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This section presents fragmented notes about Ægir, recovered in Iberia after the writer's dwelling was ransacked following the Profound Silence.
Oculatus, a consul of the Institute of Social Planning, undergoes injections of worm ichor for his ailments. In Ægir, the sages long ago replaced violence with wisdom as the tool of governance, and society runs on plans approved by consuls of the Academies of Science and Technology. His colleague Aurelia visits him to dispute his position on the Seaborn: she considers them an invasive species the Ecology Control System can handle, while he argues they are an entirely new form of life that the System cannot clear away and that Ægir's technology cannot outpace their adaptation. He proposes human modification—genetic adjustments that would leave consciousness untouched but raise the body's strength to required levels. Aurelia objects that the method contradicts his intent and that he speaks of the body as a machine. He shows her a worthless adult hybrid organism in his aquarium as a reminder that value is determined by those with the power to judge it, a power the Seaborn also possess. Moved by her pitying advice, he questions whether his own illness influenced his judgment, and resigns before the meeting. Ten-odd years later, another consul's modification plan is approved, beginning the Abyssal Hunter Program.
A childrearer from the Institute of Incubation investigates the suicide of Florence, his former ward and an artist at the Institute of Ecological Art. She had described herself and her plants as "stranded": alive yet unable to create value, unable to die properly. Searches reveal her declining output, an art field shrinking, insomnia, and a failed Seaborn-monitoring project for which she faced questioning. He senses a subtle shift in Ægir society of which Florence was the first reflection.
The city of Herculaneum, powered by geothermal energy, faces a volcanic eruption that unexpectedly reaches Category 7. Seaborn structures emerge from the lava and damage the city's mobility systems, forcing a full evacuation. Herculaneum survives.
Finally, an Ægir writer recounts coming ashore in Iberia, being pressured by an elderly Ægir working with nobility to fabricate stories about Seaborn curiosities for a circus freak show, and finding that even Ægir settlements preferred shallow tales over meaningful ones. Unable to make a living writing, he took the freak show job but continues writing.
After years of wandering, the narrator has obtained the materials from Iberia. The notes were once written on thick, smooth, high-quality paper, but their trustee reports they suffered rough treatment after the writer's fate following the Profound Silence became unknown. A thief ransacked the writer's dwelling, tossed the notes into his sack, left them at the pawnshop, and the bundle was split: half covering a hole in the wall, half bracing a wobbly table.
Oculatus, consul of the Academy of Science's Institute of Social Planning (ISP), watches a nurse robot six times a day extract ichor from a small worm's gland pores and inject it into his veins, blue traces winding through his twisted veins and making him feel a sense of strangeness, even monstrosity. Since the sages quelled war and allied the city-states of the Ægir, wisdom overtook violence as the tool of governance, and for a thousand years Ægir society followed strict plans drafted by the ISP. Oculatus's plan became the guideline of the entire city only after scrutiny by every consul of the Academies of Science and Technology. He had to consider everything from absolute objectivity; he became both an ordinary puppet on the board and an abstract existence watching from above.
Footsteps interrupt him—soft-soled shoes of diatomaceous composites. He preempts the visitor: political discussions should wait for tomorrow's meeting. Aurelia places a rolling water capsule on his desk; the icy water forces awareness of his body. She says she came only to give him water, one of her tricks to derail his train of thought. He says his nurse robot manages his diet; she could have sent her own robot. She replies they agree on what needs a human touch, then asks why he is not content with returning the Ecology Control System to human hands—he also wants "human modification." The System's Monitor units are laid out across a fifty-kilometer diameter of water and should autonomously handle any invasive species barring complete system failure.
Oculatus feels his age. In Ægir, inflexible, repetitive tasks went to machines; flexible, creative work to humanity—it was his younger self who pushed that labor division decades ago. What pains him is the deficiency of language: he curses the Institute of Language Design for not creating words sufficient for the situation. Even Aurelia dismisses the Seaborn as another invasive species. His conclusions: the Seaborn are an entirely new form of life that cannot simply be classified as invasive, and the System's autonomous behavior will not clear them away but will induce characteristics the Ægir would not wish to see. Aurelia objects: he wants to throw away centuries of taxonomical analysis to declare ordinary seagrass meadow pests a new form of life, and make the populace think current technology cannot stop them, to the point of breaking the taboo on human modification. He answers that since the Seaborn evolved at a ridiculous pace in months, Ægir's citizens must undergo radical cognitive change in the limited time available. He emphasizes the word "Ægir"—in the Ægir language it is the strongest of words, forever bound to positivity; for hundreds of years no one has dared say there are things the Ægir cannot do. When Aurelia begins to protest that citizens could not change so drastically, she cuts off her own words. He feels briefly relieved that someone has begun to understand him; it took him longer when he first realized Ægir's rate of inventing new technologies could not outpace the Seaborn's adaptive speed.
Aurelia recovers: even if the cognitive change could be realized, it would bring uncontrollable ripples through society. He answers that social planning includes leeway for unforeseen events; oppression is the foundation of turmoil, and they eliminated it long ago—remaining fluctuations are too small to affect order. She refuses to call the modification's impact small-scale: how would he convince citizens that the modified are still human? He says that with tomorrow's consensus, the Scientific IDP will begin research; the participants' consciousnesses should not be influenced in any way; the genetic adjustments would solely bring the body's strength up to required levels. She asks since when Ægir had to bring people up to "required levels" instead of relying on spontaneous creativity. Her question leaves him at a loss. He sinks into his chair; her ramrod-straight youthful figure makes him feel isolated. Most Ægir his age accepted euthanasia; only he still lashes himself to his post, fearing he has not yet been fully understood. He rephrases: the adjustments will make up for the body's deficiencies, letting participants pursue whichever stratagems they envision to the fullest—like treatment for the sick or prosthetics for the disabled. She rejects the comparison: the sick and disabled require healing, but what deficiencies in a healthy person require "transformation"? He speaks as though discussing not the human body but a machine needing maintenance; if he truly believed in humanity's worth, he would not talk of modifying the body into something else.
Looking back, every sentence Oculatus utters separates mind and body, as if the mind were the foundation of humanity and the body mere flesh to handle as one pleases. He realizes his words no longer match his thoughts, and it scares him. The ancestors flowed into the sea via the waterways, and not yet understanding their bodies, they attributed the echoes on their chests to a mysterious existence within. They gave their forms meaning—creations of the gods, masterpieces of nature, vagaries of fate, extensions of reason—which coalesced into veneration, admiration, affection, adoration. Then man discovered the legacy on the seabed: an unending font of knowledge and technology. Rapid science showed there was nothing mysterious about humanity; the body is but a gathering of myriad cells. They fell into self-doubt until a sage asked: why can a person be the bearer of meaning or source of emotion, but not a cell? Science shed its mystique; people no longer worship scientific achievement, but neither were they deconstructed into meaningless cell gatherings. The heart is but a pump, consciousness merely brain activity, but humanity is by no means a race of organic machines. Visual art with the human body as central motif arose at this time; discovering the beauty of the human form became the sole way to preserve one's humanity.
