The sky was thundering heavily when he arrived. LSV-016, upon which hull was painted a crimson triangle tipped with a golden finial—the ancient symbol of the Edomite Bishopric—touched down on the landing pad with a dull thump.
Betelgeuse was already standing to attention when the clasps hissed sharp release. They were two lines, the Edomites. Standard operational procedures dictated his position at fourth from the front.
The hull juddered open slowly on pneumatic hinges. During that interim he snuck a rightmost glance at the woman from Edom-Prime but was unable to detect any hint of emotion, for her face was set into a rigid mask. He could only hope he displayed the same equanimity. A pit of anxiety was growing within his gut and it was becoming more difficult to conceal it.
"It's time."
He heard the whispered words caressing the nape of his neck. She was behind him, Chrysilla, the only other one to have come from Edom-Zeta. This was the tenth year of their acquaintanceship, he reckoned. In a village as small as E-Zeta, it was difficult not to fraternize with the other children.
He didn't have to turn around to know that her golden brows were furrowed and twitching. Wiggling toes, wiggling fingers. Her hands would be itching to fiddle with her hair. Her blonde locks flowed too long and perhaps a stray strand would breeze across her nostrils, forcing her to scrunch her button nose to hold in a sneeze.
The hull doors slammed dully onto tarmac. Somewhere underneath his feet, metal plates shifted. Wan light streamed in to reveal particles shifting lazily across air.
"Out, all of you, on the double!" barked the foreman.
Moving two at once, the Light Strike Vehicle's cargo disembarked. Air, cool but bloated with moisture and ozone, washed over Betelgeuse' face; the firmament was grey and dark above him and the pregnant clouds looked full enough to overspill.
He could see all the way to the horizon, where a sliver of orange met billowing hillocks of cloud.
'A once-in-a-lifetime sight,' he thought, as the formation half-marched over a bridge of glass and the scraping sounds of boots over tarmac were substituted for dull whumping.
He turned his attention downwards. The glass was clear and he could see below his feet; from his vantage point he espied, far below the bridge of tempered glass, the flat tops of skyscrapers and pyramidal structures adorned in millenia-old neon-bright styles; it was a strange feeling, to have these perennial overlords of the sky beneath one's feet.
To his chagrin a feeling of vertigo assailed him through his intestines, but he snapped his head upward and held his expression straight, willing himself to keep marching, one foot in front of the other.
He had seen the city's veins thriving with activity. So far and so close. How long would he take to reach it, if he jumped?
Betelgeuse willed himself free of these thoughts. He glanced surreptitiously to his right, taking care to keep his feet moving in step; she was staring straight ahead, the E-Prime woman, with nary an emotion gracing those aquiline features.
'These guys are just sticklers, aren't they?' he couldn't help thinking.
"Hey, who's she?" more whispering from behind. "Why do you keep looking at her?"
Chrys, again. Betelgeuse rolled his eyes and ignored her.
They were coming to grand double-doors, three-men tall. They opened slowly and mechanically in response to our increasing proximity. Above the widening fissure, through which filtered rays of warm and mellow light, towered the golden spires of this, their destination, like fountains of molten rock. The highest spire was a skyscraper to Betelgeuse, the skyscraper of skyscrapers, and it glimmered with a curious attraction.
Beteulgeuse took the opportunity to admire the sharp double-tip of the spire-minaret. It shimmered even under the threat of the deluge and pierced the graying firmament with impunity.
The Library at the Edge symbolized many things. It was symbol of humankind's interstellar power, symbol of the Founding Families' hegemony over the Democracy and symbol of the Hierarch's commitment to extending humanity's ultimate dominion over all land, for all time. It was all these and more.
One thousand years ago, the then-Hierarch of the Democracy had promulgated a set of laws known as the Requisition Orders pursuant to which all children of the Democracy took their pilgrimage here at least once in their lifetime. They would do this in their eighteenth year to participate in the rite of passage known as the Analysis.
It was only through the Analysis that the children of the Democracy obtained esoteric reality-altering artifacts known a Destiny Incunabula; by so doing they started their journey into legal adulthood and became empowered to contribute back to society.
As humanity expanded beyond Earth, different libraries were built on other planets to service resident populations—but this, the Library at the Edge, had remained the grandest of all.
