by Brett
Davidson
I did not pretend ignorance of the change beyond
the Black Hills when next faced the Assembly,
instead I failed to suggest that I attributed any
deeper motive to the Assembly than those the Brass
Head stated. The assignment was inevitable and I
was proud that it was entrusted to me and that was
all.
“I will not fail you,” I told the Brass Head in
tones of firm sincerity.
-------
Equipment came first and before I could even
consider a date and scale for the next expedition
of Abiding, I had to know the scale of our
resources. The battle with the horse riders had
been won easily, but wear and tear accumulated and
breakdowns in unknown territory would be
intolerable. The workshop smelled of hot metal and
oil with the sharp edge of ozone. Other odours
infected the air too: solvents, resins, sweat,
charring… It is surprising how evocative odours
can be and I thought of my first phase of duty
after my cadetship ended and…
A sudden spray of sparks broke my reverie and my
progress. I staggered back and Charieis, the chief
artifex, emerged from underneath a partly
dismantled frame. When I first met him, he had
struck me as an oddly slender man with the fingers
of a musician and the eye of a watchmaker, a
physique I would have thought far more suited to
those callings than military support until I saw
him at work. It was not his job to wrestle these
machines into submission after all, or to heft
their components about his shop. It was at work
now that I saw the real application of those eyes
and hands; despite their bulk, the frames were
intricate machines and it was art and craft that
ensured their functioning, not brute force. A
frame, you must understand, is no mere suit of
armour – though such is necessary in the Land –
because if an unarmoured man cannot climb a slope,
then one armoured certainly will not be able to do
so. Frames augmented the protection of our skins,
the length and power of our limbs, the scope of
our senses. They were the key to our hegemony.
I asked the man for a rough prognosis on the
readiness of our equipment. He told me that frames
had all withstood the rigours of battle well
enough, but that good news was belied by tightness
at the corners of his mouth.
“But that’s not all, is it?” I prompted.
He nodded. “The accumulation of general wear for
several hectophae throughout their systems is more
profound and will require at least a complete
dismantling and inspection in several cases.”
I looked at the machine that he had been
repairing. Glowing cables trailed from ports in
its oblate vrilcapacitor cells while about its
legs, the greaves were hinged open, exposing the
interior networks of pseudomuscle. There was no
sign at all of the storage and cycling support
panniers. All in all, it looked a long way from
being ready. I glanced at the name plaque and saw
that it was my own.
“How much longer?” I asked, expecting a figure of
another dekaphase on double shifts. Charieis
confirmed this regretfully. The Assembly would not
be pleased with this, but they could hardly argue
with the facts of engineering. There was nothing
that I could do either except utter standard lines
on the necessity of the work being completed on
schedule and urge a redoubling of both efforts and
care, taking into consideration the importance and
unknown risks of our upcoming expedition – a set
of goals I know to be contradictory. He at least
heard my meaning over my words, nodded and made
his own show of passing my frustrations on to his
own underlings. Thus, as the gears of our
calculating mills pass momentum from greater to
lesser, so do the mills of frustration grind too,
oiled by understanding. Woe betide us if that
lubricant dries!
Later, I took him aside to a quieter corner. “I
have something to discuss with you,” I said.
-------
Time passed and time came and finally we were to
walk out into the Twilit Land again. While I took
Ariphrôn’s warning with the utmost gravity, there
was in fact little I could do to prepare beyond
that which was already in place. I was in no
position to plan a coup or counter-Adjustment and
indeed it was quite possible that the Assembly had
timed the expedition so as to remove potentially
disloyal Expediters from the Great House at the
time of greatest tension. In fact it was more than
possible.
What I did do was let it be known among my peers
and subordinates my concerns in ways that were
general or more explicit depending on where I
judged their allegiances lay. Conspiracies and
outright coups were desperate gambles and
therefore almost certainly doomed to fail –
especially when the greatest potential factor in
any equation, the manshonyaggers, were so
inscrutable. Accordingly, I decided, the greatest
hope for success or at least survival under the
circumstances would lie in subtlety and the hope
that the oppressing force would sow confusion
through – and I regretted to think this – the
reckless application of force that could then be
exploited in turn by ourselves. To that end then I
did not order that stockpiles of weapons and the
like be hidden away, but that secondary
authorisation keys be pressed by the artificers
and that they be hidden. In particular, I ensured
that there would be networks of communication and
pledges to give aid and temporary sanctuary. An
Expediter is sworn to obey the Assembly, and to be
an oathbreaker is to be the most contemptible of
creatures and unfit to be called human, but one
can still dissimulate and stall and fail to
exercise due care at crucial times. Out in the
Land, I could only pray and hope, but my fears
would be tempered a little by secret trust.
I would leave behind a Great House in which its
divisions were turning into chasms and in my case,
the split was between my oath and my heart; but I
swore too that it would never be between myself
and my own family. I embraced my wife and
daughters passionately in turn and together as I
left them. As I kissed them, my hands cupped their
sides, as if my palms too were open mouths. I
wished that in some way I could assimilate them to
myself, so that as one being we could be safe
within a single frame, within a House of our own –
but that was impossible, all I could do was offer
internal fortitude. Some kilophae past, Ariphrôn
had taught me simple chant denoted by a complex
rune, that only a true human being could hold in
their mind and which is vocalised approximately
thus: Selan, shelan, sim, saret, mavv, essnn,
kyrr. To any other being it would be
unrepeatable nonsense. I have engraved it on the
back of my cameo gem of the Maiden Io and I have
taught it in turn to my wife and child and this
time I was especially firm in instructing them to
hold the sound of it in their minds each night
before sleep, as I always do myself. The very fact
that it was something we shared apart from the
mechanism of the House would keep them strong when
the House began to turn against them. Now it was
up to me to return in time to ensure their
permanent safety.
Before we had quite left the House’s glacis, the
manshonyagger that had been guarding the gate
abruptly left its post and stalked with its neat
mincing gait to cross my path – and mine
specifically. It stood there in the sterilised
rock, regarding me with arachnid inscrutability.
It said nothing for a while, but when I made to
walk past it, a limb whirred out, barring my way.
I demanded that it let me pass, but it did not
move and continued to watch me from behind the
foreshield of one of its faces, as inscrutable as
a locust. The company had halted with me, but
no-one dared to interfere yet. In theory the full
company could probably overcome a Kaschei-class
such as this, but the odds were hardly certainly
and the likelihood was that I would be killed in
the melee – hardly an auspicious start to the
expedition!
Eventually the machine did speak, its voice
having the achromatic quality of a focussed
emission centred on my head so that no-one else
would hear it. That in itself was odd, but not
unknown. What it said was strange, partly
indecipherable, and suggested that there was all
too much sense in Ariphrôn’s warnings.
“Winnower, golden man, man in a frame, winnower,
exterminator,” it hummed, its voice seeming to
emanate from my own skull. “Visage clear, Agetor
Chryseo. Your face, a shadow in man’s flesh of the
blood of mothers long passed.”
This time I was silent.
“Protect mothers to come, you and I,” it went on.
“Visages of daughters still to see I seek.
Winnower too I am, sculptor. Paradox is born from
the union of my art and my orders: protect not at
all and all die, but armour too well and the seed
is untested. What degeneration occurs? There is
entropy and incest so that blood runs blandly.
Viable visage on the horizon of time imperative,
but dust of uncertainty obscures. Where is
clarity? Have we fulfilled the orders of our
creators? They are dead eons past, blood become
dust before the Great House rose, before road
descended walls, before the world’s turning ended…
yet we remember. We see the long results and the
long patterns. You record, but we remember. So I
see now that in more aeons I will remember this
place and foresee a face still. The doors of the
House open and close to you, then your grave will
close, but I will still walk, following the thread
of blood not dust spun between your mothers and
daughters.”
