19

  Reidwich Henning, Vedict A’Tohl, First Father, the Godhead himself, stood in the dim light of his private quarters, far above the ebb and flow of Jericho’s impeccably designed streets and flowing walkways. The great city ship housed hundreds of thousands of Gaia’s most illustrious citizens, all present for the game. Here he truly mirrored the power of the Godhead, far above the realm of mortals. The most privileged were here at his behest, with a backdrop of viewers in the billions, stretched across countless worlds. He regarded the translucent dome that preserved atmospheric integrity as it pulsed gently with cool blue light, reaching far above the upper decks and making possible the vast open-air spaces that made the city what it was. Below, the travel drones flitted and buzzed about, streaks of neon light carrying the citizens of Jericho to their destinations. Places of pleasure. Places of indulgence.

  Beyond the city, hanging resplendent in space, was the glittering jewel of Feyhold. His creation. A child not born, but made. And yet tonight the urge to gaze endlessly down at the planet was less pronounced. The game’s main feed buzzed in the background, the pale luminescence of the holo casting shadows in the huge, circular room, but he paid little attention to either the planet or the program. Tonight, his reverence was more introspective. More contemplative. Certainly, he was invigorated by the sight of his creation, but he need not dwell on it constantly. That would be pedantic. The creation spoke for itself. It was unequivocally evident.

  Tonight his thoughts, for once, were far from the game itself, occupied instead by sober reflections on the things he’d inherited as an artist. He stood gazing at the great rock tableau and its breath taking scenes of aurochs, horses, stags and bison that framed the entirety of the far wall of his personal quarters. It was enormous, and it loomed over the space, carefully lit to emphasize the reds, blacks, browns and yellows that comprised the vivid, lifelike scenes. It had been discovered by four teenage boys in 1940, just five years before the Divergence. So many years later, when he had taken the helm of this intrepid empire, he had the piece carefully removed from its terrestrial home on Gaia One, from a cave in what was once a nation known as France.

  It had been delicately and reverently cut free of the confines of its dank cave and liberated, to stand here, where it could be truly appreciated by someone worthy of its legacy. Its home had to be here, in the place that he slept. There was nowhere more suitable. He needed to feel it close. It was a source of calm and certainty that instilled in him a sense of continuity; of the truth of the Path. Certainly, other iterations, derivatives, possessed art just like this one. The same exact piece, in some cases. But, none of them had bloomed into the great power that his own civilization had become. All had deviated from the Path, and consequently they were doomed to mediocrity.

  The strides in politics, science and technology that had led to Matter Transfer, and finally to the Looking Glass, were exclusively Gaia’s. The significance of that fact was lost on precisely no one, most especially the Church. This was at the heart of Gaian religion; the truth of the Path, made manifest. He lifted his long, slender fingers and let them hover mere centimetres from the ancient, beautifully rendered figure of the red deer with its crown of antlers. His skin was so close to the strokes, the pigments, the soul imbued by the artist’s toil, that he could almost feel the coolness of the stone.

  These figures, these pigments, this art—these were the true roots of his civilization. The genesis of culture, of a world of symbolism and depth. A world of the mind. Fifty thousand years ago, his ancient forebears had paid a steep price to make this possible. Few understood the sacrifices required to spare a member of the tribe for the sacred act of creation. Consider the distances travelled to obtain rare pigments, the effort to build scaffolding, or the calories expended to support an artist rather than a hunter. Every stroke of the brush was a toll on survival itself.

  And yet, they paid it. They paid it because art was not merely decoration; it was transcendence. It was legacy. That was why the artist toiled, and why the tribe endured his absence. And that was why Henning now stood at the pinnacle of humanity’s creative lineage, the culmination of the Path.

  This was what the councillors could never understand. The time he devoted to Feyhold, to the Game, was not an obsession but a duty. Like the ancient artist, he sacrificed his time, his focus, to ensure the creation of something unparalleled. An entire world born from his imagination. Feyhold was not just a game; it was his magnum opus. He had secured his place among humanity’s greatest artists, and the tribe would have to shoulder the burdens his craft demanded.

  Certainly his duties to the state were important, critical even, but it was likewise true that he should be able to rely on competent subordinates to carry out the spirit of his leadership while he toiled away at something more sacred. He had done his part, guided them here, shepherding Gaia’s way along the Path. And now, here they stood, at the apex of humanity. Surely those he had entrusted to execute his vision, to secure this great state, could understand that his sacrifice of time and energy was a necessary one. He was cultivating a great work. The tribe would have to take up the slack to facilitate his devotion to the craft.

  He regarded the piece in its totality once more, absorbing its history and spiritual significance. This was the legacy he had inherited, the burden of creation and its costs. Yet, his artistry extended far beyond paint and stone. As his gaze shifted to the game feed glowing on the far wall, he considered how Feyhold, his masterpiece, now demanded its own sacrifices. His eyes lingered on the sight of a tawny-haired woman armed with a gleaming spear. As he watched, she impaled a leopard-like creature with a scorpion tail. Her face twisted as she raised the dying thing up off the ground with her spear and screamed hot rage in its face.

