I am Sorge. I look really tired most of the time, I'll openly admit that, but it isn't always my fault. My superiors work me to the bone. They have no regard for my station. They have no consideration for my well being. Yes, I could always refuse their demands but then they'll have me transfered to the Hole. And I can't do the Hole. I have never met anyone who, in their right senses, has chosen the Hole.
The Hole is usually reserved for traitors, murderers, put simply, the worst of the worst. But that is far from the reason why it is collectively hated. The surface of my planet, Krakas, is dotted with endless abysses and the Hole is the prime of them all. Some say it is the origin even. But I don't ponder much on it. All I know is that I must avoid going to that endless dark. Well, frankly, there is a class of Pyrant that love the Hole. They are called Prophets. A mad group, those ones. I have met only one of them myself and his eyes were, dare I say, blacker than the Hole itself. I digress.
I am a Panner. One of the five classes of Pyrant—six depending on who is asked. And my dawn is about to start. I am training future Panners—most of whom would fail—to join the labour force in running our home planet. Of all the Panners I graduated with, only Mubbers was assigned to the same terminal as me: Terminal E1. The rest were sent to the other side of the planet to serve under another Emperor in a different Belt. Good for them, I guess. As much as I hate my work, I love my part of the continent. Love is a strong word, Iike is much better as I could wake tomorrow to a dead terminal. Dead terminals are the worst. I digress again. I have a class of aspiring Panners to teach. I also have to cover Mubbers' class as he is helping with the installation of new E1 pipes. "The old ones for extracting trace metals have ruptured," he'd said. Fenrod and Hanks, my notoriously lazy superiors, also want me tutoring their advanced classes. And when I asked why they couldn't do it themselves Fenrod gave me the transfer-request look.
I zipped up my black skin-tight tracks, placed my iron guards at every joint and plodded to class with a pad. It was an early dawn. From the window I saw the weak light our dwarf star, Herod, gave off. Light capable of piercing our thick atmosphere but not suited for lighting the depths of the virulent, abundant abyss. I saw through nigh-darkness the gapes in the ground. Different kinds of large but all large.
"Panner Sorge, are you dawn-dreaming again?" It was Mabeth, one of the tutors in our terminal. We attended the same History of Krakas class and I have yet to see someone brighter than her. It is telling that she did not train to become a Pyrant. Only stupid people did so, and here I am, one of the stupid.
"Not really, Beth, I am just thinking of what to do with my life."
"I occasionally think that too." She smiled, and joined me at the window. "It's a beautiful dawn."
"Hmm."
"You see that abyss. Right there." She pointed. "It has a recycling pod at the lip. You won't see it from here. But I envy those who get to be so close to it."
"I don't envy them. I only pity the Panner who has to keep up a well-rounded, double-fronted shield, from dawn to dusk." And I thought I was suffering, I said this part to myself.
"There are two of them there," Mabeth said, still looking hungrily at the abyss. "They rotate."
"Why didn't you become a Panner then? If you wanted to get close to an abyss you should have trained to become one of us Pyrants."
"I should have, right?" That was her only absent-minded reply. Don't ask me. I don't understand her either.
"Off to class, Beth."
"Goodluck!"
"I'll need it."
The sliding door slid open and I propped my pad and ink on a lectern. Fenrod's was my first class of the dawn. There were six of them. Three males and three females.
I wanted to say, "You all will fail the Tests, anyway. Go back to your bunks. Have the day off." But my better part had a generous hold of me. They'd be better off as engineers. In fact, after they fail the Pyrantial Test, that is where they'd all be dumped. Engineering. So, isn't it kind of me to save them the waste of time?
"Brightdawn!" I greeted with one of my fake tutor smiles. Don't know when I began smiling that way.
"Brightdawn," one of them managed to mumble. I sighed as I didn't want to bother with more fake courtesies.
"A parafactual helix displayed with a stitled base reproduces what? You'll answer that, Wingurn. And what will be used to reinforce it in the occasion of partial collapse? That's your question Danra."
