DEATH
The old King was dying. A few more breaths and his spirit would be free to roam the seas of Aeyn, some celestial sailor on his way home, —if his home were the aether. The old King had thought about this crossing for many years, to return to everything, each flowering spore, each micro-droplet of a charged mist, to be in the Twinlights of dusk and dawn.
The scribes had come to read him his life, noted moments inscribed into starmetal. The sages had come to chant prayers, at once instruction and information he was to bring with him, in his sojourn into the Eternal. The songbirds had come to soothe him. He could drift off whenever they came. Their songs carried him to places he didn’t have to be himself anymore. He could be the hero of the tale, the real one, the one he was supposed to be, not the one who he had become in name. He could fall in love again, his heart could break without really breaking. Their songs were for a life that wasn’t his, and he enjoyed that. He enjoyed the company of the pretty ovates —though he’d harboured a suspicion it had been their intention, to cast him memories that set his spirit adrift. To untether him from himself. Sometimes, in moments of lucidity, the old King understood, the girls really were there! In the flesh. In his last days, he always asked for Ruah, the youngest of them. And the small girl would come and sit by him, and sing, sing, sinden softly in his ear.
THE TOWER (Ad)
As the sun breaks over the horizon, its rays light up a long, dense cloud over Axis Mundi. Heavy and low over the capital, a blanket and shroud to its overcast citizens, the thick mist is bound by a Northern range sweeping East to West, its milky omniscience persisting in all directions, only dissipating where the landscape, cracking and broken up by outcrops, is finally subsumed by the vast dunes of Al’Araf. In the blaze of morning, the city remains dark under its haze. Sometimes, a serendipitous series of shifting winds will yield to a sunray, when it pierces to hit pavement beneath, we call these rara avis, for the moment that it passes through the shadows, the light is like the flutter of a wing.
The Axis is at once old and new. At its heart, great stone bones rise from the earth and claw at the heavens. Having received such monoliths as rightful-heirs, its discoverers had infused to its skeletal potential the vibrancy of life and structure of society. Four towers form the corners of an expansive citadel, heights so immense, they graze the belly of the haze. A fifth, central tower bores through the dark cloud, spire lost to the cosmos, stature dwarfing its four sentinels emasculated by the giant between them. Named the Galalith for the hard, polished dentin which encases it, along the tower where it meets the haze, a belfry sits, —from which an array of bells now ring, their familiar overtones spilling over and swelling along the sett-stone streets. Beneath each oscillation, an electric hum permeates the air and thickens it with a heat that when seen from the tower’s heights, appear as a shimmer trapped between skyline and cloudline. The bells toll. Vibration, refraction, hum imbues hue and from within the static cloud, millions of light-ampoules come alive.
“Eighteen degrees.” Indigo brilliance seeps through deep dusk, riddled with impatient light-flickers trying to connect to one another,…
“Twelve degrees.” These phosphorescent tendrils capillarize across the sky in flashes of violet, vermillion and tangerine,…
“Six degrees.” The saturated cloud, agitated with charge, crystallizes and settles into a tepid coral glow.
“Civil Twilight.”
Aereye Ad Alta stilled the transducer and the bells shuddered to a stop.
“Base to Pan. A fine Dawning, young Aey. Awaiting stats. Over.” The thin, crepitating voice of Takwin, far away at Galalith’s base, seemed to be speaking from inside Ad’s mind.
“Pan to Base. Aer is charged to 100 lumens, temp, 2000K. Aerlight… check, MyNet… check. Engaging Panoptes for calibration. Over.” Ad squared her shoulders back from the signaling device before her. Twice her height, its two arms curved up voluptuously from a ribbed shell housing its control yoke. Nine strings ran from its tailpiece to a crossbar on its underside, where nine rope pulleys controlled the nine bells which hung on the platform below. Before she had made Aereye, Ad had often played the lyre’s replica back at the Academy, —but nothing about a simulation was like the real thing. Her insides had not been gripped just as they had by the vibrating tremors of real, aged, sonic-rock. Screens did not bleed colours as rich as the sky. Real sky. Well, what little sliver of it Ad could see on the horizon. Gaze caught by the distance, she made out a billowing column of thick, black smoke on the Borders. Another breach. In the Axis’ early decades, Kurborn had needed the Axui, their diversity, mutations, their inherent aliveness. Then, there had been strength in unity. Fief of land and oath of homage had galvanized the continent. A century on, boon of numbers had become burden.
“Pan to Base. Reporting disturbance at ring-nine. North-east. Over.”
“Base to Pan, we’ll need a visual on that. Confirm at Pi-over-6, over.”
Shifting her stance to face the smoke-plume, Ad activated the live-cam on her helmet.
“Pan to Base. Breach site confirmed at thirty-degrees north, over.”
