by Gross, Dave
Her early education had inspired Aurora with a desire to increase the knowledge of her people, to make her mark in technological achievements she would then demonstrate on the battlefield. By the time her mother had decided she should join the priesthood instead, it was too late. Aurora had already decided her own future.
“A good first step,” said Nemo, returning his attention to Aurora as the female villagers and Margaret Jernigan continued their passage to the Cygnaran camp. “Still, His Majesty will not be satisfied until you have completely withdrawn your forces from Cygnaran territory.”
“Territory,” said Aurora, glad to return to present issues from past memories. “Boundaries. Are we not all children of Caen? I don’t mean in the religious sense, of course. Metaphorically, are we not all residents of the same world—not just of this planet, but of the entire universe?”
“I am aware of the Cyrissist interest in geomantic and astronomic principals,” said Nemo. “But this sounds more like philosophy than science.”
Aurora heard the whisper of brass wings. She watched as Nemo and Finch looked up to see Sabina return to hover by her side.
“Perhaps you wonder why we who worship the Maiden of Gears also revere the nescient savants who have not embraced our faith.”
“I presume it is because you appreciate any advancement in scientific study.” Nemo made no attempt to mask his annoyance.
“Yes! Forgive me, General. I don’t mean to talk down to you. It is rare that I have occasion to explain our ways to outsiders.”
Nemo’s face froze for a second. Aurora wondered whether she had confirmed or contradicted some hypothesis he held about the Convergence. Or about her.
“To us,” she continued, “there is no difference between science and spiritual devotion. Our priests are astronomers, engineers, mechaniks, and mathematicians. We strive to uncover the secrets of the universe, not to conceal them with parables and sermons designed to preserve the decaying establishment.”
“You want change,” said Nemo. “But what will you change?”
“Everything!” said Aurora. “Everything that can be improved. The more we understand about the systems of the world, the better we can make life for everyone.”
“Everyone? Or everyone who joins you?”
He had asked just the right question. “No one has to join us to benefit from the advances we achieve. You yourself are proof of that principle. How many of your military designs have proven to have applications benefiting society at large? And how many of your own technological achievements are founded on the knowledge you gleaned from Cyrissist temples?”
“No one shared those achievements with my people. We discovered them only while investigating criminal behavior—including signs of necromancy.”
Aurora nodded, maintaining an expression of reluctant admission. “Not all who gain knowledge are well suited to employ it. The Convergence rejects the dark sorcery of the Cryxians.”
“Then why would anyone look to your hidden temples for secrets related to cheating death?”
Aurora hesitated, knowing that her next words would shock the iron mother and all the members of the Convergence leadership should they learn she had spoken them to an outsider. “In the past—the distant past—certain misguided members of our order studied Cryxian technology. Anyone who pursues such subjects is not guided by the Maiden but by their own imperfect understanding of her ciphers.”
Once more, Sebastian Nemo’s face grew still. Aurora knew she had surprised him with her frank admission.
“Striving for perfection is no guarantee of success,” said Aurora. “You must have experienced failures of your own. Have you not learned as much or more from them as you have from your triumphs?”
“Are you admitting that your ability to store a human soul inside a clockwork soldier is based on Cryxian necromancy?”
“No,” said Aurora. “Necromancy is the antithesis of the Cyrissist philosophy. We are dedicated to preserving the uncorrupted noumenon, what you might think of as the ‘mind and soul.’ But yes, there was once a rogue forge master who dared to study Cryxian helljacks and liches. When her transgression was discovered, she was cast out as a heretic. Our process, the Anima Corpus Procedure, is in no way related to necromancy. It has been perfected.”
“‘Anima Corpus Procedure,’” said Nemo. “That sounds exactly like a term for raising the dead. I know more than one priest who would cry, ‘Necromancy!’ upon hearing it.”
“The difference is that our methods do not destroy souls but sustain them for transference to a clockwork vessel. Thus, we preserve the minds of our greatest scholars and philosophers so that later generations are not deprived of their wisdom.” Aurora nodded past Nemo and Finch, toward a rider approaching from the Cygnar lines. “As you have learned from your captives, those are not mere automatons but living minds within the clockwork bodies.”
“What of your vectors and servitors?” asked Nemo.
“No doubt you have already disassembled them and found their interface nodes and computational engines,” said Aurora. “Unlike the vessels reserved for human noumenon, the vectors and servitors are pure machines.”
“Which you can control exactly as I control my warjacks, yes?”
“Not exactly,” said Aurora. “My control over my vectors is far superior to your connection with your warjacks. My machines are also free of the undoubtedly charming quirks for which yours are famous. They perform exactly as I will them. They are perfect.”
There were, of course, some differences between a warjack’s cortex and a vector’s interface node. And Aurora was keenly aware of the limitations of both her vectors and of the Cygnaran warjacks, whose arcane semblance of human thought the Convergence fluxions had declared abominations. Once the Great Work was complete, they would be eradicated.
Despite her determination to share as much truth as possible with Sebastian Nemo, Aurora deemed it prudent not to volunteer that fact.
