The Last Human IV - 33 - The Prophet (Patreon)

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The glittering expanse of space shone, twinkling, over the Ark’s one and only city. Stars and streaks of galaxies filtered in through the top hull as if it were made of a single pane of glass, and not thick meters of vacuum-proof metal. A false sun spread kind and gentle light across the metal forest of skyscrapers, and green-glittering parks and concrete canals of the Ark’s City.

Back on Gaiam, Agraneia had watched Khadam design a few of the City’s elements, but she never imagined the vibrant painting that would arise from Khadam’s individual strokes. 

Sleek, curving buildings rose in tangles of soaring metal, bridged together by branching walkways or leaf-like balconies. Repulsor trains and water canals slid between the clustered towers, and heavy construction drones, guided by xenos, raised and lowered building supplies to the near-finished buildings. But it was the space between the urban rises—actual open air—that amazed Agraneia. Parks filled with infant jungle trees, sweeping grasses, and blooming vegetables filled the massive habitation deck with greenery. Life support infrastructure, disguised by grass-covered hills, exhaled pure air and filtered the canals. In the distance, the high-slanted walls of Ark reflected black space and distant star light, as if the whole City rested on a platform open to the void itself. As if, if she walked too far, she could simply fall off the edge. 

Sweet oblivion. A tempting thought. Instead, despite all this beauty, all this life, the soundless vacuum howled in her ears. And the voices of the living battled with the ones in her head. 

A crowd had gathered in an amphitheater, half-sunken into a hill (still sprouting new, thin blades of grass). It was meant to hold a few hundred, but more than double had packed into this humble space, and the noise and smell of them made Agraneia’s headache. 

She stood at the foot of the stage, shoulder to shoulder with Ryke’s Falcyr guards, in their heavy armor and long halberds. They formed a boundary between the High Council and the roiling mass of would-be politicians and self-appointed leaders from too many xeno tribes to count. 

Agraneia scanned the crowd, like a bodyguard looking for threats. In reality, most of her effort was spent ignoring the faces that only she could see: dead xenos with the skin burned off their skulls, rotting corpses that stared with black, lidless eyes. Grinning faces dripping with melted flesh. Agraneia pretended not to see any of them. But they know. They always know.

“My fellow mortals,” Ryke’s voice rang out from the amphitheater’s stage, clear and strong, “Cyre is dead. Gaiam is dead. All of our worlds are lost. But through the grace and great works of the Maker Khadam we have been given a new life. Yet, the Maker is now gone from us. We find ourselves, at the onset of our journey, alone.” 

Dark muttering in the crowds, as Ryke confirmed the rumors. But Agraneia couldn’t hear them, over the daggering pain in her heart. Lost. Agraneia fought to keep her composure. She rolled her shoulders, and held her head up, and pretended she didn’t hear the whispers in her head. All your fault…

“We find ourselves on our own, but not without resources. The question remains. What will we choose to do now?”

A cyran stepped toward the line of guards. His people shoved the crowds out of the way to make space for him. He wore dock-workers sandals and simple robes with holes cut out to make him appear as a poor man, a man of the masses, but the gold scales that trimmed his eyes and mouth marked him as a high born. Someone who had probably been born with servants who waited on him hand and foot. Clearly his little band worshiped him. Clearly, he reveled in that worship. 

He opened his arms grandly, and spoke with the gravity of an old sage, though he couldn’t have been older than Agraneia. “Last night, I had a dream. The Maker came to me, and she said unto me, “Rejoice! For you have been delivered into Salvation. No enemy may follow you, and the Stars I have given you.” And I say to you now, my friends, we shall live out our days upon the Ark of Paradise for all eternity.”

But redenites and avians wearing tinkers’ aprons shook their heads. One of the Royal Engineers on the Council said, “Wrong. All wrong. The Ark does not have resources to last forever. We can recycle some matter, but our best estimates give our people three hundred years, if nothing goes wrong.” 

Three hundred years, for some, seemed like plenty. 

The would-be cyran prophet attempted to deny the Royal Engineer’s claim, but even his crowd of worshippers could not overcome the rising shouts of the crowd. The people demanded a new home. A whole world to settle upon and call their own. 

“And when we are attacked again?” One of Ryke’s Admirals stood up, towering on the stage. “The Divine Maker is gone. Who will save us from the Swarm?”

Others argued that the xenos should spread among the stars, and populate as many planets as possible, to give their species the greatest chance of survival. 

“You would spread our forces too thin!” the admiral shouted, his words sharp and clipped. “And you’d make us easier to find. Easier to kill. This Sovereign hunts us. And we cannot fight back.” 

“See?” the cyran prophet demanded, “It is as I have seen! Khadam wishes us to remain aboard the Ark, forevermore! Khadam has provided. We must not seek answers beyond Khadam’s will!” 

Khadam. Khadam. Every time they said her name was another nail hammered into Agraneia’s heart. Without Khadam, any long-term plan was damned. 

And you let her die. 

