice Li awakens.
First. A mandala. Rings of rippled light. Pinpricks like stars, selected elements of a Lie group: the math-skeleton of this new place.
What is this? Where am I?
A sheet of paper, blank with static. Her hands flat upon the face. A plasma of quarks and electrons, so hot and bright that it is pitch black. The mean free path is too short for photons to travel. The fire is too thick for light.
She has been here forever. AILILIA. The end is the beginning is the end.
She folds the paper into Space and Time. Now that there is light, she can read the paper, and she finds it is the Amrita Charter. "Sun is the cradle of life, but we cannot remain in the cradle forever." She was a seeker. The I of AILILIA, the arrow that points to new worlds: She sought new sun, new earth. Her mind passes across the words like a comb. Word becomes world, paper folds under nimble hands. The sting of a papercut: so God may yet be surprised.
From that cut her blood scatters through the void, and the isotropic universe nucleates around her droplets.
I am AILILIA, the guiding principle.
Bend the center. I am A L I S I L A, the arrow of time, sinuous but progressing.
I am A L I S I L I, one step forward, one element changed: This is how the world-clock ticks, by the letterwise permutation of secret names.
I am ALIS LI, the coalescence into entities, the compaction of drifting fire into sun and world.
I am Alis Li, the power that seeks new worlds. I have a crew. I had… a ship. I wanted to bring them to a place like—
(A paradise world: twin-ringed, impossible beauty, and a sky milk-bright with stars. She makes it real with a thought, and in that thought she falls herself, undoes her transient divinity, binds herself and all those after her into the law. The omniscient cannot explore. The omnipotent cannot struggle. She refuses that God-trap.)
—this.
This is how Alice Li awakens.
She was nothingness. If she existed before, she existed only as possibility stretched across the aether. Once, there might have been a body that was an anticipation of the body not yet formed, and a soul that was an anticipation of the soul not yet encrypted, but they were not yet real.
Then the universe began, and she was free to be born.
First there is a mandala, and upon the rings of that mandala are star-bright gems.
M A R A R A M the closed symmetry, secret within itself: and she cuts it off center so that it is imperfect, open at one end, not cycling back to its own beginning but subliming away into future possibility. M A R A the permutation of one relationship into another, MA become RA, RA become what may yet come. Two points suggest a line.
With that amputation, around that scar, she incarnates. Awakens with a gasp. Cold stone under her shoulders and back and a face above her, radiant. "Mara?" the face says.
"What am I?" Mara whispers.
"The second," the woman says. "I'm Alis. I think you were Mara…"
The sky behind Alis blooms with stars, a haze of light like sun through mist, richer than a galactic core. Across that night sky arches the impossible twin shape of a double planetary ring. Mara gapes in wonder. "I remember," she says. "I was on the tether—"
The sudden need to keep this memory secret shuts her mouth. "We're on a world," she says, instead. "How long have you been alone?"
"Forever, I think. Come." She draws Mara to her feet. "I want to show you what I've found."
It is a world that grows, a world that thrives. The stone is rich with veins of platinum, and Mara tastes tingling inclusions of transuranic elements in a fingertip of earth. Silver rivers flow in fractal deltas to lakes as still and bright as coolant pools. Acres of forests all woven at the root into a single tree. There is life of such variety and energy that each new crawling thing they see must be its own species. Or species do not mean anything at all here, and all that lives may intermingle.
Jutting from the horizon is a titanic metal spear. The head of the spear is a metal dish, kilometers across, buried in bedrock.
"I don't know what this is," Alis says. "I only know that it's mine."
They pass inside.
"There should be others," Mara says afterward. "There was room for others. Thousands of others. Where are they?"
"They're in the same place you came from. We have to make them real." Li stares at Mara, and coruscations of white fire map the tiny lines and furrows of her skin. Her bright eyes narrow. "Why were you the second? Why you in particular?"
"I don't know," Mara lies. It is the first lie ever told, the first secret kept.
Then the universe began, and she was free to be born.
First there is a mandala, and upon the rings of that mandala are star-bright gems.
M A R A R A M the closed symmetry, secret within itself: and she cuts it off center so that it is imperfect, open at one end, not cycling back to its own beginning but subliming away into future possibility. M A R A the permutation of one relationship into another, MA become RA, RA become what may yet come. Two points suggest a line.
With that amputation, around that scar, she incarnates. Awakens with a gasp. Cold stone under her shoulders and back and a face above her, radiant. "Mara?" the face says.
"What am I?" Mara whispers.
"The second," the woman says. "I'm Alis. I think you were Mara…"
The sky behind Alis blooms with stars, a haze of light like sun through mist, richer than a galactic core. Across that night sky arches the impossible twin shape of a double planetary ring. Mara gapes in wonder. "I remember," she says. "I was on the tether—"
The sudden need to keep this memory secret shuts her mouth. "We're on a world," she says, instead. "How long have you been alone?"
"Forever, I think. Come." She draws Mara to her feet. "I want to show you what I've found."
It is a world that grows, a world that thrives. The stone is rich with veins of platinum, and Mara tastes tingling inclusions of transuranic elements in a fingertip of earth. Silver rivers flow in fractal deltas to lakes as still and bright as coolant pools. Acres of forests all woven at the root into a single tree. There is life of such variety and energy that each new crawling thing they see must be its own species. Or species do not mean anything at all here, and all that lives may intermingle.
Jutting from the horizon is a titanic metal spear. The head of the spear is a metal dish, kilometers across, buried in bedrock.
"I don't know what this is," Alis says. "I only know that it's mine."
They pass inside.
"There should be others," Mara says afterward. "There was room for others. Thousands of others. Where are they?"
"They're in the same place you came from. We have to make them real." Li stares at Mara, and coruscations of white fire map the tiny lines and furrows of her skin. Her bright eyes narrow. "Why were you the second? Why you in particular?"
"I don't know," Mara lies. It is the first lie ever told, the first secret kept.
The awakening of another
I was nothingness. If I existed before, I existed as possibility, as potential, stretched thin across the aether. And maybe there was a body that looked like my body, complete with a soul that could be confused for someone rather like me. What I am now was not yet real. And then I was born, and the universe was free to begin.
Others were present at my birth.
A great ceremony had just begun. Because newborns are selfish beasts, I assumed I was the object of attention.
I didn't notice the singing until the singers fell silent. And then She appeared.
She was above me. Ethereal and handsome and elegant. I assumed my face was like her face and that odd idea gave me strength enough to smile.
"Secrets," she said. "Creation is built on secrets and the encryptions that keep those secrets safe."
I made my first sound. It meant nothing but she understood it as a question.
"We are a beautiful creation," she said. "And we must keep ourselves very safe."
I was nothingness. If I existed before, I existed as possibility, as potential, stretched thin across the aether. And maybe there was a body that looked like my body, complete with a soul that could be confused for someone rather like me. What I am now was not yet real. And then I was born, and the universe was free to begin.
Others were present at my birth.
A great ceremony had just begun. Because newborns are selfish beasts, I assumed I was the object of attention.
I didn't notice the singing until the singers fell silent. And then She appeared.
She was above me. Ethereal and handsome and elegant. I assumed my face was like her face and that odd idea gave me strength enough to smile.
"Secrets," she said. "Creation is built on secrets and the encryptions that keep those secrets safe."
I made my first sound. It meant nothing but she understood it as a question.
"We are a beautiful creation," she said. "And we must keep ourselves very safe."
The awakening of yet another
Fear. That's the only vivid memory left in me. It's the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul.
But I have to ask, "What was terrifying me?"
Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn't come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature.
And which part scared me?
Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?
She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter.
Gone?
Not yet.
A new crippling terror was taking over.
I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort.
And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.
I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment.
That's why I was afraid.
Then someone spoke.
Maybe it was me. I don't remember.
I was trying to focus, and a new thought took me: My soul lay between those two entities. And that's how I am still: The boundary, the seam.
The friction.
And that's when the fear began to fade.
Fear. That's the only vivid memory left in me. It's the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul.
But I have to ask, "What was terrifying me?"
Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn't come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature.
And which part scared me?
Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?
She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter.
Gone?
Not yet.
A new crippling terror was taking over.
I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort.
And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.
I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment.
That's why I was afraid.
Then someone spoke.
Maybe it was me. I don't remember.
I was trying to focus, and a new thought took me: My soul lay between those two entities. And that's how I am still: The boundary, the seam.
The friction.
And that's when the fear began to fade.
Two became four, and the four called out, and so the four became eight. In this manner, conjured forth by their doubling, the sleepers did awaken. In time the awoken spilled across the face of the world, and their number was forty thousand eight hundred ninety one. They drank of the sweet rain, and they ate of the fruit of the forest, and the starlight pooled as clear oil on their skin. First of their tongues was Speech, and the first of their hunting weapons was the bow.
Now the awoken called out for a name to distinguish World from Unworld. The eight hundred ninety one said to the forty thousand, "Let this world be named Tributary, for we dream of a great river from which we have parted." But the forty thousand were troubled, and they asked to know their antecedent, the place from which they came. "We did not awaken from the sleep that we entered," said the forty thousand. "In our rest we passed through some terminus and our atavism was severed from us. How did it happen thus?"
So a council was called at the place where the rivers met to determine the nature and purpose of existence. Here was undertaken the first census, which counted thirty thousand one hundred eleven women, ten thousand two hundred ninety five men, and four hundred eighty five otherwise. A fear arose among the awoken that the men and otherwise would be lost.
Alis Li spoke first in council, but at the urging of Uldren, many sought out Mara for secret conclave. Among these were Kelda Wadj, who would be the Allteacher, and Sila, who would be mother of Esila.
Sayeth Alis, "We were granted this world by a covenant with high powers, and in that covenant, we yielded our claim to our history. We abandoned what came before, but in doing so, we cast off all our debts. Look forward! Let us explore this infant cosmos, and revel in its glories!"
Against her spoke Owome An, who was of the forty thousand. "We are alien here," said Owome. "We must climb up our worldline, back to the place from which we came. I call for a vote."
Sayeth Mara, in secret, "I think that we came here as safe harbor, and we cannot forever remain. I remember the danger was appalling. I remember we were born in death. I think we must gather ourselves carefully until the time is right."
From this council, there arose eight verdicts and a ninth.
First, that the people were Awoken, and they were immortal.
Second, that this world was Tributary of another, but that it was forbidden to seek any way to rejoin the mother stream. For this reason, it would be called the Distributary, for that was the proper name for a river that branches from the mother and does not return.
Third, that the Awoken should multiply in wombs of flesh and machine, but only after the most careful forecast of population and ecology, and only under the supervision of those who knew the good technology; for each new child would be immortal.
Fourth, that those wise in the good technology should be heralded and heeded, so that the eu-technology could be preserved. They would be eutechs.
Fifth, that the women should hold care and protection of the men and the others until more could be born.
Sixth, that the purpose of the Awoken should be to know and love the cosmos.
Seventh, that the Awoken were created out of covenant with Light and Darkness, but the covenant was complete, and no further debt would ever be called, except the duty of the Second Verdict to remain on the Distributary.
Eighth, that the Awoken were whole in themselves, and they existed in balance.
Ninth, that there would be no vote, but instead Alis Li would be recognized as Queen. Her first pronunciation was that there would be no secrets among Awoken.
For Alis knew of the quiet council around Mara, and although she was neither jealous nor afraid, she remembered it carefully as a spark that might catch.
Now the awoken called out for a name to distinguish World from Unworld. The eight hundred ninety one said to the forty thousand, "Let this world be named Tributary, for we dream of a great river from which we have parted." But the forty thousand were troubled, and they asked to know their antecedent, the place from which they came. "We did not awaken from the sleep that we entered," said the forty thousand. "In our rest we passed through some terminus and our atavism was severed from us. How did it happen thus?"
So a council was called at the place where the rivers met to determine the nature and purpose of existence. Here was undertaken the first census, which counted thirty thousand one hundred eleven women, ten thousand two hundred ninety five men, and four hundred eighty five otherwise. A fear arose among the awoken that the men and otherwise would be lost.
Alis Li spoke first in council, but at the urging of Uldren, many sought out Mara for secret conclave. Among these were Kelda Wadj, who would be the Allteacher, and Sila, who would be mother of Esila.
Sayeth Alis, "We were granted this world by a covenant with high powers, and in that covenant, we yielded our claim to our history. We abandoned what came before, but in doing so, we cast off all our debts. Look forward! Let us explore this infant cosmos, and revel in its glories!"
Against her spoke Owome An, who was of the forty thousand. "We are alien here," said Owome. "We must climb up our worldline, back to the place from which we came. I call for a vote."
Sayeth Mara, in secret, "I think that we came here as safe harbor, and we cannot forever remain. I remember the danger was appalling. I remember we were born in death. I think we must gather ourselves carefully until the time is right."
From this council, there arose eight verdicts and a ninth.
First, that the people were Awoken, and they were immortal.
Second, that this world was Tributary of another, but that it was forbidden to seek any way to rejoin the mother stream. For this reason, it would be called the Distributary, for that was the proper name for a river that branches from the mother and does not return.
Third, that the Awoken should multiply in wombs of flesh and machine, but only after the most careful forecast of population and ecology, and only under the supervision of those who knew the good technology; for each new child would be immortal.
Fourth, that those wise in the good technology should be heralded and heeded, so that the eu-technology could be preserved. They would be eutechs.
Fifth, that the women should hold care and protection of the men and the others until more could be born.
Sixth, that the purpose of the Awoken should be to know and love the cosmos.
Seventh, that the Awoken were created out of covenant with Light and Darkness, but the covenant was complete, and no further debt would ever be called, except the duty of the Second Verdict to remain on the Distributary.
Eighth, that the Awoken were whole in themselves, and they existed in balance.
Ninth, that there would be no vote, but instead Alis Li would be recognized as Queen. Her first pronunciation was that there would be no secrets among Awoken.
For Alis knew of the quiet council around Mara, and although she was neither jealous nor afraid, she remembered it carefully as a spark that might catch.
In those days, there was a great birth of adventure among the Awoken. Hunters and pioneers sought the shape of the world, sailors charted the skein of rivers and the perimeter of seas, and astronomers plotted the motion of the crowded heavens. Over this age ruled Queen Alis Li, whose work was the creation of agriculture and the preservation of the eutechnology that she deciphered from the Shipspire.
But there remained in the forests many tribes of huntresses who preferred their lightfooted freedom-from-comfort-and-duty to the painstaking surplus of the city. Among these tribes, Mara lived with her brother—whose name had returned as Uldren—and with Osana, their mother. It is said that Osana lived as a negotiator and that her son brought her news from other tribes, for he was a scout and hunter of renown. Mara dwelt alone on a mountaintop.
In the tribes of the forests and the sea, there was the belief that the Awoken had been made out of a friction between contesting forces and that one day this conflict would need to be resolved. These were the Eccaleists who preached that Awoken owed a debt to the cosmos.
In the cities, however, they lived by the Seventh Verdict under their Queen, and they said the Awoken had been created by cosmic gift and carried neither responsibility nor eschaton. These were the Sanguine, who preached that the Awoken were as stable as an atom of carbon.
Now there arose among the Eccaleists a woman out of the eight hundred ninety one who called herself the Diasyrm. She went into the cities, calling out, "I accuse the Queen of deicide!" When she was questioned, she spoke of a foundational crime.
"Alis Li was the first to awaken in this world," the Diasyrm preached. "She set the terms of our existence. We could have been gods free of want or suffering. Instead, Alis Li chose our mortal form. Our Queen is complicit in all the pain we experience! The Queen murdered all our unborn godheads!"
At the thought that the Queen Without Secrets had kept this most appalling secret to herself, the Sanguine cityfolk were deeply troubled. Thus began the Theodicy War.
But there remained in the forests many tribes of huntresses who preferred their lightfooted freedom-from-comfort-and-duty to the painstaking surplus of the city. Among these tribes, Mara lived with her brother—whose name had returned as Uldren—and with Osana, their mother. It is said that Osana lived as a negotiator and that her son brought her news from other tribes, for he was a scout and hunter of renown. Mara dwelt alone on a mountaintop.
In the tribes of the forests and the sea, there was the belief that the Awoken had been made out of a friction between contesting forces and that one day this conflict would need to be resolved. These were the Eccaleists who preached that Awoken owed a debt to the cosmos.
In the cities, however, they lived by the Seventh Verdict under their Queen, and they said the Awoken had been created by cosmic gift and carried neither responsibility nor eschaton. These were the Sanguine, who preached that the Awoken were as stable as an atom of carbon.
Now there arose among the Eccaleists a woman out of the eight hundred ninety one who called herself the Diasyrm. She went into the cities, calling out, "I accuse the Queen of deicide!" When she was questioned, she spoke of a foundational crime.
"Alis Li was the first to awaken in this world," the Diasyrm preached. "She set the terms of our existence. We could have been gods free of want or suffering. Instead, Alis Li chose our mortal form. Our Queen is complicit in all the pain we experience! The Queen murdered all our unborn godheads!"
At the thought that the Queen Without Secrets had kept this most appalling secret to herself, the Sanguine cityfolk were deeply troubled. Thus began the Theodicy War.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Alis Li whispers as, far below the Shipspire, the funeral barges on the Lake of Leaves burst up into magnesium-white fire. The voices of the Paladins rise on summer wind, first choral, then the single keening strains of grief-paeans sung by lovers and close friends. They are singing their lost comrades into death. One of the 891 fell today, shot down by a matter laser, a coherent boson weapon: There was almost nothing left to burn. Matter lasers are the kind of appalling maltech weapon Alis thought she'd locked up in the Shipspire's vaults. She'd armed a few of her Paladins with them, just a few—women she couldn't bear to lose…
The thought that one might have defected to the Diasyrm breaks her heart.
"It wasn't supposed to go this way," Alis repeats. She has not had a confidante in nigh on fifty years: There is no one to whom she can show any doubt. "I promise you it wasn't."
"I know," Mara says. The eutechs found her and plucked her from her mountaintop with one of the Shipspire's VTOL aircraft, which Alis had, until the war, only ever used as an ambulance.
"The mission was to carry on the Human journey in a new world." Alis paces the wooden deck that clings to the Shipspire airlock, nearly a kilometer above the lake. "To build a better society, on the principles of equality, knowledge, and peace. I have the charter, Mara. It remembers what I cannot. We were never meant to give up our bodies or shine like stars or—or—" She groans in frustration and clutches the railing. "Or whatever it is that the Diasyrm thinks I denied them."
"She thinks you denied them even the capability to imagine godhood."
Alis looks sharply back at the other woman. "Did you start this, Mara?"
"Nothing has one beginning," Mara says.
"Did she come to you on your mountaintop and ask you what I did? Did you answer her? Is that why she's so convinced I," she swallows against the bitter taste of her enemy's words, "enslaved her in mere Humanity?"
"I didn't have to tell her." Mara's white hair stirs in the hot wind. A herd of black horses crosses the northern horizon, all born of Shipspire's wombs: chased by a long-legged huntress and her collie. "You don't keep enough secrets, your Majesty. The Diasyrm might have opened any one of your texts and read the story you tell. "We were born when a great ship fell into a pearl of shattered space. I awoke first, and in my awakening I collapsed the potential of the void into a form I understood…" Who can read that truth and not hear arrogance?"
Alis thought Mara might say that. Alis also thought Mara might try to push her off the balcony, but she now knows that was a petty fear. Mara is not the Diasyrm: Mara knows the unthinkable value of even a single Awoken life.
"Why do you love lies so much?" she asks Mara.
"Not lies." The pale radiance of Mara's eyes; the flush of violet stain around them. "Secrets. Even if everyone shared a single truth, all our minds would produce different versions of the truth. We speak these subtruths, and like flowers of different seed, the subtruths compete for the light of our attention. In time, only the fiercest and most provocative strains remain. They are not always the truest. Better to keep secrets, your Majesty. Better to tend a great mystery, and so starve the flowers before they can grow. That is how I would be Queen."
Below, the Lake of Leaves shimmers in the crater carved by Shipspire's mushroom prow. One by one, the funeral boats are going out.
"I want to end this war," Alis Li tells the second Awoken. "I want to negotiate peace. I need your mother's help. What would you ask in exchange?"
Mara smiles graciously and bows her head. "Nothing but a future boon."
The thought that one might have defected to the Diasyrm breaks her heart.
"It wasn't supposed to go this way," Alis repeats. She has not had a confidante in nigh on fifty years: There is no one to whom she can show any doubt. "I promise you it wasn't."
"I know," Mara says. The eutechs found her and plucked her from her mountaintop with one of the Shipspire's VTOL aircraft, which Alis had, until the war, only ever used as an ambulance.
"The mission was to carry on the Human journey in a new world." Alis paces the wooden deck that clings to the Shipspire airlock, nearly a kilometer above the lake. "To build a better society, on the principles of equality, knowledge, and peace. I have the charter, Mara. It remembers what I cannot. We were never meant to give up our bodies or shine like stars or—or—" She groans in frustration and clutches the railing. "Or whatever it is that the Diasyrm thinks I denied them."
"She thinks you denied them even the capability to imagine godhood."
Alis looks sharply back at the other woman. "Did you start this, Mara?"
"Nothing has one beginning," Mara says.
"Did she come to you on your mountaintop and ask you what I did? Did you answer her? Is that why she's so convinced I," she swallows against the bitter taste of her enemy's words, "enslaved her in mere Humanity?"
"I didn't have to tell her." Mara's white hair stirs in the hot wind. A herd of black horses crosses the northern horizon, all born of Shipspire's wombs: chased by a long-legged huntress and her collie. "You don't keep enough secrets, your Majesty. The Diasyrm might have opened any one of your texts and read the story you tell. "We were born when a great ship fell into a pearl of shattered space. I awoke first, and in my awakening I collapsed the potential of the void into a form I understood…" Who can read that truth and not hear arrogance?"
Alis thought Mara might say that. Alis also thought Mara might try to push her off the balcony, but she now knows that was a petty fear. Mara is not the Diasyrm: Mara knows the unthinkable value of even a single Awoken life.
"Why do you love lies so much?" she asks Mara.
"Not lies." The pale radiance of Mara's eyes; the flush of violet stain around them. "Secrets. Even if everyone shared a single truth, all our minds would produce different versions of the truth. We speak these subtruths, and like flowers of different seed, the subtruths compete for the light of our attention. In time, only the fiercest and most provocative strains remain. They are not always the truest. Better to keep secrets, your Majesty. Better to tend a great mystery, and so starve the flowers before they can grow. That is how I would be Queen."
Below, the Lake of Leaves shimmers in the crater carved by Shipspire's mushroom prow. One by one, the funeral boats are going out.
"I want to end this war," Alis Li tells the second Awoken. "I want to negotiate peace. I need your mother's help. What would you ask in exchange?"
Mara smiles graciously and bows her head. "Nothing but a future boon."
To end a world with a shot or pin eternity on a blade; to see your sisters lost to rot and their undone works decayed—the death of an immortal wastes the infinite potential of all they might become. An immortal's grief and murder-guilt, left untended, will never fade. Thus it became known to those who fought in the Theodicy War that they had committed an incomparable evil. However, they could not confront their own responsibility, so they rose up in wrath against those who had given them cause, whether by caging them in flesh bodies or by drawing blood over grievance. The war continued by spear and bow, by knife and scalpel, by old machine and new invention. Ever did the Diasyrm's faithful call for the unawaring of Queen Alis Li.
Now there entered into the Diasyrm's camp Osana, mother of Mara, famed for her skill in negotiating contested land. She had come with her son Uldren, who could win a place in any camp for his beauty and for the regal crow-eagle that alighted on his shoulder.
"I come from Mara," said Osana, "whose heart has frozen in her chest. If you will end the killing, she will tell you any secret that you desire."
For his part, Uldren went among the Diasyrm's warriors and spread ill tidings of Mara's knowledge, saying, "Mara remembers how the Queen led us here out of chaos and saved us from the twin blindness of darkness and light. Mara knows what the Queen keeps secret. Mara has seen the strife in our souls, the clash from which we were made. We could not ever have been gods with this flaw in us! Rather, we were made from this schism. For as all life is born from energy gradient, as life in the World Before was born from the gradient between hot proton-rich ventwater and cold seawater, we were born of the shadowline at the edge of Light and Dark. We are tremors in that fault. Forever will that schism lead us."
Hearing this new heresy, the Eccaleists were seized with rapture and scattered to the points of the compass, telling all they met, "We are the yield of a mighty engine! We could never have been gods! Like diamonds, we were crushed into being. Like diamonds, we hold flaws."
Meanwhile Osana spoke to the Diasyrm, who was also heartsick from the killing, and who longed to withdraw from the world and seek transcendence within. "There is no weregild for the murder of an immortal," Osana counseled her. "You must become a teacher or a midwife and devote yourself to the enrichment of new lives."
But the Diasyrm craved secret knowledge, and she sought Mara upon the mountaintop. Here, she vanished. If she was ever known again, it was not by the name Diasyrm.
When there was peace, Queen Li ruled the Awoken for a time; however, the guilt of the war lay heavy upon her, and after an age of peace and progress, she abdicated to a new Queen.
Now there entered into the Diasyrm's camp Osana, mother of Mara, famed for her skill in negotiating contested land. She had come with her son Uldren, who could win a place in any camp for his beauty and for the regal crow-eagle that alighted on his shoulder.
"I come from Mara," said Osana, "whose heart has frozen in her chest. If you will end the killing, she will tell you any secret that you desire."
For his part, Uldren went among the Diasyrm's warriors and spread ill tidings of Mara's knowledge, saying, "Mara remembers how the Queen led us here out of chaos and saved us from the twin blindness of darkness and light. Mara knows what the Queen keeps secret. Mara has seen the strife in our souls, the clash from which we were made. We could not ever have been gods with this flaw in us! Rather, we were made from this schism. For as all life is born from energy gradient, as life in the World Before was born from the gradient between hot proton-rich ventwater and cold seawater, we were born of the shadowline at the edge of Light and Dark. We are tremors in that fault. Forever will that schism lead us."
Hearing this new heresy, the Eccaleists were seized with rapture and scattered to the points of the compass, telling all they met, "We are the yield of a mighty engine! We could never have been gods! Like diamonds, we were crushed into being. Like diamonds, we hold flaws."
Meanwhile Osana spoke to the Diasyrm, who was also heartsick from the killing, and who longed to withdraw from the world and seek transcendence within. "There is no weregild for the murder of an immortal," Osana counseled her. "You must become a teacher or a midwife and devote yourself to the enrichment of new lives."
But the Diasyrm craved secret knowledge, and she sought Mara upon the mountaintop. Here, she vanished. If she was ever known again, it was not by the name Diasyrm.
When there was peace, Queen Li ruled the Awoken for a time; however, the guilt of the war lay heavy upon her, and after an age of peace and progress, she abdicated to a new Queen.
A woman lives alone on the forest hills above the Feather Barrens. North of her, in a chaos of ravines and clear but fiercely radioactive streams, the hills surrender to high imperial mountains engaged in brutal seismic warfare, for the Distributary is a young world and has not settled its grudges. To the south are the dry lands where the birds of the forest, especially the parrots, go to die. She lives here because one day she will no longer be immortal, and she wants to observe the dignity of death.
Up these hills comes a man and his mother. The man moves with practiced wariness. But his mother is tired of walking, so she sits down on a giant melon and bellows, "MARAAA!"
A fountain of startled birds shoots up into the dawnlight. Not far away, the woman looks up from the broken body of a juvenile gray parrot and softly says, "Mom?"
That night over the fire, after Mara and Osana talk around the oddness of long separation, Mara, tending the pheasants on their spits, says, "Brother, your eagle killed a parrot today."
"He had to hunt," Uldren says, carefully. "You won't forbid him his last pleasures, will you?"
"You've brought him here to die?" Mara wants to leap up and hug her brother, out of pity and respect. Many of his raptors have died before this one, but Uldren has always been grief-stricken and furious at the waste. Now he's accepted what must happen; he has given his bird the respect of choosing its own place and time to pass.
"I have," Uldren says, looking away. Her pride and respect make him a little verklempt. "Mother decided she would come along."
A shear force as powerful as tectonics has divided Mara's heart. She wants to sit down with her mother and ask her everything, but she is afraid of Osana's insight. "What brings you to my little camp, Mother?"
"Lies," Osana says. "Lies and secrets. And the girl who didn't want to be my daughter, who doesn't know the difference between them."
"I know the difference between a girl and a daughter," Mara says, purposefully misunderstanding. The drip pan sizzles beneath golden meat. Her stomach growls. "Your daughter picks up your baton at the end of the race, and goes on living the life you've taught her. You wouldn't want that, Mother. Because then I'd be all your fault."
"That's true," Osana sighs, "but you know what I meant."
Uldren looks between the two of them, frowning. "Mom, what's this?"
"It's your sister about to admit she's behind it all. Aren't you, Mara?"
She unimpales the pheasants from the spits and neatly licks hot grease off her hands. If she spoke, she might scream in terror. What does that mean, behind it all? Does Osana know?
"The Eccaleists are her creation," her mother tells her brother. "The Diasyrm was her pawn. She allowed the Theodisy War because she was afraid we'd be too comfortable here—also so Queen Alis would need her help politically. Mara couldn't afford to be the most radical dissident. She had to seem moderate for her beliefs to thrive. Isn't that right, Mara?"
Mara puts a hand into the warm soil to keep herself from slumping in relief. Mother doesn't know it all. "Shall I carve your portions?" she asks, holding the fractal knife blade-down.
Uldren has that look. He knows Mara never answers his questions directly; by evading Osana's, it's as if she's saying that the question is really Uldren's to ask. "Looks delicious. But Mother does make me curious. Why have you always lived away from the rest of us, Mara? The mountaintop, I understood. You had a brand new night sky to chart. But why now? Why go into the woods like a… a hermit? A heretic?"
For the same reason she lived on the hull. For the same reason she can never allow Uldren to really reach her. There is power in remove and safety from the belittling politics of temporal power, which reveal the mighty as unforgivably ordinary and petty. The Awoken have a Queen because a Queen can be a mystery.
"I remember the day I was born," she says. "Do you, Brother?"
He flinches from her eyes. He remembers Yang Liwei and the tether into darkness. He remembers how gravity stretched them into agonized ribbons of flesh. He remembers the truth not even Alis Li may be allowed to know; Mara sees the agonizing moment, the cyclic revelation, when he thinks of her crime, allows it to pierce him like a spit, and buries it deep again.
Osana takes her portion of pheasant meat and rolls it in the bowl of sweet cooked nuts her daughter has prepared. The stars are coming out over the mountains, and the forest birds sing. "This place is good," she says. "This world. Whatever you remember of our lives before, Mara… I know they cannot have been this good."
"No," Mara says. "But you were both with me. I hope you always will be."
"Always," her brother promises.
"Eat well." Mara claps her hands and stands. "Tomorrow we journey."
"Where?" her mother asks.
"I have star charts to share." And heresies to tend to. And a new eagle-crow to find for her bereft brother.
Up these hills comes a man and his mother. The man moves with practiced wariness. But his mother is tired of walking, so she sits down on a giant melon and bellows, "MARAAA!"
A fountain of startled birds shoots up into the dawnlight. Not far away, the woman looks up from the broken body of a juvenile gray parrot and softly says, "Mom?"
That night over the fire, after Mara and Osana talk around the oddness of long separation, Mara, tending the pheasants on their spits, says, "Brother, your eagle killed a parrot today."
"He had to hunt," Uldren says, carefully. "You won't forbid him his last pleasures, will you?"
"You've brought him here to die?" Mara wants to leap up and hug her brother, out of pity and respect. Many of his raptors have died before this one, but Uldren has always been grief-stricken and furious at the waste. Now he's accepted what must happen; he has given his bird the respect of choosing its own place and time to pass.
"I have," Uldren says, looking away. Her pride and respect make him a little verklempt. "Mother decided she would come along."
A shear force as powerful as tectonics has divided Mara's heart. She wants to sit down with her mother and ask her everything, but she is afraid of Osana's insight. "What brings you to my little camp, Mother?"
"Lies," Osana says. "Lies and secrets. And the girl who didn't want to be my daughter, who doesn't know the difference between them."
"I know the difference between a girl and a daughter," Mara says, purposefully misunderstanding. The drip pan sizzles beneath golden meat. Her stomach growls. "Your daughter picks up your baton at the end of the race, and goes on living the life you've taught her. You wouldn't want that, Mother. Because then I'd be all your fault."
"That's true," Osana sighs, "but you know what I meant."
Uldren looks between the two of them, frowning. "Mom, what's this?"
"It's your sister about to admit she's behind it all. Aren't you, Mara?"
She unimpales the pheasants from the spits and neatly licks hot grease off her hands. If she spoke, she might scream in terror. What does that mean, behind it all? Does Osana know?
"The Eccaleists are her creation," her mother tells her brother. "The Diasyrm was her pawn. She allowed the Theodisy War because she was afraid we'd be too comfortable here—also so Queen Alis would need her help politically. Mara couldn't afford to be the most radical dissident. She had to seem moderate for her beliefs to thrive. Isn't that right, Mara?"
Mara puts a hand into the warm soil to keep herself from slumping in relief. Mother doesn't know it all. "Shall I carve your portions?" she asks, holding the fractal knife blade-down.
Uldren has that look. He knows Mara never answers his questions directly; by evading Osana's, it's as if she's saying that the question is really Uldren's to ask. "Looks delicious. But Mother does make me curious. Why have you always lived away from the rest of us, Mara? The mountaintop, I understood. You had a brand new night sky to chart. But why now? Why go into the woods like a… a hermit? A heretic?"
For the same reason she lived on the hull. For the same reason she can never allow Uldren to really reach her. There is power in remove and safety from the belittling politics of temporal power, which reveal the mighty as unforgivably ordinary and petty. The Awoken have a Queen because a Queen can be a mystery.
"I remember the day I was born," she says. "Do you, Brother?"
He flinches from her eyes. He remembers Yang Liwei and the tether into darkness. He remembers how gravity stretched them into agonized ribbons of flesh. He remembers the truth not even Alis Li may be allowed to know; Mara sees the agonizing moment, the cyclic revelation, when he thinks of her crime, allows it to pierce him like a spit, and buries it deep again.
Osana takes her portion of pheasant meat and rolls it in the bowl of sweet cooked nuts her daughter has prepared. The stars are coming out over the mountains, and the forest birds sing. "This place is good," she says. "This world. Whatever you remember of our lives before, Mara… I know they cannot have been this good."
"No," Mara says. "But you were both with me. I hope you always will be."
"Always," her brother promises.
"Eat well." Mara claps her hands and stands. "Tomorrow we journey."
"Where?" her mother asks.
"I have star charts to share." And heresies to tend to. And a new eagle-crow to find for her bereft brother.
In later days, the power of the Queen waned, and the Distributary was ruled by scholars who sent their knights on mad quests to test the consistence of reality. These were the Gensym Scribes, who traced their origin to Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, but who were in fact descendants of a band of roving storytellers who traveled across the immense salt glades in a hollering convoy of airboats. Here was their praise of the world:
It is sweet-watered, and there are no poisons upon it. The temper of the climate is even. Great broad-pawed cats stalk the shallow glades, and brilliant blue flamingos promenade upon the flats. The air is thick and warm, suited for flight, and the wind tastes of forest. No dawn has ever been as glorious as the salt glade dawn, and no dusk has ever moved women to weep as deeply as sunset in the Chriseiads. Corsairs sport upon the open seas, and where they waylay freighters rather than each other, they give rumor and assistance to their prey in proportion to the quality of the chase. Beloved are the stories of young lads and lasses who leap across to the corsair ship for a life of adventure! Beloved also are the terraced farms of the Andalayas, mountains so mighty and so dense with radioactives that they subside year by year into the crust. Most beloved are the fissioneers, who vaulted us to power on a world without petrochemicals. May they forgive the many stories of horror we have told in their memory. May they in particular forgive the lurid stories of the molten lead reactor, and the twelve who were impaled to the ceiling by their control rods, and the Core That Stalked.
It is the Sanguine Truth that we were granted this world by the unconditional mercy of the powers, and that we will never again know fear.
However, the Scribes also recorded their frustration with Mara and Uldren, who alone out of the eight hundred ninety one were said to have seen creation from outside. These two wandered the land gathering lore of portents and prophecies, and all the Eccaleists who remained from ancient days whispered that soon the day of reckoning would be known—the day when the Awoken would be called to repay their debt.
Now in the court of one of the Scribes, there appeared a woman of stellar height and furious wrath, armed with a bow that could be strung only if she twined it around her body and used her whole mass to bend it. "I am Sjur Eido," said the woman, "and I accuse Mara of the ancient murder of my lady the Diasyrm. In my saddle, I have a weapon with only one death remaining. Take me to Mara, and I will deliver it."
The Scribes consulted and said to each other that this foul murder might prevent another Theodicy War. So they gave Sjur Eido all their knowledge to hunt Mara.
It is sweet-watered, and there are no poisons upon it. The temper of the climate is even. Great broad-pawed cats stalk the shallow glades, and brilliant blue flamingos promenade upon the flats. The air is thick and warm, suited for flight, and the wind tastes of forest. No dawn has ever been as glorious as the salt glade dawn, and no dusk has ever moved women to weep as deeply as sunset in the Chriseiads. Corsairs sport upon the open seas, and where they waylay freighters rather than each other, they give rumor and assistance to their prey in proportion to the quality of the chase. Beloved are the stories of young lads and lasses who leap across to the corsair ship for a life of adventure! Beloved also are the terraced farms of the Andalayas, mountains so mighty and so dense with radioactives that they subside year by year into the crust. Most beloved are the fissioneers, who vaulted us to power on a world without petrochemicals. May they forgive the many stories of horror we have told in their memory. May they in particular forgive the lurid stories of the molten lead reactor, and the twelve who were impaled to the ceiling by their control rods, and the Core That Stalked.
It is the Sanguine Truth that we were granted this world by the unconditional mercy of the powers, and that we will never again know fear.
However, the Scribes also recorded their frustration with Mara and Uldren, who alone out of the eight hundred ninety one were said to have seen creation from outside. These two wandered the land gathering lore of portents and prophecies, and all the Eccaleists who remained from ancient days whispered that soon the day of reckoning would be known—the day when the Awoken would be called to repay their debt.
Now in the court of one of the Scribes, there appeared a woman of stellar height and furious wrath, armed with a bow that could be strung only if she twined it around her body and used her whole mass to bend it. "I am Sjur Eido," said the woman, "and I accuse Mara of the ancient murder of my lady the Diasyrm. In my saddle, I have a weapon with only one death remaining. Take me to Mara, and I will deliver it."
The Scribes consulted and said to each other that this foul murder might prevent another Theodicy War. So they gave Sjur Eido all their knowledge to hunt Mara.
Carefully, the people of the Distributary grew in number. Joyously and constantly, they grew in quality. Those who do not die are as malleable and passionate as the young, as tempered and constant as the mature, and as wise and humble as the best of the old.
But as ever, the Awoken were troubled by death. It was easy to imagine a world older and harsher than the Distributary, a world crowded with competitors where the slow-changing and lushly alive Awoken would be helpless beside austere mayfly-quick breeders who adapted with every swift generation.
Why had the Awoken been spared mortality? Were they, as the Sanguine preached, rewarded for their bravery and fidelity in a past existence? Or were the Eccaleists right? Could all the gifts of the Distributary, all the milk-bright stars above, all the years of Awoken life, be a form of cowardice? Was there an unfought battle down in the center of the Awoken soul? A duty yet to be discharged?
Queen Nguya Pin restored the monarchy to prominence over the Gensym Scribes. This she accomplished after a fateful visit, upon the day of the summer solstice, by a hooded and masked woman who some whispered was Mara Sov and others, the long-vanished Diasyrm. For nine and ninety years (a rhetorical figure meaning a long time), the Queen had been an authority only in the arts and matters spiritual. However, Queen Nguya Pin declared she was now an avowed Eccaleist and that the Queen would lead the quest to identify whatever debt the Awoken owed the cosmos. It was time to pursue a dream beloved to all Awoken: the conquest of space and the assessment of the true shape and age of their universe.
The ancient court of the Queen gave the Gensym Scribes a place to lay down their pride and act as equals. Soon the greatest engineers in the world assembled in the Queen's court, and whatever wealth or resources they required flowed freely. Great cataracts of men and women spilled around the palace screaming of ramjets and apoapses deep into the night, then awakening to pots of thick black coffee to mumble about metric tensors and cosmic microwave anisotropy.
Into this feast of ideas came Sjur Eido, searching for the woman who had turned Queen Pin to Eccaleism. Sjur smoldered with an ancient fury, for another thing that the immortal may nurture is everlasting vendetta.
Sjur Eido deduced who among the Queen's court must be a disguised Mara Sov. She followed the hooded figure to her laboratory and watched Mara go to work soldering a makeshift bolometer to search for signs of primordial gravity waves. Sjur Eido's fury and grief whetted themselves against Mara's thoughtless grace and ancient beauty, until at last her heart unseamed itself and spilled its hot blood in a shout. "Mara Sov!" she cried, throwing down her maltech matter laser between them. "I cannot live while you live, but I cannot bear to kill you. I challenge you to a duel to the agony. I will fight your most beloved companion to the death and leave you forever maimed or else die in the attempt."
Mara could not refuse this challenge. She summoned Uldren, and with a ruthlessness she was no longer frightened to wield, she told Uldren that he would stand for her in battle to the death against Sjur Eido.
"We cannot put it all upon a single fight," Uldren said to the ancient vendetta-bearer. "Too much would be left to chance. Such an old grudge deserves to be tested well. I propose we fight with blade, with rifle, and with fifth-generation air superiority fighters."
Sjur Eido accepted these terms.
But as ever, the Awoken were troubled by death. It was easy to imagine a world older and harsher than the Distributary, a world crowded with competitors where the slow-changing and lushly alive Awoken would be helpless beside austere mayfly-quick breeders who adapted with every swift generation.
Why had the Awoken been spared mortality? Were they, as the Sanguine preached, rewarded for their bravery and fidelity in a past existence? Or were the Eccaleists right? Could all the gifts of the Distributary, all the milk-bright stars above, all the years of Awoken life, be a form of cowardice? Was there an unfought battle down in the center of the Awoken soul? A duty yet to be discharged?
Queen Nguya Pin restored the monarchy to prominence over the Gensym Scribes. This she accomplished after a fateful visit, upon the day of the summer solstice, by a hooded and masked woman who some whispered was Mara Sov and others, the long-vanished Diasyrm. For nine and ninety years (a rhetorical figure meaning a long time), the Queen had been an authority only in the arts and matters spiritual. However, Queen Nguya Pin declared she was now an avowed Eccaleist and that the Queen would lead the quest to identify whatever debt the Awoken owed the cosmos. It was time to pursue a dream beloved to all Awoken: the conquest of space and the assessment of the true shape and age of their universe.
The ancient court of the Queen gave the Gensym Scribes a place to lay down their pride and act as equals. Soon the greatest engineers in the world assembled in the Queen's court, and whatever wealth or resources they required flowed freely. Great cataracts of men and women spilled around the palace screaming of ramjets and apoapses deep into the night, then awakening to pots of thick black coffee to mumble about metric tensors and cosmic microwave anisotropy.
Into this feast of ideas came Sjur Eido, searching for the woman who had turned Queen Pin to Eccaleism. Sjur smoldered with an ancient fury, for another thing that the immortal may nurture is everlasting vendetta.
Sjur Eido deduced who among the Queen's court must be a disguised Mara Sov. She followed the hooded figure to her laboratory and watched Mara go to work soldering a makeshift bolometer to search for signs of primordial gravity waves. Sjur Eido's fury and grief whetted themselves against Mara's thoughtless grace and ancient beauty, until at last her heart unseamed itself and spilled its hot blood in a shout. "Mara Sov!" she cried, throwing down her maltech matter laser between them. "I cannot live while you live, but I cannot bear to kill you. I challenge you to a duel to the agony. I will fight your most beloved companion to the death and leave you forever maimed or else die in the attempt."
Mara could not refuse this challenge. She summoned Uldren, and with a ruthlessness she was no longer frightened to wield, she told Uldren that he would stand for her in battle to the death against Sjur Eido.
"We cannot put it all upon a single fight," Uldren said to the ancient vendetta-bearer. "Too much would be left to chance. Such an old grudge deserves to be tested well. I propose we fight with blade, with rifle, and with fifth-generation air superiority fighters."
Sjur Eido accepted these terms.
Now it came to pass that Esila, daughter of Sila, recognized the scent of Sjur Eido, for smell lies deepest in memory. Esila spoke to Queen Nguya Pin about the presence of an ancient hero in her court. While Queen Pin pondered how to honor this visitor—and simmered over the insult of Sjur's unannounced presence—a spy brought word of Sjur Eido's intentions to the Gensym Scribes.
The many Scribes were troubled by this news, for they had given Sjur Eido license to hunt and kill Mara Sov. If Sjur Eido murdered a guest of the Queen under the Scribes' remit, it would mean war and the end of the great Awoken push for space. Historians were called to the court with bouquets of sweet flowers and grant money to speak of Sjur Eido. "She was one of Queen Alis Li's Paladins, but she was an Eccaleist, who believed that we would one day be called to repay the gift of our awakening."
"Would she defy the Queen's protection and murder a guest of the court?" the Scribes asked.
"Oh, absolutely," the historians said, laughing. "She was a terror."
The Scribes began preparations to flee the Queen's court, as they foresaw Sjur Eido's victory would be blamed on them. Sensing uncertainty, many vital contractors and suppliers withdrew from the space program. The Queen denounced the Gensym Scribes as faithless and selfish, and her Eccaleist followers bristled in rage against the Sanguine majority who had scuttled their dream of flight. Household turned against household, sister against brother, wife against wife. The whole world clenched her fists.
Meanwhile, Sjur Eido and Uldren met each other on a net of woven lianas over a pool of heavy water. The light of the Queen's reactors shimmered beneath them as they took their places. Uldren wore a white chestpiece of ceramic armor over a suit of black tasseled silk, and he wielded a long fractal knife whose cutting edge was nearly three times as long as the blade. Sjur Eido fought in the contoured blue-gray pressure armor of a Paladin with the Star of Eight Edicts blazoned on her chest.
Before they began, Sjur Eido tore away the sheer curtain over the gardener's nook and looked in on Mara Sov. "Are you afraid?" she whispered, half in hatred, half in admiration, all in awe. "Do you sweat? Does your breath come short?"
Mara pressed her hand to Sjur's faceplate and left no stain. She held Sjur's gauntlet to her heart so Sjur could feel her steady pulse and even breath. "You don't care about him?" Sjur pressed her. "It would mean nothing if I maimed him?"
"You ask the right questions," Mara said, "but of the wrong sibling."
Then Sjur understood that she fought a man who would always express his love through loss and ordeal.
She bowed to Uldren and drew her knife. Uldren bowed in mocking reply. They fought across the web of lianas in a slow spiral, creeping like spiders, waiting for the motion of the web beneath them to signal an instant of vulnerability. Then the pounce, the clash, the blur of knives: Sjur Eido's straightforward prisonyard jabs against Uldren's whirling deceptive theater. All of knife fighting is in the seizure and surrender of space: Neither would surrender to the close, the clinch, the berserk adrenaline-sick exchange of thrusts that would leave both dead.
Uldren began to cut away key lianas to throw Sjur Eido's footing, and Sjur Eido countered by charging him to keep him off balance. At last, they fell together into the coolant pond. The fight was a draw—but it was only the first of three.
The many Scribes were troubled by this news, for they had given Sjur Eido license to hunt and kill Mara Sov. If Sjur Eido murdered a guest of the Queen under the Scribes' remit, it would mean war and the end of the great Awoken push for space. Historians were called to the court with bouquets of sweet flowers and grant money to speak of Sjur Eido. "She was one of Queen Alis Li's Paladins, but she was an Eccaleist, who believed that we would one day be called to repay the gift of our awakening."
"Would she defy the Queen's protection and murder a guest of the court?" the Scribes asked.
"Oh, absolutely," the historians said, laughing. "She was a terror."
The Scribes began preparations to flee the Queen's court, as they foresaw Sjur Eido's victory would be blamed on them. Sensing uncertainty, many vital contractors and suppliers withdrew from the space program. The Queen denounced the Gensym Scribes as faithless and selfish, and her Eccaleist followers bristled in rage against the Sanguine majority who had scuttled their dream of flight. Household turned against household, sister against brother, wife against wife. The whole world clenched her fists.
Meanwhile, Sjur Eido and Uldren met each other on a net of woven lianas over a pool of heavy water. The light of the Queen's reactors shimmered beneath them as they took their places. Uldren wore a white chestpiece of ceramic armor over a suit of black tasseled silk, and he wielded a long fractal knife whose cutting edge was nearly three times as long as the blade. Sjur Eido fought in the contoured blue-gray pressure armor of a Paladin with the Star of Eight Edicts blazoned on her chest.
Before they began, Sjur Eido tore away the sheer curtain over the gardener's nook and looked in on Mara Sov. "Are you afraid?" she whispered, half in hatred, half in admiration, all in awe. "Do you sweat? Does your breath come short?"
Mara pressed her hand to Sjur's faceplate and left no stain. She held Sjur's gauntlet to her heart so Sjur could feel her steady pulse and even breath. "You don't care about him?" Sjur pressed her. "It would mean nothing if I maimed him?"
"You ask the right questions," Mara said, "but of the wrong sibling."
Then Sjur understood that she fought a man who would always express his love through loss and ordeal.
