With a series of reports about erratic and disturbing behavior of certain Drone series being dismissed repeatedly, Faded Magenta decided to disobey the orders of the Lineages and cull the entire population of erratic series. Interrupted by an unnamed Directorate agent, he was offered an alternative: to leave enough erratic samples alive to observe, while forging numbers in reports to appease the Lineages. His new, mysterious patron offered one of his clones for protection – or, more likely, to monitor him closely.
Regardless of his suspicions, Faded Magenta decided to go on with his observations, as agreed with his patron, choosing to isolate the Flawed population from the non-erratic drones. This, he believed, would allow for the erratic behaviors to develop further. He soon observed that the “Flawed” behaviors expanded beyond his expectation, though he could not explain how or why yet. His efforts were interrupted by the announcement of an inspection.
Fearful that the Inspector would discover his crimes, he acted alone, sidetracking his Clone protector and attempting to keep his patron in the dark about his plans. He arranged for an “accident” with an erratic drone: blocking a Brute’s pheromantic receptors to all but his personal emissions, he had the massive drone delete the Inspector while he remained safe. With his last breath, the Inspector revealed that this drastic action was unnecessary; he too was serving the Faded Magenta’s patron.
Deciding to own to his mistake and attempt to present it as a sign of his capabilities, he kept the Brute alive and readily assumed blame. His patron was less than understanding, promising that one day the Faded Magenta would better learn the politics of the Higher Spire and, with his talents, would eventually excel. But not yet. What was worse, the patron was demanding – in not so many words – that all notes about his unique method of controlling the Brute Drone during the arranged accident were delivered onto them. Torn between anger for being dismissed as a mere Pheromancer despite his accomplishment with the Brute and fear for a prospectless existence in the Underspire, Faded Magenta decided to embrace the image others had of him: a lowly, dimwitted Pheromancer that did not know any better.
Drowning his patron in a series of detailed but largely trivial or deflecting reports, Faded Magenta turned the very system that had buried him in the Underspire against his would-be controllers. Invoking obscure but yet valid bureaucratic concerns, he delayed the termination of the Brute, and therefore the presentation of any meaningful post-deletion analysis, long enough for him to secretly switch carapaces and therefore the Brute’s identity. At the same time, he kept all important notes and methods about his work to himself, until, eventually, his patron absentmindedly dismissed him as a useful tool and his “protector” Clone departed. Alone at long last, Faded Magenta eagerly resumed his old life. Almost. Choosing to ignore the Flawed drones and instead concentrate on his own research: a method of tailoring drone receptors to a specific person’s pheromantic emissions, thus excluding control by others – an illegal field of research.
Eventually, the Brute, named Mass, proved a loyal companion, company and valuable research asset. It’s short life span, extended as much as he dared before venturing into further illegal practices, was swiftly coming to an end. Deciding on the value of a post-expiration above the silent company Mass offered, Faded Magenta allowed his pet-Brute’s existence to expire. In a moment of weakness and sentimentality, he thanked the expired Mass – not realizing he was being watched by Flawed Drones.
Throwing himself to his work, Faded Magenta balanced precariously between maintaining the image of a dutiful but not always successful Pheromancer to avoid drawing attention and secretly continuing his personal research. Progress proved very slow – for, loathe as he was to admit it, he was a lowly Pheromancer – and exhaustion often overcame him, as he worked almost without rest. One such sleepless night, he realized he was being watched. As a group of Flawed drones had gathered outside his laboratory despite their directives, Faded Magenta threw caution to the wind and approached them.
Terrified and barely able to contain his panic, he heard one of the drones attempting to speak, mimicking the words he had once said to Mass: thank you.
Some time later, reports ceased to arrive from Pheromancer Faded Magenta. None knew what had happened. None cared. Without ever attempting to search for him, a replacement, Surmounting Principal, was sent to fulfill his duties. Soon after a report signed by said Pheromancer was submitted, in which it was revealed that Faded Magenta had expired and his equipment had been rendered useless. With the report out of the way, the Pheromancer turned to a drone, addressed him as ‘Faulty’ and underlined the success of faking one’s own death.
Officially dead to the Upper Levels and assisted by his Flawed drones, Faded Magenta carried on with his plans undisturbed.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
The Faded Magenta breath echoed fast in its mask, faster with every moment.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
Gurgling noises echoed from his bags, his tubes hissing.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
Finally, smoke starting rising from the exhausts of his exo-suit, ashen grey and slow.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
The hollow eyes of the drones glittered in the half-light of the hub. They were activated and awaiting instructions. All of them.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
The Faded Magenta rose its hand, thumb and middle meeting and pressuring each other.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
The fingers snapped. Smoke blasted from his suit, spreading in the hub as if attracted to the drones.
…exactly where you deserve to be…
One by one, the glitter of eyes faded, as thuds echoed in the dark.