For the better part of the last millennia, Destiny Incunabula have been the subject of inexhaustible academic discussion, from the 'essential increment' that formed the backbone of each Incunabulum, to the rules governing their 'reality-altering' characteristic.
As was commonly known, each Incunabulum holds an 'essential increment' which first manifests, at the time of the Analysis, as a participant is chosen by an Incunabulum. In short, the Increment was the first line of script to appear on the first page of an Incunabulum.
This Increment held the special characteristic of being immutable, and in substance was no more than a description of a power or characteristic and its psychological origin. Such Increment would be approximately written in the script and arranged according to the language or dialect most familiar to the incunabulum holder.
For example, holders of Primary Incunabulum might have as their 'essential increment' the power to control fire. The Increment would look something like this: "Owing to an affinity for the warmth and glow of the village hearth, [so-and-so] controls steady fire."
On the other hand, holders of White Incunabulum might have the power to fly, with the Increment looking something like this: "As [so-and-so] feels free-est in the company of birds, [she/he/they] obtains the power of avian flight."
As for 'reality-altering', the gist was that Incunabula possessed the ability to cause changes, to varying degrees of suddenness, in the physical (i.e. bodily makeup) and mental state of the holder, or in extreme cases even the basic fabric of reality (for example, gravity or light) within a certain distance centered at the 'brain meridian', an organ located just posterior to the thalamus. Not all of these 'reality-altering' changes were pretty to watch.
Suffice to say the literature on these artifacts was immense, as Betelgeuse knew well. All children of the Democracy has had, at one point or other, had the pleasure (or displeasure) of flipping through a volume of Cox's Important Bibliographies. From the vast corpus of work and centuries of practical experience had emerged seven (non-exhaustive) divisions of Incunabula.
The weakest and lowest grade of Incunabula were termed Ash Incunabula. These typically manifested as mud-brown or ashen-colored books with corroded and faded covers. The typical Increment associated with the Ash Incunabula were mere descriptions of personalities. For example, "Because of [so-and-so]'s strong desire for romantic love, [so-and-so] easily experiences impassioned limerence.", or "[so-and-so] is hateful." Ash Incunabula are the only grade of Incunabula which might lack the explanatory clauses common to the superior grades, thus reducing the flexibility with which one might interpret the Increment (with attendant constraints on the subsequent 'writings' (also termed Etchings) and 'rewritings' of the particular Incunabulum).
The next grade were Hollow Incunabula. These were sometimes but not often considered equal to White Incunabula, on account of the drawbacks of the latter. The Hollow Incunabula often appeared translucent and plastic-like and typically blessed its holders with improved dexterity. For example, "As [so-and-so] harbors deep affinity for string instruments, [so-and-so]'s fingers move as fast as thought can keep up with music." or, "Owing to a preference for silent twilights, [so-and-so]'s footsteps are light." It is important to note that explanatory clauses need not bear any more than a minor link to the power conferred.
White Incunabula tend to appear bone-white and are associated with causing rapid mutations in holders. Such changes range widely in extent, with the most extreme metamorphoses being the stuff of horror. Indeed, some of the greatest literary tragedies to have emerged in the last century have centered around one or other White Incunabulum transformations. When an Increment reads "As [so-and-so] feels free-est in the company of birds, [she/he/they] obtains the power of avian flight.", in the context of the White Incunabula it may mean growing feathered wings and immense chest muscles to support avian flight.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
According to studies, the greatest and most gruesome changes stem from body obsessions, as in "Because of intense dissatisfaction with the height of [so-and-so]'s nose-bridge, [so-and-so]'s nose-bridge lengthens to three times its size." or "As [so-and-so] desires colossal biceps, the volume of [so-and-so]'s biceps multiply by three times." Should one suffer such mutations, the least invasive way to reverse such changes would be to undergo intense psychological conditioning in an attempt to influence subsequent 'writings'/'rewritings' in a remedial direction (reason being that 'writings' and 'rewritings' are affected by the desires and/or beliefs of holders). It will be interesting to note that the man with the colossal biceps, for example, had succeeded in influencing a future Etching to read "From strength-obsession to balance, the volume of [so-and-so]'s biceps must be divided by three to achieve at-oneness with the proportions of the body."