She bowed to Uldren and drew her knife. Uldren bowed in mocking reply. They fought across the web of lianas in a slow spiral, creeping like spiders, waiting for the motion of the web beneath them to signal an instant of vulnerability. Then the pounce, the clash, the blur of knives: Sjur Eido's straightforward prisonyard jabs against Uldren's whirling deceptive theater. All of knife fighting is in the seizure and surrender of space: Neither would surrender to the close, the clinch, the berserk adrenaline-sick exchange of thrusts that would leave both dead.
Uldren began to cut away key lianas to throw Sjur Eido's footing, and Sjur Eido countered by charging him to keep him off balance. At last, they fell together into the coolant pond. The fight was a draw—but it was only the first of three.
Next, the fallen Paladin and the hunter chose long guns and went out into the monsoon jungle to stalk each other. Sjur Eido selected a Tigerspite in 11x90mm with five-round flock guidance and an inertial sump. Uldren chose a silent needle carbine with a conesnail payload. For six weeks, they stalked each other as the political situation grew more dire. He was the better hunter, stealthier in motion and at ease in the wilderness, but Sjur Eido was the better soldier. She had no respect for the systems of the jungle, and she knew how to use that to her advantage. She drove the animals into a frenzy with violence and habitat disruption. Parrots and crows warned each other of Uldren's stealthy hides, and jealous predators forced him off his carefully scouted trails. Sjur Eido caught him with his back against a rift lake and shot him as he tried to cross the lakebed. The wound was not mortal, for the water ruined the terminal ballistics, but she had won the match.
"Your life is at stake," Mara warned her brother. "Lose this final match, and you will—"
"Am I simple?" he snarled at her. The wound pained him terribly, but he would not risk more than a little analgesic. "Leave me my work, Sister, or you leave me nothing at all."
Now they would meet in air superiority fighters over the Andalayas. Charges under their seats would detonate if either of them left the engagement area. Because of the small combat zone, Sjur Eido chose a nimble Ermine tactical fighter and a payload of all-aspect heatseeking missiles.
"Where will we receive these aircraft?" Uldren demanded. "How can I trust the equipment?"
Sjur Eido told him that one of the Gensym Scribes would provide the aircraft and requested weapons from her personal deterrent stockpile. "Very well," Uldren sniffed. "And we will have access to all the weapons these airframes can equip?"
"Of course," Sjur said. "Those we cannot obtain can be replaced by training simulators." She was certain Uldren's wound would cripple him.
"Then I will fly a Dart," Uldren said. The ancient interceptor had awful fire control, dismal maneuverability, and primitive weapons.
"A Dart?" Sjur jeered. "Will you fly with its original weapons, too? You think you can beat me with rockets and a gun?"
"I do," Uldren purred. "You accept those terms?" She did.
The two duelists took to the skies on a bright winter morning. After a fuel check, a telemetry squawk, and a terrain snapshot, they turned in toward each other from a hundred kilometers apart. Sjur Eido descended for the terrain, knowing Uldren's radar could barely separate her from the clutter. Uldren came straight on.
At eighty kilometers of separation, Uldren called across the radio, "Fox three. Kill. Engagement over." Sjur sneered at the bluff and prepared to climb into a snap attack when the KILLED alert flashed on her Ermine's training panel. She had forgotten that the Dart's intercept loadout, when it had last served seventy years ago, included an unguided air-to-air nuclear rocket. Uldren had simulation-killed her and everything within several klicks.
On the tarmac, Sjur Eido threw off her helmet and parachute and knelt before Mara Sov. "My lady," she said, "as I have fought your brother to a tie, I leave my fate in your hands. Be more kind to me than you were to my lady the Diasyrm."
"Rise, Sjur Eido," said Mara. "Let us take the stars together."
"Your life is at stake," Mara warned her brother. "Lose this final match, and you will—"
"Am I simple?" he snarled at her. The wound pained him terribly, but he would not risk more than a little analgesic. "Leave me my work, Sister, or you leave me nothing at all."
Now they would meet in air superiority fighters over the Andalayas. Charges under their seats would detonate if either of them left the engagement area. Because of the small combat zone, Sjur Eido chose a nimble Ermine tactical fighter and a payload of all-aspect heatseeking missiles.
"Where will we receive these aircraft?" Uldren demanded. "How can I trust the equipment?"
Sjur Eido told him that one of the Gensym Scribes would provide the aircraft and requested weapons from her personal deterrent stockpile. "Very well," Uldren sniffed. "And we will have access to all the weapons these airframes can equip?"
"Of course," Sjur said. "Those we cannot obtain can be replaced by training simulators." She was certain Uldren's wound would cripple him.
"Then I will fly a Dart," Uldren said. The ancient interceptor had awful fire control, dismal maneuverability, and primitive weapons.
"A Dart?" Sjur jeered. "Will you fly with its original weapons, too? You think you can beat me with rockets and a gun?"
"I do," Uldren purred. "You accept those terms?" She did.
The two duelists took to the skies on a bright winter morning. After a fuel check, a telemetry squawk, and a terrain snapshot, they turned in toward each other from a hundred kilometers apart. Sjur Eido descended for the terrain, knowing Uldren's radar could barely separate her from the clutter. Uldren came straight on.
At eighty kilometers of separation, Uldren called across the radio, "Fox three. Kill. Engagement over." Sjur sneered at the bluff and prepared to climb into a snap attack when the KILLED alert flashed on her Ermine's training panel. She had forgotten that the Dart's intercept loadout, when it had last served seventy years ago, included an unguided air-to-air nuclear rocket. Uldren had simulation-killed her and everything within several klicks.
On the tarmac, Sjur Eido threw off her helmet and parachute and knelt before Mara Sov. "My lady," she said, "as I have fought your brother to a tie, I leave my fate in your hands. Be more kind to me than you were to my lady the Diasyrm."
"Rise, Sjur Eido," said Mara. "Let us take the stars together."
The subsonic roar of the solid rocket boosters crosses the threshold from noise into motion. To hear it is to feel it, and to feel it is to remember that you are a sack of fluids and gels much more than you are a solid entity. Membranes and gradients, solutes and films: a body is a mingled thing. Mara thinks of this as she watches the launch vehicle discard its boosters and climb away through the clouds. The Awoken could have been angels. Instead, they are flesh.
"That's that." Queen Nguya Pin rises from her portable throne, unfolding two heads taller than Mara. "Choose your replacement. My work is done, and I will stomach no more."
Mara smiles at her. "Is a Queen's work ever done?"
"Oh, don't insult me," Queen Pin clucks. She brushes windblown pollen from her trousers; today's launches have blasted the spring trees with hot wind. "You used me to do your work, politically and scientifically. You used me to bundle up the Scribes in a neat little scroll for your disposal. I went along with it for the sake of the monarchy, Mara, not because I'm a fool. I don't know what you want or why you're so bent on keeping the Awoken uneasy and dissatisfied. I don't know how you manipulate the acclamations. But when I abdicate, I am going to find Alis Li, wherever she's gone, and ask her all my questions about you. I'm very interested to know the answers."
"You've been a wonderful Queen," Mara says. "No one will ever replace you." Although she is thinking of Devna Tel, who was never one of the Scribes, and whose coronation would make a wonderful rebuke to the Scribes' remaining ambitions.
Sjur Eido meets her by the ship. "We'll need a new Queen," Mara tells her, leaping up the side of the ramp. "Word on the satellite?"
"Still burning for the Lagrange point. What have you done to Nguya?"
"Given her too much perspective, I'm afraid." Just as this observatory satellite should help the Awoken see things from Mara's point of view. She smiles as she helps her bodyguard up the ramp, Sjur indulgently pretending that she needs Mara's hand. "Uldren should be on the ground in Kamarina by now. We'll have a go-ahead on that interferometer buyout when he's done."
There are new stars in the sky. Mara put them there. Huge distributed-array telescopes orbit the Distributary's cool sun; gravity wave sensors and cold primordial neutrino detectors spider the crust. Out of shell corporations and seed investments, she has opened her world as an enormous eye and focused it heavenward. Sjur Eido was her smiling public avatar these past decades, while her brother handled enforcement. The days of covert speed chess in the Queen's court are over: Sjur Eido's open endorsement made Mara the face of Eccaleism and armed Mara with blackmail over all the Gensym Scribes still in power.
Yet she has never been so lonely or so worried for the future. Mother has told her that she, Mara, uses her power over Uldren too freely; that she must learn to stop, or her mother will no longer be her friend.
"Mara?" Sjur says, catching some flickering expression. Knowing Mara well, she immediately changes tack away from comfort. "What do you think we'll find with the satellite?"
"Proof that it's time for us to go," Mara says. "Proof of what I've known since the beginning."
Sjur frowns in thought. She doesn't remember much from before her awakening. Few of the 891 do—but enough to trouble her. "Time for us to go…"
The ship's turbines keen up to speed and then settle into whisper-quiet cruise. Sjur reaches to strap herself in across from Mara. Impulsively, hard-faced, denying she needs what she is asking for, Mara scoots aside to make room on her bench. Sjur raises an eyebrow at her.
"Don't say anything," Mara warns her. "Not a word." And so they pass the flight in silence, but not alone.
"That's that." Queen Nguya Pin rises from her portable throne, unfolding two heads taller than Mara. "Choose your replacement. My work is done, and I will stomach no more."
Mara smiles at her. "Is a Queen's work ever done?"
"Oh, don't insult me," Queen Pin clucks. She brushes windblown pollen from her trousers; today's launches have blasted the spring trees with hot wind. "You used me to do your work, politically and scientifically. You used me to bundle up the Scribes in a neat little scroll for your disposal. I went along with it for the sake of the monarchy, Mara, not because I'm a fool. I don't know what you want or why you're so bent on keeping the Awoken uneasy and dissatisfied. I don't know how you manipulate the acclamations. But when I abdicate, I am going to find Alis Li, wherever she's gone, and ask her all my questions about you. I'm very interested to know the answers."
"You've been a wonderful Queen," Mara says. "No one will ever replace you." Although she is thinking of Devna Tel, who was never one of the Scribes, and whose coronation would make a wonderful rebuke to the Scribes' remaining ambitions.
Sjur Eido meets her by the ship. "We'll need a new Queen," Mara tells her, leaping up the side of the ramp. "Word on the satellite?"
"Still burning for the Lagrange point. What have you done to Nguya?"
"Given her too much perspective, I'm afraid." Just as this observatory satellite should help the Awoken see things from Mara's point of view. She smiles as she helps her bodyguard up the ramp, Sjur indulgently pretending that she needs Mara's hand. "Uldren should be on the ground in Kamarina by now. We'll have a go-ahead on that interferometer buyout when he's done."
There are new stars in the sky. Mara put them there. Huge distributed-array telescopes orbit the Distributary's cool sun; gravity wave sensors and cold primordial neutrino detectors spider the crust. Out of shell corporations and seed investments, she has opened her world as an enormous eye and focused it heavenward. Sjur Eido was her smiling public avatar these past decades, while her brother handled enforcement. The days of covert speed chess in the Queen's court are over: Sjur Eido's open endorsement made Mara the face of Eccaleism and armed Mara with blackmail over all the Gensym Scribes still in power.
Yet she has never been so lonely or so worried for the future. Mother has told her that she, Mara, uses her power over Uldren too freely; that she must learn to stop, or her mother will no longer be her friend.
"Mara?" Sjur says, catching some flickering expression. Knowing Mara well, she immediately changes tack away from comfort. "What do you think we'll find with the satellite?"
"Proof that it's time for us to go," Mara says. "Proof of what I've known since the beginning."
Sjur frowns in thought. She doesn't remember much from before her awakening. Few of the 891 do—but enough to trouble her. "Time for us to go…"
The ship's turbines keen up to speed and then settle into whisper-quiet cruise. Sjur reaches to strap herself in across from Mara. Impulsively, hard-faced, denying she needs what she is asking for, Mara scoots aside to make room on her bench. Sjur raises an eyebrow at her.
"Don't say anything," Mara warns her. "Not a word." And so they pass the flight in silence, but not alone.
Mara looks into the camera and lets the fire in her eyes speak.
They are waiting on her, the Distributary's millions, her Awoken people. She has stoked their curiosity with thirty years of painstaking analysis. When they look up at the night sky, they see the stars of her observatories among the crowded bands of habitats, the spindly orbital factories, towering elevator counterweights, the burning roads of matter streams.
"Let me tell you of our world," she says.
There are the facts of tectonics and atmosphere, of water and climate: the parameters of the sun that feeds them. "No infants died last year. No child went unfed. No youth came of age illiterate, no one suffered illness who might have been treated. We have long surpassed the eutech gathered from Shipspire; yet we have grown carefully and cleanly. We have eluded pollution, eradicated plague, and chosen peace. No maltech weapon has been discharged in centuries. Our atomic weapons were dismantled before they could ever be used. We are our own triumph."
She has elected not to use graphics or theater. She would rather they remember her face.
"You know yourselves," she says. "Let me tell you of your cosmos. We live in a spatially infinite, isotropic universe 12.1 billion years old. Its metallicity is ideal for life and for the spread of technological civilizations. In time, the distance between all points in the universe will contract to zero, and the cosmos will collapse into a singularity, to be reborn in fire. There will be no end to eternity here."
She pauses. She waits. The whole world is out there, begging for the answer to the question.
"Our world is a gift. And we must refuse it."
They are Awoken. They love secrets. They will wait for her to explain.
"We have detected a pattern that was imprinted into our universe by its ancestor: a fingerprint of the initial conditions into which existence was born. From this information, we have confirmed the most primordial of Awoken myths. Our universe is a subset of another. We live within a singularity, a knot in space-time, that orbits a star in another world.
"Conventional relativity would suggest that time outside an event horizon passes quickly compared to a clock within, but our universe has a peculiar relationship with its mother. Thousands of years have passed for us on the Distributary. Outside? Centuries, at most. We are a swift eddy in a slow river.
"These ideas may not surprise you after centuries of theorizing and philosophy. But we have decrypted new data from the cosmic microwave and neutrino background signals. We have discovered voices… the voices of distress calls. They tell a story of bravery, of war, and of desperate loss.
"We were not always immortal. We did not earn this utopia by covenant with any cosmic power, or by attaining an enlightened moral condition. We are refugees. We fled from an apocalyptic clash between our ancestors' civilization and an invading power." She lowers her eyes. "The signals we have retrieved tell us that our ancestors were on the edge of defeat. Perhaps extinction."
"It is time that we accept our debt. The Distributary is a refuge, not a birthright; a base to rebuild our strength, not a garden to tend. I ask you, Awoken, to join me in the hardest and most worthy task a people has ever faced. We must leave our heaven, return to the world of our ancestors, and take up the works they abandoned. If some of them survive, we must offer aid. If they have enemies, we must share our strength. We must go back to the war we fled and face our enemies there."
She lets them dangle a moment before she drives it home. "We have also determined that our birthright, our immortality, is tied to the fundamental traits of this universe. Once we leave, we will begin to age again. In time, we will all die.
"Will you join me, Awoken? Will you answer my call? All I offer you is hardship and death. All I ask is everything you can offer. But you will see an older starlight. You will walk in a deeper dark than this world has ever known."
They are waiting on her, the Distributary's millions, her Awoken people. She has stoked their curiosity with thirty years of painstaking analysis. When they look up at the night sky, they see the stars of her observatories among the crowded bands of habitats, the spindly orbital factories, towering elevator counterweights, the burning roads of matter streams.
"Let me tell you of our world," she says.
There are the facts of tectonics and atmosphere, of water and climate: the parameters of the sun that feeds them. "No infants died last year. No child went unfed. No youth came of age illiterate, no one suffered illness who might have been treated. We have long surpassed the eutech gathered from Shipspire; yet we have grown carefully and cleanly. We have eluded pollution, eradicated plague, and chosen peace. No maltech weapon has been discharged in centuries. Our atomic weapons were dismantled before they could ever be used. We are our own triumph."
She has elected not to use graphics or theater. She would rather they remember her face.
"You know yourselves," she says. "Let me tell you of your cosmos. We live in a spatially infinite, isotropic universe 12.1 billion years old. Its metallicity is ideal for life and for the spread of technological civilizations. In time, the distance between all points in the universe will contract to zero, and the cosmos will collapse into a singularity, to be reborn in fire. There will be no end to eternity here."
She pauses. She waits. The whole world is out there, begging for the answer to the question.
"Our world is a gift. And we must refuse it."
They are Awoken. They love secrets. They will wait for her to explain.
"We have detected a pattern that was imprinted into our universe by its ancestor: a fingerprint of the initial conditions into which existence was born. From this information, we have confirmed the most primordial of Awoken myths. Our universe is a subset of another. We live within a singularity, a knot in space-time, that orbits a star in another world.
"Conventional relativity would suggest that time outside an event horizon passes quickly compared to a clock within, but our universe has a peculiar relationship with its mother. Thousands of years have passed for us on the Distributary. Outside? Centuries, at most. We are a swift eddy in a slow river.
"These ideas may not surprise you after centuries of theorizing and philosophy. But we have decrypted new data from the cosmic microwave and neutrino background signals. We have discovered voices… the voices of distress calls. They tell a story of bravery, of war, and of desperate loss.
"We were not always immortal. We did not earn this utopia by covenant with any cosmic power, or by attaining an enlightened moral condition. We are refugees. We fled from an apocalyptic clash between our ancestors' civilization and an invading power." She lowers her eyes. "The signals we have retrieved tell us that our ancestors were on the edge of defeat. Perhaps extinction."
"It is time that we accept our debt. The Distributary is a refuge, not a birthright; a base to rebuild our strength, not a garden to tend. I ask you, Awoken, to join me in the hardest and most worthy task a people has ever faced. We must leave our heaven, return to the world of our ancestors, and take up the works they abandoned. If some of them survive, we must offer aid. If they have enemies, we must share our strength. We must go back to the war we fled and face our enemies there."
She lets them dangle a moment before she drives it home. "We have also determined that our birthright, our immortality, is tied to the fundamental traits of this universe. Once we leave, we will begin to age again. In time, we will all die.
"Will you join me, Awoken? Will you answer my call? All I offer you is hardship and death. All I ask is everything you can offer. But you will see an older starlight. You will walk in a deeper dark than this world has ever known."
"You're the devil," Alis Li whispers. "I remember… in one of the old tongues, Mara means death."
An hour before. Mara's ship touches down a polite two kilometers from the Pearl Groves, and she looks out across mazes of channel and tidal pond to the compounds of ancient silver-white stone beyond. Two-ton oysters glitter in the shallows, their shells jeweled with mineral inclusions. Seabirds peck and fret along narrow white beaches. Mara lifts up her black formal skirts and begins her long walk into Alis Li's retreat, the sanctuary of former Queens.
"Mara," Uldren whispers, through her throat mic. "Don't do this. Take Sjur with you, at least."
But she has to do this, or she'll never be able to face herself again.
The sun batters at her. She hides under a parasol, but heat gathers in the folds of her garment, in the soles of her shoes. When she squints against the glare, she thinks she can see the shining grains of her fleet in orbit: the Hulls, built under eutech supervision to the specifications of radically post-conscious AI that will one day fly between worlds. It is far too late to stop the project now. Far, far too late for second thoughts: exactly twelve point one billion years too late, really. For Mara in particular.
Mara kicks the sand and trudges on.
She's in a foul mood when she reaches the old Queen's house, but the sight of Alis Li sitting on the porch with a battered tea service makes her smile. "Thank you for seeing me," Mara says.
"Thank you for coming. I was afraid you'd leave the universe without saying goodbye." Alis pours her a cup of cool blackberry tea. "Have a seat. How's Queen Tel?"
"She has declined to endorse my expedition," Mara admits, tucking her feet beneath her on the wide wooden deck chair. The tea is too sweet, but so blissfully cool. "I'm sure you understand her reasons."
"You mean she's declined to endorse the sudden violent severance of tens of thousands of threads from the tapestry of our society? How surprising." Alis looks Mara over, critically, then sits back to sigh. "A Scribe once told me that the definition of a utopia is a place where every single person's happiness is necessary to everyone else. You're going to make a lot of unhappy people, Mara. You'll make the lives of everyone in the world tangibly worse. Not just those you've lured to certain death, but those who will grieve their departure, and all those who will come to grief for lack of labor and knowledge you took with you."
"My people volunteered."
"Your mother told you," Alis says, "that it is one thing for you to have a particular power over people, but another thing entirely to deny that you are using it."
"You once told me," Mara counters, "that I had to consider the symbol people made out of me, and that if it were good, then I had to be that symbol for them. I had to perform as they required. I have done so. I have been the best thing I can think to be."
"Is this the best thing you could think to be?" Alis says, with very practiced neutrality.
Mara drinks her tea in delicate silence.
The old Queen sets her cup down hard enough to chip. Mara jumps in quiet shock: The tea service is an heirloom from Shipspire. Her face hardens with the power of ancient command. "Mara. I'm at least as clever as you. Do me the credit of acknowledging it."
"I have worked for many hundreds of years to arrange this outcome," Mara says, forthrightly, but without the courage to look Alis Li right in the eyes. "I have nurtured and tended the Eccaleist belief so that there will always be Awoken who feel uncomfortable in paradise. Guilty for the gift of existence in the Distributary. People who'll come with me."
"I know." Alis lays a hand on Mara's, and for a moment the touch almost makes Mara sigh in gratitude: to be seen, to be known, without revulsion. Then Alis' old strength pins her palm to the table.
"The Diasyrm?" Alis hisses. "The Theodisy War? Did you arrange it all?"
An hour before. Mara's ship touches down a polite two kilometers from the Pearl Groves, and she looks out across mazes of channel and tidal pond to the compounds of ancient silver-white stone beyond. Two-ton oysters glitter in the shallows, their shells jeweled with mineral inclusions. Seabirds peck and fret along narrow white beaches. Mara lifts up her black formal skirts and begins her long walk into Alis Li's retreat, the sanctuary of former Queens.
"Mara," Uldren whispers, through her throat mic. "Don't do this. Take Sjur with you, at least."
But she has to do this, or she'll never be able to face herself again.
The sun batters at her. She hides under a parasol, but heat gathers in the folds of her garment, in the soles of her shoes. When she squints against the glare, she thinks she can see the shining grains of her fleet in orbit: the Hulls, built under eutech supervision to the specifications of radically post-conscious AI that will one day fly between worlds. It is far too late to stop the project now. Far, far too late for second thoughts: exactly twelve point one billion years too late, really. For Mara in particular.
Mara kicks the sand and trudges on.
She's in a foul mood when she reaches the old Queen's house, but the sight of Alis Li sitting on the porch with a battered tea service makes her smile. "Thank you for seeing me," Mara says.
"Thank you for coming. I was afraid you'd leave the universe without saying goodbye." Alis pours her a cup of cool blackberry tea. "Have a seat. How's Queen Tel?"
"She has declined to endorse my expedition," Mara admits, tucking her feet beneath her on the wide wooden deck chair. The tea is too sweet, but so blissfully cool. "I'm sure you understand her reasons."
"You mean she's declined to endorse the sudden violent severance of tens of thousands of threads from the tapestry of our society? How surprising." Alis looks Mara over, critically, then sits back to sigh. "A Scribe once told me that the definition of a utopia is a place where every single person's happiness is necessary to everyone else. You're going to make a lot of unhappy people, Mara. You'll make the lives of everyone in the world tangibly worse. Not just those you've lured to certain death, but those who will grieve their departure, and all those who will come to grief for lack of labor and knowledge you took with you."
"My people volunteered."
"Your mother told you," Alis says, "that it is one thing for you to have a particular power over people, but another thing entirely to deny that you are using it."
"You once told me," Mara counters, "that I had to consider the symbol people made out of me, and that if it were good, then I had to be that symbol for them. I had to perform as they required. I have done so. I have been the best thing I can think to be."
"Is this the best thing you could think to be?" Alis says, with very practiced neutrality.
Mara drinks her tea in delicate silence.
The old Queen sets her cup down hard enough to chip. Mara jumps in quiet shock: The tea service is an heirloom from Shipspire. Her face hardens with the power of ancient command. "Mara. I'm at least as clever as you. Do me the credit of acknowledging it."
"I have worked for many hundreds of years to arrange this outcome," Mara says, forthrightly, but without the courage to look Alis Li right in the eyes. "I have nurtured and tended the Eccaleist belief so that there will always be Awoken who feel uncomfortable in paradise. Guilty for the gift of existence in the Distributary. People who'll come with me."
"I know." Alis lays a hand on Mara's, and for a moment the touch almost makes Mara sigh in gratitude: to be seen, to be known, without revulsion. Then Alis' old strength pins her palm to the table.
"The Diasyrm?" Alis hisses. "The Theodisy War? Did you arrange it all?"
"No," Mara says, which is a lie told with truth.
"Do you understand what you've done? Have you reckoned the full cost?"
She has convinced tens of thousands of Awoken to abandon their immortality. She has deprived the Distributary an infinite quantity of joy, companionship, labor, and discovery: all the works that might be accomplished by all the people who will join her in her mission to another world. When she lies awake at night, seized by anxiety, she tries to tally up the loss in her head, but it is too huge, and it becomes a formless thing that stalks her down the pathways of her bones like the creak of a gravity wave.
"Some infinities are larger than others," she tells her old captain. "I believe… we are here for a reason, and this is the way to fulfill that purpose."
"And how much would you sacrifice? Your mother? Your brother? Are the Awoken real to you at all?" Alis leans across her pinned hand, viper-fierce, striking. "Do you think my people were made to die for you?"
"Not for me. For our purpose. For our fate."
"For a home we abandoned. It's in the charter, Mara. The document on Shipspire that," and even Alis Li falls into a hush as she broaches one of the primal mysteries, her memory of creation, "that shaped the… the way I made this universe."
"You were the first," Mara acknowledges. "The first one here laid down the rules."
Alis Li releases her hand and collapses back into her chair. "Why are you here, Mara?"
To tell you the truth at last. "To ask you for that boon you owe me."
"At last." Alis sighs. "Well, I knew the day would come. I think I'll be glad to have this weight off my shoulders. You'll ask me to throw my support behind your mission, won't you? The First Queen says, go with Mara; awaken from this dream and go fight for your home. Is that it?"
"No," Mara says, with her heart in her throat, with trepidation bubbling in her gut. You cannot keep a secret buried like a vintage for so many centuries, and then unbottle it without any ceremony. "The boon I ask is your forgiveness."
Then she explains the truth. She tells Alis Li what she did: about the choice Alis Li would have made, if Mara had not made her own first. It's only an extension of what Alis has already deduced.
When she's finished, her ancient captain's jaw trembles. Her hands shake. A keen slips between her clamped teeth. The oldest woman in the world conjures up all the grief she has ever felt, and still it is not enough to match Mara's crime.
"You're the devil," Alis Li whispers. "I remember… in one of the old tongues, Mara means death. Oh, that's too perfect. That's too much."
She laughs for a while. Mara closes her eyes and waits.
"You realize," Alis Li says, breathing hard, "that this is the worst thing ever done. Worse than stealing a few thousand people from heaven. Worse than that thing we fled, before we were Awoken—"
"Please," Mara begs. "Please don't say that."
Alis Li rises from her chair. "I'll support your fleet," she says. "I'll use every favor and connection I have to get your Hulls completed and through the gateway—and I will do it so that I can hasten your departure from this world. I will do it out of hate for you; I will do it so that every good and great thing we achieve here will ever after be denied to you, you snake. No forgiveness. Do you understand me? It is unforgivable. Go. Go!"
"I'd be very glad if you didn't tell my mother," Mara says.
Alis Li hurls the pitcher of blackberry tea over Mara, turns, and goes inside, leaving her to trudge, wet and sticky but unbowed, back to her ship. She leaves her tea-stained parasol on the deck, but when she remembers it and looks back, it is already gone.
"Do you understand what you've done? Have you reckoned the full cost?"
She has convinced tens of thousands of Awoken to abandon their immortality. She has deprived the Distributary an infinite quantity of joy, companionship, labor, and discovery: all the works that might be accomplished by all the people who will join her in her mission to another world. When she lies awake at night, seized by anxiety, she tries to tally up the loss in her head, but it is too huge, and it becomes a formless thing that stalks her down the pathways of her bones like the creak of a gravity wave.
"Some infinities are larger than others," she tells her old captain. "I believe… we are here for a reason, and this is the way to fulfill that purpose."
"And how much would you sacrifice? Your mother? Your brother? Are the Awoken real to you at all?" Alis leans across her pinned hand, viper-fierce, striking. "Do you think my people were made to die for you?"
"Not for me. For our purpose. For our fate."
"For a home we abandoned. It's in the charter, Mara. The document on Shipspire that," and even Alis Li falls into a hush as she broaches one of the primal mysteries, her memory of creation, "that shaped the… the way I made this universe."
"You were the first," Mara acknowledges. "The first one here laid down the rules."
Alis Li releases her hand and collapses back into her chair. "Why are you here, Mara?"
To tell you the truth at last. "To ask you for that boon you owe me."
"At last." Alis sighs. "Well, I knew the day would come. I think I'll be glad to have this weight off my shoulders. You'll ask me to throw my support behind your mission, won't you? The First Queen says, go with Mara; awaken from this dream and go fight for your home. Is that it?"
"No," Mara says, with her heart in her throat, with trepidation bubbling in her gut. You cannot keep a secret buried like a vintage for so many centuries, and then unbottle it without any ceremony. "The boon I ask is your forgiveness."
Then she explains the truth. She tells Alis Li what she did: about the choice Alis Li would have made, if Mara had not made her own first. It's only an extension of what Alis has already deduced.
When she's finished, her ancient captain's jaw trembles. Her hands shake. A keen slips between her clamped teeth. The oldest woman in the world conjures up all the grief she has ever felt, and still it is not enough to match Mara's crime.
"You're the devil," Alis Li whispers. "I remember… in one of the old tongues, Mara means death. Oh, that's too perfect. That's too much."
She laughs for a while. Mara closes her eyes and waits.
"You realize," Alis Li says, breathing hard, "that this is the worst thing ever done. Worse than stealing a few thousand people from heaven. Worse than that thing we fled, before we were Awoken—"
"Please," Mara begs. "Please don't say that."
Alis Li rises from her chair. "I'll support your fleet," she says. "I'll use every favor and connection I have to get your Hulls completed and through the gateway—and I will do it so that I can hasten your departure from this world. I will do it out of hate for you; I will do it so that every good and great thing we achieve here will ever after be denied to you, you snake. No forgiveness. Do you understand me? It is unforgivable. Go. Go!"
"I'd be very glad if you didn't tell my mother," Mara says.
Alis Li hurls the pitcher of blackberry tea over Mara, turns, and goes inside, leaving her to trudge, wet and sticky but unbowed, back to her ship. She leaves her tea-stained parasol on the deck, but when she remembers it and looks back, it is already gone.
Mara thinks of the banyan trees that sprawl across the shallow silty lakes of a world she will never see again. The waveguides in her helmet detect the image and obey the encrypted command scheme she's rooted into every system in her fleet. She speaks into the flight directorate channel. "Flight. Sound off for final hold."
"FIDO. Go flight."
"Guidance. Go flight."
"INCO. Good constellation. Go flight."
"GEOD. Go flight."
"BIO. Go flight."
As her flight controllers confirm the state of their technical domains, Mara looks out into space through the synthetic gaze of her sensorium. The Hulls gleam in the stark blue-white light of the star, each ship a silver seedpod braced by immense structural members and cocooned in reservoirs of spectrally adaptive smart fluid: theoretically enough to survive the horrible forces of transit through a singularity. Mara orders herself not to crane her neck, but she does it anyway and gets a terrible cramp as she searches the sky for the Distributary.
There it is. The world of her rebirth, shining water-blue and beautiful, wrapped like a gyroscope in its twin rings. World of laughing Corsairs, world of breathless forest hunts, world of mountains flickering with pale Cherenkov fire, world of sweet berry-stained lips and mathematical insight pure as a rhodium chime. She will never see it again.
Mara thinks of her mother. She doesn't want to but she does, and the memory blindfolds her and muzzles her and plugs her ears so she can hear nothing but Osana's voice on that final night. They're tipsy together, and the evening has wrapped around to morning. Now they sit side by side, mother and daughter, watching the sun rise over the Chriseiad range from Osana's little ranch house on the tundra.
"I'm not coming with you," Osana says.
Mara has been so afraid of this answer for so long that she actually giggles. This can't be happening, of course. This is a nightmare; one of those stress dreams where your powers of persuasion and manipulation fail. "Sure, Mom," she says, "you've got a ranch to run, after all. More?"
"No thank you." Osana squints into the dawn. Little age creases surround her eyes, illegible encryption, unbroken despite Mara's centuries of effort. The rising light draws a tear. "You'll have to send my goodbyes to Uldren. He's not speaking to me."
"What?" Mara gasps, as if this is the real shock, and not losing her mother forever. "Why?"
"Because I already told him I wasn't coming with you. I'm happy here."
"Mom," Mara says, with rising anger, "I'm happy here too. That's not the point—" A conversation that did not so much end as beat itself to an unsustainable emotional pulp, hours later. No catharsis. No closure.
Back in the present: "Weapons," Uldren calls. "Go flight."
"Go flight," Mara confirms. "The clock is counting. L minus five minutes." Directly off her Hull's bow, a sphere of ultradense mass waits for the moment of implosion and collapse. There will be only moments to transit the wormhole before it evaporates.
"Flight, Sensor," Sjur Eido calls. "I have anomalous starfield occlusions, bearing—"
"Intercept!" Mara shouts. "They're missiles!" It had to happen. Someone had to try to stop the departure, someone good and Paladin-pure who believes they are saving tens of thousands of Awoken from madness and doom.
"Flight, FIDO. Do we abort?"
"Negative!" Mara snaps. "The countdown is go! Weapons, kill the inbounds!"
Sjur Eido grunts in dismay. "They're going to get through," she says. "Five or six, at least."
"Uldren." Mara opens their personal channel with the thought of his face. "Reassign your guns to protect the gateway."
"We'll lose Hulls, Mara—"
"I know. Do it." Mara opens the command interface for the gateway and sends the image of a bloody thorn. The countdown skips instantly to zero. "All ships, we are aborting directly to launch. Brace for acceleration!"
She issues the emergency launch order.
The Hull screams with thrust. Mara's suit floods with cushioning gel. She thinks of her mother's face, trying to fix it perfectly in her mind, and her sensorium tries, vainly, to open a channel to Osana. As the Hull plunges into the singularity, the last thing Mara sees is the mournful error message: No connection. No connection. No connection. Cannot connect to Osana.
"FIDO. Go flight."
"Guidance. Go flight."
"INCO. Good constellation. Go flight."
"GEOD. Go flight."
"BIO. Go flight."
As her flight controllers confirm the state of their technical domains, Mara looks out into space through the synthetic gaze of her sensorium. The Hulls gleam in the stark blue-white light of the star, each ship a silver seedpod braced by immense structural members and cocooned in reservoirs of spectrally adaptive smart fluid: theoretically enough to survive the horrible forces of transit through a singularity. Mara orders herself not to crane her neck, but she does it anyway and gets a terrible cramp as she searches the sky for the Distributary.
There it is. The world of her rebirth, shining water-blue and beautiful, wrapped like a gyroscope in its twin rings. World of laughing Corsairs, world of breathless forest hunts, world of mountains flickering with pale Cherenkov fire, world of sweet berry-stained lips and mathematical insight pure as a rhodium chime. She will never see it again.
Mara thinks of her mother. She doesn't want to but she does, and the memory blindfolds her and muzzles her and plugs her ears so she can hear nothing but Osana's voice on that final night. They're tipsy together, and the evening has wrapped around to morning. Now they sit side by side, mother and daughter, watching the sun rise over the Chriseiad range from Osana's little ranch house on the tundra.
"I'm not coming with you," Osana says.
Mara has been so afraid of this answer for so long that she actually giggles. This can't be happening, of course. This is a nightmare; one of those stress dreams where your powers of persuasion and manipulation fail. "Sure, Mom," she says, "you've got a ranch to run, after all. More?"
"No thank you." Osana squints into the dawn. Little age creases surround her eyes, illegible encryption, unbroken despite Mara's centuries of effort. The rising light draws a tear. "You'll have to send my goodbyes to Uldren. He's not speaking to me."
"What?" Mara gasps, as if this is the real shock, and not losing her mother forever. "Why?"
"Because I already told him I wasn't coming with you. I'm happy here."
"Mom," Mara says, with rising anger, "I'm happy here too. That's not the point—" A conversation that did not so much end as beat itself to an unsustainable emotional pulp, hours later. No catharsis. No closure.
Back in the present: "Weapons," Uldren calls. "Go flight."
"Go flight," Mara confirms. "The clock is counting. L minus five minutes." Directly off her Hull's bow, a sphere of ultradense mass waits for the moment of implosion and collapse. There will be only moments to transit the wormhole before it evaporates.
"Flight, Sensor," Sjur Eido calls. "I have anomalous starfield occlusions, bearing—"
"Intercept!" Mara shouts. "They're missiles!" It had to happen. Someone had to try to stop the departure, someone good and Paladin-pure who believes they are saving tens of thousands of Awoken from madness and doom.
"Flight, FIDO. Do we abort?"
"Negative!" Mara snaps. "The countdown is go! Weapons, kill the inbounds!"
Sjur Eido grunts in dismay. "They're going to get through," she says. "Five or six, at least."
"Uldren." Mara opens their personal channel with the thought of his face. "Reassign your guns to protect the gateway."
"We'll lose Hulls, Mara—"
"I know. Do it." Mara opens the command interface for the gateway and sends the image of a bloody thorn. The countdown skips instantly to zero. "All ships, we are aborting directly to launch. Brace for acceleration!"
She issues the emergency launch order.
The Hull screams with thrust. Mara's suit floods with cushioning gel. She thinks of her mother's face, trying to fix it perfectly in her mind, and her sensorium tries, vainly, to open a channel to Osana. As the Hull plunges into the singularity, the last thing Mara sees is the mournful error message: No connection. No connection. No connection. Cannot connect to Osana.
Here in this time without time, pocketed by the ever-scattering cosm, touched as an assassin touches the gun in the secret fold. There is an eon within and I am going without. This is where we belong, interstitial, in that space between. This is where truth collapses supercritical.
There is a war, and its name is existence. There are two ways to fight—one is the sword, and one is the bomb.
By the sword, I mean the way to fight that is tempered and solid. The way that is made from old things and that triumphs by the reduction to simplicity. This way is known to those who study the cosmos. Take any part of it at any time, and you will see an edge and say, "This is a weapon."
By the bomb, I mean that way of being that is complex and schematic and that must attain a criticality to attack. The way that is made from new things and that triumphs by the arrangement of intricacy. This way is known to those who study themselves. Take any component of the bomb in isolation, and you will say, "What is this? I cannot understand its purpose." Yet in it is the possibility of a fire.
Numberless are the spaces that surround the universe. Subordinate and superordinate are their relationships to the intrinsic world-that-is-only-itself. We pass now through analogy space that will reify what was once subject into object. That power I held, which was agonist to a mother's rapprochement, will be realized and reified.
First is the awareness of my vector, which all who follow me held in their hearts.
Second is the desire to hear my speech, which all who follow me curled in their ears.
Third is the existence-at-the-fault, which is the inner tension that all who follow me still sense.
We are risen from man and fallen from heaven. We are made again in the fall. What was once us will not ever again be us. I am the uncrowned ever-Queen and my only diadem will be the event horizon of the universe, which is my dominion. By falling, I will rise.
There are an uncountable number of ways to be between zero and two.
There is a war, and its name is existence. There are two ways to fight—one is the sword, and one is the bomb.
By the sword, I mean the way to fight that is tempered and solid. The way that is made from old things and that triumphs by the reduction to simplicity. This way is known to those who study the cosmos. Take any part of it at any time, and you will see an edge and say, "This is a weapon."
By the bomb, I mean that way of being that is complex and schematic and that must attain a criticality to attack. The way that is made from new things and that triumphs by the arrangement of intricacy. This way is known to those who study themselves. Take any component of the bomb in isolation, and you will say, "What is this? I cannot understand its purpose." Yet in it is the possibility of a fire.
Numberless are the spaces that surround the universe. Subordinate and superordinate are their relationships to the intrinsic world-that-is-only-itself. We pass now through analogy space that will reify what was once subject into object. That power I held, which was agonist to a mother's rapprochement, will be realized and reified.
First is the awareness of my vector, which all who follow me held in their hearts.
Second is the desire to hear my speech, which all who follow me curled in their ears.
Third is the existence-at-the-fault, which is the inner tension that all who follow me still sense.
We are risen from man and fallen from heaven. We are made again in the fall. What was once us will not ever again be us. I am the uncrowned ever-Queen and my only diadem will be the event horizon of the universe, which is my dominion. By falling, I will rise.
There are an uncountable number of ways to be between zero and two.
The Awoken of the Reef
Uldren returned to the Reef during the Long Unquiet Night, when the Awoken people huddled in their beds and hammocks, gathered in ice caves and half-lit habitat cylinders, haunted by visions and portents. Faces appeared to them in the sublimating swirl of cometary ice: images and portraits became impossible to distinguish from their real counterparts. All statues were shrouded, lest they appear to passers-by as corpses.
Something had changed in them after their return to the outer cosmos. A live-wire hum passed through the tendons in their hands, their jaws popped when they swallowed, and flashes of light like the impact of cosmic rays obscured their vision. It felt to Mara as if they had lowered their feet into an ocean of charge and raised their hand to some invisible cable overhead: as if they were now again in contact with immense and opposing forces that had left an ancient mark.
"It feels like I've got scurvy," Sjur Eido snarled, having never had scurvy in her life. "As if all these old wounds in my soul are opening up again."
"People keep sending me notes," Mara said. Her sensorium had died in the transit, so the notes came to her through whispers and scraps of precious paper. "They say… I saw your face in my dream. I saw your eyes. I heard your voice."
"So it's not just me."
Uldren was the second person to bring her revelations on that day. First was Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, one of Mara's most joyful recruits to the expedition: She was a master of pedagogy, able to mold any mind into a shape ready to learn, able to melt any fact into a fluid that could be poured. "I'm in from the Gensym labs," she said, "and they've learned something wonderful. We're all a bit magic now."
"Tell me more." Mara poured her a snifter of icy cometary water. "What does magic mean?"
"Some sort of weak acausality." Kelda lowered her flowerbulb build into a hammock of tangled plastic. "They've been firing encoded neutrino beams through volunteers, and it looks as if the resulting patterns of scatter depend on the cognitive and emotional state of the target. It's a very reliable detection, at least four sigma, but the effect size is terribly small."
Mara digested this with a shot of ancient ice, slushy against her tongue. "Acausality. You mean that whatever's happening—whatever influence we have on, say, neutrino beams—it's not accounted for by physics?"
"Not by any physics we know. At face, it seems to violate some conservation laws, which would make Emmy Noether's head spin." Kelda remembers the names of her ancient physicist heroes even when she cannot tell which way is sunward.
"Secret physics." Mara thought of the Traveler and its works. "We've all felt it, haven't we? We know we're…" How to say "trapped in the clinch between light and dark," she wondered, without quite so much portent? "We're in contact with certain numinous elements."
Kelda held out her cup for more water. "The question is, your Majesty—"
"Don't call me that. We're operating on a direct democracy here."
Kelda rolled her eyes. "The question is, do we continue to think of this as science? Do we teach it as physics? Causal closure says that everything that happens in a material system has a material cause. However, if symbolic structures in the mind are triggering material effect… shouldn't we call that what it is?"
"Death had no dominion," Mara whispered.
"Pardon?"
"We're in Death's dominion now. We're all dying again. We were immortal in the Distributary, weren't we? Some part of us was… attuned to the universe. And now that we're no longer receiving the Distributary's signal, we're attuned to something new."
That was when the hatch slammed open and Uldren stumbled in, grinning ferociously, clutching a scummy fistful of cytogel to a slash across his neck.
"Aliens!" he rasped. "I found aliens, and one of them cut my throat!"
Something had changed in them after their return to the outer cosmos. A live-wire hum passed through the tendons in their hands, their jaws popped when they swallowed, and flashes of light like the impact of cosmic rays obscured their vision. It felt to Mara as if they had lowered their feet into an ocean of charge and raised their hand to some invisible cable overhead: as if they were now again in contact with immense and opposing forces that had left an ancient mark.
"It feels like I've got scurvy," Sjur Eido snarled, having never had scurvy in her life. "As if all these old wounds in my soul are opening up again."
"People keep sending me notes," Mara said. Her sensorium had died in the transit, so the notes came to her through whispers and scraps of precious paper. "They say… I saw your face in my dream. I saw your eyes. I heard your voice."
"So it's not just me."
Uldren was the second person to bring her revelations on that day. First was Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, one of Mara's most joyful recruits to the expedition: She was a master of pedagogy, able to mold any mind into a shape ready to learn, able to melt any fact into a fluid that could be poured. "I'm in from the Gensym labs," she said, "and they've learned something wonderful. We're all a bit magic now."
"Tell me more." Mara poured her a snifter of icy cometary water. "What does magic mean?"
"Some sort of weak acausality." Kelda lowered her flowerbulb build into a hammock of tangled plastic. "They've been firing encoded neutrino beams through volunteers, and it looks as if the resulting patterns of scatter depend on the cognitive and emotional state of the target. It's a very reliable detection, at least four sigma, but the effect size is terribly small."
Mara digested this with a shot of ancient ice, slushy against her tongue. "Acausality. You mean that whatever's happening—whatever influence we have on, say, neutrino beams—it's not accounted for by physics?"
"Not by any physics we know. At face, it seems to violate some conservation laws, which would make Emmy Noether's head spin." Kelda remembers the names of her ancient physicist heroes even when she cannot tell which way is sunward.
"Secret physics." Mara thought of the Traveler and its works. "We've all felt it, haven't we? We know we're…" How to say "trapped in the clinch between light and dark," she wondered, without quite so much portent? "We're in contact with certain numinous elements."
Kelda held out her cup for more water. "The question is, your Majesty—"
"Don't call me that. We're operating on a direct democracy here."
Kelda rolled her eyes. "The question is, do we continue to think of this as science? Do we teach it as physics? Causal closure says that everything that happens in a material system has a material cause. However, if symbolic structures in the mind are triggering material effect… shouldn't we call that what it is?"
"Death had no dominion," Mara whispered.
"Pardon?"
"We're in Death's dominion now. We're all dying again. We were immortal in the Distributary, weren't we? Some part of us was… attuned to the universe. And now that we're no longer receiving the Distributary's signal, we're attuned to something new."
That was when the hatch slammed open and Uldren stumbled in, grinning ferociously, clutching a scummy fistful of cytogel to a slash across his neck.
"Aliens!" he rasped. "I found aliens, and one of them cut my throat!"
Mara calls a caucus of elected representatives in the Sacred Fire, one of the largest hulks in the reef of derelicts. The Fire was built to support habitat construction on 4 Vesta, where Mara hopes to one day anchor the entire flotilla and set down roots—but the hopeful, fearful faces before her make Mara afraid that it'll never happen. What if everyone runs off at the first hint of home? Having come so far, across worlds and eons, to see Earth again—how can she ask them to hold back now?
"We've found Humanity," she tells them. "We've found our ancestors."
The cheer of triumph and wonder thrills her to the marrow. Most of these Awoken are Distributary-born, raised on myths of Humanity and the Traveler. She has just opened the pages of their storybooks and conjured them to life.
"What remains of the Human species lives in a single settlement." She nods to Uldren, who snaps his fingers for footage. His ship's holographic perspective plunges through fluffy strata of clouds and mist, out into clear air. A lucid vista, a perfect instant: the white mountains, the city, and the enormous shattered sphere that hangs above it.
"Freeze," Uldren commands. "That is the Traveler."
As the crowd murmurs and thrills, Mara feels herself bridle. She doesn't like that thread of reverence. She doesn't like the Traveler looming there, almost but not quite completely dormant (like a dying heart ripped from its body and thrown into warm water, it ebbs and flutters if you look at it with the right sensors). If the Traveler had the power to protect anyone, wouldn't it protect more than one huddled settlement?
Esila, daughter of Sila, leaps up from the crowd, too small to make it on her own, but buoyed up by enthusiastic neighbors. "What are we waiting for?" she calls. "That's everything we came to find! They need us, and that's where we belong!"
Uldren and Mara trade glances. Uldren snaps his fingers, and the recording resumes.
Something moves in the treetops. The canopy roils and parts. A red-brown aircraft shaped like a fat, wingless, furiously angry dragonfly bursts from cover and climbs to intercept. Uldren's head-cued camera tracks the target, and Mara imagines his narrow grin as he waits for the other guy to make a move.
The dragonfly ship drops a brace of little needles, and they erupt into dirty orange flame and come arrowing after Uldren. Everyone in the caucus gets an earful of his grunts as he whips through a high-G turn and climbs away.
"Those are Fallen," Uldren says. "They're a species of interstellar scavengers and subsistence pirates. They've been here for a long time, and they've sacked most of the large settlements that survived the original fall of Humanity. There may be more Fallen than there are Humans left on Earth." He lifts his chin to bare the pale scar across his throat. "I landed and went looking for prisoners. I was ready when he pulled two knives on me, but it turned out he had an extra set of arms."
Nervous laughter.
"Worse," Mara adds, beckoning for panes of deep-space passive sensor data, "they're all over the solar system. We've detected flotillas of their interstellar ships around Jupiter and Venus. They don't go near Mars, but only because it's under occupation by another alien species. Mercury is—well, you can see for yourself." Gasps of horror at the clockwork cinder, all that remains of the legendary garden world. "We believe this may be the work of the Vex, a machine species listed in Shipspire's threat index."
