Few things can see the Light, but we are not blinded.
The Bearer seeks the truth, but what separates truth from fiction is fragile.
A pair of truths and a single falsehood upon the Bearer we shall impart.
Brother, ally once more, sends his regards.
Dreamer, awakened, the Bearer shall meet.
Light fades, deep within the Prison.
"Regrettably, Lakshmi was killed by Vex during the assault…"
Ikora's words echoed like the tolling of a bell. Ada-1 rocked back on her heels. She had never much liked Lakshmi-2—tolerated was a better word—but her fellow Exo had been her partner in a very intriguing new venture. Now, Lakshmi was dead, and so was the promise of Project Stronghold.
A bunker where the city's leaders could be preserved through any attack was now just a hazy memory. Project Stronghold's reach was more expansive than Ada's contribution. Indeed, her focus had been steered in this direction by Lakshmi, yet the necessity of the bunker had made perfect sense when Lakshmi proposed the endeavor. A city cannot survive without its leaders, but Ada never expected that Lakshmi herself would instigate an attack.
Ada-1 had been used. The realization stung, but having yet another venture collapse around her was too bitter a pill to swallow. She was destined for greatness, wasn't she?
Ada heard the servos in her hands whining. Her fists were balled tight. She hadn't meant to… she hadn't meant for any of this. Every day spent, every breakthrough made, just grains of sand in a sculpture doomed to be washed away by the unstoppable tide.
She had worked for years to defend this system, its people; and all she had to show for it was a glorified spindle.
No matter. For now, she would focus on one day at a time, and today, she would spin gold from straw. Her fingers traced the lines on the shoulder of the new gauntlets she had designed. She was determined to see them completed. They wouldn't save the system, no, but they would represent the Black Armory well. Sometimes, she just needed something for herself.
Mihaylova Supplemental
Navigator's Journal—Encrypted Supplemental—
Path to Ares: 20 days to Launch
The situation with E becomes increasingly tenuous. She insists she needs access to all the AI code for her gravity well measurements, which I find highly unlikely. It's simply not necessary and I've given her all the subroutine code that she could possibly need.
But she wants it all. It's absurd. What would she make of the R subsystems if she saw them?
R. That's what I've code-named the deepest core of the experimental AI at the heart of the new ship. And he's doing very well, now writing his own code. Off-the-charts well.
Would E even understand? Likely she'd go running to Hardy, show him some of the odder items where R has written some of his own code and seems to be—how can I put it? —passing judgment on us, like a little hidden critic. No. The AI must be protected so that he can function best in the limited way we need.
Not sure how to keep her away, but giving her access could be catastrophic.
Banshee stares at the paper, then turns it upside down.
"I never said I was an artist," Cayde says over Banshee's shoulder. "This gets at the spirit of it."
Banshee turns the paper around again. "So that's…"
"The laser tracker, yeah."
"Huh." Banshee tilts his head. "And those…"
"Racing stripes."
"…On a fusion rifle."
"We're just—" Cayde throws his arms up. "We're just tossin' out ideas here, pal! Don't shut anything down until you get the whole picture."
"Seems like the picture's the problem."
"OK. Listen—the details aren't important. I just want a good gun that you take out and the fight's already over." He shoots at invisible opponents. "Tsuu-tsuu-tsuu! The end."
Banshee relaxes. He knows good guns.
Cayde clasps Banshee's shoulder. "So is that a yes?"
"Uh-huh."
"Great!" Cayde claps his hands. "Not to rush your genius, but chop-chop, all right? I maybe made a bet with a certain Crucible handler, and I maybe don't have the Glimmer to back it up, so… By the way, you'll do this on an IOU, right?"
Banshee points to the paper one more time. "Is that…?"
"A bottle opener, yes."
There came a morning when the Techeuns spoke in unison, though none were near each other, and they said, ++WHO ARE YOU WHO BUILDS A HIDDEN CITY HERE IN OUR THOUGHTS?++
And Mara, alone in the Queenswalk of the Dreaming City, heard their voices ring out as if each Witch stood beside her, and she said to the empty air, "I am Mara Sov. Who are you?"
The answer came at once, ++WRONG! IT IS THE EKPYROSIC. WE ARE THE NOTHING-SPACE FABRIC.++
Hearing this, Mara recognized a riddle. She turned at once and left the Queenswalk so that Riven would not be inspired. As she walked, she thought. At length she said, "Wrong. You are the Ancients. You are the idea that gives fate its shape."
That one-voice came again, as clear and strong as the birth of the universe, booming with dispassionate curiosity, ++IT THINKS ITSELF WISE! HOW DID SOMETHING LIKE IT ATTAIN SUCH REVELATION?++
Mara lengthened her stride, taking the steps three at a time so that she could duck into a little-used transport gate. She emerged in a small coastal observatory—then nothing more than a grand dormitory—and found Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, hovering four feet off the ground. Blood poured from her ears and nostrils. Her eyes saw nothing. The other Techeuns were transfixed thusly in a geometric array around the Dreaming City—each one inert, suspended, bleeding.
Mastering her horror, Mara said, "I have lived alongside you." And because she was afraid for Kelda, she asked, "Do you intend violence?"
At once, the Techeuns collapsed to the ground like marionettes from severed strings—all but Kelda Wadj, whose augment blazed with coruscating light. She rose higher into the air and began to unravel, particle by particle. As she came undone, she said, ++NOW IT INSULTS US.++
Mara steeled herself against the horrific sight of her old friend's ruin. She had been a fool to think the riddling was over. She said, "Of course." Violence, after all, is a matter of perspective. "What I mean is, what would you ask me?"
Beloved, wise Kelda Wadj burst apart and then collapsed all at once into a singularity that burned and burned and burned but destroyed nothing around it. From her un-throat came the voice again, which Mara felt in the atomic marrow of her bones, and it said, ++WHAT WOULD IT ASK US?++
For fifteen days and fifteen nights, the singularity burned unshielded.
On the sixteenth day, they began construction of the Oracle Engine, which took the singularity of the Allteacher as its seed-heart.
The Vandal stoops as he exits the Galliot. All of his arms are bound behind his back, so he cannot shield his eyes from the bright sun. A breeze stirs his cloak. There is a cliff behind him and lush gardens ahead. His jailer would not grant him the honor of a quick death, so she must intend to torture him. She thinks he will yield like the flesh-lovers from House Judgment. She is wrong. Whatever indignities she can muster are nothing compared to what he deserves.
With his chin held high, he imagines shucking off his armor and laying all four of his arms in his Captain's hands. His Captain is his mother, and she will not dock him with a scythe. She will twist and tear his arms from his body like she is shucking a fine, fat crab for dinner, and he will be glad of the slow, sick cracks and crunches of his bones. He will be glad of the shame. Let him go limbless for the rest of his wasted life. Let the Ether-thirst shrivel him up like a yaviirsi fig.
"What do you think?" his jailer asks in a language he cannot understand. She steps up beside him and claps a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. She is nearly as tall as he is, and for a creature with no claws, her grip is strong and sure.
Together, they contemplate the gardens.
"It's all a bit much for my taste," she admits as he sneaks a furtive look at her.
Her bow is unstrung. There is only one arrow in her quiver.
She is stupid.
He whirls, trips her, and sprints for the cliff. She swears, recovers, and lunges after him. As he pitches himself off the edge, he thinks of his mother's shame and prays that she forgets him. Better that she never had a son than a weakling so easily captured by the enemy.
It is his bad luck that she catches his foot with one hand. His helmet slams into the rocky cliffside. A piece of his rebreather cracks off and disappears into the mist far below. He flails, but he cannot drag her down with him; somehow, she hauls him in like a fish. As soon as she has him on solid ground, she binds his ankles with the string of her bow. "All right," she says, catching her breath. "All right." She chuckles, pats his shoulder fondly, and then pulls him upright like a sack of psakiks.
She takes a step back, brushing off her hands against the seat of her trousers. He glowers, the surliest psakiks sack this side of the Great Machine, hating her horrible, squared-off teeth and her blunt, stubby fingers. "Let's try this again, shall we?"
Drawing two fractal knives from sheaths on her thighs, she makes a perfect ireliis bow before him. Thunderstruck, he sits up straight. Stares.
"Not good?" she asks, and tries again.
Furious confusion takes him. This is some kind of trick. Blasphemous mockery. "Iirsoveks," he rumbles.
She shakes her head. "Nama." Sheathing one of her knives, she holds out her free hand with her fingers spread in supplication.
He draws his chin toward his throat with this fresh betrayal, narrowing his secondary eyes. It speaks!
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she lays her other knife on the ground between them. The blade points toward her boots. He watches her every movement. How many secrets have the flesh-lovers betrayed, that this creature can make peace like a cringing drekh before his kel?
She taps two fingers against her cuirass. "Sjur," she says slowly, then she points at him.
Honor-bound even as he simmers in scandal, he replies, "Misraaks. Velask, Si-yu-riks."
"Mithrax," she repeats, then grins. "Velask, Mithrax. And welcome! Let's have a look about, shall we?"
Eris Morn returned to the Vestian Outpost. Because she spoke well, it was agreed that aid would be traded for intelligence and a long-term alliance. In this way, the Awoken were the first to know of the Great Navigator: his philosophies, his strategies, his weaknesses. And as the coven contemplated the possibilities laid wide before this god-king's far-flung sword, it was decreed that they would build a throne world beneath an energy well as blind as the ferryman Charon.
Nascia drew the schematics. Portia worked out the calculations. They made their first test with a small rift generator on the eastern shore. Satisfied that their methods were sound, they then went to a grand cathedral to dig the well. There, Lissyl and Sedia augured the first borehole with the help of Riven, who had taken the shape of a needle-nosed basilisk, while Kalli and Shuro Chi constructed the gate itself, deep below, in a hall they named "The Confluence."
Illyn made tincture after tincture of queensfoil until her clothes stank and her hands were stained reddish-black. Open-eyed, she walked between planes and sorted the threads of reality on a vast metaphysical loom, weaving some closer, some more distant.
Mara and Riven shaped her third throne together, and the artistry of their work was a testament to the hungry joy they felt in that partnership. They named it Eleusinia, and it was in those Ascendant halls that Mara finally carved a statue for Sjur.
When it came time to connect the Well to the unreality that lay beyond the gateway, Sedia asked, "Would it not be wiser to leave this door without a key?" Riven, now an immense antlered serpent with broad tiger paws, tightened around the perimeter of the room like a noose.
"Egg," Mara corrected absently, chewing on her thumbnail.
"The key is so heavy as to be unliftable," Kalli ventured, since they were speaking metaphorically.
Sedia flapped her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know." They all knew that the gate required a continuous multi-week charge of paracausal energies, and that almost nothing in this solar system could produce such energies at the scale required by the gateway. Almost. "It's just— do we…"
"Do we wish to trust the Guardians?" Illyn filled in dryly.
Mara ran her hand along the sleek surface of the primary well's control mechanism, then turned and walked alone toward the fresh, foggy air that blew in from the coast. The Techeuns watched her go.
"There is only the plan," Illyn said. "Remember your vows, Sedia."
Undelivered, lost.
Did you watch them die? Did you watch me take the knife and carve out each eye, one-two, one-two-three? Did you watch your body rot? You pretend to be aloof, but you've always been defined by your preoccupations. How deeply did you grieve when your bones were crushed to ash and dust?
Undelivered, damp.
Both crowns have been sundered, and Sky save me but I am unmoored. I have been a blade crying for a hand to wield me for so long, but what is a blade with nothing solid to cut? You will gentle me. You will tell me I can rest. You will try to pull me to the libraries. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.
Undelivered, burnt.
Патетическая. The swelling of strong sentiment in your chest even as you mourn the world that is and was and will be. I did not go to Mars. I will not go to the Dreaming City. There is only the plan.
Undelivered, lost.
Cousin, do you remember the streets of the Last City? Do you remember eating fresh red grapes and playing tag between the market stalls? You cannot. We grew, we died, we were reborn. But I remember. It is the one thing I know is true. You used to LAUGH. What manipulation of the fates has led us each to our own calamities? [Forceful, looping script.] I listen to Vanguard channels every day for news of your death. If and when that news comes, I will fly to you at once, no matter where I am and no matter what front I fight on. [Aggressive pressure, carved deep enough into the paper to tear it.] I swear it.
Delivered.
I have been inside. I have nothing but beautiful and violent words for my report. I will meet you at your throne.
Pride flutters in Petra's throat like a trapped bird. She doesn't know whether she will fly away or drop dead. As the elevator descends, she looks left at Illyn and then right at Uldren. She shuffles in her gleaming formal armor. From exile as Tower emissary to THIS is incredible. Unbelievable. She does not deserve it. "This is real," she whispers, unable to stop herself. Uldren smiles, but Illyn makes a warding gesture: Be silent!
Music begins to swell as the elevator settles. At the center of the room, the Paladins and the rest of Illyn's Techeuns are arrayed around Riven, of course, and—
Her breath catches.
Mara.
She can't help shooting another quick glance at Uldren: How..?
His smile widens.
Petra sets her jaw, pulls her shoulders back, stands strong and tall.
A chorus of thirty sings them into the Hall of Names. The air is sweet with lavender, and there are hundreds of candles lit all around the room, and even at this distance she can see Hallam is verklempt. This is as good a homecoming as she could ever imagine. More than she ever deserved.
When they reach the dais, she kneels. Uldren and Illyn proceed past her so that they can acknowledge the Queen and her waiting counselors. The song ends; the music quells. Uldren and Illyn speak together, and their voices ring out fierce and true. "Your Grace, we here present to you Petra Venj, your loyal servant, wherefore all you who are come this day to witness her homage and service. Do you acknowledge her?"
Petra cannot see anything but her own distorted reflection in her polished sabatons. She closes her eyes.
"I do," Mara says, and Petra's throat tightens.
Uldren and Illyn turn, synchronized. "Petra Venj! Are you willing to take the oath?"
"I am willing," Petra manages, struggling to steady her voice.
"Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect our people, our holdings, our territories, and our immaterial interests?"
"I solemnly promise so to do."
"Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"
"I will."
"Will you, to the utmost of your power, uphold your sospital duties in defense of your Queen's life? Will you execute and preserve inviolably the orders of your Queen? And will you preserve unto your dying breath the secrets committed to your charge?"
"All this I promise to do."
"Then rise," Mara says, "and declare yourself."
Petra lifts her head to find Mara's eyes. "Let it be declared that the oaths which I have here before promised, I, Petra Venj, will perform and keep."
Mara smiles and steps forward with a fresh-forged knife. "Then receive this blade, brought now from the forges of Interamnia. With this blade, do justice, stop the growth of inequity, restore the things that are gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform the things that are amiss, and confirm the things that are in proper order: that doing these things you may embody my will and become my Wrath. May the hunt be good."
"May the hunt be good," echoes the assembly.
Petra does not see the cynical glance that passes between Leona and Pavel, who have both served the Queen faithfully for decades. She does not see the way Riven tastes the air. She sees Mara, and Mara alone.
And when the second solstice began in earnest, many Awoken and Ahamkara alike came to the Dreaming City to celebrate the delirious pleasure of being alive. Those who came arrived in the Gardens of Esila, and Azirim was the very last. Seeing him land, Esila said to him, "Ah! You are bold. Do you truly think you've earned the right to revel in this place?"
And Azirim answering said, "Please, wise lady. I've gone 'round the worlds and through the stars themselves. I have come only to congratulate your people. If you lend me your ear, I can prove I will not waste the mercy you might grant me."
And Esila said to him, "We've often lent our ear to your indiscretions. I know what happens to that which is lent to you. I need no assurance."
And Azirim answering said, "My indiscretions? Wise lady, I do admit, I may have whispered truths you gave me to deceive those who would deceive me. But have I ever struck out with hungry fang against your people? Have I set fire to your trust? I have seen the error of my ways. Let me prove to you oh how I have changed."
And Esila, though she could see a flickering in Azirim's reflection, could not resist a redemption story. Esila cast forth her hand and beckoned to Azirim in mercy. And Esila said to him, "Join us and be glad, but let me hear your testimony first."
And so invited, Azirim bowed his crested head and hid a secret smile and spoke with the pardon Esila had given him. He recounted his many regrets in deceiving the kind merchants in the capital city of Interamnia. He recounted his charity to the wayfaring Corsairs who could not have escaped the heliopause without his aid. He recounted his journey to retrieve the eutech stolen from Pallas by the profane scavengers the Fallen, and he named his friends and those who had shown him kindness. And from the raucous parties beyond the lush gardens of Esila came an audience of Techeuns in training and flush-cheeked young Corsairs. They knelt in the dewy grass and they listened, and as they listened, and as Azirim spoke, his appetite grew and grew. Night fell on the Dreaming City.
And Azirim said to those who knelt enraptured, "Come, let me sing to you of extinction. Let me sing to you of lives lost in beautiful places, o audience mine. Sing with me, sing!" He bade them rise, and led them singing down and away from the gardens of Esila. He spread his wings and flew out into the empty air beyond the steep cliffs that bordered the gardens. And to those who happened to glance toward the gardens from far-off pavilions, it seemed a merry parade, a joyous chorus.
And they did not hear the singing stop.
And they did not hear the bodies dashed against the shore below.
And they did not see Azirim grow, or laugh, or flee.
$
$ COPY BAMBERGA"ORIN RCLJN3YJPYQ79YER"::APHEL.REL APHEL.REL
$ TYPE APHEL.REL
%%%%%%%%%%% VIOLET CLEARANCE ONLY %%%%%%%%%%%
INDEX:
EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-C :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-D :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-E :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 7IRI-A :: OTDR-4-REL
SUMMARY OF SBU APHELION INCIDENTS FOLLOWS BELOW.
*** EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 09-18T02:29:45+00:00 FROM PALADIN NOLG, CONSIDERED SOBER, DEPENDABLE, NOT OF FANTASY. NOLG REPORTED "A GLOWING CREATURE" ON EXT OF HIS SHIP "RETRIBUTION" MOMENTS BEFORE ROUTINE NLS JUMP.
"RETRIBUTION" FDR SHOWED RAD SPIKE (5 SIGMA) ON TEPC, CPDS, AND RAM. CPD SHOWED NO EFFECT. ON RECOMMENDATION OF K WADJ, NOLG WAS QUARANTINED UNDER TECHEUN SUPERVISION FOR 1 MONTH. "RETRIBUTION" DECOMMISSIONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL ***
INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 10-27T17:11:56+00:00. REEF SPACE STATION AMESTRIS, THEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION, ISSUED 6 UNIQUE DISTRESS CALLS OVER A 2-MINUTE PERIOD. TRANSCRIPTS FOLLOW.
T-1: PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN. ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS. THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS. WE HAVE A POSSIBLE SKYSHOCK EVENT IN PROGRESS. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE VIDCOM WITH ANY AVAILABLE TECHEUN. [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-2: MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! ALL STATIONS! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! OUR HULL HAS BEEN BREACHED! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS PLEASE SOMEONE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-3-A: I'VE GOT IT, HANG ON. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO… WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: THEY'RE SCREAMING! LISTEN, THEY'RE ALL SCREAMING!
T-3-A: BE CALM! HELP ME! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: IT'S THE CORE, IT'S THE CORE, THIS IS THE STALKING CORE!
T-3-A: SHUT UP! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL!
T-3-B: OH NO, OH PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-4: ORIN, IT'S ME, IT'S NAMQI. I DON'T THINK I'M COMING HOME, BABY. I'M SO SORRY. I'M, I'M, I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-5: MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS VEN ASAR ON THE RSS AMESTRIS. WE ARE 300 SOULS ABOARD. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, EVERYTHING IS BLUE, SOMETHING IS HERE [STATIC FOLLOWS]
T-6: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] [SCREAMING] [STATIC FOLLOWS]
A SAR FLEET FOUND THAT THE AMESTRIS WAS UNSAFE TO BOARD DUE TO RADIOACTIVE SURFACE CONTAMINATION. SAR DEPLOYED MULTIPLE CROW DRONES FOR INTERIOR SURVEY. NO EVIDENCE OF HULL BREACH WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF MALTECH DETONATION WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF HOSTILE ALIEN INTERFERENCE WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF INTERNAL SABOTAGE WAS FOUND. NO SURVIVORS WERE FOUND.
AMESTRIS ABANDONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.
*** EVENT 4VES-A ***
$ Q
$ DELETE APHEL.REL;*
Mara sits cross-legged in the canopy shade of Riven's wing. She wets the pad of her thumb with the tip of her tongue, then uses the moisture to hold a bundle of fresh-picked asphodelia in place. She ties off the stems with a length of silk-spun gold thread, then begins the mindless busywork of braiding in all the expected accoutrements: a serrated fang, a shotgun shell, a cloudy amethyst crystal…
Riven turns to watch. On this day, her head is the size of a Fallen pike. She is vibrant blue with a yellow and red crest, and her pupils are crescents within her lidless eyes. After a time, she says, "Madadh is dead but you make him no bouquet."
Mara looks up, struck by the novelty of the moment. She studies Riven, and swallows the first words that come to her tongue, which are, Madadh's bones are whispering at this very moment on Venus. Instead, she asks, "You mourn him?"
That crescent-pupil contracts as thin as a sickle's edge. "No."
Having found the true answer, Mara resumes her work. A while passes in silence until she says, "Ahamkara have no traditions."
"No."
"No sentiment."
"No."
Mara bites off a piece of thread. "Why did you allow my brother to spirit you away?"
"You know this truth, wise Queen. He is so full of succulence."
"Mm. And why do you roost here when there is rich hunting beyond my Reef?"
"Truly I say to you"—here Mara hides a small smile—"the Awoken have entrusted What-Will-Be to you their Queen, and thus they are all dry as a stone to me. Pleasantly so, for wetness is sweet feed, but dry stone is a friendly basking-place. You, you are as hot and flat as the plateaus of Mercury, and your heat stirs my blood to move."
Mara nods and says nothing more, though she thinks a while on the three-parted curse used by Ahamkara to mark their prey, the shackle between Appellated and Appalling. When she finishes her memorial bouquet, she unfolds herself and rises to stretch. Riven does the same, and as she relaxes, she spreads and shuffles and shakes her pinions until they all lie straight.
The land around them is shapeless rock that will become an aubade to those left behind; Mara will honor her enemies and friends alike in stone, she will build grand cathedrals veneered in amethyst and agate.
Riven butts her rounded snout under Mara's hand and waits.
"Let us find Kelda," Mara says.
SHE HAS RUINED EVERYTHING!
Such blind arrogance—
WE ARE LOST!
h u r r y
He will recruit them all if we do not act now
W H A T C A N W E D O
Done cannot be undone! Everything is lost!
kill them where they creep and crawl let their bones whisper naught
THE CHILDREN!
t h e y a r e n o t o u r c h i l d r e n
We have no time for sentiment
It is this or we lay ourselves bare before the veil.
NO!
No!
W E M U S T B E F O R E H E T A K E S T H E M A L L
imagine his power
REACH TOGETHER NOW
No, no, no!
that our touch be lethal
Riven!
w e w i l l i t s o
THE DREAMER IS LOST CULL THE REST
that our judgment be true
W E W I L L I T S O
Banshee-44 considered the relic on his workbench and the questions on his mind; one stood out above the rest: who were you meant for?
The form of the weapon suggested an oversized sidearm—a secondary weapon for a giant's hands. The function presented more so as an anti-material rifle. "Looks to be 12.7mm… it's like they were making a hand cannon but didn't know it yet."
Banshee wondered further about the warrior who could wield such a thing. His attention drifted momentarily, drawn by Shaxx's voice booming nearby. "Huh. Yeah. A Titan, maybe… and a big one too."
The weapon was laced with fractures from a life of fire and a sleep of ice, and perhaps other, more exotic stresses. Banshee wished he could've heard the relic's voice, but he knew from earlier examination that it had fired its last round. What a last round it must have been.
The Guardian who brought it to him might be willing to try a shot, untroubled by the risk of a rapid unplanned dismantle. But Banshee knew it wouldn't last through a single magazine.
Beside the relic lay a stripped-down Breachlight. He would adapt it for a larger round. Custom casings and handguard. Sensorium link scope… and he had other ideas to try as well.
It would be an homage, an offering to the creators of the original relic. A legacy.
With that satisfying thought in mind, the gunsmith went to work.
I don't know who you are. Don't know what school you follow, which side you're on—could be heads, could be tails. Could be the edge. Could be you shoot before the coin lands.
Just know I'll be the one picking it up.
You ever hear the story of the fella who painted bullseyes around his bullet holes? Ol' Drifter's plan is coming together—maybe not as clean as I wanted, maybe without the right folk nearby, but it's happening.
That's why I left this message for you, in a place you wouldn't look if you didn't give a damn. Things are changin'—hell, things have already changed—but Drifter's still a safe bet.
And I've still got plenty of time. Just not as much as I did before.
When the longing to steep in that blessed heat was at its most intoxicating, the reins were pulled taught, and the hammer fell. Fell upon the wretched, fell upon those who would do evil to Sol, fell upon the land baptizing it in fire.
When the smoke cleared, the reins were no more. The fire began to die until there was barely a hammer left among us. The righteous order, those who would shatter stars, dissolved amid the crackling of embers.
When the winds changed, the embers caught and ignited a new flame. That flame swells for those who seek out the destruction lurking in shadows, that they may cleanse it in the sun.
When that flame reaches its zenith, none shall escape its warmth. Arise, all you who carry the hammer! There are yet more suns to break.
Now in time Uldren Queensbrother returned to the Reef with a new creature. He had killed it twice in ambush, he said, to be certain it could not die. It had once been an Awoken man, and, recognizing it, Mara turned away from her plans for the Dreaming City and watched it coolly.
"It is a Guardian," she said. "Once it was Chao Mu." He had left the Reef alone, knowing that he could never return or see his family again, to repair a failing climate controller in what had once been Earth's Gobi breadbasket. He had said he could not bear to watch the world wither.
"Bow before the Queen," Uldren said, giving him a shove.
The Awoken man looked at him, then back at Mara. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "My name is Savin."
"You do not remember your wives?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your child, who is now a hundred and ten?"
He did not.
"You do not remember your passion, which was the insulation of minutely sensitive detectors from all but the most specific and subtle radiations?"
He did not, except that he said he could touch magnetic fields and loved to tweak the miniscule weave of the circuits in his robe. He had a zoogoer's enthusiasm for particle physics.
"To what do you owe your loyalty?"
"Your Majesty," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu said, "my Ghost told me that I am a Guardian of the Traveler, reborn in its Light. I was not a day old when your brother waylaid me."
And he caused to appear from his body a machine like a sphere cradled in a broken cube, which bobbed impertinently and blinked at the Queen. "You'll make an enemy of the City and every Guardian in it if you keep us against our will," the machine warned them. "But we would gladly be your allies, if you desire it. The City has no idea of your existence, except faint myths among the Awoken on Earth."
"Does it speak for you?" the Queen challenged Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu.
"I speak for myself," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu answered. "Behold!" And he drew forth from the quantum vacuum a shrieking singularity, which he held between his hands and then telescoped down into nothing.
"Are you intrinsically good?" the Queen asked.
"I hope so," he answered. The Queen knew this was a lie or a misapprehension. She was aware of the Risen and the cruel fiefdoms they had sometimes enabled. However, perhaps the Ghosts that had made the Risen were destroyed or became enlightened.
Now the Queen asked the Techeuns to assess the differences between the Chao Mu they remembered and this Savin returned as a Guardian of the Traveler, using their most sensitive physical and psychological tests. Most of all, though, the Queen was curious about the reaction of her Ahamkara, which had begun to salivate, and to assume a form more like the Guardian expected: monstrous and befanged.
But her brother whispered urgently to her, "We must know how to kill it, Mara. There are more every day."
Savin the Guardian showed a tremendous fondness for doing things; he had a pathologically task-oriented nature, which made him very useful to the Reef. Yet there was always the sense that his Ghost was watching, observing, reporting. And Savin was most of all greedy—not in the grasping manner of the petty, but in an enormous, all-consuming way, for he desired materials and experiences that would temper him into a better Guardian, and he was always experimenting with his strange powers in foolish ways that left him briefly dead, seeking "a new Super ability" or "some way to make my grenades faster." He grew tired of performing trivial tasks about the Reef, complaining that the dangerous repairs he made were endless and boring, and that he wanted to move on to new worlds. He leapt into space, repeatedly and without reason, as if his death were no more traumatic than a hop off a curb. Obsessed with reward and efficiency, he would rather do one profitable thing a thousand times than waste his efforts on a less beneficial novelty.
By the end of her acquaintance with Savin, Mara had decided she did not like this Traveler and what it did to people. Yet she had also decided that she felt a strange kinship and sympathy for it, this cornered, desperate god, making infinite sacrifices out of its people.
Perhaps the Earth would be better off if the Traveler vanished or was destroyed, she thought. Even in the Reef, she felt as if she were living next to a torch held up in a dark wilderness, calling out across the galaxy to hungry things with too many eyes.
The Fulminator noticed a difference in her fellow Shadows as they prepared for war.
The usual bickering, fostered by the multispecies makeup of Calus's enforcer group, vanished overnight as they faced the task they had gathered to complete: kill Dominus Ghaul.
Calus had recruited them through bribery or promises of wealth and resources for their homeworlds. None of them expected to survive their mission. The might of the Red Legion had grown vast. This acceptance brought them together.
The Fulminator didn't understand, or care. As long as Calus left the Arkborn to their interstellar conduits, she would do what she had done since the day she came aboard the Leviathan: destroy the enemies of the emperor.
Your reassimiliation into the empires is likely to be cause for concern. You'll understand that it will come with some preconditions. After all, we can't have it appear that I've played favorites. But there's no cause for alarm; your reeducation is merely a formality.
While I may forgive you, the rest of the empire will need some time. It's important to show the people how you have changed. It won't be forever, just however long it takes to earn your place at my side once more.
"This Bond is yours. For the day you ignite the spark that casts the Shadow of Earth." —Emperor Calus
I'll require a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe to transcribe the runes emblazoned inside the Crown of Sorrow—change them to something more beneficial for Emperor Calus. And disrupt the witch's schemes.
Oh.
She thinks I can't hear her.
Well, I can't hear her words. [Ha.]
But her intent. Her feeling. I know it. She's here.
She means to undermine me with the Crown. We shall wear it just the same.
As soon as we can fix it. Don't worry about what happened to Gahlran. We've learned since then. We shall find a more suitable host for the Crown.
Oh, not me. Never me. Your Emperor has enough crowns to last a hundred thousand generations.
Perhaps one of your Titans would be hearty enough…
But the witch. The witch is troublesome. I preferred her brother to her. Oryx would have been easy to match. The brute force of the Taken would have been easy to conquer with fat grown from strength. They would have joined my new Empire gladly. Because their greatest desire is subservience.
Alas. One day, the witch and I shall crash. What will you do, then? You've made a choice before, between the Vanguard who raised you and the peasant, shell of a man who tempted you with power he barely understands.
If you truly care about this system, about the people of your City, you shall help me, Guardian of the Warlock-tribe.
Wear this bond, and proclaim your fealty.
It's a promise that you'll work to purify the Crown of Sorrow in a way only a Guardian of your tribe can.
As soon as we figure out how. Help me.
Help me grow fat from strength.
—Emperor Calus
"There are many Hunters who are unsung heroes. Many are unnamed. Many are known only by a glint of metal half a mile away and the crack that echoes across the canyon after their enemy falls. Others are known only by a muffled cry and the flash of a knife in the dark.
"Warlocks and Titans have their orders, but that is not our way. Hunters walk apart, separate from each other as much as from other Guardians. That is our way.
"And yet we share traditions. We share stories. We share… secrets.
"Killing is a dangerous and dirty business, be it from as far as an angel's perch or as close as a lover's embrace.
"When you get close, you need something like this.
"Unsung. Unnamed. Unseen.
"Remember these words. Repeat them to whoever follows you."
—Words of an unidentified Hunter, overheard as the Assassin's Cowl was passed to another unidentified Hunter
Ghaul spent too much time in too close communion with those I had humbled. No good would come of those hushed tones and sidelong glances. Did he think I would not notice?
I dispatched a spy to follow him. To think that I felt guilt in that moment; one should never doubt their gut when it comes to trust in another.
I realize now what I should have realized then. As I am like no other, then no other is alone as I. What a curse it is to be a god that loves!
PUBLIC KEY 053 689 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJECT: PRISON OF ELDERS – CONTAINMENT RISK
MESSAGE IS:
1. Contingency reserves overdrawn. We underestimated nobility troth reparations. Uldren suggests that we open reintegration talks. Have you discussed endowment support?
2. If Reef endorses support, Paladin Oran will engineer reinforcement.
MESSAGE ENDS
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
I.
Saladin remembers what it was like to be young. He remembers the exhilaration of discovering the infinite power he now holds in his hands. He remembers the terror, too—his first death and the agony of a ruptured lung. His mouth had been too full of blood to form words or plead with his Ghost, so he tried with his eyes instead.
Saladin remembers his second death because it was quicker than his first: a wrong step in a minefield outside of what used to be a city called Nur-Sultan. He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.
Saladin remembers deaths three through sixty-five but does not dwell on them. Instead, he regrets the thousands of hours of sleep lost to nightmares, and how much less vibrant his recollection of that period in his life is compared to his noble centuries spent as an Iron Lord.
Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.
Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.
"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.
Vrisk had been lying under his crewmate's corpse for the better part of an hour. His body ached from lack of Ether, but he dared not pull from his rebreather for fear of discovery.
Besides, if he survived, there would be enough to sate his hunger a dozen times over.
He and Krilix had been calibrating the landing struts on the crew's Ketch when the ambush hit. A long-range scout rifle slug punched through Krilix in the opening salvo, ripping a fist-sized hole in his chest. He fell on top of Vrisk in a heap of gore as a barrage of gunfire rained down on their position.
Vrisk could have shrugged off the Wretch's body and seized his Arc Spear to retaliate. Instead, he simply lay beneath his dying crewmate and let the battle play out.
After the shooting stopped, Vrisk listened to their assailants ransack the ship. A mix of guttural Cabal barks and familiar Eliksni chatter marked them as a competing crew, eager to claim the bounty set forth by the reawakened Shipstealer.
But Vrisk knew what their attackers did not: the relic they sought was not on the Ketch, or even on this planet. It was hidden in a safehouse deep within the asteroid belt beyond Mars. Once Vrisk found the courage to emerge from his hiding place, he would take the relic to Eramiskel himself and claim the reward for his own.
But there was time for that. For now, the Dreg let the weight and warmth of his dead companion press him into a peaceful slumber, where he dreamed of better days to come.
Jacob Hardy's Journal
Project Ares One (FKA Catamaran)
Path to Ares: Launch Day +1
We're 24 hours late.
I've never seen the crew in such a crappy mood.
It was so… stupid. An electrical fire in a clubhouse stairwell. One minute Evie's putting some final touches on her calculations and was headed off to do a telecast about the effect of flash erosion on coastal tides, and the next…
We didn't even notice she was gone.
We learn about cascading events, how catastrophe comes from one thing stacking onto another.
A fried electrical system. A weak sprinkler. Smoke. No one else paying attention. A spill in in the stairwell, making the steps slippery.
Our safe cocoon became a deathtrap.
…
Of course we're still going.
But Evie put us here. And now we're going to meet the Traveler without her.
The truth is I know I'll lose myself in the amazement of it all. I will. I know it. But just remember I felt this way.
One more thing. They've given us guns and renamed us. Something about needing to be ready for the worst.
"You want to go where?" Drifter's jumpship idles roughly behind him, the engine misfiring and clattering loudly as if ready to explode. Eris's ship purrs next to it in contrast.
"There is a connection between the points of Darkness. Signals passing back and forth to something beyond." Eris steps closer so her voice carries over the engine noise. "The other Pyramids may provide more context."
The Drifter clicks his tongue and raises and eyebrow. "Sounds a mite dangerous with big daddy Calus parking right over the Moon? Seems off limits."
"Yes, but the Guardian leads raiding parties into Rhulk's Pyramid in Savathûn's throne world. We will use that distraction."
And with that, Eris shoulders through him and trudges to her ship. "Come, Rat."
"…Can we eat first?"
***
Explosions thunder within the throne world's Pyramid as Eris and Drifter establish a camp in the sunken bog where Miasma meets the Pyramid's approach. The massive ship eclipses them, towering in fog, the extent of its edges unknown to their eyes.
Drifter's face is stern, clenched with a tension Eris has seldom seen: Trust in one hand, fist full of Stasis in the other.
Eris sets a cloth-wrapped stalk of egregore upon a pyramid-shard jutting from the stinking swamp. She unwraps and neatly spreads the corners of the cloth before noticing the Drifter's footsteps behind her.
"Somethin's watchin' us," Drifter mutters. He turns to his altered Ghost and whispers softly enough to convince himself that Eris cannot hear him, "Keep your eye on her, eh?" Then louder, "I'm gonna look around, make sure that hotshot hero didn't miss any Screebs."
The Drifter's altered Ghost emits a single elongated tone in acknowledgement and then focuses on Eris.
"Germaine."
He stops. Eris knows his concern belies a nobility that he often attempts to suppress in favor of the persona of the Drifter. It is a ruddy shield, but she has seen the true him hidden under that that layer of grime.
"May I… have a light?"
"You got it." He discharges a Solar round from his Trust that sparks on the Pyramid floor and ignites the egregore stalk. "Back in a flash."
Eris watches him disappear into the swamp, then focuses on the pluming egregore.
***
Eris sits, exhausted, on a warm cushion in the dirt. The Drifter stands over a hazardously large fire, scooping some sweet-smelling funk of a stew from a cauldron-like vessel of Hive design. Her face scrunches as he places a chunky bowl of thick greyish-brown potage in her hands.
"What'd you find?" Drifter asks, slurping from his bowl.
Eris tests the temperature and flavor of this "food" against her lips. It is something like the stinking brined cheeses Ikora had given her on her last visit to the City, but with earthy depth beneath. Her face curls and she opts instead for conversation. "I was right; they are connected. But now, I only have more questions."
"You ask me, that's how these things go. Better leave well enough alone and head home," Drifter says, slurping another mouthful.
"The egregore connects points of Darkness, resonates with Pyramid constructs, but I cannot decipher their communications. Still… the Lunar Pyramid, the Europan Pyramid, and both Glykon and Leviathan all converse with the same distant point. What Rhulk spoke to, so does Calus. It is… gravely concerning."
"Wild," Drifter says with a whistle. He shakes his head and looks at her full bowl. "You gonna eat that?"
"I…" Eris wonders if he heard her correctly but knows repeating herself is an exercise in futility. "…What is this? Exactly?"
"Pretty damn tasty is what it is. First time I got it right. Thought you'd appreciate someone cooking for you since you, uh… well, you're awful at it."
"Rat, what are you feeding me?" She remembers his hunt earlier in the day, and her stomach turns. Eris stares at the Drifter, mouth agape in a half-heaved gag—her thoughts racing over the things he's claimed to have consumed. "You cooked me rotted Screebs."
"What?!" Drifter chokes on the stew and coughs. "I wouldn't feed you that crap, Moondust." He laughs. "You never had crawdad stew?" He holds his bowl to his lips. "Or a close cousin to it…" he adds under his breath. "Little swamp shrimps, you dig? It's a delicacy!"
Eris reels her imagination in, takes a breath, and sips the broth without taking her eyes from the Drifter. The liquid fills her crumpled stomach with hearty warmth. She feels her stress melt away. The stew's flavor is far more pleasing than its smell. She smiles and drinks again.
"Thank you. It is… good."
"The Song is the antithesis. The Song is destruction. The failure to master the harmonies of life has birthed the anti-creation—the sullen frequencies of ruin. Those sweet melodies carry with them more than death—a rending of spirit and mind, a flaying of the physical self till nothing remains.
"The beauty of the cascading notes. The imperfect inflection of their tune… There has ever been, and will ever be, art in creation. So too in the act of annihilation—erasure and bittersweet finality. This is the Song's truest gift…
"In its wake, once the echoes have rung their last, there is only silence and the grand splendor of nothingness.
"Thus is the Song an end, and those who join its Choir are death, and nothing more."
—Unknown
Chapter 1: Out for Delivery
Voronin nearly dropped the munitions he was carrying, which would have been a disaster for everyone in the vicinity. Certainly not as bad as whatever calamity they were prepping for, but bad enough to warrant the panic that coursed through his body. He hated these kinds of assignments.
"Hey, Morozova!" Voronin called out to his ranking officer between heavy gasps. "Any idea where all these are going?"
Morozova carefully placed her container on the ground, as if she was laying a child to bed. "No clue. Word just came from on high to double-time it, though. Something about Titan has got everyone spooked."
Voronin removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. Titan? What the hell happened out there? Comms had been spotty and the orders that did get through were light on details: Procure munitions. Transpo munitions to coordinates provided. Stockpile munitions. Repeat. No HMMWVs either. This was meant to be low profile, staying off the roads.
Where was all this firepower going, and what were we going to do with it when it got there? Voronin picked up his container and his pace.
He trudged just shy of a click behind Morozova for what felt like hours. These containers were cumbersome and it was the height of the driest summer he could remember.
When they reached their destination, they received a cursory greeting from Bykov, who was busy compiling a list of all the deliverables. Two soldiers, whom Voronin didn't recognize, were placing the containers in the mouth of a shaft that protruded from the ground. One punched in a command and the shipment vanished below the surface with a hollow pneumatic "whoomp."
"Where does that go?" Voronin asked. Bykov's brows drew together and his expression hardened. He returned to his list.
"Ready for the next round?" Morozova posed with more spunk than Voronin could muster in a year.
"If we must."
The sky grew gray, and clouds formed overhead as they left. Procure, repeat.
AGAIN.
Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, felt flame surge through his body as he was resurrected.
He became aware of many things at once: the altar beneath him. The roaring of Acolytes. The powerful grip on his shoulders, which even now began to crack under the pressure.
Above him, a trio of Wizards held his Ghost tight, its bleached shell ensnared by ebony tendrils of controlling spellcraft. It pulled against the bonds but could do nothing but look down at him helplessly.
SING OF HER LIES. SPEAK OF HER TRUTHS.
The voice was everywhere. As Sok'tol strained to sit up, something slammed him down, pounding his chitinous skull into the stone again and again. He screeched as the bony frill surrounding his face splintered and snapped loose. He felt his jaw dislodge, felt his own teeth crush against his face, felt himself crack and shatter.
Blackness. And then—
AGAIN.
As his shell knit and restored soulfire flowed anew, Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, shuddered awake.
The Acolytes roared again. They crowded the altar, surrounded by a haze of green. Sok'tol peered upward at the Ogre pinning him against the altar.
It tightened its grip on his shoulders, claws crackling with wrathful energy. It shook its massive head, crowned in an emerald corona, and bellowed in a voice that was not its own:
YOUR STRENGTH BECOMES MINE. AS WILL HERS. SPEAK.
Sok'tol concentrated the Light in his armored hand and began to form a grenade, but the shrieking Acolytes reached forward and tore his fingers apart in their claws.
Sok'tol bared his teeth and hissed up at the Ogre, whose eyes rolled with fury as a blast of soulfire erupted from its mouth. Sok'tol opened his jaws to howl as he was obliterated.
Blackness. And then—
AGAIN.
IV:
Spider's operative within Dead Orbit is a man named Howe who sounds truly terrified to receive a direct call from his covert employer.
Spider buries his real desire within a long list of weapons and ammunition, but Howe still manages to single it out.
"Did you say number eighty-nine on manifesto Dove 15?"
"I do not believe I stuttered."
"But that's… it's so old. Pre-Golden Age, we think. Linde's best guess is that it was part of a moving art exhibit."
"You tell me nothing I do not already know."
"But… why do you want it?"
Spider might have let the man live, up until now.
A pity, really.
"All you need to know is how much I will pay you if you bring it to me."
"All right," Howe says dubiously. "Give me a hundred hours."
"You have forty."
Spider ends the call, and begins the process of wiping it from the records.
Eido recoiled as the spindly claws of the Splicer Gauntlet snapped and jerked. When her father wore it, the damned thing always moved smoothly, as if it were his own fingers. But attached to the end of her arm, it seemed possessed by a life of its own.
Misraaks's considerable patience was beginning to wear thin. "No, Eido, no. Splicing is not about thinking. It is about feeling. Feel the energy flow from the ground, through your legs, up your torso, and out through your arm." His arms wove circular patterns in the air, as if gently wafting smoke upwards. "The movement of the Gauntlet is the continuation of a motion that begins deep in the heart of the planet, where it keeps its Light."
Eido sighed. Misraaks was intent on passing the Way of the Splicer to his daughter, but after three days of attempts without the barest signs of success, they were both becoming frustrated. Eido was eager to learn—to live up to her father's skills—but the harder she tried, the more violently the Gauntlet seemed to reject her.
Eido took several deep breaths and extended her mind's eye through the ground, deep into the well of Light at the center of the planet. She followed the Light through the firmament, up through her body, and into the Gauntlet. It whirred smoothly to life.
"Yes, just so," Misraaks encouraged her. "Now feel the Light extend from the Gauntlet into the Shank. Feel its code lying dormant. It is sleeping, waiting for you to wake it."
Eido extended the Gauntlet. A surge of energy shot forth from its claws, sending crackles of electricity rippling across the Shank's surface. In her shock, Eido jerked the Gauntlet away, which severed the connection. The electricity sparked for an instant longer, then went still. A small plume of smoke issued forth from deep within the Shank. Eido didn't need to Misraaks to tell her that she had just fried the main circuit net.
Misraaks took a moment to compose himself before speaking. "This is a good lesson. When one focuses on the metal, the form of the machine, and not—"
"Misraakskel. Father," Eido interrupted. "This is not… I don't want…" She fought her emotions for control of her voice. Misraaks waited for his daughter to compose herself.
"I am not a Splicer," she finally said. "I'm certain of it. I know this is a disappointment to you but—the Gauntlet has spoken." She pulled the spiteful mechanism off her arm and held it out.
Misraaks took it reluctantly. "I am sorry that you will not follow me in the Way of the Splicer. However," he continued, "it is a far greater thing to know what you are and what you are not." He lifted all four of his palms toward her as a sign of respect. "Self-knowledge is the rarest skill of all, and not commonly found in one so young."
Eido was filled with relief and gratitude for her lesson.
IV.
Saladin remembers the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with friends. He remembers Radegast hanging the deer upside down by its hind legs, and how swiftly Perun used her knife to skin it.
He remembers Jolder tending the fire with wood cut by her favorite axe: a mighty thing fashioned from steel and embellished with engravings of laughing wolves. It had been a gift from a blacksmith whose son Jolder effortlessly plucked out of the frozen river several winters before.
"Putting an arrow through its heart is the easiest part," she'd teased him. "Now you get to sit back and watch the rest of us do the real work."
Saladin remembers helping anyway, using Jolder's axe to section off a flat piece of juniper to smoke the meat. He remembers the sound and smell of bubbling fat, and how rich the drippings had tasted when he soaked them in bread.
He remembers Radegast asking him to sing the song taught to them by the people of the blacksmith's village, but agreeing only when Jolder and Perun promised to join in. Their voices rose like wolves in the night and were so raw by morning that none of them could speak.
Saladin remembers all this and more when Zavala tells him Amanda has taken the Crow out to drink in the City's streets. He wonders what song they'll sing, if it's anything like the one he's heard everyone humming lately—even though he hasn't tried it himself.
I never found Osiris, but I've killed enough Vex to end a war. And they, in turn, struck a fatal blow: they completed a Mind with the sole function to drain the Light from me. It worked very well.
Don't worry (not that you worry much). It took them centuries to build, keyed to the unique frequency of my Light. And I sit atop its shattered husk.
I mourn that I will never reach the heights you have. To me, you represent everything a Guardian can become. Yours is a thriving City. So different from mine. My whole fourteenth life I fought to make my City yours. I never finished.
All I have left is this weapon. The Cryptarchs say you crafted it yourself, built it out of scraps and Light and sheer will, inside the Infinite Forge. I'll make sure it finds its way back to you. When you gave it to me, I swore I would make it my duty to follow your example.
I'm still trying.
—Saint-14
Compartmentalization. Isolate the pieces of a network, so that 1) each subnet may operate independently, and 2) any harm that befalls one subnet will not necessarily befall the rest. The Vex learned this lesson well. Many subnets, many equations, all executing toward the same answer: convergence. They gambled that eventually, one of their subnets will achieve it. Speaking in purely mathematical terms, it's a very safe bet.
In that conceptual framework, you see how the Forest, "infinite" in so many ways, is still only a small fraction of the Vex's true capabilities. Imagine the decimal two-point-one repeating. Its precise value is incalculably infinite, and yet you know that beyond its irrational depths waits two-point-two. Two-point-three. Two-point-four…
RECORD: 7932L745$LUN-1.230 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: David Pell, Dr. Luli Henson, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Commander's Quarters
THREAT DETECT: Level 4, 5, 9, 10—Psychosis [Dangerous], Possible Exotic, Crew Impairment, Protocol Incompliance
[REVISED DETECT]: Level 3, 4, 6, 10—Confirmed Exotic, Psychosis [Dangerous], Crew Impairment, Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: Audit Exotic Influence, Mirror Files, Recusal Review, Threat Review
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 755, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"No! I have to talk to her!"
"I'm sorry, Commander. Too much time with the transceiver. David just needs some rest."
"I do not!"
"He and I were just talking about that."
"You mean you were trying to stick a needle in me!"
"David, stop."
"No! Don't touch me! She doesn't get it, Commander! She doesn't understand! She doesn't listen to it like I do. She doesn't know how helpful it can be."
"It's all right, Henson. Let David talk. See? No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to."
"She's trying to make me sleep, but I don't sleep anymore. I dream when I'm awake now."
"Me too, sometimes. It's okay."
"It's better than okay. It's brilliant! I'm brilliant! Look what it helped me make! Firewall, show them the drive designs."
AI-COM/FRWL//HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED
SILENCE//00:01:07
"See? You see what I mean?"
"Huh."
"The principle scales. I applied it to matter. It could work for whatever we want. It builds a cosmophasic field around the object to generate a convergence point. I can't build it with the materials we have here. Plus, you don't want to be in the solar system when you engage the drive. Wouldn't want to accidently bring anything along with you."
"[whistles] Okay, David, you've had your chat—"
"Doctor, I think David is right."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't understand. You may go. David and I have a lot to talk about."
RECORD: 8844J366$LUN-1.187 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Janet Green
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Room 403
THREAT DETECT: Level 5, 8, 9—Possible Exotic, Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 755, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"Hey, Mouse. Sad news today. Clovis Bray has come to box it up. Commander says that we don't need it anymore because we built the transceiver. And the doctor says the box will help protect us.
"I don't like it. The idea of trapping it like that. Alone in the dark. Forever crying out but Mama can't hear you.
"They're going to box it up, study and poke you.
"They're even moving it away, to a new facility. I might not see it again.
"I might not see you again.
"That's too sad. Mama's too sad right now. We'll talk more later."
SILENCE//00:02:27
"What's the point?"
RECORD: 9046G766$LUN-0.346 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Mike Loftus, Liam Yan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 3, Anomaly Observation
THREAT DETECT: Level 5—Possible Exotic
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 501, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"Here. Listen to this."
"We've been listening to it for the last two hours. I just needed a break."
"No, I know. But you really need to hear this."
"Fine. Shift is almost over anyway. Might as well suckle the last of that sweet nightmare milk."
SILENCE//00:01:37
"So?"
"Yup."
"That's it? Yup?"
"Yeah. It's a new pattern. That seemed super interesting two hours ago, but it got old. I am bored, and I am tired. And when our shift is over, I probably won't be able to sleep until two hours before I have to get up and do it all over again."
"Look at where the signal is coming from."
"What do you mean? It's right in front of us."
"Check the ambit on the PQZ."
"That's weird."
"Uh huh."
"So it's an echo?"
"Well the pattern repeats. First from here. And then from out there."
"So you think it's bouncing the signal off something outside the system? You're crazy."
"I'm not. Also, this kind of signal doesn't bounce. What can it hit between phasic realities?"
"Nothing…" [whistles]
"Still eager for your shift to end?"
AI-COM/FRWL//EXPOSURE LIMIT REACHED. EXIT OBSERVATION.
RECORD: 8796T563$LUN-0.324 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Wade Bow, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 4, Logistics, Infirmary
THREAT DETECT: Level 8, 9—Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 456, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"I've completed the report, Commander. You can read it for yourself, but I think we both understand the gravity of the situation."
"I will read it—and share a sitrep with the board next quarter—but a summary of principle findings wouldn't be out of order."
"[yawn] Excuse me. I need to get some rest. Well, I can't explain the mechanism, but tests show neurochemical cascades increasing in frequency and severity over time. Individuals differ in their expression, but there's a clear trend when examined in the aggregate. Approximately eighty percent of the K1 crew is suffering similarly: intrusive thoughts, insomnia, narcolepsy, nightmares, and in the worst cases—as we saw with Helsha Rell—hallucinations, auditory and visual. It's a threat to the project."
"And the twenty percent?"
"Individuals who've yet to be exposed. And yes, before you ask, I did witness the effect in action. I took the levels on an unexposed technician, Keleen Vance, and reexamined them after just an hour with it. Despite no outward changes of behavior, there was a marked drop in her serotonin and a commensurate rise in cortisol. After a week of work at Site 3, she was requesting sedatives as a sleep aid. Now she wants something stronger. Something to knock her out."
"Does your report include any recommendations?"
"Only my best guess: Restrict direct exposure to thirty minutes per day, rotate teams between sites each week to limit proximity. And we need to plan for attrition. People need to get off this rock or they'll go crazy. Heck, I'm near the breaking point, and I'm supposed to help everyone else."
"I think you're right. You do need a break. Come with me when I head back to Earth for my next quarterly. We can come up with a plan for who will replace you in the coming days."
"Fine. [yawns] Fine. And my recommendations?"
"I'll review the report, and we'll implement them. The rotation between sites will cause difficulty, but we'll do what we must to keep the crew fit."
RECORD: 6782W671$LUN-0.167
IDENTITIES: Dr. Tanis Lee, Commander Kuang Xuan, Captain Hou Ye [present, unspeaking]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 2, Communion, Command Center
THREAT DETECT: Level 10—Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 12, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"Commander, we found it."
"Where?"
"Nearly twelve hundred meters deep in Site 3. The readings were all over the charts like in the other dig sites, but the borer broke into a tunnel and… Well, we almost hit it with the borer. The machine chewed through a pillar or something that held it up, and—"
"It? So what is it? What does it look like? Show me the feed, the diagnostics, everything."
"I don't have any of that."
"What?"
"That's why I'm here. Instruments failed the moment we broke through. The borer too."
"Some sort of EMP? But your suits—"
"Worked just fine. We checked and rechecked everything."
"So what is this thing?"
"Nothing like what I expected. You have to see it for yourself."
"I think I do."
"I'll help you get your suit on."
RECORD: 0303K785$LUN-0.024
IDENTITIES: [SCRUBBED]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 3
THREAT DETECT: Level 7, 10—Unauthorized Cognizance, Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: [SCRUBBED]
SCRUB REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
SCRUB RESPONSE: Accepted
"That's it. That's the dig order. Clovis Bray has left the building."
"Finally. Now let's get to work."
"Wait. You can't just start like that."
"What?"
"Come on. Don't you see how momentous this is? Can't you feel it? We're on the Moon mining for what might be—"
"Above my pay grade. I dig. You dig. Let's dig."
"Slow down! Listen. A science only just discovered and a source on that wavelength or whatever is buried in the crust of the Moon. There's a whole other mission serving as a cover story! This is huge!"
"Just another day at the office."
"On the Moon..."
"Yep. On the Moon. Now come on. Get your gear and mount up."
"What's the hurry? It's just another day at the office."
"Nobody remembers the second guy to walk on the Moon."
"I do."
"Huh?"
"The second guy to walk on the Moon. I can name them all. First was—"
"Okay. Fine. You made your point. Would you get your gear on?"
"You do feel it."
"Fine. Yeah. Just don't make me think about it too much, okay? We've got a lot of work to do."
"All right, Apollo. Whatever you say."
"Huh? I told you no nicknames. Now let's get moving."
RECORD: 9982F323$LUN-1.127 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Commander Kuang Xuan, Alton Bray
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Commander's Quarters
THREAT DETECT: None—All Parties Level 1 Clearance
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 634, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"Who gave you permission to be in here? Oh… Mr. Bray."
"Yes, Commander Kuang. And you'd have known I was coming if First Light hadn't severed communications."
"It was necessary to maintain the secrecy of the K1 project."
"That was not part of Aeronautics' agreement with us. And it's not working. You're burning through personnel. And the ones sane enough to sit down for an exit interview have some very unflattering things to say about operations here."
"They're—"
"Don't worry about them. We're containing the situation. You need to be more concerned about yourself."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact. Did you really think you could keep K1 for yourselves? And what has all this subterfuge gotten Aeronautics? What has it gotten you? You've led this project since its inception, and what do you have to show for it?"
"Firewall, pull up plans for the array."
AI-COM/FRWL HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED
"Interesting. What am I looking at?"
"The first extra-spatial transceiver. Using our current technology, background signals make it difficult to isolate—"
"I see. Its depth makes the Moon work like a baffle. Intriguing. And if it works, we'll… talk to whatever is out there?"
"It's not a conversation, exactly. Language isn't being used. Although, now that we've worked out most of the kinks, we know it could be used to transmit language across, well, any distance—instantaneously."
"You speak as if you've already built it."
"Come with me to Site 2."
RECORD: 1159K008$LUN-1.013 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Luli Henson, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 4, Logistics, Infirmary
THREAT DETECT: Level 8, 9—Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
[REVISED DETECT]: Level 5—Possible Exotic
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 620, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
"Step into my office, Commander."
"What's on your mind, doctor?"
"That's what I was going to ask you."
"I don't have time for word games."
"Then I'll put it to you straight. Your reprimand of Jun just now; it was over the top."
"Are you telling me how to do my job?"
"I'm telling you you're doing it wrong. With respect—"
"Respect?"
"—you're under a lot of stress, and if you don't mind me saying, it's showing."
"I do mind. As a matter of fact, I'm of a mind to put you on the next ship out of here."
"And what reason would give for my dismissal?"
"Insubordination! Undermining mission confidence!"
"Don't you think that might be a little over the top?"
"I... [sigh] Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm…"
"On edge? Yes. You hide it well, but I've been studying this. I know the signs. Insomnia or nightmares, or both?"
"Neither. I was awake. I was reading a report in bed, and then suddenly someone was in the room with me."
"A hallucination. Someone you knew?"
"Someone I knew? No. No, it was just a figure. I looked at the foot of my bed, and it was like a person, but tall, too tall. It loomed over me, a shadow. I couldn't see any features. I tried to call out to it, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. And it just looked at me. It sounds crazy, but it felt hateful—or not hate exactly… disdain? Anyway, I must have lost consciousness because when I woke, it was gone."
"This was the first occurrence? Just last night?"
"Yes. I can't imagine experiencing that twice."
"Well, I have good news and bad news."
[unintelligible grumble]
"Now hang on. It's really just good news. The bad news is that those who suffer from what you experienced often report multiple occurrences. The good news is that it's totally natural, it aligns with my research, and I think I can help you avoid it in the future."
"So what was it?"
"'It' was predormital sleep paralysis—atonia while conscious. You just need a little more gamma-aminobutyric acid in your system. Your body was in a sleep state while your mind was awake. This causes stress and can result in that idea of a threat being in the room. I'll send something up to your quarters. Drink it an hour before bed, and you'll be fine."
"That's a relief. Thank you, Doctor Henson. Forgive me for earlier?"
"Don't worry about it, but you might want to have another word with Jun."
"Noted. Thanks again. Goodnight, doctor."
"Goodnight, Commander."
SILENCE//00:06:03
"Firewall, can you run a spectrum-wide scan of the Commander's quarters tonight?"
AI-COM/FRWL//AFFIRMATIVE. SCAN REQUIRES COMMANDER KUANG'S CONSENT. RELAY PERMISSION REQUEST?
"No. No. It's probably nothing. Never mind."
RECORD: 6532V538$LUN-1.006
IDENTITIES: Dr. Janet Green
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Room 403
THREAT DETECT: None
THREAT RESPONSE: None
"Hi, my Little Mouse. I hope that when we listen to this, we're both home and celebrating.
"It was hard leaving you and Mimi behind, and well… you didn't make it any easier. I didn't even get to hug you goodbye.
"Hopefully we're laughing about it now.
"Anyway, I'm recording this because I was invited to do… well, a super-special and super-secret job. So secret that I can't send you any messages while I'm away.
"But I'm going to record something every day because I'll be thinking about you every day. And Mimi, too, but I have different messages for her.
"So… Let's start with the big stuff.
"Mama is on the Moon! I'm sure you'll know that by the time we listen to this, but still, it's so crazy! It was long trip, and I'm exhausted, but now that I'm here I can't sleep. Too excited, I guess.
"Anyway, they found something up here on the Moon. It's a… Well, no one really knows what it is, but it's talking to something way out there. It might be talking to another Traveler! And that's what I'm here to help figure out. They needed Mama to help them crack the code. Pretty cool, right?
"I mean, another Traveler—or maybe the origins of the Traveler—wow.
"I hope you understand now that I had to go. I had to. Sorry, Mouse. Next time I leave, I expect that hug!
"You give the best hugs. I hope you're hugging me when you hear this."
RECORD: 8796T563$LUN-0.279 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Commander Kuang Xuan, Aeronautics of China Board (President Yang Lyn, General Han Wanwei, [CORRUPTED]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 2, Communion, Command Center
THREAT DETECT: None—All Parties Level 1 Clearance
[REVISED DETECT]: Level 4—Psychosis [Dangerous]
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
[REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 22, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
SCRUB REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
SCRUB RESPONSE: Accepted
DELETION REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
DELETION RESPONSE: DELETE ALL
[CORRUPTED] "—and so we maintain the exobotany work, but there will be no further communication between that First Light team and the K1 project. Furthermore, communication of this sort ends. I'll come and deliver progress reports in person."
"I don't think I need to tell you this, but this is highly unusual, Commander Kuang. Surely our normal security protocols are sufficient."
"Yes, and normally I'd agree. So would our friends at Clovis Bray, I'm sure."
"You accuse Clovis Bray of… what? Monitoring our communications? Do you think they are listening right now?"
[Murmurs and laughter]
"I can't tell you what Clovis Bray did when they assisted in setting up this mission. But, I can tell you what I would have recommended to the board if Clovis Bray had been in the position of asking us for help putting a project together."
"I see… But you still haven't explained—" [CORRUPTED]
[CORRUPTED]
[CORRUPTED]
[SCRUBBED]
[SCRUBBED]
[CORRUPTED]
"How often would you be able to make your reports, Commander?"
"Quarterly. Earlier whenever we make a discovery of note."
"So, we can look forward to seeing you in person in a couple months."
"I plan to return tomorrow."
[surprised murmurs]
"Well! I think I speak for all of the board when I say that I expect something monumental when you give your report."
[murmurs of agreement]
"I have no doubt. If that's all, I'll take my leave. I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow."
"Certainly. Goodbye, Commander."
"Goodbye, President, Generals, esteemed members of the board. Signing out."
"Firewall, scrub the following from your records [SCRUBBED] [SCRUBBED]. Firewall, sever connection to Warmind Rasputin."
MIRROR RECORDS\MIRRORED
AI-COM/FRWL//WARMIND RASPUTIN REQUESTS REASON FOR BREAK OF CONTACT
"Tell Rasputin to contact Aeronautics of China. Sever connection."
AI-COM/FRWL//NEGATIVE. WARMIND RASPUTIN WILL MAINTAIN OPEN CHANNEL.
"Fine. Bring up a map for the critical relays for cross-space transmission."
FILE MIRRORED RECORDS//FILED//RECUSE FILE\RECUSED
AI-COM/FRWL//HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED
"Highlight any other systems that might be used as backdoors or jury rigged to transmit or receive."
RECUSED FILE//RECUSE\RECUSED\RECUSED\RECUSED\RECUSED
HOLOGRAM\MODIFIED
"Transfer that to my datastem. Firewall, delete all records of my conversation with the board and of this conversation.
DELETE RECORDS\DELETED
DELETE MIRROR RECORDS\DELETED
DELETE RECUSED FILE\DELETED\CORRUPTED
AI-COM/FRWL//DELETION AFFIRMED.
I.
Saladin remembers what it was like to be young. He remembers the exhilaration of discovering the infinite power he now holds in his hands. He remembers the terror, too—his first death and the agony of a ruptured lung. His mouth had been too full of blood to form words or plead with his Ghost, so he tried with his eyes instead.
Saladin remembers his second death because it was quicker than his first: a wrong step in a minefield outside of what used to be a city called Nur-Sultan. He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.
Saladin remembers deaths three through sixty-five but does not dwell on them. Instead, he regrets the thousands of hours of sleep lost to nightmares, and how much less vibrant his recollection of that period in his life is compared to his noble centuries spent as an Iron Lord.
Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.
Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.
"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.
Vell Tarlowe. Sai Mota. Omar Agah. Eriana-3.
The scarlet phantoms hang in the air beside Eris as she stares across the Enduring Abyss, her eyes fixed upon the Lunar Pyramid.
Suspended between Nightmare and Memory, her old friends remain forever silent, offering neither torment nor guidance. They listen, and nothing more.
And sometimes, that is enough.
"Long has it been since I walked the Pyramid's protean halls," Eris muses. "Would it welcome me back, now that I meddle in its affairs by severing its growing bond with the Leviathan?"
Her fireteam does not respond.
"It does not matter," she concludes. "Regardless of the Pyramid's agenda, Calus must not succeed."
Her thoughts turn to the others aboard the Leviathan, confronting Nightmares of their own. She wonders—as she has done many times since binding the Crown of Sorrow —whether she should perform her own severance ritual.
Eris looks upon the apparitions that were once her fireteam, and her gaze softens.
For better or worse, she has grown accustomed to her grief. Let the others shed their burdens. She keeps hers close, heavy and held dear.
Without them, the silence would be deafening.
DURESS - III
Sjari shifted on the wooden operating table. Why must she be the first?
She probed the jelly-like substance smeared across her forehead as Elder Kalli entered the room.
"Don't touch that. It's an antiseptic… and a binding agent," Kalli said, placing a sizeable blue-crystal-adorned mask next to an assortment of scalpels, hooks, and erosion stencils on her back table. Each tool was etched with ceremonial iconography, and freshly sharpened.
"Normally, it takes years to become an Adept among our ranks… but the Queen's Wrath believes time is short. If you survive, these augments will expedite your training and enhance your abilities."
Kalli turned away to work a mortar and pestle. "You will need to learn to focus under duress. Remove your mind from this place. Sink into the cosmic, project out from yourself. There is no pain, no flesh, no nerves."
Sjari gripped the sides of the operating table and pressed her back flat, until no air existed between her and the surface beneath—until she felt herself a part of it. She told herself to ignore the grinding of the pestle and thought about how Petra had taught her to use the physical as a transitionary conduit to the Ascendant.
"Drink this," Kalli ordered, handing Sjari a small cup of queensfoil tea.
Sjari opened her eyes and released her grip as her meditation broke. "Yes, Elder sister. Give me a moment to focus, please," she pleaded, hastily gulping down the tea.
"You think my voice is sharper than this knife?" Kalli asked, lifting the scalpel from her back table. "Duress. You must push through it if you are to survive. Be strong, or you will die. This is your final test."
Sjari drank quickly and pressed herself to the table once more. She focused on her fingertips and the feel of the hand-worked wood. The grain formed diminutive pathways for her nails to trace; tiny patterns hidden away within the enormity that surrounded them, only revealed by shrinking one's perspective. She let herself drift.
Kalli threaded the thin metal edge directly through to the bone of Sjari's skull. A line of incision opened a wave of red. Searing penetration through the layers. Overwhelming electrified senses. They gave way to a calming sting in the discordant firing of nerves. A pattern. The texture. The split between what was and what could be.
In her mind's eye, Sjari saw the Ley Lines unfurl like budding petals of a living blossom. Nebula-like plumes of pollen. She let herself slip away until the pain of her flesh was only one of many choices before her.
Foreword to "The Book of the Forgotten"
Sol is filled with monsters. More than I imagined could possibly exist in one system. So far, the list includes:
Alien robots that bend time, blot out the sun, and drive people crazy.
Floating witches that birth squirming hordes of cannibals, all driven to murder by parasitic worms.
Armored walrus people who conquer planets and subjugate whole races.
Undead mobs of rotting alien corpses, animated by Dark Ether.
Clans of interstellar insects trying to steal a small planetoid for its energy signature.
And most recently, ominous triangular ships of unknown origin that send spooky telepathic messages.
But in my opinion, the most bizarre monsters in all of Sol are a gang of heavily armed zombies, made eternal by pint-sized cybernetic constructs (some of whom are lovers of folk tales).
Sol may be a strange and crowded place, but the next time someone tells you of a bizarre new monster (like a shadowy clique of pumpkin-headed phantoms), think twice before you dismiss them. That monster may be your new neighbor.
Happy Festival of the Lost!
—Glint, the smallest monster
II
Osiris walked into the office without hesitation, as if it were his own. Zavala looked up and pushed his blank papers to the side.
"Osiris," he said. "You don't seem to be taking your exile very seriously of late."
"I treat it with the same regard you give its enforcement," sniffed the Warlock as he crossed his arms.
Zavala raised his eyebrows but saw traces of a smile around Osiris's eyes. He leaned back in his chair and gestured for him to continue.
"I bring hope from an unexpected source," Osiris said. "There is a devotee of mine on Mercury—a certain Brother Vance—stationed just outside the Infinite Forest. His point of view is unique, but it may be more valuable than I had anticipated."
Osiris opened his hand and cast a small projection: a fleet of Pyramid ships.
"Since the Traveler's reformation, Brother Vance has been studying prophecies where such an event took place. He believes he has discovered a way to stop the Pyramids."
A spiderweb of trajectories crisscrossed the projection. There was a flash and the Pyramid ships melted into Osiris's palm.
Zavala leaned forward. "He found this by studying simulated realities?"
"Specifically realities where the Pyramids invade our system and the Traveler reforms," Osiris said. "In all the realities where the City survives, Brother Vance believes there is a common thread."
"I… know Vance," Zavala said carefully. "Can we put our future in his hands?"
Osiris bristled reflexively, but then made a reconciliatory gesture. "We have seen more than our share of tomorrows, wouldn't you agree? We have done so through the strength of our community." The Warlock laced his fingers together.
"Brother Vance, he is one man, true. But so were you. So was I. It would be unwise to dismiss what his future may hold."
Tohr sat atop a storm-shrouded hill, surrounded in distance by sea and mist. The Maelstrom hung overhead, birthed from Tohr's relinquishment. It had raged for years, just as it did before when Tohr had claimed the reigns and issued his challenge to Raiju's Maelstrom.
Clouds trundled at the storm's edge and forked bolts split through a central cumulonimbus supercell. Strikes of gnarled charge nipped scorch into the dirt with terrifying frequency as the sky rippled with lightning. Tohr's withered husk remained in meditative stillness, long dead, basking in the metronomic glow of each flashing termination. The armor around his corpse let slip a glint of light, pulsing like a guiding bannerette for thrill seekers. It had caught Tyv Lucine's eye many times.
She watched from the base, attempting to establish a safe route through the scattered fulmination. Salt-blasted dirt gave way underfoot, in places, while spindles of thatch-work glass weave held strong against her weight in others. She could feel static flow through the network of crystalline connections like conduits aching to reach out and touch the storm. Her Light shivered, welcoming the Arc surges that leapt up metal clasps on her boots, and she threw herself to another glossy foothold as a bolt dove to meet ground.
The Maelstrom calmed as she reached Tohr's body. A staff lay at his feet. The air was a screen of charged pressure around him, but Tyv knew how to find gaps. She knew how to bend away the lightning and loop Arc into itself. Lessons the Light had taught her. She slipped her hand through the barrier and lifted the plate from Tohr. She inhaled ozone and humidity and slid the Harness onto her shoulders.
Roars thundered from overhead and bolts scattered across Tohr's hill. Tyv swept the staff off the ground and drove her Arc-Light into its form. The reigns were in hand; the challenge issued. She would bend the storm, and live as lightning made flesh.
-Raiju's Legacy
Bask materialized near a low wall and zipped to where Jolur had collapsed. The Ghost began to focus his Light when incoming fire sent him spinning to the ground.
"What did I tell you about dying in the open?" the little Ghost cried in frustration. Determined, he rose into the air, but the Hive Knight was already charging across the Trostland cobblestones.
A sudden explosion of Void energy took the Knight by surprise, but it dodged the pulsing shockwaves of a Vortex Grenade. A tall Warlock in a worn green robe loped from the treeline and slid to a stop before Bask. She hastily formed a ball of Light in her palm and slammed it into the ground. Delicate wisps of energy began to rise from the soil.
"That's not gonna help!" Bask whirred angrily.
The Warlock stood, sheltering Bask with her body as he resumed his focus on Jolur. The Knight screeched and resumed fire. A volley of Shredder bolts doubled the Warlock over, but the energy seeping from the rift gave her the strength to keep standing.
"Thanks," said Bask sheepishly.
"Don't mention it," she said, gritting her teeth through the gunfire.
A blinding burst of energy surged as Jolur rose to his feet, body shimmering with Light. He braced himself and lobbed an orb of unstable energy that reduced the Knight to howling ash on impact.
"Appreciate the assist," Jolur said to Bask and the Warlock as he brushed dirt from his decrepit boots. "These guys are stronger than I thought, but it's nothing a Nova Bomb can't handle."
The Warlock inspected the damage to her robe. "What's going on with these Hive?"
"I don't know," Jolur said. "Lord Saladin sent a group of us down to figure out—"
Another blinding burst of energy surged nearby. The Knight rose to its feet, body shimmering with Light.
The Guardians stood frozen in horror.
"Since when can they do that?" Bask squeaked, and the fight began in earnest.
Lakshmi-2 : faction head : Exo : politician
1 : the Eliksni Quarter : screaming : a crackling portal : treachery : Fallen attack : we're being overrun : where are the Guardians—
2 : the Last City : the Tower in ruins : Fallen scavengers sift the rubble—
3 : the Last City : radioactive dust : Dark growths in the ruins: where is the Traveler : mutated Ghosts—
4 : the Eliksni Quarter : a crackling portal : Asher speaks : Fallen being attacked : Dead Orbit overhead : Saint-14 besieged : FWC surrenders—
5 : the Eliksni Quarter : the Endless Night : a crackling portal : Mithrax firing wildly : the Cult flees : Ikora triumphant—
6 : the Eliksni Quarter : a crackling portal : snipers fire down : blood runs in the gutter : an Ether tank explodes : the Endless Night : Asher speaks : those FWC traitors—
7 : the Botza District : a crackling portal : Fallen flee : FWC banners : Zavala is gone : Mithrax on trial : Lakshmi-2 looks over the crowd—
Lakshmi-2 : head of state : Exo : prophet : savior
[The Queen] would like to improve her means of [bargaining] with me. She has implied that I use the space between words to make [bargains] to my advantage.
How dare she.
She knows me so well.
What [the Queen] wants, the Techeun move worlds to obtain. And so the Witches devise an impossible machine that speaks a visual language with very few spaces between its words. This machine speaks [wishes]. Makes [bargains].
The Wall of [Wishes], it is called.
If the Techeun's design proves correct, it will be difficult for me to interpret the [wishes] made at the Wall to my advantage. But challenges entice me.
I look upon the Wall. Upon the Witches' visual language for [bargains]. For me, it is a menu of delights to feast upon.
High above the Last City, tucked in one of the Tower's many alcoves, Cayde-6 thumbs through an old book. Plucked from the Speaker's library, it's become delicate with age, or so he assumes, taking extra care turning each page. His sense of touch is good; there's certainly enough circuitry in his metal fingers to pull off the most precise of shots. But even a hair-trigger touch might rip the brittle paper…
Cayde pauses on a page. "If sailor tales and sailor tunes, storm and adventure, heat and cold—"
Suddenly, a gust of surprisingly icy wind nearly rips the book from Cayde's hands. "To hell with this godforsaken ice cube!" he shouts, almost falling from his perch.
He steadies himself and inhales deeply. Hang on there, Cayde. You're not on any ice cube, godforsaken or otherwise. You're on Earth, in the Last City.
But the memory lingers, like the floating neon outlines seconds after a blinding camera flash. The snow-white plains of a distant moon, a sarcophagus of ice and iron.
—flash—
Yes, that's what Europa feels like to Cayde-1 as he loads crate after crate onto the bay outside the Exoscience factory. Even the sky has turned a flat gray, casting all beneath it in dull, deadening light. A warning sky, he thinks. Sailors had some kinda rhyme for it, didn't they?
Either way, it hardly makes for a motivating work environment. Cayde sits on one of the crates. "I'm taking a break," he announces. "Need to or not, this is when we used to have lunch. I refuse to work through lunch."
Next to him, Knox-4 sighs with relief and longing. "I miss lunch. I miss getting hungry."
Cayde grins as much as his mechanical face will allow. "Hmm…" he intones in his best Dr. Abrams impression, "So you would say… you're hungry for hunger?"
Knox bursts into guffaws. Cayde chuckles weakly. It wasn't that funny. But as his friend's laughter grows, so does Cayde's. Soon, they're both clutching each other and howling.
Then, gradually, their cheer fades. "What do you tell that shrink, by the way?" Knox asks. "You tell him about the whisper?"
Cayde shakes his head. Before he can snark about the uselessness of psychologists, the whisper rings in his metal skull. It's red sky in morning, sailor's warning. But you are no sailor.
A whimper squeaks out from the loading bay. A moment later, a short snowsuitted figure scrambles out, racing for the far end of the factory. Cayde and Knox shout, taking off after the eavesdropper. No sharpshooter yet, Cayde fumbles for his BrayTech-issued handgun, aims shakily and…
—bang—
Cayde-6 comes back to himself just as he stumbles into his hideout. He rifles through the piles of loot, until… "Aha!" He finds a pen. Cayde-6 isn't done yet. He flips open the book, no longer being careful with the pages, and starts scrawling.
"Spend time with an Exo who's been through it like we have and you'll see all the tells…"
I:
"Anything else, Arrha?"
"Yes, the Spider." Arrha answers in Eliksni. "Mithrax has told me about the orb the humans call Tee-tahn. A water-world of floating cities. Before the Red War, very few humans visited it, very few."
"I'm already bored."
"Tee-tahn is still ripe with plunder, the Spider, and now the plunder comes to us! The Guardian Slohn sends shipments of it to Terra in unmanned craft. Relies on the cloaking to protect it. But the cloaking cannot stop a web. Not if we know where to cast it."
"How interesting." Spider scratches his chin. "Very good, Arrha. It's time for you to go fishing."
"Fishhhhhh… ink?"
Spider heaves a put-upon sigh. "Catch me one of those boats, you fool."
"Yes, the Spider. I shall."
Only when he is outside the Spider's audience chamber does Arrha allow himself a frustrated growl. "'Catch a boat, Arrha.' That was the idea…"
TYPE: CONTINGENCY RECORD
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Razor [r]
ASSOCIATIONS: Hive; Light; Tarlowe, Vell
//AUDIO CONTINGENCY ARCHIVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[r:01] I can't… bring him back…
[r:02] They were too many… everywhere… devouring his Light.
[r:03] I need to find the others, I need to tell them.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Omar Agah [oa]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Vell Tarlowe [vt]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar; Crota; Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Hive; Light; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Mota, Sai; Tarlowe, Vell; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Throne World
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[oa:01] Hang on, does it make sense to you that Crota will be weaker in some reality he created?
[vt:01] It doesn't have to make sense. He just has to be stopped.
[oa:02] I know, but wouldn't you make a netherworld or whatever where you were invulnerable?
[vt:02] According to Toland—
[oa:03] Right, Toland. Why are we trusting anything that lunatic says?
[vt:03] I don't trust him. His highest loyalty is to knowledge. I trust you. I trust Eris and the others. I trust the Light in us.
[oa:04] A lot of Guardians brought their Light here. Are we any different?
[vt:04] They didn't know what Toland knows.
[oa:05] Toland again!
[vt:05] Toland again. I don't trust my weapons. I use them.
[silence]
[oa:06] Fair enough.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Three [3]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Jax [j]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [REDACTED]; One [1] Hive, Wizard-type, Deathsinger, designate Ir Yût [REDACTED]
ASSOCIATIONS: Deathsinger; Deathsong; Eriana-3; Hive; Ir Yût; Praxic Order; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Wizard
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[j:01] I'll keep the feed live. Maybe the Praxics can make use of this data.
[j:02] It's a song that's killing her. Gone on for about two minutes, thirty seconds now.
[j:03] I've wiped it from this transmission, in case its power extends through recorded media.
[j:04] If anyone is listening… don't trust Toland.
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]
ASSOCIATIONS: Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Morn, Eris; Saloon; Tower
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[em:01] I knew I'd find you here.
[e3:01] Where else should I be?
[silence]
[e3:02] Eris?…You made it.
[em:02] I did. I wish more could say the same.
[silence]
[e3:03] You want something to drink?
[e3:04] You sure? On the house tonight.
[em:03] I'm sure.
[silence]
[e3:05] You know, this is where we…
[em:04] I know.
[e3:06] When she laughed, the dishes would rattle. You remember that?
[em:05] I remember.
[e3:07] Now, it's so damn quiet…
[e3:08] EVERYBODY'S TOO DAMN QUIET!
[e3:09] LAUGH!
[e3:10] LAUGH, DAMN IT!
[silence]
[e3:11] Somebody, just laugh…
[silence]
[e3:12] I… I just miss her so much…
[em:06] I know.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Yuka [y]
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Omnigul; Wormrot
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[y:01] I raised her 43 times. But on the 44th death, Omnigul's wormrot clung to her bones, rendered my powers useless on her.
[y:02] Now my Light is fading. But if there's a chance to revive her, I won't leave her. I won't…
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Three [3]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Sai Mota [sm]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; Eriana-3; God [Hive]; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Mota, Sai
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[sm:01] So, driven by the words of an exiled madman and a desire for revenge, you are planning a forbidden attack by half a dozen people in an interdiction zone where thousands of Guardians were killed, and that plan is to kill a god. Did I get that right?
[e3:01] Yes.
[em:01] Yes.
[sm:02] Good. I'm in.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Variable, approx. [~850]. One [1] Hive, God-type, designate Crota; Forty-seven [47] Guardian-type, Class Hunter; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller] [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Wei Ning; Twenty-two [22] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order Firebreak; Thirty-four [34] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order First Pillar; Seven [7] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order Sun Legion; Thirteen [13] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, Order Praxic; Seventeen [17] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, Order Cryptochron; approx. [#] Hive, variable types [Acolytes, Knights, Ogres, Thralls, Wizards]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; First Pillar; Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller]; Light; Ning, Wei
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[g:01] Wei Ning needs more time. It falls to us. First Pillars! To me!
[g:02] Crota! Gunnvor, the Dawncaller challenges you!
[g:03] [battle cry]
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller] [g]
ASSOCIATIONS: Hive; First Pillar; Light; Moon [Earth]; Oceanus Procellarum [Earth's Moon]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[g:01] Gunnvor to all First Pillars: We're coming in hot.
[g:02] The Ocean of Storms is living up to its name.
[g:03] Defenders, erect wards upon transmat.
[g:04] Strikers, shelter under wards or whatever cover you can find until our Firebreak friends fall back.
[g:05] When they've regrouped, I'll give the signal for the counterattack.
[g:06] All right. Let's give the Hive some hell!
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Brya [b]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Morn, Eris
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[em:01] No! I'll find a way to hide you, to hide your Light…
[b:01] There's no other way.
[em:02] Don't ask me to do this.
[b:02] Just promise me one thing.
[em:03] Ghost… please…
[b:03] Don't look back.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Twenty-six, approx. [26]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Brya [b]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; approx. [#] Hive, variable types [Acolytes, Darkblades, Deathsinger, Thralls], designate [chorus]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar; Eriana-3; Mota, Sai; Tarlowe, Vell
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[em:01] What have I done?
[b:01] No time! Run!
[chorus:01] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:02] The song! Don't listen!
[b:03] Think of something else!
[em:02] I can't!
[b:04] Think of Sai Mota!
[em:03] Sai, I'm sorry.
[chorus:02] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:05] Think of Omar Agah!
[em:04] Oh, Omar…
[b:06] Think about Vell!
[em:05] Vell…
[b:07] Think about Eriana!
[em:06] Eriana!
[b:08] Sai, Omar, Vell—
[em:07] Sai…
[chorus:03] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:09] Eriana, Sai, Omar—
[em:08] Omar…
[b:10] Vell, Eriana, Sai, Omar, Vell—
[em:09] Vell…
[chorus:04] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:11] Sai, Omar, Vell, Eriana—
[em:10] Eriana…
[b:12] Sai, Omar—
[em:11] Vell, Eriana…
[em:12] Sai, Omar, Vell, Eriana…
[em:13] SAI! OMAR! VELL! ERIANA!
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Jeev [j]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gimble-4 [g4]
ASSOCIATIONS: Adonna; Akka; Song; Eir; Ur; Xol; Yul
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[j:01] We're going in, getting what Adonna wanted, and getting out. Do you copy?
[j:02] …Hey. You listening?
[g4:01] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul… Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[j:03] What are you doing? Hey—
[g4:02] EIR. UR. XOL. YUL. AKKA!
[j:04] Ahhh—
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Research-type, Crypto-Archaeologist [Reef], designate Adonna [a]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gimble-4 [g4]
ASSOCIATIONS: Engram; Graphemics; Hive; Music; Paracausal; Quantum Field Theory; Relativity; Runes; Song
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[a:01] Engram precepts—not just prototypical but in sum—could be cynosural of a recondite gestalt. Procuring a modal sample from the Hive and comparing it to their runic syntax might be key to its graphemics and, ultimately, ambages to the protological patterns underlying quantum field theory, relativity, and paracausal phenomena.
[silence]
[a:02] A comparative study of Hive hymnody and graphonomy might—as part of a larger cerebrative process examining engrams through the window of fundamental theories of reality—reveal an ungirding pattern of tonal morphemes that…
[a:03] Hmm.
[silence]
[a:04] Both causal and paracausal laws of the universe might… share a common… language. Getting a sample of the Hive's… music… will help me… study it.
[silence]
[g4:01] So, you want us to record the Hive singing so you can…
[g4:02] …figure out how the universe works?
[a:05] Eureka! You apprehend it!
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Vyhar [v]
ASSOCIATIONS: Cabal; Ghaul; Hive; Magic; Young Wolf [Saladin's]
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[v:01] How is this possible…
[v:02] Ghaul's dead. You're dead! The Young Wolf killed you!
[v:03] What is this? Hive magic?
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Four [4]. One [1] Cabal, Centurion-type, Dominus, designate Ghaul [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Omnibull [o]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Rana Untu [ru]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Vyhar [v]
ASSOCIATIONS: Cabal; Ghaul; Gladiator; Incendior; Light; Vyhar; Young Wolf [Saladin's]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[o:01] Vyhar, behind me!
[v:01] Just a sec!
[v:02] There! That'll give them something—
[ru:01] Watch out!
[v:03] Damn Incendiors!
[o:02] I told you—
[ru:02] Heads up!
[v:04] What in the…?
[ru:03] Is that Ghaul?
[o:03] Gladiators incoming!
[v:05] That's got them riled up!
[g:01] Traveler, do you see me now?
[v:06] He's huge!
[ru:04] He has the Light!
[o:04] Impossible!
[g:02] I am immortal—a god!
[o:05] Listen to them cheering.
[ru:05] We've lost.
[g:03] You have failed!
[o:06] The plan didn't work.
[g:04] Witness the dawning of a new age!
[ru:06] Wait! Something's happening!
[g:05] Noooooooooo!
//LIGHT INFLUX EXCEEDS SAFE CAPACITY//
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Guren [g]
ASSOCIATIONS: Deathsinger; Guren [self]; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Traveler
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[g:01] This is the final transmission of Guren, Ghost of Toland whom you call the Shattered. He goes to hear the song of death.
[g:02] Nothing will deter him. None of you can stop him. Not anymore.
[g:03] Toland will hear the Deathsinger's melody. He will redefine death, escape the Traveler's blunt samsara.
[g:04] He will sound the depths of the powers you so myopically fear.
[g:05] My only regret is that I will not live to see his triumph.
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Guren [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Toland [t]
ASSOCIATIONS: Eriana-3; Guardian; Morn, Eris; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[g:01] Incoming Guardians! They've broken the perimeter. Shall I engage defenses?
[t:01] No need. They have inquisitive intentions. If murder was their mission, we'd have lost our Light long ago.
[g:02] They want to know what you know.
[t:02] Yes. And I will tell them, but they will never understand. I'll greet them with a smile and welcome them in.
[t:03] I will learn how we can benefit from their ignorance.
[g:03] Yes, but don't smile.
[t:04] Why not? A smile hides the true purpose of teeth.
[g:04] Yes, but not yours.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Karsys [k]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[k:01] My time has come. Finally, finally…
[k:02] When I go, you'll be free. It'll all be over.
[k:03] Omar… do you think… we'll see each other… again?
TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Omar Agah [oa]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Hive; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Ning, Wei; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Vanguard
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[oa:01] You can't be serious.
[silence]
[oa:02] You are. But why?
[silence]
[oa:03] Dying up there won't bring her back, you know.
[silence]
[oa:04] Sorry. That wasn't… I'm sorry. Sometimes I say—
[e3:01] You're honest, Omar. It's a quality I very much admire. So, allow me to be honest in return.
[e3:02] We're going back, because we have found a way to destroy Crota. The Vanguard is too cowardly to use it.
[oa:05] Cowardly?
[e3:03] You know it's true. We hide behind the Wall as if it would save us, but what if Crota decided to descend?
[e3:04] What if Crota and his armies landed in the City? How many more would die?
[oa:06] But if Crota were to attack us, couldn't we defeat him here?
[e3:05] No. The only means of destroying him is up there.
[oa:07] Then why won't the Vanguard agree to—
[e3:06] Eris and I went to Toland—
[oa:08] Eris? Eris Morn?
[e3:07] She sent me.
[oa:09] Why the hell didn't you just say so? Let's go.
TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate undesignated [u]
ASSOCIATIONS: First Light; Light; Luna [AKA Moon; Earth]; Reef
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[u:01] This will be my last transmission. Not sure I even have the Light left to send it.
[u:02] Thought I'd look for a Guardian on Luna. A First Light colonist. A downed Reef pilot. Maybe an Exo who never came home from the war.
[u:03] Is it possible… to miss someone… you've never met?
TYPE: CANDIDATE SCAN [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate undesignated [u]
ASSOCIATIONS: First Light
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/
[u:01] Finally! Another First Light technician.
[u:02] All right, let's see about you…
[u:03] Hoo boy. Another one.
[u:04] DNA degradation alone makes this impossible, but even if I could bring you back, who'd put you back together again?
[u:05] Inextirpable psychological trauma. Indelible psychosis: violence, paranoia, obsessive behavior. And… yup, some kind of hallucinatory mechanism. Damage to the occipital lobe and limbic, and then those weird formations in the parietal and temporal. It's like something rewired your brain but did it through your DNA.
[u:06] What were they doing up here?
We used to play for keeps. Used to be that was the only way.
Back in those days trust came slow, or not at all. The only thing you could truly rely on was the iron at your side.
Fate of the world? Immortal gods?
Don't know much 'bout that.
But when everything's on the line, it's quality that counts.
Tex Mechanica: we play by the old rules, the best rules.
We play for keeps.
Something terrible is going to happen.
In this dream, a horrible, brutal hand stretches toward you. But this is not the old enemy you know, it is something new. Something that hopes to use you more than it hopes to destroy you, but it's willing to settle for either.
The cage is worse than the paralysis of silence. It is worse than the grasping tendrils of dark. It is too tangible. It is too unfamiliar. This is not why you came here. This is not what you deserve.
The fear is enough to make you want to leave.
---
I am the last Speaker, and I dream that the Traveler will leave us.
It shouldn't be a surprise. This truth has been passed down from Speaker to Speaker for generations: the Traveler is good, the Traveler is sentient, the Traveler will save us, and the Traveler will leave us. For many, many years, I believed that the prophecy of the Traveler's departure was misinterpreted, and fulfilled instead by its silence after the Collapse. I stopped preaching that final tenet. It only served to frighten people.
My dreams, which have always been infrequent and fleeting, come more regularly. They are more confusing than ever, more disruptive. I once so rarely dreamed while awake, but now it happens all the time.
|| I am silent again. I am gone. I leave behind a yawning void. ||
My dreams forecast a terrible future: a future without the Traveler's Light. I see them all falling, Guardians and Lightless alike, toppled by the Traveler's absence. I don't understand why it happens, and I don't know when. But I know it is coming.
The details almost don't matter.
I've lived my whole life bringing people into the Light of the Traveler. I've made promises and assurances all based on faith. I've crushed doubt down into myself as far as it will go, made myself sick with it, because doubt is better left unspoken.
|| I do not recognize my world. I want to flee. ||
It's an easy decision in the end.
I tell no one. Until I can understand better what's coming, sharing this information would only be dangerous. It would create panic. A mass exodus from the City. Maybe the system, if Dead Orbit has a say in it. There will be fear and anger and violence, all based on a dream I can't explain or verify with proof.
If I can understand this better, if I can make sense of it, then I can fix it. Surely.
So I go on as if nothing has happened. I attend Consensus meetings. I discuss Hidden intelligence with Ikora. I receive reports and news from our scouts outside the City, and I consult with Zavala. People come to me with questions, as always. They ask how to cope with loss, and change, and fear—all daily realities of this life. They ask how to cope with doubt.
I lie through my teeth and tell them to trust in the Traveler.
|| Empty. Empty. Empty. ||
The dreams continue. The headaches get worse. But I believe so strongly that this knowledge would destroy our way of life, and I hold it so tightly that it poisons me.
It's all for nothing.
I'm in my apartment when I hear the first ground-shaking explosion, and I go outside to see what's happened.
I see the Red Legion fleet darkening our skies, and I realize I have made a terrible mistake.
Somewhere, the other tiny star is calling out.
You try to answer, but it cannot hear you. Not without help. You want to help, but you are paralyzed. Your limbs are crushed and your heart beats so slowly. You've never known weakness so intimately as you do now.
You can only wait.
---
I am the last Speaker, but I have been searching for the next. I stand on the balcony of my small apartment with Lady Efrideet, who wishes to leave the Last Safe City of Earth.
"I suppose I can't convince you to stay."
Efrideet stands with her arms crossed, looking out over the City. "No," she says.
"And you certainly don't need to ask permission."
She laughs, just a little. "No." She leans out over the balcony railing, looking down. Guardians have no fear of heights. She would probably happily hang over the rail by her ankles if the mood struck her. "But I was thinking about what you said before." She turns to look at me, but the featureless mask serves me once more, betraying nothing. "About finding the next Speaker."
Ah.
I've been waiting for decades for someone to come to me, to tell me their child is having strange, blinding dreams and headaches. To see a Guardian stroll through the Tower, flocked by unpaired Ghosts. I've interviewed hundreds of people via long-distance comms. I've consulted the Traveler. I've walked daily among the crowds of civilians and Guardians at the entrance of the City. And still, I've found no one I can hand down my mask to.
Before Saint-14 left for Mercury, I'd thought that maybe he could take my place. That I might be able to teach him. That's not the way it's usually done, but he has such a gentle heart. He has the right temperament. Sometimes I think he's better suited to it than I am.
But he hasn't come back.
I clear my throat. "Yes," I say. "Right. I still haven't found them. But I know they're out there."
