The lexmechanic’s hand was cold.
Cael had expected metal to feel like the walls of the creche—dull, slightly greasy and warmed by the forge beneath them. Instead, the priest’s fingers were polished brass, smooth enough to reflect the overhead lumens. Fine joints shifted beneath Cael’s palm as they closed around his hand.
The grip was gentle.
That frightened him more than force would have.
No attendant had ever held his hand.
Hands directed, restrained, examined, struck and assigned. They lifted infants because infants could not walk. They carried the injured because the injured had temporarily ceased to be useful. They did not join one person to another without immediate purpose.
Cael looked down at their linked hands.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Temple of Ordered Knowing.”
“For how long?”
“Indeterminate.”
“Will I return to the creche?”
“No.”
The answer entered Cael’s mind without resistance.
It remained there for several seconds before its meaning unfolded.
“No?”
“Your allocation has changed.”
“My recess is there.”
“It will be reassigned.”
“My work is there.”
“Another will perform it.”
“Nemi is there.”
The lexmechanic stopped.
The examination chamber hummed around them. The restored compressor continued operating, each stroke steady and correct. Its rhythm made Cael aware of his own heart.
“What is Nemi?” the priest asked.
Cael looked up at him.
“A person.”
“Insufficiently precise.”
“She is Forty-Four.”
“A creche associate?”
“Yes.”
“Biological relation?”
“No.”
“Contractual dependency?”
“No.”
“Assigned collaborative function?”
Cael hesitated.
They sorted components beside each other. They shared ration intervals when permitted. Nemi whispered during silence periods and kicked the wall between their sleeping recesses. She told him about stars. She lied about stealing nutrient biscuits and then divided them with him.
None of this had an official designation.
“No.”
“Then her relevance to your transfer is negligible.”
The lexmechanic began walking again.
Cael remained where he was.
Their joined hands pulled taut.
The priest turned.
Cael had seen children resist attendants before. Resistance ended quickly. He knew the positions in which the human arm ceased to function correctly. He knew how a shock stave sounded when pressed against cloth. He knew rebellion was wasteful.
Still, he did not move.
“I have to tell her.”
“No.”
“She will not know where I went.”
“Correct.”
“She will think I was extinguished.”
“Her conclusion does not alter your allocation.”
Cael stared at the priest’s iron jaw.
“You said error is instructive.”
The lenses above the jaw rotated.
“Correct.”
“If she thinks I am dead, she will be in error.”
“Also correct.”
“Then someone should instruct her.”
The lexmechanic studied him.
Cael could not tell whether he had made a clever argument or a fatal one.
The priest’s brass fingers loosened.
“Three minutes,” he said.
Cael ran.
He left the assessment chambers, crossed the tiled vestibule and passed through a service arch before the attendants could challenge him. He knew the route back to Sortation Chapel Three. Every child knew the paths connecting work, instruction, nutrition and sleep. Knowledge of any other corridor was discouraged.
He ran through the permitted corridors.
Workers moved aside when they saw the red-robed lexmechanic following at a measured pace behind him.
Cael reached the chapel during the final work cycle.
The conveyor belts moved beneath swinging incense burners. Children stood in two lines, separating salvage. Grey hands lifted iron, copper and brass.
Nemi occupied her usual position.
She was examining a burned circuit plate.
“Nemi.”
She looked up.
The brass plate fell from her hands.
Cael stopped on the opposite side of the conveyor.
The other children continued working. A few glanced toward him, then saw the priest and lowered their heads.
Nemi looked at the open doorway behind Cael.
“Did you escape?”
“No.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
She looked at the lexmechanic.
“Are you being made into a servitor?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Cael had no answer that would satisfy her.
“I am being instructed.”
“In what?”
“The first mysteries.”
Nemi’s eyes widened.
The phrase meant little to either of them, but they knew who spoke of mysteries. Red robes. Metal voices. Priests whose names contained numbers and titles. Beings who crossed factory floors while ordinary workers pressed themselves against the walls.
“You’re going to be one of them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re wearing grey.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have any metal parts.”
“I know.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I know.”
Nemi looked at the lexmechanic again.
“Did you fix something?”
“A compressor.”
