Peter rubbed his hands, trying to scour off some of the disgusting material that was caked onto them. He picked up the small device that James had given him for contact.
"Is this really necessary?" He asked James
"Yes. Quit whinging, that only makes it take longer." James replied. He was right. Peter had only called to get himself a short reprieve from his work. He was glad the device only transmitted sound, because Peter doubted his terrible poker face could have hidden that fact.
"It would take less time if you helped…" Peter grumbled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I was wondering what in the seven hells this stuff is."
"A type of construction adhesive. That's all you need to know." James replied
"You know, when you told me your plan, it sounded a lot more exciting."
"I did that on purpose. Who would agree to do backbreaking labor for several hours if you told them it would be boring?"
Peter just grumbled again. He shimmied out of the narrower passage he'd been in. He sat cross legged in the slightly less claustrophobic space bear where'd he'd entered the maintenance region of the citadel. James had tasked him with slathering a pinkish red putty across several places within the walls, then sticking a wooden toy to each spot. He had no idea what the totem-looking bauble was for, but James didn't like giving clear answers, so Peter hadn’t bothered to ask. Though he suspected that the totems actually did nothing and James was just keeping him busy to mess with him.
It was terribly uncomfortable work, and Peter knew he'd be sore tomorrow. Though he had gotten what he wanted, ultimately. You wanted to prove you were tough, you were a man, and here you are, doing a man’s job. He sighed and moved onto the next divot James had described.
Being stuffed in a confined space, with precious little to see, Peter’s mind began to drift. He thought back to the previous night, to when he was able to talk with his parents again. While Peter had been tossed around per James’ orders, his parents had been relegated to menial tasks elsewhere, by other Federation soldiers. His mother had been working in the cafeteria for the past few days, a job which she was capable of doing in her sleep, which allowed her plenty of time to listen to the various rumors and events that the soldiers talked about over their food. James seemed pleased with her reports, and spent a considerable amount of time discussing plans with her, and father when he was around. She still wouldn’t talk to Peter about what their plans were, which stung Peter’s pride, but he knew she was doing it from a place of kindness.
His father, on the other hand, was assigned new tasks every day, giving him little room to learn what was normal, and even less room to rest. He didn’t speak to Peter about his days, but Peter had overheard his parents talking one night about how Feirm had, in one day, been taught how electrical systems worked, been told to rewire an entire section of wall which had, in their words, ‘drifted’, been told to clean out a latrine, then was given a gun and sent to firearms training. Peter both envied, and felt pity for his father, who was obviously quite tired.
Despite the strange, and difficult nature of James’ requests, the man has begun to limit them to one per day where it concerned Peter, so he tried to help his parents where he could, offering to cook for them, or clean, since he often had far less to do. His mother had been overjoyed at this, seeing as she had wanted to teach him some of the family recipes for a long time. Over the course of four days, Peter learned how to prepare steamed vegetables, chicken pot pie, a cake, and some kind of fish which they seasoned with lemon and pepper.
His mother flipped between amazed and dismissive of the convenience of some of the features of the 'prison' they were in. She loved that the oven was so clean and efficient, but disliked how its precise temperatures "Takes away from the artistry of cooking". Peter, who had been helping her figure out how to use the various tools in their temporary home, found them to be fascinating and spent a great deal of time learning how to work them. He had already figured out the oven, the tiny talking device that James had given him, and the dish washing device(which his mother viewed with a great deal less suspicion than the oven).
Many of the facets of this place still eluded him, however. For instance, there was a small box built into the side of the kitchen with numbers and options reminiscent of the oven, yet he could find no temperature setting on it, only a timer and things he put into it ended up cooked poorly, if at all. Peter felt as though he was a monkey using a catapult as a source of toothpicks. It feels unreal. Peter often wondered if he was no longer in the same world as before.
Peter wiped his forehead. The crawlspace he was in was stuffy after twenty minutes of plastering. He shuffled his way to the next spot, and reached for another wooden totem. His hand only felt the rough burlap at the bottom of the bag he’d been carrying them in. His brow creased in confusion. Hmm.Peter thought. Wasn’t there one more? He probably just didn’t notice he had already placed it because he was daydreaming. He counted the ones he’d already placed on his way back out. There were thirty two. He picked up his communication device.
