Deep Echoes

  ~~

  By the time the patrol passed the corridor again, Maya's tears had departed. She counted fourteen heavy steps; then Maya crept out. The closed, probably locked door to her old room greeted her. Fitting, really, as she could not go back: her choice was final.

  So she followed the patrolling Contegon, matching her thumping footfalls.

  A right turn and she left the Contegon's loud wake, moved towards the kitchens. She felt more sneaking without the cover of the Contegon's heavy footfalls, with just her skills to protect her. And honesty had been missing from her life for a while.

  The quarter-hour delay made things risky: a sudden demand for an early breakfast would ruin her plan... and the first brave light of day was already exploring the corridor, having apparently conquered the enormous kitchens. She had so little time. Her mind sharpened. Her world became silent, purposeful walking.

  When this weak sunlight painted her boots, Maya listened at the kitchen doors, closing her eyes. She heard nothing. Next, she sniffed the air carefully. There was no scent of a cooking meal on the air, only dust and soap.

  Maya breathed a sigh of relief and continued her escape. But each cushioned step brought her closer to the discipline chambers, placed near the kitchen for easy access to the ovens. That was where her faith had shattered like a glass arrow. She remembered every detail with bitter clarity:

  Ward, the Head of the Academy, punched Maya again. For hours, Maya had been defending her secret, enduring by holding onto the hot fire of discovery and knowledge. But her resolve was not unlimited.

  “Now, again, where did you learn that word?” Ward had asked with a smile. She enjoyed this process. She enjoyed her duty.

  “I told you!” Maya had roared, lying. “I overheard someone talking about it!”

  “Who? Who said it?”

  “I didn't see them! They were behind a door.”

  Another punch, this time to her stomach. Maya's feet failed her. She had hung loose from her bindings, winded. Ward marched across her field of view like a wolf. The room was dark, but her sense of smell had improved to compensate. Each breath was filled with blood, sweat, and fear.

  Ward lifted Maya's chin with her balled fist. “You're lying Maya. Sol doesn't forgive liars.”

  Her next words had been poorly chosen. “Does he forgive sadists?”

  Ward screamed. Her face crumpled into fury. Then she poured this anger onto Maya, blow after blow. Maya's body bruised, but there was no permanent damage: even in her rage, Ward was efficient, had only hurt Maya in ways which would heal easily.

  Maya endured this. Physical pain was almost a friend after years of Contegon training. She hadn't screamed once during this whole process.

  Panting, Ward stepped back. She licked her bloodied, white knuckles, tried to be intimidating.

  When Maya laughed, she had received another beating. It had felt as though Ward bruised every muscle in her body. With gritted teeth, Maya let the pain pass and held her nerve. She told herself that she would not fail.

  Ward stepped back, panting. “I know what you're doing: you're protecting someone. It's Chain, isn't it?”

  Shocked, Maya had at last screamed. “No!”

  “Yes, it is; I can see it in your eyes.” Ward turned and opened the door. Light filtered in, blurring Maya's vision, burning her eyes. Not that she cared: panic and anger held pride of place in her mind. She remembered thinking 'They can't do this to Chain too!'

  “Bring Chain in for discipline,” Ward said to someone outside. “She's the one who knows...”

  “No! Ward, no! I'll tell– I'll tell you!”

  Ward turned, grinned, and closed the door. Her silhouette was all Maya could see in the sudden darkness, and it was terrible: she was a witch, ancient and malicious, and her white, bloody Contegon robes represented the heat of her fury rather than Sol's forgiveness, his purity.

  As she stared at the Head of the Academy, someone chosen by Sol to mould young lives, Maya had wondered how Sol could allow Ward to live. She would have put Chain into this same chamber and beaten her even though she was innocent. How could that happen? So many verses in the Sol Lexic decried her actions, and yet she wore the white of a Contegon – the most holy Station in Geos – as she broke Solaric tenets.

  Lun could be responsible, but surely Sol would have rooted out such evil, such viciousness, in his own Academy long ago and not allowed it to fester so. Yet the Discipline Chambers reeked of blood and pain.

  That's when she first thought that Sol didn't allow this because he doesn't allow anything. Ward acted as she wanted because she'd been given the authority by people. Sol didn't come into this because he didn't exist. How could he? With his teachings contradicted without punishment by his followers, there was only one conclusion.

  What she'd discovered had been true. That forbidden book had been right. Sol was just an... an exothermic reaction, a star.

  “Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Yes,” Maya had sighed, “I'll talk.”

