“You’re late, Perry,” I said.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said. In his hands were a sheaf of plates. On top, four bodiezes. His Sector’s most prized invention. I still don’t know what they are exactly.
“Just trinkets,” Zeta said. Ze, dressed in the ninth color, was zirselves the gift of zir Sector, or rather zir garb. Zeta had the best sense of visuals. I believe Perry is wearing the normal uniform of Sector I Agents, which is rather ponte if you ask me.
Nhine and Craft simply held their own Sectors’ trinkets in front of them on the table. But then Craft spoke, its persona flickering blue.
“K Jeong of the Paradisiacs has addressed the fifth Sector,” it said.
Perry immediately set his bodiezes on the table’s flat surface. He almost dropped a plate, but grabbed it before it could fall into the Transcendence. “I wanted to talk about that,” he said. “Alauda of the Paradisiacs visited ours. And recruited the final members.”
“Their Company replete, they wish to put on a show,” Nhine said.
“All the world’s a stage, right. Shakespeare fanatics.”
“Milton, too,” I said. I'm a fan. They hadn’t done anything since exorcizing Calvin and Hobbes, may they go exploring. Of course, I wouldn’t tell the other Porters that.
Perry gave me a look. “And they’re considering adding Parabol to their repertoire. Have any of you even seen an adaptation of Ripe for Alteryear? Oh no, you wouldn’t. Even though we can access all stories of the world, not just one-fifth.”
“What are you talking about, Per. You’re the least literate, animate, visionate of all five of us,” Nhine replied.
Zeta waved zir hand. I think that was purple on the fingers, or orange. I haven’t been to Sector III in at least two years. I really should go back. “We always talk about the Paradisiacs, and don’t do anything about them. Should we?” ze said.
“There’s that interplay of persons between my Sector and H’trae, you know,” Perry posed, stacking the plates on top of the bodiezes; somehow, they were balanced.
“Finally, something interesting,” Nhine said. “Sector IV’s been ennui.”
“Sector IV’s always boring, Nhine,” Zeta said. “That’s why I’ve never been there.”
“I don’t want you to be there.”
“You don’t need help? What with your Scion Revolution and all?”
“Shut up, Zeta,” Nhine said. “Is the person in H’trae Scion, Per?”
Perry smiled. “No, but they’ve already met the royal family of the Nötr.”
“That is interesting, Perry,” I said. I glanced at Craft. “And who came over to our side?”
“A prince of that royal family. He’s already been here over a year. He’s gathering Scions; I’ve fought him twice already. He’s not giving them up. He wants to go to Sector II in a vain attempt to get closer to H’trae. Qumulo, you’ve talked to him.”
And now all faces turned to me. Thunder, I don’t like these meetings. I’d rather continue looking for the Paradisiacs in my free time, and I had very little of that. I shifted in my seat and my bind clings to my back, asking to be wielded. Not now, I tell it.
“The Nötr prince. He knows little.” Of course, I and neither Perry it seemed was going to tell the others about Jaceus’ stumbling upon the portals’ true element. I enjoyed combat, we all do to our various degrees. But war with the Nötr, or any of the kingdoms of H’trae (especially that one), would mean the breaking of the one Rule that keeps us coming to these meetings. Keep the worlds apart. Separate ways.
Nhine’s gift was literally a weapon. I declined to say any further.
Craft broke the momentary pause. “We will decline the host.”
Perry tapped the table. “I call second.”
Wait. For hosting the Paradisiac Company’s performance? Cloud nine! I held back my hand.
Nhine hesitated, and Zeta placed a finger on the table before zir; Nhine looked to me, and I began to move my hand over. Nhine got there first; I laughed inside.
“I take the host,” I said. 2237—it was going to be a fun year.
“Somebody killed Dube Dube,” Xeric said.
Raegoth frowned. For this was no easy matter.
“You mean the newfound Agent, who would have challenged Rexy,” Raegoth replied.
“Who is Rexy?” came the response, and Raegoth ceased frowning.
“I forget their original name,” he said. “It is beyond complicated.”
“For you, Third Agent, that is compliment,” Xeric replied, and Raegoth found himself nodding.
