8ish

There have always been those who say that the fall of Suktis was due merely to a cataclysmic natural disaster, an upheaval of Ersada’s sea bed. But the Selidians tell a different tale: they say that Suktis sought power by taking life, and so their own life was taken in payment for such pride. The Selidians claim to be descendants of the children of Suktis, and take great pride in children who bear the white hair and purple eyes that are thought to be the signs of Suktisian blood.

-------from the History of the Selides Islands, by Nathur Ikaln, YE 29078

The Historian awoke with a groan, his back aching. Already, the machine had began to administer drugs to soothe the phantom pains, and ease his transition back into his own body. He swore loudly, and sat up quickly.

“Are you returned, Master Nephan?” a respectful voice sounded in the Historian’s chamber.

“I am.” He replied tersly. “Who are you? I don’t know your voice.”

“I am Celek, master. I became your attendant three years ago.”

Nephan pulled on his robe and began donning the rings and golden insignia that marked his rank in the Guild. “What happened to Stalek? Did that bastard Tehkan finally offer him enough to sway his allegiance?”

Celek hesitated, then responded quietly, “No, Master, he simply tired of living. He went to the House of Temal three years ago. The Guild appointed me to replace him; fortunately, he was well-prepared, and left a fragment of consciousness in the machine to instruct me in my duties. I think you will find my service satisfactory.”

“Your competence is your concern, not mine. If you are unsuitable, I shall simply file you away as a reference for our times; perhaps some member of the Guild will find your memories useful in a few millennia.” Nephan picked up his portable interface from the drawer where he had laid it forty-five years earlier, and began attaching the wires to the ports in his skull and neck. “I see that my interface is still here; I presume that there have been no significant changes in them since I left?”

“No, Master, no appreciable change. I have instructions to replace any of your personal technology if you are away when a new version becomes standard.” Celek’s voice seemed strained, but he was able maintain his civility. “I have a message here for you, sir, that I was to deliver when you awoke. It is from Master Tekhan. He wishes to see you, and will make himself available when you deliver your data to the Guild storehouse.”

The door to Nephan’s chamber slid open as his thoughts brushed it, and he strode through into his outer quarters. “I will see Master Tekhan if I have the time; I have much to discuss with the record-keepers. If I see him, I see him; if not, you will convey my regrets, and inform him that my spare time is, perhaps, rarer than his own.” Nephan swept past the wall terminal; the terminal consisted of a panel of metal, over-run with circuits and ports. In the middle, with arms spread wide and wires running in and out of his body, stood Celek, monitoring the systems and machines that kept Nephan’s affairs in order. Nephan paused, and returned to the panel.

“What type of attendant have they given me, I wonder?” he muttered. Stepping closer, he pried up one of Celek’s eyelids, and saw a bright blue iris gazing back. “So, you are a mixed-breed, then? No wonder they were so eager to push you off on me. Well, I will give you a fair trial, but remember, I do not tolerate mistakes.” The body of the man in the machine did not move, but Celek’s disembodied voice filtered through the interface that Nephan wore: “I will remember. I think you will find me reliable.”

As Nephan exited his dwelling, the sight of the city caused him a momentary dizziness. It took him a moment to reacclimate, and his first response was the instinctive one of Serna from Suktis; after all, he had lived for forty-five years as Serna, and it took some time for his own responses to reassert themselves.

The sky was a dark blue, and thousands of stars were visible to the naked eye. To eyes enhanced by his interface into Civitas, the network of the city, he could see millions of stars, identify and zoom in on any celestial body, and get sidereal navigation reports with a single thought. The giant dome was clear, and invisible at the crown of the sky, but towards the base the reflections of the cityscape could be seen. The massive platform that supported the city curved in a gentle arc, mimicking the curve of the planet below. Ersada’s horizon could be seen just over the rim of the city, its seas glowing cobalt in the sky.

The buildings of Winling rose tall and strong; over a hundred million men and women made their home here. Billions more resided in other cities located on the other side of Ersada, and a few hundred thousand thrived in the Ledan colony on the smaller moon.