“Hello? James? How many totems did you give me?” He asked
Several seconds passed before the response came.
“Can’t talk, a little busy!” James’ voice was fuzzy, a loud roaring obscuring it. “It was about thirty!”
The device went silent. Peter waited for a follow up, but conceded that one was not coming and shimmied out of the tunnel as quietly as he could. He nearly ran into a man on his way out, the man was tall, and too lanky to be a soldier. This hypothesis was supported by the man’s unkempt appearance. With an unshaven, patchy beard, and ill-fitting clothes, he looked like he would be more at home in the streets of Grimoire, but there was a menacing air about him. Peter recalled seeing a bear in the wild more than once, and being stricken by how they never appeared overly threatening. Until he saw one eating a deer carcass. That was the feeling Peter got from this man. To Peter’s surprise, though, the man seemed even more flustered by Peter’s presence than Peter was about his.
“What were you doing in there?” The man demanded
“I was just doing my daily tasks. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get in your way.” Peter hoped the man would accept the apology and move on.
“Let me see your neck.”
The man brandished a small, handheld device and gestured for Peter to turn around. He knows I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t even have a tattoo to bluff with. Peter briefly considered running, but the man was standing between him and the only escape, and the crawlspace he’d just exited was a dead end. He turned around, and wondered what was going to happen to him. He tensed involuntarily.
“Huh. You’re under thirteen? You look older.” The man said.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been told I’m tall for my age.” Peter replied.
“You must have seriously pissed someone off to get dumped here at your age. You aren’t even a shaper, are you?”
“No sir.”
“Thought so. What’s your name, kid?”
“Peter.”
“Well, Peter, quit shaking in your boots. I’m not the devil incarnate, and I’m not gonna toss you into solitary for doing as you’re told. My name is Poloski.” Poloski turned Peter back around, and looked at his hands.
“You’ve been busy.” Poloski remarked
“Yes, sir.” Peter replied
“Quit calling me sir, you know my name. Makes a guy feel old.”
“Yes s- Mr. Poloski.”
“Good enough. Who told you to come down here?”
“He, um, didn’t give me a name. I know his rank though.”
“I see. Well, when you go back to report to him, let him know that in the future, I’d appreciate it if he’d warn me before taking stuff from my room. I know I told him not to talk with me in the open, but I still expect some respect.”
“You know who sent me, Mr. Poloski?” Peter said
“I only know one man who wants to escape this place at all, much less risk his own life to do so.” The man scratched his chin. “‘Mister’ sounds too formal, too. Call me Clint.”
“Umm, okay. I should go now. Good health, Clint!” Peter said, nearly jogging to get away from the situation.
"Oh and tell your parents that tomorrow is the Solstice Festival. Take the day off." Clint called after Peter
He wasn't sure how the man knew so much about him, but the way Clint acted unnerved him more than James. At least James is blunt. He thought. Peter turned back as he rounded a corner, and saw that Clint was studying the crawlspace Peter had emerged from with the same device(which was evidently a type of lantern, judging by the light coming out of it) he'd pointed at Peter.
Peter tried once more to contact James on his communication device, and received only garbled noise. Shrugging, Peter decided a full report could wait. He intended to make full use of his free time. He wandered through the halls, looking for a sign that could direct him toward the markets. It still felt weird that the Federation had a marketplace, given how advanced they were, but Peter supposed some things were a constant. He didn't have any money to spend, of course, but even just looking at the items that were for sale was fascinating.
While their selection of fruits and foods was a bit limited, every other type of store had something he'd never seen. His favorite store so far was what Peter had dubbed their smithy. While the pounding of hammers and the hiss of quenching metal was absent, the store owner, a man named Lawrence, nonetheless produced metallic sculptures and wonder that would have been the work of masters outside the citadel. Yet, it was clear that Lawrence was not like those masters. While he was as enthusiastic about the creative process as Peter expected of a tradesman, he did not strike an imposing figure, he was not covered in the scars of past mistakes, and he did not command a crew like a captain ran his ship. In fact, the man was very much alone in his shop, until Peter had begun visiting. Peter assumed it was because he made use of various devices and tools that Peter hadn’t the foggiest idea how to operate to craft his works rather than hammers and anvils. Using machines to replace people.
