The Darksteel Eye (5 page)

Malil sat atop his leveler, stunned. How had the elf done that?

Memnarch would not be happy.

“Form up,” he shouted.

The broken line of levelers obeyed his command. Despite the spell the elf had cast, most of Malil’s army was still intact, if scattered. In a few moments, the killing devices were in formation and ready to roll.

Someone else emerged from the blue lacuna.

“Pontifex,” said Malil. Spinning his leveler, he once again ordered the pursuit. “After them.”

The mob of metallic creatures rolled on. Malil, atop his killing device, stayed put. Instead of the sound of wheels tearing at the metal soil he heard the voice of Memnarch inside his head.

“Bring the vedalken to us. We want an audience with Pontifex.”

Here, inside the interior of Mirrodin, the Guardian could speak to Malil, no matter where he was. From what the metal man could tell, Memnarch could see through his eyes as well. No doubt the Guardian had been watching the whole encounter with the elf. There was no way for Malil to be sure of this, no indication inside that told him when this was happening. For all
he knew, Memnarch could be watching constantly. Malil behaved at all times as if this were the case, just to be safe.

Malil urged his leveler forward—toward the opening of the blue lacuna.

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex stepped from the tunnel. With the head of a broad-tipped spear, the tall, slender vedalken shielded his eyes from the mana core’s glow. Bright purple spots clouded his vision.

A team of warriors filed out behind him.

“Marek, where is that elf?” he shouted.

The four-armed bodyguard shrugged. “I don’t know, my lord.”

Pontifex had to catch that elf. He
needed
that elf.

The spots began to fade, and for the first time he saw the leveler horde. The killing devices rolled up and over a curved pile of wreckage, speeding off into the distance.

“Follow them,” he ordered.

The army of skinny, blue-skinned, four-armed beings behind him took off double time without a word, the heads of their spears gleaming in the preternatural light.

To Pontifex, the interior of Mirrodin was a wondrous place. He had been here many times before on official visits to Memnarch, but this time was different. This time he came as the newest leader of the Synod. This time, he hadn’t been invited.

The thought of being chided by Memnarch tugged at the back of his thoughts. The freedom he took in coming here with his warriors was exhilarating.

As if his thoughts had been broadcast across the interior of the plane, Malil, Memnarch’s personal servant, appeared, riding his leveler toward the vedalken.

Malil was new. Memnarch had created him some time between the last two blue moon cycles and the current convergence, and Pontifex had only encountered him once before. Still, there was no mistaking whom he served. Atop his lithe metal body, Malil had the face of his creator. From the shoulders up, every curve, nuance, and gesture was replicated exactly.

Talking to Malil produced mixed emotions for Pontifex. Malil was a servant, but he looked so much like Memnarch that it was hard to look him right in the eye. Though he was unsure if it were true, Pontifex assumed Memnarch could hear everything Malil could. Certainly, the guardian of Mirrodin could see everything on the plane from inside Panopticon. Why wouldn’t he be able to hear what his servant heard?

This annoyed Pontifex. He was the most respected researcher on Mirrodin, and now he was the leader of the vedalken Synod. Why should he have to speak to an intermediary? He hadn’t before. Now, instead of talking directly to his lord, he had to get past a mere servant. The whole process was humiliating.

Malil pulled up and stopped his leveler. “Greetings, Lord Pontifex.”

“I have no time for pleasantries, Malil,” replied the vedalken lord. “Where is the elf?”

“She is headed for the second entrance to the blue lacuna.” The metal man who looked so much like the Guardian of Mirrodin pointed toward the receding column of levelers.

Pontifex spun toward his army. “Halt,” he shouted.

The order worked its way up the line of marching warriors, the words echoing in different voices all the way to the front. The line stretched out and finally stopped. Marek returned to Pontifex’s side at a sprint.

“Your orders, my lord?”

“They’re headed back up the lacuna, through the other
entrance,” Pontifex snarled. “Go back up this way and cut them off at the break.”

“Yes, my lord.” Marek spun and ran back to the other soldiers, shouting orders as he did.

