IGS #4, Chapter 60

Scorio

“Somebody talk to me,” said Scorio as he strode up to Anseline’s dais. “Is this a control panel? How does it work?”

Sal had hustled to the side of the circular chamber where he’d begun studying an array of flickering lights. Bravurn stood with his arms crossed, expression contemplative, and not nearly worried enough for Scorio’s liking. Radert and the other Herdsmen had excused themselves, and without the capacity to give them his undivided attention and force them to remain, Scorio had reluctantly let them go.

“One second, one second,” Sal called back testily. “These mana signatures are all wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. It’s not as I designed it. Not according to my notes.”

Even Scorio could tell the situation was rapidly deteriorating. Where before the Cube had felt static, the ground solid and unmoving beneath his feet even as he knew it was soaring through the sky, now it felt… tenuous. A subtle shiver had begun to course through the white tiled floor, and occasionally hiccup or jolt would run through the entire room all at once, like a wagon might if one wheel jounces over a large stone.

“Scorio. I understand that we have an unpleasant past, but that was another me, and I possess none of his context,” said Bravurn, drifting closer.

Scorio clambered up onto the dais. It seemed to be mostly ornamental. Deep blue panels were riveted with bronze and gold, while the throne itself was a stately chair without cushioning, high-backed and stylized. He moved to the curving panels along one side and stared blankly at the buttons, dials, and sliders.

“We are, frankly, both in danger of losing our lives. That unites us in cause if nothing else,” said Bravurn. “I have the advantage, however, of having read Anseline’s journals, and developed over the past few months a basic understanding of the Fortress’s operations.”

“You what?” demanded Myla, more amazed than outraged. “You read her journals?”

“Underhand, I know,” admitted Bravurn without qualms, “but in clearly my precautions were justified. It was simple to track the deterioration of her sanity across the decades. I knew something akin to this crisis was brewing, and now here we are. Scorio. Let me help you, and in doing so, help myself.”

Scorio turned from the panel in frustration. “Help me how?”

“If you make a Heart Oath swearing to not persecute or harm me after this crisis is resolved, I’ll rapidly and succinctly instruct you in in the theory of managing the Fortress. With that knowledge, you may be able to assure we land gently instead of crashing at full speed into the ground below.”

“Ha,” said Scorio without humor. “Myla, got that fake Heart of yours?”

“Damn it,” cried Sal, and resumed hammering and poking at the lights and panels before him. “This isn’t how it’s meant to work at all!”

“Here,” said Myla, drawing her necklace forth.

“We don’t have time for jests,” said Bravurn, his stern facade cracking before his impatience. “The Cube, as you call it, is a marvel of construction, but its functions are comprehendible. You escaped the Charnel Duke Gauntlet, though I admit I have no idea how. That means you have a chance of wresting some control over the Cube, no matter how incomplete.”

Scorio stared at the young Great Soul, the man’s high brow, his seam of a mouth, his slicked back hair so familiar, so dismaying. Yet this man’s eyes weren’t as sunken, his face not as weathered, and the depths of his stare not nearly as jaded and impossible to read.

“What rank are you?” Scorio demanded.

Bravurn raised his chin just a fraction of an inch. “Emberling.”

“How is the Curse not destroying you?”

Bravurn’s smile was pitying. “The Cube buffers us from the Curse.”

“That’s…?” Scorio cut off his own inane question before he could make it. “By the ten hells.”

“No!” Sal hammered his fist into the wall. “What? Stop that!”

“What is it, Sal?” called Myla.

“There are functionally no redundancies!” Sal spun about, hands buried in his greasy hair. “Oh, they’re there, but they’re truly redundant, none of them are activating as they should! We’re losing power far quicker than we should! The relay to the Tomb has already shut down, and we’re venting mana into the damn air!”

“The Tomb?” demanded Scorio.

“There isn’t time for that,” snapped Bravurn. “We must focus. Now. Sweat the Heart Oath!”