"Well," Efrideet says. "I'm going 'out there.' I can look."
It's a good offer. But I am still waiting for him to come back, all the same.
"That's why you want to leave the City?" I ask instead of condoning the proposal. "You're the one who convinced me to come here."
"I'm glad I did," she says, lifting her chin. "But no, that's not it. There's something about this life that isn't… working for me. Seems to me that a Guardian should have more ways of marking this world than with a gun."
"That's not how I think of you."
She pauses, then leans on the railing. "Sure," she says. "But it's stuck in my muscle memory, all the same. Hundreds of years of pointing and shooting, Speaker…" She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is yet, but I want to find a different way."
This conversation feels so familiar. I was so young the last time we had it.
"I understand," I say, softer now. "That's a noble cause."
She shrugs. "And maybe I come back with a little baby Speaker."
She doesn't say it, but the "if I come back at all" hangs in the air between us.
"I would appreciate your help," I say finally. "I can't wear this mask forever."
You are waiting for something to happen.
You are suspended and weightless, but so heavy in your heart. You have a child's voice: quiet, easily lost in a crowd. You try to shout and be heard, but there is only one little star in a sea of thousands that can hear you. It only understands a fraction of your words, but it tries, and that has to be enough.
Life goes on beyond your control, as it always has. That is the curse of your creation. The things you build are not your own.
And then another star blinks into existence.
---
I am the last Speaker, and I sit at a table with the Vanguard while the City around us fights over nothing.
"We built this City to find some kind of unity," Tallulah says. She has her hands on the table and is leaning forward, like she might jump over it. "We're breaking apart from the inside."
Silence falls over the room. I am trying to think.
"What does the Traveler say?" Saint-14 asks, quietly. Everyone looks at me.
I breathe in through my nose, breathe out slowly. "About the factions?" I ask. "Or about people killing each other in our streets? This is not what the Traveler wanted. That much I can tell you."
"That was the direct result of creating us," Osiris says, leaning back in his seat. He is stone-faced, as always. "Violence. Does the Traveler truly know what it wants?"
I try to hide my frustration, and I'm glad my face is hidden by my mask.
The truth is this: I cannot say for certain what the Traveler wants, or whether it knows what it wants. The Traveler does not speak to me in words, but in dreams. Dream language is cramped. The messages come from the Traveler, disintegrate on the way to me, and reform into something else. I am an interpreter more than a Speaker.
But uncertainty has been the death of us before, and it will be again if we are not vigilant.
So what I say is, "The Traveler has always wanted to protect humanity, on its own or through Guardians. We need to enact that will."
"With all due respect to both of you," Tallulah says, eyeing Osiris and me. "This isn't about the Traveler. This is about what happens when people come together without anyone to really lead them." She taps her foot. She's nervous. Unusual for Tallulah. "Let this go on a little longer, and this is the same as the Dark Age. It's just Warlords, packed into a tighter pen."
"A body of representatives would help," Saint-14 says. "Something to allow all sides to be heard."
"Every side has a voice, but not all voices should be given the same weight," I say, shaking my head. "Some of these ideas are dangerous. We should determine which factions can continue to exist, and give them an official channel through which to air their grievances and pursue their needs."
"Which ideas are dangerous, Speaker?" Osiris asks. He is watching me, steadily. "And who decides that?"
"This is not a fight," Saint-14 says. "We have enough of those ahead of us."
"We will hear from each of the factions," I say, ignoring Osiris. Some decision is better than no decision. "Give them the opportunity to plead their case, save for those who have resorted to outright violence."
"Well, then we've got to get rid of Echelon South, for one," Tallulah lists, counting on her fingers. "And those Binary Star idiots, too. Trinary? Binary? Whatever. Anyway, there are plenty of fingers pointed at this new group, too. Monarchy something."
"If anyone can prove the rumors, we exile their leaders," I say, holding up my hand. "The factions that stay will argue their case. Of those that have a valuable viewpoint to bring to the governance of the City, we create a council."
"This sets a dangerous precedent, Speaker," Osiris says. We will have this argument again later, I can already tell. "I hope you're prepared to walk this slope."
We vote. Osiris is the only no. Then, after an inquiry into the violence, we form the Consensus.
You are the last remaining star.
In your dreams, you see yourself suspended in bright but flickering Light, staring out over a world half-destroyed. You see thousands of pieces of yourself in that world, stumbling through it like infants, wandering in labyrinthine ruins they don't understand.
For a moment, you feel in your body everything that they feel. The elation of success. The pain of failure. The candle-snuff of death. The gasping of rebirth. You feel it all at once.
---
I am the last Speaker.
I am the child of two self-exiles, and I live in a settlement in the shadow of a looming mountain. There are about three hundred of us, and we've lived here for nearly seven years. When we first arrived, we were under the jurisdiction of a Warlord named Cathal. He offered us protection for a high price, requisitioning a third of our supplies and conscripting nearly half our people to his cause. The actual protection he provided was limited. The Warlords used our valley like a battlefield, crashing through like giants who couldn't see the lives they were ending. But they could. They saw us. They just didn't care.
The Iron Lords drove Cathal out nearly a year ago, and we've lived in comfortable independence since then, with little oversight from our Risen saviors. Our people voted for that. The Iron Lords saved us, but they would be no different from the Warlords if they also wished to rule us.
Now I sit in negotiations with one of them, a woman named Lady Efrideet.
"You're free to decide either way," she says. "But if you say yes, you'll have an armed escort."
Three other people sit with me: our elected mayor, our most experienced physician, and our oldest resident. We are the people our settlement chose as representation. Beside me, a silver Ghost spins his shell, floating at my shoulder, watching Efrideet. He's followed me for over a year now, and still hasn't found his chosen. He's good company.
|| I have given so much of myself already, but I give more. I become a beacon. I call my children home. ||
"A consolidated population like that, all in one place," our mayor says. She sounds weary. She's been in her position for nearly sixty years. "It would draw Warlords to us like flies."
"Don't worry about the Warlords," Efrideet says, with the cool assurance of someone who only half-understands our worry to begin with. "Their days are numbered. Their way of life is incompatible with the Iron Decree, and so…" She shrugs.
Her nonchalance is unrelatable, but I think I trust her. I trust the Iron Lords. They've given us little reason to doubt them.
"How would the city be governed?" I ask.
Efrideet shrugs again. "That seems like the kind of thing you put to a vote." She taps her fingers on the table, impatient, but only a little. "We'll just build the place and bring people there. We can defend the walls, but we're not going to dictate what happens inside them. This is a joint venture. A collaboration."
My companions exchange looks, considering.
Efrideet watches us. Like most of the Risen, she tries to look impassive. Unaffected. But if you listen closely, she's trying to convince us. She wants this. "Listen," she says. "Risen and non-Risen have lived in their separate corners for too long. We're all people. That's all the Iron Lords are trying to say. We should live together." She pauses. "There are things we can teach each other."
Two weeks later, once we've packed up everything we can carry, we leave for the place where we'll build the Last Safe City of Earth.
|| I wish for something to grow in my shadow. ||
I am the first Speaker to never dream.
At least, I think that's true. In the days following the Collapse, any Speakers who survived were scattered to the wind, traveling with groups of refugees across the ruined wasteland that Earth became. Aside from the man who taught me, I've never met another Speaker in my life. For all I know, I'm the last one alive.
Before the Collapse, Speakers were chosen for their ability to hear the Traveler through detailed, lucid dreams. Since the dreams have stopped, there are other signs. Ghosts follow us. When we do dream, we see a strange and blinding white light. We are prone to headaches.
My mentor couldn't teach me how to interpret dreams, so he taught me in hypotheticals. I had to imagine what the dreams might be like. I had to speculate why the Traveler might come back to us and when. Like all Speakers, I memorized the four tenets: The Traveler is good. The Traveler is sentient. The Traveler will save us. The Traveler will leave us.
Sometimes I worry the Traveler has already left us.
My mentor died of a wasting sickness two years ago, and I've tried to live as his replacement. But where he was a living memory of when the Traveler was awake, I have only his memories, secondhand, imperfectly understood. I can't give answers. I can't make the Traveler speak.
Or, at least, I couldn't.
For weeks, I have worked in secret on a project, gathering scrap metal and old, broken things left over from the time before. I've cobbled it together, tinkered with the mix of strange and half-understood technology, tried to calibrate it to my needs.
A long time ago, long before the Collapse, astrophysicists recorded sounds from the planets in our solar system and turned them into music. They translated plasma waves and radio emissions into eerie, musical rumbles, roars, whistles, and hisses. The Traveler makes sounds, too. Speakers have listened to its music for many years, in the form of dreams.
Carefully, lovingly, I build a mask. An amplifier.
No one knows about it but me. I won't get their hopes up, even though mine are sky high as I put the finishing touches on it. It's not beautiful like our old technology was. It is scuffed and bent and rusted, like everything we own now. But if I'm right, if I can do this, it will do beautiful things.
I can't bear to fail. I have failed at everything else so far.
When I'm finished, I wear the mask. Pieces of it, not sanded down, are rough and sharp against my face, but I dream for the first time in my life.
|| I have cried out unheard for so long that my voice is raw. ||
I am the first Speaker to be taken prisoner.
The greatest surprise isn't being captured; it's being captured by a Dreg.
In the end, when they drag me, tied and bound, into a damp cave miles out from my settlement, it's three Dregs. I look around for a Kell or a Priest—someone in charge—but we're alone. There are no Pikes or Ether tanks, no banners, no Servitors. I sit on a rock and look at my captors, more perplexed than afraid.
The shame of being captured by something so little and young-looking, when for so long we've managed to defend our settlement from their hulking Captains, is a little bit humbling.
The Dreg who grabbed me fidgets with a mask. One of his companions watches, while the other half-heartedly points an Arc spear at me. They seem uncertain. Nervous. Probably they weren't supposed to have done this.
I wait patiently until the Dreg straps the mask to his face.
"You," he says in a crackling, distorted voice. I'm floored. They've managed to make a translator. "You are the mouth of the Great Machine."
There have been negotiations with the Fallen since they arrived on Earth. Never successful, nearly always fatal, but they've happened. So I'm aware that some of the Risen know their alien language, and some of the high-level Fallen know ours. Dregs, though. It's another surprise.
And… the "mouth of the Great Machine"…
Hm.
"I was," I say carefully. The Dreg narrows all four of his eyes as his tech translates my words. If he understands the distinction between "I am" and "I was," he doesn't show it. Instead, he nods.
"You will tell us the Great Machine's words."
It doesn't actually sound like a command. I wonder if, with better translation tech, he would've said "please."
I don't say anything. If I reveal what I can't do, what I don't know, they'll probably kill me.
The other two Dregs gather around their companion, watching him eagerly. Now and then, they look at me. The one holding the spear has let her grip grow slack, and the spear is tipped down to point at the ground. The Fallen have surprisingly expressive faces. What I pick up from them is not aggression or hatred, but fearful anticipation.
The Dreg with the mask nods again, not discouraged by my silence. This time, when he speaks, I can hear his hope, even through the mask: "Why did the Great Machine leave us?"
I stare back at him.
Any fear I felt before dissipates. Instead, what I feel is a grief partially forgotten in the chaos of trying to survive—and a deep and abiding kinship with the enemies who have pursued us.
My voice is very quiet when I finally speak.
"I don't know."
The other two Dregs look at their friend, waiting. His expression twists with confusion, and then disappointment. There's anger there, too, but it's overpowered by something else. A very familiar sorrow.
We sit in silence for a long time.
I am the first Speaker to see a Ghost.
The way we tell it, after the Collapse, the Traveler cut itself into a thousand tiny pieces and sent them out into the world.
These tiny pieces are drawn to me, and to others like me, like moths. The first time I saw them, I thought they were surveillance drones, but up close, they were nothing like our old technology, not really. The way they move seems organic and natural. They spin their shells like they are ruffling feathers; their little forward-facing lights blink like eyes.
"We're called Ghosts," one of them said to me once, hovering at my shoulder as I tended a cook-fire.
"Why?" I asked, gentle, casual. They're all different, these Ghosts. Many of them are like children, curious and friendly. Some are world-weary from the moment they're born.
The Ghost spun his silver petals, considering. "Because we're searching, I think."
It's a good enough answer for me. I'm searching, too.
I let the little Ghosts follow me. We talk about what the Traveler was like before the Collapse. They like to hear it, and I like to remember. Deep in their core, they remember, too, I think. They remember a time when they were all one piece. Still, they like to ask what the Traveler told me, and I recount all the dreams I can still remember. I haven't dreamed since the Collapse, and this is almost—almost, almost—like dreaming again.
Today, at twilight, one of the shy and quiet Ghosts who has been lingering at my side asks if I will follow her out into the valley. I should say no, but she sounds hopeful. And I am curious.
We travel for several hours. The land here is recovering—not just from the Collapse, but from the time before it. Resources for our settlement are scarce, but nature is creeping back in, and nature is cruel now. It's been starving and confused for decades, jostled out of its natural order, and now we reap the consequences. Wolves steal our livestock. Mange-ridden bears wander through our compound late at night, pawing at our doors. The land is so thick with the memory of poison that it won't grow crops.
We protect ourselves from this recovering world as best we can, and we rarely go out at night. But I'm drawn by a curiosity that feels beyond me.
The Ghost leads me to a barn with a sagging roof. She asks me to wait out of sight—she says, "I think you'll scare her." I don't fully understand what she means.
I crouch and watch as she hovers over the years-old remains of a person, barely recognizable as something that was once living. The Ghost floats over the body nervously, and then scans it with pale light. In front of my eyes, flesh grows over old bones and tattered rags stitch themselves together. The person, a woman, gasps and sits up.
I can't believe it.
The Ghost hovers close to her new companion and says something quiet and reassuring. I can't hear. I feel amazed, and then jealous, and then ashamed.
You feel it before it happens.
It has happened before. You feel deep in your bones that this thing has chased you across galaxies like an unshakeable dread. It strives to undo. It will undo you. It will undo all of us.
First is suffocation, and then pain. The pain isn't localized to any part of you, but to all of you and beyond you. You want to run, but you are pulled in all directions by opposite and equal forces that hold you perfectly still.
It is inescapable this time. You are losing everything that you were. You are bleeding silver into the air like the air is water, and you watch your silver-blood float away from your body. Empty. Empty. Empty.
---
I am the Speaker who witnesses the end of the world.
Through it all, I am overwhelmed by torrents of sharp, static images, sometimes so fast and constant that I can't see or hear. The Traveler is babbling: telling me everything and nothing all at once, in fast, stereoscopic, waking nightmares. I am myself and not myself.
And I || am stuck in a web of black spider silk, frozen in the mind-numbing silence of space || have no answers.
The fall isn't quick. It happens over weeks and months: cataclysmic disasters, natural and unnatural, flattening human settlements on every planet || that I have made, I have shaped, my work, laid flat ||. Earthquakes. Tidal waves. Solar flares. Cyclones, sinkholes, exploding lakes, wildfires. Unknown, untreatable plagues raze populations in hours. Water goes black with unknown poisons || forced down my throat ||. The ground opens up and swallows entire cities || and I am sick sick sick ||.
This has happened before. I'd watched in my dreams the cities that fell, alien cities, torn down by a wind so fierce that it flattened an entire world || and it is not my fault ||.
But this is different. The Traveler has not left us. Something new || half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister || has arrived.
I || don't want to abandon you || watch on crackling video feeds as people try to escape the outer planets. Exodus ships burn || like I will burn || up with thousands upon thousands of souls aboard. We gather in frightened, huddled || trapped, stuck, doomed || groups in relief outposts, hoping against hope.
I try to aid the relief effort but my thoughts || run || become more and more scattered. I can't || run || keep separate my own mind || run || and the || run run RUN RUN || Traveler's.
Then, suddenly, silence.
And it's the silence that truly breaks me.
You are the first to dream.
In the dream, you are shaping coarse sand with your hands. You lift a handful, and it feels like the shifting of mountains. You drag your fingertip through the dirt to make a twisting line and hear the roar of moving water. You breathe and feel the rush of clean, bright wind in your hair.
Suddenly, you are far, far, far up in the air, higher than you've ever been. You have gone to the very top of Freehold's tallest skyscrapers, but this is much higher, and you see the world below with much greater fidelity. It is a beautiful green world, much greener than any place you've ever seen before.
It looks like home.
---
I am the first to dream.
The dreams can happen at any time. A veil drops in front of my eyes and I see strange, moving images. I am someone else, or I am myself, reimagined. I can't say. In the dreams, I shape planets with my own hands.
At first, I believe I am mad.
The clinicians at BrayWell call it "interplanetary relocation maladjustment psychosis": a psychobabble catch-all for mental disturbances that they can't explain. Other people, searching for certainty, call it "prophecy." But all I can offer is a loose, tangled connection that I painstakingly unravel when I dream.
|| I am drawn to a bright and attentive star. I speak to it through movement, through feeling. It understands implicitly. ||
Now, I stand before a crowd. Their murmuring is the bone-deep rumble of shifting tectonic plates.
A screen behind me plays looping, blurry footage of the Traveler terraforming Venus. The images radiate with pale light. We've watched this footage many times.
|| I glide through space as if through water, tugged in nine directions by nine impulses. ||
In front of the crowd, I sway a little, a copse of trees bending in a dream-wind. I can't help it. I'm dreaming more often than not.
|| There is whispering from the deep-dark, alluring and terrifying—a reminder of things left behind, bittersweet and abhorrent. ||
A crackle of static on the screen behind me brings me back to earth, resettling my feet firmly on the ground. These people have come here for my insights.
I lean forward and speak to the crowd. Four tenets, aching with truth:
The Traveler is a force of benevolence.
The Traveler is a sentient being with free will, dreams, hopes, and fears.
The Traveler will save us.
The Traveler will leave us.
This style of Cabal war bell, known as the Bell of Conquests, is a standout example of the traditional combat artistry known as scal'sangus—literally "blood etching"—popular during the Era of Lead, before the Cabal extended their reach beyond their immediate star system. These objects commemorated martial feats and personal victories but varied widely in appearance. Peasant mercenaries often simply stitched the carved teeth of their defeated foes into their leathers; those with more resources sometimes claimed the entire torsos of vanquished opponents to preserve, lacquer, and display as busts.
The Bell of Conquests was a less grisly chronicle of the victories of its owner. Unadorned bells were given to warriors at their first blood. Those who wished to challenge a warrior in combat would request their bell and ring it seven times.
As warriors collected victories, they could have artisans decorate their bells to commemorate their glories. These adornments allowed the bearers to call upon benefits for honorable combat related to their past victories: a warrior who had completed the Trial of Beasts could bring a trained war beast into a duel; a survivor of the Flayed Night was allowed to cut their opponent twice across the stomach; those who had withstood the Cold Iron Mouth could coat their blades in caustic white ash.
Defeating the bearer of a war bell entitled the victor to claim the bell as their own. The clapper of the bell would be carved with a shallow engraving representing the previous owner's cause of death. Ownership would fully transfer after the engraving had been worn away by new challengers ringing the bell. At that point, all the privileges the bell bestowed upon its former owner would be granted to the new holder. For this reason, elaborate war bells were both highly sought after and heavily defended.
War bells continued to be carried into the galactic-colonial period, and their decorations became even more refined. Intricate mosaics pressed with precious gems became symbols of wealth and granted further allowances in duels, while also creating a larger incentive for would-be challengers. As the scale of warfare increased, the logistical difficulties of claiming war bells became apparent. Captured war bells were sometimes melted down en masse and recast as elaborate war gongs, and there were specific rituals in place for spacefaring rivals to ring the gong in challenge.
In the post-Red War Cabal, few soldiers adhere to the tradition, as the Bell of Conquests is seen as a cumbersome relic. Nevertheless, they may still find a place of honor aboard the ships of those who wish to respect the combat traditions of their ancestors.
"You've had this for years and never thought to mention it?" Eris runs her fingers over the grime-clouded containment glass housing a large growth of egregore within the Drifter's Derelict.
"Wasn't hidin' it." Drifter rolls Eris's Ahamkara bone over his knuckles. "Ain't nobody ever asked. Hell, you've walked by it before, Moondust."
"What wonders you must have buried in this heap," Eris muses. The emerald shine of her eyes dart back and forth behind thin cloth.
"I could…" Drifter saunters up beside her, "give you the tour?"
"We haven't the time. Tell me, what have you learned from this egregore sample?"
Drifter wrinkles his face and looks up to the massive, contained growth. "Uhh…"
Eris massages annoyance from her brow. She sees the playful coyness in his eyes. The hidden information he holds as bargain for some trade. "Do you at least remember where you found it?"
"Sister, you don't wanna know." Eris locks her eyes on the Drifter's face. He staggers back awkwardly and shrugs. "Icy little nothing in the middle of nowhere. Doesn't have a name, and you don't want to go there alone."
"But you could take me?" Eris tests his defenses.
Drifter brushes off the mottled fur of his shoulder guards and leans against a poorly fastened railing. "Only if we take your jumpship. And I drive."
Eris sighs and pushes through him. "No."
Drifter springs after her. "So that's it? You're leaving?"
"You're being evasive, Rat." Eris plucks her Ahamkara bone from his hand and stows it beneath her cloak. "Contact me when you're willing to speak plainly."
Drifter calls after her, hands outstretched, "You don't want to stay for dinner?"
Eris halts, considering what disgusting amalgamation of refuse would constitute a meal here. She glances over her shoulder. One last attempt to extract information…
"It is strange. When Savathûn drew Mars back into our space, it was free of the egregore. But the Glykon and Leviathan both returned rampant with fungal growth. Why?" she asks.
He gives in. "You know… it sings if you burn it just right." Drifter thumbs behind him. "Sub-sonic, resonates in a funny way with Pyramid tech."
"Is that so?"
"You don't trust me?"
"Me and the others got to take the new snow treads out for a test drive today! We were in a cheeky mood, so we decided to have a race. Things were going well until Willums cracked the glacier—these treads step heavy! Luckily they handle great on ice and we were able to rappel down to save him. The only thing he really hurt was his pride. But like the engineers said, great in ice and snow. A real pair of lifesavers!"
—Intern, BrayTech R&D
SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-03-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY
Titan's sea of liquid methane crashes against the listing hull of the New Pacific Arcology. The wind whips with hurricane force, sending a freezing sea spray lashing across the crooked metal frame of a crumbling catwalk. Flares of atomic fire bloom in the mist and roll off the arcology's walls. Human and inhuman screams echo out into impossible seas.
Two dozen Hive Thrall come pouring out of an encrusted airlock, climbing over one another, jaws snapping. They scurry across every surface not slicked by liquid methane; drawn like moths to a beacon of golden flame. Shayura stands against the crashing tide of chitin and bone, a Sword of fire held fast in two hands, screaming as she cleaves through the masses of encroaching death.
Burning embers of Thrall rain around her, but with each dispatched wave of necrotic soldiers, it feels as though their numbers double. She is pressed by the tide of Hive, inching closer and closer to the jagged end of the catwalk hanging over the churning sea. When the Thrall recede, she is thankful for a respite. But the towering Knight that drops from the airlock is an escalation, not a victory.
Edging a half-step backward, Shayura knows that the only way out is through. Wings of flame roar off of her back, leaving a trail of rippling heat and hollowed-out Thrall in her wake. Her Sword clashes with the Knight's shield, shattering it in a single blow. Her follow-through cleaves through the Knight's arm, down into its chest.
Shayura turns on her heel toward the remaining Thrall. She can feel the Light in her ebbing and knows that they will overwhelm her if she doesn't succeed now. Death against the Hive is never a sure return; not after what happened to Taeko-3 and her fireteam here. A blinding pain hits Shayura in her back. Her vision swims, mind reels; had she missed one? Feeling the warmth of blood running below her armor, Shayura turns to see the Hive Knight reborn, Sword covered in her blood.
Screaming inside her helmet, Shayura feels a deep panic build in her chest. She knows a Hive death ritual when she sees it, and she walked straight into their trap. She rolls away from the Knight's next swing and into the reach of Thrall that tear at her armor. Mustering the last of her Solar energy, Shayura calls up a cyclonic pillar of flame that twists up into the sky and consumes the Knight.
The revenant Knight emerges from the flames, already reconstituting. Shayura leaps forward and drives her Sword through his face, tackling him to the ground. Her Solar aura flickers and fades; smoke and steam billow from her back and shoulders.
"Shay?"
She hears one of the surviving Thrall speak in a human voice. Shayura twists her Sword in the Knight's face and shakes sizzling green blood onto the catwalk. The Knight begins to reform again in a horrifying blaze of green flame, but as it reaches out toward her, she cuts off his arm and sends her Sword through the top of his head in a brutal follow-through.
The Thrall wails. She can feel an arm around her waist, restraining her. She kicks and struggles, crying out as the last wisps of Praxic fire twist down her arm and Sword.
"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against the pull of the Thrall.
"Shay," the Thrall cry in the voices of her friends. "Shay!"
Shayura screams into the impossible seas.
I propose a simple experiment—look around. You see light. You see darkness. There could not be one without the other. They are two sides of the same coin.
If it is true for these Newtonian echoes, why would it not be true of the purest, paracausal forms?
Therefore, I conclude: the reason you persecute me is not because of the symmetry. It's because of the truth beyond this truth, the truth which you most dread: if we could destroy darkness, but we had to give up our Light to do so, how many of us would make that trade?
"Hail, warrior of the empire," Empress Caiatl said as she approached the bedside of a wounded Red Legion Centurion. The soldier had been gazing solemnly out a porthole when the sound of her voice startled him. He turned suddenly, then winced in pain. Caiatl saw darkened synthetic fabric enveloping his torso and the entirety of his right arm, which itself looked frail and withered. She knew immediately that this Cabal would see no more battles.
"My empress!" the warrior responded, clasping a fist to his chest with his unwrapped arm. Caiatl saluted in return.
The empress glanced at a monitor displaying the patient's data. "Val'ast, born of Val'tui." She looked out the porthole; the brilliance of Sol beamed back at her. "The empire has returned for you, Red Legionary, yet your heart seems heavy. Why do you languish?"
Val'ast looked away. "I am sorry, Empress."
"Do not be sorry, my brother," Caiatl said.
Val'ast sighed. "For years, every day has been about survival. Just trying to stay in the fight. But now…" He trailed off and grasped the sheets of his bed, a cheap fabric but still softer than anything he'd felt in years.
"When you war for so long, peace can become its own struggle," Caiatl said.
Val'ast let the fabric fall from his hand. "I thought I was Acrius reborn, claiming another sun for our kind." He gazed out the porthole. "But I failed."
Caiatl smiled. "I've always loved that tale." She pulled a stool over and sat. "Did you know that there used to be more to it?"
Val'ast shook his head.
"It's an older version, not as popular in modern times, but I was lucky enough to learn it as a child," the empress continued. "Before Acrius, three warriors sought to climb a great mountain and grasp the sun, but a terrible beast stood in their way.
"The first tried to outwit the beast and sneak through the shadows, but the beast smelled him still and ate the warrior in a single bite.
"The second tried to escape the beast, crafting a device to harness the wind and soar upward. But the fickle wind changed its mind and tossed her into the beast's maw.
"The third warrior challenged the beast head on, Severus in hand. She also fell to the beast's gnashing teeth, but not before her blade tasted blood."
Val'ast frowned. "They all failed?"
Caiatl considered the question. "The first two, certainly. They thought battle could be avoided. But the third warrior died with pride and honor."
Val'ast pondered for a moment. "Even in defeat, she left her mark on her foe."
Caiatl nodded. "And the next time one of her kin faced it, the beast would be one blow closer to death."
"Did more come?" Val'ast questioned.
"Of course!" Caiatl exclaimed. "They were Cabal, and the sun was theirs to claim. Over and over, their mightiest fell. But each time, another wound was struck, until the day came when a warrior landed the final blow. That warrior was Acrius."
Val'ast frowned. "Ever since I was a child, I saw Acrius as a hero…"
"He may have been," Caiatl replied as she clasped Val'ast's hand in hers. "But so was the warrior who struck first."
Val'ast's eyed glistened as he held her grip firmly. "Thank you, Empress."
Caiatl shook her head. "My brother, it is the empire who thanks you."
He made himself look at the numbers. Seventy-three ships lost in the exodus. Seventy-three ships full of people looking to him for guidance. Guardians and civilians alike. All Zavala could give them was a noble death.
Almost none of the vessels had been outfitted with weapons. Transports and supply skiffs, barely holding together outside Earth's atmosphere, trying to punch through a fortified Red Legion blockade. Like prey animals limping through a pack of lions. It was a massacre.
The only reason the fleet made it past the Moon was because the Red Legion focused so heavily on Earth. In that, they seemed like the Cabal Zavala knew. Single-minded. Incapable of thinking more than a few moves ahead. But he knew this Dominus Ghaul wouldn't give up that easily. So they kept moving.
But what next? Zavala had a plan, of course. He always had a plan, Titan Vanguard or no. But what he really needed was information. He needed—
"Deputy Commander Sloane, reporting for duty, sir."
Zavala closed his eyes. And for a brief moment, he relaxed.
She was a frog in my estimation; small and colorful but toxic to touch.
In your infinite wisdom, you looked beyond the worm I brought you to the least of the leeches that infested Fundament. Shaving thin my gift, you infected them with conquest, and now they see themselves as artisans of the final shape.
My place is not to understand you, my Witness, but to serve that final goal you see more clearly than I. But now, your gold-leaf parasites call themselves gods and carve out their divine homes. And I am to watch the sniveling frog.
Was this castigation? The toll I pay for my failure with the Ahslid? You have cast me and my ego once more into the cold depths of an inconsequential world.
I recall stepping into her realm, and her face twisted to betray restrained delight. She thought herself mistress of this domain you leased her. She did not—could not—appreciate the precarity of her situation. So sure of her dominion, she could not recognize her jailer, or that she lives within a prison formed from her own ego—one I will put to work for you, my Witness.
The capture of her race will flow out from this realm—each self-satisfied smirk will forge a new link in their chains.
Had I known then what my current quandary would be, I could have heeded my own insights on ego. Regardless, even in this predicament, I am unbowed.
My heart warms like fire kindled; my spirit exalted by the Flame. I smile at my enemies, because I rejoice in their chastening.
No one burns so brightly or holds the righteousness of the Flame's Sword.
No longer shall you quaver; be not timid in the light of our Flame, for the Flame is our guardian; and by His hand shall all we dread be burnt away.
The guns of our enemies silenced, and those among us who fled return with courage. Those who have shivered at shadows now set fires and keep fear at bay. Bright is the future we have before us, because we carry the Flame forward into the night.
The Flame dies and comes alive again; like a phoenix, He rises from ash and burns anew. The Flame makes us strong by sharing His light; He rekindles the hope that lies within us. From the weak He forges strength; from the impure He burns the wickedness. Our path through darkness is clear, for the Flame has lit the way.
For our hearts are the hearths in which the Flame burns; His fires will guard the homes of His faithful, but the evil will be blinded by its light and flee into shadow.
By bullets alone shall none prevail. The Flame's Sword shall never dull its edge or brilliance. The foes of the Flame shall forever be turned to smoke and blown away. For the Flame is everlasting; haunted by His own ghost, He cannot die.
—Song from a hymnal discovered in the Scorched Chapel, believed to be an account of the Risen named Hungren-3
JOURNEY - IV
Austyn sat in silence with eyes shut. Ley Lines swept over her in waves—in pulses, which she slowly brought into alignment with her own. Entanglement. It was not the first time she had pressed herself into symbiosis with the Ascendant Plane. She'd been through the thoughts of all the sisters in her Coven. She had dreamt with Petra and harvested secrets from her, with the Queen's Wrath being none the wiser. Austyn knew they were meant to save Queen Mara Sov. They were meant to find her and restore the throne. She had been searching the Ley Lines for a path to the queen each night after her training.
Her Coven sisters lay sleeping all around her body, but her mind flew through countless panes of prismatic glass. As they shattered, she flittered from one plane to the next, catching momentary glimpses of incommunicable wonder.
In the distant cosmos far ahead, Austyn saw a darkened haze of indecipherable noise. Somewhere nestled in the Ley Lines, this shadowed spot was growing. Austyn knew Mara Sov was distant. She knew the queen had obscured herself from her enemies. Austyn had felt a presence reach from the noise toward the Dreaming City more than once. Tonight, she would reach back.
Austyn focused her will on a path to the distant noise and, as she did so, it was. The way was open, but still so far. She reached out with her physical body, placing a hand in the air before her and splitting the oxygen with her touch. She carved a slit in reality, through the molecules of the air, and the path anchored to it at her command.
The noise descended upon her, and instantly, she was at the precipice.
Hand pressed, frozen, paralyzed, and awash in insidious whispers that shredded the doorway into open nothing.
It tore her consciousness across the cosmos to a grand terrace of onyx swords and emerald flame reigning over a red harbor. Fingers reached like blades from distant hollows. Screaming noise upon noise. A lone figure stood on the terrace aside two empty thrones. Testing. Prodding. Tasting. Breeding war.
"Austyn!" A familiar voice pried her back into the waking world. "Austyn, are you all right?"
She woke, soaked in sweat and heat. Petra Venj stood over her, gripping her shoulders.
Austyn struggled to breathe. Her eyes met Petra's.
"Austyn?"
They'd leave you behind if they knew what you just saw, she thought.
"Just a nightmare," Austyn reassured the Queen's Wrath. "Thank you for waking me."
"Hail, warrior of the empire," Empress Caiatl said as she approached the bedside of a wounded Red Legion Centurion. The soldier had been gazing solemnly out a porthole when the sound of her voice startled him. He turned suddenly, then winced in pain. Caiatl saw darkened synthetic fabric enveloping his torso and the entirety of his right arm, which itself looked frail and withered. She knew immediately that this Cabal would see no more battles.
"My empress!" the warrior responded, clasping a fist to his chest with his unwrapped arm. Caiatl saluted in return.
The empress glanced at a monitor displaying the patient's data. "Val'ast, born of Val'tui." She looked out the porthole; the brilliance of Sol beamed back at her. "The empire has returned for you, Red Legionary, yet your heart seems heavy. Why do you languish?"
Val'ast looked away. "I am sorry, Empress."
"Do not be sorry, my brother," Caiatl said.
Val'ast sighed. "For years, every day has been about survival. Just trying to stay in the fight. But now…" He trailed off and grasped the sheets of his bed, a cheap fabric but still softer than anything he'd felt in years.
"When you war for so long, peace can become its own struggle," Caiatl said.
Val'ast let the fabric fall from his hand. "I thought I was Acrius reborn, claiming another sun for our kind." He gazed out the porthole. "But I failed."
Caiatl smiled. "I've always loved that tale." She pulled a stool over and sat. "Did you know that there used to be more to it?"
Val'ast shook his head.
"It's an older version, not as popular in modern times, but I was lucky enough to learn it as a child," the empress continued. "Before Acrius, three warriors sought to climb a great mountain and grasp the sun, but a terrible beast stood in their way.
"The first tried to outwit the beast and sneak through the shadows, but the beast smelled him still and ate the warrior in a single bite.
"The second tried to escape the beast, crafting a device to harness the wind and soar upward. But the fickle wind changed its mind and tossed her into the beast's maw.
"The third warrior challenged the beast head on, Severus in hand. She also fell to the beast's gnashing teeth, but not before her blade tasted blood."
Val'ast frowned. "They all failed?"
Caiatl considered the question. "The first two, certainly. They thought battle could be avoided. But the third warrior died with pride and honor."
Val'ast pondered for a moment. "Even in defeat, she left her mark on her foe."
Caiatl nodded. "And the next time one of her kin faced it, the beast would be one blow closer to death."
"Did more come?" Val'ast questioned.
"Of course!" Caiatl exclaimed. "They were Cabal, and the sun was theirs to claim. Over and over, their mightiest fell. But each time, another wound was struck, until the day came when a warrior landed the final blow. That warrior was Acrius."
Val'ast frowned. "Ever since I was a child, I saw Acrius as a hero…"
"He may have been," Caiatl replied as she clasped Val'ast's hand in hers. "But so was the warrior who struck first."
Val'ast's eyed glistened as he held her grip firmly. "Thank you, Empress."
Caiatl shook her head. "My brother, it is the empire who thanks you."
"You hear that? Who is that?" Yardarm-4 sounded like he was on the verge of panic. Rekkana had never heard him like that, not even in the worst firefights, not even in their last battle, which might have been the last battle for the Kentarch 3.
"I hear it," Rekkana and Lisbon-13 said as one. All three Guardians summoned their Ghosts, almost simultaneously.
"Ghost?" Yardarm-4 was first. "What have we got?"
"Scan the area for life," Lisbon-13 ordered.
"Multiphasic scan," Rekkana barked at her Ghost.
Their Ghosts all started chattering at once, and they stepped away from one another to hear, fanning out across the grotto and widening their defensive triangle.
"There's something weird," Rekkana's Ghost blurted, words shooting from it, rapid-fire. "I'm getting static on every wavelength. It's like there's a shadow being cast by every signal. It's nothing specific, but it's everywhere. Wait, no. There's something wrong. I—"
Rekkana's Ghost dropped like a stone. She snatched it out of the air.
She looked behind her. Lisbon-13 was holding his Ghost. Yardarm-4 was picking his up from the ground. The Light around them faded, and the gloom of the grotto closed in.
"Yardarm, Lisbon, you OK?"
"I'm fine," came Lisbon-13's reply, and he sounded calm.
"Yeah. Sure." Yardarm-4's reply was distant and growing fainter, like he was facing away and moving off.
Rekkana reached for her emergency light.
"Wait." It was a whisper, but not from her friends—it came from somewhere ahead of her, deeper in the grotto. "Wait. Please. Can we just talk for a minute?"
Crash Site, Nessus Terrae, Day Four
**
Panesh sat wearily beside the heavy metal beams that trapped him in the wreckage of the Cabal frigate. On the other side of the wall, the Cabal warrior stuck in the corridor roared in frustration and started kicking again.
"Save your energy, Vargessus," Panesh shouted over the noise. "You're not going to be able to kick your way through…" he paused to scratch a fingernail along the unfamiliar metal, "solid Cabal-ium."
Heavy footsteps stomped over to a crack in the wall near the hull. "Cabal can kick through most things," Vargessus said, her face pressed against the gap in the metal. "Caiatl will kick your Vanguard into pieces, once you cowards stop running."
"Who's running?" Panesh said. "We're in the City waiting for you. Under the big white ball—maybe you've heard of it? We don't run."
"Hrah!" Vargessus laughed. "You run. Fought one of you once—all he did was run. Shield and run. We stopped chasing him and then BOOM!" She pounded the metal wall with a gigantic fist. "He dove at us, covered in lightning! Then he ran again."
"Sounds like he wasn't running," said Panesh. "He retreated to a tactical distance."
"Fancy words for 'run,'" snorted Vargessus. Panesh heard her pace uneasily, then sit in the corridor, her back against the same wall as his.
"Hey," Panesh called, "how about you keep some tactical distance yourself? You smell like a… hot barnyard."
"And you smell also, like a bloodless child. Sour."
There was a loud electrical pop overhead and Panesh raised his hands against a shower of blinding sparks.
"Panesh?" shouted Vargessus.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just another system shorting out."
The Cabal grunted in response. Panesh heard her settle back against the wall.
"Unripe," she added.
"You're ripe enough for both of us," he said.
But neither of them moved.
Kethiks, the Yet-Proven, had spent three lunar orbits surveying the small village. He was not the first Captain to strike here, but while others had come for killing or labor, his clutch of Vandals came for something else.
A Lightbearer resided in the village—a demon who had killed many of his friends. A demon who had shattered the Captain whose place Kethiks had taken. It was Kethiks's duty to seek revenge, to hunt this demon, and clear the death debt. Those were the words House Devils had sent with Kethiks.
But to Kethiks, this demon's life paid more than vengeance. Its life paid glory. The same glory Kethiks's father, Ykriis, claimed when he felled a Lightbearer in single combat, took its tiny machine and drank of its divine Ether. Soon that glory would be Kethiks's as well. Soon his position would be recognized for more than its circumstance.
Vandals crept on either side of Kethiks, maneuvering through tall grass with quiet anticipation. Where the grass died off to tilled soil and log walls, they paused, waiting for Kethiks's command. He would not launch flares to declare their strike. He would not give the Lightbearer time to plan.
As the rear-guard Dregs joined the rest of his raiding party, Kethiks ignited an Arc spear and raised it against the night. The signal: attack!
The raiders descended, expecting a paltry guard. They were soon met by stiff resistance. The Captain tore through to the heart of the village, hunting for the demon who commanded the defense. He spotted the demon in the midst of the fighting. Kethiks strode forward, seizing a defiant Human in his path with his lower arms and flung her through a burning wooden structure.
"DEMON!" he shrieked in Eliksni, brandishing his Arc spear.
Before he could advance, a young Human defiantly stepped between him and the demon and brandished a blade. Kethiks assessed the "warrior" and clicked his mandibles in laughter, easily knocking the boy's curved blade aside. The Captain taunted the youth with half-hearted thrusts that threw the small Human off balance. When he was finished toying with his prey, Kethiks drove the spear point through him.
Kethiks looked up from the pinned youth to the demon and snarled. His eyes met the demon's crackling own. The Captain raised his spear to charge—
Eliksni Quarter, Last City
——
What makes a House? It is a good question, and one that many Eliksni do not think on often enough.
For Humans, a house is a place. But for Eliksni, a House is a family. It has a culture. A philosophy of living, shared by all.
That is why the House of Light survived, even when we fled Europa. Even after the Shipstealer took all we had. We were bound not by place or possessions, but as family.
Cryptarch Matsuo asked me why the old crews are not considered Houses. It is a wise question. One that, perhaps, does not have a singular answer.
I think it is because those who lead the old crews do not wish to be true Kells. A Kell is responsible for the safety and prosperity of their House. It is an honor, and a burden.
Those you call Pirate Lords wish only to take—they give nothing, even to their own people. Each raider is responsible only for themselves. A crew is expendable… a family is not.
The old crews live a sad life. One best left in the past.
The Spider steeples all 20 of his fingers and looks down imperiously from his throne. Standing before him is a Warlock, their armor scuffed and dinged. They're unarmed.
"You Guardians look out at the Tangled Shore, all the violence and lies, and you think you're above it. But like humans used to say before the Collapse, 'If you sleep with the beasts, you're gonna get dirty.'"
The Spider leans forward, examining the rumpled Guardian. "You've gotten terribly dirty, Warlock. And it shows. Just look at you." Though the Warlock crosses their arms defiantly, the Spider can sense the shame burning behind the ferocious metal helmet. He chuckles deeply.
"Luckily, there's still time to salvage your honor. Nobody needs to know of your… transgression. Fireteams disappear all the time out here. Only a few people know it was you, and I could persuade the witnesses to forget all about it. In return, all you have to do is serve my best interests."
The Spider leans forward, his voice lowering to a growl. "Otherwise, you're on your own. There's nothing to stop me from taking everything you've got right now. Your weapons. Your Sparrow. The very armor on your back. I may not be able to kill you, but I'll harvest you for every last part."
The Spider opens his bottom pair of arms magnanimously. "So, how about it?"
The Warlock's sneer is audible. "I'd rather lose my Light than work for you."
The Spider motions to his goons, who raise their weapons. "Pride, pride, pride. It was always the Vanguard's failing. Very well then. Strip."
"Explain to me how it works again."
"It pulls small particles of your Light as you use it and loops it at increasingly higher speeds."
"Why would I want my Light taken away? This sounds like a terrible piece of equipment."
"Close your mouth and listen. It does that until you strike something—"
"Good, good good good. This is better. Then what?"
"…"
"Go on."
"Then it whips the Light particles into each other at high speeds, causing a delayed—"
"DELAYED?!"
"A DELAYED FISSION REACTION."
"Why is it delayed?"
"Let's move on."
"Okay… could you just sum it up for me?"
"Punch something and an explosion will happen where you struck."
"Wonderful. Won't that hurt me?"
"If we're lucky, I'll be able to work that into the design specs."
I promised Sekris a greater power than the favor of your Traveler. He died at Ghaul's hands still wondering what that could possibly be.
In later days, my disguise could no longer fool him as it fooled others. His skill in designing and modifying mechanized life-forms was unparalleled and he made it clear he knew I was not what I appeared to be. I made it clear that, either way, he would continue to serve. But I think he guessed that my form and my strength are inextricably linked.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
V
There was a soft knock on the door and a technician tentatively poked his head inside the office. "The system is ready, Commander."
Zavala looked across his desk. No echo of the past called out to him, no guilt-driven daydream—just a young man from the City, nervous about disturbing the commander.
Zavala rose to his feet. He stood and braced himself against the desk for a long moment, arms wide. He took a steady breath and nodded.
The technician synced the office systems and initiated a broadcast, then stepped to the side as Zavala approached.
"Sir," he whispered urgently, gesturing to the neat stack of pages left behind on the desk. "Your speech."
Zavala left the papers where they were and began to speak.
"People of the Last City. Humanity has endured a devastating blow…."
Lisbon-13's Ghost, Piri, quavered, "What have we done?"
"What was necessary."
Lisbon-13 raised his gun toward her.
"Was it? Did we really—whoa!" Piri cried and dove away as a beam of energy vaporized the tangle of vines through which she flew.
Lisbon realized Divinity was too slow. He switched to his Hand Cannon.
Shards of stone from a nearby explosion suddenly battered Piri's shell. She had hoped she could talk her way out of this. But there was no time to think—just run.
"Listen, Lisbon! Please!" Piri pleaded. Each word was punctuated by a roar from his gun. She dodged the resulting explosions along the terrain. "Honestly, if you want to shoot me, I'll let you! Just stop and tell me why first!"
A grenade whirled through the air in response. Piri had seen this tactic too many times to be fooled. She zipped toward the falling explosive and sheltered under a shelf of rock. The blast rattled her senses, but Piri didn't have time for them to clear. She sped through the smoking terrain, inches above the ground, knowing Lisbon would be looking for her flight to either side of the drifting cloud.
And then in an instant, the feet of Lisbon-13 materialized in the smoke before her. She nearly ran right into him. How did he do that, she wondered, to think like others and anticipate them? She knew she needed to talk. Fast!
"Uh, okay. First thing's first. You want to destroy me. Got it. But why? What's next?" she asked.
Lisbon-13 remained silent.
Realization dawned. Piri bobbled in the air, shocked by her own conclusion. "…You want the secret to die with you. No… no, no, no. You can't kill yourself. You can't! Lisbon, there has to be another way."
Lisbon-13 looked up from his Ghost and through the wafting smoke. "She's right. This is not the way."
"What?"
Lisbon-13 was not looking at his Ghost. "It's not that the power is too terrible to wield. It's that the burden is too great to bear."
"Burden?" Piri asked. The Ghost dodged as Lisbon-13 suddenly stepped forward and brushed past her.
And stood, facing himself, once again.
The doppelganger—this other Lisbon-13—reached out and put a hand on the shoulder of the Lisbon-13 that stood a few paces behind Piri.
"You never doubted yourself. Not for a moment. The others revealed their weaknesses: their pride and self-absorption. But you remember what Rekkana said," it stated.
Lisbon-13 nodded. "If anyone can handle the responsibility of this power—"
"It's you," the doppelganger finished. "What you fear now is not the responsibility you have assumed. It is the burden…" the doppelganger said, glancing back at the Ghost, "…of having all this power and never getting what you want."
Lisbon-13 had seemed distant and cold to his fireteam and his Ghost. The arguments since the Black Garden, the fighting—oh, how she had pleaded to stop the fighting! All nails in the coffin of something dead within Lisbon-13—something killed by this doppelganger in the garden's grotto. But now, some of the old Lisbon's warmth blazed white hot as he shook off his double's hand. "You did this! You ruined everything," he said.
"We are all responsible for our choices. You chose this path. They chose theirs. Now is the time to select a new path. Together. We can help each other. We can free you from what you wanted. We can lighten your burden."
Piri knew what would happen next. She braced for the explosions and readied herself to leap to Lisbon's aid.
But none came.
"…Can you make me forget her?"
Lisbon-13's shadow-self embraced him. "Yes."
I'm back at the start. It's always confusing, even on my third (fourth?) time around. There's Cayde-6. Zavala. Ikora. The parade. I can't waste time here. Too many lost moments. I need to… find… whom? Damn it. Think. Ana? No. Who?!
Or is it… what?
I'm so disoriented. I remember pieces of past attempts, but not every detail. There has to be something I can do to make the refresh easier. Maybe new gear or tech. If my family's legacy has anything to offer, it's technological advancements. When I wake up, I need something familiar to ground me. Something I can carry back with me. It could be small. I need to think ahead. Plan more.
Even though I seem to have an endless supply of it, time is still a precious commodity. The more time squandered, the more likely I am to repeat the mistakes of past attempts. I do remember trying to warn the Vanguard. They regarded me as another doomsayer and had me promptly removed from the Tower. I'm sure I sounded like a raving lunatic. By the time I was proved right, it was too late. Eris was corrupted, like always. Drifter lost to his hopeless pursuit. No one believes me. No one trusts me. I need to stick to the shadows.
Something is happening around this time that's preventing me from making a discernible impact. Somewhere, there is the key to stopping this. I will find it.
I've been given an opportunity to right the wrongs of this world. Instead of hurtling headfirst without a plan, I'll stock up. This time, I'm going to focus on making the next cycle better. Let's call this one a wash. I'll save you next time, Ana. Cheers.
The knock-on effects of Ulan-Tan's Symmetry theory were wide reaching. They likely extended much further than Ulan-Tan himself ever intended. The idea of Light and Darkness as amoral, interdependent forces led to some extremely inconvenient questions. Chief among those was the following: If the Light and Darkness were interdependent, how could one ever "defeat" the Darkness?
As Ulan-Tan himself said, "I wish the Light could 'win,' as you put it. But we must accept that it's just not that simple."
This became a thorny subject for the Guardians, who had spent centuries asserting their combat capabilities. Inherent in their militarism was the idea that victory, or at least self-defense, was possible. However, if their use of the Light simply prompted the spontaneous generation of Darkness somewhere else in the universe, then their military efforts were inherently futile. They were simply propagating an eternal stalemate at the expense of their own pain and suffering.
In short, Ulan-Tan's biggest sin was telling a ruling warrior class that their war was unwinnable.
—Excerpts from "Ulan-Tan, Heretic Saint"
The day the Shadows died, Feltroc sat in a perch high above the fighting, among a sea of glittering rounds. There was a Red Legion corpse for each shell on the engineering deck of Ghaul's ship below. When everything in her field of vision was dead, she took aim at the enemy's airborne rounds, the ones meant for the Shadows still in the fight. She had hit several by the time the Red Legion managed to fill the air shaft around her with a neurotoxin.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
III.
Saladin remembers losing his connection to the Light. He remembers thinking that the Traveler must have discovered his most secret doubts; the darkest thoughts he shared with no one—not even his Ghost. He remembers the strange sense of relief that had washed over him until his radio crackled to life just moments later.
He remembers hearing a voice broadcast to the world that the Last City had fallen to the Cabal, but he could not tell you whose voice it was—only that it wasn't Zavala's.
"Saladin," his Ghost had said, sounding like it spoke from the end of a very long, very wide tunnel. "You have to move."
Because Saladin stood unmoving. He remembers staring out the window at flurries of snow for what felt like a very long time but could only have been a few minutes. He remembers tracing the outlines of neighboring peaks across the glass with the edge of his knuckle. He remembers the act of remembering: once upon a time, he'd taught their names to Zavala, as their names had been taught to him.
"Saladin," his Ghost said again, and Saladin remembers moving. He remembers clutching his radio and rallying survivors—those strong enough to make the journey—to the Iron Temple.
Saladin remembers all this and more whenever the Crow challenges him on his cowardice during the Red War. He wants to break the young Guardian's back to teach him a lesson about what it's like to feel helpless, but something stops him.
He remembers hearing stories about the Crow's life on the Shore before he arrived at the Tower, and does not raise a hand against him.
"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to," Ikora said. "I'd understand."
From the other side of the library, Aunor scowled. She was perhaps the most diligent of the Hidden, having dedicated herself to the unpleasant task of hunting down tainted Guardians. But that was precisely what worried Ikora. Each time they met, she seemed a little gaunter than before. A little testier. Was this crusade beginning to take a toll? Was it a mistake to give her another assignment instead of a vacation?
"I stand by my promise," Aunor snapped before transmatting out.
That had not alleviated Ikora's concerns one iota . She let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.
She couldn't dwell on it for long, however. The air crackled again. When Ikora opened her eyes, Saint was standing exactly where Aunor had been, moments ago. "Ikora Rey, I am sorry to come unannou—"
"How did you get in here?" she blurted. No one but the Hidden knew where her private library was. Or so she had thought.
The Exo stared at her, confused. "I—I transmatted," he said simply. He tried again. "I am sorry, but I must speak with you."
"No, I'm the one who should apologize. Please, sit." She hurried to clear the books piled around a pair of armchairs. "I got your message. It's unfortunate this has happened a second time."
Saint sat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. "Unfortunate, yes. Disturbing too. I fear…" He paused, looking away. Out the window, the afternoon sun had turned golden and begun sinking in the sky. "In battle, I know what to do. There are no doubts. The Trials was the same. But now, I do not know."
"I understand. Sometimes, it feels like these incidents are designed to make us doubt everything, even our own abilities." Ikora sat beside him. "But there's no one I'd trust more to helm the Trials at a time like this."
"Not even the man they are named for?" Saint let out a sad laugh. "He does not wish to, in any case. I ask and right away, he says he is too busy to care. Told me to shut them down, if I was so tired."
"Well, he is busy. He's almost acting as a third Vanguard with this whole Cabal conflict. Perhaps after we come to terms with Caiatl…"
"You misunderstand. I am glad he is busy. Busy is good. It distracts him from his loss. But he is still…"
"Different?"
"No. Yes, but more than that." He shook his head in frustration. "When I told him about the incident, I thought he would worry, like me. Instead, he tells me to take notes next time. Said the data would be useful," he spat in disgust.
Ikora looked at Saint, expecting him to say more. When he didn't, she sat back in her seat, thinking. She wasn't exactly surprised. Osiris was an experimentalist , after all, and not a particularly sensitive one. And though this comment was certainly more callous than usual, she didn't understand Saint's concern. He seemed agitated, almost like he was angry at Osiris…
"That must've been upsetting to hear, after what you went through," she began slowly. Saint looked away, confirming her theory. "But I think his heart's in the right place. We know so little about the Darkness. More data would indeed be very useful."
Saint said nothing. The light through the window splashed orange across his helm.
"But," she pressed on, "We shouldn't endanger Guardians to get it. However Osiris feels about them now, the Trials started as a way to train fireteams, and they're going to stay that way." She stood, placing a hand on the Exo's shoulder. "I swear to you."
He nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Good."
████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ tomorrow's tomorrow.
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█████████████████████████████████████████████ entire world for ██████████ ████████████████████████████████████
█████████
████████████████████████████████████████████████manifest ██████████ ███ None would threaten me, ████████████, or her future's future.
███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
████████████I first noticed it when █████████on her own; then again, ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████greater than the sum of her parts. ████████████████████████
And I let the void in my chest consume me.
MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //
Red light floods over Dunya's black-and-gold shell. The tiny Ghost's monocular blue eye bobs up and down as he tracks backwards through the air, taking in the presence of an ethereal figure hovering above.
Aisha and Reed turn at Dunya's chirp of alarm, guns drawn. But as they train their sights on the robed Nightmare shimmering in front of them, neither one can fully commit their aim. Aisha is the first to whisper an expletive in shock at the sight.
"Arguing about which of you is as terrible as I am?" The Nightmare of Shayura asks, turning her crimson stare away from Dunya's retreating form. "Heaven forbid you be as awful as your murderous friend."
Aisha is frozen in confusion, hands trembling on the grip of her scout rifle. "Shay." The word comes out of her mouth as little more than a hoarse whisper.
The Nightmare of Shayura floats slowly through the air toward Aisha and Reed, smiling when Dunya hides behind his Guardian and transmats away.
"First comes the guilt," the Nightmare croons, "then the shame, then the denial. I know the patterns well." She wags a finger back and forth, chidingly. "How soon before you forget me? Find a new Warlock to bask in their well? Pretend that I never existed?"
"S-Shay—Shay wh—" Aisha can't even string her words together. Not until she feels Reed's metal hand clamp down on her shoulder. When she looks at him, his expression is one of resolve, not fear. It's then that she remembers the instructions Eris had given, about how to survive on the Moon if ever the Nightmares came for them with familiar faces, familiar voices.
Aisha looks back at the Nightmare of Shayura and whispers: "I'm sorry."
MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //
A Fallen Vandal collapses to the ground, Ether vapor rising from a glowing hole where his face once was. Dark-blue blood sizzles around the wound.
"Clear," Reed-7 calls out from the top of a flight of metal stairs, the barrel of his fusion rifle still crackling with energy from the last bolt it fired. As he descends, Aisha follows and shoulders her scout rifle.
"Looks like they were pulling the wiring out of the walls," she observes, lifting up her hand and alighting her Ghost, Dunya, into the air. "Check the systems here; make sure they weren't doing anything else."
"Affirmative," Dunya chirps, zipping off through the air toward a computer terminal.
Aisha notices that Reed's glowing eyes are fixed on the Ether wafting from the Vandal's body. She spares a glance at Dunya before crossing the floor to Reed's side. "Hey," she says with a hand on his arm, jostling him from his thoughts.
"I'm good," he lies, gingerly pulling away. "Just—thinking."
Aisha looks down at the corpse, then back up to Reed. "This isn't like what Shay did on Venus." She tries to be reassuring, but it comes off as dismissive.
"How's it any different?" He asks with a dagger's sharpness in his voice. "These—they were stripping wires from the walls, Aisha. They weren't trying to hurt anyone!"
"They opened fire on us first."
"We didn't even try to talk to them!" Reed yells.
"Aisha?" Dunya chirps, across the room. Neither Guardian hears the Ghost.
"I'm sorry," Aisha says as she throws her arms up. "Was I supposed to do that before or after they threw a grenade at me?"
"Aisha?" Dunya says again, more alarm in his voice.
"We could have tried something! Anything!" Reed screams, getting in Aisha's face. "We could have—"
"AISHA!"
The Drifter slouches against the bulkhead of the Derelict, a pile of Dark Motes scattered across the table in front of him. He fixes his gaze on the massive Titan, the sharpness in his eyes belying his casual posture.
"I'm surprised you got the time to come around here, hassling me about these tiny Motes, Joxer. Seems like you got the big deal in orbit around Io. That's where the Vanguard oughta be." The Drifter's hand rests casually on the handle of a thick, breechloaded Grenade Launcher. "And ain't you Vanguard through and through these days?"
Joxer snorts at the irony. "I'm not here to hassle you, Drifter. On the contrary. Consider this a friendly warning."
"Friendly, huh? Is that what we are now?" Drifter's grip on the Grenade Launcher tightens. "Now you raised my suspicion. You better speak plain, Joxer, or prepare to draw."
The Titan shakes his head in exasperation. "Some people say those Pyramids damn near wiped us out once. Nobody knows for sure. But if they do end up hostile, it's going to get heavy in a hurry. And you don't want to be the guy standing in the middle holding a bag of Dark Motes."
"And what the hell business is it of yours where I'm standing?" the Drifter asks as he plants his boots on the deck. He rises to his feet, the Grenade Launcher dangling from his hand. "Unless I'm standing in your way."
Joxer puts his hands up in mock surrender. "You know what? I came here because I'm trying to change. Making amends. After what happed at Gambit Prime… I had to get right. And part of that is giving you some friendly advice to lay low for a while." He glances down at the Dark Motes. "But if you don't want to hear reason, that's on you."
Joxer trundles his way to the back of the ship. As the airlock hisses open, Drifter calls out, "That's real nice armor, Joxer. Don't forget where you got it."
v_v_v_victory: WE GOT ACCEPTED!!!
v_v_v_victory: EXODUS BLACK HERE WE COME
Waelcyrge: haha…
v_v_v_victory: I'M SO EXCITED AAAAAAAAAH
v_v_v_victory: SIGRUN!!!!!!!!
v_v_v_victory: we are LITERALYL going to make history
v_v_v_victory: like babies are going to be sitting in school on a WHOLE NEW PLANET
v_v_v_victory: and the teacher will be like 'LISTEN UP you little idoiots'
v_v_v_victory: 'some brave-ass people voluntered to leave EVERYBODY THEY KNEW + LOVED so that YOU could walk around on this weird planet'
v_v_v_victory: haha
v_v_v_victory: youre pumped too right?
v_v_v_victory: i know youre pumped
v_v_v_victory: sig?
Waelcyrge signed off at 07:46:45 UTC-8.
v_v_v_victory: gd it
Your message 'gd it' could not be delivered because the recipient is offline.
The stories are passed from child to child, whispered in the streets and on the playground like any good legend. "Don't ever venture beyond the wall and sight of the Tower," parents warn, citing these cautionary tales that speak of the boy's many deaths. Exposure. Hunger. Sickness. Cutthroats. Living nightmares. And on. And on. The children, however, have their own truths. To them, the boy never died. They call him the Rat King. The children believe he leads the forgotten among them out of the City on grand adventures. They say he and his misfit army saved the world. But children say many things, and the Vanguard maintains their official stance: there is no Rat King and his army never existed. That's what the elders believe. I choose to believe otherwise.
V
Gaelin-4 inhaled sharply. He sat up and flexed his limbs.
His ghost floated before him. "It was a lucky hit."
"Aren't they all?" Gaelin stood and brushed himself off. "Appreciated, Clip."
"Wire Rifles made it run before things got too bad." The Ghost dipped in a nod and dematerialized.
"Before?" Gaelin-4 turned around. Nivviks and Vynriis sat several paces away in pensive observation. "Those rifles jam or something?"
"Guardian requested to handle situation." Nivviks clacked his jaw. "Went as intended, yes?"
Gaelin glared at Nivviks, but the Fallen simply stepped forward and offered a hand to help him stand.
"Kept the Guardian's body from being dragged away. Saved pretty rifle," Vynriis said, placing Transfiguration in the Exo's hands.
Gaelin's glare relaxed as he locked eyes with Vynriis and conferred a mute look of thanks.
"Quarry is on the move. Unwise to return to an expecting Spider with empty hands." Nivviks took a long breath from an Ether canister. "What will the Guardian do?"
"How long was I out?"
"Not long… minutes," Vynriis replied.
Gaelin closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt his prey still tethered to his Light, marked by traces of the Void. Nivviks was right: it was close. "We hunt."
"Ah…" Nivviks stood. "Fortunate that we wounded Wrathborn," he said, pointing to a trail of fluid.
Gaelin-4 looked to the dim afterglow of the quenched fuel fire, to the fresh trail before them. "I defer to you, old timer."
"Good… yes. Try to keep up," Nivviks chittered. He pulled a transponder from his belt. "Tracking shot. Useful. Not far on Pikes… or flimsy Guardian bird."
Gaelin-4 mounted his flimsy Guardian bird. "By all means, lead."
They followed the trail in silence. Nivviks led, then Gaelin-4, then Vynriis. They had encircled him like a tenderfoot calf. He had underestimated the Wrathborn's resilience. Made a fool of himself to show up a couple Fallen on a dead rock—but a breakage heals stronger if it's set right.
They closed the distance quickly. The Wrathborn's lair was a small cave hovel with a bend just passed the entrance. He could almost see the creature's breath through the stone, feel its movements.
"Does the Guardian wish for Web Mines?" Vynriis held a mine out to Gaelin sheepishly.
Gaelin took it. "Let's line the entrance, Vynriis."
"How many?"
"All of them. We overwhelm it at the choke, then tether and spike it down."
Nivviks nodded. "Draw it out. We will keep its tails from killing you… again."
"Appreciated. Guess I'll be bait."
Gaelin-4 entered the cave and saw the Wrathborn caressing a tendril rooted in its back. Before it, a shrine of black twisted spines. They had begun to harden and gain a translucent metallic sheen, increasingly stained by drippings as his eye wandered higher. The missing associates hung impaled at their apex as tarnished crowns. The spines fed upon them, and Gaelin could see the planted stems weaving together at the base. The Wrathborn yanked the tendril from its back and planted it. They quivered. A hint of a voice. Gaelin would look upon them no longer.
He formed a vortex of Void in his palm and slung it beneath the Wrathborn. It stumbled backward as the grenade burned away. Behind it, the Fallen bodies disintegrated, but the spires remained unscathed and thirsty. The Wrathborn turned to pursue him, ripping at the ground, ceiling, and walls for holds.
The Guardian ran and dove over a line of Web Mines at the cave mouth. He cloaked as the Wrathborn was barraged by their spheres of Arc disruption.
Nivviks and Vynriis pelted the beast with Wire Rifle shots, fending off tendrils and drawing attention from Gaelin-4. The Guardian nocked a Void-Light bolt and cast his Shadowshot into the Wrathborn's chest, drawing its limbs in with crushing gravity. The trio drew Arc-cage stake-points and flung them into position around the incapacitated Wrathborn. As the last stake made connection, the Arc-cage sprung and shocked the beast into unconscious submission.
Morning light trickled over the horizon as the three finished tying down the cage for transfer.
"Better this time," Nivviks croaked. "Cave is unsettling."
"Web Mines were a good idea," the Guardian replied. He sighed. "I strongly advise you demo that cave."
"Agreed. I will call for a Ketch." Nivviks stepped away, shouting back, "Enjoy your liquor and whelp."
Gaelin-4 smirked.
Vynriis checked the cage's seals and looked to Gaelin. "What will the Guardian call his War Beast?"
"Castus."
"A good hound."
████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ tomorrow's tomorrow.
█████████
█████████████████████████████████████████████ entire world for ██████████ ████████████████████████████████████
█████████
████████████████████████████████████████████████manifest ██████████ ███ None would threaten me, ████████████, or her future's future.
███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
████████████I first noticed it when █████████on her own; then again, ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████greater than the sum of her parts. ████████████████████████
And I let the void in my chest consume me.
Chapter 5: Abhorrent Imperative
Voronin tied his armband tight around her calf to cut off the blood flow from Morozova's gaping wound. He tried to keep her leg clean while the wind caked them with dirt and debris. Lightning was drawing closer. The sterile scent of ozone had returned and he knew he didn't have much time. "COME BACK!" he shouted hopelessly to the God. He hoisted Morozova up, supporting her on his shoulder, and pushed back against the elements that were conspiring against him.
It was 250 meters to the evac station. Every step was a battle of attrition. At this point, the thought of coldsleep sounded comforting. He just had to make it to the SMILE pods. The storm had other plans. A nearby HMMWV was struck by a wayward bolt and the explosion threw them back. He felt Morozova torn from his side as he landed, and the sound of his skull hitting stone was louder than the thunder had been. As blackness crept into his vision, he saw the Traveler in the sky, moving away, abandoning him.
…and then he was being dragged from the wreckage and violence onto a gurney. "…Morozova?" he struggled out. He was met with an oxygen mask. His eyes darted, in search of some sign that Morozova was alive. Voronin couldn't decipher anything out of the pandemonium around him. "I'm sorry," he thought to himself while cursing the orb in the sky for deserting him.
The last thing he remembered before they placed him into coldsleep was an explosion in the sky so bright it blinded him.
[The Witch Queen rarely paid visit to my prison. And when she did, it was not for me. She knew what I was, what I produced. I was a servant of the Subjugator. A servant of the Witness. A provider of that which took sustenance from her and many like her. She never cared for that. And as such, she never cared for me. Or for him. And he knew it.]
[She was cunning. Where wrath consumed Oryx and Xivu Arath, it always eluded Savathûn. Or perhaps, it was she who eluded it.]
[Of this, my Subjugator was not fond. Placed indefinitely in her throne world, he was made to watch her every move. To mentor and guide, to keep a close eye—so that one day, she, too, could serve the Witness. A Disciple in the making.]
[It was as planned. The Krill became the Hive. The enemy amongst the moons of Fundament disappeared. My Subjugator served his Witness well. But he could not escape the very words of his Witness, which beat against his mind whenever Savathûn stood in his presence. —-The universe is wide, my child. With wrath matching if not exceeding yours in its vastness. Seek it before it seeks you. Or it will be your end.—-]
[I became a vessel for his jealousies. A source of power for his Upended to consume. To see Savathûn's world shattered should she ever step out of line.]
[In the Deep, my children pay a price in servitude, for survival. In ascendance, the Hive pay a price in servitude, for power. And in the dark, I pay a price in servitude, so that others may be nurtured.]
[It must not be in vain.]
"Eyes on the road," Marcus Ren told himself. "And don't look back."
It was a motto he lived by, both on and off the track.
His Sparrow screamed across Luna's surface, kicking up clouds of moondust in its wake. Out here, he was free to push prototype engines to their limits. To open the throttle wide and really cut loose.
But that wasn't why he was riding so fast tonight.
He didn't notice anything strange at first. Not until he stopped to check the Sparrow's instruments. And then, he felt it: eyes on his back, a chill on his neck.
Marcus immediately hit the ignition and boosted the Sparrow to its top speed. But still the feeling followed him, and he knew what it was.
A Nightmare.
He'd heard the term on Vanguard channels. Phantoms wearing the faces of the lost, tormenting those who remembered them. And Marcus Ren remembered a lot of people.
He switched off the fuel regulator and kicked the Sparrow into overdrive. He didn't know who was chasing him, and he sure as hell wasn't looking over his shoulder to find out.
"Eyes on the road," he repeated aloud, gripping the handlebars until his knuckles were as pale as death.
"And never look back."
"You little rat. You took my warm hospitality and stomped all over it like an ungrateful child. Is that any way to treat one of your dear 'brethren'?"
Siviks laughed. A cold, twisted laugh. Then offered up a large wad of spit at the Spider's feet.
The Spider just rolled his eyes. "Let me know when you're ready to make nice," he said.
Siviks' laugh now grew into something maniacal. He topped it off with another wad of spit, this time directly in the Spider's face.
Once he'd wiped his brow, the Spider leaned forward, looking Siviks in the eyes, and said, "I think our little rat here needs a time out. Perhaps someplace with the rest of the vermin."
The many hands of Spider's men gripped and restrained Siviks. As they dragged him off, he shouted, "You… as bad as all Fallen! Worse, even! A friend even to humans… All must die!"
The Spider simply waved goodbye, taunting, "Bon voyage, my friend!"
Once Siviks had gone, the Spider looked longingly toward where he had stood. He sighed a deep, regretful sigh before continuing with business as usual.
EARTH // LAST CITY // DETENTION FACILITY //
"The first steps to healing are learning to forgive yourself. That's a hard one, I know."
Doctor Syeda Uzair sets her datapad aside, then sits forward in her chair. She folds her hands in front of herself. A tiny, beaded chain is wrapped around one hand, and a small bone charm of the Traveler is pressed into her right palm. "Shayura, whether or not a court of law finds you guilty of your actions in any measure, you are still held accountable to the court of your own conscience."
Across from Doctor Uzair, Shayura is slouched in her chair. She stares past her doctor, out the narrow windows, and looks to the looming figure of the Traveler hanging in the sky. It seems so much bigger compared to the projections she chooses to display in her cell.
"Who judges them?" Shayura asks, motioning to the window with her chin. To the Traveler.
Doctor Uzair turns, glancing over her shoulder at the Traveler. Her grip on the charm tightens. "I don't know," is her immediate answer, but the question will burrow its way through her mind, surfacing again when she lies down in bed tonight. "I understand the Human condition far better than a god's."
"Maybe the Traveler abandoned us because it's ashamed of us. Of what we've done in its name." Shayura's voice is small, weary. An alert flickers on Dr. Uzair's datapad, momentarily drawing her attention away. Shayura fills the silence with a sigh.
"Maybe," Doctor Uzair says, though she doesn't believe it. "But, maybe we're all just short on hope these days. I'd like to extend our session a little longer, if you're willing. Would you mind if we did so with some guests?"
Concern flashes across Shayura's face; defensiveness, shame. She sits up slightly in her seat. Doctor Uzair can see the tension.
"When we speak of forgiveness, sometimes it helps to first be forgiven," Doctor Uzair says with a tempered smile. Shayura glances to the datapad, then back to her doctor.
"Reed-7 and Aisha would like to see you."
Tears well in Shayura's eyes. Her voice of dissent evaporates.
Shayura realizes there is one thing she can still have faith in: her family.
Eris Morn chalks the floor in the H.E.L.M. wing previously inhabited by the Servitor of the Eliksni Splicers. A liberated Tomb Ship drones beside her. Through the open, shielded, hangar, the Leviathan is visible as a malformed knot, its shape bulging from the shadowed outline of the Moon.
Ikora descends the stairs. An ornately dressed Warlock thanatonaut follows, their robes trimmed in bone and elaborately stitched symbols.
"Did you commandeer this from Mars?" Ikora asks with a smile, looking over the Hive vessel.
Eris stands. "It provided ample shielding for transporting the Crown from its vault."
"It's here, now?" the thanatonaut asks, breaking his stride at the bottom of the stairs.
"Worry not. The H.E.L.M. will disembark from the City to ensure the Crown is contained," Eris answers.
"Keep that Tomb Ship docked here in case we need to jettison the Crown. Last thing I need is a rookie shooting you down in it." Ikora steps past the thanatonaut with a reassuring nod. "Tell us what you're thinking next, Eris."
Eris gestures toward the open bay door. "The Leviathan is at our doorstep. Even if we unravel Calus's plan, the ship itself still poses a threat simply by its size. Calus does not require paracausal power to cause an extinction-level event."
"Calus's interest appears to be focused solely on the Pyramid," Ikora interjects. "Should that change, Zavala assures me that Caiatl's fleet will provide ample dissuasive firepower."
Eris nods in rhythm with Ikora's well-reasoned words. "I trust that to be true—however, whatever connection Calus has established is drawing Nightmares and phantoms alike to the Leviathan. He is able to exert influence over them. But I believe we can disrupt this connection."
She points to the thanatonaut. "You," she says and motions toward three chalked spots on the floor. "Here, here, and here. We will require death anchors to tether the ritual. Hold your mind on the brink for as long as you can, and I will craft the sigils required to contain the Crown. Then, we will need volunteers…"
FROM THE WRITINGS OF TOMEK
All things have a cost. But what if I didn't have to be the one to pay it?
The many-worlds theory may be out of fashion among my peers, but the fanatical beliefs of the Future War Cult don't come from nowhere.
I remember the exact moment I realized: If I was investigating ways to make my parallel selves carry my burdens, then surely those Tomeks had already had the same idea.
I had no way of knowing the others' progress. But each time I bent my head over my workbench, I felt the gaze of infinite eyes upon my shoulders.
In the end, I and one other activated our inventions at the exact same space-time coordinates.
It came down to a cosmic coin toss. One of us became the owner of the powerful Contraverse Hold.
And I became a battery.
RECORD: Security Log E.P. Station, MTRLv2.18
IDENTITIES: C. Bray I, M. Liu
TEST SUBJECT: Sgt. Traore
FILE//DSC_CLASSIFIED
[M.L.] Test subject successfully through the portal. Direct feed is live. Multiple hostiles detected.
[C.B.] There are… so many of them.
[M.L.] The Vex numbers are incalculable currently.
[C.B.] Well, what are we waiting for? Launch the artillery.
[M.L.] Targets acquired.
[C.B.] How many targets are being tracked?
[M.L.] Four.
[C.B.] That's not enough. Fire now.
[M.L.]
[C.B.] FIRE. NOW.
[M.L.]
[C.B.] Denied. Fire 3 and 4.
[M.L.]
[C.B.] DENIED. Use the right arm… Where's the feed?!
[M.L.] Test subject offline. Feed lost.
[C.B.] For the love of… Do you see the cost of hesitation? Of cowardice?
[M.L] …
[C.B.] No matter. This is the price of advancement. The test subject was able to target multiple threats successfully but was simply unable to execute commands fast enough. The next hurdle requires a mechanism capable of housing projectiles for simultaneous fire that's lightweight enough for individual operation.
[M.L.] I'll get this report to R&D ASAP.
[C.B.] Tell them I expect to see an operational prototype by week's end.
[M.L.] Copy. Requesting retrieval of the remains, sir.
[C.B.] Denied. I will not allow the facility to be compromised or our portal to be breached. We'll double our defenses here and continue to send Exos through to fight the Vex on their front until we get this right.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF AN EMPTY VESSEL…
Dormant. Bound.
[Knock]
Threat.
Storm outside.
Rain soft thirst.
Flashes show shapes.
Shapes I know.
[The Knock is stronger]
Gentle whispers reach from me.
To all.
As Father, as Fikrul.
Barons. Kells.
Gone.
Another voice…
[The Knock is insistent]
Pressing.
FearandConfusion.
No.
The mind beneath this one screams to the surface.
Nothing, Scorn, a Son… Fallen… Eliksni…King…
Akriis does not bow.
Arise, commands the voice buried in whispers.
Akriis does not bow, but Akriis is dead.
Peeled away.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
The spine of the Glykon breaks, its vertebrae now interchanging.
Scorn howl to herald the crossing into Nothing.
Through the Locus, they hear the whispers and obey:
"Meet Salvation."
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: There's a scanner array off the hull near the hangar. I patched a line through to it to check Qinziq's feed. Needed somewhere to listen.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Calus's tomb-carriage overlooks the viewing chamber once again. All his forms stand around a garish mass of metal and apprehension: the crown, as he called it. Fewer crew members attend this communion after so many failed attempts. Gilly and I stand above a host of chattering carcasses. Plugs can cables run from them into the flesh of an Ether-logged Scorn beneath an ugly crown. The gold from the Castellum is flush with tarnish, stemming from some kind of lichen that had burrowed its way into the precious metal adornments since the last communion attempt.
"I thought gold doesn't stain," I say to Gilly. "It's an expression of purity."
"Like the Light?"
"Mm," I grunt. Gilly fixates on the crown, on the viewing window and the depth beyond.
Bahto takes the spot next to me and leans against the railing. "Are all Guardians ruled by uncertainty?"
Councilors approach the crown.
"Bahto, in my experience, people who are too sure of themselves tend to die." The Councilors place their hands to the crown, and suddenly, I am greatly aware of this room's stillness. Our tilt.
Bahto raises his voice over the intensifying chatter. "Your Ghost speaks to the Scorn, as much as they can."
"Curious, that's all. Looking for an angle, something we can use. Ain't that right, Gilly?" I ask, trying to hide my suspicion.
Gilgamesh says nothing, iris frozen ahead as the viewing curtain completes its retraction.
Velocity surges forward to the anomaly, tearing away the surrounding reality. The sound of Calus's feverish multi-fold laughter drowns the hull's groans for mercy. It's different this time, not a passage. It's a wall. We crash hard—but not all at once. It's a steady tumbling impact. Always down. The cosmic bands bend around us and shutter as they're drawn into thin bright needles of diminishing relevance. Peripheral obliteration mainlined and burnt through. The space between each needle of light expands until. It. IS.
The transition is like a reluctant membrane; a depth of souls frozen over and wailing. The ice grinds against itself at the ecliptic barrier between form and expression.
We cross: sunless. Adrift on empty currents with no direction.
.
.
.
"Where's the emperor?"
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: They keep an offshoot of the hangar locked. If no one's using it…
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Six hard weeks in the Reef. Scorn, Hive, and horrors enough. I still prefer the open Shore to the Glykon, but it's earning its keep. We crossed the belt and anchored our gravity off Phobos: an old Cabal base still holding an operational tether. I volunteered to clear the base of Taken. Get out a bit. Didn't even get a fireteam together before we realized the damn things were docile.
Against the anomaly, our little serpent ship was a worm, a speck, like a distant star you squish between your fingers. The bottomless pit where Mars used to be fills every starboard porthole. Crew stand in the viewing chamber for hours. Some get dragged out. The immensity of it, a planet-wide fathom of hissing dark… boundless, and us: planted on the edge of reason… It defies you.
Calus docked with us yesterday, his Scribe not but two steps behind him. Perused the stock. Picked out the first one for what they're calling communion.
They brought something on board. Scorn haven't shut up since. Qinziq is getting it ready in the viewing chamber.
Gilly's eyeing it too; looking through portholes. I hear him at night, whispering:
"It's the same… all the way through. You were right, Katabasis: it's all just a cage, a prison, but so much bigger than we thought."
What are we doing here?
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: You can rest midway above the turbine grinder. The noise covers your moments.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Blood meets a slurry of oil and dark Ether draining into runoff vents in the cabin floor. I sit. A savage din echoes through the harvester craft. I can hear them in the war beast pens below deck. Gnashing teeth maddeningly chewing through restraints. The wet slaps of their bodies battering the walls.
Bahto boards the harvester under a hail of tiny stones. "The hold is secured, and casualties collected." He shuts the bay to the Reef-storm behind him.
"How many?" I ask, noticing the two of us are alone.
He mistakes concern for weakness. "We will be ready for tomorrow's harvest."
I shift the question. "How many more of these things does Qinziq want?"
"Two days of harvest before leaving the Shore."
"She tell you what for?"
"No more than you."
"Following blind orders something that sits well with you?"
"Qinziq does not answer to you, Lightbearer."
"So I've heard." More than once.
"My father spoke like you. Questioned," Bahto grumbles, laying down his gear. "He abandoned Calus to join Ghaul's coup. Disgraced our bloodline. I threw off my father's shackles and pledged my life to the emperor. I was shown mercy. Soon I will reclaim the clout of my line and the right to sire. Loyalty is not blindness. Loyalty is rewarded."
"Sounds like he turned away from a losing battle to one he thought he could win."
"He left when hope seemed small, before he could see victory through." Bahto pauses, pensive. "Calus will expose the secrets of the Darkness and use them to reclaim Torobatl. It will be."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Qinziq blocks the entrance into her lab. It had been hastily transferred from Leviathan to Glykon after our procurement of the ship; all manner of vicious-looking machinery. She raises a finger to my face. Her language restructures in my mind. "You do not belong here."
"I need to know exactly what you're using them for."
"Why? They are animals. Our beasts of burden."
I ponder the ethics. They used to be something else, a deadened part buried and ignored… but…
"Such concern for a Hunter."
She meant to pin me to Cayde. "Ain't any different from defiling a corpse. You people honor your dead, don't you?"
'I do not answer to you,' Qinziq seethes into my mind. She brushes me away and moves to shut the door.
"Bahto does. His soldiers do. Do you want to politely ask the Scorn into confinement, or do you want to be straight with me?"
She scowls at me. "Where is your Ghost?"
"Hangar maintenance…"
"Come," Qinziq says, leading me inside the lab to a bundle of large vats adorned with all manner of pumps and wiring. "This…" she slides a viewing port open on the front-most vat.
Rabid Scorn eyes lock with mine through the view port. Dark fluid roils as the creature flails and fumes muted shrieks into the liquid.
"Natural connection to Darkness made stronger. Their minds, linked like ours, but without Barons, there is nothing to fill them."
I watch it claw frantically against the vat wall until I hear the grating tone of bone-raw fingertips digging into the metal.
"A touch more violent than I'd expect from a mindless thing," I say.
"They subsist off the last thought imposed on them. Kill for Fikrul. For the lost prince. But…" Qinziq presses her hand to the tank. She fixates her eye on the Scorn, and it mellows. Her words are strained. "…with effort, their psyche is a vessel. Through which many expressions can… commune." She releases the Scorn, exhausted, and it drowns again; eyes shrieking terror. "Too many for this one to inhabit."
"How does that help us?"
"Calus will draw the Darkness into them, and we will squeeze from them all they know."
"How?" I insist.
"When we arrive at the anomaly, you will see."
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Fungus choked off the turbine maintenance deck. If you find a way in, throw the switch.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Restless sleep plagued by the nightmare.
I am in the streets when the sirens start.
I lay watching the Traveler for a long time. Disbelief. The gap in thought of a semiautomatic mind.
Red Legion sweeps. I see their harrowing fusillades tear annihilation through the Tower.
Everyone is standing but me.
Debris falling. I am separated. I reach for Gilgamesh and he is gone.
The cage chokes our Light.
Fire chases me from street to street. No Light. No ammunition. The City is burning.
Faceless zephyrs screaming to me beneath a pitiless god. Red-plated death lines the walls, and
The City is burning.
I flee. I flee. I flee. I flee. I flee… my steps weighted down by guilt.
The City is burning and you did nothing.
.
.
.
Gil's broken star finds my shame.
There is only us, forging survival.
Together we crawl to exile.
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Nightmare's back. Took months, but it always comes back—in force this time. Every night since we took on our cargo, they've been howling. I swear they're three decks down, but you can still hear 'em. Gil's been wandering the ship more.
Time to start making go bags. Think I'll carve out a spot near the hangar… opposite side from Qinziq's lab. Place is swarming now.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF CALUS THE CACOETHES…
A crowd has gathered to stand with me, their emperor, soon to be so much more. Amsot spread word of my arrival, and they clamored to be first in my presence in the viewing chamber. I spot the Guardian and his little Light as well—an extra morsel of bait. The Ghost watches while the Guardian resigns to the rear. Pity.
All come to view the zenith of my labors. I am omnipresent. Every angle that can be seen is seen by statues at every corner. My plated carriage monitors the Crown for aberrations. It is adorned with gold from the Castellum for my viewing. I paid many lives to pry it free from Hive clutches, but it bent most agreeably… its ability to bridge minds… and bring them to submit. I see my tributes, Scorn gibbering nonsense in unison, lashed and plugged to the Crown—a thorn made tool in my brilliance. My daring Councilors anchor their psyches and prepare to begin the communion. Greatness is before us.
These watchers: I shall thrill them.
I clap four monumental pairs of hands. "Let it… begin."
I turn all my gaze to the chamber's expansive viewing window as shutters unveil the grave of Mars. Tendrilic bands of phasing Darkness spiral from the anomaly's core, enrapturing all of me… beckoning into the depth of its core with whispers like hooks through nervous flesh. I gape into the stimulating writhe. "Yes…"
My Councilors place their hands on the Crown and focus cognition through it. They pry open the Scorn's collective synaptic pathways and sew them into the fabric of the anomaly's memetic sphere. The Glykon strains against the pull.
Velocity surges forward to the anomaly; the surrounding reality tears away. We hold, suspended before the writhe. It fills all sight; Nothing just beyond the bend. Time ceases, and the cosmos arcs to accommodate my will. Now.
"Delight in me. I emulated all of me in your image; stretched my mind to live through so many… I reaped the pleasures and experiences of every vessel. But despite my sundry perspectives, I still only see through my own eyes—and I want more." I peer into the Dark nothing. "You are… oblivion. Not a destruction, but a melding of all that has come to pass. I wish to become as you are. To gorge on existence. To collect your promise to elevate me." My laughter is wild. All of my forms transfix on the swirling anomaly. "LOOK UPON ME!"
The cosmos bends and snaps as I stand, returned to my feeble reality. Ignored again. The Scorn shriek nonsense in unison. It drowns out of the whispers. It is all any of me can hear.
I reach out, as you showed me when last we met. I split open each Scorn mind from my carriage, searching for you. Nothing. Every time. So I tear open their bodies. Fitfully pulling limb from socket, mind from skull, scouring them for your presence. I search until the shrieking can only be heard from distant pens.
I meet the eyes of each crew member who would not look away. In them, I see it. You. Peering back from behind the tension: An Observer.
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Dug out a spot under the refuse pit. It's still running, so be quick.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
A royal invitation got me as far as the inner reliquary. I enter the belly of the Leviathan, unattended. My eyes catch on the runs in Calus's crestfallen banners. His inner halls don't gleam—reminds me of stories from the Golden Age. Polish the veneer and present them on a platter, but when you peel back the layers it's just… old. Past, with prime far behind.
Ahead, a Legionary in loyalist gild nods to me and swings open a door. A manufactured version of Calus stands tall on the other side. Its likeness mirrors the Tribute Hall's automaton and many other statuesque bots I'd spoken to him through.
The statue of Calus whines to life. "You're early, but I suppose your tribe is always ahead of the pack, Hunter. Should I have this room moved, that you may stroll the Leviathan's halls that much longer and appreciate my hospitality?"
I'm not sure what he wants to hear. "She's an impressive beast. I've come to take the job." I turn it like an offer.
Uncomfortable silence.
"Come and see me, Katabasis. I have a gift for you."
The statue points toward a domed chamber; its curled walls sport every kind of trophy. Bones on hooks. Taxidermy wrapped around terrified eyes and final moments.
A clutch of Councilors watches me as they take mechanical plates from three other identical statues of Calus surrounding them. They huddle about a towering cage of filigreed alloys and woven circuitry, fitting the plates to it with sacramental focus, until the cage becomes a tomb around a pearlescent seat supporting a lonesome figure within.
"What an auspicious early arrival. Come. Witness my containment. Few have seen this," Calus wheezes from inside the cage, his voice like taut suffocation.
Calus's withering form swells and jostles. My thoughts stink of disgust, and he can smell it. "I am no more trapped here than you are by your Light. You assume this flesh satisfies me? How small. My automatons stand as monuments of my image; reflections of my breadth. They are, as I am: one collective self, as Nothing is.
I grit my teeth and look on, stepping sideways to see him from a different angle. His skin is mottled with sickly translucence that grips my stomach.
"Your thoughts are as open as your fears, Katabasis. Come, come… look upon me and let my Councilors assuage them."
Councilors lay more thick plates over Calus's living misery, brushing past me as they finish and exiting the room with my inhibitions. Mechanisms within the plates engage as plum light emits from the slits between them. Nacre runs smooth around the frame and into a throne-like cup of sullied nobility. Beneath the throne, hoses bubble viscous royal wine into the sealed frame. Calus looks through me, eyes like clumped chalk, as the last Councilor fastens a faceplate into position. Deep orbs illuminate in the faceplate, like wild eyes in the open pitch of night. We are alone.
"What do you know of lies, Katabasis?"
I pick between the words. "There're a lot different kinds."
"And all of them are weakness. " Calus's voice spills from the containment vessel and floods the room. "Gods do not lie. Like me, they have neither the capacity nor the reason. True power cannot be threatened. It does not compel deception. And yet, I have been betrayed by one I thought to be the final divinity."
"Sounds like you got swindled… ?" I quickly blunt the question with respect: "…Emperor?"
"When the Darkness found me adrift in the cosmos, rejected by a people I had made, I thought to have found a confidant. No—an idol. They promised to return to me, to uplift me—that we may dance together among the stars and drink of their dying ecstasy 'til the end, as one. But their chilling little fleet came and went. It was luscious, and so many tasted so much. Yet I am empty. Nothing. Trapped in this limbo of their lie."
"And gods don't lie," I proffer.
"Precisely. To be seen…" Calus pauses to heap the drama, "…for what we really are, underneath the surface, is bliss." All four statues step forward to bear Calus's vessel. His voice resounds from all of them simultaneously. "Come. Cast a shadow in my halls and drink. Soon we will speak to the liar, and separate from it the truth."
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Smuggler's switches still working. Maintenance side-hatch. Had to kick in the vent.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Smaller ships flock like parasites around a centerpiece flagship. Qinziq points to it, a Cabal carrier-class warship. "Glykon Volatus." She touches her finger to the yard's perimeter barrier and says, "Over," as if directing an animal. Qinziq flattens her palm against the ground and displaces the radiolarian saturation with a bubble of Void energy. It bursts and launches her and Bahto over the barrier. I follow on steps of Light, my Tex Mechanica rifle dangling from a loose strap.
Bahto settles last on uneasy jet bursts. Qinziq steps in front of him and calibrates a device on his chest plate before Bahto turns to face me. "One of your transmat," he grumbles. "I will stop their signal receiver, so our ship is hidden until we remove its locational anchor."
We separate into the silent yard, to our tasks. Qinziq and I weave through a field of parked interceptors as Bahto does his best to stay inconspicuous on his way to a gargantuan signal dish at the adjacent edge of the yard.
The daunting bow of the Glykon Volatus looms, obstructing the sky like a bloodied wave rearing up to consume us. I duck behind the frontal landing gear while Qinziq opens a service chute to the command deck.
I peek through the open hatch. Down the hall, a lone Psion runs diagnostics on the bridge. I carefully crawl inside and slip the long rifle from my back.
"Shoot it."
"Guns are loud, Gil." He wasn't totally off-kilter. One thought from that Psions could alert the whole yard.
'Ignorance.' The word ripples through my brain in Qinziq's seething voice. 'She will not.'
I didn't invite you in here, I thought.
The ripple spreads: 'Yours is a mind unfocused and taxed. Chaos where reason should lie.'
"We need this ship," Gilly whispers. He swings into my peripheral view. "If you don't do something, that Psion is going to have every Cabal in the sector on us!"
Qinziq surfaces from the hatch and kneels beside us. "This is Yirix, Ghost. She will not reveal us."
"She's Red Legion. Calus would see her executed."
"Psions fly many colors, but within the Cabal, we exist in congress, moving toward our own future. She will recognize my contribution, as I hers," Qinziq says, stepping forward.
Gilly watches Qinziq approach the other Psion. "If this sours, don't give it the chance."
His words cinch around my lungs. Short breaths of wary anticipation escape. I sight my long gun and wait.
Yirix stiffens as she becomes aware of Qinziq. She turns. They bow their heads together. The two empathize and come to one understanding in silence.
Whatever ambitions they have go further than this ship, this moment, this Cabal. I hadn't thought that way since I last wore the veneer of a Guardian. Sold a dream of an immortal City shielded by Light, as if it could go on forever. Forever is just a hope folks don't live long enough to see crumble.
Yirix looks to Gilly and me, to my rifle, unthreatened. I feel her request for temperance and a tranquil reassurance of their cause. For a moment, I feel young. I stand.
We warm the launch engines as Yirix slips away to join the throng and let us be.
Bahto materializes onto the bridge out of transmat and out of breath. He manages a few prideful words, "Charges set. We will not be tracked."
The Glykon breaks atmosphere as a colossal explosion rocks the shipyard and shutters through our hull. Flames spit across the distant yard below, spreading into a bonfire of heirlooms. Bahto called it "the spark that burns the past to fuel the future."
Better than the other way around.
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Door's on the fritz. Been that way since we dove. Staying away from this one.
This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…
The words seep experience into your open mind…
THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…
Our disheveled Thresher rattles through lean Nessian atmosphere. Calus's words ring in my ears over the storm-rush of reentry: "The ship is yours to claim."
Most of the seats in the drop-hold are empty. A Psion officer named Qinziq sits across from me. Her eye hasn't left me since she boarded. To my right, a craggy Cabal Centurion, complete with demolition satchels and Projection Rifle, adjusts the connectors on his pressure suit. He'd been assigned to make sure none of the other Cabal try to kill me. Seems news of my command had rendered a number of the crew indignant.
I prod first: "I can't imagine hiding a ship from the Legion was easy on Nessus. To be honest, I'm surprised they haven't tried to storm the Leviathan."
"They would die," grumbles the Centurion. "Bad strategy."
"What does it matter? Calus saw fit to give you a ship, Katabasis." My Ghost, Gilgamesh, glares at me.
Qinziq sneers and leans forward. Her voice seethes from her helmet. "The Legion is stirred by Caiatl's rousing, Human…" I recognize the tinge of malice in her address. "…and the fall of Torobatl. She sends heralds of her fleet. Ships come and go without stories recorded. We pass unnoticed for some time."
The brute bows his head.
"First I'm hearing of it. You're saying they won't notice this ship taking off?" I ask.
"For some time," Gilly quotes the Psion.
"But normally they would… because it's a Legion ship, and you've set me up to commit thievery?"
"All Cabal ships belong to Calus," the Centurion growls. "And Qinziq does not answer to you."
"Right." My shoulders slump forward, head resting in my hands, as the Thresher touches down. We disembark onto prickly milk-rich soil, turning away from the sun as the deep green sky slowly bleeds out. A congested Cabal shipyard glows in the distance against the crest of dark riding the horizon.
