“Be sure that you’re sure,” Kirine’s voice was ragged, and his wounds were worse. The cyran politician had aged a decade in the last three hours.
He was lying on the concrete ring that encircled the gate. The mile-wide basin of the Grid opened up around them, and the walls of mist just beyond. Here, there was no wind, and the air itself felt almost too dry to breathe. Yet, despite the warmth, the politician was wrapped up in three layers of coats and cloaks, some loaned from the Scribe and from Eolh. His teeth chattered slightly as he spoke, and sweat dripped down his forehead, collecting on the silvery scales that outlined his eyes.
“Say nothing you don’t want him to remember. The Emperor is the Everlord for a reason. No one lives forever by luck. He knows what he’s doing, at all times. You cannot catch him off guard, no matter how much you think you have. He knows what he wants, and he knows what you can give him.”
“I will try.” Poire said.
“And if you have the chance, stay silent. The Emperor has always been our foremost politician. And we do love the sound of our voices. You will gain more by letting him speak.”
“I think I understand.”
"Please," Kirine reached out a hand, struggling to extricate it from underneath all his grimey, well-travelled layers. “Help the ones who cannot help themselves."
The whole squad watched as Poire put his hand on the terminal, and began to speak to the Keeper. His lips did not move. And no one heard anything, except for Poire’s two words: “Connect us.”
Eolh, with a cutting glare. Kirine, with desperate hope. And Agraneia, whose face was a wall of un-emotion. Laykis’ hands were folded before her, her unmoving body staring straight ahead. All of them, standing out of sight of Poire’s camera.
A face appeared in the air, above the terminal.
The Emperor’s red lips cracked into a wide smile that might be charming on anyone else. But if it reached his eyes, Poire could not see, for an ornate, mechanical mask obscured everything from his metal-wrapped nose, and above. One eye was an empty socket of metal, the other was a staggered series of glowing slits. The rest of the mask was all hard planes and curving edges, with nodes and sensors and hard-cut wires making deep cracks in the metal. The cracks ran in lines up his scalp, or around the sides of his skull. In the back, Poire was certain a collection of valves and sockets and connections were hidden.
What purpose did that mask serve? What was it hiding, beneath all that complicated and elegant asymmetry? Why replace so much bone with metal?
The Everlord of the Cyran Empire was shaking his head in disbelief. Or he’s pretending to be surprised, Poire reminded himself. And that smile still played at his lips.
“I don’t believe it,” the Emperor said. “Well, those spineless, skulking Historians were right once again. Perhaps I should listen to them more. First, they told me you were on Kaya, and that’s where I plucked you from that tomb they once called a conclave. And now, Poire, you are here. Doing everything that I cannot. The Grid is working again, because of you. Truly, you are incredible.”
Pride radiated off from every word, and even Poire couldn’t ignore the flutter of pride in his own heart. When was the last time anyone called you incredible?
Standing on the other side of the terminal, just off screen, Eolh rolled his eyes dramatically.
Poire took the hint. He exhaled that glowing feeling that comes from being praised. These, here, are my friends. Not this Emperor. Remember that he wants something from you.
“Everlord,” Poire said, trying to sound as diplomatic as he could. “Why did you send me here?”
The Emperor’s lips twisted in confusion, but only for a split moment. “The Grid! What other reason should there be? The Heart contains the wealth of all human knowledge that has ever been stored therein. Not to mention it’s connected to almost every other gate-
“It’s empty,” Poire said.
The Emperor’s face, or what Poire could see of it, darkened. “What do you mean ‘it’s empty?’”
“No markers. No data. No information about anything. Not even the simplest program. No gate cords, or anything.”
“What about the guide?”
“Corrupted.”
“Corrupted?”
“It calls itself the Keeper. It said someone came here, thousands of years ago, and wiped everything.”
“That harpy.” The Emperor’s voice was tinged, only just, with a quiet rage. As if he didn’t really feel it. “That miserable hypocrite.”
And then he was silent. Kirine was thumping his chest as he coughed, and the Scribe was kneeling at his side, trying to give him water to keep him still. Kirine pushed him away, and whispered hoarsely, “Don’t say anything. Be silent! Wait him out.”
But I want him to keep talking, Poire thought.
“Try it.” Kirine said again, before descending into a gut-clenching coughing spasm.
So, Poire let the silence drag. He watched, saying nothing, squinting and staring at the unnatural stillness of the Emperor’s movements. His pursed lips. The hard, statuesque rock of his jaw, clenching and unclenching as he thought.
And, indeed, Kirine was right.
Poire’s silence yielded more from the Emperor than any question could.
The Emperor was nodding, and talking more to himself than Poire. “So, this is how she meant to stop me.”
He laughed, and shook his head. “We were so close, once. In another life, as they used to say. Do you know what that’s like? To work with someone, in perfect harmony? A machine that sings. You become more than you could ever be on your own. But she never saw it that way.”
“Who?”