Esila, famed historian, puts voice to the plea in the crowd. "So they need our help, don't they? We have to go to them! Our ships, our technology—we could make all the difference."
"No." Mara collapses the projected images between her hands. She stayed up late wrestling with this dilemma, which kept her from wrestling with Sjur. It was a choice she had to make alone. "We can't reveal our existence, lest the Fallen track us down. We need more information. Our focus must remain on securing this derelict reef, bootstrapping industry and a population, and scouting out the solar system."
"Mara, with all my respect, all my genuine gratitude for bringing us here," Esila sighs, "who died and made you Queen?"
Mara says nothing. But she thinks: Everyone, Esila. All of us died and made me Queen.
"We've found Humanity," she tells them. "We've found our ancestors."
The cheer of triumph and wonder thrills her to the marrow. Most of these Awoken are Distributary-born, raised on myths of Humanity and the Traveler. She has just opened the pages of their storybooks and conjured them to life.
"What remains of the Human species lives in a single settlement." She nods to Uldren, who snaps his fingers for footage. His ship's holographic perspective plunges through fluffy strata of clouds and mist, out into clear air. A lucid vista, a perfect instant: the white mountains, the city, and the enormous shattered sphere that hangs above it.
"Freeze," Uldren commands. "That is the Traveler."
As the crowd murmurs and thrills, Mara feels herself bridle. She doesn't like that thread of reverence. She doesn't like the Traveler looming there, almost but not quite completely dormant (like a dying heart ripped from its body and thrown into warm water, it ebbs and flutters if you look at it with the right sensors). If the Traveler had the power to protect anyone, wouldn't it protect more than one huddled settlement?
Esila, daughter of Sila, leaps up from the crowd, too small to make it on her own, but buoyed up by enthusiastic neighbors. "What are we waiting for?" she calls. "That's everything we came to find! They need us, and that's where we belong!"
Uldren and Mara trade glances. Uldren snaps his fingers, and the recording resumes.
Something moves in the treetops. The canopy roils and parts. A red-brown aircraft shaped like a fat, wingless, furiously angry dragonfly bursts from cover and climbs to intercept. Uldren's head-cued camera tracks the target, and Mara imagines his narrow grin as he waits for the other guy to make a move.
The dragonfly ship drops a brace of little needles, and they erupt into dirty orange flame and come arrowing after Uldren. Everyone in the caucus gets an earful of his grunts as he whips through a high-G turn and climbs away.
"Those are Fallen," Uldren says. "They're a species of interstellar scavengers and subsistence pirates. They've been here for a long time, and they've sacked most of the large settlements that survived the original fall of Humanity. There may be more Fallen than there are Humans left on Earth." He lifts his chin to bare the pale scar across his throat. "I landed and went looking for prisoners. I was ready when he pulled two knives on me, but it turned out he had an extra set of arms."
Nervous laughter.
"Worse," Mara adds, beckoning for panes of deep-space passive sensor data, "they're all over the solar system. We've detected flotillas of their interstellar ships around Jupiter and Venus. They don't go near Mars, but only because it's under occupation by another alien species. Mercury is—well, you can see for yourself." Gasps of horror at the clockwork cinder, all that remains of the legendary garden world. "We believe this may be the work of the Vex, a machine species listed in Shipspire's threat index."
Esila, famed historian, puts voice to the plea in the crowd. "So they need our help, don't they? We have to go to them! Our ships, our technology—we could make all the difference."
"No." Mara collapses the projected images between her hands. She stayed up late wrestling with this dilemma, which kept her from wrestling with Sjur. It was a choice she had to make alone. "We can't reveal our existence, lest the Fallen track us down. We need more information. Our focus must remain on securing this derelict reef, bootstrapping industry and a population, and scouting out the solar system."
"Mara, with all my respect, all my genuine gratitude for bringing us here," Esila sighs, "who died and made you Queen?"
Mara says nothing. But she thinks: Everyone, Esila. All of us died and made me Queen.
"It's bad," Sjur Eido says, confirming what Mara already knows, but nonetheless performing the valuable service of mopping away all the blood and tears and allowing Mara to glimpse the actual shape of the wound that divides her people. Not a literal wound (though she is, right now, tending to Uldren's scar, tweezing tiny fragments of Fallen metal out for analysis), but the rift in her Reef, the schism now re-schismatic, as if the quake that split the Distributary Awoken from Mara's people is now firing off aftershocks.
She should've known this would happen. She shouldn't have told them so much about Earth. "How bad?"
Sjur pokes Uldren in the hard gut, where a passing line of molten metal left a red burn. He's under anesthesia, but he snarls at her anyway. "As of the last caucus, I'd say thirty percent of the expedition wants to head for Earth. If you ask the 891," though there aren't 891 of them anymore, "it's more like eighty percent."
Mara swears and pulls a bloody line of solidified slag from her brother. "Unacceptable. We can't lose their skills." Or their genes: The Awoken have yet to adapt to the attrition of this harsh spaceborne world, and tentative mothers are still in the early stages of designing their babies. It's vital to maintain a diverse gene pool. "And the Fallen will vector them back to us."
"I know," Sjur says, heavily. "That's when I'm going to die."
The most horrible thing about the words is that they slap down on Mara's consciousness like face-up cards, like truth revealed. "Unacceptable!" she barks, and then both she and Sjur begin laughing, and then, at last, Mara shakes her head and growls. "You can't know that, Sjur. No one can know that."
"I do. I don't know how, but I do. I know it's going to be something I choose to do, and it's going to be incontrovertibly heroic. Which is enough for me."
"But if that's true—" Mara proposes, flinching away from the personal conversation they really ought to have, and all its attendant rawness, "—if you die when Fallen attack us, it means I won't stop these people from fleeing to Earth, and the Fallen are going to find us, and we're doomed." She is already building intricate models of how the universe might accommodate fate or doom and how she might go about destroying those things.
"Could be, I suppose." Sjur pulls a parchment-thin rag of dead flesh off Uldren's wound. "Look. I'm the Queen's bodyguard. I always expected I'd die violently."
"I'm not the Queen."
"Maybe that's your problem." She flicks Uldren in the chest, leaving a purple bruise, fading. "What is with you two, anyway? You never talk about him. You never seem to think about him at all. But he's dashing himself to pieces for you. How do live as his favorite and only sister for so many centuries… and hardly even smile at him?"
Secrets, Mara thinks. You've got to have secrets from each other so there's room for him to fill in the gaps with his own happy illusions. Two ships joined together rigidly will tear each other apart if they try to move. But a loose tether leaves room to maneuver—and can be more quickly disengaged, if necessary.
That makes her think of Sjur's prophecy again. She sets the shrapnel down in the dissection dish, very gently. "You won't die. I won't allow it."
She should've known this would happen. She shouldn't have told them so much about Earth. "How bad?"
Sjur pokes Uldren in the hard gut, where a passing line of molten metal left a red burn. He's under anesthesia, but he snarls at her anyway. "As of the last caucus, I'd say thirty percent of the expedition wants to head for Earth. If you ask the 891," though there aren't 891 of them anymore, "it's more like eighty percent."
Mara swears and pulls a bloody line of solidified slag from her brother. "Unacceptable. We can't lose their skills." Or their genes: The Awoken have yet to adapt to the attrition of this harsh spaceborne world, and tentative mothers are still in the early stages of designing their babies. It's vital to maintain a diverse gene pool. "And the Fallen will vector them back to us."
"I know," Sjur says, heavily. "That's when I'm going to die."
The most horrible thing about the words is that they slap down on Mara's consciousness like face-up cards, like truth revealed. "Unacceptable!" she barks, and then both she and Sjur begin laughing, and then, at last, Mara shakes her head and growls. "You can't know that, Sjur. No one can know that."
"I do. I don't know how, but I do. I know it's going to be something I choose to do, and it's going to be incontrovertibly heroic. Which is enough for me."
"But if that's true—" Mara proposes, flinching away from the personal conversation they really ought to have, and all its attendant rawness, "—if you die when Fallen attack us, it means I won't stop these people from fleeing to Earth, and the Fallen are going to find us, and we're doomed." She is already building intricate models of how the universe might accommodate fate or doom and how she might go about destroying those things.
"Could be, I suppose." Sjur pulls a parchment-thin rag of dead flesh off Uldren's wound. "Look. I'm the Queen's bodyguard. I always expected I'd die violently."
"I'm not the Queen."
"Maybe that's your problem." She flicks Uldren in the chest, leaving a purple bruise, fading. "What is with you two, anyway? You never talk about him. You never seem to think about him at all. But he's dashing himself to pieces for you. How do live as his favorite and only sister for so many centuries… and hardly even smile at him?"
Secrets, Mara thinks. You've got to have secrets from each other so there's room for him to fill in the gaps with his own happy illusions. Two ships joined together rigidly will tear each other apart if they try to move. But a loose tether leaves room to maneuver—and can be more quickly disengaged, if necessary.
That makes her think of Sjur's prophecy again. She sets the shrapnel down in the dissection dish, very gently. "You won't die. I won't allow it."
Of all the disasters that might happen in space, riot is the worst. Breaches can be contained, fires can be starved, plague can be quarantined, radiation shielded, heat vented—but a riot has a will of its own: a chaotic ingenuity that corrodes any countermeasure.
Mara crawls through compartments choked with vaporized coolant. She keeps low and clutches the breather to her face. All she can think of is Kelda Wadj's last message and the data attached. "Mara. The paracausal effects are strongest around you. Whatever's happened to us, you are the locus. I cannot overstate how subtle and how important this discovery might be. Mara, when we use radioactive decay as a trigger for simulated bombs—bombs that could harm Awoken—the trigger atoms are a thousandfold less likely to decay near you. People are literally safer when you are around."
She has to get into the riot. She has to protect her people.
A horrible groan vibrates through the habitat structure, and then, with an apocalyptic shudder, something tears off the Reef. A ship. A ship is leaving. Mara has failed.
Mara drops onto her belly and pants into the mask. Then, cringing in anticipation of migraine, she activates the augment, the jury-rigged machine her eutechs produced for exactly this purpose by extracting Mara's ruined Distributary implants and reworking them. She's going to fire a command override to shut down that ship's systems—
—but then she realizes it's a salvaged Human vessel, deaf to her commands.
She gasps in frustration, sucking down cold bottled air. "Sjur."
"I'm here," her radio whispers. "Pinned down in the dockmaster's office. I shot a few in the shoulders, and they seem to have gotten the idea."
"Let them go. If one ship's away, there's no sense holding back the rest. Our position is compromised."
"Understood."
"Broadcast to everyone. I'm going to allow anyone who wants to leave the Reef to go. This is their one and only chance." She rolls onto her back and stares up into the swirling vortices of coolant, seeing faces, futures, the lives she has just lost, the lives she might yet lose. She brought her people here to die in the sense that she brought them into mortality—but she never wanted it to happen quickly.
"They know, your Majesty," Sjur says. "They already know."
"What?"
"You told us. We heard your voice." Awe like gratitude in Sjur Eido's voice. "Mara, I heard you. You spoke to me."
Mara crawls through compartments choked with vaporized coolant. She keeps low and clutches the breather to her face. All she can think of is Kelda Wadj's last message and the data attached. "Mara. The paracausal effects are strongest around you. Whatever's happened to us, you are the locus. I cannot overstate how subtle and how important this discovery might be. Mara, when we use radioactive decay as a trigger for simulated bombs—bombs that could harm Awoken—the trigger atoms are a thousandfold less likely to decay near you. People are literally safer when you are around."
She has to get into the riot. She has to protect her people.
A horrible groan vibrates through the habitat structure, and then, with an apocalyptic shudder, something tears off the Reef. A ship. A ship is leaving. Mara has failed.
Mara drops onto her belly and pants into the mask. Then, cringing in anticipation of migraine, she activates the augment, the jury-rigged machine her eutechs produced for exactly this purpose by extracting Mara's ruined Distributary implants and reworking them. She's going to fire a command override to shut down that ship's systems—
—but then she realizes it's a salvaged Human vessel, deaf to her commands.
She gasps in frustration, sucking down cold bottled air. "Sjur."
"I'm here," her radio whispers. "Pinned down in the dockmaster's office. I shot a few in the shoulders, and they seem to have gotten the idea."
"Let them go. If one ship's away, there's no sense holding back the rest. Our position is compromised."
"Understood."
"Broadcast to everyone. I'm going to allow anyone who wants to leave the Reef to go. This is their one and only chance." She rolls onto her back and stares up into the swirling vortices of coolant, seeing faces, futures, the lives she has just lost, the lives she might yet lose. She brought her people here to die in the sense that she brought them into mortality—but she never wanted it to happen quickly.
"They know, your Majesty," Sjur says. "They already know."
"What?"
"You told us. We heard your voice." Awe like gratitude in Sjur Eido's voice. "Mara, I heard you. You spoke to me."
Thus the riven Awoken were riven again, into Reefborn and Earthborn. Those who left went to scour the ruins for lost history and give some succor to their Human cousins who still clung to a hostile world. The Awoken came unto these Humans like nephilim, armed with lost weapons, forgotten industry and medicine. They were like omens of hope, for they were often taken to be starborn colonists returned to the hearth, which was not, after all, so far from truth. All who looked on them saw that the night sky contained more than lurking doom. They bred true with each other and sometimes hybridized with Humans, and in the course of centuries, many forgot the Distributary and even the Reef. However, there was always in their souls an itch, a vector pointing to a distant place in the Asteroid Belt, where their Queen still dwelt.
"They've made a difference already," Sjur told Mara not long after the first Awoken made planetfall on Earth. "They'll save so many lives just with the provision of medicine, pure water, and construction supplies that even if they all died by year's end, they would each yield ten or twenty Humans."
"I know," Mara said, with bitter pride. "Let the people remember them as saints and paladins, and tell no one how many more they might've saved if they had only kept the faith." For she knew the precious value of each Awoken life: She knew how many she would have to spend and mourned each soul wasted on a lesser purpose.
On the day the Fallen struck, Mara was proclaimed Queen. It happened swiftly, though after no little debate among the people, for everyone was afraid of a monarch who could speak to their thoughts. Yet they feared more to deny her power and sovereignty, for they had come between worlds in her name. To refuse her would be to refuse their choice.
"Awoken," she told them, "for the first time in my life, I hesitated to reach for power, and now one in three of you are gone. I cannot deny what the cosmos has made of me any longer. I am your one and rightful Queen."
She knew she had been a fool to pretend to be a peer to the others. What was true of her brother was true of all Awoken. They needed secrets to marvel at, secrets that rhymed with the deep enigma of their souls. They could not follow what they fully understood.
There would be a formal coronation later, in a place not yet built. Out of respect for that unhappened coronation, Mara did not at first wear a crown; and later she claimed as her diadem the ring of event horizon that surrounds the observable universe.
"My Techeuns," she said, gathering Kelda Wadj and the other eutechs who'd remained, "will be given absolute authority to explore our new power, the Traveler's relics, and all associated domains. We are no longer in the realm of pure science. We require an order of mysteries and witches to tend to them."
Not an hour later, a Fallen Ketch threw off its stealth and began a deceleration burn toward 4 Vesta. The four-armed predators had traced one of the Earthward ships back through all its erratic course changes and to the Reef. They came in search of the source of these blue ape-kin.
A salvo of coherent-matter guns gutted the Ketch: blink-quick death for the mighty ship, ancient fury compressing matter into a relativistic pinhead. It was a waste of weapons that couldn't be recharged or reloaded, however, and the Baron in command had already scattered his skiffs like camouflaged seeds. The Fallen Raiders came down all over the Reef and cut their way inside. The Awoken, young to mortality, terrified of death, fled in fear.
Mara, Uldren, and Sjur Eido rallied as many as they could. Sjur fought in a powered combat shell, but Mara needed to be seen vulnerable, silver-haired and narrow-eyed, hurling herself at the enemy. She fought with pistol and dagger, and her brother moved like a wraith at her flank. Her people were ashamed of their timidity. No more were the Fallen scuttling alien predators: Now they were an indignity, an offense to regal privilege to be met with a snarl and a rifle shot. The Awoken saw their desperation: how the stump-limbed Dregs stumbled forward emaciated, how the Vandals cringed from battle as they peeled off wall panels, desperate for salvage to please their Captains.
Armored Sjur Eido met the Fallen Baron in zero-gravity combat above his spider tank and shot him dead, one adamant shaft through plate and throat. Ether hissed into vacuum. Sjur threw herself upon the spider tank that clung to the Sacred Fire's hull. Laughing in joy, she cut into the tank's barrel and threw a charge inside, knowing its next vengeful shot would be meant for the Sacred Fire's main habitat drum—and that she would die in the catastrophic misfire.
The tank fired. The charge detonated. Sjur Eido was thrown clear, utterly unharmed.
"That was where I should have died," she said, in wonder—and in her mind was the smiling face of her Queen.
"They've made a difference already," Sjur told Mara not long after the first Awoken made planetfall on Earth. "They'll save so many lives just with the provision of medicine, pure water, and construction supplies that even if they all died by year's end, they would each yield ten or twenty Humans."
"I know," Mara said, with bitter pride. "Let the people remember them as saints and paladins, and tell no one how many more they might've saved if they had only kept the faith." For she knew the precious value of each Awoken life: She knew how many she would have to spend and mourned each soul wasted on a lesser purpose.
On the day the Fallen struck, Mara was proclaimed Queen. It happened swiftly, though after no little debate among the people, for everyone was afraid of a monarch who could speak to their thoughts. Yet they feared more to deny her power and sovereignty, for they had come between worlds in her name. To refuse her would be to refuse their choice.
"Awoken," she told them, "for the first time in my life, I hesitated to reach for power, and now one in three of you are gone. I cannot deny what the cosmos has made of me any longer. I am your one and rightful Queen."
She knew she had been a fool to pretend to be a peer to the others. What was true of her brother was true of all Awoken. They needed secrets to marvel at, secrets that rhymed with the deep enigma of their souls. They could not follow what they fully understood.
There would be a formal coronation later, in a place not yet built. Out of respect for that unhappened coronation, Mara did not at first wear a crown; and later she claimed as her diadem the ring of event horizon that surrounds the observable universe.
"My Techeuns," she said, gathering Kelda Wadj and the other eutechs who'd remained, "will be given absolute authority to explore our new power, the Traveler's relics, and all associated domains. We are no longer in the realm of pure science. We require an order of mysteries and witches to tend to them."
Not an hour later, a Fallen Ketch threw off its stealth and began a deceleration burn toward 4 Vesta. The four-armed predators had traced one of the Earthward ships back through all its erratic course changes and to the Reef. They came in search of the source of these blue ape-kin.
A salvo of coherent-matter guns gutted the Ketch: blink-quick death for the mighty ship, ancient fury compressing matter into a relativistic pinhead. It was a waste of weapons that couldn't be recharged or reloaded, however, and the Baron in command had already scattered his skiffs like camouflaged seeds. The Fallen Raiders came down all over the Reef and cut their way inside. The Awoken, young to mortality, terrified of death, fled in fear.
Mara, Uldren, and Sjur Eido rallied as many as they could. Sjur fought in a powered combat shell, but Mara needed to be seen vulnerable, silver-haired and narrow-eyed, hurling herself at the enemy. She fought with pistol and dagger, and her brother moved like a wraith at her flank. Her people were ashamed of their timidity. No more were the Fallen scuttling alien predators: Now they were an indignity, an offense to regal privilege to be met with a snarl and a rifle shot. The Awoken saw their desperation: how the stump-limbed Dregs stumbled forward emaciated, how the Vandals cringed from battle as they peeled off wall panels, desperate for salvage to please their Captains.
Armored Sjur Eido met the Fallen Baron in zero-gravity combat above his spider tank and shot him dead, one adamant shaft through plate and throat. Ether hissed into vacuum. Sjur threw herself upon the spider tank that clung to the Sacred Fire's hull. Laughing in joy, she cut into the tank's barrel and threw a charge inside, knowing its next vengeful shot would be meant for the Sacred Fire's main habitat drum—and that she would die in the catastrophic misfire.
The tank fired. The charge detonated. Sjur Eido was thrown clear, utterly unharmed.
"That was where I should have died," she said, in wonder—and in her mind was the smiling face of her Queen.
"And our long-range communications?"
An aggrieved sigh. "Mara, it's a miracle any of us are still alive—"
"You will address her as 'Queen,'" Techeun Shuro cut in.
"Sorry. My apologies, Queen." The engineer ran a dirty hand through her matted hair. "No. No long-range comms. No short-range comms either. Not that there'd be anyone on the listening end either, from what I can see. My Queen," she added hastily, as Shuro glared.
"Comms are no longer a priority," said Mara. "Focus on resealing the Hulls, and any other habitable vessels we have. Bring anything you can as close to Vesta as possible. The closer people are to me, the safer they are."
The engineer nodded uncertainly. "Yes. My Queen."
Mara nodded. "You may go."
The engineer bowed, and left the room. As soon as the hatch closed behind her, Mara raised her hand. At once the Techeuns gathered around her. "Shall we try again, My Queen?" said Sedia.
Mara slid off her throne. "Yes."
The Techeuns' jewel-like augments flashed as they circled around her. Mara closed her eyes. A hum rose from the Techeuns, the notes fracturing into harmonies as, from the shadows, hundreds of tiny blue sparks burst to life before her. Then Mara inclined her head, and the sparks began to rush by as if she was plunging through them, each streak of blue burning a swath in her vision. As the last spark vanished, Mara saw darkness once again, a long, stretching, empty darkness—and then another cloud of sparks burst forth. These were smaller than the others, their tiny flames guttering and flickering, and there were fewer of them too, but Mara inhaled and the sparks rushed toward her, growing bigger as they flew.
"We should have stayed in the Reef..." "...Says there's one city left..." "A City beneath the Traveler..." "At least we're not in the Reef..." The voices broke over Mara like a wave and for a moment she spun in the currents.
Now, in the flames, shapes began to form. A crashed ship—a blue-skinned hand clasping a brown one—a half-built wall high above the treetops.
"You who betrayed us for Earth!" Mara thought. "It is I, your Queen! I will grant you one chance to return, or you will not be welcomed back!"
But the tide of voices never wavered.
An aggrieved sigh. "Mara, it's a miracle any of us are still alive—"
"You will address her as 'Queen,'" Techeun Shuro cut in.
"Sorry. My apologies, Queen." The engineer ran a dirty hand through her matted hair. "No. No long-range comms. No short-range comms either. Not that there'd be anyone on the listening end either, from what I can see. My Queen," she added hastily, as Shuro glared.
"Comms are no longer a priority," said Mara. "Focus on resealing the Hulls, and any other habitable vessels we have. Bring anything you can as close to Vesta as possible. The closer people are to me, the safer they are."
The engineer nodded uncertainly. "Yes. My Queen."
Mara nodded. "You may go."
The engineer bowed, and left the room. As soon as the hatch closed behind her, Mara raised her hand. At once the Techeuns gathered around her. "Shall we try again, My Queen?" said Sedia.
Mara slid off her throne. "Yes."
The Techeuns' jewel-like augments flashed as they circled around her. Mara closed her eyes. A hum rose from the Techeuns, the notes fracturing into harmonies as, from the shadows, hundreds of tiny blue sparks burst to life before her. Then Mara inclined her head, and the sparks began to rush by as if she was plunging through them, each streak of blue burning a swath in her vision. As the last spark vanished, Mara saw darkness once again, a long, stretching, empty darkness—and then another cloud of sparks burst forth. These were smaller than the others, their tiny flames guttering and flickering, and there were fewer of them too, but Mara inhaled and the sparks rushed toward her, growing bigger as they flew.
"We should have stayed in the Reef..." "...Says there's one city left..." "A City beneath the Traveler..." "At least we're not in the Reef..." The voices broke over Mara like a wave and for a moment she spun in the currents.
Now, in the flames, shapes began to form. A crashed ship—a blue-skinned hand clasping a brown one—a half-built wall high above the treetops.
"You who betrayed us for Earth!" Mara thought. "It is I, your Queen! I will grant you one chance to return, or you will not be welcomed back!"
But the tide of voices never wavered.
Mara made one more attempt, and only one, to call her scattered people home. She had hoped the assault would convince them they had a responsibility to the Reef, to come home and repair the damage they had caused. It went poorly, however, for though her tech witches were able to amplify her bond to her people through the augments Kelda had developed, she was only one voice in a maelstrom. Her Awoken had sensitive antennae, in the metaphysical sense, and could not hear her plea through the clamor. Also, the communications engineer kept forgetting to call Mara "Majesty" or "Queen."
"Good news," Uldren told her with the grim delight he always showed after a debacle he had survived. "Illyn and I went through the Fallen communications logs. Their Baron never transmitted our position to his Kell. He wanted the prize to himself. We remain secure."
"The Baron might have planted a time-delayed beacon," Mara warned him. "Never underestimate these beings. They've lived in the void longer than us."
"I already admire them," Uldren confessed. "They've lost so much. Some of them even ritually dismember themselves, Mara, to prove they have the strength to grow back the missing limbs. I tell you that even if we are doomed to dwindle and go extinct, those Fallen may outlive us."
Mara made a dry note in her log that her brother had at last discovered his true people.
For her part, Sjur Eido wandered about in a daze, filled with joy to be alive and grief that she no longer knew the day when she would die. "In you, all things are possible," she told Mara. "I live because of you." When Mara saw her string her mighty bow, the limbs coiled behind her leg and around her opposite arm, she was glad beyond telling that Sjur had survived.
In time, Mara appointed Paladins to oversee her new military, as Alis Li had done during the Theodicy War. She created talented starfarers as Corsairs, to scour the asteroid belt in utmost secrecy and to establish routes and caches that would support the covert motion of Awoken ships.
Most of all, she charged her brother with the mission that occupied her thoughts. "Brother," she said, "never again can I allow my people to be divided. We must offer them more than shielding ice and cold habitat cylinders and the warrens of Vesta. We must make a culture, a thread that binds us all in pride and wonder at the mystery of ourselves. Nowhere does culture flourish better than in a city."
"Gather in one place," Uldren warned her, "and you make yourself a target."
Mara had considered this, and found an answer. "Go forth and find me a power unknown to all the other powers of this world. Return it to me, and I shall make of it the cornerstone of my new city, where the Awoken shall dream of all they have been and all that is yet to come."
So Uldren went out voyaging among the worlds, swift as a blueshift ghost. In time, he returned to the Reef with a creature not larger than his hand, saying, "Behold, Sister, the lie that makes itself true. This is an Ahamkara."
"Good news," Uldren told her with the grim delight he always showed after a debacle he had survived. "Illyn and I went through the Fallen communications logs. Their Baron never transmitted our position to his Kell. He wanted the prize to himself. We remain secure."
"The Baron might have planted a time-delayed beacon," Mara warned him. "Never underestimate these beings. They've lived in the void longer than us."
"I already admire them," Uldren confessed. "They've lost so much. Some of them even ritually dismember themselves, Mara, to prove they have the strength to grow back the missing limbs. I tell you that even if we are doomed to dwindle and go extinct, those Fallen may outlive us."
Mara made a dry note in her log that her brother had at last discovered his true people.
For her part, Sjur Eido wandered about in a daze, filled with joy to be alive and grief that she no longer knew the day when she would die. "In you, all things are possible," she told Mara. "I live because of you." When Mara saw her string her mighty bow, the limbs coiled behind her leg and around her opposite arm, she was glad beyond telling that Sjur had survived.
In time, Mara appointed Paladins to oversee her new military, as Alis Li had done during the Theodicy War. She created talented starfarers as Corsairs, to scour the asteroid belt in utmost secrecy and to establish routes and caches that would support the covert motion of Awoken ships.
Most of all, she charged her brother with the mission that occupied her thoughts. "Brother," she said, "never again can I allow my people to be divided. We must offer them more than shielding ice and cold habitat cylinders and the warrens of Vesta. We must make a culture, a thread that binds us all in pride and wonder at the mystery of ourselves. Nowhere does culture flourish better than in a city."
"Gather in one place," Uldren warned her, "and you make yourself a target."
Mara had considered this, and found an answer. "Go forth and find me a power unknown to all the other powers of this world. Return it to me, and I shall make of it the cornerstone of my new city, where the Awoken shall dream of all they have been and all that is yet to come."
So Uldren went out voyaging among the worlds, swift as a blueshift ghost. In time, he returned to the Reef with a creature not larger than his hand, saying, "Behold, Sister, the lie that makes itself true. This is an Ahamkara."
It was Mara alone who established a covenant with that young Ahamkara, which chose the use-name Riven, in honor of its host. It was Mara alone whose singular will and unity of purpose saved the Awoken from that which we now name the Anthem Anatheme. For there was in Mara very little division between Reality-As-Is and Reality-As-Desired; she was confident in her centuries of purpose and patient with the winding way by which the river of methods reaches the objective ocean. Blessed are those who in their absolute selfhood become selfless. Unappetizing are those who in their truest self-knowledge exclude the possibility of self-deceit.
"Mara," said Uldren Queensbrother, "why do you forbid me to speak to the Ahamkara?"
"This secret is mine alone," said Mara Queen. She knew that her brother had only widened the gap between He-As-Was (which is called NUME) and He-As-He-Would-Be (which is named CAUST). "Begone to the outer world, where I require thee."
This was when Sjur Eido, having spoken to Kelda Wadj and to Esila, at last came before her Queen. Kneeling, she said, "Your Majesty, Kelda Wadj says you are a god, for there is no difference between your desire and reality. Yet I know that you desire things before they ever become real. Esila says that you are keeping a secret from your brother that he must never know. I think the secret is thus: You are now a god because one day you will become a god, and a god is not temporal. Your brother is not a god because he will never become a god. Shall I worship you?"
"Sjur," Mara said, falling to her knees, clutching her beloved's face between shaking hands, "Sjur, on the day you worship me, you cannot love me anymore, for to worship is to yield all power, and I cannot love what has no power over me."
At this, the Ahamkara coiled around her neck, yawned, and showed its fangs: for there was a crevice between What Was and What Was Wanted.
"I see," Sjur Eido said. "Then to me you are not yet a god."
Although in time the knowledge of what Mara would become pushed them apart, it was a kind and happy push, as a friend might urge a beloved companion onward to a distant opportunity. And their days together were spent gladly.
"Mara," said Uldren Queensbrother, "why do you forbid me to speak to the Ahamkara?"
"This secret is mine alone," said Mara Queen. She knew that her brother had only widened the gap between He-As-Was (which is called NUME) and He-As-He-Would-Be (which is named CAUST). "Begone to the outer world, where I require thee."
This was when Sjur Eido, having spoken to Kelda Wadj and to Esila, at last came before her Queen. Kneeling, she said, "Your Majesty, Kelda Wadj says you are a god, for there is no difference between your desire and reality. Yet I know that you desire things before they ever become real. Esila says that you are keeping a secret from your brother that he must never know. I think the secret is thus: You are now a god because one day you will become a god, and a god is not temporal. Your brother is not a god because he will never become a god. Shall I worship you?"
"Sjur," Mara said, falling to her knees, clutching her beloved's face between shaking hands, "Sjur, on the day you worship me, you cannot love me anymore, for to worship is to yield all power, and I cannot love what has no power over me."
At this, the Ahamkara coiled around her neck, yawned, and showed its fangs: for there was a crevice between What Was and What Was Wanted.
"I see," Sjur Eido said. "Then to me you are not yet a god."
Although in time the knowledge of what Mara would become pushed them apart, it was a kind and happy push, as a friend might urge a beloved companion onward to a distant opportunity. And their days together were spent gladly.
Mara sits cross-legged in the canopy shade of Riven's wing. She wets the pad of her thumb with the tip of her tongue, then uses the moisture to hold a bundle of fresh-picked asphodelia in place. She ties off the stems with a length of silk-spun gold thread, then begins the mindless busywork of braiding in all the expected accoutrements: a serrated fang, a shotgun shell, a cloudy amethyst crystal…
Riven turns to watch. On this day, her head is the size of a Fallen pike. She is vibrant blue with a yellow and red crest, and her pupils are crescents within her lidless eyes. After a time, she says, "Madadh is dead but you make him no bouquet."
Mara looks up, struck by the novelty of the moment. She studies Riven, and swallows the first words that come to her tongue, which are, Madadh's bones are whispering at this very moment on Venus. Instead, she asks, "You mourn him?"
That crescent-pupil contracts as thin as a sickle's edge. "No."
Having found the true answer, Mara resumes her work. A while passes in silence until she says, "Ahamkara have no traditions."
"No."
"No sentiment."
"No."
Mara bites off a piece of thread. "Why did you allow my brother to spirit you away?"
"You know this truth, wise Queen. He is so full of succulence."
"Mm. And why do you roost here when there is rich hunting beyond my Reef?"
"Truly I say to you"—here Mara hides a small smile—"the Awoken have entrusted What-Will-Be to you their Queen, and thus they are all dry as a stone to me. Pleasantly so, for wetness is sweet feed, but dry stone is a friendly basking-place. You, you are as hot and flat as the plateaus of Mercury, and your heat stirs my blood to move."
Mara nods and says nothing more, though she thinks a while on the three-parted curse used by Ahamkara to mark their prey, the shackle between Appellated and Appalling. When she finishes her memorial bouquet, she unfolds herself and rises to stretch. Riven does the same, and as she relaxes, she spreads and shuffles and shakes her pinions until they all lie straight.
The land around them is shapeless rock that will become an aubade to those left behind; Mara will honor her enemies and friends alike in stone, she will build grand cathedrals veneered in amethyst and agate.
Riven butts her rounded snout under Mara's hand and waits.
"Let us find Kelda," Mara says.
Riven turns to watch. On this day, her head is the size of a Fallen pike. She is vibrant blue with a yellow and red crest, and her pupils are crescents within her lidless eyes. After a time, she says, "Madadh is dead but you make him no bouquet."
Mara looks up, struck by the novelty of the moment. She studies Riven, and swallows the first words that come to her tongue, which are, Madadh's bones are whispering at this very moment on Venus. Instead, she asks, "You mourn him?"
That crescent-pupil contracts as thin as a sickle's edge. "No."
Having found the true answer, Mara resumes her work. A while passes in silence until she says, "Ahamkara have no traditions."
"No."
"No sentiment."
"No."
Mara bites off a piece of thread. "Why did you allow my brother to spirit you away?"
"You know this truth, wise Queen. He is so full of succulence."
"Mm. And why do you roost here when there is rich hunting beyond my Reef?"
"Truly I say to you"—here Mara hides a small smile—"the Awoken have entrusted What-Will-Be to you their Queen, and thus they are all dry as a stone to me. Pleasantly so, for wetness is sweet feed, but dry stone is a friendly basking-place. You, you are as hot and flat as the plateaus of Mercury, and your heat stirs my blood to move."
Mara nods and says nothing more, though she thinks a while on the three-parted curse used by Ahamkara to mark their prey, the shackle between Appellated and Appalling. When she finishes her memorial bouquet, she unfolds herself and rises to stretch. Riven does the same, and as she relaxes, she spreads and shuffles and shakes her pinions until they all lie straight.
The land around them is shapeless rock that will become an aubade to those left behind; Mara will honor her enemies and friends alike in stone, she will build grand cathedrals veneered in amethyst and agate.
Riven butts her rounded snout under Mara's hand and waits.
"Let us find Kelda," Mara says.
Now in time Uldren Queensbrother returned to the Reef with a new creature. He had killed it twice in ambush, he said, to be certain it could not die. It had once been an Awoken man, and, recognizing it, Mara turned away from her plans for the Dreaming City and watched it coolly.
"It is a Guardian," she said. "Once it was Chao Mu." He had left the Reef alone, knowing that he could never return or see his family again, to repair a failing climate controller in what had once been Earth's Gobi breadbasket. He had said he could not bear to watch the world wither.
"Bow before the Queen," Uldren said, giving him a shove.
The Awoken man looked at him, then back at Mara. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "My name is Savin."
"You do not remember your wives?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your child, who is now a hundred and ten?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your passion, which was the insulation of minutely sensitive detectors from all but the most specific and subtle radiations?"
He did not, except that he said he could touch magnetic fields and loved to tweak the miniscule weave of the circuits in his robe. He had a zoogoer's enthusiasm for particle physics.
"To what do you owe your loyalty?"
"Your Majesty," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu said, "my Ghost told me that I am a Guardian of the Traveler, reborn in its Light. I was not a day old when your brother waylaid me."
And he caused to appear from his body a machine like a sphere cradled in a broken cube, which bobbed impertinently and blinked at the Queen. "You'll make an enemy of the City and every Guardian in it if you keep us against our will," the machine warned them. "But we would gladly be your allies, if you desire it. The City has no idea of your existence, except faint myths among the Awoken on Earth."
"Does it speak for you?" the Queen challenged Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu.
"I speak for myself," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu answered. "Behold!" And he drew forth from the quantum vacuum a shrieking singularity, which he held between his hands and then telescoped down into nothing.
"Are you intrinsically good?" the Queen asked.
"I hope so," he answered. The Queen knew this was a lie or a misapprehension. She was aware of the Risen and the cruel fiefdoms they had sometimes enabled. However, perhaps the Ghosts that had made the Risen were destroyed or became enlightened.
Now the Queen asked the Techeuns to assess the differences between the Chao Mu they remembered and this Savin returned as a Guardian of the Traveler, using their most sensitive physical and psychological tests. Most of all, though, the Queen was curious about the reaction of her Ahamkara, which had begun to salivate, and to assume a form more like the Guardian expected: monstrous and befanged.
But her brother whispered urgently to her, "We must know how to kill it, Mara. There are more every day."
Savin the Guardian showed a tremendous fondness for doing things; he had a pathologically task-oriented nature, which made him very useful to the Reef. Yet there was always the sense that his Ghost was watching, observing, reporting. And Savin was most of all greedy—not in the grasping manner of the petty, but in an enormous, all-consuming way, for he desired materials and experiences that would temper him into a better Guardian, and he was always experimenting with his strange powers in foolish ways that left him briefly dead, seeking "a new Super ability" or "some way to make my grenades faster." He grew tired of performing trivial tasks about the Reef, complaining that the dangerous repairs he made were endless and boring, and that he wanted to move on to new worlds. He leapt into space, repeatedly and without reason, as if his death were no more traumatic than a hop off a curb. Obsessed with reward and efficiency, he would rather do one profitable thing a thousand times than waste his efforts on a less beneficial novelty.
By the end of her acquaintance with Savin, Mara had decided she did not like this Traveler and what it did to people. Yet she had also decided that she felt a strange kinship and sympathy for it, this cornered, desperate god, making infinite sacrifices out of its people.
Perhaps the Earth would be better off if the Traveler vanished or was destroyed, she thought. Even in the Reef, she felt as if she were living next to a torch held up in a dark wilderness, calling out across the galaxy to hungry things with too many eyes.
"It is a Guardian," she said. "Once it was Chao Mu." He had left the Reef alone, knowing that he could never return or see his family again, to repair a failing climate controller in what had once been Earth's Gobi breadbasket. He had said he could not bear to watch the world wither.
"Bow before the Queen," Uldren said, giving him a shove.
The Awoken man looked at him, then back at Mara. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "My name is Savin."
"You do not remember your wives?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your child, who is now a hundred and ten?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your passion, which was the insulation of minutely sensitive detectors from all but the most specific and subtle radiations?"
He did not, except that he said he could touch magnetic fields and loved to tweak the miniscule weave of the circuits in his robe. He had a zoogoer's enthusiasm for particle physics.
"To what do you owe your loyalty?"
"Your Majesty," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu said, "my Ghost told me that I am a Guardian of the Traveler, reborn in its Light. I was not a day old when your brother waylaid me."
And he caused to appear from his body a machine like a sphere cradled in a broken cube, which bobbed impertinently and blinked at the Queen. "You'll make an enemy of the City and every Guardian in it if you keep us against our will," the machine warned them. "But we would gladly be your allies, if you desire it. The City has no idea of your existence, except faint myths among the Awoken on Earth."
"Does it speak for you?" the Queen challenged Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu.
"I speak for myself," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu answered. "Behold!" And he drew forth from the quantum vacuum a shrieking singularity, which he held between his hands and then telescoped down into nothing.
"Are you intrinsically good?" the Queen asked.
"I hope so," he answered. The Queen knew this was a lie or a misapprehension. She was aware of the Risen and the cruel fiefdoms they had sometimes enabled. However, perhaps the Ghosts that had made the Risen were destroyed or became enlightened.
Now the Queen asked the Techeuns to assess the differences between the Chao Mu they remembered and this Savin returned as a Guardian of the Traveler, using their most sensitive physical and psychological tests. Most of all, though, the Queen was curious about the reaction of her Ahamkara, which had begun to salivate, and to assume a form more like the Guardian expected: monstrous and befanged.
But her brother whispered urgently to her, "We must know how to kill it, Mara. There are more every day."
Savin the Guardian showed a tremendous fondness for doing things; he had a pathologically task-oriented nature, which made him very useful to the Reef. Yet there was always the sense that his Ghost was watching, observing, reporting. And Savin was most of all greedy—not in the grasping manner of the petty, but in an enormous, all-consuming way, for he desired materials and experiences that would temper him into a better Guardian, and he was always experimenting with his strange powers in foolish ways that left him briefly dead, seeking "a new Super ability" or "some way to make my grenades faster." He grew tired of performing trivial tasks about the Reef, complaining that the dangerous repairs he made were endless and boring, and that he wanted to move on to new worlds. He leapt into space, repeatedly and without reason, as if his death were no more traumatic than a hop off a curb. Obsessed with reward and efficiency, he would rather do one profitable thing a thousand times than waste his efforts on a less beneficial novelty.
By the end of her acquaintance with Savin, Mara had decided she did not like this Traveler and what it did to people. Yet she had also decided that she felt a strange kinship and sympathy for it, this cornered, desperate god, making infinite sacrifices out of its people.
Perhaps the Earth would be better off if the Traveler vanished or was destroyed, she thought. Even in the Reef, she felt as if she were living next to a torch held up in a dark wilderness, calling out across the galaxy to hungry things with too many eyes.
$
$ COPY BAMBERGA"ORIN RCLJN3YJPYQ79YER"::APHEL.REL APHEL.REL
$ TYPE APHEL.REL
%%%%%%%%%%% VIOLET CLEARANCE ONLY %%%%%%%%%%%
INDEX:
EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-C :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-D :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-E :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 7IRI-A :: OTDR-4-REL
SUMMARY OF SBU APHELION INCIDENTS FOLLOWS BELOW.
*** EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 09-18T02:29:45+00:00 FROM PALADIN NOLG, CONSIDERED SOBER, DEPENDABLE, NOT OF FANTASY. NOLG REPORTED "A GLOWING CREATURE" ON EXT OF HIS SHIP "RETRIBUTION" MOMENTS BEFORE ROUTINE NLS JUMP.
"RETRIBUTION" FDR SHOWED RAD SPIKE (5 SIGMA) ON TEPC, CPDS, AND RAM. CPD SHOWED NO EFFECT. ON RECOMMENDATION OF K WADJ, NOLG WAS QUARANTINED UNDER TECHEUN SUPERVISION FOR 1 MONTH. "RETRIBUTION" DECOMMISSIONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 10-27T17:11:56+00:00. REEF SPACE STATION AMESTRIS, THEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION, ISSUED 6 UNIQUE DISTRESS CALLS OVER A 2-MINUTE PERIOD. TRANSCRIPTS FOLLOW.
T-1: PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN. ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS. THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS. WE HAVE A POSSIBLE SKYSHOCK EVENT IN PROGRESS. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE VIDCOM WITH ANY AVAILABLE TECHEUN. [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-2: MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! ALL STATIONS! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! OUR HULL HAS BEEN BREACHED! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS PLEASE SOMEONE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-3-A: I'VE GOT IT, HANG ON. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO… WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: THEY'RE SCREAMING! LISTEN, THEY'RE ALL SCREAMING!
T-3-A: BE CALM! HELP ME! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: IT'S THE CORE, IT'S THE CORE, THIS IS THE STALKING CORE!
T-3-A: SHUT UP! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL!
T-3-B: OH NO, OH PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-4: ORIN, IT'S ME, IT'S NAMQI. I DON'T THINK I'M COMING HOME, BABY. I'M SO SORRY. I'M, I'M, I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-5: MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS VEN ASAR ON THE RSS AMESTRIS. WE ARE 300 SOULS ABOARD. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, EVERYTHING IS BLUE, SOMETHING IS HERE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-6: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] [SCREAMING] [STATIC FOLLOWS]
A SAR FLEET FOUND THAT THE AMESTRIS WAS UNSAFE TO BOARD DUE TO RADIOACTIVE SURFACE CONTAMINATION. SAR DEPLOYED MULTIPLE CROW DRONES FOR INTERIOR SURVEY. NO EVIDENCE OF HULL BREACH WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF MALTECH DETONATION WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF HOSTILE ALIEN INTERFERENCE WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF INTERNAL SABOTAGE WAS FOUND. NO SURVIVORS WERE FOUND.
AMESTRIS ABANDONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 4VES-A ***
$ Q
$ DELETE APHEL.REL;*
$ COPY BAMBERGA"ORIN RCLJN3YJPYQ79YER"::APHEL.REL APHEL.REL
$ TYPE APHEL.REL
%%%%%%%%%%% VIOLET CLEARANCE ONLY %%%%%%%%%%%
INDEX:
EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-C :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-D :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-E :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 7IRI-A :: OTDR-4-REL
SUMMARY OF SBU APHELION INCIDENTS FOLLOWS BELOW.
*** EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 09-18T02:29:45+00:00 FROM PALADIN NOLG, CONSIDERED SOBER, DEPENDABLE, NOT OF FANTASY. NOLG REPORTED "A GLOWING CREATURE" ON EXT OF HIS SHIP "RETRIBUTION" MOMENTS BEFORE ROUTINE NLS JUMP.
"RETRIBUTION" FDR SHOWED RAD SPIKE (5 SIGMA) ON TEPC, CPDS, AND RAM. CPD SHOWED NO EFFECT. ON RECOMMENDATION OF K WADJ, NOLG WAS QUARANTINED UNDER TECHEUN SUPERVISION FOR 1 MONTH. "RETRIBUTION" DECOMMISSIONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 10-27T17:11:56+00:00. REEF SPACE STATION AMESTRIS, THEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION, ISSUED 6 UNIQUE DISTRESS CALLS OVER A 2-MINUTE PERIOD. TRANSCRIPTS FOLLOW.
T-1: PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN. ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS. THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS. WE HAVE A POSSIBLE SKYSHOCK EVENT IN PROGRESS. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE VIDCOM WITH ANY AVAILABLE TECHEUN. [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-2: MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! ALL STATIONS! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! OUR HULL HAS BEEN BREACHED! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS PLEASE SOMEONE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-3-A: I'VE GOT IT, HANG ON. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO… WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: THEY'RE SCREAMING! LISTEN, THEY'RE ALL SCREAMING!
T-3-A: BE CALM! HELP ME! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: IT'S THE CORE, IT'S THE CORE, THIS IS THE STALKING CORE!
T-3-A: SHUT UP! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL!
T-3-B: OH NO, OH PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-4: ORIN, IT'S ME, IT'S NAMQI. I DON'T THINK I'M COMING HOME, BABY. I'M SO SORRY. I'M, I'M, I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-5: MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS VEN ASAR ON THE RSS AMESTRIS. WE ARE 300 SOULS ABOARD. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, EVERYTHING IS BLUE, SOMETHING IS HERE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-6: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] [SCREAMING] [STATIC FOLLOWS]
A SAR FLEET FOUND THAT THE AMESTRIS WAS UNSAFE TO BOARD DUE TO RADIOACTIVE SURFACE CONTAMINATION. SAR DEPLOYED MULTIPLE CROW DRONES FOR INTERIOR SURVEY. NO EVIDENCE OF HULL BREACH WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF MALTECH DETONATION WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF HOSTILE ALIEN INTERFERENCE WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF INTERNAL SABOTAGE WAS FOUND. NO SURVIVORS WERE FOUND.
AMESTRIS ABANDONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 4VES-A ***
$ Q
$ DELETE APHEL.REL;*
There came a morning when the Techeuns spoke in unison, though none were near each other, and they said, ++WHO ARE YOU WHO BUILDS A HIDDEN CITY HERE IN OUR THOUGHTS?++
And Mara, alone in the Queenswalk of the Dreaming City, heard their voices ring out as if each Witch stood beside her, and she said to the empty air, "I am Mara Sov. Who are you?"
The answer came at once, ++WRONG! IT IS THE EKPYROSIC. WE ARE THE NOTHING-SPACE FABRIC.++
Hearing this, Mara recognized a riddle. She turned at once and left the Queenswalk so that Riven would not be inspired. As she walked, she thought. At length she said, "Wrong. You are the Ancients. You are the idea that gives fate its shape."
That one-voice came again, as clear and strong as the birth of the universe, booming with dispassionate curiosity, ++IT THINKS ITSELF WISE! HOW DID SOMETHING LIKE IT ATTAIN SUCH REVELATION?++
Mara lengthened her stride, taking the steps three at a time so that she could duck into a little-used transport gate. She emerged in a small coastal observatory—then nothing more than a grand dormitory—and found Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, hovering four feet off the ground. Blood poured from her ears and nostrils. Her eyes saw nothing. The other Techeuns were transfixed thusly in a geometric array around the Dreaming City—each one inert, suspended, bleeding.
Mastering her horror, Mara said, "I have lived alongside you." And because she was afraid for Kelda, she asked, "Do you intend violence?"