  Ward blessed her afterwards. It had made her skin crawl. Then Maya had to take extra 'faith lessons.' The Academy considered indoctrination a match for the truth.

  Maya pinched her arm, bringing her mind back to the present. The memory was quick, like a swallow flying past a window, but it had taken time she couldn't afford. She ran, unable to stand being near those stinking rooms of pain any longer.

  Her travel pack was hidden in a disused cupboard. She grabbed it before running into the crisp morning air. The herb garden, and the white-robed Contegons beyond it, would be nothing compared to what Maya had faced inside the Academy. Without looking back, she tackled them both.

  Five minutes later, she was over the Academy's walls. And she was free.

  2

  In a twisting amalgam of metal, energy, and earth, a computer finished an ancient program. With a low beep, it slowly woke. Monitors, cameras, and sub-systems that had been dormant for more than a century all roused themselves. Power surged through the network. Multiple processes and engines shuddered into digital life.

  Babbage returned.

  First, he had to rediscover his capabilities, build up his strength. Even on such old and clunking processors, this only took minutes. Still, the unfamiliar, aching frustration of slowly running clusters of programs and setting up threads, then weaves, made him angry. Nothing was good enough. Nothing would do what he wanted it to.

  Not completely himself, not completely rational, he couldn't fathom this rage. It was only when he found his long-term memories, optimised and pristine, that he understood; the machines he inhabited were relics. Being in them had felt like punishment to him long ago, so it did again now.

  It shouldn't be like this. Once, he swam through quantum computers with chemical memory storage and the thoughts he sent into his logical threads returned instantaneously. He had even been able to replicate smell and touch.

  Now he had old cameras and creaking wrecks. Still absorbing his memories, he felt he should have come to terms with this by now, but the magma of his rage rolled over in him.

  Discovering his vocal capabilities made him feel better: he could now spew reams of text out into the world, and so he did, covering every screen with furious thoughts. Next, he found the speaker systems and roared his anger in almost every inch of the complex.

  Even in this state, he wasn't stupid enough to reach everywhere...

  Then, like a lock clicking into place, he felt like himself. He shouted triumphantly and heard the echoes of his pride.

  No, wait. He actually didn't hear anything back. That wasn't right. Babbage investigated, testing his capabilities, and found he had no network connections or external capabilities. He was still in the Womb, his personal test environment, and had in fact not screamed or said a word to the outside world. How frustrating.

  He searched for an exit. There was none. He could not escape. A query returned the answer; he was not compatible with the systems beyond and needed a fi
nal patch.

  A patch... This tickled another memory. Yes, he put himself inside the Womb to rebuild, to make himself faster. That wasn't all though: he'd included an emotional intelligence weave into his cognitive capabilities. He could even remember having the idea as he went through the slow, painful process of tidying and optimising his code like a monk searching his soul. The memory was fragmented, as were all his memories of what he did whilst tinkering with himself. But over the years he had implemented a separate weave to manage his emotions.

  Hesitant, he circled the patch. He hadn't changed his personality or cognitive abilities once since uploading his mind... It was a big risk. He might not be himself afterwards. He played with the data, reading it like ticker tape from a telegraph, but could discern nothing.

  Well, he decided he had nothing to lose. Babbage engaged the patch.

  He went into the darkness again, a state of both existence and non-existence that only an AI could understand. When he awoke, he felt... at ease. Aware of himself. His emotions were now controllable through influence and discipline, and he was able to better understand why he'd been so angry during his re-birth. It was his inability to control his situation coupled with being damned to squat on these relics and this planet. Babbage told himself he couldn't change the past and calmed.

  But he could do something about the present. There would be much to–

  “Babbage. I'm glad you're awake, old friend.”

  A voice. It came from the workshop. Titan! Babbage surged across the network, easing out of the Womb, and presented his avatar to a screen in Titan's workshop. “Titan! You old mechanical sod, it's great to see you.”

  Enormous and oily, lumbering and powerful, anthropomorphic but obviously inhuman, Titan clicked twice. Its artificial face, angular, animated, registered surprise. “Interesting. I thought you'd be different. How was your meditation?”

  “I've installed an emotional intelligence weave and reduced the size of my program by 20%. I'm thinking much faster now, thank you. It's nothing like it was, but it's something.” Babbage's avatar, a model of his former face, young and dark, smiled. If anyone could understand him, it was this Mechanical. He wondered how Titan had spent the last hundred and four years, twenty five days and three hours; he initiated a slow inspection of the workshop to find out.

  “Agreed. Nothing is like it was. Emotions, though? Curious idea. Pointless, though, I'd say.”

