There was new life in Lowtown. And not just in the fresh wood buildings and burned-out city blocks.
Ryke wandered through the restoration of Lowtown, savoring the sounds of construction. The hammering of nails came from every corner, and the squawking of bosses, and grunting redenites, and the scraping of mortar on stone. Street crews demolished the last remains of burned lumber and collapsed homes, to make way for the new. Peddlers sold fruit and nuts and fresh-cooked meat by the cartload, and packdragons hauled lumber and metal down the Vium.
But all of this was nothing, compared to Lowtown’s newest factory.
The steel ribcage of a leviathan rose out of the ashes, spearing up against the backdrop of the Cauldron’s mountain ridge. Sheet metal walls covered half of the factory, though it was still a patchwork of giant, empty frames. Long, sloping roofs and empty egg-shell domes were already sprouting a forest of concrete smokestacks, which billowed white clouds into the sky.
Khadam’s factory was alive. Smoke and fire and the searing whistle of superheated forges. There were a few Redenites at work here, though most of the factory’s workers were constructs. Hundreds of them, pouring in and out of the factory. The song of hammers and rushing steam ushered from the factory, night and day. The constructs, Khadam’s constructs now, carried long sheets of metal, like ants carrying the cut pieces of enormous leaves.
But that was not the only mark Khadam made on Lowtown. A new piece of architecture hung over the Cleft, like some awful industrial work of art.
Unless you could fly, the Cleft was the only entrance into the Cauldron. A sharp gap in the mountain ridge, it was where the Vium Cynuam drained out of the city. Some of the priests and old believers thought there had once been a human tower here, the fabled eighth tower, right where the Cleft was, but no one had ever dug deep enough to find it.
Now, Khadam’s constructs were chiseling into the rock on either side of the Cleft, using cranes to hauling metal up the steep mountain slopes, and welding steel to stone. There were two gently curved strips of metal - each one, as tall and wide as an apartment block - bolted into the sides of the mountains. One on either side of the Cleft. Every inch of metal was patterned with intricate, complicated designs. Deep geometric gouges, carvings in the metal that reminded Queen Ryke of the lines in Khadam’s own face. All hard right angles, joining together in parallel lines.
At the center of the metal strips, there was a cone-shaped spike, like something had tried to punch through the metal and left only its imprint. Khadam claimed the cone had been measured, planned, and crafted to an exact specification, though Ryke had no idea why.
And even from down here, at the footsteps of Khadam’s factory, Ryke could simply turn in a slow circle, and see: each of the seven towers was now capped with a similar concave sheet and cone-spike. All of them, facing the gate. All, gleaming in the late morning sunlight.
But Ryke had not come to marvel at new machinery. She had come because the priests were concerned.
“Another dark mood, your Majesty. The Divine One hasn’t spoken to us in days.”
Nothing unusual there. Khadam had shown little interest in the priests and all their beliefs since she’d arrived. Try as they might, the priests had trouble getting her to talk about the holy mysteries and canon law, and moral and liturgical quandaries. Khadam, it seemed, only cared about machines.
So the fact that she wouldn’t talk to them now seemed natural. But the priests begged, and so Ryke had come.
Half of the factory was exposed to the open air. Little more than a steel skeleton. The open half faced the Lowtown steps that led up the cliff wall to the Midcity.
One day, this part of the factory would be a sheer metal wall. But right now, it was little more than an empty steel skeleton. At the very bottom of all that sheer, open space, someone had installed a door, tiny and naked and almost comical. Anyone could simply walk around it.
So, Ryke did. And she found herself immediately caught up in a massive dance of machines. Constructs working forges, hammering red-hot metals, standing in assembly lines as they carved those geometric patterns into the metal sheets. They rarely spoke, unless one of the masked redenites who supervised the factory floor spoke to them. She crossed quickly through the open space, nodding at the redenites who bowed in her presence. Shadows stretched longer and blacker as Ryke went deeper into the factory.
She found the human sitting on a hill of broken bodies. Limbs and legs and heads with burned-out eye sockets and chassis torn apart. Hundreds of them, thrust into a junkheap that rose halfway to the ceiling. And Khadam sat on top.
Her head was propped up on her hand, and she made no move to look at Ryke when she entered. The priests were right, Ryke thought. She does look angry.
