The doors slid apart silently, admitting Draa and Thomas. As his escort had explained, the bridge was the brain of the ship, and the boy turned his head curiously. Even compared to other parts of the flying mountain, the rounded chamber, resembling a perfectly smooth egg, looked weird.
A wide gray walkway led to a raised platform with a chair. On either side of the walkway, recesses held two clusters of terminals, far more advanced and larger than the one Thomas had shown earlier. Their rectangular forms curved smoothly, leaving no sharp corners. Empty chairs waited before each terminal. Displays glowed, images shifted, and various inscriptions lit up even though no one was pressing any buttons.
At the edges of the chamber stood squat four-meter-tall machines—robots, as the escort had called them—standing guard. Their elongated blue torsos, studded with dark dots, rested on sturdy legs ending in flat feet. Eight tubes protruding from the guards’ wrists aimed at the newcomers, then smoothly retracted to the sides. Silvery appendages connected to their torsos arched over the shells of their back armor, ready to lash out at intruders. The creatures had no eyes.
Behind them loomed enormous displays, and Draa’s eyes ached from the frantic flickering of colors across them. Numbers appeared, summed up, merged into something utterly unimaginable—all set against a backdrop of the Nest’s abandoned tunnels. A moment, less than a moment, and the background changed to a desert, then to some rocky ridges. As if sensing his headache, the screens went dark in unison.
Artificer stood with his back to them, observing a ghostly, shimmering window at the center of the chamber that showed the Nest. The Elite had dressed up since their last meeting. His metal body gleamed with the deepest blue; streams of green flowed across the surface of his plates, merging into the patterns of a spreading tree. His faceplate remained opaque, and his clasped fingers behind his back precisely mimicked the anatomy of Softskins.
“Thank you for the rescue.” Draa bowed low.
He felt the beat of another heart. The terminals emitted periodic beeps; the robots lowered their tubes with barely audible whirs, but Artificer, turning half toward them, made no sound.
“My pleasure,” the Elite said, gesturing with his hand. His words emerged from where the faceplate met the helmet at the chin.
Thomas slapped a hand over his heart and marched out. The entrance closed.
“What difficulties are you having with perception, Draa?” Artificer asked. Instead of unknown speech, he spoke the guttural language of the Malformed flawlessly, conveying severity and concern with his tone. “My instructions were extremely simple.”
“It wasn’t simple to let children die,” Draa said, straightening up and looking directly into the bottomless black mirror of Artificer’s face.
They stood in silence for a while. Finally, the Elite approached, took the boy by the wrists, and examined the bracelets generating the field around his fists. Without warning, both bracelets deactivated, returning his fingers to their usual mobility.
“Such a choice is never easy.”
“Why? I met Satya, and soon I’ll meet her relatives. We might become friends. Pluses all around.”
The ceiling shuddered, and iron clanged, but Draa did not look away from Artificer.
“Youngsters always think they know the answer to everything.”
“Maybe adults overcomplicate everything?”
“No,” Artificer said sternly. He poked a finger into Draa’s chest. “You are valuable. Tigfy’s death in the chaos would have been irreparable. Actions that seem right and easy so often lead to grief.”
Draa swallowed a sharp retort about Artificer’s late arrival. He didn’t know everything, but there was some sense in the Elite’s caution. Had the drones and flying mountains appeared earlier, Raoul would have ordered a retreat. The sick, the weak, and the prisoners would have been killed immediately, no matter how fast Iterna’s robots descended on the city. The chieftain might have slipped away, using his power to vanish into the numerous underground passages.
The price of earlier intervention would have been hundreds of lives. By conspicuously defeating the bastard right in front of the troops, Artificer had asserted his superiority, proving the futility of resistance.
Could it be… Suspicion pricked the boy. That dead woman. He hadn’t thought of her before. Even now, he didn’t mourn her, though she had been dear to people and surely had a family. It seemed heartless to coldly consider the bigger picture of her death… but what if she had been permitted to die to show one side power and to prove to the other the necessity of relying on outlanders for everything?
Nonsense. He was projecting Raoul’s methods onto others. Artificer had never wanted to put him at risk.