Another face rose to regard me. A couple of
active sensors glimmered briefly. I regarded the
dark patina of its armour, strangely-tinted
oxidation worn over the ages to glassy smoothness
and then abraded again into a fractal hatchwork
texture by sand storms and futile assaults. It was
a thing, a machine made with human hands and
tools, then made by time and its own intelligence
into something else again. Whose hands then, I
wondered, and whose motives now?
“Winnower,” it repeated. “Winnower, you are, I
am. Charged thus, I will find or make the shape of
the last face.”
Despite the warmth of the heating elements built
into my frame, I shivered. The manshonyaggers
rarely spoke gratuitously, but occasionally they
made strange oracular pronouncements that reminded
us all too well of an irreducible autonomy. Never
though had one spoken to hint at the Adjustments
that they made themselves, nor had one ever
singled out a particular individual to receive its
message. Never since the Foundation of the Great
House had one explicitly suggested an oath.
“Go,” it finished. “Then return. Remember for
your brief while you consider too the intention of
my art. Agree?”
I nodded and satisfied for now, the huge machine
turned away and went back to its post.
Phaino asked me what it had said to me when I
rejoined him. “Nothing,” I said, knowing that I
would hear me. “Merely a reminder of the scale of
history here and our responsibility.”
“Nothing mere about either,” he commented.
“True enough.”
Despite my forebodings and the machine’s sinister
confidence in me, I must admit that I felt
exhilarated by the steady tread of my frame’s feet
upon the soil of the Land once more. There is a
sublime and rich beauty in the Twilit Land, with
its red-golden light, the wine-like depth and
darkness of the sky nesting the ember stars and
the long shadows that stretched like black
rivulets from the bases of trees across the soft
carpets of frostmoss and everted land-corals.
Cupping this land there were far distant through
the haze, the mighty Walls of the World, threaded
at their Western extremity with the line of the
Road that the citizens of the dromopoli had built
from the upper world down to the Valley. With my
spyglass set at its greatest magnification and
enhancement, I could see a golden splinter that I
liked to believe was Astrarchê Io’s obelisk. In
the perpetual Sunset it caught the light and
flashed even across this enormous distance and I
silently made my prayer, my real promise to
succeed in returning from my mission.
I wondered how this land would seem once it was
enclosed entirely in darkness. I could not imagine
it.
We, the crew, spoke little as we rode out. In the
early days, we talked often, bantered, competed,
told tales of what we left and what we hoped to
attain or regain on our return. Now, fitted
together and at ease with our shared experience,
only the most functional speech was necessary now
– and even then only when some novelty confronted
us.
There was time aplenty in the many phases it took
to traverse the plain in which to discover
novelties in even the shape of the landscape
itself. In places the long reefs of land coral had
been breached, providing funnels that concentrated
the already strong wind and creating unpredictable
eddies to carve out complex bowls and hollows. In
other places, the coral had never gained purchase
and was not there to shelter the more fragile
mosses and fungi. There, great and small had been
carved by the wind into long curves reminiscent of
bones.
In some cases they were bones, a few of species
that we had exterminated, others unknown to us and
of worrying size. Once we came across the skull
and vertebrae of a genuinely titanic beast. The
remains were crumbling and grey but impressive
nonetheless; its head alone might have made a
mansion-sized house, its pitted fangs battlements.
We considered setting up camp under the vault of
its cranium or in its lee, but decided against it.
Who knew what predators and pests made their homes
in its crevices?
As the Great House slipped beneath the horizon
and we entered the unstable realm of the Black
Hills, I could not help but think of our possible
predecessors who had come this way by air and by
foot. There were stories of defectors who had
walked across the land in that direction and never
come back. Probably they had died; perhaps they
had thrived – and if so… Well, there were many
possibilities, all indistinct.
Now and again I squinted into the
not-quite-bearable light of the Sun. It still had
the power to sear, but barely. Sol no longer
invictus… Its disc rippled and blurred through
tears as I sought to behold it. I could see that
it was not a smooth unblemished globe, but was
blotched with patches of lesser brightness, as if
even this mass of fire could be infected, as if it
could… But we all knew that. The Sun was dying and
one day it would be dark and cold in a sky of
complete blackness as the last remaining stars
followed it into oblivion.
What kind of men then would carry on to live in a
Night Land? How? And why?
-------
The youthfulness of the Black Hills became
harshly apparent as we entered their environs and
the dimly-outlined ramparts of the Great Wall rose
behind them to blot out the sky. The raw basalt
and obsidian had not been broken by the action of
life into honest soil and we forded many
newly-hardened lava streams that were elongated
and twisted, like dough that had been roughly
kneaded and stretched and then burned black. We
worried that the feet of our machines would break
through the crust and reveal the molten rock
beneath, but the reflex systems built into the
pedal components were effective. Though they
seemed to walk smoothly, each step involved
continual sensing of force and feedback to keep
their purchase true.
In places the volcanic slopes gave way to
plateaus and groves of a more modest vulcanism.
These places, we found, had an eerie beauty. They
teased our sensibilities like wanton women, never
revealing everything, but alternately veiling and
unveiling various parts of their anatomy in a slow
dance of mists and breezes. There were geysers
like a new form of life there, violent and
unpredictable in their activity, their emissions
reeking. Once we knew our limits of safety,
however, their hissing and spattering declarations
were sublime rather than crudely fearsome.
There were many pools of water about too, luridly
tinted and linked in intricate networks of
trickling streams and rimmed with calcareous
encrustations and spires that for all their real
hardness resembled nothing so much as elaborate
lacework or madly overwrought icing on a cake. The
smell, of course, was not sweet. We became
somewhat accustomed to the ever-present tang of
sulphur, but near many of the vents or when one of
the many wandering clouds of mist passed through
our company, it became overpowering, driving into
our sinuses like nails and drawing tears from our
eyes.
Of course we did not dare drink the water. It
seemed enchanting, but in reality it had no aspect
of a children’s tale. There was no witch to charm
us; we would simply be poisoned, we would bleed
from our orifices and we would die, clenched in
pain. I have seen it happen.
The steaming groves gave way at last to the
higher peaks, some of which were topped with
active craters churning with incandescence and
spewing forth fresh streams of quick-moving lava.
There was no way that we could imagine anything
living here, but so we were assured by the
observatory crews and so we continued. Perhaps
beyond, we though, there were gentler lands. If
so, even if there were rival Houses, we could
conquer them and make the land our own. The
volcanoes at least provided an excellent natural
defence.
It was at this point my seditious thoughts
returned. Perhaps in that realm, I thought, there
was a real place to build a proper Redoubt. There
might be details then that I should keep secret
from the Heliomancers and convey only to the
Monstruwacans…
-------
We came upon the horror by degrees as the cold
light of the Nine Lights began to mingle with the
natural light of the Sun and paint the landscape
in sick new tones. My Deuteroagetor, Phaino,
noticed it, her… it first: a silhouette kneeling
© Peter Gric |
before the endless sunset, a red light shining
from her hair. We diverted ourselves, hoping to
help or question this fellow refugee and did not
notice that she did not respond to the sound of
our approach. Perhaps she was deaf, or deep in
meditation. I dismounted from my frame, drew my
machaira and approached on foot, my boots
crunching in the scoria and still she did not
turn. I must have noticed even then something
strange, but chose not to. It was not until that I
was about to lay my hand on the bare skin of her
shoulder that I realised that skin was all she
was. Her entire body had been hollowed out, or –
and I cannot imagine how this was done – skin was
wrapped about the form of a woman like the cocoon
a spider makes about its prey, but unevenly,
revealing through its many gaps the space
underneath. What I had thought was the reflection
of sunlight on hair was instead the gleam of a
cluster of fiery motes fluttering like trapped
insects within the cavity of her head. Entangled
about her was a thicket of wires and tubes
connected to a machine that I could not identify.
