by Odin Oxthorn
Maybe it was because he left home in a volley of gunfire, never having the chance to tie loose ends before careening halfway through the galaxy and dumped in a new environment without any guidance or time to breathe. He never had these issues when exploring the Undercity. Was that all that was bothering him? The façade of choice?
He looked up at Prism’s expectant gaze, their smile slightly dimmed in concern for the strange human’s behavior. It wasn’t fair to take out his bitterness on them.
“Tell me, when did Xannat and Ӧtmarr come into play?”
“Ahh!” Prism perked up and clapped their hands together. “What an excellent question. Let me pull up something for you!”
He restrained a whimper at the thought of watching another video but was glad to see Prism navigate through still images from across the internet.
They poked at a few examples on the screen to bring them into focus, spreading their fingertips to increase the size. “What do you know about them?”
“Elam told me that Xannat was the force of luck, and Ӧtmarr represented the power of the individual. Like knowledge of consequences through action. Something like that.”
“Correct!” Prism dragged over an image of a bas relief carved into stone. Two Ara’yulthr at crossed blades stood in the center, inside a motif decorated with jagged flora bordering the frame. The combatants’ stony, unwavering expressions displayed the force that they exerted, neither one overtaking the other.
“These stones came from older libraries, but more archaic iconography have been found on rocks and pebbles left in the middle of fields. They were most likely charms used to mark milestones, or risky choices taken by gatherers embarking on a strenuous journey, hoping to find guidance.” They pulled up another image of a collection of worry stones carved with the figures. “The two characters are referenced all the way since pre-recorded times and were personified to represent the inexplicable, everything that they had no control over. Much like every culture.”
Garrett examined the carving, wanting to reach up at the screen and feel the texture of the stone. He admired the artwork, the patterns and theme reflecting a similar aesthetic to the interior of the library. Seeing all the examples in their various stages let him draw conclusions about the development of the art style.
“Lots of excavations have given us knowledge on how their icons were given homage,” Prism continued. “Some pictographs are carved into armor and weaponry, even on plating found in gravesites.”
“I see.”
“However, the mention of Xannat predated Ӧtmarr, according to historical record. Xannat was a centralized figure that covered anything and everything we could not comprehend at the time. Ӧtmarr came into view later, being the force that we can decide upon. They are often depicted at arms, and their stories often speak of long drawn-out battles that span eons. But in the end, Xannat always overcomes.”
“Interesting.”
“I am fascinated by the metaphor, personally.” Prism hummed merrily, tracing the figures on the screen. “While the characters themselves are nondescript, it puts the struggle of life in a relatable perspective. You can choose to fight to get where you want or let destiny take the reins. But as long as you have that fight within you, you can achieve so much more.”
Their words poked at Garrett’s cynicism. The same sentiments could be used to describe his own worldview. But he had a hard time with Prism’s description of life as a struggle. While he did grow up in a place of privilege and had his fair share of trials, he had witnessed others who did not have to struggle. And, rarely, people who did not need to use the pain of others to sustain their lifestyle. Admittedly, they were few and far between.
Now that he considered it, he could only count the number of those individuals on one hand. Maybe struggle is a necessity, keeping people from dying of boredom. Perhaps it was Nara’s bitterness infecting him. She agreed with Prism’s analysis of life with more pointed words, however.
“Do people still pay homage to them?” he asked.
“It depends highly on the individual.” Prism shrugged. “Some speak of them as if they were living beings or deities. Some call them outside forces that influence everyday life. Others like to call them stories for entertainment. All are valid.”
“Hmm. I see.” His mind was drowning in existential dialogue, his eyes gazing vacantly into the distance.
“You must be tired. I think this is a good place to stop.” Prism examined his face with a smile. “Was there anything else I can do for you before I take you back to your residence?”
“Huh? Oh, yes.” He shook the nonsense from his head. “I wish to learn to read.”
“Oh, excellent!” Prism clapped their hands excitedly. “We have a mono vocal dialect for those who don’t have the anatomy to speak the language.”
Garrett stared blankly. “Mono vocal… what?”
“Our kind have two separate vocal organs in our throats that help us make the sounds that compose our language.” Prism traced a circle around their neck with a flutter of their hand. “Each one can be used independently of each other or at the same time. We can also adapt to mono vocal languages like Trade by using one or the other, so you may hear people speak differently depending on who they are talking to.”
Huh. I’ve only heard Nara speak in one voice, Garrett mused. Apart from when she’s yelling at something.
“I, uh, I think I will stick to reading for now.” He furrowed his eyebrows, daunted by the size of his task.
“Certainly!” They pressed a few commands on the computer hidden beneath a cushion. “I will have a few study materials sent to your home computer.”
“Thank you.”
“It was nothing, Ambassador.” They rose to their feet and bowed. “Please do let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
“I will,” he hesitantly promised.
##5.3##
After an uncomfortable trip filled with Prism’s hums and inner musings, Garrett entered the lab. He crept along the border of the workroom, hoping to slip by without disturbing the trio having a silent lunch.
