Stop the Investigation

Briston's morning was gray and overcast.

The air was damp and cold, carrying the smell of coal smoke and the fishy stench of the nearby river.

In the industrial age, city rivers were basically open sewers, foul beyond words.

At the street corner, an old woman wrapped in a scarf was selling hot meat pies, one penny each.

The aroma stirred Richard's appetite again; he had not eaten much that morning.

The school bus arrived right on time at seven forty-five.

Richard pulled his coat tighter and followed his sister over to the line.

Evelyn had already found two girls and was huddled beside a streetlamp, whispering with them.

Richard did not join them. Once aboard, he took a window seat.

As he watched the sights of the industrial age roll past, he took stock of his situation.

First, his health was poor. He needed to do everything he could to recover.

His breathing was already improving, but he could not expect a skill upgrade to replace proper care for his body.

Perhaps he could think of some way to improve the food they ate.

Second, the family was under strain. His parents were gritting their teeth to maintain appearances.

He did not know how much social mobility this world allowed.

But at least in this family, the words "move up" were carved into their bones.

Third, his grades were poor, though he would have to wait until he reached school to see just how bad they were.

Fourth... he glanced at the transparent panel.

Under "Physique," only Breathing was lit up; the other three were gray.

Under "Intellect," all three were gray, while "Spirit" was still locked.

The only thing he could be sure of now was that [Breathing] was increasing. It triggered passively, without him needing to do anything deliberately.

As long as he was alive and still able to move, eat, drink, piss, and shit, it would inch forward little by little.

When the school bus reached its stop, he followed the flow of people off the bus.

Before entering school, they had to go to the chapel.

Morning prayer began at exactly eight every day, and all students were required to attend.

Stone pillars supported the chapel's pointed arches, and the stained-glass windows depicted Saint George Slaying the Dragon.

But the windows were old. The dragon's colors had faded, and half of Saint George's spear was missing.

Now, it looked like a dusty old knight facing off against an equally decrepit giant lizard.

The students took their seats by grade and class, boys on the left and girls on the right, clearly separated.

The headmaster sat motionless in the center of the front row, like a wax figure in a display case.

The priest stepped onto the platform, opened his prayer book, and began to lead the recitation:

"Lord, teach us to be diligent in our studies, that we may become instruments of Thy purpose...

(Lord, please teach us to study diligently, so that we may become instruments of Your will...)"

Richard stood with the group, lowering his head and silently mouthing the words.

This is so boring.

The priest continued, his voice humming through the stone walls.

When the final "Amen" fell, the entire hall repeated it after him.

The voices were uneven. Some were devout, some perfunctory, and some did not make a sound at all.

Morning prayer ended, and the crowd dispersed. Richard followed his classmates toward the teaching building.

The school crest was carved above its main entrance: an open book, an oil lamp atop it, and a line of Latin:

"Lux Rationis Semper Vincit.

The light of reason always prevails."

Ironically, the first class of the morning was about something far less rational.

Mr. Hutton was probably in his fifties. He was thin and wiry, with a slight hunch to his back.

"Everyone." He placed the chalk in the groove of the lectern. "Today, we will discuss the rationalization of Occultism."

Someone in the back let out a quiet sigh.

Mr. Hutton ignored it and continued.

"I would first like to ask you a question."

"What is a 'misunderstanding'?"

There was a brief silence. Everyone was waiting for someone else to speak first; no one wanted to stand out at a time like this.

"Warren." Mr. Hutton pointed at the boy in the back whose hair was slicked down to a shine. "You tell us."

Warren rose lazily and answered offhandedly.

"A misunderstanding is... getting something wrong?

"For example, thunder. People used to say it was a god's anger, but now we know it is electrical discharge in the atmosphere. That would be a misunderstanding, right?"

"Very good." Mr. Hutton nodded. "Then let me ask you this: between divine miracles and atmospheric discharge, which explanation is more real?"

Warren frowned slightly. "Obviously electricity. Electricity can be measured. Gods cannot.

"The professors at the Royal Society have made that clear enough."

"Well said." Mr. Hutton paced back and forth across the platform twice.

"The 'real' you speak of refers to things that can be measured.

"Then if something can be perceived and produces an effect, yet cannot be measured by instruments, is it real or not?"

Warren froze for a moment. "Then... then it probably does not exist. Perception could be wrong, but instruments do not lie."

"Instruments do not lie." Mr. Hutton repeated the words.

"Good. Let us remember that statement. We will need it today."

Richard sat by the window in the third row, his textbook opened to the relevant chapter.

The textbook offered the standard account.

Mysticism was the product of the cognitive limitations of people in earlier eras; with the progress of science, these phenomena had all received rational explanations, and so on.

But Mr. Hutton was teaching something else.

He spoke of the priestly class in the Black Soil River Basin, and how they had woven astronomical calendars together with systems of divine prophecy until the two became inseparable.

Those priests were not the witches and shamans people imagined. On the contrary, they were among the most learned people of their time.

"It was not superstition that obscured science," he said. "Those people understood what they were doing far better than we usually assume."

He spoke of the temples around the Aegeus Sea, saying that those places were both religious sites and the earliest information exchange networks.

Pilgrims brought news, while priests organized and interpreted it.

They possessed systems of classification outsiders could not understand, turning seemingly unrelated information into useful predictions.

"The prophecies of Delphi were very accurate," he said.

"But perhaps no god was speaking at all. Perhaps the people there merely heard things that others could not."

"Speaking of which, you may have heard that in the salons of the Imperial Capital, the most fashionable social activity these days is no longer Whist."

Several students raised their heads.

"From duchesses to practicing lawyers, all are eager to draw the curtains in their parlors, light candles, and invite mediums to speak with the dead."

Whispers rose from the back rows.

Mr. Hutton was not interrupted and continued speaking.

He moved on to the records of colonial expansion in the New Continent.

He gave several specific cases, the sort reported in ambiguous language by newspapers. But in class, he laid out the details.

Before one expedition disappeared, three survivors had each described hearing the same sound;

after an indigenous Ritual site was destroyed by the military, large-scale anomalies appeared in the area;

and there was also a government report that had never been made public, its conclusions blacked out.

Only its final sentence remained. He read it slowly in Albion Language:

"We recommend no further investigation.

(We recommend halting any further investigation.)"

He set down the chalk and turned toward the blackboard. "You may consider for yourselves what this sentence means."

Richard drew a circle in his notebook, wrote "stop the investigation" inside it, and added a question mark beside it.

Just then, Mr. Hutton was writing something on the blackboard.

With his back to the class, he said:

"Of course, the truly dangerous ones have never been those country folk who leave hats at crossroads as offerings to the 'Road God.'"

The chalk scratched across the blackboard as he finished a line.

"The truly dangerous thing is what appears inside those hats."

Someone in the back chuckled. It was Warren again.

"Mr. Hutton, are you telling ghost stories?"

"I am teaching history." Mr. Hutton smiled gently.

"Everything that has ever happened is history, including the parts that were never recorded in textbooks."

Then he turned around, his gaze falling on the window seat in the third row.

"Williams."

Richard straightened in his seat.