Who could be the Second, in due time, he responded himself, though only in thought.
“You mean the one we’re observing at this moment,” Xeric said, indicating with a sweep of his smallish arm the playing field before them—which contained C. P. at battle with Agent Felton. “They are ambitious.”
Raegoth certainly agreed. The daughter of R3-MD was no easy warrior, and did not rank above the Ninth Agent Bola for little reason. Agent Bola may have preferred to toss alter metal hydro dynamo frisbees to her—but that was only because the current Seventh Agent, N’ziet, was overly occupied with his drones of Contemporary Philosophy. Raegoth only saw him when the various Agents were gathered together, or at the Library attempting to resort the stacks by ‘relevance.’
N’ziet would do, especially if Felton lost this bout.
“WOOF!” came the cry, and suddenly a shape of bundled fur and tail was hurtling towards his face. A piece of the weapon that Rexy threw was tied to her ear, and Xeric besides Raegoth was beginning to clap—but Raegoth placed his hands up, and the Eighth Agent pivoted, placed her hind paws on his palms, and leaped.
“WOOF!” she yelped, and hurtled back, ears flying.
Back towards where, standing on the center of the playing field, C. P. waited—and they had already readjusted the weapon whose name Raegoth neglected to remember. Their dark eyes stood out from that distance, past the half-circle of observing, bobbing heads; Raegoth noted Bola, some two rows ahead; she turned back to him, and smiled.
“My superior’s really good!” she exclaimed.
Who was not going to be her superior for much more, Raegoth reflected, seeing that, while Felton dodged C. P.’s strikes, C. P. was restraining themselves—perhaps for their audience.
“Somebody else?” Raegoth asked.
“What?” Bola said, and Xeric shook his head. Snow-white.
“Dube Dube was, ostensibly, last seen leaving headquarters for an assignment,” he continued.
“With whom?” Raegoth asked. Unranked Agents often took their quests individually, so as to better ply for the Ranking Order.
“With no one, other than their chartreuse halberd, which, of course, is non-sentient.”
This was a matter of course. Agent Felton had taken some of Rexy’s weapon in her mouth and was scampering off. Several Agents shouted and threw their approval by means of what appeared to be makeshift imitations of the weapon—Raegoth hoped that Artok hadn’t been unnecessarily ployed—up into the air as they watched, Agent Tay among them—perhaps he was becoming more interested in the trinkets of a Bureau he was not a part of—and then Felton, having finished circling the playing arena, returned to the center, and dropped the pieces at Rexy’s feet.
During her five-second run, she had succeeded in breaking apart Rexy’s weapon. “YELP!” she woofed, and leaped back three meters. Well done.
Raegoth continued. “I presume you’ve told Mik’vael?” he asked.
“Of course. She’s in the Enclave right now, but the Fifth and Sixth Agents are answering this question.”
“How?” Raegoth asked. This was a matter for the Bureau of Research. He saw Agent Lind, sitting at the very front, consuming food. Only the Seventh, but he had complimented his tie at Alteryear.
“First Agent. I will continue the questions with—Seventh Agent of the Second Bureau,” Raegoth indicated, dipping his head in that direction.
“Of course. You’re familiar with Agent Lind’s function?”
“No, I am not.” Raegoth knew that each of the ten ranked in the Second and Third Bureaus had roles, purposes, or functions—unlike, per se, each of the ten in his own.
“His epithet is ‘Agency-Knower,’ Raegoth. He keeps our records.”
“A soulful purpose,” he replied.
He got up from his seat then, and moved down past the rows to the empty seat besides Lind.
“I will join you,” he said.
Agent Lind nodded, his mouth full of something. Raegoth looked down to see that Lind’s arms were full of—
“Binelan,” the Agent said. “It’s my favorite.”
Raegoth saw that, somehow, Agent Felton was holding the rest of C. P.’s weapon in her jaws, pawing the ground in front of her, eyeing her opponent, eyes beaded.
“Dube Dube was a good name, Raegoth,” Lind said. Raegoth shook his head.
“It has no fervor,” he said. “Two of the same.”
