REQUIEM FOR A DAMAGED CODA SKIN

In a quavering voice the Maestra sung to the Custos. Across the walls her tormented reflection assailed his eyes, yet Vecidor would not relent.įinally, she screamed, “Peace!” Vecidor lowered his sword. Her body shook in agony, her screams echoing throughout the chamber. Still she would not answer, and so he continued to cut at her, cable after cable. “Your song has been sung for over four thousand years!” he shouted. She screamed as he dropped the cable to the floor, a thick grey liquid oozing from the ends. Without giving himself time to think, Vecidor grabbed one of the cables that extended from her body and sliced it in half.

REQUIEM FOR A DAMAGED CODA SKIN

She looked up into his eyes what she saw made her skin grow pale. “I, like all our kind, deplore the use of torture, Maestra, I ask again, do not force my hand. But my acts…my acts will live on, will allow our race to live on. When I am done it will fade and be forgotten by all save you. Going on forever, he thought, just as the Yanadar would go on. Vecidor saw her body reflected across the glass walls, over and over again, into infinity. Harsh, discordant.” Her fingers nervously stroked the skin of her belly. “Do not force my hand,” he said in reply. Vecidor closed his eyes in pain, thinking that such a melodious tone may soon be lost. “You cannot,” was all she said, her voice light and airy. “Honoured Maestra,” he said, still holding his sword, small blue drips falling to the floor. She had heard Vecidor’s teachings-his etude-and knew what he desired. She had received the dirges and elegies of those who had died outside her chamber. At the moment the Maestra looked at the approaching Custos with alarm. Through this connection all other Yanadar wrote their songs, their melodies, and sent them to the Maestra for archiving. Cables connected her directly to her throne, keeping her alive, where she exercised her access the Undersong. Physically larger than other Yanadar, the Maestra had long ago given up her freedom to serve her people as a living computer, a repository of all wisdom. In the center of the room squatted the bulbous form of the Maestra.

The interior of the Vault were covered in green glass, a soft glow emanating from the high ceiling. With the guardians of the Vault dead, Vecidor easily swung the doors open. He would allow no other to face the consequences for what must be done. Each life taken for this righteous cause would be taken by no one but himself. His followers, few though his choir might have been, had argued with him, wanting to help him reach the Vault. Once again he was forced to shed Yanadar blood. He stepped over the growing pools of blue blood and strode ever nearer his destination.įinally he reached the door of the Vault. When she fell to the tiled floor, Vecidor waved his hand in a ritual sign of respect. Given time and training she would have become a formidable warrior. The third monk, the angry one, fought better than her brothers. In his mind he sang a lament for their souls. The three young monks fought bravely, and as the first two died by his hand he promised their spirits that he would scourge his body in recompense. So saying, Vecidor struck at the triad, his sword trailing blood. If my words will not turn you from the path of oblivion, my sword shall send you to its embrace.” “I see you will not be swayed by reason, just as those fools who rule us would not be swayed. “Your ideas have been condemned by the Conductor and the Council of Firsts! What you have done here, what you plan to do, it breaks our code, goes against our very being!” One of the other monks pushed her way forward, her eyes glaring. As a Custos I must defend our race, even against our own.” To stand in way of the survival of our species is to declare war on us all. There is but one way for our race to survive, and it is in the Vault. “Little one,” he replied, hands spread, “You have heard me speak in stupa and in the halls of governance. No one may enter the Vault unless consecrated by the Conductor.” “Please, Custos,” said one of the monks, using Vecidor’s title. None of them had yet earned the right to bear the Mark of Adulthood. Though it tore at his heart, Vecidor knew that more killing would come.Ī triad of young monks stepped before him they each could only have been ninety or so years of age. He desperately wished to wipe the weapon clean, and return it to its sheath, but custom and law forbid that it be freed of gore until its job was complete. Sword in hand he walked deeper into the sanctuary. The Yanadar race could not afford these deaths its eventual oblivion crept ever closer with each of them that perished. The markings on his face-one for each decade he had lived-were obscured by the blood of the fallen. Vecidor Ik’thi’oro stood over the bodies of his fallen brothers and sisters, dead scions of an ancient line that was threatened by treachery from within, and enmity from without.

Requiem for a damaged coda