My breadth and speed of thought, and associated ability to parse the Dictionary, seemed to be in part contingent upon my ants’ average population density, alongside their absolute population size. Therefore, it was worthwhile to improve both, so I could advance my mental model of the world, make better decisions, and thus ensure my survival.
Here, architecture was key. My latticework of geodesic wooden frames lashed with spider silk allowed for impressive space efficiency, while still allowing resources to flow through my colonies unimpeded.
My subterranean galleries were satisfactory for the time being, but my topside operations left me wanting. The twigs used for most of my surface constructions were not ideal building materials. My freestanding nests were unacceptably flimsy; I was not satisfied with my own self-imposed standards.
The inefficiencies were multifaceted, I admit, but after much thought and consultation with the Dictionary, I determined the quickest optimization path to follow improvements to my construction materials.
The hornet plan was not panning out as I’d hoped. For spiders, it was a simple matter to supply empty space with a modicum of natural lighting, frameworks, and food, and reap the silk they produced. A number of species even reproduced readily in captivity; no forced copulation required. Spiders, they were easy. Hornets were not. I craved the paper-like carton they built their hives from.
Provided with sufficiently illuminated space, all the food they could desire, and plant fiber to mix into their saliva, I allowed what few hornet hives I’d captured to deposit their papery carton upon their new combs. Harvesting the material was a delicate affair, though I’d managed to improve the process with wing-clipping and several other miscellaneous innovations. A significant number of ants were lost to this project alone.
For all the challenges in rearing captive hives, the carton material was structurally disappointing. My constructions were only marginally improved by incorporating it in key areas. I was further limited by the inability to significantly reshape the carton beyond its native hornet-arranged configurations. With spider silk, I could at least weave different forms.
The path was known, I needed metals. The source of which also happened to be my greatest threat; it was time to contact the neighboring elves.
I’d been discovered on my first hornet collection expedition, or so I’d assumed from the food and trinkets which had been bestowed upon my away-force; I never felt the presumed elf, but I could certainly infer its existence from the Dictionary entries which had made themselves known to my mind following the contact.
A lot of assumptions there, but it was the best I could manage on limited information. I didn’t understand elves, all attempts at plumbing the Dictionary for additional associations were met with dead ends. I knew I needed to inspect their environment further before I could draw more insights from that mysterious web of foreign contexts I so relied upon.
Measures were taken to avoid possible fallout from my discovery: I distributed satellite colonies far and wide. I tunneled through gaps in the rock that dominated the stone flats I inhabited, I built veritable bunkers dozens of feet beneath the surface, or otherwise as far as I could go before my workers baked in the progressively warmer depths. Even with the great and terrifyingly unknown magics of the elves, I felt reasonably secure in my precautions. They already knew I existed, it was time to take a risk and extend my greetings.
Cooperation was possible, the Dictionary suggested as much.
🐜 🐜 🐜
A small crowd of gnomes, twenty-five in total, milled about Greenhouse Two. The sounds of hushed discussion could be heard over the din of a gearbox driven by the facility’s sole water turbine. Quieter still was the ever-present babbling of nutrient laden water traversing the rows of hydroponic troughs, each set into solid stone.
Meaningless sound to the ants, as it were. The congregation of ants—naming themselves ‘Cogna’—had eventually revealed their inability to hear. Revealed, by way of lettering arranged from bits of assorted plant matter. The ants gathered atop the worktable nearest the null dynamo. Here, they used their twigs to display sentences in New Draconic.
‘Cogna’ was leading the conversation simply due to having an easier time of rearranging the twigs. Where the designated gnome, Seb the biodynamicist, built letters one at a time…the ants assembled them in parallel. Seb’s four hands were quite inferior to the ants’ own capabilities in this domain. The discipline they (‘she,’ singular, the ants stressed) displayed in this task was extraordinary to the gnomes. And gnomes they were, for whatever reason Cogna had referred to them as elves! She was swiftly corrected.
Luckily, Cogna was clever enough to anticipate many of the gnome’s most pressing questions before they’d even fielded them, thus allowing her to answer them in advance. It kept the dialogue relatively balanced between parties.
