It is not a dream...
     The universe is all around you. You are a part of it. And you can see how it works! How things fit together. How you, just one being, fit into the Whole of it. As many stars as you could see in your previous home, there are millions more visible here, and great arms of dust and ice, the best of space, of time, of physics and mathematics are on display.
     There are, as in your dream, multiple palaces (even a pyramid) and vast, open areas of horticultural displays (all research and discovery areas). The palace that contains your rooms, workshop and lab is the ever-shifting Palace of Engineering Wonder, the one engineered to rotate. It works as an invention within Invention and contains a planetarium, telescope and floors and floors dedicated to engineering, including an engineering museum. It also serves as the Keeper of the Clock, not that Time really means anything here.
     Between the shifting Palace of Engineering Wonder and the Pyramid of The Spheres (that's where all astronomical, mathematical and physics study is centered), is the Campo daVinci. It is a garden, not of flowers, but of war machines, specifically the inventions and war machines designed by Leonardo DaVinci. There is his helicopter design, his battering rams, a working trebuchet, the prototype for a submarine, and all manners of fanciful, if somewhat lethal, military devices.
     A mechanical sphere rolls quickly along the Campo's grassy surface, zooming past the trebuchet to an open part of the field. It sinks, and seconds later there is a failed detonation. Instead of a nice crisp, charged (but very controlled) explosion, there comes a little bit of a pop, like a champagne bottle, followed by a fizz of sapphire smoke.
     "That was supposed to be more impressive!" Sandalphon talks to the device as if it could hear him. "What happened to the holographic army? Blue smoke makes you think a show's about to start. Not terrifying," he notes (amusedly) for the record.
     A tall figure strides upon the field, impossible to miss. And not because he's the only angel walking in the garden at the moment. He's enormous, a striding Greek hero of a figure, with sky blue hair and molten hematite eyes. His wings look like they have been sketched and painted by Leonardo daVinci himself, the images of war machines and the Vitruvian man displayed there, living there. He is armored but it looks oddly comfortable -- perhaps because he is comfortable in it. Wearing large, protective gloves, he reaches down to pick up the device, turning it in his grasp and studying it.

     He has spent hours, days of mortal time, simply staring into new lore and knowledge, tinkering and exploring without leaving the focus of his own mind. He was drawn in immediately, and that - well, that seems unlikely to change any time soon. He has broken from it, but only because he's reached a point of saturation. Now he needs to let his mind settle, and what better way than by taking a walk?
     He is largely unaware of it, but Tiernan has begun to change. While wings have not yet begun to make themselves known (they will, in time), the crescents engraved into his skin have begun to widen and alter beneath his clothes. He is still (for now) in the linen and serge he is so accustomed to. It has not occurred to him to change it, and he has not yet taken so much as a glance into his newly appointed closet. Someone will have to nudge him, no doubt. And possibly choose for him.
     His eyes, though, are the most noticeable and remarkable change so far; blue and glittering, the Aegean can be seen in them for miles without sight of land or sky. His hair is curling ringlets, getting a little long and shaggy. He hasn't noticed. Tiernan carries Leon on his shoulder, Leon back to his old, original size again. "I don't know," he answers his oldest friend with a gentle smile. "But we can find out, yes?" He strolls towards the sapphire smoke, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "Er. What's going on?" he asks, a bit hesitantly. He is very conscious of being the new boy in school. "Need any help?" And he stands there, still like a schoolboy, hands now in the pockets of his serge trousers, mild self-consciousness on his face.

     Sandalphon glances up, the mechanism in his hand, his wings flapping the smoke away. His face looks like it should be in a painting, and when he smiles the painting is gilded edged. "What was supposed to go on was a very clever, if temporary, illusion. And perhaps a bit more flash. A second...or third," he smiles with a nod to Leon, "...pair of eyes would be appreciated. You are Tiernan." He pauses. "Leon, I know," he grins. "I'm Sandalphon," he says easily as he approaches you. He is at least as tall as Gruffydd, but with Balthazar's ...breadth.
     He doesn't list out his titles. One, you've probably already heard them. Two, if you haven't, your mind is already full of everyone else's titles. You've only just arrived.
     He doesn't hand it to you bare-handed -- it's quite hot -- but rather removes one of his gloves with his mouth and then hands that to you first. "It is designed to project a very real, but very unreal, holographic image of a force -- enemy or one's own -- to dissuade attack or encourage retreat. It's designed primarily for the warring planets of the Andromeda Galaxy. Earthly combatants are a bit too jaded for it to work." He pauses his explanation as he hands the device to you carefully, and then surrenders his other glove. "How are you doing? A bit different isn't it," he says with another smile. "Well, really, not that different from Venice. Greener."