Pontifex turned to the metal man. “Thank you, Malil, you’ve been very helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me I—”

“The Guardian has requested your presence,” interjected the metal servant.

“The Guardian has frequently requested my presence.”

“The Guardian has requested your presence
now
.”

Pontifex narrowed his eyes at Malil. “Surely my lord has seen that I am in pursuit of the elf.”

“Yes,” replied Malil, “but now he requires to speak to you. He has sent me and the levelers to capture the elf. Your help is no longer needed.”

“My help is—” Pontifex cut himself off. Gripping his four hands into fists, he took a deep breath then continued. “Of course, I’ll report to his lordship at once.”

“I shall escort you to Panopticon.”

Through gritted teeth, Pontifex said, “As you wish.”

*  *  *  *  *

Malil led Pontifex up the lift. The two rode in silence. When they reached the observatory, Malil spared a glance out the window. In the distance, he could see his levelers, a column of rust rising into the air marking their progress.

The metal man and the blue-skinned vedalken climbed the curved entranceway to Memnarch’s laboratory at the top of Panopticon. Beside the door stood a rectangular pedestal, which rose from the floor to the height of Malil’s waist. Embedded in the top, a triangular red stone pulsed with a soft internal light.
This was the portal to the laboratory, and only Memnarch and Malil could open it.

Malil placed his hand on the stone, and the door to the chamber slid open.

Turning to the vedalken, he indicated the door with a wave of his hand. “You are free to enter.”

Pontifex glared at him as he brushed past into the laboratory.

Inside, Memnarch gazed out over the interior of the plane. From behind, the Guardian of Mirrodin looked like a four-legged metal crab. His rounded abdomen rested on the floor. His long, pointy legs were bent, the joints poised above him ready to lift his bulk with a thought.

“Pontifex,” said the Guardian without turning around. “So good of you to come to see us.”

The vedalken researcher fell to his knees, lowering his face to the ground and spreading his arms in an elaborate bow.

“Of course, my lord.” He lifted himself then bowed again. “Forgive me for the intrusion. I know I was not invit—”

“Enough babbling, Pontifex,” interrupted the Guardian. “Memnarch will forgive your incompetence.” The crablike creature turned away from the window, scuttling around without lifting his midriff from the floor. “We forgive your intrusion.”

“Thank you, great lord.” Pontifex stayed prostrate on the ground, though he raised his head enough to glare at Malil again.

The swollen joints in Memnarch’s legs whirred into action, and the Guardian lifted his girth from the floor. Once his weight was up and balanced on his legs, he moved with a smooth grace that belied his size. He headed across the laboratory to his scrying pool. Pontifex shifted himself on the floor as Memnarch moved so that his head pointed toward the Guardian.

“We see that you brought your warriors,” said Memnarch.

“Yes, my lord. We were chasing the elf.”

“Yes,” replied the Guardian. “She is a hard one to catch. We have yearned for her, yet both you and Malil have failed to bring her to us.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” replied Pontifex.

Malil stood stock still beside the open laboratory door but did not say a word. He wished it was him lying prone on the floor, being berated. It was worse to be chastised for his failure indirectly.

“Once again, Memnarch will forgive your incompetence,” said Memnarch, “but that is only because the Creator wishes it so.” He waved his hand over his scrying pool and looked into its depths. “We have more time.”

From where he stood, Malil couldn’t see what Memnarch saw, but it apparently did not please the guardian.

“The next great convergence is coming,” the Guardian said. “The mana core is overripe. It will erupt soon. When that happens, we must be ready. We must. We must.” Memnarch ran his finger through the pool. “Memnarch is almost ready. Is not that right? Only a few more preparations to take care of, and all will be as we have planned.…” Memnarch went silent, his voice trailing off, staring intently into the pedestal.

Malil stood quietly for several minutes. Pontifex did not move from the floor, his face pressed hard against the tile.

After a long while, Memnarch spoke. “We must have her by then. Do you understand us?” He waved his hand over the pool once again.

“Yes, my lord,” replied both men in unison.