“Loremaster left something for you, Human,” Fariem called to him, the summons jump starting his nerves.
“I—” Garrett looked over at them. “I have a name.”
They found the contents of their salad more interesting than the timid interloper. “Mm-hmm.”
Why are they like this? Their casual dismissal flushed his cheeks with irritation. First, Prism speaking to me like a toddler, then Fariem and their crew treating me like a disobedient pet. I know I am not an invited guest, but come on now!
He abruptly turned about-face. “All right, listen here. I may be a child in your apparently eternal perspective, but I will have you know that I am quite advanced for my age. And you should show some respect for someone from a race that has managed to stumble around the galaxy despite their shortcomings and squishy bodies.”
From the back corner of the room, Syf and Ki’nit raised their heads from their meals in unison, staring blankly at the protesting human.
“My name is Garrett.” He slammed a hand on the nearest desk. A grating crash of shattering glass punctuated his words as a measuring vessel bounced off the table and hit the metal floor.
The commotion caused a blob of material to blister out of the wall. An amorphous fluid formed a disc-like object that hovered over to the mess, sucking up the scintillating fragments with a tumult of clinks. With its task completed, it made its way over to the waste compressor, dumped its cargo, then melted into the countertop’s surface.
“And I will replace that as soon as I figure out what that was and where to order a new one,” Garrett insisted.
After a tense few seconds where he questioned his safety, Fariem snorted inside their drinking glass. The sound erupted into a cackling howl as the medic became incapacitated by laughter.
“All right, Garrett. You win.” They stood and headed over to a computer, waving him over. “Come here.”
>
“Right.” Before walking over to them, he cleansed his lungs from terror with a few deep breaths. He leaned in as Fariem slowly pressed a sequence of commands, glancing in his direction every so often to confirm that he understood the directions. They selected a measuring beaker from a grid of tools and pressed the Print command.
The dispenser on the wall gleamed with light then slid its door open, revealing a shining new beaker inside. Fariem took it in their hands and pointed it in his direction, brandishing an amused smirk.
Remorse wailed against his spirit, the outburst rippling against his thoughts. There was probably some cultural context he was missing, and it was unfair to be so quick to judge. “Thank you, and I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”
Fariem placed the beaker on the nearest table. “I will not keep you then, Garrett.”
He bowed and made a swift retreat for the apartment, a victorious smile twitching across his lips.
A strobing green light pulsed next to the doorframe, assaulting his vision as he stepped inside. A hinged metal box had grown out of the wall, blinking irritatingly to demand his attention.
He walked over and flipped the lid open, having to stand on his toes to get a look at the contents. Inside he found two antiquated tomes made of leather and paper and a gilded silver metal box about the size of a cigarette case.
He took the collection into the kitchen, soaking in the material of the elegantly bound books in his fingers. Golden thread stitched together the pages, decorating the spine with curling branches. The front cover was dyed in a deep maroon, devoid of inscription yet still beautiful. He gingerly opened the cover and savored the muted green pages inside, finding them silky to the touch.
As he flipped through the book, a note slipped out and fluttered to the floor. His name was written on it in a gorgeous fluid script. He unfolded it to find that it was written by Loremaster.
Greetings, Garrett.
Some like to take pleasure in using antique writing instruments and journals. I thought you would appreciate the hobby as well and shared with you a few of my favorite writing utensils. Each of the inks were made using vegetation available in the wild. I have also included two books, one that is blank and one with hand-written instructions on operating the computers as well as ordering food for your enjoyment.
Take Care, and I look forward to our next discussion,
Khuul’Ren
Garrett folded the note back into the journal and picked up the other tome. The inscriptions, while written in trade, had an elegant flourish to each character. There were photos of food organized in impeccably even grids along with their descriptions in basic, understandable terms.
This must have taken hours to complete, he thought, humbled by the generous gift. He moved his attention to the metal case, brushing a finger over the swirled engraving tracing around the borders. Windswept leaves danced over the metal, circling around a blossom of innumerable pointed petals. Each flora burst into its own show of fireworks, the etchings catching every bit of light in the room.
He delicately lifted the lid open, revealing five cylindrical tools. Four of them were made of a clear plastic material, and each had metal nibs ground in different widths and angles. The last tool was slimmer than its companions and made of a solid silvery metal. The nib was sharpened to a dangerous point, and the other end was almost tacky in substance. He paused to rub a fingertip on the point, finding the utensil giving off a chalky black pigment.
The pens were filled with the most vibrant inks he had ever seen. The black was a void of nothing, almost engulfing the surrounding light. While a marvel in itself, its companions were equally gorgeous, a vibrant ocean blue, a deep blood red, and an almost neon violet.
He had only seen images that referenced this style of writing, but nothing compared to how elegant this set was. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he sat down and opened to the first blank page, selecting a stylus to use. Now what?
