Tales of the Dissolutionverse Box Set Read online

  Tales of the Dissolutionverse

  Contained in this volume:

  The Five Hive Plateau

  Tuning the Symphony

  Last Delivery

  The First Majus in Space

  The Feastday

  The Symphony Eater

  The Society of Two Houses

  Changing State

  Journey to the Top of the Nether

  Also in the Dissolutionverse by William C. Tracy

  The Seeds of Dissolution

  CONTENTS

  Timeline of Major Events:

  The Five Hive Plateau

  Tuning the Symphony

  Majus

  Origon

  Festuour

  Hidden Chords

  Re-Tuning

  Last Delivery

  Plots and Deals

  Customs

  The Delivery

  The First Majus in Space

  First Flight of the Vimana Aryuman

  Violation of Natural Law

  The Symphony Eater

  The Feastday

  The Society of Two Houses

  The Body

  The Mansion

  More Than One

  System Beast

  Homebrew

  Harmonic

  The Society of Two Houses

  Changing State

  Journey to the Top of the Nether

  The Ground

  Low Country

  High Country

  Top of the Nether

  The Return

  Appendix: The Houses of the Maji

  Appendix: The Species of the Great Assembly

  Timeline of Major Events:

  A.A.W = After Aridori War

  0 A.A.W. – End of Aridori War

  632 A.A.W. – Events of Changing State

  726 A.A.W. – Pixies Species Enters Great Assembly

  927 A.A.W. – Mandamon Feldo Born

  939 A.A.W. – Origon Cyrysi Born

  952 A.A.W. – Lobhl Species Enters Great Assembly

  953 A.A.W. – Events of The Society of Two Houses

  962 A.A.W. – Rilan Ayama Born

  964 A.A.W. – Events of The Five Hive Plateau

  984 A.A.W. – Events of Tuning the Symphony

  985 A.A.W. – Sam van Oen Born

  999 A.A.W. – Events of Last Delivery

  1001 A.A.W. – Events of The Feastday

  1003 A.A.W. – Events of The First Majus in Space

  1003 A.A.W. – Events of The Symphony Eater

  1003 A.A.W. – Events of The Seeds of Dissolution

  1003 A.A.W. – Events of Journey to the Top of the Nether

  The Five Hive Plateau

  964 A.A.W.

  Origon Cyrysi pushed open the door to the Council’s chambers, ignoring the bleats of the Methiemum guards. Weren’t they supposed to prevent anyone unauthorized getting in? But then, that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? The Council of the Maji wasn’t helping the Assembly of Species like it used to. They told new maji like him to mind their business and stay in the Nether rather than seeing the profundity of the homeworlds.

  He shook off the guard’s hand catching at the sleeve of his robe, though the hand fell away as the guards hastily returned to their posts. They saw what he did.

  Origon’s steps slowed as the six councilors of the maji—one for each house—stared up at him. They had been in the middle of arguing about something, gathered around the table from which they presided over the rest of the maji. Trills and glissandos in the House of Power reflected the vestiges of the argument before the Symphony escaped his perception. He grasped after the fading notes, but if he was truthful—and he always was—those gazes unnerved him. His fingers crumpled the newsprint he held in his left hand. It was the latest example of the Council refusing to send maji where they were needed. There had been three natural disasters in the last two cycles where the Council did nothing to help. They cited the force of maji was spread too thin already.

  “Majus Cyrysi, why are you to be breaking into our meeting, unannounced, in a dirty robe? Again.” Mareveluchi Karendi looked down her hooked nose at him, her crest spreading in an intimidating display. The leader of the Council, and the head of his primary house—the House of Communication—was a Kirian like him, and seemed always to think he was lacking. He still hadn’t figured out why. He only wanted the Council to afford him a little recognition.

  “Speaker Karendi, I was reading the latest report from one of the local newspapers of the continuing conflict on the Pixie homeworld.” He brandished the print, sparing a glance for the sleeve of his robe as he did. A stain from his breakfast of meal grubs in broth ran between lines of crimson and purple. The stain was nearly hidden against the background. Speaker Karendi must have the eyes of an eagle. Or, she was looking for some deficiency, more likely. Origon’s own crest drooped under her stare.

  “And what of this story, pup?” asked the head of the House of Strength. Jasrimopobt Huar, Grower was a large Festuour woman, her fur decked with silver rings worked into braids, and an enormous pink hat perched on her head. Her bright blue eyes glared at him from underneath. She was usually even tempered. He must have caught them at something important then. The only way through was forward. Origon pushed his crest back up, propping up his confidence. If the Council accepted his case, it would be something to share with the other maji.

  “Well, why is the Council not sending a representative to end the fight?” He waved the newsprint for emphasis, and several sets of eyes followed the movement. “Another hive outpost was burned yesterday, and two hundred Pixies killed. The Pixie speakers are livid. They—”

  “The Council, we do attend the Assembly meetings,” Councilor Zsaana, head of the House of Healing, said. He was bolt upright in his chair as if to show off every spec of his diminutive height. The cowl that hid his face shifted as he spoke. “Yes, certain Pixie representatives, they have asked for aid. But the Council has determined this, it is a local matter for the Pixies—not big enough for the maji to step in.”

