Second Age, Echo Realm
Not much after the final candle had flickered out on the dining room table, five visitors reclined in the den, their eyes parched from so much mundane light, awaiting the ubiquity of restful twilight the host had by suggestion included in the invitation. “You were really something at the District Temper last week Woel (An)-Mava noted, making the performer hiccup suddenly at their fascination with her private endeavors. The singer relinquished the wine glass of strawberry resin, and straightened her posture. “It was real y nothing, the band was in good form, but that’s real y nice that you got it, most people are clueless” she replied, looking past the speaker to the wal replete with vintage tomes. “Wel , I’m not. I think you’ve met your match” Woel observed, causing side-splitting fury among the other ladies. Normally, the women would breathe in such laughter like a charming inexhaustible toxin, but something was different. Purposefully waiting until the others had trickled out, Nomi sat across from Woel, killing time until the moment was right. “Can I ask you about those over there?” the singer queried, rising from the chair. Up til then the conversation was nothing more than bland abandonment. Woel confirmed with sharp senses that her guest’s line of sight held the book-shelf with … was it fear? Clenched in the grip of perception, she saw the woman not to be able to move a muscle. Dull pain blossomed in her chest as Woel knew the face, with piteous eyes that would never look forward, but only back through strange curvatures to a singular point. Taking Nomi to the bookshelf she watched the
guest playfully brush the ends. “My separation from academia was a traumatic experience, but I managed. For a long time, I didn’t even come in this room. Are you interested in any of these authors?” the host urged. “Authors are just people” Nomi conceded, her heart writhing in awe at the textures touching the ends of her fingertips. “I had a good thing going before the department was cut, anthropology became well … making sense of it all in that fashion was just a labor they couldn’t afford. I was angry, so much so that I burned my own masterpiece. I thought no one would ever read it” Woel reminisced, the lounge fertile with an odor of thoughts blurred into tangible description, of frail humming ancestry melting through time in the guise of liquid ink.
“Maybe if you had given someone the chance” Nomi remarked, turning to her, deferential.
Numerous and variable in slight appearance, the bookshelf became more than daunting, it was
… confusing. Tracing her hand along the soft spine Nomi looked down and began to mouth the words, “Life is ….” then blinked, casting her sight across the aggregate of rectangular forms.
“Don’t be shy, I’ve got a lot of things you would like, artists need inspiration, right?” Woel encouraged as Nomi touched her hands at various places, identical to the way a prisoner tries to determine weakness in a wall. “Are there any good ones?” the singer asked, partly to the host and party to the bookshelf. Electricity jousted at the owner’s nerves, watching the guest grow more frantic, childlike delight transmuting into panic … boiling panic. More and more Nomi touched each rectangle, unable to pull a single one from its position. “Nomi, just make a choice”
Woel pleaded. “Choices … choices … choices … choices” the singer chanted in monotone, devoid of self, artificial. “Fucking stop it! Take a book, it doesn’t matter!” the academic, breaking with visceral emotion yelled. Stepping back from the wall, the guest looked up and … laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Thank you for the dinner” she smiled. Woel could have sworn she saw the genesis of wetness in the other’s eyes, but the guest turned so swiftly for the longue door, that it was a moot point.
Current Time
Rising from the crypt of black memory, Woel wiped the sand from her eyes and looked out the window. Clunky sounds rattled through the corridors as the ferry shifted from quick-transit to ordinary space. Grunting at the unhealthy awakening the researcher bounded to the door. At the edge of known space only the Expectians, or Didn’texpectthatians were wil ing to let a human gain passage to their territory, and to Oela-Dora, a world with a tiny trading port and an unscrupulous reputation. But over the last months sifting through the rumor mill she had learned of the ruins at that location. Even a human who pays handsomely can seek out death at the farthest corners of the milky way. Stomping out into the corridor, two of those big alien birds with uniforms barred her way. “Are you crazy! I almost hit the roof with that stunt!” Woel barked.
