act34side

Voice Log #33

(Unknown language, unknown time)

The stargate's remodeling plan is an apparent success, and we have re-established a connection with Talos. A two-year backlog of information has been flooding in, but it is bare of any good tidings.

First it was the observatory stations on the asteroid belt, then the entire system's interstellar hub. Finally, the cruise fleets orbiting hospitable planets also fell into silence.

Even the ancient colonial fleet turned into a nomadic museum was not spared the same fate.

Along with these shocking revelations came similarly unexpected data left behind by Valeria. Her notes resembled her very being: long-winded and inexhaustible.

However, she seemed to have spent her last days repeatedly poring over literature and history alongside the technical documents. Studying how these great men died, what their last words and epitaphs were...

Like a child on the day before their coming-of-age ceremony, rifling through their parent's wardrobe in a frantic search for attire dignified enough for an adult.

Did she find her own life inadequate? Insufficiently weighty?

No, she left practically all that she had at the stargate. If she had lived in the past, wouldn't her achievements have been inserted into the annals of history?

But now it seemed nothing more than a narrow door opened between two tiny locked rooms in the dark. I fear it won't be long before the door is shut once more.

In the end, the history of humanity has exceeded the bounds of humanity itself, hah.

Reading error occurred (2).

Run fault diagnostics?

Do you need my help, Mr. Avitus?

Oh, no. I was merely observing this abandoned Little Handy.

Abandoned...? By who?

Don't worry, that's not important. What brings you here, Jordi?

I'm hoping to find something to do. We're clearly in dire straits, and I'm sure this city is full of problems in need of solving. They just won't reveal themselves to me.

Generally speaking, in that situation you should go to the Institute of Development Planning for an assessment.

However, if you were looking for me specifically, I'll try my best to help you out.

You're a highly experienced and respected scholar, after all, and many in the city call you Magister.

Magister? My last work was 'The Death of Life,' a book with no educational value whatsoever.

I-I read it, actually. Although I couldn't understand much, with so many cryptic words. Like starship, stargate... it seemed like from another world.

'Another world.' Hah, you're right about that.

But I find myself undeserving of the title Magister. Often times I find myself lost in confusion.

Jordi, do you remember when I told you that blood ties were unimportant?

I do, but I already...

I may have been a bit misleading. While we indeed care little for blood relations, 'relationships' themselves are an excellent lead to follow.

When one is lost, one ought to find a connection to reality—be it a life or an ideal—and seek a way out.

Otherwise you'll end up like me, sinking into an extended questioning of the value of your own existence.

If I may be so bold, can I ask whatyour own 'relationship' is...?

My Familiar.

How, exactly...?

She shared the same thoughts and goals, and would enrich both my spirit and my ideas. I loved her as ardently as I loved Ægir, as well as everything we've done for it.

I live a life surrounded by mountains of prehistoric material written in their strange script and incomprehensible grammar... I enjoy the process of translating it into Ægirian text.

That was how we met, and I still remember how she'd throw herself into her work... Her eyebrows seemed to dance whenever she talked about something of interest to her.

And when I told her so, in those exact words, she actually went to the Institute of Physical Art to find out if eyebrows could dance for real.

What a strange form of art... Did they manage it?

Strictly speaking, no. But some of their researchers were inspired to later develop the technology to make hair dance on its own.

We've experienced the catastrophe that silenced the entire sea, and the Seaborn continue to threaten our existence, but we remain committed to exploring science, art, and our vision for the future.

Lava bridges that pump power from the planet's mantle, aquatic artery hubs that transform currents into fountains, artificial suns illuminating the depths of the oceanic abyss, and ecological bases filling the barren seafloor with life...

We persist in transforming what the Predecessors lost into mystical megastructures. We need only a spark to spur on countless inventions.

One hundred fifty years is truly too short.

One hundred and fifty years?

Yes, the average lifespan of an Ægir.

'Short,' you say...

