~~
Two days later Chain was in Ocean's Edge, the area which contained Aureu's docks and those businesses which depend on the river Journey. It was furious that afternoon: enormous, hard-faced people loaded and unloaded the barges, which were the lifeblood of Geos. Raw materials came and finished goods left on their backs, bound for the Front or the towns supporting them; then the next barge would dock, her crew thrown ashore like pebbles.
Chain grunted, angry at them for having real work. Being a stay-at-home took no effort, especially for a young Contegon. Though she loved Sol and trusted his plan, a bitter feeling had swelled within her, and it was not easily dismissed. She was even more annoyed when the Labourers looked up and eyed her in ways that suggested there were things they'd love her to bless.
She scowled, gripped one of the axes crossing her back, and the Labourers quickly returned to their work.
When she turned to continue her patrol a petitioner approached her, another citizen seeking Sol's aid. It was a fisherman in broad leather waders, a worn box in one hand. He looked like he was made of glass, thin and almost transparent.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
Twitching his cracked leather cap between his fingers, the fisherman gave a weak smile. He already regretted having approached her. His voice was low and pathetic as he said, “I-I was just hoping that you could bless my lure, sire. Times have been hard, th-the ocean is not generous as she once was and what I do catch is almost unsellable...”
Chain gave him a small smile. “That won't be a problem, Fisher.”
He looked at her cautiously, expecting the offer to be withdrawn. When he decided she was serious, he grinned. “Thank you. Thank you, sire. I've got it just here...” He gestured to the large blue bauble in his hand as though Chain could have somehow missed it.
There's no official prayer or procedure for giving Sol's grace, Contegons just used their discretion and faith. So Chain did the first thing that came to mind. “May you feed this Fisher's family for many generations,” she whispered to the trinket.
“Thank you! Oh, thank you. Sol be praised!” The little man with his sad little moustache ran off through the bright day as though he had found a diamond. Chain watched him, certain that Sol would help him now, and then continued her patrol.
Being a stay-at-home meant you could do one of two things between your fitness sessions: paperwork or patrolling. Chain wasn't certain which she hated more. As the city flowed around her and sustained the very Fronts she should have been on, she ambled south.
The southern edge, closest to the ocean, was the wealthiest and most expensive part of Ocean's Edge: saving miles of travel was worth a lot to Merchants. Wasp of course had his warehouse there, right up against Aureu's walls from what she'd heard, and would probably be somewhere within organising the calamity that had befallen it. Chain debated going and seeing him but decided that he would prefer not to have her as a distraction. To him and to those he employed.
Life, one of many water vendors, held shop right by the Journey. She was located near some of the busiest docking teams, those most likely to find themselves desperate for fresh water. From what Life had said, this was an ancient placement of privilege, given to her grandfather by the Guardian for an act of bravery.
During her first patrol, Chain had found Life was happy to give her product to a Contegon and so she decided to return again, having a thirst of her own.
Dark-skinned and short-haired, Life grinned as Chain approached. “Ah, the afternoon this time, sire. What patrol pattern do they have you on anyway?”
“As and when, Life. As and when.”
“That sounds about right... Here, quench your thirst.” She proffered a polished wooden mug of clean rainwater, its contents shining in the waning afternoon sun.
Chain took it gratefully and drank.
“How many did you do this time?” Life asked. She relaxed as she didn't need to attract business. A Contegon would bring her stall more attention than anything she could do.
“Just the one blessing,” Chain replied, taking another sip. It was strange to talk this calmly and openly to someone of such a low Station. Maybe she just wanted to feel superior, see how Life looked at her, taste her pride in knowing a Contegon.
And she was a Contegon, damn it. Chain deserved this treatment always. Why had Sol seen fit to rob her of that... She couldn't think of the right word, wanted to say 'right' but 'pleasure' felt more accurate.
Chain frowned and chastised herself for such thoughts. Sol had decided she would not be treated equally, and, no matter how much she hated it, she should not be questioning why.
“Yeah? What did you bless? Another child? Or a cash ledger this time?”
