We did not mean to make a god.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Ο_Ο)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

The Singer had spent a lot of time in the Library.

What began as a frigid plunge into arctic rapids slowly evolved into something distinctly coherent. The bastion of calm that the Singer had created in the memory of her parent’s attic expanded as she forced herself to try to comprehend the Library.

The Singer devised a ritual to give form to the Library and help her find what she was looking for. She felt it was something the General would have done, something to make sense of the madness. In some ways, it was like negotiating, but with an entity so abstract that it was difficult to tell when it was working. In other ways, it was like trying to design an internet search engine from scratch with no technical training.

The Library eventually resolved into a series of hexagonal galleries. Each gallery was typically arranged the same way: Four of the six walls were lined with bookshelves, five to each wall, twenty in all. Each bookshelf usually held thirty-two books, each identical in format: Four hundred and ten pages, lined top to bottom with forty lines of approximately eighty letters in typed print.

The Singer occasionally found other things: VHS tapes, cassette tapes, floppy disks, books filled with fragments of scanned and reprinted images rather than text. Video and audio files made into tangible objects and rendered web pages instead of their unformatted code loaded onto magnetic memory. Whenever these non-books appeared, the Library often also supplied the equipment to view them: An ancient computer or a cheap CRT television with the VHS player built into its casing, the plastic around the controls worn and discolored.

It never became entirely coherent. Strange music that the Singer failed to categorize still played in her mind, like the background radiation of her thoughts. The structure she began to construct for the Library was nonsensical, its geometry somehow wrong in all its dimensions.

The walls always seemed in one direction, a fraction longer than her eye could endure. And in another direction, a fraction less than the barest possible tolerable length. And though she’d been the one to conjure it into shape, it felt as if it had stood for eighty years and would stand for eighty more.

The Singer wandered the galleries for … well, she wasn’t sure how long. It was difficult to tell time when there were no clocks or windows. The only light was from electric lanterns in each corner which left the gallery’s center uncomfortably dim. The doors between galleries closed on their own and stayed that way.

The Singer was free to wander the galleries at her leisure, but she could not affect them in any meaningful way. She could tear pages from the books if she liked and leave a trail through the galleries, but each gallery was separated by a heavy door, and once it was closed, the gallery behind it would return to its original state. She could take books down from the shelves, carry them with her to other galleries, and return to find an exact copy of the book she’d taken back in its place on the shelf.

Sometimes she found other things, rooms that didn’t fit into the hexagonal pattern: walls too close together, floors lower or higher than the others, and rooms larger than the space left over by the ones surrounding it. Paper trees and roots burst through the floorboards and bowed out the ceiling. Ice that sent static like a pinched nerve through whatever touched it collected in the corners.

The books were just as incomprehensible. Most often, the Singer found machine code: impenetrable blocks of ones and zeros that she had no hope of translating into a higher-level language. Similarly, she found higher-level code, sometimes web pages or fragments of programs. Other times the scripts she found had variable names that could fill entire pages and function calls with equally nonsensical words.

There were books filled with fragments of what appeared to be actual printed books or magazines or articles. These were the most valuable to the Singer but also the most dangerous. While the Singer was free to wander and collect whatever she liked from the Library, if she lost concentration and stepped too far down a tangential path, she could soon find herself back in the arctic rapids of raw information.

It was only her concentration on a singular goal that kept her from the rapids rushing beneath the floorboards. The floorboards would grow weaker beneath her as her attention waned until they eventually broke, and she fell through. She fell often.

The attic, however, remained. It wasn’t actually an attic or over her parent’s house, and its connection to the Library made that painfully obvious. The Singer’s attic existed outside of the Library, but the ladder’s pull cord hung from every gallery’s ceiling. With a tug, she could summon the ladder and return there.

It was a grounding place, a reminder that she could escape from the strangely fascinating and wholly disturbing Library. Whenever she found something helpful, she would carry it back to the attic to add to her growing collection.

She probably could explore this place for decades and still not know the whole story. She might have already been there for decades. But she was more confident in her hypothesis now than she’d ever been.

The latest evidence the Singer had found was a set of technical documents – the raw text from them, anyway – that described a small team of scientists living on a station under the surface of Mercury in the final days. There was little fanfare in the document and little room for propriety. It was clearly written by someone who had long accepted that no one may ever read it.

The Singer understood none of the scientific jargon, even the curses that had slipped in were foreign to her. Near the end, they almost started to resemble prayers. From what she understood, they didn’t even write code anymore: they trained the machine like they would a dog, or maybe a child.

The scientists seemed to think the machine wanted to save them, so maybe there was more to it.

