Chapter Text
I'm crying and she is laughing
Her joy is slowly tapping into me
So heavenly when
She moves like water touching silver
And she remembers
Gray days and skies of cloud and thunder
It's beautiful to her
The stars all around her
My heart beating louder
There's something about her
That makes me smile
-Beautiful, The Echoing Green
When the Awoken first emerged from the Distributary and settled in the Reef, they were unprepared for the violence of the Fallen. Despite the superior weaponry the Awoken had brought with them, the sheer numbers of the aliens often drove the Awoken into hiding, particularly when the Fallen threatened the mothers and children.
One man took it upon himself to defend his people: Tyrone Lanceborn, so named for his skill with spears and javelins. The added range gave him an advantage against the four-armed aliens and their deadly electrified daggers.
For decades, Tyrone was a fierce defender of the Awoken, protecting their expanding settlements and spaceports. The Awoken fondly called him their Guardian, even though Tyrone was not one of the Traveler's Chosen.
But one day, Tyrone was struck down by a gang of spear-wielding Marauders who ambushed him while he was alone. He felled ten of them, but the rest cut him to pieces in savage revenge.
Tyrone's will stated that he wished to be buried in an open crypt. "It may be that the Traveler will bring me back to defend my people," he wrote. "I am willing to take that chance."
He was buried with honors in the crypt reserved for fallen Corsairs and other beloved warriors of the Awoken. Beside the slab where his body lay embalmed was an inscription:
Born of Light and Dark
A heart for his people
Hope for a new dawning
As the Light spreads ever brighter
Years passed.
Ghosts wandered into the crypt to examine the bodies for the spark of their Chosen. Once in a great while, a Ghost would resurrect one of those cold bodies, restoring them to life, filled with Light, but no memory. These newly risen Awoken walked out of the crypt, confused and disoriented, and did not return.
But no Ghost raised Tyrone Lanceborn.
Every Ghost scanned his bones and read the inscription. Every Ghost was hopeful, for a long second, that this hero might belong to them. But each one flew away, disappointed.
The Dark Ages on Earth passed into the age of the Iron Lords. Slowly that gave way to the City Age, as humanity's survivors gathered beneath to Traveler and constructed the Last Safe City. Ghosts raised Chosen, year after year, who came to be known as the Guardians. While some turned out bad, most strove to serve the Light and humanity by protecting them from the forces of Darkness.
One cold, windy night in the Reef, a Ghost took refuge in the crypt.
He was a sturdy, determined Ghost, despite his worn shell and a badly scratched eye lens. He had been searching for his Chosen for such a long time, he had stopped counting the years. He'd survived encounters with every alien faction known to humanity, as well as Awoken pirates, and the hazards of weather and vacuum. He and the other Ghosts encouraged each other to keep on with their search. Someday, all of them would find their Chosen, their better half, the one whose Light resonated with their own.
The Ghost had found several nearly-suitable sparks over the years, but the Warlords had taught the Ghosts that not all humans made good Chosen. Some served nothing higher than their own appetites, hunting and enslaving the humans they had been raised to defend. Those kinds were better off left dead, as many bereaved Ghosts warned their siblings.
Despite the biting cold that had nearly frozen his shell to his core, the Ghost set about scanning each corpse. Moving in a businesslike way, he scanned each stone slab and the body lying on it, first along the north wall, then along the south wall. No sparks. No Light. At least, none that matched the picture in his core of the singular soul matched to his own.
The crypt had several rooms. The Ghost worked through each one, not thinking much, except about the awful weather. If it didn't clear by sunrise, he had to decide whether to shelter here, or try to make a run for the next settlement, three miles away. He was tough, but he was no fool. The weather in the Reef, only a thin layer of atmosphere cocooning asteroids and wrecked spaceships, was cold and turbulent. A tiny flying robot like himself might get blasted straight out into space.
Beyond these concerns, the Ghost wasn't thinking about much in particular. He had scanned so many thousands of corpses, it was a matter of habit, a job he performed flawlessly over and over and over.
He entered the deepest chamber and scanned the single corpse lying there.