Nephan steadied himself, and stepped onto a walkway that ran like a river through the city. Though he moved past buildings at a high speed, he felt no sense of speed. The spired Hall of the Historians rose before him, and he sent a quick thought to the machine at the next portal; he slowed, and moved off onto a side route that sent him directly into the building. Stepping off the walkway, he entered the high arched doorway of the Hall; before him stood the statue of the First Projector, the great Learan. On either side, the corridor swept up in a great vaulted ceiling; the design was based on architecture from an earlier period in Ersadan history; one of the great Guild Masters had sent scores of projectors back to inhabit the architects of the period in order to reproduce it correctly.

A large man in a robe that matched Nephan’s spotted him as he strode down the hall, and rushed to catch up with him.

“Well, back again I see? What was it, fifty years or so? That’s a nice length, I always think. I hate being sent to more recent times; one often has to live a thousand years or so there until the shell dies! It’s always so disorienting to come back after something like that.”

Nephan looked his colleague over with an air of disdain. “Do you have something important to tell me, Ergan? If not, I have important business to attend to.” He surreptitiously flashed his rings, and the other man shook his head. “No, nothing important. No need to invoke the formalities, Master Nephan.” Ergan spoke the title with only the barest modicum of respect. “Please, attend to your business.”

The higher-ranking historian bowed coldy, and swept past in a rustle of robes. He proceeded past the Halls of Observation, where minds disentangled from their natural time were recorded into the great machines. The Hall of Records was on a side corridor, and he opened the doors with a casual thought.

The room inside was dark gray and simply furnished. An older man sat behind a desk; his steel grey hair was sleeked back close to his skull, and his green eyes were dimmed by the data flickering across his retinas. He glanced up as the Historian entered, eyes scanning the man’s rings.

“Good day, Master Nephon, adept of the Second Order. How may the recorders assist you?” The man’s voice echoed slightly in the empty room.

“I need to trace a racial marker, and a possible lineage.”

The recorder nodded, eyes flickering. “Very well. Which marker?”

“The purple eyes of the Suktisians. “ Nephan’s voice was calm and collected as he spoke, and the Recorder glanced up at him. “Interesting choice, but difficult to narrow down. Possible lineage?”

“From the land bridge that once linked the Suktisians and the Astaldak. First known ancestor, around the year 5000.

The recorder's eye flickered again as the data was entered.

"That's still a pretty wide search range, you know. And we don't often send projectors that far back; it's difficult to get inside a primitive, and rather painful to the mind that does so." His eyes flashed white for an instant, then returned to the dim green shade. "Well, it looks like we have a entry from that time. I don't know it you'll find what you are looking for, but here you are." He slipped his fingers into the ports on ihs desk, and the grey walls seemed to melt away. They stood on a grassy beach, ankle deep in sand. In the distance, a flock of sea birds soared, calling racously to each other.

A few figures wavered on the horizon, and the Record waved Nehpan towards them. "I doubt they're the bloodline you're looking for, but perhaps you can find something there. When you are ready to move on to the next recording, just give me a little nudge and I'll move it forward for you." The recorder bowed slightly, and vanished.

Nephan moved carefully towards the people gathered at the edge of the beach; they were gathered around a fire and seemed to be cooking some sort of lizard for a meal. He knew that this was not the family he was looking for, but perhaps...He sent out a mental instruction to pause the recording, and the scene froze. One of the women in the family group was crouching down in front of the fire, stirring it with a stick. Nephan looked carefulyl at her; her dark hair was bound back in a simple braid, and the sparks from the fire hung reflected in her purple eyes. Her children and her children's children would be the ancestors of Sula...But why had Sula felt so familiar?

Nephan paused for a moment, then nudged the Recorder. The scene seemed to fill with a grey mist that swirled, solidified, and became the grey walls of the recorder's room.

"Find what you were looking for?"

Nephan shook his head. "No, unfortunately. If only I could have recorded that last one...perhaps...but no matter now."

The Recorder smirked slightly. "Yes, I heard. The rising star came back without a prize, for once. In fact, I heard that she bashed your brains in before you could even approch her. You're getting careless, Nephan. I hope you brought back something good for us this time." He leaned back in his chair: the meeting was over, and the data flickered rapidly over the Recorder's staring eyes.

