Chapter 32.3: What Else Wepp Knew

For what seemed much longer to her than it actually was, Penny and Wepp sat in silence beside the nearest workstation inside the lab. There didn’t appear to be any tools for telling the time, but then, with all the glyphs and glowing panels and symbols everywhere, Penny didn’t really know what she was looking at, so maybe one of them actually was some kind of clock. Instead of worrying about it, though, she stripped off her smartpack, sat on the floor, and waited, taking in everything around her that she did understand.

What became quickly evident was the room’s incredibly intentional layout. Penny was familiar with the problem of space when it came to the construction and testing of machinery. It had taken her multiple seasons of looking before she’d found a rental with adequate room for her workshop. Most structures throughout the Reach were made only with people and furnishings in mind: the rooms were small and plentiful, designed to segregate one part of daily life from another with a sense of intimacy, or else provide ample, visible storage for small wares. The majority of the trades that required more space (husbandry, smithing, smelting, and the like) were all traditionally done in an outdoor or semi-outdoor environment. Machining was the outlier. It could be done inside—hell, it was far better and more comfortably done inside—but the average carpenter had no interest in building for such a select community of merchants. What a machinist needed was wide-open room to move, plenty of space for storing and organizing tools and materials, and at least one sizable work table square in the middle of it all, if not multiple. Frankly, no engineer worth her salt was ever just working on a single project.

This asura lab, though? It had none of the problems Penny was accustomed to seeing in Divinity’s Reach; this place was made for creating. Fifteen yards across and three times as deep, it had three separate workstations splitting the length evenly. The huge, stone tables, cut at very asuran angles, were raised to a height Penny assumed was perfect for a standing asura and stretched ten feet across. Orderly though they were under the fluorescent glow of illumination cells, she could tell where work had been done most recently by the tools and paperwork that encircled active projects, like little worshippers lain prostrate at the feet of their developing deities. Across the three stone tables, she saw at least seven active projects. Half of them glowed in one way or another, evidence that however far along in development they were, the little, stone-and-metal inventions were at least powered. Actually, as she looked more closely, she noticed that most of the devices were either cubical or triangular: varying sizes, but all similar shapes, just like so many other things she’d seen in the city that day. Gods, the whole place was like that, wasn’t it? For all their advancement, asura really didn’t have much creativity in their designs. And yet, Penny couldn’t get around the fact that they were all geniuses. She’d never admit it to them, but they were. Maybe there was something to the simple shapes after all.

In any case, the room was impressive. Penny took it in again, letting herself daydream about sprawling her projects out across it all. If only her shop provided this much operating room.

That thought stopped her cold, and she felt the instant urge to glare at Wepp with all the malice she could muster. It wasn’t her shop any longer; it never would be. And it was all his fault, his and his partner’s.

Glancing over at the balding asura beside her, though, she couldn’t bring herself even to an angry scowl. He’d been a shit, certainly, but not as big of one as Skixx. And more importantly, now that she’d started being honest with herself, Penny doubted Wepp was even as big a shit as she was. Gods, this had been a messed up day.

Penny sighed, tiring quickly of that line of thought.

“So,” she said, looking at Wepp as she came up with a question to ask, “did that college talk make any sense to you? Because I have no idea what they were on about.”

Wepp turned, assessing her for a moment. He made a sour face.

“Yes, it made perfect sense, and I appreciate how you would miss the implications. From all I’ve witnessed, it is a cultural convention unique to asura; humans have no equivalent that I can tell.”

“Right. Great.” Penny nodded slowly. “And what exactly is that convention? The older kid has to go to school first or something?”

“Essentially, yes.”

For a moment, the two sat, still looking at each other as the conversation seemed to slip away from them. Wepp had answered her question, but Penny was no better off for it.

With a sigh, Wepp recognized that, and collected his thoughts. “Is it safe to assume Minkus has been your greatest source of knowledge regarding asura culture and philosophy?”

“You mean, do I know any other asura?” Penny asked, translating for him. These people could be so obtuse sometimes.

“Yes,” Wepp said, “something more or less along those lines was my intended question.”

Penny shook her head, then shrugged. She’d chosen this conversation after all. “I’ve known a few,” she said. “But yeah, I guess I know him better than I knew any of them. Why?”

“He is an abnormal asura specimen,” Wepp said factually. “In many regards, really. Admittedly, he seems to be much kinder and sympathetic than most of our kind, but far more evidently—”

Penny put a hand to her forehead. She was not going to suffer through this lecture again. “Yes, I know. I’ve been told all about him being atypical. What the hell does that have to do with my question?”

Scowling with both self-defense and correction, Wepp put hands to hips. “My ears, Miss Arkayd, must you be so quick to take offense. I assure you, I mean none. My only meaning in assessing Minkus as such is to more fully grasp what notions of our culture and practices you are likely familiar with, so that I might present you with a fuller reality. Is that alright with you?”