“Calm down mam, the ship is above the port and we wil be departing shortly “ the one on the left said, trying to alleviate the situation. Denta was his name. Besides him the other officer was pleasantly snide, cocking his head to show her how much of an infant she was being. They –
both she and Avilo have had “creative differences”, bumping into each other on numerous occasions throughout the journey. Denta lifted his wings as Expectians did frequently, baring curly jungle bushes of arm-pit hair to emphasize whatever point they had just made. “Alright Denta, I just hope there is a hot meal when I come back” she pestered, knowing a round journey at triple the fare was more than worth rummaging around the kitchen for ingredients while the meager staff attended to other worries. Gathering supplies for a week-long trek to the archaeological site, Woel glanced out the window, at the docile film through which the ship passed to Oela-Dora. From the landing yard the traders ventured into the collective, a program of reciprocity glitching like a circus as denizens weaved about fidgeting mounds of technological, technoaetheric wonders. Nimbleness ensued, although Woel knew objectively that the objects were simply cargo. Despite seeing accurate photographs of the six types that bordered the system-decagon of known human habitation, being among a crowd was
different ... a labored, enamored visual state. Approaching her a Mailbox-Ghost tapped a shoulder to ensure the human was indeed solid, and not a hologram for thematic purposes. Pink wormy amphibians with feathery cheeks guzzled a foreign language as they passed her, some of them breaking their deal-makings with attentive Numyromans and golem thick Brownsugarians. Tapping the green diadem of her encoding-necklace, the exotic voyeuristically soaked in the language-bath of the trade port. Scattered around at various locations were platforms upon which a student-operator, as they were referred to cranked a pencil sharpener of human proportions, large enough for its revolutions to be a unique endeavor, akin to oars-men of old. “Haven’t you ever seen a content sharpener, human?” an Expectian crewman goaded.
“This wil be my first time, why is he pushing the crank manual y like that?” she asked, pointing to the Expectian on the platform. “We bring anything that needs to be completed here to these platforms. Do you see the line of Oelans for the student-sharpener? They each have brought articles or pure resources to be improved through refinefocusment, by revolving the crank. In your language I think the world is focus refinement” he explained. Hearing them, Denta ceased from grooming and nodded his head in agreement to the translation. Transacting with a screen at the edge of the platform, the trader at the front of the line was ready. Bringing a rectangular chunk of wood, a hover-pallet landed it on the platform for the student-sharpener’s consideration. Quickly thrusting the machine with avian brawn, shavings of wood from the block fell away, shorn as a coat of a darling lamb. Gears whirled in the body of the technoaetheric contraption. “My, that is a decent furniture cabinet” Woel declared. “Of course, it is much more valuable than a simple piece” Avilo corrected. He raised but one wing to elicit her chagrin, lazily as if a human was not worth the effort of two wings. Nextly, a volume of gaseous particles contained by an invisible field was placed on the stand, and refined into a solid, a desk lamp with a purple shade. “Ah, the gas did have a slight tint of purple, almost like your feathers” she perceived. “Thank you for noticing” the crewman shared. “So how does it work, does the student-sharpener control what item it is reduced to?” the spectator asked, prompting him to point to a sign at the end of the platform detailing the prices for asking technical questions about refinefocusment, way out of her pay grade. Interrupting their conversation, a Bretletian or Axolotl-Worm extended the singular human-like hand at their end of its tail for a greeting. “My, my, not a lot of you out here on this side of the galaxy” he remarked with a big mouth and cheeks shrouded in feathery gills. A moment before he had been seated at a nail salon where robots shot lasers out of their eyes to layer colors onto said hand. “I’m one of the lucky ones that got a ride from this lot” she misdirected. “Of course, a hitchhiker, I trust they are treating you very well” the newcomer idly interrogated. Smirking, Woel turned to face Denta and Avilo, then back at the trader, “Why yes, they have been treating me like a king”. “Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised if Avilo over there made you mop the floors … tell me, what is it like on your star-spinner?” the newcomer asked, proving superior than base naivety in regards to her condition.
“There are a lot of different personalities trying to get along. We get along most of the time” the anthropologist shared, legitimizing the human experience in the eyes of a dozen onlookers.
