by Exurb1a
“Take care of the thing…”
Io nodded. “That’s the plan. Hare?”
Sounds fine, Hare wrote in dust letters. Then more words followed in a foreign language, the looping scrawls of Ertian.
The text read something close to: Or we wait for the battle to play out and don’t interfere. Sar Meto will use the gravity device, destroying the Al’Hazaadian anyway. Then we fire the materia device and complete the mission.
In Ertian Io said, “If we don’t, what weaknesses do Al’Hazaadian fighters have?”
Unknown. There appears to be only one of them though.
Io scrutinised the sun. It hung to the east, unassuming.
A million years from now it would still occupy the sky, though its temperament — she realised — would depend entirely on the next hour.
Bashta, she thought. I wish you were here.
And a voice did indeed reply, though it was not Majister Denyer’s, but Hare’s: The core of heroism isn’t bravery, or even self-sacrifice. It is a commitment to what one knows to be the virtuous course of action, despite whatever the consequences may be.
A single, enormous flare left the nozzle of a Glossian cannon and arced silently through the afternoon. It passed the balloons, soared over the battle creatures below, and exploded into Tarnovo, setting the Mathematics Faculty alight. A group of soldiers ignited, diving into the water.
Kappa woke from a long sleep. Much had changed. His friends were rearranged. Some were farther. Some were nearer.
Listen… A voice said. This is Iota.
Kappa said, What do you want?
We need your judgment.
Kappa could not yawn, but He performed an action we might associate with such a thing. He said, What is it?
Iota explained the situation slowly and carefully, sparing no detail.
Kappa considered the matter.
Kappa looked out at the black.
Kappa tried to find the line between the things that were Him and the things that were not Him. There was no obvious divide.
Several hundred years of contemplation elapsed. Finally Kappa said, I am not certain about how to proceed.
Iota said, You will need to decide. Time is running short.
Kappa said, Is there any more information to the thing?
Iota said, Your former lovers and friends are all in favour of preservation. I am in favour of preservation.
Kappa said, What is the argument against preservation?
Iota said, Novelty. Newness. Changing of the paradigm. New geometries. New frontiers. Possible extinction for all things. Possible immortality for all things.
Kappa said, Can no one be sure?
Iota said, No one can be sure. Such is a new approach.
Back when the carbon creatures had their presence in the galaxy, Kappa liked to listen to their communications. There was a phrase the carbon units often used, something to do with a certain meal being impossible to construct without cracking open the shells of the unborn offspring of chickens.
Or, Kappa thought, a little novelty for a lot of entropy.
Finally Kappa said, Until we know more about what the change will entail, I am in favour of preservation of the current order of all things.
Iota said, Good.
Kappa said, What will happen next?
Iota said, We are waiting on a final vote.
Kappa said, Whose?
Iota said, A little one. They are being born as we speak.
Part of the bridge was on fire. Radar was non-operational. The cartographic equipment was a pile of charcoal. The navigator and the engine captain were both lying dead on the floor. The rest of the bridge hadn’t apparently noticed as the room was still a flurry of activity, the steerage woman holding course, the strategy man directing the balloons and cannons, orderlies running in and out with messages and coordinates.
Meto sat in the saral chair, his gaze fixed on Glossia, pausing only to yell commands and take sips of chacha. The older members of the bridge crew eyed his bottle and said nothing.
“All balloons to bombing formation,” Meto slurred.
The strategy man said, “Sir, all payloads have been dropped.”
“Then have them board.”
“They’re grossly underequipped, sir. They’ve no—”
Meto threw the chacha bottle at the strategy man, belched, yelled, “Dare you what, you shit?”
The strategy man gave the order for the balloons to board.
The raft rocked to the left suddenly. Meto grabbed his armrests. “The hell was that?”
“They’re ramming us, sir,” the generalbody said. “Their war creatures, I mean.”
“Let them come. Fix the cannons on their bridge. And find me that fucking sphere.”
