TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It must be a stunning display, the likes of which hasn’t existed for centuries, orchestrated by one of the last living digital minds. Lights more numerous than the stars themselves, coming together to form a bespoke picture. They tell the tale of the galaxy’s doom at the point of a Spear, as told by someone old enough to have witnessed it.

A fantastic show that Dolce doesn’t see, because he still hasn’t lifted himself up from that first bow. Neither does he really know when it ends. It is long seconds before the Architect’s booming voice stops echoing through the chamber, and still the colors reflecting off the deck shift and swirl. It is a long, patient silence, a thousand opportunities for the Architect to say more, and he passes on each of them.

This, too, is a ritual. On its completion, the Royal Architect may know that he has been heard, his words have been duly considered, and the reply Dolce gives is given only by his leave.

“Great lord. I don’t know anything about assassins and technomancers. I don’t know about what it takes to put a planet back together. I don’t know very much about you. I’m just a chef from Beri. What seems like good sense to me might be a death sentence for you, and I’d never know the difference. What I do know are the stories, great lord. The tales of the gods and their doings. As many as have passed my ears, I’ve listened well, and I’ve remembered them. And those stories warn of terrible danger if you take this course of action.”

“You have all of my apologies for upsetting you. But knowing this, how can I stay silent? I do not cry for hospitality to force open your private sanctums, I speak a warning, lest some spy finds this leverage and uses it against you.”

He folds his hands. He inclines his head further. He takes the smallest step away from 20022, and closer to the eye. “Great lord, I put myself at your service in this matter. What knowledge and wisdom I have, I put at your disposal. 20022, and the host of your proofs can vouch that what I say is true: I am a simple chef from Beri. I have no training in any art beyond that of the servant and the chef. The one path open to one such as I for advancement, I lacked the necessary spirit to succeed, and left without ever receiving a number. I am Dolce; nobody of any great importance, who finds himself before you by chance, and in all likelihood will never see you again.” A harmless, humble servant. Useless and without ambition. Who just so happens to be on hand, in the midst of an unprecedented situation, when the gift of a harmless, humble, listening ear would be most welcome. Yes, it would be an audacious thing, for the Architect to confide in such a soul. Then again, what if it was so audacious that even the most wicked schemer, the most cunning malcontent, would never suspect he had done it?

Of all the places to look for the secrets of the Architect’s heart, who would ever think to look to Dolce of Beri?

“If it pleases you, great lord, then whatever you wish to speak to me, I swear never to repeat. I only ask that you speak softly, or else I may not be able to listen for long.” His ears still throb painfully from the last outburst. “And,” his nose wrinkles. Obviously out of his depth. Flailing for what little ground he can stand upon. Charming, isn’t it, to see him trying so hard at matters so above his head? “Is ‘great lord’ your preferred title? Or is there one you would like better?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 4 + 6 + 3 = 13 Dolce forges a Bond with the Royal Architect. Why is the Royal Architect so afraid, that he can’t even spare some extraneous rooms for the Emissary to live in?]

Breathless Dead

Don’t wince. Don’t frown. Don’t smile. Don’t shrink. Do thhe job. Expect nothing back. Let their praise prove their graciousness. Speak when spoken to. His knowledge is theirs. Give what is asked for. Do not tarry. Do not stutter. Speak. Speak.

“It would be presumptuous of me to speak for them, Great Lord.” He deflects smoothly. His body remains bowed. Only his mouth moves. “I can say you have surely met the requirements of what is owed.”

He could count the jagged points in the ramshackle house. The metal ripped in chunks as it was pulled on the floor. Each scream of metal yielding rings in his ears. Below it all, the hum of drones. In the walls. In the floor. All around them. Waiting.

“...all you could have left to fear is the potential reproach of miserly treatment. If you were to allow them some limited freedom to move about your vast home, then no accusation of poor hospitality could stand against you. In this matter, you would be safe.”

Ringing. Humming. Waiting.

Breathless Dead

"Great lord?"

His voice is soft. His voice is quiet. His voice rests on the exact pitch to cut through all noise.

"If your Emissary is, as you say, no longer of you, but his own distinct entity, then your offer of hospitality may well extend to him also. Though he can neither eat nor drink, your servant 20022 offered him tea, and that was sufficient to compel us to save him. You have even tended to his injuries, at some small, personal expense.”

Brilliant blue light pools around his feet. Brighter and brighter the opulent floor shines as the great Architect’s attention focuses in on him. He must keep bowing. He must not grow stiff. He must not rush his words. He must breathe. He must speak.

“In what few legends and histories I am aware of, none speak of such a case as this. But given the terrible consequences of inviting the Thunderer’s wrath, perhaps some additional caution may be warranted, for the sake of your safety?”

