A Fortress of Pebbles

In the shadow of the Fortress gate, Cassandra stood amongst an entourage of Masters, Candidate Masters, and scribes. The pebble curtain swept aside, revealing what Cassandra could already smell – the ocean. Feet began to shuffle, and the entourage spilled out onto the beach that surrounded the Fortress.

“Full docking complete,” breathed someone with the kind of reverence that Mom used twice a year, when she went to church.

“It’s the first time the whole Fortress has been Earth-side since ancient Greece,” said fake-Orion, kicking at a sea urchin. His sneaker passed right through it.

Somewhere up ahead, near the water, Nessassa was giving a speech. Something about the Rot – about how it had been defeated before and would be again. Something about how she had discovered, in her research, that history is a cycle, that there comes a time of crisis for every world – a time when its citizens must unite against the darkness.

She was good at giving speeches; Cassandra could tell that much, even though the sounds of the ocean waves crashed over many of the details. At various points, scribes in the entourage said “Here here!” – raising cups of cider and other liquids toward the sky and drinking up.

“Nessassa is an anomaly,” said fake-Orion. “What are the odds that just decades before the Rot reveals itself, one of our scribes becomes fascinated with it?”

Cassandra nodded. Nessassa was her favorite. Although she had nothing against the Master of Language, she appreciated that someone could be elected leader on account of her knowledge alone. Cassandra would bet a day’s worth of cider that Nessassa was a note-taker. Excellent handwriting. Color-coded pens and highlighters.

“Come on,” said fake-Orion, taking her by the hand. Somehow, they slipped away without being noticed. All eyes were on Nessassa, who somehow managed to be fierce and full of fire, while also on the brink of tears. She was announcing that the Fortress had been rid of the Rot’s “connected twins” and that the next step was to rid the world of the Rot once and for all. Even without hearing every word, Cassandra couldn’t help but believe that if anyone could pull it off, it would be Nessassa. She spoke so confidently, with such fire, that one could almost believe that she had some kind of secret knowledge that everything would turn out okay.

Fake-Orion led her along the outside of the Fortress wall. The sand of the beach had almost but not quite swallowed the ruins of ancient stone buildings. Strange markings could be seen on the stones that still protruded, and every now and then, from the corner of her eye, Cassandra thought these markings might be glowing – not unlike the way that pebbles did.

“What is this place?” said Cassandra.

“In the early days,” said fake-Orion, “the Fortress took a more direct role in the shaping of human civilization. This island was our base of operations.”

“The early days?”

Fake-Orion didn’t answer, but instead pointed to a rocky outcropping that came into view as they rounded the Fortress wall. This one had a small opening with stairs that led down into a room with a stone table. It smelled like salt and fish, and the surfaces were covered with barnacles and other evidence of high tide’s regular visitation.

“Ancient conference room,” said fake-Orion. “The Masters of Language and Mind are the only ones old enough to remember it.”

“What are you looking for?” asked Cassandra, as fake-Orion began inspecting the inscriptions on the walls, glowing symbols peeking out between the barnacles.

“This,” he said, pointing triumphantly to a meaningless patch of runes. “Shove the knife right here.”

Cassandra shook her head reflexively, the way she always did when Orion bossed her around. But the moment the knife entered her thoughts, it entered her hand. And before she knew it, she was standing next to fake-Orion with the point of the blade resting on the wall’s etchings.

“What will it do?” she whispered, surprised at the surge of eagerness inside her.

“The knife is an ancient weapon,” he said, “one with the power to cut things that are distant but linked.”

The blade faltered in her hand. (Blink: Blood everywhere. Cat-Styxx’s throat sliced open–) She squeezed her eyes shut against the visions. Standard practice lately. Aissaba was going through some “tough shit” – as Dad might have put it.

“With it,” said fake-Orion, “we can perform a kind of surgery on the Rot, slicing it out of the universe like a tumor.”

“I don’t think you really answered my question,” said Cassandra. “What exactly will happen?” The disturbing thing was that it was taking all of her strength not to cut into the rock, as if the knife itself yearned for it.

She had once spied on Orion while he fried ants with a magnifying glass. Playing God with sunlight. The expression of gleeful curiosity on his face had been mildly terrifying, but she had done a good job of shoving the memory down deep, until now.

“The Rot Fortress and ours are linked, like twins,” said fake-Orion. “Things in one Fortress tend to have an analogue in the other. This room was once used to manage and monitor global trade systems in the early days of seafaring – back when this island went by the name Atlantis.”

“You’re still not ans–”

Fake-Orion grabbed her right hand, locking it in place with the knife poised to strike. “There’s not much time,” hissed fake-Orion.

Indeed, Cassandra could hear the voices of the Master of Language and Mind, distant but growing closer. Perhaps Nessassa’s speech had concluded, and they were looking for her.

“I’m not the only one who knows about this room,” he said. “If we don’t strike now, we may not get another chance.”

“Then, tell me what will happen,” she hissed back.

“It’s too complicated to–” He stopped, perhaps detecting something in the way Cassandra’s weight sifted, in the way her eyebrow raised. He sighed and changed tack. “I believe that the Rot World’s trade networks will be disrupted if we disrupt ours on Earth.”

“You believe it?”

“If I had perfect knowledge of the Rot, we wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in,” snapped fake-Orion.

The voices outside were loud enough that Cassandra could hear the Master of Language muttering something about how Nessassa “wasn’t bad back there.”

“Why not do it yourself?” whispered Cassandra. The footsteps outside crunched on seashells and gravel at the top of the stairs. A shadow fell upon the room.

Fake-Orion gave an exasperated sigh. “If I must,” he said. He jerked her hand toward the wall, plunging the knife to its hilt. The symbols in the room lit up, as if they were on fire, filling the room with light. Barnacles began to drop like rain. Then, everything went dark.

“What was that?” she heard the Master of Mind say. A moment later: “Cassandra?”

Cassandra had the same sick feeling that she got whenever the Sega privileges were inevitably going to be revoked because of something Orion did. And to make matters worse, fake-Orion was gone the moment the Masters arrived.

“I was just… exploring,” said Cassandra. The knife in her hand, thankfully, was also gone.

“This room,” explained the Master of Language, “was once used to manage and monitor global trade systems… Are you okay, Cassandra? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Suddenly, they were at her side, and she was, indeed, feeling a bit unsteady. She mumbled something about how maybe she should quit the cider, to which they nodded. Then, when it seemed clear that they had no idea that she had just done something she probably shouldn’t have, she said, “You know the guy, Styxx – the one who was Aissaba’s boss?”

“Where did you hear that?” said the Master of Mind, kneeling down and looking her in the eyes. There was something off putting about the woman’s beauty and the depth of her eyes – an ancient soul in the body of a young woman.

“One of the scribes,” Cassandra said. “Apparently, Styxx initiated the whole… Rot attack?” When they nodded, she went on, “What happened to him? Is he okay?”

When they changed the subject back to the cider, she knew that the answer must be no. From the way their eyes flicked to each other, she figured Styxx was probably dead. (Blink: Aissaba, covered in blood, screamed at the sky, telling the universe to restart.)

“Come on,” said the Master of Language, taking her by the hand. “Nessassa’s Salvation plan begins the moment someone notices that Atlantis has returned. Shouldn’t be long now.”