  “What could the maji be doing that an army could not, hmm?” Speaker Karendi added. “Maji are not trained for war. Maji are trained to spread knowledge, to teach, and to be providing relief from natural disasters.”

  “But this—” he started.

  “Is not a natural disaster, Majus Cyrysi,” Councilor Huar said, sitting back with one hand on her hat to keep it from flapping off her head like a deranged bird. “This is pure social conflict between two different philosophical factions. The maji cannot get involved. It would show favor to one species over another. Everyone would want us to win their wars for them.”

  Origon’s hands flexed, crumping the newsprint further. When the Luthenia Dam on Etan burst not six months ago, which had been a natural disaster, the Council sent no maji. Twenty-eight Etanela perished. If he had been there…well, he wasn’t certain what he would have done, but he would have at least tried.

  He stared down at the carving on the front of the huge table—a relief of all the species of the Great Assembly, working in harmony to raise a tower. The species who joined later surrounded the six original species who formed the Assembly. Kirians were one of the first, along with Methiemum and Festuour. The Pixies, however, were on the outskirts of the carving. The only species farther away from the central work was a figure of a Lobhl. That strange species only joined the Assembly twelve cycles past.

  “It is not escaping my attention that there has never been a Pixie on the Council of the Maji,” Origon said. “Would such a councilor be having a differing opinion?” It was a common stereotype to
think Pixies were little smarter than animals. Their buzzing wings and high energy did not help that perception. But it was the warrior caste of the Pixies—the ones who were now killing their kind on Mother Hive—who were the most vicious of their species. Many Pixies were hardworking, quick-thinking, sparks of energy. He had spoken to dozens, some of whom rightly belonged in the research labs connected to the House of Power. But he found them when he walked at the docks of the Imperium. It was the only place many Pixies could get work.

  “We ain’t sending anyone, so stop asking,” Councilor Huar grumped.

  “The people in the Nether are to be prejudiced against Pixies,” Origon pleaded. He really had to control his crest. “They are not all like the ruffians who have been vandalizing the shops in Mid Imperium. Those are the warrior-minded variety. There are at least—” He stopped and checked the news article again. “Fifteen known aspirations of Pixie. It is how they are to be organizing their society. But the warriors have been culling the other classes somehow on the Five Hive Plateau. That is why the Council should be sending—”

  “Enough, Majus Cyrysi,” Councilor Zsaana said, his voice rising. The councilors for the Houses of Grace and Potential on his right and left—both Methiemum—rolled their eyes in unison. Origon felt his crest bristle. This was not some joke.

  “Even two or three maji would be making a diff—”

  “You are excused, Majus Cyrysi,” Speaker Karendi broke in. Her crest was dangerously low, her eyes narrowed. The other five councilors stared him down, flanking her. Their abandoned papers nearly covered the top of the table.

  “Well. I would not be wishing to take any more of your precious time,” he shot back. “Speaker, Councilors.” Origon gave a mocking bow, twirled, and stomped out of the chamber.

  * * *

  Origon stumped down the steps of the Spire of the Maji, where the Council chambers were. It was a colossal building, even taller than the House of Communication, built around one of sparkling, semi-transparent columns that held up the crystal expanse of the Nether.

  Once outside, Origon took in a deep breath of the clear air of the Nether. He opened himself up to the music underlying the universe as he crossed the grounds from the Spire of the Maji to the House of Communication. It was almost midday, and the titanic walls encasing two sides of the Nether’s capital city of the Imperium were at their maximum brightness. They reflected off the other houses of the maji—six in total—that circled the Spire. Strength, Communication, Power, Grace, Healing, and Potential. The maji lived like royalty because they protected and helped the ten species of the Assembly. They were supposed to, anyway. Yet pleas from the maji to their councilors as often as not went unheard. Origon spared a glance down at the arm of his robe. So what if it was dirty? It was typical for the councilors to focus on the wrong problem when the more urgent one was staring them in the face. They wouldn’t be able to solve the Assembly’s problem if their ancestors led them by the nose.

  Origon stopped in the middle of the sculpted grounds between the Spire and the House of Communication. He’d recently found an apartment on the second floor, after moving out of his old mentor’s rooms, but now he looked upward, along the many floors of the tower. It was the tallest of the houses, reflecting the Symphony of Communication’s connection to matters of the air. Someday, when he had a little more authority, he’d get a more auspicious room. He belonged to two Houses, not just one like most maji. He could have lived in the House of Power if he really wanted to, but it was his second house, after all. He spared a glance for the low, sturdy structure of the House of Power. It was next door to the House of Communication.