Desperate to be understood, Oculatus glances at his aquarium: a bloated pink organism with tens of stubby tube feet flailing to propel itself with minimal dignity. Aurelia identifies it: a β Scale-subgland Planktonic Pseudoscalid Myriapod, a hybrid animal whose larval secretions have medical value. Each drug dose is stored within a larva's body as packaging, used and thrown away. The adult form is worthless—"there should not be any adults in this world." She asks why one is in his aquarium. It was a request to the Institute of Biological Research; perhaps the only adult of its kind, kept as a reminder: the value of these creatures is determined solely by us, because we can break species boundaries with gene editing. The Seaborn can also break those boundaries. To discuss humanity's worth, the power to judge that worth must be firmly in our grasp—all we are proud of is worthless in the Seaborn's eyes. His impassioned speech leaves him breathless, but her expression is nearly pity. Even if she believes in his respect for humanity, she cannot accept body modification—the method runs counter to his intent—and he cannot keep using his own illness as an example; Ægir society needs a more official reason. This pitying advice makes him waver: was his hatred of illness and longing for health affecting his work? Was he so focused on dragging along his ailing flesh that he decided what Ægir needed was modification of the human body?
The meeting the next day was never held; Oculatus tendered his resignation before it began. His vision for human modification was never openly discussed, and only a select few, including technology consul Aurelia, knew of it. Ten or so years later, the situation in Ægir worsened, and another consul proposed a plan to modify the human body—approved this time. And so began the Abyssal Hunter Program.
A second narrative follows. The narrator examines the autopsy report and health records of Florence, who floats in a half-sealed vertical glass bathtub, paler than the withered plants in her room. Brightly-colored longbeard combtooth grass sprouts from her chest, its tentacles lined with photophores spreading beneath the water like a scarlet, starry sky. This art she left behind is alive; as the narrator looks at it, it looks back. Her suicide note, a single sentence, was written on the wall: "I have stranded many alongside me upon this meaningless, desolate coast."
The assistant robot reports: Florence had no incurable medical conditions and did not meet euthanasia requirements; she committed suicide. Suicide is a most unfamiliar word. Ægir faces death calmly and accepts euthanasia because its people have created adequate value while alive—to walk peacefully into the night is to affirm one's life. In the past hundred years, none wanted to cut their life short. The narrator, a childrearer at the Institute of Incubation and former ward-holder of Florence, can only reflect. After twelve years she left for the Academy of Technology's Institute of Ecological Art; her colleagues there were closest to her, since ties are determined not by blood or family but by those who see value in you.
The robot reveals Florence suffered chronic insomnia, her worst bout leaving her awake three days. Only one document mentions it, by a free-spirited surveyor who, fifty-three years ago, used a self-developed Land Detector to step ashore onto land no one else cared for. He describes the land-dwellers' "insomnia": mechanized labor is rare there, "family" holds strong; the day splits into three—eight hours of work, eight of life, eight of sleep. Work and life are filled with meaningless repetitiveness, so they must use sleep time to do what truly holds meaning. In Ægir, creation of value and self-actualization are one. What did Florence desire that she spent nights making up for her days?
The robot finds her home filled with withered, dying plants, subjects of gene editing and form manipulation—her "ecological art." From May onwards, she no longer gave abandoned "drafts" to Recycling but let them rot. As a child she tended plants while others played with model toys and biomimetic pets; she arranged them fascinatingly, learned to make them grow in certain directions, bred ornamental stems shaped like golden spirals, flowers strewn with stars. She became an outstanding artist, the core of the Academy of Technology, as hoped. What high wall blocked her so she made no new work and let hundreds of drafts rot?
Her final project bred a hybrid plant containing special neurons to monitor and report environmental changes caused by the Seaborn. Yet she always had a narrow view of the world: anything within it was her obsession, anything outside barely thought of. She hoped her world would be perfect; any leaf with the slightest flaw was pruned. The narrator was the adult she wished to be closest to, perhaps because he understood her pursuit of perfection best.
The robot reports the hybrid plants were swiftly assimilated by the Seaborn after release. The three technicians on duty failed to secure the data and were also assimilated; the Sea Patrol Unit was forced to "liquidate" them on arrival. The Institute of Environmental Controlling's database briefly crashed; the leak's extent is unknown. The project was canceled, and Florence was questioned by the Academy of Technology before her passing. The narrator muses that Seaborn have brought too many imperfections, but Ægir as a whole can solve any problem—not every imperfection must be eradicated by one's own hand. It was the desire to examine whether his life's work had hidden imperfections that led him to investigate her death.
Further searches: the consul had authority to question any project personnel due to national security impact; the number of people in artistic fields has steadily declined; Florence's output declined with mixed reviews, and she submitted requests to cancel this year's exhibition or at least exclude her own artwork. Sitting for the inquiry, Florence used the term "stranded" for her life and plants: "Alive, yet unable to create value. Unable to create value, yet unable to die properly, we are stranded in a state that should not exist, somewhere between life and death." Her statement was deemed "incompatible with the spirit of society."
The old man halts his search, sensing something amiss: a subtle shift in Ægir's society, of which Florence was the first reflection. He isn't sure whether to feel relieved or afraid: relieved that her suicide had nothing to do with him and stemmed from something far more complicated, or afraid because he has no idea why the consuls of the two institutes would allow such changes. He resolves to sleep, for tomorrow he welcomes two new children. But moments later he rouses the robot: "What do you think? Why did she do it? Was it the pressure of the inquiry? Artist's block? A loss of purpose? A disconnect with reality?" The robot answers only that it can retrieve existing information and cannot think.
At 8:00 AM on July 29th, the city broadcast greets citizens of Herculaneum: air cycle "breeze," light/heat control "sunny," and, per the Institute of Environmental Controlling's calculations, Herculaneum's first natural volcanic eruption of the century around 10:00 AM. A live multi-angle feed will broadcast the eruption; protective eyewear has been distributed. The light/heat system and "Sun Forger" will pause. Citizens should pay respects to Vulcanus, whose heatproof dome withstands up to Category 4 eruptions; the dome's color panels will be disabled so citizens can see the true color of its heat shield.
Then: data interference from an unknown source means the eruption could reach Category 7; no need to panic—even then the dome will hold long enough for the city's emergency mobility protocols to move it out of the impact zone within two hours. Herculaneum uses a hybrid mobility system of legs and propulsion units. Auxiliary thrusters may be repurposed for propulsion, causing shaking; public shelters have opened, quick-charge protective films delivered—to be secured to the chest with heavy clothing removed, control mode set to automatic.