Breathless Dead

If you asked him, hospitality wasn’t quite food, drink, and fire, like a body wasn’t quite bones, flesh, muscles, and whatever else a body was made of. You needed those things, true. The stories generally agreed it was the bare minimum requirement, good enough for the purposes of Zeus, and who was he to argue with that? But you risk missing the spirit of the thing, and in doing so, you might miss the act entirely. Compare a random box of seeds and fruits, thrown in front of whoever walked in, to a meal prepared out of whatever resources one had, made for the purpose of feeding your guest. Compare the constant, middling burn of a chemfire cube to a fireplace tended carefully, burning neither too hot nor too low, that your guests may sit in comfort all through the night.

…didn’t it also require shelter of some kind? A home? A place of relative safety? Since you could offer the hospitality of an open campsite, you didn’t need a roof per se. But you did need a space that was mostly your own, where somebody else could exist in peace.

If you asked him, the bare definition of the concept was lacking, possibly critically so.

If you asked him. But why should the Royal Architect ask the opinion of a chef plucked from the backwater town of Beri? About all he knows is his manners. His bow is lower than his higher-ranking companion. He is going to continue staring a hole through a floor the drone swarms tore apart as if it were paper. He will continue to ponder the wonderful mysteries of crackling fireplaces and bubbling pots of homemade stew on a cold night. He will not make a sound.

Unless you ask him.

Breathless Dead

His awe is silent, by necessity.

When you see a peculiar ship, you still know what a ship is. Somewhere, a pilot has to sit, or stand, or be strapped in. Something makes it go in one of many directions. Maybe there are things for battle? Or not, that says a lot too. Esoterics, now, those are strange by nature. But they are still held, or wielded, or manipulated by expert hands. While the workings may be strange, you can tilt your head just so, and think of a craftsman with a particularly complicated tool.

What is he looking at? What are these lights for? Why is it painted in so many colors? Is that paint, or a natural color? What holds it in place, if it is held in place at all? Does it move? Can it move? None of these questions come to mind, because all of them might be wrong, and he can't begin to know what the right ones are. He is filled with wonder and silence. He beholds something alien, for the first time in his humble life.

And yet.

In strange lasers passing through him. In rituals lasting hours. In the careful hop from ship to ship to ship. These are the presence of the Architect. These are the instruments of its will. Its hands and feet. And in these motions, he sees fear. Fear just as the robot limping alongside them felt. They are the same. They are different bodies. Some of their mind is the same. He watches the robot curiously out of the corner of his eye as it is helped along by a changing guard of soldiers.

A chef from Beri is here to see the Royal Architect. As impossible and improper and unthinkable as such a thing might be.

Breathless Dead

There’s always more rubble. Six times over with the handkerchief, and he’s still picking out bits of rubble from deep within the curly depths of his wool. He will need to do a seventh. He ought to use a clean handkerchief. This one is quite filthy. He feels the stray bits between the folds of smooth cloth, pressing into his clenching fingers.

“You know-” Does he? Ought he? Why bother with preamble? He works his jaw stiffly. “I. Had thought,” what, exactly? What, exactly? Only he’s opened his mouth too early. Observe. 20022 is waiting. Think. And all he’s got is bitter on his tongue and hot flushing through his face. Observe. And anything he says will be wrong. Think. He is better than this. Observe. He’s already failed him once today.

Think.

With an effort, Dolce shuts his mouth, and swallows his heart back down. “I…have already given my answer.” His voice is quiet. His voice is tight. “Nothing’s changed that would make the prospect more appealing. I’m sorry.” His bow is slight. His bow is perfect.

It will not make a difference. It didn’t at the Manor. He has no fellows here either, as it turns out.

Still, he bows.

Breathless Dead

The plush, imperial finery resents their presence. Who are they, that they should pass through these ruined corridors with heads unbowed? Is it not enough that the Skies should suffer this indignity, but that they should walk free while this holy palace lies in ruin? One pillar in one hall is greater than all twenty three of them put together. The least they could do is go down with the ship.

And yet, they press on. And yet, they might survive, together.

They might survive the shifts in gravity. The soldiers are trained to feel them, but Synnefo wool, light and airy, is always the first thing to move. Dolce must keep his eyes on his patient. He must direct the soldiers where to grab. 20022 must pause his instructions to make way for Dolce’s sudden shouts. The Architect must be secure. Then, he must direct the head of the column forward. This is as fast as they can go. They press on.

They might survive the explosions. Every hallway has bulkheads worked into the coiling architecture in case of catastrophic munition failure. Dolce must watch the rear. 20022 must watch the front. Whoever takes the call first, 20022 must take charge. He must direct the Skies’ finest to hurl their bodies on the mechanisms and haul them into place. Dolce must cradle the Architect’s delicate head with his whole body. He must pad it with his wool. He must nod to each of his soldiers in turn, surrendering them to the task as needed. They press on.

They might survive the simple collapse. Forget not the peril of falling rocks. 20022 must order shields up. They must be silent until it is quiet enough, but cannot wait too long. If they are trapped, they call out to the other. If one is free, they must dig a path to the other. If neither is free, they must find each other. If they cannot find each other, then they must dig free without delay, and then they must find each other. They press on.

