Nes squinted at the near use of foul language by the clean-spoken Saan, then looked at Dastou again. "Fantastic," the corporal said. "I checked the navigation pane on the way here, and we're twenty minutes out. The delay in leaving the city due to your... ahem... absence, will get us there barely in time."
"That’s good," said Dastou. "Let's get to my office and have a quick lunch. Saan, make sure our software is ready to go before we arrive. The new code I had put in by a student team a few days ago hasn't been checked on."
"Hmph. Because you were supposed to do that," Saan-Hu elaborated. "And went missing. Sir."
"Basically. Let's go," said Dastou, and walked into the hallway with Nes.
Chapter 2
“Bullshit,” cried Nes. Apparently the story didn’t satisfy him.
“What?” Dastou asked, pretending to be dumbfounded at his disbelief. “That’s what happened, all of it.”
“That can’t be it, there has to be more. You’re telling me you just ‘woke up’ one day, got found, renamed, and became a Saint?”
Ever since Nes was recruited away from civilian life three years ago, he became insistent that the origin story of how his boss became a Saint be told, as if it was anything special.
They were eating as Dastou talked, using the hand-made, dark-brown wooden office desk as a table. Their routine of moving the phone and lamp aside before setting food down was well-practiced from previous meal time chats, yet Nes had never appeared more impatient than while waiting for his friend to start this narrative. The story had been told over lunch in the Caravan office while the pair waited to be summoned for their appointment, which was now an almost an hour overdue despite having arrived just barely on schedule.
He expected: Behold and be regaled! The account of a Saint’s ascendance as told by the Castor Wolf himself!
He received: A five-minute bedtime story. A boring one.
To sum up, Dastou was a ten-year-old boy, lost and crying in the rain after a Social Cypher – a mass-hypnotic event. He was found by his would-be mentor and two others, got renamed… and that was basically it. He became a member of the Sainthood that very evening, with no pomp whatsoever.
The corporal sighed when Dastou, instead of adding to the yarn, mocked his lunch date by very deliberately taking a forkful of good beef from his stew, putting it in his mouth, and chewing slowly. Nes stared at him for a good quarter-minute before realizing there really would be nothing more.
“Weak-eyes...” he cursed, using a derogatory term for civilians that he knows Dastou hates. “You’re a Saint, not the I.T. guy. There has to be more.”
Nes looked right into Dastou’s eyes and waited again. The young agent’s own eyes were grey-green, a typical deviation for a DSF soldier, and they always saw right through the Saint’s pure grey, which had changed within a year of being renamed on the rainy street. This time, there was nothing to see.
Dastou finished chewing, swallowed, and then gently wiped at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, all with the patience of someone trying to irritate a good friend. Grinning, he said one word: “Nope.”
Nes threw up his hands and sighed again in an exaggerated gesture of aggravation. He turned in his swiveling chair, starting a full circle, his ash-brown hair swaying. He did the swaying thing on purpose, as he was a little obsessed with his hair and wrongly thought the shaven-headed Dastou was jealous. Admittedly, it was a fantastic set of locks.
The young corporal eyed the library spread out before him in the substantial office space as he turned in his seat. Six deep shelves on six book cases on the side walls, hundreds of books, all written by Saints. They were in chronological order and only a fraction of the full set, the rest relegated to a depository in their home city of Davranis. Dastou’s eight contributions so far were to the right, in the middle of the final shelf, with his name in bright silver leaf against the vermillion-colored leather bindings. The bottom three shelves on that bookcase were empty, and he wondered when he would have time to once again fully dedicate himself to research and writing.
The huge window behind the desk, tall enough to reach from the floor to the five meter high ceiling and replace the rear wall, was letting in the late morning sun. The Saint turned his head to glance outside. Months ago, when Dastou was asked what space he wanted for the Caravan’s moor, he kept his request simple: “I want to be able to see people.” Today, the first time he was able to come here, he happily looked out on a busy downtown street. Scores of people went about their daily routines, with apartment and office buildings between eight and fifteen stories taking up the view above the crowds. It was a modest but attractive skyline. The embassy they were currently docked in was surrounded by a ring road, allowing traffic to easily get around the structure.
Dastou looked back toward the office space. The sunlight made the metal leaf by-lines on the bindings of every book in the room shimmer; the effect was almost mesmerizing. All the covers were leather for the sake of protection, but the dyes and leafing for the names were different for every author. Saints created the dye colors along with the combination of materials needed for imprinting the writer’s name in a unique way. That level of personalization and detailing was almost pointless until recently, as only the members of Sainthood or connected entourages ever even knew of the library’s existence. This subsection of books was placed here, where Dastou attends to his administrative duties, as a reminder of the proud and philanthropic collection of beings of which he is the only living member.
“Dastou...” Nes said quietly as he finished the three-hundred-and-sixty degree adventure on the chair, “there’s more. Maybe you don’t realize it, but there is. Like... how did the other Saints know to come get you when you’d awakened?”
“No idea. It just happens, like some animal instinct leading us some place. That instinct is... gone now.”
Dastou didn’t like to think of how he was the last Saint, the final nail in the coffin. Those thoughts never led to a positive disposition, that’s for certain.
