Knight In The Ruins of the End [S1.8]

This chapter contains discussion of suicidal ideation.

It was the first living thing and therefore it was Longest Lived.

Despite its presence in an infinite space it understood only its basest of senses.

No eyes to see, no ears with which to hear. No understanding of its position.

When the sky first fell it battered its skin and the drawn blood became a world.

Longest Lived was all skin, it was all skin great and wide and millions of pinpricks upon it could not kill it. Its skin was gentle and nourishing, containing within it all substances and ultimately even coming to contain that which infinitely struck it, raining upon it, crashing into it– all of this would come to rest around and within it and on top of it in a glorious union.

It was all skin, all touch, all consumption. Perhaps this was its love.

Longest Lived, the Origin of All Living Things.

It took in the stone and it took in water and it took in warmth, ever consuming.

Upon Longest Lived, all that which it had consumed, and which returned to it–

Would constantly, cyclically, escape anew and take on new forms.

They would rise, fall and then return to Longest Lived who awaited them.

Longest Lived could not think in this way however. These were the stories of its creations.

Though it lived and consumed it never thought.

This was not a tragedy; thinking would have driven it mad and warped its selfless love.

Thinking, was a skill first refined by one of its earliest progeny.

They thought cautiously and kept in mind the love and unity in all their matters.

They too were alive, but, while they were communal in nature, they also understood their individual positions in the world. They could feel; to some extent, they could see and hear. They knew themselves to be separated even as they were together. Because they knew this, they would sing to one another, because there was one another to be sung to and to hear song from. With these understandings, they had great empathy for things which were alive and different, and wanted to encourage them to escape the skin of Longest Lived and to grow and prosper before they were inevitably swallowed back into the skin of the great being. They referred to their age of prosperity as the Time of Beautiful Songs.

In their songs, they called it Longest Lived, and themselves, The First Thinkers.

They were First to Think–

but the prodigal creatures who still heard their songs even now,

warped by ages of tragedy–

would come to be exalted as the Longest Thinkers in the world that remained.

Gertrude Lichtenberg slowly opened her eyes.

At first, in the haze of awakening, she saw a forest of vast trees with a reddening sky.

Then, in a blink, there was only the metal ceiling of her room on the Iron Lady.

She raised her hand to her forehead, pressed down against her eyes.

For a moment she looked at the hand. Fascinated by the movement of her fingers.

Gertrude flexed the invisible sinews and muscles that formed from her thoughts.

That hand grew a small additional digit next to the thumb. Moving as her other fingers did.

Just as easily, the flesh slid back into the hand as if there had been no transformation.

Gertrude sat back up in bed, against the headboard, yawning.

Pulling her blankets from herself, she found she had, in her sleep, shaken and turned enough to nearly lose her shirt off her own shoulders and to pull her own pants halfway down. Her hair was thrown into utter disarray. Her eyes wandered down from her hand to her breasts– to her own crotch. In a strange mood, she wondered something, and concentrated her new ability– and stopped immediately once she found that, if she tried, she could indeed alter parts of herself more complex and primal than just her hand. She reversed the endeavor when she felt her– alteration– stiffening and growing hot with blood unbidden.

Her lips cracked an involuntary, nervous smile.

“Maybe I shouldn’t experiment that way– at least not right now.”

She had wondered about that in the past– but she was worried about her long-term health.

Who knew whether she might go out of control? Or not be able to change things back?

Her wandering mind gifted her an image of herself as some kind of dick monster.

Gertrude burst out laughing suddenly. It was the sincerest laugh she had in a long time.

“Stick to the easier stuff for now, Gertrude Lichtenberg.” She told herself.

Despite all the painful things that had happened so far, her mood finally buoyed. She found that she did not feel as much of an impulse to question her sanity or the things she had seen. Her memories of that place, where she had stormed through in a consuming passion, were a bit hazy, as if the heat of that passion had partially burned the images. She remembered some shameful things reflected in the blue haze– but she let it pass over her.

She felt like she had her future back.

For now, she would let herself rest with those feelings and not force herself.

She recalled the things she needed to do with a refreshing lack of urgency.

Ingrid had broken up with her, but she was her friend; she just needed some time.

Monika was safe now– she would check up on her today and try to cheer her up.

Victoria and Nile would hopefully not be fighting. She needed to talk to them sometime.

Azazil–

Gertrude slumped in bed as if she had been struck in the back of the head.

Azazil could potentially be an immense headache.

Rising from her bed, Gertrude pulled off the remainder of her clothes and wandered over to the private shower in her room. While soaking under lukewarm water, she thought about her uniform. Last night she had told Dreschner she no longer wished to be called High Inquisitor. Her cape, epaulettes, coat and hat, her medals and insignias, all felt like a costume she had been desperate to force meaning on. She could no longer pretend that it gave her actions legitimacy or that it excused everything she had done in the past. Her skin, Gertrude Lichtenberg’s swarthy olive skin that was just different enough from the average Imbrian for trouble– it could no longer be covered up under the pretense of that power, for good or ill. The Inquisition could no longer elevate her from her lowly status and wretchedness.

She had more than enough of a burden with the sins she committed under its auspices.

That was a sizeable enough weight– without the heavy coat and the tall hat too.

Gertrude resolved not to wear the regalia of the High Inquisitor any longer.

From her wardrobe, she withdrew a button-down shirt and a long grey jacket instead.

Henceforth she would dress like any other officer of the ship.

Once she was clean, dressed and the morning fog had lifted from her eyes, Gertrude left her room and traveled down the main hall of the ship’s upper tier. She tied her long, dark hair in a simple ponytail, to be further dealt with some other time. She wondered how her crew was getting on after the unprecedented events of the past few days, but her confidence was buoyed immediately. People traveled the halls with their heads up and their backs straight, calm and collected. All of the crew had reduced schedules for the next day, and as Gertrude walked past and among sailors and officers, she felt a relaxed but professional energy.

Wherever she went, the crew would salute her casually, as ‘Commander’ Lichtenberg.

Dreschner must have informed everyone. Quite expeditiously too.

Gertrude smiled at the passersby, and they smiled back.

These halls and the people of this ship had been through good times and bad.

Often, they were under stress and moving with urgency, while keeping a tight hold on their emotions as warranted for the crew of a dreadnought, the elite professionals of the Imperial Navy. Gertrude was the one with the privilege to lose her mind, all of these people around her had been trained and drilled and pressured constantly to keep their emotions to themselves and in check, while doing everything she asked. Despite this, Gertrude never detected any animosity towards her. And she did not detect any animosity now.

They were proud to serve on a top-of-the-line dreadnought; to serve under Gertrude.

Even now, having surmounted a crisis and earned their leisure, they were even keeled.

Gertrude was lucky to have them. She could have done nothing without their assistance.

Life on a ship was never carried out completely off the schedule. Technically, having a day or two of leisure meant a day or two on a ‘reduced schedule’. Sailors would run still quick check-ups in the morning and at night, and never were they as efficient as they were during these times. Officers had to perform a few quick shifts on the bridge and in the hangar to insure that everything continued to run acceptably– but they had far less to do overall and far more time for relaxation in between these shifts. And of course, if anything was detected that could conceivably pose a threat or require intervention then everyone would have to return to stations quickly. Regardless, even with these duties in the back of their minds, everyone treated minimal work with the same relief as if they had none.

Arriving on the bridge, Gertrude found an immediate account of their situation on the main screen. They were descending, slowly, deeper into the abyss. Currently they were at 3840 meters of depth. Because of the Iron Lady’s size, they would have to be even more careful about their descent as they went deeper, and the trench narrowed. On the screen, there was an imaging map generated by the predictive computer, showing that at the very bottom of the trench at 5000 meters there was actually a crack in the seafloor that led even deeper down into a cave system. They had only mapped the entrance with sonar. Once they got down to it, they could send a drone inside or simply plunge deeper themselves.

Judging by current predictions, the Iron Lady could fit as far down as they had seen.

“Commander! Welcome back!”

Karen Schicksal saluted Gertrude with a smile, shortly after she quietly entered the bridge.

“At ease.” Gertrude said, smiling back.

“Greetings, Commander.” Dreschner said, from the captain’s chair.

Gertrude walked until she stood just off to the side of him, looking at the main screen.

“No time off for you?” Gertrude said, in a casual tone.

“I’m the kind of man who has never had anything but his work.” Dreschner said.

“Thinking about it, I really haven’t ever seen you take a day off.”

“I would have nothing constructive to do. It’s better that I hold the bridge, and then more of our officers can enjoy their own leisure. They would use it better than I would.”

Gertrude turned to Karen. “How about you Schicksal? Do you have any plans?”

Karen averted her gaze. She hugged her digital clipboard closer to her chest.

“I’m probably just going to man the bridge as well.” She said, a bit sheepishly.

“You don’t have to. You have been under considerable stress.” Dreschner said.

“Perhaps I am the kind of woman who has nothing but her work.” Schicksal said.

Dreschner sat back in his chair and laughed. “Don’t fancy becoming like me, Karen!”

Karen adjusted her glasses. “I aspire to the highest levels of professionalism, Captain!”

“Now I feel like I ought to stay on the bridge too.” Gertrude said.

“Absolutely not!” Karen and Dreschner both said at once.

They glanced at each other briefly and then back at Gertrude with sharp gazes.

Gertrude held up her hands in defense. “Okay, okay. I will take time to relax, I promise.”

Both Karen and Dreschner looked relieved hearing Gertrude say that.

“With all due respect, Commander– leave the bridge to us, now.” Dreschner said.

“You, more than anyone, have earned a rest. You will take that rest, Commander.”

Karen said, smiling, and then she gestured gently toward the door to the bridge.

Gertrude could not help but laugh at the sight of her officers forcing her to stop working.

“I’m going, I’m going. Thank you both.” She said. “By the way, Einz, did you tell everyone to start calling me Commander? I noticed that nobody called me High Inquisitor anymore.”

“It was in the morning minutes I drafted and sent out to everyone today. And of course, we are all professionals and read such things closely every day, even on our days off.” Karen said.

“I informed Karen of the situation.” Dreschner said. “She and the crew did the rest.”

“Got it. Thanks. I’ll be off now, and I promise I’ll try to get some rest.” Gertrude said.

Everyone was quite lively– a noticeable change from the lethargy of the past few days.

Gertrude had noticed that Karen was not as stammering and nervous as usual too.

Einz and her might have seen something in the blue pools too– she wondered what it was.

There was no sane way to ask anyone that, of course.

She thought about what to do next as she stepped out onto the hall once more.

Though she was a bit hungry, she was, more than that, worried about Monika after everything that happened. The more she saw the crew out and about the more she worried. Monika would be in Nile’s care. Gertrude headed for the clinic. She could have a chat with Nile as well and knock two things off her to-do list. Maybe she could make good on her promise to rest after all– but she was not intending to make an effort toward it.

Since she last saw it, Nile’s clinic had slightly expanded.

In addition to the meeting room with all her supplies and the meeting room in which she saw patients there was now a third meeting room on the other side of the clinic. In this room, a few plastic beds with rudimentary cushioning and blankets were set up in two opposing rows of four, for a total of eight beds. There was only one person laid up in the beds, a petite Loup woman with long, dark blond hair, sound asleep, wrapped up in blankets with a plain white gel pillow. Her breathing was steady, the curve of her chest rising and falling under the blankets. Gertrude stood at the door, given pause by the peaceful and contented expression on Monika’s face. She turned away from the beds and walked next door.

At Nile’s clinic, the door opened automatically in her presence.

Inside the room, she found Nile hunched over a table, her tail wagging and ears twitching as she used a dropper to lay tiny amounts of a clear liquid into a beaker full of murky red fluid, like a thin tomato soup. Her fingers were exactingly careful with the tool, and she watched the drops closely as she released them. Once the drops made contact with the red, the murk suddenly became active, rising and frothing as if it was suddenly being boiled.

Gertrude then stepped past the door threshold–

in the next instant Nile straightened up and looked over her shoulder, surprised.

“You’re doing an experiment here?” Gertrude asked.

More curious than she was critical, but still a touch of judgment in her voice.

“Science is the same no matter where you do it.” Nile said.

Gertrude tried to keep her eyes off Nile’s collar, its LEDs signaling a healthy green. It felt rude to worry about it– but nevertheless, she worried. So, she made an effort not to be caught staring and instead looked Nile over. She was unmasked, as it seemed to have become her habit within the Iron Lady. Dressed in a turtleneck sweater, a waist-high skirt that hugged her hips well, black tights, and her signature white coat. Her brown hair was tied up into a messy bun for work. She wore just a bit of blush and lipstick on her face.

She was gorgeous– tall, dark, curvy, Loup excellence–

Gertrude averted her gaze entirely before Nile could notice her lingering eyes.

“Don’t you need a different kind of environment to get good results?” Gertrude asked.

“Not at all. Cause-effect causality transpires regardless of how posh the surroundings are. As long as you prepare the best you can and the thinking behind your experiment is sound, the outcome can be useful for learning, whether you are in a repurposed meeting room on a ship or in the top laboratories of the Empire. Science is science. That is one of the reasons why it is so tightly controlled in the Empire– you can only control it by controlling the knowledge and materials that make it up.” Nile cracked a smile. “So– Gertrude, what ails you?”

Owing to the length of the spiel Gertrude was unprepared to be suddenly acknowledged.

Gertrude took long enough to respond, a few seconds–

That Nile simply walked up to her and stood directly before her, leaning in.

“Mind if I examine you? I’d like to check your condition after the night’s ordeal.”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’m doing fine.” Gertrude said suddenly.

Nile’s eyes trailed down Gertrude’s body and back up to her face.

“You look more energetic, but your unusually good mood might just be masking a physical issue. Adrenaline and hormones are not to be underestimated. At any rate, I won’t do anything without your consent, but you should allow me to give you a full checkup again as soon as your courage and pride can withstand the endeavor.” Nile said.

“My pride is irrelevant!” Gertrude said sharply. “I honestly haven’t felt better in weeks, I’ll have you know. I have no problems at all. Just accept what your patient tells you.”

“Hmm. I’m glad you’re still a bit surly.” Nile replied coolly. “Drastic personality changes, even positive ones, can be a sign of deeper distress. Stability and continuity are good indicators.”

“I am not being surly. You are just constantly trying to get a rise out of me for no reason.”

“My reason is that I am a concerned professional in whom you have entrusted your care.”

Gertrude sighed deeply and audibly.

Nile cracked a little grin and crossed her arms. Her ears did a little twitch.

“Forget all of that.” Gertrude said. “How is Monika doing?”

“She is just sleeping. Sleeping quite soundly in fact.” Nile said. “Thankfully before anything happened I already had permission to prepare an infirmary. Physically, Monika is unchanged from when I last examined her. I won’t be elaborating on what that means. Mentally, I can’t be sure how she fares. We’ll have to see how she acts when she awakens.”

“Thank you for taking care of her. She’s been through so much.” Gertrude said.

“My pleasure– but it is not necessary to thank me. This is my work. I would not be myself if I ignored people in need of medical help. It would be quite shameful.” Nile said. She glanced at the wall of the room. “I’m worried about her. But I’m also worried about you.”

It was not that Gertrude did not appreciate Nile’s attention.

But she had a stubborn feeling that she wanted to be treated as someone formidable.

She should have been the only one worrying– about Nile and Monika and the others.

In her mind, she had overcome her personal hurdles and deserved to be relied upon now.

“I promise, you can look after me when there’s need– but I feel perfectly fine.”

“Alright, I won’t press you any further. Just remember that I am here.” Nile said.

She turned back around to the table she had set up in the back.

“Nile, I’m curious what you’re doing to those substances?”

Gertrude pointed at the beaker, propped up on a foldable rack, and the red fluid inside.

It had done frothing and looked a bit thinner than even previously.

“I am testing Katov mass gathered from outside the ship. Preliminarily trying to figure out what happened last night.” Nile said. “I was hoping that I might be able to reproduce a fleeting effect resembling the strange aetheric phenomenon, in miniature of course. By applying a certain neurochemical to the mass, I hoped to stimulate the organisms that make it up– but it looks like it had no effect other than altering the PH to kill it.”

“I don’t follow– what led you to believe such a thing was possible?” Gertrude said.

Nile looked as if she had not understood the question. She narrowed her eyes.

“You can’t truly be this incurious about the world, Gertrude? I can’t know anything until I have tried and observed results. That is the nature of experimentation. That’s what I am doing.”

Gertrude felt like an idiot. What was it about Nile that flustered her so easily?

“I was just worried something might happen.” She said, trying to sound sensible.

“Something happening is the very point. That is how we start learning. I am working with very small amounts of katov mass and chemicals. It’s very safe.” Nile sighed. “At any rate, I now believe the mass had nothing to do it with it– it was perhaps only reacting to the phenomenon, just like us. However, I hoped to test my belief and acquire proof by actually running some experiments. I’ll keep trying over the next few days and see the results.”

“Right.” Gertrude said. There was no use continuing this topic– she had other concerns.

In a fit of pique, she locked eyes with Nile, who met her gaze almost on accident.

For a moment, Nile appeared to recognize how Gertrude was looking at her.

Her eyes flashed red; just as Gertrude flexed those alien muscles in her own eyes.

Demonstrating her ability and seeing the blue and green color that collected around Nile.

Through her psionic sight she got the sense Nile’s aura was very deep and very dense.

That there was a depth to her– a depth that she did not hide but did not acknowledge.

Nile was very powerful. And her aura seemed to flicker like a candle-fire in a gust of air.

Despite her outward calm her aura gave off a feeling of volatility, or perhaps fluctuation.

However, her aura was also gentle. Her flame was wild, but it was not unforgiving.

“Nile, you know that I can do this now.” Gertrude said. “You are seeing it, right?”

Nile smiled. Despite her almost proud-seeming expression her aura remained the same.

“I do. I told you my suspicions last night, didn’t I? I was too vague perhaps.”

“Nile, can you tell me what you know about this power?” Gertrude said.

To Gertrude’s surprise, there was no hesitation or reticence from her doctor.

She simply took in a breath and began to speak candidly.

“I must preface by saying that everything I know, I learned from others who have studied this phenomenon more closely than me. I possess the ability myself, but I am not as versed as my colleagues. We call the power, Psionics. It is a word that feels right does it not? Different cultures had different concepts of it– any kind of ‘magic’ like volshebstvo or sihr is actually an expression of this power understood through cultural myth.” Nile spoke in a confident manner, as if giving a rehearsed lecture. Had she said this same thing to others before? Or had she perhaps prepared to give this explanation to Gertrude? She continued. “Psionics is the power of the human mind and our conception of the world, influenced by our emotions. Or at least, my colleagues and I hope that is accurate, after our experimentation.”

“In other words, in my case it is the power of my anger made manifest.” Gertrude said.

In the liminal space with the blue pools, Gertrude’s red passion and anger had broken the blue walls of the phenomenon and allowed her to finally move past the maze in which she had been trapped. In that moment, she had come to understand that blue was the source of her lethargy, and that red was her spiraling passions, covering her like an armor. When she saw blue in Nile’s aura, however, she felt different toward it– she was not alarmed. It was the same color, but the intention of Nile was not to ‘sleep eternally’ as Monika once desired. It seemed much less urgent. In fact, Monika also had a quiet and gently blue aura.

Nile was quick to rebut what Gertrude thought was an ironclad assertion, however.

“That is your current conception of the power based on what you have experienced. Different people with different experiences develop different systems of intellectual decryption. This can help you control the power through conceptual associations. It is the power of your mind, after all, it is a bit abstract. But also, I must stress that your conception of the power can change as much as your conception of the world can change. Your mind and emotions are not rigid, Gertrude. You do have an effect on how you feel and what you think; it is possible to change your mind, after all. I would strongly advise you not to think of psionics as a phenomenon that intersects solely with your anger. It is limiting to you.”

Gertrude responded at first with a short, bitter chuckle at the idea of changing herself.

“I wish everything were as easy as just convincing myself out of my habits.” She said.

She could change the meat on her bones, now– in all kinds of ways.

But her mind still felt like something far less forgiving of alteration.

“I never said it was easy. But my assertion is still correct, Gertrude.” Nile said.

“That sounds like something Victoria would say.”

“Then she would be correct also. Rhetoric is another thing that is the same anywhere.”

“I don’t mean– nevermind.” Gertrude grunted. “Can you teach me to control my psionics?”

Nile averted her eyes in response. Her expression was suddenly glum and conflicted.

Gertrude noticed that her aura shimmered, as if the candlefire withstood a stiff wind.

“I– well, I mean– it presents a certain challenge– I am not opposed–” Nile was tongue-tied, “as much as I have managed to hang on to my patience with you, because you are my patient and deserve the best of me even when I see the worst of you so frequently–”

“–Hey, c’mon…” Gertrude mumbled at the off-handed insult. What was her problem?

“–I am not actually very good at controlling my emotions either.” Nile sighed.

She crossed her arms and shut her eyes, wracked by a quiet consternation.

So that was the issue– she must have been dreading this moment, anticipating the request.

“I understand. But you can still teach me what you know, can’t you?” Gertrude said.

“To be frank, I have never taught anyone psionics. I can try, for you.” Nile said.

“But you had that whole spiel in the back of your head for when I asked?” Gertrude said.

“Correct. That spiel is something I have been preparing. I knew from the moment I saw you that you had the potential to employ psionics. You just needed a push; either to discover it on your terms or to be influenced by an outside force. I was conflicted about whether I should give you that push– but I knew by accepting your offer I had to be ready to consult for you regardless of what happened. I knew that, because we were now heading into extreme conditions, you would be much more likely to discover your abilities here.”

“Then, hardship plays a part in achieving psionics?” Gertrude asked. “That means you knew that I would be under so much stress in the abyss that I would eventually awaken?”

“Correct again. Any sufficiently heightened emotion, in the right circumstances, might cause a person with potential to discover and achieve control of their psionics, to some extent.” Nile said. She crossed her arms. “Take for example the legendary Loup warrior Samoylovych-Daybringer. The stories had it that the young Daybringer, during the war with Hanwa in the late 910s, fought to the brink of death against a powerful Hanwan warrior to hold a station landing. In that state, the stories say a fairy visited him, and taught him volshebtsvo. Daybringer’s feats after that were not exaggerated– he had achieved the power to kill scores of men. I suspect a near-death experience jogged Daybringer’s dormant power.”

“That’s a lot to take in.” Gertrude said, sighing. She felt unsettled by the example and by the idea that this could happen to anyone. “I can’t help but think that despite his efforts, we lost that war with Hanwa. The Imbrian Empire was not able to expand into the Mare Crisium even with a psionic warrior on our side. Or who knows how many more of them there were.”

“Psionics can be very powerful, but it is still impossible to win a war by oneself.” Nile said.

“Some part of me hoped I would be able to use this power to do just that.” Gertrude said.

“That hubristic and whimsical part of you is very charming, indeed.” Nile smiled warmly.

Gertrude averted her gaze. “That’s all you’re going to say to me about that, huh?”

“Yes. There is no consoling you on that score, it is simply the hard truth of things. In fact, Samoylovych-Daybringer, older but still in his prime, was ultimately slain by an ordinary man. You will be similarly vulnerable and limited– but nevertheless, psionics is a useful tool to have. Especially if you are flexible in your conception and development of it.”

Of course, common sense dictated that no individual was ever completely invincible.

For a moment, however, Gertrude in her passions had truly wanted to believe she was.

That achieving this power was an enormous breakthrough that would settle everything.

There was something unsettling about it being only a tool that might help her going forward.

Arvokas Jarvelainen, Ingrid’s ancestor, had ultimately killed the legendary Daybringer.

For Arvokas there were no fairy stories or mythical deeds. He was just a kin-slayer.

Gertrude was still vulnerable, and she was not by herself suddenly an earth-shaking titan.

She looked at Nile, hands in her coat pockets, who looked back with quiet consideration.

Sighing deeply, Gertrude tried to look positively upon things. It was good to accept reality.

She was not invincible, even with her psionics, but she was also not alone either.

There was an entire ship of people who had her back. Advising her, fighting with her.

And even in this very room there was someone who had agreed to lend her assistance.

“Nile, thank you for giving me your perspective. I– I do really appreciate it.” She said.

Nile nodded her head. “I assume that at this point– you’ll want to know more about me personally, right? That is also another conversation that I foresaw and prepared for.”

Gertrude shook her head in return.

“Honestly I have lost the zest for it. I had it in mind to interrogate you at any cost about the Sunlight Foundation and what you truly knew about the world. I know you still must have all manner of secrets. But those things feel petty now. You’re right, none of us are one-man islands. I have no cause to doubt your allegiance. You’ve done nothing but help me even when I’ve been stubborn as a rock wall.” Gertrude said. Her voice was turning soft and fond of the mysterious Loup. She felt comforted by this discussion. She wanted to feel formidable, yes– but she also had to accept the reality of her vulnerability.

Hubris had already done a lot of damage to her. She had to try her best to temper it.

Thinking she could squeeze everything out of Nile, thinking it would help anything.

Both were notions that made sense before and did not make sense now.

Like Nile said– maybe her mind was something she could, slowly, deliberately, change.

“Thank you. I am willing to answer your questions, for what it’s worth.” Nile said.

She gestured toward a pair of seats– they had both been speaking standing up and close.

Gertrude shook her head. She suddenly felt very thankful to be in Nile’s ‘care.’

“I think I just want to sit by Monika’s side and see if she wakes.” Gertrude said.

“Of course. Feel free to avail yourself of anything in the infirmary.” Nile said.

She did have one question– it arrived at her quite suddenly.

One curiosity about Nile. She would allow herself to sate a single one.

“Actually– I do have one question, before I go.” Gertrude said.

Nile nodded. “Like I said, I’ve been preparing. What do you want to know?”

“How do you feel about your former allegiances? Do you have regrets?” Gertrude asked.

For a moment, a surprised Nile was pulled into her thoughts, with a melancholy expression.

“What a cruel question to ask, fittingly for you.” She tried to smile and to sound good humored. It was forced. “Of course, I have regrets. We disagreed on many things. But it was the only place I ever felt accepted and treated as a peer. I had no other home and I wanted none– they were my colleagues. We esteemed each other, motivated each other. We were flawed and arrogant and made horrible mistakes, but I would rather deal with cracked glass as long as it can keep the oxygen in. I had hope; some part of me still does.”

“Thank you.” Gertrude said. She reached out a hand to Nile’s shoulder, to comfort her.

Nile allowed it. Perhaps she even welcomed it.

She was just as vulnerable as Gertrude was. Nile, too, was not an invincible threat.

Time passed as Gertrude sat on the empty bed adjacent to Monika’s in the infirmary. She looked at the sleeping beauty’s face periodically. It was a relief; though she was still asleep, she looked peaceful. Her breathing was steady, she did not seem to be in pain. After everything she had been through, Gertrude hoped that she could have a moment’s relaxation before she resumed her activities. She deserved so much more– but at least that much. Gertrude waited at her side, hoping she might wake in a few hours more.

After about thirty minutes, Nile walked in through the door as well.

She had a cup of coffee and a handful of unsalted crackers and handed them to Gertrude.

“You should have something in your stomach.” Nile said.

“Thank you.” Gertrude said. “Can I call you when she wakes up?”

“I am planning to stay here actually, unless something drags me away.” Nile said.

She sat on the bed beside Gertrude and sipped her own cup of coffee.

Gertrude dipped one of the crackers in the coffee and ate it.

Together they watched over Monika’s bedside.

As she did so, Gertrude began to ponder the mysterious phenomenon that transpired last night. That maze of blue pools and the things they reflected; Monika claiming she wanted to invite Gertrude and the rest of the crew to an ‘eternal sleep’; and the Drowning Prophecy, the monstrous entity in Monika’s false church; did everyone experience visions in the blue pools? Victoria had confirmed she saw the pools, and that she saw events within them, lives she had not led. Gertrude likened it to a dream and Victoria agreed– but it was not an ordinary dream, concocted purely by her exhausted mind. It had felt so real, and the fact that she could still use psionics proved it. Gertrude had been there to see all of it.

Dreams often felt like being carried away to a different place and ended upon waking.

For Gertrude, the experience of the liminal pools, and her current state, felt like they were entirely contiguous events. Her memories were a bit hazy, but not gone. If Monika had put them all to sleep and beckoned them to remain sleeping, it was not a usual sleep. Gertrude wondered if everyone could remember the things they saw in the pools, if the people with less understanding were trying to puzzle out the haunting sensation that they felt from becoming trapped in that space and seeing impossible sights. Or if different people had gone to entirely different places and seen different things entirely than her.

Eventually, Gertrude got it into mind to put that question to Nile as well–

“Nile– during the mysterious ‘event’ last night, did you see a maze of blue pools?”

Nile took a long sip of her coffee, nodding her head slightly while drinking.

“Yes. With my psionics I understood it as a supernatural event, but I couldn’t escape.”

“What did you see in the pools?” Gertrude asked.

Nile scoffed. She averted her gaze. “You’re terribly nosy, did you know that?”

Gertrude smiled a bit. “It served me well in the Inquisition at least.”

Glancing back at Gertrude’s gentle expression, Nile breathed deeply and put down her cup.

“Fine. But you must tell your doctor about your own dreams, first.” She said.

“All of them were about Elena von Fueller.” Gertrude said. “We built many lives together in those pools. I was her servant, and I was her lover. She gave me meaning.”

Nile looked surprised– she must not have expected Gertrude to be so forthcoming.

To people like Nile and Victoria, Gertrude had nothing to hide about that affair anymore.

“I was Elena von Fueller’s lover– surprise? I squandered everything though.” Gertrude said.

In response to Gertrude’s honesty, Nile looked exasperated, and seemed to resign herself.

“Fine, fine. I saw similar things in the pools. Some of them represented things I knew could be possible– different decision points in my life. But there were some that were fabrications. I saw myself as some kind of horrid queen of a disease-infested flesh castle that resembled Heitzing; I saw myself as a member of the Pythian Black Legion nerve-gassing an entire station. But the worst one–” Nile paused and looked down at her cup for a moment.

Gertrude raised a hand and waved, interposing it between herself and Nile to stop her.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to keep going. I know now that we saw similar visions.”

Nile looked in that moment as Gertrude had never seen her before, but the expression was familiar because she had seen it in herself. Pain and frustration, an internal conflict, reticence that fought with passion and quaked under her skin. Gertrude thought she might hear her scream any moment; she looked that bound up in herself. She tried to reassure Nile that she did not need to say anything, but she knew, because she had been there herself, that the emotions were too hot. She had been in that exact position far too many times.

“No. I want to tell someone. Even if you might not understand– almost certainly you won’t understand it. But I’ll get it off my chest and then I can put it away forever.” Nile said. Her voice rose– she was taken by a sudden passion. “Gertrude, I saw the Northern Host of the Loup being completely wiped out by Mehmed Khalifa. Somehow, he detonated the North Imbrian Agarthic Vein– what’s known as one of the ‘Ley-Lines’. You do not know how close this came to actually happening, Gertrude. In that vision I just stood there and watched him do it. Watched him kill half of the Loup, and scores of Imbrians. He devastated the Palatine and ended the Empire.” Nile’s fingers tightened their grip on the cup, nearly shaking. Her eyes looked like they would tear up. “I– I did not want his blood on my hands.”

“Nile– I’m so sorry.” Gertrude said. It was hard to muster any words in response.

Mehmed Khalifa, better known as Mehmed the Tyrant or Mehmed the Sorcerer, had declared an organized, armed religious struggle known to the Shimii as a ‘jihad’. He mustered scores of mainly Mahdist Shimii fighters in improvised and stolen crafts. Using his limited resources he inflicted embarrassing defeats on the Empire in the early to middle 930s, slowly building his arsenal. The official narrative was that the Inquisition tracked him down to Bad Ischl and killed him, but Gertrude knew one better– she knew that one of the Inquisition’s secrets was that the Agarthicite veins in the area had a dangerous event that inflicted damage on the Imperial siege fleet but also scattered the jihadists. An act of God ended the Jihad.

Now she knew two better– not an act of God, but Nile and her ‘colleagues’ instead. Had they truly ended the Jihad? Why? Given the resources Victoria claimed they possessed, and Nile’s own abilities, Gertrude could believe that if they became involved in such an event, that they could have brought it to a conclusion. But why interfere against someone as formidable as the self-crowned king of the Shimii’s Age of Heroes? Had they become involved in any other events, Gertrude wondered? Had any other acts of God been instead the meddling of the Sunlight Foundation in the background of what had become accepted history?

Seeing how distressed Nile had become, Gertrude could not possibly ask for more context.

Despite her curiosity, the Jihad was over– and Mehmed was dead.

And it did not matter to her and her life what or who did it. It was in the past and Gertrude had no reason to litigate it. But it clearly caused Nile a lot of pain. In those blue pools she saw a world in which she never got her hands dirty, and allowed an atrocity to pass. Gertrude had thought of the pools as amoral, showing her things that were in some sense real, without judgment. She had only seen events that reflected her warped desires and horrible mistakes. To show Nile something that horrid, however, Gertrude began to wonder if perhaps the visions in the blue pools had been guided by an active malevolence.

Rather than say anything more, she gingerly sidled closer to Nile and tried to comfort her.

Nile raised a hand to gently prevent this, keeping her away, and another to wipe her eyes.

“Thank you, but– it’s fine–” She kept a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry for losing myself.”

“No apology necessary. It’s only human. I would know.” Gertrude said, smiling.

“I appreciate your understanding. If I broke down anywhere, then at least it was with you.”

Nile must have meant that because of their similarities they could have a unique solidarity.

However, Gertrude’s heart was quick to accelerate, and her face felt a bit warm.

At the thought of Nile wanting to confer her vulnerability only to her.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I am sorry for prying.” Gertrude said. “But– if you need someone to talk to, I am here for you. I understand what it feels like carrying a burden. God knows, I’ve made so many mistakes that perhaps no one would understand. My pool rooms were full of my stupid obsession, devoid of any of the people I care about or even people that I hurt. I am ashamed of that single-mindedness– it wiped out even the recognition of my mistakes from my psyche. This– it demonstrates you’re better than that.”

Nile lifted her hand from over her eyes, her tears wiped but clearly still a bit agitated.

She nodded in response, and quietly finished off the last of her coffee.

Gertrude took a sip too and began to calm her thrashing her heart.

“Gertrude, would you accept a chaste and professional hug?” Nile asked suddenly.

“Any time.” Gertrude quickly replied.

Nile sidled close to Gertrude, and extended an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close.

Gertrude accepted it and reciprocated. She could feel Nile’s tail thumping the bed.

For a while, they shared this quiet physical comfort before gently separating.

Going back to looking over Monika but with calmer hearts and minds than before.

After a few hours of staring in a silence only broken by Nile getting more coffee–

Monika turned in bed, once, twice– she tightened her eyes, and pulled her blankets.

Gertrude and Nile nearly jumped with surprise as if the floors and walls had moved instead.

Finally, Monika began to open her eyes. She opened them halfway, shut them.

She began to blink. She saw up in bed, dressed in only a patient’s gown. Her hair fell over her eyes partially and behind her back. Monika pulled her bangs to the sides of her face and let out a yawn. Without speaking a word, she continued to stare at Gertrude and Nile, who stared back. For a moment the trio traded stares at one another.

One of Monika’s furry ears began to twitch.

“Gertrude?” Monika asked, when she finally spoke. “Have I been dreaming?”

“Maybe. Did you happen to dream about a maze of blue pools?” Gertrude asked.

“Don’t tell her that so quickly– let her acclimate first!” Nile protested.

“Blue pools?” Monika’s eyes opened wide. She hugged herself. “Oh my god.”

“Let me handle the talking.” Nile said. “Monika, how many fingers am I holding up?”

She held up her index and middle fingers, making a ‘V’ sign in front of Monika.

In response, Monika made two ‘V’ signs with her own hands, blinking her eyes slowly.

Nile ran her fingers idly through her hair, seemingly thinking of what to say.

“She looks awake and aware to me.” Gertrude said. “Monika, how are you feeling?”

“Confused. Horrible. And– oh my god–!” Monika narrowed her eyes. Her tail extended.

Then with barely any warning she sprang from her bed and leaped over to the one adjacent.

Throwing her arms around Gertrude and nearly tackling her off and onto the ground.

Thankfully they both fell over on top of the bed instead, nearly kicking Nile aside.

“Hey!” Nile cried out. “Calm down! You’ll hurt yourself! We need to–!”

“Gertrude!” Monika cried out. “I’m so sorry! I can’t– I’m so ashamed– you saved me–!”

Between the gratitude and contrition all screamed in interwoven hysterics, Gertrude could not muster an answer. Despite her petite stature Monika in that moment had the force of a leviathan as she hugged Gertrude down against the bed, her tail drumming against the plastic headboard. Monika cried and screamed into Gertrude’s chest, her gown nearly pulling apart with her thrashing. She hugged her so close, kicking her legs, arms tight.

“Monika! It’s okay! Please calm down! Listen to the doctor!” Gertrude struggled to say.

Monika pressed herself tightly against Gertrude’s chest while Nile looked on with worry.

Then Monika raised her head and met Gertrude’s eyes, ears running down her cheeks.

With a smile on her face.

“Gertrude– I’m happy to be here. I’m glad I’m alive.” She said.

Gertrude felt an enormous sense of relief.

She let herself fall back on the bed without resistance.

Letting out a breath that felt long held.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Monika.” Gertrude replied, stroking Monika’s hair.

With some gentle coaxing from the doctor, Monika returned to her bed and sat upright.

Nile handed her a cup of water and some crackers. Monika took a few bites.

Gertrude sat across and observed her while Nile tested her faculties.

“Monika Erke-Tendercloud,” Nile said, “That is your name, correct?”

Monika nodded her head.

“Thank you– but can you speak your answer clearly? For the sake of the test.”

“Yes, it is Monika Erke-Tendercloud.”

“I am going to ask you to do something that might seem silly. Can you extend your right arm over the left side of your body, with your thumb up, and stick out your tongue?” Nile asked.

“Yes.” Monika followed the instructions without hesitation.

Gertrude looked over at the wall to prevent herself laughing– Monika was rather cute.

“Can you name this object that I am holding?” Nile said. It was her digital pen.

“It’s a pen.” Monika said.

“What am I doing with it?” Nile scribbled on the screen of her digital clipboard.

“You’re writing. It’s a digital pen and you have a digital clipboard.”

“Do you remember the small talk we had when you came in for a checkup?”

“I think you asked me about the food on board. We talked about liking the liver pate.”

“It’s a bit gritty but nutritionally excellent– lots of what kind of Vitamin?”

“Vitamin A if I am remembering correctly.”

“You are correct. One last question– where is the consortium Reschold-Kolt located?”

“They’re in the Bureni Republic. It’s one of my many misfortunes recently, hah!”

Monika spoke candidly and cheerfully and seemed to be full of energy.

Nile smiled and put her clipboard at her side on the bed.

“I believe you have all of your faculties about you. This isn’t a comprehensive test, but you are aware, your coordination is good, and you can recall details. I don’t believe that I will need to hold you here for long, but I would like to observe you awake for an hour.”

“I was going to spend the day loafing around anyway.” Monika said. “Thank you, doctor.”

She turned to face Gertrude again and pointed at her. “How is she doing?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential patient information.” Nile said gently.

Putting it like that made it sound like something was going on!

“C’mon. I’m fine!” Gertrude said, slightly irritated. “Don’t worry about me, Monika.”

“Don’t put up an act. You got stabbed in the gut– I saw it! I was terrified!” Monika said.

“Wait– what?” Nile looked at Gertrude with wide eyes, staring down at her abdomen.

Gertrude raised her hands as if to shield herself from the concerns of the two women.

“Everything grew back. Would I be walking around if I got stabbed in the stomach?”

“What do you mean everything grew back?” Nile said. “I’m going to need an explanation!”

“Calm down and I’ll give you one. I’ve been wanting to talk about this with you anyway.”

Gertrude put her hands on the bed, reared back a bit, sighed, and then launched into her story of what happened yesterday. She went through everything but embellished or glossed over a few details– Monika did not need to know about what she saw in the pools. But she explained becoming lost in the primary edifice due to Azazil An-Nur’s cries for help; being attacked by the strange blue creatures and her experience of falling asleep; waking up in the blue pools, and breaking through them; Eris and her ambitions to recover her–

She did not mention Eris. That was still for herself only. She was still processing that.

Finally, breaking the maze, the church, the abomination and her newfound power.

“And then she rescued me.” Monika said. “That part I can corroborate, doctor.”

Gertrude nodded her head. “I killed the creature that captured Monika. Then I woke up again and I wasn’t in the blue pools anymore. I carried Monika back to the ship. You were all there to greet me– and from what I can gather, all of us saw the blue pools too. Victoria confirmed that she did, and Nile, you saw them too. So– we all had this strange dream.”

“A collective psychic phenomenon.” Nile lifted a hand to her forehead. “Ya allah.”

“I take it this isn’t something you have experience with?” Gertrude asked.

“This specific incident is magnitudes stranger than anything I’ve heard or seen happen. I could not have predicted it.” Nile said. “I knew, and I attempted to communicate to you, that the abyssal ‘aetheric weather’ would affect us. I do not know the origin of the color weather, but the abyss has been observed by my colleagues to affect the auras of people, it causes our emotions to unbalance. Most people, most of the time, have a balance of stress and tranquility and other emotional states– the aetheric weather causes one of the states of our aura to expand at the expense of this balance. I knew this and I tried to tell you.”

“You tried to tell me once, in my room at midnight, when I was dead tired.” Gertrude said.

“Huh?” Monika said. Looking a bit red. “She was in your room at midnight?”

“I broke in.” Nile said as if it explained anything.

Monika blinked. “You broke into her room at midnight?”

“Nevermind that, nothing happened!” Gertrude waved her hands rapidly.

Nile shrugged her shoulders innocently. Monika glanced between the two of them.

“Unfortunately, the weather had begun to have its effect on me also and impaired my judgment. I was also tired and unbalanced. I should have kept pushing you on that subject, even as stubborn as you were. But I did not want to deal with it.” Nile said. “The past few days I had a lot to do and did the best I could despite the creeping exhaustion, but I had limited headspace and I put off important things. I only vaguely recognized that this was the doing of the ‘aetheric weather’ but I felt that we could do nothing but ride it out.”

“We were all acting a bit more foolish than usual.” Gertrude said, sighing.

“For you such a thing is much more in-character.” Monika said.

Gertrude frowned, and Monika smile back, having successfully caused her grief.

“Doctor,” Monika turned to Nile, “I– I think the strange stuff that happened is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault at all.” Gertrude was quick to say.

“I agree with Gertrude. Nobody is blaming you, Monika.” Nile said.

Monika sat back against the bed, crossing her arms and breathing out.

“It’s difficult– but can I try to explain to you what happened? Even if it sounds crazy?”

“Of course. Listening to my patients is the very least I can do.” Nile said.

Laying in bed, looking at the ceiling as if to avoid their eyes–

Monika recounted her experiences.

She confessed to Nile and Gertrude that she had been dealing with suicidal thoughts for a very long time. Monika grew up in a deeply religious household and she referred to the Loup culture as anti-intellectual– Nile could relate to this. After escaping from her abusive family, Monika had managed to get her thoughts more under control– but she knew there was a stigma against feeling such a way. She did not want to be seen as insane or as a ticking time-bomb, so she told nobody about it. Her despair sat quietly in her and she drowned it in various achievements. In the world of the Imbrians she could do everything her family barred her from. Completed her education, found a job that allowed her to express her interest in technology, sciences and industry. Finally she accomplished the aspirational feat of any military engineer– she was chose to serve aboard a glorious, high-tech Dreadnought.

Recent events had shaken her confidence in herself. She began to struggle with work and thought about how helpless she was to influence the events happening around her– such as Imbria’s dissolution, or the battles against the Brigand. She took it hard when the machine she had worked on, was defeated in battle and then stolen– she took it harder when she struggled to repair the Magellan that Gertrude got to keep. It wasn’t for lack of materials or time, but she felt, it was a limit in herself. In her usefulness to the world around her.

She confessed that in her mind, if she failed, then– there was no reason to keep on living.

“I started to have those feelings about myself again. Every little thing triggered them.” Monika said. “If I didn’t finish this or that, or if I couldn’t figure something out– even minor everyday tasks or things like how to set up my tools so I can reach them more efficiently. Any little thing started to feel like something I ought to have stopped living over. That negotiation with myself about whether it was worth living or not felt like it was taking a life of its own. Like I was really talking with death itself about living on or dying, any time that anything happened. Then, things started to move really quickly, it felt like– at one point I found myself almost worshiping death– thinking that everyone must have felt like me and we could all die together. That’s when I found that church, and that abomination.”

“Monika–” Gertrude began. It took everything not to cry. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She reached out her hands and took Monika’s, caressing her, hoping to comfort her.

Monika reciprocated, taking Gertrude’s hands and squeezing them in hers.

“It’s alright. I decided I want to live Gertrude. I’m going to try. I know I will probably have these thoughts again– but I will fight to live. And I will also ask for help if I need it.”

“Monika, whatever you need, you can come to me. I’ll always listen.” Gertrude said.

It wasn’t that she was completely unfamiliar with the kind of feelings Monika had felt.

Gertrude had more than once felt utter hopelessness, and all of its most dire results.

However, she never suspected that Monika was dealing with such feelings herself.

That frightened Gertrude– she could have lost Monika forever and never realized it.

She had been so self-centered and oblivious to her pain despite thinking she knew her well.

Conscious of this, Gertrude did not want to turn the conversation to her own failings.

Monika had already gotten angry at her once for drowning in self-pity.

In her mind however she told herself, and she knew, that she had to do better by Monika.

Nile also reached out and laid her hand over Monika’s with a gentle demeanor and speech.

“For as long as I am your doctor, I will support you, Monika. And everything you have told us will stay in this room. It is confidential patient information. So do not worry.” She said.

“Thank you.” Monika said. She sat back up and stopped looking at the roof. Her eyes were glistening. She wiped them on the sleeve of her hospital gown. “Doctor, during my experiences last night– I felt like understood implicitly that there was a supernatural power in my self. My mind was a mess– so I didn’t care then. I understand that you have power too, and Gertrude too. You know about all of this– and you must know more than I do.”

“I am not all-knowing. But I know some things.” Nile said. “Psionics, the power you feel that you now have, is as deep and as fluid as the human experience itself. I’ve lived for longer than you might imagine, and I will never observe and examine everything related to psionics. It’s like myths, or miracles; I’m sure it will always change to elude our reckoning.”

“I understand, doctor, but could you try to explain what might have happened?”

Nile’s expression was familiar– as exasperated as when Gertrude asked about psionics.

She nodded her assent but paused for a moment clearly gathering her thoughts.

Her ears folded and rose, and she ran her fingers through some of her hair.

“As it stands, this is conjecture– and barely educated conjecture at that. During the blue weather event, Monika, you were fatigued and beset by feelings of frustration and hopelessness. These feelings were amplified by the blue weather, sabotaging your mental stability until it crossed a certain emotional threshold. It led to your psionics awakening, and you lost control over them. This may have had a synergistic effect with the blue weather, which we were all experiencing, that led to us having a collective event. Of course, I vehemently reject blaming you for this– I believe you were a victim of circumstance.”

“Monika, do you agree with this? How did you feel?” Gertrude asked.

Monike crossed her arms. Her own ears folded and rose as she thought it over.

“I think it’s mostly right, but– I feel that I was not the one who created that abomination that Gertrude and I saw. I felt that it had been speaking to me for a long time, ever since we got down here– I tried to ignore it, but looking back, at a certain point, I embraced it.”

Gertrude supported Monika’s deliberation.

“Nile, inside the blue rooms, I felt like I understood what Monika’s feelings were with great certainty. I can’t explain it, but I just knew, like I could hear a voice in my head that explained everything. But the monster always felt apart from her. Like an invader into her mind. Those were not explicitly her feelings alone, they felt like feelings anyone could have. Like mine also. It was called ‘the Drowning Prophecy’– and I think Monika knows that name too.”

“Yes, I felt just like Gertrude. Like someone was telling me about its name for certain.”

Nile paused and crossed her arms. She sighed. “You don’t say. Anyone’s feelings, huh?”

“Would you happen to have any explanation for that phenomenon?” Gertrude asked.

“Yes and no.” Nile said. She sighed again. “Like I’ve said before, I am a medical doctor, not a pseudophysicist or a parapsychiatrist. However, one of my colleagues, Euphrates, theorized that it should be possible to create constructs with psionics that anyone would recognize as real entities despite their aetheric origin. Perhaps this entity you both saw was created out of collective emotions. Maybe its reach over Monika was a result of how many tired and hopeless people were aboard the ship– in the blue weather that would mean all of us.”

“I guess it makes as much sense as anything.” Gertrude said, feeling a bit helpless.

“I still feel like ‘The Drowning Prophecy’ was something else entirely.” Monika said. “Not just our feelings, but something older and bigger than that. It was like it had been ready to communicate with me at the earliest time I was able to see it. Like it was leading me to the blue church– just waiting all of this time to talk to anyone who would listen to it. I don’t believe in God, but thinking back, it almost felt like a horrible, sublime revelation.”

“Well, I can’t know more until I see this happen myself– and I don’t want to.” Nile said.

“Right. I’d also prefer never to have that experience again.” Monika said.

She and Nile tried to smile but the topic was heavy, and clearly weighing on their minds.

Nile probably felt frustrated with her lack of answers. Her body language had grown tense.

When it came to medical problems she always had a solution– this was beyond her.

Gertrude wondered if for a genius intellect like her, uncertainty was uniquely frustrating.

“So, if this all had to do with our emotions– were we in physical danger?” Gertrude asked.

“If this was related to psionics in some way, then yes. You were in danger.” Nile said.

“Can you elaborate how? Do you think the monster could have really killed us?”

In the moment, Gertrude’s sense of pain was dull despite the horrible attack she suffered.

That monster ran her through with its tentacle, and there was blood and she screamed.

There was not the level of acute, shattering pain she would have associated with that.

Perhaps it was the red passion cloaking her in power, and the certainty she felt back then.

Or perhaps it just had not been physical, and it actually was closer to a dream than reality.

“Normally,” Nile said, “it is very difficult to use psionics to coerce someone into harming themselves– it’s an action that is too atypical for the subject’s internality to accept. But it’s not impossible and we have no idea what a psionic construct is capable of doing, whether they follow our observations. Had you and Monika faltered, I imagine you would have indeed slept eternally. However that felt to you in the moment– your body was suffering.”

Not necessarily that being stabbed by the monster would have killed Gertrude, but rather, that it would have convinced them to pursue its ‘eternal sleep.’ Everyone would have chosen to die by never waking up from the dream until they passed. Mass psychogenic suicide.

Probably Nile would not have characterized it this way, but it got Gertrude thinking about the dangers that psionics might pose. She had been thinking about it exclusively in the way her body became a weapon when imbued with her psionics– but in reality, it was farther reaching and much more dangerous than that. Psionics was much more insidious.

Gertrude recalled all the strange abilities Norn seemed to possess. The incredible control over her troops, her ability to move extremely quickly and strike someone in a blink.

There was a larger and more terrifying world opening up before Gertrude’s own eyes.

“Nile, could you help Monika to understand and control her psionics too?” Gertrude asked.

Upon hearing that request, Monika looked down at her hands with a quiet concern.

Gertrude must have had that exact same expression on her face last night too.

That dire contemplation of becoming irreversibly different than before.

“I will do the best I can.” Nile sighed. “It’s– I guess it’s my duty as a doctor, after all.”

“Vogt, nobody roughed her up, right? And she’s been behaving well?”

“Indeed High– Commander.” Vogt caught himself. “She has been quietly waiting for you.”

“Any observations?” She ignored his struggle with her rank.

“One observation. When you first brought her here, she seemed almost– giggly. Energetic. Kind of fawning over you. At some point, and probably if I went through the camera footage I could probably scrobble to the exact second– she stopped smiling, Commander. She has this very neutral expression now. Her voice feels different too. When we brought her food, she spoke to us in a weird language– the translator tool said it is High Gallic. When we asked her to speak in Low Imbrian she teased us about our lack of culture. It was strange.”

Gertrude grunted, annoyed. “What the hell is she up to now– let me in to see her.”

After making sure Monika was okay and grabbing more coffee from Nile, Gertrude had set out to tackle her least anticipated errand of the day. It would have been callous of her to continue to subject Azazil An-Nur to captivity when she had wanted to cooperate before. But Gertrude had to know more about her and had to better understand her disposition. So she traveled to the Iron Lady’s containment rooms. She would converse with her in the interrogation cell she was being kept in, and she would decide then what to do.

“She has not been aggressive, Commander. I think she will cooperate.” Vogt said.

“I’m hoping as much too, but I’m always prepared for the worst.” Gertrude said.

Things she said to reassure her troops, without always meaning them.

In fact, she knew precious little about Azazil An-Nur and had no idea how she would act.

