Chapter 17: Singularity

Chapter 17: Singularity

At the start of time there was nothing, for everything that might exist was balanced by its opposite. The universe was perfect in its emptiness. Into this void came the first soul, and as it beheld itself it became inconsolable - by existing, it marred what had been perfect. To witness perfection it must cease to exist; to witness anything it must continue existing.

The paradox of imperfection tore at the first soul, and it despaired of ever regaining what had been lost. In the depths of its despair, however, came the first Truth. If perfection from emptiness was denied to it, then it would seek perfection from fullness. The first soul separated the balanced pieces of itself, and so too did it divide the emptiness around it. Form cohered and endured before subsiding into nothingness. Light shone across the cosmos before vanishing into dark. No longer were the extremes unified. There was now a transition between them, and the transition was Life.

The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Division. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Michael walked toward the shore with Stefan close on his heels. It was only a matter of time before Luc alerted the islands guards, and any alert would bring an inevitable tightening of security at the sole point of egress. With any luck, they could find a small craft and make their way offshore without attracting notice.

The notion brought a grimace to Michaels face. Luck. He didnt have a plan for dealing with the guards at the port, nor an idea of the boats there that were available for them to commandeer. Both required him to have a view of the port. He muttered an imprecation after Beni. The spectors enhanced sight would have been invaluable here.

A moment later he shook his head. Irritation wasnt helpful at this point - not at Beni, and not at himself. Spark had made a ruin of the man, he was the only one who bore any responsibility. The only fault Michael himself could be reasonably accused of was horrible timing.

And impulsiveness, perhaps. Overconfidence. Indulgence in the giddy rush of power flowing from his soul, lighting the world in soft-edged fire that filled his mind with possibility. It was difficult not to get swept up in the expansion of awareness. Even his footsteps landed with a newfound surety.

He could not help but smile; Jeorg had always moved with effortless grace. Now Michael knew why. Every pebble in the road, every wheel rut and water-carved track was in his mind as he drew close to it. Not with the detailed perception that Sofia would have enjoyed, but with the shining threads of causality that wove between them. He knew the sound each footfall would make well before it landed, and where the ground would shift if he stepped.

Well start seeing patrols soon, Stefan muttered, casting his gaze around nervously. Do you have some sort of plan for getting past them?

Michael did not. There was a large gulf between his happy contemplation of quiet footsteps and the sort of thing he had seen Jeorg do when pressed to combat. His use of Stanzas power had been largely within the confines of his own mind, and extending that practice to Stefan had been challenging. His attempt with Beni had been disastrous.

That progression did not fill him with confidence, therefore, when he considered overt use of his soul against the guards at the harbor. He needed something covert, quiet and subtle. Conflict with Sparks men was not his goal, after all - it was obtaining a vessel and escaping, preferably without raising a hue and cry that would see them run down by an Ember steamer before they had left sight of the pier. Once they were farther away there was at least a chance that they might disappear into the vast stretches of the sea.

Provided that they could reach the sea at all. We should get closer, Michael said. Well need to watch their approach. After a patrol has passed we can slip across behind them.

Stefan looked unconvinced. Thats what anyone might do, he said. You told me that you were one of the Eight.

Best not to rely on that. Michael gave Stefan an evaluating look. Youve probably got more experience with military patrols than I do. If youve got suggestions Ill take them.

Oh, so this is one of those plans, Stefan said. He scratched morosely at the scar on his cheek. The soldiers here arent trying to protect the harbor, theyre trying to protect the white-shirts that might wander into a loading crane - or into the ocean, I suppose.

But some white-shirts are allowed, arent they? Michael asked. To load and unload. I saw a few when I was brought here. He looked down at his red clothing, then at Stefans white garb. Perhaps we dont need to dodge the patrols at all.

Stefan stopped to consider. You want to just walk up like were on a shift? he asked. It could work. I was hoping you could shroud us in darkness or slice them to bits. He paused for a moment. Which one of the Eight are you, anyway?Visit no(v)eLb(i)n.com for the best novel reading experience

Stanza, Michael said.

Stanzas words engrave their mark, Stefan quoted. He frowned. I dont know that I ever learned what sort of soul Stanza was.

Mostly just confusing, Michael muttered. Come on, lets try to slip in like weve got a job to do. If the alarm goes up well lose our chance.

Stefan nodded. And if they try to stop us?

Then Ill figure something out, Michael said. He grabbed Stefans sleeve and led him forward. The other man took a few halting steps before lapsing into a disinterested shuffle, looking ahead at nothing in particular. Just another white-shirt stumbling through his day.

