TMarkos
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130 - Truth
🕑 Added 2023-10-13 21:52:28 +0000 UTCMen are largely insignificant. This is not to say they are unimportant, but rather that the impact that any one man may have on events is minimal. This is because it takes only one man working in opposition to his efforts in order to thwart him, and the observant will have noticed that there are more than a few contrarian men in the world.
There are, however, some few men who may not be quieted so easily. It may take two, or three men to push back against him, or an army led by similarly-remarkable men. Such scenarios quickly escalate to become a contest of armies, whether the field is one of politics, society or literal war.
In a contest of armies, focus lies chiefly upon the generals. They are the ones who provide direction and purpose to the rest, so they are naturally held to be more significant than the rest; in some respects they are. Leaders of men are remarkable, almost by definition. Yet their power derives largely from those who have chosen to follow them, who have let that remarkable will suborn their own.
May we still call them insignificant men? Logically, practically, they are. They are grains of sand against the weight of a mountain - but only a fool thinks dunes are any easier to summit.
- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687
—
A convoy of trucks took them swiftly from the Goitxea docks to an airbase tucked away into the foothills, some distance from the city itself. The familiar silhouette of the airship peeked up over a rise as they approached. Sunlight glinted off the silvery exterior, an irregular beacon guiding them along the twisting road up, past grim-faced Mendiko soldiers and several layers of fences topped with coiled wire.
The mood was sharp, unsettled; men rushed back and forth or stood with a stooped uneasiness, cradling rifles close to their chest. There was no enemy to intrude here, but the gravity of the situation made itself felt in every motion, in the crowds of soldiers occupying themselves with drills as they passed.
“Preparations should be complete, or nearly so,” Lekubarri said, leaning forward on the truck’s bench seat. There were no windows to see out, though that posed no obstacle to Michael or Sobriquet.
“It looks as ready as it ever has,” Michael noted. He brought his sight closer to the airship. For an instant he leaned too close, became too interested. The metal skin showed its laminate innards, the pounding of the engine separated into oil and metal and swirling tongues of fire. Michael was becoming more practiced at anchoring himself to the proper scale, however, and after a dizzying moment he was able to free himself from the labyrinthine trap of the airship and see it normally. Men clustered about the aft, busying themselves with something bulky and covered in tarpaulins; Michael said as much to Lekubarri.
“Ah,” the batzarkidea said, his interest sharpening. “That may warrant a diversion. Gidaria, eraman gaitzazu bertara.”
The driver steered them away from the body of the convoy, taking a narrow access path that led to the side of the airfield. Lekubarri hopped out and jogged over to the crowd of jumpsuited engineers carefully maneuvering a pallet out of a truck. One of them looked up with alarm, waving his hands.
“Jauna, arriskutsua da-” he began, stopping short when Lekubarri’s eyes snapped up to him.
“I know she’s dangerous, that’s the whole damn point,” the batzarkidea retorted. “Step aside and let me see her.”
After some confused discussion, the tarpaulin was dragged away to reveal an odd-looking metal device, the core of which was a metallic sphere surrounded by wires and thin piping. Michael and the others caught up with Lekubarri while he was frozen in rapt contemplation.
“This is the bomb, I take it,” Michael said.
Lekubarri made a small, irritated noise, but did not take his eyes from it. “This is a dream, Jaun Baumgart. This is several decades of research and the efforts of thousands of men, all bent towards a single goal - to show that the hands of man can grasp power beyond the reach of souls.”
“And the form it takes is that of yet another bomb,” Antolin noted dryly. “Even as our grasp extends, our imagination fails. I listened to Leire as much as you, Xabier. When she dreamed of man exceeding the power of souls, she talked of electricity and manufacturing, not of war.”
“You know as well as I that security is a prerequisite for stability, Grand Marshal. The things we’ve learned in constructing this are the foundation of those technologies Leire dreamed about. This is only the first step, and a necessary one to take.” Lekubarri finally tore his gaze from the bomb to look back at Antolin. “Surely you’re not arguing against the necessity of such weaponry today, of all days.”