“The Tomb, the Tomb!” snapped Sal angrily. “Where all our reserves are buried, kept in stasis, our trump card, our supposed glorious reveal! But the Archspire there is already dying, and with it, all the bodies, the bodies!” Sal froze for but a moment, eyes wide, and then he sagged as the fight went out of him. “Ah, whatever.”

Scorio glanced at Myla. “Reserves? Bodies?”

“Generations of our best,” said Myla softly, looking down and away. “Notable Great Souls who were earmarked for removal.”

“Not Red Listed?”

“No. Placed in stasis so that at exactly the right moment we could revive them and win the war.”

Sal blew a giant razzberry, and put so much force into it that he bent at the waist. “So much for that millennium-old plan! Farcical! Weak, watery excrement, is what those notable Great Souls are now, they’d dead! Dead-dead, not half-dead. Gone! Gone to the Academy’s Archspire.”

“You designed this system?” demanded Scorio, half-accusingly.

“Oh, sure, some of it. Apparently. Supposedly.” Sal resumed walking back to the dais. “And installed reservoirs, failsafe’s, all manner of protective measures that should have ensured the Tomb remained fueled for years even if the Cube exploded. All side-lined.”

“Sabotage?” asked Bravurn, raising one dramatic eyebrow.

“Yes. In short, yes.” Sal scritched at his scalp furiously then shrugged again. “Hell if I know. It’s happening the Cube, too. It’s all folding like a wet napkin. But, as far as I can tell, it’s happening on purpose. As if the failsafe were complete and catastrophic collapse, not reserves, recovery, and resilience.”

The news was staggering. Scorio couldn’t wrap his mind around it, but now wasn’t the time. Later. He’d have to process it all later, if he survived this debacle. “Sal. How do I manage the Cube?”

“You can’t, you idiot,” snapped Sal. “One needs Dominion to control it.”

“Not true,” said Bravurn, fighting for patience. “Scorio, the Heart Oath, and I’ll reveal all.”

“Forget his Heart Oath,” said Sal. “We need to get off this ship. But without Dominion, the normal means are inert. Word is you can fly, Scorio. That true? What would it take to hitch—”

Scorio tuned the voices out and sat upon the throne. “Myla?”

The blonde waif glanced up at him, eyes wide.

“I’m going to focus on this. Can you keep them away from me?”

For a long aching moment she simply stared at him, and then her cheeks colored and she gave a jerky nod.

“Good.” He fought to steady his breath and placed his hands on the arm rests. “All right. Let’s see what we can do.”

And closing his eyes, he extended his Heart Senses into the world.

The entire room radiated power. Mana was in flux, coursing through the brass tubes affixed to the walls, manifesting in countless panels in specific registers, coursing through triggers and mechanisms that put him in mind of his bridge, his chalk. Treasures. Cunningly wrought to achieve results he couldn’t understand, but this was the tip, the very top of the Cube’s power.

Around him, extending in every direction, hung the depths of the Cube. And dimly sensed beyond it a—

The Cube rocked violently and seemed to skid around, yawing and with one corner rising up so that the saplings shook and the Great Souls cried out and clutched for support. The throne, the floor, everything shook and terrible sounds of metal and wood being distressed cried out from all around them.

“What was that?” demanded Bravurn, his voice a harsh whisper as he pushed off the dais.

“How should I know?” Sal ran with precarious balance even as the Cube continued to come around, everything vibrating, the lights around them flickering erratically. “That shouldn’t’ be happening either.”

Scorio closed his eyes again. Fought down his alarm, his fear, his doubt, and reached forth with his senses.

The Cube was a closed fist around him, a network of beautifully manipulated mana that was ordered and regimented with dizzying virtuosity. But beyond that, sensed as one might the sun breaking through clouds even with your eyes closed… wild mana. Tempestuous, furious, uncontrollable.

“No, no, what? This goes beyond even apoptosis,” yelled Sal, and then he did something, his Heart flaring bright, and a great section of the chamber’s curved wall became transparent, though the brass pipes and overlays remained, superimposed above the image.

The Unfathom was revealed outside.

Everyone stared.

The Silverine Sun was exploding.