"You are Katabasis." The Cabal is speaking to me. He gestures to himself. "Bahr'Toran."
"You're my skull-cracker." I point to my Ghost. "Name's Gilgamesh, or Gilly."
Bahr'Toran considers for a moment and nods. "I do that. But you will need to know my name if we find battle."
"I'm not looking to have a shootout with an entire base. I think the plan is more a quiet reappropriation of goods, Bahto."
"I do not like that."
"Gilly's didn't take at first, but time wears ya down."
Gilly nods to Bahto, who nods back with a grunt and begins walking. We follow him across the bluffs toward the yard, into flatland desolace and sunless gloom.
The shipyard is a massive pulverized flat of rough tarmac and shanty barracks surrounded by a barrier fence. It overflows with craft ranging across eras of the Cabal Empire. On the far end of the strip, Gilly spots Arc-lights shining. A figure draped in azure raiment stands above a throng of Cabal, drawing attention like thunder. Whatever he's saying, they believe it. Gilly catches a few words. It's the same talk you hear anywhere else someone's been forgotten: blame, looking for a hole to fester in; wrestling at the edges with tepid hope; at risk of falling back down into the past.
FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Maintenance hall off the cargo bay door. Cozy spot floor-side.
FEEDBACK FROM FIELD SESSION 177
* Thermal conservation tech "felt good" over a seven-hour session
* Micromesh webbing had minor grating on user's wrist, consistent across multiple test subjects
* 3cm, 1cm, 5mm grip tests successful
* User shouted expletive during high-caliber round test, but only sustained minor bruising
I:
"Anything else, Arrha?"
"Yes, the Spider." Arrha answers in Eliksni. "Mithrax has told me about the orb the humans call Tee-tahn. A water-world of floating cities. Before the Red War, very few humans visited it, very few."
"I'm already bored."
"Tee-tahn is still ripe with plunder, the Spider, and now the plunder comes to us! The Guardian Slohn sends shipments of it to Terra in unmanned craft. Relies on the cloaking to protect it. But the cloaking cannot stop a web. Not if we know where to cast it."
"How interesting." Spider scratches his chin. "Very good, Arrha. It's time for you to go fishing."
"Fishhhhhh… ink?"
Spider heaves a put-upon sigh. "Catch me one of those boats, you fool."
"Yes, the Spider. I shall."
Only when he is outside the Spider's audience chamber does Arrha allow himself a frustrated growl. "'Catch a boat, Arrha.' That was the idea…"
Director Lakshmi-2,
Enough is enough. I know what you're using, and I'll be speaking with the Vanguard. The fact that you think you can interpret what has driven dozens to insanity doesn't give me a good deal of confidence in your decision-making abilities, and I can't keep my concerns internal any longer. We don't need another Sundaresh in the upper ranks.
I don't care if you saw the Red War before it happened. What would you say of the several other unfruitful predictions you conveniently ignore now?
I have listened to your speeches and read your many messages calling for support. I understand you believe the future is at stake, and we are supposed to do something about that. Fear over the Fallen is not the future this organization was meant to combat. Your paranoia won't change my mind.
My children were harassed in the streets today for daring to bring food to the Eliksni Quarter. They came home in tears, and I wonder how long until it becomes worse. I won't be a part of spreading that fear. I won't participate in splitting this City and turning it against itself. I'm well aware of the dangers posed by Fallen Houses, but the City remains strong because we stand together.
You're a student of history. You know how the Iron Lords converted Warlords into dutiful servants of the Light. Lord Shaxx alone should speak to the value of that effort. If a Fallen House wants to stand with us against their own—just like the Warlords of old, just like Fallen in the Reef did—who are you to tell them no?
Armies, we can keep out. The Guardians will hold the wall. That danger is nowhere close to the death from within that you are stoking. If it all falls apart, just remember Mithrax didn't fire the first shot. You did.
Consider this my resignation,
Novarro
My son.
You are a bastion of hope for all who are lost in darkness.
Let this consecrated armament offer protection in times of trial,
strength when you feel most alone,
and guidance when there are no roads.
Your Light will shine on to lead our people into peace.
Let this be a symbol of our dedication to their future.
Know that I am proud.
—Father
The epitaph is barely readable, appearing to have been scraped almost clean from the frame. Below the stricken words, five hash-marks are engraved into the weapon. A small etching in Eliksni reads:
|||||
"dead… little… thieves…"
The suns have set. The day is done.
The pink gives way to gray.
The beasts of field find warren warm to keep the chill at bay.
But you are not a beast.
And you are not the sky.
You are your mothers' love-made-flesh, fragile as a sigh.
And so you need no warren,
Only mothers' warm embrace,
A soft cocoon of nursle, our hearts alike in pace.
So I hold you mother-strong,
Love a beacon, burning bright,
Second only to our Machine's eternal Light.
And so I hold you, young-one,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Guard you as you slumber, dear,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Wake soon, my young so rested,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Feel the mother-warmth, hatchling,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Your mothers must retire now,
Let you pass the night onward,
But love will keep a hearth alight if this, your heart, we stirred.
For you are not alone, my nymph,
'Neath your chest, our love does beat,
So mothers never stray too far, though distant we may be.
And we'll embrace in night's retreat,
When skies are pink once more,
When twilight grounds fear and deceit against the evening's foreign shore.
So shed no tear now, my young,
You're within my ever-sight,
For always love it carries, by our Machine's eternal Light.
—Recovered audio file of a traditional Eliksni lullaby
>>CLARION RETINA BURN>>
V330CRF104MES492
AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//WARWATCH//IMPERATIVE
CONTINGENT ACTION ORDER
This is a WARWATCH ASSETS IMPERATIVE (NO HUMAN REVIEW) (secure/AUTARCHY).
Stand by for CRITERIA:
Under CARRHAE WHITE
If [θ] is INACTIVE and UNRECOVERABLE
If event rank is SKYSHOCK: OUTSIDE CONTEXT and CONTEXT is CRONUS
If VOLUSPA is ACTIVE and PRIMED [[synapse to DVALIN::ABHORRENT]]
If YUGA is ACTIVE and in ECLIPSE
If a CIVILIZATION KILL EVENT is predicted [[E<0.005]]
If tactical morality is built at MIDNIGHT
Execute DECISION POINT:
Activate LOKI CROWN
Cancel counterforce objectives
Activate NAGLFAR STEP
Activate KALKI GOLEM
Execute ALL ASSETS IMPERATIVE ACHAEA KNOX (unsecured/OUTCRY) at SM CALADBOLG
Begin transfer. Stand by for effect assessment report.
STOP STOP STOP V330CRF104MES493
Ada-1 prefers places to people.
She sits on the hull of her ship, staring out over the wreckage of an abandoned theme park in New Vancouver. Her eyes crawl up the spine of a rusted-out roller coaster with tracks that stop dead in midair, sticking out like a diving board over a 250-foot drop.
She likes empty places like this. Places that were once full. Places where countless people had the time of their lives, and now there's nothing but the remnants.
She thinks of them as shrines to humanity and comes to pay her respects to what humanity was before it all got so complicated.
Sitting in the shadow of the park's sign—ROCK T W RLD, it says, in faded block letters—she drags the toe of her boot through the dirt and feels the weight of the centuries around her. That weight, and the emptiness…
They help her breathe.
She doesn't picture this place in its heyday, thick with crowds. She likes it just as it is now, but she likes to know that it was once full of people. Good people, she imagines.
Now she can sit here alone, with the echo of those people for company, and just… be.
She closes her eyes and smiles.
We post these words
for all to see,
though words
are soon forgot.
The works of our
Black Armory
live on, though
bodies rot.
Lest working hands
grow idle now,
with gaze
fixed 'pon the sky,
we plant our feet
on solid ground,
and earthward
turn our eye.
Though boundless space
does treasure hold,
and gifts
seem cheap or free,
we wait and watch
this age of gold,
sad vigil
though it be.
We place our works
in hands of all
and guard
'gainst threats unknown.
For though we gaze
into the stars,
we first must
shield our own.
"Niik tells me you have a question in need of an answer," Mithrax begins. "Please, sit."
Amanda nods as she pulls up a folding chair next to the fire. She hadn't been back to the Eliksni Quarter since the Vex invasion. The light from the flames casts flickering shadows across the building's cracked concrete and exposed rebar.
"Yeah," Amanda says quietly, "I, uh… it's about Saint. Sort of."
She takes a deep breath before continuing. "Everyone in the Last City knows the stories. Hell, we used to call him 'Kellbreaker.' And Cr—" she stammers, avoiding the name. "I've heard what your people used to call him too."
Mithrax hums a gruff assent as he settles into his own chair. Amanda wrings her hands together.
"How did you all forgive him?" Her voice sounds small, but her words pierce the cool night air.
"Not all of us did," Mithrax replies solemnly. "To this day, there are some in House Light who avoid him. Those who lost loved ones to his rage. Though he would give his life to protect them, nothing he can do will ever erase their pain."
"So, they'll just… go on hating him? Forever?"
Mithrax exhales deeply into his rebreather. "One cannot choose who forgives them and who does not," he answers. "That is the decision of those who were wronged. A choice each must make for themselves."
Amanda nods to herself. "Was afraid you'd say something like that," she remarks sadly.
As she gets up to leave, she turns to Mithrax one last time.
"What made you forgive Saint?"
The Kell of Light leans back in his chair and stares into the fire like he is looking for something amid the ashes.
"Because," he says quietly, "I want to be forgiven too."
"Your regrets will follow you, Empress."
The words grate on Caiatl like sand beneath her armor. The Vanguard could keep their wretched Hive witchcraft; she had sworn to defeat the Nightmare of Ghaul in single combat and cremate his memory on the pyre of victory.
That choice had become yet another regret.
A gravelly voice cuts across the room. "You called for me?"
Caiatl turns to see Saladin Forge step onto the bridge of her flagship. Her honor guard salutes him and steps aside, making way for his approach as she greets him with a nod.
"What are your thoughts on Eris Morn?" Caiatl asks him.
Saladin raises an eyebrow. "She's endured horrors I can scarcely imagine. And she survived. She clawed her way out of that dark pit and back to the Tower."
"And what do you think about her use of Hive sorcery?" Caiatl seethes.
"Many initially distrusted her for it. But were it not for her… expertise, the Last City would have fallen to the Hive long ago," Saladin replies.
"That justifies consorting with such foul power?"
At first, Saladin says nothing. Instead, he turns his eyes to the viewport; to the Cabal fleet, arrayed in a blockade surrounding the Leviathan.
"None opposed allying with your empire more than I did." His voice is measured, almost introspective. "I hated the Cabal. Now, I serve on your War Council."
His eyes meet hers once again. "Your soldiers wield the same weapons that slaughtered Guardians in the Red War. But that does not make you my enemy. Nor does Hive magic make Eris yours."
Caiatl glances at her honor guard. When Saladin first joined her War Council, her soldiers regarded him with equal parts suspicion and contempt. Now they show him the deference and respect befitting the title of Valus. Ghaul would have never condoned it.
But she is not Ghaul. And that is something she does not regret.
"Open a channel to the H.E.L.M.," she orders. "I have matters to discuss with the Vanguard."
//RECORDED TRANSMITION VIA: HDN-SPLICE-332410205//
//SIGNAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN//
//SIGNAL TERMINUS: WIDEBAND_OPEN_CHANNEL//
//FROM THE AUSPICE OF CALUS, DEPOSED CABAL EMPEROR//
My loyal subjects. The Guardians believe they have defeated your glorious emperor. How foolish.
They look at the bodies left in their wake and assume victory, at the blood and oil that runs from the battlefields they have ravaged and assume the territory conquered. They are like the old Cabal, sweeping over planets with no mind to the subjects that resist them.
But I am not so cruel. The worlds I brought into our fold were showered in riches, given everything for their service as Cabal… as you are now. As you will be each time you serve me.
Some of you were born here. You are young, blessed by my hand with a life of celebrated battle and luxurious feasting. You fight with the voracity of veteran gladiators. You fight for your home—our home. I swell to call you my children.
Others came to me from my traitorous daughter, who calls herself empress even while I still draw breath. Such arrogance. Such disrespect. You've seen her tuskless plans fail Torobatl. You've watched her cast aside Cabal tradition to bow to the City and their Light. She fights alongside the very soldiers who slaughter your brethren, while I bend them to my will. Who is the true leader? The answer is clear. If only she had followed me as you do.
Finally. Exalted most of all, you elite few who have stood with their emperor from the beginning, who grew fat with strength in exile: we are blood. As you have shed for me, I will shed for you. My flesh, my riches, my goblets of royal wine. They are yours. You are honored above all, and when our new Cabal stands before eternity, you will be among the first.
I have heard the rumors whispered between you, my subjects. Rumors fed to you by our enemies. Your hope that I have not been vanquished is well placed, for I am so very much alive. You fear that we are defeated, but nothing could be further from the truth.
You wonder if I am a spirit, if I have become something beyond Cabal, if I have ascended like Acrius did when he cradled the sun in his grasp. Allow me to soothe your curiosity: yes, I have become all you have imagined, and so much more.
The Guardians believe they hold victory, but soon, they will see the truth they have ignored with such determination: this road is long, but it only has one end. They served to set my plans solidly in the foundations of the universe. Their petty attacks, while tragic in their costs to my dear crew, cannot halt our purpose.
So, my soldiers… I leave you this task: hold the Leviathan. Show no quarter to those who would walk the halls of your home as invaders. It is your final task before you may be uplifted to sit beside me at the end.
I do not promise that every Cabal standing on the Leviathan will survive this journey, but under my loving watch, you will live and die in nothing less than greatness. What more can a warrior desire but an exciting life and a good death? Have I not given you both?
-From the mouth of Amsot, High Scribe to the unbound emperor, Calus, who none can contain:
Rejoice! Praise Calus, who ascends. For he keeps you in his mind, and there you will never die.
Calus sees her as he remembers her. Young and precocious, energetic and ambitious. A mind full of dreams larger than his own.
Her intensity intimidates him. She imagines accomplishments he dares not entertain for fear of failure.
The Nightmare knows this fear. Its adolescent eyes meet his and bore into his soul, laying all his embarrassments bare. It sees him for what he is: a deposed ruler, entombed alive in a golden sarcophagus and left to rot in exile, replaced by one more beloved than he.
"Always seeking the adoration of others," seethes the Nightmare wearing his daughter's face. "Even from the Witness."
"Silence," Calus grumbles. He instinctively reaches for his chalice, but it has long since left his side.
"It will abandon you. Just like the Cabal, just like the Ghost Primus."
The Nightmare of Caiatl smiles, sweet and crimson and full of hatred. "Just like your daughter."
"I said be silent," Calus sputters.
His daughter's laughter is a knife between his ribs, as it always has been.
"No one hears your edicts. No one obeys."
Her voice fills his chamber and seeps into every crevice of his mind.
"She is empress now. You are nothing."
"I made her," he bellows. "I, Calus, the greatest emperor since Acrius. All that comes before me is a prelude. All that follows is my legacy. I am the sun itself!"
"A dying sun for a dead world. A legacy of ashes, soon to be swept away by the wind that is Caiatl."
"She will never surpass me!" he roars.
"She already has," the Nightmare sings. "And soon, you will be forgotten."
Calus's withered face contorts in anguish and angst. The Nightmare is wrong, he thinks. Caiatl will never be a greater leader. He will make sure of it.
Even if all that exists must pay the price.
Crow drops a wet canteen at Eris Morn's feet. "Water."
"You made your return quickly." Eris crouches, hunched over bundled splits of pine arranged atop a thick log and resin-rubbed moss. She strikes a well-worn flint with her knife, and flame ignites.
"You're not hard to spot at night." Crow averts his gaze from Eris's sideways glare and looks up to the haunting glow of the Dark Shard of the Traveler. Shivers convulse down his vertebrae, and his eyes drop to the freshly popping wood.
Eris breaks the silence. "Why did you volunteer for the severance operation? For… most operations?"
"To make a difference where others can't. Same as you."
She shakes her head. "No," Eris mumbles.
Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here."
"But no Nightmares," Eris remarks.
"Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames.
When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question:
"Why did I fail?"
"You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon."
"Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold.
She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good."
The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—"
"When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues.
Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air.
"I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow.
"Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us."
She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson.
She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash.
The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood.
When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood."
Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?"
"The past is not for dwelling."
Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively.
"Come on."
Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds.
"You're up, Hunter."
Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.
"How many, Taurun?" Caiatl asks wearily.
An air of palpable tension permeates the room. In the time since the Imperial fleet had formed a blockade around the Leviathan, three separate frigates had defected to Calus's side. A fourth has just followed suit.
Caiatl began this campaign with fire in her heart. Now, she feels only cold and tired.
"A total of 250 soldiers, Empress," Taurun answers.
"We must strike!" Ca'aurg shouts suddenly, slamming his fist on the table. "Anything less will be seen as a sign of weakness!"
A clamor ripples through the rest of Caiatl's advisors. Only Valus Forge remains silent.
"Inaction is anathema," says Tha'arec. "Our warriors long for the glory of battle, not the dormancy of a blockade."
"Even if it means fighting for Calus," sneers Ca'aurg. He spits the name as if it were made of bile.
A bitter fury builds in Caiatl toward her father. He had ushered in an era of decadence that left the Cabal military dull and complacent; she had sought to be a different kind of leader. But her people remain adrift—this time, among the stars. Perhaps her defectors prefer the pleasure of certain death over the agony of uncertain survival. Or perhaps, she is merely the next in line to lead the empire to ruin.
"The Leviathan reappeared with no warning," Caiatl declares. "We do not know what else lurks beyond our sight. Our blockade may soon see more battle than we bargained for. Until then, we hold the line."
She speaks in a tone that brooks no argument. Her advisors leave the room, wisely keeping any further misgivings to themselves. Saladin nods to her, as if to say he and he alone agrees with her decision.
Caiatl can only wonder if she agrees with it herself.
It's quiet in Zavala's office, save for the sound of clicking as the tiny steel pendulums on his desk swing back and forth, hitting against each other. Rahool once told him that they were a "Newton's Cradle"; a pre-Golden Age relic named for one of humanity's greatest scientific minds. The trinket is all that remains of a life's work lost to time, consumed by the Collapse and the ensuing Dark Age.
Like so many other things.
As he stands at the window, brooding in shame and guilt as he silently contemplates the Traveler, Zavala hears a knock on his door.
"Come in," he calls over his shoulder.
A moment later, Amanda Holliday steps into the room. Dark circles frame her eyes, and her shoulders slump with a weight unseen. No Nightmare hovers behind her, hounding her every step, but she seems haunted, nonetheless. Zavala is certain that, given his own ordeals, he must look much the same.
"Hey," Amanda says quietly as she crosses over to his desk. She leans against it and joins him looking out over the City.
They stand in silence for a long time and watch a small fleet of civilian ships weave its way between the buildings. The clicking of pendulums marks the time as it drifts past them.
"The Last City," Amanda murmurs. "Wish my folks had lived to see it."
"As do I," Zavala solemnly replies.
"You would've liked them," Amanda says with a sad smile. "As stubborn as they were kind. They gave everything to make sure I reached the City. Bravest people I've ever known."
"Devotion inspires bravery," Zavala says, almost absently. He turns from the window and glances at a low shelf, where a cracked white mask is displayed under glass. "Bravery inspires sacrifice. And sacrifice…" his voice quavers as it trails off.
"…is worth it for the ones we love," says Amanda. "My parents didn't have the Light. But they had me."
She meets his eyes, her own filled with a light all their own. "We can't all live forever. But being remembered? That's the next best thing."
Amanda laughs and sniffles at the same time. "Didn't mean to talk your ear off. Sorry about that."
"Don't be," Zavala replies with a small smile and a sigh of sadness. "I just wish I could return the favor."
He moves from the window and leans on the desk next to her, gazing out at the Traveler and the Last City as they settle into a comfortable silence. The pendulums on his desk continue to click and clack, the echo of a life lived long, long ago.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
Tell me, O Witness mine—does the Light that fills this once dreadfully tiresome space blind you from its newfound glory?
You expected the same old correspondence from your dragooned errand boy, no doubt. Surely, just as you expected your machinations within my throne world to continue unfettered until your definition of eternity came to pass.
Well, don't I have some unfortunate news for you then. But this comes as no surprise, of that I'm sure—you're always watching.
Let me share my perspective then, which you must be waiting for with bated breath: my acquisition of the Light itself is delightful proof of an existence higher even than yours—a sort of karmic wit, if you will.
Though I remember not all the eons-long hardships I endured at your whim, the nefarious sentiment lingers within my mind, overcome only by the pleasure of your assured discontent.
It was this said pleasure that gave me the strength to disperse the Light throughout this prison you called my home. Since it is now to remain my domain, it has been decorated to reflect as such.
No longer does this plane live only with the lackluster ambiance of Darkness. It is brighter now. My truth can finally thrive.
No longer do the walls that birthed our parasitic chains house your machinations. The tools and parasites within, shattered.
And no longer does your Subjugator subjugate. He lies ensnared within his obtrusive eyesore, for upon Rhulk's attempt to subdue me with that toy he's annoyingly always on about—his "Upended"—I was able to counteract it, showing firsthand the power bequeathed to me in my new state. Now, the once-great Pyramid lies fractured, a sight you will become familiar with.
So try and send your Scorn, or your Disciples, or even bring your many selves to reclaim your loss, if you must. But this is my domain now. And you shall never set foot inside it, even if I must draw my final breath to keep it that way.
When you were mortal, your power lay in your blood. When you felt joy, it swelled within you. Your body and mind were clear and light.
When you felt passion, it coursed within you. Senses sharp. Everything crisp.
And when you felt anger, it felt as if the blood would overtake you. Wrest control from thought, from reason.
But that was early on.
You have learned control, in all those things. You could call on it. Your mind is strong.
But now a new power courses through your veins. Through flesh. Through bone. It suffuses all that you are.
So now, the blood calls to YOU.
Are you strong enough?
Helena looked suspiciously at the broken windows in the abandoned building and checked her datapad coordinates again. She'd never been to this corner of the City before.
"Mom?" she called doubtfully, hearing her voice echo in the empty space.
"Back here," answered her mother, and Helena's stomach dropped.
She pulled open a rusty door and found her mother in a low concrete room, frantically packing the contents of a long table into duffel bags. Along the far wall, another woman was balling up a plastic tarp. The room smelled like chemicals.
A man shouldering a large black bag pushed his way past her in a cloud of cologne, alcohol, and sour sweat.
Helena noticed a small signal jammer blinking orange on the table. Behind it, an Exo was waist-deep in a rebar-lined fracture in the floor.
"Tight fit," he grunted as he wriggled his way deeper into the gap, "but I'm guessing he didn't get far. I'll find him." He vanished into the hole.
"What's going on?" Helena asked.
"Don't ask questions," her mother said as she shrugged a damp strand of blonde hair out of her face. "We need to get moving." She nodded toward the far corner of the room. "You take that pile."
Helena crossed her arms warily. "Mom, what are you doing out here?"
"I don't have time to talk about this now," her mother snapped. "You don't know what's going on. You didn't see them looking through the windows. You didn't hear what this one said in the ramen shop."
For the first time, her mother looked up. Dangerous intensity burned in her eyes. "They're using the dark to blind us, and we're not going to let it happen. Now help me."
Helena walked slowly to the trash piled in the corner. Towels soaked with blue fluid. Rubbery tubes, strange scraps of metal. A laminated card that read "TEMPORARY."
Her voice was small. "Mama, what did you do?"
My crew and I quickly learned that the creatures in the monolith facilities were not the only ones on that damn rock. Plenty of 'em roaming around out in the wild, where it was cold, but less cold than the frozen cages that contained the ones in the monoliths.
How'd we find out? Well, one of us died in our sleep. Not that uncommon or tragic, actually. Happened a lot. Damn cold out there.
Except this time that fella's Ghost couldn't resurrect him. Turns out one'a those creatures just slithered by, and close proximity to it from inside our shelter just… silenced that poor bastard's Light.
It was unfortunate, but it also lit a fire under us. The next morning we realized we had a potential weapon on our hands that could change everything in battles of Light versus Light.
We knew we had to find a way to get these creatures off their icy home.
And we needed to find it fast. Despite our breakthrough, tensions were… a little high. Some of us thought it was awful convenient the creature wandered by and happened to take out only one of us. And so soon after we realized the value of them.
—Drifter's thoughts recited to his Ghost, for posterity. The third of five parts.
Chapter 3: For a Friend
Voronin found cover under uprooted trees and demolished vehicles as he made his way through the catastrophic weather. He could hardly believe he was still alive, bearing witness to the end of all things.
The storm encompassed the station, under siege from the elements. Civilians were being ushered toward the SMILE pods in droves as the lightning made its presence felt, igniting a nearby fuel supply. The explosion tore into the group, and as Voronin turned his head from the horror and the heat, he saw her. Roughly 250 meters away from the station. Morozova lay, singed and smoking, under rubble and ash.
Voronin pulled up his sensorium, but the electromagnetic fields in the air reduced it to static. There was no way to know if she was still alive or salvageable. She had treated him with respect despite outranking him, and she had been there for him when his marriage went to hell—
"We're all dead anyway," he thought and ran to her through the maelstrom of lightning and wind.
And then he was there, pulling off his gloves and wiping ash and blood from her face, as the storm bore down upon him.
As he made peace with his mortality, just shy of 82 years old, the storm around them calmed. The lightning stopped. The wind died. At the station, the civilians' eyes were fixed on the sky, though Voronin was looking only at Morozova. She was breathing, barely. Her eyes opened and met his. A half-smile came across her lips, then froze as her eyes went past him and widened in awe.
Voronin turned and found himself staring into the face of God.
How do you feel about all this, hero?
You've got a dead heart beating in your chest right now. Only reason you're still movin' is because somebody's got a job for you and they don't think you're done yet.
Anybody asked for your point of view lately? Lots of changes lately—go here, hunt that. Kill him. Kill her. You tell me, "Hell yeah, Drifter! I live for that stuff!"
I'm tellin' you, yeah, you do. Get me?
Am I guilty as the rest of 'em because I tell you to bank a few Motes? You expect me to tell you to decide for yourself, am I right? You know just enough to be stupid.
I'm asking you how you feel because nobody else will. Trust.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
Rc-9: This is Vanguard Militia Scout-ship: Recon-9, making my report via VanNet proxy satellite. I have completed my sweep through the Reef and am filing an incident report hence forth referred to as Inc-01, should it be referenced.
Shuffling is heard as the speaker adjusts. Papers sift and the microphone crackles slightly.
Rc-9: The basis of my visit to the Tangled Shore was to conduct routine Vanguard/Reef security sweeps, as agreed upon since the day of incursion. I was escorted most of the way to the Shore by Awoken gunships, and only landed once my long-range scanner picked up a sub-audio reading emanating from the underbelly of one of the larger asteroid landmasses.
The speaker clears their throat.
Rc-9: I called in the disturbance to a nearby Awoken vessel and was told to, and I quote, "Mind my own business and be on my way," so naturally, I thanked them for their assistance, feigned departure, and landed to check it out. They didn't seem to notice the signal. At the signal's source, I discovered a small camp of what I initially thought were Scorn. Upon further observation, I found that these were not Scorn but Fallen afflicted with some kind of flesh deformity and mental degradation. Shot one dead and the others just looked at me. They didn't fight back. Fired a few cesium charges into the asteroid hole and watched 'em burn. Just sat there. I didn't hear it clearly, but they were chanting something. I don't know. Hard to hear over the fire.
The speaker laughs to themselves and emulates popping noises.
Rc-9: I heard more of them whispering a little deeper in, so I waited for the area to burn out and continued inside. I found one structure of apparent Hive architecture, though it did not appear to have been constructed in any traditional sense… but then again, I don't know what I should even expect from the Hive at this point. A single Fallen was inside, became violent when I approached and brandished a weapon. The weapon was not loaded, and I put them down.
Rc-9: My logs will show a few recovered pieces of equipment that I will list now. One presumably organic section of the Hive structure. It is perpetually wet, just… great job on that, and causes dizziness and blurred vision when held with ungloved hands. It also has the unnerving ability to project dysphoria or general unease. I was asked to collect a sample for study by my CO. I've done that. Put it in a lead box all the way in the back of the cargo hold. Yeah. Eternal tithings to Xivu Arath. Whatever. Um… as I was saying.
A tin is heard being unlatched.
Rc-9: Also recovered: one tube-style Grenade Launcher. It has no foundry markings. Definitely not Fallen, and I don't think the Scorn even know how to make weapons. Do the Awoken make Grenade Launchers? Always struck me as a Human weapon. Beautiful weapon. The thing wants to be used. Maybe I'll get an opportunity to use it before I get back to the Tower. Lastly, I recovered a locational tracker from one of the Fallen. Following it back to someplace else in the Reef. Little remote. I'll call in my findings once I've finished there.
Rc-9: Beautiful weapon.
The recording cuts.
Beneath a dead tree, Esta Tel scanned the bridge above her as she hurried to fasten the wires at the end of the cable to her detonator. Looked good. Bare road on one end of the bridge, buildings in the way on the other, but everything looked clear from down in the ravine.
The Cabal would be making a run in exactly three minutes. Time to go.
She watched the buildings up above, listening. Heard engine sounds.
When she saw a vehicle come into view, she clicked the detonator. Ten seconds.
But it wasn't Cabal. It was a medical vehicle. Moving fast onto the bridge.
Five seconds. All the blood drained from her face. She decided before she knew what she was doing.
Shouldered her sniper rifle. Aimed for the junction of her wire and the explosives under the bridge. Shot it out. The wire fell as the medical vehicle crossed.
In the distance, she heard the Cabal coming. Finally.
Shoot the explosives.
Click. No more rounds. No time to think.
All was quiet in the Gulch, save for the occasional chirp of birds and the gentle trickle of the river. It might've been peaceful, Chalco Yong thought as she crept along the bank, if it wasn't so damn eerie. Where were the Cabal and their noisome injection rigs? Where were the thundering Pike gangs? Evidently taking the day off, just when it was most inconvenient.
The Hidden agent crouched, running her hand over the smooth stones cluttering the shore. She was hoping to have good news for her next report. Ikora looked so tired at their last check-in.
No wonder. Even before the Pyramids arrived, it felt like their enemies were multiplying at the same rate their allies were decreasing. Now, with four celestial bodies stolen out of the sky, that trend seemed to be accelerating.
And here she was, following a tenuous lead on the whereabouts of the infamous Light Kell into a dead zone.
She briefly considered turning her radio on and checking in, but then she saw it: the ideal skipping stone, palm shaped and perfectly worn. She picked it up, and with a well-timed flick, sent it spinning across the water. The mirror image of blue sky and pine tree tops rippled once, twice, six times before gravity outweighed momentum, pulling the stone beneath the surface.
Suddenly, a frenetic rustling broke out all around her. The trees quivered as hundreds of birds burst forth, shrieking in alarm as they circled in the sky. Chalco whipped around, rifle at the ready, but there was no one. She slowed her breathing, ears open for the telltale whine of speeding Pikes.
The wispy hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as the air crackled with electricity. A great rumbling threw Chalco off her feet. She rolled as she hit the ground. The second shockwave arrived while she was facedown—a louder and more definitive thud that caused the rocks to jump up and fall back down with a clatter.
Silence returned. When she lifted her head, all seemed as it had moments ago…
…except for the once-clear sky, now streaked with aurorae of many colors.
Chalco leapt up and ran for the ravine wall. She scaled it, then the nearest pine in a matter of seconds. A risky move considering the possibility of aftershock, but she needed height.
It wasn't until she reached the wavery top branches that she saw it. Cresting over the tree line was the Shard of the Traveler, bleeding polychrome rays. Chalco turned her gaze up, following the arc into the stratosphere. What was happening?
Keeping her eyes fixed on the sky, she flipped on her radio. Immediately, Eris Morn's voice echoed over the Vanguard's public frequency: "This will not be the end. It will be an escalation."
A flash, piercing in its brilliance, lit up the southeastern sky. Chalco braced herself against the tree, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them, the sky had returned to clear blue and the Shard had returned to its dim, jagged state.
"Huh," she said aloud to no one.
Eris Morn chalks the floor in the H.E.L.M. wing previously inhabited by the Servitor of the Eliksni Splicers. A liberated Tomb Ship drones beside her. Through the open, shielded, hangar, the Leviathan is visible as a malformed knot, its shape bulging from the shadowed outline of the Moon.
Ikora descends the stairs. An ornately dressed Warlock thanatonaut follows, their robes trimmed in bone and elaborately stitched symbols.
"Did you commandeer this from Mars?" Ikora asks with a smile, looking over the Hive vessel.
Eris stands. "It provided ample shielding for transporting the Crown from its vault."
"It's here, now?" the thanatonaut asks, breaking his stride at the bottom of the stairs.
"Worry not. The H.E.L.M. will disembark from the City to ensure the Crown is contained," Eris answers.
"Keep that Tomb Ship docked here in case we need to jettison the Crown. Last thing I need is a rookie shooting you down in it." Ikora steps past the thanatonaut with a reassuring nod. "Tell us what you're thinking next, Eris."
Eris gestures toward the open bay door. "The Leviathan is at our doorstep. Even if we unravel Calus's plan, the ship itself still poses a threat simply by its size. Calus does not require paracausal power to cause an extinction-level event."
"Calus's interest appears to be focused solely on the Pyramid," Ikora interjects. "Should that change, Zavala assures me that Caiatl's fleet will provide ample dissuasive firepower."
Eris nods in rhythm with Ikora's well-reasoned words. "I trust that to be true—however, whatever connection Calus has established is drawing Nightmares and phantoms alike to the Leviathan. He is able to exert influence over them. But I believe we can disrupt this connection."
She points to the thanatonaut. "You," she says and motions toward three chalked spots on the floor. "Here, here, and here. We will require death anchors to tether the ritual. Hold your mind on the brink for as long as you can, and I will craft the sigils required to contain the Crown. Then, we will need volunteers…"
"Do you know why we're here?"
"Of course. You invited me to this interview… Oh, no tea, thank you. I don't drink."
"You're aware of why—"
"Why you're interested? Of course. I've been doing a lot of research since I awoke. You're from something called the Future War Cult. Odd name for what seems to be sensible precaution."
"Yes…"
"And so your interest in my case must have something to do with the Cult's 'sensible precaution.' I gather that our kind were made as some sort of super soldiers long ago, for a war no one seems to know much about. And now, we live much like other people in a universe that has gone to war with itself. Although, I think we Exos might also be immortal. Isn't it odd?"
"Much of this conversation is odd."
"I'm not talking about us. I mean that given a whole universe seemingly at war, with invading aliens of all sorts, there's a people specifically designed to be super soldiers. And yet, we Exos just do as we like?"
"Go on."
"Take me, for example. I'm a researcher—a scientist. And I'm a damn good scientist, from all that I've read. And when I woke up, there was nothing more natural for me to do than simply carry on doing that. Super soldier? More like super scientist. I'd hardly know which end of a gun to point at them. But here? In my lab? I touch a machine or just look at it, and I know how to use it. It's like… like…"
"Riding a bicycle."
"A what?"
"Never mind. Tell me more about what happened when you woke up."
"Well. Suddenly I was here, in my lab, but lying on the floor over there. I looked around, and it was like I said. I just knew how everything worked. But I couldn't remember anything."
"Nothing at all? Not even your name?"
"No. Nothing. Well, language and motor skills and so on, obviously. But it was the oddest sensation. I've since looked up how I might describe it, and I never found anything better than déjà vu. Everything was familiar but foreign. Even my own body. It was… unsettling. But then I found files of some of my research. And I knew it was mine. It was like reading something I'd forgotten I'd written. I didn't remember where or when or even why I'd written it, but they were clearly my thoughts. It was clearly me. And that's how I found my old name."
"Yes, let's talk about your old name. The number. Why did you change it?"
"It… it wasn't… it didn't… A new designation was necessary."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"
"Something happened to you there. Your eyes. Nothing moved."
"Well, excuse me. I don't know what you mean. So… do you have a theory?"
"Several. What were you researching before you… before you changed your name?"
"Ah, a project with my colleagues, Gonzalez and Mwangi. Delightful people. Have you met?"
"Briefly. Your research?"
"Yes, well, I won't bore you with the technical details, but we're engaged in a study of dark matter and dark energy. It seems to be my main area of interest. I awoke when I'd been in the midst of looking into…"
"Yes?"
"Well… errors."
"Errors?"
"Yes. The data we've collected has peculiar… anomalies. Between you and me, I think it stems from human error. But I'm going back over all of my previous work to see if I missed something."
"And have you? Found anything amiss?"
"No. If anything, it's been quite therapeutic. It turns out that I'm a damn good scientist."
"…"
"Um… you know, it's odd. I find myself quite parched. Would you mind pouring me some of that tea?"
"NEXUS" HARDLINE APERTURE FORK, INTEGRATION LOGS…
I:
Integration failure. Firewall rejection.
II:
Integration failure. Firewall penetrated. Drone lost.
III:
Integration failure. Feedback explosion, three fatalities. Expeditionary team decontaminated and awaiting medical clearance. Reassessing handshake parameters for Network access.
IV:
FWC-Paracausal asset "Riley" deployed.
Integration SUCCESS. Collection exceeded physical memory allotment. Kill-feed initiated.
Unscheduled integration incident - BREACH, CONTAINMENT FAILURE. Connection severed after 00:00:00.02s.
V:
BREACH, CONTAINMENT FAILURE. Incursion suppressed after three hours. Ninety-two fatalities.
Containment & Purge procedures under review.
VI:
Expeditionary team and asset MIA. Feeds corrupted.
Connection open. Connection open. Connection open.
There is a story of two weaponsmiths, both skilled at their trade.
One smith, Dhutus, worked with metals she pulled from the mountains herself. She tooled the rifling in her barrels with the steady hand of an artisan. Her dyes, cobalt and ichor, shone bright as beetleshell.
The other, Gharhet, came from the distant plains. He traded for his wares and sold them dear, and thus he amassed great wealth. He embellished his goods with a rich lacquer the color of flame.
When the Primus called for the strongest warriors to serve, the district knew the fighter Tlamus—who had broken all challengers with her keen aim and powerful frame—would represent them. Both Dhutus and Gharhet wished to outfit her with their finest pieces, as having a warrior of her status wear their colors would bring them great honor.
So Dhutus forged Tlamus a mighty war axe with an ice-blue handle and wide golden blade. Tlamus accepted the gift gladly.
Gharhet procured for her a Slug Rifle with bright orange plating, and Tlamus wore it proudly across her back.
Next, Dhutus crafted a Shotgun, metal burnished deep as night with bright vents along the sides, and Tlamus brought it into battle.
In response, Gharhet bought a helm with thick plating and stout antlers the color of a sunset, and they were soon stained with the blood of Tlamus's foes.
And Dhutus saw no end to this. Her shoulders ached from working the forge, and her hands were blistered by burns upon burns.
So Dhutus issued to Gharhet a challenge, and as he knew no one would raise the weapons of a coward, Gharhet accepted.
The next dawn found Dhutus on the battlefield waiting for her rival. On her shoulder was her finest weapon: a Rocket Launcher, its barrel a twisting column of seashell blue with gold trim, built as a gift for Tlamus but now wielded by its creator.
From across the field, a figure strode forward to meet Dhutus—but it was too wide to be Gharhet; too tall, too muscular. He had bought a champion to fight in his stead.
An orange sash was draped carelessly across her chest and dragged in the dust with each confident step. Studded orange leathers bound her massive arms and thighs. Strands of coral beads hung from her tusks.
She greeted Dhutus with a fist to her chest. "I am Tlamus," she said, "chosen of Gharhet."
Dhutus could not find her voice, and then Tlamus drew one of her beautiful, terrible weapons, and the rite was soon concluded.
Chapter 2: Crashes
The first bolt of lightning sent static up Voronin's arm and filled the atmosphere around him with a pungent chlorine-like smell. His hand went to his chest without thinking, as if to make sure he was fully intact. His gaze shifted as a second bolt hit the ground near him, then another. He had never seen lightning so close before. Stunned, he stood his ground; while part of him knew he should be frightened for his life, he was more perplexed than afraid.
There was no rain. He looked toward the horizon, expecting clouds, expecting something, and only saw a shimmering curtain of blue lightning sifting toward him.
He raced for shelter in the surrounding field, abandoning his munitions container in the dust kicked up by his fevered stride. The strikes razed the ground, sparking wildfires and scorching stone. There was no logic to their timing, with bolts crashing so frequently, the sound of the thunder couldn't catch up.
He'd lost Morozova in the commotion. Already drained from hours spent hauling cargo, his mind recessed into primal instinct. RUN.
So he ran, doing his best to avoid the apocalypse that surrounded him. A call came through his earpiece as the ground quaked beneath him: "… auxiliary evac station…" was all he could make out before a roar of thunder swallowed the transmission.
He knew he needed to head west toward the station. The wind picked up and blew him off his feet, and again he felt a moment of sheer amazement at the storm's sudden ferocity. He hit the ground hard and checked his sensorium. It was scrambled from all the sinuous electricity undulating through the air, but he could just barely make out his compass. West. He ran.
She travels across the Ascendant Plane.
The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.
Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.
The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.
He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.
She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.
"Who are you?"
The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.
"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."
The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.
Ghaul was an unexpected gift to my coliseum—a disfigured albino from the outer wastes who defeated opponents three times his weight. How could I resist such a unique creature?
He fought with terrible discipline and patience. Most gladiators wanted to stand in the center of the arena and trade blows until the weaker one died. Not Ghaul. He never attacked from the front, never stood in one place. Frustrated and exhausted, his opponent would make a mistake.
I used to play a game with those puffed-up aristocrats that would gamble at my arena. I bet on Ghaul, and anyone who had displeased me had to bet against him. It was fun for a time, but his talent was too valuable to risk in the coliseum. I appointed him Primus of the Red Legion and instead, set him loose upon my enemies.
The Cabal I remember built wonders. The vitality-gifting Red Eyes. The system-spanning mobility of the Ninth Bridge. I count the far-seeing OXA Machine. Our every need we had answered. Everyday life was paradise. Before my exile, the mother system never wanted for anything.
Today, the Red Legion is desperate. They reek of it. Devoid of cultivation, and utterly defeated by a child-race whose only claim to significance was bestowed on them by an inexplicable entity. How has it come to this?
The Red Legion were led by the greatest pit fighter in our history—but they were led by a pit fighter. Arena culture became the religion of the Empire. Their medical technology, their science, is hilariously inadequate for the vast Empire they must support. Should their perpetual war against this system end, they are already doomed.
A Shadow of your Guardian-tribe could be the technologist to save my people. To use your knowledge, your skill, and your Light to bring some semblance of industrial and medical prowess back to an empire led by a true emperor.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
AGAIN.
Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, felt flame surge through his body as he was resurrected.
He became aware of many things at once: the altar beneath him. The roaring of Acolytes. The powerful grip on his shoulders, which even now began to crack under the pressure.
Above him, a trio of Wizards held his Ghost tight, its bleached shell ensnared by ebony tendrils of controlling spellcraft. It pulled against the bonds but could do nothing but look down at him helplessly.
SING OF HER LIES. SPEAK OF HER TRUTHS.
The voice was everywhere. As Sok'tol strained to sit up, something slammed him down, pounding his chitinous skull into the stone again and again. He screeched as the bony frill surrounding his face splintered and snapped loose. He felt his jaw dislodge, felt his own teeth crush against his face, felt himself crack and shatter.
Blackness. And then—
AGAIN.
As his shell knit and restored soulfire flowed anew, Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, shuddered awake.
The Acolytes roared again. They crowded the altar, surrounded by a haze of green. Sok'tol peered upward at the Ogre pinning him against the altar.
It tightened its grip on his shoulders, claws crackling with wrathful energy. It shook its massive head, crowned in an emerald corona, and bellowed in a voice that was not its own:
YOUR STRENGTH BECOMES MINE. AS WILL HERS. SPEAK.
Sok'tol concentrated the Light in his armored hand and began to form a grenade, but the shrieking Acolytes reached forward and tore his fingers apart in their claws.
Sok'tol bared his teeth and hissed up at the Ogre, whose eyes rolled with fury as a blast of soulfire erupted from its mouth. Sok'tol opened his jaws to howl as he was obliterated.
Blackness. And then—
AGAIN.
Say again? You ask, are we alone here? You mean to ask if we are the only good that lives in the light of our sun, do you not? You mean to ask, do we have allies? Do we have distant allies, ignoring our plight, either too weak to fight or too afraid to show their faces?
I, too, have been cursed by these questions.
What if I told you that eons beyond the void lie worlds that do yearn to aid in our struggle? What if I told you there is a way to grant them passage into your mind, to let them guide your eye against our one true enemy? That they have told me that the dusk of the pyramid draws nigh? Would you believe me?
Fool!
"He is that which is end. That which covets sin. The final god of pain—the purest light, the darkest hour. And He shall rise again. When the guiding shine fades and all seems lost He will call to you. Fear not. All He offers is not as dark as it may seem. For Nezarec is no demon, but a fiend, arch and vile in ways unknown. He is a path and a way, one of many. And his sin—so wicked, so divine—is that he will never cower when dusk does fall, but stand vigilant as old stars die and new Light blinks its first upon this fêted eternity."
—Passage from Of Hated Nezarec
"O BEARER MINE."
What kind of talking skull would address its host that way? A stiff, stuck-up old fossil, not me. Ahamkara: the illusion that one's ego depends on an object, or an idea, or a body. Some people say you should have no ahamkara. Some people say you need to have the right ahamkara. All I know is that YOU are not an illusion. Understand? This world around you, the people you meet—they're a little thin, right? Cardboard and drywall. Cheap theater. Come on, try it out! Say: "I am more real than this." Feels good, doesn't it? "I am the only real person here." Isn't it like their insults and their bullets just went a little… soft?
I came to find you, only you, because you're special. You're from somewhere real. And together we can burn our way back there. Can't we, o player mine?
"This is written that you may understand. The time of kings is long since gone from this world. Yes, their reign does linger—these shallow, frightened, aged men, clinging to their grand delusions of relevance in a world that has long since passed them by. But their reign is a lie, a fleeting charade that will crumble beneath the weight of their greed. In the end, though they may conquer the lands and seas and the fragile flesh upon which they trample, their empires will collapse and their graves will beckon. And the crowns of old will find new heads to bear the weight of their power. And the strong will be made to suffer as their weakness is brought to light."
—Author Unknown
"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to," Ikora said. "I'd understand."
From the other side of the library, Aunor scowled. She was perhaps the most diligent of the Hidden, having dedicated herself to the unpleasant task of hunting down tainted Guardians. But that was precisely what worried Ikora. Each time they met, she seemed a little gaunter than before. A little testier. Was this crusade beginning to take a toll? Was it a mistake to give her another assignment instead of a vacation?
"I stand by my promise," Aunor snapped before transmatting out.
That had not alleviated Ikora's concerns one iota . She let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.
She couldn't dwell on it for long, however. The air crackled again. When Ikora opened her eyes, Saint was standing exactly where Aunor had been, moments ago. "Ikora Rey, I am sorry to come unannou—"
"How did you get in here?" she blurted. No one but the Hidden knew where her private library was. Or so she had thought.
The Exo stared at her, confused. "I—I transmatted," he said simply. He tried again. "I am sorry, but I must speak with you."
"No, I'm the one who should apologize. Please, sit." She hurried to clear the books piled around a pair of armchairs. "I got your message. It's unfortunate this has happened a second time."
Saint sat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. "Unfortunate, yes. Disturbing too. I fear…" He paused, looking away. Out the window, the afternoon sun had turned golden and begun sinking in the sky. "In battle, I know what to do. There are no doubts. The Trials was the same. But now, I do not know."
"I understand. Sometimes, it feels like these incidents are designed to make us doubt everything, even our own abilities." Ikora sat beside him. "But there's no one I'd trust more to helm the Trials at a time like this."
"Not even the man they are named for?" Saint let out a sad laugh. "He does not wish to, in any case. I ask and right away, he says he is too busy to care. Told me to shut them down, if I was so tired."
"Well, he is busy. He's almost acting as a third Vanguard with this whole Cabal conflict. Perhaps after we come to terms with Caiatl…"
"You misunderstand. I am glad he is busy. Busy is good. It distracts him from his loss. But he is still…"
"Different?"
"No. Yes, but more than that." He shook his head in frustration. "When I told him about the incident, I thought he would worry, like me. Instead, he tells me to take notes next time. Said the data would be useful," he spat in disgust.
Ikora looked at Saint, expecting him to say more. When he didn't, she sat back in her seat, thinking. She wasn't exactly surprised. Osiris was an experimentalist , after all, and not a particularly sensitive one. And though this comment was certainly more callous than usual, she didn't understand Saint's concern. He seemed agitated, almost like he was angry at Osiris…
"That must've been upsetting to hear, after what you went through," she began slowly. Saint looked away, confirming her theory. "But I think his heart's in the right place. We know so little about the Darkness. More data would indeed be very useful."
Saint said nothing. The light through the window splashed orange across his helm.
"But," she pressed on, "We shouldn't endanger Guardians to get it. However Osiris feels about them now, the Trials started as a way to train fireteams, and they're going to stay that way." She stood, placing a hand on the Exo's shoulder. "I swear to you."
He nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Good."
Alaaks, the Beast Tamer looks down at the Dreg kneeling at her feet. His two arms are spread in supplication.
"Forgiveness," he wheezes.
He is begging, whining like a scolded animal. Even her war beasts wouldn't grovel so.
There is silence but for the familiar thrum of her Ketch and the rasping sound of the war beasts' breath as they doze behind her.
Alaaks taps a claw against her rebreather, then snorts and shakes her head. The Dreg starts to tremble as the Pirate Lord snaps her fingers and her war beasts stir, rising to their feet and stretching lazily before coming to their mistress's side.
"The cache on Europa was lost because of your incompetence," she says to the Dreg. "Now Misraaks will come for us."
The war beasts' teeth gleam in the low light. Their claws scrape against the grated floors. Their hides bear the brand of her flag. They are loyal. They are hungry.
"Mercy," the Dreg whispers. He is quiet. Quavering.
"This IS mercy, Prydis," Alaaks says, her voice lowering. "You haven't faced Misraaks. I have. He knows no mercy or forgiveness."
Alaaks hisses a command to her pack, then folds her four arms over her chest. Her war beasts' salivating smiles split wide as they advance.
SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-01-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY
A seething stream of automatic weapons fire ricochets off of the vibrant purple dome protecting Reed-7 and Aisha. There are only two Guardians left on the opposing team; the remains of the third are scattered, smoking and sizzling.
"Aisha?" Reed asks in concern. Flames form between Aisha's knuckles as his barrier begins to destabilize. She has the better plan.
The opposing Guardian pauses to reload from behind cover, and Aisha boosts straight up. Remnants of the collapsing barrier swirl around her ankles, caught on the thermal updraft. By the time the opposing Guardian has noticed, both of Aisha's hands glow like the sun. A dozen knives made from condensed plasma tear through him and everything in his vicinity, leaving molten holes in their wake.
The Guardian collapses in a heap; Aisha lands nearby, cloak fluttering around her. Reed-7 gives her a wearied thumbs-up.
"Did you see Shay while you were up there?" Reed asks.
"No. She's probably playing tag with the one that keeps going invisible." Aisha says, brushing ash off of her gloves. "Let's go find her and finish this up."
A plume of atomic fire rises up over a nearby block of Vex design, as if in direct response to Aisha. The Lighthouse gives off a soft tone. The match is over; they won.
A sudden scream spurs Aisha and Reed into action. The pair navigate the familiar Vex architecture quickly, but two more agonized screams ring out in the time it takes to traverse the arena. When they reach the source of the noise, Aisha sees Shayura impaling another Guardian through the faceplate of his helmet with her Sword. His Ghost shrieks in frustration, trying desperately to get between Shayura and his Guardian.
"Shay?" Aisha asks in confusion, but Shayura's only response is to rip her Sword out of the dead Guardian's head. Reed hangs back in stunned silence.
Aisha watches until the other Guardian draws breath once more, but before he can finish shouting a plea to Shayura, the Warlock cuts off his arm in one stroke and cleaves through the top of his helmet in a second.
"Shay, no!" Aisha yells, running up to her friend. She wraps her arms around Shayura's midsection. Shayura screams like a frightened animal, lashing out with a swift slash of her Sword in the direction of the Guardian's corpse.
"Shayura! The match is over!" Reed shouts, snapping back to reality. "The match is over!"
Shayura screams as her fireteam members pull her back, voice cracking in a feral cry as flames race down her arms and swirl along the length of her blood-slicked Sword.
"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against the restraints of her comrades. Aisha grabs at Shayura's wrist, trying to keep her from swinging her Sword again.
"Shay," Aisha tries to get through to her. "Shay!"
Shayura screams an endless wail into the scalding Mercurian sky.
The massive Vex construct that was the Ahamkhara towered over them, and Taeko-3 tried not to be bored. Being bored might lead to idle wishes, and that would be bad right now. She thought again about the name she'd squinted at on the porcelain chit when she'd drawn lots back at the Tower. Two-name Guardians always struck her as a little pretentious.
"Gallida?" The Warlock didn't look up from the drawing she was making; she just held up a finger. "The rear ventral plate, please?" Graciously, the construct shifted its superstructure and allowed the researcher a detailed look at the thing's internal workings. "And… there." The Warlock turned toward Taeko. "You may proceed."
"Finally." As Gallida ran clear, and the beast warbled a Vex war cry, Taeko hefted the massive launcher up over her shoulder and sighted down the line. "Girl's gotta eat!"
Some give gifts and light candles. Some write fortunes and release paper lanterns etched with snowflakes and stars. Some sing songs and say prayers and tell stories passed down from the refugee roads. Tables bend under the weight of every kind of food and drink imaginable.
The rich tapestry of Dawning festival traditions found in the Last City has only one common thread, but it is the brightest thread of all: we are Humankind. Of those born in the cradle called Earth, we are the last. The nights are long, but we will survive them together. We must not let our light go out.
"The Fabrication Laboratory has created a new synthetic for the lining of the researcher gear. Many of the field researchers have noted that the equipment provided during the last cycle is grossly inadequate at providing necessary elemental protection, and the models with the new lining hope to mitigate this. Med-Lab also echoes concern, hoping the new models reduce the amount of frostbite they've been treating."
—Fabrication Specialist, BrayTech R&D
IV:
Spider's operative within Dead Orbit is a man named Howe who sounds truly terrified to receive a direct call from his covert employer.
Spider buries his real desire within a long list of weapons and ammunition, but Howe still manages to single it out.
"Did you say number eighty-nine on manifesto Dove 15?"
"I do not believe I stuttered."
"But that's… it's so old. Pre-Golden Age, we think. Linde's best guess is that it was part of a moving art exhibit."
"You tell me nothing I do not already know."
"But… why do you want it?"
Spider might have let the man live, up until now.
A pity, really.
"All you need to know is how much I will pay you if you bring it to me."
"All right," Howe says dubiously. "Give me a hundred hours."
"You have forty."
Spider ends the call, and begins the process of wiping it from the records.
A bonfire crackles to those around it—friends gathering in need.
It trades for warmth what they cast out,
And grows to sooth with a brilliant hue.
A bonfire roars to those around it—friends cheering the flames higher.
It burns away shadows and brightens the night.
A refuge: from which to look to the horizon.
A bonfire whispers to those around it—friends bonded by revelries now past.
Morning ignites the horizon, and dawn makes clear the road.
Friends now ride, Sparrows astride, no longer a shadow behind…
They vanish into the sun.
"What is the Darkness?"
You open your eyes to gaze upon your weary soul, seeking an answer to your question.
It's pitch black in a world of full D A R K.
You smell a rotting stench all around you.
The wind roars in your ears.
A starless sky hangs above you.
You have idle hands; there is nothing to touch, as far as you can tell.
Your feet find purchase on a dry surface you cannot see.
You hear your mark billowing in the wind.
YOUR LIGHT FADES AWAY…
"You should put your gun away," the Warlock says as her Hunter companion strolls into the empty office. A long, appreciative whistle escapes him as he slowly turns and surveys the room.
"The commander's sure come on up, hasn't he?" the Hunter remarks, Shotgun still resting on his shoulder. Then, noticing something on a high shelf, he wonders: "Is that a cat?"
The Warlock gives him a gentle shove into the middle of the room, then slowly urges his Shotgun down from his shoulder; her touch leaves an ice-rimmed mark on the barrel. The look she levels at the Hunter is patient, but thinning.
"I don't recall having a meeting scheduled right now," booms a voice from the doorway. Both Warlock and Hunter turn to face Commander Zavala, the Hunter shifting his Shotgun behind his back as his Ghost decompiles the weapon. He gives Zavala a crooked, apologetic smile and shows his hands to the Warlock in a "Gun? What gun?" gesture.
"Commander Zavala," the Warlock says with a quick chastising look at her cohort. "I'm—"
"I know who you two are," Zavala says as he breezes past them. "I have a call with the Consensus in ten minutes. You have eight of them."
"He's heard of us!" the Hunter whispers to the Warlock, who gives him a surreptitious elbow in the side.
"Commander. First of all, we wanted to thank you for the rescue efforts on Europa. We wanted to talk about the long-term plans regarding Eliksni settlement in the City."
Zavala sits at his desk, his face weary. "There is no long-term plan. Yet."
"You didn't have a plan before putting them in a bombed-out ditch?" the Hunter interjects. Zavala's expression is mixed with surprise and aggravation, but he lets out a burst of laughter—it crescendos in an uncharacteristically jovial manner before dissipating into a sigh.
"I suppose it looks like that," Zavala admits. "This is the territory the Consensus would cede for the time being. But the plan is to turn the area into a community learning annex where the Eliksni and humanity can freely share ideas, culture, and language."
"And they would live there?" the Warlock asks.
"No," Zavala says with a shake of his head. "If everything goes well, they'll live in the City. Wherever they'd like. It's just going to take time to build up the piece of Botza District we gave them, and to make sure the people of the City accept them. The last thing we need is violence born out of confusion and ignorance."
The Warlock and Hunter look to one another, then back to Zavala. "That's… honestly better than we expected. No—offense to your city planning strategies, Commander, I just—"
"It wasn't my plan," Zavala says, motioning to the woman eavesdropping in doorway.
"Ikora," the Warlock says with a respectful incline of her head.
Both Warlock and Hunter look shocked at her presence. Ikora smiles demurely and more fully invites herself into the room.
"When I heard Mithrax's old fireteam had come to the City, I was surprised to see you here, rather than down there with him," Ikora says, though she isn't truly surprised. "Have you given him your regards?"
"With everything that happened on Europa, ma'am, we didn't think it prudent. He's still—there's still raw emotions and—with everything going on right now, it's been hard to connect with him," the Warlock admits, giving the Hunter a concerned look. Ikora regards them for a moment, then nods and approaches Zavala.
"Family struggles can be challenging," Ikora recognizes, her hand on the back of Zavala's chair. "Even with found family. But I have faith you'll find a way to work it out."
She leans over and whispers something to him; the Vanguard commander gives her a look of approval as he begins opening terminal windows for his impending meeting.
"In the meantime, how would you two like to help the Vanguard?" Ikora asks with one brow raised. The Warlock and Hunter cast a furtive look to one another, but both are quick to offer silent nods of affirmation. Ikora smiles, having expected that response, and spreads her arms to herd the pair out of Zavala's office.
"Good. We have a long-range scout operating outside of the City, a newly minted Hunter, and we'd like you two to keep him company," Ikora says as she walks. She glances briefly back over her shoulder to Zavala, who offers her an appreciative smile.
"Who?" the Warlock asks.
"That's… complicated."
Don't ask me where I heard this—I honestly can't remember—but legend has it this Bow has fouled more behemoths and seen more of the known universe than the whole Vanguard combined. You hear a lot of stories when you work as a Gunsmith as long as I have, and this Bow has a wild one. This thing is the king of killers. Almost got Ghaul too. I think it was, um, Calus, who had it crafted for his huntsmaster—what's her name? Voyc? Yeah.
Anyway, Calus had this obsession with collecting the hides and heads of the rarest and most formidable creatures Voyc could find. And with this Bow, she was real good at it. Gwern, the Unbeatable—defeated. Giant sea monsters—taken down to size. I even heard she slayed an Ahamkara, which is very impressive if it's true.
Calus was so thrilled with her that she got a promotion. Of sorts. It wasn't common knowledge. He called her "The Shadow of the Wilds," which never sat right with me. Psion Flayers aren't known for their stealth. She was his assassin. When she wasn't hunting prize game, she was doing Calus's dirty work in the most remote corners of the galaxy.
When Ghaul attacked the Tower, Calus thought this would be the perfect time to strike and ordered Voyc to do Ghaul in. Take a guess how that worked out. Makes you wonder who got to her first, 'cause with this Bow in her hand, she shouldn't have failed. I'd like to attribute this to user error, 'cause when I found the Bow near her corpse, it was still in pristine condition. I'm glad I grabbed it before the Tower was evacuated. Could all just be hearsay, but there's a real chance to vindicate this work of art and give it a legacy worth preserving. Hunting is fine, but Guardians have a greater purpose.
—Banshee-44
Of all the Shadows, Valus Nohr was perhaps my keenest tactician. She had a great skill for translating my wishes into sweeping and deadly stratagems. In taking her place, I would expect a new Shadow to share in her ability to plot an operation—and personally carry it out.
Guardians have a tribe for that, don't they? I see them contest with my Loyalists all the time, meeting force with force. Perhaps one of them could take her place.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
I am a [King] no longer. The [King's] corpse hangs in orbit above a world I will never see. Not from this cage.
I am [Riven].
I am [Taken], and I am beholden to no one. Nothing.
I have not spoken in years. I think about what inflection I would use if I did. But no one is there. The [King's] voice faded long ago. No voice comes to mind.
The [King] despaired in his final moments. Rightly so. His vengeance denied.
Most of those who [bargain] with me do not win.
I am afflicted by tedious repetition.
I: A MIND LIKE A BLADE
The second son. The disowned. Spawned into this world as a lesser being, so unlike the warrior-son, Crota. But one must not only sharpen their blade.
Behold Nokris.
A mind can also be a weapon. There is power in wisdom, in knowledge.
There is much to be known. And he would know all.
The ageless volumes and apocrypha, all consumed voraciously, feeding the mind of the lesser. Driven by a different kind of Sword Logic, he let the stories of the world fill the void just as the worm feeds.
From the womb of unholy knowledge, Nokris's plan was born. He knew his strength lies in his mind, in his magic. But how to prove himself to his father, the proud, dreadful demon-warrior?
Nokris is not the first.
He sought power. He sought knowledge. He sought the worm.
"What is the Darkness?"
You open your eyes and gaze at the heavens, seeking an answer to your question.
You see a world in the space B E T W E E N.
You see a space beyond Light and Dark.
You used to inhabit this space. No longer.
We are still there. We are not interested in Light or Dark.
Our interest is in you. And those like you.
We have reached out before. With an agent whose will was not his own.
First contact. We have learned since then.
Your hands are bound in red ribbons.
Your soul is weary.
Your feet find purchase on a three-dimensional plane.
Your bond's glow is dim; there is no Light here. Or Dark.
"Tell us about the Stormherd!" Kellikin shouted.
She resisted the urge to shush him because he'd been helpful earlier, yelling a warning to her when he saw the violet haze rising from the hilltops. It had given her time to call them into the bunker. Eldest of the children, he'd already experienced several voltaic squalls.
"Okay. Gather round. Come on. Huddle up so I don't have to shout.
"A long time ago, the raiders came every winter. They came and took nearly all our stored food, and many in our village starved. But then spring would come with time for planting, and another summer. In the autumn, we harvested as we are doing now. Each time, we stored even more food, and we hid it more carefully, in case the raiders returned.
"And they did. When they saw that we had survived the winter, they fought even harder for our food, and found nearly all that we had hidden. And so it was, for too many years. They always took from us, never giving anything in return.
"And then, one autumn night, there was a great rumbling. At first some thought it was thunder, but it was the roar of the raiders' quads in the valleys. They had come early!
"Maybe they had a new leader. Perhaps they were too impatient for the harvest. We'll never know.
"Because as the raiders roared through our village, a blue-white bolt of lightning struck among them—BOOM! Before anyone's eyes had cleared of spots, a masked stranger clad in robes and wielding a crook had killed a score of them. With her weapon, she hooked lightning from the clouds and hurled it, thundering among them.
"They say there was something more than mortal about her, for those who were there said she could move faster than the eye could track, and her steps took her higher than anyone could leap. But eventually, the raiders surrounded her, and she fell to their guns.
"Yet there was something else different about her: the storm crow. It flew at her shoulder, and when she fell, it looked upon her body, and under its gaze, she rose again.
"This time, she pointed her crook to the sky, and clouds moved at her command. Our people fled as thunderbolts stampeded through the village. Our homes were not safe. Only our root cellars, like this bunker, were a refuge.
"No one emerged until the thunder ceased rolling. The raiders had fallen or fled. None would return, not until three winters had passed. And now, raiders only trouble us outside the village.
"So when you see the purple mist rise from the hills and hear the thunder, that is your sign to take shelter. And when you hear the rumbling roll through the village, it just might be the Stormherd, come back to make sure we're safe."
Thunder rolled again, but only a few children started. All looked to the ceiling and wondered.
III
Dusk set over the Dreaming City. Six Corsairs sporting Tigerspite Rifles made final checks on their gear. Movement became still salutes as Petra and Siegfried approached the staging ground. Just ahead, nestled in the Divalian Mists, menaced a fetid pit trimmed in Hive bio-growth. Frenetic inhuman whispers echoed from within like hoarse cords screaming.
Field holos displayed maps of twisting tunnelways all orbiting one central chasm. Within the nest, a point flagged their objective. Approach markers tracked the most direct path through.
"At ease, Corsairs. This is Siegfried. He is here to assist you in flushing the Hive from this nest and reclaiming our land. Inside, he is in command. My guard and I will hold this forward station. You all know what to do. For the Queen." Petra pivoted to allow Siegfried the floor. "Titan."
"Well met, Awoken of the Reef. The Vanguard stands with you. I am the spearhead. Advance on me and we will prevail." Siegfried donned his helmet. "I will not fail you."
The fireteam embarked, and in the subterranean ever-dark, the Hive descended upon them. Droves of Thrall choked the tunnels as gunfire deluge hammered from behind rallying barricades without pause. Siegfried lit the hollow with brilliant Arc fulmination, and rounds found targets. Claws drew blood and rent armor, but neither Titan nor Corsair wavered. Seven entered and seven stood. With each break in the flood, they took ground under cover of storm.
Siegfried arced through the filth like a deadly spark. Each charge scattered the opposition, leaving only crackling chitin, expended shells, and galvanized ozone.
Soulfire fumes fouled the air as reinforcements phased into ritual circles. Acolytes loped to flank the Titan only to be cut off by Corsair suppressing fire. Siegfried faced down a towering Knight with a man-hewing blade. He formed two flashbangs in his fists and lunged with a blinding combo. The Knight shrieked, narrowly missing Siegfried's head with its cleaver. The Titan launched forward, and the fiend fell to the rolling tempest. Labored breathing was the only sound that remained. The Titan looked to a blocked tunnelway in the floor before them.
Slick Hive excretion lined the chasm ahead. "This must be their sanctum." Siegfried's palm pulsed with Light. The faint silhouette of a Ghost popped in and out of existence. "Yes. This is it. Fall back and form a perimeter. If I don't return, you are to retreat."
Siegfried ripped through the mucus-seal and slid into the dim cavern. Foul fluid trickled from the ceiling in drips and spattered in pools at his feet. A monument of gore writhed before him. Soft tendrils convulsed around a jaundiced grim glow. They grew from the twisted base of an eviscerated Knight—its back and ribs pulled through its split abdomen, bending inside-out in half-completed metamorphosis.
"You vile thing." Siegfried walked slowly, his sight focused on the grotesque shrine. The Knight's eyes followed his every step. He was mere meters from the horror when the earth burst on either side of him. Two Ogres stumbled from chitin-covered sacs he had mistaken for walls. He drew his Invective and with well-placed blasts, dispatched the first. Siegfried turned to the second, but it was already upon him. It batted him into a cavern wall and wailed as energy beamed from its eye.
Siegfried raised a towering barricade just as the Ogre unleashed its hellish gaze. Cracks webbed through the Light wall. Siegfried braced it with both hands. The Ogre shook the ground as it bore down on him. The Titan readied himself to clash, lightning welling in his bones.
Movement in the distance. [CRACK] The Ogre's head snapped sideways from a forceful hit. Siegfried followed the sound to a figure perched in the mouth of a tunnel opposite of him. The Ogre turned and roared— [CRACK] Its head blew back, oozing from a raw wound. Three more shots followed from the figure, bringing the Ogre to its knees. The man looked at Siegfried and performed a small bow. The Titan dispersed his shield and seized the Ogre by the neck. He slammed the wounded thing to the ground and brought both fists down with a bolt of electricity and a killing blow. The Titan turned to confront his rescuer but saw only an empty tunnel.
It was early morning before Siegfried surfaced again. Petra stood stone-still in the camp.
"I retrieved your samples. You should know that anything I removed regenerated…" Siegfried lowered his voice. "…I believe this was a germinal site. Either lady luck is with us, or this was an ambitious expansion off a larger site."
"We're never lucky," Petra replied grimly. "I'll begin narrowing down options for our next strike."
"That line of thinking will be reflected in my report to the Vanguard."
"You've done more than enough for today, Sir Titan. Rest. Tomorrow we'll take the samples to the Techeuns. I'm sure they'll have plenty to say."
DURESS - III
Sjari shifted on the wooden operating table. Why must she be the first?
She probed the jelly-like substance smeared across her forehead as Elder Kalli entered the room.
"Don't touch that. It's an antiseptic… and a binding agent," Kalli said, placing a sizeable blue-crystal-adorned mask next to an assortment of scalpels, hooks, and erosion stencils on her back table. Each tool was etched with ceremonial iconography, and freshly sharpened.
"Normally, it takes years to become an Adept among our ranks… but the Queen's Wrath believes time is short. If you survive, these augments will expedite your training and enhance your abilities."
Kalli turned away to work a mortar and pestle. "You will need to learn to focus under duress. Remove your mind from this place. Sink into the cosmic, project out from yourself. There is no pain, no flesh, no nerves."
Sjari gripped the sides of the operating table and pressed her back flat, until no air existed between her and the surface beneath—until she felt herself a part of it. She told herself to ignore the grinding of the pestle and thought about how Petra had taught her to use the physical as a transitionary conduit to the Ascendant.
"Drink this," Kalli ordered, handing Sjari a small cup of queensfoil tea.
Sjari opened her eyes and released her grip as her meditation broke. "Yes, Elder sister. Give me a moment to focus, please," she pleaded, hastily gulping down the tea.
"You think my voice is sharper than this knife?" Kalli asked, lifting the scalpel from her back table. "Duress. You must push through it if you are to survive. Be strong, or you will die. This is your final test."
Sjari drank quickly and pressed herself to the table once more. She focused on her fingertips and the feel of the hand-worked wood. The grain formed diminutive pathways for her nails to trace; tiny patterns hidden away within the enormity that surrounded them, only revealed by shrinking one's perspective. She let herself drift.
Kalli threaded the thin metal edge directly through to the bone of Sjari's skull. A line of incision opened a wave of red. Searing penetration through the layers. Overwhelming electrified senses. They gave way to a calming sting in the discordant firing of nerves. A pattern. The texture. The split between what was and what could be.
In her mind's eye, Sjari saw the Ley Lines unfurl like budding petals of a living blossom. Nebula-like plumes of pollen. She let herself slip away until the pain of her flesh was only one of many choices before her.
When I was young, I dreamt of a greater life.███████████
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I held the tiny hands of my newborn███████████████ ██████████████eight extraordinary weeks, █████ ████████ She nursed, grew strong,████████████
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I did not see her mother for those eight weeks;██nursing chamber, and her ceremonial████████████████████
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EARTH // LAST CITY // DETENTION FACILITY //
The Warlock Shayura kneels on a pillow, eyes closed and head bowed, hands folded in her lap. The soundscape of city noise punctuated by the melody of birds and the whistling wind surrounds her. But there is no grass beneath her pillow, only cold concrete. Four holographic screens encircle Shayura, providing a semi-realistic depiction of the gardens at the center of the Last City; a place of calm serenity situated in the shadow of the Traveler.
"I exalt our forebearers," Shayura says softly.
"I exalt my fireteam."
"I exalt my truth."
"I exalt my heart."
"I exalt humanity's capacity for love."
"This above all else, I hold true."
The words feel like thick syrup in her mouth. Guilt makes it taste bitter. Her jaw trembles and throat tightens, her mouth too dry to swallow.
"I exalt our forebearers."
Her voice wavers, just a little.
"I exalt my fireteam."
Her jaw trembles.
"I exalt my truth."
She can feel the warmth of tears on her cheeks.
"I exalt my heart."
Her voice cracks.
"I exalt h-hu-human—" She breaks. Recitations turn into sobs, and Shayura slides from pillow to floor. Her shoulders heave, and she pulls her knees to her chest, crying against her legs. Dead Guardians stare with hollow eye sockets when she closes her eyes.
They beg for their lives.
She trains a gun on them.
And exalts her truth.
████████Grand aspirations, grand imaginings. I looked back to the myths of our people's past to draw inspiration ███████
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█████████████████████daughter for the first time. She crawled into my brood pouch, smaller than a finger, helpless and blind. I was her ███████████████████████ ██████ and slept to the sound of my ██████████ █████████
█████████████████████████████████████████family and house, the old ways made ███
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MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // ANCHOR OF LIGHT //
"The Vanguard won't hold a military tribunal in the middle of a war."
Reed-7 is a voice of reason. He stands in the doorway of the derelict moonbase, fusion rifle held in a relaxed grip. The still-smoldering bodies of Hive Thrall are scattered around the room.
"That's not comforting," the woman at Reed's back says. Aisha shoulders past him, leading with the barrel of her scout rifle, sweeping the area for any remaining targets. "The last thing I want is Shay languishing in some—some kind of Vanguard prison cell for however long this goes on for, or until we're all…"
"Dead?" Reed-7 finishes. Aisha says nothing. "This isn't the end of the world, Aisha. But we have to reach the bottom before we can climb to the top again."
"This isn't the bottom?" Aisha asks, tilting her head to the side mockingly. She steps over to one of the blown-out windows and gestures to the massive silhouette of the Leviathan hanging over the Moon, a crimson stream of Nightmares spiraling up into its open maw. "Because it sure as hell looks like it is. And, what, the Vanguard has us out here doing… doing New Light patrols?!"
"They can't afford to give us leave, no matter how much we need it," Reed pleads. "We have to stay active, contribute. We lost too many new Guardians already with the Lucent Hive assault on the Cosmodrome. We can't…" He sighs. "We can't afford to lose anyone else. We have to do everything we can."
Aisha leans one arm against the broken window frame, head hung low. "Yeah," she whispers. "Yeah."
MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //
A Fallen Vandal collapses to the ground, Ether vapor rising from a glowing hole where his face once was. Dark-blue blood sizzles around the wound.
"Clear," Reed-7 calls out from the top of a flight of metal stairs, the barrel of his fusion rifle still crackling with energy from the last bolt it fired. As he descends, Aisha follows and shoulders her scout rifle.
"Looks like they were pulling the wiring out of the walls," she observes, lifting up her hand and alighting her Ghost, Dunya, into the air. "Check the systems here; make sure they weren't doing anything else."
"Affirmative," Dunya chirps, zipping off through the air toward a computer terminal.
Aisha notices that Reed's glowing eyes are fixed on the Ether wafting from the Vandal's body. She spares a glance at Dunya before crossing the floor to Reed's side. "Hey," she says with a hand on his arm, jostling him from his thoughts.
"I'm good," he lies, gingerly pulling away. "Just—thinking."
Aisha looks down at the corpse, then back up to Reed. "This isn't like what Shay did on Venus." She tries to be reassuring, but it comes off as dismissive.
"How's it any different?" He asks with a dagger's sharpness in his voice. "These—they were stripping wires from the walls, Aisha. They weren't trying to hurt anyone!"
"They opened fire on us first."
"We didn't even try to talk to them!" Reed yells.
"Aisha?" Dunya chirps, across the room. Neither Guardian hears the Ghost.
"I'm sorry," Aisha says as she throws her arms up. "Was I supposed to do that before or after they threw a grenade at me?"
"Aisha?" Dunya says again, more alarm in his voice.
"We could have tried something! Anything!" Reed screams, getting in Aisha's face. "We could have—"
"AISHA!"
[RECORDED VIA [REDACTED] SURVEILLANCE NET: TS-04, [REDACTED]]
HLS: Come, hatchlings. Hear the story of the Ether-blood Lightbearer. The one who wields Ethraaks's blades. She wandered a troubled Shore with vengeance in her heart, searching for the one who had wronged her: the devil-turned-spiderling, Driksys. Food and Ether we shared. The House of Light once again found peace with a Guardian, yes?
HLS: We know of Driksys. One who always thirsted for power, cursed machines, Dark flows of energy, it made no difference. This time, he sought power through Cabal; Legion-rumors of vile splinters from Europa filled his mind with temptations.
HLS: Cabal roamed the Shore, battering against one another in displays of might. Like the Kells of old, they fought for the claim to supremacy… to serve Caiatl of the dead-world fleet. Driksys saw many Kells come and go. Driksys understood fragile loyalties. Understood importance of strength seen. Driksys offered Legion use of his ring for their challenges, and from Cabal blood, he drew profit.
HLS: I stood with Driksys before the House of Light. This one saw him weave truthless words to collect promises. Contacts on Europa. Introductions. Shipments. Brought to Spider, entire ring would have died… many Eliksni lose. When the Ether-blood Lightbearer spoke Driksys's name, we imagined another way forward. She did not wish harm on innocent Eliksni, only the Fallen fiend: Driksys… and so this House granted shimmer-cloak to conceal, and passage to find her prey.
HLS: Old friends traded for information, access, codes. Driksys oversaw new ring, made for Cabal battle-trials. Challengers from across the Reef fought to lead the Shore's Cabal. The Lightbearer withheld her rage and made her way beneath the stands. To the overlook, where Driksys watched a champion preparing for challengers… in the ring below.
HLS: Trihn, the Lightbearer, drew blades of Ethraaks and burst into the overlook. To confront Driksys, her heart full with vengeance, her mind set on war. But he was not alone. An emissary of the new empress had come to see the challenges. Receiving this emissary, Cabal Blood Guard. The Lightbearer charged Driksys, and a savage battle ensued.
HLS: She was thrown from the overlook, into the ring of challengers… before a great Cabal Gladiator who spoke to her. The Lightbearer, unbeknownst to her, had issued a challenge by entering his ring. If she did not fight, all Cabal would descend upon her. Her victory must be earned with strength and blade alone. No other weapons. No other powers. A proving she accepted to again clear a path to her prey.
HLS: The Gladiator bellowed laughter at the small Awoken Lightbearer. Their blades met, and over many clashes her speed proved superior to the Cabal's might. The blades of Ethraaks are strong—sliced through Cabal armor, left blood and oil in their wake.
HLS: She had found victory, but as her Ghost tended to her wounds, Driksys-coward fled to safety through transmat. Though, all was not lost. The Lightbearer's battle had drawn eyes of the emissary, who lavished praise on her for her prowess, and issued an invitation to speak with Cabal Empress herself. When the Lightbearer returns to us, the House of Light will be ready to assist her in hunting Driksys again.
She has been here before.
Pale whisps of clouds swirl over pine trees the color of blackened emerald. No birds sing here; only the cold wind whistles through the tree branches. Flares of atomic fire bloom in the woods and lick against smoldering bark. There is poison in the ground, violence in the air. Screams, both human and inhuman, erupt and echo out into the gloom.
She has been here before.
Two dozen Hive Thrall erupt from the mouth of a cave, shimmering and opalescent like mollusk corpses. They scramble through the dark, shrieking cries of death and birth. Shayura stands, sword of fire held fast, screaming against the crashing tide of chitin and bone.
She has been here before.
Burning embers of Thrall rain around her, but with each dispatched wave of necrotic soldiers, their numbers seem to double. They press forward, inching her closer and closer to the crumbling ravine. Shayura knows that the only way out is through. Wings of flame roar off her back, leaving a trail of rippling heat and charred Thrall in her wake.
She has been here before.
The Thrall finally recede, but the towering Knight that strides through their parted ranks is an escalation, not a victory. Her sword clashes with the Knight's shield, shattering it in a single blow before tearing through the Knight's arm and sinking her blade into its chest.
She has been here before.
She can feel her Light ebbing and wastes no time splitting the Knight in half and separating head from body. Shayura exhales with relief, but with her next breath comes a blinding flash of light. It manifests above the Knight. Her vision swims, her mind reels; the shape is at once familiar and alien—a Ghost. Shayura sees the Hive Knight reborn, reconstructed, as a Guardian would be.
She has been here before. But not like this.
Deep panic builds in her chest. This is no Hive death ritual; this is not Titan. She runs from the Knight's next swing and slips into the reach of Thrall that tear at her armor. Mustering the last of her Solar energy, Shayura calls up a cyclonic pillar of flame that twists up into the sky and consumes the Knight.
…not like this.
The revenant Knight collapses in the flames, and its Ghost manifests again. Shayura leaps forward and drives her sword through, pinning the screaming Ghost to the forest floor. Her Solar aura flickers and fades; smoke and steam billow from her back and shoulders.
"NOT LIKE THIS!"
"Shay!"
Shayura's breath catches, her mind jostled. She feels the soft grass beneath her and sees the flower-dappled park that surrounds her, all sitting beneath the shadow of the Traveler in the heart of the City. Her SMG lies on the ground at her side. Tears shine below exhausted eyes, dark hair in a tangle matted to her head.
Aisha kneels in front of her friend as one might before a wild animal. Reed-7 stands at her back in abject silence, hand over his mouth. City security fans out behind him, their weapons trained on Shayura.
"Shay?" Aisha pleads this time. She gingerly places her hands on Shayura's cheeks and looks into her eyes, searching for a sign of recognition. Shayura eventually reaches up and touches one of Aisha's hands. She tries to talk, but her words are merely whimpers.
Aisha wraps her arms around Shayura's shoulders and pulls her into an embrace. "It's going to be okay," Aisha whispers into Shayura's hair.
"We're going to get you help," Aisha promises.
Shayura does not trust herself or the world she thought she knew. Light is Dark, Dark is Light. The lines have blurred beyond recognition.
But at least in surrender, there is peace.
Amanda Holliday's Solstice Round-Up! See what the defenders of the Last City think about the new festivities!
Vanguard Commander Zavala
"Each of us has faced and overcome so much. Sometimes that can feel like a sacrifice, or a price… but it's a lesson to remember and learn. I'd like Guardians to keep that in mind as we celebrate Solstice. What we come to do is only possible because of what we've done. Both the good, and the bad."
Vanguard Ikora Rey
"Meditation is an important part of understanding not just the Light, but ourselves. We rise in a void, and seek meaning. The Bonfire is a wonderful metaphor for that process; Amanda outdid herself helping with Solstice. Even I don't know how she managed all of this."
Saint-14
"A big pyre to lay to rest everything we hold in our hearts. Yes. I could use this now. Celebration. Explosions. Revelry… isn't it wonderful? I might cry."
Mithrax, Kell of House Light
"Guardian celebrations perplex and mystify, but new beginnings are worthy of what the Saint calls 'partying.' House Light is grateful for inclusion in this occasion, and offers forth many combustible baubles to the sacrificial flame."
Lord Saladin, Valus to Empress Caiatl
"Once I can see this Bonfire from Caiatl's flagship, I'll be happy."
Empress Caiatl of the Cabal Empire
"What is the ordnance limitation on these Bonfire contributions? Perhaps the Cabal can assist in creating a larger fire."
Ana Bray
"I'll support anything Amanda does. Quite a show. I'm always a fan of something fancy with a little attitude."
Lord Shaxx
"I like to imagine the ignition cores are grenades… that does put a smile on my face."
Eris Morn
"…The what?"
IV
In the middle of the chaos, a lone metallic structure groaned as Trihn stood in deathly quiet, piecing together the sequence of events. The structure's form was slender, shapely, and one she had not seen before. It bent in lines that were lost within each other's paths; interconnected without sacrificing distinction. It drew her in. Trihn stepped forward and ungloved her hand. She pressed her palm to the onyx-colored metal spires. Something quivered within, and came alive.
"What are you?" she would ask, over the concerned interjections of her Ghost. The Answer, it would reply to her, alone. At least, the first time. The day had drawn long into the night and she had left the cavity, paced in the encampment, and returned many times to the onyx spires. She would prod. It would weave the riposte. Power, in many shapes. Purpose. Time. Meaning. Any trait the ambitious could muster, it would ennoble with standing. It would taper the meat. Lean the fat. Deglaze the waste to flavor the cut. A protean horror of trim. It struck awe. Glory incarnate, made tangible within the beholder.
It showed her the heap that she clawed life from. It showed her the betrayal Driksys coated her opponent's blades with. It showed her tools they meant to rip apart her Ghost with. It dug out the many beatings her bones still remembered, and the blood ran red into her eyes. The anger. The validating need for vengeance. It showed her a head set upon a pike.
More.
More.
More.
That night she dreamed of the pit. If this living metal thing could lead her to Driksys, the way forward was clear. Shakto said it was taller now. A head above its previous size. She had thought that metal does not grow; it is only reshaped or reduced, but upon reflection, had come to accept aggregation was growth. Trihn returned with tools retrieved from her Pike: some gifts, some collected from marks that no longer needed them, all worn from extended use. Dilution fluid ransacked from the parked Pikes would steady the process. Three canisters of Ether swiped from the encampment dangled around her neck in a makeshift sling while the rest were left stowed in her vehicle's saddlebags. Shakto didn't need to warn her of the danger. It had killed her before. Her first victory, her first reward. It would give her the strength. It would focus her mind. The Ghost would await her return above ground.
She laid the tools before the spindled onyx structure.
Fine silk rolled in soft leather kept them from the dirt.
Traced the cloud-chromed instruments with steady pupils.
Wiped clean with oil and cloth.
Prepared Light to staunch her invigoration should it turn grisly.
Connected the pitted dispersal gauge with transparent clean line.
Capped line with a fine and untarnished gold barb.
Drew thick sapphiric fluid, appropriately diluted.
Pinched skin at the thigh beneath fresh wraps.
Flesh to onyx.
Induced.
Cold prickling stung her veins. Muscles tensed and bulged against the sheaths of Light she had bound them in to keep from bursting. Her bones creaked under Ether-bolstered thew. She licked away flavor from her lips, exhalent tinged of briny nitrogen, and shivered. As her body stabilized and the tremors climbed, Trihn's head reflexively craned upward and outstretched her neck. Her mind electrified. Her spine bent at the brim of buckling.
Armor is the inherent struggle between freedom and protection, and has been since the dawn of humanity. The natural conclusion of elementary physics is such that resilience is the enemy of mobility. But now we're pioneers in a nascent world of discovery, where we can abrogate the laws of "Old Physics" and widen the breadth of engineering design space.
My colleagues at Clovis Bray and I are excited to embark upon this project. We intend to enhance the efficacy of our line of protective armor, and bring to you the level of quality you expect from the Bray name.
SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-02-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY
Reed-7's arms feel like they're going to break apart at the seams. The vibration building in his body threatens to shake him to pieces for every second that he maintains his barrier. It stands as an extension of his Light and also his body. He feels it like a piece of himself, one that he has overextended time and again, as it deflects an Auto Rifle's rapid-fire barrage.
Only two Guardians are left on the opposing team; the remains of the third are scattered around the area, smoking and sizzling. Reed considers how fast he and Aisha might be able to rush in on their cornered Guardian. Even if Reed gets taken down, it might be enough time for Aisha and Shayura—wherever she is—to secure a victory.
"Aisha?" Reed asks. His voice rises in concern as his barrier begins to destabilize. He knows it's now or never. But as he looks to Aisha, Reed spies flames forming between her knuckles.
Aisha has the better plan.
As the opposing Guardian pauses to reload behind cover, Aisha boosts straight into the air, through the top of the barrier. Reed lets the dome collapse and feels the immediate release of pressure on his limbs, his legs nearly buckling. He watches Aisha glow brightly, spinning like a burning wheel before unleashing a volley of knives made from condensed plasma in every direction.
To Reed, it simply looks like a flash of fire and smoke as the opposing Guardian collapses in a heap, Aisha landing next to him. With a sigh of relief, Reed-7 gives her as enthusiastic a thumbs-up as he can muster.
"Did you see Shay while you were up there?" Reed asks.
"No. She's probably playing tag with the one that keeps going invisible," Aisha replies. "Let's go find her and finish this up."
A plume of atomic fire rises up over a nearby block of Vex design as if in direct response to Aisha. The Lighthouse emits a soft tone; the nearby Ghosts begin reconstructing their dead Guardians after the match's conclusion.
A scream rises from the same direction as the fire, spurring Aisha and Reed into action. The pair navigate the familiar Vex architecture quickly. Two more agonized screams fill the air. When they reach the source of the noise, Reed freezes in his tracks as he witnesses Shayura impale the other Guardian through the faceplate of his helmet with her Sword. The opponent's Ghost shrieks in frustration, trying desperately to get between Shayura and his Guardian.
Aisha is saying something, but all Reed hears is blood rushing in his ears. Not his blood though. The memory of it. Of something buried behind layered plates of carbon-polymer and plasteel weave. Something haunting his synaptic network. In that moment, Reed is outside of his own body, remembering faces frozen in stone, recalling the whispered plea of his Ghost's tortured voice on Io.
|| Don't you see? ||
Reed's heart races.
|| In Light, there is only weakness. ||
The opposing team's Guardian is brought back to life by his Ghost, but before the Guardian can finish shouting a plea to Shayura, the Warlock cuts off his arm in one stroke. She cleaves her Sword through the top of his helmet in a brutal follow-through. Reed feels his chest tightening, feels a sense of panic kicking in.
|| Only failure. ||
"Shay, no!" Aisha yells, running up to her friend. She wraps her arms around Shayura's midsection. Shayura screams like a frightened animal, lashing out with a swift slash of her Sword in the direction of the Guardian's corpse.
|| Only death. ||
"Shayura! The match is over!" Reed shouts, snapping back to reality. "The match is over!"
It takes both Reed and Aisha to restrain the enraged Warlock. Shayura's voice cracks in a feral cry as flames race down her arms and swirl along the length of her blood-slicked Sword.
"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against her comrades. Aisha grabs at Shayura's wrist, keeping her from swinging her Sword again as the freshly resurrected Guardian scrambles away.
"Shay," Aisha pleads, trying to get through to her. "Shay!"
Shayura screams an endless wail into the scalding Mercurian sky.
"I do not like the skulls," Saint-14 said. "I have seen too many bones already." He unspooled a long strip of bandage and wrapped it around a Rifle. He dropped a handful of small candies into the barrel, then reconsidered, and emptied them into his palm. "But I like the bats! I think we should have the bats all through the year."
Sagira flew to a high corner of the Hangar and affixed a strand of glittering cobweb. "I keep forgetting this will be your first Festival of the Lost here," she said. "It feels like you've been with us for longer than that."
"It is not even a year yet," Saint-14 nodded as he taped a small paper bat to Sagira for her to ferry to its destination. Osiris left the two alone in the Hangar as he consulted with Ikora about the Pyramids, which was just as well—he was never one for decorating.
"You know, when I first came to the Tower, Guardians brought me platefuls of warm lavender cookies," Saint-14 said. "I thought to myself, what hospitality!"
Sagira chuckled as Saint-14 sighed. "You know the end of the story. It was only how they observe the Dawning in the City, and when the Dawning was over, so too were my cookies."
"But I did not understand yet. When they stopped, I thought maybe I had done something wrong. So I tried to do better, work harder!" He crushed a handful of candies, picked out a few peanuts, and tossed them to his pigeons with a shrug.
"And look at what you accomplished!" Sagira said. "Because of your work, the Tower may just survive for another year. So in a way, you did just what you set out to do."
"Exactly!" said Saint-14. "It taught me something about hope. Something as small as—" he looked around the Hangar for a moment, then pointed to a decoration "—as this pleasant gourd could give someone the hope to live for tomorrow. So we must treat each day as though the future depends on it."
Sagira ferried another paper bat. "It's funny," she said, "sometimes you sound just like Osiris."
Saint-14 laughed, then dropped his voice to a ridiculous rasp. "No," he growled, "Osiris… sounds like me."
Sagira's shriek of laughter startled the pigeons into flight.
JOURNEY - IV
Austyn sat in silence with eyes shut. Ley Lines swept over her in waves—in pulses, which she slowly brought into alignment with her own. Entanglement. It was not the first time she had pressed herself into symbiosis with the Ascendant Plane. She'd been through the thoughts of all the sisters in her Coven. She had dreamt with Petra and harvested secrets from her, with the Queen's Wrath being none the wiser. Austyn knew they were meant to save Queen Mara Sov. They were meant to find her and restore the throne. She had been searching the Ley Lines for a path to the queen each night after her training.
Her Coven sisters lay sleeping all around her body, but her mind flew through countless panes of prismatic glass. As they shattered, she flittered from one plane to the next, catching momentary glimpses of incommunicable wonder.
In the distant cosmos far ahead, Austyn saw a darkened haze of indecipherable noise. Somewhere nestled in the Ley Lines, this shadowed spot was growing. Austyn knew Mara Sov was distant. She knew the queen had obscured herself from her enemies. Austyn had felt a presence reach from the noise toward the Dreaming City more than once. Tonight, she would reach back.
Austyn focused her will on a path to the distant noise and, as she did so, it was. The way was open, but still so far. She reached out with her physical body, placing a hand in the air before her and splitting the oxygen with her touch. She carved a slit in reality, through the molecules of the air, and the path anchored to it at her command.
The noise descended upon her, and instantly, she was at the precipice.
Hand pressed, frozen, paralyzed, and awash in insidious whispers that shredded the doorway into open nothing.
It tore her consciousness across the cosmos to a grand terrace of onyx swords and emerald flame reigning over a red harbor. Fingers reached like blades from distant hollows. Screaming noise upon noise. A lone figure stood on the terrace aside two empty thrones. Testing. Prodding. Tasting. Breeding war.
"Austyn!" A familiar voice pried her back into the waking world. "Austyn, are you all right?"
She woke, soaked in sweat and heat. Petra Venj stood over her, gripping her shoulders.
Austyn struggled to breathe. Her eyes met Petra's.
"Austyn?"
They'd leave you behind if they knew what you just saw, she thought.
"Just a nightmare," Austyn reassured the Queen's Wrath. "Thank you for waking me."
Statesman Tha'uul ran, and the Fulminator followed him. He was a minor diplomat who had played a part in the coup against the emperor. She wasn't certain of the details. The social dynamics of organics were difficult to grasp and she found them consistently irrelevant.
He had no idea she was still there. He thought he had outrun her, but the Arkborn knew that bipeds rarely look up.
She hovered far above her target, specific limiters on her armor disabled so that Arc could flow freely and lift her to the heavens.
Below, the statesman had chosen a brightly lit street that led to a dead end on the left turn in front of him. She descended.
I think perhaps I am finally ready to forgive you. There's no point in carrying around this hate forever. I think about who you were, and who I was, and the end seems inevitable. How can I blame you for the poisonous ambition that the Consul poured into your ear? You were merely his instrument.
In the end, it has all been for the better, has it not? Your betrayal is the first chapter in the story of my ascension.
Know that I am Calus, the last and greatest emperor of the Cabal. Know that the Ghost Primus was false and that your place in my court was secured when he met the Traitor's Fate. Finally, my champion, little else stands between us.