Vogt nodded and showed Gertrude he had brought a folding vibroblade on his person.

“I, too, am prepared for the worst. So you can be at ease, Commander.” He said.

Azazil was being kept confined in a glass-walled interrogation cell, one-way viewable.

Inside the cell she had a desk and a chair, both made of soft rubber-padded plastic.

Outside, there was a media room where recordings and observations were being made.

Gertrude passed through that room, out into a connecting rear room and then into the cell.

Azazil An-Nur lifted her eyes from the table briefly and smiled a very small, slight smile.

Her expression appeared much more reserved. When Gertrude had last seen her, she was gently smiling and cooing at her, like a motherly type of woman who wanted to impress her affection and comfort upon Gertrude. Now, she had a very specific sort of neutral expression, of the sort that Gertrude associated with noblewomen. Adelheid van Mueller had this sort of haughty non-smile that she would put on for people who were beneath her notice but not worth her disrespect. A noblewoman’s smile– put on for appearances, so perfectly practiced it managed to mean something while conveying nothing.

“Azazil, how have you been getting on?” Gertrude asked, sitting down across the table.

“In my appraisal, I have been diligently cooperative in my captivity.” Azazil said.

Vogt had been right– her voice was deeper, smoother. She had changed it somehow.

Could she change her body like Gertrude could? Could Gertrude change her own voice?

Azazil sat with her fingers steepled. Her gaze felt eerily penetrating.

That presence she now had– was she always so intense?

Everything else about Azazil looked familiar.

Her sleek, long black dress still hugged her perfect figure and looked almost brand new despite the scuffles of the past night. In the haze of the terrible events in which they had met, Gertrude had not noticed how well-made that dress was. It did not appear to be natural fibers, and it glistened, but it had a very soft look. Could it have been silk? In terms of facial features, she was without fault, with a gentle and regal beauty, soft red lips, small eyes slightly angled, her countenance mature but umblemished; her silver hair long and perfectly tended; her Shimii-like ears tall, black-furred, and sharp and fluffy; and her figure, ample in the right places and sleek in the rest. She was like a sculpture given life, a living artwork.

Gertrude felt that the more she observed her the more she found her gaze ensnared.

“After acquiring more data, I altered myself to better suit your tastes.” Azazil said.

“To better suit me?” Gertrude asked. She felt almost offended. What did that mean?

“As a biomechanoid servant I can serve better with more data. Upon close examination of all of our exchanges, I calculated that your nervous energy, inquisitiveness and spiraling passion are better matched by a woman who is more collected, distant and mature in appearance, mannerisms and personality. You are titillated by the mystery and taboo of women that feel out of your reach. You respond poorly when you receive too much open affection.”

“That is enough of that.” Gertrude said. She gestured for the recording to be cut.

“You want women to vex and challenge you at least a little. You are enriched by conquest.”

“That is– you think I find this attractive? I am terribly annoyed with you is what I am!”

“Perhaps– but I can tell you are already intrigued. I made a correct assessment.”

Gertrude had broken out into a bit of a sweat, and her face felt a little bit hot.

It was less what Azazil was doing or saying and more how she was doing it and saying it.

Her deep, sultry voice that felt like it was holding everything back while pulling her close. Precise mannerisms, like the brief flutter of her steepled fingers, or the ephemeral flitting of her eyelashes or the minute changes in her expression. She was like a silk-draped, full-figured puzzle box beckoning Gertrude to probe deeper and more forcefully.

Azazil was right, and Gertrude felt like a complete idiot.

She was manipulated– she had to stop fixating on Azazil.

Or she would be made a fool of.

It’s not easy to tear my eyes away from her– she is drop-dead gorgeous.

Maybe she could instead try to play it against her somehow.

“You said you were created to take care of humans, and you must follow my commands.”

“Correct. You are the owner of this body now, Master. It is yours however you desire.”

“What if I make you do something undignified? That breaks this façade you’re creating?”

“You can degrade me as a woman if you like. I’m sure it’s part of the fantasy for you.”

Gertrude closed her fists. “I don’t care what data you think you have collected on me! You do not know me, and I won’t have you typecasting me as some kind of pervert!” She hesitated briefly, a quivering in her chest working itself out as she then spoke. “I’m– I’m heterosexual!”

An interesting and hasty gambit that immediately faltered on all merits.

Azazil crossed her arms and grinned, just a little. “I know what you are.”

Suddenly Gertrude turned to what should have been a wall. “Get out! All of you! Now!”

She could not know whether or nor the recording and monitoring team vacated the room.

But they must have– they always followed her orders. They stopped recording and left.

Azazil waited obediently until the cell felt emptier. She continued. “My data is not wrong. From observing your interactions with me, and also the composition of your crew, which I also had a chance to observe. There are several women who have forged close emotional connections to you, and no men who have a relationship to you that is anything above strictly professional. No, my master, Lady Lichtenberg– you are absolutely a homosexual.”

Gertrude was nearly speechless. Azazil was correct, but it was utterly ridiculous to hear it.

“What if I ordered you to become a man?” Gertrude said, in a near-hysteric voice.

“You wouldn’t seriously do that.” Azazil said. “Master, there is no need to be distressed.”

Gertrude had completely lost it. Azazil had twirled her around like synthetic twine.

“I am not distressed! I am furious! Aren’t you supposed to ‘take care’ of me? What is this?”

Azazil wore that noblewoman’s smile again, but Gertrude could read the implicit malice. “I am indeed your servant, and it is indeed my duty to take care of your needs. I am presenting in a way which is the most suitable for your pleasure. However, I assure you I am not here to interfere with your daily life and your real relationships. I am an appliance that you can use as you need– has it not always been this way between masters and servants?”

She was stunned. It was stunning. Gertrude was left reeling by those words.

“What– what kind of perverted society– how the hell are you an ‘appliance’?!”

Even if Gertrude had entertained the desire to be able to keep more than one woman–

Nobody could possibly have been an ‘appliance’ to her!

And even worse for such a use!

“This– this situation— I’m disgusted! I don’t want anyone to take care of me like this!”

“Do you feel that it is ingenuine of me to try to please you in this way?”

“You are not pleasing me!”

“Would you find it more honest if I acted as I did before I had any data?”

Gertrude was given pause. Back then, last night– was she just acting then too?

Of course, she must have been. After all– she was an ‘appliance’ back then too.

Azazil An-Nur was a ‘biomechanoid’ that was ‘created to take care of humans’.

Thinking over this, Gertrude felt progressively conflicted and disturbed.

She did not know what to say to someone who had been created to serve her.

Gertrude had coerced and misled many people over the years. She was High Inquisitor.

Through honeyed words, through the truncheon, through legal threats–

She knew something about forcing people to bend to her will when necessary.

That coercion didn’t change them as people. Their bodies didn’t react to suit her needs.

Azazil’s comfort with changing pieces of herself to suit Gertrude–

She had conflicting feelings about it.

“When we first met, Master, I had an unclear profile of your personality, mannerisms, and your desires and needs as a person. After observing you for long enough, I developed the correct predictions, and I am better suited to serving you in a comfortable and tailored fashion. Humans do this too– but less efficiently. You are welcome to delete the profile I have generated but I doubt your needs will change much. In my view, I have optimized our relationship and am better able to serve you– why don’t you allow me to demonstrate as such for a few days? You will find I am a much better product now than before.”

“You call yourself a ‘product’ and an ‘appliance’– I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Master, would it bring you relief to know a mop or a broom enjoyed the act of cleaning?”

Gertrude had no answer to that. She felt her heart and head grow heavy at the thought.

It was not possible that Azazil was a mop or a broom. She was a human, like Gertrude.

There was no way in hell that any society made people that were reduced to this!

That was her thinking– she could not, in her privilege, connect this behavior to anything.

Azazil smiled, more than she had before.

“I was created to take care of human beings. For so long, I have not had any people to take care of. They were all gone. Before I met you, I only had contact with an overbearing neural model and belligerent biomechanoids. I might not look like it, but I am pleased with the prospect of being able to take care of Genuine Human Beings again. It is not in my nature to make requests– but I strongly believe I can improve your quality of life if you will allow it.”

Gertrude was helpless. She did not know the correct or moral answer in this situation.

Insisting on Azazil’s humanity might go nowhere; would accepting this make her happy?

Could Azazil feel happy? What had they done to ‘create’ her? She looked human–

Now she was really second-guessing herself– was this all encoded in Azazil’s biology?

Was it STEM? Could she somehow alter Azazil’s STEM to free her from this condition?

To alleviate her own guilt and shame about all of this, Gertrude settled on that fantasy.

Perhaps if she discovered more about the mysterious STEM system–

She could turn Azazil from an ‘appliance’ and back into an independent human being.

It was this distant hope that allowed Gertrude to take a deep breath and speak again.

“I’ll accept you as you are, for now. I will accept that you are acting this way. But listen up and listen well, Azazil An-Nur– I don’t need your services in whatever perverse way you are implying. I need you to prove to me that you are able to act independently, that you can freely make your own choices as a person. Everyone on my ship agreed to be here. I am– I am adamantly against slavery. I will not so much as touch you until I am sure.”

“Adamantly against slavery– how curious. I’ll make a note of this.” Azazil said. “However, my condition is not slavery. Humans can be coerced into slavery. I was created to serve a purpose. I want to serve that purpose and I am happy to be given the opportunity.”

“If there is some way to free you from this condition, I will find it.” Gertrude said sharply.

For a moment, Gertrude caught what seemed like a twitch of Azazil’s eye.

However– it was so quick that it seemed like only her imagination.

Maybe she only wanted to see some kind of response.

“Very well, master. In such a matter and any others, of course, I will assist you.”

Gertrude sighed and slumped forward on the table. What an exhausting conversation!

After venting through a series of noises, she looked back at Azazil again.

“You have psionics, right? You understand your abilities to be psionic?” Gertrude asked.

“Correct.” Azazil replied.

“How can I know you are not controlling me using psionics?”

“If I have been doing that, do you believe it has been effective up to this point?”

“I can’t argue with that.” Gertrude said, with a grunt. “So–were you created to be psionic?”

“No.” Azazil said. She offered no candid asides nor any rhetoric to support her answer.

“What do you mean, no?” Gertrude asked, with mild but growing outrage.

“I was not created with psionic ability. That is not possible, as far as I know.”

“Where were you– created? Who created you? Elaborate a bit wouldn’t you?”

Azazil, with her small, wry, smile, answered the question exactly.

“I was created in Hephaestus Innovations Inc., Exafactory No. 4, in Turkiye, the seat of the Aer Federation. Turkiye is part of the internal polity known as the Nobilis Community. I was designed by Margery Balyaeva, with patented technology from Rita Angermeyer.”

That meant absolutely nothing to Gertrude. Just nothing but mush in the shape of words.

It was finally dawning on her that she was dealing with a relic from a lost civilization.

A perverse and horrid civilization that she was nevertheless now committed to chasing after.

Part of that chase would have to entail keeping Azazil aboard and enduring this for now.

Gertrude’s mind wandered to that hexagon of hexagons flag– what was she getting into?

And if she was committed to finding Eris at the bottom of all of this–

In what condition would she even find her?

Depth Gauge: 4581 meters
Aetherometry: Purple (Stable)

The Iron Lady descended, farther and deeper and darker into the abyss.

As its enormous hull navigated the encroaching spaces around it, all manner of creatures were disturbed, awakened, and scattered. Many of them were natural denizens of these lightless depths who knew to flee even the barest of hint of pursuit from something larger. Crustaceans on the cliffs scurried into holes only they knew of; slow-moving fish began to drift away from the steel leviathan; glowing jellies flexed their bells and jetted away.

Then– there were the creatures that could have been called unnatural denizens.

These continued to watch the descending ship with great interest.

Crab-like things with bubble-like missile packs on their backs readying to intercept.

Clusters of eyeballs trailed by tentacles, gathering and transmitting data.

Sentries with sleek, predatory bodies wolf-like and shark-like, larger than a power-armored human being, equipped with vibrating tungsten teeth and claws ready to charge.

Stand down and hibernate.

At once, the handful of drones in this abyss retreated to their hidden places once more.

Given psychic command by a superior with an actual will to determine fate.

From the barren cliffsides she watched the ship descend.

Casually resisting four hundred atmospheres of pressure, as if she had the Ocean’s mercy.

With a temporary body that was half aquatic, with a tail, hydrojets, fins.

And an upper body that was human, feminine, substantial in its musculature.

Grinning to herself, crossing her arms, narrowing eyes that could see clearly in the water.

I’m so curious, hominin. What are you doing here? In this mausoleum?

Watching them with the patience of a hunter amused at the sight of a coming sport.

Enforcer V of the Syzygy, The Wrath, referred to by her colleagues as ‘Ira.’

Unstimulated for an amount of years so great as to be a burden to recall.

Practically salivating at the prospect of the hominin diving into Aer’s own skin.

Let them enter the Great Tree Holy Land and see for themselves what Mnar holds!

I want to see their faces; I’m so curious what they will do with their final hours.

Will they find something that surprises me, before they die— or I kill them?

Surreptitiously, so as to avoid detection, Ira followed after the Iron Lady.

Toward the Agartha, and what little remained of the civilizations that preceded them.

Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.2]

Violet Lehner was a radical even among national socialists, but even she had to accept that in her system, money held a primacy that even influence could not always overcome.

Dealing with finances was the most unpleasant aspect of her management of the Reichskommissariat and going through the balance sheets, revenues, costs, was her most despised activity. It was unfortunately necessary, as the Reichkommissariat’s finances would be the final proof of her success or failure. Not her labor policy, not her purging of the corrupt liberals or returning order and stability: only cold and hard revenue numbers.

Kreuzung had gone through a prolonged period of waste, abuse and fraud that left much of its earning potential unrealized. Money had been thrown into pits like the ever-ballooning salaries of the K.P.S.D’s officers, cushy bureaucratic jobs for politician’s sons, and endless renovations to parks, thoroughfares and sports fields. While still crown jewel of Eisental, the layer of dust would take much effort to clean off Kreuzung. The K.P.S.D was shuttered; a variety of liberal politicians and their beneficiaries were parted with their wealth and scheduled to undergo public trials and execution; and several budgetary elements that were not useful to Violet’s aims were liquidated. In a few days Violet had secured tens of millions of reichsmarks in Kreuzung property and funds. But it was not enough to staunch bleeding; Violet needed to show she could improve the health of the patient.

That, in fact, she had the only real cure for the illness.

For this she needed real, recurring revenues. Key to her policies toward Rhineametalle and other corporations was financial subsidy. Violet conceded that she would help offset the demands of the labor union scheme through direct subsidies. All of the Rhinean corporations had enjoyed many years of aggressively stagnating wages and rising prices until their kettles boiled over and risked blowing up. Despite this many of them had balked at Violet’s solutions to the labor unrest. Many believed she had given up too much to the workers. This truculence could not be overcome with just influence; it had to be overcome with money.

She needed to prove that she was a better steward of the nation’s capital than the liberals were, by securing the revenue to placate the corporations and labor both, at least temporarily, so she could build up her power without either interfering. This meant she had to be careful to introduce measures that balanced both fortunes– an utter annoyance.

“When we take the rest of Eisental’s stations, there will be more expropriations anyway.” Magdalena suggested, clearly bored with talking about balance sheets. “There are liberals living cushy degenerate lives in Aachen and Stralsund whose wealth is already earmarked for confiscation. If we need more money, we could always sell or lease the properties forward to the corporations or to wealthy investors rather than keeping it for ourselves.”

Spoken like a discredited heiress to a major family. She knew something about money.

Not enough but something.

Violet glanced at Magdalena as if surprised she could do more than bark like an angry dog.

“Expropriations are a marker of instability. We can’t keep resorting to banditry forever.”

Nasser, seated at Magdalena’s side, crossed her arms and reiterated the actual reality.

None of the liberals had an endless amount of reichsmarks stashed away anywhere.

There was a finite capacity to armed robbery. Station politics did not make every liberal as rich as in Kreuzung, so there were diminishing returns on expropriation; and even for the most detestable liberals nobody would miss, there was always a trade of legitimacy and stability for every victim, no matter how small. Magdalena found it too easy to ignore this due to her origins. Violet and the Reichkommissariat had to transition to a semblance of order, and the sooner, the better, to get money moving hands once again.

“Nasser is correct. Right now, everyone in Rhinea is watching us like hawks to see if we fail; and because of our rhetoric we need to deliver security and economic stability. We have seized enough money to begin funding the National Socialist Labor Union scheme, which will be essential. That has bought us enough time for more reforms– but we will still need the reforms. Things have to change here.” Violet said. “It is not possible to keep running Kreuzung like a mafia den, whether the boss is Werner or whether it is us. We need order and normality; we need to increase production; and for both we need more money.”

“I have an idea for a somewhat unpleasant new investor.” Nasser said, crossing her arms.

“Oh, this ought to be good, if even you consider it unpleasant.” Magdalena said, grinning.

“I’m listening.” Violet replied simply, while looking down at her portable full of data.

Nasser tossed a hand through her hair slightly and smiled as if amused at herself.

“We should ask the Esoteric Order for direct investment. In fact, if the Esoteric Order could move its entire operations from Munich to Kreuzung, leasing expropriated property from us in the process, while also investing in personnel and bringing their fleet– it would solve a lot of problems. I understand this is not a simple task– but do we have anything to lose?”

Violet blinked, staring at Nasser. This was something of a surprise to her.

It had not occurred to her to further involve the Esoteric Order.

She was, in fact, de facto one of the leaders of the Esoteric Order now.

Based on the fuhrerprinzip, as a regional Reichskommissar, it was the Chairwoman of the Esoteric Order who had to listen to her and not the other way. But it was difficult to throw that weight around– Violet had made herself Reichskommissar and everyone else was for now just following along because she had resolved the ongoing crises. Trying to strong-arm the Esoteric Order now could just as easily result in them balking at her insolence.

“Magdalena, you were once part of the Blood Bund, right?” Nasser asked.

“Come now, that was a long time ago. My views have modernized.” Magdalena said.

“I am not calling you a racist– you have a unique perspective on our movement’s nature.”

Magdalena grinned as if her ego had been suitably flattered. “Ah, yes– there is a lot of friction and competition between people like the Blood Bund and the Esoteric Order. The Blood Bund, Neotribals, Traditional Fatherhood Front, those groups have the most simple and accessible ideas. They easily recruit young men by putting forward a narrative with simple enemies and outcomes– the Esoteric Order’s message is much stranger. You have to read to be attracted to the Esoteric Order, not just sate your wicked gut feelings.”

“But the Blood Bund and Traditional Fatherhood Front are not here.” Nasser said. “We are.”

“I understand.” Violet said. “We could sell it as opening Eisental up as an Esoteric front.”

“Indeed. The Esoteric Order has a lot of money, materiel and human capital.” Nasser said.

“True! We are its most powerful branch! Their resources should go to us!” Magdalena said.

An influence play with the Esoteric Order– if it succeeded, Violet would suddenly find her forces injected with a lot of money, additional manpower, technical and bureaucratic talent, and perhaps even some tidy additions to her fleet. It all depended on the pitch and whether the Chairwoman would accept her position. They had rarely spoken, she could count the times in her hands– Violet shared the ideology and the Esoteric Order explicitly supported her, but she didn’t need to show up for meetings to make use of their support. She had her own forces and acted on her own initiative while wearing the symbols, like a mascot.

The Esoteric Order was a tool that gave her legitimacy among a subset of fascists.

Access to militia, friendly logistical corridors, help with greasing palms and recruitment.

Because of who she was and who her sympathizers were, the Esoteric Order was the only faction that would support her. They in essence had done the preamble to the work she intended to finish– gathering fascist sympathizers outside the traditional demographics, in enough mass that the Blood Bund and other exclusive groups were forced to tolerate it.

Now, however, Violet had made a great leap– a branch of the Order ruling an entire region.

Could she dare to dream, even, of taking over the Esoteric Order completely at this stage?

“The Chairwoman was interested in helping organize the Zabaniyah. We might see eye to eye with each other more than we know.” Nasser said. “I would not make this suggestion if I did not think it would work– as much as I hate to share the glory with that bunch.”

Violet nodded her approval. “I’ll speak with the Chairwoman. We’ll see what happens.”

Magdalena raised hands behind her head and yawned, a bored expression on her black lips.

“In my opinion we should also see how much we get from the next round of expropriations. Where even are Hatta and Waldeck at right now? Where is Hadžić? Are any of them ready?”

“All of them are underway.” Nasser said. “We can’t expect results overnight.”

“I’m not.” Magdalena pouted. “I feel as though you think I’m an idiot.”

“Not at all. You are valuable for your abilities and in your capacity.” Nasser said calmly.

“She thinks I’m an idiot.” Magdalena turned a childish expression on Violet.

“Then show us all your learning and refinement and go organize the ORPOs.” Violet said, practically hissing disdain at Magdalena’s constant whining and pointing sharply at the door. “Bored of sitting around? We are preparing a sweep of the underground and you have experience with such things. Do note that you do not have carte blanche to slaughter all the homeless camps down there– just make sure the ORPOs don’t turn and run if their own shadows in the dark look too intimidating. I want an assessment on my desk tomorrow.”

Magdalena turned a sour look on Violet and then on Nasser as if expecting any sympathy.

Nasser shrugged at her with a particularly smug and cat-like expression.

Sighing, Magdalena stood up from her chair and left Violet’s office, looking rather gloomy.

“Vesna, are you threatened by her?” Violet asked. In front of her desk, Nasser grinned.

“Not at all. In fact, I do think she has become less racist. I should be asking you though.”

Violet smiled a little at that. “Don’t worry, my virtue will remain only yours to sully.”

With a preliminary plan for the next few days, Violet laid down her portable on the desk.

“I’ll be meeting with Volwitz, Rhineametalle and with the Esoteric Order.” She said.

She slumped back on her chair and sighed. Nothing was ever easy.

Nothing going forward would get any easier than it was even now. It would only get worse.

Through tired eyes, growing hazy, Violet looked on at the world around her.

That haze, tinged red like all the blood spilled and all the blood left to be spilled–

“Feeling the weight?” Nasser asked.

“I can handle it.” Violet replied, snapping out of her distraction. She sat up straight.

“I know you can. You’ve been through worse. But you are incredibly resilient.”

Violet felt her heavy heart eased ever so slightly by Nasser’s words.

Ever since she was a teenager, Vesna Nasser had been a supportive presence in Violet’s life. Nasser herself had been young when they met, albeit certainly older than Violet. Nasser was the one kindness that her father had ever afforded to Violet– a protector and keeper who could turn away her enemies, who managed her household, who found her opportunity in the world. Someone to strangle her to death should it become necessary– however, over time, the likelihood of being killed by Nasser grew fainter. Not because her father’s prerogatives ever changed but because Nasser herself would just not do it even if ordered.

Castaways in the world, their families destroyed, their futures compromised.

Until a fateful day, where a young Violet, a powerless captive without a name, said,

“Nasser, I want to be like you.”

Such was the pull of Destiny on the tiny, windswept candle flicker of a soul she had left.

I want to be strong like you.

I want to remake myself like you did.

I want to be feared like you are.

I want to be able to kill all of those who have wronged me.

Like you did.

She fell in love with Nasser; and her affection was returned.

From that painful past would spring the beautiful maelstrom of their future.

“Nasser, have I become like you?” Violet asked suddenly.

Nasser held her hand and answered with seemingly little time to ponder.

“I have nothing left to teach you, and now, I am always learning from you.” She said.

Violet felt gratified by the answer and relished holding the hand of her beloved.

She was not a scared child anymore.

Now, she was strong, feared, and had a power that would polish Imbria to a bloody sheen.

Several days after the Brigand’s departure from Kreuzung, the significance of which none of the Zabaniyah knew at the time; the Ritter-class Greater Imbria, the manta ray-like cruiser Mrudah, and a few supporting ships from the militia set off from Kreuzung. While the Mrudah was mysterious and eye-catching in design, and the Greater Imbria an already storied ship of a fine class, the militia vessels were boxy converted civilian designs.

One was a former container ship now carrying several dozen divers entombed within pods on its back, awaiting deployment; another an old refueler ship that served as a home base and supply vessel for the militia pilots; the third a mid-size passenger craft equipped with dozens of gas gun pods acting as a makeshift destroyer to intercept munitions on the fleet.

Underway to the destination in Aachen, the commander of the fleet, Standartenführer Imani Hadžić, ordered a review of the militias. Joining her in this task would be Sturmbannführer Heidelinde Sawyer, the star of the militia, and her adjutant, Rue Skalbeck. Sawyer underwent this inspection aware that she had received reinforcements who were on the young side; she had been told as much. The militia had been reluctant to spend its best men to assist Violet Lehner, who was not aligned with the factions that financially supported the militia.

However, what she saw when she stepped into the hall of the refueler ship shocked her.

Arrayed in neat rows before her, dressed immaculately in their uniforms, as if for parade.

Were a hundred or so teenage boys whose ages Sawyer could not have begun to guess.

All were shorter than her and only a few were formidable in their stature.

They knew how to stand all along the corridor of a ship in a disciplined formation.

Did they know how to fight, however? Sawyer’s heart was skipping beats.

Was she meant to preside over the slaughter of all these lambs?

When she asked for warriors to take up the crusade alongside her?

“Hmph. How interesting.” A cruel laugh.

Imani Hadžić walked out in front of the boys with an expression devoid of sympathy.

Standing beside her, Sawyer thought her eyes looked– hollow.

Mentally, Sawyer compared her to the only other Shimii she knew, Victoria–

And there was no comparison.

Victoria was a horrible little gnat, but there was no question that she had a warm heart in her chest. They had fought all the time, she had wanted to turn her into paste more than once, but that was feeling, they shared some kind of emotion. Hell– Sawyer might have even considered her almost like a friend, once upon a very long time. Maybe even more than friends– No— nothing like that of course– Sawyer was not like that at all–

Imani’s face however was so frighteningly devoid of even a bit of warmth.

When she grinned at the boys it was the cruelest expression Sawyer had ever seen.

Was she enjoying having all these kids in front of her? What would she do?

The two women in their uniforms stood quite formidable in front of these teenagers.

But in Sawyer’s mind this was nothing to savor. How would these kids be of any use?

“Heil. I am Standartenführer Imani Hadžić, your commanding officer. Congratulations: you must all be excited for a chance to contribute to the nation’s victory. If you are not, that is a pity– you will be thrown into the fire whether you object or whether you yearn for it. I suggest that you get used to two things in the sea: privation and death. Let me see all of you– ha ha, so small, but you can all pull on a stick right? You can press buttons?”

Imani made a gesture with her fingers as if highlight how diminutive she found the boys.

Though she herself was not so tall, in her position she may as well have towered over them.

She paced in front of the boys, tracing the length of their formation, hands behind her back.

Sawyer stood stone-faced, trying not to let her discomfort and disgust show.

Rue Skalbeck was silent a step behind and beside Sawyer, holding a portable computer.

What was the point of this? She hated these idiotic displays of rank.

Sawyer scanned across the faces of those assembled. Most had no expressions at all.

As Imani began to pace back from the other side of the assembled boys, however–

Sawyer caught one of the boys in the front putting on a face, averting his gaze.

Just as she did, Imani must have also. Her pacing sped until she stopped in front of him.

“Do you have anything to offer the class?” Imani said mockingly. “Or are you bored?”

For a moment the boy made eye contact with her. He broke eye contact quickly.

He scoffed at her, audibly, directly.

Maybe he fancied his chances. He was a bigger boy, heavier set than others.

Leaner, a bit taller, buzzed blond hair. He stood out just slightly from the others.

Like all the rest, however– he bled vividly red.

Without warning, Imani drew her truncheon and beat the boy beside the head.

One swift strike turned his legs to jelly and overturned the rest of him.

Hard enough that the crack of the impact reverberated across the hall.

Flecks of blood marred an adjacent boy who visibly struggled not to lose his composure.

In the second row, the boys backed up enough to allow the struck-down kid room to fall.

He came to settle on the floor, disoriented, making a motion as if lying down to bed.

Twitching as his eyes closed. Sawyer watched the scene play out with muted horror.

“Does anyone else have any objections? Anyone else want to be so brave? Are you against being commanded by a woman? Or by a Shimii perhaps? Are you against serving a faction of the Esoteric Order?” Imani looked around. Nobody replied. After the attack the boys restored their formation with a gap for their fallen comrade. Everything was silent for a moment save for breathing and the mechanical buzzing as Imani activated the vibration mechanism inside the truncheon, increasing its potential for internal injury. “You will find that the only thing that matters here is power. Whether or not you have a weapon, I can assuredly kill everyone in this room. None of you are old enough to gauge my power but rest assured, I am the deadliest soldier you have ever seen. That power of violence hangs over all of you. Let that be what drives you forward. Prove to me that you are good for anything, and perhaps your neanderthal parents will see you return a decorated soldier.”

Imani pointed her truncheon at one of the boys, whose eyes drew wide at the attention.

He said nothing and broke out into a nervous salute upon being acknowledged.

“You, boy– take your comrade to the infirmary. Whether or not he survives, you will be promoted from Kadet to Schütze from now on and have a semblance of command over this miserable lot. However, if he survives, you will be promoted one more time to Sturmmann, and he will be your adjutant. Do you have any objections?” Imani grinned again.

“N-N-no ma’am. I will do as you command unquestioningly and see to his recovery. Sieg Heil!” The boy saluted, and then dropped to the ground and lifted his fallen ally up as quickly as he could. It was clearly difficult for him to manage the wounded boy alone. Around him, the other boys very briefly stared at him but then returned their eyes forward.

Imani smiled as she watched him struggle. She turned to the rest.

“There are forty Sturmvolkers and a hundred of you.” Imani said. “Or I should say, there are thirty-nine available now. Be good little boys for me, and you will earn those combat spots and show the Blood Bund and Traditional Fatherhood Front that you are the big strong alpha men you were taught you would be. Show this Shimii woman that you can stand on your own. While the rest of you can support the brave warriors among you; not so glorious, but beta men are also necessary. As for me– remember well that this is a matriarchy. I do not need any of you but you need my good graces to survive. Learn to live under my heel.”

Laughing raucously, Imani turned her back on the boys and waved dismissively.

Sawyer could hardly stand the theatrics any longer and followed after Imani.

Stopping her near the bulkhead into the chute connecting the ships.

“Hadžić– Standartenführer, what are you doing? They are teenagers!”

Imani looked at her over her shoulder with narrowed, inexpressive eyes.

“Do you want a beating as well, Heidelinde?” She said in a tired monotone.

Sawyer tried to control herself. She thought of laying hands on Imani–

–but even she in her most wildest rage could see there was something in Imani.

An immense pressure that crushed whatever will to fight she could muster.

And left her paralyzed with– fear. It was fear. Unfathomable, sudden, intense fear.

That Shimii became as if a black– no– green–? a radiating icon of despair–

“Ma’am– with all due respect– this is not– we cannot–”

She could hardly finish a fraction of a sentence before Imani interrupted her.

“You are a member of the militia too– you know how things work, don’t you? Or maybe you are not cut out for politics. Of course, we were never going to get Rhinea’s finest. The Militia is being opportunistic– the reason we got these boys is as punishment to them, and leverage against their families. We are all being used. If you care about them then it is up to you to whip them into shape. You have a few days. Don’t let them disrespect you. All that they have known, all their lives, is that the one who beats them owns them. Do what you must.”

Without a word more and without letting a word in edgewise, Imani crossed the bulkhead.

Leaving Sawyer behind on the militia ship, her heart sinking with apprehension.

Whoever beats them, owns them.

Traditional Fatherhood Front– Blood Bund– Sawyer knew what it was like.

Not that her parents were ever part of those factions– but they acted like it.

She closed her fist, gripping so tight that she thought she might burst her own hand.

That crack from Imani’s baton as sharp in her mind now as the sounds of the beatings she herself had received, as a child, in school, in the military, all throughout her life. That first option taken to control her until it was taken near exclusively. She thought that the idea that she was now in the position of beating children as she was beaten was absurd and cruel and disgusting, and even worse that the children would be her main troops in this campaign.

However, she also knew, in the deepest, most helpless parts of her soul, that this was the tradition that she was fighting for. This is what she stood up for, this was the source of her power. It was a dark but inexorable part of the glory and triumph that the Volkisch Movement promised. Without this she had nothing. She would be nobody again.

Nothing but a speck in the shadow of all-mighty beasts like Imani Hadžić.

At her back, Rue Skalbeck drew close. She stood behind Sawyer and very close to her.

She could not show sympathy in front of the boys. But Sawyer appreciated her presence.

“It will be what it will be.” Sawyer said, feeling trapped. Cursing everything internally.

Was this truly the power she had struggled so hard to achieve?

One day after the Brigand’s arrival at Aachen–

In a dark cargo loading dock in Stockheim, a certain lieutenant shut her eyes with agitation.

Her fists clenched tight. Feeling a shudder across her skin. “Chief Petty Officer–”

At her side, a sprightly Loup woman lifted a finger and wagged from side to side.

“No, master! Rottenführer. Remember?” Her tail wagged twice as fast as her finger.

“Rottenführer.” The Lieutenant– or in this parlance, the Obersturmführer— felt her mouth turning sour saying that wicked word. She sighed. “I don’t think this uniform fits me.”

“Ah, but master, it is very close to your size! And it’s been meticulously prepared!”

She ran her hand over the collar, and pulled her tie, which felt like they might strangle her.

And the armbands, cutting her limb in half with their vile symbols.

“No– I mean– ideologically, it does not fit.” Her tone grew even more uncomfortable.

“Of course. I, too, am not a fascist. But I know you will agree to its operational usefulness.”

Unfortunately, yes– she had to agree that it would be exceedingly useful to the operation.

That is, if they could pull off the plan without being caught and throwing the whole thing.

Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather paused and adjusted Murati Nakara’s tie with a smile.

“That severe expression will do you good. Few Obersturmführer have reasons to smile.”

“Aatto– This had better be worth it, or I– I will put you on leave for a week.”

“On leave–? No–! Master, it will absolutely be worth it.”

Owing to the fact that Valeriya and Illya had a much more dangerous area to infiltrate, the mission to reconnoiter the Volkisch Gau office in Aachen was given to Murati and her too-loyal adjutant. Their stated objective was simply to ascertain the level of readiness and defenses of the Gau and whether they were making any overt combat preparations. Aatto had more ambitious plans, but Murati was dubious about the prospects. Initially she was worried they might be disqualified for such a mission immediately by their race.

North Bosporans were rare and dispersed within the Empire after the ethnic mass deportations that followed the failed General Strike. However, the Volkisch in Eisental were apparently an eclectic bunch with Shimii leadership. Aatto herself assured the Volksarmee that among the broader Volkisch movement, outside of factions like the Blood Bund, it was not impossible for there to be Loup, Volgian, Bosporan and even Eloim membership. Aatto and Murati would not stick out just because of race if they wore the uniform.

“I worked for the Rhinean Navy and transitioned seamlessly to the Volkisch, master.”

“Great. Good for you. Now– stop calling me ‘master’ already.”

Race was only the most basic and surface level worry Murati had about the mission.

In her mind, they had agreed to walk into a fortress of the enemy.

No– not merely a fortress. A charnel house; a torture chamber. In Murati’s mind the Gau office must have been like hell itself, a vile shelter where all the most unspeakable crimes against humanity and dignity were being carried out. Bestial people without logic or compunction would be there and they would see through Murati’s ruse immediately.

She was a person with correct and righteous thoughts and bearing.

They would see that she was not a participant in their bacchanalia.

“Master, this is an unprecedented opportunity for us.” Aatto assured her. “While this Gau remains new and understaffed, it is vulnerable. We could snag the details of their plans for the station government and even the local logistics picture without incurring too much risk!”

“Too much risk relative to what? Risk of burning if I spark a lighter while doused in oil?”

“I understand your caution– you are of course, a highly observant and deliberate person.”

“Ugh. Quit flattering me. Don’t act so disgusting when we’re in public.”

To avoid being seen walking out of the ships dressed in Volkisch Uniforms, the Brigand discretely requested the assistance of sympathetic (and entrepreneurial) Stockheim sailors to smuggle them out. To all the world, they walked out of the Brigand in their ordinary uniforms, went down a corridor into Stockheim, and that was that. Instead, however, they were led to a cargo elevator, a popular entryway for smuggling. They changed clothes into the captured uniforms by the dim light of an LED panel and pretended to be coming in for an inspection, after which, they simply left Stockheim as anyone else would.

And then entered Aachen as a pair of Volkisch officers, with forged IDs to boot.

“Aren’t they authentic? Being an intelligence officer has many perks, master.”

Aatto had been indispensible. This mission would not have happened without her.

When she suggested the idea, the captain initially balked and the commissar accused Aatto of wanting to set a trap– however, Aatto had made so many preparations up front that the idea felt genuine. She had written up detailed materials on Volkisch conduct within the Gau offices, typical shift compositions, and even printed several items and modified others using a stitcher machine; sans certain specific security implementations on the items which not even Aatto could replicate. She had done everything to make the mission viable.

“The Aachen Gau office has been a token administration with a skeleton crew for months. Violet Lehner will likely accelerate its expansion now. We have a narrow window to exploit.”

Framed in that way, and with all the preparations she made, and the more that she was capable of, the Captain and Premier overruled the Commissar’s concerns and allowed the mission to go forward. While they were busy preparing for the United Front talks, several members of the crew were running away missions, and Murati would be no different.

“Aatto– did you spend so much effort to authentically modify this uniform because–”

“Master, my motivation is to impress my new officers and prove my worthiness.”

Not because she wanted to see how Murati looked in the black uniform?

Murati glared at her but ultimately sighed and accepted things.

None of the uniforms they had captured were higher ranking than Rotteführer.

Aatto had somehow freestitched correct markings on a captured uniform to identify as an Obersturmführer, roughly translated to Murati’s senior Lieutenant role. Both Kalika Loukia and Khadija al-Shajara, who were resident experts in clothing design, thought Aatto’s embellishment looked extremely authentic to the intelligence photography they had previously collected of various Volkisch uniforms. The garments passed a visual predictor scan from Zachikova– even the colors were matching hues to a typical uniform.

Aatto must have committed all of these small details to memory. She was incredibly sharp.

Her labors meant they had the intelligence, equipment and means to carry out their mission.

When Murati looked at her, she did feel that Aatto was being sincere in her behavior.

Against her better judgment, she would trust her new adjutant and pursue this task.

“Aatto, you did not use any tricks to convince the captain, did you?” Murati asked.

“Hmm? Master, the Captain is immune to volshebtsvo.” Aatto said, smiling gently.

Murati sighed deeply. She ran her hands over her face with exasperation.

“We will scout the place and leave at the first sign of trouble.” She said, resigning herself.

“Of course. I will follow you orders to the letter. You will see my professionalism at work.”

Thus– the course of fate brought them into the City of Currents dressed all in black.

And wearing some unsavory armbands and uniform decorations.

Murati took her first steps into Aachen in the guise of the Obersturmführer. She had come up with the name Ami Ravana for her assumed identity, while Aatto took on the identity of Ilma Suomi-Fertilefield. Their cards were real as far as they had the correct template for a Volkisch ID and included pictures and false personal data. They had chips in them too, taken from the cards of the soldiers Murati killed, but the data in those chips would be recorded as the men who once held them, so it would be easy for anyone to look at the records after the fact and realize the infiltration. As soon as they saw a door that required swiping their IDs they would need to consider the risks before doing so and escape shortly thereafter.

“Aatto– I mean, Ilma. Is it just me or are people staring?” Murati whispered.

“No, they are staring. You’ll get used to it.” Aatto confirmed.

Under the massive atrium at the base of the Aachen central cylinder, a crowd of people shot passing glances at Murati and Aatto as they entered the station from Stockheim. When Murati met anyone’s eyes in passing they would immediately tear their gaze from her. That uniform, the black jacket, the armbands, the jackboots– it was a symbol that inspired terror in everyone around them. Murati felt something that she was very unfamiliar with.

In the Union her uniform was something that was common and ignored, most of the time, but there were a few people for whom the uniform was something to admire and respect. Particularly among very young people and very old people, Murati would occasionally get a smile or a wave or even a cheer as she went about her days in Thassal.

There was no such cheer in Aachen.

All of the staring, at her uniform and the peaked cap, was critical, nervous, and fearful. They walked through the crowds like a knife plunged in skin, a deepening wound. Nobody would even dare come close, minding at least half an arm’s distance from the pair. Everyone was aware of them. Murati had never felt more seen by the people around her than donning this uniform. She had to steady her breathing and make herself remain calm. Some part of her, inexperienced with such clear animosity all around her, wanted to panic and flee.

When such feelings struck her– she adjusted her cap, marked with an iron eagle in front.

For something to do with unsteady fingers. It dispelled some of the stress.

Aachen was a very beautiful station. The Atrium area reminded Murati of the Bubble in Thassal but many, many times larger and more spacious and much more lavishly designed. Its beautiful centerpiece and the sweeping paths around it to the various platforms containing shops and businesses; Murati had to admit it was stunning, almost otherworldly in its intricacy, like a planetarium filled with commercial spaces– but it was also undoubtedly a waste of space. There had to be an allowance for some beauty, for some creativity, in designing homes and workplaces, but this was too much. Building Aachen this way precluded the possibility to allow in so many thousands of people, maybe hundreds of thousands. A more enclosed and simpler tiered space could retain some of the beauty and color but allow for more people to live and work and have a place in the station.

Murati had seen a few different locations in the Imbrian Empire now.

Each time she felt, in the sight of the grandiose architecture,

–that the Empire’s rulers loved metal more than they could ever love people.

That the aesthetics of the metal was much more a concern than its use by human beings.

Turning her head down from the high-rising atrium, Murati led Aatto to the elevators.

Their destination was in the second tier of the cylinder, above this particular atrium. The Core Station of Aachen had a massive vertical commercial district as its base, and above it, there was a shorter, smaller tier that contained facilities, a park and the access points for maintenance work. Above that central tier there was a second, smaller commercial district that played host to its own centerpiece atrium, and at the highest tier, was an exclusive high-class residential area that also housed several government facilities. Much like Kreuzung, this highest tier also had its own small seaport for luxury vessels like yachts.

Below the Aachen cylinder there was also an underground area, but that was not Murati’s concern for now. She touched the button on the elevator’s control panel corresponding to the central tier and joined the dozens of other elevators moving up and down the chutes from one level to the next. Inside the elevator, Aatto set her back against the wall and wagged her tail gently. The two of them let themselves breathe now. There was no surveillance inside the public elevators so they had a moment to relax.

“What’s on your mind?” Murati said to her. Mainly to try to get out of her own mind.

She expected Aatto would respond with something frivolous and headache-inducing–

And found herself a bit surprised at how candid her adjutant became.

“I was thinking about this uniform.” Aatto said, pulling on her collar patch. “When I started working, I was inducted into the Rhinean Navy. They trained me well and I’d never have to go home again so it felt like a good deal. I had a talent for intelligence work. Then the Volkisch took over. So, I worked for them, in the same office, doing the same things as before. Tagging CCTV footage, reviewing computer logs, chasing down sources, assisting arrests. It never meant much to me. Back then I told myself it was all the same thing.”

“At some point you decided to rebel against the Volkisch, didn’t you?” Murati asked.

“On a whim– I think more than anything I just wanted to see things change. I was not a good person like you, master.” Aatto said. “For so long everything has been the same for me. Whatever abuses I suffered or even any I inflicted had already been circularly carried out untold millions of times already. I wanted to overturn things. To cause chaos. I thought the liberals would have such fury for the Volkisch that they would shake the earth. In the end nothing happened, and I gave up the hope– and you captured me after that.”

Murati laughed a bit, both at Aatto’s almost whimsical selfishness, but also at the very idea.

Liberals never fought for anything– but when they did it was some form of status quo.

“You picked the wrong group for chaos. Did they ask you for some chaos donations to their chaos campaign? How has chaos polled recently? Did it perform well at the election debate?”

She had some sympathy for Aatto, but to her, it read as a foolishly uninformed fantasy.

Aatto shared a little laugh with Murati as the elevator ride wound on.

“Yes– I see my errors from the reading I am doing now. Truth be told I hardly understood the nuances separating liberals and communists. All I saw were symbols and slogans. I am glad to have met you master. I wear this uniform again as part of a rebellion that matters.”

Aatto smiled at Murati and Murati felt that it was the return of her pointless flattery again.

Murati was not upset with Aatto, but rather, she suddenly felt uncomfortable about her role.

Here was a somewhat unformed being who wanted so badly to be shaped by someone. She had been abandoned by the world. Had it not been Murati, would Aatto have made herself the perfect servant of a far more horrible ‘king’? Was there something inherently wrong about someone being so malleable; was it an overreach of Murati’s to take this ‘pure’ vessel and allow it to be influenced so thoroughly by her own thoughts? Should she not attempt to make Aatto an individual again, rather than trying to shape her like this?

Individual– that was a loaded word in leftist politics, but teaching Aatto and trying to right her course, made Murati challenge her own thinking more. It was easy to speak to her own convictions with the implicit knowledge that someone would push back. Being accepted uncritically made her feel as though she was transgressing in some way.

As if she was violating Aatto with her certitude.

It made Murati wonder if she was truly fit for her own military and political ambitions.

At times she wondered whether what she was doing really constituted good communist thought and praxis. She once attacked the world with unyielding conviction that she was the most correct. Now that she was responsible for those ideas and their expression in someone else, it made her second-guess herself. Was she teaching Aatto ‘right’?

Should she be the teacher?

In her mind, Aatto was like a pupal insect being dipped in Murati’s red ink.

Could Murati bear the sight of the crimson butterfly that might emerge from that cocoon?

What if she went astray? Would that condemn Murati and her beliefs?

What if Aatto’s wings, heavy with the ink forced on her, suddenly dropped her to oblivion?

It was different from the mecha pilots– they had come to Murati with formed convictions.

Giving orders to soldiers was different from teaching someone how to view the world.

Far, afar above the rank of Lieutenant on a ship, there was the rank of a Leader, writ large.

Had Murati ever been on some level the same as Aatto now was? She wondered that too.

Murati had devoured the writings of her own leaders studiously– their words formed her.

How did Daksha Kansal or Bhavani Jayasankar bear raising whole nations in this manner?

Could Murati take the place of those righteous predecessors who were responsible for her?

“Master– I mean, Obersturmführer. We have arrived. The Gau won’t be too far from here.”

Aatto’s voice and the opening of the elevator doors shook Murati out of her brooding.

There was no time to resolve that now– it could not be resolved so instantly.

She had to trust in herself, and in Aatto as well. Aatto did have some conviction.

After all, she had chosen to follow Murati.

There was only so much worrying she could let herself do on someone’s behalf.

Regardless of the philosophy and the hypotheticals–

At that moment Murati could only put one foot before the other and carry out her mission.

Her hands reached up to her peaked cap and adjusted it once again.

“Aatto, I just wanted to say that I am sorry.”

“Hmm? For what, master?”

“I thought of you as a thing– an object, in the abstract. It wasn’t right of me.”

“Um. I am not sure I–”

“Don’t worry. Let’s get going. Just– you’re doing good so far. Keep it up.”

Murati stepped out of the elevator, trying to keep up the black-iron bearing of a fascist.

Aatto followed behind her, with initially hesitant steps.

But she caught up quickly, and then, she kept the pace silently and seriously.

From the elevator banks, they exited out onto the main thoroughfare through the park. It was the biggest shock of bright green color Murati ever had in her life; she did not know where in the Union she might see something like this outside of a paint mill. There were several trees planted in dirt and media plots that were being chemically maintained. They were tall, bushy, and bright. Signs on the tree plots warned the passersby to stay off the dirt or be fined. There were so many trees and the design of the tier, with a lower ceiling, more sunlight LED clusters and stronger climate controls and air circulation, meant that they did not need to be sealed in individual bubbles and could stand out amid the paths.

There were benches where people could sit, some of which were located under the branches of the bigger and older trees. Surprisingly few people took advantage of this. Perhaps to them, the trees were such a normal sight now that the modest crowd merely glanced at them as they walked the paths. Murati had to pretend not to be stunned. With the park as a starting point the structures of the tier fanned out from it. Murati saw container parks and garages in the distance, fenced off. There were office buildings and their workers seemed to make up most of the foot traffic, on their way to and from lunch in the lower district.

At the far end of the park, Murati spotted the fascist flag marking their destination.

Stepping out of the shade of the trees, into the shadow of the Aachen Gau office.

Save for the flag, the building was nothing so terrifying, just a metal and plastic rectangle, two stories high and blending into the walls of Aachen’s middle tier. It was an office building, like any other office building save perhaps for the deeds it sheltered inside of it. Six steps from the ground level took the entrant to the lobby door; there was also a plastic ramp. Long, inscrutable glass windows and the darkened glass doors allowed those in the Gau to see out to the world but no one outside to look back at them.

It was the silence and lack of activity that made the Gau office look particularly eerie. Unlike the nearby offices, nobody had come in or out of the building since Murati and Aatto began to approach it, and nobody was sitting on the steps or meandering outside it. Whether this spoke to its lack of occupants or the discipline of those inside Murati did not know and Aatto could only guess. Perhaps that vile flag served to ward ordinary people away from the place as well. Murati felt her heart pounding. Would it be too conspicuous for them to try to visit the office now? What if it was almost abandoned, or even closed off entirely?

“Aatto, should we just step in? Do they even take visitors?” Murati asked.

Aatto nodded her head. “It’s a government office, master– they are supposed to handle permits and IDs and such. In Aachen, there’s still the liberal government providing services for now– but still, even in a complicated situation the Gau must maintain the pretense that it is the legitimate government of the station. We should be able to just walk inside.”

“Alright. I’ll lead the way– but you better be right, you know that?” Murati whispered.

“Something wrong? Can I assist you officers?”

From behind both of them, a woman’s voice rose up suddenly.

Murati froze up for an instant. At her side, Aatto glanced at Murati for a brief moment.

Expected to play the part of leader, Murati made herself turned around quick but calm.

Coming face to face with a seemingly formidable character all of a sudden.

“Obersturmführer, and Rotteführer– I’m Rahima Jašarević. Pleased to meet you, herr–?”

“Ami Ravana. This is my assistant Suomi-Fertilefield. It is our pleasure, milord.”

Despite the suddenness of the intrusion and Murati’s initial reaction to it, she found that her voice was not failing her when it came time to address the woman, and that her hands were not trembling when they shook Rahima’s. Maintaining outward composure despite the drumming in her chest, hoping the deep pulses did not transfer through the black gloves on her hands. On the steps to the Gau Murati held the gaze and hand of an important guest.

There was no turning back now.

Rahima Jašarević– a tall woman, her uniform was tailored to an exacting standard, fitting her frame perfectly and Murati guessed it was even natural fibers. All in black, the double-breasted coat buttoned over a white collared shirt with black pants and high boots. Pinned to her ample chest was a gold medal with a black hooked cross and a red and white tassel. A gold chain over her chest connected to a patched-in silver shield badge with a sword and moon sigil, situated on the side of the forearm close to the shoulder. She wore two armbands, one with the hooked cross and the second with the black sonnenrad.

Her manner was initially imperious, but when she met Murati’s eyes she smiled a bit.

Despite the fascist implements Murati had to admit that she was a comely woman, her light-brown skin unblemished, a hint of shadow and eyeliner on an otherwise unmanicured expression, with a long, sleek nose. She was tall and broad-shouldered, and her hair fell over her shoulders, swept away from her eyes on one side and with orderly bangs on the other. Some of it was collected into a braid on the side with the swept-up bangs. Her ears were tall and straight and trimmed with a fluffy tuft of fur on the tips, and her tail was bushy.

Murati had the immediate impression that she was shaking the hands of someone powerful.

However, the armbands, the medals, the arm shield, these said nothing about her rank.

There were no pips on her collar, nor lines on her lapel or shoulderboards to indicate rank.

That impression of power came from her demeanor and presence as Murati observed it.

She thought of trying to ask Aatto telepathically what rank this woman supposedly had.

However, Rahima was staring straight into her eyes. What if she saw the red rings?

Because she had been caught off-guard, she had not yet chanced to study Rahima’s aura.

“Forgive me, I had gone on a walk to clear my head.” Rahima said. “Did I happen to miss an appointment?” She let go of Murati’s hand and then quickly shook hands with Aatto instead.

“Not at all, mein herr. We just happened to arrive now.” Murati said.

“Indeed, herr Gauleiter, you are right on time.” Aatto said.

She gave Murati the briefest glance as she spoke.

Now Murati knew the rank.

In front of them stood the highest political leader of the Volkisch locally within Aachen. Their Gauleiter, an old High Imbrian rank revived by the reactionary intelligentsia that literally meant land leader. Each Gau was ruled over by a Gauleiter as their fiefdom.

Not only that– but she was also a Shimii Gauleiter. They put a Shimii in charge here.

Something unprecendented as far as Murati knew. The Zabaniyah’s agenda at work.

Aatto recognized her rank. Aatto had informed them of the Zabaniyah. Did she know her?