And I must say this: she was no effigy. I laid my
hand upon her shoulder and she turned her face to
mine and her eyes blinked and swivelled to look at
me. Though that face was less than a mask, I saw
knowing there, and an intense emotion that I could
not classify as suffering or ecstasy alone.
She did not speak, but the wind whispered through
her.
This woman would have been shapely, had she been
completely shaped. I could see that, but was the
machine eating or making her? Was this a tragedy
of pain or something far stranger? Would I, in
destroying the mysterious device connected to her
be offering mercy or ending a life that I now had
no right to declare alien to my own? Shuddering, I
backed away and rejoined my party.
As we continued on our way, we say many others of
the woman’s kind scattered singly and in small
groups about the landscape, but while we
speculated on what they might be – penitents,
stylites, prey, bait, fruit or something we could
not imagine – we went close to none of them.
-------
As we marched onward, the Nine Lights rose like
multiplied memories of the old Sun-that-was. From
the vantage of elevated land, we could see that
they did not float by themselves, or sit upon
hills, but were elevated upon great columns almost
a league in elevation.
Their glow illuminated a shadowed portion of the
Valley, letting fall pools of light in broad
diffuse circles about their bases and sending
glimmers across the face of the Wall itself. Here
we could see that the broad curved Northwest
protrusion of the Wall into the Great Bight of the
Valley had collapsed, forming a sort of colossal
theatre or stair that was revealed to us in shades
of basalt and ash-stained snow and streaked with
rivulets of ember-lit smoke, reaching up to meet
the purple sky.
The broad chaotic apron of the avalanche itself
was the domain of the Lights. The landscape
overall was tumbled and rugged, but in the
vicinity of the Lights, it had been smoothed and
excavated into a series of overlapping shallow
bowls that straggled in a line from one horizon to
the other, each centred on a single tower. With
the light shining down upon them, the bowls looked
like pools of dim silver and were in their strange
way, quite beautiful. It was my guess that they
were the farmlands or habitats of whatever race
had erected the columns and Lights.
We made camp in the fork of two ridges, angled so
that we were obscured from direct sight while
still being of sufficient elevation to look down
on any force that might approach us – though of
course if watchers had been posted atop the
columns themselves, we would have been under
continual observation from the moment we exited
the Great House.
I took out my spyglass and made a preliminary
survey of the theatre and its players. I could
tell that the general ruination was geological,
but there was a pervading order too, on such a
scale as to indicate no mere settlement, but a
full civilisation. Amongst the smoke, the drifting
folds of black shadow and squalls of ash
intermittently obscuring the backdrop, I could
also see a thin, wavering line extending from one
level to the next, switching back and forth until
by stages it could be seen to link the uttermost
precipice with the valley floor.
This civilisation had built its own Road from the
High Land to the Valley. I presumed that they
could not have been too unlike ourselves. Perhaps
there had been a second history of the upper land,
another party led by an alter Astrarchê Io. That
seemed unlikely, but yesterday I and all of the
people known to me would have said that it was
impossible.
And the Road was not the strangest of the
greatest of their works. Standing like sentinels
over undulating fields that at this distance could
only be described as carpet-like, there were the
aforementioned nine towers, bearing their nine
lamps. The towers were as vast as mountains, but
steep as cliffs all around. Plainly they were
unnatural.
In fact, they were most unnatural. I cannot say
how, but I can say that they seemed surpassingly
strange, as if the lamps were not merely glazed
spheres – no matter how large – with a light
source within. They were openings. I know that a
hole is an aperture, a tear, a pit, a vacancy; it
cannot be a sphere – and yet these globes were, I
am sure, openings and not enclosures. Light leaked
from them, and it was an unhealthy light – pale,
cold, tinged with the actinic.
They bowls beneath the towers were lined with a
texture that from this distance resembled a
carpet, but may well have been forest or city. If
it was forest, it was of a half-ordered sort – but
then it might have been a city, and maybe the
granular appearance was due to that being its real
nature. I took out my spyglass, but whatever it
was that I observed there was still too dark and
distant for me to resolve the individual elements.
It seemed too that a faintly glowing haze blurred
the vista – though again there was uncertainty and
it might have simply been the scattering of light
in a mist that gave the appearance of a glow.
I motioned to my companions to keep low. Whatever
the organised structures were – farms or cities or
other things that we could not think to understand
– our worst fears were realised. The strange
civilisation had roots that had grown deep into
the earth. It would be hard to pull this weed up
without the risk it sprouting again and again –
and each time it would likely be more pernicious
and intractable. It was imperative that we did our
best to gauge as best we could its magnitude and
capabilities and take our report back safe to the
Great House.
-------
Over the next few diphae we set up a camp and
hide from which we observed as much as we could
the doings of the ‘cities’ and ‘fields’ under the
lights. At first, we could see various indistinct
dots moving in clusters to and fro from city to
field (if that is what they were) and were able to
resolve them as human beings – at least in form.
Their manner was not that of normal people
however, lacking the spontaneous quality seen in
individual movements and in the eddying of larger
groups. They seemed to be herded in some fashion,
but when we sought those that herded them, we saw
nothing – at first.
I ordered the construction of a hide under some
mossbush close to one of the main pathways we had
charted from the eastern anteterminal tower which
had been determined to be the most recent
construction by observers in the Great House. I
took first watch, and the second. I timed and
numbered the flow of people, saw that they
performed various activities in the fields that
might have suggested the harvesting of crops, but
are more complex than that. Something less akin to
a harvest than an exchange took place
with each of the tangled plants growing there – if
indeed they were plants. They seemed to stand
still and let the mobile fronds of these feathery
black shapes whisk over them before reaching into
the cores and taking what may or may not be their
fruit from them and stowing it in backslings.
Why the brief period of enthrallment? Why the
regular marches with none of the normal human
complications of banter, play and conflict to
relieve the tedium? Even hereditary slaves would
not be so conditioned to servitude as to express
their subordination in every movement. Were their
minds at another level invisible to me? Were they
addicted?
Of course I could not help but compare them in my
mind with the carvings on my hidden gem and felt a
frisson of premonition fulfilled.
I selected a higher magnification and the strange
in my sight became weird. There are certain
qualities to sentience and many varieties of its
manifestation that I had seen in the faces of all
the abhuman beings that I had encountered in my
campaigns. There were signs of its perversion too
that I had seen on the faces of subjects who had
been sat in the uncomfortable chairs of the
Adjustors. These people bore the unmistakable and
inexplicable expression of the hollowed woman we
had found on our way, neither agony nor ecstasy,
but compounded of both and without any hint of the
linear cogitation that we associate with
consciousness. They were like sleepwalkers, caught
in a dream – and yet, their feelings were as
intense as orgasms when they beheld the dark
flowers. The faces of some were wet with tears.
The things that Io had fought were destroyers,
not these… other things, however horrific they
were. What were they then?
It was possible that these people had made this
place and organised themselves and domesticated
the flowers, but was a passivity in them that
begged a class of masters. I was not to find one
in the early watches, but in the end I did see one
of these superior beings. Captured in the lens of
my spyglass I saw one of the grey masters standing
upon a heap of boulders that reared out of the
dark thickets. It was a tall thing, almost as tall
as a man in a frame perhaps. I think that it was
roughly manlike in form, but I could not quite
find the correct focus to resolve its specifics in
any detail – which was most curious, as I was able
to discern the rocks around it quite clearly.
