Partisan Saga, Chapter I - The Things That Belong to Us

In the time before the War of Knowledge, the Selectors established their vast civilization apart from the Collaboration and their insistence on public possession of knowledge. Varied and mysterious, the citizens shared with only those they deemed worthy, withholding all else. Among the Elite, the most secrets were known, though access to this fount dropped rapidly as ranks descended.

The average among them knew only his or her business. The secrets of true power, devastating power, were closely guarded for the sake of peace. The secrets of person, likewise kept, for the sake of dignity. For most, this was enough. They were content to live their lives as they came, sharing what they chose, when they chose. They harbored no regret nor hard feelings for the things not shared, for a person’s knowledge, precious though it was, had to them always existed as a sacred thing because of such intimacy.
                 However, others among the Selection questioned the limits of such complacency. While they certainly agreed upon the keeping of secrets, there were disagreements about which knowledge should be made more available- and how it should be used. The personal, the intimate- these were for the people, to keep to themselves and perhaps their families, if deemed appropriate. As for other secrets, well, they imagined that such should be wielded by all for the good of the state, to protect themselves should the need arise.
                Chief among those who sought this were individuals who had already conceded their personal stores of information to the Collaborators before the separation and the following truce.  Feeling embittered from their losses, these individuals harbored hostility. They desired vengeance, the ability to strike at the Collaboration and take back what had been unjustly shared, ideals hidden behind the simple, reasonable desire to protect themselves from any further incursion brought on by the Collaborators. Given their sacrifices, they simply could not bring themselves to trust the Collaborators.
                At the time of this unrest, the Selector society was led by the twins Pelomect, Cagneidu and Oddriser- powerful nobles whom had been prominent even before the splitting of the communities. Pelomect Cagneidu looked upon the discontent with a sympathetic, though perhaps  uncompromising eye. While he understood the pain they suffered, for he had lost some of his more precious secrets, he believed that the only way to maintain peace was to bear such indignities in favor of preventing more. Pelomect Oddriser likewise sympathized with the more restless individuals, though to a degree even greater than that of his brother.  He disagreed with the notion of accepting their losses as a necessary evil, and while he believed in peace, he also believed in justice. He tried, without success, to bring his brother to his point of view, but Cagneidu remained steadfast on the idea of letting the past remain in the past, and making the best of the future through careful planning and instruction of society.
                Because of the convictions he could not relinquish, Oddriser took it upon himself to lead a party of likeminded individuals into negotiating with the Collaboration. While some animosity lingered, he did this not as an attempt to steal or cause strife, as Selectors had done in the past, but only in order to secure what had originally belonged to himself and his people. More than anything, Cagneidu was wary of his brother’s intentions, as he wanted to avoid a repeat of the past atrocities above all else. 

**

The day was unusually hot, and Cagneidu knew from experience that it would make the people restless.  He himself felt a desire to pace, simultaneous with the desire to do nothing at all on account of the heat. The open windows allowed a sluggish breeze through that didn’t quite cool, but it was better than nothing. Something outside caught his attention; he rose and peered out the window to see a small gathering of men grouped in a rough semicircle. He recognized a few of those who had assembled, most prominent of all the one who held their attention.
                “Oddriser.”
                Palomect Oddriser turned to regard his brother leaning out of the window. “Cagneidu.” He turned back to his men.
                “Brother,” Cagneidu continued. “Come inside.”
                Oddriser glanced back to Cagneidu. “Can’t it wait, brother?”
                “I only need a moment of your time.”
                Oddriser gave his men a curt nod, then hurried around the building to the front door. Cagneidu met him in the entry hall.

