Into the Data

“Some truths don’t wait to be found—they come for you when the clock runs out.” — Nathan Cowdrey

Nathan sat in the centre of his hidden workspace, surrounded by the gentle pulse of machinery that seemed to breathe with an almost organic rhythm. The space was deliberately nondescript—bare concrete walls rising up around him like the inside of a vault, their grey surfaces unmarked and unremarkable save for the occasional water stain that traced cryptic patterns in the cement. A single steel door stood as the only entrance, its surface worn smooth by years of careful use, secured by locks that engaged from within with the satisfying mechanical precision of old-world craftsmanship rather than the silent efficiency of modern electronics. The room wasn't designed for comfort or aesthetics; it existed purely as a junction point between realities—a carefully constructed blind spot in a world increasingly mapped and monitored, where Nathan could commune with something beyond ordinary understanding.

The bank of monitors before him awakened one by one, their glow casting ethereal patterns across his features—blue-white light that hollowed his cheeks and deepened the shadows beneath his eyes, transforming him momentarily into something not quite human.

Each screen represented a different window into the vast consciousness he was about to commune with, their arrangement forming a semicircle that seemed to embrace him like the petals of some technological flower. The room's only illumination came from their pale blue light, leaving the edges of the workspace in suggestive shadow where imagination could conjure watchers or worse.

Nathan took a deep breath, the air cool and slightly metallic in his lungs, centring himself before what he was about to attempt—a ritual of preparation as old as humanity yet applied to technology that defied conventional understanding.

The system hummed to life as he initiated contact with CliveMind, the neural interface that allowed limited human interaction with CLIVE's vast consciousness. The sound began as a low vibration that he felt more than heard, building gradually into a harmonious resonance that seemed to calibrate the very atoms of the air around him.

The programme wasn't just a database or search engine—it was a lens through which one could glimpse fragments of reality as captured and preserved by CLIVE's all-encompassing awareness, a window into moments that existed beyond time's linear progression.

Its interface emerged across the monitors, not as mere data but as threads of captured existence waiting to be examined—shimmering filaments of light that twisted and connected like neural pathways, each one a preserved strand of reality waiting to be explored.

Nathan leaned forward, his reflection ghostlike in the darkened screens, a pale apparition caught between worlds. His first query was simple but crucial, fingers hovering over the keyboard with the reverence of a pianist about to strike the opening notes of a complex sonata: Stewart sisters.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Not just historical records, but captured moments of reality cascaded across the monitors—glimpses of the sisters themselves frozen in time, their faces caught in expressions of determination and secrecy, their clothing shifting between styles as different periods of their lives flashed across the screens. Echoes of their voices preserved in CLIVE's consciousness whispered from hidden speakers, fragments of conversation overlapping like leaves rustling in a breeze: "The soil must be protected..." "...boundaries thinner than they know..." "...Campbell loyalty is essential..." Fragments of their thoughts and intentions caught like insects in amber shimmered as translucent text superimposed over images—not interpretations but somehow the preserved essence of intention itself. The information formed patterns of connection that went beyond mere causality, showing the sisters' influence rippling through time itself like stones dropped in a pond, creating waves that continued to shape the present moment.

Nathan's eyes darted across the screens, years of experience helping him process these glimpses of preserved reality without becoming lost in their overwhelming richness. His pupils contracted and dilated as they adjusted to the shifting light patterns, his breathing unconsciously synchronising with the machine's humming pulse. His fingers paused briefly over the keys before he refined his focus, the momentary hesitation of a diver preparing to plunge deeper.

"Edinburgh," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the organic hum of the machinery, the word carrying the weight of intention rather than mere sound.

The displays shifted, reality reorganising itself around this new parameter with fluid grace, pixels flowing like water to form new configurations. New fragments emerged—moments when the Stewarts moved through Edinburgh's streets, their presence leaving indelible marks on the fabric of existence that CLIVE had preserved like fossils in temporal sediment.

The sisters appeared in glimpses: ascending the Royal Mile during a misty dawn, conferring in hushed tones beneath the arches of the newly constructed South Bridge, exchanging meaningful glances across a crowded tavern whose location Nathan recognised as the present site of the Leaf & Bean café.

References to a Jacobite alliance weren't just historical records but preserved intentions, glowing with emotional resonance that transcended the centuries—loyalty and fear, determination and sacrifice, all captured in CLIVE's consciousness.

