I really should have realized, as I was training the first nineteen of my guardians over that first week after I created them, that they were not the only ones who would learn from my efforts. I knew that their learning so quickly had to be a byproduct of the process by which they matured under the influence of the sanguinism rituals, and their sharing that sliver of me-ness that meant they must share in my own “archivist” trait. The rate at which they acquired their albeit limited vocabulary couldn’t have come about any other way -- I’d worked out roughly a thousand word-signs for them in that time, with the assistance of my homunculi. And it was that last bit that really should have been the warning sign to me about what I was in for, but even so -- my homunculi actually taking uninstructed initiative on something was just not something I had anticipated happening at all. Bloody adorifying little bastards took it upon themselves to create their own version of Amslan.
Effectively inventing a full language from the extremely limited version I was using for the guardians, with proper grammar and syntax. Worse still, because they mimicked the method I’d used to learn the alfar language, I found myself picking it up without even realizing it. Which of course led me to the current situation.
[Master. Your morning meal is ready.]
[Master. The overnight tally of produce is completed. The ants’ farms are showing signs of increase productivity. Permission to help them develop better growing methods?]
[Master. The guardians are coming along nicely in their accuracy training with the dart rifles.]
How in the absolute bloody fuck does someone manage to sign with a butler-ish tone of voice in a language that they made up? Waking up to find the homunculi signing at the controlled manuals I was linked to, thus allowing me to actually comprehend three entirely separate conversations at once was far, far too much for pre-caffeinated me to handle. Without even really being fully aware of it, I signed back at each of them through the manuals: [Not now. Later. Food first.]
It wasn’t until I’d gotten halfway through my meal of bland oatmeal and trellisvine-berry juice that I realized that I’d had a full conversation with my homunculi without even being in the same room as them. One that they had initiated. Well, at least I would have meaningful conversation partners from now on. The last of the three homunculi to report to me had touched on a topic that I was probably most-concerned about out of all of my apparent options. Namely: the training of my new guardians in tactics for combat. It turns out that the dart rifles that I’d created for the medium buggers was hardly competitive with modern military uses.
A Girandoni air rifle would be a better weapon -- though admittedly not by all that much. Like the 17th century air rifles from Earth, the dart rifles had a roughly effective range of about 30 meters, and could be relied upon to fire up to ten rounds before needing to recharge. Unlike the air rifles, they recharged without input from the wielder thanks to the cheating shenanigans of Quartzite, but still took about a couple of minutes to do so. So a firing rate of about five rounds a minute. Not shabby, but the magazine could only carry forty rounds, and they’d need assistance to swap out a magazine. Not something that could be done in the field. I’d still take the standoff capacity that offered over the 2 to 3 meters of the burn pistols. Thinking about this, I had a controlled maual make a note that at some point I would really have to try to figure out how to add significant forward momentum to the heat energy released by the burn pistols. No idea how I would do that -- but the thought was there nonetheless.
Much more fun was had in observing Trisaldan and Co., as they tried to interact with my new guardian-spiders. Seeing them sitting on a log nearby as they ate their meals even as I worked on teaching the guardians to helpfully correct one another on their aim was worth the price of admission as it were. I’d even sent one of my controlled into earshot of the trio, to see if I couldn’t make out what they were discussing. If they were going to openly spy on me, it felt completely fair to spy on them in turn.
Orelme was stage-whispering to the others when I finally had my controlled manual in position. “Sir Trisaldan… I’m still unsure about Lady Annaka’s plan in all this. The Voidborn keeps churning out more and more … things. How can it be this easy for him to do? By Rishuata, these things talk. Yes, it’s hand-sign, or whatever, but … this isn’t natural. At the very least, don’t you think we should warn him about the possibility of a reflex event creating an undercyst?”