“What was wrong?”
“The valve was backward.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
She considered this.
“Who put it backward?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they get punished?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should ask.”
“I will.”
Her mouth twitched.
For a moment, Cael thought she might laugh.
Instead, she stepped around the end of the conveyor.
The attendant raised a hand.
The lexmechanic answered with a burst of machine code.
The attendant froze.
Nemi approached Cael.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“I go with him.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you come back?”
“No.”
She struck him.
Her open hand caught the side of his face. It was not a strong blow, but Cael staggered.
The attendant moved forward.
Again, the lexmechanic stopped her.
Cael touched his cheek.
“Why did you do that?”
“You said it like you don’t care.”
“I was answering.”
“You always answer.”
“You asked.”
Nemi’s face tightened.
Her eyes became wet.
Cael had seen tears caused by pain, fever and chemical irritation. This was none of those.
“I don’t want an answer,” she said.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I want you to say you’ll come back.”
“But I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He said I won’t.”
“The red ones lie too.”
Cael looked back at the lexmechanic.
The priest did not react.
Nemi wiped her face with her sleeve.
“Say you’ll come back.”
Cael tried.
The words would not form.
A machine’s promise mattered because it repeated. It did what it had done before and what it would do again. A false promise was only noise.
“I’ll remember you,” he said.
Nemi’s expression twisted.
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
“Will they cut pieces off you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you forget things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you still be Cael?”
The work chapel seemed quieter.
Even the conveyors diminished beneath the question.
Cael looked toward the cargo servitor that had once been Mara Venn. It stood beside the smelting line, waiting for another bin. Its left clamp hung partially open.
He could no longer see a mother in it.
He wondered whether that meant she was gone or that he had failed to keep her.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Nemi took something from her pocket.
It was a tiny disc of transparent material, no wider than her thumbnail. One edge had melted. A faint blue tint remained in its centre.
Cael recognized it.
“You took that from the sorting line.”
“Yes.”
“It should have gone into the glass tray.”
“I know.”
“Keeping salvage is theft.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
“A window.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is now.”
She held the disc up to one eye and looked through it.
“It makes the lumen blue.”
Cael took it from her.
The chapel changed through the glass. Grey robes darkened. Brass became green at the edges. The white industrial light softened into a pale, impossible colour.
“Like the sky,” Nemi said.
“You have never seen the sky.”
“Neither have you.”
Cael lowered the fragment.
“You said you believed it was blue.”
“I still do.”
The lexmechanic’s voice came from behind them.
“Time elapsed.”
Nemi folded Cael’s fingers around the glass.
“You’ll need it more than me.”
“Why?”
“Because red robes don’t have windows.”
Cael placed the fragment inside his tunic.
The sharp edge rested against his chest.
“I will remember you.”
Nemi looked down.
“You already said that.”
“I mean it.”
“That still isn’t the same.”
“No.”
The attendant ordered her back to work.
This time, she obeyed.
Cael watched her return to the conveyor. She did not look at him again.
The lexmechanic extended his hand.
Cael did not take it.
He walked beside the priest without assistance.
Behind him, the chapel continued.
Iron went left.
Copper went right.
Useful components entered green trays.
The damaged entered black.
The conveyor carried everything onward.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
They passed beyond the creche boundary.
There was no gate.
No guard stood at the line dividing Cael’s former existence from the rest of the forge. The distinction was marked only by a yellow band painted across the floor and a small brass plaque fixed to the wall.
UNALLOCATED JUVENILE LABOUR MAY NOT PASS.
Cael stepped over it.
Nothing happened.
He had expected an alarm, a shock or at least the sensation of entering a forbidden place.
The floor remained the same beneath his feet.
He looked back.
The yellow line lay behind him.
“That was the boundary?”
“Yes.”
“It could be crossed easily.”
“Physically.”
“Why didn’t anyone cross it?”
“Because they were instructed not to.”
“That is all?”
“It is sufficient for most.”
Cael glanced back again.
The corridor curved, hiding the route to the chapel.
“What happens to those who cross?”
“Context determines correction.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your former assumption that every question possesses a single answer is among the first errors your instruction must remove.”
The lexmechanic walked onward.