 “Brother. What is it that you intend to do?”
                “We are going to the First Library to reclaim our stories. Shall I collect yours as well?”
                Cagneidu thought for a moment. “No. Brother, why can you not leave the Collaboration be? We have achieved the society that we sought.”
                “Have we?” Oddriser challenged. “We skulk on the outskirts, and they still hold our secrets. Things that rightfully belong to us. Things they have no business, nor need, knowing.”
                “I understand your frustration,” Cagneidu replied. “But the last thing anyone needs is another open conflict. Think of the last time Selectors took it upon themselves to take engage the Collaboration. Do you believe that they will not retaliate should you strike them?”
                “I expect they would, dear brother.”
                “Then you can see that what you propose is not wise.”
                “I am not proposing that we strike them. No, what I propose is the recollection of our stories, brother. That is where the self- professed ‘true’ Selectors failed. Their greed cost them –cost us- everything. All I seek is reclamation, brother. Only the information that they stole from us in the first place. They should not begrudge us that.”
                “And what of their information? Their secrets?”
                “What about them? Such things belong to them, and it would be poor of me to take them.”
                “We agree.”
                “Yes, brother. Their secrets remain theirs. Our secrets return to us. Everyone can then live as they see fit. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
                Cagneidu thought for a moment, carefully reading his brother’s expression. “Wait a moment, Oddriser. I must ready some things.”
                “Will you be joining us then?”
                “No. Someone must stay here and mind our people. I entrust this task of retrieval to you and your cohorts.”
                “Then…?”
                “I am going to send a messenger ahead to the Collaboration.”
                “What?!” Oddriser quickly composed himself. “Rather, what purpose would that serve?”
                “If you intend only what you have told me, what difference does it make?”
                “I would not lie to you, brother. I just fear that such an errand is wasted.”
                “On the contrary. Such an errand would actually benefit both parties, and uphold the peace that you and I have sought.”
                “Explain.”
                “I will tell the Collaboration that you are coming in peace. This will absolve them of their fears and ensure you and your party are not met with violence.”
                Oddriser nodded carefully. “You plan well, brother. I shall let my followers know.” He turned to leave.
                Cagneidu lifted a hand. “I will also inform them that your intent is simply what belongs to you, and advise them that you will be bringing a ledger with the listed pieces of information.”
                “A ledger?!”
                “This ensures that they do not fail to acquire every item you seek, and surrender it to you. It also would prevent errors if someone should say, ask for information that did not originate from among our Selector brethren.” Cagneidu smiled. “If we are focused on but recouping our own losses, then such trivial details only serve to smooth the process and prevent misunderstandings of any sort.”
                “You are correct as always, brother.” Oddriser dipped his head some. “Send your messenger, and I shall personally see to that an accurate ledger is drawn up before we proceed.”
                Cagneidu nodded in return. “Thank you for your understanding.”
                “Your trust is not misplaced.”

***

                Once Oddriser and his band had left, Cagneidu returned to his room, shut the door to his chamber and drew closed the curtains as well. He waited for several heartbeats, then finally pulled open a drawer and retrieved a small stone tablet.
                “Counsel,” he whispered. Nothing happened. Then, he heard a faint scuffing, before a quiet voice came in reply.
                “Cagneidu. Is something wrong?”
                “Are you alone?”
                “Yes, friend. What’s the matter?”
                “Nothing yet. However, my brother and I spoke about his visiting the Collaboration.”
                “Oddriser has no love for us.”
                “Nor do the Collaborators have any for him.”
                “What does he want?”
                “He seeks to retrieve the information wrested from our people.”
                “I see why you’ve contacted me then. I shall alert the guard-”
                “No. That will only make things worse.”
                “What would you suggest then? The people are not likely to sit by as he strolls into the city, much less the First Library.”
                “I would ask that you meet his requests, and peaceably so.”
                “I do not know if the High Collaborators will agree to that.”
                “I am hoping that they will realize Oddriser’s good intentions and respect his request. Merely a compromise to soothe those who have suffered unjustly.
                “I will see what I can do,” Counsel replied.
                “I expect my brother and his party will arrive in a day’s time,” Cagneidu said. “I will alert you as to when they leave, and what they seek, so that you and the Collaboration may be ready.”
                “Of course, Cagneidu,” Counsel replied. “I appreciate your forthcoming with such a delicate matter.”
                “Oddriser means well,” Cagneidu told him. “I know he does. But he is also angry.”
                “Rightfully so, I’m afraid,” Counsel agreed. “But you and I both know that this peace is rather fragile. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”
                “We agree.”
                “I will do everything in my power to ensure that your brother and his comrades are met peacefully, and the information they seek is provided.  I will also attempt to secure lodging, should they wish to stay for a day or two following their journey.”
                “Your hospitality does not go unappreciated, friend.”
                “One more thing, Cagneidu. Does Oddriser know of this?”
                “I have spoken to Oddriser and told him I would contact the Collaboration on his behalf. He understands that I seek only to mediate the transaction to ensure no one comes to harm.”
                “And he agreed to your terms?”
                “Oddriser and I may not always see eye to eye,” Cagneidu admitted. “But he understands the situation just as much as you or I. A confrontation would not be to his benefit either.”
                “Let us hope you are right, my friend.”

