Atop a machine mostly covered by tarps, there was an exposed section of freshly installed hydraulics. A young engineer stood on a rolling work platform, covering the hydraulics with a piece of exactingly stitched armor plate. Their long, salmon-pink dyed hair partially tucked away into a bun within a fire-retardant synthetic wrap, and a protective mask covered their round, soft-featured face. A fire retardant jumpsuit and gloves protected their body, a bit short and a bit plush, not as toned as that of their more traditionally soldier-like companions but fit enough for duty. They had the strength and the stamina to pick up the heavy welding gun and the dexterity to precisely join the segments of plate. They bumped one of their breasts on the railings, and it smarted, but they were careful of the rest.
With an almost meditative focus, without shaking or flinching, they completed the weld.
They then removed their mask and hair cap to better appreciate the fruit of their labor.
Pink hair falling over their fair face, pushed aside by soft but skillful hands.
Valya Lebedova wiped the sweat off their brow and smiled at the freshly welded plate.
Running that gentle hand across the smooth join. This was some of their best work.
“It’s coming together. Soon we’ll test for seaworthiness.” They said to themself.
They had been keeping themselves quite busy since docking at Aachen.
While the officers and the security team were engaged with the United Front, the Brigand’s engineers were giving the ship and its weapons another tune-up, taking inventory, and running the stitchers day and night to resupply their stock of spare parts as well as replace worn parts. They were also continuing the work of building cooperation with the Rostock and its engineers– something made much easier by the invention of ZaChat.
All the while, Valya had been working in the hangar on the squadron’s Heavy Divers.
Working with machines suited them well. They considered themself an acceptable pilot, but not an exceptional one like Khadija, whom they could barely keep up with, or Shalikova, who piloted boldly and aggressively. Even Murati, who was also somewhat overshadowed by Khadija and Shalikova, was still stronger and more skilled in battle than Valya. In a mecha, Valya was a grunt, an additional gun. But with tools in their hand, and the time to spend, they could do work on the machines that was more unique than the efficient and routine maintenance taught by the academy and reproduced unerringly by the average engineer.
Valya had been out in there, in the sea, had been shot at, had shot back–
It was terrifying– but it imparted a personal knowledge of how the machine operated.
And what a pilot valued out of the machine, and how to optimize for those eccentricities.
An engineer working on dozens of Streloks had to be efficient, but Valya could be exacting.
Not only in tuning up and repairs– the Brigand across its battles had collected a stock of captured or surrendered enemy equipment, as well as broken-down hulls and other miscellany from their own damage and losses. There was a sizeable pile of metal to break down and reuse, as well as an entire hull that was surrendered by Sieglinde Castille. Valya wanted to do something with it– they had been working on assembling a brand new mecha working off these materials. To make use of the advanced hull Sieglinde brought in.
Whether or not it saw immediate use, they could always find a home for more machines.
Thankfully for Valya, Murati had been incredibly supportive of their ideas.
With assistance from the engineers, and Khadija’s support, they were given the time and space to work on engineering projects were it related to the Divers as a special member of the hangar crew. Khadija would have to have more standby time when out at sea because of this, as the first-line standby pilots were originally her and Valya– but she was nice enough to agree. Some of the burden was also taken up by Sameera, who volunteered to be on standby much more often. Valya was lucky to have such supportive comrades.
Everyone was careful not to talk about it as if Valya would be replaced and join the engineers. Valya knew Murati could not promise that, since the available candidates to replace anyone on the squadron were in a state of flux. Aiden had been demoted to a sailor, the Rostock could not spare more crew, and Homa Baumann was a big, ambiguous maybe. Valya had no illusions that they would be going out and fighting if needed, and they had no reservations against doing so. They were fighting a war and Valya was a soldier.
“Hey, are you going to marry that weld? You’ve been staring at it for long enough.”
Valya looked down at the base of the work platform, where a tall woman waved at them.
They smiled back at her. “Hey, let me have this moment!” They laughed.
Soon they joined their aunt Galina Lebedova on the hangar floor.
Galina was the Chief Technician overseeing all aspects of engineering and maintenance work on the ship. She looked the part– tall, muscular, broad-chested, wearing the standard work coveralls, but with her own flair too. She wore makeup, complimenting her round, friendly face, and when she was not engaged in work she wore the coveralls halfway down, off her shoulders. This exposed the bodysuit she wore beneath, and the impressive definition of her body. Her dark hair was dyed, much like Valya’s was, but with small streaks of blue.
Valya felt quite small near their aunt, but they were used to it.
The Lebedovich family was quite fecund, with Valya having many siblings and many cousins and many older folks and being among the smallest of their generation. They were spread out all over the Union. Valya was part of the generation that grew up with the Union’s ideal toward child rearing and was raised by the state more than by their parents.
Whenever the kids all got to visit their parents, and the parents’ own siblings and relatives joined in, the actual, massive scope of the family came into stark relief.
Nevertheless, Valya felt that they acquitted themselves well enough among their family.
After all, only two members of their family were on this suicidal black ops mission.
It would be an impressive bit of their resume if they came back, however!
“How is it coming along? Have you given it a name yet?” Galina asked.
“Not yet. I might entreat Murati or the other pilots to name it.” Valya said.
“Sounds like a fun idea. Maybe you could make it a ship-wide contest.”
“I’d rather not draw that much attention to the whole thing.” Valya said sheepishly.
Galina looked up at the tarp-covered mass, the machine Valya had been building.
“You’ve come a long way Valya. I remember when you were just a kid tinkering with a little quadrotor you won as a prize at school.” Lebedova said. She reached out and laid a hand on Valya’s head and messed up their hair. Valya protested only mildly. “Now you’re turning out to be a wizard with the spare parts here. Everyone is excited to see what you cooked up.”
Valya felt a bit nostalgic, recalling that little machine. They had largely forgotten it.
Life had been filled with projects for Valya, they had always been busy in school–
And once they were awed by the power of a Diver, there was no turning back from that.
Tinkering with rotor revolutions and weight-shifting on a drone was literally child’s play.
A Diver represented the power of the future. Murati could see that too.
Maybe– Murati could see it more than anyone.
After all, it was because of Murati protesting, that Valya had gotten practical pilot training.
Many, many years ago in the Academy– not that Murati knew that.
But it was this which led Valya to value Murati’s insights.
They turned to their aunt with a carefree smile.
“Well, they will see it soon! I honestly think I’ll have it ready in a day or two!” Valya said.
“Hmm. Has anyone pulled you aside and made you have any fun lately?” Galina said.
She leaned into Valya with a skeptical expression on her face.
Valya leaned back a bit. “I’m doing what I like, and I like what I do. So there’s no problem.”
Galina drew back with a sigh. “I just can’t help but notice it– with how busy you are–”
“Notice what?” Valya said.
“Well, at first I thought you might be getting on with Khadija, at least–”
Valya started waving their hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not– I haven’t ever–”
“I mean, I know that now obviously.” Galina said. She made an exaggerated sigh that clued Valya on to the fact that they were being teased. “In this ship where passions are always burning so bright– I bet your parents will be disappointed when you return home without bringing a nice girl to introduce to them. They are expecting some grandkids you know?”
“They can forget it! I don’t want one child let alone six!” Valya said, crossing their arms.
Chief Lebedova burst out laughing. Valya narrowed their eyes and stared critically.
Mighty thankful that the Union state and its laws could thwart their parent’s demands.
“Besides, I don’t see you settling down with a ‘nice sailor boy’ either.” Valya shot back.
“My time has passed.” Galina shrugged. “Now that I have fully disappointed all of my own close family with my sapphism and whimsy, I can live my life as I choose free of their dour expectations. I have left such things to the next generation. Please pick up the slack for me.”
“What are you even saying? I refuse!” Valya said, knowingly playing up their reticence.
Despite all the teasing, Valya got along well enough with Galina.
Though they would not admit it, Galina was someone they aspired to become.
Valya could empathize with Murati’s desire to someday command a ship.
Their ambitions, however, were fixed squarely on the shop floor and its machines.
Commanding respect and organizing all of the hangar tech as Chief Technician.
Everything tuned up to their specification; and an entire floor working on their designs!
Maybe the Union could promote Murati and take on Valya alongside someday.
And perhaps a refined version of the machine under the tarp could fill their hangar.
“Valya, I did want to talk to you about something serious.” Galina said. She looked around the hangar. Valya thought she knew what it was about– Gunther had taken the day and was out in the station. As soon as Galina got to speaking again, Valya had her suspicions confirmed. “Murati approached me about Gunther– I obviously don’t mind anyone lodging complaints for any reason. I just wanted you to know, he is ordinarily a very quiet and work-oriented guy. I know you have had to pick up the slack for him a bit, and it might feel unfair. But I think he just isn’t used to how spontaneous things have been on this ship. He is very– rules oriented. And a lot of disorder has been brought in. Can you give him a chance, for me?”
Valya shook their head. They didn’t mean to get directly involved in Gunther’s situation, but given how they worked closely with Murati, it was an easy assumption to make.
They would not pretend that they were unrelated.
“It’s not necessarily about it being unfair to me. I think it’s unfair to the pilots. Gunther is the frontline guy for the Divers, I know there must be a lot of pressure on him but if he makes a mistake or doesn’t get to something, it could be lethal for Murati and the others. It could be lethal for me. That’s why I am trying to take care of everything myself. If you, Murati and the Captain would formally make me an engineer, I would sort everything out.”
They stuck out their chest with a proud little smile. Almost sure that they were sparkling.
Galina sighed a bit, crossed her arms. After a moment, she replied. “I’ll talk to the captain. I’m sure someone from here or from the Rostock or hell, even the John Brown, could take your seat as a pilot. Aiden was not an especially useful addition to the sailing crew– I would have a lot less to worry about if I could fob off more work on you.” She winked.
Valya frowned in response.
Only at the last snide remark– they were excited at the prospect of joining the engineers.
“I won’t disappoint you– but I will complain to Semyonova if you are unfair to me!”
“I guess you’d still be in the officer’s union huh? What a pain.” Galina joked.
The two of them shared a bit of laugh to show the situation was not too serious.
“I can’t make any promises. But the hangar crew would love to have you.” Galina said.
Valya nodded their head. It felt like they were so close to their personal goals now.
They would do whatever was required of them for the mission to succeed. That much would never change. However, confidence did not come easily to little Valya– and with each passing day, they were becoming more confident in their mechanical skills.
Soon, they would prove that to everyone.
“Ah, master, you look so positively radiant in the captain’s seat.”
“Heh, I do, don’t I? I imagined this moment so many times. I bet I pull it off exactly.”
“Indeed, indeed. Have you thought about what you will say when you order a fusillade?”
“Absolutely. Of course I have thought about it. It’s integral to morale. Every word.”
“Then master, why not roleplay a full attack, so that you might perfect your technique?”
“You know, Aatto– you’re completely right. As I ask others to prepare, I too must do so.”
Murati was in such a vital mood she saw nothing silly about this proposition.
A Captain was a figure of strength, a symbol to the crew, just as much as their function as an element of battlefield control. Every aspect, every gesture, had to command respect and dignity. Such things as élan and esprit de corps might have sounded unscientific to some persons, but a soldier’s enthusiasm and sense of belonging to a professional unit had tangible effects on their performance in battle. Soldiers respected and motivated by their officers put on a greater effort to the bitter end than bored, abused grunts did.
So in the middle of the day at an unspecific hour of no other meaning–
Murati stood up from her chair, put on a deadly grin and pointed her index finger.