Next were the Primary Incunabula, the covers of which could be cerulean or crimson. Primary Incunabula related to chemical manipulations and corresponding physical changes within a holder's body, as in "Due to a fascination with floods and flood-based catastrophes, [so-and-so] may transmute the surroundings into water."
The first of the 'Metal Incunabula', Bronze Incunabula (or sometimes, 'Copper Incunabula'), their covers gleaming copper-like, tended to bless its holders with 'mental' changes (which, it has been proven, follow on physical changes to the brain; as such, some have argued that Bronze Incunabula should merely be considered a better grade of Hollow Incunabula). For example, "Because [so-and-so] harbors intense fascination for analog machinery, [so-and-so] obtains the power to visualize the schematic of objects in the vicinity." and "As [so-and-so] is obsessed with philosophy, [so-and-so] may trace every link in the particular recursion leading to a conversation partner's assertion."
The next Metal Incunabula was the Silver Incunabula (or, in certain other circles, 'Steel Incunabula'), powerful Incunabula the color of blue-tinted steel. The Silver Incunabula's status as "second-best" is controversial because many considered Bronze Incunabula equal to, and in certain rare cases superior to, Silver Incunabula. The Silver grade conferred powers relating to 'coordination', 'intelligence' and/or 'management'; but really the debate is confused, given that the relevant Increments have been noted to be rather vague. "[so-and-so] may intuit webs of relationships, on account of [so-and-so]'s profound reflections." is an example of one which has proven particularly hard to parse.
At the top reigned the Golden Incunabula, gold, like their designation. Blessed are those chosen by the Golden Incunabula, for they alone can manipulate time and space. The network that tied together the star systems within the Democracy's dominion at the dawn of the Interstellar Age, for instance, was built and maintained by holders of the Golden Incunabula. To a certain extent, fundamental facets of the many-sided die we call reality can be transmogrified—willed into or out of existence—by these divine powers.
Every child in the dominion has pretensions to the Golden grade, and Betelgeuse was no exception. He knew, of course, that this was no more than a puerile fantasy).
Needless to say, holders of Golden Incunabula were a rare breed, each planet in the Democracy producing perhaps one a decade Owing to the galactic importance of such Incunabula, Increments of the Golden grade were subject to the most extreme levels of secrecy. Only a single public record of a Golden Incunabulum's Increment existed, that of the founding Hierarch Tozen:
> From the deepest point of his consciousness Tozen desires to invert the space between stars, so he may will it.
Then again, complete and verified records of Increments were rare even in respect of Silver and Bronze Incunabula.
Betelgeuse's mind reached through his knowledge and retread the familiar ground quickly. It helped him to deal with the anxiety.
The grand doors had closed behind them, after the final Edomite crossed the threshold. The inside of the Library at the Edge was a gargantuan hall hung with cerise-colored pennants and ostentatious silks of gold. At the far end was a raised platform like a chancel upon which stood sentinel an altar clothed in white.
The hall was brimming with so many other young faces from myriad faraway lands and villages, all congregated, arranged in neat lines, across gray-spotted marble tessellated black and white. Betelgeuse estimated there must have been hundreds of them. Under a ceiling which felt higher than the sky, he was buffeted by the soft susurrations of adolescent whispers, thick with expectation and anxiety, their anxiety melding with his.
He chose a face and stared at it—a fresh-faced girl on the cusp of womanhood, her hair silken locks of red flame, her eyes twinkling beautifully, whispering secret things to her friends and acquaintances. Her beautiful features quietened his heart.
Then another—callow features made mannish by the scar down the side of his carven chin, tan-black, dusky, indulging in extroverted conversation.
These weren't very like the Edomites, he felt, glancing again at E-Prime to his right. Nope, still quiet and severe as a cliff-face. And yet, was it wrong if he felt a connection with them, the 'non-Edomites', because they were freer and less restrained? Maybe they had had different disciplines, growing up.
Ah, tension in the air.
The anxiety returned quickly, and Chrys' shuffling behind him only serve to heighten it. His only recourse was to review, once, twice, three times, what he already knew of what was to come. He would acquire a Bronze Incunabula, nothing to it, and Chrys would obtain a Primary.