“Weaponry is irrelevant,” Amira said, walking up to stand close to the bomb; several of the engineers looked visibly nervous as she held her hand close to its metal skin, fingers splayed. “It’s only a device, a stone in the road. There is no divine spark to it, and so it cannot shape the course of events unaided. Even now, you’re merely using it to clear a path for Michael.” She let her hand drop, taking a step back. “That said, I will be interested to see what it’s capable of.”
Lekubarri smiled at her. “Against such a remarkable backdrop of events, I can only hope that we’ll leave an impression. Something you can talk about back in Khem, perhaps.”
“Enough.” Antolin gave Lekubarri an irritated look, then motioned to the engineers. “Get it on the ship. Make sure it’s secured well.” He frowned, then returned his attention to the batzarkidea. “You haven’t mentioned how you expect to deliver the weapon. This is hardly a munition, it looks like lab equipment.”
“It is lab equipment,” Lekubarri scowled. “Nevertheless, it should survive some rough handling.” He looked at Amira. “Our Safid friend should be able to ensure that everything essential leaves the airship in good order.”
“Your plan is for Amira to throw the immensely destructive bomb out of the back hatch,” Antolin said, deadpan. “The fruit of - what was it? Several decades of research, the efforts of thousands of men-”
Lekubarri gave Antolin an odd smile, then reached out to pat the weapon lightly. “There’s nothing wrong with a simple plan, and my plan for this is very simple indeed.” He stepped back as the engineers busied themselves moving it away. “We certainly don’t have the time to build a delivery mechanism.”
“So,” Lekubarri said, clapping his hands together. “Time to save the world.”
—
There was not much to plan, as it happened, but considering the importance of the mission they nevertheless ran through a variety of scenarios and hypotheticals to ensure that everyone knew their roles. The Mendiko contingent would operate the airship, leaning heavily on Amira to ensure that the craft was able to withstand the force of the storm. Sobriquet was tasked with helping them approach without drawing ire from whatever remained of Luc.
But at every stage of the conversation, at each step, eyes turned to Michael. Nothing was asked of him in particular, and no mention was made of his souls, but certain segments of the plan were left open, vague, with a significant look from Lekubarri to Michael.
Michael left the briefing with a leaden weight in his stomach; his anxiety did not abate as they waited for the all-clear to take off. His focus consumed him, made him strain against the tantalizing pull of future paths that waited just out of sight. He resisted letting his mind drift along them, because he knew there was nothing to see. The airship came to the storm by various routes, approached the roiling clouds - then his sight dissolved into fragmentary impressions. Sometimes it was Michael that broke the flow, other times the churning storm, but no path survived the transition inwards.
His concentration wavered as he dwelled on it; he saw blood dripping down Zabala’s face, tracing by his fierce smile. The airship shook around them. Lekubarri was behind him, laughing-
“Milord, there you are!” Ricard said, shuffling over as fast as his old legs would carry him. Helene was in his wake, beaming as she carried a giant basket stuffed to the brim with neatly-wrapped parcels. Richter and Zabala looked up from their conversation in the corner as she passed, both transparently wrestling with the impulse to help the tiny, rotund woman carry the basket; Zabala sighed and sent his soul quietly outward to bolster her.
Michael managed a weary smile and got up to embrace both of his former servants, the contact doing much to shake off the disquiet that came with dipping his toe into the endlessly fracturing future. For a short while the three of them sat and talked of inconsequential things, though Helene was frequently distracted by Michael’s injuries. More than once Michael caught her staring, felt the mix of horror and shame as she failed to tear her eyes away from his scarred flesh.
After the third time, Michael reached out and took her hand in his, smiling softly. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m fine.”
She shook her head, flushing and turning away. “I only - I’m sorry, milord.”
“Don’t be sorry, I know I look frightful,” Michael chuckled. “Listen - I have a favor to ask you.” He straightened up, looking across the room. “Richter! A moment?”