Trisaldan barely shook his head -- if I hadn’t been looking for it out of the corner of my eye, I wouldn’t have seen it. “For all we know, Sir Vincent himself is already creating one. We just don’t know what having so many wildlings -- albeit ones of his own creation -- will do when it comes to the imbalances. Worse; what if our warning him of undercysts causes him to try to create one in the same way he’s been modifying the simple great spiders? Look at them. I’ve managed to pick up their signing, or at least a little of it -- it’s quite simplistic. But they use it with one another. And while it’s true the weapons they wield are of his making, little is stopping them from making their own. Any of them could be the equal of even the best of we Wardens. Imagine what we might face if they were to go feral. Or, worse still… what might happen if he were to similarly ‘adjust’ an undercyst for his own purposes. Young Eildan here won’t even go near those ant-tunnels. And I can’t say I blame him. No, it’s better that we have our Wardens find any signs of undercysts that might develop near Sir Vincent’s villages and manage them ourselves. It’s best he not know. See that it stays that way, sons. After all; undercysts have always been equal part wealth and woe for those who find them in time. Better that we profit from them and him.”
I couldn’t help but nod to myself. I’d had some idea that they were holding back something from me. After all -- so was I. But I couldn’t jump to conclusions that their holding their cards close to their chest meant that we were inherently at odds with one another. What I absolutely could do, however, was try to get more from them than they would get from me. Though in my defence, anything they did get from me wouldn’t really diminish me all that much. It would never pay off to think of all of my ‘secrets’ as things that had to be kept at absolutely all costs. The simple truth was that the multiculturalism of Earth had almost certainly trained me in being more adaptable to the idea of foreign mores and modes of thought than their largely monocultural upbringing would make them. Which was a fancy way of saying that if we merely broke absolutely even in information exchange, I would still come out on top for the simple reason that it would be easier for me to use what I learned than it would be for them to use what they learned from me. As long as I kept advancing technologically, that was.
After a while of continuing the accuracy training of the guardians, I felt it appropriate to switch over to some other aspects of their training. I had to be very careful to respect the fact that I was creating a full-on culture with these creatures, and not just instructing clever ‘reskinned’ dogs. They might not have the capacity for a complex culture, but it was developing into one none-the-less. Which is part of why I paid so much attention to the critters as they developed. Their games and manner of resolving conflicts would need to be managed. It was a project that I had my homunculi work with me on planning out as best we could; mimicking a loosely military hierarchy, with adjudication of recognized disagreements necessary for the rankings to shift. Those who simply tried to directly act out on immediate aggressions without properly challenging were seen as ‘too weak of will to be worthy’, and so on. I wanted proud and disciplined barbarian savages, not wild rabble. And I did everything in my power to shape their mindset accordingly.
Having the ability to observe their behaviors without being physically present -- through the Controllers and my spiritual ‘infestation’, as well as just careful snooping by the homunculi -- certainly reaffirmed to the guardians that I was worth heeding, as I was pulling off a relatively decent impersonation of being all-knowing. I wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever, but during their developmental period I needed to play that part with them to reaffirm the ingrained loyalty I’d engineered into them. After all; thinking beings make their own decisions and can twist any belief around on its head to suit themselves if they feel the need.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Over the course of the rest of that week, I got a few more hints from Trisaldan and Co. about their holding things back. After having realized that there was definitely something being held back, I had my homunculi that were being the recipients of storytelling sessions also use their own communication with the controlled manuals to give the alfar chances to appear to be unobserved by the homunculi while speaking, with a special effort to try to recall microexpressions. This wasn’t a topic I could really have said I knew much about before arriving on this new world, but given how the Archivist trait seemed to work I was able to get a basic enough understanding of the topic to spot more obvious ones. Surprise, fear, anger, disgust, happiness, regret, contempt … I was sure I wasn’t as effective as an actual trained expert at spotting them would be back on Earth, but just having figured out what they were in general was a working advantage I wouldn’t want to do without.