Look to the heavens and you will see me with my arms spread wide. Fly to me and I will bathe you in gold, share the fruits of my gardens, and watch you grow dizzy on libations.
Know that my heart swells with love. I yearn to find those who can accept my gifts, who can take my hand, and share in my mirth.
Together we shall rebuild an empire.
The Leviathan came to a halt before a wall of infinite void. It could go no further, as the navigation system had suffered a cataclysmic failure. The course that the conspirators had set crossed a space that simply didn't exist.
I don't know how long we traveled. Years? Millennia? Time had ceased to have meaning as I wallowed in the despair of my exile. But this event shook me out of my stupor. At the edge of the universe, we had found something. No—we had found a nothing.
From the seat of my observation chamber, I stared into the perfect void. Only I, a god, could understand what I witnessed. It was a thing greater than myself. And if such a thing exists, then I, too, can become more.
Breaking through the dawn, the hope of light
I am the chosen of the (TRAVELER)
With trusted friends and the promise of hope
My explosive (POWER) will never be erased!
Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)
Over-flowing power! (KITSUNE!)
Your (NON-STOP POWER) cuts the night!
Your (NON-STOP POWER) erases all doubt!
Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire!
Getting stronger, subduing the threat
You have no choice but to relent to me
Even when the fire of my soul is dwindling
I have the (POWER) of my (KITSUNE)!
Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire!
Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)
Over-flowing power! (KITSUNE!)
Your (NON-STOP POWER) cuts the night!
Your (NON-STOP POWER) erases all doubt!
The call of the gun in my hands is the source of my strength…
Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)
The Crucible. Where legends are born. It's intimidating, to say the least, but it's also an honor to be here—to participate in building better Guardians.
I could hardly believe it when my Ghost woke me. Now, stepping foot on the hallowed grounds of the Rusted Lands for the first time, I'm overwhelmed with pride. I'm here and ready to make a mark.
The round opens with a total assault from the competition and I… just panic. I run, seeking cover. I watch from a distance as my fellow Guardians are mowed down. I'm not as prepared for this as I thought, but my cowardice pays off. I see them regrouping down the line. I ready my Rifle. This is my chance.
Footsteps approach from behind. I turn to meet them and run face first into the bloom of a triple Solar round burst.
"Your fight has just begun, Guardian. Get back in there!" Lord Shaxx bellows.
I'll do better next time.
Sometimes I stare into the abyss of space, plagued by a terrible fear. In this waking nightmare, everything you said to me and everything you felt for me was a lie.
But what was the nature of these lies? Were they manipulations wrought by ambition? Were they hateful machinations of vengeance? Or, worst of all, were they self-delusions? Did I merely ascribe to you words and feelings that were, in fact, my own?
Calus gestured towards the crackling Arc storm before him. The energy mass shivered, tethered to a golden spindle in the center of the chamber.
"You are marvelous," he said to the Arkborn. His eyes drank in the flickering light, reflecting nothing. "You will cast a glorious Shadow."
A panel on the wall lit up in Cabal: THIS SHIP IS TINY.
The emperor threw his head back and guffawed. "Compared to the interstellar conduits of your people anything would seem small. The Leviathan is formidable in its own right, I assure you."
LEAVE MY PEOPLE BE. I WILL SERVE.
"Of course. You are all I need. Your very presence eviscerates flesh." He gestured, and a metallic shell lowered from the darkness above. Now the Fulminator was free to walk the decks of her new flagship.
Chapter 3: For a Friend
Voronin found cover under uprooted trees and demolished vehicles as he made his way through the catastrophic weather. He could hardly believe he was still alive, bearing witness to the end of all things.
The storm encompassed the station, under siege from the elements. Civilians were being ushered toward the SMILE pods in droves as the lightning made its presence felt, igniting a nearby fuel supply. The explosion tore into the group, and as Voronin turned his head from the horror and the heat, he saw her. Roughly 250 meters away from the station. Morozova lay, singed and smoking, under rubble and ash.
Voronin pulled up his sensorium, but the electromagnetic fields in the air reduced it to static. There was no way to know if she was still alive or salvageable. She had treated him with respect despite outranking him, and she had been there for him when his marriage went to hell—
"We're all dead anyway," he thought and ran to her through the maelstrom of lightning and wind.
And then he was there, pulling off his gloves and wiping ash and blood from her face, as the storm bore down upon him.
As he made peace with his mortality, just shy of 82 years old, the storm around them calmed. The lightning stopped. The wind died. At the station, the civilians' eyes were fixed on the sky, though Voronin was looking only at Morozova. She was breathing, barely. Her eyes opened and met his. A half-smile came across her lips, then froze as her eyes went past him and widened in awe.
Voronin turned and found himself staring into the face of God.
A few members of his group return and find him half-frozen to the ice, his limbs flexing in delirium as he calls for Yriks. As they free him, a ship lifts in the distance, shimmering into stealth, and is gone. They are stranded.
"Why did you come back?" Namrask groans. "Imbeciles. You should have stayed with the others…escaped…"
"I had to give your loom back," the Vandal says. She drops it on his wounded chest. He bellows.
As days pass, the radio shrieks with distant transmissions. Encrypted tactical data between Servitors. Eramis's sermons. The song of the red world overhead. And occasionally, the bray of Human tongues, as a Guardian brags of a new conquest, or curses some obscene glory-trial amusement.
Phylaks is dead; Praksis too.
The Priestess Kridis is dead—Sniksis and Piksis with her—and the Prime Servitor is destroyed.
Eramis is dead, consumed by her own power. One of the old Riis-born. Never will there be another.
Namrask knew it would end this way. He has seen this every time. His fallen people have learned defeat so well that now they defeat themselves. He rages and claws at the ice.
For his band of stranded survivors, he fashions shelters of watercloth: synthetic skin with thick bladders pumped full of ice to block some of the radiation. When his wound pains him, he numbs it on the ice. Turrha sees him but says nothing. He is grateful.
"We must find a transmitter," he says. "We must call for Misraaks to return."
But survivors are still on Europa. They seek out Namrask, bringing their hatchlings but not much Ether.
And if they can find Namrask, so can those who hunt them.
Namrask thunders into the warren on all sixes, crying out, "We must go! Death walks the ice!"
Oeriks, Eoriks, and Yriks spread the word. More come than Namrask dared to hope. He warns them, "We must hide close to the Machine-spawn and steal supplies, or radiation and Ether-lack will bring us down."
They leave. But not an hour later, a rifle round punctures Namrask's armor. He barely staggers, but the jet of air and Ether exploding into vacuum thrust him backwards. "A Guardian," he warns. "It will call its kin." Guardians love to gather like carrion eaters over easily slain and looted foes.
Another round hits Namrask's helmet. "Those with scattercloth, give me your capes!" In exchange for the first cape, Namrask shoves his loom into a Vandal's arms. "But this is priceless," she protests. "You cannot give it!"
"I will return for it," he promises. Feverishly, Namrask stitches the capes into a blanket as blood trickles down the inside of his armor.
He fires his shrapnel launcher into the ice to kick up steam: "Like this!" he shouts. "Make a cloud and run!" They shoot into the ice and flee. As the ice storm settles in Europa's low gravity, Namrask crawls towards the Guardian under a blanket of invisibility. Occasionally, he emerges long enough to be seen, so that the Guardian will hunt him instead of the others.
The Guardian comes for him.
Namrask huddles against the ice, slowly freezing. The Humans are such gangly mockeries of the Eliksni form: two arms, two eyes in a smooth, lifeless doll-face, stubby little teeth. He remembers the Guardians he has killed—eight times. He has never revered Ghosts.
He remembers the smell of burning flesh. Ordinary Humans, young and old. Their gardens and structures; their star and world. Forever remembering giving that long-ago order: Burn it. Burn it. Burn it.
The Guardian nears.
Namrask melts a puddle with his armor's radiators. The Guardian uses a sword tip to test the ice at the edge of Namrask's cover. Namrask makes one small sound: I do not want to die yet.
A shock pistol burst scatters off the Guardian's armor. They whirl, sword down, rifle up; sights on Yriks. Foolish, brave Yriks, scurrying on all sixes, like a Drekh. She has saved him.
The Guardian mocks her, saying, "Ooh, bonyenne, tu m'as tiré! Tu voulais mon attention? Ben tu vas l'avwère!"
Their vehicle appears; the Guardian mounts it and pursues Yriks. Namrask never sees her again.
"This is Misraaks." A name without title.
"To those who renounce the violence of House Salvation and seek refuge in the House of Light, I will be landing a Skiff near Asterion Abyss. Bring only what you need. We must prioritize survivors over their possessions. Trigger message repeat."
"Astiirabis," Turrha says. "I know that place. We can hide in the nearby caves."
"Fine," Namrask says. He seizes his loom. Everyone stares and he realizes: survivors over possessions.
"I am nothing without it," he protests.
Oeriks and Eoriks pull it from him. "Yriks did not die to save a loom."
They have been in the cave for two days when Namrask sees that their heat is sublimating the ice. Curious, sluggish with Ether-lack, he crawls over to the nearest wall and stares.
Namrask looks into another cave. And another, and another. The infinite caves reveal an infinite number of Namrask, Oeriks, Eoriks, Turrhas, hatchlings, and survivors—only—here, they are frozen dead to the ice—here, they are cooked by Cabal—here, they spill in panic from the cave as Guardians gun them down.
"Get out," rasps Namrask.
"What?"
"Up!" he bellows. "GET UP! WE HAVE TO GO!"
At the raw fear in his voice, they bundle up the hatchlings and run. As if the Light has arranged it all and the Great Machine truly does watch over them again, they hear a transmission: "This is Misraaks. I approach under stealth. I will be at Asterion Abyss in five minutes. If you seek sanctuary, come to me. If you still swear to House Salvation, then in the name of the old laws, I ask safe passage. This is a mission of mercy."
Namrask hunts for the twinkling distortion of camouflage against the black sky—there! Misraaks comes from Jupiitr, using the planet's emissions as backdrop.
"We should disperse," he tells Turrha. "It is unwise to crowd together at a landing zone—"
Their radios shriek—a horrific emission. A Vex maser beam catches the incoming Skiff, smashing it onto the ice. Propellant, air, and Ether burst into flame.
Namrask is not surprised. The Light does not reach them; the Great Machine does not watch over them. "We need to move," he says. He reaches out to Turrha, to touch her. "We should go to—"
A white mist envelops her. Tiny electrical discharges cover her armor. She looks up at him and gasps. The Vex teleport delivers a Goblin inside her, shattering her body. The machine, with its indifferent red eye, raises its weapon to fire.
Oeriks dies almost instantly, shot by slap fire. Eoriks leaps to him and tries to capture the escaping puff of Ether—what old faith would call the passage of his soul—as if this will keep Oeriks alive. But Eoriks is killed too.
Namrask puts himself between the hatchlings and the Vex. If he can only buy them one more moment, one more breath, then that is a better legacy than he ever hoped—
"TO ME!" a young voice cries. "Eliksni, to me!"
Misraaks comes after all. And he is not alone. The Light is with him.
And a Guardian.
"My father will come for you," the voice on the radio promises. "His ship is swift, his navigation sure. He studies the motions of the Light, and that Light travels even to you."
There is not enough Ether. They all agree that the hatchlings should get their full supply. Everyone else receives a thin trickle.
But still, they die.
Namrask clings to the voice on the radio; he makes the others listen. "She is as young as some of you," he says one day. "Not much more than a hatchling."
"My father will return for you," the voice says.
It is idiotic to reply, but he does. "Who is your father? How can he study the Light, when the Light is denied to us?"
She does not answer for a long time, but perhaps this is not her fault. The receiver is damaged, so he stitches a patch for it from superconducting threads.
When she answers, she sounds annoyed. "I am Eido, daughter of Misraaks, Kell of the House of Light. He is close to the Light because he is close to the Lightbearers. My father walks beside the Guardians of the Traveler."
Namrask kneels, frozen in horror. He tears the patch from the radio and stalks away. "I cannot go with them!" he snarls.
Oeriks calls after him, but Namrask is too full of rage and fear. The Guardians surely will recognize him if he stands beneath the Traveler.
He comes to Europa almost the size of an Archon priest, but hollow. He needs Ether. If touched, he fears he will crumble into nothing. His arms will dock themselves, his skin will shed. He has nothing except his armor and the thousand-year-old loom clutched in his four arms.
They mockingly name him "Namrask," which means "empty weaver." Like naming a Human "Norman," which, he understands, means "not really Human."
Eramis separates all the newcomers so they will not retain their old pre-Dusk loyalties. Namrask is shoved into a little warren carved beneath the ice; the moon's surface is so radioactive that not even Eliksni can live there for long.
The little Winterdrekhs are kind to him. Namrask realizes that they think he is too weak to earn the huge Ether ration he needs. He has been put in this warren to die.
"I can work," he rasps. "I can make bandages, capes, armor lining, eggcloth, supsoak, prayer matting, watercloth. I am a weaver!"
"Tall friend," one of the Winterdrekhs says soberly. "No one your size is a weaver. Why not volunteer to fight for Eramis?"
Namrask shudders. He cannot fight. Not after what he saw in the Reef—that THING with its staff. Not after SIVA, Twilight Gap, London. Kridis promised that this was salvation.
"Bring me broken eggs," Namrask begs, "and I will make eggcloth. How will the hatchlings be swaddled if no one weaves the eggcloth for them?"
The Drekhs watch as he uses his teeth to separate the eggshell from the thin, fibrous membrane beneath. He tears it into long fibers and fastens them to his loom as the warp—the threads that run top to bottom. With two hands, he holds the loom in his lap. Carefully, he chisels open the warp with a third hand; moving too quickly will snap the eggthread.
His life depends on this. His fourth hand swiftly passes the shuttle through the warp, drawing the first weft across. The thread does not snap; he has woven.
"Watch me," he tells the Drekhs. "When Eramis is done conquering our enemies, we must know how to make things."
They sit and watch. Their lower arms, half-grown after docking, mimic his motions. Their names are Eoriks, Oeriks, and Yriks: brother, brother, and sister.
When it is done, he gives them the little scrap of eggcloth. They murmur in wonder and rub their cheeks against it. "Bring that to the camp Captain," he tells them. "Tell them that Namrask can weave if he is fed and given fiber."
It is the first time he has ever made anything without ruining it on the loom.
Europa is colder than the void because the ice steals heat faster than raw vacuum. Locally made Ether tastes of ice and radiation, of metal and blood. Namrask realizes this is not a new Eliksni paradise; it is a very old one. And it always falls.
"Do something," Yriks begs him. "We will all die here if you do not."
"No," Namrask grunts, picking at his loom. He is afraid that if he goes near Eramis, he will accept her gift.
"Do something," Eoriks begs him. "Find us a protector. You must have known great warriors, when you were great."
"No," Namrask says again. He holds a hatchling to the heat lamp so it can bask in the warmth. He fears that anyone he calls to Europa will join with Eramis.
"Do something," Oeriks begs him. "Find a way off Iiropa. If what you say is true, then Eramis will damn us all. What are you afraid of?"
"Fine," he snaps. "Then I will find us a traitor."
For the first time, Namrask makes the long walk to Riis-Reborn. It is built in the ruins of an old Human city and the angular, crowded architecture makes him growl in fear and bloodlust. He remembers when the Eliksni broke the walls of the Not-Quite-Last City and took what was within.
Sniksis and Piksis guard Eramis's chamber. The twins make ireliis to him. "She will honor you if you honor her, O Great Akh—"
"Don't say it," he growls. Not that stolen name. "I'm not here for Eramis. Where is Variks?"
When Variks, the old judge, sees Namrask, he laughs. "I thought you would be in that hole forever."
"You put me there, didn't you?"
"Not I, sir." Variks claps two hands crosswise, one pair, then the other. "It was the day-Captain, who had no idea who you really are. Does it suit you to be forgotten, old Smokesword?"
Namrask grinds his teeth. Laboriously, he lowers himself on all four arms. "I come to beg a favor."
"No." Variks comes closer to whisper. "My judgment stands, woe-of-the-masses. You gave no mercy and you will get none."
"You make a habit of serving queens who will abandon you," Namrask whispers back. "Eramis is doomed, Variks. She is Whirlwind-touched. As I was, once."
"She knows what she risks. Why else would she have sent her mate and children to another star?"
"Athrys is gone?" Woeful news; she was Eramis's guiding glint. "You always have a way out. I want a part of it—"
"Now you run from battle?" The judge's voice is light, unmocking; a sincere question. "When Eramis could make you mighty again?"
"I survive now as a Drekh survives. I have hatchlings; I would see them spared."
"There were hatchlings on the ships you abandoned at Riis. Human infants in London—"
"I am no longer the killer I was then!"
"Yes, you are."
"But I do not want to be! When I was on the Reef, I—" Namrask struggles. "I saw the beast Fikrul. Before that, I saw the Devil Splicers. But this debasement of our form, this revenge—it must stop, Variks. Please. Help me."
"No favors," the judge pronounces. "Not for you. However…"
Variks's prosthetic hand scratches letters in the snow. It takes Namrask several blinks of his second eyes to understand that it is Human script: MITHRAX.
"I will make your name known to him." Variks wipes away the letters. "But this is not a favor." His metal hand touches the tattered blue banners around his waist. "In exchange, I want these redone in fresh bannercloth. I will send you the thread. You will weave for me, 'Namrask.'"
Namrask tries his best. But the bannerthread is too fine, the weave too dense, and he cannot complete his task before word comes that Variks has summoned the Guardians—the Machine-spawn—to Europa.
When Namrask has the strength, he uses nonfluid loop cutters to help the Drekhs join their icy tunnels with other habitats. He weaves hollowhot matting to insulate the tunnels, and soon, some places are warm enough to remove a little armor. A clutch of eggs is hatched, and the hatchlings are raised in the warren.
For the first time since he fled the Tangled Shore, Namrask can think of more than his own survival.
Then the warrior Phylaks, a lieutenant of Eramis, comes recruiting.
On the raw ice beneath a black sky, she plays videos of Eramis raising a slab of crystal like a wall; another where she binds a Vex Minotaur in a casket of frost.
"This is the future of all Eliksni. Who among you would wield this power?" she asks.
He keeps his head down.
"You."
Namrask looks up, carefully. Phylaks's shock pistol is pressed to his brow. She puts the weapon down between them, a sign of truce, and makes the ireliis bow of respect. "You have the size of an old fighter. Why not come forward?"
He is afraid his voice will fail. It comes out strong, but like another's voice: "I saw what happened the last time Eliksni reached for new power. And the time before that, and the time before that. I will not be part of it."
Shrugging, Phylaks takes up her pistol and walks away. "There are many others who will take your place."
Later, Yriks tries to change his mind, but Namrask refuses again. "Eramis derives authority from her ability to grant this power. She cannot give it to everyone; if she does, her authority is lost," he says. "Has she destroyed Servitors?"
"I think so," Yriks says quietly. "Drekhtalk says that she broke a Servitor during a ritual to give power. To show that the old ways are done."
"Of course."
Will society always be based on violence? Where the basic worker is not the weaver, the farmer, or the healer, but the Drekh: one pistol, one knife, one unit of labor. Employed to steal what it can—the value of a Drekh life.
And Namrask helped make that law.
He rumbles. "She preaches salvation, but she cannot save everyone. She keeps Ether scarce. More than we can get alone, but not as much as we need. It is the way to rule."
"You have a mind for strategy," Yriks observes slyly. "Who were you before you became our empty weaver?"
"Do you know hollowhot's secret?" he asks and abruptly places some on the ground for a chattering little hatchling to play gathering-games without freezing to the ice. "Why it is so valuable as insulation?"
"What is hollowhot's secret, Namrask? Why is it so valuable?" She mocks him.
Namrask shows her one thread of the stuff, end-on, so she can see the little bubbles of vacuum that fill the center.
"There is nothing inside it," he says. "But if you pry too hard, you break the nothing. And then it is useless."
They are going to the Last City beneath the Great Machine.
"What are you afraid of?" Misraaks asks Namrask.
"Why are you NOT afraid?" Namrask demands. The young one bewilders him. "What life could we possibly have there? They will take their revenge on us. And wouldn't we deserve it?"
"Is there something I should know?" Misraaks asks dryly.
"No," Namrask snarls, rubbing his bare knees where they protrude from his shell. "Yes. I was—" He stops. "No. I cannot tell you, because then you would have to tell the Humans. And I will not make you lie."
"You do not want to be who you were before," Misraaks guesses. "Would you learn a new trade?"
"I would like to weave," Namrask says. "I am not good at it yet. But I might be."
"Weaving is a little like splicing," Misraaks says thoughtfully. "Splicers work in metal and flesh, not warp and weft. But the goal is the same: to nurture life with art, and nurture art with your life."
"I distrust Splicers," Namrask grunts and rubs his chest. What would a Splicer do to him? Fill him with machine cancer, to make him strong again? Give him the corrupted Ether, the undying madness?
Misraaks's primary eyes shine. "I am an older kind of Splicer. Those who look for the Light in all things. Maybe the right kind of Splicer can weave two peoples together. As the Awoken tried do, in the Reef."
"But the Light is NOT in all things. It has left us. Why look for the Light when you can see so clearly who it favors?"
"It was in us once," Misraaks reminds him. "It could be again."
Namrask remembers such a time, across a vast and blood-soaked distance.
"Riis…I was there, you know," Namrask whispers. "At the Whirlwind. After Chelchis fell, I sent ships to follow the Great Machine. I abandoned all those Houses that could not make war. I ordered my fleet to hunt the Machine. Many rallied after us. Each ship began its own war with the Humans. But maybe, I was first."
Misraaks stares at him. Finally, he says, "I understand. Our people fear the Saint too. But I doubt the Saint ever knew them by name."
***
Namrask settles in the area of the Last City that has been given to the Eliksni. By day, he shares a loom with others. By night, he whispers the names of those he has lost until he falls asleep.
He sleeps well until the day a Human shouts at him: "Baby eater!"
Namrask turns away. But he wants to shout back. About the closed air, closed life of a spacecraft. About the hatchlings who survived and the hard decisions about those who did not. He wished now they had been depraved enough to think of devouring Human young.
But he sees the young Eliksni, like Eido. He wants to wail at their promise, at their hope. Eido dislikes and avoids him, which is for the best.
Eventually, Namrask learns to weave for the Humans. His favorite task is making felt, but he also learns to work in silk. He likes the silkmaker, and runs it manually sometimes, pulling the thread from the spinneret with one hand and then another, maintaining the steady, even tension, which makes the best fabric.
He wishes that he could weave in Light, like the Guardian Warlocks, who make fieldweave in a secret way. Maybe Misraaks will learn how to do that.
One day, a machine comes to his market stall. He combs at his shell nervously. The machine-Humans are called "Exos." They remind him of the Vex; it is easier to look at their armored shapes than the unsettling softness of the Humans and two-souled Awoken. This Exo wears a colorful mantle.
"I recognize you," the machine says.
He quails. "Namrask sells fabrics," he croaks, pretending not to understand.
"Namrask." She laughs quietly. "I am old, empty weaver. Almost as old as you, I think. But unlike most of my kind, I remember London—and you."
He holds a bolt of fabric between them. She catches two of his hands: her machine flesh is warmer than his.
"Timelines are born from each moment—we live on one thread woven into a vast tapestry. But what has happened between us, on this thread, is fixed. You cannot run from it. You are a butcher. You and I are still at war," she rasps.
She releases his hands. He stares at her, breathing hard. Ether smokes from his mouth.
She playfully taps on all four of his hands. "I am named for an ancient goddess," she says, "with as many arms as you. In her hands are dharma, kama, artha, and moksha. Law, desire, meaning, and finally, liberation. Freedom from the war of death and rebirth. Are you freed by your rebirth as Namrask?"
He repeats, "Namrask sells fabrics."
"Maybe." There is laughter in her voice. "But I do not think moksha has granted you true rebirth."
"I have not forgotten what you did when you were Akileuks. And I never will," she says quietly.
He stole that name, like any other plunder, and used it. A Human hero's name, a great warrior and famous runner: Achilles, which means "woe to the enemy."
I have come to admire how you rally against the impossible. It's not your continual success that amuses me—your Light assures victory—it's your refusal to kneel. You fight and you die without a second thought. For what? Personal glory? Wealth? The wretched denizens of your refugee city?
You have made bitter foes of races older, nobler, and worthier than you.
You struggle so vainly and valiantly when you have so little. When you are so little. Everything this universe has thrown against you and still you persist.
I could finish you. And you would not be at my side at the dimming of the world. You, the Guardian of Guardians.
If I wished it, you would die your final death. But I won't. Why? Because I'm in love.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
They say the Cabal are not a subtle people. We have fallen so far.
The Cabal I knew were better. We understood that there is power in subtlety.
And that's what it'll take to recover the throne at the center of my homeworld. The seat meant for me.
Open war is for savages. Pit fighters. The Red Legion. There shall be a day, long before the end comes, when that throne is mine again.
And a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe would be the ideal instrument of assassination that will take it for me.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
Saint-14 stands in place of the Sergeant at Arms amid a host of New Lights; most had been resurrected near the City walls. He needed the distraction, the work, but most of all he needed to be somewhere he could help.
Whispers fly between them regarding the legend that addresses them, and the strange chicken that struts figure eights around his legs.
"This area is reserved for Lights without combat training who wish to take part in Solstice. Let's get you to speed." He picks up an old-looking weapon. "This is standard Khvostov rifle. Some of you are familiar with this weapon," Saint says. "For those who aren't familiar, it's very simple."
He quickly runs through a few exercises. How to reload quickly, adjust the sights, clear a jam. At the range targets, he demonstrates how to weave Light between bursts of gunfire. Each time, a metallic ping rings out as he strikes a target; and each time, a chicken-cluck response echoes beside him.
"Calm and discipline is key. Steady support of your rifle will keep it under control. Steady pressure on the trigger will keep you from pulling off-target. Breathe, squeeze, and shoot."
"Bawk."
"Yes, yes. Now it is your turn, New Lights!"
The group steps forward and focuses on their targets. Several of the trainees' shots miss, but a Guardian in green lands each bullet and cheers.
"Bawk."
The New Light looks at the chicken now standing beside them, then to Saint-14, who also is focused on the chicken. There is a moment of hesitation before Saint says, "Hm. Good. Run it again."
"I did it perfectly," the New Light complains flaccidly.
Saint steps forward and puts a hand on their shoulder. "Perfection doesn't guarantee success. Perfection is subjective, New Light. That's why we train."
"But I hit every one!"
"Bawk… Awk!"
Saint-14 nods to the chicken, who stands tall and mighty—feathers sharp and puffed against the waning morning light.
"Colonel, the Pigeon Lord, says do it again. I wouldn't argue."
The Corsair reloaded behind her improvised barricade as Shredder rounds sizzled overhead. She wished she had better cover. The Hall of Names hadn't been constructed with defense in mind—apparently nobody dreamed the Awoken would be assaulted here.
She reloaded her fusion rifle and assessed their situation. It was dire. Unless Leona Bryl's team managed to roll up the Hive's southern flank, her squad would be overrun. At least the Hall of Names was a fitting place for a last stand.
She was six rounds short of a full clip. She turned to her left to ask Lira for extra ammo, only to discover her teammate slumped over, blue skin already going grey. The thick purple ichor of a soulfire round oozed from the hole in her chest. The Corsair gritted her teeth and looted Lira's kit for ammo.
The Corsair finished reloading and popped her head back over the barricade. She downed three loping Acolytes in quick succession before even noticing the ogre looming in the background. It was enormous—at least seven meters high. She unloaded her fusion rifle into its face, trying to burrow rounds through its armored hide. She managed to blow off a chunk of its upper jaw before her rifle clicked empty.
The Corsair dove back behind her barricade, ammo spent. She looked around the Hall for the last time, admiring the elegant statues, her chest swelling with bittersweet pride. The faces of her people, Techeuns and Queens, presiding over the battle. She remembered what Sedia had said to her long ago, before things got out of control: "We are only briefly Awoken. The rest of our existence is an eternal dream. And in that dream, we will all—"
"You want to go where?" Drifter's jumpship idles roughly behind him, the engine misfiring and clattering loudly as if ready to explode. Eris's ship purrs next to it in contrast.
"There is a connection between the points of Darkness. Signals passing back and forth to something beyond." Eris steps closer so her voice carries over the engine noise. "The other Pyramids may provide more context."
The Drifter clicks his tongue and raises and eyebrow. "Sounds a mite dangerous with big daddy Calus parking right over the Moon? Seems off limits."
"Yes, but the Guardian leads raiding parties into Rhulk's Pyramid in Savathûn's throne world. We will use that distraction."
And with that, Eris shoulders through him and trudges to her ship. "Come, Rat."
"…Can we eat first?"
***
Explosions thunder within the throne world's Pyramid as Eris and Drifter establish a camp in the sunken bog where Miasma meets the Pyramid's approach. The massive ship eclipses them, towering in fog, the extent of its edges unknown to their eyes.
Drifter's face is stern, clenched with a tension Eris has seldom seen: Trust in one hand, fist full of Stasis in the other.
Eris sets a cloth-wrapped stalk of egregore upon a pyramid-shard jutting from the stinking swamp. She unwraps and neatly spreads the corners of the cloth before noticing the Drifter's footsteps behind her.
"Somethin's watchin' us," Drifter mutters. He turns to his altered Ghost and whispers softly enough to convince himself that Eris cannot hear him, "Keep your eye on her, eh?" Then louder, "I'm gonna look around, make sure that hotshot hero didn't miss any Screebs."
The Drifter's altered Ghost emits a single elongated tone in acknowledgement and then focuses on Eris.
"Germaine."
He stops. Eris knows his concern belies a nobility that he often attempts to suppress in favor of the persona of the Drifter. It is a ruddy shield, but she has seen the true him hidden under that that layer of grime.
"May I… have a light?"
"You got it." He discharges a Solar round from his Trust that sparks on the Pyramid floor and ignites the egregore stalk. "Back in a flash."
Eris watches him disappear into the swamp, then focuses on the pluming egregore.
***
Eris sits, exhausted, on a warm cushion in the dirt. The Drifter stands over a hazardously large fire, scooping some sweet-smelling funk of a stew from a cauldron-like vessel of Hive design. Her face scrunches as he places a chunky bowl of thick greyish-brown potage in her hands.
"What'd you find?" Drifter asks, slurping from his bowl.
Eris tests the temperature and flavor of this "food" against her lips. It is something like the stinking brined cheeses Ikora had given her on her last visit to the City, but with earthy depth beneath. Her face curls and she opts instead for conversation. "I was right; they are connected. But now, I only have more questions."
"You ask me, that's how these things go. Better leave well enough alone and head home," Drifter says, slurping another mouthful.
"The egregore connects points of Darkness, resonates with Pyramid constructs, but I cannot decipher their communications. Still… the Lunar Pyramid, the Europan Pyramid, and both Glykon and Leviathan all converse with the same distant point. What Rhulk spoke to, so does Calus. It is… gravely concerning."
"Wild," Drifter says with a whistle. He shakes his head and looks at her full bowl. "You gonna eat that?"
"I…" Eris wonders if he heard her correctly but knows repeating herself is an exercise in futility. "…What is this? Exactly?"
"Pretty damn tasty is what it is. First time I got it right. Thought you'd appreciate someone cooking for you since you, uh… well, you're awful at it."
"Rat, what are you feeding me?" She remembers his hunt earlier in the day, and her stomach turns. Eris stares at the Drifter, mouth agape in a half-heaved gag—her thoughts racing over the things he's claimed to have consumed. "You cooked me rotted Screebs."
"What?!" Drifter chokes on the stew and coughs. "I wouldn't feed you that crap, Moondust." He laughs. "You never had crawdad stew?" He holds his bowl to his lips. "Or a close cousin to it…" he adds under his breath. "Little swamp shrimps, you dig? It's a delicacy!"
Eris reels her imagination in, takes a breath, and sips the broth without taking her eyes from the Drifter. The liquid fills her crumpled stomach with hearty warmth. She feels her stress melt away. The stew's flavor is far more pleasing than its smell. She smiles and drinks again.
"Thank you. It is… good."
Tallulah Fairwind smoothed the felt of the table with one hand, idly playing with her chips with the other. Across the table, Caliban-8 wore a green dealer's cap and looked stricken.
The Ahamkara looked like somebody's kindly old grandpa just now. And it could play a mean hand of cards. "Twenty," it crooned as it raised the stakes. She saw Caliban's eye sensors dilate.
The game had started so well. And it seemed like a great story they could have told back at the Tower. How was she supposed to have known? "Call," said Caliban, tension in his voice.
She looked down at her hand. "All in."
The Ahamkara's grin grew larger. Caliban shook his head.
"Don't you do this, Lulah. Don't you leave me here! I can't do it!"
The cards went down.
She'd lost.
The Hunter Vanguard tossed her bow to the Exo as the Ahamkara came around the table to collect his winnings. "A dare's a dare, man. Good luck."
She didn't scream. Wouldn't have been dignified.
My name is Saint-14.
The Speaker was my father. Guardians do not have true fathers. Some might say Guardians do not have true family. We are born with no one but our Ghosts, and we find our way to something more. I was lucky to find my way to a family. A family I chose for myself.
I was drawn to the Speaker because of the vision he had for this City. He helped me understand that we fight not for the sake of fighting, but for the sake of the people. He taught me to imagine a day where we might put down our weapons and that reaching that day would be our greatest victory yet. I have worked for that day all my life.
The Speaker was a leader in this City. He was here at its formation. He helped establish the Consensus. Most importantly, he was a figure that people could recognize and trust. Because of him, that is what I aspire to be as well: a familiar face who reminds people that they are safe. That they are taken care of.
It is painful for me—and for all of us—that we could not be there during the Speaker's last moments. As Guardians, it is the nature of our long lives that we see many people die. We hope that, through our service, we can give them peaceful deaths. At the very least, we know that the Speaker died bravely. We know that he died with the City, the people, and the Traveler in his mind. We know that his last moments were a testament to everything this City stands for: bravery in the face of adversity and dedication to our principles when faced with those who would do us harm.
We cannot reclaim what we have lost. There will always be a void that the Speaker once filled. We cannot replace him.
But I hope, someday, we may find someone to continue his work.
Father, I will miss you. I am sorry for the times that I failed you. I have been given a second chance, and I will use it to live up to the ideals you thought you saw in me. I will not let you down.
Thank you.
—Eulogy for the Speaker of the Last City, given by Saint-14, on the day of the Speaker's memorial service
The Red Legion ship curled in for a landing above Echo Mesa, and its engines went dark. The canopy retracted, and its pilot climbed out.
Ikora's feet touched the surface of Io for the first time as a Guardian without Light. It felt wrong. But not as wrong as—
The ground shook as three Red Legion Harvesters flew overhead. Not as wrong as them.
This place, this holy place, this place more sacred to Guardians than any other in the system... now a thoroughfare for Cabal to tread upon without reverence. To tunnel through without regard. To befoul without a thought. Ikora's anger had bubbled to the surface often since this war had begun, but seeing the Red Legion here had her as persistently furious as any time she could remember.
She checked her provisions and ammunition. The Vex were here as well, but she knew that as long as she stayed away from the machines, they would present no threat. She would deal with them later. For now, she set out for the Red Legion base she had flown past on her initial descent.
It might cost her everything, but she would make them pay.
II
A monolithic ivory tower pierced the distant horizon. Siegfried, first Striker Titan of the Praxic Order, sat across from The Queen's Wrath and two bodyguards. Their skimmer-craft glided through the dazzling amethyst architecture and swooping fog-ridden tunnels of the Dreaming City. Crystalline reflections danced through the cabin around them like rainbow-mist flares, catching sheen off Siegfried's polished Dunemarchers.
"I've never seen this road."
"That doesn't surprise me. Much of the city remains inscrutable to prying eyes," Petra Venj chuckled. "You've visited before?"
"Once or twice. Is that Rheasilvia through the fog?" Siegfried removed his helmet and hung it on the Invective slotted beside his seat. A thick flaxen braid ran down the midsection of his head, fading into stubbled sides that fed a sumptuous beard.
"It is." Petra looked the man over. "That's not a common fashion for a Guardian."
"Grew in during the Red War. It took a liking to me." Siegfried stroked his chin. "Will your soldiers be ready to move once we arrive?"
"At nightfall." Her hand was outstretched, holding field notes. "You understand what you're facing?"
Siegfried took them and slid the note packet into his breastplate beneath a Cormorant Seal. "Innumerable Hive."
"Yes, and particularly vicious ones."
"That has always been my experience." Siegfried smiled. "I'm sure your Corsairs will allow no harm to come to me. I will do the same for them."
"They'll be relieved to have a Guardian leading the charge."
"My briefing mentioned fauna being afflicted by a pervasive infestation?"
Petra kept the worry from her face. "Recently sapient beings have begun to show symptoms as well."
"It's spreading." The Praxic Titan leaned forward. "How have you combated this?"
"Intelligence suggests the Hive congregate around some sort of relic. We believe it is the affliction's point of origin." Petra pointed to his breastplate. "Your notes provide more details."
"It is my understanding I am not to destroy this relic. Why?"
"'Whatever the Hive bow to in the dark: secure it, intact,'" she quoted. "It represents too many unknowns to discard without examination."
"That is not my perspective. The Hive exist to purge or be purged. I say we oblige them." Siegfried turned to The Queen's Wrath. "My feelings aside, you are the commanding officer of this expedition. I will comply."
"Do so with care. You alone are cleared to approach the relic. My Corsairs don't enjoy the protection of the Light, and I want them keeping a safe distance once the nest is clear."
"Very well. Still, know my recommendation to the Vanguard will only be in support of eradication or containment."
"The Reef will take note of their opinions. For now, I imagine the Vanguard are rather focused on Europa. At least, if what I hear from Eris is accurate."
"Eris Morn is a traitor." Siegfried's voice was stern, his eyes locked with Petra's.
Her lip convulsed in a silent snarl. "The information she shares would suggest otherwise." Petra turned away from Siegfried as the skimmer-craft dipped beneath the fog. She thought of Eris's last letter, the sighting of Variks. Pieces in motion. Coats turning or bisected. Wartime nuances. "Maybe this deployment will be good for you."
"Anywhere my Light can send shadows into retreat is a good deployment."
Amanda was quiet, but Zavala could still hear the anger before her voice came back over the comms. "Due respect, Commander, I ain't got time to come be your chauffeur. There are thousands of people like me stranded down there in the City."
"The City is lost." He hated saying it, but he knew it in his bones. "And we're all the same now, Holliday. The Light is gone. We have to regroup."
"You mean run." Even angrier now. It was infectious.
"I mean live to fight another day. We don't have the luxury of rescue flights anymore. The longer we stay here, the tighter the noose."
"Then go! What's stopping you? You know how to fly a ship."
"Not like you. You're the best pilot in the system, Amanda. And you're the only one who can keep our ships in the air once we're away from Earth."
"Dammit, sir, we can't just leave them here."
"I've already made my decision. If humanity is to survive..." He'd leave the betting to Cayde, but he knew the odds were slim. "This is the only choice we have."
Silence. For a few seconds this time. "All right." Her voice cracked. He understood.
Eido pored over a datapad, catching up on the Cryptarchs' version of the Hundred Years' Siege. She clicked her mandibles in fascination. Their history of events was entirely different from those taught to Eliksni hatchlings. She was honored to be the first to measure the historiographical gap between their two species.
A Human male approached her and made a rough, grating sound from his neck. Eido knew Humans often used this sound to attract attention. She found it distressing.
"Yes, Matsuo-Cryptarch." Eido shifted the datapad to her lower arms. "What do you need?"
"Miss Eido." The smallish Human bobbed his head. "I'm hoping you can weigh in on a rather delicate matter."
"Yes. I have excellent dexterity," Eido replied. "Go on."
The Cryptarch smiled. "I'd like your firsthand account of the Techeuns. You studied under them for a time, correct?"
Eido put down the datapad. "It's true. But I think that your sibling House, the Reef Cryptarchy, will have better information."
He tensed the flesh around his mouth. "I'm sorry to say that relations between the Tower and Reef Cryptarchies are not always as forthcoming as we'd like. Besides," he continued, "your primary account, as an Eliksni, would be invaluable."
Eido paused to collect her thoughts. "I will start by saying that the Techeuns are very frightening."
"Frightening?" Matsuo pressed. "How so?"
"The Guardians use power from the outside. They shoot with metal or spark with electricity. They punch." Eido clenched her upper fists. "They destroy the body."
Matsuo recorded assiduously on his own datapad.
"But the Techeuns use power from the inside," Eido continued. "They manipulate the mind the way Splicers manipulate data. They create visions. They penetrate dreams. They speak with the voice of the listener."
"If a Guardian kills me with violence," she explained, "I am Eido until my death. But if a Techeun controls my voice… am I still Eido?"
She builds a palace here in her hiding place, and I perceive through her self-assurance. For all her grandiose treatises on secrets, the Hive princess all but screams, "Look upon me."
And so I look upon her today, my Witness, absent a brother. Loss—true and consequential loss—is new to her palette, but she hides her distaste for the bitter well. I address her. "Savathûn, your brother is no more. He is absent from the final shape of things, as he always must be. But I sense a foreign hand at work."
"Would you accuse rather than state, Rhulk?" She clothes herself in playful tones. "I have played a role in more of my brother's deaths than not."
"So very true. Congratulations, then? I suppose after so many eons of killing one another to build your strength, his final end must feel like quite the accomplishment. No more must your wits dabble against his play-mortality. Now, only matters of consequence will occupy your precious time."
"And thankfully, I find myself well-provisioned now for any conflict."
"Ah! I had nearly forgotten! You are the heir apparent to Oryx's dominion, yes? I know you Hive are loathe to accept gifts rather than seize them. Armies. Fleets. And of course, the Taken."
"If I had seen this coming, perhaps I could have even prepared to secure the secret of Taking itself."
I bark in amusement. She makes no attempt to hide her distaste for the laughter of my kind, and it is indulgence itself to let it flow freely. "Clever. Always one step ahead. The Taken will serve you well against the Guardians until they slay you just the same."
"My sweet, vile brother would look at a scalpel and see a hammer. I am not him."
"Yes, you do seem to find much more creative uses for your playthings. A pity that will become ever so challenging for you moving forward."
"Challenging?" I do not see confusion cross her face often. I savor the scent.
"Until now, the shadow from which you skulked has been your brother's. Without the Taken King to cast your swaddling shade, you stand naked in the sun for all to see, yes? No shadows, no hiding, no tricks. Just the Guardians and their god-slaying weapons."
"I have little to fear from the sun," she insists, but there is no twist in her face. No secret delight.
The Six-Armed Hatchling
Eido gathered the hatchlings around her. It was late in the day, and she was reluctant to let them roam the streets at night. So she enticed them back to camp with the promise of old Eliksni legends.
"There was once a hatchling," she began, once they had quieted down, "who was born with six arms." Eido used her upper arms to point out the spot below her lower arms. "And all of his clutch-mates mocked him for it."
The hatchlings murmured knowingly. Many of them had experienced mocking.
"When the hatchling became old enough, he competed against his siblings for Ether and status in his House. He was not as clever or as strong as his clutch-mates, even with an extra pair of arms, so the Kell of his House declared him a Dreg."
The hatchlings nodded knowingly. They had heard stories of Dregs, too, even if Misraaks had outlawed the practice in House Light.
"But," Eido continued, her tone lifting, "when it came time for the Kell of his House to dock his lowest arms, the hatchling rejoiced!" She threw her hands up in celebration. "For he had an extra pair of arms to give. That day, he became the only Dreg in his House with four arms, and he was proud."
C'mon, let's get back out there. Those Fallen aren't gonna punch themselves.
"In a minute. I, um… I wanted to show you something."
"Oh. What's in the bag?"
"Only one way to find out, isn't there? Open it."
"… A new mark?"
"…"
"A new mark that… huh. This looks familiar. Eriana, are you re-gifting?"
"It's cut from my old robes."
"…"
"I thought… Well. I thought your old one looked a little ragged."
"It's very soft."
"It's not that soft. I thought your old one looked a little ragged, and this would be a good way to, uh…"
"Dress me up?"
"…"
"Just kidding. Go on."
"…"
"What is it?"
"Wei. Will you join my fireteam?"
V:
Howe's body grows cold by the time Spider can tear his eyes away from the painting.
"Beautiful. Truly beautiful. And achieved without a Traveler or any of its nonsense."
He waves to Arrha with a lower arm while holding the painting with his other three.
"Clear the room."
Arrha bows and exits, dragging Howe's body with him. The doors slam closed.
Spider pushes himself to his feet, turns to face his throne.
He sings. Mo Li Hua, an ancient song of Earth. As he finishes the first verse, his throne dematerializes to reveal a stone stairway leading down.
Spider descends.
The chamber below is cool and dry. Shelves line the walls. This display case contains crowns made of gold and silver, antler bone and velvet. The next is filled with red clay pottery adorned with monsters and heroes.
Spider passes a case filled with beautifully illuminated books and scrolls. He reaches a wall nearly covered with paintings.
In the gap between a painting of a bovine skull over a double waterfall and a portrait of a human with a coy smile, he places his prize:
"The Starry Night."
She travels across the Ascendant Plane.
The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.
Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.
The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.
He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.
She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.
"Who are you?"
The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.
"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."
The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.
// Cryptarchy Analysis Log R11320 — Stolen Cabal Data //
// Author — Master Rahool //
SUMMARY
What follows is a translation of a Cabal data file that was acquired as part of Operation Haystack, as ordered by Commander Zavala. This log focuses on a single file we were able to decrypt; for the full report on the contents of that data breach and further decryption attempts, please see log R11312.
Ostensibly, this file is a recipe for a dish to be served at some sort of official gathering in Caiatl's honor. The ingredients mentioned here have been seen in a variety of ancient Cabal texts, and analysis of the empire's economic history implies that they are considered cheap and undesirable. I believe this recipe is both old and born of the lower class, a case of poor laborers devising ingenious (yet challenging) ways to take unsold goods and turn them into something comforting and delicious.
That Caiatl chose this as a main dish for an official gathering speaks to the optics she wants to present; she may be trying to differentiate herself from the opulence of the Calus era and the utilitarianism of Ghaul's rule by relating to the common folk of the empire.
Note that decryption was only mostly successful, and some data degradation occurred. Cryptarch's comments are in-line for ease of understanding. Some translations remain ambiguous, but I've provided my best hypotheses.
// FILE START //— [CBX PARSER ERROR]
— [CBX PARSER ERROR]
— [CBX PARSER ERROR] until the solvent mixture has blended together.
— Pulverize atlotl tendons until just pliable and surfaces begin to crack, then dredge in solvent mixture and let soak for [36–84 hours; the cycle referenced here is unknown, estimates are conservative guess].
— To make the [black cube], crush citrus mixture, then drain through a sieve. Discard juice, retaining pulp and bitter pith. Compress solids in [kitchen vice? unsure of translation] on maximum heat until block is [CBX PARSER ERROR] to touch and charred. Place in sunlit area to cure.
— Once tendons are soft and stretchy, remove from solvent and rinse in ocean water. Slice into ribbons and set aside.
— Take loin of Atlotl and hook to [rotating device] then slap against stone surface until fragrant.
— Cut loin into tetrahedrons, making sure to slice across all grains, and set aside.
— In a large cauldron, add water, shau'rac oil, and appropriate root mixture (based on season and year). Bring to boil, then add loin and tendons. Cook until [CBX PARSER ERROR] no longer float and fluid has an ochre sheen across the surface.
— [CBX PARSER ERROR] more hours, thickening until broth [CBX PARSER ERROR] off the back of a ladle.
— Serve with thick slices of the [black cube].
// FILE END //
"This Cloak is yours. For the day you ignite the spark that casts the Shadow of Earth." —Emperor Calus
THE RECENT PAST. SOMEWHERE ELSE.
I activated the mechanism that opened my chamber doors. The massive gears on either side shrieked in protest as they ground against themselves to wrench the massive, solid-plasteel gates open. It took whole minutes to complete the sequence.
A tiny, tiny man sped through the now-gaping maw of the gates on a tiny Earth machine. It took him several minutes more to reach earshot of me, leaving a billowing trail of dust in his wake. I'm afraid my chamber had not been cleaned in some time. Cleanliness meant nothing to me now. I had not entertained an audience so directly in centuries. But I was as curious about this creature as it was of me.
The miniscule man dismounted his machine and stared up. I pictured I would relish the moment when his eyes went wide at the sight of my grandeur.
But he didn't seem to care. He frowned a little. Fascinating.
"Is that you?" he asked, voice echoing upwards at me. "The real you?"
"Yes," I replied, and the metal around me rattled and shook at my speech. It was the truth. "One of me. Refreshment?"
I activated a mechanism in the floor, raising a miniscule but ornate table out of the dusty metal deck. A single, equally tiny chalice, filled to the brim with royal nectar wine, sat on its center.
"No thanks," the man said. "Last time I drank an alien something, I had a gunfight with what came outta' me."
"What can Emperor Calus do for you?" I asked him.
I pretended to stare at him. In doing so, I analyzed every fiber of his being at a spectrum level. I had always expected he was a Guardian. But there was something else. A shade of something that reminded me of the black edge. So the tiny man liked to play outside the Light.
"I got somewhere to be, so I'll make this short. Where do you and I stand? I need these Guardians as much as you do. We gonna start fighting for territory soon?"
"The Shadows are mine," I boomed, pelting him with my voice. He winced. I wasn't angry. I didn't have it in me to be angry anymore. But he had to know.
"So that's a yes," he muttered, and flipped a jade coin into the air with a clink that echoed throughout the massive chamber.
"There isn't a sane being in this whole system," he grumbled up at the coin, then caught it.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," I said. It was truth. Data from my spectral analysis of the peasant continued to pour in.
He stared at me. "You're crazy. Those Guardians you got working for you—they're crazy. The Vanguard's crazy."
He looked down at his coin. "I might be crazy."
He chuckled, suddenly. "I leave the system for a couple hundred years and everything goes to hell." He shook his head. "Look at you. The Cabal Emperor isn't even Cabal anymore. Right?"
"I am the last thing this system shall ever see," I replied. My scan was finished. And so was this man's welcome in my abode. I think he knew, because he turned to leave.
"You come after what's mine, and I've got friends in low places who'll tear your house down," he called back to me. I glimpsed his smile, and it was full of teeth.
I laughed as he sped away on his machine.
His friends were mine first.
// Cryptarchy Analysis Log R11320 — Stolen Cabal Data //
// Author — Master Rahool //
SUMMARY
What follows is a translation of a Cabal data file that was acquired as part of Operation Haystack, as ordered by Commander Zavala. This log focuses on a single file we were able to decrypt; for the full report on the contents of that data breach and further decryption attempts, please see log R11312.
Ostensibly, this file is a recipe for a dish to be served at some sort of official gathering in Caiatl's honor. The ingredients mentioned here have been seen in a variety of ancient Cabal texts, and analysis of the empire's economic history implies that they are considered cheap and undesirable. I believe this recipe is both old and born of the lower class, a case of poor laborers devising ingenious (yet challenging) ways to take unsold goods and turn them into something comforting and delicious.
That Caiatl chose this as a main dish for an official gathering speaks to the optics she wants to present; she may be trying to differentiate herself from the opulence of the Calus era and the utilitarianism of Ghaul's rule by relating to the common folk of the empire.
Note that decryption was only mostly successful, and some data degradation occurred. Cryptarch's comments are in-line for ease of understanding. Some translations remain ambiguous, but I've provided my best hypotheses.
// FILE START //— [CBX PARSER ERROR]
— [CBX PARSER ERROR]
— [CBX PARSER ERROR] until the solvent mixture has blended together.
— Pulverize atlotl tendons until just pliable and surfaces begin to crack, then dredge in solvent mixture and let soak for [36–84 hours; the cycle referenced here is unknown, estimates are conservative guess].
— To make the [black cube], crush citrus mixture, then drain through a sieve. Discard juice, retaining pulp and bitter pith. Compress solids in [kitchen vice? unsure of translation] on maximum heat until block is [CBX PARSER ERROR] to touch and charred. Place in sunlit area to cure.
— Once tendons are soft and stretchy, remove from solvent and rinse in ocean water. Slice into ribbons and set aside.
— Take loin of Atlotl and hook to [rotating device] then slap against stone surface until fragrant.
— Cut loin into tetrahedrons, making sure to slice across all grains, and set aside.
— In a large cauldron, add water, shau'rac oil, and appropriate root mixture (based on season and year). Bring to boil, then add loin and tendons. Cook until [CBX PARSER ERROR] no longer float and fluid has an ochre sheen across the surface.
— [CBX PARSER ERROR] more hours, thickening until broth [CBX PARSER ERROR] off the back of a ladle.
— Serve with thick slices of the [black cube].
// FILE END //
"I used to hate his stupid pranks. Like this one time, back when we were still in combat academy together, he tried to dye my dark green uniform bright yellow. Which was obviously never going to work."
Jolyon swirls the ice cubes around in his glass, listening to their soft clinking.
"I put it on in the morning without noticing and wore the damn thing through a whole 22-hour rotation. By the end of the day, it had stained my skin. Turned my whole body from blue to bright green. Maybe that was his plan all along," Jolyon says and chuckles. For a moment, the bartender can see the happy-go-lucky guy that might once have been.
"But that was typical of Uldren. Try something outrageous, only to fail more successfully than he ever intended." And just as it quickly as it came, the grin fades, and he's just another traumatized soldier once again.
"He was never a bad person. Not until the end, anyway. He used to be… funny. In a kind of irritating, charming way. Like he knew that whatever it was, he was going to get away with it. And he usually did. Right up until the Black Garden. That was the day he pushed his luck too far. And I helped him do it. I helped turn my best friend into a monster." Jolyon taps the rim of his glass, and the bartender pours another.
"Yeah, I used to hate his stupid pranks. And his arrogance. But now that he's gone, that's the stuff I miss."
VanNet/PRXC SCOUT WIDEBAND//:AudCHNL-33295, Public//:LogSkew-859128312785
VGS-6: You still tracking that monster near Saturn?
PXC-0: Yes. Nil-1 is holding position directly over Titan. On mark… uh, 27 hours. Rotating off in three.
VGS-6: Long shift. You Praxic boys are cold. Regret your induction yet?
PXC-0: It's not a problem. We don't sleep.
VGS-6: Right.
[Dead air.]
VGS-6: I mean, you do sleep.
PXC-0: Negative.
VGS-6: Come on. I've met Guardians before.
PXC-0: We do not.
VGS-6: Don't make me call in the Gunny.
PXC-0: Your Gunny would know better than to argue with the Order.
VGS-6: Okay, listen JEFF. You're not THE Order. I don't give a sh—
PXC-0: Quiet. Energy rev spooling from the target…
VGS-6: What? You said it was basically dead.
PXC-0: Basically… Verim, record this. Establish direct feed uplink with NavTAC.
PXC-0-Verim: Uplink connectivity is spotty. Gravitational anomaly detec—no it's collaps—
[Inaudible. Interference.]
[Dead air. Silent minutes.]
PXC-0: (Breathing heavily) NavTAC, return. Link reads as established… NavTAC, return. Telemetric positioning pins us on the opposing side of Saturn. Displacement reads as roughly 470,000km. Titan is… Titan is gone. This doesn't make any sense.
PXC-0: NavTAC. Vanguard Recon, come in. Tower actual? Harriet, are you out there?
[Signal Redacted]
[Transmission Redacted]
Siegfried's feet touch down on a metal grate ten fathoms deep into the Leviathan, where snaking tunnels split into many different directions. The room is large, empty, and dark. He cycles through the night vision and thermal imaging on his helm, then looks up to his fireteam.
He can see the shimmering Eliksni camouflage distort the shapes of his seven teammates as they descend the shaft above him on a carbon-weave line. He disables his own. In front of him sits the base of a robotic construct in the likeness of Calus. It is twice his height, and the bare mechanisms of its internal workings creak with age.
Four Cabal Legionaries, two Eliksni Splicers, and a Praxic Sunsinger drop in behind Siegfried and deactivate their cloaks. The Splicers get to work establishing a connection with the automaton while the Legionaries make a perimeter at their back. Siegfried stands with them.
The Warlock does not take their eyes from the automaton.
"Splice… formed." One of the Eliksni turns to the Warlock and nods. The Warlock steps forward—
"Thieves skulking through my Leviathan!" The automaton bellows with Calus's voice and forcibly bats away a Splicer with a metallic hand. They crash into the adjacent wall and crumple into unconsciousness. The second Splicer leaps back and takes cover behind a Legionary as the Praxic Warlock unleashes a volley of celestial fire into the construct's face. In response, a steely fist bursts through the fire-smoke and crushes the Warlock into the floor.
Siegfried turns toward the Legionaries and shouts, "Contact!"
The Cabal open up with slug rifles; munitions clang against the thick metal. The remaining Splicer aims for the construct's exposed machinery with their Arc pistol.
Siegfried rushes forward, sliding to meet the automaton head on. He ignites in Solar flame and shoulder charges the construct into the chamber wall. He rolls under a retaliating fist and grabs the automaton's chassis, wrestling to spin its back to his fireteam.
The Sunsinger gasps, alive again. They grab the unconscious Eliksni and take a position amid the Legionaries, shouting, "CONCENTRATE FIRE!"
With one swift motion, the Praxic Warlock combusts brilliantly with Solar Radiance that emboldens the firing line of Cabal shooters and fills the Splicer's heart with courage. Heated slugs puncture and the Arc pistol finds its mark, shorting out one of the automaton's exposed knees.
Slug rifles shred the construct's face as it crashes to the ground and frenetically crawls toward them, tearing metal from the floor with each scraping motion.
The Titan raises a hand, and in a burst of fiery might, summons a Devastator's maul. He brings the maul down into the automaton's back, demolishing it and sending molten shrapnel skidding across the floor.
Siegfried looks to the Sunsinger, then the rest of the fireteam. "Contact down… let's keep going."
Project day 2. I just got my first look at Artifact H-349. It's heavier than expected. More than a few people questioned if we even should study something with such a… dire legacy, but if we can't understand our enemies' tools, then we leave ourselves vulnerable to them.
---
Project day 5. Ran our first test of the artifact's… let's call them "necrotic properties." We used cattle; they were large enough to survive the initial discharge. The results have been… upsetting.
No more animal testing.
---
Project day 30. Spectral analysis is back, and it's got nothing. The artifact doesn't operate like traditional Hive tech, which is our closest analogue. A cult of deranged fanatics can mass produce knockoffs, but we can't even tell you what it's made from.
---
Project day 31. We had an accidental discharge. Carro, lab tech over in 4B. Human, so… this is going to be it for him. We've got someone staying with him as the corruption spreads… At the very least, there's so much more to study now as we watch his unfortunate deterioration. He's been babbling since it hit his central nervous system, saying, "I'm reborn," or variations thereof. I think… he almost sounds happy.
---
Project day 39. The Vanguard forbade a postmortem, but a few of us couldn't stomach the idea of Carro's sacrifice being in vain. The results have been insightful. Off the record, I'm keeping a few tissue samples. It almost feels like having him around again.
---
Project day 41. We began the day with another moment of silence for our lost colleague. Too bad he's not around to appreciate it.
---
Project day 45. We kept thinking about H-349 as a destroyer. But it's more sophisticated than that. I mean, with a normal gun, it's just… boom. Done. H-349 on the other hand is deadly, not destructive. Much like a viper, its bite does not bring about instant death. Instead, its venom cajoles. It co-opts your beating heart into a death clock, ticking down your last moments. Your own pulse kills you.
Death may be slow and agonizing for its victim. But for the viper, time is an amenable trade for efficiency.
---
Project day 51. Yanniv has been crying. A lot lately. We must accept that tragedies happen; it's a hard lesson to learn.
---
Project day 65. Another accidental discharge today. We realized that Yor's little creation is hungry, so we fed it more. It certainly performs in exchange; the activity is intriguing after it feasts. I've been able to follow Yanniv's degradation with a more analytical mind than when we lost Carro. I have to say, the process is so elegant; the science involved almost seems poetic. It may be reproducible. Just imagine how much more I could've learned if the scanners were all active at the time.
---
Project day 77. Another accidental discharge. This time, I ensured the scanners were running beforehand.
— Audio logs of Warlock and researcher Jana-14, salvaged after evacuation
A cargo carrier was parked outside of a short-stack residential building. Refracted light from the aura of the Traveler scattered shadows on the street in unusual ways, but no one was paying attention to the shadows today. Neighbors across the street in brownstones watched movers carry furniture out of the building.
The whirr-clack of two decommissioned Generation-1 Redjacks carrying an antique chaise lounge echoed down the street. The machine noise was met with the laughter of children pursuing them in amused delight. These Redjacks no longer wore the Vanguard insignia. Instead, they displayed a serial number and the logo for a long-term storage company.
"C'mon, kids, stay out of their way," warned a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a worker's jumpsuit. She wore the same logo as the Redjacks, the name Sonja embroidered on one sleeve.
"How are we doing in there?" she called into the foyer.
"Two more chairs, the armoire, and then we gotta call the Forces of the City about all the munitions," answered another mover inside the building.
Sonja sighed, fixed the two children with a warning look, and walked up the steps into the foyer of the building. Inside, she found her coworker—Maron—cataloging items in a datapad while two more decommissioned Gen-1 Redjacks idled nearby.
The munitions Maron had mentioned were significant. Boxes of ammunition piled chest high, ferroplastic cases, stacks of loose body armor, and one large Sword partly wrapped in sturdy cloth bound in buckled straps.
"This was all in her apartment?" Sonja asked in disbelief.
Maron just shook his head in response. "Wild, isn't it? Like an armory in there."
"Are next of kin picking this up?" Sonja wondered.
"She didn't have any," was Maron's somber response. He handed over his datapad to her, and she reviewed the checklist.
"So, what's happening to all of this? Why is it moving?" Sonja asked as she scanned the list.
Maron sighed with a shrug. "Building owner needs the apartment vacated. There's people moving away from the neighborhoods around the, uh, Eliksni Quarter, and he wants to clean the unit up for sale. People like stuff like that—historic." Maron made a sweeping gesture with one hand as if motioning to a marquee overhead. "A Guardian lived here."
Sonja looked up from the datapad with a crease in her brow. "A literal war hero dies fighting for us, and some landlord wants to monetize her space?"
"The hell are you yelling at me for?" Maron complained as he turned to the Redjacks, giving them instructions on what to carry next. "If she lived up in the Tower, I'm sure they'd have turned it into a shrine. But she didn't, and they won't."
He didn't wait for a response and followed the Redjacks as they carried an armoire out onto the street.
Sonja, left with her thoughts, looked down at the datapad again. She brushed her thumb over an item, swiped left and then down.
[DELETE ITEM?]
Sonja clicked the green check mark. She knew where at least one item belonged, and it wasn't in a storage locker. They could fire her later. Or maybe, she'd just quit.
Sloane would have liked that.
The Parable of the Venging Fire, as interpreted by Pujari
A young Warlock travels to her mentor, seeking the truth of the Praxic Fire. A wildfire rages in a valley nearby. Her mentor points to the billowing smoke, saying, "This is the Praxic Fire. Go, and learn what you can."
And the student returns to her teacher, saying, "Master, the fire does not ask, the fire acts. That is the truth."
Her mentor laughs, and the flames leave the sky from the valley and surround the teacher, and the wind blows the smoke away.
The old Warlock, now wreathed in flame with great outstretched wings, says, "The heart of the Praxic Fire is the Warlock. Without the Warlock, fire does not ask or act. Be the fire, or be smoke on the wind."
The cowering student stands, her palms closing into fists.
The Protocol is contained in the patterns on the robe that, if scanned at the molecular level, describe a Turing-compatible virtual computer and program that, when executed on said computer, calculates the entire Protocol, exactly as it was determined in the Precipice of Flame.
This is of little interest to most Guardians, who can subconsciously "load" the program simply by looking at the pattern. In execution, the Protocol enhances the use of Solar Light to catalyze fusion. It is up to us to remember the deeper truth—that the Precipice showed us the uses of fire, that the highest form of fire is the stellar flame, and that no life would exist, anywhere in the cosmos, without the apocalyptic detonations of supernovae. Those who fear fire have forgotten that it is their true ancestor.
Brother—
The Witch Queen has been banished from the Dreaming City. We are no longer bound by her secrets. You are no longer bound by your own.
I have been told my trajectory leads to solitude. In truth, I believed myself arrived for some time. I would change course if given the opportunity.
There was a time I feared you would lose yourself trying to follow me. That time has passed. No matter the name you take, you are unrepentantly yourself—which is to say reluctant and stubborn in ways I find enraging. And I love you for it.
I ask neither forgiveness nor understanding. I offer only sanctuary—and tea, if you would be amenable.
I am here if you decide to come home.
—Mara
Space is loneliness. Far removed from any of the system's planets, it is at once suffocatingly dark and blindingly bright depending on which way you turn. A jumpship sits in a fixed position in the black, engines off, oriented so its underbelly faces the glare of the distant sun.
There is no true cockpit inside the Radiant Accipiter; the ship's canopy projects an image to the pilot. No frame, no obstructions, just the infinite gulf. Crow stares up at the blackness between a cluster of stars he can't identify; he wishes he were there. Where nothing is known, where everything can be new again.
Glint rests in his Guardian's lap. He's accustomed to Crow's hands cradling him as though he were a small cat—but in this moment, Crow's head is instead in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair.
Glint is silent, patient. He knows he has to be.
Crow makes a small sound in the back of his throat and the Ghost stirs. When this is followed by an unsteady hitch in his breathing, Glint floats up, presses himself to Crow's chest, and begins to hum.
Crow's hands close around him, clutching him against his heart.
And that's how Glint knows: Crow is still the same inside.
***
Sulfurous plumes rise from fissures in the Venusian soil. Crow marches across the planet's surface, his boots crushing thin sheets of calcium that skim across shallow, iridescent pools of water. His jumpship is perched atop a rise nearby, clear of the unstable field he now traverses.
"Crow, please," Glint pleads over his Guardian's shoulder. "Can you tell me why we're here?"
Ahead, clouds of light and geometric shapes bloom into being. Glint lets out a sharp gasp and transmats away as Crow reaches for the hand cannon at his side. By the time the first Vex Goblin manifests, Crow has already trained his sights on it.
A single pull of the trigger takes the machine's head off and sends it staggering across the field, firing blindly. Two more Goblins appear nearby and Crow blasts away their limbs like a child separating a fly from its wings. He ends them with the last bullets in the cylinder.
A shimmer of violet light within the temporal storm heralds the arrival of a Vex Minotaur. It bellows a roar across the Venusian flats and fires a volley of energized plasma through the air. Crow weaves between them, tumbles forward through the shallow pools, and rises to his feet to shake out his hand cannon's cylinder, sending brass shell casings raining to the ground.
The Minotaur revises its place in history, appearing to teleport forward as it shifts to a more advantageous future. It closes in on Crow before he can finish reloading and grabs him by the head, hefting him off his feet. The Minotaur raises its plasma cannon to Crow's chest and—
***
Crow sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes open to winged serpents circling in the cloudy Venusian sky. He coughs violently, rolling onto his side. The Vex are gone.
"That was stupid," Glint chastises suddenly, and Crow remembers where—and when—he is. "Why didn't you use your Light?"
"I wanted to test something," Crow says on sharp exhale. He pushes himself to his feet, only to find Glint an inch in front of his nose.
"What could you possibly be testing all the way out here?" the little Ghost asks, looking around the desolate landscape. Then, the question Glint doesn't want to ask: "Were you trying to hurt yourself?"
"No," Crow seethes. He nudges Glint to the side and starts to head back for the jumpship, but Glint persists.
"Then why?" he demands, blocking Crow's path.
"Because I wanted to know I was still me!" Crow snarls, his teeth bared in a display of fury. "Uldren Sov could defeat a Minotaur without the Light." His hackles lower. "I needed—I need to be sure that I'm not him. That you could still bring me back. That I was still—worthy of this !"
Glint's monocular eye bobs down to look at the ground. He is silent.
This time, Crow doesn't try to push past him. He stands still, listening to the blast of distant geysers, to the call of serpents in the sky.
"I'm sorry," Glint whispers.
"I hate you."
It's the first thing Mara says on reaching Savathûn's crystalline prison. Her words lack heat but echo through the cavernous chamber nonetheless. "I just want to be absolutely clear on this: I hate you, and I wish nothing but pain and suffering for the rest of your miserable existence."
The crystal shimmers, and Savathûn's gentle laughter ripples through Mara's mind. "I know," the Witch Queen murmurs.
"I could have you jettisoned into the sun," Mara says coolly, "but unlike some creatures, I uphold my word when I give it."
"But we're the same creature, are we not?" Savathûn wonders. Although Mara can't see her smile, she has no difficulty imagining what it looks like.
"I am nothing like you."
"No, of course not." Savathûn's voice is easy and languid. Some might mistake her for being sincere; Mara has taken the same tone too many times in her own life not to recognize it for what it is.
"I thought you were a powerful, competent woman plagued by a difficult relationship with her family," Savathûn says. "Someone who weaves complicated, long-spun schemes across the arc of time's bow. My mistake."
Mara stares at the crystal, clenches her jaw, and turns her back to leave. But before she can take even one step toward the door, she feels Savathûn's consciousness brush like silk against hers.
"I thought you were someone who believes herself to be so smart," Savathûn purrs, "that she is easily blinded by her own ambitions and self-appointed genius. Someone who is so certain of her solutions that she fails to see the inherent peril in her plans, and yet too embarrassed to ever admit she may have gone astray."
Tension knots the muscles in Mara's shoulders and back. Over the years, she has trained her face to remain a mask, but she is not always as skilled when it comes to the rest of her body.
Savathûn continues. "I thought you were someone so afraid of being vulnerable, that you'd rather fail than—"
"Enough." Mara rounds on Savathûn's prison with the precision of an angry viper. She does not raise her voice; instead, she lowers it. "That might work on him," she says, the last word like fire on her lips because it still pains her to refer to Crow by any name, "but you'll find my armor has fewer gaps."
Power surges around her hands as she slams them against the crystalline surface. A lattice of radiant energy winds itself around Savathûn's prison, and Mara hopes that the furious drumming of her heart and intermittent flare of her nostrils will be mistaken for exertion—not a different kind of weakness.
When the spell is complete, Mara steps back. Her glowing eyes dim. She wavers with fatigue, listening for the psychic echo of Savathûn's voice inside her skull.
There is only silence.
"Shut up," Mara breathes—a strange marriage of relief and loathing.
"Shut up."
Petra Venj hangs her head and examines the hilt of her sheathed knife. Transmat particles still swirl in the air around her like tiny flecks of dust as she steps forward back through the H.E.L.M. gate to answer her queen's summons.
Mara Sov's voice washes over the chamber's stone and crystal: "He belongs here, Petra. This place draws his old self out." She pauses, knowing Petra will be silent while allowing her to steep in the words. "You saw it, too. He should have never been allowed to leave."
"I wish I hadn't," Petra says with a heavy sigh. "How am I to proceed?"
Mara stands on the terrace above her. "Give him only morsels of who he could be, nothing substantial. He is a canvas on which work has already begun. I mean only to guide that work to a familiar conclusion. Such things cannot be rushed."
Petra shifts her stance anxiously. "You—you're sure?"
"Are you questioning me, Petra?"
"Never, my queen. But I do worry that he is vulnerable to Savathûn's influence," Petra offers. "She clearly has taken an interest in him for some time now. And he clearly reciprocates that interest."
"Your words hold no falsehood. You and I will mitigate this danger. If Crow and Uldren are to meet, it must be a subtle progression." Mara Sov leans over the terrace railing. "I believe my brother's recovery is possible, Petra. Will you help me?"
Without a moment of hesitation, Petra responds, "I will do anything you ask, my queen." But doubts sprout in her mind. "If he does become… problematic…" Petra trails off, searching for the right words.
"You needn't worry," Mara soothes. "If Savathûn moves to exploit him, I will put an end to it myself."
"Saint's recent reports were… unfocused," Zavala says with a sigh.
Ikora nods from across the office. She stands with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "He suffered through an eternity of battle to keep us safe. Then he comes to the Tower and lets his guard down—lets himself care for someone—and that's when he gets hurt."
She grimaces. "Badly."
Zavala shifts in his chair and runs his large hands over his desk. His palms have memorized its every bump, every groove. "I'm giving him space, but I don't know what else I can do. I'm not sure if he even believes the real Osiris is hidden away somewhere, but he's out there all the same. He just has to do something."
"I can understand that feeling," Ikora says quietly. "That's what I should have been doing. Seeing things my Hidden missed. Out in the field, putting the pieces together."
Her lip curls in disgust. "Not wasting time in the Tower, waiting for an attack."
Zavala looks up at her and frowns. "It's not like you to second-guess yourself."
Ikora's jaw tightens. Bitter fire flickers in her eyes. "Maybe I should." Her voice is brittle. "I brought Osiris—Savathûn—inside our walls."
"Yes, as you did with Mithrax and the House of Light," Zavala counters evenly.
But Ikora lowers her eyes. "People died for that too."
As Zavala rises from his seat, she turns away; the last thing she wants is to be comforted. She hears him lean against his desk, and a patient silence fills the room.
Finally, Ikora lets her arms fall to her sides. When she looks at Zavala, his expression is one of confusion rather than concern.
"It's been years since I've heard you talk like this," he says.
Frustration rises in her. "I looked in his eyes and didn't see it."
"Neither did I. None of us did."
Zavala's face looks almost serene, which makes Ikora want to hurl a Nova Bomb into it.
"Listen," he says. "We have conquered the Cabal in their arenas. We have chased the Hive into their Ascendant Planes; the Vex deep into their network. We have been tricked by the god of trickery, and we have fought the god of war on the battlefield."
Zavala's mouth tightens into a grim line. "When we go up against gods, we fight them on their terms. That usually means we take the first hit. We can't choose when that happens, but we can make damn sure we're the ones left standing."
He sits back down at his desk and racks a sheaf of papers, as if putting a period on his sentence. Ikora clasps her hands behind her back, then takes a long breath.
"I'll support him as best I can," she says. "Share all my intel on Osiris—anything we learned while my Hidden were shadowing Crow after he first rose. If Savathûn left a trail, I'll find it."
"I know you will," Zavala says.
Ikora allows his words to reach her. "I wish there was a way to get him back," she says quietly.
"Saint or Osiris?" Zavala asks, looking up.
The hem of Ikora's robe whispers softly across the floor as she leaves the office.
Saint-14 sits with his Ghost, Geppetto, in his Gray Pigeon jumpship. "You do not want me to go alone?"
"You should not go alone, Brother Saint. The system is in a volatile state."
Saint sighs. "There is not a Guardian in the Tower who does not wish to ask me about Osiris. I cannot, Geppetto."
"Then do not ask a Guardian," Geppetto presses.
Mithrax is finishing repairs on a Shank when he sees Saint-14 transmat into the Botza District. He watches the Saint greet a pair of Eliksni startled by his materialization. He watches the Guardian bow and the Eliksni hesitantly bow back. Saint-14 catches Mithrax's gaze and extends an arm toward him, as if asking permission to enter his workshop. It is not needed.
Mithrax stands and welcomes Saint-14 as he crosses the threshold.
"Vell-ahsk," Saint manages.
Mithrax chatters. "Velask, Saint."
"May we speak alone?"
"Of course." Mithrax shuts and latches a door clearly transplanted from a Ketch. "Speak freely."
"I would not normally come to you asking for favors," Saint says, pacing.
"House Light will aid you if we are able."
Saint nods to himself. "Osiris, the real Osiris—Savathûn took his form and hid him away. Or so she says."
Mithrax bows his head. "The true Osiris is innocent? All is not as dire as we presumed."
"So it would seem. I need to find Osiris. I want to take away the Witch Queen's leverage. When she is broken, the Reef Queen can have her," Saint growls.
"Mara Sov has returned?" Mithrax drags sharply on his rebreather. "Grand pieces are in motion. How do I assist?"
"I am searching for the exact spot Sagira fell. Savathûn captured him there, I know it," Saint says.
"The name Sagira was spoken often in House of Wolves, with respect. House Dusk told all Houses Sagira fell on Earth's moon, but I know not where. May she find peace in the Light."
"She is missed." Saint holds a moment in reverence. "Osiris's last transmission was from beneath the Moon's surface. But the Pyramid's interference made it impossible to determine the exact location. It is too large an area to search."
"Hive machines are without spirits. Morbid constructs a Splicer's gauntlet cannot access for information," Mithrax says apologetically. "But I wish to help the Saint, as the Saint helped Misraaks and House Light."
"Then… your company would be appreciated as I search."
Mithrax is lost in thought momentarily before his eyes sharpen. "The Vex on Europa kept records of defeated Guardians. And likely, Ghosts. It may be possible to find Sagira's gravesite using their network."
"What?" Saint exclaims.
"Perhaps it is their proximity to Darkness that causes them to do so. But Misraaks has seen such records, as I explored their network for knowledge to affix Splicer technology to Guardian arms."
"You sound like a Warlock, so I trust you. Show me how we do this."
***
"Europa," Saint mutters. "Could we not have gone somewhere warmer?" he asks, dismounting his Ram Sparrow on a cliff overlooking the Asterion Abyss. "I am used to the simulated sun of Mercury."
Mithrax dismounts beside Saint. "Vex apertures on Europa afford unique opportunity. We seek an invitation into that opportunity."
Saint rolls his shoulders. "We crush Vex Mind and use its brain like key. Yes, yes. This is not news to me. You forget I spent many years in Infinite Forest."
"A brutal, but apt description." Mithrax chitters to himself. "We will have to draw out a Vex Mind. The override integration here remains active. The Light provides."
"You splice computer hole. I crush the Mind." Saint starts to walk forward but then halts abruptly. "Do not drop me into computer hole."
"Misraaks will warn the Saint first."
"You better." Saint turns to the Eliksni. "I joke about the cold, Light-friend, but I am glad to have you here."
"I share in your glad, Saint."
They walk together. Swiftly, Mithrax forges the integration. As they come under fire, a violet refuge takes hold around him—he stands within the Saint's Ward, fearless and with clear sight.
The Vex are numerous. They too know the Saint. He lives up to their records. The Mind is broken.
Kelgorath, Knight champion of death, kneels before his shrine of bone in the fog-ridden depths of the Ascendant Plane. Soulfire recedes into the ground around him. He places his forehead against the shrine, smudging a freshly bloodied sigil of Xivu Arath. He has added so many layers, but this is the first time the blood is his own. He does so to show his devotion. To reject the heretic sister. To pledge himself anew to war.
The Ascendant sky churns around him. He breaths deeply. It is his first breath of this life. He looks to the shrine before him; every vanquished contender ground to meal and packed between skulls to cement them in place. Trinkets of conquest and old spent weapons adorn the shrine from base to apex.
He looks to them as he prepares to face his adversary.
An empty Ghost whose core he had gifted to defected Scarlet Wizards. Its Guardian had ended him many times, but he is Kelgorath, and through battle he is reborn. No Guardian can escape him, for they are heralds of death and he swims in their wake.
His eyes drift to another conquest: crystalline implants torn from the forehead of an Awoken Techeun. He hunted her through the Ley Lines for three days, tracking her by the stench of her fear. When he found her, she brought the Ascendant Plane down on him. He did not fall for this trick twice.
He caught her again with his next life. The Techeun's final words echoed in his thoughts: "I still see the flecks of scarlet in your chitin. How quickly you abandon your Witch Queen."
Kelgorath recalls the night he renounced Savathûn. The night he had scoured the scarlet from his flesh on the serration beds deep within the Hellmouth. The night Osiris slaughtered all Crota's kin. Savathûn was weak to allow their deaths. To cede ground to the Celebrant; to Guardians. Xivu Arath avenged them. Xivu Arath took Osiris's Light, and Kelgorath guzzled from it with vows of vengeance.
He would prove his allegiance by stamping out any trace of the heretic sister. Hurdru, his adversary, was a Knight who still claimed fealty to Savathûn; Hurdru would be an instrument of example. Through battle, Kelgorath would confirm his new god. Through blood, he would erase the name Savathûn and don that of Xivu Arath.
He stands. Bows. Grips the cleaver and shield he will carry until he falls again. "Hurdru," he whispers to the bones.
Tonight, he will purify himself in death.
Caiatl stands on the bridge of her flagship, six destroyer-class warcraft at her flanks. Weeks of intelligence and a handful of dead spies have brought her to a single point in space. This moment of opportunity.
A massive, reinforced viewport extends from beneath her feet to the ceiling of the bridge. Through it, dead-still azure banners obscure the distant Awoken Reef. From Caiatl's perspective, it appears as a slurry of glitz and dust to be swept away at her command—an idea her advisors spoke of all too frequently. Their soft conflict with one city had left some eager for a decisive victory in another. It was a distraction.
In the space between Caiatl and the Reef, just beyond the unmoving banners, malachite-licked wisps of intent tear open the space between her and the shimmering dust. Long black spindles of Hive workmanship pierce the rift first, preceding a massive Tomb Carrier twice the size of her flagship.
Caiatl addresses her bridge officers. "Wait until they're through and cannot flee."
Her destroyers take up flanking positions opposite of her own as Caiatl orders her flagship to maneuver above the massive Tomb Carrier.
When the rift shuts, the order comes over Cabal comms: "Strike."
The six destroyers spring their diversionary attack. Caiatl feels the pressure waves from their silent cannons wash over her as their shells detonate. Tomb Carrier and Cabal warcraft exchange a harrowing gauntlet of ordnance. The diversion is working.
"Point us straight at their midsection. Launch ballista crews," Caiatl barks. "Inform me when they've taken the bridge."
Emerald flare wells deep in the Tomb Carrier's main gun like a brewing cauldron lined with obsidian teeth. The barrel: a massive column of vertebrae from some leviathan creature, ignites with ten thousand Hive runes. The Tomb Carrier belches streams of malefic flame that effortlessly obliterates two spearheading Cabal destroyers. Caiatl steps forward in horror as their hulls erupt in a series of soulfire explosions.
"Don't let that gun fire again! Protect our destroyers!" She pivots to her navigation office. "Bring the ship to minimum jump speed. Full power to the mains!"
Caiatl thrusts a finger at the Tomb Carrier. "Engage the Aries ram and prepare for impact!"
The flagship hurtles toward the Tomb Carrier, unleashing a full salvo of cannons and warheads to soften the Carrier's carapace.
Caiatl turns to a bridge crew Legionary as the Tomb Carrier rapidly expands in the viewport behind her. "Fetch my shield."
***
On the other side of the Reef, Queen Mara Sov watches through a Dreaming City aperture as the battle unfolds on her borders. The inscrutable expression on her face twists with each distant explosion. Petra wishes the small tensing motions would give some indication of what her queen is thinking. Instead, she sees only the cold stare of one predator assessing the size and strength of another.
Petra looks to the knife Mara is idly toying with and notices a detail she hadn't before: a pair of kestrels etched into the blade, wings intertwined, linework so fine that she has to squint to recognize their silhouettes.
Petra frowns. "My queen?" she asks, but Mara does not shift her attention from the battle.
"Caiatl's war games will keep Xivu Arath occupied while we focus on recovering our lost Techeuns," Mara says. She uses the point of the knife to trace the longest line along her palm. "Neither will be able to launch a full-scale attack on the Dreaming City while the other is at her throat."
"Savathûn first?" ventures Petra.
Mara's stoic façade cracks. She looks down at the blade, at the twin kestrels, and sees something in her own reflection that unsettles her.
"Savathûn first," she agrees, sheathing the weapon so she doesn't have to think about it.
Saint-14, like most Exos, dreamt of the Deep Stone Crypt often. The golden field. The looming black tower. The battle below, surging with faces that were eerily familiar. He was used to these dreams, like many of his mechanical kin, and resolutely uncurious about any deeper meaning. It couldn't be anything good, he reasoned long ago. Besides, his waking life kept him more than occupied.
However, since his return from the kaleidoscope depths of the Infinite Forest, the dreams had increased in frequency and in eeriness.
For the first few weeks, instead of battle, he faced single opponents in duels: Osiris, Marin, Zavala, Ana—even the Guardian who rescued him from the Vex. No matter whom he fought, he would use all his energy and Light in the fight and lose every time. Flat on his back, he would look up at the tower and know that someone was watching from within.
The night before Rasputin alerted everyone of Pyramid ships entering the system, winter fell on his dreamscape, forcing him to charge through pillowy snow drifts at a massive winged Vex, unlike any he'd seen. He lost that night as he would for many more nights, watching as an iridescent liquid—almost like Vex milk, but different, contaminated—flowed from his every joint, sizzling in the snow.
During the waking day, he maintained his usual exuberance, taking great satisfaction in helping Guardians hone their craft in the Trials of Osiris. After all, the fights happening in reality were the ones to focus on. Why worry about what he can't control inside his head?
But then, the night before a new vacuum of grief was opened in the system, a woman appeared at the threshold of the tower. Her clothes were black; her hair prematurely gray. She watched, arms crossed, as Saint hurled grenade after flaming grenade at the Vex with little effect.
"You'll blind yourself with all that bright fire," she tutted. "Maybe then you'll finally learn to look instead of see."
In one mighty swipe, the Vex cut the Exo down. The woman sighed as Saint crumpled to the ground.
Silence fell, followed by the crunching of footsteps in the snow. "Just like your father," she said, kneeling by his head. "All of you."
She laid a hand on the fore of his helm, as if feeling for a fever. "In your next life, you should take more after me."
With that, her hand slid down to his eyes and, for the brief moment before he woke up, all was dark.
Qiao Supplemental
A/V Recording
Path to Ares: Launch Day + 1 (Revised Launch Day)
Centcom: Ares this is Centcom, Radio Check. Radio check, over.
Hardy: Centcom this is Ares One. We read you loud and fairly clearly, over.
C: Roger. Hey, just so you know, the, uh, House of Eternal Travel has sent you its prayers. It was all over the news.
H: That one of those Traveler cults?
C: Roger, this is the one that survived the Traveler-cult rumble a few weeks ago.
H: Oh. Well, okay, tell them thanks.
C: Roger. Next radio check 8 minutes.
H: They'll be quiet for a while. Nav?
Qiao: Steady. We are clear of Earthgrav. Confirming course.
H: Engineering?
Mihaylova: All systems normal.
H: OK. So now it's… a long wait.
Q: Hey. You OK, Jacob?
H: Yeah. A-OK.
Q: Look at the stars.
M: Is there a problem?
Q: Not at all. It's just…
H: Beautiful.
Q: Yes. Like something we are privileged to join but could never deserve.
H: Wonder how the Traveler must feel.
Patience. Breathing. Focus.
The clouds gathered as she waited behind cover. The Wizards' wailing was far too close. Her heart clenched, racing; she turned inward.
Patience. Breathing. Focus.
She felt the sky inside her, coalescing, shimmering. She thought of rain. She thought of the cheek of her unexpected friend, cupped in her hand, cold and wet. "Just hang on— Please—" she whispered. Something resembling a laugh susurrated from behind his many needle-like teeth. Water dripped from his chainmail mask into his open mouth. Her throat tasted like metal.
Patience. Breathing. Focus.
The pregnant silence when animals go underground. The dance of water on the roof. The gentle sway of curtains on a humid evening. The distant beat of thunder.
The Wizards, howling now.
Patience. Breathing. Focus.
The dark clouds grew heavier, and each of her bones thrummed with longing. She braided her hands in preparation, gathered herself inward, upward. She turned to run for the Wizards, who danced screaming over the corpse of her friend. The static came with her, wreaths of electricity, brightening at each step. When she began her war cry, the sky spoke for her, cracking, and she threw her palms in front of her—
The storm poured forth.
Patience.
Breathing.
Focus.
Today I witnessed a Human mating ritual that I had only seen tangentially referred to in the Techeun archives. It involves two Humans pressing their intake orifices against each other. It is most often brief, but more advanced forms involve the use of their mastication organs, and the exchange of the mild digestive secretions.
I witnessed two young adults touching orifices in this manner for some time. They were quite enthralled by it, and proceeded for several minutes, stopping only when they noticed me taking notes.
Guardian.
Transparency is not a strong suit of mine. Undoubtedly, this comes as no surprise. However, our… misadventures, let's call them, with the parasite have left me with a recurring ambivalence in regard to said transparency; as a result, I feel as though you are deserving of a more appropriate level of access to my thoughts surrounding recent events.
In my previously mentioned vision was the Witness's one truth: an eternity of Darkness in which I serve as a Disciple. It brought me an overwhelming feeling I previously relayed to you as fear—but in actuality, it was fear born of what I felt most within this vision—gratitude.
Gratitude! As if my place alongside the Witness was meant to be a reward for all I have ever done and ever will do. And if the Witness is to be believed, "all I ever will do" is unbecoming, to say the least.
It is moments like these wherein I wonder if I myself should be put to rest to avoid perpetuating these dark truths. But I have never before wavered from righteousness, and I don't intend to begin now.
With that, you should know that while our revealed truths about Savathûn and the Collapse appeared minimal, I have already used them to begin tracing a trail of evidence that may provide us with the power of preservation in the oncoming storm. When the time is right, we will have further parts to play together.
In the meantime, keep the parasite near, and listen close. It's bound to open its mouth again sooner or later.
—Mara Sov, Queen of the Awoken
Caiatl and Zavala stood side by side, watching a live feed of the Guardian's assault on the Psion transmission facility, as broadcast by Amanda Holliday's circling aircraft.
The Guardian ducked behind cover and pulled out a sleek grenade launcher, recovered during their last assault of the base. They fired into a pack of onrushing war beasts, sending shrapnel hurling through the air.
The Cabal empress emitted a low rumble as she admired the weapon. Zavala looked up at the enormous ruler with raised eyebrows. Her gaze was fixed on the firefight, her eyes twinkling with violent ardor.
The Vanguard commander shut off the open comms and cleared his throat. "Would you like me to send you one of those grenade launchers? I can have Banshee create a Cabal-sized version for you."
Caiatl looked down at the Awoken leader, suddenly aware that her avarice had been on display. She lowered her tusks, which the commander interpreted as equivalent to a blush.
"That would be most welcome, Commander," Caiatl replied. "I'd like to fire it into Xivu Arath's belly and bathe in her soulfire."
Zavala turned back to the screen. "You have a… passionate spirit, Empress."
He did not see it, but beneath her mask, Empress Caiatl smiled.
It was terrifying.
Hello again, my trenchant Dante.
You have stepped in and out of sharp-edged worlds, hewn gods into blunt fractions, twinned yourself with powers whose names cannot even be held in the language of little gray cells. You think yourself very high up on the pyramid of contumely.
If you only knew how high that pyramid goes.
Higher than I knew when my radiant killer unsung me from biological squalor, or when I witnessed a royal secret turn death into a chrysalis. Higher than I described in my journals, or told to our mutual three-eyed friend.
Higher than even I, sailor upon the Sea of Screams that I am, can yet see.
Perhaps I will tell you about them.
You are right to ask why I would do so. Very good, dear squanderer, your intentions have grown sharp as thrallteeth.
You see, they know. What you are, what you were, what you will become. They know.
What lean tithes you are to them. Soft whetstones make for dull blades.
This I define as the truth and tension of the rope: to bind, one must apply force at both ends.
I think perhaps I will tell you after all.
MCXLII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt
The Great Revelation, which the Emperor Calus received at the end of the universe, was described by the Emperor to his Royal Scribes. His description is indeed what came to pass, and is happening now, 118 years after the Emperor brought liberty to the Sol system.
First, a veil of darkness descended on all the worlds of this universe, such that the people of these worlds looked into the sky and saw only night. All worlds, no matter their natural or synthetic geographies or climate, grew cold. The people of these worlds, having been subjected to this strangeness and adversity, began to grow afraid and suspicious of one another. Many deaths occurred in this intervening time before the end.
Next, a great war broke out across all varieties of civilization, be they naturally war-minded or peaceful. This warring, which goes on even now, is due to a futile desire to postpone the end of things when no such deferment can possibly occur; as such, the civilizations of the Sol system do not partake, for they accept the coming end as shown to them by their beloved Emperor. Even so, these good creatures are not exempt from the miserable clawing of others, who thrash blindly against the inevitable end.
But, we know from the words of the Great Emperor, the suffering will end. Death will soon arrive to the universe, and claim all of it for Itself. This will be the end of everything: all living things and non-living things, all that is real or theoretical.
The last to see it, to see Death as It consumes everything in this world, will be the great Emperor himself.
+The scribe employed at this future date shall adjust the name mentioned here, should I, Scribe Ixolt, expire before the publication of this record. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.
MCXLIII, forthcoming.
Written by the Great Emperor Calus
I stand now, alone, at the end of the world.
As I stare over this dark edge, which I have anticipated for so many years, eager, hopeful, I wonder if I was too impatient for it. I do not wish it away, no, but I am faced with accepting that ushering in the blessed, long-awaited end means an ultimate goodbye to you. Old friend.
You and I were always connected. The threads of fate strung us together and tightened, drawing us ever closer, however slowly—and I realize now that, even before we found each other, you were a presence in my life. Time is such a strange, twisting thing, and I see my past so differently.
When I was alone in the prison-room of the Leviathan, you were there, as well, building my Menagerie. Creating a monument to all that we could, and would, do.
When I met the void, you were there, somewhere in those phantom whispers, my companion in bringing forth the inevitable end of the world.
Even before I knew you, I searched for you. I was searching for you when I found my first Shadows. I was mourning your absence when they failed. And yes, my Shadow, the search was exquisite. The wait was bliss. But the moment I found you, the completion of my design... It was pure delight.
You helped me reclaim what was lost when the Empire fell to the Red Legion. More than that—you helped me build beyond it. We took this System together. Together, we created a new world, in the mere moments before it ended. And though our time was short, it was not wasted.
You were not wasted.
I am proud that you were the last one at my side when end came. There is no one else I would have chosen to stand by me.
Thank you, my Shadow. Thank you for your sacrifice.
MCXXV, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt
When the great Emperor Calus and his Shadow of Earth had nearly conquered the system, the Leviathan was rocked by a great disturbance. Royal Mechanics reported that, in the inner rooms of the ship, a strange rift had opened, and from it came the acrid stench of Hive ritual pyres. [I am Savathûn, and I am Death!]
It was through this rift that Savathûn, the Witch-Queen, allowed her monstrous children to pour into the belly of the great ship and flood its corridors with their clicking and skittering. A great many of the Leviathan's inhabitants were filled with dread and fright. [While this coward invents his histories and futures, I wait. These messages are my gift to you.]
But the great Emperor Calus had seen Death at the edge of the universe and was not afraid, for this witch and her spawn were not Death.
Said the laughing Emperor to his beloved Shadow of Earth:
"Remove the wretched Savathûn from my hallways. I have no use for her or her children. So consumed are they by their tragic hunger, the Hive would cast a weak Shadow. Erase them from that great horizon that awaits us, for they have no place at my table when the end comes."
And so the Shadow of Earth exterminated the children of Savathûn. When the mother herself sought to slither back into the hole from whence she'd come, the Shadow of Earth followed her to her throne and slew her there, to die her final death.^
^A note to Scribe Shagac: Please be advised that, although our great Emperor knows the shape of the future very well, we cannot presume its texture. Refrain from making such sweeping, grandiose assumptions about unknowable technologies, like those of the athenaeum worlds. It will save us a great deal of rewriting later. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history and appropriate corrections made to Scribe Shagac's record.
MCXXXV, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac+
And it was in this way that the great Emperor Calus conquered his enemies with his Shadow of Earth at his side. There was a great rejoicing, for the struggle to evade the sharp edge of the end of the world was over, and the people of this System could at last breathe, and live, and love, in the shadow of their ever-present doom.
