My train of thought dies instantly with a coming whistle. I only have a fraction of a second to duck before a buzz-blade arcs horizontally across the width of the hall. My head feels lighter, and then I see the braid lying at my feet. I sweep my intact hand across my remaining hair, which has fallen loosely, now shoulder-length. I am furious, and also certain this is Ikhtar’s intent. Confusion, anger, distraction.
More paintings whir toward me. All my negative emotions coalesce; I have a moment of clarity. The terms of Ikhtar’s game are suddenly obvious.
This time I don’t choose a painting, only stare ahead as they pass. The act is almost painful, knowing they possibly hold clues to the fast-approaching future. Useful information. Information, in general. That’s the ploy. Ikhtar is using my curiosity against me.
And, just as I suspect, no traps follow. The conveyer simply chugs along through the darkness.
What an ingenious method of torture. Bastard.
In an attempt not to lament any lost knowledge, I mourn my hair instead. It hasn’t grown back, and I don’t expect it to. I can’t heal here—here being somewhere deep in my unconsciousness. For some reason, Ikhtar has more control over my mind than me.
… Because he is my mind.
I’m a security system, he’d said.
Aha.
I am so caught up in my own musings, I fail to avoid looking at the next set of paintings. I don’t turn away from the one on the right, not having any time. More so, what the painting depicts is so jarring that I freeze.
Time nearly stops. I move by the painting in slow motion, able to see everything—every little detail; every horrible, little detail. This isn’t real.
This can’t be real. The unconscious mind can’t predict—;
My thoughts flash white as I’m suddenly pressurized, and pain wracks every inch of me. I crumple to my knees, having been crushed against the wall by another protrusion trap. My left shoulder is pummeled, and it hurts to take deep breaths. The metallic taste of blood lingers at the back of my throat. The conveyer continues as I wheeze and gurgle, my uniform catching on snags as I’m dragged along the wall.
And then, the belt slows.
Stops.
I crane my neck to look ahead. My vision is tunneling, bordered by floating, webbed speckles. The darkness of the silent hall is cut down by a vertical beam of light. The hall ends abruptly several yards away, revealing a dead-end and reflective wall. Just in front of it is an obelisk.
Our obelisk, but also not. The floating sphere and podium are present, but they’re decorated in Antediluvian script, emanating silver light. I remain slouched against the wall, struggling to breath as crimson drool strings down from the corner of my mouth. My failing vision is steeled to the podium, its pulse syncing to my own.
I am dying—whatever ‘dying’ here means. Most of me wants to give up. The pain is exhausting, and I definitely won’t prevail over whatever awaits me next. But then I think of the painting; if it’s real, they need to know. He needs to know.
I force myself forward. My left appendage is useless and my right is with-scythe. Getting to my feet is impossible without any leverage; I can’t really feel my legs, either. I half-crawl, half flop toward the obelisk, and each inch forward is excruciating.
Do you understand, Aela?
“You’ve won already!” I scream to the darkness, to nothing. “What else do you want?!”
Ikhtar doesn’t respond.
My scythe scrapes across the grated floor, and with a final heave I propel myself against the podium. Its heat is felt across my shoulder, spreading across my body like a warm tide. The pain disappears, as does the darkness. I close my eyes and weep with relief; in the light, in the stillness.
And then, I understand.
*
When I open my eyes, I am somewhere else. Somewhere much nicer.
I am on a veranda, its grey-stone railing wrapped in vines. Ikhtar stands before me, back turned, facing a gate identical to the one through which I crossed at Cassima’s hearth. Reflective black tendrils extend from his arms and sides like veils, wrapping around the pillars supporting the veranda, writhing in an invisible wind. Illuminated script scrolls across the flesh of his back. He is beautiful, as always.
And here I’m knelt before him; bloodied, shorn, disfigured. But I can’t hate him for it.
I can’t hate him anymore, because now I know what he is.