“Sen,” the Emperor said. “Her name was Sen. And she was my… my colleague. Yes, that is where I have her filed, mostly. As my colleague. Until she took what was not hers. That hypocrite. She said she never believed the visions. She said the end only comes if you let it. And we were agreed, young Poire, we were on the same page. But two people can read the same page together a million times, and still come away with two separate meanings. We never saw eye to eye, Sen and me. I was too blinded by the mirror gate. It was the next step, Poire. Our next step. We were almost there. We were almost through. But she was blinded by something else.”
“What was that?”
“Fear of the truth.” The Emperor seemed to sink back into whatever chair he was speaking from. He threw his hand up, and made a show of turning away from the camera, as if what he was talking about was almost too painful. “Well, if Sen wiped even the Old Grid, then she was truly lost.”
“Who was this Sen?” Poire asked.
“Forgive me, Poire. I forget that you can’t remember, because you were never there. You know, I would kill to know when you were born, Poire. Well, no matter.” He breathed in deep, through the metal shape that suggested a nose. Nodes on top of the Emperor’s metallic scalp twisted, emitting a gentle hiss of invisible gas.
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Then, he continued. “There was a time when Prophets ruled the spirit of Humanity. We were at their whim. Perhaps I should not say ‘ruled,’ because I knew them, and they were not in control. They were addicted to the attention, and so they said whatever they believed would cause the greatest stir among our people. Yi Candrakala Sen was a friend of the Prophet. The First Prophet. Some days, Sen was her right hand. Others, she and the First Prophet acted like fierce enemies. Yet the First Prophet needed Sen. Do you know why? While the First Prophet may have dreamed of the gate, it was Sen who architected it. The very grid upon which you stand is Sen’s own design.”
“Why would she wipe it?”
“I can only guess.” The Emperor inhaled once more, and stared at the screen. Silent.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it? It’s because I am the Herald.”
The Emperor steepled his heavy hands in front of his face. “Now, where would you have heard about that?”
“I know what I am, Everlord. Or, at least, I know what they thought I was.”
The Emperor hummed to himself. Deep in thought, or pretending to be. “Do you know how long it took, before they settled on your face, Poire? Centuries. Oh, you were always there. But they dreamed thousands of faces. Tens of thousands. Maybe more, who knew back then what they would eventually see? There were so many of them. Dreams, and faces. Only, through the years the faces dwindled. Until… Well, until only your face remained.”
“So it is true then.”
The Emperor’s fist smashed against something, and his voice cannonballed into Poire, almost making him stumble back from the terminal. “Absolutely not! Do not listen to the fools and empty-minded! So easily influenced. All of them. No one can be born evil. Now, look at yourself. And tell me someone can be born evil. It must be made. Their beliefs were far too simple. Too easy. Is death evil? Disease? Devastation from the storm? Does the universe suffer this drawn out entropy because the forces of physics are evil? No. Of course not. Humanity went extinct because we - because they simply made the wrong move one too many times.”
Which is it? Poire thought. We, or they? But he had more pressing questions to ask.
“Then you don’t think the visions show us the future?”
“I think, like any insidious deceit, they are filled with truth. Brimming with it. With just enough space for only the most dangerous and important lies to wriggle inside. That’s what I think. You cannot be the Herald of Ruin.”
“Why not? I’m here, just like they said I would be.”
“So you are. But a dream is not a vision. And both must be interpreted. And interpretation creates room for error. When the words finally reach the mouth, and the would-be visionary speaks, how much of that dream is really being spoken? But all of this is moot, because I cannot tell you how many prophecies were given wrong, Poire.”
“Are they visions or not?” Poire said.
“Some were. I must admit. Some showed us exactly the truth.”
“Then who sends them?”
“Yes!” the Emperor smashed his fist again, though now with triumph instead of anger. His lips were crooked up into that same proud smile. “Now, my young Savior. Now, you do ask the right questions. I knew we would see things the same way. Because you and I, we were not born into this madness, were we?”
Another deep breath. Only this one was more like a gasp. It shuddered through the Emperor’s open lips, and dozens of sharp nodules pricked up along the sides of his scalp. There was a hint, and Poire thought he could see the gas this time. The Emperor sighed, as if something had just released him. And resumed talking, as if nothing had happened.
“The truth is, Poire, that I do not have the answer to your question. Who sends the visions? We were so close to having the answer, once. And I have been searching for it again, for all these years. Through the long harvests, and the short summers and the blackest winters. Did you think the cyrans were my first? No. Hah! No, I have had other Empires before this one. All because of Sen. Who stripped me of the very tools I created to answer our question. Who sends the visions? And why…?”
Once more, the Emperor sank back into his throne. For a long moment, he remained still as stone, the great, dark lines of his mouth pressed together.
Poire wanted to keep asking questions, but Kirine was waving at him. Gesturing for him to stay silent. Eolh cawed at Kirine, telling him to go to sleep.