~~------------~~
It was only once I had a proper ‘retinue’ of my new guardians that I decided to actually confront Trisaldan and Co. over what I’d managed to put together since I started paying closer attention to them. Maybe it was jumping the gun, but I just didn’t have it in me to play anything remotely like a game of cloaks and daggers or silly buggers in general with anyone. So I made a point of inviting the trio to join me as I began to direct the mining ants through their brain caste with the aid of one of my homunculi and its controlled manuals to start digging a subterranean tunnel between my manor and the mining colony. The largest issue for planning it out had actually been avoiding negatively impacting the rather massive root structure of the greatoak tree at the center of my manor itself… but that was something the ants themselves were already quite accustomed to dealing with.
“So you see, gentlemen -- the Quartzite crystals themselves will get deposited at fairly regular intervals. Three varieties of crystal in total. One to wind the clock-springs with those flat bladed gear wheels, as you see over there -- those actually serve a fairly important purpose of ensuring continuous airflow within the tunnel, as there will of course be living beings passing through with fairly great regularity. Semi-regular vents and drainage will be powered the same way… simple angled flooring and side ravines to sump stations with screw pumps handling the extraction of water. The next type, the larger dark crystals you see over there -- the ones with the fibrous growths running along them to the other crystals -- those absorb ambient heat. It’s why the tunnel feels much more chill than it otherwise should be. We’re well below the permanent temperature line just by being entirely below the bedrock line. And of course the third type are the most obvious, as seen with the light-blue glow in their fixtures. They’re also the most common/numerous of the crystals. I had intended to just have the light crystals absorb heat directly and use the thermal inclines disrupt airflow enough to handle the whole system … but as it turns out the absorption/emission rate of heat from just light transfer alone would’ve stabilized it all at some point, so the ventilation shafts turned out to be necessary as well.”
I was rambling, as I walked along. I knew I was, and I was fairly certain that they knew I was as well. At this point I was also fairly certain that they couldn’t actually sense anything that I was getting from the controlled manuals -- which meant that I could watch them without them knowing I was watching. More than a little useful, but also quite puzzling. They had to be better than I was at interacting with ishuar. I didn’t have an explanation as to why they couldn’t, and I wasn’t willing to guess until I had evidence to support a conclusion.
It was through the eyes of my controlled manuals that I knew that the younger two were sharing uneasy glimpses with one another as they made their way through my ants’ almost absurdly rapidly growing tunnel. There were dozens of the six-inch-long workers chewing through solid rock like it was soft clay, taking huge chunks out even as other workers under the watchful gaze of brain-caste ants and their manual-caste mounts were directing the placement of ossium rods to be emplaced in the tunnels to act as structural reinforcement.
The tunnelling rate was going about as quickly as I could honestly have any right to anticipate: thanks to the nature spirit possession event I had a solid idea of exactly the correct direction to the mining colony, and thanks to the dozens of worker caste ants cycling through the tunnel proper, they were digging out a tunnel of maybe twenty feet across and fifteen high, at a speed of perhaps twenty feet an hour. Fast enough it could be watched, slow enough that it would’ve felt at least a little bit like watching paint dry if there weren’t so many different moving parts to it all. Of course, barring any obstacles at this rate it would take the ants the better part of a year to dig the entire tunnel from the manor to the mining colony -- and that was with digging occurring from both directions at once. The speed was best-described as breakneck for them -- even after only a couple of hours I could already see that a few of the worker caste were dying of overexertion or exhaustion as a result of the labor. But that’s what they were for. The colony had workers to spare. And more where they came from.
In the meantime… “Orelme. Eildan. I can’t help but notice that you two seem uncomfortable with what you’re seeing here. Is there something you’d care to share with me about that?” I turned as I was speaking so as to face the trio, my face carefully schooled as best I could to be open and inquisitive but non-hostile. Just someone concerned for his fellow … thinking … being.
The glare Trisaldan gave them wasn’t even hidden as he spoke up on their behalf. “I wouldn’t say that, no, Sir Vincent. Just that … this amount of rapid construction. Have you always been capable of this?”