Ikhtar turns slowly, casting his gaze down at me. His expression is not one of triumph, but grave concern. The wound on his neck has festered even more since I last saw it, having created a mottled bruise that runs down his right clavicle, stopping just above the center of his chest. His black eyes reflect the sweeping celestial sky above us.
“I haven’t won,” he says softly. “No one wins. This is a zero-sum game.”
I say nothing in response, complacent.
Ikhtar takes two steps forward, towering over me. He bends down and wraps a single arm around my waist, scooping me up effortlessly, pressing me against him. I am no longer capable of fighting Ikhtar off and simply stare up at him, lids half-mast from both exhaustion and lust.
My scythe arcs against the curvature of his back, and then I sigh in remembrance of the painting.
“This place can show me the future,” I murmur, to no one. “Is that what’s beyond your gate?”
“I don’t know,” he says, near-whisper. “I don’t know any more than you.”
“Yes.” Because you are me.
At least; the piece of me buried deep inside my unconscious, barbed with guilt and what my primitive, lesser brain has deemed sin. Ikhtar is the guardian that protects me from my own cognitive undoing. He is the obstacle I must overcome.
And, he is athat. Unrefined vigor for life, not sin at all.
My reward for surviving the tower is knowledge. The obelisk has shown me all of it.
Ikhtar says nothing more, only waits. He and I both know what comes next. The gate’s posts illuminate with script and a vortex appears between them, churning fog and effervescent threads.
I tilt my chin upward in prompt, Ikhtar leans down; our lips press together, and we commingle. The embrace is one of hunger and lust. My mind goes empty as I drink him, and all of my aches and pains subside. I am suddenly wracked by climax, shuddering and moaning in confusion against his lips. Ikhtar tightens his grip on me in response.
Rage turns to lust turns to rage turns to lust—;
Turns to rage.
His athat is mine.
There are starbursts behind my eyes. I feel his grip loosen at first, then leave my waist altogether. I no longer need his help; our embrace has somehow healed me. Ikhtar’s body slumps to the floor as I hold his severed head up toward the gate, black oil pooling around my feet. I can feel the blood pouring from my eyes as I mourn and rejoice his decimation all at once.
I am laughing, and laughing, and laughing.
*
I expect the act of crossing the gate to somehow cause me pain, like everything else in this place. I am pleasantly surprised, but only for a moment.
The air changes from temperate to cool in an instant. The veil of fog over the gate lifts as I step over the threshold, and … I am back on the surface-layer sprawl. I survey the familiar scenery, numb. The ‘pilgrimage’ is supposed to lead to something else, right? Something mystifying, or paramount, or—;
Wait. It is different.
The sky is a nebulous black, devoid of any celestial bodies. The athanasian hard-pan isn’t as illustrious as I remember (although this observation could be skewed by pre-conceived suspicion). In fact, everything is several shades darker. I hug my chest, anxious, and that is when I feel the warmth against my right ear.
My headset. Thank the Cosmos.
I check attica’s datalog for any discrepancies that could allude to this all being some unconscious ploy, but find none. I resume the vis-capture.
The silence is condemning. The first few steps I take forward echo around
me, as if I’m not in an expanse but an enclosure. There is a mounting sense of wrongness—dread, coupled with the feeling that I don’t belong here. I am jaded by the wasted effort of my pilgrimage. My reward for overcoming Ikhtar’s trial is a voidal sprawl.
To what end?
I pick a direction and begin to walk, looking back only once to find the gate has vanished. This scares me, as gates don’t usually vanish—at least they don’t in the sprawl I’m most familiar with. I hasten my pace, hoping to come across something, anything that may exhibit life or sentience. And, as my journey begins to feel like another pilgrimage in itself, I worry that nothing exists here. Time is warped in Eschatis; however, I’d never gone this long without seeing something in the last sprawl. I am wracked by an overwhelming need to escape, even though there is nothing to escape from. My senses are confused. I am confused.
