'What is science? It's our way to fight back, to fight back against uncertainty, against chaos. Against the things we don't understand.'
~Sir Jules Hedgehog
The Mobian Chronicles
Book I
Chapter I ‘Science and Sorcery’
The Universe is forever growing, forever changing. That change, that chaos, is the singular point from which everything flows. Change is variety, it is a constant, a strength that holds up all of creation and prevents it from stagnating and dying. The universe is no exception; it consists of a chaotic, boundless expanse of varied galaxies.
These galaxies are spinning wonderlands of stars that light the infinite, and each star has its own many and varied planets. Every solar system is a library; each planet is a storybook, and the beings that live upon them each write a page of their own. There are more stories in the universe than even its unfathomable librarians could ever hope to read, and no two are ever alike. One such library is a cluster of planets that orbit a bright blue star; The Mobius System.
The largest planet in the system is the one to give it its name. Mobius, a rich and beautiful cosmopolitan world that is home to innumerable species of plants and countless animals, the most prominent of which being the Mobian race. Blessed by a perfect location to keep a life sustaining temperature, immense amounts of natural resources, and a dominant race that strives for balance and preservation of the ecosystem, Mobius is a paradise drifting in the sea of stars; and this is its story.
Although Mobius also stands out in beauty, majesty, and countless dull scientific facts, her face shines quite literally with the light of civilization. The Mobian race is an oddity among intelligent life, in that it is not truly one species, but many. A collective race born from hundreds of separate animal species that evolved into sentience at approximately the same time, the Mobian race attributes their unified sentience to divine intervention in their creation myth. That is another story entirely, and is the beginning point for conventional Mobian history.
Primitive Mobian society was savage, territorial, and ignorant, not far from the wild things it had sprung up from. Over time, Mobiankind developed a sense of group unity; many separate subspecies of once-nomadic races came together to build their first cities. Indeed, the word 'Mobius' comes from two ancient root words, 'Moba' meaning 'many' or 'varied' and 'Usan', whose meaning is unclear, either 'to join together' or possibly 'to tidy or make orderly'. Mobians are quite literally 'the many who are different, coming together to make order'.
'Order' was, at least initially, a very relative term during primitive Mobian life. The unexplainable and chaotic power of magic ruled the day for this prototype Mobian society, and the most powerful of magi became the ruling class. Fearing that Mobians who could not use magic would rise up if they were ever given a chance, these magic-users suppressed education and learning, aside from the ever finer arts of magic they taught one another. Mobian culture stopped in its tracks and the race stagnated completely.
The seeds of change first sprouted when a few non-wizards rose to prominence; great warlords and great peacemakers alike, they established early monarchical dynasties and began to take power into their own hands. However, even in this period in Mobian history, magic was still a way of life for most people. No castle court was complete without a wizard, and most common folk depended upon them for things they themselves simply could not do in those less advanced times.
Magic was an art passed down with great difficulty, as only a very small percentage of the population was able to draw upon the unstable, raw energies that manifested as magic. Those who were born with the ability to control magic were known as ‘wellborn’, those who could not were called mundanes. In the end it came down to simple genetics, no amount of learning could give a mundane the gift of magic, and even if it could, no wellborn would eagerly give up their secrets. Ultimately, this difference in equality and power led to a further split and a growing resentment between the two groups. As more and more of the wellborn began to worry for themselves and fear the increasing political tensions, the number of wellborn that actively pursued a career in magic began to dwindle. Magic as an art and science all but died out, only kept alive by the most powerful wizards, intent on keeping their place in the world in the face of growing technology. In societies controlled by these wellborn, education was still greatly suppressed. Only through keeping the masses ignorant could magic remain the supreme power on Mobius.
When Mobius became enlightened to science and high technology in the golden age known as the Technological Revolution, the mundanes suddenly became empowered. Now that anyone, mundane or wellborn, could use a machine or science to do many of the same things that magic could do, the masses had no reason to tolerate the great wizards that so often ruled over them. Many of the ruling wizards were cast down from their towers and exiled or executed, taking with them the last of the greatest wellborn bloodlines. For many years during and after the revolution new scientific discoveries were made at an astonishing pace, all in the wake of the demise of magic on Mobius; Mobians caught up with over a thousand years of technological stagnation in less than a quarter of that time. For the first time, the common folk were truly empowered and well educated. Very little of the old ways remained untouched; instead of a court of magi and seers the king was advised for the first time by a newly formed Mobian Scientific Council, a group of the best minds in fields such as Chemistry, Physics, and Mathematics, as well as new fields of study such as Genetics, Robotics and Cybernetics. Mobians had once again reclaimed the lead as the most advanced and powerful species on the planet. Great cosmopolitan cities sprang up seemingly overnight, architectural and technological marvels of efficiency and beauty.