Her arm was perfectly straight, precisely parallel to the ceiling.
Just as her lips parted, with her bridge staring in confusion (rapt attention)–
The door opened, and a seemingly young woman in a suit and vest walked in nonchalantly–
“Murati–?” she said, but would not be heard until the weighty deed was finished–
“All guns, drown them out with thunder! Continuous barrage!” Murati shouted.
She then realized someone had entered, and her head suddenly snapped to the door.
Dropping her arm, staring. Feeling self-conscious and strangely surveilled.
At her right-hand, Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa stared as if seeking confirmation.
“Um, that was a simulation.” Murati said, waving her hands. “Forget it, carry on.”
Everyone on the bridge seemed to shrug off the moment pretty easily.
Murati, however, felt rather silly that she had been seen doing so by Euphrates.
Standing at the door, an impish grin on her face, with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Having a lot of fun with the big chair, Murati?” Euphrates said. “Let me join you!”
Without waiting for acknowledgment, she crossed in front of Murati and Aatto and sat down in the farthest seat at the top, where Erika Kairos sat if she was available. Somehow the blue-haired immortal Eloim did not feel too out of place in that position– Euphrates was a person who had earned Murati’s respect and affection as much as the Premier.
And this meant–
–it was rather mortifying whenever she saw Murati acting impulsively.
“Master, my entire body quaked with the power of your voice.” Aatto cheered.
“I– I don’t want to hear things like that.” Murati replied, averting her gaze.
Euphrates laughed a bit to herself and laid back on the chair.
She shut her eyes and looked rather placid for a moment.
Then– Murati heard her voice.
“Have you gotten better at speaking telepathically?” She asked wordlessly.
Her voice appeared soundlessly in Murati’s thoughts as if she herself had recalled it.
It was only because of her own psionic experiences she knew that it was telepathy.
Despite the method, the communications were surprisingly clear and easy to understand.
Even though the voice might have sounded a bit dim, the content was perfectly transmitted.
“I practiced with Aatto.” Murati said, launching the words right into Euphrates’ mind.
“Aatto is a good partner for you. Her abilities are limited but her resistance is strong.”
“I still don’t want to risk hurting her. We’ve only practiced telepathy, nothing else.”
“You’re such a considerate girl. Have you been able to practice vectoring at all?”
“Here and there. It’s difficult to control. I can’t seem to limit my strength at all.”
“You’re either uniquely gifted or uniquely cursed, Murati.” Euphrates smiled.
“Great. It’s an excellent title for my biography: Uniquely Gifted, Uniquely Cursed.”
Murati sank back into her chair with a gloomy expression.
Euphrates telepathically projected an image of herself patting Murati’s back.
Somehow, though the action had not been taken physically, Murati still felt a bit comforted.
“I did not just come here to bother you.” Euphrates communicated. “I wanted– to talk.”
Despite their soundless communication, Murati still felt the hesitation in her “tone.”
“I’m listening. You know if its for you, I can make the time.” Murati replied.
Euphrates put on a mischievous face. “Murati– putting it so straightforwardly–?”
“What? I don’t get it– why do you look so happy–?” Murati narrowed her eyes.
“Nevermind, nevermind. This is something serious.” Euphrates put a hand over her own chest and sighed a little bit. “I talked to Daksha Kansal. She and I have a long history– I have already told you some stories. But I don’t believe I ever communicated just how much I was once enamored with her. I admired her greatly. Unfortunately– we had a bit of a tiff and departed on bad terms. I don’t believe I can ever talk to her again in a private capacity. I thought you should know– she is someone involved with your past too, after all.”
More than that, Daksha Kansal was someone Murati distantly admired.
Every communist leader had something to teach– even Ahwalia unearthed certain lessons. Daksha Kansal led the Union through its tumultuous birth. She focused everything on reclaiming the prisons and slave work operations and turning them into homes and factories, and distributing the products to the exhausted, exploited masses for their survival.
Daksha Kansal said to the former slaves that it would take work and struggle still to live freely, rather than passively being free. Despite the pain and weariness, the people of the Union took up their tools again, for themselves, for their home, and worked again.
It would have been easy for the Union to collapse in those precarious days where so many people with nothing cobbled together everything they could for a fighting chance, and still found themselves lacking for so much after achieving the victory. Winning against the Empire did not bring plenty, it did not even bring enough, not right away– the hardship continued and there was always more work. Daksha Kansal knew how to keep the fire alive even after the the adrenaline died down and the people took stock of how difficult the future would be. They could not eat freedom; but they feasted on her hope.
Had the Murati of 979 A.D. been in that position she would not have known what to say.
Sometimes her mind reeled at the pain and immiseration around her in affluent Imbria.
She was a kid back then– her memory of how bad it was had been dulled by time.
Would she have fallen to her knees at the sight of the bleak prison the slaves inherited?
Daksha Kansal could have only been a colossus.
Even moreso to Murati, who received her emancipation and admission into the military, her childhood dream and desire, through the direct intervention of Daksha Kansal, Bhavani Jayasankar and Parvati Nagavanshi. These three figures flitted in and out of her life and worked in its background, and though she knew none of them personally, clearly she could only be biased about their importance to the world. Ideologically, she agreed strongly with them– and personally, she admired and sought their bravery and character.
But she also knew that they were human and fallible.
Daksha Kansal abdicated power and vanished from the Union, inexplicably.
Murati had not wanted to acknowledge that too much– but she could not ignore it.
As much as she wanted to believe in her as a simple hero, it was unscientific to do so.
She had to account for the fact that Daksha Kansal left them all in the middle of her work.
With that in mind, it was possible to want to disagree with her too.
Murati and Euphrates continued to speak telepathically.
“Are you afraid that I’ll take her side or something like that?” Murati asked.
“I am afraid of offending you. I am trying to be careful with my words.” Euphrates said.
“What happened is between you two. If you advocated for me or the Union broadly, I thank you for doing so. I don’t demand you disclose anything to me; and if you are afraid I would not be predisposed to believing you, well, you have nothing to fear. I’m not so ideologically rigid, you know? You are someone I esteem too– someone I swore to protect.”
Euphrates’ eyes drew wide again. She smiled. “Murati, thank you. I am touched.”
“It’s my honest feelings. I don’t agree with your positions all the time, but I admire the strength of your character. And I know you are someone who has suffered a lot, just like us. I’d be a pretty shameful communist if I turned my back on you out of blind idolatry. When you baptized me I felt your loneliness and pain– I want to do what I can for you, you know.”
Euphrates wiped her fingers gently over her eyes. She had shed a few tears. Seeing her like that almost made Murati weep too, but she held her own tears back. It would have seemed ridiculous for her to weep out of nowhere from the perspective of the crew.
So she held strong.
“Thank you, Murati. I am truly grateful. But– you should be careful how you speak.”
“Huh? What is this about? I told you these are my honest feelings.”
“If you tell a woman you’ve ‘sworn to protect her’– such a thing can be misunderstood.”
“What are you saying? There is no way to misinterpret that. It means what it means!”
“This is why everyone’s always gossiping about you…”
Euphrates sent her another mental image of herself patting Murati’s back.
Murati tele-projected back an image of herself with a serious expression.
“You know, I am thinking of starting a new project.” Euphrates said, this time out loud.
Out loud, physically, but their volume was still low enough to be semi-private.
“Sorry, I am not joining your new gang.” Murati said simply. “I have responsibilities here.”
“Of course, of course. I am not recruiting you. I just hope that I can continue to hitch a ride– and perhaps enlist your help in finding former colleagues of mine.” Euphrates said.
“You have to ask the Captain for a definitive answer– but I don’t think anyone wants you to leave.” Murati said. “I certainly do not. So I hope you can run your project here.”
“Don’t worry, it will be a while yet before we part ways.” Euphrates smiled.
She reached her out and physically patted Murati’s shoulder.
“I am not particularly proud of how my meeting with Daksha went. It– ended in a fight.”
She sent this message telepathically, resuming their mental correspondence.
“You fought?” Murati responded silently. “Like– physically?”
“We fought. It was a very emotionally charged argument. I lost myself. I truly regret it.”
Murati was briefly a bit speechless. This was the last thing she expected to hear.
Her own hand reached out, physically, and squeezed Euphrates’ shoulder in comfort.
“Did you win?” She asked telepathically. Trying to project a tone of levity to Euphrates.
For her part, Euphrates smiled serenely and said nothing more, leaning into Murati’s arm.
Though surprised by the display of affection, Murati allowed Euphrates to rest on her.
On the second day of the United Front deliberations, the delegates gathered to discuss the creation of an information exchange between the parties as proposed on the previous day. Familiar figures from the first meeting attended once again, although the mood was initially much more subdued than the brawling of the previous day. Taras Moravskyi and Tamar Livnat presided over the meeting, introducing topics and approving proposals, a formality; Zozia Chelik and Ksenia Apfel remained mostly quiet; Erika Kairos, Ulyana Korabiskaya, Eithnen Ní Faoláin and their adjutants stood in for the Volksarmee; while Gloria Luxembourg remained the only attending delegate of the Reichsbanner Schwarzrot.
Gloria looked rather bored, rubbing a finger on the table while Erika made a proposition.
“In my time with my esteemed colleagues from the south,” Erika said, gesturing toward Ulyana and Aaliyah on the table, “I discovered that the Union has methods for sending encrypted information through the Imbrian relay network while making the source difficult to trace without time-consuming and very specific scrutiny. Rather than sharing these protocols in full, and each developing a system independently– I propose we all collaborate on a platform built by one of our officers, known as ZaChat. Using ZaChat as a base, we have a means of quickly getting in touch with each other. We can at the very least use it as initial point of communication before switching to a more secure means. Along with the adoption of a cipher dictionary, we’ll be able to coordinate from afar, while the fascists will remain none the wiser. What do my esteemed colleagues think of this idea?”
“We would have to trial the program.” Tamar Livnat replied. “But I agree on the basics. A simple way to send encrypted messages, and a cipher to make those messages appear innocuous are both necessary. If you already have some technology we might as well use it– I doubt my comrades will want to use any Imbrian-made software for this task.”
“You can’t trust none of these newfangled networks.” Moravskyi said. “All that stuff was laid down by the Rhinean and Palatine megacorps! None of these portables and private computers and this ‘internet’ business is safe, not one bit of it! They are watching it all the time for any sign of dissent! But I suppose we won’t be able to move fast if we have to wait for actual couriers back and forth, so it’ll have to do. But I don’t like it one bit.”
“Comrade Moravskyi, perhaps you know a means by which our information exchange can exchange information without the use of computers? We would give that proposal some thought. Otherwise we must press on.” Tamar said. She sounded like she making fun of Moravskyi, but it was not entirely obvious– she was very careful and measured with every sound from her lips and every movement of her face such that it caused the listener to doubt whether she was being snide. Moravskyi did not seem to realize he was being criticized and remained quiet as Tamar continued with a smile on her face. “If the comrades in the Volksarmee would be so kind as to provide us systems with ‘ZaChat’ installed so that we might quickly get up to speed with it– we will agree to Erika Kairos’ proposal.”
“Absolutely. We will turn over a few devices to the delegates tomorrow.” Erika said.
After Erika’s proposal, there was little additional debate.
Everyone agreed that it was both necessary and smart to have a means to quickly share intelligence with one another and that it would enable them to act in concert to target Volkisch assets, or to protect each other’s assets. It was a good way to muster their full resources without imposing on each other’s autonomy or creating a chain of command that would be odious to the parties. These deliberations were rather uncontroversial.
