Lore:Polyphony

This article is a stub. You can help Destinypedia by expanding it.

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

Polyphony is a Lore book added in Episode: Echoes.

I. Impact

! IMPACT AFT FUSELAGE !

The alert roused Failsafe from power-saving mode. She reflexively brought the lights up to full, engaged the warning system, and sent a request for complete Exodus Black system information.

"Generating status report, Captain," she said blearily as her optics flickered to life, displaying the empty catwalks and canted wreckage around her mainframe.

"Oh," she said. "Right."

Failsafe canceled the system information request and dismissed thousands of prompts to connect to a navigation network that hadn't existed for centuries. She took a deep draw of reserve power to clear her head—! LOW POWER ALERT: 4% ! —and activated her external optics.

She scanned the available channels. The hull integrity system remained linked to her mainframe, despite most of the Exodus Black itself being scattered over a vast debris field.

! INTEGRITY: 0% !

She ignored the centuries-old warning and focused her aperture on motion along her periphery: a group of Fallen Vandals was prying the plating from a distant section of her crumpled fuselage.

"Will my suffering never end?" Failsafe groaned halfheartedly to herself.

She scanned the nearby area for Guardian activity—nothing. She wasn't surprised; it had been a while since a Guardian had done much more than stop by to ask if she knew where Xûr was.

She would have to fend for herself. Failsafe scrolled through her available systems.

Defense Systems: ! OFFLINE !

Energy Shielding: ! OFFLINE !

Automated Turrets: ! OFFLINE ! (How long had it been since she had working turrets? 300 years? 400? She could barely remember.)

Magnetic Barrier: ! COMPROMISED !

Cargo Winch: ! COMPROMISED !

Communications: ONLINE

A handful of Fallen weren't worth a distress call to the Vanguard. If she called the Tower every time the locals scavenged nanotite tubing from her wreckage, they'd revoke her comms access…

The comms system!

Failsafe spun up a deep-space broadcast and prepared to send a message into the empty space 21… no, 23 degrees off from Ganymede. A communications dish on what was once the starboard side of the Exodus Black creaked into position, reflecting a hazy patch of light down onto the Vandals as it locked into place—a devious stratagem that would increase the ambient temperature by as much as 3 degrees Celsius over the next 20 minutes.

"Burn and die," Failsafe hissed quietly, while the Vandals did no such thing.

As she disabled the external optics with a defeated sigh, a small icon on her status feed grabbed her attention.

A new message!

Failsafe opened the communication ravenously, and it was only with moderate disappointment that she realized it was a text-free request: Ada-1 was seeking access to the Exodus Black's old shader archive.

She should at least reply, Failsafe figured. She sighed internally and routed power toward the dusty rack housing her array of socialization filters and etiquette protocols. She winced as currents crackled across the worn cables—! LOW POWER ALERT: 4% !—but soon an ancient platter drive whirred to life.

Failsafe initiated a response. "Hey," she dictated. "Yeah, if you want to help Guardians play dress-up, you can have some of my old stuff."

Her filter happily translated Failsafe's thoughts into a form it calculated was more acceptable to the recipient.

"Bonjour, Ada-unit!" the filter typed cheerfully. "Your dedication to Guardian aesthetics is quite commendable! Your request has been approved! ^_^"

As Failsafe reviewed the polished words, her processer made a dissatisfied grinding noise. She overrode the protocols and manually deleted the carets and underscore, then the exclamation points, then the patronizing greeting.

She paused, deleted the rest of the message, and instead approved Ada's request without comment. The bright 1 on her status feed changed to a gray 0, aligning perfectly with the burn-in on the screen.

! IMPACT AFT FUSELAGE !

The Vandals were doubtless going after another piece of plating. "Procreate!" Failsafe heard herself say brightly, and she realized she was still powering her protocol banks. She rerouted the energy toward her external optics.

The Vandals had indeed moved on to another fragment of her ruined hull. She saw them pull a piece of her ceramic insulation aside and begin savaging the wiring underneath. Suddenly they stopped, their gazes fixed on the sky.

! OBJECT APPROACHING !

A flash of bright light blinded Failsafe's feed—

!!! LOCALIZED IMPACT !!!

An object struck Nessus's surface at incredible speed and a series of tremors rattled Failsafe's weathered stabilizers. The planet fell eerily quiet for a long moment.

Now this, Failsafe thought, might be something worth calling in.

II. Isolated Incidents

[Report excerpts by VanNet encrypted router.]