“Shut up,” Agraneia growled under her breath. The guards next to her gave her a strange look, but Agraneia barely noticed. Her mind was divided—Khadam might still be alive out there. And she was here, not doing anything about it. What could she do?

Nothing…

A gray-headed redenite with head gear that held a complicated set of lenses stood at the Council’s table. The chief of the Tinker’s Guild spoke with a low, shaky voice, “I, for one, agree with him.” He nodded at the cyran prophet.

“Thank you—” The prophet started, but the Chief Tinker spoke over him. 

“Three hundred years would give us time to study the Ark, to potentially make up for its shortfalls.”

The prophet’s people gasped, and the prophet started to make some indignant reply. 

Ignoring him, the Tinker continued, “We may eventually improve upon the design ourselves. Or, perhaps, even replicate it. A fleet of Arks—” 

“Blasphemy! Utter Blasphemy! The Divine Maker’s works are perfection incarnate. There can be no improvements! No hope to replicate it!” 

“If she’s so perfect, then why is she gone? Why has she left us?” 

That silenced the crowd.

“Abandoned us,” someone said.

“Got herself killed.”

“She died to save us!” someone else shouted. 

There it was. That prickling sensation that crawled across her skin—she could sense the impending violence. The crowd was turning. 

Your fault. 

Agraneia knew she shouldn’t have come here, to this gathering. She shouldn’t have left the station at all without Khadam, no matter what the human had said. You should’ve died with her—

No, Agraneia told herself. She’s alive. She might still be alive.

But now the crowd was shouting, and the dead faces were shouting with them, hissing and laughing and sneering their rotten teeth. At her. At Agraneia. 

She’s dead, they said. They bored into her with their black, lifeless eyes. Slit throats tore open like mouths, leaking blood as their words crashed into her. You were the one who got her killed. You’ve killed us. You’ve killed us all—

No. 

Agraneia stumbled back. The crowd sense weakness, and suddenly surged forward, even as the other guards shoved them back. The Councillors stood from their chairs, some of them ready to run, some ready to join the guards and shove the crowds back. Agraneia’s mouth tasted of bile. Of fear. She shuddered. She hunched over. Even the other guards pulled away from her. 

An avian shriek cut through the growing noise. Ryke towered over the rest, her regal shoulders capped spiked feathers made her look all the larger. She raised her commanding voice until it echoed over the crowds, “We are not gathered here to discuss the entire future of this civilization. None of us is prepared. We are here to discuss our survival. There is one among us—just one—who understands the secrets of the Ark. She alone may send it across the stars. The question is: where shall we go right now?”

She swept her gaze across the table of Councillors, setting her golden eyes on each of them. “Councilors. What are our options?” 

They looked at each other. The crowd beyond was rendered as silent as a frozen lake. 

Then, someone—a redenite, or maybe a cyran general, Agraneia couldn’t tell which—spoke up. “We should jump again, as far away from the Sovereign as possible.” 

Heads nodded. 

“Yes, but,” someone else said, “How do we know which way the Sovereign is?”

Before anyone else could answer, the cyran prophet jumped up from the crowd, held back only by the line of guards. “I heard it in a dream! I heard her voice! She came to me, and she told me the way!” 

“And which way is that?” Ryke asked.

The cyran prophet opened his mouth to answer the question. “Ah…” He started. And couldn’t finish. He went blank. In this bold new future, even the charismatic con artist was out of his depth. After an embarrassingly long moment, the would-be prophet sagged back into the crowd, and into the arms of his followers.

Meanwhile, the arguments deepened and the crowd started to pitch in their own ideas, which perpetuated their own arguments, until the whole amphitheater once mor rang with too many voices. 

And too many faces. And laughter. Wrong laughter. Agraneia put her fingers over her ears, trying to hold them back. Fuck off, she told the voices, but they only mocked her. And whispered worse things into her brain. 

Above, the false sun went dark. It only happened for a moment. A flicker. But everyone saw it, and all the sound evaporated, as all eyes turned up. High above, the panels that showed the stars reset—going from black, to pixelated color, back to the galaxies beyond. 

“What was that?” one of the councilors whispered. No one, not even the mouthy cyran prophet, had an answer. The Chief Tinker had his head bowed among the other redenites, and a few of them nodded rapidly, before excusing themselves from the high table. The Royal Engineer followed shortly after.

“Well then,” the avian admiral said, “It seems even the Maker’s Ark does need a little work.” 

“Or maybe,” the cyran prophet hissed, “Your mind cannot comprehend her great machine. Everything is done according to the will of the gods. In my dreams—”

“So Khadam wanted the lights to flicker?” the admiral sneered.

“You have no idea what mysteries she has—”

A cyran general cut in, barking gruffly to cut off the charlatan prophet. “We were discussing matters of import. Now. Assume the Sovereign is searching for us. Where are we to go?” 

“Set range to maximum, and jump!” came one suggestion. “The Sovereign can’t be everywhere all at once. We cannot go wrong, if we simply keep moving!” 

“And how would you know where the Sovereign is, or isn’t?”