Wingurn rubbed his still sleepy eyes after which he stared at me like I was an abyss-eaten statue of the Iron Emperor. "Can you say that again?" He finally asked.
"In the occasion of a partial collapse, a foreign hologram board will reinforce it," Danra answered her part of the question.
"Good attempt, Danra. But that would be the case for a total collapse not a partial one."
And there we go, wrong and more wrong answers till it was time for my next class. I stopped at the dinner hall for breakfast. Everything eaten on Terminal E1, in fact everything eaten on Area of Base Eophyla or Area E was mashed. Mashed black cloud, mashed serpent sky, mashed chute juice, mashed mush mush.
The Iron Capital ate solids; some other corrupt Areas of Base also enjoyed this privilege. Fairly speaking, every Area of Base is corrupt. But the ones with licence to whole feeding terminals are not only corrupt. They are also rich. Having a terminal dedicated solely to food production could change a whole base. Not easy to run but worth it. Why wasn't I assigned there! The Iron Capital had no less than five fully functioning feeding terminals at any given time. But such is life on Terminal E1. I ate my mush on an iron table and dragged my boots through iron steps to my next class. These ones are my own students. I bother with them. Quite well. And as much as I hate being a Panner, I want to train successful students. My tutor did the same. He was enthusiastic about us, perhaps why my determination never waned during the course of training.
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There were eighteen of them in my class.
"Brightdawn, future Panners!"
"Brightdawn, Panner Sorge." They all answered and with much gusto that my smile became real enough.
"I wanted to give long notes, but I've changed my mind. We'll be dealing Shields and it would be practical stuff."
"Wooh!" One of my goofiest, Zulta, exclaimed from the back.
I spread my arms, gestured in the air then rose a hologram-type shield, connected intricately by miniscule light cubes. I saw my students' eyes bob with delight. I put the shield aside with one hand and made a dent of it in the middle.
"I don't want too much excitement. I am not supposed to show you Panner mechanics. Also, if Fenrod should hear of this, he'll have my lungs for dinner, so contain yourselves. Salise, come." She came forward. "Touch the shield. Come on."
She fidgeted before eventually passing her fingers through the shield.
"This is a basic hologram shield. You could tell easily because it is transparent and tangible. A full shield would be translucent, with much duller light, and almost intangible. Panners will use a basic shield to display blueprints for terminals or statues or vehicles. And a full shield to construct tools for drilling, for extracting and other temporary utility. Have your seat, Salise."
I made a larger dent on the shield. "Curves are—" And just then the Mourn sounded. The Mourn. It's the cry that many Prophets claimed the abysses made. A slow, long, dying wail. I am still going to find out who thought it was a good idea to make it our alarm system. It had been like this since I was born but was still somewhat annoying.
"Get up! Pack up! Go to your bunks, to your parents, whichever, and don't come out until you are told to." They stood and processed out.
The next announcement came. "All delegates gather at the transit hall. All delegates gather at the transit hall."
We waited several minutes and eventually devolved into chatter and gossip till the Pilot-Serjeant of E1, Dolony, took the platform.
"There's grave news," he said. The murmurs started again. I tried not to conjecture but alas couldn't help it. Probably, a dead terminal or, from the tone of the Serjeant, an area-eating rumble. "From the Iron Capital itself."
The hall fell silent with that. Every eye was on the Serjeant, mine too.
"There was an assassination attempt." Then, the side talk returned with more power and...as much as I dread saying it... fear. "A President was killed and the Iron Emperor Xlenonius III is..." Dolony tore me apart with suspense. I wanted to throw my arm guard at him. "...in a critical state."
"Who did it?" One woman screamed out her throat.
"Who did it?" Another asked.
The Serjeant ignored their prying and continued over the rambling, "All Pyrants in this terminal are expected to meet at Headquarters after now. A general lockdown will take effect immediately. Nolosh take engineers to the engineering bay, shut down everything. The food bay too." Another cry of objection followed. "You heard me! No one is to go outdoors! No transportation during this period! No recycling! Nothing! Yea. Yea. Murmur all you want. Reserves, drag these delegates to their rooms! Pyrants to Headquarters now!" Pilot-Serjeant Dolony barked command after command.