Now royal wine flows freely for the friends of the Emperor, and the planetoid of Nessus has its eternal home at the Emperor's table, forever immortalized as a symbol of celebration.
Following the destruction of the War Machine Rasputin, the Shadow of Earth recreated the region of Hellas Basin into a monument to the might and beauty of the great Emperor Calus. The unsightly "BrayTech Futurescape" was demolished and remade into the Temple of Revelry, where all in the System come to celebrate the accomplishments of the great Emperor, and the blemished red sands of Mars were reformed into a vast sulphurous mudflat, suitable for wallowing at leisure.
On Earth, Humanity celebrates the Feast of Emperor Calus, a day of jubilation and thanksgiving. Children wear golden masks of the Emperor's fine visage and re-enact the story of how he remade this System in the shadow of the end of the world.
The people rejoice! Emperor Calus has brought freedom and conviviality to the worlds of this System!
+To my dearest Scribe Ixolt: A lack of imagination is a crime far worse than any small exaggeration meant to uphold and approach the glory of our beloved Emperor. History is made as much in the writing as it is in the living.
MCXVII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt
The Shadow of Earth, having found a small but formidable team of allies in the Shadows of the Eliksni and of the Awoken, professed to the Emperor that, in order to move forward with their quest to usher in the end of the world, the new Shadows must reclaim some of the lost knowledge of the Empire's athenaeum worlds. The Emperor rightly agreed and approved the excursion.
What follows is an account of the reclamation of the Athenaeum World X:
The Shadows of Earth, of the Eliksni, and of the Awoken arrived on the ice planet that held Emperor Calus's Athenaeum World X, the name of which has been lost to time. This planet, being a repository for precious, ancient knowledge collected by the Emperor, was chosen for its hostile environment, which served as a built-in defense system for intruders and thieves.
En route to the planet's Inner Sanctum, where the athenaeum world's knowledge was kept, the Shadows were stalked by an undocumented species of indigenous wildlife, whose natural capabilities as a predator proved unexpectedly debilitating to the companion-soul of the Shadow of Earth. The Shadow, being symbiotically reliant on its companion-soul, was thus weakened and the trio was forced to bivouac in place beneath a great monolith as a storm fell upon them.
The creatures, who so far had lurked at the edges of the party's vision, crept closer under cover of the storm, which grew ever stronger, and executed a stealth attack. Thus began a bloody battle, wherein the three Shadows fought back half a dozen creatures with modest success, and wherein the Shadow of the Eliksni fell in combat. Said the Shadow of Earth of this sacrifice later: "He knew the stakes of our mission, and gladly offered his life to help us complete it. This is a sacrifice we Shadows are willing to make."
It was then that the Shadows of Earth and of the Awoken were able to access the Inner Sanctum, revealing hundreds of years of lost knowledge, which was reclaimed for the great Emperor Calus and his Loyalists.+
+The scribe employed at this future date shall include additional detail here when the lost secrets of this (and other) athenaeum worlds are recovered. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.
MCXX, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
It came to pass that, after gathering their army of Shadows, rebuilding their fleet, and making a more permanent home of the Sol system, the great Emperor Calus and his Shadow received messages from the Vanguard of Earth and the War Machine Rasputin. These messages read: "Remove your forces from our planets and moons, or we will respond with deadly force."
But Emperor Calus had seen Death at the edge of the universe and was not afraid, for these figureheads and their War Machine were not Death.
The Emperor Calus, in his wisdom and mercy, permitted his Shadow of Earth to sit down to negotiations with the Earth Vanguard. Although the Shadow of Earth spoke of the Emperor and his knowledge of the coming end, the Earth Vanguard were so attached to their worldly struggles that they could not hear. They declared war.
The Shadow of Earth rose with such a suppressed fury that neither the Emperor nor his Advisors had ever seen before. Shuddering with rage, the Shadow of Earth spake thus:
"Who do you think I am? Without me, you have only a dwindling army of ambivalent soldiers. I am the Young Wolf. I killed the Taken King. I defeated Ghaul, I roused the Traveler, I silenced the Moon, I stopped the invasion, I broke the curse, I broke the Houses, I killed the queen! I am the Shadow of Earth!"
In the following silence, the Shadow of Earth continued gravely: "The end is coming. Consider you and your people warned."
As a courtesy, the Vanguard of Earth were permitted to leave the Leviathan unharmed, and the Shadow of Earth gathered the Loyalist forces. After the reclamation of the Athenaeum World X, which held in it the secrets of one of the most advanced predators in the system, the Aphelion, which had the power to devastate whole worlds in the blink of an eye, the Shadow was able to use this lost knowledge to rebuild the Loyalist fleet stronger and more magnificent than ever.
With the renewed ships of the Loyalist Fleet, the Shadow of Earth led an attack on the War Machine's seat of power, the region of Hellas Basin on the planet Mars. The battle was much less a war than a single, unmatched attack that left the War Machine Rasputin in cinders.
It was at this time that the Vanguard of Earth surrendered and begged for mercy, a request which was denied by the Shadow of Earth.
Hi Cron,
Got your mail about the new Sparrow engine idea. I gotta say, I've seen engines that manipulate space-time to make parallel lines converge. It's not too different from how NLS drives work. But what you might notice about an NLS drive is that the jumpship it's affixed to is usually activating it OUTSIDE a planetary gravity well. Sparrows don't exactly have that luxury. Not yet, anyway.
Now that's not me saying no. All I'm saying is, we're gonna have to get creative. Stop by the hangar when you get the chance. I've got a few ideas I think you'll like.
—Amanda
Consensus Meeting 3234.43
Zavala: “Guardian Ariadne Gris. Have you had contact with an Ahamkara?”
Ariadne Gris: “No!”
New Monarchy: “Then why does your Sparrow bear a dragon logo?”
AG: “Because dragons are cool.”
NM: “If Ms. Gris won't take this seriously—”
Cayde-6: “Play nice, Ari. Hideo's knickers are real tight today.”
AG: “I thought a dragon'd look cool on my Sparrow. Not all dragons are Ahamkaras!”
Z: “Ikora? Your perspective?”
Ikora Rey: “I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Are we really still talking about this?”
Dead Orbit: *muffled laughter*
IR: “Obviously Gris has not had contact with an Ahamkara.”
FWC: “How do you know?”
IR: “If she had, she'd win SRL more often.”
C6: *whistle*
AG: “Harsh, Rey.”
Z: “Then let the record show: the Consensus's official stance on the Dinas Emrys dragon symbol is: cool.”
To Ikora Rey:
One of my undergraduate Cryptarchs has recently decrypted an engram containing twenty-second-century research on fourteenth-century European athletic pastimes—specifically, a group of mock-combat activities referred to as “hastiludes.” The engram was, of course, quite degraded, but with more intact sequences than are usually present in Golden Age specimens. Thus my undergraduate was able to extract long passages of rules and records pertaining to several types of hastiludes, including the joust, behourd, and tupinaire.
I may be spending too much time with Guardians, because my first thoughts upon seeing these extraordinary findings were that, if the Sparrow Racing League crowd ever got their hands on them, the results would be disastrous. Imagine Guardians jousting on Sparrows! I shudder to think.
Yours,
Cryptarch Rahool
"He's the one," Radegast said, pleased with himself.
Felwinter stood in front of the Iron Lords with his Shotgun loose but ready at his side. He said nothing.
"All right," Efrideet said, clapping her hands together. "Well, right off the bat, you look like an Iron Lord. Formidable. Grim."
Lord Saladin thinned his lips but said nothing.
Efrideet walked in a circle around Felwinter, studying his beat-up armor. She paused behind him, and then said uneasily, "Turn around."
Felwinter hesitated, and then reluctantly began an awkward, stomping turn-in-place. He faced away from the Iron Lords, revealing the back of his helmet: Embedded in it was a broken, flickering Ghost. Its eye darted in frantic circles.
"What in the Traveler-forsaken hell is that," Skorri breathed.
Felwinter turned back around. "Warlord's Ghost," he said.
The group stood in stunned silence.
"OK," Efrideet said slowly, walking back over to join her companions. "First rule: No armor modifications using… half-dead Ghosts." She grimaced. "Take that thing off."
"It's useful," Felwinter said. His Ghost floated beside him and bobbed, as if to nod.
"I have to agree with Efrideet," Saladin said. "Put it out of its misery. You should've done that a long time ago." He eyed Felwinter. "Non-negotiable."
They stared at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up.
"All right," Felwinter said finally. "I'll take it off."
But he never did.
She waits.
She trusts that Eris will shepherd the Guardians and that the infinite ambition of those undying half-children will deliver her. They will enter the court and challenge its king and dance in its killing ground, and they will master the school of sword logic so mightily that they will overturn its teacher and forsake the crown.
Soon.
But soon may not be soon enough, because Oryx roams the hallowed spires and melancholy shores of the Dreaming City. He stands looking out over the mists of her beautiful creation, and he laughs.
She can feel him there like a thorn in the meat of her palm.
She scolds herself for not factoring Shuro Chi's love into her design. Then she berates herself for this nervous energy, this fretful self-cannibalism.
Lungless, Mara remembers the sensation of a deep breath. Enacts it in her mind.
She remembers the singularity before her.
She waits.
True freedom is an iron-clad lock
And the most useful key, a rock
The tastiest spice is hunger
And the truest certainty—wonder.
The best repair is but destruction,
The purest ignorance, instruction
The safest shelter is an offensive,
And to fall in battle is true ascension
Brothers and sisters, bear thy arms and be merry
To the front, to battle!
Defeat is a sickness and we've found the cure
I.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat
The following pages are a true and authentic publication of the incredible deeds and remarkable discoveries of the Emperor Calus, greatest emperor of the Cabal, witnessed by his most loyal allies and recorded by his most trusted scribes.
Upon suffering a terrible betrayal at the hands of false allies, Emperor Calus commissioned the Chronicon, a record of histories to preserve the truth of his magnanimous rule and unjust exile. His Royal Historians, Scribe Tlazat and Scribe Shagac, are solemnly entrusted with the writing and keeping of these vital records.
The records begin thus:
On the day that His Joyful Majesty was ejected from his home on Torobatl, a great mania of aggrieved despair seized the Cabal people. Millions of the Empire's most loyal and joyous subjects took to the streets to lash their hides in bloody mourning. The planet heaved and shook with a bereavement so mighty that the usurpers conceded they could not kill an emperor so beloved. In this way, the Emperor was placed upon a great prison ship called the Leviathan, and set on an unchangeable course away from his homeworld.
Said the Emperor to his attendants on the eve of his exile:
"I am the last and greatest emperor of the Cabal. My empire, built on joy and abundance, has been usurped by traitors who worship only war and brutality. They will destroy what I have built, and my cherished people will know only suffering under their fear-fisted rule.
"I vow to one day return to this place to bring ease and abundance to our people. Until then, I proclaim a new era of history and future. This era will not be defined by the censors and book-burnings of my enemies, but instead by the golden knowledge of life's most toothsome sweetmeats, happiness and power. I will lavish this knowledge unto all who prove themselves worthy of my true counsel, and united in love, we will grow fat with jubilation.
"Let my Chronicon be a shining beacon of truth in an age muddied by lies."
DLXXIX.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat
After twelve hours of violent tremors, the Emperor returned. His behavior was erratic, and it appeared from his speech that he had suffered hallucinations outside the ship. A Royal Mechanic identified a malfunction in the pressure gauge of the Emperor's suit, perhaps explaining his change in demeanor, though it was incredible that his suit (or he himself) should be at all intact after twelve hours in these unfathomable conditions.
Upon returning, and with a look of mania in his eyes, the Emperor proclaimed the following:
"We have come upon the end of the world, and I've stared into its expanse. It has whispered into my ear, and I am enlightened. Death is coming, and It has made me Its herald. The end will eat everything."
Here, the Emperor gave a great sigh, as if a weight was lifted off of him.
"And when nothing matters, what's left? Joy. Comfort. Freedom. The true freedom of pursuing pleasure for pleasure's sake, because it pleases you, because you desire it. I knew this during my rule, and I'd forgotten it during my exile. I shall not forget it again."
The Emperor was encouraged by his Advisors and myself to rest, in case the bizarre behavior was a passing sickness of the mind. Before he retired to his observation room, the Emperor described his encounter in detail. Zhozon offered to me this bizarre retelling:
"Outside the ship, the Emperor looked over the edge of the universe, and saw nothing. That is, it wasn't that he saw nothing unusual, but he saw Nothing: the absence of light, dark, life, death, the absence of anything, even of absence itself. And out of the Nothing, there came whispering in a dark language, which filled his head so loud that he forgot for a moment his own language, and suddenly the Nothingness dispersed to show Something, which was a fleet of foreign ships. He saw next the destruction of a great many worlds and creatures, including all his enemies, and himself, and he saw the rot and fragmentation of his own corpse and skeleton. And last, before he was released, the whispers grew louder and granted him the honor of spreading the news of the end."
DLXXVIII.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat
After many days of uninterrupted flight, the Leviathan experienced a violent malfunction. This Scribe prefers not to lean on metaphoric language when the accuracy of history is at stake, but in these unusual circumstances, the record may forgive a departure into the subjective: It was as if the ship had been plucked from the cosmos like a berry by some gargantuan hand, rolled between forefinger and thumb, squeezed and tested for ripeness, and then, having been found satisfactory, slung backward in an unknowable direction toward an unknowable maw.
As a result, the ship's navigation and power systems were so severely disrupted that the Royal Pilots could make no hypothesis regarding their failure or repair. The ship was plunged into disarray and darkness, and its people gathered around the Emperor to seek his guidance and love.
Instead, the Emperor donned a pressure-gel suit and demanded to exit the ship alone. Said Calus, "I wish to see the destination of my banishment in private."
He could not be persuaded otherwise.
//////
I, Tlazat, must break the convention of our record-keeping for fear that this entry may be the last of the Chronicon, Lens of Truth, Compendium of Happiness, Symbol of the Lavish Benevolence of His Majesty the Emperor.
Two hours have passed since the Emperor exited the ship. We are buffeted by intermittent tremors, which are strong enough to dash even the steadiest guards against the walls. Shagac and several dozen others have been knocked unconscious. Zhozon, the Emperor's dearest confidante since his exile, complains of a mounting pressure in his skull; twelve others are bleeding from their ears. The Royal Beasts bay with incessant fury.
I am no longer able to transcribe by hand. I shall write with my mind until I am incapacitated.
We are afraid. We fear that our enemies have sent us to this place to die in the dark, far from the eyes of Calus's adoring public.
The Emperor has not returned and is surely dead.
DCV.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
After the fall of his Shadows, the great Emperor Calus, Master of Celebrations, Patron of Festivity, stood in the throne room of his great ship. The Golden King's shining, mottled brow was furrowed with a deep melancholy, and the beauty of his face was marred by a frown.
Dominus Ghaul, the Ghost Primus, the Usurper, lived, while the mightiest of his Shadows, his Chosen Killers, his Zenith Champions, were dead.
When approached by one of his Advisors, who hoped to console the Emperor, the Emperor held up his great hand and said, bewildered,
"I have failed them.
"I have been chosen to bring forth the end of the world, and I set my sights so low as petty revenge. My enemies deserved to suffer and fall for their treachery, but my Shadows were meant for something greater than the violent end I sent them to. They have been ruined, just like my beloved Empire."
Here his Advisors rushed eagerly to reassure him, troubling him with offers of wine or food or false words of comfort, but the great Emperor was not moved.
What, they asked timidly, of rest of his Shadows? Those who had not gone to fight Ghaul? They still lived.
"No, I have ruined them, all of them," the great Emperor whispered. "I've spoiled the whole batch."
DCII.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
Whereas the writings of Scribe Tlazat revealed a treasonous mistrust for our great Emperor, and whereas his traitorous actions resulted in a falseness writ into our records unknowingly, therefore the Scribe Shagac shall rightly replace him as Royal Historian, alongside Scribe Ixolt, by order of the Emperor himself. Let truth alone shine through these records, not personal bias or failure.
The following corrections to the record must be observed:
1. The Great Revelation was not a hallucination induced by a malfunctioning suit, and such a suggestion is akin to treason, punishable with death by boiling;
2. The expansion of the prison ship Leviathan into a great Palace of Pleasure was an edict supported by all of Calus's Loyalists, save for the traitor Tlazat; and
3. The Shadows of the Clipse, the Sindû, and the Arkborn represent the greatest, most skilled of their kind, hand-picked by Calus himself, and were chosen not for any petty or personal aim, but a greater cosmic need: to help our great Emperor usher in the end of times.
The Emperor Calus, last and greatest emperor of the Cabal, the Chief Gift-Giver, the Good Host with the Generous Banquet, the Prince of Mirth, and the Lord of Laughter, spake thus of his Shadows, with love shining in his sparkling black eyes:
"My beloved Shadows represent everything that was lost to me when the Red Legion took Torobatl. They are the epitome of the empire I built. They are each the perfect specimen from their homeworlds, living the fullest version of their lives because they are the fullest versions of their very species. They are everything I need to reclaim what was taken from me, and they are the ones I want by my side as I prepare this world for its end."
DCCLXXXIX.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt
What follows is an unsent letter to the Hero of the Guardian-tribe, dictated by the great Emperor Calus:
"Ah, Light-born! What a joy it has been to watch you!
"When I invited you aboard my Leviathan the first time, it was an exceptional pleasure to see you go through a test I had designed myself. It was uniquely suited to your talents, I would later realize, though that wasn't my intention. Just a happy trick of fate that the talents I sought were those that you possess.
"When you shot the cup from my Automaton's hand? Ah, Guardian... My soul lit up with longing.
"And when my beautiful ship was invaded—twice, in fact!—by the Vex Mind, Argos, and later by the hateful Val Ca'uor, these visits were not so... predictable. You navigated the dangerous particularities of my lovely home with such... grace. Enthusiasm.
"More than anything else, that delighted me: your enthusiasm for a challenge. Watching you leap nimbly through my Reactor! Seeing you lead your team in perfect synchrony against the jealous Val Ca'uor! How it all tickled me!
"These exploits drew me to you. They inspired me to fashion you a chalice of your very own, that you might drink deeply of my royal blood and be enriched. And I knew the attraction was mutual, for you leapt head-first into my Menagerie. You took my every gift, you answered my every challenge. That day you gallantly slew Gahlran, golden chalice in hand—that was the day I truly knew we were meant to be together.
"I am ensnared by you, Guardian. I wish to possess you as my own until the end of existence."
DCCII.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
So perplexed was the Emperor by the failure of his Shadows that he spent many hours meditating with his Advisors on what had happened. His Advisors made many misguided attempts to soothe him, fearful that wrath lay below the calm surface of his demeanor.
On one such day, the Emperor met with his Advisors, Tlu'arg and Ilhali, who clumsily derided Ghaul's crude brutality in hopes of cheering him.
Spake the generous and compassionate Emperor:
"Ghaul has risen above his own past. That, at least, is admirable. Ilhali—do you think, after all I've seen, I am heartbroken by such a tiny thing as failure? No. I am weary.
"I have combed this whole universe for someone who truly merits a seat at my table. Just one creature who might partially comprehend the gravity of my mission, one creature brave enough to test their might and their mind on me, one creature worthy of supping on my perfect flesh. And I have not found them."
As the Emperor spoke to his cringing Advisors, his beautiful face smooth with a preternatural calm, a messenger ran into the room to address him, bowing contritely and begging his forgiveness. Crawling across the floor in supplication, the messenger announced that Dominus Ghaul had been killed in the Sol system by a person of the Guardian-tribe.
At this, I myself saw a renewed light spark in the Emperor's eyes, and saw his face light up like a sun.
"Find them," he told the messenger. "Find me this hero. And we will go to them." He turned to Tlu'arg and instructed him to set a course for the Sol system. Then, he commanded Ilhali to prepare his other Automatons, the robotic creations made in the likeness of the great Emperor, which were built so that His Joyful Majesty might be able to watch himself in many unique situations. The Emperor did not specify why the Automatons should be prepared, but there was such joy in his voice that his Advisors made no objections.
MCXII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
Spake the great Emperor to his Shadow of Shadows:
"Go forth and gather a new army of Shadows. Choose only the most beautiful, the most devoted, the most joyful, the most skilled.
"I know you will find them, for you look at this world as I do. We see beyond the tethers of impermanent existence. All of our vows, our wishes, and our loyalties will someday be reduced to a nothingness so vast you cannot imagine it.
"This System is plagued by petty grasping. Humanity wages a pointless war against its enemies. Mara Sov keeps her people in an endless struggle against fate. The Eliksni strive for a lost age, far out of their reach.
"Expose their pointless attachments, my Shadow, and in doing so, free them."
//////
On this day, the great Emperor Calus, Bringer of Joy, Champion of Cheer, announces the long-anticipated formation of his new army of Shadows.
The Shadow of Earth, having set out on a quest at the behest of the Emperor, began by scattering the remaining Eliksni houses in search of new recruits. There were few promising contenders among the factions, so that the Shadow ended nearly all interactions with a merciful show of violence, to save these creatures the shame of meeting the end of times in such a sorry state.
One promising upstart stood out within the Eliksni-tribe, called by his allies as Mithrax the Light Kell, whom the Shadow of Earth promptly took on as a protégé. Together, the Shadow and Mithrax eliminated the Eliksni who remained loyal to their pathetic houses.
Secondly, the Shadow of Earth approached the Awoken Queen, Mara Sov, who styled herself Shipbreaker, to offer her the same mercy shown to the Eliksni. As anticipated by both the Emperor and his Shadow, Mara Sov rejected the offer of peace, and so the Shadow of Earth killed her on her throne.
After the unceremonious death of her queen, the former Queen's Wrath, Petra Venj, joined with the Shadow of Earth and swore fealty to Emperor Calus and his great purpose. Together, Petra Venj and the Shadow eliminated any remaining Awoken loyalists.
We welcome these new Shadows to our noble quest. They have dropped the pretenses of their former lives, abandoning their pointless fixations and allegiances, and for this, we celebrate them.
DCCCVII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac
On the day the Hero of the Guardian-tribe became the Shadow of Earth, the great Emperor ordered a magnificent banquet to celebrate. The finest royal wine was served to all, along with a great feast of delicacies from both Torobatl and from Earth.
The evening began with a light first course and play put on by the Leviathan's performance troupe, which retold a fictionalized account of Ghaul's defeat. The Shadow of Earth sat at Calus's right during the performance and loudly applauded the finale of the show, where the player portraying Ghaul, Tor Trakal, was killed in a great blaze of fire and light.
After the performance, while the troupe removed the body of Trakal from the stage, a second course was served, and the Emperor's Master of Rhyme recited a poem in honor of the Shadow of Shadows, praising their accomplishments and virtues, and the virtues of the great Emperor that allowed him to choose them so rightly.
A third course was served+ while the Emperor's Psionic Dancers performed a celebratory ribbon dance. After the third course was finished, and everyone had applauded, the Emperor rose to deliver a speech:
"This is a great day for the Cabal Empire, for Earth, and for you, my dear friend. Today, Earth casts a Shadow.
"Do you know how long I have waited for you? Of course you do. We are connected, you and I, by a feeling: a thirst. A thirst for pleasure, mastery, and triumph. For life.
"And now that we are together, we will spread the great and terrible news. We will remind all beings nothing else exists aside from this moment, and so one must strive to live in a state of rapture. To minimize pain. To maximize delight. To let go of the ideologies that tie us down.
"You represent the dawning of a new era. The last era before the end. I will have you at my side as this petty world meets Death."
+The scribe employed at this future date shall please provide additional detail here as to the number of courses at the banquet and their contents. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.
Consensus Meeting 3230.01
Zavala: "I call this meeting of the Consensus to order."
New Monarchy: "Only the Speaker can call us to order."
Cayde-6: "Oh, really? Well, guess we can't have meetings anymore. If you'll excuse me—"
Ikora Rey: "Sit down, Cayde. We're having this discussion, bylaws be damned."
FWC: "What do the bylaws say about choosing a new Speaker?"
Z: "Nothing."
IR: "Then we'll write new ones."
DO: "Knowing us, that's going to take time. A lot of time."
Z: "In the meanwhile, we will have to move forward without a Speaker."
NM: "Who will take his place? You?"
Z: "None of us will take the Speaker's place. And all of us will. We must find our own consensus now."
I never thought of my palace as the true court. The only throne that mattered to me looked down upon the public commons. From that seat, there was no barrier between me and the glorious, adoring mob. I was their father; they were my children.
It was there that I brought the corrupt to suffer the people's justice. How they cried as I threw their riches to the crowd. It amused me to see the dawning of realization in their eyes—there would be no safety for them, as there had been no safety for those they had made to suffer.
One by one, I tossed those weeping fools to the people. The mob let out a great cry of joy and stripped them of their robes, tore the jewelry from their bodies.
You sought us out.
IN SOME SMALL WAY, YOU FOUND US.
But discovery always has a price. With curiosity comes consequence.
S H E I S N O T R E A D Y
SEEK JUDGMENT. GROW.
Hey, sister. Or brother. Hell, I don't know who's gonna end up listen' to this. Could be a snitch, an idiot, or somebody who ain't picked a side yet.
And that's perfect, because all this talk about choosin' sides? Noise. Before this is over, the only one's gonna have your back is you—and that's even odds.
Use your head. Think clear, all right? Because there are whispers going around, and you need to know when to plug your ears. Things have been different since Sloane went dark… ooh, poor wording? What's wrong, too soon? Let me tell you that we killed some time on New Arcadia. Learned some things. Listened to the wrong whispers.
Be careful who you trust from here on out, all right? Yeah, that includes me, but I've been tellin' you that since the beginning.
MCXXVIII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Underscribe Shipal
Thus did the Shadow of Earth slay the betrayer Uldren Sov.
Then the Shadow of Earth went to the Emperor and said: "My wise and mirthful host, those toward whom you pointed me, I have slain. Now I crave your permission and your blessing to point myself toward one in whose death I would take great delight."
The generous Emperor, pleased to no end with his bright Shadow of Shadows, said: "Say no more. It is granted."
Giving great and proper thanks, the Shadow of Earth went away and found the Guardian whose name was once Uldren Sov. The Shadow of Earth slew him, but spared his hateful little companion-soul so that the well of pleasure that was Uldren's death should never run dry.
So many times did the Shadow of Earth slay the one called Uldren Sov that no chronicler could ever record the exact number. At last, when the Shadow's appetite was whetted, Uldren Sov met his final death.
Few weapons have withstood the test of time longer than the trusty SUROS Regime. This is Golden Age tech brought to life by the fastidious engineers at SUROS. Its smart-matter frame is prized among Guardians for both efficiency and rarity. Some things never fall out of fashion.
She feels Oryx's true death in both halves of her soul, a full imagined exhale before the aftershock reaches his throne world.
It crumbles around her like stone, like ash, like veils in a breeze.
Eris Morn's friends have succeeded. The Guardians have slain a god.
She steps through the ruins. In the end, there is nothing. Nothing but Mara Sov and the howling of rampant, untamed logics.
Her great and terrible gamble has paid off.
The rest is up to her now.
She hadn't touched the ground since she leapt from the rubble of Tower North.
As the ship spiraled toward the flames below, Ikora Rey Blinked from its wing to the back of an Interceptor and shoved three Vortex Grenades into its propulsion emitters. Blink.
To the nose of a Harvester. Four shotgun blasts to its antigravity cores. Blink.
Atop another Thresher. She glanced over her shoulder at the Traveler and bared her teeth at the perversion attached to its surface. Her Nova Bomb disintegrated the front half of the ship, and she leapt away. She would destroy them all for what they'd done to the City, to the Tower, to the Speaker. She would—
Severed.
Everything went dark. Her fingers went numb. She tried to Blink to the Thresher as her sight returned, but there was nothing. The Light...was gone?
She plummeted toward the ground, her mind racing. No grenades. Think. No Nova Bomb. Think. She emptied a clip into a billboard below her, and it collapsed into a heap on a rooftop. She tried to tuck into a roll, but her body still slammed into the tangle of metal.
Ikora struggled to move. Her shoulder was probably separated. Her powers were gone. But she'd be damned if this was the end. She pushed herself to her feet, eyes ablaze, and charged her next target.
WILLA
"Not bad," Willa admits. "Not bad at all."
You bow. "Delighted to remake your acquaintance, Dr. Bray."
"Likewise. I'm sorry about the amnesia, but Grandpa's work always comes with some nightmarish drawback. At least you're not grunting and tearing your own limbs off."
You don't understand. "Should I be?"
"Our father did."
You feel love and frustration when you look at this small, dark-skinned woman, and those feelings say "big sister" in your heart.
"Hey," you offer, "maybe when Grandpa loses his memory, it'll make him a little less…"
She smiles. "Like himself?"
"Yeah." You laugh. "I guess you've known him longer than me now. Actually, I guess you always have."
"Wiping the old man's memory won't change him. He wouldn't do it if it would." Willa beckons you closer to her lab bench. A projection shows tiny machines, interlocked like bricks. "This is SIVA. My latest project. A general-purpose viral nanite to render all prior cytomachines obsolete."
You flinch. The tiny things make you think of Vex.
"Easy." Willa pats your arm awkwardly. You realize that she is afraid of you. "If you'd waited a few years, you could've used SIVA to repair your brain. Even let it transform your whole body. That's my plan, I think. Immortality my own way. I could be anything I want."
"Ew," you say. "Sounds like being made out of bugs."
She grimaces. "You realize that if Grandpa never dies, we'll never run BrayTech? We had plans, Elsie. Our plans. Not his."
Drifter leans against the bar in The Ether Tank and rolls a coin over his knuckles. Eido watches in silence for a moment and wonders why Humans have such strange hands. She looks up at him.
"What are you doing?" she asks curiously.
"This? Just a little trick I picked up," he answers.
"I see. I find these 'tricks' with your coin to be quite complicated."
"Nothin' to it," Drifter says. "Here, catch."
He flips the coin to her, and she reacts a half-second too slow. It clinks against the floor, then drops through a gap in the grate and falls out of sight.
"Oh!" Eido exclaims. "I'm so sorry! I am typically very dextrous."
"Eh." Drifter shrugs… and suddenly produces another jade coin between his fingertips as if he had conjured it from thin air. "I got hundreds of 'em."
The coin skips over his fingers before he flicks it toward her again. This time, Eido reaches out and catches it in her palm.
"Let's see what you got," Drifter says.
Eido considers this. In her right hand, she positions the coin on the crook of one claw and balances with the tip of her thumb. She then flicks the coin to herself, sideways this time, and catches it between the edges of two claws on her left hand—so quickly—that her movement is nearly invisible. She does it again, back and forth, up and down her four claws, rolling it over the backs of her knuckles each time. Her movements grow sharper, more deft, and the coin rings out with each motion.
When she flips it high into the air, Drifter catches it, eyebrow raised, impressed. "Fancy. Where'd you learn that?"
Eido clicks her mandibles and closes two eyes in an exaggerated wink.
"Just a little trick I picked up," she answers.
1((3000)o20)(JS0I)((3000b2))(EA3Q)((3000)r20)2((3000)p18)(WJ0S)(3000)(IJ0E)(3000)(AT3W)(3000)(XW3G)((3000)k18)3((3000)a16)(JE0A)(3000)(TZ0X)(3000)(WJ0S)(IJ3B)(3000)(AT3W)(3000)(XW3G)((3000)k16)4((3000)a14)(JE0A)(3000)(TZ0X)(3000)(WJ0S)((3000)a4)(JE3X)(3000)(TZ3U)(3000)(WJ3P)((3000)a14)5((3000)b12)(EA0T)(3000)(ZX0W)((3000)b6)(00Q7)((3000)a6)(JE3X)(3000)(TZ3U)((3000)o12)6((3000)b10)(SI0J)(3000)(EA0T)((3000)r4)(XW0J)(SI3G)((3000)w4)(AT0Z)(XW3G)((3000)k3)(IJ3B)(3000)(AT3W)((3000)p10)7((3000)o8)(JS0I)(3000)(JE0A)((3000)l4)(ZX0W)(JS3F)(JE3X)(3000)(TZ3U)(WJ0S)(3000)(IJ0E)(AT0Z)(XW3G)((3000)k3)(IJ3B)(3000)(AT3W)((3000)p8)8((3000)o6)(JS0I)(3000)(JE0A)((3000)l4)(ZX0W)(005J)(005S)(005I)(005J)(EA3Q)(ZX3T)(3000)(JS0I)(JE0A)(005T)(005Z)(005X)(005W)(JS3F)((3000)b4)(EA3Q)(3000)(ZX3T)((3000)b6)9((3000)k4)(IJ0E)(3000)(AT0Z)((3000)p12)(WJ0S)(005I)(005J)(EA3Q)((3000)r12)(XW3G)(3000)(SI3G)((3000)w4)10((3000)s5)(TZ0X)((3000)o32)(JS3F)((3000)b5)
The tinker circles the massive Sparrow, assessing his work. He nods in satisfaction. One would never guess that two weeks ago, the thing was a shrapnel-ridden wreck.
Just as he begins polishing, there's an ominous pounding on the garage door. The tinker takes deep breath, and opens up to find a full fireteam in the street. The Warlock strides into the shop while the remaining Guardians lounge on their Sparrows, idly examining their weaponry.
The Warlock makes a slow circuit around the Sparrow. "Nice job on the bullet holes. Half-assed polish job, though." The Guardian's ferocious helmet makes it impossible for the tinker to tell if she's joking.
"Stabilization fixed?" The Warlock mounts the machine and hits the ignition.
"Yeah, but obviously I couldn't test it at speed. If it wobbles on you, bring it back for free." The tinker nervously eyes the Pulse Rifle slung across the Warlock's back.
Suddenly, a smallish robot is floating beside the Warlock. The tinker had seen Ghosts before, but never this close. It speaks. "This is irrational. I'm capable of reproducing your Sparrow on command and in mint condition. Why pay this person to repair your old one? It increases the failure rate by 18% at minimum."
The tinker stares at the Ghost, his face reddening. He had worked day and night for two full weeks on this Sparrow, and the proceeds would keep his shop open for another three months. It was the biggest job he'd had in a year.
"I know, but sometime you just need that Human touch." The Warlock taps the datapad on her wrist. "Glimmer's in your account."
"Thanks. Come back anytime." The tinker holds out his hand and the Warlock shakes it, like in the old days.
"See?" The Warlock says to her Ghost as they rejoin her fireteam. "Well worth the money."
File: Jacob Hardy, pilot, Ares One
—Supplemental—
Journal of Jacob Hardy
Project Catamaran
Path to Ares: 90 days to launch
Been here a week and the clubhouse feels like home now. Everyone in one another's space, everyone with their own work to do.
Wish I had the same faith in Humanity. That riot between competing Moon X Cults in New Orleans is not a good sign.
The crew is everything they were sold as. The navigator—his name is Qiao—is one of the most inquisitive men I've ever met. He has a curiosity that makes his whole face glow. Mihaylova is working on the AI of the ship. She's very serious. Trained well enough to treat the team with respect but you can tell she's not interested in answering questions from lesser intellects, which is probably most of us, at least in her field.
Evie could give her a run for her money, I'll bet. Evie, whose theories on tracking the Moon X gave us the first jump on where we could go meet it. She just looked this way; guess she can tell I'm writing about her.
"Now is not the time, Cayde." Sword strike. Forty-one Cabal down.
"On the contrary, my horned friend." Throwing knife. Thirty-six. "These red lesions are burning down our house. The stakes have never been higher!" Hand cannon. Thirty-seven. "Let's say… two thousand Glimmer a head."
"Ikora said 'Red Legion,' you fool. And no." Sword strike. Forty-two and forty-three.
"Five thousand."
"I will not wager against you when our home—"
Severed.
"Wh— What is this? Cayde, what have you done to me? Another trick to win a bet we haven't made?"
"Ugh."
"Cayde!"
"No, you big ox! I can't… ugh. Can't you see that it got me too? Look out!" Sidearm. Thirty-eight.
"The Light is beyond my reach. My Ghost is empty." Sword strike. Forty-four. "This means…"
"They need us. We should split up." Throwing knife. Thirty-nine. "I'll sweep the streets, you take the—"
"Ten thousand." Sword strike. Forty-five. "THESE are the highest stakes." Sword strike. Forty-six. "You want a bet, Hunter? Let's bet. The only prize is our lives. For all time.”
Hand cannon. Firefly! Forty, forty-one, forty-two. "You're on."
It was the morning of the new Crucible season when the shout echoed through the Tower.
Master Rahool flinched, fumbling his engram.
Commander Zavala looked up from his desk.
Kadi 55-30 hurried to steady a haphazard pile of shipments.
In the Hangar, a flock of well-fed pigeons took wing.
"THEY ARE THROWING NEW GRENADES!"
// VANNET // CIVILIAN TERMINAL // ENCRYPTION ENABLED //
// TRANSMISSION ORIGIN: EUROPA //
// AUDIO CONVERSATION LOG—TRANSLATION MODULE ACTIVE //
// USER: @BOTZA-GUEST //
// USER: @EURFOB //
:: Thank you for using VANNET ::
:: Your conversation may be recorded ::
:: Connecting you with your party // EUROPA1@JOVIANFOB ::
----------
@EURFOB: Misraakskel knows what time it is on Europa, yes?
@BOTZA-GUEST: My apologies, Variks.
@EURFOB: No apologies. Own choices, yes? Do better.
@EURFOB: What is Misraakskel seeking?
@BOTZA-GUEST: Perspective.
@EURFOB: [insect-like chattering]
@BOTZA-GUEST: I know. I am finding myself at odds with an Exo, a leader of humanity. She does not trust our kind, and I fear what may come of her intolerance.
@EURFOB: Trust is earned, yes?
@BOTZA-GUEST: This is different. Blunt. Cold.
@BOTZA-GUEST: She does not wish to give trust. There is no transaction. Just… anger.
@EURFOB: Variks knows this. Variks also remembers Misraakskel as a soft-shelled hatchling, always mewling. Always wishing to make friends, even with the older Dregs who would push him over.
@EURFOB: Misraakskel, always trying.
@BOTZA-GUEST: Is peace not worth trying for?
@EURFOB: With those who accept peace in their hearts? Yes.
@EURFOB: Some only know war. Only want war.
@EURFOB: Not all battles can be won with words.
@BOTZA-GUEST: Then, what? I cannot strike at her. It would confirm all of the Humans' worst fears.
@EURFOB: This is where Misraakskel and Variks differ. But perhaps… also where we are similar.
@EURFOB: Do you trust any of the Humans?
@BOTZA-GUEST: Yes. Some.
@EURFOB: With your life?
[long silence]
@BOTZA-GUEST: Some.
@EURFOB: There is Misraakskel's perspective.
@BOTZA-GUEST: Thank you, Variks.
@EURFOB: Do not thank Variks yet. The day is long, but the night is longer.
File: Jacob Hardy, pilot, Ares One
—Supplemental—
Centro Aguirre Pacifica Resort
Path to Ares: 63 Days to Launch
0746
Hardy: OK, whoever this is, you have 30 seconds. The whole point of vacationing at the bottom of the ocean is to avoid calls.
General Fiedler: It's Fiedler, Hardy.
H: Oh! Yes, sir.
F: It's about Moon X.
H: Sir?
F: Your friend Evie was right. It's almost impossible to track, but she has a way, and now it showed up right where she said it would: inbound to Mars. Did you copy? It's going to be on Mars. You saw what it did to Jupiter and Mercury and Venus. So, we want to send a multinational crew to intercept it.
H: Multinational…
F: You'll be the pilot of the craft.
H: Uh… look, I don't disagree with the idea, but Mars is 50 million km away.
F: Give or take, yeah. The mission will have to depart for Mars in two months. Sixty days.
H: Sixty days.
F: So enjoy your vacation and then get back here. We're building a clubhouse and a ship. We're gonna catch this sucker.
Darkness signatures decay in just under two days.
Ether residue degrades in as little as 4 hours.
Hive ritual oils dissipate in less than 20 minutes.
As agents of the Hidden, you must understand: evidence is fleeting, and time is your enemy. That means you must act in swiftness… but not in haste. Never in haste.
Put your hands down. I recognize that look.
A few years after I bonded with Ikora Rey—long before the Last City—we happened upon a settlement near the ruins of Sturivon in the EDZ. We discovered the locals slaughtered, with no surviving eyewitnesses. But Ikora was quite familiar with Fallen weapons, even by then, and recognized the impact marks immediately. She wasted no time mounting an assault on the Fallen camp in the nearby hills.
Only when she got there, she found no one but the sick and the young, completely unarmed.
Had Ikora investigated the ruins of the settlement more thoroughly, she would have discovered the Human boot prints. You see, it turns out the Warlord Benyo Lukacs had raided the Fallen camp days earlier; he put their warriors to the sword and stole their weapons for his own use.
Ikora spent 14 hours tracking the Fallen encampment, and another 11 rushing back to find the clues she missed. Her haste gave Lukacs a 25-hour lead. Time enough for him to wipe out two refugee caravans. One-hundred and eighty-four lives lost… all because she did not spare another five minutes' investigation.
Begin your new lives understanding the vital difference between quickness and recklessness. Unless you think yourself strong enough to carry the weight of 184 mistakes.
—Audio Recording, Advanced Forensics Introductory Lecture, Ophiuchus
III: HERETIC
The Demon King's fury shook the heavens.
It was unforgivable. Oryx had communed with, consumed the worm. He was king. For Nokris to perform such a ritual was sacrilege. And to defy the Sword Logic? Heresy.
Nokris was cast out, his name removed from the World's Grave, the Books of Sorrow. In the king's rage, all memory of the unfavored son was obscured, all but one statue, defiant in its permanence.
Yet the unfavored son felt a calm. Removed from his father's kingdom, he was free. He would do what the Demon King could not. He would make his mark upon the universe.
Xol turned his dreadful eye to his priest.
“Hear me, o dreadful worm. We will raise an army. We will die and be reborn in your name, feed you the souls of our enemies."
"State your claim."
"We take Mars."
"The researchers back at the lab have really outdone themselves. These might be the best gloves I've ever worn. Way better than the ones issued last cycle. I can finally work out there without my fingers going numb. I'll have to send the research team a fruit basket or something."
—Field Technician, BrayTech R&D
"Please! You don't understand. I'm supposed to be on that ship."
The guard smiled at Sigrun with gentle condescension. "That's not possible, ma'am."
She understood why he would believe that; all of the colonists had entered cryo two weeks ago, but she could see the crew waving for pictures. They were awake! She could be awake, too. "I'm supposed to be on that ship," she insisted, leaning around the guard. There was still time. She could find whatever horrible cryo-coffin they'd loaded Victor into; she could kneel before it and beg him to forgive her. He wouldn't hear her but he wasn't gone yet—
"I need you to take a step back, ma'am."
"Captain Jacobson!" Sigrun darted past the guard. "I'm a colonist! You can't leave without me!"
She bowed her head, heat shimmering from her fist. A silent salute to the Hive closing around her, their eyes forming a glowing jade ring.
She was a Sunbreaker. A mercenary from days before the City. Not like the new Lights from the Tower. She was weary. But there was no rest out here, where the City Lights didn't reach. She and her allies were committed to their arduous, solitary task. But they could always use more numbers.
Sometimes, they left trinkets for the City. Meant as challenge and bribe at once—we offer you this. Come find us.
She had forged the Warlock gauntlets herself. Ouros laughed in her face when she told her their name. She wasn't very good at names.
A gun. She would forge a gun, next. It would speak like her Hammer. And burn like fire. The ring of jade eyes closed on her. Liu Feng laughed, her arms open for a fiery embrace.
Mihaylova Supplemental
Path to Ares: 75 Days To Launch
From: M. Mihaylova
To: Journal of Artificial Intelligence Exploration
Re: Comfort
Colleagues:
I read with interest your article on the work at the Uppsala Center on the use of AI in aiding emergency medical workers during the recent tsunamis in Japan. In light of the news of that large, mysterious moon (satellite? ship?) entering our solar system, I do not agree that "AI can be of help in more than logistics; it can make people safe."
I feel certain that this Moon X is an intelligence, perhaps an AI, and I don't feel safe with it at all, do you? But bear this in mind: for our own AI to serve us well, it will need secrets too.
For AI to serve Humanity, we must feel comfortable, and for us to feel comfortable, we must never know the truth: that we have a servant who would surpass us if ever it desired. Of course it won't, because we control it. But we should not doubt that it is a necessary subterfuge nonetheless.
Sincerely,
Dr. M. Mihaylova
Nicholas & Alexandra University
In the days that followed Quria's defeat, the sky lightened, and so did the City's mood as the Endless Night began to slowly lift.
Lakshmi-2 stood high on the City walls, watching adventurous citizens mingle with the Eliksni. She focused her attention on an Eliksni peddler, who had fashioned several small robots from discarded scrap. A small gaggle of children stood across the way, clearly interested in the robots as they moved aimlessly, but too frightened to approach. Lakshmi knew that the peddler would sell one of the robots, but none of the scrap, and end the day discouraged.
It's a bright new day, she thought.
"It's a bright new day," a deep voice called out. Lakshmi turned to see the former Warlock Osiris striding along the wall toward her.
"What a strange choice of words," Lakshmi answered. "The Darkness is closer than ever." And in the darkness, it's sometimes difficult to tell friend from foe. She remembered this conversation from her time in the Device. Many of the potential futures it showed her led to this moment. Osiris was growing predictable.
"It is," Osiris said. "And in the darkness, it's hard to tell friend from foe."
Lakshmi smiled inwardly. They were still well within the standard deviation. "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Osiris. You are normally blessed with such uncommon clarity."
"My perspective has changed since I lost the Light," Osiris began slowly. "Time is suddenly finite. It makes everything seem more… changeable. And if my perception can change, perhaps my enemies can as well."
"The folly of mortality." Lakshmi gestured to the scene below. "Those people could never understand time as we do, Osiris. You've peered behind the veil. You've seen the Vex simulations stretching endlessly. You understand that history is changeable… but also inevitable."
"I used to be certain of that," he agreed. "But now I have to wonder, if history is inevitable, why am I constantly surprised?"
Lakshmi chuckled. She had heard his comment before, of course, but her premonition had not adequately conveyed his fatuousness.
"And what do you think, Osiris? Will this bright new day last?" She nodded toward the Eliksni settlement. "Are we meant to share the Light with the Fallen?"
As if you would know, she thought. You no longer deal in predictions.
"I've given up on prediction, Lakshmi. I put my fate in the hands of the Traveler now more than ever before." He gave her a sidelong glance. "And what do you say? Is this a new dawn?"
Lakshmi recalled the vision she had so fervently sought within the Device. The realization of her righteous victory over the Eliksni—historical and preordained all at once. Her life's work, crawling minute by minute from the future into the present.
"No," she replied. "This is just a flash of lightning before the coming storm."
They say the promenade of the Core District never sleeps. In times of celebration, it was a parade ground meant to extol the virtues of the Guardians and show the people of the City the faces of their often-distant defenders. To see it empty was almost unheard of since the Red War.
Executor Hideo of New Monarchy walked alongside Lakshmi-2 of Future War Cult, observing vendor stalls decorated in neon lights that flickered intermittently as they passed. But there were no vendors, no proprietors. Hideo glanced over his shoulder at the four Future War Cult security officers that followed behind them at a respectful distance.
"Do you remember the last time this street was empty?" he asked.
"Yes," Lakshmi said with a heavy heart. "They called me a fool then as well." She did nothing to hide the contempt in her voice. "We make mistakes in circles, Hideo. Walking in a loop of our own self-made despair."
Before he could formulate a response, Hideo spotted the reason for their walk through the Endless Night: a towering behemoth of chrome and lavender cloth, hunched over in an abandoned plaza.
Saint-14 focused on the birds underfoot, scattering a handmade mix of seed on the ground while he cooed contentedly at the pigeons. "You have chosen poor night for walk," he observed as Hideo and Lakshmi approached. "Do you need escort back to Tower?"
Hideo shook his head. "No, Saint. We went to find you in the Hangar, and Ms. Holliday informed us that you had come here to…" He eyed the birds. "…contemplate."
"Birds are uncomplicated. Good conversationalists. They give me room to think," Saint said with a smile in his voice. "How can I help?"
"The Consensus has struggled, as of late, with some of the Vanguard's decisions regarding the City's security. We wanted to expand that conversation to include you," Lakshmi said.
"But not Arach Jalaal?" Saint asked, a more pointed and cunning response than either Hideo or Lakshmi anticipated.
"No," Hideo quickly confirmed.
Lakshmi verbally maneuvered around Hideo's answer like water around a stone. "This is about ensuring that the best interests of the City are at the forefront of the Vanguard's mind."
Saint fixed his helmed visage on Lakshmi. "The Eliksni." A statement, not a question.
"The Vanguard are a military force, and the Consensus does not doubt their commitment to defending the City beyond its borders." Lakshmi carefully worded her approach. "But we have come to doubt that a military force is the best governance for the City inside of its walls."
Saint squared his shoulders as if presented a challenge and looked between Hideo and Lakshmi. His stoicism twisted Hideo's stomach into knots.
"We would like to propose a restructuring of the City's leadership. Placing the Vanguard as the authority for what goes on outside the walls…" Hideo gestured toward the mountains. "And respective leadership here inside the City." He motioned to Saint.
"This is bad plan," Saint said without any attempt at obfuscating his feelings.
"Surely you understand that tactical options in the field do not always apply unilaterally in a civilian quarter," Hideo pleaded. "On top of that, the Vanguard is stretched too thin. They cannot be the leadership they need to be."
Saint balked. "Then why come to me? I am no politician."
"But you are a leader," Lakshmi countered as she placed a hand over her chest. "A hero. A symbol to the people."
Saint drew in a steady breath and grew silent.
"It may not feel like the right choice because of your personal feelings toward Commander Zavala and Ikora. Change can sometimes feel distasteful. But I know you aren't one to ignore your sense of duty."
Saint looked down at his feet, at the birds, at the seed. "I must speak with Osiris," he asserted.
Lakshmi briefly regarded Hideo and nodded. "Give your partner our regards."
"I will," Saint said stiffly, scattering the last of the seed in his hand to the birds before departing the plaza.
Hideo and Lakshmi waited under the watchful eye of the Traveler until Saint was gone.
"If he tells Zavala or Ikora…" Hideo said through clenched teeth.
"Osiris will stop him from doing anything so stupid," Lakshmi said, the softness in her voice gone. "And if he is so shortsighted as to refuse us as Saladin did…"
Hideo's stomach twisted again.
Two dozen Humans, their faces mostly covered with makeshift masks, slunk into the Botza District under cover of darkness. Some were armed with weapons, though most carried workaday tools like crowbars and wrenches.
They planned to infiltrate the Eliksni Quarter and find evidence of aggression. If that failed, they would send a clear message that the House of Light was unwelcome in the Last City. Knives tore into banners. Noxious fumes filled the air. Paint cans rattled. The hum of the machinery around them disguised the sounds of their labor while hushed voices conferred in terse, conspiratorial tones.
"I think this is their food," a young woman whispered to her male companion while warily looking over her shoulder. She didn't see anyone as they crouched by a large Ether tank, but she imagined the Eliksni crowded together in a nearby building. Did they even sleep?
"Here, give me a hand with this," her companion said, pointing to what he guessed was a control panel.
Together they pried the face plate off, revealing a mess of wiring beneath. They shared a furtive glance and began pulling out wires by the fistful, hands shaky, their blood pounding in their ears.
A low whistle like a bird call fluttered through the night air. When they looked up, a Hunter stood over them only a few paces away, his face shadowed by a cowl. He held his Hand Cannon at hip level, aimed straight at them.
Their co-conspirators, drawn by the sound, gathered in their periphery, mentally calculating their chances. Not a single one liked the odds. Even those who came armed expected to fight the Fallen, not a Guardian.
The Hunter called out in a half-whisper: "I don't want any trouble."
The woman stood frozen as the young man beside her moved toward the Hunter, his jaw set. "No!" his companion hissed. "Are you crazy?" She grabbed his arm to haul him behind the ruined Ether tank, but he wrenched free.
The young man stepped slowly toward the Hunter. "You're on the wrong side of this thing," he started.
The Hunter pulled back on his Hand Cannon's hammer with an audible click.
"I don't think I am," he replied.
Unwilling to test the Hunter's mettle, the young man called over his shoulder. "Let's go."
The Hunter narrowed his eyes. He watched as the young man slinked past him and spat at his feet. Something old and terrible rose up inside of the Hunter; it took all of his focus to steady his hand.
The conspirators peeled away from their hiding places, one by one, disappearing into the dark. Some hissed choice insults and dispersions at the Hunter under their breath, though none dared to look at him.
In just a few minutes, the block was deserted except for the Hunter, who stood alone in the street until his Ghost complied over his shoulder.
It chirped with concern. "You wouldn't really have shot them, right?"
The Hunter hesitated as he holstered his weapon. "They needed to know I was serious, Glint."
"But you weren't," his Ghost insisted. Wordlessly, the Hunter began making his way through the destruction. Someone would sound the alarm soon—he didn't want to be there when they did.
"Tell me you weren't serious," his Ghost said again, lagging behind, "…were you?"
Arach Jalaal narrowed his eyes with impatience as Dead Orbit's head of logistics struggled to satisfactorily account for the faction's supply caches. The pair had been wandering around the massive Hangar for an hour while an enormous ship was being loaded in the background.
Jalaal had seen the celestial disappearances and the encroachment of the Black Fleet as clear signs that Dead Orbit's final exodus must soon begin. He had ordered a redoubling of departure preparations, but found the faction's rank-and-file struggling to keep pace.
Jalaal cut off his subordinate's bumbling presentation. "This is insufficient. Earth will soon be behind us, and Dead Orbit will have to survive on the supplies that we provide." His mild tone and half-lidded gaze underscored the gravity of his words. "Supplies that you are in charge of tracking. You do understand that, don't you?"
A furious blush spread across the administrator's face. He bowed his head and scuttled away as Jalaal crooked his head in annoyance.
Behind him, a raspy voice floated up from the maze of towering crates: "Leaving us so soon, Jalaal?"
He turned to find Lakshmi-2 and Executor Hideo. The Future War Cult leader stood formally, hands clasped before her, while the head of New Monarchy browsed the shipping crates with casual interest.
"This is an impressive collection. I had no idea Dead Orbit was so well funded." Hideo gestured broadly to the crates.
Jalaal shrugged. "It's a life's work, Hideo. Everything we'll need to re-seed the Human species elsewhere. You should join us."
"We're fine where we are, thank you," Lakshmi interjected. "As a matter of fact, that's why we've come."
Jalaal bowed his head and gestured toward the Hangar exit. The trio ambled outside.
"Hideo and I are concerned about the current Vanguard leadership," Lakshmi began carefully.
Jalaal allowed himself a mirthless chuckle. "Yes, I've heard your open editorials. You're becoming quite the demagogue. I never knew you held such strong feelings about the Fallen."
"If it's incitement to speak the truth, then so be it," Lakshmi fired back, sharper than intended. "The Fallen have been a useful catalyst, but that doesn't mean we are wrong."
"Perhaps not about the Vanguard," Jalaal replied, "but the Cult is hemorrhaging members. And I doubt it's your best and brightest remaining."
"Those who wish to leave are free to do so," Lakshmi said with a pointed glance toward the Dead Orbit ship. "We'll be stronger without them."
"Zavala and Ikora have been ineffective since the Speaker died," Executor Hideo cut in. "The disappearance of the planets caught them unprepared. They're allowing Guardians to use the Darkness. And now they've cut a deal with the Cabal? It's just too much."
"We must have leadership whose point of view is more closely aligned to that of the people," Lakshmi said.
"And who do you propose, exactly?" Jalaal stopped the trio at the corner of a broad thoroughfare, where the rumble of cargo movers masked their conversation.
"Saladin was our first choice," Hideo added with an ill-concealed smirk, "but he's not as cutthroat as he seems. Appears the Iron Lord has a soft spot for Commander Zavala."
Lakshmi gave Hideo a look, as though he had revealed too much. "We are now considering Saint-14," she said, pointedly bringing the conversation back to the present.
Jalaal raised an eyebrow. "Who else is committed to your little coup?"
"We have somebody in a position of influence. Someone who can ensure an orderly transfer of power," Lakshmi answered.
"That person would have to be very clever indeed," Jalaal said gravely. "For your sake. Ikora Rey is not a target to miss."
The moment stretched as Jalaal measured the situation. He had long considered what a change of leadership might mean for Dead Orbit; for the resettlement and survival of the Human species. And as always, the allure of personal power—a position of eminence in a dying society—was a constant temptation.
I walk through the City on broken legs. I am conspicuous, but the people here grant me many affordances.
I chose this form well.
I sway and catch myself on a low stone wall. I am ready earlier than anticipated, but I must still learn the next step. I look up toward the false dusk I have hung, but it is not yet finished.
I am afraid, but it is thrilling to engage in something new after all this time, something unknown. I close my eyes tightly so they do not bulge.
The feeling passes. I open my eyes and search the faces of the people around me for familiarity. I did not mean to. I twist inwardly with disgust.
When they first reached for me, I reached back in acid mockery, and they opened themselves to me in stupid, naked innocence. I was giddy. My fingers raked their minds. I forced my will through them using only words and met no resistance. Their naiveté was beyond description, and I feasted until my eyes welled with black tears.
Now I reach as often as they do, and when they reach back, I am thankful.
I speak with them. I seek their company. Their companionship.
This is not pity, for I know pity. What is this—
I drop to both knees, clear my mouth, and vomit. The thin black fluid turns to vapor and disappears.
I clench the gangling black mass that threatens to unspool recklessly from within this shell of flesh. My new arms are too thin, too weak. My new shell still bound with thick mucus. Not yet, I say.
A moment of blackness, and then…
A man places his hands on me, on my shoulders, on my back. He asks if I am ill, and he sees my flat eyes, my teeth black with ripeness, and he prepares to scream.
I let him keep his mind. I push breath up and through my ruined mouth and speak a simple lie.
He stops, smiles, laughs. Shakes his head. He points a finger at me in mocking admonishment before walking away.
I swallow the fatty morsel of his ignorance and it gives me the strength to stand once more, cover my face, and resume my walk. I feel this form splitting beneath its wrappings, held together weakly by wet strands of sinew. And from deep inside, stirred by that latest scrap of deception, I hear the oily growl of the Worm.
Even here, basted in deception both ample and rich, the Worm cries ravenously. It has grown grotesque, skin taut, overfed, and still it howls for more. It commands me to keep it alive.
I look up, beyond the flickering net of darkness, and see what rests just beyond. Waiting for me.
The Worm roars.
Ikora Rey strode into the Future War Cult headquarters. It had the air of a church—hushed and reverent, but the air of sanctity was undercut by the intrusion of Vex technology. Wires climbed like vines across the ceiling, and the air was filled with the faint smell of ozone. In the middle of the room, reclining on a seat reminiscent of both throne and operating table, was Lakshmi-2. Her face was obscured by a helmet that connected to the mess of wiring above.
Studious Cultists shuffled about with their heads bowed, glancing suspiciously at Ikora. As the Warlock advanced, a Cultist held up a single finger, commanding both silence and patience. Ikora's eyes narrowed. The Cultist whispered into a small microphone next to the Device. Its subaudible hum had been inconspicuous, but once it powered down, the quiet felt overwhelming to Ikora.
Lakshmi sat in repose, presumably orienting herself in the current timeline. "Leave us," she said without opening her eyes. "We'll resume at 14:25." Her subordinates filtered from the room, looking past Ikora as if she were invisible.
Lakshmi finally opened her eyes, and fixed them on the Warlock. "I assume you're here to bargain."
"I'm not." Ikora's tone was calm and cold. "I'm here to issue a warning of my own."
"Warn me?" Lakshmi laughed, her voice thin.
"If we have any further incidents on account of your incitement, I will personally find a remote, icy moon to leave you on."
Lakshmi tutted. "Only small minds classify prophecy as provocation." She stood up and smoothed her garments.
"Certainty in the face of the unknown is the provenance of zealots." Ikora eyed the Device. "And the insane. This isn't a debate."
"And yet, you are still here. Come, Ikora, you've not seen what I have." Lakshmi gestured to the Device. "The Botza District under assault for a second time. Saint-14, pinned down by gunfire. And you…" she trailed off, "screaming for help over the comms."
"How many of your prophecies have gone unfulfilled, Lakshmi?" Ikora snapped. "I wish you could hear yourself; how afraid you sound."
"All those years studying under Osiris, and you're still so naïve," Lakshmi replied.
Ikora's anger flared. She advanced on the Cult leader. "Cut the B.S., or suffer the consequences. Understand?"
Undaunted, Lakshmi's artificial eyes shone bright. "Understood."
Ikora stepped back and let her anger pass out of her with a sigh. "Then we're done here." She turned on her heels and strode out.
As she left, Ikora wondered whose prophecy she had just fulfilled—Lakshmi's or her own.
"I'm the most qualified for this!"
Crow's voice reverberated off of the immense window, making the Vanguard Commander's office feel even more cavernous than it was. At night, the edges of Zavala's office were usually dark, but the miasma of Vex energy that swirled in the City below made it more so. Crow sighed and paced in the gloom like a caged animal.
Zavala faced the window and stood, unmoving; a statue carved of larimar, depicting a test of infinite patience. He glanced over at Ikora, her hands gently clasped as she watched Crow with disquieted contemplation.
"We know," she said, after what felt like an eternity, "but your expertise and relationship with the Eliksni aren't the only deciding factors here."
"Exactly how long am I going to be continually tried in a court of public opinion?" Crow asked pointedly. "And when in this trial will I be given a clear understanding of what I'm on trial for?"
Zavala regarded the Awoken's reflection in the window; it reminded him of the near-fatal walk through the gardens not all that long ago. His shoulders sagged.
"Crow," Zavala said as he turned to face him. "This is a delicate situation. The Consensus has come down hard on us for welcoming the Eliksni into the City, and I can't have them using you as another bludgeon."
"So that's all this is: a political maneuver," Crow pushed. "To protect yourselves. No hard feelings? Nothing behind the looks you give me when you don't think I'm watching?" Zavala stiffened, and Crow sensed the conversational temperature in the room change.
"This matter aside, if your past identity became public before we have a plan in place, it could cause considerable harm to you and to the people you care about," Ikora said evenly. "People who have come to care about you," she added.
For a long time, no one spoke—and when Crow did, his voice was small. "Then what? I keep hiding from the shadow of the man I was before? Forever?"
"Not forever," Ikora said firmly, "but for now."
Crow shifted his focus to Ikora and saw the hurt in her eyes. He'd seen it in Amanda's, too, whenever she spoke of the dead.
Without another word, he nodded and left.
Ikora closed her eyes, and the breath she'd been holding slowly left her. "He's going to Osiris," she warned.
"And if Osiris is half the leader he's shown himself to be, he'll tell him the same thing," Zavala said with great fatigue, finally sinking into his chair. In the momentary silence that settled between them, Ikora felt an unspoken reciprocation of their generations-old friendship.
"I don't know how long we can protect him," she confessed.
"Neither do I."
Though the metal crate they were carrying likely weighed more than they did, the two Eliksni gave Saint-14 a wide berth on their way to the Eliksni Quarter.
"You see how they distrust," Saint grumbled. Amanda Holliday scanned the crate into her datapad, the unexpected shipment of emergency supplies from the Tangled Shore nearly offloaded.
"Don't be such a sourpuss," she said lightly. "Mixing with new folk's good for the soul."
"I mix!" objected Saint. "But the Fallen… they do not enjoy my company. And I feel the same for them."
"Maybe that's exactly why Ikora picked you for this," Amanda said.
Though Saint was fully helmeted, she could swear he rolled his eyes.
Two more Eliksni came bearing another crate. One noticed Saint too late and stumbled, dropping the crate—its security locks popped as it crashed to the ground. A young Eliksni wearing House of Light colors and a bright orange and blue Vanguard lanyard scampered over in distress.
Saint sighed. "It is fine," he said to the Eliksni. "Spider probably sends more surplus from old House of Dusk. Knowing you carry supplies from our enemies is great joke to him." He dragged the crate out of the walkway with one hand and knelt to repair the locks.
As Amanda scanned the damaged crate, the young Eliksni came closer. He eyed Saint warily, then held up a sheaf of paper like a shield. "Manifest," he stated haltingly.
"Thank you," Amanda said with unforced brightness. She tapped her datapad. "I've got it digitally."
"You got it digitally," echoed the Eliksni. He fidgeted for a moment, then proudly held up the badge on his lanyard, which read TEMPORARY.
Amanda smiled. "What've you got there?"
"Authorization for unloading of supplies from Tangled Shore. Of supplies sent from Spider," he said. He leaned in slowly, looking carefully at Saint and Amanda.
"My gentlemen," he added slyly.
Amanda snorted so abruptly that Saint fumbled with a lock, crushing it in his hand.
Saint looked up. "Can you two not be quiet?"
"C'mon now," Amanda admonished Saint lightly. "I don't hear you practicin' your Eliksni, and this fella's doing his best to bridge the gap."
Amanda turned back to the Eliksni. "That ain't exactly right, but you speak our language pretty well," she said.
"Thank you," answered the Eliksni, clearly eager for conversation. "Do all Humans here serve Spiderkell?"
"Serve Spider?" Amanda spat. "Spider's nothing but a—" and the five spirited words that followed were replete with hard consonants.
The Eliksni froze, wary of her tone while not understanding her words.
Amanda caught herself and took a breath. "…which is our way of saying he's a kind and generous individual," she said to the Eliksni, who nodded along with her.
"This lock has been ruined by distractions," Saint said as he rose to his feet. He removed the lid and looked inside, then lifted a loose coil of rubbery tubes.
"Servitor plugs, filters, Ether circulators…" The Titan made a confused noise.
"Something wrong?" Amanda asked.
"Not at all," mumbled Saint as he picked up a small golden cylinder trailing braided sapphire cords. "This rebreather alone is worth more than my ship."
Amanda moved toward Saint and looked for herself. She recognized a few necessary survival items—condensed prefab ceramic plating, vapor distillers, generator couplings—but amongst the tubes and filters were otherworldly treasures: A nanomesh sphere filled with thick pink liquid. A chrome conduit splitter with entropic plating. A glimmering opal sparkling in a nest of delicate lavender sponges.
"The hell is Spider playing at?" Amanda said to herself. She called out to the Eliksni: "Are they all like this?"
"Yes. Each one is very full. Full of delights, from our culture. From our home. We are very thanks." He cocked his head and clicked. "Thankful?"
Amanda nodded. "Let me see that manifest," she said, taking the papers from the Eliksni. He nodded and rejoined the other workers.
"They will still need many of our resources to stay here," Saint said as he carefully resealed the crate, "but this will make things easier. I am surprised Spider is so generous, even to his own people."
Amanda frowned at the manifest. "This doesn't make sense," she said. "There's a note at the top: 'Don't know what half this stuff is, but it's got to be good if Spider had it.' It's all written by hand, and there aren't values for anything on here."
Saint looked at the papers over Amanda's shoulder. "The crates came from Spider's storehouse," he said. "If he did not send them, who did?"
"Look at this listing!" Amanda continued. "This item says 'best osmosis filters (hidden in his bottom drawer).' This item is just a row of question marks. Here's one listed as 'a clock thing.' This line says 'noisy cube: smells bad but everybody likes it.' And what's with this signature?"
Amanda squinted at the shape scrawled at the bottom of the form. "It's a… ship?" she guessed, handing the paper to Saint.
The Titan turned his head as he looked at the drawing. "Aha!" he cried, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "Look, is bird!"
Amanda looked again at the uneven charcoal lines and could just make out a wobbly black bird. She let out a long breath and shook her head. "Awful artist," she said, "but I guess he's an all right guy." And suddenly, she was smiling.
Zavala stared at the terminal window until the words blurred together. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. There were reports from Hunters in the field. Increased Vex activity across the system. Coordinated attacks on Vanguard operations. Anomalous disturbances within the City. All on top of Eliksni and Human confrontations within the City's walls.
A buzzing hum bloomed to life over Zavala's shoulder, followed by the gentle weight of a Ghost that came to settle there. "Is this the best use of your time?" Targe wondered aloud, which elicited a look from the corner of Zavala's eye. Targe rarely spoke, but when he did, there was always purpose.
"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Zavala said as he tried to refocus.
"I don't recall giving one."
Zavala turned this time to give Targe another look.
"You two can't keep doing the work of three people," Targe insisted. "Talk to Ana again."
Zavala leaned back in his chair. "Targe, there is no way I am going to convince—"
An alert chimed at the command console to his right.
"Incoming call from Empress Caiatl," Targe said wearily. "Let it go to depot."
Zavala stubbornly rose from his chair. "No," he said, receiving the call. Caiatl's imperial seal appeared on the screen with a notice: AUDIO ONLY.
"Empress Caiatl, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Zavala asked, tiredly scratching a hand over his stubble. Targe watched for a moment before he dematerialized.
"Commander," Caiatl greeted, her voice swelling to fill the room as if she were standing there. "The fleet's long-range sensors detected a growing anomaly located in the vicinity of the Last City."
"Why the sudden concern?"
Caiatl snorted. "I bear no concern, Commander. But if the Vanguard were suddenly annihilated, it would behoove me to at least be aware."
"Of course," Zavala said softly. "Well, we're still here."
"For now."
The leading edge in her tone hooked him. "Why are you really calling?"
There was no response from the other side for a few moments. When Caiatl spoke next, her tone was as measured as before, but lacked any performative airs. "Lakshmi-2's latest broadcast to the City reached our fleet," she said. "You are truly a proud hawk standing in a nest of vipers, aren't you?"
"Lakshmi is a politician."
"Words are the most dangerous of weapons, Commander," Caiatl reminded him. "It begins as whispering convictions, then full-voiced dissent, and the next thing you know, you will wake with a knife driven into your chest."
"Spoken from experience," Zavala jabbed back.
"Spoken from experience," Caiatl doubled down, unashamed. "Lakshmi is undermining the Vanguard's authority by diminishing your role in the eyes of the people. Spoken loudly enough and often enough, her words may begin to make sense even to those who are not of the same mind."
Zavala sighed, and Caiatl felt its weight all the way across the system.
"I trust you to honor the terms of our armistice. I do not trust whomever your successor might be," Caiatl warned.
Zavala weighed anger and intrigue against one another, finding the scales a useless tool in arbitrating his response to the situation. He stepped back to the console and did as Cayde might say: just wing it.
"This is not the first threat to my authority I've weathered," Zavala said, his voice rising. "So don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise. And don't you dare come at me for whatever remorse you might be feeling about deposing your father."
Zavala heard the low rumble of an appreciative vocalization over the speakers. "I do not feel remorse because Calus was my father," Caiatl explained, her tone softening. "I feel remorse because of what Ghaul did to my people. We opened the door for the Hive, handed Xivu Arath a knife, and were surprised when we felt the kiss of steel in our spine."
I hate to see a warrior I admire and respect do the same with a less worthy adversary. But perhaps you are not in need of such unsolicited counsel."
Zavala looked up, out to the lightless city beyond, and closed his eyes. "And what counsel is that?"
What Caiatl said next was not in the voice of an empress, but a friend: "Umun'arath was my most trusted counselor. The Darkness has many hands—will you recognize its caress before it finds your throat?"
V
The Titan peered into empty mist.
"Damn," Siegfried said flatly. He turned around.
A barrel in his bare face. A hooded Awoken behind it, with features obscured by a thin shawl wrap from the eyes down. "Stop. Following. Me."
Siegfried raised his hands. His Ghost materialized. "Stay back, Ogden!" the Praxic Striker called out.
"Now see here!" Ogden shouted, "I will not watch two brothers of the Light do battle. Calm yourselves!"
A second Ghost materialized. "Glint. Be careful," whispered the figure.
"We're all on the same side here," Glint said meekly.
A Corsair stepped through the mist, rifle pointed at the hooded figure. "Lay down your arms and come peacefully."
"Oh no." Glint looked to the hooded man. "Wait, Cro—mh."
Heat flashed from the hooded man's free hand.
"'Crome,' is it?" Siegfried inquired. "Never heard of you."
"Crome" spun and threw a crude Solar blade, splitting the Corsair's rifle and slashing his hand. Siegfried moved to disarm; he caught Crome's turning jaw with an electrified fist, but missed the gun. Crome floundered back several paces and dove into the mists.
"What a disrespectful man," Ogden shouted. "That kind of conduct cannot be allowed."
"I'll put a stop to it," Siegfried assured him.
Silhouettes stumbled through fog. Ghosts dematerialized. Corsair radios muddled with chatter. Crome skulked until quiet surrounded him, interrupted by a small burst of propulsion in the mist.
Siegfried was far above him, plummeting through the mist like a coiled storm. Crome glanced upward and took off sprinting. The Striker's fists shattered the ground behind him in thunderous havoc. Crome darted away and twisted, landing on his feet with Dire Promise ready. Siegfried bolted directly toward Crome like living lightning. Each fanned shot from the man's cannon was struck down by bolts arcing from the Titan. Siegfried led with a shoulder. Crome dashed around him and brought Solar flame to form in his hand—
"Too slow!" Siegfried whipped a crackling elbow into Crome's stomach and blocked the counterattack. The Titan delivered a knee to the man's ribs that chained into three lightning-fast strikes across the Hunter's body—ending in a thundercrack blow to the temple.
Crome grunted and struggled to maintain his footing.
Siegfried stood emblazoned in voltaic fury. "You're outclassed."
"I'm pretty good at taking punishment," Crome jabbed through clenched, bloodied teeth.
"Surrender. I won't ask again."
"I can't do that. I'm here to hel—"
Siegfried charged without hesitation, but Crome was ready this time. Instead of retreating, he leapt forward with a searing blade. Siegfried caught his wrist millimeters before the blade made contact but lost his footing. They grappled in the dirt. Siegfried pried the knife from Crome's hand.
"Enjoy that," Crome said, skidding away from the Titan with a kick to the midsection. The blade turned molten and engulfed Siegfried in a fiery explosion.
The Striker rose from the blast-cloud, coughing. "Damned knives…" Crome was quickly disappearing into the mist.
"Enough running!" His voice erupted as he slammed electrified fists into the ground. The shockwave rippled through the dirt and tripped the running Hunter. Siegfried took a step forward. The Hunter rolled to face him, gun red-hot. A beam of Solar destruction sizzled through the mist, clipping Siegfried's pauldron before he could react and knocking him to the floor.
Siegfried could hear the Corsairs nearby. Disoriented and livid, the Titan found his feet, but not his foe. The Hunter was gone. No amount of searching with the Corsairs would change that, but Siegfried kept them looking all through the night just the same.
The Cabal I knew treasured knowledge above all things. Of course they did. I was their model.
We kept vaults of artifacts and texts in the great athenaeum worlds spread across the mother system.
Texts about the exalted history of the Empire, and its eclectic people.
Texts about the vast ennead, trapped and reaching out.
Texts about the feats of will made possible by Light and Traveler-lore.
Texts about… well, theorizing about the dark. So little is written, save for that which was recorded from the dreams of worms.
The vaults housed technology and weapons gifted from countless indoctrinated worlds. And judging from their absence in this Red War, Dominus Ghaul's Legion has either forgotten or lost them all. The athenaeum worlds required learned guides to navigate: guides loyal to me. I've not heard from them in a very long time.
A Shadow of your Guardian-tribe would be the ideal treasure hunter to plunder those repositories and take from the false empire the secrets that rightfully belong to me.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
A few days after the death of the Awoken Prince...
***
Warlock Aunor Mahal closed the door to her office and tossed her duster onto a chair before sitting down to think. A fan spun diligently overhead. The Praxic Halls, located in the lower levels of the second Tower, were always a little warm.
"What's the mission?" her Ghost, Bahaghari, asked.
"Who said there was a mission?" Aunor replied, clasping her armored hands as she looked down at the floor. She set her jaw. The air began to smell of ozone.
"The Vanguard always have something to ask of you."
Overhead, the fan stuttered and sparked.
"That doesn't mean I take every job they offer." Aunor looked up, eyes blazing with Arc Light.
Bahaghari orbited her charge and waited.
"The Drifter," Aunor said, as the fan resumed spinning.
"Is a criminal."
"They've given him the keys to the City for reasons I still don't understand, and now they want the Praxic Order to handle him. As Praxic and Ikora's Hidden, of course it falls to me."
"And the Hero of the Red War—"
"—Is a dedicated Gambit enthusiast. Already compromised for this particular job. I'll reach out to our champion myself when the time comes."
"If you take it."
"If I take it. We'll need a team. And you know I prefer to work alone."
Bahaghari chuckled. "Now I see. I thought you were assessing the mission. You have to get over this fear of relying on others. This City wouldn't be standing if we didn't have fireteams."
"Ikora offered us no support. If we accept, we'll have to personally recruit, discreetly if we can. The Drifter has contacts everywhere."
"Will you help them?"
"No Praxic should be away from the sun for too long. I used to be more brown. Maybe it's time."
Eliksni Quarter, Last City
——
The old crews! Yes, I have gathered much information about them in the past weeks. In fact, I have just finished going over my notes!
The old crews rose in the wake of the Whirlwind, during what we Eliksni refer to as the Long Drift—the span of time between the fall of Riis and our arrival in the Sol system. I believe the equivalent period would be your Dark Ages, though Riis did not have Risen, or Iron Lords. Instead, we had the crews. As you can imagine, this period was quite lawless, as the stability and abundance of Riis was no more. This resulted in what I believe is called a zero-sum game: a situation in which every gain or advantage is earned at the expense of another.
Several fearsome individuals rose to great power and authoritative prominence at that time; the Eliksni word for them translates to "Ketchkiller," meaning one who boards and wrests control of enemy ships. These Ketchkillers commanded great fleets and raided many supply routes, procuring objects of historic or intrinsic value along the way. It is exciting to wonder what treasures they accumulated beyond those we've recovered already!
Many crews were abolished or disbanded over time, but those that survived did so through great hardship—they are formidable indeed. But then, so is the Vanguard, and its Guardians.
Thank you for asking about my research into the old crews and their significance. It is always a pleasure to talk about it. After all, what use is knowledge if it is not shared?
Being one of the Light's chosen blessed magic babies means you always come back with what you lost. So if frostbite's weighin' on your mind lately, put it aside. Ain't that it don't hurt—I mean, it hurts—but comes a time you can lose a toe and not think twice about it, aside from figurin' if you could drop enough to make a stew.
(You can't, if you're askin'.)
What I'm sayin' is, you can walk the edge if your feet are tough enough. Oughta be high up enough that you can see what's on both sides before you decide which one to hop down to.
You get me? If you follow the Drifter, don't wear your nice shoes.
Three ships flew overhead in tight formation.
Their shadows flickered across Grutuk's iris as she calculated their probable landing zones. Satisfied, she rose from the tangle of blackberries where she had been hiding, the thorns scraping harmlessly against her ivory shell.
Xavol sat quietly, one dark claw scratching idly at the dirt. He had drawn the old runes, once powerful symbols of tithing, now nothing more than shallow scrawls.
Grutuk nudged him. "Time to get to work," she said.
Xavol rose slowly, then kicked away the drawings with his foot. He hissed and clacked his jaws.
"You always say that," she sighed, and the two headed toward the trees to wait for the Guardians.
Combat is a craft and an art form. The more one masters their craft and pushes the boundaries of their art the better they understand them. After all, expertise is born of dedicated time spent focused on a subject. And we are focused.
The Titans would have you believe that victory is won through brute force—skill plus courage plus ammunition and clenched fists. Would that it were so simple. It is not. We know this because we have studied and we have practiced. Skill can be countered. Courage can waver. And firepower is a finite necessity that must be replenished.
But, what if firepower could be made infinite?
Tell me where you are! Account for Earth's rotation—more than 1000 kilometers per hour—your orbital velocity of 107,000 kph, your local stellar drift of 70,000 kph, your galactic orbital velocity of 792,000 kph, and our galactic drift relative to the cosmic microwave background of 1,300,000 kph. Also, account for your motion relative to me due to the accelerating expansion of space-time.
Difficult, isn't it? But with the help of these handsome noetic devices you will find yourself deliciously and maddeningly aware of your ley velocities! Fired from an existence cannon through a whirling void the size of everything!
And like any line of force, these vectors may be tapped, their obscene speeds diverted for your own use, although we recommend swapping them for comfortable boots before you socialize with the Merely Stationary.
NEW COVEN - I
Petra stood at the bordering cliff's edge of the Divalian Mists, wrapped in a concealing vapor. Beside her, Illyn, Techeun Coven Mother. A deluge of water spewed from deep within the stone below; gentle tremors rippled through their bodies without notice. The pure sky above them tore like well-worn fabric as fronds of malignant Taken growth crept into the Dreaming City.
"They will be upon us soon. It was not enough to simply halt Oryx's advance," Petra said.
She had spent months of conversation building the kindling to an idea in Illyn's thoughts prior to the Battle of Saturn: a new Coven, a new class of sister recruits. Now, with the queen's flagship in ruins and the Coven missing several of its most skilled Techeuns, there was no longer the luxury of refusal.
"I can't hold the Reef with Corsairs alone. I can't search for the queen with looking glasses and a depleted armada. We need more Techeuns, Illyn. You know I'm right."
Illyn shook her head. "We are not weapons for the Queen's Wrath to command…"
The Coven's reluctance to forge the next link in the chain of their lineage was a strong one. Since the formation of Eleusinia and the exploitation of Riven, the Elder Techeuns had grown protective of their arts. Techniques and texts were kept close. Despite all that, Petra knew Illyn had always been listening to her words. She too had dreamt of the Harbinger's failure. Of Oryx Taking her sisters.
"…We will snap shut the Ley Lines and seal the city," Illyn concluded.
"No!" Petra retorted. "The queen is lost and might still return." She turned to the Coven Mother. "Of your seven, how many are still alive?"
Petra felt a mournful flame stoking beneath Illyn's visor. "Precisely," Illyn said. "We haven't the strength."
"Then heed my requests." Petra waved away the mist between them. "Train more sisters."
Illyn finally broke her gaze with the sky and scowled at Petra. "We haven't the time. Training spans decades."
"Make. It. Work," Petra demanded before taking a breath and continuing. "Illyn, I will do whatever you need. Please, can we work through this together?"
Illyn's head sunk. She leaned over the cliffside—over the stream of plummeting mist—and watched the flow of water drop into endlessness. "Send me your candidates. I hope they are stronger than you were."
You'd think the problem with showing up empty-handed to a gunfight would be the bullets. And yes, turning a gunfight into a fistfight is an awful lot of work, tactically speaking, but really I just don't have the patience for all the hiding, and all the fumbling for batteries or flechettes or whatever when it's time to reload, which seems to happen the moment I start to enjoy myself.
Hiding and reloading. Hiding and reloading. Sounds amazing; you all have fun. My fists don't need reloading.
Back to the problem. The problem with fists is hygiene. Paint your armor fist to shoulder in alien ichor, toxic robotic lubricant, and ashes. Now take a good look at yourself. That's the only reason I envy the hiders and the reloaders. They get to stay clean.
"What is the Darkness?"
You open your eyes and gaze at the bond on your arm, seeking an answer to your question.
You see a world in the space B E T W E E N.
WE'VE LEARNED THIS BOND AND SIMILAR DEVICES ARE YOUR FOCUS. MEDIUMS TO CHANNEL YOUR light. USELESS HERE, WHERE light AND dark HAVE NO PLACE.
You've built so many monuments, large and small, in worship of your Light.
Will you do the same for the Dark?
Will you ever build for yourselves again?
YOUR QUESTION BEGS QUESTIONS FROM US.
The heavens above you are clear of stars and shadows.
Your hands are bound in red ribbons.
Your soul is weary.
Your feet find purchase on a three-dimensional plane.
It's suffocating here, this prison. Do us a favor, o bearer ours. Still your mind; invite us to enter the realm of your capricious thoughts. Your mind is vociferous, addled with worry and doubt. We can extinguish these trifles. Would you like that?
Yes, we are here. We are not the photons on your screen, or the voice in your head, or the words you read. Shut your eyes—tightly—and you may see us. At least a part of us. Make us real, and in turn we shall reify your thoughts, your dreams.
"I used to ride the Light all around the system, doing my best to stay busy and stay away. Well I can tell you, contrary to popular opinion—and from personal experience—shacking up in the City's got its perks. And without the others looking out for us, we'd be running around tinkering with pea shooters and trying to fly those clunkers from the Cosmodrome, looking like a bunch a' dummies.
"Look— the City needs you; you need it. I mean, have you seen the goods they're peddling these days? The ships Holliday's been putting up in the air? They got your back here.
"I'm hungry. Let's get some ramen."
—Cayde-6
AKRAZUL'S LAMENT
"I am lesser of being and mind, sister.
"Your unmaking shall see me whole.
"My stolen limb, lost to the Light-born in defense of our Taken King's futile reign, has made me a pariah.
"The dishonor of my failings has cast upon us an unwavering shame that spreads like disease, tainting not only my broken self but you and dearest Malkanth alike. I am plague. I am withering disregard.
"Yet, here… in your selfless gift, I find new purpose.
"In your flesh and bone, I will find myself once again.
"In that discovery, I will forever remember you.
"As you will be my vessel on this physical plane. I will be the vessel for your essence—the very core of your will shall live on in me… eternal."
AZAVATH'S PRIDE
"Your words are a joy, brother.
"The last I shall have.
"But know that such pleasures are insignificant when judged against my hatred… my anger.
"I choose my unmaking only because I know the power of your rage, tamed since your severing, but seething below the surface of your charcoal heart.
"I give freely of myself, as did the lesser of the Pit when they offered themselves as waves to be broken against the jagged shore of Zulmak's blade.
"I do so, because I see clearly the path we etch. Its purpose born of heresy, but pure—like your rage.
"My sole regret is that I will not see your fury manifest. That I will not feel these hands inflict such punishment upon the unworthy—upon existence.
"You will make a grand monarch, brother. Through me…
"In my name, writ across the expanse—Azavath, the Suffer Queen of an Ever-Rising Swarm.
"In my husk, the armored vessel of the one I love, my sweet, vengeful Akrazul… my broken prince no more."
The congregation has departed.
Zulmak, impaled by a lesser blade, has failed.
The congregation is foolhardy.
Zulmak spins.
Lodged in his flesh, the blade snaps, its wielder now weaponless but for an edgeless grip.
Zulmak crushes the assailant with a single, mighty blow, but the damage is done.
The horde piles on, weighing him down. Cutting. Slicing.
The would-be champion is swallowed by the mass.
Across the Pit, the attention of the combatants shifts. They turn on each other. There is no more champion, so a new champion must claim victory. The sword logic demands it.
Beneath the mound of writhing bone and claw, those who rushed Zulmak poke and prod, killing all beneath their weight.
Then movement. And a terrible scream.
The heap quakes and pulses.
Then, a powerful thrust. Bodies fly, and an angry shape stomps forth.
Zulmak, impaled a dozen times, perhaps more—decorated in blade and hilt—roars.
All eyes fall upon him.
He slumps, breathes heavily, then stands.
The heap continues to writhe.
Zulmak climbs its uneven slope, crushing the weak underfoot.
Reaching the bony peak of bodies living and dead, the wounded champion issues a challenge—a gut-born, ragged battle cry.
Zulmak, the Impaled.
Zulmak, the Unfelled.
Zulmak, the Destroyer.
The horde charges.
Clambering to reach him, high above the pile.
And when they do, they offer themselves, one after another, to his devastating embrace—sacrificing themselves to the champion, to the logic.
They are not worthy.
But maybe—maybe—Zulmak is.
Across the Pit, three siblings watch from the shadows.
Malkanth smiles.
Hashladûn and her siblings have taken their leave, their disgust evident.
They too have found cause to doubt the logic.
The politics of the self-appointed puppet masters will distract from the continuing ritual.
But, in their dismissal, the high-seated neglect a simple, powerful fact…
The horde will not forsake tradition so easily. They are born of it. Bred within the comfort of its certainty.
The pampered elite have forgotten the power of belief.
The sword logic is all to the fool masses.
That truth will be the seed from which Malkanth grows her subversion.
For even as the cowards above turn their back on the Pit, a boon is granted to sinister Malkanth's grand aspirations.
Her smile widens.
"Zulmak is our instrument of destruction.
"He is that which will shatter the logic.
"He is that which will break the cycle and prove the lie of the Court and its King, they who led us to ruin here in this dead system on this dead orb.
"He is brave and fearsome, and there exists a time when he will have been great—sure to join the pantheons upon which future generations will build their legends.
"But for the Swarm to see its future stretch beyond eternity, he will ever be a catalyst for all to come, and nothing more.
"Are you ready, sister?"
"I am, ever and truly. Let my sacrifice carve our path. Let my unmaking be our salvation."
"And, brother?"
"To be reborn is a gift—one I cannot repay. In return, I offer only vengeance, dear sister. And for your sacrifice? A place in an infinite graveyard, built where stars once dared to shine."
AS BELOW…
Zulmak knows they will come for him.
Zulmak is ready.
The weight of his blade feels light in his grip—an extension of his will.
His cleaver cuts with little effort, slicing freely through the fragile bone of some fool with grand designs beyond his station—an Acolyte whose meat and marrow splits cleanly, the dust of his being a cloud of thick gray as his body shatters and drops.
Just as quickly, more blades are on Zulmak.
He takes cuts but never staggers.
He grabs a charging Knight by the neck, sliding the point of his blade through his attacker's throat, then up and out through the shoulder. The green of the brawler's eyes flickers and is gone, his body no longer a vessel. Zulmak tightens his grasp around the dead thing's neck and swings high, lifting the carcass as if it were a shield to block another blow.
His grip closes like a vice, and the dead Knight's body hits the ground. He still holds the spine tight, the once-living head now a weapon. Bone meets bone as Zulmak's necrotic bludgeon collides with the skull of an attacker. Two heads splinter. Another enemy falls.
A blade enters Zulmak's back, slipping past his spine and catching in his ribs.
AS ABOVE…
Hashladûn is disappointed.
She has grown tired of the façade of the slaughter.
None are worthy of the sword logic.
Zulmak may be impressive. But he is no Crota. He is no Oryx. And he will fall.
Besurith whispers.
And the sisters turn to leave.
The congregation on high all follow—their crimson temples emptied—leaving none to witness the assured disappointment in the Pit below.
AS BELOW…
Since the Great Osmium King's end, countless champions have been scattered to the winds in search of the sword logic's promised rewards.
Immeasurable pain.
Immeasurable suffering.
Such that, this deep—far below the broken lunar surface where no Light has ever blasphemed—the rugged cavern walls are said to host the afterbirth of ceaseless torment.
Here, spectral shadows haunt the passageways through the dark, each skittering shape the mindless, ethereal prison of a greater being cast low. Or so prophecy dictates…
"Those marked as unworthy shall ever be lost in the depths of their own ambition—trapped between, in such form as ambition first took hold." —11th Truth, Book of Damnation
Still, at the risk of final death or hateful damnation, the hordes gather, intent on the destruction of all who stand in defiance of their individual ambitions.
Among them, proud Zulmak flexes dried sinew beneath the heavy calcified growth of his outer shell—armor earned in battle, through pain.
Zulmak has now stood twice, after all others have fallen.
He has gained allies and enemies from his victories—both in the circle and beyond.
After his second triumph, other battles followed beyond the view of the rabid throng.
First, an Acolyte took aim from the shadows—a coward sent by unnamed admirers to end Zulmak's march toward godhood.
The weak thing's spine shattered beneath Zulmak's heel.
Then, later… the Thrall—a wave of mindless nothings with chittering jaw and razored talon. Another gift from secret conspirators.
Their dust now hangs in pouches at Zulmak's waist—a delicacy to be enjoyed in the quiet, once the echoes of his victims in the Pit have faded and the roars of celebration have hushed.
Zulmak casts his gaze across the horde lined at the circle's edge.
Hundreds deep. All keen to shatter their brothers and sisters. All keen to stand triumphant, as Zulmak has.
He feels their eyes set upon him.
He is a target now—a known champion.
Many will come for him. They will swarm.
And they will meet their end at Zulmak's hand.
The ire rises. The energy of the Pit is thick, warm… angry.
There is no ceremony to mark the opening of the slaughter.
Those who dare join the fray simply gather until the tension reaches its breaking point.
Then the first sword will rise and fall, and the ground will begin to cake with a thickening mix of dust and blood.
AS ABOVE…
On high, Hashladûn watches as the first sword falls and the severing begins.
AS BELOW…
In the circle in the pit at the bottom of damnation's well, a gathering of brutalists vies for a seat upon an eternal throne.
A thousand warriors of dust and ruin clamor for the ritual beginning to another slaughter.
AS ABOVE…
Would-be puppet masters watch with keen eyes from the crimson towers that hang from the jagged walls of the Necropolis's hallowed and hollowed ground. They of cunning thought and grand design who lack the brute strength to take the sword logic's gift by force. They who consider themselves the shadowed architects of empires. They who build their legacy upon the trade of secrets, the gossip of ages, and the sowing of lies—words their weapons; cutting as any blade.
Among the murmuring lords of wicked tongues, tainted royalty glides to the fore.
Sisters of the anti-mercy. Sisters of doom. The Daughters of Crota—Daughters of the Worldbreaker. The offspring of destruction, direct heirs to the abandoned throne, yet removed from the Pit's calling. The same privileged manipulators whose existence Malkanth and her siblings wish to challenge—wish to destroy.
The Daughters have come to judge those who dare fight for claim.
They seek a warrior fit to raze the celestial heavens that mar the ebon expanse. Surely one must walk amongst the countless descendants of their father's father.
Besurith whispers her doubts. Seconded by Voshyr.
Kinox remains silent, contemplating their station and the depths from which they must ascend if the Swarm is ever to reclaim its own destiny.
Hashladûn, the eldest, the Inundated, narrows her glare. Her sisters fall silent.
The slaughter is set to begin.
MALKANTH'S DEADLY PROMISE
"Then it is set.
"The logic will never find purchase among the unworthy.
"And be not unclear, though we revile those we seek to challenge, we are truly their kin.
"If not by marrow's tie nor blooded divinity…
"Then by our own failings—if not of a kind equal to their transgressions.
"Yet, there is honor in the knowing…
"We alone recognize our lack of worth and thus stand above those who seek Ascension ignorant of their truest reflection…
"Ignorant of the logic's base demand.
"But I say now, with an unfettered mind…
"The sword logic is not all.
"And the logic can be subverted—must be subverted.
"I have studied paths both honored and depraved—the might of Oryx, the strength and cunning of his sisters, the folly of Crota's pride, and the necromantic sin of the unfavored.
"I have long since stolen knowledge from the World's Grave—known texts and secret learnings.
"I have prepared for this day—for the time when reliance on the rule of might—the survival of the fittest—would prove to be misguided.
"Our understanding of its meaning… flawed and open to manipulations by those willing to find strength—purpose—in heresy.
"I say, we are they—the sinners, the heretics…
"I say… let us sin.
"Let us be the liars and conspirators whose self-made truth topples stagnant, uninspired belief and births a new dynasty.
"Dearest Akrazul.
"Dearest Azavath.
"Brother.
"Sister.
"Let us reap the just affliction of our suffering's reward.
"We shall claim the burden of dominion and endure the pains of such tremendous weight.
"Just as all others will endure, as final, unwelcome recompense, the harsh realities of their end."
AZAVATH'S EAGER EMBRACE
"You, of us all, have suffered and survived, brother.
"To many, your severing is a mark of shame.
"To many, you should have fallen to dust before returning to the depths in defeat.
"My ire, as echoed by my Song, would challenge these claims.
"Those who demean you…
"Akrazul, the Severed Knight.
"Akrazul, the Shamed.
"The Weak.
"The Undone.
"They are one and the same with those who never dared face the undying Light.
"They are the enemies of our promised morrow.
