The OSIRIS War

Preface: If Calamity Comes to a City

If you are reading this, I have long since left this world, beyond even OSIRIS's power. I have set this book to be released a hundred years after my soul's eternal departure. The wounds of the war are still too raw to release it now, both those in the world and in myself.

Future reader, I know not who you are or what world you live in. Perhaps this book will seem quaint and shortsighted to you, as the diaries of the Divine Architects seemed to us. Surely some historian of your age has already sifted through the data, examined previous works, and come to an objective conclusion.

My only authority is that I saw the sufferings of those who were trapped within our broken society's broken systems with my own eyes, and I helped them as best I could with my limited power. You may know the events of the OSIRIS War as a series of dry facts, but I watched the world around me crumble, and I dared hoped that things could get better.

Is my story objective? No. Nonetheless true? Yes.

That future historian will have any number of dates to pick for the beginning of the end of the Athanasian League. Perhaps I should begin at the attack on the Necropolis, or the Solstice Riots, or Fimbulwinter, or perhaps the day I met Alan Jaranjair. But, after many attempts to start this book, I have decided to begin at my graduation.

Endurance Produces Character

December 1st, 1042 AGDR

Technically, it was not a slave auction. Technically, we had consented to all of this. Technically, we could walk, at this very moment, off campus and never return. Technically, we could have even chosen not to attend the graduation, and let come what may.

The Athanasian League functioned on the basis of such technicalities. If, future reader, you wonder why our society reintroduced slavery, know that we called them bakts, not slaves. The Debt Reform Amendment was welcomed as merciful even by the indebted, as by giving bakts a name they gained rights. But once the division between free citizens and bakts was made, those rights were ever ground away.

We, the 323 graduates of the Steelriver University class of 1042, had no say in the matter. And like any other group of young men and women faced with something far beyond our control, we did our best to ignore that fact.

The DJ played too-loud remixes of tunes that were popular three generations ago. The students laughed and joked, eating and drinking from the many folding tables set up with treats and strong drinks. The faculty, RAs, and a good number of student lifeweavers kept a close look out for alcohol poisoning. Now and then, one would escort a stumbling student to the bathrooms.

I couldn't blame anyone for his excesses, at least today. My foster father had been a drunkard in his third life, and he had not quit his habit by his fifth, so I detested the stuff myself. Some joker had spiked the punch, but Alan had found me---blessed be the True God---actual water. I sipped slowly from the bottle as Amy drunk herself silly, and Charles had one too many.

There were only twenty-four of us twenty-two-year-old mage graduates, all crowded in the same corner of the gym, slowly shrinking as our names were called. All the other mage graduates at Steelriver University were on their second life or later, and most of the first life students had chosen some degree where a first life could (hypothetically) get a job. But us twenty-four first lifes had, by welfare, credits, loans, and sheer force of will, managed to snag some kind of magic degree.

Of us, seventeen were necromancers, including myself, four were lifeweavers, two were elementalists, and the lone augur had made it through all four years without quitting like his two fellow would-be augurs. Though hypothetically we had more in common with our fellow disciples, the fact that we had tried---and for the most part succeeded--- in the impossible was a stronger tie than discipline.

But today we would learn if we had truly succeeded. And deep within each of us, we knew the outlook was grim at best.

Alan rested a hand on my shoulder. The spiral tattooed on the right cheek of his ocher face, combined with his cycle number, made him the sort who would get touted as more proof the Athanasian Dream was real. Or it would if he got a bond. But his mustached smile was unmoved, even slightly amused by his surroundings, as if the worst the world could throw at him was a trifle in comparison to what he would do if he succeeded.

"Mary?" he asked. "Do you need more water?"

"I'm fine," I said. "With the water, I mean." The fact that we had somehow ended up as a couple had the campus scratching its back, and I couldn't explain it either. We had jokingly discussed how much it would cost for me to have my own spiral, but in reality, unless we were bonded to the same place we were doomed, no matter how much we loved each other.

