“Are you frightened, scholar?” asks Nibli, a half-smile on their face. “You have your drink in that shiny bottle, remember?”
I don’t answer the wraith’s first question, because they already know the answer. My flask is half empty; the idea of venturing out into the vast unknown without a guide unsettles me. I did it before, barely, but was hoping that it wouldn’t happen again.
Laith gives Nibli a scolding look. To me, she says, “You could wait until my replacement presents themselves. I would be willing to guide you, then.”
That offer is a good one, yet I don’t know how long her replacement will take. Judging by Laith’s earlier statement, it seems the train won’t be here forever.
No.
No, I am a Scholar of the Court of Enigmus. I am not afraid of dreams, or imaginings, or whatever else this place holds. If worse comes to worst, I’ll simply request a pull-out.
“I can manage on my own, thank you,” I say, getting to my feet. “Your hospitality is much appreciated. I hope to see you both again.”
“Good luck, Aela,” says Laith. “And don’t stray from the train, no matter what. Do you understand?”
Oh, I certainly do.
With that I leave the station, the tranquil mindscape fading at my back, the flecks dwindling thereafter, until there is nothing but white ground and star-speckled sky in every direction.
CYNICISM: A SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY
QAIRA, ARE YOU THERE?
This is the fourth time I’ve called home. I am quite desperate right now. It’s felt like a very long time that I’ve followed the train, and nothing has changed yet. More than once I’ve pondered the possibility of the train suddenly evaporating, leaving me directionless. Such an event will force me to abandon my mission. Somehow that seems worse than the ulterior: wandering aimlessly into madness. I would never live it down.
—Yeah, what is it?
His tone relays annoyance, but I am utterly relieved. How long have I been in succumbence?
—A ping would have sufficed.
I need to know.
—Seven days. Is that all?
No.
A few seconds go by. I am silent, and so is he.
—So, what else?
I… I need you to stay on the line for a minute. Maybe longer than that. Can you?
—Uh, okay. Is everything alright?
Yes, but I’ve been walking for a very long time and I’m starting to feel strange. Nibli and Laith have warned me that I am susceptible to madness because I am not fully subconscious here. I have to drink Yahweh’s tonic every so often, and I’m down to only a third of it now.
—Then drink the tea instead. Where’s Laith? Why aren’t you with her?
She’s sent me to someone else that may have more information on Eschatis. I’m on the way there now. What’s my last entry in the thread?
—You submitted a vis-capture of a cuboidal anomaly, levitating in the sky. That was roughly three hours ago.
I hesitate, unable to muster a coherent response. And then, it hits me: they received something that hasn’t happened here yet. Attica is receiving updates out of order; everyone is probably scratching their heads.
—Aela?
I’m here. I think I’m better now. I take another tiny sip of Yahweh’s tonic; the taste is no longer an issue and its numbing effect on my tongue is gone. News of the futuristic entry has forecasted my eventual arrival somewhere else, which means I won’t be stranded in the nothing-sprawl. Knowing that comes as a huge relief.
—I just received another ping. It’s from you, which makes no sense. It’s asking for a time-lapse record. ‘The fuck?
Answer it, or else I might be trapped forever in some kind of time paradox. Or perhaps the Multiverse will implode.
—Yeah, on it. Can I go now?
Yes, thank you.
There is no such thing as sleep in Eschatis. The subconscious never stops, even when our conscious minds turn off. I am beginning to understand what Nibli meant when they said I am not fully subconscious. Yahweh’s tonic was meant to supplement regeneration in the case of injury, but I am using it to keep a clear mind—or, sane. Succumbence therefore does not place us into a totally subconscious state, even though we think it does. That makes sense, as we remember things after leaving succumbence. I imagine (pun intended) no one remembers anything for long after leaving Eschatis; if they ever leave, that is. Without the tonic I begin to feel as if I’m losing control, no longer autonomous. Much like how we seem to accept whatever happens in our dreams, no matter how ludicrous.
