A Fortress of Pebbles

Styxx’s screams stopped, which was somehow worse. Hours passed in relative silence, and although the sky outside was as stormy as ever, Aissaba knew night had fallen, at least on Earth.

(Blink: Cassandra took a peek at the pebble to see if it was still there, still glowing. It was. From the top bunk came Orion’s voice, “Hey, put your phone away.” She stashed the pebble beneath her pillow, plunging the room into darkness.)

Finally, the door opened.

“Mom!” said Aissaba, springing to her feet. “What’s h–”

In the hallway behind her mother was the Master of Language, and he didn’t seem particularly happy. Less so than usual.

“Come,” said the Master of Language.

Aissaba and Tassadu were led to the next room, where Aissaba expected to see the walls covered in blood – perhaps Styxx’s entrails on the floor. But the man was lying unconscious and intact, facedown on a conference table. His robes were soaked in what, judging from the smell in the room, was sweat.

The Master of Mind sat at the head of the table, wearing beauty like a cloak, idly examining her avatar’s long nails. Aissaba had no doubt that hers was the face upon which Styxx had been looking while he screamed. What psychic knife the Master of Mind had used, Aissaba had no idea. Didn’t want to.

“Please have a seat,” said the Master of Language. “Would you like some water?” He retrieved bottles of Earth brand water from a mini-fridge as Aissaba and Tassadu sat in front of the body. Aissaba took it gratefully, realizing she’d had nothing all day. Tassadu shook his head.

Styxx was still alive, breathing faintly.

“Normally, we don’t do this,” said the Master of Language, apologetically. “Torture people, I mean.” He moved Styxx’s limp hand out of the way so that he could access a mug of coffee that had been sitting on the table. He sipped it and wrinkled his bulbous nose. “But what has been set in motion must be stopped.”

Aissaba’s mother offered him a map pebble. “Heat?” she said.

“Thank you, Nessassa,” said the Master of Language, plopping it into the coffee. Steam came out. They were, it seemed, back on speaking terms – though Aissaba couldn’t fathom what had changed.

Tassadu looked on the verge of breathing fire. “What do you want with us?” he growled. “Why are we still here?”

The Master of Language sighed and looked at the Master of Mind. “Would you care to explain?”

“You’re the linguist,” she replied – radiant in spite of her scowl. Aissaba had trouble taking her eyes off of her. “Or perhaps Nessassa should do it.”

Aissaba’s eyes flicked to her mother.

Almost as if she’d expected the duty to fall to her, Aissaba’s mother indicated Styxx’s body and said, “We’ve determined that the man you know as Styxx is a low-ranking member of an ancient organization – one we thought had been destroyed long ago, and one on which I once happened to be the leading scholar…”

“You may use the present tense, Nessassa,” said the Master of Language. “I am not above admitting I was wrong.”

“I happen to be the leading scholar on the organization in question,” said Aissaba’s mother. “They have gone by many names over the centuries – but I believe the most accurate term would be the Cult of Rot.”

A shiver crawled inside Aissaba’s robe at the word “Rot,” the memory of the rotten squash incident fresh in her mind: “What did you say? What word did you just use?” her mother had insisted, face twisted in the grip of a waking nightmare.

Aissaba wasn’t sure whether to be happy that her mother was back in the Masters’ good graces or not. As far as mental health was concerned, those days had not exactly been her mother’s finest era.

The Master of Language sipped his coffee. “Go on, Nessassa. You’re doing excellently.”

“The surprising thing,” said her mother, “is that by all accounts, the Cult of Rot should not exist. They led a brief uprising against the Master of Virtue long ago – several thousand years ago, in fact, back when the Fortress protected more worlds than just Earth. Indeed, back when the Fortress wasn’t just protecting worlds, but creating them.”

Aissaba blinked. It was hard to fathom a time that no one in the room was old enough to remember – except perhaps the Master of Language. No one really knew how old he was.

“Since then,” her mother went on, “nothing...”

“Except…” prompted the Master of Language. “Go on. You know you want to say, ‘I told you so.’ Get it out of your system, so that we can get down to business.”

“Except,” said her mother, “my research predicted that they might return. And it seems that, indeed, they haven’t just returned but have also launched a very sophisticated, very subtle attack against the Fortress. And against Earth itself.”