9: Stigma

The inner library of the Ida Marie contained a greater collection of odds and ends than it did literature, half converted into the storage of spare parts and unused devices. Chief among these objects stood a large glass case, set atop a covered black frame. It was here that Simon Webber offered his guest a seat, at tattered wicker-and-felt couch that sat against the wall. Eldridge accepted gratefully, anchoring himself to the couch as he attempted to adjust to the awkward shifting of the floor beneath him.

"Now then," Webber indicated the case and frame, "do you know what this is, Mr. Eldridge?"

Eldridge shifted his gaze suspiciously between his host and the device. "It's a Clockwork Sandstorm," he responded grudgingly. Despite his attempt to maintain cynicism, he could not help taking an interest in the Sandstorm; such a device was not easily obtained, and its presence suggested that there was more expertise invested in the Ida Marie than he had suspected. Still, habit and instinct prompted Eldridge to resist his curiosity, and he reminded himself that the device had little more purpose than an attempt to impress and sway him.

A Sandstorm represented the pinnacle of clockwork precision. In its simplest form, the Sandstorm was little more than a square, glass case containing finely powdered iron shavings, underneath which sat the mechanical portion of the machine. Within its casing, countless magnets and gears stood frozen in place, waiting for their instructions.

Webber nodded a confirmation at Eldridge, before turning to the shelves behind him to remove a small, fist-sized glass cube etched on all sides with a series of peaks and valleys. Set into its platform on the corner of the Sandstorm's mechanisms, the weight of the cube triggered the device. The cube sunk into the gears, where a myriad of fine needles would test the depths of its surface to read the design the Sandstorm was meant to produce.

As the various gears beneath the surface began to turn, the iron dust stirred in response to the motion of the magnets within. After a few moments a single, thin sheet of dust was suspended over the floor of the casing, forming a glistening translucent plane.

"This, Mr. Eldridge, represents reality as we know it. Obviously it lacks dimensions enough for a true model, but the translation is sufficient for our purposes." Within the machine the cube turned as Webber twisted the knob on its side, providing the needles with a new surface to measure and shifting the image slightly. A small hole formed on the glistening surface. Through this gap particles sprung like a fountain, sprinkling over the surface for a moment before falling silent. With each burst the surface rippled outward from the hole. "What, then, would this represent?"

Eldridge hesitated for a moment. Habit reminded him that, although to him the answer was obvious, a normal person should not be able to recognize it so easily. Usually, he would feign ignorance to mask his knowledge. "It's a carrier," he said finally. "It represents the disruption caused by the Soul Stigma."

Webber nodded slightly, ignoring the negative connotation laced into the other's voice. "Quite right. In principle, a Messenger is little more than a beacon to our world. As a beacon, they react to the stirrings and motions of nearby worlds, granting access to information that otherwise would not exist in our realm. The consequences, however, are far-reaching. Information is a powerful force, especially in a world where it is strictly controlled. It is for this reason that the Combine seeks to eradicate the Messengers; their control is based on their falsities, and they cannot allow any other belief to interfere."

He shifted the image once more, and a second hole appeared before the first. The two points now rose and fell not only with their own currents, but with the ripples of each other as well, creating an intricate pattern across the surface. "Interestingly, without the presence of a second messenger, the first would likely assume that he is no different from anyone around him; one needs the effect of another to recognize the differences in one's self. Watch them for a moment, Thomas, and tell me what you notice."

Eldridge shifted in his seat, pausing to rub his eyes for a moment before returning his attention to the display. He'd begun to lean forward over the course of the discussion, though he did his best to convince himself that it was not interest that drew him closer, but the strain of trying to view the device from a distance. Several small, subtle changes had begun to work themselves into the image, and after a few moments he turned his attention back to his host's face, suspiciously trying to estimate what the man wanted to convince him of. "They're resonating," he said simply.

Webber nodded once more, tapping his finger on the outside of the glass case. "If this world had only one messenger, neither he nor anyone around him would be aware of it. The messenger would believe themselves to be no different, and others would assume he was either of above average intelligence, or simply a fool. But when there are two... What must it have been like for the first meeting of the gifted, each beginning to learn the other by mere proximity, without so much as speaking? Each gradually realizing that alone they are outcast to the world, and yet together something greater... You can't begin imagine the sort of things that have come of these pairings, Thomas! In politics, discovery, business, and even war, there is no overestimation for a close-knit messenger pair."

"I suppose that would explain the Carrier tendency for unusual tastes," Eldridge mussed aloud. "No doubt the Stigma doesn't consider the gender of the individuals when it creates these... 'partnerships'."

Webber frowned deeply at him, his eyebrows lowering into what Eldridge took to be the first foul expression he'd yet seen on the odd man's face. "Go on, spout your Combine idiocy; one part misinformation for each part exaggeration. We'll continue when you've let the ignorance out of your system."

He narrowed his eyes, matching Webber's glare with an equally fierce stare of his own. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" he challenged.

"Eldridge, if were gay, would you rather tell your closest friends that, or tell them you were a carrier of the so-called Soul Stigma?"

Eldridge was taken aback by the unexpected bluntness of the question, and it was several moments before he could formulate a response. "I'd... rather tell them I was gay," he admitted.

Webber nodded, lifting the glare slightly, though the frown remained plastered to his features. "No doubt that same choice is made countless times each day. A messenger has no more a propensity for deviation than any other soul; they simply have less reason to hide it. What we are discussing is not that sort of pairing."

"What are we discussing, then?" Eldridge prompted impatiently. "Thus far all you've managed to do is confirm the disease's potential for disruption."

