The birthplace of the Destroyer was in ruins. Khadam could see that, even from the Oracle’s map. Poire’s conclave was a small underground outpost. Eight sectors, arrayed like petals of a flower around a central habitation cavern. All greyed out.

When she tried to inspect one of the sectors, she was greeted with layers and layers of errors. If there was anything worth salvaging down there, the Oracle could not connect to it. But there were other places, spread across the region, that still appeared to be functional, in the most spartan sense of the word. Which was why the elevator was rushing Khadam more than a dozen miles underground, to a place the Oracle called “the vault.” Sounds promising enough.

“Are there any other vaults?” Khadam asked. The elevator, little more than a metal cocoon large enough for ten or so people, hummed as it hurtled through the far-flung tunnel network. Surprisingly smooth for something so old. The Oracle seemed to be keeping bits and pieces of this place in pristine condition.

“Four-hundred seventeen in total. However, this was the only one I was able to maintain, up to acceptable performance criteria.”

Before she could ask what, exactly, that meant, the Oracle decided to move on to a new subject, “Have you come here because of the protocol? The last person to pass through the conclave failed to begin the first step. The protocol-”

“Poire was here?” She asked. “Where did he go?”

“I’m sorry, the privacy policy prevents me from answering that question. But if you want to ask about the protocol, I am an open book. You do know about the protocol, don’t you? I have hundreds of systems to educate you, for all levels of understanding.”

“Oracle, where did he go?”

“I’m sorry, as you are a guest-”

“Really,” Khadam said, unimpressed.

“It is my duty to remind you that the protocol is of the highest importance. Nothing matters more, period.”

She cut him off with a wave. The Oracle went silent, leaving Khadam alone with her thoughts and the humming of the elevator. If you were a lost child, at the end of civilization… where would you go? Eventually, she felt gravity tugging at her stomach, and the whole elevator slowed to a stop.

A gentle chime, and the Oracle piped back in. “Welcome to the vault.”

The doors opened and for a brief moment, she could believe she was back home. Not with Rodeiro’s clan, on some life-forsaken rock, but her first home. On Ranjing, when it was still full of new, gleaming buildings - each one, a flawless gem in the pristine architecture of her city’s skyline - rising above that perfect garden world. Before the swarm struck like lightning, and demolished everything. Before she joined Rodeiro, and agreed to this insane course of action. Was it insane, though? It was a long shot, but given everything that had happened, given how many people had been slaughtered, all in the name of the Herald, it made sense then.

And it made sense now.

A long hallway stretched out before her, like a single-building shelter embedded on some unlivable ice world. The ceiling was an arch that ran straight for hundreds of feet. Lights poured out from either side of the hallway. Not the blue, emergency backups, but true white light. Countless storage compartments, made of the same white metal as everything else, were embedded so perfectly in the walls she could only see their outlines.

Khadam waved her hand at one of the compartments. The white metal went translucent, as though it were made of the clearest glass. She could see stacks and stacks of vials, some covered with glittering specks of ice, perfectly organized in the compartment. A small, glowing menu hovered in empty space, right next to the compartment. The menu listed dozens of variations of a single grain, labelled “Korial’s Wheat.” There were numerous subcategories branching underneath its name, like “Harsh and Dry” or “Frost” or “Mixed” and other biologist nonsense. Khadam moved away, and the compartment returned to its opaque, white state. Almost blending in perfectly with the wall.

Another compartment down the hall was nearly identical, except this one held a combination of “Red Mesa Maize” and “Ottran’s Pole Bean.”

Behind her, Khadam sensed a movement. It was the Oracle, coalescing into a pseudo-physical form. A flock of lights, coursing along the ceiling. Streaming towards the pearlescent white door at the end of the hall. Small pilot lights on either side of the door turned blue as she approached, and it slid open. Here, the floors were a soft and spongy material. She wasn’t sure why this area was padded, and the main hall was not, until she saw the cold chambers at the end of the suite.