Instead, she watched his white mustache twitch almost imperceptibly as he processed the information. She imagined hundreds of thoughts vying for prominence in his mind. Surely a brain as abundant as his was its own form of Constellation, an assembly containing multitudes of specializations.
Nemo was not only one of Cygnar’s foremost warcasters. He was also a master tactician, an engineer and mechanic capable of overseeing and correcting the efforts of his country’s greatest specialists. He was a polyglot of sciences: kinetic, electrical, hydraulic, and arcane. What a treasure his mind would be, if only he could be enticed to join the Convergence. Perhaps where others had failed in their overtures to the famous Sebastian Nemo, Aurora could succeed.
“A moment, please,” said Nemo. He gestured to Finch, who lowered the Storm Strider into a crouch as the rider drew near. Unarmed but clad from head to heel in blue storm armor, the man stood in his stirrups and raised a leather satchel above his head. Finch took it from him. The rider saluted and wheeled his horse around to return to camp.
Finch passed the satchel to Nemo, who opened its clasps and peered inside. He lifted an essence chamber in one hand, weighing it. “This is the intact mind of a man?”
“It contains his natural thoughts and emotions. His soul, if you will. His noumenon.”
Nemo returned the chamber to the satchel and secured its clasps.
“Think of it,” said Aurora. “You have glimpsed only a fraction of our technology, but you must see that it is far beyond your own. That is no slight on you, General. That is the difference between one brilliant mind locked inside a prison of—what?—seventy years?—and a hundred brilliant minds working in concert over centuries.”
Nemo passed the satchel to Aurora, but Sabina intercepted it. She turned away, shielding Aurora with her body in case of a booby trap. Sabina opened the satchel and examined its contents before turning back to nod at her commander.
Aurora’s eyes were on Nemo. After he released the satchel, he rolled his knuckles with a wince.
“Do you feel the weight of years upon your bones, General? Now imagine that weight lifted. Imagine your mind secured within a body that feels no pain, one that can be replaced or improved at any time. Knowing what you are capable of creating now, think of what you might do in another hundred years.”
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“You look no older than my assistant. How old are you, Finch?”
“Twenty-seven, sir.”
“Are you older than twenty-seven?” Nemo asked.
“I…” The question took Aurora by surprise. “No. I am twenty-five, but already I have more accomplishments—”
“Why do you hesitate to abandon your human body?”
“I don’t. I am eager for the transference.”
“How old must one become before having one’s noumenon transferred to a clockwork vessel? Is it an honor reserved only for the aged?”
“The Fluxion Directorate believes, in their wisdom, that all souls should mature in their birth bodies before making the transition.”
“You do not share their opinion, do you?”
“The selection is not without its imperfections,” said Aurora. “Even the Fluxion Directorate can be swayed by sentiment, and there is a political element—”
Sabina leaned close to her ear and spoke in a mechanikal whisper. “Numen, perhaps we should return to the realignment node.”
Sabina had just allowed her to make any excuse she wished in order to withdraw from the unwelcome turn in the conversation.
“Should I continue this discussion with someone else?” said Nemo. “Perhaps you should confer with a superior?”
“I speak for the Convergence,” said Aurora. Her jaw clenched so tightly that she almost hissed the words. “But we have said enough for now. You may return to your camp.”
Nemo’s gaze fixed on her eyes, weighing and judging her.
“Enough!” snapped Aurora. She flew upward. With a superfluous sweep of her wings, she threw a buffeting wind down on Nemo and his assistant before wheeling back toward Calbeck.
Sabina caught up a few seconds later, the satchel clutched in one hand, the naked steel of her sword gleaming in the other. When they had withdrawn out of hearing range, she said, “Numen, why did you release so many prisoners? It weakens our position.”
“It also places a strain on the limited resources of the Cygnaran camp. And there are other reasons I need not explain.”
Aurora glanced back to see Nemo’s strider returning him and his assistant back to their camp. The general peered back at Aurora. He had lowered the goggles over his eyes once more. With his white hair floating in the galvanic field of his armor, the round lenses gave him an owlish aspect.
The Transfinite Emergence Projector followed Aurora and Sabina back to Calbeck. The battle engine needed only the slightest gestured command to obey her wishes. She wished that all of her forces were equally obedient.
“Apologies, Numen. I wish only to protect you. The more I understand of your plans, the better I may serve.”
“Then take a watch upon the tower pinnacle,” Aurora said. “Keep your eyes on the Cygnaran camp. Soon enough, you will see the rest of my plan unfold.”
THE SIXTH HARMONIC
The machine is corrupted by the deficiencies of flesh.
Nemo
Upon returning to camp, Nemo sent Finch to return the Storm Strider and order the Jimmies to perform one last inspection of both battle engines. He wanted them ready for action on a moment’s notice. Despite the indeterminate results of the parlay, he could not shake the sense that another attack could come at any time.
He shuddered to think what he had learned of this Convergence. Despite Aurora’s protests to the contrary, he shared Chaplain Geary’s concern: the entombment of souls within clockwork bodies amounted to necromancy. His skin crawled when he thought of these technological equivalents of iron liches.
