Purpose:
To discover if there is any difference in strength between the Archons, and, if so, to rank them.
Participants:
His Most Sublime and Eminent Radiance Ailann Tiarnan, 2nd Archon of Skarsia, Admiral Cillian Whelan, Callum O’Shea
Materials:
A cathedral, unused. Rag paper programs to be distributed to the congregation. Various pieces of alien technology. A cosmic dust cloud. Choir-boys.
Hypothesis:
In theory, the four Archons should have equal access to the power of the grid. Each, however, is able to draw the most power directly when physically situated near his tree of origin. Yggdrasil was designed strictly for the most efficient conveyance of energy; Ashvattha was designed to sustain a growing colony. The philosophy behind Goliath’s design was aesthetic – it also needed to retain the same number of branches as Atlas. In addition, each branch is an energy diversion, causing the lowest drain on Yggdrasil and the highest on Goliath and Atlas. Therefore, in terms of raw strength, it is predicted that Till should be ranked first, followed by Balin, Aran and finally, Ailann.
Procedure [Reported by Her Eminence Tara del D’myn, Matriarch of Skarsia]:
“Lord Danak is certainly happy to see you,” I said.
“That calls for a drink,” Ailann replied. He flicked through the information on his datapad, absorbing it instantly. “Let’s see…that’s five press conferences, two meetings with IndWorld governors, and three appearances at Archonist ceremonies in the next two days – all fitted around the High Council convening.”
“Don’t forget the refugees. We’ve got Archonist refugees coming in by the ton. Earth’s in really bad shape. Of course a large amount of them aren’t really Archonists – it’s just a convenient excuse to emigrate.”
“Probably, but how do we stop it? Require a test of faith? Chalk it up to my divine mercy.” Ailann sighed, taking a large sip of Scotch. “And with all this scheduled, when am I supposed to do this experiment?”
“Experiment? I thought we were giving those a rest.”
“I and I wants to keep going. Only four more to do. This one is being run by Cillian and Callum. It’s supposed to prove which Archon is the strongest.”
“Define strongest.”
“In terms of raw power, I’m certainly the weakest.” He poured himself another drink. “In other ways, too. It takes at least half a bottle of Scotch before I’m ready to face the press.”
“But you do kiss babies.”
“I’d better be careful not to kill them with my breath.”
Archbishop Venesti had asked to meet with me on an important matter. Ailann was finishing up a grueling day of press conferences, and I had been left at loose ends, so I agreed. I waited for him in the reception room of the ipsissimal suite, bored. Then I noticed a datapad sitting on the table. Ash’s datapad. In my moment of boredom, I recalled something that had happened months before, something I had entirely forgotten.
What had Patrick been reading that he had tried to hide from me?
I mentally reviewed the list of likely things that husbands hid from their wives. An affair was unimaginable, a gambling debt or indulgent purchase almost as unlikely. We were so wealthy it would’ve been pointless to hide an expense, Patrick could make any material thing he desired alchemically, and he had never shown an interest in gambling. No, Patrick’s vice was sex. In that case, maybe pornography. If it were Tommy or Cillian, I would’ve been certain of it, but then again, Tommy and Cillian wouldn’t have bothered to hide porn from me. But Patrick had never shown an interest in visual stimulation. That wasn’t where his kinks lay.
I touched the screen of the datapad. Of course I could access it. Everything of Ash’s was mine, by right of the Cu’enashti marriage laws.
It was a bad thing to do. Bad Tara. Bad, bad Tara.
I opened Patrick’s files. They consisted of his literary endeavors and information useful to him as a diplomat. I scanned through his media push subscriptions: mostly current events. But there was an open portal to the undertow, an underground media pushboard. He had pinned a site called “Jack-off.”
Then it was porn?
I pushed the pin. “Jack-off,” read the header, “The number-one fansource for Two of Jacks slash fiction.”
Oh. My. Word.
Patrick had left a number of bookmarks. I opened a story entitled ‘Three-day Heat’ by Jack-quiline.”