The Assassination of Norman Sterrn

Monday, December 14^th

6:35 A.M.

Subject Norman Sterrn rises. Starts coffee. Showers. Dresses.

7:00 A.M.

Subject finishes morning routine and takes coffee to go. Proceeds east along Elmore Street to subway station.

7:07 A.M.

Subject purchases two sandwiches from the stand in the subway. Waits with other commuters for the 7:15 Eastbound.

7:16 A.M.

Subject boards 7:15 Eastbound train.

7:30 A.M.

Subject departs from train at Harding Street Station.

7:34 A.M.

Subject crosses to Dumount Street and enters Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

12:02 P.M.

Subject exits Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter and heads north on Casada Street for half a block.

12:10 P.M.

Subject eats lunch in Casada Park.

12:23 P.M.

Subject heads south on Casada Street for half a block.

12:30 P.M.

Subject reenters Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

4:33 P.M

Subject exits Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

4:34 P.M.

Subject crosses to Harding Street and enters Subway.

4:40 P.M.

Subject joins other commuters waiting for 4:45 Westbound.

4:47 P.M.

Subject boards the 4:45 Westbound train.

5:01 P.M.

Subject departs from the 4:45 Westbound. Proceeds west along Elmore Street.

5:12 P.M.

Subject enters home.

                The chiming of his alarm pulled him from the deep, dreamless sleep. Precise, automatic, his hand came down on the clock even as he slid out of bed. 6:35 A.M. Coffee, Shower- these were not thoughts, but simply steps to initiate the day. Once the pot had been started, he returned to his room and undressed, taking care to place his clothing in the hamper. Then, towel in hand, he proceeded to the bathroom.
                He stepped into the water as soon as it came on, paying no mind to the cold. His nullified thought oversaw every process. Soap, lather, rinse. Again for good measure.  After his second rinse, he immediately shut off the water and slid open the shower door. He took care to dry mostly within the confines of the tub, throwing the towel to the floor to catch excess water as he stepped out.
                In his bedroom, he pulled his clothing from the chair and dressed quickly, glancing to the clock more from habit than concern. 6:43 A.M. He’d lost a minute. Now, he glanced to the palm of his left hand. The circular burn remained intact. He made a mental note to check in anyway; the fact that he had even begun to wonder suggested that he would need retuning.

                Because of such delays, he left his apartment two minutes behind schedule; he accelerated his typical pace in order to account for the difference. He figured a 73% chance of the train arriving late, but better to hurry in order to compensate for unforeseen variables. The foot traffic, for one, was more congested than average. He scanned ahead only to plot every step, and further quickened his pace.
                Within the subway, the crowd had swelled to the size he’d anticipated. 7:08. Well within his timeframe, but below his average. As he purchased two sandwiches from the deli counter, he began calculating ways to make up for his recent underperformance. He moved methodically through the crowd toward the platform, where he waited the last seven minutes for the Eastbound train.
                The train pulled in at 7:19, and he boarded. He’d already determined that he’d still make it to work early, with a margin of nearly three minutes. Between now and then, his gaze returned to his left palm. Had the pattern changed?
                Impossible. He looked up from his hand just as the train pulled up to his stop. Also impossible; on average, the trip took thirteen minutes. He glanced at his watch. 7:32. He filtered off the train with the rest of the traffic. The station clock also read 7:32, 33 now even as he stared at it. He glanced back toward the train as it pulled away. Just a moment ago…
                Replacing the seal had now increased in priority. Today, after work, before the sowing, he would have the procedure performed. He could not endanger his duties with such carelessness.