The cannons fired. The shots were disintegrated long before reaching Glossia by some kind of field.
Glossia drew nearer.
The faces of Glossian soldiers were clearly visible at this distance now. One could almost make out the creases on their uniforms, the flags on their shoulders. And on the bridge, Meto could see now, was a man with dark hair and dark eyes, tall, absurdly tall, thin, absurdly thin; not moving, not speaking, only watching.
“All fire on the bridge!” Meto screamed.
The cannons were shot. The shots were disintegrated.
“Again!”
The cannons were shot. The shots were disintegrated.
He shouted for a new bottle of chacha and it was brought. He took seven or eight long swigs. He wiped his mouth. To the radio man he said, “Radio down to the bilge. See that the gravity machine is in order.”
The radio man said quietly, “I have already done so, sir. It is.”
Meto stood. He dusted off his robe. He swayed. He thought of his father.
He stepped up to the war balcony, peered over. More creatures were being released from Glossia’s war decks.
He had darkly imagined this moment often, as one who carries poison with him might. Only with this poison, he thought, everyone would drink the thing.
He felt a hollowness in the past and in the future. He sniggered. He thought, I’m not evil enough to be a tyrant. Nor am I good enough to be a good man. I’ve failed superbly.
He made the hand signal for the strategy man to join him at the war balcony. The strategy man came.
Meto said, “Do you believe it’s time?”
The strategy man said, “There’s no hope of winning the battle, sir.”
“Do you believe it’s time then?”
Gravely: “Yes.”
“See it’s done.”
Meto re-entered the bridge and took his chair. The shelling continued. The war alarm still sounded. He composed a speech in his mind. He felt he should quote some poetry but he knew no poetry.
The radio man spoke on the telephone for a long time. He put the telephone down. He came to Meto’s side. “Sir, there’s a problem with the gravity device.”
“What is it?”
“The mechanism is…it appears to have been sabotaged.”
“Sabotaged?”
“The thermic couplings, they’re—”
Meto pushed him aside and waddled for the door. He shouted behind him, “Throw everything we have at the bastards.”
Despite the chaos and the noise and the constant running, running, running from corridor to corridor, the soldiers and citizens all bowed to Meto as he passed, waiting until he had gone before breaking back into a sprint, to their homes, to the barracks, to the war decks.
He descended the main staircase with a clomping shuffle, his fat hips aching beneath the robes. He passed the faculties, the factories, the crèches, making sure not to meet eyes with those inside as they waited for their fate. A deafening explosion sounded from the bridge.
Fire erupted above. Screams.
Meto continued to walk. A few more decks exploded overhead.
Finally he reached the personnel elevator. There was no one to operate it so he operated it himself. Th
e cage rocked back and forth as it descended. It passed the Astronomy Deck and there he saw two familiar figures. He halted the elevator, sent it back up a few feet.
Tisho and Io Clements were sat around a piece of equipment. Tisho stood to greet him.
Meto said, “What is going on?”
“We’ve dismantled the main drive mechanism. The gravity engine won’t fire. We’ll win the battle by combat, not mass-suicide.”
“Win? We’re done. We’re done!”
Io was fiddling with a contraption of some kind. It looked like a small cannon, though fatter and with no moving parts. She was aiming it up through the main telescope shaft. The telescope, Meto noticed, was now on its side in the corner.
“What is all this?” Meto barked. He glared at his brother. “What is all this, you shit?” He raised a fat fist.
Io murmured something. Her sphere shot at Meto and exploded into a sheet of dust, inches from his face. Meto gasped.
“Step back from him, please,” Io said quietly.
“When did you start giving orders?”
“I don’t enjoy it, sir. But the battle is bigger than you and I, and in this one instance I’m afraid I know better regarding a number of matters.”
Meto yelled, “What is all this about, hell damnit?”
Tisho did not meet his eyes. He said, “Head back to the bridge. They need you there. If the raft is going under, better you’re overseeing things.”