     "Tiernan, yes. You know Leon?" He is surprised by that. It's all new to him, still; he turns his head to peer at the little lion, as if he's been held out upon. He then looks back at you, his smile a bit apologetic. "I'm, er, sorry if I'm where I oughtn't be. It's nice to meet you, though."
     He offers his hand out sheepishly, the apologetic little half-smile lingering. He takes the gloves from you, one at a time, pulling them on a bit clumsily; he is very self-conscious, that much is evident. What may also be evident is that he, well, clearly hasn't a clue who you are, and thus is prepared to take you quite at your own valuation. "Mm, well, yes, we - er. Humans do tend to be jaded." How strange it is, not to count himself among their number! Tiernan shakes his head a little, then looks startled again as he turns the device around between now-gloved hands. "Venice? Oh, you've been there, of course. It seems different from Venice to me, but that, er, might be due to all the people with. Well. Wings." Who can stomp him like a bug, he doesn't add aloud.
     He turns the sphere again and asks absently, "On what range or spectrum do the people of the Andromedas perceive things? You might try - well, no, that might be too complicated, and I shouldn't be telling you how to do your business when I just got here. Sorry. Er. My brain's a bit full at the moment, and keeps threatening to run away if not leashed."

     "If you are here, then you're precisely where you ought to be. How's that for an angelic answer?" he teases, his smile seeming a permanent fixture. "And, no, it's quite alright. As for both Leon and Venice, yes, I know them both. In fact, I should just be honest. I'm acquainted with your work. This little globe, as a matter of fact, was based on the prototype for your Venetian Project. My earthly base is Italy. Has been since Rome rose and fell. I like gelato," Sandalphon says suddenly. As if that should be one's reason for doing anything.
     The hematite eyes glow warmly for all their metallic color. "Those I've encountered still engage in magical thinking," he says as he looks to you, watching you study the device. "They have average human range of sight and perception. Like the Maori and other Pacific peoples of earth, their battle tactics tend toward a clever combination of bluff and distraction. These would not be provided to them, but rather used by angels who work in that realm to curtail violence by making one or the other seem mightier than they are. Sort of ... sleight of hand for peace."
     His smile is quick, the shine quicksilver in his eyes. "Not at all. You have an opinion, and more importantly you have acumen." Sandalphon looks at you as you look at the device. "Don't worry," he says warmly. "You'll get used to it sooner than you think. Being here, I mean. I'm sure it feels like you've been set in the middle of a story already in media res. And well... so you have. But many here aren't strangers to your work. I primarily deal in military inventions. I'm an angel of war, on loan to Archangel Liwet. Actually, I'm not altogether certain he didn't steal me. I've been on loan for a few thousand years." Sandalphon grins. "The return fee to Michael will be staggering."

     He flushes slightly, something he'd long thought himself past, on Earth or in the Marches where he has so long dwelled. But then, this type of recognition is new to him, and he is unused to it. "Well, er, they do say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, though then I suppose there's no point in suggesting that as a basis." Tiernan grins a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was going to suggest a self-replicating design if possible, though; the basis for a successful diversion is to have as many points of exposure covered as possible. But the difficulty there is ensuring that the self-replication only goes just so far."
     He rather feels as if he ought to be sitting down, but he says no such thing. Bending, he allows Leon to hop to the ground, straightening as the little lion stretches and yawns, golden fangs winking in the available light. "I was reading some very interesting material which does lend rather well, in fact, to such theories - er. Well, if you set it to have a decay rate innate to its structure so that the more copies of itself it has made, the faster the breakdown rate is, then you'll have a finite number of copies being made before the original in turn breaks down. And if each copy is a weaker imitation of the first - you'd still need some replacements every so often, but it'd dramatically reduce the overall number of master units being used. Set it so that each copied unit cannot be activated without the presence of at least one master unit and a command word or signal and you reduce the opportunities for them to go off on their own. Nothing's perfect, of course, and... er. Well. I suppose I'm rather lecturing to the master, aren't I? Sorry."
     He looks perfectly sheepish, holding the sphere in one hand and tugging a glove off with his teeth in order to offer it back to you. "Oh, yes? Is it like library books, then? You could always check to see," Tiernan offers seriously, "although I'm not terribly sure how that would work. Are you content with your current placement, though?"