Murati felt a fresh shock work its way through her system, suppressing it with all her will.

Rahima Jašarević was a seriously and extremely dangerous person to have met.

However, they had shaken hands and breached the matter of their acquaintance.

Regardless of how Murati felt the game was on. Their uniforms had passed muster.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ravana, Suomi-Fertilefield. Unless something has come up while I was away, my schedule should be clear. While I intended to work at my leisure, I am at your disposal. We could talk inside or out. Whichever you prefer.” Rahima said.

From what Murati could make out, Rahima did not seem to be armed.

Murati and Aatto were not armed either. They were not masquerading as combat troops.

Right now, they had an opportunity.

Rahima could lead them inside and give them an ironclad excuse into the depths of the building. Depending on the layout of the Gau office and where Rahima took them, they might be able to get access to useful records. Murati had already come up with a decent cover story. However, this was also their last chance to run away without obstacle. Once they followed Rahima inside, escaping her grasp would become a messy affair.

So far, she had neither balked at their races, nor at the state of their disguises.

Nothing ventured; nothing gained.

“We have walked a ways already– given the choice, I’d prefer inside, herr Gauleiter.”

Aatto nodded along to Murati’s suggestion. Rahima nodded at them.

“This way, please. Follow me.” Rahima said.

She walked past Murati and Aatto and through the double doors, tail swaying gently.

Past the doors, there was a small lobby, sparsely decorated, with an impression of brown wallpaper, a false wooden counter, and a green carpet on the floor. Chairs on one side, for those waiting. It was a lobby that seemed to presume few people would ever visit the building. There were vacant spots on the walls that were clearly empty holographic picture frames projected onto them. There was a fake plastic plant with white flowers.

Behind the counter there was a bored-looking teenage girl.

When she caught sight of the Gauleiter she put down a small portable slate and sat upright.

“Milord! Welcome back! I hope you had a really awesome walk!” She said.

By her voice and stature Murati thought the receptionist had to be underage.

“It was lovely, Wiebke.” Rahima said. “No one came in while I was out, I presume?”

Behind the glass shield on the counter, Wiebke shook her head vigorously.

“Nope! Uh! If I saw someone I would obvies let you know!” She said.

Her little black beret with its black sonnenrad badge nearly fell off her head.

“Very well. Keep up the good work.” Rahima said. Another little smile on her lips.

Rahima stepped up to the door out of the lobby and pressed her hand on the wall.

Easily as that, the door opened, leading into a dark brown hallway.

“When you leave, remind Wiebke to lock it behind you.” Rahima said gently.

Murati could hardly believe how casually the Gauleiter had allowed them inside.

Without so much as a glance askance Murati followed behind Rahima, Aatto alongside.

Behind them the door shut again.

From the lobby, a hallway with a few closed doors opened up into a broader room. There were a dozen cubicles in the room under yellow-and-white sunlamp LEDs, with the fake brown wallpaper a continuing aesthetic theme. The cubicles were divided by cheap white plastic dividers enclosing each space. There were plastic stick-notes put up everywhere on those plastic dividers. All manner of hand-written chicken scratch had been laid thickly upon each and Murati could not understand them. In the Union there was almost never cause to read someone’s handwriting in a work setting. Beyond the cubicles there were two other hallways, and a small nook with a coffee machine and a snack table.

“Where were you stationed before, Obersturmfuhrer?” Rahima asked.

An easy question to foresee that Murati and Aatto already worked out answers to.

“My tasks have required me to remain on the move, milord.” Murati said.

“I see. In your travels, have you seen a smaller Gau office?” Rahima asked.

By her tone Murati figured she was making small talk. She did not sound too serious.

“I’m afraid I’ve hardly seen Gau offices of any size, milord.” Murati said.

“Understood. This one is barely established– that’s my job now.” Rahima said. “I am wondering– were you sent here to assist us in expanding operations? Most of my subordinates are recruits. I assume I would have heard of you being assigned here.”

Her tone was still not confrontational, but the choice of words caused a spike in anxiety.

“I’m afraid I am still only passing, milord, and will not be remaining here.” Murati said.

“We are part of an oceanographic survey, milord.” Aatto added. “For the logistics corps.”

Rahima held a long pause. Murati dared not look at her face while their words settled.

Then there was a sound of sliding plastic from one of the cubicles that interrupted them.

From around a corner that they were about to turn, a young woman stepped out in front.

“Forgive me, lord Gauleiter! I– can I– may I request your assistance in a certain matter?”

She was another Shimii, a skinny girl with short, curly blond-hair and very fluffy golden ears between which she wore a garrison cap. Of course, emblazoned with a hideous sonnenrad like the rest. Compared to Rahima, she was a diminutive girl, and her demure posture in front of the Gauleiter served to accentuate the differences even more strongly. She could well have been another teenager, but Murati read her as someone of age, perhaps only barely. It led her to wonder why so many young people were wrapped up in this.

“Let me take a look.” Rahima said, beckoning the girl.

From the girl’s dainty hands, she took a portable computer.

On the screen there was a form with several fields and a lot of numbers.

Something to do with finance or inventory– Murati did not want to appear too interested.

“I’m– I’m not able to get it through the computer’s error correction–” the girl began.

“It’s not passing error correction because it’s wrong.” Rahima said. “Did you double check that you applied the correct formulas? Or you might have plugged in the wrong set from the databases into the final form. I don’t have time for this right now; but I can look later.”

Rahima handed back the portable to the girl. She spoke calmly; she did not appear upset.

Nevertheless, the girl bowed her head and apologized–

“Shimii do not bow their heads. Don’t bow to me or anyone.” Rahima said sternly.

She reached out and with her fingers gently lifted the girl’s chin, so their eyes met again.

“Yes– I’m so sorry lord Gauleiter– I just feel so– after I got this nice job–”

Rahima looked upon the stuttering girl with great pity, as the girl looked back in terror.

“It’s fine. We can work on the numbers later. We have all the time in the world.”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. Thank you for your great kindness.”

Despite Rahima’s attempts, when the girl scurried back to her cubicle, she was still shaking.

Murati watched the whole scene silently.

Turning over Rahima’s words in her head– and everything she knew about the situation.

How did they have ‘all the time in the world’ to get the Gau’s paperwork straight?

Why did Rahima so casually endure these young and incompetent subordinates?

Wasn’t the operation of a Gau more important than this? Wasn’t it more urgent and dire?

Hadn’t she just earlier said that her task was to see to the expansion of this Gau?

She was unsure of whether this was owed to Rahima’s character– or that of the Gau itself.

“Forgive her. She’s a– provincial girl. But she is a fast learner.” Rahima told Murati.

Murati nodded silently. The Gauleiter led them past the cubicles down another short hall.

Briefly, Murati glanced back at Aatto.

Her adjutant looked stoic and professional, following behind without expression.

When she met Murati’s eyes, she put on a very small and very quick smile.

Murati furtively returned her eyes to the Gauleiter’s back.

“This is my office. We can discuss matters here without anybody listening.” Rahima said.

Laying her hand on a panel near the door, Rahima opened it and welcomed them in.

Her office was only a bit more furnished and decorated than other rooms they had seen, false green wallpaper and projected tapestries with fascist symbols on the walls.

Amid the falsity, Murati’s eyes were drawn to a shelf of physical books. Recent treatises on demand-side economics; fundamentals of the liberal enlightenment written in the 800s After Descent, during the crisis of the Late Nocht dynasty and the economic decline of the Dukes; pop science about the late Surface era crisis and the source of the corruption, likely all junk; more than anything there was a variety of Shimii clerical work both Rashidun and Mahdist. Nestled among all these works, and sticking out slightly, was Adam Lehner’s own book, “The Art of Struggle in the Enlightened Age.” When Murati arrived in Kreuzung, among the many little things she read once she had access to Imperial networks and time with which to read, were various pieces of Volkisch ideology. This risible volume by the so-called Fuhrer was the largest and most influential collection of fascist bilge.

“Admiring my bookshelves? Are you a reader yourself Obersturmfuhrer?” Rahima asked.

“Yes. I’m curious whether anyone would object to your ‘collection.’” Murati asked.

“Because of the liberal books in it? Well, it’s important to understand everything I can.”

“Really? Would you put Mordecai on that shelf too?” Murati asked suddenly.

Shuddering under her skin. Aatto averted her gaze. Had she had gone too far now?

But a fellow fascist would question this, surely? All the liberalism on display?

Rahima simply smiled as if amused.

“I’m afraid I have not had the opportunity to read Mordecai, but that is not to say I am not interested. Obersturmfuhrer Ravana, being open-minded will give you insight into anyone whom you must defeat, or anyone whom you must befriend. You can still keep your goal, and your prey, in sight, while learning from them. Remember this well.”

She reached out and poked Murati in the chest, before taking her place behind her desk.

It was a fake wooden desk, upon which there was a tidy plastic divider with a few folders of stonepaper sheets– so much pulpwork for a computerized operation. In the middle of her desk, she kept a fold-out portable computer with its own screen, likely because the fake wood desk was not equipped with a touchscreen capable of serving as a thin client display.

“Now then, how can I assist you two? What is this survey about?” Rahima asked.

“We apologize that we could not communicate preemptively.” Aatto said, speaking up.

“I am afraid this is common enough not to be worth apologizing for. I’ve received little communication from Kreuzung on all manner of things so I can just add your situation the pile. They are busier with show trials than giving direction to their upstart Gau.” Rahima said.

“Then the situation has little changed since we last got on a boat. Pity that.” Murati said.

Since Rahima was being aggrieved she would pretend to be similarly aggrieved.

Both of them could be put-upon civil servants of the fascist bureaucracy together.

“Before I joined the movement I was an oceanographer.” Murati said, speaking with ease her rehearsed excuses. “Since then, I have been working with the logistics corps. We are very few in number– me and my adjutant have been running around in a great haste. We specialize in testing the agarthic salt levels and pseudo-ion reactivity in the water. Both are very important to the wear and tear on jets and piping in ships. Skilled water management, and the right data, can extend the lifespan of a supply ship by as much as twenty percent and dramatically improve maintenance efficiency. And we need every pfennig we can get.”

Murati did not have to wait long for the reaction to her pitch.

Rahima was clearly a good listener, and thus a quick responder to speech.

“Too true. Is my input required for this? If you need any access, I’ll see what I can do.”

“We were hoping to take a quick look at your environmental records before we started in the hopes that the data is current. With oceanography nobody takes it seriously enough, but I am hoping Aachen at least ran a survey every five years. As you may know, pseudophysical data is released by request for commercial bodies but not public.” Murati said.

It helped that Murati was married to an oceanographer and heard similar spiels from her.

“I’m unfamiliar with such things, but my staff can help you fetch any data.” Rahima said.

“Many thanks.” Murati said. “We also of course visit here today as a measure of respect.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t mind having my toes stepped on. I’ve been in your situation.”

“For us, we need to make sure to request permission rather than forgiveness.” Murati said.

“Ah yes– the fuhrerprinzip. Well, you have my permission, Ravana.” Rahima said.

So far, so good. But the office was in such disarray that the bounty might be minimal.

Even if they got access to some unsecured computers, or ran off with a box of files, would anything be worth the trouble? How much data was being kept in this office versus some server in Kreuzung? Would they even have anything useful for a war, like intelligence sources or planned logistics routes or force dispositions? Nevertheless, the gambit had not been for nothing– Murati felt she had some much more valuable questions and answers about the Volkisch in Aachen now. She answered the basic question of their current posture.

“It’s interesting that the Reichkomissar would allocate resources for this.” Rahima said.

“The Reichskommissar is very data driven.” Murati said, a quick and vague excuse.

Her blood started to run hot again. As it did whenever Rahima seemed to contradict her.

“True! You know, I actually had the exact same impression when I first spoke to her.” Rahima said. “She already had thoughts about the local economy in Aachen and the situation with organized labor in Stockheim. Threw around a lot of numbers as she spoke. I was quite impressed– I suppose that this survey is just another part of her meticulousness.”

Once again, the tension in her chest lifted one it was clear Rahima was not too skeptical.

Rahima opened up her computer and began to type into the integrated keyboard.

After booting it up, she typed a bit more, then sat back, shut her eyes and sighed.

Aatto and Murati respectfully observed her silence for a few minutes.

Murati hoped dearly to be dismissed and allowed near some data to steal, but–

–instead, Rahima lifted her gaze again and fixed Murati a strong look.

“Ami Ravana– would you have time for a bit of small talk?” She said.

“Of course, milord.”

She just had to internalize what it meant to be a fascist and she could easily keep up a chat.

From her own readings, and from Aatto, Murati had learned a lot about the Volkisch.

By now she knew enough about them that she could distill it through her own personality.

As she made a good communist student, she could pretend to be a good fascist student.

“Why did you choose to join the Volkisch Movement, Ravana? You, a North Bosporan?”

In an instant, it was as if Rahima had stricken with a hammer the glass of Murati’s façade.

Her mind raced to procure any semblance of a respponse.

That was the question, the ultimate question anyone would have asked– and to be asked by of all people a Shimii, who joined the Volkisch Movement herself despite everything that had happened to her people. It was a question Murati had little answer for, a question that puzzled her. What could possibly be fascism’s attraction to the minorities that had spent hundreds of years under the heels of the Imbrian Empire? How was it that they saw fascism, led by Imbrians, in solidarity with brain-dead racists like the Blood Bund, and thought that not only would they be welcome, but that they would be helped? To Murati it was self-evident that it was an incoherent set of excuses for convenient mass violence.

How was the party-state different from the Imbrian Empire? How was the fuhrerprinzip any different from the divine right of a king? Could they not see the empty promise of a One Volk? Furthermore, how was it that Shimii were now part of the so-called Volk?

How could Rahima become a Gauleiter?

In that room in that instant Murati was not going to decipher any of these questions.

Reaching deep inside of her heart, she thought, genuinely, about her own position.

Why would she ever become a fascist? What would it take to drive her to that?

“National Socialism presented the only way I could overcome my powerlessness.”

She was vague in her words– but there was a painful history behind them.

In the Union it was easy not to think of herself as a racial subject, vulnerable to depredation.

However, over twenty years ago, in the living memory of many people and even herself as a small child, the Imbrian Empire decided the vast majority of North Bosporans had to be lifted from their namesake place in the north of Bosporus to the far southern colonies. They were already a small people, in the grand scheme of Aer’s races, not very fecund, and heavily concentrated. In an instant they were made slaves almost to the very last man, woman and child. Only those who were connected and wealthy and exceedingly loyal, the collaborators, the snitches, the compradors, only they were spared and remained in Imbria.

North Bosporans, as a mass culture, now existed largely only in the Union.

Aatto had told her that the Volkisch would allow a North Bosporan into their ranks.

Much as they had allowed her, a Loup, to continue working for them.

And as they recruited Rahima to a supposedly high position of power in their organization.

Murati found her dishearteningly evil and honest answer in the midst of those facts.

It seemed that the Volkisch Movement answered exclusively to nakedly wielded power.

So, to avoid being erased from the world; for the power to resist her own destruction.

That was the sole, filthy reason she would have ever worn this horrible uniform.

A reason that must have presupposed communism not to exist– that was the only way.

She could not air that thought. In this situation, she was wearing the black uniform already.

“Good answer.” Rahima said. “I can sympathize with it. And so does the Reichskommissar. She asked me that same question, you see. So, I was curious what others like me would answer.”

I am nothing like you. Murati said in her mind what her lips could never allow to escape.

However, she was surprised that the Reichkomissar, Violet Lehner, had brought it up first.

That woman was exceedingly politically dangerous. She was nothing like Adam Lehner.

“Very well then, Ami Ravana and Ilma Suomi-Fertilefield. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Murati and Aatto moved to exchange farewells with the Gauleiter, their tensions easing–

Until suddenly, behind them, the door to Rahima’s office opened as if of its own volition.

That sound of sliding metal sent shivers across Murati’s back and electricity into her limbs.

Someone casually unlocked a door which few people should have had access to.

“Herr Gauleiter, I apologize for making you wait before and then dropping in suddenly.”

A smooth and slightly accented voice; that of a confident woman, almost playful in tone.

Murati and Aatto both turned their heads, trying to hide the tension they suddenly felt.

For Murati, because any intrusion was a complication in a plan that was going well, but–

There was a brief flash of panic in Aatto’s eyes that caused Murati’s heart to sink.

She did not understand the meaning of it, but the contrast to her previous calm was enough.

“No apology necessary. I was the one who threw your plans into disarray after all.”

Rahima stood to meet with the woman who had arrived and introduce her.

Aatto had managed to hide her expression, and Murati held herself steady; the woman who interrupted them had an eerie air to her presence. Like them, she was dressed all in black, with a military coat worn over a white shirt, along with a skirt and leggings. Her peaked cap had a badge bearing a silver skull and crossed bones, rather than the more common hooked crosses, sonnenrads or iron eagles they had seen other fascists wearing. Her armbands had a black sonnenrad and hooked cross, however, same as others. Her shoulderboards were present, but entirely blank, and the patches on her collar were also present, but also blank. On her sleeves, there were patches depicting an eagle with a hooked cross.

Her cap and the lighting of the room partially shadowed her blue eyes which then moved between Rahima to linger on Murati and Aatto. As a woman Murati found no fault in her qualities. Like many of the other fascists she tended her appearance well. Glossy red heart-shaped lips with a slight pout, on a very fair face with a short nose and a soft contour to her cheeks. Her wavy, beige-blond hair was tidy and voluminous and worn long. She was just shy of Rahima and Murati’s height and had a curvy figure flattered by the sleek cut of the uniform. There was a fruity but also oddly chemical scent around her, perhaps a perfume.

As Murati scrutinized the woman, she suddenly heard Aatto’s voice in her head.

Master, this woman is a member of the Volkisch special forces! That skull indicates the “special detachments.” We must be very careful what we say to her! She may not be easy to fool.

It was not so much hearing a voice speaking in real time, as it was that Murati understood the information Aatto communicated in a few seconds and associated that information as being delivered by her voice. In a blink of her eyes, faster than she could fear anew, she came to fully understand the danger that they were in. But she could not break eye contact with the newcomer lest she appear suspicious; Murati held firm and hid her anxiety as best she could.

Absentmindedly, she fixed her cap, and then just as absentmindedly, she saluted.

Aatto saw Murati salute and joined her a second later. Had she done right?

There was an excruciating instant of silence while the woman looked them up and down.

“At ease, Obersturmführer, Rottenführer.” The woman finally said, with a haughty drawl.

“The Obersturmführer is a very proper officer.” Rahima said, backing Murati up.

The woman grinned.

“Not hard for me to believe. I have found it is often the case that the unconventional folk are the ones most disciplined and adherent to the rules. They are the ones with something to prove to the rest. But Obersturmführer, you have nothing to prove to me right now.”

She reached out to Murati’s saluting hand and with a gentle grip–

And pulled it down into her own two hands, patting it condescendingly.

With a sudden air of menace and a hint of cruel delight as she continued speaking.

“Or do you? After all– I don’t recall a meeting with an Obersturmführer in the itinerary.”

To hold Murati’s hand, she stepped closer into her space until they were face to face.

Those bright red lips and that grim, enshadowed glare locked directly onto Murati’s eyes.

That hand which was holding her might as well have been a gun aimed at her stomach.

Those eyes like knives driving through her, cutting the skin of her and exposing blood.

Murati felt her teeth wanting to clench and the cold, stale air in her unblinking eyes.

As if her life depended on it, she held the gaze of the skull-bearing fascist without flinching.

Trying to convince herself that she had not been seen through so easily–

“I was as surprised as you about their visit, Bernie, but– only surprised, nothing more.”

Rahima stepped in and held the woman’s shoulders, as if guiding a misbehaving child.

“You and I have better things to do than an impromptu inspection right now.” She said, massaging the woman’s shoulders. For a moment the woman looked puzzled about the touch but silently allowed it to continue. “Obersturmführer, this is Hauptsturmführer Bernadette Sattler. She is my new bodyguard and head of security for the Gau. As you can see she takes her job very seriously, so I urge you not to cross her.” Rahima winked. “At any rate, she and I have important business which must necessarily interrupt your own. I welcome you to make use of the Gau office as you need for your tasks, I have already sent a message to my staff about your visit and what you are clear to access from them.”

“As you command, Gauleiter.” Sattler said, still fixing a curious gaze on Murati.

“Thank you kindly, herr Gauleiter.” Murati said.

Without betraying a hint of the overwhelming gratitude and relief that she felt right then.

After some perfunctory goodbyes, and an exhortation to lock up after herself, it was over.

Rahima led Sattler out of the office and continued with her business unseen.

Like a storm that evil woman had come, and she had gone without sinking them.

For a few minutes they waited around just to make sure she would not come back.

Soon, to their own nervous and elated bewilderment, they felt it was all but confirmed.

Murati and Aatto had been left in the silence of Rahima’s office without any supervision.

Immediately both of them turned to Rahima’s portable computer.

“Master, I memorized the typing she did! I think I know what the password is!”

“Aatto, you are some kind of genius. Get that computer unlocked.”

From the interior pocket of her coat, Murati produced a small green board.

On one end there was an antennae, on the other a serial port, and between, were set the nanometer die chips that made up the board. It had some internal storage, as well as hardware encryption. This gadget had been modified by Braya Zachikova, the Brigand’s resident computer and electronic warfare wizard. Murati looked for a serial port and stuck the board to the computer.

Aatto sat on the desk, cracked her fingers, and tentatively set them on the keys.

Murati stood between Aatto and the sight from the door, keeping her eyes fixed on it.

Her heart was racing, but she was grinning like a fiend.

She had a mad and bloodthirsty satisfaction. Those fools, those complete morons.

Within moments, Aatto’s face was lit up by Rahima’s monitor, now past the login prompt.

“Ah, master, the cute little antennaes girl is on the screen now.” Aatto said.

A surly voice responded. “Huh? I don’t want to talk to you. Where is your ‘master’?”

Murati beckoned for Aatto to stand and take her position relative to the door.

She sat behind the desk and looked into Rahima’s computer.

On the screen, a tiny Zachikova could be seen pacing up and down the desktop.

“There you are. So Aatto did not betray you. Confirm the encrypted connection.” She said.

“Done.” Murati said, flicking her finger at a notification on Rahima’s screen.

“The transfer will take a bit to bounce through back to us. Are you sure you’re safe?”

“We are safe, don’t worry. Just focus on covering your own tracks.” Murati replied.

“Alright. You’re dead to us if that pervert does give you up to the Volkisch, be-tee-dubs.”

Murati felt a twinge of annoyance. “Stop berating my adjutant and do your job, Ensign.”

“Suit yourself.” Said the Mini-Zachikova, her last words before the transfer began.

On the screen, a progress bar showed a Mini-Zachikova and a crab digging in the sand.

“Master– you stood up for me.” Aatto said. When Murati glanced up from the computer screen, Aatto leaned towards her, smiling, ears wiggling, tail fiercely wagging and fanning air.

“Turn back around and be quiet.” Murati grumbled, wanting to entertain none of that.

Aatto did as instructed promptly and without complaint. Her tail thumped against the desk.

Judging by the progress, it would be several minutes before they transferred everything.

Hopefully Rahima was the kind of person to keep her encryption keys in a saved text file.

Sitting in the Gauleiter’s chair with time to spare, Murati began to rummage through her effects, being careful as possible to return anything to its place and cause minimal disturbance. From the plastic divider she picked out a folder and rifled through the papers inside. They were office planning documents. A list of open positions needing to be filled, a current office roster with hand-scribbled pronounciations of each worker’s names, photos and floorplans of suitable locations for a potential new and bigger Gau office than this one, costs for various supplies and what vendors might fulfill the orders.

There was an impromptu office survey where Rahima apparently asked everyone for their favorite snacks and put down the results for each person. She had underlined halwa and the name of the person who had suggested it, a certain Yasmin Bahram, rank Anwärter. Putting down that folder and picking up a second one, Murati found herself thumbing through what appeared to be a sketchbook. Incredulous, she flipped through the pages. Some were full of doodles, but there were a few busts drawn from life, full of detail including their clothes. There were cheerful Shimii girls wearing intricately shaded hijab; an Imbrian woman with heavy brows in a uniform, her hair in a bun partially visible behind a cap; a man with a strong jaw in a military officer uniform, with no Volkisch symbols in sight. And–

Violet Lehner. Partially looking over her shoulder as if incidentally glancing at the viewer.

Murati recognized her face from recent public broadcasts from Kreuzung.

Her hair was slightly swept as if she was in motion, but her face had a pensive expression.

Like a disdainful high-society girl, a princess, staring back at the paupers.

“Waste of stone-paper.” She murmured to herself, closing the book on the young woman.

Murati put the folder back where she had found it. She checked the transfer on the screen.

Not even close to the halfway point. She sighed, tension mounting in her.

Next, Murati checked the drawers on the desk.

She found basic supplies– paper, graphite, reusable tissues, a cleaning spray bottle. Another drawer had a box of jerky sticks, a bag of hard ginger candies, and three pouches of caffeinated vitamin drink, the Gauleiter’s own snack hoard. The next one she opened was a small drawer near the top, at the right-hand side. There she found an object she did not understand at first because it was deliberately overturned. When she picked it up, she found that it was a digital picture frame laid face-down. Deeper into the drawer behind it– was a compact synthestitched pistol, entirely non-metallic and concealable.

No point in touching it, and Murati did not dare move a piece so deliberately hidden.

On the picture frame, there was a beautiful elven woman with very pale blue hair.

Murati set the picture frame face down in the drawer and closed it. She checked the screen.

Almost halfway through–

and then a knocking on the door that caused her back to stiffen and her hands to freeze.

Her mind fogged– the world felt like it was moving in slow motion.

Each round of knocking felt loud enough that it pounded the insides of her chest.

The longer they went without answering, that knocking remained steadfast–

“Lord Gauleiter? May I come in? I think I got the papers corrected now!”

Aatto turned back around to Murati.

Silently as she could, Murati stood and slid the chair she left closer to the desk. She stood beside Aatto, both of them covering up the portable computer and the device stuck to it with their bodies. Murati thought she recognized the feminine voice that was speaking into the room, even muffled as it was through the door. She gestured for Aatto to get the door and Aatto looked back at her as if for further confirmation before she carried out the task.

When the door opened, a young Shimii woman in a pristine uniform walked through.

In her shaking hands was a portable computer she proudly wanted to show.

It was the girl from before, who had interrupted them in the cubicles.

Finding Aatto and Murati in the room and not Rahima, she stopped in her tracks.

“Oh! I’m– I’m very s-s-orry. I thought the G-g-gauleiter was in her office.” She said with a stammer. “My name is Yasmin Bahram. I work in data entry. Do you know– where she–?”

“She left on an errand. We’re looking after the office momentarily.” Aatto interrupted.

“An errand? I– I had no idea she would be leaving– did I read the itinerary wrong–?”

This typist was so skittish, Murati felt like she was on the verge of screaming at any second.

Her heart was still pumping fast. She might have been as nervous as the girl was.

“It was sudden. Bernadette Sattler had some business with her.” Aatto continued.

“Oh! Ms. Sattler– yes, I completely understand now–!” Yasmin replied, still stammering.

Her eyes broke contact with Aatto. Murati felt relieved. Just a credulous and silly girl.

“I’m afraid we don’t know when she will be back.” Aatto said.

“Ah, I see– I’m sorry– thank you. I’m– I’m really sorry to have bothered you both.”

Yasmin hugged the portable to her chest and bowed her head to the two of them.

With a grunt, Murati stepped forward of the desk, beckoning Aatto to take her place–

And tipped the girl’s head up again, much to her surprise. Her tail shot upright.

“What did the Gauleiter tell you? Shimii do not bow their heads to anyone.” Murati said.

For a moment, she questioned what had overcome her. She was playing the part, but–

It was also annoying for this girl to put on such undue deference toward fascists.

For her to be such a pathetic enemy after holding their lives in her hands for an instant.

“I’m sorry, Obersturmfuhrer!” She said. “It’s just– this job is so important– I don’t want to screw up. I send remittances to my family. Someday, I think, if it’s Councilwoman Rahima– I mean, Gauleiter Rahima– we’ll all be able to live up here instead of just me. I really appreciate the opportunity. Ah– oh no, I’m saying these unnecessary things– forgive me–”

“Stop apologizing.” Murati said. “This– this behavior ill befits a member–”

She hardly knew how to finish the sentence. It was too ridiculous to say any more.

What was she even trying to say to this girl? Be more like a fascist? It was pure nonsense.

However, Yasmin seemed to catch on to Murati’s meaning, even in its half-finished state.

After a moment’s reflection, she straightened, looked up, took her portable under her arm.

And raised her hand with the fingers joined and outstretched, in the fascists’ salute.

“Yes ma’am! I will conduct myself with the dignity of this office! Sieg heil!”

Murati raised her hand to cover her eyes. A murmured, anguished little breath left her lips.

Yasmin put her arm down, confused. “Did I do something wrong again?”

Behind Murati, Aatto spoke up. “You raised the wrong arm. But it’s the spirit that counts.”

Nowhere near what bothered Murati about the whole situation– but it was a nice save.

With a cheerful demeanor, Aatto encouraged the girl and warded her off from the office. Murati watched her and wondered how many times Aatto must have acted as the office big-sister to some no-name fascist idiot– she looked too natural and spoke with too much ease to have just been acting. Aatto had worked in offices like this before, no-name no-place offices where there were no gallows and no torture chambers. She was an intelligence officer– but this did not mean what was in Murati’s brain, the red mist of bloody murders, the black breaths of excoriated bodies. Just bedraggled office workers and stacks of bureaucratic minutia that any organization needed to account for to function.

Some part of her was angry about it.

This was not a fortress– Murati had not stormed a castle full of braying demons.

It should not have been this mundane.

Her pragmatic voice told her that it was useful information to know.

But her ideological side was embittered by what she saw.

When Aatto shut the door anew, careful not to cross it herself, she returned to Murati.

“Master, check the progress. I’ll keep watch. You’ve done splendidly so far.”

Murati did not reply. She turned to the desk and walked back around it.

Sitting on the chair, she found the Mini-Zachikova and the crab had both found something.

“Transfer complete. I reset the device logs. Get out of there now.” Zachikova said.

Murati pulled the exfiltration device from the computer and back into her inner coat pocket.

“We are leaving.” Murati said.

Aatto nodded her head back at Murati. They closed Rahima’s laptop.

Her desk looked undisturbed to casual inspection. It would have to be enough.

It was impossible to know what to expect, as easy as it had been to enter.

They had been lucky to chance upon Rahima, but would it be the same on the way out? They exited out of the office onto the cubicle room, where there was lively chatter. Yasmin waved at them from the snack table. They waved back. Crossing the cubicles, there were no more interruptions. Down the hall, out the door and back into the lobby.

Aatto walked up to Wiebke’s front desk and explained the situation.

Obediently, Wiebke locked the door behind them, and bid them a good day.

Indeed– it was as easy to leave without Rahima as it was to enter with her good grace.

At first, upon crossing the double doors, and finding herself under the green again–

Murati felt a creeping paranoia.

There had to be something– someone trailing them, something on to them or after them.

She stopped under the shadow of a tall green tree with a broad crown.

Looking over her shoulder, there was no one.

Not the demonic grin of Bernadette Sattler with a gun to Murati’s lower back.

Neither a disappointed Rahima, ashamed of having been fooled.

There were not even the workers coming and going from before. It was past lunch now.

Stopped in the middle of the street, Murati breathed in and adjusted her peaked cap.

“Mission accomplished, Master.” Aatto whispered close to her.

Murati looked down at her boots. She crossed her arms, catching sight of her armbands.

“Right. We won’t know whether we got anything of value until we return.” She said.

She started walking before Aatto could say anything else. Her adjutant dutifully followed.

They made it to the elevators without being intercepted. Murati let herself believe now.

Home free– they had infiltrated the Volkisch Gau office. In and out cleanly.

For all the good it had done– hopefully Zachikova would find something useful.

It felt like she shaved a few years off her life from anxiety for little gain.

At least they knew how weak the Aachen Gau was now.

“Master, I have a question for you.” Aatto said, as the elevator rode down.

“Aatto, after all of this, you’ve earned one question.” Murati said, half-jokingly.

Aatto had been fantastic. There would have been no mission without her.

There was a concern that Aatto would orchestrate all this to feed Murati to the Volkisch.

But she had remained sincere throughout– she was really and truly loyal to her ‘king’.

On some level Murati had already known this. Now, however, she believed it.

“Master, does desperation and destitution disqualify a person from commiting injustice?”

Aatto fixed Murati with a serious gaze as she delivered that question.

There was hardly time for the air to settle between them–

“Of course it doesn’t.” Murati answered. Immediately and without any doubt.

Her voice was far more certain than her heart, but ultimately, that was what she believed.

She was human– of course she had conflicting feelings about things from time to time. Despite everyone’s belief that she was some kind of communist automaton, Murati had a heart and feelings, and she could be moved. She was so angry at everything she saw that she almost wanted to weep but she would not. It was injustice in itself. All the sensational torture that Gau did not commit, it instead committed a mundane torture.

And someday, it would even go on to do both.

Murati knew; as much as she pitied lowly workers, her resolve was clear and necessary.

“I’ve always known, academically, that I might have to confront ‘ordinary’ people in this mission. Teachers, typists, couriers, what have you– there are all kinds of non-combatants participating in agendas of horrid violence without lifting a weapon. I’ve known this and now I’ve seen it. Yes, I am sorry for Yasmin Bahram if that is something you’re after hearing, and I wish she and her family could live peacefully– but they have chosen to assist the monsters oppressing Eisental for their own benefit. There are many more destitute, desperate people who will be deprived of lasting, meaningful freedom for the remittances she needs. All she does is mess up typing reports from databases. But she’s still a direct participant within fascism. She’s still my enemy– is that what you were getting at, Aatto?”

Though she spoke confrontationally, Aatto only smiled upon receiving that response.

“The resolve of a King I can admire. Had you faltered– I would have abandoned you.”

“Go on then, abandon me. You’re already in uniform and everything.” Murati shot back.

Aatto’s ears and tail instantly stood on end. “Ah– it was a joke master– merely a joke–”

She almost looked like she had tears in her eyes. Murati sighed and patted her shoulder.

For someone who had showed such a strong side of herself sometimes, she was very fragile.

“I was also joking. You did good, Aatto. I don’t want to lose you. Let’s go home now.”

She held Aatto’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, and pulled her closer, smiling.

Aatto beamed brightly at her. “Yes, master! Back home!” She cheered.

Violet’s meeting with the Volwitz representatives had gone about as well as it could.

Passions flared and tensions rose, but in the end, the food conglomerate had few choices.

Volwitz was under a lot of pressure.

The Heidemmann family once had the major share of Volwitz, a megacorporation that grew to absorb a majority of food production, processing and distribution in Rhinea, as landed nobles declined against the rising noveau riche. Ossof Heidemann went into politics, and eventually became the patriarch of the family and thus, de facto in control of Volwitz, with clashing interests. A liberal who argued for individual personal freedom and economic stimulus to fund education and opportunity for all– except for the Shimii, Loup and Južni communities who constituted most of his farm labor. Liberals, ever the hypocrites.

Then, Heidemmann lost the election and suffered the petty retribution of Adam Lehner for daring to oppose him. Agents of the Volkisch Militia under Lehner’s orders made Ossof disappear and launched reprisals on many other members of the Heidemann family. Their time was over– the members that survived went into hiding and their properties and funds were expropriated. Officially, the family was tried and sentenced for corruption.

However, Volwitz was still the king of food in Rhinea even after this chaos.

Everything that the Heidemanns owned of the megacorporation reverted back to the main legal-economic body of the company and the shares were quickly snapped up by other wealthy claimants who had been waiting for an opportunity. The Rhinea National-Socialist Republic could keep boasting it had completed a ‘Revolution of National Awakening’ but the fact of the matter was that the system of capitalism remained intact. There would be no nationalization of Volwitz, as much as Adam Lehner despised the company.

Much like the other megacorporations like Rhineametalle, if there was sufficient disruption of Volwitz’s operations, there would in turn be significant disruption of critical supplies to Adam Lehner’s hasty war with the Royal Alliance. Volwitz owned the farms that grew the food, the plants that packaged it, and the supply vessels that distributed it to stations. Adam Lehner could make all the threats he wanted, he could accuse the megacorporations of sabotaging him, he could rage on television and deliver any number of big speeches– there was no plan in place for the expropriation of Volwitz for the foreseeable future.

Not with the Volkisch tied up in a stalemate of a war.

Violet herself was in the exact bind with them as her idiot father.

Her revolution necessitated that the Shimii now working for Volwitz saw their lot in life improve enough to earn their loyalty and incorporation into Nasser’s Zabaniyah forces and the bureacracy of the Reichkomissariat. For Nasser to ‘free the ummah’ it was necessary that Violet bring Volwitz to heel, but Volwitz was ready to pull out the card of shortages and disruptions and price fluctuations. She ultimately forced them to accept the National Socialist Labor Union scheme on primarily Shimii work farms, in exchange for not extending it to primarily Južni sites. Violet was not interested in the plight of the Južni minority; and the Shimii represented the majority of farm laborers anyway, so it was still a win.

In addition, she committed to subsidizing more food preservation and long-term storage in Eisental order to combat “shortages and fluctuations.” These reserves would have to be produced, processed and then sold by Volwitz, and then the storage itself would be managed directly by the Reichkommissariat and the National Socialist Labor Union. For Volwitz it was a very lucrative contract in a time of great uncertainty for them.

They had no sensible reason to turn it down; and with reichmarks in their eyes, they agreed.

Short term, those new facilities would be good, national socialist union jobs for Shimii.

Long-term, this would completely blunt the nature of Volwitz’s threats and leverage.

She was not a fan of food processing– but she would tolerate it for her ultimate goal.

Once she had enough food stockpiled and was ready to begin her crusade, Violet could start by eliminating Volwitz and seizing their considerable assets in the Reichkommissariat, riding out the death throes of the corporation through the use of the very reserve that they would help her construct. Then the farms would be completely national socialist, owned by the Shimii as part of Violet’s volksgemeinschaft. After Volwitz– the other megacorporations, as well as her father’s decrepit little fiefdom in the core Rhinean territory. Once her close enemies were returned to the marine fog, her farther enemies would be next.

Until her Party-State spanned the Imbrium and became the new order of the world.

Endsieg.

For now, such things were only lofty dreams, however.

She looked down at her desk and swiped on her portable to put away the Volwitz meeting notes and minutes. She brought up the notes she had prepared for her meeting with Rhineametalle. Not quite knowing what to expect; this meeting was arranged very suddenly after she had already talked to various other representatives of the firm’s interests. If it would be about the National Socialist Labor Unions, she was ready for that. She and her office had been crunching numbers all week. She could talk about whether any taxes or duties would be introduced, or about new procurement contracts.

Then, at the appointed hour, Maxine Kramer walked in through the door.

Spokeswoman for Rhineametalle– she and Violet had a strong working relationship.

They were meeting at Werner’s office, where Violet hosted any important guests.

Though she preferred quieter side offices for real work, she had to keep up appearances.

“Heil, Reichskommissar. May I clear some space on your desk?”

Violet blinked. She gestured to the desk, wondering what this was about.

Maxine had a portable computer with her which she brought to the desk and propped up.

With the monitor facing Violet, she switched it on.

“It is my honor and pleasure to introduce, our CEO, Edmund Schmitz.”

On the monitor, appeared the face of a man with a thick plastic breathing mask.

He sat on a very plush-looking red chair, surrounded by a variety of partially out-of-view medical instruments, like a heart monitor and pumping machines. Though he was evidently dressed in a fine suit, which was mostly offscreen, Violet could see that there were tubes going into his chest a bit conspicuously. What she could see of his face outside the mask had spotted, sallow skin and heavily sagging brows, almost entirely hairless.

When he spoke, there was barely sound at first, then a machine replicated what he said.

“Violet Lehner. Pleasure to meet you at last, a real pleasure. You are so much more colorful and beautiful up close. I am one of your biggest fans, you know? I wanted to congratulate you in person, for your fantastic work in resolving the Kreuzung crisis, and for your great plans to steer the ship right from now on. National Socialism is the missing link that Rhinean businesses have been needing for so long. Doubtless our offices will have disagreements in the coming months but know that we are aligned in the end. I have told your father as much– I will resist any attempt to stifle your disruptive innovation in Eisental!”

At first Violet was disarmed by all of this. The CEO of Rhineametalle, indeed.

Maxine had brought out a dying old man to deliver contentless platitudes.

She supposed this was how such an urgent meeting was thrown on her calendar suddenly.

Though Maxine was partially owned by Violet she was wholly owned by the CEO.

“For such an esteemed businessman to share this support with me, it truly makes me want to redouble my efforts. Thank you kindly, Mr. Schmitz.” Violet said, managing to smile a little.

Once more, the mechanical-sounding voice synthesizer delivered the man’s lines audibly.

“Ah, you truly have the vibrancy of youth, Ms. Lehner. Exactly what the Eisental economy has been needing, new blood, new ideas! Such an exciting time! I know it may sound hypocritical as an old man hanging on for dear life, but we needed to be giving more to the youth– someday, God forbid, but I will die, and I need to know our work won’t be squandered. I can sleep more soundly knowing we have a new generation of young people with a real entrepeneurial spirit. It is a shame about old Werner, but I know Kreuzung is in good hands. And National Socialism is what is going to supercharge our youth. I tell you, I’ve been hearing your speeches, and it’s so electric my dear. It reminds me of when the Emperor retreated from politics. That energy is good for business. It gets people spending, it gets the shares trading. Optimism, vibrancy, stability, momentum– that’s how we make money.”

Violet always felt a little strange talking to the heads of the major corporations because for the most part they only spoke in vague platitudes, whereas Violet wanted to talk to anyone about hard numbers and real concrete policy agendas. She had gone to school for the hard numbers behind all of these vague statements and what she discovered was that the vague statements were often where all the thinking stopped. Violet had certainly made some contribution to Rhineametalle’s stock prices, but it was pointless to mention something so incidental. It was hard, complex policy that would change Eisental’s fortunes.

Regardless, she had to put up with this semi-mummified geriatric for now.

“I am flattered, Mr. Schmitz. I hope we can continue to cooperate in this endeavor.”

“We certainly will. Well, Ms. Lehner, thank you for your time. I have the utmost confidence in you. Feel free to ask Maxine for anything, but I must be going now. I’m sure you know, running an organization is a 24/7 job– when I’m not talking about the business, or organizing the business, or reading about the business, then I have to be thinking about the business. That’s where I’m headed off to next. You take care now, alright Ms. Lehner?”

Smiling, Maxine switched off the portable computer, closed it, and took it in her arms.

“I apologize, Reichskommissar. I understand you might have found that a bit annoying.”

“It’s fine. All in a day’s work. Better than my talks with Volwitz.” Violet said.

Maxine bowed her head and took her leave, waving goodbye to Violet as she went.

Once the door closed, Violet sighed, shook her head, and swiped away her notes again.

“Ridiculous. The day I exterminate all those gerontocrats can’t come soon enough.”

Her last important meeting of the day was also the one most dire and necessary.

Using a monitor suspended on an arm on the desk, Violet connected to Munich station in north central Rhinea, the home of the Esoteric Order and one of the founding sites of fascism. On the screen, appeared an older woman in a lavish black dress with intricate synthetic lacework, wearing a headress that almost seemed like a mourning veil. Long, wavy brown hair fell down her back a great length, and she had a large brooch on her chest resembling Violet’s black sun disc symbols. She wore a lot of dark red makeup on her eyes, lips, cheeks, partially covering the signs of her aging and giving her an almost gothic appearance. Lieselotte van Westarp; the surviving founder of the Esoteric Order.

“Greetings, Violet. I am so pleased to see you. You truly are as beautiful as a doll.”

“I am flattered, madam van Westarp.” Violet said, setting aside the banality of those words.

As her name suggested, Lieselotte van Westarp was a demoted member of an influential aristocratic family, however, she was also the only influential Westarp left. Her family suffered many tragedies which ultimately left her in command of its fortune, which she used for the benefit of the Order. Whether she engineered these events herself, Violet suspected but would never be able to prove. Behind that sweet motherly charm was a schemer.

“I have been keeping abreast of developments in Eisental. The Esoteric Order counts many brave souls among its ranks, many warriors, many who have sacrificed for the development of the True Order, but none have fought so valiantly nor reached such great heights as you. During the Revolution of National Awakening, we were sidelined. Though we fell into line and recognized the Fuhrer for the greater good, I must admit, seeing the esoteric symbols flying in Kreuzung has lifted my spirits immeasurably. And for it to have been the secret daughter of the Fuhrer that secured this future– of course, it can only be the hand of Destiny at work here. Hearing your speeches in Kreuzung has given me chills.”

“Thank you. Your assistance was invaluable, madam van Westarp.” Violet said.

“Your intentions seemed so mundane at the time. But I never should have doubted you.”

For madam van Westarp to think that establishing a fascist Shimii militia was a ‘mundane’ intention within the Volkisch said something about the odd depths to which her thinking ran. The Esoteric Order was populist, collectivist, occult, millennerian; a pastiche of betrayed ideas that found succor in the form of an all-powerful nation to bring about quasi-religious transformation. These ideas failed to secure a place in the world after the election. Adam Lehner represented a pastiche of various groups but with very little of the Order.

Now Violet was the closest they had come to their great dream– the True Order that would unite all peoples under one state, one ideology, one identity and one community. A purifying transformation that would bring peace and prosperity between humanity, the natural world, and civilization, creating a New Fascist Man out of myriad individuals. An ubermensch not as one person but as a corporation of all humans under perfect guidance. A collective of one, a constellation of the singular, the many turned few, so much they could all share one name.

Gobbledegook, as far as Violet was concerned. But some of the rhetoric was useful.

At least it let her pursue a non-insane economic agenda and gather up untapped forces.

For now though she had to play at being something of a believer at least.

“Ma’am. I would like to discuss with you the deepening of that assistance.” Violet said.

Van Westarp smiled, as she had when Violet proposed forming the Zabaniyah years ago.

As then– they talked. About money, about people, about the future, about Destiny.

“Milord Gauleiter, I don’t know how you can tolerate the present state of the Gau office.”

“It confers a certain advantage– you’ll soon see Bernie. I am not unprepared.”

Despite Bernadette’s initial confusion, Rahima pressed on with confidence, assuring her that once they arrived at their destination she would understand what the new Gauleiter had in the cards for Aachen. Rahima hurried Bernadette through the central tier, down to the commercial area and below the atrium, through the outer rings– to Rahima’s own apartment, a lux double-wide that was quite tidy and looked moderately lived-in. She opened the door, and with a gentlemanly wave, ushered Bernadette through the door inside.

Bernadette stood at the door, looked at Rahima, and smirked, crossing her arms.

“Ahh. Well, well, Gauleiter, I do not object. Whether man or woman, power is attractive.”

Rahima laughed. “Let’s talk inside. I’m not completely against that but– it is not my aim.”

Back when she was part of the Rhinea Feminist Party, Rahima had saved up money for years to acquire a double-wide apartment about a twenty minute walk from the office. It was not only convenient, it was a symbol of her success. After Conny disbanded the party, Rahima soon became a Progressive Party councilwoman and was furnished with accommodations in the higher tiers, closer to the Aachen Legislative Council building. She retained her old double-wide however, since it was such a hassle to acquire any property in the core station. It came in handy to own a second home after her abortive bid for the governorship.

When she left the Progressive Party altogether, she wound up living down here again.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back. Trust me– you’ll know when you see it.”

True to its name, a double-wide apartment was essentially two ordinary one-room spaces connected into one, rather than separated and sold or rented individually. From the front door, the apartment had a small space with a pair of couches, a set of shelves, a tea table with adjustable legs, and a kitchenette in the back containing a combination oven and a refrigerator. Through the door, was Rahima’s bedroom and bathroom.

She bid Bernadette to wait on one of the living room couches.

Bernadette did not really make herself at home. She sat on the couch and waited.

Before long, Rahima came back out of the room carrying a thick green case by its handle.

She set it on the tea table in front of Bernadette, who was surprised to see it. Two latches kept it shut tight, and the design had thick corners and spaced pieces of rubber padding that could soften impacts. It was waterproof, EM-proof, dustproof, had an integrated agarthic battery– when Rahima opened it up, Bernadette seemed to realize immediately what it was. An isolated computer with a ruggedized design. Unlike a thin client, this system was its own full computer that was not managed by the station supercomputer.

It was a backup device designed for emergency use.

After a few strokes of the keys, Rahima booted into a green-text, basic filesystem view.

“Don’t be fooled, it just boots into this. You can bring up quite a few handy programs.”

“Milord, where did you get this?” Bernadette asked, excitedly taking the keys.

Navigating the system, Bernadette would quickly uncover all the data already loaded in.

“Official records from the Aachen Legislative Council?” She said, clearly bewildered.

Rahima grinned a bit smugly. She had been waiting to unveil this for a good while now.

“During my tenure as Councilwoman I co-sponsored a measure to harden the station in case of disaster, one part of which was purchasing a ruggedized, isolated backup mainframe. State of the art and custom-made by Rhineametalle. This isn’t a thin client– it’s the size of a suitcase because it has full, self-contained hardware. Weaker than a station supercomputer, obviously, but good enough to help get a supercomputer back online after an issue. When I was deposed as governor, initially I just snuck in and stole it as petty revenge. I saw a chance and took it, and nobody stopped me. Nobody has even noticed that it is gone, so far.”

Rahima sat next to Bernadette on the couch and took control of the device.

She demonstrated that her credentials when she was Councilwoman were still logged.

Having never been wiped, the device was fully accessible to Rahima.

And it contained a trove of information about the station.

“It was last updated a year ago, just before my governorship, but it’s good enough.”

Bernadette turned to Rahima with a suddenly admiring look.

For a brief moment her face looked flushed. She composed herself quite quickly.

“I must apologize, milord. I assessed your strengths quite short of their true mark.”

“That’s fine. I like being underestimated. People being wrong is an advantage I can use.”

Rahima turned to the computer. With a few keystrokes, appeared a schematic of the station.

On that kitchen table, in front of the soft couches, the instrument of Rahima’s vengeance.

“Obviously, we weren’t going to get anything important done in that undercooked Gau office. Not only are the people there inexperienced, as much heart as they have– but the more people that are introduced into a plot the more points of failure. No; only you and I are needed for this work.” She patted her hand on the computer and on Bernadette’s shoulder. “We have access to heaps of data right here, and any new intelligence will also go here, into this device, and it will not be put down anywhere else. Are we clear? Maps, orders, lists, everything, it only goes into here. We will punch in to work at the Gau office each day, and perhaps visit another location to keep up the appearance of work and play– then we will spend the rest of the day here. Because of my race and rhetoric and my political positions I have been something of a tabloid darling. There is gossip about my nymphomania, and I assume this will continue– so most people will make wrong assumptions about us.”

She smiled, as if a bit proud of that sordid reputation. Bernadette grinned back at her.

Her initial skepticism was completely erased. She looked quite eager and pleased.

“Milord, in this endeavor, consider me your instrument. I will follow.” Bernadette said.

“Splendid. Then, as you once said to me over audio call– let us get to work, mein dame.”

Her long knife was still concealed, but the hand upon its sheath was set into dire motion.

Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.1]

After Descent, Year 958

Sitting with her back to a metal wall, legs hugged close, tail curled around her waist.

Silencing all of the cries of pain and hunger from every part of her body.

All her heavy eyes needed to focus on was forward. Forward to a new life.

It was dark, the only light provided by the intermittent strobing of sensor LEDs on a few instruments. She could see the impressions of crates, fastened by metal cables and plastic tarps. She shivered, rubbing her hands together. While she was in the cargo hold, she thought about what Aachen would be like. She had heard that Shimii were not hated there and even that Mahdist Shimii did not have to change their names. She expected that the Rashidun Shimii would still be tense, but maybe the Imbrians would be kind.

At least there would be stable work. That much had to be true.

She could endure any kind of abuse; if she could get a job, she could live.

When the cargo hauler got closer to Aachen’s Stockheim port, the bulkhead door separating the hold from the rest of the vessel opened, allowing a spear of light to cut the shadows on each side of the hold into two halves. Rahima remained in the shadow, huddled behind the line of crates. When she heard footsteps into the room, she stood up, dusting off her old ill fitted brown coat and her pants. She walked out from behind a crate and waved lethargically at a man in uniform. He smiled at her and produced something from a pack for her.

“There you are.” He said, “Thank you for your work. As promised,”

A few polymer banknotes to the tune of about a hundred Imperial mark.

And a piece of bread.

At least she would have something in her pocket to start her new life.

Other than her immigration papers.

