The alter dart shook, its white sheen mirroring light. Tristan held the modified paper material, pushing it between his fingers. It was alter paper, so it did not rip or break or tear; he kept pressing, until eventually the dart came to a still.
One. Nine more to go. Tristan folded the dart in two, leaving the nose extended past the wings; a sharper flight body. He laid it on the flat surface of the alter cyber wood desk that contained his other first places. Removing the wind string that had held it, disconnecting the clip from the second alter dart, dropping the wind string onto the floor, falling with a moderate velocity, its motion nearly pendular as it drifted like a leaf. Placing the clip, the first to start a pile, on the floor next to it.
Tristan looked at the lone alter dart that was folded but now looked even less airborne. He flipped it over. Now the V was a more protracted A. He looked back down to his two starting piles, the flimsy wind string laid next to the alter plastic clip. A group can’t be defined by one, he thought.
The One Fleet lay clinging to the desk feebly, like a colony of ants forming a bridge, from where most of it lay dangling on his chair. Or was it the One Body? Both names were formed by Father. Tristan reached over for the second alter dart, and saw that without the clip, the second wind string was straight out, connected to nothing on one end, grasping loosely at the air. The last ant. He disconnected it from the clip and placed the wind string down to begin the pile. The clip came after, to form two piles of two. The second alter dart. Fold, flip, and place next to the first. He noted that the first’s tension, as alter darts were designed, did not relax as it balanced solely on its two wings, as alter darts were designed.
Tristan repeated these strictures for the following eight alter darts, ensuring deletion of any stray thoughts flung along the path to his Thoughtnote. Upon completion, he now had two piles lying straight on the floor behind him: one of clips, one of wind strings. Plastic. He now had ten alter darts arrayed in front of him on his desk. Immobile.
He considered employing the clips and wind strings for the perpetual motion model.
Reject.
Tristan opened his regenerator, which formed the connecting piece between his desk and wall, and deposited the clips and wind strings into it, allowing them to fall from his fingers. Click, click, click went the regenerator, and he Thought reincorporation to allow the house system to take them.
Reverse. Reconstruct—Thoughtform, he told it, and rather than deconstruct the materials for the house, the regenerator examined the state of his thoughts and proceeded to form something new. Tristan had only used this recent upgrade to House systems once before, when he had had no ideas for Pops’ project; it had not succeeded.
But maybe it would succeed today.
New product created, the regenerator input into his Thought-feed, and Tristan opened his eyes.
A white, long, elongated V lay stretched out on the desk before him, laid awkwardly on its side, as if birthed from the regenerator beside it; a white, almost silver string lay weak and unbound between the two ends of the V, as if it was demanding to be tightened. A less identifiable construction, green, which looked like a larger clip, hung below the string towards its middle. Tristan touched it.
He looked up, forward, and saw the ten alter darts laid out before him.
Without knowing why he was doing what he was doing, Tristan brought the first alter dart over and matched it to the larger wind string and clip. He attempted to pick up the entire object, but it was heavier than he thought. He satisfied himself with pulling back the alter dart on the centerpiece, because it fit so well, and then, letting go—and the alter dart flew. It soared—straight across his small enclave, hitting the wall quickly and hard. Tristan went over to it and picked it back up. He returned it to the hold—pulled back; let go. Thack.
Tr’aedis then realized what they were asking and the lines came before him. “I am not Jaceus,” he said, as he pointed to the figure in the V-photo, shaking his head, and then pointing to himself. Tr’aedis did not keep like V-photos containing himself in the house; only Eleanor still maintained some in hers, memories of their companionship. He did not need such visual reminders, as she had been in his sight every day; still, the fair Elly was not here today. “I am not he,” he said again, continuing the motions.
He saw then that the other four portraits, unlike V-photos, had begun speaking—the figures within them speaking. They were gesticulating, Apollo-ceus’ V-photo making a circle with its hands repeatedly; and these moving figures, like holograms but restrained to the V-photo frame, had the same voices as their originals. Tr’aedis made out symbols on the wall, one above each of them: the same ➤ for Apolluceus, ⧢ for the unnamed woman whose voice he was now hearing, ⧮ for Jaceus, ⦲ for Ila ce, and ⧋ for Herceus. Only Apolluceus bore the symbol that stood above his likeness on his cloak.
The symbols were perfectly in parallel above their respective portraits—yet not touching the walls. Seeing them in line, Tr’aedis felt that Apolluceus’ shone brightest, even though they were all equally lacking in color. They were just symbols, and he was reminded of his initial view of the world-shape that had embraced the land with strange creatures. But there was no color either; it was just shining, nearly into his mind like the way emotions steeped into Thought-feeds.