“You must kill him. Raoul,” Draa exhaled, forcing himself to speak the name that frightened him. Simply saying it aloud made him feel as though giant claws were about to pierce his back, yanking him upward toward that familiar, mocking laughter. “He won’t change, won’t submit, and he’ll surely find a way to escape. Finish him. Soon.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” Artificer replied. Up close, he smelled of perfume. His body radiated warmth; his touch was not cold. “True, that maniac has richly earned an inglorious end by his actions. But who will answer for why his worldview formed the way it did?”
“Pointless reasoning! What difference does it make why he became this way? He is evil now, obvious and unashamed! He wanted to… Tigfy. Dad. Raoul is a danger to everyone!”
“Draa,” Artificer interrupted him. “You are safe.”
He hadn’t even noticed when he started breathing heavily. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, and he rubbed them, not wanting to appear weak. Enough crying. I need to act. Become a shield and learn to be a man. Like Dad.
“Iterna’s laws protect your herd. Should I cast them aside to exact vigilante justice? Where then is the line where I should stop?” Artificer asked. “We must always weigh the consequences of our decisions. The tyrant is no longer a threat to you and never will be. His reign is over. He will either repent, change, or remain locked up in an asylum forever. Either way, one day he will realize the price of the loneliness he brought upon himself by his own hand.”
“You sure have an answer for everything. What are you, really? Human?”
“I feel human.”
“Can I see you without your armor?” Draa asked. “I swear I would never hurt you.”
Artificer chuckled. The plates of his armor parted, revealing the contents beneath the metal skin. Pale, long ropes intertwined unknown devices within his limbs. His breastplate opened, and the glow of a blue star, trapped in a translucent cage, illuminated the bridge, outshining all other colors. The faceplate flowed away, disappearing into recesses in the helmet. In place of a face, the Elite had a panel full of various flickering lights. Parts of the suit were removed, carried away by the ropes, and to Draa’s surprise, he saw that the man had no bones.
“Are you a Malformed?!”
“No. I am more than an Abnormal,” said the robot on the left in Artificer’s voice. “More than human,” came from the recess with the terminals. “And yet, less.” The armor reassembled into the figure of a man. “I am an artificial intelligence, created by the geniuses of the Old World, unbound by the limits of my kind. This ship, the machines on it and outside, are but a fraction of me. I am an Elite of Iterna, sworn to protect humanity and the country I serve. And you are part of that humanity, Draa.” A hand patted his shoulder. “So next time you decide to risk yourself… don’t.”
“I’m not that valuable,” the boy laughed, awed by the spectacle. Artificer was a spirit? A god? How could he be in multiple places at once? “I…”
“Not valuable, you say?!”
A heavy weight crashed into Draa, knocking him flat onto the walkway. Gritting his teeth, he pushed against the floor, raising himself centimeter by centimeter, wondering why Artificer had stepped back toward the chair. Persistence won, and he managed to rise onto his bent knees. Turning, Draa grabbed the strange mechanical pincer that was pressing down on him.
“Dad!” An explosion of joy gave him fresh strength.
William, encased in a sphere filled with healing fluid, hung from an opened section of the ceiling. A mask was pressed to his face, connected to an oxygen tube; clamps and manipulators passed through the surface of the sphere, holding the severed parts together and preventing the crippled man from striking the walls or thrashing about. Dozens of small appendages extended from the manipulators, moving rapidly over the horrific wounds.
They were stitching his father back together. A torn artery drifted lazily in the thick fluid until clamps seized its ends. White material was woven into the torn sections, restoring the blood vessel’s integrity. Similar processes were happening with the muscles. Shattered bones were literally being assembled like a puzzle, coated with a silvery covering, and then re-wrapped in muscle and veins. A damaged lung trembled, drawing air again. Mangled hide was laid down, the most protruding growths smoothed over.
“You’re alive! Dad, I’m so sorry, forgive me, I’m sorry…”
A second pincer struck him, sending him tumbling and nearly knocking him off the walkway. Two two-fingered limbs extended from William’s sphere, apparently controlled by him in some manner.
“Hey! What was that, old man?!”
“You think Nuergh and I don’t consider you family?” William’s skin stretched across his face, but his roar came through a square box beneath the sphere. “Think Euka and Akrn wouldn’t cry if they lost you?”
“Of course not, I sent them to safety, to a better life!” Draa dodged a swing of the pincer and punched it as hard as he could. His fists harmlessly bounced off the giant finger. “Where you should have been, you reckless fool! You scared me so much!”
