“To those who came before us, we owe the duty of learning.
To those who are to follow, we owe the gift of wisdom.”
Section 1.3, Proclamations of the Amber Conclave Plenary Council
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Andras had been waiting, motionless, since the crack of dawn. It was necessary for the array of dull scales on his oversized cloak to collect the sun’s bountiful energy. This power that kept the Conclave in motion would serve him well: It pushed his camouflage cloak to feign the patterns of the flowing dunes and shield him from the elements, and when the time comes, it was to be unleashed with deadly purpose.
Despite the wisps of sand which buffeted him in the desert breeze, and the deprivation and boredom of absolute stillness, Andras did not once waver as he kept the square muzzle of his weapon pointed down the main road. The only time he broke his vigil was to palm the opaque cube tied around his neck, to collect his thoughts on the day’s events in silence, as the Ancestor Spirits commanded. Though the circumstances did not allow him to inscribe them into the cubic memory crystal, force of habit and lingering doubt compelled Andras to contemplate his next actions.
The Conclave had asked much of him on this day. Spying on criminals was easy, and enforcing the Spirits’ less popular edicts no longer weighed on the grizzled Inspector’s heart. Open assassination, even with the blessing of the Heralds against one who is already otherwise condemned, was an entirely different matter. When he noticed the trembling that had developed in his arms while lost in thought, Andras banished that seed of uncertainty as he recalled the oaths he had sworn to the Heralds, and the Ancestor Spirits they all served.
He would be their eyes, uphold their will,
And deliver their judgment.
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“In truth, the Ancestor Spirits are not supernatural, nor are they merely objects of reverence. They embody the legacy of our people, preserving and acting on the knowledge, dreams, and regrets of every citizen that ever was and will be.”
Herald Ada Suslemek, Address to Circumplanar Society envoys.
The Previous Day:
In the vaulted dining lounge of the local inn, Mikkel Sorenson waited, accompanied only by the prattling of the marble-clad aetheric receiver, a steaming mug of mint tea, and his own thoughts.
“Cumulus aerial observers confirm the formation of a wide and volatile front rapidly moving towards the south-west. Ancestor Spirit Hubal advises locals to take refuge for at least three days, and has decreed that all travel in the region be prohibited for the duration of the storm.”
He reminisced of the day when the woman with the fancy coat and even fancier gun regaled him with tales of exotic lands and distant wonders. He could see them all, if only he would sign over five years of his time in service to the Society.
To a young man who had barely seen the open sky, it was all he could ask for.
Ten years and several promotions later, he’s trapped in a nameless town in the middle of the Amber Desert playing peace officer. Thankfully, disturbances to the peace were mercifully few, as everyone was too busy hunkering down for the incoming sandstorm to cause trouble. Unfortunately, the same event has grounded that trade convoy that was supposed to take Mikkel towards his destination.
At least I’m stuck somewhere comfortable, Mikkel thought as he sat down in the same plush armchair for what feels like the fifth time that day, idly listening to voices projected from half a world away as he hoped for something interesting to happen. His wish was granted when he spotted an unfamiliar face strutting across the front window, followed by the opening and closing of the atrium door.
A glance at her outfit spoke of worldliness and affluence rivaling Mikkel’s own, from the fine silk opera cloak and matching sunhat, to the iridescent alloy jewelry of his homeland. Naturally, Mikkel rose from his seat, turning to face the stranger.
“What’s a lady like you doing in a town like this?” Mikkel asked as the woman moved to seat herself across the table. He put on the most diplomatic expression he could muster and stuck out a hand: “I’m Mikkel Sorenson, and I’d be honored if you’d join me in killing some time.”
The woman responded with a handshake firm enough to rival most Associates from back home. She held back a laugh as Mikkel massaged his own fingers. “Delara Saatchi. I could ask you the same, Mr. Society agent.” She said, eyeing the shoulders of his bulky cyan uniform, where the prismatic crest of the Circumplanar Society was prominently displayed.
“Just waiting for this damn storm to pass. I was supposed to be one of the reps present to welcome Halub into the world. Make a good impression and everything.” Mikkel let out a sigh as he glanced ruefully at the receiver.
“The local populace is concerned at the harshness of the Spirit’s decree. The People’s Council of Slate has taken to calling the proposed measures ‘draconic’.”
“As you can see, that plan has been left out in the snow for a while now.” Mikkel then gestured towards the tea set and the empty cup that had been set on Delara’s side of the table. “Can I get you a drink? Innkeeper’s out until dinner time.”
“Please, I’ve had a long day.” She sighed, then stiffened as Mikkel retrieved a brass tube from the unused chair beside them both, on which sat the eternal power cell and miniature steam grid that normally powered his uniform but which Mikkel had jury-rigged into a boiling vessel. “No, not from that. We aren’t soldiers camped out in the wilderness.”
“Very well, Ms. General Secretary.” Mikkel scoffed as he moved to retrieve a steaming kettle from the ceramic heating mantle that the innkeeper had set out. “Though I’ve grown fond of the taste it imparts. Plus, the power cell makes sure it’s never contaminated”. He returned to find Delara’s teacup filled with an assortment of finely milled leaves and spices, which released a wonderful aroma when scattered by the boiling water.
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“Thank you. You know, I was going to seek an audience with Halub as well.” Delara mused, taking a sip from her cup as she pulled a thin rectangle of sparkling crystal the size of her forearm from her cloak. Mikkel raised an eyebrow when the device danced to life seemingly of its own volition as she set it on the table.
“I have had a life-changing experience that I must deliver to the young Spirit.”
With a dainty wave of her hand, the white noise reorganized itself into a riot of colors. Despite the pointillist style, the level of detail was shocking; Mikkel could easily tell that it depicted the likeness of the woman sitting across from him. However, the portrait showed someone on the brink of death, shriveled and deathly pale, like she had been buried for weeks in a salt flat.
