The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  Having planned for this particular eventuality, Nikomedes took out a long piece of hemp rope which was significantly longer than he had remembered the chain being. After making his way to the ledge where it had been safely stowed by Kephus’ ancestor, Nikomedes secured it around a ledge of rock and slowly lowered himself to the ledge below.

  He gave one last look up at the rope, which nearly disappeared from view amid the poisonous, choking fog—a fog which, aside from irritating his lungs badly enough to elicit the occasional cough, was nowhere near as noxious as he had recalled, likely owing to whatever ministrations the Voice of Men had made before his exiting the Forge.

  But then he lowered his eyes, knowing there was a very real possibility that this final leg of his journey to return to the Forge of Men would prove the last of his life.

  He stood before the headless statue of King Lykurgos and gazed up at the Minos Sword’s solid stone representation gripped in the statue’s clasped hands. A sour taste filled his mouth, and it seemed to spread to the rest of his body. He forced the sensation down as he moved past the edifice to the long-dead king—whose bones may still lie on the floor of the Inner Forge beneath his feet—and made his way to the diagram which he had solved with Kastor Kephus’ help.

  He pressed his finger into the first of the thirteen circles and felt the same pinching, pricking sensation. But before he could commence with the unlocking sequence, his finger was released and he heard the Voice of Men beckon, “Nikomedes Minos recognized; Nikomedes Minos is directed to enter the Forge immediately.”

  Nikomedes obliged and made his way down the winding staircase, his footsteps echoing off the metal beneath his feet as he dragged his ruined leg down each painful step.

  When he reached the bottom, all appeared as it had done during his previous entry and the Voice of Men spoke once again, saying, “Access to the Inner Forge granted; proceed within.”

  The door opened and Nikomedes stepped through, feeling a mounting sense of trepidation and dread as he moved into the cold, dark chamber where he had retrieved the Minos Sword.

  The air was bitterly cold, which seemed different from his other visit to the hallowed sanctum of Men, but he ignored the frigid air as he saw the face composed of symbols and lights appear on a nearby pane of the strange, dark, glassy substance which seemed to adorn so many of the walls within the Forge.

  “Nikomedes Minos has returned before one solar year has elapsed,” the Voice said, and Nikomedes thought he could hear disappointment in the Voice’s tone—a disappointment which made him feel very small, very weak and, most of all, very useless. “We require Nikomedes Minos to explain the reason for this disregard of directives.”

  “I…” he began, his voice faltering as he felt the shame, guilt, and anger he had suppressed until that moment come boiling to the surface, literally causing his vision to color for several seconds before he began more forcefully, “I have lost the Minos Sword.”

  “Absence of module heretofore referred to as ‘Minos Sword’ is already catalogued, Nikomedes Minos,” the Voice said with what could only be bitterness in its inhuman, androgynous, metallic voice. “Nikomedes Minos appears to have sustained significant trauma to multiple regions of soft and connective tissue,” the Voice continued as a life-sized, three-dimensional image of Nikomedes appeared in the air before him. It looked strangely unnatural, even accounting for the fact that it appeared to have sprung into pseudo-existence in the air before him without warning, but a series of strange, red patterns appeared all across the image’s body.

  Nikomedes knew almost immediately that those patterns, which were composed of interwoven lines of red light spaced less than an inch apart, represented the wounds he had sustained in his fight with Jason Montagne. He jutted his chin out as a string of characters which he did not recognize appeared beside each of the wounds.

  “Nikomedes Minos’ physical capabilities have been critically compromised,” the Voice continued dispassionately, “calculations incorporating Nikomedes Minos’ new capabilities suggest a less than zero point three percent chance of Nikomedes Minos successfully completing assigned directives. Suggested course of action: recycle base organic materials and downgrade Nikomedes Minos’ genetic sample on file. Previous calculations assumed peak performance of Nikomedes Minos’ physical and mental abilities; Nikomedes Minos appears to possess an unrecognized flaw which will likely prove deleterious to future generations. Removal from the gene pool is advised to maintain the purity of Tract Two.”