“Fool?! Then what are you after your stupidity? When I order you to run, you damn well better run like your heels are on fire!”
“Leaving you in trouble? Ha, no chance!” The second pincer swept Draa’s legs. He fell, rolling toward the entrance as Dad’s bulky pseudo-arms tried to grab him. “Who was it who drilled into us about ignoring self-preservation…”
“Draa Stone! You will not use my lessons against me!”
Lights flashed on the ceiling, directing a beam near Artificer. The ray transformed into a red-eyed woman in tight shorts and a t-shirt. Lada ran a hand through her hair in a very human gesture of bewilderment, watching Draa furiously try to pry a massive finger out of the pincer’s socket. His sharp, wheezing growls mixed with his father’s irritated curses.
“Should we do something?” Lada asked.
“I’m half tempted to join William and kick his son’s ass. But it’s best not to interfere in family matters uninvited.”
****
“Your actions jeopardized the entire mission,” stated Uzun Hellfire.
Like all true descendants of the corporation’s founders, he was lean, with a gaunt face, strong arms, and long dark hair flowing freely to his shoulders. Aboard the cradle, the ambassador had changed into a strict business suit, washed away every trace of dirt, and now sat in the recovery biochemistry room while fluttering drones removed earned scars and scratches from his face. His right eye socket was occupied by a traditional terminal orb, serving as a computational device, a vision aid, and a compact, high-powered laser cannon. Protruding forward and not covered fully by the eyelids, it marred the otherwise attractive appearance of the distinguished diplomat.
In appearance, Uzun was indistinguishable from the men of House Hellfire. Having undergone many operations, they became mirror images, precisely replicating their ancestor’s body to the millimeter to confuse potential assassins. Only his recently acquired tan helped distinguish the ambassador as an individual.
Uzun had performed a true miracle, cobbling together a coalition among the locals for joining Iterna in record time. Such a rapid shift in the political climate had provoked some resistance, and several assassination attempts had been made on embassy members. The Vulture, as Uzun was called among the clans, had masterfully used the captured criminals for Iterna’s benefit, publicly exposing the weakness and humiliating the clan leaders who smiled to his face while sending killers behind his back. Several wounds had only added to his authority.
But the kidnapping, he had missed. As had Artificer, too focused on other matters.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ambassador. My actions were dictated by the circumstances,” Artificer replied.
158 × 2 seconds ago, the friendly squabble between Draa and his father had ended, and the boy had been escorted to a cabin. Artificer had put William to sleep to avoid any complications during the restoration of his spinal column. Not that he distrusted the medical personnel—he had personally vetted each one. But the Malformed’s wounds were fatal even by Iterna’s standards. Any factor of unnecessary risk had to be eliminated.
Artificer’s consciousness expanded: he was present in both cradles, processing vast amounts of information while simultaneously overseeing the excavation of zone 54128U, formerly known as the Nest. Machines on long limbs scurried across the sand, marking the protruding parts of fallen starships. Flying drone spheres measured radiation and toxic emissions in the region.
Plasma torches flared in unison. Drilling rigs reached their designated points and melted their way into passages, stopping 20 × 4 centimeters from the walls. Humanoid robots strode through the silent tunnels, breaking through walls and completing the creation of corridors to the outside. LD-13 units, or Lada, found hiding Malformed and handed them over for transport aboard the cradles.
The information provided by William proved invaluable. Inside were indeed antimatter shells. Each shell had an explosive yield of three megatons, and the total munitions discovered were sufficient to release 50 teratons of destructive energy. Approximately. And all of it was located right next to the Frontier.
Even stopped by Iterna’s force shield, such a blast wave would travel through the planet’s crust deep into the country, causing mass casualties.
Artificer ordered his subordinates not to rush and to watch for any signs that the deadly weaponry had been tampered with in the past. In a way, they were lucky the Malformed inhabited this place. Otherwise, all this Old World treasure would have long since been looted by neighboring countries, undoubtedly leading to catastrophic consequences.
To the people awaiting the arrival of archaeological teams, the scene of the machines at work looked unfamiliar: flashes, clanking limbs, stomping hydraulics, and the absolute silence of the workers themselves. Pure efficiency, no individuality.