{VV[-]}

                If there’s one thing Icarus had realized, it was that the perfect timing of others made for perfection in his own operations. He stepped away from the wall as the man passed, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. The most amiable of gestures. His new friend did not resist, following his lead into the alleyway without so much as a word of protest.
                “What are you?” his captive asked. By now, anyone passing on the street would be unconcerned with their conversation. Perfect, indeed.
                “What are you talking about?” Icarus asked him. Overhead, he felt an odd sort of trembling. A glance revealed the air had become distorted; something was fighting it for space.
                “I know you can see it,” he continued, not even turning to face Icarus, nor flinching as the knife came to rest on his throat. “And if you can see it, that means you know what I am.”
                “Yeah,” Icarus muttered. “I guess we can’t really do this with any more subtlety, can we?” He shrugged. “I’ll make it painless though.”
                “You’ll try.”  The captive fell rather suddenly to the right, even as the distortion shot toward the alley floor.
                Icarus hurled himself away; where he’d stood moments before, a crater. The air began to distort again, splotches here and there that listed dangerously in his direction. Icarus reached with clear deliberation into his coat. “You don’t want to do this.”
                Before either could act further, a quintet of needles suddenly appeared in the captive’s right shoulder. The distortions vanished.
                Slowly, with his good arm, he reached across his chest to feel the needles buried in it. “Impossible,” he mumbled.
                “ ’fraid not,” Icarus replied, turning his back. Behind him came a short grunt and the gushing sound of blood. He took a slow breath and turned back to find two men hoisting the Blue’s corpse up between them. “Did we have to do him right here in the alley?” he asked.
                “We?” the larger of the two asked. “What did you do?”
                “Well, I did the surveillance. And I’m the one who got him back here.”
                “And he almost got the drop on you,” the smaller of the two replied, pushing his glasses further up on his pointed nose. “You’re slipping, Icarus.”
                Icarus looked away, out toward the alley, where people continued about their business with no idea of the harm they’d been spared. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
                “Take this seriously,” the smaller man continued. “have you forgotten our mission?”
                “You think he gives a shit about the mission?” the larger man asked. “He’s just spoiled street trash, living it up now that he’s got daddy looking out for him.”
                “Is that what you think?” Icarus’ brows rose as he mused over his adversary’s words.
                “You heard me, rat. You’re only with us because Draven wills it. We’ll see how the council feels when your doddering old man is but a memory.”
                “Enough,” the smaller man interjected. “We’re still on a job. Let’s get rid of this filth and return to headquarters.”
                Icarus glanced between the two of them; with a small smile, he shook off the challenge. “I’ll bring the car around.”

The Beckoning

The smell of recently laid sorrow hung over the city, a cloud, a rain, a gloominess that stifled life. Even as the darkness of the evening fell away before the dawn, the chill of tragic air persisted, carrying on the Blues’ age old war, a crusade for realization. However, they had their own wars to fight. Their battles could hardly be fought by shuffling down dreary and shadowed streets in cowardice- no, that wouldn’t solve anything. And so, as the warm, incandescent sun rose over a world soaked so thoroughly in despair, they rose as well, ascending to the highest places within the city.

They gathered in small groups, positioning themselves in twos and threes upon high rises and rooftops. Facing the dawn, they found no need to hide their faces. Only on the most sacred of days did they don hoods for their objective, and only then in order to throw themselves away. Only by stifling themselves could they let The Drive stand for itself, unhindered by the mere vessels that carried it forward. Today was no such day, so instead they donned only the red sashes- a potent, though reserved, reminder of their mission.

As devoted as he was, he preferred the sash to the entire raiment. This came not from a lack of reverence- if anything, the opposite. He could embrace the Drive with everything he was, and share the actualization of pure will fused with mankind. This morning, His mid-length hair tumbled almost as freely as the sash, though the latter burned far brighter; a crimson that caught the sun beautifully, a ruby river leading dawn to the city. Such could not be done justice by cloaks and cowls, nor could their task in service to the world. No, the power, the motivation to strive- humanity’s gift, humanity’s responsibility- this could not be tucked away by such simple means.
            “The sash goes around your waist,” one of the others informed him.

“If you’re serious about something, you don’t wear it on your waist,” he retorted. His sash followed the wind’s bidding, and having been wound about his neck and shoulders, fell just short of flying away. “You hold it up high where everyone can see it.”
            “You look ridiculous.”
            “You want to make something of it?” Silence; Only the wind and the nearly muted sounds of street life far below them. “I didn’t think so.”