  His choice was not just because the new maji in the House of Power thought his grasp of the connections of power were “basic” and “worse than an apprentice’s.” He’d like to see those maji try to separate two of the fractal Symphonies that made up the universe. They only had to deal with one. He should start a club or something to help support the few other maji who could hear two aspects of the Grand Symphony. There weren’t many, but he felt there should be more attention paid to them. There were so many possibilities, when hearing more of the Grand Symphony.

  Origon’s crest flexed in remembered embarrassment, and he tried unsuccessfully to rein it in. The other species did not have such an expressive means of communication as the crests which graced Kirian heads. However, that also meant it was easier for them to hide their feelings. Origon pushed back several out-of-place feathers.

  Now his eyes swept across the carefully-tended grounds around the Spire, with peaceful streams, thought-provoking sculptures, and surprise turns in the rolling walkways leading to scenic views. How unlike the war-torn homeworld of the Pixies.

  Well, was he a majus, or wasn’t he? Origon turned away from the House of Communication.

  * * *

  He stalked up to the majus attendant at the portal ground. The Spire had its own portal ground, another privilege given to the maji. The attendant was a wari Lobath, the third gender of that species, though he wasn’t familiar with hir personally. Zie was an older majus.

  “I want to go here.” He pointed at the drawing in the newsprint, of a high plateau between giant mounds of dirt, reaching as high as the Spire of the Maji, from what he could tell.

  The majus on duty peered at the picture, though hir eyes did not narrow. Lobath’s silvery eyes always looked surprised to him.

  To be a portal ground attendant required an extensive knowledge of locations on the ten homeworlds—to provide travel to wherever the customer required. Someday, Origon hoped to amass that sort of knowledge. Of course, as a majus, he could travel for free by portal to wherever he wished. Non-maji had to pay a fee, to cover the majus’ time in operating the ground. Maji were expected to fill in that role, once they had enough knowledge of places to go. One could only make a portal to a place one previously visited, or a place to which another majus communicated the coordinates.

  “That’s the Five Hive Plateau,” the majus said. Hir head-tentacles were wound tight around the top of hir head. “There’s a war going on amongst the Pixies. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle.”

  “That is why you are not to be going,” Origon told hir. “None of the other maji seem to care either, so I am going to help.”

  The Lobath shrugged. “It’s your head. If the Council gave you permission to go there, who am I to argue?”

  Origon desperately forced his crest down so he wouldn’t look like a juvenile, caught outside the hatchery after curfew. “I was just to be coming from the Council chamber,” he said evasively.

  The Lobath shrugged again—impressive for one with practically no neck—and turned around, an oblong of black forming behind hir, ringed in blue and amber. Origon could just hear notes at the edge of his perception. The majus was of the House of Grace, an aspect of the Grand Symphony he couldn’t hear, but portals were common to all maji—somehow—and there was a little overlap when a majus of another house opened one.

  Origon stepped through the oval of blackness and immediately felt the feathers on his head separate in the dryness and heat. It was a good thing he had decided not to grow a moustache. It would have been severely itchy in this weather. The portal closed behind him with a little pop and he looked around the desolate, reddish plane of Mother Hive. There was no majus attendant on this side.

  He could see the hives in the distance—towering things, unlike the picture in the newsprint. That had shown mounds of dirt, like an animal could have piled up. The reality was much different. Even from this distance, he could see exquisite carvings on the outside of the hives. They were a history, he thought, a progression of figures and places parading around the circumference, with some aspects coated in paint or precious metals. The carvings made way for the multitude of entrances around the hive and as Origon took a few steps closer, peering, he could make out dozens, no, hundreds of figures swarming around the outside of the hive. A growing roar made him pause
.

  He turned to find another hive to his left, and behind him…

  Was an army of Pixies, coming his way.

  There was no time to react. Origon yelped and crouched down as a swarm of buzzing wings and shoving arms engulfed him. He dodged to one side as a sword as big as the Pixie wielding it sliced through the space where his crest had been a moment before.

  Fortunately, the combatants were too focused on battling each other to pay him much attention. He was treated mostly as an obstacle, though he had to shake off a Pixie who landed on his back and tried to use him as a shield. There were no colors surrounding people or objects that would signal maji were involved. These must all be common soldiers, but their weapons were still sharp. A pair of the bluish, buzzing creatures, half his height, flew over his head. Their shortswords flashed faster than he could follow, pinging off each other like a pair of giant, enraged hornets.

  What could he do? Eventually, he’d get skewered and then how would he help these people in their battle?

  He fell into the Symphony of Communication, which was a riot of sound, with chords playing over each other and cadenzas doing as much battle musically as the bodies around him. Fighting was a means of communication, and so was the air around them. Origon frantically took notes from the core of his being—generated by everything he experienced—and stuffed them between separations in the measures. A shield of air puffed into existence around him, and the sounds of the battle died away to a muted rumble. The yellow of the House of Communication, visible only to maji, swirled along the outside of the shield.