Nephan slammed the door open and stalked out into the hallway. His green eyes flashed, and lower ranking Historians scattered out of his way. "Nephan, Adept of the Second Rank, your presence is required in the Council Room immediately." The voice echoed inside his head; for the fiftieth time, he wondered why they insisted on projecting announcements so loudy that they set his teeth on edge.

He paused for a moment to collect himself. The Council chamber was at the end of the hall, through large metal double doors. The metal on the doors was carefully constructed to look like a crude metal that earlier Ersadans had favored, but he knew that it was all modern matieral. The doors were unbreakable, and could collect and store the consciousness of anyone who tried to attack them. The circuitry that ran through the metal was hooked into the machine that ran the guild hall, and kept a record of everything that happened in the hall. As he approached, the doors swung open, and he walked forward into darkness.

As he reached the center of the room, the blackness faded away into a harsh grey light. The council was seated at the far end of the hall: their crimson robes glowed slightly due to the light-sensitive threads woven into the fabric. Each wore a single large ring on his forefinger: the rings were gold with a ruby inset. Only a few more projections, Nephan thought, and he would finally be eligible to be elected to the council. But merely having enough records to fill the ruby wans't enough, he remmebered bitterly, there must be something unique about his records, a family lineage recorded for a hundred generations, or a record of some previously unrecorded significant event. His own work was solid, even bvrilliant, but it still lacked a prize, a focus that other Historians could point to as an example of the best of their work. This trip should have been that defining moment: no-one had ever recorded the fall of Suktis, and it had taken him hundreds of years to find someone present at the event whom he could inhabit. Serna had been perfect: born of good stock, was near death, and as his consciousness dissipated into the air of the cold sea, Nephan had been able to step inside, repair the damage done, and keep the body alive until the boat landed. Forty five years he had worked, making sure that Serna became an acolyte, gained the respect of the priests, and was present when the disaster occured. He had even chosne the perfect mind to bring back: the girl was young, she was perfectly suited to her time and place, and had been a central part of all the happenings. If only she hadn't died so quickly!

"Adept Nephan, this is the second time you have returned with nothing. If your time away cannot be spent more productively, you will be assigned to the Recorders to assist in cataloguing and research."

Nephan bowed, robes sweeping the floor. "If such a thing were to happen it would be a great wate of a valuable resource. It is true, I was unable to bring a consciouosness back with me for the Recorders, but I have discovered a soul of great value. She was not only a witness to the fall of Suktis, but an integral part of the magics that destroyed the island. All of those energies were channeled through her. Try to imagine what could be learned from a careful analysis of her experiences as those powers went through her. “

One of the council members rubbed the gem of his ring pensively, sending flickers of up from his hands. “If you were in the presence of such a one,. Why did you not bring her back with you?”

Nephan cleared his throat, and continued. “If you will remember, I did mention that the energies that destroyed Suktis were channeled through her. By the time I could get to her, there was not much left. I almost had her, another two minutes would have sufficed, but she slipped away too soon. However, I plan to consult the Tracers and find out where her consciousness next emerged, and take her there.”

The conciliars looked at each other for a few moments, conferring; the leader of the council rose, and signaled the machine to record the pronouncement. “Let it be recorded that the Council of the Guild of Historians, in this year of Ersada 207,368, has approved the proposal of Nephan, Adept of the Second Order. Nephan shall search out the soul of the Conduit of Suktis, and bring her here to be recorded. Success in this enterprise will garuntee him a spot among our number—“ Nephan’s eyes flashed with ambition, blood rising to his cheeks. One of the council members glanced at him, instructing him to keep his peace, and the head of the council continued. “And failure to accomplish this endeavor will result in his being removed from our presence, and assigned to work with the Recorders.” He gestured to Nehpan derogatoritively. “I wish you success, Adept. You will need it.”

