A Fortress of Pebbles

Usually, things got better as the day progressed. The kids tended to warm up. The hangovers tended to fade. After the first few minutes, Aissaba was usually running the tour on autopilot, half her brain dedicated to impressing the newcomers, the other half planning an evening of debauchery for herself, Tassadu, and their small circle of “Fortress Fuckups” (as they affectionately called themselves).

Last night’s party had involved two bottles of Earth whiskey and a handful of mind pebbles. Good shit. But within the first few minutes of today’s tour, Aissaba was already beginning to worry that it might run late. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but there was something “off” about Cassandra and Orion.

The first clue to this effect came when Tassadu and Aissaba guided them across the grass of the courtyard, Tassadu giving the usual speech: “The Fortress’s mission is to protect Earth from a variety of apocalyptic scenarios. In doing so, we divide our magic into four categories, or ‘Masteries.’ You’ve already seen one of these – the Mastery of Life.” During his usual explanation of how life magic could be used to change your eye-color or even (as he had done to himself) make yourself part dragon, Cassandra interrupted with a weird question – something that sounded out of place in the mouth of a twelve year old kid from Montana.

“Like, it edits your genome or something?” she’d said. This caused Tassadu and Aissaba to stop in their tracks, reassessing the newcomers.

Before Tassadu could answer, Cassandra’s attention had already drifted to a cluster of students on picnic blankets studying their textbooks together. Like her brother, she had her hands in the pockets of her bluejeans, saying nothing as her newly-purple eyes took everything in.

Aissaba said cautiously, “Technically, yes. But the genetic details are… kind of advanced.”

Instinctively, Tassadu looked at his clipboard for answers. “I see that you two were homeschooled.”

The kids didn’t offer explanations – nor did they ask questions. They just looked at things. If one of them hadn’t just casually inquired about gene editing, Aissaba might have concluded they were a bit slow.

Aissaba and Tassadu exchanged a look as they moved on – guiding the kids to the first building on their tour: the Spire of Masteries, the tower of white stone in the middle of the courtyard. It overlooked the massive walls of the Fortress and would have been visible for miles if the Fortress had been situated within normal space and time. The top of the spire was lost in the synthetic clouds that drifted lazily overhead.

“The building we’re about to enter,” said Tassadu in a low, reverent voice, “is older than we are. Older even than the Earth itself–”

At this, Orion scoffed, throwing Tassadu off his script. Tassadu looked at Aissaba, then back at Orion, expectantly blinking first his inner eyelids, then his outer ones. Orion, though, just bent down to tie his shoe.

Tassadu asked politely, “Orion, do you have an inside thought that wants to become an outside thought?”

But Orion had gotten distracted during his shoe-tying and was now pulling up a dandelion to examine the white fuzz. Cassandra explained, quite confidently, as if she could read her brother’s mind and was used to speaking for him, “It’s just that the Earth is more than four billion years old. He doesn’t think this building could possibly be that old.”

“That is a very interesting perspective, Cassandra!” said Tassadu. “But you can safely inform your brother that the Fortress is, in fact, much older than the Earth and has, in fact, protected many worlds over the years.”

Orion blew the dandelion dust into his sister’s face, causing her to slug him in the shoulder, surprisingly hard. He immediately looked at Aissaba and demanded, “Did you see what she just did to me?”

Behind her sunglasses, Aissaba kept a smile pasted on, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace of pain. Something was off about these kids, and that was not good. She and the other Fortress Fuckups relied on jobs like these – low key, low stress, part time.

She had never failed to recruit a newcomer. But something was telling her that she should worry. By the look in Tassadu’s eyes, he was feeling the same way.