Her other arm was wrapped in that exosleeve, a mechanically-enhanced arm that ended with a fist of tools so complex, Ryke could only guess at its purpose. Currently, that fist was wrapped around the skull of a rusted construct. Khadam crushed and crinkled the skull, like it was made of thinnest tin.
“I’ve carved up hundreds of them,” Khadam said. Her voice, dry and grim. “It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. If I could pull every construct in this world together, and melt them all down, I still don’t think it would be enough. All scrap.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The extruders!” Khadam threw her head back, and sighed. “It’s the damn extruders. I need pure liquid metal. I would destroy this damn sleeve, if I thought I could get anything out of it. Pure. It has to be. I have all the designs-” Khadam jabbed a finger at her head, “-right here. But I can’t build a fucking printer until I get something. All these constructs only have traces of liquid left. They’ve been rebuilt and chopped up and built again so many times over the centuries, there’s nothing good left. Nothing, except the cores.”
Khadam tossed the crushed skull down the hill of bones, letting it crash and slide down through wires and glass and rusted brass.
Ryke thought she recognized this mood. In the fledgling god, too, she had seen it.
Khadam was still coming to terms with this world. Still coming to terms with everything that was gone - all of her people, and all their tools.
“Divine One,” Ryke said. “If you need a printer, our priests have the finest ink presses-”
“No!” Khadam shouted. And then, she tempered her emotions, her voice once more growing grim and soft. “No. You don’t understand. I need a molecular printer. Otherwise, I have to build everything by hand,” Khadam raised her exosleeve’s fist, spreading out those too-articulated fingers. Dozens of digits, each one specially formed for its own task. “Imagine if you had to scrape iron ore out of mine with nothing but a toothbrush. That’s what this is like.”
“What is a toothbrush?” Ryke asked, crooking her head to the side.
“You don’t have teeth? Oh, nevermind. I’m just frustrated, Ryke. The Emperor has thousands of years over me. My one advantage is surprise. I don’t know how he’ll act when he finds me, but I have to be prepared. I need machines. I need tools. I need something to deal with him.”
“You intend to kill him?”
Khadam’s head snapped up. She eyed Ryke with a wild look in her eyes. As if Ryke had said the wrong thing. As if Khadam was watching for something. What? But the human seemed not to find it. Swallowed, and shook her head.
“Divine One,” Ryke said, “I know what he’s like. Must I remind you what the cyrans did to my people? I understand your need. How can I help?”
“What I need is information. And I believe only the Emperor has it.”
“How will you get it?”
Khadam shrugged, “I’d prefer not to devolve into violence.”
A loud hissing poured in from the front of the factory as hot metal was plunged into water.
“And if he refuses to answer?”
Khadam pushed herself to standing. Her feet sank slightly into the hill of machines. Metal limbs and tangles of wire slid down the slopes. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out here. That’s what this factory is for. Production. If he’s a machine, I must have something to disable him. If he’s not, well, then I need my own machines. And no offense, but these constructs-” Khadam kicked at something that might have been an actual bucket, welded and repurposed into a kind of machine head, “-these won’t do. I wish I could show you, Ryke. I wish I could show you what we used to be.”
“Tell me, Divine One.”
“That’s exactly it. I’m not divine. Hamalainen - she was divine. Hamalainen and all her nanofel. It was all she ever worked on. Countless variations that could do anything you wanted. If you want to worship someone, worship her, because she can’t argue anymore.”
The human sat back down on the hill, clattering metal and wires sliding around her. Her head fell into her hands again.
Ryke wanted to ask what happened to this Hamalainen? But she could feel the deep sadness radiating off Khadam like a cold wind. It wasn’t like with Poire, who seemed little more than a lost child. Frantic and frightened and trying anything to go back in time.
Khadam, however, was mourning. But there was more to her mood. More, that Ryke couldn’t quite figure out. “Were there others?” Ryke dared to ask. “Other gods, besides Hamalainen?”
Khadam laughed. “If you want to talk about gods, you have to talk about Benesha. Master of precision. He helped me understand so many things about perfection, and the endless, fruitless pursuit. Good enough is good enough, he used to say, unless you want something to last. Then it has to be exact. But he also used to say that good machines and great machines are all the same, as long as they get the job done. Benesha was also the only reason we were able to split up into clans. Because of him, we could conserve our energy for centuries. Millennia. I’d bet most of these constructs are built on some version of his designs.”