The hand was shaking as it was lowered slowly, fingers still left in the position they had after they were snapped. The Faded Magenta’s eyes followed the hand’s movement, heavy breath echoing inside the Pheromantic mask. Never before was such power felt, such sense of belonging of one’s own destiny experienced. Never before had such a feeling lasted for a shorter period of time.
“Well executed” said a voice and the Faded Magenta turned with a panicked exclamation. An aura of pheromones danced around the Biomancer’s figure, calming, reassuring. “Such initiative against the mandates of the Lineage can be perilous, Faded Magenta,” it went on but the pheromantic emissions proposed no veiled threat in the words. “It can also prove extremely rewarding after the Reclamation, should one enjoy the subtle support of the Directorate” the Biomancer announced. “Impress me, Pheromancer. Why should you be elevated above your station? How would you proceed?”
(Choice: )
Play with the numbers but appear to follow the Lineage’s orders. Leave enough erratic samples to appease them while monitoring the behavior of the surviving ones. Perhaps this behavior can be directed, honed into a weapon to be used against the enemies of the Directorate when appropriate.
The decision was made by the Faded Magenta alone. The Biomancer simply nodded in acknowledgement, communicating neither endorsement nor disapproval. This was to be the Magenta’s decision, project, future… and the Faded Magenta’s peril, should the project be discovered before presenting results useful enough to preserve.
“A clone will be left with you” the Biomancer said after some thought. “For your safety, of course, and as a secure channel of communication.” The Faded Magenta emanated gratitude, even as the agent that would monitor every decision from now on stepped forward from the shadows of the corridor. A High Clone. Unregistered, perhaps? Of course. Deniability was paramount if this project was discovered. If anything, the Clone would be another fatal crime, bringing a most vicious punishment. Its creation would be pinned on the Faded Magenta.
Terror was proving hard to control but the adrenaline helped. With eyes turned to the floor, widened and panicked under the mask, the Faded Magenta reveled in the fear. Yes, the dangers were endless. Yes, the consequences could be dire and the benefits questionable. Yes, termination was likely, fates worse than that more so. But, in the end, in the lowly Pheromancer’s mind, one thought prevailed above the fear, one thing mattered and one thing only:
The decision was made by the Faded Magenta alone.
It would not be long until the Faded Magenta realized that this newfound freedom, such as it was, was an extremely unsettling position for one to occupy. There was a binary state in the previous condition: perform well or fail, with defined repercussions for each. This was no longer the case. The paths before him were now shrouded in mist, with the destination of each lying beyond uncertainty. Tasks that were so far defined in both their execution and outcome, now held risks and fatal threats regardless of his performance; or even because of it. The Unregistered clone that was left for protection was small consolation. If anything, its very existence seemed to increase uncertainty.
Binary. Dwelling in the uncertainty only increased the risk of poor performance. A decision has been reached but execution remained. The partial culling should proceed to a satisfactory degree, yes, but the Faded Magenta needed to decide how to best handle and monitor the erratic samples and how to best study and identify their Flaw. Under different circumstances, both routes would be followed. That is what a proper scientific approach would dictate. But he had proceeded with the Culling and, if divided, the limited number of remaining samples would cripple any meaningful statistical analysis on both ends. One approach would have to suffice in order for both not to fail.
(Choice: )
Contain them
Keep the erratic drones together and isolate them from the rest of the population. This will allow for better observation and possibly faster identification and assessment of the Flaw, individual erratic behaviors, their extent and even possible evolution.
The Flaw. The elusive defect that had started this series of events. It had even triggered unexpected behaviors after the execution of the partial culling.
The subjects had responded well to the containment – if one would attribute the term “well” to further erratic performance. Groups of Flawed subjects were formed that tried to perform duties together. When not allowed, they seemed to be… wallowing. Granted, this attitude, in itself, was typical and often ignored. Indeed, it sometimes seemed to be part of the very existence of the Force-Grown Drones. But it usually manifested as a passive condition, not reactive. This new type of behavior, while resembling the pitiful state of the subjects, was not identical and had been triggered by an outside stimulus, not their mere sad lives. Alarmed, the Faded Magenta wondered. Could the Drones be mourning? Could their grouping suggest consolation methods?
The Flaw. The Faded Magenta started to reassess the accuracy of the term.
The Inspection had come out of nowhere. Was he being suspected? Had he been discovered? He looked at the Clone, or rather its direction, for it always lurked a few paces behind. Had he been betrayed?
The Faded Magenta heard his own breathing echo frantically inside his mask. Releasing the calming pheromones was almost an instinctive response and it worked brilliantly; a failsafe he had designed for himself, to ensure efficiency in crises. Working in the Underspire was not the boring experience of menial routine the upper levels believed it to be. Exploding vats, root rot, fume leakage, erratic Brutes, unscheduled growths… While he never expected to need it for something like this, there was no shortage of emergencies that…
Wait a minute. Brutes. The Clone.