In truth it was a bit disappointing. Great works should be built by the hands of great men and women, through hard work and sacrifice. Still, Peter felt it was a far sight better than some of the other places he’d seen. More than one store tried to offer him pictures of things on screens. At first, Peter had assumed that the pictures were simply representative of the things in them, but he quickly realized his mistake after attempting to purchase pasta represented in an image of a man eating spaghetti. He asked the seller what was in the sauce and received a quizzical look. Peter assumed he had made a faux pas by asking for a recipe, and quickly changed his question to how long it would be before the dish was cooked. The shopkeep laughed a bit, then realized that Peter was serious and looked at Peter like he had just told the man he was a homeless orphan. He never went back to that place, mostly out of embarrassment.
“G’mornin Peter.” Lawrence greeted Peter, tearing his gaze away from his work after a few seconds to address his arrival.
“Hello Mr. Lawrence. Did you finish the model yet?” Peter asked, having seen a model of a Brigantine ship a few days ago, albeit in several pieces
“What? Oh, not yet. I have to mix more rubber cement, so I’m waiting on a buddy in Floriculture to finish replicating the old Russian dandelion cultivars, so I can mix it with the Ammonia I, uh, handmade. Still need to extract that out, house smells like a public toilet…Anyway, I want it to be an authentic replica, so I’m trying not to use synthetic adhesives or newer tools. Could still take a while.”
“Oh, alright then.” Peter didn’t understand most of what Lawrence said when he got excited, but knew better than to ask for clarification. That route just led to further questions.
“But hey, if you wanted ship models, a new one did just come out of the Resin printer. I haven’t painted it, yet, but it’s dry if you wanted to take a look. It’s a modern A-7L Amphibious Frigate.”
“I was actually wondering if you could show me how to use some of your tools.”
“Oh? Which ones?” Lawrence asked
“Umm…The one that looks a bit like a metal pipe that’s got a bent end and the other has a rubber hose? ”
“Wh-You mean this one?” Lawrence pulled the tool Peter had described from under a desk. Peter nodded
“That’s an Acetylene torch. ‘Fraid it’s a bit too dangerous for a kid.” Lawrence replied, placing the torch back in its drawer
“Sorry, I didn’t know. What about that one then?” Peter pointed to a silvery glove on the man’s desk, covered in an intricate pattern which appeared to be stylized flames.
“That one’s just a fireproof glove. I was welding a bit earlier.”
“Oh…” Peter felt profoundly stupid fo imagining it could spew fire.
“Tell you what, I think I’ve got something you might like. It’s not dangerous, and it’s one of my favorite pieces.” Lawrence got up and wandered into a backroom. A minute of confused noises preceded his return to the main workshop, carrying a strange mask. It had goggle-like lenses for vision, but everything else was covered. It lacked any sort of decorative colors or garnishes, save for two discs that jutted out where the mask would cover the mouth.
“This is a gas mask. If you strap this onto your head, you can breathe in dust, smoke, or dangerous gasses and the mask will keep any of it from reaching your lungs, but let fresh air in.” Lawrence displayed the piece with pride.
“ That’s…useful” Peter wasn’t exactly sure what to say about the piece of clothing. It certainly didn’t looked comfortable or stylish to him. “Why is it your favorite?”
“It may have been useful once, but I can’t see myself ever using it.It’s an antique, you see. An old Earth relic. An extraordinary find in this day and age. People would pay a king’s ransom to add this to their collection. But more than that, it’s an heirloom. I’d not trade it for the world.”
Peter had heard Lawrence talking about "Old Earth" before. He always had a reverence in his voice for the place, a wistfulness that reminded Peter of how adults talked about 'when I was a kid…'. Peter had assumed this meant that the heirloom was from his parents, and he was just remembering his childhood, but…
"What is Old Earth like?" Peter asked.