“I think I liked it more than mine, at least,” was the reply.
Raegoth nodded; Lind Boutique certainly did not meet the expected flavor, nor the scent; in fact, his maroon still had none. Only the binelan contested any scent of red.
“How did this Agent die? The First Agent—of my Bureau—says it was at someone else’s hand.”
“So the minds present, if any besides that hand, would be verified,” Lind said.
“Thus under your Bureau,” Raegoth replied. “Verification redacts the memory; purification rends the soul.”
“A soft choice of words, Third Agent,” Lind said. “But yes, of course, the nearest Agent from the Second Bureau would have verified any witnesses, before verifying themselves. So we have no witnesses—and as per Policy, Agent Artok has already returned the chartreuse halberd to the Stone.”
Raegoth was certain that one other Agent of the Second Bureau, then, had the role, purpose, or function of knowing the Policy in all its detail. Such customs were merely customary, as of course the real records would be stored by R3-MD. He looked again at the daughter, and Agent Felton was now being held aloft—Rexy holding her up by the scruff of her neck, alter metal spine enhanced—while her paws flipped through the air in vain. Still holding the alter terrier, Rexy walked around the arena, collecting the pieces of their weapon; a clip announcing each one’s joint vestiture. Peering closer, Raegoth saw hair falling from where Rexy held the Eighth Agent, creating a trail of matted silver and light along the floor.
Lind was still eating. Raegoth felt a very temporary urge to relieve the Agent of his binelan, but held his hand. The new Eighth Agent still had N’ziet to face; perhaps they would fare worse there, but then he remembered his own spouts in the Glass with the Philosopher, and doubt formed in the temples of his mind. Briefly he thought he saw a frieze of stone, and a person with black eyes, unidentified, clambering steadily along its etched surface.
He opened his eyes and cleared the image.
C. P. was walking towards him. Something perhaps triumphant now shone in their eyes of ebony. Agent Felton pawed her way forlornly back to where Agents Bola and N’ziet sat in the crowd; Raegoth saw N’ziet hand her the holo thrower, which she began gnawing at.
“You did well—Eighth Agent,” Raegoth said.
Rexy nodded. “I’m only surprised that Agent Bola leads Felton, and not the other way around.”
Felton barked.
Agent Lind, from besides Raegoth, stood up suddenly.
“Raegoth, you’re smiling.”
He returned his thoughts to the default palette, one of red. “No, I am not.” Agent Lind sat back down. Raegoth could see responses of differing nature from the rest of the crowd; some other Agents were doing their best with Felton, petting and consoling her; while others were actually walking over to him—no, to C. P. They were congratulating them.
“Pure practice and alteration,” they said, over and over; Raegoth nodded. “I’d challenge N'ziet now, but someone killed Dube Dube,” C. P. said.
“Not this again,” Lind said.
“Well, they didn't kill themselves,” C. P. said. “No one does anymore.”
“We’re in the 23rd century, C. P.,” Lind replied. “Not the 21st.”
“The Agents take care of these things,” came the response. Now, Raegoth saw Bola coming over, hair straight, appearing interested.
“Which we did. We don't know where they were killed but the body would have been collected by now. As per Edict 404, nobody is to know how people die unless they are Agents, and waive that right. And everyone here has waived that right. You all received this in your orientation.” Lind resumed chewing his binelan and Raegoth felt his hands moving forward.
“I don’t have the time to be remembering all of the hundreds of Edicts we’ve laid down over history, Agent Lind,” but Rexy turned and walked away.
N’ziet took their place. “How would, theoretically, one discover the identity of Dube Dube’s killer?” he asked. Felton peered out from between his legs. Today the Seventh Agent was wearing not his typical pants of softened flynder for exercise and pliancy in the Glass, but the everyday uniform of the First Bureau—with even his personal insignia, a hollow face, drawn into the lining.
Raegoth had the answer then in his mind.
“Can one undo verification?”
“No,” said a new voice.
“Second Agent Istria,” Lind said, standing—dropping his bag of binelan.
“No, you’re fine,” the other Agent responded, waving her hand. Lind sat back down, slowly. He did not pick up his binelan, though, and Raegoth turned to see the newcomer.
