Divine Born

by O. J. Lowe

  “Unfortunately, that lead is no longer viable,” she said. “Subtractor informed me Frewster was killed. He’s trying to get access to the investigation file, but information is coming through slow.”

  “I do not trust Subtractor, Mistress,” Domis rumbled. “A man who will sell himself to the highest bidder will never be truly yours. Not like me or Mister Sinkins.”

  “He will if you outbid everyone else,” she said. “Domis, as valued as you are, as valued as Dale over there is, there are tasks out there you are horribly inadequate for. Don’t make me question Subtractor’s loyalty for he has betrayed everything and everyone that once meant something to him. He betrayed it for me, whether it is for the ideology or the wealth, I do not care. Provided that we all pull within the same direction, then all will be well, for my credits will continue to roll into his account until the day he decides to betray me and then he'll cease breathing.”

  Once Domis looked suitably chastised, she returned to the examination of the compass, brow furrowing as she ran her eyes across the golden-brown surface, fingers probing every little flaw and imperfection. She found the holes quickly, tested the bronze cups against them, found that all seven of them fit neatly in. The prongs that held them, she quickly noticed, were more than that, they were pipes. As she studied them, she saw the holes leading into the depths of the compass, subtle small but recognisable once discovered.

  If only it hadn’t been broken… She wondered what could have done this. Tales of artefacts like this always said the same thing, that they’d be a constant in this world and the next, unchanging, unbreaking. They could not be altered, they could not be smashed, their power immense. She could feel that power towards the centre of her being, not as vast as she’d imagined but present regardless. The jewel embedded in her wrist sang as she placed it near, hot and cold juxtaposing at the same time, an unusual feeling but not unpleasant. Even with her wrist facing away from her, she could see the glow, the same swathe of light casting a pall across the surface of the device, tiny plumes of smoke rising off the metal. She blinked, yanked her arm away. That wouldn’t do, not at all. It might already be broken beyond repair, the last thing needed was to cause further damage. She studied the underside of her wrist, her flesh around the jewel reddened and swollen, though it did not hurt.

  Further examination of the Cycle revealed one further truth to her, one in her haste she had initially failed to notice.

  Where the light had cast its pallor earlier, from where the smoke had started to rise, the words had started to appear, exhilaration dancing through her spirit as realisation dawned. Back she brought the jewel, chose not to react as the smoke started to rise this time, it wouldn’t do the compass any lasting damage. It had survived thousands of years, it would survive her as well. Finally, she could read them, several long agonising minutes passing before they were legible.

  Just because she could read them though, she quickly realised, didn’t mean that they had to make any sort of sense.

  The blood of the seven touched by Grace shall restore the way of the Divine

  She held out the compass for Sinkins who read the words upside down, mouthing them to himself through thin lips as he perused them. Several times he repeated himself, considering every possible word, even resorted to mentally ticking a checklist off on his fingers, though as to what he was ruling out or counting, she couldn’t say.

  “Blood,” he said eventually. “Blut makes too many references to it. Divineborn. There’s reference to those as well. I think that’s what they mean by being touched by Grace.”

  “Talk to me of Divineborn. Who is Grace?” she asked. “I want more than that, Dale.” Something about it sounded familiar, maybe an inkling of remembrance from her time in the first chamber slipping back to her.

  “More a metaphor than a person, Mistress,” Sinkins said. “The Divineborn are the children of the Divines.” He curled his lips, a touch of insolence maybe, perhaps he wanted to add sarcasm to his words. If he did, it might well be the last thing he did. Domis would break him in two if she gave the command. The insolence had been unsaid, she needed his experience for now. “Every hundred years, each Divine comes back to our level of existence in regards of procreation. Not at the same time, obviously…” There was that word again, he’d vocalised it this time. “They will spend time here, they will fate, parent an heir and then expire, returned to the heavens from which they came.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody seems to truly know. A lot of academics dispute it as little more than a legend, rather than a basis of fact. Blut believed it to be true though.”