Conversation turned to the uses of the information exchange.
What was before implied was openly discussed– the three groups should share intelligence with the aim of assisting each other in missions to degrade and destroy Volkisch assets and loosen their control over Eisental. This too was an uncontroversial idea. If they were only going to agree to send ZaChat direct messages to each other with no intent to stage any direct actions with one another then the deliberations were entirely pointless.
However, a debate eventually arose on the asymmetry between the parties in action–
“Both the Schwarzrot and Volksarmee have military or near-military grade vessels. The Eisern Front moves in civilian vessels– some of which are not even owned but chartered. We have very little naval potential, and we risk everything when we take to the seas. It was a gamble for us to appear at these deliberations– we don’t even have the luxury of keeping our papers fully up to date as we smuggle people from station to station and maintenance costs can be burdensome to us for travel.” Tamar had once again taken an active role. When she brought up this topic, it seemed to take Moravskyi by surprise. He had been designated the principal speaker for the Eiserne, but Tamar would always talk first, with that unflappable smile on her gentle and pretty face. “I believe it would be a show of good will from our comrades if there could be a provision for the Eisern Front to receive at least a single armed vessel.”
“You are using a lot of passive tenses.” Erika said. “Tamar, do you want us to procure that vessel? Do you want us to gather funds? Do you want us to undertake a mission to steal a vessel? You can and should be direct with your proposals. And also how does Moravskyi feel about this proposal? To which arm of the Eiserne would this vessel be transferred?”
Erika turned to face Moravskyi, who looked a bit confused about the whole thing.
“We aren’t suddenly going to switch tactics to fighting naval engagements.” Moravskyi said. “Our strengths wouldn’t change from getting one ship– we are still going to operate from within stations. So I guess Tamar is asking for her comrades to receive a ship. That’s on her.”
Being called out did not seem to dull Tamar’s spirit any. She continued to speak calmly.
“I apologize for not being clear. You are correct that my forces are still focused on station combat. I would still like for the Volksarmee to transfer a vessel to the Aerean Preservation Militia. Our forces are not going to become a naval powerhouse overnight, but having an armed vessel would help us to resist dangers to our forces during transfers by sea.”
“We refuse to transfer away any of our naval power.” Erika said. “Our prerogative is to be able to target and destroy Volkisch naval assets. We believe this will be crucial going forward. We can assist your forces with our naval power, much as you will assist us with your land forces. But we will not turn over one of our vessels to an unproven crew.”
“My– a show of the ample generosity of our partners, I suppose.” Tamar said.
Erika bristled at Tamar’s gentle, casually delivered sarcasm and prepared to reply–
“Don’t start another pointless fight. I’ve had enough of you people arguing.”
Gloria Innocence Luxembourg finally spoke up, sounding childishly fed up.
“I will buy you a vessel and equip it with weapons. I have people for this.” Gloria said.
“I would have preferred the transfer of a Volksarmee vessel. They have captured Imperial military equipment that is tested and proven– which I am not sure you can guarantee. They also have equipment that blends in well with the enemy, which would greatly assist us in our sabotage and infiltration missions.” Tamar said. “For example, we could get a lot of use out of the ability of your miraculous little hauler to blend in plain sight.”
Ulyana fixed Tamar with a sharp gaze. “You must be out of your mind. It’s not happening.”
Tamar’s eyes briefly glanced over to Ulyana. Her lips still curled into the same little smile.
“Tamar, let’s not be unreasonable now.” Gloria said. “I will buy your group a vessel, any size, any equipment you need. You can even make the exterior hull ugly looking as you like.”
Her entry into the conversation as the unofficial arms dealer of the United Front settled the immediate tension, but Ulyana would not easily forget Tamar’s insinuations. Moravskyi did not interrupt the conversation, but when Tamar asked for the Brigand he did stare at her with shock. He must not have known the depths to which she might stoop– perhaps not even for what purpose. Regardless, it was agreed Gloria would supply a Cruiser to serve as an Eiserne Front flagship. It would be operated by the Aerean Preservation Militia.
Gloria agreed on a timetable for delivery.
With that messy episode settled, a conversation sprung about expanding the exchange.
“In a United Front strategy, it is assumed that we will not only work among ourselves.” Moravskyi said. “But we will join any workers who oppose the bourgeoisie– in this case, I assume we will try to assist any workers that are opposing the Volkisch Movement. I was thinking– will we extend our information exchange to fighters outside of the groups meeting here? Would we bring more people into the fold? Mother anarchy opens her arms to anyone willing to accept her, but I know the reds are more cautious than that.”
“I think you’ll find we are quite willing to work with anyone.” Erika said.
Tamar raised a hand to her lips and giggled just a bit.
“Yes, that much should be obvious, Comrade Moravskyi. They brought Republicans here.”
She pointed out Eithnen and Tahira with a mirthful expression on her face.
“You know what, lady? I’ve just about had it with your bitchy little attitude.” Eithnen said. “There’s no Republicans in this room. I hate the Republic of Alayze more than anyone. Sit your prissy ass down, shut your hole, and let the big guy finish a sentence for once!”
Eithnen correctly identified Tamar seemed to be needling Moravskyi as much as anyone.
Gloria stood up from her chair.
“Tamar, you chose Moravskyi as speaker for the Eiserne. Let him do the talking.” She said.
“Do not censure her!” Moravskyi said. “We anarchists are candid! We speak our minds. I appreciate that about comrade Livnat. I don’t want her to shut up, whether she insults me or engages in teasing. I’m a grown man, I don’t care. I want her able to speak however.”
Tamar merely shrugged in her seat but remained obediently quiet for the discussion.
Without Tamar’s interruptions, the rest of the United Front agreed on two points.
First, if it would be useful to a mission and the candidates were trusted, more people could be added to the information exchange, on either a temporary or extended basis. Zachikova would be asked to create provisional statuses with limited permissions and time-limited access that would self-terminate in certain conditions. Essentially, a status of informants who could send data without being able to see anything themselves, whose sessions were cleaned out on a regular basis, and who were kept at the periphery of the systems.
Erika Kairos agreed this would be implemented.
Second, the door was opened for more groups to completely join the United Front provided they shared enough of a semblance of worker-centered politics and had mission capabilities the Front could make use of against the Volkisch. Such solidarity would not be extended to groups without a rank and file and some level of organization. They decided a membership of at least fifty persons was needed to fully join. That would keep out small time ideological actors who were best retained as distant “informants”. Once a group joined the front they would added permanently to the information exchange, with their leadership having some access to add members of their organization as required for mission needs.
“Sounds good. Look at us, we’re like one big happy family.” Moravskyi laughed.
At this point, Tamar’s bodyguard, the tall, lithe, dark-haired woman in the dark coat, approached her and whispered something. Tamar smiled, listened, without turning her head, and waved her off. The bodyguard then left the venue. Ulyana Korabiskaya seemed to want to ask what that was about– but she seemed to think better of it after some consultation with her Commissar Aaliyah Bashara. The two of them passed on the opportunity to speak, and Moravskyi declared the resolutions formally approved by the Front.
With a decent amount of official work behind them, the front members started to chat.
They set the next day’s topic, which would be going over tactics and strategy, and what should and should not be on the table, as well as exchanging information about capabilities between the forces to better understand how each would deploy. Erika promised a demonstration of ZaChat. Finally, Moravskyi adjourned the meeting, but nobody left right away. Particularly because Moravskyi turned to Gloria with a pointed question.
“Hey, Miss Luxembourg.” He said, a bit derisively. “When are we going to see your mentor at one of these meetings? It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to debate that hag Kansal!”
“Hag?” Gloria narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “She’ll show up when she shows up.”
“Is she not going to show her face then? What a waste.” Moravskyi said.
“We hardly need any more social climbers in our midst.” Tamar said, cracking a little grin.
“What is your problem lady? I’ve put up with enough of your idle chatter.” Gloria said. Her saccharine facade had been largely absent in this particular meeting, where she hardly spoke. But now she was being ‘candid’ herself. “Daksha Kansal is a hero to all communists! She has better things to do than argue with the likes of you people! That’s why I’m here. So stop clamoring for her to appear if all you want is a target dummy for your petty and ancient grievances. We’re here, in the present, and we agreed to cooperate, so cooperate!”
“Gloria, do you know the history of the revolution that produced the Union?” Tamar asked.
“I know enough.” Gloria said. “Are you going to quiz me on it, schoolteacher?”
Her barbs were not as fierce, but her heart was clearly into the conflict now.
Ulyana and Aaliyah watched with mild annoyance as this all played out.
Erika Kairos sighed and crossed her arms and tried to stay out of it all.
“Do you believe the revolution was started by Daksha Kansal?” Tamar asked.
“Everyone knows that. Obviously. She was key to everything.” Gloria said.
“That’s what you all tell yourselves now.” Moravksyi said. “But it wasn’t the case.”
“How do you figure? Hmph. She was the organizer behind the General Strike!” Gloria said, passions enflamed. “That’s what she was imprisoned for! Everyone knows the history! She broke out and organized the slaves, leading to several bloody prison takeovers, plantation riots. The key moment was the uprising in the shipyards that are now Sevastopol and the uprisings in what is now Solstice, the control centers for the Imperial administration. The nascent Union took over much of the merchant marine that had been paralyzed in the Sevastopol and Solstice ports due to the panic in the Imbrian control centers. Kansal’s group also overran the magazines and distributed real armaments to the slaves. This is all history, and you can look it all up! So what do you all believe is the actual truth then?”
“Little lady, Kansal was not the first one to rise up.” Moravskyi said. “She was not even the second or the third. Solstice rose when the rest of the colonies were already fully rioting, and she took advantage of that. I know because I was there. I was there with her even.”
Gloria stared at Moravskyi but did not reply quickly anymore. She looked like it was dawning on her that she spoke with too much certitude and that perhaps there was more to the story than she imagined. She had the quiet and guarded expression of someone fearful to have appeared foolish. Now she must have been thinking how to spare herself.
Tamar took the opportunity to add on to what Moravskyi had declared.
“Not only that– but you should also examine how the oppressed slaves without means could have begun to revolt in the first place. Sure, they had the numbers, but how did the systems of the Imbrians fail to stop some starving prisoners? It was because the anarchists from Imbria, particularly Bosporus, had been working in solidarity with the slaves for years. They assisted the slaves by smuggling in tools and weapons and with technical assistance. They recruited collaborators from the Imbrians too. All of this before the so-called ‘revolution’ that Daksha Kansal would like you to believe that she fomented alone.” Tamar said.
Rhetorically flanked, Gloria stared at Tamar as if she had been trapped by her too.
“People flocked to her because of her role in the failed General Strike. Demagoguery was the only reason she took the revolution as her own in the histories. In reality there were more factors responsible than simply the titanic qualities of Daksha Kansal.”
Tamar looked once again rather sure of herself, and Gloria could not refute her.
Ulyana Korabiskaya did not hold her silence this time around.
“You anarchists are making a lot of insinuations– but you are explicitly unwilling to mention one important thing in all of your arguments.” Ulyana said, crossing her arms and staring down Tamar once more. “The actual, chronological, first slave revolt that exposed the vulnerability of the imperialists, overthrew station administrators and that secured arms, was not led by communists or anarchists. It was actually the Shimii Mahdist nationalists under Mogliv Omarov who rebelled first. They created the conditions in which further prison breaks happened. And Omarov organized his people himself by making use of the time and space allotted by the administrators to practice their religion. He was not assisted by either anarchists or communists– it was all Shimii on that first night.”
