by Odin Oxthorn
“I—what?” His perplexed gaze followed her down the stairs.
“I am leaving to meet with Bellanar before he comes looking for me.” She punched the door control. “Entertain yourself until the translator comes for you.”
“Oh—” The door snapped shut behind her, leaving him alone in the hostile domicile. “Okay.”
##2.2##
The soft light shining down from the stained-glass windows illuminated Nara’s quest for knowledge, a glittering mimicry of the foliage surrounding the towering wooden form of the Capital Master Archive. Delicate inky washes of greens and purples danced over the words she pondered as the greenery swayed, teasing the sun with its tenuous obstruction.
This was her favored sanctuary, surrounded by the most rigid order of tomes spanning eternity, far away from prying eyes of the populace. Bookcases curled up to the ceiling, imitating the organic forms of trees, stretching out their branches to offer their wisdom to visitors. The landscape was quietly attended to by a battalion of scribes who maintained the golden rule of peace and neutrality, their fealty sworn to the books.
Nara took shelter in a hideout carved into the tower, a haven of wooden reading tables and cushions large enough to be used as seating. Murals were hand painted over the walls of the bubble, artistic interpretations of plant life that opened to scenes from history. Recreations of life before the recorded eras, how the ancient tribes managed to survive despite the hostile force of nature fighting against them with their armored minions.
She reached over to the service machine and ordered another cup of tea, taking in the warmth as the heady steam rose to her face. Once in a while, her mind could unhinge its claws on reality and pretend to relax. All it took was the right environment.
But her solace was quickly shattered by a presence hastily climbing the ladder to her refuge. Bellanar pulled himself into the grotto, sliding onto a plush cushion across from her.
“Thank you for taking the time to—”
“Out with it. Now,” Nara snapped.
“Certainly. While I don’t have concrete evidence” —Bellanar rotated his wrists, steeling himself for his account— “I don’t think Abberon is on the planet.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit.” She leaned back in her seat, watching the curious scribe fidget.
“I have a suspicion, just a small one, that they have been actively talking to GaPFed.” He hesitated, wincing as he pushed the conclusion from his lips. “For decades…”
She drank in a weighted mass of air, cleansing the instinctive anger from her body. It was the most logical conclusion, and if true, it would reveal the motivations for the events that took place under her reign. And her deposition.
But what was done in the past cannot be corrected, and avoiding bloodshed now was what mattered the most. Theory had to be a certainty before she could act.
“Suspicion is a dangerous resource to tangle in, Scribe.” She drummed her fingers against the gnarled wooden reading desk.
“Understood. But I’ve been poking through some” —Bellanar raised a finger, shifting his glance around the room— “places lately, and I think I am on to something.”
“Officially” —she folded her arms and gave him a look of warning— “I must advise that you take no action upon your findings.”
“But—”
“O–fi–cial–ly.” Nara narrowed her eyes, waiting for the scribe to come to his senses.
“Yes, right. I see.” Bellanar stood and bowed. “Thank you for your guidance, Savant.”
“Safe hunting, Bellanar.” She sipped her tea, watching the leaves dance around the bottom of the cup. The scribe took the hint and scurried off, leaving her in the quiet company of the tomes.
Chapter 3
##3.0##
Left alone with his sensibilities, Garrett pushed back the need to decrypt the entirety of his situation and focused on the singular challenge waiting for him in the bathroom.
He rubbed his chin as he glared at the control panel, swiping through the puzzling symbols and digital buttons to coerce them to reveal their secrets. A stream of contemplative noises burbled in his throat as he tried to hammer the flourished alphabet into Trade lettering. But it was no use. The languages were simply incomparable.
He passed a finger around the edge of the screen until a slider control revealed itself, a candy-bright gradient shifting between red and blue. With a tentative tap, he beckoned the cursor toward the center of the two extremes.
A cheery yet clamorous ring blared through the room, whipping his nerves to a riotous start. Garrett frantically looked around for the source of the disturbance. With a head scratch, he turned to the console questioningly. Did I do something?
The house belted another cry, berating his eardrums with the jaunty tone. He stepped out of the bathroom and turned toward the stairs, where the seam of the front door blinked with a gentle radiance.
Great. I’m covered in grime, I smell awful, and now there are strangers at the door. He sighed, heading back to the accursed device. Maybe they’ll go away.
The unknown stranger persisted, sending waves of domestic summons battering against his brain. With each ring, his concentration decayed, amplifying his frustration against the tenacious puzzle.
Aw, hell. He flicked on the sink and splashed water over his face, slicking back his disheveled hair into a semblance of controlled chaos. After scrubbing dry with the tail of his shirt, he hastened down the stairs.
The door obeyed as he slapped the control, opening to reveal a bright-eyed Ara’yulthr beaming down on him. Their aura bubbled with a pervasive cheery vigor, and their unsettlingly welcoming grin radiated beyond the confines of the apartment.
“Uh. Ah, shit. I don’t speak… Nar–Er… E–Elam isn’t here.” Garrett pointed down at the floor and shook his head vigorously, maintaining eye contact in hopes the glowing stranger would understand him.