Then: unknown branch-shaped biological structures have emerged from the lava with many Seaborn Newborns; Legs 3 and 4 and the bottom thrusters are damaged, the Seaborn have clogged the main thrust's combustion chamber, and none have shown aggression yet. Then evacuation orders: all citizens must proceed to designated safe zones, board escape ships escorted by the Sea Patrol. Updates follow: Leg 3 repaired; no sign of Seaborn numbers decreasing, Leg 1 immobilized by creeping branches; massive collapse in the energy wells—initiate the mobility program, lift the city with remaining legs; citizens who have not evacuated, proceed immediately; "To all my fellow citizens who have not yet evacuated, I extend you my deepest respect." Finally: "The clean up and repair operations are underway; Herculaneum has not fallen." "The forebears are with you, Ægir is with you."
In the early eleventh century, nearly 100 years after the first Ægir set foot on Iberia's shores, the Iberian Kingdom was at its height; fascination with strange tales had overtaken passion for exploration. Most Ægir who fled there lived in seclusion, quietly introducing advanced knowledge and technology, but Iberians, preferring to "hastily strip things of their essence," turned them into exotic "mental fast food." The notebook's owner once worked for the "Ægir Circus"—people tired of animal performances and freak shows and turned to rare deep-sea treasures.
After coming ashore, the writer's group encountered a small, poor Iberian fincatching village whose locals kindly let them stay, until a companion presented a gold-inlaid pocket watch in gratitude. Within two days a representative of the local nobility asked them to come along; most declined, but a handful, including the writer, boarded without understanding the situation. Ragged children chased the vehicle like a pack of hungry Seaborn Newborns, holding up smoked ham, distilled spirits, and Seaborn-shaped handicrafts hoping to trade.
In a tidier district stood an imposing mansion. Staff offered a thick blue-green liquid proudly: the drink the "Ægir consul" drinks daily. The writer waved it off; it looked like nutrient solution from the Institute of Biological Research. Inside, a lavishly dressed elderly Ægir handled negotiations for a silent noblewoman stroking a long-haired animal, reciting her excessively long, pompous title before wanting to speak with each individually.
Outside, dozens of crooked tents and wooden carts: a nearly three-meter giant with sharp black horns confined in a small wooden cangue; two withered figures, one human, one beast, curled in a large glass tank, black crystals piercing their skin and fusing them into a conjoined creature—the gelatinous orbs in their eye sockets turned toward the writer yet were devoid of any gaze. The elder spoke plainly: for a stable, prosperous life in Iberia, help certain "ventures" with knowledge "brought from the sea." A cabinet held items resembling Ægir craftsmanship haphazardly painted garish colors, and a strange shell pieced together from bones of various Seaborn species. The writer was told to forget science: "In Iberia, it should be called the 'Radiant Spineshell.'" The circus needed interesting stories and a novel origin so the collectible would fetch a good price. The writer almost doubted the elder was truly Ægir. Ægir stories discuss the meaning of existence, the value of actions, the limits of humanity; fabricating names and backstories felt like a waste of time and language. That afternoon, the writer traded a water flow meter for currency at a pawnshop and set out to find the Ægir settlements—if land-dwellers wanted meaningless babble, at least Ægir needed stories from home.
The settlements were easy to find. Refugees lacked equipment and tools, so modern and primitive conditions mixed strangely. The town was installing fiber optic cables to reestablish contact with the seabed, using animals to pull winches. The guard, a young Ægir woman on a large four-legged animal, was an Ægir born on land. At first people eagerly gathered by bonfires to listen, but the land-born children stopped coming; they wanted tales of giant shells and magnificent ships, not discussions of meaning, value, and humanity. The elders chatted but couldn't solve the writer's biggest problem: money. Every day the writer woke with a hollow pain, as if a pump had drained the abdomen—the feeling called "hunger," never experienced before, makes thinking feel like a luxury. Most townspeople farm or do repetitive manual labor; a rare few Ægir do scientific research with royal family support. After a month, the writer returned to the nobility's circus and took the freak show job: "I needed to eat. In my spare time, I continued organizing the materials I had brought from Ægir, turning them into stories. I don't know who, if anyone, will ever read them, but I have to keep writing."
CHAPTER 5.7
After many years of wandering hither and tither, the materials I needed from Iberia have finally made their way into my hands. One can just barely see from the remaining pages of these notes that the paper used was once thick, smooth, and of high-quality. According to my trustee in Iberia, the reason why these notes now look so dilapidated is because they have undergone some incredibly rough treatment. It is unknown what happened to the writer in the wake of the Profound Silence. His deserted dwelling was quickly ransacked. As the thief was tallying his booty, he barely even noticed the notes, which he had simply tossed into his sack during his plundering without a second thought. He even left them behind when going to the pawnshop to fence his ill-gotten goods. And so this bundle of notes containing many tales of Ægir was split in two—half to cover up a hole in the wall, half to brace a wobbly table.
The alloyed cup and saucer set glimmers red. A small worm awakens from dormancy within a vial, slowly extending the scale-like structures on its body to reveal a set of minute gland pores. Though it is a sight he sees six times a day, he always watches the nurse robot with rapt attention, observing the way it inserts the needle into the worm's pores to extract its ichor, the way it inserts the needle into his veins to inject that ichor. Traces of deep blue suddenly wind their way through his twisted veins, causing him to feel a sense of strangeness, perhaps even monstrosity. It is at times like this when a question, unique to him, would occasionally make its way through his mind: How should man confront a disease ravaging his body?
As a consul of the Academy of Science's Institute of Social Planning, Oculatus rarely pondered issues from his own perspective. Ever since the sages quelled the flames of war and brought the city-states of the Ægir into an alliance, wisdom has overtaken violence as the accepted tool of governance. For the next thousand years, Ægir society followed strict plans, which were drafted in one of the cardinal institutions of the Academy of Science: the Institute of Social Planning (ISP). Only after passing through the close scrutiny and consideration of every consul in the Academies of Science and Technology did Oculatus's plan finally become the guideline of society over the entire city. He had to consider everything from a standpoint of absolute objectivity. There was no room for subjectivity in his thoughts. And so, he became both an ordinary puppet upon the board, and an abstract existence watching the entire game from above.
Footsteps coming from the corridor interrupted his thoughts. Oculatus perked up his ears. Soft-soled shoes made from diatomaceous composites, which created a soft, dragged-out sound with every considerably agile step. Why has she come? Was it just to protest? She has already raised complaints three times in two days, barely changing her arguments every time. If that really was the case, it would be easier to send a robot to replay her voice, he thought.
He focused on the sound of footsteps gradually approaching, and before the arriver could speak, he made his thoughts clear: "Political discussions should wait until the meeting tomorrow. Consuls from the cardinal institutes of both Academies will be present. As for questions of feasibility in regards to sci-tech, the Scientific and Technological IDPs will give their feedback separately. Should you discover any irrationalities on the societal level in your capacity as consul of the Institute of Societal and Administrative Supervision, you should raise the issue in the discussions tomorrow."