Whirljack was covered in sweat and flushed with excitement when he came off the stage. He was flying from the roar of sixty-thousand people at the end of another triumphant show. He made his way to his private hoverbus, waving to the fans lined up along the metal barriers. Girls screamed; one tossed her panties, barely missing his head.
When he got to the bus, his brother was already waiting. “That was some show,” said Blackjack. “Those girls are so hot for you, they’d fuck you in a minute.”
“I don’t get it,” said Whirljack. “They’ve got to know it’s pointless. I belong, body and soul, to my Chosen.”
Blackjack stood, an evil grin spreading across his handsome face. “We both know that isn’t entirely true.” He came up behind his brother, resting his head on Whirljack’s shoulder, pressing his hard cock into the back of Whirljack’s ass.
Whirljack stiffened. Although it was true that he had given himself over to his brother many times, it was always in the presence of the Matriarch (may She reign forever in glory), whom everyone knew at heart was just a rotten girl who liked nothing better than to watch Whirljack bent over her enormous bed, impaled on Blackjack’s throbbing manhood. It was all for Her pleasure; but what Blackjack was suggesting now was so very wrong.
“I’m not interested,” said Whirljack hoarsely.
BJ reached forward, grabbing Whirljack’s cock in his hand. “Then why do you have a woody?”
“Stop teasing me,” gasped Whirljack. “You know we can’t get off by ourselves, and we won’t see Her Eminence again until three days from now, after the Vuernaco Festival.”
“That’s all the more reason,” Blackjack cackled. “By the time we get there, you’ll be so hot, you’ll crawl on your hands and knees to have me fuck you. That’s just how She likes it.”
“What are you reading?” asked the Archbishop, who had managed to slip in, along with Abbot Deverre, unannounced.
“Nothing important,” I said, clearing the screen and slamming the datapad on the table.
“We’re consecrating the new cathedral,” said Archbishop Venesti. “As it is dedicated to the quaternary of the Archonate, each of the side-domes is dedicated to a particular Archon, and we were hoping that they would all come to consecrate that particular space.”
“Short-sighted materialism,” murmured Abbot Johannon Deverre. “What happens if Canopus emanates an Archon? The symmetry is destroyed.”
“Then we’ll dedicate the central dome to him,” said Venesti.
“The true Archon is in the heart,” said Deverre.
I poked restlessly at the ice in my cocktail. It seemed that as the years passed, Johannon’s intelligence decreased. Why had I ever slept with him? “You only need to tell people that god is in the heart when you don’t have an actual god to show them,” I corrected. “Right now, the true Archon is being interviewed by Bobert Crandon.”
“But then, is Ailann Tiarnan the true Archon? Why not Archon Aran? Isn’t there a conception of the Archon as a divine being that goes beyond His temporal manifestations?”
“You’re verging on heresy,” said Venesti. “And all officially approved heresies have to be vetted by Archbishop Seth.”
“Archbishop Seth is…a ceremonialist. For an ascetic like myself, his rituals make little sense.”
“The Church of the Blueblack Ambit of Love is catching on like fission,” said Venesti. “Cabals of CBAL are popping up everywhere.”
“Can we please stick to the topic?” I asked. “The point is that you want some of Ailann’s time.”
“All four Archons,” Venesti replied. “And as we’re close to the equinox on Skarsia, we were planning on doing the dedication then.”
“Seth says that you should move up the ceremony a few weeks, to coincide with the Earth-holiday called either Sol Invictus or Christmas,” said Ailann, coming through the door. “He says that since that holiday is presided over by four major deities, everyone will make the connection.” He glanced around the room. Taking the hint, the Archbishop retrieved a bottle of port from a side-cabinet.
“Let’s see if I can remember my mythology,” I mused. “There’s Mithras, of course. Mithras, Jesus, Santa and the Doctor.”
“I don’t think we should make the connection too overtly,” said Ailann. “Everyone will fight over who gets to be Mithras, and no one will want to wear the red suit.”