     He takes back the gloves and the sphere. "The only master is God. We are all students here." That sounds so angelic. Sandalphon smiles. "I'm not the Angel of Greeting Card Proverbs, contrary to how it may appear. But... to that point... the day I stop learning, being a student? Well, that's the day I have outlived my purpose, I think. As well," he leans in bit, the smile warming, "I think we should sketch your ideas for this thing out. I'm a very visual person. I need to see this take shape." The smile becomes a grin, "...and I'd like to see this invention actually sprout holograms and not blue smoke. I like the idea of the repeater. I had not thought of the replication in quite that way. I'd love the opportunity to brainstorm. Care to join me in my workshop? I think I'm on the other side of the Palace of Engineering Wonder from your offices. Of course," his eyes come alight, platinum blue brows arching, "... the palace is constantly shifting, so by now we could be neighbors. That's how Leon and I met. I got lost." He winks at the lion. And who cares if the story is true or not. It's a fun embellishment.
     When Sandalphon laughs, the Leonardo sketches that are his wings become colored in high Renaissance style, and his face again takes on a very real, yet very artistically beautiful glow, like an icon. "It is like library books. I'm stamped once a millennium. Actually," he gestures for you to come with him as he begins to walk toward the palace, "...I love serving both Michael and Liwet. I'm honored that they are both interested in my voice and my work. My point of view. How does one reconcile Peace and Love and all things Holy, with War? How does one, then, innovate and invent within that word War, and how can that work motivate peace? These are large questions, with many, many small follow-up questions, and what I wake to every day." He looks to you as he walks beside you. "I'm really very curious as to what you will be doing. I'm sure you are as well," he smiles. "I am endlessly curious. Which is, I suppose, why I'm here and not pestering Michael endlessly with my oh-so-many questions."

     "I - I have no idea where anything is," Tiernan admits, almost as if admitting to a sin. "I, er. Well, I haven't been here very long, you know. But certainly, if you'll lead the way. Come on, Leon." He bends to pick Leon up, allowing the lion to grab hold of the cuff of his sleeve rather than manhandling him, settling him onto a shoulder. "He does seem to like you, in any case. Although his taste has been called into question before." He grins a bit hesitantly.
     There's an itch between his shoulderblades and he shrugs to try and settle it as he follows you, hands in his pockets. "Right now all I've been doing has been losing myself in books," he confesses. "I'm sure there will be specific things required of me in due course, but seeing as I've only just arrived - well, I think they don't want to overwhelm me. Either that or they figure that if they just leave me alone with a fully equipped laboratory, things are going to happen without prodding; that's not exactly false, admittedly. Those are big questions. Have you found any answers which have lasted more than a lifetime? It seems to me that different answers would have to be more applicable in some circumstances than in others, with turning of seasons and circumstances. The dreaded 'it depends' of philosophy rather than just science."

     He smiles at that, and it makes him look years younger. Even with the years stripped from him by magic as they were, the weight of his experiences have always stayed with him, in his eyes, in the way he contained himself before the eyes of kingdoms and citizenry and courts. It's seldom that he has ever relaxed that self-control to be truly animated; even his children have only seen it occasionally. He pushes a hand back through his dark curls, looking up to the sky for a moment, then over again. "I know how I would reconcile it, but I would have to admit that even my best reconciliation would be a bit specious. Do you often have to fight? I imagine that it must be something you have experience with." He hesitates slightly, then shakes his head a little to himself. "I'd be happy to show you what I mean, of course. Tell me, are there any questions which it's really not appropriate to ask here? I don't want to be putting my foot in it all the time..."

     "If, depends. Exactly," Sandalphon replies to you. "The intersections of faith, of philosophy and of science are no less complicated for us than they are for anyone or any culture on Earth, or anywhere else. We have a bigger picture view, like birds, compared to say, butterflies, but does that mean we know everything? No, we do not. We know about a higher part of the sky," Sandalphon smiles. "But the stars know more than we do."
     He listens to you, and as he absorbs what you say he smiles. His hematite eyes, though such a deep, metallic silver, a color that could be cold if it were just seen and not felt, look at you with warmth of interest. They are bright, keen with curiosity. And with humor. "There are no questions that should not be asked. Only questions in need of being answered. The search for the theory, the proofing of a question, is more important than the question itself. Ask. Ask anything," he encourages you. "Otherwise, how will you know? And how would we come to know you."
     You are led from the Campo daVinci to the shifting palace. The shifts are so small that they are barely noticed, until one discovers one has a brand new view. Much as paradigms shift, or glaciers. Every wall, the chambers, the beings and angels moving through the palace are a wonder and a curiosity. You could spend the rest of eternity just figuring out the windows or reading the script on the floors.
     "I have had to fight, yes," Sandalphon says as he leads you through the main entrance and through an interior courtyard, a rose test garden. "I haven't in a while. I have always found it interesting, poignant, that for a good many of the military inventions, they were always invented with the hope and purpose to end armed conflict. This weapon is so terrible, it will end all wars," he quotes. "And that is nearly never the case. Sad to say. It is a blessing to have been given such a hard question to resolve." He smiles to you as he leads you through a colonnade and up a staircase and he lowers his voice a bit. "I'm nowhere near figuring any of it out. And it would be easy to be overwhelmed. The best advice I could give is not to put pressure on yourself. You have eternity. And know that it will take time. Read, absorb, think, and most of all play with ideas. You will find your way and meaning."
     He leads you to the seventh floor, which is mostly windowed along exterior walls. Observation decks occur here and there. There is a gallery of weaponry from Earth, mainly, like an interior sculpture garden, and two enormous doors are embossed with holographic images of his favorite inventions. He opens one of the doors and holds it open for you and Leon. "Leon came to love me for my diamond shavings, I think. He has very expensive taste. And has it been called into question?" He grins at that, turning to close the door behind him.
     You have entered a palace within a palace. The first room is both foyer and living room. But his room has multiple levels. On the second floor, visible from the first, are his libraries; on the third, his laboratory and workshops; on his fourth floor, his private chambers. It is furnished quite comfortably, even ornately, but it's not full of stuffy antiques. Everything is very fine, but also very comfortable. The libraries look full. And the workshops, what you can see of them, appear state-of-the-art.
     "Would you care for anything to snack on, drink? I have something of a sweet tooth. I have something of a love affair with the nectarine. As beautiful as it is flavorful."