The heavens roiled with terrible beauty. A mana storm was lashing out, unleashing thousands of lightning strikes upon the ground, many of which remained after their first strike, forming static lightning trees that blazed over pools of melted sand. Silver and Copper, Bronze and Iron, all of it surged and boiled in the skies, pouring forth at a tremendous rate from the Silverine Sun, which itself was going mad.

Scorio had never seen something so beautiful, so… inviting.

“That… that can’t be happening,” whispered Sal. “We’ve ceased to siphon, but that doesn’t mean it should… it looks…”

He whipped around and began tapping buttons and panels again. “Of course! Of course we’re doubly fucked now!”

“How so?” barked Bravurn. “Speak plainly, man!”

“The mana storm.” Sal went to hit more buttons but then simply gave up and backed away, hands raised. “It’s peeling apart our buffers, oversaturating our intake coils. But it’s uncontrolled. The Cube’s like a sponge thrown in acid. At this rate…”

“Yes?” growled Bravurn.

“Kaboom!” said Sal, mimicking an explosion with his hands, eyes going wide.

“Scorio, we need to go,” said Myla.

Scorio bit his lower lip, glanced at the panels on either side of him, at the grandeur of the chamber, at all the implied wealth and power of the Cube.

What had he sacrificed to reach this chair? What had he lost?

He thought of Jova and Leonis, Druanna and Xandera. Of Naomi and Alain. Each loss a part of his soul cut away. He’d wagered everything on finding the Cube, and now, at long last, he’d defied the odds by paying every price, and succeeded.

To leave it now? For what? Who awaited him out there? Where would he go, what would he do? Enlist in some war effort? Return to LastRock to help Moira govern? Wander alone until some monstrous fiend devoured him at last?

“I’m not going,” he whispered.

“Well I’m not an idiot,” said Sal, and began jogging toward the exit.

“Go.” Scorio met Myla’s panicked stare. “See you in the next life.”

“I…” She glanced at the exit, at Bravurn, and then stood straighter. “Sure. In the next life. Till then I’ll watch your back.”

Scorio considered, then offered her a broken smile and closed his eyes. Extended his senses. This was madness, he couldn’t do this. The Cube was overloading. What did he know about its mechanisms? Even Sal had declared himself defeated.

Ah well.

One last impossible battle, then. And if he lost this one? Then that was simply his come uppance, and a well deserved one.

Forcing himself to relax, he pushed his Senses outward and probed at the interior of the room. Conduits, panels, complexities. For a moment he simply passed his mental fingers over the wall, searching for somewhere to begin, but then Bravurn’s voice cut into his concentration.

“Use the throne, Scorio, to access the network. It’s a conduit. I offer this in good faith.”

Scorio withdrew his senses and instead focused on the chair, only to find it possessed its own gravitational pull and drew his mind and power down, faster and faster, as if it weren’t a solid but rather a steep slide. His senses left the circular room behind and dropped into a mechanical system, down into a complex world of moving parts, channels, conduits and vast reservoirs that boggled his understanding.

So he didn’t try to understand it. He allowed his mind to drift, the exercise aided in some manner by the throne. His consciousness flowed through the channels and was drawn to the sensation of fire in the Cube’s depths. Tremendous, furious activity was taking place below, and he filtered down to find immense, perfectly designed spheres of some green metal. Each was as large as a Red Fort on Krula’s road, and even as he watched he saw Silver mana be drawn down from the huge batteries at the top of the Cube to fill the sphere. A column extended into the sphere’s center, and at its tip was a huge shard of emerald stone, dark and pitted and wondrous. Not condensed mana. Something else. Even as he observed the chunk abruptly Ignited, just like a Great Soul Heart, and all the Silver mana torched bright.

 The pressure within the chamber increased a hundredfold, and Scorio felt the shockwave travel out the bottom of the sphere, perfectly guided down a funnel that narrowed and narrowed, condensing the released power till it jetted out into the air below the Cube and —that’s how it levitated! Not only that, but there were smaller spheres just like the dozen huge ones at the Cube’s base around the horizontal sides, even a single one on the top. These were quiescent, though they had active channels to the mana within the huge batteries located throughout the Cube’s form.