Cael hurried to keep pace.
“May I know your name?”
“You may.”
The priest said nothing else.
Cael waited.
The silence lengthened.
“What is it?”
“You asked whether knowledge was permitted. You did not request the information itself.”
Cael frowned.
“That is unnecessary.”
“Precision is never unnecessary.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Lexmechanic Ios Kallix-9, subordinate enumerator of the Temple of Ordered Knowing, third interpretive rank, custodian of the Eastern Data Reliquary.”
Cael repeated it silently.
“Ios Kallix-9.”
“Acceptable.”
“Were you born with the nine?”
“No.”
“When was it added?”
“When I became the ninth sanctioned continuation of the Kallix instructional lineage.”
“Were there eight before you?”
“Yes.”
“Are they dead?”
“Some.”
“What does continuation mean?”
“You will learn.”
“Why do you have a metal jaw?”
“You will learn.”
“What was the false lumen sound in my first assessment?”
“You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You asked me to identify it.”
“That does not answer why it remained in your memory.”
Cael looked ahead.
The corridor broadened. They were entering a region he had never seen. Tall processional arches rose above them. Bundles of cable hung between iron pillars like the roots of inverted trees. Workers knelt beside the walls as priests passed.
“Because I did not know the answer,” Cael said.
Kallix-9’s lenses adjusted.
“The device was a devotional chronometer. The pulse marked the passing of each prescribed prayer interval. The rotating mechanism advanced the internal hour wheel.”
“It used too much power.”
“Correct. Its voltage regulator was degraded.”
“Did you repair it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It was still capable of its ordained function.”
“Then why did you give me a damaged slate to repair?”
“To observe how you defined completion.”
“And the chronometer?”
“To observe how you defined a fault.”
Cael thought about that.
“Was I correct?”
“Partially.”
“What part was wrong?”
“You believed the device was pretending to be something else. It was not pretending. You assigned intent where none had been demonstrated.”
“You say machines have spirits.”
“Yes.”
“Can spirits intend things?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you know it was not pretending?”
Kallix-9 stopped so abruptly that Cael nearly walked into him.
The priest looked down.
Behind the lenses, some unseen calculation occurred.
“That question,” he said, “is not suitable for public corridors.”
“Why?”
“Because an incorrect answer would be dangerous.”
“To me?”
“To both of us.”
Kallix-9 resumed walking.
Cael followed more quietly.
They reached a lift guarded by two Skitarii.
Cael had seen Skitarii from a distance during military processions. These were the first he had approached closely.
They were tall and thin, wrapped in red coats marked with the sigil of Alecto-Delta. Rebreather masks covered their faces. Rifles rested upright against their shoulders, and cable-fed packs rose behind their heads.
One turned toward Cael.
Red light burned in its eye lenses.
Cael stopped.
The Skitarius’s head moved with a precise mechanical click.
“Juvenile classification absent from transit authorization,” it said.
Kallix-9 released a stream of binharic.
The Skitarius answered in the same rapid machine language.
Cael heard patterns but understood nothing.
The exchange ended.
The Skitarii stepped aside.
As Cael passed, he heard a soft electrical hiss from beneath one soldier’s coat. The right leg dragged by less than a finger’s width.
“His knee is damaged,” Cael said inside the lift.
Kallix-9 touched a control rune.
The iron doors closed.
“His gait remains within operational tolerance.”
“It will worsen.”
“Yes.”
“Why not repair it now?”
“Because the resources, labour and interruption required for immediate repair exceed the projected loss created by delayed intervention.”
“How long until intervention?”
“Approximately eleven shifts.”
“What if it fails sooner?”
“Then the projection was incorrect.”
The lift began to rise.
Cael’s knees bent beneath the acceleration.
He had travelled in freight lifts before, but never one this fast. Level markers flashed above the door.
Eighty-nine.
Ninety-four.
One hundred and six.
“How high are we going?”
“One hundred and eighty-two.”
Cael looked at the ceiling.
“Is that near the sky?”
“No.”
“How many levels are above it?”
“Four hundred and seventeen registered structural levels, though the classification is misleading. Numerous towers extend higher, while many strata do not encompass the entire planetary region.”
“Have you seen the sky?”