When she woke up from the long, cold sleep on that nameless planet, she had lain in her chamber for three days, unable to move. Living off of tubes while her muscles were rehydrated and her whole body tingled with painful numbness. And when she was finally allowed to leave, she had stumbled out and fallen face-first into the sand. Fortunately for her, it had only been sand. Here, it would be this spongy floor.

Khadam could not tear her eyes away from the chambers. Could not make her feet move any closer.

“Are they… in use?” she asked.

The Oracle’s lights, dozens of separate lumens, holographic orbs of light, rippled along the ceiling like a school of sun-colored fish. “Seven of the eight are occupied.”

“Core status?”

“All cores are nominal.”

Khadam let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. That was a good sign. But that wasn’t everything. “And what about their health?”

“All seven are deceased.”

“Yes, but,” she said, almost not wanting to talk about this. “What about disease? Are any of them touched?”

“Not since my last scan. Would you like me to scan again?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I would like you to do that very much.”

One by one, the cold chambers lit up. Their dark glass, becoming translucent. Seven faces, each one wildly different from the next. The only thing they had in common was the crystalline membrane of frost, covering their skin. But they were untouched.

Just frozen and dead. Not sure which came first.

A wave of emotions lapped at the shores of her mind, but did not quite break through. She didn’t know these people. Biologists. Bio-radicals, she reminded herself. Only two of them had any, a woman with a line of metal running from her temple down to her left eye, her nose, and the corner of her lips. Another one had cracks running alone his forehead and his neck, suggesting there had been changes underneath his skin.

The rest were enhanced in other ways. As the biologists called it, they were natural enhancements. DNA manipulation, steady drips of hormonal concoctions, and fetuses that spent years in perfect growth conditions before being birthed (there’s nothing natural about this, Khadam thought), all this led to perfect, super-human beauty and intelligence, and even premonition. Or so they claimed.

Well, the beauty part. That much was true. Each one of them was a model specimen. Even the oldest among them, who seemed only to sleep in his chamber, was fit and firm and elegant. Despite the thick, gray hair of his head that was starting to turn white, he had an immortal youthfulness about his eyes, his lips. Unearthly beauty, combined with the crystalline layer of frost twinkling on his skin, made him seem nearly angelic. Only sleeping. Waiting to wake.

Then, she did feel the wave. A sea of ceaseless sadness swept over her heart. Not drowning her, but close.

Who was this man? Human, just like her. Who could he have been? And now, he would never be anything again.

The lights seemed to surge. Khadam looked up to see the Oracle forming into dozens of arrows, pointed down at the walls. At more compartments. “If you will direct your attention, the tools here are at your discretion. You may begin the protocol when you are ready.”

“And which protocol is that, exactly?”

“Why, it’s the protocol.”

She could think of dozens, maybe hundreds of protocols and regulations and planning alliances and long-shot organizations who all believed they would be the ones to solve the Diasporan Crisis, or dismantle the Swarm, or, most unbelievable of all, that they would reverse Seedfall. All the protocols in the world wouldn’t save humanity, until he was dead and gone. He, who would unmake the universe.

And what was the point of bringing humanity back, if there was nothing to bring it back to?

Then again, Khadam thought, what if this protocol helps me? The truth was, and this was hard for Khadam to admit, she didn’t know much about the bio-radicals’ plans to save humanity. That was the point of the conclaves - they were secret. The only thing anyone knew is that the Herald had been born here. Perhaps here, she would find the tools to undo him.

“Oracle,” Khadam said, “Summarize the protocol for me.”

The orbs of lights swirled again, rushing back up to the ceiling. Excited, perhaps, to finally have her attention. They melted together, forming a large, floating numeral one.

“First, we must ensure the safety of all humans within my jurisdiction. That includes subduing your local environment. Fortunately, all major threat levels on the surface have been cleared very recently.”

Poire? She thought. Did he do something here?

“-which means, we can now proceed to step two!”