Meto’s lower lip curled. His eyes were wide. “Are you giving the orders now too, little brother?”
“No.”
“The irony. Think of it. You killed mother with your birth. You’re going to kill Tarnovo with your stupidity. You’re worms. Both of you. You’re scum. You’re mud, less than mud.”
Tisho recalled the two of them having breakfast together, he and Meto, alone. Father had been on the bridge, still withdrawn and cold even after the many years that had elapsed since Mother’s death. But Meto was kind then. He cooked for the two of them sometimes. He stole sweets from the confectionary and gave Tisho half always.
It was not possible to point to a precise time when the boy’s behaviour had changed. It had been a slide of gradual increments; the more power Meto accrued, the more he held himself to some measure of malice in his own mind, the constant obsession with outdoing their father.
Tisho said, “There’s a bigger war going on. Go back to the bridge, all right?”
Meto went to shout but something crashed through the wall, a gigantic white sphere. The sphere dissolved to a disc and inside stood a man; dark-eyed, smiling politely. He brushed himself off. He called his sphere to his side in Al’Hazaadian. He said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ha’Izaak.”
Guided purely by Io’s will then, Hare shot at him, a whirling gale of dust. Ha’Izaak’s own sphere parried the dust. Both spheres formed a cloud of static chaos, each particle matched with every other—neither able to move.
Meto cowered.
Ha’Izaak said, “Hi Ertian. Want to talk?”
Io said, “Do you have any other weapons?”
“You have my word I won’t use them. Actually, I could just kill the fat king here anyway.”
He beckoned her with a universal Ertia-Al’Hazaad gesture, something close to: Let’s make a bargain.
He made the ritual invitation of switching to Mandala. She agreed.
He began. Peace. What is peace? Mutual benefit. If both sides will not agree on a mutual benefit then there is no peace.
Io responded, No mutual benefit for us. You murder. You've murdered.
Ha’Izaak said, True, true!
Io said, You’re in the service of the Black Ruby Stars.
Ha’Izaak said, Be accurate. They’re not all stars. Some are nebulae. Some are gas giants. Some are other things. Nor am I in their service, but rather I perform favours. They cannot travel as fast as us little flesh bags, you see.
Io said, You don’t even understand what it is they want.
Ha’Izaak said, Oh, but I do. They will build a great geometric machine. They will change the base constants of the black.
Io said, And then?
Ha’Izaak said, To create a living universe. One in which all things are awake. A great, singular field of I, me, my.
Io said, You’re being lied to. Ertia disproved the Absolute Cognition Hypothesis long ago. The Black Ruby Stars are abolitionists. They think sentience is suffering and they want to rid the black of it.
Ha’Izaak said, No.
Io said, Yes. They were bent that way when they were created, by foul folk at the end of the Old Empire, philosophers who despised life, misguided idiots who had never loved or been loved. They appointed themselves as the arbiters of humanity. They decreed that all things were empty and fruitless. They asserted that meaning was a distraction from the abyss. They were wrong. They were wrong! Why are you here, Ha’Izaak? What drove you to Morae? A purpose. A calling. I believe you to be misguided, but you are a machine driven by meaning as we all are. These folk who’ve tasked you with what you intend to do now, they’re bent. They’re broken. They are yet another link in the millennia-old chain of people who think chess a stupid game and so aim to flip the board over. You don’t have to do this. We are deciding something here, now, exactly now; it will determine the lives of thousands of generations to come. Or even if they should come at all. You don’t have to do this. Please. We’ll fire the materia cannon and turn the star in the right direction. Then we’ll return to our system, together.
Ha’Izaak made the gesture for: ‘Flagrant Bullshit.’ I do not agree. And there is no way to prove to me otherwise. He made another gesture to state that their premises drastically disagreed and there was no point continuing.
Io spoke to Hare mentally. Can you spare one particle? She said.
Hare said, Yes, but if it breaks away then one of Ixtab’s particles will be free also.