He gasped, taken aback by his own thoughts but only for a moment. The calming reagents being pumped in his breathing apparatus and even his veins helping his mind race with plans, the Faded Magenta calculated possibilities and possible outcomes. The Inspector could not be allowed to find the Flawed.
Choice
Brute: There are accidents in the Underspire and immature Brutes are notoriously unstable. Now if such a Brute was attracted to (and protected by) the Biomantic emissions of an Inspector… Things were prone to escalate but he’d possibly buy time, enough perhaps to forge an initial Inspection Report… if he himself survived the Brute, of course.
He thought of the perfect specimen for the job. It belonged to one of the faulty lines of production; while no Brute had so far depicted any signs of the Flaw, an association could be made if an explanation was needed at a later date.
He visited the Vat, once he had managed to shake off the Clone. He wanted his secret patrons to have nothing – well, nothing more at least – that they could use against him. This would inevitably mean some risk. By default, for the deception to work, the attack would need to happen with him present. His only hope was to fine tune the pheromantic receptors to a specific emission that would allow him to regain control; once the Inspector was removed, he could terminate the Brute’s operations, hopefully before he himself joined the Inspector in their untimely deletion. It was doable; the theory was there and he had experimented on such ideas before with some success. But to ensure that the Inspector would not accidentally discover the appropriate emission, it would need to be something unexpected, rare and extremely precise; so precise that it could possibly not work for him either.
He swallowed with a gulp, as once more the self-soothing pheromones were released by his suit into his body, while chemical stimulants were pumped into his veins. Calm, sure, he set to work, manipulating the growth vat. This would work.
Probably.
It was, of course, one of the problematic series, Series 4 to be precise. It had to be, despite the risks. Brute Drone #4231, located deep enough so as not to give rise to suspicions, but not so deep so as to risk even accidental discovery of the Flawed. Brute Drone #4231, the vat of which was now just around the corner.
It had to be a performance on multiple levels. The Faded Magenta needed to be calm, composed so as not to betray the danger, but soothing agents and stimulants could not be used for any experienced Biomancer would detect their use. While some could be justified by the natural anxiety caused by the Inspection, too much would alert the target. Then, the control emission should be perfect: the exact pheromantic emission, on the precise levels at the appropriate time. Too soon or too late and the consequences could be… permanent.
He inhaled thirstily the last of the soothing agents he could allow himself to take, then sighed in an effort to keep his composure. From the corridor, the steps of the Inspector could be heard.
This was it.
[NOTE: Coordinate with the rest of the community to manipulate the Faded Magenta’s performance level. Absolute ideal performance for the task ahead lies in the middle – 50%-50% (there is a hidden acceptable margin of error). An over-decreased performance could cause the Faded Magenta to be discovered before the Brute activates. An over-increased performance could mean failure of controlling the Brute]
Ideal performance achieved.
He leaned with his back against the wall then he slid down until he finally sat. There was a constant buzz in his ears that almost drowned even his own panting breath resonating inside his mask. He brought his hands to his forehead in desperation, only to bring them down again. They shook too much to be of comfort. Even while his thoughts wondered like headless drones, eyes darting left and right, he understood with perfect clarity what chemical events dominated his body and knew exactly how to counter them. He did not do so. He needed to feel this, all of it. Panic was the only appropriate reaction
It took some time before he raised his head and looked at the scene. It had all gone so perfectly. The Inspector had suspected nothing. He had simply died instantly, caught between the massive, chitinous gauntlet and the wall, moments after the Brute had shattered its vat. The sound of shattered bones, squished flesh and liquids splattering still echoed in the Faded Magenta’s ears. In those same moments, he had executed the necessary pheromantic mixes to perfection, discharging just the right amount of the formula at just the right time. Even now the Brute just stood there, as if frozen in time, with its fist against the wall, the shattered body – or at least most of it – of the Inspector still pinned by the sheer weight of the enormous arm.
A perfect victory. A flawless execution. Or it would have been, if the Inspector’s last words had not been “our common friend…” right as the Brute was breaking the tank.
The next moments would prove crucial.
If the implication in the inspector’s last words were what he thought they were, he had just killed an agent of the “patrons.” This could be seen in two ways. One, which he wishfully considered unlikely, it could be viewed as a rebellion: “do not test me” was the message to from killing the inspector. Hopefully, the patrons had a similar understanding of the Faded Magenta to that which the Faded Magenta reserved for its own person; they would think that a rebellion from such a disadvantageous position would be suicidal, not simply idiotic. The second interpretation of the result would be a demonstration of lack of faith in them. Evidently, a simple matter such as a routine inspection should have been perceived as a minor inconvenience rather than the tragedy the Faded Magenta had made it to be; a matter to be resolved quickly and efficiently by arranging a sympathetic inspector to perform the task. This lack of faith only caused more attention to be drawn. Thus endangering a revelation of their involvement. Thus making the Faded Magenta obsolete if not a risky loose end.
