The don's disclosure lingered in the Oxford atmosphere transforming all perspectives. The Lethargic Calculus was more than a formula for intellects; it served as a chart. A guide, to realms where the world had grown weary.
"Don't regard them as crime scenes " Alistair Croft rasped, pointing sharply at the spots, on Devon's map. "See them as… survey markers. Triangulations of a sort of terrestrial energy." He moved over to a yellowed parchment spread out on a nearby table—a 17th-century map of Europe marked with delicate Latin script. It depicted no roads or boundaries. Winding, twisting lines named Linea Inertiae.
"Leylines " Devon murmured, the term sounding both ridiculous and unavoidable.
"Leylines of sloth " Croft amended, his gaze bright. ". In a more poetic sense Telluric Resignation. The medieval mystics who charted them thought some spots on earth had drained their energy. Places where conflicts ended in deadlock, where ambitious undertakings were left incomplete where communities just… stopped pushing. Over time these sites gathered a residue of surrender. A form of peat, ideal nourishment, for the calculus."
He indicated the map. "Brussels. A city defined by agreement endless negotiation—initiative held back by procedure. Frankfurt. A financial core pulsating with restless tension. Strasbourg, a swing of identity. Amsterdam, a shaped environment perpetually battling the sea. Each target was selected not merely for their identity. For their location. They were productive people positioned over areas, with scarce energy. The opposition intensified the surrenders impact resembling a glow snuffed out in a dark abyss."
Devon's thoughts sped up linking clues. "Geneva? The water pumping facility?"
"A site of spent force. Perfect neutral ground. And Luxembourg…"
"The chapel inside the casemates. A stronghold that never faced battle. Protective force, with no foe."
"Exactly!" Croft coughed, emitting a brittle noise. "However these are nodes. The chart indicates three confluence sites, where numerous Linea Inertiae converge. Zones of deep tranquility." He followed the lines with his finger. "One you've experienced: Glen Lyon. It's more, than silence; it's a calmness. A valley that has come to terms with its own wearing "
"And the others?"
Croft's finger drifted downward landing on France. "The Catacombs of Paris. The pinnacle of arranged quiet. A calmness shaped by ended lives. Not a cemetery,. A repository of finality." His finger then shifted eastward settling on an area of the Carpathians. ". Here. The Pădurea Tăcută—the Silent Forest, in Romania. An expansive primeval forest where according to myth ambition perishes. Where compasses whirl and the desire to escape… weakens."
A trinity of stillness. A geological, a human, and a primordial reserve of inertia.
"Flavio isn't merely conducting rituals " Devon realized, a chilling clarity emerging. "He's energizing these inscriptions. Utilizing the submitted will of his victims as a flow to trigger a network. The 'Conjunction' isn't a point, in time; it's the instant this loop of indifference turns self-perpetuating."
". What takes place after that?" Croft inquired, not rhetorically but with sincere fearful interest.
"Then the incline transforms into the landscape " Devon murmured, remembering the intense draw of the glen, the alluring calm of his vision. "Then 'surrendering' ceases to be an option, in spots and begins to be the surrounding state. The underlying force of the world intensifies."
Croft nodded, appearing suddenly aged and frightened by his understanding. "It's impossible to bomb a leyline. You cannot detain a gradient. Your sole chance is to break the circuit at a junction. To create a focused disruption." He indicated his folder of Counter-Geometry. "You have to transform into a living Nodus Vigilae—a Node of Vigilance—within the core of their calm. It will be… agonizing. It is the ache of a muscle stretched tight endlessly.
Equipped with this landscape Devon departed Oxford. His route was evident. Geneva and Luxembourg represented indicators. Glen Lyon was one core. Paris was another.. Flavio, who was not confined in a Scottish jail but probably had never been there would be, at the strongest focal point: the location where human inertia was most precisely arranged.
He issued instructions to Pamela: illuminate the Silent Forest, in Romania with sound and research groups—not to attack, but to disturb. Transform it into a hub of activity. He dispatched teams to Glen Lyon with the task; let geologists extract core samples historians record ruins turning it into a center of investigation not silence.
Paris… Paris was something he intended to manage solo. Deploying a team within the catacombs would only escalate frantic chaos further confirming the Tyranny's grip. He needed to proceed as a focal point. A cautious intentional misstep, within the formula.
While on the Eurostar heading to Paris as he flipped through pictures of the ossuary he got a message, from the Swiss physician, Agustin Arthur. It contained one blunt sentence:
"Bio-rhythmic alignment noticed in coma patients from cities. Their brain silence is now beating together. Subtle yet noticeable. Resembling a collective heartbeat."
The circuit was already powered. The leylines vibrated. The minds offered in sacrifice formed a chorus their shared surrender pulsing through these unseen pathways.
Devon reached Paris as twilight spread across the city. The sound was a clamor—scooters honking voices, from cafes the off cry of a siren. It seemed urgent now like the struggle of something aware of an impending chill.
He stood in front of the green booth that marked the gateway to the off-limits areas of the catacombs. He bore no arms, a powerful flashlight and a replica of Croft's simplest Counter-Glyph—a plain overlapping diamond figure intended to represent "focused attention." It seemed laughably insignificant.
He went down. The clamor of tourists disappeared, overtaken by the everlasting cold. The walls transformed into bones, femurs and skulls arranged with accuracy, into somber designs. The stillness here was not emptiness; it was a force. A dense enduring force of six million completed tales. The atmosphere itself seemed burdened with finality.
He took a maintenance hallway, another guided by Croft's map and the growing subtle feeling of mental draw. The force was greater here than in the glen. It was not an untamed natural quiet. One that had been deliberately maintained. The bones were orderly, than random. This stillness represented an accomplishment.
Ahead a gentle inexplicable glow lit up a bigger room a rotunda constructed completely from skulls. At its center sitting on a stool in front of a low stone table was Flavio Fergal.
He glanced up when Devon came in. He had on a black sweater. On the table in front of him rested the Liber Ignaviae slate. Next, to it a contemporary tablet showing blinking linked light dots—a live map of the network powering up. The gradual rhythmic pulse of the victims.
"Analyst Duncan," Flavio said, his voice warm, welcoming, without a trace of mockery. "You found the map. I knew you would. You've come to see the engine room."