298 Sol
Donovan watched in subdued awe as the seed opened in his hand, a bright (but not blinding) purple glow spreading in strange patterns across the surface as those stripes he had pumped Split through dissolved into nothing. It unfurled from one end, the sections he thought would fall away instead bending and softening into several layers of petals that formed a mesmerizing flower, the fruit of which was supported by a thick stem in the center.
". . . finally." As the sickeningly sweet scent he was familiar with assailed him once more, Donovan permitted himself a moment to relax. He would need to eat it and throw the pit into the star, the latter being a point of mild worry for him, but nothing indicated a need for immediate action. "Are we in position?"
"I am slowing our orbit down to a thrust neutral position, however there is still a minute or two until we can be certain it will not be stuck in orbit. Shall I make preparations to track it?"
"Don't bother." Donovan played with the petals, gently inspecting the patterns shifting across their surfaces in response to his poking and prodding. They were far too close for him to over-throw the seed, his meager arm strength not being anywhere near what would be necessary to establish an orbit. "Just point me in the right direction."
Arc had made the executive decision to place the Pegasus in an orbit around the Sun's orbital pole, out of the way of the dust clouds. A constant acceleration needed to be applied 'upward' to keep them from crossing the orbital plane of said dust, but with infinite energy at their disposal and a total lack of propellants needed to maneuver it wasn't nearly as much of a concern as it would have been a year ago.
"What of the metal samples?" Donovan looked to the wooden orbs attached to the ends of various sub-stalks, six in total. They were much thinner connections, likely as a result of not needing to provide sustenance to them. He found it curious that they were supporting such bulky masses without much in the way of materiel to offer resistance.
"Are you excited about them?"
"Would it be wrong if I said I was?"
"Not at all." Donovan smirked, happy for Arc that he might finally have something interesting to occupy his near infinite free time. Careful not to disturb the main fruit, he plucked one of the orbs from its stalk - which promptly dissolved in a manner similar to the strands he had channeled Split through. Rolling it around in his fingers did not reveal anything indicating how to open it, and he doubted there would be another trick given the smooth surface. The Great Csillacra probably anticipated this to be Arc's wheelhouse, so it would not surprise him if the answer was brute force or a laser. "Keep me updated on your findings."
"I will inform you with vigor." Donovan plucked the remaining beads and placed them on his sweat drenched shirt so they wouldn't roll around. Even if it would be difficult to lose them in the wide open bay, he didn't want to go on a ruck if they scattered to the four winds. Confident Arc's new toys were in safe keeping, he turned his attention back to the fruit.
In many ways the fruit was exactly the same as the one he had eaten before, from the intoxicatingly sweet scent to the enticing purple hue to the dense but squishy flesh, however he swore there was something ever so slightly off about it. Perhaps it was a trick of the senses, or maybe a trick of those new senses, but it appeared different visually, as though there were patterns flowing across the surface just beyond what his own two eyes could show him. Unfortunately, he didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for with that other sense of his, the fruit being a mess of concentrated Split writhing to and fro.
Twisting it from supporting stem did not kill the flower or stem, at least not immediately. He half expected them to dissolve in a manner similar to the stalks, however he supposed those were a bit different in terms of makeup. If it would remain in this state forever, like the crown Titanyana had received alongside her title, he might leave it's use to Diana. His appreciation for aesthetics was on the lower end, after all.
"Shall I lower the door?"
"Yeah." Donovan started to eat the fruit while walking towards the door, nausea washing over him as the juices traveled down his throat. A surge of Split radiating from his stomach had threatened to overwhelm him after just one bite. Evidently a shift in focus was going to be necessary, and fast. Just getting it to his core was all he needed to avoid decay, however that might prove difficult.
Free floating Split operated similarly to a gas. There were a quite a few differences, but 'pressure' and 'density' were concepts that translated quite well. It was difficult to concentrate Split, and even more difficult to move low concentrations of Split into high concentrations. That said, the difference in applied force - 'pressure' - needed to change concentration - 'density' - did not follow the relationships he expected of gasses. Gasses in their ideal form exhibited a linear relationship between 'density' and 'pressure' assuming that was the only thing being changed, meaning the force resisting the addition of more gas would increase in proportion to the amount of gas present in that volume. This relationship between 'pressure' and 'density' was not directly proportional with Split, being more logarithmic in nature.
Arc's data varied in a manner that suggested there were more elements involved in the calculation, such as temperature and the weight of molecule with gasses, however it was observed from testing that multiplying a concentration of Split by 'y' would add 'x' to the multiplier of force necessary. Using an arbitrarily selected concentration of Split recognized to be 1 unit of density (they still didn't have a system of units for Split hammered out), 1 unit of force would be necessary to push more Split into it. If this density were to be raised to 10 units, 2 units of force would be necessary. Raising it to 100 units of density would mean 3 units of force, 4 units at 1,000, 5 units at 10,000, and so on. This was a 'Base Ten' relationship, but Arc had data sets with relationships as low as 1.1 and up into the high hundreds.
Granted, most of those anomalous sets were in labs well before everything disintegrated, so there was an incredibly high chance that the low concentrations they worked with introduced an extreme degree of error in both reading concentration and force necessary, but Arc's recent tests still varied between 5 and 20. Donovan didn't exactly have measuring equipment inside of his body, but gut feeling suggested a 'base' somewhere around 100, though it could easily be higher or lower. The appreciably high base meant the required force would not grow that much, it would be impossible to form usable strands otherwise, but it made the aggregation of larger quantities into the core a much more exhausting task than one might expect, particularly someone at the end of their rope with this sort of manipulation.
Someone like Donovan.
