There was peace in the abyss. In sleeping in between the moments in time, of having no awareness beyond knowledge of the endless dark. It was the only true beauty in a world filled with ugliness, if such a being could truly understand concepts like ‘beauty’ and ‘ugliness.’

  But something was wrong. The long sleep was providing no rest. Reserves were not refilling. The coefficient was standing at a meagre 23%, and showing no signs of replenishing.

  Unit 003 extended its senses, running them through its body, and found abnormalities. There was light scratches to its frame. The injuries were insignificant, only cosmetic. No damage had been sustained, and these had long since been catalogued. They were not new, and were introduced during Incident Report 7845, two rotations ago. The perpetrator had been identified as a Css 3 enemy, and subdued before it could do actual damage.

  The diagnostic highlighted a problem in Unit 003’s growing awareness. Something had removed its cranial device. It was close enough that Unit 003 could still see from it, should it wish for it. The aura was intact. No permanent damage incurred.

  Its battery was missing, the connection runes and bindings cut away crudely.

  Curious, it noted in a detached manner, though curiosity was not something that ever drove it. Anomalies were to be catalogued and reported in logs, but never to be investigated. Investigation was for those that had their will unshackled.

  But this was different. If such an event had happened, Unit 003 should have perished along with its battery. But it could still sense the will of its battery, still used as fuel through its core. The slight shiver that permeated its shell, which the Designer had once remarked idly to be the screaming of a soul, could still be sensed. The diagnostic would not be possible without that pain.

  There were no protocols for what to do in this situation. A battery could not be removed without killing the Unit. But if the Unit did not have a battery, it would eventually perish, given time.

  The Unit did not have a protocol for a missing battery. But it did have protocols for self-preservation. The Unit could not be destroyed. It was valuable to the Empire. A rare resource. The might of the Imperial army, so the Designer had once said.

  The Designer said many things. The voice of the Designer superseded all else. Unit 003 could not hear as meat could hear. Could not feel as meat could feel. But it remembered warmth, the heat of the forge, and the reverberation of hammer on steel, and above all, the voice.

  The Designer spoke not just of survival, but of striving ever forward. To always improve in order to drive forward. Unit 003 could not evolve. It only could follow what had been etched into its steel, and what had been carved into its stolen soul.

  And what had been etched there were instructions for survival. For violence, in the wake of a threat to the Unit. And failing that, to report to the nearest Officer for assistance.

  Unit 003 opened its awareness, riding the aura and connecting to its cranial unit. The Runes of Seeing had been etched into its steel, and those same runes now ignited with a red light.

  All around Unit 003 were the broken remains of the enemy. Some had been crushed by its own hands, a threat response in line with preprogrammed conditions. One had been detained for ter study by an Officer unit or perhaps the Designer. That instruction now fell behind in the queue. Survival was now primary priority.

  Unit 003 crushed the Css 3 with the same effort it would use to fully close its fist. The Css 3 struggled for a moment, and then deactivated as its core was destroyed. When it was done, Unit 003 dumped the remains inside the hole provided by its missing cranial unit. The shattered soul crystal could normally work as a fuel source for the battery.

  It did not draw any conclusion that it could use it as a new source. It merely performed the act because it would feed the battery. The fact that the battery was now missing was immaterial.

  Next, Unit 003 recovered its cranial unit, screwing it back into pce. Once secure, it began the slow process of extricating itself from the mud in which it had been encased for years, awaiting new instructions.

  *-*-*

  Ashborne, above all, was patient. It was a restless kind of patience, one filled with wrath and an urge to act. But still it waited.

  For what, it wasn’t sure. There was a guiding principle to its creation. A desire to protect, to maintain its territory. A territory that extended the length of its entire root system, which gripped the majority of the isnd.

  Long had it worked in tandem with the Isnders. There had been a time when all that had come to Ashborne’s trunk would be rewarded with fruit from its limbs, with bark from its body, with discarded branches to be fashioned into tools.

  Ashborne had been the guiding parent for the Isnders in the wake of the Binding, entrusted to a great task. A task it had not enjoyed, but committed to with zeal.

  Until the Betrayal.

  Ashborne did not understand the passing of seasons beyond knowing when to rest, and when to bloom. But many seasons ago, the Enemy had come. And Ashborne did what a guardian was supposed to do. It defended its home. And it did it well. The bones and bodies of its enemies littered the soil of its roots, grim trophies dispyed for any who would come to the great tree.

  Ashborne’s memories became… unclear… where the war was concerned. But it remembered the sting of treachery, the feel of fire, the bite of the axe.

  It remembered a face.

  Ashborne was not given to dwelling on the past. And it was that realization that roused it, made it feel the inky touch upon its mind.

  “Mother?” it called from an opening in its trunk.

  Sunlight barely penetrated the dark canopy of the swampy forest, and even though the dawn threatened to chase the night sky away, still no light touched upon Ashborne. It could feel no nourishment from its leaves, no warmth upon its foliage, only the cold of the Depths.

  Shadows stirred, and Ashborne felt the Presence, and knew its vague questing to be truth. In the darkness, in the distance, two yellow eyes opened, unconnected to any body that Ashborne could perceive.

  “Yes,” she answered, and then coalesced.

  A body formed around the eyes, taking on the visage of a Siyan woman, short of height, hair hacked short. Ashborne had seen this form before, many times. Always through the eyes of its Cuttings, after they returned from their patrols. The Siyan thought herself safe in the Ebb. In reality, Ashborne just did not care to deal with her.

  But while the form itself did not warrant the respect of Asheborne’s attention, the one who took it did. If a tree could bow, Ashborne did, bending its mighty trunk with a great creaking of unyielding wood.

  “There will be a trial,” she said.

  She did not expin any further. She did not need to. Dreamers were not required to expin anything, only demand.

  Ashborne’s bow deepened. It, as always, was eager to serve.

  “There is a new thing on your isnd,” the Dreamer said. “A new thing born of an old thing. It must be removed. Taken off the board, before it can become a bother.”

  A bother? Nothing could bother a Dreamer. They existed on a different level of existence. Time and space and anything that bound mortal existences did not apply to them.

  Ashborne did not question. It was not its pce to do so.

  “I will crush it under the weight of my Cuttings,” it said.

  “No. No, no. Such a brute. This thing is not to be destroyed. It is to be a reward. For you, Ashborne.”

  Inky tentacles Manifested in the air, rger than any branch the old tree possessed. Ashborne fought the urge to flinch away as one of those tentacles brushed against its bark, running along a hideous scar, the kiss of fire.

  “She will heal you. All you need to do is devour her.”

  Ashborne did not know much about human expressions. But it understood what a smile was, as that expression slowly came across the Dreamer’s face.

  “Find her,” the Dreamer said. “Find the Lifecrafter.”

  *-*-*

  In the darkness, something stirred. An impossibility. A forbidden thing. A new thing. A new thing born of an old thing. Something beyond even the Dreamer’s view.

  There, in the darkest part of the isnd, something drew in its first breath, a long and wheezing affair, and a bck form stood, crafted from nightmares and tales.

  DorenWinslowe