"We all..." Amy hiccupped. "We all know what'cha means." She hiccupped again and stumbled towards the table. My best friend and roommate was also a polar opposite to me: bright, cheery, and willing to do whatever it took to keep the pain away.

The music dimmed. "Sarah Starblueking!" a voice called.

One of the four remaining lifeweavers with us sighed. "See you all. If I ever will."

"Good luck," Alan told her.

"True God's blessing," I said.

"Already tired of gods," Sarah said and walked off. "Best of luck to y'all!"

Amy groaned. "Purge me," she said to the remaining sober lifeweaver.

The campus allowed any party short of a riot or outright orgy, but they made one strict rule: There had to be at least two sober lifeweavers at all times. While there were lifeweavers everywhere, we had gotten used to relying on ourselves rather than getting another lecture on our cycle number.

Taylor took Amy by the hand and helped her towards the women's bathroom.

"Charles," I told my other best friend, another necromantic student, who was pouring yet another drink. "Slow down."

"What's the point?" he said and hiccupped. "Chances are we'll all end up at the grinders. System's rigged, y'know."

"That's it. Time for a purge," Wanda said and tugged at him.

"I'm just sayin' the truth."

"And are you going to say that to your prospective masters?"

"Oh. Yeah." He waddled along with Wanda towards the men's bathroom.

"Is it rigged?" I asked Alan.

"Deliberately? No. In practice? Yes." Alan shrugged. "Give a hundred necromantic degrees out with twenty slots for bakts, and four times as many graduates will be left out as get in. What difference does it make to our government about the other eighty?"

"OSIRIS, you are the cheeriest mage student I've ever met," Abigail, one of the other necromantic students, said.

"Ignorance of reality doesn't change it," Alan said, as he always did.

Amy came back with Taylor, walking straight but looking far worse for the wear. Her argent robes had the faint stain of vomit and the scent of alcohol. "Dear MA-AT," she said. "I didn't have that much, did I?"

"Yes," I told her. "You did."

"Worth it," she said. "MA-AT, I can't see how you stand it, Mary."

"It's not as if I have a choice," I said.

"Oh, fair enough---"

The music dimmed again. "Mary Firebrightsky!"

They all looked at me.

Alan kissed me on the hand. Spirals, he had told me, did not kiss on the face unless the person was family and definitely not on the cheek. I hugged him, and Amy hugged me. I gathered my courage and walked out the doors of the gym to the adjacent auditorium.

I felt faint as I walked up the steps. Amy had sworn up and down to me that all the effects of alcohol left the moment MA-AT touched the body, but I almost wished I had had an unpurged sip just to steady my nerves. "Hear, O True God," I whispered under my breath as I took the seat by the microphone.

Lawyers, accountants, and necromancers in dark fuglin coats watched with clipboards, frowns, and disinterest. In one seat, dead serious, was a clown.

"I am Mary Firebrightsky," I introduced myself quietly.

They went over the preliminaries: my perfect grades, my glowing recommendations from faculty, my participation in all kinds of social benefit organizations. But the one fact they couldn't gloss over: I hadn't even lived one full life, yet.

Why spend 213,000 drachmae to buy a first life by paying off all her loans, when you could potentially buy someone with the same grades and more life experience for even less?

But I remained impassive even if I was sweating on the inside, as I was. I just had to get through this, and that life could truly begin.

Or be crushed before it started.

Next was the Q&A, where, my professor had told me, my potential "customers" made their actual decisions.

The interviewer consulted his tablet. "A question from Notre Dame Banking, LLC: 'Are you comfortable with large amounts of numbers?'"

"I am," I said.

"Is 10,201 prime?"

How on earth did that matter? "I... uh... No, I think it's 101 squared."

"A question from Eternal Investigative Services, LLC: 'Do you have a past criminal history with necromancy or any form of magic, sealed, unsealed, or in a past life?'"