Marveling at the enlightening power of retrospect, the Faded Magenta considered the options at hand. The investigation would take time – things always took time in the Spire, especially when no one important was involved. That was good, for it offered some time in the matter of arranging any details that needed to be arranged. But the Clone was here or it would be in mere seconds, after the ruckus. What was worse, the Clone would report. Whatever the long-term arrangements would be, the endgame needed to be decided presently.
The Faded Magenta looked at the Brute, still pinning the inspector against the wall. Actions spoke louder than words. The Brute could be kept functioning and ignorance could be feigned about the inspector’s affiliation. When given the opportunity – if given the opportunity – the incident could be presented as a demonstration of resourcefulness and efficiency with an unfortunate result. If nothing else, the idea of a bodyguard more loyal than the Clone sounded very appealing.
Alternatively, the Brute could be destroyed, as was originally planned, to destroy all evidence of the Faded Magenta’s tampering with its pheromantic receptors. Adopting the “accident” narrative for all parties involved could be the simplest and most straightforward answer to this predicament. In many ways, this was the safest option; even if it did leave the Clone as the Faded Magenta’s sole protector.
Choice
Keep the Brute functioning.
His own breath inside the helmet was the only thing that could be heard and, apart from his own torso, nothing was moving. Even his own hand was frozen midair, ready to snap fingers and release the necessary concoction that would decommission the perpetrator, while the blood of the Inspector had settled into a large pool beneath the mayhem. It was only those two things that betrayed that time was still moving, the world was still spinning; and the consequences were still coming.
He lowered his hand, trying to calm himself. Alright, the Brute would remain. But the Enemy was in the details; the Clone would be here any minute now and when he did come, he should have his explanations ready; if, that is, he decided to offer any. He had no doubt that, since the Brute was left active, the incident would be understood as deliberate. With that in mind, what his patron would expect was a course of action, a reason for his decision – both towards him and towards the proper departments of the Spire; but mainly, towards him.
Admitting a mistake was not out of the question, assuming proper compensation was offered. What he had done with the Brute, the preparation and execution both, was nothing sort of ingenious. Even the most accomplished Biomancer could not but be impressed by the delicacy of his tampering with the basic instincts and the precision with which he allowed only a certain, self-produced pheromone to take absolute control over the creation. If he offered notes on his performance and execution, his patron could find it sufficient. Could. It was, by and large, a frowned upon practice, as it tied commands to a specific individual; while most of the greatest accomplishments of the Directorate were based on research performed with frowned upon or downright banned practices, they generally allowed such freedoms only to themselves.
Alternatively, he could act… brazenly. Apologize for the inconvenience, ensure that the matter will not be traced back to them but offer little beyond that. This, he knew, would be what a true Biomancer would do; own up to what they did brazenly and confidently. If he wanted them to take him seriously, perhaps he should acting as if he did not belong to the lowest, darkest corridors of the Underspire. This would, undoubtedly, cause another visit; in itself, this would be a victory. Possibly. It could also be the last visit he would ever receive or need.
Choice
Own the mistake – The Faded Magenta will communicate that his true potential lies beyond the confines of the Underspire.
“You spin a confident tale, Pheromancer.”
The clone was speaking the words but its body stance and demeanor were changed. It moved with an air of confidence and even the words were enunciated differently than his usual manner. It was delivering a direct message and, by the Roots, it was doing a good job carrying all the finer points of it. The way the word ‘Pheromancer’ was subtly underlined, for instance, left no room for misinterpretations.
“While your lack of trust cost resources and a well-placed agent of our interests, your performance was impressive and your confidence in your abilities admirable. For now, however, as unfortunate as it is, you are a perfect fit for the position you are currently occupying, exactly because of your exceptional performances. Think of it as an opportunity to further study the finer ways of upper Spire politics from the safety of the Underspire. We are confident that with your diligent mind and observational capacity, you will surely take your otherwise rightful place on the upper levels in no time.”
“Do not be alarmed by the possible repercussions of the Inspector’s accident. The matter will be handled. We would, however, require a report on the malfunctioning Brute, as well as all the appropriate certificates of his decommission to satisfy curious minds. We also recommend a more open and close cooperation with our agent in the future to avoid such incidents and needless loss of resources being repeated. Otherwise, resume operations as previously instructed.”
He was happy the mask hid his expression for he was fuming; luckily, not literally just at this moment. Oh, he understood the finer ways of the Upper Spire, already. What he had heard was “you are exactly where you are supposed to be” all over again but from a different mouth. What’s more, he was being told to send a report with his method of control over the Brute, as well of course as what they actually asked for. He was also being told that the Clone was all the safety he needed and to decommission the Brute.
He could comply; show them that he knew how to play the game. He could offer some things and keep for him others – as he would be expected to do in the game. He could decommission the Brute to ensure that the research could not be retrieved beyond what he shared and what they could replicate. He’d lose an edge, sure, but he could possibly replicate the technique given some time and proper resources once he was on the Upper Levels. For with his patron’s help, he would slowly but steadily be lead upwards, leaving the Underspire behind, even if it meant he’d serve someone else’s interests above all else.
