pale eyes revealing nothing.
Naomi’s hands began to move in her lap, almost imperceptibly. Ceres squinted to make out the words as the girl made the signs of her reply, fingers flicking in the only language she would ever speak. <> Princess Naomi gave the traditional response in hand language, not looking up at her regent.
Ceres set her jaw. She walked to the tall black cabinet and slid open a drawer half-a-dozen centimeters across. She removed a black leather pouch and slid the drawer closed. Lady Ceres turned back to the Princess before her quick mind could estimate just how many drawers were remaining in the Cabinet of Ordeals.
Naomi’s head was still hanging against her chest. Ceres pulled the drawstring on the pouch and, gingerly, with gloved fingers, removed a translucent circular disk bigger than a two-sestari coin. Reflected sunlight against the red ceiling cast a troubling, bloody shadow on the disk of salt. There were four others like it in the pouch.
“Your Royal Highness,” Ceres said, getting the heir’s attention as gently as she could. “Are you ready?”
After a painful pause, Princess Naomi looked up at the regent. She nodded, once, and opened her mouth.
“Everyone has a moment,” Lundin elaborated, tightening the knot, “when—I suppose—a switch gets thrown, and suddenly you’re on . And whatever your function is, you start doing it; you start blasting forward, full speed ahead. You’re like a machine, finally put to work. And you just do the task you’re made for. You don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but you trust that whoever put you together knew what they were doing, and that they made you good enough to do what you have to do.
“It makes you wonder what you were doing with yourself beforehand, though. What is a machine doing before it’s turned on? Nothing—well, except gathering mold and falling apart. So if a person—hypothetically—can look back at his life and see the moment where he switched on, does that mean his previous thirty-one years were spent amassing a world-class mold collection? That everything up to this new point was a total waste?
“But you wouldn’t say a machine was wasteful, or aimless, or lazy, just because it was turned off. After all, it wasn’t the machine’s idea to be switched off in the first place. Machines love to work; that’s what they’re for. So this hypothetical person can’t be blamed either for having been ‘off’ for a few decades, while he waited for the powers-that-be to flick a switch.
“Or maybe he can be blamed, because he’s not a machine. He’s a man; a mediocre man. He came to academy late, floated through the middle of his class, watched opportunities pass by in front of his nose because raising a hand to grab them felt like too much work. Maybe the powers-that-be didn’t switch him on because he was finally ready; maybe they turned him on because they were sick of waiting for him to flick his own switch. So to speak,” Lundin revised hastily, coughing.
“But does it even matter exactly why it’s happened? Why worry about the past, when there’s so much in the here-and-now to focus on? All our Mister Hypothetical knows is that being switched on makes him feel good.”
The tarnished copper cone on top of the Melodimax gaped blankly at Lundin. He looked down at it from his perch on the stool, suddenly feeling the silence of the otherwise empty workshop. “And a little chatty,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin.
He hopped down from the stool, looking up at his handiwork. Archimedia had invited him back to the Harborfront hut yesterday to discuss his progress and give him some new resources, including a rough fabric sleeve with a pair of ojing inside. The technician had immediately recognized the pale circular disks he’d last seen hanging in LaMontina’s unhappy tent, eleven
Naomi’s hands began to move in her lap, almost imperceptibly. Ceres squinted to make out the words as the girl made the signs of her reply, fingers flicking in the only language she would ever speak. <
Ceres set her jaw. She walked to the tall black cabinet and slid open a drawer half-a-dozen centimeters across. She removed a black leather pouch and slid the drawer closed. Lady Ceres turned back to the Princess before her quick mind could estimate just how many drawers were remaining in the Cabinet of Ordeals.
Naomi’s head was still hanging against her chest. Ceres pulled the drawstring on the pouch and, gingerly, with gloved fingers, removed a translucent circular disk bigger than a two-sestari coin. Reflected sunlight against the red ceiling cast a troubling, bloody shadow on the disk of salt. There were four others like it in the pouch.
“Your Royal Highness,” Ceres said, getting the heir’s attention as gently as she could. “Are you ready?”
After a painful pause, Princess Naomi looked up at the regent. She nodded, once, and opened her mouth.
“Everyone has a moment,” Lundin elaborated, tightening the knot, “when—I suppose—a switch gets thrown, and suddenly you’re on . And whatever your function is, you start doing it; you start blasting forward, full speed ahead. You’re like a machine, finally put to work. And you just do the task you’re made for. You don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but you trust that whoever put you together knew what they were doing, and that they made you good enough to do what you have to do.
“It makes you wonder what you were doing with yourself beforehand, though. What is a machine doing before it’s turned on? Nothing—well, except gathering mold and falling apart. So if a person—hypothetically—can look back at his life and see the moment where he switched on, does that mean his previous thirty-one years were spent amassing a world-class mold collection? That everything up to this new point was a total waste?
“But you wouldn’t say a machine was wasteful, or aimless, or lazy, just because it was turned off. After all, it wasn’t the machine’s idea to be switched off in the first place. Machines love to work; that’s what they’re for. So this hypothetical person can’t be blamed either for having been ‘off’ for a few decades, while he waited for the powers-that-be to flick a switch.
“Or maybe he can be blamed, because he’s not a machine. He’s a man; a mediocre man. He came to academy late, floated through the middle of his class, watched opportunities pass by in front of his nose because raising a hand to grab them felt like too much work. Maybe the powers-that-be didn’t switch him on because he was finally ready; maybe they turned him on because they were sick of waiting for him to flick his own switch. So to speak,” Lundin revised hastily, coughing.
“But does it even matter exactly why it’s happened? Why worry about the past, when there’s so much in the here-and-now to focus on? All our Mister Hypothetical knows is that being switched on makes him feel good.”
The tarnished copper cone on top of the Melodimax gaped blankly at Lundin. He looked down at it from his perch on the stool, suddenly feeling the silence of the otherwise empty workshop. “And a little chatty,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin.
He hopped down from the stool, looking up at his handiwork. Archimedia had invited him back to the Harborfront hut yesterday to discuss his progress and give him some new resources, including a rough fabric sleeve with a pair of ojing inside. The technician had immediately recognized the pale circular disks he’d last seen hanging in LaMontina’s unhappy tent, eleven
Similar Books