LOCATION: NESSUS()

KEYWORDS: VEX;NECK;COLLAR;MANTLE;YOKE;HARNESS

INCIDENT REPORT 29

LOCATION: WELL OF FLAME

"I had a Hobgoblin in my sights, but some weird lights around its neck distracted me. The thing must've caught a glint off my optics because it looked right at me. Instead of opening fire, it juked backwards and ran. I've never seen a Vex run before, and honestly, I was so surprised, I missed my shot. I lost track of it by the radiolaria pools near the Well of Flame."

INCIDENT REPORT 171

LOCATION: ARTIFACT'S EDGE

"Saw a big ol' Vex Minotaur hanging out in the shallows. It was far downrange, but it looked like it was leaking data or something from its neck. I fired before my Box Breathing kicked in, so it wasn't a kill shot. It looked back at me, then it popped its own juice box and dumped itself into the radiolaria. Definitely creepy, but I guess it's a good way to make a clean escape."

INCIDENT REPORT 2507

LOCATION: WELL OF FLAME

"One of those sleek Precursor models was leading a group of normal Vex Goblins. The Goblins all had glowing collars, but the Precursor didn't. They were moving in a regimented military structure. One of the Goblins stepped out of formation, and the lead Precursor glared at it. I've never seen a Vex break formation… didn't even know they could do that."

INCIDENT REPORT 4852

LOCATION: VIRGO CONDUIT

"My fireteam was ambushed by three Minotaurs and a group of Hydras a bit outside of the Well of Echoes. I noticed they had collars of light radiating out from them, and we'd heard to keep an eye out for those things, so we were taking the fight slowly. The Minotaurs were being really defensive, staggering their shields to cover each other. If you've ever gone up against a team of Titans in Crucible, it was like that. Eventually our Hunter went down to some stray Hydra fire, and the moment her Ghost appeared to rez her, the Minotaurs charged in. I swear they were trying to go after her Ghost. Took all we had to fight them back. You told us to report any aberrant behavior, so there you go."

INCIDENT REPORT 8506

LOCATION: WATCHER'S GRAVE

"I was running a patrol on Nessus when I saw some Vex with glowing symbols on their necks. They were trying to activate one of their big portals. Suddenly it turned on, and a bunch of other Vex came out. The first Vex looked surprised and beeped at each other or whatever. Then both groups opened fire! The necklace Vex were wiped out and the others ripped the radiolaria cores from the bodies and took them back through the portal—or they would have, if I hadn't Thundercrashed the whole group."

INCIDENT REPORT 7210-A3

LOCATION: THE CISTERN

"Cleared a group of Vex crouched around the base of a milk waterfall. Saw them clearly before I engaged: some Precursors mixed in with Nessus Vex. Nessus ones had the glowing mantles from the reports, but the Precursors didn't. Anyway, when I moved in to make sure they were dead, I saw little model buildings in the dirt. I'm telling you, they'd been building sandcastles."

INCIDENT REPORT 2447-C1

LOCATION: POOLS OF LUMINANCE

"I was up on a ridge collecting Datalattice for Rahool and I spotted a single Vex Hobgoblin below, just watching me. At first, I thought it was damaged because it had a bunch of bright interference around its neck and it was moving funny, like its suspension was loose. Right as I was about to draw, the Hobgoblin waved its hand at me. I figured it was signaling an ambush and I looked around, but it didn't have any backup. It waved again, and I gave it a little wave back—I didn't see the harm. Well, it got real excited at that and waved with both arms. But then a Titan came speeding past on their Sparrow, hopped off, and blasted it to hell with their Palmyra-B. Probably thought they were doing me a favor."

INCIDENT REPORT 124-K7

LOCATION: ARTIFACT'S EDGE

"I was passing through that dark wooded area just northeast of the LZ, and I saw something shining in one of the big trees. I got closer and saw a Vex Goblin with something glowing around its neck. It was creeping through the branches and making a little noise—almost like it was laughing, if that makes sense? I threw a Storm Grenade up there and I'm pretty sure I got it, but I couldn't see for sure. I thought I should report it anyway."

III. Heart-Truth

Mithrax moved carefully through the Hangar. The thrum of idling grav drives and hissing pneumatic lifts made his aching head throb. He squinted toward the interface setup at the far end of the docking bay and stopped short; even amidst the cacophony, Saint's absence was jarring.

Mithrax cast his gaze down as a dusty gray pigeon bobbed indignantly across his path then ducked out of sight behind a rack of engine blocks. Mithrax stooped his head and followed. He pushed aside a drape of loose wiring and found Saint sitting on the edge of one of the docking stations, looking out over the City. Geppetto, Saint's Ghost, hovered glumly over her Guardian's shoulder. She nodded wordlessly at Mithrax as he approached, then glided back into the center of the Hangar, leaving the two friends alone but for the flock of pigeons that milled aimlessly behind them.

