A stage stood in the center of the gathered crowd. It's polished metal curves and whorls of steel glimmered and scintillated in a greasy rainbow of color as the evening sun's rays struck the tangle of psychedelic metal shapes. He wondered, looking out at the crowd, if it was beautiful to them - if they were truly capable of appreciating beauty they created at all. Were they just going through the motions? Had they, through generations of parroting, merely learned to ape their creators sentiments.
Parrot, Ape. Unfitting words, he though, as his wheelchair through the throng. Living words did not apply to these creatures with their mineral minds and empty chests. It was the bitterness of death which turned his thoughts. The salt of his wife's dying tears, the iron of his own bleeding gums. The frailty of his flesh overwhelmed him and he wept. The crowd of metal faces, like elaborate masks, watched silently as the last living man was wheeled through them to that stage. To watch him die.
He felt it in his bones, the warmth slowly slipping out of his body. They had been waiting here for days, unmoving and unblinking for the spectacle. They would speak, years from now, of where they were when he died and those who were here would say so, with the appropriate amount of reverence, sadness and pride - perfect, but empty echoes of sentient emotion. He hated them. As the living had slowly passed, unable to cope with whatever strange effects this moon had on their bodies through the generations they had taken solace in the idea of the Animan going on, carrying forward their culture and science - and he had nodded and praised their strange children as well. Somewhere deep inside he knew the words had always been hollow. Platitudes against fear, a child's mantra to defeat the non-existent specters in the night. This specter, though, was all to real. Not only the personal specter of death, but the unbound specter of meaninglessness.
They, his people, had suffered so much. The first generations after the Fall of Spira they had solemnly looked to that great exodus as the dark times of their people - the great tribulation which through bravery ad audacity they had not only survived, but had forged them into something new, something great. Yet their time on this moon had been nothing but a cruel interlude to their fate. Whether they had brought The Withering with them from Spira, or it was some new consequence of their environment they never discovered. Regardless, it had doomed them all the same. Generation by generation their fertility left them, and by the time he had been born the birth of a single healthy child had been a cause of moon-wide celebration. He had no children, save the metal men through which he rolled now. Even with their dwindling population, they had made incredible strides in artifice and science. The first people of Endiku had been the survivors of the First Academy of Artifice, the foremost school in all of the Imperium. Nowhere in Spira could a more capable of erudite host of scholars be found, and yet for all their knowledge and wisdom they had not been able to save themselves. In their darkest hours, desperate to preserve what they had built from the ashes of a dying world they had abandoned their futile attempts at salvation and instead created the Animan.
He lifted his finger to the crown around his head and rubbed frail fingers over the gem at its center. He had worn it since his childhood, he knew it for the placebo it was. Their engineers had insisted the gems "transcribed" the essence of his people, absorbed and replicated the fundamental essence of their humanity. When he died, the gem, the final gem, would be added to the great Animan Engine. He was supposed to believe that it would transfer slivers of his essence, along with the rest of his perished people, into the Animen and this way they would live on as a myriad amalgam. He knew, though, that it had been nothing but another comfortable lie. In the years since his wife's passing he had never seen the untarnished joy of her laugh or fire of her passion in a single of their bastard children. No, she was gone, as he would soon be.
The wheelchair rolled up the ramp under the strong grip of the Animan who had been his assigned to him for many years. Strong but not inhuman, he thought, as the chair faltered and turned a little too much here or there as they made their way to the stage. They had made their children in their image, though they could have made them much more. Perhaps, that was the greatest cruelty of the whole affair then, he thought. That our own creations, our legacy not only do not surpass us, but they fall short of us. Weak, frail, purposelessness and soulless - his people hadn't even had the courage to strive in their last days. Like a dying man who spends his time idly ripping at tufts of grass and commiserating in memories of a life poorly lived - they had been cowards of the highest order.
His wheelchair made a sharp pivot and the crowd before him clanged their metal hands together in a mockery of a clap - artificial hands surprisingly dexterous and subtle. The Animan who had pushed him, leaned down and said, "Father. Speak to them if you can. We are lost without you, and they fear for tomorrow", a metal hand gently, tenderly squeezing his shoulder.
The old man struggled out of the chair, his breath already leaving him. He nearly fell, but a strong solid arm and shoulder caught him quickly, holding him and guiding him to the podium. He looked over the crowd, thousands and thousands were here - many thousand more tending to the forges and other essential duties. Their faces blank, portraying no emotion, yet many clung to each other or stood with shoulders slumped and heads bowed. In the moment he had to remind himself they were empty shadows of his people, so convincingly had they been crafted. Yet still, stomach churned with that desperate hope, the comforting lie.