Or he could stall and fake ignorance; start an endless series of reports, sticking to the letter of what they asked and be a good Pheromancer. It would infuriate them to no end, most probably killing his ambitions to ever leave the Underspire under their patronage. He would remain a shepherd of drones for decades before another opportunity like this ever presented itself, perhaps more. But there were joys here, no? The Brute, the faulty line research, he had realty enjoyed working on those projects.
His anger forgotten, he realized he had more difficulty making this choice than he expected. He had missed proper light and fresh air. But the Underspire and those drones felt… homely and his research and even his menial tasks had become important to him. Much more, he had come to realize something during this incident; before his patron had come along, no one had cared or paid attention. His reports were being ignored or dismissed and, as long as quotas were met, he was left to his own devices.
He shook his head, annoyed, the Clone dogging his steps as he walked down the familiar, dark corridors. Had the Underspire killed his ambitions? Or was it something else, something honest?
For the first time since he was sent to the Underspire, the Faded Magenta wondered if he was exactly where he was supposed to be, if the Upper Spire was really where he wanted to go.
Choice
Fake ignorance. Embrace the Underspire and learn its ways like no one else.
It took time before he was forgotten.
Filing an endless series of reports, enough of them to frustrate even the most meticulous of his superiors, he had stalled in all the ways that mattered. Complications with the Brute’s termination, caused by forgotten and obsolete directives and regulations – from serial number issues to unknown legal possession of the construct – had postponed the act indefinitely, while his latest report on his methods and findings numbered 76 out of an estimated 214. It was not a ploy without risk; frustrating superiors was how he had ended up in this position in the first place. But that, in part, was his plan: showcase with absolute clarity what they always believed about him – he was exactly where he was meant to be.
Still, he had had to be clever about it. His first delays about the Brute were actually valid, with only each third being somewhat meaningless. Gradually, the meaningless increased until, when he felt the matter would be finally ignored, his objections gradually became utterly ridiculous. In the end, of course, he would have to terminate a Brute. Just not his Brute, for under all the ridiculousness he had buried suggestions that would serve all the bureaucratic necessities to swap serial numbers. Eventually, Brute #4681-M would be terminated as instructed, only by that time the carapace would occupy a completely different creation. Massive – sort for Massive Success – as he affectionately called his pet, would be preserved.
Interestingly enough, Massive eventually seemed to have had created somewhat of a reputation among the Faulty drones, although this was discovered by accident. While returning from an errant with some delay, Mass passed through a tunnel occupied by one of the Faulty hubs. In her presence, they turned and followed her with their dull gazes and if Faded Magenta had not tried to reach her and discover the source of the delay, he never would have witnessed it. This made him eager to resume his observations and experimentations with the Faulty lines; but not yet. Not while the threat of his benefactor’s attention still loomed over him.
With the reports he played the exact opposite game. He started with insignificant, procedural details who would be of no interest or use to anyone, describing with every detail how he performed each and every menial task involved in the procedure. Now and then, he’d add some information that would be useful but nothing too radical or too groundbreaking. Eventually, around report 54 or so, he stopped even those. While his reports continued to describe with painful details the procedure, he would use terms such as “the required materials” or “the methods applied as mentioned in previous reports,” practically making the entire thesis unreadable.
In his own mind, however, everything was clear and the practice showed promise. It was, perhaps, a groundbreaking approach to pheromantic commands, where the specific strands of the emitter of the pheromones outweighed the importance of the variety of the pheromones used, by adapting the receptors of the subject. He would be the first to admit that what he had achieved with Massive was a one-hit wonder so far but he hoped that one day he would have the opportunity to properly research and develop this technique. But it took a long time before he was forgotten.
When the Clone left, he had already half-forgotten the whole affair himself, reminded only by the fact that the Clone spoke. “I have been re-assigned” it had said simply and those were the sweetest words that Faded Magenta had ever heard. These tunnels were finally his once more.
Choice
Concentrate on the Research.
Progress was slow. It was unavoidable.
To ensure that his existence passed from ignored to entirely forgotten, he had to play the part of the dutiful Pheromancer, the loving gardener of his Underspire domain, the tender shepherd of his Drones. Most importantly, he had to be a most effective worker, keeping up with the ridiculous numbers demanded by the upper layers, by ensuring that the Roots were healthy and provided resources without end or delay. Much as the higher echelons of both Lineages and the Directorate dismissed the workings of the Underspire as menial tasks that could be performed by Drones, had they any intelligence or basic pheromantic abilities, the reality was immensely more complex, demanding and elegant than they’d dare to imagine or care to admit in their Arena soirees. This meant that the time for research was extremely limited.