The more dangerous the era, the more valuable our creations become.

We firmly believed in living fulfilling lives, and would gladly have gone to our end without regrets as we passed down the fire of civilization.

We planned an educational system we believed was better than the Institute of Incubation.

Once our child was born via the incubator, we would raise them ourselves. They would possess a surging spirit and fresh ideologies, and become part of a more creative generation.

It is unusual to raise children personally, but we had hoped to pass on the values we treasured from the fulfilling lives we'd lived.

So, what happened to her?

Dead.

Remember the Predecessor mentioned in 'The Death of Life'?

He took shelter in an unknown refuge as he watched the sky pressing down on the earth every day. He already had a premonition of his own end.

There was nothing he could do but calmly welcome its advent.

But that's someone else's life, a life far too distant from ours.

Is it, though? Are we not currently going through the same things?

Give it fifty years, maybe a hundred, and even the vast ocean may no longer hold a single drop of pure water.

The Seaborn have unwittingly overrun the ocean faster than we can create, devouring what we were once proud of, turning 'survival' into our only priority.

I watched as she was engulfed by despair. One day, she calmly gave up on our idea of raising our child ourselves.

After all, everything we have inherited would only be lost in an era predestined to perish.

Five years ago, the Abyssal Hunters went to the lair of the Firstborn, and no one returned alive.

Soon after, she got sick, and died in depression. Our son was successfully born in the incubator, but I sent him to the Institute of Incubation.

This was also when I began questioning the meaning of my own existence.

My apologies, Jordi. I was supposed to be providing you guidance, wasn't I? I've already severed my relationship with the real world, but perhaps you have someone or something you still have ties with?

But I gave up chasing Breogan long ago. I can't waste even more time chasing an unreachable shadow.

Maybe... Maybe I could delve into the notes he left, and learn how he developed his tech. And not just because I might be his descendant.

...But because you also have talent and dreams in that field.

You can try the beacon tower, then. Breogan was involved in its reconstruction, so if you're familiar with his handiwork, perhaps you could help them out.

Every Ægir leaves their own quirks in their writings, theories, or technologies, so sometimes all you need to sort out a trickier part is someone more familiar with the author.

Thank you, Mr. Avitus!

Advisor Blandus? Are you alright?

Of course, of course.

The cultists failed to stop me from performing the surgery on the Hunters.

I'm asking about your physical condition.

Thanks, Secunda. I see you're still—

Given your strange aversion to medical aid, <i>someone</i> has to confirm you're alright.

Although judging from your condition, I'm guessing I'm not the first to try sending you to the hospital.

Perhaps the Waterway Program is too overwhelming. I'm something of a doctor myself, so I do know how to keep myself healthy—healthy enough to not slow down the program, anyway.

You know, you should take a look at the plant the cultists were using to kill people. It's difficult to imagine someone at the Institute of Ecological Art using it as paint.

Well, seeing how you're not in any immediate danger, I'll need you to cooperate with my investigation.

I saw Ulpianus. Recently.

I see you have too.

Only briefly, at the Sophontheatrum.

And you didn't report this?

Catching a momentary glimpse of a familiar figure is hardly worth reporting.

I'm not joking around, Advisor Blandus.

The data scientist's case has been confirmed to be a murder by the cultists, and it may be related to the assault on the lab.

Ulpianus seemed to know the victim well, and openly expressed his distrust of Ægir.

He's always been like that. More action than words, and ever unwilling to reveal his reasons.

His unique style doesn't explain all the doubts about him. I still need to check if he's linked to several Church cases.

*sigh* Secunda, do you really lack any other leads or suspects more worthy of investigation?

Or I should ask, is this obsession with Ulpianus merely your own whim?

*sigh*

Secunda, I'm the one who rejected your application back then.

What did you just say?

I said, it was me who rejected your application to volunteer to become an Abyssal Hunter.

Ulpianus concurred, but I was the one who officially rejected you.