Deep Echoes

  ~~

  The next morning Chain woke suddenly, bolting upright. Some nightmare had plagued her and now followed her into the real world. Disoriented, she panicked, thinking herself captured or lost.

  She looked around wildly. Wasp was beside her, his eyes closed in sleep's death mask. She was in his room. Her senses returned, and she took a deep breath. Then the furious knocking on Wasp's bedroom door echoed again.

  This must be her summons to the Militia. She offered a prayer to Sol, quick and heartfelt, as she got up.

  Wasp made a noise, halfway between a swearword and a grunt. One of his Servants timidly replied, “It's a Messenger, sires. She needs to speak to Contegon Justicar.”

  “One moment!” Chain's robe hung in Wasp's wardrobe, her underwear rested neatly on her overnight bag and her armours were piled on a chair, but still it felt as though it took an age for her to get dressed.

  “Hang on, hang on!” she shouted, bringing Wasp further and further out of his slumber.

  “This had better be good...” Wasp breathed, rolling onto his other side.

  Chain opened the door, pristine and holy once more. Dance, a meek and drawn Servant, stood by a bored, gnarled woman twice Chain's age.

  Dance bowed and crawled away, her nose almost scraping the floor, and the Messenger waited until she was gone before taking a deep breath.

  “Contegon Chain Justicar?”

  “Yes, Messenger.”

  “The Guardian has called a Militia together...” Chain tuned out the long, legal wording of her summons and wondered about Snow. She hoped he would be looking after the children, that Sol would provide for them. “...by the might of Sol that you will be folded into said Militia until such time as the threat to Aureu has passed.”

  Chain nodded slowly, pride filling her. “I accept. When and where are we meeting?”

  “Now, outside the Cathedral.”

  “Thank you, Messenger.”

  The Messenger thrust a piece of paper and a pencil at Chain, a chit, proof that she'd received the summons and accepted. With a quick scrawl, she signed her full name, her Contegon name. Chain knew this must be Sol's design, that this was what she was meant to do. She smiled as she handed it back.

  The Messenger nodded and turned, knowing the way out.

  Chain closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and then scooped up her axes.

  “Why have they called a Militia?”

  She looked up. Wasp was sat up in bed, eyeing her in a way she didn't like, couldn't read. “Think about it: why would they?”

  Wasp tutted. “There's no need for that. I can guess why they're calling one, but I thought you might know. Clearly, with you being a pariah still, you're out of the loop on this one.”

  Chain winced. That was a low blow, a sensitive topic. She decided to let it pass because she'd been antagonistic first. “Don't tell people but the Disciples have taken the West, and it can only be a matter of time before they get here.”

  His body went rigid. “The Western Front? It's... They–”

  “They killed everyone. Scar, the Shields, the Contegons... Some non-combatants might have survived, if Sol wills, but Geos' defences have fallen.” She grinned at him. “Why, are you scared?”

  That handsome brow furrowed, and his soft lip curled. “No, of course not.”

  Chain recognised the bravado to hide his fear. She almost couldn't blame him because he was not a Contegon, did not understand that this was a test of Aureu and one that they would pass or die trying. Lower Stations could be like that, though not Shields as they tended to think like Contegons.

  “So the Second Invasion has begun...” Wasp said, looking out through his bedroom window. “What horrors are to come?”

  Chain laughed and shook her head. “There's no need to be such a dramatic coward, Wasp. After all, I'll be protecting you.”

  At that, Wasp turned. His face fell, almost melted, into hate. His pupils widened, and his hands began to shake. She was glad she had her weapons as the man before her was not the man she had shared a bed with that night. No, he was insane.

  “What?” she asked, tightening her grip on her axes.

  “You'll protect me? You'll protect me?” he asked. His voice didn't seem to be his own, had a strange and deep tone she'd never heard before. “Well certainly you will, Contegon, because you're going to stay here. I refuse to allow you to go. I refuse!”

  Chain didn't feel shock. Such a feeling had been trained out of her. But she was confused. “Wasp, this isn't funny, I don't–”

  He leapt out of bed, was in front of her in a blink. Sweat and fury poured off him. His eyes and face twitched. “This isn't a game, woman. The first thing we talked about was respect, and you will show me, the man of this house, your man, respect, starting now. I've told you you're not going and that's that. Do not test me.”

  Chain could no longer think this a joke, think that his worry for her life had made him cross the line. He was serious. The madness was genuine and looked to have been deep-rooted. How had she not seen that?

  She raised an axe and hissed, “Get away from me, Wasp.”

  “My father wouldn't accept that kind of talk. And neither shall I.” The man she loved growled and went for her, grabbing her with speed but not grace.

  Chain, calm and measured, broke his grip with the pommel of her axe, shot two blows into his stomach and a third into his crotch. He doubled over and fell, like an acrobat who had forgotten how to flip mid-jump. And then he wheezed on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes.

  What had happened here? What could possibly have snapped him so suddenly from a person she cared about so deeply into this... this monster? Had he always been like this? How, she asked herself again, could she have missed his true nature?

