Брендон Сандерсон - Cytonic

“Now,” he said, “that other fragment.” He gazed across at it, then frowned. “It should be here any moment.”

“By my best guess,” M-Bot said, “judging by its slow movement, our fragments won’t touch for ten hours.”

“Ten hours? Chet, why did you hurry us?”

“I…” He scratched at his head. “Ten hours, you say?”

“Yes,” M-Bot said. “Though I have set my internal chronometer to the time used by Spensa’s people, which is patterned after one hour Earth time. The same as used by my old ship, and thus also—presumably—by you.”

Chet settled on a rock. “I apologize, Miss Nightshade. My sense of time is…not as reliable as it once was.”

I let the conversation die, but I was baffled. How could Chet have such a poor sense of time?

“Well,” Chet said. “Perhaps we should get some rest here, then attack the Path of Elders. Always best to hit a task fresh and awake! So that it can’t hit back, you see.”

I smiled. That reminded me of something Kimmalyn would say. But I agreed with getting some rest. It had been a wonderful day, though a long one.

As Chet took off his jacket to make a pillow, I checked on my reality icon, finding it had shed three motes of silvery dust today. I proffered one to him and watched carefully so I could study the hungry way he eyed my pouch. Everything about traveling with him had been a joy—everything except that look.

I tucked away the pouch quickly. Chet took a little longer to put away his ash—instead staring at it for a time, glowing and twinkling in his palm.

“So, the Path of Elders,” I said to break the odd mood. “Is there anything we need to do to prepare for it?”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “I visited this first stop one time, but decided not to go into the cavern. I feel embarrassed to admit that, after seeing your excitement.”

I stared out at the garden fragment. Yeah, it was moving more slowly than Nedd did at mess on an early morning shift. It would take a long time to get here. “It feels like the quests that happened in the old stories. That’s why I’m excited.”

“You put a lot of stock in those stories.”

“My grandmother told them to me when I was a child. They kind of just…stuck.”

“I find that admirable,” Chet said. “But I warn you not to raise your expectations too much. Life isn’t always like one of those stories.”

“I know,” I said, still staring over that beautiful field. “But…stories say something. About us, and about where we came from. They’re a reminder that we have a past, a history. And a future.”

When I was growing up, Gran-Gran’s stories had been my shield. Against the names I was called, against the things people said about my father. Against my own terror that all those things—particularly the ones about me—were true.

In the stories, there was a sense of justice. Everything had a purpose; every little bit meant something. I thought if those heroes and heroines from the stories could keep going forward into the darkness, so could I.

I might have clung to them a little too tightly. With how strange everything had been lately, perhaps I was seeking some kind of stability. Or some kind of guide…

“I can understand that,” Chet said. “It’s odd—this place has stolen from me who I was, but I still know things. I know what a burrito is, though I’ve never eaten one in here. I can list the names of the first human colony worlds. And I remember…stories. I partially decided on my name due to the tales of the old hero Chet Cannister.”

“Oh, those are good,” I said. “But I like the older ones best. Heroes like Odysseus.”

“Or Hercules.”

“Yeah,” I said, slamming my fist into my other hand. “Or Satan. ”

Chet blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Satan?” I said. “The hero?”

“The…hero.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Gran-Gran told me the story. Satan got thrown into a place of fire, but he was like, ‘Hey, everyone. It doesn’t matter, so long as we have each other. We can make this place as good as any paradise.’ Then he volunteered to infiltrate the enemy’s world and went on this big quest through the Abyss.”

“Now, my memory—as I’ve warned you—isn’t great,” Chet said. “But that sounds like the old poem Paradise Lost. I…think you might have misinterpreted it.”

“What? Who do you think was the hero of that story?”

“Adam and Eve.”

“Those losers? They didn’t do anything but sit around! Everyone else had flaming swords and dramatic battles!”

Chet grinned. “Well, that’s one way to interpret it. And what do I know? I only know my own name because of the patch I found on my uniform.”

I made a pillow out of my jacket. As I did, M-Bot hovered over beside me. “Ummm…” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“…I think he might be correct about Paradise Lost. ”

“Read it again,” I said. “You really expect me to believe that—in a story with people named Beelzebub and Moloch who live in Pandæmonium —the author wanted us to root for someone named Eve ?”

Some things are obvious. Unless you’re a robot, I guess.

“Do you want me to do what I did last time?” the robot asked me more softly. “Just in case?”

I nodded, then lay back, contemplating the day we’d had. I couldn’t remember another day in my recent life that had been so thoroughly enjoyable. That made me feel guilty though. Jorgen and the others were fighting for their lives, and I was investigating swamps and playing explorer?

I would have to stay focused. Tomorrow we started the Path of Elders, and hopefully I’d finally have some answers. Or at the very least I’d learn the right questions.

M-Bot woke me the next “morning,” and I stretched, finding the garden fragment hovering an easy step from our own. My memories of the “night” contained only ordinary dreams. I wished I’d been able to find Jorgen and at least deliver a report, but I was so exhausted that my attempt didn’t get far.

Chet got up when M-Bot tapped him, and at his suggestion I searched out a nearby spring. I took a drink—one of the last ones I’d need in here—and washed my face and hands. Fortunately, I didn’t stink as much as it seemed I should have, considering all the effort of the day before.

As I washed, I glanced at M-Bot, who quietly whispered, “He didn’t get up. Slept until I woke both of you.”

I nodded, then joined Chet at the edge of the fragment. “Ready?” I asked him.

“Forward!” he said.

We stepped across. And I realized this was my first time walking on grass. It felt so strange underfoot. Springy, like I was walking on a pillow.

This fragment turned out to be relatively small. All green grass and hills, with a lake in the center. Near that was a hillside with a hole cut into it—like a doorway into a mine.

The tunnels beyond weren’t extensive: a little entryway followed by three small rooms with earthen walls. But walking through them, I felt an eerily familiar sensation. Scud. I’d been in places that felt like this before.

We found the portal at the rear of the largest room. It was much like the one I’d come out of in the jungle—a glistening surface of rock, slate grey, but carved with lines. Hundreds of them this time, in an intricate pattern.

M-Bot flew up to the wall, and the lights on his drone lit up the markings. “Hmm,” he said. “I kept a database of all known scripts cataloged by the Superiority. This appears to be none of them.”

I nodded absently, tracing a curving line with my finger. “They aren’t a language, not really. I think I know what the lines mean though.”