“Let’s make today’s walk a good one, and don’t stop me … no, I’m feeling generous, here get in line over here, you over there, move it” he insisted, until there was but one trader standing between them and the platform. Removing a computerized discus, it was laid on the surface, emitting a detailed holo-image of their vehicle parked in the landing yard, a bit fatter than their own. Woel watched the student sharpener’s eyes grow bold accepting the chal enge. Crossing burly weathered arms, a Brownsugarian waited silently. He began, then driving the handle in furious rotations, shavings of metal sundered by multitudes dropped to the ground, leaving a model a bit more sophisticated than the source material. Pushing her up on the platform, Woel was given a chance of pencils from a tan briefcase. After selecting one, it was taken to a computer terminal where cables were inserted to download data. Feeling a preference for hearing above other senses, the visitor determined that it was indeed the foremost property to refinefocusment. Gleefully the student replaced the used pencil with the data-pencil, beginning
the procedure. Nothing changed at first. In the audience Mail-Box ghosts hooted and hollered, swaying dynamic shimmering ectoplasm over the rest. It felt a little ... funny. Moments later, a square mile of Oela-Deva became audible. Currents of sound barreled in through every pore in her body. Symphonies rushed in, becoming ungovernable. Then … something else. Faint music of technoaetheric engines rumbled, organizing lackadaisical entropy into clear forms. Woel felt with fingers of sound into the simple husk of the metallic casing. Sublime gears tore calculations into fine powder for quick analysis. Layer by layer the pieces of it, an abstract pocket-watch became visible. Looking over the audience, then the student-sharpener, neither had realized yet the patent was now in the hands of a meager human. After all, the effect would wear off in a few days. “Here’s a chair, the first time being focus refined is exhausting” Denta offered, jumping to the rescue before she could fall flat on her face and made a fool of herself. “Sil y me, I almost lost face” the academic thought, listing ethnographic bul et-points. For sustenance they tore lumps off the Brownsugarian which gradually returned well-being to her body. Sugars of delicious meat slid down her throat. “Come now, we didn’t come here to be bored out of our minds” Avilo enjoined. Trailing behind him they arrived at another booth where the proprietor had behind a fence a number of puddles, as if it had just rained in that particular enclosure.
Centered in each of them was a big hardy walking boot. Motioning to a few of their crewmen traders, Avilo directed them to hand over a crystal to the proprietor, who dropped it into the body of one of the boots. He returned from a desk with a pair of blacksmith tongs, then grappled the item from inside. Woel looked closely, noting how the object now sizzled as if subjected to intense conditions, and how its crystalline structure had adjusted distinctly. Two crewman held a mechanical containment vessel for the proprietor to drop the article in. Their work completed, Avilo furnished yet another crystal. This time the proprietor switched on a hand-held vacuum cleaner, sucking up all of the pale blue mist that wafted from the boot into which the crystal had been dropped. “Trader, I believe our human friend here would like the first sip” Avilo advocated, promptly finding his way behind the visitor and placing his wings on her shoulders, laughing like an old compatriot. Woel refused to flinch from the dare. As the proprietor handed her the machine, its underside opened up and out protruded a drinking straw. “Makes me think of pudding” the foodie discerned, queuing the others to laugh at her expense. More straws projected from the underside of the vacuum cleaner, and it was passed around to the lot until every had a decent sip. Bidding goodbye to the puddle booth Denta led them deeper into the heart of the port, where more traditional swaps of trade goods and gadgetry and at computerized terminals were underway. Woel’s heart convulsed a bit seeing a pair of misshapen Milk-Leaf children. Righting herself back to anthropological homeostasis, they came to a station where Avilo took flight, entering a holographic star chart to obtain data.
Departing from the rest, Woel met up with the Brownsugarian chauffer. Now the true reason for her arrival was underway. “Good, we are getting closer, you can leave me here” she instructed.
Waiting until solitude the last speck of the taxi vanished into the distance. Muscles tensed at the same time that she spun about, remembering the phantom pain of watching years burn away, cultured scripts reduced to ash, forfeited to the hearth. There, a temple huddled. Lines of the relic’s amber face acquiesced to the brushstroke of the environment. Next, Woel set up camp and made her way into the structure, where she had been informed five generations of students on “study abroad” had been used as cheap labor ... essentially slaves ... in order to excavate the place. The academic herself likewise experienced the same injustice, the bait and switch of being told what would be an adventure, only to be draped in fresh mud, but with years of student burdening debt she was forced into the vocation. Archaeology was the one field that imposed a restriction on the use of magic, for good purpose, as even a wayward spray of charisma could unsettle what had been. Not even the lowest grade of androids in the current era would allow themselves to be diminished in such a way, digging with back-breaking toil for bottlecaps and other bits of historical paraphernalia. Lighting the way with elegant bacterial
flares, she made her way deeper into the structure. Architectural ques mentally focused the visitor. making an unequivocal path clear amongst the myriad. Bioluminescence shed itself onto a newfound chamber, encouraging her as the flares followed suit, slithering ladylike into dimensions with tenants lost to the rush of time. “A little room like this would not even have raised an eyebrow” she fathomed, easily completing a puzzle contraption for a hidden entrance into the true underbelly. Framed at the other end of the room, a mural on a platform connected to a walkway that divided up the entirety into two segments, made seemingly distinct by the few feet in which the path had been raised above level. Brought to the midway, Woel found at intervals segments affixed to the walkway adorned with paintings. Each one to the right contained a portraiture of a tree, while those on the left contained kites. Military regalia hung from the sides of the frames. Reaching her position, the ladies shed their lifeforce into the darkness, enough to see shadows cast against the statues of both subjects on either side …
crowds of them. “Looks like everyone is dashing to the center” the visitor spied. The path continued for some way in the same vein until the end abruptly presented itself, without much consideration for a pondering walker. Displayed across the mural, in calm legible relief were the chronicles of war between long foes, animate and inanimate, the Kite-Tree War. Carved into the middle in clear detail was the battle of Rioner-Miib, where Echo had become a wind through the void with a trans-manifestation, propelling the spell infantry as kites onto platforms arrayed with forests of logic trees grown on the backs of alliance vessels. Besides it, another relief coerced her into tactile sensation, as fingertips discovered throngs of kites transfigured from human raw material, flying in the direction of their adversaries by the orders of a conductor, a woman with long golden hair. Her arm was outstretched, with a finger pointing, as the kites with their tips in unison faced a counterpart woodland, where a brawny man hid in foliage. “This bearded guy looks angry” Woel thought. Further down, the account continued restlessly, with scenes of kites directing monks to harvest trees to print illuminated manuscripts. Knights battled with dragons.
