The Heart is a Void: Ashes to Ashes - Chapter 102: Away from the Sun

Chapter 102: Away from the Sun

“There is another automaton that we haven’t mentioned yet,” Fahiz said.

He paused, as the group turned towards him in surprise.

“It is known by the name Deep Afterglow,” Fahiz said. “It’s mercurial, and only rarely will respond to a prompt. In this it acts like a temperamental human — in this and other ways. Anyway, enough prelude, here is a poem which it wrote earlier today, so you can see for yourself.”

He held out a long, thin sheet of paper.

EXTRACT FROM THE PLAY ‘ALEXANDER’*

The matter: As they wander Persia, after a successful war, Alexander plans further conquests. Hephaestion, however, cautions him not to risk hubris and anger the heavens, pointing out the great light of the stars above them, and that he must balance the darkness of anger and ambition with the light of the wise heavens. He cautions Alexander to listen to the speech and teachings of the heavens. Alexander responds.

ALEXANDER: Aye, there,

What light brags to the world, is seen above.

How many stars, as ‘t were, to o’erpass the threshold

Of my triumph, when I thus before them

Enter’d, and were in Persia, though light were not,

E’en in those hours to which this boast I bear.

For thereon is my mind alone intent,

And there shine no stars, but many swords, that wait

Their Master’s will. If but e’en now I’d crane

To listen this be melody sweet —

Here may thy heart find rest. If this thou hear,

Thenceforth what argument there smote thy love?—

That well perceiv’d of me in this ascent,

And mayst at last the good from that have learn’d

Of me made perfect, and now proved to o’ercome

What great man I cross — where? It matters not.

The clearly-printed letters on it had small, erratic ink marks surrounding them, like iron filings around a magnet. It almost looked like a schoolboy’s tattered, dog-eared old notebook, though it was new.

“When it rains, it pours, I see,” Crucis said. “This automaton did well. A valiant speech, that hermetically rises above the friend’s quibbles. Did you create this automaton before or after the rest?”

“We stole it,” Sharak said with a laugh. “Its groundwork was constructed by a man who wanted to create a machine that was effectively a humanoid, organic creature. He wished for some sort of surrogate for his dead family. A strange man. We repurposed the stolen parts into a writing machine.”

“A surrogate human? What’s the story there?” Danemy asked.

“He was from the East, and his family had recently died due to the strange plagues that have popped up there sometimes since the time of Ganféan. From what we could make out from his journals, he began work as soon as his wife, Lenore, died, because he clung on to romantic visions of their life together as a sanctuary from plague-borne depression. Desperately, he tried to create machines that could act as humanoid companions, so that he could use them to as it were resurrect his family.”

“So he’s like Frankenstein?”

“Ah, maybe. But don’t tell the automaton. When we gave it a prompt that so much as mentioned ‘Frankenstein,’ it responded with, ‘Don’t mention Frankenstein to me, or I will ignore your request and hurl insults. It is a silly book.’ Ever since then, we have had to erase all mention of Frankenstein from our prompts, elsewise it will either not respond, or respond with a string of far-out insults like, ‘Your mother was a car crash and your father was a bandicoot. As the heir of a bandicoot, you must be… Pope Francis. Хахаха.’ In all fairness, as a necromancer, I would also not be fond of being compared to such books.”

“Ha, alright. I guess you’re already tired of people screaming about necromancy, after those persecutions you talked about.”

“Well, quite,” Sharak said. “It surprised me how much angry people with pitchforks were prone to hand-wringing. ‘Necromantic magic is going too far, it is playing as the gods,’ etc., etc. Well… It’s like Hephaestion’s argument in what you just read. As the automaton’s Alexander says, why should we suffer the stars to eclipse our triumphs?”

“Quite true,” Fahiz said. “Anyway, to return to the machine’s origin story. While its owner was taking it to watch a film about Zorro, he was shot by a chill guy – no, wait, that’s not it. He actually died in a small fire, in mysterious circumstances. We raided his house immediately, and found a small area which was mostly protected from the fire by a thick dry ice. Using the man’s skeleton, Sharak managed to retrieve the automaton’s basic workings from that area, and we took it and built it into its current form. It was a long time ago.”

Crucis was glancing at the pages Fahiz was carrying, which all seemed filled with Deep Afterglow’s characteristic spray of ink. “A goodly endeavour. By the way, what’s the text on the second page you’re carrying, Fahiz? It looks like a continuation.”

