Rites of Transmission
Port Standards. 1,500 words, 7 minute read. With Gemini.
The twin hums were the first confession of the encroaching dawn, long before light dared to breach Elian’s window. One, a steadfast, resonant baritone that vibrated deep in his bones—the signature of the Constant Current. The other, a volatile, high-pitched tenor that skittered across his awareness like a restless algorithm—the Fleet Spark. These were not mere sounds but the psychic residue of the Sacred Converters, the spiritual engines of their age, and they were the relentless metronome counting down to Elian’s Choice. He was almost eighteen, yet the skin of his palm remained stubbornly, terrifyingly smooth, devoid of the nascent indentation that was supposed to declare his path, his port to society.
He’d trace the faint, almost invisible seams of the plasteel floor in his small chamber, a nightly ritual. "Great Architect of the Integrated Whole," he’d murmur, the words tasting like ash. "Grant me… an echo. A resonance. Not just a path, but a sense of belonging." His gaze would often settle on his father’s old C-Baton interface on the wall-desk, its robust circular port dark. His father, a data-flow architect, spoke of the C-Current with a quiet reverence. "It’s about the integrity of the stream, Elian," he’d explained once, polishing his own palm-port, a perfect, steadily glowing blue circle. "Reliability. The L-Sparks flicker bright, yes, but their connections can be… temperamental. Sometimes they even need a full system flush after a data surge." He’d squeezed Elian’s shoulder. "You’ll feel the C-Current’s call. It’s a deep, grounding truth."
His mother, a neural cartographer whose own L-Rod port often pulsed with a quick, silvery light as she mentally navigated complex cerebral maps, offered a different perspective. "Don't try to force a frequency, my dear. True connection is effortless, like thought. Your great-aunt Zinnia, a Spark, used to say the best ideas came when she wasn't tethered to a specific problem. She often spoke of… a universal field, though the Elders dismissed it as poetic fancy." A wistful smile. "Just listen. Your own unique signal will become clear."
But Elian’s internal landscape was a frustrating void of static. He’d observed his peers with a painful acuity. Lyra, who lived three levels down, already spoke in the clipped, efficient bursts of a Fleet Spark, her ideas leaping from topic to topic, her hand instinctively hovering near where her L-Rod port would soon fully manifest. Roric, his study partner, already exhibited the measured pace and focused gaze of a C-Current, his arguments logical, his plans meticulous. Elian felt like an unformatted drive in a system that only accepted two distinct file types, his anxiety a persistent, low-grade fever. He found himself absently rubbing his palm, wishing for any sensation, even the slight phantom itch his parents described from their own Awakenings.
The morning of the Ceremony of Attunement arrived with a sky the colour of bruised twilight, heavy with unspoken expectations. The air in the transport tube leading to the Grand Synapse hummed, not just with its usual gravitic propulsion, but with a palpable tension that resonated with the thrumming in Elian’s own chest. He wore the traditional initiate’s tunic, its seamless, bio-neutral fabric feeling alien against his skin. He imagined it was woven from the same material as the sheathing on the sacred C-Batons and L-Rods – functional, restrictive.
The Grand Synapse was less a building and more a colossal, living circuit board. Obsidian pillars, veined with pulsating fibre-optic conduits, soared into a vaulted ceiling where holographic representations of the Twin Currents—the C-Path a slow, majestic river of golden light, the L-Path a crackling network of silver lightning—perpetually flowed and intertwined. Yet, for all its grandeur, Elian noticed for the first time the faint scent of ozone and overworked coolants, a subtle counterpoint to the perfumed incense. He saw attendants discreetly wiping down connection nodes along the pews, their movements practiced, almost automatic.
Elder Theron stood upon the Dais of Interface, his presence usually a comforting anchor. Today, Elian perceived a faint weariness in the lines around his eyes, a slight hesitation before he began the ancient Call to Connection. "Children of the Cycle," Theron’s voice, though still filling the vast space, seemed to Elian to carry an almost imperceptible tremor. "Today, you find your channel. Today, you become a conduit for the Great Stream, your unique signature harmonizing with the ancient currents."