Tamar’s smile slowly melted away. Moravskyi suddenly looked every one of his years.
Ulyana continued. “I know because I was there too– as a matter of fact, I was the one who freed Daksha Kansal, Bhavani Jayasankar and Elias Ahwalia from their cells. I was sixteen years old and I had been organized and prepared by them. I lost all of my family and so many people I fought alongside. I fought for everyone’s freedom, just like you, Moravskyi– and you, Tamar Livnat, should think twice about your rhetoric. Out of anyone in the room it has been you who has sounded the most inclined toward ‘demagoguery’ today.”
Omarov had been first; but anarchists, communists, and simple folk, all threw open prisons.
Enough people did so to succeed in the end.
Ulyana opened those doors and knew better than anyone the order of those events.
She would not let anyone forget those nights.
That winter of their souls in 958 that was freezing cold not physically but psychologically.
“If Mogliv Omarov could work with the North Bosporan and Volgian communists, and even become a professed communist himself– what are we fighting among ourselves for?” Aaliyah said, suddenly backing up Ulyana. Ulyana looked surprised that she had spoken but on the verge of tears, seemed to appreciate the help. “None of us have any power over each other or over Eisental. We’re as much in cages as back then. We need to focus on breaking out of the cage first and cease all of this bickering and confrontation. Can we agree to that?”
Ulyana looked across the table at the anarchists. Tamar briefly averted her gaze.
Even Moravskyi looked a little cowed by the stories being told.
“I agree with them.” Zozia Chelik finally entered the conversation. At her side, Ksenia Apfel seemed to pay attention for the first time as well. “I did not come here to have school level ideology debates. There are twisted, brutal people in control of this nation who will stop at nothing to kill us all. That is the most urgent issue. I think we had some productive discussion today, but lets table the history lessons. We can all kill each other after we kill the Volkisch.”
Ulyana flinched a bit at her nonchalance, but the morbid joke got a laugh out of Moravskyi.
“Bah.” He said. “You’re not the only one with bad memories of 958 and 959 though, Ulyana Korabiskaya. But nevertheless– I respect that you were there and saw it all. I can’t and will never respect Daksha Kansal, but I will put it aside out of my respect for your deeds.”
Moravskyi reached out a hand across the table and Ulyana gave it a curt shake.
He then reached out to Gloria, though without the praise he had given Ulyana.
Nevertheless, he got a diplomatic little shake out of her as well.
There was no further discussion and seemingly little desire to hang around the venue.
Another day passed, and the United Front simply went their separate ways again.
However–
Outside the venue, Erika Kairos sent her retinue ahead, stating she wanted to go for a walk.
By herself, she approached Taras Moravskyi as he was also about to leave.
“Comrade, how about a drink to put the bad blood behind us?” She offered.
Moravskyi grinned and clapped his hands together. “Hell, why not– if you’re paying!”
Erika smiled in return. They signaled their respective camps and left right away.
It was later said that of the two of them, nobody could tell which one was was the loudest one yelling and laughing, arguing and joking, singing and even crying, at a no-name bar in the neglected Katarran underground of the station. A big bearded man with a shout like an earthquake rumbling and a seemingly unformidable Katarran woman with a strangely deep gut and a roar like a beast. Surrounded by Katarran mercenaries who saw weird folk come and go every day. A place where nobody would look or listen, nobody would remember, as they cheered for every dead comrade whose name they could recall, sang revolutionary songs, and kept the cheap Katarran whiskey flowing. They argued the characters of historical figures Moravskyi knew, and that Erika had read about; they discussed the character of Katarran warlord states; they somehow agreed on who the bastards were that most deserved a bullet in the head; and laughed at the expense of foolish liberal ideologues.
Even later, the Katarrans there remembered– when they walked out they both looked like they were perfectly sober as if they had not spent the whole time drinking their heads off, and that perhaps their behavior had been solely the result of their passions. Erika picked up the entire tab and they would go their separate ways. This was the first time that members of the Eisern and Volksarmee so openly mingled together. While it remained to be seen whether anything more substantial would then come of it, both Erika and Moravskyi left feeling a bit more positive than they had been since the United Front had begun.
As they had stopped outside the United Front venue, they stopped outside the bar.
Shaking hands and smiling, having come to something of an understanding–
“I was foolish to shoot you down so quickly.” Erika said. “Can I request a truce?”
“Bah! What truce do we need– you reds are so formal– just leave it in the past, tovarisch.”
They shook hands vigorously and pledged not to fight again for now.
A hearty liquor tab was a small price to pay for the tiniest bit of solidarity.
Erika returned to the Brigand that night and told everyone the United Front might just work.
While the passions were flying at the United Front, elsewhere in Aachen–
A young woman in a fancy red track suit stood in the middle of the lobby at the base of the Aachen core station. She had just come in from Stockheim, her silvery-pale hair tied up into a ponytail, hands in her pockets, pilot’s sunglasses perched on her nose.
Beauty lay in the eye of the beholder, but there were certainly many who found her face quite attractive, soft and fair, with a sharp and distinctive indigo gaze. Her fashionable clothes fit her slender body quite well. She got some fleeting looks from other women, which she noticed, but Aachen’s crowds kept moving around the melancholy girl.
After a few minutes standing alone, she sat down on a bench near an advertising screen.
She craned her head as if it would allow her to see over the crowd. She found nothing.
Beside her, a vertical video played of an Imbrian woman, young, blond-haired, fair-faced, in an apron over a lovely dress. Ably cooking an entire meal in a single appliance, boiling, roasting, frying, braising– all from the comfort of her rather spacious room and all thanks to the OmniVittles Advent. A grandiose name for a new instant pot from Rhinea Home Innovations, a Rhineametalle subsidiary. Made from cast iron with a proprietary mesh of titanium and depleted agarthicite for unprecedented heat transfer.
Twenty-five different cooking functions; home software integrated.
Sonya Shalikova watched the entire advertisement playing out directly beside her.
Its booming soundtrack and the chirpy voice of the actress transferred directly into her guts.
Once it was over, the screen became static with a long list of legal disclaimers.
Shalikova then looked back at the crowd and shook her head with a sigh.
“These people are all insane.” She muttered to herself.
Looking into the crowd for any signs of her “date” for today.
Such a ridiculous notion– they had been trying to kill each other just a month ago. Now she had to take Selene out, and she did not even have money to do it. She would probably just accompany her on whatever she wanted to do. But what did Selene Anahid even like? What was she even like when she wasn’t trying to kill her? Shalikova had a glimpse into her behavior in their last outing. She was combative and pushy and weird— but– there had been a glimmer of something there too. When she thought about it again–
she recalled Selene smiling and laughing–
There was something there– it was an image that evoked certain feelings–
“What am I even thinking about her so much for?” Shalikova grumbled.
Maybe it would not be so bad. No reason to dwell on it, she told herself.
Regardless of what happened she was already here and already agreed to this date.
Maryam had been supportive of it too, maybe even excited about it. She was so silly.
Shalikova suspected that Maryam wanted to support her in making a friend.
And while she was not opposed to it she could not imagine a relationship with Selene.
“I guess Khadija and Sieglinde are getting along okay.” Shalikova said.
Fishing in her mind for whatever similar situations she could find.
Sieglinde had also been an enemy of the Brigand who caused significant damage. Murati, Shalikova herself, and Khadija had all been nearly killed by her, and her actions led Murati to be terribly injured. When they next met, her assistance to Norn the Praetorian nearly got them all killed by Selene. However, the Captain and Commissar agreed to her defection, and she seemed to show remorse. Now she was something of an errand runner for the sailors when she was not being bossed around by Khadija to eat with her or go out.
They were even rooming together.
“Wait, are they–?” Shalikova was suddenly struck by how close those two seemed.
Her usual sharp insights must have been distracted of late by a certain marshmallow.
Khadija flirted with everyone so it was not a stretch she might just be teasing Sieglinde.
But she never grabbed her other targets by the arm and dragged them out to a bar.
Her mind began to transpose the example back to the issue she had been hoping to solve–
Shalikova shook her head, feeling that her brain had run into a computing error.
Obviously she could never have such a relationship with Selene! Pointless to consider!
Sighing, she looked back up at the crowd hoping to spot anything–
And finally saw a slender arm reaching up above the crowd and waving as it neared.
“Hey! Sonya! It’s me! Remember, I’m not late, you were just early, ha ha!”
“Whatever! I’m over here, come around already. And don’t call me–”
When Selene finally cleared the crowds and Shalikova saw her in full, she went silent.
Glossy pink lips brightly smiling, her lustrous purple hair falling behind her, the “rabbit ears” tucked inside it like twin bands of rainbow color amid the purple. She dressed in a tight, off-shoulder brown top with a plunging middle. Emphasizing cleavage to the point Shalikova could see thin outlines of Selene’s lacy bra cups over the edge of the folded, creased fabric of the top, along with obvious thin black straps extending over the center of her exposed shoulders. Paired with a high-waisted black skirt with four flower-shaped buttons, and red tights and black heels, and a cute little beret on top of her head– Shalikova could not keep from staring. Was this the same girl as the day before? Had she been wearing her makeup so meticulously, had her skin been so softly flushed, her lips so– attractive–?
Had her collarbones been so pronounced? And was she that curvy or was it the clothes?!
Shalikova tried to play it off almost immediately, but she was caught staring.
And then Selene’s smug sneer resurfaced, confirming who this angelic nymph really was.
“Haha! Look at your dumb face! I stole your breath away didn’t I, Sonya?”
Shalikova bristled and averted her gaze in a huff. Selene crossed her arms, giggling.
“Stop calling me Sonya. You will call me Shalikova and only Shalikova–”
“Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya–”
How quickly she rattled them off! And without spitting or stumbling! Her lips–
“Ugh, fine. Fine! Stop being so childish. Let’s just get this over with.”
Selene blinked, Shalikova tried to look away, and then Selene imperiously pointed at
Shalikova’s–
groin–?
“Why are you wearing the same thing as yesterday?”
No– she was just pointing at Shalikova’s clothes nonspecifically–
of course–
“It’s my best set of clothes. I had it washed and pressed yesterday, it’s fine.”
“No, no, it won’t do. You can’t keep wearing the same thing over and over!”
“Why not? I like it and its not worn out or anything. Why do you care?”
To say she ‘liked it’ was a stretch but it was comfortable enough to keep wearing.
Shalikova was genuinely confused as to why Selene cared so much about her tracksuit.
Selene approached her, and grabbed her arm and pulled her up to a stand.
Wrapping her arm around Shalikova’s and tucking herself close to Shalikova’s shoulder.
Sending a jolt of electricity down Shalikova’s spine, and setting her skin to tingling–
With the warmth and softness of her body–
“Let’s go get you something else to wear and then we can run around!”
Selene started walking, and caught in her embrace, Shalikova was led along with her.
Outside the lobby, there was more room for the crowd to disperse, and there were far less people on any given floor and hallway of the commercial district. This meant the crowds thinned out and it made the walks along some of the storefronts feel more private. In the center of the grand atrium the walled-off display put on a light show that bathed Shalikova and Selene in gentle colors as they strode between planter pods with bushy plants, looking over the storefronts on their floor. Overhead, the near ceiling was made up of the next floor up, and Shalikova felt like she was caught in a twister of steel and color, with the sky made of more mall floors, staircases, and the eerie glow of the art installations floating in the water collected behind the center glass, always present at their flanks.