Mass proved an immense help. Already finely tuned to his pheromantic emissions, she proved extremely effective in the production process, performing faster and better than the number of drones usually provided for such tasks. Her efforts offered some chances for research and he was thankful, often talking to her while he conducted his experiments or examined her receptors. Alas, he also knew this coexistence would soon meet its end. Having already delayed her natural decay as much as possible with known all tricks and methods – strong anti-biotics pumped constantly from the armor to the tissue, for instance, as well as frequent pheromantic treatments and organ replacements – Mass’ final expiration date was fast approaching.
In a way, this was good news. Her carcass should have been the first point of interest for his research, but he had told himself that a live subject was much more valuable; this was partly true, for the live interactions of her receptors to his pheromones were invaluable. In the end, however, he knew he would have to work on Mass’ tissue if he was to have any significant success in his efforts.
The thought… displeased him. Without Mass, he knew, and in the absence of the Clone, the loneliness of the Underspire, would hit him hard. More importantly, and sentimentalities aside, Mass was the main reason in the first place that he had been able to steal any time for further research and replicating her condition. Losing her would be a blow. But the alternative…
There were ways to countermand the natural decay of drones. This was known. They were mostly attached to their production process, however, and their cost-effectiveness had proved forbidding for such mindless and unskilled creations. But among Pheromancers it had sometimes been discussed that there could be alternatives; post-production amendments to the basic structure and functions of the subject could – or so some claimed – alter the rhythm of basic organ functions. These, however, methods were largely attached to the mental capacity of the drones; in short, they needed more advance brain functions to better monitor and command the basic organs. In truth, only minor such adjustments could be made post-production and it would be simply furthering delaying the inevitable. But the main problem that this meant a less controllable drone; and as tissue matter was recycled into future generations of drones, it was considered dangerous and very, VERY illegal. What he had done so far was never technically illegal or, well, at least could always reasonably be attributed to oversight. But this…
Faded Magenta shook his head, dispelling the thoughts. A stupid risk, with but a promise of rewards and which would force him to deviate from the research, just as he had regained his relative freedom. He could always replace Mass with another Brute when it came to the completion of menial tasks. Alright, technically that too was partly illegal, as it was considered larceny, appropriation of someone else’s property, but unlike what he was considering this was always happening to a certain extent and rarely brought anything worse than a slap on the wrist if discovered. Tampering with the mental faculties of a drone, and a Brute at that, would see you deleted very absolutely and very fast. Fumes be damned, if his biopsy of her receptors proved fruitful, he could replicate the application, to some extent surely, if not fully every time, to the new Brutes he would employ. Surely it was not worth pursuing out of some ill-advised, self-delusional sentimentality.
Choice
Allow Mass to expire, use her tissue for the Research. This will expedite the research time.
What qualms had been entertained about allowing Mass to expire were drowned the moment he dissected her. Fumes, he caught himself wondering why he had not done this earlier.
She was a dragon’s hoard worth of treasure in his eyes. The slight shaking in his hand as he lowered the scalpel to perform the first incision quickly turned into a razor-sharp focus and an excitement contained only by the thrill of uncovering of new findings, even if most of them had really nothing to do with his current research. For a time, he was a young novice once more, taken by the thrill of discovery and biomantic innovation. For a time, he was a Biomancer, even if only at heart. Lost in his thoughts and the keeping of notes, he completely ignored the fact that he was being watched.
He had set up his workshop in an abandoned root complex, officially declared defunct but subtly operating regardless. This was a much-used practice among Pheromancers. Once a Root began degrading beyond a certain point, they would declare it “defunct until restorations.” This had three advantages; first, while discovery could lead to further disfavor, it was technically correct and therefore legally it was safe. The Directorate did not discriminate between Roots. As long as a Root was operable, it was expected to deliver certain amounts of prime matters based on their size, amounts which such Roots could not hope to produce. By declaring a Root defunct in this manner, they turned this amount to zero, pending its restoration. This restoration, in turn, demanded resources that the Directorate was loathe to assign until much later in the future, when the natural restoration of the Spire had limited their need somewhat. By that time, usually, the Roots were all but fully operational again, thus the Pheromancers could use those resources for poorly funded projects and repairs. Finally, as the formally defunct Roots could still produce some materials, those materials could be used to compensate for the unrealistic quotas demanded from the officially operational Root complexes if needed. Faded Magenta had found a fourth use: using it as working space for his research, while using the faulty drones for the basic operations of the Root, thus keeping them isolated and out of sight.
One such drone was watching him as he worked on Mass’ body.
He had used the drone to carry some of his less sensitive tools, then simply forgot about its existence. Lacking a new directive, it had remained motionless in waiting. It had seen the first incision, its whimper lost to the focused Pheromancer. It had gurgled with sadness, as the skull was opened, and its top put delicately to the side. It had watched with awe as the carapace was removed, and it had reached for it from afar, only to stop the move a mere moment after. It had watched the entire procedure with large, glittering, dark eyes and, when Faded Magenta had finally finished his work, Drone #4014 saw what he did then too.
Choice
Thank Mass – In a bout of sentimentality, Faded Magenta whispered a thanks to Mass for her help.
