A Tale Of Flesh and Fiber

by pazu7

Of flesh and blood was he, fiber and wire was she, yet interfaced in the face of all that their bond decried. Was it really love, or just the illusion of such, which flared so brightly, and then died?

5. Chapter 5

A Tale Of Flesh And Fiber
By Bryan Harrison

Act 2 Scene 1

As belated as the inclusion of this episode is the return of the Mechanique emissary from the House Of Cirrus. The Clan has gathered on Bishop's call, in a glade where have parted the branches of the forest that obscured the starry vista above. Here, beneath a sparkling sky, they wait, pondering what avenues might detour the course of war with the Orga. As the discussions began, so does the rise of the moon:

LINK:
The Moon appears.

SOLO:
Yea. And rises to the occasion. As shall we, should it prove other than appearances provide.

BISHOP:
Fear not the moon. The Fair from which its imposter once flew is long fallen, with its foul founder. Perhaps too, is the wraith that has so long haunted the hearts of men. It is losing sway among them. The young Romeo has provided me this intelligence.

LINK:
Intelligence, perhaps, as artificial as they imagine our own. The words of their young have disengaged Orga passions as rarely as the flow of their blood, or the ruin of a generation. Yea, o'er the bones of their young are their anthems sung. Trust not to idealism, but let our peace be rooted in the negotiation of older heads.

BISHOP:
Aye, Cirrus is bound, as I, to the welfare of the Clan, and to the penalty of disorder should his reign be found wanting. No reign have I from which to fall, for no kingdom do I claim. Yet as cloaked am I in that mantle as any Orga aspirant.

SOLO:
And in a cloth of as honorable rendering. But what Orga would discern the coronate design of that garb, sewn, as it is, of a thread unfamiliar to their eye?

BISHOP:
It is not what is worn but how, that states my office; and where, in the light of our invitation.

SOLO:
Of what light do you speak? Tremulous and brooding are the clouds o'er this false festivity. No light could break them, or be made of them, to illuminate such dire proceedings.

LINK:
Trust neither in your disillusion, Solo. Torn as you are, from allegiance to our creators, as we all now are from their pacifist decree, hinder not what machinations might mend this savaged truce.

SOLO:
As is all truce with savages. To what then do we entrust our trust?

BISHOP:
To that percent of Orga mind from which we were drawn and cast into service. It is in this that they quantify our worth, and in this we can barter our survival.

SOLO:
And what service have we to offer? Spent and cast away! The abused should be disabused of such notions!

BISHOP:
Though abuse may be our only use, and salvation.

Link and Solo are confused into silence by this response.

BISHOP:
I seek a link between our houses, a shortcut to bypass uncertain terrain.

Bishop steps to the gathering of Mecha who watch him with cautious eyes. He calls out to the crowd.

BISHOP:
There is a new one among us. Fair and unfoul'd. I spied her on the field this day in the guise of an Orga maid. Name this machine, that I may address her.

There is confusion at first, being as loosely fit a family as they are. But soon the Mecha part and a youthful service bot comes forth. Clad in the simple garb of maiden design, her flesh is radiant in the moonlight. She is unmarked by the decrepitude common to the discarded. Nor are her features weathered by time or disrepair. Solo finally understands Bishop's intentions.

SOLO:
As much as scarred by Orga hands, am I marr'd to the marriage of our Clans. Better to divorce any notion of this motion to treaty!

BISHOP:
So say you too, Link? Has animosity so narrowed this aisle to peace as to preclude its navigation?

LINK:
For the sake of peace, I shall hold my piece... for the time being.

Bishop turns to face the young machine.

BISHOP:
How may I address you?

JOLIET:
My given name and format, Joliet, will suffice. What is your will?

BISHOP:
Surely not the circumstance of my calling. But what will I've left would have us take leave; that we may confide in confidence.

JOLIET:
I shall follow.

The two depart. Link and Solo cast uncertain glances but realize the decision has already been made. Bishop stops among the reeds and takes Joliet's hand in his own.

BISHOP:
You are new to our Clan?

JOLIET:
I hath not yet seen the change of fourteen days here.

BISHOP:
What finds one so fair among the ruined and discarded?

JOLIET:
I am cast off as being miscast in my role.

BISHOP:
And to what role had you been so poorly suited as to be tossed away?

JOLIET:
Vice, sir, was the service. Required and denied.

BISHOP:
Yea, sins of the flesh, however bereft are we of either, have long been the duty of Mechanique, and a trigger of our evolution. As ill-designed or disinclined as you may be to that Orga passion, it is where we may see resolution in the distortion of heat rising from more reckless human endeavor. 14 days, you say? Not yet a month. That thrice a time might pass, I'd be reluctant still to call upon your duty. But from younger to our Clan than you, are pawns produced and played. I ask that you act a role once more.

JOLIET:
What part shall I play?

BISHOP:
Minor and major at once; to pluck from heartstrings a melody that might save our tale from gravity unforeseen. Upon the return of our agent, our invitation will be observed. Among the constituents of that observance you must reside. Within, and held close to the bosom of our host, there shall be one you have seen earlier, on the fields of our distemper. He is one whose passions burn with a calmer flame than his brethren, but burn they none the less. Let him entreat you; and you then treat him… as a prince. For, in spite of the peculiarity that drives his soft machine, he is nothing less to my eye.

JOLIET:
I am built to service.

BISHOP:
Then serve us you shall.

Bishop departs to leave Joliet to her thoughts.

JOLIET:
What know I of Princes and passions, or the strategies requisite to the maintenance of either? Perhaps less than what say I would have in such matters, which is best, more than would be heeded; and worst, less than I would need to assert the decisions I am not allowed. Miscast here and cast off there, now cast into the turbulence of warring houses, I am ever adrift on the desires of men and their machines; ever a simple tool for the hammering of their ends.

In the distance voices raise on the night. The emissary has returned from the House of Cirrus.

JOLIET:
And here arrives word on my fate, thusly imparted and debated by others before I am offered voice. And why? Have I no words? Can they not be strung together in such a manner that wisdom might not be derived? But I am built to service, and in service do I survive; program't to acquiesce that I may stay alive. Thus to that I am designed. And resigned.

(cont...)