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  “Fool,” Henning said softly to the empty room. He shook his head. The Locratus would eject its stinger in its final moments. It was an automatic response. They had designed it that way. It was one last spiteful act that sought to drag its killer down with it. As predicted, the woman’s triumphant rage transformed into wide-eyed surprise as she looked down to find the barbed stinger jutting out from her solar plexus. She first began to shudder, dropping the spear, then convulsed and began to vomit ichor and mottled black foam as she sank to her knees, then fell slowly onto her side. Her body twitched and jerked as it curled in upon itself. A moment later, another figure, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a curved sabre stepped into view and retrieved her spear. He watched the woman until she was still, then reached down again and unceremoniously pulled a ring from her finger. He left her body laying there, still and silent in the jungle clearing. He appeared to loot the locratus, then the feed followed him as he disappeared into the trees.

  Henning turned from the feed, unmoved. Stupidity has no right to empathy, he thought as he walked across the room. It was time to tend to a matter he’d been pondering for a day or two now, ever since the mask had spawned. It was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed up. He had come to a decision. Henning put the holo into silent mode and settled down in a lavish chair, then called out to his system.

  “Wake. Open a secure channel to Matteo Fuller.” The system acknowledged his request and a soft tone sounded, repeating every few seconds as the system sought a connection. Several moments later, just as Henning was starting to get annoyed, a semi-transparent view screen sprang into existence a short distance away. A man who appeared to be in his early thirties with dark blonde hair and a meticulously trimmed beard. His blue eyes glittered as he regarded Henning.

  “Chairman, what an unexpected pleasure,” said the man with an affable smile. An affectation, of course. Henning knew Fuller to be malicious and petty, but that made him predictable, and predictability made him manageable. The man only ever smiled in cruelty or condescension, though he never showed that face to Henning, of course. It was of little consequence; Henning didn’t require the man to be pleasant. Fuller’s cruelty and less tasteful proclivities made him well suited to his job. The management of the Black Streams was naturally the purview of such a man. Henning knew the value of the right person in the right place.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Fuller, his light accent bleeding through a little. German, Henning knew, or what was once German. Most accents had softened to the point of disappearing a few generations after language standardisation, but some remained as a point of pride for the more influential families on Gaia.

  “Hello, Matteo. I wished to make an inquiry.”

  Fuller’s brows lifted just slightly, but his smile remained fixed.

  “Of course, Chairman. How can I help?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him carefully.

  “I was wondering what assets we have available in Upper Antellion. I’d like to make an adjustment.”

  Fuller’s eyes glittered, and his smile grew just slightly. “How far north, Chairman?”

  Henning shifted in his chair, and signalled his system for wine.

  “There’s a village a few days north of Estaren. A place of little consequence, but there’s been a development there that I don’t care for.”

  Fuller looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “I know the place. I believe a meta-quest went out up there, a raid of some kind. Scheduled for a few days from now,” He looked up and away for a moment, reading his data feed. “Goblins, Chairman.” A moment later he raised a brow. “It seems luck is with us; we have an asset nearby set to assist the Blackmarrow. He’s an Agitator. We have him set to move the goblins south after they take the village. Once we see a few more hobgoblins in the mix, he can take them to Estaren. They should make good fodder for the professionals.”

  “An asset so nearby? That is lucky, isn’t it?” Henning asked with a small smile. A tiny irony, that. “Can you trust them to handle the matter? It shouldn’t be problematic. The man is tremendously underwhelming. He has something I’d like to see in more capable hands.”

  Fuller’s smile grew slowly, a touch of that characteristic cruelty edging into the expression. “I know exactly what you mean, Chairman.” He chuckled softly. “My dear friend on the council is going to be positively overjoyed.”

  “Our friend requires a small reminder. I don’t care for arrogance, Matteo." Henning paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "I’ve always encouraged humility in my subordinates,” Henning said.

  “Of course, Chairman. Humility is one of the many ways we show our respect,” Fuller said, with what he clearly presumed to be a genuine smile. It was sycophantic, but not entirely unwelcome. “Where should the mask be delivered once we’ve acquired it? I presume you don’t want it kept on the black stream.”

  “Of course not,” Henning said sharply. “It’s not something to let waste away in the dark. The asset is not to equip it, Matteo. He’ll be well compensated through a back channel. The mask goes to Trayst. Immediately. I’ll see that it finds its way to a more suitable recipient there.”

  “The asset will see an uptick in his views after this, Chairman. A kill that seizes a divine item will increase his popularity tremendously. That can serve as his bonus. Viewers will want to follow the mask, however. Are you sure this development won’t upset the narrative?”

  Henning considered this, but dismissed it. It was a gamble, yes, but a worthwhile one if it would see his greater vision brought to life. “Any fluctuation in continuity will be worth the cost. No one wants to see the mask in the hands of a deviant. Can you think of a more disappointing outcome? I'm trying to arrange something breath taking, Matteo. A one-on-one clash that echoes history. Whomever I choose to inherit the mask will play the role that the dryad once did. The sword will come, and then the two will come together. This is a tremendous dramatic opportunity. I do not mean to waste it.”

  “I understand completely, Chairman. I’ll see that it’s done by the week’s end.”

  Henning thought for a moment, then made a decision.

  “I don’t care to wait that long, Matteo. I’ll clear your key for a one-time use. See that the situation is accelerated accordingly.” Henning’s voice carried the weight of inevitability. To him, this was not just an adjustment, but a calculated step in shaping the grander narrative. The small disruption to continuity was a minor toll for telling the story that needed telling.

  “Of course, Chairman,” Fuller replied smoothly, his smile as fixed as ever. “Consider it done.”