“You’re supposed to talk to Mithras on Rebirth Day anyway,” I reminded him.
“But I suppose an identification between the Archon and Mithras could be a secret tradition,” said Johannon. “A mystery cult.”
“What, exactly, did you say to Mithras this year?” I pressed.
“I said, ‘The Shambhala colony has been established, and humanity has been accepted into the Combine of Sentients. Are you good with that?’ And he didn’t say anything, so I took that as a yes.”
“It’s occasionally convenient to have a god which doesn’t talk back,” I replied. “Unfortunately, Archonists have no such luck. So you want to consecrate the cathedral…” I consulted my datapad. “That would be in fifteen days. Archbishop Venesti, could we do it?”
“It will take some work on my end, but I’m certain we could pull it off,” he replied.
“The Duchess of Verhim has invited us for dinner that night,” I reminded Ailann.
“We’ll have to cancel,” said Ailann. “It’s too bad. Is her toyboy still pretending to be her cook?”
“It’s unfortunate,” agreed the Archbishop. “The Duke is quite willing to put the lad on retainer as long as the Duchess hires a real cook, but the Duchess is funny about appearances.”
“It’s been going on for over two decades,” I correct. “He’s not a boy anymore.”
“I suppose that depends on your definition,” said Ailann. “I’ve been fixing his telomeres. He doesn’t look a day over seventeen. But you would think by now, he’d have learned not to burn an egg.”
Even I had to admit that the Cathedral of the Four Archons was impressive. It had a massive domed center, around which were clustered four square sub-churches, each covered with a golden onion-dome. The central dome was divided into 101 sections which featured a mosaic representation of the sacred tree associated with that segment. “The CBAL members will love it,” said the Archbishop. “Having such esoteric symbolism embedded in an edifice of the conservative church.”
“The church is doing well,” I said. “This must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Tithes from the faithful,” said Venesti. “Also, the church collects 3% of everyone’s energy bill. Considering the source of energy, it’s only right.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” asked Ailann.
The Archbishop gestured towards the altar of the Northern sub-church. “We’ll go in reverse order, with the most recent Archon first. Each of you will consecrate the altar by saying something – your choice – after, all, you are God, and then performing a small miracle.”
“A miracle?” asked Ailann.
“A small one,” said the Archbishop.
“And I have to write a speech.”
“You’re good at that,” I said. “Your speeches are always inspirational.”
“You’re a master propagandist,” agreed Lord Danak, who had accompanied us on the important occasion. “So you’d better write something for all four, or Till will alienate great uncles while Aran scares the living shit out of everyone.”
“No,” said Ailann. “First, even if I wanted to, they’d never agree to it. But why should they? You just said that being God means we get to say what we want.”
Danak, Venesti and I stared at him blankly.
“I have communion wine,” said Venesti, offering him a bottle.
The ceremony began with a white-robed chorus of young boys singing motets as they solemnly marched from the northeast entrance towards the central altar of the church. The songs were all in ancient Skarsian, which, of course, few people actually understood. This was all to the better: a liturgical language creates a sense of mystery. Plus, if only Martin Luther had considered the centuries of church ladies howling out mangled German verses while barely-capable guitarists badly strummed “Stille Nacht,” he might’ve reconsidered the idea of translating the hymns into the vernacular. However, I was fortunate enough to live in a time where I could learn from the mistakes of history.
Balin and I were hidden in an alcove to the side. “The music is lovely,” he murmured. “We should castrate them before they lose their voices.”
“Wouldn’t it be a little less violent to simply freeze their aging process?” I suggested.
“I don’t have the talent for it. Ailann would have to do it.”