“Base to Pan. Hold position for zoom. Over.” A rapid flurry of images were captured, despite the distance they would be magnified to intimate detail, though Ad would see none of it, as they’d be sent directly to C2.
“Base to Pan. We have word the groundpounders have it under control. Resume ring-scans, over.”
“Pan to Base. Noted, resuming calibration, over.” The radio went quiet but a faint crackling from the glowing cloud above her remained. From Ad’s vantage upon the belfry, she could almost touch it, Holy Aer. Like a painting of Creation that had once hung in her grandfather’s study, now her own gloved fingertip mere meters away from her Afterlife. Tinged with trepidation, a latent pride took hold as she surveyed her city. Circling the tower-complex, belts of land rose in long, upward slopes, slopes which ended in steep scarps before the next landbelt began. Returning her grip to the leather bound handles of the control, Ad tuned into the fourth ‘belt, Riv. Here, and up to Rix, commoners lived in homenodes, simple, rounded dwellings made of geopolymer, or red-earth if they could afford it, and strengthened by a mixture of fibrous polyblends. The pods jostle for space, a grey-speckled mass punctuated by brief plots of green, domed roofs adorned with copper crosses, each glinting with charge. In a sweeping motion with the weight of her body behind it, Ad maneuvered the hefty yoke to pass through the cardinal points. North to north, the all-seeing eye of Panoptes turns, scanning over ring-four. The Axis may be divided by its ‘belts and one’s status, but in the Aer, all Axiomen are equal. Logging the night’s biocharge harvest, Ad calibrated Pan for the next landbelt. Scans of the fifth, sixth and seventh rings held a consistent, consonant murmur as the-eye passed them. It appeared the breach had gone unnoticed. Even the smoke-plume had cleared, groundpounders worked fast…, —it was a little unfair to call them that, Ad knew. Who else was brave enough to handle the ‘strays? Not her, not ever. The half-castes of the Fringes unnerved Ad. Tribune had done what they could to complete construction of the last ‘belts but assimilation had proved futile so far away from the lyre. All efforts had encountered problems; blackouts, uprisings, sandstorms, attacks,… It was well known that little could be done for the last ‘belts, infiltrations were frequent, and exterminations were awful to witness, —no matter how necessary.
Panoptes was scanning the last district of Rix, when Ad saw the light. A rare bird. No, not light in the way it flickers when it is only passing. A beam of light, a … sunray? It was brighter than any light she’d seen before. Maybe it would fade. Time froze. No, it wasn’t fading. Quickly bypassing her live-cam, Ad took out its optic-lens, she searched for the light, manually rotating the magnifier, jerking her head back when it came into focus. The glare, the sheer force of its energy, stunned her still. Squinting her eyes shut, the sparks remained in her vision, angry white spots burning against the black. Feeling for her body, she held up her hands, focused on the stitching of her gloves and steadied her breathing. Unchanged, normal. Relief swept over her. Even so, there wasn’t much time left, there was no doubt at all, this was true sunlight. She checked the time-stamp, it had been almost an hour since Civil Dawn. Had the sunbeam been there the whole time? How had she missed it? How was it so bright? Ad repositioned the eyepiece slightly lower, and saw the ray shining on a pod in dire need of reparations, one that stood off alone, alien in the brimming mass. Another peculiarity evaded her. No, it’s not what was there that was strange, it’s what wasn’t. Its roof hadn’t been fixed with, or at some point had lost, its transceiver. Another wave of relief. She had followed protocol with militant precision, Ad had activated aerlight correctly. It was this household, it was clearly defying regulation. She dialed in to base.
“Pan to Base, come in Takwin, over.”
“Base to Pan, what’s happened to the Feed? Over.”
“Pan to Base. I stalled it. I’m not sure what I’m seeing here. I think there might be a breach in the Aer. Over.”
“Base to Pan. A breach in the Aer? Negative. Impossible. Over”
“Pan to Base. Takwin, listen, there is a constant stream of light, real light. A light-channel, no a light-pillar, I don’t know how to describe it but it’s not aerlight, and if the bells toll for Assembly and it’s still there, Takwin we need to tell C2, we need a score to fix this, now!” The silence from the radio was deafening. Had she overstepped her position? What choice did she have? The time-stamp clicked again. The radio hissed at her. “Base to Pan. Copy. Confirm Aer-breach location, over.”
“Pan to Base, I make it out at ring-nine, radial-eleven, district seven,… a pod at the end of the lane, number…137?, without the live-cam that’s only an estimate, this lens is fuzzy… Should I engage Panoptes? Over.”
“Base to Pan. No. Keep Pan offline, we’re patching in a reserve cache to the Feed. That address is a near enough an estimate for now. Standby for further instruction. Over.”
“Pan to Base, copy. But Takwin, what if anyone saw it?”