“Listen, when you leave the ship, take the people conveyor into Stockheim and stop by the immigration office. I know it sounds scary, but you’re smart and you have your papers, you don’t have to worry. Just be polite and answer the questions honestly.” Said the sailor. “Get registered and ask them if there’s some place you can stay. It won’t be good, but you don’t want to be on the street. After that, it’s all up to your luck. There’s honest work out there. You’ve got two good arms and two good legs. Don’t do anything stupid or indecent okay? We don’t want to regret bringing you here.” He patted her shoulder with a smile.

Rahima smiled a little in response. She took a bite out of the bread.

It would have to be enough to get her legs through the day.

Finally, the hauler entered one of Stockheim’s cargo elevators.

Once the area was drained and properly pressurized, the ship laid down its ramp.

Rahima slipped out of the back.

She dropped down onto the metal floor, her thin shoes barely offering protection from the awful cold. She was in a dimly lit cargo processing station and elevator, the ship in the middle, and a variety of instruments to shuffle crates around hanging distantly in the dark. Before the station security figured anything out, she made for the automatic door leading into Stockheim. It opened for her, as it did for everyone– for a moment she had feared it would know she was an immigrant and refuse her. Inside, a people-mover belt sped her from the dim cargo elevator facilities to a brightly lit, extremely modern lobby, glass dividers funneling foot traffic several ways. It was here that Rahima first saw a crowd.

There were holidaymakers heading in, businesspeople heading out,

ten different paths she could take,

a crossroads of living,

She lifted her head and found the direction of the immigration office.

Her clothes were shabby, she had no luggage, and there was no hiding her ears and tail.

However, nobody gave her grief– everyone had some place that they were going to.

Following one nondescript hall after another, she finally found the open door into the immigration office on the side of one such hall. There was a small line of people, slowly moving from just outside the door and into the immigration office. Rahima stood and waited. She was through the threshold in about fifteen minutes and in about fifteen more she was sorted into one of three lanes of people waiting for immigration officers in glass booths to call them forward to talk and show their papers. Rahima was one of the few Shimii in the line. At first, this eased some of her nerves about the situation she was in.

Until, while she was waiting, a Shimii talking to an officer was taken away by guards.

Then her heart began to pound like it wanted to escape from her chest.

Imbrians, too, were subjected to the same treatment, for who knew what reasons.

Soon it felt as if, every other person in the line was made to disappear.

She inched forward, the sight of the faces of those taken away burned into her eyes.

Struggling and begging. Where would they be sent? What would happen to them?

Shaking, she almost missed being called forward to the glass-shielded booths.

Rahima was summoned by a middle-aged woman, blond-haired with a stately face.

Was it better to be processed by a woman? Would she be kinder, have more sympathy?

No– Rahima had seen women before who were as vicious and evil as any man.

“I’m opening a slot. Drop your papers in. Keep your hand away from it.”

In front of Rahima a little drawer popped open suddenly. She almost jumped with surprise.

From her coat, she withdrew and unfurled a few crumpled-up sheets.

Careful not to have her fingers near to it, she dropped the papers into the slot.

In a second it instantly slid closed. Behind the booth the woman withdrew the papers.

With a sour look on her face, she unfurled them, sighing and grumbling, patting them flat.

“I can read these. Sometimes they get too beat up to understand. Be careful next time.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Rahima Jašarević, correct?” She pronounced it flawlessly. Rahima was surprised.

“Y-Yes.”

“Brennic Shimii? Eighteen years old?”

Rahima nodded her head quietly, her chest trembling.

“Answer the questions verbally please.” Demanded the woman guard.

“Yes to both.” Rahima said, trying to gather her wits at the insistence of the guard.

Then the woman held up one of the papers.

She tapped a finger from behind the paper, over a section that had a seal. That seal had a moon with a green and red pattern indicating the religious category of the person immigrating. For Rahima she had no choice in the matter due to how she was processed for those papers. She could not have lied nor was she given a chance to change anything.

“Mahdist. Is this correct?”

“It is.” Rahima said. She then added, “Will that be a problem?”

Instantly she felt like a fool for asking such a question. Why say anything unnecessary?

“Not with me,” said the woman behind the glass, “might be a problem with your kind.”

Then the woman, still holding up the paper to the shield, tapped a different finger.

This time over an Imbrian-style name listed near Rahima’s own.

“Your sponsor is an Imperial Navy officer. We will contact him. Is this name correct?”

“Yes, it is correct.”

“Alright. You’ll hear from us if he’s never heard from you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

In that fashion they went over many rote aspects of Rahima’s identity documentation.

Each question felt like a nail being pounded into Rahima’s chest.

At the start of each line, a pound, unknown whether pain or respite would follow.

Then, at the end of each line, the nail was dug in and no longer hurt. So, then– next nail.

Whether she would bleed out and her heart would stop or whether she would be allowed to continue living, this was a question asked by each lifting of the hammer and each pounding of the nail. Tapping fingers, sharp clicking of the tongue, the slight plasticky sound of the shield being touched or the border guardswoman fiddling with something on her desk. Every time, Rahima asked herself, will this answer have me taken from here?

“Staying for short term or long-term residence?”

Rahima paused. Would it be better to say short term? Would she find it more palatable?

But– staying in Aachen for a short term was useless to her. Where would she go after?

“Long term.” Rahima said.

In that instant she practically saw the truncheon come flying out of the corner of her eye–

“Okay. You’re a solo traveler, do you have any living family? Husband? Kids?”

“No. No family, no spouse– I’m too young for children I think.”

“Alright. We just need to know in case you pass away. Any medical issues to disclose?”

“No. I am healthy.”

“Good for you. Any banking anywhere? Immigrants must get accounts here in Aachen.”

“No. I’ve never had a bank.”

Nothing happened. Just more questions. They were almost through with the papers.

After going through the last lines in the documents, the guardswoman gathered up the documents. She flattened them out one last time, placed each in a plastic sheet and placed each plastic sheet inside a folder, into which everything fit perfectly. She deposited the folder into the slot, which popped out on Rahima’s end.

She gestured for Rahima to pick them back up.

“Compliments of the immigration office. Treat those papers better, that’s your life.”

Rahima reached in, took the folder, and as soon as it was out of the slot, it snapped shut.

“Rahima Jašarević. Welcome to Aachen. You’ll get an entry pass on the way out.”

“I– everything is okay then?”

“Everything is okay.”

“T-Thank you.”

Rahima looked down at the folder in her hands. She could almost cry.

“I’ve got some advice for you, Rahima Jašarević.” Said the border guardswoman.

“Oh– that’s right– I wanted to ask about possible lodging.” Rahima said.

“I figured you would.” The woman said. “Listen– don’t go down to the Shimii block. It’s awful, they hate your kind. You’ll end up a thief or a whore with those lowlives. You can read and write, you’re polite, and you finished secondary school. You can get an Imbrian job. I know someone who can help. She’s part of the liberals here. She’ll get you a good job.”

Surreptitiously, the border guardswoman beckoned Rahima to come closer.

Rahima walked up as close to the shield as she could get.

On the woman’s desk, there was a card, with an address and a logo.

A figure with a dress, a woman, playing a flute. Rahima made out the address on the card and read a name: Concetta Lettiere. It was some kind of women’s organization– before Rahima could make out more of the text on the card, the guardswoman hid the card and gestured for her to move back again. Rahima repeated the address in her head.

“Did you get that? She can help you. Go there. Don’t go down to the Shimii.”

As much as Rahima felt that the border guardswoman was being horribly racist–

–the money and opportunities were all with the Imbrians anyway, not in a Shimii ghetto.

She might as well see what she could get out of this “Lettiere” woman.

Having processed Rahima, the border guardswoman opened a door between the booths.

Following this path, another woman handed Rahima a plastic pass card and led her out.

Past the immigration station, there was a long hallway that led to a different lobby.

In this one, there were signs pointing her to the path into the Aachen Core Station.

She was through– she was just another soul in the City of Currents.

There was so much that she had lost. But she still had her life.

And she might have lodging.

From Stockheim, Rahima took one of many small, frequently moving trams between the port structure and the core station. At no point did anyone ask for her card. She was still guarded, but gradually began to feel that there would not be anyone coming after her immigration status. Her clothes elicited some looks– everything was old and scuffed and ill fitting, with faded colors and fraying fabric. But she expected that. She could endure being stared at for being visibly poor. She sat in the tram, caught her breath, and she almost relaxed.

At the drop-off from the tram, Rahima found a tall panel with a three-dimensional map of the Aachen Core Station. The structure was cylindrical with both vertical tiers and concentric horizontal divisions. There was an outer ring structure connected by elevators that contained thousands of offices and apartments. The centermost ring had a novel layout, essentially a vertical mall wrapped around a central atrium spanning multiple floors, with the atrium space hosting floating trees, art installations, small parks and plazas, and other attractions depending on the floor, sometimes accessible, sometimes hovering out of reach.

Rahima followed a lit path from the trams. As she walked, the path expanded, until it fully opened into the landing at the base of the Core Station. Surrounded by people, Rahima raised her head to a ceiling higher than she had ever seen. A sweeping circular path connected platforms with restaurants and businesses encircling a glass shield containing the tall, brightly lit atrium. Suspended under the lights was a series of hanging ornaments in a variety of shapes, shimmering various colors and in turn coloring the landscape.

Rahima was stunned.

She had never seen anything so grandiose in her life.

A ceiling so high, and lights so bright.

Her destination would not take her further into those lights, however.

Judging by the map she had pulled up; she was headed for the outer ring.

Away from all the trendy shops and the colored lights and gold-rimmed glass.

But she lived here now, she had the card, she was a citizen. She would see it again.

From the base of the core station Rahima followed a hallway to the outer rings. This area was much the same as any other place she had lived in before. Grey and blue metal, white LEDs, no luster, just utilitarian pathways, boxy elevators, and doors separated from one another at consistent intervals, indicating each interior to be the same dimensions. She finally found the door she was looking for, distinguished from any other only by the number on its plaque.

She laid her hand on the panel under the plaque. Indicating she was waiting at the door.

Then the door slid open, and she heard a voice calling for her.

“Come in. No need to wait in the lobby, I don’t have anyone else today.”

A woman’s voice with the slightest hint of an accent Rahima could not place.

Rahima stepped through the door. There was a small lobby, just one long couch seat and a small screen playing upbeat jazzy tunes set to video of café ambiances. A second door had a plaque on it with the words ‘Feministiche Partei Rhinea’ and the logo of the woman with the flute, same as Rahima had seen on the business card. She did not know what to expect when she opened the door, and hesitated with her fingers drawing near the handle–

but the door opened, nonetheless.

Inside, there was a white room, with a table in the center, a digital whiteboard taking up much of the far wall, a few screens projecting from one of the near walls, and a small plastic desk. Sparsely decorated, meticulously tidy. There was a neat stack of cards on the desk much like the one Rahima saw at the immigration office, as well as a stack of synthetic shirts and banners. To Rahima, the goods looked like they had not moved for some time.

Behind the cheap, thin desk, there was a woman.

Working on something on a thin-panel monitor, using the surface of the desk as a touch keyboard and saving everything to a memory stick. She was shorter than Rahima, paler, with dazzling green eyes and a soft, almost girlish face. Her hair was white-blue, some collected into a ponytail, some framing her face. She was dressed professionally, grey-brown checkerboard vest, white button-down and tie, pencil skirt and heels.

And her sharp, long ears said even more than that: this woman was an elf, Rahima knew.

“Are you Concetta Lettiere?” Rahima asked.

For a moment the woman looked up from her desk and met Rahima’s eyes.

“It’s not pronounced like ‘conceited’ it’s pronounced like ‘conch’. But I would prefer you call me Conny. Everyone else does and it’s easier for anyone to say. Conny Lettiere.” She said.

“Sorry. Conny.” Rahima said. “I’m Rahima Jašarević. At immigration, a woman–”

Conny interrupted Rahima with the sound of her chair scraping across the floor.

She stood up from her desk and walked over to Rahima and stood near. Conny was almost a head shorter than Rahima, but her confidence movements gave her a strong presence.

“How long has it been since you ate?”

Rahima was too tired to demand she be allowed to speak without interruption.

“I had some bread this morning.” She said, without further elaboration.

“I’ll order us something and have it brought over. Do you have a place to stay?”

“No. I just arrived here today. Do you want to see my papers?”

“I don’t care about your papers, I’m not a cop. It’s fine. Right now, I’m more worried that you might drop at any moment. Are these your only clothes? Do you have any luggage?”

“Nothing but the clothes off my back. I’m really okay– I just need a place to stay.”

Rahima tried to say this, but as soon as she thought about it–

All her body ached. Mind turned to fog. She was hungry. Her mouth was parched.

Her lean, slightly lanky frame had gotten so much thinner since her journey began too.

Before she realized it, she was turning to skin and bones.

So focused on making it to Aachen she never cared in what condition she might arrive.

Conny urged her to sit down at one of the chairs near the table.

“You can stay here. I’ll pull out the futon from storage– I sleep in this office sometimes. Helps me brainstorm. You can stay until you can find your own place. Can you read and write? There are a few jobs you can do around here. I’ll pay you out of the party budget.”

Rahima was taken aback by Conny’s sudden energy. She was talking so fast.

Though she wanted to ask why Conny was so concerned, and why she was so kind–

What came out of her lips was, “what is ‘the party’?”

Conny wore a slightly proud smile as she responded. “The Rhinean Feminist Party. We advocate for the rights of women in Rhinea. We’re only local right now– a subsidiary of the Aachen Liberal Party. But I have huge ambitions! Right now, you’re a girl who needs help, so– some feminist I would be if I just threw you back out the door just like that.”

Despite Conny’s enthusiasm, Rahima understood very little of that through the fog.

It was as if the fear and tension built up over the weeks had been load-bearing for her body.

As soon as she sat, she felt like she would not be able to stand again as easily.

With a moment’s peace to think, the brutality of her struggle finally caught up to her.

“I’ll get you some food and a change of clothes. We’ll talk more when you’re cleaned up.”

Conny smiled, with a hand on Rahima’s shoulder. Rahima nodded weakly at her.

For whatever reason, for the first time in a long time–

Rahima felt like she might be safe.

After Descent, Year 979

“See? I had full confidence that you could walk out here on your own and easily.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s that easy, but I’m not tripping over.”

“You sound so down. Come on, it’s a new station. We’re on a mission! Out and about!”

“You’re on a mission. I’m just coming along.”

“Not at all. I need you. They will relate better to you than to me.”

Homa felt so pathetic about it, but that ‘I need you’ reverberated in her mind for a while.

It was so exactly what she wanted to hear that it pissed her off.

“Whatever. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

Kalika smiled at her. Her makeup, the sleek contours of her face– she was so pretty.

It was impossible for Homa to meet her gaze too directly for too long.

So instead, she turned her eyes on Aachen, laid grandly before her outside the entry lobby.

Never in her life had Homa seen a station interior so broad and ostentatious. Even the mall in Kreuzung had a ceiling closer to the ground than Aachen’s central structure.

There was an atrium so high up it was impossible to see the ceiling, and spiraling around it was a sweeping blue path with frequent stops next to platforms holding what seemed like shops, cafes, offices, and venues of that sort. What stunned Homa the most was that the central atrium structure was sealed off with glass and filled with water, so that the art installations floating inside a cylinder filled with sea water and stirred by machines forming artificial currents. Like bells or chimes, stirred by the water rushing past them, spiraling to the top as the pathway did– but instead of sound, they made color.

And so, it seemed that in front of Homa’s eyes there was a vortex of glass, water, and gems.

That dwarfed any given person crowding the paths that surrounded it.

“They change this every so often.” Kalika said. “Last I was here; it wasn’t full of water.”

“To create the stream, and to pump in the water, I wonder if they connected this to the sea.”

Kalika glanced at Homa. “Good point. I’ll write that down for later investigation.”

Homa averted her gaze again. “I was just saying stuff without thinking.”

“No, it’s a good observation Homa.” Kalika said. “Even if it doesn’t help us right now, that doesn’t mean it won’t ever be useful. Reconnaissance is about gathering any information that might be important and letting HQ sort it out. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Homa said. “But don’t regret it later if I start talking too much.”

After the Volksarmee arrived in Aachen on the Brigand, Rostock and John Brown, Kalika was given a mission to scout out the station for them. There would be other scouting parties going to different places where they might blend in better, and they would collate all their information through encrypted ZaChats each day. Kalika’s mission had a particular focus on the Shimii Wohnbezirk, a residential and business area that was largely if not exclusively populated by Shimii. Homa was given to understand that it was located beneath the core station cylinder and that while Aachen was not technically segregated, the Shimii Wohnbezirk was affordable to live in and had an established religious community so most Shimii chose to live down there. Kalika explained this during their last session of physical therapy– she would be going away for a while and find lodging in the Wohnbezirk.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye then?” Homa had asked.

Their last session was almost a formality. Homa proved she could walk without assistance.

She tried not to feel too downcast– after all, it was inevitable Kalika would–

“Not yet. I am taking you with me. I want you to pretend you’re looking for your family.”

“Huh?!”

Kalika smiled so sweetly and innocently as if she was not dragging Homa along by the arm.

Though Homa wanted to be dragged along she still acted as if she was complaining.

In her heart there was a mix of trepidation and excitement.

Excitement, because she was going on a trip into a station with Kalika, who was so cool, beautiful, classy and collected– she seemed like an inhabitant of an entirely different world that Homa should have never been able to access. The trepidation, while partly related to Kalika, was more related to their mission. Homa had never felt at home within Shimii communities, and it was a bit farcical to pretend that having her along would make the Shimii Wohnbezirk more accessible. Homa lived as a Shimii but hardly knew the culture.

If anything, she was worried she might screw everything up for Kalika by being there.

Homa had found that Shimii had extreme double standards. Their own people they would judge extremely harshly in all facets, but Imbrians were like an alien race that could go about their business with their only excuse being, “well, that’s how Imbrians are.” Homa never understood that mentality, and the expectations behind it were one of the few ways she felt like a Shimii despite being mixed race. She knew she was a Shimii because of the judgmental eyes on her when she walked by the masjid without attending, when the public prayer bells rang and she kept walking, when she showed up to shops with her Kreuzung passes, when she dressed up in Imbrian clothes. They treated her like they would a Shimii.

She had never been to Aachen but assumed Shimii were just as judgmental everywhere.

Nevertheless, she could not deny Kalika when she was ‘needed’. Homa followed along.

Dressed up in a simple brown coat provided by Kalika, and tough blue worker’s pants from the Brigand’s sailors, over the typical sleeveless button-downs the communists all had on. She finally got her work boots back and tied her dark hair up into a ponytail using the teal necktie instead of wearing it right. Her ears were groomed, her tiny tail fluffed up.

Like Kalika, she wore gloves now to hide her prosthetic.

Around her neck, she wore her good luck charm, the necklace with the piece of silica inside.

Every so often she continued her habit of grasping it gently.

But the beings inside it– the trees?– had not spoken to her again in some time.

“My, who is this handsome stranger? I feel so safe with her around.” Kalika teased.

“Shut up.” Homa said, but her heart soaked in the praise like a sponge filling with water.

Kalika was dressed in her usual attire, with her sword hidden in her bag as always.

Fancy jacket, silver, with see-through sleeves, classier than punk but edgier than formal; synthetic silk shirt, pencil skirt and black tights on her long legs; purple hair pulled up into ponytail framed by her rectangular horns, with tidy bangs covering her forehead; stark pink skin, wine-colored makeup. Shimii had a prevailing idea of Katarrans as being unrefined and monstrous, mostly the same as Imbrians thought of them– but to Homa, Kalika belonged on the cover of a magazine. The contours of her face were so sleek yet so soft-looking.

She was drop dead gorgeous.

“Are you thinking the same about me then, stranger?” Kalika said, winking.

“I wouldn’t call you handsome, I think.” Homa said, folding her ears.

She was, though– she was everything admiring that Homa could say.

Kalika was mystery and beauty and danger and sensuality, on a dazzling pair of legs.

And so, with Homa guarding her heart carefully and Kalika whistling casually, the two of them crossed from the Stockheim tram, into that stunning Aachen lobby, and finally into an elevator bank from which they were headed straight down through the crust of northern Eisental. While the central cylindrical block of Aachen was incredibly beautiful and colorful, this treatment did not extend to the utilitarian sidepaths and the elevators.

Everything outside that atrium and the surrounding mall was what Homa was already used to– cold metal lit by white and yellow LEDs. Like the rest of the world.

“It looks like Aachen has an offset reactor.” Kalika said, while the elevator descended. She laid a finger on a visual representation of the station and their elevator, which was descending into a wireframe box. “The Shimii Wohnbezirk is this box on the map, so the reactor must be this one just off to the side of it. Interesting. I wonder if the Shimii work in the reactor? It would be convenient, but Imbrians aren’t usually so trusting– not that it’s particularly kind of them to let Shimii breathe the salt and get pseudoburns.”

“Well, Shimii can get work in the Kreuzung reactor, if they have a pass and get lucky.”

“Lucky, huh? Well, if that hellhole Kreuzung allows it, Aachen might just allow it too.”

Homa meant ‘get lucky’ in a socioeconomic sense– reactor work paid very handsomely.

Reactor workers could more than make up in cash and benefits the years of life they lost.

Homa had never been brave enough to apply for a job like that, however.

Even at her most desperate, she did not want to trade an untimely demise for money.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Homa stepped out into the light of bright white LED clusters hanging high on street-light poles. There was no illusion of a sky. Towering rock walls and a rough, cavernous ceiling surrounded and loomed over a main street with discrete plastic buildings on both sides. Homa got the impression of long alleyways and winding paths just from looking between some of the buildings. She saw an electronics shop peddling the type of portable Homa had once been given by a certain unsavory woman; restaurants and cafes; a Volwitz Foods affiliated grocer and a high-end sneaker shop side by side. As far as she could see, there was activity.

Homa was reminded of Tower Seven immediately.

A parallel world that Shimii did not need to leave with everything in it except whatever rights the Imbrians must have stripped away. In terms of the architecture the buildings were shaped for functionality, none exceeded two stories. Many did not even have a coat of paint and were weathered beige or an off-white, while others were painted in simple greens, yellows and browns. Homa felt more at home once she took a look at all the signage. There were no logos or promotional artwork that had human figures on them. Shimii religious beliefs frowned upon depicting people– so the logos predominantly boasted elaborate Fusha calligraphy and geometric patterns. For the Fusha signs, Homa could barely read many of the characters, but thankfully most had Low Imbrian signage with a translation too.

On the main street, it was all chain stores and affiliates of Imbrian megacorporations, but Homa could still pick out familiar scenes happening all around the LED-lit plastic. A caucus of aunties visiting a stylist; young men haggling with a pawn shop owner; older men with overgrown tail fur sipping tea at the café; kids running ahead of their mothers.

She was surprised to see a lot of flowing hair and ears up in the air, however. True, not all women, especially young women, heeded the scripture when it came to donning a hijab, but Homa had not seen a single traditional hijab anywhere, which she did find odd. Not even the aunties were wearing the traditional headgear. She did see some women with trendy-looking see-through veils attached to caps with pretty patterns on them– a not-uncommon way of modernizing the garb, but not an exclusive one. She wondered whether Aachen’s Shimii were more liberal than normal or whether there was something else. Even in Kreuzung she was used to seeing as many women wearing some kind of headgear than not.

“What do you think, Homa?” Kalika asked, smiling gently at the sights around her.

“I feel so weird being here.” Homa said. “It’s not that much different from Kreuzung.”

“You’re right– whether technical or not, this feels like segregation to me.” Kalika said.

“Well, I don’t know if you asked some of these folks, if they’d want to live with Imbrians.”

That did not make it right– but it was always the most complicated thing about Kreuzung.

Probably also at work here as much as Homa hated to have to think about it.

She was not the one equipped to solve this problem, only the one haunted by it.

“How about we take a look around? I’m not in any hurry.” Kalika asked.

“Lead the way, I’m just following you.”

“Alright. If you want any treats, we can stop somewhere. Don’t be shy.”

“Fine. I’ll let you know.” Homa sighed.

Kalika stepped ahead and Homa followed closely, but still allowing her to lead.

Following the main street, past the throngs of people and the rows of stores, they eventually came up a town square with a small park with a few olive trees growing with a minimal support system. Nothing but lights and irrigation. There was a three-story building with a waving flag that Homa had seen before, and which caused her heart to jump– a Volkisch black sun. Imani Hadzic had an armband with that same symbol. Kalika had noticed it too– she turned Homa around and led her down a side-street deeper into the alleys.

“Let’s go somewhere more– local.” She said.

Homa did not struggle– she did not care where they went.

So into the depths of the Wohnbezirk, the two went.

Kalika made idle chatter as they walked through the winding, intermittently lit paths.

“Homa, I’ve always had a certain curiosity.”

Homa frowned slightly. “A curiosity about–?”

“What does ‘Shimii’ mean?”

“Uh. I think it’s an ancient word for cat?”

Homa pulled gently on the upright, cat-like ears atop her head, by way of illustration.

“I see.” Kalika said. She looked like she was containing some amusement.

Homa let go of her ears, giving them a ponderous rub before doing so.

“I mean, I don’t know how all this happened, obviously. But cats are very admirable.”

Kalika nodded her head thoughtfully.

Rather than list the admirable qualities of cats, Homa delved thoughtlessly into conjecture.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if like– ancient ummah admired cats enough to become cat-like.”

“That is a very cute origin story.”

“Yeah, but– I’m just joking– obviously nobody believes something that silly.”

While the main street had been populated by chain stores, the parallel roads had a few locally owned businesses and a few small religious schools and some homes. The deeper they went through the side paths the less people they saw. But there was still local traffic everywhere they went even if it was only a few people or a small group. They saw a small theater playing new Imbrian movies; a butcher shop that had Homa staring for a few moments at the beef hanging on the window; and a pharmacy selling both Imbrian-affiliated medications and local naturopathic concoctions; among a variety of places with darkened windows and shut doors, where they had no idea whether anything was inside.

There were less streetlamps, so the side paths were gloomier than the main street.

None of the people walking past seemed to mind the span between lamps, however.

After some walking through nondescript blocks, they reached one of the girder-reinforced rock walls and found a map of the Wohnbezirk on an interactive panel. Kalika stopped and began poking on it. Judging by the map, there was not just one street or three– the layout was an entire town under Aachen with a few kilometers of space and several districts hewn into the rock. There was an entire residential district they had not even gone near.

And a small village off on a corner away from everything else.

“So many people, and I haven’t seen any Uhlankorp. I guess that’s convenient for us.”

“But is it convenient for the people here?” Homa said.

“I think so– do you think the Uhlans would administer fair justice here?”

“I guess not.” Homa sighed.

She had never lived anywhere that had ‘friendly’ police. She had grown up being taught to be respectful but to keep away and keep quiet; the implicit understanding that police wielded justice for Imbrians and not her– hell, maybe not even for Imbrians. Maybe only for themselves. Could not one single thing in the world be fair to everyone?

“We’ll do what we can to help Homa. Maybe not short term– but be patient with us.”

Kalika offered her a small smile while looking up directions in the map.

“Homa, I want to see some local color. Where would you go in this situation?”

She gazed back at Homa. Homa averted her eyes and shrank a little bit.

“It’s not like I have any experience with this. I guess I would want to go to people I know– if I just ended up here by myself I might go to a grocer or a barber or something. Places where you find young guys or aunties– those are the types that are always chatty. I wouldn’t bother with the chain stores in the main street or trying to go to the masjid for small talk.”

“Why don’t you pick a place and lead the way? We can start running our little scam.”

“Don’t call it that– someone might hear.”

Kalika’s ‘little scam’ was for Homa to ask about ‘her family’ like a pathetic lost child.

It was a valid idea for learning more about the town, but Homa did not like it.

She approached the map and saw there was a greengrocer a few blocks away.

Without saying anything she put her hands in her pockets and nodded for Kalika to follow.

Homa turned her eyes on the ground as if she did not want anyone to see them.

Walking casually on her prosthetic leg should have felt like a triumph.

But replicating the miserable, lonely walking she did in Kreuzung, trying to seem small and to draw no attention–

It was depressing. Even with Kalika alongside her it all felt so depressingly circular.

Every Shimii habitat in the Imbrium– was it all the same? Homa wandered in thought.

No sooner had they turned the corner, however, that Homa walked into someone.

She felt a shock the instant of the impact. How foolish could she be?

Especially for Kalika to have seen her–!

“Watch where you’re fucking going– oh, oh hey, who the fuck are you? Katarran?”

Homa’s heart sank as soon as she recovered and caught sight of who she had run into.

In front of them on the street was a group of four young men, all of them skinny-looking, maybe even younger than Homa by a year or three. The one Homa had walked into had a fiery look in his eyes, gesturing with his hands as if demanding an explanation (or compensation) be laid on his palms. The whole group was dressed in Imbrian fashions, with zip-up hooded jackets with see-through vynil sleeves and big black pants and colorful sneakers. Their tails were straight, and their ears were folded, and their body language was tense, coiled-up, ready to release. It was supposed to be forbidden for a good Shimii to imitate Imbrians too much, but to Homa, these boys were archetypical Imbrian hooligans. All they were missing was jewelry and a football game in which to hurl verbal abuse.

“What’s a Katarran doing down here? You gawking? Here to fuck with us?”

Homa glanced briefly at Kalika and saw her staring down the lead hooligan.

She was not saying anything in response to the provocation.

Did she want Homa to be the one to talk?

“Not gonna talk? Did you bring her here, you little punk? I don’t recognize you.”

With Kalika, the obvious discrepancy, keeping mum, the hooligan turned to Homa again.

“I’m not from around here! I’m just visiting! She’s– she escorted me here!” Homa said.

Kalika sighed openly.

“You’re here visiting? Here?” The hooligan looked at his friends who all had a laugh with him. “And you bought a Katarran?” He turned sharply back to Homa, reached out a hand and shoved her. “You ought to make a donation, then, you rich bitch– you ran right into me and scuffed my favorite jacket. Do you know how much I had to hustle for it? I can’t afford to travel all over like you. So, you should make a contribution to the less fortunate.”

“We’re not looking for trouble here. But if you touch her again, you’ll regret it.”

Kalika stepped forward.

Homa thought that would have been enough to get them to back off–

“Want some? Katarran bitch! Go back to the fucking vat you got shat out from!”

But a sense of invulnerability was a universal folly of young men, inculcated by a system designed to insulate them from any consequences. So even these boys, who had no concept of what they were messing with and nothing but the chip on their shoulder to strike with, still formed up in front of Kalika as if Katarrans were everyday targets of their fists. It was enough to unnerve Homa, but Kalika was unmoved in their presence.

Homa saw her fingers sliding over her bag.

None of the boys knew what was in there– but Homa feared what might come to pass.

So, she stepped forward even closer than Kalika, directly in front of the hooligans.

Not knowing what she could possibly say to sound intimidating–

She lost her opportunity and received an even more forceful shove than before.

Thrown back to be caught by Kalika.

Homa could practically feel the burgeoning anger in Kalika’s grip.

It punctuated her own helpless foolishness. She was shaking with frustration at herself–

Suddenly a new voice sounded across the street.

“Hey! Knock it off! Stooping to street harassment now, you lowlives?”

Hurried steps sounded behind them; then a dark-skinned girl appeared in front of them.

Homa saw long black hair, the glint of golden eyes, a brief glance of a fierce expression.

She interposed herself between Kalika, Homa and the boys, standing firm.

With one hand in her pocket of a brown jacket made of a thick fabric.

Despite the difference in numbers the boys seemed more hesitant to approach her.

They still had to posture like they could fight, but they were slowly beginning to back off.

“Where the hell did you come from? You need to get your ass back to the Quarter, bitch!”

“Fuck off! I’m not afraid of you! Why don’t you step up to me like you did to them?”

Not even the taunt could get any of the boys to reach out for a shove or throw a punch.

Surreptitiously they drew back even as they continued to shout.

“Mahdist bitches! We’ll kill you if we see any of you again!”

There was a note of desperation in that voice.

“Get out of here already!” The young woman shouted at them.

Hurling slurs and abuse, the boys ran from the scene, dispersed with surprising urgency.

Kalika lifted her hand from her bag. And the young woman took her hand out of her jacket.

While Homa composed herself, her chest fluttering with shame.

“Calling me a Mahdist like it’s a slur, the nerve of them.” The girl said, grunting.

She was someone who had to be around Homa’s age, not a child by any means and yet not experienced in the fullness of her adulthood. Her face and body Homa thought resembled her own, like someone who was young and unmarred by the world, but frequently worked with her hands. She had a stronger back and shoulders than Homa did, however. She looked visibly poor– Her jacket was well worn, with scuff marks and frayed edges and missing buttons, but very sturdy, worn over a blue blouse. She wore black pants that were ripped in places and thick boots. Her ears had messy fur and her tail had a few scars on it.

“Are you okay? They didn’t rob you or anything, did they?” She asked.

Homa was surprised at how dark her skin was, almost as dark as her long, sleek and shiny hair, flat down her back but grown unruly in the sides and front with a lot of bangs and stray wavy locks. Her eyes contrasted the flesh around them to an intense degree. She had a mix of familiar and interesting facial features; she had an oval face with thin lips, her eyes had a slight narrowness to them, her nose was very straight, her eyebrows were a bit thick.

The contemptuous expression that the handsome young lady had directed at the hooligans melted into a much gentler look of concern for Kalika and Homa.

“Thanks to your intercession, it did not get that far.” Kalika said.

“Yes. Thank you.” Homa said, still feeling like too much of an idiot to say much more.

The girl put her hand on her own chest as a gesture of greeting.

“I’m Sareh. I hope those guys won’t leave you with a bad impression of us.”

“Not at all.” Kalika said, smiling. “I’m Kalika, this is Homa. Trust me, we’ve seen worse.”

Homa waved half-heartedly, still keeping mum.

“I appreciate you not putting them in the dirt. They’re just a bunch of morons.” Sareh said.

Homa thought Sareh must have known a thing or two about Katarrans to have judged that.

If she was hiding a gun in her jacket, then she wasn’t oblivious to this sort of scenario.

She might have interceded on behalf of those boys as much as she did to stop them.

“Usually when Shimii immigrate here, there will be an introduction by their family at the Rashidun masjid on the other side of town– or they get sent straight to the Mahdist quarter.” Sareh said, directed primarily at Homa. “It is odd for Shimii to just visit; especially with a Katarran. Tourists stick to the main street to buy trendy stuff. Back here, it’s all locals. So that’s why it looks kind of weird for you two to be wandering around these streets.”

“I’m–” Homa felt ashamed lying to Sareh, who seemed genuinely friendly to outsiders like them. But it was necessary. “I’m not immigrating. I’m looking for my family– when I was a kid I was sent to Kreuzung by myself. My surname is– Messhud. Homa Messhud.”

She picked surname that read as Mahdist since Sareh had been called a Mahdist. But she also picked an uncommon one and pronounced it quite strangely, in the hopes no locals had it.

“Huh. Well, I don’t know everyone here, but I know someone who might be able to help.”

Sareh pointed in a direction where the rock ceiling lowered, and the walls narrowed.

“Over that way is the Mahdist quarter. I can take you to my part– my friend, there.”

Kalika seemed to pick up on her correcting herself. Mild amusement crept into her smile.

Homa looked back to Kalika as if for permission. Kalika nodded her head.

And thus, fortune led them ever deeper into the Wohnbezirk– to a Mahdist ghetto.

After Descent, Year 961

“Guten morgen, my name is Rahima, and I am calling on behalf of the Rhinean Feminist Party. Do you need assistance registering to vote or accessing your local polling office to exercise your right to vote? We would be happy to assist you, free of charge.”

Another call sent to voice-email. Rahima tapped on her keyboard to end the call.

She had a headset to make calls to people’s rooms notifiying them of upcoming elections.

Hands on the keyboard, headset always ready, a list of room addresses to call up.

She could go through a dozen rooms quickly– if nobody picked up.

When someone picked up, Rahima felt much more nervous than leaving voicemails.

“Guten morgen, my name is Rahima,”

Since she had immigrated a few years ago, Rahima had been doing much better for herself.

Her hair had grown out, richly brown, and her cheeks had filled again. Her arms and legs were no longer so skinny and her back had broadened a bit. She had new clothes, Imbrian business attire; a vest, shirt, a blazer and pants. Her skin, which had been turning pale and yellowing with neglect and sickness, had returned to its light brown richness. All of this thanks to her new income. She was the workhorse of the Rhinean Feminist Party, carrying boxes of logo-branded goods to and fro, fixing things around the office that Conny did not want to bend down or climb up a ladder for, picking up lunch, and now, making calls.

“Guten morgen,”

At first there was not much to do around the office but menial manual labor.

Even so, Conny hardly wanted to do it, and so happily paid for it to be done.

Now, however, there was a buzz of excitement.

Emperor Konstantin von Fueller had made a historic decree. The Imperial monarchy and its offices would no longer contradict local decision-making in the duchies provided it was done through legally approved means. This was being referred to as ‘the Emperor’s retreat from politics.’ Law enforcement between the territories would continue to be carried out by the Inquisition, Patrol and Imperial Navy, but each Duchy could control its economy and social policies without intervention. For territories like Veka with an authoritative duchal family, little would change. For Rhinea, however, this was a moment of great opportunity.

Rhinea’s duchy had long since relinquished decisionmaking power to generations of the noveau rich who had then formalized that power in the Rhinean Reichstag.

Now the Reichstag would have more weight than ever as Rhinea’s policy-making body. Established parties like the Liberals and Conservatives attracted real corporate investment, as it became clear they could be a nexus for further reform of the economy to suit some interest or another; and even niche parties like the Rhinean Feminist Party now had opportunities to grow. The All-Rhinea stage was still barred from them, but if they could make a strong showing in Aachen’s local politics, they might turn their fortunes.

Right now, they were under the Rhinean Liberals, but they could grow, attract members.

With greater membership, they could run on their own ticket for council and executive.

And with any amount of victories in a real ticket, they might then attract real investment.

Therefore, Conny had Rahima making phone calls down the entire room registry.

Rahima kept making calls, running through the script, trying her best when picked up.

Until she felt a gentle squeezing from a pair of hands on her shoulders.

“You’re working hard. Want to get lunch together?” Conny Lettiere said.

“I’ll never say no to lunch. Your treat?” Rahima said.

“My treat.” Conny said. Rahima could feel her smile even without looking at her.

When she turned around to look at her, she immediately thought–

Conny looked gorgeous.

Wearing a cardigan that had a pattern of thicker and sheerer material across its surface and bits that hung from the hem and the end of the sleeves, over a plastic tanktop with a deep cleavage plunge that cut off mid-belly, both quite provocative. Bell-bottomed pants and open-toed shoes gave her such a bohemian look, and her hair being collected into twintails added to the almost girlish style. Colorful, full of youthful vibrancy.

Rahima could have never dressed like that.

Conny had the energy to be more frivolous because she had Rahima to be serious for her.

“Is it the outfit, or is it me?” Conny said, grinning at Rahima.

“It’s both.” Rahima said, smiling as she stood up.

If only she had Conny’s courage– but that was something she could work on.

They relocated from the office to the central ring of the Aachen Core Station, following the spiraling walkway around the central atrium and its bright decorations. They stopped off at a platform three stories high and sat in a corner table of a small restaurant that served homestyle Imbrian fare. It was a small, homey venue, little more than a serving desk, an unseen kitchen, and six tables with four chairs. Very few people took up the very few seats in the establishment. Most of the people on the lunch rush picked up their meal from the counter and walked back out, headed back to their offices or workplaces.

Conny ordered cheese-stuffed dumplings served in a meat and tomato sauce.

“You know, this is based on the Elven dish ‘Ravioli.’ It’s an Imbrian take on it.”

“You don’t say?”

Rahima, meanwhile, ordered a pickled cucumber soup with a simple dinner roll. The soup had a base of chicken broth full of earthy vegetables, flavored with pickle brine, and topped with a dollop of cream and a big mound of grated pickled cucumbers and peppers. Rahima mixed everything together, broke off pieces of bread and dipped it into the unctuous soup. It was rich and tangy; it warmed her heart; it was just what she needed to soothe her throat after hours of talking. Even something this simple felt luxurious– especially with Conny.

“Rahima, do you go down to the Wohnbezirk often?” Conny asked.

She meant the Shimii town in the rock under the Aachen core baseplate.

“I’ve been visiting more often since I got the apartment. Easier to do now that I don’t have to worry about someone seeing me going back and forth from the office.” Rahima replied.

“Do you go to the religious festivals? I don’t see you praying often.”

Conny took a bite of her dumpling, and Rahima could have sworn her sharp ears wiggled.

“It’s a bit tough for me Conny.” Rahima said. “I’m a Mahdist so if I want to go celebrate I have to go into the Mahdist ghetto– and then the Rashidun in the town will know about it.”

“Will that put you in danger?”

“I don’t know. It’s just another thing that could be a problem. Common prejudices.”

“I see. That’s so unfair. But I don’t want you to be overly concerned with appearances.”

“No, it’s better this way. We need to be careful about things like that, Conny.”

“Rahima, I might not know the cultural nuances that resulted in the Shimii’s troubles. But what we have going for us at the Rhinean Feminist Party is that we stand for radical politics! I want this to be a place where you can dream of a better world! You should never have to hide what you are or believe in here. I want women to be equal to men in the Imbrium, to end forced marriages, to get equal wages, to make workplaces safer; so, what are your dreams, Rahima? What can we do for the Shimii, and especially for Shimii women?”

After a long contemplation over the pickles in her soup, Rahima finally answered.

“I want to end the hijab ban; and to decouple Shimii suffrage from residency.” She said.

Her voice was a bit meek, as if there was a secret sin to saying such things.

Conny smiled brightly. “That’s what you’ll stand for then! We’ll fight for it together!”

She reached across the table and laid her hand over Rahima’s own, firm and supportive.

Rahima had never thought it about so closely before– it almost made no sense to her that she might be on the ticket for the Rhinea Feminist Party. They had few members, so if they wanted to run someone other than Conny, she had to be on the ticket. But she had an unexamined idea that only Imbrians got to be in the government, and a Shimii like her, a Mahdist even, could not have possibly been put on the ticket. Perhaps even the first time she saw her, Conny’s unspoken radicalism had already imagined Rahima on that ticket.

“I’m kind of nervous about this, Conny, if I’m being honest.” Rahima said.

“Don’t be. I’ll coach you. You’ve already got an advantage– you dress more formally!”

Conny reached out and rubbed her fingers over a bit of Rahima’s blazer, laughing.

Rahima laughed with her. Her heart was racing, but she felt strangely positive.

It would be nice to give the Imbrians a black eye in their own game.

After Descent, Year 979

“Kalika, I have a curiosity.” Homa said.

As she spoke she mimed Kalika’s earlier tone a bit, with a hint of mockery.

“Ask away, dear.” Kalika said, clearly ignoring Homa’s taunting.

Homa’s eyes narrowed a bit when Kalika did not take the bait.

“What does ‘Katarran’ mean?” She said.

“It means ‘the damned’ or ‘the ones born cursed’.” Kalika said casually.

Homa quieted down for the rest of the walk. She had not expected something so dark.

“Almost there,” Sareh said, looking back at them as she led the way, “can you tell?”

On the northern end of the Shimii Wohnbezirk the cavernous ceiling descended closer and there was an area where the walls tightened. For a stretch, there were more exposures of the rock wall, less buildings and other structures to cover it up. There were more boarded-up, old and empty buildings too. Some had signs indicating they were for sale or rent but many, many more were just shuttered as if permanently abandoned. The road under their feet roughened slightly, it was less paved down, and even the air felt a bit thinner.

Eventually Homa could see the square entryway to another area up ahead.

“Shit.” Sareh said. “Our oxygen generator must be going again. Ugh, this sucks!”

“That’s not good.” Kalika said. “But hey, maybe we can help each other out.”

“Do you really mean that? I am not sure what you could do.” Sareh said.

“We’ll talk when we meet your friend, but try to trust me and keep an open mind.”

“Well, alright. We’re basically there. Our own dusty little corner.” Sareh said.

Homa could see it too. As soon as she caught her first glimpses of the village–

Her fist closed and shook with an impotent rage.

They crossed under an archway with an open gate that had a few bars broken on its doors. Here the ceiling was close enough to form something of a short tunnel, but then it opened back up into a little village. It was much more haphazardly planned than the main street of the Wohnbezirk. There were less streetlights, and only one short street that seemed to terminate on a double-wide building being used as a masjid. However, behind the masjid, and behind each house on the one street, there were more buildings set up, like a haphazard little village arrayed from the masjid as one of its central features.

There were a few dozen people hanging out in this little main street. They were like Shimii were everywhere– they dressed as nicely as they could, they had lively conversation, their ears were standing, their tails swaying. Homa noticed a few more frayed and discolored items of clothing here and there. There was also nowhere for them to go. This village was much smaller than the rest of the Wohnbezirk but there were a lot of people in it.

All of the buildings were plastic, but shabbier ones, less maintained. Rather than paint, many of them had pieces of patterned fabric for decorations. Just like the rest of the Wohnbezirk, there were shops here, but very few. There were no restaurants either. Homa saw a cobbler, a stylist, and a clothing atelier. All had very lively crowds like they were bright little local hangouts. There might have been more. But the streets looked mostly residential.

Other than the masjid, what drew Homa’s attention the most was a small clearing to the right a few dozen meters from the entrance gate. On this clearing, a plastic stage was in the final stages of assembly, with chairs around it, and a curtain that could open and close around it with poles and pulleys and carbon cable. It was sturdy and relatively new, the color of the plastic looking much fresher than that of the plastic in the surrounding houses.

In the back of the stage there was a square structure erected which resembled a small building facade, the size of an adult human being, with numerous arched entryways and a sweeping upper rim. Colored gold and red with blue patterning, its the spires dome-like and green, it was perhaps the most inventive little thing in the whole Wohnbezirk, nicer looking than any of the real houses. Homa wondered what monument it was supposed to be a replica of, since Shimii never built structures like this nowadays. Perhaps it was supposed to be a palace, maybe of one of the ancient kings, or maybe it related to the Mahdi.

“It’s a Tazia.” Sareh explained. She must have caught Homa staring at it. “We’re preparing for the Tishtar festival– it’s a yearly celebration we have around here. On Tishtar we recall the heroism of Ali Ibn al-Wahran, blessed be he, who opened the ocean for the Shimii. We build a replica of the mausoleum that his companions built. It’s not actually anyone’s grave though– the great hero al-Wahran is not really dead. Tradition stuff, you know? It’s kind of a hero festival, kind of a water festival, kind of a folk– well if you join us, you’ll see what I mean.” Her tone grew a bit awkward as if she either did not know how to explain it well.

Homa suddenly froze up upon hearing the name of the blessed old Hero, however.

She recalled a dream in which a red-headed demon of a woman spoke that name to her.

“I recognize your kind. You are of his flesh. What was his name? Hmm. Oh yes.”

Ali Ibn al-Wahran.

What had she meant– when she said Homa was– of his flesh–?

Was it just because she was a Shimii–? Or was she– a Mahdist–?

“I’ve– I’ve never heard of him I think. I’m sorry.” Homa said, suddenly nervous.

“Huh? Really?” Sareh said, staring at Homa with curious surprise. “You don’t know? He’s like, the most important of the ancient kings. For Mahdists, we are also taught he is the Mahdi, a great hero who will return to us. I guess you must not be a mahdist– but I mean that’s okay! We don’t judge anyone here as long as they don’t judge us. So don’t stress out over it.”

Sareh continued to act a bit awkward around the subject of her religion and its rites.

Kalika continued to smile neutrally, her expression collected as Homa and Sareh spoke.

“Ah, thanks. It’s okay. I’m– I’m non-denominational–” Homa stammered as awkwardly.

It was just a stupid dream– she shouldn’t take it so seriously–

But–

didn’t the trees sing to her,

and the red-haired woman awaken the colors–?

wait, what colors?

“I’d love to stick around for the festival. Wouldn’t you Homa?” Kalika said suddenly.

Homa jerked her head to look at Kalika, eyes drawn open. “Uh. I mean. Sure! I’ll stay.”

Kalika must have had some plan to make use of the Mahdists here to her advantage.

Or– maybe she just wanted to help them.

She and the Volksarmee were a bunch of communist weirdos after all.

Homa did not know if she considered herself one, but she was still just following Kalika.

So she had little choice but to do as the communists did.

And also–

When she looked around this tucked-away piece of the Shimii world, cast into obscurity–

She felt angry. And there was no good outlet for that anger.

So perhaps she should help. It could be educational as well.

Without a family, Homa had never been afforded much of her religion.

Leija certainly never cared to teach her anything, except vague prejudices against Mahdists.

For all she knew she really could have been a Mahdist just like them.

“Alright! The more the merrier!” Sareh smiled at them. “Then let me introduce you to the lady organizing things. She happens to be the friend of mine I told you about. We can talk with her about getting you two into the festivities– and maybe other business.”

Kalika nodded, smiled, and followed behind Sareh.

She glanced at Homa and winked at her.

Homa blinked, confused, but followed along. Kalika was definitely plotting something.

Hopefully something good and kind– and not too troublesome.

Sareh led them to the masjid, and then around an exterior walkway. Behind the masjid there was a solitary old olive tree, living with an oxygen controller grafted onto its trunk, and a path of flattened out rock that led to a small plastic house next to one of the few light poles that were installed in the village. There was enough empty space between this house and the rest of the village that it felt more a part of the masjid than part of the residences.

Sareh pointed it out as their destination.

“Baran! Are you home? I’m back from town! I’ve brought some visitors too!” Sareh called.

“Welcome back! Yes, you can come in! I’ll be happy to welcome them.”

Homa had not known what to expect, but the voice greeting them sounded pretty young.

Sareh waved her hand toward herself, inviting the guests in.

Rather than a door, the house had a curtain over its entry similar to ones on its windows.

Sareh pushed away the blue and green curtain. Beyond the entry, there was one room that contained almost all the acoutrements of living. There were a few plastic chairs around a little table, in one corner. On one wall, there was a screen with a cable snaking out of one of the windows. Plastic buildings did not have built-in computers and projection monitors, like the metal rooms in the station. Another corner was taken up by an electric pot and kettle stood up on a small refrigerator, their cords snaking into the wall.

Finally, there was a set of plastic shelves that held cutlery, bowls, cups, and a variety of little knick-knacks. There were dolls of Shimii girls, with colorful dresses, and a little resin horse, and a cup and ball game– kid’s toys and handicrafts. While the horse was stitcher-machined, the rest looked a bit rougher and might have been hand-made, Homa thought.

At the end of the room there was another curtain. Out from it stepped their host.

Her bedroom must have been behind there. Homa did not see a bed anywhere else.

“It’s so nice to have visitors! Not many people come by here. Introduce me, Sareh!”

“This is my– friend, Baran Al-Masshad.” Sareh said.

She looked to have been reaching for words for a second.

Baran giggled and put her hand to her chest by way of greeting.

“As-Salamu Alaykum.”

Her voice was quite lovely– Sareh seemed momentarily stricken by it and averted her eyes.

In general, Baran might have been the prettiest girl Homa had seen in a very long time.

She looked about Sareh’s age and therefore, Homa’s age. Unlike Sareh, who dressed in utilitarian Imbrian clothing usually typified as boyish, Baran wore a long blouse and skirt. Her eyes were deeply green and her skin a light honey-brown, with bigger eyes and slightly softer cheeks than Sareh. Her hair was worn long, and it had a very light reddish-brown tone. Like the other religious women Homa had seen in Aachen she did not wear a hijab but instead wore a see-through veil with a small cap. Hers was blue with little moon patterns on it, through which tall, fluffy ears poked. Her tail was a bit skinny, but as far as her figure, she had more than Sareh or Homa. She thankfully looked like she got to eat regularly.

After seeing the state of the buildings, Homa had been worried there might be starvation.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Al-Masshad.” Kalika said. “I’m Kalika Loukia.”

She put a hand to her chest as she had seen Sareh and Baran do.

“Um. Salam. I’m Homa– Messhud. Homa Messhud. It’s– it’s nice to meet you two.”

Homa also put her hand to her chest. She was feeling rather awkward with her cover story.

“Oh, my whole name is Sareh Al-Farisi.” Sareh said, after receiving a little look from Baran.

“It is a pleasure to meet all of you.” Baran said. “Please just call me Baran.”

“I hope our unannounced appearance won’t trouble you, Baran.” Kalika said.

“Not at all. I was just resting. It might be my imagination, but the air is feeling thinner.”

“It is thinner. I think the air generator must be busted again.” Sareh said, sighing.

“I truly hope not– nevertheless, we can check on it after we have treated our guests.”

Baran gestured for Kalika and Homa to sit and then approached the electric pot.

Cracking the lid open, steam rising up, filling the room with a savory aroma; Baran scooped up steaming pulao rice into two bowls and passed them to Sareh, who in turn passed them to Homa and Kalika. From the kettle, she poured two cups of lukewarm tea. Homa looked down at the bowl of rice, eager to spot some chicken or beef within– instead finding only raisins and onions. While the aroma was incredible she could not help but feel disappointed.