Michael led him through the narrow alley, pausing just before the exit into the next street. It wouldnt do to look furtive. He thought of his father, the way he bulled forward in a confident line that would brook no interruption. The steady cadence of his footsteps, slow enough to be unhurried and fast enough to be purposeful. Michael took a breath, raised his head and strode confidently into the street with Stefan in tow. After a few steps he risked a look to either side and promptly felt ridiculous; there were no patrols in evidence.

Nevertheless, he kept up his determined stride until they had crossed the street and slipped between the next row of buildings.

We used to have an officer who would walk everywhere like that, Stefan murmured once they were in the cover of the next alley. Some lords son. Always looked like he was going to meet with the Lord Marshal, even when he was just going to his quarters.

Thats the idea, Michael said, squaring his shoulders as they approached the next street. Immediately as they exited he caught a flash of motion in the corner of his eye, there was a group of men further down the way. He did not look, keeping his thoughts trained on Karl Baumgarts inexorable footsteps. His heart felt like it was taking five beats for each pace. After a small eternity they made it across the street unmolested.

Michael could smell the salt from the ocean now, hear the dim roar of the surf against the harbors small breakwater. They were drawing close. Only a single roughly-graded access road separated them from the port. On the far side there was a low fence. The expanse of plain wire had only one access they could see from their vantage, a small gate manned by a single guard.

I dont see another way in, Stefan murmured. Well have to try somewhere else.

We dont have time to look around. Michael bit his lip and risked a look at the man standing by the gate; he was slouched against one of the posts while his rifle stood propped against the other. His eyes were shaded under his cap and he did not look up to notice the two men observing him. Nevertheless, he would certainly notice if they attempted to pass by under his nose.

Come on, he said, grabbing Stefans sleeve again. Were going to walk through.

Stefan sputtered something incoherent before lapsing into the silent shuffle of the white-shirts once more, following along behind Michael as they approached the gate guard. The guard did not notice them until they had drawn close to the door, and when his eyes finally settled on them his face showed nothing but a mild annoyance, as if the two men were pigeons or some other species of harmless vermin that had wandered too close for him to ignore.

Hey, now, the man called out, straightening up from his slouch. Turn on back. Its dangerous past here, you shouldnt wander.

Michael thought of his father once more, imagined a guard saying such a thing to Lord Baumgart. He frowned and lifted his chin, staring down his nose at the guard. He held eye contact until he saw a flicker of mild consternation began to spread over the mans face, then spoke.

Were here on orders from the doctor, Michael said, drawing upon Ricards mild Esroun inflection to color his words. This one is to be brought down to the docks. He said the last words with a haughty finality, then moved to walk through the gate with Stefan in tow.

The guard made an abortive move to stand in his path; Michael ignored him even as Stefan cringed away. Whether it was acting or a natural response on his part he couldnt tell, but it suited their purpose.

You cant just walk in, the guard said plaintively. There are rules about access-

Michael turned and gave the man a flat look, drawing on every ounce of aristocratic disdain he could muster. We are here, he said, on orders from the doctor. He paused a beat to let the silence return, then turned and continued to walk.

Keeping his pace was torturous, the hammering of his heart seeming to thunder so loud that the guard must hear it - but no footsteps followed, and if the guard said anything in response it was lost in the crunch of gravel underfoot and the gentle breath of sea air. After they had passed around the corner of a near warehouse, Michael finally let his breath out in a rush.

Stefan drew up alongside him, looking impressed. You used your soul on him, he said.

No, Michael said, chuckling shakily. Luc said the guards here treated the control group well, and that they had the run of the island. That guard wasnt going to risk having to explain why he detained one of Sparks favorites and disrupted important research.

Ah, Stefan said. You read his thoughts.

That drew a real laugh from Michael, albeit a quiet one - as well as their bluff had worked, there was no reason to draw attention to themselves. He beckoned to Stefan and led the way toward the shore. The sound of waves echoed through the spaces between warehouses and stacked crates, sometimes bouncing in confusing ways that confounded Michaels sense of direction. They made their twisting way through the ports small yard until at last they saw the rocky shorefront and the narrow wooden piers extending out into the ocean.

Most were empty. The large Ember steamer that had captured Michael was berthed alongside a large pier that looked purpose-built for the ship, and there was a rusty tug moored near its bow. Neither were promising options for escape; Michael was neither an Ember nor an engineer, he could not hope to stoke either ships boiler. In increasing desperation he swept his eyes along the bare piers until a flash of motion caught his attention.

There was a dinghy bobbing against one of the near pilings, its oars on the dock beside it. Michael pointed excitedly and received an incredulous look from Stefan.

The statement sank in slowly, leaving a chill deep in Michael's core. You mean to kill more of them.