A water capsule is placed in front of him, and it begins to roll down the desk's incline. He has no choice but to put his terminal aside and catch it in his hands. The icy water shocks his senses, forcing him to be distinctly aware of his corporeal body.
"You misunderstand me, Consul. I'm simply here to give you some water." Aurelia's crisp voice dazes him for a moment. She would always pull these little tricks of hers to derail his train of thought. While he did not dislike this excessively chatty colleague of his, he did not enjoy the interruption of his thought process, just as an engineer who hopes that every line he draws will become reality, yet fears seeing those lines suddenly jump out the screen to sting him.
"I assumed you had a more suitable reason than that. Not to mention that my nurse robot manages my diet. If you wished to give me water, you could have sent your own robot to do it."
"See? We are in agreement on what needs a human touch, and what can be left to machines. Which means you're now all ears as to why I'm handing you this water in person! But now you're not content with returning the Ecology Control System to human hands. You also want to conduct 'human modification' for this purpose, right? The System's Monitor units have been laid out within a fifty-kilometer diameter stretch of water. It should be able to autonomously handle any invasive species, barring complete system failure."
Whenever engaged in conversation, Oculatus often feels the effects of his old age. In Ægir, every inflexible, repetitive, mind-numbing task was taken up by machinery. Everything requiring flexibility, freeform thinking and creativity was handled by humanity. How could he not understand this? The one who push for the detailed labor division between humans and machines in the city several decades ago was his younger self. The younger generation has already forgotten his past contributions.
But what brings him impatience now is not his achievements fading away, but that the language he uses has begun to show a deficiency. As a consul of the ISP, he has prided himself on his rhetorical eloquence his entire life. But now, he curses the Institute of Language Design for not creating words sufficient to explain the current situation. Even a fellow consul such as Aurelia has dismissed the Seaborn as yet another invasive species. How could he explain to the Ægir residents of the city the terrifying prospects he sees in them?
"It seems we must discuss this once again. My answer has not changed: I will elaborate in detail the threat the Seaborn pose in tomorrow's meeting. I cannot show you the data in advance, but I can tell you the conclusions: First, the Seaborn are an entirely new form of life, unable to be simply classified
as an invasive species. Second, the Ecology Control System's autonomous behavior will not only not be able to clear them away, but will instead induce characteristics in the Seaborn we would not wish to see."
"You want to throw away several centuries worth of taxo-nomical analysis to declare some ordinary seagrass meadow pests an 'entirely new form of life'? You want to let the populace think our current technology unable to stop them in any way, shape or form, to the point that you believe we have no choice but to break the taboo on human modification?"
"I know exactly what I am doing. Since the Seaborn were able to evolve at a ridiculous pace in just a few short months, so too must Ægir's citizens undergo a radical change in our cognition in the limited time we have."
Oculatus emphasized the word "Ægir". As he finished speaking, he narrowed his eyes, watching minute traces of apprehension creep up Aurelia's face. In the Ægir language, "Ægir" itself was the strongest of words, forever bound to positivity in its meaning. In all these hundreds of years, no-one has dared to say that "there are things the Ægir cannot do". And so the moment Aurelia tries to protest that "Ægir citizens wouldn't be able to change so drastically, so immediately", she near-intuitively cuts off her own words. For a moment, Oculatus felt somewhat relaxed, for it seemed someone had finally begun to understand him. It had taken him longer to accept it when he first realized the rate at which Ægir invented new technologies could not outpace the adaptive speed of the Seaborn.
But Aurelia quickly recovered, her stance yet firm, her words yet fierce: "Even if the change in cognition you envision could be realized, it would be followed by uncontrollable ripples through society."
"Which is why social planning includes leeway for such unforeseen events. Oppression is the foundation of turmoil, and we have long since eliminated it. Whatever small-scale fluctuations remain are insufficient to affect the order of society."
"I do not know what this so-called 'human modification' of yours entails, but I do not believe its impact should be called 'small-scale'. How would you convince the citizens that those who undergo these modifications are still human?"
"If we are able to reach a consensus during tomorrow's meet-ing, the Scientific IDP will immediately begin their research. When the time comes, we will enjoy the support of accurate theoretical data. I can, at least, tell you what this study hopes to see: The consciousnesses of the participants should not be influ-enced in any way. The sole purpose of the genetic adjustments would be to bring the body's strength up to required levels."
"The people of Ægir have always relied on spontaneous creativity to resolve their issues. Since when did we have to
bring people up to 'required levels'?"
Her pointed question leaves Oculatus at a loss for words once more. His relief from being understood was but a fleeting moment. Maintaining his posture exhausted him. He sinks into his chair, the so-called "ergonomic structure" pressing against his waist, preventing him from sinking too deep. Aurelia's youthful figure stood ramrod straight as ever, causing him to feel somewhat isolated. He has lived too long a life, long enough that even Ægir's medical technology cannot perfectly eliminate everything that ails him. He often feels that his mind and body were being separated: His thoughts ever more complex, his flesh ever more dead weight. Most other Ægir of his age accepted euthanasia and passed away. Only he still lashes himself to his post. He fears he has not yet been fully understood. There was always more to say, more to do. As a highly respected science consul, he remained in his office year after year, but those who understand him have dwindled in number.
Now, he must compel his broken body to explain himself once more: "Perhaps I should word it another way. The genetic adjustments will not transform the participants in any specific matter. Instead, they will make up for their bodies' deficiencies, allowing them to pursue whichever stratagems they envision to the fullest degree. Just as how we provide treatment to the sick, or prosthetics to the disabled."
"I understand the frustrations you have with your body, but I do not believe your comparison holds water. The sick and disabled require healing, true, but what deficiencies in a healthy person are so lacking that they require 'transformation' to make up for? You speak as though not discussing the human body, but a machine requiring maintenance. If you truly believed in the worth of humanity, you wouldn't be talking about modifying the body into something else!"
If one were to look back on Oculatus's words, one would see every sentence he utters separates discussion of the mind and the body, as if the mind were the foundation of humanity, while the body is naught more than flesh to be handled how one pleases. He has come to realize his words are no longer congruent with his thoughts, and in truth, it scares him: There is no other Ægir who longs for a healthy, vigorous body more than he, no other who values the unity of body and mind more. Man is not a machine to be loaded with software. This is the most deep-seated opinion of countless Ægir, one that has stood for thousands of years. In that age, the ancestors of the Ægir flowed into the sea via the waterways. Man did not yet understand his body well at the time, and as they listened to the echoes rever-berating in the depths on their chests, they attributed it to some sort of mysterious existence living within. And so, people gave their forms meaning: Creations of the gods. Masterpieces of
nature. Vagaries of fate. Extensions of reason. These meanings coalesced into emotion: Veneration. Admiration. Affection. Adoration. Then, man discovered the legacy buried within the seabed: An unending, inexhaustible font of knowledge and technology. Rapid scientific development led people to realize that there was nothing mysterious about the existence of humanity. The body is but a gathering of myriad cells. And so, they were mired in self-doubt: What meaning is there in what is objectively a collection of cells? What provokes emotion within us when pondering it? These doubts were the center of protracted debate, until one sage raised questions that would influence later generations for millennia to come: Why can a person be the bearer of meaning or the source of emotion, but not a cell? What is so special about scientific terminology and technical terms that they must be separated from all subjective forms of thought?