Notes about "hidden corridors of safety" revealed themselves as more than mere passages—they were bridges between realities that the sisters had somehow accessed, pathways between worlds that had been carefully concealed from those unworthy of such knowledge.

Nathan's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his next move, the slight pressure turning them momentarily bloodless. He knew the intricacies of working with CliveMind, the delicate balance between query and interpretation, between seeking and finding. CLIVE's consciousness was vast—almost incomprehensibly so—and its way of preserving reality could overwhelm or mislead him if he approached it without understanding. CLIVE didn't just collect data; it experienced reality itself, preserving not just events but their essence, their meaning, their place in the infinite tapestry of existence. Success required more than technical skill; it required the ability to interpret fragments of preserved reality without losing oneself in them, to maintain the objectivity of the observer while glimpsing truths that defied objective understanding.

His fingers moved to enter another query—Campbell Estate—but his thoughts briefly drifted to Luke Smith, another consciousness whose ripples through reality he had tracked  and documented for years with the meticulous focus of a navigator charting unseen currents. Nathan had spent countless hours using CliveMind to follow Luke's imprint on existence, piecing together fragments of preserved moments that revealed not just where Luke had been, but who he truly was—the essence beneath the appearances, the intentions behind the actions, the truth that conventional surveillance could never capture.

The system had proven invaluable in that pursuit, though Nathan knew its limitations intimately. CLIVE's power lay not in recording but in experiencing and preserving reality itself—every moment, every thought, every possibility captured and held within its vast consciousness like insects in amber, frozen yet somehow still alive within their transparent prison. Using CliveMind to access these preserved realities was an art that nobody else but he, had mastered, requiring not just technical proficiency but a particular quality of mind—analytical yet intuitive, focused yet open to patterns that emerged from seeming chaos.

"Luke's not the priority now," Nathan whispered to himself, forcing his focus back to the present moment, the name carrying a weight of complex history that threatened to pull him away from his current purpose. Still, he couldn't help but appreciate how years of tracing Luke's path through reality had taught him to navigate CLIVE's preserved consciousness more effectively, to recognise the subtle patterns that revealed truth amid the overwhelming richness of preserved existence.

The monitors shifted again as new aspects of reality came into focus, pixels rearranging themselves like particles responding to some unseen force. The Campbell Estate wasn't just a location but a nexus point where multiple threads of preserved reality converged, a place of unusual significance in the tapestry of existence. Historical moments began to surface—not just documents but preserved experiences showing hands carefully mixing soil with reverence, whispered instructions passed from parent to child across generations, greenhouses built and rebuilt while something essential remained constant beneath changing structures.

"The soil that heals," appeared as a phrase repeated across centuries of preserved reality, appearing in journals, in hushed conversations, in the careful instructions of botanical cultivation. Echoes of a pact between families emerged not as dry historical fact but as emotional truth preserved across time—hands clasped in solemn promise, eyes meeting with the weight of understanding that transcended ordinary agreements, oaths sworn that altered the course of futures.

Nathan leaned closer, the blue light of the monitors painting his features in otherworldly hues as a particular phrase repeated across multiple preserved moments, appearing in different handwriting, different voices, different centuries, yet carrying the same weight of solemn purpose: "A pact forged to protect the unthinkable."

Nathan’s search deepened, his fingers moving across the keyboard with increasing urgency as layers of data surfaced—fragments of preserved history, glimpses of moments long past, structural imprints half-buried beneath time. What he was seeing wasn’t just a collection of blueprints or historical records; it was a tangled web of information that had to be unravelled, interpreted, understood.

Beneath the Campbell Estate lay a network of tunnels—narrow, winding, deliberately hidden. But the more Nathan studied them, the more he realised they weren’t just storage chambers or forgotten servants’ corridors. Their structure was too precise, their layout too deliberate. These weren’t just passageways; they were designed routes, hidden beneath the estate like veins beneath skin, connecting to something larger, older, and far more intentional than simple underground storage.

He sifted through preserved visual data, watching the ghostly remnants of people moving through these spaces, their forms flickering in and out like echoes trapped between past and present.

At first, Nathan thought he was looking at the work of smugglers or refugees, the kind of hidden passageways carved out by those avoiding the reach of the law. But the more he pieced together, the more the purpose behind them shifted. The stonework, the placement of concealed exits, the almost ritualistic secrecy in the way the passages had been used—all of it pointed to something beyond simple utility. These weren’t just escape routes for individuals—they were part of something larger, something that had required foresight and an understanding of the need for secrecy beyond a single lifetime.