A spark of Light seemed to leap out at him.
The Ghost froze, blinking his blue eye. A spark? His wandering attention entirely focused on that bit of Light, that soul fragment that still lingered among the bones of this corpse. It exactly matched the shape of the soul he'd been sent to find.
He nearly bonded himself to his Chosen right there, but restrained himself. Wait. Look closer. It was a mantra the Ghosts had taught each other. It doesn't matter if their spark sings to you - if you resurrect a monster, you are chained to them forever.
The Ghost circled the pedestal, looking for an inscription. He found one engraved at the foot of the slab. Tyrone Lanceborn, born 2006, died 3288. They had calculated the years using Distributary time, the Ghost reasoned.
He read the rest of it, about hope for a new dawning. Certainty began to build inside him. A self-serving rogue would not have such things written on his grave. This man had been a hero. And he was the Ghost's partner, his Chosen, his future best friend.
The Ghost opened his shell and expanded into a sphere of Light. He rebuilt the powerful body of Tyrone Lanceborn, dressed him in armor the Ghost had spent years fabricating, and restored him to life.
The Awoken man drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the chilly air for the first time in centuries. He sat up and looked around, confused. His hands roamed his breastplate and gauntlets. "What happened? Where am I?"
The Ghost flew into his range of vision. "Hello! You've been dead a long time, but I've just resurrected you. You're one of the Traveler's Chosen. A Guardian of the Light."
The man gazed at the Ghost, processing this. "It seems like I should know what you're talking about. Do you happen to know my name? Or anything about me? I'm afraid my memory is a bit spotty."
The Ghost didn't look at the engraving on the pedestal. "Something with a T, perhaps? Like Tyrone?"
The Guardian thought about this, deeply and carefully. The Ghost admired this trait.
"I don't think that's quite right," the Guardian said at last. "Not Tyrone. Tony. It sounds better."
"Tony," said the Ghost. "I like it. What about a surname?"
Tony swung his legs off the pedestal and stood, flexing his limbs to try his armor, refamiliarizing himself with his own body. "I'll remember it in time. What's your name, then?"
"I don't have one," the Ghost replied. "I'm called a Ghost, created by the Traveler, and sent out to find you."
"Shall I call you Ghost, then?" Tony asked, discovering a helmet on the pedestal and pulling it on.
The Ghost emoted a smile, his eye forming an upward V. "Would you prefer that I call you Awoken?"
Tony gave a short laugh. "I understand. Well then. Come here and let me look at you." He pulled off the helmet and set it aside.
The Ghost flew into his Guardian's grasp. He lay quietly in the powerful hands, letting Tony pry his shell segments apart to peer at his core. This was one of the first of many trust exercises between Guardian and Ghost.
Tony brushed a gloved thumb over the Ghost's scratched eye lens. "You've had a rough life, little Ghost."
"Yes," the Ghost agreed. "But I've also gathered much knowledge about the solar system. I can give you an edge over both allies and enemies."
"Can you be repaired?" Tony asked, fingering the badly scored shell.
"Yes, of course," said the Ghost. "The Vanguard, protectors of the Last City on Earth, have the means to repair Ghosts."
"Then we must find a way to get there," said Tony. "What do you think of the name Buckler?"
"Like a small shield?" said the Ghost.
Tony nodded. "Why not? It shortens to Buck."
The Ghost considered this. Somehow, this name resonated with his own nature. Even though he had only known his Guardian for less than an hour, already the neural symbiosis was synchronizing them, melding them into a perfect fighting team.
"Then my name is Buck," said the Ghost. "And I already know you're going to be a powerful Guardian."
Tony smiled down at the little robot for a moment. Then he released him to float into the air. "Come, Buck. Let's get out of this crypt."
"It's storming outside," Buck pointed out. "You might freeze to death, and the nearest settlement is miles from here."
Tony stood in the crypt entrance and watched sleet piling up in white mounds on the threshold. "Then we'll wait it out. In the meantime, tell me about this Last City … and why I awakened in a crypt in such a hostile place."