__________________________________________________ **** “Help me,” Dorianna said. And for days, her words echo, like capricious poltergeists, trapped in the thought-clogged space between Ilya’s ears. He has tried to find escape from them…in meditation, in studies in the library, in nights of fevered dalliance with Aleo…but always, the words echo, incessantly. Now, deep in the bowels of Library Central, he interrogates Dorianna’s chip, after dozens of similar inquiries. He knows every subjective minute of the recording, and he is accustomed to the waves of vertiginous disorientation that her gear recorded as the pilot caressed her nerves with focused tendrils of invasive electricity. He has felt pilot’s telepathy before: that fast invasion that pilot-swimmers (among themselves) call common speech. Cloistered Brothers who hold rank as reader-adepts possess similar abilities. It’s all a matter of focusing, on keying into the right spectrum of ion-balances and impulse potentials, of knowing which electrical signatures telltale the presence of thoughts themselves. You read with your hands, with your flesh…through electrocytes budded at the ends of specialized nerves. You are given such nerves at birth, if the Ministry of Interior Resources determines that your parents have provided you with an optimal genetic mix. Ilya has such a mix. Aleo does as well. And for reasons Ilya cannot fully articulate, this entire affair is about the pilot in the bar…not his action itself, but something else. His ability, Ilya thinks. But he can think no farther, can draw no more conclusions. “Take a break,” the sudden voice behind his right shoulder is a welcome intrusion. Aleo. Hands knead a massage into the flesh of Ilya’s shoulders, as Aleo plants a kiss on the crown of Ilya’s head. “You’re tired…you’re nothing but knots.” Ilya leans back, feeling Aleo behind him and languishing for a moment in the warmth of contact. “Where’s Dashenka?” “I left her sleeping. She needs it.” “You put her to sleep, you mean.” “I gave her chamomile and hif.” “She’s going to curse you for the dreams you’re making her have.” “She’ll be all right.” The library is as silent as its name would imply. Other Cloistered Brothers sit in study of whatever topics demand their attention. Holograms float in tanks of viewing mist, while figures in black cassocks, and rough-weave robes cluster around the complex plays of light, whispering among themselves and yes, touching one another in the manner of electrical speech. Ilya, separate from them, sits in a tech-dissection booth, staring at upper cusp of the black chip, slotted into the reader. Blue and green telltales wink and stutter as layers of stored information are penetrated. He touches the PAUSE icon, glowing in soft, soft yellow, as Aleo settles into the seat beside him. “You’re onto something,” Aleo says. “I have an idea…but that’s all.” “Yeah…?.” Ilya inhales, stretches his legs beneath the work-desk, and casts a sidelong glance at Aleo. “If Dashenka is correct, then we can assume that there’s active plotting going on in Centralist Territory.” Aleo nods. “There will be traces of that in the common ideosphere.” “Subjective traces…far too open to radical, and even baseless interpretation.” “But traces nonetheless.” Aleo nods. “I’m drafting a report. I’m submitting it to the Frontier Guard, and the Pilot’s House, as well as to Cloister-house itself. I’m also presenting the proposal that we requisition at least one comm-fleet to monitor the transmission bubbles emanating from the Centralist Capital planets.” Aleo whistles in apparent wonder. “That’ll take at least two fleets…fifty pilot-swimmers and nearly a thousand reader-adepts, symbol analysts, and encoders.” “A drop in the river.” “And I assume you’re enclosing a copy of Dashenka’s chip with this report.” Dashenka…they’ve called her that for days now…subjective proof that her defection has already been accepted. She is at rest in Cloister-house itself, under escort: Ilya and Aleo are her primary contacts, her guides, and from the sounds emanating from Brother Superior Makindé’s office, her defection is final and accepted. But there remain details--the subtlest forms of diplomatic threat-dancing. It occurs now, Ilya thinks, and though the sense is purely subjective, and driven by more than just a dollop of fear, he can sense fleets realigning, shipping lanes shifting--because of the fallout from one woman’s desperate action. There will be troop deployments: saber-rattling gestures along the Nemaean/Centralist borders. He expects all of this. But what occurs in the following week is the singular thing that startles him. “The Lev departs for Dansk in two days,” Brother Superior Makindé announces, from behind the intimidating expanse of his blackwood desk. “The chip you’ve interrogated proves exceptionally advantageous to us, and I’d like to personally extend the gratitude of the Frontier Guard and the Cloister to you.” It is always a daunting thing to sit here, in the austerity of the Brother Superior’s office. Ilya keeps his expression as