“I’m Istria Kvarner, of the Second Bureau,” she said, extending a hand. Raegoth took it. The Second Agent had dark green hair in curls around her shoulders, with streaks of cadmium. Like the Seventh, she was wearing the dossier of their Bureau, a suit of flynder with a wide band reaching down from the left shoulder to the waist. Her eyes were blue but tinted yellow, around the irises.
“You said that verification is not undoable,” N’ziet said, to which the Second Agent nodded.
“I’m Second Agent, so I know how it works,” she said. “Only the First and Second Agents of our Bureau have that knowledge.”
“As per—”
“As per Policy,” Raegoth said. “The same ‘Policy’ must then be why the First, Second, or Third Agent of the First Bureau must be in the Enclave at all times.”
“Correct, Raegoth.” Lind then bent down and retrieved his binelan. Or rather, just the bag; Felton was busily finishing up the rest of the product.
It was unknowable, then. Agent Dube Dube had been killed.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
But Raegoth thought for a moment.
“The question may not be who. But why.”
Agent Istria looked at him, almost closely; he could detect a passing interest in her expression.
“We extinguished the Furies.” N’ziet. “Dube Dube’s chartreuse halberd turned out to be useless in the end.”
“Be nice, Dri?” Bola.
“It just means they weren’t meant for the top ten,” N’ziet responded. “I doubt that C. P. would have suffered the same fate. Hypothetically speaking.”
“Woof!” said Agent Felton.
“Much less how Dube Dube was killed. There are so many ways to die.”
“Rae, why are you so interested?” Bola asked, and Raegoth now, consciously, found himself smiling.
“I just want to know,” he said.
“So you know where to go next,” Lind told him, and he nodded. He bent down, and put his hands behind Felton’s ears; he scratched them, and her tail waved back and forth. He would be returning to the Menagerie; the one building on Agency campus with a frieze heading its facade, where he had been shorned. He reached up to touch his red hair.
Eleanor held her hands aloft in front of her. Nothing shone from her hands: they were cupping air. She opened her eyes.
“Rank 5 or higher, all classes,” she said. She hesitated, and then—she said, “Rank 1 in Governing. Submitted portfolio to Sector Application Portal today, will hear back tomorrow.”
Delano Dorr looked at her. He was smiling. “You’ll go to Sector University.”
“That’s right! My sweet, autumn daughter. That’s where you’ll go.”
Her mother was running her hands through her own bright orange hair, poor imitation of a false season. She was looking at the canopy of her postered bed, on top of which lay Gaebus, sleeping. “You remind me so much of my sister. You never met her, but she left our family early to be with a techist.”
Eleanor remembered. The last time the three of them had sat together, musing on her grades. An Aunt Isabelle had been mentioned several times; the prodigy of the family, techist pride of the entire levgion. She shook her head. “I remember. Aunt Isabelle met and married techist dyno Meliodas Mott.”
She was never interested in techistry. A poor field, one full of posturing actors who never separated their technological fantasies from the clout they were all shown in school from their baby rollers.
“She died, though, right? She never showed us her face.”
Ulera Dorr nodded. “She didn’t just die though, Eleanor. She—”
Delano took her hand. The sight sweetened Eleanor’s mind like withering tea, sitting at the bottom of cups and left to shrivel in the sun. He must have wanted to do it for the past eight years.
“We didn’t want to tell you, Eleanor, you were too young. You hadn’t used portals on your own just yet.” He was still smiling. “See, that’s what happened to Tr’aedis. Your aunt experienced a portal malfunction.”
“What a thought,” she said. “Did a porter tell you that?”
“Well, yes,” he said. “They are our only segway to the Government’s lodestone activities, you know that.”
As by nothing she knew that, and by no truth did she accept it. But these news indicated a possibility—that the Government was truly involved. For some reason—first it had been her aunt. And now, Tr’aedis.
Portal malfunction. Or portal dysfunction.
“What did you want to discuss, besides my SAP?” she asked them.
“We wanted to take you to a show,” her mother responded. “Now—well, now that we all can, all together.” Ulera Dorr was actually looking at her with at least a curtain of concern.
