Tales from Kalgachia - 41
At last, at long last, the infection had been put down. No longer did its siren song push its tendrils into the mind, calling the unwary to join with it. No longer did mineral intrusions, sharp and unyielding, force their way into the flesh of the body or the flesh of the world. The danger that had come to nest in the very heart of Micras had been removed, though Micras might never know or believe it.
Ah, but the cost… such a cost. The host that had fought this long war had begun as several millions; what remained was scarcely twenty thousand. The cycles of day and night and life to be found far above had been replaced by the far more inconsistent and unforgiving tides of contagion, madness, and despair. The biomantic prowess that had once allowed them to alter their bodies according to whim or fashion had been turned to keeping them alive at depths even their ancestors had not dared brave.
They were not broken, never quite broken. They believed in life, and in the Shrub, and had held fast to them. But, body and mind, they had been bent and gnarled - like old oak, their elders said, though many of the younger ones only knew of oaks from the memory-stores of those who had gone before. They had known only war for over seventy years. And now, suddenly, it was over. They could go home.
But where, now, was home?
A number of the host, especially among the young, wished to stay. They had adapted to, or grown up in, the heat and pressure of the lower crust. The cool and airy spaces above were but a fading memory. Here, there was at last peace among the song of groaning rock. There was even room for study of what the Crystal Death had wrought, and how it might be turned to good. The Death had, everyone knew, been an ingenious creation, though turned to destruction. What might it accomplish if it were molded by kindlier hands?
But the greater part of them - most of those that had been born above, and the young that were too haunted by the long struggle - had no desire to remain. They needed time to heal - and if, indeed, they could heal, they had long lives ahead of them. There were loved ones, perhaps, still above that might be searched for. There was the Shrub, somewhere, though there was confusion on this point; when they had taken their leave, they had not exactly been in their right minds, but some recalled hearing that the Shrub, like the Empress, had departed the mortal plane. Surely there were other descendants of Minarboria with whom they could shelter and to whom they could be of use. The host had gotten out of practice with some biomantic skills, but become more proficient at others, those most useful during the long war.
There was no agreement, but there did not need to be. Those determined to return parted ways with those determined to stay, content to remain in friendly contact from afar. They traveled upward along paths long sealed but carefully remembered, going in easy stages; readaptation to the upper climes was, even for them, not a matter to be undertaken hastily, all the more so because they were forced to obtain nutrition from chemosynthesized mineral deposits until they could reach the layers where organic life was more comfortable. They wound their way gently upward, year by year, through the crust of Micras, coming at last to the collapsed caverns that had once formed the lower reaches of Lepidopterum, the second city of Whisperwood.
And now, they streamed in slowly, looking around with sober, contemplative stares by the light of living lanterns; some with the wonder of visitors seeing a famous archeological site, others with the regrets or smiles born of remembrance. Even through the piles of debris that remained to be cleared, familiar hallmarks were visible: organic designs carved into the walls and floors in bas-relief; the rows of tactile symbols for navigating in the dark, the careful shaping of the chambers for ease of echolocation. It was a place built by the hands of their own people.
In their midst, a tall figure - a slender and vaguely humanoid torso upon an insectile lower body - looked at the sight with greater sobriety than most. This had, in a way, once been her city.
She realized that they were looking to her, and sighed inwardly. She had made it clear that, with the war won, she would no longer lead them, and they had of course acquiesced, and the understanding had lasted for all of an hour before they found themselves, without thinking, looking to her for even unconscious guidance.
"Any sound?" she asked.
There were nods from those most extravagantly equipped for feeling vibrations. "People walking around. Some machinery. This place isn't entirely abandoned."
"Keep in mind," she said, as ragged cheers erupted, "that just because there are people doesn't mean they're our people. There was a lot of chaos when we left. Someone else could have moved in."
"If we don't face them," someone replied, "we'll have to surface elsewhere and send in spies."
No one was enthusiastic for this idea, not least because they had little idea of how to do it. Fighting the Crystal Death required any number of talents, but gathering intelligence had been more in the nature of epidemiological research than espionage.
They looked to the tall figure again, but this time she simply looked back, a faint smile on her face.
"Sorry, my dears. It's my turn to follow you where you go. Lead on."