"No," I said.

"A question from the Alfred Slowbrightlaughter estate: 'What do a necromancer's girlfriend and a gambler have in common?'"

"Uh..." No, idiot, don't stutter. "They both roll the bones?" I tried.

The clown---the clown wrote the glitched thing down.

I was bombarded with more questions. I saw phone calls made as I tried to answer all their questions on economics, history, necromancy, and the occasional oddball question about me or my past. I tried my best to answer without stuttering, but I found the longer it went on, the harder it became, and the questions grew harsher.

"A question from the Windnightsky Estate: 'Would you lie if your client told you to do so?'"

"No," I said. "Never." The crowd took notes.

"A further question: 'Would you relay a lie if you knew it to be a lie?'"

"If the contact lied to my client, I would tell my client that I had outside knowledge," I said. "If my client wanted to lie to the contact, I would refuse. That all said, I am not to judge whether either my client or my contact deliberately told a falsehood or was merely mistaken. I am only the means of communication."

"What if your master told you to?"

I paused. "Then... then I would have to think about it. I don't think I could relay a deliberate lie, even then."

More notes were taken, but as my psychology professor had told me, 90% of communication was nonverbal. Though I had answered correctly, I knew I had given the wrong answer.

December 2nd, 1042 AGDR

"We are sorry to inform you..." the letter from Student Affairs began. I read the rest, already knowing what it would say from the thin envelope, and set it on my desk.

What was the reason? Was it that I wouldn't lie? Was it my cycle number? Was I just unlucky?

I had dared to hope. I had dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, I could make it.

Tears dripped onto the paper, and then I started sobbing.

I let myself cry. Then I forced myself to look at the situation.

I had already accepted that I would be a bakt, but now I wouldn't be a bakt at a necromantic firm. The other options to pay off my student loans could be far worse.

Technically, I could not become a bakt by force, only to get my creditors off my back. They could take everything but the clothing on my back, and myself. But the government made an exception for itself.

I opened the much thicker envelope from the League Labor Bureau. Of course the government slavemongers were the most efficient, since they had unlimited access to bakts to staff themselves. As a potential League bakt, there was a remote chance I would end up as a bureaucrat, if I was lucky.

Technically, not every government bakt ended up at the grinders. Technically, the government didn't even own any body-reprocessing facilities. But when the government leased out those too poor to repay their student and government loans, the corpsegrinders could always bid the most.

My foster parents had taken me to one. I still had nightmares. The bakts there shuffled around, heedless of the bits of gore covering them, with eyes as dead as the bodies they dismantled. Without them, the bioslurry crisis would be even worse, but they got none of the money from it and all of the misery.

If I was one of them, I would not even see any of the money they paid for me with. I would just be "paid" minimum wage regardless of to whom I was leased. And of course, with the interest on my bond, I could be there for decades, as opposed to the seven standard years for a necromantic bakt.

I flipped to the last page. No word as to where I would end up. But that made it only worse.

I knew that failing to land a bond was a possibility. In fact, I knew it was more likely than not that those seeking necromancers would simply pick a second or later life. Cycle discrimination wasn't legal by any stretch of the law, but what could I do?

I could take a walk.

So I got up, put on my coat, and headed out the door. Unlike Amy, who already had her credentials, I couldn't yet wear my discipline's black coat. The color was called fuglin, to be precise.

I walked outside to see the campus practically deserted. The brisk air was quiet, the True God's mercy to those whose dreams were destroyed. I passed under the blossoming cherry trees, kept blooming from lifeweavers and augurs. At least someone had a job.

I could try to find servitude somewhere else, if someone was willing to pay 213,000 drachmae of student loans for a burger flipper, plus my 83,000 RENEW credit. Or if, by some miracle, I had actual employment enough to make the monthly payments, I would also be free.