Progress was slow for three reasons.
First, loathe as he was to admit it, Faded Magenta had never been the brightest of students in matters of high Biomancy. Oh, he had a talent and understanding the mechanics of the science was not beyond his reach. But, unlike the self-pitying rants of most of his fellow Pheromancers, who claimed they were as talented, if not more, in the Art as their oppressive superiors, Faded Magenta both understood and accepted that high Biomancy demanded a meticulous, grinding approach, while most of the work had nothing to do with practicing an art and much more to do with studying a science. In that department, he was big enough to admit, he lacked the attention and focus required to excel and his natural talent could only carry him so far. So, as he realized his progress was slow, he also realized that this was largely due to his own difficulty in remaining focused.
The fact he lacked the necessary equipment, materials and bibliography did not help. In a twisted way, it could be claimed that it even worked in his favor, being forced to rely on his talent and instincts more than in studying. But such an approach demanded endless trials and errors, as if trying to reinvent the Bond from scratch. While he could ask for reading material, he was reluctant to do so in any meaningful manner, fearing discovery by his patron; who he feared still kept tabs on him, even if absent-mindedly so. Lacking access to the findings of other researchers was frustrating and delaying but not entirely crippling and he decided early on to err on the side of caution.
Last but in no way least in his list of stalling factors, was his literal lack of time. While the denizens of the Upper Spire, and the Directorate first among them, dismissed the workings of the Underspire as straightforward, menial work, fit only for the lowliest of practitioners, the reality was that the weight of the operation of the entire Spire – along with the amassed burden of all the intrigues and political games of its elite– fell on the shoulders of the Underspire. Meeting quotas, adapting to ever changing priorities, satisfying contradictory orders from different higher-ups, was more than a full-time job: it was a lifestyle none had chosen but many were forced into. Crashed under the weight of his positions demands, Faded Magenta was forced repeatedly to sacrifice rest in order to make slow and minimal advancements in his research. Eventually, the stimulants and supplements would prove they could only sustain him so far, and he would be forced to completely abandon his project to concentrate on his day-job and getting proper rest after.
So, when, eventually, exhaustion came knocking, turning his thoughts as sluggish and muddy as vat-liquid, Faded Magenta walked lazily towards his hidden Root laboratory without noticing the drones that followed him from a distance. He failed to see their eyes monitoring mutely his every move, as he walked through the corridors, now and then one reaching hesitantly towards him from a distance. And when he finally reached his room…
Choice
Only then did he see… – …a group of eyes, glistening in the dark with a muted glare, starring at him as he closed the door.
Only then did he see a group of eyes, glistening in the dark with a muted glare, starring at him as he closed the door.
He paused his movement, his breath cut short inside his mask. Then, terror gripping at his heart as images of the drones attacking him flashed in his head in paranoid bursts, he forced his mind to rationalize the scene before him; only, he overcorrected. Scenarios upon scenarios started racing through, trying to answer basic questions that had nothing to do with Biomancy, Pheromancy or their design; what was he to them? Why this room? None of the drones here should have been alive when anything of significance happened here, could they have been passing on tales through generations? Had they completed their assigned tasks? Could they have…
One of them made a sound and he felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. It had not been one of the usual gurgles or groans. It sounded like a low howl, an effort to be vocal… By the fumes, it sounded like it had tried to… speak.
Panic raging behind his widened eyes, part of his brain continued its rationalizing with renewed gusto. This was dangerous. It could never speak, obviously, even if it did try. At best it was trying to imitate a speech it had heard. But where had it heard it? This was dangerous. He muttered to himself sometimes while he worked (who didn’t?) but could it really have been that? This was dangerous. This was unrecorded, unregistered, unsolicited and theoretically impossible behavior, laying the ground for unpredictable patterns and behaviors to develop. This was dangerous. This was dangerous. This was dangerous.
As panic and rationalizing finally met, Faded Magenta’s eyes widened further behind his mask.
Choice
Ignore the warning signs. Go closer, see how they react.
They did not move. For all intents and purposes, they were passive drones, good old reliable, simpletons, awaiting for him to give purpose to the meaningless hours of their existence. But there was something different, he realized as he took another step closer to them, even though this difference lied not with them but with him: he wondered what they were thinking.
This was, to a Pheromancer’s mind, as if wondering what a hammer was thinking. It simply made no sense. And yet, there he was, taking cautious steps towards them, alert to any movement and already mixing pheromones in his sacks, ready to unleash them at the first sign of trouble. Bypassing the fleeting philosophical thought of what it meant to be afraid, he was stunned by the realization that he was afraid. Afraid of drones.
A third step. A fourth. Still, they remained motionless, waiting for him to… to what? Adversary take them, what could they possibly be waiting or wanting? They weren’t supposed to do either they were..
And then, one spoke. It was neither elaborate and it sounded as alien as if a pet was doing funny sounds that, in a trick of the mind, sounded like words. But the intent behind the eyes was obvious, the struggle for precision and eloquence as observable as its failure, drowned as the utterings were in gurgles and growls.