My gait quickens further. I am now at a light jog.
Qaira, can you hear me?
Nothing, although I am not surprised. I could very well receive a response a lifetime later, or three events ago.
I am no longer curious about anything here; I just want out. My trek continues to the rhythm of a cyclical, internal prayer that a waystation will manifest at any moment. Just as all hope dwindles, I see something off in the distance: the silhouette of an object. It’s large enough to peak on the hazy, dim horizon. I dart toward it, eyes wide in desperation of a possible escape.
But it’s only a jagged spear, jutting from the ground. It stands roughly fifty feet high, and although it appears to be a natural land formation, it’s not made of athanasian. No, it’s obsidian. Exodian, to be exact. I can recognize that sheen anywhere.
There are things inside of it, conveying moving images like a window, or reflective glass. I can’t see exactly what its presenting; each time I try to get closer than twenty feet, an eruption of dejection and misery brings me to my knees and I can do nothing but sob into my hands. The frustration of not being able to closely observe the spear’s surface is short lived. A train begins to form from the base of the spear, snaking off into the distance. This one isn’t blue. It’s metallic in color.
Silver.
I don’t follow it right away, only stare in puzzlement. The urgent feeling of needing an escape is thwarted by the peculiarity of the train and the caution regarding where it might lead, given the source of its existence.
But there is no path to take other than forward, and reluctantly I walk further into the expanse, alongside the train. Not long after, I realize something is about to happen. The Eschatian flecks return in a flurry around me and more objects materialize in the distance, through a veil of fog that has suddenly clothed the landscape. I inch forward, gingerly.
The train disappears several feet later. I continue my approach.
The fog lifts, and then the scenery presents itself: a deactivated gate, cold hearth, and wayfarer seated in front of it with their back facing me.
The painting.
“H-Hello?” I call, my right hand already semi-clenched in preparation of a sudden life-threatening situation. The man visibly starts, surprised by my voice. His posture straightens, and he slowly gets to his feet.
I manage to take two more steps forward before he turns around.
QAIRA
I NEVER GOT USED TO THE FACE we made while in succumbence. It wasn’t anything like sleeping; our eyes stayed open, unblinking, staring vacantly ahead; like if someone pressed a button on a remote and paused you in place. Not a face I ever wanted to make.
I’d counted down from ten as Aela’s headset began tuning her out. At four, both her shoulders and the muscles of her face relaxed. The perpetual look of anxiety faded from her eyes, their diamond-like sheen turning dull and glassy. I shivered, focusing instead on the frequency that pulsed from her succumbence visor. Tethered strings of blue and violet threaded along the axion bridge, connecting the visor to the base of the seat.
I monitored attica, waiting for anything from Aela to indicate she’d made it to the other side. For some reason I couldn’t get a conscious link. My gaze shifted between Aela’s frozen expression and the monitor several feet in front of us. A minute passed.
“Are you getting anything?” asked Yahweh, having noticed no connectivity from the thread.
“If you’re not, I’m not,” I said. “Fuck, what happened? Should I pull her out?”
“No, not yet,” cautioned Yahweh. “She’s only been under for two minutes, at most. Give it at least ten before we conclude the tuning didn’t work.”
“But it didn’t work,” I snapped. “Last time we got an immediate response from her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t feel like speaking to you,” said Yahweh, shrugging oh-so-passive-aggressively. “I can only wonder why.”
“Yeah, let’s make jokes while the King’s love interest might be acquiring permanent brain damage.”
Yahweh frowned. “And that’s the only reason you would care, right?”
I squinted at him. “What’s wrong with you today? You’ve had it in for me since this morning.”
He didn’t respond, only shook his head.
It quickly became obvious that I had nothing to do with the fatigue lines on his face or his sour attitude. Whatever had lodged itself up his ass was something far more personal, so I’d let it lie.
“I’m bringing her out,” I muttered, heading back toward the console, leaving no room for debate. I only got halfway there before a streak of audio-feedback tore through my mind like a buzz-saw. I clutched my head, nearly losing my balance.