I mean to help you reach the heights you were destined to reach, Spark replied. Most men pass through the world without leaving a mark upon it, their existence lost in the shifting chaos of life. Some few will persist in the muddled thoughts of men until time renders their legacy into something wholly different from the reality of their being. He chuckled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. This will be my fate. I am not a noteworthy man, Michael. History will forget my face and speech, my dreams, my aspirations. I will pass into oblivion save for one grand work, one slash of my chisel into the bedrock of the universe.

He paused and turned toward Michael. I will create you, Michael Baumgart. This is all that I am meant to be. He began pacing once more, resuming his path around the room. That is all they are meant to be. In the eyes of posterity you are the only living man on this island.

Michael strained against his bindings but found them utterly inflexible. I'm not going to just sit here and cooperate, he grunted. I said that you two will have to kill me to keep me here.

Fortunately, very few of my plans require your participation, Spark said. Thanks to our efforts across the continental front we have quite a lot of expertise in affinity-building. His gaze sharpened. Both voluntary and otherwise. We will bind the wayward souls on this island to you and make you into a man that history will not dare to forget.

Michael stilled his efforts to break free as he caught Sparks intent. It was not just death that he meant to inflict. This would be murder on an industrial scale, the full weight of it settling into Michael's soul in horrific intimacy. He imagined the disassociation he had felt after Beni's death repeated over and over, tearing and expanding the boundaries of his soul.

It was not that his life that was in danger. Spark and Claude would ensure that he still drew breath even as countless others breathed their last. No, it was that Spark had chosen his words deliberately when he spoke of creation. What he meant to do would mold a new man with a monstrous soul, an agglomeration of pain and violence that would bear little resemblance to the man Michael was today.

Now, Spark said, breaking into his thoughts. Since you noticed Claude, I assume the earlier test was a success.

Michael stared, although Spark again showed no reaction. With a triumphant smirk, Spark raised one long, bony finger - and pointed down.

He let his eyes follow Sparks finger and saw himself strapped to the examination table, a thick blindfold over his eyes. Vertigo clutched at him in waves as he looked at his body lying seemingly below him.

A spectors sight is at once disorienting and natural, Spark said, watching Michael writhe under the tables bindings with evident delight. I believe you will find moving your sight rather easier than moving your body for a while. While youre getting used to it - Claude, would you be so kind as to fetch our other escapee?

Michael watched with mounting horror as the anatomens smiled and left the room. They were going to bring Stefan into the room and kill him. It wouldnt stop there. He was sure Sparks claim was no idle boast, the old man seemed serenely confident that he could get the other prisoners to fulfill the conditions Michaels soul imposed. He had to find a way to stop it, to get out, to escape.

But how? He cast his gaze about - and froze. It was still disorienting to have his vision unmoored from his eyes, but moving its origin was as natural as moving his head. He could bring his sight down to focus on his blindfold, his clenched fists - his bindings. The padded leather straps were cinched tightly about his arms and legs, secured by heavy metal buckles. His hands were further secured by thick gloves that wove through the straps, preventing free use of his fingers.

He brought his vision close to the buckles and examined the metal. He saw the faint grain left from its forging, the sheen of its polish, the minute clasps that held it close to the restraints gloves. His imagination filled in the other aspects - the weight of it, the cold smoothness of its surface. Detail by detail he built it in his mind.

Then he began to think of rust. The perfect replica of the buckle in his head dulled and corroded, orange and red spreading across its surface. His spectors sight blurred for a moment, reality and imagination showing two conflicting images - then, with a pull on Stanzas power, they drifted back into alignment. The buckle began to rust in truth, thick flakes of metal dropping onto the bed as corrosion relentlessly pitted and scored the surface.

He flexed his arm unobtrusively and found it still tightly-bound; the amount of force he could bring to bear on the metal cinch was small. He would have to damage it much more to break it and free himself. Michael redoubled his efforts, willing the buckle to crumble away so he could free his hand. Rust, rust, he thought desperately. Turn to-

The door swung open once more. Claude pulled Stefan in by an arm and shoved him into the room. His face was vacant and blank, tears tracking down to wet the stubble on his cheeks.

Michael forced himself to look away, to turn his efforts back to the buckle and rebuild the image of it rusting away to nothingness in his mind. Panic nibbled at him as the seconds ticked by and Spark whispered something in hushed tones. Claude responded. There were a few moments of silence, then Michael felt the dreaded ache began to build beneath his ribs. He strained to his utmost, flexing his arms until they trembled with pain.

The buckle held, its resilient form filling his eyes even as the light crashed down to carry him away.

Michael looked at the mote of light as it drifted towards him and despaired. Stefan. He had told the man they would escape together, seen how he dared to hope despite the unrelenting horror of his time on the island. How he had trusted Michael when he claimed to control the power of Stanza. Michael had failed him, and now he was dead.

