Operations Center, Western Research Hub
Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge
4453.2.26 Interstellar
They found Ryler right where the network said he would be, in the middle of the ops center. The cultist was slumped in a chair in front of the main terminal, his head tilted and braids hanging over his right shoulder.
“Is he dead?” Koni asked.
All around them, dozens of server towers hummed smoothly, and images flashed on the massive main terminal faster than Janus could recognize them. “Ryler?”
The cultist twitched.
Janus moved forward.
The ops center had clearly been meant to coordinate the missions of dozens of expeditionary teams while collecting their results for analysis. Janus could make out almost twenty operations specialist stations, each with a desk that had a built-in terminal, a secondary display for mapping, and what looked like a drafting table. The workstations were laid out in an open but efficient arrangement, so the specialist only had to turn their chair slightly to focus on one of their key functions.
Janus imagined what the Motragi could have done with a place like this. For all he knew, they had one hidden in the jungle, connected to the world through their secret ULF network.
“He’s plugged into the main terminal,” Koni said, looking at Ryler. “I think those images on the screen are what he’s seeing.”
Janus looked and saw that Ryler had stripped his poncho and shirt off, and five heavy black cables ran from the terminal to plugs in his bare chest. The cultist’s mouth was slack, his eyes were half-open but unseeing, and his irises gleamed gold. There was a faint heat haze around Ryler’s head.
Janus reached out to touch his shoulder. His ebony skin was burning hot. “Ryler?”
“What?” Ryler said, jumping at the touch. He wiped a bit of drool from his mouth. “How long was I out?”
“I don’t know,” Janus said, looking at the main screen. The cycle of images had slowed enough he could see schematics, lab reports, and annotated holos of wildlife flicker by. “We’ve been here for about an hour. Have you been connected this whole time?”
Ryler shifted in the chair, blinking his eyes. “Yeah, sorry. Is it time to go? I’m almost done here.”
“Done with what?” Janus asked.
“I’m not sure how much I can tell you,” Ryler said.
Normally, that would have made Janus angry, but their time on the road together and, more recently, his time to reflect allowed Janus to see things through a different lens.
Ryler wasn’t being disloyal to the team. He was being loyal to his principles—be they some kind of screwed-up faith or maybe a sense of gratitude toward Nikandros, Janus didn’t care.
What mattered was that Janus wasn’t going to get anywhere if he kept coming at Ryler the same way. “Tell me something,” Janus said, pulling a chair out and sitting down. “Your faction believes that humanity will give rise to exceptional people, right?”
“In times of adversity, yes,” Ryler said cautiously.
“And you believe I’m one of those people.”
Ryler nodded. “You, your family… It was a major blow to the cause when Prometheus Base was destroyed. That place was a breeding ground for change.”
“Then why aren’t you helping me?” Janus asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees, locking eyes with the cultist.
Ryler hesitated. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Emissary,” Janus said. “That’s what you call me, right?”
Ryler looked annoyed. “It’s an honorary title—one you’ve rejected until now when you want something.”
“Let’s make it real, then,” Janus said, and Koni looked at him in surprise. “What would it take for me to become a real emissary, Ryler? The kind your faith believes in.”
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Ryler was properly angry now. “First of all, it isn’t a ‘faith.’ The Cult is a secular organization—”
Koni grunted in amusement.
“It is!” Ryler snapped. “And the two of you don’t know even a fraction of what you would need to in order to step into your roles.”
Janus sat back, smiling, and waited.
Ryler glared at him.
Koni patted Janus on the shoulder. She did it a little harder than necessary—still getting used to the negative force feedback. “I see what you did there, Janus. In order to stay consistent with his very scientific beliefs, Ryler has to inform us.”
“Yes, thank you,” Ryler said dryly. “Only a pair of emissaries could have provided me with such insight.”
“You know it’s true,” Janus said. “How many mistakes have you watched me make because I didn’t see the whole picture?”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Ryler said, shifting to put a little slack in the connectors plugged into his chest. “It’s a wonder the two of you are alive. You’re like like blind, deaf, and numb toddlers stumbling through a room full of sharp objects. Sometimes, I think the main qualification for an outlier like you must be luck.”
Janus watched and waited. It was an interesting feeling to see his friend battle with his own ethics. There was power in the moment, a sensation of control that came from knowing enough about another person to hold them accountable to their own creed. It made him think of his first meeting with Nikandros when the Cult architect had set him on a course that would change his life with a few leading questions.