Mobians, however, were not the only sentient species on their world. Egotistical and self-righteous, a race of large primates known as Overlanders served as the polar opposites of the passive and practical Mobians. Tall and muscled where Mobians were short and lithe, mostly hairless instead of covered in fur or plumage, the Overlanders had enjoyed technological and cultural superiority in the times before the Technological Revolution. With no wellborn of their own, their society had simply progressed with a slow but steady pace, overtaking the stagnated Mobians. With the sudden advances in Mobian society, the increasingly xenophobic Overlanders became paranoid and fearful of losing control of their world and soon declared war on the entire Mobian race.
The flames of war engulfed the entire planet. Mobians and Overlanders soon became embroiled in an intractable war for sheer survival. Defeat for either side would mean the end of everything. The genocidal campaigns raged on for more than two generations and by the very height of the Great War, as it came to be known, Mobiankind had been pushed back severely. The Overlanders were warriors at heart, and their technological development reflected it. Mobian soldiers still clad in suits of metal plates and armed with swords, masterful as their skill and craftsmanship were, simply proved no match for the strictly organized units of firearm-wielding Overlander troops. Entire corps of Mobian knights fell in every battle taking centuries of history and tradition to their graves with them. Mobian cities and countries around the world were beset with a superior enemy in battle, and the looming face of possible invasion on every horizon became a way of life in every Mobian nation. The largest of Mobian nations, the Acorn Kingdom, safe for the moment in its cosmopolitan capital city of Mobotropolis, was no exception...
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It was morning in Mobotropolis; a dry, sunny one, the kind that evoked thoughts of picnics and long walks in the city gardens, despite the looming fear of the ongoing war. As it had for generations, the Mobian Scientific Council slowly filed into their meeting place, the Forum Gardens. Built in the stately and noble shadow of Castle Acorn, the Forum Gardens served as a meeting place, a park, and public grounds all in one.
There was a great tranquility there, in the mighty shadow of that marble-white fortress, its spiraling tower tops painted in the royal blue of the Acorn dynasty's family crest. It cast a long shadow as the sun rose behind it in the mornings, a comforting symbol of the far reach of mighty Mobotropolis, even in the trying times of war.
A small amphitheater made up the forum itself, recessed into the gold and limestone foundation and ringed with marble columns; each lavishly draped in blue velvet trappings and engraved with historic records. A set of thirteen enclosed podiums, the middle one larger than the others, sat along the edge of the forum in a half-circle, rotated inward in anticipation of their important occupants.
A small band of colleagues, as varied in fields of study as they were in species, took to their podiums with quiet, practiced grace. Dressed in their finest robes, with papers, models, and books by the armload, the Scientific Council began to bring itself to order. Each member, in turn, announced themselves in accordance with tradition.
The first to take their podium was a cardinal, one of the more uncommon subspecies of Mobians. A particularly famous one among her kind, she was notably exotic about style. Although she was already born covered in bright red feathers, she also felt the need to dispense with tradition and wear a colorful costume rather than the ornate robes of political officials. By layering patches of cloth, she had made a dress of bright yellows, blues, greens, and a number of combinations of the two where layers overlapped. Though her appearance was bright and cheerful, the expression on her face was not. Solemnly straightening out her papers, she turned on her microphone and announced herself; looking across the forum with her sad, dull black eyes. “Professor Cassiopeia Notwen, Minister of Physics.” A heavy sigh escaped her beak as her shoulders slumped and she turned to the floor. Despite immense depression, her tone was soft and melodic as all avian voices were; but it was clear her heart was not in it any more. “I’m here…” She was not so, at least in spirit.
Everyone knew well what was eating her inside. Professor Notwen was a dedicated pacifist and respected member of a particularly life-espousing offshoot of traditional Mobian faiths. After the previous king’s decree that the Royal Army was to employ firearms (a weapon long felt cowardly and dishonorable, though it was being used to great effect by their enemy) if the war was to be winnable, the Professor had been tasked exclusively with creating a highly efficient, accurate, and deadly energy weapon. Perpetually torn between delaying the project to save lives, and rushing the project to save other lives, Cassiopeia felt that she was responsible for the deaths on either side no matter what she did. Her delays had earned the sympathy of her colleagues, but the ire of her king, whom rumor held intended to demand her resignation soon.
The next member to take their place was a tall, rough-looking white wolf with a surprisingly kind face. “Dr. Lorne Lockhart, Minister of Biology, present!” His voice boomed out without the need for his podium microphone, smooth and confident. A true doctor of medicine in addition to biology, he wore the trappings of one as well, a white coat with comfortable dark shoes and gloves. Only an exotic pendant; an animal fang tied with leather cord around his neck, gave any reference to his species’ tribal history. Like many younger wolves of that day and age, Dr. Lockhart and his wife had left the simple tribal life on the plains behind and made their way to the city, to learn. Already well versed in herbal remedies and natural treatments, he quickly came to prominence as a holistic doctor and made a seat on the council at age twenty-six, the most recent member, having only served one year. No one had a better understanding of the inner workings of the Mobian body than him.