The Ardan soldier blinked, then nodded to Zabala and walked over. “Boss?” he asked. “What’s up?”
“You remember Helene, right?” Michael asked.
Richter grinned, sketching a half bow in her direction. “Of course. Best damn cook I ever ran into - and considering I wake up to my own ugly mug every morning, that’s saying quite a lot. A pleasure, ma’am.”
“She’s been cooking for the Grand Marshal’s senior staff,” Ricard said, conspiratorially. “I half expect to wake up one morning and find that she’s been deployed in the field, because I doubt they’re ever going to give her up.”
“He’s got quite a few officers working for him,” Michael said. “That’s a lot of work for one woman. Seems like you could use another set of hands.” He looked at Richter, then inclined his head towards Helene. “How about it? Feel like joining the Grand Marshal’s staff?”
There was a pause. Richter frowned. “You don’t mean after the trip south,” he said. “You mean instead of it.”
“I asked the lot of you to follow me with the promise of an eventual payment and peaceful retirement in the countryside,” Michael sighed. “I feel like at least one man in the company should get what I promised. Besides, these two are very dear to me. It would set my mind at ease to have someone I trust nearby, someone a little less foreign than the Mendiko - for all that they mean well.”
Richter took a breath, looking off towards the airfield, then let it out with a rueful smile. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, boss,” he said. “I’ve been feeling awful small compared to the stuff we’ve been coming up against, lately. Wondering when my ticket would come up. If you want me to sit this one out, I’ll stay here and man the soup pot.”
“Thanks, Richter,” Michael said, extending his hand; the other man shook it. “I’m sure Antolin will be throwing the party when we return, so don’t think this is a chance to slack off.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Richter chuckled - then sobered, taking a half step back and giving Michael a formal salute. Michael returned it as best he could, though he felt somewhat silly aping the motion. He felt the resonance from Richter, the same as he had felt from Ricard earlier; a truth expressed upon the world, shining outward like sunshine through clouds.
The moment passed, and Richter’s hand came down. Michael exchanged a few more words with Helene and Ricard before bidding them farewell, and before long he was alone in the foyer with Helene’s basket - and Zabala, who walked over to inspect it.
“She doesn’t do things by half-measures,” he murmured, picking up a loaf of bread neatly-wrapped in a kerchief. He replaced it in the basket. “You going to ask me to stay back too?”
Michael looked up, surprised. “No,” he said. “Why would I?”
“A fortimens on the same ship as Sustain is superfluous,” Zabala said. “You certainly don’t need my soul.”
“Perhaps not, but I can’t imagine doing this without you. I’ve seen you there, with us.” Michael frowned.
“Have you?” Zabala asked, smiling faintly. “Good. Saves me the trouble of telling you I’m going anyway.” He looked towards the door the others had left by, his smile fading. “But it seems wrong to tell a man to sit out, so close to the end.”
Michael winced. He had anticipated more resistance from Richter, in truth. “I know. He deserves to see this through as much as anyone. I just - I don’t know.” He slumped against the wall. “I just didn’t want him to die.”
“But I’m fine to go,” Zabala asked, deadpan. “You’ve made your peace with the possibility of me dying.”
Michael laughed, despite his mood. “You’re a fortimens, you ass,” he said. “You can handle yourself.”
“Against what we’ll be facing?” Zabala asked. “Maybe.” He looked at Michael, no hint of a smile on his face. “Are you going to tell Antolin and Lekubarri they can’t go?”
“I really should,” Michael grimaced. “But I’ve seen them too. With you, actually.”
“Presumably you could change that if you wanted, or what’s the use in having sight to begin with?” Zabala muttered, making an exasperated gesture. “Isn’t the entire point of what we’re doing that we get to change the path we’re on? Shove things towards a better future? Don’t we all get our chance to push, even just a little?”
Michael paused, taken aback. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
Zabala gave him a strange look, then sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget how young you are,” he said. “You’ve got this mass to you, this gravity, but at the center of it all-” He paused. “Don’t let yourself get into the habit of disregarding people, even to help them. A man who hands you his life is giving you everything he has.”