It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t start the fire.
She thought to the row of V-movie V-photos between her mother’s room and hers. She shifted in her seat, on the floafa that was far too soft, softer than her bed’s settings ever reached. Only the heat—only the warmth was what she preferred. “Which V-movie,” she said. In High, personal holograms could leave the house.
“We know you don’t like the V-movies shown today,” her father said. “We’re taking you to a show. You know—”
“I know. You were going to say having Lightworder Productions come to the house.” The only theater troupe still extant in the Sector. Interest—as completely expected—was diminished since the advent of V-movies and the line of actors after Charles Restor. Tr’aedis had been able to see them once. Without her, but—
“Yes. Or rather, we’d host them here.”
They’d come here. They’d walk through the gates and the garden minilogue. They’d walk up and down the floors, spraying it with their hologram paint.
She’d love that.
“When are they coming?” she asked.
A flourish {for the players.}
“They should be here any moment,” Delano said.
“What?” Eleanor asked, and suddenly she felt, something was different.
They were in her mother’s room. And she hadn’t been here since the day. But—
The shape of all the drapes fell off, and she felt footsteps.
Enter the PARADISIAC COMPANY.
VENICE To lay the ground beneath our feet. We change the house, from palace burned.
AQUILA I sing my part. {He begins singing.} I miss the sky.
VENICE Our sixth, the Car. They bring us dreams. Do not bemoan their repertoire.
AQUILA Which see, I don’t, Venice. I’m here for fire. The Scion Element’r girl.
SAVIOR We are not a Car. We are Savior.
{봉준 is silent.}
VENICE Just up some steps. We see the times with film. {He points to the series of V-photos with Tr’aedis and Eleanor.}
AQUILA What light, to fail. So young he is.
VENICE Two flames await. One cold, but held. One bold, but felled.
{They pull back the curtain, revealing a room laden with dim haloamps and broken Alterfaces. Enter Ulera, Eleanor, and Delano.}
DELANO Welcome, welcome! Members of the Lightworder Theater Troupe.
{봉준 is silent.}
ULERA I have heard so much about you. What will you be bringing us today? {She points at 봉준, who is silent.} I have heard much about your W. Alter.
VENICE We thank you all. The Sector finds us proud and free to stage your home.
AQUILA W. Alter does not speak.
DELANO I’ve heard about that.
ELEANOR, {aside} Are these Scions as well? The Furies really weren’t a theater troupe after all…
VENICE Our bright and sweet directors two—they could not join us, here, in your house.
{봉준 is silent, but nods.}
VENICE Instead, we bring a truth. One that hopes to sway, means to calm; for fire.
ULERA “A Truth?” is the title? Who is the V-wright?
DELANO Playwright, Ulera. These are a real theater troupe.
ULERA I’m sorry—I’m still recovering from something. We called you not only for us—but for our daughter, Eleanor. {She points to Eleanor.} We thought, maybe, more traditional theater would be good. Things have happened.
AQUILA, {aside} ‘Things,’ my mind retorts. For fire, all of home and name retells the world.
SAVIOR We are made of fire.
AQUILA Your truth is fun to grasp. But it is not the truth we play today.
VENICE “Fire Man,” is the name, and we will play it for you.
DELANO What an interesting title, performers.
ULERA What does it mean? I’ve studied my history. “Firefighters” were abolished nearly one hundred years ago—well, they weren’t entirely human—with Edict 451.
SAVIOR We are—“I” was—
AQUILA The train does not desist. To film one’s dream but only burned. To ‘punch.’
ELEANOR, {aside} Yeah, I’m not interested anymore.
VENICE But now, we go. The world is ours—well, not of one perfect chrysolite. But jade, opal, amethyst.
{봉준 is silent.}
{봉준 is silent, but nods.}
A flourish {for the actors.}
VENICE pulls their hand over his face, and has the face of DELANO.
AQUILA pulls one wing from the sky, and has the face of ULERA.
봉준 squints, and stands. She bears the face of ELEANOR 9 years ago.
DELANO Eleanor, where are you.