Suddenly, I want to query attica to see if we’ve documented any conscious beings who don’t sleep. I’ve never entertained the notion that anything with a subconscious must sleep before now, but that seems like a reasonable prerequisite. I forego the query in the end, as the task is too arduous and I must conserve my flask; instead I make a note in my thread to revisit the subject once I am home. Perhaps someone will see the note before then and kindly query it for me, although I doubt that.
My eyes rise to inspect the ‘sky’. Attica does not recognize any of the sweeping constellations, but most I can recognize as a multisystem. And, they are all blue giants. Multisystem blue giants; how does that even work? Blue giants are unstable and have life spans shorter than that of binary system stars. They oftentimes are the cradle of new stars, but I don’t see any.
There is a knife-like sensation at the back of my head. I am rationalizing too much for Eschatis’s liking. I take a vis-capture and force my curiosity aside.
It is back to the nothing-sprawl; reflective ground and voidal space, not even the flecks dare to venture here. There are no ghosts, either. I wonder if Eschatis is infinite, but then remember not to wonder. Tingles drift across my skin, serving as warning for an impeding loneliness that is all-consuming. I try to shake the feeling, but it’s sticky. I consider calling Qaira again.
Before I can commit to such humiliation, something takes form on the horizon. The flecks begin to resurface and, with a sigh in utter relief, I catch a glimpse of the cuboidal anomaly foreshadowed in Qaira’s brief.
There is a pulse to it—a rotatory hum that intensifies in intervals. Each peak emits a ring of blue light, and as I get closer I see there is a permanent ring of red entwined with the blue as well. The cube is neither large nor small, perhaps the size of Laith’s cramped pagoda. To avoid the unknown repercussions of a time paradox, I take a vis-capture.
There is something familiar about the energy pattern; sampling it brings on an overwhelming sense of deja-vu. I squint in a futile attempt to see through the structure, but each side is equally opaque. I’m unsure of what to do at this point, so I simply stand there. My relief wanes as I contemplate whether or not the floating, pulsing cube is a marker that I’ve arrived somewhere significant. If not, then I am no better off.
“Hello?” I call, immediately feeling stupid. My voice is barely audible over the rhythmic pulsing of the cube. Do I expect it to respond?
Maybe. Anything is possible here.
It does respond, but not in any way I anticipate. The cube begins to rotate, its rings figure-eighting around the core. The pulse intensifies, and a searing pain presents itself behind my eyes. I shut them and cower to my knees as attica warns me of a vitals spike. I think to run, but can’t move. There is only pain.
There is a hot, white flash of light that nearly renders me blind, even with my eyes closed. Then, everything goes dark.
Quiet.
Weightless.
I count my breaths, listen to my slowing heart.
For the first time on this journey, I want to sleep.
*
The sounds of wind and chirping fauna hit my senses. The scent of vegetation lingers beneath my nose; warm air caresses my face. My eyes are startled open and I am met with a canvas of lush garden, blue skies and pearlescent stone architecture. Confusion obstructs my thoughts, like a loose screw thrown into cogs, grinding painfully. The only feature of this pl
ace that identifies it as a mindscape is the signature flecks, though now nearly invisible in all the artificial sunlight.
But this is not a typical wayfarer’s mindscape. There is a sky, and birds. There is architecture reminiscent of—;
And then I realize where I am.
I flick my eyes upward, running back the attica logs of historical mid-civ records within alpha-Insipia. Yes, there.
Litha, the Garden of Thasadem, taken from the memory legacy databank of the Framers’ grid, now obsolete. Why am I here? Did I render this?
“Hey, Vel’Haru,” calls a voice; light, airy, male.
I turn, gazing up at a veranda bereft of an attached construct. Overlooking the garden, and me, is a young man in black, semi-formfitting clothes. Tall, lean, seated on the veranda rail with his legs dangled. There is a playful look in his eyes.
His eyes. Voltaic silver and blue.
A forlorn girl appears behind him. Same eyes, same dark, chrome-streaked hair. They look like twins or, at the very least, closely familial.