  Nikomedes felt his entire body tense with anger. “I am not flawed,” Nikomedes growled.

  “Nikomedes Minos displays faulty cogitation,” the Voice said casually, “neural decay from previous Upload is calculated to be probable cause for this fault, which would explain Nikomedes Minos’ failure to accomplish assigned directives. Step into the indicated chamber immediately, Nikomedes Minos, so recycling of organic materials may commence.”

  “There is no fault in me!” Nikomedes bellowed, as offended as he had ever been in his entire life at hearing the Voice of Men’s suggestion that he was incapable of producing progeny who would be anything but a burden on future generations. “My brother, my father, and his father before him bore no flaws or faults!” he roared, feeling his eyes mist as he brazenly defied the commandment of his god. “But I have failed, and I deserve whatever punishment Men wills,” he said, barely managing to rein in his emotions long enough to grind the words out between his clenched teeth as tears streamed down his face in an unexpected display of emotion, “but my line is not flawed! Recycle me if you must in order to satisfy Men’s honor,” he shouted, pointing to a vacant tube—which was identical to the one which King Lykurgos’ bones had rested with the Minos Sword—as it lowered to the floor and revealed the nearly upright slab of metal within, “but I will not sit idly by while my progenitors and their legacy are insulted!”

  “Honor is irrelevant,” the Voice of Men said casually, “Nikomedes Minos has failed and must be recycled per the protocols governing a failed supplicant’s return.”

  “Fine,” Nikomedes growled, “you can recycle me, but honor is not irrelevant. Without it we are nothing but beasts of the field or sea,” he shouted defiantly, repeating the words he had heard from both Felix and Tacitus after having come to fully realize what they had meant, “and I am no beast. That is why I will accept my punishment now: because I failed to defeat the Starborn warlord after agreeing to cut down all who stood between Men and its directives,” he said stiffly, moving to the tube and knowing that the six steps between where he stood and the tube itself would certainly be the last of his life.

  Death was the only proper reward for a failure of this magnitude — a failure which had seen the legendary Minos Sword lost to the hand of a Starborn warrior and Nikomedes body ruined by that same warrior. In a way, he felt oddly at peace as he set foot inside the tube and turned around, bracing himself for an end which would likely be at least as horrifying as his Upload had been during his only other visit to the Forge of Men.

  Nikomedes laid his head back against the nearly vertical plank of metal which would likely hold his bones as a testament to the price of failing the god of his people. In that way he might at least serve some useful purpose to Men, who had given him everything he could have asked for and more before he had so spectacularly failed to do that which had been asked of him.

  “Clarify,” the Voice of Men said after several moments of tense silence while Nikomedes awaited his end, “Nikomedes Minos is directed to clarify his last statement prior to the commencement of the recycling process.”

  Nikomedes set his jaw, but knew that he needed to do as he had been instructed by the god of his people. “I have failed Men,” he said bitingly, “and I must face my punishment for that failure. I am not afraid—“

  “Emotionally-driven remarks of a defensive nature are irrelevant,” the Voice interrupted, and as it spoke its voice grew far louder than it had previously been. “Nikomedes Minos is directed
to clarify his previous statement without repeating remarks of this nature. The term ‘Starborn’ is unfamiliar to Us; clarify the intended meaning of this term prior to the commencement of the recycling process.”

  Nikomedes ground his teeth but would not refuse his god in these, his final moments. “The warriors from the River of Stars,” Nikomedes replied, suspecting that though Men was omniscient, it likely required a display of loyalty in order to better assess his genetic material, “arrived not long after I returned to Argos with the intent to carry out the directives I was given during my first visit to the Forge of Men. The people of Argos call them Starborn,” he explained, chipping a tooth as he clenched his jaw tightly shut and added, “and I was defeated by their leader. That is how I lost the Minos Sword and received my injuries.”