“I will be more forthcoming with information that could help you make better decisions,” Ryler said grudgingly.
And if understanding others and using their own cultural references to make demands of them had been all Janus had learned, that might have been the end of it. But he’d also learned from Koni, and now that he had a foothold of authority, he was going to use it. “You’re going to do more than that, Ryler. You’re going to tell me everything I think I need to know.”
“I can’t always do that.”
“Then you’re going to give me specific reasons why you can’t because I’m the emissary, and the whole point of this situation is to prove to the rest of the Cult that following an emissary’s lead results in better outcomes, isn’t it?”
“Partially,” Ryler said through gritted teeth.
“Great,” Janus said, grinning widely. “Let’s start there. What in the void is Nikandros trying to do?”
***
SSFG-04 Survivor’s Voice
Orbit of Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge
4453.2.26 Interstellar
Nikandros frowned. It wasn’t even a proper frown, more of a twitch.
Donnika looked up. “Something wrong?”
Nikandros looked across the tactical plot at her and said, “I seem to have lost touch with my librarian.”
“It’s been a day of disappointments,” Donnika said. “I seem to have lost touch with my wayfinder.”
Nikandros tapped the right armrest of his chair. It was one of the few tics he allowed himself, especially around someone like Donnika, who he knew had the latest body language reader installed.
“Brago and his team have mutinied,” Donnika said. “If I don’t meet their demands—his in particular—they’ve promised to kill every other aspirant team and ensure Invarian wins.”
“That would be a shame,” Nikandros said.
“It would,” Donnika answered. “I don’t like the example it sets for my other assets. On the other hand, it would make a strong argument to the arbitration committee that your aspirant couldn’t have won on his own.”
Nikandros existed in a sphere of calm, and though his mask lay on the table, his face may as well have been made of titanium carbide. “I assume you have Brago chipped?”
Donnika nodded. “I could end him at any time I choose, but that would leave your team free to operate.”
“It’s a difficult position,” Nikandros said, neither gloating nor sympathizing, merely stating a fact. “What does he want?”
“For me to intervene directly and save his family.”
“Isn’t that what you promised him anyway?”
“It is,” she acknowledged, “and Tiersen did break that promise by lying to him, but if I’m forced to send another intervention team groundside because of your protégé’s actions, the people on Lumiara might draw the wrong conclusions.” She laughed. “The funny thing is, if he’d just done his job, we would have protected his family as a matter of policy. Now, I’m almost obliged to let them die and put him down.”
He nodded. She’d summed the situation up nicely.
Nikandros had no issues with his counterparts in the compartmentalist faction. He’d enjoyed the company of Donnika’s predecessor, who died during a pilgrimage to the Oracle on Lumiara. Donnika was young—only fifty-Standard-years-old—but she had a vigor to her that his old friend had lacked. That suited Nikandros. Comfortable stagnation was his enemy more than anything, and Donnika’s drive for action made the otherwise unassailable compartmentalist majority vulnerable. “I suppose you’d like me to offer a truce?”
“Your librarian is compromised,” she pointed out. “It was one thing for you to gain access to the Western Research Hub. If a Promethean gets their hands on any of Dr. Jahangir’s research and starts broadcasting it to anyone who will listen, even the Consensus will be forced to act.”
Nikandros smiled at her. He was pleased with her reasoning. It illustrated the true nature of their conflict—not one of fundamental disagreement, because they both believed it was the Cult of the Survivor’s role to shepherd the peoples of Survivor’s Refuge into the next era, but rather of methodologies. Donnika believed in control, in mastering the variables until only one outcome could remain. Nikandros thought that made her and her faction fragile, and that true vision was to embrace many outcomes on many timetables. “I think you’re making a mistake in making Brago your enemy. He is a simple man. You need only fulfill your promise to him, and he will do his best to bring about the outcome you desire.”
“Just his best?” Donnika said, a faint bulging of her jaw marking her anger at being spurned.
“My aspirant’s best is better,” Nikandros said. “But even if he should fail, I will win, Donnika. It will happen now or ten years from now. My way is the way of humanity, and it will only become more unstoppable with each retelling.”
“I wasn’t joking about your librarian, Nikandros. If you’ve lost control of knowledge from the First Landing, I will have him removed and you censured.”
Nikandros tutted and waved his hand. “Abraxxis was always going to turn, sister. I intended him to. Why else do you think I tasked him with watching over his best friend?”