I heard the hum of microcams as Venesti entered the church, followed by Abbot Deverre and a few other luminaries. The only missing person of rank was Archbishop Seth, but everyone understood why he was not there. We had considered it, but it seemed a little awkward to have him exit mid ceremony in order to re-appear as the Archon. Balin was dressed in ceremonial robes of rich dark gray velvet trimmed with purple silk (more specifically, a plummy shade identified as ‘Magnifique’ by the Decorator’s Guild) and err-myne. The other robes were identical in design, but Ailann’s were white, trimmed in Ipsissimal Blue silk and silver furrex, and Till’s were pale gray, trimmed in carmine silk and acetylot. Aran’s were by far the gaudiest, black velvet, magenta silk and snow-emu feathers. “I’m supposed to look imposing,” he had complained. “I look like I’m auditioning to play Cleopatra.”
I wondered about the so-called miracles that each was supposed to perform. One thing was certain: they would have plenty of energy available to them. In the tip of each onion dome was implanted a large pos-matter crystal. While appearing to be a place of worship, the cathedral was actually a disguise for a massive new power-grid relay station.
Venesti addressed the worshippers. The drone of his voice blended with the swirl of the incense. Balin jostled me. “I wish I could fall asleep,” he said. “You’re just going to have to share the misery.”
“Did I miss something important?” I yawned.
“He’s talking about the starving children of Tasea.”
“There aren’t any starving children on Tasea anymore. And why is the church getting involved?”
“Actually, they need water and food processing plants,” whispered Lord Danak, “but no one will donate money for that. Say the words ‘starving children’ and wallets open.”
“Why don’t we just raise the tariffs on goods imported from the Tasean system, and use the revenue to improve the plants?”
“And deprive our citizens of that warm feeling of looking down on our unfortunate neighbors? Really, no matter how hard I try to school you in political realities, it’s hopeless.”
“Canopus needs an Archon,” said Balin. “Then we could just go to Tasea and create the plants ex nihilo.”
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Archbishop Venesti finished his sermon. Danak nodded at us and proceeded up the aisle, followed by me, and finally Balin.
The pews were arranged octagonally around the central altar. As we entered, everybody stood, craning their necks to see Balin. He had appeared extensively at the Shambhala colony, but this was his first public appearance in the Domha’vei, and no one knew what to expect. About ten seconds later, everyone remembered that he was God, and they were supposed to kneel.
He was certainly impressive, the tallest of the four Archons, well-muscled, with his thick mane of red hair shading to ebony. The robes didn’t suit him, though. He would’ve looked more at home in a pagan ritual, summoned to the company in some dark woods.
We arrived at the northern altar. “My people,” he said, gesturing impressively, “I bring you prosperity.”
And then everything in the cathedral that wasn’t worn by someone turned to solid gold. I’d forgotten that Balin had never been indoctrinated by the Cantor to avoid indiscriminate creation of wealth. He’d pretty much been allowed to do whatever he liked in order to make the colony a success. Sometimes, that had included alchemically synthesizing supplies of mineral resources where there were none.
The people gasped; then their hands recognized that the programs each had been given prior to the ceremony had gained a new weightiness. I could see the anguish in their eyes as each reasoned: if I sell this, it’s a year’s income. But how can I sell a miracle created by God?
And under the murmur of the crowd, I could hear something muttered softly by Balin, something everyone else missed. He said, “All right Cillian. Let’s see them top that.”
It was the experiment – the test of strength – the cosmic dick-measuring contest.
Balin raised his arms, blue light bursting into the mothman. Each series of emanations seemed to have a slightly different transformation, and the Ashvattha manifestation was quite lovely. There was another audible gasp. It was rare for a Cu’enashti to reveal that form in public – and I was greatly relieved that Ash had chosen to use his standard form, keeping his exotic genitalia an esoteric mystery. Ash folded into Till, and the congregation shrank a little. Apparently, the god of war propaganda had frightened quite a few.