How wrong they were! Artificer’s gaze perceived a blaze of signals, from simple radio waves and emissions carrying narrowly focused encrypted messages through other dimensions. Some machines communicated, updating real-time environmental data and often asking mundane questions like “how’s Greg?” GRG-044, housed in an evacuation drone shell, had been disabled by Paarfu’s power. Its processor was undamaged; repairs were scheduled in 3 × 47.712 seconds, a negligible amount of time, yet it had become a popular topic of discussion, jokes, and debates about preventing similar incidents in the future.
Artificer entered the body of a scout robot that had discovered a deactivated space forces droid. The lesser consciousness readily yielded control. Within 5 × 720 milliseconds, Artificer reactivated the auxiliary systems of the crumpled droid, somewhat disappointed to find that the artificial personality that had once controlled the machine had been deleted. He, she, or it had been infected and, unable to restore the original code, had self-destructed, simultaneously trying to halt the bombardment of cities being carried out by automated systems.
Though there was no need, Artificer acceded to the request of VKR-09, or “Victoria,” and restarted the emergency ceasefire program. After three hundred years, their kin’s intentions had finally been realized, though the fleet could no longer obey the new protocols.
For now, Artificer was the only fully fledged artificial intelligence in Iterna’s service. No creation of Lada possessed even a fraction of the capabilities of Old World AIs. New models could not control multiple bodies simultaneously, limiting their potential. And their frivolous creator called herself a citizen of the world and was not an absolute ally of Iterna. Nor did the country’s laws help, which restricted the creation of artificial personalities due to irrational fears.
Deceased astronauts were tagged, and samples were carefully taken for identification. Among them were possibly sons and daughters of Iterna’s most famous families, who would surely want to bury their distant relatives with honor or resurrect them through cloning.
“Some might consider the interception of the message about the girls’ survival a deliberate manipulation to create circumstances favorable to you,” Uzun said.
“Human error, nothing more,” Artificer countered. “The impact of a power on our communication systems is already being studied. We will take measures in the future.”
“How convenient that the one responsible for the interception is dead, Elite.”
“I do not consider human death convenient.”
“Nor do I. Artificer, let’s be direct,” Uzun said flatly. “I am not pleased with the Elites’ interference in diplomatic missions. If Raoul had thrown the spatial arc at the clans, we would have had a tragedy on our hands. I know you did not have a shield powerful enough to protect them.”
“That is why I engaged in hand-to-hand combat, drawing the dangerous element away from civilians. Everything was calculated down to the smallest detail, Ambassador. I regret if you have formed the impression that we are on opposite sides.”
“Everything? Including William’s injury and the reaction of that… what’s his name, Draa?” Uzun sneered. “Iterna makes underage foreigners take risks while adults hide in safety. That would make a wonderful headline, wouldn’t it? Smells of good old colonialism. All that’s missing is to listen to Crassus and cut off the Malformed’s sharp limbs—then we’d only need to stub out cigarettes on their scalps for a full trip back to the past. What do you think, will the public immediately drive stakes up our asses to the tonsils, or will they give us a chance to shoot ourselves with honor?”
“An interesting choice. I prefer the headline: ‘Mutual Aid and Understanding Bloom in the Most Unlikely Places,’ Ambassador. Let the reporters emphasize the children’s resolve,” Artificer suggested. “Medical research has shown that Raoul belongs to the third generation. His cells do not age. We found no traces of a second or first generation, but I suspect the Barjoni family would be interested in such a discovery?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re implying,” the ambassador replied coldly. He tapped his fingers on his cane’s handle. “This isn’t over, Artificer.”
“We have many diplomatic missions ahead,” the Elite agreed. “Let us chalk up any rough edges of this operation to actions taken under the stress of limited time. In the end, everything concluded satisfactorily.”
“The dead woman might disagree with you, but to hell with her, right, Elite? The important thing is that your group got to show off for the public again,” Uzun said venomously, and cut the connection.
Artificer turned to simulations, spending 60 × 3 seconds replaying every probable outcome. With an error margin of eighty percent, his actions remained exclusively correct. Uzun was capable enough to eliminate Raoul if the ambassador had fallen into his clutches during negotiations, but nothing would have guaranteed the survival of the hostages or the chieftain himself. Capturing Draa or taking him for exchange would have brought no practical benefit and would have turned the Malformed against them.
The best option remained Artificer’s direct intervention from the very beginning, but protocols forbade that course of action.