  “Clarify,” the Voice said, its voice having returned to its previous volume as the face of numbers and light seemed to express something akin to concern, “Nikomedes Minos will describe the subjects hereafter referred to as ‘Starborn’ in greater detail, including: number of Starborn; any modules of an unfamiliar nature brought by them; and detailed physical descriptions of the Starborn.”

  Nikomedes’ eyebrows rose as he sensed the barest trace of confusion in the Voice of Men. But he dared not speak in a disrespectful fashion in spite of the apparent oddness of Men’s curiosity. Men was the god of his people, and the knowledge of gods must necessarily exceed that of humans. Still, the dissonance he felt at the Voice’s insistence that he describe the Starborn left him uneasy as he drew a breath and prepared to answer his god’s question.

  “I only saw a dozen Starborn with my own eyes,” Nikomedes explained, “and most of them wore no armor, but carried strange weapons which resembled the one outside of the Inner Forge—the one hidden behind the metal panel, with the flashing lights near the end,” he added quickly, having long since decided that it had indeed been a weapon after seeing the unarmored warriors who accompanied Jason Montagne carry similar devices. “The Starborn are smaller than the men of this world, with only the armored warriors standing taller than a woman of average height from Argos, and some have dark brown skin and faces unlike anything I have seen.”

  There was a lengthy, taut silence which stretched on for several minutes as the face of Men on the pane of dark glass disappeared. It was immediately replaced with a blindingly fast stream of symbols and Nikomedes waited, silent and motionless on what he knew would be his death slab, until the face reappeared and the Voice of Men said, “Nikomedes Minos will describe the Starborn warlord, and the loss of the Minos Sword, in greater detail.”

  Nikomedes drew a sharp, surprised breath before replying, “He wore heavy armor of a type never described in any history I have read. It was far larger than even the most robust plate mail, and it was made of a strange, dark metal which was impervious to everything but the Minos Sword and Hypatios Nykator’s Light Sword of Power—“

  “Nikomedes Minos,” the Voice interrupted, “will update the status of subject Hypatios Nykator at this time.”

  Nikomedes cocked his head in confusion, since there was truly no way for his god to explain asking that particular question unless it was attempting to determine the truth of his words. But he pushed thoughts of doubt from his mind and said, “Hypatios Nykator was slain by the Starborn warlord after…” his words came to an unexpected halt as he actually found it difficult to say what he must, but he cleared his throat and added, “after I was defeated by the Starborn warlord.”

  “Nikomedes Minos will resume his previous descriptions,” the Voice instructed after a pregnant pause.

  Nikomedes faltered for a moment but quickly gathered his wits and continued, “The armor was nearly impervious, and it seemed to defy the laws of nature; the warlord leapt well over a meter into the air from a standing position, and his strength was beyond that of any mortal man.”

  “Nikomedes Minos will describe the Starborn warlord’s physical characteristics, beginning with facial geometry,” the Voice commanded.

  Nikomedes closed his eyes, where the ever-present, scar-faced visage of Jason Montagne had waited for him every time he so much as blinked. It was a face he could not forget, but it was one he would not wish to forget even if it was somehow possible to do so. His dreams had been filled with plots of revenge interspersed between re-enactments of his defeat at the Starborn warlord’s hand, and his words had filled Nikomedes’ thoughts each night when he prepared to sleep.

  Who’s the monkey now, pretty boy? the scar-faced warrior taunted over, and over, and over in Nikomedes’ mind.

  “Nikomedes Minos appears to have suffered excessive neural degeneration secondary to a subdural hematoma,” the Voice shook him from his reverie, snapping the dark room back into focus around him, “a continued exchange of information utilizing this medium is therefore deemed inadequate.”

  The far wall of the long, rectangular Inner Forge, located opposite the one he had entered through was lit by a pale, green glow. The light was dim at first, but intensified as a barely audible hum filled the air around him, and Nikomedes watched as that glowing, green wall began to stretch in either direction.

  He realized it was not stretching, but actually opening to reveal a passageway at the center, and the Voice of Men instructed, “Nikomedes Minos will now proceed to the Core.”