  “Blut believed a lot of things,” she said. “And a lot of it was at least partly accurate. The man had a mind like which we’ve never seen before.” And he was also a violent, abusive drunk. Genius had its price.

  “These offspring don’t inherit Divine powers, well not on the level you might think. Maybe some slight abilities, nothing noticeable. They’ll still bleed if you cut them. And blood is the important thing. Their blood is special, it is the sole solid evidence of the Divine in existence. Irrefutable proof of their existence. And it is that blood which powers the Forever Cycle. A gateway to the heavens themselves, if some of the stories are to be believed.”

  “But why?” Two words, two small words but they were important ones.

  “As far as I can tell, there have been a number of different tales told as about why. One says it is a contingency, a back door in case any of them getting stranded here without a way back. They could find the children of their kin, bleed them and get back.”

  Made sense, she thought. Anyone worth their salt had a backup plan in case of failure. Why would Divines be any different? It made a lot of sense.

  “Although, there’s another one I find intriguing,” Sinkins said. “Apparently they didn’t create the Forever Cycle. They simply found it and managed to make it work for their own ends. They twisted it into something used to ascend to omniscience, they didn’t create their home, they merely appropriated it for their own use. Their blood powered it the first time, hence why it works now. Neat theories, Mistress Coppinger, I think you’ll agree. The truth is, we don’t bloody know.”

  She didn’t like that second suggestion as much, too many unanswered questions, too many variables that she couldn’t even conceive an answer to. If Sinkins, the closest thing she had to an expert in these times didn’t have the answer, then she sure didn’t.

  “I don’t expect you to tell me what I need to agree on,” she said. “The point is, Dale, where are these Divineborn now?”

  Sinkins smiled at her, a face flecked with nerves. She could see it in his body language, the sheer fear at what response his answer might give. He thought he was doing well, his shaking only slight but present.

  “Spit it out,” she said. “I need to know before getting too excited. Tell me the problem.”

  “Well nobody knows exactly,” Sinkins said. “There are billions of people in these kingdoms, narrowing down those with very specific blood is going to be problematic, I think you’ll find.” He grinned at her, his eyes flickering back and forth as if looking for a way out. His bravado was astonishing, she had to admit. Domis straightened up, anticipating an order. She shook her head at him and he relaxed.

  “What can you tell me about Divineborn,” she said. “Historically, what have they done that might narrow them down? Any tell-tale signs? Marks? Psychological ticks? There must be something.”

  “A lot of this is only theoretical at best, Mistress,” Sinkins said quickly. “None of it has ever been proven one way or another. What one man takes as gospel, the other man dismisses as lunacy. I’ve spent my time analysing every writing I can on the subject, cross-referencing everything I can. I could spend the rest of my days on the subject, a thousand more than I’ll ever live, ten lifetimes even and it may never be enough to say definitively. We could find them. We could bleed them and even then, it might not work.”

  She tapped her nail
s on the desk, considered his words. Of course, it had all crossed her mind before. It might be useless. She might go to all this effort, it might turn out to be one wasted venture. She could have been putting her time into subjugating the kingdoms via force and technology instead of chasing ultimate power. It might be a waste. It might lead to failure and death.

  All paths have failure as one potential route. It is the roads you never walk out of the fear of what lies at the end of them which often lead to the greatest rewards.

  Her father had said that to her once. She’d wondered what he’d make of her if he could see her now, what she’d become. The gem embedded in her wrist throbbed, sending an ache up her arm. She rubbed at it, didn’t even notice the alien sensations.

  “What can you speculate at,” she said. “If nothing else, do that. Make an educated guess, Dale. You have information, what do you glean from it?”

