The Machine
Soaring more than three spans into the sky, the great spires of Arden were impressive. Hundreds of floors packed with people looking out over a city teeming with life. Hover-lifts moved between them, forming a constant web of motion. Far below, the streets were filled with the clanking of ponder-stalls, the cries of street vendors, and the hum of humanity. Teeming masses of people hurrying about on some errand or another. Arden was an impressive city, but far from the greatest of the cities of Veylantia.
Less than two greatspans away, Mason looked out at the mountains which overlooked the quiet valley of Silvarine. In what seemed like another life, he had been among those masses of Arden. No longer. It had been years since he heard the hum of machinery or the clatter of vehicles. Years since he walked streets of bindcrete rather than among the gentle rolling hills of green grasses and wildflowers. After a moment, he turned back to his duties. Today he worked with two farmhands, Clayton and Cora, shearing the community’s sheep.
Nearby, a view-all hung on the barn wall, the only technology in evidence. Upon its screen, a pair of lorecasters nattered away at one another. Mason couldn’t hold down a spike of contempt as he glanced at them. They sat there, in their studio, shuffling papers and jabbering away nonsensically, pretending an understanding of the events that were about to transpire. Events that Mason did understand. In fact, he suspected he was one of less than a dozen the world round who did. Today, to the common person, humanity would shed the yoke of mortality and enter a new age of immortality. How that miracle would be achieved was of no concern to them. Only that it would.
Mason, however, had been there, years ago, on the first day they powered up the Machine. He had watched from the control chamber with trepidation as the Machine came to life. Before him, hundreds of tiny lights suddenly sprang to life, illuminating the chamber. Outside, visible through the reinforced glass of several viewports, lights pulsed along miles-long length of null tubes. Each pulse moving along the null-tubes, things of Mason’s own design, caught and transported ethera, the strange and wonderful energy he and Moor had discovered. An energy unlike anything they had ever seen, indeed, anything they had ever imagined, yet which suffused everything.
Something pushed against Mason’s arm and he looked down to see the a wether standing dutifully next to him. “Hey boy.” Mason said quietly, stroking the large animal as he guided it onto the shearing stand. It was a beautiful creature, strong and powerful, larger than most sheep, with a coat of rich, creamy white. That coat, or rather the wool that would be made from it, is why the Crestfall community was known across the entire world. No finer wool was produced anywhere.
“Let’s get you out of that coat.” Mason said. It was his habit to speak to the animals as he worked, and with practiced ease, he guided the sheep between his knees, steadying it as he made his first cuts. He started at the belly, running his blade smoothly along the skin, shearing away the wool in consistent, clean lines. Moving the wether to its side, he sheared upwards with precise strokes and then rolled it gently to reach its back. Mason’s focus intensified as he made his final cuts navigating the contours of the shoulder, head, and at last ears and chin. Finally, finished, Mason lifted away the fleece with a smile before ushering the animal out and accepting the next. Had anyone told him, just a few years earlier, that he would be shearing sheep, on this day of all days, he’d have scoffed at them.
On that first day years ago, the Machine had performed perfectly. Its mere creation would be enough to be the crowning achievement of any person’s life, yet, for Mason and Moor, it was merely a beginning. In many ways, the Machine was a simple thing, consisting primarily of Mason’s null-tubes which ran for miles in intertwined circles. At precisely positioned points along the track, they passed through spherical chambers. These devices, called essence traps, were designed by Moor, and worked hand-in-hand with the null-tubes, together capturing and holding ethera for study. In the lab, as in life, Mason and Moor’s work was in harmony.
With the first readings, it had become evident that ethera would exceed their every hope. It was unlike any other phenomenon, in ways, closer to two energies than one. Locked in a constant push-pull against itself. Watching the interplay, and looking at the readings, had amazed Mason, but mixed in with it, a quiet thread of concern. He could hardly be called a devout man, indeed, Mason considered himself beyond faith, but still, he had grown up with tales of the Twin Gods and their Great Dance. The source of life, or so the holy orders claimed. He couldn’t shake the parallels evident in this energy with those tales.
A sudden, plaintive bleat drew Mason’s attention back to his work and he cursed himself. Distracted by his thoughts, he had cut the animal and damaged the fleece. He began making soothing sounds, his hand stroking its back and finished quickly. “It’s a double-cut.” he said, handing the fleece off to Clayton with a dissatisfied grunt. The work finished, he took the animal to the counting out pen where he handed it off to Cora.
Mason turned back to the view-all where one of the lorecasters was speaking. “Dr. Ethal has assured the volunteers that, thanks to the volunteers that have come before, there is no danger. The process has been perfected and these eight shall be the first to undergo the treatment that soon every man and woman on the planet will undergo.” Mason let the words drone on, no longer listening. The ‘sacrifice of those who came before’ he scoffed. They had no idea. How could they?