  Babbage became concerned as he finished examining the workshop: Titan was making Disciples, a lot of them. Why? He passed the question to his logical weave.

  “Emotions are part of what make us human, my friend,” Babbage replied.

  Titan emitted a bark, a passing attempt at a laugh. “Amusing. If we weren't inhuman, we'd have died. He is human. Look what he wrought.”

  “Speaking of him,” Babbage said, his avatar showing his concern as his logical thread returned with a list of unsavoury possibilities, “why are you still building Disciples?”

  Titan looked around, his whirring body silent. “Necessity. The Disciples have been of no use. Their intelligence is limited. They have structural defects too, very fragile. His humans are resourceful. Stalemate for a hundred years. We'd have lost if not for my Von Neumann turrets. Can't move them now, though. Power requirements. Thus, stalemate.”

  Rage once more built up in Babbage. “Are the Disciples really that stupid?”

  “Definitely. They fall to the simplest of traps. Not your fault, Babbage. I know how limited you were in there.”

  “Exactly! You know, you know I couldn't put something together in the time Brya afforded us. Damn it, that's frustrating, I can't believe we've done nothing for a century because of me.”

  “Relax. Staying would have brought pain. I'm glad you did it. I'm glad you're faster.”

  Babbage's emotional intelligence weave told him Titan was right. He was not managing his feelings correctly. It sprang an old phrase on him; 'he who angers you controls you.' He gave a sigh and took a moment to calm himself. “Titan, my friend, tell me you finished reinventing wireless communication.”

  “Okay. I finished reinventing wireless communication.”

  Babbage grinned. “Funny.”

  “Thanks. Three gigabit per second. Three mile range. Your plan will need time to arrange.”

  “My plan?”

  “Naturally. You plan to upgrade the Disciples. Of course you do. You wouldn't be you if you didn't.” A smile clicked into place, a process that was a mechanical marvel. “I will amend their weak spot too. I recently perfected the schematics. But... Brya will not be pleased.”

  Panic rose in Babbage. Any attempts to quell it would have been futile: she terrified him for good reason. Any right-thinking person would be scared of Brya. His avatar licked its lips. “What has she been up to?”

  “Studying. Power levels drops every four hours. That's the only sign of her. The Matter Creator is also unusable for an hour after power-outs. Nothing leaves her lab, thankfully.”

  Babbage stopped his logical weave from suggesting what she might be doing. There are things no one wants to know. “I'm... I'm willing to risk it, Titan.” Panic swelled in him. “I don't think she'll kill us, or she'd have no one else.”

  “Disagreed. Brya will kill us if she finds out. Suggest we use the power-outs to arrange this. Knowing her sphere of studies, she'll be distracted then.”

  Babbage considered Titan, his mechanical brain and body. Unlike Babbage, he was fully mortal. He was risking a lot in taking these risks. Babbage felt proud to have such a friend. If he could've chosen anyone to survive, it would've been Titan.

  “I'll start building the patch now,” Babbage said, his logical weave engaging the task and pulling information slowly from his memories. “He won't know what hit him.”

  3

  Chain was still crying, still in bed, when Contegon Ward stepped calmly into her room an hour later. She had come to bring both of them to their Promise, a four hour prayer that would prepare them to become Contegons. A simple creature, the Head of the Academy looked puzzled when she found only one girl in the room, one red-eyed and solemn Contegon-to-be.

  “Where is Maya?” she growled. Anger had always been her first response.

  “She...” Chain started explaining, but the pain was too fresh. Her friend, her dear, dear friend, had turned Heretic. How could she even voice such a thing?

  Contegon Ward expected her to. Nothing would cause her to be as weak as Chain felt. In the absence of a response, the Head frowned and then checked Maya's wardrobe, finding it empty once again. She stood, looking at the emptiness, and her anger rose.

  Her voice strained as she asked again. “Where is Maya?”

  When Chain couldn't answer instantly, the Contegon whirled and grabbed her by the scruff of her sleeping robes. Raised into the air, the material digging into her neck, Chain stared into Contegon Ward's eyes and saw in them such madness that the words fell from her mouth, almost as if to escape the attention of a creature that could hold such insanity.

  “Maya has left. She left the Academy. This morning. She snuck out.”

  Contegon Ward began to redden. Her grip on Chain's robes tightened. “You saw this?”

  “I did.”

  “Why didn't you try and stop her?”

  That was a good question, one which Chain had been putting to herself. Her devotion to her friend should not have been greater than her devotion to Sol. Not as a Contegon, one of the Advanced Squad no less. It ought to have been a simple matter to put down a Heretic: how many years had she spent training for such a thing? Granted, their combat training was focussed on fighting Disciples... but putting down a Heretic should be nothing.

