The first name was called. Echoes of shuffling feet upon marble, as the slightest crack appeared in the sea of humanity. Betelgeuse saw her as she ascended the platform, a girl who took womanhood seriously and filled it in with glowing black hair, squirrelly features and the lightest touch of freckles. Her mouth was set into a resolute line, like those who have before her.
Solemnity was in Sexton Quine's fingers when he placed the helmet upon her head. He took the scepter, raised it high, and surrendered it to her grasp. Upon the coronation the inlaid gems flashed and dazzled—reds, purples and blues—then died.
Curious sounds echoed throughout the space. Somewhere secret, ancient mechanisms cranked sullen vibrations. And there it was—from on high, from an exit Betelgeuse could not see, an object descended. It was bright and gleaming…
Bronze Incunabulum!
Betelgeuse recognized it at once, having admired over countless hours his mother's copper-skinned grimoire.
His eyes widened. The hope he had kindled, the anticipation had cultivated—everything centered on obtaining the Bronze Incunabulum.
He recoiled. These feelings had grown big and strong over the course of years. He scoured his heart, groping across the contours of anticipation and hope, then suppressed them with as much will as he could muster. These feelings were superfluous. The heart had its ebb and flow, but serenity must be preserved.
The tome fell half-open, pages flapping wildly, into her outstretched arms. She looked and gaped and mouthed and wept. Sexton Quine, who had retrieved the scepter, deftly removed the helmet.
Her face flitted across a million emotions. Betelgeuse saw this and empathized, because he could imagine how it must have felt, and because he too wished for the same satisfaction.
It was the fulfillment of her deepest desires. It was the fulfillment of years of yearning and years of being weaned on the old myths.
Crucially, acquiring a Bronze Incunabulum had conferred upon her the title of "worthy". Whilst only those blessed by a Silver Incunabulum could truly consider their trajectory boundless, Bronze grades were all but guaranteed a good future. Bronze Incunabula formed the material and productive backbone of the Democracy, its holders going on to become technicians, engineers, lawyers, craftsmen, doctors and more. Such holders were accordingly conferred status and financial stability.
Practically speaking, she could now avail herself of the opportunity to pursue further development in any of Earth's Polytekniks. From there, one could usually find well-remunerated positions in government or any of the Big Six—i.e., Lebensraum, Romulus Systems, PiLiPaLa, Ayam Corp, Caturdhara Industries and taotie.com, the supermassive corporations run by certain of the Founding Families, namely the Mentzers, Baathors, Chens, Abelards, Choudurys and Lee-Pohs respectively.
And from there… who could say if she would not rise to hold a position of real power? From whence did power come, except through constant and unceasing application? Hard work paid off sometimes.
The redhead closed the copper-colored tome reverently, then left the platform. As for the Increment that had been revealed to her, that was her secret to keep and share as she liked. The immutable first line in an Incunabulum, the so-called Increment, formed the basis of a holder's power, and as such was kept under careful guard. In general, a holder only revealed his Increment to his family or spouse.
In fact, information regarding the Increment of members of large families could fetch a hefty price on the black market.
Betelgeuse recalled the Lee Incident of yesteryear, when a piecemeal snippet of research pertaining to the Increment of the Lee Family's scion Sarah Fu found its way onto Pecorino, the Intraweb's infamous black market. He remembered the price at which it had been sold. 800,000,000 credits. That was eight hundred million credits, an inconceivable amount of money. By way of comparison, his father earned a monthly salary of 5,000 credits working as the only family lawyer in Edom-Zeta.
At the time he had been trying his hand at arbitraging 'information asymmetries' on Pecorino, making one or two or at best multiple tens of credits buying and selling snippets of Increment research (and by so doing, technically flouting the government's prohibition on the transferal of Increment research). The pieces of research Betelgeuse had had the opportunity to browse ran up to 50 credits at the most.
50 versus 800,000,000. It was a difference that boggled his mind.
Betelgeuse attempted heroically to empty his head of distractions. Everything hinged on maintaining his heart's serenity unto the crucial moment. It was well known that the outcome of the Analysis could be affected by the slightest wisp of incoherence.
The next name was owned by a well-built masculine figure. That the youth had trained his muscular body with specific intent was clear for all to see. Clean-shaven, sharp-jawed and barrel-chested, he approached the altar and closed his eyes. The helmet came on; he grasped the scepter, biceps, brachialis and triceps straining against nothing in particular.
A single tome the color of bleached bone fell into his hand. Betelgeuse narrowed his eyes. Sexton Quine hurriedly retrieved the helmet and scepter.