And so science shed its veil of mystique and majesty henceforth. People no longer worship at the altar of scientific achievement, but neither have they been thoroughly deconstructed into meaningless gatherings of cells. The heart is but an organ to pump blood, and consciousness is merely the result of brain activity, but humanity is by no means a race of organic machines. These precise systems formed from organs, cells, even elementary particles, hold a value that cannot be shaken. Visual art incorporating the human body as the central motif arose at this time, and discovering the beauty of the human form became an important creative endeavor, for such endeavors are the sole way to preserve one's humanity.
"No, I certainly do not have such thoughts! The worth of humanity..." At this point, Oculatus has lost all thoughts of maintaining his composure. All he wants is for Aurelia to understand him. In his panic, he glances at the aquarium to the side. A bloated, pink organism drifts within, its tens of stubby tube feet incessantly flailing about to propel itself forward with minimal dignity. A glimpse of this awkward, ugly life form is all he needs to find his words once more: "Do you happen to know what this is?"
"β Scale-subgland Planktonic Pseudoscalid Myriapod. A hybrid animal whose larval secretions have medical value."
"Indeed." The recycling bin by his hand is filled with discarded pharmaceutical packaging, every vial containing a dried out corpse of a larva. Once extracted, the secretions quickly lose their potency and are difficult to preserve. And so, each dose is stored within a larva's body as its 'packaging', used as needed, and then thrown away. "In comparison, its adult form is worthless, with no value to pharmaceuticals in the slightest, nor is there any use for them in artifical breeding programs. In short, there should not be any adults in this world."
"Then why is there one in your aquarium?"
"A request I put in to the Institute of Biological Research. It may be the only adult of its kind. I raise it only as a reminder to myself. The value of these creatures is determined solely by us, all because we have the ability to break the boundaries between species with gene editing technology. Do you know what else has the ability to break these boundaries? The Seaborn. If we want to discuss the worth of humanity, we must first ensure the power to judge that worth is firmly within our grasp. Only we can recognize our own value. All we are proud of is worthless in the eyes of the Seaborn."
His lengthy, impassioned speech leaves him breathless. But the expression he hoped to see is not there. What lies on her face is nearly... pity. "Even if I believe in your respect for humanity, I still cannot accept the modification of our bodies. The method you chose runs counter to your original intent. Moreover, and do forgive me for going on at length, but you cannot keep using your own illness and medication as an example. Ægir society will need a more official reason."
Every rational argument would have only served to entrench him further in his ways, but this one minor piece of pitying advice causes him to waver. As a consul of the Academy of Science's Institute of Social Planning, he has to consider everything from a standpoint of absolute objectivity. There is no room for subjectivity in his thoughts. But now, Oculatus begins to reflect on things: Was he allowing his hate for his illness and his longing for health affect his work? Was he too focused on how to keep dragging along his ailing flesh, to the point he decided what Ægir needed to save it was the modification of the human body?
The meeting on the second day was never held. Right before it was to begin, the participants discovered that science consul Oculatus had tendered his resignation. His vision for human modification was never discussed openly, and only a select few, including technology consul Aurelia, were aware of his wild fantasy.
Ten or so years later, the situation in Ægir worsened, and a plan to modify the human body was proposed by another consul. This time, it was approved. And so began the Abyssal Hunter Program.
The metal box begins to tremble faintly in the air. The information retrieval module is about to finish loading.
Your autopsy report and health records present themselves before me. You float within a half-sealed vertical glass bathtub, paler than the withered plants in your room. Like driftwood that has spent eons out at sea. The brightly-colored longbeard combtooth grass sprouts out of your chest, and its many tentacles, lined with numerous photophore, spread out beneath the water to form a scarlet, starry sky. Vanes stand erect over the water like sentries, quivering as they search for the photographer's lens. This art you have left behind is alive. As I look at it, so too does it look back at me. If I did not know this was a picture of your suicide, I would have thought myself scrutinizing a painting. Your suicide note was but a single sentence, and you did not even record it within the system. Instead, you opted for the wall. "I have stranded many alongside me upon this meaningless, desolate coast." —Why would you think so? Even after your death, the plants you reared are still beautiful, every specimen the definition of elegance. As though they read about your pursuit of beauty from your blood.
"Search complete. The deceased Florence had no incurable medical conditions when alive. She did not meet the requirements for euthanasia. According to the autopsy report, she committed suicide."
Suicide. A most unfamiliar word. The reason why Ægir can face death so calmly and accept euthanasia when on its door, whether due to age or illness, is because we have created adequate value when we are alive. To walk peacefully into the night is to affirm your life. But in the past hundred years or so, there have been none who wanted to cut off their life early like you did. Suicide, the clearest of rejections. You were an excellent child with outstanding talents. What caused you to have no other choice? I cannot begin to guess. All I can do is reflect over my own thoughts.
"Search complete. My condolences."
It seems that no matter what, this assistant robot is compelled to add the words "Search complete". Polite remarks are no exception. I ask myself this: did I grieve for you, even for a moment? I am a childrearer at the Institute of Incubation, and you are one of my former wards. After twelve years, you left to join the Academy of Technology's Institute of Ecological Art to further your studies and work. If there are any who could acknowledge your worth, it would have been your colleagues there. They were the closest to you. The ties that bind are determined not by blood, or by family, but by those that see the value in you.
Now you return without warning, all to destroy my own! My entire life's worth is in the Institute, doing the work I so love. For decades, I have received custody of countless children from their parents. If I close my eyes, I can still see the relief on the parents' faces, and the expectant gazes of the children. The Institute of Incubation has freed Ægir from the shackles of family life. Something I ardently believed prior to your death. But you chose such an ironic way to commit suicide, planting the longbeard combtooth grass into your chest. Why that plant, the first I gave to you? If it was my rearing that led you down this dead end, then you should have filed a complaint, and allowed me the chance at a formal ruling.
"Search complete. The deceased Florence suffered from chronic insomnia in life. Her most severe bout left her awake for three days."