At once, the Techeuns collapsed to the ground like marionettes from severed strings—all but Kelda Wadj, whose augment blazed with coruscating light. She rose higher into the air and began to unravel, particle by particle. As she came undone, she said, ++NOW IT INSULTS US.++
Mara steeled herself against the horrific sight of her old friend's ruin. She had been a fool to think the riddling was over. She said, "Of course." Violence, after all, is a matter of perspective. "What I mean is, what would you ask me?"
Beloved, wise Kelda Wadj burst apart and then collapsed all at once into a singularity that burned and burned and burned but destroyed nothing around it. From her un-throat came the voice again, which Mara felt in the atomic marrow of her bones, and it said, ++WHAT WOULD IT ASK US?++
For fifteen days and fifteen nights, the singularity burned unshielded.
On the sixteenth day, they began construction of the Oracle Engine, which took the singularity of the Allteacher as its seed-heart.
And Mara, alone in the Queenswalk of the Dreaming City, heard their voices ring out as if each Witch stood beside her, and she said to the empty air, "I am Mara Sov. Who are you?"
The answer came at once, ++WRONG! IT IS THE EKPYROSIC. WE ARE THE NOTHING-SPACE FABRIC.++
Hearing this, Mara recognized a riddle. She turned at once and left the Queenswalk so that Riven would not be inspired. As she walked, she thought. At length she said, "Wrong. You are the Ancients. You are the idea that gives fate its shape."
That one-voice came again, as clear and strong as the birth of the universe, booming with dispassionate curiosity, ++IT THINKS ITSELF WISE! HOW DID SOMETHING LIKE IT ATTAIN SUCH REVELATION?++
Mara lengthened her stride, taking the steps three at a time so that she could duck into a little-used transport gate. She emerged in a small coastal observatory—then nothing more than a grand dormitory—and found Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, hovering four feet off the ground. Blood poured from her ears and nostrils. Her eyes saw nothing. The other Techeuns were transfixed thusly in a geometric array around the Dreaming City—each one inert, suspended, bleeding.
Mastering her horror, Mara said, "I have lived alongside you." And because she was afraid for Kelda, she asked, "Do you intend violence?"
At once, the Techeuns collapsed to the ground like marionettes from severed strings—all but Kelda Wadj, whose augment blazed with coruscating light. She rose higher into the air and began to unravel, particle by particle. As she came undone, she said, ++NOW IT INSULTS US.++
Mara steeled herself against the horrific sight of her old friend's ruin. She had been a fool to think the riddling was over. She said, "Of course." Violence, after all, is a matter of perspective. "What I mean is, what would you ask me?"
Beloved, wise Kelda Wadj burst apart and then collapsed all at once into a singularity that burned and burned and burned but destroyed nothing around it. From her un-throat came the voice again, which Mara felt in the atomic marrow of her bones, and it said, ++WHAT WOULD IT ASK US?++
For fifteen days and fifteen nights, the singularity burned unshielded.
On the sixteenth day, they began construction of the Oracle Engine, which took the singularity of the Allteacher as its seed-heart.
And when the second solstice began in earnest, many Awoken and Ahamkara alike came to the Dreaming City to celebrate the delirious pleasure of being alive. Those who came arrived in the Garden of Esila, and Azirim was the very last. Seeing him land, Esila said to him, "Ah! You are bold. Do you truly think you've earned the right to revel in this place?"
And Azirim answering said, "Please, wise lady. I've gone 'round the worlds and through the stars themselves. I have come only to congratulate your people. If you lend me your ear, I can prove I will not waste the mercy you might grant me."
And Esila said to him, "We've often lent our ear to your indiscretions. I know what happens to that which is lent to you. I need no assurance."
And Azirim answering said, "My indiscretions? Wise lady, I do admit, I may have whispered truths you gave me to deceive those who would deceive me. But have I ever struck out with hungry fang against your people? Have I set fire to your trust? I have seen the error of my ways. Let me prove to you oh how I have changed."
And Esila, though she could see a flickering in Azirim's reflection, could not resist a redemption story. Esila cast forth her hand and beckoned to Azirim in mercy. And Esila said to him, "Join us and be glad, but let me hear your testimony first."
And so invited, Azirim bowed his crested head and hid a secret smile and spoke with the pardon Esila had given him. He recounted his many regrets in deceiving the kind merchants in the capital city of Interamnia. He recounted his charity to the wayfaring Corsairs who could not have escaped the heliopause without his aid. He recounted his journey to retrieve the eutech stolen from Pallas by the profane scavengers the Fallen, and he named his friends and those who had shown him kindness. And from the raucous parties beyond the lush gardens of Esila came an audience of Techeuns in training and flush-cheeked young Corsairs. They knelt in the dewy grass and they listened, and as they listened, and as Azirim spoke, his appetite grew and grew. Night fell on the Dreaming City.
And Azirim said to those who knelt enraptured, "Come, let me sing to you of extinction. Let me sing to you of lives lost in beautiful places, o audience mine. Sing with me, sing!" He bade them rise, and led them singing down and away from the gardens of Esila. He spread his wings and flew out into the empty air beyond the steep cliffs that bordered the gardens. And to those who happened to glance toward the gardens from far-off pavilions, it seemed a merry parade, a joyous chorus.
And they did not hear the singing stop.
And they did not hear the bodies dashed against the shore below.
And they did not see Azirim grow, or laugh, or flee.
And Azirim answering said, "Please, wise lady. I've gone 'round the worlds and through the stars themselves. I have come only to congratulate your people. If you lend me your ear, I can prove I will not waste the mercy you might grant me."
And Esila said to him, "We've often lent our ear to your indiscretions. I know what happens to that which is lent to you. I need no assurance."
And Azirim answering said, "My indiscretions? Wise lady, I do admit, I may have whispered truths you gave me to deceive those who would deceive me. But have I ever struck out with hungry fang against your people? Have I set fire to your trust? I have seen the error of my ways. Let me prove to you oh how I have changed."
And Esila, though she could see a flickering in Azirim's reflection, could not resist a redemption story. Esila cast forth her hand and beckoned to Azirim in mercy. And Esila said to him, "Join us and be glad, but let me hear your testimony first."
And so invited, Azirim bowed his crested head and hid a secret smile and spoke with the pardon Esila had given him. He recounted his many regrets in deceiving the kind merchants in the capital city of Interamnia. He recounted his charity to the wayfaring Corsairs who could not have escaped the heliopause without his aid. He recounted his journey to retrieve the eutech stolen from Pallas by the profane scavengers the Fallen, and he named his friends and those who had shown him kindness. And from the raucous parties beyond the lush gardens of Esila came an audience of Techeuns in training and flush-cheeked young Corsairs. They knelt in the dewy grass and they listened, and as they listened, and as Azirim spoke, his appetite grew and grew. Night fell on the Dreaming City.
And Azirim said to those who knelt enraptured, "Come, let me sing to you of extinction. Let me sing to you of lives lost in beautiful places, o audience mine. Sing with me, sing!" He bade them rise, and led them singing down and away from the gardens of Esila. He spread his wings and flew out into the empty air beyond the steep cliffs that bordered the gardens. And to those who happened to glance toward the gardens from far-off pavilions, it seemed a merry parade, a joyous chorus.
And they did not hear the singing stop.
And they did not hear the bodies dashed against the shore below.
And they did not see Azirim grow, or laugh, or flee.
I wish to be strategic.
[The Queen] would like to improve her means of [bargaining] with me. She has implied that I use the space between words to make [bargains] to my advantage.
How dare she.
She knows me so well.
What [the Queen] wants, the Techeun move worlds to obtain. And so the Witches devise an impossible machine that speaks a visual language with very few spaces between its words. This machine speaks [wishes]. Makes [bargains].
The Wall of [Wishes], it is called.
If the Techeun's design proves correct, it will be difficult for me to interpret the [wishes] made at the Wall to my advantage. But challenges entice me.
I look upon the Wall. Upon the Witches' visual language for [bargains]. For me, it is a menu of delights to feast upon.
[The Queen] would like to improve her means of [bargaining] with me. She has implied that I use the space between words to make [bargains] to my advantage.
How dare she.
She knows me so well.
What [the Queen] wants, the Techeun move worlds to obtain. And so the Witches devise an impossible machine that speaks a visual language with very few spaces between its words. This machine speaks [wishes]. Makes [bargains].
The Wall of [Wishes], it is called.
If the Techeun's design proves correct, it will be difficult for me to interpret the [wishes] made at the Wall to my advantage. But challenges entice me.
I look upon the Wall. Upon the Witches' visual language for [bargains]. For me, it is a menu of delights to feast upon.
I wish to be immovable.
So the Dreaming City would have a Wall, too. Leona Bryl stared up at rows of blank, circular plates with dread.
This one was more valuable than everything behind the Wall of the Last City.
And not nearly as defensible.
The Tower has asked for help in its Great Hunt. If the Vanguard knew that the help the Queen rendered came at the behest of the Ahamkara, armies of Guardians would storm the Reef. So they will never know.
The Guardians brought this on themselves. The bargains they made, and the power and knowledge they gained was equivalent to the chaos wrought on this system by whispers. The Queen was glad to help them clean the mess if it meant Riven would be the last living Ahamkara. Power is useful. Unique power more so.
Leona wasn't sure if she was as glad as the Queen.
So the Dreaming City would have a Wall, too. Leona Bryl stared up at rows of blank, circular plates with dread.
This one was more valuable than everything behind the Wall of the Last City.
And not nearly as defensible.
The Tower has asked for help in its Great Hunt. If the Vanguard knew that the help the Queen rendered came at the behest of the Ahamkara, armies of Guardians would storm the Reef. So they will never know.
The Guardians brought this on themselves. The bargains they made, and the power and knowledge they gained was equivalent to the chaos wrought on this system by whispers. The Queen was glad to help them clean the mess if it meant Riven would be the last living Ahamkara. Power is useful. Unique power more so.
Leona wasn't sure if she was as glad as the Queen.
I wish to be brave.
Joxer checked the safety on his rifle for the ninth time.
Illyn of the Techeun stepped out of the greyness before him. A massive, coffin-shaped container levitated at her side.
"You won't need that," Illyn said of the rifle.
Joxer kept it in his hands.
"All that Light and still your key motivation is fear. It's fear that drives you to ask the Queen for help."
"The Ahamkara are blasting and paving entire regions of Venus," he said.
"They wouldn't be so base. They're re-writing Venus."
"Whatever. It's a problem I can't punch. Do you have guns that will help, or not?"
The massive container lowered itself before the Titan. Illyn lifted the lid and pale cosmic light from within reflected off Joxer's eyes.
"Long rifles. Close quarters weapons. Silent killers in the night. All yours to borrow. You must return these when your Hunt is complete."
"Why?" Joxer frowned.
"Those are the conditions of her bargain. Take it or leave it."
"Her? The Queen?"
Illyn didn't respond.
Joxer took the entire container on his back.
Joxer checked the safety on his rifle for the ninth time.
Illyn of the Techeun stepped out of the greyness before him. A massive, coffin-shaped container levitated at her side.
"You won't need that," Illyn said of the rifle.
Joxer kept it in his hands.
"All that Light and still your key motivation is fear. It's fear that drives you to ask the Queen for help."
"The Ahamkara are blasting and paving entire regions of Venus," he said.
"They wouldn't be so base. They're re-writing Venus."
"Whatever. It's a problem I can't punch. Do you have guns that will help, or not?"
The massive container lowered itself before the Titan. Illyn lifted the lid and pale cosmic light from within reflected off Joxer's eyes.
"Long rifles. Close quarters weapons. Silent killers in the night. All yours to borrow. You must return these when your Hunt is complete."
"Why?" Joxer frowned.
"Those are the conditions of her bargain. Take it or leave it."
"Her? The Queen?"
Illyn didn't respond.
Joxer took the entire container on his back.
I wish to be indestructible.
I am [Riven]. My work on the Dreaming [City] is complete.
I have done everything [the Queen] asked of me. But this is a [bargain].
I did so much more than that.
[The Queen] and her ilk will not understand for some time, though I think [the Queen] can see the signs. What I carved into the small corners. In the Wall of [Wishes] itself.
This will be a beautiful [City].
But not a safe [City].
I am [Riven]. My work on the Dreaming [City] is complete.
I have done everything [the Queen] asked of me. But this is a [bargain].
I did so much more than that.
[The Queen] and her ilk will not understand for some time, though I think [the Queen] can see the signs. What I carved into the small corners. In the Wall of [Wishes] itself.
This will be a beautiful [City].
But not a safe [City].
"I see our path ahead, full of despair and hardship, and I will walk it with joy in my heart." —Sjur Eido
Sjur snorts and coughs as she wakes herself up from a sound sleep.
"You were drooling," Mara says. She's perched in a divan nearby. There are books open all around her. She has dog-eared dozens of pages.
"I was dreaming," Sjur says, wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand. "I saw you on a great black triangle. You split it in two with your bare hands."
"Mm."
"And I was dead, I think." She cracks her neck with a deliciously loud pop. "Or… trapped? Like in a maze. But pretty close to figuring my way out."
"Mhm."
Sjur stands up to stretch. She does not mind that Mara is not listening. Let her read. "And there was another woman with you."
"On the triangle," Mara murmurs.
"Mm. Yeah. She was helping. Then your brother showed up, and…" She shakes out her arms, frowning thoughtfully. The dream is already fading. "He said, 'Tropaea.' Or maybe it was, uh, 'Tropical.' Anyway."
Sjur snorts and coughs as she wakes herself up from a sound sleep.
"You were drooling," Mara says. She's perched in a divan nearby. There are books open all around her. She has dog-eared dozens of pages.
"I was dreaming," Sjur says, wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand. "I saw you on a great black triangle. You split it in two with your bare hands."
"Mm."
"And I was dead, I think." She cracks her neck with a deliciously loud pop. "Or… trapped? Like in a maze. But pretty close to figuring my way out."
"Mhm."
Sjur stands up to stretch. She does not mind that Mara is not listening. Let her read. "And there was another woman with you."
"On the triangle," Mara murmurs.
"Mm. Yeah. She was helping. Then your brother showed up, and…" She shakes out her arms, frowning thoughtfully. The dream is already fading. "He said, 'Tropaea.' Or maybe it was, uh, 'Tropical.' Anyway."
"One day, you will mold the world to your liking, dear brother, as I always have." —Queen Mara Sov
Mara Sov watched her brother imitate a swooping bird as he entertained a semicircle of children. They flocked to him as if the stories he spun were confections.
Uldren lurched to his feet—his shadow casting a heroic pose against a canopy of towering Baryon trees—and thrust a slender blade into the air.
"Straight through the storm!" he howled as Awoken children shrieked with laughter and applause. "That's right. The two kestrels were like blades sailing on the wind," he said, sheathing the fine steel. "As long as they were together, nothing could stop them."
Mara turned to survey the Awoken flotilla anchored deep within their borders, suspended around a floating starport. Soon they would disembark. This night was for revelry. For families to enshrine in their memories should loved ones fail to return. In the morning, Saturn waited.
Far-off asteroids groaned like thunder, sending the children into a frenzy of gasps.
"Sounds like Ager's having another battle," Uldren said, stepping onto a bench to get a better view. He brought a hand to his brow, as if sighting an advancing stormfront.
A young Awoken child, no older than six, stood. Uldren watched the worry well in her eyes.
"Is he okay? Can you see them fighting?"
"Oh yes," Uldren answered. "Come here."
The child stepped forward.
"If I'm not mistaken, your name is Erith, isn't it?" Uldren asked. The girl nodded, awestruck. Uldren pulled a looking glass from his belt and placed it in her hand. "Look where I'm pointing."
Erith followed the prince's direction to a spot in the sky that flashed with color.
"I see Ager!" she proclaimed proudly. "I see Rega!"
Uldren patted her shoulder and smiled. "As long as the two of them are together, nothing can stop them. Just like us. Stand with your cousins, and you'll be all right."
Mara met his eyes and stepped forward. "That's enough. The prince has a long journey in the morning, and he must rest. Run along now."
Once the children were beyond eyesight, Mara's expression shifted to a glare. "These stories…" She leaned into Uldren. "Stop filling their heads with nonsense."
Mara Sov watched her brother imitate a swooping bird as he entertained a semicircle of children. They flocked to him as if the stories he spun were confections.
Uldren lurched to his feet—his shadow casting a heroic pose against a canopy of towering Baryon trees—and thrust a slender blade into the air.
"Straight through the storm!" he howled as Awoken children shrieked with laughter and applause. "That's right. The two kestrels were like blades sailing on the wind," he said, sheathing the fine steel. "As long as they were together, nothing could stop them."
Mara turned to survey the Awoken flotilla anchored deep within their borders, suspended around a floating starport. Soon they would disembark. This night was for revelry. For families to enshrine in their memories should loved ones fail to return. In the morning, Saturn waited.
Far-off asteroids groaned like thunder, sending the children into a frenzy of gasps.
"Sounds like Ager's having another battle," Uldren said, stepping onto a bench to get a better view. He brought a hand to his brow, as if sighting an advancing stormfront.
A young Awoken child, no older than six, stood. Uldren watched the worry well in her eyes.
"Is he okay? Can you see them fighting?"
"Oh yes," Uldren answered. "Come here."
The child stepped forward.
"If I'm not mistaken, your name is Erith, isn't it?" Uldren asked. The girl nodded, awestruck. Uldren pulled a looking glass from his belt and placed it in her hand. "Look where I'm pointing."
Erith followed the prince's direction to a spot in the sky that flashed with color.
"I see Ager!" she proclaimed proudly. "I see Rega!"
Uldren patted her shoulder and smiled. "As long as the two of them are together, nothing can stop them. Just like us. Stand with your cousins, and you'll be all right."
Mara met his eyes and stepped forward. "That's enough. The prince has a long journey in the morning, and he must rest. Run along now."
Once the children were beyond eyesight, Mara's expression shifted to a glare. "These stories…" She leaned into Uldren. "Stop filling their heads with nonsense."
The Vandal stoops as he exits the Galliot. All of his arms are bound behind his back, so he cannot shield his eyes from the bright sun. A breeze stirs his cloak. There is a cliff behind him and lush gardens ahead. His jailer would not grant him the honor of a quick death, so she must intend to torture him. She thinks he will yield like the flesh-lovers from House Judgment. She is wrong. Whatever indignities she can muster are nothing compared to what he deserves.
With his chin held high, he imagines shucking off his armor and laying all four of his arms in his Captain's hands. His Captain is his mother, and she will not dock him with a scythe. She will twist and tear his arms from his body like she is shucking a fine, fat crab for dinner, and he will be glad of the slow, sick cracks and crunches of his bones. He will be glad of the shame. Let him go limbless for the rest of his wasted life. Let the Ether-thirst shrivel him up like a yaviirsi fig.
"What do you think?" his jailer asks in a language he cannot understand. She steps up beside him and claps a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. She is nearly as tall as he is, and for a creature with no claws, her grip is strong and sure.
Together, they contemplate the gardens.
"It's all a bit much for my taste," she admits as he sneaks a furtive look at her.
Her bow is unstrung. There is only one arrow in her quiver.
She is stupid.
He whirls, trips her, and sprints for the cliff. She swears, recovers, and lunges after him. As he pitches himself off the edge, he thinks of his mother's shame and prays that she forgets him. Better that she never had a son than a weakling so easily captured by the enemy.
It is his bad luck that she catches his foot with one hand. His helmet slams into the rocky cliffside. A piece of his rebreather cracks off and disappears into the mist far below. He flails, but he cannot drag her down with him; somehow, she hauls him in like a fish. As soon as she has him on solid ground, she binds his ankles with the string of her bow. "All right," she says, catching her breath. "All right." She chuckles, pats his shoulder fondly, and then pulls him upright like a sack of psakiks.
She takes a step back, brushing off her hands against the seat of her trousers. He glowers, the surliest psakiks sack this side of the Great Machine, hating her horrible, squared-off teeth and her blunt, stubby fingers. "Let's try this again, shall we?"
Drawing two fractal knives from sheaths on her thighs, she makes a perfect ireliis bow before him. Thunderstruck, he sits up straight. Stares.
"Not good?" she asks, and tries again.
Furious confusion takes him. This is some kind of trick. Blasphemous mockery. "Iirsoveks," he rumbles.
She shakes her head. "Nama." Sheathing one of her knives, she holds out her free hand with her fingers spread in supplication.
He draws his chin toward his throat with this fresh betrayal, narrowing his secondary eyes. It speaks!
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she lays her other knife on the ground between them. The blade points toward her boots. He watches her every movement. How many secrets have the flesh-lovers betrayed, that this creature can make peace like a cringing drekh before his kel?
She taps two fingers against her cuirass. "Sjur," she says slowly, then she points at him.
Honor-bound even as he simmers in scandal, he replies, "Misraaks. Velask, Si-yu-riks."
"Mithrax," she repeats, then grins. "Velask, Mithrax. And welcome! Let's have a look about, shall we?"
With his chin held high, he imagines shucking off his armor and laying all four of his arms in his Captain's hands. His Captain is his mother, and she will not dock him with a scythe. She will twist and tear his arms from his body like she is shucking a fine, fat crab for dinner, and he will be glad of the slow, sick cracks and crunches of his bones. He will be glad of the shame. Let him go limbless for the rest of his wasted life. Let the Ether-thirst shrivel him up like a yaviirsi fig.
"What do you think?" his jailer asks in a language he cannot understand. She steps up beside him and claps a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. She is nearly as tall as he is, and for a creature with no claws, her grip is strong and sure.
Together, they contemplate the gardens.
"It's all a bit much for my taste," she admits as he sneaks a furtive look at her.
Her bow is unstrung. There is only one arrow in her quiver.
She is stupid.
He whirls, trips her, and sprints for the cliff. She swears, recovers, and lunges after him. As he pitches himself off the edge, he thinks of his mother's shame and prays that she forgets him. Better that she never had a son than a weakling so easily captured by the enemy.
It is his bad luck that she catches his foot with one hand. His helmet slams into the rocky cliffside. A piece of his rebreather cracks off and disappears into the mist far below. He flails, but he cannot drag her down with him; somehow, she hauls him in like a fish. As soon as she has him on solid ground, she binds his ankles with the string of her bow. "All right," she says, catching her breath. "All right." She chuckles, pats his shoulder fondly, and then pulls him upright like a sack of psakiks.
She takes a step back, brushing off her hands against the seat of her trousers. He glowers, the surliest psakiks sack this side of the Great Machine, hating her horrible, squared-off teeth and her blunt, stubby fingers. "Let's try this again, shall we?"
Drawing two fractal knives from sheaths on her thighs, she makes a perfect ireliis bow before him. Thunderstruck, he sits up straight. Stares.
"Not good?" she asks, and tries again.
Furious confusion takes him. This is some kind of trick. Blasphemous mockery. "Iirsoveks," he rumbles.
She shakes her head. "Nama." Sheathing one of her knives, she holds out her free hand with her fingers spread in supplication.
He draws his chin toward his throat with this fresh betrayal, narrowing his secondary eyes. It speaks!
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she lays her other knife on the ground between them. The blade points toward her boots. He watches her every movement. How many secrets have the flesh-lovers betrayed, that this creature can make peace like a cringing drekh before his kel?
She taps two fingers against her cuirass. "Sjur," she says slowly, then she points at him.
Honor-bound even as he simmers in scandal, he replies, "Misraaks. Velask, Si-yu-riks."
"Mithrax," she repeats, then grins. "Velask, Mithrax. And welcome! Let's have a look about, shall we?"
Mara's death began in this mark:
X
Later would come Eris Morn, Osiris, Toland, and all the other accessories of the majestic suicide. Later would come the Reef's tentative entanglements with Vex and Cabal, Fallen and Hive, and the fateful decision to intervene when the House of Wolves turned Earthward to conquer the Last Human City. Later, there would be stories here untold, the Ahamkara and the subcreation of the Dreaming City, the shatterstone fury of the Reef Wars, brother Uldren's journeys into that fell garden, and great sweeping plots whose beginnings and consequences have been entirely expunged for the sake of elegance—or, as of the root81, redacted for the sake of secrets yet untold.
Here is where the beginning began, at that moment when Mara bolted awake from the dream. Her circle of Techeuns lay with her in the misty wintercold chamber, and they came back groggily, their augments stuttering with resync.
She had dreamt a thought of absolute simplicity and perfection, and the thought had become a tooth and bitten her. It had left a wound shaped like
X
Mara seized a pane of crystal paper, flashed it rigid and receptive with a touch, and wrote.
I DREAMT OF SWORD AND BOMB. I dreamt of the self-honing blade that has cut itself so fine, it pierces the world and thus becomes the world. It is self-honing because it constantly whets itself against itself. I dreamt of Death bearing this blade, or of something so closely allied with Death as to be its synonym, so that to separate them would require a knife sharper than sharpness. Death raised up that blade and said "I cut all and all I cut. Aiat."
Then Death cut the bomb, and the bomb was broken and could not fire. I was in the bomb. I knew that Death was the cut-verb, and that its only verb was to cut.
SHAPES AND GLIDERS. I dreamt of existence as a game of cellular automata. In this metaphor, there were only two things: shapes in the game world and the rules of the game world. The rules were the rules of Life and Death. I understood that the sword was the desire to escape existence as a shape in the game and to become the rule that made the shapes. This rule said only "live" or "die"—it had no other outputs. It could not keep secrets. Against it was the desire to become a shape so complex that it could within itself play other games.
WHAT WILL SOON BE. I dreamt that the Sword that was Death and Rule sought out complexity and cut it to reveal the simplicity within. I knew that soon we would be cut for we were complex and full of secrets. I knew that it was coming. I knew that the stroke would fall and that I had to stop it.
HOW CAN A BOMB MAKE USE OF A SWORD?
HOW CAN THE RULE THAT SEPARATES LIFE FROM DEATH BE KILLED?
"I must go to the Dreaming City and use the oracle engine," Mara told her Techeuns. "Prepare my ship."
X
Later would come Eris Morn, Osiris, Toland, and all the other accessories of the majestic suicide. Later would come the Reef's tentative entanglements with Vex and Cabal, Fallen and Hive, and the fateful decision to intervene when the House of Wolves turned Earthward to conquer the Last Human City. Later, there would be stories here untold, the Ahamkara and the subcreation of the Dreaming City, the shatterstone fury of the Reef Wars, brother Uldren's journeys into that fell garden, and great sweeping plots whose beginnings and consequences have been entirely expunged for the sake of elegance—or, as of the root81, redacted for the sake of secrets yet untold.
Here is where the beginning began, at that moment when Mara bolted awake from the dream. Her circle of Techeuns lay with her in the misty wintercold chamber, and they came back groggily, their augments stuttering with resync.
She had dreamt a thought of absolute simplicity and perfection, and the thought had become a tooth and bitten her. It had left a wound shaped like
X
Mara seized a pane of crystal paper, flashed it rigid and receptive with a touch, and wrote.
I DREAMT OF SWORD AND BOMB. I dreamt of the self-honing blade that has cut itself so fine, it pierces the world and thus becomes the world. It is self-honing because it constantly whets itself against itself. I dreamt of Death bearing this blade, or of something so closely allied with Death as to be its synonym, so that to separate them would require a knife sharper than sharpness. Death raised up that blade and said "I cut all and all I cut. Aiat."
Then Death cut the bomb, and the bomb was broken and could not fire. I was in the bomb. I knew that Death was the cut-verb, and that its only verb was to cut.
SHAPES AND GLIDERS. I dreamt of existence as a game of cellular automata. In this metaphor, there were only two things: shapes in the game world and the rules of the game world. The rules were the rules of Life and Death. I understood that the sword was the desire to escape existence as a shape in the game and to become the rule that made the shapes. This rule said only "live" or "die"—it had no other outputs. It could not keep secrets. Against it was the desire to become a shape so complex that it could within itself play other games.
WHAT WILL SOON BE. I dreamt that the Sword that was Death and Rule sought out complexity and cut it to reveal the simplicity within. I knew that soon we would be cut for we were complex and full of secrets. I knew that it was coming. I knew that the stroke would fall and that I had to stop it.
HOW CAN A BOMB MAKE USE OF A SWORD?
HOW CAN THE RULE THAT SEPARATES LIFE FROM DEATH BE KILLED?
"I must go to the Dreaming City and use the oracle engine," Mara told her Techeuns. "Prepare my ship."
Ten times and once more Mara asked the Oracle Engine to show her the sword that was death and the way it would appear. Ten times and once more the Oracle Engine showed Mara an image of her family.
First it showed her Sjur Eido, laughing and bright with strength, who would recede and later return.
Then it showed her Uldren, her brother, who explored the ruins of the fallen worlds and sought out challenges to test himself.
Then it showed Mara her own face and lingered on the secret brightness of her eyes.
Last of all, leaving Mara imperious with disdain toward her own feelings, curtly aloof toward all who asked her what troubled her, it showed her Osana, who had remained behind.
Mara dwelt on this puzzle. A mother who had remained behind; a sister with secrets; a brother who hunted and explored; a woman who was plain and fierce. She understood then that the answer to her question lay within herself and that to defeat what was coming, she would need a perfect understanding of herself. Isolation would be her watchword, for an isolated system is easiest of all to understand.
First of all, Mara went into the gardens and planted a flower for her mother, who she thought must still live: though she might by now have forgotten her first daughter and her first son.
"Mother," she said, "I asked to be your sister rather than your daughter, and so I denied you the chance to tell me your secret, the mothertruth that is mapped in the negative space defined by the lies mothers tell their daughters. Well, here are my secrets. I love you. I have always loved you. Without you, I could never have been anything at all."
Then she went to speak to her brother—but Uldren was away on Mars, and she found only his empty chambers, the half-sharpened knives and racks of pistols. She knelt in grief and touched her hand to the floor where his pacing boots had scuffed the asteroid stone smooth. This was the shape of their siblinghood now. The pursuit of absences.
Last of all Mara went to Sjur Eido. Sjur was making a list of incredibly stupid and fatal tasks to post on a Guardian bounty board. "I want to tell you the truth," Mara said. "Ask me a question."
"If you take any positive integer and halve it if it's even, but triple it and add one if it's odd, and you repeat this process forever, will you always, eventually, reach one?" Sjur Eido demanded.
"Sjur, my faithful Wrath," Mara said, "please take my openness seriously. Though I'm sure Illyn could answer your math problem."
"Okay." Sjur looked at her curiously. "Then here's my question. What's gotten into you? Why are you acting like this?"
"Can we walk?" Mara asked her.
First it showed her Sjur Eido, laughing and bright with strength, who would recede and later return.
Then it showed her Uldren, her brother, who explored the ruins of the fallen worlds and sought out challenges to test himself.
Then it showed Mara her own face and lingered on the secret brightness of her eyes.
Last of all, leaving Mara imperious with disdain toward her own feelings, curtly aloof toward all who asked her what troubled her, it showed her Osana, who had remained behind.
Mara dwelt on this puzzle. A mother who had remained behind; a sister with secrets; a brother who hunted and explored; a woman who was plain and fierce. She understood then that the answer to her question lay within herself and that to defeat what was coming, she would need a perfect understanding of herself. Isolation would be her watchword, for an isolated system is easiest of all to understand.
First of all, Mara went into the gardens and planted a flower for her mother, who she thought must still live: though she might by now have forgotten her first daughter and her first son.
"Mother," she said, "I asked to be your sister rather than your daughter, and so I denied you the chance to tell me your secret, the mothertruth that is mapped in the negative space defined by the lies mothers tell their daughters. Well, here are my secrets. I love you. I have always loved you. Without you, I could never have been anything at all."
Then she went to speak to her brother—but Uldren was away on Mars, and she found only his empty chambers, the half-sharpened knives and racks of pistols. She knelt in grief and touched her hand to the floor where his pacing boots had scuffed the asteroid stone smooth. This was the shape of their siblinghood now. The pursuit of absences.
Last of all Mara went to Sjur Eido. Sjur was making a list of incredibly stupid and fatal tasks to post on a Guardian bounty board. "I want to tell you the truth," Mara said. "Ask me a question."
"If you take any positive integer and halve it if it's even, but triple it and add one if it's odd, and you repeat this process forever, will you always, eventually, reach one?" Sjur Eido demanded.
"Sjur, my faithful Wrath," Mara said, "please take my openness seriously. Though I'm sure Illyn could answer your math problem."
"Okay." Sjur looked at her curiously. "Then here's my question. What's gotten into you? Why are you acting like this?"
"Can we walk?" Mara asked her.
Mara and Sjur Eido go out into space and kick off the hull, wearing Corsair skin-pressure suits and slim tethers. The stars circle them like hard-focus candles, like the diadems of a trillion dancers. Sjur Eido pulls herself close and touches helmets with Mara. "We're alone. What's happened, Mara? You've always been, ah…"
"Private?" Mara suggests.
"Mysterious and reclusive, I was going to say."
"A sword can be part of a bomb if the swordstrike is the detonation mechanism," Mara says. "It's impossible for a cellular automata game to change its own rules, but it is possible to create subgames with their own rules, and for those subgames to yield advantage in the master game."
"That's cool," Sjur says. "You know, when you talk like that, what you're actually saying is, 'I don't want anyone to understand me, but I want them to understand they don't understand me.'"
"Yeah," Mara admits, and then, hoarsely, she makes herself say, "Sjur, I have this secret, this thing I did, and I don't know if anyone can know it without hating me forever."
"I had a secret too," Sjur reminds her. "The thing I did…"
"It's nothing compared to mine. Nothing at all."
"Having had some long experience hating you, and then having given it up, I think it would be hard for me to go back." Sjur's strong hand settles at the small of Mara's back. They twirl on upward, rotating around a point between them, their thousand-kilometer tethers slowly unfurling. "Do you want to tell me?"
"No," Mara says. "But I think I have to."
"Okay. Your Majesty, what did you do that made Alis Li throw blackberry tea in your face?"
"I was first," Mara says. And she explains the missing half, the first half of the sentence:
I made the rules and initial conditions that deceived her into believing she herself had decided
It ends like that, where the rest picks up.[1]
Sjur Eido looks at her in expressionless silence. Sjur Eido's hands stroke the seam between Mara's skinsuit and the glassy petals of her helmet. Long ago, this woman betrayed her oath and went to serve the Diasyrm, a woman who cried out in anguish at the curse of physicality and the possibility of suffering. Long ago, this woman threw away her whole life to punish the highest crime she could imagine: the denial of transcendent divinity to those who might have claimed it.
"You're the devil," Sjur says. "You're the lone power who made death. You allowed the possibility of evil. You might be responsible for more preventable suffering than anything that has ever existed."
Mara cannot shake her head or even nod.
"Well," Sjur says, "if you hadn't, none of us would be here. I guess I don't see what else you could've done, if you cared about those we left behind. If you wanted us to be able to go back and help in the fight." She leans forward and very gently kisses the inside of her helmet, where it meets Mara's: in her mind, in that place that is bound to all other Awoken, Mara feels the touch of gentle lips.
Sjur looks suddenly sly. "You know, Mara, I don't think you could've confessed anything, anything at all, unless it were a way of keeping a deeper secret. What's really going on?"
"There are many ways to godhood," Mara tells her. The belt of Orion glitters on her helmet like a three-star rating left by some Hive entity Sjur once killed. "One way is to kill all that is killable, so all that remains must be immortal. Another is the road I have walked, mostly by accident. One of these ways is closer to the sword, and one is closer to the bomb. If the bomb can defeat the sword by the standard of the sword, then the bomb has claim to primacy."
"Never mind," Sjur sighs. "Seen anything cool on Crow surveillance lately?"
[1] continues in Ecstasiate I
"Private?" Mara suggests.
"Mysterious and reclusive, I was going to say."
"A sword can be part of a bomb if the swordstrike is the detonation mechanism," Mara says. "It's impossible for a cellular automata game to change its own rules, but it is possible to create subgames with their own rules, and for those subgames to yield advantage in the master game."
"That's cool," Sjur says. "You know, when you talk like that, what you're actually saying is, 'I don't want anyone to understand me, but I want them to understand they don't understand me.'"
"Yeah," Mara admits, and then, hoarsely, she makes herself say, "Sjur, I have this secret, this thing I did, and I don't know if anyone can know it without hating me forever."
"I had a secret too," Sjur reminds her. "The thing I did…"
"It's nothing compared to mine. Nothing at all."
"Having had some long experience hating you, and then having given it up, I think it would be hard for me to go back." Sjur's strong hand settles at the small of Mara's back. They twirl on upward, rotating around a point between them, their thousand-kilometer tethers slowly unfurling. "Do you want to tell me?"
"No," Mara says. "But I think I have to."
"Okay. Your Majesty, what did you do that made Alis Li throw blackberry tea in your face?"
"I was first," Mara says. And she explains the missing half, the first half of the sentence:
I made the rules and initial conditions that deceived her into believing she herself had decided
It ends like that, where the rest picks up.[1]
Sjur Eido looks at her in expressionless silence. Sjur Eido's hands stroke the seam between Mara's skinsuit and the glassy petals of her helmet. Long ago, this woman betrayed her oath and went to serve the Diasyrm, a woman who cried out in anguish at the curse of physicality and the possibility of suffering. Long ago, this woman threw away her whole life to punish the highest crime she could imagine: the denial of transcendent divinity to those who might have claimed it.
"You're the devil," Sjur says. "You're the lone power who made death. You allowed the possibility of evil. You might be responsible for more preventable suffering than anything that has ever existed."
Mara cannot shake her head or even nod.
"Well," Sjur says, "if you hadn't, none of us would be here. I guess I don't see what else you could've done, if you cared about those we left behind. If you wanted us to be able to go back and help in the fight." She leans forward and very gently kisses the inside of her helmet, where it meets Mara's: in her mind, in that place that is bound to all other Awoken, Mara feels the touch of gentle lips.
Sjur looks suddenly sly. "You know, Mara, I don't think you could've confessed anything, anything at all, unless it were a way of keeping a deeper secret. What's really going on?"
"There are many ways to godhood," Mara tells her. The belt of Orion glitters on her helmet like a three-star rating left by some Hive entity Sjur once killed. "One way is to kill all that is killable, so all that remains must be immortal. Another is the road I have walked, mostly by accident. One of these ways is closer to the sword, and one is closer to the bomb. If the bomb can defeat the sword by the standard of the sword, then the bomb has claim to primacy."
"Never mind," Sjur sighs. "Seen anything cool on Crow surveillance lately?"
[1] continues in Ecstasiate I
The Reef Wars
This happens long ago, but not too long to matter.
Ceres rules the Asteroid Belt. Ceres is the white queen of this space, four hundred million kilometers from the Sun. Ceres is round. Round means power, out here: nothing else in the Belt is big enough to crush itself into a sphere with its own gravity. Ceres has its own chemical stars. Shavings of salt and ice that glint in orbit. Like a crown.
There are other lights, newer stars, newer crowns. Warship engines. Another queen is coming to conquer Ceres, because Ceres is full of warrens and shipyards and habitats, because Ceres is round and lucky as a Servitor. Because Ceres is full of the Wolves she wants to rule.
Shark-fierce ships gather in squadrons and tribes. Skiffs. Ketches. The Kell of Wolves has a fleet gathered here. The Kell of Wolves heard the call, and summoned the House of Wolves to prepare for the great battle on Earth. The salvation of the Kell's people depends on their ability to shatter the City. It's a matter of survival.
Now the Wolf fleet turns to meet the Queen.
See the squadrons of Skiffs wrapping themselves in stealth, cold and transparent, knifing out invisible and brave? See the Ketches like broad blades, the bright thoughts of a Servitor guiding them to battle? See them turning, accelerating, waking up their jammers and their arc guns? All doomed. The Kell of Wolves will never make it to the Twilight Gap. The Kell of Wolves put all that strength in one place, and now the Queen of the Reef is coming to break it.
Out there, coming out of the dark, are the Awoken. Not so great a fleet, is it? Little fighters scattered around like four-pointed thorns. Destroyers and frigates and salvaged hulls pulled out of the Reef. And right at the front, at the speartip, flies the Queen.
The Wolf Kell, practical, brave, tallies strength of metal and equipment. The Kell considers the chance that the Awoken have some secret weapon, something gleaned from hulks in the Reef or whispered up by the witches, and sets that chance aside. The Kell thinks the House of Wolves can win decisively. So the Kell sends challenge and warning. I AM LORD OF WOLVES, the Kell sends. YOU ARE AN EMPTY THING WITH TWO DEAD SOULS. THIS IS MY HOUSE. THESE ARE MY TERMS. SURRENDER AND I WILL ONLY TAKE YOUR SHIPS.
The Awoken fleet cuts their engines. Drifts. Wolf strike elements, torpedo-armed Skiffs hidden under jamming and camouflage, find their firing solutions.
The Queen's ship broadcasts. I AM NOBLE TOO, she says, OH LORD OF WOLVES.
The Kell doesn't mind a little banter before the kill. It gives the Wolf ships longer to draw the battle away from Ceres. The Kell replies. YOU HAVE NO LINE. YOU HAVE NO POWER. Captains and Barons signal their readiness, Skolas and Pirsis and Irxis, Drevis, Peekis, Parixas, all of them bound by fear and loyalty, all ready for war.
STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER. The Queen's ship whispers in eerie erratic radio bursts. Servitors begin to report a strange taste in the void. AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK.
Here, at last, too late, the Kell begins to feel fear. CALL ON THEM, THEN, the Kell sends, one last mocking signal before death and ruin, AND SEE WHAT HELP THEY OFFER.
So the Queen calls, as only she can. Every Servitor in every Ketch hears it. Every Captain and Baron roars at their underlings as sensors go blind, as firing solutions falter, as reactors stutter and power systems hum with induction. Stealth fails. Space warps. The House of Wolves shouts in spikes of war-code, maneuvers wild, fires blind.
Behind the Queen's ship, the Harbingers awaken.
Ceres rules the Asteroid Belt. Ceres is the white queen of this space, four hundred million kilometers from the Sun. Ceres is round. Round means power, out here: nothing else in the Belt is big enough to crush itself into a sphere with its own gravity. Ceres has its own chemical stars. Shavings of salt and ice that glint in orbit. Like a crown.
There are other lights, newer stars, newer crowns. Warship engines. Another queen is coming to conquer Ceres, because Ceres is full of warrens and shipyards and habitats, because Ceres is round and lucky as a Servitor. Because Ceres is full of the Wolves she wants to rule.
Shark-fierce ships gather in squadrons and tribes. Skiffs. Ketches. The Kell of Wolves has a fleet gathered here. The Kell of Wolves heard the call, and summoned the House of Wolves to prepare for the great battle on Earth. The salvation of the Kell's people depends on their ability to shatter the City. It's a matter of survival.
Now the Wolf fleet turns to meet the Queen.
See the squadrons of Skiffs wrapping themselves in stealth, cold and transparent, knifing out invisible and brave? See the Ketches like broad blades, the bright thoughts of a Servitor guiding them to battle? See them turning, accelerating, waking up their jammers and their arc guns? All doomed. The Kell of Wolves will never make it to the Twilight Gap. The Kell of Wolves put all that strength in one place, and now the Queen of the Reef is coming to break it.
Out there, coming out of the dark, are the Awoken. Not so great a fleet, is it? Little fighters scattered around like four-pointed thorns. Destroyers and frigates and salvaged hulls pulled out of the Reef. And right at the front, at the speartip, flies the Queen.
The Wolf Kell, practical, brave, tallies strength of metal and equipment. The Kell considers the chance that the Awoken have some secret weapon, something gleaned from hulks in the Reef or whispered up by the witches, and sets that chance aside. The Kell thinks the House of Wolves can win decisively. So the Kell sends challenge and warning. I AM LORD OF WOLVES, the Kell sends. YOU ARE AN EMPTY THING WITH TWO DEAD SOULS. THIS IS MY HOUSE. THESE ARE MY TERMS. SURRENDER AND I WILL ONLY TAKE YOUR SHIPS.
The Awoken fleet cuts their engines. Drifts. Wolf strike elements, torpedo-armed Skiffs hidden under jamming and camouflage, find their firing solutions.
The Queen's ship broadcasts. I AM NOBLE TOO, she says, OH LORD OF WOLVES.
The Kell doesn't mind a little banter before the kill. It gives the Wolf ships longer to draw the battle away from Ceres. The Kell replies. YOU HAVE NO LINE. YOU HAVE NO POWER. Captains and Barons signal their readiness, Skolas and Pirsis and Irxis, Drevis, Peekis, Parixas, all of them bound by fear and loyalty, all ready for war.
STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER. The Queen's ship whispers in eerie erratic radio bursts. Servitors begin to report a strange taste in the void. AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK.
Here, at last, too late, the Kell begins to feel fear. CALL ON THEM, THEN, the Kell sends, one last mocking signal before death and ruin, AND SEE WHAT HELP THEY OFFER.
So the Queen calls, as only she can. Every Servitor in every Ketch hears it. Every Captain and Baron roars at their underlings as sensors go blind, as firing solutions falter, as reactors stutter and power systems hum with induction. Stealth fails. Space warps. The House of Wolves shouts in spikes of war-code, maneuvers wild, fires blind.
Behind the Queen's ship, the Harbingers awaken.
Abstract: The transmission was broadcasted on all Fallen frequencies. Lacking, at the time, the ability to crack Fallen encryptions, the Master of Crows could discern only that the Fallen Houses were all talking to each other. That was a thing that had never happened before.
Then the Techeuns looked Earthward—and saw the Fallen there becoming bolder. Tactics suggested they were planning a massive attack. We had no interplanetary arrays—no way to warn Earth. We thought we would be able to do nothing but watch.
But then the Wolves arrived from the Jovians. Their army was hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions strong: a dark wave that washed over the Reef, rushing toward the Earth. As soon as we saw them it was clear that if the Wolves reached Earth, the City would fall.
Seemingly oblivious to our existence, the bulk of the Wolf fleet stopped to regroup at Ceres. The Queen's decision was this: attack the House of Wolves, thereby saving Earth but revealing the Reef's presence to any and all enemies in the quadrant; or remain silent, preserving the Reef's invisibility but allowing the City to perish.
Her Harbingers ripped into Ceres, destroying the asteroid and killing Virixas, Kell of Wolves and more than half his House. The remaining Wolves scattered, burrowing deep into the Belt for cover. There, new claimants to the Kellship quickly arose: Irxis, Wolf Baroness; Parixas, the Howling; and Skolas, the Rabid.
Then the Techeuns looked Earthward—and saw the Fallen there becoming bolder. Tactics suggested they were planning a massive attack. We had no interplanetary arrays—no way to warn Earth. We thought we would be able to do nothing but watch.
But then the Wolves arrived from the Jovians. Their army was hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions strong: a dark wave that washed over the Reef, rushing toward the Earth. As soon as we saw them it was clear that if the Wolves reached Earth, the City would fall.
Seemingly oblivious to our existence, the bulk of the Wolf fleet stopped to regroup at Ceres. The Queen's decision was this: attack the House of Wolves, thereby saving Earth but revealing the Reef's presence to any and all enemies in the quadrant; or remain silent, preserving the Reef's invisibility but allowing the City to perish.
Her Harbingers ripped into Ceres, destroying the asteroid and killing Virixas, Kell of Wolves and more than half his House. The remaining Wolves scattered, burrowing deep into the Belt for cover. There, new claimants to the Kellship quickly arose: Irxis, Wolf Baroness; Parixas, the Howling; and Skolas, the Rabid.
Abstract: After the Scatter, the frontrunner for the Kellship was Irxis, Wolf Baroness. While Skolas and Parixas scrambled over the Kaliks servitors, Irxis secured the command of the Orbiks servitors.
Their history is still unclear, but the Orbiks originate with either another Fallen house—perhaps one that the Wolves absorbed long ago—or a modification of the Kaliks servitors. Either way, the Orbiks servitors held permissions on Kaliks servitors, which allowed Irxis to wreak havoc among her rivals' forces at the start of the Reef Wars.[2]
Their history is still unclear, but the Orbiks originate with either another Fallen house—perhaps one that the Wolves absorbed long ago—or a modification of the Kaliks servitors. Either way, the Orbiks servitors held permissions on Kaliks servitors, which allowed Irxis to wreak havoc among her rivals' forces at the start of the Reef Wars.[2]
Abstract: What Peekis' assault lacked in finesse it made up for in sheer numbers and desperation. Irxis' ketches were pinned against Eos, and the two sides engaged in the bloody, bitter battle known as the Eos Clash, which left Irxis dead and both fleets nearly decimated. In the aftermath, the Crows salvaged one Orbiks servitor, Mecher Orbiks-11, believed to be the last of its programming.
Though technically a victory for Skolas, the Eos Clash came at a terrible cost for him. He docked Peekis' arms and demoted him to Dreg as punishment for his recklessness.
After the Eos Clash, Skolas changed his strategy.
Though technically a victory for Skolas, the Eos Clash came at a terrible cost for him. He docked Peekis' arms and demoted him to Dreg as punishment for his recklessness.
After the Eos Clash, Skolas changed his strategy.
Abstract: With Skolas and Parixas still fighting, no one expected either to attack the Reef. So by the time Paladin Abra Zire arrived at Amethyst it was too late: the Silent Fang, led by Drevis herself had massacred almost everyone in the station, including Coven Leader Pinar Venj.
Paladin Zire gave chase, and followed the Fang to Iris, where, behind the glare of Iris' brightness, a Wolf ketch lay in wait. But the ketch was no match for Zire's smaller, faster ships, or her ferocity.
When the Battle of Iris was over, however, it was not Drevis at Zire's' feet. It was Parixas.
Grayor, another of Skolas' loyal vassals, had attacked Parixas' ketch at the same time that Drevis had attacked Amethyst. He, too, had lured Parixas to Iris, then the Silent Fang had used Iris' unusual brightness to disappear just as Zire and Parixas arrived in the system.