On Mason’s last day with the Machine, he couldn’t sleep, and instead rose early. After months of study, and numerous animal trials, it was time for human trials. He was surprised they had gained approval, and more so how quickly they had found a volunteer. Today’s trial was deadly dangerous and was more likely to fail than succeed. Nevertheless, what success would mean was worth such sacrifice. The man who volunteered, Varanal, was well past his 100th cycle and would not live to see another. His entire life had been one of giving, and through this action, he would bring meaning to his end as well.
Moor was as nervous as Mason and the pair had been up most of the night. Their trip to the Machine passed in silence, followed by many hours of preparation. Finally, the pair stood before a glass window looking at Varanal, who waited quietly for the experiment to begin. Behind them, assistants finished their final preparations. Only when all was still did Mason reach out to give Moor’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. “It’s time.” he said, “We’re ready.”
Moor nodded, and then stepped forward. The room beyond was spherical, an evolution of Moor’s essence traps. Varanal waited within, on a glistening silver table, several leather straps holding his arms and legs. Several smaller versions of Mason’s null-tubes connected to the chamber. With them, they would be able to subject Varanal to a variety of different ethera experiments. Moor rapped his knuckles on the glass, giving Varanal a thumbs up sign. The man within returned it with a wan smile. Everything was in readiness.
Mason reached out his hand to initiate the first test. With his finger only inches from the panel, he stopped, his gaze drifting from the button and the kindly man in the chamber beyond. He suddenly became filled with a certainty, an absolute certainty, that what they were about to do was wrong. It was a knowing so visceral he could feel it in his bones. He could not explain it, but he knew it to be true. He had moved his hand over the abort button before he even realized what he had done.
“Mason?” Moor asked, uncertainty filling his voice.
“Moor,” Mason replied weakly, “we have to stop.”
“What?” Moor said, “Why?”
What could he say? He had a hunch? A gut feeling. They were men of science. They operated on facts and proof. “It’s not right.” was all Mason could think to say, “It’s wrong.” he added feebly.
Moor had looked at him, confused and concerned. He began explaining why Mason was wrong. Why they must proceed. What it would mean for all humanity. In truth, Mason could recall little of the conversation that followed, his attention had been focused inward. He was sure Moor had made a strong argument. It didn’t matter though. All that mattered was, when it was over, they had done it. He had done it. He had proceeded with the experiment. Everything changed that day, but to Mason, the one thing that mattered most was what it had done to Moor and him. Nothing would ever be the same between them again.
In the days that followed, Mason had tried in vain to get Moor to understand. He spoke of his feelings, his burgeoning faith, the doubts that went all the way back to the day they turned on the Machine. He spoke of the truth evident in the patterns within ethera. Moor was not convinced. Indeed, through it all, his partner pulled away. Mason, he said, was taken by the fancies of the ignorant. That’s what he thought of religion. Science, he would say, was not an art of faith, but of fact.
Mason wanted to agree. Partly because he was a scientist, but mostly because he could see Moor slipping away from him. He could see their relationship of decades crumbling. Yet, for all his wanting, when he closed his eyes the events of that day played out before him again ending any possibility of agreement.
Standing in the barn, remembering those days, Mason sighed. Still, years later, he could not shake what he had seen that day. Everytime he closed his eyes, it waited for him. Behind those closed eyes he watched helplessly as the energies of their Machine crashed against Varanal’s body. He watched as the man began to quiver and writhe. As ripples formed in his skin. He shuddered remembering it. That had just been the beginning. The quivering and writhing and rippling skin had been disturbing, but what came next chilled him to his core. In horror, he had watched as the ripples moved, bulged, and then changed. Unfathomable changes. Changes that tore Varanal’s body apart. Tore it apart, rebuilt it, tore it apart again, rebuilt it again. Over and over and over. Each change worse than the one before. In just a few minutes, a hundred deformed forms exploded from Varanal who had devolved into jibbering agony.
Like what he witnessed that day, those cries he heard never left Mason’s ears. Somewhere along the way, his voice had joined Varanal’s, screaming that they must stop, must abort. Moor would not allow it. When Mason had moved to force it, Moor had him forcibly restrained. As he watched, helplessly, Varanal’s screaming devolved into weeping, and that weeping into begging. Pitiful, hopeless begging that they abort.
When he had composed himself, Mason pulled free of the assistants and went to the viewport. He laid his hand on the glass and looked into the eyes of Varanal. He watched as those eyes, once so full of compassion, changed. Where there had been love, now an intense hatred blossomed. A hatred like Mason had never known could exist. He could see, looking into those eyes, that nothing else remained of Varanal. Nothing else, that is, until the moment that nothing at all remained of the man.