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Ryke let her talk. Crawled up the hill of bones, and sat beside her, as Khadam spoke name after name. And gave lore for each one.
“...and Nausherwani. Damn her. She was incredible. And she knew it. Never a machine went astray from her. I’d bet most of them are still working, too. And Rodeiro, of course. Little Rodeiro. Funny, angry, loud, bossy, commanding Rodeiro. He was the reason. The reason. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be...”
The human trailed off. Closed her mouth, and shook her head. And said nothing for a long time.
“Divine One?”
“I have work to do.”
“How can I help?”
Ryke couldn’t stop staring at Khadam’s face. All those sharp lines, cut into her skin. How does the skin know not to grow over those tattoos, those implants? And the hard metal devices, embedded in her cheekbones, or the sides of her temples. Did it hurt to have that done?
What do they even do?
And the human’s eyes… Her irises were ringed. Dozens of layers that circled around each other when they focused, or unfocused. Like she could see so much more of the world. More than Ryke ever knew existed.
“Ryke, how hard would it be to move all your people out of the city?”
“You want me to evacuate the entire Cauldron?”
“I need to test the light spikes.”
The light spikes. That’s what she called those huge metal strips and cone-spikes bolted to the sides of the mountains, and the towers themselves. Lightning rods, made to take power from the Emperor himself.
But evacuating the Cauldron? This was no easy task. There were millions here, and many places to hide. She doubted everyone would leave, if told. And then, where would they go?
The Wash? Dangerous, to linger out there unprotected from the storms. The jungle itself? No, that was folly and death.
“I can’t. There are storms, Divine One. Terrible and dangerous.”
“Can’t they build shelter? I’ve seen factories and farm houses out there.”
“Temporary buildings. We haul the equipment in when we can, but even that may be lost. They call it the Wash for a reason. Anything outside the city may be washed away. Not every storm, but often enough. My people will not want to leave. We are powerless before the storms.”
Khadam hummed to herself, lost in thought. “Maybe I can fix that.”
She said it so simply. As if it was only some minor engineering problem that, if she spent a day or two upon, she might solve. The reason all the peoples lived in the Cauldron was the same reason that Ryke was a monarch. This was the only place any of them could live, inside the safety of the mountain walls. Shelter from storm and jungle both.
If the god could find a new way to protect them… Ryke couldn’t even imagine what that might change.
Would her people spread out across all that farmland? How wide could her Queendom grow? Even the poorest among them might claim a patch of land, a hill, a garden of fruit trees, and create their own paradise. No more would they be limited to-
“And what about the Emperor?” Khadam’s voice cut through her thoughts. “The spikes are supposed to skim light, but I need the gate to open to test them. How do you get him to open the gate?”
Khadam could not have asked the question at a more opportune moment.
Ryke was about to answer, when a blinding flash of light crashed through the open half of the factory, cut only by the few girders and that tiny door standing along the factory’s far end. Through the great empty spaces of the factory, all the constructs stopped their work.
Everyone looked up, at the light blossoming over the city. A brilliant, too white thread of light, connecting the center of the city to the sky above.
The gate was open.
“Was that you?” Khadam asked. She slid down the hill of bones. Her shoulders were back, her arms held out, as if ready for a fight.
“No!” Ryke said, her own arms flooding with adrenaline. “We had no word of this. Damn that Emperor.”
“Do you think he’s already gone back on his word to you?”
“I didn’t think he would. But who else can open the gate? I must go. Excuse me, Divine One,” and Ryke took off running. There was enough space for her to unfurl her wings, and carry herself out of the factory and into the sky above.
Her falkyr retinue, who had been lurking on the rooftops around the factory, whistled to each other as she sped past, and they fell into formation behind her. Six golden-brown winged silhouettes, plus one Queen, racing across the sky of the Cauldron.
They climbed higher, rising above the cliff wall of Lowtown. Rising until they could see above the Midcity’s rooftops and temple domes and minarets and apartment blocks lush with greenery.
There were two figures standing in the gate. No, three. One was leaning on the first.
One of the people gleamed in the sunlight. Her whole body, made of metal. But already, the new parts of her body were dusted with rust and metal rot.
It didn’t matter. Ryke didn’t even care that there were two cyrans standing next to her.