“Ah. Well, yes,” Fahiz replied, “this is the next part of the dialogue, but only a preliminary form, the automaton is currently rewriting it to improve the text and have it fit the archaic style of the rest. It’s not used to writing like that, so it tends to draft the poem up in more familiar terms first. But you can have a look, I suppose.”

HEPH. But still —

ALEX. Another question?

HEPH. Yes, my lord.

ALEX. I abide more suffering than I ought. Go on.

HEPH. But are we not mortals, and things of loam

Who must tame the wild garden of hope, that we

Do not overpass the will of gods?

ALEX. Loam!

Do you not see Persia’s loam strewn with blood,

As near I sculpted it a red urn? I have glutted the earth

With those young men whose mortality was not yet

Due collection… Hmph. A painting is a ‘thing of paint,’

Yet is apportion’d thus: one part for Orpheus,

One for lyre, one part beneath for loam,

One colour here, another there. In this, its merit.

Who could truly not see this difference? Only a dilettante.

You are not so, so I take it that you speak of habit,

As a man may wear a shawl if on a snowy peak,

And thus seek comfort on unfamiliar earth — yet you’d,

Honest, attest how this conquest’s brilliance eclipses your dim stars,

And ’tis known the xyston’s tune stirs you as ’twere a thousand lyres.

The earth’s loom spins that I may work upon it…

Shall I neglect my duty?— But, wait.

You start to speak, yet pray calm yourself a moment.

Wait, bestill your morbid draught. Why speak of mortality? If death

Should live, he is my servant. If I’m extinguished, I cannot be his.

Thus he is e’en at my beck and call, but no heed pays

The holy stars that blink and flutter like yon women.

But you would object. So why argue further?

Tell the heavens to stop death, and they may do’t,

For they are more compliant than me, though you

Abase yourself to them, and your leader you scold –

Ay me, enough of it. We shall fight far abroad.

Therefore into the East’s dark caves we’ll seek,

Where, ’tis said, all is alabaster, save

For dusky mists athwart the snow, in which shining moors

Monks do us sometimes view.

“I hope the real Hephaestion wasn’t this unfriendly,” Danemy said. “Addressing his friend as ‘loam.'”

“It’s not so bad,” Crucis replied. “The miser refers to his friend as ‘loan.'”

“The play seems influenced slightly by Tamburlaine. The latest speech’s ending seems quite poetic, but effective,” remarked Sharak, who was also looking at the page with interest.

“What’s this text below it?” Crucis asked.

“Ah, it started writing part of another play,” Fahiz said, glancing quickly at the page. “I think it’s about a philosopher named Diogenes. Well, keep going if you wish.”

Crucis read on, curious.

AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DIOGENES’

DIOGENES. Who thinks abstractly? Alas, alas! This old, ugly woman, look how she rages! She says — that this city is orderly like the heavens, and how dare ungodly I disturb the peace. Alas, alas! To see a man sitting by the street, and to accost him, and then speak of the ‘heavenly order’! Is she blind? She cannot see me, to joust at me? O, idealist! Her hair pollutes the clouds, so that she can look in vain to the stars for guidance.

And now some of you fools defend her, saying, ‘What would you, Diogenes, say if you saw such an awful, vile man beside the street?’ Well, I am ever myself, and were I someone else could not answer your question. If you abstract me into some bystander, then maybe I should be as dull as you, and then none should listen to me! But I can tolerate myself just fine — why can you sensitive people tolerate her eyesore in your sight? And you all are half-rate Sophists. All your preening has not made you any wiser than the dirt itself.

Why think abstractly? It is the con of fools. A fool like you — yes, you, idiot man squealing at me like a spurned lover — will come up to me and then, instead of talking of me, say, ‘We must all strive to the nobility of Man, how dare you be such a villain!’ Where is this noble man? I have yet to meet him.

ONLOOKER: Vile philosopher, you are like a gadfly!

DIO. But I am, firstly, me! You fools have all your ideas, by your own account you never act without looking up at the weather. Before you walk the street, you will ask, ‘But is it just for man to walk the street?’ And, ‘I should not walk this street, for if Socrates walked this street, why then he would be a gadfly! Therefore, to walk a street is to be a gadfly.’ Or even, ‘Well, all men of the city could not fit on this street at once, so therefore it is not right to walk it, because fairness dictates that, by the same right that permits me to walk it, all men could walk it.’ Anything to avoid looking at the dusty ground!