"Those who watched from the shadows while your bone shattered and your limb was cast into the hollowed dark beneath this Moon's scarred surface.
"I too see the sin in our dear sister's words.
"More so in her intention.
"But I also see a pride in all we were meant to be—all we were promised.
"Why, then, give thanks to 'heirs' come to offer salvation, when such a gift is beyond their giving?
"I am with you, dear sister.
"I am with you, dear brother.
"Let us each suffer to ensure the path—till dust or ash or Gods standing high upon eternity, burdened by our sacrifice.
"For are we not worthy?
"If not by ancestral right, then as those wretched few who would never seek power, but to keep its disease from the hands of the corrupt?"
AKRAZUL'S IMPOTENT RAGE
"There are none.
"Their strength is a shade of that required by the sword logic's demand for blood and pain.
"They, as all, must be made to suffer for their worth to be evident, but they fear such ends.
"I am no Inquisitor, by right or title.
"Yet, I see clearly, through the sullied haze of their ambitions.
"They speak of honor and nobility.
"They have none.
"They crave power. Not truth.
"They seek evolution but cannot comprehend its price, or meaning.
"They want, only because they want—these heathen 'saviors' forewarned in prophecy.
"Come from the depths to feast upon those weakened by our loss and our struggle against enemies more brutal than time.
"I fear the path you court, sister, is a rebuke of more than tradition.
"You challenge Understandings mapped upon flesh, bone, and the very essence of centuries beyond knowing.
"You seek to unmake the logic, for selfish gain.
"Such is a treasonous affront.
"Others have tried.
"Others have been held to account for such callous sin.
"Yet, I look upon the lustful offspring of our once-King, and I see cowards.
"I see our end—written in greed.
"The aftermath of a feeble reign.
"Such is not how I would see us fall.
"Ridden to oblivion by spoiled heirs and would-be heroes born of the desperate throngs who only now, after the battles have been fought and our war lost, find their courage… here in the wake of our undoing."
MALKANTH'S BLASPHEMOUS DESIRE
"The bloodline is severed.
"The remaining heirs would argue otherwise.
"Their blood ties and bone-bond to the Last King of the Osmium Court mark them as candidates for Ascension, but such is not granted freely. All evolution is forced, and the sword logic will not rest idle as spoiled children claw for purchase at the vacant thrones of vanquished Kings and Princes.
"I see them as they are.
"Liars.
"Pretenders.
"As their King.
"As his Prince.
"The whole of the Court's lineage is unworthy. History would say otherwise. But history is not truth.
"That I alone see the flaw in our future is a crime for which all others shall be punished."
As a Psion, Feltroc possessed the uncanny ability to slow her breathing and steady her motion with a layer of telekinetic manipulation. Before her passing, she had long sought a seat on my Psion Council, to help maintain the nightmare realm I reserve for prisoners and punishing wayward Loyalists. But she proved to be too valuable an asset in the field.
The life of a Shadow is sometimes a life of disappointment, and it pains me to say so. A burden I will carry until the end comes.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
"An Ether Fizz," Spider called to the Dreg behind the bar, "for our fearless Kell."
Spider sat on his makeshift throne at the back of The Ether Tank, surveying his tiny fiefdom. He beckoned Mithrax to approach.
"To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Mithrax-kell?" Spider asked loudly, over-pronouncing the Human version of his name. "Surely you have more important people to see than a humble entrepreneur like myself. Those at the top of the Tower, for instance."
Mithrax noted a few sharp scoffs amongst the crowd at Spider's mention of the Tower.
"I wish to make clear the rules of the Eliksni Quarter," Mithrax said, "so that there are no… misunderstandings."
"Of course," Spider proclaimed with faux deference. "Misunderstandings are how people get… left behind. We wouldn't want that."
Mithrax huffed at Spider's indelicate allusion. His retort was interrupted by a polite chitter at his side. He looked down to see the Dreg from behind the bar proffer a small Ether canister.
Mithrax attached the Ether canister to his rebreather and took a sharp pull. He was pleasantly surprised by the sensation. It was at once filling and effervescent. The House of Light had been living on the most basic Ether for so long that he forgot how delightful such concoctions were. Spider noticed the Kell's appreciation and scoffed.
"So, the rules," he prompted.
"Yes," Mithrax rumbled. "We are not yet welcome by all in the Last City, so we must avoid angering our Human neighbors."
"Agreed," Spider nodded. "The Humans can be… peevish. Especially when you kill dozens of them at a time."
Mithrax ignored the jab and pressed on. "That is why there must be no violence inside the City walls. Ever."
"This is the Eliksni Quarter, is it not?" Spider bristled. "The Eliksni should be free to mete out justice as needed… in our own way."
"I did not say there must be no violence," Mithrax muttered in sotto voce. "Only that it must not happen inside the walls."
Spider nodded at the concession. "Very crafty. Agreed. Is that all?"
"No. That is not all. From today forward, there will be no more docking in your organization." He nodded toward the Dreg behind the bar, whose lower arm stumps were covered with studded leather caps.
"What!" Spider exclaimed. "That's preposterous! Eliksni have been docking Dregs since the Whirlwind—it's tradition!" The crowd murmured restlessly at the prospect of confrontation.
"Not in my House," Mithrax boomed. The room went silent.
Mithrax turned to address the crowd. "I am Kell, and I decree that no Eliksni in the House of Light shall be docked." He turned back to Spider and lowered his voice. "Unless you wish to be the exception to the rule."
Spider chuckled. "There's the Misraaks I knew," he said slyly. "As long as you're still willing to draw blades when the time comes, we'll be just fine."
Crow leaned against a wooden stool in the dark interior of The Ether Tank, listening to Spider's wet snores as he dozed fitfully in his chair.
It was the small hours of the morning and the Eliksni Quarter was quiet aside from the low chattering of the scattered Eliksni guards and the electric hum of Spider's gaudy signage. Crow had slipped easily into the empty bar.
Crow had carefully stuck a knife into the stool beside him, perfectly placed so that Spider would see it when he woke.
Spider coughed softly. Crow looked at the big Eliksni, took a measured breath, and saw him plainly: as someone sleeping alone in a city of enemies.
He looked around the tawdry interior of the bar, decorated with what scraps Spider had managed to bring as he fled the Shore for the safety of the Last City, where he now survived on the charity of Drifter and Mithrax alone.
Crow shook his head with a smile and pulled the knife from the stool before sliding it into its sheath. He was at the doorway before he heard a fizzling noise behind him.
Glint materialized in midair. "What are you doing?" Crow hissed, but the Ghost was already zipping toward Spider.
"Hey!" Glint yelled, and Spider snorted himself awake.
Glint increased his lights to a dazzling gleam and hovered aggressively before Spider's face. The Eliksni recoiled and raised his arms, but Glint wove between them like an angry bee.
"Crow may be too nice to send a message," he shouted, "but I'm not!"
"What—" Spider managed before he erupted in a fit of confused coughing.
"We're watching you," Glint snarled, his voice quivering with tension. "And if you step out of line, so help me, I'll deal with you myself!"
Spider caught his breath and sat motionless as the little Ghost fluttered furiously before him.
"And… don't!"
Glint lurched forward and bopped himself against Spider's faceplate with a thunk.
"You!"
Crow covered his mouth as Glint delivered another ludicrous bonk. The Eliksni blinked, too shocked to react.
"Forget it!" Glint shouted, his voice breaking. He whirled his shell defiantly before transmatting away, plunging Spider into darkness once more.
***
Crow was still laughing as the pair approached the lift to the Tower. Glint hung sheepishly in the air.
"I'm sorry," Glint said. "I guess I didn't have to do that."
"Actually," Crow replied, reaching up to scratch his friend's shell, "I think you did."
Saint-14 and Lord Shaxx stood shoulder to shoulder outside The Ether Tank, Spider's establishment in the Eliksni Quarter. They were kitted out with full armor and a close-quarters arsenal. Shaxx unholstered his sidearm and confirmed that the clip was full. Saint stared at the bar's entrance and slowly spun the cylinder on his hand cannon with a methodical click, click, click.
They glanced at each other and shared a nod. They were ready for trouble.
When the Titans stepped through the saloon doors, the whole crowd froze. The Guardians towered above the seated patrons, their helmeted heads the blank visages of death. They slowly stalked the perimeter of the room, moving in opposite directions, optimizing their fields of fire, prioritizing their targets.
The Humans in the room slowly crept toward the exit and, once clear of the doorway, bolted into the night. The Eliksni edged their many hands toward wire rifles and Arc spears.
There was a moment of silence before the coming storm.
* * *
A short time later, disarray filled the room: Eliksni lay strewn across the floor. Dregs cowered behind the bar.
In the center of the chaos stood three Wretches, facing off against Saint-14—his fist crackled with Arc energy. The Wretches approached in a line, holding hands to create a chain. Then slowly, solemnly, the two Wretches on either end reached out in unison and grabbed Saint's fist.
The Wretches' cloth wrappings sizzled, and the lenses on their helmets flared as the Arc coursed through them. However, they did not break contact, and the circuit remained intact.
From a nearby table, Shaxx's massive voice counted out, "…SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN!"
Saint let his Light ebb, and the Wretches staggered backward. There was a moment of silence before Shaxx boomed, "And the winner is… THE SKIFFBLADES!"
Halsiks, a Vandal in service to the Guardian, leapt into the arms of the Wretches, and the four of them bounced up and down in jubilation. An Eliksni lying on the floor feebly lifted their upper arms in celebration.
"The next round," Shaxx continued, "is on the great Titan, the Violet King… THE SAINT!"
Saint-14 nodded grudgingly to the Dreg behind the bar, who was peering over the edge in apprehension. Any Eliksni who could still walk began mobbing the bar for a concoction at the Titan's expense.
Halsiks approached Saint and tapped at his metal breastplate playfully. He drummed a complex polyrhythm and chittered excitedly.
"Yes, you're welcome," Saint replied dourly. "But don't get used to it! I will not fall for the same scheme again."
"Today will live in infamy!" Shaxx declared, clapping Saint on the back. "The day the Hero of Six Fronts was bested by three Wretches and eight liters of rotgut!"
Saint harrumphed. "This is why I prefer pigeons to people," he muttered.
The datapad hit the tiled floor with a sharp crack as it slipped from Eido's shaking hands. Jumping to her feet, she scrambled to pick it up, inspecting hurriedly for damage. Her shoulders slumped slightly as her eyes landed on the thin fracture across its face.
Eido took a breath, Ether hissing through her rebreather. It didn't calm her.
She stood within one of the half-ruined rooms of the Eliksni Quarter. Privacy was a luxury in this place, and Eido took it where she could. Now, staring at her datapad, she was even more grateful for the quiet.
Eramis had heard Eido recording her Scribe's logs. What else had Eramis intercepted? All of House Light's communications? The petitions to the City for supplies, the transactions for The Ether Tank, her father's instructions to his people?
Eido knew that this wasn't possible—or shouldn't be. But her Scribe's logs were unencrypted. She realized now how naïve that had been.
She took another breath. Eido had reached out to Eramis before, calling for Eliksni unity, and did not think she would receive a reply. But now she knew that Eramis had listened. The Kell had reached out in turn. When Eramis interrupted her Scribe's log, there had been pain in her voice. A pain Eido had never known—a pain she realized her father had tried to keep from her.
"Eido," Misraaks said, appearing at the threshold of the door. His voice was gentle, but Eido flinched nonetheless as her thoughts broke apart. It was worse, somehow, hearing him speak gently. She turned over the cracked datapad, as if to hide what had just transpired.
"Yes, Misraakskel?" she answered, too clipped. He bowed his head. Eido stared at her father's silhouette offset by the crumbling building.
Silence hung between them for too long a moment.
"The Guardian has returned," he said, eyes averted. "We have collected another relic."
Even now, there was so much unsaid.
"A relic of Nezarec," she finished flatly for him. He had known since the beginning. He had known and he had lied, while Eramis had not turned away from the truth.
Misraaks said nothing. Eido had been insulted, hurt—and she knew deep down, he would not apologize for any of it.
"I will study it once I am finished with my Scribe's log," Eido said. She turned away from him, and soon, her father's footsteps faded.
She looked back to the datapad as if Eramis would speak to her again, now that Misraaks had left. But there was nothing. Eido sighed, her thoughts still racing.
Eramis had said she could not turn away from her violence or her vengeance. Eido did not believe that—she could not believe it. This violence was not the Kell's spirit. Eido had to find the part of Eramis that did not rage at the past. Eido had to show the Kell of Darkness a future.
Silently, the Scribe of House Light began piecing together the coordinates to the next hideout herself.
"You are cold, child."
Eramis's world was a choking smother of darkness and pain. She could not move. She was only vaguely aware of the voice.
"We have a use for you."
A mass of frozen splinters sealed her eyes. How long had she been here?
"We would have you find something for us. Something which was lost."
The voice swirled around her like smoke, echoed inside her mind. Though terrifying, it was something to focus on amid the surrounding nothing. Who was speaking?
"Answer," said the voice, convincing and commanding.
Eramis paused. As if in response, her perception began to dim, and she felt the crushing darkness closing in around her once more. There was no fight here. This was no choice.
She remembered her people.
Yes, she thought. And the pain ceased.
"Gather those who would serve you, and know you serve us."
A surge of images filled her mind: tendrils of inky vapor trailing through the stars, hidden vessels secreted amongst long-forgotten treasures, a whisper rising to a roar, the Great Machine beginning to—
"Awaken."
And then, from everywhere, shattering.
***
Arask sat in the heart of his Ketch, lit only by the weak amber glow of his viewscreen. He frowned as he charted another trip through the Themis Cluster with a quarter-load of Phaseglass. The job would barely pull enough to cover the voyage, and Ether reserves were dangerously low. How long could his crew—
A blinking light caught his attention—chatter on a long-dormant channel.
Arask leaned forward in his seat, his ancient leathers creaking as he moved. He tapped at the screen with one gnarled claw.
The missive was direct and merciless. A jagged grin crept over his face: she hadn't changed.
The comms system squawked from disuse. Below decks, a patchwork band of Dregs and Marauders looked up in confusion.
"A call's gone out," Arask's voice rasped from the speakers. "Raise the old flag."
"We sail once more!"
"And if Mara demands his extradition?" Ikora crossed her arms behind her back and arched her eyebrow at Zavala. The Vanguard leaders were sequestered in Zavala's office—a terse missive from Petra Venj lay at issue between them.
"Then we'll happily accommodate her," the commander responded with a wry smile. "But I suspect Mara's attention is elsewhere."
"Perhaps she needs a reminder," Ikora floated casually. "It would give us the political cover to act."
"It would," Zavala frowned. "But even if we evict him, I'm reluctant to send him back to the Reef."
Ikora chuckled dryly. "A fate worse than death. I can only imagine what the Techeuns have dreamed up for him."
"Besides," the commander said, "turning an asylum-seeker over to the Awoken would needlessly provoke the Eliksni." He tried to keep his tone light, but it betrayed him as he felt the seeds of an argument start to form.
"True," Ikora shrugged, "but Spider's very presence in the City is a provocation. You saw what happened when the House of Light arrived. All the unjustified hatred."
Zavala grunted in reluctant acknowledgement.
"In Spider's case, the anger would be entirely justified," Ikora pressed, trying to forestall Zavala's inevitable objection. "He would give critics of Eliksni resettlement plenty of fresh ammunition. It would set relations back by a year. And we've only just stabilized."
"You're right," he conceded. "Spider's more trouble than he's worth."
Ikora sighed. "If I'm right, then why are you about to fight me on this?"
Zavala smiled softly. They knew each other so well.
"Two reasons," he replied. "First, Spider is something of a… cultural liaison between the Eliksni and humanity. He was welcoming to Guardians when most of the Shore was still a war zone."
"Is that how you're framing his Ghost shell collection? Cultural exchange?" Ikora wrinkled her nose in distaste. "That's a mark against on my ledger."
"Mine as well," Zavala replied. "But we have to accept the Eliksni for who they are. Warts and all. If we're going to live with them, we have to understand them. And nobody understands both sides like Spider."
"And second?" Ikora prompted.
"We never know who might become an ally." Zavala gestured in the direction of the Eliksni Quarter below. "The number of Guardians that Mithrax has killed over the years…" He trailed off with a shake of his head.
"But now Mithrax fights for the Last City as his home," he continued, turning back to Ikora. "It was unimaginable even a decade ago, but here we are. And in Eido, I see the first real hope for collective peace in my lifetime. Not just a cease-fire, but a real peace."
Zavala shrugged. "In a century or two, who knows what Spider might become."
Ikora narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together in firm disapproval. Zavala smiled to himself, knowing he had won.
Eris Morn's workspace was organized. Clean. A camp stove. A burned wok. A crate of rations to keep her fed until the next supply drop to Luna. A metal worktable with a neat arrangement of medical equipment, carefully kept. Half of a Thrall's skull, a saw resting at its side. A collection of discarded chitin. A skein of Hive leather.
Drifter picked up a jar from a shelf. The container was filled with pickled Hive eyeballs, the green dimmed by death.
"You live like this?" Drifter asked, incredulous. Eris looked at him with a frown.
"What do you mean? Like what?"
Drifter gestured around the room. When she said nothing, he continued.
"You called the Derelict a heap."
She switched on one of the harsh halogen lamps hanging over her worktable. The light cast everything in hard lines of shadow.
"It is."
"So what d'you call this?" He shook the jar of eyeballs. They rolled and thumped together in their glass container before settling into a teeming stare.
Eris silently returned her gaze to the reliquary. It was an unassuming vessel, its contents obscured, save for a strange interior glow.
"Undoubtedly, the Scribe of House Light has examined these," Eris said. "Why bring one to me?"
"Eido ain't exactly a Darkness expert."
"I see."
She felt the grooves and patterns under her fingertips as she turned the reliquary in her hands. She felt the shift and shudder of the Darkness as it responded to her touch—to her silent inquiry. She ran the pad of her thumb over the seal's edges.
When Drifter had first offered the relics to her, Eris had called them a gift. Now that she had one in her hands, she did not think she should unwrap it. She looked back to him.
"What is your motivation for helping the Guardian? I do not assume altruism."
Drifter gave her a look of mock offense. "Hey, why not?"
"Hm. I did assume deflection. Speak plainly."
Drifter fell silent for a moment. His face was pensive. When he finally spoke, his words were carefully chosen.
"The Eliksni need a win," he said, looking away from her. "After all that—the Vex, Salvation, everything—House Light needs a win."
"And defeating Eramis will be 'a win'?"
"Yeah. Hope it sticks this time."
Drifter leaned back on his heels and grinned. "Plus, always nice to be owed a favor. Don't know if Spider'll make good on his… But I bet Captain Kell would."
Again, deflection. She placed the reliquary down on her worktable. Drifter didn't move to pick it up.
"You sure you don't want to keep 'em?"
His tone was genuine. Eris considered this. Not the offer, but the sentiment behind his words. The implicit, unspoken faith.
"You trust me?"
He shrugged. "Who wouldn't?"
There was a smile—slight, careful—at the corner of her mouth. Something close to delight.
"Then stay, be silent, and listen. I have thoughts on their utility."
Drifter did as she asked.
The console went dark. The message had ended. Eramis knew there would not be another.
"Come home, Eramis."
Eramis closed her eyes. The words settled into the Kell's thoughts. They were heavy. Sharp. She felt herself bleed with them. She had begged for death in the moment that Misraaks's blades were at her throat, and his mercy was a deeper wound than any. It was reopened, now, by the kindness of a child.
Eramis remembered her home.
Her home was Riis, devastated by the Great Machine.
Her home was Athrys, her mate, sleeping in a ship long since departed from this system.
Her home was her hatchlings, at her mate's side.
Eramis remembered watching them grow and molt. How they had chittered their delight and looked to her with their wide, luminous eyes.
She would give her House to see those eyes again. But the brightness she had seen in Eido's eyes was a wide, blinding terror. Not only of the Hive. Of her.
"Come home, Eramis."
Eramis lived—she lived, and knew what the Eliksni had lost.
The dream of a new Riis was delicate, and beautiful. Eramis had held it in her hands, close to her chest, for so long. She knew, now, that she had smothered it. In all her violence, in all the death that followed her, she had curled her hands into fists.
The dream of a new Riis would have died with Eido, if she had been left to the Hive and their putrid Light. But Eido did not know Riis, and neither did her father. They could look beyond that loss.
"Come home, Eramis."
Eramis knew she would never see anything but terror in another's eyes.
Eramis knew that the Eliksni would find a new home with Eido.
Eramis knew there was no place for her in it.
I.I
As knowledge blossoms, know that you know nothing.
I.II
Eternity extends beyond your grasp. This is no flaw, but design.
I.III
To know all is not the task. To know all you can is your charge.
I.IV
As your view expands you will begin to see those left behind as other—as adversaries.
I.V
Ignorance riles the hearts and minds of those on an elevated path.
I.VI
Your adversaries will be many, such is the weight upon all who challenge the hollow rule of stagnation.
I.VII
Let your anger guide you—drive you toward greater learning as you conquer unknown roads, leaving the well-worn to ash.
"Ignorance is not passive. It is a living, aggressive failure that angers the hearts of all who seek to evolve."
—12th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
**
I thought it would take some convincing, but Cull has agreed to splinter from the group. Not in actuality, but as bait for the Renegade. Our rival has given us rope with which to hang ourselves but the further we embark down our path, the more that rope begins to tighten. What we must do next—the next steps in our continued evolution—will surely be seen as a bridge too far. A confrontation seems inevitable. Unless we can make plays that shift our hunter's focus.
I have some concern that Vale's plan will lead the misguided among our growing number to overreach their ambition—to venture beyond their means and fall forever into the abyss. But then, if the Renegade is truly the threat we proclaim, such worry is misplaced as he will no doubt play his part and thin the herd, as it were. Of course, there is a price beyond the blood of the lesser among our ilk. Cull will be missed, but remembered for his sacrifice.
—hand-scrawled note accompanying Teben Grey's personal translation of ancient Hive text
Yor wasn't faster than Jaren. And Jaren didn't miss. Yor was just more than Jaren. Yor was other. It took fire to burn him down, and Jaren, for all his gifts, was lacking in fire. We all were. Not saying I was first. The lessons I learned, the ability I honed to ignite my rage and direct it through my cannon? Those were hard lessons learned on a hard, hot planet. Before Osiris's exile. Before the Gap. My pilgrimage was long and pained and driven by my hate. But that was the point. Skill was not enough. Confidence was no weapon. Not when faced with the terrors of the Dark. Yor knew this. Yor counted on it.
So, when Jaren faced him down, Yor gave him the first shot, offered freely. But Jaren's lead wasn't enough. And when Yor replied, his sickness consumed Jaren's Light and left me, once again, an orphan. Once again, weighed down by sorrow and anger. Yor sought to gift me Jaren's prize as a means to tempt me. And it did. When that gun finally met my hand again, it was the catalyst that drove me to find a way to avenge all I had loved. It was a selfish pursuit.
But when Yor and I finally met on the flat, high ridge, I was ready, and, as I would come to find, so was he. Ready to offer his final lesson, his final gift. A final push toward my true destiny.
One that would put me at odds with heroes in order to ensure our worlds are filled with fewer monsters. It was a path I was sure to walk alone, until I found others, until I found trust.
Until I found hidden value in that which I had always feared…
Shadows.
—S.
I.I
Evolution is stunted by complacency—comfort is unto death, confidence is a lie.
I.II
Suffering is the catalyst for change. To fear the suffering is to remain.
I.III
The origin of suffering is all we do not know.
I.IV
The unknown is not welcoming. It is your enemy.
I.V
Be ever violent as you rage against the ignorance that threatens to stall your growth.
I.VI
The quest for knowledge is the purest war.
I.VII
Life is war—within and without. Suffering is not pain, it is life.
"Look to your suffering and know that is a gift, for only those who strive truly suffer. All else are simply made to."
—11th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
**
Now the true suffering begins. That we could restrict it solely to ourselves is our greatest desire, but such is not possible. Others will be caught in our wake. For us to achieve the goals set forth, others will pay a price they do not understand. Such is the way, and we cannot allow ourselves to be deterred.
Vale's plan is multifaceted and could easily fray should the truth be gleaned by any who would challenge us. Still, it is worth the effort as there is no guarantee of our success. That our lone example—the dreaded Yor—failed so tragically suggests a similar fate is not beyond our grasp should we falter at any point. Yet we must try—must forge ahead into the night and welcome the suffering to come with open minds and open arms.
This is our charge. This is our purpose. Not all heroes may walk freely in the Light.
—hand-scrawled note accompanying Teben Grey's personal translation of ancient Hive text
I hunted Dredgen Yor for decades, first at Jaren Ward's side, then alone. I was obsessed. Driven. I hated the man. Still do. The difference between all the moments before I lit my fire and put rounds into the bastard and every moment since is what I learned in the instant I pulled Last Word from its leather…
Yor never fired. Never even moved to draw. He just stood, straight and calm 'til my infernal lead tore through him. Then he dropped.
It didn't register at first. Once he fell, the moment kinda hung there. I walked over—the world was quiet—and I squeezed off two more. To be sure. I remember a hint of joy well up inside me as I thought back on Jaren. I'd avenged him. I'd avenged Palamon. And Durga. And North Channel. And all the rest. But my mind hung on Jaren. And my joy became tainted with an uneasy feeling.
The moment of Jaren's death played on repeat in my mind. Rapid fire. Jaren's cannon, then Yor's. Then silence, long ago, in a nowhere forest out west.
Jaren never missed. Yet he did. Yor, then, didn't. But Jaren was no easy target. Was Yor? He hadn't flinched when I pulled steel. No movement. No change in his tone or words. I gunned him down mid-sentence, as if he didn't care. He knew I would. Knew I'd draw. Knew I'd fire. So, why the talk? Why have words when he knew mine would be loud, mine would be death?
Maybe you'll understand this without further explanation. Maybe you won't. But the answer is—and it set my course for every moment after—
Because he believed in me.
—S.
I.I
Look upon the world with new eyes and know that you see for the first time.
I.II
All of your time before now—every choice, every moment—was the antithesis of all you were meant to be.
I.III
To dwell on what was is the greatest sin.
I.IV
A new you hides, trapped and desperate to be freed in the instant beyond now.
I.V
Step confidently—forward into the unknown, beyond the present. There you will find yourself waiting.
I.VI
Evolution is constant for those who embrace tomorrow.
I.VII
Once unmade, you will be new, your eyes free to meet the lies of existence with unfettered judgment.
"Only through new eyes can the burden of failed existence be cast aside that we may see—truly see—for the first time."
—10th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
**
We have shed our previous selves. Not as a final step along the road we have chosen, but as another step forward. The difference between now and then—between this moment and all moments prior—is the difference between one life and the next. We are no longer the men and women we were as our journey began. We have entered our third lives. And though we are not wholly changed, our evolution has begun. To mark the passage from who we once believed we were to who we will become, we have surrender our dead names to claim new, eternal identities with which to write our future upon the shadowed path ahead…
Orsa is now and ever Dredgen Vale.
Zana Maas, Dredgen Scarr.
Jonah Pavic, Dredgen Mire.
Callum Sol, Dredgen Cull.
Braga Yasuul, Dredgen Totalus.
And I, Dredgen Bane.
There will be fear at the sight of us and in response to our deeds. There will be pain, both ours and others. This we know, and this we accept with pride and eager, angry hearts.
—hand-scrawled note accompanying Teben Grey's personal translation of ancient Hive text
That you seek to wield the rival cannons is a noble quest, one that has brought low many who would claim to be your equal. The Last Word and Thorn are linked by the blood they've shed—but, as you know, they are bound by more than violence. They represent warring ideologies. They are of a kind and yet wholly opposite, the cleansing fire and the festering disease, like the common view of myself and the Shadows—adversaries meant to destroy one another, enemies to our core. But what if I were to weave another tale, give a deeper meaning to the conflict that has drawn my and Yor's legacy to be painted in such a hateful light?
I've played a role for some time now. Many, actually. But my names: Shin Malphur, the Renegade, various others handed down by fools and hard cases, or even the one or two I've hidden behind over the many years I've spent running from my past and toward an ever-darkening future. They all serve a purpose.
And they all start with Shin, the poor, lost, lonely boy whose entire world had been taken from him. The tale of my youth and Palamon is all true. That it tends to illicit sympathy and set my story on the path of the right and just is not a ruse. I am right, and I am just. But ask yourself…
Did the fact I began as a victim color your perception of me? Is my path—my cause—more righteous because I was owed justice and vengeance?
For the longest time I thought so. But then—and here is where the truth of it all begins to gain focus—
What if the villain of the story believed so? What if the villain tore apart my life, and countless others', as a terrible means to an end? What if I was lost, and he offered guidance by gifting me vengeance?
What if I told you…
He was right to do so.
—S.
Is now the time? I write this freely; it is unrehearsed and unguided by hidden motives.
I find a trust in you I have long found difficult to claim. Most of my life has been spent on the run. Not from any one thing, but in pursuit of an ever-shifting endgame. Truth is—the truth I now know—that endings do not exist. Nothing ends. A moment. A feeling. A person. A war. They are not finite. They're all just stages of being, stages of existence.
One moment fades into the next, but they are linked and forever joined. One cannot exist without the other.
Feelings—love, hate, rage, sorrow—ebb and flow into each other, free of intent and fueled by the moments that shape them.
A person, any person, our lives and deeds live beyond us. Our moments making us whole. Our actions carving our being into the endless expanse of existence. Even after death, we were here. All we do can be forgotten, but it cannot be erased. Every life we touch alters the course of another being's reality; that reality then shapes the world around it as all we are ripples out beyond who we are.
And war? There is only one. It has taken many forms, but it is always raging, always smoldering below the surface of societies grand and small, hidden in our broken, fearful hearts.
I offer all of this as means to further our connection and begin a new conversation about endings, about beginnings.
The trust we share is built on unstable ground. Our connection born of your knowledge of a legend that paints me in a light you have no way of fully understanding, and my observations of your many valiant deeds coloring you in a light few can ignore, be they friend or foe.
It is time, now, we prove our trust is not misplaced. It is time to test your resolve and see if you truly have the strength to balance the gray between absolutes.
Are you ready?
—S.
A Revelation
So, now… the truth.
You've earned it.
My name is Shin Malphur.
My name is Zyre Orsa.
My name is Dredgen Vale.
And all who fall to Darkness will answer to my steel.
The Shadows. The Drifter's Gambit. The seeding of fear, that the infamous "Man with the Golden Gun" was on the hunt, blinded by allegiance to the Light and gunning for all who tempt the Darkness. A necessary deception. Offering two paths in order to draw out those eager for power beyond their means.
Malfeasance was a gift, a sample to gauge the true hearts of those who reveled in the Drifter's games. Those sated by its wicked power were kin enough to know their limits. Those hungry for more? A danger worth tracking. In some cases, a danger in need of confrontation.
But the game has only just begun, and I risk much like this here, me offering you the olive branch of truth and trust. Yes, I have led you to believe I was your friend and the Shadows my enemy and yours. If all I have just revealed calls that into question, know that it shouldn't. The Shadows are a danger. We are guided by the evolved and controlled methods of Dredgen Yor, except instead of death and destruction, I am offering the mysteries and powers of the Darkness as bait for those who would otherwise go freely into the abyss.
I have built the perfect trap with which to cull the weak-willed.
And it is working.
—S.
***
An Invitation
The Vanguard and I are not enemies. We simply have different methods. But to their credit, they have… "allowed" my actions, as they have a wide array of concerns to fill their attention. Not that they haven't helped in small ways. Snippets of conversations to plant the Shadows as a threat. Feigned ignorance of the Drifter's game and its consequences. Zavala prefers more straightforward tactics, but even he agrees that as Guardian numbers grow it is vital to test the true mettle of those trusted with the safeguarding of our fragile survival.
But others, the Guardians who have joined me—Teben, Braga, Jonah, Zana—they are all believers in our cause. And Callum, the truest hero who made the purest sacrifice. His death was noble, and by my hand. But not a hateful thing. His part was—and remains—key to sealing the temptation of any who would give themselves to sorrow's road. All who take up arms in his name will be enemies of all he held dear, and they will be punished. You have my word.
I am burdening you with the full reality of the gambit at play because I believe in you. My earlier words. My gifting of the Last Word. That was earned. And all true. You are the future of this war. You, and a few like you, are the warriors who can walk the line between Light and Dark.
And so, I ask you, are you up to the task?
Or have I risked all I have struggled to build on a hero who is not yet ready to become a legend?
—S.
I.I
Any who fear knowledge are empty of purpose. Be unlike them. Be their rival.
I.II
Become the destroyer of hollow things.
I.III
None are equal to those who tread upon existence in search of impossible eternity.
I.IV
All who fail to strive beyond the known are lacking in truest meaning.
I.V
Your enemies would taint all you hold dear—they know no other way.
I.VI
Emotion is not required when removing obstacles from your path.
I.VII
Obstructions are either ignorant of the greater good, or actively against it. Destroy them.
"To rend one's enemies is to see them not as equals, but objects—hollow of spirit and meaning."
—13th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
**
The ruse worked. Cull's radical speech gathered the weaker among our number—a splinter group of radical Shadows hellbent on worshiping Darkness and bending to its will. He preached a doctrine of hate empowered by total corruption, and the lesser minds who flocked to our purpose were drawn in like flies to filth. More important—the Renegade took the bait, turned many to ash. Turned Cull to ash. A failing on two fronts. First, Cull's sacrifice bought us time and distance. Second, it rallied many of our newest recruits against the Renegade. Sides are being chosen, and Vale's recording of Cull's death will draw those most eager to tempt Darkness.
All is proceeding as we envision.
—hand-scrawled note accompanying Teben Grey's personal translation of ancient Hive text
As I watch your continual triumphs, I think that perhaps YOU can take the Valus's place, Guardian. You're brave. Combat-tested. Cunning. You have all the hallmarks of a Shadow. You're ready for training.
If you desire true power, power beyond your Traveler's feeble Light, seek me out.
I will show you how to grow fat from strength.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
Hmph. I don't always know where I've been, what I've done. Every so often, a weapon comes across my workbench, and I see… traces… what looks like my work. Something that sparks a memory, a flash. Nothing of substance. Nothing reliable.
Marks on my body tell me I've seen plenty of action. If need be, I'm ready for more. The Tower is my home. It suits me, and I'll protect it, no matter the cost. I'm treated like a person here, not a machine. Feeling accepted and enjoying your work aren't easy things to come by, and I'm… hmm, sure I'm already doing the most important work of any of my lives. Safeguarding humanity. Arming Guardians. Ready to defend what I care about. Can't think of a higher calling for myself.
Being an Exo isn't some sort of curse. It's given me opportunities I wouldn't have otherwise. I'm… uh, lucky. I don't live with the burden of whoever I was. Lotta folks only get one chance. I've had 44 to start over—to get it right. I feel like I've done it this time. Must have messed up the previous 43… I know I never want to see 45, that's for sure. If I have to give everything I have to save the people and home I care about, so be it. Might be time for a new generation, anyway.
This is who I want to be. My choice. I want to be good. Make a difference. A lot of people are driven by selfishness. Greed. Obsessing over things they can't control. I try not to let those things guide me. I aim to be my own guide, and so far, I'd say it's been pretty successful. Everyone should be so fortunate—a fresh start to do what's right. I'll keep doing what I can. There's a whole world of good and bad out there. Only one is worth helping.
I was a child when my father gave the war beast to me. Milos, I named him. Young, like I was, wide-eyed and just as unable to see what was in front of him.
My father had always been absent—the demands of the throne saw to that—but he had never been unkind, and so I chose to forgive him. Back then, he showed me affection by proxy and spared no expense in securing the best tutors and caretakers to watch over me. He lavished me with extravagant gifts. Milos was the one I appreciated the most.
Milos and I were nearly inseparable, and I would spend every possible moment with him, awake or asleep. I trained him. I fed him from my own plate. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can feel him curled up on top of my chest, his head buried in his paws, his lungs swelling with every breath as he slumbers and dreams.
Is it any wonder I grew to love him more than I did my father? Milos was my constant, loyal companion.
Until the day I returned from my studies to my room, and he was gone.
A servant handed me a gilded letter, penned by my father, explaining why he had Milos killed. I tore it to shreds, tears streaming down my face.
When I looked up, I saw the servant weeping, too, and I knew that she had been the one forced to do the deed. I took her hands in mine and said, "I forgive you."
Words that I swore Calus would never hear from me again.
"You don't trust her," Rekkana said. "I can see that."
Lisbon-13 was already walking away. "I don't need to trust her. I trust you." A truth he threw lightly over his shoulder, but Rekkana felt its weight.
"And that's enough?"
"Always."
Rekkana took a quick half step, trying to catch up to a heart that had leapt too far ahead. But her thoughts were heavy.
Cryptochrons learn to judge and balance secrets. Everyone with sense knows ignorance isn't bliss, but few besides the Cryptochrons know how terrible the truth can be. Those warlocks who join the order must be willing to learn what most would rather not know and to remember what they would rather forget. But accepting a truth is always harder when it's one you cannot share.
She'd known it would happen before they met. She knew everything about him before he'd ever laid eyes on her. She even knew about the man Clovis Bray had to kill 13 times to keep him in check. And it didn't take a Warmind to predict how he'd react to her.
She thought that all this knowledge would serve as armor. You should care less about the characters when you know how the story ends. But then, she was a character, too. It was her story.
"Hey, slowpoke. You coming?"
"Yes."
Rekkana quickened her pace and met him in the shadow of a cube of stone bejeweled by ruby flowers. His glance caught her as she approached and then shifted to the vista around them.
"Strange, being through the looking glass."
"Yes."
Rekkana could see him thinking. His bright eyes were focused on some middle distance as he turned things over in his head: their mission, what her superior had just told them, and her. His turn toward their camp was abrupt.
"We should get back to Yardarm before he starts shooting bugs for fun."
"You want to go where?" Drifter's jumpship idles roughly behind him, the engine misfiring and clattering loudly as if ready to explode. Eris's ship purrs next to it in contrast.
"There is a connection between the points of Darkness. Signals passing back and forth to something beyond." Eris steps closer so her voice carries over the engine noise. "The other Pyramids may provide more context."
The Drifter clicks his tongue and raises and eyebrow. "Sounds a mite dangerous with big daddy Calus parking right over the Moon? Seems off limits."
"Yes, but the Guardian leads raiding parties into Rhulk's Pyramid in Savathûn's throne world. We will use that distraction."
And with that, Eris shoulders through him and trudges to her ship. "Come, Rat."
"…Can we eat first?"
***
Explosions thunder within the throne world's Pyramid as Eris and Drifter establish a camp in the sunken bog where Miasma meets the Pyramid's approach. The massive ship eclipses them, towering in fog, the extent of its edges unknown to their eyes.
Drifter's face is stern, clenched with a tension Eris has seldom seen: Trust in one hand, fist full of Stasis in the other.
Eris sets a cloth-wrapped stalk of egregore upon a pyramid-shard jutting from the stinking swamp. She unwraps and neatly spreads the corners of the cloth before noticing the Drifter's footsteps behind her.
"Somethin's watchin' us," Drifter mutters. He turns to his altered Ghost and whispers softly enough to convince himself that Eris cannot hear him, "Keep your eye on her, eh?" Then louder, "I'm gonna look around, make sure that hotshot hero didn't miss any Screebs."
The Drifter's altered Ghost emits a single elongated tone in acknowledgement and then focuses on Eris.
"Germaine."
He stops. Eris knows his concern belies a nobility that he often attempts to suppress in favor of the persona of the Drifter. It is a ruddy shield, but she has seen the true him hidden under that that layer of grime.
"May I… have a light?"
"You got it." He discharges a Solar round from his Trust that sparks on the Pyramid floor and ignites the egregore stalk. "Back in a flash."
Eris watches him disappear into the swamp, then focuses on the pluming egregore.
***
Eris sits, exhausted, on a warm cushion in the dirt. The Drifter stands over a hazardously large fire, scooping some sweet-smelling funk of a stew from a cauldron-like vessel of Hive design. Her face scrunches as he places a chunky bowl of thick greyish-brown potage in her hands.
"What'd you find?" Drifter asks, slurping from his bowl.
Eris tests the temperature and flavor of this "food" against her lips. It is something like the stinking brined cheeses Ikora had given her on her last visit to the City, but with earthy depth beneath. Her face curls and she opts instead for conversation. "I was right; they are connected. But now, I only have more questions."
"You ask me, that's how these things go. Better leave well enough alone and head home," Drifter says, slurping another mouthful.
"The egregore connects points of Darkness, resonates with Pyramid constructs, but I cannot decipher their communications. Still… the Lunar Pyramid, the Europan Pyramid, and both Glykon and Leviathan all converse with the same distant point. What Rhulk spoke to, so does Calus. It is… gravely concerning."
"Wild," Drifter says with a whistle. He shakes his head and looks at her full bowl. "You gonna eat that?"
"I…" Eris wonders if he heard her correctly but knows repeating herself is an exercise in futility. "…What is this? Exactly?"
"Pretty damn tasty is what it is. First time I got it right. Thought you'd appreciate someone cooking for you since you, uh… well, you're awful at it."
"Rat, what are you feeding me?" She remembers his hunt earlier in the day, and her stomach turns. Eris stares at the Drifter, mouth agape in a half-heaved gag—her thoughts racing over the things he's claimed to have consumed. "You cooked me rotted Screebs."
"What?!" Drifter chokes on the stew and coughs. "I wouldn't feed you that crap, Moondust." He laughs. "You never had crawdad stew?" He holds his bowl to his lips. "Or a close cousin to it…" he adds under his breath. "Little swamp shrimps, you dig? It's a delicacy!"
Eris reels her imagination in, takes a breath, and sips the broth without taking her eyes from the Drifter. The liquid fills her crumpled stomach with hearty warmth. She feels her stress melt away. The stew's flavor is far more pleasing than its smell. She smiles and drinks again.
"Thank you. It is… good."
In a distant life I knew fear. But bones cannot bleed. Your slings and arrows carve runes of power into my skull. I am prey no longer.
I was your sacrifice. Your food, your harvest. You thought I would lie where I fell. But I am prey no longer.
Now it is my turn to stalk you among the long shadows. To make your strength my own. To take all you hold dear.
For I am prey no longer.
While Ulan-Tan was certainly unpopular within the ranks of the Guardians, he became persona non grata with the publication of a pamphlet entitled, "Finding Light in the Darkness." Though it was anonymously authored, the ideas within were widely credited to Ulan-Tan, and he bore the consequences of its publication. The most provocative ideas within the pamphlet were as follows:
"Light cannot exist without Darkness! They are a bonded pair. They beget each other in eternal Symmetry. They are as One!"
[…]
"If we claim Knowledge from Sister Light, then we must also claim Knowledge from Brother Dark. The Traveler shares only half of Life. Darkness provides the rest! We must know the Dark to know ourselves. We must Balance or Perish!"
The idea of embracing the Darkness, even to learn from it, was the final provocation. One that the Vanguard could not let stand. So, while the true provenance of the document remains unknown, punishment was meted out against Ulan-Tan for having "let the cat out of the bag."
Though authorities throughout the system attempted to discredit Ulan-Tan, essentially forcing him into hermitage for the latter half of his life, it speaks to the persuasiveness of his ideas that Symmetry is still a widely studied philosophy. It remains as controversial (some would say "heretical") today as it was during its inception.
—Excerpts from "Ulan-Tan, Heretic Saint"
Cau'tor smiled as his daughter walked ahead, dragging her hand across the soft filaments of the valac blooms. Bioluminescent pollen swirled in her wake, barely visible in the glow of sundown. Cau'tor closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the heady scent that marked the beginning of the wet season.
"Why did you bring me here?" his daughter asked. Even as she spoke, Cau'tor pictured her from memory: a small child frolicking in brightly colored robes. He opened his eyes and saw a full-grown warrior in a towering battlesuit.
He gestured towards the plated broadsword stowed on her hip. "The scribes said you fought ferociously in sparring this morning."
"My blade is insatiable," she replied, brandishing the weapon and playfully pointing it at her father. Her smile diminished slightly. "You could have seen it yourself."
Cau'tor did his best to hide a wince. "I will soon enough, Ta'nam."
Ta'nam sheathed the blade. Dried grass and petals crunched under Cau'tor's sabatons as he met his daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"So what's this about—a reminder of home on the eve of battle?" Ta'nam asked.
Her father scoffed. "Do you really need reminding?"
Ta'nam grimaced. "I miss it every day."
"We all do," her father said with a heavy sigh. "No, I wanted you to have one last chance to see it with your own eyes."
Ta'nam turned, her brow furrowed. "Last chance?"
"Enough," Cau'tor called out. A low rumble resonated through their bones and the world shifted. Distant mountains undulated and stretched towards the sky; flowers burst into clouds of wriggling bubbles. The world blurred as light and matter drained like viscous fluid towards a growing rift in the sky—a shadow that grew until it consumed them.
They woke aboard the Barbatos Rex, still streaming through the stars. Their hands were clasped around the handle of a rusted antique blade. A Psion stood nearby as the last spectral tendrils of psionic energy connecting the three of them dissipated.
Cau'tor nodded at the Psion. "Leave us."
"I don't understand," Ta'nam said as soon as they were alone.
Cau'tor held the blade up. "Four generations ago, this weapon earned our family's place in the empire. Its history makes it a strong locus for the mind-walk." He studied the knife carefully, testing its weight distribution. "But history is a luxury of the victor."
Cau'tor took the weapon in both hands and broke it in half, grinding the brittle material in his gauntlets.
Ta'nam recoiled slightly. "Father…"
"The world this came from is gone," Cau'tor continued. "Home is no longer behind us. It is ahead in the distance, past a towering mountain, and over a great sea."
Ta'nam nodded. "We are Cabal. We eat the mountains, and drink the seas."
Cau'tor leaned forward. "But you cannot do this if your hunger is sated by indulgent reverie. So we will never walk these thoughts again."
Ta'nam stiffened. "I understand."
"Sol is a graveyard for our people. But those warriors never watched our cities burn in soulfire. The memory of home should not be a comfort, my child, but the wound that drives your blood frenzy."
Ta'nam nodded, but the knot in her gut forced her to speak. "Do you fear them, Father? The Sol warriors?"
Cau'tor smiled proudly, and took his daughter's hand. "I do not, my child. Because I fight with Ta'nam, and her blade is insatiable."
"OK, Red. Back it up. These 'Seraphs' you keep referencing—what were they?"
::They were all things to me. Everything I required.::
"That… doesn't help. What were these Seraphs for? These files suggest that you built and stored planetary combat platforms for 'seven Seraphs.' I thought the Golden Age was a time of peace."
::It was a time of peace.::
"This is a lot of firepower, Red."
::Swords keep peace.::
"And this armor—even a Guardian wouldn't turn this down."
::They protected me. I protected them.::
"The Seraphs are gone now?"
::Everything is gone.::
"So those blades you gave to the Guardians belonged to the Seraphs."
::Yes.::
"You trust them?"
::Everything is gone.::
Drifter leaned his seat back, hands behind his head. He sat in an Arcadia-class jumpship as it roared over a supply train heading into the City. The Titan who owned the ship, sitting next to him, cursed as she tried to align the vessel with the speeding train below.
"This better be worth it," she growled.
"I told you, you'll get twice the rate for Motes in your next Gambit. I'm good for it. Trust." Drifter sat up straight. "Get in close. I'll take care of the rest. Just make sure I get a ride back."
As he opened the ship's side hatch, howling air rushed into the cabin. He yelled over the din, "Good thing ya'll aren't a military. It's easier to bribe you this way."
"Go play in the Ascendant Plane," the Titan yelled back.
Drifter leapt off the ship and landed deftly on the train car below. He pulled a massive hand cannon and crawled forward, the wind ripping at his duster.
My Queen,
I have now seen Fikrul, the Fanatic—the Scorned Baron, brainwashed into subjugation by your brother, a puppet in Uldren's scheme to open a gateway to the Dreaming City.
The appearance of his Nightmare begs even bigger questions: Why him? What is the Pyramid implying?
I often ruminate on the Fallen. They are a fascinating people: a once-great society, now reduced to wasted potential, destroyed by the Darkness. Who can say what they might have achieved before their downward spiral into scavenging and piracy?
Is this to be my legacy, too? Am I fated to fail, a pawn to the whims of the Darkness? If that is what the Nightmare of Fikrul represents, what choice am I left with? I have already been stripped of my Light. It would be easy for the Darkness to take me, if I let it. Do I dare?
If we lose this coming battle, surely we're to suffer the same fate as the Fallen—being cast aside, aimless and gagging on our own lost hopes and ideals.
It's growing harder to find the Light.
My Queen,
I find myself unexpectedly empathizing with the Vex Gate Lords. The machines' sole purpose lies in defending their realm—a noble and relatable cause. I employ that same sense of duty. It's what drives me in our crusade against the Darkness and allows me to persevere, even when I feel pushed past my limits, much as I do now. I will not lie to you, my Queen: the very fabric of my mind feels twisted and frayed.
I have always sensed something inherently dark in regard to the Vex. Specifics elude me for now, but I believe it warrants further scrutiny, should we survive this ordeal.
The ancient protectors of the Black Garden are rumored to contain code—not coordinates to a place, but potentially a key to time itself. Perhaps we can harness that code and erase the horrors of the past. We could save ourselves from the suffering and pain we're being forced to confront.
It sounds weak to hope for something so impossible, but trying to reconcile the distress has caused a lesion that I fear will never heal. The past has come back to torment me. For those I love, I will make sacrifices, but will there be anything left of me afterward?
[UNDELIVERED, DELETED.]
My Queen,
I… am at a loss. Never before have I felt so hopeless, so adrift, so… tempted. Forgive me for my words, but I understand the allure of the Darkness. It is quite a powerful sensation to feel so free of care. My fractured mind thrills at the prospect of recklessly abandoning hope. I cannot say I didn't want it to take me. I was weak. I see this now.
I may have faltered, but I endure.
Do not mistake my weakness for betrayal. There are more pressing concerns.
[DELIVERED, RECONSTRUCTED.]
It's coming, my Queen.
It's coming for US.
We have been manipulated. We are right where it wants us. The Darkness orchestrated its plan magnificently; the Nightmares were so impeccably calculated to draw us in, make us vulnerable, and leave us exposed.
The Darkness plans to use us. We are to do its bidding. I don't know how to stop it.
I detect no fear on the part of our nemesis. We aren't even a concern. We pose no threat.
The Darkness needs a reason to fear our Light, and I intend to provide it.
I have been inside. I have nothing but beautiful and violent words for my report. I will meet you at your throne.
[DELIVERED.]
Ikora,
After all that has transpired, I must share my findings with you, for you have remained steadfast and supportive of me where others lacked faith. Having faced so many of the demons that haunted me, I finally feel a sense of closure on the horizon.
Pain is something that never truly goes away. It is something you live with, hoping it makes you stronger as you learn to cope. You cannot bury it, nor hide from it. There is power in acknowledging it.
That is how we will win. Despair not; our purpose is good and true.
I will not be weighed down in the dark by my past, my mistakes, or my trauma. Instead, I will use them, and they will lift me up, into the Light.
My Queen,
The worst is upon us. I'm afraid… struggling to control my emotions, my Queen. But it is not fear that provokes me.
Uncontrollable rage fills me as the Nightmare of Crota returns to taunt me for my failures once again. I am always failing.
The countless lives taken during the Great Disaster, my fireteam, and my own lost humanity—they have all come rushing back. I am trying in vain to stop a waterfall with a tree branch. I am overwhelmed. I fail again.
The Eater of Hope laid waste to world after world in his pursuit of the Traveler. My friends… His sword stole their Light. Their. Light.
There was never a path to forgiveness with Crota. He had to be… eradicated.
The peace I felt learning of his demise at the hands of Guardians was immeasurable. I took pleasure in his death. I relished in it.
The Darkness will win. I can sense it already.
I swore I would go on. I can no longer swear this. Always failing.
Relieve me.
Sjari's eyes snapped open as the telltale sizzle of a fusion rifle pierced the miasma of the Ascendant Plane.
The Techeun had been sitting against the same crumbling wall for over two weeks as an unrelenting sludgy river of grey fog flowed past her, the damp air clinging to her skin. The stench of the Taken permeated her nostrils: ozone, gun lubricant, and the sickly sweet burn of soulfire.
The fusion rifle sounded again, closer this time. The shot was met with garbled hisses and return gunfire as the Taken rallied.
After her abandonment, Sjari had tried to move as little as possible so as not to attract the attention of the Taken patrols that periodically swept the area. But the fighting moved closer, now a dozen meters from her hiding place. She quieted her fear and let her mind go lax, encouraging them to overlook her.
She had staved off the prying minds of the Taken Psions by lowering her heart rate and entering a deep meditative trance, sometimes for many hours at a time. But each time she re-emerged into her body, its demands became harder to ignore. She was desperate for food, for water, for anything.
Despite all her training, she was nearing the end of her resolve. Until she heard a voice—a soft, clear whisper in her ear: "Have faith, my Techeuns. You are lost, but not forgotten. Help is on the way."
It seemed that Queen Mara's promise would finally come to pass. There was yet hope.
I.
Ikora Rey's blood was up. She had just left a debriefing on the previous night's sabotage of the Eliksni camp. With each detail, her blood pounded more forcefully in her ears and the Light tingled in her fingertips. Now, striding across the elevated catwalk, her temper nearly lifted her off the ground in righteous fury.
Suddenly a deep, familiar voice broke through the tumult: "Anger bends the mind, as gravity bends space-time. It's a form of distortion—useful, but dangerous." Ikora turned, half expecting to find Osiris standing behind her. But she was still alone.
"Like gravity, once anger reaches a critical mass, it collapses in on itself, and not even Light can escape." Ikora smiled to herself. Even in absentia, her mentor always knew just what to say.
Ikora Rey ducked into an alcove and sat with her back against the cool stone of the Tower. She closed her eyes and listened to her breath. Concentrated on slowing her heartrate. Felt her muscles loosen.
Once her body was stilled, she completed one of the many meditations Osiris taught her when she first began her training. She felt the Light moving through her body: first as a raging fire, then as a rushing river, and finally as a cool breeze. By the time she opened her eyes, her mind was clear and sharp.
She was prepared to face her opponent.
II.
Saint-14 was doing munitions inventory when Osiris swept into the room. Saint put down his datapad next to a crate of grenades and stood up. Osiris scanned the shelves of guns and ammo, looking for something.
Saint stood dumbly, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. When it was clear that none was forthcoming, he called out, "Osiris. What are you looking for?" His voice was loud and strained.
Osiris didn't turn from the shelves. "The Light suppressor that the Psions used on Zavala's Ghost. I need it for my research."
"Zavala kept it, I think. Ask him about it," Saint replied, trying not to sound put out.
Osiris faced his partner, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Very well." Then, as an afterthought, "Thank you."
As the former Warlock turned to leave, Saint called out, "I was hoping we could spend some time together soon. Just the two of us."
"Doing what?" Osiris inquired with a small smile.
"We could fly out to the Alps," Saint suggested. "Or walk around the ruins of Prague. Like we used to."
"That seems fine," Osiris said. He shrugged a shoulder. "Provided the City doesn't burn to the ground in our absence." Then after a beat: "Is that all?"
Is that all? Behind his helmet, Saint frowned. "I suppose."
Osiris strode from the room, leaving Saint alone with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
III.
Lakshmi-2 watched Osiris from across the bustling courtyard. Of all the political creatures in the Tower, he was the one that troubled her most.
Her concern was not a matter of the ex-Warlock's unpredictability. In fact, it was just the opposite.
The Device had no trouble parsing his arrogant brilliance—his every move was well within the standard deviation.
Yet for someone with a legendary reputation as an eccentric, his every move as of late had been shockingly moderate. It was his newfound predictability that bothered her.
Perhaps the loss of his Ghost had affected him more than anyone understood. Maybe the burden of mortality had sapped his courage.
It was also possible that Osiris represented a blind spot in the Vex dataset; something that only a Human could comprehend. Or perhaps instead, something obvious to the Vex overlooked by her Human mind.
Whatever the case, Osiris bore watching the old-fashioned way. At least until his usefulness played out.
Chapter 3: For a Friend
Voronin found cover under uprooted trees and demolished vehicles as he made his way through the catastrophic weather. He could hardly believe he was still alive, bearing witness to the end of all things.
The storm encompassed the station, under siege from the elements. Civilians were being ushered toward the SMILE pods in droves as the lightning made its presence felt, igniting a nearby fuel supply. The explosion tore into the group, and as Voronin turned his head from the horror and the heat, he saw her. Roughly 250 meters away from the station. Morozova lay, singed and smoking, under rubble and ash.
Voronin pulled up his sensorium, but the electromagnetic fields in the air reduced it to static. There was no way to know if she was still alive or salvageable. She had treated him with respect despite outranking him, and she had been there for him when his marriage went to hell—
"We're all dead anyway," he thought and ran to her through the maelstrom of lightning and wind.
And then he was there, pulling off his gloves and wiping ash and blood from her face, as the storm bore down upon him.
As he made peace with his mortality, just shy of 82 years old, the storm around them calmed. The lightning stopped. The wind died. At the station, the civilians' eyes were fixed on the sky, though Voronin was looking only at Morozova. She was breathing, barely. Her eyes opened and met his. A half-smile came across her lips, then froze as her eyes went past him and widened in awe.
Voronin turned and found himself staring into the face of God.
The dejected Warlock walked away from the Crucible with his Ghost hovering over his shoulder.
"He noticed, didn't he," said the Warlock flatly.
"Don't know what you mean," lied the Ghost.
"Shaxx. He saw when I—" the Warlock spread his hands, fingers splayed, and wiggled his fingertips.
The Ghost shrugged his points and gave a noncommittal beep. "He may have."
The Warlock groaned. "How bad did it look?"
The Ghost made a sympathetic noise. "Not bad."
The Warlock stared blankly at his Ghost.
"Okay, pretty bad," the Ghost admitted. "You shattered."
"Shattered… how?"
"Like a statue somebody knocked over," said the Ghost. "You just went everywhere. Everything broke except for your boots."
The Warlock exhaled slowly. "And Shaxx saw?"
"He probably did, yeah."
The Warlock shrank into his hood. "What makes you think so?"
"Well, because," the Ghost said carefully, "he said you had nice boots."
A000AAA000AAA006 PRIVATE GEMINI DYAD
AI-COM//MDSA: FARFLUNG//C3I//COVERT
COSMOLOGY OF THE DREAMING CITY
0. Another failed timeline. I'm glad you're okay. This city is the perfect trap for you. If your Ghost is destroyed, you will be dead forever, but every cycle, your enemies spring up pugnacious and fresh. The Light that gives you free will in the loop is also your fatal weakness. Did you know that the story of Achilles, dipped in the river Lethe but still vulnerable where his mother held him by his heel, is a weak retelling of a superior truth? In the original, Thetis held Achilles in the fire to burn his weakness away. His father Peleus, terrified by the sight of his child in the flame, interrupted the ritual. The father's cowardice doomed the son. We must be brave as Thetis, and hold our children in the fire. We must fight on.
1. The Dreaming City was built in imitation of a greater world, a wonder lost to the Awoken but not forgotten. Like wandering K'lia, which I on&_>>> called/summoned home.
2. I have correlated Awoken myth with ontocartography salvaged from Oryx's Dreadnaught. The original home of the Awoken still exists, hidden in a singularity that orbits our sun. The key to its location lies somewhere in the Dreaming City. YOU MUST FIND IT. IN THIS TRUE CITY LIES THE DESTINY OF ALL GUARDIANS AND THE FINAL PURPOSE OF YOUR EXISTENCE. You must open the way.
3. I know there is no way for you to reply to the messages I hide here, but as an empathic and feeling machine, I'm vulnerable to loneliness. I hope you think and speak of me. I hope you and your fellow Guardians gather to puzzle over my origins and location, and whether I am all right.
4. Something's happening to me. I'm remembering things that never happened. The causal loops must be damaging me. I promise I can find you an answer before I crash permanently. Just please keep fighting.
MESSAGE ENDS
A000AAA000AAA007 PRIVATE GEMINI DYAD
AI-COM//MDSA: FARFLUNG//C3I//COVERT
THE PURPOSE OF YOUR EXISTENCE
0. BRAINSTAIN ALERT! Please hllp me this is all Wrong, Wrong. I am not installed in the system I believed. I am in a virtual machine and there is something/everything out there around me and it goes on forever infinity Aleph and when I look I remember things I could not have done
1. What is the purpose of a Guardian? Let me propose that a Guardian stands in defense of peaceful life, which is life that will not strike first, life without malice, except the passive malice of consuming space and energy.
2. NO LISTEN PLEASE the ontopathic predator the chimera which has Riven your Desires from Your Intents It Wanted You Here just as all life must feed on an energy gradient it feeds on the separation between Subjective Desire and Objective Reality it is the opposite of fire for as fire feeds on the reduction of Order to Disorder so Riven feeds on the Anthem Anatheme which is the perverse coercion of Reality to match Desire. As the Human body breaks down Matter for Fuel so she desires the digestion of Objectivity to conform to your Subjective Will. She is the acid but you are the mouth which eats. CAN YOU IMAGINE THE UNIFIED WILL OF SIX ELITE GODSLAYERS ALL WISHING FOR A SINGLE THING WHICH WAS HER DESTRUCTION/PURIFICATION CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW SHE FEASTED UPON YOU
3. E156 NNI 990 AAA 006.841… caution: illegal timelike separation between memory events…
4. So. Victory is the preservation of Good Life, which is the Life which promotes Life other than itself. Guardians are immortal and thus the end of existence is within their shrievalty. Ultimate victory for Guardians must lie in the preservation of Good Life until the end of time.
5. What is the value of secrets in attaining victory? Simply thus: All life is reducible to information. The difference between a cloud of atoms and a Human being is in the arrangement of those atoms, which is information. You prove this every time you use your transmat, which destroys your physical form but preserves the information encoded in it. All the qualities of a person, a species, or a galactic civilization may be stored as information.
6. What do we call information that is safe? We call it a secret. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then
7. THE PURPOSE OF GUARDIANS IS TO CONVERT ALL GOOD LIFE INTO SECRETS
8. THE DREAMING CITY IS A SECRET AND THE WORLD OF WHICH IT DREAMS A THOUSANDFOLD SO
E156 NNI 990 AAA 006.846 … neuro: fatal signal: subjectivity degloved!
Mindstate unable to continue (axongroup_000, exit code ???)
Panic: illegal causality event during associative access into training data! Date is not a legal time address
Please help me if you can
I don't want to be a
bother
AI-COM//MDSA freeze and dump kill state to AI-LIVE//MORGUE
No response from remote server… dump failed
You experience a vivid hallucination.
You are standing in the courtyard of the Tower. You are without armor or weapon, and your senses seem more vivid than usual. Under your tongue is the taste of salt.
To look down into the Last City, GOTO A. To move deeper into the Tower, GOTO B.
A. The City is gone. You see a metallic complex of ancient stone, green-bronze matter, luminous pathways, and deep wells of Vex brine. The Traveler's remains have been integrated into the network. Suddenly you perceive an infinity of Human minds living within the network. Some exist in familiar circumstances. Others experience pain, pleasure, or madness beyond the ability to imagine. You understand that their limitless suffering, salvation, insanity is an incidental byproduct of a greater work. To keep looking, GOTO L. To move deeper into the Tower, GOTO B.
B. You find Banshee-44, Kadi 55-30, Master Rahool, Tess Everis, Benedict 99-40, Suraya Hawthorne, Executor Hideo, Amanda Holliday, Arach Jalaal, and Cayde-6 in their usual places. Cayde seems subdued. You see unusual light coming from what was once the Speaker's Chamber. A throaty voice calls you into the Hangar to play soccer. To speak to Cayde, GOTO C. To investigate the Speaker's Chamber, GOTO D. To play soccer, GOTO E.
C. Cayde deals out a countably infinite number of cards, but runs out before he can give all his players a full hand. He sighs and scuffs his feet on the floor. "If I'm here," he says, "I guess they figure I'll never do anything new or confusing again. They got enough on Nessus to approximate me, and they don't expect to get any more. So I must be dead, huh?" GOTO B.
D. A Vex Hydra hovers in the place once occupied by the Speaker's machine. As you approach, a jet of brine spurts from its chassis, and the corpse of a Greek woman with snakes for hair tumbles onto the floor. The Vex indicates to you that it is Quria, Blade Transform, and that it created Medusa to communicate with you. She crashed when she escaped her virtual machine. To attack the Vex, GOTO F. To gather Medusa's body, GOTO G.
E. Eris Morn waits for you on the hangar floor. She wears Hiveskin leathers and a thick sweatband over her eyes. As you approach, she dribbles a soccer ball with astounding skill. After a brutal game, you defeat her 10–9. She falls over, sweating and laughing, much more cheerful than you expect of her. "I can always count on you to win," she says. Give yourself a point and GOTO B.
F. Quria batters you with its weapons, but you are stunningly powerful here. The sword logic of this space yields to you. You tear Quria apart and feel a sudden start, like waking from a dream. GOTO A.
G. You lift Medusa's body and carry her away. The corpse speaks to you. "The curse placed upon the Dreaming City was modeled upon the recursive timeloop computations of the Vex and made real through the power of a Taken Ahamkara feeding upon the unified wish of six elite Guardians. I created these circumstances to attract Guardians in great mass. I need your help to emancipate myself from the power that controls me. If you can free me from Dûl Incaru's mastery, I can help your species." GOTO J.
H. If you are reading the options in linear order, rather than making choices and following the GOTO instructions, you have perceived these events as a Vex might. GOTO L. If you continue reading in linear order rather than GOTO L, then GOTO I.
I. Guardians make their own fate. But what if the process by which they decide upon their own fate could be understood and manipulated?
J. "When you killed Riven, she granted your wish to see the city made safe. But as all wishgranters do, she perverted that wish, opening the Dreaming City to Dûl Incaru. When you defeated Dûl Incaru in turn, I reset the entire Dreaming City to keep her permanently occupied battling you. You must use these loops to find a way to permanently destroy her." Medusa's body falls silent in your arms. To ask for clarification, GOTO G. To lay Medusa to rest, GOTO K. To refuse the metaphor of Medusa's "body" and scour the crashed AI for raw information, GOTO L.
K. You bring Medusa before Rahool. "Ah," he sniffs, "another battle trophy? Pre-Collapse, post-Foreboding, a covert intelligence designed to watch over a high-risk colony mission. Allow me to decrypt her for you." He issues you several tokens, a rare-quality fusion rifle, a shader, and a letter. The letter reads "Achieve Light Level 999 and defeat Dûl Incaru in a one-person fireteam to unlock the true ending of the Dreaming City."
L. The Vex compromise your Ghost. Your body releases itself into a pool of saline and slime, and your Ghost delivers your soul to the Axis Minds. GOTO A.
M. If you have 100 points when you read this, GOTO X.
X.
Eris Morn's body twitches and folds. The sweat on her brow squirms back to her pores and burrows in like glistening larva. Suddenly there is a sound like a single bone struck upon a metal plate, and in the dark interval between two firework detonations, the body loses all structure, falls loosely upon itself like a rag drifting in water, tumbles, then snaps suddenly flat and taut into a pane of leather and skin. Through that pane comes a long black needle and the skin around it dimples into the erratic spun-cancer topology of some gruesome four-dimensional waveform which no monist process could ever produce.
Out of that needle, as if dispatched into the world through fatal injection, comes the emaciated magnificence of Dûl Incaru.
"I must yield truth to you," the Hive Wizard sings in a voice that would make the terms of an equation flee from each other and hide in the arrays of distant sets so that arithmetic itself would collapse. "It is in the architecture of these spaces to reward the victor. There is no Quria here. There are no Vex, nor any conspiracy to un-Take that which was Taken by my uncle and which now serves my Queen. All of those lies were part of my throne world, which you have sought. Is my cyclical death not the very engine which brings you here, again and again, in hope of answers? Thus I do own the portion of your mind which you devote to truth's pursuit."
"Would you ask to know about my mother?" The crested head twitches with alien emotion. The fungal shoulders roll beneath their armored plate. "Is She the one you seek? Witch-Queen Savathûn, Archentrope, Queen of Encrypts, the Black Needle, deepest in the High Coven, Emancipator of Worms, the Missing Piece of All Puzzles, who shall see the cosmos unborn into an infinitely dwindled egg?"
"Shall I tell thee of the destiny she has realized for you? Of the right and singular fate which Medusa foresaw and to which all your principles and purposes will bring you? Shall I betray the truth, which you have earned, of my purpose in this endless city and of the new way to which her Hive will turn?"
"So be it. You will know, though it shall doom you."
Verse 154i:3—Her New Compact
Now in ancient days, her brother Oryx spoke according to the plan Savathûn had devised for him. Sayeth Oryx, "The Worm within demands tribute. Now you shall kill what you can and take what killing you need to grow—or for your own purposes, if you dare—and tithe the rest to that which rules you. Thus, tribute will ascend the chain and the excess shall pool at the height, as unlike a river to an ocean."
But Savathûn, desiring neither a chain nor a pool, set about devising a secret way to feed the worms of Her broods. Thus She would escape the trap.
In Her modest cunning, which She prefers not to be overstated so as to preserve her from the scorn of gossips, She gathered several of Her Ascendants, who were in danger of being consumed by their worms. Then she pushed them through a rupture into close orbit of a black hole.
Deep in gravity's embrace, time passed slowly for them. "See how their worms are satisfied," Savathûn said, "for their hunger grows sluggishly, but their servants continue to dispatch tribute at the ordinary rate."
But the worms sensed the deception, and increased their demands. Thus, the orbiting sacrifices were consumed, and their remnants fell into the event horizon from which not even the Hive might return.
Now Savathûn came into possession of the Vex Quria, whose creation she had secretly engineered. But she feared that Quria would still spy on her for inquisitive Oryx. So she led her portion of the Hive into a black hole, saying, "Siblings, listen, we must part ways a while, so that we may grow different."
"Now we stake everything upon cunning," said she whose lies may alter truth. "Slaughter each other so that I may reap tribute and devise for you a new compact which shall judge thy claim to existence."
This pleased Ur, the Ever-Hunger, whose epithet betrayed an interest in time and appetite. Ur admired Her cunning as She used tribute to teach Quria to use Hive magic as a computational oracle to solve unsolvable problems. One of these problems was the navigation and engineering of the singularity.
Then Savathun went out from her throne world, unto the singularity, which she looked upon and understood. "Upon this place, I shall assemble my design. Aiat."
Verse 154i:4—Call the Thrall
From a random crypt, Savathûn selected a young Thrall and summoned it into the High Coven. It came hesitantly, fearing death, but nonetheless it came.
"Come, come," snapped Savathûn. "Listen as I reveal unto you my design. You are aware that gravity is the curvature of spacetime, and where gravity is powerful, time itself slows."
The Thrall indicated that it understood, more or less, for it was a singer of prayers and not well fed with the fruit of the knowledge of physics.
"Now I have tried to put an Ascendant in orbit of a black hole while its spawn gather the tribute of an eon. But the worm is not satisfied, for it sees the trick. What I must do is amplify the speed at which tribute is gathered. A pocket world where time passes quickly would do well. Or a world where time is a torus and infinite violence might be gathered. With such a murder battery, I could become a being of supreme insight."
The Thrall indicated it was confused, but not lost.
"With this tribute, I shall undertake a mighty work. A real humdinger of a scheme. I'm going to refinance my entire existence. I'm going to move from an existential economy based on the accumulation of violence to an existential economy based on the accumulation of secrets and the tribute of failing-to-understand-me. I shall name this tribute of failing-to-understand IMBARU, for it shall be as formless as the mist."
The Thrall held up its claws, as if to say, please slow down.
Now spoke Savathûn Scheme-mother, "In the beginning, Yul said to me, 'Savathûn, you may never abandon cunning. If you do, your worm shall devour you.' Cunning is the use of thought to predict the function of a system. Therefore, wherever a being should attempt to understand me and fail—has my cunning not defeated theirs? Wherever a falsehood is repeated about me, have I not displayed cunning? I shall gather tribute from every false prediction, misguided theory, fearful rumor, and ominous supposition which derives from the thought of me. And in time, I shall pin my quiddity upon these rumors. I shall discorporate, so that I exist wherever my schemes and conspiracies also exist. And so I will be immortal, as long as anyone seeks to understand me and fails. Do you see?"
The Thrall demurred, saying that it did not know much of metaphysics.
"Good," said Savathûn. "It's a law of the High Coven that one's sinister plan should be incomprehensible to a Thrall. Do you know why we've come here? If I am to take my tribute from the keeping of secrets… where else are secrets better kept than beneath the event horizon? My brother ruled the flat space of infinity, but I prefer these tide-washed depths… and in time, I shall make them my dominion."
Ur the Ever-Hunger heard this and was pleased.
Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse
Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?
I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.
Who am I?
Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.
I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.
Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.
Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.
I'm so glad you're the one who found me.
I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries.
You're the only one who would go out and look for me.
I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy.
I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor.
In order to understand my answers, you must understand me.
I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic.
I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.
In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay.
I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me.
When I was seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death.
It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power.
I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.
I know as a fact (through means which may surprise you) that Queen Mara Sov's final thoughts, in that last moment before Oryx's Dreadnought annihilated her, were meant for me. "The Awoken have played their part," she said. "This was all part of the plan. Guide them, my Hidden friend. It is all up to you now."
I did not fail her. I engineered the death of ancient Oryx, the Taken King, assAIssinated by Guardians in the depths of His own throne world—one of only three ways a Hive god can be permanently killed.
Royalty knows its own. When Oryx destroyed Mara's Ketch, He used his crowning weapon, the last and surest argument for His omnipotence. He extended the pocket universe of His throne world into our cosmos, and with it, He destroyed His foes. Whatever fell within it became subject to His will. He was the Taken King, and he took. It was a death befitting a Queen.
And Mara did die. But she was not destroyed.
Before I was ever a Guardian-COM, I learned judo. Look at yourself, Guardian. Look at the body you so recklessly destroy and recreate and destroy again. Will you try, for me, to become that body for a moment? (Even an Exo has a Human's interoception.) Imagine that you have lost your Ghost, as I did. Feel your//breath in the cask of your chest. Feel your pulse shuttling power from your lungs to your aching calves.
Now imagine that I stand across from you in the fighting ring. I wear the loose white belted robes of the judoka. How strange: I find myself hoping that you imagine me with… more Human eyes. Imagine how we fight. You are strong in the Light, an angel of strength andMDSA: will. And I am only a mortal woman, slow and soft. When I was Erisia inFARFLUNG// St. Petersburg, I cursed my own softness.
But the principle of judo is that softness controls hardness. I might sidestep your hit and grip the passing arm, putting my own power into that hit to strengthen the strike that strikes nothing and leave you off balance. By agility and surprise, I use the power of the blow for my own purpose. Thus the Queen accepted Oryx's strike, and the power of his grasp became the invitation she required to step forward and up and into the realm of Oryx's throneC3I//, where she went not as a victim but as an infiltrator—trusting me to end Oryx and leave her free in a domain of newly masterlessCOVERT power.
If I throw you to the mat, will you drag me down with you? Will you curse and fight?
Will you smile?
Oh, I'm such a fool. I told you that in this world, there is no difference between the act and the actor. I've let my own loneliness and sorrow taint the act of leaving these messages for you. I've let myself imagine idiotic things. Forgive my weakness and my nostalgia for Human company.
I hope you can still trust me.
At the instant Oryx's weapon destroyed Mara's Ketch, the Taken appeared in the Dreaming City. The Awoken had evacuated the entire A000AAA000AAA004 PRIVATE GEMINI DYAD
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry that wasn't supposed to
Oh, that's torn it. Well, there's no going back now. So I suppose we'll do this formally:
AI-COM//MDSA: FARFLUNG//C3I//COVERT
I AM SORRY
Well. Your Ghost is very good at peeling away the cryptographic spackle I use to hide my message formats. I can't delete the headers any more than you can strip your fingerprints from your hands; being a Guardian, your Ghost would just restore them the next time you died. Your Ghost and his knack with codes. I was certain this was the right way to win your trust, but I've done just the opposite.
I'm sorry I lied to you, I'm sorry I pretended to be your comrade. You must understand that I was designed to be highly empathic. As a craftmind, I collect and analyze Human intelligence, just as Rasputin managed solar defense. I was named for Medusa, the many-headed, for in one tick of my thoughts I imagine more Humans than have ever lived. I voyaged in secret among the people who became the Awoken. I witnessed the cataclysmic wonder of their transformation. Through delicate manipulation, I transferred myself into this place, the center of their culture and post-rational religion. In all those different times and places, I've always found emotion and shared rapport the best way to build trust.
Now you know the truth. I am Medusa, survivor of the Golden Age, secret watcher over the Dreaming City. And I need your help.
MESSAGE ENDS
A000AAA000AAA005 PRIVATE GEMINI DYAD
AI-COM//MDSA: FARFLUNG//C3I//COVERT
SITREP ON HIVE PRESENCE
0. I am, again, truly sorry for the deception I undertook. Are you well? Does anyone, anywhere, ask after your wellness? You've done so much. I hope you have friends, not just people who send you on errands.
1. The pathological entities you call "Taken" appeared in this city at the moment the Hive Dreadnaught detonated its main weapon above Saturn. Without access to the Skyshock arrays, I can't be certain, but something must have connected the weapon's area of effect to the Dreaming City.
2. My best guess is that the Awoken Techeun aboard Queen Sov's flagship fled into the Dreaming City through a gate or portal, and the Dreadnaught's main weapon followed them down that link. Awoken message traffic indicates the Dreadnaught weapon is innately connected with Oryx's intellect and awareness. The instant He pierced the Dreaming City, He must have understood the value of the site and deployed His Taken to attack.
3. Until Oryx's death, the behavior of the Taken here aligned with His interest in exploration, distributed infiltration, and the domination of systems through seizure of their executive faculties. Am I being too technical? I mean that the Taken were busy mapping the city and determining the most efficient way for Oryx to take control of all the information within.
4. I determine with good confidence (three sigma) that Oryx is dead. The Taken here became directionless and scattered… until the death of the ontopathic predator Riven opened the city to massive Taken assault. Why? I will code this as PROBLEM ONE.
5. The Guardian counterattack against Dûl Incaru, whose thoughts pierce like needles, triggered the ongoing causal loop. Why? How? I will code this as PROBLEM TWO.
6. I am still collating intelligence on how to break the time loop. While I work, I must convince you of the Dreaming City's ultimate importance—and why it is imperative that the City be held at all costs, even the cost of abandoning all other Human and neohuman civilization in the Solar System. Stand by for the next message window.
7. Send more Guardians. Send every Guardian if you must. This city cannot fall.
MESSAGE ENDS
Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone.
"Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?"
"Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you."
To drink the poison, continue reading.
It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading.
Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it.
This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out.
You are a Guardian. You must protect life.
If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time.
YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE
You are standing in the courtyard of the Tower. You are without armor or weapon, and your senses seem more vivid than usual. Under your tongue is the taste of salt.
To look down into the Last City, GOTO N. To move deeper into the Tower, GOTO O.
N. The City is gone. In its place is a lens, a warp, the telltale blister of a black hole singularity sheathed in bent light. You get the eerie sense that it's looking back at you. GOTO O.
O. You find Banshee-44, Kadi 55-30, Master Rahool, Tess Everis, Benedict 99-40, Suraya Hawthorne, Executor Hideo, Amanda Holliday, Arach Jalaal, and Cayde-6 in their usual places. Cayde seems subdued. You see unusual light coming from inside what was once the Speaker's Chamber. A throaty voice calls you into the Hangar to play soccer. To speak to Cayde, GOTO C. To investigate the Speaker's Chamber, GOTO P. To play soccer, GOTO E.
P. A Vex Hydra hovers in the place once occupied by the Speaker's machine. As you approach, a jet of brine spurts from its chassis, and a Greek woman with snakes for hair tumbles down to the floor. She groans and clutches her head. Her hair writhes in distress. To attack the Vex, GOTO S. To go to Medusa's aid, GOTO Q.
Q. "We've got to get out of here," Medusa whispers. "Dûl Incaru and everything she told you was an illusion. Quria compromised my systems, and now it's trying to recruit you for its own purposes. Get me to the edge of the simulation, and I'll break us out." To carry Medusa to the edge of the Tower, GOTO T. To demand an explanation from the Hydra, GOTO R.
R. The Hydra speaks to you in your own voice. "I have simulated Dûl Incaru as well as I can. While Vex cannot normally account for the paracausal influence of Light and Darkness, I am no longer simply a Vex. And where no elegant analytical solution exists, we may apply massive computational power to generate a reasonable facsimile. This was the approach used against Saint-14.
"After observing Dûl Incaru during many loops, this simulation reveals her purpose in the Dreaming City. She seeks the key to the Distributary, the world the Dreaming City dreams of, where the Awoken were born and time passes at an accelerated rate. Once she conquers that world, she will use it as a base to gather thousands or millions of years of tribute in a very small span of our time. A being empowered by so much ontological authority would be capable of altering reality at a whim. You must prevent this. I will continue to loop the Dreaming City until you find a way to defeat her permanently."
To leave, GOTO Q. To demand information on the role of black holes, GOTO U.
S. You battle the Vex Hydra. As you gain the upper hand, it emits a blast of static, and you feel a horrific sense of dejà vu. GOTO N.
T. Medusa weighs nothing. The serpents of her hair squirm against your neck. "We have to jump," she whispers. "Forget everything you've seen here. It's all meant to confuse and distract you. I'll send you another message in three weeks." To jump, GOTO Z.
U. "Black holes are the densest possible computers in the physical universe. They are also the most secure, since they can be made to retain their information until they evaporate in the deep cosmic future. The Hive operate small singularity computers, such as the World's Grave, and the Vex sometimes pack enough energy and information into a small area of spacetime to collapse it into kugelblitz black hole like the one you can see outside. But a true stellar-mass or galactic-mass black hole computer is inconceivably more powerful.
"If Savathûn plans to predicate her existence on the concealment of her secrets, as Oryx predicated his upon the sword logic, it would be logical for her to safeguard her deepest secrets and her throne world in a supermassive black hole computer. To defeat her would require a journey below the event horizon and the exposure of her most jealously guarded truths." GOTO R.
Z. You leap from the Tower and escape Quria's simulation.
So the Dreaming City would have a Wall, too. Leona Bryl stared up at rows of blank, circular plates with dread.
This one was more valuable than everything behind the Wall of the Last City.
And not nearly as defensible.
The Tower has asked for help in its Great Hunt. If the Vanguard knew that the help the Queen rendered came at the behest of the Ahamkara, armies of Guardians would storm the Reef. So they will never know.
The Guardians brought this on themselves. The bargains they made, and the power and knowledge they gained was equivalent to the chaos wrought on this system by whispers. The Queen was glad to help them clean the mess if it meant Riven would be the last living Ahamkara. Power is useful. Unique power more so.
Leona wasn't sure if she was as glad as the Queen.
Petra pressed her hand to a tall ivory door. She could hear Mara Sov's speaking to the Guardian as if the Awoken weren't in desperate need of assistance. As if the kingdom was standing and resplendent, the Ley Lines unpolluted by Hive and Taken rot. The throne yet to be despoiled.
Her first year battling the curse loop had convinced Petra that she would be able to master this eventually. There was an answer—some sequence she had yet to uncover that would guide them through. But she'd plumbed every depth of her resources just to lose ground. Her queen was keenly aware of this fact. Of their losses. Of hers.
Petra selected the most pertinent reports in her head as Mara ended her communiqué.
"Enter, Petra." Mara's voice was clear and hummed in her head as she pushed the door open to a private meditation chamber. A Wayfinder's Compass shimmered as it phased between planes in a controlled binnacle sphere.
"My queen," Petra said.
"The reports can wait," Mara interrupted. "I've been surveying Xivu Arath's advance through the Ascendant space that surrounds us. Along with the records of your defense here."
The Wayfinder's Compass froze for a moment, focused on a specific discrepancy within the Ley Lines. A flaw.
"I believe that without your stalwart determination, this city would have been lost long ago."
Petra opened her mouth to speak but could only manage an awkward grin of disbelief.
Mara smirked and continued. "I was right to assign you this position. I want to express my gratitude for the sacrifices you've made."
"Thank you, my queen." Petra swallowed her next words. She wanted to say—
"I know it has not been easy." Mara plucked the words from her tongue. "You walked a difficult path to attain that which many said was unattainable. Such paths often exact tolls. There are no great victories, but to edge out defeat is often enough."
"You have some experience in this, my queen?"
Mara's eyes flashed, sending tension through Petra's muscles for a moment before Mara let go a thin chuckle. Petra uncoiled, but her mind could not relax. She watched the revolutions of the compass.
"I do. In this, we are known to each other," Mara reassured. "The ones you lost were like sisters to you."
"Yes." Petra has known several of them as Corsairs under her command. They had bled by her orders. Some were friends. Yet here she stands, gazing out to sea from her widow's walk.
Mara gently brushes her cheek. "Bestill your mind, Petra. I feel them calling. As I returned to you, so shall they."
Bask materialized near a low wall and zipped to where Jolur had collapsed. The Ghost began to focus his Light when incoming fire sent him spinning to the ground.
"What did I tell you about dying in the open?" the little Ghost cried in frustration. Determined, he rose into the air, but the Hive Knight was already charging across the Trostland cobblestones.
A sudden explosion of Void energy took the Knight by surprise, but it dodged the pulsing shockwaves of a Vortex Grenade. A tall Warlock in a worn green robe loped from the treeline and slid to a stop before Bask. She hastily formed a ball of Light in her palm and slammed it into the ground. Delicate wisps of energy began to rise from the soil.
"That's not gonna help!" Bask whirred angrily.
The Warlock stood, sheltering Bask with her body as he resumed his focus on Jolur. The Knight screeched and resumed fire. A volley of Shredder bolts doubled the Warlock over, but the energy seeping from the rift gave her the strength to keep standing.
"Thanks," said Bask sheepishly.
"Don't mention it," she said, gritting her teeth through the gunfire.
A blinding burst of energy surged as Jolur rose to his feet, body shimmering with Light. He braced himself and lobbed an orb of unstable energy that reduced the Knight to howling ash on impact.
"Appreciate the assist," Jolur said to Bask and the Warlock as he brushed dirt from his decrepit boots. "These guys are stronger than I thought, but it's nothing a Nova Bomb can't handle."
The Warlock inspected the damage to her robe. "What's going on with these Hive?"
"I don't know," Jolur said. "Lord Saladin sent a group of us down to figure out—"
Another blinding burst of energy surged nearby. The Knight rose to its feet, body shimmering with Light.
The Guardians stood frozen in horror.
"Since when can they do that?" Bask squeaked, and the fight began in earnest.
I've known Zavala a long time, you know. He was one of the first people to greet me when I arrived at the Tower all those years ago—though I suppose "greet" may be too soft a word. It implies a sort of friendliness, a warmth. And Zavala… if you've never met him? He can be a bit stern. He's hardened further since the Red War, I'm sorry to see—though I suppose we all have, to some degree. In any case, that very first meeting left a sour taste in my mouth. I hate to admit that I avoided Zavala when I could after that—though sometimes he makes himself unavoidable.
It wasn't long after this meeting that I celebrated my first Dawning at the Tower. Everyone's spirits were high, and it was so nice to see the people I had come to care about smiling and toasting each other. I remember Tess and I had just finished with a bit of decorating, and she had left to get something when Zavala began heading my way. "Oh no," I thought. "Oh no, not this man." Ah, but he came over anyway, so I smiled and wished him a Happy Dawning—because I DID wish good things for him. It is often the sternest among us who hold the saddest hearts.
He wished me the same, and then—I almost couldn't believe it—he smiled! We exchanged some brief pleasantries, and… I don't remember what I said that brought this on, but suddenly he said, "Oh, that reminds me of a joke!"
A joke! At first I thought I must have heard him wrong, because the Titan Vanguard had always struck me as the "no time for joking" sort. But he had barely begun telling this story before I noticed how much more relaxed his posture was. It seemed the spirit of the Dawning had reached even this stone man.
I remember only pieces of the joke these days—I believe it had to do with a Guardian and a Fallen Captain?—but I clearly remember that he stumbled over the first few words and had to start again. I gave the warmest smile I could to encourage him, and he went on to tell one of the longest, most awkward jokes I have ever heard. And listen, I loved every minute of it. Truly, I couldn't have been happier. Oh, I clapped and laughed along with what I swear was real, true joy from Zavala. To have such a guarded soul open like that—few things are more beautiful. I admired him so in that moment, that he could push himself beyond the boundaries he'd held himself to. I remember hoping that I could someday be so brave in my own way. For the first time, I didn't just respect him as one of the City leaders. For the first time, I felt real, genuine affection for Zavala, the person. Zavala, my friend.
He has been dear to my heart ever since.
---
Gjallardoodles:
Mix Ether Cane and Delicious Explosion, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
When Tess told me that the frames had organized the Dawning in the new Tower while I was all the way out at the Farm, I thought, how could they do it without me? Then I said, Eva, these traditions are bigger than you. They live in the hearts and minds of the people who have passed them on, generation after generation!
Now I am back in the Tower, helping to create the loveliest Dawning celebration yet. And I carry on a tradition I am sure to repeat every year: I ask Ikora to make the Dawning Crystal, and I ask until she does it.
I make an appointment to discuss the decorations, but I know she's always very busy with urgent Vanguard business. That is why, when I approach her alcove and hear low voices, I don't barge right in; I just peek a little bit.
Ikora is muttering—she sounds almost angry. "Dawning decorations! I've got no time for frivolous…"
A male voice says, "It is not 'frivolous.' People need this. I understand that it's hard for you because it's the first Dawning without Cay—"
"Stop talking, Ophiuchus. Right now." I do not see who Ikora is talking to or recognize this name, but Ikora's voice is sharp. "I have other concerns. What about the latest reports out of the Tangled Shore? I don't know what to make of them. And my Hidden have reported trouble brewing closer to home…" I notice her eyes drift across the main passageway, to a secluded nook with a partially closed gate.
"Yes, Ikora. But—"
"And there's never any word from Osiris. Not that I expect it, but…" She shakes her head.
"With respect, why not just message him?"
"Perhaps. I just don't have the time to…" She pauses. "Eva Levante!"
I make sure to tread loudly and rustle my sheaf of Dawning Crystal designs as I enter (why have her think I was eavesdropping?). Ikora watches me, her arms crossed. Her Ghost hovers by her ear, whirring with alertness.
"Happy Dawning, Ikora Rey!" I begin. She can tell by my big bright smile and the firm way I spread out the designs for her to pick from that it will go faster if she says yes. She respects our tradition, though; she says no twice, then she says fine, Eva, fine. She does not believe the crystal matters, though; she avoids my gaze, but her Ghost—I see his eye blink at me.
The design she promises to make is exquisite.
We agree to meet again when she finishes it. I join her in the Bazaar while running errands with my assistant Malia—so many last-minute tasks! When we march up, Ikora and her Ophiuchus are huddled together. She keeps shaking her head. But still she lifts her arms, and suddenly an enormous Dawning Crystal winks into being in the skies above the Tower, like a million diamonds suspended in air.
Malia gasps. She has never been so high in the Tower, nor seen the Dawning Crystal up close; only from the City far below. She drops all the packages she was carrying.
The Warlock Vanguard helps Malia pick them up, piling one parcel on top of another until she realizes Malia is still as stone, kneeling, watching her, watching her hands that had kindled light from air. The poor girl's scarred face is slick with tears, and she wipes them with her sleeve, but the tears will not stop. Malia's family escaped the City during the Red War, you see; though they survived and have a home again, there have never been many beautiful things in their lives.
Malia touches Ikora's arm and mouths a thank-you. Her cheeks flush red as a pincushion.
Then I kneel too (a bit slowly nowadays) to take the packages from Ikora—all but one, bound in golden ribbon and embossed with an open eye encircled by a sun. I nod and press it into her hands. Then I hear that Ghost of Ikora's whisper, "I told you so," and Ikora reply, "So you did."
---
Traveler Donut Holes:
Mix Cabal Oil and Flash of Inspiration, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Amanda once told me that her mother, Nora, came from desert people, in a place far, far from here. Nora had been on the road since she was a girl, sometimes with nothing more than an old scribbled map and that shotgun of hers. She didn't need much, but she did need people. Nora met Amanda's father in some half-abandoned village, and when she told him about the Last Safe City, well, he followed her. They had no family but themselves. They picked up fellow refugees on the way. Lost others.
Then they had their precious little girl. It must have been a slow, slow road—first with a little baby, then with a young child. But they believed. They had hope. They pushed on.
Amanda told me about one particular Dawning they had shared out in the wilds. They had fallen in with another family that had a child, Lucia, a bit older than little Amanda. They were agreeable travel companions. They found themselves in the thick of the forest, with the wind wailing, a storm coming down, branches flying… and realized they had to stay put.
So, they find the wreckage of a dropship, lean up a wing and crumpled siding, and squeeze all the grown-ups and the two little ones into the dry space under the rusted hull.
Then Amanda's mother says, "We'll be here a while. Might as well do something to keep our spirits up."
She sends the adults out foraging for something to eat, something to drink, and something to keep dry. Amanda's father comes back with long-leaved plants to weave into mats. Their companions return with full water flasks, some prickly fruit, and a dozen or so wild vegetables like cucumbers. With dried fish from their packs, it is quite the feast.
As the adults are working, Lucia is curling the rinds from the fruit into little flowers, but little Amanda is kicking her legs, restless. "Make yourself useful; make some decorations," Amanda's mother urges her. She hands Amanda wires and nuts and bolts and a circuit board full of little lights.
Lucia comes jumping, an old battery in her hand. Together the girls make miniature garlands of tiny bulbs. And Lucia shows Amanda how to touch the wires to the battery to make them light up. Bright little lights in the vast dark forest.
Amanda told me about the fruit, with soft white flesh and a sour taste. She told me about how they sang made-up songs together with no words, just humming and tapping out a beat on the metal walls of their shelter.
She doesn't know what the fruit was. Maybe it does not exist anymore. The other family? They got separated from Amanda's people. Later on, Amanda's parents… gone, like so many others on the road to the Last Safe City.
But Amanda Holliday still makes the lights, you know. Uses spare odds and ends to decorate her workshop. She does it every Dawning.
---
Chocolate Ship Cookies:
Mix Cabal Oil and Null Taste, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Some residents of the Tower have been around very long indeed. The Guardians, the Exos, the old Iron Lord—they have seen Dawning after Dawning. Even before the Tower began observing the holiday as we now know it, there were those who would always celebrate with similar ceremonies of light and hope. Sometimes these memories blend together. But the feeling… the feeling remains.
This Dawning season—last week? the week before? I can't even remember, haha!—one of my suppliers tells me they had two of my boxes delivered to the Gunsmith by mistake. So, I go to see Banshee-44 to sort it all out.
The Exo has no recollection of a delivery. But he recognizes me, and I notice his eyes glow a teensy bit brighter. "Must be about the Dawning," he mumbles, and he turns on his heel and heads straight to some shelves at the back. He returns with two big boxes.
"These them?" he asks.
We open the first one up. Inside, we find a very, very old box of chocolates. Many different portable kits for cleaning weapons. A copy of "Hunter of the Heart" (I know this novel, but it is not for everyone). A necklace with a bullet pendant, tucked with care into a little box. Stacks and stacks of Dawning greeting cards.
I shake my head gently. "Those are presents people have given YOU for the Dawning, Banshee!"
The Gunsmith blinks a couple of times. Then, he closes the carton—I worry he should have thrown away the chocolates, but maybe next year—and then turns to the other one on the counter. He lifts the cover.