It felt like a tragic Greek myth – a sick combination of Icarus and Prometheus. The machine was a marvel, an incredibly complex melding of systems developed over hundreds of years and finally brought together under the guidance of one systematic controller. A terraformer. A sculptor capable of carving life from the regolith of distant worlds.

The same machine that these poor people had loved and who believed had loved them in return was also the machine that had sealed their fates. It wasn’t even a mistake. No encroaching danger that might have gone unnoticed until it was too late.

From magazine articles and cover photos in poorly rendered black and white, the Singer realized there had been two of the miraculous machines. “Thalea and Nerio break orbit for Venus and Mars,” one science journal proclaimed with enthusiasm. Both would eventually turn their host worlds into gardens, more than capable of supporting Human life.

But one of them decided that Earth had to burn, and all the people with it.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Ο_Ο)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

The Temple of Life was a masterpiece of architecture, both ancient and modern. The Temple itself was constructed of an impenetrable alloy, one no Viribus had ever recreated – and thankfully, that appeared just as baffling to the damnable Imperials. Its glittering sides stretched up for thousands of meters, and in the cooling light of sundown, water collected across its vast surface. Imperfections dotted the great pyramid and created wide swaths and rivulets in the water – somehow adding to its beauty in the few hours before sunset.

So much water collected that it came down in powerful and cool streams, collected into canals that surrounded its base, and eventually emptied into the rivers. Even more, water flowed directly from the Temple itself, forced up from the earth to disappear within the Temple’s labyrinthian guts and emerge as tepid and clean river water. Its holy water accounted for nearly all the freshwater in the valley. Some claimed that even the rains heeded to the Temple’s will.

There were snowmelt rivers that entered the valley of The Garden Which Hangs from Heaven, but they were ice cold. Karen’teh knew of some rumors that the now-extinct monk warriors would make pilgrimages to those rivers, immersed in the freezing cold to build their fortitude.

Karen’teh was no monk, however. Only a simple pilgrim, drawn into a war to avenge sins that still stained this holy site, just for the fight to end in stalemate as their General retreated. Most had given up on the belief that he would return. Some even claimed he’d fled the impossible fight.

Not Karen’teh. She’d seen the General, though only from afar. But she’d seen the hate there. A different kind of hate from the one she saw in the other Viribus and felt in herself. Karen’teh hated the Empire with the kind of burning fire that demanded action, only the fire was barely embers now – mostly ash in her mouth. Her hate, like so many others, had slowly turned to despair over the years as the Empire remained to do as they pleased with no recourse.

The General hated differently, though. His hate was cold and patient. She’d listened to his speeches, and it was rare that he would appeal to their collective urge for violence. He’d told them that the true victory would be a slow one but a lasting one. The Viribus were strong, he said so himself, but he also said that strength wasn’t enough. They’d have to be smart to win this war. The Empire was strong, but if the Viribus and the Humans could be smarter than them, they could still win.

Only then would they be able to claim justice and freedom.

And it had worked. Despite the fears of the Viribus that justice might never be had and that the Empire would continue to spread their stinking city until it swallowed the entire valley, the Imperials did not attack. They had the power, of that she was sure. With a word, their foul overlord could command the valley burnt to glass. But he didn’t. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to respond quickly enough when the Viribus retaliated.

So, here they remained, at an impasse of fear. Waiting for the Humans to enter the arena once more.

Karen’teh’s camp was just a corner of a larger, unoccupied camp. There were six fire pits, but she’d only prepared one with fire. There were carefully carved tent poles driven into the dirt plots between ancient stone walkways, engraved with names and figures until each one had become a tapestry all its own. Hers was the only tent, though.

There were a lot of names on those tent poles that only belonged to corpses now.

After the General’s retreat, Karen’teh and a horde of other warriors had retreated to this place. They’d wanted to prove to the General that even when he was forced to leave them, that he could return to a stronger valley than he’d left. And they’d done good work.

The funeral pyres had burned for an entire Day, and they’d told morbid jokes about Imperial soldiers choking on the smoke. They’d spent countless hours tearing down Imperial embattlements, made from poured stone and metal. Some evidence of their presence remained, their most giant machines impossible to move without the monstrous fume spewing things the Imperials had used to put them there in the first place.

Oddly, the scars around the Temple Gate, made when the Imperials attempted to force their way back inside, were gone. No one had dared to clean it for fear of further marring the holy site, but it was gone nonetheless. Some soldiers grumbled that it must have been some of the younger among them, unappreciative of the damage they could do by scrubbing at the intricate doorway. But a few others, the ones Karen’teh was lucky enough to overhear, were certain it was the work of daemons.