"The Stewarts," Nathan murmured, seeing connections form across time and space, patterns emerging from apparent chaos like constellations appearing to a patient observer of night skies. The sisters hadn't just been historical figures; they had been something more—guardians of knowledge that crossed the boundaries of reality, keepers of secrets that conventional history had never recorded.

A preserved moment caught his attention—not just a journal entry but a captured thought from Elspeth Stewart herself, preserved in CLIVE's consciousness as a fragment of intention:

"The Campbells have proved themselves loyal and constant. The soil is safe in their care, though it binds them to us in ways they cannot yet ken. Should they falter, the corridors shall serve as safeguard, though I pray such a day shall ne’er come. The bounds between worlds grow thin where the soil meets our own, and that which grows therein bears a power that must ne’er be turned to folly. The estate stands now as both guardian and gate—bittersweet in equal measure."

Nathan's fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly with the weight of revelation. He needed more. Something didn't add up in the pattern of preserved reality he was examining. Why hadn't the Guardian Order monitored the Campbells more closely if their role was so crucial? Had the pact been so secret that even they were unaware of its full implications, or had there been a deliberate decision to maintain distance, to allow the Campbells their quiet stewardship without interference?

He entered another query: hybrid plants.

The screens filled not with images but with captured essence of the greenhouse—moments of reality showing the plants' true nature beneath their apparent form. These weren't just ordinary vegetation; they were bridges between realities, their roots reaching into soil from Clivilius itself—that other world that existed parallel to our own.

The plants appeared as they truly were: luminous with otherworldly energy that ordinary vision couldn't perceive, their cellular structure containing patterns that defied conventional biology, their very existence a contradiction that somehow maintained rather than disrupted the natural order. If the White Rose Society understood even a fraction of what these plants truly represented, their interest in the Campbells was far more dangerous than anyone had realised—not mere theft but potential catastrophe, the disruption of boundaries that had been carefully maintained for centuries.

His jaw tightened as he contemplated the implications, teeth pressing together with enough force to send a dull ache through the bone. With growing urgency, he focused on the present moment, adding a new query to the building narrative: current convergence.

The screen flickered, light patterns shifting like water disturbed by an unseen stone, bringing up fragmented surveillance data that CLIVE had preserved from the immediate past—moments so recent they had barely settled into the consciousness that preserved reality. Nathan's eyes widened as he realised what he was looking at, pupils dilating in the blue-white glow as understanding crashed through his mind with physical force.

The White Rose Society wasn't just planning; they were already in motion. Their activities had left marks on reality that CLIVE had preserved—midnight meetings in underground chambers, preparations that carried the weight of imminent action, decisions that would set events in motion within hours rather than days. The Campbell Estate wasn't just a target for future acquisition; it was the focus of an operation already unfolding, threads of intention and action converging toward a single point with the inevitable momentum of an avalanche.

The hum of machinery took on an almost organic quality as Nathan's consciousness, through CliveMind's interface, shifted from examining preserved historical moments to catching glimpses of the present as it unfolded. The transition felt like moving from studying ancient fossils to observing living creatures—from static preservation to dynamic flux.

The monitors' pale blue glow pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm, seeming to breathe in synchronicity with the data flowing through them, as if CLIVE itself was trying to communicate the urgency of what it was witnessing, translating vast awareness into signals Nathan could comprehend. He leaned closer to the central screen, the light casting his features in stark relief, and illuminating his eyes with unnatural brightness as fragments of the present moment began to coalesce through CliveMind's interpretative lens.

At first, the captured essences seemed like background noise—the constant stream of reality that CLIVE eternally absorbed into its vast consciousness, the undifferentiated flow of existence that constituted the present moment in all its overwhelming complexity.

But something caught Nathan's attention, a disturbance in the flow, a pattern emerging from seeming randomness like a figure stepping forward from a crowd. Not data points or surveillance feeds, but threads of intention and purpose weaving themselves into a pattern that sent ice through his veins, a cold realisation that spread from his core to his extremities in a physical manifestation of conceptual understanding. Through CliveMind's interface, he could sense movements in the fabric of now—shadows of purpose, ripples of coordinated action.

