Multiverse 1

by Chris Hechtl

  When he had time, he would take himself off to solitude, to practice what he could learn or study the blueprints of various tech while the other younglings soared and practiced their flight muscles above him in mock battles. If they noticed him, they would fling mud or shit at him, laughing when their aim was true. He learned early on to find shelter under a rock or building.

  The others tormented him with tales of what he would become. At night he would worry about it, concerned that he would be found unworthy and therefore one who should be culled from the ranks. The other juveniles told him he would have his wings clipped when judgment finally came. He would become a worker or have his wings cut off and his brain regressed to a hellhound. The other juveniles were cruel with their taunts, knowing since he had missed out in some schooling he couldn't know for certain. For many years he had thought they were serious until found out differently.

  In their third-eighth of life, they were handed over to the clerics of the Servis Clan for judgment. “Those who do not pass the standards will be found a niche to fill. There is always a need for our people. Fear not. Not all can meet glory in battle as a warrior, commander, or wraith. But those who do, will be remembered,” the cleric said.

  Due to his fear of heights, the cleric failed him for warrior standards. “None dealt with this issue beforehand?” The cleric snarled to the subclan's leaders. The subclan leaders bowed their heads but growled or glared at the juvenile who hunched away. “A mental issue of course, rare in our kind,” the cleric growled. “Pitiful,” he said. “He shall be relegated to engineering then.”

  “I love to tinker and fix things,” the juvenile mumbled. He kept slipping into the first stages liat’va, the cloak, in embarrassment but then got control of himself.

  The cleric turned to him and saw the cloak fade in and out. Privately he was impressed; the youngling could cloak easily and could move while cloaked. Most Zerinoth had to practically shut their own endocrine system down to achieve a motionless cloak. Some needed help to sustain it for long periods, relying on their cybernetics to achieve the cloak.

  The juvenile lacked control though and couldn't sustain it for long. His concentration was good, but his training was poor. His scars gave him away though, he thought, looking with a discerning eyes to the scars on the youngling’s body. “You need better control of yourself,” he growled. “A pity about the scars and fear of flying; had they been attended to properly you would have been an excellent wraith,” he rumbled.

  That surprised the subelders. The cleric snorted. “You failed some courses, however, some quite basic. Foundation courses,” he said, eying the subelders.

  “I had other duties to attend to while the courses were in session,” the juvenile mumbled.

  “Eh?” the cleric growled, then turned on the others. “Pitiful. You should never have been pulled from such classes; they are mandatory,” he growled.

  “Well, since he was the omega and we thought he wouldn't amount to much…” a subelder shrugged.

  “I see. We will have words about this later,” the cleric said, making a note. He turned to the juvenile. “You lack aggression so do not belong in the military. I see by your scores in engineering and math that you are indeed an excellent tinkerer, not enough to be on a ship, however,” he said. “You lack cybernetics,” he grumbled. He shook his head. “I know of a role for you. We can get you basic information implants,” the cleric said. The subelders nodded.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  Traveling to his new home was terrifying, but he refused to give into his fear. He climbed into the shuttle, glad he wouldn't have to fly all the way to the floating cities on his own. Many were quite high, but since the shuttle was carrying a load of supplies aloft, he'd managed to get a place on board.

  He closed his eyes, feigning sleep as the cybernetic brain on board lifted them off and carried them to the floating cities. His talons clutched at the hull of the shuttle as it banked around and then came into a landing. He breathed a sigh of relief as the lock door opened.

  “Ah, more supplies,” a voice rumbled. The juvenile looked up, surprised. The guardian was there at the hatch. “And help. Our replacement maintenance engineer I suppose?” he demanded. The juvenile nodded. “Fine, fine, you came up on the shuttle because of its mechanical nature. I get it,” the guardian said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Report to the medics to get your information implants updated and then get to work,” the elder said.