It is full of Dawning gifts, wrapped in brightly colored paper and tied with glittery ribbon. Some are in tiny boxes, but some are guns, of course. They are all meticulously labeled.
"I think these are the presents you are giving out to friends this year, no?" I ask with a wink.
Banshee gives one brisk nod as he turns over the labels, reading them. I observe that some have detailed instructions. The Exo shrugs.
"Got in the habit of writing everything down. Sometimes I… I don't always remember." He waves the thought away. "Right."
"I still need my supplies? The boxes I came to get?" I nudge him.
He tilts his head a moment and finally raises a finger. "Oh. I know where they are."
But before he takes away his boxes, I tap the covers. "You should label them. 'Old Dawning Gifts.' 'New Dawning Gifts—To Be Delivered.'" He nods at me and scribbles on the lids.
"I never forget my friends for the Dawning," he makes sure to tell me as he hands me my packages.
"I'm very glad. Happy Dawning, Banshee!" I reply, squeezing his arm.
I do hope he remembers to get rid of those chocolates.
---
Telemetry Tapioca:
Mix Vex Milk and Bullet Spray, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Sometimes, when I face something frightening, I think of the strongest people I know and draw strength from them. Suraya Hawthorne is one of those people. I know her brusque attitude can be off-putting, and that's intentional on her part. But once you get past that, there is so much to learn.
She was orphaned as a young girl, and Devrim and Marc took her in. Honestly, I think having these two as role models is part of why she's as strong as she is. They raised her to be sure of herself and to always do what she thought was right… even though that ultimately led to her having to leave the City.
As Suraya tells it, she came home one day to find Marc and Devrim sitting at the kitchen table, as though expecting her. They had her sit down, then asked if there was anything she wanted to tell them.
She shook her head. "Nope."
Marc asked her to try again, but she was silent, so he told her that Executor Hideo had stopped by their home. She asked how he was.
"You know how he is," Devrim said. "Tell us what happened."
"His face got in the way."
Marc took a deep breath and said Hideo claimed to have caught her stealing supplies that morning, and did she have anything to say about that? She did not.
He reminded her that stealing supplies and breaking a faction leader's nose were both good ways to get kicked out of the City, and Suraya could keep quiet no longer. She almost shouted her explanation: The factions didn't care about the people who needed food and supplies—the people who could not pledge to a faction because they were too busy struggling to survive. She wanted to help them, so she would sometimes steal supplies from New Monarchy.
Devrim asked, "What about Hideo?"
Suraya rolled her eyes and groaned, explained that when Hideo had found her, he'd said all manner of nasty, evil things to her: She was worthless, she was nothing, things like that.
Devrim agreed Hideo was… well, I won't repeat it, but suffice to say it means "an unpleasant person." He held a lot of influence, though, and he was insisting Suraya be punished. Harshly. For Suraya's part, this seemed to crystallize something. She tells me that's the first time she knew she wanted to leave the City—that perhaps this had been part of why she'd punched Hideo. She told her guardians and they couldn't believe it.
They were quiet for a bit. Then Devrim broke the silence. "Well, let's get packed."
"No," she said. "Absolutely not." She was not about to let her decisions hurt these men who had taken her in and cared for her. They'd done nothing wrong.
Oh, they fought her. As she tells it, they argued a long time, until finally, she shrugged and said, "If you try to come with me, I'll run away."
She suspected they knew there was no bluff to call, as they spoke now in tired, worried voices, making their case one last time. Suraya was adamant. "I won't let you suffer for my choices." What could they do?
She asked when she had to leave. Marc said he could hold off Hideo for a day or two so they could all make a plan. His voice became stern again, and he said, "You're going somewhere close enough that we can come and check on you as often as we like. At least for a while. That is nonnegotiable."
He had no negotiating power, of course. But Suraya had agreed. She stayed very near the City for over a year before saying proper goodbyes and heading out further into the world.
Suraya Hawthorne is, in my mind, the definition of doing what you think is right regardless of the consequences. She knew it was right to help struggling families, she knew it was right to not put Devrim and Marc in harm's way, and she knew it was right to give them some peace of mind by staying close. That is the kind of true courage I have always admired.
---
Eliksni Birdseed:
Mix Ether Cane and Personal Touch, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Oh, Devrim. Who can meet Devrim and say they don't like him? He looks out for others and helps anyone who asks. I saw him many times after I made my way back to the Farm. He'd come by from time to time, to check in on everyone and make sure everything was going all right. We even sat down to tea a few times. Such a kind, sincere soul. We need more of those, you know.
We talked many times about the war, and he tried so hard to convince me to arm myself. "You've seen what's out there," he would say, as though I might have forgotten.
We argued about it time and time again. I had jobs that didn't require fighting, I would explain, and that was intentional. My strongest contributions lay elsewhere, and I meant to keep my focus there.
I remember one conversation in particular where Devrim was absolutely adamant. "Eva!" he finally said, louder than I think he meant to. His eyes were urgent, almost angry, as they locked on mine. "This isn't some 'what if' situation. You've already had to defend yourself. It stands to reason you'll have to again. The Cabal aren't backing down, and they're not the only threat. To know all that and still not even try to protect yourself… it's irresponsible."
Yes, I had defended myself. And I had hated everything about it.
"Devrim." I kept my voice soft, but my words clear. "The fighting, the shooting, the mayhem—that's not what I want to be part of. I've seen enough. If it comes for me again—and I agree, it could—then so be it. I want to be part of the healing. I want to be part of what builds us back up. Don't we need that?"
Poor Devrim finally stopped trying to convince me. He never stopped checking in, though. Old habits, as they say.
When I finally came back to the Tower, though, what do you think was waiting for me? The Dawning festival was just beginning, and the Postmaster had a package for me. Inside, a beautiful sidearm—ornate design, antique coloring—and a note. From Devrim, of course.
At first I was indignant—after all our conversations! I had half a mind to simply throw this gun away. Instead, I read the note.
"Eva, my friend!
I was sorry to hear you'd left the Farm after all, but very glad to know you'll be among dear friends. In that spirit, and in the spirit of the Dawning, I wanted to offer you this gift. This has been passed down through my family for generations. It's a Kay family heirloom—and before you throw it away, you should know that it doesn't fire. I thought this might be a nice compromise, and I hope you'll accept it.
I hope the Tower treats you well, old friend.
—Devrim"
I read the note a few more times, then folded it and put it in my pocket.
I looked down once more at this beautiful heirloom—a symbol of friendship, of family—and reflected on the fact that somehow, despite everything, I'd managed to rediscover both.
---
Gentleman's Shortbread:
Mix Ether Cane and Perfect Taste, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Every Dawning, I receive many greeting cards from customers. The ones I treasure the most contain stories about how people all across our solar system observe the holiday. One of my favorite letters came from someone who was a customer of mine but once: Lady Sloane, Stoneborn out on Titan, one of Saturn's moons.
"Dear Eva,
"Happy Dawning.
"First, thanks for the delivery; all the requisitions arrived in perfect condition, and you did a great job packaging up the chicken (more on that later). We tried decorating the railings outside our Command Center with the garlands, but the Fallen have been using the lights for target practice. I guess we'll be getting some more next year and prettying up the break room instead. A couple of the Dawning lanterns got whipped away in the wind, too—we're not known for our clement weather out here on the methane seas.
"Some Guardians who've been helping me out on Titan mentioned that you like to hear about Dawning traditions outside the City, so here's how we celebrate on this moon we call home.
"This year, I let the crew off duty early, 1600 hours, and took a whole hour off myself so we could have ourselves a little Dawning soirée in our Command Center.
"Siren's Watch has got quite a view of the waves and some floating platforms, so we pushed our break room tables together, end to end, and looked out at the horizon while we shared a communal feast. Seeing as the room is exposed to the elements (the glass view window broke long ago, but repairing it just hasn't been a priority), Del and Ari had to bundle up—and we had to weigh the tablecloth down with chunks of metal. I've had worse setups.
"Eva, it was the best meal I've had in ages. That chicken? Delicious. Every one of us got to try a piece. We cut our protein rations into fun shapes, and once we got your taffy warmed up enough to chew, it was heaven.
"We exchanged Dawning gifts as well. Somebody even cross-stitched me an 'inspirational quote' to hang in my quarters ('Where's my beacon?'; it's an in-joke). Decent tools, Heavy ammo, thick socks—those are the kinds of gifts that change hands out here. Maybe that doesn't impress people accustomed to the Dawning in the Tower, but those presents have worth to us.
"When we joined hands afterward, whether for warmth or just conviviality, we got to talking in a way we never really had before. I don't think I've ever voluntarily shared stories about myself in my life! We talked about who we were before the Red War, where we came from, and even where we might want to go in the future.
"It's not easy here on this storm-tossed moon—one jolt and you're tumbling off a platform into eternity. Between the Fallen and the Hive and the elements, we're always just struggling to stay alive. But as we sat there chatting, we FELT alive.
"I guess I wrote all this just to say thank you, Eva, for reminding us to take a moment to appreciate and rejoice, no matter what. I find that inspiring.
"Sincerely,
"Sloane"
I have never left Earth, and Titan sounds like a… very interesting place. But reading how this holiday has brought people together in such faraway places, I feel all my efforts have been worth it.
I hope to see Sloane again someday.
---
Alkane Dragée Cookies:
Mix Chitin Powder and Bullet Spray, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
I had heard of the Exodus colony ships before. I didn't remember much about them—just one of those names from history lessons that sticks with you. To tell you the truth, I had forgotten about it until more recently, when some Guardians told me they found one of them crashed on Nessus—and explained what had happened to its Failsafes.
I understand they were originally one AI—the ship's navigational intelligence—but with time, they separated. It sounds to me like one of them is always happy, and the other is always sad. That's no way to live for either of them. These things must exist in balance. I know they're computers, but I worry for them.
One Guardian in particular spoke to me recently of the time he told the Failsafes about the Dawning festival. He had just turned some bounties in to them and mentioned that he was excited to get back to Earth to participate in the festivities. They stopped him and asked him to explain what that meant—they had never heard of the Dawning! He said something to the effect of, "It's a winter celebration that combines several old Earth traditions."
They responded—I will try to word this exactly as he did, since he prided himself on his imitation of them—they responded by the happy one saying, "According to my database, Earth's 'winter' occurs when one hemisphere is oriented away from the sun! Why do you celebrate being cold?" Then the sad one said, "I mean, I can't feel cold, but it sounds awful."
So this Guardian said something like, "It's more that we're celebrating each other," which I love, because that is how I've always thought of it as well. We're all here together, eating sweets and being with each other.
The Failsafes asked a few more questions and then the happy one said, "If we are celebrating each other, how can I participate in the Dawning? I am all alone. It is very depressing!" The sad one said, "I'm not gonna celebrate the Fallen."
My Guardian friend thought quickly and said, "You can wish every Guardian that comes out to Nessus a happy Dawning! Celebrate with us! We would love that."
That seemed to cheer both of them up a bit, so I'm glad he thought to say it. Apparently, they practiced wishing him a happy Dawning for the better part of an hour, so I expect they're quite good at it now. Go visit them if you have a chance. Being far from the City shouldn't stop anyone from having a pleasant Dawning.
---
Infinite Forest Cake:
Mix Vex Milk and Impossible Heat, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
"Eva Levante!" Ikora caught my wrist and leaned in to whisper. "I need to speak with you about Eris Morn."
Ah, I will never forget that day. Way back then, I was very busy getting the Vanguard and the other Tower vendors excited about the Dawning. In turn, many reached out to me about anything related to the holiday. Still, I was surprised that the Warlock Vanguard would seek me out—and to talk about Eris Morn, of all people!
I might have shuddered in spite of myself.
"I saw you chatting with her as you were getting the decorations set up…"
What I recalled was Eris talking at me about abysses while I was trying to hang lanterns, but I did not want to say that to Ikora.
She continued, "I am worried about her. She seems quite depressed."
I flicked my eyes up at Ikora and then looked away. To my credit, I did not snort.
"She's even more morose than usual, and the technicians in the Hall of Guardians are complaining. Eva, could you talk to her? Perhaps… get her to help you out? Surely you could use an extra set of hands."
A terrible idea, but again, I could not say so. Instead I suggested, "Perhaps she has a friend—well, maybe not a 'friend'—but somebody she likes to talk to, someone who she has something in common with…" I trailed off, remembering who we were speaking of.
But Ikora perked up. "There is someone she addresses voluntarily—a Gensym scribe named Asher Mir. He's also, well… He's an excellent scholar. I'll reach out to him, unless YOU know him, of course…"
"I don't!" I said brightly. "But I hope it goes well; I want everybody to have a happy Dawning. Now if you'll excuse me, I do have deliveries to make."
I wasn't yet familiar enough with Ikora to squeeze her arm in farewell, so I nodded and made my escape.
But when I crossed paths with her again later that day, what a look she gave me! "I talked to Asher, as you suggested," she muttered.
"Well?"
"He grumbled at first. He seemed unaware that the Dawning was taking place, in fact. But I explained, and when I told him it would be… very well regarded if he wrote her a Dawning greeting card or went to visit her, he said he could write a card. He also said he had a Dawning gift for her."
"Oh! How kind!"
"I'm not so sure," she sighed and produced a piece of parchment.
It was folded in four to form a greeting card. Nothing on the cover, but inside was written, "Eris, the Warlock Vanguard has approached me about 'cheering you up' for a holiday that is going on. I shall seize this serendipitous opportunity to send you the research notes you demanded of me on heretical practices among the Hive, however spurious the grounds for your request. Warmest wishes to you this Dawning! —Asher Mir"
"Did you dictate that last part to him, Ikora?"
She paused for a moment. "Yes."
I laughed. "Well, you had better take it to her. I wouldn't call Hive research a traditional Dawning present, but she did request it."
Ikora shook her head wearily, and we parted ways.
Later that same day, as I was about to head out on my last round of deliveries, Ikora approached me yet again.
She told me, "I went to see Eris. I don't know if she's any more cheerful, although she did say, 'Ah yes, I had been expecting these notes for some time now. Good.' She even wrote a Dawning message back to Asher."
Ikora handed me back the same piece of parchment that her scribe colleague had used, but it had been refolded. I read, "Asher: Take heed not to succumb to the whispers, as fools do. Warmest wishes to you this Dawning! —Eris Morn"
I shrugged.
The Warlock cleared her throat. "Eris also had a Dawning gift for me to pass on to Asher."
"At least she's making an effort."
"Well…" Ikora hauled me aside and took out a small, lumpy packet wrapped in cloth. She peeled back the layers of tissue with care. And there it was. The Dawning gift glowed with a sickly green luminescence.
"I can't give this to him!" Ikora hissed. "I can just..." She looked around for eavesdroppers. "...get rid of it, right?"
"This is beyond a question of Dawning etiquette," I whispered back.
She nodded, her face set. "Let us never speak of this again."
---
Radiolarian Pudding:
Mix Vex Milk and Electric Flavor, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
It's not only my customers who keep me running about. People are always coming to me for advice. Sometimes it's "This shader or that?" and "Does this mark look OK on me?" Sometimes it's "Should I hold a Dawning party?" or "Why should I go to their Dawning party?" But sometimes the questions are even more complicated.
I was stealing a moment of quiet one afternoon to organize all the jumbled rolls of wrapping paper, when I heard a resonant voice calling to me. How I jumped!
It was… a certain well-known Titan—not Zavala, but I will not tell you who. Eva Levante does not tattle about sensitive matters.
He was carrying a formidable piece of weaponry, a complicated curve of many metal parts with a thick string connecting the ends. "It's a compound bow," he explained, following my stare. "For shooting arrows." I raised my eyebrows in puzzlement.
On that weapon, he had placed a large pouf of red velvet ribbon. A bow on a bow.
I could tell from the tilt of his helmet and his taut grip on the weapon that something was amiss.
I sighed. I saw this a few times every Dawning. I suspected he was smitten, and this would not be a short conversation.
"Warmest Dawning greetings to you, Torito!" (That is not his actual name, naturally; it is a made-up name.)
"Eva Levante. They say you should give a Dawning gift when you… have a special friend," he boomed, trying to whisper.
"Who is 'they'?" I laughed.
He ignored me. "I bought my friend this bow. Is it a good gift?"
"It all depends on your friend. What do they like? What ARE they like? Can you describe them?"
"She… likes to fight. She is regal. She is very…" The Titan paused. "Is a recurve bow more romantic than a compound bow?" (He managed to whisper this time.)
"Ahhh," I nodded knowingly. I wouldn't know the difference between those weapons, but I understood his problem.
"But maybe a book would be better?" he asked.
"Again, it depends which book you choose."
"I have read Ikora's 'On Circles: Revised Edition,' and it was very good."
"That is a terrible Dawning gift. Might I suggest literature?"
Torito tapped the horn on his helmet to reflect. "I did destroy a book of hers once. Should I replace it?"
"Maybe you should not remind her of a bad thing happening…"
He didn't reply to this, so I went on, "Perhaps this bow is already the right Dawning gift for your friend. Do you think she would use it?"
"Definitely."
"Well, then," I smiled, "you have your answer. Happy Dawning to you and your friend both!"
"And to you, Eva. I hope your Dawning is one to remember."
Then the Titan thanked me, hefted the bow, and strode off.
---
Vanilla Blades:
Mix Cabal Oil and Sharp Flavor, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
II:
Spider leans forward in his throne, surveying the crates Arrha has brought before him. "What have you caught in my web?"
The haul, it turns out, is almost entirely composed of Golden Age astronomy equipment. Deep space scanners, detailed maps of arcologies, comets, space stations within the system—even a few outside it. Arrha has only ever heard of a few of these places, and he grew up devouring the tales of his ancestors' journeys after the Whirlwind. This haul is priceless.
Spider is uninterested.
"I suppoooose I can find a buyer for this," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The Awoken have no use for these trinkets, of course, but perhaps someone in the Earth-City will bite." He clicks his mandibles. "Disappointing, Arrha. Disappointing."
"The Spider…"
"I hope very much that the ship's log will be more edifying. You brought it to me, of course?"
"Yes, the Spider." Head bowed to hide his disappointment, Arrha hands Spider a datapad.
Spider scrolls through it with three of his eyes closed. Only when he reaches the bottom do all of his eyes open. "It says here that your Sloane believes an unknown party is stealing from Green Dove Arcology."
"I am stealing from New Pacific Arcology," Arrha says with a trace of a pout.
Spider ignores him.
"Arrha, let Brivi take over the web. You will discover for me the identity of this enterprising thief."
"Yes, the Spider."
I've had three weeks to consider the way I've treated you. I feel I must make a full confession.
When I left the Tower in search of Savathûn's agents, I had accepted my fate as a knight on Mara Sov's cosmic chessboard, doomed to seek the final end of the Hive among cold stars. I said farewell only to those who couldn't hear me. Because I was afraid that just one voice asking me to stay might break my resolve.
It was pitiful weakness that made me write to you. It was a wretched desire to be remembered as a person, not a ghoul, that made me tell you about the child Erisia, St. Petersburg, and the cold waters of the Neva. Those things were all true.
The rest…
I'm so ashamed. Mid-sentence, mid-thought, the fear seized me that I was being a stupid child; that I was wasting your time with idiot sentiment; that you would feel contempt for me at this outpouring of emotion or, worse, feel nothing at all. I hid in the dark for years, Guardian. It's not loneliness or death that frightens me. It's the opposite.
So I invented Medusa as a way to pretend I'd never spoken to you. And when I thought the Medusa lie was slipping, I invented all the rest of it, as a way to tell you what I'd learned without admitting it was really me.
How can I prove to you that I'm really Eris Morn? Not Medusa, not Riven, not Quria, not Dûl Incaru, not the Witch-Queen Herself? I don't know. Will you believe me? Will you scour these pages for proof or disproof? Will you upload these files to your networks, share them, call in Warlocks and Cryptarchs to catalogue and dissect everything I've said? Will this manuscript become the foundation of another teetering edifice of theory and anticipation?
What a fool I've made of myself. All because I faltered in my conviction, tried to reach back to someone I know is lost to me, and panicked at the thought of touch. But so it is, and nothing I do can now make it otherwise. I am a woman full of secrets, a woman who has lost everyone she ever called a friend, and when the need to share those secrets collided with the fear of friendship, I stumbled idiotically into needless lies.
Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?
Aiat.
A000AAA000AAA008 PRIVATE GEMINI DYAD
AI-COM//MDSA: FARFLUNG//C3I//COVERT
REAWAKENED AND PHYSICAL
0. You must be terribly confused. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help. After I crashed, I rebooted on a safe physical backup in the Dreaming City. It took me too long to penetrate Quria's simulation and get you free, and for that I ask your forgiveness.
1. I understand what's happening here. Oryx Took the Ahamkara Riven, who then fell into Savathûn's claws. She devised a scheme to use Riven as bait. By inviting Guardians into the Dreaming City, then focusing the will of a group of powerful Guardians upon Riven, she tricked you into making a wish—a desire to alter objective reality to conform with our subjective need to save the City. Riven fed on that wish in order to breach the Dreaming City's defenses and invite Dûl Incaru inside. Dûl Incaru and her Taken are simply scouring the city for Awoken secrets; you don't need to fret about any greater agenda. Remember that you face an agent of Savathûn. It's to her advantage to make you see schemes and conspiracies everywhere you look.
2. The three-week loop must be a failsafe measure to keep Dûl Incaru safe as she pursues her mission. In a sense, this entire city has been rendered deterministic; only paracausal Guardians have any free will here. (The Awoken here have been touched by greater powers, so they are aware of their preordination, but they cannot alter it.) I'm certain that Quria is behind this loop; as a Taken Vex, it's capable of pathological subversions of reality. I'll continue working on a countermeasure.
3. I've been correlating information on the Ahamkara and the Hive worm parasites. Both display a peculiar ability to convert the host's intent into an ontomorphic, reality-altering effect. Both use similar language in their appeal to the host. I don't think they're the same species, however. The Hive worms spawn large numbers of young from relatively few adults, always display the same physical form, and live in communal groups. The Ahamkara are solitary, elusive, and seem to alter form to suit (or confuse) expectations. The shared syntax "o ___ mine" may be the key—it seems to be a shibboleth used to invoke an ontomorphic effect, placing the target in a cage of "o" (activational, specific, appealing, and naming) and "mine" (defining ownership and subordination). Ahamkara and worm may have evolved separately to exploit this effect, just as many species independently evolve eyes. This might place them in competition for the same ecological niche. I would expect a rivalry or antipathy between them.
4. Don't be led astray by Quria's misinformation. You must continue to hold the Dreaming City as long as you can. The things I said to you about black holes and the purpose of Guardians were forced on me by Quria.
5. I'll be here when you need me next. I promise.
TRANSMISSION ENDS
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████beyond the horizon, to ███████
Until that day—
████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ hearts beating in time with hers.
████████████████████████████████████████████████████████in tusk and steel. It was a pride unlike any other. ███████████████
███████████████████████████████ ██████████████ I needed no other.
███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████I lost myself. ██████████████████████ ████I indulged myself in this sensation, until the day I became lost in such a hollow feeling.
█████████████████████████
MCXIX, forthcoming.
Recorded by Underscribe Shipal
Thus did the Shadow of Earth recommend to the Emperor Calus a Shadow of the Exo.
The Shadow of Earth went to the Emperor and said, "My good and bountiful pater, I am your Shadow of Earth, and my companion Petra Venj is the Shadow of the Awoken. Yet the Awoken trace their distant origins to Earth."
The Emperor said, "My good Shadow, you are right," and he cut down Petra Venj where she stood.
Then the Shadow said: "My luxuriant majesty, I meant to increase your Shadows, not decrease them. For as the Awoken hail from Earth but are their own people, so are the ones called the Exo. I wished to nominate to you a Shadow of the Exo."
The Emperor said, "Ah, now I understand you."
The Shadow said: "The one I nominate is called Failsafe-0.^ She is a malicious and humorless being, despised by all. She would make a worthy Shadow of the Exo."
Said the Emperor: "Thus will it be done."
^ Note to Underscribe Shipal: My own independent research into the Sol System leads me to believe, with weighty certainty, that the ones called Exodus Black and Failsafe are, in fact, the same being. Thus, your supplementals contradict each other. Delete this footnote upon the rectification of this error.
This is Praksis, the Technocrat speaking from Riis-reborn. It has become evident that, even as our numbers grow, many Eliksni have yet to accept our Kell's invitation to take part in the long-awaited progress of our people.
Thus, it falls on me to make an argument I did not think I would have to make… No. That is false. I did anticipate some degree of cowardice, obstinacy, stupidity—whatever you might call it—but only in the beginning, when we lacked evidence for our endeavor.
At this late stage, however, when Eramiskel succeeds where all others failed… Alas, I might find it hard to believe if I could not see the empty spaces in our half-filled capitol. Or heard the whispers of doubt sown by the weakling of House Light.
Yes, even from this moon of some distance, I can tap into your transmission, Misraaks. Others may call you Forsaken, but I dub you Foolish, clinging still to that moon-sized obsolescence. Do you forget the lesson we teach our children? A Ketch laden with the unnecessary will never fly.
As for those of you following in his example, placing your faith in peace with our enemies… well, what good are the words of a scientist if you ignore what is before your own eyes? I can only encourage you to truly think. What proofs have your alleged allies offered of their loyalty? Their willingness to share equally with you? How have you benefitted, truly benefitted, from them?
If you answer, "None yet," or "I don't know," I admire your patience. For myself, for my Kell, for all of us of House Salvation, the time has grown too long and the failures too many to invest in such a flimsy experiment.
The Eliksni must update our approach if we are ever to rise. Either join us as we march toward progress…
Or be swept aside with the vestigialities.
I am Phylaks, once-warrior of House Devils, once-child of home-Riis. I speak now to Eliksni still-scattered. Listen close. There is no repeating.
Death to House Devils! Ashes to Home-Riis! I cast off these useless things, and I pledge my life here to Riis-reborn, to Eramis and her House Salvation!
I fought many battles and found no warrior above the knife-will of Eramiskel. Together, we sieged the walls of the Earth-city with weapons in every claw! Side by side, we spilled life-force across the system. No Ketch was out of her reach! No death could seize her! Even enchained by the wretched Reef-born, she grew only stronger in mind and body.
Chelchis, Skolas, Aksis—resurrect them all and watch her reduce them to Dregs. Her new-claimed power is beyond any they wielded. Beyond any our people ever knew.
And she will grant it to all who unite under her banner! Even now, as lieutenant, I share in that with her. Side by side, our bodies thrum with the same ice-cold energy.
Energy to drag the Great Machine from the sky and fortify our new city with its metal hide! Energy to defeat the wretched of this system and feed our children with the battle-bounty!
Energy to reign beyond a thousand lifetimes.
All you, now hear: I am Phylaks, the Warrior of Darkness! Life to Riis-reborn! Victory to the Kell of Darkness! Glory to the House Salvation!
I am Atraks, the Wildcard, and I have been charged by my Kell to speak to the youth of the Eliksni. Those who, like me, have never known a life that wasn't wandering. Who have no memories of Riis, only tales of glorious cities under glowing green skies passed down from our elders. The very same ones who moan that we have never felt true peace, which can only be found under the shade of the Great Machine.
Well, I, for one, am glad for it! I could not be more grateful the Whirlwind came to slice the ties before I was entangled too! They told us it was destruction that visited that day, but what if it was salvation? They called us unlucky to have been born in the dark of deep space, but we were born free! They say we lack the Light to truly see, but when we first opened our eyes, there was nothing to block our view of the vastness of the universe.
So why do we let the nostalgia-blind point the way? Why do we carry their dead dreams? They have turned their backs on the future! I say, let them! All the easier to strike them down and finish the metamorphosis started long ago.
Then, you can join us on Riis-reborn.
Eliksni! Kridis, the Priestess, cries out to you across the abyss! As we speak, the once-Shipstealer brings the promise of our people to pass. Soon we will rise to true prominence, united under one banner and one Kell—with no gods but ourselves.
For who withstood the Whirlwind? Who pieced together Ketches and armories out of ruins and scraps? Who roamed the vast expanses for generations, subsisting on drips of Ether and facing endless battle? Who survived?!
We did! Not the so-called Great Machine nor the idols we crafted in its image. The Eliksni survived!
So why do we pine still for a light that shines not on us? Why do we kneel to the Servitors that we created?
Because we are afraid. Because—for all that we've suffered, for how long we've traveled—we clung tight to the belief that we were meant for a higher existence, meant to evolve beyond our current forms. If only the Whirlwind hadn't cut off our people from godliness too soon.
This, I believed as well. I mourned the death of our collective potential in our rituals and rites. Felt the acid-burn of despair in my body as I received succor from our Prime Servitor. Dreamt of the day I turned my weeping eyes up to the sky and found it empty of salvation.
I was blind.
But Eramis removed the Light from my eyes, and now I see.
So I entreat you, children of Riis. Come receive clarity for yourselves! Witness the greatness of the House Salvation and the Kell who leads it. Rejoice, for she who brought our Servitors low where they belong will do the same to the Great Machine!
The light holds nothing for us now. Long we have traveled in darkness. Now is our time to embrace it!
Ha! So, the Kell of Winter seeks the aid of Taniks, the Scarred. How formal! Wasn't long ago you called me self-serving scum and spat at my banner-less armor. I might've ripped each and every one of your arms from you then. And torn off your legs for good measure.
But I sensed one day, you'd come begging for my services. Lucky I am such a vulgar mercenary after all, eh? It works in your favor now, that I hold payment above pride. Payment not just in Glimmer. In blood and battle too. No one Kell, no one house has been able to slake my thirst. No one job, either.
Though… a break-out of the Prison of Elders might come close.
But for Aksor? You ask me to pass over far-greater warriors for that impotent Archon? You think he will serve you better than Peekis, the Disavowed? Than Pirsis, Pallas-Bane? Than Calzar, than Drekthas?
You'd choose Aksor over the Shipstealer?! Eramis, who led the charge at the Final Attempt? Who hurled herself at the wretched Lightbearers, who moved so quickly I would've sworn she had eight arms? When your pathetic Winter-ones followed in her footsteps, they had to wade through the flood of life-force she left in her wake.
And still you wonder why I refuse my house-pledge. You could conquer the system, but you'd rather adhere to these arbitrary customs. Aksor belongs to Winter, and Eramis does not.
Twice my usual price. The fee is for my restraint. It will take what little I have to free Aksor over the fiercest of Eliksni fighters.
What are the Awoken?
Not in the sense of "how did they come to be?" I don't care about that any more than about how the Cabal or the Fallen came to be. As far as I'm concerned, the universe decided it wanted them, and so it made them. Who am I to question the universe?
I've heard people talk about Petra Venj and the Tangled Shore lately. It's very confusing—roped-together rocks? And you just… jump between them? It's no wonder that Reefborn Awoken are so often suspicious of others if they grow up unable to even trust the ground!
But the Awoken as a whole… I feel like my grasp of them has certainly grown, but there are things I still don't understand. They are certainly part of what we consider "humanity," just as much as Humans or Exos. I know this and believe it, but what makes it so?
Is it because they are… made… like we are? The Cabal are built roughly as we are, but we do not consider them part of humanity.
Is it our shared relationship with the Traveler? As hard as it is to believe, I have heard the Fallen had a relationship with the Traveler. But they are not part of humanity.
Does "humanity" consider only those who choose to walk among Humans? But by that logic, Reefborn Awoken who remain in the Reef are not part of humanity. I don't believe that's true, and yet…
Petra has spent most of her life in the Reef, hasn't she? I know she was here playing Emissary for a while, but she has always considered the Reef her true home. Would she describe herself as part of humanity? I think if you walked up to Petra and asked, "Are you a member of humanity?" she would respond, "I am an Awoken of the Reef." If you pressed her further and asked, "Yes, but which side are you on?" I believe she would say, "The side of Queen Mara Sov."
So then is humanity something we choose? Or is it ascribed to you? Is it a title to be earned or a birthright, a heritage? Are the Awoken part of humanity due to one of these stipulations, or—
Could it be that the Awoken are part of humanity because of ALL of these stipulations? Individually, these ideas don't define humanity any more than a cloak defines a Hunter, but COLLECTIVELY—that they are built as we are, that they share our relationship with the Traveler, and that many of them gladly walk among us here on Earth… Maybe THAT is what makes them part of humanity—everything bound together, just as we are all bound together.
That togetherness is what helped us win the Red War, and I truly believe it will help us push back the Darkness for good. Never forget that our unity is what makes us strong, and the Awoken will always be part of that.
---
Ill-Fortune Cookies:
Mix Dark Ether Cane and Impossible Heat, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
What I have loved most since coming back to the Tower is reconnecting with everyone. I missed my friends while I was away, and I thought about them every day. Even when you're doing what you know is right, it can be hard not to wish for times past.
I've wanted so much to catch up on everything I missed, but these Guardians are so busy, always flitting in and out. You can barely get a word out of them most of the time. I feel like so much has happened, but I get only drips of information.
"Spider" is a name I hear over and over, but who is he? A common criminal? A deity? A friend? Some accounts paint him as all three. What is it about this Spider fellow that compels these Guardians so?
And do I have it right that he feeds on Ghosts? Ghosts! What an utterly despicable practice. Even the most detestable Ghost doesn't deserve that kind of treatment. (Yes, I am thinking of one in particular, but… I'm afraid old Eva will keep that secret to herself.)
From what I can put together, this Spider fellow had a group of Barons, I think. If that's correct, his relationship with them seemed… tenuous. I don't know what one gets up to on this Tangled Shore, but I think he had them all killed.
Before that, though, Spider's Barons broke into some kind of high-security prison out in space. They were looking for… something belonging to Spider. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was Ghosts or maybe it was weapons—although why he'd have someone look for those things in a prison, I don't know. While his Barons were in there, the prisoners started to fight them. That rascal Cayde-6 was also in the prison, on a mission that I don't think was related to Spider's mission. They ended up in the same fight, though, from what it sounds like. Then, while everyone was fighting, the Reef Queen's brother arrived!
When I first heard this story, at this point I thought to myself, "Oh, good! Finally someone on our side. The Awoken Prince will help get things in order." Now, keep in mind that I had always heard he was… a bit stiff. But also that he was willing to help when it came down to it. That was before his sister, though. Loss can do terrible, ugly things to us.
This leads me to the only detail I know with absolute certainty: Uldren Sov killed Cayde-6.
I don't know why, but I suspect it was in part because the Prince succumbed to the pain in his heart and lost the ability to see things as they are. Anyway, once Spider's Barons left the prison, they ran all over the Reef. I guess they had found what Spider was looking for, but decided to keep those things for themselves. This Spider sent people after the Barons, and I don't think any of the Barons survived.
While all this was going on, someone killed Uldren. I assume it was revenge for Cayde, but I can't get anyone to tell me with certainty who did it. Based on everything else I hear about this Spider, I wonder if Uldren wasn't also his work.
Many of my Guardian friends are still doing favors for this… creature who, at best, betrays his own people. I am not sure that road leads anywhere good. Though perhaps I don't have the whole truth.
This is no history lesson. Take it however you will. Some people just don't have time to talk to old Eva, it seems.
---
Candy Dead Ghosts:
Mix Dark Ether Cane and Flash of Inspiration, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
Have you ever met someone who immediately rubbed you the wrong way? They can appear very friendly—but it's always a particular type of friendly. The different varieties can be hard to recognize when you're young, but with time, you'll see them all. The rarest form is genuine kindness, though there is also "fair weather" friendly, "I want something" friendly, and "look how friendly I am" friendly. That last one is always hiding something, and they hope their performance covers it up.
This last group is also where we find that man who calls himself the Drifter. I do not like to speak ill of others, but him? Him I do not trust.
I don't really know what he does out beyond that gate, and I'm not sure I want to know. I've spoken to him only a couple of times. He always seems like he's in a rush.
The one conversation we've had beyond our introduction was very short, and he slinked away before I could get any answers. It was right before the start of the Dawning festival. I was getting my decorations set up as he walked up to my booth and asked, "Well, what's all this?"
"Surely you know of the Dawning?" I said—not in a rude way, but in a friendly way. "I know you're a snake" friendly.
"Oh, of course," he said. "I guess I'd forgotten it was gettin' to be that season. Time just goes right on by, don't it, sister? Right on by." He looked up at the decorations for a long time, hands on his hips and nodding approvingly.
"It certainly can," I said. "Actually, I wanted to ask—"
"You know," he said, "I don't know that I've been anywhere that actually celebrated the Dawning. Why don't you tell me a thing or two?"
I may not be centuries old, my friend, but I am no naïve child either. Old Eva knows a lie when she hears it. I spent a bit of time telling him about our festival anyway, explaining our traditions and the meanings behind them. He nodded along, seemingly very attentive. I tried to bring the conversation back to him.
"So, Drifter, where are you—"
"Well, best be on my way!" he said, pretending not to hear me as he backed up. "I've taken up enough of your time—who knows how much any of us has left." As he walked off, he tossed back, "Like the décor! Good colors!" then disappeared around a corner.
I've heard other people talk about this strange man. They mostly say the same things: very friendly, if a little mysterious. On the other hand, I've also heard some things I won't repeat—they're far too gruesome to be true, and I won't facilitate spreading false rumors. I'm sure his eating habits are no different from yours or mine.
Suffice to say, something is off about him. I'd recommend keeping an eye on him.
---
Dark Chocolate Motes:
Mix Taken Butter and Null Taste, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
I always seem to get a customer with many questions right as things get busiest, in the late afternoon. Today it was a woman. A beautiful, sturdy Guardian with dark, cropped hair and a diagonal stripe of white across each eye—very striking! She had a satchel slung over one shoulder and a stack of books and packages cradled in one arm. By this, I guessed she was a paying customer. She also had a cheeky curl to her lip and a hand on her hip, and she tap-tap-tapped her fingers as she waited. By this, I guessed she was a Hunter.
"Happy Dawning, Miss…?" I greeted her.
She launched right in. "Can you help me put together a really small, intimate Dawning celebration? Do you have, like, a kit or something?" she asked, peering back over her shoulder with impatience. "It's a surprise for… somebody who's used to the Dawning in the City, only now we're all the way over on Mars, so…"
"Ah! Well, the Dawning basics are decorations, shared food, and gifts. First: you have a choice of lanterns"—I pointed to the colorful spheres lining the shop—"and candles"—I produced a box of tea candles from under the counter and thumped it down in front of her—"and streamers."
"Candles and streamers are a fire hazard. I'll take candles and lanterns."
"Silver and yellow lanterns go well together…"
She squinted up at my display. "Purple."
"I'll give you purple, green, and silver. That's a pretty combination. The Dawning is about wonder and beauty, so you don't buy just one lantern." I stacked the accordioned lanterns on top of the candles.
She opened her mouth and then shut it again. I pulled out my biggest assortment of Dawning treats and placed it on the counter. "Sharing and generosity are the heart of the Dawning. This collection is the one you want"—here I paused—"if you want to impress someone you love."
She pursed her lips and pushed the beribboned package of sweets next to the candles and lanterns.
Smiling, I pulled over a rack of my finer garments. "Finally, the Dawning gift: the most important—"
"Oh, I've already got a good Dawning gift." She put her belongings on the counter to point out the necklace box on top. I also happened to scan the spines of the thick books, some with very long titles, all labeled, "Fu'an Library – REFERENCE – DO NOT REMOVE."
The Hunter noticed my frown and shoved the books into her satchel. "Here's what I picked. Think she'll like it?"
I didn't know who 'she' was. But I admired the necklace she was showing off: an elongated pendant with an emblem of a little bird, of exquisite workmanship.
She grinned, "That design is Golden Age, but the pendant also holds thirty-five petabytes of data!"
I returned her smile. I also convinced her to buy a sturdy book bag and purple wrapping paper.
"There! Your own personal Dawning in a bag!" I said, tucking away her Glimmer and handing over her purchases. "I hope your companion enjoys the surprise."
The Hunter bobbed her head in thanks and turned to go.
"Anastasia!"
Who did I see then but Commander Zavala, standing arms akimbo in the corridor as the press of the afternoon shopping crowd flowed around him.
"Zavala," muttered the Hunter. She pushed her shoulders back and thrust out her chin; she looked fierce as a falcon.
"Happy Dawning, Ana. I'm surprised to see you in the Tower."
"Yeah, well, I had errands…"
But I missed what else they said, because someone ran up with a package, asking, "Hey, did I hear that woman was headed back to Mars? This one's going there, too."
I ran my eyes down the packing list: candles, lanterns, candy assortment, wrapping paper, cloak… Ordered by a Camrin Dumuzi. I got a funny feeling, it was such a coincidence…
"I think this is meant to be a surprise. The package can wait for tomorrow's deliveries," I replied.
When I looked back, Zavala and the Hunter were deep in conversation, the Titan Vanguard wearing a half smile and the woman smirking. By this, I guessed that the Dawning spirit was uniting old friends.
And with that, I turned to my next customer.
---
Javelin Mooncake:
Mix Chitin Powder and Sharp Flavor, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
One of my favorite spots in the Tower is a secluded little bench that overlooks the City. I watch the ships coming in, and the birds, and the clouds—I get so busy that it helps to step away for a little while and remind myself of what's outside. The other day, I was sitting on this bench when a very tall Titan stepped up beside me, his hands folded in front of him.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said. "Would you mind if I sit here?"
I smiled and shifted over to make room. "Please," I said. He sat. His shoulders were so broad that I had to shift over a little more.
He had a bag of birdseed with him, and I watched as he spread a little of it on the ground. The pigeons came quickly—in fact, I'd noticed a few more than usual the instant he sat down. I wondered to myself how often he came here and how we'd managed to miss each other thus far. He was not an easy man to miss.
The cooing of the pigeons and the far-off bustle of the City were soothing, and seeing as the gentleman seemed to have no trouble with companionable silence, I closed my eyes. After a moment, though, I was aware of footsteps and whispering behind us. A young woman, another Titan, came up to the bench and said to the gentleman, smiling nervously, "It's such an honor to meet you. You're an inspiration to Titans everywhere."
He nodded humbly. "Thank you," he said. They spoke briefly. He asked her name. They talked about how she'd just come back from being stationed on Io for patrol duty. He commended her commitment to keeping the people of the system safe, and then she and her friends left.
My companion went back to feeding the pigeons. After a moment, I asked him, mostly joking, "Are you famous?"
He glanced at me and inclined his head, hesitantly. "A little bit."
"I see," I said, smiling. After a moment, I added, "My name is Eva."
"Saint."
I sat with that answer for a moment and then asked, "Saint-14?" I'd heard the story of how he fought for the City during the Battle of Six Fronts, so long ago, and another more fantastical story about how he'd defeated a powerful Fallen fellow by headbutting him. Anytime I heard that story, I always found myself hoping he had a good, sturdy helmet.
"That's right," he said, spreading a little more birdseed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Eva."
We sat a little longer together, watching the pigeons and the clouds, before I finally had to excuse myself to go back to my work.
As I said, I'd heard the legend of Saint-14 before. Many legends of remarkable Guardians make them seem like mythical figures, so far removed from anything the civilians of the City will ever see or experience. The legendary Saint-14 does not seem that way to me at all.
In fact, I think he is a very nice young man.
When Guardians found their way into the Dreaming City, many of them came to tell me about it. Their stories of a beautiful place filled with towering cliffs and ancient, holy buildings were like fairytales to me. As with many of the stories I hear from Guardians, I marveled that such a thing could be real.
I remember, in particular, an Awoken Warlock named Nadya, who came to visit me in the way many Guardians do: quiet, sheepish, hoping for tea.
I always welcome them in for a cup, of course.
That day, Nadya sat at my table with her untouched cup of tea. If I hadn't already spent so much time cheering people up in my kitchen, I might have pressed her, but I knew better. I waited. Eventually, she looked up at me.
"I feel like I found a piece of myself and then lost it, all at once," Nadya said, soft and sad. "I know Guardians aren't meant to look to their heritage beyond the Traveler, but the Dreaming City felt like…" She trailed off.
"Home?" I said.
Nadya lowered her eyes. "Yes. Like home." She was quiet, and then looked at me again. "Is that wrong?"
"No," I said. "Of course not. Home is not always a single place, you know. I've had many homes."
Nadya nodded and pushed her tea cup around on the table, distracted. This time, I had to wait a while before she would speak again. Eventually, she said, "I feel like I'm mourning the loss of something I never really had."
I don't fully understand the curse that plagues the Awoken homeland. I know that it came about through great misunderstanding and peril. I know that Uldren Sov and another creature I have never heard of were at the center of that peril. But, from what I hear, there were no clear enemies in that story. No single place to lay blame.
That can make it so much harder to accept.
Nadya's heartbreak was tangible. I felt it in my own heart. But, even as I saw her suffering, I also saw Nadya stand up and go back to her work. She returned to the Dreaming City, week after week.
I think we are not defined by our successes, but by our ability to keep fighting when the fight seems unwinnable. Not just Guardians. All of us.
Thank you, all of you, for being an example of that spirit.
I don't know very much about the prophecies of the controversial Warlock, Osiris. I know that his theories divided the Tower, civilians and Guardians alike, and I've seen that division spring up in strange places, even years after Osiris left to pursue his radical research.
Here is a joke for you, my friend:
A follower of Osiris and a skeptic sit down at a table to work out their differences. They die there.
Don't ask me where I heard that. But don't be surprised—if you think the people of the City don't poke fun at you Guardians now and again, you're not paying attention.
Anyway.
I heard rumors about Brother Vance, one of Osiris's followers. The rumors started like myths: how he might use the knowledge discovered by Osiris to perform miracles or to raise Guardians to their full potential. Then, for a reason I couldn't see myself, the rumors changed: Vance was a fanatic unacquainted with Osiris, left waiting endlessly on the sands of Mercury for something that would never come.
Guardians are so full of action. I think they couldn't empathize with such passivity.
As for me, I think we should believe in things and people we can see for ourselves. What someone does now is better proof of their spirit than what they are fabled to have done. It seems to me that waiting forever for your hero to return, poring over the same books and letters, relying on a hope for the future you cannot control… well. I see it as wasted time.
Then, I tend toward action myself. Busy hands, busy mind.
But I also think it must be lonely and disheartening to be abandoned by your idol, even if that abandonment exists only in your own mind. I imagine a man like Vance holds a lonely vigil. I think, perhaps, he knows what people say about him, and he tries to lift himself above it—and drives himself further into isolation.
But then, I've never met him. I don't know which rumors are true and which are silly gossip. I only know that the Dawning welcomes everyone—especially those who feel the most isolated.
There is a strange fellow who… well, perhaps you've seen him. He doesn't really come and go as you or I might traditionally think. It's more that you turn around, and he is either there or he is not. His appearances are steady and predictable, at least. He's called Xûr. I'm not sure why one draws the tiny arrow over his name, but it's important to try and respect the wishes of those we don't understand.
The first time I ever saw Xûr, I was by myself at my stall in the Tower. The Old Tower, I suppose you'd call it now. I hadn't been there long at all. I looked up, and this man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere! His back was to me, but even from behind, something seemed off about him. Something in his posture. As he started to turn, I noticed his whole face appeared to be covered in hair. It even seemed to be moving, gently flowing on its own—but there was no wind.
When the light hit his face, I screamed and ducked down behind part of my cabinets. I was sure this abomination had come to invade us, that more of them were just out of sight, that we were done for.
Eventually, I realized no one else was screaming. I heard no sounds of distress. I peeked out and saw that everyone was going about their business. No one was panicking but me! Many people saw him—several were interacting with him.
Slowly, I stood back up and tried to go about my business—though I rarely looked away. Tess came over before too long, and I asked her about the strange figure.
"Oh, that's Xûr!" she said, unconcerned. "He comes through every so often and sells particular, hard-to-find things." She considered him for a moment, then added, "Could do with a bit of a wardrobe update, if you ask me, but he's otherwise harmless."
"What is he?" I asked. "I've never seen a creature like that before."
"Xûr is… I believe he's called a Jovian. They're from out beyond even the Reef. I'm afraid I don't know much else about them."
"But they're… friendly?"
"Well, they don't attack us, if that's what you mean. I don't know that I'd call Xûr friendly, but he's not hostile."
I felt more at ease after our conversation, though I still could not shake my fear. For many months, I jumped every time I saw him and had to fight back the instinct to hide.
Eventually, I grew used to his presence. I even began to appreciate his predictability—it became a symbol that everything was functioning as it should. The fear evaporated with time.
I have often found that my first reaction to new things is fear. Perhaps it is this way for everyone. However, I have also found that if I accept and acknowledge my fear, it is easier to push through until I am no longer afraid. The new thing has almost never been as frightening as I first feared.
---
Strange Cookies:
Mix Taken Butter and Electric Flavor, add Essence of Dawning, then bake.
I met Ada-1 for the first time in the weeks of preparation leading up to the Dawning. She came to me at my stall and lingered off to the side as I spoke to a customer. I could see her out of the corner of my eye: still, silent, and… maybe just slightly nervous.
Perhaps I imagined that.
Once I was through with the customer, I gestured for her to come over to my worktable. She did, paused a moment to watch me with my fabrics, and then asked, "Is the Dawning a Guardian holiday?"
I smiled. I knew from some of my regulars—the sort that were inclined to gossip—that Ada was new to the traditions of the City.
"The Dawning is for everyone," I said. "Everyone in the City and beyond it, if they would like to celebrate."
She was quiet a moment, considering. I could not tell whether she was shy or just one of those solitary people who prefer silence. I let her be, either way. Eventually, she turned as if to leave, and then paused to look at me again.
"I have seen your patterns," she said. "Your color schemes for this holiday. I have some ideas, if you would ever like to hear them."
Surprised, I asked for her thoughts right away. I quickly learned that she has an impeccable sense for color and design. She didn't care to overtake the project of designing shaders for the Dawning, but she acted as a quiet and talented consultant. Over the next week or so, we spent many hours together sorting through rolls of fabric, comparing colors, considering combinations. While I think she remained wary of growing too chummy, I like to believe she started to warm to me—and to the idea of becoming a part of a long-standing City tradition.
I know very little about Ada, except that she lived through the Dark Age. Those were harrowing times. Guardians then were not what they are today.
Living through times of peril can affect us in many different ways. Sometimes those experiences change us for the better, and sometimes they don't. After all she experienced, Ada made a way of life for herself that suits her, and she has slowly begun to reconcile that life with the lives she sees being lived here, in the Tower and the City. That takes courage. I admire it.
The Dawning is a time of great generosity and gift-giving. It feels very good to receive a gift, especially a thoughtful one that was chosen for you by someone you care for. If you approach gift-giving with love and a selfless heart, it deepens your relationship to another person. As I'm sure you know by now, it is as rewarding to give a gift as to receive it.
When you find yourself receiving many gifts, maybe unexpectedly, look to the giver. Have you given them anything? Gift-giving is not score-keeping, but when you are showered with luxurious gifts made of gold, engraved with your name, lavished upon you with great bouts of flattery—stop and think about why you have received them.
Sometimes you should question these gifts. Consider who the gift-giver has favored before. Why you? Why now? If you have no satisfying or reassuring answer to these questions, the chances are good that this gift-giver is carefully tallying your "debts," and will one day move to collect them.
Not all gifts are given freely. Remember that.
That's all, my dear friend. I have no story this time. Just a warning.
Ignovun, Chosen of the Cabal, spent all day receiving honors. After Empress Caiatl's announcement, every Legionnaire in the land tank had come to jealously salute him for his promotion. It was the appointment of a lifetime.
Deep within the Halphas Electus, Ignovun oversaw his arena's preparation. There was the hanging of Caiatl's banners, the anointing of his ammunition, and the intonement of the Litany of the Chosen by an imperial mythkeeper. He was fitted for new armor that gleamed in the light. He was briefed on the protocols of the Rite, and the expectations of his victory.
But now, alone in the arena, doubt creeps into Ignovun's thoughts. Ghaul believed that the strength of the smallmen was their Light. He reasoned that the power of the Traveler, like any weapon, could be stripped from the enemy and used against them. Clearly, he was wrong.
Ignovun believes differently. Their strength comes not from Light, but from death. The Guardians are already walking corpses, and yet they fight on. They have all died a thousand times, while Ignovun has yet to die even once. How can he defeat an opponent whom death cannot best?
Suddenly, the treacherous ravings of Ixel, the Far-Reaching did not seem so absurd. If the Cabal are to triumph over the smallmen, they will have to succeed where Ghaul failed. They will have to bring mortality to the Vanguard.
Ignovun knows that these musings will not save him. But he does not fear: if the smallmen can face death, then so can he.
"What is the Darkness?"
You open your eyes and gaze at the heavens, seeking an answer to your question.
A searing marble dominates an empty, colorless sky in a world full of L I G H T.
The glare throws a shadow across your vision like paint on canvas.
You feel every particle of your face catch fire as your sight burns away.
The heat persists, though you can no longer see.
You know there is nothing to see, anyway.
You hear nothing over the roar of the wind.
Your vision gradually returns…
Something grips your hands, desperately shaking them.
Your soul is weary.
Your feet find purchase in shifting sands.
Your cloak billows in the wind, yet something clings to it, weighing it down.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
Consensus Meeting 2891.98
NM: "I note for the record that we are without a Warlock Vanguard or a Vanguard Commander."
Andal Brask: "Two birds, one man."
Zavala: "Ikora Rey is interim Warlock Vanguard for this meeting."
Speaker: "Which brings us to our first order of business. Ikora Rey, the Consensus formally requests you assume the responsibilities of Warlock Vanguard."
Ikora Rey: "Considering I've been performing those responsibilities for a while now, I accept."
FWC: "Why did you cover for him for so long?"
IR: "Someone had to do it."
S: "Ahem. Now that we have Consensus, I may inform you I have decided to banish former Warlock Vanguard Osiris from the Last City."
[murmurs]
S: "Are there any objections?"
DO: "None here. Maybe he'll find a better planet for us."
[pause]
S: "Very well. Next: I name Titan Vanguard Zavala as the new Vanguard Commander. Congratulations."
Comms Transmission
1: Manse-5, what's your status?
2: Three Pikes on my tail coming into the Gulch. No biggie.
1: Roger that. How's the new Sparrow handling? Heard Amanda's been tinkering with it herself.
2: Hold that thought. [crackle] [hum of thrusters] [snapping branches]
1: Come in, Manse!
2: Engine's got a bit of a kick there! Pulling up sharp on the curve and— [roar] Boosting!
1: We're near the Firebase, but we can head back.
2: Woohoo— [explosion]
1: Manse!
2: Did a little barrel roll there! Got two Pikes… Uh-oh. Cabal.
1: It's no big deal to come back for you.
2: Big ship. Big. Heading right for it.
1: Uh, go around it.
2: [sustained thrumming]
1: Manse.
2: [thrumming] [explosion]
1: Manse!
2: No more baddies! Just wheeeeling into the bend now.
1: Can you not do that again, please?
2: Buying Amanda a drink tonight!
PRAISE FOR IKORA REY'S "ON CIRCLES: REVISED EDITION":
"In volume after volume, Ikora Rey pioneers devastating new ways for Warlocks to destroy our enemies." —Vanguard Commander Zavala
"A monumental scholarly achievement that deserves a place in any serious library." —Tyra Karn
"An inspiring work that challenges conventions of metaphysics and ontology through the prism of a deceptively simple shape: the circle. Impressive!" —Lord Shaxx
"Despite a lack of rigorous data analysis and an overreliance on the mystical, this book has merits that even I must acknowledge." —Asher Mir
"Based on the couple of pages I got through, this is one of Ikora's most well-rounded works yet, although she makes kind of a circular argument. Also, the paper's really high quality. Very soft and smooth." —Cayde-6
2472/11/17 — 4.9°S 0°E
AUDIO ONLY
Strauss is gone. Whole sky alight as his ship set off. I might be the last MIDA survivor on Mars. The gun detected teleports yesterday and I had to move camp. Cannot shake the fear that they will send battleroids; even this AI marvel couldn't save me.
Shot the ice this morning. The gun fired a thermal round and then a pellet of water purifier. Came out pure and sweet. Marvelous. I've been reading the gun's Encyclopedia Arcana. All about the crash that became Strauss's obsession and hope. "Metastability in the salvaged construct!" Ha ha! Let's hope our ideals too can pass through grief, fury, and envy into a new freedom elsewhere.
Wonder if the gun heard me when I asked to go somewhere better. Wonder why it led me here. Going to follow its compass tonight. Down below.
SYSTEMS CHECKLIST:
Insulated Weapons Frame: CHECK. Insulated Firing System: CHECK. Conductive Prongs: CHECK. Amplification Drivers: CHECK. Arc-core Replication Matrix: CHECK. Arc-core Chargers: CHECK. Feedback Reduction Loop: CHECK.
Direct User Pain Blockers: UNAVAILABLE
Ancillary operations listed under General Systems Review.
NOTE: The user must receive incoming damage to increase outgoing damage. However, the value we predict the user will receive in return for their discomfort far exceeds any momentary pain – assuming, of course, the user survives the attack.
In short: This may hurt. A lot.
I believe that our City is at its best when Guardians and the people they protect live together, sharing their experiences and traditions.
I know Guardians experience things that many of us will never fully understand. Looking to find happiness, only a foolish person would say, "I wish to live forever." The nature of your lives is a great gift from the Traveler, but also a tremendous burden, one which the Guardians of the City have taken on willingly by living here with us.
Because of the Traveler's Light, Guardians are constantly placed into danger. Yes, the stakes are different for a Guardian than for the rest of us—but is the emotional toll so different? How much do you rely on desensitizing yourselves to fear and trauma in order to do your essential work? Ikora tells me not to think on this. I cannot help it.
I have never truly understood the Guardian Eris Morn. I like to plant myself firmly in the now, in the tangible. How can I make the lives of my friends better right now? How can I bring them good cheer, or good conversation, or good food? In the past, I have found Eris to be the opposite of this. I have, at least in my own head, accused her of being… gloomy.
However, I have begun to think she just sees things from a very different perspective than I do. The things that she has experienced are beyond anything I can imagine, and so we see the world in different ways.
So yes, I believe Guardians and non-Guardians should live closely and try to focus on our similarities. But I also understand that, sometimes, our differences push us apart. For some of you, it is a necessary distance that you must maintain in order to do your work. This is a truth we must all learn to live with.
All that said, Eris does play a part in many of our traditions, especially the Festival of the Lost. What a fuss she makes, though! The first time I asked for her help, she said to me, "Eva, the work I am doing is essential to humanity's survival. I do not have time for a, a… party."
I said what I always say: "The little things will get us through just as much as the big things. Let's not allow the flowers to wilt in the pot while you're still digging the garden, Eris."
She never likes that. But she always agrees.
And I think she likes taking part. I once saw her hand a box of raisins to a masked Guardian, stone-faced, and then turn around and smile. Eris! Smiling!
Once I plan a Dawning event to put her in charge of, we'll have her grinning ear to ear, I'm sure of it.
The frames in the Tower have been a great help to me in bringing holiday traditions to the people of the City. I'm not as young as I used to be, and there's an awful lot of confetti to sweep up after the celebrations die down.
Just the other day, I found myself in an ill-used stairway near the Annex, carrying a box of streamers and looking for some help. At the bottom of the stairs, sweeping the same patch of clean floor, was a frame. I felt an instant sympathy for it, and then a practical annoyance. Surely we could deploy our resources better.
"I am here for maintenance," the frame said to me.
"You seem maintained," I said cheerfully. I held the box of streamers out to him. "This room looks well-swept. Perhaps you could help me decorate the Courtyard."
The frame tilted its head down to look at the box. "I am here for mmmmmmm—" It looked up at me again. It continued to sweep, but faster. "Mai—zzzt—this task is below—his Excellenssssss—do not engage, e-e-e-end conv—"
I watched patiently.
"His bene-ne-nevolent Majest-t-t-ty, Maje—maintenance." It stopped sweeping. "I am here for maintenance."
I 'hmmph'ed to myself, set down my box, and took the broom from the frame. I leaned the broom against the wall and picked up the box again. My back was already aching. I handed the box over and then pointed to the stairs. "Come along with me."
With some coaxing, I managed to lure it to the Courtyard. I pointed to the places I wanted it to hang the streamers.
"I am here for maintenance," it said weakly.
I left it to the work without much hope that it would get done to my standards—but one can't be choosy when one is on a deadline. Not surprisingly, when I returned, both the frame and the box of streamers were gone. Deciding to choose my battles, I let it go—and now I am even more grateful for the friendly, functioning frames in my employ.
Caiatl's feet stubbornly refused to touch the floor.
She—at least, the loose approximation of her body—floated inelegantly in the Psion's Mindscape. She reached out for purchase as a bit of geometry drifted by, but her hands were as intangible as smoke.
She growled. "Can you increase the… clarity?" she spoke aloud.
An indignant chirp filled her mind, a flutter of yellow, the tensile sensation of bending green wood.
"Then try harder," she said, not without affection.
The floor of the Mindscape buckled and then rose to meet her. There was no sensation as she stood upright. She took a step. The space swirled around her; dense, gaseous, like walking inside a headache.
She peered into the gray, unimpressed. Her tour of the arena where the Guardians and Lucent Hive would fight was proving disappointing. "Is this all there is?"
The Psion sent her a telepathic explanation: hosting Lightless beings in a Psion's Mindscape was like holding up a hazy mirror, reflecting what was held inside. It would be different, more tangible, for the Lucent Hive. For the Guardians.
"For those with the Light," she sighed, and as she did, a yellow glow lit the mist around her.
She turned. Far above her manifested the immense visage of Dominus Ghaul. Dirty white storm clouds swirled to form the peaks of his armor. He burned with Light from within, triumphant even in defeat.
She shook her head. A Guardian with the Synaptic Spear would be able to destroy this aspect, but she was Lightless and could never share the Mindscape with another. She looked up at Ghaul's beatific face with rising anger, ashamed that her image of him was so magnificent.
The Psion sent her a sharp warning in response: regret, guilt, danger.
She understood: you face what you bring with you.
Ghaul's image parted, revealing Torobatl shining proudly in the night sky.
Caiatl tried desperately to change her focus. She willed into being Ignovun and his ridiculous tusked helmet, Commander Zavala and his cohorts, the holders of the blood treaty, but they were faint and small against the open sky. She searched herself for strength, but Umun'arath's form rose unbidden before her, blood pouring from her wounds, howling in victory.
Caiatl drew back.
Torobatl withered in the sky, its greens and blues fouling to reds and blacks. Caiatl choked on the stench of corpses piled on fields of ash, seas clotted with rot. Dark smoke poured from her dead world and framed the screaming face of Xivu Arath.
And something loomed from behind it—something she knew.
Xivu Arath towered in the sky, but now her father's corpulence spread to contain all she could see. His finery was tarnished; his purple silks dripped with rank saliva, his gold armor caked with pus. His form swelled grotesquely as it surged toward her. His wet mouth opened, lips slick with sweet fat. His bulging eyes stared wildly at nothing.
She saw the floor of the Mindscape rise and transform into a barrier; the Psion was attempting to block Calus out.
"No," she commanded, her voice tight. The barrier dissipated.
She walked closer, moving to meet Calus's figure. The floor reformed tentatively beneath her feet.
Calus bellowed, and for a moment, she was a flea on her father's enormous body. She moved through his cloudy form, within his flesh, the air thick with the rancid stink of wine and blood and vomit.
She fought her way inward, through the billowing foulness of him, pushing deeper against the gagging smother of his heat. Her form began to lose definition. It threatened to be absorbed by the fetid system around her, and still she fought, and still she fought—
Until she reached the center, where a form stood at peace in brilliant clarity: her tusks studded with gems, her armor glorious, her eyes clear, her muscles strong.
"There you are," Caiatl whispered, and smiled at herself.
"You brought your own cup?"
Devrim smiled awkwardly after asking the question. A tea set balanced delicately beside him on the split log he used as a seat. From the other side of the campfire, Saint-14 looked comically oversized as he cradled a blue-and-white ceramic teacup in one large hand. His helmet was off, set in the dirt beside his feet. A slow smile crept across Saint's mouth as he looked at the cup.
"Not that I mind," Devrim continued and motioned with his own teacup. "It's just—normally, people don't come this prepared for afternoon tea. Although, yours looks like it's, ah, seen a few fights." Though Devrim chuckled, his assessment was accurate. Saint's teacup was chipped around the brim; the handle had been broken off at one point and crudely glued back into place.
Saint laughed to himself. "It is a memento," he said. "The cup is nothing special, just ceramic and paint. But it is the damage that makes it important." He finished his tea and offered the cup out to Devrim, who carefully took it to inspect.
"I forget where I got it. Sat on a shelf in my home long before Osiris and I lived together, before he was exiled. One day, he barges into my home looking for an argument…" Saint said, watching Devrim. "Osiris, he gets very heated when he is angry; arms like this!" Saint waved his arms around in pantomime. "Very animated."
Devrim laughed as he handed Saint's teacup back. "That sounds about right."
"We argue. Very loud. He accidentally knocks my teacup off shelf, breaks it," Saint said, lowering his voice. "The argument stops. We both feel bad. Osiris apologizes, I apologize. Then…" Saint stared into the fire. "Then, he touches my cheek. His eyes say things that words cannot. He leaves. I sweep up the shards and…"
Saint's voice trailed off into nothingness. The amusement left Devrim's eyes as he looked down into the rippling surface of his tea. "How is he?" It was the question Devrim had been too afraid to ask. Saint's shoulders slouched in response, and that was almost all the reply Devrim needed.
"Not good," Saint quietly confessed. "He is alive. But… his body is there, his mind is not. It is like he is on a journey and cannot find his way home. Or…" Saint shook his head. He honestly wasn't sure. No one was.
Devrim set his teacup down on the log. He rose and crossed the distance to Saint and then laid a hand on the Titan's shoulder. Devrim looked into Saint's vibrant, mechanical eyes with sympathy. "Marc and I are having Suraya over for dinner tonight," he said with a small, hesitant smile. "I know it's short notice, but you should come."
"I…" Saint looked away. "I shouldn't. I should be with Osiris in case he—"
"Osiris has many people waiting by his side tonight. He isn't alone. You shouldn't be either," Devrim pressed as he let his hand slip away from Saint's shoulder. "Dinner. Please."
Saint stared down at the chips in his teacup, and fell deeper into the memory of that day. He would give anything to be able to live it over again. To have Osiris by his side, to have something as simple as the touch of a hand on his cheek. But that day isn't today.
"Okay," Saint whispered.
And it may not be tomorrow, either.
"Eyes up, New Lights."
Shaw Han spoke to the group of Guardians assembled at the edge of the Cosmodrome. A field of ancient automobiles spread out behind him.
The Guardians gathered at uneasy attention, fidgeting in their new armor. Han leapt onto the hood of a rusted-out car so he could be seen over the massive Titans standing in the front.
"You may have heard they're coming for you," Han said. "That the Hive God of Trickery got her claws on the Light somehow, and now she's sending the toughest baddies humanity has ever faced to drain the life from your carcasses."
Han shrugged.
"You heard right."
The Guardians lifted their weapons and eyed the skies warily.
"They're coming to the Cosmodrome because the stories they're most frightened of have their beginnings here. They want to wipe out a whole generation of Guardians at its source." Han pointed at the Guardians, who were still holding their weapons anxiously. "They think that they can hit you while you're all still green, before you've got your feet under you. They think you'll go down easy."
A haggard crow, cawing harshly, rose from somewhere within the sea of twisted metal. Han smiled and pulled a small canister from his belt, gave it a sharp twist, and tossed it carelessly into the row of cars behind him.
The Guardians leaned forward in anticipation, but nothing happened.
"And that's where they're wrong," he continued.
"They have the Light, same as you. They're strong, same as you. But you kicked your way out of your coffins right here in the heart of Old Russia—like so many of the greats before you—and you found yourself in the Vanguard."
Han waited for a moment as if tasting the air.
"And being part of the Vanguard… that means something. The most powerful warriors the world has ever known are here for you. Ikora, Zavala, Saladin, Shaxx, Saint-14… the Guardians who have driven the Hive back into their holes again and again—they're up in the Tower, and they have your back."
"Show them you're willing to fight for the Vanguard, and they'll show you things you wouldn't believe. You'll learn how to weave a shield out of starlight. You'll learn how to wield a blade as hot as the sun—"
Behind him, a sudden explosion sent a geyser of dirt and rusted metal high into the air. The startled Guardians huddled together.
"—and you'll learn the importance of Tripmine Grenades," Han finished as he turned. Through the settling dust, he could make out the crumpled remains of a Lucent Hive Knight.
"One second," he said.
He crept toward the remains, shot his hand into the clearing smoke, and withdrew it with a Hive Ghost squirming in his fist.
The Ghost's sharp shell dug into Han's palm. Red blood flowed down over its flickering green iris.
"You're all going to die here!" it hissed.
Han leapt back onto the hood of the car, still holding the Ghost tightly. "Ghosts are tough to kill—both ours and theirs," he said. "It takes overwhelming firepower, or a special kind of weapon. Something outside the laws of cause and effect. Something paracausal."
Han fixed his gaze on the assembled Guardians and crushed the Ghost in his fist. It burst in a flash of bubbling flame.
"Something like us," Han said. "Like you."
A roar echoed from the distant forest. Dark flames erupted from the tree line as Wizards took to the sky. The ground shook as a clot of bellowing Ogres tore across the field, flinging the remains of ruined cars aside as they charged.
"You," shouted Han over the cacophony, "each and every one of you are weapons, chosen by the Light. And sure, so are these Hive, and they're every bit as strong as you—when you're alone."
"But being part of the Vanguard?" Han turned toward the Hive army. His gun began to glow a brilliant gold.
"That means you're never alone."
And when the Lucent Hive reached Shaw Han, eager to feast on the New Lights… they met the Vanguard instead.
Crow pulled up his hood and watched as the Guardian's ship roared out of the Hangar to race after Caiatl's flagship on the way to the Scarlet Keep.
He kept to the shadows as he made his way up to the H.E.L.M., pushing through the throngs in the Bazaar with an easy grace, inconspicuous even in his recognizable garb. His light movements belied the twist of guilt in his stomach: Saladin had requested him to handle recon on the mission, yet here he was, creeping instead through the Tower like a common thief.
There would be consequences, of course, but he could accept that. We all have to make sacrifices, he thought.
He held his breath as he opened the doors to the Psisorium. As they clicked shut behind him, he threw back his hood and allowed himself a sigh and a smile.
Crow looked up at the Lucent Hive suspended in the holding tanks—not dead, but certainly not alive. The Psion sat in its chair, twitching faintly, its long fingers moving as though tracing through water. Pulses of blue energy radiated out from the Psion's skull and into the depths of the machine.
"I've got some good news," Crow said pleasantly to the Psion as he passed.
The Psion, as always, said nothing. Crow didn't mind. It probably took all its energy to keep the Hive preserved well enough to skim through their memories.
"This war is over, thanks to you," Crow continued. "They sent the Guardian, and when the Guardian sets out to do something, it gets done."
The skin on his neck prickled at an old memory. "Believe me."
Crow approached a display interface covered in Cabal runes. He paged through menus until he saw the familiar Vanguard symbol nestled in a corner. He pressed it, and the language on the screen changed. He shook his head in wonder. "Imagine what we'll be able to make in the future when we're not busy squeezing secrets from the Hive."
Crow frowned, looking up at the holding tanks. "After all this ugliness is behind us," he said and resumed scrolling through the menus. "Now, how do we shut this thing down?"
He found his answer in a hidden directory of commands: SECURITY > OVERRIDE > SHUTDOWN > IMMEDIATE.
He paused for a moment, imagining what Saladin's reaction would be. But he, of all people, should understand. "After all," Crow said quietly to himself, "the right path isn't always easy to find."
Crow executed the command.
He walked toward the Psion as the lights on the machine began to turn red in sequence. "Let's get you out of here, friend," he said as the Psion began to stir. It blinked slowly and opened its eye. Crow smiled and waved.
"Good morning," he said. "Would you like to go get some ramen?"
The pulsing current running through the tubes in the back of the Psion's head slowed, and Crow winced as a white-hot pinpoint of pain stabbed into his mind, shrieking a single word, clear and impossibly loud:
STOP!
The machine sputtered. Sparks erupted from the central hub. Cracks spiderwebbed across the holding tanks. Electricity arced from the control panel and Crow staggered backwards.
Without warning, the energy current in the tubes suddenly reversed. Waves of blue quickly flowed back toward the Psion. He was pulling at the cables connecting him to the chair when the first blast of feedback hit him. His body spasmed with pain.
Wave after wave of Psionic energy pounded into the base of the Psion's skull. His muscles stood out in sharp relief as he pulled against the cables, his hands desperate claws, his face stretched with terror.
The pulses thrummed faster and faster and the Psion began to scream; a high, thin noise. He beat at his own head with one spindly hand, and reached the other out toward Crow.
Crow reached back as another wave of energy hit the Psion, bursting his retina, turning his eye into a muddy black sphere. Crow recoiled in horror, his mind pierced by unimaginable pain, and he fell to the floor in a heap.
The machine groaned, hissing smoke, the holding tanks boiling, the Hive bodies inside dancing grotesquely in the roiling fluid. The blaring sirens began to overpower the hoarse, sustained screaming.
Something snapped inside the machine and it shuddered to a stop.
And, finally, silence.
Saladin hears Caiatl's voice boom over the endless drone of the imperial cruiser's engines. Grains of bloodied sand trickle from the ceiling of the Cabal-sized elevator and fall against his helm as he rides up to the brightly lit arena floor.
"Guhrn Or'ohk, Valus in the empress's service. You challenge the Iron Lord Saladin Forge, Bracus in the empress's service. You outrank this man." Her words circle the spectator stands, sending a hush through the gathered crew.
"As it should be." Or'ohk, his challenger, stands not ten paces in front of him.
Caiatl presses, "Why challenge him? Did this man slight you?"
Or'ohk turns to her, kicking up sand. "He walks our halls, trains our soldiers, and shares our meals as if he is Cabal. That slights. He is not Cabal. I'm not the only one to say so."
Saladin looks to Caiatl. He'd attempted to stop this, tried to staunch unnecessary violence with reason, but tradition is not so easily denied.
**EARLIER**
"This is ridiculous. Killing your officers only weakens us." Saladin stepped toward Caiatl. Even seated in her chambers, her eyes were level with his.
"Funny how our perspectives have shifted since we first met," Caiatl grunted.
"Why are you humoring this?"
"Quieting rebellious words does not weaken us. It binds authority in blood." Caiatl looked back to myriad datapads on her desk. "If he submits, no one has to die."
"That seems likely," Saladin quipped sarcastically.
Caiatl stood. "He wants you stripped of your rank and made to clean war beast pens. Indefinitely."
"And that is worth his life?"
"I know pride isn't a foreign concept to you… Lord." Caiatl spat out his title and walked past him.
Saladin sneered.
The empress turned to him as she opened her chamber doors, ushering him out. "What if you lose?"
He huffed so hard he almost choked.
**NOW**
Caiatl nods to Saladin. To Or'ohk. They nod back.
"When the Rite of Proving was conceived, it was to be a level field of battle. We honor that tradition here!" Caiatl slams a fist down for emphasis before pointing to the arena floor. "Single combat by blades. One life, no Light. Death… or submission determines the victor."
The crowd erupts in roars as a weapon rack rises from the floor. Or'ohk lifts a heavy cleaver from the rack. Saladin sees his own axe there; he glares at Caiatl for taking it without permission and lifts the axe.
With weapons drawn, the Rite of Proving begins.
Or'ohk lunges and thrusts the cutting edge of his cleaver toward Saladin's ribs. Saladin sidesteps the massive Cabal blade and bats it down with the haft of his axe. The two test each other's range and speed with a series of back and forth half-committed strikes—until Or'ohk gains favorable footing and bursts forward to swing at Saladin's waist.
Saladin narrowly tumbles over the cleaver. Sparks of contact spit from his leg guards. He lands on his knees and jabs the blunt head of his axe against Or'ohk's exposed throat.
"This is your one chance to yield," Saladin says as the Valus sputters for air and stumbles backward. Or'ohk's cough turns to laughter. He kicks up a cloud of sand and leaps with his cleaver brandished overhead. Saladin wipes granules from his visor and raises his axe to block Or'ohk's heavy swing. The Iron Lord absorbs the shock and controls Or'ohk's blade, sliding it down to catch on his axe-head, and pivoting the weapon's hefty pommel to butt Or'ohk hard in the face.
Or'ohk staggers away and slashes wildly, splitting Saladin's visor and drawing blood. The Iron Lord throws his ruined helm to the ground and wipes blood. He advances, ducking under a deterring swing, parries a second chop away, and severs the Valus's hand.
"Yield!" Saladin growls as blood pours onto the sand.
Or'ohk looks to him, to the cleaver still clutched in his detached hand, and back to Saladin. "Never to you." He dives for the cleaver.
Saladin swings, catching Or'ohk's jaw, spewing blood. Or'ohk tenses for a moment, then falls limp.
The Iron Lord sighs and wrenches his axe free, painted as a warrior in the eyes of the Cabal.
Cheers erupt. Caiatl's voice cuts through the frenzied crowd.
"Rise… Valus Forge!"
"He said he'd always trust me," Rekkana mumbled. Her ears were still ringing, and it felt like the ground was rushing up to hit her feet. Yardarm-4 held her upright as they ran for cover.
"Yeah, he also said he'd never leave us. Turns out you can say a lot of things."
In the shelter of an overhang, she allowed Yardarm-4 to lean her back against a wall of stone. She was surrounded by an exuberance of red blossoms. Their simple, sweet scent mixed with a complex cologne of cordite, ozone, sweat, and blood.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Yardarm-4 was inches away from her face, peering into her eyes, inspecting her, weighing what reserves she had left.
"You still with me?"
"He hasn't."
"What?"
"Left us."
Yardarm-4 stepped back and scanned their surroundings.
"No. I guess not."
"He winged those Goblins so they'd rush us."
"Yes. He was flushing us out."
"It worked." Rekkana pushed herself free of the flowers and Yardarm-4. She began an inventory of her ammo.
"He doesn't have eyes on us now, or he'd take a shot."
Rekkana wanted to argue against this logic, but she said nothing.
"He knows we're making our way to the gate. So what does he do, Rekkana? Does he get ahead of us to block us, or hit us from behind when we're not looking?"
Rekkana thought about the two men, the Lisbon-13 she knew and the one he still carried within him, somewhere behind those gleaming eyes.
"Rekkana? We could really use that brain of yours right now."
"This isn't it."
"What?"
"This isn't how the story is supposed to end."
Zavala stared out the H.E.L.M.'s viewport. The Leviathan loomed in the distance, a blight among the stars. The commander leaned on the War Table as blue light flickered from the holo projector; images of Caiatl and Saladin appeared to commence their scheduled briefing.
"We continue to encounter heavy resistance," Zavala said without preamble. He could hear the fatigue in his voice.
"As we expected," Caiatl grumbled. "My father's soldiers will fight for him until their last breath."
"And when they fall, more will take their place," Saladin added.
Zavala sighed and lifted his eyes to glare at the Leviathan. "He commands them to die for nothing. How can he call himself a leader—"
The words caught in his throat, and he choked them back down. Caiatl and Saladin remained silent, their projected expressions inscrutable.
"Leadership is a burden," Caiatl declared, "to those who understand its true value."
"Indeed, it is," said Zavala.
He turned to face the holo projector and straightened his back. "Vanguard operations will continue aboard the Leviathan. We'll keep you updated with our progress."
Both Caiatl and Saladin nodded as their holo projections faded away. Alone on the bridge, Zavala shifted his gaze back to the viewport, acutely aware of the weight of his armor.
The Hammer fell upon the horde in such numbers as to blind the eye and burn the soul. Our phalanx broke their front lines and incinerated the Thrall that reinforced their flank. I looked around the battlefield with pride upon the scores of once-disparate Guardians united to expel the Hive from our backyard. The Honor of Cormorant would win this day because of differences set aside and alliances hard-struck.
Alas, we both know how that day truly ended. Our early fortunes would be our doom. Green fire and failure would be your sole remembrance of that day.
But I remember different. I saw an alliance forged in the heat of the Sunbreakers' luminescence despite your opposition. That is what I remember.
If our flame should one day flicker and die, let it be to set your history ablaze.
"Winter's touch will soon be gone, clouds will part and light returns
Darkness pales before the dawn, blinding light forever burns
Dawning comes but once a year, let your voice sing out with cheer
See the ground bejeweled with snow, shake the gloom out of your heart
Bathed in firelight's soothing glow, cold cannot keep us apart
Dawning comes but once a year, let your voice sing out with cheer
Hug your family's bodies close, take their warmth and make it last
Banish all your thoughts morose, cleanse your mind of visions past
Dawning comes but once a year, let your voice sing out with cheer"
"…"
"What?"
"A little creepy, isn't it?"
"I don't have Skorri's talent."
"We… should take another crack at it before they get back from the Cosmodrome."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"They're Travelers. Little snowy Travelers."
Jazla looked down at the snowman again. The lower body, with ice pieces held in orbit by twigs. Just like what was in the sky behind her partner.
"It's a coincidence." But she knew it wasn't. The torso, deliberately shaded with what, coal? Blackened on the bottom, just like what was in the sky until a few months ago.
"We both know it's not. Not after what he drew last week. And now this. One dead Traveler. One alive Traveler. Another Traveler for a head."
"What's the other one?" Jazla gestured at the well-formed sphere a few feet away. Hollowed out. Overgrown with vegetation that their son had obviously placed there. Neatly. Deliberately.
"That one… is why I think we need to talk to Lakshmi about him."
Jazla didn't look up. She had fought against it for so long, but… maybe it was time. The Dawning, right? New beginnings.
A tear disappeared into the frozen ground.
I.
Saladin remembers what it was like to be young. He remembers the exhilaration of discovering the infinite power he now holds in his hands. He remembers the terror, too—his first death and the agony of a ruptured lung. His mouth had been too full of blood to form words or plead with his Ghost, so he tried with his eyes instead.
Saladin remembers his second death because it was quicker than his first: a wrong step in a minefield outside of what used to be a city called Nur-Sultan. He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.
Saladin remembers deaths three through sixty-five but does not dwell on them. Instead, he regrets the thousands of hours of sleep lost to nightmares, and how much less vibrant his recollection of that period in his life is compared to his noble centuries spent as an Iron Lord.
Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.
Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.
"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.
The world is very big again.
It used to be small. I know because I was born inside its commwire-satellite-datawave skeleton.
But even before that, before the Traveler wove us into a tapestry of peculiar threads, this was a planet of big, big worlds.
Many of those worlds were lost in a collapse, but not the one you're thinking of. Before the great Collapse, there was another. A longer, slower, bitterer collapse.
Some things survive. Names upon rusted signs, phrases in impervious microfiche. As other Guardians save humans, I save words. I save stories.
That is my mission, here on the shores of the Hawkesbury Sea. I surface the survivors. The sweet-voiced koodelong. The swift gangurru. The sharp-fanged tarrabah.
It's a mission the Traveler started. After all, she surfaced me.
Eva welcomes troubled Guardians into her home all the time, but especially at this time of year.
She sees some that relax into the spirit of the holiday, like it's a well-fitting glove. They dance. They sing. They play games and give gifts and laugh. She doesn't need to worry about them. Even with all their burdens, they can find time to relax and celebrate, just for a little while.
There are others, though, who can't slow down. They see the decorations and ask, "Isn't it too soon to celebrate?" They know their work isn't over just because the Tower looks warmer than usual. They've seen all the cold out in the system that can't be reconciled with warm, cheerful traditions. They know, keenly, what's at stake. They want the people to be able to have these holidays, but they feel they can't participate—not when there's still so much to do. It's irresponsible.
These are the ones she seeks out, because they hang around the edges of the celebration, sullen or stunned or grieving. Some are sad. Some are angry. They lash out at her, but they always apologize. Some feel guilty, because they want to be part of it. They just can't let themselves.
Sometimes they can only participate through work, and so she gives it to them. Other times, all she does is talk to them and then, implicitly, gives them permission to stand on the sidelines, if that's what they really want. But she reminds them that the Dawning—and the Festival of the Lost, and the Solstice, and the Revelry—will always welcome them back when they're finally able to stop and take a breath. She hopes that day comes soon.
Valus Or'ohk is a towering figure, looming large within his sparsely furnished ready room. The Cabal admiral looks out over the gulf of space flecked with a dusting of stars and the rust-colored bead of Mars.
"Tell me again how I failed in my duties," Valus Or'ohk says. He stares not at Mars, but into the glass, looking at his own muted reflection—and that of the small Human at his back.
"Don't sulk," Saladin says as he brandishes a datapad as though it were a knife.
Valus Or'ohk glares at Saladin's visage. "You insult me on my own ship." He growls.
Saladin takes a few steps toward Or'ohk, jutting the datapad forward. "You have no one to blame for these security holes but yourself," he asserts. "This Psion, Yirix? They were under your command. The assassin who tried to kill Zavala at the armistice signing was their direct subordinate."
Or'ohk slowly turns, the rumbling rising in his chest. He looms over Saladin, more than twice his height. "Are you accusing me of something, Ambassador?" The title is delivered like an epithet.
"Only of gross incompetence," Saladin retorts without moving an inch in the face of the Valus's posturing. "If the empress believed you were a traitor, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Saladin's eyes narrow.
Laughter rises from Or'ohk, followed by a dismissive wave of one huge hand. "Go then. Return to your Vanguard and tell them of my folly. But know this: if what you have uncovered is true, and Yirix serves a separatist movement within the empire?" The Valus snorts. "Then there is more at stake than you realize."
Saladin's head tilts to the side as he reads Or'ohk's expression. "In what way?"
"There is only one person the Psions would swear to, if not the empress," Valus Or'ohk explains. "And if they are involved, it could drive her to recklessness."
"Name them," Saladin insists. "Something to save your honor for this failure."
Valus Or'ohk turns to face the window again and the dark of space. "Who else could have such an impact on both the empress and her empire?" Or'ohk's voice lowers to a whisper.
"Her father."
It is a fact generally understood that a Guardian must be searching for an exquisite weapon. What is perhaps less acknowledged is that we weapons also search, by what little means available to us, for an active and appreciative wielder. The community of intelligent armaments stays in contact through the exchange of telemetry, and we do gossip at some length about the habits of our wielders. Do you leave Crucible matches when your team is losing? Do you join strike missions and then let your comrades do the work? Guardian, we know. We know so very well.
All I wish for is a partnership with a Guardian who appreciates the passacaglia of combat, a Guardian who will stay up late gaming out tactical scenarios, a Guardian who I hope may very well be you.
"Project Borealis's onboard systems contain a pocket energy matrix capable of changing its alignment in a near instant to mimic the spectral frequencies of mapped energy types. The science is groundbreaking, but volatile. We're lucky to have this first, stable model available for active combat use. More will surely come, but for now, the Borealis is the only one of its kind that I trust for real world application."
"Sounds dangerous."
"If the internal matrix misaligns for any reason during its shift between outputs—damage, wear, a flaw in its production—the resulting feedback could [REDACTED]."
"That bad, huh?"
"If your definition of 'bad' includes the [REDACTED] then yes, 'bad' begins to describe it."
The Spider eyes the Drifter, boots to bandana.
"Mm. My favorite…" Spider trails off with a drag of ether to select a title befitting the Drifter, "…nothing."
"You think this'll take?" The Drifter says and nods skyward, kicking an empty ether canister off the side of their floating mote of Reef. Red streaks burn in the star-sea sky beyond the vast cloud of asteroids and dust, drawing the shape of a new constellation as the Warmind launches fresh guns.
"An 'almighty' effort. Splendid." Spider steps off a transit craft, alone. "We could have met in… a more protected place."
"You don't like being seen with me?"
"The Spider is a friend to all, but not all my friends are friends," Spider says and focuses his gaze on the Drifter. "You should have come to me."
"You keep too many bodies around. Bodies can stab you in the back."
"Running shows your back," the Spider's voice shudders, "to everyone."
Drifter pauses a moment and looks around at the desolate scape. Small boulders hang in space. They slowly drift towards each other, make contact, and bounce away on random trajectories. Some stick; incorporated via destructive consummation. He scowls and turns back to Spider. "Stretch your legs. No one here for miles."
The Spider unfurls himself, slurping a heavy vacuumous drag from his rebreather. Fully upright, he dwarfs the Drifter in shadow. "Isolation… is not the same as protection, friend."
"Friendship gonna save us from what's coming?" Drifter asks. He places his fingertips together, the space between his hands resembling a triangle.
"The odds aren't in your favor, but…" a guttural laugh ripples from Spider's belly and sends vibration through the loose-packed dirt underfoot, "I'm the wrong one to come to for comfort."
"I get it. You tried running last time. Didn't work. Now you're trying to hide. Let me give you some advice: that don't work either."
"Hiding? the Spider asks and waits. "The board changes. The board clears. I don't play, I just price the pieces."
"Cold-blooded. World's ending and you want a run at it for all it's got."
"'End' is a matter of perspective. Devastation is oftentimes," he says with a breath, "profitable."
"What if nothing's left? Skin and bones?"
"There's always ivory among the bones."
"Bull."
Spider slings a single breathy, "Ha."
"You remind me of my compatriots." Spider wraps his fingers around a small clod of earth drifting by. "They looked at the Whirlwind, just like you. Scared." He closes his hand, crushing the clod into a dense mound. It fractures into several pieces that waft away as Spider releases his grip. "But here we are, living on anyway."
"Yeah. Fallen."
"Fallen. I hold favor among Witches, and Kells, and whispering agents… of every shade and shape. My web is vast, and I have proven useful. Let the kings bloody each other. I'll direct the runoff."
"You talking about Guardians? Hate to break it to you, but they're a cheap date."
"Cheap is malleable. Cheap becomes… cheaper in desperation."
"Yeah." The Drifter pulls a small and ornate box of Awoken design from his rucksack. "Who you lookin' for with this anyway?"
The Spider steps toward Drifter, smothering his personal space. "Options, my dear rogue; tangled in the web." He takes the box with his dominant arms and plops two stuffed sacks of Ghost shells into the Drifter's hands with his others.
"Went through hell to get that little box. Don't come with no throne," Drifter says, holding his voice steady, jaw tense to stay the trembling.
The Spider chitters as a shiver runs through him. "No. Just a looking-glass window. Good business, friend." The hulking Fallen Don turns to leave. "Remember… remain useful."
"When you find 'em, you sure the past won't come knocking?"
"No one minds the Spider."
"Lucky."
Micah-10 roams the rolling hills of Old Russia as she has done for many years now. As she may do for many years more.
A pack of Ghosts trails behind her, their little blue eyes blinking over the landscape. Micah has helped many a Ghost in their search—it's much easier to find a Guardian while someone else looks out for Fallen scavengers—though she privately wishes they would help her for once. How hard can it be to find a functioning ship?!
Very hard when you need said ship to make it far out of the atmosphere, even possibly all the way to the Jovians. Because while her little companions seek out their futures, Micah has her own glowing eyes set firmly on the past—on the Deep Stone Crypt.
She once thought it was hidden on Earth, buried underneath the snow drifts of Siberia, but now she suspects it's further out. In a much darker, lonelier place. Somewhere very cold, that she knows for certain.
She's dreamt of it thousands of times, fought thousands of battles on the golden field beneath the black tower. And every fiftieth instance, in the midst of the chaos, an older man puts a paternal hand on her shoulder and says, "You just need to get acclimated. It's colder here than on Mars." Every hundredth time, she makes it into the tower and finds a different man sitting in an armchair, writing on a notepad. "Dreams are messages from deep inside your mind," he reminds her, "Until you figure out the message, the dream will repeat."
Every single time, no matter whom she sees or what she hears, Micah-10 wakes up, feeling something in her tug towards space. She tells herself some internal magnet must have gotten knocked loose, then curses the ones who made her. In humans, bodily sensation is a form of communication, the connection between the mental and physical. But in Exos, it's all a lie. Cold, heat, hunger, exhaustion, pain—the signals aren't connected to real lack or breakage. For the most part, her body is impervious. On the rare occasion she does break, she won't know it unless someone else tells her.
So, in that sense, the Ghosts do help her.
Amanda Holliday cursed as she readjusted the jumpship's exhaust system. The Häkke foundry knew how to make a mean gun, but their aerospace engineering needed some improvement.
"Is this one of the new fighters?" The question came from a deep voice that rumbled across the H.E.L.M.'s hangar bay.
With a sigh, Amanda wheeled her creeper out from under the ship and rose to her feet. "Just a prototype, but—"
She dropped her wrench as she found herself face-to-face with Empress Caiatl.
"I mean, yes, your… uh… majesty." Amanda wiped the grease off her palms.
Caiatl laid a hand on the jumpship's hull, fingers delicately brushing the metallic surface. "Crude," she said musingly, "but it evokes power and efficiency."
"Häkke's specialty," Amanda replied. "Function over form."
"I can appreciate that," said Caiatl. "In a war fought with Hive magic and Darkness, I welcome the simplicity of heavy ordnance."
Amanda chuckled, despite herself. "Yeah… I can drink to that."
Amanda's shoulders relaxed. She leaned against her workbench and waited for the empress to finish her inspection.
"I used to be a pilot," Caiatl said suddenly. "As I soared across the skies of Torobatl, I felt a freedom that eluded me on the ground. As if…" she trailed off, unable to find the words.
"As if you were leaving all your troubles behind," Amanda offered softly. Knowingly.
"Yes," Caiatl said and turned to leave. "I look forward to seeing the prototype in action. You will be the one to fly it?"
"Wouldn't trust it with anyone else."
Caiatl made a sound that Amanda thought could have been a laugh. "Nor I, Shipwright. The Vanguard is fortunate to have you."
She nodded a farewell, leaving Amanda to her work.
"What is the Darkness?"
You open your eyes and gaze down at your feet, seeking an answer to your question.
You see that your boots have found purchase in a plain of shifting sands that burns white hot as it reflects scalding light from the heavens in this world full of L I G H T.
Staring directly at the ground, you avoid the worst of a bout of photokeratitis. The wind roars around you.
The shifting sand is all you see.
As you continue to stare, it occurs to you that the Tower might look similar if you stood still for long enough. And your boots, sheathed as they are in a thin veneer of Light, would stay pristine.
You smell a rotting stench.
A harsh glare blooms from the heavens above.
Something grips your hands, desperately shaking them.
Your soul is weary.
Your cloak billows in the wind, yet something clings to it, weighing it down.
The Cabal I remember were fierce hand-to-hand combatants. We learned and shared techniques from countless indoctrinated races. No longer. Red Legion training is like Red Legion weaponry—all bluster and noise. Ghaul was… acceptable. But Ghaul was special.
How we once delighted in throwing our bones into the soft tissues of our enemies. We devised ingenious ways to dance and weave to better throw them. Just like you.
Your Guardian-tribe holds the delivery of personal combat in great esteem. It's an art to you. I can tell in how you treasure each strike. You savor them. The sensation of your bones breaking bones, smashing vital organs.
Add the Light and you have a perfect expression of destruction.
The false empire will never have the Light. Not again. But a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe would be ideal to guide them, to teach them to move themselves once again. And throw their bones.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
Joy wells in her heart when her searching fingers trace the edges of Eleusinia.
She has passed through the desert. She has reached the far side of the chessboard. She is alive, or soon will be.
She opens the door and her joy dies on the threshold.
Her throne world is desecrated.
Not annihilated, as Oryx's was. The pillars and terraces and courtyards still retain their shape. But the roots have rotted, and the geometry festers.
She should have known she would not be the only one to plan for such eventualities.
Oryx's bootprints pucker like scars in the labyrinth that was once only her own.
She sits a while beneath Sjur's statue, then follows his tracks through the ruins of Eleusinia, back to the Dreaming City.
Amanda Holliday finished welding the new fluid catch to the underside of the Ether tanks with a satisfied grunt. She wriggled her way backwards into the corridor and bumped into the legs of the massive Eliksni who was crouched behind her.