“Base to Pan. Don’t speculate, Ad. Just wait. Standby, over.”
Just wait. Ad could do that. She had been told once, that all of time could condense into a single moment. That one’s entire life could be understood in the blink of an eye. One would be inundated with memories devoid of chronology and context, awash with emotions, discordant but grasping at each other as they break the surface, then disappear. At the time, she had imagined some holographic collage but this was much less separate than that. Pieces of her life had become the very cells pulsing in her body, reminiscence warming her blood without the clarity of vision. The lightness of joy, the freedom in innocence. Some unknown loss, grief wedged in the joints of heavy limbs, the heat of anger rising as bile, turning to stone and sinking to navel. A solitude quelled through breathless distractions, riding lessons, gymnastics, an all-consuming novel. Her entire life condenses into a single moment, an isolated memory is left stranded. The rush subsides, the blood pounds in her head, she’d been holding her breath again. Another hiss of static.
“Base to Pan. Relaying C2 command. Proceed with Assembly-bells, affix sequence to seal Aer. We’re sending you the score, standby. Over.”
“Pan to Base, score received. Fixing new sequence. Over.” Replacing her eyepiece back into place and tightening her headgear, Ad faced the huge lyre. Pan’s Lyre, first of its kind on the continent, largest ever seen, harbinger of sensibility, sustenance, salvation. Ad whispered the words over and over again, sensibility, sustenance, salvation. The time-stamp clicked. Ad flicked her wrists, stretched her fingers, took hold of the yoke with one hand, and with the other, deftly plucked the strings to the sequence displayed in her eyepiece. Taut gut lines shivered. She plucked another sequence. Shivers amplified into a steady vibration, strings brimming with energy, almost invisible. Underneath her the floor began to tremor, tremors traveling through her bones, aching, rebounding through her body, the belfry shaking, the bells tolling. There was a deep and low rumbling followed by a sharp cracking. The Aer cracking and churning, winds whip at the belfry, winds were stinging her face. Holding fast to her controls with all her strength, Ad strains over the lyre’s massive arms, seeking that lone light shaft. Nothing of it was left. Nothing was out of place. All was well in Axis Mundi.
THE FEED (Kid)
It is the first vernal equinox of the new millennium and many Axioma are hard at work. Through stepped slits of Galalith’s thickset walls, the weak glare of electric light shines on hunched figures, faces masked by blinders, fingers drilling onto stenotypes in relentless rhythm. The city’s Scribes and their compulsion for minutiae keep the Axis stable in the most extraordinary of ecosystems. Like a fitful, trembling shamrock, they work three to a station. Heads bowed and capped in a busy array of hyphae-wires, tangled strands fuse to a central stem, the Feed, around which the stations encircle. The broad column anchors the room from floor to ceiling, running from the heights of the Aer all the way through the Foundation’s Keep, down to its engine room, Command and Control.
Drawing a diaphanous, spectral sheath close to its pulsating core, the Feed is alive with streams of emotive disorder, which the Scribes sense and sort into discernible datum. With such astronomical input, theirs is a role that requires keen reflex; one is to catch sight of what is meant to be, what is not, and where along the continuum the threshold lies. To qualify biocharge is to make split-second decisions, an instinct schismatic to the orientation to detail it takes to get the posting of Skyscribe in the first place. Fortunately for the Axis, Scribes did not need to be born into their role, they could be trained and retrained. Were a pupil from any of the city’s Seminaries to show certain aptitudes, he or she was to be drafted into an apprenticeship in the coveted citadel. Pupils were many, positions were few and rigid competition sustained burnout rates.
Skyscribe Kid Sudines had surely exhibited the right characteristics in his youth, for he had been drafted right at the Foundation’s infancy. His tenure since had enriched Kid’s insight into the Axiomen, yet as varied as they were, their funny dislikes, secret habits, subconscious inclinations, he’d found that most complied to some innate, inter-dimensional barometer with some traits straining to one end of the-spectrum, leaving other traits dilute or erratic at the other. As often as psyches shifted, there were only so many expressions they could reveal themselves as, and Kid, he could map the lot.
It had been an eventful Spring Dawning. A Skyscribe from station 48 had needed to break-charge, his Reserve had been called in, Contingency R0-S142. Reports had come in of disturbances at ring-ten, a Twiceborn company had been dispatched to crush the rebels, Contingency R10-P/6. In his anticipation of the day’s proceedings, Kid had packed an extra stash of soytrients. A safety measure, he’d told himself, a personal contingency. Its code, the round, red tin he’d left out the night before, a visual reminder to refill. Some time after his third pill, he was feeling pretty good and in the flow of things. He’d reached that state where he could work and wander simultaneously when, staring into the oculus of his station, he perceived a sharpness, an aberrancy hovering in his peripheral, some impression of proleptic-assumption, or anticipatory-longing, he couldn’t place it. The signal’s intensity grew but his stats showed his station’s Feed as due and even, pulsing at a standard rate. Around him the clicking of stenotypes pitched on, each Scribe receiving and recording as steadily as ever. Suddenly aware his pace was lagging, his panic buffeted against an alien-calm rising in him. Kid could make no sense of his physiological responses, the lightening space behind his eyes, the warmth of invisible fingers deep inside his gut, a hunger he had never known. It passed, as suddenly as it had risen. Then, the Aerband’s Feed undulated once more. Wave upon wave of only the known.