Something stirs in my peripherals. My eyes flick right. A wall borders the garden, marred with writhing vines, nesting flowers of pastel colors. Coiled within the vines are… people. No, not people. Framer carapaces, hollowed out like abandoned life-size dolls. Their eyes peer emptily ahead and their bodies spasm, puppeteered by the animated flora. Feelers, Qaira called them, but there is something different about these ones. I recognize the carapaces.
I gaze back at the pair, cognizant. “This is where you’ve been hiding all along?” The inflection of my voice relays the question as a statement.
“Hiding,” repeats Cassima, the whimsy of his expression waning. “Hiding from whom? You?”
“I hope not me, or any of us,” I respond. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Cassima nods. “Laith said you have questions for me.”
I attempt to hide my shock, with an uncertain degree of success. “You’re the wayfarer I’m supposed to meet?” Of course, the carapaces are their augurs; their shadows.
He cocks his head. “You’re surprised?”
Yes, I am. Nowhere does it mention Cassima being a wayfarer in our thread. The only one who could have known is Zira. Why he’d left that bit of information out is anyone’s guess. I look again at the twitching carapaces. “Those are your augurs, then.”
“Were our augurs. Now they’re just background scenery, balancing the scales.” He leaps from the rail, falling halfway, floating the rest, until he stands in front of me. Cassima is tall; taller than any of us. Somewhat boyish, too. Every civilization seems to idolize youth, no matter where or when. Within the Multiverse, time is the archenemy of existence. He grins. “Care for some tea?”
My attention shifts toward the girl. She is looking down at us, hands clasped against her chest. “Sarine,” I say in greeting. “I’m glad you’re well.”
“Mia,” she corrects me. Her voice is different; lighter, free from the constraints of her former life. She is not Sarine, I realize. Not at all. What is left of Sarine is being consumed by vines. “And thank you.” She recedes from sight, pulling away from the veranda.
My attention returns to Cassima. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”
Past the garden is the dome-shaped atrium of Thasadem, accessible by a wide staircase of white stone. The archaic scenery gives way once we are inside; paintings on the wall show moving images of landscapes, both terrestrial and cosmic, and nodal beacons are woven through a framework of thin, translucent wires overhead, giving off a ‘party light’ effect. The signature hearth and pot reside in the center of the atrium, seeming very out of place with the rest of the scenery.
“I can only imagine the traveler’s confusion once they arrive here,” I murmur, taking everything in.
Cassima responds with a short laugh, stirring the pot and ladling me tea into what looks like a very large volumetric flask. “I don’t get travelers anymore. I’m retired. This isn’t a station; I assumed my elaborate security system told you that.”
Mia sits on the floor a little way’s from the hearth, holding out her hand as insects with electric-blue wings materialize around her. One lands on her finger, and she leans in as if to kiss it, only for it to wink out of existence.
Cassima hands me the flask. It doesn’t look like wayfarer tea, but water with a greenish tinge, almost luminescent. I glance at him in question, and he smiles.
“A newer, improved version,” he says. “Try it; I promise it won’t hurt you.”
“I didn’t think you were trying to hurt me,” I rebuke. “Only that it looks strikingly similar to the tea-replacing-tonic we’ve developed at Enigmus.”
“Like minds,” he says. “Sorry for the assumption. Vel’Haru are very cynical.”
I sample the ‘tea’. It tastes like nothing. He needs to give the recipe to Yahweh. “Cynicism has kept us alive this long.”
“Fair.” Cassima sits opposite to me, slapping his hands on both knees. “Well, Scholar, I’m sure your questions will be entertaining if Laith found it necessary to send you to me.”
I think of where to begin, a heady rush of warmth bubbling inside of me. Cassima’s tea is definitely more potent than his successor’s. I am looking at the mindscape through a different lens; a metaphysical tint. It’s hard to put into words, this feeling. “The antediluvian quadrants. What are they?”