The irony of it all---I was free now, at least until I defaulted. But the only thing worse than being a slave to some estate or corporation was being a free woman no one wanted.

I could start my own necromancy firm, but I would need a reference from a licensed necromancer for the charter. I couldn't get my own credentials except after working in a necromancy firm for three years. And that door was already closed.

"Mary!" Amy shrieked, hurrying to me. "I'm a bakt!" Then she looked at my expression. "Oh. I'm sorry."

Anything but face my own situation. "You got in?" I asked.

"Yep. Alfred Slowbrightlaughter Estate! Can you believe they sent a clown?"

"I know. They asked me to tell a dirty joke."

"Yeah, yeah, well..." She trailed off. "I guess... I guess this is it, then."

Our lives would probably never cross again. Sure, we could keep in touch, but she would be busy, and True God willing, so would I.

My phone rang: Alan Jaranjair. I answered. "Alan?"

"I got in," he said, somberly. "Notre Dame Banking. You?"

"Nothing," I said, the word almost tearing apart my vocal cords as it shuddered out. "Nothing at all."

"I'm so sorry. I'll be right there." He hung up.

"Here," Amy said, hugging me and then pulling me along. "Need a drink?"

What the glitch did it matter at this point, anyway? "Something light," I said.

Back in her dorm, we drank something that was probably not as alcoholic as I wanted, but too much more than I should really have. I sipped. It felt tasteless---only a burning acid in my mouth that could not bring happiness. Nothing ever could.

Alan let himself in. We looked at each other and saw the pain in each other's eyes. He went to hug me. "I'm so sorry."

If---I hated to think it, but I had secretly hoped--- he hadn't gotten in, we had talked about starting a necromancy firm together, somehow, so we could be together. And now...

No.

No, I would not give up here.

I had already moved Heaven and Earth to get here. Time to move them a bit more.

"Alan," I said. "We talked about starting a necromancy firm if...I mean, I'm not asking you to quit."

"I understand," he said. "I actually had the paperwork all ready to go. I'll just take my name off it." He said it casually, then stopped short. "Do you have any idea where you can get a reference?"

"I'll ask the prof," I said. Without it, I couldn't get the firm charter approved, and I couldn't practice necromancy at all.

"Wait a bit. She's probably busy right now. And right now, you need to relax," Alan said.

"Yeah," I answered.

Amy poured him a tumbler and he drank. We said other things after that, talking as if there was something we could do.

December 3rd, 1042 AGDR

I always thought of Professor Greenrayburst as ancient, but possibly only because she had pure white hair. While only on her third life, she hadn't euthanized herself when she got frail, so she had actually lived longer than most sixth lives.

"There's nothing I can do," she finally told me, after I pleaded with her in her neat office.

"A reference---"

"For what? Being a perfect student, yes. For starting your own firm? Not under any stretch of necroregs."

"At least to get my credentials---"

"Mary!" she snapped. "We have talked about this for an hour. I can't help you. I'll lose my own credentials if I make an exception for you. I'm sorry. My hands are tied."

I sighed. "All right."

She sighed, too. "They can't take your diploma from you just for failing to pay your loans. Even if you do go to the grinders, it will only be for, at worst, your whole life. Then you can start your next life with a degree in hand."

I almost snapped that I would still be in the same boat of lacking a job afterwards, just far more traumatized. But I didn't. My throat was sore from arguing. "Can I ask you one favor?" I asked. "One thing you can grant?"

"Sure," she said. "If I can grant it."

"Give me a copy of the necroregs."

She looked at me, then closed her mouth, as if she didn't want to argue further. She dug in her desk for a USB drive and handed it to me. "No one gave this to you," she said. "I simply misplaced it."

"Thanks, no one," I said.

"I'm sure no one is welcome. Now please, I have ten other students who need my help."

* * *

I spent all night reading through the pages and pages of necromantic law, sitting in front of my glowing laptop, ready to hide my screen in a moment. The light cast my few possessions and books in shadows, as if watching my illegal search.

