That means we’re better than the others were, I tell myself, scowling. Smarter, more adaptable, more skilled. This matters, does it not? We are components of the great machine, the pinnacle of Sylanagistine biomagestry. If some of us had to be removed from the machine because of flaws —
Tetlewha was not flawed, Remwha snaps like a slipstrike fault.
I blink and glance at him. He’s back in the alcove, waiting over near Bimniwha and Salewha; they’ve all used the fountain to strip off their own paint while Kelenli worked on me and Gaewha and Dushwha. The guards Remwha distracted are just outside, still chuckling to themselves over what he said to them. He’s glaring at me. When I frown, he repeats: Tetlewha was not flawed.
I set my jaw. If Tetlewha was not flawed, then that means he was decommissioned for no reason at all.
Yes. Remwha, who rarely looks pleased on a good day, has now curled his lip in disgust. At me. I’m so shocked by this that I forget to pretend indifference. That is precisely her point. It doesn’t matter what we do. The problem is them.
It doesn’t matter what we do. The problem is them.
When I am clean, Kelenli cups my face in her hands. “Do you know the word ‘legacy’?”
I’ve heard it and guessed its meaning from context. It’s difficult to pull my thoughts back on track after Remwha’s angry rejoinder. He and I have never much liked one another, but… I shake my head and focus on what Kelenli has asked me. “A legacy is something obsolete, but which you cannot get rid of entirely. Something no longer wanted, but still needed.”
She grimace-smiles, first at me and then at Remwha. She’s heard everything he said to me. “That will do. Remember that word today.”
Then she gets to her feet. The three of us stare at her. She’s not only taller and browner, but she moves more, breathes more. Is more. We worship what she is. We fear what she will make of us.
“Come,” she says, and we follow her out into the world.
***
2613: A massive underwater volcano erupted in the Tasr Straits between the Antarctic Polar Waste and the Stillness. Selis Leader Zenas, previously unknown to be an orogene, apparently quelled the volcano, although she was unable to escape the tsunami that it caused. Skies in the Antarctics darkened for five months, but cleared just before a Season could be officially declared. In the immediate aftermath of the tsunami, Selis Leader’s husband – the comm head at the time of the eruption, deposed by emergency election – attempted to defend their one-year-old child from a mob of survivors and was killed. Cause disputed: Some witnesses say the mob stoned him, others say the former comm head was strangled by a Guardian. Guardian took the orphaned infant to Warrant.
— Project notes of Yaetr Innovator Dibars
5
you are remembered
The attack comes, like clockwork, near dawn.
Everyone’s ready for it. The camp is about a third of the way into the stone forest, which is as far as Castrima was able to get before full darkness made further progress treacherous. The group should be able to get all the way through the forest before sunset the next day – assuming everyone lives through the night.
Restlessly you prowl the camp, and you are not the only one to do so. The Hunters are supposed to all be sleeping, since during the day they act as scouts as well as ranging afield to forage and catch game. You see quite a few of them awake, too. The Strongbacks are supposed to be sleeping in shifts, but all of them are up, as are a good number of the other castes. You spot Hjarka sitting atop a pile of baggage, her head down and eyes shut, but otherwise her legs are braced for a quick lunge and there’s a glassknife in each hand. Her fingers haven’t loosened with sleep.
It’s a stupid time to attack, given all this, but there isn’t a better one, so apparently your assailants decide to work with what they’ve got. You’re the first to sess it, and you’re pivoting on the ball of one foot and shouting a warning even as you narrow your perception and drop into that space of mind from which you can command volcanoes. A fulcrum, deep and strong, has been rooted in the earth nearby. You follow it to the midpoint of its potential torus, the center of the circle, like a hawk sighting prey. Right side of the road. Twenty feet into the stone forest, out of line of sight amid the wends and drooping greenery. “Ykka!”
She appears at once from wherever she was sitting amid the tents. “Yeah, felt it.”
“Not active yet.” By this you mean that the torus hasn’t begun to draw heat or movement from the ambient. But that fulcrum is deep as a taproot. There’s not much seismic potential gathered in this region – and indeed, much of the pressure on the lower-level strata has been absorbed by the creation of the stone forest. Still, there’s always heat if you go deep enough, and this is deep. Solid. Fulcrum-precise.
“We don’t have to fight,” Ykka yells, suddenly, into the forest. You start, though you shouldn’t. You’re shocked that she was serious, though you really should know better by now. She stalks forward, body taut, knees bent as if she’s about to sprint into the forest, hands held out before her and fingertips wiggling.
It’s easier now to reach for magic, though you still focus on the stump of your own arm to begin, out of habit. It will never feel natural for you to use this instead of orogeny, but at least your perception shifts quickly. Ykka’s way ahead of you. Wavelets and arcs of silver dance along the ground around her, mostly in front of her, spreading and flickering as she draws them up from the ground and makes them hers. What little vegetation you can sess in the stone forest makes it easier; the seedling vines and light-starved mosses act like wires, channeling and aligning the silver into patterns that make sense. Are predictable. Are searching… ah. You tense in the same moment that Ykka does. Yes. There.
Above that deep-rooted fulcrum, at the center of a torus that has not yet begun to spin, crouches a body etched out in silver. For the first time, in comparison, you notice that an orogene’s silver is both brighter and less complex than that of the plants and insects around it. The same… er, amount, if that word applies, if not capacity or potential or aliveness, but not the same design. This orogene’s silver is concentrated into a relative few bright lines that all align in similar directions. They don’t flicker, and neither does his torus. He – you guess that, but it feels right – is listening.
Ykka, another outline of precise, concentrated silver, nods in satisfaction. She climbs up on top of some of the wagon cargo so her voice will carry better.
“I’m Ykka Rogga Castrima,” she calls. You guess that she points at you. “She’s a rogga, too. So’s he.” Temell. “So are those kids over there. We don’t kill roggas here.” She pauses. “You hungry? We’ve got a little to spare. You don’t need to try to take it.”
That fulcrum doesn’t budge.
Something else does, though – from the other side of the stone forest, as thin, attenuated agglomerations of silver suddenly blur into chaotic movement and come charging toward you. Other raiders; Evil Earth, you were all so focused on the rogga that you didn’t even notice the ones behind you. You hear them now, though, voices rising, cursing, feet pounding on ashy sand. The Strongbacks near the barrier of stakes on that side cry warning. “They’re attacking,” you call.
“No shit,” Ykka snaps, drawing a glassknife.
You retreat to within the tent circle, acutely aware of your vulnerability in a way that’s strange and deeply unpleasant. It’s worse because you can still sess, and because your instincts prompt you to respond when you see where you could help. A cluster of attackers comes at a part of the perimeter that’s light on stakes and defenders, and you open your eyes so you can actually see them trying to fight their way in. They’re typical commless raiders – filthy, emaciated, dressed in an ash-faded combination of rags and newer, pilfered clothing. You could take out all six in half a breath, with a single precision torus.
But you can also feel how… what? How aligned you are. Ykka’s silver is concentrated like that of the other roggas you’ve observed, but hers is still layered, jagged, a little jittery. It flows every-which-way within her as she jumps down from the cargo wagon and shouts for people to help the sparse Strongbacks near that cluster of raiders, running to help herself. Your magic flows with smooth clarity, every line matching perfectly in direction and flow to every other line. You don’t know how to change it back to the way it was, if that’s even possible. And you know instinctively that using the silver when you’re like this will pack every particle of your body together as neatly as a mason lays a wall of bricks. You’ll be stone the same way.