Cassima furrows his brow, disappointed. “Laith couldn’t answer that? She’s gassing you.”
“She answered, sort of, but I’m wondering if there are any alternative perspectives.”
He leans forward, cocking his head. “Tell me what you think they are, and I’ll give you my critique.”
“I am told they are—were—the areas in which the creators of Eschatis lived,” I begin. “They are static mindscapes that never dissipate, dreamt by the Antediluvians. Wayfarers travel to these quadrants for their supplies.”
I fall silent, and Cassima studies me, at first seemingly reluctant to respond. Then he says, “None of that is incorrect.”
“Where are they now? Are they dead?”
“Death isn’t really a thing here, if I’m to be used as an example. ‘Do they still exist?’ would be a better question. And the answer is yes.”
That was not the answer I was expecting. My posture straightens with this news. “Where are they now?”
Cassima gives me a pitying smile. “I know the answer to that too, but you wouldn’t understand it. At least not how you are right now.”
“And what differentiates us?” I demand, finding his comment quite inflammatory.
“The way you see,” he says. “You’re still blindfolded. It’s not your fault. You were created this way. As was I, and everyone else we know of. But that’s the thing; we don’t know of much. We think we do, but after…” He pauses in reflection, eyes trailing past me. “As we are, we know probably a tenth of what is really here.”
“Here?”
“Everywhere,” he clarifies, which clarifies nothing at all.
“And how did you come to realize the other nine-tenths?” I ask, incredulous.
Mia has taken an interest in our discussion, now watching our exchange. I glance toward her, and our eyes lock. Behind hers, there’s a warning. “Cassima,” she says, “do not do what I think you are planning.”
This unnerves me. Cassima holds up his hands before I can cast an accusatory glare his way. “She doesn’t want me to send you through the gate.”
The gate.
“And I’m not going to send you. You will decide to either go or not go,” he continues, shooting Mia a look. She only looks away, materializing more butterflies.
“Is that where you learned what you’re telling me?” I ask. “By going through the gates?”
“Yes,” he says.
“What are the gates? Laith said travelers come through them. She doesn’t know where they go after that, but I haven’t met a single traveler during my time here, other than me.”
“They
’re the entrances and exits of Eschatis. If a traveler completes their pilgrimage, whatever its purpose may be, they will then cross through another gate.”
“Then what?” I urge. “And if that were true, why hasn’t Laith ever seen a traveler return through her gate?”
“Wayfarer stations only have entry gates,” says Cassima. “There are exit gates here, too, but they don’t present themselves unless the traveler is worthy. And then what? Well, that I can’t tell you, because everyone’s journey is personal.” He grins. “So, Scholar, are you on a pilgrimage?” His eyes flick behind me, and I follow his gaze. There is a gate across the room, embedded in the atrium wall, leading out into a swirling abyss. “Because that happens to be an exit gate, and if you can see it, you’re worthy.”
“She is worthy because you just gave her your upgraded tea,” remarks Mia, frowning.
“That too,” says Cassima.
I stare at the gate, conflicted. Judging by Mia’s demeanor, this is not a matter to be taken lightly. “I need to consult my Court. This is not a planned event.”
Cassima shrugs. “I can’t promise I’ll still be here. Time is different outside, but you already know that.”
I am afraid, and don’t want to go through the gate. But how would it feel to know what Cassima knows, and to be the one who brings the information back to the others? Curiosity, coupled with the instinctual need to know, plays tug of war with caution as I sit there, staring into the swirling abyss.
“When you say the journey is personal,” I begin, “in what context do you mean, exactly?”
Cassima sighs. “Aela, the answers to your questions can’t be obtained by dialogue. You don’t want to know what, you want to know why, and that’s impossible for me to convey to you. I can say without a doubt that you’ll have a better understanding of this place—of everything—if you dare to step through there.” He nods at the gate. “But I can’t tell you exactly what you will learn. It all depends on you. And again, I am not forcing you to cross. You’re asking me for information, and I am pointing you toward it.”
Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11) Page 6