  “By your leave,” the juvenile said, bowing his head as he passed the elder by. The elder watched him go, studying the juvenile. He almost pitied the youngling; from his build he lacked a balanced meal. He needed more meat on his muscles. But his scores said he was very good at engineering and math, so that was really all that was required.

  Many of the latest temples and flying buildings had been refitted to have cyborg brains manage the day-to-day running of the temple's systems. The guardian had considered such a thing, but the expense was quite high, and besides, he didn't have much faith in such creations. He shook his massive head. As a wraith he used only so much technology as he had to. He waved a hand and sent a signal to the workers standing by. The small Zerinoth moved into the shuttle and then streamed out with packages.

  The wraith sniffed in disdain. To be that…little more than a meat bot. A being, a mighty Zerinoth…reduced to that…he shook himself then looked out to the skies around them. No. He'd rather die, he thought.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  The juvenile tried to avoid the view as much as possible. When he was within the blue walls only then did he suffer a sigh of relief. He turned about, then followed the symbols on the walls to the medics.

  “You need something, youngling?” a medic asked, looking up. The juvenile nodded. “And?”

  “Servis Clan, subclan Serteth'ash. I…I need implants,” the juvenile said, stumbling over the report.

  “You need an update you mean?” the female asked, amused.

  “No…I need implants. I didn't receive them,” he mumbled, looking down.

  “Speak…I'm not getting a signal from you at all. You have no implants?” The medic asked, shocked. The juvenile nodded. “Well, we can't give you a full implant package,” she said with a sniff.

  “A basic information set is all I need to do my job,” the juvenile said.

  “I see. Even that is complicated; we're set up to do wraith implants. Mino surgery, but they hate scars.” She paused and frowned, eying the scars on his body. “Why are you here anyway?” She finally demanded. “Didn't anyone tell you a wraith hates scars?”

  “Yes, elder,” the juvenile replied with a sigh. “I'm…I was assigned here.”

  “I see. Well, do your best to stay out of sight as much as possible then,” the elder said. She waved him forward. He stepped into the brightly lit room, trying hard not to gape at the shiny robotics and tanks around the room. She had him move to a center dais. When he stepped on it, he gurgled in surprise when it gently lifted him off his feet and then rolled him over onto his back.

  “Tuck in your wings,” the elder said, pushing his wings in. “Do behave,” she warned. “I'll need to sedate you for the procedure, even though it is simple. We'll go in through the mouth and nasal cavities.”

  “Do what you need to do,” the juvenile said, fighting the urge to flee. He couldn't; the repulsors held him firm. Like all his kind he hated being on his back; it felt horrible. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to flee or shake.

  “This will take a moment,” the elder said as a mask was fitted over his muzzle. He breathed in and out a few times then felt his consciousness drift.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  When he woke he found he was resting on his stomach once more, but on a bed. “Took long enough,” the elder medic grumbled. He realized she was talking to him through his implants. “I've tested them out; you are fine. You can go,” she said.

  Shakily he got to his feet and then rumbled a thank you. She waved a hand and then turned away in d
ismissal. He moved off, feeling off balance. He felt something drip on his nose. He reached up and touched it, a trickle of blood. He looked at it for a long moment, then smeared it on the wall not looking at it. Then he moved on snuffling.

  His implants directed him to engineering. It was a small series of compartments in the bowels of the flying temple. When he got there, he took stock of his small sleeping pad, well-worn from the previous occupant. Then he turned to the master display. When that was done, he happily delved into the blueprints of the flying city's repulsors, downloading them and then examining them in minute detail.

  The temple was a vertical spindle, with a green colored crystal on the top center spire and another at the bottom just below the power plant and repulsor engines. Four wings were around the center spire; they were angled and pointed to the top crystal. They were sharp, like blades. Under the arm of each wing was a repulsor, glowing blue.