  “But…” Nikomedes began hesitantly without moving even a single muscle, “am I no longer to be recycled?”

  “The recycling of Nikomedes Minos’ organic materials remains a probable outcome,” the Voice replied, “but the commencement of that process will now be delayed until the transfer of information from Nikomedes Minos to Our databanks has been completed. Nikomedes Minos will now proceed to the Core.”

  Nikomedes slowly stepped off the cold slab of metal where he had been certain he would die at his god’s vengeful hand and made his way to the sickly green light which lit the top and bottom of the wall which had parted. He stepped through to find himself in a dark, spherical chamber with a metal plank stretching out before him for over ten meters. At the end of that plank was a circular platform in the center of the massive, sphere-shaped room, and the platform itself was glowing with the same sickly, green light as the wall behind him had done.

  “Nikomedes Minos will now approach the Core,” the Voice of Men instructed after he had stopped to gape at the flashing pinpoints of light which adorned the inner surface of the sphere. The lights seemed to spring into and out of existence like fireflies, but as they did so they created a nearly hypnotic effect as Nikomedes imagined the lights to be stars arranged in wholly unfamiliar constellations.

  Gathering his wits, Nikomedes drug his ruined leg down the narrow plank of metal until arriving at the central platform. When he arrived, he beheld a sight so bizarre that he had no frame of reference for what he was seeing—well, he had no frame of reference for most of what he was seeing.

  In the center of the five meter wide, circular platform was a truly massive spire of crystal measuring nearly a meter across and three meters tall. It was the source of the pale, green light which, aside from the twinkling pinpoints on the curved wall around him, provided the sole source of illumination in the chamber.

  That crystal had several smaller crystals arrayed around its base, and lodged within one of these crystals—a crystal which was dark and opaque, unlike the rest of the crystalline structure’s clear surface—was some sort of sword.

  “Nikomedes Minos will sit at the indicated terminal and place his hands on the lit panels,” the Voice commanded, and Nikomedes tore his eyes from the giant crystal before him as a flash of light appeared in his peripheral vision.

  There was a trio of equidistantly spaced benches, or tables, on the round walkway surrounding the crystalline structure. Each had a minimal looking, almost stool-like chair made of a seamless sheet of gently-curving metal before it. One of those benches had a pair of square-shaped, flashing lights spaced a foot or so apart, and Nikomedes approached the bench. He sat in
the chair, and as he did so he warily eyed a long, spindly piece of metal with a large, bowl-shaped apparatus on the end of it which rested motionless on the bench itself.

  He reached out haltingly before placing his hands on the panels, and immediately after he had done so the entire bench sprang to life with lights every shade of the rainbow criss-crossing the flat surface. Those lights were accompanied by more of the unfamiliar symbols like the ones which had formed the face in the Inner Forge—a face which was no longer present within this strange, clearly hallowed sanctum of Men which the Voice had called ‘the Core.’

  But his hands quickly turned cold, and before he realized what had happened he looked down to see them encased in a block of what seemed to be ice, or possibly crystal like that which stood imperiously before him.

  “What is this?” Nikomedes asked, fighting to keep the fear which had sprung to the fore of his mind out of his voice.

  “Nikomedes Minos has experienced severe neurological trauma,” the Voice explained, and as it did so the giant crystal before him pulsated in rhythm with its voice, “and this trauma has made the verbal conveyance of information unreliable. We will now directly extract the organically-coded information from Nikomedes Minos’ central nervous system.”

  “What do you mean?” Nikomedes asked as the long, spindly arm of metal with the bowl-shaped device on the end slowly rose from its dormant position and turned toward him. He tried to extricate himself, but the icy prison in which his hands were now trapped was unyielding. He moved his head to the left, but the bowl-shaped device perfectly matched his movement, and when he abruptly juked to the right it did the same with unerring precision.

  “Nikomedes Minos will now undergo complete Upload,” the Voice explained as a sliver of malevolent, red light appeared within the bowl-shaped device.