Soytrients were a reasonable provision, Kid reasoned with himself as he replaced his tin in his desk. Scribeship required superhuman focus. To be tuned into the Aerband and made to define it, by iota, was madness. Know thyself, the sages had said. Define your terms, they had insisted. One had to be careful with words, one had to have sensefelt everything before choosing the right one, and soytrients, although expensive, were a necessity, they facilitated his work flow and Kid was as much about productivity as he was about clarity. He’d had to lock away his supply though, for in sharing a station with his stem-mates and other Reserves, Kid had found, on more than one occasion, that his pills would disappear mysteriously. Only one or two at time, never enough to effect a solid accusation. Last to leave the Feed’s Keep, Kid checked his locker. The soytrients were safe. In this state, Kid would’ve preferred to keep working, but new policies against double-shifts had just been implemented, transcription had been capped at 12 hours, and over the winter, an aggressive campaign to hire Reserves in their hundreds had been successful, these unfamiliar faces sweeping past him on the stairs, far too swiftly, far too young for the responsibility bequeathed them.
Bells for Assembly had just rung, their sound hitting his chest as Kid stepped out from the ground-floor refectorium. A crowd had already gathered on the parapet-walk, and Kid moved with them eastward. A thousand paces from Keep to Temple, an irrefutable fact, a solid truth, Kid counted each step, the cold stone floor perceptible through his fungal-leather sandals. They had been taught, the Keep is the core, the Axis Itself, yet his sandals betrayed the question, how strong can a core be, when those who tended to it were paid so little? When his mind had no task to attend to, Kid’s growing debt would shadow him. The line shuffled along the walk. At least the mass of bodies kept his torso warm. Who of these scribes had sensefelt what he had sensefelt earlier? Dawning’s hypnopompic-signal had presented no audiovisual cues, it had some sensory-overlap with desire, yet, less localized, more filling. A fleeting lightness, no common expression of its experience, had it even been real? Having not transcribed the sensation into any expressive, definitive, quantifiable, piece of phenomena, could Kid call it qualia if it had not been archived? It had not happened. Kid decided, for he had not sought it out and what one does not seek, one cannot feel. The matter was settled, his memory of it, archived as such.
Temple Mount loomed before them. Though nowhere near Galalith’s height, the stacked tower was beautifully, painstakingly decorated with high-reliefs. Scenes of Al’Araf’s violent history finely-chiseled, —from the Pureman’s exile into Kur and the Godstar’s wrath, to the grounding-of-the-Axis and the gathering-of-Aer, the story of the lands of Shinar was told in stone for generations to come. Scenes of Talam’s reign were his favorites, the early decades of the Alliance depicted with Axui’s chimerical gods seated side-by-side with the Noble Houses of the Line-of-Man. How strange how far relations had severed.
Galalith’s walkways soon converged into a circular arena before the Temple, proud arches stood over its entryway, stone lips baring the steel teeth of a raised portcullis. Through it the crowd passed, spreading out into an opulent foyer flanked by two stately staircases. Ascending up into the Grand Hall, Kid noted the glistening high lancet windows of the clerestory casting the rubescence of twilight to all in the room. All classes of Axiomen filled the hall, the Vernal Assemblies being rare occasions in which they could mingle freely, though most Highborn had taken their seats, backs turned on the courtiers. Kid spotted his stem-mates, sturdy Bors, head and shoulders above the throng, his closest friend in the Keep, slight Orc, efficient in size though not in mannerism, his hands gesticulating in the throes of speech. Stood beside them, the Reserve who had taken over Skyscribe 142’s vigil.
“And when the flames were extinguished, them ‘strays was still alive!” Orc stopped, finally noticing Kid. Bors moved to make space for him, “We’re not to call them that.” Bors directed gruffly at Orc. Ignoring him, Orc pointed out the Reserve. “Aether, first-year of the third-belt. This, young rookie, is Kidnu Sudines, peerless man of the Word, fastest transcriber amongst all Axis’ and longest-surviving Skyscribe, now that old Sabium’s cracked!” Orc cackled, nudging the boy forward. “Show some respect now.” The new recruit, a boy still, though with a solemn look about him, gave a perfunctory bow. Kid turned back to Orc. “What’s this about the breach?”