In the midst of the dizzying architecture, the closest thing was Selene, warm and chipper.
She looked on at the grandness of the place with girlish curiosity and awe.
Pointing out the lights and the storefronts and the shoppers and workers going to and fro with a cutesy smile on her face. Stopping to smell the grassy scent coming out of the planter pods dotting the halls. Retaking Shalikova’s arm whenever she wanted to get going again. Perhaps she had not been paying attention to the sights when she was crossing the mall herself the day before. Perhaps it was the lights that dazzled her since the art displays were not lighting up as much yesterday. Or maybe she was getting into character, trying to charm Shalikova by acting girly. Shalikova tried to remain a bit aloof to it all herself.
However, she was also a bit happy that Selene appeared to be in good spirits.
Back in Goryk’s Gorge, in the cockpit of that evil machine, her psionic screams filled Shalikova’s mind, and her pitch-black aura demanded her death. Such was her violence that the ocean quaked. Anger, hatred, panic, these were the emotions that filled the water in Selene’s wake back then. It seemed almost impossible that this cute, trendy girl her age could have been the demon that nearly killed them all. At times, Shalikova felt close to wondering whether it was not another Selene, somehow, who had done so.
Then Selene smirked and said something snide, her voice too-perfectly recalling the past.
“You’re trying to play it cool? That’s so lame. You should act all touristy with me.”
“Huh? So you’re just pretending to care about all this stuff?”
“I’m not pretending, you simpleton, I’m getting into the mood of a big station date.”
“What if I told you I’m in my own mood as well?”
“Ugh, being the cool stoic type is so cringe. It’s all about being genuine now.”
“Being genuine is pretending to care about stuff?”
“Uh huh, it’s more genuine than pretending not to care!”
Shalikova sighed. She looked at the art installations floating in the middle of the atrium.
All of the pieces composing each installation had indecipherably abstract shapes, but the high-power colored LED clusters installed on them allowed them to scatter strange patterns of colors and shadows across their surfaces. It was this, their combined amorphousness and the colors they cast around the environment, that seemed to be the source of their novelty. Shalikova looked at them and tried with all her heart to be excited about it all.
“Wow. Colors.” She said. Her voice barely registered one scintillion of an emotion.
Selene stared at her. She sighed herself, and smacked Shalikova in the mid-back.
“Come on, let’s go clothes shopping, before I change my mind.”
Shalikova almost said that she wouldn’t mind it if Selene abandoned her for being boring.
However– she was unable to say this as much as she wanted to believe it.
Because enough of her conflicting inner self was ultimately drawn in by the whole thing.
Selene dragged her off to a clothing shop. Shalikova had never really shopped for clothes, so she had not known what to expect. In the Union, she spent most of her life wearing clothes that had been given to her. Kids in the kids hall had sets of dorm clothes and school clothes, while at the academy and in the military she wore uniforms. Clothes were purchasable with social credits if there was a surplus of materials, or acquired with vouchers given out as incentives– as far as Shalikova knew, this just involved selecting designs for a stitcher machine to put together. She had never bought, nor had she ever won any clothes. She knew vaguely that the Union had fashion designers who worked on new clothes, either blueprints or by making it themselves, and there was a process for getting those designs into public circulation, or they could trade them directly for other handicrafts with other citizens.
Shalikova had no inkling of walking into a special clothes shop and picking out clothes. Most Union fashion she was directly aware of just involved violating the uniform code and seeing if the commander cared enough to reprimand. That was how it was for the military.
Because she never participated in any of those things, she only really knew that the track suit she was wearing was not something just anyone could get, and Illya must have used her own connections and maybe waited on a list in order to get it. She suspected Illya received black cards because of her connection to Nagavanshi, allowing her priority to procure anything.
However, even her vaguest ideas failed to capture the place Selene took her.
It looked completely empty.
There was a desk, and orange floors, and a white ceiling with sunlight LEDs. Other than that it was a small square with a few benches and couple of portable computers stood on charging stands. Shalikova almost wanted to ask where the clothes were, but she felt like Selene would have made fun of her for it. She collected herself quickly and continued acting stoic. As soon as they crossed the door threshold, Selene rushed over to the front desk and put down some reichsmarks and talked to the employee.
Behind the desk, a young woman in a vest and pants smiled and pointed at the wall.
“Got it! Thank you!”
Selene turned back to Shalikova, smiled, and pointed at the same wall.
“Ours is that one, let’s go.”
“Right.”
Shalikova’s laconic reply drew out another impish grin from Selene.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
“Of course I do. We’re– shopping for clothes.”
Selene continued to look at Shalikova like she had the funniest face in the world.
She subsequently led her to the same wall, twice pointed-out by others.
At their approach, the wall opened up, revealing a small room. Shalikova and Selene entered. They were surrounded by touch-enabled, clear displays both on the walls and below their feet, as well as clusters of LEDs in every direction that looked a bit more complicated than simple light sources. Shalikova had never seen anything like it. The room had one bench on the back wall for them to sit. There was a slot on the door that opened and shut.
Behind them, the door closed.
Then a slot on the wall opened up, revealing two pairs of glasses, recently cleaned. Selene took one pair and handed the other to Shalikova, prompting her to take off her sunglasses and replace them with the glasses. “These will protect our eyes properly. Put them on.”
Shalikova quietly did as instructed. She put her sunglasses in the pocket of her tracksuit.
Selene perched the glasses on her nose.
“Alright, now we just have to strip.” Selene said, winking an eye. “Do you get it now?”
“Get what? Why are we stripping? Are you that obsessed with me?” Shalikova cried out.
“I’m not obsessed! You bumpkin! It’s a holographic room! It projects the clothes on us!”
“I– I did not agree to strip down in a tiny room with you. This is just strange!”
“It’s not strange! We’re both girls, and we’ll just strip down to our underwear!”
As if it would be a gesture of good will on her part, Selene started to strip first unprompted.
Undoing the buttons on the corset of her high-waisted skirt, pulling it down–
Shalikova looked away.
“Oh come on! You can’t be this much of a wimp!” Selene berated her.
Shalikoa looked back.
Selene pulled her top further down her shoulders, off from her arms and chest–
Her lingerie was really cute and lacy, the black contrasted her skin well–
She had the smallest bit of a bulge too–
“Damn it, alright, I’ll play along! I’ll play along!”
To distract herself from Selene’s stripping, Shalikova began to strip as well.
Her gaze averted; she couldn’t help but feel Selene’s leering just out of her sight.
“Wow, you really are a flattie– but the line of your shoulders and back is kinda nice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you look good. Honestly, your body would make you a good model.”
“You just mean I’m really skinny. Ugh. Damn it. Quit looking.”
Their clothes ended up in two discrete bundles behind them.
Beneath the tracksuit Shalikova wore a pretty standard sports bra and some undershorts.
She tried not to linger too much on Selene’s body and her own choice of undergarments.
Standing side by side with her like that felt utterly ridiculous.
“You’re not that much bigger than me.” Shalikova said, still not looking.
“You’re crazy, it’s a world of difference. I’m so much curvier than you.” Selene replied.
“You’re still skinny.” Shalikova said.
“Thanks! My figure was genetically engineered for perfection!” Selene laughed.
“What does that even mean? Oh, nevermind. Can we just see some clothes?”
Selene grinned again and the lights around them flashed briefly all together.
Because of the glasses, Shalikova hardly noticed that initial flash.
Intersecting colored beams then swiped across their bodies with dizzying speed.
Like a laser predictor, the beams gathered data on their measurements, and represented it on the wall for them to make corrections. Selene was satisfied with her own and Shalikova’s were completely accurate. Once the measurements were taken, they were given access to the catalog. Across the walls, there were dozens of pictures of different outfits. Tops of all kinds and colors, a plethora of skirts, as many pants as there were humans on earth to wear them. Accessories flitted by along with the outfits they were suggested for.
Everything could be color coordinated with one command or deliberately clashing colors could be selected. There were preset outfits and colors for various trendy styles like “phantasmagothic,” “business academia” and “orientalist punk.”
And everything came with its price tag in reichmarks.
“So you paid to get in here to try on the clothes?” Shalikova said.
“Uh huh.” Selene replied. “You pay for the showroom, try on outfits until you find one you like, and you pay for it. They stitch it out for you basically as soon as you swipe a credichip, and you can even wear it out of the venue. Which is what I intend for you to do.”
“What if you can’t afford some of these prices?”
“Trying stuff on is cheap at least. You can come in here and dream a little!”
Shalikova imagined a working class girl coming up here to try on holographic outfits and felt rather miserable about the whole thing. Selene did not seem troubled by the prices and for a girl like Shalikova it was difficult to ascertain how much anything cost relative to anything else. Minardo had once remarked to her while on kitchen duty, that even a standard weight loaf of bread in the Imbrium could be five reichsmarks or it could be twenty reichsmarks depending on a variety of factors and especially what brand was on it, which made victualing much more annoying. Shalikova had used reichsmarks (or, in her case, they were old imperial marks) to buy snacks before, and some of these clothing items were arbitrarily worth ten snacks or a hundred snacks or a thousand snacks without explanation.
The snacks were themselves processed too. How much did a potato cost relative to chips?
She did not know, and so, she had no idea what a working class girl could afford.
However, she quickly learned what Selene could afford– seemingly anything at all.
“I knew this would happen– I’ll just pick for both of us! I want to get started already!”
Selene quickly scrolled to over a few garments with her fingers.
Though she was not touching the wall, where the pictures were located, they still moved.
Her finger was being tracked by the lasers.
Poking at the air, she made her selections, and the lasers began their work.
In a few moments, as if the lasers were stitching the air, the outfits slowly appeared over their own bodies first as threads of color and then forming seemingly solid garments. Selene had put on an incredibly sleek halterneck cocktail dress with a diamond-shaped back window and high cut sides revealing a lot of leg, and a see-through slice of sheer fabric diagonally across the belly and the side of one breast. To match, Shalikova had been given a black suit over a button-down shirt, but the suit sleeves were partially see-through up to the shoulder, along with black suit pants with a very slight bell bottom. She had a very bright pink tie. After the outfit was overlayed on them, the surfaces turned into mirrors.
Shalikova looked herself over and looked at Selene, who seemed quite satisfied.
“You look– great.” She was about to say ‘incredible’. “And you made me look boring.”
“It’s kinda boring, but only enough that it turns out kinda handsome you know?”
“No, I don’t know. I actually don’t get it at all.”
“Sonya, a super hot and super fashionable girl like me needs a kinda boring boyfriend, she can’t have one that’s too out there, because the kinda boring boyfriend helps her to stand out and shine more. She’s like a cool accessory for the super hot, super fashionable, super bright girl. She accepts the position because she scored such a hot fashionable girl.”
Shalikova turned the nouns and pronouns being used in her head for a moment in confusion.
But that was the least of all the offending points in that explanation!
“So who decided I’m your boyfriend now?”
“Ugh, you’re so stupid, it’s a mood, I already explained this to you! It’s for fun!”
Selene put her hands on her hips and leaned into Shalikova with a (cute?) little frown.
Shalikova was about to retort that, well, unlike Selene, she was not having fun.
However–
That was not exactly true and so again, she could not air her protests.
As much as she thought she wanted to– she ended up in a conflict with herself.
Some part of her, when she looked at Selene’s face, simply decided to go along with things.
And perhaps that part constituted a plurality of her.