Pozu stepped beside Seb, who was still carefully pushing around twigs, and cleared his tools from his worktable-cum-embassy. Checking to ensure he wouldn’t crush any wandering ants, he set down his bulky typecaster. The ants immediately began exploring the device’s internals. Probably not the safest course, but Cogna had already impressed upon the gnomes how expendable her ants were. If anything, he was more worried about their bodies gumming up the delicate mechanisms inside; any cleaning or repairs would be his to carry out.
Pozu’s intent was clear to everybody present. With a grin of relief, Seb returned to the crowd. While Pozu prepped the machine, he heard commissioner Kili say, “Ask the ants where they come from.”
He filled the paper rest with a sheet and set to typing: “Hello Cogna, my name is Pozu, you might remember me as the person who’d gifted you berries alongside a few other interesting objects one week ago. If you’re willing to share, my companions and I are interested to learn where you come from, or perhaps your history.”
The pressing of the typecaster’s keys swung a number of small type hammers onto the paper, pressing it against an integrated glyph which burnt lettering onto the page with a brief flash on each stroke. Small whisps of smoke emanated from the sheet and sent the closest observing ants into a small frenzy before they regained order.
Using his upper pair of arms, he extracted the paper from its rest and set it down upon the table, whilst his lower pair set to work loading the next sheet into the machine. In short order, a contingent of ants frenzied over the page, rapidly tracing the charred lettering with their antennae.
Cogna’s response rapidly took shape, “Well met. I am nearly eight months old, though I am sure my body—the ant colony, as you understand—predates my mind. I possess no memory prior to my emergence. I was born into the stone flats around us.”
Running out of sticks, the ants cannibalized the former sentences to construct a new set: “I will trust you with an interesting piece of information: my emergence of self coincides with the death of the colony’s old queen. I assure you; I no longer possess this single point of failure.”
Pozu repeated the procedure and laid the next paper down, with two new questions appended, “Have you heard of Muuntaa? Do you know about dragons?”
“I do not know what or who ‘Muuntaa’ is. I…do know about dragons…now. They are great beings of magic, reptilian, with wings, yes?”
Seb read the dialogue aloud for everybody else’s sake. Pozu turned towards his peers, gauging their reactions, and returned to his typecaster, “I see. Do you happen to know dragons by the same means you understand this language? The same way you know of elves?”
“That’s right. I call it the ‘Dictionary,’ it informs me of things I really shouldn’t know about.”
“What of gnomes? What does your Dictionary have on our kind?”
“Nothing. As far as my Dictionary is concerned, you are an extremely short elf, with odd proportions.”
Pozu set aside that last statement, deciding not to dwell on the implication that Cogna had already explored either himself or his fellows. Likely the former, seeing as she’d specifically addressed him. The thought made him feel itchy. “That your Dictionary doesn’t know gnomes, tells us much. Cogna, I think we are not so different after all. We also possess something akin to your Dictionary. Indeed, we are born with it too. However, I suspect we don’t access it so directly as you seem to.”
“Can you tell me about it? For all my efforts, I can’t coax it into revealing any meta information pertaining to itself.”
“Certainly, though there will be time for that later. I don’t want to tie half the town up for any longer than necessary. Allow me to be blunt, what are your intentions here? Why have you contacted us?”
The ants were still, for a time, before they took collective action and began arranging twigs into Cogna’s reply, “I seek cooperation. I believe we can learn from each other. Reap mutual benefits. We can grow.”
Commissioner Kili stepped up and addressed Pozu, “tell her that we would be happy to cooperate, that I believe we can forge a valuable working relationship together. Pest control and cleaning immediately come to mind.” he hesitated, “Also, ask what she means about growth…”
🐜 🐜 🐜
My contact with the gnomes inhabiting ‘Roke’ had rapidly developed into a valued partnership over the course of several months. They provided me with materials—foremost among them: manufactured textiles—a selection of custom tools adapted for my own use, and most importantly, information. In exchange, I supplied a number of services. I began by eliminating pests; grain weevils plagued their food stores while mice infested their workshops. Similarly, I maintained the cleanliness of their facilities, I paid special care towards keeping their glyphs and mechanical constructs free of dust and other contaminants.