Placing the pen back into its container, he decided he did not have a proper purpose for the books just yet. He closed the book. His weariness from the day’s events clouded his decision making. He flipped through the ordering menu, selecting something made with few ingredients and simple flavors, not feeling up to adventure. Bread and toasted cheese. What could go wrong?
The order came through, smelling more appetizing than what the description claimed. Yeasty grained aromas wafted through his senses as he took a bite, finding the toast thin and crispy, yet somehow dense to the tooth. Its sweetened flavor provided a nice contrast to the creamy fermented tang of the cheese. Dots of fruitiness studded the sandwich and pockets of dried berries toyed at his molars.
In addition to his full stomach, the day’s events finally weighed him down. He made his way upstairs to bed, trying not to think about who will contact him tomorrow.
Chapter 6
##6.0##
Cold, sterile air invaded his nostrils, the acrid tang of electronics shuddering his senses awake. Bellanar opened his eyes, only to find blackness obstructing his vision. He groaned and sat up, raising an exploratory hand while his eyes warmed up to the dark.
“Ahh. You are awake. Good.” A voice teased his ear from a distance. Unnervingly familiar.
What happened? Bellanar recalled. I broke in… found a terminal… some communications… then… oh dear, nothing at all.
“You have been lurking around my facilities for a while now, haven’t you? I do not think that is in your best interest.”
Abberon.
White light burst through the room with a clack, sending searing pangs to his brain. When the wave subsided, the vacant room revealed a clean white ceiling. Hexagonal black lines traced patterns of wires across its surface. The cold steel floor reflected spots of illumination, the polished chrome featureless and slick.
“You will forgive me if I do not attend to you personally, but I have an agenda with the strictest timeline.” Static bleating of electric light summoned an avatar of the denounced warlord looming over him. “But before I take my leave, I require something from you. Namely, what do you know about Savant’s intention? You were quite familiar with them, were you not?”
He knew of Elam’s return. I should have known. Bellanar kept his eyes on the blinding ground, refusing to respond.
“Is your memory failing you?” The hologram crouched to eye level, examining him curiously. “I am sure we can ignite a spark of it somewhere.”
The room stirred, emitting a soft murmur as five seams split apart in the wall revealing dark corridors. Faceless humanoids coated in blackened segmented material filed into the arena, each stretching out their arms to the sky, twisting and turning their torsos to loosen their muscles.
“I am sure this scenario is familiar to you.” The hologram glanced idly at their knuckles. “You see, my units would not possibly consent to more traditional means of information extraction. I have to resort to something… unconventional.”
The limbering rituals continued, nods exchanged as partners pulled at each other’s limbs, bending and straining in a novice acrobatic performance to prepare them for their activities.
“The halt of the games has done considerable damage to morale, so we improvised with a smaller scale training ground to keep everyone in peak fighting form.”
Bellanar stood up and approached one of the units, waving a hand in their face.
“They won’t recognize you. Their senses are impaired. In fact, your image will be concealed from them until the game begins.”
Bellanar glared at the taunting visage, reaching for the exposed clasp on one soldier’s neck.
“They have already been immersed in the simulation, and I would strongly advise against releasing them from their suits,” Abberon warned. “Unless you want their deaths on your conscience.”
The man was not bluffing. He was well aware of the extensive grounding cycles necessary to bring a player back to reality. A sudden emergency evacuation could kill if the proper precautions were no
t taken. By the ex-warlord’s tone, Bellanar knew there would be no assistance for them.
“I shall ask again. What is Savant planning?”
Bellanar closed his eyes and steeled himself, craning his neck from side to side.
“As you wish.” Abberon bowed then blinked away. “Happy hunting.”
The soldiers turned to Bellanar, suddenly aware of his presence. He seized what little time he had and cracked his fist against the closest person, then sprang back to distance himself from the closing circle.
An arm snaked out and snatched him as the fist of another soldier buried itself into his chest. He wheezed and lowered his stance to recover. Launching his shoulder into the side of his opponent, he twisted around, forcing them to let go of his arm as they were thrown off balance.
He lashed out a kick to the side, but the combatant anticipated and snatched his ankle mid-strike. Bracing himself against their weight, Bellanar vaulted himself up and whipped his free leg around, catching his opponent across the temple. They staggered back and released him, resting their hands on their knees as they shook the disorientation away.
Bellanar landed with a squeak of metal and bolted from the crowd, his mind reeling as he calculated his next moves. The squad pursued him in a machine-like precision, aligning themselves in a sharp wing formation, closing off his escape.
Approaching dangerously close to the boundary of the arena, Bellanar sharply strafed to one side, avoiding the oncoming claws. With momentum guiding him, he pushed his feet against the wall, bouncing on the material to elevate himself above the mob.
But his trajectory was cut short as three squad members positioned themselves around him. A synchronized performance, two took a flying leap forward and slammed their fists into his back, halting his momentum. The third acknowledged the play, catching him by the hips. With a twist of their shoulders, they hurled him to the ground.