“Ahem.” A short blue hedgehog with graying mustache and fur cleared his throat with a soft rumble before turning on his microphone. He arched his tufted eyebrows and brushed his robe smooth with both hands, looking over the forum as he had done for longer than any other member present. “Sir Charles Hedgehog, Minister of Cybernetics, present.” The only member of the existing council to be knighted, Sir Charles had earned his title through decades of humanitarian inventions and programs. Though carrying a knightly title meant he was obligated to serve in the army in the event he was needed, the aged hedgehog was now too far along in years to wield anything but his cane against the Overlanders, should the need arise.
Sir Charles' closest friend on the council was, ironically, his sworn enemy by race. With the distinction of being the only Overlander to ever serve on the Scientific Council, Dr. Julian Ovi Kintobor had a history as strange as his recently acquired position. Formerly a brilliant scientist for the Overlanders (and politically powerful enough to eventually become absolute leader, had fate not conspired otherwise) Dr. Kintobor was nearly killed by an assassin’s bomb. Blinded, deafened and horribly maimed both within and without, he stumbled, dying, from the wreck of his isolated lab and was eventually found by a Mobian patrol. Normally, he would have been put out of his misery, or taken for questioning, but his horrific state evoked a sudden, surprising pity by the very people he had helped to eradicate. After several years of rehabilitation, Dr. Kintobor designed and built a new set of eyes, ears and an arm with the help of his new-found friend, Sir Charles. They had since been working on a joint project to develop new robotic replacements for lost limbs and organs.
“Ugh.” Julian Kintobor was a large man, to be certain; Overlanders were twice the height of a Mobian as well as being built far stockier, and Dr. Kintobor was exceptionally tall and obese even by Overlander proportions. “Blasted podium...” As such, it was a long and unpleasant affair for him to cram his girth into a Mobian-sized, enclosed podium. A new, proper-sized one was being installed for him soon, but for the moment, he was forced to fit himself within. After much groaning and contortions, he finally closed the sliding door behind him and turned on his microphone. “Sorry about that…” He rasped, partly from being out of breath, and partly from the scarring in his throat that gave him a permanent, gravelly rasp. There was a faint, digitized tone to his voice, almost imperceptible, but it hinted that the cybernetic parts he depended upon extended well beyond what the eye could see.“Dr. Julian Ovi Kintobor, Minister of Robotics.” He gestured with some difficulty to the next podium, nodding. “Go ahead.”
The occupant of the next podium was perhaps the brightest of the group, but definitely not the best. A tall, slender fox, bright orange in fur color, rolled his eyes at the gesture. “Ja, danke, Herr Doctor.” With a foreign accent so sharp and thick that people accused him of faking it, the fox was famously unpleasant to be around. He was the sort of person to wear polished black jackboots to formal meetings, the sort of person who buttoned his bright crimson suit jacket all the way to the collar; but most of all, the sort of person who not only had lesser royalty but an unheard of I.Q. to lord over everyone around him. He clicked his black boots together at the heels and straightened into meticulous posture. “Baron-Doctor Reinhardt Faustian von Myrkka, representing ze field of Engineering. I am here!”
The next member in the circle was a polar opposite of Faustian in every way. Alicia Metis wasn’t even a doctor or professor; she was simply a big thinker with interesting ideas. Coming from a very long line of Metis family members on the council, the middle-aged gray badger woman had inherited her job from the last Minister of Theoretical Sciences, her mother. Supposedly, there had been a direct female descendant in the position for six generations straight. The most recent one didn’t get along with the council well. Tired of years of her often outrageous, always amazing ideas being shuffled aside for the certainty of more mundane wartime technologies, she had grown bitter and often antagonistic. Time travel, parallel universes, and artificial magic were fascinating concepts with no real substance, and the war did not grant the time needed to turn her theories into reality. “Yeah, I’m here.” She adjusted her blue jacket and nonchalantly popped her shoulders. After a series of incredulous looks from her peers she shrugged her shoulders at them, tilting her head and glaring back. “What? I’m here, you know who I am, let’s go.” She turned and pointed out of her podium to the next one. “Hey! Calus!” She snapped her fingers at the bespectacled member in the adjacent podium. “You’re up!”
Her target of antagonizing was a young brown squirrel, overdressed even by the most clothing-loving Mobian’s standards. While most Mobians wore nothing, many wore at least some clothing for decoration, convenience, or protection. Arthur Calus, however, covered himself out of old-fashioned shyness. Dressed in a white lab coat, blue slacks, a striped shirt, and old sneakers, his most unforgivable fashion breach was his lime green tie, adorned with prime numbers all over it in black. Hearing his associate call for him, he immediately snapped into action, embarrassedly closing the doors to his podium. “Ah, yes, yes of course! Terribly, uh… terribly sorry!” His nasal voice cut off suddenly as he realized his tail was caught in the door. The youngest member of the council, just out of his teens but with all the awkwardness of that age still intact, Professor Arthur Calus was a socially stunted genius in his field. Though Faustian boasted perhaps the highest I.Q., Calus easily had the best mathematical mind of anyone to ever serve on the council. It was enough to make up for his unusual shortcomings in the eyes of his peers. “Come on, now!” The squirrel had twisted around to grab his tail, pulling against the door with all his lack of might. “Give it back!” Suddenly the door sprung open and shut again, freeing him so suddenly that he fell back against the podium console and crashed to the floor, sending his stacks of papers he’d brought along drifting about the inside of his podium as it rotated slowly in place. “Ow…” He slowly pulled himself back up to his feet with the help of the microphone mount and dusted himself off, righting the podium controls and blushing through a buck-toothed smile. “Uhhh, yes. Now then, P-Professor Arthur Calus!” He gestured to the next minister in the circle, before gasping with realization, adding, “Oh! Uhhh, r-representing the science of Mathematics, of course! A-heh.”