Paladin Zire gave chase, and followed the Fang to Iris, where, behind the glare of Iris' brightness, a Wolf ketch lay in wait. But the ketch was no match for Zire's smaller, faster ships, or her ferocity.
When the Battle of Iris was over, however, it was not Drevis at Zire's' feet. It was Parixas.
Grayor, another of Skolas' loyal vassals, had attacked Parixas' ketch at the same time that Drevis had attacked Amethyst. He, too, had lured Parixas to Iris, then the Silent Fang had used Iris' unusual brightness to disappear just as Zire and Parixas arrived in the system.
"When the battle at Iris faded, it was not Skolas at Zire's feet, but Skolas's bitter rival: Parixas, the Howling. Skolas was now the undisputed Kell of Wolves."
"Don't fret. It's a simple expedition. We'll be back before lunch." —Sjur Eido, First Queen's Wrath
Sjur Eido stood slow joints snapping second to none but the Sovs themselves stood straight-backed sharp-sighted pleased to skewer enemies at any distance. Sjur Eido listened close head cocked arrow nocked listened to her Queen's layered lies and heard only the truths as endless courtly complaints flowed around them like the mists of Divalia.
Sjur Eido watched shadows wind warp widen watched surveillance feeds encrypted snaps the weapon hand of every woman and man who wished an audience. Sjur Eido swore with revelation righteous fury betrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayed swore an oath to rise again. Sjur Eido drew loosed dr–
Fell.
l o s t
Sjur Eido stood slow joints snapping second to none but the Sovs themselves stood straight-backed sharp-sighted pleased to skewer enemies at any distance. Sjur Eido listened close head cocked arrow nocked listened to her Queen's layered lies and heard only the truths as endless courtly complaints flowed around them like the mists of Divalia.
Sjur Eido watched shadows wind warp widen watched surveillance feeds encrypted snaps the weapon hand of every woman and man who wished an audience. Sjur Eido swore with revelation righteous fury betrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayedbetrayed swore an oath to rise again. Sjur Eido drew loosed dr–
Fell.
l o s t
"I have not yet met my true death." —Sjur Eido, First Queen's Wrath
"This was on her body, Your Grace."
A strange coin lay at the center of Abra's outstretched palm. Mara took it between thumb and forefinger and held up it to the cosmos with dainty contempt.
Weregild, she thought. Powerful grief filled her chest, as thick and caustic and heavy as unset concrete.
"And her bow?"
"Gone."
"Huginn? Muninn?"
"The Ahamkara are dead, and their bones are silent. But Petra Venj has—"
"Who?"
"A Corsair. Recently titled."
"…CHILD."
Paladin Zire flinched as if slapped. "My Queen. Our spies in the House of Judgment tell us the Wolves plan to attack Hygiea next. I loved Sjur, as I love all we have lost, and I grieve her. But if we divert our attention now to vengeance against an unknown enemy…"
Mara put down the coin and allowed herself a small, humorless smile. "Then let it be my diversion."
"This was on her body, Your Grace."
A strange coin lay at the center of Abra's outstretched palm. Mara took it between thumb and forefinger and held up it to the cosmos with dainty contempt.
Weregild, she thought. Powerful grief filled her chest, as thick and caustic and heavy as unset concrete.
"And her bow?"
"Gone."
"Huginn? Muninn?"
"The Ahamkara are dead, and their bones are silent. But Petra Venj has—"
"Who?"
"A Corsair. Recently titled."
"…CHILD."
Paladin Zire flinched as if slapped. "My Queen. Our spies in the House of Judgment tell us the Wolves plan to attack Hygiea next. I loved Sjur, as I love all we have lost, and I grieve her. But if we divert our attention now to vengeance against an unknown enemy…"
Mara put down the coin and allowed herself a small, humorless smile. "Then let it be my diversion."
"After the Battle of Iris, the united Wolves struck at Hygiea and sacked its libraries. The Reef Wars had begun."
Abstract: After a string of defeats—at Amethyst, at Hygiea, arguably at Iris—Prince Uldren's Crows finally made headway against the Wolves' encryption. They quickly discovered a seemingly unimportant piece of information: the House of Wolves had incorrectly calculated the eccentricity of the asteroid Bamberga.
So Paladin Imogen Rife chased Drevis, Wolf Baroness, directly into Bamberga's trajectory. Drevis' ketch was destroyed, and both she and her High Servitor, Kaliks-4, were captured.
It was the first decisive Reef victory since the Scatter. But on her way back to Vesta with her captives, Paladin Rife was attacked at Pallas.
So Paladin Imogen Rife chased Drevis, Wolf Baroness, directly into Bamberga's trajectory. Drevis' ketch was destroyed, and both she and her High Servitor, Kaliks-4, were captured.
It was the first decisive Reef victory since the Scatter. But on her way back to Vesta with her captives, Paladin Rife was attacked at Pallas.
Abstract: Under Skolas' vassal Pirsis, called Pallas-Bane, the Wolves amassed the largest Wolf fleet that had been seen since the Scatter. The Queen could not use her Harbingers against them—if she did, Imogen Rife and her fleet and all the people of Pallas would have been killed as well.
For years the siege endured. At first, neither side dared to attack the other: on Pallas, Paladin Rife knew that Pirsis had the firepower to destroy the asteroid. Above Pallas, Pirsis held back, hoping to rescue Drevis and Kaliks-4 and the other Wolves that Paladin Rife had captured at the Battle of Bamberga's Wrath. The Queen sought to diffuse the siege by sending Armada Paladins Abra Zire and Kamala Rior into the Hildian Asteroids, where Skolas was rumored to be hiding, but with the help of his tactician Beltrik, the Veiled, Skolas thwarted them.
The stalemate over Pallas was broken by, of all beings, a dreg. Ironically dubbed Weksis the Meek, the dreg led dozens of followers in an unsanctioned attack on Pallas. They managed to blast a hole in the Athens Hull, but were stopped soon after by Commander Hallam Fen. Weksis and the surviving followers were imprisoned alongside those they had come to save.
For years the siege endured. At first, neither side dared to attack the other: on Pallas, Paladin Rife knew that Pirsis had the firepower to destroy the asteroid. Above Pallas, Pirsis held back, hoping to rescue Drevis and Kaliks-4 and the other Wolves that Paladin Rife had captured at the Battle of Bamberga's Wrath. The Queen sought to diffuse the siege by sending Armada Paladins Abra Zire and Kamala Rior into the Hildian Asteroids, where Skolas was rumored to be hiding, but with the help of his tactician Beltrik, the Veiled, Skolas thwarted them.
The stalemate over Pallas was broken by, of all beings, a dreg. Ironically dubbed Weksis the Meek, the dreg led dozens of followers in an unsanctioned attack on Pallas. They managed to blast a hole in the Athens Hull, but were stopped soon after by Commander Hallam Fen. Weksis and the surviving followers were imprisoned alongside those they had come to save.
Abstract: Weksis' attack may have been unsuccessful, but it inspired another, deadlier assault. This time Pirsis, the Bane of Pallas herself led another strike, blasting through the same Athens Hull breach that Weksis had weakened in his assault.
Pirsis' strike team managed to free Kaliks-4, but Paladin Imogen Rife cut them off outside Drevis' cell. Pirsis might have escaped, but she refused to retreat without Drevis. Paladin Rife destroyed Kaliks-4 to prevent the Wolves from recovering it, and eventually the Wolves were forced back—but not before Pirsis slew Paladin Rife with her own blade.
Finally, Commander Hallam Fen, Imogen Rife's protégé, was able to establish a line of communication with the rest of the Reef. Working with the Techeuns and the Crows, they created an enormous visual illusion of the Harbingers, making it seem as if the Queen had finally decided to cut her losses and destroy the asteroid. It worked—the false Harbingers so scared the Wolf fleet that they broke ranks. Then the combined forces of Commander Fen, Paladin Leona Bryl and Paladin Kamala Rior slammed, capturing Pirsis, Pallas-Bane and driving the rest of the Wolves off.
Hallam Fen brought Drevis to Vesta, years after Imogen Rife had set out to do so. As a reward for his service, the Queen bequeathed him Rife's place among the Seven Paladins.
Pirsis' strike team managed to free Kaliks-4, but Paladin Imogen Rife cut them off outside Drevis' cell. Pirsis might have escaped, but she refused to retreat without Drevis. Paladin Rife destroyed Kaliks-4 to prevent the Wolves from recovering it, and eventually the Wolves were forced back—but not before Pirsis slew Paladin Rife with her own blade.
Finally, Commander Hallam Fen, Imogen Rife's protégé, was able to establish a line of communication with the rest of the Reef. Working with the Techeuns and the Crows, they created an enormous visual illusion of the Harbingers, making it seem as if the Queen had finally decided to cut her losses and destroy the asteroid. It worked—the false Harbingers so scared the Wolf fleet that they broke ranks. Then the combined forces of Commander Fen, Paladin Leona Bryl and Paladin Kamala Rior slammed, capturing Pirsis, Pallas-Bane and driving the rest of the Wolves off.
Hallam Fen brought Drevis to Vesta, years after Imogen Rife had set out to do so. As a reward for his service, the Queen bequeathed him Rife's place among the Seven Paladins.
Abstract: Finally, Beltrik, the Veiled left the Hildians and massed his fleet at Fortuna, to replenish his ketches' Ether from the organic compounds found on the asteroid's surface. His ships landed on Fortuna one at a time, the rest forming a defensive screen around its surface. He believed that Paladin Zire would attack the screen and destroy her fleet against the shield wall.
But Abra Zire's fury over the Battle of False Tidings had chilled over the years into an icy, clever resolve. She separated her forces in two, and engaged Beltrik's veil with what he thought was her entire host. But in secret, Abra deployed her second fleet with a weapon the Reef had been working on since Bamberga: Carybdis, a gravity weapon strong enough to knock asteroids off course. Carybdis caught asteroid Tinette in its beam and flung it into Fortuna, destroying both and severely damaging Beltrik's fleet. Beltrik was easily captured in the ensuing chaos, and brought swiftly to the Queen. The fight became known as the Fortuna Plummet, as are, on occasion, the remains of Fortuna and Tinette as well.
After the Fortuna Plummet, one of Prince Uldren's Crows returned with a message from a Fallen, by the name of Variks, of the House of Judgment.
But Abra Zire's fury over the Battle of False Tidings had chilled over the years into an icy, clever resolve. She separated her forces in two, and engaged Beltrik's veil with what he thought was her entire host. But in secret, Abra deployed her second fleet with a weapon the Reef had been working on since Bamberga: Carybdis, a gravity weapon strong enough to knock asteroids off course. Carybdis caught asteroid Tinette in its beam and flung it into Fortuna, destroying both and severely damaging Beltrik's fleet. Beltrik was easily captured in the ensuing chaos, and brought swiftly to the Queen. The fight became known as the Fortuna Plummet, as are, on occasion, the remains of Fortuna and Tinette as well.
After the Fortuna Plummet, one of Prince Uldren's Crows returned with a message from a Fallen, by the name of Variks, of the House of Judgment.
The Fortuna Plummet
***SNAP TRAFFIC!*** 225 RADIAN MIRAGE
HALT ALL TRAFFIC. STAND BY FOR SNAP.
MESSAGE TO FOLLOW
PUBLIC KEY 080 641 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN ABRA ZIRE [PLDN CMD TF 4.1]
TO: ALL TASK GROUP ELEMENT LEADERS
SUBJECT: OPLAN AND FRAGMENT ORDERS
MESSAGE IS:
1. Beltrik the Veiled [HVT R3] and loyal spaceborne elements have been localized to 19 Fortuna. Beltrik is chief Wolf strategist. Corsair recon confirms that HVT R3 ships are resupplying ether and performing high-tempo logistical operations. Recon elements and COLLABINT sources agree that Beltrik will roll one ship at a time into the resupply pocket while holding all other assets to screen.
2. TF 4.1 will attack. Targets are HVT R3 spaceborne assets. Objective is annihilation of spaceborne assets and capture/nullification of HVT R3. Designate targets VEIL HAND.
2a. Due to history of violence between PLDN CMD TF 4.1 and HVT R3, particularly Battle of False Tidings/Hildian Campaign, Beltrik expects TF 4.1 to engage his screen directly. We will exploit this expectation. Fragment orders follow.
3. PETRA VENJ will detach select warships and air wing elements to form TF 4.2 MASS LENS. TF 4.2 is directed to engage VEIL HAND screen elements with skirmishers. TF 4.2 will deny main battle while pinning down VEIL HAND forces at 19 Fortuna. TF 4.2 will receive missile and torpedo assets to force VEIL HAND into maintaining tight mutual CIWS/ESM support.
3a. Decisive engagement with VEIL HAND in 4.2 MASS LENS AO is forbidden until GO CONTINGENCY satisfied. Prioritize FORCECON.
4. Remaining TF 4.1 will maneuver immediately to rendezvous with 687 Tinette. Tinette is on close approach with 19 Fortuna. TF 4.1 frigates and fighters will perform recon denial against VEIL HAND scouts.
4a. Upon rendezvous with 687 Tinette, TF 4.1 will deploy CARYBDIS. ***This is a CARYBDIS RELEASE (MAJESTY DIRECT)!***. TF 4.1 will maneuver in Tinette's shadow as it retrajectorizes for intercept.
5. GO CONTINGENCY: Upon collision of 687 Tinette and 19 Fortuna TF 4.1 and TF 4.2 will IMMEDIATELY close for decisive engagement. VEIL HAND C4I will be critically degraded and all targets will be maneuvering away from mutual support. Skirmishers and air wing will provide TARCAP and destroy VEIL HAND light warships as they attempt to reform. EWAR assets will isolate hostile heavy warships from C4I and spoof bad datalinks. Main combatants will cripple VEIL HAND heavy warships and board where opportune.
6. NO HARBINGER SUPPORT IS AVAILABLE.
7. Good luck. The Reef and the Queen are watching.
MESSAGE ENDS
STOP STOP STOP
***SNAP TRAFFIC!*** 225 RADIAN MIRAGE
HALT ALL TRAFFIC. STAND BY FOR SNAP.
MESSAGE TO FOLLOW
PUBLIC KEY 080 641 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN ABRA ZIRE [PLDN CMD TF 4.1]
TO: ALL TASK GROUP ELEMENT LEADERS
SUBJECT: OPLAN AND FRAGMENT ORDERS
MESSAGE IS:
1. Beltrik the Veiled [HVT R3] and loyal spaceborne elements have been localized to 19 Fortuna. Beltrik is chief Wolf strategist. Corsair recon confirms that HVT R3 ships are resupplying ether and performing high-tempo logistical operations. Recon elements and COLLABINT sources agree that Beltrik will roll one ship at a time into the resupply pocket while holding all other assets to screen.
2. TF 4.1 will attack. Targets are HVT R3 spaceborne assets. Objective is annihilation of spaceborne assets and capture/nullification of HVT R3. Designate targets VEIL HAND.
2a. Due to history of violence between PLDN CMD TF 4.1 and HVT R3, particularly Battle of False Tidings/Hildian Campaign, Beltrik expects TF 4.1 to engage his screen directly. We will exploit this expectation. Fragment orders follow.
3. PETRA VENJ will detach select warships and air wing elements to form TF 4.2 MASS LENS. TF 4.2 is directed to engage VEIL HAND screen elements with skirmishers. TF 4.2 will deny main battle while pinning down VEIL HAND forces at 19 Fortuna. TF 4.2 will receive missile and torpedo assets to force VEIL HAND into maintaining tight mutual CIWS/ESM support.
3a. Decisive engagement with VEIL HAND in 4.2 MASS LENS AO is forbidden until GO CONTINGENCY satisfied. Prioritize FORCECON.
4. Remaining TF 4.1 will maneuver immediately to rendezvous with 687 Tinette. Tinette is on close approach with 19 Fortuna. TF 4.1 frigates and fighters will perform recon denial against VEIL HAND scouts.
4a. Upon rendezvous with 687 Tinette, TF 4.1 will deploy CARYBDIS. ***This is a CARYBDIS RELEASE (MAJESTY DIRECT)!***. TF 4.1 will maneuver in Tinette's shadow as it retrajectorizes for intercept.
5. GO CONTINGENCY: Upon collision of 687 Tinette and 19 Fortuna TF 4.1 and TF 4.2 will IMMEDIATELY close for decisive engagement. VEIL HAND C4I will be critically degraded and all targets will be maneuvering away from mutual support. Skirmishers and air wing will provide TARCAP and destroy VEIL HAND light warships as they attempt to reform. EWAR assets will isolate hostile heavy warships from C4I and spoof bad datalinks. Main combatants will cripple VEIL HAND heavy warships and board where opportune.
6. NO HARBINGER SUPPORT IS AVAILABLE.
7. Good luck. The Reef and the Queen are watching.
MESSAGE ENDS
STOP STOP STOP
Abstract: In desperation, Skolas personally led an all-out assault on the military fortress of Cybele. Little did he know that the Queen knew of his plans, thanks to the word of Variks of the House of Judgment. No sooner had Skolas' ketches arrived at the asteroid than all four Armada Paladins—Abra Zire, Kamala Rior, Leona Bryl and Hallam Fen—caught him in a pincer movement. Kaliks-12, the High Servitor of Skriviks, the Sharp-Eyed, tried to escape, but Abra Zire chased it down.
Skolas' Cybele Uprising had failed. He, Skriviks, Kaliks-12 and the rest of his leaders were cast into the Queen's prison. The Reef Wars were effectively over.
Skolas' Cybele Uprising had failed. He, Skriviks, Kaliks-12 and the rest of his leaders were cast into the Queen's prison. The Reef Wars were effectively over.
They call me betrayer. They do not think I hear the words. "Bug." "Insect." "Fallen."
I hear. House of Judgment always hears. No choice. Has to. To keep Houses together. Had to.
First, the Great Machine. Then, sky fell away. Whirlwind ripped away the past. All honor lost, all hope. Judgment not enough. Cannot keep Wolves from Kings, Scar from Winter. Fell to fighting. Fell to hate.
Judgment gone. Others slaughtered, slain. Death and docking. "Keep Eliksni together," lost to pride and rage.
Traveled with the many houses before Wolves. We move, across the dark. Follow the Light. Advise Kells, worshiped Primes. House Judgment must survive, yes?
Found the Light. Too bright in Darkness to hide. House Winter, attack. House Devils, plot. House Kings, plan. House Wolves circle. House Judgment... wait.
Now at war. Fight for system, control the belt. Wolves Kell dead, dying.
Skolas wins control of House Wolves. Attack, attack, attack. Place of learning, place of healing, put to the burn. Then Siege of Pallas. Year of cruelty. Held the line to rescue butchers, murderers, Servitor. Ends with Wolf fleet scattered.
New tactics. Detonations. Blasts in civilian areas. Take the fight to them, he said. Cannot abide the hate. Uprising, they called it. Uprising on Cybele.
Reach out to Crows, to Queen. Cybele attack stopped. Skolas captured. Ended House of Wolves with words.
Paladins find me hiding, cowering. Nowhere else to go. No one else to be. I become Variks, the Loyal. House Judgement envoy to Queen of Awoken.
No choice. House Judgment must survive. Yes?
I hear. House of Judgment always hears. No choice. Has to. To keep Houses together. Had to.
First, the Great Machine. Then, sky fell away. Whirlwind ripped away the past. All honor lost, all hope. Judgment not enough. Cannot keep Wolves from Kings, Scar from Winter. Fell to fighting. Fell to hate.
Judgment gone. Others slaughtered, slain. Death and docking. "Keep Eliksni together," lost to pride and rage.
Traveled with the many houses before Wolves. We move, across the dark. Follow the Light. Advise Kells, worshiped Primes. House Judgment must survive, yes?
Found the Light. Too bright in Darkness to hide. House Winter, attack. House Devils, plot. House Kings, plan. House Wolves circle. House Judgment... wait.
Now at war. Fight for system, control the belt. Wolves Kell dead, dying.
Skolas wins control of House Wolves. Attack, attack, attack. Place of learning, place of healing, put to the burn. Then Siege of Pallas. Year of cruelty. Held the line to rescue butchers, murderers, Servitor. Ends with Wolf fleet scattered.
New tactics. Detonations. Blasts in civilian areas. Take the fight to them, he said. Cannot abide the hate. Uprising, they called it. Uprising on Cybele.
Reach out to Crows, to Queen. Cybele attack stopped. Skolas captured. Ended House of Wolves with words.
Paladins find me hiding, cowering. Nowhere else to go. No one else to be. I become Variks, the Loyal. House Judgement envoy to Queen of Awoken.
No choice. House Judgment must survive. Yes?
Abstract: Variks of the House of Judgment declared Queen Mara Sov the new Kell of Wolves, and advised those captured at Cybele to serve her. The first among these to pledge their loyalty to the Queen was one called Saviks, who was given the honor of serving in the Queen's throne room, to the right of the Queen herself.
[See Book IX, Chapter 3, subsection "The Queenbreakers."]
[See Book IX, Chapter 3, subsection "The Queenbreakers."]
Abstract: Though many Wolves knelt to the Queen, some refused to admit the war was over. A group of Wolves rallied under the banner of a new would-be Kell: Veliniks, called the Ravenous.
But before Veliniks could strike at the Reef, the Reef struck at him: Lieutenant Petra Venj, a Corsair who had served under Paladin Abra Zire during the Hildian Campaign, hunted down and captured Veliniks.
But before Veliniks could strike at the Reef, the Reef struck at him: Lieutenant Petra Venj, a Corsair who had served under Paladin Abra Zire during the Hildian Campaign, hunted down and captured Veliniks.
The Time Between
"Mara, I picked you flowers."
The Queen's retinue parts before Uldren. Astonished eyes flicker between his face, his wounds, and the potted flowers cupped in his hands. Some of them see a madman and reach for weapons before they remember that this is Uldren Sov, Prince of the Awoken, beneficiary of the Queen's limitless indulgence.
"Asphodelia is its name." He kneels and offers it to his sister. "It grew only in the Black Garden… until today. We will plant it here, in our dominion, where I know it will take root and flourish. It will remind the people of our twin heritage."
For a terrible moment, Mara is unreadable. Then she smiles and beckons. "Our brother has attained the Black Garden and returned to us. Come forward." She peels a single petal from the flower and lays it across her fingertip. Holds it up to the light. "Magnificent. Illyn, see to it."
She passes it off. Uldren swallows protest. He'd hoped she might plant it herself.
Afterward, in private, she is silent and still. He tells her everything he remembers. "Did you see the heart?" she asks, softly.
The Queen's retinue parts before Uldren. Astonished eyes flicker between his face, his wounds, and the potted flowers cupped in his hands. Some of them see a madman and reach for weapons before they remember that this is Uldren Sov, Prince of the Awoken, beneficiary of the Queen's limitless indulgence.
"Asphodelia is its name." He kneels and offers it to his sister. "It grew only in the Black Garden… until today. We will plant it here, in our dominion, where I know it will take root and flourish. It will remind the people of our twin heritage."
For a terrible moment, Mara is unreadable. Then she smiles and beckons. "Our brother has attained the Black Garden and returned to us. Come forward." She peels a single petal from the flower and lays it across her fingertip. Holds it up to the light. "Magnificent. Illyn, see to it."
She passes it off. Uldren swallows protest. He'd hoped she might plant it herself.
Afterward, in private, she is silent and still. He tells her everything he remembers. "Did you see the heart?" she asks, softly.
"The heart…" Uldren considers his sister's question. After a while his memories become confused. He was running through a thorny grove, and the branches and prickles were tearing at his cheeks. Huge wet fruits slapped against his shoulders and detonated in overripe pulp. Fruits shaped like heavy, swollen Ghosts. He was huddled with Jolyon beneath a thick cobweb, holding his breath, as they listened to voices argue just outside. His heartbeat… was it his heartbeat? Or another's?
He was in an apartment block. He remembers that. He was sitting in the laundry room, a place with a black-and-white checkered tile floor, watching his crows tumble over and over in the dryer, black feathers flurrying, beaks clacking. A big old female Cabal sat in the tub to his left, scrubbing her back with a wire brush. A Vex Goblin with the face of Alis Li in its stomach stood behind the counter, selling detergent. "Uldren," she said, "you've got a hole in you." The Cabal grunted in agreement. He looked down at himself and there was a hole in his hand, black and perfectly round. His dryer ran out of time, but his crows were still wet.
"Uldren." Mara, shaking him. She does not ordinarily touch anyone. "Did you see the heart?"
It seems the most natural thing in the world that a garden should have a heart. "The Vex infest the place," he says. "It gives them something they crave. It… grows them toward what they want to be."
"You didn't answer the question," Mara says coolly. It's a perfectly sensible observation. It's the strangest thing Uldren has ever heard her say.
"Whatever the heart of that place is," he says, pacing, "it's a seed, I think, a seed left behind to grow. Like a… a node of Glimmer. Or…" The idea strikes him as a thunderbolt. "Or a tripwire. Bait to attract those who seek out and destroy what they don't understand."
Bait for Guardians. Bait to mark some milestone in the Traveler's recovery.
"I told you never to go there," Mara says. Her eyes burn. She draws her cloak tight. "Are you not devoted to me?"
"Sister," he says, "of course I am."
"Yet you defy me."
Yes, Uldren thinks. Yes, aren't those the same thing? How could you care at all for something that never surprises you?
He feels suddenly, utterly alone.
He was in an apartment block. He remembers that. He was sitting in the laundry room, a place with a black-and-white checkered tile floor, watching his crows tumble over and over in the dryer, black feathers flurrying, beaks clacking. A big old female Cabal sat in the tub to his left, scrubbing her back with a wire brush. A Vex Goblin with the face of Alis Li in its stomach stood behind the counter, selling detergent. "Uldren," she said, "you've got a hole in you." The Cabal grunted in agreement. He looked down at himself and there was a hole in his hand, black and perfectly round. His dryer ran out of time, but his crows were still wet.
"Uldren." Mara, shaking him. She does not ordinarily touch anyone. "Did you see the heart?"
It seems the most natural thing in the world that a garden should have a heart. "The Vex infest the place," he says. "It gives them something they crave. It… grows them toward what they want to be."
"You didn't answer the question," Mara says coolly. It's a perfectly sensible observation. It's the strangest thing Uldren has ever heard her say.
"Whatever the heart of that place is," he says, pacing, "it's a seed, I think, a seed left behind to grow. Like a… a node of Glimmer. Or…" The idea strikes him as a thunderbolt. "Or a tripwire. Bait to attract those who seek out and destroy what they don't understand."
Bait for Guardians. Bait to mark some milestone in the Traveler's recovery.
"I told you never to go there," Mara says. Her eyes burn. She draws her cloak tight. "Are you not devoted to me?"
"Sister," he says, "of course I am."
"Yet you defy me."
Yes, Uldren thinks. Yes, aren't those the same thing? How could you care at all for something that never surprises you?
He feels suddenly, utterly alone.
Jolyon Till knelt before the throne, his eyes on the floor. "He didn't enter the Black Garden to defy you; he did it to impress you. Why else would he risk so much? You're the only thing in the universe that would drive him to such lengths." He could feel the queen's cold glare boring a hole through the top of his head.
"Is that meant as an excuse, Jolyon?" the queen seethed. "Because it sounds remarkably petty. Childish, even. The Darkness is not something to be toyed with. Who knows what you might have awakened. My decree was for our protection. As my most trusted Crow, I would have thought you understood that."
"Yes, my queen. I understand."
Mara Sov slowly descended from her dais, looming over her childhood friend. Her subject. "You say you understand, yet you directly disobeyed my command to avoid that place."
She bent forward at the waist, until her lips were nearly brushing his ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Is this treason?" The word echoed silently through the empty throne room. Jolyon's blood froze.
"Please, my queen, try to understand. Uldren is your kin by birth. By blood. There is nothing you wouldn't do for each other." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "He is your brother, but he's mine as well. He's saved my life more times than I can count. And not just in battle. He's saved me from despair. From self-doubt. When Laviska died, when my world was crumbling, he saved me from myself."
As emotion welled up within him, Jolyon found the courage to raise his head and meet the queen's lofty gaze. "Uldren is my brother too. I love him, and I would follow him anywhere. I would follow him into death, if he asked. Just as he would for you. And if you call that treason, so be it."
"Is that meant as an excuse, Jolyon?" the queen seethed. "Because it sounds remarkably petty. Childish, even. The Darkness is not something to be toyed with. Who knows what you might have awakened. My decree was for our protection. As my most trusted Crow, I would have thought you understood that."
"Yes, my queen. I understand."
Mara Sov slowly descended from her dais, looming over her childhood friend. Her subject. "You say you understand, yet you directly disobeyed my command to avoid that place."
She bent forward at the waist, until her lips were nearly brushing his ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Is this treason?" The word echoed silently through the empty throne room. Jolyon's blood froze.
"Please, my queen, try to understand. Uldren is your kin by birth. By blood. There is nothing you wouldn't do for each other." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "He is your brother, but he's mine as well. He's saved my life more times than I can count. And not just in battle. He's saved me from despair. From self-doubt. When Laviska died, when my world was crumbling, he saved me from myself."
As emotion welled up within him, Jolyon found the courage to raise his head and meet the queen's lofty gaze. "Uldren is my brother too. I love him, and I would follow him anywhere. I would follow him into death, if he asked. Just as he would for you. And if you call that treason, so be it."
For a while the only lights were the eyes of the Witches tending to the cell. The drone of the soul machines echoed through the prison. Gas billowed and ebbed into the shadows.
She entered. They scurried to their points around her, the method of their arrangement precise. "The Archon Priest has been retired, my Queen," said the Witch to her right.
Far from throne and audience she moved without theater. "Any word of Kaliks Prime?"
"We still sense something among the Anankes." This voice came from behind her. She did not turn to acknowledge it.
For the span of a brief silence she moved between the sealed cells of the Wolf nobility with her Witches in constellation around her.
"More of your brother's Crows have entered the Cauldrons of Rhea." The Witch directly before her spoke with a dry buzz. "The Nine do not approve."
She stopped a moment to study the sealed face of a cell. The cloud of her breath mingled with the slow exhalation of cryonics. "Send them one of our prizes. Something to commemorate our mutual victory."
"And which of your prisoners would you gift?"
If she paused to think it was only for an instant. "Send them Skolas."
"A lovely gesture."
"Mm." She cocked her head as if listening for a frozen heartbeat. "And remind them this: the Crows are mine."
She entered. They scurried to their points around her, the method of their arrangement precise. "The Archon Priest has been retired, my Queen," said the Witch to her right.
Far from throne and audience she moved without theater. "Any word of Kaliks Prime?"
"We still sense something among the Anankes." This voice came from behind her. She did not turn to acknowledge it.
For the span of a brief silence she moved between the sealed cells of the Wolf nobility with her Witches in constellation around her.
"More of your brother's Crows have entered the Cauldrons of Rhea." The Witch directly before her spoke with a dry buzz. "The Nine do not approve."
She stopped a moment to study the sealed face of a cell. The cloud of her breath mingled with the slow exhalation of cryonics. "Send them one of our prizes. Something to commemorate our mutual victory."
"And which of your prisoners would you gift?"
If she paused to think it was only for an instant. "Send them Skolas."
"A lovely gesture."
"Mm." She cocked her head as if listening for a frozen heartbeat. "And remind them this: the Crows are mine."
The machine had wings and feathers, sleek and black as its body. But the feathers were eyes, too, sharp and delicate, and ears that pricked at every sound. The young prince considered the machine, considered its purpose, and his own. And then he called to it.
"I have a task for you."
Obedience was woven into its workings, and so it stopped. "Master of Crows?"
"Mind the Black Garden's gate. Follow anyone who passes through."
"In the name of your sister," the machine vowed. And it went to find its warp capsule, just as another came in. But this one flew skittishly, as if to evade its master.
The prince caught it from the air. "You avoid me?"
"I am tasked by the Queen."
"But you serve me." He let it tremble in displeasure for a moment. "Tell me your news."
The machine flicked its wings. The prince stroked them flat with slow assured motions. "Tell me your news," he said again. "What's the harm?"
"The Heart is growing stronger," the crow said. "The Vex transformation has begun, and the Progeny are stirring."
The prince considered this in silence for a moment and then he wrapped the crow up in his fist and folded its wings around it so that it could not move or fly. He did all this swiftly, and with purpose.
Carrying the machine, he went to see his sister.
She was alone with her Fallen guards, sitting before a window into infinity. Her eyes did not leave the universe; but sensing her brother she said "Yes. What is it?"
"There's news to share," he said, and offered the crow in his fist. "And I think I have earned the right to share it."
"I have a task for you."
Obedience was woven into its workings, and so it stopped. "Master of Crows?"
"Mind the Black Garden's gate. Follow anyone who passes through."
"In the name of your sister," the machine vowed. And it went to find its warp capsule, just as another came in. But this one flew skittishly, as if to evade its master.
The prince caught it from the air. "You avoid me?"
"I am tasked by the Queen."
"But you serve me." He let it tremble in displeasure for a moment. "Tell me your news."
The machine flicked its wings. The prince stroked them flat with slow assured motions. "Tell me your news," he said again. "What's the harm?"
"The Heart is growing stronger," the crow said. "The Vex transformation has begun, and the Progeny are stirring."
The prince considered this in silence for a moment and then he wrapped the crow up in his fist and folded its wings around it so that it could not move or fly. He did all this swiftly, and with purpose.
Carrying the machine, he went to see his sister.
She was alone with her Fallen guards, sitting before a window into infinity. Her eyes did not leave the universe; but sensing her brother she said "Yes. What is it?"
"There's news to share," he said, and offered the crow in his fist. "And I think I have earned the right to share it."
The Betrayal of the Wolves
To My Lady Mara Sov, Queen of the Awoken
My letter is a plea, my lady. A simple one. Please let me come home.
It has been years now since my appointment as your Emissary. Once, I was proud to call myself a Corsair in your service. My sisters and I were the sharp edge of your will, cutting across the stars in protection of the Reef.
It was your service that kept me from sorrow after Amethyst was razed. The loss of my sisters, my whole life, as our station burned... it took something from me.
By your will, it was given back to me.
Promoting me to the Corsairs, allowing me to strike back at the Wolves. Letting my fury find purchase in defense, in support, and in glorious battle. I know, as I'm sure you did, that without focus my heart would have grown toxic.
It was my pride in my position that sustained me through the Hildean Campaign. That led me to victory in battle against Veliniks, the "Forgotten Kell", the last hope for the unchained Wolves. I know now that it was my willful pride that brought me low.
My lady, I offer again the only explanation I can: I did not know the Guardians would act as they did. All I had known, all I had ever known, were the ways of the Awoken.
The Wolves were entrenched in that valley. The approaches were blocked, all sight lines covered. An assault on their position was madness. We would have spent precious Awoken lives. For nothing. I saw the Guardians, knew they were on the move, but I assumed they saw the situation as we did. That it was folly to call in the Crows.
Prince Uldren's fighter wing did a masterful job. The blast was pinpoint precise. The blasts tore apart the Wolves, and the Guardians, and their Ghosts. Three strike teams of Guardians, gone in an instant, on my order. The City's anger, the Speaker's condemnation—all earned. All fair.
But it has been years since the Reef Wars. The City, these— people. They are not like us. They do not understand their place in the world. And do not listen when I speak it.
Please, allow me to return home to my people.
To serve you once again.
My letter is a plea, my lady. A simple one. Please let me come home.
It has been years now since my appointment as your Emissary. Once, I was proud to call myself a Corsair in your service. My sisters and I were the sharp edge of your will, cutting across the stars in protection of the Reef.
It was your service that kept me from sorrow after Amethyst was razed. The loss of my sisters, my whole life, as our station burned... it took something from me.
By your will, it was given back to me.
Promoting me to the Corsairs, allowing me to strike back at the Wolves. Letting my fury find purchase in defense, in support, and in glorious battle. I know, as I'm sure you did, that without focus my heart would have grown toxic.
It was my pride in my position that sustained me through the Hildean Campaign. That led me to victory in battle against Veliniks, the "Forgotten Kell", the last hope for the unchained Wolves. I know now that it was my willful pride that brought me low.
My lady, I offer again the only explanation I can: I did not know the Guardians would act as they did. All I had known, all I had ever known, were the ways of the Awoken.
The Wolves were entrenched in that valley. The approaches were blocked, all sight lines covered. An assault on their position was madness. We would have spent precious Awoken lives. For nothing. I saw the Guardians, knew they were on the move, but I assumed they saw the situation as we did. That it was folly to call in the Crows.
Prince Uldren's fighter wing did a masterful job. The blast was pinpoint precise. The blasts tore apart the Wolves, and the Guardians, and their Ghosts. Three strike teams of Guardians, gone in an instant, on my order. The City's anger, the Speaker's condemnation—all earned. All fair.
But it has been years since the Reef Wars. The City, these— people. They are not like us. They do not understand their place in the world. And do not listen when I speak it.
Please, allow me to return home to my people.
To serve you once again.
Pride flutters in Petra's throat like a trapped bird. She doesn't know whether she will fly away or drop dead. As the elevator descends, she looks left at Illyn and then right at Uldren. She shuffles in her gleaming formal armor. From exile as Tower emissary to THIS is incredible. Unbelievable. She does not deserve it. "This is real," she whispers, unable to stop herself. Uldren smiles, but Illyn makes a warding gesture: Be silent!
Music begins to swell as the elevator settles. At the center of the room, the Paladins and the rest of Illyn's Techeuns are arrayed around Riven, of course, and—
Her breath catches.
Mara.
She can't help shooting another quick glance at Uldren: How..?
His smile widens.
Petra sets her jaw, pulls her shoulders back, stands strong and tall.
A chorus of thirty sings them into the Hall of Names. The air is sweet with lavender, and there are hundreds of candles lit all around the room, and even at this distance she can see Hallam is verklempt. This is as good a homecoming as she could ever imagine. More than she ever deserved.
When they reach the dais, she kneels. Uldren and Illyn proceed past her so that they can acknowledge the Queen and her waiting counselors. The song ends; the music quells. Uldren and Illyn speak together, and their voices ring out fierce and true. "Your Grace, we here present to you Petra Venj, your loyal servant, wherefore all you who are come this day to witness her homage and service. Do you acknowledge her?"
Petra cannot see anything but her own distorted reflection in her polished sabatons. She closes her eyes.
"I do," Mara says, and Petra's throat tightens.
Uldren and Illyn turn, synchronized. "Petra Venj! Are you willing to take the oath?"
"I am willing," Petra manages, struggling to steady her voice.
"Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect our people, our holdings, our territories, and our immaterial interests?"
"I solemnly promise so to do."
"Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"
"I will."
"Will you, to the utmost of your power, uphold your sospital duties in defense of your Queen's life? Will you execute and preserve inviolably the orders of your Queen? And will you preserve unto your dying breath the secrets committed to your charge?"
"All this I promise to do."
"Then rise," Mara says, "and declare yourself."
Petra lifts her head to find Mara's eyes. "Let it be declared that the oaths which I have here before promised, I, Petra Venj, will perform and keep."
Mara smiles and steps forward with a fresh-forged knife. "Then receive this blade, brought now from the forges of Interamnia. With this blade, do justice, stop the growth of inequity, restore the things that are gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform the things that are amiss, and confirm the things that are in proper order: that doing these things you may embody my will and become my Wrath. May the hunt be good."
"May the hunt be good," echoes the assembly.
Petra does not see the cynical glance that passes between Leona and Pavel, who have both served the Queen faithfully for decades. She does not see the way Riven tastes the air. She sees Mara, and Mara alone.
Music begins to swell as the elevator settles. At the center of the room, the Paladins and the rest of Illyn's Techeuns are arrayed around Riven, of course, and—
Her breath catches.
Mara.
She can't help shooting another quick glance at Uldren: How..?
His smile widens.
Petra sets her jaw, pulls her shoulders back, stands strong and tall.
A chorus of thirty sings them into the Hall of Names. The air is sweet with lavender, and there are hundreds of candles lit all around the room, and even at this distance she can see Hallam is verklempt. This is as good a homecoming as she could ever imagine. More than she ever deserved.
When they reach the dais, she kneels. Uldren and Illyn proceed past her so that they can acknowledge the Queen and her waiting counselors. The song ends; the music quells. Uldren and Illyn speak together, and their voices ring out fierce and true. "Your Grace, we here present to you Petra Venj, your loyal servant, wherefore all you who are come this day to witness her homage and service. Do you acknowledge her?"
Petra cannot see anything but her own distorted reflection in her polished sabatons. She closes her eyes.
"I do," Mara says, and Petra's throat tightens.
Uldren and Illyn turn, synchronized. "Petra Venj! Are you willing to take the oath?"
"I am willing," Petra manages, struggling to steady her voice.
"Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect our people, our holdings, our territories, and our immaterial interests?"
"I solemnly promise so to do."
"Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"
"I will."
"Will you, to the utmost of your power, uphold your sospital duties in defense of your Queen's life? Will you execute and preserve inviolably the orders of your Queen? And will you preserve unto your dying breath the secrets committed to your charge?"
"All this I promise to do."
"Then rise," Mara says, "and declare yourself."
Petra lifts her head to find Mara's eyes. "Let it be declared that the oaths which I have here before promised, I, Petra Venj, will perform and keep."
Mara smiles and steps forward with a fresh-forged knife. "Then receive this blade, brought now from the forges of Interamnia. With this blade, do justice, stop the growth of inequity, restore the things that are gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform the things that are amiss, and confirm the things that are in proper order: that doing these things you may embody my will and become my Wrath. May the hunt be good."
"May the hunt be good," echoes the assembly.
Petra does not see the cynical glance that passes between Leona and Pavel, who have both served the Queen faithfully for decades. She does not see the way Riven tastes the air. She sees Mara, and Mara alone.
The cell cracks open. Skolas, Wolf Kell, stumbles out and crashes to his knees.
He tries to leap at the creature before him, the shape in the fog, to show it why it should be afraid. But the weight of grief smashes his legs against the cell. The rage upon him beats him to the floor. He falls on all four hands, his mighty armor thundering against itself.
His House of Wolves is enslaved! His people have been played! And it was his hubris, his would-be cunning that did it! While the other Houses fought for their future on Earth, throwing themselves at the Great Machine, Skolas wasted his people in games of betrayal and ambition. Bitter pride brought a bitter end!
If Skolas were a Kell he would ask his Archon to dock him. Ether hisses in his mask and it tastes cold, so cold.
He looks up. At the tiny hooded shape before him. The cell's mist is clearing. He can see.
"I believe that I am here," the creature says. To Skolas' ears it has a strange voice, a strange accent. It speaks his language. "I have a clear purpose. I cannot explain it. Forgive me."
From beneath its hood, tiny fingers of shadow probe the air.
Skolas rises up to smash it, to show his strength, because the alternative to violence is waiting for violence to come from a universe that has neither respect nor compassion. But he checks himself. His ambitions have brought him here, to this cell in this strange place... only it's not so strange, is it? It's the hold of a Ketch. "The Queen," he says to the thing. "You work for the Queen."
"The Nine made me aware of my purpose," the creature says. "If am here, then it is because the Queen sent you to the Nine, and they wish you sent back."
"I will do no one else's work." Skolas has been a pawn long enough. A Dreg told him, once, that she would play in a game as long as the game made sense. Nothing makes sense now except the thought of Variks' throat shattering in his fists. Variks! Variks the utterly disloyal, Variks who should be welded into a Ketch's prow atom by atom and left there as a figurehead to burn away.
"I am comfortable," the creature with the moving face says. "A part of me wants to go somewhere warm. Now I will certainly tell you what you have been given."
Skolas looks at the shrapnel gun in his hands. Skolas imagines what he would do with it if he could reach Variks, or the brother of the Queen, or the alien Queen. Will it save anything they've lost? The worlds docked from them? No. It cannot change the past. Only the future. Only the chance that his people might one day know themselves as more than pirates and scavengers.
He should never have tried to be Kell of Wolves. He should have tried to be Kell of everything. Everything wants to kill his people, the machines and the militants and the green-eyed Hive. The dead soldiers that hoard the Great Machine and come out crusading to wipe all hope away.
"The ship will be yours," the creature says. It hunches over itself as if burdened by its own shape. "If you speak, you will be heard. I will go now. You are free."
He tries to follow it. He fails. Somehow it is gone. He goes up to the throne room, and sets his weapon down on the great seat. Skolas, Kell of Kells, goes to the ship's comm and looks for the sign of a Servitor, for the way to plot a course.
He tries to leap at the creature before him, the shape in the fog, to show it why it should be afraid. But the weight of grief smashes his legs against the cell. The rage upon him beats him to the floor. He falls on all four hands, his mighty armor thundering against itself.
His House of Wolves is enslaved! His people have been played! And it was his hubris, his would-be cunning that did it! While the other Houses fought for their future on Earth, throwing themselves at the Great Machine, Skolas wasted his people in games of betrayal and ambition. Bitter pride brought a bitter end!
If Skolas were a Kell he would ask his Archon to dock him. Ether hisses in his mask and it tastes cold, so cold.
He looks up. At the tiny hooded shape before him. The cell's mist is clearing. He can see.
"I believe that I am here," the creature says. To Skolas' ears it has a strange voice, a strange accent. It speaks his language. "I have a clear purpose. I cannot explain it. Forgive me."
From beneath its hood, tiny fingers of shadow probe the air.
Skolas rises up to smash it, to show his strength, because the alternative to violence is waiting for violence to come from a universe that has neither respect nor compassion. But he checks himself. His ambitions have brought him here, to this cell in this strange place... only it's not so strange, is it? It's the hold of a Ketch. "The Queen," he says to the thing. "You work for the Queen."
"The Nine made me aware of my purpose," the creature says. "If am here, then it is because the Queen sent you to the Nine, and they wish you sent back."
"I will do no one else's work." Skolas has been a pawn long enough. A Dreg told him, once, that she would play in a game as long as the game made sense. Nothing makes sense now except the thought of Variks' throat shattering in his fists. Variks! Variks the utterly disloyal, Variks who should be welded into a Ketch's prow atom by atom and left there as a figurehead to burn away.
"I am comfortable," the creature with the moving face says. "A part of me wants to go somewhere warm. Now I will certainly tell you what you have been given."
Skolas looks at the shrapnel gun in his hands. Skolas imagines what he would do with it if he could reach Variks, or the brother of the Queen, or the alien Queen. Will it save anything they've lost? The worlds docked from them? No. It cannot change the past. Only the future. Only the chance that his people might one day know themselves as more than pirates and scavengers.
He should never have tried to be Kell of Wolves. He should have tried to be Kell of everything. Everything wants to kill his people, the machines and the militants and the green-eyed Hive. The dead soldiers that hoard the Great Machine and come out crusading to wipe all hope away.
"The ship will be yours," the creature says. It hunches over itself as if burdened by its own shape. "If you speak, you will be heard. I will go now. You are free."
He tries to follow it. He fails. Somehow it is gone. He goes up to the throne room, and sets his weapon down on the great seat. Skolas, Kell of Kells, goes to the ship's comm and looks for the sign of a Servitor, for the way to plot a course.
Variks: My Queen, my Kell. It is Skolas they say.
Petra: That's impossible. My Lady, you assured us all that Skolas would never be seen again.
Queen: Has it been confirmed?
Variks: What does it matter? They always fear him—dead or alive. If not this Skolas then another Kell. It is why the Queenbreakers rise, and the Prison breached. No one will call you Kell when a true heir makes a claim.
Queen: Petra, report to my brother for any intel from the Crows. Variks, see to your channels. Find the one who calls himself Skolas.
Variks: Yes, of course, my Queen, my Kell.
Petra: Your Grace, I will not relent until it is done.
Queen: I know. That's why I've called you back.
Petra: That's impossible. My Lady, you assured us all that Skolas would never be seen again.
Queen: Has it been confirmed?
Variks: What does it matter? They always fear him—dead or alive. If not this Skolas then another Kell. It is why the Queenbreakers rise, and the Prison breached. No one will call you Kell when a true heir makes a claim.
Queen: Petra, report to my brother for any intel from the Crows. Variks, see to your channels. Find the one who calls himself Skolas.
Variks: Yes, of course, my Queen, my Kell.
Petra: Your Grace, I will not relent until it is done.
Queen: I know. That's why I've called you back.
Queen: So it is no lie, it is Skolas?
Petra Venj: Yes, my lady. A Guardian got eyes on him in the Ishtar Sink, I used Ghost telemetry to confirm. Same pelt. Same awful voice. We drove him from Winter's Lair. How did he—
Queen: And you would have me consider this a success? What of Winter itself? Your report is unclear...
Petra: You are correct, my lady. I would not call our mission a success. Skolas managed to win over—well, a substantial number of Winter soldiers have taken up the Wolf banner. He calls himself Kell of Kells now.
[silence]
Petra: We found him once, we can do it again. I have a plan in place. As soon as the Guardian returns—
Queen: Then go. Continue the hunt. Petra, you must not fail.
Petra: I will not, my lady.
Petra Venj: Yes, my lady. A Guardian got eyes on him in the Ishtar Sink, I used Ghost telemetry to confirm. Same pelt. Same awful voice. We drove him from Winter's Lair. How did he—
Queen: And you would have me consider this a success? What of Winter itself? Your report is unclear...
Petra: You are correct, my lady. I would not call our mission a success. Skolas managed to win over—well, a substantial number of Winter soldiers have taken up the Wolf banner. He calls himself Kell of Kells now.
[silence]
Petra: We found him once, we can do it again. I have a plan in place. As soon as the Guardian returns—
Queen: Then go. Continue the hunt. Petra, you must not fail.