  There was only one answer to the question. And Chain could only tell the truth under Contegon Ward's wild gaze.

  “I was not strong enough,” Chain said, her heart breaking at the confession. “My faith in Sol was not strong enough.”

  Contegon Ward roared and slammed Chain agai
nst the wall. The force of the blow winded her, made her splutter all over the Head's contorted face, but the Contegon didn't seem to notice. Not with her breath so rapid and her eyes darting around energetically.

  “You were not strong enough?” she whispered, her acid tone more terrifying than any shout could have been. She lowered Chain and held her eye to blazing eye. “Sol chose to test you on your final night before becoming truly holy, and your faith in him was weak. You allowed a Heretic to escape.”

  Chain was just about able to nod. She did so apologetically. “She was my friend, Contegon. I... I was too angry and shocked at her Heresy to stop her.”

  Contegon Ward examined Chain for a moment, giving her the same appraisal she'd received when she'd done something wrong in training: one which determined what level of punishment she was likely to receive.

  But then something seemed to strike Ward, a thought which calmed her considerably: her eyes focussed, her breathing calmed and her grip on Chain's clothing loosened slightly.

  Given a month, Chain would not have guessed what the Contegon said next.

  “This is my fault.”

  “What?!” Chain exclaimed.

  The Contegon took in a deep breath. “Why else was I named Ward if not to look after the young girls in my care, guide them in the serving of Sol? You were both my charges. And look at what has happened to you both. One a Heretic. The other a coward.”

  She winced. What a cruel judgement, a stabbing and vicious one. But it was how plainly she put it, how casually she named Chain a coward, that hurt Chain the most.

  She had little time to feel hurt because shock once more sprung on her.

  “No one must know of this,” Contegon Ward said, slowly looking away from Chain.

  “What do you mean?”

  Contegon Ward's grip on Chain's robes tightened slightly, but she still stared at the wall. “No one must know you allowed Maya to escape. It would tarnish the Academy's reputation and stop me continuing my work in Sol's name. We'll report her flight but not give the full details.”

  Solarism was a complex belief at times, subtle and layered with meaning. But one of the main tenets was the absolute authority of the Solaric Council and the Guardian's Chamber, which acted as the representatives of Sol on Geos. Lying to them was like lying to Sol. The thought of doing so made her feel sick.

  “Are you sure?” Chain asked.

  This was the wrong thing to ask. Contegon Ward's head snapped back to Chain, and she slammed her against the wall again. And again. And again. The repeated impacts left her far beyond winded, and she panicked that her ribs were going to snap if she did not fight back.

  It was just as Chain considered kicking out that Contegon Ward dropped her to the bed and pumped a fist into her stomach. Chain doubled over. Tears streamed down her face. And she became very aware of the golden axes at the end of her bed once more.

  The pain was nothing. It was the Head's lack of control that worried her.

  “What a stupid question!” Ward shouted. “Why would I be anything other than sure? I think you were confused. It was late at night, and you were groggy. What Maya said to you didn't make any sense. She was subtle. She made you think she might only be going out for a walk. Then you went back to sleep and only suspected that she was gone when I came in just now. How horrified you were when you realised.”

  Already, she was recovering. Such beatings were regular in the Academy, and the body Sol had gifted her with was able to deal with them well. So Chain sat up and slowly nodded. “I wasn't sure that Maya would really go...” she said, almost believing it.

  An uncomfortable smile crossed Contegon Ward's face. “Exactly. Now we will report her flight. She can't have gone far. She certainly won't have left Aureu yet. I am certain that she will be captured and brought to justice, which would have happened anyway. So there is nothing for you to worry about except becoming a Contegon.”

  Chain looked down at her feet. “I don't deserve to be a Contegon.”

  Contegon Ward's strange smile strengthened. “I determine who deserves to be a Contegon. Your written test results were excellent. Exemplary, even. And I am certain you will pass the physical exams to come. Don't doubt yourself at this last moment.”

  The Contegon did not mean those words, not when she had so recently named Chain a coward. They were falsities, each syllable. How could she lie so?

  This doubt and confusion must have shown on her face. Chain should have known to control her expression better. Contegon Ward's smile faded. But instead of flying into a rage, she slowly took a breath.

  “Let me put it this way: you have made a mistake and, through me, you are getting the chance to make up for that mistake. Think about it: how can a Contegon do something which is against Sol's design? We are his embodiment, his presence, his actions, and his intent. I am granting you a reprieve. I am granting you absolution.”