Chester Aden’s life was a series of also-rans and near-misses. Having served with no distinction on the council, the tawny-furred young rabbit was constantly overshadowed by some of the legends he sat in the circle with. For the Minister of Chemistry, life had been more difficult that most of his high-born and wealthy peers.. The product of poverty and desperation, the young chemist had previously served a drug cartel that had risen to prominence among disenfranchised citizenry during the war, Professor Aden had, over the last four years, developed a recreational drug more addictive than anything on the market, had a change of heart, helped put the entire cartel in prison, and developed a number of chemical treatments for addicts. It was this that earned him his position, but ever since, the small time hoodlum-turned-philanthropist had seen his projects shuffled out of his control, had his funding pulled in favor of war efforts, and generally been politically mistreated. “Professor Chester A. Aden, Minister of Chemistry. I’m here, not that anyone cares.”
The figure in the next podium was a head taller than any of his countrymen. At four feet and two inches, (staggeringly tall by Mobian standards) the tiger had to have his expensive black suit custom-tailored for him. No one was sure exactly where the mysterious yellow cat came from, but his accent said he wasn’t from around Mobotropolis. Middle-aged, he had been in the city for some time, practically shadowing the king at every public appearance. He idly flicked a speck of dust off of his dark glasses with his meticulously trimmed claws and announced himself as he always did; with a slow, deep, and careful tone. “General Nikolai Katzenov, Minister of Military Science. Present and accounted for.” Katzenov was in charge of applying the discoveries of the rest of the council to military use. Rumor has it he had a number of other responsibilities, ranging from the King’s bodyguard, to heading the Royal Intelligence Agency, but none of the council wanted to press the tiger in black about his business.
“Ahem.” A wizened old voice rose up and cleared itself. It belonged to an extremely elderly gray mouse dressed in the standard robes of the less personality-laden council members. “Minister Taylor Dalmarch, Civic Sciences.” A very traditional character, he had served two generations of Acorns in his lifetime, and personally designed many of the city’s famous landmarks; including the forum he stood in. He tapped his cane on the floor of his podium lightly, and bowed as far as his arthritic body would let him. “A pleasure, as always, gentlemen… and ladies, of course.”
Equally old, but far younger at heart was the council’s unusual Minister of Environmental Science, ‘Dr.’ Ren Maral. No one knew for sure what his credentials really were, but he claimed to be sent on behalf of nature itself. He appeared one day, took the empty podium, and refused to leave until he received his position. Ren was a tall wolf, white with age, but full of smiles and youthful spirit. He perpetually leaned on a faded wooden staff as large as he was, adorned with animal skulls, feathers, and streaks of natural paint. He had, many years ago made possibly one of the most meaningful contributions of all of them; alongside Minister Dalmarch he created The Garden of Life. A ring of nature preserves that encircled the entire perimeter of the city, his project saved countless species from extinction. In his age, he mostly served as the garden’s caretaker, but still attended the regular council meetings. The wizened wolf straightened up and announced himself, his voice as deep and strong as all wolven voices were. “Ren Maral, here on behalf of nature, as always. Your turn, my lady.”
“Oh, merci!” The twelfth and final of the king’s advisers was an exotic woman, in beauty as well as in intelligence. Her fur was a dyed reddish-brown, though it was naturally white; from genes, not age. The arctic vixen René Renard was gifted with a silken voice, a shapely figure, and extensive experience in science and diplomacy. She had come to the city as a diplomat, but displayed incredible natural talent and understanding in the obscure field of Genetics. The young woman found herself split between duties as a scientist and a diplomat, as well as keeping her social life going. Rumor had it she had a third, nighttime profession that was as exotic as the rest of her; but she was mute on the subject, and a few years before, when the last Minister of Chemistry before Professor Aden called her a related derogatory name during a heated argument she broke his nose and knocked out three of his teeth in a most unladylike way. No one had brought it up since. “Dr. René Renard, Minister of Genetics! Ah, but you all know, of course!” She stifled a faint giggle and switched off her microphone in anticipation of the most important member’s arrival.