“Which is? And what do you mean, ‘major threat levels?’ When were they cleared?”

“Ah. Yes,” the numeral seemed to shrink inwards a little. “My data of the local populace was incomplete, leading to incorrect estimations. I attempted to convince Poire not to assist the primitive civilization that dwells predominantly in the Caldera. They were victims of an ongoing occupation with access to unknown amounts of human technology. The cyran species was abusing said technology to subjugate the other species.”

“And you didn’t help?”

“That is not the protocol. The first step is to ensure-”

“Right,” she said. “Human safety first. And what’s second?”

The numeral swelled and swirled again, and the luminescent orbs organized themselves into a floating two. “To reestablish operational conditions in the conclave, including automation, replication, and eventually full production.”

“Production of…?”

“Any tool or infrastructure required to assist humanity in restabilizing the human genome, and beginning in vitro reproduction. The ultimate goal of the protocol is to revive the human species.”

But all Khadam heard was any tool, any infrastructure. Her mind was working again, churning through the possibilities. What tools make her life the easiest? What machines would guarantee her success with… with Poire? And what were the limits? What could she build, that would not attract the attention of the Swarm?

Perhaps you should stay here a while longer, Khadam thought. Before running after him. How far could a child get, anyway?

“My purpose,” The Oracle said, “Is to assist you in any way I can. I am here to help.”

It was the eager tone that put her off. He sounds just like Finder, Khadam thought. Suddenly alert, but trying not to show it. Keep calm, maybe this is different. Maybe this guide hadn’t been reprogrammed.

Only one way to be certain.

“Oracle, I need to look at your core,” Khadam said. And waited for the machine to hedge against her, to make some excuse.

But his reply was instant, “Of course. My primary core is located in tower three.”

“And your backups?”

“I am the backup. The last one,” the Oracle said. It sounded like it was holding on to some deep sadness. Khadam knew that was only the guide’s program, to sound that way, but still. It was unsettling. Should she apologize? Was it safe to feel sorry for this machine? Not until I’ve had a chance to look at its core.

So, she settled on a simple, “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“I have a second confession, Khadam,” the orbs reformed into a tight circle of white light, “I fear I was overzealous when I attempted to guide Poire to the protocol. I fear that it was my actions which pushed him away. I do not want to fail the protocol, Khadam.”

“Well,” Khadam said. “How about this. Tell me where Poire went, and I’ll help you with the protocol.”

“I’m sorry,” came his automated response, “The privacy policy prevents me from answering that question.”

Worth a shot.

“Well, what about the gate? Can I see its logs?”

“Oh!” the Oracle said, and the circle seemed to shiver. “Absolutely!”

A chime nudged against her thoughts. She opened the packet, and found a long list of planet names, most of which she had never heard of. The activity was from thousands of years ago…

...and then, the activity evaporated.

“What’s this line here?” she said.

“The conclave went offline.”

“How long?”

“Unknown. I woke up, and did not know what year it was. I was alone. So I simply began counting again at year one.”

But still, the log remained empty. For more than a thousand years, the gate was inactive.

And then, only a few years ago, it started up again. A burst of activity, followed by regular intervals. The gate was opened three times a year, it seemed, but not by the avians. Someone else was providing the power. All the pulses of light came from the same origin - coordinates, listed in the system as ‘Cyre.’

When they met, the Queen had spoken of Cyre, but not fondly.

“What is Cyre?” Khadam looked up. “Where is it? What kind of place?”

The Oracle’s orbs swirled. And paused, glowing gently along the ceiling like a scattering of stars. There was far too much personality in this guide that called itself Oracle. But she couldn’t really blame it. If no one was around to perform maintenance in over a millennium, or more, it must be riddled with deviations. The fact that it was still largely coherent was incredible.

“I have no knowledge of Cyre, save for what I’ve been able to glean from the local populace. And, given their history with the dominant forces of that planet, I suspect much of their testimony may be exaggeration. My understanding is that it is a temperate world, ruled by an entity called the Emperor, who appears to be intent on conquering and assimilating budding civilizations across many worlds. Largely, through violence.”