“I am here for you, actually,” the visitor said in fluent Trade. Their sweetened voice somehow emphasized the force of their personality. “Loremaster sent me here to collect you.”
“Oh! Sure, right. Do forgive me. I am a little out of sorts.”
“Do not apologize. What you are feeling is completely understandable.” They nodded, their smile widening so far that their cheeks pushed their eyes shut. “My name is unpronounceable to human anatomy, but it roughly translates to Data Prism in Trade. But you can simply call me Prism.”
“I’m sure I can—”
“Nonsense, Ambassador! Come along. Loremaster tells me you are very interested in learning more about our culture, and we have a lot to cover. If you could please follow me.”
“Ambass—what? I think there’s been a mist—” The stranger disregarded his protest, a multitude of tanzanite braids threatening to lash out at him as they sharply turned around. Their hair undulated with a gay rhythm as they retreated, brushing over their hips in time to their bouncy march. He ran to catch up with them, blindsided by their assertive friendliness.
He was led outside the compound to their vehicle, a modest craft that resembled the air cars in Arcadia, but much less flashy than what the luxury brands back home offered. And considerably more armored. As Prism approached, the craft opened its passenger door, permitting access to the dark-paneled interior. With an emphatic wave of their hand, they ushered him inside, their smile never fading as they watched him assess the craft.
“Now let’s begin with the correct address of anyone you meet here.” Prism hopped into the flight seat. “Despite many people speaking Trade here, it is most respectful to convert your words to conform with our practices.”
“Of course—” Garrett’s reply was battered aside by the flow of conversation.
“We do not have gendered pronouns in our language. Ours are solely based on our job descriptions. Though many people have adapted to Trade pronouns, you should only use them with permission. So, for example, you may refer to me in the third person as ‘they,’ or ‘kv’a
i,’ since I am a scribe.” Through their explanation, Prism conducted a concerto of commands at the controls of the vehicle. “If you do not know the job of an individual, you can call them ‘Serr,’ which literally translates to ‘student’ but is also known as a ‘person’ in the formal sense. Pronouns also work as prefixes, like Mr. in Trade and so forth.”
After sending the craft into the sky, Prism swiftly rotated the pilot seat to face Garrett, lips pursed into an expectant smile. Their unblinking eyes trained on him, removing any opportunity to sneak a glance at the beauty of the landscape surrounding them.
His throat spasmed as he submitted to the implied request. “Uh. S–Ser?”
“Yes, roll the ‘R’ a little.” They twirled a finger through the air as Garrett struggled with a second attempt. “Good!”
He squirmed in his seat, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the quirkiness of his captor, unable to discern condescension from their unflappable enthusiasm. Gathering his mettle, he hesitantly stitched pieces of logic together from the few conversations he had heard between Nara and her kindred, attempting to sound more intelligent than what his presence implied. “Qu’ol Fariem?”
“Ah! Very good!” Prism clapped their hands together. “Qu’ol Fariem is part of the science division, so qu’ol is their pronoun. There are others that describe a person’s specific discipline within their field, but unless you know that ahead of time, the umbrella term is just fine.”
Their impeccably vertical posture made Garrett self-aware of his own awkward position, and he abruptly corrected his seating. He remained silent as he waited for Prism to continue, folding his limbs to display his attention and a hint of irritation.
“You might be called ‘Ahm’Serr.” They leaned back in their seat, tilting their head curiously as they analyzed his new arrangement. “Which means ‘unfamiliar,’ or ‘foreigner’.”
Garrett nodded in affirmation, picking up a shift in their tone. Perhaps there was a nonverbal aspect to the Ara’yulthr communication methods. In the short time he had known Nara, he’d never noticed any strange nuances in her speech, but then again, he would not have known what to look for.
He made a conscious attempt to control his movement, hiding his bewilderment behind a neutral wall of pleasantry—a parlor trick he was especially skilled at from being raised in the glimmering oily seas of Arcadia’s upper echelons.
“I don’t think you will encounter anyone from the military regimes, but for the sake of consistency, their pronouns are ‘Sci’ith’ unless you are aware of their ranking.” Prism gave a nod. “A little harder on the tongue, but you should be understood.”
“I see.” Garrett remained still, taking care not to broadcast his frazzled state.
“Ah! Here we are.” They gestured to the window. “The Capital Master Archives.”
The transport delicately settled at the feet of a towering monolith crafted from archaic materials akin to concrete and steel. Like its hyper-modern successors, it was artfully sculpted to imitate the surrounding forests. The porous material was etched with furrows of simulated bark tracing splintering paths around the artificial trunk.
The tower branched out in glassed walkways that gently dipped to the surrounding canopy of scintillating treetops. It was a symbiotic relationship, the foliage welcoming the artificial invader with its webbed embrace, climbing the winding structure to gain aerial advantage over its neighbors and drink in the sun’s rays.
Prism escorted Garrett out of the vehicle and toward the building, stopping several meters in front of the trunk. Strands of ruby scattered from a collection of curious metal gadgets perforating the earth. With a swirl of their fingers, the tongues whipped aside, splitting to form an outline of empty air stretching just above Prism’s head. They waved Garrett through the ghostly barrier, their pervasive smile broadening as they awaited his reaction.