Fine, Io said. Please follow the next instructions carefully.
Io signed to Ha’Izaak, There’s no progress to be made. Shall we proceed with the next act in our play?
Ha’Izaak said, Let’s proceed then.
A single mote of Hare’s dust left the two entangled spheres and shot at Ha'Izaak, entering his eye. The particle looped back on itself, scooping out his retina, then going back down the optic nerve and ripping it from the tissue. He cried out. With a hand gesture he activated some kind of defence field and the particle was repelled, leaving through his cheek. His face spewed blood.
Ixtab’s one free particle shot at Tisho. It entered his skull, hunting for his brain.
End him, Ha’Izaak cried out in his mind. End him, then end the king and end that Ertian hag.
There was a pause from Ixtab. The sphere said, I cannot locate the brain.
What?
There is no brain.
Ha’Izaak roared.
Tisho did not seem particularly bothered by Ha’Izaak’s battle yell. Instead he turned to the Al’Hazaadian and watched him thoughtfully a moment.
Stop the mechanism, Ha’Izaak screamed mentally. Ignore the stalemate.
Ixtab broke from the dust battle, forced through Hare’s dust, and raced for the cannon. Simultaneously Hare pushed ahead also, racing at Ha’Izaak. Ha’Izaak put up his hands.
Ixtab passed straight through the materia cannon, looped around, tried again, failed again.
Hare was not in a great hurry to cut Ha’Izaak down. She let him witness the spectacle, paused inches from his face.
What is happening? Ha’Izaak whispered mentally.
Hare said, Another sphere accompanied us here belonging to Majister Denyer. The sphere’s name is Phaedrus. He is very good at projections.
Where? Ha’Izaak yelled inwardly. Where are they?
He turned about, squinting through portholes, spotted them finally. The genuine Tisho and Io were sat on the roof of their subnautical perhaps half a kilometre away, the materia cannon glowing brightly green before them. On the Astro
nomy Deck, their sphere facsimiles melted back into mere dust again.
Phaedrus, reformed now, flew at Ixtab, neutralising her in dust-equilibrium.
Io thought, Fire. The materia cannon fired.
A burst of plasma exited the cannon and arced up into the daylight. In a moment it would leave the atmosphere. There would be a brief passage across space, crossing radiation belts. Then it would meet with the radiation of the star called Beelzesh. It would be welcomed into the corona of the star. Its work would not be finished for some hours, but even in those first few moments, the process of activating the latent materia left within the star by the ancestors those thousands of years ago would have begun. Beneath the complexity, beneath the mechanisms, at the heart of the materia was a coded command that would be amplified within the star: Be awake, be good, be awake, be good, be awake, be good...
Mentally Io said, There, it’s done.
Ha’Izaak did not shield his mind now. Tidal waves of grim regret and foreboding poured out of him.
Io said, Do you concede? You can live if you like.
I don't wish it, Ha’Izaak said.
It took Hare not three seconds to reduce him to a fine powder.
Somewhere amid the ink dark of space, if one were searching carefully enough with a very powerful telescope, could be found a sphere. It was occupied by two humans. They floated freely, arms and legs dangling. Behind, Morae was pulling away.
Tisho had said nothing during the launch, only watched intently, mouth open. Out of orbit now though, Io said, “It will be about an hour until ribbondash. Think you can stuff your eyes in the meantime?”
He nodded.
What a strange few weeks it had been. The first two days consisted of a fever of funerals, for soldiers, for civilians, for Glossians and Tarnovans. There’d been no anger, not when the thing was explained. Or, explained to the degree that most would understand it anyway; that a madman had come from the black and sought to set the world against itself. The Fifth aspect was only mentioned in passing by Io. Tarnovo’s academics would introduce the public to the thing gradually.
Meto had confined himself to his quarters, leaving Dr. Alexander to the position of administrating the various raft matters. Glossia would sail alongside for a few weeks making repairs. Perhaps, Dr. Alexander had murmured, an alliance could be formed.