“Yes.”
“What does it look like?”
“On Alecto-Delta?”
“Yes.”
“Brown.”
Cael’s disappointment was immediate.
“Nemi said it was blue.”
“Atmospheric contamination prevents blue wavelengths from dominating visual perception at surface level.”
“Is it blue above the smoke?”
“Yes.”
Cael touched the glass fragment through his tunic.
“How far above?”
“Variable. Atmospheric measurements—”
“I mean, could a person reach it?”
“Aircraft and void-capable vessels routinely pass through the upper atmosphere.”
“Could I?”
“Potentially.”
“When?”
“Your future function remains undetermined.”
The lift climbed.
Cael watched the numbers.
“Can you see stars from the surface?”
“Rarely.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Yes.”
“What are they like?”
Kallix-9 looked at him.
“Distant fusion bodies of varying mass, temperature and spectral classification.”
Cael waited.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What are they like?”
“I answered.”
“No. You said what they are.”
The priest’s respirator clicked.
The lift rose another twenty levels.
“They are numerous,” Kallix-9 said at last.
“How numerous?”
“The visible number varies according to location and atmospheric conditions.”
Cael felt irritation rising.
Then he noticed the priest’s organic hand.
It was hidden inside one sleeve, but the tips of two flesh fingers showed beneath the cloth. They had curled slightly.
“More than you can count?” Cael asked.
“Yes.”
The doors opened.
The Temple of Ordered Knowing occupied the interior of a tower built around a data-core older than the surrounding city.
Its entrance was a circular vault door twenty metres high.
The shape of a great cog had been set into its face. Each tooth bore lines of tiny script. Cables as thick as Cael’s body entered the walls on both sides, vibrating with buried current.
There was no handle.
Cael stood before it.
“How does it open?”
Kallix-9 did not answer.
He approached a small shrine beside the door. Within it rested a brass bowl, an incense burner and a socket surrounded by devotional markings.
The priest took a vial from beneath his robes.
He applied one drop of oil to the socket.
He lit a pinch of incense.
He spoke nine lines in a language Cael did not recognize.
Then a cable extended from beneath his sleeve and entered the socket.
The door began to turn.
Each cog tooth moved into the wall with a sound like distant thunder.
Cael watched the shrinking spiral of metal.
“Did the prayer open it?”
“The correct authorization opened it.”
“Then why pray?”
“Because authorization without reverence is theft.”
“Would it have opened without the oil?”
“Yes.”
“Without incense?”
“Yes.”
“Without the spoken lines?”
“Yes.”
“Then the machine did not need them.”
Kallix-9 disconnected the cable.
“The machine is not the only participant in the ritual.”
Cael looked at him.
“The prayer was for you?”
“For the proper ordering of my thoughts and actions.”
“Does it work?”
“When performed correctly.”
“What happens if you make a mistake?”
“In the prayer?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing, if the error is minor and the authorization remains valid.”
“Then how do you know it worked?”
Kallix-9 entered the temple.
“You continue to confuse material effect with total purpose.”
Cael hurried after him.
The door closed behind them.
Inside, the sound of the forge changed.
It did not disappear. Nothing could silence Alecto-Delta. But the temple walls reduced the violence of it. The usual impacts and roars became a deep vibration, like a giant creature sleeping beyond the stone.
For the first time in Cael’s life, he heard individual footsteps clearly.
His own were small and uneven.
Kallix-9’s produced a metal tap followed by the whisper of cloth.
Ahead lay a hall large enough to contain the entire creche complex.
Statues stood between pillars.
Some depicted hooded priests. Others showed figures that were almost entirely mechanical: many-limbed beings carrying scrolls, tools and weapons. Their faces had been replaced by lenses or blank iron masks.
A mosaic covered the floor.
At its centre, a human skull rested within a black-and-white cog.
One half of the skull was bone.
The other half was metal.
Cael stopped at its edge.
“What does it mean?”
“The union of human intellect and the machine.”
“Which half is more important?”
“An incorrectly framed question.”
“Why?”
“The symbol does not depict two competitors.”
“The metal lasts longer.”
“Usually.”
“It is stronger.”
“In many contexts.”