Wizards threw snowballs of elements at ugly phantoms. In the middle of that sequence a conference was held by both parties where some entity, a coil of snakes in an oven mitten, one of them propping its head outward speaking for the others, sued for peace with taxing rhetoric.
Going further, the relief had a very big kite crashing into a ball covered in trees and lizards dying. After that, some park where a boy absentmindedly ran with a kite, chopping off a branch of a tree on which his friend was sitting. The first boy’s name was labeled Telenon. She laughed heartily at the cartoon. Perhaps the carver had not been self-aware of how synonymous it was with a strip of the funnies on the morning paper. Next came a kite chopping off a branch of some sort of cosmic tree, and other scenes beforehand that seemed to go on and on. Woel started to get weary so called it a night and returned to camp. Hard work can make a week pass by quickly.
Bantering with Denta, who helped carry some of the loot, they arrived at a very particular topic.
Sometimes, the details of life can be buried underneath less immediate concerns, if those have greater weight by disparity in the course of things. “What do you mean the return fare is too high?” Denta asked a second time, cross-examining her. Travelers are not good at keeping secrets, especially when a smile can so easily give it away. Dragged into the captain’s office, the guard gently closed the door behind them so they would have quiet. Avilo stood beside him, reading a document on the desk-screen. “Unfortunately, there’s no way I can make future arrangements. This ship doesn’t run on promises” the captain corrected her after a lengthy, fruitless battle. “But it’s barely twenty percent, my institution can cover more than …” she emphasized, fear slowly creeping in for the first time in many years of her career. Oela-Deva and its humble port sat halfway between uncharted space and oblivion. Everyone has limits.
Agonizingly Woel realized that she was no exception, “No mam, we’re going to have to take a down payment” and he nodded back to the other two guards who ushered her back to the passenger deck where every scrap of research and all the subject books she had brought on
the trip were stripped away in a matter of minutes. Two days later the ferry arrived in the bosom of a bismuth asteroid field, where cubic architecture disguised a simple post city. Slowly they ascended a stairstep of one of the metallic clumps to the top where the check point awaited.
Luckily Plyth-Essa was a requisite point on their travels. What had been agreed upon was in everyone’s best interests. Woel labored in the markets, her imagination disfigured by harsh alternatives. In younger days she had made a pact with her sister to attend cosmetology together. Not wanting to play second fiddle, she backed out, pursuing another discipline. “Just a short trim?” she asked of yet another patron, who nodded a grinning beak and lifted up his wing for her to scissor away the bushiness. Her sister would have loved to see this. Five days later she reached the goal of twenty percent. Resting tired arms on a table in the mess, she must have groomed a thousand smug birds, and starred across the room, uncoupling thoughts to the subtle tides of dissociation. Denta arrived and beckoned her back unceremoniously to the captain’s quarters. Stacks of hardbacks rose above desk-level, where Avilo paced, awaiting her return. “He didn’t need to see you again, but I did” he began, seeing unsettled features flash across the human’s face. “Wel , the exchange is done. Can I have my books back?” she asked stiffly, feeling the veil fall over what was no more than a tenuous circumstance. “Of course, I just wanted to have a word with you” Avilo replied quickly, letting the other exhale in petrified delight.