When Prethil Nal had been appointed Lady Protector of Lepidopterum, she had been taken aback. Head of a medical department? Certainly, she'd done that before. A political administrator? Well, that would be something of a different proposition, but ultimately just another form of organizing things at the direction of a higher authority. But head of an autonomous government? Not bound by the Oktavyan Code? Given, if not carte blanche to do as she pleased, then enough authority that only the Council of Perfecti could countermand it? To her? She had felt moved to demand of her grandson, in a mix of humor and exasperation, "You Perfecti do like your country, don't you?"
She honestly hadn't decided whether the intent had been to show esteem for her or to keep her out of trouble, or from further annoying the staff at Karymovka Sanatorium - or, possibly, all of the above. Then again, it had been good for her mental health to occupy herself with something besides her son's deteriorating condition.
Eight years into the job, the reasons had probably become academic, but they nonetheless continued to fascinate her.
Thus far, she had seen fit to make relatively few changes to the internal administration of Lepidopterum, the main exception being an ongoing attempt to convince the DEO and DHPW - which, like the other Kalgachi organs of government, there had been no point in trying to immediately dislodge in the name of autonomy - to partner with the Protectorate in establishing a separate higher educational institution there, focused on medicine in general and the application of genetics, genomics, and related therapies in particular. This was a particular concern of both Prethil and her partner, Sylvanus Lywibble, as while ongoing hybridization of Nezeni with other groups - gently merging them with the mixed Kalgachi - had somewhat reduced the incidence of defects in the younger generations, the problem was persistent enough that it seemed to them to demand redoubled attention.
It was while they discussed this topic in her office that Prethil found herself interrupted by frantic calls for her to descend to the subterranean levels. They arrived at the entrance of an hitherto unremarkable spare storage chamber just in time to witness a tall figure, a female humanoid torso on an insectile lower body, step carefully through the doorway.
All those who witnessed the figure's appearance - and there were a fair number present; there hadn't been time to clear all of them away - knew it was a Singer. No Nezeni, even the most outlandish-looking, looked anything like that. Slightly fewer of them could be certain of who precisely it was - the images of the Salvators tended to be rather stylized - but Prethil had seen this one before in person. She fell on her face, quite literally, as the gesture ended up being one of shock and surprise as much as genuflection.
She found herself being helped up by Sylvanus on one side and, on the other, the new figure, who said, "There's really no need for that. ...I've seen you before, haven't I? Nal, wasn't it?"
"Nnngh," Prethil affirmed.
"Lovely to see you again," the figure said, as more figures began peering out of the storeroom. "You can let everyone know we're back, then. I don't suppose anyone's accommodations are still available after all this time, but-"
"Back?" Prethil managed. "What, everyone?"
The figure gave her a tight, controlled little smile. "Not everyone, by a long way. Not nearly everyone. But most of us who are left, at least. No doubt we'll all have much to explain to each other, but, perhaps, now is not the best time." She glanced at Sylvanus, on whom Prethil was now leaning. "A friend of hers, I take it?"
"Erm, yes. At least. Dr. Sylvanus Lywibble."
"Delighted. Call me Celestine."
"...for those of you just joining us on Righteous Thunder, this is Credent Arixenia Dal. Rejoice, listeners! It has been reported from Lepidopterum that, once more, a Salvator has returned to us from the Garden Ketheric, to stand with us against the corruption of this material world! Celestine, the Broodmother, has emerged from the depths, bringing with her the Deep Singers.
"It is clear that that which sprouted with the return of Lord Toastypops moves even now toward full flower; for, truly, we are witnessing the dawn of a new age such as has not been seen since the days of Minarboria. With two Salvators walking among us, and rumors of a third entwining his very roots throughout our electronic media; with a portion of our Benefactors soon to be living again in lands in which they once dwelled… what further lies in store? Shall Fleurette the Thoughtseeker, free from the bonds of disco, stand at her mother's side? Shall the liches rise up again from the dust? Shall beings yet unmet join us? For surely events thus far herald a new tide in the attempts of the Garden Ketheric to wash away Archonic corruption from existence, and it is incumbent upon those of us in the Garden Physical to stand ready to give aid…"