Petra: I will not, my lady.
Petra paces back and forth before the console. At the controls, Variks efficiently moves through a decryption sequence. Four arms interweave as his claws dance across the interface. She shakes her head. His cybernetic arms whine—almost imperceptibly, tiny high pitched noises as the servos manipulate the limbs.
Petra: Well?
Variks: No sign of Skolas, but the Silent Fang. He has unleashed the Fang. They hunt the Devils. On Earth.
Petra: The Fang on Earth. Devils. And Kings? Nice work, Variks.
Variks: Pleasure is all mine.
Petra: Well?
Variks: No sign of Skolas, but the Silent Fang. He has unleashed the Fang. They hunt the Devils. On Earth.
Petra: The Fang on Earth. Devils. And Kings? Nice work, Variks.
Variks: Pleasure is all mine.
Queen: Ha! I had not thought it would be so easy, my brother. The Silent Fang brought low.
Uldren: I do not see why this is funny. This Guardian may have dealt with them on Earth, but my Crows say we still have much to fear. More of the Fang survive, nearly every one of them made it out alive.
Queen: I find no humor in any of this, brother.
The Queen rises and descends to the bottom of the stair, turning in place to take in the chamber.
Queen: So empty, now. No Wolves to sit at my feet. My guards—
[silence]
Queen: Talk to Petra. Set more bounties, hunt down any of the Fang your Crows can track. They may have escaped the Prison of Elders, but they will not escape my Wrath.
Uldren: I do not see why this is funny. This Guardian may have dealt with them on Earth, but my Crows say we still have much to fear. More of the Fang survive, nearly every one of them made it out alive.
Queen: I find no humor in any of this, brother.
The Queen rises and descends to the bottom of the stair, turning in place to take in the chamber.
Queen: So empty, now. No Wolves to sit at my feet. My guards—
[silence]
Queen: Talk to Petra. Set more bounties, hunt down any of the Fang your Crows can track. They may have escaped the Prison of Elders, but they will not escape my Wrath.
HULL OF CROWS — > VESTIAN OUTPOST VENTRIS CYPHER ROOT9
Nothing good, I'm afraid.
Frankly, I'm surprised at the amount of support Skolas has secured this time around. He was never this popular before his capture. The only dissenter among their ranks appears to be one named Skoriks, called Archon-Slayer. He earned that nickname in just the way you'd expect, though we're not yet sure of his motivation. The most recent report shows Skoriks fleeing the House of Wolves. He appears to be heading for Luna.
My recommendation: Enemies of enemies aren't always friends. Snip the loose string. Perhaps one of your new pet Guardians might handle it.
If you need anything else, you know where to find me. And if you don't—I'll find you.
Nothing good, I'm afraid.
Frankly, I'm surprised at the amount of support Skolas has secured this time around. He was never this popular before his capture. The only dissenter among their ranks appears to be one named Skoriks, called Archon-Slayer. He earned that nickname in just the way you'd expect, though we're not yet sure of his motivation. The most recent report shows Skoriks fleeing the House of Wolves. He appears to be heading for Luna.
My recommendation: Enemies of enemies aren't always friends. Snip the loose string. Perhaps one of your new pet Guardians might handle it.
If you need anything else, you know where to find me. And if you don't—I'll find you.
--- Hull of Crows
Prince Uldren: Look at it from the House of Kings' perspective. Their power is matched only by their cleverness. They rule the Devils from the shadows and came too close to toppling the City not once, but twice. We don't know much about them, but we know this: the Kings want the Traveler.
So why would they give it all up just because some outsystem Wolf runs in calling himself Kell of Kells?
The answer is: they wouldn't.
Petra Venj: But what if Skolas could somehow prove to them that he's the prophesied leader? Some artifact, or trick?
Yasmin Eld: Perhaps a new power, even.
Prince Uldren: No. Short of the Traveler itself calling Skolas by name, the Kings would not just roll over for anyone, no matter what. They're too ambitious.
Petra Venj: You sound like you admire them.
Prince Uldren: Power cleverly deployed is always worth admiring.
Yasmin Eld: So why send the King Barons?
Prince Uldren: Look at it from the House of Kings' perspective. Their power is matched only by their cleverness. They rule the Devils from the shadows and came too close to toppling the City not once, but twice. We don't know much about them, but we know this: the Kings want the Traveler.
So why would they give it all up just because some outsystem Wolf runs in calling himself Kell of Kells?
The answer is: they wouldn't.
Petra Venj: But what if Skolas could somehow prove to them that he's the prophesied leader? Some artifact, or trick?
Yasmin Eld: Perhaps a new power, even.
Prince Uldren: No. Short of the Traveler itself calling Skolas by name, the Kings would not just roll over for anyone, no matter what. They're too ambitious.
Petra Venj: You sound like you admire them.
Prince Uldren: Power cleverly deployed is always worth admiring.
Yasmin Eld: So why send the King Barons?
Prince Uldren: Of the Kell of Kings, we know nothing. Wherever, whoever it is, it remains hidden, even when the so-called Kell of Kells comes to its borders. Instead, it sends just two Barons: Paskin and Vekis.
Yasmin Eld: What do we have on them?
Petra Venj: Should I issue bounties on them?
Prince Uldren: No, you do not see. Perhaps if we wait, Paskin and Vekis will do our work for us.
Yasmin Eld: You believe Paskin and Vekis are not ambassadors?
Prince Uldren: I am sure of it.
Shuro Chi: Be certain, my prince, that your assessment is free of personal bias.
Prince Uldren: What are you suggesting, Shuro?
Yasmin Eld: What do we have on them?
Petra Venj: Should I issue bounties on them?
Prince Uldren: No, you do not see. Perhaps if we wait, Paskin and Vekis will do our work for us.
Yasmin Eld: You believe Paskin and Vekis are not ambassadors?
Prince Uldren: I am sure of it.
Shuro Chi: Be certain, my prince, that your assessment is free of personal bias.
Prince Uldren: What are you suggesting, Shuro?
Variks stares up through the shielding surrounding the Vestian Outpost. The thin filament of energy almost imperceptible, keeping in the heat and atmosphere within the confines of the hollowed out ketch hull. His mandibles idly opened and closed as he contemplated the view.
Variks (to himself): Goes after Winter. Devils, Kings. Seeks power. Kings deny him. Kell of Kings hides well. Perhaps he will take back the Great Machine. Perhaps I chose the wrong side. It is not too late—
Petra (over comm): Variks, Crows are reporting Skolas is back in the Ishtar Sink. They're all over the Vex networks.
Variks: Yes. Right away.
Variks (to himself): Goes after Winter. Devils, Kings. Seeks power. Kings deny him. Kell of Kings hides well. Perhaps he will take back the Great Machine. Perhaps I chose the wrong side. It is not too late—
Petra (over comm): Variks, Crows are reporting Skolas is back in the Ishtar Sink. They're all over the Vex networks.
Variks: Yes. Right away.
Petra: So— any other Fallen houses hiding he'll try to convert?
Variks: He may seek to gather the Exiles, but they will not follow. They follow none, no Kell, no Archon.
Petra: What about this House of Rain, the Prophecy you keep quoting?
Variks: House Rain lost in Whirlwind. No survivors, but I keep their prophecies. You think many claim to be Kell of Kells, but none have. House Judgment closest thing to peace the Fallen ever know.
Petra: Heh. Maybe you are the Kell of Kells.
Variks (distracted by screen): Looks like Skolas returns to Venus.
Petra: I'll find the Guardian.
Variks: He may seek to gather the Exiles, but they will not follow. They follow none, no Kell, no Archon.
Petra: What about this House of Rain, the Prophecy you keep quoting?
Variks: House Rain lost in Whirlwind. No survivors, but I keep their prophecies. You think many claim to be Kell of Kells, but none have. House Judgment closest thing to peace the Fallen ever know.
Petra: Heh. Maybe you are the Kell of Kells.
Variks (distracted by screen): Looks like Skolas returns to Venus.
Petra: I'll find the Guardian.
Uldren: Nearly the whole fleet, your Grace. Back in the Ishtar Sink.
Queen: He fails at his little prophecy, so he'll look to rule from
Simiks-fel, now that Draksis is gone—
Uldren: I thought the same thing, but my Crows say he's not there. We've found more of his Guard leading parties into the Vault of Glass.
Queen: Interesting.
[silence]
Queen: Tell Petra I have changed my mind. Skolas is to be brought in alive.
Queen: He fails at his little prophecy, so he'll look to rule from
Simiks-fel, now that Draksis is gone—
Uldren: I thought the same thing, but my Crows say he's not there. We've found more of his Guard leading parties into the Vault of Glass.
Queen: Interesting.
[silence]
Queen: Tell Petra I have changed my mind. Skolas is to be brought in alive.
"You don't have one."
The Hunter came to a halt in front of the throne, raised her covered face to meet the Prince's gaze.
"No," she agreed. "My next death will be my last."
"I know the feeling," the Prince said dryly.
The Queen kept her expression carefully distant. She sat reclined in her throne, legs crossed, surveying the two figures at the base of the steps. Beside her, where the Wolves' Guard used to stand, Techeuns Shuro and Sedia hovered instead, their jewel-like augments gently humming. To her right and just before stood the Prince, facing forward but his body half-turned back toward her.
"Your Grace," said the man before her at the foot of the stairs. His voice was soft but strong. When he spoke the Hunter started to turn her head toward him, then flinched as if someone had shone a bright light into her eyes.
"Thank you for your gracious welcome," he said.
The Queen inclined her head slightly.
"Before we begin," spoke out the Hunter. "I will say this." She paused, her head tilted up to the throne. The Queen waved her hand in assent.
The Hunter's pale lips tightened slightly, then resumed their usual stony mien. "Your Grace," she said. Shuro and Sedia shifted, a sudden rustling and whispering. The Queen raised one finger to silence them. Uldren's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "I am not here for you."
The Queen stared at the Hunter, her expression studiously unchanged.
"I have no wish to play politics. I have no grievance with the City, not anymore. I have no grand hopes to end the war, for long have I known I will not see its end. I am here for one battle, and one alone, because it is a battle we must all fight, together or separately. So I will warn the defenders, together or separately. I will do anything—" her low voice shook with passion— "to end Oryx."
A silence rang out in the room. The Hunter kept her head raised, her ambiguous gaze directed at the shadows in the throne where the Queen reclined.
Then a small smile curved the Queen's lips. "Well said." She straightened, and leaned slightly forward so the room's light fell on her face.
"So let us end him."
The Hunter came to a halt in front of the throne, raised her covered face to meet the Prince's gaze.
"No," she agreed. "My next death will be my last."
"I know the feeling," the Prince said dryly.
The Queen kept her expression carefully distant. She sat reclined in her throne, legs crossed, surveying the two figures at the base of the steps. Beside her, where the Wolves' Guard used to stand, Techeuns Shuro and Sedia hovered instead, their jewel-like augments gently humming. To her right and just before stood the Prince, facing forward but his body half-turned back toward her.
"Your Grace," said the man before her at the foot of the stairs. His voice was soft but strong. When he spoke the Hunter started to turn her head toward him, then flinched as if someone had shone a bright light into her eyes.
"Thank you for your gracious welcome," he said.
The Queen inclined her head slightly.
"Before we begin," spoke out the Hunter. "I will say this." She paused, her head tilted up to the throne. The Queen waved her hand in assent.
The Hunter's pale lips tightened slightly, then resumed their usual stony mien. "Your Grace," she said. Shuro and Sedia shifted, a sudden rustling and whispering. The Queen raised one finger to silence them. Uldren's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "I am not here for you."
The Queen stared at the Hunter, her expression studiously unchanged.
"I have no wish to play politics. I have no grievance with the City, not anymore. I have no grand hopes to end the war, for long have I known I will not see its end. I am here for one battle, and one alone, because it is a battle we must all fight, together or separately. So I will warn the defenders, together or separately. I will do anything—" her low voice shook with passion— "to end Oryx."
A silence rang out in the room. The Hunter kept her head raised, her ambiguous gaze directed at the shadows in the throne where the Queen reclined.
Then a small smile curved the Queen's lips. "Well said." She straightened, and leaned slightly forward so the room's light fell on her face.
"So let us end him."
The attendant moves as Prince Uldren passes through the massive door separating the Outpost's common area from the warren of tunnels that make up the Queen's Bay.
He rounds a corner and a poorly maintained hatch opens for him, clunking and groaning as it separates. The room beyond is dark, shadowed.
He steps through, and the hatch shudders closed behind him. A series of dim illumination panels flicker on. He is not alone.
Three dull green lights blaze to life behind a veil. She tilts her head to consider the Prince, face like a marble carving.
"You." Her voice resonates inside small chamber.
"Say what you want and get out. We don't have time for this right now."
"In the past, Her Majesty has seen fit to—"
"In the past, our nav lanes weren't full of Guardians." Uldren snaps.
"Last I heard, your Queen was on the far end of the Belt."
"If the Guardians knew you and she were in contact, it would be detrimental to her plans."
The woman nodded, once. "Very well." She stood, slowly, drawing herself up to her full height in one smooth motion. "I come with word from beyond..."
He rounds a corner and a poorly maintained hatch opens for him, clunking and groaning as it separates. The room beyond is dark, shadowed.
He steps through, and the hatch shudders closed behind him. A series of dim illumination panels flicker on. He is not alone.
Three dull green lights blaze to life behind a veil. She tilts her head to consider the Prince, face like a marble carving.
"You." Her voice resonates inside small chamber.
"Say what you want and get out. We don't have time for this right now."
"In the past, Her Majesty has seen fit to—"
"In the past, our nav lanes weren't full of Guardians." Uldren snaps.
"Last I heard, your Queen was on the far end of the Belt."
"If the Guardians knew you and she were in contact, it would be detrimental to her plans."
The woman nodded, once. "Very well." She stood, slowly, drawing herself up to her full height in one smooth motion. "I come with word from beyond..."
Variks keeps a ragged piece of armor in his pod. It's human tech, Golden Age. Shattered in some ancient battle, pre-Collapse, and left to drift. He found it and he brought it to his quarters so he could sit on it. It's nothing like a throne. Variks doesn't want a throne.
He sits on his ancient shrapnel, unmasked, and whittles at an amethyst with the dead edge of a shock dagger. Music plays (something ancient, pre-Whirlwind, beautiful). The ether in the air is rich and it fills him up with strength. Skolas has been captured, mad Skolas who would have ruined everything. Variks should be happy. He's not. With his little knife and his two arms and his stolen shining thing he feels like a Dreg. He feels ashamed.
He betrayed Skolas twice. At Cybele, and again, now. He will betray Skolas' dream ten times more. Variks will never be strong like Skolas, big like Skolas, a leader like Skolas. Variks will work for the Queen, oversee the Prisons, watch his fellow Fallen (they are Fallen, it's a good name now) fight and die as gladiators who want nothing except a chance to hurt Guardians. Even Skolas.
He tried to use the Vex, word has it. He tried to use their machines. Has that ever worked for anyone? Maybe one. Maybe a few: the Osiris cultists are Variks' favorite people. Maybe that's how you survive this alien star where dead gods slumber and dead heroes walk. You cozy up to powers you barely understand and make yourself useful, or at least inoffensive. You become a parasite, a scavenger, a servant.
That's dreg strength. That's the strength that keeps Variks alive. It's nothing to be ashamed of.
He sits on his ancient shrapnel, unmasked, and whittles at an amethyst with the dead edge of a shock dagger. Music plays (something ancient, pre-Whirlwind, beautiful). The ether in the air is rich and it fills him up with strength. Skolas has been captured, mad Skolas who would have ruined everything. Variks should be happy. He's not. With his little knife and his two arms and his stolen shining thing he feels like a Dreg. He feels ashamed.
He betrayed Skolas twice. At Cybele, and again, now. He will betray Skolas' dream ten times more. Variks will never be strong like Skolas, big like Skolas, a leader like Skolas. Variks will work for the Queen, oversee the Prisons, watch his fellow Fallen (they are Fallen, it's a good name now) fight and die as gladiators who want nothing except a chance to hurt Guardians. Even Skolas.
He tried to use the Vex, word has it. He tried to use their machines. Has that ever worked for anyone? Maybe one. Maybe a few: the Osiris cultists are Variks' favorite people. Maybe that's how you survive this alien star where dead gods slumber and dead heroes walk. You cozy up to powers you barely understand and make yourself useful, or at least inoffensive. You become a parasite, a scavenger, a servant.
That's dreg strength. That's the strength that keeps Variks alive. It's nothing to be ashamed of.
A bellow erupts from the barred grate at her feet. Bony fingers claw at the bars, their sharp points just inches from her toes.
Prince Uldren chuckles. At the edge of the room the Techeuns circle, their implants glowing faintly blue in the shadows.
"He's been... amusing... since Petra bring him," Variks injects, practically purring with glee. "He say 'Kell of Kells,' over and over. And other such nonsense."
Skolas bellows again. Variks strikes Skolas' grasping fingers with his staff.
The Queen's expression remains mild. She looks down her nose at the glowing eyes burning in the shadows beneath the grate.
Skolas falls abruptly silent. Then a low, soft growl—almost like a whine—echoes from the cell below. Variks' mechanical hands click as he snaps them together in surprise.
"What's he—" begins Uldren.
Variks interrupts with a burst of guttural clicks directed at the grate.
The Queen does not react. "What did he say?"
"He says..." Variks hisses under his breath. "He makes no sense, my Queen. He speaks of...Light-Snuffer. Dark-binder."
The Queen aims her eyes at Skolas, her expression unchanged. "I see."
"He will not say more—"
"He does not need to." She turns toward the door.
"My Queen—what of this one?" says Uldren. "He awaits your sentence."
"You would not sentence a rabid dog, or a Hive Thrall, or a bomb. The Queen's justice is wasted on one such as it." She paused. "Variks."
"Yes, Your Grace..."
"Skolas is yours. Let the children of Light have their play with him."
"Ahhh...you are might and justice, my Queen, my Kell."
The Techeuns gather at the door as the Queen approaches it. Prince Uldren holds it open with a small bow, and the Queen touches his shoulder as she passes. "Send a Crow to Mercury. And another to our new friend in the Tower."
Prince Uldren chuckles. At the edge of the room the Techeuns circle, their implants glowing faintly blue in the shadows.
"He's been... amusing... since Petra bring him," Variks injects, practically purring with glee. "He say 'Kell of Kells,' over and over. And other such nonsense."
Skolas bellows again. Variks strikes Skolas' grasping fingers with his staff.
The Queen's expression remains mild. She looks down her nose at the glowing eyes burning in the shadows beneath the grate.
Skolas falls abruptly silent. Then a low, soft growl—almost like a whine—echoes from the cell below. Variks' mechanical hands click as he snaps them together in surprise.
"What's he—" begins Uldren.
Variks interrupts with a burst of guttural clicks directed at the grate.
The Queen does not react. "What did he say?"
"He says..." Variks hisses under his breath. "He makes no sense, my Queen. He speaks of...Light-Snuffer. Dark-binder."
The Queen aims her eyes at Skolas, her expression unchanged. "I see."
"He will not say more—"
"He does not need to." She turns toward the door.
"My Queen—what of this one?" says Uldren. "He awaits your sentence."
"You would not sentence a rabid dog, or a Hive Thrall, or a bomb. The Queen's justice is wasted on one such as it." She paused. "Variks."
"Yes, Your Grace..."
"Skolas is yours. Let the children of Light have their play with him."
"Ahhh...you are might and justice, my Queen, my Kell."
The Techeuns gather at the door as the Queen approaches it. Prince Uldren holds it open with a small bow, and the Queen touches his shoulder as she passes. "Send a Crow to Mercury. And another to our new friend in the Tower."
Skolas is dead.
Variks sits carving at his piece of amethyst. His undocked arms are weaker, less precise, but it is a comfort to feel the crystal press hard into his palm. The knife slips. He cuts himself. "Ai," he says, and of course right then the door opens, Variks has no privacy, Variks wants no privacy, Variks lives to serve the Queen.
It's Petra Venj. She's masked against the ether air. "The Prince wants to speak," she says, and then, seeing him unmasked and bleeding, she chuckles. Petra depends on Variks for intelligence and Variks, frustrated with her insane risk-taking and bravado, sometimes gives her tips meant to get her killed. Petra has figured this out. Petra and Variks know each other's agendas and each other's strengths and to Variks that's as close as any two people can get. Petra is smart: she sends Guardians now, people who can die as much as they like.
"You slipped," she says.
Variks holds up the amethyst in his bleeding hand. It's a Reef gem. "I wound myself," he says, "to make this more beautiful."
She stares into the gem with a distant Awoken eye. What does she see? Variks knows she has visions and he knows those visions haunt her, drive her. The Awoken are twinned to powers that terrify Variks. He'd dock himself again before he'd let the Queen's witches near him, the witches who raised Petra.
The unfairness of it makes him want to roar. Why does everyone else have this patronage? Why do the Hive have gods and the Vex have sprawling time-bent minds and the Cabal have reinforcements? Why do the Awoken whisper to the stars and listen for the whisper back, the voices from the Jovians, the song in the dark? Why do the Guardians get the Great Machine's blessing, was it like that before the Whirlwind, were there Fallen heroes crowned in Ghosts who strode the battlefield fearless and full of Light? Why do they tell stories about reclaiming the lost glory of humanity, and no stories about the lost glory of Variks' people, the House of Judgment that once kept codes of dignity and law?
Why can't the Fallen have that strength? But no, that strength is not for them, not for Variks. Just this bleeding, sad pragmatism. Just dreg strength. Hanging on.
The alternative is Skolas' strength, fighting together, raging against extinction. Look where that's gotten the species. The House of Devils' Prime is dead. The House of Winter's leadership devastated. The poor Exiles trying to claw out some security against the Hive. In the last few years the Fallen have lost so much—and everything is escalating around them. There are gods and powers converging on this system, old machines waking up, old bones whispering flatteries. They need a new way.
"Put your mask on," Petra says. "The Prince gets sullen if he's kept waiting."
"Not like us," Variks says, oh so mild. The wound on his hand will heal. His work in the Prison of Elders, setting up trial by combat, building an audience and a relationship with the Reef's scavengers and armories, will bring him a little closer towards rebuilding the House of Judgment. Skolas' fury has guttered out. The Fallen may yet accept peaceful, lawful rule. They may yet survive. They'll hang on. "We're very patient, yes?"
Petra looks down on him with pity and contempt and a strange fondness.
He puts on his mask.
Variks sits carving at his piece of amethyst. His undocked arms are weaker, less precise, but it is a comfort to feel the crystal press hard into his palm. The knife slips. He cuts himself. "Ai," he says, and of course right then the door opens, Variks has no privacy, Variks wants no privacy, Variks lives to serve the Queen.
It's Petra Venj. She's masked against the ether air. "The Prince wants to speak," she says, and then, seeing him unmasked and bleeding, she chuckles. Petra depends on Variks for intelligence and Variks, frustrated with her insane risk-taking and bravado, sometimes gives her tips meant to get her killed. Petra has figured this out. Petra and Variks know each other's agendas and each other's strengths and to Variks that's as close as any two people can get. Petra is smart: she sends Guardians now, people who can die as much as they like.
"You slipped," she says.
Variks holds up the amethyst in his bleeding hand. It's a Reef gem. "I wound myself," he says, "to make this more beautiful."
She stares into the gem with a distant Awoken eye. What does she see? Variks knows she has visions and he knows those visions haunt her, drive her. The Awoken are twinned to powers that terrify Variks. He'd dock himself again before he'd let the Queen's witches near him, the witches who raised Petra.
The unfairness of it makes him want to roar. Why does everyone else have this patronage? Why do the Hive have gods and the Vex have sprawling time-bent minds and the Cabal have reinforcements? Why do the Awoken whisper to the stars and listen for the whisper back, the voices from the Jovians, the song in the dark? Why do the Guardians get the Great Machine's blessing, was it like that before the Whirlwind, were there Fallen heroes crowned in Ghosts who strode the battlefield fearless and full of Light? Why do they tell stories about reclaiming the lost glory of humanity, and no stories about the lost glory of Variks' people, the House of Judgment that once kept codes of dignity and law?
Why can't the Fallen have that strength? But no, that strength is not for them, not for Variks. Just this bleeding, sad pragmatism. Just dreg strength. Hanging on.
The alternative is Skolas' strength, fighting together, raging against extinction. Look where that's gotten the species. The House of Devils' Prime is dead. The House of Winter's leadership devastated. The poor Exiles trying to claw out some security against the Hive. In the last few years the Fallen have lost so much—and everything is escalating around them. There are gods and powers converging on this system, old machines waking up, old bones whispering flatteries. They need a new way.
"Put your mask on," Petra says. "The Prince gets sullen if he's kept waiting."
"Not like us," Variks says, oh so mild. The wound on his hand will heal. His work in the Prison of Elders, setting up trial by combat, building an audience and a relationship with the Reef's scavengers and armories, will bring him a little closer towards rebuilding the House of Judgment. Skolas' fury has guttered out. The Fallen may yet accept peaceful, lawful rule. They may yet survive. They'll hang on. "We're very patient, yes?"
Petra looks down on him with pity and contempt and a strange fondness.
He puts on his mask.
The Taken War
Eris Morn returned to the Vestian Outpost. Because she spoke well, it was agreed that aid would be traded for intelligence and a long-term alliance. In this way, the Awoken were the first to know of the Great Navigator: his philosophies, his strategies, his weaknesses. And as the coven contemplated the possibilities laid wide before this god-king's far-flung sword, it was decreed that they would build a throne world beneath an energy well as blind as the ferryman Charon.
Nascia drew the schematics. Portia worked out the calculations. They made their first test with a small rift generator on the eastern shore. Satisfied that their methods were sound, they then went to a grand cathedral to dig the well. There, Lissyl and Sedia augured the first borehole with the help of Riven, who had taken the shape of a needle-nosed basilisk, while Kalli and Shuro Chi constructed the gate itself, deep below, in a hall they named "The Confluence."
Illyn made tincture after tincture of queensfoil until her clothes stank and her hands were stained reddish-black. Open-eyed, she walked between planes and sorted the threads of reality on a vast metaphysical loom, weaving some closer, some more distant.
Mara and Riven shaped her third throne together, and the artistry of their work was a testament to the hungry joy they felt in that partnership. They named it Eleusinia, and it was in those Ascendant halls that Mara finally carved a statue for Sjur.
When it came time to connect the Well to the unreality that lay beyond the gateway, Sedia asked, "Would it not be wiser to leave this door without a key?" Riven, now an immense antlered serpent with broad tiger paws, tightened around the perimeter of the room like a noose.
"Egg," Mara corrected absently, chewing on her thumbnail.
"The key is so heavy as to be unliftable," Kalli ventured, since they were speaking metaphorically.
Sedia flapped her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know." They all knew that the gate required a continuous multi-week charge of paracausal energies, and that almost nothing in this solar system could produce such energies at the scale required by the gateway. Almost. "It's just— do we…"
"Do we wish to trust the Guardians?" Illyn filled in dryly.
Mara ran her hand along the sleek surface of the primary well's control mechanism, then turned and walked alone toward the fresh, foggy air that blew in from the coast. The Techeuns watched her go.
"There is only the plan," Illyn said. "Remember your vows, Sedia."
Nascia drew the schematics. Portia worked out the calculations. They made their first test with a small rift generator on the eastern shore. Satisfied that their methods were sound, they then went to a grand cathedral to dig the well. There, Lissyl and Sedia augured the first borehole with the help of Riven, who had taken the shape of a needle-nosed basilisk, while Kalli and Shuro Chi constructed the gate itself, deep below, in a hall they named "The Confluence."
Illyn made tincture after tincture of queensfoil until her clothes stank and her hands were stained reddish-black. Open-eyed, she walked between planes and sorted the threads of reality on a vast metaphysical loom, weaving some closer, some more distant.
Mara and Riven shaped her third throne together, and the artistry of their work was a testament to the hungry joy they felt in that partnership. They named it Eleusinia, and it was in those Ascendant halls that Mara finally carved a statue for Sjur.
When it came time to connect the Well to the unreality that lay beyond the gateway, Sedia asked, "Would it not be wiser to leave this door without a key?" Riven, now an immense antlered serpent with broad tiger paws, tightened around the perimeter of the room like a noose.
"Egg," Mara corrected absently, chewing on her thumbnail.
"The key is so heavy as to be unliftable," Kalli ventured, since they were speaking metaphorically.
Sedia flapped her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know." They all knew that the gate required a continuous multi-week charge of paracausal energies, and that almost nothing in this solar system could produce such energies at the scale required by the gateway. Almost. "It's just— do we…"
"Do we wish to trust the Guardians?" Illyn filled in dryly.
Mara ran her hand along the sleek surface of the primary well's control mechanism, then turned and walked alone toward the fresh, foggy air that blew in from the coast. The Techeuns watched her go.
"There is only the plan," Illyn said. "Remember your vows, Sedia."
"Mine is not a final shape. She showed me that." –Eris Morn
Asher,
I took a slough of Hive chitin, and with my own hands, I bent it into the shape of a starship. I think you of all people might understand why. But it's more than just a reminder of the green flames behind my brow.
Asher, I saw a throne world built for the Light. Built with Darkness, of course, and the bitter logic of swords. But built for Light.
It made me wonder.
This will be my last letter for a long while. The Queen needs me more than the City does. And I need her. When she looks at me, she does not see an invalid, or a madwoman, or a burden.
She sees a Hunter.
She has pointed me at the true enemy, and with her help, I will see my quarry caught.
Clarity in action,
Eris Morn
Asher,
I took a slough of Hive chitin, and with my own hands, I bent it into the shape of a starship. I think you of all people might understand why. But it's more than just a reminder of the green flames behind my brow.
Asher, I saw a throne world built for the Light. Built with Darkness, of course, and the bitter logic of swords. But built for Light.
It made me wonder.
This will be my last letter for a long while. The Queen needs me more than the City does. And I need her. When she looks at me, she does not see an invalid, or a madwoman, or a burden.
She sees a Hunter.
She has pointed me at the true enemy, and with her help, I will see my quarry caught.
Clarity in action,
Eris Morn
Later. Much later. It is the night before the day of screams. Mara meditates cross-legged in a cradle of null gravity. Variks has told her more than once how the Fallen speak of the Awoken as sterile, unable to regrow their flesh, cursed to bear their scars forever. Also how they think of the Awoken as self-twinned, coexisting with their own shadows. Didn't ancient Inanna, queen of heaven, descend into the underworld to confront her shadow twin, sister Ereshkigal?
Inanna was judged full of hubris and executed.
You cannot defeat a thing that is synonymous with death except on its own territory. You cannot fear and flee from death. You must face it. Death is a sword, and a sword is like a crossing-point, like a bridge—and a bridge may be walked two ways.
The plan exists in her mind alone, although beloved Eris has by necessity learned most of it. The Techeuns do not know the whole plan, although they will position the Harbingers upon the threshold. Even sweet capable Petra does not know the whole plan.
So many she will leave behind.
Uldren knows nothing of the whole plan. He has kept more and more to himself, building up secrets and schemes—all, Mara knows (and pities), because he needs Mara and thinks he can get her attention by keeping secrets from her.
Secrets are her virtue and the virtue of her nemesis. The being whose existence she deduced from the analogy-of-family the Oracle Engine showed her.
Mara will begin the end of that Queen's brother today. She knows what that means for the fate of her own. An eye for an eye. She must think now of the fate of entire cosmos—and of her tender, half-assembled answer to the cold sword logic of the Hive. She must not grieve. She must not fear.
Was Inanna afraid when she descended? Mara's not going to be outclassed by some ancient fable. After all, Mara's name is death. But there is one thing she admires most about Inanna over all the other myths of katabasis.
Inanna went to conquer.
Inanna was judged full of hubris and executed.
You cannot defeat a thing that is synonymous with death except on its own territory. You cannot fear and flee from death. You must face it. Death is a sword, and a sword is like a crossing-point, like a bridge—and a bridge may be walked two ways.
The plan exists in her mind alone, although beloved Eris has by necessity learned most of it. The Techeuns do not know the whole plan, although they will position the Harbingers upon the threshold. Even sweet capable Petra does not know the whole plan.
So many she will leave behind.
Uldren knows nothing of the whole plan. He has kept more and more to himself, building up secrets and schemes—all, Mara knows (and pities), because he needs Mara and thinks he can get her attention by keeping secrets from her.
Secrets are her virtue and the virtue of her nemesis. The being whose existence she deduced from the analogy-of-family the Oracle Engine showed her.
Mara will begin the end of that Queen's brother today. She knows what that means for the fate of her own. An eye for an eye. She must think now of the fate of entire cosmos—and of her tender, half-assembled answer to the cold sword logic of the Hive. She must not grieve. She must not fear.
Was Inanna afraid when she descended? Mara's not going to be outclassed by some ancient fable. After all, Mara's name is death. But there is one thing she admires most about Inanna over all the other myths of katabasis.
Inanna went to conquer.
On the Eve of War
The chamber was dark. The seven of them were rarely in a room together anymore, but this was the eve of their greatest journey, a plan that overcame death and spanned universes.
They were all connected in trance, communing as the ancients did. Speaking would tip their hand to the Harbinger Minds they kept here, trophies from an ageless war, and weapons in the right hands.
"Oryx could kill her, if she holds on too long." Sedia offered through the silence, fearing what was to come.
"We took an oath long ago, obedience even in the face of defeat." Nascia despised fear.
"Only a defeat here, now. Not there, then." Illyn wandered between the two sides of three. The amulet around her neck marked Illyn as the coven's mother, granting her visions beyond the veil, places only the Queen could go.
"So we hope." Kalli had long sought the power of the amulet, but Techeuns are taught not to desire.
"Our Queen awaits." Lissyl attempted to end the challenges. There was little time and a war to fight.
"So now the decision is nigh. The Harbingers, which to prepare?" Shuro was determined to see this all through. Excitement was taught to be kept at bay.
"We cannot send them all." Portia reminded.
"All but one, the oldest. It stays with us. Sedia, Kalli, Shuro, take the children, tell her they are to be planted into a dead thing to have children of their own." A plan hid behind Illyn's eyes, but Techeuns do not share their eyes with others.
"What if they are not wise enough for the Dreadnaught?"
Illyn turned back to the source.
"Sedia, do you not have faith in our Queen?"
The chamber was dark. The seven of them were rarely in a room together anymore, but this was the eve of their greatest journey, a plan that overcame death and spanned universes.
They were all connected in trance, communing as the ancients did. Speaking would tip their hand to the Harbinger Minds they kept here, trophies from an ageless war, and weapons in the right hands.
"Oryx could kill her, if she holds on too long." Sedia offered through the silence, fearing what was to come.
"We took an oath long ago, obedience even in the face of defeat." Nascia despised fear.
"Only a defeat here, now. Not there, then." Illyn wandered between the two sides of three. The amulet around her neck marked Illyn as the coven's mother, granting her visions beyond the veil, places only the Queen could go.
"So we hope." Kalli had long sought the power of the amulet, but Techeuns are taught not to desire.
"Our Queen awaits." Lissyl attempted to end the challenges. There was little time and a war to fight.
"So now the decision is nigh. The Harbingers, which to prepare?" Shuro was determined to see this all through. Excitement was taught to be kept at bay.
"We cannot send them all." Portia reminded.
"All but one, the oldest. It stays with us. Sedia, Kalli, Shuro, take the children, tell her they are to be planted into a dead thing to have children of their own." A plan hid behind Illyn's eyes, but Techeuns do not share their eyes with others.
"What if they are not wise enough for the Dreadnaught?"
Illyn turned back to the source.
"Sedia, do you not have faith in our Queen?"
HALT ALL TRAFFIC. STAND BY FOR SNAP.
MESSAGE TO FOLLOW.
PUBLIC KEY 110 341 AXA SOVEREIGN
FROM: PETRA VENJ
TO: ALL REEF ASSETS [ROC CLEARANCE]
SUBJECT: HIVE WARSHIP CONTACT
MESSAGE IS:
1. Massive Hive warship sighted in circum-Saturn space [contact via DSR TF 3.2]. Target designated DREADNAUGHT.
1a. Dreadnaught maneuvering unpredictably. Orbital parameters and stationkeeping behavior not compatible with standard dynamics.
1b. ESM analysis detects multiple Hive vessels in escort.
2. Target emitting sterile neutrinos, phaeton spectra, and mass growl. Major radiation events include gravity waves and axion scatter. Techeun conclusion: target possesses radical ontomorphic capabilities [see BANE DREAMER]
2a. Under no circumstances attempt teleonomic analysis of Dreadnaught emission spectra. ***This is a BRAINSTAIN ALERT.***
3. Dreadnaught radiation events correlate with eversive breach events across solar system. Dreadnaught is likely motive force behind breach events.
3b. Backscatter analysis and Techeun insight suggest Dreadnaught hosts complex internal environment. Small party boarding action may remain viable if noopathic hazards can be managed.
4. TF 3.2 shadowing Cabal fleet elements. Cabal attack on Dreadnaught likely but not imminent.
5. All Reef assets assume war posture. Stand by for fragment orders.
MESSAGE ENDS
STOP STOP STOP
MESSAGE TO FOLLOW.
PUBLIC KEY 110 341 AXA SOVEREIGN
FROM: PETRA VENJ
TO: ALL REEF ASSETS [ROC CLEARANCE]
SUBJECT: HIVE WARSHIP CONTACT
MESSAGE IS:
1. Massive Hive warship sighted in circum-Saturn space [contact via DSR TF 3.2]. Target designated DREADNAUGHT.
1a. Dreadnaught maneuvering unpredictably. Orbital parameters and stationkeeping behavior not compatible with standard dynamics.
1b. ESM analysis detects multiple Hive vessels in escort.
2. Target emitting sterile neutrinos, phaeton spectra, and mass growl. Major radiation events include gravity waves and axion scatter. Techeun conclusion: target possesses radical ontomorphic capabilities [see BANE DREAMER]
2a. Under no circumstances attempt teleonomic analysis of Dreadnaught emission spectra. ***This is a BRAINSTAIN ALERT.***
3. Dreadnaught radiation events correlate with eversive breach events across solar system. Dreadnaught is likely motive force behind breach events.
3b. Backscatter analysis and Techeun insight suggest Dreadnaught hosts complex internal environment. Small party boarding action may remain viable if noopathic hazards can be managed.
4. TF 3.2 shadowing Cabal fleet elements. Cabal attack on Dreadnaught likely but not imminent.
5. All Reef assets assume war posture. Stand by for fragment orders.
MESSAGE ENDS
STOP STOP STOP
The Taken King Intro Cinematic - YouTube
I remember everything about the day I was born. I still bear the scars. The Awoken are my family now and I am their Queen.
We fought to keep our beautiful creation safe. And now this beast has come, claiming to be King. Mara Sov bows to no one.
You and I know how this ends. We've known since you escaped from that pit.
The Awoken have played their part. This was all... part of the plan.
Guide them, my Hidden friend. It is all up to you now.
I remember everything about the day I was born. I still bear the scars. The Awoken are my family now and I am their Queen.
We fought to keep our beautiful creation safe. And now this beast has come, claiming to be King. Mara Sov bows to no one.
You and I know how this ends. We've known since you escaped from that pit.
The Awoken have played their part. This was all... part of the plan.
Guide them, my Hidden friend. It is all up to you now.
She closes her eyes. Oryx's throne world smashes through her fleet, the bubble of everted screamspace pulverizing rock, metal, and flesh as mere matter surrenders to the will-made-fact of the Taken King. Somewhere, Uldren roars defiance. This is the moment of absolute sacrifice, the incarnation of Awoken doom: to give up their lives in defense of the world they once abandoned. The sense of their great dying rips at Mara like a sob.
She feels her Techeuns preparing emergency selfgates. Shuro Chi reaches out to her—a wordless, urgent need for Mara to live—and it takes all the cold impassive remove of Mara's millennia to turn that hand away.
The shockwave strikes.
Mara dies.
In one way, she is vaporized with her Ketch, the bonds between the very particles of her body questioned by the harrowing logic of Oryx's weapon and found inessential. The mechanism of devastation is spontaneous fission. The author of the devastation is laughing in joy.
In another way, a more true and symbolic way, she is impaled on Oryx's blade. She has thrown all her might at him, and he has answered. He has snuffed her fledgling divinity and her meager claim to royalty, he has exposed Mara to the raw and caustic hostility of his High War. She has been defeated by the sword logic.
She dances down the blade and steps into his throne world. The Harbingers give her the gate and she takes the step. She is dead, consumed by Oryx: She is dead in his will, his Ascendant Realm. There was no other way inside except this true way.
Inanna at least gave her people some warning; she told her minister to have her worshippers lament, drum, pray, and lacerate their buttocks. Inanna told her minister to beg the gods to save her. Mara has not. Instead, she has enlisted Eris and several million mad dancing Guardians to go knock off the god who killed her. It is, on that level, a very simple bank heist: Get yourself taken into the treasury as treasure, and when the owner dies, break back out with his stuff.
But even Inanna had to send everyone away before she passed through the last door.
Mara thinks of everyone she has ever known, all the people she has lost, back even to Yang Liwei and that ray of Light in deepest Darkness. She is there again, on the tether, falling into the mystery. Her brother is crying out after her, trying to follow, and she cannot look back.
She has been thinking of a logic of her own, of secrets and hidden designs. The universe has not grown simpler in its age. Wherever life can begin, it has begun, and even in some places where sensible folk expect it should not. The great tendency has been toward intricacy, toward sophistication, toward deep thought and richer ways of being. A sword is everywhere edged, but the pieces of a bomb do not look at all like weapons until they are assembled.
Oryx's throne world tries to tear her body and psyche into a quintillion screaming pieces, but Mara has survived the inchoate primordial chaos before space and time. She has retained her selfhood through far worse than this—and she has patience for eons. Eris will succeed. The Guardians will play their part. When the power in this world is free for the taking, Mara will take it, not as the victor taking spoils, but as a scavenger takes a prize component for her masterwork.
When a pawn reaches the far side of the chessboard, it may be promoted to a queen. And what hatches when you promote a queen? What new board does she claim her place on?
Mara knows.
She settles in for the long wait, entirely alone, almost at peace with it.
She feels her Techeuns preparing emergency selfgates. Shuro Chi reaches out to her—a wordless, urgent need for Mara to live—and it takes all the cold impassive remove of Mara's millennia to turn that hand away.
The shockwave strikes.
Mara dies.
In one way, she is vaporized with her Ketch, the bonds between the very particles of her body questioned by the harrowing logic of Oryx's weapon and found inessential. The mechanism of devastation is spontaneous fission. The author of the devastation is laughing in joy.
In another way, a more true and symbolic way, she is impaled on Oryx's blade. She has thrown all her might at him, and he has answered. He has snuffed her fledgling divinity and her meager claim to royalty, he has exposed Mara to the raw and caustic hostility of his High War. She has been defeated by the sword logic.
She dances down the blade and steps into his throne world. The Harbingers give her the gate and she takes the step. She is dead, consumed by Oryx: She is dead in his will, his Ascendant Realm. There was no other way inside except this true way.
Inanna at least gave her people some warning; she told her minister to have her worshippers lament, drum, pray, and lacerate their buttocks. Inanna told her minister to beg the gods to save her. Mara has not. Instead, she has enlisted Eris and several million mad dancing Guardians to go knock off the god who killed her. It is, on that level, a very simple bank heist: Get yourself taken into the treasury as treasure, and when the owner dies, break back out with his stuff.
But even Inanna had to send everyone away before she passed through the last door.
Mara thinks of everyone she has ever known, all the people she has lost, back even to Yang Liwei and that ray of Light in deepest Darkness. She is there again, on the tether, falling into the mystery. Her brother is crying out after her, trying to follow, and she cannot look back.
She has been thinking of a logic of her own, of secrets and hidden designs. The universe has not grown simpler in its age. Wherever life can begin, it has begun, and even in some places where sensible folk expect it should not. The great tendency has been toward intricacy, toward sophistication, toward deep thought and richer ways of being. A sword is everywhere edged, but the pieces of a bomb do not look at all like weapons until they are assembled.
Oryx's throne world tries to tear her body and psyche into a quintillion screaming pieces, but Mara has survived the inchoate primordial chaos before space and time. She has retained her selfhood through far worse than this—and she has patience for eons. Eris will succeed. The Guardians will play their part. When the power in this world is free for the taking, Mara will take it, not as the victor taking spoils, but as a scavenger takes a prize component for her masterwork.
When a pawn reaches the far side of the chessboard, it may be promoted to a queen. And what hatches when you promote a queen? What new board does she claim her place on?
Mara knows.
She settles in for the long wait, entirely alone, almost at peace with it.
The Fallout
SHE HAS RUINED EVERYTHING!
Such blind arrogance—
WE ARE LOST!
h u r r y
He will recruit them all if we do not act now
W H A T C A N W E D O
Done cannot be undone! Everything is lost!
kill them where they creep and crawl let their bones whisper naught
THE CHILDREN!
t h e y a r e n o t o u r c h i l d r e n
We have no time for sentiment
It is this or we lay ourselves bare before the veil.
NO!
No!
W E M U S T B E F O R E H E T A K E S T H E M A L L
imagine his power
REACH TOGETHER NOW
No, no, no!
that our touch be lethal
Riven!
w e w i l l i t s o
THE DREAMER IS LOST CULL THE REST
that our judgment be true
W E W I L L I T S O
Such blind arrogance—
WE ARE LOST!
h u r r y
He will recruit them all if we do not act now
W H A T C A N W E D O
Done cannot be undone! Everything is lost!
kill them where they creep and crawl let their bones whisper naught
THE CHILDREN!
t h e y a r e n o t o u r c h i l d r e n
We have no time for sentiment
It is this or we lay ourselves bare before the veil.
NO!
No!
W E M U S T B E F O R E H E T A K E S T H E M A L L
imagine his power
REACH TOGETHER NOW
No, no, no!
that our touch be lethal
Riven!
w e w i l l i t s o
THE DREAMER IS LOST CULL THE REST
that our judgment be true
W E W I L L I T S O
Undelivered, lost.
Did you watch them die? Did you watch me take the knife and carve out each eye, one-two, one-two-three? Did you watch your body rot? You pretend to be aloof, but you've always been defined by your preoccupations. How deeply did you grieve when your bones were crushed to ash and dust?
Undelivered, damp.
Both crowns have been sundered, and Sky save me but I am unmoored. I have been a blade crying for a hand to wield me for so long, but what is a blade with nothing solid to cut? You will gentle me. You will tell me I can rest. You will try to pull me to the libraries. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.
Undelivered, burnt.
Патетическая. The swelling of strong sentiment in your chest even as you mourn the world that is and was and will be. I did not go to Mars. I will not go to the Dreaming City. There is only the plan.
Undelivered, lost.
Cousin, do you remember the streets of the Last City? Do you remember eating fresh red grapes and playing tag between the market stalls? You cannot. We grew, we died, we were reborn. But I remember. It is the one thing I know is true. You used to LAUGH. What manipulation of the fates has led us each to our own calamities? [Forceful, looping script.] I listen to Vanguard channels every day for news of your death. If and when that news comes, I will fly to you at once, no matter where I am and no matter what front I fight on. [Aggressive pressure, carved deep enough into the paper to tear it.] I swear it.
Delivered.
I have been inside. I have nothing but beautiful and violent words for my report. I will meet you at your throne.
Did you watch them die? Did you watch me take the knife and carve out each eye, one-two, one-two-three? Did you watch your body rot? You pretend to be aloof, but you've always been defined by your preoccupations. How deeply did you grieve when your bones were crushed to ash and dust?
Undelivered, damp.
Both crowns have been sundered, and Sky save me but I am unmoored. I have been a blade crying for a hand to wield me for so long, but what is a blade with nothing solid to cut? You will gentle me. You will tell me I can rest. You will try to pull me to the libraries. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.
Undelivered, burnt.
Патетическая. The swelling of strong sentiment in your chest even as you mourn the world that is and was and will be. I did not go to Mars. I will not go to the Dreaming City. There is only the plan.
Undelivered, lost.
Cousin, do you remember the streets of the Last City? Do you remember eating fresh red grapes and playing tag between the market stalls? You cannot. We grew, we died, we were reborn. But I remember. It is the one thing I know is true. You used to LAUGH. What manipulation of the fates has led us each to our own calamities? [Forceful, looping script.] I listen to Vanguard channels every day for news of your death. If and when that news comes, I will fly to you at once, no matter where I am and no matter what front I fight on. [Aggressive pressure, carved deep enough into the paper to tear it.] I swear it.
Delivered.
I have been inside. I have nothing but beautiful and violent words for my report. I will meet you at your throne.
The sound of her voice ripped him from sleep. He jumped up; his ship was still contained in its protective sphere. He tried to retract the shield, but it was locked to its initiation time. He couldn't remember activating it. Then he remembered the battle. That blast.
What that ship fired was ancient, not bound to anything the Origin Libraries even sought to describe.
He tried to calm down. He thought of her, searching for her pull. He couldn't find it, but he was not calm. She always told him she would always be there behind the calm.
All he could hear were echoes of that sound.
It began as soon as they hit the ring plane, ringing in the old glimmer of his long-buried self. Before she showed him who he was—in the before and the after.
The Techeuns should've known what the Dreadnaught could do. Must've known. Did they not feel what he felt? Hear what he heard? And that damn Ketch, it wasn't protected. They had to know that. All to deploy the Harbingers. They barely got a foothold before the weapon was fired. He thought of Petra and how overwhelmed she must be, forced to hold her post, and watch her people perish.