Like a little soviet voting bizarrely in her heart as much as the executive pleaded against it.
“Anyway, now we’re like, a handsome secret agent and a femme fatale!” Selene said. “See how much fun this stuff is? There’s so many different little details. We can even alter some of the scenery around us to show off the outfits in different lighting conditions before we make any decisions. That’s the kinda thing that makes this shop not have a refund policy. You get to be sooo thorough and the shopping is an experience in itself. Watch this, Sonya.”
Selene hovered her hand over the mirror and a part of it became an interactive menu.
Around them, the scene dimmed, and they soon found themselves on a balcony overlooking a sprawling city at night, full of distant lights. It was the kind of scenery Shalikova only really saw in comic books or movies. Light and shadow danced gently over them, lending a melancholy edge to their facial features. It was certainly a different perspective on their outfits, and the context did give her a new appreciation for the clothes and the space.
Shalikova turned around, and behind them there was a ballroom behind half-closed doors.
When Shalikova reached for the door, there was nothing but the flat surface of the wall.
“It’s not that detailed.” Selene said, before pretending to look out over the balcony.
Shalikova was pretty surprised that no matter how she moved, the clothes stuck to her.
Her body still felt like she was naked because she was, but she looked realistically clothed.
“Oh, Sonya! It’s really too bad!” Selene said, making such an affected voice that Shalikova knew she must have been playing pretend– until she kept going and the more she spoke the less Shalikova was sure of whether it was play. “To think you have resisted me to the bitter end! I gave you an out if you only became my permanent lifelong boytoy, but you refused! Now we are on opposite sides of the war, and I will give the state all of your details so they can do so much torture to you forever and ever! But at least we can spend this one final night together as if we were lovers! Come have a final drink with me Sonya!”
Shalikova blinked, stunned. “Selene, are you playing around, or are you really–”
“Obviously I’m playing around!” Selene shouted, instantly agitated.
She stared at Shalikova expectantly enough that the “secret agent” came up with a reply.
“As if I would give in to you so easily? A laugh riot! Dame Selene, do you truly think you have me cornered, when it is actually I who has taken your back?” Shalikova played up her response. Even Selene looked a little taken aback. She tried to channel a bit of Murati into her followup. “The difference between us, you vile woman, is that while you work alone, I always have my reliable comrades supporting my efforts! They will spring me from whatever trap you devise, and through our collective efforts, it is you who will fall to me in the end! Enjoy your final moments leading this dance of death– while you still can!”
With a flourish, Shalikova pointed her fingers like a gun and winked at Selene.
Selene’s eyes drew wide for a brief moment. She really did look like she had been cornered.
“You– you get some marks for effort.” She hurriedly turned back to the wall.
Scrolling through the items to pick a new set of clothes for them and new ambiance.
Shalikova grinned, feeling a bit triumphant. She had flustered Selene, gotten her back.
Now it was her turn to be smug! She was getting her bearings– time to counterattack!
Around them the night balcony melted away, as did the cocktail dress and suit.
In their place appeared a cozy little venue, false stone and fake wood tables.
There were steaming cups of coffee on the table with milk froth and streaks of syrup. Everyone around them looked like couples, two to a table, and the venue was completely packed with these phantom lovers. Shalikova was now dressed in a long brown coat over a red checkerboard shirt with loose-fitting black sweatpants and plastic clogs. Selene’s outfit was a turtleneck sweater under an overlong orange cardigan decorated with adorable cartoon dogs and cats playing, along with an ankle-length pleated white skirt.
Everything was so bright, peaceful and colorful, it suited their simple day-wear.
Hands behind her back, Selene leaned forward and smiled serenely,
and for a moment Shalikova was defeated again.
“Heh, look at you. Do you like this sort of thing better than how I like to dress?”
Shalikova did not want to answer that, one way or the other.
“So what’s the scenario here? Let me think.” Selene leaned back and forth on her feet and began to whistle while looking around the fake coffee shop. “Oh I know!” She looked at Shalikova and put on an overly cheerful little smile, different from her overly cheerful sneer. “I know I said we would be studying for the class today, but I just can’t keep my eyes off you! Ever since your first lecture I have been entranced! I didn’t just call you here to study– more than scoring in class, I need to score high marks with you, Professor!”
“Absolutely not!” Shalikova said. Squirming as she stood from how near Selene leaned in.
“You’re such a bore! Play along already!” Selene demanded.
“Student Selene, I’m writing you up for harassment!” Shalikova replied.
“Professor, if you try to get rid of me I’ll show up at your room with knives.”
“With knives?!”
Selene made a snipping scissors motion with her fingers, wearing a wild look in her eyes.
“I’ll cut right it off and you’ll be mine forever in death.” She said, stroking her own face.
It was such a sudden turn that Shalikova couldn’t take it seriously.
“Now it’s scissors instead?! I can’t keep up with the plot anymore!”
She almost surprised herself with how easily she came up with a line to say.
Both of them broke out into laughter together.
“So, are we buying these?” Shalikova said.
“No way, this kind of thing doesn’t suit me. And you need to suit me too.”
With the scenario played out, once again Selene arranged for a change of scenery.
When the lights shifted again, the two of them stood on opposite edges of a small hot tub.
Now Shalikova’s slim body was loosely wrapped in a wet t-shirt over a one-piece swimsuit.
Selene had a one-shoulder purple bikini top with a high-leg bottom and a loose, sheer skirt.
“Fancy meeting such a handsome stranger! It looks like we were both assigned the same hot bath huh? Why don’t we make the most of the booking mistake? It will become your lucky day instead, handsome stranger. I’ll even let you rub my shoulders and feet.”
This one was far too dangerous. It was impossible to play along with it.
“Selene– I– how do you find the time to come up with these.”
“What the hell do you do on a ship when there’s no fighting going on, huh?”
Shalikova did not have a lot of hobbies. But she would not say that.
“I just– I hang out–”
Selene sighed. “I get what you’re insinuating. Well– thanks for playing along.”
Why did she sound so disappointed? What was she even expecting?
Shalikova almost felt bad for cutting the scenario short.
“Here, you’ll wear this out. You owe me one, by the way, these are nice.”
When it came time to leave Selene selected an outfit quite quickly. She picked out the garments, paid for the outfit, and then dressed herself again while they waited. Less than a minute after Selene was done paying for it, a slot opened on the door and the freshly stitched items slid into the room in vacuum-sealed pouches, along with a bag for her old clothes. Shalikova found herself with a red hooded jacket, a black tanktop, and a pair of tough blue polyester work pants with distressed knees. Everything felt high quality to the touch and felt comfortable to wear, but the garments were surprisingly simple. It was only when Selene approached Shalikova and undid her ponytail that she realized it was intentional and this was the outfit Selene always had in mind.
“Here, wear your hair long. It looks better with this fit.” Selene said.
Shalikova looked at herself in the mirror. And the girl in the mirror looked taken aback.
With Selene standing by her side– she liked how she looked maybe a little too much.
“You look handsome. Let’s go, I’m getting hungry.” Selene said.
Once more, she wrapped her hand around Shalikova’s arm and quickly led her out.
Carried once more in the middle of the storm that was Selene– but enjoying herself.
Shalikova found herself without the trepidation with which she started.
“Now I’m not embarrassed to show my face with you!”
“Excuse me? You were embarrassed before? The girl who is always shouting nonsense?”
Selene dragged Shalikova over to a brightly lit little eatery in a corner of the commercial area’s second floor. She must have found the place when she was roaming around before because Shalikova would have never thought to look for it, it was quite tucked away. The shop specialized in schnitzel, which was a pounded, breaded and fried chicken cutlet, though they also had pork. There were few people around, and food seemed to come out quick.
“I– don’t eat meat.” Shalikova said.
“You don’t eat meat, or you haven’t eaten meat?” Selene asked.
“We don’t have that stuff– where I’m from.” Shalikova cautiously said.
“It’ll be fine you bumpkin. I’ll pay for everything, remember?”
“Then I’ll just have what you’re having.” Shalikova sighed.
Hopefully it wouldn’t end up upsetting her stomach too much.
They sat on stools next to a countertop that ran the length of the shop. Once their plates were ready, they slid along the counter over to them. It did not take very long for the food to arrive. Two plates of golden-fried chicken schnitzel with a mustard-flecked cream sauce and a side of a perfectly fried egg, some potato wedges dusted with garlic, and stubby cucumber pickles. A spork and a knife sat off to the side of the plate along with disposable plastic cups of sugary soda pop. Selene picked up her spork, immediately jabbed her two cucumbers, and using her knife, peeled them off the prongs and onto Shalikova’s plate.
“I’m sure you’ll appreciate them more than I would.” She said.
“You don’t like pickles?” Shalikova asked. She grinned, feeling cheeky.
“Is something wrong with that? I’m an adult, I can eat however I want.”
“Yeah, you can eat like a little kid, just like you behave like one.”
“Shut it or I won’t pay for yours.”
Selene suddenly jabbed one of the cucumbers back onto her plate.
She cut a round piece, dropped it onto the mustard cream, and cut some chicken with it.
Taking the whole bite into her mouth, as if to demonstrate to Shalikova she could do it.
Shalikova laughed and cut into her own chicken.
Taking a bite, she was surprised by the slightly fibrous texture, which she was unused to in food. Her first ever bite of meat was quite savory. She first tasted the fried breading, heavily seasoned, followed by the slightest hint of vegetal notes from the oil, as well as a slightly eggy taste to the cutlet overall. When she took a bite with the cream sauce, the sour and zesty notes complemented the meat quite well. It was pretty good– she enjoyed it but was not blown away. It definitely beat most cafeteria food not prepared by Logia Minardo.
Selene, meanwhile, made some ungodly noises as she devoured her cutlet.
One would have thought she hardly ever saw food with how much she relished it.
“I see you staring! You don’t get it! This stuff is crazy! They flatten, bread it and fry it!”
“I’m just happy you’re enjoying yourself.” Shalikova said.
“Hmph!” Selene turned her attention back to her plate, but now clearly self-conscious.
Wary about its effect on her digestion, Shalikova carefully tucked away her own schnitzel.
When she finished, she picked up her plastic cup and presented it to Selene.
“Cheers?”
Selene stared at her for a few seconds, but complied, lifting her own cup of soda.
“Cheers!”
She tapped Shalikova’s cup gently.
After eating, Selene and Shalikova walked together through a few other shops.
Once she found herself in the middle of a long row of stores, Selene activated.
There was an electronics shop where she bought a digital picture frame that had a built-in camera. She beckoned Shalikova to pose together for a picture in the middle of the shop. Shalikova smiled for it. Once the picture was taken, she handed Shalikova the bag.
Immediately on-target without a second lost, Selene then flounced over to a toy store. They had a stitcher capable of printing small, custom plastic figurines based on the purchasers, through the use of a camera and laser predictor. Selene got two little figures made, one of Shalikova and one of herself, both of which were miniaturized, cutesy representations with oversize heads, but strangely faithful abstractions of their clothing. She handed Shalikova the Selene figure and kept the Shalikova figure for herself. Shalikova hardly knew what to make of this but accepted the gift. They were boxed, bagged, and Selene handed them to Shalikova to carry while she skipped and jumped over to a music store.