“It can be replaced.”
“Yes.”
“Then why keep the bone half?”
Kallix-9 turned toward the mosaic.
“Because the Cult Mechanicus is not a machine cult created by machines. It is a human faith concerned with the divine truth contained within knowledge, mechanism and ordered function.”
Cael studied the skull.
“Could a machine worship the Machine God?”
The priest’s head snapped toward him.
“Do not ask that again.”
“Why?”
“Because the answer lies beyond your grade.”
“That does not mean there is no answer.”
“No.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“It means that knowledge possesses sequence. A foundation must bear weight before a tower can rise.”
“What happens if you learn the top first?”
“The structure falls.”
Cael looked up at the distant ceiling.
“How?”
“Sometimes through error. Sometimes through madness. Sometimes through execution.”
Cael stepped away from the mosaic.
They passed beneath arches filled with red-robed figures.
Some walked on human feet. Others moved on tracks, multiple legs or anti-gravitic platforms. Mechadendrites curled above their shoulders. Servo-skulls followed them carrying tools and slates.
Streams of machine code filled the air.
The sound made Cael’s skin prickle.
Information passed around him too quickly to grasp. He could feel that it contained meaning, just as he had once understood that the hidden chronometer contained moving parts. But every time he caught a repeated pattern, it vanished beneath another.
“What are they saying?”
“Routine communications.”
“About what?”
“Thousands of subjects.”
“Can they hear us?”
“Those who choose to.”
Cael lowered his voice.
“Are they all Tech-Priests?”
“No. Some are servitors, sanctioned automata, data constructs or lower initiates.”
“How do you tell?”
“Experience.”
A metal figure approached.
It wore a crimson robe, but no visible flesh remained. Its head resembled a narrow brass cylinder surrounded by six rotating lenses. Four jointed arms extended from its torso.
Cael moved aside.
The figure stopped.
Its lenses focused on him one after another.
Kallix-9 spoke in binharic.
The figure answered.
The exchange lasted less than a second.
“What did it say?” Cael asked after it passed.
“He said your biological odour was contaminating his sensory field.”
Cael smelled his tunic.
It carried sweat, machine oil and the nutrient dust of the sorting chapel.
“Was that an insult?”
“It was an observation.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I informed him his olfactory sensitivity exceeds the requirements of his ordained role.”
“Was that an insult?”
“It was also an observation.”
Cael looked back at the retreating figure.
For the first time since leaving Nemi, he smiled.
It felt unfamiliar.
Kallix-9 noticed.
He said nothing.
Cael’s new quarters were larger than his recess and smaller than the supply cabinets in Sortation Chapel Three.
The room contained a narrow cot, a metal desk, a stool, a washing basin and one circular ventilation grille. A folded grey robe lay on the cot.
There was no number painted on the wall.
Cael entered slowly.
“Where do the others sleep?”
“In other cells.”
“How many?”
“Within this novice tier, one hundred and eight.”
“Where is my restraint belt?”
“Absent.”
“Why?”
“You are expected to remain in place without physical restraint.”
Cael looked at the open doorway.
“What stops me leaving?”
“Instruction.”
He glanced at Kallix-9.
The priest’s face revealed nothing.
Cael walked to the cot.
The robe was heavier than his creche uniform. Black thread formed a narrow cog pattern along its collar.
“Is it red?”
“No.”
“It looks grey.”
“It is grey.”
“When do I receive red?”
“If elevated into the priesthood, you may be granted the right to wear its colours according to rank, order and local custom.”
“If?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going to become one of you.”
“You have been selected for instruction. Selection is not achievement.”
“What happens if I fail?”
“Your capabilities will be reassessed and allocated appropriately.”
“Back to menial work?”
“Possibly.”
“Servitor conversion?”
“Possibly.”
Cael looked at the robe.
“Execution?”
“Unlikely at your present level, unless your failure involves severe transgression.”
“What is severe?”
“You will be instructed.”
Cael picked up the robe.
“What do I do now?”
“Remove your current clothing. Wash. Dress. Wait for the bell.”
“Then?”
“You will eat.”
“Then?”
“You will sleep.”
“I am not tired.”
“That statement is biologically implausible.”