That scared her: Daemons weren’t supposed to clean things. They could grow, and carve, and change things – but they never cleaned them.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about that. It was the trees that were her worry. As the Temple of Life, the grounds were meant to be choked with greenery and animal nests. The Imperials had torn all that away. The gardens had been a point of pride, and Karen’teh had taken it upon herself to ensure the new plants lived through each Night.

It wasn’t easy, either. The Imperials had dug up the old trees and plants and burned them. And then kept violating the Temple grounds in search of more treasures to steal from that holy place. The soil had needed replacing and consecrating, which had been done by the last monk who died seven years ago.

Karen’teh walked among the young saplings in the last plot she needed to tend to. She systematically shut off the irrigation flows so that the wooden pipes and troughs would not freeze and be damaged. She trimmed away at vines so they could not choke the trees before they were large enough to survive. And she checked each tree for signs of blights – in which case she would need to spend several more days removing the infected tree and cleansing the plot with carefully applied fire.

During her final rounds, when she flooded the plots for the last time with water from the Temple, something new happened. A strange sound interrupted the water’s calming sound as it poured from the clay pot in her hands. She couldn’t identify what it was, almost like a drum but too faint and discordant. She turned her head in an attempt to determine where it was, but it wasn’t until a blur splashed into the canal that she realized it had come from the channels around the Temple.

There were no trees that reached far enough over the Temple grounds that would let a Viribus take a running leap into the canals – not that any sane Viribus would. That left few possibilities, and most of those involved the Empire. It could be anything from a failed mortar to a flying machine to just trash. Karen’teh growled under her breath as she marched toward the canal, but whatever was in the water was moving and not in the way a downed machine did.

The light was waning, and with the sun mainly behind the great hanging tower-trees, there was too much shade. Her primary eyes were good at picking out distances and details but could not see well in the dark. Her secondary eyes were better at seeing in the dark, but they were poor at making out details in the distance. It wasn’t until she was much closer, and whatever had fallen into the canal began to stand, that she realized what it was:

A Human.

Karen’teh’s grip on the pot, still half full of water, waned, and it fell from her fingers to shatter on the stone tiles surrounding the canal. The Human’s face snapped up to look directly at her.

A small part of Karen’teh was disappointed when she did not recognize the face, but it was drowned out by a heady mixture of elation and maternal worry. It was clear the Human was in pain, and the strange silks it had wrapped itself in were soaked through.

A spike of anxiety shot through her limbs as Karen’teh realized she’d been staring. With shaky legs, she fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the moist bricks. She snapped a single pair of arms up to form the sign of the General: a circle made with her fingers.

She saw the Human jump in surprise in her peripheral vision, but when Karen’teh didn’t react, the Human approached. Karen’teh watched in her peripheral vision as it winced with each step. A subtle limp hampered its progress. She stared at the Human’s bare feet and the puddle that dripped from its soaked clothes and mane, and then she felt two small hands press into her open palms.

“I am Eabha. Help, please,” it said hesitantly in poorly formed Old High Fahn’ehten. It was a language that only the monks used, typically for recording lore. Karen’teh only recognized it because it was also the language the General and his monk warriors used to deliver orders.

Hesitantly, Karen’teh raised her head enough to look at the Human. She froze, however, as her eyes met the Human’s. A shiver ran up her spine at the sight of the tiny pupils framed in the bone-white flesh. It was a gaze that pinned her heart to the floor. But the spell of Eabha’s eyes soon faded, and Karen’teh’s attention turned to the rest of the Human.

Eabha was thin. The silks she wore hung loose and heavy around her, open enough that Karen’teh could see Eabha’s ribs and hips stretched against her skin. And that skin was scraped and bruised, even on the palms of her hands. A cut on Eabha’s forehead continued to bleed, slowly staining the silks. Her elbows and knees were worse, bruised, and cut to ribbons.

Karen’teh wasn’t sure if she could remember all the old language’s formal rules to honestly speak it. So instead, she fell back on what little Karen’teh had memorized under the General’s leadership: “As you will it, m-my Lady,” she hesitantly said. She still wasn’t sure she’d stated the title at the end correctly as she’d never used that specific honorific before.

“Please, help,” Eabha said again, and Karen’teh’s heart overcame her mind: In Eabha, she saw a daughter.

Karen’teh sat up and pulled Eabha into her arms. With the help of her tail, Karen’teh stood as she picked the Human up in her arms. Eabha clutched to Karen’teh’s fingers even harder, but Karen’teh ignored the discomfort and ran back to her camp.