A blast of fanfare from the castle gates, just a few hundred feet away from the forum, announced the arrival of the most important member of the council. The massive metal doors of the castle opened to a streaming procession of figures; nobles, advisers, armor-clad guards, and one middle-aged brown squirrel in dark blue military dress; with gold trappings and medals everywhere they could fit. On his dark belt was his family’s heirloom, a sheathed long sword adorned with the family seal on the pommel; atop his head was a most impressive crown. This was King Maximilian Acorn, supreme ruler of all Mobian-held lands (and in their opinion, the entire world).
The king gestured to an aide at his side who responded by folding his hands, bowing slightly and stopping. With a slow turn, the procession behind him filed back into the castle, leaving only the king and his two guards. The trio marched to the podium at the head of the circle, much taller and larger than the others, with two places for his private guards to either side of the front. As King Max adjusted his uniform and powered on his microphone and various communication aids in his podium, His guards brandished their spears and stood at attention beside his podium, their clanking plate mail settled on their thin frames, their expressions professionally blank as they lowered the visors of their helms over their eyes, leaving only their mouths showing under their half-helmets.
Dr. Faustian cut his microphone and scowled. Being lesser nobility himself, the king’s showy nature grated on his nerves. “Showoff…” He quietly muttered, somewhere between a whisper and a growl.
“Testing.” Maximilian tapped his microphone with one finger and adjusted a dial with the other hand. “Very good! As you all know, the Mobian Scientific Council celebrates its 250th anniversary this month. I trust you all have a number of intriguing breakthroughs for the occasion, so let’s dispense with the formalities and get to the important matters this week. I believe Professor Aden was eager to start so we’ll begin with him.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Professor Aden puffed out his chest proudly and shuffled through a set of disks on his podium. “I believe this is the right one, just a moment.” He inserted the small black disk into a receptacle in the podium and the holographic display at the center of the forum came to life with chemical equations, and a diagram of what resembled a breastplate in Mobian proportions. “Work on the new polymer armor is making excellent progress. When Your Highness asked me to develop a physical armor to protect our soldiers from gunfire last year, I was initially a bit stumped. I couldn’t develop anything capable of stopping a sharpened projectile moving at such incredible speeds. As it stands, a body hit from the Overlanders’ super-high-speed bullets are usually lethal through all but our heaviest plate armor. Even for limb wounds, the friction at impact can cause severe internal burns and horrible trauma. About four months ago, I came upon the idea not to stop the bullet, which seems to be impossible without Overlander technology, but to cushion the impact enough that it slows down to speeds the body can survive.” The holographic diagrams at the center of the forum reflected his comments as he spoke, displaying diagrams, speed calculations, and video of testing. “The polymer I created for the armor inserts is a soft substance that absorbs the inertia of objects striking it with incredible efficiency. A victim would still suffer a gunshot wound, but the damage would be much more survivable. Once this armor is issued to all troops, the survival rate from a single bullet wound to the torso should raise from three percent, to as much as seventy-five. Provided your own funding and interest in the project holds out, Your Majesty, I can have this in mass-production in a little less than three months.”
“Oh how I loathe reporting zis, Herr Professor…” Dr. Faustian interrupted his colleague’s speech, cutting in with his microphone. “But you already lost ze funding. His Majesty signed it off to my mechanical soldier project, since once we phase out all organic troops, zere will be no more need for body armor. Oh? Why zat angry face, Professor? Didn’t you get ze memo?” His stern face twisted upwards in a malicious grin; he was famous for antagonizing the streetwise rabbit.
Upon realizing his latest project was shot down, again, Professor Aden rightly exploded into a tirade of verbal abuse. “Faustian! You filthy son of-“
King Max swiftly pressed his palm on the large button at his podium console that muted all other microphones. “Enough.” A heavy sigh escaped him as he shook his head slightly, long ago tired of the animosity between the two scientists. “Professor Aden, please calm yourself, Doctor Faustian, please refrain from antagonizing your colleagues.” He released the mute button, after a moment more of pause.
A soft sigh from the Minister of Chemistry’s podium made his feelings evident. “Yes, Your Majesty…”
“Ja, Mein Liege.”
“I will provide some funding for this armor project.” General Katzenov quietly interjected himself into the conversation; an extremely rare occurrence. “Faustian’s toys cannot replace skilled covert agents, and I want my people protected in-mission. Continue development, Professor Aden, the military sector will foot your bill on this one.”
“Very good!” The king complimented the cooperation of his adviser and urged the meeting forward with his tone. “Now, speaking of your mechanical soldiers, Doctor, I would like this month’s report on it, if it’s ready…”
“Ja!” Faustian snapped to attention, eager to show his accomplishments, as always. “For zat, however, I will direct you to my brilliant colleague and partner in zis project, Dr. Kintobor. Doctor?” It was fairly well known that Faustian hated everyone, even his closest partners, but it didn’t stop the fox from making himself look good in front of the king at every chance.