“I want to begin.”
“You have already begun.”
Kallix-9 turned to leave.
“Wait.”
The priest paused in the doorway.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Are you my instructor?”
“I am your provisional sponsor. Others will conduct most of your initial education.”
“What is a sponsor?”
“The individual whose judgment placed you here and whose standing will be affected by your performance.”
Cael considered that.
“If I fail, you fail?”
“In part.”
“Why would you accept that?”
“Because I estimated that you will not.”
The door closed.
Cael stood alone.
He had never been alone in a room.
The absence of other bodies felt like a pressure change. No one breathed in the neighbouring recess. No child shifted in sleep. No attendant watched from the aisle.
He put down the robe.
He walked to the door and pressed the release plate.
It opened.
The corridor beyond was empty.
He closed it.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
Nothing prevented him.
He examined the basin. Clean water emerged when he turned the marked control. It was warm.
In the creche, washing occurred in groups beneath cold sprays. The attendants allowed forty seconds.
Cael placed his hands under the stream.
He watched the water run across his skin.
He washed for several minutes, uncertain when to stop.
Dark residue swirled into the drain.
He removed his creche uniform.
The number Forty-Three remained stitched across its chest.
Cael folded the clothing and placed it beneath the cot.
Then he dressed in the novice robe.
It reached his ankles.
He sat on the stool.
The ventilation grille hummed.
There were no loose fasteners.
The door had no visible locking mechanism beyond the release plate. The cot frame had been assembled with flush bolts. The desk contained a drawer, but it was empty.
Cael touched the glass fragment beneath his robe.
He removed it and held it toward the overhead lumen.
Blue light crossed his fingers.
He wondered what Nemi was doing.
The shift would still be underway. She would be standing at the conveyor. Perhaps a new child had already been assigned to his position. Perhaps his recess had been cleaned.
Perhaps the attendants had removed his name from the work ledger.
He looked around the cell.
Selection is not achievement.
He knew he should feel fortunate. The priests possessed knowledge. They understood machines whose names he did not yet know. They spoke to one another in bursts faster than ordinary language. They crossed yellow lines.
But Nemi had struck him because he said he would not return.
He touched the side of his face.
It no longer hurt.
The bell sounded.
A single deep note moved through the corridor.
Cael placed the blue fragment in the desk drawer.
Then he stopped.
The drawer could be searched.
He took it out again and examined the room.
There was nowhere safe to conceal it.
He considered placing it beneath the mattress, inside the ventilation grille or behind the basin pipe. Each location was obvious.
Finally, he hid it inside his discarded creche uniform and folded the number Forty-Three over it.
Then he left for the evening meal.
The novice refectory contained thirty-one children.
They sat at a single iron table beneath a mural of the Omnissiah bestowing fire upon kneeling humans. Pipes descended through the painted figures, cutting across the image without regard for composition.
Cael chose an empty space.
No one spoke.
Each child wore the same grey robe.
Some were older than him. Several possessed visible implants: metal sockets at their temples, reinforced fingers, an optical lens or a cable port at the base of the skull.
A boy across the table had no lower jaw. A mechanical replacement moved beneath stretched skin.
Cael looked too long.
The boy stared back.
“Your observation is obvious,” he said through a metallic grille.
“I have not seen a juvenile jaw implant.”
“Now you have.”
“Why was it replaced?”
“Industrial accident.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Does this one hurt?”
“Yes.”
Cael waited.
The boy continued staring.
“Is there another question?”
“Why does it still hurt?”
“Because the interface is poorly fitted.”
“Why has it not been repaired?”
“Because I am not important.”
A serving servitor placed a metal bowl before Cael.
Steam rose from a pale mixture.
It smelled almost like food.
Cael picked up the spoon.
The boy with the metal jaw watched him.
“What?”
“You did not recite the receiving canticle.”
“I do not know it.”
“Then do not eat.”
Cael lowered the spoon.
Around the table, the other novices waited.
A woman entered through the far door.
She appeared mostly human. Her crimson robe bore a white cog at the shoulder, and silver wires entered her scalp beneath close-cropped hair. Both eyes were natural, though lines of text moved across transparent lenses covering them.
She stood at the head of the table.