Orc huddled in. “Three! Rad-thirty praefect says groundpounders had a dozen flamethrowers on ‘em, and the cursed things lived!” There was a certain glee in Orc’s voice that made Kid uncomfortable and he checked the new boy’s face, —his eyes were rounded, lips pressed firm together.
“It’s alright now, if they’ve made it in, they’ll be alright, Counsel do great work in the rings, don’t worry boy.” Bors roughly patted Aether’s shoulder, he’d noticed his fear too it seemed.
“That’s not all,” Orc seized back Aether’s attention, “Them ‘strays had an insider, someone helped them cross. Praefect says dockmaster says them confiscated sandships were the ones stolen during the Mutiny, —remember that trial some seasons ago, some ex-miner rounded up all the drifters, got them smuggling all kinds of scrap into the Axis, plastics…, aggregates…”
“These new generations,” Bors interrupted, shaking his head. “always trying to fix things themselves, always wanting to upset the balance! Just think, contaminated-imports infiltrating the city, no vetting, no geiger count…” Orc couldn’t contain his agreement, “Yes Bor! Precisely Tribune’s concerns. Drifters and migrants alike need to be re-educated, sent out to the colonies, or to Twiceborn and be put to use. All on Tribune agree, we say Erum should push for conscription!”
Bors stiffened. “Hush now Orc. You are too loud with strong opinions. One well knows the-law, a man who fights has a vote. If the Regency were to install conscription, we’d need to grant suffrage.” Orc caught himself and acquiesced. “Casting pearls before swine, it is, giving dust-stragglers the vote. True point, old friend.”
Both men nodded along with each other in obvious resignation. Kid had heard of the Mutiny, though he felt it had not been aptly named. How any traitor could take over the Axis, why, there were zero series of consequence that would allow it, even with such frivolous treasures. “With all that matter they were collecting, I wonder what ad hocery they had in sight?” Kid contributed, but the conversation was cut short by the heavy groan of Temple’s portcullis closing. The Regents had arrived. The room rustled into action and the last of the congregation filled into its pews. Prince Raelion III of House Notii, resplendent in robes of gold and Tyrian purple, entered the hall. His posture regal, his face fixed with an air unchanged since Kid had first set eyes on him. His measured, deliberate stride imitated by General Eurus of House Erum not far behind him. Equally impressive in his military regalia, his galea gleaming, his vine-staff polished, it struck Kid that the elder Eurus too, appeared as resolute and undiminished as the day he had ascended rank. The two most powerful men of the capital took to their thrones upon the dais and the line continued. Counsel Jinn, tall and thin, the ophidian skin of his face and hands glistening like water in the low light, his sparse lips working rapidly to a litany barely audible and swinging a silver censer hypnotically, led a succession of Magi down the aisle, faint wisps of blue smoke trailing behind them. Their faces lined with the wisdom of a thousand years, all twelve men were dressed in black cassocks, uniformly sober with only the heavy medallions hanging around their necks setting them apart. As the procession passed Kid’s row, a sweetly scented incense wafted over, before submitting to the distinctly acrid scent of age and alchemy. The Counsel of Notii lined themselves in the shadows along the back wall and a deep humming began as six Ovates entered the hall. Emanating enigmatic beauty through their gold-plated battoulahs, the only extravagant vestment against their plain, white cotton chadors, their bright yellow pupils pierce through smudged black charcoal make-up. Kid flushed as one caught his eye. Once seated in the choir-stalls, their humming grew louder and a lone figure fully shrouded in white muslin cloth crossed the threshold. The Oracle. All-Seer, Dreamseeder and True Sovereign of the Axis, Ruah. Her given name, though none were permitted to speak it. Nor was it permitted to look upon her face. To do so was sacrilege, a man had lost his life coming across her unawares in private chambers. It was said her beauty had stopped his heart. An eery, melancholic melody radiated from her, half call, half incantation, in a language known only to her muses, her movement slow and flowing, she seemed to glide down the nave, up towards the chancel, whereupon the altar, a shallow silver dish and two silver cruets stood. From the folds of her robes two gloved hands emerge, and before them, light materializes upon her outstretched, open palms. It levitates, an incandescent orb, an essence of Aer. From within her shroud the Oracle calls. Higher, she raises her relic, her chant shifting in scale, her Ovates in pursuit, deep humming layered with polyphonic echoes, layer upon layer of sound, melodies blend, filling the great space, their chanting louder and heavier and deeper, seemingly sounding from inside Kid himself, the orb breathing and beating and flaring, white heat bursts forth into a stream of sparks, flashing and falling around the Oracle as her song ends. The room stills. When she spoke, her voice rang clear throughout the hall.
