rogue_4

Though the Originium in the atmosphere is fickle and complex, making the repetition of wireless signals a major engineering hurdle, there are still many moored cities that have managed to connect themselves to a base via a massive cable, which links to another city in turn.

The room behind the metal door is more or less an ordinary meeting room. It is occupied by a square table, with two folding chairs on one side, and several large screens on the other.

A teleconference room, only functional thanks to those cables.

These things didn't exist a decade ago. While leaning against the wall, Tin Man ponders the length of ten years compared to his grander view of time and space. He makes no move towards the chairs.

'Terribly sorry, Procurement's had it rough lately... As an apology, I'll make sure to do the minutes meticulously.' The employee chuckles, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

—The Kazdel Special Committee would like to begin this discussion and inquiry regarding agent Tin Man's report.

Every screen lights up with the Maylander Foundation's logo as a line of text scrolls across one of them.

'Apparently this young man over here is going to get the minutes down perfectly, so I suggest we get straight to business. As for all the procedural stuff... we can just submit the documents later.'

Tin Man gestures at the employee. He's sure those on the other side of the screen can see him.

—I suggest the committee members present vote on it.

The reply comes through much slower than the previous line.

'Ah, no need for that. I know you're all champing at the bit to ask me questions.'

—Then we will go with your idea.

'But 'a meeting agenda should be determined by the democratic discussion of a committee.' Did you all decide to give up that particular principle?'

Only after a few minutes does a response flash across the screen.

—You are right. We have democratically decided on the following: please stop trying to make fun of us. Let us get straight to business.

'Why the rush? Anything I say here can be said back in D.C.'

Tin Man waves about a cigarette, a sign that he's just grumbling.

The meeting begins.

—Can you confirm that within one of these 'tales', you encountered an event where President Mark Max issued a declaration that was a major turning point in the relationship between Columbia and Kazdel?

'I can, yes. The President used the term 'blood pact', and like I said in my report, the strangest thing is that this could only be an illusion derived autonomously by the Furnace. It certainly didn't come from any of the narrators.'

—What would you say the probability of this event occurring in reality is?

'Very, very, very low. I must reiterate that neither I nor any of the narrators are able to determine the cause and effect of what happens within a Furnace illusion. It constantly changes based on our words or the revenants', or perhaps by its own will.'

—Can it be reasonably inferred that should the opportunity arise, it could lead to President Mark Max making similarly drastic changes to Columbia's diplomatic stance?

'I can't write it off completely. But I believe trying to use the Furnace's illusions to infer how Kazdel will develop in the future is a fool's game. Which is why I didn't bother giving a detailed report of every 'tale'.'

—Why do you think that?

'Because it's essentially a gaggle of Sarkaz lunatics telling tall tales to amuse themselves. I'm sure I made it very clear in the introduction of my report that many of the preconditions for these 'events' no longer exist. Rather than trying to divine the future from illusions, it'd be better to keep a close eye on the real Kazdel outside the Furnace.'

—Even so, we cannot ignore the fact that the illusions themselves are an astonishing phenomenon.

'Hardly. Just some chatter between revenants. Why, there are four revenants in Columbia as we speak. Once we're back in D.C., I can make a house call and introduce them, if you like. I'm sure the Tin Friends would be more than happy to oblige.'

—The committee would like your opinion on another topic: in the years to come, how should Columbia treat Kazdel? How should we handle it?

Another puff of smoke slowly makes its way out of Tin Man's mouth.

'No need to change anything in the approach.

'If you decide to preemptively 'handle' Kazdel, you would be showing the entirety of this great land that we have the ability to cross Ursus, Victoria, Leithanien, and a host of other nations' territories, all to do something like that.

'There's no need for that. You might've forgotten that within our fair nation's borders, there are already countless Sarkaz who haven't been 'treated' or 'handled' very nicely at all. I suggest you begin with them.'

Besides, let's save a little face for those old eastern 'Core Empires', Tin Man adds with a smile.

—Very well. The committee has noted your opinions.

'We appreciate your hard work!'

Once they cross the metal door, Tin Man and the employee shake hands.

'Nonsense, you're the one who's going to have to do all the hard work later.'

The employee glances at the stack of papers under his arm and gave a wry smile.

'Forgive me if this is rude, but don't you think it's a pity?'

'Pity? What do you mean?'

'To me, it sounds like this furnace in Kazdel's some sort of miracle machine.'

'...It was built by a lot of people who had no other choice if they wanted to survive.'

'I get that... but I've never heard of anything else like that, turning stories into vivid scenes. No other witchcraft or Arts come close.'

'Well, there's the rub, kid. We don't have those sort of Arts either.'

'What do you mean?'

'What happens inside the old furnace isn't just the results of Sarkaz witchcraft. And as recent history has taught us, we need to be cautious when it comes to this kind of 'opportunity'.

'Nowadays, the people who built it to survive don't need it anymore. As far as Terra is concerned, that's a good thing. Nothing's a pity about that.'

'Hopefully this latest batch of recruits gets that, too.' With those parting words, Tin Man slips on his coat and strides out of the secret office.