Necromancy law was written by the Parliament of the Dead; as a Living woman, even a necromantic student, I was forbidden access. Of course, I had no idea what Dead had the time to spend reading it.

Many of the Living, especially first lives, thought of the Dead as unbelievably rich, but the truth was the vast majority of the Dead experienced life one thousand times slower than realtime, except for six minutes a month. With only Necrosecurity to afford a reincarnation, it would be ages before interest compounded enough to give them an escape.

If I died a bakt, my own Necrosecurity would be garnished in repayment of my otherwise-canceled debt. The Senate and the Parliament had bickered for decades over this, but the Dead had no authority over the welfare programs of the Living.

I scanned through pages and pages of legalese to see if there were any welfare programs of the Dead I would qualify for, but the files on the drive were only the Table of the Dead, and the sections from the relevant necrocodes and necroregs.

Alan had tried to explain why the Law of the Tomb was forbidden to the Living, but as far I could tell it was an elaborate scheme by Dead lawyers to stay in business. But, legal or not, I read every last word on necromantic licensing.

(A) An individual who practices, teaches, or is otherwise engaged in the act of necromancy, Living or Deceased,
(i) must be a licensed individual under the provisions of this section
(ii) must be a bakt, employee, or officer of a necromancy firm, or a member of the government or armed forces,
...
(AAA) "Licensed Individual" is defined as any of the following:
(i) a licensed necromancer.
(ii) a licensed necromancer's assistant.
(iii) a certified necromantic technician.
(iv) an attorney who may practice under the Law of the Tomb.
(v) an estate necromantic advisor under 14 S 1555.
(vi) a graveyard militia officer.
(vii) a Necroforce officer who has been certified by the Necromancy Administration to practice necromancy.
(viii) a certified medium.
(ix) any other license granted under 14 S 1444.

I would take anything, even being a medium. There were no hyperlinks, so I had to manually search through the text for any loophole I could find.

And so I found my loophole:

...
(EEE) "Necromancy firm" is defined as
(a) a corporation, estate, limited liability company, or other association that provides any kind of necromantic service, advice, or training under a charter from the Court of the Tomb.
(b) a family-owned seance business where all employees and officers are certified mediums or necromantic technicians.
...

Curious...

(ZZZZ) "Certified medium" is defined as an individual who has
(a) completed a medium certification course as defined by the Court of the Tomb and has sworn to upload the precepts of OSIRIS; or
(b) consciously objects to swearing an oath to uphold the precepts of OSIRIS and has a certificate of mediumship from an authorized conscientious objection certificate provider.

I sat back. It might be possible to get a course if I paid out of pocket, although the chances were slim. It would not be my preferred method of making a living, but it would be a living, and I might not need to repay my RENEW credit.

But first I had to find a course.

I spent the rest of the night looking for phone numbers.

December 4th, 1042 AGDR

Half of them laughed in my face when I explained my situation, then hung up. The other half just hung up.

That left the other option.

I found a number of conscientious objection-based courses, although almost all of them were already full. I had heard of them vaguely. Although the vast majority of the necromantic students were EDENists, some, including myself, refused to swear an oath to OSIRIS. The alternative was to swear an oath to the True God. I had no idea why someone would be so upset over the situation to demand an entirely separate course.

But I did worship the True God. And the more hope I had, the more desperate I had become to fight past each new obstacle. I was ready for a crisis of faith if need be.

I did more research.

A number of religions that worshiped the True God objected to the more fanciful terminology applied to necromancy. Most preferred the term "post-mortem technician." And while I couldn't find a course for a medium, I could find a course for "post-mortem communication assistant."

I could not tell from the website, but it appeared to be for Catholics only. I wasn't sure what it meant to be a Catholic, and I definitely didn't have time to actually convert. But what if I just looked like a Catholic?