The pronouncement was recorded faithfully by the machine in the Council Room, and stored in the memory of the telepath who was hooked into the system. His brain, used to such transfers from a hundred years of employment, sent a copy of the record to another brain in another machine, in a relay station in the network. From there, the memory raced through walls, circuits, and wires, until it reached the spire of the Guild of Transmitters. In the top of the room stood a wall of five telepaths, dreaming deeply as the records and events of Windling streamed through their brains and out to their counterparts of the moon Lotha.

In the Great Machine, one of two hundred telepaths shivered upon receiving the transmission. She did not open her eyes or speak a word, but the girl who was wiping her face with a damp cloth noticed the small reaction. “What is it, Sol? Is the water too cold? I’m afraid I was delayed on the way over, and you know how quickly it cools.” The ginger-haired girl dipped the washcloth into a small cup at her feet, and wrung out the excess water. “Look, your hair has grown!” She smiled as she ran her fingers over the inch-long silky white hair that grew upon the telepath’s head. If it was this long, then she would have to shave it off soon, or the overseers would notice, but she couldn’t bear to do it today. She lifted the telepath’s hand gently, and ran the washcloth over her fingers, making sure that all the connections were secure and that the hand was clean and healthy. She didn’t see any chafing this time; they adjusters must have finally made those modifications she’d asked for.

The telepath shivered again, and Mada looked up, surprised. “What is it dear? Do they have you recording something interesting?” She knelt to wash the telepath’s legs and feet. Making sure to clean under the toenails. She didn’t know how someone who never moved could get so much dust under her toenails, but it happened somehow. She finished her work, and made a mental note to bring the razor with her tomorrow.

“I have to go now, Sol, dear. You’ll be alright till then.” She smiled, lip trembling slightly at the sight of the white hair that would soon be gone again. “Pleasant dreams.” She knew that her childhood friend had not heard a word she said since she had been taken, plugged into the machine at the age of five, but she never could help babbling when she was around Sol. She squeezed her friend’s hand one last time, and moved to the next telepath. Dipping the cloth into the water again, she slowly began to wash his face.

Sol shuddered one last time, seeing the flash of green eyes in the recorded dream of the City.

Int he city, Nephan sank downward to the lower levels of the Guild Hall. On the third floor below the entrance hall, he stepped off into the Tracers Chamber. It was a dull gray room, identical to that of the Recorders. Instead of a desk though, there was a round dias raised about a foot off the floor. Each wall of the small room was made of a single panel: in the middle of each panel was a telepath. Wires ran into their arms, skulls, and spines, linking them to the machine, and to the network of Winding. Each had a unique set of wires, shared by no other telepaths on the planet, that fed into all memories storied by the Historians. Nehpan stepped up on the dias and emptied his mind. Reaching with his own mind, he expanded his consciousness into the minds of the telepaths before him, and showed them what he wanted to find. A woman, in any time after the fall of Suktis; she would likely have purple eyes, and have latent memories of the Suktian disaster. The telepaths reached backward into the memories stored in the machines of the Historians, and out to the memories stored in the Lothan colony. Images and sensations flickered through him in a maelstrom, and he was caught up in the psychic detritus of a million lives. Slowly, a sort of sequence became clear: colored lights playing on stone, a flash of green eyes. Then longer visions: he was standing ankle deep in sand, the negligible weight of a dead child in his arms, facing a wall of people, as sand obscured his sight. The feeling of clay as he smoothed and shaped it, with hands as delicate as a child's. Screaming as he was a child torn away from parents, taken to a cold place, and plugged into a machine. In a bed in the quiet of the night, feeling the still warmness of a lover asleep beside him. Standing a cliff above an icy sea, wind whipping the frozen spary into his face. Falling, falling, down into the ocean, the chill of the water, a glimpse of land. He pulled back from the images, and clered his head. Working with the Tracers was always disorienting. For a Projector, time was like a river: one could travel upstream or downstream, or stop at any number of ports along the way, but it definately flowed one way.. For the Tracers, time was like a giant ocean, with waves that came and went, and unseen depths below the surface.

Nephan walked out of the Tracers' room, leaving the telepaths dreaming of purple eyes and white-blond hair, and stepped back on the walkway to his own residence. The memories must be recorded while still fresh in his mind, then he would sink back into the past.

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