“I am Logista-Adept Lyr Doxa,” she said. “You will address me as Adept Doxa until authorized otherwise.”
Her gaze settled on Cael.
“You are the new selection.”
“Cael Venn.”
“I did not ask your designation.”
Cael looked down.
“No, Adept Doxa.”
“Stand.”
He rose.
“Recite the Canticle of Grateful Reception.”
“I do not know it.”
“Why?”
“I arrived today.”
“Is ignorance an excuse?”
“I don’t know.”
Several novices shifted.
Adept Doxa approached.
“No,” she said. “Ignorance is a condition. Excuses are explanations intended to avoid consequence. Do you understand the distinction?”
“Yes.”
“Then answer again. Why did you fail to recite the canticle?”
“Because I am ignorant of it.”
“Better.”
She turned toward the table.
“Novices, recite.”
Thirty voices spoke together.
“By measured hand is substance divided.
By lawful flame is corruption removed.
By labour of the many is the vessel filled.
By wisdom of the Machine God is function sustained.
We receive not pleasure, but fuel.
We consume not for desire, but duty.
The vessel is flesh.
The purpose is divine.”
“Again,” Doxa said.
They repeated it.
“Again.”
By the fourth repetition, Cael spoke with them.
“Sit.”
He sat.
“Eat.”
The mixture was thicker and richer than creche nutrient paste. It contained actual pieces of fungal protein and something with the texture of grain.
Cael ate quickly.
Adept Doxa watched.
“You will slow your consumption.”
“Why?”
“Because rapid ingestion reduces digestive efficiency and suggests fear of deprivation.”
“I am hungry.”
“Hunger is not an emergency.”
“It was in the creche.”
“You are not in the creche.”
Cael forced himself to lower the spoon between mouthfuls.
A girl beside him leaned closer.
“You ask questions during meals?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“You’ll learn.”
“What?”
“To stop.”
Adept Doxa’s eyes shifted toward them.
The girl straightened.
After the meal, the novices carried their bowls to a cleansing station.
The boy with the mechanical jaw stood beside Cael.
“You learned the canticle quickly.”
“It is short.”
“You still should not have spoken before knowing it.”
“How do you learn without speaking?”
“You listen.”
“I did listen.”
“Longer.”
The boy placed his bowl beneath the sterilizing spray.
“What is your name?” Cael asked.
“Novice Elian Rho.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three years.”
“Why are you still a novice?”
Elian turned.
His artificial jaw produced a soft motor whine.
“You will learn to stop.”
He walked away.
Cael’s first night outside the creche was silent enough for him to hear his blood.
He lay on the cot with his hands folded over his chest.
The room was dark.
That alone prevented sleep.
In the creche, lumens never dimmed. Darkness belonged to sealed conduits, ventilation shafts and furnace chambers after shutdown. It was the condition of places where humans were not expected to remain.
Cael opened his eyes.
Nothing changed.
He sat up.
The ventilation grille hummed.
The sound was steady.
He counted its cycles.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
Sleep did not come.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
Low red lumens marked the corridor.
No attendants stood outside.
Cael stepped into the hall.
He walked past rows of identical doors.
Somewhere ahead, a child was crying quietly.
He followed the sound.
It came from a cell three doors before the stairwell.
The door was closed.
Cael pressed the release plate.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again.
A voice spoke from a grille above the frame.
“Unauthorized entry denied.”
The crying stopped.
Cael leaned closer.
“Are you hurt?”
Silence.
“I can hear you.”
A child answered from inside.
“Go away.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Go away.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
The voice sharpened.
“I said go away.”
Cael sat down beside the door.
The floor was cold through his robe.
After a while, the child spoke again.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t answer.”
The lock clicked.
The door opened slightly.
A girl peered through the gap.
She was older than Cael, perhaps eight. A circular socket had been implanted above her right ear. The skin around it was red and inflamed.
“You’re the new one,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“It is too dark.”
She opened the door wider.
“You’re afraid of the dark?”
“No.”
“You’re sitting in a corridor because you’re not afraid?”
“I cannot observe the room in darkness.”
“That is what afraid means.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She rubbed her face.
“What is your name?”
“Cael Venn.”
