The Machine God

Chapter 286

Alexander flew at Droney’s pace, which meant the little drone got to enjoy itself.

It zipped ahead, banked hard, and carved through a low cloud bank that had been minding its own business. Vapor exploded outward as the drone punched through and emerged on the other side with a satisfied beep. It circled back, passed Alexander at speed, and immediately dove into another one.

He’d dropped Anyah, Ruyah, and Revek off with Wargah’s clan an hour ago. The kid hadn’t stirred, but the nanites were already at work, forming a lattice across the fracture site. Slow and steady. It would take days, maybe longer, but they were responding exactly as he’d hoped they would.

They were machines. And Ruyah was one of his favored.

Blessed be.

He’d pulled Selvah aside before leaving and pointed a finger at her. Whatever shaman-witch-doctor magic the old, cackling, two-fingered bat had at her disposal, she was not to interfere with the metal that had already begun stitching the kid’s skull back together.

Selvah had said she understood.

Suspiciously.

But he didn’t think she was lying. Just messing with him. Probably.

The camps were already in the process of tearing everything down when he’d left again. Yurts stripped and rolled, frames lashed into bundles, livestock rounded up into herds at the edges of the separate camps. Thousands of people packing efficiently, without wasting any time.

When the clans said they were moving, they moved. By nightfall, the Gathering of the Sky would be nothing but trampled grass and cold fire pits, and by next season, even those would be gone.

He’d have to track them down again once he was finished with his own mission, but they’d explained their plans. It wouldn’t be a problem. He’d just set aside a day or two for getting lost along the way.

Now, heading north-west toward the first of what would be two weeks’ worth of Empire forts scattered across Western Asia and into Europe, Alexander was failing to solve a problem.

The nanites were a composite. A metal alloy fused with a ceramic at a molecular level so thorough that the bond interfered with Metallokinesis’s ability to read the metal itself. He’d spent untold hours probing the cube, long before he’d realized it was a block of nanites. And he hadn’t given up since fusing it with the arm, occasionally tinkering and analyzing what he could.

What he wanted to do was conjure the specific metal elements in the ratios and alloyed state, minus the ceramic component of the composite. So far, each attempt had ended in failure.

Alexander let the attempt go and turned his attention to the horizon. He’d figure it out eventually. Or he’d find another source. Either way, the nanites he’d given Ruyah weren’t coming back, and the ball bearing’s worth he’d kept wasn’t going to last forever. More importantly, he had to make sure not to use them.

But that was a problem for later. Right now, the Empire had forts full of staves and wands and hopefully some spellbooks that weren’t going to borrow themselves.

***

The doors opened as Artensah approached, and the throne room of the Eternal Star stretched before him.

Pillars of white marble lined both sides, rising to a vaulted ceiling inlaid with gold. A plush carpet, deep crimson, ran the length of the floor between them. The room was enormous. It had been designed to make those who entered it feel small, and centuries of use had not dulled the effect.

At the far end, past the carpet and the pillars and the long walk between them, marble stairs climbed to the throne. It sat above everything else in the room, assembled from the staves of every notable wizard who had opposed the Empire and lost. Hundreds of them, lashed together with silver wire, gemstones still set into the wood. Some still pulsed with faint light. Others had gone dark generations ago. The oldest were bleached and cracked, their owners forgotten. The newest still carried some of the color of living wood.

Three hundred years of Her Imperial Majesty’s victories, bound into a chair.

It was empty.

Stolen novel; please report.

Halfway down the room, the Empress stood at the war table. Four archmages surrounded it, two on each side, their golden robes immaculate, golden caps catching the light, staves held in the crooks of their arms. None of them looked up as Artensah entered.

Neither did the Empress.

She stood with her chin slightly elevated, looking down over the table with the posture of someone who had never needed to adjust herself for anyone. A white gown, fitted and elegant, golden stars trimmed in black across the fabric. A headdress framed her face. Her right hand rested on a staff of gnarled wood, taller than she was, its top curving into a crook that looped over a blue-green gemstone and held it in place.