Penny leaned back from him, surprised by the outburst.

“Forgive me, Miss Arkayd. It has been a very long and trying day for us all,” Wepp groaned. He continued his previous thought. “The fact is, Minkus exhibits many traits and values that are unusual for our people."

“Arguably by nature, we asura pride ourselves predominantly on two axes. Do you know what those are?”

The sarcasm came out of her before Penny even really thought about it. “Smarts and condescension?” she said.

Wepp shrugged. “You are close, but condescension is only a byproduct of our extremely high intellectual performance, which is one of our two great cultural prides. You are half correct.”

“Oh, goody.” Penny shook her fists in mock excitement. She started this conversation, but it was becoming trying very quickly.

Again, though, her sarcasm went unanswered. “The second,” Wepp continued, “is family."

“We pride ourselves and honor each other not just on our own accomplishments but on those of the asura to whom we are related. Parents, siblings, children, forebears, and even sometimes extended relations are the only other people whose skills and accomplishments reflect upon our own. If your parents were high-order geniuses, you would receive a fraction of their respect—or often fuming envy, quite frankly. Likewise, if they were nincompoops who added nothing of note to the pool of asuran knowledge, you would receive a portion of their dishonor. As such, we protect our family dignity as our own, because it is our own.”

Penny frowned, looking up at the door Minkus and Jinkke had left through as Wepp’s explanation sunk in. Family success affected personal success? It did make some sense of her friend’s commitment to his sister and his sister’s overprotective commitment to him. It all felt very misplaced, but it did make sense.

“OK,” she said. “So asura care about family and family smarts. I still don’t understand what that has to do with all this school stuff. Why’s anyone care who goes to school and who doesn’t?”

Wepp put a hand to his face, choosing a different angle from which to approach the matter. “The female,” he said after a moment, “what's her name?”

“Jinkke.”

“Yes, Jinkke.” Wepp nodded. “She is the younger, correct?”

“Yeah,” Penny confirmed, crossing her arms. She really didn’t know where this was going.

Wepp began gesticulating, somehow patterning his motions with his words, though Penny didn’t quite see the connection between it all. “In the same way that personal pride is derived from the achievements of other family members,” he said to her, “it can also instead become a point of contrast between them, highlighting who in a family is most, or more often least capable. Sometimes, the family name can be maintained in spite of a less intelligent member—as is the case in my own immediate family, quite frankly—but when that happens, it’s most often at an even greater detriment to the lacking individual. They are, in some respects, removed from the family: perhaps not in name, but in memory. And to be without a family, Miss Arkayd? That is one of the greatest indignities a person can suffer: nearly as great as proving yourself a witless buffoon.”

Penny grimaced at his words, but of course Wepp missed it, still wrapped up in his explanation. An asura’s greatest insults were being stupid and alone, both of which were true of her. Fantastic.

She shook it away. What did it matter what any of these people thought of her? She still didn’t grasp what any of this had to do with the matter of Minkus, Jinkke, and the school. “So, what?” she asked derisively. “are you saying that unless all the siblings go to one of these schools and prove how damned smart they are, none of them can?”

“My ears, no.” Wepp shook his head, flopping his thin ears back and forth. “Temporally speaking, that would be nonsensical. No elder sibling would be able to attend a college until it was certain no more progeny would be born to the parents. They would all have to apply in synchronicity, be accepted, and attend together. The odds of that happening when all were still of an acceptable age would reduce average attendance numbers so far below an acceptable threshold that the collective advancement of asura scholarship would slow by decades."

“Culturally speaking, it would also not be necessary. The honor of an eldest attending is most often sufficient to offset and overshadow any lack on the part of a younger sibling.”

Penny nearly asked what the hell he was talking about, but she dismissed the question, having a distinct feeling it wasn’t worth it.

“Fine,” she said, “it’s not about all the kids going to school, so what is it about? What are you getting at with all this, oh high and mighty Culture-lord?” 

Shifting himself, Wepp faced her squarely and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his crossed legs. “Let me cut to the core of it, Miss Arkayd. In asura families, elder progeny do not run a risk of shaming their younger siblings by out-performance, but younger siblings do.”

Penny blinked. She thought she understood what he was saying, but the more she considered it, the less sense it made. This seemed to prove inconsistent with both the asuran love of intellect and what little she’d understood of Minkus’ story.

“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” she argued, finding her words, “because Biggie’s little sister definitely did better in that school than he did, no matter how much she helped him.”

Wepp wagged a finger. “No, no. Poor dictional choice on my part. I apologize.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, but it took less than a second, and he went on. “It’s perfectly understandable for a more advanced younger sibling to out-perform her elder; it happens all the time. One passes all his exams, and the next has her work added to the college vault. One only competes for a Snaff prize, but the next attains it. Such instances are entirely ordinary and help to spur each sibling on."