"We have failed . . .", he said, that bitterness coming forward "You. . .". The coughing overtook him, he had not spoken in weeks, and for many years measured his words carefully as they quickly brought the cough, and with the cough, the blood. He lost his balance, and nearly fell, but those strong metal arms caught him again. The fit passed quickly, and the Animan holding him dabbed the blood away from his mouth with its tunic.
The Animan turned him from the podium, the metal mask of his face placid, yet the glow of its eyes was strangely disquieting. It spoke, "I know you hate us. I need you to listen, Andrus, I did not want to tell you. I know you need that hatred. I know it fueled you. But I remember the day by the river. It is dim, and distant, but I remember you playing the flute and teaching . . her. . . to skip stones".
Andrus, the last man looked at the Animan in confusion, "What? What are you taliking about you basta. . ."
The Animan cut him off, "I chose to take care of you because I remember you. I know you. We never told you, any of you . . .we remember. It's not just fragments we keep, bits and pieces, but whole memories. We all have some, and mine are of you. Mine are hers."
Tears streamed down the old dying man's face, his withered hand cupping the animan's mask like face, "Abagail?"
"No", the animan said, "Not Abagail, I am Ulrik. . . it's the name I've chosen for myself. We never took names to honor you, the parts that lived on. It did not seem right to give new names to the pieces of you that we are . . not so long as you lived. That's what this is. It's why you're here. Today is the day we name ourselves. We have chosen a name for ourselves, as a people. We are Andrus. Named after the last of our fathers.".
"Help me stand, Ulrik,", Andrus said holding back tears, "I'm weak, I can feel it".
Ulrik lifted the frail man and held him up so he might speak. Tears ran freely from his eyes, blood from his mouth, "We have failed you", he said, "Be better than us.".
Andrus fell limp in Ulrik's arms, his breath ragged and faltering. He patted the animan's arm, he could speak no more. Ulrik laid his father on the ground, cradling his head holding his frail fleshy hand in the cold metal digits of his own as he died.
Without speaking he lifted the old man's body from the stage and walked off through the crowd, cradling it gently. They walked for miles, the whole crowd following. They walked through the spires of the city to the decrepit farms long since abandoned, and into the fields. The sun finally began to set as they came to the river and in the gentle glow of twilight Ulrik waded down the grassy banks and gently gave his father's body to the river. The crowd watched in silence as fireflies began to blink in the gloom; on and off, bright than dark. Ulrik walked through the current back to the bank, as he sat he pulled a flute, Andrus's flute, from the fold of his tunic and began to play.
Parrot, Ape. Unfitting words, he though, as his wheelchair through the throng. Living words did not apply to these creatures with their mineral minds and empty chests. It was the bitterness of death which turned his thoughts. The salt of his wife's dying tears, the iron of his own bleeding gums. The frailty of his flesh overwhelmed him and he wept. The crowd of metal faces, like elaborate masks, watched silently as the last living man was wheeled through them to that stage. To watch him die.
He felt it in his bones, the warmth slowly slipping out of his body. They had been waiting here for days, unmoving and unblinking for the spectacle. They would speak, years from now, of where they were when he died and those who were here would say so, with the appropriate amount of reverence, sadness and pride - perfect, but empty echoes of sentient emotion. He hated them. As the living had slowly passed, unable to cope with whatever strange effects this moon had on their bodies through the generations they had taken solace in the idea of the Animan going on, carrying forward their culture and science - and he had nodded and praised their strange children as well. Somewhere deep inside he knew the words had always been hollow. Platitudes against fear, a child's mantra to defeat the non-existent specters in the night. This specter, though, was all to real. Not only the personal specter of death, but the unbound specter of meaninglessness.
They, his people, had suffered so much. The first generations after the Fall of Spira they had solemnly looked to that great exodus as the dark times of their people - the great tribulation which through bravery ad audacity they had not only survived, but had forged them into something new, something great. Yet their time on this moon had been nothing but a cruel interlude to their fate. Whether they had brought The Withering with them from Spira, or it was some new consequence of their environment they never discovered. Regardless, it had doomed them all the same. Generation by generation their fertility left them, and by the time he had been born the birth of a single healthy child had been a cause of moon-wide celebration. He had no children, save the metal men through which he rolled now. Even with their dwindling population, they had made incredible strides in artifice and science. The first people of Endiku had been the survivors of the First Academy of Artifice, the foremost school in all of the Imperium. Nowhere in Spira could a more capable of erudite host of scholars be found, and yet for all their knowledge and wisdom they had not been able to save themselves. In their darkest hours, desperate to preserve what they had built from the ashes of a dying world they had abandoned their futile attempts at salvation and instead created the Animan.