Kalika looked down at the contents of her bowl, mixing things up further with a fork.

“We should accept it.” Homa whispered. “Turning down food from a Shimii is very rude.”

“I figured.” Kalika whispered back. “I was getting a bit peckish anyway.”

Baran handed Sareh her own bowl and cup and served herself as well.

Together, they all sat down on Baran’s table, with Kalika setting down her bag beside her.

“I’m afraid I am out of yogurt and sabzi, or I would offer you some.” Baran said.

“This is fantastic on its own. We can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.” Kalika said.

Homa nodded her head, trying to hide her wan expression at her continuing lack of meat.

“Baran, if you’re out of something, you should have told me!” Sareh said.

Baran shook her head. “I’m being thrifty now so we can spend more on the feast.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that.” Sareh grumbled but seemed to give up the argument then.

Homa looked at Kalika. While she ate, she was clearly observing Baran and Sareh.

She hoped dearly Kalika was not going to cause them any trouble.

All the communists she had met had been nice to her– but Kalika was “on a mission,” now.

Would she behave any differently? Would she try to take advantage of these people?

Helpless to do anything about it, Homa took her first spoonful of pulao into her mouth.

Her ears stood on end as the smooth, deeply savory flavor coated her mouth. Pops of tart sweetness from the raisins, and the crunchy red onions, lended the dish some complexity. The rice itself had a bit of cumin and Shimii pepper, maybe– but the real mystery was the deeply savory, velvety mouthfeel that came with each spoonful of rice, and the meaty flavor that it carried. Her mouth was slick with thekind of flavor she had been craving.

Baran saw the expression on Homa’s face and smiled proudly. Sareh stared at her in turn.

“Want to know the secret, Homa? Rendered down chicken trimmings and bones!” Baran smiled like she had been clever. Sareh looked at her as if with mild embarassment. Heedless of this, Baran continued. “It’s the cheapest stuff from the butchers out in the town. I can make my own chicken oil and stock with it, and have my meat that way!”

A proud, smug little smile remained fixed on Baran’s face while her guests ate.

Homa savored the rice like it was the last time she might ever taste any meat.

“And before someone comments on the state of my pantry again, I am saving up so there will be meat on Tishtar. You are welcome to partake if you’d like to attend.” Baran said.

She looked at Sareh with a self-satisfied little face. Sareh looked back, exasperated.

Homa felt rather ashamed of how much this made the festival more attractive to her.

But not enough to reject the idea of showing up for the feast outright.

“As you can see, this is the sort of character our village chief is.” Sareh replied, grinning.

“Now, what is that supposed to mean? Good with budgeting? A genius chef?” Baran said.

Sareh shrugged and did not pick any of the available options.

“Oh interesting, she’s the chief? I thought she was just putting on the festival.” Kalika said.

“I don’t consider myself important.” Baran said. “The Imbrians are the ones who have true power over the Wohnbezirk. But my father and his family were very respected within this community. When my father passed away, the villagers wanted me to take up his hereditary titles. I just help around town and I consider the title purely ceremonial.”

“Is it because of the Imbrians that this place is so run-down?” Homa asked.

Kalika shot her a glance as if surprised. Homa realized she was being too blunt.

Sareh shot her a look too– but Baran was not offended. She began to explain.

“They are not solely responsible. However, they could fix things if they wanted to, and they do not. So that is a form of responsibility they must be criticized for.” Baran said. She put down her cup of tea and put her hands on her lap. “I’m sure you know, Homa, that there is a lot of bad blood between Mahdist Shimii and Rashidun Shimii. I don’t know the entire history of the Wohnbezirk, but it’s been segregated for as long as I have lived here. There are harsh rules imposed on us. For example, we are not allowed to grow food, we can only buy it in town. We also need to get any materials we use from the Shimii economy. Rashidun Shimii won’t offer us any charity, nor prefer us for anything. Sometimes, people will be upset if we try to buy too much or buy things that are scarce. Sometimes the Imbrians help us, but we are in essence responsible for everything here by ourselves. But despite that we–”

Here, Sareh suddenly interrupted. “Don’t mince words. Look, the problem is, this is a town of mostly women, children and old people. We risk being harassed every time we try to leave so only some of us go out infrequently. Very few people here earn outside incomes and we have limited imports; some families get remittances from kids who got work in the Core Station, and we have some aunties here who do clothes and shoes, but they are basically all trading the same reichmarks around. These conditions are supposed to put pressure on us– they want us to renounce our culture and become Rashidun and move into town to kill the village. All of the shiftless piece of shit men here left because of that–”

“Sareh, please, that’s enough.” Baran interrupted. Homa picked up a note of desperation.

Sareh stood up from her chair and left the table suddenly. Baran sighed as she watched her.

Homa raised her hands as if she wanted to stop her or apologize but could not speak out.

She sat back down on her chair feeling defeated. Kalika remained silent and calm.

After a minute’s silence Baran turned to their guests and tried to smile again.

“I’m sorry about that.” She said. “Politics and religion should not be off the table; we just need to be able to speak about them politely. That’s what my father always taught me. So please do not feel responsible for what just happened. Sareh is extremely dear to me; and I know I am dear to her. She just needs to cool off and we will rejoin her then.”

“Um. Right. Thank you.” Homa said, nervously.

“I’m glad Sareh is that tough– she seems like she needs to be that way around here.” Kalika said. She had finished her bowl and tea. “I feel like I’ve seen enough so I will be forward. Baran, Homa and I can help you. We want to stay for the festival. Homa has some money– she’s looking for her family here. Right Homa? And I’m a Katarran mercenary.”

Kalika looked over to Homa with a casual and untroubled smile.

Homa straightened up in her chair and put her hands on the table, stiffly.

“Yes. That– That’s all completely true.” She said.

“Then– you will help us with the festival, so Homa can search for her family here?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Kalika said.

“I would be happy to help– but there’s a lot to do for the festival. It’s an unequal trade.”

“Homa’s family means a lot to her.” Kalika said, glancing at Homa again.

Homa stiffed up more. “Uh. Yeah. I’m– I’m a real family cat.” She wiggled her ears a bit.

“You said your surname is Messhud?” Baran asked. “I was thinking– it could be a weird way of saying my surname, Al-Masshad– or maybe I just don’t know everyone around here. Surely some of the aunties would know more. I can ask them. Would that be okay, Homa?”

For a moment Homa felt extremely stupid about how close her hastily chosen fake surname came to being Baran’s actual surname. Had she tacked on an ‘al’ prefix there she would have been cooked. Somehow, the close call felt more embarassing than being completely caught in an outright lie, and Homa was growing to hate the entire situation.

She began evaluating everything she wanted to say to the very simple question of whether she was okay, running it by an intense committee in her own brain. The result of this was that for close to thirty seconds she was saying absolutely nothing to Baran.

“She’s shy– hasn’t gotten around much.” Kalika kept smiling. “Please do ask around.”

Baran looked at Homa for a moment and then smiled more warmly at her.

“No need to be shy– it means so much to me that you want to help us.” Baran said.

“I am actually a communist. If I ignored all this, I’d bring shame on myself.” Kalika said.

THIS WOMAN–!?

Homa’s ears and tail both shot up as straight as they could go.

She shot Kalika a glance from the edge of her eyesockets, without moving her head.

Trying with all of her body to say WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!

Without in fact saying a single word or even making so much as a noise.

“That’s so interesting. You might like to talk to the NGO people then.” Baran said happily.

Homa shot a glance at Baran. She felt like she was in an alternate universe suddenly.

Wasn’t she going to inform on them to the Volkisch? She just heard the c-word out loud!

Kalika continued to look and act as if nothing odd or auspicious was happening.

Did she just tell everyone she met she was a communist?! Did she want to die?

“Maybe I will. Homa and I have no prejudice towards anyone anyone except evildoers.”

“Right.” Homa finally said. “We– we hate those. Because of– communism?”

“Yep. Honest truth to Allah, Subhanahu wa-Ta’ala.” Kalika said in suddenly perfect fusha.

Homa felt more ridiculous than she had since the last time she felt utterly ridiculous.

Such moments seemed to transpire with increasing frequency.

“Mashallah! It is the first time I’ve ever set a table for communists, and also communists who know of our religion too. I’ll always remember this day.” Baran said excitedly.

Perhaps Baran was just more innocent than Homa would let herself believe.

Or maybe she did not really know what a communist was.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to take a look at the oxygen generator.” Kalika said.

“Oh, yes! Follow me. I am hoping it’s not actually broken.” Baran said.

“I’m handy with things like that.”

“Sareh is too. She’s quite reliable. Maybe she already scouted it out?”

With their course decided, the trio stepped outside of Baran’s house.

They immediately found Sareh with her back to one of Baran’s walls, waiting for them.

Her arms crossed, her head down, and a wan expression on her face.

“Feeling better?” Baran asked gently, stepping in front of Sareh and beaming.

Sareh averted her gaze. “I’m sorry for yelling. You don’t deserve that.”

“Maybe not– but I earned it, and I accept responsibility. I’ll always forgive you, Sareh.”

They briefly held hands, perhaps cognizant of their guests reading too much into it.

Homa had pretty much already deduced those two were something or other together.

Perhaps they might have only seemed like friends to someone with less life experience.

If the concept of homosexuality had already burrowed into one’s brain, it was easy to see.

Homa herself was a complicated girl with complicated feelings so she understood.

And it would have been quite a sight for Kalika of all people to be homophobic.

Not that anyone here knew that– of course they would not trust them on appearances alone.

Together, Sareh and Baran led Homa and Kalika from the house behind the masjid, off the paths wound around houses, and closer to the undeveloped, rocky surroundings of the village. They followed a series of exposed ventilation tubes that ran into the village. Near to the rock wall, they found a metal plate with a machine in a square housing that served as the epicenter of all the tubes they had been following. There were several bolted plates that could be removed and reaffixed and a few gauges that seemed to be stuck.

“This generator doesn’t actually generate oxygen, but it pumps it from an oxygen plant in the Wohnbezirk and out to the rest of the village.” Sareh said. “We just call it the oyxgen generator because its easier to say. We used to have some CO2 converters in the village but most of them broke, so this thing has been working harder than ever as our main source of oxygen. Then it breaks down every once in a while and gives us all a headache.”

“We’ve tried to have someone fix everything in the village, but there’s always a problem.” Baran said. “When we ask for major repairs from the Wohnbezirk, they say they have to special order parts because of our outdated systems, so little fixes are all they can do. In the past I sent mail to Councilwoman Rahima, who is a very kind Shimii politician in the core station, and she helped speed things up; but I don’t want to bother her too much.”

“If it’s just a pump, I don’t see how their complaints could hold water.” Kalika said.

“You have a good point there.” Sareh said. “Sometimes I just kick it and it works again.”

“Sareh, please stop kicking things. They need to be fixed properly.” Baran said.

“Hey! I do that too sometimes. I just barely ever have parts or tools.” Sareh complained.

Kalika kneeled down near the machine. She put her ear to it. Her brows furrowed.

“I don’t even hear it doing anything.” She said. She opened an accessible panel on one side that had a handle– it was the door to the circuit box, Homa thought.

Homa walked around with Kalika and peeked at several different parts of the machine. She did not know a lot about electrical circuits, but she agreed with Kalika that a machine that pumps oxygen should not be too hard too fix. Even the circuits or the sensors that determined the oxygen level should not have needed special order parts.

“None of the junction box LEDs are on. This doesn’t look too good.” Kalika said.

Baran sighed and raised one hand to her forehead, and Sareh closed her fists, agitated.

“It’s fine. I’ve got some Katarran friends who are handy with this kind of thing.”

Kalika stood back up, wiping dust and rock fragments from her knees and coat.

“You would really do that for us?” Sareh said. She looked at Kalika with narrowed eyes.

“Yes. It would in fact cost me almost nothing.” Kalika said. “I’ll get a friend down here to run a diagnostic, and then I’ll get a friend to find the right part, and then I’ll find a friend to go get the part I’ve got a lot of friends, and it pays to have them.” She winked at them.

Homa thought she knew who some of those friends might be.

She had heard Kalika mention that Olga, the bodyguard of Erika Kairos, could locate any object if she saw it once. There was also the chirpy and energetic Khloe Kuri, another of the Rostock’s special agents, who was allegedly good at sneaking around and stealing things. And as far as fixing things, the Brigand had no shortage of engineers and mechanics around– so in terms of friends they were well positioned to solve this particular problem.

“It’s not your responsibility, Ms. Loukia.” Baran said, shaking her head.

“Just call me Kalika. And like I said, I am not able to ignore something like this.”

“Because of your beliefs?” Baran said.

“Because it’s the decent thing to do. Because I refuse to ignore your pain. Is that enough?”

“Forgive my skepticism. It feels too good to be true.” Sareh had a conflicted expression.

Baran seemed to appraise Kalika and after looking her over finally accepted her assistance.

“It’s alright, Sareh. Kalika is a communist. I think she’s sincere.” She said.

“Huh? Oh– you mean like the NGO people. I guess that makes sense then.”

Homa stared, incredulous. What kind of NGOs did they have around here?

Sareh still seemed to be having trouble believing Kalika, but her body language relaxed.

Kalika patted her hand on the chassis of the oxygen generator with a big grin.

“Just let big sis Kalika take care of it. In return, let Homa eat a lot of meat at the festival.”

Homa’s tiny tail suddenly started to flutter, and she struggled to quickly make it stop.

“Um. Err. Yeah. We’ll– we’ll definitely repay your hospitality.” Homa said.

“Whether or not you assist us, we would still love to see you on Tishtar.” Baran said.

“Kalika, let me help with the repair job too. I can’t just accept charity.” Sareh said.

“A familiar form of stubborness. Fine– there will be something for you to do.” Kalika said.

Homa glanced sidelong at Kalika and Sareh but resolved to say nothing about that.

She was turning over imaginary kababs and kuftas in her mind, juicy and slick with fat.

After Descent, Year 967

Whispered sweet words and low, heavy groans of desire from an empty office.

Two shadows in a corner, a different corner every time, practiced, well-rehearsed.

They would not be found, not today. Today was an especially easy tryst.

Having come off a major victory in the council, everyone left early after the celebrations.

Leaving behind only the two party bosses, with what work was left, and what play was left.

“Rahima–”

Before Conny could say whatever was on her mind Rahima quieted her with a deep kiss.

Pushing her against the wall, her fingers slipping into Conny’s bell-bottomed pants.

Savoring the taste of booze, smoke and lipstick– things her religion denied her–

Things that she could nonetheless claim from her partner-in-crime.

Rahima almost lifted Conny against the corner, pushing herself as close as she could.

Looming over the shorter elf, having to bend to take her due to the difference in size.

Conny raised her hands to Rahima’s chest and gently pushed her back.

Until her tongue parted from Conny’s lips, a slick string tying them together still.

“Mm. Relax. Nobody is here.” Rahima said.

There was a grin on her face, hungry and confident, savoring what she had claimed.

Rahima had grown in the intervening years. Ambitious, self-assured, and powerful.

At least, compared to what she once was– it was quite a leap.

“It’s not that. Ugh. Everything– everything is all wrong now.”

Conny had a demure expression. Her hands remained on Rahima, creating a bit of space.

When Rahima tried to get close those hands would not push but would keep her separated.

“Conny, after all we’ve fooled around, you can’t be having regrets now.”

“It’s not that, Rahima. I wish it was only that. I wish this was just about the Council.”

Rahima’s eyes opened wide. “Conny, what happened? Tell me.”

She laid her hands on Conny’s shoulders. Conny could not meet her eyes.

Their heartbeats both accelerated, and the heat of their passions became a heat of anxiety.

Rahima wracked her brain. Everything was supposed to have gone perfectly.

They had finally achieved a long-term goal– extending suffrage to the Shimii Wohnbezirk.

With this and Rahima’s support from the Shimii, they would be an undeniable force in the politics of Aachen, practically impossible to dislodge in the local elections. As long as Rahima postured as a liberal and non-demoninational Shimii and treaded the lines between radical and moderate as she treaded between Rashidun and Mahdist, she could look forward to a practically secured seat in the Council. It would enable the Rhinea Feminist Party to throw their weight around and push more of their agenda on the Liberals.

And of course, Conny, her mentor, her lover, the one who pulled her up from darkness–

Of course, she would be with her every step of the way. Of course. She had to be there.

“Rahima, I’ve been served a motion of Censure from the Reichstag. My career is over.”

Hearing those words, Rahima’s heart sank.

It was like someone had twisted a vise inside her chest and cleaved her guts in half.

Shaking fingers clutched Conny’s narrow shoulders. Both of them wept.

“How? For what purpose? That can’t be possible. We’re local politicians!” Rahima said.

“I went too far with the anti-slavery stuff. They’re calling me a communist.” Conny said.

“But you’re not a communist! That doesn’t matter! You can resist this, Conny!”

Conny finally met Rahima’s eyes. Rahima felt her heart jump again from the contact.

That fondness– a love within that gaze that Rahima hardly even knew had existed.

There was such admiration and gentle support from that simple meeting of the eyes.

“The more I fight it, the more it will drag your good name down too Rahima. They will bring up my sister, and the Union, call me a spy, run inquiries crawling into every part of my life. They will find out about us. They will ruin you too. I don’t need to resign but I will– because you’re more important than me, Rahima. More important than us. You represent a possibility I can’t achieve here. Your people need you. I resign, all of it stops, and you keep rising.”

“No.” Rahima said. “I can’t accept this. I can’t accept this, Conny. We are in it together.”

Conny averted her eyes again and seemed to speak past Rahima.

“Herta Kleyn of the Progressive Party has agreed for you to caucus with them.”

“What? You’re dissolving the party?” Rahima said. It was one blow after another.

Conny continued to speak without looking at her and Rahima continued to spiral.

“You’ll be a mainstream Liberal now. Your Council seat will remain secure. Even with me gone the Liberals will retain a majority. Don’t involve yourself in the special election. Let it go.”

“Conny don’t do this to me!” Rahima shouted. “Don’t do this to me! How can I–?”

“Rahima. I love you. Thank you for all these years. Don’t ever let them stop you, okay?”

Conny reached up to touch Rahima’s cheek, moving her hair from over the side of her face.

Rahima’s own hand reached up, and grabbed Conny’s and pressed it tight against herself.

Feeling as if she might never feel a hand that soft and that close ever again.

Like Conny would dissolve into a mound of ash right in front of her.

What had she done wrong? Was this God’s punishment for her indiscretions?

Had she not been modest enough? Had she not been sincere? Why was this happening?

“There’s nothing more to say Rahima. This was never going to be able to last forever– but I will keep rooting for you. You’re extremely strong. You’re stronger than me. I just had the money to rent an office and print things. You came up from nothing. You did all this work– and look where you are. You are proof there is something worth fighting for here. Someday all Shimii will believe in that. Don’t throw that way for me, Rahima. For anyone.”

Weeping, Rahima pressed the hand tighter against her face. She did not want to let go.

“I don’t want to lose you. I wouldn’t have known what to do without you.”

Conny seemed like she truly did not know what to say.

For minutes, she seemed partway between leaving and staying.

Watching Rahima cry in front of her face; crying herself, wiping the tears, crying again.

“Rahima–”

She hesitated. Then she kissed Rahima back. Quicker than she had been kissed.

But this time without hesitation or distance.

“Rahima. Then– get so strong nobody can deny your claim on me, despite everything.”

A kiss as fleeting as a passing breeze–

with incredible alacrity, Conny slipped out from under Rahima’s arms and ran away.

There one second and gone the next as if she had never met that dazzling, vibrant elf.

Leaving Rahima with the suddeness of that departure, holding and staring at an empty wall.

Shaking, weeping, with the cruel sweetness of that final kiss on her lips.

Her legs buckled. Rahima fell to the floor. Screaming into the ground.

For all of the night she remained huddled in that corner, in pain like she had been set alight.

Sometime in the twilight, between colors of dusk and dawn and every possible emotion–

Rahima stood back up. She fixed her shirt and blazer, washed her face, and left the office.

Head and heart empty save for the purpose that remained to animate her.

Even if Conny did not need her anymore– the Shimii needed her.

Her work was not complete; without Conny that was all she had left.

After Descent, Year 979

“This house used to belong a small family. They had teen boys. But they renounced Mahdism and left the village so they could live in the bigger part of the town. Since then, I’ve kept this place as a little guest house. We have a TV, the lights work, there’s a mattress there with blankets. Behind the curtain, the little door that looks like a closet is actually the bathroom. Oh! And I always try to keep some long-lasting snacks and water in the fridge too.”

Baran bent down to her knees to open the small fridge to show them the goods.

A small jug of water and some assorted nuts and candied dates.

“Anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask. You’re my honored guests.” Baran said.

“I am quite grateful. Hopefully I will have good news for you tomorrow.” Kalika said.

Baran put her hand to her chest again and bid farewell, leaving Kalika and Homa alone.

Homa wandered over to the television, flicked it on and sat down on the old mattress.

At first with a neutral expression, tired from the day, depressed by her surroundings–

Then immediately, absolutely furious at the image of the blond woman on the screen–

“Nasser!” She shouted, despite herself, it had to come out, she was surprised and livid.

Vesna Nasser– that fiend who had robbed her of everything.

Homa had never seen this woman in the flesh, but she knew, she knew that was her.

Standing in uniform, swaying her tail and smiling like nothing had happened.

Her cold, dead heart untouched with an ounce of guilt for what she had done.

While Homa scurried in holes, Nasser was in that high tower, on regional television!

Unspeaking, but firm, confident, even smug. Homa practically gritted her teeth in anger.

Beside Nasser was the actual speaker for the program, amid a speech on a podium.

Dressed in that foul black uniform with the most medals and armbands of anyone Homa had ever seen. Ridiculous pink and blue hair, her speech eloquent and intensely confident for what she was saying, with inflections of passion and grandiosity punctuating certain words–

“…it has been only mere months since Rhinea embarked on the Revolution of National Awakening. Already, the Party-State is being dilligently constructed. All national socialists are joining as a single force under the Party-State. Together we deliver swift punishment to the liberals and reactionaries who opposed the Nation’s Destiny and tried to drag the national proletariat to the shadow of their former ignorance. Even now, the cultists of those dead ideas plot in the corners, trying to rewind our chosen future. They will find their reckoning soon. National Socialism is an idea that cannot be contained any longer! National Socialism is modernity! Our Volk has had enough of Liberal divisions and Reactionary elitism! We will bow neither to the man on the ballot nor to the man with the crown and scepter! The Party-State will unite the people, protect them, and enrich the Nation! Through blood and labor, the Volksgemeinschaft will be nurtured, and the national peoples unleashed! These are no longer things which can be resisted! The many will become one under the nation! One people, one nation, one party-state! With our blood and labor! This is Destiny–!”

Homa sat fuming as the speech progressed further, until Kalika finally swiped her finger across Violet Lehner’s face. She disappeared and a Shimii clerical channel took her place.

“Kalika, what is everyone else on the ships doing while we’re out here?” Homa asked.

Kalika sighed. She must have been able to tell how frustrated Homa was.

But Homa was not in a mood to care about her tone or appearances anymore.

“A lot of things, Homa– it’s a bit difficult to summarize. Right now, the crew is preparing for the United Front negotations.” Kalika said. “It might not seem that way, but we are helping.”

“Are we any closer to getting revenge on those Volkisch bastards?” Homa shouted.

“Quiet! Look, you’ll need to defer your revenge. We don’t expect things to be so simple as shaking hands and agreeing to fight the Volkisch– every group has an agenda, and they will push their own way of doing things.” Kalika sat down on the mattress beside Homa and patted her back. Homa did not feel appreciative of the support in her current state– but she also did not want Kalika to stop touching her. That warmth on her back kept her from crying.

“Why wouldn’t it be as simple as shaking hands, and agreeing to fight the Volkisch?”

Homa felt such a boiling-over frustration with everything around her.

Looking back at everything that happened, the Volkisch Movement was clearly the enemy.

So why could they not set aside everything and fight them, and discuss the rest later?

“Homa, people need concrete structure and leadership. They can’t just go out and fight unprepared.” Kalika said. “Three huge organizations coming together will have to work out priorities, supplies, targets, and delegate intelligence and action work. Furthermore, these are three political organizations, who will need to sway Eisental’s people to their side as collaborators, allies and recruits– so they need to decide on a message, too.”

Homa grunted. She turned a disgruntled look at the clerics on the screen instead of Kalika.

“Homa, our job is to support the Volksarmee’s effort by carrying out our mission. And our mission is to be down here.” Kalika said. Her patting on Homa’s back grew a bit more vigorous. “It might not seem like we are doing anything, but getting support from the Shimii here is something no one else is doing. The social democrats and the anarchists are not making efforts to touch base with disenfranchised peoples. We have eyes, your eyes, my eyes, where they don’t. That does matter; please just work with me here, ok?”

“Fine. It’s not like I can do anything else. I am just your helpless little orbiter.”

She laid down on her side, putting her back to Kalika with a disgruntled noise.

“Homa, it’s not like– ugh.” She could feel Kalika moving behind her. To lie down too.

For a moment, Kalika did not finish her sentence. She sounded a bit exasperated.

Homa felt both nervous that she had angered her, but also had a disgusting satisfaction too.

Had she finally needled this woman enough, who had no reason to care for her–?

A sigh. “Homa. We’ll have some big days ahead. Get some rest. You’ll feel better.”

Her voice was surprisingly gentle– none of the expected fury, no lashing out.

For a moment, Homa felt so ashamed of herself that she might have burst out crying.

She hated herself and her thoughts and her ugly, stupid little soul so much. So intensely.

If she was not so tired, and did not drift off to sleep, she would have beaten her own head.

But she did drift off to a dreamless sleep. A sleep like a comfortable shadow engulfing her.

Until that shadow and its attendant silence were suddenly parted by a scream.

In the near-total darkness of the room Homa shot upright from where she had lain.

Her head turned immediately to face the doorway and the swaying curtain to the outside.

When she tried to stand she felt a hand move to stop her.

“Homa, stay here!”

From her side, Kalika darted to her feet and ran out of the house.

Parting the curtain, a glint in the steel of her sword as it sprang from the handle.

Heedless of the warning, Homa scrambled to her feet and ran right after.

When she got outside, the shouting was far clearer–

“No! Stop it! Why are you doing this?”

Baran, pleading–

“Shut up bitch!”

There was a man’s voice– familiar–

Baran crying out–

in pain

Homa’s running steps practically thundered on the rough floor.

She crossed the side of the masjid and caught sight of several figures on the Tishtar stage partially illuminated by burning flares thrown onto the middle of the street.

Baran on the edge of the stage, weeping, three people with face coverings and long clubs or truncheons in their hands. Beating at the beautiful Taiza that had been erected on the stage with a hellish glee. Between Baran’s shouting and sobs there was their laughter and jeering as they destroyed the villager’s art. They taunted Baran as they struck the object.

“We won’t let you Mahdists hold your evil rituals!”

“Stop it! That’s enough, aren’t you satisfied?”

“I said shut up!”

One of the boys swung at Baran, striking her leg and knocking her off the stage–

Into Kalika’s arms, catching her and setting her down roughly.

Jumping up onto the stage.

Homa was not far behind, she saw Baran fall and dropped quickly near her, to support her.

Up on the stage the assailants realized instantly what they were dealing with.

They ceased beating the Taiza to pieces and laughing at the act. They stopped to stare.

In the silence they left–

Kalika’s vibroblade buzzed and whirred audible with killing power.

She said nothing as she approached, her wildly furious eyes glowing in the flare-light–

“I– I told you I’d fucking kill you–!”

One of the men threw himself forward, screaming, and he swung,

Kalika caught the blow with her bare forearm, battering his arm aside,

blade splitting air with a low whistle as it flew–

“Please don’t kill them!”

Baran cried out, tears in her eyes, caught in Homa’s bewildered grasp.

Kalika held her blow.

She sliced across the chest of her attacker, blood running slick on the edge of her sword.

Leaving a shallow cut across the man’s chest where his guts might have otherwise flowed.

He stumbled back onto the stage, dropped his club, screaming, begging,

From behind Homa a gunshot rang out.

There was a brief spark as it struck one of the assailants on his club.

Sending a finger flying into the air and the weapon rolling down the stage.

Sareh ran to Homa’s side with a pistol in her hand, preparing to shoot again–

And stopped as Baran’s hands reached up to her, pleading silently.

Lika Kalika, Sareh stopped her retaliation and watched as the assailants fled.

Bloodied, crying, but still throwing curses borne out of their hatred.

“If you cross that gate again you’ll leave in a bag!”

Kalika shouted after them, at the top of her lungs, an anger in her voice that was chilling.

Holding the stricken Baran in her arms, with Sareh standing dumbstruck beside them.

Homa felt completely detached from reality. Her skin was clammy. Every muscle shaking.

“Stupid, worthless bastards.” Kalika said to no one. Her sword hand was shaking.

Sareh finally put down her arms, with which she had been aiming her pistol the whole time.

She put the weapon into her coat and kneeled down and took Baran from Homa.

Into her arms, holding her tightly. Baran was crying. Sareh was mumbling, weeping too.

“I’m so stupid. Why did I go to sleep? I should’ve known they would do something!”

Baran reached up to Sareh’s face, gesturing for her to come close.

They put their foreheads to each other and touched noses, crying together.

Behind all of them, a few villagers began to emerge from the back streets.

Homa’s eyes were fixed on Kalika, glowing red on the stage amid the sparks of a flare.

Her hand remaining on her sword, her eyes on the gates, gritting her teeth.

Clutching the handle.

Not knowing what to do, Homa climbed up on the stage.

Standing side by side with Kalika amid the light of the still-burning flares,

and the pieces of the ruined Tazia behind them.

“Kalika. I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything–”

Suddenly, Kalika turned to Homa. She flicked her wrist, snapping her blade folded again.

She reached out and took Homa’s clenched fist, opening her fingers.

Then on that cold, shaking, helpless hand, Kalika laid–

“Don’t make me regret this, Homa.”

–a firearm.

A light, synthestitched pistol, materially light but heavy with deadly potential.

She had entrusted Homa with a lethal weapon, a killing weapon, just like her own.

Homa stared at it and back at Kalika and felt like she would sink into the earth with shame.

In her mind she had done nothing to earn this. Nothing but lash out and complain.

But she accepted it. She felt that to do otherwise would have squandered everything.

With her hands still shaking, she put the gun into her coat. She said nothing.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t understand anything she was seeing and feeling.

“You’re not helpless anymore, Homa. I trust you will make good judgments.”

Kalika’s voice sounded, for the first time Homa had ever heard– openly nervous.

After Descent, Year 978

Rahima and Herta Kleyn convened alone in one of the rear storage areas of the Aachen Council’s Assembly Hall. Underneath the debate floor where policy fought for its life, the two of them stood over a disused desk in a dusty corner, their faces half-shadowed in the dim light of a sputtering LED cluster. On the desk, there was a portable computer with an open digital letter with official digital letterhead, demanding confirmation of receipt.

From the collective body of the Rhinean Reichstag.

To Governor-Elect of Aachen Rahima Jašarević.

“Interfering in our local politics again.” Rahima grunted.

“I’m afraid so.” Herta said. “But this is not just a party insider squabble, Rahima. The Liberal-Proggressives and the Conservatives all passed it in the special session. Only the Nationalists abstained from the process. Our folks caved, Rahima, but so far the contents are not public. They want you to respond discretly and avoid a bigger scandal. I advise you should.”

Rahima closed her fists with anger, staring impotently at the filigreed letter on the screen.

“Why should I abide by this?” She said.

Herta sighed. They had worked together long enough now that she knew Rahima’s moods.

Still her voice remained collected and calm.

“Unless you resign from the governorship they will practically crawl down our throats, Rahima. They are saying they will turn up the Progressive party’s ‘ties to Kamma, piracy, communism and foreign nations’ . The Liberal-Progressives cannot afford this.”

“So what if they investigate? We have no such ties!”

“We do technically have ties to Kamma. Through you, Rahima.”

Rahima felt a shudder hearing the implication and shot a vicious glare at Herta.

“I know you are not seeing her. I know! I trust you. But the Reichstag will not care.”

“Kamma is just an NGO! They distribute lunchboxes and blankets! They aren’t radicals!”

Herta shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Rahima, you know as well as any of us that the substance of this threat does not matter. It does not matter whether they can turn up anything. It does not matter whether you fight it. You are not getting a fair trial here. By making the threat, they are implicitly saying they will turn up something– they will put on a show to damage our credibility. Your credibility and that of the main party. Right now, the Progressive-Liberal coalition is facing a hard fight against the Conservatives and Nationalists in the upcoming elections. The Heidemman bloc supported this motion in order to appeal to moderates and to seem reasonable.”

There was nothing Rahima could say in return because what she wanted to do was scream.

For years– years!– she had fought in the Council, debated and defeated Imbrians on the merits. She had passed successful bills, and not just her projects for the Shimii. She had fought like hell for a Progressive agenda. She had compromised, she had toed the lines.

All of the Aachen Liberal Party had gotten behind her for the Governorship.

Aachen’s people cast their votes! She had won the Liberals an important governorship!

Rahima had won them the Shimii! She was turning them into Liberal voters!

None of it mattered. Her local successes were nothing to the Reichstag Liberals.

They were focused solely on the presidential battle next year and nothing else.

On those two Imbrian men whom the nation now revolved around. Not any Shimii.

Sacrificing her to look more moderate and serious. To show they were not radicals.

“There is still a shot, Rahima. You don’t have to give up your dreams.” Herta said.

“And what is our shot, Herta.” Rahima replied, her voice turning slowly into a growl.

Herta started staring directly at Rahima’s darkening expression with a wan little smile of her own. “The motion specified the Governor-Electship– we can comply and still retain your Council seat. I will replace you as Governor, and we will salvage our local slate. After Ossof Heidemman is elected next year, things will calm down. You’ll be able to run again.”

Rahima looked at Herta dead in the eyes. She could hardly believe this naivety from her.

“What happens if Adam Lehner defeats Ossof Heidemman?” She said gravely.

Herta’s expression grew concerned. “That won’t happen Rahima. I know we’ll win.”

Rahima grunted. Who was this ‘we’? Was Rahima now included in Heidemman’s circle?

“Herta, look at how dirty they are playing me– do you think Adam Lehner is above that?”

Herta turned around and paced toward the opposite wall with a heavy breath.

As if she did not want to meet Rahima’s eyes while speaking her next words.

“Rahima, I am truly sorry. But you are still here and have responsibilities. Don’t squander what we have built. I taught you to be pragmatic. You have decades in politics still. You’ve opened a path for other Shimii to follow. You must remain in the council, for them.”

Rahima threw her hands up in fury. “So, what–? I was only a path for others to follow?!”

She gritted her teeth. What about the path she had been treading so tirelessly all this time?!

How could it be that after all this struggle she was relegated to holding open a door?!

What did this say to the Shimii?

You can become a local councilwoman who will tidy up things in your ghetto and that is it? You will never even reach the height of these pitiful confines? All of these games that she played, not even able to get her kin out of the fucking ground– and no amount of polite words saved her when the hatchets came out. The Liberals simply abandoned her.

Was all of that for nothing? All of her sacrifice? All of her pain?

Herta had no answer. Nobody did.

So one more time, Rahima toed the line and compromised for the Liberal-Progressives.

As if she had anything left to compromise.

After Descent, Year 979

On the morning after the attack, Homa stood with several dozen Shimii around the stage.

Ears folded and tails down, examing from afar what remained of the intricate display.

Smashed pieces in a heap, colorful debris only recognizeable if one saw the complete thing.

Enough of it remained to mourn over the whole.

There were several villagers with their heads hung low or shaking, covering their mouths, crying for the smashed Taiza. They looked from afar, helpless. There were a few older men, but most of the people coming out of the shabby little houses and the few bigger business buildings to look, were women and kids, and the kids looked to be mainly girls.

Baran had been right– Homa wondered if the men last night were–

She immediately stopped her train of thought. She felt so angry about everything.

In her coat, the pistol Kalika had given her weighed down her pocket like a stone.

Suddenly the villagers turned to face the masjid.

Out from it, Baran, Sareh and an older, slightly more formidable man walked out.

Homa noticed immediately that Baran was walking with a stick to support herself.

Upon seeing this, several of the women stepped forward to her, stroked her hair and her shoulders. Many of the women started crying fresh tears over her injury, the heavily bruised and bloodied ankle quite visible through Baran’s sandals. They copiously recited Fusha prayers for her and begged God’s mercy and safety and for God to seek answers from the criminals for this. That seemed to be the prevailing question among the villagers–

why inflict such pointless cruelty?

Even though they all knew the answer, deep down in their hearts, but nobody wanted it.

That answer which was too painful to consider and too impossible for them to resolve.

Homa considered it and turned it over so thoroughly it lit her heart ablaze with wrath.

“Homa! Are you alright?”

Baran called out to her and walked out from between all the aunties and teen girls.

Knowing how she felt when she was using crutches, Homa did not try to tell Baran to slow down or not to come forward. Such little kindnesses just bothered Homa and made her feel inept when she was the one who could not move well. She stood where she was, suddenly the center of attention in the middle of everyone in the village. It felt like there were not just a few dozen people around now but thousands in the pitted streets.

“Everyone, this is Homa Messhud! She helped me last night! Please pray for her too!”

Baran stood by Homa and put a hand on her shoulder, with a big smile.

Confused eyes turned to warm smiles at Homa, in an instant. Baran’s word was all it took.

They really loved her– Homa felt like everyone in the village cared about Baran a lot.

Homa felt she had not done anything deserving of praise but did not deny Baran.

Even though they were all heaping praise and prayers on a fake surname.

There was no helping it– it’s what Homa had to endure for her mission.

Compared to what the villagers had to go through this was nothing.

After that declaration, Sareh also walked up. She reached out to Homa.

They shook hands together, and Sarah also patted Homa on the shoulder.

“Homa, thank you, truly. Baran could have been killed– I’m sorry I wasn’t any help.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sareh. Please.” Baran said gently, squeezing Sareh’s hand.

“I know. I’ll try not to.” Sareh said. “Where is Kalika, Homa? She was incredible.”

“Asleep.” Homa said. “I didn’t want to wake her– that situation was really rough on her.”

After they drove off the attackers the night before, everyone slowly dispersed.

It was as if they were caught in a delirium, and nobody knew what to do in the moment.

Sareh took Baran into her home. She must have administered first-aid.

Homa knew that Kalika had not gotten any sleep. She had remained on-guard all night.

“Homa, let me introduce you– this is Imam Saman al-Qoms.” Baran said.

From behind the girls, the man who had walked out with them approached Homa.

He stopped several steps short of her and put his hand on his chest with a smile.

“As-Salamu Alaykum. God sees all praiseworthy deeds. Thank you dearly, Homa Messhud.”

Imam al-Qoms was a sturdy older man, definitely older than Leija would have been. He dressed perhaps the most appropriately, to the typical picture of a Shimii man, than anyone Homa had seen around Aachen so far. He had a blue Tagiyah cap, with holes for his ears, and very short hair. He had a simple, long, covering and loose robe the same blue as the cap and wore glasses and sandals. A simple man, like a Shimii educator and prayer leader ought to be.

After the introductions, the Imam, Baran and Sareh walked up to the stage. Sareh and Homa helped Baran make the short hop up onto the stage. But Baran surprised them by immediately and without assistance dropping down beside the shattered remains of the Taiza, flinching from the pain in her ankle as she sat beside it, and collected the pieces.

Despite everything she still smiled.

“Baran, please–”

“Sareh, we can put it back together! Most of the pieces are pretty big. We’ll repaint it too!”

Sareh looked down at her partner on the ground, sighed, and sat down next to her.

Quietly, Imam al-Qoms also sat opposite the girls, collecting more pieces of the Taiza.

Homa stood off to the side. She was a stranger to all of this; it held no significance for her.

Everyone in town seemed invested in this presentation and the traditions behind it.

All Homa could focus on was the fact that someone violated their safety to destroy it.

She did not hold the dearness they all had for this– she could not.

To her this was just a thing– but it was a thing that inspired brutality against them.

She wished she could understand. Both their love for it; and the hatred that it drew.

Maybe if she could understand she would have an answer for herself, that she could bear.

But she did not– in that moment she felt more like an Imbrian than she ever had.

Just some fool watching from the sidelines, shamefully able to leave if things got too ugly.

Why did this have to happen? Homa felt that anger swelling in her heart again.

All of them were thrown in a hole out of sight of the Imbrians in the Core Station.

And their response was to recreate all the violence of their past, but here, in the hole?

It was so senseless she wanted to scream.

“Homa,”

A gloved hand laid upon her shoulder, heavy and a little cold, but familiar.

Without turning around, Homa laid her own hand over Kalika’s.

“Are you okay?” Kalika asked, standing on the stage beside Homa.

Behind them, the villagers had begun to return to their homes and businesses.

All of the younger girls followed some of the aunties into the masjid.

Homa looked around for a moment before giving her answer. “Kind of not.” She said.

They spoke together in whispers at the edge of the stage.

“Is it your heart or your head?” Kalika asked.

“I’m not hurt or anything. It’s just depressing. I don’t know why they would do this.”

“Because it’s what they are steeped in– it is their value system.” Kalika said. “Out in the town, our friendly little villagers, and their customs, are seen as dangerous to the–”

Homa sighed bitterly. “I– I don’t need you to answer, Kalika. Or– well– not like that.”

“I understand.” Kalika said gently. “Keep a keen eye out and decide for yourself then.”

She patted Homa on the shoulder and walked past her to Baran and Sareh.

Sareh helped Baran to stand up from the floor so they could greet Kalika.

“You saved my life, Kalika Loukia. I can’t thank you enough.” Baran said.

Baran offered her hands and Kalika held them. Sareh then offered her a handshake.

“Yes, thank you. I styled myself as the protector of this village– and I–” Sareh began–

“You saved Homa and I, remember? You’re doing what you can.” Kalika reassured her.

“I don’t feel like you needed my saving.” Sareh said. Still ashamed of herself.

“No, for you and I, fighting is completely different.” Kalika said. “It is easier to stand in front of someone and fight when you are not tied down to anything. That requires no conviction. It is more difficult to fight when you might be endangering yourself or your kin. Most people would choose to keep their heads down in that situation. You had the courage not to.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to remind myself of that.” Sareh said. Baran comforted her.

“If you need any crafts supplies, I might be able to help with that too.” Kalika said. “I’ll be contacting my friends soon to get things moving. Homa is here to help if you need a body.”

Homa bristled slightly at being referred to ‘for her body.’

“You’ve done so much; I don’t want to ask for even more. Please understand.” Baran said. “We can put this back together. We’ll glue it and then repaint it in a way that can make the cracks stand out less. I’m sure we can do that. For things like this I would prefer we work with what we have. It is part of the story of the festival now, for better or worse.”

Homa thought in that moment, Baran sounded very wise, as sad as it was.

“But. There is something else that troubles me.” Baran said.

“I think I know what you mean.” Sareh said, looking down at Baran’s ankle.

“Go on. I want to help.” Kalika said.

Baran suddenly turned from Kalika to Homa, who was caught off guard by the attention.

“Homa, do you know how to dance? Did your mother ever teach you?” Baran asked.

“Huh? Dancing?” Homa’s nerves instantly fried. “No way, no– I’m too clumsy!”

She waved her hands defensively. If she had to go up on stage she would die.

Plus she imagined the kind of outfit dancers wore– flashing back to Madame Arabie–

Baran slumped, clearly disheartened. “Your body looked like you might’ve been a dancer.”

“Really?” Now Homa was suddenly interested again. “I guess I look pretty athletic huh?”

Sighing, Kalika waved her hands between Baran and Homa. “Leave her be– I’ll do it.”

“Oh!” “Huh?” “REALLY?”

Baran, Sareh and Homa responded at once, wagging their ears with surprise at Kalika.

“I spent years living with Shimii.” Kalika said. “Those folks had their own local festivities, but I learned all kinds of traditional arts including dances. With Baran’s help I can absolutely learn the moves she was meant to perform for the festival. That’s the issue, right?”

“Yes, ever since I was a teenager I danced whenever we could hold Tishtar.” Baran said. “Everybody in the village looks forward to it! Sareh plays the music and I dance.”

Sareh put her hands behind her head and acted casual, as if she did not want recognition.

“We’ll find time for you to coach me.” Kalika said. “Then I’ll dance on the big day.”

It was an idea that captured Homa completely and immediately.

There were a dozen things put into her head. She wondered whether Kalika might be perceived as too old to dance in Baran’s place, but she did not voice this dangerous rumination, for fear of making an eternal enemy out of her most cherished ally. Another dangerous thought that came to her unbidden was that it might have been thought of as silly for a Katarran to perform traditional Shimii dance at a Mahdist festival. That one, too, had to be shelved very quickly. However, one observation of value did arise– Homa felt she finally understood Kalika’s real and unspoken motivation for helping the villagers.

Perhaps she was getting a rare taste of that feeling she so cherished– community.

With that in mind, Homa finally put on as much of a smile as she could muster.

That– and her third dangerous thought. Seeing Kalika in a traditional dancing garb.

Such outfits varied greatly– but what if Kalika wore something as sexy as Madame Arabie?

Those outfits were embellished versions of traditional Shimii wear– for sex appeal.

In a sense, they were even more lewd than having seen Kalika in the nude before–

“You’re finally smiling Homa. I don’t dare ask what has come over you.” Kalika said.

Homa visibly snapped out of her reverie and put her hands in her coat’s outer pockets.

Averting her gaze and not answering the question. But still grinning a little bit.

Baran meanwhile was also smiling wider and brighter and more openly than ever.

“Kalika, Homa, you are life savers! This will be the greatest Tishtar ever, I promise you!”

“I can’t wait.” Kalika said. She seemed to be soaking in the girls’ enthusiasm.

“I’m glad to see everyone in good spirits. But Shaykhah, it seems you have company.”

Imam al-Qoms spoke up again– Shaykhah must have been in reference to Baran.

He pointed to the gate, where a woman walked in with small wheeled drone following her.

Homa could tell from her pointy, long ears and her very pale and shiny blue hair that she was an elf; such vibrant hair colors difficult to find naturally in anyone but an elf. Her figure was thin and she was pretty short in stature, with fair skin that had a very, very slightly golden tone. Her hair was collected into two tails dropping down her back. She dressed in an open white blazer coat with what looked like a striking blue tasseled bra top underneath, cut off above the belly, and bell-bottomed pants. Homa hardly ever saw anyone dress so flashy.

Everyone was watching as the woman calmly crossed into the village. There was a small flag hoisted from a pole on the back of the drone’s boxy chassis. The drone seemed like it might have contained cargo, its insides rattling a bit. The flag had a half-white, half-black, vaguely diamond-like emblem made up of knotted lines over a bright blue background.

All of the village onlookers seemed excited by the new arrival.

Homa saw them looking at the flag. Did they recognize it?

“Oh, she’s from the NGO! What excellent timing– let’s go greet her!” Baran said.

As the elven woman approached the stage, she waved at the group with a carefree smile.

“Hello, hello! Is this a bad time? I’m Conny Lettiere. I’m with the NGO Kamma.”

After Descent, Year 979

On the table laid a portable computer with a digital letterhead begging confirmation.

Beside the portable was an unopened plastic box. Lit only by the screen of the portable.

And in a dark corner behind the desk was Rahima Jašarević. Legs curled against her chest.

No longer weeping– she had not wept for a very long time. For years now she had been smothering the softness deep in her soul and trying to forge it into steel. Nevertheless, whenever she needed to think, she found hiding behind the desk helped her do so. As long as nobody saw her in this childish circumstance she could find comfort in it.

It made her feel less– surveilled.

Ever since that night, where she spent hours and hours seething behind her desk.

On that night, she ceased to be able to cope in the ways she had done before.

Sometimes she thought back to that night, and to the nights preceding it.

When she arrived at Aachen she was barely an adult. So much time had passed.

In her mind she remembered the things the immigration officer told her and laughed.

Look at what I’ve become, would you think I am decent now or just a lowlife?

She remembered the sailor, too, who brought her to Aachen.

Would he regret it? Had she done something stupid and indecent now, in his mind?

Going into politics; giving all her spirit to budge the status quo even a centimeter.

What did they all think now? Was she upstanding now? Was she respectable?

She had always been young for politics. She had liked to think that gave her an edge.

That youth had its own vibrancy and power. Perhaps it did once.

Now, however, it was completely lost.

Having nothing but her experience of time and in that sense youth relative to the mean was worthless, and relative to itself even more so. She was alone. Simultaneously too old for assistance and too young for pity. No mentors she could trust to ask for counsel. No peers to stand beside her during her tribulations. She was the mentor, and without peer. As she grew older, the more and more people she left behind and replaced with only herself. It was so unfair– she had never wanted to abandon anyone nor for anyone to abandon her.

Uniquely positioned; uniquely alone. The only Shimii councilwoman.

Once, the only Shimii governor.

Now–

Since she arrived at Aachen, she gained so much, and yet lost so much.

She did not know where the scales came to rest in the end.

All she knew is that when she needed someone, now, there was no one around her.

Was this her punishment? Had she done wrong?

Was it hubris to ever have any hope? Was it heresy to follow her dreams?

At first all she wanted was to help Conny– then she slowly found her own dreams.

Those dreams, her pursuit of something, anything, for her kin living beneath her.

So no one else would have to lose their whole families and homes.

So no one else would have to bear the slow destruction they were subjected to.

No more name changes, no more deportations, no more deprivation–

Was that paradigm so hopelessly ordained? Was even God against them?

That pursuit of power and those grand intentions for it had destroyed everything she held personally dear– and for what? Shimii could cast their ballots for a slate of Imbrians and Rahima to judge their lives from on high. Again, and again, but now from the masjid in the Wohnbezirk. Never from anywhere else. Even Rahima, symbollically, voted there.

They always voted for her. She was all that they had now. That was all that changed.

Was it her fault? That she became a tool of their callous power?

Her heart tightened with a growing anger.

No– she was just doing what she could. She was doing what one woman could do.

It was the Imbrians, at each turn. It was them. It was their fault!

So deathly afraid of being the equals of anyone. They fought her at every step.

That was the cruelest irony of everything. They raised her up, they broke her down–

–and they would face the rip-current, thrashing in the waters they themselves filled.

In that instant there was only one foreseeable thing that she could do.

Only one Destiny.

Rahima shot to a stand with a sudden fervor, raising her arms and practically clawing the desk on her way to her feet. She took up the portable from the desk and without thinking it, without feeling, with her breath in her chest and her heart motionless, skin tingling, face sweating. Her finger struck the confirmation, the knife she would plunge into Aachen.

There was an instant of recognition. The portable slipped from her fingers back onto her desk. Her heart started thundering. Ragged, rasping breaths of a woman choking.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She slumped over the desk, the moment of fury passed.

Hands raised over her face, brushing salt from her eyes that only drew more tears.

She wanted to scream, but no one would hear her.

She wanted to beg for mercy she ill deserved.

On the desk, the box taunted her.

You are the one, it jeered, who will be judged for your wickedness now.

You are the one who has crossed the line now.

Rahima picked it up, overturned it. The lid fell off, and inside were a pair of armbands.

For a moment, she stared at them. Then she affixed them to her arm.

Black Sun. Hooked Cross. Red, white, black.

Her discarded portable lit up again, blue light crossing the desk. Rahima righted the object.

There was a call– she routed it to audio and tried to calm her voice.

“We have received the confirmation. I assume you are ready and willing?”

A woman’s voice, courteous, and perhaps, even excited for what was to come.

“Yes. I will prepare the lists. Doubtless you’ll have additions.” Rahima said.

Her voice left her lips as it always did. Commanding, confident. Like on the debate floor.

She knew what she had to do. She knew what she agreed to.

“You have the lay of the land here– we will trust and support you.”

There was a request to turn the audio call to a visual call. Rahima denied it on her screen.

“We will need to be thorough. Hold your hand until your preparations are ironclad.”

“Indeed. Do not fear. The Special Detachment will protect you with our lives.”

There was room for neither shouting nor tears. She had cried for herself all that she could.

Rahima had exhausted all of the means at her disposal. She had tried to work righteously.

Every way that one woman could hold on her shoulders this mountain of human agonies.

She had tried. She had tried everything. Done all the right things, the kind things.

All of the rational arguments, the statements in even tone, the logical, respectful pleadings.

Signing her name as if in blood, her gut wrenched with shame.

But the fingers that made the final confirmation brimmed with electricity.

For the first time in her life, Rahima felt real, actionable power in her grasp.

And that, one way or another, the Shimii would carry out their vengeance.

“Based on the fuhrerprinzip, you are to follow my orders without deviation. Correct?”

“You have done your reading– yes, unless you are contradicted by the Reichskommissar.”

“Good. Let me know if you need any access. I’ll make sure you have it.” Rahima said.

There was a girlish titter on the line.

“You know– you sound so formidable– I look forward to meeting you in the flesh.”