“What brings such shame to the elder, and to the whole family, is when the gap between the siblings’ abilities is so severe that the younger attains to an entirely separate echelon of success: namely, in the case, where the first is overlooked by the colleges and the next is accepted.”

Penny frowned at him. He actually had cleared up her confusion, but he seemed to have more to say. 

Wepp went on. “I can say from anecdotal and statistical evidence that it is highly uncommon for younger siblings to attend a college if no elder sibling has attended one. The colleges are not the only path by which an asura can advance his intellect and join a worthwhile krewe, but they are the fastest and most effective method. Achievement there is looked on quite favorably by the greater community of asura. The vast majority of asura, if given an opportunity will not hesitate to attend one of the colleges. Thus, for a progeny simply to attend before her elder sibling would be to publicly spotlight that elder’s notable inadequacy. That might be undone in time, but can you imagine the shame to the family, and more to the individual, if the younger attended a college and the elder never did at all? My ears, it’s virtually unthinkable. To do that to your own flesh and blood? Never.”

With a shrug, he paused, suddenly looking weighted by the whole thing as he intentionally met her eyes.

“Generally,” he soon continued, “younger siblings of the atypical just never go to a college. They pass right from their internship to any position they can attain on any krewe anywhere and make their way from there. Rather than shaming the sibling, they sidestep the matter to maintain everyone's name.

“Do you grasp now what occurred between these two?”

Penny pushed her hair out of her face. “Yeah, I do.” The facts were simple enough, once she understood these people and their crazy traditions, but the implications were suddenly a great deal more complex, and strangely more painful, to her.

“So, you’re saying the little one should have just skipped the college and gotten on with her life, so no one would ask questions about Biggie?”

Wepp squinted for a moment then shrugged, accepting the way she’d said it. “Yes, I suppose. That is, at least, what the average person in her position would have defaulted to.”

Penny went on, speaking even before she realized she had more to say. “Instead, though, she dragged Minkus along with her so she could go prove how smart she is? And then she cheated for him to make it all work?” She felt the heat rising in her cheeks now. All that, she knew, would tear at Minkus’ sense of honor and his ridiculously tender heart, but gods, why did she suddenly care so much?

Wepp paused, silently inspecting her. He began to reply, but she waved it away, quieting him once more.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I get it.”

Wepp nodded, turning his head away from her, but he quickly thought better of it, rotating to face her once more. “Regardless of what his sister may be guilty of,” he said plainly, “it would be anything but accurate to assume they do not possess a strong familial bond. His for her was evident to me in forced conversation with the two of you yesterday. Her reciprocally strong affection for him became clear to me today, with that highly irregular display of humility we just witnessed—I don't know that you fully comprehend how unique that was. Though relational bonds are anything but quantifiable, I’d guess at the odds of them rectifying their differences as being extraordinarily high.”

Penny leaned back against the workstation, shrugging and shaking her head at him. “Sure,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

For a moment, the two sat silently, and though they continued looking at each other, Penny’s mind drifted off. The steam she'd built up toward Jinkke compressed and receded into the knot twisting in her stomach again.

Wepp had left her with plenty to think about: the way asura looked at family, the way they treated people like Minkus, and of course the fuller truth of how his sister had treated him. She scowled just thinking about it.

Of course, she knew Minkus, and Wepp was right in his assessment of the siblings: they would absolutely make amends. Penny didn’t particularly care to admit it, but Jinkke seemed really burdened by what she’d done to him for all those years. That wouldn’t actually make up for it—not by a long shot—but Minkus would forgive just about any offense if it meant regaining someone he cared about.

Why in Torment Penny cared about any of this, she really couldn’t put her finger on. Not long ago, she wouldn’t have given two shakes of a dolyak’s butt what any of these people did, but now it all nagged at her. Why? Because, she decided, as strange as he could be, Minkus deserved better. If anyone deserved better, it was him. And gods help her, Penny hadn’t actually done a damned thing yet to make her own treachery right with him.

She froze, and the truth finally became clear to her. That asura kid wasn’t the only person she owed something to.

As all the thoughts congealed in her head, Wepp shifted again, looking at her more intently, and his mouth began to form a question. But he was interrupted.

The steel door that led back into the hall slid open, and in walked Minkus, chattering away as his sister followed right on his heels. There was no visible grief between them, but also none of the hugging Penny might have anticipated.

Almost timidly, the sister asked a question from behind him. It seemed to be the continuation of something they'd begun discussing in the neighboring room.

“Are you sure, Big Brother? Your endeavor is complex and dangerous enough as is.”