The man opened his lids as the White Incunabula fell into his grasp. A curious sheen of white arced from its billowing pages and fell upon his forehead, the power coalescing into a sort of glutinous and translucent membrane which sheathed his skin. Almost at once, he jerked his head upward, his dark pupils melting away into pure white.
The audience stared raptly, their visages locked into expressions of horrified fascination. Cracking sounds started to emit from his body. Then he started screaming, sublimating pain into one long, ear-splitting screech that dragged out long seconds beneath its tines. The cracking sounds got louder; his tall frame lengthened, his arms warped then straightened, his fingers clawed spiderlike and inverted painfully. Every lilt in the scream was followed by further sounds of cracking bone, every sound of cracking bone presaging the engorgement, tearing and enlargement of flesh. No more a mere human, he was the loom upon which the beneficence of the White Incunabulum worked. Warp and weft, weft and warp.
Then he stood, a giant of a creature, every feature—pectorals, deltoids, obliques—carved to perfection. He was the perfection of the male musculature multiplied twice over.
Betelgeuse permitted himself a breath. He had heard the stories regarding the worst White Incunabula transformations, which had naturally engendered some trepidation. It appeared, however, that the man had disciplined his mind to such an extent as to prevent the exaggerations caused by dysmorphia.
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The giant raised himself to his full height, rolling his wrist clockwise and then anticlockwise, his cadet-suit clearly stretching to its limit but somehow maintaining its integrity. His austere visage was devoid of emotion, but Betelgeuse looked closer and found within the man's eyes a hint of grave disappointment.
After all, this was a White Incunabula, placing him squarely on the lower rung of society. The man maintained an admirable equanimity as he stepped down from the platform. Now standing two heads taller than the average participant, he stood out even as he plunged immiscibly into the sea of humanity.
The next few participants came and went. Hollow, Hollow, another White (this time with no discernible physical change). Then a crimson Primary—another "worthy" had been minted, thought Betelgeuse. Primary holders were just as important as the Bronzes to the functioning of the Democracy; their future, while not so much as guaranteed, was considered bright.
The Docent continued down the manifest, reaching, finally, the Edomites. First to be called upon was the girl at the back of Betelgeuse' line, six places down from him. An "Edith".
Under the glare of a sourceless saffron light her hair cast a shadow over her face. Her expression betrayed a sense of heavy uncertainty.
Betelgeuse muttered a brief prayer under this breath. No matter which village they hailed from, they were all Edomites in the end.
As she reached the platform, she stumbled, then caught herself. Betelgeuse furrowed his brows, imagining the wince on Chrys' face. No one blinked.
Red, purple, blue. This time, the hum was muted.
High up and located near to the ceiling were a row of stained glass windows sporting striking shades of yellows, oranges and blues. Translucent whites glowed softly where the colors did not touch. A curious shade spidered over the glass, making difficult to discern the image which had been so carefully curated.
The light outside was dimming, Betelgeuse realized; then, a soft rattle tickled his eardrums, the kind of rattle coalesced from the drubbing a torrential downpour makes from the perspective of one ensconced within a large and padded room.
The cover of the Incunabula was gray, mottled and ashen. Her eyes enlarged wide as dinner plates. He heard, behind him, Chrys' sharp intake of breath.
The Ash Incunabulum, and with it, pariah status. Consignment to the lowest rung of society. The Ash grades were a hidden people. They were ignored because it was embarrassing to talk about them. And yet they were so common, engaged in 'dirty' work like soldiering, sanitation, and certain aspects of raw materials extraction. Many Ash grade women eventually found themselves in the 'entertainment' industry once they got on in years. Common, but not commonly seen.
Sexton Quine was efficient as ever, removing the helmet and scepter quickly. The Ash Incunabula fell into her grasp and she scurried away quickly. No one wanted to dwell on it, least of all her.
Silence from the masses. These things were ignored.
Betelgeuse followed her messy and tangled black hair as it bobbed down to ground level before disappearing. He began another prayer, muttering, then stopped himself halfway, willing all of it away, forcing all of it out of his mind.
And yet, he could not really help stealing a glance backward. He wanted to see the emotions on Edith's face. He wondered what was going through her mind. He hoped she was doing okay.
Instead, Chrysilla's rather vague and spiritless expression filled his vision. He would have to lean further out to see Edith. He didn't want to risk it.
'Stop it,' he scolded himself. It was becoming harder to convince himself of the serenity of his heart.
Another Edomite, then another. Hollow Incunabula. In both cases, disappointment reflected from downcast eyes.