He tried to calm himself again, forcing long breaths. He realized where he was: Mars. Athabasca. The Candor Isles. He hadn't been here in so long, not since he found the Black Garden.
The countdown to the shield's deactivation pulsed. He tried again, to home in on her, to find if she truly gave herself for this battle. He felt close to something, a hum of starlight, then shield deactivation broke his focus.
He climbed out and saw the damage to his ship, and the truths of the armada's devastation sunk in.
He turned in despair to find hundreds of his Crow drones, deployed on Mars long ago, circling his ship, waiting.
"Welcome back, Master." The one closest to him spoke first, and the others followed, a wave of salutations echoed throughout the dry sea.
And with that hope returned.
"Begin repairs on the ship immediately. Something has gone missing and you will help me find it."
What that ship fired was ancient, not bound to anything the Origin Libraries even sought to describe.
He tried to calm down. He thought of her, searching for her pull. He couldn't find it, but he was not calm. She always told him she would always be there behind the calm.
All he could hear were echoes of that sound.
It began as soon as they hit the ring plane, ringing in the old glimmer of his long-buried self. Before she showed him who he was—in the before and the after.
The Techeuns should've known what the Dreadnaught could do. Must've known. Did they not feel what he felt? Hear what he heard? And that damn Ketch, it wasn't protected. They had to know that. All to deploy the Harbingers. They barely got a foothold before the weapon was fired. He thought of Petra and how overwhelmed she must be, forced to hold her post, and watch her people perish.
He tried to calm himself again, forcing long breaths. He realized where he was: Mars. Athabasca. The Candor Isles. He hadn't been here in so long, not since he found the Black Garden.
The countdown to the shield's deactivation pulsed. He tried again, to home in on her, to find if she truly gave herself for this battle. He felt close to something, a hum of starlight, then shield deactivation broke his focus.
He climbed out and saw the damage to his ship, and the truths of the armada's devastation sunk in.
He turned in despair to find hundreds of his Crow drones, deployed on Mars long ago, circling his ship, waiting.
"Welcome back, Master." The one closest to him spoke first, and the others followed, a wave of salutations echoed throughout the dry sea.
And with that hope returned.
"Begin repairs on the ship immediately. Something has gone missing and you will help me find it."
She is gone. He lives now in a state of perpetual dread. He hates the future, because he fears it—he fears its emptiness, and he cannot imagine lonely eternity without her. As he staggers down the edge of a Martian chasm, he can feel the drop calling to him, begging him to join her. To end it all. The heat of the place soaks him in sweat. The dead chassis of one of his old Crow drones, slung over his back, feels like it's compressing his ribs, pushing his lungs up against his sternum, expelling his breath.
He needs the drone to fix his ship. Again. He must get off Mars. He must start looking for her.
The weight of the Crow drone slams him down on hands and knees. His vision swims—stars and shining Harbingers soaring through the ring plane and a wall of terrible light—and he sees the moment the Dreadnaught took everything from him, the moment his sister finally, absolutely, utterly ran out of secret plans. That instant when all sound ceased and he screamed denial and yet—in spite of his soul's plea to die with her—reached for the deflection shield that saved his life.
He crawls until he can rest in the shadow of a dead Vex block.
He crashed in the Candor Isles, not so far from the Gate to the Garden. The place where he saw another path for the Awoken. Why had Mara never accepted his invitation?
He has been hearing her. Thirst hallucinations, surely. But there is that hum, that whisper, that thrill of starlight in his skull…
A flock of his Crow drones found his crash site and repaired his fighter. He made it halfway to orbital velocity before a Cabal gun clawed him out of the sky and sent him crashing down in Hellas Basin. Now his Crows are dead and the fighter is probably beyond repair. And his sister is gone. His sister is GONE. And he followed her and all his people followed her because he and they were sure she had a PLAN she always had a PLAN something better than DYING BY THE THOUSANDS FOR A CITY THAT DOES NOT CARE.
He should go home. He should go home. If he can find a way. But will he have the strength? He cannot be the champion they loved. He cannot restore their faith in the purpose of the Awoken, or in his sister's design. He no longer believes.
This world is a carcass now. The scars of the Guardians' passage. Cabal fortresses reeking of decay, littered with flesh and bone and broken armor. The shattered chassis of Vex littering the sands. A place of death, death and war, a war that tilts on the fulcrum of the Traveler, brought upon it by the puppets of that Traveler, that fulcrum of war.
There is something in his eye. He blinks and blinks, trying to rub it away, and as he does, he struggles to hear her, to sense that prickle of starlight under his skin. She will tell him he is on the right path. She will tell him she's still alive.
He feels nothing.
He needs the drone to fix his ship. Again. He must get off Mars. He must start looking for her.
The weight of the Crow drone slams him down on hands and knees. His vision swims—stars and shining Harbingers soaring through the ring plane and a wall of terrible light—and he sees the moment the Dreadnaught took everything from him, the moment his sister finally, absolutely, utterly ran out of secret plans. That instant when all sound ceased and he screamed denial and yet—in spite of his soul's plea to die with her—reached for the deflection shield that saved his life.
He crawls until he can rest in the shadow of a dead Vex block.
He crashed in the Candor Isles, not so far from the Gate to the Garden. The place where he saw another path for the Awoken. Why had Mara never accepted his invitation?
He has been hearing her. Thirst hallucinations, surely. But there is that hum, that whisper, that thrill of starlight in his skull…
A flock of his Crow drones found his crash site and repaired his fighter. He made it halfway to orbital velocity before a Cabal gun clawed him out of the sky and sent him crashing down in Hellas Basin. Now his Crows are dead and the fighter is probably beyond repair. And his sister is gone. His sister is GONE. And he followed her and all his people followed her because he and they were sure she had a PLAN she always had a PLAN something better than DYING BY THE THOUSANDS FOR A CITY THAT DOES NOT CARE.
He should go home. He should go home. If he can find a way. But will he have the strength? He cannot be the champion they loved. He cannot restore their faith in the purpose of the Awoken, or in his sister's design. He no longer believes.
This world is a carcass now. The scars of the Guardians' passage. Cabal fortresses reeking of decay, littered with flesh and bone and broken armor. The shattered chassis of Vex littering the sands. A place of death, death and war, a war that tilts on the fulcrum of the Traveler, brought upon it by the puppets of that Traveler, that fulcrum of war.
There is something in his eye. He blinks and blinks, trying to rub it away, and as he does, he struggles to hear her, to sense that prickle of starlight under his skin. She will tell him he is on the right path. She will tell him she's still alive.
He feels nothing.
"I see. And our Wolfships?"
"All destroyed but the Kaliks-Syn, and she is badly wounded. Burning for Pallas now."
"Galliots?"
"Those that remained at the Outpost are still in good condition for now. And we have some still in reserve at Pallas."
"How many?"
"Ah… twelve."
"And how many shipwrights?"
"I'm afraid I cannot say."
"I see. Divert Hallam to civilian defense. Send Kamala and anyone we can spare for a covert SAR run. Avoid hostile engagements at all costs. If they find survivors, notify me immediately."
"Wilco that. Signing off, Commander."
The comms light goes off and Petra takes a deep breath for calm. She leans forward to flip switches, adjust dials. Her hands are shaking. "Commander." She was never supposed to be Commander. All she'd ever wanted was to serve and protect Mara, and now Mara Sov was—
Mara Sov was…
Mara was alive; she was alive somewhere. She'd promised!
Retaking the yoke of her own Galliot, Petra sets a course for the Tangled Shore. She cycles through comms channels as she flies: The Hive are swarming the Outpost, and the Disciples are demanding escort in their evac. Devi is MIA. Guardian jumpship after Guardian jumpship is throwing itself kamikaze at that monstrous Hive ship, only to be repelled by some kind of defense field. A hundred Seeders are landing on Ceres. Hallam is evacuating every civilian he can to the shielded inner cities. Two hundred more Seeders on Pallas. Skyburner forces inbound, armed to the teeth. Wolf allies defecting. Devi is found.
Petra cannot turn off the radio. She cannot stop listening; she can scarcely breathe. She wants to reverse course and fly her ship into the eye of that flagship; she wants to wreck herself against its ugly scrimshawed hull and scream so clear and true as she dies that that wretched beast will hear her and know what atrocity he has committed. She wants to believe Mara is alive but how, how, how when she cannot feel her, when she does not know every step of the accursed plan!
She approaches Thieves' Landing from a reckless angle, then cuts fast and low across the lashed-together wreckage of the Shore. The air is thick with dust and debris and shimmering immaterial Harbinger matter; it is impossible to see more than a klick out. She follows her radar.
Unconsciously, she holds her breath.
And then—there it is. The Watchtower.
Petra sighs through clenched teeth.
It's whole. Unharmed.
"All destroyed but the Kaliks-Syn, and she is badly wounded. Burning for Pallas now."
"Galliots?"
"Those that remained at the Outpost are still in good condition for now. And we have some still in reserve at Pallas."
"How many?"
"Ah… twelve."
"And how many shipwrights?"
"I'm afraid I cannot say."
"I see. Divert Hallam to civilian defense. Send Kamala and anyone we can spare for a covert SAR run. Avoid hostile engagements at all costs. If they find survivors, notify me immediately."
"Wilco that. Signing off, Commander."
The comms light goes off and Petra takes a deep breath for calm. She leans forward to flip switches, adjust dials. Her hands are shaking. "Commander." She was never supposed to be Commander. All she'd ever wanted was to serve and protect Mara, and now Mara Sov was—
Mara Sov was…
Mara was alive; she was alive somewhere. She'd promised!
Retaking the yoke of her own Galliot, Petra sets a course for the Tangled Shore. She cycles through comms channels as she flies: The Hive are swarming the Outpost, and the Disciples are demanding escort in their evac. Devi is MIA. Guardian jumpship after Guardian jumpship is throwing itself kamikaze at that monstrous Hive ship, only to be repelled by some kind of defense field. A hundred Seeders are landing on Ceres. Hallam is evacuating every civilian he can to the shielded inner cities. Two hundred more Seeders on Pallas. Skyburner forces inbound, armed to the teeth. Wolf allies defecting. Devi is found.
Petra cannot turn off the radio. She cannot stop listening; she can scarcely breathe. She wants to reverse course and fly her ship into the eye of that flagship; she wants to wreck herself against its ugly scrimshawed hull and scream so clear and true as she dies that that wretched beast will hear her and know what atrocity he has committed. She wants to believe Mara is alive but how, how, how when she cannot feel her, when she does not know every step of the accursed plan!
She approaches Thieves' Landing from a reckless angle, then cuts fast and low across the lashed-together wreckage of the Shore. The air is thick with dust and debris and shimmering immaterial Harbinger matter; it is impossible to see more than a klick out. She follows her radar.
Unconsciously, she holds her breath.
And then—there it is. The Watchtower.
Petra sighs through clenched teeth.
It's whole. Unharmed.
PUBLIC KEY 023 629 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJ: S&R REPORT: Saturn XIII
Expanded search of Saturn's nearby moons produced only one notable discovery: A cloud of Harbinger matter collected around Saturn's 13th moon, designation "Telesto." A sample is enclosed for your examination.
Still no sign of primary objectives. Continued survey of the remaining 100,000 km3 of space is underway. But as an Armada Paladin of the Awoken, it is my duty to officially recommend declaration of death of the following: Paladin Yasmin Eld, Paladin Leona Bryl, Paladin Abra Zire, Paladin Pavel Nolg, Techeun Shuro, Techeun Sedia, Techeun Kali, and the Awoken Queen Mara Sov.
Note that as acting regent-commander it is NOT your duty to actually declare these deaths at this time.
MESSAGE ENDS
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJ: S&R REPORT: Saturn XIII
Expanded search of Saturn's nearby moons produced only one notable discovery: A cloud of Harbinger matter collected around Saturn's 13th moon, designation "Telesto." A sample is enclosed for your examination.
Still no sign of primary objectives. Continued survey of the remaining 100,000 km3 of space is underway. But as an Armada Paladin of the Awoken, it is my duty to officially recommend declaration of death of the following: Paladin Yasmin Eld, Paladin Leona Bryl, Paladin Abra Zire, Paladin Pavel Nolg, Techeun Shuro, Techeun Sedia, Techeun Kali, and the Awoken Queen Mara Sov.
Note that as acting regent-commander it is NOT your duty to actually declare these deaths at this time.
MESSAGE ENDS
"I've learned not to be ashamed of the fear. It's to be expected, given what we are." —Pavel Nolg
She waits.
She trusts that Eris will shepherd the Guardians and that the infinite ambition of those undying half-children will deliver her. They will enter the court and challenge its king and dance in its killing ground, and they will master the school of sword logic so mightily that they will overturn its teacher and forsake the crown.
Soon.
But soon may not be soon enough, because Oryx roams the hallowed spires and melancholy shores of the Dreaming City. He stands looking out over the mists of her beautiful creation, and he laughs.
She can feel him there like a thorn in the meat of her palm.
She scolds herself for not factoring Shuro Chi's love into her design. Then she berates herself for this nervous energy, this fretful self-cannibalism.
Lungless, Mara remembers the sensation of a deep breath. Enacts it in her mind.
She remembers the singularity before her.
She waits.
She waits.
She trusts that Eris will shepherd the Guardians and that the infinite ambition of those undying half-children will deliver her. They will enter the court and challenge its king and dance in its killing ground, and they will master the school of sword logic so mightily that they will overturn its teacher and forsake the crown.
Soon.
But soon may not be soon enough, because Oryx roams the hallowed spires and melancholy shores of the Dreaming City. He stands looking out over the mists of her beautiful creation, and he laughs.
She can feel him there like a thorn in the meat of her palm.
She scolds herself for not factoring Shuro Chi's love into her design. Then she berates herself for this nervous energy, this fretful self-cannibalism.
Lungless, Mara remembers the sensation of a deep breath. Enacts it in her mind.
She remembers the singularity before her.
She waits.
"There is a place where we can remember who we are." —Imogen Rife
She feels Oryx's true death in both halves of her soul, a full imagined exhale before the aftershock reaches his throne world.
It crumbles around her like stone, like ash, like veils in a breeze.
Eris Morn's friends have succeeded. The Guardians have slain a god.
She steps through the ruins. In the end, there is nothing. Nothing but Mara Sov and the howling of rampant, untamed logics.
Her great and terrible gamble has paid off.
The rest is up to her now.
She feels Oryx's true death in both halves of her soul, a full imagined exhale before the aftershock reaches his throne world.
It crumbles around her like stone, like ash, like veils in a breeze.
Eris Morn's friends have succeeded. The Guardians have slain a god.
She steps through the ruins. In the end, there is nothing. Nothing but Mara Sov and the howling of rampant, untamed logics.
Her great and terrible gamble has paid off.
The rest is up to her now.
"For starlight was my mother, and my father was the dark." —Queen Mara Sov
She travels across the Ascendant Plane.
The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.
Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.
The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.
He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.
She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.
"Who are you?"
The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.
"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."
The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.
She travels across the Ascendant Plane.
The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.
Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.
The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.
He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.
She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.
"Who are you?"
The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.
"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."
The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.
"What has been awoken can slumber no more." —Techeun Kalli
Joy wells in her heart when her searching fingers trace the edges of Eleusinia.
She has passed through the desert. She has reached the far side of the chessboard. She is alive, or soon will be.
She opens the door and her joy dies on the threshold.
Her throne world is desecrated.
Not annihilated, as Oryx's was. The pillars and terraces and courtyards still retain their shape. But the roots have rotted, and the geometry festers.
She should have known she would not be the only one to plan for such eventualities.
Oryx's bootprints pucker like scars in the labyrinth that was once only her own.
She sits a while beneath Sjur's statue, then follows his tracks through the ruins of Eleusinia, back to the Dreaming City.
Joy wells in her heart when her searching fingers trace the edges of Eleusinia.
She has passed through the desert. She has reached the far side of the chessboard. She is alive, or soon will be.
She opens the door and her joy dies on the threshold.
Her throne world is desecrated.
Not annihilated, as Oryx's was. The pillars and terraces and courtyards still retain their shape. But the roots have rotted, and the geometry festers.
She should have known she would not be the only one to plan for such eventualities.
Oryx's bootprints pucker like scars in the labyrinth that was once only her own.
She sits a while beneath Sjur's statue, then follows his tracks through the ruins of Eleusinia, back to the Dreaming City.
"Perhaps it was not the correct choice. But it was the right choice." —Yasmin Eld
She is home.
But it is not the same.
Shuro Chi has been Taken. Kalli and Sedia, too.
And Riven—
She used to sit in the shade of those wings. Laugh at the riddles that rumbled in that mercurial throat.
This creature is all teeth and broken promises, transformed by the expectations of another scheming, secretive sister.
"I cannot stay here."
These are the first words that pass through this throat. Her throat, though it shares none of the molecules that comprised the code of her former body. They scrape and ache as they pass through her lips.
Again, if only to remind herself that she is alive:
"I cannot stay here."
She is home.
But it is not the same.
Shuro Chi has been Taken. Kalli and Sedia, too.
And Riven—
She used to sit in the shade of those wings. Laugh at the riddles that rumbled in that mercurial throat.
This creature is all teeth and broken promises, transformed by the expectations of another scheming, secretive sister.
"I cannot stay here."
These are the first words that pass through this throat. Her throat, though it shares none of the molecules that comprised the code of her former body. They scrape and ache as they pass through her lips.
Again, if only to remind herself that she is alive:
"I cannot stay here."
"His life brought peace to the Reef. His death brings a sword." —Crows of the Black Hull
Three months after the Taken War…
Hallam found her in the washroom closest to the Black Hull entrance.
"We're going to be late."
Petra sat on the sink, eyes dry, shoulders squared. "I'm not going."
Hallam let his Paladin-straight posture relax a little. "The Regent-Commander should probably attend the late prince's memorial. The Crows will want to see you. I hear they've commissioned a sword in his honor."
"If I go, it's as good as saying he's dead. As good as saying Mara's dead."
"Well," Hallam exhaled. "Aren't they?"
Petra ground her teeth. Then: "But I want people to believe."
Three months after the Taken War…
Hallam found her in the washroom closest to the Black Hull entrance.
"We're going to be late."
Petra sat on the sink, eyes dry, shoulders squared. "I'm not going."
Hallam let his Paladin-straight posture relax a little. "The Regent-Commander should probably attend the late prince's memorial. The Crows will want to see you. I hear they've commissioned a sword in his honor."
"If I go, it's as good as saying he's dead. As good as saying Mara's dead."
"Well," Hallam exhaled. "Aren't they?"
Petra ground her teeth. Then: "But I want people to believe."
In the bomb-walled passages of the place called Processes and Services, the screams have stopped.
"I've never heard it quiet before," Lissyl whispers. "Are they gone?"
But she knows, as Portia and Nascia know, as Illyn herself knows, that the Taken have not gone. Not very long ago, Processes and Services was the place Illyn and her sisters came to make the Desolates—items of technology imbued with the husk-dry power of Oryx's Taken. Illyn was the first to stand as living conduit; the first of the Techeuns to use that deep interior faultline, that fundamental Awoken schism, as a bridge. She remembers the endless, awful, infinitely malicious screams of the things. But she also remembers the whispers… and if the screams are silent now, the whispers are louder than ever.
"Quickly," Illyn hisses. "Before Petra is informed." Any breach of Processes and Services triggers an alert, and while they were crafty in their intrusion, even minute body heat and motion of the air will be detected. "We must ask our questions and go."
Brave Portia leads them to the cell she selected for their use—a vacuum-gapped sphere of relic iron coated inside and out by signal-deadening spinfoil. It hovers in suspension, a black miniature Traveler, a pearl formed around a hideous interior flaw. Illyn opens a needle-thin access port. The stink of ozone rolls out.
There is a Taken Vandal within, flexing and shuddering through nameless permutations of blissful agony.
"Nascia," she whispers. Quiet, precise Nascia slips a whisker of cable into the port, guiding it through impossible twists and encrypted locks with the caress of her augments' fields.
Illyn rubs her temples. The whispers are loud here. The whispers that haunt the place where their Queen's voice once sounded. Whispers which sound so much like missing Shuro Chi and the others from the Queen's flagship.
They should have selfgated to the Dreaming City if the battle went wrong. They should have come home safe. What if they need help? What if Petra has kept their fate from Illyn? Would she do that, Petra Covensdaughter, raised by the witches? Things have not been easy between the Regent-Commander and the Techeuns…
"Ready." Nascia offers the splayed end of the cable to them. "Be careful, all of you."
Their augments sync in a stutter of light, like a sunbeam passing over a field of diamonds. Inquisitive Lissyl forms the first question. Do you hear us?
The viper-strike rush of the Taken thing's will comes at them. It is powerful, but familiar: Illyn deflects its demand. "I think it hears us," she says, with a grim chuckle. "We know Taken too well, don't we?" There were fears once that the Guardians would be appalled by the Taken-empowered armor. But Petra was right. Guardians will wear anything that gives them power—whether tactical or social.
Together, they unfold the Taken thing's brutally elegant interior geometries, seeking the threads of connection that reach out across space and time. "Shuro?" Illyn whispers. "We have heard you. Do you hear us?"
That is when she makes the fatal mistake. She thinks of the time before Saturn. She thinks of Shuro Chi and Uldren and Mara. She… wants that time back.
She wants.
In the nonspace around them, great jaws snap shut.
"RIVEN!" brave Portia screams. Illyn was prepared for Taken—folded perfect things, elegant and thus manageable—but this absolute appetite, this impossible will…
She speaks the secret word of stasis that will crash their augments and end the communion. She does not know if she is in time. Quiet Nascia is screaming, inquisitive Lissyl is screaming. The screaming has begun again.
"I've never heard it quiet before," Lissyl whispers. "Are they gone?"
But she knows, as Portia and Nascia know, as Illyn herself knows, that the Taken have not gone. Not very long ago, Processes and Services was the place Illyn and her sisters came to make the Desolates—items of technology imbued with the husk-dry power of Oryx's Taken. Illyn was the first to stand as living conduit; the first of the Techeuns to use that deep interior faultline, that fundamental Awoken schism, as a bridge. She remembers the endless, awful, infinitely malicious screams of the things. But she also remembers the whispers… and if the screams are silent now, the whispers are louder than ever.
"Quickly," Illyn hisses. "Before Petra is informed." Any breach of Processes and Services triggers an alert, and while they were crafty in their intrusion, even minute body heat and motion of the air will be detected. "We must ask our questions and go."
Brave Portia leads them to the cell she selected for their use—a vacuum-gapped sphere of relic iron coated inside and out by signal-deadening spinfoil. It hovers in suspension, a black miniature Traveler, a pearl formed around a hideous interior flaw. Illyn opens a needle-thin access port. The stink of ozone rolls out.
There is a Taken Vandal within, flexing and shuddering through nameless permutations of blissful agony.
"Nascia," she whispers. Quiet, precise Nascia slips a whisker of cable into the port, guiding it through impossible twists and encrypted locks with the caress of her augments' fields.
Illyn rubs her temples. The whispers are loud here. The whispers that haunt the place where their Queen's voice once sounded. Whispers which sound so much like missing Shuro Chi and the others from the Queen's flagship.
They should have selfgated to the Dreaming City if the battle went wrong. They should have come home safe. What if they need help? What if Petra has kept their fate from Illyn? Would she do that, Petra Covensdaughter, raised by the witches? Things have not been easy between the Regent-Commander and the Techeuns…
"Ready." Nascia offers the splayed end of the cable to them. "Be careful, all of you."
Their augments sync in a stutter of light, like a sunbeam passing over a field of diamonds. Inquisitive Lissyl forms the first question. Do you hear us?
The viper-strike rush of the Taken thing's will comes at them. It is powerful, but familiar: Illyn deflects its demand. "I think it hears us," she says, with a grim chuckle. "We know Taken too well, don't we?" There were fears once that the Guardians would be appalled by the Taken-empowered armor. But Petra was right. Guardians will wear anything that gives them power—whether tactical or social.
Together, they unfold the Taken thing's brutally elegant interior geometries, seeking the threads of connection that reach out across space and time. "Shuro?" Illyn whispers. "We have heard you. Do you hear us?"
That is when she makes the fatal mistake. She thinks of the time before Saturn. She thinks of Shuro Chi and Uldren and Mara. She… wants that time back.
She wants.
In the nonspace around them, great jaws snap shut.
"RIVEN!" brave Portia screams. Illyn was prepared for Taken—folded perfect things, elegant and thus manageable—but this absolute appetite, this impossible will…
She speaks the secret word of stasis that will crash their augments and end the communion. She does not know if she is in time. Quiet Nascia is screaming, inquisitive Lissyl is screaming. The screaming has begun again.
"Lightning!" Koro yells, waking Tellia Ros from an uneasy sleep. "It's lightning! At last! At last!" He has gone out in a cloak and a rebreather to dance in joy.
White light flashes through the film of Koro's plastic hovel. Tellia thinks of arc grenades and the Baron's Scorn cutting through the walls of her lab. She shudders, counts the arrows in her quiver, and tries to go back to sleep.
She can't. She puts on bow and quiver, joins Koro outside. He's sifting the lightning-struck earth, grinning like a fool. A burrowing insect slips between his fingers—he pinches after it, but gets only one slim antenna. "I need nitrogen to grow plants," he explains, pointing up to the sky and the mist of contained air that surrounds this part of the Reef. "When the containment field builds up enough charge, it arcs to the ground, and the lightning bolts split nitrogen in the air, which fertilizes the soil. Isn't that amazing?"
Tellia stares at him. "You can't seriously want to farm here." Home, civilized proper home, is a sealed habitat—a cool clean place full of light.
"Why not? We're a refugee people now, Tellia. You think things are going to get better?" He points to the bright stars of habitats and ships above. "All those—those are targets. We have to learn to live off our land."
"We're a refugee people because things keep killing us!" Tellia leaves angry bootprints in the soil. "You won't have to be out be here long. Petra Venj will lock down the Reef, or the Queen will come back, or… or…"
"You really think she survived?" Koro brushes his hands clean. "My Felda sure didn't, and she was tough. Real tough. It took legions of Guardians to kill Oryx. The Queen, she's… I know she was something special. But she's no Guardian."
"I think I can still feel her," Tellia says, stubbornly. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes. Who knows what can get into our heads these days."
A new star ignites overhead. Koro squints. "Guardian ship," he says. "You can tell by the way they come in, like they just don't have a care."
"Maybe they'll come hunt the Scorn." Maybe one day Tellia will be a scientist again, in a proper lab, with a proper place to sleep. "Like the days after Skolas…"
"I've got other hopes." Koro slaps his thighs, bounds to his feet, and, as if he is a true prophet, heads for his hovel just a moment before his baby bursts out crying. "You hear about that one Fallen on Hygeia? He pays for people willing to maintain a few remote telescopes."
"You work for the Spider?" Tellia cries. "But he's—"
"Willing to pay in hard goods. Willing to help people move. Even willing to provide security." Koro pulls back his hovel's flap. "Want to help me with the kids? Someone's got to explain why they shouldn't be afraid of lightning."
White light flashes through the film of Koro's plastic hovel. Tellia thinks of arc grenades and the Baron's Scorn cutting through the walls of her lab. She shudders, counts the arrows in her quiver, and tries to go back to sleep.
She can't. She puts on bow and quiver, joins Koro outside. He's sifting the lightning-struck earth, grinning like a fool. A burrowing insect slips between his fingers—he pinches after it, but gets only one slim antenna. "I need nitrogen to grow plants," he explains, pointing up to the sky and the mist of contained air that surrounds this part of the Reef. "When the containment field builds up enough charge, it arcs to the ground, and the lightning bolts split nitrogen in the air, which fertilizes the soil. Isn't that amazing?"
Tellia stares at him. "You can't seriously want to farm here." Home, civilized proper home, is a sealed habitat—a cool clean place full of light.
"Why not? We're a refugee people now, Tellia. You think things are going to get better?" He points to the bright stars of habitats and ships above. "All those—those are targets. We have to learn to live off our land."
"We're a refugee people because things keep killing us!" Tellia leaves angry bootprints in the soil. "You won't have to be out be here long. Petra Venj will lock down the Reef, or the Queen will come back, or… or…"
"You really think she survived?" Koro brushes his hands clean. "My Felda sure didn't, and she was tough. Real tough. It took legions of Guardians to kill Oryx. The Queen, she's… I know she was something special. But she's no Guardian."
"I think I can still feel her," Tellia says, stubbornly. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes. Who knows what can get into our heads these days."
A new star ignites overhead. Koro squints. "Guardian ship," he says. "You can tell by the way they come in, like they just don't have a care."
"Maybe they'll come hunt the Scorn." Maybe one day Tellia will be a scientist again, in a proper lab, with a proper place to sleep. "Like the days after Skolas…"
"I've got other hopes." Koro slaps his thighs, bounds to his feet, and, as if he is a true prophet, heads for his hovel just a moment before his baby bursts out crying. "You hear about that one Fallen on Hygeia? He pays for people willing to maintain a few remote telescopes."
"You work for the Spider?" Tellia cries. "But he's—"
"Willing to pay in hard goods. Willing to help people move. Even willing to provide security." Koro pulls back his hovel's flap. "Want to help me with the kids? Someone's got to explain why they shouldn't be afraid of lightning."
Petra has her welcome for Zavala all planned out. He will say something stentorian which, while it is technically a greeting, Petra will also read as reproach, or condescension, or perhaps paternal concern. Petra will smirk at Zavala like she really doesn't care, so that he knows he's nobody, a little guy, a bureaucrat, far beneath her anger. But at this exact moment, a shard of cyanide-laced ice from the far reaches of the Oort cloud will penetrate the Reef's ravaged defenses and smash into Zavala with such velocity that he becomes a thin ooze across the floor, a scum. When Zavala's Ghost begins to rebuild him, Petra will say, smoothly, "No, allow me!" Then she will brandish a mop.
The hatch opens. Cayde-6 backs his way through, talking to Zavala: "Whatever you've seen, whatever you've read, it's worse. These people need our—"
"Cayde." Petra half-consciously adopts Mara's fey remove, her insouciant and remote posture. Her throat jams up, and she actually coughs aloud against the sudden grief. "You brought—"
Zavala grinds his way into the room, an obelisk of City stone extruded across the solar system to invade Petra's space. He very politely answers Cayde before turning to her. "The fact is, Cayde, the Queen did us a favor by leaving the Reef in chaos. As long as the Fallen are here killing each other, we have room to rebuild." Now he nods to Petra. "Regent-Commander. Pleased to see you well."
"Likewise, I'm sure." Petra feels in her heart that the Queen saw the Reef as a protector of Earth and its people, if perhaps not protector of the Traveler. It still kills her to hear Zavala speak openly of the Reef as a distraction. "Cayde had a proposal," she says, "that he wanted us both to hear."
"Yes I did!" Cayde prances between them, like a flare meant to draw off the heat-seeking fury passing between Petra and Zavala. The City's fall drove him deep into his jester persona, devil-may-care and fancy free; he hasn't quite recovered. "It's like this, Petra. We're bringing a lot of Earth's lonely people into the arms of the City. I got to talking to Variks about the situation out here, and I figured hey, maybe it's time we extend that policy to you." He sobers. "I want to invite the Reef Awoken into the City. Abandon this place to Variks, to Dead Orbit, to whoever wants it. It's hell out here, Petra. You won't survive."
Zavala's eyes are locked on Petra. He burns with a magnificent, stentorian power. "Does the Regent-Commander have enough control over the Reef to execute a withdrawal?"
"Despite your best efforts," Petra snaps—and then, suddenly, she cannot stop. She is too furious, too hot with grief. "At least Cayde is honorable enough to acknowledge what you've done to us. Every Fallen House you shatter washes up on our shores! Every Hive god and Cabal tyrant you attract goes through us to get to you! No wonder she couldn't stand the sight of you, Zavala. You've forsaken your people."
She bites back the rest: how she wishes that back in two-thousand-and-whatever, when the Darkness hurled mankind off the height of its Golden Age to plummet sixteen centuries into barbarism, it had done just a slightly better job.
That's not true. That's her broken heart talking. But oh does it talk loud.
"She was a charlatan," Zavala says, quietly. "Fighting a war that existed only in her mind. Dragging you all behind her. Any of you who will admit that are welcome in my City. But I will not take in whatever conspiracies she left unfinished. If you come to us, you come to join the City."
No. No. Stop being the Queen's people? Stop remembering her promise? "You're afraid," Petra tells the Titan of Titans. "That's why she could never trust you. Go back to your Traveler, Zavala. Thank you for your concern, Cayde, but the Reef has its own purposes, and you would mourn your foolishness if we abandoned them."
"Petra—"
"They are the purposes," she snarls, "intended by our Queen."
The hatch opens. Cayde-6 backs his way through, talking to Zavala: "Whatever you've seen, whatever you've read, it's worse. These people need our—"
"Cayde." Petra half-consciously adopts Mara's fey remove, her insouciant and remote posture. Her throat jams up, and she actually coughs aloud against the sudden grief. "You brought—"
Zavala grinds his way into the room, an obelisk of City stone extruded across the solar system to invade Petra's space. He very politely answers Cayde before turning to her. "The fact is, Cayde, the Queen did us a favor by leaving the Reef in chaos. As long as the Fallen are here killing each other, we have room to rebuild." Now he nods to Petra. "Regent-Commander. Pleased to see you well."
"Likewise, I'm sure." Petra feels in her heart that the Queen saw the Reef as a protector of Earth and its people, if perhaps not protector of the Traveler. It still kills her to hear Zavala speak openly of the Reef as a distraction. "Cayde had a proposal," she says, "that he wanted us both to hear."
"Yes I did!" Cayde prances between them, like a flare meant to draw off the heat-seeking fury passing between Petra and Zavala. The City's fall drove him deep into his jester persona, devil-may-care and fancy free; he hasn't quite recovered. "It's like this, Petra. We're bringing a lot of Earth's lonely people into the arms of the City. I got to talking to Variks about the situation out here, and I figured hey, maybe it's time we extend that policy to you." He sobers. "I want to invite the Reef Awoken into the City. Abandon this place to Variks, to Dead Orbit, to whoever wants it. It's hell out here, Petra. You won't survive."
Zavala's eyes are locked on Petra. He burns with a magnificent, stentorian power. "Does the Regent-Commander have enough control over the Reef to execute a withdrawal?"
"Despite your best efforts," Petra snaps—and then, suddenly, she cannot stop. She is too furious, too hot with grief. "At least Cayde is honorable enough to acknowledge what you've done to us. Every Fallen House you shatter washes up on our shores! Every Hive god and Cabal tyrant you attract goes through us to get to you! No wonder she couldn't stand the sight of you, Zavala. You've forsaken your people."
She bites back the rest: how she wishes that back in two-thousand-and-whatever, when the Darkness hurled mankind off the height of its Golden Age to plummet sixteen centuries into barbarism, it had done just a slightly better job.
That's not true. That's her broken heart talking. But oh does it talk loud.
"She was a charlatan," Zavala says, quietly. "Fighting a war that existed only in her mind. Dragging you all behind her. Any of you who will admit that are welcome in my City. But I will not take in whatever conspiracies she left unfinished. If you come to us, you come to join the City."
No. No. Stop being the Queen's people? Stop remembering her promise? "You're afraid," Petra tells the Titan of Titans. "That's why she could never trust you. Go back to your Traveler, Zavala. Thank you for your concern, Cayde, but the Reef has its own purposes, and you would mourn your foolishness if we abandoned them."
"Petra—"
"They are the purposes," she snarls, "intended by our Queen."
They lock onto his ship so far out that he actually grunts aloud in shock—but they have seen stealth tech in action before, among the Fallen and against Oryx, so he should not be surprised.
The message comes. "State your business, or be fired upon by orders of the Regent-Commander."
Arach Jalaal chuckles at the title; he remembers Petra's time in the Tower, her simmering impatience to be back out in the black sky. She got her wish. Perhaps she regrets it. She was right about one thing, at least… this is where everything that matters happens. If Dead Orbit had ruled the City, there would've been a fleet to meet Ghaul.
"It's Arach Jalaal of Dead Orbit," he says, cheerfully. "I'm here to speak to Regent-Commander Petra Venj. I am not an emissary from the City. I come on my own accord to discuss matters of fleet."
Jalaal has been to the Reef before, but never through proper channels. He's a little surprised when Petra Venj meets him at his transmat zone; he expected an escort to a waiting area, where he'd be given a sense he's not a priority. However, Petra is an operative, not a politician. She can't bear to delay action for the sake of theater. He likes that.
"Arach Jalaal." She shakes his hand firmly. Does he feel a whisper of some faint telekinetic force against his throat? She can do that knife trick… and what else? "Welcome back to your ancestors' home."
"Regent-Commander. How does the role suit you?" A reminder that they are both out of place.
"It's temporary." She beckons him to walk. "You want to discuss ships. We have talented labor, but no safe yards for them to do their work. If you can supply a site—"
He checks her with a slash of his hand, a spacewalker's gesture. "I came for salvage rights."
"Salvage?"
"Around Saturn. I want your permission to go through the debris swarm for materials and spaceframes. The dead will, of course, be returned."
Petra is silent. Arach expects her, being a spacer, to be a pragmatist; to see that the Reef doesn't have the spare capacity to process this salvage and that the inner Solar System needs as many ships as it can raise. There is also the question of Oryx's weapon and whether it can be defeated if the Dreadnaught ever stirs again.
But Petra remains silent.
"The wounds are still too fresh? I apologize. It seems a shame to leave those resources for the Fallen, or to drift into Saturn…"
She speaks. "Earthborn. Did you mourn for her?"
He thinks she will know if he lies. "I respected her, yes, but I despised the way she seemed… entitled… to us all. I never regret choosing the path I did. I was Awoken to continue the search we started long ago. The quest for worlds worthy of our lives."
Petra turns her back and goes.
He stares after her. Only after a long minute does he understand: She cannot say any of the things she wants to say and cannot bring herself to tell the lies she should. So she refuses him. She refuses the choice.
Jalaal pities her a little. She will never be free of her.
The message comes. "State your business, or be fired upon by orders of the Regent-Commander."
Arach Jalaal chuckles at the title; he remembers Petra's time in the Tower, her simmering impatience to be back out in the black sky. She got her wish. Perhaps she regrets it. She was right about one thing, at least… this is where everything that matters happens. If Dead Orbit had ruled the City, there would've been a fleet to meet Ghaul.
"It's Arach Jalaal of Dead Orbit," he says, cheerfully. "I'm here to speak to Regent-Commander Petra Venj. I am not an emissary from the City. I come on my own accord to discuss matters of fleet."
Jalaal has been to the Reef before, but never through proper channels. He's a little surprised when Petra Venj meets him at his transmat zone; he expected an escort to a waiting area, where he'd be given a sense he's not a priority. However, Petra is an operative, not a politician. She can't bear to delay action for the sake of theater. He likes that.
"Arach Jalaal." She shakes his hand firmly. Does he feel a whisper of some faint telekinetic force against his throat? She can do that knife trick… and what else? "Welcome back to your ancestors' home."
"Regent-Commander. How does the role suit you?" A reminder that they are both out of place.
"It's temporary." She beckons him to walk. "You want to discuss ships. We have talented labor, but no safe yards for them to do their work. If you can supply a site—"
He checks her with a slash of his hand, a spacewalker's gesture. "I came for salvage rights."
"Salvage?"
"Around Saturn. I want your permission to go through the debris swarm for materials and spaceframes. The dead will, of course, be returned."
Petra is silent. Arach expects her, being a spacer, to be a pragmatist; to see that the Reef doesn't have the spare capacity to process this salvage and that the inner Solar System needs as many ships as it can raise. There is also the question of Oryx's weapon and whether it can be defeated if the Dreadnaught ever stirs again.
But Petra remains silent.
"The wounds are still too fresh? I apologize. It seems a shame to leave those resources for the Fallen, or to drift into Saturn…"
She speaks. "Earthborn. Did you mourn for her?"
He thinks she will know if he lies. "I respected her, yes, but I despised the way she seemed… entitled… to us all. I never regret choosing the path I did. I was Awoken to continue the search we started long ago. The quest for worlds worthy of our lives."
Petra turns her back and goes.
He stares after her. Only after a long minute does he understand: She cannot say any of the things she wants to say and cannot bring herself to tell the lies she should. So she refuses him. She refuses the choice.
Jalaal pities her a little. She will never be free of her.
Dear Master Ives,
I write to you on behalf of the Cryptarchs of Earth in sympathy for all those who died in service to your Queen. We Earthborn feel your loss and hope this tragedy will usher in a new era. We have made great strides in unraveling a richer and deeper history of Earth and its colonies—a history buried below merely ordinary truths. This content is, of course, far too sensitive to publish generally. We long feared that if it were intercepted by her Majesty your Queen, it would be denied or manipulated to serve some need of her own. Some of these discoveries relate to the nature of our "awakening," while others point to the occurrence of journeys like our own… journeys that may have had troubling results. All of this scholarship would benefit from cross-reference and critical comparison with your own collected records. We hope you agree that this knowledge is far more important than any schism that once defined our peoples. We look forward to cooperation between our libraries, correspondence between our scholars, and the beginning of a new intellectual Golden Age, a time of lucidity and truth.
Respectfully,
Master Rahool
\---
Dear Master Rahool,
We, the Cryptarchs of the Reef, appreciate your sympathy for the devastation that our people suffered in your defense. We likewise express our sorrow for your recent losses and, of course, apologize for the length of time it has taken us to respond to your requests. We were determined to give our reply the full deliberation it deserved. It is our unanimous consensus that you are vile, sir—that you are a grasping wretch. That you would attempt to use our misfortune to solicit access to our vaults and records (which I assure you are far more extraordinary than whatever half-eaten corruptions you've discovered among your ruins) is quite appalling. We will, however, happily review any data or records you believe would be of interest to our efforts. You'll also be curious to know that reams of new discoveries are being generated daily since your Traveler cast out the last of its Light to refuel your Guardians. Let us hope you are wise enough to understand its message.
With all the respect that is due,
Master Ives
I write to you on behalf of the Cryptarchs of Earth in sympathy for all those who died in service to your Queen. We Earthborn feel your loss and hope this tragedy will usher in a new era. We have made great strides in unraveling a richer and deeper history of Earth and its colonies—a history buried below merely ordinary truths. This content is, of course, far too sensitive to publish generally. We long feared that if it were intercepted by her Majesty your Queen, it would be denied or manipulated to serve some need of her own. Some of these discoveries relate to the nature of our "awakening," while others point to the occurrence of journeys like our own… journeys that may have had troubling results. All of this scholarship would benefit from cross-reference and critical comparison with your own collected records. We hope you agree that this knowledge is far more important than any schism that once defined our peoples. We look forward to cooperation between our libraries, correspondence between our scholars, and the beginning of a new intellectual Golden Age, a time of lucidity and truth.
Respectfully,
Master Rahool
\---
Dear Master Rahool,
We, the Cryptarchs of the Reef, appreciate your sympathy for the devastation that our people suffered in your defense. We likewise express our sorrow for your recent losses and, of course, apologize for the length of time it has taken us to respond to your requests. We were determined to give our reply the full deliberation it deserved. It is our unanimous consensus that you are vile, sir—that you are a grasping wretch. That you would attempt to use our misfortune to solicit access to our vaults and records (which I assure you are far more extraordinary than whatever half-eaten corruptions you've discovered among your ruins) is quite appalling. We will, however, happily review any data or records you believe would be of interest to our efforts. You'll also be curious to know that reams of new discoveries are being generated daily since your Traveler cast out the last of its Light to refuel your Guardians. Let us hope you are wise enough to understand its message.
With all the respect that is due,
Master Ives
Spider's lair. Petra in her element, light-footed, light of thought. She keeps herself open to the place. Heat of packed bodies and machinery, bite of Ether in the air. Money and the promise of money and the things money can make people do. Knives. Pistols. Danger like static charge.
"He's no good for you," she says, "and he's no good for me. If you turn him over, I'll be happy. You like me happy, don't you, Spider?"
The Spider grumbles. "Very well. You will take him alive? He must have stores of Ether, and no matter what Variks says, that Ether is mine…"
He's agreed. She has what she came for, which is proof that the Spider actually wants this capture to succeed. As Regent, she can never tell when she succeeds. She's constantly reacting, making decisions that will only be clearly assessed by historians. Here, she is the Wrath again. She feels brave.
"We'll deal with the Ether once we have him. Thank you for the information." Petra slides the hood over her head and dismisses herself back into the crowd.
Two Dregs barter salvage with tokens like fingernail-sized knives. Slatted light falls through thick clouds of adulterated Ether to cut hard lines across the torn bannerless fringes some of the Fallen wear. A Cabal deserter, hunched against the wall in a baggy pressure sac, sells the location of Red Legion arms caches for lodes of raw Glimmer. Petra pauses for a moment on the threshold; looks back longingly at the chaos within; wishes that anything would happen to make her stay.
She goes out into the shadows of the surface.
Soon, as clear as the visions that sometimes come to her, she knows there's something moving quick and stealthy up ahead. She keeps her pace steady. Checks her knife and pistol.
"So few of us remain, Petra Venj."
The voice betrays a bearing, and she catches just a glimpse of structure against the background noise: the hood of a cloak, the arch of lips.
"Who's there?" she challenges.
It's a man. His movements are erratic, shrouded in arrhythmic noise that mimics the chaos of nature. He knows how to seem like an accidental thing: a tumbled heap, a brush of wind.
"Petra… if only we could go back to those days before…"
"Uldren?" she gasps. He is here! He has come to take the Regency and execute his sister's will! She'll be free again to act, act without cruel deliberation and agonizing uncertainty, free to meet every challenge instead of making them for herself—
No. This must be an illusion. It's too much of everything she wants. She searches with senses beyond sight for something capable of casting this into her mind. A Psion Flayer? A Hive Wizard?
"She trusted you with all of this, all of us. And you gave it to the 'mercy' of the Light."
She feels the intent to murder, and she knows it is meant for her. She draws and acquires the target faster than a sound can cross from mind to tongue—but her sight picture captures only darkness.
Two slow heartbeats. When no shot or knife comes, she begins to withdraw.
Nothing follows her to her ship.
"He's no good for you," she says, "and he's no good for me. If you turn him over, I'll be happy. You like me happy, don't you, Spider?"
The Spider grumbles. "Very well. You will take him alive? He must have stores of Ether, and no matter what Variks says, that Ether is mine…"
He's agreed. She has what she came for, which is proof that the Spider actually wants this capture to succeed. As Regent, she can never tell when she succeeds. She's constantly reacting, making decisions that will only be clearly assessed by historians. Here, she is the Wrath again. She feels brave.
"We'll deal with the Ether once we have him. Thank you for the information." Petra slides the hood over her head and dismisses herself back into the crowd.
Two Dregs barter salvage with tokens like fingernail-sized knives. Slatted light falls through thick clouds of adulterated Ether to cut hard lines across the torn bannerless fringes some of the Fallen wear. A Cabal deserter, hunched against the wall in a baggy pressure sac, sells the location of Red Legion arms caches for lodes of raw Glimmer. Petra pauses for a moment on the threshold; looks back longingly at the chaos within; wishes that anything would happen to make her stay.
She goes out into the shadows of the surface.
Soon, as clear as the visions that sometimes come to her, she knows there's something moving quick and stealthy up ahead. She keeps her pace steady. Checks her knife and pistol.
"So few of us remain, Petra Venj."
The voice betrays a bearing, and she catches just a glimpse of structure against the background noise: the hood of a cloak, the arch of lips.
"Who's there?" she challenges.
It's a man. His movements are erratic, shrouded in arrhythmic noise that mimics the chaos of nature. He knows how to seem like an accidental thing: a tumbled heap, a brush of wind.
"Petra… if only we could go back to those days before…"
"Uldren?" she gasps. He is here! He has come to take the Regency and execute his sister's will! She'll be free again to act, act without cruel deliberation and agonizing uncertainty, free to meet every challenge instead of making them for herself—
No. This must be an illusion. It's too much of everything she wants. She searches with senses beyond sight for something capable of casting this into her mind. A Psion Flayer? A Hive Wizard?
"She trusted you with all of this, all of us. And you gave it to the 'mercy' of the Light."
She feels the intent to murder, and she knows it is meant for her. She draws and acquires the target faster than a sound can cross from mind to tongue—but her sight picture captures only darkness.
Two slow heartbeats. When no shot or knife comes, she begins to withdraw.
Nothing follows her to her ship.
After that, Uldren and Fikrul part ways, for a time.
Fikrul goes to his bloody work, reshaping Fallen society the way a hammer reshapes a spider—and drawing certain useful elements to him.
Uldren resumes his lonely search for Mara. He remembers a time long ago—scouting with the Crows, scouting with a young Corsair who wanted nothing more than to be defined by her wrath…
Perhaps Petra can be saved, too.
He finds her in Thieves' Landing. What is she doing here? Mara never would've stooped to this, trading information with a criminal in the lowest places of—
"So few of us remain," he tells her, and in that moment, seeing the shame in her, he knows she is too far gone. She cannot be saved.
That night, he weeps for Petra. Mara comes to him in the darkness. She has heard his sorrow. He looks up in wonder: his sister, sending her will and wisdom to watch over him. He knows then that it will be all right.
Fikrul goes to his bloody work, reshaping Fallen society the way a hammer reshapes a spider—and drawing certain useful elements to him.
Uldren resumes his lonely search for Mara. He remembers a time long ago—scouting with the Crows, scouting with a young Corsair who wanted nothing more than to be defined by her wrath…
Perhaps Petra can be saved, too.