Mason shook his head, dispelling the memories, and accepted another wether, moving the animal up onto the shearing stand. As he did, he glanced towards the view-all where numbers ticked away. A countdown, slowly winding down to the moment. Three turns. Three turns and Dr. Moor Ethal would usher humanity into a new age of immortality. Mason shivered, he had hoped his friend would abandon this path, but of course that had never been an option.
As he worked, the words of the lorecasters came to him. “Immortality.” one of them was saying, “Freedom from death. To live forever. It’s been the dream of humans for, well forever I think.” He picked up his papers, and tapped them on the table, straightening them. As he did, the view-all shifted to an image of eight men and women standing proudly in a line, “Imagine being one of those first eight.” the speaker continued. Again, Mason stopped listening.
“This just don’t seem right.” Clayton’s deep voice said. Mason turned towards the catching pen where Clayten Graley was holding the next wether. He was a sturdy man, well into his fifth rotation, with skin the color of worked leather and a bushy white beard that contrasted with his bald head. He had been at the community when Mason joined and, Mason had no doubt, he’d be here long after Mason passed on. “It’s an affront is what it is.” Clayton continued, “an affront to nature and the Twin Gods themselves.” Mason accepted the sheep without responding. His mind was elsewhere.
After the incident with Varanal, Mason had never returned to the Machine. How could he? He had continued his work at home. Repeatedly combing over results. He needed to understand them. It was in those days that his faith, so weak at first, truly grew. Watching the intricate patterns in the energy, Mason came to realize just what, or rather who, their Machine studied. When he brought these beliefs to Moor, he was met only with growing contempt.
In the beginning, Moor debated with Mason, but as the days continued, the discussions devolved and Moor began to mock Mason for his “foolish notions and ridiculous faith.” Moor believed that the Twin Gods were nothing but fabrications of lesser minds. That Mason believed was sign of a defect within him. Mason rebuffed, showing Moor their results, but neither man would budge. Moor would not be dissuaded and Mason would not be party to what he increasingly saw as an abomination.
Finally, when all the words and arguments were spent, when Mason moved to leave, Moor’s resolve had cracked. “Mason.” he said, his voice quiet. “I need your help Mason. Please, stay, help me.”
Never in his life had Mason wanted to say yes to anything as he did at that moment. “I cannot.” he replied, his heart breaking. “This is wrong Moor. It has to stop”
He turned to go but Moor caught his arm, “Mason.” he whispered. “Please, don’t go.”
For a long moment Mason did not move as he looked into the eyes of his friend, his partner, his lover, and his husband. Finally he stepped back, pulling free of Moor’s grasp, “Goodbye Moor.” he said quietly.
A tear slid down Mason’s face as sounds from the view-all drew his attention back to the present. It was time.
Mason watched as, on the projection, an older-looking Moor stepped up to a podium and began to speak. He talked of how today was a great day for humanity. The result of years of study, by the sacrifice of so many people. As he spoke, a processession of eight men and women could be seen passing through a door into a chamber Mason recognized as similar to that where Varanal had been held. Moor continued speaking, talking about what humanity could accomplish when it tried. He imagined a world where anything was possible. Was immortality not proof of that?
While he spoke, the machine behind him came to life. Lights flared along it. A forest of blinking indicators. Moor continued, speaking of the promises of a grand future. Behind him, something was happening. A commotion. There was a problem with the Machine. On the view-all, Moor turned around, concern evident on his face. He said something, but the sound had been cut off. He shouted, pointed. He ran towards the Machine. A blinding flash of light erupted from the machine and then, abruptly, the view-all went dark, a crackling static the only sound escaping it.
A chilling quiet settled on the barn. Mason, Cora, and Clayton stared at the dark view-all in stunned silence. A boom caused the entire barn to shake and the trio moved to the barn door. The sky, clear only moments ago, was suddenly dark with angry clouds. Thunder boomed and lightning arced through them, stabbing down towards the earth angrily. Winds sprang up from nowhere, howling as they tore at the barn.
“By the Twin Gods?” Clayton cursed.
Mason turned and raced to the ranch house. He had to know if Moor was all right.
Hours later, Mason sat in the house, their voice-caster discarded. It had been useless anyhow, nobody would answer. Others from the community had come in to talk to him. They didn’t know all of his past, but they knew he was a scientist. What was happening? What caused this? Why was the sky suddenly filled with clouds? Was it going to be OK? Mason had no time for them. He couldn’t leave the voice-caster. Not until he heard from Moor.
When those with him stopped talking, Mason noticed that the room was growing darker, or rather, that a blackness was growing at its center. A bubble of black, slick like oil. It grew there, pulsing and beating. A dark cyst at the heart of their home. “What.” Mason muttered quietly.
Any other words died on his lips as a figure emerged from the expanding darkness. “Hello Mason.” Moor hissed, just before Mason’s world went black.