“Thank you.” Kintobor’s raspy voice echoed from his cramped podium as the holographic projector in the center of the forum again came to life. A translucent blue model flickered into existence, showing an Overlander-sized, but Mobian-proportioned figure; tall but lithe, an oversized, dome-shaped head atop its broad shoulders. “This is the fifth, and we believe, final concept design for the Synthetic WArrior-Type Robot; SWATbot, for short. Standing at two meters, the final model boasts slightly greater agility than the average soldier, but nearly six times the physical strength, and greatly enhanced durability. We have resolved all the existing concerns raised by Your Majesty, and the General, with only two new flaws resulting, both minor. Dr. Faustian has the specifics on that.”
“Ah, yes, ze two defects. Most notable is a problem with ze joints. My smaller joint system allows for ze range of motion you demanded, but ze small size of such parts results in a vulnerability to water-fouling. However, only ze complex shoulder and hip joints are affected, and only during heavy rainfall or complete submersion. Only initial prototypes will be affected; future models will feature a protective covering for ze joints.”
“The prototype run… that would be only twenty-five units of the Cygnus-series model, yes?” The king folded his hands on the top of his podium and leaned forward, in thought. “That’s acceptable, I believe. Carry on.”
“Ze second problem lies in our current sensor package. Zere simply exists no array small enough to fit in our allotted space… yet. Our initial run will make due with only a simple camera to process visual information. As we work on an improved sensor package, we can upgrade existing models, but ze Cygnus-series SWATbot will be temporarily blinded if ze camera ‘mono-eye’ is soiled or damaged. Production should continue on schedule, zis is only a minor problem in ze long run. Future manufacturing runs, such as ze planned Ursa, Gemini, and Draco-series, will not be affected, Your Highness.”
“Excellent work, both of you.” King Acorn applauded lightly, genuinely smiling for the first time all meeting. “I am glad to see the project is nearing completion. I want a showing and demonstration as soon as the first prototype steps off the assembly line.”
“As you wish, Mein Liege.” Faustian gave a small bow, before looking to another podium, a strong hint of annoyance in his tone. “However, I must remind ze good Professor Notwen zat we STILL lack a suitable weapon system for ze SWATbot…” The cardinal looked to be in tears over being confronted on her stalling again, though Faustian was only pleased at antagonizing two of his peers in one meeting.
“Professor Notwen… Cassi.” The king rotated his podium to face her directly, his voice gentle and sincere. “Please believe me when I say that all of us here understand and respect your beliefs. You are a gentle and kind woman, and I am truly sorry to have shouldered this burden upon you, but we are at war, Cassi, and like all of your peers you've sworn an oath to me not to let any personal beliefs interfere with your service. You have been a brilliant and inspirational member of this council, but but the project must carry on for the sake of our nation, with or without you. You have until the end of this month to either finalize your designs for a suitable energy weapon for the project… or resign your position. Do you understand? I am sorry it comes to this, but if you are unwilling to perform the task set before you, it is a matter of urgency that I find someone who can.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty…” The avian woman looked up at him out of the corner of her soulful black eyes, offering only a depressed little voice, meek yet ever melodic. “I understand. I’ll have the prototype ready by the end of the month.”
“Very good, then. Now, on a lighter note, I believe Sir Charles has made breakthroughs on his project that he wished to share?”
“Oh, most certainly, Your Highness!” The graying blue hedgehog ruffled his large mustache with a puff of breath as he cleared his throat. “As you all know, for most of the last decade I have been involved in a project of my own design to apply cybernetic technologies to advanced prostheses. With so many of our soldiers maimed in the war, I have been trying to develop a generic limb replacement that will retain most of the movement of the original.”
The hologram at the center of the forum displayed a number of mechanical tools, and early designs for a robotic arm. “The core purpose of the project has always been clear; these prosthetic limbs would need to be strong and effective for military use, but responsive and gentle enough that our soldiers could return to a normal life at the end of the war, Creator willing...” A number of recorded motion tests displayed in boxes around each design, none of them entirely successful. “The problems were rather daunting from the start. I quickly realized what we all inherently know but never think about; everyone is slightly different. This makes a generic ‘catch-all’ prosthetic all but impossible. The second, and worst of the problems I encountered was that in order to replicate the functionality of, say, a hand, you would have to not only be constructing some parts too fine to see with the naked eye, but, in the same way our own body repairs and builds itself, one would somehow need to be able to build objects inside of other objects at this scale. In order to meet my goals for the project, every limb would have to be custom built by a very masterful artisan indeed, and one with technical knowledge few traditional metal smiths possess. However, you may recall a few months ago, when my colleague and partner in this project, Dr. Kintobor unveiled what he referred to as ‘nanites’.” The display changed to a high magnification of a group of four-legged machines, carrying even smaller metal shapes on their backs, all moving with singular purpose as they constructed a simple shape out of metal. “Nanites are incredibly simple, incredibly tiny robots, capable of executing complex tasks if programmed correctly. Think of them as ‘robot cells’. Not much came of the breakthrough at first, due to no immediate practical applications. However, the good doctor thought on it, and eventually came up with a plan to use these nanites to solve the problems that vexed our joint project. Doctor, if you would?” Sir Charles nodded to his close friend, bidding him to explain it better than he himself would.
