Ill Omens

Writing on The Wall

Miranda watched the general pace from one side of his office to the other with her arms crossed. The elders left moments before, exchanging whispered words on what transpired.
The general shook his head. "This is getting out of hand."
"You took that girl's future away from her, Baker. What exactly were you expecting." Miranda replied.
"The elders were very clear. She was not to receive a prosthetic." The general threw out his arms, and scoffed. "We'd never just leave her behind. She'll want for nothing for the rest of her life."
"I know, right?" Miranda began, counting each item on her fingers as she continued, "And all it took was losing an arm, a friend, one of many I might add, her ship. Her crew, her livelihood…"
"I got it, thanks. We couldn't have known what was waiting for them when we sent them down there. I don't know. This doesn't feel right." The general let out a long full of air, as if blowing the thoughts from his mind. "Rebellion would be suicide for them. I hope it doesn't come to that."
"Suicide?"
The general nodded. "The government complex is one of the best defended buildings on the planet. That coupled with military forts, and the navy. They wouldn't get far."
Miranda narrowed her eyes. "I disagree. The best fortress a leader can have is the love of their people."
"Machiavelli?"
Miranda smiled and nodded. "Yes, and the elders are losing that fortress at an alarming rate."

---

Mouse entered the archives. The Archivist let out a sigh of relief the moment he saw her. When he noticed her arm, he shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Rhey."
"I'm working on it. It'll be fine." She replied. "We have bigger things to worry about."
The Archivist stiffened. "So you know about them too?"
"Them?"
The archivist gestured to a half invisible body on a table near the back wall of the archive.
Mouse's jaw dropped. "What the hell is that?"
"Catch of the day. No matter. If not them, then what? What threatens our species and decided it couldn't wait in line?"
Moise eyed the corpse, and reached into her pocket. She retrieved the memory chip, and handed it over.
The archivist scanned its contents, and the moment he learned the truth, the secrets of The Glass Garden, he let out a low growl. "This is a problem."
"You think?"
The archivist shrugged. "If I publish this, it will activate an information lockdown."
Mouse nodded. "I assumed that. That's why I'm delivering it personally. Send it to Styx. He can help distribute to every wayfarer out there. He can-"
"No."
Mouse tripped over her words and stuttered on her reply. "W-What?"
"No…"

Emotions are valuable. They show us what matters most, bringing us closer to what we need while distancing us from what we don't. However, emotions are flawed. Abuse, for example, can have the opposite effect, forcing us to stay when we ought to leave. Emotions are high, currently, and it couldn't be a worse time.
Thisnis a time of mourning. It has the makings of a perfect storm, and all that stems from it will only stir the brew. The wayfarers plan on fleeing Safeharbor. Homebound activated lockdown procedures in Dawn. The military is producing weapons at an alarming rate, the navy positioning itself as if to blockade the planet.
I'm not one for prophecy, but the writing's on the wall. Dark days are coming, Rhey. I never thought I'd see humanity go to war with itself, and I certainly endeavor to postpone it if indeed it is inevitable. Mark my words, Regardless of who manages to win, we all lose.

A garden of glass

You come to me with damning evidence. Evidence of corruption, tyranny, murder, and that's just what lies on the surface. You come with the catalyst, the spark capable of igniting a flame that will consume our world, our species.
If I do as you ask, it will start a chain reaction. Here is my prediction: first there will be pain. So many will shudder and writhe at the sting of betrayal. Naturally, what comes next is grief. The cries will be deafening, the lamentation of our entire species echoing into the depths. It matters not which side you choose. All will feel this pain, all will know this grief.
Then comes the rage. Anger tends to be the most productive emotion. It is what drives one into action. Lines will be drawn. They're already half formed as it is. Cooler heads will seek out a diplomatic solution, and fail. There are far too many wrongs to right, too many outstanding dues to be paid. With crimes such as these, the only acceptable currency is blood.

Verdict

You ask me to publish information I can scarcely believe, but know to be true. The evidence is clear as day. This puts me in a difficult position. I must weigh our options. I must take all variables into account while solving this equation.
We have enemies at our doorstep, no, in our very homes. We know not what they seek, or what can be done to stop them. We are a dying race that can't survive in the wake of civil war, our numbers already ravaged by the massacre in the depths. The wayfarers, what amounts to an entire generation, the youngest generation, have yet to experience the true beauty of life. They are too young to die.
If I release this information, it only hastens our destruction. If I do the right thing, I commit atrocities beyond counting. If I refuse, I may yet preserve the lives of those I hold dear. I will not start a war. It will bring pain to those I see as family. I am deeply sorry. My answer is, and will remain, "no."

Mouse stared, dumbfounded at what she believed to be an impossible outcome. She pondered his words. She understood his reasoning, but failed to agree all the same. "I get it," she began, "I really do." He gestured to the body on the table. "I don't know what you're up to, but I hope it's worth it."
"You have no idea," The Archivist replied. "For what it's worth, The Glass Garden remains buried, and out of the wrong hands."
Mouse clenched her jaw, and nodded. "Yeah, there's that at least."