Insomnia. Yet another unfamiliar term. The assistant robot performed a full database search, but only managed to retrieve a single uninteresting document that briefly mentioned it. The author was a rather free-spirited surveyor. Fifty-three years ago, he was a one-man survey team with a self-developed 'Land Detector', stepping ashore onto the land that no-one else cared for. He describes the land-dweller's "insomnia" thusly: "There, mechanized labor is rare, and the concept of 'family' still holds strong. A person's day is roughly split into three. Eight hours for work, eight for other aspects of life, and eight for sleep. However, their work and life is filled with meaningless repetitiveness. Eight hours performing the same work over and over during the day, then at night they say the same pleasantries, cook the same meals, take care of the same odds and ends as they did the previous. Thanks to these banalities, they must often use time allocated to sleep to do what truly holds meaning for them."
A pity, is it not? In our work, in our lives, the creation of value and our self-actualization are one and the same. They are not stripped of meaning through rote work, and we need not rely on family for approval. The causes we strive for are grand enough. The lives we live are fulfillment enough. What did you desire so that you felt the need to spend your nights making up for your days?
"Search complete. The deceased Florence would create art during the night. Her home is filled with withered and dying plants, most of them subjects of gene editing and form manipulation. They may be her works of 'ecological art'. From May of this year onwards, she no longer gave her abandoned 'drafts' to Recycling, but instead allowed them to rot away at home."
Yes. You've always been obsessed with this since you were a child. Whenever the other children argued over the printer and the video terminal, or when they played with model toys or biomimetic pets, you would instead tend to the plants,
arranging them in fascinating ways. Afterwards, you would learn how to make them grow in certain directions, and bred your own ornamental breeds, ones with stems shaped like golden spirals, or flowers strewn with stars. I always had hope for your burgeoning talent in art. Creation is the sole method to maintain your humanity, and among all the ways to create, art is the most enlightening. A necessity in inspiring the minds and spirits of the populace. You became an outstanding artist as I hoped, the core of the Academy of Technology. What high wall blocked you so that you no longer made new work, that you allowed your hundreds of drafts to rot away?
"Search complete. The deceased Florence received many projects from other institutes in the past six months, helping fill manpower shortages at the Institute of Biological Research and the Institute of Environmental Controlling. Her final project was breeding a hybrid plant containing special neurons, to monitor and report on changes to the environment caused by the Seaborn."
Now it is my image of you that has become unfamiliar. It is rare for people who love their work to wish to leave, and out of everyone I know, you were the one who loved their work the most. You even toiled away in your greenhouse for months on end with barely any rest, all to see your seeds sprout and plants grow with your own eyes. What would make you set aside your life's work so you can get tangled up in other affairs?
"Search complete. These other projects stemmed from Florence's spontaneous applications, and their core concepts were also suggested by her. The Technological IDP's consuls highly appreciated her enthusiasm and creativity, and approved her applications. From that point onwards, she held two jobs, producing her own work while breeding species for these extra projects."
The Florence I remember returns. You always did have a narrow view of the world. Anything within it was your obsession, anything outside of it, you barely thought of. You hoped your world would be perfect. Any leaf with the slightest flaw would be pruned, even if it was only a near-imperceptible curling or yellowing. Clippings of branches and leaves were always floating in your waterbed. How much time did you spend fiddling with them?
The children of the Institute of Incubation are siblings, while us childrearers were the parents. We should have loved one another equally, but I was the adult you wished to be closest to. Perhaps it was because I understood your pursuit for perfection the most. Even if they had a myriad pre-made paints at their disposal, painters of repute must still mix the colors they picture in their minds. Did you not seek such lofty heights too? I wanted to apply for lab-grade equipment for you, no matter how
many procedures I would have had to wade through.
Your eyes had widened much these past few years. If you had begun to pursue perfection in other domains, they must have been drawn into your sights.
"Search complete. The hybrid plants cultivated by the project were swiftly assimilated by the Seaborn after they were released into the environment. The three technicians on duty at the monitoring station failed to secure the data in time and were also assimilated. The Sea Patrol Unit was forced to 'liquidate' them immediately after arriving on the scene. The Institute of Environmental Controlling's database briefly crashed. Most of the data is recoverable, but the extent of the leak is unknown, and it's unclear whether the Seaborn can access or use the leaked information. The project has been canceled, and Florence was questioned by the Academy of Technology before her passing."
Seaborn, Seaborn. Ever since the Sea Patrol fleet suffered its first loss in centuries, these creatures have brought far too many imperfections. Yet, they are but a fleeting disaster, and we will undoubtedly achieve a glorious victory in the end. What if you could wait just a little longer, what if you could look a bit further ahead? An Ægir may face challenges beyond their individual strength, but Ægir as a whole can solve any problem. Not every imperfection must be eradicated by your own hand—why was I unable to teach you such a simple truth? Perhaps the sad truth is that I was not worthy enough to teach you that... Some things can remain broken, while others must be flawless—aren't we all weighed down by that obsession? If not for this, if not for the desire to examine whether my life's work had developed hidden imperfections, I wouldn't have troubled myself to investigate your death.
"Search complete. According to standard procedure, the Director of the Institute of Environmental Controlling must indeed face inquiries. However, due to the project's significant impact on Ægir's national security, the consul has the authority to question any personnel involved with the project. Though not officially part of the Institute of Environmental Controlling, Florence played a key role in the project's execution and is therefore obligated to cooperate fully with the investigation and all crisis response work."
"Search complete. At the industry level, the number of people working in artistic fields has been steadily declining; many major art institutions have been repeatedly downsizing their staff, and the Institute of Ecological Art is no exception. Although the number of art exhibitions and events has remained stable, participation has declined, while the average age of attendees has increased significantly."
"Search complete. On a personal level, Florence's output has steadily declined in recent years, with her artwork receiving
mixed reviews. She also serves as deputy director of the Institute of Ecological Art, and her administrative work has also been spotty lately. She submitted multiple requests to cancel this year's exhibition at the Institute or, at the very least, exclude her own artwork from it.
Search complete. While sitting for the inquiry, Florence used the term 'stranded' to describe both her own life and the plants she had cultivated: 'Alive, yet unable to create value. Unable to create value, yet unable to die properly, we are stranded in a state that should not exist, somewhere between life and death.' Her statement sparked controversy and was deemed 'incompatible with the spirit of society.'
The old man stopped his search. He turned off the assistant robot and sank into his waterbed. He had halted his investigation before the weight of unease could engulf him. He had sensed something amiss: there was a subtle shift happening in Ægir's society—Florence, a poor, sensitive soul, was the first reflection of this change.
He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or afraid—relieved, because it seemed like Florence's suicide had nothing to do with him and stemmed from something far more complicated—or afraid, because he had no idea why the consuls of the two institutes would allow such changes to occur in Ægir in the first place.
At least his work still had meaning, he thought, and resolved to sleep. Tomorrow, he would welcome two new children, and he couldn't afford to drain too much energy beforehand. But moments later, he roused the assistant robot once again. "What do you think? Why did she do it? Was it the pressure of the inquiry? Artist's block? A loss of purpose? A disconnect with reality?"
