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Komyou was the radiant sun at the heart of the array, a sculpture in laser and servos and near-translucent skin. The song of six billion terabytes shivered through his blood, pulsing from cell to cell, relay to relay, origin to terminal. The nape of Ukoku's neck prickled with equal parts distaste and longing, and something in his nerves echoed the naked joy on Komyou's face.
Ukoku watched as the servos activated, and the supports re-framed Komyou's body, nudging it into the next form. It was a dance in slow motion, living artwork, and utterly mandated by the next glut of data to be bounced across the parsecs. Everything lit in brilliant gold and white the second the connection locked in place. Even from here, Ukoku could see Komyou's eyelids tremble, and the tightness of his throat.
Komyou made it look easy.
Komyou never had been able to sway him to such a life of service. Ukoku had the training and the augmentations, had mastered the exacting postures of the two hundred and twelve salutations which allowed the circuits to complete and the messages and data from across the quadrant to flow without interruption or end. Still, he could not allow himself to know and be known by the array. He couldn't set aside his ego and his will and surrender all of himself. It was one of the things he both admired and loathed about Komyou, that Komyou could do so without hesitation or regret for the wasted years of his life spent in lockstep with the array.
Ukoku turned his back to the pulsing brilliance of transmission.
Komyou would be there for some hours yet, if he didn't fade and burn the connection. It was happening more frequently; his body couldn't keep to the forms, couldn't sustain the effort, and even the supports could only do so much. The connections fuzzed, and there was data loss. Data loss created feedback. Feedback punished the body. A younger person could shrug it off, after a fashion, but Komyou was no longer young, no matter how he smiled and affected a careless air. Feedback could damage, even kill: it was called burnout for a reason.
But Komyou was adamant, always—he was one of five, only five, transceivers in the entire sector. He was needed. It was his avocation, his calling. What was his comfort compared to galaxies?
Ukoku's arguments changed nothing, didn't bleed away his frustrations or the fear buried beneath his logic. Serving the array was a beautiful way to kill yourself, and little more besides. Ukoku stole a backward glance and tried to ignore the thrilling in the bottom of his stomach as Komyou unfolded into the next salutation. He was transcendent.
In the dark, grasping chambers of his heart, Ukoku knew that was something he would never have. And when the job killed Komyou, as it surely would, Ukoku would make the universe burn.