There was a pause, where the weight of what Michael had done settled onto him. “And I just told Richter I didn’t need it. Shit - he can’t have gone too far-”
“It’s fine.” Zabala shook his head. “He’s all right with it; he chose to be all right with it. If I know him at all, he’s quietly relieved. It was a good offer made for the wrong reasons.”
“Shit,” Michael said again, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Zabala patted him on the shoulder. “My soul to the one,” he said, quietly, smiling when Michael looked up in surprise. “You’ve heard enough people saying it. They’re not asking to be saved, or protected. They’re hoping that, if all else fails, they can make a difference.” He shrugged, then turned to walk towards the airship. “Something to think about.”
Michael watched him exit the room, quietly - then sat back down, and thought.
—
They departed late in the day, as the sun was already sinking below the horizon to the west of the airfield. The airship had slowly thrummed to life around them until it regained the pervasive noise that Michael remembered from their earlier expeditions aboard it.
Sibyl unwound the harmonics into their individual components, though, and showed him exactly where each mote of sound was coming from. It was at once fascinating and infuriating, as what had been a simple background drone became yet another torrent of information that Michael had to shove away from the center of his consciousness.
Instead, he focused outward. Beyond the airship, into the quiet, cold air of the mountains around them. There were people there, living their lives. He found his sight drawn to a man sweeping the floor of his house with slow, unhurried motions, humming tunelessly as the bristles of his broom scraped against the wood.
He almost didn’t notice that they had taken to the air, ponderously turning south along the length of the strait. They were over the short land border with Esrou soon enough; Michael spotted the crossing where he had first entered Mendian, weeks ago.
The old markers of his journey didn’t have the same fascination for him as on the way up, however. Zabala’s words had disturbed him, not least because he could not deny that he had been increasingly focused on himself as of late - his struggles, his sacrifices, and the burden of duty that his souls conferred.
It was, in its way, the same species of problem as he faced when contending with Sibyl. Focus was a self-reinforcing loop, and offered the possibility of becoming lost in endless reflections - missing everything else he might see.
The irony was not lost on him, therefore, when he was broken out of his contemplation by Sobriquet walking up to sit beside him, having approached unseen while he was immersed in thought. Michael smiled softly, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.
“Not much to do now but wait,” he said. “It’ll be past midnight by the time we reach the storm.”
She snorted. “It’s intolerable. I can’t even nap to pass the time. Even fighting a resistance in occupied territory, I was never this nervous.” She frowned, then ran her hand through her hair. “I suppose I only have to put up with it for a bit. How about you? You look calmer than I’ve seen you in ages.”
“I don’t know about calm,” Michael sighed, stretching. “Just thinking.”
“Worried about Luc? I think Ricard had the right of it.” She mustered a smile. “We couldn’t ask for a better man to stand against him.”
Michael let the hum of the engines fill the silence after she spoke. He leaned back against the bulkhead. “If you were listening, then you heard me talk to Richter,” he said. “And to Zabala.”
She nodded. “I did, yes. Zabala takes things too seriously, as ever. I don’t think it was wrong to offer Richter a way out.”
“What would you say if I offered the same to you?” Michael asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
“No?” Michael turned to face her. “Just that?”
“The same thing Richter could have said. It’s not hard. I’ll say it again: no.” She flicked her fingers at his shoulder. “If our decisions matter, then you can’t pretend like you’re the one who gets to decide if we stay or go. We’re all here because we want to be. Me, Antolin, Lekubarri-”
Michael blinked, he had been too distracted by the world outside the ship to look too deeply within it. Sure enough, both men were on the bridge - nearly alone there, for the usual complement of the airship had been much-reduced. Aside from a few stray engineers that Michael didn’t recognize, the batzarkidea, the grand marshal and Zabala were the only people on the bridge.