"I never got to see it myself. According to my parents, it was an ugly dumpster fire, but before my grampa passed, he let me know how it was in the glory days. He described a world a lot like ours, but richer. More varied. The past was etched into every surface there, nothing was without cause. Everything had its place in the structure of the world, even the really simple animals and plants. He said it was beautiful, in a stark kind of way, because it challenged its children. Life was hard, and so the people became tough, or smart, or learned how to cooperate to survive."
"What happened to it?" This tale of a lost world was exactly the kind of thing Peter had always dreamt of. He leaned in for the answer.
"I don't know. Grampa didn't like to talk about it, he only ever talked about "before the Weeping". My parents said they'd tell me about it when I was older, but they seemed really uncomfortable about the whole thing so I just dropped it. Figured it was best left a secret."
“So an entire world just…gone?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure that it is gone, but neither me nor most people here know anything about it. You learn pretty quick that asking about it is like talking to a brick wall. Couple of the more curious folks I’d worked with in the past tried to research it through the archive, and were made into spooks for their trouble.”
“They killed them!?” Peter was suddenly regretted asking so many questions
“Hahaha! No, we just called people in the counter-intelligence business spooks, ‘cause their job involves leaving no trace, and secrecy and all that. Killing people just makes the mystery more tantalizing for other people, so they just give ‘em new jobs to keep an eye on them. Easier than constantly watching the entire archive for suspicious activity.”
“Oh. What’s the archive?”
“Whoever is supposed to be your guide here isn’t doing a very good job, are they?” Lawrence remarked
Peter just shrugged. It was true, James hadn’t been very interested in teaching him about the federation, but there was no reason to talk ill about someone for no reason.
“Ah, it’s not important. The archive is the sum total of all knowledge, past and present, that we’ve gathered over the years. Any datpad can access it. If you want to look through it, you’re welcome to borrow mine, long as the datpad doesn’t leave the shop. I have a hard enough time keeping track of it in here, much less everywhere else.”
“Really? That’s great! But, umm.” Peter shuffled awkwardly “I don’t-”
“I’ll help you out with learning the basics of using it, don’t worry. Anything more advanced, though, you’ll have to figure out on your own. Should be doable with the archive available to you, even if you’re just a beginner. You can read, right?” Lawrence handed him the datpad. Peter nodded.
“Great, this thing is basically useless to you otherwise.” The man pointed to the colorful screen of the device.
“So first things first: You can interact with it by tapping the surface with your fingers. The little icons you see all have a different function, most of which won’t really make sense to you right now. If you swipe in different directions, you’ll change which icons and functions you can choose. Tapping an icon opens them. If you want to get back to this part, you press the button on the side of the datpad right there. Make sense?”
“Yeah” Peter tried tapping an icon that looked like an orange, and was greeted by an entirely different screen, evidently a list of songs, and their creators. He then pressed the side button to return to the screen with icons.
“The archive has an icon of a purple and green globe. Should be to the left.” Lawrence gestured
Peter swiped twice, right to left, and found the icon Lawrence had described. He tapped it, and the screen displayed a more detailed version of the icon and just below it, a rectangular box. He looked to Lawrence for guidance.
“Tap the box”
Peter did as he asked, and an array of buttons with letters on them popped up.
“That’s your keyboard. It’ll appear whenever you tap something that requires you to give the datpad a keyword or phrase. Once you finish typing in what you want to know about, hit that button with the L-shaped arrow on it.”
Peter typed in the first thing that came to mind: Shaping. A new article was display on the screen, with sentence after paragraph after page of information on the subject. The basic definition that the article gave was that shaping was the art of controlling reality and binding it to one’s will. Peter tried to read on, but the article became increasingly technical and abstract, and he understood little of the terms. His confusion must have been written on his face, because Lawrence spoke up once again.
“If you see anything written in blue, you can tap it as well, to open up its own article in the archive. That’s about it for the basics. Hope you find what you’re looking for.” With that, Lawrence picked up a sheet of abrasive, and began sanding down a part of a wooden model.