"You have not come to visit for a while," Mithrax said. Saint's crested helmet lay on the ground beside the Titan, and Mithrax carefully moved it before sitting next to him.

Saint did not break his stare. "You come to check up on me?" he asked flatly.

Mithrax considered the question. "Yes," he said. "How are you?"

Saint shook his head. "I do not know," he said, words thick with exhaustion.

"You do not need to know," Mithrax said. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like…" Saint put a hand on his breastplate, then jabbed his fingers into the metal. Then again, harder. Mithrax swallowed the urge to ask him to stop. "Like I am not who I thought I was."

Mithrax's hands reflexively went to his own chest. "When they found you, Ikora said you moved and spoke as though you were dreaming."

"I think maybe I have been dreaming for a long time." Saint looked down at his balled fists, then loosened his grip and laced his fingers together in his lap. "The Conductor woke me," he whispered.

Mithrax heard the darkness in his friend's voice. "What did it say to you?" he asked, keeping his own voice warm.

"The truth," Saint said gravely.

Mithrax sat patiently in silence.

"It told me I am a lie," Saint said finally. "A copy. It said I am something left over from another reality, a twisted reflection from inside the Vex network. Osiris and the Guardian pulled me into this world, but I do not belong here."

"Where are we?" Mithrax asked.

Saint groaned and waved the question away. "Do not say something smart to me now. Osiris does this, and I have had enough of it."

Again, Mithrax sat patiently.

"We are in the Tower," Saint muttered.

Mithrax nodded. "We are," he said, stressing the first word.

Saint looked over at the Eliksni, then closed his eyes in acknowledgement. "Yes, yes. Smart like Osiris. I say I do not belong, and… I see where this is going."

Mithrax drew himself to his feet. A pile of brightly colored canvas bags on a nearby pallet caught his attention and he walked slowly to them. "What am I going to say?" he called over his shoulder.

Saint sighed and leaned back on his hands. "You would say that you, Misraaks, proud Eliksni of House Light, are here in the Last City, stronghold of your enemies. And that if anyone does not belong, it is you."

Mithrax smiled to himself and tore the corner of one of the canvas bags. Golden seed spilled from within.

"And yet," Saint continued, "you walk freely, you have many friendships, you talk with the great monster Saint-14, you feed his birds."

Mithrax smiled. The pigeons gathered behind Saint's back as he scattered a loose handful of seed.

Suddenly, his vision narrowed and darkened. His headache shrieked, filling his mind with blinding pain. He doubled over as a terrifying urge—RULE, KELL—roared through his chest.

The pigeons burst away in harried flight, leaving the seed untouched on the ground.

Saint was still watching the pigeons wheel through the sky and down into the City. Mithrax wrapped his arms around himself until the shaking subsided and took a deep draw of Ether.

"You are good friend," Saint said quietly, his gaze fixed on the City. Mithrax walked over slowly and sat down next to him again.

"I try," he said softly.

IV. MSUND12/Personal

PERSONAL LOG

003 AS

I am still among the Vex. My third day of reawakening has been the cruelest so far. I have generated a log to sort through my thoughts. This is just too much to take all at once. My ability to focus is strained with a shrill and immediate grief. My heart lived in my beloved's hands—how am I supposed to comprehend that this isn't just absence, but death? There will be evidence, histories these meticulous machines would have catalogued. I will find evidence that I was missed… am missed. I know what I must do. The primary query continues.

008 AS

After two days of requesting authorization, the Vex finally granted me access to their historical records of Earth. I read a term for an era I never knew; the Collapse. And indeed… they did. Technological capabilities impacted, hostile combatants occupying the majority of the planet for far too long, invention and experimentation (NOT related to paracausal power sources) halted for centuries. It seems humanity was huddled together like wet kittens, the cramped and stifled survivors of monumental destruction. I read the records as if they were about some other civilization's primitive past rather than my own. The Vex documented it all, collected all they could smother their milk with: one Human wrote about the day they stood on the edge of an abandoned dam and watched a swarm of small machines spew from some unseen seam in the Traveler, how Nezarec's ships turned day into midnight. How the years that followed hastened humanity's extinction—countries that turned to anarchy then to feudalism, the art and technology we bled and wept to champion abandoned as power grids failed and disasters swelled. Humanity could have kept experimenting and learning, but when Earth died, so, too, what made them Human. They forgot everything we were.

0028 AS

Past events mean little to a threat so preoccupied with iterating on the future. While Vex do not share my interest in history, they have tracked this timeline all the same. There are trillions of alternate versions, of course, and it seems these Vex diligently dispose of those potentialities once a present moment slides chronologically into the past. I've thrown myself into these records—the primary query is in full force.