     "He has very expensive tastes indeed," Tiernan agrees with a sudden grin. "He would keep me poor, if I let him." He runs a fingertip down Leon's back affectionately. I have missed you, my friend, more than words can say. The little lion yowls and yawns, settling down on his shoulder with claws digging in to the fabric to hold himself securely in place.
     He is content to follow you; you look like you know where you're going and what you're doing. And he is observing, and taking everything in at once, or trying to. "Well..." Tiernan clearly is embarrassed. "I suppose it sounds a foolish question, but, er. I got the impression that it's a little - unusual for people to become ... er. Angels." Even saying it is embarrassing. 'Angel'. He has never aspired to such a thing, and, really, when one thinks of such things, one thinks of perfection, godliness, traits all which he has never claimed to possess. "So, ah, I suppose I was - er, well. Being terribly rude in wondering as to your antecedents, I suppose."
     He clears his throat. Quick, a change of topic. Except he's not a Llewellyn, and he's got a little grace left, even when flustered and embarrassed. "A drink would be a kindness," Tiernan agrees gravely. "If it will not be putting you out too much. You have a lovely home. Did you, er, build it yourself?"

     His smile is at once understanding, affectionate, and amused. "I've been here a while. They've been humoring me in letting me expand. To be honest, you'll expand yours, too, I'm sure. According to your likes and whims. That is why it is...ever evolving."
     Drinks are not poured, they appear upon a table near a sofa. The table is not glass but looks like glass. It is clear, with threads of red coloration and gems running through it. "The delicacy of Eden," Sandalphon waxes, with a gesture to the glasses. "It is a... well," he pauses, wondering, "...what would the closest thing on Earth be. I suppose like a liqueur," he continues, his gaze returning to you. He settles quite easily and quite comfortably on his sofa, taking one of the drinks. His grand wings -- you can see why he needs tall ceilings when he stretches them -- fold just as easily but do not disappear. "Made from the petals of a flower known as The Astronomer's Rose due to the galaxy-like coloration and patterns. We have examples in the rose test garden. They're lovely," he says, his gaze fixed on you. "And pretty delightful."
     The gaze remains fixed on you, as does his attention and his smile. His posture is confident, relaxed. If your question is foolish, his reaction surely isn't a confirmation of that. "Humans become angels all the time. They don't normally do it the way you are, however. And it's usually a longer process. But you're not the typical human, are you?" he murmurs, with a lean in your direction. No, his eyes echo; you are not. "I am an angel beget by other angels. Michael is actually my father, I suppose you could say. Though it's not really paternal, the process. Or maternal for that matter. If two angels want to produce an offspring, they pool their energy, their resources, and together they create an angel. It takes a lot of work, a lot of energy, and so it doesn't happen all that frequently. But it does happen. My other parent, Nanael, is also an angel. They are both seraphim, as am I. They were lovers. I'm not sure if they still are or not," he says with a smile. He sips the drink and looks to you. "I like question and answer. Have you another?"
     And while brainstorming and diagraming are still on the radar, Sandalphon is far more interested in you and in this interaction. A wing shifts, the sketches so vivid, so close to you. "I know a bit about your story. You were stolen, they say. And held in a kind of prison of time." Sipping at his drink, he studies you. "It must seem strange, people knowing about you. We're curious. Some would say nosy," he teases -- himself, you, and the others.
     The more you blush, the more interested, the more rapt his attention. He sits near you. A lean is all it would take. The air ionizes between you.

     "What you say is both true and yet incorrect. I was born around fifteen hundred years ago, or so I'm told. But most of the intervening time was spent, well, in stasis. I'm not sure how many years I actually 'lived' - perhaps fifty or so? I'm not sure."
     He smiles, he shrugs, he turns the glass around in his hands and looks at it and at the liquid in it, then back up at you, expression curious, interested. "That sounds ... awkward," he says finally. "I only know of the 'normal' sort of creation. Well. 'Normal'." Tiernan laughs a little. "I suppose that depends on where you're standing, doesn't it? Did you go through a childhood, or is it altogether a different process?"
     He looks at you. He is interested in your answers, in what you have to say. "I have a million questions but nothing truly pressing right this moment. I'm not even sure what to ask. Do you have any questions for me? Though yes, it does seem as if you know all about me already."
     He sips the liqueur, gaze lowered. Leon slides from shoulder to wrist to knee and then to the floor, sprawling out to loll in true leonine fashion. "I've never seen curiosity as a sin, you know."