Tr’aedis also noticed that for the brief seconds their representations had been speaking, the originals had not been moving or speaking themselves, with the exception of Puræ, who had walked over to the space on the wall to the left of Herceus’ likeness and pressed his black-scaled hand to its surface. They then ceased their brief conversation, Jaceus’ portrait remaining still, and Puræ returned to where he was. The entirety of the moment had gleaned as much as empty seconds would in their passing. The real Herceus then beckoned to the last-to-be-named Myodor’s portrait.
“Etr ce-t wendtaeminr. En di-minr Trædise-t nim-hol Jaceus,” he said, and Ila ce nodded. So the final Myodor, or at least of the ones pictured here, was named “Ursha Cei.” Tr’aedis briefly wondered if these people had a script as picturesque as their symbols; the language was flowing, as if these players had memorized their lines from birth.
Apollo-ceus appeared satisfied, and flicked a tuft of hair on Herceus’ head. Herceus laughed again, the same deep mode of wakefulness that Tr’aedis had heard upon entering this place of the shapes. Puræ raised a hand and again laid it on Tr’aedis’s shoulder. “Felot tæhel ri taelis,” he said to the others, to the Myodors; and they each nodded to him. Puræ did the same; and again Tr’aedis saw that his guide possessed a significant, if not severe, respect for the ones bearing wings; and that at most, they bore him in return the light of friendship. It was a strong light. And from each Myodor, the light shone differently.
Puræ now motioned towards Tr’aedis to stand back; which Tr’aedis did.
Puræ took a deep breath, setting his arms to each side. He set his feet straight to form what could be two A’s on top of one another. Seeming to face less Tr’aedis and more a vision in front of him that only he could see, Puræ stood still. Absolutely still.
So they were waiting for this Ursha cei to arrive, to perhaps answer for them all the Jaceus question—
And light struck.
Tr’aedis knew not how he sensed the coming of light. It was an imitation Ila ce sunlight wearing when she walked the grass or conjured the material out of air—no it was pride, streaking out from under the black crenulations on Puræ’s arms and torso and legs—as the light illuminated them he realized that the designs of wings were not only on his arms but across his entire body—Puræ was winged by design alone—and not because he was wearing clothes of his own caliber but because they were not clothes but his real body. The light continued to shine. Puræ tilted his head back and opened his mouth wide, and roared a hazy, fervent, shining cylinder of white light. In addition to the light arrived a heat, and Tr’aedis found himself thinking of Eleanor, and wondering what she was doing; he had the keen sensation that she’d be reacting more viscerally if she were here.
He felt that he was witnessing something extraordinary, the product of days devoted to an outpouring of self. And he did not know how to appreciate it other than to behold the light starring out of Puræ’s mouth, which suddenly closed. Puræ returned to his normal stance, moved over to touch Tr’aedis’s shoulder, and their settings changed color.
Would Ala be around her age? Skylark wondered, as she nodded yes to Cerise.
“Yes? Ha ha, I knew you’d want to come. It’s a V-library.”
Cerise touched a ring on her left index finger, turning it black. She cocked her head sideways, and Skylark knew what she meant—unless she turned them back, the changes were permanent. Cerise now wore all black, from the black of their school V-books in her vest to the black of night illuminated by portals in her shoes to the black of, mm, it was a silver kind of black, like Miss Darth’s hair, in her glasses. Only her eyes were not black, but a dark pink.
Skylark herself was wearing her usual colors. Her hair cerulean-blue.
“I really haven’t been to a library in a long time,” she said.
“It’s only the university’s. Peppa Peppa’s is adequate though, for what we need here.” Cerise put a hand to her receptor, which sat just below her hairpin, and the entrance door, a large P, shimmered into appearance. “You first!”
Skylark stepped through. Alauda could’ve gone here, she thought. And she waited for Cerise to follow behind her.
“You haven’t been to High at all, have you,” the older girl asked, and Skylark shook her head. “I noticed—you’ve been staring all day.” Skylark tried to smile sheepishly. “It is a beautiful university,” but of course she had little to compare it to, she hadn’t even started visiting universities in Might where she’d go, let alone High, let alone v-ArtUniversity. Cerise just seemed so used to it. “Really alter.”
“Alter, you can say that, ha ha,” and Cerise came forward to stand beside her. “You see that arrangement of floafas? That’s an imitation Sector II piece. I actually know the students who orchestrated it.”
“That’s alter too,” Skylark responded, and while it didn’t look that different from the floafas in the Exhibit two months ago, or was it one month ago, they were moving slowly, in a circle, and she couldn’t see any strings. “No airstrings,” she said.