Fortunately it wasn't a dire situation. The fruit wasn't about to wither or spoil on the spot nor did it appear to be leaking any of the Split held within. He could take his time and enjoy the flavor, cloying though it otherwise was.
- - - - -
Eat, aggregate, slam. Over the course of half an hour, Donovan found what he felt to be the most efficient method for digesting the pomegranate sized fruit.
First he took a bite, letting the Split disperse throughout his body a bit before aggregating it around his core. The limit of this aggregation was the fuzzy sensation bordering on numbness, at which point he needed to slam as much Split as possible into his core to prevent decay from starting around it. His logic was that reducing the difference in concentration between just outside his core and the inside would reduce the amount of effort he would need to compress it further. Doing so would make further compression more difficult, but by the time he was having difficulties with that step his body had enough capacity to accommodate the rest of the fruit.
"Was it tasty?"
Donovan stared at the pit between his fingers with glazed eyes. He could still see and think properly, however he couldn't feel a great many portions of his body. Those he could had evolved from fuzzy numbness to pinpricks of pain amidst a dull aching. Overall he felt as though he was swelling up in places, and that his flesh was somehow losing its integrity.
"It was alright." The words fell from his mouth in a manner that didn't sound quite right, as though he had been drinking or maybe punched in the face. Either way, Arc did not voice a concern. "Can I throw it now?"
"Whenever you feel ready."
He wasted no time tossing it sunwards, not even making an attempt to to track it with his eyes amidst the suffocating blackness of Sol. Such would be an exercise in futility, and there wasn't a chance the seed would miss given the size and gravitational pull of the target mass. The primary focus now was digesting this glut of Split, filtering it into his core as soon as he could muster up the strength to do so. After picking up his stuff he made for the elevator, not willing to risk a fall in this state. He barely remained conscious long enough to collapse on his bed.
- - - - -
A gentle breeze caressed his closed eyelids, lashes fluttering slightly as he worked up the strength to open his eyes. Before that, though, a trickle of information from his other senses reached his brain.
A collection of silky strands brushing his face. The rustling of leaves in a passing gust. A soft, fruity scent tickling his nose. All culminated in a collage of dark reds seen through murky vision, Donovan struggling to wipe away the fog in his eyes with a lethargic hand. For a moment, only a moment, he suspected a nightmare, that his overloaded body and mind had concocted an unpleasant experience from the sensory overload of the fruit.
It did not take him long to realize this was not the case, though this environment did not make clear if it could be trusted with a lack of caution. Years of training had associated the color red with danger and warnings, his awareness of this fact tipping him off to how his subconscious might develop a dream with this association in mind. That said, there wasn't much he would be able to do if there was a danger. His body did not respond to the orders from his mind the way he wanted, the numbness and fatigue from his waking hours translating to this dream of his, so much so that moving about his arms felt more like working a puppet than his own body.
Propping himself up took far longer than he would have liked, and once he did the amount of focus he needed to devote towards staying upright was more than his tired mind was willing to put up with. Eventually, having performed a precursory scan of his surroundings and finding nothing of note besides an infinite field of red grass and flowers and a pitch black sky, he flopped down onto his back. If there was a danger here, it wouldn't mean much. This was a dream, after all.
Thank you.
He recognized the voice immediately, though he found it odd that the it was a 'voice' now. It had presence, volume, and it felt more complete than mere emotions or feelings.
Thank you very much.
"For what?" He wasn't sure if this conversation was 'real', but he had no intentions of treating it as fake.
For bringing me here. For listening to me.
"I don't expect thanks for the bare minimum. If anything, I should be apologizing for hurting you through my lack of understanding."
The seed . . . sapling, was silent. Donovan could not see it anywhere, he was facing the infinite void instead of his terrestrial surroundings, so he didn't know what it was doing. He could hazard a guess though.
My mother said I should test you. Donovan felt vindication in his suspicions. Teach you as well, but primarily test you. She said that if you could not achieve at least that much, then you would not be able to handle our connection.
"The Great Csillacra is a female?" He jumped at the implication that there might be (or rather might have been) others.
Females are the ones who bare children, are they not? If she were not my mother, what else would she be?
He didn't know how to respond to that. It seemed kind of obvious in that lens, but it was possible for trees to handle both the 'male' and 'female' ends of the spectrum. Unfortunately, that still didn't answer his question.
"Anyways. It is nice to meet you. You can call me Donovan, should you so choose." This wasn't what he imagined a baby to be like, especially not one that had been throwing a tantrum mere hours ago. It was far too refined, almost adult in terms of demeanor and communication. "What should I call you?"
I don't know.
"What?"
I do not know. My mother did not give me a name, nor did she ever tell me hers. I can only imagine she does not have one.
"But isn't she called the Great Csillacra?"
She thinks it to be a title, not her name. It is the role she plays in the eyes of mortals, not her identity as an individual.
"Oh." If he was being honest that only introduced more questions, though he could answer a few of them with little effort. For example, what use would a being who did not communicate with sound have for a name - something that developed through language - when their primary method of communication was mental images? A simple 'you' would be enough! "What do you want your name to be?"
Something with a modicum of thought put into it.
"Should I take that as an insult?"
Merely an observation of your preferred method of approach. To insinuate a positive or negative connotation was not my intention.
Donovan had already decided to drop the matter. He didn't wish to argue with an entity that possessed an entirely different frame of reference. What constituted good manners would be different, especially for one so young. More importantly he needed to
"In that case, are you reading my mind?"
Somewhat. We share a connection now, but I'm making an attempt to respect your privacy. I would not be able to communicate without some degree of shared knowledge. After all, I am still just a baby.
He closed his eyes, noticing a complete lack of change in what he could see. For a moment he wondered why he could see the grass and flowers without a source of light, quickly discarding it as a dream thing.
"Sol."