     Sandalphon laughs and comes alive in that laughter, as if he would otherwise be mistaken for a sketch himself. "I hear it's a beautiful process. I don't remember any of it and I've not been so inclined. I erupted from their imagination, fully formed and as you see me. But like a newborn star, I had to assemble myself, create my own gravity. It's hard to explain," he says with a grinning peer.
     "Thank God curiosity is not a sin," Sandalphon says, his smile lingering through his words, "... or you and I? We'd be in trouble. That would be terrible. The universe is such a curiosity. God... is such a curiosity. You are a curiosity. I am sure I am to you. If we couldn't be interested in finding out who and what and why, there'd be no point to living. I make war machines, to understand why people fight one another. And maybe, when I understand that, I'll understand why we fight one another. I want to understand that."
     His smile is tempered by that quest. He does, truly, want to understand that. The tempered smile becomes one of assurance. "I don't know all about you," he says quietly. "Only the very basics. And now you know about as much about me. So, we are even. Don't feel like it is a race, or that you're being watched. Well, you were. You were interesting. Are... interesting," Sandalphon quietly corrects himself. "I would like to see what you have in mind for my holographic army sphere. And I want to keep talking. You know, I'm usually rather quiet. I think anyone who knows me would be pretty shocked at how I'm going on." He smiles to you, leaning in a touch, "...you have me thinking. So... shall we go up to the workshop?"

     "I suppose in a way it means you get to be much more who you want to be - but at the same time, I don't see how that could be so, since what did you have to compare to?" Tiernan shakes his head, expression bemused. "I'll just chalk this up to something I can't quite wrap my mind around yet, and hope that I, uh, never give your parents cause to be upset with me."
     He doesn't say he'll have to watch his step around you, despite that being implied in his words. There's nothing in his face to suggest it's even there beneath the surface. He again runs his fingers through his hair, settling with a half-smile. "You don't seem to be talking that much, to me, but then, I've spent the past few years around adolescents more than not."
     There's a momentary clouding of that perfect blue gaze, a wince at the memory of what he has had and has had to give up. Resolutely, he pushes it from his thoughts in the way he has always buried his angst and sorrow and pain: work. "Sounds good," Tiernan answers a bit more quietly. "You'll have to show me how these workshops fit together. And as for being watched, er, well." Now he blushes. "I admit I'd think most people would find the show rather dull. I haven't been a terribly adventurous soul for the last thirty years or so."

     "It depends on what you call adventure. Your companies, your inventions? Truly remarkable. I would like to know more about your work. I think there are opportunities for collaboration. I would certainly like to explore that." Sandalphon smiles again, good-naturedly, as he rises. "And as long as you aren't rebelling against God or attacking angels, you probably won't have cause to meet Michael. I haven't seen him in..." he has to pause to do that math, "... probably a hundred years. Quite possibly longer."
     Draining the remainder of the liqueur in his glass, Sandalphon turns to you, and gestures for you to come ahead. "Your private workshops are just that; private and for your use and experimentation. There are workshops and laboratories that are used by groups and advisory councils. But largely they are all independent. I also have a library. I'm sure you will begin to build your own soon enough. Eventually, once you can fly," he smiles to you as he walks with you toward the spiral staircase that leads to the library and workshops above, "...I will take you to the libraries of Heaven. To say they are immense... well, any manner of description would be a gross understatement."
     There isn't a commentary for your children. There is, however, a moment of sympathy. He doesn't belittle your pain or his response to it with commentary.
     You get a peek of his library as you pass from ground level to second level and then toward the third level. It looks extensive enough as it is, without the promise of even more! The workshops are extremely modern and state-of-the-art. There is little that is whimsical but it is far surpassing in technology than most of the more technologically savvy nations on earth. There are drafting tables that look fairly conventional, but as he steps into the room, floating clear panels, like LCD panels in size and function, become visible. "Has anyone shown you how to write and draw using only your mental intention? If not, I shall. It looks like this..."
     Sandalphon turns toward one of the screens, and his mind, his imagination, his thoughts, appear there, drafted in complete detail: in this case, the design for the holographic sphere. In angelic script that burns golden on the air, he writes: An Army of Faith.