Hail of fire, fury, thunder, Heavens aflame
Godstar’s rage lit Earth in endless day
Aer of life, beauty, wander, Heaven returned
Line of Man restored to the Way
The Oracle retreated into the shadows and the congregation took their seats. Prince Raelion stood to welcome the Axiomen, greeting the Noble Houses, —the Regency’s most generous of donors, then the city-state’s consuls, its ministers and clerks, before giving praise to General Eurus for the brave and selfless service of the Twiceborn in the territories. Stood in the shadows behind the Prince-Regent, the unending ministration of the Counsel was left unaccredited, though Kid, as others, well aware of the forces they could unleash if so inspired. The Prince-Regent relayed how stable the populations of the Axis’ satellites were, how many reservoirs and how many mines were still in operation, how trade fared and how robust the economy was. Raelion repeated his facts, as he had done the year before, and the year before that, his uncannily symmetrical face serious and handsome. When it was time for closing prayers, the Prince-Regent and old General would call on the Oracle to re-light the orb. It was to burn until the autumnal equinox and was as much a symbol of peace, as it was a marker of seasons. Once more, the Ovates began their humming, guttural and resonant, and once more the Oracle appeared from the dark, rising up to the altar. From the folds of her robes two gloved hands emerge to grasp the two silver cruets.
The first offering was poured, a clear stream of water.
May Aer’s light grant us sense
The second offering was poured, a thick, dark and viscous oil.
May Aer’s blood grant us sustenance
The Oracle took the silver dish, with both the oil and water in it, to her lips, and breathed. The flaming orb formed once more, rising up with a loud whooosh, licking at the temple’s ceilings before settling into an even, steady fire of dense and glowing haze in her palm.
May We Dream the Eternal Dream
And the congregation replied, “Amen.”
As Kid was leaving the Basilica with his stem-mates, he noticed a girl staring intently at him. Dressed in her uniform, Kid noted her skin-toned, re-nylon jumpsuit was measured to the millimeter with sleek, oblique buttons lined from neck to collarbone, her hood sealed close to her skull and sporting gills fitted with what looked like very expensive hi-fi sensors. Her calf-high, gun-grey boots had war-grade magnets seamlessly attached to their soles. They looked heavy, but warm.
“Kid Sudines?” The girl glanced around furtively as she spoke.
“Go on, I’ll catch up with you in the mess hall” Kid said to the others. He didn’t know what contrived him to secrecy, perhaps it was in response to her manner, perhaps he cared too much for Regency politics. His friends left wordlessly. “Yes?” He said, turning to her. She took him by the elbow and guided him out of the aisle.
“You knew my grandfather, Ambrose Alta.”
He did. “A great man. The Foundation owes its livelihood to him.”
She led him farther from the aisle, until a large pillar partially hid them. “My grandfather spoke of your multi-stream approach to qualifying biocharge. He’d never seen such pattern recognition of any man of the Aer’s Archives.”
Kid reddened. “Indeed, it is rare for a lowborn such as myself to have made scribeship. I remain ever grateful for his endorsement of my access to them.”
“Oh.” She seemed to lose her train of thought at that. “I assumed you were of a House.”
“Keeper Ambrose found me and consigned me to a Seminary of the third-belt when I was a boy. My education of the Archives began there.”
“Noted.” She was curt, but continued, “This dawning… Did you log anything unusual? Or anyone else… Did anyone mention anything beyond-the-spectrum?” She was looking at him so earnestly, he almost lost himself.
“No.” He lied. “Nothing unusual. We met the quota, as expected.” Her face fell. That stirred him, to see such naked emotion in a Highborn.
“No…, anomalies?” She persisted.
“None at all, Aereye Ad.”
She looked surprised. “How do you know my name?”
“Your grandfather spoke of you too,” he replied “He must be proud you have made Aereye.” With that, he gave a little bow, turned and walked away, leaving her watching his retreat with an indiscernible expression on her face.
DEEPBLOOD (Sila)
For as long as she could remember, Sila had understood the impetus binding man to duty and honour, was the fine balance of awe and fear. Tales of her ancestral grandfather’s iron-willed rule and demigod status, First Surveyor, Father of Newborn, King of Shinar, had proven that the right ratio of mystery and majesty could build armies and empires, erect halls and temples, demand reverence and obedience. As first-heir to House Notii, Sila had seen how commoners and commanders alike could act before her family name. It would have been well within her right to call Counsel to one of those impressive halls of the Axis, to have use of such sacrosanct spaces. It was not happenstance where Sila had chosen to meet instead.