In the present moment, Delara looked positively radiant. Even her complexion glowed faintly against the harsh afternoon sun.
“Before I sought out The Undergrowth, the Heralds and Ancestor Spirits had said that I was as good as dead. Now? I feel more alive than ever.”
It takes a second for Mikkel to recognize the mesh pattern dancing across Delara’s skin. It’s the same one that is weaved into the barrel of his rifle; Both had been changed, no, enhanced by the constructed fungal minds of The Undergrowth.
It also occurred to Mikkel that Delara never once physically interacted with the tablet. Mikkel had only seen such remote and instinctive control of devices from a set of bizarrely augmented individuals; those recruited from the only other subterranean realm that was not his homeland.
“Not that I felt like that after all the surgeries.” sweeping across one forearm with her idle hand. “Wouldn’t have made it through, without all of this miraculous fabric they used to keep me together while they cut out and regrew all the dead tissue.”
Even as Delara continued her tale, she made another gesture, directing the device to display what looked to Mikkel like a contract written in the Conclave’s precise yet winding legalese.
“You’re telling me all this like I, of all people, are ignorant of the miraculous healers of The Undergrowth.” Mikkel said, draining the contents of his mug as he mulled over Delara’s words. She clearly wanted something from him, and it wasn’t hard to guess exactly what that was.
Instead, Delara had been the first to frown. “Hmph, so much for fostering the exchange of knowledge and bringing people closer together.”
Mikkel suppressed a grimace. “That’s the Society’s mission statement, yes. Not sure how I-“
“Don’t play coy with me, I know who I’m working with.” Mikkel heard a hint of steel slip into Delara’s voice as she pressed the tablet into his hands, freeing her own to pull out a spool of shimmering black fabric that only further raised Mikkel’s eyebrows.
“Diplomatic agents of the Circumplanar Society are entrusted with the authority to approve limited transfers of information and artifacts between the Powers. I’d like you to approve one.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, but I am not a rubber stamp for you to push around.”
“Look at the big picture!” Delara all but implored, her composure shaken for the first time that afternoon. “Having more open-minded Ancestor Spirits is in both our interests. Maybe our people can finally overcome our ancient enmity for the Undergrowth”. She glanced at the aetheric receiver, as if to draw Mikkel’s attention to it, before continuing. “And the Society will have easier access to the secrets it desires so much to tinker with.”
“After further deliberation over a new set of aerial observations, the newly roused Ancestor Spirit has decided to delay the beginning of the travel moratorium by one day.”
Most of the built-up tension left Delara’s body when she heard the news delivered by the receiver. “Thank the Spirits, a chance to rest in a proper bed.” She retrieved her tablet, but not before flash-projecting its current contents as glowing lines onto the unreeled spool of black fabric, which she handed to Mikkel for review. “I’ll be leaving first thing in the evening tomorrow. I hope you’ve made up your mind by then.”
As she disappeared through the lounge doors, a faint distortion shifted on the other side of the road. It moved between alleyways and similarly colored storefronts until it reached an empty, nondescript tea house that acted as the front for an Inspector post. The blur sat himself at a booth concealing an optical telegraph station as it doffed its hood, revealing the face of a weathered man. After a set of seemingly random inputs was entered to authorize a direct line to the Heralds, he proceeded with his record of the exchange he observed in the inn’s lounge through the wide glass windows.
Moments later, the receiver pulsed as the fiber optic line transmitted his handlers’ decision:
Do not believe the deception of the False Ones.
The woman is still doomed.
Her Last Testament to the newborn Ancestor Spirit will set it down the path of madness.
This cannot be allowed.
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“Knowledge is power. Like power, an irresponsible exchange of information will blow up in your face just as badly as a shoddy steam grid.”
Secretary Soren Utrovich, CS Commissioner for Security and Exchanges.
It was not until the sun had dipped past the horizon that Andras spotted his target. The glittering roof of the sealed autocarriage was projected from his scintillating scope like a second dawn as it silently sped towards him along the bone-white road.
Despite looking more like a ceremonial palanquin than something fit for traversing an unforgiving desert, the vehicle was certainly altered to suit the status of its owner. Of these modifications, self-cooling and solar collectors were essential. Traveling so close to the storm was flaunting the edicts of the Ancestor Spirits; an unacceptable risk for upstanding citizens of the Conclave.
With this final display of the target’s impudence, Andras pulled the trigger.
A day’s light issued forth in a single pulse.
The flash and thunderclap faded to reveal the autocarriage, darkened and still. A smoldering pinhole the only sign of impact.
With practiced ease, Andras reflexively quenched the glowing rails of his weapon in the sand before he crept towards the disabled vehicle. Only from the other side could one see the carnage wrought by the hypervelocity projectile’s passage.
Ignoring the still hissing shards of ceramic and bone, Andras searched the blasted interior for what the Heralds had requested of him. He could not bring himself to look at the mangled body within, even as he seized the woman’s memory crystal from the shattered tablet laying on the folding desk she had been working on.
He also collected the unmarked chest at her feet, but there was no time to inspect its contents; the overwhelming and unmistakable report of the Inspectors’ iconic weapon will have already sent the nearby town into a panic.
As he threw his camouflage cloak over himself and prepared to sneak through the outskirts of this no-longer-nameless place, Andras’ conscience had once again emerged to gnaw at his thoughts. He hoped that all this would be the right course of action for the sake of his people.
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“The town of Pyrite was to be the focal point of the first major intervention ever carried out by the Society, where it would be stretched to its limits to prevent an ancient rivalry from spiraling into open conflict.”
“A History of the Circumplanar Society, Volume 2”