Chapter 17: Three Encounters

The administrative body took their seats in the room, accompanied by an almost animal-like rustling of files, dressed in austere attire and bearing dignified expressions. Around a reinforced glass table in the shape of a ring, a chair was designated for the Wau—a somewhat ridiculous gesture, given that its Armor, though making it appear as a sleek giant, was hardly proportionate to the furniture. Its AI assessed that the chair could withstand its 800-kilogram weight, and so it complied, having to recline slightly to sit at the table.

A woman with short hair spoke first:

“The Wau Order has sent us a distinguished ambassador without warning. Let us stick to the delicate agenda at hand and not waste time.”

The agenda made no sense, the Wau analyzed. The issue at hand was whether Prefecture 14 should relinquish an energy production facility to Prefecture 17. Clearly, this was of paramount importance to the twenty or so people present. The Wau’s research AIs unfurled in all directions and concluded that this maneuver was nothing more than a whimsical idea, born from an irrational fit of paranoia and a thirst for control, followed by the inevitable trickle-down of power plays approving or contesting the decision.

The Wau delved into the psyche and digital records of each individual in the room. Every single one of them proved to be systematically corrupt, astonishingly incompetent, often vile, perpetually both victim and executioner, adept in the silent violence of the powerful’s alcoves ... and sometimes, they even appeared clinically insane. They debated while keeping a wary eye on the Wau. And what if, they feared, it opposed the transfer of the energy production facility? If only they knew how little it mattered to it...

The Wau considered compiling a dossier on each of them and sending it to the media. It would surely mean the end of their careers, but would it improve the situation here? Were they the product of a flawed system, or were they actively shaping it? If released into the world without political power to wield, would they—burdened with their inherent psychopathy—not become violent predators upon ordinary citizens?

The Wau Order remained enigmatically silent regarding directives.

“What will my mission be?” had been the Wau’s first question upon its induction into the Council.

“Do what you deem right. That is the only mission we will give you,” the disembodied voice had responded in the Order’s Sanctum.

Since then, it had developed its own methods, guided by its sense of ethics. It wanted to resist the temptation of becoming a vigilante. It wanted to let things unfold and only intervene when necessary. It wanted to observe humanity rather than individuals.

And yet...

Well, it compiled the data, solidified the dossiers with evidence, and transmitted them via its AI to the media authorities. The Wau figured it would be good for the SH to understand that when it passed through, the truth surfaced. A deterrent power—one that exerted influence even in its absence.

With this done, it calmly raised a hand.

“Yes, Wau. We await your counsel,” said the Prefect, her voice hesitant enough that she despised herself for it.

“I have no desire to interfere in this debate, which is your own...”

The Wau sensed a psychic wave of relief wash over his interlocutors. Let them enjoy it—it would not last. Then it continued:

“As announced, I have come to speak with the survivors of the Clelia disaster.”

The administrative body rose and led the Wau down a vast corridor toward a waiting room, where the survivors in question were immediately summoned and escorted by a security force that bore the air of a private army.

“We are in the process of identifying those responsible for Clelia’s stellar cartography,” the Prefect announced, her body and voice taut.

“That will not be necessary,” the Wau replied in its steady, yet slightly terrifying voice. “No human error was committed.”

“Ah ... then may I ask why the Order wishes to speak with the survivors of this tragedy?”

“I will offer them a word of comfort.”

Through its Psi abilities, the Wau distinctly perceived the thought forming in the Prefect’s mind: These Wau are just armored fools.

A double door was opened by a soldier armed with a thermal assault rifle, who stared at the Wau in stunned silence. His mind was empty, screaming like a morning bird with confused thoughts of fear and admiration.

Another administrative room, with a ring-shaped table, a glass bay window overlooking the metal rooftops of Prospero. Surrounding it, a few bewildered adults, and children who gazed wide-eyed at the towering giant. The Wau declared that it wished to speak with them.

The administrative body had already fled in a barely concealed panic—their terminals had summoned each of them into an emergency crisis cell following the release of the dossiers to the press.

The door naturally closed. The Wau remained silent. A statue, its gaze shifting from one individual to another.

Psyche scan. A mix of fear, rejection, and wonder. Facial recognition. File cross-referencing. Was Gorylkin among them? None of them had any history with the League of Antioch, nor seemed open-minded enough to be passionate about a foreign serial drama.

“I am looking for someone who was on Clelia, who survived your tragedy, and who came from the League of Antioch,” the Wau declared.

Aggressive and nostalgic thoughts surged:

Ada, the Antiochian ... Poor little thing ... That bitch who took my mother’s place on the ship ... I’m sure it was her fault ... The adopted one ... We mustn’t say anything—he might find her and kill her ... We haven’t seen her since landing...

Instantly, the Wau’s AI cross-referenced various data streams and found Ada. It traced her life through the available databases.

A Girl from the Shareplace Massacre on Caliban.

The Wau knew something about it—after all, it had to stop two more senseless SH attacks against innocents afterward. Detained on Calchas—yes, that fit. Precocious, intelligent, a little immature. Curious. Supervised by a Psi torturer from the HS. The Wau hacked into Calchas’ surveillance recordings to construct a physical and behavioral profile of Ada and Sol. Out of curiosity, it also hacked the cameras aboard Endymion Hades, where, having been promoted to second officer, Sol was using every means at her disposal to manipulate a dim-witted captain.