Artensah walked the carpet toward them, his footsteps swallowed by the thickness. He passed between the pillars, counting them the way he always did. A habit born from the first time he’d made this walk, decades ago, when the distance between the doors and the Empress had felt infinite.

It still did.

As he drew closer, he allowed the threads to come into view. He could feel them before he could see them, the way he always could in the presence of other Exalted.

The four archmages each carried a familiar distribution. Red and gold in roughly equal measure, spreading outward from each of them. Gold stretching out into space. Red reaching down toward the planet. The balance was expected. They were feared and followed in similar proportions. Respected by those who served beneath them. Dreaded by those who lived beneath their authority.

They were the Empire’s enforcers.

His own were no different, despite being the youngest of the Exalted.

Then there was the Empress herself.

Her golden threads were beyond counting. They filled his awareness the moment he let himself look, a cascade so dense that she glowed, as if basking in their presence. They reached in every direction. Down to the planet. Across the station. Out toward distant ships and colonies and places Artensah had never been. More threads than the four archmages combined. More than every other Exalted he had ever stood beside.

Her red threads numbered fewer than five. None of them knew who they belonged to. And he didn’t want to know.

Artensah took his place at the table and said nothing.

The war table displayed the Eurasian continent in carved relief. Miniature wooden figures marked standing forces, positioned across the landscape in clusters. Metal gateways sat among them, each one no larger than a finger. Blue for the passages to Earth 1. Red for the Nightmare gates.

There were four red gates for every blue one.

One of the archmages, Velisahn, was mid-report. “The forces at Kurostahl and Dremevek have been withdrawn. The gates have been sealed as best we could manage, but without sustained defense, the seals will fail before season’s end.”

Two more gates abandoned. Artensah looked at the Empress.

The change in her expression was so slight that anyone who hadn’t spent decades learning her face would have missed it entirely. A fractional narrowing around the eyes. Nothing more.

The archmage to Velisahn’s left, a younger man named Oskoreth, spoke quickly. “The losses were minimal, Your Radiance. A few thousand among the local populations. No imperial personages were lost.”

The words hung in the air. Just the locals. No one who mattered.

The Empress’s expression returned to neutral. Her gaze did not leave the table.

She spoke. “Leave us.”

Two words. Her voice was soft. It always was. In all the years Artensah had served her, he had never once heard her raise it.

Artensah straightened as the other Exalted bowed, then passed by him on the way to the doors. None of them so much as glanced in his direction.

He wouldn’t have either, in their place.

When the doors closed again, the Empress finally looked up. Silver eyes locked onto his, trapping his gaze.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Then the Empress turned and moved toward the throne, her staff tapping on each marble step as she climbed. Lengths of fabric trailed behind her, every bit of it hovering just above the floor.

“You failed me, Artensah.”

It wasn’t a question.

He took a breath. A small one. And made his way around the table, before coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

As the Empress turned, and took her place on the throne, Artensah dropped to a knee. Then he laid his staff at the foot of the stairs, and bowed his head.

“I did, Your Radiance.”

The Empress looked down on him. “Why?”

Artensah’s heart thudded in his chest. She knew the answer already. Generations of tracking magic could not track a man without a magic signature, and all the other adaptations had failed to penetrate the man’s protections. His Will was as strong as any Exalted in the Empire, save the Empress herself.

Which meant the question being asked was not the obvious one.

“The Invader is Exalted, Your Radiance.” He hesitated. “And though his powers are simple in nature, seemingly limited to lightning, metal, and flight, he wields them with great skill and no hesitation. I examined the memories of those he failed to kill. The man himself is a weapon.”

The Empress sneered. “Superhumans.”

Artensah bowed lower. It was the closest to displeasure he’d ever heard from her.

The Empress continued, her voice returning to normal. “Every single one of them seems to think they are something special. Perhaps some of them are. Maybe even this one you have failed to bring me.” She fell silent for several heartbeats. “Withdraw all Imperial forces from the Nightmare gateways. Then reinforce every gateway to Earth 1.”

His head snapped up. Silver eyes stared into his soul.

“The Grand Exodus begins in one month. Perhaps We shall even deign to meet this invader when he attempts to return home.”