  He paused, looked first at her and then at Domis before ploughing ahead with his answer. “Okay, so suspected Divineborn over the years, maybe someone can put together an algorithm to search for ideal candidates. Maybe Subtractor.” He paused again, looked at her as if hoping for some approval. When none came, he continued regardless. “Lose a parent usually before the age of ten in mysterious circumstances. That’s always the case. The Divine comes, enters the life of an ideal partner, spawns and leaves when their time is up.”

  “Narrows it down, but not by much,” Domis said. She looked up at him in surprise. It was an all too easy mistake to think that silent meant stupid. She should know better than any how that mind worked beneath his face, sharp and supple when he chose to apply it. So much less wasted potential than that ungrateful little bitch of a daughter. She could have had everything and what had she done with the choice? She’d chosen to reject her mother and pick that grasping harlot Lydia.

  Okay, tipping Unisco off to a sighting of herself at the wedding so they’d break in and ruin it had been spiteful, but what else was a scorned mother to do? Perchance it might have made her see sense. And maybe wild horses would willingly accept captivity, she thought. Stranger things had happened but not by much.

  “He’s right,” Sinkins said. “Parents dying in unusual circumstances aren’t so much of a rare thing any more. I mean, Mistress, you yourself…”

  She shot him a glare and he halted mid-sentence, determined suddenly not to carry on speaking. He wasn’t wrong, but it also wasn’t his place to comment on the events of her life. They weren’t here to talk about her.

  “Ahem,” he said quickly. “Forget that. Of those who have been rumoured to be Divineborn over the years, there’s one thing they all do have in common though, according to the sources I ran through. They all achieved great things. They reached for it and grasped it with both hands. History remembers their names, though I feel the need to wonder if their greatness started the rumour of them being Divineborn or if it was their blood which gave them that extra push towards greatness.”

  She said nothing, ran her eyes back and forth across the compass, distaste marring her lips as the crack glared up at her, spoiling what could have been perfection.

  “Well you certainly achieved greatness, Mistress,” Domis said. Only he could insinuate what he was and not risk her wrath, whereas Sinkins would wilt under her ire, Domis would stand tall in the face of it, secure in his position. “You’ve taken what most would have seen as a silver birth-right and you’ve made it your own, improved it in every way, all on your own.”

  She had, hadn’t she?

  She studied the Forever Cycle again, couldn’t keep her eyes off something so beautiful and precious, something now hers and hers alone. For as long as she drew breath, nobody else would ever possess that hunk of bronze.

  “Summon the cabal,” Claudia eventually said. “Get them together in one room, Domis. I need to address them.” Especially Mazoud, she added silently. To have done what he’d done, moved his troops in position to attack Serran, was lunacy. He didn’t have the numbers to keep Vazara secure and launch an offensive, he’d pointed that out himself. All her earlier verbal barrages had done little to bring him to heel and he’d moved regardless. Why? She didn’t know, had a feeling it might be worth asking him.

  It was time to put him in his place. The rest of them as well. Remind them who their leader was. “Sinkins!” He snapped to attention. “Continue your research. Talk to whoever you need to, just make sure that you narrow down a list of targets. We need their blood and fast.” Another thought occurred to her. “Start with every non-replicated individual aboard this ship. Maybe we shall find ourselves in luck.”

  It was wishful thinking, she knew that. But any possible way of making the job easier was welcomed. Things did slide for you sometimes, if only you knew the best method to tilt the table.

  She’d watched him for days now, keeping him in her sights but never interacting. Those orders had been very specific. He was not to know she was there. He was not to even get the slightest hint of her presence or he would flee. Remember, her handler had warned her, if he sees you, he will know. He has insider intelligence of the entire operation, he might not know what you can do, but he is aware of what you could do. That sense of danger will see him flee for his life.

  She’d been designed for one thing, stripped of her humanity and rebuilt from the cells up into an implement of death. Knowing it was one thing. Forcing yourself to care when every sense of self had been stripped away was entirely another. The lights, the pain, the voices in her ears as they’d broken her. It felt like it had happened to someone else, a dream in which she watched herself move on strings, guided by hands that weren’t hers, whims that weren’t her own.