Peter didn’t hear him. He had already hopped several layers down, and was now reading about stars. Peter had watched the stars with awe for years, tracing out the constellations he’d read about, or heard about from his parents. The seventh sister, the twin lions, Alphadew, and the sweeping heron. He thought, as he read about what was really behind their glittering facades. Angry fireballs, raging down at us. He saw that a distance was listed. million? He clicked on "million". Peter balked. It was seven digits long.
He stared blankly at the number. He had only ever seen three digit or fewer numbers being used for anything meaningful. Everything else was meaningless noise. Fantasies made up when thinking about what being rich and powerful is like, and yet this archive detailed with a thoroughness that could not be faked by even the most stubborn liar, things so distant that you would never know of their existence if you weren’t already looking for them. Things so numerous that if you spent the rest of your life counting them, you’d die before even reaching the halfway mark. Even more astonishing, it wasn’t even the final number on the list.
Peter decided to leave the page, and look for something more grounded. He searched for the capital city of the Empire, Annaveille. He’d never been there, and wondered what the city was like. This first image, the one which topped the article showed a sprawling vista of brick and clay houses, sitting next to a wide, slow river. And a tower. A tower, which stretched into the sky, at least triple the height of the buildings around it. It was a shining alabaster color, with darker details adorning its lower portions. Four smaller towers of the same material accompanied it, forming a perimeter around the main structure, and a slight shimmer could be seen in the air between them, as with heat waves on a midsummer day. Peter noticed that the furthest tower in the image appeared to be partially destroyed, and looked duller than the others, even scorched in places.
The picture was taken from a relatively high point in the city, from which you could see an ocean of houses, huts, and market stalls. A wide street cut its way from the outskirts of Annaveille to the landmark tower which the city surrounded, the lanes of people going by blurred into a collage of colors further in. Peter read the caption: "Still shot taken from bodycam footage of Agent Rodney[deceased] during mission to Imperial capital. April 21, 50 Post-Weeping."
Peter eyed the date it was taken. Everything in the federation seemed to stem from this one event. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what he would find. Lawrence had seemed so sure that it was a terrible event. Peter clicked on the link. The screen twitched in that peculiar way when it was shifting to a new page, and then Peter was greeted with a picture: A black eye symbol, with a teardrop and a purple background appeared. The rest of the page looked like someone had taken a torch to paper. Large swathes of the page were just dark blocks, broken up by sentence fragments and in some cases single words. Peter waited for the blocks to disappear and the rest of the words to be revealed, but the only thing that changed was a little flashing red sign in the top corner of the datpad. Peter assumed something had gone wrong, but upon seeing how enthralled Lawrence was in his work, he opted to simply read what was left instead of bothering the man. He began reading the few words which had escaped the black blocks, making a mental note to search for a solution to the problem later on.
“The Week of Weeping was a seven day long catastrophe which began on May 30th, 2055, of the Gregorian calendar. Its effects encompassed the entirety of the planet Earth as well as the spacetime surrounding it in a large radius. The damage was most pronounced in a toroidal region around the planet. This region eventually became known as the Teardrop Wound, or just The Scar, and would be a prominent feature of the Root reality until the Unraveling obscured the Root’s location. The current status of the Root reality is unknown, and highly debated. The immediate casualties of the event are estimated at between 3.1 and 3.6 billion, though the death toll from indirect causes such as famine, climate destruction, and the mass exodus from Earth known as the Diaspora is considerably higher.
The Weeping can be separated into stages based upon the levels of Reman Instability occurring during a specific timeframe. The first two days of the Weeping were characterized by only slight fluctuations of R.I., where the world continued on largely as normal, with isolated incidents of warping being the only warning for the next stage. Confusion marked the beginning of the second stage, with more and more unlikely and some impossible events occurring. People began to be suspicious, and toward the end of the second stage, tested the limits of their abilities, abilities which would collectively be referred to as “Shaping”.
This exploration of reality bending capabilities marked the beginning of the third and final stage of the Weeping, where the isolated events of the prior two stages rapidly spiraled out of control, with powerful shapers coming to dominate the will of those who could not, or would not, use shaping to their advantage. Advocates of this change were often referred to as "Khans", and were hated and feared in equal parts for their extreme attitudes towards non-shapers. Khanates dominated large swathes of physical space at their peaks, and a significant portion of the human population. This resulted in a counterculture pushback, and Shapers quickly found their existence polarized, joining the Khans or hiding their abilities entirely to save themselves from social ostracisation or oppression. This stage was ended by the Teardrop wound’s opening, and the death, flight, or transformation of a majority of the Earth’s population.
