the government, we will retaliate with the weight of our imperial might."
Marcus swallowed hard and said, "If I may speak as a senator, imperator, you will require a vote of the Senate before …"
"I am aware of that. I am only ordering the movement of our forces. Something well within the rights of the office of imperator."
"Absolutely," Marcus said. "If other nations, however, perceive this as a violation of the Accord, …"
"Damn the Accord!" Caesar yelled. The speakers crackled with the volume and both Marcus and Yale squinted. "It has been four hundred years since Tiberia was first shackled with it. Perhaps it is time for a new Accord."
The senator glanced for a moment toward Cato Yale, but he stopped himself. Still, the Caesar saw the motion.
"Fear not, Toma. I will not wage a world war over some pissed off fishermen in the Iberian Sea." Marcus lowered his head slowly and the cube spoke again, "Time for my official orders."
"Yes, imperator."
"In your position as high legate, I order you to command two legions and dispatch them to Ofun where you will await further instruction. Should war come to the Empire, I shall make you my magister, and you will take the Empire to victory. My tribune will provide you with the standards and eagles." Cato nodded.
"Thank you, imperator," Marcus said.
"In your position as senator," Caesar said, "I ask that you notify the Senate of my orders and then appoint a temporary replacement for yourself."
"As you command, princeps."
The Caesar smiled. Rather, he would have, if he still had a mouth. Toma Marcus was a good man. He knew his work and he knew his place. He would do well.
VIII
AHLJAELA
161 Years Before the End
The noise was painful.
Long ago, he learned to fashion earplugs from strips of fabric, roll them up and push them into his ears. It was still loud, but it was bearable, to a point. For many years he did this and he never noticed a decline in his hearing. He had recently, though. Laphé called for him four times before he answered the other morning. That worried her. And him.
"You," the foreman said.
Mar stepped away from the corner where the plastic shells for the cars were dispensed and toward the clean up area. Workers used files to trim down the razor-sharp edges. They wore thick gloves to protect themselves, but the occasional brown splatter of dried blood was visible everywhere here.
"Name?"
He shouted the response, "Ahlajela. Mar Ahljaela."
He wrote it down on his pad and then waved him to follow. Mar walked behind and to the right of the foreman; a sign of respect. He wore a shiny plastic helmet and the edges of foam earplugs were visible just inside his ear canals. If his hearing really was getting worse, Ahljaela thought it might be worth the two denars to buy some. They walked under a moving crane and into the open spaces of the factory floor. It was cavernous and the thin line of windows near the top of the walls showed that the sun was nearly setting. Early spring meant the sun's hours were slowly getting longer. It made him wish for home.
"You've worked the form presses before?"
Mar shouted again, "Yes."
"Good. There was an accident."
Again?, he thought. It seemed to be happening more and more. A slow hand meant your fingers could be caught between two giant plates before they slammed together. Forgotten goggles meant a spray of metal and plastic shards could blind you. A missed switch meant steam cooked your skin at nearly one hundred degrees. It was normal in the factory, but others were noticing it, too.
Ahead, there was a clutch of workers standing around, looking at the floor. Mar didn't need to see. He knew the worker was likely lying there.
The foreman slammed the pad against his knuckles and the group scattered. "Get back to work. There's nothing you can do for him."
Ahljaela kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked. When he came alongside the injured worker, he couldn't help but glance over. It was Rand.
"No!" he shouted and jumped to his knees. He slid toward the man and picked up his right arm. He didn't move. Mar looked across his body and finally settled on his left arm, what remained of it.
There was no hand. In fact, what was recognizable as arm ceased just below the elbow. All that was left of the forearm were several bloodied tendrils, like torn cloth. They lay in a wide pool of blood. After staring for a moment, Mar finally saw the jagged edge of bone within the mess.
"Come on," the foreman pulled Ahljaela up and away.
He kept staring and saw that someone tied a rope belt above his elbow like a tourniquet.
"You knew him?" the foreman asked.
Mar stumbled backward and finally turned to walk after the foreman. "Yes."