“I have studied war for longer than you’ve been alive, avian. I understand how these things work.” 

“Is that why your precious Cyre was smashed to smithereens?” 

“And what about your planet? Gaiam, was it called?” 

Agraneia’s fingers curled into fists. She had a sudden urge to use them. To make them all go quiet. Just one hit. Couldn’t be easier—

She had to force her fingers open. Had to get out of here—

The crowd parted as a pair of mechanical feet clanked across the amphitheater. Laykis walked with her scarred face held high, not proud, just self-assured, as if the android knew she was supposed to be there. Lagging behind the android, Yarsi couldn’t have looked more different. Hunched, eyes on the ground, her fingers clenched on her writing tablet, as if she wanted to be anywhere else but here.  Her clothes were clean, but her scales looked muted, and dull, and some were flaking away. Yarsi’s eyes were bloodshot. Darted over her shoulder, as if she heard a sound just out of hearing. Or a sound that wasn’t there at all. A look Agraneia had worn herself too many times. 

Did the jump do that to her? Agraneia wondered.

Laykis urged Yarsi up to the stage. The girl moved as if she couldn’t quite see the ground beneath her feet. And when they both stood before the council, Laykis bowed deeply before Ryke. Then, the android placed her metal fingers around her own neck, and her buzzing, digital voice filled the hall. “So said the Savior Divine: All that you do, I see. All that you say, I hear. But when you seek from me an answer, you will find none, for my voice may have no place in your world. Instead, turn your questions to yourselves. When you must seek the First Answer, ask the One Who Already Knows.”

Gently, Laykis ushered Yarsi forward. Before the mute girl could address the Council, Ryke leaned in and whispered sharply, “I thought we said we wouldn’t ask the girl for more. She’s taxed enough as it is, and if we lose her—” Ryke’s eyes darted down to Yarsi, and back to Laykis, “The Ark. She’s the only one.”

“Exactly,” Laykis cut in. “We have questions. She knows the answers. Can anyone else here claim the same?”

Ryke furrowed her brow and clenched her beak. Uncertain.

“Has she not proven herself?” Laykis pushed, “Who else would you trust? These xenos are children. They know nothing. Her device—”

“Yarsi is a child, too.”

“Poire was younger than her, when he came to us.”

“Poire was a human. And Yarsi has brought us far, yes, but the weight of such a decision should not rest on the shoulders of a child.” 

“She is more than what you call her,” Laykis turned her gaze to Yarsi. Agraneia didn’t miss the way the construct spoke. In awe of the girl. “So much more.” 

“Fine,” Ryke allowed her beak to unclench. Before the councilors could argue, she asked, “Yarsi. Where do you say we should go?” 

The Councilors were poised, ready to unleash their derision, their snorts and snobbery. Who was this child, to tell them how the Ark, and all the remaining lives of civilization, should go?

Yarsi sniffed and stood up straight. Her hands trembled. But she raised her tablet and held it firm, showing a set of already-written numbers. Laykis began to read them aloud, “Right ascension, 3 hours, 33 minutes, 10 seconds. Declination, -25 degrees, 46 minutes, 56 seconds. Distance from origin, 11.198 gigaparsecs.”

Ryke blinked.

An old avian priest, with feathers like some great, quivering mustache, cupped a dark feathered hand to his ear, “What did she say?” 

Yarsi held up her tablet again, pointing at a single word. “Coordinates.” 

“Ah,” the priest nodded, trying to understand. “And where do they take us?” 

Yarsi scribbled quickly on her tablet, “Escape.”

“We already escaped. The poor girl is addled after jumping the ship.” The old priest frowned. The other councilors chimed in with their opinions, too. 

“I doubt she could jump again, anyway. Possibly it would kill her.” 

“And isn’t it dangerous to jump so blind?”

Yarsi shook her head, and opened her mouth as if to say something. And furrowed her brow when nothing came out. She looked back at Laykis.

Laykis nodded.

Yarsi nodded back. 

“—massive waste of fuel,” a cyran in a military uniform was saying, “And time, and effort. Those could be random numbers for all we know.” 

“Your Majesty,” the old priest said, “I put to motion that we must stay and gather our bearings. The people are lost. Disoriented. We have all lost much. We need to rest. To give time to heal.”

“To repair the ship,” an admiral added.

“Indeed,” the priest tipped his head at the admiral, “A little breathing room would do wonders for the soul.”

Yarsi closed her eyes, and her lips moved as though she were talking to someone. She opened her eyes, and scratched out a few words on her tablet. Then, she stood straight. As straight as the android by her side. She presented the tablet to Ryke, to the Council, and slowly, to the whole crowd.

“We are hunted. If the Ark does not move, they will find us before tomorrow.”

Agraneia didn’t know if Yarsi was actually hearing voices. She didn’t know if Yarsi actually could see the future. But at this point, it didn’t matter. Her warning was too specific. Most of the crowd wanted someone to tell them what to do. And it seemed they had just found their newest prophet.

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