We made our way to the west. “I bring you energy,” Till said, grasping the sides of the altar. In an instant, it transformed into that odd red radiance produced by the Denolin Turym. Till himself was transformed – his body flickering in and out of transparency. Then the effect spread from the altar through the floors and to the walls of the cathedral. For a moment, everything was pure energy, and then there was a sudden brilliance from outside the windows. I learned later that Till had, for a few seconds, turned on every light in the Domha’vei. But behind the spectacle was something practical: he had charged every power station and generator in the Domha’vei, too. Everyone was getting at least a few hours of free energy out of his little miracle. “A greater benefit than the immediate wealth of a handful,” he said.
Aran was next. He had the home-field advantage – Skarsia was closest to Goliath at this point, which meant that he could draw the greatest amount of energy. He was also terrifying to the congregation. If rumors of Till’s non-existent hostility had set the faithful trembling, Aran had the reputation for punishing evil. Personally, I found that the flounce of feathers accompanying his gestures diminished the effect somewhat.
Aran created a viewing disk in midair – a trick he’d learned from Ailann. Visible on the disk was a small cloud of interstellar dust identified as CR 1568. “I bring you light,” he said. After a second’s pause, it became clear that the gas was spinning, faster and faster, heating, and the center started to flare. And I stared at him because he couldn’t possibly do that – he couldn’t possibly create a protostar. It was too far away for his powers to affect. “You cheated,” I hissed.
“Is it cheating to prepare in advance, using my native intelligence?” he asked. “I merely connected that region of space to the grid by using a stable wormhole, much as we did for Nightside and Shambhala. Then I sent a piece of equipment through the wormhole – a trans-universal pile driver based on SongLuminant design. An instant ago, powered by my control of the grid, I poked a hole into the nul-universe of a size sufficient enough that the resultant pudge triggered the gravitational collapse of those gasses.”
The spectator response, however, was mixed. What Till had done looked far more impressive. The people who understood – and believed in – what had just happened were either amazed or cowering in fear. But many looked skeptical, and a large amount baffled. They simply didn’t understand what they were seeing.
Ailann was last. A ripple of relief ran through the congregants. He was a compassionate, dependable god. The occasional rumors of his alcohol problem were generally dismissed.
“I bring you song,” he announced. “I want everyone to sing with me.” He began to sing “Stella Matriarcha,” the anthem of the Domha’vei, in his clear baritone voice. It was a song everyone knew from childhood. The congregation quickly joined in – and then suddenly discovered that they had voices. Pure, vibrant, three-octave voices that never missed a pitch.
When the singing had finished, Ailann turned the ceremony back over to Venesti. “I was analyzing the choir-boy problem,” he told me. “I wanted them to be able to keep their soprano range when their voices deepened. Then I realized that it was so much more than the vocal cords – there’s a region in the brain that controls the perception of pitch, and a lot of it has to do with respiration and how the sounds echo in the sinus cavities. Once I figured out the optimal configuration for males and female, then I did some individual tweaking to preserve the characteristics of the speaking voice. It wouldn’t do to have everyone’s voice recognition equipment fail on them.”
“He wins,” I said. “Cillian, he wins.”
“They’re still deciding,” Ailann said.
Data:
The miraculous events were rated on a scale from 1 (weak) to 5 (strong).
