Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Apocalypse

“It’s a new Dislocation,” said Leen dully.

“Probably not an exaggeration.” I eyed the two gods - or former gods - here at hand. “One thing will never change, though, and that’s power by itself, just plain power. With all the holes left in the power structure it’s going to be a interesting next generation or two.”

“Yes, well,” Shaa said, “setting posterity aside for the moment, there is the matter in which you would like to make us all complicit. We have among us representatives of the most hidebound elements of the status quo as well as the extreme radical avant-garde. Everyone here stands to suffer from the activist intervention you put forth before us, some to the risk of extinction. For all the talk of gods, what we are discussing here is in fact the very definition of a god-level decision. On the one hand we have a world of chaos, on the other chaos redoubled. So how do you propose to achieve consensus? And what is the point? One plague or another, stroke or counterstroke, world without end, yes? For one way or the other the world will not actually, or entirely, end; even if the roof suddenly collapsed and we all died now, the story would still manage to continue. Or from another standpoint, this is as good a stage as any to declare the existing story is over. Yes?”

“Hold it right there!” said Max. “You’re talking like the issue’s already been decided. What happened to the fighting spirit? Who says Roni’s goo can’t be contained? The thing to do is get out there and do something about it, not stand around discussing hypotheticals. And who says Arznaak’s worked some permanent change either? Even if the system’s been damaged I’m sure something can be patched back together. One thing that sure hasn’t changed - you’re a god, and you’re trying to exert your domination over the rest of us the way you gods always have. Change - hah!”

“You’re welcome to your opinion,” I told him. “You’re free to do what you want, though, regardless of what you might think. The last thing I want to do is dominate anyone. The way I see it the world’s different already; things are out of the bottle and the bottle’s been smashed, but that’s only my opinion. If I wanted to enforce my opinion I’d be in the back pulling strings and stuff.”

“I don’t trust you,” muttered Max.

“So go out and see for yourself,” I said. “Or make some proposal here.”

“All right,” said Max. “I will see for myself. Anybody coming with me?”

“I might be able to help you fight,” volunteered Jurtan Mont.

“That’s the spirit, kid,” said Max.

“You would trust my son with this?” said the Lion. “Not without me around. I’ll -”

Shaa caught my eye and crooked a thumb backward over his shoulder. I eased away from the group and followed his own light-footed tread. “It continues, or begins anew,” commented Shaa, as the clamor of the gang behind us continued unabated. “Still, I submit the greatest hazard is having the world become an unbroken plain of gray goo. My suggestion would be to release whatever agents might effectively detour that outcome.”

Phlinn Arol and Gashanatantra had joined us. “Are all the options quite as draconian as you made them out just now?” said Gashanatantra.

“Well...” I said. “Maybe not. If we could analyze a sample of the goo from the lab, maybe there’s some feature we could target directly. No miracles, you understand, but could be something to try short of full scale scorched earth.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” stated Shaa, “personally speaking I would rather not be the proximate cause of death to thousands and eradication of races. My medical training, you understand.”

I sighed. “Oh, all right.” For all my efforts to get the world to move on past me, to wash my hands of this and all messes, I could already see myself getting dragged back in, the miasma of past transgressions notwithstanding. “Come back here and let’s see what we can set up.”

So, anyway, that's the part I saw, or had some level of direct involvement with. I don’t pretend to be the last word on the matter. If you’re interested in what happened you’ll have no shortage of folks chewing over it for years, down to the least person present at the Stadium of State for the Knitting or brushed by the Scapula’s burst of magic, and after anyone who has any claim to personal connection has gone by the wayside there’ll be the historians to contend with... but what’s new? Talking about current events is always tricky. No matter how much lip service you give to the ideal of objectivity, if you’ve been there or had some stake - whether personal or philosophical or whatever - you’re automatically shading the facts; the more you think you’re not, the more so the first listener you’re twisting the evidence on is you.

Still, there’s something to be said for setting out reminiscences while things are fresh, not to mention the consideration that it’s traditional. Of course, there’s not exactly a mass market these days for memoirs, although I could probably aggravate quite a number of people I know by having highlights distributed on those wall-sized broadsheet things, or even commissioning criers to do public declamations in the squares. But when those historians start sharpening their fangs, it’s primary sources they like to chew through first. So here I am.

I’ve been using the modern-day vernacular for my narration, rather than one of those stuffy old scholars’ cants that sounded like vernacular when I was growing up but are extinct as the platypus now. I wouldn’t turn up my nose at the prospect of wide readership, but even if this tome’s only destination is a back shelf in the Archives there’s no point in shoving more stumbling-blocks under its feet than it’s apt to encounter anyway. The potential audience might be reduced somewhat if it was necessary to learn a defunct language before you could start on the first page, a language with few native speakers and no teachers or texts to boot.

The downside of writing so it could actually be read, however, has been coping with criticism as I’ve plowed through the pages. Hopefully I’ll get this little codicil down before Shaa shows up again. He’s appointed himself Guardian of Internal Logic and Skeptic-at-Large, and has been spending far too much time skulking behind my shoulder as I’ve slogged through the tale. Not that he hasn’t been a help in places, and at least someone’s been interested enough to hang around, and he has been a seemingly objective correspondent for material I wasn’t actually present to witness myself (although I’ve been careful to crosscheck him against the monitoring data downloaded to the Archives before Arznaak crashed the system to hell-and-gone, apparently for good).

Still, Shaa’s been a fairly severe editor, too, and even if I locked the door on him I’d know he’d be sitting outside it nagging the air. I hadn’t wanted an editor, but with his way of undermining confidence through the drawn-out silence or the disapproving droop in the corner of his lip or the disappointed “hmph!”, he’d wormed his way into my psyche so badly I could hear him carping even when he wasn’t around. I know what he’d say about this epilogue - if he gets hold of it it’ll be the void for it for sure - but I figure if going on at such length about all these shenanigans wasn’t indulgence enough, a little farewell capper wouldn’t be out of place. And after all, the heaviest labor Shaa’s had is reading - I’ve been the one doing the legwork.

Not that anyone’s just had time to lean back and tinker with memoirs. Even without activating the retroviruses magic is still in general collapse. I’ll give Shaa’s brother this; when he launches a blight there were no half-measures concerned. As far away as there’s been communication, reports are still coming in of infectious transfigurations and goo-melts, targeted weapons and countermeasures notwithstanding. A status quo of strife and struggle appears unavoidable.