“Wind strings, you mean,” and Skylark laughed but what came out was embarrassment. “Watch,” and Skylark watched, and saw that a student was seeming to walk on thin air from the balcony on the second floor, and moving over to sit on one of the floafas, moving into it naturally as it was circling. They were in Sector I—“now of course we’re in Sector I, so their techure isn’t being used, but here it’s just invisible magnetairs, and as you see down below to the first floor—” Skylark looked down, and saw the floors below and so they were already on the third floor, and that was the fourth—“you can’t see it, but there are wind strings held tightly between the magnetairs and the floor, supported on four corners by further wind strings, Vel’atta’s Resistance, oh. Sorry. You’re not interested, ha ha,” Cerise noted.
Skylark was lost. “I see the V-books,” she said, pointing down on the second floor below to what looked like a giant V-book laid on its side, large pages set open, and students walking in and out of them holding V-books. It looked kind of familiar—she remembered that scene from Miss Gravity when Miss Gravity entered the Hallway of Shifting Parataxis, chasing after the Fury—no wonder Luke had wanted to see it. “Yes, of course you don’t usually carry around your V-books, but here it’s a sort of fashion to do it. v-Art students,” and Cerise touched Skylark’s shoulder, and she almost expected it to flutter into black, but then she remembered that Cerise’s trait couldn’t affect living things. “I’ve tried, of course, only on birds, and sometimes a feather changes, but otherwise nothing.” “Here, let me take you down there,” and Cerise touched her receptor again, and suddenly they were moving down. They had been standing on a platform.
It only took a few seconds, but something about the way they moved down, the way they were moved down, felt longer; and before she knew it Skylark was stepping off, making contact with the floor, and she quickly turned around and saw that the platform was already back up top. No, wait, there were two platforms—there was a platform for each floor, she realized, staring up to the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. She blinked rapidly.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
They were on the second floor. The floor was transparent, but rather than seeing straight through to the first floor, she saw a dizzying influx of both upside-down versions of themselves, Skylark and Cerise, but also the people below, moving in and out, up-and-down of bodies. She shook her head.
“Do you get used to that?” she asked, and instead concentrated on the massive V-book gallery, there were more V-books with titles emblazoned in green on the shelves—there were shelves within the pages. “It’s a Ricotta mirror-type flooring. If you get used to it, eventually you see your true self,” Cerise replied. She was staring down at the floor intently.
“Really? That’s possible, I mean we all see different things, and that means it’s mixed with the person below,” Skylark said. I feel like I’m in school.
“It’s a myth,” the other said. “But sometimes we pretend!” and Cerise beckoned for them to enter the giant V-book.
Skylark took a deep breath, and walked forward.
Scene 4
Music was playing / Tr’aedis did not know love / The sounds he felt heard as such. Love was the only word he knew to describe what he heard / even if it was a feeling he did not truly know.
He never listened to hi-fi or the other genres of the day Eleanor would use for studying, as they too were detriments of perfection’s wrought by society; he much more enjoyed listening to the birds, thankfully a species still allowed on the earth.
But this was a good sound, though a sound he did not recognize.
“Etr ce velen-lae mæga,” said Puræ, gesturing towards the first row of pink, for pink it was, their new color, the color that surrounded them; and there were rows. Long, vibrant rows through which Tr’aedis could see clustered myriads and myriad of shapes, rather like three-dimensional forms of the Myodor symbols. Though he saw none of those here, only so much more, so many within the rows of pink, each physical shape pulsing, radiating a varied light—they had been arranged by color, within and apart from each row, so that the entire pulsating act flowed and shone from within to throughout, and the entire row-born structure bore a shudder, bore a quiver, withheld vibrant life and thoughts and memory. And he knew that, altogether, the sound produced by the pulses was the music he heard, if ‘music’ was the word to use—and then, he saw a person walking towards them from the shortest row, towards where they stood in expanse.
She was Etr ce. And Tr’aedis recognized her from the core of his being.
She was wearing a softly glowing, curling assemblage of lines around her person, far more ornate than the Myodor cloaks, and there were no wings here—although the entire row-bone structure was shaped like a massive bird’s wing—and she did not need them. On the very front of her uniform cloth was the symbol ⧢. Unlike her siblings, her hair did not feel like a personality of the sun or a bird’s feathers; rather, it was its own petite forest whose branches and leaves were moving as he looked, slowly taking the shape of one symbol, then another, and then another.
Puræ besides him had moved his right arm across his front, hand’s fingers aligned, and his eyes closed. Tr’aedis instinctively showed the same movement, but did not close his eyes—and Etr ce took her left hand, fingers aligned, and waved it twice towards them.