Memnarch raised his fist into the air and brought it down inside the pool. Blinkmoth serum slopped from the pedestal in a huge splash.

“Damn, damn,
damn!
” he shouted. Spinning away from the scrying pool, he turned to Malil. The guardian pointed at Pontifex,
still prostrate on the floor. “See him out,” he said. “Memnarch must speak with the Creator again.” The Guardian raised himself to his full height. “In private.”

Malil nodded and crossed the floor to the worshipping Pontifex. “Time to go.”

Pontifex looked up at Malil, hatred in his eyes, but he got up off his knees and followed Malil from the laboratory. “I will bring you the elf, my lord,” he said over his shoulder on the way out. “This you can count on.”

The metal man led the vedalken lord down the curved corridor and waited until he was aboard the lift.

“You know the way out,” he said.

The lift descended.

Pontifex slipped silently through the floor, disappearing from sight.

*  *  *  *  *

Memnarch paced in circles around his laboratory. The clicking of his sharpened limbs mingled with his words as he spoke.

“Things were easier when Memnarch and the creator were the only creatures on the plane.” Memnarch laughed. “Yes. Yes, they were. There were occasional visitors, and sometimes the Creator left for long stretches at a time.” Memnarch pointed his finger in the air. “Still, he always returned.

“Now things are different. Memnarch has explored the entire plane. There is no more sense of wonder.” He shrugged. “There was not much to it really, at least, not before Memnarch brought in the test subjects. Back then, the only unique things on the plane were the blinkmoths.”

He listened.

“Sure the towers and chambers you created for us were
interesting, but how much can an observer really learn from a tower? The blinkmoths, though, they could be studied, dissected, and experimented upon. Memnarch found the most amazing things. Yes he did.” He giggled, rubbing his hands together. “Memnarch discovered their separation anxiety. Yes. And found their threshold for distance.”

He cocked his head, listening again.

“Yes, Memnarch remembers the first experiments. The solitary moth taken more than a few meters from the other moths became frantic, smashing around inside its containment cube.” He laughed again. “As if it could build up enough momentum to break the glass walls.” Memnarch lifted an empty containment cube from the desk. He looked at it with all six of his enhanced eyes, admiring his own handiwork. “It could not, of course, Memnarch had seen to that. Eventually the moth expired. Separated for too long and at such a distance proved to be fatal.

“At first, Memnarch was saddened by the deaths of these delicate creatures. They had died of loneliness.” He shrugged. Putting the cube back on the desk, he headed across the lab. “That is what led us to populate Mirrodin with test subjects. Yes. To eliminate loneliness and to have more creatures to experiment upon.

“But that was a long time ago. A long time ago.”

Memnarch strapped himself into his apparatus once again. Before he had the device, he had created a portable tank that would deliver the serum to him in measured doses throughout the day. It was uncomfortable and limited his movements around his laboratory, so he preferred to simply dose himself while he worked within Panopticon. If he needed to leave his fortress to tend the soul traps or take specimens off the mycosynth growths, he wore the tanks. Today, though, he was working hard and would have no time to leave.

The straps came down around him, and he guided the articulated arms into place.

The door to the laboratory slid open, and Malil entered.

Memnarch looked away from what he was doing, examining his servant as he came into the lab. “Damn him,” said the Guardian. “He’s so perfect, so metal. Oh, to be made only of metal again.” He sighed. “If only to be able to remember what it was like to be blissfully ignorant again.”

Memnarch tilted his head, nodded.

“True, the serum has expanded Memnarch’s intellect, but who would have known that consciousness could be such a burden? You never spoke of such things.”

“Master, is everything all right?” asked Malil as he stepped closer.

Memnarch channeled mana into the device. “Yes. Yes.” He turned away. “Perhaps achieving the state of planeswalker relieves some of the strain. Memnarch hopes so. It is a lot of work to struggle with the responsibilities of running an entire plane.”

He pushed his head back into the soft cradle, and the red lights raced over his skin.

Memnarch looked across the room at Malil.

The metal man stood stock still, watching.

“Do you understand what we are doing?” asked Memnarch.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps soon we will let you taste the serum.”