     A hundred years is as casual as a day. It is a reminder of how removed he is from the world that came before, this new life's distance from the old. It is marked in more than geographical or nautical miles. Tiernan stands for a moment, absorbing this, and follows you with a slow stoop to lift and deposit Leon into his pocket. The little lion scrambles up to a convenient perch. "I'll see about sewing in the straps for you later," he tells Leon absently. It's been a long while, after all.
     The library gains a long look from him, but he doesn't remark upon it as he follows you up the stairs with his hands now in his pockets. "No, nobody has - there's been so much to cover, after all." Tiernan smiles at that, and looks interestedly. "May I try? Here, I think - oh, I see."
     There is a sudden glow about him, that turns the blue of his eyes a white-golden warmth, and his hair and his clothes ripple slightly. He turns towards one of the screens not presently in use, and it abruptly goes dark blue - the blue of drafting paper, with lines in white and grey. A sphere pops up; his lips don't so much as move, but it comes forward, off the screen, a three-dimensional holographic display which slowly rotates as it opens up. White letters and numbers begin to scroll along the blueprint paper, chemical formulae, magical sigils, the fusion of magic and engineering which has been his own design. Gillian has nothing to teach him; she never did, although few if any know how deep his delving had gone.
     C6H11O5-(C6H11O5)x-C6H11O6+CaSQ4.1/2H2O...
     It runs on for a long time before fading out. Tiernan's feet have left the floor, and he hovers an inch or two off of it as the sphere continues to rotate slowly. His lips do not move, but his voice comes from the holograph. Beneath his clothing, there are shadows and a faint glow which ripples, bioluminescence running along him in seeming random patterns. "Assuming you wish to utilize a self-replicating system with limited chance of malfunction or of being found and used by the natives, you'll want it to be in essence biodegradable without being actually organic and sentient. A master unit which is located up to one kilometer underground may be used to send signals to child units provided the composition of the ground in the relevant and desired areas is comprised primarily or heavily of quartz or other carbosilicate particles. You would need to avoid this method if the soil is comprised primarily of lead or metals. Sandy soil, in short, would be ideal. Clay soils would be much more prone to causing interference with your signals."
     "The reason," Tiernan continues, and now he steps forward, voice still coming from the hologram as he touches it, opening it up and pulling out diagrams and schemata for observation, "to utilize a buried master unit should be obvious; it reduces the opportunities for the target populations to capture and deduce the objects. Even if they should discover a child unit, without the master unit, reverse engineering would be very difficult or even impossible. The child units need to be composite units, carrying with them any metallic parts necessary and including a compact but very high-heat chamber in which to effectively bake ceramics. Assuming the soil to be the carbosilicate mixture I've specified and access to at least modest sources of water - salt or fresh - it should be able to make bonded carbon spheres. Using gold monofilament wire, you should be able to give it a 'brain' capable of sending and receiving data, including complex imaging per your desired holographic displays. Being made as they are of crystalline surfaces, we need only a suitable light source by which to use the prismatic array which the body of the device itself comprises to reflect whatever images you desire. Sound is more difficult, but if we increase the size by one third," he cups his hands around the sphere and then pulls them outward, and the image expands with his motion, "we have room for the brain, a powerful laser light source, a small but equally powerful multidirectional speaker, and the most important two parts of all: the replication chamber, and the battery."
     Tiernan turns the hologram around and separates the sphere, now about the size of a large grapefruit, into two, turning the halves so that you can see the insides. "A minimum of seven ports are needed for light emission in order to cover the visible light spectrum. Using pinhole direction, you can create almost any image, up to about the size of an African elephant. If you want something bigger, you'll need to have multiple units communicating and working in tandem under the direction of a master unit, which will be larger, of course - about the size of a donkey, I suppose, depending on how many units you want it to be communicating with. A donkey-sized master unit should, however, be able to communicate with up to five hundred child units over about fifty square miles of terrain. The child units will replicate by intake of the carbosilicates," he indicates a small flap on the bottom, hitherto unseen, "and 'bake' it around a 'brain', of which it would be able to store up to perhaps three, or five - not more than that at this size. The battery is solar-powered, as its entire body is effectively a reflective surface. Unless the area sees long spells of darkness, it should be able to continue functioning indefinitely. I should recommend programming in a distress signal to be sent at once if damaged or captured. I-"
     The light around him flickers, and then dies. He drops to the ground, stumbling with an wordless exclamation, and the holograms flicker and then vanish. Tiernan rubs his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "I ... something. Oh, damn. I'm sorry."