  The entire structure spun slightly in the wind, but the computers kept the station locked in place. The juvenile studied the readouts and compared it to the basics and what he knew. He wouldn't tamper with anything unless there was something wrong.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  He spent an eight of days in the engineering before the rumbling of his two stomachs and a desire for water drove him out to look for sustenance. The implants and his knowledge of the temple made it easy to find the galley. It was deserted; he'd timed it to when none were around by careful design.

  “Do you younglings always bolt down your food so fast?” a voice grumbled. The juvenile turned in surprise to see an elder near the entryway.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, getting to his feet.

  “Sit, eat,” the elder said, waving a mechanical arm. The juvenile blinked in surprise; the wraith was damaged, almost as much machine as Zerinoth.

  “I too come in the evenings to eat. This place is less of a den of sound and smells then,” the elder said, picking out a simple tea and then sitting on his haunches. “You aren't in my classes?” the elder asked.

  The juvenile's implants identified the elder for him. “No, M'r'wth, elder,” the juvenile said, shaking his head. “I didn't qualify.”

  “Ah,” the elder wraith said. “Then why are you here? I see by your scars you are almost as unlucky as me,” the wraith said.

  “I'm managing the maintenance on the platform,” the juvenile answered proudly.

  “Ah,” the elder said, nodding. He took a sip of tea. “And who is doing that now?” he asked mildly.

  “I…ah, I am managing them through my implants,” the juvenile answered lamely. “I needed to eat,” he said.

  “An excuse but a good one,” the elder said. “But you need to return to your duties,” he growled. The juvenile nodded, bolting down the remaining food. He had planned on taking more to stash in his quarters, but the elder's arrival had interrupted that plan. He dumped his tray and then bolted out the door.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  Several times over the next six of eight weeks the juvenile would run into the elder wraith in the galley or in passing. The elder was grumpy, solitary when off duty. Like the juvenile the old wraith Sensei avoided the open decks where the others congregated. The juvenile did it because he feared the view and social pressure; the elder because he felt wrong due to his body.

  Immediately the students picked up on his solitary nature and pack order. A sort of depression set into the juvenile briefly; he'd hoped and thought things would be different in the temple. He found that had assumption had been in error.

  The juvenile found that the elder wraith was a teacher in the temple, training others to use the liat’va the cloak. Some of the students were warriors; other Zerinoth were wraith acolytes and apprentices. All came from the Servis Clan.

  The juvenile found his love of all things mechanical divided with his love of learning and the cloak. He'd done it in passing to hide as a hatchling and because all Zerinoth knew liat’va and practiced it. He was good at liat’va ral, but only if he kept his focus and didn't move.

  The lessons he listened in on helped him to fill in the voids in his knowledge. He learned about some of the history of the clan, for M’r’wth would pepper the students with stories on occasion. War stories were popular for the students, but the elder focused on stories about learning various techniques.

  The elder was amused when he found the youngling spying on them from the back of the class. When he had the time, he sought out the juvenile's hiding places and watched, spying back as the youngling tried to imitate his moves and lessons. He was surprised that the youngling had some control; he could move easily while in cloak. But when the elder rumbled a laugh, he was startled; he lost his concentration and therefore his cloak.

  “Oh! Sorry, elder,” the juvenile said ducking his head. “I didn't know you were there,” he admitted.

  “You need better situation awareness then,” the elder said. “Though I do admit, a part of the training is to teach wraiths ways to move and stay in the shadows and minimize the use of liat’va,” he rumbled. Which was what he had done, he thought; it was the only way he could now with the prosthetic devices.

  “You do well. You need more practice,” the elder said. “I do not understand why you are here; you should be a student,” he said.

  “Me?” The youngling asked, shocked.

  “Yes, you,” the elder said. “What is wrong with you?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Other than the scars,” he admitted. “I know of a few kindred wraith who have used a careful dance to hide them as they moved,” he said.