She was just too excited to see her again. Laykis.
The Queen speared down to the Midcity, throwing out her talons at the last possible moment. Her claws scraped across the metal disc of the gate as she made her shrieking halt. And almost collided with the android, before her wings dragged her to a stop.
A young cyran was standing next to the android, with an older cyran, so sick he might’ve been dying, clinging heavily against his side. There was no animosity between them. No haughty, superior cyran glance. Just a look of desperation, on both of their faces.
But, at that moment, all Ryke could see was an absence.
“Is he not returning?”
“No, your Majesty. Poire forges his destiny elsewhere. I am sent in his stead.” And the android’s eyes clicked, glowing a different light as she finally grasped Ryke’s true meaning. “Oh,” her voice rattled, “You mean the corvani. He is safe. He is with Poire. A new ally guards them both. Strong. Steady.”
Ryke nodded, feeling herself relax and sink into sadness at the same time. She had hoped to see him. Hadn’t heard a word from him in months, and had feared that maybe she never would again.
But at least he’s safe, Ryke thought. What more could she ask for?
“And what about you, Laykis? You look dreadful.”
The android’s body was dusted with wet rust. Parts of her newer, brassier body armor were dented and scraped and the brassen sheen was dull and peeling away, as if she’d been dragged through a muddy swamp for the better part of a year. The rest of her metal was as perfect and bright as ever.
“My physical form is not in urgent need of attention. This one however…” The android nodded to the older cyran.
Nineteen years of terrible occupation and instinctual fear didn’t wear off so easily. Ryke felt the sharp sting of hatred the moment she looked at them. Both the cyrans had those tell-tale glittering scales of the Imperial elite, though one of them was hardly old enough to be a man. The elder cyran looked like he was ready to take his final flight, as the saying went.
But if Laykis had brought them, then they were here for good reason. Ryke blinked away the old feelings, and held herself rigid and tall. Trying to assume her diplomatic stance.
“This,” Laykis gestured at the deathly cyran, “Is Tribune Kirine, a martyr of the cyran Veneratian. He needs medical attention. He will be useful, if he lives.”
The politician’s head almost lifted at the sound of his name. And fell back down, so that his body sagged heavier against the younger cyran.
“And you?” Ryke asked.
“I am Lucas Pulchus Lukaius, your Majesty.” He bowed as deep as he could, still valiantly trying to uphold the heavier, older cyran. “I, uh, I am a traitor. I tried… I helped… There was a xeno child. What they were doing was wrong, your Majesty. I had to help.”
“You have the scales.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” He said, sounding only half as uncomfortable as Ryke wanted him to feel.
“For nineteen years, people with the same scales as yours burned, and murdered, and tortured my people. They turned us against each other, and held us prisoner in our own homes. They slaughtered us for sport.”
The younger cyran bowed his head. Having nothing to say. She didn’t know why she was taking out her anger on this youth, it wasn’t like he occupied her city. He probably wasn’t even born when the invasion happened. But something about those scales just brought it out in her…
“We’re not all like that.” The voice was rough and gravelly and tired. And, despite the deathly sickness wracking his body, the voice was strong. It came from the politician. His head was lifted, and his eyes shone like black coals in the sunlight. His breath came in wet rasps. “The Empire is broken. But it can be changed.”
“Well, any imperial who is called ‘traitor’ is a friend of Gaiam. Welcome to our city, Lucas.”
Ryke whipped one of her majestic wings at the air. A motion to call her guards, it still made the younger cyran flinch. The politician was not so easily moved.
Her guards helped the two cyrans stumble away towards the Highcity, up to her palace, where her royal doctors would look after them. But Laykis refused any maintenance with a creaking shake of her head. Metal grinded against rust, somewhere inside her neck.
“I must see to my purpose, first.”
“What purpose?”
“Her,” the android pointed across the metal disc of the gate. Down the Vium that led straight to the Lowtown stairs, that great set of steps carved into the cliff wall.
The human, Khadam, crested the last stone stair. Sweat covered her forehead and her bare shoulders, down the circuitry that carved her skin, covering her golden complexion in a wet sheen. Her chest heaved slightly, as if she’d only run a dozen - instead of hundreds - of steps.