Below the main crossing between Eural Industries and the Ministries Precinct, a stone rampway zig-zagged down to Waterway-II, part of the sophisticated canal system that bordered each of the capital’s landbelts. Due north along the canal’s towpath, a small wicket-gate attached to a larger miter-gate, gave access to the city’s catacombs. Unless one sought after some forgotten speciality, it was unlikely to even know of that manway to the bowels of the Axis’. Once a bustling subterranean trading post, most vendors had since relocated to the more popular rec-coms, sprawling, multi-use soystructures and centers of recreation, commerce and social integration. Few odd shops and services remained in the crypts and frequenters were rare, even during the city’s lunch hours. Nestled between a shop selling fine-quality vellum and a locksmiths’, was Sila’s favorite haunt, the Basilisk. In its centennial year, the old bar showed its age; armchairs of rippled leather worn with use; a solid oak counter cloaked in the patina of its past, of heavy-handed drinkers and bar fights and lovers’ graven affirmations. An antiquated ventilation system did nothing to draw out the bar’s cigar smoke, but lent an air of that fatal breath of its namesake.
“It is of a new grade.” Sila dropped her voice low. “Low ash, volatility, steady burn rate. Nothing combusts better than this, …save for a live ‘stray.” Premeditated in posture, legs splayed in masculine deflection, elbows resting on either knee, one hand steadily swirling her whiskey, the other clasped over a butterfly-knife. Dressed in a maroon suit of pure spun silk, Sila’s alabaster skin gleams against the scarlet shades of the plush room. The nexus at the helm of a silent vessel. Seated around her, are Counsel-men of the Axis’ three largest satellites, hard men loyal to power, and her own Axis’ Counsel. She lifted her eyes to Jinn, a prompt.
“Sila jests in truth. I have not seen charge such as this.” The cool air of his breath lands on her cheek far too familiarly. “Show them, Sila.”Setting her glass on the low center table and reaching into her pocket to pull out a small, dark ball, with her other hand, Sila flicked open her knife, trilling her fingers, fanning blade and handles over her thumb, over and over. The ball softened, the glutinous ooze began to swell, distending itself inside out, following the movements of her balisong until it fell to the polished marble tabletop, and, as by unseen forces, gathered itself into an amorphous form, glinting, collapsing in on itself, reforming into another, another, another expression.
“See its iridescence as it forms,…”
“Its potency is magnetic,…”
In hushed tones, the men hunch forward, straining in their seats to see the ‘blood dancing in Sila’s hands.
“Tell them of the source, Sila.”
“Uncharted Pocket, newly formed, twenty-one days east of Rix.”
“Heir-Regent Sila, I must ask,…” Reclining into his armchair, Counsel Chiron of Styx had broken the intimate circle. “Has your brother approved of this proposed venture?”
With one swift motion, Sila flicked her knife shut, the dark, undulating viscosity shrank back into a ball, and rolled listlessly off the table.
“Look around you, Chiron. Where is the Prince-Regent? Off with the Oracle again. Dreamseeding, when this,…” She kicked the hard ball toward him, “… this is what he needs to be thinking of. My brother may spin Eurus’ half-truths, but who here amongst you can deny the Godstar grows stronger?” She turned to Counsel Heka, “You, Heka, how are the waters of the Nile?”. To Damu, “And the Tigris, Damu?” Turning back to Chiron, “The waters of the Styx, do they cast the mist of Aerlight? She looked upon each Merchant, slit-pupils seeking targets. “Because even here in the capital, Aer falters.”
The murmurings returned.
“It is true, C2 confirm biocharge harvests have been unstable,…”
“Indeed, across all Axis’,…”
“The first dawning and a blackout already,…”
“And that,” Sila pounced, “is dangerous. “So shall one break-charge, so shall Godstar break-stasis.” Her whispering insistence ended just as a lull passed through the intimate room. Superstition would say a spirit had entered the space. Then, the rumbling of the manufactories began again, the ceiling of the Basilisk trembling ever so slightly. None of the men had moved, all eyes were on her.
“Ipse scripsi, Sila. We do not speak aloud that which defies the Opus.”
Sila eased, she had erred. She fixed a conciliatory register to her voice. “I have erred. Forgive me, Chiron. I know little of old gods long dead.” A beat, a breath, “But deepblood, I know. And I tell you, this grade, it is of a very deep, and rich, a very old Line.”
Another carafe was poured. Chiron took his time sipping his wine.
“Granted, its force is strong, strong enough to fuel Aer for decades, perhaps even centuries. But there have been no expeditions east of Rix since Khanites broke with Erum.” Chiron set down his glass and laid his palms out. “Twiceborn are forbidden from the mining of Khan’s Line.”
As Counsel-Pater, Chiron had attained the prestigious posting by merit of his virtue, and Sila had often found the patriarch to wear his morality indulgently. “We shall not send Twiceborn, Counsel-Pater. As my scouts, and those who shall man the next envoys, do not go by the Way.” Sila sensed his shock. Emboldened, she pressed on. “Yes, I employed the Nightstray. Even base pleasures require foresight and willpower in their pursuit. The poor man is still a man. What he lacks in ritual and anointment, he makes up for in corporeal reserve.” She did not pause for protest. “I sent them by sandship. Prototype of an old design, but clever. It proved itself able in detecting lodes and extracting ores as it travels. Duly sealed, exposure is limited to unloading tanks, due repairs, as it would be in a larger envoy. Everything is mechanized. The work is minimized.”