Barely keeping up, Shalikova found Selene inside the venue, filled with shelves occupied with listening stations. Every listening station was a newly featured album that could be purchased in either a digital license, or a data stick format, or as a physical grammapress disk. Because the latter was the most expensive, Selene chose to get a grammapress of Mia Weingarten’s “In Forgotten Depths, I Found Your Heart.” A stitcher machine on the site set up specifically for making grammapress discs printed one out for her after a few minutes. Grammapress disks were rather large, and after being boxed and bagged, and handed to Shalikova, the haul was becoming a bit unwieldy. Selene did not care at all.
“What kind of music do you like? This lady sings pretty good.” Selene said.
“Um. There’s this DJ who makes synth tracks about fish having sex.” Shalikova said.
“Huh?”
“I hear one of my colleagues playing it all the time and its kind of catchy.”
“You’re crazy.”
Selene passed through a boutique tea shop, where she picked up a box of chamomile; a shop purporting to sell magic crystals, where she purchased one that increased “vital energy”; a bag shop where she purchased a designer satchel; a perfume shop where she asked outright for their most elegant and mature scents, all of which had names like A Night With Him and Moonlight Rendezvous. All of it turned into boxes and bags for Shalikova to carry.
At a hat shop, she tried on a synthetic “straw” hat with a red ribbon around its band.
“What do you think? Kind of a vibe isn’t it?” Selene asked.
“It’s lovely. Are you going to buy any more? Or help carry any of it?”
Selene cracked a little grin as Shalikova shifted around boxes and bags she was carrying.
“Now you’re getting in the mood.” Selene said.
Shalikova was once again too baffled to mount an effective response.
Selene eventually took mercy on her. They found a service for pack mule drones that would stash everything a shopper purchased on their backs and plod their way back to an address with the cargo, delivering it to a designated room or even to a ship. Selene told Shalikova the location of her berth in Stockheim and left her to sort it all out. Shalikova left all of Selene’s things with a pack mule drone except for the Selene miniature, her gift to take home. She carried its box in her hands, while holding the bag with her tracksuit on her wrist.
Leaving one hand free in case–
“Ahh! Sonya, look over there! A cute coffee shop!”
Selene had found a little cafe venue northwest from where they had started. They had already nearly completed one circle around the commercial district and only on the first two floors of it. Despite this Shalikova had already nearly fallen over with goods once already, and they had spent what must have been hours wandering around together.
But Shalikova continued to follow Selene– because she did not want it to end just yet.
Hearing Selene’s cheerful voice melted some of the ice around her heart.
“I’ll be there soon, I was just seeing the mule off.”
Selene took Shalikova’s free hand and pulled her into the shop together.
The venue had a cute facade with fake wooden letters signing its name, Cafe Anemoia, within a pink frame. It was difficult to tell whether it was a franchise or a single location. Big beautiful pictures of its drinks being served in a variety of cozy settings adorned the tinted LED windows. Inside, the cafe was a completely different experience to the one projected by the holograms in the clothing shop. Through the use of LED walls, environment control cooling, scent projectors and ambient noise, it created the impression of a cozy little cafe with seats full of customers, a wooden counter, and steaming hot coffee photogenically topped with cream on every table. However, the illusion was quickly broken when they stepped up to the “counter” and a predictor computer-generated human who moved uncannily gestured at them while they made their selections from a computer menu.
“This is really weird.” Shalikova said.
Selene shrugged it off.
“Well, the drinks would be more expensive if they had a venue full of real wood stuff.”
“And real staff, I guess.”
Around them, slow and romantic strings with a gentle, clapping beat began to play.
“Anyway, order whatever you want, on me!” Selene declared.
Shalikova tried to ignore the eerie stare of the illusory employees and scrolled with her finger through the menu. She felt that her taste in coffee was entirely ordinary. She liked coffee with a bit of creamer and a bit of sugar. So the constellation of different toppings, syrups, stir-ins, add-ons and the dizzying array of brand logos associated with them set her head to spinning. Would she have Poppler™ (A Volwitz Brand) soda slush with her taro creme ice coffee? Would she add a drizzle of “Shimii spice syrup” to her 90% frothed creme-cafe?
In the end she ordered a “milk coffee” which seemed like the most ordinary one.
“That’s so you— but its kinda charming.” Selene said, giggling at the selection.
She ordered a “purple taro swirled latte” with beet sugar and a sprinkle of cured lemon zest.
In the process, she hit the beet sugar button several times, ending up with five instances.
“That much sugar? I can barely keep up with you as it is.”
“You will simply have to go faster.”
While the holographic staff pretended to make the drinks, there was no pretense to realism. Behind the scenes a coffee machine that was just barely audible brewed the coffee and a stitcher machine put everything together. Their drinks came out of a physical slot that opened in the middle of the LED projection, completely ruining the scene.
“That is kinda weird, you’re not wrong.” Selene said, sighing at the sight.
Regardless of the verisimilitude of the romantic atmosphere, the two of them sat in an actual, physical booth seat and sipped their drinks together. There was some care to make the projection on the wall of the booths a bit higher fidelity to create a false distance to the next “table” of fake customers but Shalikova was not very impressed by the whole thing. It felt like a waste of LED panels that some poor ship could have used better.
“I thought this kind of thing wasn’t your style.” Shalikova said.
“You misunderstood me. Cutesy nerdy girl clothes and shy professor type love interests are not my style. I like romantic little coffee shops quite fine with the right company.”
Selene sipped from her coffee and shut her eyes tight.
It must have been sweeter than she bargained for.
Shalikova sipped her own and liked it just fine. Better than Union instant coffee.
Still not worth all this grandiose artifice, however.
“I never realized you would have such a big imagination.” Shalikova said.
“I read a lot! I love magazines and stories! I have tons of ideas!” Selene said.
She sounded proud of herself for it.
Perhaps– she had not been able to experience many of her moods.
Shalikova could almost relate. Except that, she had so fewer fantasies to realize.
For so long, she had been bound by guilt and by duty, not knowing how to live.
It was only recently that she had really begun to care for herself.
This day was a new adventure for her too.
“That is really nice. I think I am not a very creative person I guess.” Shalikova said.
“Everyone who says that definitely has something they are creative about.”
“I guess– I did sew a plushie bear one time.”
Selene’s face lit up. “Sonya you have to sew me a plushie too!”
“Um, I can try? Should I have it mailed to the Antenora?”
“Oh– shut up.” Selene looked suddenly in a sour mood. “Nevermind that. You are so dense. I was just– I was just saying that to be in the mood. To get the like, boyfriend experience.”
Shalikova hardly knew how to answer, but her clueless face must have cheered Selene up.
From across the table, after a bit of fuming, she held her face in her hands
and looked at Shalikova.
“You know, I have never been to a coffee shop with anyone. This is my– first time.”
Shalikova figured as much, but–
Was this part of the mood or was this actually her feelings?
“I am happy I got to be your first. Maybe I can be your second or third too.”
Was that a boyfriend would say? Shalikova thought so. It sounded like it to her.
Selene looked briefly shocked and took another big sip of her drink.
“I do not have many hobbies or anything that special about me. I am just some girl who is out of her depth with things.” Shalikova said. “I think I am actually having fun though.”
Was this part of the mood or was this actually her own feelings?
Shalikova reached out her hand and laid it on Selene’s hand on the table and smiled.
Wrapping her fingers around Selene’s own, long and supple and so soft.
She applied a bit of pressure to them, held them–
In response, Selene picked up her drink. “The holoprojections are ruining the mood here.”
She started walking out of the venue.
Shalikova followed her, wondering if she had done wrong.
Leaving her own half-drunk coffee on the table in her haste.
Some part of her feared Selene might just walk away completely, disappear suddenly–
She had not known where that fear came from– but it was fleeting.
Selene was simply standing outside waiting for her.
“Ugh, this is too sweet, I do not know if I can another sip.” Selene complained.
Outside, Shalikova reconvened with her in front of the venue.
She reached out and took the disposable cup from Selene, touching her hand in the process.
For a moment, Selene looked flustered again.
“I will get rid of it for you.” Shalikova said, smiling a bit. Selene nodded her head.
Shalikova turned and found a nearby rubbish bin, threw away the drinks–
She walked back to Selene from the rubbish bin– and found her leaning on the railing over the center of the atrium, looking at the art installation. Smiling with gentle eyes.
Her face was bathed in the colors.
Shalikova looked at her for a while. Basking; the melancholy beauty in the gentle, warm light.
Was this the mood that Selene hoped to inspire?
Was this how she saw it in her stories?
How it should have gone if either of them had the experience for it?
Shalikova looked at her until Selene seemed to notice the gaze.
“Thanks for everything today. You actually got into the mood.” Selene said.
There was no more lying to herself. All of Shalikova now aligned on what she felt.
“No, more than that, I actually cared.” Shalikova replied. “Thank you for taking me out.”
She had a lot of fun with Selene. Her rambunctiousness was endearing as it was annoying.
It was different– Selene was different than anyone Shalikova had ever known.
It was different than anything she had ever felt.
Hearing Shalikova’s thanks, Selene’s eyes narrowed a bit. Her smile dimmed just as much.
“Sometimes I’m not the super hot, fashionable, smart, bright, super fun girl, you know. Sometimes– I’m a vicious ace pilot who kills her enemies. I won’t say we’ll never meet again, but I also won’t say that we will. But if we do– know which Selene you’re getting. After all, it will depend on your own choices. You’re the one who picks which of them you get.”
Shalikova closed her fist, wracked by an unknown fear and frustration.
“Selene, I’m really not in control here. I have to follow orders too sometimes.”
Selene smiled at her. Not a sneer, not an impish grin. But not a gentle smile.
It was a smile that seemed filled with melancholy and determination both.
“I know. It really sucks. Well, guess it wasn’t meant to be huh? Anyway, c’ya, or not.”
Promptly and without warning, Selene left the railing and walked away, waving her hand.
Like a storm breaking; she swept Shalikova up, dropped her down, and disappeared.
Disappearing not like a faery flitting out of existence, but simply turning her back.
Shalikova took a step forward– wondering if she should say something or reach out.
Again, she was silent. The things she could say– felt too foolish and inappropriate.
Instead, she triggered her psionics and tried to parse Selene’s aura.
There was a bit of every color, mixing and roiling and turning in a terrifying maelstrom.
Shalikova almost wondered if her own aura was visible, would it look like that too?
Was that the reflection of their broken, conflicted hearts?
Holding the gift box in her hand, Shalikova cursed how easy it was to feel affection.
And how cruel the world could be to that love.
On the edge of the old, sparsely populated northern district of the Wohnbezirk, closest to the Mahdist village, there was a boxy white monument with a blue star. It was hewn out of rock and so became a permanent feature of the landscape, too difficult to destroy utterly for how removed it was. Few people knew that it was cenotaph from a time before the Shimii’s current troubles. There was nothing written on it, but there were etchings that had been carved quite precisely. Its white and blue paints were relatively fresh despite its age.
It was this way, because a pair of Shimii girls had taken it upon themselves to maintain it.
On that day, after a bit of a commotion in their home, they arrived at the site.
They were not alone, but they did not disturb anyone who came to visit.
They knew the monument was not theirs, and that people who understood it would come to visit and see for themselves a truth that perhaps they as Shimii would never be able to intuit. Nevertheless, when they found the monument dirtied with the scribblings of local children, they got to work cleaning up and even brought a bit of paint to touch it up again so it would look decent. They were gentle with the carvings and precise with their paint.
“You’re from the Mahdist village? Why bother with this old thing?” A woman asked them.
“Ah, you’re miss Sattler, right? Well– we’ve always felt a bit sad about it is all.”