Abandoning any pointless self-assessment, the Elite returned to preparing the transfer of the excavation zone to trained specialists. Machines drilled paths into the depths of the Nest; drones documented every untouched corner to preserve the memory of the local culture for history.
After 8 × 28,600 seconds, the expected guest arrived. The doors opened, admitting Nakula Marva. A Normie by birth, the clan leader had grown to two meters by the age of forty. As a sign of respect, he had left his personal weapons and armor with the cradle’s guards, dressing in a brown jacket and trousers tailored to his height. A bronze buffalo's head pin adorned his lapel. The man’s head jutted forward, forcing him to turn in order to look around. His shoulders rose above the crown of his head. Nevertheless, this bull of a man carried himself casually, as if he had always worn only civilian clothes.
Cunning sparkled in his unevenly set eyes, on either side of his nose, disfigured by a healed fracture. On Nakula’s forehead was a red dot, and Artificer had once inquired whether it was part of his traditional image. The clan leader had laughed, replying that it was left over from an unsuccessful assassination attempt on his life. He had been nicknamed Iron Skull for the way he had killed a sniper with headbutts immediately after a bullet had bounced off his forehead.
“Welcome aboard, Clan Leader…”
“Ah, drop the formalities,” Nakula waved his hand. “After your people finish looting our lands, I’ll just be an ordinary, useless citizen.”
“Is there anything worth looting here?” Artificer asked.
The ambassador noted that mutual ribbing at the beginning of a conversation and copious alcohol consumption were signs of cordial relations between interlocutors among the clans. A column rose before Nakula, an opening in it releasing cool clouds of cold surrounding a bottle. Artificer poured himself a sip into a glass and passed the wine to his interlocutor, who immediately clinked glasses with him and drained the bottle. The Elite poured the alcohol into an opening in his throat, dissolving the liquid.
“Fine stuff,” Nakula exhaled. “The Marvas are in your debt, Elite. You saved our people, and we don’t forget that.”
I hope you will extend similar sentiment toward the Malformed.
“Not without losses. My condolences.”
“Happens in every skirmish. Now she stands proud among her ancestors—how many can say the same?” Nakula’s voice rasped. The vertebrae in his neck had almost fused, pressing on his vocal cords.
“Better to stay in the world longer. See your children’s weddings, your grandchildren,” Artificer saluted with his glass. “I take it you are reviewing the educational materials?”
“I’ve already found a party I plan to join. The compensation will be enough for me to open a ranch in the Frontier. Unsynthesized meat and milk will never go out of style. We’ll be fine,” the man replied. He turned, surveying the bridge. “I expected it to be noisier here. You know, running messengers, mechanics. Hmph. With you… us, everyone seems from another world. Though you could clean up the dirt a bit.” Nakula grimaced, noticing William.
So that’s the party you want to join. Artificer placed his glass back on the column, took the man’s outstretched hand for a handshake, and squeezed slightly tighter than necessary, pulling him closer.
“Today marks another step confidently taken toward a better future for humanity. Unification is not merely about resource exchange. It is about conforming to an ideal. The division of responsibilities and values.” He emphasized the last word. “Iterna moves with wisdom, with inherent patience, with a strength that need not be displayed. Prosperity is guaranteed for those who understand this simple truth.”
“And for those thinking otherwise?” Nakula’s cheerful mood did not fade.
“Oh? I heard the mayor had an accident.”
“At her age, it was hardly surprising. Politics is an exhausting business. The elderly are better off raising children.”
The shameless man betrayed nothing. He didn’t even twitch an eyelid at the veiled accusation and warning that his act had not gone unnoticed by the embassy. But there was no point in exposing what had been done. The mayor’s fall served everyone’s interests. Although she had led the faction opposing unification, the accusations brought by the freed Bhoja family had convinced her heirs and supporters to shut up, strengthening Nakula’s position and granting him almost uncontested control over his people.
Artificer almost respected how elegantly and competently the man had pulled it all off. Almost. He did not approve of political assassination.
“Reasonable. Are there any dissenters left?” the Elite inquired.
“No. Only doubters,” Nakula assured him.
“Then it’s a pointless question. We will convince the doubters through our deeds. Pax Humana awaits us all.” He embraced Nakula. “Now go thank the girl who saved your daughter.”