| Category | Balin | Till | Aran | Ailann |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Creativity | 1 – How obvious. | 2 – Ailann had already used the simultaneous lighting trick for the Restoration/ the matter-energy manipulation is a Denolin technique. | 5 – Wow. | 5 – Unique and spontaneous. |
| Difficulty | 1 – Any Cu’enashti of size can do this. | 2 – Matter-energy manipulation is unique, but was merely used for pyrotechnics. Any Archon should be able to control the lights. | 3 – Disputed. He employed SongLuminant technology – but one could argue that all Archons use the grid and the crystals, which are Flaxxshi tech. The real difficulty was in conceiving the operation. | 5 – A virtuoso performance. |
| Utility | 4 – The value of solid gold programs to the congregation is indisputable. | 3 – The citizens will appreciate the slight reduction on their power bills. | 3 – Unknown. It seems like there must be a use for the capacity to create stars – but then again, you can’t throw a rock in this galaxy without hitting a star. Why not use the ones we already have? | 4 – Some of the congregation – the choir-boys, for example – will doubtless employ their new skills professionally. But for all (and the friends and family of the most tune-deaf), quality of life is subtly enhanced. |
| Miraculousness | 3 – Looked impressive. | 4 – Looked very impressive. | 4 – Pretty damn good, but its subtlety went over people’s heads. | 3 – Honestly, ¾ of this could’ve been accomplished (with much time and trouble) through genework. However, it looked impressive. |
| Total | 9 | 11 | 15 | 17 |
Results:
Transcript from Thrust-Riposte, a Vega Vids Production
Sara Howe-Dumfaller, GalMedi News director: So the popularity ratings of the Archons are up. Archon Till knocks a few credits off our utility bills, Ailann and Balin perform a few parlor tricks, and everyone is happy. But we’re overlooking the really frightening thing: Archon Aran created a star. Let’s let that sink in for a moment. He created a star. Archon Aran is dangerous – I’m sure you all remember what happened to my esteemed colleague, Mosha Raval’li. He lost his sanity after Archon Aran transformed him into a gibbon. This is just the sort of irresponsible antic we can expect from Aran – or the Archons in general. It’s exactly the same mentality as when Prince Davy created the K’ntasari – a sentient species – which started a war with Earth. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – Ashtara is not a god. He is a dangerous alien being who plays with our lives as though they were his toys.
Bobert Crandon, President of Vega Vids: Sara, Sara, Sara, wake up and smell the javajuice. Times have changed since we were born: it’s a different universe we live in. It’s a universe run by omniscient bubbles and sentient rocks and floating, flatulent fish. Whether or not you consider Ashtara a god, he’s got the chops to play ball with the big boys. Without him, humanity wouldn’t keep our collective noses above water. A lot of our viewers may be too young to remember, but when I was a lad, the 5th Matriarch ruled with an iron hand. We had power shortages, we were a rinky-dink system always in the shadow of Earth, our own people were at each other’s throats – plebes and aristos, men and women, and anyone who complained was likely to be dragged off in the middle of the night by SSOps. Now the Domha’vei is a galactic power, Sara, no, an intergalactic power! We represent humanity to the Combine of Sentients, we have a colony in one galaxy and an outpost in another, the government of Earth has crumbled, we have unprecedented peace and prosperity, social mobility, a united military, unlimited energy and the promise of immortality, which is being realized for some of our citizens as we speak. And if that means we kneel to a god who likes to throw around a few random protostars here and there, so what? Do you want to go back to the Dark Ages, Sara?
Debriefing:
Cillian: It was never about the contest. Tara had it right when she asked us to define strength. Power and strength are two different things; Balin never had a chance. But Aran should’ve won. From the time he first emanated, Aran has been in pain. Tara told Aran to stop cutting himself, and he stopped. She told him to stop feeling sorry for himself, and he stopped. Aran got the Gold Card because, when Ailann was wrapped up in jealousy, Aran was the one thinking about what Tara really needed. But then Tara said Ailann was the winner, and that was that.
Callum: Ailann deserved to win. He deserved to win because Tara loves him best. He deserved to win because he needed to win. Aran deserved to lose because Aran becomes stronger by losing, but losing would’ve made Ailann weaker. Balin becomes stronger by losing too. Balin was strong enough to defeat Whirljack, which is amazing. But Balin isn’t very clever or subtle. There are things he still needs to learn. Till didn’t deserve to win, but Till never expected to win, and he didn’t care about it either. Till doesn’t become strong by winning or losing. He becomes strong by living and loving. I like Till.
Ailann: If I’m not Tara’s dream, I’m nothing.
Conclusion:
Bobert Crandon is worth every credit we pay him.
Future Investigation:
As Tara intervened, it remains to be seen whether Cillian is stronger than Callum. It is generally accepted that, as Tara observed on an earlier occasion, the strongest branch overall is Jamey.