Minkus’ shoulders slumped, and she amended her sentiment. “Not that I am dissuading you from it—I promised that is something I will not do—but that baseline being established, do you really consider it wise to accept the assistance of a rogue element and an agent of the very enemy you may have to confront?”

That was what they were talking about: her and Wepp.

Penny nearly stood to her own defense, though she didn't have the first idea what that defense would be. Before she could say anything, though, Minkus turned and gently took hold of his sister's outstretched hand.

“Jinkke,” he said softly, “you can trust them for this. I do.”

“But surely you can see—”

He nodded, which seemed to be enough to quiet her, even though it was clear her arguments were still bubbling under the surface. Her attention flicked from Minkus to Penny and Wepp and back again, but she held her tongue. Minkus looked over his shoulder at the two of them as well. Sadness glimmered at the edges of his eyes, but his lips also tightened into the hint of a smile.

“Jinkke,” he said, still looking at the pair over his shoulder, “Penny and Wepp have their own reasons for this.”

Penny started. She honestly hadn't been sure until right that second that Minkus had fully understood that.

“And yes,” Minkus went on, “there might risks in that, I guess. But I think— I think there are always risks when you trust people.” That hint of a smile grew a little. He looked away from her to Wepp and back to his sister again.

“Of course,” she replied, “trust is essential for any—”

He stopped her with a gentle grip of her hand. “I trust all three of you. Can you— would you please trust them too, for me?”

Indeed, that did stop her. Even Penny grimaced at the sting of the remark.

With a sigh, the dark, little asura nodded assent to her brother, and Minkus pulled her into himself gratefully. The embrace didn't have the same enthusiasm Penny recalled seeing when they'd first encountered each other beneath the waypoint in Lornar’s Pass. Nor did it have the almost parental imbalance she'd seen between them later in the journey. Now the two held each other, just for a moment, with both a discomfort and a grace Penny couldn't understand, much less express.

Flipping a wrench between her fingers, Penny tried to look away from the siblings. But she couldn't.

After a moment, the two released each other, and the older followed the younger to the worktable that Penny sat leaning against. She rose, watching as Jinkke neatly set down the stack of schematics that Minkus had brought with him. Penny put on her customary air of disinterest, but she couldn’t quite quell the curiosity that was beginning to drown out the other feelings inside her. Sure, this was the same nonsensical, half-glyphic ramblings she’d spent hours copying just the night before, but somehow it seemed more important now. More important and more promising. Yes, in fact, there was something about seeing it in the hands of an asura that gave her hope that perhaps something would come of it—not that she was about to tell that to any of them.

Jinkke’s bright, lilac eyes darted rapidly over the first page, and she moved it a foot away from the stack. Picked up the next, she did the same thing, skimming its contents and placing it two feet away in the other direction. She continued this for the next several sheets: picking one up, reading it, and setting it atop a growing number of other piles she was building up across the polished-stone surface. Penny assumed she was sorting the pages by subject, but the little woman was flying through the sheets so rapidly, Penny could hardly keep track of what she was looking at, let alone why those things would be lumped together as they were. Crossing her arms, Penny stood back from the table. That made room for Wepp, who slipped into the vacancy and began scanning each page’s contents over Jinkke’s shoulder.

Minkus stepped up beside the human, who’d taken yet another step back from the frantic study happening at the table.

“You don’t want to inspect the schematics with them?” Minkus asked in a whisper. He flashed a glance at the other two asura, as if to ensure he hadn’t bothered them by speaking.

Penny squinted down at him, wondering only for a second if Minkus was making fun of her. Of course he wasn’t.

“Biggie,” she said, unintentionally matching his whisper, “I saw half of them last night. I spent hours copying them, and even then they didn’t make any sense to me. What good would I be here?”

He frowned, looking down at the floor for a moment, but he quickly met her gaze again, and that downturned expression rose into a little, knowing smile. “I think you can do more for them than you believe.”

Penny shook her head and looked back at the pair reading at the table. They were now starting a new pile in a previously untouched corner of the granite tabletop. “Yeah. Right,” she mused sardonically. “Sure looks that way to me.”

Penny looked back down at Minkus, who ignored the other two asura. His eyes were still on her, and that dopey grin of his had grown. He looked like he was plotting something.

With a complacent shrug, Penny bent down to her smartpack, which still lay on the ground. She unclipped the waterskin and stepped around the workstation to the next one. Hopping up, she perched herself on it and threw back a swig of water. It wasn’t necessarily hot inside that flying, stone city, but the air was still humid enough to make her sweat.

Unsure what else to do, Minkus followed, arcing around his sister and leaping up onto the smooth table beside the human. He crossed his legs, and together they waited for the geniuses to make a breakthrough.

All the while, Penny snuck glances at her friend, and something new churned inside her. In spite of all she'd lost recently, she owed Minkus—she owed him big—and somehow she was grateful for that.