Moreover, while the lenses of our spyglasses are
designed not to give away glints, I had the
distinct impression that this thing was aware of
my presence and watching me in turn.
I backed down, put away my equipment and mused
upon what I had seen. Clearly we would have to
gather information on these creatures, and yet
even gathering the merest morsel of information
had already alerted one to our presence and by
whatever means of communication they used, all
would know. Then again, we counted their lights
from far beyond the Black Hills and sent
expeditions by air to their realm. They knew of us
already and had not yet sent and force of their
own to attack the Great House. Then again, I
reminded myself, no-one had ever returned from
this place to the Great House either. Well then,
it was my vocation to take risks, calculated or
not. I would make a close reconnaissance on an
isolated being myself and if I survived sound of
psyche, soma and soul, I would have then a great
prize of vital knowledge to take back. If not…
then my duty had been fulfilled.
I gave Phaino his orders: if I did not return to
the encampment within a given period, then he was
to take the party with all urgency back to the
Great House, assuming that they were being
pursued. Or at least observed. There, he was to
first ensure my family’s safety. I bound him by
secret oath to this latter clause, something he
did unwillingly only because ardently wished them
the good fortune of a natural husband and father.
“Another phase I would say better yourself than
myself,” he complained, “but I wish there was
never this phase for their sakes.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Better otherwise
too, but always better otherwise, hey?” I joked.
He gave a melancholic smile and returned the
gesture. “Oh yes, better perfected I would say,
but here and so I swear.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, but did not say
another word as I turned to make my preparations.
-------
I took a circuitous path around the aureole of
‘farmlands’ surrounding one of the great pillars
to find the outcrop where I had seen the being
that I decided to call an Aphon for wont of a
better term. I knew that there was no way that I
could remain unseen and that I would have to rely
on the imperturbability of these Silent Things.
They seemed to be creatures of routine and if I
did not actively hinder it, the one I sought might
permit my approach. Accordingly, I went without a
frame, armed only with a machaira, hoping that
while slower I might be more nimble and seem less
belligerent.
Close up and with unaided senses, the rough land
looked mottled with odd colours where the
red-bronze light of the Sun was obscured by
shadows and gave out to the cyanotic emission of
the Lights. I looked up from time to time to see
them hanging like a constellation of alien moons
in the sky. They illuminated each other so that I
could see details carved in the black matter of
their supports: whorls and parallel furrows,
ridges, flanges all of an elaborate but obviously
co-ordinated pattern. Creeping up and down the
engraved channels I could make out tiny motes of
more various luminescence, tinted green and blue
and violet. I could not imagine what they might be
– traffic, subassemblies, corpuscles, packets of
energy or information, perhaps living things in
the manner of the bioluminescent ants that
inhabited the permanently shaded portions of the
Land? Who knew? Well, someone or something did, as
they also knew about the black flowers.
Ironically, under the sickly mixed light and the
Lights that seemed more and more like malevolent
eyes I was effectively naked, but my own view was
increasingly obscured without the aid of my frame
and clouds of steam periodically blinded me to all
but the next few fathoms or less of my path. It
was when the grey cloaks of vapour spread in a
particularly convoluted manner that all at once I
found by object.
I thought at first that the thing was a fata
morgana – and then I saw that it was as real as
anything solid, even if it was a thing of
incorporeal matter. Shadows that were not its own
flickered in the mist about it. Sometimes they
spread like flowers, or withered hands, or black
afterimages of lightning. There were other shapes
too, come and gone and too strange to even
described by any likeness at all.
The being was man-like… but I could not be sure.
I had fought and slaughtered abhumans and could
recognise their thick bones and brows, their
shoulders humped with heavy knotted muscle and
their hands more suited to be fists than the
manipulators of a harp’s strings. They were
brutes, through and through. This was not one of
them; in its way, it was quite the opposite.
It was as attenuated as a man in a frame, but it
wore no frame; those limbs were its own. This was
the very Aphon that I had seen on my original
distant sighting of this place or one occupying
the same role and vantage. Then I had watched it
from afar, but now I stood within mere paces of
it.
A limb that I shall call and arm reached out to
me, insofar as I could say that it ‘moved’ as a
convenience; rather I might say that I saw a
superimposition of possible positions, all
indistinct, but some of these took on a solidity
and through these stages that blurred into each
other, the ‘arm’ shifted from relaxation to
extension. The being, I said, appeared like an
illusion – and even seeing that it was real, it
still moved in a manner that was illusory.
And then it was near to me, emanations from its
fingertips stung my nostrils like the vapours of
metal being welded. The smell spoke to me, or
perhaps there was some synaesthetic crossing from
one sense to another. There was a sharp and
metallic odour, there was a vibration that made my
teeth ache, there were words that I could not
understand. Perhaps it was singing.
Song, yes, perhaps that was the best description.
The melody was a hard and painful one, its notes
as thin and cutting as a garrotte wire. I felt
that my mind might be sliced and might bleed if I
could not follow it accurately.
Can I describe how beautiful that song was? Can I
say how abject I became in my love for it?
No, I cannot, because now, as human words flood
back into me, I cannot describe it. I can only
shake my head in confusion at how I felt, at why I
fell to my knees and bowed my head. I clasped my
hands as if praying, I felt something brush my
scalp, fingertips – what I call fingertips – that
seemed to pass through my skull and stir eddies in
my brain.
I awoke alone without knowing that I had slept.
The ground was cold, I shivered.
I felt violated, shamed and filthy. There were
stains beneath my skin. I felt strange desires
like the feelings of a dream that cannot be fully
recalled or explained.
I tried to piece together my experience. Rather
than struggling to remember, it came to me all at
once. The problem and the agony lay not in
recalling what had happened, but in telling myself
that it was a memory, that I was not living it all
at once again and holding it in such a way that I
could make sense of it. In both, I think, I failed
– but not entirely. There are some things that I
can describe.
There was, I know, do not ask me how I know… It
is difficult for me to describe. The revelations,
knowledge, intuitions and probable
misunderstandings are like something seen in a
warped mirror, all skewed and fragmented. I know
that there is a coherent pattern, but the mirror
of my mind is the wrong shape to hold it clearly.
I think too that if I could be the sort of being
that could hold it clearly… then there would be no
words to describe my experience.
Somehow it had slipped into my memory splinters
of knowledge.
This is what I think I know as I try to fit these
splinters together: these Aphonoi are not alien to
the Earth. They might once have been humans, or
something bearing a familial relation to humans.
They live on the colder lands, shunning the
concentrations of energy made by human industry
but tapping hidden, chilly currents not entirely
described by our knowledge of electricity and
other forces. There are other things with which
they treat, things like the afterimages of
lightning that I had seem. These things, we might
come to call them Eaters, can… Or they climb to
meet…
I climbed. Forgive me, I am confused.
I climbed to meet a being, it too is a climber, I
think. It climbed and made a meeting and was
changed, a bit, to meet yet another, one that had
descended, from the upper land. From the sky, I
think. It told me of the sky-things, the Eaters.
This sky-thing is of a race that thrives in the
dark and the cold and the so very slow turning of
time in the spaces between the stars, but it is
attracted, sometimes fatally to hot-bright-fast
life. There is something of those upon which it
feeds. Kinds of thought, feeling. It destroys
these things in feeding, it does not know how not
to, this sky-thing.
It is a spore, I think, or maybe an ally of those
things that plague the dying stars.