This was how the Cube was maneuvered. It responded to the release of mana, the rate of which kept it aloft at any given height. Activating the spheres on the sides would cause it to change direction, even reverse.

But how? Scorio withdrew his senses, backtracking, the conduit his mind followed facilitating the process, as if it were designed specifically for ferrying one’s mind about the Cube. Each sphere had a mechanism at its top where the mana conduit opened into its body. A valve of some kind, and from these extended slender tubes, tightly bundled and rising to—the throne.

Of course.

The closer they got the more they split, till at the last they were a bundle of spider threads that both attached to the throne’s underside as well as moving to the panels.

But they were slowing. It was momentum that kept them going, and with each cycle they burned with less intensity, injected less mana.

All right.

Scorio forced himself to remain calm. If he could isolate the correct thread and cause that lateral set of spheres to fire, then they should move away from the Silverine Sun.

“Sal,” he called out, but then realized the Herdsmen was gone. “Damn it—”

“I’m still here,” grumbled Sal.

Scorio opened his eyes, reluctantly severing his link with the conduits.

“What?” the wispy-bearded Red Lister stood with shoulders hunched, arms crossed, hand shoved into his armpits. “The platforms are dead. I don’t fancy my chances of just leaping out of a side portal.”

“If I fire the side spheres. The right ones. If I move us away from the Sun—can we avoid blowing up?”

Sal raised both brows. “You can access the mana-pistons? Holy crow, hold on!” He sprinted back to his panels, and feverishly tapped on them. “I mean, yes? Yes! If you go full throttle, and use the best mana we’ve got. Tap the Emerald batteries, and I think the Diamond tank is… yep. Diamond tank is full. It’s just a tad, but that’ll really make her scream!”

“Can you do this?” asked Myla, tone wondering.

“I’m going to try.”

“You’re going to fail,” snapped Bravurn, tone impatient, fearful. “You’re overlooking a key element. Swear the bloody Heart Oath, and I’ll—”

“Shut it, Bravurn,” murmured Scorio, and closed his eyes once more. Clutching at the armrests, he teased apart the conduits and spent precious moments trying to find the right ones. The Silver mana tanks were huge, dominant, but there, yes—Emerald tanks the size of wagons, three of them. And nestled just above, big as a barrel? Diamond.

Damn.

Now to operate the mechanism.

With painstaking care he traced their paths, identified the pistons on the wall facing the Sun, and then sought to open the valves.

They didn’t respond.

This, no doubt, was where Dominion played a part.

But he had to figure it out regardless.

Favorite friend Scorio, he heard Nox say from the depths of his memories, and with those words came a flush of warmth and determination.

He could do this.

He could do this.

Taking a deep breath he sent his senses back up to the closest Silver tank and there visualized the Delicious Marinating Technique.

Filled the tank with the cells of Imperial Gel, and willed it to obey him.

There were no reservoirs.

His own was everywhere and nowhere at once.

All mana was his. He simply had to inform it.

Straining, his grip near crushing the armrests, he bent his chin, sweat prickling his brow, and commanded the Silver mana to obey.

The vast cloud within the tank stilled and then, inch by terrible inch, began to swirl around his thoughts.

He couldn’t breathe. It felt as if he were lifting a house-sized boulder on his shoulders. It was too heavy. Too massive. Too ponderous. Too far away.

He couldn’t do it. Sweat burned his brow. His throat was afire with his labored gasps. He could feel muscles tearing where he was wrenching at the chair, using physical might to buttress his spiritual will.

He thought of Naomi laughing, a rarity. Of sitting on the balcony of her tower, her head on his shoulder, Bastion spread out before them. Young, innocent, full of hope.

He could do this.

A cry tore itself from his throat as he forced the Silver to enter the conduit, urged it to pour down to the great piston, through the valve, and into the spherical chamber.

Scorio could taste blood. His heart was stuttering, his mind reeling.

More. He had to fill it.

Had his body not been Gold-tempered he was sure it would have begun tearing itself apart. His great Heart labored, burning brighter than it had ever before, and then just as the sphere was topped off, he fumbled with the valve, blindly forced it to close, then—

The emerald Heart within Ignited, a complex process that was part automated and depended on an artificial spark, and the piston roared to life.