ELEANOR (She is running, behind the tall hedges that were recently implanted onto the Dorr residence.) {aside} I’m in the garden!
DELANO Oh, there you are, Ulera. Have you seen our daughter?
ULERA No, I have not.
DELANO I have to tell her something.
ULERA She’s only eight, Del.
DELANO Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten Isabelle.
ULERA No, I have not.
DELANO How she burned. In the portal—
ULERA I think she’s near. Elle—she’ll hear you.
DELANO She’s eight. She’s old enough—to see. I’ll show, not tell.
ULERA Show her—? Show her what?
DELANO She’s like me. So she’ll remember.
ULERA She is my daughter.
DELANO We are Scions. {Aside} I’ve told her this too many times. And each time she forgets.
ULERA What are you saying? Talk to me, Del.
DELANO {Aside} I’m at the breaking point. I can’t harm them. (He turns away from Ulera and removes a card from beneath his Netbanker lapel. It bears the name of the actor playing him, among others. He puts it back in his pocket.) And I can’t accept this offer either. I can’t ‘bodiesify.’ I have family.
ULERA Oh, there’s Eleanor! (She points.)
ELEANOR I’m not here!
DELANO (Aside) But the fire within me refuses to obey.—(To the audience) Obey your parents. So that—long live my daughter. (He begins to glow, as Eleanor peers from around a rosebush.)
ELEANOR Dad?
DELANO burns. The grass around his feet dies.
ULERA Shining… shimmering—splendid—(the fire reaches her knees, but she is transfixed, and cannot move.)
ELEANOR Dad, you’re on fire!
ULERA’s hair tips curl and blacken. In the burning light, they appear orange.
A form out of the flames surrounding DELANO come apart, and they resemble the shape of a man.
ELEANOR Fire man?
The fire man becomes human skin, and as the fire encroaches upon the hedges, smiles at Eleanor.
TUPIL It was always burning. Since the world’s been turning.
ULERA falls, and ELEANOR runs screaming out of the garden. TUPIL runs after her. He—
removes his hand from their face, and SAVIOR is not smiling.
SAVIOR What a play. We don’t like it.
AQUILA The face of truth was always hard to play. Costumes make a tragedy.
VENICE Thus ends our play, but brief. A truth we had to bring.
{봉준 is smiling pensively.}
DELANO What in hell was that?
ELEANOR Tupil—the fire was started—bodiesify?—it was all—Father?
So Tristan thought. He did not have his receptor on.
On his desk—in his room—in the small alcove, without a door—he reached forward with his hands.
The desk was empty. Not a receptor pair, or the hideous birdlike thing he had conjured, brought, and was destroyed, completely broken. At the Exhibit.
He brought his hands back. He tried not to think too hard. But soon—
Tristan found himself pulling at his arms. Trying to pull them out of their sockets, like—and he thought of, from some imaginary V-movie, the story of the Hatchling being pulled prematurely out of its egg, yolk dangling from its forefeet as the Monster grabbed it up, screaming. As Tristan knelt closer to the two enormous creatures, struggling not to touch the egg’s broken pieces.
His arms yanked away, slapping his knees. Tristan leaned back on his chair. And began to replay the Exhibit once more in his mind.
Pops standing over him, Cel Rin laughing softly to himself behind his hair, held over his mouth. Tristan struggled not to emote a response to that.
So he pretended it was a V-movie.
Prudis Quan standing over his son who wanted to be an Agent.
He pretended to want to be an Agent.
He thought about wanting to be an Agent.
Tristan thought about holding—
—something
He was holding only his arms.
Tristan was holding nothing.
He was not an Agent. He could not be.
Y’sazant, who was not the strictest follower; followed techists, but Tristan always knew. Y’sazant enjoyed Agent dialogue, as everyone in the Sector did; and Tristan never thought more about that. Pops never mentioned Agents. And then Tristan remembered that he didn’t remember why.
He was not an Agent, and he could not be.
Tristan knew that.
He was not an Agent, and he could not be.