Elian moved with the other initiates, his feet heavy, his gaze fixed on the polished floor that reflected the swirling lights above like a captive galaxy. He tried to recall his mother’s words about a "universal field," dismissing it as quickly as it came. Such thoughts were unhelpful, almost heretical. The Choice was binary. Always had been. He felt a profound sense of wrongness, like a vital component installed backwards.
Then, he was before the Altar of Attunement. The Universal C-Baton and the Swift L-Rod lay on beds of crystallised energy, their forms starkly physical, undeniably manufactured. The C-Baton, dense and matte, seemed to absorb all light, its circular end a perfect, unyielding O. The L-Rod, with its sharp, twin prongs, gleamed with a hungry light, promising rapid, if potentially unstable, throughput.
"Elian, son of Mara and Kael," Elder Theron’s voice was a low hum, the formal cadence tinged with an almost paternal gentleness. "The Architect guides those who listen. Reach forth. Your spirit knows its current."
His hand, slick with a sudden cold sweat, rose. He could feel the collective gaze of the assembly, a thousand silent judges. His palm was a barren landscape. Desperation, sharp and metallic, flooded his senses. He thrust his hand towards the C-Baton, its dependable form a desperate prayer. The cold, unyielding metal of the port met his skin. No click. No subtle magnetic draw. No welcoming warmth. Just… contact. Inert.
A ripple of sound went through the Synapse – not a gasp, but a rustle, like dry leaves skittering across stone, the sound of hundreds of people shifting uncomfortably, of whispered anxieties taking flight.
Panic clawed at Elian’s throat. He snatched his hand back, then jammed it towards the L-Rod. Its prongs pressed against his flesh. Again, nothing. Only the smooth, unbroken skin of his palm meeting the equally smooth, unresponsive metal.
The silence that descended was absolute, a crushing weight that seemed to dim the very lights of the Synapse. The holographic currents above faltered, their majestic flow momentarily stuttering. Elian stared at his hand, the hand of an aberration, a void in the system.
Elder Theron’s face, usually a serene mask of enlightened composure, seemed to crumble. His own C-port, a beacon of stability on his weathered hand, flickered, its blue light dimming to a troubled violet. He moved towards Elian, not with the confident stride of a spiritual leader, but with the hesitant steps of one approaching an abyss. "Child," he breathed, the word barely audible, his eyes fixed on Elian’s empty palm. He took the boy’s hand, his touch surprisingly frail. "The… the Port… it has not… manifested."
Theron turned Elian’s hand over, his thumb searching, probing. And then, he froze. Nestled in the delicate crease of skin between Elian’s third and fourth fingers, almost invisible unless sought, was not an absence, but a presence. It was an intricate, silvery tracery, like a miniature constellation woven directly into his cells, the lines so fine they seemed more akin to a natural pigmentation, a birthmark of light. It pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence, a quiet rhythm utterly distinct from the hard, defined glow of the familiar Ports. Theron’s mind flashed to forbidden texts, ancient diagrams of "Aetheric Resonance," dismissed for centuries as myth.
His breath caught. With a finger that trembled almost imperceptibly, the Elder traced the delicate, glowing pattern.
The moment his fingertip made contact, a sound emerged, not from any visible emitter, but from the air itself, from Elian, from everywhere at once. It was a single, pure chime, a note of such perfect clarity and complex harmony that it resonated deep within the marrow, bypassing the ears to speak directly to the soul. It was a sound of seamless, untethered, living data. The lights in the Grand Synapse flared once, brilliantly, shifting to a spectrum of colours never before seen within its walls, and a wave of palpable energy, serene yet unimaginably potent, washed through the assembly.
Elian looked from his own hand, the source of this impossible phenomenon, to the stunned faces in the crowd. A few were recoiling in fear, but others, he noticed, leaned forward, their expressions a mixture of terror and profound, unadulterated wonder. Elder Theron stared at the glowing mark, then at the inert C-Baton and L-Rod on the altar. Their solid, dependable forms suddenly seemed crude, relics of a bygone era, their promise of connection now a hollow echo against the silent, luminous song emanating from the boy’s hand. A new current had just been introduced into the Great Stream, one that needed no port, no cable, no choice between two paths, but simply was.