“Tara Kasp.”
“Why were you crying?”
Tara looked down the corridor.
“My memory test is tomorrow.”
“Did you fail the last one?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you fail again?”
“They increase the current.”
Cael looked at the socket above her ear.
“For the implant?”
“It isn’t an implant. Not properly. It’s an interface anchor.”
“What does it do?”
“It connects to the mnemonic tutor.”
“What does that do?”
“Hurts.”
“That is not a function.”
“It is the only one I’ve noticed.”
Cael examined the inflamed skin.
“It looks infected.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is red.”
“It is always red.”
“Then it is always inflamed.”
Tara covered it with her hand.
“You look at things too much.”
“I was told that is why I am here.”
She almost smiled.
“You’ll learn.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Because you will.”
“Learn what?”
Tara’s smile vanished.
“That being noticed is not always good.”
A footstep sounded at the end of the corridor.
Adept Doxa approached.
Tara retreated into her room.
The door closed.
Cael remained seated.
Doxa stopped before him.
“Explain.”
“The room is dark.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“I could not sleep.”
“Why?”
“The room is dark.”
“Darkness does not prevent sleep.”
“It prevents observation.”
“Sleep requires reduced observation.”
Cael looked up at her.
“Did you know Tara’s interface anchor is inflamed?”
Doxa’s expression remained still.
“Yes.”
“Why has it not been treated?”
“It has.”
“It is still inflamed.”
“Her body responds poorly to the material.”
“Then replace it.”
“The alternate material is reserved for candidates of higher projected value.”
Cael thought of the Skitarius with the damaged knee.
“The resources required exceed the projected loss?”
Doxa’s lenses filled with moving text.
“Kallix-9 has already exposed you to allocation theory.”
“I asked about a soldier.”
“Stand.”
Cael obeyed.
“Tara Kasp’s anchor causes pain. The pain is regrettable. It does not currently prevent function. Replacing it would require surgical labour, specialized material and three days of recovery. Those resources can improve the function of several other novices.”
“So she keeps hurting.”
“Yes.”
“That is wrong.”
Adept Doxa leaned toward him.
The silver wires in her scalp shifted.
“Define wrong.”
“It should be different.”
“That is desire, not definition.”
“It damages her.”
“Many useful processes involve damage.”
“She is afraid.”
“Fear does not determine truth.”
“She may fail because it hurts.”
“That possibility is included in the assessment.”
“And if she fails?”
“She will be reassigned.”
“Because the device hurts her?”
“Because her performance falls below requirement.”
Cael felt heat rise into his face.
“That is the same thing.”
“No. Causes and judgments are distinct.”
“That is stupid.”
The words left him before caution could stop them.
The corridor became perfectly still.
Doxa’s natural eyes narrowed.
Cael waited for pain.
Instead, she raised one hand and tapped the side of his head with a metal finger.
“Your thoughts are disordered.”
“My thoughts are mine.”
“Temporarily.”
Cael stepped back.
“What does that mean?”
“It means education changes the architecture of thought. If it does not, education has failed.”
“Will you put something in my head?”
“Eventually, perhaps.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Desire is not the governing measure.”
Cael touched his temple.
Doxa observed the gesture.
“You imagine the priesthood as reward.”
“Kallix-9 said it was not.”
“Yet part of you believes selection makes you exceptional.”
“I repaired the compressor.”
“You identified a reversed valve. A useful act. Not a miracle.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You did not need to.”
She pointed toward his cell.
“Return.”
Cael did not move.
“Will the door lock?”
“No.”
“Then what stops me leaving again?”
“This conversation.”
Cael stared at her.
Doxa’s voice softened by a fraction.
“Knowledge is not kindness, Cael Venn. Logic is not fairness. The Machine God does not promise comfort to those who understand more. You have been brought here because your mind may become useful. That usefulness will demand things from you.”
“What things?”
“Sleep, for now.”
Cael returned to his room.
The door closed behind him.
The darkness waited.
He lay down.
For a long time, he listened to the ventilation grille.
A healthy machine made promises and kept them.
Adept Doxa had made no promise at all.
Eventually, Cael slept.
He dreamed of a blue sky divided into numbered squares.