“Don’t get dour on me,” said Nes, perfectly aware of his friend’s mood. “The Saints could very well come back. We don’t even know how they really started, or why. We don’t know what comes next.”
“No we don’t, which is why we need the DSF to be as good as they can be until we do know more,” replied Dastou as an obvious change of topic.
“Blah, blah, blah, grandpa. I don’t want to hear it. I didn’t study and I’d do it again,” said Nes after rolling his eyes dismissively.
They were both twenty-six, but the corporal had gotten into the habit of insulting Dastou’s age due to his role as a leader. Truthfully, the Saint doesn’t allow himself to act like a young man would since he oversees operations for an ever-growing, complex organization – one that he conceived of and created. He’s also worshipped as a god by many people around the world; that kind of attention ages you a bit.
“So then she, whoever she may be, was worth tanking your grade average for the Spring?” Dastou asked, already assuming the answer.
“Damn right,” Nes said while smiling. “Fun trumps book learning any day of the week.”
Nes relaxed, having finished his lunch with a bit of time to spare before they are called for their meeting. He sat back in his chair, letting it support him as he picked at his teeth with his tongue.
“Not this time, because you’re taking that class again,” the Saint told him.
“What!?” he barked, sitting straight again. “I already scheduled a field test, and my grade will be negated after that. You made those rules.”
“And you are a fourth year ranked agent, not some rookie I have to bleed sense into. You’re taking the class again, Nes.”
Nes scratched his chin for a moment, one side of his mouth turned upward. The corporal knew that he could simply be kicked out of the Davranis Security Force and its training school, making him a civilian, a Brightseer – which would mean being susceptible to the Social Cypher. That and having a n
ormal budget for his purchases instead of the Force’s generous stipend.
“Fine,” Nes relented. “I’ll just do my slutting about during the next break.”
He sulked, but only a little. Nes knew most of what he needed to know to set exam records in Advanced Metallurgy Physics, so taking the class again would be close to an actual vacation anyway. He just needed the intermittent push or he’d let his skills be wasted.
Dastou dipped a fork into his stew, stuck a piece of enta beef and a leaf of thick green Gannas pepper to the utensil, and stirred the combination in the bowl for a few seconds. He then stuffed his mouth full and chewed with great pleasure. The pepper had to be burned to a crisp on the outside, allowed to sit for three hours, and then shelled like a peanut before being thrown into the crockpot for maximum effect. The recipe was his own, of course, as Saints typically went out of their way to use ingredients in new ways. No complaints so far.
As he swallowed, the buzzer on the intercom went off, signaling the obvious. Nes hit the blue blinking answer button since he was closer to the shoved-aside phone.
“Sir, the Stone-State Council will see you now,” said Saan, her voice slightly
“Goddamn, finally,” responded Nes.
Dastou sighed and added: “Thank you, Saan. Inform them that we will arrive shortly.”
“Yes, sir. And try to keep a civil tongue, Nesembraci – these politicians are giving us quite enough trouble as it is.”
“Absolutely, Mum,” Nes responded and, smiling, hit the talk again button to end the conversation.
“You cursed just to bug her, didn’t you?” asked Dastou. Nes snorted, his smile a little wider.
They both stood up and checked their clothing for stains – the Saint sticking with nothing special under his favorite leather jacket. Nes’ dress uniform was still perfectly clean, so the corporal grabbed the double-wrap sword belt and sheath next to the desk on his side. He slid the belt on, and then took the sword that was leaning against the desk and slid it into place. He examined the fit, and nodded his approval of himself.
“Do I look scary?” asked Nes, adjusting the way the sheath laid.
“Plenty so.”
“But do I also look good?
“Plenty so. But I prefer scary today.”
“Understood, sir. Let’s go make some fools.”
The wooden door to the office was waiting for them. Dastou and Nes hesitated, glanced at each other, then walked out, fully prepared to be annoyed for the next hour or so.
*****
The Stone-State Embassy was a gorgeous, modern stone structure that showed the ingenuity of ordinary people without Cypher interference. This room, though, was made entirely to have specific people look more important than others. Unsurprisingly, it was not to the Saint’s liking.
The high dome ceiling made it feel like they were insects caught inside a turned-over bowl – although that negative interpretation was probably mostly due to Dastou’s annoyance. After the two of them entered through a set of double-doors, they had walked along a center aisle between rows of benches for witnesses; it was completely empty. Dastou and Nes stood at the center of the big ground floor, near a standing microphone. Two large desks meant for the opposing sides of a debate were right behind them. The Saint was at the mic and the corporal stood at-ease barely a meter from him.
The Stone-State Council sat at long semi-circular tables on two elevated levels. The first riser held seven men and three women; the second featured six men and five women. They all wore robes which featured a colored stripe down the right arm, meant to signify where exactly in the city-state the councilor hailed from. Each name plaque-adorned seating space was equidistant from the mic at center stage.