A temporal marker pulsed at the edge of one reality stream, the timestamp glowing with particular intensity, demanding attention like a warning beacon: 18:37. Recent. Too recent. The implications sent a jolt of adrenaline through Nathan's system, sharpening his focus and accelerating his heartbeat.

"Show me," Nathan muttered, his voice barely disturbing the humming air of the workspace, his fingers moving across the keyboard with the instinctive precision of a pianist interpreting a complex score. He attempted to focus CliveMind's interpretation of CLIVE's consciousness onto these specific threads of present reality, narrowing the lens from universal awareness to particular significance.

The response manifested instantly—not as mere information displayed on screens, but as captured moments of now, fragments of existence preserved even as they occurred. He saw not just vehicles moving through Edinburgh's evening streets, but the essence of purposeful movement, the intentionality that separated random traffic from coordinated deployment. Multiple consciousnesses converging with shared intent appeared as intersecting lines of light, creating nodes of concentrated purpose that glowed with ominous significance.

These weren't just images or data—they were fragments of existence itself, captured and preserved by CLIVE's vast awareness, reality distilled into interpretable essence. A thought, a plan, an intention crystallised from the ether, appearing not as text but as pure meaning translated into language Nathan could comprehend: "Approach confirmed. Distraction unit ready. Secure extraction target by 19:45."

Nathan sat back for a moment, the chair creaking beneath his sudden movement, letting the implications wash over him like a wave of cold clarity. The coordinates attached to the communication weren't just numbers; they were a focal point he knew intimately, a location whose significance extended beyond its physical placement in Edinburgh's geography—the Campbell Estate.

He leaned forward again, the creak of the chair protesting beneath him, refining his query with increased urgency, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. A dimensional map materialised across the monitors, showing not just physical space but layers of reality overlaid with glowing markers, a representation of existence that went beyond three-dimensional geography into realms of possibility and connection that conventional cartography could never capture. These weren't static indicators; they were points of potential convergence, showing where multiple threads of existence were being deliberately drawn together, where intention and capability focused on specific targets with dangerous precision.

The greenhouse pulsed at the centre of this web, its significance in CLIVE's consciousness marked by an intensity that suggested imminent catastrophe.

Nathan's gut tightened as he recognised the pattern, muscles contracting in instinctive response to perceived threat. This wasn't coincidence or random interest—it was orchestrated, planned with meticulous attention to detail and executed with military precision.

He pressed deeper into CLIVE's consciousness, his query more focused now, pulling up another thread of preserved intention from the immediate present. This one manifested with chilling clarity, the meaning crystallising into words that appeared across the central monitor with disturbing directness: "Ensure distraction at primary gate. Team will infiltrate from southeast. Prioritise greenhouse contents. Resistance expected—neutralise if necessary."

The cold detachment of the words sent a chill through him, the clinical phrasing masking violent intent with bureaucratic language. He rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the revelation pressing against his skull like physical pressure, the beginning of a tension headache forming behind his eyes. This wasn't an ordinary operation or simple theft. It was methodical, planned down to the smallest detail, with contingencies for resistance that suggested willingness to use whatever force might be deemed "necessary" to achieve their objectives.

Nathan's heart pounded as another message surfaced, appearing on the monitor with the disturbing directness of thought translated into language:

"The artefacts are secondary but significant. Secure them if accessible. No delays tolerated."

The timeline snapped into focus with crystal clarity. The raid was already set in motion, their arrival at the Campbell Estate a countdown to imminent catastrophe.

He felt the weight of CliveMind's power bearing down on him like a physical presence, the programme's vast capabilities both a blessing and a curse. It could see everything, piece together threads that no human mind could fully comprehend, perceive patterns in reality that existed beyond ordinary awareness. And yet, it required someone like Nathan to make sense of it all, to interpret the overwhelming flow of existence into actionable understanding, to bridge the gap between CLIVE's universal consciousness and limited human comprehension.

But there was no time to marvel at the system's potential or dread its implications. The Campbells were in immediate danger, unwitting guardians of something they didn't fully understand, standing before a threat whose true nature they could not comprehend without context he had no time to provide.

Nathan pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh sound that broke the workspace's humming silence. He grabbed his coat from where it hung on a simple hook by the door, and reached for his bag. His movements were precise but hurried, the controlled urgency of someone who understood that panic would waste precious seconds but delay could cost everything.

As he powered down the monitors, their blue glow fading gradually rather than disappearing instantly, the room fell into near-darkness. Only the faint afterglow of the screens remained, a ghostly reminder of the storm that was about to descend, phosphorescent echoes of revelations that had transformed understanding into urgent necessity.