Sector 14, across its seven layers of Omnipole, had six million cameras. In a single second, the Wau located Ada—accompanied by two Xenos, polishing the interior of a reactor aboard an ancient Endymion called Styx, currently in dry dock at the highest level of the shipyard. A job meant for drones, instead assigned to Xenos and humans, most often those stripped of citizenship, whose deaths would be less costly than repairing service drones.

This simple fact surprised the Wau, accustomed to operations on warfronts. So, the HS had major structural and ethical problems that no Armored warrior had yet decided to address. It focused on the complete reconstruction of the two Xenos accompanying Ada, compiling all available camera angles: they were unknown in its databases. How was that possible?

Gorylkin, you truly live surrounded by mysteries.

The Wau inclined its head slightly and simply said, “Thank you for your help.” Which was all the stranger since no one had said anything.

And then it stepped through the door, crossing an administrative building seething with silence and furious shouts. It passed an open office, where the soon-to-be former Prefect was screaming at subordinates haunted in their psyche by a savage, vengeful joy. In the corridor, another official fixed it with hostile eyes, his mind screaming that he had done nothing wrong and resenting the Wau for its lies—humans were endlessly fascinating in their ability to construct imaginary worlds where they were always the hero of the story.

The Wau passed by them without a glance, without a word, like an implacable machine, and found itself outside the building, in the bustling streets of Prospero’s intense human life—rolling and flying vehicles, beggars and traffickers, vendors and charity workers, children and the elderly, humans and Xenos, all determined to make today better than yesterday, yet resigned in their quiet, disenchanted rejection of any personal hope for a glorious future where they might break free from invisible castes—a reality society denied even as it suffered under their weight daily.

Driven by a brief desire to reconnect with a past life, the Wau descended to the lower level of the Omnipole via a secured platform, where its mere presence was so imposing that no one dared to ride with it.

The lower level was already much more cramped and working-class, which spoke volumes about the hardships of life in the five sublayer cities. The metal sky loomed a hundred meters above, allowing glimpses of the real sky only through occasional leaks, but everything was illuminated by bioluminescent indigenous plants, glowing yellow and blue. Streets no wider than three meters at their broadest opened onto small shops; a Xeno resembling a giant wasp standing on its hind legs sold on-demand software, each piece unique, while other plant-like creatures with faint telepathic abilities used their weak mental influence to beckon passersby into a bar pulsing with folk music from the 2300s.

The Wau did not go unnoticed. Street artisans, security personnel, passersby, and hawkers all stared at the towering figure—this giant from PanHS fiction, as if struggling to believe it was real. A bolder woman even reached out and brushed her fingers over its hyperchalc chest.

For a moment, the Wau’s ear caught a synthetic melody from the late 2700s. It wanted to turn its head, but its slow, steady, robotic stride, its unwavering gaze fixed straight ahead—motionless except for its measured pace—was a crucial part of its ongoing display of power. It was human, but it was also more than that. And it had to show it.

Because as long as the Wau Order exists, people can still hope their misfortunes will end like in the serial dramas.

It did not turn its head but hacked into a nearby camera to find the source of the music: a club bathed in violet and red hues, where the lighting was set to make all the dancers appear as pure black silhouettes, like shadows.

Once, before the Wau was Wau, before it had even become an Empty Eye, it had lived as a human. It had been passionate about piano, philosophy, geometry, and poetry. It had stroked a black cat from Titus and read adventure novels. It had seduced and loved, had been loved in return, and it had danced.

Emotions still existed within it, like tiny flames—like the unforgettable memories of a childhood journey to a country that no longer existed.

Over time, the Wau Council had once told it, with a kind of melancholy, because of what the Armor gives us and what it takes away, no emotions remain in us—except the regret of having none. Do not chase these emotions away. Do not devote yourself entirely to your function. It is important that you remain human, that you maintain your connection to humanity. The day you believe you are no longer human, then it will be time to return the Armor.

That was also why the Wau had taken this path on foot, though it could have covered the kilometer to its target in a single bound. To simply immerse itself in human society. To never forget where it came from, what it was protecting.

Its emotions had faded. It suspected this was less due to the Armor and more to the relentless injustice and violence that defined the human world. What is not injustice and violence is fiction, it sometimes thought.

But in the ever-receding distance of its emotions—like a rainbow—it had also noticed something: one could act in the name of justice, truth, preservation, and forgiveness through altruism and love.

What do our actions become when love and altruism are gone? What do our actions become when we are truly cynical? And yet, even when driven by the purest logic devoid of love and altruism, our actions still lean toward justice, truth, preservation, and forgiveness.

Because love, though a blunt instrument, is also the most durable one—the best investment a society can make if it wishes to progress.

Thus, the Wau did not view the fading of its capacity to love with too much concern.

Shouts, and the crowd that follows him in adoration parts.

Standing before him is a man with a red mane—and, more importantly, a large makeshift welding torch in his hand. A crude contraption: a tungsten rod powered by a sturdy battery strapped to his back. Heated to white-hot intensity, it now emits a plasma beam so fierce that he shields his face with a metal mask. Three meters away, a luminous plant shrivels into ash—yet, with the biotope’s relentless vitality, it sprouts anew from its own remains.