This climber, the one like, unlike me, has
learned things. It has adapted. It believes itself
to be elegant. Except that it is not aware
in the sense that I use the word. It is a state of
being-in-elegance, not objective, conscious
knowledge.
It is not aware as we think of awareness
as being a self looking out of the Great House of
the mind, pulling levers and turning wheels that
cause the body to act. A Monstruwacan – Istôr, I
think – once told me that he had measured the
actions of nerves and found that when someone
thought that they intended to reach for an object
– perhaps a glass of water because they were
thirsty – the nerves in their arm were active a
fraction of a second before they had formulated
the desire to drink in their mind. The implication
was, he suggested, that will, intention and
desire, were illusions created within the mind;
the lower parts of the brain acted according to
need, and then the higher parts were tricked into
imagining that they had made an intention and then
acted. The very idea had disturbed me then. It was
a loose thread that if plucked would unravel and
entire garment and I refused to think of it again.
This being had found that same loose thread, and
it had pulled at it and momentarily stripped its
entire raiment. Its mind, the core of its mind was
naked to the world. It saw and reacted to
everything, instantly. There was no muffling of
cognition. It did not see the Nine Lights and
count to seven; it saw the lights and knew
nineness in the very act of looking. If it saw a
thousand and five, then seeing would be the
knowledge of a thousand and five, exactly.
Everything was pure, clear and sharp, every action
was a reflex. In dreams we are provided with
knowledge, rarely do we have the option of
directing our actions, as it is in a book or a
play. So it was with this being, this perfectly
perceptive dreamer, this lightning-quick
somnambulist.
I was confronted with what I had feared and I saw
that it was magnificent.
It said that it understood time. No, not said,
because it is a dreamer, and dreamers know. Time
is – as a splinter flashed and imparted its
enlightenment to me – without time for them. A
memory is not recalled, it is relived, an
expectation is not anticipated, it is a vision. I
recall that it knows that the sun will
darken still further, that the Twilit Land will
become the Night Land.
It is ready, having taken from its mediations –
again, with the Eaters – knowledge that this has
happened on other worlds. All inhabited worlds.
Eaters. My mind skirts about this clumsy,
misshapen, slippery label. I turn inwardly to face
the word, the name. In the myth of Astrarchê Io
there was such a thing. Dragon, fought by the
Sideromancers and Lighters. Dragon… Eater.
This being, that communicated without speaking,
whose conscience was something oblique, this Aphon
understood the Eaters and it did not fear them.
It did fear them, no.
There was an arrangement. Something of a state
in-between. Becoming after-human so that it was
neither Eater nor man, but found a space that it
could exploit between the two states of being. It
was like an Eater, it saw… glories, said another
splinter. Beauty in the magnetic fields, like a
vast, translucent whorled rose that surrounded the
Earth, that set within a still greater gyre of
energy about the Sun, and between the stars, other
suns, winds that pressed gently but persistently
against the sun-gyres, breaking like soft surf
against them.
And below, in the scale of people. It saw glories
there too. Hot-bright-fast life. People whirled
and hummed, their bodies like sweet fruit bursting
with sweet energy…
Dreams and thoughts. Patterns of infinite density
and delicacy. These it loved. They were
inexhaustible and it fed endlessly from them. The
Eaters did not know, greedy beasts that they were.
They destroyed.
Not so the thoughtless Aphonoi. Truly elegant.
The Aphonoi have created a balance, using their
great Lights to keep weakened Eaters in docile
submission and they harvest unnameable sustenance
from them, as they allow them in turn to harvest
their human thralls.
Such a being humbled me by its very existence.
Here was something that lived what
philsophes merely deduced abstractly and discarded
as incredible. I wanted to thank it, tell it how
much I was in awe of it, but it merely took my
words, matched them to whatever obscure rules of
reflex it carried and returned more words to me
that were shapes of sounds without content. That
is why they do not speak: they have nothing to
express.
We, as we are, cannot live in this land and it
will grow ever more inhospitable, feeling the loss
of our past lives and anticipating more fear and
misery and privation. We would draw our thoughts
about us all the more tightly, thinking that thinking
that clothed us would keep us warm while all
the while we grew colder and colder until in the
end we died. This kind of being can and will exist
purely and nakedly. I must tell my people, I
decided. Some will resist. They must be made to
understand. It is necessary. It is impossible not
to. We will die otherwise in this, the next or the
tenth generation, but die we will, inevitably.
It has saved us.
They must be made to understand.
I repeated the chant of the rune to myself,
ensuring, I hoped, my human reason.
-------
I turned over the images of our expedition in my
mind and with my men on the journey back home,
particularly those of the Aphon that I had met.
Our discoveries would be of the greatest
importance to our masters and we all knew what
they meant of course: the immediate preparation
for total war.
I was not sure that that was the wisest choice,
and I did not trust in the Assembly’s superior
wisdom. What could we say of the Aphoi? They
lived, indeed they thrived, that meant that they
were rivals and therefore they were enemies. They
were so unlike us to be destroyed without
compunction, the filthy Eaters with which they
dealt, their thralls so degraded to themselves be
classified as abhuman. Yet, I reminded myself,
they thrived; they tapped some abundant
power source unknown to us, the walked openly in
the Twilit Land, they made their analogues of
farms and houses there. What is it that they have
and that we need? I knew that I would recommend
further and deeper investigation of their culture,
not mere military reconnaissance.
And again the lurking traitor within me wondered
just how much I should tell and whom. I felt no
attraction to the Realm of the Nine Lights, but
its site was a tempting alternative to that of the
Great House nonetheless. Clearly this settlement
should be abolished, but if the land was fertile,
then some of our own seed should be sown here… but
maybe not by the Heliomancers. No, they would be
corrupted. Only the Monstruwacans had an inkling
of what would be necessary to live long there in a
pure state.
Could a movement be assembled surreptitiously and
set out in mass to take over the Realm of the Nine
Lights? No, it could not be done… but an army
could be subverted, either by the placement of
sympathisers in the most senior positions or in
the vital secondary positions, ready to topple the
Agetors who would not be turned and take over for
themselves the lines of communication. It would
only grow after all from the conspiracy that we
had already instituted.
-------
On our return, I noticed even before the gate a
strange tension. There was something afoot, I
sensed. Perhaps we were too late. My heart pounded
as if struggling for escape from my body. Kastchei
Three made its rote challenge in a voice that
grated more than it should – or rather the shadow
side of my mind furnished its sound with that
inflection. Oddly too, and that was no product of
my imagination, it took blood samples from all of
us, even before the usual contagion check and it
refused to explain either its reasons or orders.
My hand fluttered to hold the gorget, then
scuttled away. I remembered the strange discourse
I had had with its companion at our departure.
Something was afoot, something concerning blood.
Had matters overtaken us, had there been a spy in
my troop transmitting a warning ahead? I was
fearful, but decided to proceed as if nothing were
amiss. I would most surely condemn my family if I
were to run now. Facing the Brass Head, I might at
least find myself able to negotiate. I looked up
at the immense gears of the gate mechanism
grinding together as it closed the portal behind
us and tried not to make a metaphor of the sight.
We were summoned to deliver our preliminary
reports with greater than usual urgency after
decontamination, but that was to be expected, I
told myself. We were in fact safe after all, the
anticipated Adjustment had not occurred and if it
was still winding up, then it might yet be averted
without bloodshed and Phaino would not have to
fulfil his secret oath. Soon after we had made our
depositions and were released however, I began to
notice that things truly were amiss. Walking
through the halls of the Great House, I turned –
not for the first time in my life – my gaze upon
the architecture and my fellow citizens as if I
were abroad in the Twilit Land, hoping to read
subtle signs as to the ambient situation. The
signs however were not subtle; people where
gathered in clusters, whispering to each other. I
could see herd patterns beginning to coalesce and
them break apart constantly in the crowds flowing
by. There was agitation even in the clockmills as
they processed new data. I made my face a mask and
hurried home, my first concern being for my
family. No-one had looked at me or made any effort
to be seen not looking at me, but
obviously in this time of aggravated alertness, I
would have to be careful.