More recently, the gnomes—and truly, I myself—had discovered my knack for arithmetic. In short order, everybody was leaning on my ability to perform sums, products, and any other operations which they could manage to teach me.
These tasks put me in close contact with the artificers of Roke. A significant fraction of the penal colony’s population, to be sure. I sought to understand why this was so.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Pozu dubbed me a friend, and though the concept was somewhat foreign to me, I accepted it as such. He was a competent individual, a trait I valued highly. Pozu was useful to me, I reciprocated his favors to maintain our working relationship.
A number of gnomes possessed typecasters, which eased the communication barrier somewhat. It was Pozu who originally suggested stationing ants upon the machine’s type hammers for increased communication throughput. By this method, the pressing of the keys—whose motions were translated to the type hammers—could be interpreted by myself without wasting paper. After a bit of practice, it was a simple matter for me to organize my ants into the desired lettering on a flat surface in view of the gnome. No twigs or other objects were necessary here.
Pozu, as I understood, was a proud inventor. Indeed, the first typecaster to exist was of his own design, if I accepted his word as absolute truth. I knew not of the ‘Directorate’ he mentioned with such angry passion, if the pounding of the keys and frantic type pace were any indication. From what I could gather, his exile to this town was related to the history of the device’s design. I still struggled to understand such concepts as ‘honor’ and ‘intellectual property.’
As it stood, I had other threads of inquiry which demanded higher priority. Even as I maintained active conversations with a few other denizens of Roke, I reached out to Pozu and Seb, whom I knew to be working together inside ‘Greenhouse Two.’
I gathered a veritable army of ants to their location, in an effort to draw their gaze away from the current object of their attention.
“Hello,” I wrote upon the glass comprising the building’s western wall.
With a setting sun, I could only imagine the shadow it cast upon their work, but only this much, as I lacked the visual fidelity to see as the gnomes did. Again, I found myself conceiving unworkable plans to further develop my sensorium.
I felt, through the vibrations of the floor, as one of the pair ambled towards the worktable and prepared the typecaster. I prepared in parallel.
“Good evening, Cogna. Do you read me?”
“I do. With whom am I speaking?”
“Ah, Seb. Pozu is with me too, a bit occupied, however.”
Seb did not own a personal typecaster, but that did not stop him from seeking contact at every opportunity; both to learn and to teach. To burrow from the Dictionary, I would call him a fan.
“What with, if I may know?”
“He is tuning the Biotransmutation rune. Or, well, he’s tuning the housing and radiator mechanism.”
I considered this. The biodynamicist’s response raised several questions which I deemed as high priority. A Seb with a typecaster was an engine of limitless answers and insights, one I fully intended to use!
“Please tell me about this.” I spelled. I had confidence that he would deliver.
A pause, “How to begin? Ah, as you understand, we rely on null to power most of our machinery…am I right to assume you understand this? Generally, at least.”
Unlike most gnomes, Seb typed with a sort of ‘stream of consciousness’ style not common among his more formal peers. It made me wonder if his verbal speech followed the same pattern. From insights lifted from the Dictionary, I speculated it to be even more pronounced there. Or perhaps it was my presence which influenced him.
No matter, I said, “Broad strokes. It was Pozu who explained to me the basics of your null grid. What I know is this: null powers glyphs, which in turn manifest fantastic effects, from the mechanical to the seemingly magical. I was also told that null is distributed by way of pumps and piping, however, this is the extent of my understanding.”
“He would have your head, er, heads, for using ‘magical’ and ‘null’ in the same sentence. The artificers say there’s a difference, but to me it’s just semantics.” The Dictionary called the effects manifested by glyphs as ‘magic,’ despite Pozu’s earlier insistence otherwise. Another question for the list.
“Anyways, let’s proceed backwards. Consider a glyph of Light. To power the namesake effect, null must be provided. Or more precisely, a gradient of null must be artificially maintained. I’m no nullodynamicist, so excuse my simplification, but a glyph generally operates when null flows across the active elements. To achieve this flow, there must exist a gradient of varying null concentration.”
“Like heat?” I asked. Why the Dictionary provided this, yet was nearly silent on the topic of null, I could not fathom.
