Bastion
If I had a heart, it would be pounding against my chest like ancient wartime drums, heavy and thunderous and quick. The memory of adrenaline soars through me with the strength of a hammer striking an anvil, a nebulous force, disorganized, determined, ringing my core and calling the dormant to action. Those things that have been lurking beyond my reach make themselves known.
A multitude of voices stir.
Finally, after all this time, they show themselves. No more slumbering or skulking in the dark.
However, I cannot give them their due.
As much as it flusters me, I ignore them and instead focus on our path as the Ace of Spades is guided through hundreds of kilometers of smooth ice followed by a latticed, cantilevered substructure of which I am overly familiar.
It is a slow passage. Rion stands beside me, arms crossed over her chest, a finger anxiously tapping on her biceps.
We have lost all control of the ship and have become simply passengers.
“Was Etran Harborage like this?” she asks quietly.
She is thinking of her father, perhaps wondering if he had witnessed what she is seeing now as his ship entered the doomed shield world. Odd that fate has taken them on a kindred journey.
“The substructure would be quite similar, yes.”
She does not respond.
“What do you think is down there? Forerunners?” she asks suddenly, as though someone might hear. She is too apprehensive to await my answer. “Why do I feel like an ant about to be stepped on by giants?”
“We are not intruders, remember. We have been invited.”
She casts a doubtful look my way. “A pirate can invite you in; that doesn’t mean he won’t steal your ship and throw you out the airlock.”
“True. But these are no pirates.” She starts to disagree, but I interrupt, “I will not allow anything to happen to you or your ship. That is a promise.”
The darkness of the planet’s outer shell and immense support system slowly gives way to natural light.
“Same here,” she replies. “You have my word.”
She is limited by her human fragility and knows it, but her oath carries weight. I believe she will keep her word even if it means her end. “The Librarian hasn’t led us all this way only to hurt us.” I utter this in an attempt to comfort Rion, but her reply never comes.
We have fully emerged into Bastion’s atmosphere.
Aya. I am dumbstruck.
I know what I behold even though it seems impossible.
Of all the designs and models and world inspirations the Librarian could have selected… and she chose Earth as her template.
“Jesus,” Rion whispers.
Stunned, weakened, pained, elated, amazed—these emotions cycle so swiftly through my core that it is difficult to settle on just one. The result leaves me numb. Rion’s hand has found my forearm. She needs this bit of solidarity, an anchor, as much as I do.
As we descend toward a continent shaped like Africa, I begin to notice differences, slight revisions on landmasses. An esthetically correcting hand has created a world that is more vivid and lush and brilliant, the rough gem of Earth cut into a polished jewel.
But to what end?
The Kilimanjaro range is the obvious template for the peaks we are approaching, but these formations are sharper and far more dramatic. Soaring silver towers jut high into the atmosphere, as though grown from the tips of the mountaintop itself. They gleam in the gossamer light. Elegant sky bridges connect those soaring spires, creating the most stunning and mystical image I have ever seen—as though the mountain range has donned its regal crown and claimed dominion over all.
Never before have I felt the godlike nature of Forerunners as keenly as I do now.
I am humbled. And ashamed.
I have blamed her and endlessly raged—justifiably so, but perhaps I have not given her enough credit where it is due. In my pain, I have often possessed a singular perspective—my own—and perhaps diminished the vast arc of Living Time from which the Librarian operated. Her love of humanity and devotion to my people, and their place in the world-line, is undeniable.
The Ace of Spades approaches a section of sky bridge. Her landing gear engages, a sound that echoes in the silence, and in short order she settles gently on its wide expanse. The silence returns.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for this. Are you?” Rion’s voice trembles as we pull our attention away from the view and face each other.
“Most definitely not.” I chose humor in my tone when what I want most is to offer an encouraging smile, an understanding gaze, but am limited in my construct’s parameters. Instead I give what I hope is a meaningful nod.
It is the best I can do.
We begin our short journey to the cargo hold.
The ramp’s descent takes an eternity. But it is worth it. The view from the mountain across the plains to the sea is astoundingly clear.