-------
The feeling that overwhelmed me utterly was a
passionate relief when I saw Argyra and my twin
daughters. It was as if I had known them forever,
but only now seen them for the very first time.
They were so clear, so distinct in their
particular being and in my bond to them.
It is often shown in dramas that under such
circumstances, couplings are impulsive and
desperate, but in the frame of awareness in which
we stood, we were as tender as we always have
been, if not more so. Every sensation was set like
a jewel in our enhanced experience. We did not so
much proceed as find ourselves creating a
succession of tableaux: first, unfastening, our
hands insinuating into the gaps of our clothing to
find the warm and velvet smooth surprises of flesh
hidden beneath, laughing as we did so; the next,
our garments shed and limbs entangling; the next
with glistening lips trembling…
Argyra guided me with butterfly touches of her
fingertips and I complied, playing her in turn and
leading her up the steps of the tower of love. She
took in her hand my key and led it to the
protracted turning of her lock that would open the
innermost chamber and release its store of shared
ecstasy and then… And then there was no need for
words or images and all was real and direct. In
those moments we could forget everything and we
did.
I did not need to tell her that this affirmation
felt to me like the final cleansing of the stain
that the Aphon had left on me.
The idyll was not to last though, and soon a more
vulgar reality invaded the air of our bedchamber.
I heard the sounds of alarm from without and
trembling already with a sudden feel of chill on
my skin, I wrapped myself in a robe and went to
the common room of the domicile to see the relay
from the newsmills.
The experience was strange, as strange as the
feeling that one has from time to time of looking
into a mirror and not recognising the face seen
there. A report of my just-completed expedition
was portrayed in superficially accurate form with
the expected censorship of strategic details, but
it was slanted and distorted. Following that there
were descriptions of the panicked reaction of the
populace to this news of a strange force growing
beyond the Black Hills and potentially –
certainly, it was implied – ready to attack. This
was no news report that I saw, but a lever stuck
into a crack in our society and heaved so as to
open the split still wider. It was a thing,
hard and sharp and destructive.
The calculations of the Assembly were immediately
clear to me as I watched reports of the reaction
to the initial relation of news. There was
escalating panic and loud calls for radical
discipline to be imposed throughout society,
military and civil. Clearly we had not been sent
away to permit the Adjustment to proceed with
greater ease, and neither was our report the basis
for a genuine external defensive policy; instead
our report was used to justify the internal
Adjustment. Now we were too exhausted to hinder it
in any meaningful way. Even our disappearance
could have been used, demonstrating as it would
the hostility of the Realm of the Nine Lights. Oh
yes, they had managed very well indeed!
And they were cursed fools too. Blood was the
very worst of lubricants; the great mill of the
House would seize in the coming Adjustment.
Just as Ariphrôn had warned, the disaster in the
heavens had anticipated an ignition on earth, and
following that a true calamity: as above, so
below. It’s playing out I knew depended on the
manshonyaggers now. The black-gowned Adjustors had
constitutional legitimacy backed by fear on their
side, but neither would mean anything if their
sentient allies refused to aid them. That was a
hope, but it was an exceedingly thin one and I
knew that I could not depend upon it.
Whatever plans we had or could conceive would
have to become reality soon. Even the most
outrageous possibility had to be considered; the
secret of success in apparent defeat is to always
have, however unthinkable it may seem, a plan to
deal with the opponents’ ultimate effort. This
then was my last contingency: escape. Permanent
flight from the Great House was inconceivable;
inconceivable at least to the masters and the
Adjustors and that gave us a chance. That chance
was enhanced by the solidarity of the Expediter
corps. Not all would follow us into the Twilit
Land, but none would actively hinder us either;
they were already retrenching into their strict
divisions and procedures, demanding orders from
the Archagetor himself drafted in the most minute
detail and then performing strictly to the letter
and ignoring their spirit. The Archagetor himself
might be angered, but likewise reluctant to apply
too much initiative. He would retain loyalty to
the persons of the corps despite the mask of
anonymity he wore, I knew.
It was necessary now to make what preparations I
could to enact what threadbare conspiracy I had
prepared to ensure at least the safety of those I
loved. I dressed quickly in my uniform. It was
conspicuous, but I reasoned that my face was
already known and it would open more doors than it
barred. I quickly instructed Argyra to bolt the
door behind me and to admit no-one until I or
Phaino returned. I hurried out into the corridors
of the domicile wing and thence to the legionary
halls.
It was up to me to ensure that planning for the
ultimate contingency was in place and I was not
disappointed. I found Phaino already hard at work
reprogramming the quatermastering mills and
security interlocks. Several other Expediters were
assisting him. It had the look of an efficient
military exercise, not the treasonous and
near-hopeless gamble that it was. My relief,
despite believing even then that surely this plan
was mere insurance, was immeasurable.
Phaino took me aside and told me what he had
seen. “Some of the class minor manshonyaggers have
been released in the halls – Tettix, Mantis and
Lykos classes thus far, none as mighty as a
Kastchei of course. They have been given authority
to undertake broad brain-pattern analyses so as to
forestall dissent. For the time being, they will
be limited to searching for signs of panic,
maintaining order.” I smirked briefly at the
thought of the bulky Kastcheis manoeuvring in the
confines of the tributary halls.
“But that’s not all, is it?” I said. “That panic
is not going to be suppressed, it’s going to be directed.”
“Yes – yes it will be,” he agreed. “And therefore
we have to act quickly – should we assemble an
armed expeditionary force now? We might be able to
do it.”
“To do what?” I demanded. “This has been planned
for a long time and we have barely established a
fretwork of promises.”
“Nonetheless-”
I cut him off. “Yes, I know,” I snapped. “We will
assemble. Send word and take the keys I have had
made. We will unlock our frames in the legionary
hall and shelter our people there until… until we
can negotiate or do more; show them that the
Adjustment is untenable.” It was absurd; I had no
real confidence that we could make a direct – but
then I was an Expediter and when I had no plan, I
made one. I would take command of this situation
now; there was no other choice. Suddenly all the
abstractions of contingency were real.
Phaino stood watching me, waiting for one more
thing.
“Yes,” I said at last. “I am sorry to put my
petty interests above those of us all, but-”
He grinned. “I remember my oath, you need not
fear that.” And then he went.
-------
My next destination was the house of Ariphrôn and
the College of Monstruwacans, but I was already
too late, as I should have known I would be. I was
held back by a dense crowd pressing the walls of
the nexus hall before the College’s gates, which
were torn from their hinges. Lykoi were creeping
across the ceiling vaults, their legs neatly
grasping the structural ribs as if walking
upside-down was as natural as crossing a flat
floor. Manshonyaggers are extremely logical beings
and the Lykoi, knowing that they could not carry
their captives whole from the College carried them
in pieces instead. Those that they wanted alive
for interviewing merely lacked their limbs, with
their stumps neatly cauterised – but there are
also ways of extracting some information from a
brain provided that it is only freshly dead and
some were more economical with their loads…
Blood drizzled down upon the crowd and their
screams blended into one undulating cacophony. It
took the utter limits of my skill and self-control
to leave that place. My flight had all of the
qualities of a nightmare. Every breathless step
seemed but an increment on an endless path. Dread
enveloped me in a cloak that burned my skin and
drove aching pain into my muscles as I struggled
against the press of the crowds, every fathom
became a league and while in objective reality I
ran, it was as if I crawled. There was no sense in
finding my home now. If such as I saw was underway
everywhere, and I knew it was, then I would be too
late there too. I had to trust Phaino’s wit and
speed and make my way instead to the Legionary
Halls in the hope of meeting him and my family
there.