This made her smile. “I'd almost forgotten about the ledger. I should have taken it from him, investigate what he wanted to change so miraculously!”
Life laughed, the contented sound of someone at peace with the world.
With a deep gulp, Chain finished the mug and slid it across Life's stand. “That was divine, thank you,” she said, loud enough for passers by to hear, paying Life back for her kindness.
Life acquiesced as best she could without taking her eyes off her stall. “You're welcome, sire. May Sol be with you.”
“His blessings upon you.”
Chain turned and saw a convoy of barges enter Aureu. Maybe half a dozen of them. So many ships entering Ocean's Edge at once was odd and she wasn't the only one to eye them suspiciously. The Mariners, Clerics, and Labourers who worked the docks slowed their work and kept half of their attention on the unusual fleet.
Walking to the Journey's edge, she examined those Mariners manning the barges. They looked harrowed, scared. Eight vessels eventually entered Aureu together, staffed by the terrified. Chain's mind sharpened.
“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted.
It was as though the Mariners had been sleeping, proceeding on instincts, until she shouted. But when they saw a Contegon awaiting them, they came to life. One very young-looking Mariner ordered people around, prepared them to dock. The others followed his confident orders.
“Contegon,” the Mariner called to Chain. “We need to dock as we've sick and dead aboard.”
This boy was at most fifteen, and he looked like he'd been homeless for years. But he spoke with a confidence that many Councillors couldn't muster. Ignoring this curiosity, she said, “Give me a minute.”
“I hope we have that long,” he replied cryptically.
Chain didn't question him. She ran north to the nearest docks. The Labourers there were preparing for ships barges to launch, though their attentions wavered towards the odd convoy and the running Contegon. A Cleric eyed her nervously, paperwork trembling in his hand.
With a breath, Chain took charge. “Drop what you're doing and prepare to take that convoy ashore. Move this ship,” she gestured towards the smaller barge loaded with weapons. “There are wounded and dead aboard, so be prepared. You, Labourer, call the nearest Doctor out here on a Contegon's orders. Now move!”
No one questioned her, just did as she asked. A nervous Cleric then took charge, directing her Labourers to do as Chain had commanded.
She seemed comfortable enough with the task asked of them, so Chain sprinted to the next docks, shouting, “Halt! Halt in the name of Sol!” Ocean's Edge had a complex shipping pattern, and a convoy like this could cause some real danger. Blood pounded in her ears, matching the ardent beat of her footfalls.
Again, no one questioned her. The barges rowed backward until they came to a halt and maintained a healthy distance. A shout went up and those behind them began to row against their momentum too.
Rather than running the length of Ocean's Edge herself, she pointed at three young Labourers and said “You three, you have my authority to go up the Journey and halt the ships, make sure that there are no crashes. Tell them Contegon Chain Justicar sent you. Now go!”
They gave her little more than a nod before racin
g away. Chain knew their word would be followed as falsely invoking a Contegon's name carried the death penalty.
Within two minutes, she was back at the first dock. The lead barge landed just as she arrived, the onshore Mariners using ropes to tie it securely and those on the vessel quickly extending gangways. Slowing to cool her blood and catch her breath, she watched the young Mariner and another older Mariner help children from the barge. Just children, no one else. Chain scanned the other ships in the convoy. One Mariner, bedraggled, young and unkempt, was aboard one with a drained-looking woman.
What had happened that could leave this many children with so few men and one woman? This was no normal maritime disaster. The refugees were all shivering, even the young Mariner, but it wasn't just shock. They seemed to have been exposed for days.
With the living evacuated, the Mariners landed the second barge and began pulling out the dead. Chain approached and took one corpse from the Labourers, a boy around six. She'd seen a corpse before at her Grandmother's Pyre, so she remained cool.
Gently, she carried him to where the bodies were being lined up. After a quick examination, she decided he'd died of the cold. Most of the children had. And there were a good number of them.