The gleaming towers shoot hundreds of kilometers into the clouds, and the sky bridges linking them together wrap around the mountain as far as my eyes can see. Though I’m certain no giant will crush us here, I too feel immensely small.
Motion catches my eye.
Three small orbs zoom toward us from the direction of the closest tower. Ah. They are monitors, identical in customary carapaces—most like my own as 343 Guilty Spark—however, they are powered with the same pleasing turquoise light that guided us here.
“Friendlies?” Rion asks.
While I am familiar with the trappings of Forerunner convention, the captain has little cumulative experience. I know what it is to see such wonders for the first time, to absorb their overwhelming impact and the inevitable fear they bring.
“All is well,” I tell her as the monitors come to a hovering stop some meters in front of us.
Two of them engage their optical lenses to scan us more thoroughly, while the center monitor engages its lens, to project a hologram of a Forerunner.
The lifelike rendering is unexpected and sudden.
Rion gasps and steps back.
A third-form female Lifeworker, clad in a modest headdress and slender white armor with its customary grooves and channels designed to contain the tools of the rate, gazes down at us with warmth in her honey-colored eyes. She is slim and petite, a head shorter than my armiger form.
I have seen such exquisite three-dimensional renderings before on Installation 07, when I was human, from a Lifeworker named Genemender, who had chosen to archive himself during the ring’s civil war to avoid Flood infection so that he might continue to serve the Librarian.
“Welcome to Bastion,” she says, speaking the human language. “I am Birth-to-Light. This is Dawn-over-Fields.” Her gesture to the male holographic form—now appearing from the monitor to her right—is graceful and reminiscent of the Librarian.
Dawn-over-Fields is taller than my armiger; a mature Builder with a dignified face, wide shoulders, dark gray skin, and white tufts of hair. His image carries the old noble eminence of the Builder rate.
The third monitor projects its form to the left of Birth-to-Light, that of a stocky miner with a broad, flat face. His arms and legs are thick, and his hands old but big and strong. “And this,” Birth-to-Light says, “is Clearance-of-Old-Forests. Our fourth companion, Keeper-of-Tools, has finally been released from Genesis and will join us shortly.”
“You’re part of the Librarian’s crew… during her trip to Path Kethona,” I say in astonishment.
The Lifeworker gives a serene nod. “In a manner. We are not direct imprints of our namesakes, therefore we are limited in our capacity and do not share their complete memories or deep personality traits and essences. However, our namesakes did provide the framework for our individual functions here on Bastion. Dawn oversees all facility maintenance and security operations on Bastion. I administer Lifeworker duties. And Clearance tends the topography and landscape functions of this world.”
This is highly unusual. “There is no central ancilla?”
“That is by design. A precaution, if you will.”
“And the other Forerunner you mentioned?” Rion has found her voice.
“Keeper-of-Tools,” Dawn responds, his voice resonant and instantly reminiscent of my time with the Didact. “He will be arriving soon.”
“Chakas, 343 Guilty Spark… Spark,” Birth says warmly. “The Lifeshaper would be most pleased that fate has brought you to our sanctuary, as she would be to know you are here as well, Captain Forge. Humans have always been rather special, especially those who carry her mark.”
“I’ve been told of this mark and what it might mean,” Rion says.
The tilt of Birth’s head suggests mild surprise. “Yes. All of humanity carries the remnants of her work from times past—passed along from generation to generation, becoming dormant but never gone. It is what propels our technology to recognize your status and allow interaction.”
Rion nods. She is pale and unusually demure. I assume she is still processing the projections standing before her. Had she not seen the monitors behind the images, she would not have known—at least for some time—that they were not flesh-and-blood ancients.
“Why did the key lead us to Bastion?” I ask. “Are there living populations here?”
“All in good time. Come, join us in the reception hall. There are refreshments and rooms for your rest. We must await further instruction from Keeper-of-Tools.”
As we follow the monitors across the sky bridge’s expanse to the tower, Rion moves closer. “The air up here should be thin. And cold.”
My sensors agree. Neither is as it should be. “We must remember Bastion is but a template of Earth. Many things here will be quite different.”
With each step, questions form, one after another, until there are so many I cannot settle on where I wish to start.