  The youngling stumbled over his story. He was surprised when the elder didn't interrupt and didn't stop him. He listened impassively. When he was finished, the elder snorted. “So, that's what is stopping you? Fear? You should fly. You can; you said you can fly low. Try a little higher each day. Do that and you will learn to deal with the fear.”

  “But…”

  The elder held up a hand. “You will never be rid of it; it is a part of you now. Fear is there to make you learn what is dangerous. But don't let it stop you. Do that and you really will be…trapped,” he said.

  “What is it you fear?” the youngling asked.

  The elder turned on him with a glare. The youngling stepped back and ducked his head as the elder snarled. He fully expected to be thrown about, to be bitten into submission or worse. Finally the subsonic rumblings slowed and then stopped.

  “I fear…the future. My future,” the elder finally said, almost too quietly to hear.

  The elder took the youngling under his wing and trained him. He had fewer and fewer students; the clans had moved to downloading knowledge into imprinted minds and only a few learned the old fashioned way. In his opinion it was a mistake; they needed the best. But none asked or cared for his thoughts.

  He rumbled a sigh. They knew he thought; they knew he was there, despite his careful attempts to conceal himself. Eventually, sometime they would come for him. He closed his eyes. He was so tired of running he thought. Tired of fighting it. Of fighting nature. He would eventually have to give in, let nature take its course.

  All of his generation had passed on to the next cycle of their lives. He knew Broken Tooth and Xile had tried to last, but eventually even they had been called forth by nature to renew their species. It was terrible that in their age they would lose their minds, lose their hard-fought wisdom in favor of procreation.

  The elder wraith was maimed in the war with the Demon Mecha. He had lost an arm, wing and leg when a plasma bolt from an Octobot had glanced him, tearing the flesh from him and leaving the rest of his body singed and scarred. It was the greatest fear of a Zerinoth wraith, to be scarred. Scars were give aways; they prevented a wraith from being what he was meant to be. He had to admit, he'd faced his fear now.

  He hated the prosthetic devices he was left to cope with; they were very old and weren't the best. The best was reserved for those on the lines, not washed up old veterans with little to contribute left to them. He was embitt
ered by the war and contemptuous of the Zerinoth engineer youngling despite his efforts to help the elder, and even his efforts to maintain and repair the elder's prosthetic limbs. But over time he grudgingly took the youngling under his wing and trained him.

  It was exasperating sometimes; the juvenile couldn't be relied upon to understand concepts immediately. He had an intuitive grasp of the liat’va, and what surprised him was the lack of the need to go into full suspension to achieve it. A youngling shouldn't have such control. He would do it sometimes, either while focusing on something else or when he was distracted.

  The elder tried to keep an eye on the young one, but he realized right off that the juvenile needed to stick up for himself more. Other Zerinoth ignored or abused him. He didn't have much sympathy for the juvenile but did grudgingly admire his determination to continue on the path he'd apparently selected for himself.

  M'r'wth slept more, much to his annoyance. He would occasionally take to the walks around the temple, inhaling the cool crisp night air. Sometimes he would drag the juvenile along to get him out of his stinky engineering spaces. The youngling needed to look out beyond his snout and learn to get over his fear.

  The juvenile listened with rapt attention when the elder woke to tell stories. He slept more and more as the seasons passed the juvenile realized. He tried to ply the elder with food, but the elder refused and would get grumpy or solitary if he pressed the issue. The juvenile couldn't understand; after all, he preferred his two stomachs full as much as possible.

  “Then try it my way, youngling,” the elder rumbled. “Hunger sharpens the mind. A full belly clouds it, it makes you relax.”

  The youngling nodded, but wasn't certain of the wisdom of the words. The elder was a fountain of wisdom but contradictions as well.

  ((|))~^~((|))/

  There were ten to twelve wraith temples over each continent; other older ones were embedded in the rock below on the main continents. Their temple was on the eastern side of the Servis continent, hovering over a chain of large islands off the coast. A series of mountain strongholds and mining concerns were below.