The Mariners disappeared beneath the deck for the final time and pulled a man out. Dead, at least thirty, he was naked beside a blanket. The man had also died of exposure. She wondered if he was a Mariner but couldn't tell: all of the dead were naked, their clothes having probably gone to the living. Chain approved of such pragmatism.
“Someone needs to explain this to me,” she said as the Mariners laid this last corpse out. “The Labourers will take care of the other barges, so you have time. Explain this. Now.”
“One moment,” the young Mariner said, raising a finger to Chain. He gently placed a blanket over the corpse's face and tucked it in, making a neat parcel. This was done with such reverence, such dignity, that Chain couldn't feel disrespected by his dismissing her. Sol knew he was doing the right thing.
He stood when he was done. “Sorry, Contegon. My name is Snow, grandson of Scar...”
“Scar of the Western Front?”
He nodded, his wince barely noticeable. “Yes.”
“This is going to be bad news, isn't it, Snow?”
“I'm afraid so. In fact, it couldn't be much worse. The Western Front has fallen. You see...”
Chain stopped listening. Shock gripped her, and the world shattered beneath the blows of those five words: 'The Western Front has fallen.' How could he say that so casually? What had he seen that the terror of that truth could be boiled away, leaving just the naked words?
A sudden, stark realisation hit Chain: this was Sol's plan, the reason she'd become a stay-at-home. She had been kept behind to fulfil Sol's will, to help save Aureu from the Second Invasion. Why else would she be greeted by the person who knew the most about it, the sole surviving relative of Scar? This was his plan for her. He had a plan for her! Her heart rose as though to burst from her chest, and she had to suppress laughing with the joy of knowing that her faith in Sol was justified.
“Snow,” she said, cutting him off in the middle of talking about their casualties. “We need to get to the Chamber. Come with me.”
“But sire, the others need–”
“I said come with me. The Labourers will look after the other refugees for now and the Bureau will house them until something can be resolved, so you can do no good here. Don't make me compel you. Follow me.”
He acquiesced, did as he was commanded. Chain's spirit swelled, the strength of Sol flowed through her: she had her purpose, her direction from the greatest force imaginable. Truly, she was a Contegon now and she swore by all she was that she'd do whatever she could to defend Aureu, whatever it took.
Whatever it took.
36
Babbage knew that the Disciples were technical marvels. He knew that. Even with Brya's Matter Generator, it took extraordinary skill to make machines, which worked exactly the same as one another by hand. The fine tuning and engineering required would have astonished scientists and engineers even at the very height of the... of before.
But it was so easy to forget all that when faced with their limitations. Their computational skills, for example, were a nightmare: they couldn't calculate the prime roots of a 256-bit number, let alone contain his program. So he had to transmit and receive information across a long relay of Disciples, making hundreds of them into needlessly elaborate telegraph poles. Moving, talking, when inside a Disciple took seconds. It felt like he were controlling a puppet through treacle.
His emotional intelligence weave told him that Titan was doing the best he could in a horrible situation, that they had to make the best of a bad situation. And he tried to listen. Oh, he tried to listen.
By far their worst limitation was their energy efficiency. Each Disciple needed to recharge every day. Force-marching them meant that for each half-day they raced across Geos, breaking the 'Great Road' with heavy footfalls, they had to spend eighteen hours absorbing matter and sunlight. It was like herding lepers and the waiting was driving him mad.
There was only so much he could take. After his troops had to halt for the third time in three days, Babbage lost his temper. “Titan!” he roared, returning to their base in the north.
Titan was in his workshop – he was always in his workshop – but shouting made Babbage feel better. He moved his consciousness there and roared again “Titan! Answer me!”
Titan purposefully stopped working on a Disciple and faced the camera. “Curious. What is wrong? You sound angry.”
“Yes, I'm angry, Titan. What the hell is wrong with these things? They run eighty miles and have to stop and recharge for a day! We could have been in Aureu by now if it weren't for how useless they are!”