Search complete. Thank you for using the 'Little Handy' assistant robot's information retrieval module. Please note that this unit is only capable of retrieving existing information and cannot think as humans do. To prevent users from mistaking this unit's output for opinions, this unit will strictly adhere to the 'Search complete' format. We appreciate your understanding.
It is now 8:00 AM on July 29th. Good morning, citizens of Herculaneum. Today, the air cycle is set to 'breeze,' and the light/heat control system is set to 'sunny.' I am thrilled to announce that, according to calculations by the Institute of Environmental Controlling, Herculaneum will experience its first natural volcanic eruption of the century around 10:00 AM today. Mount Herculaneum is one of the largest energy reservoirs in the ocean.
These days, most cities in Ægir rely on hydrogen energy. However, geothermal energy was the first type of energy the Ægir learned to harness. Our beautiful city, Herculaneum, benefits from its ample natural resources and remains one of the few cities in Ægir that still primarily uses geothermal energy.
We have excavated over 300 energy wells within five nautical miles from the volcano. Each well is equipped with pressure boosters capable of generating lava flows equivalent to a small volcanic eruption, even during dormant periods. The wells contain a special liquid, which, under 30 million Pa of pressure at high temperatures, is converted into a supercritical fluid. The electricity generated from this fluid accounts for 70% of Herculaneum's energy consumption.
The official channel of the Institute of Environmental Controlling will broadcast a live, multi-angle feed of the eruption. Those of you on break today may step outside and witness the spectacle firsthand. Protective eyewear has been distributed via optical cables to all nodes; you can collect them from your home or work terminals. The eyewear supports voice, gesture, and bioelectric controls and includes features such as photography, video recording, 3D modeling, and data analysis.
The city's light/heat control system will temporarily shut down during the eruption to ensure the clearest possible view of the event. 'Sun Forger' will pause operations and close temporarily. Visitors with reservations can reschedule their tours. Thank you for your understanding.
As we marvel at the volcanic eruption, let us not forget to pay our highest respects to the great Vulcanus. The heatproof dome, designed under his leadership, is capable of withstanding up to Category 4 volcanic eruptions. Herculaneum will remain completely safe as it endures the release of hundreds of millions of cubic meters of volcanic material. During the eruption, the dome's color panels will also be temporarily disabled, allowing citizens to witness the true color of its heat shield.
"Attention, citizens. Due to data interference from an unknown source, the calculations reported earlier may have been incorrect. The intensity of this eruption could exceed Category 4 and may reach as high as Category 7. However, there is no need to panic. Even at a Category 7 intensity, the heatproof dome will hold for a sufficient amount of time. Herculaneum's emergency mobility protocols will be activated within the next two hours, during which the entire city will be safely moved out of the eruption's impact zone."
"Herculaneum operates on a hybrid mobility system that combines legs and propulsion units, trading speed for maximum stability. Currently, around one-fifth of Ægir's cities use this system. Once the legs lift the city's base, the bottom propulsion units will keep the city aloft. Primary thrust will come from the main propulsion unit, while the legs assist with more complex maneuvers like speed adjustments, turning, and crossing difficult terrain."
"Under normal circumstances, the auxiliary thrusters on the city's flanks are used to keep the residential areas stable and level. However, the city needs to move quickly, so we may be forced to repurpose some auxiliary thrusters to provide additional propulsion. This may cause shaking and turbulence. Public shelters have been opened for your protection. Additionally, quick-charge protective films have been delivered to all nodes via fiber optic cables. Please collect yours promptly at your home or work terminal. When using the quick-charge protective film, remove any heavy clothing and secure the film generator to your chest. To prevent accidental activation, it is recommended that all citizens switch the control mode of the film generator to automatic."
"Attention, attention. Unknown branch-shaped biological structures have emerged from the lava, accompanied by a large number of Seaborn Newborns. Legs 3 and 4, as well as the bottom thrusters, have suffered varying degrees of damage, and the Seaborn have clogged the main thrust's combustion chamber. None of the Seaborn have shown aggression yet. Repairs to the city's mobility systems are underway. All relevant agencies are taking necessary measures to eliminate the Seaborn and restore the city's mobility."
"Attention, attention. For safety reasons, we must evacuate everyone to designated safe zones outside the city. Please proceed immediately to the assigned evacuation points and board the escape ships in an orderly manner. The evacuation will be fully escorted by the Sea Patrol. We ask that all citizens remain calm and cooperate with the evacuation process."
"Attention, attention. All city gates have been opened, and the evacuation fleet is ready to set sail. Essential personnel will remain at their posts, and this channel will continue broadcasting updates. Please stay tuned for further information."
"Leg 3 has been repaired, and the main thruster is back online."
"There are no indications that the Seaborn numbers are decreasing; Leg 1 has been immobilized by creeping branches."
"Massive collapse in the energy wells. Immediately initiate the mobility program and attempt to lift the city with the remaining legs."
"Citizens who have not yet evacuated, please proceed to the designated evacuation points immediately!"
"To all my fellow citizens who have not yet evacuated, I extend you my deepest respect."
"The clean up and repair operations are underway; Herculaneum has not fallen."
"The forebears are with you, Ægir is with you."
In the early eleventh century, nearly 100 years after the first Ægir set foot on the shores of Iberia, the Iberian Kingdom was at the height of its glory. People's fascination with strange and wondrous tales had overtaken their passion for exploration. Most Ægir who fled to Iberia lived in seclusion, yet they quietly introduced their advanced knowledge and technology into Iberian society. However, this structured knowledge and technology were beyond the Iberians' comprehension; they preferred to "hastily strip things of their essence", turning them into exotic and bizarre forms of "mental fast food".
The owner of this notebook once worked for the "Ægir Circus". Animal performances and freak shows were popular forms of entertainment in Iberia, but people had grown tired of seeing burdenbeasts walking upside down and tuskbeasts balancing on seesaws. Even battles between malformed manglerbeasts and two-headed Gloomipincers had lost their charm. Instead, people turned their attention toward rare treasures from the deep sea.