     As you levitate and in your passion and in your power quickly outline without instruction, Sandalphon smiles. You're a natural. He steps next to you, his eyes scanning and absorbing the new details, the new schematics. Another screen descends and upon it appear another device, an inspiration from your inspiration made. "That can be further refined for single-purpose use; for example, in a limited engagement or operation by angelic forces in mortal skirmishes. The power source could be the angel's attunement, that power source -- while not being indefinite -- certainly being extremely long-lasting, with modifications to send out a distress signal of its own, based on the vital signs of that particular being to whom it's attuned."
     He looks to you as he speaks, his energy vibrating around him, between you. Electrons, protons -- the intellectual exchange ionizes thoughts until they become stars in miniature. His wings stretch out to either side, the paintings and sketches that form them all but materializing, so real they seem.
     "I believe you had something similar in Venice, particularly relating to vital signs, although you were collecting the vital signs of the Lagoon and building structures. But the point is the same. Angel. Cathedral. In the design philosophy, there's little difference..." His words and his thought process is interrupted by your dropping. His wing moves reflexively to steady you, wrapping around you for balance. "No need to apologize," Sandalphon's voice is quiet, his voice like a temple chime. Cupped in his wing's grasp, you are secure. But still, he offers you the additional support of his arm. Tilting his head, he looks to you. You are amazing.
     The holograms reappear, copied from Sandalphon's understanding and from yours. You do not need to sustain them. You have already created them.

     "Single purpose use would probably be fine," Tiernan agrees mutedly. He rubs his forehead again. It apparently took a lot out of him. He reddens slightly as you steady him with a wing; this is another thing which will take time to grow accustomed to. He has never had to rely on his children's wings for support; rather, he's always done his best to be the one to whom they could turn.
     "...I think I need to sit down. I'm sorry. I've lost my train of thought completely," he mumbles. He closes his hands against his cheeks around his nose, exhaling strongly and blinking once or twice, then pats your arm awkwardly and steps away. "I hope that it helps, in any case," he adds apologetically. "I realize it's a very rough and conceptual design, at this stage. Do you mind if I have a drink again?"

     "Of course not," Sandalphon says, his wing drawing away. His hand remains a moment longer as he pivots. "I was just about to suggest that. Have a seat." And there are chairs, not as many as downstairs, but still as comfortable. A table appears, and on that a pitcher and two glasses. "Ambrosia is a honey-based restorative. Part royal jelly nectar," he pours a glass for you and for him, "... and the essence of the seven holy flowers. Those are: rose, lily, lavender, orchid, lotus, poppy, and chrysanthemum," he explains.
     He hands the glass to you, smiling. "You will get used to managing your own forces," Sandalphon assures you, looking to you as he pours his own glass of Ambrosia. "Your wings are a part of that, or will be. I should expect that to develop before too much longer. You are already quite advanced. There are mortals who have passed and arrived here and who have lived here now for many years who have not progressed as far. The transition isn't easy."
     Taking a seat beside you, he sips at the drink. He studies you, hematite eyes absorbing the details of your face, your energy, beneath a wisp of sky blue hair. "And it was very helpful," Sandalphon continues with a smile. "Thank you. I think it's enough to go on for a new prototype. I enjoyed that," his voice is quiet upon that truth. "How are you feeling? Better?"

     "Thank you." He takes the offered seat, not without gratitude. The drink is strange to him, still, and he tastes it with consideration in his expression, more than anything else.
     He feels further from his old life than ever; dizzied by it, by the shock of the energies he has summoned. A little frightened, perhaps, too; it is confirmation of his change in status. It is, in a way, almost a loss of humanity. Almost, but not quite; still, he shakes his head as if to clear it, and he drinks again.
     "I feel I've changed a lot already," Tiernan remarks to you, looking down into the surface of the cool liquid. He scratches his head, leaving the midnight curls in disarray, little motes of sparkling light drifting in lazy patterns in reaction. "I ... I'm not sure how I feel, if you want to know the truth. I - er. Sorry." He looks up with a wry slight smile. "I shouldn't unload on you."

     "Don't be silly," Sandalphon answers gently and without hesitation either in his tone or his face. "It is natural to be... off-center with such a change. To feel off-balance. Even disconcerted."
     The Ambrosia is restorative, a balm to the soul. It rejuvenates lost forces. It is cool, sweet without being cloying, and there is a sense of peace and wonder that often accompanies it. A drink for angels and deities.
     "Please... unburden yourself. I am ... and would like to be... your friend. If I can help in any way, even if it is just by listening and being present, then that is what I wish to do, Tiernan."
     A wing moves, creating a light breeze. "I am a seraph," Sandalphon grins, "...I always want to know the truth."

     "Well, at least I'm ahead of schedule." Tiernan almost smiles at that, and he shakes his head again, simply bemused. "I'm sorry. I mostly am just - a bit overwhelmed, I suppose. You see, I ... knew for a while that I was changing. I didn't entirely know what I was being called to do, even if I had a notion as to who by, and then... well, it has always seemed to me that to serve God is one of those things where there are as many ways to do so as there are professions. Does a healer serve God less for being focused upon the physical form of his or her patients than a minister, who serves the spirit more exclusively? It has never seemed to me to be so."
     He sips, he smiles a little, he looks down at his feet in a way which is very characteristic of him, did you but know it. But then, perhaps you do. "I could be wrong, of course," Tiernan admits. "Anyway, so then finding that I am ... becoming ... an angel, of all things..." And again, he shakes his head, then looks up with those clear blue eyes. "I suppose I should have asked someone before. But, you know, it didn't occur to me until you said you're a seraph. What is a seraph, exactly? And, er. What kind of angel am I to become?"