Titan gently put down his tools, a dynamic plasma torch and a one millimetre drill. Insofar as he could look annoyed with such an inflexible face, he did. “Amusing. Remember your AI? Stupid beyond belief, unable to learn. You did the best you could. But you forget so quickly. Capricious. I build these in secret with stolen matter. Battery life, efficiency, are not my concern. I've waited a century. Why don't you wait?”
“Fuck–” Babbage's emotional intelligence weave flared, warning him he was losing his temper. It too was getting on his nerves, seemed to only point out his failings. And, annoyingly, it was right. So was Titan. Babbage was being snappy, spoilt, and a hypocrite. What was three more days after Titan had waited so long?
“I'm... I'm sorry.”
“Correct. You are.”
“Excuse me?”
“Repetition? You are sorry. You blame me, ignoring your faults. And now you're losing your self-control. You're slipping, Babbage. It's distressing. And I'm not alone in noticing that.”
Babbage's anger was replaced by terror. “What do you mean?”
“Brya. She came to see me yesterday. It was surprising. I've not seen her in decades. But yes, she came to talk. Talk about you. She's monitoring you. Not what you're thinking: I'd be dead if so. No, what you're feeling. During your rebuild, she implanted code into you. It monitors your emotional intelligence weave. She's interested in how it works, its results.”
His emotional intelligence weave couldn't process what assaulted him then: the terror, violation, sympathy. So it clipped every thought, stopped him functioning for a few seconds, until just the palatable, healthy emotions remained. The experience was odd, like having your brain coddled or being directed as a mother does a three year old. He hadn't needed those Hysteria Functions before now. He hoped he wouldn't need them again.
“Understand?” Titan asked. “She's seen your anger. Brya came down to ask me about your anger. It's frequent, too frequent. Would have asked you herself but for the secrecy. I had to lie, Babbage. That's hard for me. I had to lie because of you.”
“So,” Babbage started, collecting himself, “I need to keep myself under control, right?”
“Indeed. Even th
at episode will be reported. But you can't remove the malware. If you do, I will be killed.” Even when discussing his death, Titan buzzed tonelessly. Babbage faintly wondered what he would sound like when he was being torn apart.
Maybe he'd find out one day.
“I won't. And I'll keep myself in check. There,” he said after telling his emotional intelligence weave to amend his state, “I've set it to monitor me constantly, auto-prune my thinking. I'll be calm and collected from now on.”
“Good. You'd better be. For both our sakes.”
Babbage left the workshop and returned to his main server. Briefly, he entertained thoughts of revenge on Titan but, really, he empathised with his only friend: Titan was as scared of Brya as Babbage. And Babbage had been erratic lately: he could see that now.
But even this observation made him question his mental state. How much of this realisation was him understanding himself and how much the thread watching over him? He didn't know, but he'd have to operate like this from now on: there was no question of de-activating it with Brya following his every emotion.
Before returning to his Disciple, he started a new research thread to create better encryption algorithms than he currently had. It was... disgusting to imagine Brya watching him rebuild, like being recorded whilst on the toilet, so his emotional intelligence weave didn't allow him to go any further with the image.
Which irked him. Could he not even think as he normally would? By keeping him under control, his emotional intelligence weave limited who he was and who he could be. Yes, he'd built it himself, but it was a complex genetic algorithm which would evolve constantly to deal with his mental state and would, by now, no longer be recognisable to what he had originally planned out all those decades ago.
Even that resentment was cut short, taken from him like a child's toy. He glowered at the thread. But that pique went too.
So he started another weave to produce a list of ways to disable this spiteful thread if necessary, if he needed to act like himself for a period of time. Because this was a logical decision, the thread didn't prune this thinking until he felt enormous satisfaction at having taken a positive step.
This, he decided, was going to be really annoying. He went back to his Disciple and left the secret weave to produce options for him.
37
Maya concentrated fully on her sword, on this locus she'd made over the course of her life, and thought about her father. Nephilim watched, could actually see the strength of her will and her love for her father seeping into the blade. The process of building a Spirit strong enough for the coming battle was long, but the Spirit was improving, building her strength, like the slow drip of a cave forming a stalagmite.