“Dyen, gönhel,” she said to him, and lowered her hand. In her right she was carrying one of the physical symbols, that she must have taken with her from a row; it was no longer pulsating, but nonetheless equivocating clearly something of value.
“Puræ, aveï laent,” she told Puræ, who dipped his head. “Lvve tae noht rin laed man.”
“Tae noht lvve man velise,” he responded. “Memscrib voyer?”
“Vent,” she said, and with her left hand, gestured for Puræ to come closer. As Tr’aedis watched Puræ put his right hand into the symbol, and with his left hand, reached in and pulled something back. Puræ’s eyes lit, as he stared down at whatever he was pulling back—and after a few more seconds, released his left hand, and the light faded. “Shay!” he said, and Etr ce laughed. “Ila ce sha-noht, En-t aeros,” she said, and Puræ was now laughing, and then turned back towards Tr’aedis.
“Veld, Trædise,” he asked, and Tr’aedis took the several steps that lay between them to approach; but not without hesitation.
At Puræ’s nodding, he mimicked what he had seen—he put his non-dominant hand into the symbol, his left, and with his right, reached in—the symbol was in fact empty, while it looked full—and pulled back.
image [https://i.imgur.com/hFv8D9L.png]
“Alter WHAT,” he yelled as he jerked his hands out of the thing. “Alter, what in Blazon blue was that, damn, portal me out of this please.” He had been seeing the children, but he had also been one of them—like a v-World, but he didn’t have control—he was on his back, on the floor, which was smooth but hard. “Nine gods, damn, what was that. What—John, servient where arthou, orangecapricorn.”
And while he was there, the music had stopped. Only the sound of their praise, and their feet, tapping on hard earth—
“Felot noht Nötr, -noht, felot Earth,” Puræ told Etr ce, who nodded. “Memvenir t-Jaceus-El mine,” she said.
Puræ walked over to him, and extended an arm. Black-scaled, partly covered in the cloak bearing wings that, sometime in between, he had redonned. Up close, while he had seen it before, Puræ’s skin looked hard: hard, but also smooth, that invited contact, but only when shown this way.
Tr’aedis shakily accepted his hand, which was more smooth, and got to his feet. He took a deep breath. Until they were done with him. Until they were done with him, he wouldn’t speak, or attempt to dissuade them from enacting what strange devices of power and fancy they wielded so casually to their entertainment. I have to return, somehow, he thought; but while he had that thought, a new one came to him—to stay, perhaps, and at least grasp the new lines that he heard, from these mysterious and foreign actors, and perhaps make his own.
Alauda would be showing them his power instead, as she tried to make out the V-book, or what was it, it was a miniature version of the large one they had just left, with miniature people emerging from it held on the palm of the person doing a reading. “That’s the v-Author Miyan Joong,” came Cerise’s somewhat surprised voice besides her, so Miyan Joong was famous and Skylark only knew of Rennie Jay, people like that. Histream stuff.
“I haven’t seen a V-book like that before,” Skylark said. She’d tried William Restor’s V-book library but they hadn’t had anything like this, but then again she hadn’t gone through the whole library. Falara would pull her out fairly quickly enough, interest shocked away by fresher technology. This was fresher technology… now little creatures were flying out of the pages, and they moved and looked like holograms. “A V-book—with holograms?”
“V-holobook. They’re called volos in short. Joong’s a leader in the Post-V Movement, you know. Well, I suppose you don’t.” Cerise was touching her hairpin and staring at the V-holobook; was she, too, yearning to do it? Although Skylark wondered if a volo would count, as holograms couldn’t be touched. “There is something interesting about it, the V Wave was real enough you know, and with volos they strictly animate the v component…” and Skylark left her standing there, the feeling was a bit too familiar. She took another look at Miyan Joong; they had hair that was shifting color as she looked at it, but very slightly, and smoothly in a darkening shade of brown—approaching black. Their eyes were also of opposing colors, Skylark didn’t recognize the clothing’s top which met its lower half seamlessly, but they were also separated. The v-Author’s eyes were taking their turns amongst the crowd, going from person to person—all v-Art students, of course—as they continued to read, and the creatures began circling each other now half a meter above and to the left of the V-book.
Alauda—would be trying to blow those birds away, she thought, and lifted her hand.
“... and, I don’t know, when v conjuncts the study of Η, it doesn’t feel right to me. How do I explain it to you, Skylark, it doesn’t color me beautifully. I know, when I say that, you know what it really means. We only recently met, but that’s a phrase I’ll use around you—what are you doing?” Cerise asked, and she seemed to watch, as Skylark by now had a hand facing forward, palm out, and slowly closed it, the four fingers of her right hand returning to her palm and the thumb enclosing it. Cerise looked at Skylark; but Skylark’s eyes were clear. Clear, and straight in their silver of the moon. A moon which we almost never see.