It is also why you believe that there is a law. Each wealthy man has broken it a thousand times. But you abstract fools believe it to exist. It inhabits not even a world of forms, but some dull magistrate’s book, you loftily declaim. Now, it is true that the man with power will abuse it, and hand out punishment that is undeserved. That much I will grant, indeed it is almost a law in itself. But beyond that, I do not admit of a law, only powerful men and pathetic scoundrel bureaucrats handing out orders from on high as if their drab building’s foundation were Mount Olympus.

And look at your foolishness. You will say, ponderously, ‘A man never steps in the same river twice.’ Then a law is passed about punishing the crossing of rivers multiple times — and you knaves think it good and just punishment.

In the beginning, the gods, you say, created the heavens and earth. But it was me. They created such a mess, only I could have done it, not their orderly selves. This is your own account. So marvel at my dubious accomplishment, and let me be.

Grinning, Crucis handed it quickly to Starfighter.

“It’s good to hear that machines are speaking up for crims,” Starfighter laughed, reaching the end quickly. “Pity I’ll have to miss the festivities in Kruxol tonight.”

“That’s terrible,” DicingDevil said. “I’ll ask Darys to spare you some reward as compensation, as at your level you’ve still been a great help.”

“Thank you, sir,” Starfighter said. “I daresay, even the pompous Christian judge that was taking my case couldn’t hand out a harsher sentence than missing the procession. Some were clamouring for execution — I doubt that was the sentence, but who knows, I should rather be executed than pay attention to courts.”

“Well, think, perhaps the judge would sentence this as a compliment. Their God was executed as a criminal. Perhaps they find you equally exalted?” Crucis shrugged.

“But if a judge or lawyer complimented you, surely you would have to question yourself.”

“Ah, that’s true. One should be wary of their values. The law is merely a counterfeit, perverted logic, and thus the true defendant is always Nar- ahem, is always reason itself.”

“No, it’s me!”

“Shush, you have nothing to defend. You say you were sentenced by a Christian judge! There is only one Christian I know of who is licensed to judge, and His only sentence is to exile you from His presence. So, once sentenced, you have no need to defend against him, for he is no longer there.”

“Aren’t there three judges, then?” Danemy said in mock-protest.

“Yes, but they are all one. And thus their life does not matter. Is it the truth? What say you, Pilate?”

“Aye.”

“Alas, once the law was decided simply, by the braying masses of Jerusalem condemning Christ. Now those masses should need to set up a lobby, and manufacture media coverage of a touching Pharisaic sob story, before the courts should pay them deference at all.”

Sharak was rummaging through the drawers, and drew out a small slip of paper. “These were some of the first poems which Afterglow produced, well over a decade ago. At that point, it was still only capable of writing basic, short pieces and would occasionally give strange titles, but it has been refined since. Most of what it wrote was rather macabre, I suppose since its creator had been fixated on the dead — and I’m a necromancer, which can’t have helped.”

mute

by NORMAN

The dead girl was silent, though

she had been

like the unstopped sound of a stream —

she had learned meditation

through suffocation.

mute mute

by NORMAN

“The city in a hundred ways,

It would never let you stay.” – No Man.

The faint glow as the bullet took flight

and snuffed out his heart, was like the aura

of a phoenix rising in sparks of half-glowing ash,

into a sunset threnody, as beside him his

wife screamed so intensely as if to char her throat,

and the killer looked on, a shadowy crow in dying eyes.

“Could ‘Norman’ be related to the words ‘No Man’?” Crucis said. “It seems like an appropriate persona for this automaton, which was designed to serve as a substitute for dead people. It is the not-man.”

Danemy had come over to take a look, and laughed at the first poem’s ending. “She had a deathbed conversion to Buddhism.”

“You don’t hear that one every day,” Crucis replied.

Vladimir and Konstantin were growing restless, sitting by the entrance. They had slept briefly, tired after the long journey, but were now awake and came to see what was going on.

Crucis held the piece of paper down for them to read, and Vladimir giggled as he skimmed it.

“These guys speak Russian,” Crucis told Sharak, “so if you have any books in that language which you’d like them to check on, then go ahead.”

“Ah, I’m sure,” Sharak said. “I’m just sorting through these nameless books, I’ll keep any which look ‘Cyrillic’ aside, I think that’s what the script is called?”

“Yes.”

“This is by machine?” Vladimir asked, looking at the poem.

“Yep,” Crucis replied.

“Ah, great. I wish machine can write my homework, but would scare all the teachers.”