     "There are millions of ways to serve God. As innumerable as stars in the universe. For some, it may be one incarnation. For another, a thousand. For one, it may be taking the role of a priest. For another, a general. The physician and the priest serve God equally: one, by helping to heal the body; the other, by helping to heal the soul. One is not better than the other, or more meaningful, or more helpful. They are just different ways of expressing a calling, using a gift, helping a community."
     Sandalphon sips at his drink, then sets the glass aside. "A seraph is one of seven orders of angels. Some call them choirs, others simply orders. They are types of angelic manifestations. Seraphim are reputed to be the highest order, being the first created by God. I don't put much weight or stock into the supremacy of orders. I personally think it's mistaken assumption, simply passed down so long that it's become a truth. The other orders are Cherubim, Thrones or Ophanim, Malakhim, Elohim, Hashmallim or Dominions, and Powers. I'm not certain which you shall become. I think that likely won't be known for quite some time. At first, malakhim... which is to say, angelic in nature. And then as your nature becomes more apparent, you may become something else. If I had to guess, I would say Virtue, at least at first. Which is an amazing feat for a mortal man. Most take many lives to become a malakhim, just an angelic being of any sort, let alone a rank. But," he smiles, "...you're a bit of an overachiever."
     Sandalphon settles back. "I'm a seraph simply by accident of birth. Both parents were, their energies were so derived. And thus I am. But while there's rank, certainly, they do not so much signify celestial achievement or a greater degree of enlightenment. More, it is a matter of how energy manifests and to what purpose. There are levels of heaven, ninth through first, with first being at the throne of God. We are not there," he grins. "But neither are you on the fringes of ninth heaven. You're squarely in the suburbs, in fifth."

     Tiernan mulls this over, committing to memory the various orders. He does not seem to place much weight in rank and file; after all, he was a prince with a meaningless title. He was given a name and title mockingly, and he took it, and - well, in a fashion, it is why he is here, what he did with it. And he runs a finger along Leon's back, the little toy lion purring like a tiny, far-off coffee grinder on the knee of the toymaker prince.
     "I've never set out to be an overachiever, but I've always felt that there should be more I could do; more I should do." He shrugs, not offended, offering explanation, in a way, Aegean gaze turned to your face now. "I'm just as happy not to be number one," Tiernan confides in you, halfway to a grin now. He's a little drunk, though he doesn't realize it; drunk on power, knowledge, transformation. "I'd be forever worrying if my shirt weren't tucked in. I am curious as to what I am becoming, but truthfully? I don't think it matters very much. Anyone likely to judge me by what I become isn't looking at the whole picture, are they? And after all, I am not very important. I never have been."

     "You're right," Sandalphon says warmly, quietly. "It doesn't matter. You will become what you will become. I am still becoming whatever it is I am. God reveals it, to and through us all. We are, all of us, bits of stardust. Equally amazing. Individually, we are all insignificant. But pooled together? We become a universe."
     Hematite eyes fix their attention on you. "The way I look at it, we are, each of us, just an expression of God. We are all of His manifestations, looking at one another, trying to sort it all out, this thing we have made and are making." Sandalphon grins, his face incandescent in the expression, beautiful. "Ah, philosophy: the science of questions. "Just remember: if anyone judges you, they are projecting upon you their own sins. Don't worry. Follow your instincts."
     There is a moment of ionized silence between you. "I am glad you're here, Tiernan," he says. "And I can't wait to see what happens next."

     There are thoughts and realizations still unfolding behind his eyes, kept to himself for now. The crescent moons are becoming cogs, and they turn slowly as his thoughts move, now with quiet grace rather than the lightning speed of a few minutes (weeks) ago. I want things I should not want. Not yet, if at all. It is better to wait. Let things happen in the time in which they are meant, if they will happen at all; let them become what they are becoming, as I am.
     "Patience is a virtue," Tiernan says aloud, with a small smile. His smiles are still his own, but the contained gentleness of them is changing, lessening. He is becoming something other than who and what he was. What he is becoming has yet to be determined. "But I am not a saint, for all that people keep insisting on giving me credit. I get far more credit than I am due, you know. Now." He draws two fingertips down the bridge of his nose, as if adjusting a pair of glasses. "Would you be willing to give me a tour of that rose garden? I've had an idea..."

     Sandalphon's eyebrows lift, sky blue clouds over a silver sea. He reaches for his glass of ambrosia, draining it and then rising. He offers you a hand. "With pleasure," he smiles out.
     His wings no longer display the sketches and dreams of Leonardo. His thoughts are not on war machines or the engineering of peace. Instead, they take on the semblance of blue roses.

Posted by rowan at October 13, 2010 07:48 PM