His vision swam, seeing them there, as if his eyes were unable to focus properly. It was too close to what he had seen, ever so slightly off - the airship was pristine, the light dimmer and more diffuse. He shook his head and pulled his sight back to the conversation with Sobriquet, who was looking at him irritably.
“You weren’t listening,” she said.
“Sorry, I was - distracted. Despite having seen it, or at least fragments of it, I’m still kind of surprised that Lekubarri came along. He always struck me as the spider behind the scenes, never one to come up to the front.”
Sobriquet waved her hand dismissively. “He wants to see his bomb explode,” she said. “And undoubtedly he’s determined that it will benefit him in some way to be present, politically. I imagine he’s already planning how to best profit from being part of the group that saved the world from ultimate destruction. He even tried to convince Antolin not to come - more glory for him, that way.”
“Did he?” Michael frowned. “That strikes me as odd.”
“He didn’t try that hard. I think he knew Antolin would see through it. Again, it’s not that hard to say no.” Sobriquet bumped her shoulder against him. “You just have to want to be here.”
“And you want to be here?” Michael asked.
She gave him a flat look. “I do not want to be on a giant, rickety airship sailing towards a world-ending storm with a maniac at its center, no,” she said. “But you’re the only one who can stop that idiot, and I want you to come back. I’ll be damned before I let you do it alone.”
Truth shone through her words, as before. Michael looked away. “I appreciate it,” he murmured.
“You had better,” she warned, though Michael saw the color in her cheeks, and felt the way her heart sped faster. He leaned against her, and was quiet.
They sat that way while the airship tracked down the coast, taking them by Esrou, Rul, Estu, and finally across Daressa. Michael’s sight lingered on the people below, seeing them asleep in beds or cots, crammed together in makeshift shelters for refugees, or simply shivering under blankets on the street. There was no space left for people to flee to, but flee they did.
The mood was not quite one of panic, but the tension was enough that Michael could feel it brimming when they passed Leik, felt the raw spikes of it with each small town they passed along the coast. Not everyone could sleep. Fathers sat up by wan candlelight to watch the faces of their slumbering children. Michael stayed in one such room, looking at the lines of a man’s haggard face.
His eyes were red-rimmed and teary; his heart was pounding with anxious fear. Softly, in the dark, he whispered to himself.
“Keep them safe,” the man said. “Keep them safe.” He repeated it over and over again, until the airship passed far enough that Michael was forced to pull his sight back. Sobriquet was asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. Her fingers were clutching his shirtsleeve, tight enough that he was trapped against her.
The sky outside had grown cloudy as they continued west. Wind buffeted the airship, and Michael saw that Amira had joined the others on the bridge, the subtle tracery of her soul extending out to the airship. It was solid, impervious, though it still struggled to fight against the roaring mass of air. Every moment they pressed onward, their progress became more erratic, slower.
Michael frowned, and leaned over to nudge Sobriquet. “Time to get up,” he said. “We’re close.”
“Just as I had fallen asleep, too,” she protested blearily. She released her grip, though, and together they went up to the bridge. Lekubarri had taken the controls of the airship, white-knuckled as he wrestled with the wheel. Antolin was directing engineers over the intercom, speaking rapid, quiet Mendiko into a handset.
Amira turned to look at Michael as they entered, offering him a smile. “It’s beginning to get interesting,” she said. “The storm is severe.”
“We’re not even in the storm yet,” Lekubarri grunted. “We had asked for models from our weather institute, but their predictions fell - well short.” He strained against the wheel again; Amira sighed and pushed her soul against the slender batzarkidea. The wheel turned rapidly as his strength surged. The airship jolted, and he turned to glare at Amira.
“Thank you, but I would have appreciated a warning,” he grumbled. “Even with your - assistance, I’m afraid we’re reaching the boundaries of what the airship can handle. I have no room for games.” He turned to Michael. “This is one of those moments where your assistance would be appreciated.”
“To do what?” Sobriquet asked. “If he could simply stop the wind, don’t you think we would have done that already?”