Her right arm was held up. The exosleeve’s fist was clutching something. A device with three black prongs pointed at Laykis. Wires dangled haphazardly all the way up Khadam’s arm, where the device was plugged into her sleeve. Sparks were flying from some of the connections, though the black prongs themselves showed no sign of light nor movement. Ryke could not even see a place where a projectile might be shot out, nor did it make any sound.
“Ryke!” Khadam shouted. “Step away from the androfex, now!”
Ryke turned around, and looked at Laykis, who was standing as serene and quiet as ever.
“No, Khadam. She is a friend. She is-”
Ryke stepped between Laykis and Khadam, and then she felt it. A high-pitched keening, resonating somewhere at the base of her beak, and in all her bones. It made her eyes water.
“The swarm!” Khadam was shouting, her feet carrying her forward. She never let the prongs drop. “They never died! Get out of the way!”
What in all the heavens and hells is she talking about? Ryke wanted to ask, but that sound was cutting into her thoughts. Her beak opened, but she couldn’t find the words-
“Your swarm,” Laykis said, her voice still calm, though the digital notes of her voice were grainy and distorted by Khadam’s device, “Your swarm has no hold over me. I am Tython.”
Khadam lowered her arm for a moment, and all at once that obliterating vibration disappeared. Gods, Ryke thought, gasping and stumbling back. Gods, what power was that?
“You are Tython?” Khadam asked, taking another wary step closer. Her prongs still held at the ready. “You knew him?”
“He was my maker.”
“How? Have you been awake all these years? Wait,” Khadam took a step back, “Are you of the Swarm?”
Laykis’s eyes flashed. “No. I was made by Tython. My need surpasses the Swarm, for I serve the Savior.”
Khadam narrowed her eyes. “Then I have to destroy you, too,” she said, lifting the device again.
Ryke leaped in front of the device, shouting, “Stop!” before that keening sound wracked her thoughts and made her eyes water. She could only stand and listen, and refuse to move.
“Get out of the way!”
But Ryke only shook her head. She was acting on pure will alone, because now every bone in her body felt like it was grinding itself into dust. “Laykis-” she spoke through her gritted beak, “-is - our - friend!”
“You don’t understand.” Khadam said. “You can’t possibly understand what this machine might do.”
“She saved him!” Ryke shouted. “She gave her life for him!”
That seemed to give the human pause. Even if for only a moment. Khadam was right - Ryke didn’t understand. But she knew Laykis. She knew the android was not like any other construct in the world. Maybe, in all the worlds. And whatever was happening here was wrong.
And she was all but powerless to stop it. If the god wanted to destroy Laykis, there was nothing Ryke could do to stop it. But why? What possible reason-
Ryke felt a metal hand on her shoulder. Cold, and gentle. Pulling her aside. “Please, do not endanger yourself for my sake, Queen.”
Ryke fell away, gasping and panting as Laykis eased into her place. Standing in front of the human, and that dreadful device. Ryke squawked in protest, but she had nothing left. Whatever Khadam had, it was too powerful.
But to Laykis, it seemed to have little effect. The android stepped into the device’s path. Walking, easily, towards Khadam. And Khadam gripped the device in both hands, shouting, “Get back!”
But Laykis only came closer. Close enough to touch Khadam.
Ryke had heard the story of the android, when she first found the human. Masquerading as a decrepit, feeble machine. In a lightning stroke, she had cracked one cyran’s neck, and smashed another’s face in. And then, the machine had sprinted across the Cauldron with the Savior in her arms.
Standing this close, this machine could kill. Ryke had no doubts about that. But could she kill a god?
Before Ryke could do anything to stop this, Laykis sank to the ground and kneeled. And folded herself, so her forehead pressed against the ground. “Do what you will, Divine One. I was sent to serve.”
“You should know what he is. Your maker was there. Your maker should have told you.”
“He did. You call him destroyer. The Herald of Ruin.”
“That’s what he is!” Khadam shouted.
“And yet, by his command, I am not allowed to harm you.”
“Give me one reason to believe you!” She was sweating more now, than she had from climbing the stairs. And Laykis was only kneeling before her. Calm. Unbothered.
“I don’t think you can believe me, Divine One. But neither can you believe the Emperor.”
Khadam’s grip loosened. Her arms dropped, but not all the way.
“What do you know, androfex?”
“I know that you are not prepared. And I am the only one who can help you.”