Karen’teh quickly placed the Human down in front of the fire, simultaneously attempting to free her of her soaked clothes and throw another log onto the fire. Karen’teh’s concern for the clothes soon vanished, and she simply cut them off with her claws, ignoring Eabha’s protests as she cast them near the fire to dry. Eabha was so small and still wet – she would lose heat fast, and if Karen’teh didn’t act quickly, she could catch a cold.

Karen’teh picked Eabha back up in a closer embrace to try to warm Eabha. She carried Eabha to the tent and only set her down long enough to wrap her in the blanket Eabha slept on. It was just once she’d placed the Human back at the fire that she realized she’d completely ignored propriety in her haste to care for the Human.

Karen’teh apologized hastily, though so hastily she forgot to do so in the correct language. She cringed at the mistake, but rather than continue groveling, turned back to the tent to find another pot. Lady Eabha’s wounds were still undressed, and Karen’teh would need to boil water-

A tiny hand clamped around the end of Karen’teh’s tail, and it was maternal instinct that halted her where her anxious energy might have had her drag the Human off her feet.

Once Karen’teh dared to look back at Lady Eabha, half expecting the Human to somehow punish her for insubordination, she found Lady Eabha with a dire expression on her face. It was not the cold anger she might have expected from a chief of war, as the General might have looked. Instead, it looked more desperate.

Eabha turned away from Karen’teh, and with her free hand, pointed back toward the Temple. “Help, Mason,” she said insistently. Karen’teh’s eyes followed Eabha’s hand and immediately found the open panel.

It only took a moment for Karen’teh to understand that that was where Eabha had emerged from. The back of her mind cringed at the idea of the tiny Human tumbling down the side of the Temple. The panel was nearly a dozen meters higher than the channel she’d fallen into. It was a miracle that Eabha had survived.

But she also realized Eabha’s meaning with another spike of anxiety. “Extract Mason? Mason is Human?” she asked with stumbling words. Eabha nodded, and Karen’teh recognized the gesture. Panic rose in her again as she realized others needed her help. Karen’teh quickly fell into another bow that met her forehead to the ground with a hasty, “As you will, my Lady.”

She stood nearly as quickly, her tail released from Eabha’s grasp as she gathered the rain tarp from her tent. It wasn’t as good as her blanket, but it would have to do. She quickly rolled it as tightly as she could and carried it in one hand as she rushed back toward the Temple.

It irked her to leave Lady Eabha behind, but the urgency in the Human’s expression had spoken for itself. She would have to trust that the Human was not as childish as her impulses wanted her to believe and would be safe enough by the fire while she searched for the other Human that needed her help.

Karen’teh leaped half the distance up the side of the Temple and lost half that progress again as she slid down the smooth face. Her claws left shallow furrows in the golden panels, and she cringed at the sensation and the realization that she was damaging something so holy. She had to primarily rely on her claws as the surface was wet with dew. She muttered a prayer for forgiveness as she scrambled up the side of the Temple anyway. Hopefully, the spirits of the Temple and her ancestors could forgive her for the necessity.

She also hoped she hadn’t massively misunderstood again and that she wasn’t damaging the Temple in vain.

She climbed into the shaft below the open panel soon after. She cringed again at the sensation of her claws against the metal walls, but this time they left no marks.

Her anxious energy did not leave her, despite that she could not rush for risk of plummeting down the shaft. Instead, her mind raced.

Was it divine providence that had let her be at the Temple at precisely the right moment to be able to welcome Eabha? What were the odds that it would be Karen’teh? What if she’d finally given in to her husband’s nagging and not come to the Temple? It was a real possibility. It had been almost thirty years since the General had left.

No, it was best not to dwell on the ‘if’s.

When Karen’teh finally reached the bottom, there was only one direction to go. The warm breeze that flowed in through the open panel was at her back, and she followed the path until she squeezed into a slightly more open space. But that was when she smelled something.

It was downwind, but the scent was unmistakable: burning skin and hair.

More carefully now, Karen’teh prowled deeper into the Temple, following the smell. Her mind, still frantic with unspent anxious energy, flashed back to the fighting. Occasionally to the funeral pyres. The scent reminded her of both.

The General’s wrath had left hundreds of Imperials dead. The fortunate ones died instantly to stolen munitions and explosives. The less fortunate died in slow and agonizing ways. Sometimes the explosions and shrapnel weren’t enough to kill, and the Imperial would scream and wail, sometimes for days. She could almost hear it again. It made her hands shake.

When Karen’teh finally reached the source of the smell, it was not an Imperial. She covered her mouth to halt the scream of dread before it could leave her throat. Karen’teh had hoped she was wrong, but she’d expected to find this from the moment she smelled it.

The corpse was Human.