Tristan did not remember and he gripped his shoulders more tightly. Up higher than his arms; he raised them. He held them up. He held them up and did not let them back down. He sat on his chair, and soon he felt his arms shake. He kept them up; he thought about waving them up and down, as he lay down on the floor, like the superancient Da Vinci. But no true shape was being made.
The Hatchling squawked one last croak. The Monster took it into its gaping mouth, ripping apart its wet feathers. A few dripped off, dipped in blood, falling like rain, for empty clouds, onto the broken shards.
Tristan could not see this anymore. All he saw, was—.
A dream of broken pieces.
Tristan looked up at the sky. And there were no clouds.
The steel man looked down at him. And he was gripping with force, the work that Tristan had made. From his own thoughts and words, now reduced to a mere, green object a shard in his father’s hands, and now—
—Tristan saw the colors come apart:
As separate green pieces—they fell apart.
Tristan screamed.
From between the rimmed gates of his fingers, Tristan saw the steel man.
His hands were shaking, and did not drop the thing Tristan had given him.
Some people were looking their way; Tristan put his hand over his mouth.
The steel man looked this way and that while apologizing for his creature’s rudeness. Tristan peered out at them from behind the gate. There were people there; standing, talking with the steel man. Perhaps the steel man would take off his helm, his greaves, his bracers. And then Tristan could come out.
The steel man reached up with one hand, the other still holding the thing.
He adjusted his helm, pulling down tighter on the straps.
He opened his mouth, visible through the helmet’s steel face.
He spoke, and the lips moved with vigor.
“What are you DOING, Tristan,” he asked, and Tristan felt his fingers twitch away from his face.
Through them, he thought he saw Cel, but Cel was moving away. Cel was moving away to discuss the groundings of techist philosophy with other, more acculturated, subjects.
They too were nodding and smiling as they all together talked.
Tristan felt his moat wave and the drawbridge fell down. The moat of Cel’s hair glimpsed through the the gates.
“I am flying,” he thought he said.
He got up from the floor, and the people slowly dispersed. Without speaking he brushed off the nonexistent dust from his clothes. Tristan shook them off. “I am coming apart,” he thought he said. And the Agents in the V-movie stood by the drawbridge, and one of them made a notch into the castle wall: it was next to twenty-three others; now there were twenty-four. Tristan wanted to run back up the drawbridge but it was closed up, and the water was dark and deep.
“I am not looking up,” he said. He kept his eyes down to the shining, clear floor that wasn’t grass, but it was just what it was made to appear under the light. It was V-glass made in High and circulated down to Plent for their universities and Might for their Exhibits. “I am not looking up.”
“Get up.”
Tristan got up, keeping his eyes magnetized down below.
“What in Alter’s name is wrong with you, Tristan!” continued the steel man, and this time, they were alone; and Tristan closed his eyes. “You had all this time to revise the previous piece, and you never even made the previous piece. Get up. You’re not going to school for the next few weeks.”
At this point, Tristan saw nothing. All he saw was the blackness of the moat. But he could still see the soldiers by the moat, and one of them knocking back an arrow; sending it over where it would be caught and added to a bin with only five others. Each tipped with steel; by now, the poison had long since dried. But still it hung steadily from the sixth into the bottom of the bin, joining the long-coagulated surface.
“Give me your receptor.” Tristan handed the steel man his white receptor.
“You’re not in this Exhibit anymore. Leave.”
Tristan dared not look at the steel man’s glowing eyes. At the steel man’s single dark curl of brown hair dripping over the forehead. At the steel man’s ripping aloud the pieces of green. Tristan gulped, and as he walked away made sure his neck was still thinly held together by its sinews and nerves.
He walked past and felt his feet crunch on the pieces. He could hear the soldiers now jeering in groups of twos and threes, as they laughed and called over the castle’s walls: no voices returned them but the air was thick with silence. It was not flying with arrows. No green thicket awaited those unlucky few who made it over those parapets, and Tristan felt the tell-tale heart sail over the wall with nothing facing it except the emptiness of the people passing by and soon the pliant grass of the outside world was touching his feet. And only when he approached the nearest portal and stepped inside, and prepared to face the atoms of hyperspace did he open them and look up at the vibrant, unwelcoming nothingness in the image of his world.