Let's just say I was spiralling. Where's Mubbers? To Headquarters first. There are not many of us Pyrants, as I stated earlier many fail the Tests. My guess for this private meeting was that the assassin was a Pyrant. And most likely a Panner. But it made little sense to me. A Panner killing a President in a fight? Except the President was really the target of assassination and was caught off his guard. Or it could be a fellow President? Presidents are…
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Mubbers. “I bet it’s one of those Prophets, with their plotting eyes or it could be a Pilgrim, sly bastards, or a Pilot…” Pilot Grenn gave Mubbers the death eye as we entered Headquarters. Ordinarily, Mubbers would challenge anyone glaring at him that way but the obey your superior garbage deterred him.
“Or a Panner? Or a fellow President? Or a non-Pyrant?” Mubbers finished.
“It was definitely violent so I would say either a Panner or a President. But I'd wager a Panner.” Not that other Pyrants are incapable of violence, but violence against a President?
“One person could really sabotage a whole Belt. The assassination was in the Iron Capital, anyway, what does E1 have to do with it?”
“Brightdawn!” The Serjeant said tiredly. “Now I expect a bit more maturity from you. No comments until I am done. Fenrod help me over here.”
They cleared a table and Fenrod began to project. His creations were fine and detail-attentive, floored securely at the base in case of possible additions. He did not create much though just the Great Dome and five super-terminals around it.
“Per the report we've gotten, the attack took place here: XD5;” Fenrod zoomed in on the terminal. “The Great Dome is too secure so very possibly the assassins were waiting on the Emperor whenever he deemed to leave it.” The Serjeant kept on saying.
“The last time he left the Great Dome was five years ago.” Mubbers whispered to me.
And that was before we were Panners. So, they might have been waiting five years to assassinate him.
“A chunk of XD5 was destroyed after the tussle. It was a Panner.” Mubber nudged me in the side, and slanted his head. “But some say it was a President posing as a Panner.” Summarily, Presidents undergo gruelling training to learn to summon hordes from the abyss. Hordes of what? I don't know. But they can do it. They call these hordes Beasts and most summon one type of it. Some insane ones do two. And overly insane ones go on Presidential Hunts to find unimaginable kinds. Presidential Hunts are tacky and depend on the Iron Emperor's mood.
What I am trying to say is Panners create what is temporary, Presidents summon what some call the “The True Shape of the Abyss”. And as far as I know they don't create. So the only way a President can look like a Panner is if they make it look like they are creating.
“Which President was killed?” Someone asked.
“President Tyetus Adanbage.” I didn't know the name. The last name sounded familiar but nothing more than that. A wave of speculation passed us all.
“The Iron Capital has sent Pilgrims all over Krakas… to question every terminal for traitors,” the Serjeant said sorely. “Now, I know none of you here have the gumption to plan an assassination. I have to force you all to keep this terminal running, so I can't imagine”—he looked around—“Pilot Ieloras, for example”—we all laughed—“planning an assassination. He’s only good for eating.”
“All we need to do is tell the truth and be done with it. Pilot Grenn I want you and Pilot Telma at the top of the terminal early tomorrow. Be ready with a port to receive the Iron Capital delegates. Panner Ozana and Panner Sorge are on standby for landing and other logistical issues concerning the Pilgrim's travel pod.” I almost jumped at the mention of my name. It did not help that Mubbers patted me on the back. “The rest of you will be called one after the other to the interrogation room. Say your truth and leave. Goodluck!”
I searched around for Ozana. We had to inspect the landing bay and check in with the engineers for manual control since the terminal was on lockdown. I spied her speaking with Fenrod and Hanks and she was her usual bundle of joy. One of the oldest and most experienced of us Panners.
“Come on, Sorge. We have a busy dusk ahead of us."