"You asked for information, so do be patient and allow me to present it. I can only offer it to you; it is your choice whether you learn from it or discard it." With that he advanced the image in the sandstorm once more. Additional layers began to coalesce above and below the original plane, rippling in places whenever the stirrings of the original surface became violent enough to cause them to collide with each other.

Webber stretched his shoulders back for a moment, smoothing the front of his shirt as his features returned to their customarily calm expression. "Even without this demonstration, the ability of a messenger to affect their own world is an obvious fact," he stated, "just as anyone else may interact with the world through the natural gifts that they've been given. The true significance of a messenger is in the extension of that interaction. Even when set in as small a group as two, you gain the potential to change the state of nearby worlds as well."

Eldridge nodded, though he had begun to pay less attention to the display than he now was to his host. It was not the first time that the odd man had become flustered at being disagreed with, but it was certainly the first in which he had reacted with evident hostility. It seemed as though his accusations had struck a certain nerve within his host. Ironically, the distraction served to quicken Eldridge's response; for the moment, he was no longer guarding his responses out of habitual concealment. "That would suggest that a carrier pair is capable of not only gathering information from, but affecting physical circumstances in other worlds," he stated. "That seems... unlikely."

"Unlikelier events have occurred," Webber stated simply. "It would seem unlikely that a Messenger would be able to affect an object in our own world without physical contact with it, and yet you and I both would know better than to believe you, were you to claim to not have done so already. But that is a topic irrelevant to this demonstration." With that he turned the control to the sandstorm once more, switching the machine to the fifth surface of the cube. "Watch closely, Mr. Eldridge, and tell me what you notice."

About the surface of the "world" being represented by the middle layer in glass case, additional pinpoint holes appeared; first a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth rupture gathered, each one adding to the turbulence of the waves being cast by the motion of particles flowing through them. As the ripples grew higher their interactions with the layer above them became more disruptive, until at the crest of a particularly violent upward spike, the image froze.

His guest stared at the display for several seconds, the expression on his face hardening as he once more shifted into a practiced concealment of his thoughts. Webber noted this shift in demeanor, speaking once again in an effort to prompt a response from his audience. "If a mere pair of Messengers can, in tandem, cause minor alterations to a world, then a larger collection will have even greater consequences," he explained. "What, Mr. Eldridge, is being represented by this image?"

Eldridge glanced to either side, wincing visibly, before eventually pressing the thumb of his left hand to his temple, unsteady fingers rubbing his forehead as though attempting to stave off an imminent headache. With his free hand he reached forward, fingers loosely pointed towards the device. Seemingly of its own accord the knob at the side of Sandstorm turned, advancing to the sixth and final surface of the cube; the turbulent surface fell away, leaving only the punctured layer of dust above it. The glistening surface now held a single, slowly rippling point of rupture, akin to the one that had been displayed by the cube's second surface. "The image," he responded finally, voice quiet and reserved, "is of a breach between worlds: the birth, self-realization, or possibly conception, of a new carrier. The image... is of me."

Webber nodded slowly, looking down at the final display in an odd sort of reverence. "It is this mechanism that ensures the Combine will never be successful in fully eradicating the Messengers of our world; they would need to silence not only their own, but those of all connected worlds as well." A frown creased his face as he glanced up towards his guest; the man had slumped deeper into the couch on which he sat, eyes now fully obscured by the palm of his hand. "Mr. Eldridge?" he said, moving out from behind the Sandstorm to pace forward. He paused as he neared the couch; the shaking hand was evident at the nearer distance, as was the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders.

He lowered himself to one knee, reaching forward to rest a hand on Eldridge's nearest heaving shoulder. "Tomas," he began, softening his voice, "this is not a bad thing, nor would it be right for you to blame yourself even if it was."

"So that's what you want, is it?" Eldridge sobbed, gesturing towards the display. "To gather enough of the infected to continue its transmission, ensuring it will be seeded back into our world forever? Do you not see the damage you are causing to our world, or the curse you wish to force upon others like myself? Why, I should have known better than to trust the intentions of a madman... the world would be better if you had left me to die at the hands of the Combine!"

"I have not the slightest intentions of the sort!" Webber said. "Do you not see what our world has become? The Combine persecutes you not because they wish to protect our world; they do so because they know that the truth into which you were born would shake the lies they have created. They are systematically murdering their own citizens, and to what end? To rid the world of knowledge that it should have discovered long ago?" Now it was his turn to gesture to the Clockwork sandstorm. "The Messengers cannot leave this world, and if the Combine will not accept their presence, they will continue to be hunted and killed. Can you not see that?"

"You are advocating anarchy over order," Eldridge shook his head. "If the combine falls, more death will follow than that of a few deviant souls."

"Is it right, then, that those such as yourself should, be tortured and killed, through no fault of their own? Is it right for you to suffer the wrath and anguish of the Combine, simply by merit of whom and what you are?"

"'What I am' is a monster," Eldridge shot back, "and what you are is a fool."

Webber lowered his head for a moment, frowning in thought, before gradually rising to his feet once again. "I know that it is difficult to accept," he said simply, "but perhaps it is time to draw your hatred away from yourself."

Eldridge scowled, turning his head away as his host began to pace away, hands folded behind his back. "You haven't the faintest idea of what you are suggesting," he responded. "Never have you been in the situation for which you are attempting to offer advice."

Webber sighed softly, shaking his head as he opened the door to the outer deck of the Ida Marie. "You are correct," he said. "I have not." Without another word he left the library, closing the door behind him.