Yahweh was in a similar pose, wincing at the sensory assault. Before either of us could verbalize our utter confusion, Aela’s eyelids fluttered, closed, and then shot open. Had she not been strapped into the succumbence chair, she would have propelled herself halfway across the room. The forceful surge against the restraints still caused the metal legs to groan, and a tremor rocked the floor.
Aela’s eyes were so wide, I thought they would pop out of her head. I approached, shouting her name over the still-blaring audio feedback. She was unresponsive; looking at me, but not at me. It was as if there was something horrifying standing in my place—and the closer I got, the harder she shook. So I froze, looking hopelessly over to Yahweh, and he back at me.
And then she began to scream in terror and agony, her cries mingling with the audio-feedback until they were one and the same.
PART THREE:
THE SINGULARITY
“The Multiverse is a colossal cosmic event, and time is but a distinguishing, quantum coordinate.”
—Calenis Karim
Attica thread 2.4~3/yb (On special dimensions)
IN ABEYANCE
Qaira Eltruan—;
“NOTHING?” DEMANDED ADRIAL, SPEAKING THROUGH HIS TEETH. “She hasn’t said a single thing yet?”
I could tell by the tone of his voice and the expression on his face that this discussion was veering toward everything being my fault, so I became preemptively defensive. “Did I stutter?” He was about to snap something in response, but I followed with, “And no, I have no idea what’s wrong. Yahweh’s still examining her. She went under just fine, no issues, and only a few minutes later she woke up screaming in machine static.”
Adrial quickened his gait. I struggled to keep pace. It felt like we were engaged in a strange race down the RQ Wing hallway; except neither of us ran, only walked as quickly as we could.
In RQ4, Aela was still restrained in the succumbence chair. Yahweh sat on a stool in front of her, shining light into her eyes, their faces inches apart. At our arrival, he turned.
“She’s not awake,” he deduced. “She’s unresponsive to any stimuli.”
Adrial knelt beside Yahweh, cupping Aela’s face and softly murmuring her name. I hung back by the console. “Is she still in succumbence?”
“I don’t know. There’s still no activity from the thread we’ve left open for her,” said Yahweh, trying his best to conceal his concern, for Adrial’s sa
ke. “She’s somewhere, but it isn’t here.”
“Let’s call Leid,” I said. “She can figu—”
“You will not,” said Adrial, the venom in his look giving me pause. “She can’t do any more than us.”
I lifted a brow, suspicious of the motive behind keeping this from Leid, but let it go. “You’re the boss.” I crossed my arms. “So, boss, what the fuck should we do now?”
“You said she screamed machine static,” began Adrial. “Did you by chance get a recording of it?”
“We didn’t, but the console would have,” said Yahweh. “It’s connected to the succumbence frequency. There’s a security script we’ve put in place to track any fluxes in Aela’s cerebration.”
“Let’s have Pariah analyze it,” said Adrial.
“Pariah isn’t here,” I reminded him. “And won’t be for another few years.”
Adrial got to his feet. “Well, I think this situation has grounds to call him back for a bit, yeah?”
I nodded. “I’m designated Sort. You want me to, or—?”
“No, I’ll do it. Move Aela to my quarters in the meantime.”
Adrial then vacated the research quadrant. Yahweh and I watched him go. After a few more moments of silent reflection, we returned our attention to Aela. Her eyes were still half-mast, staring into an unseen void. Her fingers twitched every so often, which I found interesting.
“Do you think it’s safe to move her?” I asked.
Yahweh huffed. “Qaira, how would I know? I know absolutely nothing of what’s going on!”
“Relax,” I said. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” I retreated behind the console and analyzed Aela’s resonance. She was currently in stasis within the conscious stream, which was not a typical side-effect of succumbence. “Moving her won’t matter,” I declared. “She’s not in succumbence anymore.”
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