"Shame." They walked toward a huge array of stopped machines. He placed Mar by a large cylindrical mold. A robotic arm held a partially formed plastic shell in position and ready to slam down. To the right, another robotic arm had its claws open and ready to pull a shell off the cylindrical form. "You've worked here before."
"Yes," he answered, comparatively a whisper.
"Don't be like that guy." He motioned his thumb over his shoulder to Rand's body and continued, "Don't pull off the part with your bare hands. Free it with the tool and let the claw get it."
Mar looked at the panel and saw the tool lying there. And then he saw sprays of blood on the side of the robots and controls. Slowly, he reached down and lifted the fork-shaped device. "It's broken." That's why Rand used his hands.
The foreman lowered his pad and took the tool from Ahljaela. "Hmm. Shame." He slid it into his pocket and inhaled. "Look, we have to get it started again so use your hands for a few. I'll send somebody back with a new one."
Mar was frozen. He glanced at the mold and the robots and then back at the foreman. "Are you sure?"
The larger man's jaw flexed and his shoulders squared. "Get to work."
If he objected again, Mar would be fired. No question about it.
He turned toward the controls and looked nervously at the metal cylinder. The foreman waved and the robots jerked to life.
The one on the left with the plastic slammed down hard on the cylinder. Mar flinched and forced himself to move closer. The cylinder heated up and the warmth flashed in his face. The robot lifted and the plastic shell remained atop the cylinder. He reached under the edge and burned his fingers. He withdrew for a second and then thrust them back underneath the panel. It took three good flicks, but it came free and he pushed it toward the open claws of the robot on the right. It took the shell, spun around and dropped it on a conveyor belt.
Ahljaela looked at his red fingers. He didn't know how long he could keep doing this. Just then, the arm slammed another shell on the cylinder and flash-heated the plastic. He tried to pull his sleeve down over his hand and he found that it helped when he lifted the corner of the shell. Not as hot, but it was still awkward.
He did that several times before he thought about tearing the bottom of one of his canvas pant legs off to use as a kind of glove. He looked down quickly and saw that his knees and shins were soaked through with blood. Rand's blood. The robot slammed the next piece down on the cylinder and it didn't faze him at all.
Slowly, he bent and tore his pants beneath the knee. The firm, wet fabric came off easily and Mar's breath stopped as he felt how cold it was. He looked back and saw that Rand's body was gone. Only a maintenance worker remained to clean up the red pool.
He lifted the shell from the cylinder quickly. He grit his teeth and thought about the blood becoming a small part of this product … whatever the Tartarus it was going to be.
Mar glanced down at his pants and he knew he was going to have to get new clothes. They were sure to deduct at least four denars from this week's pay because of that.
IX
THE MESSENGERS
161 Years Before the End
/> Dr. Gram Vitelus looked into his microscope. "C'mon," the professor said, "link up." He was manipulating a small metal arm as he peered. At a far, far smaller scale, metallic globules were adrift, waiting to be attracted by a slight electric charge. And then they were. A moment later, he lurched back and threw his arms into the air. "Yes! Finally!"
The Messengers stood on either side of him, unseen. They looked at the molecules he manipulated and spoke to each other.
"He is one," the female said.
In a unified movement, they reached their hands into the mind of the doctor. His head flinched. He stopped breathing and looked around the room.
Both tenders remained still and watched him.
He sniffed, shook his head and looked back into the microscope.
The Messengers reached further into his mind. Their fingers felt the tendrils of his neurons and examined his synapses. They found memories and thoughts and ideas.
Without moving his head, Vitelus' eyes widened and he tried to figure out what it was that dug into him so.
The beings noticed this.
"Fascinating," the male said. "He is aware."
The female studied him and said, "He is. But how?"
Slowly, Gram straightened in his chair. His eyes shifted to either side of him and he took a deep breath. He spun around in his seat quickly, hoping to see someone or something nearby. He saw nothing. His legs and the chair moved through the forms of the Messengers and they simply observed him.
"I know you're here," he said aloud.
"He is sleep deprived," the female said. "Perhaps that has awakened some sort of awareness