bland and impassive as possible, but he cannot focus away from the nervous energy racing through his fingertips. He furls his fists in his lap, until his nails bite crescents into the flesh of his palms. “This chip also represents a quantum leap in understanding the subtleties that rule Centralist Space…the pilot’s interrogation of Dorianna Eiker has drawn the attention of the Frontier Guard, as it provides valuable physiological information on our Centralist neighbors, and allows us to explore new defensive possibilities against future Centralist incursions.” There is more, but the Brother Superior says nothing in regard to this… There are--most assuredly--dark lines of reasoning at play here; black agendas, Ilya thinks, will reveal themselves in the upcoming months. There is more at work in Brother Superior Makindé’s mind than he’s letting on, and only time will tell what particular direction such mind-works will take. But the Brother Superior smiles now. His skin is darker than Aleo’s, the set of his cheekbones is proof of his Mali-Dahomey origins, and his skin, for all of it’s light-swallowing darkness, seems to glow with some strange, inner light. Grim potential, if the hawkish glint in his gaze is any indication. Aleo sits forward. “This chip…it’s a full biometric survey of Dorianna Eiker…we have similar biometric surveys. How is this one different?” The Brother-Superior smiles. “It’s different, because it also contains subtle backchannel access codes. As a result of this, we now possess the ability to break Centralist encryption protocols and directly access the cybernetic enhancements of distinct individuals within the Centralist communities. Dorianna Eiker coded those encryption bypasses into her own ‘ware, and our pilot friend accessed them. They’re woven into the map of her nervous system that he read, and playback of the chip-recording reveals those codes, albeit subliminally.” And in that moment, time stops. The air congeals into something thick and cloying. The hairs on Ilya’s arms stand at rigid, bronze attention. “In light of our current situation,” Makindé says after a short pause, “Dorianna Eiker has been granted asylum within the Nemaean Territories. Her movements, will, however be limited, until she is fully acclimated. I’m assigning the two of you to work as her shepherds, to ensure that she becomes fully acclimated to our ways of life. In addition to these duties, you will introduce her to observers ranked within the Frontier Guard. There does, after all, exist the possibility that Eiker’s defection is a ruse, intended to give Centralist forces some…foothold here. However unlikely this possibility may be, it must be considered. It is not your primary concern, however.” Makindé pauses and sits back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Your concerns are now at the service of the Cloister-house at Fyodorov, on Nemaea. Dorianna Eiker will accompany you there. She’ll be given residence that we’ve already arranged. Though your primary duties will be as her shepherds…you’ll also work in conjunction with meme-analysis and strategy teams assigned to further interrogations of the chip she’s delivered. Your full orders will be couriered to you tomorrow morning.” Makindé pauses again and smiles, oh-so-faintly. “Whether by chance or design, you’ve drawn the attention of Cloister Central, and it is an honor to have served as your Brother Superior during this time. Central’s demands are harsher, but I’m sure you’ll serve well. Congratulations.” And with those words, the meeting ends. **** Someday, Ilya will ask Dorianna what it is that drove her to make so grand and treacherous a move. He may find out without ever asking. The answer--in some way--is on the chip she has coded. But in the back of his mind--far back, beyond all conscious thoughts--lies the awareness that perhaps he should speak to her, and hear her own reasons, in the cadence of her own voice. There will be stories, after all, contained in the tones of each spoken word, and as one adept in listening, he will learn those stories. But now, late in the night, he simply shares the darkness and hif-infused tea with Aleo. There is scant noise beyond the confines of their shared cell. Cloister-house seems unusually quiet. There is a breeze beyond the window, and in it, Ilya can hear the rustling of trees. And deep within that sound, he thinks, he can hear the sound of change: the faintest of whispers telling him that after tonight, the worlds will be different places. He and Aleo have scarcely spoken since returning from Brother-Superior Makindé office, and now, in the haphazard nest of bedding, he snuggles into Aleo’s embrace and listens to the soft wind, and the steady rhythm of Aleo’s breathing. Tomorrow, he thinks, will come on its own, with whatever changes a single data-chip has wrought. But tonight, as on nights in the past, the sound of Aleo, breathing calmly, is enough. **** Here, the tale of "The Guardian" ends, but the story of Ilya and Aleo and Dorianna is far from over. Coming soon: "Death and Rumors."