Next was E-Prime–the girl who had been quietly standing beside him.
"A Tabitha!" Betelgeuse whispered to Chrys, poking her in the rib. She had been looking dazed, perhaps a little frightened by the outcome of their fellow Edomites' Analyses; her spirit flared back to life at the stimulation and she flashed him a wan smile.
"Ah, Tabitha…" she sighed, remembering their warm yet soulful friend. Their Tabitha, blessed with gregarious personality and three years older than them, was the holder of a Hollow Incunabula.
Although she had never revealed her Increment to him, it was obvious to Betelgeuse that it related to music, she being a rather accomplished fiddler.
"Yes, I wonder how she's doing," he whispered to himself. Tender memories, tender imaginations, secret even from Chrys, were resurfacing. His will-to-serenity was flagging.
But he was not going down without a fight. If serenity did not work, then he would force a peace. Redoubling his efforts, he purged his internal internal space of all distraction. Let it all go. Nothing mattered so much as the Analysis.
The mysterious hum recommenced somewhere beneath his feet, tickling his soles through the boot. The familiar sparkle and shine of the scepter.
And then a shimmering object, resplendent, harboring a mythical quality much like how the stories had described the mithril of old.
An audible gasp echoed through the hall.
The fabled Silver Incunabulum!
Boundless development, limitless potential!
Tabitha's features betrayed momentary shock, before melting away into its a rigid template. The corners of the Sexton's mouth curled upward, hinting at a smile. The Docent congratulated her, but otherwise retained his austere demeanor.
She scanned the open page quickly and left the platform.
Chrysilla Nightingale had already begun making her way up to the chancel, even as Tabitha disappeared between the rows of participants.
The time was nigh.
Betelgeuse prayed for her, as he had prayed for Edith and the other Edomites.
Democracy watch over her.
It was so difficult, he realized, to keep his heart empty. He offered an apology to his father from the deep corners of his heart, for the chaos of his emotions. It was his father who had cautioned him to slow the beating of heart, to only permit entry to the great serenity. He was guilty; acknowledging it only increased his feeling of guilt, and he proceeded to apologize to his mother, then Tabitha (the Tabitha back home, for having thought of her like that), then Elder Bennett—
The rain had let up, he suddenly registered. Ratchets and gears clanked noisy peals. Tendrils of eldritch power choked the air. Through the tinted glass on high streamed rays of golden sunlight.
Betelgeuse could finally discern the image on the tinted glass: yonder was Hierarch Tozen—yellow, orange and golden like the solar rays—stabbing a horse-faced stare down upon his children, his expression severe; around him were small figures, in blues, purples and reds, his officers, the Magis, the Archimandrites, the Cardinals; to his left was Bishop Abelard plowing the ground into raised furrows, to his right was Bishop Mentzer, seeding the ground with grains.
Betelgeuse' raised his eyebrows.
The object was a bright yellow-gold. It left a trail of glitterdust in its wake.
Under the illuminating rays of the sun the shifting air swirled golden particles around in Brownian Motion. Random. Chaotic.
Chrys caught the book with her left hand, her right still grasping the scepter. Pages flipped violently. Chrys looked to the Sexton, confusion apparent on her face.
As if suddenly jolted out of his paralysis, Sexton Quine scrambled forward, retrieving the helmet and scepter.
"Incredible…" the Docent whispered.
Whisper though it may have been, the speakers transmitted it through the hall, circulating it beneath the buttressed ceiling. The word echoed between Doric columns and penetrated the skulls of the audience.
"Incredible," breathed Betelgeuse.
"Ms. Nightingale. This is a rare occurrence."
Momentary awkwardness gave way to professionalism. The old faces before the altar conferred with looks and nods pregnant with implication.
Then, the Docent turned back to Chrys, mouthing over a deactivated microphone.
Chrys moved slowly forward, toward the place that the Sexton and Docent had come from, her gait uneven and unsure.
'Hold on, where is she going?'
Betelgeuse calmed himself. Of course they would take her aside. She was meant for great things—no, she was already great! She was the holder of a Golden Incunabulum; wouldn't it be stranger if they did not speak with her separately?
She had reached the threshold. Why had the Docent not moved on to the next name? She turned her head. The Docent stood close behind, his face kindly and avuncular.
Turning back, she scanned the audience. Everybody's eyes were so wide.
She was searching, searching…
Their eyes locked.
He knew that she was afraid. She knew that he was anxious.
Will I see you again? She seemed to ask, sapphire eyes brimming with ambivalence.
No doubt. Betelgeuse nodded.
And she was gone.