#hatchling project

“This particular childie soon pushed the extreme leniency afforded to the House  to its limits, purposefully and more importantly publicly replacing vast swathes of their biology with inferior technological substitutes. The blatantly ritualistic nature of these “surgeries” as the agent termed them, was hard to miss, reaching crisis point when they removed their occipital lobe, installing it within an independent bio-mec shell that acted as their watchdog-cum-familiar. The agent’s handler perceived this act as a deliberate parody of the link shared between the Great Houses and their Time-Ships and the ensuing fallout saw the agent take on a near-renegade status within the House Military. While they have never openly taken action against the Homeworld, and indeed still ostensibly challenge the enemy, their motives of late suggest someone concerned with their own power and status above all else. The last recorded sighting of the agent  placing them at the heart of a coup staged within the ranks of a degenerate technosapien sect found at the edges of the so-called frontier in time. While the exact nature of their involvement with this regime change is unknown it must be assumed that they have done rather well from it...”

The House is large, but not impossibly so, impossible being a scale reserved for other aspects of this world. Indeed, by the standards of the many Houses that litter it, this one is rather meager. It sits between two cliffs, jutting and squeezing its way through the narrow space, it’s tallest spire emerging like a spear to pierce the sky. It is important to remember however, that while small by the standards of this world the House can still be considered in grandiose terms, its exterior casting a shadow the fills the canyon floor, its unseen interior bordering on the labyrinthine. It’s pleasant enough to look at it, in its own way. But, if you come from one of those culture you may be reminded of fairy stories, of cottages that look pleasant enough at a distance but upon closer inspection don’t seem quite as inviting. The sort of places where witches live.

Of course, no-one from those cultures would ever get close enough to make the comparison. You see, The House is unique. Not in the sense that all Houses on this world are unique, but in a way that denotes a level of importance. As with most Houses on the world there are forty-five inhabitants; this number does not include the custodial staff that live on the surrounding land and ensure the smooth running of the House, nor does it include the servitor drudges and sentinels that are effectively part of the House. The forty-five inhabitants are all remarkably similar, there are a few outliers of course. An inevitability, even with near total control over bio-data and more base notions such as simple genetics. But for the most part, the forty-five follow the same basic pattern; Sullen eyes, sallow skin, hair that in one of those cultures would ensure a childhood of bullying, unless you are from this world you’d have trouble telling them apart.

They are the reason the House is unique; indeed, they are the reason there is even life in the House. You see, it had long sat empty, it’s original inhabitants killed-off in one of the infrequent - though frequently bloody purges- that swept the world. The current inhabitants are Newblood, seeded into the House with a singular vision in mind. The Progenitor; who’s bio-data has made the entire thing possible, agreed to it because he found the idea faintly amusing. Publicly he has expressed little interest in the House, however those involved with the project are aware he maintains a watchful eye on its childrene. To understand the House’s purpose then, is to understand its residents. They are of course, numbered; one through forty-five. A lifetime could be spent examining each one in detail, noting the differences and commonalities shared between them, but most are not afforded that sort of lifetime; however, the basic idea behind the House can still be arrived at by examining a few of its residents. They are after-all, remarkably similar.

Six, befitting the name, defines themselves by resistance. They rally against the rules of the House, flaunt their disinterest in lessons and training, and openly rebel against demands that the childrene stay within its grounds. They have been poisoning the custodian assigned to monitor them, they aren’t sure why. The old woman is aware she is slowly being murdered. A pivotal moment for Six saw them ascend the cliff face, following a half-buried trail over the surrounding mountain. They expected to find something, following a half-remembered, inherited memory but all Six found was a wound in the side of the world, a gouge deep in the mountain. The message was simple; no friends here.

The ultimate tragedy of Six’s life is simple; all their rebellious acts, their quiet violence and refusal to engage with the larger culture of the House is exactly what is expected of them, of all of them. The lifestyle forced on the childrene is designed to be aggravating, inducing boredom and contempt in equal measure, all but inviting them to challenge it. If someone slipped in, crept up to Six and whispered the truth in their ear; what would they do? Would they follow the rules to the letter, adopt a pleasant, cheerful manner in an effort to find rebellion in obedience? Or would they find themselves trapped, too set in their ways to ever challenge the system? Would it even matter? Those behind the House expect rebellion, any rebellion. Six has the benefit of ignorance, without it they would find themselves a prisoner.