They might survive the goodbyes. The Architect must be securely strapped into the shuttle, for his own safety. Dolce must see to this. He must not question how many soldiers 20022 sees fit to leave him with. 20022 must prepare the offerings for Zeus. Before they leave, they must reconvene, ensure all is well, and that nothing more is required of them. They must be swift in their departure. There is no time for anything more.

But instead, Dolce looks to his friend.

“You said, when we met, that you had to take a more authoritarian tack than you were comfortable with.”

And he must finally ask the question on his heart.

“Was that because you felt sorry for the people of Bitemark? Or because it was inefficient and unsightly?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly. 6 + 3 + 3 = 12. Spending a Bond, 20022 has to answer the question.]

Breathless Dead

Two soldiers catch the body of the Architect before he hits the window falling below them. A third scoops up Dolce, but only for a moment. With a solid foothold he scrambles upright, hooves finding purchase on the slightest nubs of metal.

“Is now really the best time to test that theory?” From this peak, his shout carries above the chaos, up, up to the departing 20022. “When a guest of the Crystal Knight lays dying at her hand? A guest who was your charge?”

The world beneath them vanishes. Prize and miracle and battle alike are swallowed in an explosion of roiling indigo. The room bathes in its splendor. The walls shudder at its arrival. Dolce stands silhouetted, the first herald of thunderheads, shadowed and eclipsed save for eyes reflecting lightning.

Then again, the signs of Zeus had already been blooming above Bitemark. Coincidence, careful timing, whatever the case may be, 20022 has no time for misguided pedantry. And he may well have said so, were he not interrupted by the tiniest chink of metal. A small sound. The first of many. The soldier to his left has broken her stance, ever so slightly, to shift a half-step away from him. He is too skilled not to realize the shaky grounds he now occupies.

The price to leave this room and see to the battle at hand is not a cold shoulder to a misguided apprentice. He must convince seventeen soldiers of the Skies - who know only that Zeus will punish those who break hospitality - to join him on the battlefield alongside the Crystal Knight. Both of whom may stand under a curse within the hour.

Dolce presses onward. Twenty-one ears bend to him. ”I can take him out of here, but I don’t know if I can save him. If you start as soon you reach the shuttle, you may be able to make your case to the Thunderer. Tell him you did not give the order, tell him the Crystal Knight could not have foreseen this possibility, give whatever you can to plead for mercy. But please, you must hurry!” And he must apply his full attention to the task. No soldier would risk Zeus’ wrath to let him waste even a second on hastily-scribbled orders. ”I will get him out of danger. And I’ll do what I can for the battle below. By the time the Architect comes in force, the way will be clear. I promise you.”

With gravity tumbling to pieces, in a ship falling sideways, in the arms of an unlucky and scared soldier, 20022 thinks. Considers, carefully, how blameless he would be should the Crystal Knight fail, and the worthy credit he would claim should she succeed. “Perhaps.” Calm. Diplomatic. Unhurried. “But don’t you have your own propitiation to make? Was it not your charge as much as mine? Why do you think you would be spared Zeus’ wrath?”

Dolce bows his head. When he rises, there is no lightning left in those eyes. When he speaks, shame breaks a voice that fear and adrenaline could not.

”Because you are a member of the Service, aid to the Sector Governor, and I have been your humble guest.”

[Rolling to Talk Sense, with Wisdom: 6 + 3 + 3 = 12]

Breathless Dead

The Royal Architect twitches, and his plastic body whines like a wounded dog.

Soldiers lower their weapons from menacing an empty chair. Dolce gets his arms under the robot’s head, his sleeves rolled to the shoulder, and lifts with all his might. Dead weight would have been easier. The Architect writhes and squirms, unconsciously fighting to escape the grasp of his rescuer. Dolce gives another heave, but it is as useless as the first. “Come on!” He looks to 20022, pleading. “Three less soldiers won’t make a difference, but they could get him to the heart of the station in time. We can’t-”

The Architect spasms in a violent burst of motion and light. He shakes and sparks in Dolce’s arms. A hand catches him square on the chin. He does not cry out. He does not loosen his grip. And when the storm passes, his hand gently pats the smooth, artificial frame. Through the stars swimming in his vision, through the ache in his jaw, he meets the eyes of his friend.

“Please. We can’t just leave him to die like this.”

Breathless Dead

“I have learned, firsthand, the necessity of preventing the galaxy from splintering into pockets of incomplete machinery and self-sustaining suffering. I’ve also learned that, if you want to hold the galaxy together, you have to have an alternative in place. You have to save the galaxy to something, for something.”

“Sir, what are you making?”

“How is it going to overcome the curse of war and destruction?”

“And. For all your centuries of work, who are you building it for?”

It is a small speech, thrown together in the heat of the moment, but forged earnestly. To all the wishes of this day, he adds one more: That it be sharp enough to draw name or dream from the Royal Architect, and not vague, impersonal theory.

What manner of heart beats in his chest?

[Keep Them Busy: 1 + 4 + 0 = 5]