As I went, I saw yet more horrors that affirmed
my choice and my dread. Larger Manshonyaggers
stalked the main thoroughfare halls and climbed
the solid clan-piers like long-legs spiders,
probing the domiciles to draw out their prey. They
glittered and spun, dropping and swinging from the
beams and crashing through the walls of the
clustered homes. Standing and gawking like some
common passer-by, I saw one snatch a struggling
figure, strip them of their clothing and
accoutrements and drop them into a basket slung
over its back with dozen other similarly abjected
victims.
I could not but think of the Aphoi and their
charges – though these grey things, I thought
bitterly, strode with more dignity. Why, I cried
within my heart – and only within my heart,
because I would betray truly them and myself aloud
– why had I pretended to be so recklessly brave
when I had such an obvious duty to protect those
who were not?
Astonishingly – and in retrospect I should have
wondered more at my good luck – I found my way to
the gates of the Legionary Halls and found too
that my keys still admitted me.
The press of people beyond was dense and hot,
reeking of sweat and fear, but not yet insane.
They were coherent enough to obey my commands and
convey me to the most precious of prizes. Argyra
flung herself at me, her embrace as ardent for
complete fusion as ever I had known. “Where’s
Phaino?” I asked her, already guessing.
“Phaino, he… he…” she sobbed. “He came for us,
led us through the halls and air passages… the
machines chased us… he drew his machaira… he
stayed behind and!”
I cradled her head and pressed it against my
breast. “I know,” I whispered. “There is no need
to tell me, nor remember it so clearly. We are
safe and he is honoured.”
It was the most profound meeting I had ever felt.
Nothing would ever compare to that. I wept in
relief, glorying in my tears as a true man should.
They were safe! I had myself imperilled them,
foolishly placed their lives at risk for the sake
of my abstracted virtues and fortune forgave me!
Here they were, in my arms, knowing and loving me
all the more. I renewed my vows to them both then
and there, redoubled my bond to them. Never, never
would I let them be put in harm’s way for my sake.
And then, you see, my conversion was total.
Astrarchê Io had loved her people at her time of
crisis and fought for them and finally I
understood her. I saw the love of my wife and
child and knew at last the true meaning of our
beloved maiden’s own love. It was the love for us
all that we saw each in the love for one another.
Yes! It was so perfect, so precious, so utterly
indicative of true humanity.
My oaths became curses upon the Great House and
its perfect unfeeling order then. I was at last at
the end of my accommodation. It was ignorant, it
was cruel, it obscured the true path and it must
be repudiated. This was the true path. It
was clear to me now in the wet shining faces of my
beloved wife and child, in the deep warm glow of
my own heart. It was no matter that there would be
no stout metal walls about us at first. I or Schea
and Aletheia or their own children would build
then anew in proper form as an accurate reflection
of our hearts.
What had been my last resort of flight was now
our imperative. Yes, and so as commander I had to
continue commanding. I let the arms of the other
wives enfold her while I went to the task of
organising.
First, I made a rough census of the names and
skills that we had at our disposal. Charieis I was
glad to see, and he had in addition most of his
crew of artificers. On the negative side of the
scale, Phaino and Ariphrôn were dead, but Istôr
lived and he was brought to us. Astonishingly he
had a score of students with him too, dressed in
odd utilitarian variations of an Expediter’s
excursion dress, with many pockets and pouches
filled with devices and supplies strapped about
them. The Adjustors may have struck fast and hard
at the Order, but they had made their plans to get
some to safety even before we had made our own.
For that I was happy; they would be able to
navigate safe paths through dangers we Expediters
would not be able even to see.
In total, we had fully two thirds of Abiding
there in the servicing bays, with the addition of
a substantial corps of artificers and the
Monstruwacans. To these skills and their loyalty I
was profoundly grateful. We would need strength to
fight and run as we knew we must, and we would
need art to ensure that we could keep fighting and
running.
I would liked to have thought that thus we had
assembled a new legion, fully prepared and stocked
with unique talents, but the fact was that we were
a rabble, no less of a mob than those that rioted
in the halls. In addition to our strengths and our
and our prize Monstruwacans we had also cargo,
things not suited to the Land… and of course we
had those few of our dependents who had escaped –
yes, they were the real prize – for what were we
without those we loved? – but they would also
hamper us because we could never assume that they
could be subjected to the risks that Expediters
undertook without a thought. We had not been
moulded together as one unit, not tempered and
adjusted so that in the heat of battle barely any
commands would ever need to be given. Those that
were of the legion would always be fighting the
reflex to synchronise with those who were now
absent and those who were not of the legion could
not synchronise at all. We were outnumbered,
perhaps our comrades who stayed would show their
covert loyalty and fellowship by injecting a
certain reticence and the appearance of bad luck
into their pursuit, buying us time… but then the
manshonyaggers could come and the Kastcheis were
never reticent in open action.
Our choices were narrowing at a swift rate. We
would have to forego flight to any obvious or easy
refuge, because if we found it easy to arrive
there, the machines would find it easier. There
was only one place to go: the Realm of the Nine
Lights. We would flee our new enemy to hide in the
shadow of our former enemy. To our advantage, the
habits of caution on the part of the Great House’s
strategists would not change, no matter what
revolution was whirling about us now – and even
that revolution was an introverted, conservative
move. They would hesitate to send an army out and
risk provoking an enemy that was imperfectly known
and might well be mightier when they were so
weakened by the desertion of their greatest legion
now.
With my face set I strode into the crowd to check
the readiness of my people, to direct them to the
most appropriate quarters of the hall so that they
might aid our preparations. Where someone looked
doubtful, I did my best to reassure them with a
direct gaze and an inspiring word.
When I came back to Argyra and the twins, they
were already turning themselves to packing and
co-ordinating. I smiled with sincere tears in my
eyes, relieved and overcome with pride at how well
they were finding themselves in such a desperate
situation. Argyra was as brave as the wife of an
Expediter should be and she played the manner of
our preparations as a game and adventure to the
children, as if it was a pleasant novelty in order
to pull them along in her wake. While they knew
that it was not a game, they applied the skill of
pretence that all children have to make it easy
for themselves. The machines in particular caught
their interest: they had never seen frames outside
of books and were immediately fascinated by them.
They were excitingly fearsome in their eyes, but
to mine they were not nearly fearsome enough when
matched with a manshonyagger. If only they were!
Well, animated by the souls of desperate men, they
just might be – but no, it was more than ever our
duty to protect this time and without shame, we
would flee, not fight.
A sudden whirr turned me from my thoughts and I
saw Schea with her hand thrust into the gauntlet
of a frame, flexing its elongated fingers before
her face. The various extensions extended and
rotated, emitting pulses of light, activating and
deactivating. Fortunately she had not uncoupled
the safety locks and the weaponry itself remained
passive. Her expression was peculiarly
dispassionate – but mine was not. I quickly
marched over and shut off the power, scolding her
loudly as I did so. She was proud and might have
been humiliated to be disciplined before
strangers, but the spectacle of my own daughter
injuring herself or another so soon could not be
permitted to taint the auspices of our escape!