The mana burned, was jetted out the side, flooded down the funnel, then poured out into the Unfathom sky.

It was but a tiny eddy compared to the mana storm, the detonating Sun, but enough that the Cube shifted course and began to float away.

“Yes!” Sal’s voice was ferocious with satisfaction. “It's working. That alone will buy us some crucial time. Now again! All of them at once! Use the Emerald!”

Shaking, drenched in sweat, Scorio took a ragged breath and redoubled his focus. He couldn’t do it again. The first time had been a miracle. But what choice did he have? He thought of Leonis’ bitter smile, of Lianshi waving as she walked away, of Jova’s stern expression, her eyes softened by her Pyre Lady trial, her grudging admiration and respect.

Gone now.

But not forgotten.

Taking strength from those memories he dove into the Cube and traced the path past the Silver up to the Emerald. The very presence of that mana scalded him, but not as badly as he’d feared. Whatever had happened in the Charnel Duke Gauntlet, his making Blood Baron or whatever, had inured him to the Emerald’s burn.

But that didn’t make it easy to work with.

Grinding his teeth he set about building an Imperial Gel matrix over its glittering depths.

Shouts from the chamber. Some kind of disturbance was taking place. But he didn’t have time for that.

The Emerald began to stir.

But by the gods, by loves lost and friendships buried, it hurt. It hurt to stir, to affect from so far, to have the hubris to think he could manage this, that he could claim power over this entire system.

To his immense relief he realized that the first piston was still firing; the Silver mana was pouring itself into the sphere each time it emptied, the system no longer needing his oversight. The Cube was drifting away from the storm, ever more quickly, but not quickly enough.

They needed the Emerald.

Scorio refocused and in that moment understood that this would be the death of him. Not even his Heart could take this strain. One simply couldn’t brute force this system.

But what choice did he have?

If only he could have seen Naomi one last time.

Scorio took a deep breath, bent to the lethal labor, then felt a powerful hand clamp on his shoulder.

Shocked, his focus broke and he looked up into Plassus’s deep and wearied dark eyes.

“You’ve done well, lad.” That familiar voice. “I’ll take it from here.”

“I don’t know who you think you are,” snapped Bravurn from where he’d backed away before Jova and Leonis. “But—”

“Oh lookit here,” smiled Plassus, turning about with his hands on his hips. “It’s a baby Bravurn! How adorable!”

Then, almost faster than Scorio could follow, Plassus manifested his ferula and loosed a bolt of burning bronze at the Herdsmen. It hit him square in the face, causing his head to burst apart as the man was flung onto his back.

“Now then,” smiled Plassus, turning back to Scorio. “How about you let an old man have a go at this pretty toy, hmm? Looks fun.”

Scorio could only rise slowly to his feet. Jova. Nyrix. Kuragin. Leonis.

Plassus.

The Charnel Duke settled into the throne and looked about himself with brows raised. “Now then. Let’s—”

“What’s this?” Sal’s tone somehow cut through the hubbub of voices, Leonis having begun to call out to Scorio, fist raised. Even Plassus glanced across the chamber at where the Herdsman was tapping at his panel. “An Imperator? No. Then…?”

“What are you on about, you mangy man?” barked Plassus, his irritation sudden and complete.

“There.” Sal turned to point at the great translucent section of wall. “You should be able to see it. There.”

They all stared at the wall. The Sun was burning, brilliant, beautiful. But from its center a constant dark speck was emerging, a figure wreathed in fire, floating forth and undoubtedly approaching them.

“Not an Imperator?” demanded Plassus.

“No. The readings are all wrong. But the again, the readings are all messed up. I don’t… that’s…”

The speck was growing larger. Scorio stared at it, still recovering from his ordeal in the chair. Even as they flew away across the valley, sadly leaving the Sun behind, the figure approached.

A man, he thought. A faint hint of blond hair.

And then Scorio realized who he was looking at.

Who had also survived, and was now approaching.