“Thank you, my friend.” The Overlander rasped an explanation of the revolutionary process. “Obviously, to machines as small as nanites, scale is no longer an issue. Programming them to build what we want is a simple matter as well. Our design is for a capsule-like chamber in which the subject stands, or if unable, lays. A computer system will scan and measure all aspects of the subject’s body, whereupon it will release millions of these nanites. The nanites will use the computer's scans as a blueprint of sorts to fabricate and attach any needed prostheses with a level of detail and accuracy that no surgeon could ever achieve.” Dr. Kintobor, normally a somber man, spoke with enthusiasm and excitement, clearly proud of what he had helped to achieve. “We call our new invention, the ‘Roboticizer’. If our tests are successful, we will have developed a cure for all present and future physical disabilities.”
A round of applause echoed through the forum, as the entire council lauded what was potentially one of the greatest achievements in history. The rolling applause for Sir Charles’ Roboticizer endured for minutes, until the king himself raised his hands to quiet the rest of the council. “Please, ladies and gentlemen of the council, I speak for all of us when I commend Sir Charles and Dr. Kintobor on this monumental breakthrough, but let them finish!” His own excitement was palpable; he, of course, had everything to gain by such a world-changing event occurring under his rule. It was nothing less than the cementing of his personal legacy.
“I should like to see zis ‘Roboticizer’ in action.” Dr. Faustian interjected himself into the discussion, uncharacteristically excited about the work of anyone other than himself. “Do you intend to have a demonstration for us?”
“If that is the wish of the council.” The aged hedgehog bowed his head and folded his hands, considering the showing condition of his technology. “I… could have it ready for tentative display later this week. I admit some fascination with how the joints of your mechanical soldiers move as well, Doctor… perhaps it would benefit us both if we exchanged research notes later?”
Faustian inwardly shook with excitement at seeing the intricacies of this new advance in cybernetics. He clenched his fists so hard that his well-manicured claws began to draw blood from his palm; safely hidden from sight in his podium. “Ja… Ja, mein friend.” The vulpine engineer smiled outwardly, but it was a much less honest grin on the inside. “I am certain I could have zat arranged… Ah!” Faustian abruptly showed his bleeding hand to his colleagues and smiled again, weakly. “It seems one of my models is a bit of a sharp edge! Majesty, my hemophilia?”
“Of course, Doctor. Go take care of that hand right away; you are excused from the meeting.”
Faustian rushed from his podium, his papers and models tucked under his arms as he fled the Forum Gardens with an excited haste.
With Faustian gone, King Max looked over his notes concerning the day’s meeting and gave a satisfied nod. “Well. It seems everything has been covered, and we all seem to have very important work to attend to, so-”
The king’s voice trailed into silence as a repetitive sound drifted into the forum. It was a clicking, scratching sound, loud and hollow; the sound of rough wood on smooth stones. Unmistakably, it was someone with a walking stick. The Forum Gardens were off-limits to the general public during meetings, so no one should have been walking about. However, in the mornings the early sun cast long, dark shadows off the many arches and columns that decorated the area, and it was not difficult to move unnoticed when desired.
“Who’s there?!” King Max demanded from his seat at his special podium. “Is that you, Dr. Faustian?”
“I am not Doctor Reinhardt Faustian.” A soft, ethereal voice, full of palpable superiority and confidence echoed through the forum as a shadowed figure stepped out from behind a pillar and into the morning's light. He, or she, was clad all in purple; a long, hooded robe hid all features, its hems tattered and insect-eaten, caked with dirt and grime. In the thin, hunched figure’s delicate hands was a walking stick made of gnarled old wood and decorated with feathers and lines of fading paint. The robed figure stepped forward past the podiums and into the very center of the forum, standing over the lens for the holographic projector, its glow granting illumination from beneath the strange visitor and granting them a strange, ghostly quality
“Then what business have you here?” Becoming slowly irate, the king again demanded an answer from the mysterious guest. “Who are you?”
“No one to be trifled with.” The robed Mobian pointed a bandage-wrapped finger up at the king, answering in the same distant voice as before. Tufts of dark green fur, an extremely unusual color if it was natural, showed through gaps in the wrapped hand. “The Prophet! That is who and what I am. A sayer of doom, one who sees the beginning and end of all things, and so knows the value therein. I represent the honest and true Mobians of Undercity, where I am king.” He bowed with great flourish, an extremely condescending gesture.
King Maximilian stood up and glared at the figure before him, narrowing his eyes as his faint black mustache rose in an irritated sneer. “By ‘Undercity’ I assume you mean the dreadful nickname for Mobotropolis’ underground sewer system. If so, I can assure you that you are sorely mistaken indeed, ‘Prophet’.” Maximilian Acorn had suffered greatly to keep his crown over his already-long life, and challenges to his authority were typically met with well-justified fury. “I am the King of this nation, and ruler of this city. That includes the skies above, the ground below it, and everything therein.” King Max gestured with a sweep of his arms for emphasis. “Therefore, by right, I am the ruler of those unfortunate souls who dwell in the sewers, not you!” He pointed down at the soothsayer in condemnation, only to be taken aback as two glowing white eyes looked up at him through the murky black of the hooded, shadowed face of the intruder. Despite the new source of illumination, nothing of the prophets face could be seen, only two narrowed shapes of light floating paired in an inky, featureless visage.