He lifted his finger to the crown around his head and rubbed frail fingers over the gem at its center. He had worn it since his childhood, he knew it for the placebo it was. Their engineers had insisted the gems "transcribed" the essence of his people, absorbed and replicated the fundamental essence of their humanity. When he died, the gem, the final gem, would be added to the great Animan Engine. He was supposed to believe that it would transfer slivers of his essence, along with the rest of his perished people, into the Animen and this way they would live on as a myriad amalgam. He knew, though, that it had been nothing but another comfortable lie. In the years since his wife's passing he had never seen the untarnished joy of her laugh or fire of her passion in a single of their bastard children. No, she was gone, as he would soon be.
The wheelchair rolled up the ramp under the strong grip of the Animan who had been his assigned to him for many years. Strong but not inhuman, he thought, as the chair faltered and turned a little too much here or there as they made their way to the stage. They had made their children in their image, though they could have made them much more. Perhaps, that was the greatest cruelty of the whole affair then, he thought. That our own creations, our legacy not only do not surpass us, but they fall short of us. Weak, frail, purposelessness and soulless - his people hadn't even had the courage to strive in their last days. Like a dying man who spends his time idly ripping at tufts of grass and commiserating in memories of a life poorly lived - they had been cowards of the highest order.
His wheelchair made a sharp pivot and the crowd before him clanged their metal hands together in a mockery of a clap - artificial hands surprisingly dexterous and subtle. The Animan who had pushed him, leaned down and said, "Father. Speak to them if you can. We are lost without you, and they fear for tomorrow", a metal hand gently, tenderly squeezing his shoulder.
The old man struggled out of the chair, his breath already leaving him. He nearly fell, but a strong solid arm and shoulder caught him quickly, holding him and guiding him to the podium. He looked over the crowd, thousands and thousands were here - many thousand more tending to the forges and other essential duties. Their faces blank, portraying no emotion, yet many clung to each other or stood with shoulders slumped and heads bowed. In the moment he had to remind himself they were empty shadows of his people, so convincingly had they been crafted. Yet still, stomach churned with that desperate hope, the comforting lie.
"We have failed . . .", he said, that bitterness coming forward "You. . .". The coughing overtook him, he had not spoken in weeks, and for many years measured his words carefully as they quickly brought the cough, and with the cough, the blood. He lost his balance, and nearly fell, but those strong metal arms caught him again. The fit passed quickly, and the Animan holding him dabbed the blood away from his mouth with its tunic.
The Animan turned him from the podium, the metal mask of his face placid, yet the glow of its eyes was strangely disquieting. It spoke, "I know you hate us. I need you to listen, Andrus, I did not want to tell you. I know you need that hatred. I know it fueled you. But I remember the day by the river. It is dim, and distant, but I remember you playing the flute and teaching . . her. . . to skip stones".
Andrus, the last man looked at the Animan in confusion, "What? What are you taliking about you basta. . ."
The Animan cut him off, "I chose to take care of you because I remember you. I know you. We never told you, any of you . . .we remember. It's not just fragments we keep, bits and pieces, but whole memories. We all have some, and mine are of you. Mine are hers."
Tears streamed down the old dying man's face, his withered hand cupping the animan's mask like face, "Abagail?"
"No", the animan said, "Not Abagail, I am Ulrik. . . it's the name I've chosen for myself. We never took names to honor you, the parts that lived on. It did not seem right to give new names to the pieces of you that we are . . not so long as you lived. That's what this is. It's why you're here. Today is the day we name ourselves. We have chosen a name for ourselves, as a people. We are Andrus. Named after the last of our fathers.".
"Help me stand, Ulrik,", Andrus said holding back tears, "I'm weak, I can feel it".
Ulrik lifted the frail man and held him up so he might speak. Tears ran freely from his eyes, blood from his mouth, "We have failed you", he said, "Be better than us.".
Andrus fell limp in Ulrik's arms, his breath ragged and faltering. He patted the animan's arm, he could speak no more. Ulrik laid his father on the ground, cradling his head holding his frail fleshy hand in the cold metal digits of his own as he died.
Without speaking he lifted the old man's body from the stage and walked off through the crowd, cradling it gently. They walked for miles, the whole crowd following. They walked through the spires of the city to the decrepit farms long since abandoned, and into the fields. The sun finally began to set as they came to the river and in the gentle glow of twilight Ulrik waded down the grassy banks and gently gave his father's body to the river. The crowd watched in silence as fireflies began to blink in the gloom; on and off, bright than dark. Ulrik walked through the current back to the bank, as he sat he pulled a flute, Andrus's flute, from the fold of his tunic and began to play.