A set of intricately carved wooden doors guarded the entrance. Reliefs of geometric leaves and vines traced the borders, seamlessly extending into the living ivy that fed on the walls. The gate slowly creaked open as the visitors approached, revealing the magnificent vault of records. Rows upon rows of wooden bookcases lined the literary haven, matching the aesthetic with their twisting, bark-coated forms.
“This is amazing,” Garrett breathed. He delighted in the sound of his footsteps, the soft click of his boots over the tessellated mosaic of mint green leaves. Each tile was bordered in bronze filigree, creating a scintillating net stretching over the floor.
“These are all duplicates. The majority of information is kept in bunkers scattered all over the planet,” Prism explained. “Everything has multiple redundant copies, reproduced in the five most recent digital formats, sometimes more if there are important versions in the middle of the development lifespan. Plus the originals, and a duplicate of the primary format. Analog books, for example, are often copied using traditional techniques.”
“That is quite thorough.”
“Yes, it’s certainly a labor-intensive task to maintain.” Prism nodded excitedly. “Most everything is stored on cloud servers, and should something happen to this branch, others can easily piece together any missing information.”
“Has anything ever happened to the library?” His heart seized at the thought of such precious information reduced to dust.
“Not to such a catastrophic scale, but it’s ingrained in our culture to protect anything we create,” they pointed out. “It’s a habit we developed from our ancestors. They had to contest with the wildlife to preserve settlements, and I suppose it’s just something we never grew out of.”
“I see.” Garrett’s attention wandered to a curious gathering of beings, smaller Ara’yulthr people but with a striking physical characteristic contrast to any other he had encountered. Their skin was pigmented with a muted collection of pastel colors, each individual presenting a spectrum of greens, blues, and purples, coordinating with the foliage outside. Not a single chitinous plate ruptured the surface of their smooth arms, save for a few of the larger, presumably older individuals who possessed a hint of shadow tracing over their muscles.
“Ah, class is in session!” Prism smirked at the human’s curiosity.
The students sat motionless as they absorbed the lecture presented by an elder scribe who gestured at the projection screen plastered with a network of diagrams and text. Images of the world cycled through the views, displaying the landmasses in a vibrant gradient that marked the borders of each climate zone.
“I wonder what color Nara was as a child?” Garett thought out loud as he watched the lesson.
Prism suddenly froze, the human’s curiosity melting the grin from their face. Their lips twitched as they stammered a reply, nervously brushing at their uniform. “Yes, well, perhaps Savant Elam could elucidate on that subject.”
Garrett scrunched his face, watching Prism fervently search through the archive bookshelves. Savant? “Is something the matter?”
“Not at all!” They coughed, quickly pointing toward the information labyrinth. “Ah! Perhaps this would be of interest. You have simulation games in Arcadia, don’t you?”
“Sure.” He raised a suspicious eyebrow as he was led deeper through the archive.
“We have something similar here. It’s what we do for leisure while also training ourselves for combat, since there is never any conflict that requires bloodshed.” They pinched the edge of a shelf, pulling open a screen over the digital tomes. “Present circumstances notwithstanding.”
The shelf glowed as the projection conjured a model of an Ara’yulthr standing with arms outstretched, a skintight material covering every inch of their flesh. Dotted arrows jabbed at the subject as words raced across the screen.
“These are the immersion suits that are worn by all players for the entire duration of the games.” The annotations morphed into Trade with Prism’s requesting prods. “They spend the entire campaign living inside continent-sized arenas, which work in synch with the suits to construct a
hyper-realistic simulation of a battlefield scenario.”
The figure dissolved on the screen, replaced by an overhead view of a bubble-like structure that surpassed the borders of a landmass. Segments of the walls broke apart in hexagonal tiles, layers of material separating to showcase the composition of the structure.
“Each clan pits against each other in a tiered tournament battle. The bracket takes one year, then another year of rest before the next tier proceeds. The winners move on while the defeated spend time training for the next war they qualify in. However, the final tier can take as long as it needs to until the objective is completed.”
The perspective shifted to display the world map, now divided into thirteen brightly colored regions. In a swirling dance, the countries popped out of the map and organized themselves in a pair of parallel lines. The odd region splintered off from the screen, waiting patiently for its challenger in the next tier.
“It’s quite a fascinating system, actually. Military programmers work alongside scientific researchers to ensure an accurate simulation of every aspect of war, from sickness and injuries to environmental hazards.” Prism paused to flip through equipment loadouts. Fierce-looking rifles and armaments rotated over the screen. “All of which are procedurally generated to keep one side from having an advantage over the other and keep the warlords thinking on their feet.”
Injuries? Garrett watched the implements of destruction move across his view. “This is a game, right?”
“Certainly! It’s even broadcast across the planet networks for everyone to see. It’s quite a popular spectacle.”
“Can we watch one of the games?”
“I think I can oblige that.” Prism emphatically nodded. “But since a tournament can span over years, even decades, we’ll just look at some highlights and the winning end results.”