And the Emperor, who could see nothing but Poire’s face, spoke, “Here’s what we know, young Savior. The visions and the light are linked. Either that, or the light simply makes it easier to see. But I’m sure you already know this. It’s why we work so hard to contain the light, to harness it. Yes, first comes the light. You saw it unbound in my city, when the scar began to crack.”
Poire remembered, standing in the xeno slums of Cyre. Staring up at the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun and the ocean breeze on his skin. And watching the scar split open, spilling all that light out.
“Then, from the light, comes the visions. Once you are touched, it is done. It does not seem to affect these xenos. Even the Historians, well, they have to immerse themselves to see anything at all, don’t they? A blessing for them, I think. Because after the visions, comes the unmaking disease. Have you seen it?”
Poire shook his head. “Only in my studies.”
“Terrible. It seems to come from nothing at all, and it spreads. Oh, how it spreads. From vein to skin, to air and water and solid metal, and it does not care what it eats, as long as it eats. I have seen the seed grow from a single atom into a devouring void. Is it malicious? Created by someone or something to destroy us? An accident, or a force of nature? It doesn’t matter who you ask: the old astronomists, or the deepest illuminant expert, with hundreds of years of study beneath his belt. Not even the First Prophet her damned self. Nobody knows what the light is. Where it comes from. Or who it comes from. Oh, there are theories. Untested, and unproven.”
“What is yours? Why does it speak to us at all?”
“This universe is not enough. Humanity is not enough. Not now, anyway. Not with the way we are. We are in dire need of change and in order to change, we must go beyond, further than anyone has ever gone before. Which is why I need your help. You’ve made it this far, to Thrass. To the Heart itself. You need only take one step further. There is a place I have been trying to reach for millennia. Certain death, for my people. Total eradication, for me. But for you… Sen’s world is an oyster, waiting to be cracked opened. What do you say? Will you take the step that no one else ever could?”
Poire chewed his lip. Laykis was staring at him. And Eolh, and all the others. Needing him to do the right thing. To say the right words to the Emperor, who could not be trusted. So many lives at stake. His own life, too.
Was this really so hard?
Poire had been through so much worse. The living hell of the conclave. A lifetime of testing - that alone was pain indescribable. But the trying, and failing made it so much worse. Disappointing the caretakers, the techs, the directors, all the people who had given up everything just to help him and his cohort grow in isolation from the rest of humanity. Failing, and trying. Because he was never good enough for them.
It wasn’t the tests that hurt. It was the knowing that he would never succeed.
But the future was unwritten. And right now, the pen was in his hand.
Poire inhaled his courage. Holding on to it. Using it to push through that all too familiar fear of the unknown.
“I need something from you, first.”
“Oh?”
“End your civil war.”
Across the concrete, Kirine’s ragged breaths went silent. His eyes were like two burning coals. Two flecks of light in the grey seriousness of his face.
“Ah,” the Emperor said. And again, “Ah. Not everything goes to plan. Should’ve been over the moment it started. I allotted fourteen hours, but look where we are now. Weeks and still there is blood. Unfortunately, I do not control the universe, Poire. And my people have minds of their own. Millions of them. This slight conflict will end, do not be concerned, like all the others before it. The minor hundreds, or thousands, might die. But that’s what soldiers are for, no?”
“Are you not their Emperor? Do they not become soldiers because of you?”
“Do you know how many of my people die when a single crop goes foul? It’s excruciating. A few thousand soldiers is nothing. I know what it looks like. Senseless bloodshed. Slaughter. But you must know this sacrifice is one that I do not make lightly. It is necessary for the greater flourishing of this grand Empire. And for the health, and peace of the people in my Empire’s gentle warmth, of course. Thousands will die. But what of the millions who will be saved? An insignificant price, wouldn’t you say?”
“No.”
The Emperor’s smile faltered.
“You must end it,” Poire said. “If you want my help, make peace with Vorpei now. You will outlive her. You will outlive them all. Grant them all a peaceful life.”
“Short sighted,” the Emperor said coldly.
“Maybe,” Poire said. “But if you want me to go and find this Sen, then that is my price.”
There was no emotion on the Emperor’s face. A machine mask, made of flesh and blood and covered in metal. The Emperor was no human, no matter how much he looked the part.
The thought lit in Poire’s mind: does he even care about humanity? Or does he see us like he sees the cyrans: dispensable. Tools.
“Very well, Poire,” the Emperor heaved a great sigh. “It will be costly, but I will make peace. For you.”
If Poire had known the Emperor longer - if he had known the human being who was the first template for the thing that now called itself ‘Emperor’ - then he might’ve seen this promise for what it was: a lie.
But the Emperor was old, long before Poire was born. And he had mastered every method of control, and he did not give Poire time to think or suspect.
His voice rolled out in a slow, deep rumble, changing the course of the conversation like a dam dropped from orbit. “There is more on your mind, Poire. What?”
And here, because he was already in so deep, Poire decided it was time to tell the Emperor, for what could he do to Poire, that Khadam wasn’t already certainly planning?
So, Poire decided to ask.
“Emperor, I need your help. There’s another human.”