“Red Bird said to Blue, hello, and alter day to you, responded the Blue Bird, and they flocked together, dazon to dazon bird—” and Miyan Joong ceased their stage whisper, and saw the little Red Bird vibrate, its wings splattering as a hologram could mimic, and vanish.
A brief lull; and one v-Art student broke the silence—“Short-lived relationship between the poor birds,” and some others laughed. “It’s over there,” Cerise pointed, and the heads turned to see the little Red Bird, wings ruffled, settling itself on a nearby bookcase. Cerise nodded to Miyan Joong, who said, “but Red Bird was teaching the other to fly.”
I believe I can fly. Skylark opened her eyes to see the V-holobook in the same position. Cerise was touching her arm; she caught a flicker of red to her right, and the red hologram bird was perched on it. Quite some distance from the V-book; and the red hologram bird seemed to be speaking to somebody, or they were in the same position it had been before—just further away.
She thought for a moment of Falara.
“Was—was that—” she whispered, and Cerise was gripping her shoulder tightly. “Well done, Scion,” the older girl told her, and Skylark quickly looked back at her, and the student’s eyes briefly switched to a solid silver and back to their dark pink, which now looked light. “Didn’t expect that in their reading, that is advanced use of the V-holobook,” Cerise said aloud, and other students were nodding. “I can teach you, Blue Bird, said the Red, and the Blue Bird shook their head. I will fly on my own.” Miyan gestured to the two hologram birds, which vanished, as they closed the V-holobook; and the light faded. Skylark looked down; and then looked back up, up towards Cerise.
Cerise was smiling back at her, and for the same reason.
“Oh, Sara, is it. You’re telling me that my redeemed Agent subordinate, Agent Hector, is no longer my subordinate, and that, miraculously, you have taken his place as Fourth Agent. Please tell me, Sara, that you are telling the fondest joke you can concoct, because I am training the thousand hours in the Training Glass, and—”
“Raegoth, yes, I am Sara, I told you already, and it’s almost Alteryear exactly. Hector—Hector died, remember?”
Hector’s dead. Raegoth did not quite remember this.
Raegoth continued his calisthenics.
Sara continued speaking. “Hector’s dead, he sacrificed himself for you, to all of our surprise, you’re just ignoring the one great thing he did in all his tenure—” She held off, and hefted her bothersome microphone, the one she called her weapon—and just watched him, he, Raegoth who used to be brave, not grave or gentle or glorious, doing the thousand hours in the Training Glass. Watched him ignore his subordinate, as he always did. “Are you ever going to stop training? Even if you’re still Third, with what happened, you could probably take both Mik’vael and maybe Xeric given how they’ve been acting. Wish I was there, sometimes. And Perry’s apparently talking to the other porters. That’s significant. But none of them are talking. It’s Purification Chamber stuff, so I’m not allowed to know—but you could tell me—”
Raegoth paused mid-stroke. “Hector’s dead, and you’re telling me now?”
“Yes, Raegoth, I’ve been telling you for almost a week. Alteryear’s in just two days. Mik’vael’s gone home to her parents for it, Xeric’s been avoiding everybody, and you’re just exercising. Is that truly altering yourself?”
“I will never alter myself,” he said.
“If that were true, the Alterface would tell you, Pinnacle Soma attained, the hidden words that never come because it’s impossible to have the perfect human body, even today. Maybe you could hear them, but when’s the last time you even stepped on an Alterface pedestal?” Sara asked, as he rose from the floor on one finger.
“Two days, Sara. I have two days to mourn the loss of my beloved subordinate, who made me laugh with his plans for surpassing me, and for his famed swordplay.”
“Yes, Raegoth. And I’m here in the Glass, watching you train for nothing, because the Furies have been handled, and after Alteryear Morht’s going to upload a sheaf of assignments on us, you were at the briefing yesterday.
“And we got those new Agents to consider. Not ranked, of course, but to add to the listings. Bola’s busier than you are not thinking about Hector.”
“I am busy, Sara. I am busy exercising, and you are interrupting.”
The Fifth Agent sighed in frustration.
“I’m off, watching you train isn’t doing my skills any good, and I’m not going to parade myself away like Hector did when he was your subordinate. Don’t worry—I’ll be competent.”
And with that, Sara walked away. Raegoth lowered himself to the floor.
He counted—five dots of sweat on his body. Not enough. He would train until he had five more.