Everybody knew one's worthiness was genetic—both his parents being holders of Bronze Incunabula, the chances of him failing to acquire an Incunabulum of the same grade was inconceivable.
And yet, what if he failed? What if even the Primary Incunabula avoided him? What if… what if he were to fall afoul of the White or even Hollow grades? His parents, he could see their kind faces now—what would they say, what would they feel, if not disappointment? The elders had never failed to teach the children the harsh truth of the universe, repeated ad nauseam, that the sins of parents will be revealed in them: Betelgeuse's failure would reveal the sins of his blood memory.
Enough.
Nothing could change what has already been set. It was a question merely of genetics, and whatever men said about sins and divine retribution could bring him no peace. Superfluous things had to be discarded.
Such anxiety did not become him—with the force of his will he banished all evil thoughts to the farthest reaches of his consciousness.
If anybody had anything to worry about, it would be Chrysilla. Whilst her mother was a Primary, she had never known her father. Her mother who did bear her out of wedlock never could discover the provenance of her lover.
Sure enough, Betelgeuse turned back to find her picking at her cuticles and mumbling some childhood mantra. She had always resorted to her cuticles when anxious. He put his hand on hers, whispering, "calm down."
"Stop it. Hate it when you say that," she returned; but he could see her eyes twinkle and lighten.
"It's bad for your fingers."
"Mmmokay dear," she drawled. She did no swat Betelgeuse's hands away as she usually did.
'Her palms are soft and warm and nice,' he thought.
"Yerp, fuk' wit' tat' la'er," he said the usual saying.
"Yerp derp, la'er," she replied the usual reply.
He removed his hand and she allowed hers to fall to her sides. She had the merest hint of a smile. She wore her tight-fitting leather-nylon cadet-suit quite well, he noted.
Deciding that they had already embarrassed themselves enough in front of the other Edomites, he turned his attention back to the front.
Just in time to witness the entrance of a man stalking heavy bootsteps from a small arched entrance behind the altar. Like the altar, the man was clothed in flowing white vestments. Around his waist was bound a parti-colored belt.
It was so colorful, the belt, and Betelgeuse wondered about the effort it must have taken to create it.
The man genuflected and mouthed silent prayers. It was Betelgeuse' first time coming into contact with formal Democratic rituals, and he stared raptly; reading about it and seeing it in person were two very different things. But then he realized the curiosity was affecting the serenity of his heart, so he willed it away into another far corner.
The murmurs quietened. The hell fell silent. The man's bootsteps echoed up to the faraway ceiling and back, as he placed a tall holder at the center of the altar, then a silver helmet into the holder, then a gleaming golden scepter flat beside the holder. The scepter was studded with rocks—no, gems—spilling reds, purples and blues into the air.
His task done, the man stepped to the side and clasped his hands together behind his back.
Moments later, another man, this one older and sporting a white mane very like how the stories describe the saints, entered through the arched entrance. His garb was thick with purple, and veins of color striped in spiral fashion from collar to waist.
This must be the Docent in charge of the Analysis.
"Another batch is coming soon, so I apologize if we have to rush this," he began, his voice filtering through hidden speakers and filling the large space with a booming baritone.
"But a quick word before we commence—I cannot truly express how glad I am to see you all gathered here today; you, the new generation. From the ice-marshes of New Hope to the lava pits of Agni to the reclaimed crags off Pradesh, we are, all of us, participants in the great story of the Democracy.
"The young have always been cursed to carry the torch from the old; under these circumstances you must remember—when times are tough, remember—that you will one day steer the Democracy to new heights and frontiers.
"No matter how far-flung your home may be, Democracy has seeded civilization and goodness, has guided and sharpened you as it had guided and sharpened your forebears against the elements and the enemies of humankind.
"In time to come, you will face challenges. But you are not alone—remember that you stand on the backs of giants.
"Let us begin. Come up when your name is called and Sexton Quine here," the Docent pointed toward the adjacent man, "will outfit you. Then, the Incunabula will choose."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading through the first chapter! It is my hope that you will have as much fun reading this story as I had writing it. The tentative plan is to update this at least once every week (with more frequent updates depending on my schedule), so stay tuned!