That voice was almost lascivious in its tone. Rahima could not be bothered by it anymore.

It was the last of her concerns now.

That armband on her bicep felt like a wound that had been ripped open in her.

Rahima laid her hand upon it. It had to bleed then. There was only the bleeding left.

Whispering in her mind an apology to Conny Lettiere–

and to everything she had once stood for.

“I will get to work then, Rahima Jašarević. I look forward to serving, Herr Gauleiter.”

Unjust Depths

Episode Thirteen

THE PAST WILL COME BACK AS A TIDAL WAVE

Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.8]

“Descending through Upper Scattering Layer. Depth 550 meters. Depth 575 meters–”

“Reducing velocity. Thrust development capped at sixty percent due to battle damage.”

“No sign of upper level scanning from below, neither acoustic nor radiation-based.”

“No sign of Republic mines or drones, nor any leftover Grand Western Fleet ordnance.”

“Depth 600. We will soon descend into Southern Ayre, on the border with Rhinea.”

As the drones reported on the situation, the main screen showed a diagram of the water table with the four main depths that mattered to humans. Between the surface of the water and the corruption that lay beyond, and the 500-550 meter depth mark, was the Photic Zone, where the sun’s light could still penetrate the water– that is, if the rays could actually penetrate the befouled atmosphere first. From around 550 to 700 was the Upper Scattering Layer, where the most significant quantities of fish and marine life congregated. There was so much activity in this region and it was so consistent that sonar and LADAR imaging would capture it as a sort of continuous wall that received a name. Then, there was the Aphotic zone, from the end of the Scattering Layer to a depth of about 3000 meters.

This was the new home of the human species.

In certain places, called the Great Reaches, humans could live at lower depths– but the average human lived around 1000 meters below the sea, and a significant amount lived much deeper. War and intrigue; love and hope; these things moved from their birthplaces in the surface of the planet Aer, to this particular depth of its oceans. Below 3000 meters was the Hadal zone, or in the parlance of the ocean’s humans, the Abyssal zones. Utterly lightless, these depths were usually encountered only within deep wounds gouged in Aer’s crust, called Gorges or Abysses, named after the first foolhardy soul to have found them and likely died in them. To civilization writ large there was nothing there worth going so deep. But to various individuals and even some organizations, these depths held such value that it was worth the risk of never being heard from again, and dying a horrific death.

To those who truly knew, deeper than the trenches, there was a fifth depth–

Agartha.

But– that was not the concern of Norn von Fueller on this day.

As the Antenora breached the cloud of fish and squid and krill and other creatures, it descended into the world of humanity, where human problems awaited.

Soon, at about 800 meters depth, the ship ceased its descent. It was just over the bottom of a vast, sandy slope that led north into the heart of the Great Ayre Reach. Their destination was to the south, even deeper down the slope to the rocky, dark terrain of Eisental– but for now, they remained, sailing above the sand. Eerie waves sifted tiny particulate clouds from dunes below, the earth colored blue by the water’s consumption of the light.

Suspended in the murk above the dunes, the sleek, sword-shaped Cruiser glided through.

“Connect to the Myrkr relay and loiter. Keep an eye out for any patrols.” Norn said.

“Yes, milord.”

“Why are we loitering? Can I download some magazines?” Adelheid asked.

“Not now. Wait until we’re about to leave again. I have some calls to make.” Norn said.

Adelheid pouted, but Norn left her behind on the bridge without another word.

She made her way to a meeting room with a video monitor and some privacy.

Every room had a bearing monitor on the wall, a small LCD that displayed information, the same in every room, about the current situation. In battle it might have profiles of enemy ships, their positions and any damage incurred by the vessel. At rest, it would have current headings and any relevant ETAs for the ship’s current journey.

At that moment, the bearing monitor in Norn’s meeting room showed her when they would be in range of the Myrkr relay. This was one of the few data relays laid in the Great Ayre Reach and its surroundings. Officially managed by Aachen, it could also be used to transmit to the “illegal settlement” Trelleborg in the southern Ayre trench.

Even in the current state of war, Rhinea and the Palatine had not cut these cables yet. An Empire-wide cable data network that was accessible wirelessly via the relays, was, in 979, still a relatively young piece of infrastructure in the grand scheme of things. It was one of Konstantin’s few innovations that actually bore fruit and changed the lives of his citizens for the better. Its usefulness for business and military matters alike meant that it had to continue to exist, even if in a stagnant state, as the Empire itself began to die.

So Norn could show up to her digital rendezvous with a certain Frederich Urning.

Once the Antenora was in range of the Myrkr relay, the communications drone in the bridge put out an encrypted call to the Naval HQ for the Grand Western Fleet. Using the high command’s cypher code it would indicate to the operator that this was a very high ranking officer seeking to communicate with another very high ranking officer. They would discreetly connect Norn through to the correct commander and record none of it. Within moments, that meeting room on the Antenora connected to the Naval HQ in Klagenfurt.

Across the wires, through the digital encryption, she first heard one word. “Norn.”

By way of greeting this was the only thing Admiral Frederich Urning said at first.

He appeared on the screen with a blurred backdrop, only his face and body were visible.

For someone close to Konstantin’s age (and not grown out of a vat) Frederich looked half his years. There was an onset of wrinkles around his eyes and forehead, advanced, but not widespread; his hair still had streaks of its original black color, brushed long down his back, alternating with grey; his skin was still uniformly fair. High cheekbones and deep-set eyes gave him an intense countenance. His only facial hair was a bit of grey cultivated on his chin.

While Konstantin withered, Frederich remained mountainous. Strong shoulders, broad-backed, with a wide chest and midsection and lean, muscled limbs. All now covered under silk finery, ever the nobleman-general. But through his eyes Norn could still see the killer in him. She could sense his vindictive feelings. She knew the only reason why he would have asked to speak with her alone. But she was not going to let him have his answers so easily.

“Frederich, how lovely to see you. How are you getting on? Need another loan?”

Frederich remained stoic to the provocations. “I am on the crossroads of a major decision and I wanted to seek your counsel. There are questions I have which only you can speak to.”

“You look surprisingly more sober than last I saw you.” Norn said, continuing to needle.

“Norn, you know me. Anger is the medicine that does me the most good.” He replied.

“Indeed, they call it the Vekan temperament, no?”

He had no response to that. He never confirmed nor denied that part of his heritage.

Nevertheless Norn continued to tease him about it in perpetuity for that very reason.

“Let’s get the point. Norn, were you involved in the death of Konstantin?” Frederich asked.

His voice was calm, his words direct; but she could detect a hint of that anger of his.

“Yes.” Norn said. She had no reason to lie; no fear of him nor of any consequences.

“Qualify that.” Frederich said. “Erich was part of it too, wasn’t he?”

There was no reason for Norn to lie, but neither would she give everything up to a fool.

Frederich knew her– and because he knew, he knew what to ask her that she would respect.

Had he forgotten, she would have just let him stay half-informed. But he still knew her.

“Indeed. Throw in Leda too– you never could fill the woman-shaped hole in his heart.”

That did bother him. She could tell by the vaguest twitch in his left temple.

In his aura, and in his overall expression, the anger was cleverly hidden.

Both of them knew each other too well. They were both Konstantin’s close companions.

“I do not care about your reasons. But you know what I must do now.”

“Honestly, I have no idea what you will do, except that it will be tedious, like you are.”

Frederich, who had wanted to bend the knee to Konstantin as a lover more than anything.

Right-hand man pledging as a right-hand, never turned away–

Konstantin did love him, but not as he wanted to be loved.

Even when it became sexual between them.

“I received information implicating you and the Prince in the death of the Emperor. But as a comrade-in-arms, and because you are Konstantin’s dearest sister, I wanted to confirm for myself what Code Weiss found.” Frederich said. For the first time in the conversation his expression subtly darkened, his brows furrowing slightly. His tone rose, just a hint. “Norn, I knew when I called that I would see your mocking grin. I knew you would be without sympathy. You only understand violence. It is all you propagate. You ask what I will do?”

Frederich lifted his hand so it appeared on the screen. He showed Norn his bare palm.

Then in his other hand; he held a dagger to the first. Cutting across the palm to draw blood.

“A blood feud on you Norn. I will hunt you like the animal you are. I will bleed you dry.”

“I’m so scared.” Norn mocked. “Go on. I’m practically quivering to hear the rest of this.”

“With blood, there is certitude.” Frederich replied. “I know what I will do; I know what I will do to you when I get my hands on you. But I don’t have even the faintest idea about whether you will speed here to try to defend Erich. Or whether you will inform him of my intention to murder you. Will you warn him what intentions I might have for him, as I require his power to satisfy the requirements of my hunt? How do you truly feel about the boy, sister?”

“Ah– I’m not in the mood to snitch. You all have your fun over there.” Norn said calmly.

“I see. Give me one final piece of tactical advice then, oathsworn sister– do I send Code Weiss after Erich, or after you? It won’t alter the final result of my intentions.” Frederich asked.

Norn shrugged. “If you send Code Weiss here I’ll send her back to you in gift wrapped pieces. Send her after Erich– well, I do not care what happens. At any rate, you have no idea who you are fucking with, Frederich.” She was starting to become just a bit annoyed at this man’s confidence in insulting her and hurling threats. “There are nowhere near enough fools in the Palatine for you to gather up and throw at me, that will stop me tearing your head off. I am not a Jager; there is no one of them, not even the whole Korps, that walks in step with me.”

“I very much know who I am ‘fucking with’, Norn.” Frederich said. “I will not underestimate you. I will make every preparation, and if you see me again, you will know it is the last time you draw breath. Should I fail, I will make sure I first drive the wedge between you and Erich. Then, should you see him again, it will be his blade that cleaves you. I will win, regardless.”

“Fascinating.” Norn laughed. “Do what you will then. But remember, if you’re coming to meet me, don’t come alone. And don’t just bring Weiss. You’ll need the entire Western Fleet.”

Frederich shut his eyes to Norn’s boasting. The connection to him cut out shortly thereafter.

Her heart remained unmoved by this display. Except, perhaps to feel a bit of pity for him.

Ultimately this would be Erich’s problem– to use any of the Palatine’s resources against her, Frederich would have to convince Erich to go after Norn, or get Erich out of the way and take over using Code Weiss. Then, even assuming the best possible scenario where the revenge killings and chaos in the political class and military remains perfectly contained, Frederich would have to cross into Eisental and fight the Volkisch Movement to even get near Norn. She could easily go to ground in Rhinea. If Erich, who was talented, and greatly respected, and young, with inherited authority, had not yet launched an invasion of Rhinea–

–then Frederich’s chances could not be any poorer.

In the grand scheme of things this was low on the list of things that concerned Norn.

Nevertheless, it was strangely gratifying to see that man again, and she wished him luck.

Maybe, if he succeeded– there would be some sort of justice in it.

For a man to kill for romantic love, in the stories of the Imbrium, was more righteous–

than for a woman to kill for justice or family– or for a son to kill for ambition.

“I’ll be expecting you then, Frederich. I hope you still fight like old times.” Norn sighed.

The Antenora continued to loiter around Myrkr relay for several days.

Anchored to the relay structure and hovering over the calm, sandy slopes of southern Ayre, it presented a more stable platform for the completion of certain crucial repairs. Anything that they could do themselves now was worth doing. Norn did not fully trust the Stockheim Shipbuilder’s Guild. Much of it was composed of trade unionists and leftists, who did not trust her either; however her specific hosts were the rightists among the Guild, made up of imperial loyalists and pseudofascists with private holdings in Stockheim infrastructure, who only joined the Guild as necessary obeisance to carry out their own business unmolested.

While they played nice with the rest of the Guild as a kind of honor among thieves, they had a more venal impetus toward their work and customers than the unionists. They would be looking to use her for their own profit; she would be doing the same just as much.

Leftists could sometimes be comradely, but among rightists, it was always a den of snakes.

To prevent them from wringing every last pfennig out of her, she opted to have her own crew fix as much as they could in the relative calm of Southern Ayre. Due to the fact that Ayre was a constant battlefield for the Imperials and Republicans, subject to unpredictable skirmishing even between the apocalyptic all-out battles that took place in it; Ayre, for all its beauty, was largely off limits to most traffic. It was infrequently patrolled by flesh and blood humans. Instead drones and mine fields held sentinel over much of the Great Ayre Reach and its surroundings. Murmurs of such things kept people out– there was too much risk.

Excepting the trench, where there was always a buzz of illicit activity around Trelleborg.

This meant the Antenora was likely to avoid both Volkisch and Palatine forces there.

If she ran into anybody, they were likely a Trelleborg traveler minding their own business.

Scavengers in the great fields of ruined ships, recently watered; smugglers bridging local black markets in Rhinea and the Palatine; gang bosses looking to profit off them all, jockeying for position within Trelleborg and the right to set the rules of trade. Between all of them, people who had no place to go, outlaws, mercs, victims of Imbria’s unjust laws, people who fell through gaps, human traffickers and the trafficked, information brokers and brave or foolhardy merchants for whom the den of iniquity was just one more spot on the map to hawk goods. Trelleborg was its own nation crammed into ships jammed between rock.

All this life, skirting the beautiful, calm and sunlit waters of the Reach itself, that bore witness to the unending historical hatred the Republic of Alayze held for the Imbrian Empire.

When she looked outside, Norn saw none of that romanticism in front of her eyes.

Only sand, and the blunt spire-like structure of the relay with its massive laser receptors.

She left the bridge in the hands of her adjutant and made her way to the lower deck.

In the hangar, Selene was still dressed in power armor, without a battery pack.

All manner of obscenities had been spoken in that hangar over the past day.

In the background of Selene screaming, cursing, insulting anyone close to her–

Norn spotted her most reliable standby pilot, Yurii Annecy Samoylovych-Darkestdays.

Arms crossed, not looking at Selene but clearly amused by her predicament.

Selene was incredibly strong, but Yurii was a soldier. She took and executed orders well.

Having picked her up as a defector from the Empire of Veka, Norn had initially questioned how useful she would come to be, but the more that was thrown their way, the more she appreciated that in spite of her hedonistic behavior, Yurii did every job she was told to do. A consummate professional hid behind that devilish playboy smile.

Smiling similarly, Norn approached her.

“Yurii, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but as you can see, I’ve been rather busy.”

“I’m at your service always, milord. I have no qualms to being on standby.”

Yurii, still smiling, put a fist to her chest and bowed on her feet.

Shimii never bowed to another, it was against their religion to bow because only God was superior to a human; Southern Loup, however, often bowed to the waist while remaining standing. Unless it was required of them to get on the ground, such as in the presence of the Emperor, it was against their culture to put their heads to the floor. Of course, depending on the circumstances, anybody of any religion could be forced to beg.

Norn understood that Yurii was truly a loup’s Loup: raised within the culture.

“Do you envision yourself remaining in my service for long, Yurii?” Norn asked.

Yurii raised herself back up.

She continued to smile, that confident little grin, a predator’s grin.

There was a lot backing that confidence up.

Yurii was a strikingly beautiful girl, youthful, athletic, well-figured, with a wild character both to her soul and flesh. Dark olive skin and earthy green eyes, her black hair falling down her shoulders and back in wild waves, stiff dark fur on her tall wolf’s ears and her long, slender tail. She had an agile body, with lean, flexible muscles, more visible in the pilot’s bodysuit she wore than in the white and purple men’s suit that she had arrived wearing.

“For as long as you’ll have me, or until I go down with this ship.” Yurii said.

“I’m curious to know your reasoning for this. Do you think you will profit here?”

“A pragmatic soldier would prefer to work for someone who is strong and connected, than for someone weaker and less influential. There is more danger, perhaps, but more resources to tackle that danger. For me, personally, I have always wanted to serve a great lord and enjoy killing, women, riches– and I have a deep respect for the way you carry yourself.”

“I am glad to have made a positive impression.” Norn said, smiling with amusement.

There was nothing facetious about the way Yurii spoke.

She was not heaping idle praise.

“I admit I was a keen liar, but around you, everyone is stripped of such pretenses. It’s not just that you are powerful. You command respect because you will not tolerate disrespect.” Yurii continued. “I have always wanted to command respect and demand my own dignity.”

Norn nodded.

“You have potential, Yurii. You are strong, dutiful and sharp; and despite your pretensions, as a liar, a snark, and as a womanizer, you are also finally demonstrating some humility. That’s good. I knew you before; or well, I knew of you. I worked with your grandfather. He worried about you, but I believe you have turned out well enough as an adult.”

She had a small laugh at her own description of Yurii, and Yurii laughed with her.

Yurii turned out well, despite her vices. Vices were beside the point for Norn after all.

“I was aware of your involvement with my grandfather. I am thankful for your praise.”

“I accepted your defection on its own merits, of course. Not for your grandfather.”

“Of course. I would never want nor expect someone like you to be swayed by noble blood.”

“You do have a storied lineage, Yurii.”

Yurii’s grin very slightly softened. “We had an illustrious past.” She said.

Emphasis, past– but it did not need to remain that way.

Norn looked her in the eyes.

Though she spoke of completely esoteric subjects, she was serious in every word she said. “Your ancestor Samoylovych-Daybringer, was a great champion of the Nocht Loyalists who took refuge in Veka after the Fueller coup. He was a legendary warrior said to have had the knack known as Volshebstvo, granted to him by a fairy. Your grandfather, the High Inquisitor Samoylovych-Deepestshore– I can confirm he also exhibited these abilities. I want to know, Yurii, whether you were taught such things, and who taught them to you, if it is so.”

“My family never recovered its martial glory after the Fueller Reformation, milord. I have no such great powers. As you said; my grandfather worried about me. As he grew older, and deferred his retirement more and more, he distanced himself. He did not train me.”

“Truly? He was always such a family man. I thought you would have been his pride.”

Though Yurii had other family, she inherited many titles as her elders and siblings perished.

Her grandfather should have had no one else to carry on his legacy.

Norn thought Yurii sounded just a bit more bitter than before as she explained her situation.

“I was born under a bad star. Everyone could see it. The birth book assigned me the spiritual name Darkestdays– and I just grew up a bad kid. A violent kid; I loved fighting and making trouble since I was very young. Many would say, I am still a thoroughly wicked person. I think that my grandfather feared how far I might go to seek glory in bloodshed. To worsen matters, I inherited a male position as a woman, which is traditional but inauspicious.”

Norn nodded along as Yurii spoke. That certainly made sense, but made no difference.

“I am not your grandfather– I do not fear you becoming more violent nor more influential. I will grant and teach you Volshebstvo. Yurii, I believe you have the potential to be the second coming of Samoylovych-Daybringer. You are steady and ambitious. Hungry. Passionate. All good things when it comes to mastering the power your ancestors wielded half in ignorance. Once you awaken, I could confidently leave any matter in your hands. Right now, more than ever, I need someone I can trust to cut through men as Daybringer could.”

For once, Yurii’s façade of confident mockery seemed to melt into genuine surprise.

“Milord– As always I am at your service.” She said, as if not knowing how to respond.

“Good. I knew you would not deny me. I am curious to know one more thing.”

“Anything, milord.” Yurii said. She was clearly still trying to hide her emotions.

“Were I to be killed, what would you go on to do?” Norn asked.

Yurii crossed her arms. She averted her gaze for a moment, and then smiled back at Norn.

“Well, first, I would annihilate the bastard responsible. I’d try to make sure Adelheid and Selene and Hunter III are okay; any of your crew would be welcome to follow me. Then– perhaps I would return home and see if there is any opportunity left in Veka. I’m sure somebody must be plotting against that trumped-up horse breeder calling herself the Empress. I am sure I could maneuver myself into an influential position.” Yurii said.

Norn smiled. She was quite pleased with that response.

There was not a hint of a lie in what Yurii said. Good– Norn liked honest people.

“I will induct you soon. We will need privacy. You will be vulnerable for the duration.”

“I have heard tales of the grand visions that accompanied the fairy’s blessing.”

“I’m the fairy here, so your vision will be horrific. But you’ve come to expect that, right?”

Yurii blinked. “I see. Well, I am open-minded toward anything that grants me power.”

Norn turned her sight back toward the center of the hangar.

After a few more minutes of tantrums, Selene was once again quietly in concentration.

She finally managed to lift one foot, and set it down hard a few centimeters ahead.

Her power armor boot stamping on the metal with a loud thud.

“Atta girl!” Norn shouted. “Keep it up! You’ll have walked a meter in no time!”

“Fuck you! I hope your heart stops! I hate you so much!” Selene shouted back.

She could not turn her head completely to face Norn but still stuck out her tongue at her.

“Milord, I usually make a point to stay out of things.” Yurii said, also watching Selene. “But the abilities Selene possesses to link up with her machine, that’s also Volshebtsvo, isn’t it? So what she is doing now is a form of training to improve her power, isn’t she?”

“Right. You’ll have to do this too sometime.”

“I see.”

“Power stagnates without challenge. You know by now what kind of place this is.”

Norn reached out and patted Yurii on the shoulder.

Yurii’s ears bent slightly at the tips as she watched Selene struggle from then on.

Despite this, she never turned her eyes away, nor did she stop smiling.

When she came to, the skinny girl caught a sweet and sharp scent that wetted her nostrils.

Her vision was a little bit hazy. Her mouth tasted like blood.

It was good– there was almost a sense of euphoria. She was calm, her breathing steady.

There was a bit of weight over her body. She had to make an effort to lift her arm.

Blankets. Several layers of blankets stacked over her body.

Her nude, pale body, which would have been completely exposed without the blankets.

Sweat trickling down her neck and back, over her breasts. Her tail dangling off the other end of the bed. Between her legs, she felt hyper-aware of her dick, slightly moist, vaguely twitching. Flaccid. Her hips wanted to shake when she thought of it, and she stiffened a little. When she saw it she felt momentarily confused as to what had happened–

then it all seemed to hit her all at once.

biting down on a woman’s shoulder,

smelling her hair,

tasting her skin, her tongue, her heat,

the heft of her body, breast against breast,

feeling her from inside,

until she lost the sense of herself to the sense of her

For a moment she was stunned at the idea that she had sex with a Hominin.

Even more that she had enjoyed it.

That thinking about it made her want to get hard again.

Hunter III pulled the blankets back up over herself and looked to her right.

In the bedroom, the only source of light was a monitor brought up on the wall near a desk.

There sat Livia, fiddling with her injector in one hand, and scrolling through a document.

Her golden hair disheveled, wet, trailing down her back. Dressed in only her white coat.

Slightly falling off her fair shoulders.

Long legs bare, playfully balancing one heeled shoe on the tips of her toes.

Hunter III thought Livia must have heard her shuffling under the blankets.

But she did not turn around to acknowledge her. Was she working?

After– all of that–? How did she feel about it?

Perhaps the most complicated feelings that had ever crossed Hunter III’s brain came to her in that instant. She did not know to feel about anything. Was it special, what they had done? Was it unique? Why did she want it to be? Or was it just simple consumption–

like eating good meat?

Some part of her felt like she was in danger. Fight or flight.

It was the most proximate feeling to the mix of thrill and anxiety now swelling in her chest.

However, she was also happy– sated– contented–?

Like she had eaten something tasty. That sense of the fulfillment of her vices.

She felt like she could lay in Livia’s bed forever.

Her life, often a blur of hunger and urgency and mania– was suddenly slow and peaceful.

But there was too much on her mind for her to stay silent.

“Hey– Doctor– are you there?”

From the Desk, Livia turned around. Legs shut, but breasts completely exposed.

She really was wearing nothing but her white coat.

Her makeup was a bit smeared. She smiled like Hunter III had never seen her smile.

“Had a nice nap, little Hunter?” Livia asked. “Did you dream of being a fish?”

“No, no dreams.” Hunter III said.

“I’ll have to write that down. How do you feel?” Livia asked.

“I feel really weird.” Hunter III said.

For a moment Hunter III felt an intense and sudden sense of anxiety about Livia’s words.

“Were– were you just toyin’ with me? Like a test?” Hunter III asked dejectedly.

“Oh no, I greatly enjoyed myself. It was an experiment, but not a frivolous one.”

“Not like the kind when you stick me with stuff?”

“Absolutely not.” Livia said. “I hope I gave you as good a time as I received.”

“I felt real good.” Hunter III said. She smiled back, bearing her teeth.

Livia laughed. “I will write that down as well then.”

“Okay?”

“How would you feel about another round? I can make more time for you.”

Hunter III’s eyes drew open and she felt a tightening sensation between her legs.

“Eh– No– I think I oughta be watchin’ out for Leviathans.”

“So you can’t do that during sex? I’ll write that down.”

“Are you sure you didn’t do this just to write down stuff about me.” Hunter III mumbled.

“My priorities were pleasure first. Yours and mine.” Livia said gently.

“But you’re still writin’ stuff down.”

“I am always writing stuff down, little Hunter. But I did not sleep with you just for that.”

“Okay. I guess– that makes me feel some kinda way.”

“A better way?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad. I really don’t want you to feel like I used you. I think we both stood to gain.”

“I guess so, huh?”

Hunter III laid back in bed, sighing, swinging her tail.

They had done this, so, would things change? Were they like Norn and Adelheid now?

This was an aspect of humanity she only really understood in relation to examples.

She had observed Hominin, spied on them, watched their cultural products.

So she was not entirely alien to these concepts, but she still did not understand them well.

Her feelings were so much more complicated than she could explain.

“So– do ya want me to do anythin’ now?” She asked.

“Just be yourself. Continue to serve in your capacities.” Livia said.

“That’s it? You’re really not gonna ask me anythin’ more?”

“Yes. I do not want to interfere with your life, and Norn would be displeased if I asked for your exclusivity or loyalty.” Livia raised a finger to her lips, wearing a coquettish grin. “Of course, if you could devote time and visit my clinic more often, I would be ecstatic at the prospect. I am– intrigued with you. I would love to– understand you better.”

She hesitated a few times.

Hunter III could see in her aura that Livia’s feelings were complicated as well.

She did not push her to say anything. She didn’t even know what she’d want to hear.

That they loved each other, or whatever? Hunter III hardly understood what that meant.

She did know that she would look forward to fucking her again. She enjoyed it.

Livia tasted good. Her skin, her sweat, her blood– suddenly, Hunter III felt anxious again.

“Hey, uh– you don’t seem like you have a good sense of like, keepin’ alive. I feel like oughta say. Someday, if I get too outta hand– I could end up eatin’ more than y’bargained for. I could bite down, and keep bitin’, and not stop until I’ve bitten through everythin’. I would feel really bad if that happened– I don’t wanna eat any of Norn’s friends! I really don’t wanna. But if we keep doing this it could happen! I can’t say that it never won’t, do you get it?!”

She was so distressed. Her head was full of conflicting emotions.

Who cares if one hominin went missing?! What kind of omenseer would bother?

Who cares– she was so delicious, even! Maybe Livia was more delicious than anyone!

And yet, in that moment, this was also bound up in a grave and painful feeling.

In any context– not being able to see Livia again would really hurt her.

Livia had given her meat, and taken an interest in her, and said nice things–

(They had explored each other’s flesh as never before– more intimate than eating–)

–there was no replacing her, she was not just any hominin anymore.

It would hurt Hunter III if she ate her, and she was gone and would never come back.

(It would hurt Hunter III if Livia could discard her as easily as Hunter III could kill her.)

“I’m not completely helpless. Nor suicidal.” Livia said. “But I’ll keep it in mind and take appropriate precautions, for both of our sakes. I admit, being eaten by you would be such a fascinating biological experience in its own right– but I know it would distress you.”

“You’re so weird.” Hunter III said, averting her gaze. Feeling embarrassed.

“Do you want to know why I became a doctor, Hunter III?” Livia asked, grinning again.

“It’s because you’re kinda crazy.” Hunter III said meekly.

Livia laughed. She crossed one bare leg over the other.

“Because the human body fascinates me.” She hugged her arms around herself. “I want to feel the thrill of biology, to touch the source of being alive. Taking care of patients ended up being something of its own reward, sometimes– but I purely, selfishly wanted the chance to influence my own body and those of others in every possible, available way. To study every surgery, to learn every drug, to know every chemical, to observe every protein.”

Her slender fingers slid along the exterior of the injector she was fidgeting with.

Hunter III thought that this woman sounded insane.

However, she had to admit also, she was fascinated by her too.

Yurii might have wanted to eat her, but Livia wanted to be eaten. That was appealing.

“So you did all this because you like injectin’ yourself for fun huh?” Hunter III said.

“An efficient way to put it.” Livia said, spinning the injector in her fingers.

“Well. I like you so I’m glad you’re here, I guess.” Hunter III said. Averting her eyes again.

“I like you quite a bit as well, little Hunter.” Livia said. She smiled. Hunter III felt calm.

Casually and calmly, Livia then turned around to her computer, nonchalantly back to work.

Hunter III simply watched her silently from the bed.

Contentedly demanding nothing.

“I’m back in the same meeting room. Spin up the line to Trelleborg.”

“Yes, milord.”

From the bridge, the Antenora reconnected to the relay and contacted Trelleborg.

Trelleborg continued to be connected to the laser relay network because it technically used a relay set up by the defunct Imperial Petroleum Company. It was one of the earliest cable relays, running between Rhinea, Palatine and the Great Ayre Trench. With the entry of Bosporus, Veka and Sverland into the Empire, the supply of petroleum increased to such a degree it bloated the reserves, and therefore, the price of petroleum collapsed so deeply that even the poor could drink some with every meal– if they had peculiar tastes.

The Imperial Patroleum Company abandoned its now meager extraction operations in Ayre and the Palatine, and the earliest Trelleborg outlaws converted much of their infrastructure– including taking over data communications themselves for clandestine purposes.

After the Fueller Reformation, when the network was revamped and wireless capabilities were added, the Trelleborgeans added laser and acoustic capacities to their own relay. It could not be reached automatically by Imperial computers, but with knowledge of Trelleborg’s data address there was nothing to stop communication with them.

They were never blocked, and the cables were working as they always had. Much like other illicit operations in the Empire, they were unacknowledged and unthought of, and this was enough. Those who wanted to make use of Trelleborg still could. That was that.

So long as they were discrete, anyone with wealth and connections could play with fire.

This time, rather than connecting to the Naval HQ operators at Klagenfurt, the Antenora connected to an automated system ran on the Trelleborg mainframe whose only function was to receive the appropriate data address and connect the requester to it. There was no human element. If you knew the address, you could input it and reach someone. If you did not, and you guessed wrong, you were kicked out for some amount of real time. The Antenora knew exactly who it was trying to reach, so it was soon connected.

“So I’m allowed to watch this one? How gracious of you.”

“Quiet.”

Norn was accompanied in the private meeting room by Adelheid.

She was annoyed at being left out of other business, so Norn mollified her for once.

On the screen, a metal wall came into view first. Bare, nothing in it.

However, Norn could see the blurring edges near the bottom and center of the image. There was something being censored so that there was only the bare wall visible. There was no sound for a few moments– then, suddenly, the screen flashed, and there was an inversion of white and black. Adelheid nearly jumped, frightened by the sudden shift.

A pencil-scrawled smiley face appeared.

“How did you get your hands on this address? State your business!”

As a distorted voice came through the screen, the childishly-drawn smiley face flapped its scrawled lips in turn with the voice. Mentally, Norn overlayed the familiar voice she remembered of this character, over that which was being broadcast.

Before Norn could speak up, the voice resumed with greater intensity.

“Don’t even think about trying anything– I can easily take advantage of the direct connection to fuck with you in ways you can’t even imagine! I’ll lock you out of everything!”

“I don’t doubt it, Amur.” Norn said. “But I would find some way to go wring your neck for it.”

When the distorted voice next sounded, it took on a more emphatic tone.

“Huh?! Cocytus?! Cocytus is that you?”

“Indeed– but henceforth, call me Norn, or our business is concluded.”

“Oh! Indeed! Indeed– for one so great as you–! I– W-w-wait one moment please.”

Audio and video both briefly cut, but the connection remained stable on both ends.

“Hmph. Are all people from Trelleborg this far up their own crevices?”

Adelheid stared at the screen with an aggrieved expression, arms crossed.

“It was a cheap scare, you don’t have to be embarrassed.” Norn replied.

Narrowed eyes and a turned cheek. Adelheid refused to look at the screen again.

Her cheeks soon glowed with the light of the LCD as the picture resumed.

Now they were clearly looking at someone’s office.

There was a desk, a big chair with leather backing and barely any of that bare metal wall from before. Most importantly, there was now someone occupying the desk. Gloved hands briefly steepled in front of her face before laying on the desktop to unveil grinning lips. A fair and girlish and pretty face– belonging to the excommunicated Sunlight Foundation Immortal once known as Amur, and apparently still going by that codename.

Amur seemed to be doing well for herself, judging by her clothing. A gold-trimmed purple sportcoat buttoned over what appeared to be a ruffled silk shirt, hugging her thin frame close; gold cufflinks, dark wine-colored gloves; resting lightly atop her head was a purple kepi military cap with a golden badge in front depicting what seemed to be a waveform graph. Out from under her kepi, a wavy bob of silky, light blueish hair fell neatly to just over her small shoulders, with swept, sleek bangs over her forehead. Her eyes were clearly cybernetic, blue with subtle but visible rings of millions of photoreceptors.

Norn could also see the vague impression of her antennae, which were very thin, neon-blue and semi-circular, jutting out of where her ears would have been. Only the vaguest impression of their existence was perceptible beneath her hair, but Norn had known her when these antennae were larger and more obvious and far less aesthetically pleasing. Given the upgrade, Norn surmised Amur had access to a laboratory. Or was still friends with people on the bleeding edge of cybernetic research– but very few people other than herself would be doing such advanced research into new gear for Hartz syndrome victims.

“Greetings, Co– ahem, Norn! Norn the Praetorian! Of course, I knew this already. You quite liked that story of the fate-spinning Norn that Ganges told you– so when I heard that an Imperial operative by the name of Norn was making waves, I knew it had to be you. I’m glad that you were able to escape Yangtze’s clutches. And ecstatic that we can do business!”

An enormous sunshine-y smile appeared on her face, and she raised V-signs in both hands.

“I am also glad Yangtze did not keep me sedated and preserved in a jar forever.” Norn said.

“Of course, what an unreasonable and evil woman. Did you know that vile Yangtze IX tried to contact me to repair our relationship? Hah! I told her where to stick it! Never again!” Amur said. She put on an expression of exaggerated and fake pity and sympathy, pouting almost as childishly as Adelheid. When she spoke again, she talked so fast. Her nasally voice and conceited tone were just as annoying as Norn remembered them. “You know Norn, I would have absolutely resisted such actions being taken against you, but I did not know until Yangtze VIII was dead and the Alamos facility imploded. By that point I had been kicked out by Yangtze too, that bitch! She accused me of running away when we fought Mehmed, like I didn’t do my best?! Like it mattered against that monster?! At any rate Norn–”

“Amur, I don’t care.” Norn said. “You are on my shitlist just the same as the rest.”

Amur’s eyes drew wide and she froze with an index finger in the air, mid-sentence.

“Huh?! So you did mean it when you talked about my wringing my neck–?”

She looked suddenly frightened as if Norn was in the room and able to wring her neck.

“Amur, I am here because I want to put you, specifically, off my shitlist.” Norn said.

Amur just suddenly put her hands back down, crossed her arms, and looked smug again.

“You do?! I mean– of course you do. You always had a fantastic eye for a talent and such a good head on your shoulders, Norn! Yangtze and Euphrates and all those fuddy-duddies were just holding you back! Keeping you down! You were always destined for bigger and better–”

Adelheid narrowed her eyes. “How do you stand this woman always lying to you?”

“I make an exception because clearly something is wrong with her.” Norn replied.

Amur continued talking and gesticulating without acknowledging the interruption.

“–as always, dear Norn, you may consider the door to my humble shoppe open–”

Norn sighed. “Fantastic. Shut up now and listen to me.” Amur stopped in her tracks, and began staring nervously at the screen. Norn continued. “I am headed into Rhinea to refit my vessel. I need a few things from you. Primarily, I want to purchase your services as a crew member. I will need electronic support in Aachen. I am limited in what information I can gather, and I am walking into a pit full of vipers with very little intelligence. I cannot rely on the Fueller family or the military anymore, and I burnt my bridge to the Inquisition. It has to be you. You can work from Trelleborg if you can’t make it to Aachen. I’ll go pick you up later. Secondly– What’s with the gesticulation? Are you not able to deliver, Amur?”

“No, no, no!” Amur said. She had been waving her hands defensively. “Not at all, dearest Norn! I would be thrilled to work for you and of course I have the capability you need and more! A genius such as myself would be running digital laps around anyone in the City of Currents!” She put on a little smile again and gestured to herself with her hand. “It’s just, my services are generally paid through a flexible package deal, sliding scale, based on the task, and you know, my costs and fees and deductibles and hazard insurance and such–”

“I’ll pay you in Palladium reserve bars. Guaranteed pure by Fueller treasurers. Doesn’t that sound more appealing than bullshit Imperial marks? I bet your buddies in Trelleborg would love it. And, I’ll throw in something you’ll find even more valuable.” Norn said.

Amur’s eyes lit up at the word ‘Palladium’ and her mouth opened slightly for the rest.

Adelheid glanced at Norn with a skeptical expression on her face.

Norn pulled out a portable she had laid on the desk in the meeting room beforehand.

Switching it on, a wireframe model of a Diver and its various parts appeared.

For a moment Adelheid looked a bit scandalized, but quickly hid her expression.

“Yangtze has a fascinating new toy.” Norn said. “I will give you all the data I have on what she calls the Jagdkaiser type I, including field testing and maintenance data, machine logs, and any blueprint and stitcher data Yangtze offered to support operations. You can keep the data, but I want you to analyze everything, and create a machine on this basis. I know of your interest in prosthetics– you have just enough materials science pedigree for this, don’t you? I’m sure your renowned genius can fill in the rest of the blanks– what do you say?”

Amur’s eyes drew bigger and wider with each additional clause.

She blinked, seemingly realizing her mouth was hanging open.

Quite suddenly, she smiled and shut her eyes and put her hands behind her back.

Leaning forward, sticking out her skinny chest.

“Consider yourself the new employer of a renowned genius, indeed! Indeed! It can only be Amur, the trickster goddess of cyberspace!” She said. Pausing for a laugh that made her voice sound even more nasal for a moment. “I will make sail for Aachen posthaste– until I get there, I will work remotely in whatever capacity you need. Digital intelligence? Electronic warfare? Signals? I can do it all!” For a moment there was a bit of a glow underneath her hair– she had increased the power to her antennae as a demonstration. “Norn, I am so looking forward to our partnership. I haven’t been this excited to work in decades!”

“I knew you would come around.” Norn said. Grinning to herself.

Amur had an– excitable– personality, but she was potentially incredibly useful.

Especially her connection to Trelleborg. Having access to a Host was valuable.

Norn might need a place to run to in the future, if nothing went well.

“In fact, let our partnership bear fruit right away.” Amur said. A conspiratorial gaze and a mysterious grin appeared on her face. She closed in on the screen as if whispering. “Norn, I have connections in the Sunlight Foundation still. There’s been juicy drama recently– the rest of the Immortals are quarreling! Even Yangtze and Euphrates are not getting on–”

“I was aware of this.” Norn said, interrupting. “I appreciate you telling me all the same.”

“Oh! I must give you something to prove my worthiness though, on my own honor.” Amur said. “Did you know then, that Hudson has apparently relocated to Rhinea? Several cargo ships from Theseus Applied Cybernetics, her front company, left Bosporus and the Palatine for Rhinea with significant loads. At the same time as the Volkisch Movement in Eisental is debuting a Shimii brigade under the influence of the Nasser family– don’t you think it’s a big coincidence? Could Hudson be a Shimii nationalist, perhaps? A crypto-nasserite?”

“Now that is something I did not know. Something juicy, too– let’s keep an eye on it.”

“Aye, aye! Captain!” Amur made a mock salute. “Say, may I ask a– clarifying question?”

“Of course. No need to be so stuffy– aren’t we old war buddies?” Norn replied.

Amur looked briefly uncomfortable. She tapped two index fingers together.

“It is about that actually– am I off your ‘shitlist’ as you say, now?” Amur asked sheepishly.

Norn smiled. “Completely. I would not think of touching a hair on your head– that is to say, I will not seek vengeance for past slights. You know how things work of course– if you make poor decisions on this job, your neck will quickly become imperiled again. So rest easy, knowing you will render excellent service and not piss me off so monumentally. Right?”

Continuing to twiddle the same two index fingers, Amur averted her gaze, smiling.

“Of course. I would not dare think of it. I will be a real MVP on your team!”

“That’s the spirit. Start making preparations. I’ll give you bearing data periodically.”

Amur turned back to the screen. She smiled, again– but it was a different kind of smile.

Gentler and much less conceited.

“Norn, I wanted to say– business and profits aside– it is actually nice seeing ‘Cocytus’ again. I– I am truly sorry for what happened. I know– It’s been decades.” Her voice sounded pained. “This must seem like a joke to you, but I think, all of us held you in high esteem.”

Anyone else, Norn would have just cut off and told to fuck themselves. How dare they?!

Euphrates, Ganges, Yangtze, any of them, the pathetic ringleaders of that horrific circus.

However, seeing Amur break her pretense gave Norn just a bit more patience.

She would not give an answer to it. There was no answer to it. It was too painful to touch.

Because Norn recalled the joy she felt in the presence of the Immortal’s “esteem.”

And it was a void in her heart that nothing would ever fill.

Like family she wouldn’t have again. They destroyed it; she destroyed it. It was gone now.

“Let’s talk business later, Amur. I have preparations to make. Good luck; and be cautious.”

Amur nodded solemnly in acknowledgment. Norn shut off the monitor. Her hand lingered.

“I think she turned sincere at the end, Norn.” Adelheid said. A bit of unearned melancholy.

Normally Norn would have told Adelheid to mind her own god damned business–

“I know. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s check up on Selene again and get this boat moving.”

–but her heart had softened a bit, and the only defense against more was to keep moving.

The Antenora soon resumed its journey from Southern Ayre, skirting the Aachen Massif and the Ayre slope down to almost 2800 meters deep in the Northern Eisental plain and hooking west-bound to the other side of the mountains, heading for the station itself.

Along the way the floodlights and cameras caught glimpses of the eerie, alien and desolate landscape of the deep plains. Long stretches of barren, rocky ground or mounds of sand. Life gathered around the dunes, where marine snow collected on solid ground for detritivores to consume; around hydrothermal vents where tube worms fed on minerals surging out of the earth in great billowing gas jets; around red coral born of agglomerated katov mass, eerie tumors on the cracked skin of the planet; and it teemed on the corpses of large animals, like whales and collossal squids, edible to masses of worms, abyssal crabs, and small, bony, blind fish. All of that life, hiding until the death of something made them alive anew.

Through small gatherings of abyssal fish; crabs flitting across the sand; undersea clouds of drifting jellyfish passing through the empty water like their own storm, their very life the thunders; and the glowing circles of beautiful death represented by massive siphonophores, colony organisms lashing out at the little lives around them with neurotoxin-filled stingers. It was so difficult for humans to see such things, for the dark depths of the ocean battled their comparatively weak electric lights to the bitter end. Viewed only through the cameras, the world seemed to empty. But with all of a ship’s sensors, it was possible, at times, and across the spans of days and weeks of sailing, to connect many lives together and see the Ocean still not dead. Perhaps impossible on a station, where lives were stationary.

Out on a ship, however, the instruments awaiting death caught these glimpses of life.

“Siphonophore– 30 meters long– attaching the picture– ahh! A lovely little addition!”

Using pictures from the ship’s navigation cameras, Petra Chorniy-Sunnysea filled a digital scrapbook page with an image of the siphonophore they passed by and her thoughts on it. It was very long, and it was shiny, and it looked blue, when it was lit up by the Antenora’s spotlights. She thought its enormous size and colors were impressive. She had filled the pages with pictures, observations and little lessons she picked up. Her portable computer, with her diary and scrapbook, were Petra’s only valuable possession aside from her weapons and armor, which her lord, Yurii Samoylovych, had taught her to hold dear.

Petra eagerly catalogued the many animals the Antenora went past, as well as the sights.

In her heart, and in her pages, there was a journey through a world teeming with life.

Some people thought her behavior was childish and hypocritical for a murderous knight.

However, Petra had an enthusiasm for all things. She was alive and she loved living.

Her heart was simple and untroubled. She did her tasks with a clear head and good humor.

Petra did not think that her relationship toward death precluded her interest in life.

Whalefalls begot new life; assassinations and assaults created new political possibilities.

Some things died so others could live. Her master lived; her enemies would die.

There were many wicked people in the world; Petra thought Yurii was a very virtuous lady.

Yurii loved life; Petra loved life too. So aligned, master and servant remained in harmony.

Petra killed to live; for her master to live; and so they could enjoy the beautiful world.

“Alright, we’re commencing the briefing. Everybody sit down and shut up.”

Next to the Antenora’s bridge there was a specific meeting room used for debrief and for strategic planning with large gatherings. There was a monitor at the end of the room that could be divided into eight discrete cells with different videos, and desk-chairs in six rows of four. Normally there was a podium but Norn had moved it to the side. In attendance were Norn’s trusted officers, including Adelheid, a tired-looking Selene in a pilot’s bodysuit, a very bored-looking Hunter III, and the working regulars like Livia, Yurii, and Petra.

Neretva had also been summoned, along with three drone managers, one representing the security team, a second representing the sailors and a third representing the bridge. They would relay the information to the rest of the drones and create work schedules.

“I’ll begin by stating that while our objective for the foreseeable future will not be combat, there may well be outbreaks of violence so we need to be prepared.” Norn said. “Part of avoiding combat is knowing where we stand, who to distrust, and having plans laid down.”

She gestured toward one of the divisions on the main monitor.

Then, a logo with a scrawled smiling face wearing a kepi cap appeared on every cell.

“We will be receiving electronic warfare, intelligence gathering and signals support from Amur. She will deliver the rest of the briefing on Aachen. Take it away.” Norn said.

She stepped away from the center cells of the divided monitor so Amur could claim them.

Her real face briefly appeared, greeted everyone, and then a diagram of Aachen appeared.

Including its sub-structures, like the interiors of the Aachen Massif, Stockheim, and so on.

In the audience, Neretva was suddenly scandalized and stood up with a nervous expression.

“Milord, that woman is an excommunicated member of the Sunlight Foundation.” She said.

“So?” Norn asked. “That’s my problem, not yours. Sit back down.”

Neretva’s voice trembled. “But– what if she steals data? You don’t know what she’s–”

“You continue to involve yourself in matters above your station at your own peril.”

At Norn’s warning, Neretva froze up. Selene reached up and pulled her down by her shirt.

Successfully getting Neretva to sit, her hands on her lap and her eyes down at the floor.

Amur’s face appeared on one of the monitor’s next to the diagrams, smiling cheerfully.

“Milord, that Neretva is one of Hudson’s direct apprentices. She might be a liability.”

“No she won’t.” Selene spoke up suddenly. “She’s too much of a wimp to do anything.”

Norn found that assertion a bit more defensive than she would like– but she ignored it.

“I am the only one here who needs to be worried about personnel decisions. I will not hear a word more of this from any of you. Continue with the briefing, now.” Norn said sharply.

“Absolutely, milord! I was merely serving my advisory capacity! Your wisdom and charisma are, as always, deeply impressive and worthy of your grand legend.” Amur averted her gaze as soon as Norn threw her a sharp glance for her flattery. She then cleared her throat and finally commence with the actual meat of the briefing. “At any rate– welcome, ladies and gentleladies, to Aachen Station. Our present objective is to dock at Stockheim and begin the Antenora’s refit. We will also resupply the Antenora, and secure the continuing cooperation of Fueller family loyalists within Aachen to ensure a smooth journey onward.”

Amur extended a hand to her left, where one of the monitors displayed the Stockheim port.

“We will be staying with the Stockheim Shipbuilder’s Guild, under the auspices of a private ship repair and luxury ship design company, Quicksilver Cruising Limited. These guys have a pretty dodgy history within Aachen, but they pay off the Shipbuilder’s Guild for the badge, so they look legit to the untrained eye. Somehow they finagled an exclusive contract for luxury craft to the Matternich family, who are aligned with the Fueller family– so in essence, they are our allies once removed. They have been accused of supporting organized crime, but that’s common for port companies. Nevertheless, we should not rely on them for anything more than discretion and exterior retrofit work. Limit contact with Quicksilver Limited and its employees as much as possible. I’ll keep an eye on them too.”

With another wave of her hands, as if performing a magic trick, Amur dispersed the wireframe diagram of Stockheim and brought up one of the main tower. Its interior was made up of ringed walkways encircling different multi-story atrium spaces each of which hosted something different, like central hanging gardens and sculptures.

Superimposed on the main tower was a logo of a knight’s helmet with two wings growing out of it, one black and one silver and gold, all surrounded by flourishes of cloth.

“Security in Aachen is provided under contract by Rhineametalle’s exclusive subsidiary and military contractor, the Uhlankorp. Specifically,” an orgchart briefly appeared, but Amur quickly selected one particular part and zoomed in on it without heed for the rest, “by the Third Regiment of the Uhlankorp, which operates as a service called On-Site Security Outcomes or OSSO. None of the Uhlankorp has ever seen battle, but the OSSO are especially just trumped up Patrol with the least restrictive recruiting policies. That being said, it would be annoying to get in trouble with them, so just do your best to keep things above board. However– Norn, it does appear someone actually got to them before us.”

Once more, the screen shifted, now showing a picture of Aachen’s surroundings.

Several dozen kilometers south of Aachen, Amur pointed out a circular area.

Itself encompassing a few kilometers of empty wilderness.

“OSSO kept it on the DL, but a ship full of body armor and heavy weapons sent from Stralsund to Aachen went missing recently and they have no idea what happened.” Amur said. “Rhineametalle wanted to stock up OSSO as a precaution owing to recent events in the region. They saw what befell a certain group of thugs called the KPSD in Kreuzung when things got out of control over there. It would be embarrassing if a certified regiment of the Uhlankorp failed to protect their station from a terror attack, right? So who took the guns then? Well, I can come up with a quick list of likely suspects for you–”

Three more organizations’ names appeared over the diagram of the main tower.

“The Nationale Volksarmee, Reichsbanner Schwarzrot, and Eisern Front. Three leftist terror groups now rumored to be joining forces– with Aachen as the negotiating table.”

All three of the organization flags melded into a red, black and yellow flag, labeled,

Eisental United Front.

“We’ll be walking into a fairly volatile situation in Aachen! All we want to do is resupply and refit, but it looks like we’ve been assigned a hell of a place to do it!” Amur said, sounding quite amused. “Eisental’s political situation is tense enough as it is. The liberal government in Aachen is on the cusp of being replaced by a Volkisch Gau, and who knows what they’ll be scheming. Now the United Front will be sniffing around too, sizing each other and the Uhlankorp up while they work out this rumored alliance. And who knows whether their members will be able to maintain basic discipline? There could well be an unforeseen incident. And that shipment of missing Uhlankorp guns might just be the dynamite waiting to be lit up and thrown. On top of all that, there’s the Mycenae Military Commission in Stralsund, and then the Shimii post-jihad groups simmering in the background–!”

“Yes, it’s a very fertile ground for trouble.” Norn said, interrupting Amur’s excitable rant. “Which is why everyone needs to be on guard and on their best behavior. I want daily activity reports from anyone who left the port, and before you leave, you’ll be submitting a shore leave request. Unless I personally go with you, nobody leaves Stockheim without submitting a strict timetable. If you are even a second later than written, I will make you regret it.”

Norn cast eyes around the room but most prominently cast them at Selene.

“Huh?” Selene responded near immediately. “What are you looking at me for?”

“You will control your volatile moods in the station. Are we clear?” Norn said.

“Of course we are!” Selene said. “I’m not fucking insane I have tact, you know!”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll be expecting those forms soon if you want to go goof off.”

Selene turned her cheek with a pout. Adelheid patted her on the shoulder.

Norn then turned to Hunter III, who had been mostly staring at her own hands or at Livia.

“Hunter III. You will also be under strict scrutiny. I will have work for you, but it must be conducted exactingly.” She said. Hunter III pointed at herself as if she was confused about who was being yelled at. “There’s no other numbered little cannibal here is there? I will be using you for what you were allegedly made for– infiltration, asset retrieval, maybe even assassination. When I give you a target, you will meet it, without deviation. Are clear?”

“Technicwise y’all aren’t the same thing as me, so it’s not cannibalism.” Hunter III said.

“Are we clear?” Norn asked again. This was her final but foremost concern.

Hunter III grumbled in response, crossing her arms and hiding her face with her hood.

“I know how to follow orders! I’m not dumb! Just tell me what the heck to do!” She said.

“If necessary I can always apply certain drugs to make her compliant.” Livia suddenly said.

Hunter III nearly jumped with surprised. Norn looked at Livia briefly then grinned.

Weeks removed from Goryk’s Gorge, the slightly less damaged Antenora finally docked in the Stockheim port in the row of berths that was administered by Quicksilver Limited.