After coming ashore, we quickly encountered the land-dwellers. It was a small Iberian fincatching village, modest and poor, where the locals made their living by fincatching and small trades. Despite their limited means, they kindly allowed us to stay in the village temporarily. After dinner, the children and the elders gathered around us. Sometimes they made awkward small talk; other times they said nothing at all and just stared at us intently. This strange scene finally ended when one of our companions, as a gesture of gratitude, presented them with a gold-inlaid pocket watch. Within two days, someone came to us, claiming to be a representative of the local nobility, asking if we could go with them. Most of the people in our group cautiously declined; they wanted to make contact with the Ægir who had previously come ashore, rather than be led by a few unknown land-dwellers. Only a handful of people, including me, boarded the vehicle without really understanding the situation. The countries on land were livelier than I had imagined but also more chaotic. As we passed through the market, the air was thick with the stench of dead things. A group of children in raggedy clothes emerged out of crates, from behind the cargo sheds, and from under the eaves, shouting incoherently as they chased after us like a pack of hungry Seaborn Newborns. They held up local smoked ham, distilled spirits from the land, and even Seaborn-shaped handicrafts, most likely hoping to trade with us for a few valuable items. A large four-legged animal sniffed curiously at our vehicle, then turned and deposited a foul-smelling pile of dung on one of the wheels. Its owner laughed uncontrollably, hiccuping from drink. The "noble representative" leading the carriage drew his sword and cursed at him in a language we couldn't understand, and the man slunk away in shame. After driving out of the maze of low houses, we arrived at a relatively tidy district. The air carried a different scent, one
of burning tobacco and fresh paint that made us wrinkle our noses. The carriage stopped in front of an imposing mansion, and we were asked to wait at the entrance. After days of running around, we hadn't had a chance to rest, and our group was showing clear signs of fatigue. Someone quickly approached us. They pulled out a bottle of thick, blue-green liquid and presented it to us proudly: "This is the prized drink that the Ægir consul drinks every day. One bottle will invigorate you, two will give you the strength of a burdenbeast, and three will make traveling by land or sea no problem at all". I waved my hand to decline, but he persisted: "You must have come from the sea, right? After such a long journey, you must be exhausted. Are you sure you don't want to try it?" I was surprised that while he knew I was an Ægir, he seemed completely unaware that Ægir had no such strange "beverage". It looked more like the nutrient solution that the Institute of Biological Research use for plants... Before long, the staff at the mansion invited us inside. We were greeted by a woman claiming to be of Iberian nobility, with a lavishly dressed elderly Ægir following behind her. For most of the time, the noblewoman remained silent, stroking a long-haired animal that constantly bared its teeth. The elderly Ægir handled most of the negotiations. He introduced us to the noblewoman, reciting her excessively long and pompous title. After engaging in some small talk (mostly talking to himself) he expressed a desire to speak with each of us individually. I soon followed him out of the mansion and back into the chaotic open area outside. Dozens of crooked tents were set up, and wooden carts with tethered animals were scattered about. I saw a nearly three-meter-tall giant, with sharp black horns on its head, twisted into a grotesque posture and confined in a small wooden cangue. I saw two withered figures, one human and one beast, curled up inside a large glass tank. Black crystals pierced through their skin, fusing them together into what resembled a conjoined creature. They looked at me in a way I
had never seen before—the gelatinous orbs in their eye sockets turned towards me, yet were devoid of any gaze. I couldn't even comprehend why they were moving their eyes.
The elder spoke much more plainly this time. He said that if I wished to live a stable and prosperous life in Iberia, he was willing to show me the way, on the condition that I agree to use the knowledge and skills I "brought from the sea" to help with certain "ventures". As he spoke, he opened an intricately carved ash wood display cabinet, revealing an array of items ranging from household goods to decorative objects. Though the items vaguely resembled Ægir craftsmanship in shape, they were haphazardly painted in garishly bright colors, completely lacking any sense of artistry. After fiddling with the display for a moment, the elder pulled out a strange shell covered in the skin of some unknown animal and painted with a glossy gold lacquer. The shape of the shell resembled that of a Seaborn species from the seabed, but the spindly spines on the shell clearly belonged to a different Seaborn species. I later learned that the shell was indeed pieced together from the bones of various species of Seaborn. Compared to other things I had seen on land in recent days, it almost seemed ordinary, yet I still struggled to understand why it was there.
"Having just arrived, you should start with something simple. Perhaps you can help us present it at the circus freak show."
I was a bit confused—as a writer, my knowledge of the Seaborn is limited to what I learned in school. Before I could fully express my concerns, the elder impatiently waved his hand. "You know, not everyone can sit through an Ægir-style academic presentation. What we need from you are some interesting stories about the Seaborn. This piece is being sold as a collectible, and it needs a sufficiently novel origin to fetch a good price."
Ægir had not developed a systematic method for classifying the Seaborn by the time I left. Our traditional methods were insufficient to address their variability, and I didn't even know how to refer to the strange shell in front of me. Yet, the elder once again casually dismissed my doubts: "Forget scientific classifications. In Iberia, it should be called the 'Radiant Spineshell'."
I almost began to doubt whether the elder was truly an Ægir. Perhaps under his hat, he hid the furry ears of some land-dwelling race, and I simply couldn't see them. I didn't understand what he was thinking. Ægir stories discuss the meaning of existence, the value of actions, and the limits of humanity. Fabricating a strange name and bizarre backstory for a weird Seaborn shell felt like a waste of time and language. That afternoon, I found a "pawnshop" in town where I could exchange items for money. I traded my water flow meter for some local currency and set out to find the Ægir settlements.
If the land-dwellers only wanted to hear meaningless babble that butchered language, at least the Ægir still needed stories from home.
It wasn't difficult to find fellow Ægir; nearly every caravan could easily point out the locations of several Ægir settlements. The refugees who fled to shore hadn't had time to bring enough equipment and tools, resulting in a strange mix of modern and primitive living conditions there. When I arrived, the town was in the process of installing fiber optic cables, supposedly to reestablish contact with the seabed. They were using animals to pull winches and wrapping the delicate cables around rough wooden stakes, which made me nervous just watching. The town's guard, a young Ægir woman, observed me from atop a large four-legged animal. The saddle she sat on appeared to be made from parts of a scrapped "Little Handy", with pulleys from a Wilderness Survival Module repurposed as stirrups. She nodded, signaling for me to enter. Her smile was unfamiliar to me; it wasn't the precise, graceful smile I had learned in the nursery, but a hearty, unrestrained one—a land-dweller's smile. That's when I realized that the guard was an Ægir who was born on land.
At first, the people here were eager to listen to my stories. After dinner, they would gradually gather by the seaside and light a bonfire, and I would share my tales with them. But over time, the children stopped coming. These Ægir born on land didn't understand my discussions of meaning, value, and humanity; what they wanted were tales of giant shells and magnificent ships. The elders were still willing to chat with me, but they couldn't solve my biggest problem—money. One simply could not make a living by writing, not even in the Ægir settlements. Generous neighbors would sometimes offer me goods after hearing my stories, but it was never enough to make ends meet. Every day, I wake up with an empty, hollow pain, as if a pump had drained my abdomen during the night. In the first half of my life, I had never experienced this feeling called "hunger". It's not enough to cloud my mind, but over time, it makes thinking feel like a luxury. Most of the people in town make their living through farming or manual labor, repetitive mechanical work. I've heard that some Ægir, with the support of the Iberian royal family, can engage in scientific research, but they are a rare few.
After a month, I returned to that circus run by the local nobility and took that freak show job. I needed to eat. In my spare time, I continued organizing the materials I had brought from Ægir, turning them into stories. I don't know who, if anyone, will ever read them, but I have to keep writing.