“Almost exactly like heat! It’s a great analog for null, and some experts have even suggested that their similarities might go beyond mere behavior. For most utility glyphs, the ambient environment—usually the air itself—is the low-null end of the gradient.”
Pozu continued operating on the strange mechanism. I craved understanding, for it was only through knowledge that I could assess my safety.
“The high-null side is supplied by the grid, that is, the series of pipes which carry flowing water enriched with null. Many materials store and release null efficiently, but we’ve found that flowing liquids tend to be the most convenient for long-distance continuous transmission. For most purposes, water saturated with salt is used.”
I asked, “How is the saltwater enriched with null? Where does the null originate?”
“Right, that’s where magic comes in. Magic, as gnomes call it, is separate from glyph effects, which are exclusively powered by null flowing across a gradient. Magic is an ability few kinds can leverage creatively, exclusive among them are the salamanders, elves, and dragons. Sure, some animals possess innate magics, but they can’t creatively dictate the effects. They cannot command reality.”
“Can gnomes use magic?”
“We cannot.” An uncharacteristically short reply from the talkative biodynamicist, I noted.
“How come?”
“Truly, I do not know. Were you to ask an elf, or perhaps a dragon, they would tell you it was for lack of a soul. And before you ask what that means, I say to you, it means nothing! I’ve yet to see a rigorous explanation for why we cannot create magic where others can. Indeed, they possess no special organs from what I’ve learned!”
“You were telling me about null, how does it relate to magic?”
“Null is a byproduct of magic. A waste product, depending on who you ask. The act of magic emits null around the effect, and this null can be captured, concentrated, and distributed. Indeed, the Biotransmutation rune Pozu is working around today serves the primary function of producing null for our grid. The radiator array surrounding the rune collects this null and moves it elsewhere, across Roke, as it were. The entire assembly is called a null dynamo.”
Seb held for a bit. I was about to arrange my ants into a new question before he set to typing with renewed vigor, “And that last bit is critical; the presence of high ambient null inhibits magic. An elf would assuredly dump the null into the surroundings, for they see nothing but inconvenient waste. They might even move elsewhere, should the pollution saturate their surroundings. Dragons are somewhat more pragmatic, if insane. For us gnomes, well, it’s all we have to work with.”
I conceived of a gap in Seb’s explanation. I asked, “If glyphs are powered by null, which is in turn produced by the use of magic, where does the magic come from? How is the magic powered?”
“It comes back to the supposed souls. Magic performed by a person, that is, a person who isn’t a gnome, simply takes effect. Sure, its impact and scope are limited by the strength of a soul—their words, not ours—and other various factors which I don’t concern myself with, but from what our research indicates, there is no observable power source. Outrageous, I know, but that’s not to say one doesn’t exist, merely that we haven’t found it yet. Say, can you do magic?”
“I do not know.” It was the truth.
“Well, you would certainly know it if you could!”
I filed that line of inquiry away for later, I still sought to understand what Pozu was doing in this greenhouse. “What about runes? You imply that they perform magic, yet you also say gnomes possess no such abilities.”
“You’d be smart to consult an artificer for additional details, but the short of it is that runes are magical constructs created by a wielder of magic. That is to say, this rune was not built by a gnome. Further, runic magic does possess a tangible power source. Here, it’s the rotary motion, which the water turbine in this facility supplies. The Biotransmutation rune performs an especially wasteful sort of magic, which is useful when your goal is to collect null. In essence, the Biotransmutation field it casts over this facility assists plants in an innate magic they possess; that of converting certain minerals into useful compounds for growth.”
“And this is why you’re here with Pozu, I gather?”
“Exactly right. I study living things, crops among them, but you could also say that I alone keep Roke fed. You see, there are countless magics which are equally suitable for emitting null. The trick is to produce null with a magical effect that serves additional utility. Greenhouse Two is our prototype facility, one which aims to hybridize null production with our food supply. I must share credit with Pozu, however. We developed the idea jointly.”
“I am impressed,” I flattered, “but how do your kind acquire runes if you cannot produce them yourselves?”