“Khh-ehn, oo,” the drone said. “Khhehn gioo,” it struggled, signs of frustration in its one observable eye behind the mask. A pitiful, exasperated creature stood before him and, for a moment, he shivered in the thought of pity for it. And then, that shiver turned to dread, as he finally understood.
The drone was trying to say, “Thank you.”
Choice
Reply.
He opened his mouth, only to close it again, feeling like an idiot.
One did not talk to drones. Sure, one commanded them, one dominated their will, but… but… But that was different! It was the same as humming while working on a vat or like wielding a scalpel. They were simply tools not…
“Khhehn gioo,” the drone said in its annoyingly pitiful manner and voice.
He shrugged. It’s not like it could hurt, was it? Some of his peers spoke to their scalpels, after all. Sure, it was the sort of thing that if you got caught doing in the Conservatory gave you a one way ticket to the Underspire, but he was here anyway, so what was the harm?
He opened his mouth again, suppressing the feeling of idiocy as much as he could, only to realize he had no idea what to say.
Choice
You are welcome.
‘I am sure you are perfectly welcome,’ he blurted out, his mind in a shock induced euphoria. ‘What are masters for, eh? Ha ha ha! Ha ha! Ha. Ahem,’ he went on. Fumes, he thought, reaching for his mask’s support systems, the concoctions being pumped into me to keep my heartrate down must have really done a number on me. But just as he was lowering the dosages, the drone made another sound.
‘Hhhh… Hhhhhh…’
Faded Magenta gulped, his finger dialing up any fume he thought could keep him sane.
‘I am sorry, what was that?’ he asked, nonchalantly.
‘Hhhh… Hhhhhhhh…. HHHHHhhhhhhHHhh!’ the drone did the sound again, though even in his state, Faded Magenta dismissed it as an answer but perceived it as a repetition of the attempt instead. This helped surprisingly little with his panic attack.
It sounded as if it was hissing, or choking, or an eerie combination of both. But there was no urgency or sentiment to it, no feeling or thought being expressed through it. It was flat and empty, the sound their throats were making little different than the sound of a dead body being dragged on dirt. So, when the others joined in, every inch of skin under his robes crawled in waves, for he realized: they were mimicking laughter. Dead, empty, expressionless, forced laughter. Then, their throats doing the same sound without end – wait, are they harmonizing? – the drones slowly started taking steps towards him.
Choice
He stood still… – …against everything his body and mind told him was a good idea.
Truancy Incident #21-Crimson-58453
INQUIRY REPORT AND ASSUMPTION OF DUTIES
WHEREAS, by virtue of Directorate Decree No. -21/6554, the quotas of all Root Primary Systems were increased by 0,08%, to a total of 714,536% the Production Rate Total Decreed by the Sovereign upon Foundation.
WHEREAS, all Pheromantic Moderators were ordered to include an Understanding and Acknowledgement of the Decree to their Local Weekly Progress Reports, otherwise file a Failure to Comply and Objection Report, as per Decree No. -581/0012 and all its amendments.
WHEREAS, the Pheromantic Moderator Hubs 31-60 of Root Primary C Magenta-7717 a.k.a. Faded Magenta failed to comply.
WHEREAS, the failure to report by the aforementioned Pheromantic Director was repeated for the second Local Week.
WHEREAS, the production rate of Room Primary C was marginally meeting the standards set by the Directorate before the Truancy in question.
WHEREAS, all the above created a valid concern for the operation of Hubs 31-60 of Root Primary C, as well as all their Subroots therein.
WHEREAS, I was ordered to replace Pheromantic Moderator Magenta-7717 in his duties, as well as recover his equipment, if in working condition.
FOR THESE REASONS:
I am pleased to report that I have successfully assumed the duties of the late Pheromantic Director.
Despite neglect caused by the termination of the Pheromantic Director in question, I expect the Hubs to meet the quota set by Directorate Decree No. -21/6554 by next Local Week’s report (see attached Report and Projections).
I regret to inform that most of the Pheromantic Equipment recovered from the remains is beyond repair. With the Assistant Director’s Permission, I will store them for future repairs on my existing equipment.
Should the Assistant Director wish it, I could perform an autopsy to determine the cause of termination of Pheromantic Moderator Magenta-7717.
Pheromantic Moderator Crimson-8014 a.k.a. Surmounting Principal.
His purple lenses glittered softly in the gloom of his desk’s light, as he read through his Report. Then, assured of its contents, he inserted it into the communication tubes from where, with a soft sucking sound, it disappeared. He turned, looking at the drone that almost managed to return his stare. It had a pheromantic tube fitted around his torso, much like some humans marked their officers. It looked ridiculous. It looked fantastic. The Pheromancer chuckled and shook his head but in the end, he smiled under his mask.
“And that, dear Faulty, is how you fake your own death. Now, to our plans, yes?”
* * *