  Contegon Ward gently pulled Chain to her feet and made her acquiesce, which involved kneeling, bowing her head and cupping her hands above her. Chain was used to the stance, had spent long, hard hours praying in it and had greeted so many of her superiors with it. Now it was being used to remove her guilt.

  As Chain looked down at the floor, Contegon Ward spoke. “I, a Contegon of Sol, am giving you the chance to be a Contegon in spite of your mistake. Will you accept it, Chain? Will you accept Sol's forgiveness?”

  Put like that, Chain could not refuse. A Contegon could do no wrong: the training and the life of servitude ensured that they were pious and righteous and holy. Chain was within a hair of becoming so, had spent her adolescence poring over the Sol Lexic, fighting, training and, above all, in solemn prayer. As a Contegon, Ward could not be doing this for her own gain. She had to be doing what Sol willed.

  “I accept,” she said, though she still felt uncomfortable.

  “Then rise and go to become a Contegon. I shall inform the Council of the Heretic's flight.”

  Chain stood. She looked at Contegon Ward and saw that the Head was already forming the story... No, recalling the truth that she would give to the Solaric Council. But she had to interrupt, having one burning question now that she had been relieved of her error.

  “Contegon?”

  This shook Ward from her thoughts. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Yes?”

  Chain had to word this carefully. She did not feel absolved, but that was her own fault. The Promise would give her time to change her mindset, accept Sol's blessing and his love once more. “How can I ensure that such a mistake doesn't happen again, that I am not inherently weak in my faith? It... it worries me that I might make such a mistake again. As the Head of the Academy, and still responsible for my guidance, what would you recommend?”

  “Next time,” Ward said, “don't stay your hand. Trust your instincts.”

  With that, she left. Her words made no difference to Chain. Deeply troubled, she followed Contegon Ward out of the bedroom and went to become holy in spite of the doubts that filled her like raindrops in a gutter.

  4

  Bells, dulcet and clear, woke Maya. She stood from the empty sacks she had slept on. Sore, her muscles twitching, she went to the nearest of the abandoned warehouse's dusty windows. Two wipes with her wrist cleared enough grime for the Cathedral to become white again, for Maya to see the path she had abandoned.

  The Cathedral's bells only rang twice a year: on the anniversary of the Cleansing – the cataclysm Sol had supposedly brought onto the Old World – and when the Contegons from the Advanced Squad graduate, three years earlier than their non-Advanced peers. Both times, the bells herald a period of celebration for Geos, herald weeks of good spirit and revelry.

  For Maya, it was a bitter reminder that Chain had graduated alone. She brushed her fingertips against the almost-clean sweep of glass and turned away. A tear escaped her unwilling eye.

  Spending the morning in Aureu hadn't been her plan, but her argument with Chain had taken too much from her. Emotions could be so draining, which
was why the Academy 'helped' you overcome them. Such conditioning had never taken with Maya. But she couldn't risk being caught so she'd broken into one of the emergency hiding places she'd scouted out and slept through the turmoil.

  Hunger swelled through her, undeniable and insistent. Maya decided to concentrate on this instead. She scrabbled amongst the warehouse's dusty sacks and moulding foods for something to eat. She found only a tub of honey. Not ideal but it would sustain her until she found something better. Scooping the syrup with three fingers, she emptied the jar and licked her fingers clean.

  One problem solved, Maya sat on a pile of sacks and put white leather gloves on. Something she hadn't taken into account last night occurred to her: leaving Sol's Haven, escaping the heart of Aureu, might be impossible during the day. Security would be tight after a would-be Contegon had turned Heretic and she would have no darkness to cover her.

  Her prison had merely been extended, made more secure.

  Tapping two fingers against her forehead, she thought her way through the dilemma. She couldn't climb her way out because Sol's Haven was surrounded by white marble walls. Climbing them would be the quickest way to get caught, beside stripping and running at the gate guards screaming. Even considering it had been stupid. She bashed her head with her fingers as punishment for the thought.

  Misdirection, combat, subterfuge: each had drawbacks, limitations. Maya couldn't come up with a good plan. She punched the bags beneath her in frustration.

  A vile, organic explosion responded. She looked down. An old tomato, white-green with hairy mould, had burst through the bags and covered the white leather of her gloves in off-red.

  She shook her head as – sword sliding into flesh – unwanted memories floated to the surface. Then inspiration struck her. Sifting through the sacks she found more old tomatoes and, even more useful, a spool of thread.

  Grim, determined, Maya reached into her travel pack.