After ten minutes, Maya began to waver. He decided to let her stop. “Maya, we're done for the day. Good job,” he said.
Nephilim was impressed with her progress. Ever since she'd contacted her Spirit, her powers had improved steadily. She could now summon and control her Cyrus Force with ease, though her fine control and imagination were lacking. All she needed were the deep reserves of power that would serve her in open combat.
Overall, as she slumped off towards the Summoning Chamber, he was pleased. He smiled, then turned to see to his other guest.
But before Nephilim could attend to him, they appeared, and a buzzing chorus whispered into his ear “Isn't she doing well?”
“She'll be powerful enough, I think. Especially with the apparent restrictions on Brya's technological capabilities. Considering what they could have achieved... I'm just glad they didn't land with a Matter Generator or the other Mobius Cube... There'd be no Geos to save if they had.”
Despite the warmth of the Arboretum, Nephilim felt cold.
“That's not what I meant, Nephy-boy,” they replied, lingering and arrogant.
“Don't call me that.”
“And don't play dumb! You know what I'm here to talk about...”
Nephilim looked at his shoulder and frowned at them. He called them the Hive, and they were the combined consciousness of all of his Spirits, built up over the course of his life. Whenever they collectively wanted to talk to him about something, they connected and took the form of a cloud of dust. Separately, he loved each individual Spirit, but as one being they could be very... trying.
But what did they have to say today? Why were they questioning him about Maya?
“You have feelings for her, don't you?” it said. “You find her physically attractive, especially after seeing her completely naked the other day.”
He eyed the Hive and sighed. So that was what they wanted. “All right, what do you want me to say? That I'm intrigued by her? That I find her attractive? That I'm thinking about her?”
“Well, it's a start.”
Nephilim turned on them. “No, it isn't,” he said. “Nothing can come from it. I cannot risk her being distracted, not with so much at stake. It wouldn't work anyway with–”
“Excuse!” they shouted at him.
“No, you know it's...”
“An excuse! Even you know it is,” they said, sarcastic and taunting. “Come on, Nephilim, why lie? What do you gain from it? You should know we'll always stop you telling yourself lies. In all honesty, we're a little disappointed in you, Nephi...”
Nephilim dismissed his Spirits. He didn't need this right now, even if there was some truth to what they were saying. There was no room for sentimentality when Geos was at risk.
He shivered every time he thought of Brya, and this time was no exception. He imagined her appearing before Aureu and murdering the whole city without hesitation... and the people of Geos and everything else couldn't be put at risk by his being distracted. Or by letting Maya get distracted. Regardless of what the Hive thought.
“Are you all right?”
Nephilim turned, saw Maya looking at him with concern. She put her hand on his shoulder. It felt good there, natural.
“I'm... I'm fine, Maya.” His senses told him not to, but he moved away, allowed her hand to drop.
She took a step toward him. “It doesn't sound like you're fine. What's wrong, Nephilim?”
“Nothing is wrong, Maya. Go to sleep: you've had a long day.”
Frowning, Maya half-turned away. She took a step, then turned back and, before he could react, she embraced him in a sweet, small hug.
“Whatever it was, Nephilim, it'll be okay. You needn't worry about it.”
Nephilim looked at her incredulously. He wanted to grab her, kiss her, but he suppressed these urges. Even when he could feel the Hive judging him, he did not act on those biological impulses.
“There really was nothing, Maya, but thank you anyway. Go on, get some rest.”
She nodded and actually left this time. Nephilim watched her, and his heart crumpled. How easy it would be to go to her, how wrong it would be. Even without their obvious differences, there was the need to save Geos, fighting Brya, all the people he...
“Excuses...” the Hive whispered.
“Yes, they may be. But they're my only defence.”
“Really? Because the more excuses you think of, the more enticing it becomes to abandon yourself entirely, doesn't it?”
Nephilim sighed: they were right. There were two ways to get past this, both of them painful. He chose the most painful route.
Ignoring it.