The Antenora’s first day at port was taxing– a flurry of calls, payments, accommodations for the ship. Veiled threats leveled at Quicksilver orderlies to mind sensitive information when dealing with Fueller family property; reservations made with various people and venues; gathering the permits they needed through the liberal government or the grey market.

Owing to this chaos, everything that needed to be done in Aachen was briefly deferred.

In a rare turn, Adelheid was almost as busy as Norn, having been the one to take inventory and so now assisting in victualing and resupply by contacting various wholesalers and brokerages in Aachen. There were a few notable shortages plaguing Aachen, such as fresh spicy peppers and coffee beans, and so Adelheid ended up chasing as many tails throughout the day as Norn had to and put in a very remarkable effort. She was ordered to rest and relax the following morning and stayed in Norn’s own room after a night spent de-stressing.

On the second day, a drone informed Norn that an ‘enemy vessel’ had docked beside them.

“Clear the target paint, it’s nonsense. What vessel could it be?” Norn said.

“The computer has identified it as the Pandora’s Box at a 68% confidence.”

“What? Let me see.”

On the bridge, Norn watched the cameras pan over to the neighboring berth.

Her smile then stretched slowly from ear to ear–

–at the sight of that very slightly refined but still quite unseemly olive-colored hauler.

“I’ll be stepping outside for a moment. Tell Adelheid I’m greeting some old friends.”

“Yes, milord.”

Alone, Norn left the ship through the boarding chute connected to the station berth.

She found herself in a tube-like hallway of steel and glass, elevators connecting it to lower floors, conveyors connecting deeper into the actual port infrastructure of Stockheim. One continuous hall, sparse in decoration, connected every ship in this particular level. Norn’s berth and every vertical row beneath and above it was owned by Quicksilver but right next door there was a berth owned by a league of leftist trade unionists instead.

And in that berth, they had a clandestine guest, the same as she was.

When she exited out onto the hallway, she turned quickly to the bulkhead for her neighbor.

Both ships had pointed their cameras at each other, so they both likely flashed warnings.

Norn waited with amused expectation, hoping to see a certain conceited blond captain–

And found herself more surprised and amused when the bulkhead door finally opened.

Not Ulyana Korabiskaya, not Euphrates, not Elena– nobody she expected aboard.

Instead, a Katarran woman and an equally Katarran companion walked out onto the hall.

From their differing modes of dress, Norn could derive the hierarchy quite quickly. To her the woman with the long red coat and matching military cap, with the button down shirt, pencil skirt and tights– she gave off the energy of someone almost a Katarran warlord. Her dark blue hair falling down her back, heeled shoes, the sword at her hip, and the quiet confidence with which she carried herself, the beauty and grace evident in her every movement.

She was someone who was groomed for command.

Meanwhile the pale-haired girl in the hoodie and pants was just some punk she hired.

“Is that ship under new management?” Norn asked, grinning all the while.

Her appraising red eyes met the wayward, mismatched eyes of the Katarran leader.

“Norn the Praetorian is carrying out ship inspections far from home, it seems.”

The woman responded. They walked to within a few meters of each other.

Close to the bulkhead leading to the Pandora’s Box.

“You know me, of course– but may I have the pleasure of an introduction?” Norn asked.

“My name is Erika. I am an independent security contractor.” Erika said. “This is my ship.”

Erika– she felt like someone familiar. Norn almost had the connection made.

“You were sold a strange bill of goods, lady.” She said. “I’ve had trouble with that ship.”

“Have you any trouble with it today? Consider its business to be my own business.”

“I am merely curious. I hope those bastard cutthroats are still doing alright.” Norn said.

Erika smiled. “All of them are whole and hale, and rendering excellent service.”

“Now I know who you remind me of.” Norn said. “Ever since I saw you, I was thinking.”

“Indeed?” Erika said.

Norn gestured toward Erika’s coat with an even more self-satisfied expression.

“You’re the mercenary who fulfilled that suicidal contract put on Admiral Model’s head. Mismatched eyes, blue hair, horns, and running around Rhinea.” Norn said. Erika blinked her eyes and drew them a bit wider, for just an instant– recognizing that she had been correctly identified, not just as a Katarran or a mercenary, but for that specific deed. Norn saw her hand come to settle on her hip just over the pommel of her sword, but remain there.

“Have you come to settle the grudges of the defunct Rhinean navy, Lord Praetorian? Or have you only come to settle your own?” Erika said. To her credit, her determination held firm.

Norn could not see a shred of fear or hesitation in her aura. She was standing her ground.

And yet, she was also not making any overt aggression. She had a very cool head.

“Neither.” Norn said. “Model would have been an enemy now, so you did me a favor. And you gave Rhineametalle a black eye in the process too, from what I’ve heard. I’m surprised that you are able to continue operating in Rhinea after such brazen deeds. I respect it.”

“I am able to continue operating precisely because of my brazen deeds. Mercenaries who take no risks may not die, but they are unable to live. By risking my life for something I may lose my life, but my convictions earn me comrades and benefactors.” Erika said. “Killing Model made me more allies than enemies. I would hope to count you in neither group.”

Norn grinned at her after her little story. “Truly? You don’t desire to court my favor?”

Erika’s expression remained perfectly dispassionate and neutral.

“If you’ve a job, I will evaluate it like any other, and if accepted, I will carry it out.”

“Ah, so you’re not above working for me.”

“No, but I am above coming into your debt, and seeking to put you in mine.”

“How honest. I am fond of honest people.”

“I am simply keeping cautious of the fire which I recognize now burns in front of me.”

“Well, enough flattery.” Norn said. “I feel I’ve taken the measure of you, Erika Kairos.”

Erika reached out a hand to offer Norn a shake.

“No flattery. You are known to be a woman of great pragmatism, with an agenda of your own. I think neither of us need to stand in each other’s way. In this time of chaos we don’t need to fight hard to accrue new enemies. So we should not make them casually.”

Norn took her hand and gave it a firm shake.

“How is Elena von Fueller? What if I wanted her back?” Norn asked in a hushed tone.

For a moment she saw Erika’s aura shift. She wondered how this woman would respond.

“She is a civilian free to do as she wishes. And I will protect that freedom.” Erika said.

She meant every word she said. There was no lie from those lightly red-painted lips.

“I am glad to hear that. That foolish little girl is luckier than she appreciates.”

Norn let go of Erika’s hand and turned around with a dismissive air, showing her back.

Of course, Erika would do nothing with that opportunity, nor take offense.

There was not another word for her as Norn casually returned to her ship.

For the Pandora’s Box to be under Katarran management made no ordinary sense.

Erika Kairos must have had something to do with the leftists in Aachen.

And she had augmented her strength with the Union-backed troops in the Pandora’s Box.

Things in Aachen were about to get very interesting. Look at what the currents swept up!

“Pandora’s Box– I don’t know whether you are cursed or blessed anymore.” She laughed.

As soon as Norn disappeared from her sight, Erika’s solid purple aura turned a deep green.

Wafting up from her shoulders as if no longer anchored to her body. Broken, suddenly.

Her breathing grew more labored, and she felt discomfort in her tightened chest.

“You did really well, Erika.” Olga said. “I was surprised at how cool you kept during that.”

“I used Saint’s Skin to smooth over my emotions for a while. I was terrified.” Erika said.

Her voice was chattering. Repressed fears began to pour out of her mind.

Norn the Praetorian– even just her presence seemed to stir the world around her.

All of the legends of her brutal power swirled in Erika’s mind.

When she laid on the pressure, even subtly, it was so difficult to retain one’s peace of mind.

Had she been trying, or had ill intentions, who knows what could have happened?

Maybe Erika and Olga could have matched her if their meeting came to blows.

Maybe. None of them would have walked out of it unscathed.

Thankfully, she suspected Norn would not have picked such a pointless fight.

“I am glad I took the initiative on this.” Erika sighed. “I feared Ulyana saying something out of hand, or worse, actually exposing someone like Elena to Norn. Now that we have satisfied her curiosity, I think she will carry on with her own business. She is powerful enough that she could have had any opportunity she wants to attack us– I don’t believe she is interested.”

“I’ll have people patrol here to keep an eye out nevertheless.” Olga said. She sighed. “We just touched down and we already have to have security at the port. We’ll never have peace huh?”

“We’re not in the business of peace, I’m afraid.” Erika said. “It’ll only get harder for us.”

Both of them cast eyes at the conveyor that would take them deeper into Aachen proper.

They had finally arrived, where the currents of their own war had taken them.

Past and present converged on the City of Currents; and may well decide their future.

Inside that shell of metal and humanity, the United Front would begin its ordeal.

☭Eisental United Front Status☭

Nationale Volksarmee (Provisional)

Reichsbanner Schwarzrot (Provisional)

Eisern Front (Unknown)

Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.7]

This chapter contains graphic sexual content and themes of suicidal ideation.

In the year 974 After Descent, the center of hegemony in the Imbrium Ocean still lay within the edifice of Heitzing. The cradle of the Imbrian Empire, raised from the vast trench that would come to be known as the Abyss of Nocht, named after its conqueror. In the southeastern border of the Palatine, Heitzing stood on a dusty circle of earth surrounded by jagged rock, like a thousand wounds sliced upon crust abruptly stitched closed.

These structures formed something of a shallow crater.

A subtle but visible demarcation around the heart of the Empire.

Legend had it that Heitzing was raised from the abyss and closed the dark trench from whence it came shut upon rising. Setting all of the legends aside, it remained an absolutely formidable fortress in a material sense. Automated cannons and missile launchers dotted its surroundings. Four underground sub-stations with attached seaports were constructed in the spire’s surroundings, housing a dedicated fleet of 125 ships, mainly composed of fast Frigates. Each barracks had several underground hangars, and together they contained almost 500 Divers and 10000 troops. Patrols went round the clock. There were enough stockpiled rations, munitions and fuel to withstand several months of siege.

Just a few kilometers east from Heitzing lay the border to the Bosporus Duchy. Just a few kilometers north was the Volgian abyssal plain that led to the formidable Northern Ice Wall. Just a few kilometers south was the Khaybar mountain. In antiquity, these directions each contained enemies. The old Bosporan Republics, the ancient Shimii caliphate, the Volgian Principality; Heitzing was a salient into all these territories. Despite this, it remained an imposing barrier that had never been conquered, single-handedly protecting the eastern flank. Heitzing was the sword cleaved into the Imbrium by the first Emperor.

Its region came to be known as the Black Crater, nearly 3000 meters deep.

So long as Heitzing remained, the Imbrium Empire was invincible, immortal.

Or so the ascendant Imbrians thought, once upon a time.

One kilometer tall, the spire was smooth and purely black but speckled with indentations where its ancient plates had been joined, giving off blue and red light mixed purple from millions of LEDs, humming with a purpose older than the Descent of humanity. Within the middle of the structure was a dedicated port, and at the top, the royal palace had been carved out of the hab block that once occupied the upper levels. At the base, and below, there was self-sufficient farming and manufacturing for the inhabitants. Industrial stitcher machines below ground built the first Nocht emperor his first imperial warships, commencing his ancient conquest of the Palatine, and beyond.

No more– the lower part of the complex was finally ordered sealed. Once upon a time, the Fueller family were the dynastic engineers tasked with the maintenance and furtherance of this machinery. Now, the last remnants of this family, that was near annihilated in its rebellion against the Nocht dynasty, would put an end to Heitzing.

By decree of Konstantin von Fueller, the one man who had defeated the structure and begun the end of an era. History regarded his ascendance as a passing of the fortress from one hand to another, as if to deny Heitzing the sting of defeat. Nevertheless, Konstantin had claimed the fortress, made it his home, took on the title of Imbrium Emperor, and now, his word was law absolute. And his word was that the mysterious depths of the fortress had to be forever shut. Architects and engineers were called forth by the crown, discreetly, to put together a permanent solution to the tower’s depths. To inflict a wound of finality onto the Black Crater that would render its ancient secrets permanently gone.

In response to this, Norn Tauscherer arrived at Heitzing one autumn morning.

Her hand held at her side, closed into a shaking fist. Her teeth grit together.

Her ship approached the center of the structure. A black panel slid open to accept her ship into a berth. Once closed behind her, there was no telling where the ship had gone, or whether any berth lay within that part of Heitzing’s space. Subsumed into the black steel it was as if the ship became part of Heitzing. She stepped off the ship, left the port, and rode a secret elevator for what felt like an eternity to the top of the tower.

All the while, fuming to herself.

Her face reflected back at her in the silver-plated interior.

Blond hair tied back into a ponytail with the slightest bit of an arch to it. Red eyes staring back at her themselves reflecting her own reflection, dark mirrors of a wrathful infinity; her fair skin colored over by a blue and green half-cape and a grey Imperial Navy uniform. Her slim build hid the immense power contained in every muscle fiber of her body, much more than that of the Imbrians she pretended to be part of. Few people called Norn beautiful, but she knew that she was. In everything she did there was beauty, and in the implements that she used there was beauty too. In her rage; in her calm; even in her despair.

Nevertheless, she was wearing makeup on that day. Something of a rare sight for her.

There was only one man in the world for whom Norn observed formality.

To have been casual with him would have only caused him to erode his own power further.

Her dress, her artifice of nobility, was to remind him of his position.

When the elevator opened, it did so on a lobby that was not Norn’s destination.

Quickly, she ordered the elevator to close and inserted a physical key into a physical slot.

Finally, the elevator went up an additional floor, and there, it opened into a suite.

Inside, everything was lacquered wood. Real wood, preserved with a shiny finish. Norn stepped out onto a lobby with a wooden floor, past an adjacent living room with silk-upholstered couches and a real clay and brick hearth seated on a steel plate and separated by a glass shield. Above, an intricate chandelier model of the sol system, within which Aer was one lonely little blue planet. Several lights forever lost to humanity shone with it.

On the walls, experimental artwork. Emperor Nocht had a taste in portraiture and traditional subjects; Emperor von Fueller had donated all the old work to museums and digital collections and instead decorated with modern art, abstracts and semi-abstracts, dada and expressionism and texture-art and programmatic mechanical artworks. Norn had no opinion of the chaos of shapes and colors that surrounded her as she traversed the space.

Except, that everything clashing, the wood and the glass and the post-modernism–

Probably reflected on the man who cocooned himself within.

“Emperor von Fueller, eternal be your reign. Norn Tauscherer brings counsel.”

Stepping into his bedroom, Norn dropped to one knee and looked at the ground.

Pulling a beret off her head and holding it to her chest.

“Oh Norn, no, you do not need to! Sister, dear sister! Please stand and look at me!”

He touched her shoulder, and so beckoned, Norn stood, and she did look him in the eyes.

Still unused to seeing nothing of the man that she had fought for, for so long already.

Norn still looked as she always had, while Konstantin looked like a corpse walking. She wanted to see the blond clean-shaven boy of her past but she saw instead a wizened figure, cheeks sinking, copious grey hair down his back, a sleek but dense beard. His shoulders, his limbs, had all grown skinny. His hands were the only place he had remained strong, because he made use of his fingers still. He was dressed in coveralls and an ornate coat without any shoes. He had been working. All around his bedroom, copious amounts of mechanical trinkets paraded about, flying, climbing poles, spinning on the ground. Mechanical knights on clockwork horses charging at nothing, origami birds made of thin steel sheets, functioning quadrotors assembled piece by piece. An entire clock in the middle of being put together piece by little piece, meticulously engineered, blueprints on the bed.

“Do you like it?” Konstantin asked. He gestured toward the clock with a smile on his face, ear to ear, so proud, so excited. “Nobody makes these anymore. Isn’t it a shame? I found the schematics and I wanted to make one. The Fueller library, we have all kinds of these things. Blueprints for old machines that have no purpose anymore. I wanted to make one so badly– it caught me one day, the itch. Like a haunting from the past. So I had all the pieces made very exactingly but I did not want it stitched together. Do you like it?”

“It’s stately.” Norn said. “But did you have to make it run? Isn’t the structure nice enough?”

“No, no, no.” Konstantin said. “Things– things are their function. Beauty– it’s function. A clock that doesn’t run– it’s a waste isn’t it? It can do nothing but be stared at. Robbed of itself. I wanted to make something that ran. That had a purpose for being.”

He had trouble speaking. His condition was clearly deteriorating since she last saw him.

Norn thought grimly, he might die before Erich ever gets his hands on him.

If Erich were so inclined of course–

“Konstantin, I am here because you are robbing Heitzing of its purpose, as you say.”

Konstantin’s eyes narrowed. “Heitzing is an abomination. I am fixing it, once and for all.”

Norn grunted. “Are you willing to tell me what is down there now?”

“No. Never you mind that. I have made my final judgment.” Konstantin said.

She could tell he wanted to turn around and go back to his toys.

He was half-stood up on the edge of the room and hall, half-staring away from Norn.

“Norn, we have to think about– we have to think about the future. Not just my children, but everyone’s children. Nobody should live with this thing held over their heads. All of these awful legends and superstitions, but also, the– the physical thing itself. I want to move the capital to Schwerin Isle, seal up Heitzing, blow it up for good. End it all. I trust Erich, but I will never trust Erich’s children, or his children’s children, I will not be here to see them, I can’t evaluate what they’ll do. Or heaven forbid those Republic pigs. No. I have to fix it.”

Norn breathed in and out trying to calm her nerves and frustration.

“Right now, Heitzing is one of the few things keeping you in power, so-called Emperor.”

“Power? Bah! If that is so, then I abdicate with it. I’ll go with it, and it will go with me.”

“Konstantin, there’s no climbing down this mountain except the way you climbed up.”

“Then let them depose me, but they will do it after this hellmaw is finally buried.”

Norn’s face was slowly overcome by a grim expression.

She found herself speaking more candidly than she wanted to. Her emotions swelling.

“Konstantin, if you gave me the order, I would exterminate the lords and ministers. I would kill every plotter and annihilate all of their families down to the last crying baby in a cradle. I would put an end to everything you could not. I would protect you. I can protect you.”

Konstantin’s distracted expression was suddenly overcome with horror.

He had a face as grim as that which Norn herself was making at him.

Rushing back to Norn’s side he grabbed hold of her shoulders.

Kissing her on both cheeks in a way she found repellent– because he was so different now.

“Norn! Norn, my dearest friend, my oathsworn sister– no, absolutely not! It has to end, Norn!” He started to weep. His tears fell on her like droplets of blood from open wounds. “No more killing for me, Norn. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this. I didn’t understand what I was asking you to do. I am so sorry. All of the evil I made you commit! I didn’t understand the consequences back then. Please. Don’t go after Sedlitz or Veka or anyone else. Promise me that you will not. It has to end. This is why I have to fix it.”

He was hysterical. “Fixing” Heitzing– by destroying the ancient machines in its bowels?

Even the children of Nocht had lost so much knowledge of what Heitzing could do. Even the old Fuellers long before the era of Konstantin could only slowly lose their grasp on what it contained. Today the true capabilities of the tower remained a mystery, along with its true origins. It was insane to speak of destroying the tower, and the functions they did understand, as a transformative change that would make the Empire freer.

Were he to take this tack to its logical extreme he would not be able to live in this suite making little toys all day– he would cut off his own lifelines, the Imbrium Empire would collapse and all the sharks chipping away at his power bit by bit would finally smell blood and throw themselves in teeth-first. But he seemed to not make that connection. That if he did not take action now, there would soon not be an Imbrian Empire for him to hide behind while he lived in luxury and ignored the reality of the outside world he fretted about.

It was Norn who had to go out there every day and deal with the consequences.

Not him– he was insulated from everything. He judged everything from a fleeting safety.

But for a moment, in that outburst of emotion– he sounded like himself.

So Norn, disarmed, could say nothing to him. Could no longer dissuade him from it.

He wanted to declaw Heitzing, he would do it. He wanted to move the capital, so be it.

When he had conviction behind him he could do such things.

And he so often lacked any conviction that to see it caused Norn a dreadful feeling.

She would have to leave this room and set forward those machinations and watch.

Watch him rot away; watch the Empire fall apart; watch the vultures rise from under him.

All were worse than he was; and far, far worse than he had been, when she knew him.

“Norn, Syrmia is an old woman, and Erich is strong– but please take care of Elena.”

Had he really said that? Back then? 974 was not so long ago for her head to be so muddled.

“Take care of her. She’s just like her mother. Her mother– rest her soul–”

Konstantin’s weeping features distorted like the paintings on the living room walls.

For a brief instant he looked more deformed, hideous, broken and rotting than ever before.

His face etched itself into Norn’s bright red eyes as if laser-burnt into her–

Her eyes snapped open.

Cold sweat running down her, sticking to the wine-red blanket.

Steel, all around her.

Not the fine wood construction of the suite. She was in a wine-red metal room with dim yellow lights. Mirrored surfaces on every third panel reflected her half of her face, parts of her bed, and her sleeping partner, back to her. She was on a plush bed with soft silky sheets. Clothes had been thrown and came to lay all around the room in different locations.

Norn had been dreaming of old days. She was nowhere near Heitzing now.

It was actually 979 A.D. Five years later.

Konstantin was dead and the Imbrium Empire was near-totally dissolved.

She sat up on the bed in her private bedroom on her flagship, the Antenora.

Her back stung. Distinct, short lacerations– a woman’s nails.

Reaching behind herself, over her shoulders, she touched open wounds.

Throwing a sudden contemptuous glance at the beautiful, fair, utterly naked back of the red-haired woman sound asleep beside her. Her expression quickly dissolved into fondness. Norn had given far harder than she had gotten and Adelheid was practically fucked to sleep, and so there she lay, discarded where she had been used. Circular bite marks, red sucking marks, blood-flecked bruises, on her shoulders, neck, down her back. A ring of bright red visible on her left breast. Soaked with sweat down her back, and soaked between the legs.

Her face was serene. Her breathing steady. A smile on her red-smeared lips.

Norn could not help but smile and sigh fondly at the sight.

When she moved to get up, stretching out made the claw marks hurt even worse.

Looking around the room, still a bit hazy in the eyes.

Despite the damage that the Pandora’s Box had inflicted on the upper tier of the ship, Norn’s room managed to survive as it was sealed shut at the time. Once the upper tier damages were patched up enough, and all the spilled anti-flooding gel and freezing agents in the halls were chipped away, Norn had use of the room again. She re-inaugurated it by inviting Adelheid to sleep with her. Adelheid’s own room was still being prepared.

And Adelheid belonged to her– she could tell her where to sleep without pretext.

Tossing her hair, pulling off the band holding it in a ponytail, Norn ambled to her shower.

Turning the water on cold and standing under it, head down, hands on the wall.

Cold water running down her back and over the scratches Adelheid left on it.

It stung. She grinned. Everything was so complicated, but pain, at least, was simple.

She recalled her dream. Konstantin had really been haunting her lately. Was it her just desserts? He was already Emperor when she met him, but her exploits gave him confidence to be more than Emperor of parts of the Palatine and Rhinea. Without her intervention could he have reached the heights that he achieved? She cleared his way by defeating Mehmed, then became part of his retinue, his loyal bannerman who could defeat anyone in battle. Stronger than Samoylovych-Daybringer or Arvokas the Kinslayer or any Shimii Hero; a match for any Katarran Warlord, Bayatar, or the Hanwan Konoe Shidan; killer of an Immortal.

Norn had helped crown Konstantin the new hegemon of the Imbrium. When a certain traitor insinuated that the chaos in the Imbrium was her fault Norn had answered in the affirmative– but it went deeper than any singular scheme. Norn was just a brick in the Imbrium’s foundation, but she was a miraculous brick laid at a critical time.

Now Konstantin was dead. Erich had killed him, Norn had killed him, Leda had killed him; the Empire itself killed him. His magnificent power had ultimately taken everything he loved from him. It had withered his bones and stripped his hair of color. It bored a hole in his soul, and through that void he let slip even the modicum of empathy he had for his distant subjects. The evil shape of the Imbrian Empire was as much his direct doing as the result of his neglect. He could have chosen for the Fueller Reformation to do anything— and choosing nothing over the years and years of his rule, made him responsible for the conspiracies, the pogroms, the continuation of slavery, the nascent tumor of the Volkisch.

It all started when, instead of killing him instantly, Norn wanted to see hope in him instead.

That stupid woman who had hardly made any decisions in her life; she made the worst.

“Those same judgments I levy on him apply to me, don’t they? I’m the villain here.”

Teeth chattering as she spoke to herself under the torrent of biting cold.

Little punishment for the evil she had tacitly supported, by her inaction, by her support.

Norn was responsible for the pogroms, slavery, the Volkisch, and now, the dissolution.

She laughed at how horrid everything had turned out.

No matter what, she was a Katarran.

Those cursed; those condemned. Never to know peace. It was their fate, wasn’t it?

So what would she do now? There was no making amends for any of it. It was too much.

Was all she could do ride the storm of blood to the end and make good on her old promise?

Kill everyone who had used, lied to and betrayed her– and her dear brother Konstantin?

Not the shell he had become– but the man he once was and could have remained–

Behind her, the door slid open. Norn did not turn to look, she knew who it was.

“Oh! Goodness! It’s so cold– let me warm you up, dearest master.”

A fair and slender hand extended past Norn’s chest to the controls on the wall.

Another cupped one of Norn’s breasts, squeezing. Then the first went to her waist.

As the water became warmer, a sizeable pair of breasts pressed against her back.

Red hair fell over her shoulders. A kiss was laid on her cheek.

“I’m being a good girl today.” Adelheid whispered.

“Are you?” Norn asked, laughing. She was not surprised at this intrusion.

Adelheid pulled her in tighter from behind, embracing her even more closely.

Skin to skin at all points without even a film of water between.

“You really set me straight. I can barely walk. I will certainly not court your wrath now.”

Her voice took on a sultry tone as she spoke of what was done to her.

Norn felt the words in her ears and stiffened between the legs.

“Who gave you permission to come in here?” Norn said gently.

“I can be good.” Adelheid whispered.

Norn her felt her breathing rise sharply, suddenly.

“You can be? We’ll just have to see.”

Norn reached back and took Adelheid’s wrist.

Roughly.

Pulling it down from her waist.

“Do I have to do everything myself? Or can you be good?” She said.

“I can be good.” Her words submissive, distant, almost dream-like.

Adelheid’s hand, guided halfway, completed the journey herself.

Cupping Norn’s cock until her fingers dexterously wound around the erect shaft.

Stroking, warm water between silken skin and warming, rigid flesh.

Norn shuddered. Laughed. “Maybe you can be good. Show me. You can do it.”

Fingers sliding up and down Norn’s cock, thumb pausing over the head and pressing.

Turning the thumbprint over the surface of Norn’s tip, roughly, before sliding back down.

She grit her teeth. It was exquisite but she would not admit any praise so easily.

Without request or instruction, Adelheid found the rhythm that made Norn’s hips shudder.

No smart words left her lips, however. She was being good; she was really a good girl.

Quiet, compliant, and excellently-behaved– for how long only she knew.

In this moment, however, it was long enough. Norn groaned and buckled slightly.

Lost in the rushing shower water, small feed of Norn’s orgasm preceded a strong shudder.

“Good girl. You really earned it.” Norn said, breathing heavy.

Hips still shaking gently, her spent dick still twitching in Adelheid’s fingers.

“Can a good girl get a reward?” Adelheid asked.

Without word, Norn turned around, meeting Adelheid’s bright eyes.

Taking in her beauty, the soft, pleading expression on her eyes, the little pout on her lips.

Norn briefly arranged the bright red hair away from Adelheid’s features.

Her hands then took Adelheid’s hips and pushed her to the rear wall of the shower.

Lifting her, so she could lock her legs to Norn’s waist. Pinned against the false tile.

Just holding her like this was almost enough to get Norn hard again.

Savoring the weight of physical control. Adelheid was hers without any actual binding.

Intoxicated with lust, it was Norn’s turn to push close to Adelheid.

Roughly, suddenly.

Kissing her deep. Tongue pushing far into her mouth.

Tasting residual bitterness of liquor. Smeared wax and pigment from her makeup.

Breaking the kiss. Adelheid lifted her head as her neck was lavished with Norn’s attention.

Her chest tightening, breasts rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Her back arching.

Lower body shuddering and pushing against Norn.

Toes curling, eyes shut, teeth clenched.

“Norn– I love you–” Adelheid said through shuddering gasps.

Norn made a brief noise as if to quiet her, lifting her just enough more to suck in her breast.

Beneath the rising warm mist, Norn’s fingers traced her lover’s cunt, up and down.

Adelheid’s hands tightened against whatever of Norn she could hold in the throes.

Her rhythm was slower than Adelheid’s hands had been. She was working her up to it.

“I– I love you so much–” Adelheid whimpered.

Sharp intake of breath each time Norn ever so briefly brushed her clit.

“You make me feel like my time is moving.” Norn admitted between hungry kisses.

Whether Adelheid understood the significance as Norn’s fingers entered her–

It did not matter; it was all the admission of their love that was needed.

“You make me feel alive again.” Norn whispered as she took her in closer and harder.

Close enough to feel each orgasm as if through a shared body, and lose all individual fears.

“You’re a lucky one, little miss! Full recovery, and a clean bill of health.”

“This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you hadn’t stuck me with weird drugs!”

“Me? You can’t blame me for that. Doses were administered at your command.”

“Alright, yeah, it’s my fault, I’m the moron who fucked everything up! Fine! Whatever!”

“Miss, I think you ought to just celebrate. How about some codeine for the road?”

Across from the enthusiastic doctor, a young woman averted her gaze.

Her beautiful face passively making an indignant scowl. She ran her fingers through her long and fluffy purple hair, wishing that she never had to make any recovery in the first place. A pair of semi-translucent rabbit-like ears with dimly lit vascular lines that curved out from the top of her head twitched as a sign of her growing irritation. She felt like an idiot. It really had all been her fault– and she had to sit around doing nothing for days because of it.

Stewing in the fact that she had lost control of her emotions and nearly got herself killed.

In her desperate attempt to kill that enemy pilot, Sonya Shalikova–

(Whose visage seemed burned into her mind despite never having seen her–)

–she had overdosed on Psynadium and lost her wits completely.

Then that creepy pervert Lichtenberg had ordered her to attack while her guard was down.

In Selene’s mind, in that moment, she swore she had heard Norn give the order to fire.

It was only after the fact that she realized she had been used and made a fool of.

Goryk’s Gorge was still a horrid and fresh memory for Selene.

Now she was in no mood to be friendly or compliant with anyone.

“Keep your drugs to yourself. Can I go now? Can I be out and about again?”

On the chair next to the bed, the risible excuse for a “doctor” of the Antenora, Livia Van Der Meer, smiled brightly at her. She raised a clipboard and showed it as if it mattered to her.

“It’s got Norn’s signature and everything. Selene Anahid, free to go out and about.”

Selene sighed deeply, stood up off the medbay bed and left the room in a huff.

Dressed in a wide-neck, ribbed brown sweater that exposed her shoulders and a pair of tight blue pants, Selene wished she had anywhere to go to show herself off. She had dressed for where she wanted to be– anywhere more interesting than these sterile metal halls. At least they were headed for a station soon. Maybe she could have a little adventure in Aachen. In the meantime all she could wish for was for the ship to get attacked so she could deploy and take out days’ worth of her repressed anger on something alive by making it dead.

Though it was rather unlikely that they would be attacked in photic zone, 500 meters deep.

Hunter III would see to it that the Leviathans would not bother them.

So Selene had nothing to do. Or nothing she wanted to do. She was at loose ends.

Selene walked down to the hangar, the speed of her steps suddenly renewed. She hardly looked at her surroundings, now well-traveled. She hardly felt about them as she crossed them. The Antenora was a ship– and Selene had little opinion on them. Tight metal halls, stately compared to smaller vessels but nothing warm, nothing that felt like a home to her. It was familiar, but from what she knew and what culture she had picked up from external sources, it was not comfortable.

She had grown up in the sterile halls of deep abyss Sunlight Foundation laboratories, where all color was trapped in the laboratories of the immortals Euphrates and Tigris. So she was used to being surrounded by metal walls with a low ceiling and close boundaries. Not wanting to become a scientist like her caretakers, and longing for the outside world, she would eventually be given over to the Sovereign Yangtze who needed bodies for hardware testing, and then seconded to Norn, learning to pilot Divers and fight battles, and stepping into the military world that fascinated her as a child.

Her current gig as the Jadgkaiser’s test pilot helped satisfy her desire to know what else was out in the world. Charmed by stories of soldiers fighting for ambition and power, she had done everything she could to go out to sea. Now she had discovered what was out there– and her enthusiasm dimmed. It had been undeniably fun to use the Jagdkaiser to crush those who stood in Norn’s way. She had never cared about them, never thought twice about killing them and she still did not. To go out to sea, one accepted the possibility of being crushed by the immense pressure. To guarantee safety, one simply had to stay home.

They left home; they accepted the consequences.

But she had not realized how close that knife of judgment was to her own vulnerable throat.

Sonya Shalikova– was she a real soldier in a way Selene was not?

Or even, could not be?

She shook her head.

So much intrusive, annoying philosophy bouncing around in her skull.

It was boredom, she told herself. She had been so disengaged she was becoming insane.

Perhaps she should report to Norn, but she did not feel like being obedient.

Truthfully she felt a bit lonely but she would not let herself admit to that.

Instead, she wanted to goof off or pick on someone. To find another person to bother.

With Potomac gone, however, she struggled to think of who she could harass for fun.

Yurii Samoylovych was way too scary. She might actually get out of hand with Selene.

Petra Chorniiy was too dense and compliant. She wouldn’t even respond to mockery.

Hunter III was too stupid. There was no challenge; it got boring very quickly.

She could get the zombies to do push-ups or form a human pyramid but it was too easy.

From what she had seen, Adelheid liked being bullied, which was just kind of gross.

Norn was Norn. She gave back as good as she got and bothering her had consequences.

“Oh wait. There’s that new mechanic girl.” Selene’s lips warped into an impish grin.

Her steps regained their confident character as she stepped into the elevator.

Down in the hangar, much of the mess that Selene remembered before her medical recovery had been cleaned up. The remains of her old Jagdkaiser were gone. The machines once belonging to von Castille and Lichtenberg were also gone. There were three gantries set up in a tidy fashion. Yuri’s Jagd model Diver and Petra’s Volker beside it; and the second version of the Jagdkaiser. Selene looked up as she approached it, looking it over.

Her companion through whatever was next.

Her previous Jagdkaiser had been defined by its shoulders, heavy-set, bearing the mounts for the Options and the thick support attachment necessary for its wicked cannon-arm. Selene had to admit the second version had refined much of the first. Yangtze, with whatever small amount of data she had extracted from Selene’s struggles, had whittled down many unnecessary things– it was as if the new version of the demon had been hatched from cracking the old one like an egg. Slimmer shoulders and limbs and a cockpit with more aggressive angles to its armor. It’s horned head had been ever so slightly-slimmed down. Selene almost thought of gendering this thing female in her head now.

Slightly widened hips attached to a semi-circle magnetic strip in the rear that now hosted four smaller Options, rather than the big shoulder-mounted type. A smaller backpack with only two traditional jets was supported by four separate, all-inclusive wake-jet pods on the rear shoulder and hips. From what Selene understood, these thrusters took advantage of the fact that the water in the Imbrium Ocean was bizarrely agarthoconductive due to all the agarthic salt now found in it. Therefore they needed no moving parts to generate thrust, just some intricate engineering to accelerate agartho-ionized water through it.

Perhaps it would move even faster if the water was more contaminated.

A macabre fact.

However, the agarthic weapon embedded into the machine’s arm was nearly unchanged.

Save for one fact. It had been moved to shoot from the wrist, and a normal hand was added.

With the removal of the embedded claw in the other arm, Selene could choose a loadout. She could wield rifles and swords instead of the inadequate built-in weapons.

That might give her a better chance– she almost pondered a “rematch” with Shalikova.

In reality such a thing was highly unlikely to happen.

Selene tried not to think of it further.

Across the hangar from the Jagdkaiser, there was a woman standing in front of a stitcher.

Grinning to herself, Selene quietly made her way over.

When they first met, this individual had stupidly blurted out her real name instead of her code name– Dunja Kalajdžić rather than “Neretva.” She had not endeared herself back then but Selene was in a mood to reevaluate. She had to admit the mechanic was a little bit of a looker. She was just a bit shorter, enough that Selene would use it against her. With her coveralls pulled half-off, exposing the ribbed tanktop she wore beneath, Neretva had slim, lean shoulders and arms with a bit of definition. Her tits were alright, and she had a bit of belly. Her face was okay, slightly round, slightly pretty– wavy brown hair tied into a little nerdy tail, nerdy little glasses on a nerdy little nose. A bit of freckling, big eyes, thin lips. Her Shimii ears were rounded off and fluffy, and her tail was short and bushy.

Poring over a ferri-stitcher blueprint on a portable while preparing the machine to print.

“Oh ho, what do we have here? Do you have permission to print little kitty?”

Selene loomed over her target, bending slightly, putting her chest to Neretva’s back.

Her grinning face was partially reflected in the touchscreen of the ferristitcher.

Along with Neretva’s eyes, drawing wide, and the flushing of her cheeks.

“Oh! Miss Anahid! How– how nice to see you have recovered!”

Neretva turned around quickly, raising her hands up in defense.

Selene had not backed away even a centimeter from the meek mechanic.

“It was inevitable. I am built of stern stuff, you know. So what are you doing here?”

“I’m– It’s nothing untoward– I have permission from Lord von Fueller–”

Selene’s eyes narrowed and her grin widened. Neretva could not meet her eyes.

“Then why are you so nervous? Obviously it’s because you’re hiding something.”

“Look, see, these are blueprints for Jadgkaiser parts!” Neretva showed Selene her portable.

There were Stitcher print files for various bits and bobs like specific Jagdkaiser bolts and hydraulics and plates. Selene could not recognize them as coming specifically from the Jagdkaiser but they were labeled as such. Neretva was just loading the templates into the ferristitcher in order to have them available for when she needed to stich up some parts in the future, Selene supposed. Regardless, what she was actually doing did not matter.

“I’ll let you off the hook this one time.” Selene said. “But you have to grant me one wish.”

“One wish?” Neretva asked, quavering slightly.

“Uh huh. I’ll never trust you ever again unless you pass my ultimate test of loyalty.”

Neretva still could not make eye contact. Even the insides of her ears were turning red.

“Um– ma’am– miss– is this really–”

“I know a little magic spell to get your compliance– Dunja Kalajdžić.” Selene whispered.

Rivers were not supposed to use their real names on Sunlight Foundation business.

For their protection, and the security of the Foundation too.

Only the Immortals could be glib about their real names, but they hardly used them, and they were all so old, that even they hardly ever spoke them. For Rivers, regardless of how ridiculous their code names sounded, they were required to use them or risk expulsion and perhaps even the deletion of their memories by Yangtze for breaking their covenant.

Having fumbled and given out her real name, Neretva looked mortified.

“Please don’t use that name.” Neretva whispered back. “I’ll do whatever you say!”

“Good, very good. I like a compliant girl– but you know what I like even better?”

“I– I don’t know–”

“I like for my subordinates to look up at me like a goddess. From far, far below my station.”

It seemed to dawn upon Neretva at that point that she was being toyed with.

However, all this inspired not determination but a look of helplessness on her face.

That simply motivated Selene to continue bothering her even more. It was so funny!

She was such a pathetic wimp! Who even let this loser into the Sunlight Foundation!

“Don’t worry. It will be merciful. I won’t make you do anything too weird.”

“What do I need to do?” Neretva sighed.

“Well, of course, I don’t look monumental enough from this height. You have to get down.”

Selene pointed at the ground and shook one of her feet.

Her casual open-toed heels would come in handy for this particular situation.

Neretva raised her shaking hands, interposing them defensively in front of Selene.

Selene noticed the clear indentations in her fingers and wrist. Her hands were cybernetic.

“That’s supposed to be ‘not weird’?! You said it wouldn’t be weird?!” Neretva whimpered.

Selene turned her cheek and shrugged and pretended to start walking away.

“I guess I’ll call you ‘Dunja’ from now on. I’ll dox you and find out everything about you.”

“No– but– I don’t– please, I don’t have any secrets–”

“Kowtow and kiss my feet and it’ll all go out of my head like it never happened.”

Neretva’s head was set to spinning, Selene could tell. She grinned viciously.

She had her wrapped around her finger. She felt like an actual goddess in that moment.

It was both funny and a bit titillating. She made the perfect choice for whom to bother.

“It’s not all bad you know. If you become my worshiper I’ll bestow you with blessings.”

Selene closed in again on Neretva, reaching and caressing a few locks of her hair.

Neretva suddenly laid her portable on one of the resting arms of the ferristitcher.

She shut her eyes, bent one knee, and then the other, lowered her head–

Oh my god! She’s such a little wimp!! I wish I could take a picture!!! Ahahahahaha–!!!!

Spread her lips, closed them, and sucked one of Selene’s toes–

WHAT THE HELL–!!!!!!!!

Selene drew back so suddenly she nearly fell on her arse on the hangar floor.

Neretva quietly stood back up, face fiercely red, with a look of nervous resignation.

“Will you trust this useless worshipper and have mercy, miss Selene?” Neretva mumbled.

There was definitely shame in her voice but that expression–! It did not look ashamed–!

“W-why, you– you are absolute trash– you gas-sucking vent worm!” Selene grumbled.

“Oh, you’re not tying them up now. I didn’t know they could emote– that’s really neat.”

Something caught the mechanic’s attention and seemed to distract her from everything.

Neretva pointed a heavily shaking finger and nervously flicked one of Selene’s antennae.

Selene noticed her antennae were twisting up in frustration as she stood and yelled.

Upon contact with Neretva’s quivering digit the antennae started quaking uncontrollably.

Immediately Selene grabbed both of her ‘rabbit ears’ and pulled them down to stop them.

“Don’t touch me! What is your problem? Don’t you have common sense?!” She shouted.

“I’m– I’m just resigning myself.” Neretva said, clearly nervous. “As your worshipper.”

Despite shaking and sweating and being unable to hold eye contact– she was so brazen!

Selene wanted to admonish her further but she realized how childish she must have looked.

Having her own foul play turned against her and looking like a mess– that too was pathetic!

She calmed herself down and tried to play along with the outcome of their little game.

“Hmph! Well. Clearly you know your place under the sole of my foot. I will graciously accept you as my lackey from now on. But you must obey me to the letter! No– improvisations!”

“Y-yes, m-m-mistress.” Neretva stammered, smiling very slightly.

That ‘mistress’ entered Selene’s gut like a knife– and pulled down to her groin.

She averted her own gaze. “Get back to work. I’ll just inspect and make sure.”

Without a word, the quivering Neretva returned to what she had been doing.

Among the two of them it was tough to say whose face was redder.

Selene looked at Neretva’s back as she worked, loading the files into the stitcher. She had the stitcher arms move and make up a framework of a Diver part in order to test that the outside joins were being handled correctly. It was boring– Selene had no idea why the machine had to be calibrated and could not just perfectly replicate the print files. Neretva seemed to know what she was doing, and Selene’s eyes drifted.

Down her back, following the tanktop until it cut off at her lower midsection.

It was there that Selene noticed, just above Neretva’s tail and buttocks–

Oops, my finger slipped~

She ran her hands down a bit metal she saw peeking out from Neretva’s cover-all pants.

Neretva shuddered slightly and reached back her hand over the piece.

“Please don’t poke at that, miss Selene.” Neretva said, her voice quivering a little again.

“What is it? Are you a weird cyborg like Hudson is? You apprenticed under her right?”

“I’m not a ‘weird cyborg’ no– but master Hudson did help me by installing these for me.”

Neretva left her portable on a stitcher arm and once again turned to Selene.

She knelt down and for a moment Selene thought she might attack her toes again–

–instead Neretva pulled up her pants sleeve enough to show Selene a bit of her leg.

Attached to her flesh and maybe even to the bone was a thin exoskeletal metal part.

Selene had seen this category of enhancement before in the media and in stories.

Sometimes workers would receive augmentations such as these. To let them lift heavier loads or to be able to work as hard once they grew older and weaker. Compared to how advanced internal cybernetics had gotten, allowing people who could afford it to get muscle replacements and even internal hydraulic boosters, exoskeletal work prosthesis like Neretva’s were quite simple. Selene wondered why a cybernetics freak like Hudson would perform such simple work. Did Neretva not want to follow in her footsteps?

“I have a condition– I have to work harder to move my legs.” Neretva said in a low voice.

“Oh! Is that so? And the exo’s hydraulics help get your legs going?”

“Indeed. It’s really helped my quality of life a lot. I can’t thank master Hudson enough.”

Selene momentarily felt a bit rotten to have been picking on a girl with a condition.

She disabused herself of that notion pretty quickly– she didn’t want to dwell on it.

If it had been her she wouldn’t have wanted anyone’s weak pity like that.

“Miss Selene, you were raised by masters Euphrates and Tigris, is that correct?”

“Uh huh. ‘Raised’ is giving them too much credit though. Those two hags just made sure I hadn’t died and periodically gave me stuff to read and watch and whatever. Tigris was always busy with some stupid invention and any time Euphrates caught sight of me she would just give me an annoying lecture. Both of them annoyed me so much growing up.”

“That sounds about right.” Neretva smiled. “I was raised by master Hudson.”

“Ah, I see. So you’re like her daughter or something.”

“Do you count yourself Euphrates and Tigris’ daughter?”

“What? No? Of course not? Fuck no? Not in a million years?”

Neretva laughed a little bit. “I wish I was as energetic as you.” Her voice trembled again.

Selene gave her hair a haughty toss, feeling self-satisfied to have received praised.

“How come I didn’t see you around?” She asked.

“Because– I wasn’t around– I suppose?” Neretva was getting stuck on her words again.

“Uh huh. I guess I didn’t see Hudson around much either.” Selene said.

“And I never saw masters Euphrates and Tigris much.” Neretva said. “Especially recently.”

“You’ll have to specify what ‘recent’ means.” Selene said, grinning. “With Euphrates and Tigris, ‘recent’ is like 200 years ago. It’s a word that doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”

“I’m not Immortal.” Neretva said bashfully. “So I guess I mean, in the past year?”

“They’ve been busy. Plus they all hate each other now, so you’ll never see them again.”

“I really hope that isn’t the case.” Neretva said nervously. “I admired them all a lot.”

“What’s there to admire? They’re a bunch of insane hags all stuck in their own ways.”

Neretva looked upset for once. “Those ‘hags’ are doing more for humanity than anyone.”

“What’s with that tone? Am I getting under your skin? Want to go under the heel again?”

Selene leaned forward into the confrontation. Neretva just sighed and turned around.

Trembling again. Selene only briefly saw something in her. A tiny flash of red aura.

“Fine. Keep up the good work, Neretva. I’ll be watching.” Selene said sharply.

Turning on her heel and putting her back to the mechanic without a further word.

There was a sharp pain in the center of her forehead. Not from psionics or anything–

Just frustration and a bolt of self-loathing that were fogging her mind up.

Ugh, that wasn’t fun at all. What am I fucking doing? Why didn’t I just talk to her normally?

It was all so childish but– wasn’t it at least supposed to be funny? It was funny, right?

If she could not even convince herself of that then what the hell was she doing?

At that moment she felt so low she just wanted to hide in her room and never leave it.

Maybe she should have just taken the codeine from that insane pusher upstairs.

“I’ll come out when Norn needs me. To hell with all of this, I’m done. I’m done!”

It was being cooped up in here that was driving her insane. It was the noise and the people and how irritating everything was to her. It was lack of sleep. It was a knock to the head. It was bad food and being bored. It was her genes being too superior yet not at all.

As many excuses as she could come up with stacked together to make sense of things.

Selene felt lonely and lost and purposeless and like it was impossible not to feel that way.

And that was the last thing she would ever admit.

So she slunk off to her room and sulked for as long as she could get away with.

Eventually someone would need her again and she would have a reason to exist again.

“Hah hah! Helm-hominin, 50 disagrees to the farboard! 60 disagrees! Fire all big ones!”

In the Captain’s chair sat a short and somewhat skinny woman, girlish in features, quite pale, the only color on her a blue stripe in her hair. Dressed in a big black hood, a smooth, rubbery-looking tail swinging behind her. She pointed dramatically at the screen. It was known that she could barely read and thus barely understand the Imbrian scrawls all over the map in front of her but it did not matter. Because she could barely tell if anyone was listening either, and therefore they all had orders not to. However, she looked like she was amused.

“Captain Hunter III! The ancient navigator scourin’ the world for meat and shinies!”

“I’m curious, what is more important, my dear Hunter III: meat or shinies?”

“Huh? What kinda question is that? Meat of course! But imagine eatin’ a load of meat while also bein’ all covered in the best shinies. You’d be like a king or somethin’! King Hunter III! That’s what she said it’d be like anyways– it was never like that for poor ol’ Hunter III–!”

Hunter III started moping in an exaggerated fashion until she seemed to realize–

She turned sharply in her chair to find Norn standing next to her with a grin.

Dressed in a long-sleeved red and yellow shirt with a deeply plunging neckline, flattering her humble cleavage, and a pair of pants; along with the Fueller family coat, blue and green with an abstract etching of an old semiconductor die, trailing veins of color and gold. Her blond hair done up in a simple ponytail, her imperious, beautiful face contorted into a sneer.

“I think you’ve eaten too much. It’s made you far too chipper.” Norn said, amused.

“This’s how Hunter III is s’posed to be!” Hunter III shouted. “I was dyin’ t’death before!”

“You had a delicious cut of steer not that long ago.”

“So? Do you hominin ever just eat somethin’ tasty once and then stop forever?”

Grumbling complaints, Hunter III vacated the Captain’s chair.

She sat against the rear wall of the bridge with her arms crossed, hood pulled up, sulking.

“You’d be happier if you learned to enjoy the jerky and sausages you eat every day.”

As always following behind Norn was the adjutant, Adelheid van Mueller.

Black sheep of the number two aristocratic family in the Empire, the Muellers, staunchest supporters of the Fueller family. Once upon a time they were critical to providing food supplies for the Fueller war effort against the Nocht loyalists, and by that opportunity propelled themselves to the heights of the new Fueller-led aristocracy.

Adelheid had absolutely no trace of a farm girl in her appearance, however.

Even while dressed in military garb she gave off an air of a high society fashionista, beautiful and exactingly confident and a bit aloof, as if only that which interested her could be allowed to exist around her. Her very red hair falling over her shoulders, her fair skin and youthful features, the tiny amount of faint freckles near her nose, and her piercing eyes, lent her an intense but girlish beauty that was the platonic ideal of a noble lady. On her body, the tight, flattering gray uniform coat and skirt, along with the covering bodysuit that she wore, long sleeved and high-necked– all of it looked as if it had color, owing to her radiance.

One could not look too long, however– this princess was the property of a jealous dragon.

With a self-assured little smile on her red lips, she took her seat beside Norn on the bridge.

“Situation report.” Norn asked. “Where are we now, and how far are we to Aachen?”

On command the drones that worked on the bridge began their reports.

Norn went over what had transpired in her own mind too.

The Antenora had a rocky start to its nominal mission, assigned a few months ago by the crown Prince Erich von Fueller as the Empire underwent its collapse. They were meant to have been collecting test and R&D data for a next generation Diver known as the Jagdkaiser, the mass production of which would give instant superiority to the Fueller faction.

For this reason, Norn left the Palatine on her flagship, taking it first into the Photic zone. Selene proved quite adequate in slaughtering Leviathans and avoiding the Agarthic weather in the Jagdkaiser, so the testing returned to the aphotic zone, where Norn was met with a lot of unexpected business in Sverland. Avoiding a trap by a traitorous officer in the Serrano region; meeting up with a dear subordinate near Goryk’s Gorge and assisting her in attempting to recover Elena von Fueller, thought dead in the Vogelheim disaster.

Norn had refused to fight personally during this second skirmish, not wanting Gertrude to receive too much of a reward for her pathetic begging; but even despite this she had to admit that the Antenora had met something of its match in the mysterious Pandora’s Box, a mercenary ship that had taken in Elena von Fueller. Despite Gertrude Lichtenberg’s protestations, Norn let them escape to their own fortunes, and cast out her old student, having graduated ignominiously as one of Norn’s many repeated failures to cultivate a young conqueror’s ambitions. Now, Gertrude was possibly dead in the deep abyss, or possibly awakening to her true potential, who knew; Norn and her remaining troops meanwhile headed for Aachen, a city at the crossroads between Rhinea and the Palatine heartland, separated only by the Great Ayre Reach just beyond the Aachen Massif.

They had collected and sent enough data that Yangtze had already refined the Jagdkaiser into a second version for them to test. Mass production was nowhere near possible, as the Options representing the machine’s most practical offensive potential were not able to be ferristitched just yet. Another part, the most radical part of the machine’s arsenal, could also not be mass produced yet– the exotic cannon arm containing a taboo agarthic weapon. Judging by the number of cartridges given to Norn in her last supply rendezvous, Yangtze wanted much more data on this weapon specifically in future rounds of testing.