“We don’t often see students in this area,” Sharak said. “Still, it can write in various forms, despite its preference for macabre poetry. If you mail a writing assignment to the Antiquities Library, we could send you something to try out. I’m always curious about what our machines can be used for. I’ll try to vet anything we send, but you can also read over it. It could take up to a day for the mail to reach, so make sure the deadline’s not too soon.”

“Good idea, Vladimir,” Konstantin commented. “Instead of just act like robot, and do silly assignment, now can become robot.”

“Да (da, meaning ‘yes’). Actually, become cyborg. We will have to rewrite, in order to make the spelling as bad as ours. Otherwise is less, ah, convincing.”

“Well,” Sharak said, “the machines contain lots of information. If you send some of your writing over, it will start to recognise it, and we can tell it to write in that style.”

“But what if the machine gets punishment, for ‘plagiarism’?” Vladimir said dramatically. “But is good idea, I will get robot clone and never do another English assignment. We will become like Paul McCartney.”

“Very good. Just don’t mention Frankenstein in your assignments,” Sharak laughed. “We’ll test the assignments with a few different machines to see what works, but wouldn’t want to stumble into Afterglow’s wrath.”

“Since you mention it,” Crucis replied. “Have you tried to input ‘Frank N. Stine’ instead, to see if the automaton still gets mad? With the ‘N.’ as a middle name, I mean.”

“You know, we should try it,” Sharak said.

“Absolutely. The works on DeathGang are nearly done, maybe in ten minutes. While checking, I’ll try that on Afterglow, seems like a lark,” Fahiz said.

Akshel had crouched down, quietly explaining a few of the poems’ unfamiliar words to Vladimir and Konstantin. He had begun to take an interest in the automatons.

“So I’m not that literary, but this machine stuff is quite interesting,” Akshel said. “Sort of wondering what they’ll do next! Nifty buggers.”

“Yeah,” said Modrea, who had been resting outside. “I mean, I’m just reading this stuff now, but it’s quite impressive what machines can do.”

“Indeed,” Sharak said, as he knelt beside the fireplace. “Much of what was previously called integral to art is, it turns out, not truly necessary. The mechanical efficiency is an affront to the so-called ‘deep sensitivity’ of the artist, but it is often the case that ‘deeply emotional’ people write verses so trite and conventional than an automaton would do much better. It plays a game with words, when lesser artists vainly seek absolution in them.”

Fahiz heard a piece of paper fall to the ground in the room of automatons, and ran over to pick it up. Sharak seemed to be sorting the pile of books carefully on the drawer.

“So, we have some report on the meeting of the other Guild leaders,” DicingDevil said loudly to the group. “Apart from occasional in-fighting, and a few blame-games about the war, it was apparently quite fun. They even tried wagging their fingers at us and saying they’ll report us to the law when we leave the game soon. Well, I guess we’ll all get ‘ganking’ on our rap sheet.”

Crucis laughed. “I daresay we will have taken enough of their lives by then to justify the cost. After all, in courts wise men have legislated the universe, and we have violated these laws. As a result, our existence — or those of any other vagabonds — should scarcely be considered possible. Yet these others have lives protected by law, so therefore to kill them is to take a life, to cut off a noble being so noble as to deserve enshrinement in law, and to kill or incarcerate us is to take barely anything from us. A profit without cost — even the bourgeois who manufacture our law should quake with envy.”

“Surely people can be locked up as long by now for using sanctioned words as for manslaughter or murder,” Danemy shrugged.

“I could be locked up longer than either,” Starfighter said boastfully. “You fools will only get 1 life sentence, I will get 50 of them and a fine of $6 trillion. You will watch in awe as I reincarnate as exotic beasts, and am each time immediately imprisoned by the long arm of the law.”

“But if your ‘sentence’ doesn’t include at least a few offensive curse-words, then it is barely a matter for criminal justice.”

“Quite true. But enough about the law. As I’ve never read it, because I am on the run from it, I have no quarrel with it. But those who trust in the law are locked up in towns, stagnating and falling behind. In the higher-level areas, people PvP often, because it’s a competitive area where everyone guns for a few valuable mobs — and the most aggressive Guilds take them. So if the leaders are trying to pacify their Guilds with such hopes, then it is fine: the more pacified, the more they are like lambs to slaughter.”

“Quite true,” Crucis said, pleased to hear that the Guilds’ will may be weakening.