He shut his eyes, as did the other Reds scattered over the rooftops. Their trappings defined them, pinpoints of blood and life over a dull and somber city. Amidst the murky fog of the Blues’ misery, he concentrated. The vibrations within his tomes resonated with his physical body, bolstering the flames within his own heart. All over the city, droplets of blood burned into fire, and the air stirred once more, but no longer from natural wind alone. Now, the air nearly hummed with the all but intangible nature of their efforts. The Reds bled their energy down the walls of the buildings, their infernos pouring out of their hearts to extinguish despair. With each pulse of their beings, wave upon wave of embers tumbled down upon the cracked and broken streets, into the subdued souls of the populace, reigniting their wills. The unsuspecting passerby, their spirits warmed by the secret gift of the Reds, continued upon their journeys, a little more strength burning in their steps, a little more determination gleaming in their eyes.

Transformation

                The chamber was dark, even darker than his usual den; here flames did not alight the savagely inscribed walls, nor did it illuminate the fierce mural of the ceiling that bore down upon his place. No, here he had forbidden the torchlight- or so he told himself. Perhaps the darkness stemmed from the chamber’s position- buried within the earth beneath the whole of his power. Above him, the temple thrived on the presence of fire, each charge dancing most fervently about the circling wall. Higher still, the candle that begat such sprites. It represented a power of its own, lent itself perhaps to the most fundamental of his manifestations.
                The candle ran over with its own wax, a substance that waned the moment he thought of it, a warning he heeded quite well. If he turned his thoughts from it, the flame upon that fated wick would burn with no notice, only to demand its offering when he returned to its power. His power. It would ignite everything in his den should he let it, from the stone to the furs to the string-webbed beads to the glass misty mirrors which had grown along the walls. Mirrors he had dreamed of, mirrors he could not see through.
                Lately the dreams had grown worse. The mirrors had grown angry. No longer were they content to hover, half veiled in darkness on the outskirts of his vision. Were they enraged that he could not make out their reflections? Or perhaps that he dared try and understand them, dare to look at them at all? It didn’t make sense. No, if anything they were furious with his inaction, his complacency. He made a fist, and the glass shuddered in response. The mists stirred, but he could make nothing out. It didn’t matter- something to say as much for himself as well as the power that eluded him.
                A march down the halls revealed everything else as it should be. He took the hall of restless stones, a journey beset by the cavernous walls and their perfectly angled etches- precision surprising for chambers such as his. They carved out the stories of the golem, whose indomitable stone form held at bay the enemies of the people. The stone’s very spirit enamored the people, and with the golem’s strength in their hearts they took up weapons and held their kingdom from those who would destroy it.
                Stone gave way to wood, to mud… here the influence of the lower chamber leaked into his den. The water dripped from between the garbled roots and dampened dirt, falling to the canopy above- branches so dense, the burning sky could barely be seen. Written in the leaves and the trunks were the stories of the Jaguar, a being so swift as to elude adversaries with no effort, only to strike and strike true at the moment of choosing. Written in the beast’s hide were every prayer, every message, every word of the people, transferred for miles upon miles of untamed terrain, linking together those who would be otherwise lost.
                And, much like the Jaguar, whose power allowed reach to the abandoned, here within his place lie the means to do so- string upon strand, passionately woven cords that spilled together with an intricate, yet savage perfection. The nexuses of beads and bone and feather intertwined with one another, forming a nest of sorts. Far below the fletching, rain poured from the clouds and came to greet him. The steam brought by the downpour owed but a part of its heat to the candlelit sky that pervaded. The other part, perhaps more significant, paid homage to the phoenix, whose burning plumage restored the souls of the lost. Flying overhead, it inspired them more quickly than even the jaguar, the warmth, the fervor so unshakable.
                The candle loved each of these, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the wax would melt near endless to express this devotion, hardening the golem’s hide, lightening the Jaguar’s steps, warming and widening the phoenix’s wings. But what of the power buried? Not the mirrors that hid between the walls, but the dampness in the forest, the rain in the open sky, the mud on the mountain? And so he found himself before that altar, bathed in the coolness of the cavern, the darkness of the pool. When he thought, the water stirred- not quite a boil, for no heat existed; but it moved nonetheless, of itself, and in rivers throughout his halls.
                Yes, the pool loved each of these as well, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the waters would flow to express this devotion. But to what effect?