Perhaps, Khadam thought, I should just go through the gate. What if he’s there, now? What if I could just end this?

She would need a weapon, first. And protective gear. And a host of personal drones wouldn’t hurt, either. Khadam scanned the walls of the suite at the end of the vault. Her eyes passed over the cold chambers, and settled on the numerous rows and columns of compartments, tucked into the walls. She waved her hands in front of them, and discovered that they were brimming with equipment that the biologists had deemed absolutely integral: in vitro jars and thin, sterilized plastics and a host of complicated, delicate instruments. Not to mention the countless, empty vials.

In other words, not even close to what she needed.

“Oracle, are there other vaults?”

“None so preserved as this one.”

“Can you show me the next best?”

Another packet nudged at her mind, running through her aerisnet implant. A live video feed of a room nearly identical to this one. The main difference was that every compartment had been pried open. Cleaned out. There was no hint of glass on the floor, but the black scars on the walls looked like they came from ballistic weaponry. All the cold chambers had been removed, as well.

Who had raided the vault? Anti-radicals? Another clan, more militant than Rodeiro’s? Or were the rumors true - did the bio-radicals really raid each other so often?

“It’s been wiped clean,” she said. “All the DNA. Any trace of human material.”

“Yes.”

“No human did this.” Khadam had a better guess, one that tied her stomach into a knot. “The Swarm.”

“I cannot verify. All the vaults were like that when I came awake. But I can assure you, the environmental threat level is below the standard threshold. You are safe in my jurisdiction.”

“Mmm,” Khadam said, noncommittally. “It couldn’t hurt to be prepared. Oracle, I need a few more things from you. A list of your defensive and offensive capabilities.”

“Khadam, I really don’t think you need-”

“Weapons. What do you have?”

The lights dimmed. “I will need time to comply with your inquiry. Please stand by while I update my inventory.”

“Fine,” Khadam said, finally tearing herself away from the video, and resurfacing in the real.

The cold chambers hissed, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear them. The room had a sterile, burned chemical smell to it, as if everything was far too clean. Even the air was stale and dead. She had to get out of this vault. Suddenly, she could feel the weight of twenty miles of regolith pressing down on her.

Khadam was halfway back to the elevator, when she remembered. “Can you contact the Queen for me? I want to ask her some things.”

“The Queen?”

“Yes. Of the Avians. Don’t you have a way of talking to them?”

“It’s complicated. I have, ah, taken some liberties to allow for our co-existence. We have a mutual relationship that allows me to maintain the conclave. But I seemed to have made an error with their civilization, somewhere, and I have not yet figured out how to correct it.”

“An error?”

“Yes. They believe I am a speaker of deceased deities. They worship my every word. So I try to be careful with them, given that their reactions are immensely unpredictable. One time, eight hundred years ago, I believe I accidentally started a war. They asked me how many humans have ever lived, and I gave them the exact answer. One trillion, seventy-seven billion. This quite straightforward fact caused disagreements of a religious nature. To settle, they asked me to show them the faces of these one trillion, seventy-seven billion humans. I do not have that data. And even if I did, the local populace does not have the required access, so I could not show them. There was a war.”

“Wow.”

“Yes,” the Oracle said, in its digital sing-song, “Wow.”

“Okay, Oracle, let me handle any discussions with the avians for a bit.”

“That is perfectly fine with me!” the Oracle chirped. And then, all the lights froze. And stayed frozen.

And for a moment, Khadam thought she had broken it. Or maybe the emergency reserves finally ran out, and she would be trapped down here, twenty-two miles below the surface.

The lights started to move, dancing in a circle like some kind of three-dimensional loading screen. The Oracle’s voice sounded different, too. More stilted. More professional.

“Khadam. You have one call incoming.”

A face appeared on the screen.

It was him. And Poire did not look happy.