It is still unknown what caused the Teardrop to open, though the leading hypothesis among researchers is that a collection of several of the most powerful shapers was responsible for the Rift: Thought the full group was comprised of twelve members at its peak, only three are known to have colluded prior to and during the Weeping: Zari Keyote(Status: Murdered sometime during the Weeping), Floki Bolivar(Status: Metaimmunocompromised, under quarantine), and Jim(Status: Missing, presumed lost to the Firmament). This group predicted the developing caste system, and in an attempt to subvert the change before it happened, they used their considerable resources and experience with shaping and physics to open a portal outside of the Root reality with a combination of electromagnetic, gravitational, and exotic matter manipulation.
It is hypothesized that the Teardrop was designed to be an Einstein-Rosen bridge to a habitable exoplanet, providing an escape for those unable to fight the more powerful Shapers. Why the Teardrop was so unstable and how the poorest, least powerful shapers were meant to access the Teardrop in space are matters of debate.”
The article continued, but Peter didn’t get a chance to read on before the Datpad that Lawrence gave him abruptly went dark. His heart leapt into his chest. It’s broken? I didn’t do anything to it, how could it be broken? Peter looked around, and upon seeing that Lawrence wasn’t paying attention, opened a drawer at random, and slid the device in. He quickly walked to the exit.
“Thank you again, Lawrence, I’m heading home now!” Peter could hear the man say something, but didn’t wait to process the response. Something about soon?
Peter felt a bit guilty after the adrenaline of his escape wore off, but rationalized his decision. If anyone can fix it, it would be the resident smith, right? You should still own up and apologize. Peter’s mind reeled at the thought of how his friend would react. I could bring a gift as an apology. We do have the time tomorrow. Quietly lamenting his mistake, Peter walked home, mind ablaze with what he’d read.
“How was your day?” Leann asked
“It was okay. I learned a lot. Did you know that people used to travel to other worlds with shaping?” Peter said
“They do seem to like their magic here. Can you pass me that salt shaker?” His mother said, without turning around.
“Do you think that we could do that someday too?” Peter passed the salt
“I’m a bit old to be going on long voyages, but I’m sure if you try, you’ll get your chance. Try this.” Leann held out a bit of freshly cooked pork. Peter ate the piece
“Could use some more rosemary. I wish I could shape.”
“Sometimes it’s better to want something than to actually have it. It gives you a goal to work toward, but I think you should leave the dangerous stuff to us for now.” Leann said, as she added a bit of rosemary to the meat.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Peter said
“Well, when you’re an adult, you can do what you want.” Leann replied
“No, not the dangerous part, how would wanting something be better than having it? Wouldn’t you prefer to be rich, than want money all the time?”
“What I mean is that when you want something a lot, you’re willing to work hard to make it happen, and learning how to work hard is usually more valuable than whatever thing you wanted in the first place. Take these plates to the table, please.” Leann handed him the plates stuffed with pork, mashed potatoes, and some kind of plant which looked vaguely like a corn cob without the husk.
He thought about his mother's words. He already knew how to work hard, but knew enough to still his tongue. He put the plates down on the table, followed by the rest of the silverware, including knives which were sharper than a poet's tongue. If they didn't want us hurting ourselves, why would they give us knives? The glass he was filling with water just sloshed at him a bit. He sat down at the table.
"Remember to put your napkin on your lap, m'eudail."
"I know, I know. So did dad tell you when-" Peter sighed
Then, as soon as his mother sat down, the door opened and his dad walked in. Leann smirked at Peter. It's a little creepy how well she times things sometimes.
"Smells delicious, mo ghaol." Feirm kissed Leann before sitting down and inhaling his food. Peter took that to mean that the meal had begun, but a stern look from his mother stopped him. He spent half a second confused before sheepishly placing his napkin on his lap.