Standing off to the side of the monument and staring was Bernadette Sattler.
It was getting late– she must have dropped off her charge, and then returned in the casual clothes she was now wearing. Without her uniform, she still carried something of a sinister air. Her messy bangs did not shade her eyes as much as her hat did, but still had some of the effect. Her darkened gaze had not become any friendlier. She dressed in a strangely dowdy fashion, with a long sweater worn over a button-down shirt, the collar of the shirt coming out of the neck hole of the sweater, along with a long, warm skirt. With her long, wavy blond hair falling down her back, she looked like a librarian, child care worker or a clerk, someone cute and harmless, more than the totenkopf-wearing killer that she really was.
“By any chance are you an Eloim miss Sattler? We think this is an Eloim monument.”
“Hmph.”
Bernadette would not answer them.
And Baran and Sareh would not press her for an answer either.
One of the few things they knew about the monument was that it had something to do with Eloim. Imam al-Qoms recognized the symbol, he called it the ‘Judah Star’. They were always curious about the people who visited the monument, like Bernadette, that might perhaps know what its true purpose was, with its blue star and the etchings upon it. Baran and Sareh had their guesses. Baran believed it was a cenotaph and identified it as such– a grave for many Eloim who would not otherwise be remembered by anyone. Sareh believed that it was a sign that Eloim had once lived in the Wohnbezirk, though neither of them knew how long ago that had been. The Wohnbezirk had been standing for longer than it was ‘the Wohnbezirk’– it must have been constructed before the Core Station even. Back then it was probably lodgings and storage for laborers, and perhaps some of them were Eloim.
But Baran could not confirm such ancient events.
Even for the people of the After Descent era, a few hundred years erased a lot of memories.
“Because it’s odd and it sticks out, kids around here are always defacing it. They probably use the vandalism as a stupid challenge.” Sareh said. “Baran and I always hated that kind of thing. We don’t blame the kids, they’re just dumb– we just wish the reaction people had to foreign things was not to destroy them. Or that those old bastard Rashidun in the village would at least teach their little brats some respect.” Baran at this point saw Sareh becoming heated and shook her head gently to ward it off. Sareh sighed. “So, anyway, we come here every so often to try to make it look how we first saw it. We can’t guarantee it’s always been white and blue. And we don’t know how it’s supposed to be restored. But we still do it.”
“We restore the colors we found on it when we were little.” Baran continued. “We don’t know exactly what it is, nor is it ours to claim in any way, but I just think it’s sad for it to go neglected. It deserves looking after. See– all the notches on it are exactly the same, and they’re all lined up so perfectly. It’s so meticulous. Someone put a lot of work into it, a lot of care into making this monument. We want to uphold their wishes. Even if we don’t understand its exact purpose, we understand that it mattered to the people here.”
Bernadette did not look moved by that speech. She stared at the monument quietly.
However, a man who had arrived in the middle of the speech smiled at the girls.
He was a young, blond-haired man dressed in a teal jacket, white shirt and black pants.
“I think it’s really kind of you two to do that.” He said. “I’m kind of touched, honestly.”
“Welcome, mister!” Baran said, smiling back. “I hope I don’t sound rude– but would you happen to know what it means? Whenever we see a new face we can’t help but ask.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” He said. “I’m not much of an Eloim. Never practiced.”
He reached out a hand to shake. “I’m Gunther Cohen– an engineer.”
Baran shook her head gently, but Sareh reached out and returned the shake.
“It’s inappropriate for a man to shake a woman’s hand here– and I am a woman, but someone has to man up around here sometimes.” Sareh said, grinning a bit. Baran turned on her a disapproving gaze, but it did not dampen her good humor. “I am Sareh and this is Baran, my– best friend. We come from the Shimii village a little ways from here.”
“How did you hear about the existence of this monument, Mr. Cohen?” Baran asked.
“An informant told me. A katarran, this big– you might have seen her running around.”
Judging by how he moved his hand his informant was fairly short.
“We’ve seen a few katarrans running around, but I know who you mean.” Sareh said.
Gunther turned to Bernadette with a smile also.
“Are you an Eloim too? I’m sorry to bother you, I just haven’t met many of us.” He said. Bernadette fixed him with her glare but said nothing at first. Gunther continued. “I really don’t mean to cause any trouble, sorry. When the– informant, told me about this place, I thought it would be interesting to see it. Where I come from, my family– our heritage is a bit disconnected. I knew that Rhinea and Bosporus were supposed to have a lot of Eloim, so I’ve been curious. I thought I might go out and learn a bit about my ancestors.”
“For what purpose?” Bernadette asked. “Are you going to take up the prayers now?”
Gunther looked perplexed to be asked that question.
“I don’t think I will– I just wanted to know how they lived here. I’m an engineer, I’m just curious about how things work. I know a lot of them have been deported and oppressed, forced to escape to various places. And that part of me, my ethnicity, it has always been vague. I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about my own identity recently. I am just a guy who likes to put things into orderly buckets. Anyway, sorry to bother you with all this.”
He sounded excited, but the blond woman turned her cheek with burgeoning anger.
“Hmph.” Bernadette grunted again. “I’m not an Eloim. I have nothing in common with that permanently victimized race. This place is just another symbol of their weakness. You two can keep polishing it up if you want but know this– it’s all an illusion for fools to chase.”
Sareh and Baran were taken aback, and Bernadette stormed off suddenly after.
“There’s nothing here or anywhere for the people called ‘Eloim’.” She said as she left.
“What’s her problem?” Sareh said. “Ugh, I mean– I know what it is.”
She seemed to recognize the folly of her own rhetorical question immediately.
“I didn’t meant to offend her.” Gunther said. “I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.”
Baran approached Gunther with a gentle expression.
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Cohen. Please don’t listen to her. A lot of people come down here to try to find their roots– this one of the oldest places in Eisental. Because it’s hewn out of rock, there are things here that are old and hard to destroy. It’s understandable that you are here, and you are welcome to be here and to look here. You might even find more if you look around– this is just a place we feel safe going to, for various reasons, but you might find other things in the Wohnbezirk if you search the caves or the older tunnels.”
“Thank you.” Gunther said. “I really appreciate your kind-heartedness, miss Baran.”
“Mister Cohen,” Sareh said, “That lady was a Volkisch officer. That was– the reason.”
Baren looked at her for a moment but said nothing. She just looked downcast.
Gunther turned pale for a moment, his eyes wide. “I– I see. Thank you for telling me.”
“There’s more of them down here. Please be careful what you say.” Sareh said.
“I will.” He said. But judging by his tone, and the way he looked around– he was scared.
“She is not exactly wrong, you know. But it is a condition that can change.”
Sareh, Baran and Gunther looked behind themselves at the alleys of the Wohnbezirk.
From around the corner formed by the walls of nearby buildings, a woman strode casually into view and approached them and the monument. None of them had seen her before– truly it was a day for new visitors at this sad, ancient place. She had red hair with black roots, and a long skirt and a blouse beneath a covering jacket. She smiled at them, a polite and gentle smile on those red lips that never seemed to alter even when she spoke.
Her arms were hidden in her coat.
It was this last fact, and her sudden approach, that made Sareh quite wary.
“You’ve been watching?” Sareh asked. “Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”
“Yes I’ve been watching, and no– I didn’t approach because I didn’t want to interrupt.”
She removed one hand from her coat and Sareh flinched– but she just pointed at the rock.
“I know what that monument is. Do you want me to tell you?” She said.
Baran stepped forward, in front of Sareh. She looked at the woman in the eyes and smiled.
“My name is Baran al-Masshad. This is my companion Sareh Al-Farisi, and this here is Mr. Gunther Cohen, who is also a visitor. I would like to request a proper introduction, madame.”
“Tamar Livnat. I’m an Eloim historian.” Said the woman. Her smile unchanging.
“Thank you very much.” Baran said. “I’d love to hear what you know about this place.”
Baran stepped aside. Tamar walked closer to the structure and ran her hand over it.
She looked at it for a moment, with that frozen, inscrutable expression of hers.
“It’s a cenotaph. You might have surmised as much already. It’s not an uncommon type of structure. There are cenotaphs all over the Imbrium, for one particular reason– all of us who are alive today are descended from many, many more people who died on the surface. Cenotaphs for our ancestors who perished and could not escape to the Ocean are common among all races and in all parts of the Imbrium.” Tamar said. She turned around to look at Baran and Sareh again. “But these Eloim cenotaphs are different. Blue and white, and the ‘Star of Judah’–” Tamar ran her hand over the symbols and colors. “You did an excellent job restoring it. It’s ironic. You see, these specific colors and symbols memorialize the defeat and death of the Eloim at the hands of the Shimii. It memorializes those whom your race killed and displaced from our rightful ancestral lands. Isn’t it bleakly humorous?”
Baran and Sareh stared at the monument with blank eyes, their ears suddenly folding.
Both had mute horror in their faces and looked completely lost on how to respond.
Still smiling, Tamar continued to speak, circling slowly around the cenotaph.
As if it was such a curious and interesting little object despite all the death inscribed in it.
“Eloim, itself, that word– is a misnomer borne of how utterly destroyed our culture was. This also is not uncommon– words describing peoples shift over time, and with the destruction of the surface, so many of our words for things have been scrambled in the resulting cultural shifts. None of us can know the truth, or can we? Well– I know. I know my part of the truth at least. We were once called the Judeans. And our home, Judah, was taken from us, by you– now you understand? Thank you for your efforts nevertheless, little Shimii girls.”
Tamar completed her circle and stood in front of the cenotaph again with her smile.
Baran and Sareh continued to stand side by side silently, unnerved by what they heard.
At their side, however, someone spoke up.
“I’ve had enough of this!” Gunther said. “You have no reason to mock them like this!”
He stepped up to Tamar and pointed his index finger firmly at her.
Seeming to realize as he was doing so that he had approached her in anger.
But Tamar Livnat had no reaction to it but to smile, above everything.
She reached her hand from her coat and laid her fingers on Gunther’s cheek.
Surprising even him with her brazeness. He was utterly paralyzed in her grasp.
“You will understand someday. Even a neutered and weak man like you who has had the lion taken out of him will understand when Destiny calls to you. That is what Ms. Sattler fails to account for in her furies. At any rate– my kin are always welcome to come talk to me. You can leave a message at the Aachen Historical Society and it will make its way to me.”
She let him go, and walked past him, leaving him stunned at the foot of the monument.
Baran and Sareh watched, seemingly helpless. She stopped near them.
Smiling. Always smiling.
“I hope you understand that I have nothing against you personally. You seem like good kids. Now that I have educated you, keep maintaining the cenotaph if it eases your guilt.” She said.
Sareh looked like she would snap back– but Baran stopped her, shaking her head.
Tamar fixed her gaze on the two of them for a moment before continuing to walk away.
Disappearing into the dim shadows of the underground Wohnbezirk as if she never existed.
Sareh continued to watch as if she expected her to reappear suddenly like a ghost.
While Baran approached the monument, produced a cloth and ran it over the face again.
Over the places where Tamar had run her hands.
“Whatever the cenotaph means, it’s not any better to allow it to be defaced.” Baran said.
Sareh quietly looked back at her and nodded her head in agreement.
Gunther, meanwhile, stared at the monument and at Baran, dejected and speechless.
He had left the ship to clear his head, and now he was fixed into place and helpless.
Crushed by the heavy weight of the past hanging over Aachen, heavier than all of the stone.
A weight soon to drop that would hurl waves like none of them had ever seen.