The Lyrist and The Tempest

by Valiant wind

Prologue----the Observer

<examination log #4, cycle 100,796. Photon scope status: online. Photon scope output: null. Nuclear detection module: online. Nuclear detection unit output: null. L-jump gate status: Frozen.>

The lone red light atop of the observer flickered towards the stars. The last scan of the cycle had been completed, the results ready to be saved. He tried incorporating it into his memory unit, but only received an error log. It must be full again, and an outdated file must be deleted to make room for the new one. He reached into its depth and dug out the oldest report it contained—it was the third scan of cycle 82,546. All three outputs were null, which is good. The report was unimportant, and to remove it would be safe.

The red light flickered again as he commenced the deletion sequence. He’d lost count of how many of these files he had to cast away, even if he had the heart for it. He was programmed to record as many results as possible, and the creators had granted him a generous storage unit capable of sustaining 18,250 cycles. Normally, a new observer would be launched and take his place long before that number is reached, and he would by then return to his creators. The precious statistics he’d collected would be extracted and studied by them, and he would gloriously retire and perhaps be charged a new duty of becoming the scrap metal added to another creation. Or, if he was lucky enough, he would serve as an attractive and admirable display in one of the museums of the Main Haven, just like the predecessor he’d replaced many, many cycles ago. He did not detest nor anticipate his fate—he wasn’t supposed to. It was out of his program, after all.

But somehow his replacement never came. His watch had been prolonged, the logs stacked so high that he had to run the emergency sequence which required him to preserve the latest results. It didn’t bother him, though. Everything he did was still within his program and would remain so even if he was to continue this forever. He didn’t even know how to question. It was out of his program.

He examined the log for one last time and noticed that the number of cycles was divisible by four. This calls for an additional execution. The codes for it were abruptly added a few tens of thousand cycles ago, yet he’ll follow them, nonetheless.

One of its two thrusters turned on with a warm flow of current. His scanning units slowly tilted and turned backward, facing the lone, dark grey planet floating in a distance. His antenna sent out an electric signal, allowing it to fly towards it with the speed of light. The response came almost within a second:

<Status of the Gray Tempest: Inactive>

He added that line onto the report, then slid it into the memory unit. Another unimportant report. The creators would not be interested in it. His job in this cycle was over.

Just before entering dormant mode, however, his photon scope received a sudden tremor. The silent chips hummed as he quickly terminated the sleeping protocol and called on his processor. It was a minor pulse of visible light of all wavelengths ranging from 400 to 700 nanometers, weak as the flutter of a mosquito against the radiation of the system’s sun, yet it still triggered his alarm—the signal came from the L-jump gate.

It was strange. His database suggested that all the jump gates are to remain sealed, that no quarks, leptons, or exchange particles are allowed to leave the home cluster. It was a fundamental law, carved in his deepest base code. Whatever had violated it must be of great priority of recording.

He activated his other thruster, pushing the scanning units backward. He never made it to the halfway point before a ball of visible light exploded beside him and turned the thrusters and most of his protective coatings into boiling liquid metal. The intricate patterns on the L-jump gate beside him beamed up like fireworks, so bright that one might mistake it as a second green sun from Main Haven’s surface. The photon scope and the nuclear detection module received a flood of unbelievable statistics that made him run a diagnostic protocol to make sure they were not fooling him. The green sphere of energy pulsed for a few minutes. It then gradually resided into the blackness of space, and all the results went null again.

The red light went on and off. A system failure had been detected and the emergency protocol was activated. After he made sure that all the core systems were intact, he immediately wrote a new report, classified it as a top-most priority, and sent it straight to his creators without bothering to save it. The data he’d collected from the last few seconds were more than enough to break every single understanding of physics the creators had assigned into his database, and it was his duty to report it right away.

His antenna beeped as the information was successfully sent. His job of this cycle was now truly complete. Using this discovery, maybe his creators will gain a planet-worth of unprecedented understandings of time and space, but he won’t be there to see it. During the outburst, a wave of high-energy gamma particles had fried every single coil on his main solar power generator. He’ll have to run on back-up power source from now on, which could only last 500 cycles. As for what would happen after that—

He terminated the calculations. It was none of his concern. The antenna, photon scope, and nuclear detection module had lost their coatings but had remained functional. The shockwave had blasted him away and destroyed the thrusters, forcing him to remain at an awkward angle, yet he could still receive the readings. As long as he was still powered, his duty will continue. His retirement may not be as venerated as it should’ve been, but it was not like he had the mind to care. His watch will be eternal.

The observer wouldn’t have known that there were no living organisms left on Main Heaven to interpret his findings. His forever leaning photon scope would never discover that a large lump of black nanobot goo covering the planet had disappeared along with the green star. And he wouldn’t have realized that, on the other side of the activated jump gate, millions of light-years away, on a green and blue planet called as Equestria by its inhabitants, within a humble two-story building on the east corner of the Town of Ponyville, a mint-green unicorn was snoring with her lyre between her front hooves. A bright green glow emanated from her nightstand, then vanished as quickly as it emerged.

The unicorn half-opened an ember eye, mumbled incomprehensibly, rolled in her bed, and slept off again. She didn’t see the green star shining through her window, the one that never belonged to Luna’s dome of the night.

If she had seen it by that time, maybe she would have canceled her holiday.

Author's Note:

Yeah, I know this may appear familiar. Grey Wind's story, published here approximately a year and a half ago, the very first piece of writing I've ever conducted in my life. And now, after all those times, after hundreds of thousands of words of trials and errors in my other creative writing projects, I have brought the story idea back for I believe it deserves a permanent spot in my soul. This an 100-percent overhauled version of The Tale of the Grey Tempest. I sincerely hope that whoever comes across it would be able to enjoy it.

Updates in February maybe postponed due to schoolwork, while my schedule is expected to be much looser after mid-March. I'll try to maintain a regular update routine by then, hopefully three or four times a month.

The greatest thanks to everypony who had read and rated The Tale of the Grey Tempest. It was you that had led me to discover one of the best methods of creation humanity has ever invented, and that there are many other wonderful things in my life other than sulking in self-depression.