He walks through the bustling post office hall right outside, which is still under decoration, and out its main door. He now stands before the frontier base CUP241.

This particular base hasn't begun broadcasting yet, and the Pioneers have yet to arrive. But by its side, a brand-new service station is being built. A pump well dispenses water, and a basement facility opens wide its door, revealing all sorts of specialized vehicles ready to use.

In Columbia, settlements form naturally around frontier bases, at least until a Catastrophe or a gang of Rusthammers tear them away.

Even so, the Pioneers will return and build everything anew.

Sometimes, it's the government building these stations, offering basic services such as mail, transportation, and Originium machinery.

But every base requires regular maintenance. Equipment must be serviced, and Originium parts must be replaced. Even well-installed underground cables may need reconnection if they are severed by sudden crystal growth.

For decades, the newborn Columbia has handled all this with astonishing efficiency.

This is the will of Columbia. That's the conclusion Tin Man landed on long ago. Every time he thinks about it, he can't help but feel a little proud.

But he also hasn't forgotten that such will requires proper guidance.

'Violations of workplace etiquette—like moving up report deadlines or scheduling meetings in the wee hours of the morning—need to be strictly regulated. Or better yet, they shouldn't happen, full stop.'

He murmurs towards the rising sun.

When the Core of the Land breathes for a third time, a thought will return to the flames. That is when he will welcome death with open arms.

But before that, he must complete his duty: to compose an ode for the next thought to come after, so that it may sing for the breath, just as he obtained enlightenment from his ancestor, who has already returned to the flames.

From the breath of the land he was born, and in the breath of the land he will rest. This is every thought's entire life.

And now, he looks within, counting the drops of black rain passing through his formless body. This is the only way he can sense the passage of time. He has always wondered which thought was the one to come up with this idea.

'Ah. The first of my ancestors to sense time must have been able to experience many emotions I cannot in the span of three breaths.'

A distinct emotion—an experience named 'desire' by past thoughts—causes an instant of fluctuation within him, but just as quickly, he returns to tranquility. The enlightenment left by his ancestors included many ways to shield himself from such disturbances.

There are more important matters to focus on. He has not yet completed his duty, after all.

Dividing his attention to look within and sense the passage of time does not slow him. He continues on as he always had, breaking apart the music of the land's exhalation into its component syllables—

And then he sings.

'I should be able to complete my record before I return to the flames, but...'

But there is no difference between the recombined syllables he used to record the patterns of this breath, and the ones left behind by every single one of his ancestors... The same song repeated over and over, thought after thought.

Change is what every thought treasured the most, longed for the most. Tragically, the last time a thought was able to notice and record a change was nearly a hundred million breaths ago.

'Even if the breath is now immutable, I shall not give up.'

He does not despair. After all, such a dangerous emotion had long since been noted and excised by past thoughts.

During a dark age stretching for hundreds of breaths, many generations of thoughts fell to 'despair' and gave up singing. It nearly snuffed out the possibility of subsequent thoughts accepting the ancestors' enlightenment—the very existence of their lifeform was threatened.

But suddenly, he notices it. A discrepancy in what should have been an unchanging combination of syllables. A disharmonious echo.

At first, he thinks it a mistake brought about by focusing too much on tracking the passage of time, so he checks and checks and checks again, before breaking out into ecstasy—

'...I found one! A change...'

'It's here! It's here in this one breath of the Core of the Land!'

In that instant, the thought is overwhelmed by a multitude of inexplicable emotions. He might not have experienced them before, but he is certain these emotions are what the ancestor who first discovered how to sense time felt!

Surprise. Excitement. Worry. Panic. Curiosity. Satisfaction.

There is not enough time left to identify every emotion he feels. All he can do is try to pinpoint the location of the echo while riding the galloping breath of the land to his destination.

He is itching to sing.

Before the next breath, he would sing that dissonant melody himself.

And then, he sees a lifeform he has never... no, no thought has ever seen before.

'...You're not in the ancestors' records. Are you born from the breath of the land?' The thought excitedly asked the echo.

'No, I am from beyond this great land. I heard you singing within the flames, and found myself here,' the white echo replied. 'You may call me by my name. Civilight Eterna.'

'Name... Civilight Eterna... What is a 'name'?'

'Our self-identity.'

'I think I should have one of those. When the Core of the Land took its first recorded breath, the thought at the time sang a set of syllables—

'Sarkaz. That is my name.'

The thought watches the black raindrops pass through his body. Even after meeting the echo, he has not stopped keeping time for even a nanosecond.

Never before had he hoped the land's next breath would come a bit later. That his death would be delayed.

As he sings his variant song, he is overcome with joy.

The more times he comes into contact with the echo, the more complex his singing becomes—far more so than any thought before him.

The white echo's own song is complex too. His mind cannot keep up. Even after breaking it down, he cannot understand what each sole syllable represents.

A song he cannot comprehend.

He cannot understand why what composed the land was not fire, but rather some flowing, transparent substance and flame-snuffing soil.

He cannot understand why it was not the Core of the Land's breath that controlled the shift between darkness and light, but a sphere hanging high up in the void.