He finds her in Thieves' Landing. What is she doing here? Mara never would've stooped to this, trading information with a criminal in the lowest places of—
"So few of us remain," he tells her, and in that moment, seeing the shame in her, he knows she is too far gone. She cannot be saved.
That night, he weeps for Petra. Mara comes to him in the darkness. She has heard his sorrow. He looks up in wonder: his sister, sending her will and wisdom to watch over him. He knows then that it will be all right.
"Admit it! Admit that you trapped my sister in the Dreaming City!"
"I did not," Illyn says. "She is not trapped, Uldren. She is dead."
Uldren knows the truth now, and he wants things to be right; he wants it so fiercely that he knows nothing he does in pursuit of this want can be wrong. "Witch-lies," he spits, venomous. "She is alive!"
Illyn measures him in silence for a while. Then: "We knew you would come," she tells him, with quiet calm defiance. "You're lost, Uldren."
"You knew I'd come, but you never searched for me? My sister would take your eyes for that."
"Your sister needs nothing from us now, Uldren. Not even you."
The rage is almost enough to make him kill her. But he knows Mara wouldn't approve. She is with him now, she is substantial if not corporeal, and she dances at the edge of his sight. You're so close, she whispers. Free me from this place, Uldren Sov…
"You've gone mad," Illyn says, with repulsive empathy. "I almost did too, when I knew she'd gone. Why do you travel with that… thing? What have you come to do?"
"I've come to finish it," Uldren tells her. He even tries to smile, because he is being honest. He's telling the truth. "I've realized I was a fool to try to surprise her. We all exist through her design, Illyn. We all act only by her consent. I'm going to save her, because she needs me to save her. When she needs me to die, I will die. And when she has completed her great design for the Awoken, the Awoken will die, too. It is the reward we so richly deserve, for we owe everything to Mara. It would be… wrong for us to outlive our purpose. Trust me. Life without her is worse than… worse than…"
He chokes on it. He can't describe it. At the edge of sight, Mara watches him with all the heartbroken concern and tender care he has always wanted from her.
That evening, he surrenders himself to the Reef.
"I did not," Illyn says. "She is not trapped, Uldren. She is dead."
Uldren knows the truth now, and he wants things to be right; he wants it so fiercely that he knows nothing he does in pursuit of this want can be wrong. "Witch-lies," he spits, venomous. "She is alive!"
Illyn measures him in silence for a while. Then: "We knew you would come," she tells him, with quiet calm defiance. "You're lost, Uldren."
"You knew I'd come, but you never searched for me? My sister would take your eyes for that."
"Your sister needs nothing from us now, Uldren. Not even you."
The rage is almost enough to make him kill her. But he knows Mara wouldn't approve. She is with him now, she is substantial if not corporeal, and she dances at the edge of his sight. You're so close, she whispers. Free me from this place, Uldren Sov…
"You've gone mad," Illyn says, with repulsive empathy. "I almost did too, when I knew she'd gone. Why do you travel with that… thing? What have you come to do?"
"I've come to finish it," Uldren tells her. He even tries to smile, because he is being honest. He's telling the truth. "I've realized I was a fool to try to surprise her. We all exist through her design, Illyn. We all act only by her consent. I'm going to save her, because she needs me to save her. When she needs me to die, I will die. And when she has completed her great design for the Awoken, the Awoken will die, too. It is the reward we so richly deserve, for we owe everything to Mara. It would be… wrong for us to outlive our purpose. Trust me. Life without her is worse than… worse than…"
He chokes on it. He can't describe it. At the edge of sight, Mara watches him with all the heartbroken concern and tender care he has always wanted from her.
That evening, he surrenders himself to the Reef.
They take him in with a full strike team, and one of the snipers, joining Uldren and his jailers at the extraction point, looks him full in the eyes, like he's asking a question. A tall man with a long rifle. Narrow intelligent eyes. Handsome. Is he… did Uldren want something from him, once? Something important? Uldren absently rubs his eyes as he stares at him. He frowns. But he can't figure it out.
They take him to a discreet landing dock on one of the lower levels of the Prison of Elders. When his containment unit hisses open, the glow and the mist silhouette an Exo with glowing blue eyes and a woman with her weapon drawn. Petra herself.
She stands there in silence. He knows she wants to kill him. He knows she wishes him to say, "You've done well."
"She speaks to you?" Her words are curt and direct. "What does she say?"
Uldren closes his eyes and lets Mara's voice wash through him. He is here in the heart of Petra's strength, in the prison she has so carefully tended as everything else falls apart. He is weak and he is bound. These are the strengths his sister never possessed: the endurance of humiliation, the survival of defeat.
"She says…" He lifts his head to meet her gaze and watches her flinch. She holds him in her weapon's sights as she withdraws, step by careful step. The Exo steps forward to hood him with a black bag. "She says…"
"Free me."
They take him to a discreet landing dock on one of the lower levels of the Prison of Elders. When his containment unit hisses open, the glow and the mist silhouette an Exo with glowing blue eyes and a woman with her weapon drawn. Petra herself.
She stands there in silence. He knows she wants to kill him. He knows she wishes him to say, "You've done well."
"She speaks to you?" Her words are curt and direct. "What does she say?"
Uldren closes his eyes and lets Mara's voice wash through him. He is here in the heart of Petra's strength, in the prison she has so carefully tended as everything else falls apart. He is weak and he is bound. These are the strengths his sister never possessed: the endurance of humiliation, the survival of defeat.
"She says…" He lifts his head to meet her gaze and watches her flinch. She holds him in her weapon's sights as she withdraws, step by careful step. The Exo steps forward to hood him with a black bag. "She says…"
"Free me."
Vestiges of the Queen's Harbingers yet linger among Saturn's moons.
PUBLIC KEY 053 689 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJECT: PRISON OF ELDERS – CONTAINMENT RISK
MESSAGE IS:
Contingency reserves overdrawn. We underestimated nobility troth reparations. Uldren suggests that we open reintegration talks. Have you discussed endowment support?
If Reef endorses support, Paladin Oran will engineer reinforcement.
MESSAGE ENDS
PUBLIC KEY 053 689 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJECT: PRISON OF ELDERS – CONTAINMENT RISK
MESSAGE IS:
Contingency reserves overdrawn. We underestimated nobility troth reparations. Uldren suggests that we open reintegration talks. Have you discussed endowment support?
If Reef endorses support, Paladin Oran will engineer reinforcement.
MESSAGE ENDS
Dinna twists the emergency transponder until the circuit closes. And for the second time in her life, she feels the crackle of the beacon as it burns itself out, blasting its life into a single radio howl: PSARA PSARA PSARA
It means that the Queen's throne room is about to fall.
"Done," she tells her second. "Let's not count on reinforcements."
"Not our reinforcements, at least." Pods are still coming in from the prison, crashing all over the Vestian Outpost. "The throne isn't a tactical target. Do you think they'll bypass us?"
"Not a chance," Dinna says, grimly. "Not the littlest chance."
The Queen's Guard has, technically, never been defeated in battle: Pride dismisses the House of Wolves' backstab as an act of treachery, not military might. But once more the Fallen are loose in the Reef… and if there is no treachery involved, Dinna will eat dirt and call it hummus. This reminds her too much of that awful day.
So when the voice comes through the door, she calls, "Hold. Hold."
"Paladin Dinna?" the Prince of the Awoken calls. "You know that's my throne you're guarding, don't you? May I come in?"
"You're not alone," she shouts back.
"I have my retinue with me."
A few of Dinna's people lower their weapons. "Weapons up," she snaps. "We can't trust him to—"
Royal overrides slither through the throne room's networks. The doors open, and a dazzling barrage of flashbangs plays the royal welcome. Dinna stares straight into it, weapon aimed, eyes open, trusting her helmet to buffer her sight—and waiting for the first blue flash of Fallen weapons.
Prince Uldren Sov saunters in like the belle of the ball, his cocked revolver aimed at the ceiling. "At ease," he says, with a little swish of his cloak, and everyone, Dinna included, responds. Just a moment's weakness. Just the subtlest flicker of deference, because he is the Prince and it feels so right to have royalty in this throne room again. Fingers off triggers, weapons skewed a few degrees off target—
The impulse is so strong because it jives with Dinna's discipline, which has already stepped in to crush the immediate instinct to blow Uldren away. Something's wrong. Something's off.
Baseline Humans can react to a visual stimulus in less than two hundred milliseconds. Awoken, less than a hundred. But there is a phenomenon Dinna and every other Royal Guard knows well, a trick of the mind called attentional blink. You are waiting for something to appear: a hostile, a gunshot, a loud noise. When it does appear, your attention blinks. You cannot detect a second event if it comes just after the first.
So it is with the blue flash of Arc-rifle fire behind Uldren's cloak.
It could go differently, still. But there is no one in this room who can easily sight in and fire on their Prince—and he has no such reciprocal inhibition.
It means that the Queen's throne room is about to fall.
"Done," she tells her second. "Let's not count on reinforcements."
"Not our reinforcements, at least." Pods are still coming in from the prison, crashing all over the Vestian Outpost. "The throne isn't a tactical target. Do you think they'll bypass us?"
"Not a chance," Dinna says, grimly. "Not the littlest chance."
The Queen's Guard has, technically, never been defeated in battle: Pride dismisses the House of Wolves' backstab as an act of treachery, not military might. But once more the Fallen are loose in the Reef… and if there is no treachery involved, Dinna will eat dirt and call it hummus. This reminds her too much of that awful day.
So when the voice comes through the door, she calls, "Hold. Hold."
"Paladin Dinna?" the Prince of the Awoken calls. "You know that's my throne you're guarding, don't you? May I come in?"
"You're not alone," she shouts back.
"I have my retinue with me."
A few of Dinna's people lower their weapons. "Weapons up," she snaps. "We can't trust him to—"
Royal overrides slither through the throne room's networks. The doors open, and a dazzling barrage of flashbangs plays the royal welcome. Dinna stares straight into it, weapon aimed, eyes open, trusting her helmet to buffer her sight—and waiting for the first blue flash of Fallen weapons.
Prince Uldren Sov saunters in like the belle of the ball, his cocked revolver aimed at the ceiling. "At ease," he says, with a little swish of his cloak, and everyone, Dinna included, responds. Just a moment's weakness. Just the subtlest flicker of deference, because he is the Prince and it feels so right to have royalty in this throne room again. Fingers off triggers, weapons skewed a few degrees off target—
The impulse is so strong because it jives with Dinna's discipline, which has already stepped in to crush the immediate instinct to blow Uldren away. Something's wrong. Something's off.
Baseline Humans can react to a visual stimulus in less than two hundred milliseconds. Awoken, less than a hundred. But there is a phenomenon Dinna and every other Royal Guard knows well, a trick of the mind called attentional blink. You are waiting for something to appear: a hostile, a gunshot, a loud noise. When it does appear, your attention blinks. You cannot detect a second event if it comes just after the first.
So it is with the blue flash of Arc-rifle fire behind Uldren's cloak.
It could go differently, still. But there is no one in this room who can easily sight in and fire on their Prince—and he has no such reciprocal inhibition.
Return to the Dreaming City
"We knew it would not be easy." —Paladin Hallam Fen
"You were right," Hallam says. He leans close to the screen, earnest, entreating. "You were right all along. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
"That doesn't matter now," Petra says. He can make out the spires of the Keep of Voices behind her, but not the nuance of her expression. The connection is bad.
"It does! Listen. No one thought you were right for that job. We thought…" He flattens his mouth. "Well, we thought Mara was favoring you for the wrong reasons. You're young; you were still green. You certainly weren't Sjur. When Mara died, and suddenly you were Regent instead of me or Devi or whoever…"
It's hard to confess such ugly things.
He shakes his head, pushing his computer away at arm's-length. "When everything is going wrong, but you aren't in charge, it's easy to imagine you could do a better job. But I was wrong. I didn't understand that the job was to keep the faith. None of us could have done that except you."
"You were right," Hallam says. He leans close to the screen, earnest, entreating. "You were right all along. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
"That doesn't matter now," Petra says. He can make out the spires of the Keep of Voices behind her, but not the nuance of her expression. The connection is bad.
"It does! Listen. No one thought you were right for that job. We thought…" He flattens his mouth. "Well, we thought Mara was favoring you for the wrong reasons. You're young; you were still green. You certainly weren't Sjur. When Mara died, and suddenly you were Regent instead of me or Devi or whoever…"
It's hard to confess such ugly things.
He shakes his head, pushing his computer away at arm's-length. "When everything is going wrong, but you aren't in charge, it's easy to imagine you could do a better job. But I was wrong. I didn't understand that the job was to keep the faith. None of us could have done that except you."
"What else can we do but take up arms?" —Corsair Amrita Vae
Kazia watches as Amrita tears through their little cobbled-together home. She's ripping it apart, trying to put it into a backpack.
"Hurry," she's saying. "It's finally happening."
Kazia watches, but all she sees are the walls they built with their own hands. The tiny garden they coaxed out of the parched earth. The mountains on the horizon, so unlike any in the Reef. The salvage they transformed from left-behind scraps into beloved possessions. She watches, but all she thinks of is the before and the after. She's starting to realize that she stopped longing for the "before" years ago.
It's clear now that Amrita has been dreaming of it every day.
When Kazia speaks, it takes all her courage. "What about our life here?"
Amrita reels. "What life?" she says, thoughtless. "This isn't a life, Kazia. This is waiting. Hiding. This is… purgatory. The Queen's alive. Petra needs us. We have to fight."
Of those who go and those who stay, Amrita goes and Kazia stays. Alone.
Kazia watches as Amrita tears through their little cobbled-together home. She's ripping it apart, trying to put it into a backpack.
"Hurry," she's saying. "It's finally happening."
Kazia watches, but all she sees are the walls they built with their own hands. The tiny garden they coaxed out of the parched earth. The mountains on the horizon, so unlike any in the Reef. The salvage they transformed from left-behind scraps into beloved possessions. She watches, but all she thinks of is the before and the after. She's starting to realize that she stopped longing for the "before" years ago.
It's clear now that Amrita has been dreaming of it every day.
When Kazia speaks, it takes all her courage. "What about our life here?"
Amrita reels. "What life?" she says, thoughtless. "This isn't a life, Kazia. This is waiting. Hiding. This is… purgatory. The Queen's alive. Petra needs us. We have to fight."
Of those who go and those who stay, Amrita goes and Kazia stays. Alone.
the clever one sees through our pawn
'I am not your pawn. My will is my own. Though… perhaps not my actions, of late.'
P A W N S H A V E M A N Y U S E S
'More than you know.'
Her plan was multi-armed. Strong.
'You will never see her coming. Mara Sov bows to no one.'
clever or not she will not halt the storm they are coming
'Yes…'
N O T H I N G W I L L C H A N G E T H A T N O W
'Don't be so sure. Those I judge have agency like you will never know.'
Nothing.
'…'
NOTHING.
'…'
no one
'…'
Then why are we afraid? We are Nine.
'Hah. Are you?'
A R E W E
'…'
truth truth count the voices
'One, two, three, four, five. Haha.'
They will see it our way, given time. We are the same.
'No one sees anything your way. You seek to hear us… them… but you don't listen.'
N I N E
'Five.'
Yes.
'…'
i wish to share your confidence
'Oh?'
Have you learned nothing? Even we should not use that word.
'What tipped you off? The paracausal nightmare in the Reef? Or the Hunter with the bleeding eyes?'
E N O U G H
'Even you have tempers.'
the pawn will give us agency in this her goal is our goal we made her thusly
'Yes. And no. You will never understand us.'
Yes. They are coming, and when they arrive, she will do as she always does. Judge.
'In that we agree. I'm judging you, too.'
EVERYTHING DIES. EVEN THE ONES RIDING THE ONCOMING STORM.
'Dogma.'
T H E R E I S A N E N D T O E V E R Y T H I N G
'Dogma.'
The greatest threat to a Guardian is another Guardian.
'Dogma.'
three keys
'Dogma.'
SAFE HARBOR IS VERY FAR AWAY
'Dogma. I'm sick of your dogma. I'll be just a little longer, Namqi.'
'I am not your pawn. My will is my own. Though… perhaps not my actions, of late.'
P A W N S H A V E M A N Y U S E S
'More than you know.'
Her plan was multi-armed. Strong.
'You will never see her coming. Mara Sov bows to no one.'
clever or not she will not halt the storm they are coming
'Yes…'
N O T H I N G W I L L C H A N G E T H A T N O W
'Don't be so sure. Those I judge have agency like you will never know.'
Nothing.
'…'
NOTHING.
'…'
no one
'…'
Then why are we afraid? We are Nine.
'Hah. Are you?'
A R E W E
'…'
truth truth count the voices
'One, two, three, four, five. Haha.'
They will see it our way, given time. We are the same.
'No one sees anything your way. You seek to hear us… them… but you don't listen.'
N I N E
'Five.'
Yes.
'…'
i wish to share your confidence
'Oh?'
Have you learned nothing? Even we should not use that word.
'What tipped you off? The paracausal nightmare in the Reef? Or the Hunter with the bleeding eyes?'
E N O U G H
'Even you have tempers.'
the pawn will give us agency in this her goal is our goal we made her thusly
'Yes. And no. You will never understand us.'
Yes. They are coming, and when they arrive, she will do as she always does. Judge.
'In that we agree. I'm judging you, too.'
EVERYTHING DIES. EVEN THE ONES RIDING THE ONCOMING STORM.
'Dogma.'
T H E R E I S A N E N D T O E V E R Y T H I N G
'Dogma.'
The greatest threat to a Guardian is another Guardian.
'Dogma.'
three keys
'Dogma.'
SAFE HARBOR IS VERY FAR AWAY
'Dogma. I'm sick of your dogma. I'll be just a little longer, Namqi.'
Last edited:
deadcrystal
Slaaneshi Cultist
- Location
- The Warp
Early Mara is just amazing. Also seeing past the act she portrays to see the people she cares deeply about and the things that have hurt her. The final Osana bits are painful, and her final confrontation with Alis Li are great as well.
Sjur Eido relationship is cute as heck.
But shame on you for not including the most critical piece of Mara lore in this collection. Shaxx kept the helmet on.
The Nine and the Jovians are still in the lore-state of having several competing equally plausible theories but no actual definitive answers. Same as prior to Forsaken we had almost no real info on the Awoken and how they became that way.
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Crap. I forgot the Last Wish armor lore. fffffffffffffffffffffff-
Adding that now.
Edit: Added things relating to the Great Hunt.
Last edited:
deadcrystal
Slaaneshi Cultist
- Location
- The Warp
You're still missing the only one that matters, Mark of the Great Hunt. Should be place in the Taken War section I think, somewhere before Tyrannocide IV, or that's my guess anyway.
- Location
- The State of Denial
As someone who doesn't know much Destiny lore, I was very very confused about this, and thought Jack and the Slaughterhouse Nine were coming out to play.
Crucible v1
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
You can consider this a work-in-progress, a beta version of the chapter. It may or may not resemble this once I'm done messing with it.
There's something about Crucible matches that make them unlike anything else. Maybe it's the environments, the areas that show the state of humanity outside the Wall. Maybe it's the rhythm, the highs and lows of tension from skirmishes big and small. Maybe it's the rules of engagement, and the knowledge that no matter what you won't truly die.
Whatever it is, it's different.
And watching Weaver and Cayde face each other? Zachary knew that this was the kind of match that defines the Crucible, the ones that have people talking not for days or weeks, but years. Decades.
Unlike the usual completely chaotic matches, Cayde and Weaver's was two-thirds tactics, an exercise of small-group organization and coordination. Between Cayde's obvious leadership experience and Weaver's almost unnatural ability and apparent knowledge of how to leverage all of her team to their fullest extent, it was practically nail-biting.
The game mode was Survival. Each team had a pool of resurrections they could use, and every resurrection decreased the number available. And when that number was zero and someone got taken out? They didn't get to go back in.
In the first round, Weaver had stepped back and taken a role as long-range support with a sniper rifle, leading from the rear, so to speak. Cayde, on the other hand, had put himself smack-dab in the middle of everything, right at the front.
Of course, Cayde's team had learned rather quickly to avoid any areas with clear lines-of-sight, trying to keep to smaller halls and hiding behind corners, keeping a wary eye out for the glint of a scope that meant immediate death.
It'd worked… until Weaver started shooting them through the walls they hid behind. Somehow.
The problem with Weaver was that none of her capabilities were known. All of her weapons were custom (with a good amount of highly-advanced Reef and Golden-Age tech he imagined, based on her talk with Banshee), and that meant the Vanguard had seen nothing like them before.
The sniper rifle she'd used almost couldn't be considered that. Pure silver, with a body and barrel that were practically flat on either side, the top and bottom edges almost blade-like as they extended past the fore-grip. And he had a feeling from the way they glinted that they weren't just for show. The only thing that interrupted the rifle's edges was the small curve up and then down in the place right before she rested her cheek for the sight and the magazine that protruded from the bottom.
Thankfully for the other side, she didn't have unlimited ammo.
It was a very close round, but ultimately Cayde's team won as the close-range team members from Weaver's side just couldn't match the Hunter Vanguard leader, even with how coordinated they'd all managed to get.
So the next round, things changed. Weaver was no longer support, but right on the front lines.
Rather than the sniper rifle and the sidearm (which she'd proved herself just as adept with when a member of the other team managed to flank them), she matched Cayde's Ace of Spades with her own hand cannon, and a black and silver bow of all things.
The moment she'd pulled that out, every single person in the bar he was in had either outright laughed or just stared at the holovid stream incredulously, all thinking things like 'is she serious?' Even with how effective she seemed to make it, people still poked fun at it.
…Until she used her collected Light.
The round prior she hadn't ever used a Super ability, though she'd thrown homing and Arcbolt grenades around like popcorn whenever members of the enemy team moved up quickly and onto where she was situated. Zachary had a feeling she'd somehow been re-purposing the Light she accumulated towards her grenades rather than a trump-card ability.
It was obvious when she used it in this match, however, because suddenly both she and the bow were crackling with Arc energy, the drawstring bright white like an incandescent filament. Rather than drawing an arrow and notching it like she had every other time she'd used the bow, she simply started pulling back the drawstring, two bolts of spitting lightning appearing as soon as she did.
It took less than half a second for her to move out into the open from corner she'd been behind, the string released, the two of the opposing team who'd been advancing suddenly just gone. The only sign anything had even happened was the sharp crack of displaced air, the already-disappearing bright white trails of plasma, and a pair of Arc pulses left behind where the arrows had impacted.
And then she did it again. And again. And again.
Unlike a Nightstalker's pure-Void bow, she managed to get seven of those bolts of instant death off before the other team brought her down. She may have even had more left in her.
His Ghost explained it as a matter of energy efficiency: channeling Light through an object built for it was significantly less taxing than manifesting equipment out of the Light. It was everything annoying about facing a Hunter's Golden Gun or Blade Barrage, but worse.
Neither Cayde nor Weaver were immune to getting killed, however. Both had their fair share of resurrections, each team even getting wiped once from a particularly strong play.
The problem was they were adaptable. Each time one side did something, the other side would come up with a counter and the trick couldn't be used again.
Even getting very close up to Weaver didn't phase her, which was surprisingly considering how much she seemed to prefer medium to long-range engagements. The first time a Bladedancer had come through she'd reacted by firing her hand cannon and had nearly killed them before she was reduced to nothing more than lingering Arc energy.
The second time Cayde's team tried to use that tactic? She pulled a sword out and sliced through the incoming Arc-infused Hunter like butter in the blink of an eye.
They didn't try it again.
Likewise, as soon as any of them saw Weaver's crackling bow, they focused fire on her, completely disregarding the rest of the teammates she was with at the time, bringing her down in fractions of a second.
It was a tug-of-war between the sides to win, each round switching victors until both teams were tied with two wins. And then it was the final round.
'Well, this is it!' Kali said cheerfully.
'Yeah. God, I wish I had Silence working, I've only got a few tricks left,' Weaver noted. 'He's really pushing my limits.'
She took a breath and let it out. 'Alright. I'm going to need something that can catch them off guard. The throwing knives'll work, but only for a couple times. Final Mercy lets me match Cayde, so I need to keep that. I think we're going to go back to the grenades, this time with the firebolts.' She paused suddenly. 'Do we still have that Torch Hammer?'
'Ooooooh, Weaver,' Kali said, laughing. 'Taking advantage of the fact that Vex weapons have infinite ammo to bypass the heavy weapon bottleneck? That's just playing dirty…' She gave the mental impression of a grin. 'I like. And of course we do.'
'Then prime that, and prep the shrapnel launcher as well. Maybe that'll throw them off.' Scare them by using the weapons their enemies wielded that almost inevitably spelled certain death.
"I'll be moving to close range exclusively. Green, Orange, you'll stick with me again?" Weaver said, looking around the circle of teammates.
The female Hunter off to the side of their group looked at her and nodded. "Sounds good to me."
"Is everyone alright with switching to bait-and-run tactics? Drawing the small groups into places where we can take care of them easier?" There were nods all around. "Alright. Three and three, choose a runner, move after you take care of any groups, even if it's just one person. Keep in contact, notify enemy movement, etc. etc."
They were suddenly transported from the staging room to the arena, with the same technology that was used for jumpships, actually. The area was in Germany: an odd amalgam of lush plantlife and abandoned, slowly deteriorating apartment buildings, rusted vehicles sitting on cracked streets, and even a classically Gothic cathedral, all situated somewhere in the mountain ranges. It was oddly moving to Weaver, who could just see what it would have been like before, perhaps better than any of the Guardians that were with her.
It was a view of Earth, as it had been Before. What it would have been like during her life and the scant century after that was the Golden Age. Though, it really wasn't all that different from what a European city would have looked like during her own time, which really just made the place all the more sobering.
The voice of the overseer-slash-commentator—a man with a mild British accent named Shaxx, of all things—came over their comm channels. "You have match point, they have match point. Show me what you've got!"
"Heading towards the cemetery," Weaver said, she and her two teammates moving up the stairwell, keeping an eye out when they had a line of fire around the corner before dashing to the entrance of the graveyard.
'Shrapnel launcher, please.'
The comforting weight of the oversized weapon materialized in her hands, and Weaver could practically feel Orange's eyes widen behind his mask before turning away and peeking out of the north entrance of the cemetery, just barely ducking in as there was a bang and the spray of shattered concrete where the edge of the concrete had been blown away.
"Hand cannon. Looks like Turquoise," he said, popping up suddenly from behind the wall and bringing the pulse rifle he had to return a burst of fire. "Shields almost down, but he's coming this way and using cover to let them recharge. Estimated arrival in three, two, one—"
She barely saw the hint of dark armor before Weaver stood and moved, teleporting the ten feet between where she'd been crouching and Turquoise's position in an instant, shrapnel launcher practically against his chest as she pulled the trigger with a distinctive choom. His torso disappeared, the remnants of his body flying back as his ghost suddenly materialized where he'd died, expanded into that familiar blue orb, corner sections counter-rotating as it gathered Light from the environment and its Guardian so that he could revive.
"That's one, let's move on—" Green started as she moved towards the exit, ducking suddenly at the sound of a gun, two bullets impacting and breaking her shield. "NEVERMIND! …He had a buddy."
"Orange?" Weaver prompted, and the man nodded, standing up and firing downrange at the enemy, stopping after two bursts and then throwing out a Void grenade that split into streamers.
"Got him."
"Now we move."
"Yeah, yeah, so I was a little premature. Sue me," Green shot back.
They crept out of the cemetery, moving down the stairs and towards the cross-street with the vans, keeping to cover.
And then suddenly Green's head was gone, the sharp crack echoing through the suburb.
"Sniper!"
Weaver and Orange ducked behind the van's rear. After a few seconds, she risked poking her head out—lower than usual—before drawing it back immediately. "They're already gone. Resurrect Green?"
Orange nodded, moving over to the woman's Ghost and feeding it some of his own life's Light to bring her back right where she'd died. "FuckI hate snipers."
"Let's keep moving."
They stayed between the van and the wall, keeping an eye on their motion sensors as the area in front of them, around the corner, suddenly went red.
Weaver and the opposing Guardian almost ran into each other, another shot from the shrapnel launcher dealing with them near-instantly.
The leftwards-slice on the sensors was still red, though.
Weaver swapped her shrapnel launcher with the torch hammer on her back, darting around the corner and firing at the area the sensors indicated… only to suddenly dissolve thanks to a giant bomb of pure Void.
And it looked like Orange got hit as well.
Greaaaat.
Green was completely pinned down, and rather than try and revive Weaver and Orange, she took the smart option and retreated, moving back to a defensible position.
Five seconds later, and both Kali and Orange's Ghost blinked out as Weaver and he were resurrected off to the side of the area.
…On the other side from Green.
"Green, don't bother waiting for us, meet up with the other group. Speaking of, how are you three doing?" she asked, on the full-team comms now.
"We've got three and lost one. And Cayde's just shown up, too," one of them responded. "We're in the church."
So four more resurrections left, and the other side had three.
"Fall back, let's meet back up behind the church and then break apart, try and pull them towards us and then deal with them as a group. Picking them off doesn't seem to be working so well since they're staying ranged."
"Copy."
Weaver glanced across the gap towards the church from where she and Orange had been revived in the hole in two stories of an apartment building. "To the tree, and then across," he noted, and she nodded.
And then Green suddenly died, the kill feed running in her HUD showing it was the sniper again.
Down to three, then. Tied.
Weaver and Orange wasted no time in moving into the open and then sliding into position behind the tree's raised planter, her eyes peeled and looking for—
There!
The torch hammer came back out, firing a two-shot burst towards the woman that had appeared racing towards the steps of the crumbling admin building for the church.
The first shot landed short but the concussive impact made her stumble into the path of the second, the ball of superheated plasma chewing through the last half of her shield and flash-frying her.
Three to two, now. Eight more kills and they'd win this.
Orange had already crossed the second gap while she'd been busy firing, and Weaver followed as soon as the coast seemed clear.
And then there was distinctive sound of a rocket launcher firing once, and then again, propellant hissing before there was a pair of explosions at the other end of the church. The result was that all three of the Guardians she and Orange were traveling towards were gone.
Shit.
Haaaaa. Zero to two.
"Orange, let's back off and go meet back up with the rest at the rez point."
He nodded in agreement, but before either of them could move a spray of bullets chewed into the low wall they were behind, spraying chips of cement.
There was the crackling sound of Arc energy, and she barely had time for her eyes to widen before a Striker impacted the wall and they knew no more.
'Well that was disappointing,' Weaver sent Kali, still acorporeal as they were out of the game and blocked from resurrecting.
'Titans are bullshit,' Kali returned.
Weaver gave a sad laugh. 'We said the same thing about Tinkers in my old world.'
'Yeah, well. There was literally no way you could have countered that,' the Ghost argued 'No line-of-sight, behind cover, and it still killed you.'
'We got outplayed,' Weaver admitted. I knew their Titan probably had that ability since it wasn't used last round, but I didn't expect them to go for a move like that.'
'I'm pretty sure they targeted you,' Kali said, and Weaver gave a mental impression of agreement.
'How long do you think it'll take for the match to end?'
Down to four members with the other side having a full team and two resurrections, victory was… unlikely.
Weaver gave a mental sigh. 'I don't know, but I just hope that the Queen won't be too upset with me.'
'Hey. We knew it was going to be tough. We were at a major disadvantage even with how much information you got beforehand.'
'True,' Weaver conceded reluctantly.
They fell silent. Time passed weirdly when you were dead but still conscious, and it seemed both agonizingly long and incredibly short before Weaver was suddenly back in her body, listening to the commentator announcing the other team's victory.
"It was a good game."
Weaver stared at Cayde's extended hand warily for a moment, eyes moving up to the Exo's face and then back down, before she sighed and reached out to shake it. "Yeah."
"Hey! No need to be so down!" Without any warning, the man had swiveled around and clapped her shoulder, arm across her back. "You did pretty damn good for a rookie. Not many people could have pulled that off. Also, can I just say, that I will never be able to look at a bow the same way again?"
Kali felt Weaver's lips twitch at the corners.
"I'd say the same thing about those knives you threw if I wasn't so interested in trying them myself," Weaver said, looking at her hand as a flare of Solar energy rushed down her arm and then filled out into the shape of blades held between her fingers.
Cayde pulled back to look at Weaver. "Okay, now you're just showing off."
The brunette made no attempt to hide her smirk, the blades of Light fading as she released her hold on the construct.
"But seriously, good job. I haven't been pushed like that since Ikora," Cayde said. He suddenly turned to her. "Say, do you play cards?"
Kali started cackling.
As least they'd get to make up for the loss in the Crucible by robbing the Vanguard blind.
The Queen would probably enjoy hearing that.
A/N: How comp survival really goes:
"Camp heavy, camp heavy!"
"Just stay in the middle, don't push!"
"Popping Nova Warp— AND THAT'S A GOLDEN GUN."
"Fuck Telesto!"
Seriously though, this chapter was a pain. I tried it, and I've learned that large coordinated fights aren't my thing. Good to know.
But! Now we can move on to more Weaverthings. Probably not going to actually run through the Black Garden mission since, well, I hate repeating canon. I'll describe the overall events, but no narrating it in full. And we'll meet Zach's friends beforehand.
Then we can finally get back to the Reef.
I'm kinda posting this impulsively, so uh. Comments and Critiques?
Oh! And if you're interested in Destiny lore or Dragons or wish-granting-creatures, I started a Worm/Destiny drabble series called Wish Me Well with one of everyone's favorite sneaky shapeshifting wish-dragons (aka the Ahamkara).
There's something about Crucible matches that make them unlike anything else. Maybe it's the environments, the areas that show the state of humanity outside the Wall. Maybe it's the rhythm, the highs and lows of tension from skirmishes big and small. Maybe it's the rules of engagement, and the knowledge that no matter what you won't truly die.
Whatever it is, it's different.
And watching Weaver and Cayde face each other? Zachary knew that this was the kind of match that defines the Crucible, the ones that have people talking not for days or weeks, but years. Decades.
Unlike the usual completely chaotic matches, Cayde and Weaver's was two-thirds tactics, an exercise of small-group organization and coordination. Between Cayde's obvious leadership experience and Weaver's almost unnatural ability and apparent knowledge of how to leverage all of her team to their fullest extent, it was practically nail-biting.
The game mode was Survival. Each team had a pool of resurrections they could use, and every resurrection decreased the number available. And when that number was zero and someone got taken out? They didn't get to go back in.
In the first round, Weaver had stepped back and taken a role as long-range support with a sniper rifle, leading from the rear, so to speak. Cayde, on the other hand, had put himself smack-dab in the middle of everything, right at the front.
Of course, Cayde's team had learned rather quickly to avoid any areas with clear lines-of-sight, trying to keep to smaller halls and hiding behind corners, keeping a wary eye out for the glint of a scope that meant immediate death.
It'd worked… until Weaver started shooting them through the walls they hid behind. Somehow.
The problem with Weaver was that none of her capabilities were known. All of her weapons were custom (with a good amount of highly-advanced Reef and Golden-Age tech he imagined, based on her talk with Banshee), and that meant the Vanguard had seen nothing like them before.
The sniper rifle she'd used almost couldn't be considered that. Pure silver, with a body and barrel that were practically flat on either side, the top and bottom edges almost blade-like as they extended past the fore-grip. And he had a feeling from the way they glinted that they weren't just for show. The only thing that interrupted the rifle's edges was the small curve up and then down in the place right before she rested her cheek for the sight and the magazine that protruded from the bottom.
Thankfully for the other side, she didn't have unlimited ammo.
It was a very close round, but ultimately Cayde's team won as the close-range team members from Weaver's side just couldn't match the Hunter Vanguard leader, even with how coordinated they'd all managed to get.
So the next round, things changed. Weaver was no longer support, but right on the front lines.
Rather than the sniper rifle and the sidearm (which she'd proved herself just as adept with when a member of the other team managed to flank them), she matched Cayde's Ace of Spades with her own hand cannon, and a black and silver bow of all things.
The moment she'd pulled that out, every single person in the bar he was in had either outright laughed or just stared at the holovid stream incredulously, all thinking things like 'is she serious?' Even with how effective she seemed to make it, people still poked fun at it.
…Until she used her collected Light.
The round prior she hadn't ever used a Super ability, though she'd thrown homing and Arcbolt grenades around like popcorn whenever members of the enemy team moved up quickly and onto where she was situated. Zachary had a feeling she'd somehow been re-purposing the Light she accumulated towards her grenades rather than a trump-card ability.
It was obvious when she used it in this match, however, because suddenly both she and the bow were crackling with Arc energy, the drawstring bright white like an incandescent filament. Rather than drawing an arrow and notching it like she had every other time she'd used the bow, she simply started pulling back the drawstring, two bolts of spitting lightning appearing as soon as she did.
It took less than half a second for her to move out into the open from corner she'd been behind, the string released, the two of the opposing team who'd been advancing suddenly just gone. The only sign anything had even happened was the sharp crack of displaced air, the already-disappearing bright white trails of plasma, and a pair of Arc pulses left behind where the arrows had impacted.
And then she did it again. And again. And again.
Unlike a Nightstalker's pure-Void bow, she managed to get seven of those bolts of instant death off before the other team brought her down. She may have even had more left in her.
His Ghost explained it as a matter of energy efficiency: channeling Light through an object built for it was significantly less taxing than manifesting equipment out of the Light. It was everything annoying about facing a Hunter's Golden Gun or Blade Barrage, but worse.
Neither Cayde nor Weaver were immune to getting killed, however. Both had their fair share of resurrections, each team even getting wiped once from a particularly strong play.
The problem was they were adaptable. Each time one side did something, the other side would come up with a counter and the trick couldn't be used again.
Even getting very close up to Weaver didn't phase her, which was surprisingly considering how much she seemed to prefer medium to long-range engagements. The first time a Bladedancer had come through she'd reacted by firing her hand cannon and had nearly killed them before she was reduced to nothing more than lingering Arc energy.
The second time Cayde's team tried to use that tactic? She pulled a sword out and sliced through the incoming Arc-infused Hunter like butter in the blink of an eye.
They didn't try it again.
Likewise, as soon as any of them saw Weaver's crackling bow, they focused fire on her, completely disregarding the rest of the teammates she was with at the time, bringing her down in fractions of a second.
It was a tug-of-war between the sides to win, each round switching victors until both teams were tied with two wins. And then it was the final round.
'Well, this is it!' Kali said cheerfully.
'Yeah. God, I wish I had Silence working, I've only got a few tricks left,' Weaver noted. 'He's really pushing my limits.'
She took a breath and let it out. 'Alright. I'm going to need something that can catch them off guard. The throwing knives'll work, but only for a couple times. Final Mercy lets me match Cayde, so I need to keep that. I think we're going to go back to the grenades, this time with the firebolts.' She paused suddenly. 'Do we still have that Torch Hammer?'
'Ooooooh, Weaver,' Kali said, laughing. 'Taking advantage of the fact that Vex weapons have infinite ammo to bypass the heavy weapon bottleneck? That's just playing dirty…' She gave the mental impression of a grin. 'I like. And of course we do.'
'Then prime that, and prep the shrapnel launcher as well. Maybe that'll throw them off.' Scare them by using the weapons their enemies wielded that almost inevitably spelled certain death.
"I'll be moving to close range exclusively. Green, Orange, you'll stick with me again?" Weaver said, looking around the circle of teammates.
The female Hunter off to the side of their group looked at her and nodded. "Sounds good to me."
"Is everyone alright with switching to bait-and-run tactics? Drawing the small groups into places where we can take care of them easier?" There were nods all around. "Alright. Three and three, choose a runner, move after you take care of any groups, even if it's just one person. Keep in contact, notify enemy movement, etc. etc."
They were suddenly transported from the staging room to the arena, with the same technology that was used for jumpships, actually. The area was in Germany: an odd amalgam of lush plantlife and abandoned, slowly deteriorating apartment buildings, rusted vehicles sitting on cracked streets, and even a classically Gothic cathedral, all situated somewhere in the mountain ranges. It was oddly moving to Weaver, who could just see what it would have been like before, perhaps better than any of the Guardians that were with her.
It was a view of Earth, as it had been Before. What it would have been like during her life and the scant century after that was the Golden Age. Though, it really wasn't all that different from what a European city would have looked like during her own time, which really just made the place all the more sobering.
The voice of the overseer-slash-commentator—a man with a mild British accent named Shaxx, of all things—came over their comm channels. "You have match point, they have match point. Show me what you've got!"
"Heading towards the cemetery," Weaver said, she and her two teammates moving up the stairwell, keeping an eye out when they had a line of fire around the corner before dashing to the entrance of the graveyard.
'Shrapnel launcher, please.'
The comforting weight of the oversized weapon materialized in her hands, and Weaver could practically feel Orange's eyes widen behind his mask before turning away and peeking out of the north entrance of the cemetery, just barely ducking in as there was a bang and the spray of shattered concrete where the edge of the concrete had been blown away.
"Hand cannon. Looks like Turquoise," he said, popping up suddenly from behind the wall and bringing the pulse rifle he had to return a burst of fire. "Shields almost down, but he's coming this way and using cover to let them recharge. Estimated arrival in three, two, one—"
She barely saw the hint of dark armor before Weaver stood and moved, teleporting the ten feet between where she'd been crouching and Turquoise's position in an instant, shrapnel launcher practically against his chest as she pulled the trigger with a distinctive choom. His torso disappeared, the remnants of his body flying back as his ghost suddenly materialized where he'd died, expanded into that familiar blue orb, corner sections counter-rotating as it gathered Light from the environment and its Guardian so that he could revive.
"That's one, let's move on—" Green started as she moved towards the exit, ducking suddenly at the sound of a gun, two bullets impacting and breaking her shield. "NEVERMIND! …He had a buddy."
"Orange?" Weaver prompted, and the man nodded, standing up and firing downrange at the enemy, stopping after two bursts and then throwing out a Void grenade that split into streamers.
"Got him."
"Now we move."
"Yeah, yeah, so I was a little premature. Sue me," Green shot back.
They crept out of the cemetery, moving down the stairs and towards the cross-street with the vans, keeping to cover.
And then suddenly Green's head was gone, the sharp crack echoing through the suburb.
"Sniper!"
Weaver and Orange ducked behind the van's rear. After a few seconds, she risked poking her head out—lower than usual—before drawing it back immediately. "They're already gone. Resurrect Green?"
Orange nodded, moving over to the woman's Ghost and feeding it some of his own life's Light to bring her back right where she'd died. "FuckI hate snipers."
"Let's keep moving."
They stayed between the van and the wall, keeping an eye on their motion sensors as the area in front of them, around the corner, suddenly went red.
Weaver and the opposing Guardian almost ran into each other, another shot from the shrapnel launcher dealing with them near-instantly.
The leftwards-slice on the sensors was still red, though.
Weaver swapped her shrapnel launcher with the torch hammer on her back, darting around the corner and firing at the area the sensors indicated… only to suddenly dissolve thanks to a giant bomb of pure Void.
And it looked like Orange got hit as well.
Greaaaat.
Green was completely pinned down, and rather than try and revive Weaver and Orange, she took the smart option and retreated, moving back to a defensible position.
Five seconds later, and both Kali and Orange's Ghost blinked out as Weaver and he were resurrected off to the side of the area.
…On the other side from Green.
"Green, don't bother waiting for us, meet up with the other group. Speaking of, how are you three doing?" she asked, on the full-team comms now.
"We've got three and lost one. And Cayde's just shown up, too," one of them responded. "We're in the church."
So four more resurrections left, and the other side had three.
"Fall back, let's meet back up behind the church and then break apart, try and pull them towards us and then deal with them as a group. Picking them off doesn't seem to be working so well since they're staying ranged."
"Copy."
Weaver glanced across the gap towards the church from where she and Orange had been revived in the hole in two stories of an apartment building. "To the tree, and then across," he noted, and she nodded.
And then Green suddenly died, the kill feed running in her HUD showing it was the sniper again.
Down to three, then. Tied.
Weaver and Orange wasted no time in moving into the open and then sliding into position behind the tree's raised planter, her eyes peeled and looking for—
There!
The torch hammer came back out, firing a two-shot burst towards the woman that had appeared racing towards the steps of the crumbling admin building for the church.
The first shot landed short but the concussive impact made her stumble into the path of the second, the ball of superheated plasma chewing through the last half of her shield and flash-frying her.
Three to two, now. Eight more kills and they'd win this.
Orange had already crossed the second gap while she'd been busy firing, and Weaver followed as soon as the coast seemed clear.
And then there was distinctive sound of a rocket launcher firing once, and then again, propellant hissing before there was a pair of explosions at the other end of the church. The result was that all three of the Guardians she and Orange were traveling towards were gone.
Shit.
Haaaaa. Zero to two.
"Orange, let's back off and go meet back up with the rest at the rez point."
He nodded in agreement, but before either of them could move a spray of bullets chewed into the low wall they were behind, spraying chips of cement.
There was the crackling sound of Arc energy, and she barely had time for her eyes to widen before a Striker impacted the wall and they knew no more.
'Well that was disappointing,' Weaver sent Kali, still acorporeal as they were out of the game and blocked from resurrecting.
'Titans are bullshit,' Kali returned.
Weaver gave a sad laugh. 'We said the same thing about Tinkers in my old world.'
'Yeah, well. There was literally no way you could have countered that,' the Ghost argued 'No line-of-sight, behind cover, and it still killed you.'
'We got outplayed,' Weaver admitted. I knew their Titan probably had that ability since it wasn't used last round, but I didn't expect them to go for a move like that.'
'I'm pretty sure they targeted you,' Kali said, and Weaver gave a mental impression of agreement.
'How long do you think it'll take for the match to end?'
Down to four members with the other side having a full team and two resurrections, victory was… unlikely.
Weaver gave a mental sigh. 'I don't know, but I just hope that the Queen won't be too upset with me.'
'Hey. We knew it was going to be tough. We were at a major disadvantage even with how much information you got beforehand.'
'True,' Weaver conceded reluctantly.
They fell silent. Time passed weirdly when you were dead but still conscious, and it seemed both agonizingly long and incredibly short before Weaver was suddenly back in her body, listening to the commentator announcing the other team's victory.
"It was a good game."
Weaver stared at Cayde's extended hand warily for a moment, eyes moving up to the Exo's face and then back down, before she sighed and reached out to shake it. "Yeah."
"Hey! No need to be so down!" Without any warning, the man had swiveled around and clapped her shoulder, arm across her back. "You did pretty damn good for a rookie. Not many people could have pulled that off. Also, can I just say, that I will never be able to look at a bow the same way again?"
Kali felt Weaver's lips twitch at the corners.
"I'd say the same thing about those knives you threw if I wasn't so interested in trying them myself," Weaver said, looking at her hand as a flare of Solar energy rushed down her arm and then filled out into the shape of blades held between her fingers.
Cayde pulled back to look at Weaver. "Okay, now you're just showing off."
The brunette made no attempt to hide her smirk, the blades of Light fading as she released her hold on the construct.
"But seriously, good job. I haven't been pushed like that since Ikora," Cayde said. He suddenly turned to her. "Say, do you play cards?"
Kali started cackling.
As least they'd get to make up for the loss in the Crucible by robbing the Vanguard blind.
The Queen would probably enjoy hearing that.
A/N: How comp survival really goes:
"Camp heavy, camp heavy!"
"Just stay in the middle, don't push!"
"Popping Nova Warp— AND THAT'S A GOLDEN GUN."
"Fuck Telesto!"
Seriously though, this chapter was a pain. I tried it, and I've learned that large coordinated fights aren't my thing. Good to know.
But! Now we can move on to more Weaverthings. Probably not going to actually run through the Black Garden mission since, well, I hate repeating canon. I'll describe the overall events, but no narrating it in full. And we'll meet Zach's friends beforehand.
Then we can finally get back to the Reef.
I'm kinda posting this impulsively, so uh. Comments and Critiques?
Oh! And if you're interested in Destiny lore or Dragons or wish-granting-creatures, I started a Worm/Destiny drabble series called Wish Me Well with one of everyone's favorite sneaky shapeshifting wish-dragons (aka the Ahamkara).
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- Location
- Madison, AL
Jeez, 74 users and 31 guests at this very moment,
Welcome home Jack.
Welcome home Jack.
Spectral Waltz
Scatterbrained Writer
- Location
- Walking the Endless Corridors
I'll take 'things I wasn't expecting to see an update for today' for 500 Ensou. Great chapter!
Takareer
Words and feathers
- Location
- Ontario, Canada
Well-written, as always. However, I can't say I really enjoyed it since it's too far from what I know - being familiar with Worm and not (really) Destiny, this chapter was 100% Destiny and leaves me feeling lost.
What I mean is that: Taylor's personality is rather different than her classical one, her powers seem merely distant echoes rather than having any story significance, and the other characters are from Destiny or just OCs. Thus it just reads like a Destiny fanfic with an OC as the main character.
ensou
Magical G̶i̶r̶l̶ Servant Mordred-chan
- Location
- NEW YORK CITY!??
- Pronouns
- She/Her
And that's honestly what I was worried about. It's a crucible match, it's almost only combat, it doesn't show canon Weaver and her manipulations and leveraging different powers to control a situation psychologically. It... pretty much is just meant to give an idea of what a match is like, and/or appeal to those who know it. It doesn't show characterization all that well, and I was actually complaining to a friend earlier how it doesn't really have plot and thus isn't interesting. Or at least, my preferred form of interesting, since fights have an appeal of their own sometimes.
Still, yeah, I know exactly what you mean, and it's probably not helped by the fact I slogged through writing it and so it does feel a bit stiff and dry.
Edit: I don't really know what to do about that, but I'm more than open to suggestions.
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