Chiron had been shaking his head and finally interrupted her.
“Only Twiceborn may venture Beyond. All who leave the Axis’ must go by the Way. It is the only Way, without it, the risk of soul-splitting is too great. If just one thing were to go wrong, if the ‘ship were to be misguided, run out of supplies, worse, if there were to be a leak, a crack, somewhere the light gets in,—”
Suddenly, he leaned into her, acrid stains glowing in his cheek pores.
“How many scouts were sent in the preliminary survey?”
“Four.”
“How many returned?”
“Three.”
Chiron sat, staring at the hard ball on the floor.
“He was drifter, Chiron. No Line, no ties. He was weak-minded! Meā culpa, the fault is mine. Future screenings of all personnel shall be much more rigorous.” Jinn had spoken.
Heka of the Nile, ever pragmatic, cleared his throat. “The men for your envoy, Sila, they are willing to face psychosis?”
“They have no hope of Afterlife, they have reconciled to that long ago. What else is there to live for? They know risk comes with reward.”
“And such reward?” Frugal Damu’s concern, plain on his face.
“What any man wants, Counsel. Land.”
“Nightstrays want the lands of the Axis but not its laws, hah!”
Sila grew impatient, snapping at Damu, “What are lands to men of your wealth? Great Aeyn! Are Notii not a Line of the Eye and the Word? Your frugality prevents you from duty…” To her great-uncle, “As your conscience prevents you from honour. Yes, men will be lost. Yes, sacrifices will be made. These are the costs we weigh.”
Still Chiron sat, impassive, indecipherable. A little further. Sila leaned into him and in a breath of a whisper, pushed a little further. “Imagine its antiquity,… how far back could one sensefeel into its memories?” There, a flash in his eye, she had read Chiron’s true desire.
“Counsel-men,… For Aer’s posterity, Sila is right” the Counsel-Pater relaxed, his large frame seemingly melting into his armchair. “It is an uneasy alliance you tamper with Sila. The Noble Houses have aligned themselves to roles as old as Kur. Notii of the Axis’, Erum of Twiceborn, and, the beast of generational retribution has not been conquered long. Eurus will not take lightly to this transgression.”
“The Axis’ will not see the Houses divided, Counsel. Meā manū. With the Guild’s funding, a dozen sandships could prospect the new Pocket within the fortnight and extract all its deepblood before the season ends. My ‘ships will be in and out of the Moonlands before the Long Night. —All mining to the west, all other trade routes, these shall remain the domain of the Erumites. Ipse scripsi.”
“You will need to win Tribune.”
“I will.”
“Then it is the decision of Counsel.”
Slowly, Sila marked the Counsel-men with her piercing eyes. There is terror in beauty, Sila knew this as she had understood the awe in fear. One by one, they made a cross over their amulets, the signal for concession.
Destined to bear the duty of inheritance, Heir-Regent Sila of Notii had been bred for power. Her forefathers had expected nothing less than total devotion to the study, practice and mastery of the Opus. It had taken precedence over all childhood trappings. When cousins of other Houses would play their silly games in the citadel’s streets, she would be contained in the depths of the Institute, learning of the transformations and transmutations of that viscous, vital essence of life, that spark of the ancients cooked by time and chance and ground by the aeons into a thickened charge. She would try her hand at each spell, incessant attempts at heating, cooling, splitting, fusing one grade with another until fingers blistered as if touched by Godstar himself.
In her apprenticeship, Sila had been taught how to control deepblood, but the true lesson, the lesson inferred of her own accord, was that whoever owns the ‘blood, owns the world.
“It appears you have won Chiron.” Of the six, only Jinn remained.
“Once deepblood floods the Axis’ and every man has his fill of dreamsleep, what matter is it who mined it?” Axiomen were a species feeding on their ancestors, —yet, that such desecration would yield so much ingenuity and novelty and comfort, made perfect sense to Sila. And what made sense to Sila was non-negotiable. She had been taught value, it is measured by the gram. Swigging the last of her whiskey, she held out her glass. Jinn hesitated, but filled it.
“Your will Sila,… it is a sight to see.” His breath, again. Sila lent back. “You forget yourself, Magus.” She spat the word.
Jinn made no further comment and withdrew from the Basilisk. The bar was completely empty now, save for its keeper wiping down glasses behind the counter. Old, fat, deaf, dumb Tullus. What better keeper of secrets than someone who could not hear, speak nor move. Sila felt a sudden rush of affection for Tullus. Disturbed, she refilled her glass.
SJ Sikoki 