Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 93
wisdom was lost.
This body had no purpose without that greater Self. The
fact that it still moved and breathed was irrelevant; the
motivating soul was gone.
But lying here, senses blocked, embalmed and shriveling
as was proper, Armiger had continued to think. He was locked
in the paralytic cycle of grief; all his thoughts had turned on the
higher Self, predicated by its existence, and with it gone, every
thought hit an impasse and locked hard. He could have no
notion, no memory, that did not run up against that barrier, so
Armiger’s mind was now a chaos where no thought finished
forming, no purpose completely crystallized. Jagged
nightmare images, half-memories and monotonous fragments
of impulse echoed on and on. The flesh of this body would
turn to dust, but Armiger’s real body was a filamentary net of
nanotech, and that would last for centuries. So would the
echoes of grief.
And nothing should matter, nor disturb his rest. But his
eyes had opened.
A faint vibration sounded--footsteps. The sound of
someone walking in the catacombs had waked him. Whatever
walked was bipedal, with the same period to its step as a man-but
it could still be anything. Maybe one of Ventus' mechal
guardians, come to dissect him.
It didn't matter. He tried to shut his eyes, but they would
no longer obey him at all.
He couldn't stop listening, either, as the footsteps
approached, paused nearby, and came even closer. A second
set of steps approached, then a third. Now he heard voices.
The men were standing just outside his niche.
Anger emerged from the chaos in Armiger’s heart. He
should be left in peace. Humans had no idea of his pain; they