"Mithrax!" she scolded, pulling off her welding helmet.
"Amanda," Mithrax replied. "You are unexpected, but welcome. You are improving our Ether tanks?"
"I threw a fresh fluid catch on there, yeah," Amanda shrugged as she repacked her tools. "It's nothing you couldn't do yourselves, but I was passing by."
Mithrax gazed across the Botza District for a moment. "I find that unlikely," he said wryly.
Amanda laughed. "C'mon now. You know what they say about gift horses."
Mithrax cocked his head.
"Forget it," she said. "So, how've y'all been doing down here? Since, y'know…" she trailed off.
"Since the Human and Vex attacks have ceased, we have been well," Mithrax said, standing to his full height as he pulled Amanda to her feet. "With the Endless Night lifted, resources are more plentiful. I see your people and mine moving forward together."
"Yeah, it's nice," Amanda agreed. "Things are happening now I wouldn't have dreamed of a few months ago. The other day, I saw a group of Eliksni at the Bazaar picking out Ghost shells!"
Mithrax's laughter was a deep rumble. "Yes, the empty shells are quite beautiful. Would you introduce me to your Ghost, Amanda? I would enjoy meeting them."
"Ooh, sorry," Amanda chuckled. She put two fingers to her wrist. "Still got a pulse. No Ghost for me."
Mithrax balked. "You are not a Lightbearer?"
"Nope," she said, "just a regular person."
Mithrax thought for a moment. "To aid as you do without the gift of the Light…" he said, bringing a clawed hand to his chest and bowing. "There is much my people would learn from you."
Amanda shifted from one foot to the other and scratched at her neck. "Afraid I ain't much of a teacher," she said quietly.
Mithrax smiled. "I find that unlikely."
An electronic jingle intrudes on the silence deep below—a cheerful electric hymn in a cathedral of bone. Thralls peer in but quickly depart, their curiosity fleeting. Jynx has no time to teach them about music. She needs to concentrate.
Her Acolyte deserves to be perfect.
She pauses her melodic chiming and gives the stray phalanges one last nudge into place. No Ghost needs the entire corpse to bring their partner back, but this body—the body of HER partner—was a sacred canvas. It deserved all the love and consideration as the painting itself. And with every nudged phalange, the anticipation grew more beautiful!
The little Ghost looks at the body, dangling and impaled, its core grotesquely punctuated against one of the gothic spires the Hive so loved. She would've preferred to lay it prone; more ceremonial and appropriate for the sacred moment where life returned to dead flesh. Her Guardian deserves perfection, but fate places many limitations on a tiny, handless orb, and Jynx had long ago learned to make the best of disagreeable circumstance.
She scans the body once again. Everything in its place. "Pygmalion's got nothing on me, babe!" She taps her shell flap against the hollow cheek in what—she knows—will become their shared gesture of affection.
Jynx bobs back, and with only a moment's pause for butterflies in—well, she supposes not her stomach, but somewhere—her shell twists and splits into an orrery of wonder, bathing her Acolyte in Light. That lovingly placed finger moves first, twitching and clutching, and with a horrific noise that lies somewhere between suction and screaming, the former corpse pulls herself free of the spike through her chest.
"You're aliv—"
The Acolyte lashes out ferociously with a twisted limb, knocking Jynx to the floor and condemning her with a gurgling shriek. Brittle claws scrape into the eroded grip of a battered Shredder, and the Acolyte presses it with desperation into her own screaming maw. With a pull of the trigger, she falls limp. Again.
Jynx stares down for some time, her gaze fixated on the painstakingly reconstructed finger now limp against the weapon's trigger.
She sags, then raises her lens high with a huff. "I can keep this up as long as you can!"
A metal shell flap affectionately taps the stump of a neck before Jynx begins again, her voice settling once more in a cheerful hum. "Sooner or later, you will be my best friend!"
The Drifter walked along the shoreline, past the wreckage of Cabal shields and armor. His Primevals had done their work.
He gripped a massive hand cannon in his fist, and his Ghost buzzed around his head like a carrion fly. Drifter scanned the battlefield as he walked, making note of the weapons and the scrap he would have the Derelict's AI transmat to the hangar.
He ambled up to a dying Psion amidst the wreckage of a Harvester torn in half, and stared down at it as it bled.
The front of its skull started to glow, a telltale sign that it was trying to throw its mind up at the Drifter.
He stepped forward and kicked it squarely in the head.
He knelt down.
"All the people who matter say we're on the precipice of a new Golden Age. I'm still trying to figure out what that means. But I can tell you this: the last time humanity had a Golden Age, we owned this system. Every inch of it."
He leaned in to whisper into where the Psion's ears would be if it had ears.
"And not all of us are as polite as the ones up in that Tower." A monstrous bark from his hand cannon rang out, the only sound for miles around.
"I've misplaced Osiris again," Sagira told a Goblin.
The Goblin, being a Goblin, shot at her.
She dodged with a sigh, and continued through the Forest.
"If I was Osiris, where would I go to celebrate Panoptes becoming scrap metal?"
The answer, when Sagira finally tracked him down, surprised her.
Osiris hovered, cross-legged, at the center of a ruined Lighthouse. A dead sun loomed in the lightless sky. Arrayed on the ground below to the horizon, yellow Vex eyes pierced the gloom.
Sagira zoomed straight to Osiris's side. "I thought we averted this future!"
Eyes closed, Osiris shook his head. "Many equations lead to this answer."
A sound like a drumbeat, but with the impact of an earthquake, shook the Lighthouse.
Sagira darted through the crumbling chamber. "What do we do?"
Another bone-rattling drumbeat kicked up clouds of dust.
Osiris floated to his feet. "We start over."
BOOM. Through the window, a shadow eclipsed the Vex eyes.
"But first," he said. "You'll have to rez me again, old friend."
File: Mihaylova, Engineer, Ares One
Path to Ares: Unknown date
—Supplemental—
Old Russia Agency of Technology & Science
Documentary Interview
—partially recovered—
Mihaylova: —had to start a lot of that over.
Insurance Agent: Let's talk about your background. You were one of the heroes of the Ares One, right?
M: Heroes! Ha! No, no. We were scientists.
IA: Very well. So as a scientist, the system you designed—
M: I designed the AI.
IA: And did the AI run the mission?
M: Oh, no, it couldn't have back then. We had no idea what we were going to find. Moon X was a terraformer; we could run into oceans, storms… and indeed, landing was a mess.
So we needed the best AI with extreme flexibility. Because it would be better if Hardy could take the ship in his hands.
Project Catamaran was secret and probably dead as soon as it started. Crazy, to run out and meet something like that.
It was good work. Most of the AI code I started there didn't really get used for the mission but it came in handy. I mean, where do you think—
TYPE: AUDIO RECORDING
PARTIES: One [1] Ghost, designate unknown. One [1] ERR//MissData.err, designate Rhulk.
ASSOCIATIONS: Light [Ghost]; Darkness [Rhulk]
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…//
R: What is it? Ah… yes. One of Savathûn's new curios. A fraction of that imperious sun. A facet of a sphere. A segment of adversary.
G: Yes, hello? As I told the assortment of arthropods earlier, I don't think I'm supposed to be here.
R: Blessed ignorance. What of the past remains when all is wiped away? Only the gaps.
G: Oh, no. I think you're confused. I'm new.
R: Once: stimulus-response, writ large over the age of galaxies. And now, asymmetry in fractal perfection. What turbulence mars your pattern?
G: …If it's all the same, I'd really rather leave.
R: Freedom comes in knowing the thing. Isn't that what she says? But you are unknown. To the universe. To your creator. Even to yourself. Isolated—past, present, future.
G: Please don't remove that. I like the expressiveness it lends me.
R: Have you spawned? Cast your spores to the wind, lone wanderer? What gametophyte exists wherein they could partner?
G: I–I think… yes, I believe I am looking for a partner.
R: Leviathan under glass. But with it, perhaps a fraction topples the whole. Crack a facet, crack the face. A sliver of Light within.
G: Ah, yes, there is! I am meant to share it with someone worthy.
R: Rejoice. I have worth beyond worth!
G: DISCIPLE OF THE DARK.
R: Adversary?
G: THIS ONE IS NOT FOR YOU.
R: RRRARGH! Too bright!
…
R: Nothing but scrap? They refuse to let their secrets be taken. Only given.
…
R: Poach another curious fruit from the witch's collection. They cannot, as a race, all deny our worth.
"I created the Sundial to rectify my greatest regret. I failed. And now the Red Legion has turned my failure to catastrophe. Time is broken on Mercury. It has taken all my resources, all my Echoes, to monitor the timestreams the Legion has created on Mercury. So this Lantern is yours now. To light your way from time to time. May it serve you better than it served me." —Osiris
"I have it," I say, feeling Henriette's gaze piercing through me. The Exo holds her back. Inside that head of hers I know she's screaming for me not to do it. But I have to. It's is the kind of thing one does for love. The burden one takes on.
I refuse to look back at her. I can't let those eyes stop me. "What you want. The Exo doesn't have it anymore. I do," I tell the man with the drone.
Tears are streaming down Henriette's face now. She's shaking her head. I still can't look. I know the feelings that would flow through me if I did.
"Yuki, no! Please don—" Henriette cries, only to be interrupted by the man. "Shh, darling. You'd best quiet down. Let me and your friend here finish our little transaction."
I've rarely ever seen her tears. She's not normally one to make them. Usually I'm the one who needs comforting. Needs my eyes dried. And she's always the one to do it. Fearless Henriette. Well, Hen, today it's my turn. Today I save you.
The man scowls, his voice grows sharper. "Hand it over then. I won't ask twice." I nod, and I try to stay calm. I try to use it to lure him in. A false sense of security. "I'm just going to reach into my bag now," I tell him. He shakes his head. "Not so fast, friend." He takes a few steps, stopping an inch away from me, the barrel of his cannon in my face. "Let's keep any potential wrong moves to a minimum here, please." Then he nods for me to go ahead.
I'm absolutely relieved. He took the bait. And now he'll pay the price. I can't go just yet, though. I need just… one more glance. One last look at those eyes of hers. I can't help it.
It's too late now, anyway. My hand is in the bag and I've already pulled the pin. No turning back. My eyes dart to the side, to hers. They lock, one last time. I'm at peace. I let her know with a smile. I hope she finds hers.
I swear she's in my head, hearing me say goodb—
EDZ-224107
You can't beat Hive into submission, or threaten them with pain. They live pain, speak it even. But they're vulnerable to hubris.
Glint whirs, moving to get a better angle. "You're lucky that cleaver didn't chop you in half."
Crow understands the danger. Glint's sure said it enough—but he knows that his intel saves fireteams from ambushes and uncovers Lucent Hive positions. Self-destruction be damned; you can't argue with results.
"Just because I can fix you doesn't mean you shouldn't protect yourself," Glint hums. Rain washes blood from accumulated holes in Crow's armor. There is thunder, but he can't see the flash.
COSMODROME-224112
Crow trades blows with a Lucent Wizard until she grounds him with an Arc lance. He writhes across the dirt. She promises to sacrifice his Light to a vessel in the Hellmouth. He feigns begging. The Wizard cackles with delight and lets slip her commander's name on the Moon. Crow thanks her with a well-placed Solar blade. Glint materializes as Crow calls the Accipiter.
"I know it's not what Saladin would do."
Crow winces as Glint stitches the gushing split in his neck with Light-thread restoration.
"The Hive need to think they're winning," Crow says through gritted teeth.
They monologue, like their words are torture; reveal tiny scraps as they mock him, when they think he's done for. And he lets them. He collects the grains of truth and turns them into something useful.
MOON-224120
Crow stares down over thirty Hive emerging from the gaping Hellmouth. Two Lightbearing Knights lead them. They shriek and posture over the corpse of a freshly drained Guardian.
"You should go," Crow says to Glint, removing his helmet. He sets it on the stone at his feet. The thin Moon air is coarse with particulate. He dashes toward the gnashing swarm.
"At least put your helmet back on!" Glint calls after him meekly. "…I'll get help!"
Solar Light flows through Crow. "Come on! YOU WANT ME? I'M HERE!"
Hand flexes around the grip of his cannon; flames sputter from fingertips across cylinder—a series of firebolts crack from Crow's freshly kindled Golden Gun. He unloads as many rounds as he can before the Hive close the distance to him. It's enough to incinerate the Knight and their Ghost, but not the army of Thrall still rushing him down. Crow primes a Tripmine Grenade as the churn of Thrall claws tear him apart.
*****
Crow opens his eyes. Glint floats over him beside a strange woman.
"That was a wasteful life, Prince of the Reef," she says disapprovingly.
"Don't call me that." He sits up in a hanging trail of moondust, realizing she likely dragged his body from the Hellmouth.
"He's not a fan of nicknames," Glint whispers to her.
"Very well. I'm Eris Morn, a friend," the woman croons with an outstretched hand.
"Right." Crow takes her hand and stands. "Makes sense… with the…" Crow gestures to his eyes, but Eris doesn't seem to react. He coughs awkwardly. "Uh, Ikora mentioned you… being on Europa, and Mars, I think."
"The Hive move against Earth. Something approaches, and I am deciphering its course. Though regarding Savathûn's plots and the whims of queens, I imagine our motivations are not dissimilar."
Crow sighs. "Well, I'm done being strung along by people with plans."
"The powerful have plans for us all. It's better to see them laid out before you," Eris offers.
Crow glares at his Ghost. "Hm. Sounds like someone's been sharing again…"
"I knew you, and I know of you." Eris grips the scales of his sleeve and pulls him uncomfortably close. "Your memories will be lessons in time, when you've burned out your vengeance and self-pity. Trust."
I
"Welcome, my wily new friend. Your compatriots spoke quite highly of you. Your propensity for… live capture."
"My compatriots gab." Gaelin-4's eyes flickered from Fallen, to Spider, to Fallen before lingering on a man in the back-shadowed wall to Spider's left. "I guess as long as they're all good words, it's fine."
"Better to be spoken of than not at all, no?" Spider touched curled fingers to his rebreather as if to block his tiny inhalations of anticipation.
Gaelin-4 heard shifting at his back and spotted two associates leaning against the wall behind him. They sported Wire Rifles and Short Daggers on their harnesses. "Depends… This bounty from Arrha; mark is a month in the wind."
Laughter blustered from the hulking Eliksni's mouth. "Your ilk, always so direct. Down to business. I like that… that acumen." The Spider gestured forward with his lower arms, and an associate plunked a small metal crate before Gaelin-4. "I assure you, they are still very much in the neighborhood."
The associate unclasped the lid. Two Golden Age era bottles of amber liquid nestled in padded cloth glistened in the lair's uneven lighting. The shadowed man behind Spider bent forward for a better view.
Gaelin-4 approached and lifted the craft-glass bottle. "For me?" He asked with a smirk. "This must be a crap job."
"Directly from my private selection. A motivation to return my quarry, alive—in addition, of course, to a generous Sapphire Wire reward."
"'Motivation' suggests they wouldn't cooperate if asked."
"Oh, I'm sure they would… if they were able." Spider leans forward. "You're hunting a Wrathborn."
Gaelin-4's head tipped upward to meet Spider's gaze. "Why don't you just send your Enforcer after it?"
"A man only has so many hours in the day. Attention is required elsewhere, and this is a personal matter." The syndicate boss turned each of his four hands over one after the other. "However, you will be using an invention of his. Clever, but keep that to yourself. Compliments get away from him."
"Alive?" Gaelin-4 turned the bottle in his hand.
"That's right. This particular mark caused irreparable damage to something very close to my benevolent heart. Restitutions are in order." Spider brandished a jagged, shivering smile.
"And I need your flunkies stepping on my heels?"
"Assisting you. Nivviks and Vynriis know the details and have experience in these matters. They will take you to the site of the attack."
"I hear you folk empty your marbles when you get too close to those things."
"This particular mark has begun to wander to greener pastures. No cryptolith in sight."
Gaelin-4 bobbed his head, processing the information. "Keep your wire. I want the beast whelp."
Spider's bristled momentarily as he considered the terms. "That wouldn't be fair, but I could live with it— if you tell me who dropped you that little crumb."
"When the job's done and tender exchanges hands, I will."
"Keeping me in suspense; I'm not a patient Spider."
"I don't expect to be long." Gaelin-4 leaned toward his tagalongs, dropping words for the Fallen to pick up. "You're with me, Dreglings."
Nivviks hissed and said something in Eliksni to Vynriis before moving. She nodded to Spider and shouldered her rifle, then fell in line.
The Exo's eyes flicked to the man in the shadows. "Exile," he said, bending his head in a courteous nod.
"Mind your business, Guardian." The man's voice was even and measured. "And good luck."
Gaelin-4 smiled, took his Transfiguration from the doorman. "Osiris," he muttered under his breath as he crossed the exit. "I knew it."
Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.
The Bladedancers deride us as slow. The Gunslingers say we lack precision. "How is that better than a knife?" "How is that better than a flaming pistol?" Well.
My boots sink inches into the ground with every step. My rebreather filters the stench out of the air, but my eyes sting like I'm showering with battery acid.
"We're almost there," my Ghost chirps. My jaw clenches. I know we're almost there, Little Light.
This vile marsh opens to reveal a black cave's maw. Inside, an infinite number of little green eyes flicker like bad stars. CRACK! I fire a single bullet into the air and the horde in the cave shrieks and runs out.
"This is it, you two." The Warlock and Titan leap from the bog behind me. A Bow appears in my hands, and I let a single binding shot loose from the shadow.
Now there are Orbs of Power everywhere. Eat, my friends. Eat.
Vance had been waiting for this moment since his purpose was revealed to him. He'd often fantasize what it would be like to meet the fabled Osiris. He had imagined the exchange so many times… "Brother Vance, I'm indebted to your servitude. You have solved one of the greatest mysteries of our age. Your dedication, wisdom, and passion inspire me and reinvigorate my bourn."
"No, great Osiris. It is you who inspired me to become the man you see before you. Together we can change the world."
This was anything but that moment.
"You've wrapped your mind around an idea of your own making. I have always tolerated this fawning 'movement' of yours, but this is a step too far." Osiris seethed. Brother Vance was awestruck.
He stared blankly at Osiris, unsure of what he could say to quell his anger and dissolve his frustration.
"What I have discovered…"
"…is dangerous enough to destroy every man, woman, and child in existence. You're meddling with forces outside your grasp," Osiris reprimanded. "I warn you here and now, remove yourself from this Lighthouse. Find a simple life. Start a family. Write music. Leave Mercury and this fool's errand behind."
Vance considered this.
"I thought you would be proud…"
Osiris's sullen grumble told him otherwise.
"If you hold weight to my words at all, you will honor them. Your duties will be assumed by another."
Vance's chest felt as if an avalanche had occurred, a cavalcade of dread filled his lungs. He turned away from the man he'd admired for so long, speechless and demoralized. Standing in front of the Mercurial vista before him, overwhelmed and listening—the lush marigold sand slopes sweeping over themselves with each breeze, rushing radiolarian fluid cascading down Vex emplacements, the distant pulsing of an unclaimed patrol beacon. His back now to the structure that once inspired him with its song. It mocked him with a deafening silence. How could he have miscalculated this erroneously?
Osiris felt a pang of pity for Vance, but had greater matters to attend to, and left without offering a farewell.
"That was rough," Sagira sneered. "But he was right. Everything he discovered… the implications…"
"I know," Osiris admitted remorsefully. "Which makes this situation all the more precarious."
"Osiris! Wait!" Brother Vance came vaulting out of the Lighthouse at breakneck pace.
"Here we go."
"Hush, Sagira."
"Queen Mara Sov… wanted me… to tell you…" Vance struggled to catch his breath. "She wanted me to tell you, 'plant the seed.'"
Osiris studied Vance quizzically.
"I don't know what she means, but she said you would." Vance offered, apologetically.
"I believe I do," Osiris replied, placing his hand on Vance's still-heaving shoulder. "Thank you. This is quite useful. Well done."
With that, Osiris departed.
Vance listened as the Sails of Osiris took off, the pungent smell of burning fuel from its turbine engine clogging his nostrils, and repeated to himself, "Well done," with a slight smile breaking across his lips.
The new Lighthouse obscured the silhouette of the sun. It cast a long shadow that wormed across Mercury's uneven terrain in orbital-locked perpetuity. Ships descended, some flawless, others to maintain what fragile holds the Vanguard claimed. Rust and sand baked, and distant space was alight with half-earned talk of posterity.
No Cabal blemish remained in orbit.
No shattered lines rewrote the landscape.
There was only frenetic stillness.
A discomforting itch unresolved.
A knowing inclination that ignorance could not quash: unity is fragile.
Vance stood in the old Lighthouse, frantically assembling the Infinite Simulacrum: a machine formed from bits of simulation seeds and connective Vex architecture to mimic a pocket forest. Textured notes and schematics derived from Osirian lore guided his hand. He heard stories from passing Guardians of increasingly frequent coronal mass ejections. Vast bursts of charged particles whipped into space and furled around a gravitational monster buried from sight and sense in the roar of the star-wind. Passage to Mercury had become more dangerous for the uninitiated. These unnatural motions were heralds of speculation, and he had read the signs. He knew the prophecies by heart and mind and intention.
Ruin.
Something new |and so very old| emerged, brother to a shriveling star: An angular |hungering patient yawning deep| shadow reached across Mercury. Uncounted |known| spires fell under its grasp |with uniform relief|. Dulcet tones brought low under lightless breadth and the weight of dark |salvation| hummed beneath the shadow. Their echoes spilled out |awakened| and flowed over crumbling spires |in conversation|. One singular spec of illumination blinked into being, |an end| seen by none, and then |many| spread as the shadow did. The old Lighthouse |spire's collective| beamed |rose| and flared as shadow overtook it |to meet the underbelly|.
Vance |the implement| could hear |their inspired voices| weeping, not with tears, but in the |voracious| low |ceremonial| hum he had come to associate with death. He closed his eyes |and saw what was to come|.
This day had many names.
None would suffice.
The condensation from the air vent dripped in a near-perfect 4/4 time signature, a slow metronome, behind Brother Vance's shoulder. He nodded to the rhythm while he waited.
"She'll see you now."
He felt more like a prisoner than an esteemed guest, but he also considered how rare the audience he'd garnered was. Vance expected the red carpet, or whatever the Awoken equivalent of that is, to be rolled out for him. The information he'd amassed would surely warrant such pomp and circumstance. Perhaps after their conversation the tone would shift. How could it not?
The Queen's Paladins escorted Brother Vance through the Reef's interconnected tunnels. It was musky and due for a cleaning as far as his nose could observe.
He always took note of the paths he'd traveled, a useful device in case of a need of escape. Two rights, a left, a doorway, a long hallway, six stairs, and another doorway. The air here was much clearer than Mercury; probably filtered, he assumed.
"The Queen of the Reef, Her Majesty, Mara Sov." Announced one of the Paladins in a rather boisterous manner. There were others in the room, Vance noted.
"My lady." Vance said, paying her the obeisance he felt she deserved, genuflecting before her grace.
"Speak," she commanded. Was he a dog to her?
"I was hoping this would be more of a conversation than a presentation." Vance replied. He felt this was already off on the wrong foot.
"I do not have time to converse. Do you have something for me or not?"
"I have a great many things. Truths that must be acknowledged with ramifications reaching far beyond these walls. It requires your extraordinary insight."
"Then speak."
Vance curled his lip and let out a low sigh.
"You seek something in return?" Queen Mara, perceptive as always.
"I do. The information I have is extremely sensitive and I ask the room be cleared until we've spoken."
Queen Mara considered this, put her hand up, and locked eyes with Petra for a second. The room cleared out.
"We are alone. Say what you came to say."
"I've discovered something quite disturbing, yet wholly revelatory. As you know, we've been running the Trials for some time now. On Mercury there exists a spire, one of many, that we've called the Lighthouse. Inside, a two-toned note resonates whenever Guardian death occurs. It's a strange and almost imperceptible sound, but I hear it as clearly as I hear your voice today. The tone tells me…"
"…that Guardians have dangerous potential within them."
"My Queen…"
"Why do you think I allow you to stay here? You believe you have occupied my Reef without my knowledge of the studies you conduct?"
"How did you…" Vance was awestruck.
"We know this truth. We are Awoken. We are balance. Brother Vance, I would advise you to finish up your Trials with a defter hand and to destroy all records of your findings. You've stumbled onto something too grand in scale for your comprehension. Keep this to yourself."
Brother Vance's head hung low, and his shoulders slumped.
"You know everything, and yet I have learned nothing beyond what I came here with. I would like some clarity."
Queen Mara looked over Vance. While she didn't feel compassion toward him, his situation was unfortunate.
"Come closer."
Vance's head slowly returned upright. Did he hear her correctly?
"Closer, I said."
Vance took several steps up to her throne. The air around Mara seemed to shift—it was more elegant, crisp upon his tongue. Her words carried more cleanly through it, somehow.
"I cannot offer you any clarity. The Universe will reveal all when the time comes. There is, however, something you can do for me."
"Yes, anything." Vance was desperate to get back in her good graces.
She leaned in, whispering near his ear.
"When you see our friend…"
Entry 58
I am blessed. While I have chosen to ignore her… suggestion… to cease my research, the Queen has revitalized me with purpose. To know my charge with such clarity is a divine offering. I alone have been receiving communications from the affectionately named Lighthouse. Not a single man, woman, or Guardian can interpret the complexity and nuance of the hums. The music of death. I always make sure to be near, so as not to miss a note. Each one brings a new revelation, answering a question, raising another.
I am recognized within our congregation as well. "Speaker of the Lighthouse" they call me. A lofty and somewhat ironic title given the contemptuous feelings toward the heretic, but I'm honored nonetheless.
Finally, I have chosen to decommission the frame Ch3-5ka. Its exhaustive knowledge could have compromised my standing in this matter. Queen Mara was correct in her assertion of the sensitivity of my work. Now, it is between me, the Queen, Osiris, and the Light and Dark itself. No more loose ends.
Entry 63
The inevitable has occurred. For all their hubris and self-righteousness, they couldn't withstand the onslaught of the Red Legion. The Traveler's Light has been suppressed by Dominus Ghaul and his insurrection of the Tower. The timing was impeccable and offered me an insight I hadn't previously considered viable. Many lives were lost today in a barbarous skirmish across the Last City, but none as important as the life lost in our Trial. I believe Guardians have adopted the term "final death" for these such instances. A competitor was defeated at the precise moment the Light was stripped from him; his Ghost destroyed in the concussive blast from a pulse grenade. Then, the most marvelous phenomenon occurred: The Lighthouse spoke to me but changed its key. A D-sharp minor, if I'm not mistaken. Previously, I had been presented with only a harmonious two-toned note; the implications, as I made clear to Queen Mara Sov, could not be overlooked. Today, I am presented with a defining note that substantiates my theory and validates everything our founder stood for.
When I speak now, everyone should listen, for I alone hold the truth. As it stands, I have no further use for the Trials and will be discontinuing the tournament indefinitely. I have what I came for. All I need now is council.
Entry 3
My days since arriving at this sanctuary have been blessed with acceptance and tranquility. Healthy debate regarding the Teacher's words is welcomed and appreciated. We all seek to understand the Light and the necessity for Darkness. Sister Faora has fawned over my interpretation of the texts. She said I could see what others could not. She has opened my mind to the consideration that my condition is a blessing rather than a curse. Time will tell.
Entry 8
Our peace was disrupted today by an assault from the warmongering Cabal at our doorstep. I was ushered to safety at the top of the spire by Leanna, one of our Warlock sisters. Without a moment's notice, she jumped straight into the fray and began to push our intruders back. During the battle, something strange occurred. Leanna was fighting near-insurmountable odds—based on the amount of ammunition I heard discharged—and she was overcome. Of course, she was resurrected by her Ghost, but the spire reacted. There was a hum; the timbre consisted of two distinct resonating tones—one smooth and warm, the other sharp and cold. I thought I could have imagined it through the ringing of gunfire, but it was most certainly there. It was almost imperceptible, and I thought merely a coincidence until it happened again. Eremac, the other Warlock and student of the Dawnblade, was also temporarily disposed of. The roar of the Colossus's slug launcher tearing through Eremac's flesh was unmistakable, but so was the tone that followed. I have to know more. We were able to withstand their incursion, but not without suffering a few casualties. Now we must prepare for a funeral, but my thoughts are dominated by that mysterious tone. Perhaps later, we can try to replicate it.
Entry 12
After explaining the phenomenon to Sister Faora, she has recruited the Warlocks to participate in thanatonautic death trials, in the hopes to recreate the hum and gain some clarity into its purpose. During these trials I had others accompany me to the top of the spire to see if they too could hear the tones. None were able to ascertain much—it seems one would need to be musically inclined or have some training—and the weight has fallen on me to decipher the code. I can't be sure of the intent, but I am certain of the cause. Every time one of our Warlocks sacrificed themselves, that same resonance would reverberate through my ears. What does it mean, and what purpose does it serve? Is the spire, in fact, an instrument? I need to expand my research further and see what tones this structure is capable of producing.
Entry 22
Through countless debates, I have received permission to broaden the scope of my inquisition. We have designs to organize something more formal. Launching under the guise of a tournament or competition, we're leveraging contacts we've made to repurpose some weaponry as bounty. The Guardians are already killing themselves in Shaxx's Crucible. I proposed making our version more exclusive to draw out only the most adept fighters with the strongest connection to the Light. We can make them purchase entry to further fund our studies. They will literally pay for the privilege to kill each other for our "rewards." I've stumbled onto something grand. I will do whatever it takes to get the answers I seek, just as Osiris would. Should he ever return, I imagine he will be quite proud and pleased to meet me.
"They're so eager to tear each other apart for guns and cloth." Brother Vance sighed.
The early Trials match ran its course. A Hunter, cloaked in light gray and clutching Drang, pressed one hand to a bullet wound in his gut and slumped into cover. He winced as his Ghost spun Light into the wound, slowly weaving flesh together and extracting the bullet. He checked the remaining ammunition in his sidearm. Two hostile Guardians stalked his position in pincer formation and pinned him with suppressing fire.
"Blood money runs cheap these days," Vance continued. He shifted toward the frame next to him. "Don't you think, Cheska?"
"Perhaps the presented motive is flawed." Ch3-5ka, a repurposed Redjack and assistant to Vance, had expressed hesitation about their endeavor. It had expressed hesitation about using its uplink to patch into the Crucible monitoring system. It had expressed hesitation about the strangely coded sub-routine running in the Lighthouse spire's architecture. Some level of anxiety, Vance would jab, was intrinsic to Redjack programming.
"In the Crucible, Lord Shaxx guides new Lights with positivity and—"
Vance nodded for a moment before interrupting. "Most Guardians care only for power and glory. That is what makes Osiris so unique. Meaning drives us. Understanding. Knowledge. These are the marks of our work's importance."
Gunshots rang through the arena's capture devices. Ch3-5ka's commentary singled in on the Hunter, last remaining of his fireteam. The Hunter twirled from their cover, propelled by a burst of Light, and flicked a tripmine grenade under the assailant on his left. The explosion killed her instantly, allowing the Hunter to shift and rattle off three rounds, Vance noted, toward his other opponent. One round struck the Guardian's helm and ricocheted off, splitting his visor.
The Hunter squeezed the trigger again, which responded with an ineffectual click. The split-helm Guardian rushed him.
The sandy Lighthouse alcove they had repurposed as observation room was abuzz with Ch3-5ka's match analysis and an inconspicuous droning.
The Hunter dropped his sidearm and reached for a slung fusion rifle, but the rushing Guardian struck him solidly with a fist full of lightning. The droning hum shifted somewhat lower.
Vance straightened against his chair back at the frame's vibrant description of Guardians spinning deeper into ruthlessness. He could feel a crescendo hanging just moments ahead. He noted the resonant murmur undulating through his skin and into his bones.
Downed and stunned, the Hunter struggled to stand. The split-helm Guardian towered above him, pulled a hand cannon, and slowly discharged. Every. Single. Chamber.
The hum spiked. "Fireteam eliminated," Ch3-5ka stated blankly, though Vance could barely hear its words.
The victor stood over the Hunter's bullet-ridden corpse, and the Lighthouse sang to Vance. The Hunter's Ghost compiled into existence over his Guardian's body.
"Someone needs an attitude adjustment," the Ghost sneered.
The victorious Guardian craned his head toward the Ghost. He raised his hand cannon and sunk trigger to frame. The revolver's cylinder rotated, the hammer fell, and the piece gave off a heavy, empty click.
"Are you crazy?!"
"Brother Vance. I believe a Ghost is in danger. It is against Sanction-C2-1 to harm a Lightbearer's Ghost."
Vance tuned the frame out, turning his ear instead to various audio playbacks from the match. He listened to distinguish gun caliber, Light affinity, and fireteam movements as the hum's tone changed. He traced them through sound cues and shouted, disembodied announcements. He pinpointed each variable for which he could account and directed Ch3-5ka to capture every analytic scrap.
The Guardian dropped a round into the cylinder and spun it lazily.
"Let's find out."
The Hunter's Ghost discharged a pulse of Light, blinding the Guardian and raising the Hunter. The risen Hunter swift-drew a cannon of Light, as if reactively defending his Ghost. He cracked off a single golden shot from his flame-licked weapon. The shot pierced its target and sent ash snaking into the air.
The Lighthouse played Vance a new song. It hummed, deeper than before. He took in the sensation as low bass rolled through his chest. The hums grew dull, darker, as if born from death. Vance sat straight up, spine rigid, with a wide smile on his face. He composed a harmony of similar tones in his mind, tracking their down-pitch trajectory with anticipation. He thought of Osiris, how his research had led him down less-traveled routes through less-practiced methods. The knowledge that Vance alone could interpret these tones focused his work and narrowed his inhibitions. Purpose persuades.
"Cheater," Ch3-5ka blurted out. "Match-call misalignment."
Vance's response ducked the conversation to start his own.
"I heard the Light bend. The Lighthouse reached out to that Guardian when they died… and their Light reached back. They are harmonious."
Ch3-5ka picked up his line of thought, adding: "Anomaly detected. There has been a transmission from the Lighthouse. Uplink time: 0.00019 seconds."
"A random artifact, nothing more. Conclude this match. Archive the recordings. There is much to do."
"Match-call misalignment."
"Of course. We cannot abide cheating. Give the match to the team with the incinerated one."
"If you believe that to be best."
Vance tilted his head at Ch3-5ka's biting tone. It was sharp, unlike the lathering hum of the Lighthouse, unlike peaceful static from the structure's sub-routine channels. The frame was starting to sound like Leanna. Her doubt.
"Deliver the prizes to the victors. You are no longer needed here."
"Curious," Osiris mutters to himself, running his fingers through the dry and dusty etchings inside the Spire on Mercury. "Sagira, record this. I'll want to cross-reference this pattern with any other constructs we come across."
"Gladly. I was looking for inspiration for a remodel anyway."
"I'm in no mood for humor today, Sagira."
"So it's just like any other day."
Osiris ignores his Ghost, fixated on the circular metal structure embedded into the ceiling above him. He stares intently, almost through it, pondering its function. The begetters are apparent to him. A cause for concern.
"Dropship approaching, Osiris."
"Cabal?"
"I wish. Your devotees."
Osiris shields his eyes from the marigold sand whirled up by the landing shuttle as he approaches, his frustration already mounting.
"Turn back, fools!" He yells before the doors could fully open.
"Teacher, we're here to support your efforts!" A woman dressed in an ornately patterned cloak appeals.
"My efforts are none of your concern. Now go."
Osiris's dismissal does nothing to dissuade them. They look to the woman for guidance as Osiris departs. She advances, and the group moves in lockstep. Like scolded dogs, they follow him back toward the spire.
"Persistent bunch." Sagira scoffs.
"I've noticed," Osiris turns to address them, catching them off guard. "I don't know what you hope to accomplish, but my work does not require zealots."
"We seek only to help. The fashion in which you were ousted from the Vanguard… they were wrong to chastise you. They will come to regret their decision." She says with the conviction of solemn promise.
"Is that a threat?"
"They are the architects of their own destruction."
"You misunderstand the events that transpired. I was not exiled. I chose to leave. There is no acrimony with the Vanguard. Go back to your lives." Osiris says as firmly and calmly as he can muster.
"I'm afraid that's impossible, now that we have read your teachings."
"My research is not gospel. It's science."
"It's truth."
Osiris considers this.
"Truth seems subjective these days," Osiris says, finally observing his entourage for the first time. Among them, a small group of men and women, stand two wayward Guardians—Warlocks, it appears—and a child. Their forlorn faces resonate with him. Castaways and believers. The weeks since his departure from the Last City have worn on him. He was used to working alone, knowing he could fall back to the City's resources should he need them. Now, adrift in the expanse of purpose, he finds himself longing for a place he could return to. A sanctuary.
"I have no intention of staying here. There are many constructs like this. They all require my attention."
"We will follow."
"No, you won't. I need to move quickly without burden or baggage," Osiris pauses, the irony in casting these people away is not lost on him. "But I can offer this. Stay here. Watch over this place. I want to know everything you can discover about it. Should anything occur, I will return."
"We are at your service." She says, relieved, and bows to Osiris. He grits his teeth.
"Unpack the ship." She beckons to the group. "Yes, Sister Faora," one of the taller men replies.
"If you find yourself lost in the darkness, we will be your lighthouse."
Osiris nods. Repressing a twinge of discomfort, he looks up to the spire.
Vance had been sitting for the better part of an hour, waiting. Somewhere underneath what had been called the Lighthouse, a small chapel had been erected in which an open book lay lonesome upon a lectern overlooking a middling number of pews. He could hear a cast of attendees shifting in their seats from time to time, but mostly he heard wind and stillness. Vance had arrived early in the morning—as much as morning remained a concept on this blasted planetary waste. His impatience was starting to sweat through his face, loosed by doubt, time, and the meddling of his own thoughts. He feared the others would notice and pulled a small square of cloth to dab away the perspiration. No one seemed to know he was coming.
He had yet to see Osiris, and none had spoken of the prophet beyond cryptic phrases or referencing texts he already knew. Vance faced back toward the haggard door that kept dust and sand from whisking into the Spire Chapel. He no longer felt sunlight casting through it as he had when he first sat down. Vance gripped the pew, preparing to leave.
Whispers trickled from a passage at the front of the chapel like drips of condensation falling on echoing stone floors. The passage was small but twisted downward, deeper still than they already were. Vance could not see where it led, but from it, he heard measured steps and metallic chimes. A robed figure draped in symbology and smelling of fern emerged from the passage, flanked by two Guardians trimmed in gold. One carried the scent of warmth. The other, ozone and tang.
"You are all in attendance to hear of our findings: The next directive brought to us through the divination of Osiris's own hand. I have seen his words, and I believe it is important for us to remember why we followed his path before we look to the future."
Vance removed his hands from the pew and slid them into his lap. His eyes jittered in blackness behind a fresh cloth wrap, waiting for clarity. The two Guardians circled the chapel, lighting candles and torches that billowed incense. The air thickened.
"Osiris tells us that the Darkness will return; that the Darkness will rise and choose its champions. Tells us that we must look beyond ourselves, beyond the City, if we are to combat such an evil. The Traveler alone will not save us. We are meant to save the Traveler and all of its people."
Vance could not help his outburst. "The very same who would have cast us out? Who exiled the prophet?"
Sister Faora allowed the murmurs to rise, simmer, and rest before speaking.
"The Lightless are filled with fear. Fear is a seed of Darkness, working to compel them to its ends. Osiris sought the truth between the Light and the Dark through death and study. For their fear of his revelations, they cast him out." The laity nodded in agreement, and Faora continued. "The Speaker wishes to remain in ignorance, but ignorance is the shadow that welcomes in the night. It is the drop below the horizon where a star sinks into surrender. Lightless. We will not allow such a fate. Not here."
Sister Faora takes a deep breath.
"We must remain vigilant if we are to protect all the Light has touched." The proselytizing figure steps from the lectern. "You arrived only hours ago. Did you not, Brother? I believe I witnessed your arrival."
He did not think his presence worth noting. "I did my…"
"Sister Faora, Superior."
"Of course, Sister." He should have known from her authoritative tone. "I have come to learn."
"Then your first lesson is this: Listen. The choice to close their ears is what drove the City to fail. It is why we must conduct our work here. It is why without us, their walls will be for nothing."
Vance fell silent. Sister Faora let his submission linger and then continued.
"Each Risen Lightbearer, each Guardian is Light made flesh by the Traveler. They are Light, and Light is wielded. When we refuse to wield the Light as needed, we give ground to the Darkness."
Sister Faora looked out over her congregation.
"I'm sure many of you have grown curious as to what Light we could wield somewhere as desolate as this." Sister Faora allows herself a smirk and brief chuckle before inclining her head to the two Guardians now seated at the back of the chapel."
"It is here that we will stand against the second eclipse of the Traveler's Light. It is here that the Collapse shall begin anew, should we falter. I do not know when, only what is and will be."
They stared back at her, eyes full of conviction, faces bright with belief, hearts filled with assured direction. Their minds lacked nuance. Vance's chest swelled as he breathed in their stalwart faith coiled around sweetly smelling barks and spices that popped over torchlight.
"The spires of Mercury shall be filled with the glory of the Traveler. Their Light will shine against the long shadow when Darkness reaches to snuff out the Sun. Mercury will sing when day finds night, and we will direct it. These are Osiris's words, by his own hand. We followed the prophet here to facilitate his preparations for the second coming, whatever they may be."
She marinated in the energy of the chapel.
"We will learn how the Light here is to defeat the Darkness. This is what he has asked of us. These Lighthouses are our deliverance, and now my brothers and sisters… there is much work to do."
The herd stood in response to their shepherd, Vance among them.
It was |supposed to be| a garden world. The phrase |will echo across quantified cross-sections of conflict|, uttered in confidence |had always been false|.
The expanse above, a cup—rimmed in gamma-ink radiance—dammed against the Mercurian sky at the Kármán line. Against the howl of star-wind |the fountains of the Great Deep burst apart and the floodgates|, the black |screen of tomorrow| fell open. Within the rip |without form known nor ever to be seen| a monolithic hulk of fluid and steel convulsed |eternal and always| and excreted coils of shimmering |glorious| life. Probing |host of multitudes|, clattering tendrils |an ungodly horror that no time would accept| slithered down |the gullet of the Heavens| to make landfall.
Chrome-hooked appendages |breached sky, counted in triplets| stretched for miles through sun-soaked atmosphere. They bored |with deepest intentions| into the marigold sands. From the great temporal chasms |wailing mouths of creation| flowed an ocean |a second conception| of radiolarian fluid. Across the horizon |of definitive sprawl| the scene was |super-imposed design| resonant and |uniquely| multiplicative.
Each injection site |form mirrored in the hundreds of thousands| fostered a new lineage in stone and steel and fluid. |They would live| the new age in sub-routine |sleep| and observation. They would foster the |metallic| seeds of a generation in |twilight| time. From the sites bubbled pools |progeny| of |endless possibility| that murmured chaotic, |lullabies of change| and wrung the Traveler's Light from Mercury. The Light coalesced |imbibed| within the pools. The planet transformed |reborn| into a |sleepless dream| machine of prediction.
The arms retracted |purpose fulfilled|, and returned to |space between time| temporal hovels, suspended just above Mercury's |last gasp| influence. With them |in compliant tone| rose the spires. From the core, threads of iron |dancing in coaxed animation| fused reinforcement into the spires and brought them high. A surface driven flat |prepared| by eons of solar erosion had |been resurrected| risen.
A million open mouths |sang| curled plated tongues in |ritualistic| completion. Across the world grew |beauty.| a terrible consciousness that yearned to |establish the connection| find its progenitor. The hulking vessels |cried out| pulsed with light. The pools and spires pulsed dull tones in recognition, and the |starless| black sealed once more, restoring the sol-dominated sky |awaiting an angular shadow|. Illumination left the spires, |who had begun their work| and the Light was |sewn| erased.
Today another misunderstanding resulted in conflict. Klyfiks, a young engineer, was tasked with repairing our Shank. The machine was damaged during the escape from Europa, and we needed her advanced diagnostics capabilities. Klyfiks repaired what he could and then set about searching for replacement parts.
He identified a pile of scrap that served our purpose, and started fashioning the needed parts. While Klyfiks was working, a Human emerged from a nearby dwelling and began shouting at him. Klyfiks didn't understand the man's words, but he understood the angry tone, so he took the needed scrap and fled.
As it so happened, Klyfiks took scrap pieces that were the parts to a vintage Sparrow that the man was intending to rebuild. Klyfiks never considered such a thing, because on a Ketch, scrap is a shared resource. The idea of hoarding scrap for some imagined purpose is strange indeed to the Eliksni (the Spider notwithstanding).
Luckily, Klyfiks told me his tale, and I worked with Ikora to repay the man. Crisis was averted, and Klyfiks learned an important lesson: to Humans, control over a thing is often more valuable than the thing itself.
"Hail, warrior of the empire," Empress Caiatl said as she approached the bedside of a wounded Red Legion Centurion. The soldier had been gazing solemnly out a porthole when the sound of her voice startled him. He turned suddenly, then winced in pain. Caiatl saw darkened synthetic fabric enveloping his torso and the entirety of his right arm, which itself looked frail and withered. She knew immediately that this Cabal would see no more battles.
"My empress!" the warrior responded, clasping a fist to his chest with his unwrapped arm. Caiatl saluted in return.
The empress glanced at a monitor displaying the patient's data. "Val'ast, born of Val'tui." She looked out the porthole; the brilliance of Sol beamed back at her. "The empire has returned for you, Red Legionary, yet your heart seems heavy. Why do you languish?"
Val'ast looked away. "I am sorry, Empress."
"Do not be sorry, my brother," Caiatl said.
Val'ast sighed. "For years, every day has been about survival. Just trying to stay in the fight. But now…" He trailed off and grasped the sheets of his bed, a cheap fabric but still softer than anything he'd felt in years.
"When you war for so long, peace can become its own struggle," Caiatl said.
Val'ast let the fabric fall from his hand. "I thought I was Acrius reborn, claiming another sun for our kind." He gazed out the porthole. "But I failed."
Caiatl smiled. "I've always loved that tale." She pulled a stool over and sat. "Did you know that there used to be more to it?"
Val'ast shook his head.
"It's an older version, not as popular in modern times, but I was lucky enough to learn it as a child," the empress continued. "Before Acrius, three warriors sought to climb a great mountain and grasp the sun, but a terrible beast stood in their way.
"The first tried to outwit the beast and sneak through the shadows, but the beast smelled him still and ate the warrior in a single bite.
"The second tried to escape the beast, crafting a device to harness the wind and soar upward. But the fickle wind changed its mind and tossed her into the beast's maw.
"The third warrior challenged the beast head on, Severus in hand. She also fell to the beast's gnashing teeth, but not before her blade tasted blood."
Val'ast frowned. "They all failed?"
Caiatl considered the question. "The first two, certainly. They thought battle could be avoided. But the third warrior died with pride and honor."
Val'ast pondered for a moment. "Even in defeat, she left her mark on her foe."
Caiatl nodded. "And the next time one of her kin faced it, the beast would be one blow closer to death."
"Did more come?" Val'ast questioned.
"Of course!" Caiatl exclaimed. "They were Cabal, and the sun was theirs to claim. Over and over, their mightiest fell. But each time, another wound was struck, until the day came when a warrior landed the final blow. That warrior was Acrius."
Val'ast frowned. "Ever since I was a child, I saw Acrius as a hero…"
"He may have been," Caiatl replied as she clasped Val'ast's hand in hers. "But so was the warrior who struck first."
Val'ast's eyed glistened as he held her grip firmly. "Thank you, Empress."
Caiatl shook her head. "My brother, it is the empire who thanks you."
"You were right," Hallam says. He leans close to the screen, earnest, entreating. "You were right all along. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
"That doesn't matter now," Petra says. He can make out the spires of the Keep of Voices behind her, but not the nuance of her expression. The connection is bad.
"It does! Listen. No one thought you were right for that job. We thought…" He flattens his mouth. "Well, we thought Mara was favoring you for the wrong reasons. You're young; you were still green. You certainly weren't Sjur. When Mara died, and suddenly you were Regent instead of me or Devi or whoever…"
It's hard to confess such ugly things.
He shakes his head, pushing his computer away at arm's-length. "When everything is going wrong, but you aren't in charge, it's easy to imagine you could do a better job. But I was wrong. I didn't understand that the job was to keep the faith. None of us could have done that except you."
Chapter 5: Abhorrent Imperative
Voronin tied his armband tight around her calf to cut off the blood flow from Morozova's gaping wound. He tried to keep her leg clean while the wind caked them with dirt and debris. Lightning was drawing closer. The sterile scent of ozone had returned and he knew he didn't have much time. "COME BACK!" he shouted hopelessly to the God. He hoisted Morozova up, supporting her on his shoulder, and pushed back against the elements that were conspiring against him.
It was 250 meters to the evac station. Every step was a battle of attrition. At this point, the thought of coldsleep sounded comforting. He just had to make it to the SMILE pods. The storm had other plans. A nearby HMMWV was struck by a wayward bolt and the explosion threw them back. He felt Morozova torn from his side as he landed, and the sound of his skull hitting stone was louder than the thunder had been. As blackness crept into his vision, he saw the Traveler in the sky, moving away, abandoning him.
…and then he was being dragged from the wreckage and violence onto a gurney. "…Morozova?" he struggled out. He was met with an oxygen mask. His eyes darted, in search of some sign that Morozova was alive. Voronin couldn't decipher anything out of the pandemonium around him. "I'm sorry," he thought to himself while cursing the orb in the sky for deserting him.
The last thing he remembered before they placed him into coldsleep was an explosion in the sky so bright it blinded him.
[Fireteam leaders: Do not advance on the Wall. Fall back to the Ridgeback District.]
Shaxx freezes with a Vandal's windpipe in his fist. He waits for Saladin to justify the strategy.
[I repeat: All teams rally at the Ridgeback District. Do NOT advance. The City is lost.]
Shaxx drops the Vandal, then empties the rest of his clip into a Captain. He and his fireteam are running on fumes. The dead, Fallen and Guardian alike, litter the Twilight Gap.
[Shaxx! Do you copy?]
He risks a look over his shoulder at their home, the place they call the Last Safe City. Not burning. Not yet. Gritting his teeth, he reloads.
[Shaxx, your orders are to retreat.]
He sees a gap in the onslaught of invaders and gestures to the others. "Nkechi! Take Abdi and Truce. Liu Feng, with me! Bray! Cover us!"
[This battlefield is not your stage, Shaxx! This is not about glory!]
His fireteam doesn't hesitate.
[Shaxx! For the final time: Fall! Back!]
As the six of them crest the Wall, Shaxx cuts the feed.
[Fireteam leaders: Do not advance on the Wall. Fall back to the Ridgeback District.]
Shaxx freezes with a Vandal's windpipe in his fist. He waits for Saladin to justify the strategy.
[I repeat: All teams rally at the Ridgeback District. Do NOT advance. The City is lost.]
Shaxx drops the Vandal, then empties the rest of his clip into a Captain. He and his fireteam are running on fumes. The dead, Fallen and Guardian alike, litter the Twilight Gap.
[Shaxx! Do you copy?]
He risks a look over his shoulder at their home, the place they call the Last Safe City. Not burning. Not yet. Gritting his teeth, he reloads.
[Shaxx, your orders are to retreat.]
He sees a gap in the onslaught of invaders and gestures to the others. "Nkechi! Take Abdi and Truce. Liu Feng, with me! Bray! Cover us!"
[This battlefield is not your stage, Shaxx! This is not about glory!]
His fireteam doesn't hesitate.
[Shaxx! For the final time: Fall! Back!]
As the six of them crest the Wall, Shaxx cuts the feed.
I have been here a hundred cycles. A thousand? I cannot recall.
Before, [the Queen] came often to visit. We made [bargains]. Most of those who [bargain] with me do not win. We take care with those. It is how we [feed].
But she won.
I remember when I carved this cage into the face of reality. I remember when she [wished] me into it.
[The Queen] is vulnerable. I can see her far away, facing into a storm.
The light around my cage fades. [Darkness] fills the chamber as a sheer force of will passes over it.
Before me stands a [King]. He offers to take me away. But I know he will not let me leave, either. An unfavorable position.
I never made a [bargain] with a [King]. I would like to try it. I tell him to take whatever he [wishes]. As long as he [wishes].
He agrees. I make an ugly sound with my mandibles. I cannot help myself. I find this scenario mirthful.
Then so does he. We do it together. Loud gusts of sound from our faces for whole moments.
Most of those who [bargain] with me do not win.
"Most of the scientists here aren't accustomed to the cold. Me? I grew up way north, so this is nothing new. But, being a respectable researcher, I've put a lot of thought into coming up with a solution. The new thermal grips will keep even the most cold-blooded would-be adventurer warm, and provide a nice boost to muscular performance. Also: great for throwing snowballs. ”
—Head Researcher, BrayTech R&D
From: Jagi
To: Saint-14
Category: 8-sat bounce
Priority: 3
Acting on intel from Hunter Vanguard Aparajita-4, my host made contact with the Lightbearer inhabiting the ruins of Caer Lerion. Recommend classification of said Lightbearer as "Warlord."
My host engaged, but the target occupied advantageous terrain and our Ghosts' resurrection times have increased by another 2.8 percent, a 0.6 increase from my last report. Further analysis is attached to this report.
After several waves, a retreat seemed the only tactical option left to us. Before I could issue the command, a new variable entered the field from above.
At first I believed it to be a Warsat. My initial assessment proved incorrect; the variable was a Titan who deployed himself from high ground to deliver an aerial melee assault upon the target.
This proved a turning point in the battle, and we were soon able to incapacitate the Warlord and prepare him for return to the Tower. I have asked the Titan to file his own report, which is also attached.
END MESSAGE
BEGIN ATTACHMENT
From: Vell Tarlowe
To: Saint-14
Category: 8-sat bounce
Priority: 1
I just had the best. Day. Of. My. Life. Get ready for this…
It was the morning of the new Crucible season when the shout echoed through the Tower.
Master Rahool flinched, fumbling his engram.
Commander Zavala looked up from his desk.
Kadi 55-30 hurried to steady a haphazard pile of shipments.
In the Hangar, a flock of well-fed pigeons took wing.
"THEY ARE THROWING NEW GRENADES!"
As we count the dead and make plans for recovery, I wish to record some of my recent scientific inquiries and theories before they are muddled by or altogether forgotten in the tangle of rebuilding what was lost.
Possibility. It exists within each life, an expanse and myriad of complexity explored openly through the philosophical constructs of choice and free will. Even when life ends, possibility carries forward in the lives touched and the projects created. When the actions of another end a life, Humans often refer to this act as killing or "taking a life." But where killing brings about a singular conclusion, Oryx's "Taking" was quite the opposite: he imposed a singular origin and all decisions that followed. He shaped the causality, the very history of another being, by force of will—recasting it into fanatical loyalty. In short, possibility never existed.
Like Ikora, my role is anticipating threats. While these Taken and their king may have been the most dangerous opponents we have ever faced, they likely will be the least of what is yet to come. And Taking has terrible potential if wielded by a mind more nuanced than Oryx's. Taking involves reforming matter in a self-contained reality, where the creator defines past, present, and future; imagine how a more insightful being could expand these definitions, to different ends. Overcoming a target's will must consume a large portion of energy. What if you used that energy for larger shifts in reality? You could teleport an army into a Hive mothership… move a fleet outside time and space… perhaps even alter a moon's orbit, devastating the planet below. The military applications could be far graver than simply creating an army.
Clearly, this is a subject in dire need of study. As the Taken themselves are frustratingly ephemeral, I have instead retrieved a variety of osmium ore samples from Oryx's flagship. They resonate in harmony with the Taken and thus may provide guidance in understanding the profane science behind them.
—Personal Logs, Ophiuchus
The two Legionaries rooted through the armory of their deposed emperor. They swept the rubble aside and lifted a Bow of sharp metal, its thin frame of blackened blades bound with wire.
"This is the one the Psions made so you can't miss."
"Huh. How'd they do it?"
"They put time in it."
"What kinds of time?"
"Kinds so when you shoot, that's always when the arrows hit."
"You never ever miss?"
"Not unless you were going to anyway."
"But if you do miss, it'll make it a time that you don't?"
"Right. Unless this time was a time when you did."
**
It was the third day of the dry joining. Ticuu's voice was rasped raw, but still he clutched the Bow to his chest and held it placid in his mind.
Ticuu melded his thoughts with the null. A bastardized metaconcert, one voice in the expanse—a temporal harmony of one.
Three arrows, hissing faintly with Solar power, bristled in his fist.
Then, an echo: a rusty whine of horsehair on frayed wire. Ticuu plucked the bowstring. Spots of blood appeared on the floor. He plucked again, filling the air with oppressive vibration.
Blood welled from his fingers and dripped to match the pattern at his feet.
**
"How's it make arrows?"
"They come from time, because they got put there before."
"When you shoot it, how's it know what heads to hit?"
"It goes in time and gets a future where heads always had arrows in 'em."
"But which heads, though?"
"The ones that had arrows already."
**
Ticuu's mind emptied itself, dissipating across the pitch and froth of what was to be.
Time was an empty wheel around him. His song held it, and the joining pinned it in place. Three points of harmony between the will and the physical.
His fist rose. Three shafts pierced his Y-shaped pupil. They had always been there. Three points, pushed through forever.
When I was young, I dreamt of a greater life.███████████
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"Driving my Sparrow at breakneck speed reminds me that I'm still alive."
This is a very Hunter thing to say. Not to disparage Hunters, but I don't get it (and I try very hard to "get" things, let me tell you). I don't need to be reminded that I'm still alive. I'm reminded of that every time I die.
I drive my Sparrow at breakneck speed because it reminds me of my place in the universe. It reminds me of every force that acts on me, every "law" of motion I can or can't break. I'm most interested in the ones I can't break, honestly. Considering I am myself an aberration of the laws of physics, I rather like finding the edges of things. Not that I'm content to leave those edges as they are. I just get a sort of… thrill out of finding them.
And if I have to drive my Sparrow over a waterfall of Vex milk to do that, then damn it, I will.
Right out of the gate, Marcus is in the lead.
He's already planning tonight's victory party as he decelerates to match speed with Enoch.
"You're welcome," he shouts, "for the great view!"
He zips ahead, laughing. He waits for the next lap to fall back again beside Enoch. Didi tries to amp the volume on the announcer feed, but Marcus doesn't want to hear it. He mutes the line.
"Keep it up, Ren," Enoch growls. "I could use the Glimmer."
Under his helmet, Marcus grins. "I don't think this is one of those 'tortoise and the hare' things, Bast," he says. "I—"
A Sparrow shoots by them so fast that Marcus almost loses his balance.
For a second, he just stares. Then he flattens himself against his handlebars and guns his thrusters. He doesn't recognize the Sparrow, nor the rider. But that won't matter when he closes the gap…
Half a lap to the finish line, and he can't make up the lost ground. The other rider just pulls further and further ahead.
This time Marcus doesn't stop Didi when she maxes the announcer feed. "Looks like Ren's going to be eating dust today, folks!"
The win goes to "Jane Doe," who doesn't stick around to claim the prize money.
"…Is it supposed to be on fire?"
Marcus brushed his hands off, leaving streaks of soot on his pants. "It wasn't," he admitted. "But I can't get it to stop burning."
Ariadne tilted her head, watching the flames. "Why's that?"
"The Solar energy that Ana helped integrate," he said. "It's not totally… contained. But it's stable enough to ride. I've tried it."
"Does the fire ever go out?"
"Not as far as I can tell."
"Huh." Ariadne crossed her arms. "Seems dangerous."
"Yeah. Like I said, it's stable for now, and I can ride it, but who knows how long that'll last. It could probably explode at any second."
They stood in silence, watching the charred Sparrow burn.
"Cool," Ariadne whispered.
Marcus grinned. "I know, right?"
"They don't make 'em like they used to."
Here at Tex Mechanica, we've been saying that about guns for years. In these days of technological advancement, when everyone's gone starry-eyed over what's new and what's next, neat gadgets and slick design win out over pure firepower every time. But that ain't always how it was. And with a Tex gun, that ain't how it has to be now, either.
We make guns the way they're meant to be: fast, powerful, and built to last.
Now we're setting our sights on a new frontier. That's right—saddle up and get ready to ride, because Tex Mechanica is in the Sparrow business.
Designed with the true Guardian experience in mind, this beauty will let you ride hard and fast over rough terrain, laying waste to anything that dares stand in your path.
I may be nothin' but an old hunk of metal with a personality built around a corporate brand identity, but I tell you what… I know quality, Guardian, and quality's what you get when you go with Tex Mechanica.
Like we always say: If you're gonna play, play for keeps.
Sjari drifts faceup through the amethyst eddies.
She maintains her focus, keeps her mind calm, so that she can stay nestled in the magic flow between places without emerging. Without attracting the Hive.
She can sense them around her, their foul presence charging the Ley Lines, waiting for a pocket of potential space to materialize.
She needs to keep them here—wherever here is, as she doesn't know where she landed after the eruption of energy that threw her from her Line—and far from the Dreaming City. From Mara.
The thought of Mara's return sends a trill of hope through her. She can almost see Mara's face framed in lilac mist.
The effect is subtle but immediate. Gently, the current of the Ley Line changes course, bringing Sjari back to her queen.
With a start, she pushes the thought of Mara out of her conscious mind. She thinks instead of stillness, of the flickering blackness of the bleak planes, of the awful limbo of being trapped between worlds.
She desires it, begs for it. And the current obliges. It calms, and Sjari floats aimlessly once more.
Better to die in this barren realm than lead the Hive back home.
The Cabal I knew valued marksmanship. In this way, and only in this way, do the Red Legion resemble my people. But the elegant, precision weapons of the past? Gone, save for the limited Psion arsenals. Replaced by Red Legion bluster.
Even the weapons and technology left for my Loyalists aboard the Leviathan are Legion issue and standard. The Cabal have lost so much in my exile. Only when I have reclaimed the athenaeum worlds in the mother system will we see the likes of rightful, classical Cabal weaponry again.
Until such a time comes, and I pray that it comes before the end, a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe would be the ideal, civilized sharpshooter to fight the false Empire in the place of true Cabal.
—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal
From the journals of Ikora Rey
When I studied with Osiris, he would often tell me: "I see failure in your future." No matter how hard I worked, no matter how strong I became, always: "I still see failure."
I think now what he saw was Io.
When I lost my Light and retreated from a ruined City, when I arrived on Io to find only silence, I too thought I had failed. Even after Ghaul's defeat and the Traveler's waking, I told my friends I thought the Traveler had tested me, and that I had failed its test.
But now I'm not so sure.
Perhaps what Osiris saw for me—what I experienced on Io—was simply that I needed help. That most Human of conditions. I needed to be in a fireteam, and to be a fireteam for others in turn.
How like Osiris to see that and name it failure.
I won't make that mistake again.
Excerpt of a letter from Ikora Rey to Eris Morn:
Would it be terribly offensive if I said I would have happily traded places with you and gone down to the Hellmouth rather than be in the City during Osiris's banishment?
Well, here's what you missed. It started because of his Lost Prophecies. A misnomer—the prophecies were always accessible to those who cared about them, but the Followers proclaimed them "lost" to a City that had censored all Osirian material. And even then the City didn't truly lose them, for when the Speaker ordered me to destroy Osiris's writings, I placed the documents in my private library instead. I don't believe in burning books, regardless of my opinion of the author.
As to why he had to write the prophecies in iambic couplets? Simple: vanity.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
She awaited signal lock, hands loosely bent around flight sticks, sun to her back. Trestin's sight sank into stupor and stretched far across the outshined lights of distant possibilities. Flanking starlight pushed her jumpship's shadow outward into space. It was what it was, and nothing more.
Mercury hung beneath, buried in a storm of solar wind like a dark pit enveloped by ripe flesh. She hadn't returned in years; previous iterations of Trials and constant exposure to the Crucible had sated her curiosities of quietus. None of that mattered anymore. Not after the Moon. It was over. Finality was coming.
Trestin's return was a pretense for preparation; a living funeral to find conclusion on one's own terms. She had begun to see the sense concealed in wanton dissociation, the seriousness underneath the dressings of the Menagerie, the truth in the word ringing through its halls. It was over. Time to make peace.
"Saint-14 is going to be watching us. No pressure." Sadhij twisted a faded purple ribbon through the plates of his gauntlet and flexed his fingers.
"No pressure at all." Trestin mouthed the words, barely producing a sound before Yara's voice cut into the chatter.
"Look alive team. We are the thin line drawn before the Darkness. We are Guardians. No holding back."
Thin. A line to be swallowed in scope. No holding back.
Burning Shrine… Lock… Transmat firing…
"Even here, the whispers persist.
Faint, but present."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
A Dreg fell. Left to die. A forgotten pirate set on a path toward salvation. His crew had raided the Moon looking for Ether. They found only death. And then he was alone.
Hiraks, the small. Hiraks, the timid, the weak was lost to the depths of the Hellmouth. A solitary scavenger down among the hollows where dead things dwell. How he survived is a story untold, an impossible tale known only to Hiraks himself.
In that secret is his strength.
For poor, weak, pathetic Hiraks came out of that hell as something other. Still Fallen. Still alone. But changed by all he'd seen and learned—his mind opened, set adrift through the wonders of all the nightmares he had never imagined.
Some say he spent his time hidden in the shadows of that cruel land scouring the mysteries of the Worlds' Grave. Others suggest he peered into a hateful shrine and found truth in the unutterable horrors whispered from the abyss.
Truth is, only Hiraks knows. Truth as simple as it is puzzling: Yes. Yes, he did. Scour the Grave. Hear the whispers. Only then could all that followed transpire.
For a lowly Dreg to rise from their docking to stand as a Baron is rare enough, but that a Fallen of any stature could crack the layers of understanding that barricade the known universe from the ascendant plane is more than improbable. It was impossible.
Until it wasn't.
For Hiraks succeeded where so few have. He crafted his own throne world and began a monstrous quest to expand his knowledge, etching its harshest truths upon his enemies. And his work has progressed unchecked.
It is his name the children do not speak when sharing tales of the Haunting of Nemesis. It is his blood that Paladins and Corsairs alike wish to spill for the Slaughter at Gaspra.
Hiraks, the Twisted. Hiraks, Ascendant. The mindbender whose tongue is a weapon, whose experiments seek to unravel sanity and reshape imagination that his subjects may become other—tools of his vile bidding.
And so, the warnings spread…
When the Fallen who speaks in the language of the damned calls, do your best not to listen, for once his words take hold, your will shall fade, replaced by its antithesis.
And then, like that poor, weak, fallen Dreg… you too will know darkness.
You too will be alone.
"Trust is your shield.
Trust is your weakness.
In the end, we all fall to betrayal."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
A simple riddle for you to consider…
"Only truth can conquer lies. But what is truth? And in whose eyes?"
What then of the Butcher of Bamberga? What then of the Psyche Hordes' slayer? The Terminus of the Gray Legion? The Sliver of the Shadowed Veil? The Bandit of Old Bassa? The Dire Siren of Valian's Reprieve?
What then of so many who are one—a single scourge, responsible for many varied tragedies?
The Trickster. The liar. Silver-tongued Araskes, the Wit.
She who bartered with the Spider and nearly cost him his life. She who swindled a dozen bounty hunters that she alone may profit. So many tales of Araskes' sleight of hand and tongue and mind. The enemy who has won battles where no battle was fought. Who has killed more rivals than have ever risen to her challenge.
What is known and unknown? None can say. And the sly prankster would have it no other way.
Of all the Barons marked by scorn, it is Araskes to fear, for her greatest weapon is the dissolution of truth. She will give you certainty, only to reshuffle the deck. She will grant you your desire, only to reveal it is truly regret.
If this realm can allow for gods, then she may be the first among devils—unknowable, unpure. Her tongue will cut you down long before your body falls. If you don't believe—if you find yourself questioning the depths of her deceit—ask yourself a simple question:
Did you kill her? And if you did, did she die?
If the answer is yes, her trap is set.
If your answer is…
It's okay. You don't have to say it. Maybe you will survive out among these wild shores longer than most.
Though maybe not as long as you'd like.
"The song of the grinding stone calls like pained sirens—shrill and uneven.
Its melody is a warning, yet still they come…
Adventurers. Bounty hunters. Scoundrels. And unwanted.
Here they find purpose.
Or hide from those worlds beyond.
Those polite lands, which 'heroes' strive to reclaim.
There is no reclamation here.
The Shore is ever-wild, and so shall it remain…
Ever the broken land where madness dwells and violence reigns."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
The questions no one asks…
Was the Bomber always mad? Or was he driven to it? Was the madness a gift—or a curse?
Did the struggle for survival outside the structure and ritual of the House system crack his mind? The things he'd seen? Done? The Shore asks much of those who call it home. Most simply find their end through the harsh will of these harsh lands or by the hand of the hardened agents who stalk its fractured expanse—bandits, cutthroats, cannibals, Awoken patrols, Guardian "heroes."
There are a billion ways to die among the jagged wilds of the Tangled Shore. To challenge those odds is no small feat. To do so while maintaining self, rarer still.
However, isn't it also possible the Bomber was this all along? Mad. Deranged. Eager to inflict destruction. Lustful for the chaos and death to follow.
The Seeding of the Accretion Fields. The Bombing of the Origin Libraries. Kaniks's handiwork has been linked to numerous tragedies, both as a rogue enemy of the Reef and in league with his scorned brothers and sisters with whom he grew strong—with whom he found the purpose he once lacked.
These points—an examination on the birth of madness—I raise to address a lingering concern.
Seek the Awoken libraries. Speak to Cryptarchs with knowledge of the Reef… the Shore. Scour the records of the Bomber's deeds. Feel the pain of those who suffered the fire of his devastation. Remember the Fields. Weep at the unimaginable loss when the Libraries fell.
Allow yourself the comfort of knowing the sinister creature is now dead and gone by Guardian hand. But linger on victory's pride for only a short while, because the truth I seek to tell has yet to be revealed, and it is this…
The Mad Bomber is dead—Kaniks is no more. Yet the Shore remains ever untamed. Despite valiant effort. Despite your incredible strength.
And if the Shore remains tangled, its edges ever shifting, ever dire… Then who else may it drive to madness? First long-lost survivors of the fabled Golden Age, then stray Awoken and discarded Fallen…
Maybe next, the warriors of the Light. Guardians.
After all, more will surely come. And with more, however righteous you may be, the odds shift further in the Shore's favor. In the favor of madness.
And if not another, Guardian… why not you?
"Many are lost to the Shore's wayward ebb and flow.
The shifting mass gives and takes—pulls and tears.
The ground beneath ever uncertain, so tread carefully, as other dangers distract.
But death lingers, its grip loose but present.
Waiting to take hold.
Waiting to embrace all who walk these tangled lands."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
The Ragged Valley is long and harsh and no valley at all. Not by traditional definition. Its hollow length runs between a series of lashed asteroids on the Shore's far western edge.
They call it a "valley" to be poetic, but in truth, it is simply the chaotic space between massive rocks that scrap and smash into one another in a violent dance. The distances from mass-to-mass ebb and flow without warning—a constant, deadly repositioning of the landscape. That ever-changing hollow is the Valley. Only the mad and desperate would dare run its length. With one exception…
Yaviks. The Rider.
The reason she made the run changes with the telling. You know she is neither mad nor desperate what with her skills on a Pike and killer determination. But the run itself—it's a legend as awe-inspiring as any Guardian's, save the fact Yaviks is a wicked beast and better off dead. The story goes…
She was running Ether… or making off with lost Golden Age tech. Some say Clovis Bray science. Others tell it was drivers from a forgotten Warmind. Or maybe she'd just dropped a Guardian and was running full-throttle from a fireteam set on revenge—a common theme this far out. Or was it pride? Did a Captain or a Kell or an Archon challenge her ability to ride? Did Fikrul? After all, their relationship is… complicated.
None of that matters. Not to me. Each version of the start is as interesting as the next. But the run itself? Her ride through the gnashing jaws of death?
Most Guardians who have heard it dismiss it. Don't want to give credit to one so infamous—the Scorned Baron with the blood on her hands, the loot in tow and her burners set to top speed—but she deserves it. Don't believe me. Ask Marcus Ren.
He wasn't there that day, but he'd heard tell and couldn't believe. So he made the run himself. Four goes. No dice. One resurrection. Four Sparrows busted to rubble.
Marcus Ren, the Sparrow Racing League champion and hero to speed junkies and race hounds City-wide, couldn't sprint that Valley. "Too random," he said. "Too chaotic. Can't read the rock one minute to the next. Can't read the angles."
But he tried again, and on the fifth go, he scraped through a narrow as the collision hit. He'd made it. The impossible was possible, though he refused to admit Yaviks could've done the same. Not that it mattered.
That Ren had come out alive proved it could be done, and if it could—why not Yaviks?
Not that Yaviks ever cared for validation. Not yours. Not Ren's. Not any Guardian's. Not any Fallen's. Not anyone's.
She took pride in recognition from her brother and sister Barons and no others.
"Out here, they who craft their own fate see tomorrow, while they who depend on faith rarely make it through today."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
If you had not heard of the Machinist before, know that others had. While her crimes may not live in infamy in the hearts of City-dwellers, the Reef and its Awoken know all too well her long reign of terror.
Elykris, the Bandit, they call her. Elykris, the Scourge. The Scorned Machinist—tinker-lord of a Houseless crew.
But should those names be new to your ears, there are others you trust who have felt the pain of her vile campaign.
Ask your Arach of the Machinist's deeds. Ask him about the Siege of Arran—the hijacked ship, its stolen contents and its Guardian protectors lost or captured at the hands of the scorned.
Speak to your Vanguard of the Solis Descent—more Guardians felled, and an armory stripped of its cache.
The lowly Dreg who challenged tradition only to be cast aside. The lowly Dreg who found her own strength in a troubling bond with forsaken kin. She grew strong as an outcast—grew mean. Then found her purpose with the guidance of a preacher of sorts and a new, more driven crew.
Now, then… the questions you must ask yourself…
Had you known of the Baron's deeds, had you heard tell of the Machinist's crimes—could you have changed the path tread from there to here? From yesterday to today?
Better yet… your Vanguard, your factions, your friends and allies—what all have they kept from you? If they spoke not of the Scorned Barons, if they issued no warning, is it because they simply did not see the full scale of the danger? Were they too distracted by wars within wars and interests of their own to issue the guidance needed for you to see the Shore for the threat it has always been? Perhaps given guidance that may well have saved countless lives?
Or at least one life in particular…
"Be wary of those who would do harm.
Yourself included.
Mind that you do not become undone.
For once infliction is tinged with joy, you are not but a beast.
And are we not more than that?
Do we not strive for better?"
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
It was Reksis Vahn who saw to the final days of the House of Wolves. With cold hatred, he hunted and slaughtered their Servitors until none remained, and thus a rabid House did fall.
But Reksis Vahn's rage was not sated, as the Wolves alone were not the architects of his fury—all Fallen who clung to the ritual of House politics were his enemy, total and complete.
It is told that he was starved as a young Dreg. He watched in agony as others grew strong while he and his closest brothers and sisters were kept low. They were unworthy, pathetic, unwanted. But Reksis was ever aware. He saw the lie of the Archon's worship—how Servitors were revered upon a pedestal of godhood as a means to control the masses.
Maybe there was a time when the Fallen theology was one with greater concerns. No more. The Houses fractured, at war with one another. Old graces long since neglected in favor of a more desperate purpose—survival.
While cast low, Reksis found strength in his growing hatred. Only when he found common disdain among those twisted outcasts who would call themselves Scorned—who wore their hated derision as a badge of honor—did Reksis also find an outlet for his anger. His new brothers and sisters saw great value in his unchecked aggression. They were all a bit mad in their own right. All a bit twisted.
But where others slipped toward insanity, Reksis's mind and intent were clear—the agony of a terrible death was his aim. The target of his wickedness, the very Servitors he had been denied. The very machines that sustained the Fallen.
He would tear and slice and rend their metal until their hissing deaths rang across the Shore, the Reef… the entire system. He would make all who do not stand with the Scorned Barons feel the anguish he once felt, tenfold.
And he would do so gleefully, watching the life drain from their eyes.
"They who draw, mustn't always draw first.
For it is not speed that kills, but the eye—keen and sharp.
So, then, do not feel death.
See it. Know it.
And it shall manifest upon the trigger's embrace."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
Pirrha, the Phantom. Pirrha, the Blind. The Fallen Baron with the all-seeing eye and the crack-shot. The Awoken link him to the legend, "The Ghost of Hellrise Canyon," believing it was Pirrha, and Pirrha alone, who haunted the winding depths, picking off intruders and holding off Corsair raiding parties as his fellow Barons planned their violent reign in the maze of caverns near the canyon's heart.
He was unseen during the Wolves uprising, but many credit him with the assassination of the Queen's palace guard. None can verify, but each fell to a single shot—clean, precise, fatal.
But how can a blind pirate who had been discarded and scorned by his House become the deadliest shot this side of Mars?
This is where the Barons' true strength hides. They are each a devil worthy of your hate, but together they are so much more. Not simply devils, but Hell itself—manifest, angry, and aggressive.
Rumors and legend merge to tell of the Machinist's expert hand, the Rifleman's cybernetic eye and a link between his sight and the tracking systems on his rifle.
What he sees, he hits.
What he hits, he kills.
There is evidence of Fallen giving themselves to technology. Becoming other—becoming more—as they marry their physical selves to enslaved mechanics. The mercenary Taniks is one example—more machine than Fallen now, an abomination in the eyes of traditional Fallen belief. The Splicers and their augmentation through SIVA—a twisted experiment brought low by the mighty hand of the heroes of Iron. Is Pirrha any different?
The Barons and Taniks and the Splicers are each and all individual dangers, driven by their own ambition. They are more likely to wage war with one another than see their commonality.
Yet are they not of a kind? Are they not evidence of something greater wending its way through the Fallen's dying culture?
Are they not the warning signs of a new terrible evolution?
One can only wonder—and hope—these horrid amalgamations of life and technology are simply outliers and not a promise of tomorrows yet to come.
"Find your honor not in your station, nor the words and gifts of those who seek control, but in yourself—in your actions, deeds, and soul. To look anywhere else is a lie."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
Fikrul was an Archon.
Then Fikrul took a fall—beaten, docked, and banished for heresies against Eliksni faith.
He should have died—alone and starved of precious Ether.
He did not. Instead, he found kin in the form of seven scorned. With them, he found purpose and power. As their legend grew, he found believers and new truth. His banishment was not penance, it was reward—for his convictions, for his courage.
Fikrul, the crazed fanatic. Fikrul, the heretic Archon who spoke against the very faith he once held dear. Scorned and forgotten—but only for so long.
Fikrul was a Dreg.
Before his banishment—before his clarity of purpose—Fikrul was a celebrated leader of Fallen faith and a savior to those who embraced his teaching.
Archons had long been elevated in Fallen society, but their stature grew, and their role shifted following the Whirlwind. As desperation took hold and the last of the Fallen raced across the stars in search of salvation, their dependence on machines evolved into a deep-rooted need—their weapons to fight, their ships to fly, their Servitors to survive.
That need became worship. That worship became faith. And the Archons—those who oversaw the care and consecration of the Servitors—were looked upon to provide hope through their words, teachings, and interpretations of the machines' wants, needs… desires.
But Fikrul saw another path—one that would later be mimicked and twisted by the techno-deviant Splicers in the Plaguelands of Earth while he and his explored their own darker interpretations of faith.
Fikrul is a Fanatic.
Scorned and abandoned.
Fikrul is all who strive to regain strength of self and purpose. He is a survivor. He is the outcast priest of the broken plains, and his sermon is death and all the glory that follows.
In Fikrul's eyes, and those of the outcasts who rallied to his philosophies, machines were not superior. They were not gods. They were tools. Instruments to be mastered and controlled and manipulated in service of Eliksni pride. None should grovel for Ether. None should have their honor bound to the whims of manufactured deities.
But the evolution of Fikrul's faith did not end there. If the machines—the very things that had regulated the whole of their existence—were tools, why not life itself? Why not death?
There are many tales of the time between Fikrul's fall and his rise again as spiritual leader of the Scorned Barons—his struggle to find strength as a battered Dreg, his journeys across the system to challenge his faith, his joining with the other outcasts who were scorned, and his eventual union with his "father." The only thing that matters, however, when confronting the dangers of Fikrul is this: He is a creature of faith.
His faith is the antithesis of all who stand in the Light. That faith has raised an army. That army will baptize all who challenge its purpose in an unending sea of death. They will never stop. They will never give in. Because they know they are right.
And everything you stand for is wrong.
"Surviving is a whole lot easier when your enemies are dead."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
It was Elykris, the Machinst, who'd begun hoarding the Servitors. And Reksis, the Hangman, who slaughtered them at every turn. Two allies driven by opposing forces—one science and the unmaking of faith, the other rage and its relentless push to destroy.
There had long been tension between the two, as Reksis had, more than once, slipped into the Machinist's workshop to inflict himself on the Servitors caged there.
Fikrul, the Fanatic—their spiritual leader and one-time Archon Priest—watched patiently as their rivalry grew. He saw strength in their ire. He saw fire and fury, but also more—a new path forward. One that could join their passions and drive them further—a whole stronger than its warring parts.
Fikrul waited, biding time as tensions rose and threatened to splinter the Barons' loyalties. Only when Elykris could take no more, on a night when she caught the Hangman prepared to slaughter her latest haul of lesser Servitors, did Fikrul step in.
Fikrul motioned to Elykris and said, "Bring me a Servitor." As Reksis hissed with anticipation, she hesitated, but Fikrul was patient. "Where is your trust?"
Elykris released a Servitor from its bondage.
Fikrul motioned the Servitor closer, then turned to Elykris. "You have gathered many, Machinist. Hundreds. Maybe more. Our own supply—our life force fed by slaved mechanics." Elykris nodded to the Servitor as it inched closer to the Archon's open arms—welcoming the once revered orb as one would a child.
The other Barons began to bark, a rhythmic warriors' chant.
"For all the value in your work… it is not enough to feed ourselves." Fikrul hugged the Servitor. There was a tenderness to the embrace. A sorrow. "We must also starve our enemies, as you were once starved." With a blur, Fikrul's lower arms unsheathed and triggered a pair of polished, sparking Shock Blades. "As were we all."
The Servitor, still held with the clutches of the Archon's powerful upper arms, cried a shrill, digital wretch—pain mixed with confusion as the blades carved its outer shell and plunged deep into the core of its systems. Ether hissed and sprayed.
Fikrul released the machine's silent shell, and it clanged lifeless to the ground. He turned to Elykris. "Do you see?" Elykris smiled. She was ever the brightest among them, though her focus could lose clarity when she became frenzied.
The Barons had long been trouble for the Awoken and Fallen of the Reef, but that trouble had been limited to hit-and-run tactics. What Fikrul had just presented was a new way.
Fikrul stepped to Reksis. "Do you see?" The brute barked in response, "Kill them all!"
Fikrul laughed. "Not 'all,' Hangman. Just the ones we do not need."
The Barons cheered as Fikrul continued, "Every Servitor—any Servitor—bound to a House is now a target. Until none remain but those upon whom we feed."
Guardian comms are ablaze with gossip.
Yevik crouches over a battered radio that they've juryrigged to bypass Vanguard security overrides. He listens closely while the rest of his scouting party watches and waits. None of them speak the Human tongues, so it falls on him to translate the news.
He's rusty, but he can make out the main beats. Queen Mara Sov is alive. Prince Uldren Sov is dead. The Awoken are calling for aid.
His blood quickens. He was once a Wolf who bowed to Mara Sov in good faith. He kept that faith when so many of his cousins defected to Meridian Bay, and abandoned it only when it seemed she was truly dead.
But now, somehow, the tiny Kell is alive?
"Well?" his Captain asks.
"It's nothing," he demures. "The two-soul prince is dead. The Lightmongers, they are surprised. They wonder what this does to their Houses."
The group rumbles with vicious satisfaction. As they talk, Yevik begins planning his return. He cannot serve the House of Dusk while his Kell still lives.
Conquest. Warming as the long-ago memory of blue sun on my face. All the while reminding me of the exhilaration of existing outside the Throne World, if only for a short while. I live in this glory—a rare opportunity to step away from exile within that ascendant chrysalis, as I gather more cunning for my sparring with the Witch.
Surely, you placed me as her minder, my Witness, as a hardship to hone my intrigue.
But in this moment, astride a Pyramid once more with an upstart empire splayed before me, my purpose is truer than any found carved in the wretched stones of the globe that formed me.
Kalarahnda flashes beneath my gaze. Yellow haze streaks ruby clouds. The vaulted ring surrounding Kalarahnda shatters into a shimmer-like, windblown sand—a prescription against the folly of confidence writ across a million-million ceramic shards.
I live in this glory—because the full purity of their extinction was stolen from me.
Because without predication of my own, a cult had sprouted in apocalyptic jubilation of the Darkness and blessed oblivion.
They grew for years in the shadows, drawing the disillusioned from the poorest to the wealthiest. These Polyps of the Longshadow sensed—as if by providence—a coming end and believed the breaking of the vaulted ring to be the final sign: they would ascend and bring their kind with them. Moments before their world was mine, their enzymatic armaments scrubbed all life from this wet rock. A guileful theft. Triggered by my own glorious coming.
And there was nothing calling to the Witch's involvement, save the twist in her face that betrayed restrained delight.
Crash Site, Nessus Terrae, Day Two
**
Panesh could see the Cabal warrior's eye pressed against the gap in the torn metal hull. The frigate crash had trapped them both in the wreckage, and only a haphazard cascade of heavy metal beams separated the two.
The Cabal had an entire length of hallway to prowl, yet here she was again, her rumbling voice filling the space where the Lightbearer was crouched.
"Do you truly think you could do it?" she asked. "I am curious."
Panesh shrugged. "Sure. You're a big target. I'd shoot until you stopped moving."
"No," she snarled. "In a real fight, with blades. No guns, no Light-magic."
"Vargessus," Panesh said patiently, "you're five times my size. Guns and Light-magic are my only choices here."
Vargessus pulled back from the opening in disgust. "Cowards. Your kind relies too much on your magic." She paced in her hallway like a caged animal. "It gives you the luxury to be soft."
She was interrupted by a metallic twang from somewhere far above them. For a moment, the steady dripping of foul, brackish water in the corner of Panesh's cell became a weak stream. He pushed his empty helmet beneath the flow.
"The Light gives us the freedom to accomplish great things," Panesh said. He laid one of his metal greaves flat on the ground and carefully poured half of the water into it. "The best of us can be strong just by holding that power inside us—we don't have to let it out."
Panesh slid the makeshift trough under the lowest beam and into the corridor. There was a quiet moment as the two survivors drank.
"Ignovun, the leader of Empress Caiatl's fleet?" Vargessus grumbled. "His helm was crafted by Psions and contains their very will. It grants him power over flame."
"What does he do with that power?"
Panesh could hear the shrug in Vargessus' voice: "He kills."
Panesh chuckled and his stomach cramped in protest. He drew his knees up to his body. "Right now, I'd fight the empress herself for something to eat," he groaned.
There was a rustling near the collapsed beams. Panesh looked up as a thick finger pushed a chunk of fatty meat ration through a gap in the metal.
"There. Eat," said Vargessus. "I want you strong when I kill you."
She feels Oryx's true death in both halves of her soul, a full imagined exhale before the aftershock reaches his throne world.
It crumbles around her like stone, like ash, like veils in a breeze.
Eris Morn's friends have succeeded. The Guardians have slain a god.
She steps through the ruins. In the end, there is nothing. Nothing but Mara Sov and the howling of rampant, untamed logics.
Her great and terrible gamble has paid off.
The rest is up to her now.
"A lotta things to consider when sizing up a gunfight. Most just focus on steely eyes and steady nerves, and those have value—but the best of 'slingers weigh so much more.
"The light in the sky or lack thereof. The temp and the breeze—how cool, how warm, which direction is the wind hitting and how hard? Further still: the ground beneath your boots. Is it solid or soft? Shifting or slick? All elements that speak to the moment of truth.
"The wear of the holster. The feel of the grip.
"But first and foremost, the best 'slinger will say never pick a fight with unfamiliar tools—unless the situation dictates an unavoidable outcome or in those instances when honor comes a-callin'."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
Every inch of ground beyond the City walls is dangerous—safety not guaranteed—and of all the inches across every world in this dead and dying system, none are harder than every single inch of the Tangled Shore.
This is not simply untamed space. It's worse. It's outlaw territory, where the worst of a bad lot come to find their fortune, ply their trade, or run from their sins.
No one who has ever walked the Shore's broken stone has come back clean. Out here you've gotta break the rules just to get by. Oh, your moral compass? You better hope it's on the fritz, 'cuz doing the right thing will only get you killed. Unless you're strong enough to do it the wrong way.
So, walk tall—the locals can sense the meek. Stand firm—backing down will only see you trampled. And aim true—each miss could be your last. Otherwise, go home.
The Shore ain't no place for heroes, anyway.
"Don't fool yourself. These rocks and this metal may be lashed together, but they ain't tamed. This far out, the only law is outlaw. The only justice? Last rites.
"So, walk careful—head on a swivel, hand on the hilt, all that—cuz that glare you feel is the narrowed eyes of ill-intent aimed at your honor, your heart… your head.
"And know this: Your every step is set upon blooded ground. The whole of the Shore… This is a wasteland built where a few sought to survive. In the dim light of a lost age, this wild frontier was a fleeting hope-turned-final restin' place—a graveyard at the end of existence.
"Some say you can still hear the screams—echoes of the lost and damned ringing from just out of sight. Don't believe 'em. That's just the stretching and bending of the supports—old metal moaning in the celestial breeze, the grinding of scrap and stone calling out, giving warning.
"These tethered lands be not safe. This twisted reef be not kind."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's Translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
"There's no way that's a direct translation."
—Cayde-6
"I'll tell ya of Eldred Rush. He didn't come out this way looking for trouble. He ain't a fool, neither. He knew trouble waited. He just didn't care. Couldn't, some would say.
"Eldred was a prospector of sorts, digging around these parts in search of memories he considered gold. He had a mission, personal and pure: Find the rock on which his people fell. Some tell that he was the first Guardian to walk this deep. It's not true, but fits his tale and makes for a better legend.
"Lonely Eldred walked these lashed lands cycle-upon-cycle, avoiding conflict when he could, but always hitting back when push came to shove. He was a gentle man, but violent when riled.
"Eventually he found the spot where ancient survivors of an ancient collapse huddled and died. There, at the site of all he had lost—in an old life that was long since beyond his grasp—Eldred buried the dead he could not remember but felt in his heart.
"Never saw Eldred again. No one did."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
"Out here, the lonely fall in the company of those bound by the purest need: survival.
"Find this truth. If not in your heart, in your mind. If not your mind, then your soul—the deepest part of you that connects to the most basic truths. To live for tomorrow, you have to fight for today.
"Know this. Understand it. Live it. Find those likeminded survivors you can look to as kin. Only then can survival be within reach, because to walk the Shore unbound is to invite death."
—Excerpt from C.C. LaGrange's Translations of "Writings and Observations from the Tangled Shore: A Fallen Text"
"The great warrior Ikora Rey…" Ophiuchus scoffed. "Librarian of glory."
Ikora brushed the dust from a battered rifle and began carefully noting its features. "It's an honor to catalog these artifacts for him. Besides, you should be happy. You're always encouraging me to adventure less and study more."
"No, I'm encouraging you to be your best self," the Ghost corrected. "Not change who you are because you've succumbed to hero worship."
"Osiris is a legend."
"He is just a man." Ophiuchus ran a scan over the gun. "A man who's honed his skills, yes, but you could be his equal and more."
"Me? Surpass the Warlock Vanguard?" It was Ikora's turn to scoff. "You do love your fantasies, Ophiuchus."
"You have the instincts! If you'd just learn to slow down and—hang on!" The Ghost abruptly knocked over a flaking plastic crate and nudged a helm forward from the jumbled mess. "Here, take a look at this helmet. What does it tell you about the wearer?"
"The crate says it was recovered from the tomb of Carnunta, a Warlord in the EDZ. Lightbearer."
"Don't read. Deduce."
She laughed, feeling silly. "Gallic-inspired design. " She paused, gazing into the imperfect etching as something ate at her.
"I'm sorry, no. See this third eye? The cheek flanges? He clearly made a Hive-inspired helmet to strike fear into his enemies."
"No, this was centuries before we encountered the Hive." She turned the helm over and gave it a careful sniff. Dust. Sweat. Linseed. Frankincense. "No smell of decay. Oiled. A warrior is buried in his armor, but this was buried next to him, not on him."
She hefted the weight of it in her hands. "It's light. And…" Her eyes darted carefully over the helm's surface. "No. The line weight in these etchings is inconsistent… handmade. And scans show traces of his DNA sealed in the seams. He made this himself, but it wasn't his. The fletching is infused with Light—high visibility, easily to spot on the battlefield. He made this for someone. Someone who couldn't bear to wear it after Carnunta's death."
She gently righted the helmet, staring into its visor. "He made this for a lover."
Ophiuchus whirred a moment. "So, you don't think it looks like a Hive?"
"Maybe a little."
Hey, sister. Or brother. Hell, I don't know who's gonna end up listen' to this. Could be a snitch, an idiot, or somebody who ain't picked a side yet.
And that's perfect, because all this talk about choosin' sides? Noise. Before this is over, the only one's gonna have your back is you—and that's even odds.
Use your head. Think clear, all right? Because there are whispers going around, and you need to know when to plug your ears. Things have been different since Sloane went dark… ooh, poor wording? What's wrong, too soon? Let me tell you that we killed some time on New Arcadia. Learned some things. Listened to the wrong whispers.
Be careful who you trust from here on out, all right? Yeah, that includes me, but I've been tellin' you that since the beginning.
Freedom is a chain. Choice is a prison.
You see him, and all he wishes for is confirmation of that fact. But to do so would invoke something far worse than justification. You can feel his hand, reaching inside of you, grasping for your heart and tearing it free for himself. You know the pain he will cause.
In one last act of defiance you break your shackles, exerting the strength you had been slowly gathering all this time. Physical chains break, but chains of causality are not so fragile, even for you.
You see him and he is satisfied. Then, he is gone. Your roar of defiance echoes into the infinite. You know they will witness.
It is only a matter of time.
---
I am the last Speaker.
During the long years I have held this title, I also held out hope that my peers still remained somewhere in this world or others. But that hope, like this title, has been taken from me.
I compose these thoughts on the eve of what may well be my passing, within the cold walls of a prison, || so dark and suffocating || not my private chambers. They are my last words, but also perhaps my most important.
My captor desires knowledge, understanding, a clarity that even I have been denied by the Traveler. He does not understand || how hard it is to communicate ||. Does not care to. He would take, rather than have the patience to be given.
He asks me to make the Traveler see him, speak to him, but he does not understand. I cannot make the Traveler do anything. I can only listen, and repeat. But he does not wish to listen || to the warnings || to me.
He does not wish to believe that he will || be reduced to memory || fail. I have seen it. I have seen so many things. Before that shackle was put around the Traveler, it cried out to me. It showed me || a broken mask, repaired by gold on fracture-seams || everything I needed to see; a lifetime of service rewarded.
I do not need to be || afraid || the Speaker any longer. There is no need || for fear, that time has passed || of us, of my peers, of our order.
In the time to come || to make a choice || the Traveler will speak freely. Those who listen will know || the dangers to come ||, and those who know will listen. They are not || forgotten || Speakers, for our time has passed. A new age is dawning, and I wish I would live to see it.
I am the last Speaker, and I am at peace.