“I’m busy - agh. Busy keeping us from going out of control. I don’t have time to propose specific solutions.” Lekubarri returned his full attention to the pilot’s wheel. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “I’m merely suggesting that if Michael feels inclined to help in some way, this would be an opportune moment.”
Sobriquet gave him a derisive look, but Michael’s sight was already stretching outside the airship once more, taking in the flow of the wind against its skin. It was a chaotic mess of currents, with vortices flowing against each other; the ship jumped up and down erratically.
Experimentally, he reached out with Stanza, trying to trace the flow of the wind - but there was barely any cohesion to it, any sense of flow lost in eddies and muddled turbulence. The airship shuddered violently, and from somewhere far distant Michael heard the whine of protesting metal.
“I don’t think there’s an easy fix for this,” he murmured, still questing outward with Stanza.
“Inoiz ez nuen esan erraza izango zenik - if it were easy, I wouldn’t be asking,” Lekubarri muttered. “But I do anticipate that we’ll be landing rather sooner than planned if this keeps up. Rather faster, too.”
“Noted.” Michael redoubled his pressure against Stanza, seeking out some pattern in the lattice even as the storm shredded through it. Sibyl, too, was no help. This was it, the edge of the storm that tore away the future. Paths were shattered, lost against the relentless wind.
The blackness outside was empty, endless. For a moment Michael felt as though he was back in the void, staring into that endless abyss, only there was no river overhead to light his path. There were no souls but the ones he and his friends carried.
Michael kept close to that light, relishing its warmth against the cold outside - but that cold kept pressing inward, seeking to extinguish the warmth that had dared to invade its domain. The airship jolted once more; Sobriquet’s hand grasped his.
As she did, Michael felt the increasingly-familiar presence of truth - a sliver of Sobriquet passing through to the outside world. It grabbed his focus, drew it further inward. He called upon Spark, not Stanza, and saw each member of their skeleton crew as a blot of tangled emotion, their thoughts and fears surging with the wind. Yet each had a purpose, a direction, leaking through in glimpses of truth where they could write it upon the world.
Outside, the future had been torn away by the storm. Inside-
“Turn the storm, calm its wrath,” Michael said, gritting his teeth as he pressed outward with Stanza, watching its fractal filigree spread and splinter against the overwhelming chaos outside. It was like holding back the sea with a sieve. There was no order to be found, nowhere to direct the storm to go, and entropy nibbled at the edges of his control.
Michael reached out with Spark once more, seeking the truth he had felt in each of the others - in himself, in the glowing mass of low souls he held close within him. The warmth surged outward, golden and defiant, flooding outward to reinforce the space Michael had made - writing their will upon it, a thousand hands etching their determination into the fabric of reality.
“We set its form,” Michael said. His voice was resonant, echoing; the airship quaked with more than the wind, jumping as Lekubarri yelled and clutched at the wheel.
“We make our path.” With one final jolt, the wind spun around them, vortices churning against each other. The gyres fed off the storm wind, throwing it up and away - above and below the path of the airship.
Windward, a churning mass of clouds spat lightning and rain, but in its lee there was a corridor of calm, level air - and along it, Michael found Stanza’s glowing lattice once more, stretching away. A clear path, written with the truth of a thousand souls.
“Thank you, Jaun Baumgart,” Lekubarri panted, righting himself and leaning into the pilot’s wheel. “Much appreciated.”
He pushed the throttle forward, and the sudden quiet was broken by the airship’s engines pushing them further into the storm.
Comments
TMarkos
This is definitely the beginning of the end! Not many places to go now that we're in the storm. At the risk of damaging my authorial mystique, that sentence originally read "A clear path, directly to the heart of the storm" - but then I read it when about to post to Patreon and realized I had two paragraphs that ended with "into the storm" or something along those lines very close to each other, so I quickly changed that one and posted it.
Jackson Klean
How in Ghar's bones do you come up with something so beautiful and evocative as "A clear path, written in the truth of a thousand souls." Ego-boosts aside, here we are: into the breach once more.