The academic strode forward, overlooking a stack for damage, “that is fine, say whatever you have to say”. Avilo fought the natural whim of a Didn’texpectthatian to lift his wings, knowing how humans disliked such a grandiloquent maneuver, “Woel, I have been watching you ever since you got on our little rickety ship. Safe to say you are not like many of the other humans I have encountered, which is admirable. But there is a feature which ties you all together”.
“Real y, thank you” the visitor acknowledged, patiently quickening the conversation to its epilogue, where the finale of her servitude rested. “Aren’t you curious? This goes both ways” he reminded. “Avilo, I have my books back now. Okay, what is it that you noticed about me?” she allowed, suspending the pretense. “Wel , it’s common knowledge. The sector can get complicated. Humans need it to be simple to understand it. It’s an emotional need”, the avian relayed, unembarrassed by the cruel insult. “Avilo, we are not as simple as you think” Woel lashed back. Coming closer, he placed the tips of his wings on her shoulders, “True, and neither is the sector”. Turning away, he rustled through a stack for one thing in particular, “I found this manuscript hidden among your effects, take it”. Raising an eyebrow, Woel half-smiled as the familiar title beamed up at her from the cover, “Life Is Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy. Expectian, have you been reading this?”. “It’s a common work. There are copies scattered all over the human zone, and for good reason. Although the author is not printed, it should be obvious. The Numyromans wrote it to help all of you gain some perspective … Ulodeza. Each is a piece of the Thriving Construct, a valuable aether-dense article” Avilo divulged. Shunning the dichotomy inherent in the conversation, she thanked him for his support, and returned back to quarters where a desk fan revolved, producing wind that degenerated into light. Bitter anger welled up inside as she endeavored to excommunicate it, until arriving at impassivity. She switched off the appliance and crawled into bed.
“My hearing will have to quiet down” Woel thought, sensing the frame of the vessel nuzzle into quick transit. “Tossing and turning, are we?” a voice interrupted. “Who’s that! This is a private room” Woel bawled, seeing only black emptiness occupying the unformed space. “Look closer, I know you can hear me now” the voice reiterated, prompting her to adjust. Fol owing the trail of the words an old wall of books summoned itself, then a floor, and chairs. “What is this?” she cried, seeing the memory in fine detail reconstruct itself with only Nomi alone in the lounge library, peering through time and thought without barrier. She instinctively threw off the matting of blankets on her lap, judging the intruder as nothing more than another lark of the alien officers. “Woel, please be stil . If you recal , we were friends once, so I wil make this obvious.
Have you ever seen how a cockroach can still move after its head is separated? That is akin to
what I am now. Part of me, an impression is locked away in a moment of time through which only your memory can gain access, since we shared it together” Nomi explained, human once more as her voice drifted through the fourth wall. “I see, I can actual y hear you after focus refinement. How have you been … wait! Nomi, you are an evil bitch! You are … all the death of the war, that was your revenge!” the historian charged. “Everything happened because I lost my way. Do you remember this party Woel, this day that is my prison? I should have chosen that book, my finger was on it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t make a choice. Perhaps that was the last time in which I could have walked a different path” Nomi lamented, her voice carrying the debris of lonely shipwrecks strewn painful color and beauty … in nebulas in the abyss of space, dregs of humanity that would never be pieced back together. Nothing was hollow, it all had substance like that get together, except for the shudder of blurring at the edges of the enclosure. “Funny thing is, you almost took my favorite book. It’s called Life Is Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy” the academic suggested, looking behind the speaker to where an empty slot remained on the bookshelf. “May I?” Nomi asked meekly through the lingering divide. “Nomi, you were an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, but you are freezing!” the visitor reiterated, recoiling with solemn emotion. “I … became evil. Do you trust me?” Nomi tried, sensing her words were nothing more than mist. Closing her eyes, Woel thought for a moment, then handed over the book. Trained as she was, Nomi flipped through it in a second gulping the entirety. Eyes became vacuous, and from them came plumes of glitter. Her body reacted, assuming a hybrid kaleidoscope robot form, “Woel, I wil put this to good use, and we can talk about it afterwards.
Take this ring, it has the ability to decode the information on my CDs. Bring it to Zoe Thesis on Decadent Thesis, to Iota-Trace in Wioa-Emeva. It is a but a layer of oil over the water that is a dimension. She was neutral during the war and will know what to do. Follow her and give the ring to the cobra mitten ambassador. We have to be ready for what is next. Oh, and Woel, don’t worry about any of this. Just remember, it wil be easy peasy lemon squeezy”.