“Cogna, I’ve come to consider you a fixture of Roke, and I mean this as sincerely as possible. You need to understand, our utter lack of magic forces our dependence on the other races. New arrivals might call it a trade, but the truth of the matter is, we are indentured to Muuntaa. She, the Dragon of the Pyramid, is our sole supplier of runic artefacts.”
I felt a fluttering of the type hammers, hesitation in his fingers? “In exchange—for if not an exchange, then assuredly by force—we assemble mechanical and glyphscript components for arcane constructs of her design. We are not privy to the functions of these devices, only to the specifications of those components we’re told to manufacture. Sometimes the fruits of our labors remain unknown, sometimes…we suffer.”
And so, I understood at last, why it was that Roke was a town of artificers. “Seb, were you born here?
“I hail from the Institute, we all do.”
“You immigrated. Why?”
“Roke is a prison colony. I didn’t choose to submit to Muuntaa. I was sentenced to it.”
🐜 🐜 🐜
Commissioner Kili saw one silver lining to his exile from the Institute; the opportunity to do away with the excessive paperwork the Directorate was so fond of. Sure, there was plenty still, but only so much as practicality demanded.
As such, his daily routine saw him spending the early hours visiting with the people he administrated inside their own workplaces. Staying in contact with those whose lives he governed was exactly the sort of behavior which led to his loss of the Directorate’s favor. A few details notwithstanding.
Being Thursday, this habit was suspended in anticipation of his primary responsibility, or perhaps burden, as he would call it. Brilliant against the dull green-grey of the surrounding mossy lava field, the unmistakable orange of a distant salamander shone in morning sun.
Here was Courier, their approach to Roke was leisurely.
Kili met them halfway. Courier’s slender body and surefooted gait of six legs allowed them to deftly navigate the numerous boulders. To the salamander’s right flank floated a brass cube, for they lacked hands and abhorred clothing. A work order was contained within, Kili knew.
Once at the salamander’s side, Kili joined in Courier’s march towards Roke. Not a word spoken, not a single gesture made. The salamander, for their part, licked their right eyeball. A motion of no meaning, the commissioner understood. He took hold of the levitating brass cube, so as to relieve Courier of their telekinetic burden. Socialization, as salamanders understood it, was contingent upon actions most of all.
When they arrived at the outskirts, Courier spoke in a resigned, androgynous voice, though its mouth remained closed throughout, “First, Muuntaa requires two additional specimens. Occupations irrelevant, no returnees. Previous four remain in use. All of their priors, deceased or returned.”
Commissioner Kili made a gesture. Seeing this, one of his subordinates stepped forward. Kili said to him, “Prepare two prisoners from the selection. Have them by the departure point in twenty.” A nod, and he was off. This too, was routine.
Once in Roke proper, the salamander took a straight path towards the Grand Integration facility. He performed a cursory inspection of the unfinished construct taking shape within, and spoke again, “Second, Muuntaa requires a new work order. Prioritize completion,” Kili’s grip tightened around the brass cube he held, “Afterwards, resume preceding projects. Final.”
“Understood.”
As they left the building, Courier hesitated at the threshold, “There are many ants about.”
The commissioner turned fully towards the salamander. “We are aware.”
Courier shrugged and simply proceeded through the door.
In the past, Kili knew they would waste no time in departing, following delivery of the final message. Lately, Courier had taken to making an additional detour. Together, they made their way towards Greenhouse One.
Inside, Seb was inspecting a head of lettuce at his worktable. He glanced first towards the bright orange salamander, then towards Kili, and again his eyes returned to Courier. Even as he maintained his gaze of candid fascination, Seb stood up from his work and made his way towards a valve on the wall.
Kili knew, as well as Seb, that the Salamander wouldn’t judge. Seb’s discourtesy was of no consequence.
“Please,” said Courier.
With a slow twist of his lower right arm, Seb turned the knob. Overhead fixtures doused their section of the greenhouse in water, drenching everybody present as thoroughly as any rainstorm.
After a time, they departed from the greenhouse. Courier collected the two bound prisoners from Kili’s subordinate. By way of magic, the salamander lifted the two gnomes into the sky, and began their trek back to Muuntaa’s pyramid.
Courier was a friend of Roke. Nonetheless, he always left Kili with new troubles.