He screamed, though he had no voice to scream. He had thought them so close to freedom, but it had been Sparks design from the beginning - to force them together, to bind them, to kill them. Michael had played right into it. He thought of Sparks delighted smile, the joy on his face when he saw what Jeorgs death had wrought upon Michael-

The image of Sparks exuberant face hung in Michaels mind, shimmering as though through a heat haze. There was no more despair. Within his heart, coursing through every fiber of him, Michael pulsed with a cold, clear hatred. He would see Sparks hopes dashed as thoroughly as Stefans.

His attention returned to the mote of light that had been Stefans soul, nestled close into the burgeoning radiance of his own. It shone with tirelessness, with resilience and stamina far beyond mortal bounds. Power, forced upon him by Spark.

He could find a use for power.

Stanzas soul wrapped tightly around him as he woke. The anger he felt, the virulent hatred - there was no need to broadcast his resolve to Spark. Michael let his sight drift away from where he lay on the bed to survey the room. Claude had left, while Spark was writing at a desk in the corner.

He had obviously woken earlier than they expected. Michael focused once more on the buckle fastening his right arm into the restraining glove, noting with satisfaction that it had not been cleaned or replaced. The image of the crumbling buckle drifted once more into his mind, and reality soon followed.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Holes grew through the center of the metal. With a faint clatter, the bottom of the buckle broke away and fell to the table.

Spark looked up, frowning. Michael shifted his sight to watch as the old man rose from his seat and bent to inspect the far side of the examination table. He kept his emotions carefully shrouded behind Stanzas protective cloak and laid still. Dull footsteps sounded as his captor circled to the other side of the table.

Spark bent to inspect his right hand, frowning slightly at the dark specks of rust near the glove. His eyes widened - and Michaels hand ripped free of the confining glove to clamp around his neck. Bony fingers clawed at Michaels arm, and Spark called upon his soul with a single thunderous command to let go-

But Michael was already suffused with the power of Stanza, of Jeorgs soul, and the command could find no purchase. He squeezed and felt his power penetrate into Sparks aged flesh. Michael had known that Stanza had the power of an anatomens, had seen Jeorg use it as such - but had never tried to use that facet of it, since one required a precise knowledge of anatomy and structure to heal.

He was not trying to heal. He pushed his soul into Spark with blind force, mangling the myriad paths of the old mans body randomly as he went. Sparks eyes went wide, faint choking noises issuing from his mouth as Michael raged, broke, tore and rent until a wave of exhaustion broke his focus.

Spark slipped from his fingers to the ground. The exhaustion faded rapidly as the warm glow of Stefans soul ignited in his chest. Warmth flowed back into his extremities. With a grunt he twisted to grab at the buckle on his other arm, fumbling as he tried to coordinate the actions of his hand through his spectors sight.

Finally, he pulled his left hand free from the glove - and froze. Another wave of vertigo rippled through him as he looked at his splayed fingers. They felt foreign, strange, even though they responded naturally as he flexed them. He brought his spectors sight closer to it and looked at fingers that were just a bit too long, skin that was a shade darker than it should be - and a sharp demarcation at the wrist where Michaels skin reasserted itself.

It was not his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, then turned to look at Sparks collapsed form. What did you do? he croaked.

A soft, wet noise came from the man slouched on the floor. Laughter. Claude, Spark rasped, so good at detail work. A fit of coughing stole his voice, and Michael tore furiously at the leg restraints still binding him to the table.

What did you do? he repeated, anger choking his voice. What is this?

Spark laughed again, blood dripping from his mouth to the floor. The skin on his neck and across his face was one massive bruise, an angry mass of darkened flesh. Precaution, he said. Not the one I should have taken. Thought you might die before- He cut off, another bout of coughing sending him into convulsions on the floor. Michael finally freed his legs and stood shakily. The strange viewpoint from his spectors sight felt wrong, unnatural. He grabbed the table to steady himself.

Doesnt matter, Spark said faintly. Hoped to give you more. Make you great. The most powerful soul. Shape the world, break the - order that constrains. He shuddered and gasped. But in the end it was just two. He contorted his head to look up at Michael and smiled, his eyes and mouth crimson with blood.

Two of the Eight.

Michaels eyes widened with sudden realization. No, he said. I dont want your soul.

Inevitable, Spark whispered. Inevitable. Affinity is clear. Searched for you too long. Dreamed of your path. Now we walk together. His smile stretched wide, wide, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth to run in rivulets down his chin. The light in his eyes was a constant beat beneath the sheen of blood, circling in a slow, hypnotic pulse.

You, me, he murmured. And Jeorg.

Michael did not see Sparks smile fade - only the light rushing forward, forward and inside.