The Prophet laughed; a terrifying, otherworldly noise, and clicked his walking stick with enough force to crack the lens of the display he stood upon. The sudden crackle of an not-insignificant electrical discharge startles the council, but seemed not to concern the strange man as he stood in stony, unmoving posture.“By what right, Majesty? By the will of your people?” His head tilted with genuine curiosity. “If you are so beloved by Undercity then why do you hide up here in the light of day while your cherished subjects, too impoverished to see the sun, scrape out a miserable living in the sewers under your very feet? You would do well to try listening to someone other than these scientific fools you surround yourself with.”
“Someone such as you?? Bah!” King Max tried to dismiss the argument, but it was obvious that much of the wind had been taken from his sails through the biting truths of the Prophet. He instead sank back into the cushioned seat of his podium and sighed. “It is true that this war has left many without money or work. However, just because some Mobians are too poor to take residence in the city proper does not mean that they cease to be my subjects. I have spared aid for your ‘Undercity’ many times. If you are so eager to be heard, old one, then I will hear. Prophets rarely have something good to say, but I will listen, if only out of respect for one so old.” His demeanor softened, the regal squirrel adjusted his heavy crown and leaned back into his seat.
“Old. Hmm. Old, indeed.” The Prophet gestured dramatically, spreading his arms wide as he issued his prophecy in a fevered tone. “I came this far to give you all a warning, not to waste time in senseless banter! I have seen the doom of this world! You, your dynasty, your precious city and indeed the entire Mobian race is coming to an end!”
“You speak of the war…” King Maximilian voice trailed into a soft sigh. It was true that the war continued to go extremely poorly, and that more than his nation and life was on the line.
“The Great War? Possibly, yes.” The Prophet’s glowing eyes narrowed down to thin slits, his voice taking a turn for the darker. “Though there are many other ways in which the curtains may draw… There is a way to save your people from total obliteration, if you truly do care for them, your Majesty.”
“Oh?” The king raised an eyebrow, no longer taking the robed Mobian seriously. “Please, do tell what you have in mind,” he deadpanned.
His unwelcome guest’s reply was quick and simple. “Open the Emerald Vault!” The Chaos Emeralds contained behind those doors are capable of more, much more than you know, they are capable of changing the entire world! Give them to me, let me use them… to better the lives of my people, and to eradicate the arrogant Overlanders and end this war!”
“Magic, eh?” Maximilian smirked, impressed with the gall of the soothsayer as much as he was infuriated by it. “You’re a wellborn then. You are brave, old one, to admit such a thing in this day and age. There are still those who have not forgotten their history and the ages before technology. It’s an interesting proposal you give, if only for amusement’s sake, unfortunately...” The aging king shot to his feet and slammed his hands against the top of his stand within the podium with an uncharacteristically angry burst of youth. “Your plan is nonsense and you are insane!” He glared at the doom-saying prophet and growled his answer through clenched teeth. “That vault was sealed by my ancestors for good reason! There's far more than just some magical rocks in that wretched place, and none of it should be let loose on the world, even in desperation! Even if I knew how to get inside, I would never allow someone like you access to that kind of power! You may as well demand to be crowned king! And what would happen in your generous offer after the war was won, hmm? Would you give them back, just like that? Would you have me stuff it all back inside and close the door? There are things in that place, if my ancestors are to be believed, that wouldn't be nearly so easy to bottle back up, once free.”
“I take it you refuse my offer of assistance, King Acorn?” The Prophet tilted his head in bemused surprise, ultimately shaking it at the incensed regent. “And you would call me insane…”
“I’ve had enough of you!” King Max shouted down at his antagonist, his skin flushing red behind his light brown fur. “You interrupt my meeting, you waste the time of my council and myself, you insult me and threaten my people, and then you dare make this ludicrous demand?! Your next vision will come to you inside a prison cell!” He snapped his well-groomed fingers and an additional pair of guards emerged from behind his large podium, joining the two in front. “Guards! Arrest this man on grounds of treason!”
“I gave you a chance, Your Majesty.” The Prophet’s voice became sinister, his words more threat than warning as he hissed up at the king. “You are not essential, merely convenient. I will go around you if need be. The warning has been made, and you made your decision; your fates are your own now…” With a frustrated sigh, he pulled his dirty hood farther down his unseen face and turned to walk away.
“Ho there, citizen! Halt!” One of the armor-clad members of the royal guard raised an ornate spear at the robed figure, advancing in front of the others. “You are under arrest!”
“Keep your ‘ho theres’!” The rag-clad prophet snapped back at them bitterly, vanishing in a large puff of green smoke. The guardsmen grabbed for him, but too late, when the smoke dissipated mere seconds later, he had vanished; gone without a trace.