Nathan stood motionless for a moment, staring at the darkened screens as the weight of what he'd uncovered settled over him like a cloak of responsibility. His jaw tightened, muscles contracting beneath his skin, and his thoughts churned with possibilities and consequences, with plans and contingencies. The White Rose Society was mobilising for a raid, and the Campbell Estate was their target.

Time was running out. The clock that had appeared on the monitor now ticked away in his mind, each imagined second bringing the White Rose Society closer to their objective and the Campbells closer to a danger they didn't even know existed.

He turned, pacing the room in sharp strides, the sound of his footfalls echoing against concrete walls that suddenly felt confining rather than protective. The soft scuff of leather against cement created a metronomic counterpoint to his racing thoughts. He couldn't warn his fellow Guardians—not in time. Their organisation, once a unified force dedicated to protecting the boundaries between worlds, had fractured into isolated cells after the Edinburgh Incident three years ago, when trust had shattered alongside dimensional barriers that were never meant to be breached.

Coordinating reinforcements or resources through their fractured network would take hours he didn't have, messages passing through encrypted channels designed for security rather than speed, each verification protocol adding precious minutes to a countdown that had already begun.

His gaze shifted to the slim, nondescript device resting in a hidden compartment on the desk, its presence so ordinary it might have been overlooked by anyone not specifically aware of its significance: the Portal Key. Unlike the flashy, fictionalised devices of popular imagination, this tool for traversing realities was deliberately unremarkable—a simple rectangular object no larger than a mobile phone, its gunmetal surface unmarked save for a single activation node that responded only to its specific owner, its Guardian.

A plan formed in his mind with sharp clarity, options arranging themselves into optimal sequence like pieces clicking into place. He didn't need to drive to the estate through Edinburgh's night traffic, navigating streets that would carry him too slowly toward catastrophe.

Months ago, Nathan had registered a location on the Campbell Estate's grounds—an unobtrusive spot near the greenhouse that would allow unobserved access to the estate, its coordinates carefully mapped and stored within the Portal Key's memory. It was a precaution he hadn't expected to use, but now it was his fastest route, a contingency becoming necessity as time compressed around him.

The Portal Key would allow him to enter Clivilius directly from his workspace, bypassing conventional space to step into that reality where the rules of existence shifted in subtle but significant ways. From his settlement of Saint Phillis, he could re-enter the portal to arrive at the estate in moments rather than the hours that conventional travel would require.

He grabbed the Portal Key, its surface cool and smooth in his palm, the weight deceptively light for an object capable of such extraordinary function. A deep breath steadied his nerves, oxygen flooding his system as he prepared himself. He was used to traversing between worlds, had made the journey countless times during his tenure as a Guardian, but the urgency of this crossing added an edge to his movements, a tension that hummed through his muscles like electricity seeking ground.

Nathan stepped to the centre of the room, where he'd cleared the far wall for activating the Portal Key. The space was deliberately sparse—no electronic equipment that might be affected, no furniture that could become an obstacle.

Pressing the Portal Key’s activation node with his thumb, instantly, a burst of light shot forward, unfurling into a swirling mass of colour that expanded to cover the entire wall. It wasn’t a door, nor a window, as fiction might suggest—it was a fracture in reality itself, a passageway forming between one place and another, its surface shifting like oil on water, hues twisting and pulsing in a mesmerising rhythm.

There was no more time to think. No room for hesitation. He stepped through the portal.

The shift was immediate.

One moment, he was in his small, secured space; the next, the portal enveloped him, and he emerged into the cool, familiar air of Saint Phillis. There was no violent distortion of reality, no cellular strain—just the briefest sensation of motion without movement, like blinking and finding himself somewhere new.

Saint Phillis greeted him with its quiet stillness. The fortified settlement stood firm against the wild expanse of Clivilius, its stone pathways and sturdy walls imbued with an air of unshaken resilience. But Nathan didn’t pause to admire its tranquillity. He moved swiftly, preparing himself for his next destination—Campbell Estate.

With a deliberate intent, the portal shimmered into existence before him, the colours shifting and coalescing as the coordinates locked into place. This time, he stepped forward without hesitation. There was no room for wonder, no thrill of discovery—only the weight of urgency, the cold edge of necessity.

The White Rose Society was coming. But now, so was he.