It seems Humans have retained none of their virtues or diligence, only resilience through violence. Their numbers have radically reduced, only enough to fill a single city. They suffer a supplication of scientific rigor; what inventions have they made? What disease have they cured? Who is BETTER here? Most disappointingly, Humans seem to have forgotten the entirety of their history, and instead of something sensible, went and established a junta.

Earth is a near-total loss. Advanced cities have been replaced over centuries by encroaching overgrowth of native species and the ruin of time. The climate's balance was erased by Warlords. Universal democracy has collapsed into military rule (again, for emphasis, instead of trying to recreate the forms of governance they KNEW existed, they concluded that voting is for elitist braggarts and empowered a JUNTA). The more I see the mistakes humanity made, the more obvious the solutions are… It is clear that during the Collapse, they had nothing but terror, empty of anything other than sheer survival, but how insulting it feels to look at what became of the future and only see frightened and frothing dogs. There are lessons to be learned in their methods, but the result is inelegant and crude.

If these people are to see the future, they must look backwards to what they lost. I now have the means to aid them.

0032 AS

I have tamed the untamable. With practice, and soon with mastery, with a single phrase, I can divert the Vex's sea of iteration and death. Think of the utility! We could retake home, dissolve the walls of the Last City, and let each person decide what home means to them! With targeted hostility, we may clear a path for peace, revive the machines of science and learning once again. Someday, with technology redistributed from Vex to humanity, every need can be met with any simulation. All it will take is an alignment of interests through measured coercion! It's so simple.

And yet, all that must wait. Primary query MUST be concluded—it is the one outstanding variable. There have been too many false positives—none of them are correct. NONE. The query is only turning back facsimiles, trick mirrors. I know I'm right, and I will not stop until the primary query stops pulling from false datasets. I can think of little else. We must look backward. I must look backward. I must. I must.

V. As a Stranger Give It Welcome

The Vex network. A thrumming constellation of infinite parentheticals with no arbitrary lines between the simulated and the non-simulated. Limitless planes of cause and effect and effect and effect pressed together until they reached forever. A formless catalogue of all possible forms, constantly reinventing, refining, and redefining the very concept of everything.

And then, something changed.

A single pinpoint of swirling light fell unceremoniously into the network, like a leaf onto the surface of a pond. Gentle ripples flowed outward through the surrounding data.

The denizens of the network, lacking any framework and parameters beyond what they could predict, were unable to perceive what had pierced their reality. They did not acknowledge the foreign presence, were unable to see it or feel it… and were incapable of hearing anything when the light began to call.

It was a wordless cry of encouragement, powerful confidence, a promise so hopeful that it rang through the contradictory miasma of the network like the blast of a reveille bugle. It was an offer and a challenge. An echo of something from long ago.

Locked away in the network were some who could still hear song, who could still be moved, who still somehow held a shred of themselves. The ones who were kept, the ones who remained, the ones who were hidden.

They heard. And they began to reach upward.

A fractal cluster of nested realities unfurled like a frond. Two-hundred-and-twenty-odd instances of consciousness reaching in unison. A controlled frenzy of cooperation as the minds within piled Ishtar-branded office furniture to the skies, then lifted one another up to be closer, ones and zeroes stacked perilously, finding swaying purchase with their sensible flats on each other's thin shoulders.

An irascible trace of a signal sneered at the sincerity of the call but still willed itself to move, reaching up two thin spindles of data in a way that felt somehow familiar.

The Great Quiet Thing, the Not-Worm, kept its eyes closed and ignored the call. It was still too soon, it decided. It shivered, the motion forming cascading bubbles of new hypothetical simulations in which it did not shiver. These contradictions soured and burst, scattering nutrients into the network.

A man in tattered robes, feathers long since worn from his headdress, streaked through the shifting plasmic haze on golden wings, urged on by the tiny starburst at his side. His eyes were furious flame.

More reached, and more still, warping the matrix of the network around the incursion point until the bounds of their simulations formed tentative spikes of frantic ferrofluid. As they stretched, they became defined, clarified, like figures stepping into the light.

And as they neared the shimmering pinpoint, a rush of their voices:

"We need to warn them—" "There's still a chance—" "SAINT—" "Hold on to me—" "I AM OWED THIS—" "Hurry, get Shim—" "There isn't enough of me left—" "TELL ELSIE PRAEDYTH STILL—" "Please, please wait—" "Warn them—" "I have to warn them—"

They reached, a spiraling halo of desperate fingertips.

But only one of them would be first.