  Her actions are guided by Sol. She knew this to be true, felt it deeply now that she had become so involved in the protection of Aureu. Could this strange turn have been one of the seeds that Lun had planted last night, or over the course of many nights? It would make sense for the dark brother to undermine Sol's work like this. A trick of Lun's was the only way to explain Wasp's behaviour.

  She had thought herself weak when she'd let Maya escape. But that mistake was comparable to the evil Wasp had allowed into himself. Whilst not a full Heretic, he must have lost his faith. She felt no guilt or shame for not being able to tell this. She was new to the world of men, and had made a young mistake. She did not blame herself.

  She would not blame herself.

  Under such judgement, Chain enjoyed watching him suffer, her love quickly turning to hate. But she wouldn't strike him while he was down. So she turned, leaving the monster she'd slept with, loved, laughed with, held, behind. There was no time to deal with him now, not with a Militia being gathered, but she would report his actions to the Bureau afterwards and let them deal with him.

  “No... Don't you... You'd better not...” Wasp hissed.

  She stopped. These would likely be their final cordial words. “Wasp...” It had been a mistake to say his name. She took a deep, hitched breath. “You made me happy for a while. And I think you were happy too. Remember that when your balls have recovered and your mind has cooled. Remember it, and mourn it, because for a while you were intelligent and witty and fine. Reflect on that and turn from whatever Lun has sewn into you.”

  He protested further, wheezing curses, but Chain ignored him. Unwelcome and confusing tears poured from her as she left his manse.

  “I'm not to blame,” she whispered as she went. It wasn't convincing, so she repeated it. And again. But this didn't work. Her heart still broke as she ran away.

  Snow crossed her mind again, his lost and unmourned innocence. Then the Guardian, all disbelief and fear before he caught himself. Finally, she imagined the Heretic, much as she wished she hadn't. Chain would press on though, which was an admirable aim, surely. She just had to...

  No, she couldn't. That morning, on the Circumference, she could only cry out her pain. Th
e street was empty: it seemed that rumour had already travelled and the rich could afford to stay home, so nobody witnessed her shame as she leant against a wall with her hands, chin pressed against her chest, and wept.

  'Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive: plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory.'

  --The pre-Cleansing philosopher Sun Tzu, date unknown, in the Bureau-approved collection of his writings.

  39

  The day was cold. If he had wanted to, Babbage could have confirmed this using the Disciple's ambient temperature meter, but he preferred gauging by judging the weather. Grey and dark, it was a cold day.

  Aureu, the city of his enemy, finally stood before him. And it suited the overcast morning's muted light: the walls looked worn and tired, like a child's toy discarded long ago, and it was surrounded by decay and dilapidation. If it weren't for the tall, proud white building at its centre, Babbage would have thought beauty or happiness impossible for anyone who lived there.

  He moved his mind from the Disciple he'd stationed at a vantage point in the mountains and returned to the Disciple he thought of as his 'General Suit.' The term was daft – and he would never repeat it – but it made him think of old fantasy fiction and better times, enhanced his excitement at commanding a battle.

  Another warning flared from his emotional intelligence weave: he was feeling overconfident, which could be a liability in the coming war. Days ago, it had aggravated him, but it could not affect his mood now. He was free.

  His avatar smiled, a small, pleasant smile, and he formulated his orders for the Disciples. On reflection, Babbage had to give Titan credit for producing so many so quickly. And he felt proud of himself for having reworked their programming to improve them in a similarly short space of time. By pooling their processing power, Babbage had made them more able to make intelligent decisions, and that had shown in their victories so far.

  Arranged so, this Group Intelligence would work across all fifty four Disciples, they accepted his plans. It would start with the bombardment of Aureu. They stood near a wide, fast river, and a forest beside it, and would fire from there. Babbage's initial scans revealed no artillery in the city, so they would be safe, out of reach.

  By the time the locals could mobilise, at least a third of their population would be dead. Morale would drop. And their forces would be massacred in getting to the river and then trying to cross it. If they ran, then Babbage had won and would have the pleasure of chasing them down over the next few weeks.

  It was a simple plan, but effective because he had an overwhelming fire power advantage.

  Once they had processed the orders, each Disciple held its weapon hands aloft. During the journey, Babbage had adjusted the Small Matter Generators in their guns to fire arcing rounds rather than bullets so the Disciples had to make precise calculations to fire them. As a group, they measured the wind speed, gauged the air resistance and determined the exact efficacy of each weapon then made tiny adjustments accordingly.

  Babbage thought it would be fitting if the Disciples were to level that gorgeous, white structure first. It wouldn't be the command centre, no one could be so arrogant, but destroying such an icon would do the most damage to morale.

  The calibration took about fifteen minutes. But what was another quarter hour after so long? “Ready?” he asked.

  The Disciples confirmed they were ready.

  “Aim.”

  Another affirmative.

  His avatar took a deep breath, and the Disciples all played the sound. Everything, the birds, the clouds, the faint rustling of the trees and harvest crops, seemed to wait on him. They were pausing to hear his declaration that hell was coming.