At the start of this meeting, the politicians first had a chosen speaker name the representatives, all twenty-one of them. Then, with so much ceremony they may as well have hired dancers to perform during the announcement, they introduced Saint Cosamian Dastou and Corporal Nesembraci Jaydef as “honored guests.” The Saint’s newest nickname, Castor Wolf, was even thrown in for good measure.
Jandal Tryst was the man appointed to control this meeting after the introductory speaker sat down. He was to ask all the questions and make all the accusations. Dastou thought him pretty much a nitwit with a fancy robe, and the representative was digging himself into a deep hole without knowing it.
“You cannot simply have them here at your exclusive discretion, Your Eminence,” said Tryst, referring to Davranis Security Force agents and their ability to travel freely through borders. The purpose of this meeting was to address that sole concern. “You must see how that tramples on our ability to govern properly.”
“The purpose of the DSF is strictly defensive,” replied Dastou coldly. “We have no intent to interfere with independent nations and have shown very little that would say otherwise.”
“Then why do your people stomp about without at least an early warning as to your arrival, hmm? Why do you act as if all lands are yours to bumble through and need not be respected?” asked Tryst, being as overdramatic as possible.
“You agreed to this, long ago,” said Dastou. “There were no papers brought to bear, no treaties signed, but Saints and their entourages of any size have been allowed to cross borders for centuries. If there was a change of heart it was your responsibility to say so.”
“Our ‘responsibility’ is entirely to our people, their safety, and our sovereignty. There is no argument to be made by you, sir, that would grant power over any of that. Particularly not at this point in our growth as a nation.”
Several Stone-State Council members were visibly uncomfortable at Jandal Tryst’s forcefulness. The Sainthood, as long as it had been known to exist, was allowed free passage all over the world, welcomed with some combination of open arms, gifts, worship, and awe. What was worse was that it all sounded rehearsed. Tryst wanted to show how smart and strong he was when facing off against a man who was given respect by most of the world’s population. Maybe not love, maybe not worship, but certainly respect. Dastou didn’t have to practice or pretend at authority – he simply had it, and he was tired of this meeting after only twenty minutes. Something felt deeply wrong to him about this sudden power-grab.
“The new bridge over the Loudani District river is quite nice. The suspension is stronger, and will support your growing population with ease,” commented Dastou, playing the card up his sleeve earlier than planned.
Confused by the shift in conversation, Tryst looked at a few of his colleagues before speaking. They were no help, mostly offering shrugs or befuddled expressions.
“Yes, it’s... quite the engineering marvel. But what does...”
“Do you remember being there when it was built?” interrupted Dastou.
“What?” asked Tryst, his voice cracking on that single word. The subject being broached was taboo, but Dastou did not relent.
“Of course you don’t. But we know you were,” said the Saint.
The Council broke into pockets of whispers. Dastou couldn’t hear what they said, but he could guess at some of it. Why is he talking about this? What point is he trying to make? They all hid their mouths with a hand as they talked, knowing that their guest at the mic could read lips.
“Do you care to know,” continued Dastou, “just how we’re sure you were there?”
The whispers ceased, all the politicians wanting to see where the Saint was leading them. Dastou waited an extra couple of seconds before his next statement just for a little added flair. Tryst wasn’t the only one able to pump up some fake tension.
“We know because that is our most important goal: to gather information that no one else can. That includes information on Social Cyphers, its participants, and its goals. From the inception of my organization, that is what we have done.”
The glance Dastou gave to Nes had two intentions. The first was to show what exactly he meant when he said “we.” He was sure they saw the young, fit, dedicated corporal as much as t
he customized and considerably dangerous dress sword hanging at his side. The second aim was to see how close Nes was to laughing at the roundabout insult being made. Not close enough, sadly.
They had made a bet about this. Four such meetings in as many months and Dastou always had some trick to play: a mineral lode location to give up, a new technology to leverage away, and so on. Usually when the depth of the Saint’s preparation was revealed, Nes laughed heartily at how ignorant the holders of the meeting were about thinking they had any power over the DSF. The wager for today was that if the corporal would hold in his chuckles in like a professional, Dastou would buy him dinner for a month. The odd bet came from the Saint having decided to only use money from a set stipend for a year, just to see what it was like to be limited in expenditures. Nes’ stolid expression meant the Saint was about to be very broke for a few weeks while his friend ordered nothing but expensive seafood and rare fruits.
“That is why we cross borders,” admitted Dastou after looking back toward the seated council. “All your sovereignty and independence means a lot to you, but it has nothing to do with us. We are independent as well, and the Davranis Security Force will not halt our missions or research. I don’t care what you want out of...”
And just as he was finishing up the slight that this entire meeting was leading to, the Saint just stopped. He froze in place, not even blinking, like some animals do as a self-defense posture. All Dastou could focus on was Tryst’s disinterest in what was being said while everyone else was enthralled to find out why the DSF existed – a secret held close until today. Something else, too. Tryst was looking down until Dastou stopped mid-sentence. Receiving a message, maybe?
“Hey, you alright?” asked Nes, letting the forced hard countenance drop for real concern.
Dastou barely heard him. His mind had been taken over by an overwhelming, instinctual sensation, and he knew only one thing at that very moment, which he said out loud.
Saints of the Void: Atypical Page 2