I thought for a moment about his question, making it apparent that I was considering how best to answer. “Since shortly before you alfar found me. Though I’ll admit that this is … look, there. You see that ant? How it seems to be shaking? Exerting themselves to this degree is, well, it shortens their lifespans. Work themselves to death. This rate of labor isn’t something they can do non-stop without repercussions. A colony would need to … I guess the best way to say it is to build up reserves. I can facilitate that of course, and have done so for the purpose of getting this done. But it’s not something they’d do on their own without being directed like this. But that’s hardly surprising, now is it? I mean, you’ve toured the growth vat chambers and the trait archives and the unused chambers they’ve dug. Are you entirely sure it’s not something else that has you folks concerned? Perhaps it’s where I’m now having them dig, as opposed to just how fast they dig? You weren’t, oh I don’t know, planning on setting up your outposts between my manor and the colony or sitting on something that might show up there, were you?”
It was at this point that Trisaldan clearly clues in that the jig is up; that I’d figured out they were hiding something from me. You would have thought he would’ve gotten hit with the cluebat before I got them surrounded by my minions in an enclosed space with no real route of escape. But apparently the fact that I myself was unarmed and unarmored aside from a single burn pistol carried on its belt holster set them off their game. The warden-sergeant made a show of spreading his hands subtly out and away from his sides. “Ahh. You’re a more crafty man than you come across, Sir Vincent. Does it matter to you that we sincerely meant you no ill will?”
I couldn’t be certain, as he was quite disciplined at schooling his features, but aside from the brief flash of fear or maybe surprise there was also maybe a tinge of regret? I could’ve just been reading what I wanted to see into it, but at the very least I didn’t see anything that overtly contradicted my beliefs.
I made a show of nodding appreciatively. “Actually -- yes. Yes it does matter. I’m not so arrogant as to believe I get to live in this world and act without taking into consideration the lives and livelihoods of those who have been here for their entire lives. But at the same time… Trisaldan, I want to make myself extremely clear. I do not appreciate being screwed around with. I had enough of that back in my old world. There, I was … just another faceless peon. Nothing special. There was no such thing as special. Here? Here I am building up. It’s nothing remotely like what I could have ever anticipated, but I’ve had a taste of that kind of autonomy and I’m not about to give it up just because some bunch of assholes have decided that I’m too close to them to go around uncollared or untamed. I’m my own man, Warden, and I’m going to stay that way. You get in my way? I will go around you. You tear down everything I’ve built around my ears? I will rebuild. Faster, better, stronger -- and you won’t have gotten everything I had in the first place. And while I probably won’t bother hunting you down, I will make it one of my little pleasures to render your entire existence without merit or worth. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Deal with me straight, and even if we have disagreements I’ll at least hear you out and honor your forthrightness. Play little games and shenanigans with me and I will burn the heart out of you. Have I successfully conveyed my stance on this?”
It wasn’t until I finished speaking that I realize that my voice, in the cavernous space, has raised up in volume rather significantly. I wouldn’t call it shouting, but … it was certain that even the hard of hearing wouldn’t have a problem picking up my words. To say that I’ve allowed a hint of anger into my tone would be an understatement. And here I hadn’t really realized that I was even angry with them. But that was the way it always was with my temper -- showing up when I least expected it, and very often when it was least useful.
The alfar warden trio, meanwhile, had backed up a little further. Trisaldan had surreptitiously placed his hand on the hilt of the ossium blade I’d crafted for him. He nodded once again at me, to affirm he had in fact heard me. I had to give the man credit for the fact that he had managed to wrangle the other two with him into his stance of caution absent fear. It was actually quite admirable.
“Good. Now. Why don’t you good fellows join me back in the cottage while I have a homunculus prepare us some tea -- or would you prefer trellisvine berry juice? -- and you three can tell me all about ‘undercysts’. And anything else you think might be relevant for me to know.”
I don’t even bother looking back at them as I make my way back out of the tunnelworks. I have enough eyes in there to see that they are following me at a respectful enough distance… and to give me a sufficient heads-up if they try to do anything stupid. Though if I have Trisaldan pegged right, that’s remarkably unlikely to happen.