As Finch maneuvered the Storm Strider delicately through the growing camp, Major Blackburn approached Nemo.
“Our troops have completely surrounded Calbeck and dug trenches to the east and west. The false transports have completed their assignments, and we’ve seen no indication that the enemy has detected the ruse. Scouts across the river report no sign of Cryx or any Convergence emplacement apart from the power station already secured. A small group of rangers remain there, reporting by visual signal on the half hour.”
“What of the camp?”
“The workshop and other key tents have been moved farther from the front lines. We’ve placed the refugees in tents just south of the main camp,” he said. “Chaplain Geary was eager to confer with you after the parlay, but I left him in charge of the physical and spiritual well-being of the villagers.”
“Well done.” Much as Nemo valued the chaplain’s counsel in private, he wished another conference with the druid without Geary’s presence to divert the course of his inquiry. Blackburn was as perceptive an officer as he was brave. “What about Mags? Sergeant Jernigan.”
“She’ll have a goose egg, but Geary healed her first thing. The minute he was done praying, she insisted on returning to duty.”
“And you let her go?”
“I left that decision to Geary. From what I heard as I got away from their argument, he was losing.”
Nemo suppressed a chuckle. Considering how Mags treated her general, he imagined the Precursor knight never stood a chance. “Very good. Meet me in the map tent in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackburn saluted, but his eyes lingered on Nemo’s face.
“What is it?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, when was the last time you ate?”
Nemo began to ask Blackburn whether he was a storm knight or a boarding house matron, but he stopped himself. It was not the first time Finch or one of Nemo’s other officers had to remind him to eat.
To them, it was a matter of self-preservation, Nemo thought. When he went too long between meals, he was more likely to tear a strip up one side of a subordinate and down the other.
“That will be all, Major.”
Blackburn snapped off another salute before retreating.
Deeming it best to take the edge off his hunger before questioning the druid, Nemo stopped at the mess tent. At his appearance, the infantry soldiers already dining stood at attention.
“At ease,” said Nemo. He waved off the private who leaped up to clear a table for his personal service and pointed at the soup pot. As the soldier began assembling a tray, Nemo shook his head again. “Just the bowl, a spoon, and a hunk of that black bread. No, a smaller hunk. What do I look like to you? A skorne titan?”
Behind him, a young soldier tittered before stifling himself.
Nemo turned to glower down the table. The diners fell very quiet. For a moment, the only sounds were the clack of spoons on bowls and the cautious slurping of soup. With one last slow survey of those assembled, Nemo took his soup and left the tent, suppressing his own smile at the effect of his disapproval. One might have thought he’d trained a storm cannon on the troops by the way they cowered under his gaze.
He sopped the bread and chewed on it while walking to the tent where he had left Bronwyn. As he approached, he saw a pair of soldiers standing outside the tent, one holding the gnarled staff of the druid’s axe-like weapon.
Eager though he was to question her, Nemo didn’t want to begin the interrogation with a bowl in his hands. He wolfed down the remaining bread and soup and thrust the empty bowl into the arms of a passing soldier.
Nemo entered the tent to find the druid sitting, not on the stool they had provided for her but on the bare ground. With her head bowed, her black cowl concealed her face. She had her fingers entwined in the brown autumn grass, not tightly as though she were clinging to the earth, but gently, as though she were feeling for some subtle message from the earth.
Nemo took the stool for himself. As he sat, the druid looked up at him.
“What were you doing?” h
e asked. “Communicating with someone?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “Simply meditating. I am glad to see you have returned alive. Few of the Circle return from their clashes with these Cyrissists.”
“What else can you tell me about them?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “Little is known. Occasionally we have uncovered one of their underground temples. We drive them away, or else they kill all who try to do so. When some escape to warn other members of the Circle, we return in greater force only to find them gone, their lairs abandoned.”
Nemo’s experience had been similar, but without the military conflicts. “What have you learned from the machines you captured?”
“We destroy them,” said Bronwyn. “They are abominations.”
“But you could learn so much from studying…” Nemo realized the druids did not appreciate technology as he and the Convergence did. “Have you found evidence of necromancy among the temples to Cyriss?”
The druid frowned and considered his question. “No,” she said at last. “But their mechanikal soldiers, they were once human beings, weren’t they?”
Nemo hesitated to share what he had learned of the Convergence with another enemy, even though the druid had only been helpful so far. “Yes, they were.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “It is wrong to halt the cycle of nature in this manner. There is no life without death, no renewal without decay.”
“You worship change.”
“That is one way of looking at it.”
“So does this Convergence warcaster,” said Nemo. “Or so she says.”
Bronwyn wrinkled her nose as if detecting a stink. “Change is only good when it renews the world.”
“Well, I agree with that sentiment,” said Nemo. He had never subscribed to the notion of change for its own sake. Even advancements in human knowledge were good only so long as they remained in the custody of those who applied them for the benefit of others. That was the key difference between Morrow and his sister. Thamarites strove for personal, not shared, advancement. After his interview with Aurora, he suspected she had more in common with the darker twin.