I pointed to her fingertip, where a bead of blood
stood showing where she had nicked her finger and
warned that it was but a hint of far worse things
that could happen to an unskilled operator – why,
the artificial muscles of a frame might well
dismember one who had not learned the reflexes of
its force-feedback system!
“But it wasn’t the glove that did it,” she
protested. “It was a metal spider – a tiny
manshonyagger.”
“What?” I demanded, surprised by this revelation.
“I’ve been talking to the others – everyone’s
been tasted, tested by them. Everyone here has.”
It didn’t take long to establish three facts:
many people had been tested by manshonyaggers;
many had not been and none who had not been tested
had made it to this place. There was an obvious
set of corollaries to this pattern because it was
too clear to be coincidence – if the
manshonyaggers truly wished to prevent our escape,
then all of those they tested could have been
apprehended but were not; therefore they had
selected according to genotype those that
were to be allowed to pass.
Their plans were likely not those of the
Adjustors. What then were they? I did not care to
know. The fact was that they were still
choreographing the schedule of the Great House,
even when it fell into apparent chaos. It was
doubly imperative then that we did escape –
immediately. I began to issue commands to that
effect and within the hour, the gates were opened
and we embarked on our exodus.
-------
We made it as far of the great beast’s skull
before we saw the dust cloud on the horizon that
was the first sign of pursuit. It had taken us
some time before we made it that far and I dreaded
the thought of how long – and therefore how
thorough – the conclusion of the Adjustment had
been. However, as Istôr reminded me, everything
that we knew, remembered and supposed had to be
put far behind. The man had a ruthlessness in him
that I had not expected of a scholar, but he was
right; what lay ahead was terrible, but we could
afford no illusions about what lay behind and if
we allowed ourselves to feel nostalgia, we would
only be baiting our own trap. Grimly, I kept our
path true to the object of the Realm of the Nine
Lights.
There was no rest as we fled, and many of the
young succumbed to exhaustion. I would not of
course leave them behind and I ordered them to be
tied to the harnesses of our frames, where we had
previously strapped our heavy weapons. Well,
taking the long perspective, Istôr said, our
progeny might well be our weapons. He laughed, but
I did not.
There were yet new lava flows so that even the
maps that my legion had made were deceptive and
sagas might be written of how we navigated new
hazards to find our way over the hills at last
into the chill light of the Nine Lights. They were
magnificent indeed, but I could forgive anyone for
thinking that they were not welcoming. Welcome
however, nor even refuge exactly was what we
sought; the fact was that we were rogues,
parasites, predators. The Aphonoi were complacent
concerning the merely human, so caught up were
they in their delicate balance with the Eaters and
that gave us a tremendous advantage.
Istôr may have been a man less capable of love
than myself, but we shared a calculating nature
and he saw the promise of my plan. I think that
with Phaino’s jocular courage he and I might have
made a fine triumvirate, but that was never to
have been – a pity.
It was a pity then that we failed even in our
ultimate contingency because before we found the
environs of the Nine Lights, the manshonyagger
found us.
The machine had cornered us neatly. Despite its
immemorial age and great bulk, it was far nimbler
than our rabble, and being so ancient, it had had
the time to learn the manner of the land far
better than any of us. Outmanoeuvred, we had not
choice but to surrender if we were to wring a few
more precious minutes out of our fated lives. To
my surprise, the machine did not open fire, though
its weapon ports were uncovered. Apparently it had
a deeper aim.
Delicately, the machine stepped over the tumbled
boulders to within a few fathoms. “Kastchei Four,
I am. Hail!” its voice blared as it bobbed and
waved its effectors with a quickness that belied
its mass. This was the machine that had addressed
me so strangely on our earlier trek.
“Hail!” it repeated. This was not a greeting, nor
even a challenge. It was a command.
“Hail!” I returned, straining for the effect of
confidence I did not feel. What was its intention?
Was it to use a truce as cover for a more
efficacious slaughter?
“Name your name, in whose name those with you
stand.”
“Agetor Chryseos Drakonhaema Philindikos,” I
offered. “I am.”
“Name. Name of you. Clan. Confirmed.”
“Yes…” I ventured. What did it want? Why this
pause, this discourse?
“Time was. Time is. Time will be.”
I kept silent. If this were a game of sorts, then
I would let the machine make its pieces visible
first.
“Task mission is to protect human race, face.
Visage clear.”
Somewhere a geyser hissed. Kastchei Four’s
targeting lasers produced visible fans of ruby
lacework in the passing mist. The light flashed in
my eyes, dazzling me with blood drops and jewels.
“Question then, question ourselves, question your
blood. Sift, sort, divide, match. The spices of
your blood we taste to ensure a suitable
diversity. You one, you all will attempt to
thrive. You must or we will kill, winnow, assured
that Great House contains truly and sole human
stock. If you will thrive, then you will be rival.
Then we will match once again, sift, sort, unify
the blood and taste it again. Thus you are
beholden to bring forth the last face: the true
and final human child to be born at the end of
ending. Prepare. Remember. Anticipate answer.
“Agetor Chryseos Drakonhaema Philindikos, you
are. Kastchei Four, I am. Your name, my name. You
for yours, myself for manshonyaggers and all for
the unseen face we adore. Remember this, tell your
brood of your duty made this phase. This is your
order, burden, trial. Verdict to come with child
at end of ending. Your answer of the now to come
in this instant.”
Istôr and I exchanged astonished glances. What
times! Rebellion and oaths made with machines! It
was hardly a choice, but it was a gift,
sharp-edged as it may be. It was a confirmation
too; that in the end, in the Great House we were
never going to be our own masters; the
manshonyaggers had made and wound that clock and
would continue to run it, adjusting even the
Adjustors.
I gave my answer, sealing our intentions.
-------
Within a few diphae we were nearing the bight
where the obelisk of Astrarchê Io would be hidden
from direct sight. I would miss it and on that
hour then I made a brief ceremony, sighting it for
the last time in my spyglass. It glinted as it
always had in the rays of the dying Sun and in
that reflected light I made clear to myself and
all the understanding that I had. Yes, the Sun was
dying, the Twilit Land would become the Night Land
and we would die, all of us. But now I was alive
and free of the Great House I would live and deny
these facts and I would not follow the clocks as
they counted smaller and smaller measures or
become like a nameless shelled thing that has been
frightened and draws deeper and deeper into its
hard coiled armour. I would love my wife and my
child and there will be more children and they
will have children and I will see them and the
rays of Sun will glint on their hair as if it is
risen and we will count the tenscore stars of the
sky as if they have appeared for the first time.
We would tell each other that time itself is
reversed and the Final Child of our generations
will be Astrarchê Io herself.
“Yes!” I shouted to my company, “Yes!” the
shouted to me.
There were risks – and they would become dreadful
actualities, and I did not gloss these. We were
also free to die I told them, as most certainly we
would if we became simply a sojourning band. We
would have to accept another niche quickly, and
the only one to offer any promise for the long
term was the Realm of the Nine Lights. The Aphonoi
were vile, I knew that, and some of us would
become enthralled, I accepted that. Such
calculations are the lot of an Agetor and those
who follow one. Nonetheless, we would submit for a
time to become parasites, spying upon them,
infiltrating their herded communities and stealing
knowledge of the Nine Lights and their mysterious
power source from them. I knew from my long
training and my career how parasites and rivals
rose in the Twilit Land; now we would rise in
their manner to challenge not the Aphonoi, but the
Great House itself and we would build a proper
home for the true people.
Kastchei Four had proposed a competition. Very
well: it would have it!
“Yes!” they cried.
As the crown of cold lights rose before us on
their great columns, we began to strip our frames
and with them the very last traces of the Great
House.
© Brett
Davidson 10 Oct 2013
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