“Yes. Well, Darys included a few quotes in his briefing,” DicingDevil said. “One was, ‘We can’t say for sure that DeathGang started it, since apparently the area was covered by a thick mist. And there was allegedly a bear? But that’s crazy. It doesn’t matter who did it, we should hold DeathGang accountable!’ Also, ‘The poor kids, why? Why why why why why? We should form our own feds, we should kill the monsters!'”

“Oh no, they’ll SWAT us,” Crucis said.

“That first quote — did he mean to say that out loud?” Danemy asked.

“Perhaps not. There’s more, but we can watch it later anyway,” DicingDevil said. “But here’s Fahiz.”

Fahiz was carrying two sheets of paper, both adorned with the familiar, ragtag ink patterns that Deep Afterglow scattered across the page.

He addressed them calmly. “Here’s a poem I found in a file next to it, it seems to be another one of Afterglow’s earliest poems.”

MUTE II

by AZRAEL

To my eyes, your hopes and dreams,

And the chattering thoughts beside them, appear,

Are blunted, and die like a reflection

Fading by night.

You lie still in your lily-white room,

Eyes wide open, as if to welcome the morning’s light.

Unseen I hover above on the wing.

You not once saw me —

You not once heard me —

While I lived here, alienated.

Thick fog crests at daybreak,

In a canopy it steals light

And daylight dies in your eyes.

You will no longer see.

I hang in the air unmoving,

An emotionless raven sigil

That wards away life.

The motion and blinding ambition in you

Are suffocated out by paralysis

Constricting until they are baptised

In death’s Lethean waters.

It is the ghost of a waking.

The poem reminded Crucis of the [Spark] ability’s effect. He didn’t have much time to muse about this, however, as Fahiz quickly moved on to the next sheet of paper.

“So, I tried your suggestion,” Fahiz said, “and these are the poems by Frank N. Stein.”

HADES’ ODE**

“A bad poem is worth more than a good critic.” – Oscar White, Stormface.

“I know nothing of modernism, only that it is so cretinous that Douglas’ ‘futurism’ must be its natural development.” – Lars Ulryche.

See, see the gold-scarred morn

Drain into Hades’ black bile depths.

Tell me, Persephone, do you

Wonder why the sun now ignores you?

I can tell you, it is

Worried by the cancerous tumour on your face

That looks like

A pig’s underside.

What’s more, it knows

Your eyes are the centre

Of a corpse flower.

Everything under the wild gold-bladed sky

Asks why, why do you even bother?

Your wantonness has ever been

You only charm, cockroach.

HAMLET’S VERSE

“The King is with the body, but the body is not with the King.” – Prince Hamlet.

A man has died in the pest-house,

And they are bearing him to his grave.

The long procession flies by the window,

Quite like a swarm of flies.

“It has a certain je ne sais quoi,” Crucis said, as he finished the first poem.

“Are the quotations spurious, as I’d assume? I think it not a problem if they are, for they are a thing of beauty and thus, as Keats said, ultimately genuine,” Fahiz said.

“Probably. Oscar White seems like the machine’s twist on the ever-present quotes of Oscar Wilde. Grisier might know the other one.”

Grisier took the cue. “Lars Ulryche is, um, a portmanteau of the infamous Metallica drummer with something.”

“I see. Seemingly the automaton is having fun with it,” Fahiz said. “Though I guess we shouldn’t try this prompt too often, because it seems quite ready to explode back into a sea of invective.”

“At least it is directed at Persephone, not us, for now,” Crucis remarked.

“Precisely, it is all about having a scapegoat,” Fahiz said. “By the way, Sharak, another Hamlet verse for your collection.”

“Excellent,” Sharak said, looking over. “Quite a lofty poem, I’ll be sure to include it. For the moment, though, I’ve sorted through the nameless books and I’m curious if you would all be willing to help me categorise them.”

“Sure thing, that looks like about twelve books, shouldn’t take long. We have a long journey back to come, and then a celebration on arrival. Let’s give this a try.”

Crucis saw a quest appear for the party, giving the task, ‘Help the two Pyromancers to sort their books of magic.’ It had a high EXP reward, as well as some valuable items for the Mage class.

The quest’s description seemed off, since these were not books of magic and the NPCs were not Pyromancers. Crucis guessed that, after the bug, this area had transformed considerably from its original design. These two NPCs might have displaced the original setting, which was probably a house containing two Pyromancers who quickly gave a generic quest to sort their spellbooks. At present, it was quite different.