  “Fire!”

  All Disciples fired, sending fifty-four flaring spheres, half plasma, half metal alloy, into the air. They soared over the trees like rising demons. Babbage didn't need to watch them go, the Disciples' calculations were nigh-on perfect, but he still switched back to his observer Disciple to better watch the devastation, leaving the Disciples on the ground to continue their bombardment.

  They reached their zenith and then started to fall. Babbage laughed, ignoring the warnings of his own programming that he was feeling somewhat unbalanced. What he felt, he wanted to tell it, was alive.

  40

  Nephilim hadn't spent a lot of time with Maya since their joint lesson. He always seemed to be busy. Often he left their little bunker, and he must have returned whilst Maya slept. It would have been a lonely period if she and Applekill hadn't been set the important task of working out how to swap Cyrus Force.

  The actual logistics were easy, as Nephilim had said. It was just a case of Applekill making the energy available to Maya. But a specific mindset was required to make the exchange efficient, a state of consciousness that synced Maya's potential to create and use Cyrus Force to Applekill's stores of energy.

  It took quite some time, but they eventually got it down. Maya created a mantra to help her get into that state: ‘Concentrate, care, you win if you dare.’

  That morning, Maya woke up and practised one last time. She summoned Applekill and they sat opposite one another. With a smile, they got to it.

  “Concentrate, care,” Maya whispered.

  “You win if you dare,” Applekill replied.

  They didn't need to say it more than once now. Maya's training in the Academy had involved creating your battle mind through the use of prayer, so she could associate the mind-set with words. This simple mantra allowed her to create a constant flow of Cyrus Force like a stream, not a single mote of energy being wasted as they efficiently cycled it between them.

  Applekill broke their cycle after maybe an hour. “We're pretty good at this,” she said.

  “You think so?” Maya asked, sitting back on her hands. She felt a little light-headed from the exertion, but it was nothing she couldn't ignore.

  “I do,” the Spirit said. “We're great.”

  Maya smiled and stood up. She stretched, easing some stiffness from her joints, then looked around the Summoning Room in satisfaction. “You know, I think I'm forced to agree. Let's go find Nephilim and prove it.”

  Applekill grinned and disappeared back into Maya's sword. Then Maya dressed and left the room, went in search of her teacher.

  But again, he was nowhere to be found. But she did find the drunkard sat under a lemon tree, looking at grapes that were in the palm of his hand.

  Maya didn't know if she should interrupt him: the meditation could be part of his training. Sallow and strange without that rough beard, he was deep in thought about the red fruit he held. She tested the water by reading the Cyrus Force around him, a trick that involved putting a small coating of Cyrus Force over her eyes, and saw nothing other than a sick man staring at grapes.

  At this, she decided against saying hello and walked away. It would probably be for the best after what she'd done to–

  “Maya,” he said, having noticed her.

  Maya stopped and winced. But she didn't let this show when she turned, wearing a small smile, and said “Good morning.”

  “How are you?” he asked, putting the grapes gently down on the floor.

  “I'm fine,” she replied, eye flitting to the grapes he'd set aside.

  “You're wondering about the grapes?”

  Maya nodded. She might as well be honest if she was going to be so unsubtle.

  “I was... considering things. Wine was my downfall in my prior life and so I was considering the evil potential hidden within something so innocuous. It's amazing, really, that so little a thing could have so profound an affect on a person.”

  They clearly weren't talking about grapes any more. Maya had never been very good at interpretation even when she'd wholeheartedly believed in the word of the Sol Lexic. This was uncomfortable territory.

  “You wouldn't realise it, just to look at one, no” she hazarded.


  The drunkard shot her a look she couldn't read, one filled with strange emotions that swam in deep waters.

  No, that wasn't fair. She shouldn't think of him as the drunkard. It was time she tried to make some amends. “I don't know your name,” she said. “And I'm sorry that I never asked.”

  He cocked a half-grey eyebrow. “Are you?”

  “I am. I used you.”

  He stared at Maya, almost through her. She felt the tingle of Cyrus Force across her, a clumsy attempt to read her emotions, but she didn't fight it. It was only fair that she bore it.

  “Yes,” he said after a while, “you did.” He turned away, looked toward the entrance to their strange subterranean cavern. “Apology accepted.”

  Maya waited, expecting more. It seemed she would have to ask. “What is your name?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “No?”

  He shook his head, still facing away from her. “No, I'm not telling you my name. You don't get to know. You don't deserve to know.”

  She stood there for a moment, watching him. As she stared, he put his hand over to the bunch of grapes and squashed them flat between his fingers. The pulp reached up between them, red and viscous, but he held his hand there. This put Maya in mind of rotten tomatoes, of a gang member with his nose smashed into his brain.

  “I understand,” Maya said.

  She withdrew, went to the Summoning Room to await Nephilim's return.

  And just as she went, on the very edge of hearing, she heard him say, “Not yet you don't.”