  Every thought she made, she questioned whether it was one of her own or just one they wanted her to think. Not being able to trust your own mind was terrifying, wondering whether today’s the day your thoughts pushed you over the edge, threatened to make you do something truly reprehensible. Was it the day they turned her against a friend? A former lover? Family? As much as she hated the blood on her hands from what she’d done, better it be someone she didn’t know than someone she cared for. Strangers, it was easier to shut them out when you didn’t know their faces. Didn’t have to dwell on the look of horror as they realised who’d pulled the trigger or beaten them to death.

  Why the Mistress wanted him dead, she didn’t know. Only that he was her next target. They’d dumped it all in her head, mixed it all in with her memories. Sometimes she remembered her old life. Sometimes she had memories of the new that couldn’t possibly have juxtaposed with her old life. These days, she’d found herself wondering more and more if this was what insanity felt like, maybe the first stages sweeping through her, unnoticeable at first before it became full-on madness. Before, she’d always thought awareness of going mad was a sign that you probably weren’t, now she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t sure about a lot of things any more.

  The house stood in front of her, one solitary room illuminated, the rest dark. She didn’t know how many were in there, not that it mattered, just that there was only one she cared about. He would die by her hands tonight. She bore him no ill will, but the Mistress did, and it was all that mattered. The windows were tempered, she wasn’t getting a shot through them. Had she brought a rifle, it might have been an option she’d considered. Maybe one of those old projectile weapons. That’d have gotten through an energy protected window no trouble. Nobody used them any longer, only the massively skilled and they were becoming fewer and fewer. When you were a sniper of that capability, either you were already part of an organisation where your skills would be utilised, you were a private contractor able to charge whatever you liked for the hit, or you were a target yourself. All of this she knew now from the information they’d put in her head. The woman she’d been before, the spirit dancer, wouldn’t have known this. She’d have been clueless, would have been terrified now. As it was, she felt nothing other than cold resignation the task had to be accomplished.

  Ever si
nce they’d had their way with her, she could see in the dark. It had terrified her at first, the way her vision had switched from normal to everything cast in black and white as the darkness had surrounded her. Not just rudimentary vision either, as perfect in the night as the day. As perks went, it was one of very few. Being largely unkillable was also pretty good, before you considered what they’d made her do with that gift. She’d been shot, she’d been stabbed and blown up and poisoned, all before they’d let her out into the field, deeming her regenerative abilities satisfactory. She didn’t know what her limits were, she was unsure as to whether she wanted to find out. Just because it’d heal didn’t mean that the pain didn’t exist, in fact it was worse. When bones knitted back together in instances, wounds closing shut, suturing themselves so neatly, it hurt a damn lot compressing it into seconds.

  She could see two guards by the door, both holding BRO-80 assault rifles, a new model, thirty shots to the charge pack, exceptional firepower over short-to-mid range. She didn’t consider them a threat. They’d have to be dealt with, she knew that, but there was a way to do things. The impulses in her head, they were mysterious, that she’d failed to yet work them out yet was probably deliberate on the part of her captors and conditioners. If she’d worked out how they made her act, she could twist them around, work within the parameters while at the same time retaining a measure of rebellion. That sometimes it let her get away with a mild beating while in others, they made her punch them with her enhanced strength until the target was little more than a fine mist was scary.

  It was the diode on her chest, she knew that. Underneath her leathers, she could feel it pressed against her skin, the claws dug into her, the chemicals flooding her system. Those chemicals could be pleasurable, narcotics fed into her to keep her docile and submissive should that be what they desired of her. Or they could be not so pleasurable, amphetamines fired into her to increase her aggression and bloodlust. Even worse, sometimes she wanted it so badly, she craved that feeling. She was an addict, she knew, she couldn’t help it and she found it so very hard to care. She needed them, no matter how much she might hate herself for realising that simplest of truths, caring about it became a chore.