Thirty-Two has the rot. They are not alone in this, half-a-dozen of the childrene are afflicted with it; It is a hold-over from an early point in the Progenitor’s long, long life. It could have been easily removed, the breeding engine ensuring it would never occur in any of them, but that would defeat the purpose. Most have given in, letting the disease overtake them while they wait to be reconstituted into raw bio-data, replaced by younger, healthier alternatives. Poor old Twenty-Nine has went a step further, deteriorating into a gelatinous mass that has begun to merge with their room in the upper floors. The custodians no longer go there. Thirty-Two meanwhile, embraces the condition.

They like to sit in the dining hall, peeling away their skin to show the bulbous, red-raw matter bellow. Thirty-Two no longer eats, they don’t see the point. The dining hall simply provides an audience, the others hate them, Thirty-Two knows this, they thrive on it. When the other childrene look at the decaying skin, Thirty-Two peeling the last vestiges of an eyelid to reveal the unblinking, milky-white eye bellow, they know fear. Thirty-Two is a walking reminder of their own mortality, the horrors to come, the price one pays to live forever. They are death. They refuse the treatments offered to them, salves to ease the pain; Thirty-Two likes to leave trails of thin, coagulated blood around the House. It acts as a sign that they have walked there, that death has touched the ground. They are promising, Six’s rebelliousness is notable, but all the childrene are rebellious in their own way. But Thirty-Two, Thirty-Two shows they will fight to live against all odds, in embracing the rot they have shown that they understand the importance of life, the importance of survival.

Fourteen is unique, not in the sense that he is important, but in that he stands out among the other childrene. For one he is not childlike; achieving the awkward ganglyness of adolescence, a faint trace of stubble dotting his chin. He has been in the House for some time, and this has given him a better understanding of its purpose. When Six, Thirty-Two and the others were loomed, Fourteen was already there. In a previous phase of the programme they displayed what could be considered the right-stuff; the rest were reconstituted into raw bio-data to be used in the next wave, or forcibly regenerated into younger forms, to be placed in other Houses. In doing all this, the House breaks this world's oldest laws, but this House is a privileged one so it is hardly unexpected. Fourteen is the sole survivor of his phase, he feels no guilt over this, the others were failures or merely impressive. He showed genuine greatness.

This current batch will be the same, they are more impressive than most of their predecessors he must admit, but that is damning with faint praise. A few will survive to join him among the next wave; the rest pulped or shipped off to trouble someone else. The process will repeat, and repeat again until the House hosts forty-five perfect candidates, the chosen few. Then the real training will begin, they will be linked to their Time-Ships, issued the vaguest of commands and turned loose on the universe. The custodians will be dealt with, the servitors shut down and the House will once again fall silent, its work finally done. Fourteen and his siblings will make the universe theirs, they will become Masters and Mistresses of all that ever was and ever will be. They will win the War, destroy the enemy. He thinks this is the only way it could go, he can’t imagine anything else happening, but there’s always the potential for something else.

The childe's name doesn’t matter, nor does the phase it belongs to. You see, all the House’s childrene share the same nightmare, another formative experience passed down from the Progenitor.  In it they awake at night, startled by a sudden overwhelming presence. A woman stands at the bottom of their large, ornate bed watching them. Her face is skeletal, those afflicted with the rot are unable to shake a sense of immediate connection, the others are simply too terrified to move. She moves around the side of the bed, drawing closer, they can recognize her now. She is one of the old Gods, from the days when people still worshiped such things. She leans in to the childe's ear, they will worship her. The childe awakes screaming, but it doesn't end there, as with all the best nightmares, it continues once they wake up. No-one will check on them, it would go against the principle of the House. They lie in the dark, breathing short panicked breaths. They think it’s over, but then they see her, a woman at the bottom of their bed. It’s not the same woman; her face is far from skeletal  and she is not God, not yet at least. She doesn’t move to the side of the bed, she is simply there, she doesn’t whisper, she speaks matter of factly. The childe  learns the truth, the whole truth, they won't remember come morning.