After some further research, I found a Catholic gift shop and bookstore nearby, so I took a rideshare over. We passed by the bright skyscrapers and passed over the many bridges of Steelriver. I was born here, and I loved this city. We arrived at the bookstore in the middle of Downtown.

The smell of fresh books welcomed me as I stepped into the small shop. Along the cream walls, somewhat empty racks carried goods with some unknown meaning. This must be a high-traffic store, or their bakts weren't busy. Strange music played in the background, a kind of chant.

What to look for? I tried to spy on the other customers, to see what they wore. Some wore small medallions, but one wore a necklace like a lowercase "t."

The store did sell necklaces, although some were inexplicably filled with beads. All of them had a nearly naked man who appeared to be symbolically nailed to the "t". Perhaps a metaphor for the punishment of evildoers? The medallions were often excessively detailed, and above was the inscription I.N.R.I. For some reason the beaded ones looked to be for those who had extremely thin necks, but I found a wider one without beads that struck my fancy.

"Excuse me," I asked the cashier, who was presumably the owner; he didn't look like a bakt. "Are there any beginner textbooks on Catholicism?"

"Oh, sure, there's a catechism over there," he said.

I left with the strange necklace and the book, wondering if I'd ever have time to read it or if I would just have to fake it all.

* * *

"Glitch, Mary, that's genius," Charles told me as we gathered in my dorm, possibly for the last time. He hadn't gained an assignment, either, like most of us. "I couldn't convert, though, not even fake it."

"Even after learning the truth?"

"Let's not argue about that again."

"I have a question," Alan asked. "How will you get the charter for the family business?"

"I was planning to start it as a medium, then apply for a necrotech license," I said. "I don't know how I can get a supervisor."

"I'm sure you can find a necrolawyer who will try to do as you ask, but I'm skeptical you can just get these things approved. How will you initiate sessions?" Alan asked

"I'll... oh," I said. "I guess I do need to be a necrotech."

"Knew there'd be some catch," Charles said with a sigh.

"Not necessarily," Alan said. "What if some firm is going out of business, and you bought them out? Then you'd have the charter, and you might even be able to be a necromancer."

"Why didn't you say that at first?" I asked.

"Because I had no idea how to get a necromantic license. But if you've already got one..."

Hope surged within me. "I'll look immediately," I said.

* * *

I dialed Seth, one of the machinespeakers.

"What's up?" he said.

"I need you to do a search for me. And keep it secret."

He sighed. "Why?"

"It's my only option for getting out of the grinders."

"Fair. What is it?"

"I want to know about necromantic firms---of any kind---that are either running out of money or their owners are about to self-euthanize."

"What. The. Glitch. Mary?"

"Keep it a secret."

"I will, but this is insane."

"It may be," I agreed. "But I'm crazy desperate."

"It'll have to be low priority. SET tends to get busy around this time of year, and if I bump it up too much, I'm going to raise questions."

"I just need to know by the end of the month."

"Sure thing. I'll call you."

"Thanks."

* * *

The League Labor Bureau's next letter, slightly fatter than the previous, sat on my desk. I opened it to find threatening pages about how I needed proof of employment or ongoing training immediately. Or, it blithely noted, I could fill out the contained forms to process my "application for alternative employment."

Future reader, understand that while SET's power to find nearly any fact was not perfectly legal, it was too useful to make illegal. I didn't know if their machinespeakers knew I was trying to weasel out of it, and this letter was here to forestall my effort. But I didn't have the mental space to both study and argue with them.

I held up the small thick book to the light by my desk. The Catechism of OSIRIS, which my foster parents had forced me to read out loud in the vain hope of converting me, had been a thin volume. This new catechism book had thousands of paragraphs across its hundreds of pages of small type. I had no idea how I could read enough to fake being a believer, but I didn't have any other choice at this point.

"True God, aid me," I said, wondering what the True God even thought of this, and began to read.