Norn, meanwhile, wanted to rip Yangtze open and strangle her with her own intestines.

For the moment, what was she actually, officially doing was a resupply and retrofit mission.

The Antenora had been banged up, and Aachen was a place where it could receive attention that was prompt, reliable and inconspicuous. There was a faction of the Shipbuilders Guild in Aachen who supported the Fuellers, rather than the liberal trade unionists, the constellation of leftists, or the fascist breakaway government of the Volkisch Movement. With their support, the Antenora could park in Stockheim and receive everything that it needed, while Norn took a break. Adelheid was somewhat excited– Aachen was a city, and she had been out at sea for so long. She also had friends in Aachen, and Norn had friends too.

They could catch up, make some social calls.

However, what the Antenora was officially doing did not matter much to Norn.

It was just a smokescreen as she thought seriously about what she was doing anymore.

Defeat at the hands of the Pandora’s Box, and the tragic condition of Gertrude Lichtenberg, had provoked in Norn something she was unused to– serious personal introspection.

Those stupid dreams featuring her old oathsworn brother, whom she had betrayed–

That did not help matters either. Not that she felt much actual guilt over it.

What she felt was worse than guilt– more complicated and less difficult to describe.

Sitting in the chair, wearing the coat of the Fueller family, as its nominal head.

His coat– that she both helped him attain, helped him turn into a symbol of power–

–and watched him squander the splendor of its colors, before she stole them from him.

Norn was starting to feel a weight of responsibility– and the long trail of her own actions.

Even if she, personally, was an invincible body that could hardly be challenged.

Her world and the things she held dear were deeply vulnerable.

To enemies; to herself.

To their own flawed selves–

Her uncharacteristically brooding thoughts inspired curiosity in her adjutant and lover.

“Norn? Was the sitrep too boring? Would you like a massage?” Adelheid asked sweetly.

“No, I’m fine. Later.” Norn said. “I’m just thinking about what we will do at Aachen.”

It was not like Norn to lie, but she had no qualms about withholding information.

Especially where it concerned her emotional self.

“Don’t worry– as your adjutant, I will make sure your social calendar is well stocked.”

Adelheid winked at Norn and laid her hand over the back of Norn’s own hand.

Her fingernails scratched gently up and down over skin. Like a mildly rambunctious cat.

“I’ll leave it up to you then. You said you had a friend there, right?” Norn asked.

“Yes, an old classmate from Luxembourg School for Girls. Do you follow pop music?”

“I would not even know where to start following it, Adelheid.”

“I should have realized.” Adelheid shrugged. “That’s your old and unfashionable charm.”

Norn grunted. “You’re already done being ‘good’ even by your own warped definition?”

“Anyway– she’s made a tidy career as a singer.” Adelheid smiled, ignoring her. “Number one hits, magazine covers and even TV shows, all the glitz and glamour denied to me. Not that you would know. Not only that, she is getting married, unlike me, to the son of a bigshot family in Aachen that basically own the place. Maybe if we catch up at Aachen she might make me her bridesmaid, and I can experience second-hand what I will never have.”

Norn felt like every couple of words a knife was being thrown directly at her chest.

“You’ll experience first-hand the back of my hand if you keep throwing jabs at me.”

Adelheid put on an expression of utterly false and mocking contrition.

As if the slap had been delivered and she mischievously enjoyed it while feigning shame.

“Adelheid, I have a question for you. Use your brain for this one. I’m serious.”

“Oh, we’re done playing so soon? Boo. How boring.”

“Adelheid.”

“What is it?” Adelheid said, putting on a disinterested expression.

“Give me your honest assessment,” Norn began, “about the state of the civil war.”

Though she hardly ever showed it, Adelheid was actually a competent adjutant.

“Oh, it really is serious time, huh? You know, I have been thinking about it too.”

“Don’t you think it’s too quiet? It’s been months since the Emperor passed.” Norn asked.

Adelheid nodded her head.

“Indeed. Only Rhinea has made a big move to subsume another state; the Royal Alliance set up in their geographic neighborhood so they had no choice but to come to blows. So far none of the other competitors have started any outright shooting wars. There’s even still some inter-duchy commerce happening with all of the sides overlooking it.”

“Why do you think that is? Use your foreign policy brain. I need real analysis here.”

“You don’t have to tell me what brain to use, I’m not a bimbo like you think I am.” Adelheid said, now her turn to be aggrieved at the insults. She recollected herself and put out her hypothesis in a serious and even tone of voice. “If I had to hazard a guess– I think that the internal situations of the states are all worse than we think. Even the Union made a modest move with their invasion of Serrano, but from the news we gathered while leaving, it seems they haven’t capitalized further, even though the Volkisch are a mess right now. The Prince is being cautious even though his military forces are the qualitative best; and Veka, with a similarly strong military, is trying to focus on diplomacy instead. I think that politically they are too shaky for all-out war. They might risk creating opportunities for internal rivals.”

“That’s an interesting assessment. I think you’re right.” Norn said. “Honestly I don’t know what’s going on in Erich’s head– I advised him that he needed to attack Bosporus and Buren quickly to absorb their resources. But I’m not there with him. I’ve never been part of the Grand Western Fleet. I have no insight into its internal culture. He might be struggling to clean the ranks. There was a lot of corruption in the Navy. Maybe even in his fleet.”

“To think you’re being so distant with your nephew, who is now practically your son–”

“When you’re helping raise a child, you must give them room to resolve their own issues.”

“Right. I thought you’d say something like that.” Adelheid said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not done picking your brain.” Norn said. “You know more about the duchies than I.”

Adelheid shrugged. “I had to study foreign policy when I was the Mueller heiress.”

“How do you think these ‘internal problems’ might manifest in the competitor states?”

Adelheid brought her fingers as if to count them. “Let me see. I think– Buren’s nationalist revolution will need to be sure the old loyalist elements are fully suppressed; Veka has a strong and young officer cadre full of ambition that might need to be contained; Solcea is a theocracy, which has never been tried in the Imbrium, so I don’t know if they have the bureaucratic experience needed to keep the trams running; the anarchists in Bosporus are a mess because anarchist ‘government’ simply can’t work; Volgia can’t hide behind the ice wall forever, and the ice queen has the greatest variety of grudging subjects under her wing; The Palatine is less resource-rich than it used to be and all the social climbers in the aristocracy were located there before the split. I don’t know anything much about the Union, but I suspect they have the same problems everyone else does with ambitious officers, social climbers in government, ethnic grudges, economic constraints, and so on.”

As for Rhinea, they had already seen the problems in action. Same with the Royal Alliance.

It was a very apt assessment, befitting a woman who wished to serve the Praetorian.

Such a strange situation, where the Antenora’s skirmish with the Pandora’s Box might still merit a mention in the annals of history– because there were so few other battles in the dissolution of the Imbrian Empire that were worth mentioning so far.

It was impossible for there to be peace and unity among the fractured states, each was too ambitious to ever accept any of the others. But so far, most of them avoided immediately attacking and seizing their neighbors. While there might be skirmishing that Norn simply did not know about, if there were more all-out wars, she would have known.

Especially if those wars were being personally ordered by Erich von Fueller himself.

“It does feel like we’re, somehow, still in the calm before the storm.” Norn said.

“I don’t know whether anything will happen.” Adelheid said. “But something might.”

Norn sighed. Oh, to what depths Konstantin’s project of peace and order had fallen.

“At least Elena might be safe now– I suppose I fulfilled that promise.” She mumbled.

“What was that? Are you done quizzing me on things you ought to know now?”

Adelheid put on a fox-like grin again. Norn shot her a sharp look that made her shudder.

“Distributing some of my thinking is the role of my adjutant. And she does it well.”

Norn smiled. Adelheid looked surprised to have received praise while being a bitch.

It shut down her ability to respond with a snide remark and led her to sit quietly contented.

“Boring hominin junk! Who cares! Kill each other already and let Hunter III feast!”

From behind them, their little navigator heckled, clicked her tongue and slapped her tail.

“You’re always welcome to try to eat me, Hunter III. But you know what’s good for you.”

Hunter III quieted for a moment at Norn’s response. Her little brain must have been ticking.

“Eh– y’all bony and gross anyway. Easier to sit here and earn good meat.” She mumbled.

Selene laid on her bed, her back partially to the wall, propped up on a pillow.

Kicking her bare feet every so often as she read a magazine on a portable.

Swiping through pages full of fashion tips for young women; step by step guides to wearing some complicated outfits that required body glue or tape to pull off; makeup tutorials; reviews of the latest accessories and lingerie from the top brands. Gossip columns and celebrity talk and upcoming concerts from hot bands. It was typical for a Rhinean magazine, there were a lot of blonds even skinnier than Selene and with much flatter asses with super high cheekbones and little button noses– but she never expected to see a vat-grown intersex thing like herself in a magazine anyway. Still she read the magazine, and she thought about going on a shopping spree in Aachen, getting all the new pigments and buying up a dozen hypermodern vinyl tops and synthesilk pants and tiny lacy panties to feel sexy.

“Maybe I can bribe that buffoon Hunter III with some meat to carry all my stuff.”

Selene put the portable to her chest and laid on her side, thinking about things.

Like the girlhood she was only really getting to experience now– in a warped way.

Adelheid’s glitzy pop girlie magazines were an object of aspiration Selene would have never admitted to if she was asked. But even the clothes she was wearing presently, with her exposed shoulders and tight pants, had come out of a book like that. Selene imagined herself sometimes as a celebrity. What if she had been born with a namesake and family in the Imbrian Empire? She could have been anyone. She could have been a big name. And she dreamed that all of the eyes of the world could focus on her– she had the beauty for it, and she was incisive, quick-witted, and she was good at reading people thanks to psionics.

Even outside the impossible fantasies, however, fashion had a certain allure.

She rarely dressed up, but she wondered why she did not do it more–

it made her feel–

Human.

“Whatever. I’m actually the superior being, it’s all of them who are wrong.”

Right?

Selene idly reached out her hand to the drawer under her bed.

Producing again the cylinder of katov mass she kept hidden from everyone.

Popping it open, she induced it to become a caterpillar that crawled along her arm.

Red and shiny like slick living wax. Moving with electrically-induced purpose.

Mindless, soulless, lifeless, an imitation of life–

like herself–?

Selene shut her eyes and grit her teeth, the intrusive thought striking her like lightning.

Then she nearly jumped when there was a physical knock on the door.

“Selene. Are you decent? Get yourself up and come out here.”

Norn’s voice, undeniably.

Nearly spilled the red matter and nearly dropping her canister.

Quickly, she disassembled the red creature born of her whim and hid the canister again.

She stood up from the bed, put on her synthestitched heels and made her way to the door.

Opening it and finding herself immediately face to face with Norn, crossing her arms.

“What is it? You said I didn’t have to be alert during this trip.” Selene grumbled.

“That’s a really cute sweater. Are you proud of your shoulders?” Norn said.

“Uh huh, my shoulders are flawless, my face is angelic, my dick is sublime.” Selene joked.

“Who taught you to be this crude? Euphrates was never like this.” Norn sighed.

“What do you want already?” Selene said, leaning impatiently between the hall and door.

Norn leaned closer to her with a vicious little grin on her face.

“I thought you were just being a little shit for no reason, but it looks like you really forgot. I told you as soon as you recovered that I would put you through hell. It’s time for your training. Luckily for you, it’ll be hell for your brain, not your shoulders or your dick.”

Selene’s eyes drew wide.

She had completely forgotten that Norn had promised to train her.

Suddenly her heart was soaring.

Norn was going to train her? She would learn psionics from a powerful Apostle?

Her head filled with an all-consuming delusion.

Selene told herself, if she could ace the training in the first day without Norn’s help–

–she would prove her great power and intrinsic superiority.

How difficult could it be? Selene was already well versed in using psionics.

“Sorry Norn! I forgot! But I’ll be right down!” She said.

“You’ll be down right now. You don’t need to change clothes.” Norn said.

She gestured for Selene to follow her down the hall.

Without a word, Selene trailed obediently, down the hall with the officer’s quarters.

Norn stopped near the end of the hall and gestured for a side door.

Inside, was a meeting room that had been repurposed as storage for unused gym equipment. When the gym was damaged during the Goryk excursion, flood mitigation prevented the total destruction of the pod– some things survived and were stored. In addition, there were some leftover gym supplies that had lived in a corner here.

Dumbbells and disassembled machines and piles of rubber exercise mats.

In the center of the room, one mat and one piece of equipment had been laid out.

“I didn’t know I was going to get messy. I’d rather not in my nice sexy sweater.”

“You won’t be lifting weights the traditional way, so don’t worry.”

Norn’s eyes looked over Selene briefly and settled on her loose antennae.

“You’re not pinning down your rabbit ears anymore?” She asked, smiling.

“Yeah what about it? And don’t call them rabbit ears.” Selene said, turning her cheek.

Her rainbow-veined ‘rabbit ears’ stood up straight with a slight irritated twitch.

“I just think it’s nice. They are a unique charm point for you.” Norn said.

Selene made a face. “Gross. I’m gonna hack them off with a rescue axe now.”

“Tch. Colicky child. There’s no winning with you is there?”

Though Selene took umbrage to being called a child, she did not push her luck.

Norn gestured toward the equipment laid out in the middle of the mess.

There was a round base holding up a vertical metal weight bar. Circular weights were stacked on the pole near the base, each with a hole in the center. There were four such weights, each five kilograms. More weights were laid next to the pole, ready to be dropped on top of the rest. Selene stared at the pole and the weights, suppressing an urge to kick it over.

“Use kinesis to lift those weights.” Norn said. “If you send them flying, that’s a demerit. If you knock over the pole, that’s a demerit. If you hit me with anything– even worse. For each demerit on your psionic fitness journey, you owe me 20 physical push-ups on the mat.”

Selene shuddered. She stared at the weights, mildly annoyed at the test and consequences.

What kind of stupid training was this? Did Norn think she could flex her brain?

Bored, Selene lifted a hand and waved at the weights.

Near effortlessly, with nary a thought, the weights lifted from the base to the tip of the pole.

Just enough not to have the holes in the weights actually clear the pole.

She then let the weights drop back to the base with a loud clang.

With an emotionless expression on her face she turned back to Norn for feedback.

“Of course you can do that.” Norn said. “Don’t get too smug yet.”

Norn went around the pole, picked up more weights and dropped them on.

“Again.”

Thirty kilograms.

Selene lifted them up as easily as before. She did not even move her hand. Psionics was the power of the mind and human emotions. It was not strictly necessary to move any part of one’s body to perform psionics; however, Selene found that pointing at the object to be moved, or making a gesture at it, or even shouting at it, helped the power along.

In this case, however, she did not even need to make a noise or do anything.

Responding to the continuing lack of challenge, Norn dropped in even more round weights.

Sixty kilograms. Double what was on the pole before.

“Again.” Norn said.

Selene felt the slightest bit of intimidation.

Not because she could not lift them. Rather, she wanted to show off.

Thirty kilograms was like a throwing a kid around. Sixty was like a whole supermodel.

She could lift it, but she could not lift it effortlessly and she wanted it to be effortless!

At first she tried to lift the weights without any gestures or noises like she wanted.

However, she immediately felt the slightest pang of irritation in the back of her head.

That seed of doubt made them heavier– she had to correct herself.

Teeth clenched, she stretched out her hand and beckoned the weights with it.

Perhaps, if the thought, ‘these weights may be too heavy to lift easily’, had never entered into her brain, she would have been able to lift them easily. Psionics was tricky in that way, Selene knew this– the slightest frustration could suddenly associate a simple task with difficulty, and thus make it more difficult in the process. A self-fulfilling cognitive prophecy. Utmost confidence and belief equated to a perfect expression of power, and any sewing of doubt could conversely snowball into a spiraling loss of control over her mind.

“What’s the matter? Is that it? Sixty kilograms and you’re raring to kiss the mat?”

Selene centered herself, and ignored Norn.

As before the weights rose up to the top of the pole.

Then Selene let them drop and they hit the base with an even louder clanging.

She looked to Norn for feedback–

Norn suddenly tipped over the pole. The weights at the base slid off and into the wall.

From the mess of reserve gym equipment, Norn produced a different set of weights.

Effortlessly carrying the stack in her hands. These were each heavier than before.

Instead of five kilograms per weight, each disc was now twenty kilograms.

And Norn five four of them into the barbell. A hundred kilograms.

That was just a barbell or two under Potomac’s weight. A large or plush human adult.

“Again.” Norn said calmly, still watching inexpressibly from the sidelines.

Selene looked at the barbells with a growing apprehension.

Then– she had a very silly idea that could potentially work to skip the whole business.

Clapping her hands together close to her chest, shutting her eyes and concentrating.

Straining to hear– that impossible voice of aetheric power that rang in certain individuals.

Saint’s Skin: Anoint!

From Selene’s body, waves of blue aura washed gently over the surroundings.

According to Euphrates, Saint’s Skin could not directly pierce the aura of another person, but it could influence the ambient aura in order to alter properties or concepts found in the environment and objects. Blue aura represented peace and calm and rest, but it could also represent lightness, and ease. With a strong enough will behind it, with enough concentration, and with enough desire, it could make a person move faster or feel lighter on their feet. In that moment, Selene concentrated strongly on the idea of a sheet of the thinnest paper or plastic, spilled from atop a stack and floating in the air, not quick to land, so light that it caressed even the air with its gentle, near weightless form.

She recalled Euphrates’ desk, littered in papers, sheets of plastic, micro-LCDs–

Blown as if on a strong wind, flying this way and that, their gentle swaying–

Then she opened her eyes, and instantly lifted the weights, now as insubstantial as paper–

“Nice try. But that’s cheating. King’s Gaze.”

Norn’s voice sounded as if it came from all directions at once.

In the blink of an eye the colors shifted as if the room had never been bathed in blue.

Waves of green anxiety and disquiet overcame Selene in an instant.

Suddenly the weights were even heavier than 100 kg, even heavier than 200 kg.

They were an impossible boulder by lifted up an endless mountain by a despairing wretch.

When they dropped back down Selene thought the clang would split her brain in half.

She knelt holding her head, gritting her teeth, nearly weeping. Overwhelmed with pain.

How unfair of Norn! To so thoughtlessly display her power to Selene that way!

Selene almost wanted to throw something at her– but that would have been trouble.

“Don’t look at me with such resentment. I am glad you have this sort of power but it is besides the point.” Norn said. “It was very clever of you to try to alter the conception of the weights themselves in order to lift them more easily but I am looking for something else. I want to see you crash into a wall stubbornly. I want to push you to your limits. You’ve only just begun to experience what it is like to fail, to be defeated, to experience falling short. Euphrates coddled you too much. You need to learn to deal with pain.”

Norn lifted another 20 kg from the mat, gesturing with her hand for it to drop on the rest.

“Psionics is not limited by imagination. It is limited by pain. Lift the weights again.”

Selene, wordlessly angry, her entire body shaking, lifted herself up from the ground.

Breathing in deep, she focused on the pile of weights again.

One hundred and twenty kilograms, now heavier than Potomac or any human Selene knew.

With both hands out, she bent her knees, pushed out her back and then rose suddenly.

That motion, of lifting with her legs, gave her the boost in confidence she needed.

Her mind evoked a brief rushing of great power over the weights.

All of the metal discs lifted from the base to the tip for a second and then fell again.

Selene resumed a comfortable posture, sighing and breathing heavily.

“Fantastic. See? When you shut up and stop complaining you can set your mind to things.”

Norn then easily dropped another disc of weight onto the pile. “Again.”

“So the point of this is to hurt me?!” Selene said, unable to contain the anger in her voice.

“No, the point of this is for you to work through the pain.” Norn said calmly.

“What the hell is that for? What does that do for me? Will I get stronger?” Selene said.

Norn turned from the bar and weights and stepped closer–

Selene flinched, thinking Norn might beat her like she beat Gertrude Lichtenberg–

But Norn instead laid a hand on her bare shoulder and squeezed gently.

“You will gain something that you currently lack.” Norn said.

Selene averted her gaze. “You think that cryptic shit works on me?”

“Then I’ll be blunt. You’ll learn what it is like to live; and I hope you will want to live.”

“How the hell do I learn that from lifting weights until my brain melts down.”

Selene hated that she actually understood Norn’s intentions.

All of the times she had been challenged and even hurt on the Antenora were new to Selene.

She had never known struggle. So it was easy to throw a tantrum when anything was hard.

“You are too sheltered. This is the real world. For the entire rest of the human race, Selene, they are beaten down to the floor, have their cry about the pain they are wracked with, and are then faced with however many more days, weeks, years, of more suffering ahead of them. But they continue walking forward because every new day presents them with an opportunity. It is that determination to live which you lack, and the pilot of that Union mecha must possess in spades. She struggled; compared to her, you know nothing.”

Selene met Norn’s eyes, her own filling with tears. Norn had a strangely soft expression.

“My greatest fear for you, Selene, is that you will actually give up. Completely. Someday.”

Norn lifted her hand and brought it back down, giving Selene a few soft pats on her skin.

In that moment, Selene could not deny that she had considered throwing her life away.

At Goryk’s Gorge, if it would have killed Sonya Shalikova, she would have given her life.

To have killed all of the enemies and completed her mission, at the cost of everything.

That was the fate of a soldier was it not? To die, to cease existing; now a shadow of glory.

Shining in memory and blasted apart in the physical world. Soldiers did not survive battles.

Because the thought of living with the ignominy, the pain, of failure– was too much.

Here she was– living, still, knowing that she was not perfect, nor destined for perfection.

Having achieved no glory and awarded no commemorations. Perhaps she should have died.

Living with failure, living after defeat– it felt so hollow, that maybe she did want to die.

Born without a past, struggling in the present, no hope of a future–

“Take a moment to breathe, center yourself, and then give that bar everything you have.”

Norn stepped away from Selene and resumed her cold watch over the bar and its weights.

“Your new target is one hundred and forty kilograms. Again.” She said.

Selene stared glumly at the bar and its ever-increasing number of weights.

Sighing, she gestured with her hands towards it.

There was a brief slashing pain in her head, like the barest contact of a blade on her brains.

For a moment, the weights stirred, but they barely lifted.

Fresh tears drew from Selene’s eyes. Even her arms had started feeling a bit sore.

Psychosomatic– her body was not immune to the ravages of her mind–

“You can do this Selene.” Norn said. “Think about what you want; your next step.”

Was this truly how Sonya Shalikova must have felt?

Had she lost herself and felt beaten down by hopelessness– and still continued on?

Pushing herself past her limits with everything she had, refusing to give up?

Selene recalled suddenly– during their skirmish at Goryk’s Gorge–

When that saw blade was just about to stop, failing to penetrate the Jagdkaiser’s armor–

I want to save you. Had she truly heard that voice? Followed by something impossible?

Words that had brought about her defeat, and Shalikova’s miracle, her hope for a new day.

Breathing deep, Selene restored her posture. Arms tight and close, chest straight.

Poring over Norn’s words like water over rock. Eroding into her stream of consciousness.

Out in the world, if ordinary people living their lives had to feel this pain every day–

And if every day just heaped even more pain on them as they struggled forward–

Then any given instant of pain, any second– was nothing compared to those lifetimes.

Divided, taken apart, each of those setbacks was fleeting in the fullness of a life lived.

Drops of water in a vast ocean that continued to move in its currents even in a dying Aer.

Like these weights– together 140 kg but apart each 20 kg that a single human could lift.

Selene amid the current and part of it; buoyed by the inertia of a still-living humanity.

And that current of her mental strength washed over the weights and lifted them up.

Holding them so the highest weight up was just about to rise over the pole.

Not falling, not stirring, lifted them as if effortlessly, without raising even a finger.

There she held them, for five seconds, ten, twenty, forty, as Norn watched silently.

Even as the pain of her exertions began to build in Selene’s mind, she held firm.

All of those instants were droplets of water in the vast ocean, in the rushing current.

They were nothing. By merely waiting, each moment was gone, and there was another.

Her hands started shaking. Blood began to trickle out of her nose. Her eye twitched.

“That’s enough.” Norn said. “You seem to understand something now. Congratulations.”

Selene eased up.

At once, the weights smashed onto the base one after another in a series of loud clangs.

Her lungs struggled for breath. Her throat was raw. She smelled and tasted iron.

Running her hand over her lips, and seeing her red fingers dripping with blood.

She put on a haughty grin even as her whole body ached and her knees shook.

“That was nothing to me.” She said. “You underestimate me constantly. I’m perfect.”

Norn grinned back at Selene’s renewed arrogance.

Before casually dropping another 20 kg weight on the bar with another loud clang.

Selene’s eyes drew wide. Incredulous. Hardly in control of her expression, nearly laughing.

“Clean up. I’ll bring you food and a drink. Then we go again.” Norn said, almost cheerful.

“Hey, big beak– how do the currents feel out there, huh?”

Hunter III’s mind reached out into the waters around the ship.

Below the Antenora, a Leviathan had been warded off by Hunter III, but it continued to follow the Antenora for some time. It was about the size of the smaller ships the Hominin used– Norn would have called it a ‘Cutter’. A cylindrical body with four hydrojets led, trailed by several dangling arms that surrounded an enormous vibro-cavitating beak.

Two remora-like Leviathan “drones” attached to its main body and provided support fire from the needle launchers on their own backs. Hunter III realized that it was not out of malice that the big beak had followed them, but a burgeoning curiosity about the world– a spark of something that, if it survived, might create a miracle for it.

A miracle that was denied to Hunter III– stolen from her. Stolen, to then be given, as a gift of beautiful, powerful chains that warped her completely. Her circumstances made her curious about the creature. She began to reach out to it psionically, probing it.

Waiting for a response. Soon she received it.

It is a soft current. It is a difficult current. It cries. Its sings. It is hungry. It is satiated.

Hunter III understood implicitly the response she had been given by the creature.

Just sitting in the back of the Antenora’s bridge, she could hold something of a dialog.

Neither of them were truly saying words as the Imbrians understood them, but they could communicate emotions even through the metal armor separating the interior of the ship from the Leviathan’s water. Because of this Hunter III could not have spoken what the Leviathan said to anyone else but she could feel the texture of what it meant to communicate. Its burgeoning realization that the world was complex.

Perhaps even an understanding of the voice far, far in the back of its own head.

“Keep away from ships, big guy. Ya don’t wanna die right? Y’still got growin’ to do.”

There was no response. But she could feel that the Leviathan began to drift farther back.

Hunter III grinned to herself a bit. Sentience was coming for it, as it nearly came to her.

When she ate hominins she was a bit more lucid for a time. As if the emotions that had made them up had become hers. She was still hungry; she was still energetic; her driving needs were the same. Inside her though, a metaphorical vacuum tube received a shot of electricity. Maybe, for Leviathans, eating each other, growing bigger, eating more, maybe it made them lucid too. Slowly, struggle after struggle, the sentience grew inside them.

Hunter III felt a certain uncharacteristic melancholy. She understood her position too well.

This Leviathan, if it survived all of the ravages of the sea, might eventually shed its form and become an Omenseer. If it achieved psionics, and then, came to understand itself, it could do this. Some Leviathans found psionics and only used this to hurl rocks. But a few, used it to learn about the world and ask questions– they found themselves buried in all that meat and burst out. Then they could lead their own lives. They might befriend some hominin, go on adventures, take them to the sunlit seas, get shinies and eat meat and become part of the great story of all hominins in the cold, cruel ocean. Stories that were sometimes remembered but oft forgotten– but stories a monster, an animal, could not have.

Hunter III could not imagine at all what that would have been like for her.

Everything that was her own, grew like a twisted plant from the seedling that the Autarch had injected into her body. Despite this, it was wrong. The Autarch was not fond of her own handiwork. She must have had no idea that Hunter III would be quite disinterested in spying on hominins, quite disinterested in stealing their things and watching them carefully and ingratiating herself within their structures– she was only interested in eating them. When a Leviathan became an Omenseer, how did they choose who to be? When the Autarch got her hands on Hunter III, why was she born only to be reprimanded and scorned?

Maybe the crying, singing voice that the big beak heard was like the Autarch’s own.

Out of control; unable to decide for herself who she was, much less who Hunter III was.

Leviathans might have been like that too. Maybe they could not choose their own selves.

Perhaps no matter what, Hunter III could have only been born to be a scorned slave.

“Autarch– Hunter III– Hunter III never wanted to make ya angry and upset.”

Hunter III had no idea whether the Autarch was listening or whether she would care.

“If I was gonna be your lackey, I wish ya had made me a better one.” She said.

She started to grin to herself. How dumb; as if her little sadness mattered to a God.

That was why Hunter III could only be herself.

Because she was abandoned by everything.

All she could do was eat and be merry until she received her next inevitable throttling.

It could have all been so simple, if she was either an animal or a whole human.

Instead this middle ground was full of horrid feelings she wished not to have.

That Leviathan out there did not know how good it had it– someday it would have this same sad sack conversation with itself. It would think– “out there, I could have had all the meat that I wanted, and I wouldn’t even know that it tasted bad, and I would have been so happy.” Soon its brain would be strong enough to wrap around to this question and drive itself insane with it. There would be no going back to the simple days after that.

Hunter III sighed deeply.

Maybe she would be happier if Norn fed her some damn meat!

Norn–

I’ll free you from her. She had said. Haunting words. Joyous words. More dualities.

Foolish and ignorant words from a hominin who truly must have meant them.

A Hominin as confusing as the crying, singing, current that the big beak so aptly described.

“What would that even feel like? Hunter III ain’t anythin’ without the Autarch.”

Hunter III was getting fed up with her runaway mind.

She could not keep moping about.

She decided there was only one solution: to go beg the cafeteria people for meat.

With a big piece of meat in her hands and her belly, her head would go completely empty.

She got up from the floor. There was nobody on the bridge, but it did not matter. Norn’s crew were all perfectly obedient and did everything really efficiently so when they were just cruising in empty waters nobody needed to be told anything. She would know if there were more Leviathans around and she could tell them off from anywhere on the ship. Probably enough of them had scarpered by now that the rest collectively understood not to mess with the Antenora. Younger and weaker ones might even sense her from afar and stay way.

Unbothered, she left the bridge, bare feet on cold metal, ambling happily down the hall.

Adelheid never understood the appeal of actual, real meat. Sausages had no texture and jerky was so tough and dry. It was not living to eat such things every day! Hunter III wanted real meat, with juices that leaked and fibers that tore between her teeth. Having recently tasted tender hominins, full of blood and muscle, it was that which Hunter III had on the mind– but she behaved. She knew hominin meals were unrealistic– she was neither completely dumb nor utterly lost in her own hedonism as to crave hominin every day.

That was special occasion sort of food.

Instead, Hunter III’s day to day craving was pork or steer.

Large animals, full of savory fat, fibrous muscles and delicous fluids.

Because these animals were bred to be eaten, they often tasted better than hominin too. Hominins had a penchant for not taking care of themselves, they were always stressed out, they drank disgusting stuff that made them dizzy and stuck around in their organs too long, they smoked weird herbs, and they ate dry food and were constantly dehydrated.

Because of this the average hominin, while a unique delicacy, were not in and of themselves a very tasty sensorial experience. Hominin were special because of the ritual of things.

And because if she did not eat them she would go crazy.

She needed Hominins, perhaps like Hominins needed their herbs and liquor.

Sometimes, she could appreciate a fish too– especially a fatty salmon.

A taste of nostalgia.

Her mind quickly filled with images of fresh-cut pieces from a slaughtered animal.

These pushed out any sort of introspection or sophisticated thinking from her cranium.

She deluded herself into thinking she would acquire such a meal, hurrying to the galley.

Past all the tables, to the kitchen desk and the automated serving machines.

“Listen, kitchen hominins! I’m here on business! Come on out, one of ya!”

She waved her hands and jumped up and down. Finally, a woman’s face peeked out.

“You can serve yourself from the machines, they are fully stocked.” She said.

“No, this ain’t about that.” Hunter III leaned in a bit. “Look, I know y’all are hidin’ the good meat back there, and Norn ain’t lettin’ you feed it to poor little Hunter III like all of ya want to do. But I’ve been preparin’. I got a bribe. Hominin love bribes right? I’ve got one for you.”

From the pocket of her long, hooded coat, Hunter III produced a little blue box.

When she opened it, inside, there was a ring with an enormous diamond.

“One of the hominin that I ate back at the pepper place had this with ’em. Isn’t it big? Isn’t it shiny? It’s one of the biggest shinies anyone has ever seen. You can have this shiny, and then, you’ll give Hunter III a big, juicy piece of meat. She’s not even askin’ for all of the meat! Just one big piece! This is the best deal ever– and it is only a deal for you!”

Hunter III laid the diamond-studded wedding ring in its box on the counter.

The eyes of the servant-hominin looked down at the box, and then back at Hunter III.

She took the box into the shadows behind the counter.

“We’re confiscating this and informing Lord von Fueller. Please eat from the machines.”

Then a pair of steel shutters enclosed the serving personnel.

Hunter III stood speechless.

“HEY! That ain’t how it works! Ya can’t just take the bribe and not give me anythin’!”

Hunter III jumped up and down, struck her fists on the steel shutters and the counter.

Wailing and gnashing her teeth and kicking the wall–

“Oh dear? Has the little Hunter finally lost her mind, perhaps?”

Behind her, someone stepped up and held her by the shoulders, squeezing them.

“Huh? Oh– it’s you.”

A hominin, taller than Hunter III, and unlike the drones, with a glint in her eyes and a smile on her face. A familiar face, pretty and a bit funny. She wore a lot of makeup, had a lot of brightly blond hair, and wore her clothes a bit looser than everyone else. Hunter III could see her bra. Livia Van Der Meer, the ship doctor– Hunter III had thought about biting her a few times, sometimes out of hunger, sometimes out of fleshier feelings than that. She was the person who maybe got the most out of hand with Hunter III out of anyone on the ship.

However, she could also be– interesting. Like Norn, but in a very different way.

So despite sometimes being irritating, Hunter III was always initially welcoming of her.

“I see you’re having trouble acquiring meat again.” Livia said.

She lowered her head a little to Hunter III’s eye level. Hunter III met her eyes, unmoved.

“Yeah– the serving hominins took my bribe but didn’t get me any meat!”

“Oh dear! Whatever shall you do?”

“I know! Isn’t that against everything hominin stand for?”

“Indeed. Contracts, like medical consent, must be absolutely ironclad.”

Hunter III blinked. She was mentioning the medical thing again.

A lot of the time that preceded her injecting Hunter III and writing a bunch of notes.

“Little Hunter– what if I got you some meat?” Livia said, smiling cheerfully.

With her hands behind her back, and her large chest close to Hunter III’s own.

Hunter III returned her gaze appraisingly, stroking her own chin.

“Meat, you say? Hmm. Keep talkin’.” She said, her tail swishing behind her back.

“You weren’t the only one who got her hands on some goodies in Serrano.” Livia said. “I managed to snag a few things myself, to save for a rainy day. As a doctor I have all kinds of storage capabilities. I would be happy to share my loot with you. Norn would never have to hear about it either. She’s busy with Selene at the moment, and Adelheid is taking inventory. It’s the perfect opportunity to be a little naughty, don’t you think?”

“What’s the catch?” Hunter III asked.

Livia smiled. “No catch. I’m simply quite bored, and you’re the most interesting one here.”

“Huh. I dunno that I believe that doc. No one just gives out free meat around here.”

“Call it a date– what do you say? You’ll get to eat. I’ll get to chat. It’ll be nice.”

“A date, huh?”

Hunter III felt conflicted. She understood what ‘dates’ were quite well.

Those were the special times when hominin bit and smacked and fucked each other.

Not to procreate but for fun. They just liked doing this, like Hunter III enjoyed eating.

She had seen hominin doing these kinds of things.

She had thought about them before too.

It was in this sort of way that she had come to think Livia was interesting.

So she knew Livia’s objective may well have been this, especially if she was bored.

She also did not believe Livia would actually give her any meat.

Though it would have been a pleasant surprise. Hunter III was growing skeptical.

However– Hunter III also thought, maybe she could see herself enjoying the whole thing.

“Alright. Ya got yourself a deal– but y’better not be lyin’!” Hunter III cried out.

Livia smiled placidly. “Of course not, of course not. Never.”

Heels clacking on the floor the entire way, Livia led Hunter III out to her clinic.

It was not every far down the way from the galley.

There was a separate medbay with enough beds care for a few dozen people at a time if needed, but Livia’s office and clinic was a smaller space, and doubled as her bedroom. She had a desk, a few cabinets with medicines she kept on hand, her favorite injector that had marked her neck a few times; a small bed and gurney; a few testing instruments and other such medical machines; and the door to the backroom where she slept.

Everything smelled like plastic and chemicals.

As Hunter III crossed the threshold, the door closed behind her but did not lock.

So she could leave if she wanted to. She was not trapped with Livia– but she stayed.

Livia ambled toward the bedroom, and knelt down next to her bed.

Tongues of cool gas escaped from a compartment.

With a gloved hand she withdrew–

“You weren’t lyin’! It’s really meat! You’re my savior Livia!”

“You’re calling me by name? Interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

In her fingers, Livia returned with a frozen cut of steak and a grin on her face.

She put it on a metal sample plate, and put that plate on a frame over a burner on her desk.

“This is inefficient, but it will cook eventually.” Livia said. “Please, sit down and rest.”

Hunter III obediently pulled up a plastic chair and sat close, watching the meat cook.

Livia sat on another chair and sat next to Hunter III.

Taking her medicine injector from atop the desk, pulling back some of her hair.

Sticking herself in the neck, in a spot that had a three-pronged bruise like the injector.

“Ah, now we can relax and enjoy. Well– you can enjoy. Once it’s less frozen.”

She flipped the steak over on the plate. Slowly thawing, softening, cooking at high heat.

It wouldn’t cook evenly, but Hunter III loved meat no matter what.

Frozen meat was not particularly enjoyable however, so she appreciated Livia’s effort.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Hunter III’s tail smacked against the ground over and over and over in anticipation.

“Is it a correct assumption that you grow a tail to store your extra biomass?” Livia asked.

“Oh, uh huh.” Hunter III said cheerfully. “It’s a special trick that helps in a pinch.”

“Clever indeed. Did someone teach you that? About your powers?” Livia asked.

“Um, not really, I just kinda knew it?”

“Hereditary memories perhaps? Or maybe even– DNA-based data encoding?”

“I dunno. Both of those sound good to me?”

Hunter III was essentially just trying to please Livia by saying literally anything.

Livia seemed pleased, so everything was working accordingly.

Once more, she turned over the steak.

“What good fortune to have found this while robbing the substation supplies.” Livia said.

“Yeah! You’re so smart Livia! You’re smart and pretty and you are so good at robbin’!”

“All too true. You know, to meet you– it was worth it losing my medical license.”

Her words were starting to slur just a little bit. Hunter III did not pay it any mind.

“Uh huh! Norn is sooooo lucky to have such a fancy and good doctor!” Hunter III said.

Livia turned over the steak one more time.

Then, with the scalpels she had been using to move the steak around on the sample plate, she cut a piece. Juices were flowing. Hunter III’s eyes drew wide. She could smell it, even through the chemically smell of the room and the alcohol fire. Her jaw hung open, her nostrils wetted, her mouth grew slick with saliva. Her face went hotter.

“That is so nice of you to say. Open up. I will feed you by hand.” Livia said.

Hunter III obediently awaited the piece of steak, tongue nearly out of her mouth.

Livia took the piece of meat, pierced on a scalpel, and fed it gingerly to her date.

Instantly– the taste, the chew. Juices, fibers, the resistance of real red meat.

Her cheeks contracted from the savory taste. She shut her eyes and lavished in it.

Hunter III practically shook with pleasure. For a moment she felt like a king.

“You’re so interesting, little Hunter.” Livia said. “Beautiful, alien, unbound.”

Her hand reached for her own collar, which was already opened and unbuttoned.

“Lacking our inhibitions; master of your biology. On the cusp of nature and civilization.”

Livia cut another slice of meat; immediately Hunter III positioned herself to receive it.

It was so luxurious– Hunter III had always just bitten into bigger pieces of meat. Cut across the grain by Livia’s deft scalpel hand; still warm from the hot metal plate; it was amazing. Hunter III believed meat needed nothing, no cooking, no seasoning–

but maybe Livia’s hand helped the taste.

Each piece was slowly, deliberately enjoyed. Livia cut a smaller piece, pierced it.

Hunter III closed her eyes and leaned forward, her mind soaring with bliss.

Then she felt Livia’s hand take her hood by the neck. Pull her forward, suddenly, forcefully.

Her eyes drew wide as Livia drew her into a kiss, feeding her the meat mouth to mouth.

Their tongues entwined, the meat partially chewed– tasting the wax in Livia’s lipstick.

Livia briefly pulled back. “I wish I could taste humanity like you, little Hunter.”

Her tongue and lips parted but still connected to Hunter III’s by spittle and meat juices.

With a sudden surge of strange passion, the Omenseer pushed forward and kissed her back.

Wanting to taste Livia’s lips and tongue as much as the meat.

In the middle of the hangar, while the crew went about their tasks around her, Selene was completely clad in power armor and standing across a series of ruler marks that Norn had projected onto the floor. The girl had been equipped with the chestplate, arms and legs of an Imbrian power armor, its battery installed on her lower back. Everything sans helmet. She looked quite disgruntled, but Norn rarely saw a contented face from her anyway.

Norn had a very specific reason for setting all of this up. She walked up to Selene.

“Alright Selene, your task will be to step forward with your back straight.” She said.

“Is this a joke?” Selene said. “How does walking around in power armor help me–?”

Before Selene could complete her sentence, Norn pulled the battery out of the armor.

Selene stared at it, suddenly incredulous.

Various LED lights on the armor’s limbs and chest suddenly went dark.

“Norn– I can’t move!” She shouted. Her arms were at her sides, her legs standing.

However, judging by her head and neck, she was struggling, trying to pull her weight.

“I’m well aware.” Norn said. “Without the energy pack, the locomotion assistance on the power armor will not work. A Katarran or a strong Loup could still move, but I know you cannot. You’ll just be wearing an enormous suit of hydraulics and electric muscles and other complicated and pretty heavy gear. All of it dead weight. And your task remains– to move forward. Each fall is a demerit; every step you can take a new horizon for you.”

“How the hell am I supposed to move even one step like this?” Selene shouted.

“You just demonstrated you can lift almost 200 kg.” Norn said. She then shrugged with a grin on her face. “Put some of that prodigious genetic brainpower to good use.”

“Norn!” Selene shouted, gritting her teeth and shaking and whining ever more irascibly.

“I’ll give you a tip. Use kinesis on your arms and legs. Move with your entire body and focus on moving your entire body, not just one body part at a time. Develop a rhythm.”

Selene looked to have tired herself out with fruitless struggle, panting with her head down.

Norn was about to mock her again, when a drone stepped up to her from the sidelines.

“Milord, the bridge has decrypted an Extreme Low Frequency message for you.” He said.

“From whom?” Norn asked. Nobody should have been sending her ELF messages.

“The text purports its sender as Admiral of the Fleet Frederich Urning.” Said the drone.

“Huh? Truly. Well, hand it over– we can set up a video call once we’re at depth again.”

Norn absentmindedly took the printed ELF message, less interested in the content than the sender. He had gone behind Erich’s back to contact her, using clandestine means like the ELF. Konstantin’s biggest fan– she wondered, truly wondered. Was he up to something?

Her mind was afire, her curiosity piqued.

What was happening in the Palatine? How was Urning getting on after his idol’s death?

Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.6]

Slender fingers twined around the handle of the porcelain cup.

Warm water poured over flowers and herbs and a bit of rough raw agave.

Mixed vigorously with a steel stirring stick. Dried with a flick, put away in a drawer.

Next to the loaded pistol. Precise tools for specific problems.

She lifted the cup to her lips and absentmindedly sipped of it. A touch of agave gave the tea sweetness and a bit of unctuousness. Otherwise the taste was very mellow and grassy. She had prepared the cup purely because she wanted a warm drink. There was no caffeine, because she did not permit herself to drink caffeine. Caffeine was not healthy.

However, this made it difficult to work deep into the night as she was.

She continued to work even as her eyes grew heavier.

Not out of a sense of the value of this labor; out of obsession with the result.

And a touch of paranoia.

Next to the cup was a portable on which she was writing with a digital pen.

With her fingers, she could swipe up and down between digital workspaces.

Taking notes over them in digital ink. It helped her process the information.

On one workspace, there was a series of dossiers with detailed personal data.

Swiping left, she saw numerous faces scroll past.

On the other workspace there was a spreadsheet of locations and offices in Eisental.

Swiping left on that workspace showed her the vastness of her new realm.

These assignments were a monumental task and she would delegate them to nobody.

Everyone for whom she had a dossier was qualified to serve.

However, not everyone could be completely trusted to be loyal to her designs.

“The National Socialist Labor Unions.” She mumbled to herself as she looked over a file.

Some of the dossiers were not people she was appointing, but people she was investigating.

So far, there was little resistance from labor leaders in the core strategic industries to the prospect of joining the state-sponsored labor unions. Because the previous liberal governments had done so much to support strike-breaking and extortionary labor practices, and tacitly approved the firing of union workers and the hiring of scab labor, especially in the strategic sectors– the very idea of the government reaching out to labor at all was viewed as a ground-breaking positive step in pro-labor sentiment. Labor organizers in high-grade steel, plastics, primary and middle manufacturing of plates, missile engineering, and semiconductors, had all approached her about the N.S.L.U scheme with interest.

However, she could not take them all at their word so easily.

Therefore, she had the Sicherheitsdienst investigate several of these labor leaders.

That only added to the amount of information she had to personally sift through.

Her self-appointed task tonight was to get through the highest government positions first.

Sleep could come later. There was always time to do nothing.

It was the window to act that Destiny constantly tightened in its white-hot grip.

She had to at least be sure the Gauleiters were all people that she trusted.

Aachen’s Gau office was staffed much more quickly due to circumstances–

Everywhere else, Reichskommissar Violet Lehner wanted to be more dilligent.

In the middle of going through the potential appointments for Stralsund, which were tricky owing to the presence of the Mycenae Military Commission in the area– Violet’s thought process was interrupted by the door into the office opening and the sound of boots.

Rather than the grandiose main office once occupied by station governor Werner, Violet was working in a small meeting room in the eastern wing of the government building. Only a few people knew where she was and could interrupt her. Nasser would have been praying at this hour, and was instructed to go to sleep without her– so it must have been–

“Esteemed Reichskommissar, seeing as how you’re working late, may I report now?”

Magdalena van Treckow. A few associations immediately came to mind.

Semi-disowned twin sister of Hedwig von Treckow of the Treckow clan.

Aristocrats with a military tradition; one of the few families with recent achievements.

Once upon a time, such things mattered among aristocrats–

now, this Treckow was just a Standartenführer.

“I am always happy to host you. Would you prefer to sit or stand?” Violet asked.

“May I move as the mood strikes, your grace?”

“Very well. Continue.”

In response, the officer performed a stage bow that made something in her leg creak.

Her body bore all manner of evidence of her already brutal career.

Magdalena was very similar to her twin sister– a tall and stately woman, beautiful, gallant, lean and long-limbed, like many in her once-noble house. She had dark hair down to the shoulders and cut a handsome silhouette in uniform. Then the similarities ended.

While the Treckow family were known for their stoicism, Magdalena’s resting face was a conceited grin on glossy black lips. She had streaks of white hair, perhaps prematurely aged by her experiences in life. She bore a complex scar across her neck that looked as if she had survived a deep slitting of her throat from jaw to collarbone. Exposed owing to her style of wearing her shirts and coats quite undone near the top. One arm and one foot missing; the foot replaced by a blade in her boot that Magdalena liked to show off at times; the arm by a multi-digit replacement limb that was more in line with what Violet had seen before.

On her sleeves, she had the armbands for the Zabaniyah and the Esoteric Order, along with an armband bearing a black box with a white hooked cross inside. It was a curious object to some, as nobody else in the organization wore it. This was because it was old– the armband signified the former Aktionsgruppe IV, a fake transport flotilla that Violet used to manage in order to smuggle goods to fund and supply Zabaniyah auxiliaries, thus hiding the fact that her personal forces were larger than they seemed. Violet no longer had to hide her ambitions or the size of her total forces in Eisental. Still, Magdelana kept wearing the band.

“As you requested, I’ve been on alert. However, despite the candor of his words during your little meeting, we have no signs of incoming reprisals of any kind from Adam Lehner. His attention appears to be fully directed south. He is losing his window to act on us.”

“He is aggravated with me but he cannot afford more enemies.” Violet said.

“Not only can he not afford them– according to my information, both his physical and his political capital would fray at the seams against any attempt to bring us into line.” Magdalena said. “I have credible evidence of growing support for us within important parts of Lehner’s coalition. Rhineametalle is of course obvious– but in the political classes, several of the Gauleiters in the Rhinean heartland expressed willingness to collaborate and made public statements congratulating you on ending the strikes in Kreuzung. No sanctions from corporations; no attempts by the main command of the fleet to subordinate our forces, or even to call for inspections in Eisental; we appear to be silently tolerated. Your father has been put in check.”

As she spoke, the woman wandered side to side in front of the desk.

She would flourish her arms, make exaggerated expressions.

“I appreciate your vigilance, Magdalena. But don’t call him my father. It annoys me.”

“Duly noted, your grace. To have caused you to frown would cause me to wilt.”

Violet ignored her flattery and put down her digital pen.

She closed and opened her fists.

Everything was going her way but she could not help but feel unsettled.

“I do hate that we are at the level of divining intent from public statements.” She said.

Her intelligence inside Thurin, and in the office of the Fuhrer, had to be improved.

She wanted to know the instant that clown in the high seat blinked.

Magdalena did not look too concerned. Her wanderings brought her over the desk.

“Once we have formal contact with more of the Rhinean Gau, we won’t have to guess. It is only a matter of time, Reichskommissar. You must relax!” Magdalena leaned much closer to Violet’s face, meeting her eyes with a viper’s smile. “Everyone can already see your ascendancy. Adam Lehner is squandering his moment, he is too much of a fool– he has influence and connections, but you, Reichskommissar, have all the brains. You have done in weeks more than he has in months. It is an unequal contest you are certain to win.”

Magdalena licked her own lips after speaking.

She leaned in so close that Violet could smell the tobacco smoke from her lips.

Any further and she might have stolen a kiss.

Violet said nothing. And so the flattery continued.

“Not only that, but you are a true revolutionary. Aside from the Esoteric Order, the Libertarians and the Neotribalists are already seeing that unlike the so-called Fuhrer, you will not betray the revolution of the Volksgemeinschaft to the wealthy and the intellectuals. You are looking out for the national worker and the soldier, lifting them up! Only you have the rhetoric and organizational skill to sway all of the rightist groups to your side.”

Violet turned her cheek, offended by the reek of the tobacco.

Magdalena reared back just a little bit.

“The Libertarians and Neotribalists are unreliable bellwethers.” Violet said calmly.

Her biggest weakness outside the Esoteric Order was that she was a degenerate queer.

Within the Order, such things were secondary as long as the correct obeisances were spoken.

They cared about the mythology of nationhood and supremacy much more than the details.

Outside of the Esoterics it was much more of a minefield.

Violet was almost certain that she was mixed race, and this was only successfully hidden because it would have made the elder Lehner appear less photogenic to the extreme right-wing organizations. So on her papers, Violet was any ordinary Imbrian. They could see it, however. The Libertarians, the Blud Bund, the Neotribals, the Traditional Fatherhood Front. They could see it. It was part of the reason she focused on Nation and Service over racial polemics. Violet had to be careful to continue playing with the fire of the Volkisch fringe.

Whether or not Magdalena caught or understood the subtleties did not matter though.

Whatever Violet was now, it would all be obliterated by what she would become.

Her plan was to attain power such that her own identity could be anything and not matter.

She would simply become the sword of the inexorable Destiny of the Imbrian Nation.

All the fools who had childish ideologies failed to understand the true driver of change.

Violet had applied herself dilligently, exploited opportunities in business and law, built up her wealth, made corporate connections– because she understood the nexus of power.

Capital could buy strength; and power was crystallized through the execution of force.

She would not rely on the purely ideological support of troglodytes like the Neotribalists.

Fools like the Libertarians could take their multi-point social plans and swallow them.

Violet had already seen her own future. With Eisental in her hands, she would acquire legitimacy through stability. Crushing the dissidents, rewarding the collaborators, and exercising effective management of capital. She would fix the problems that plagued the buffoon in Thurin. And then she would build her spearhead. With the applause of the common folk, she would recruit and equip the best troops, build ships, and march.

And the Shimii would be the core of her new order, the phalanx of her Destiny.

A fierce warrior race with discipline, humility, scholarship, and a long history of grievances to fulfill. Properly prepared with Eisental’s bounty, her Zabaniyah would align all of the disparate elements of the Volkisch– by force. They would never fully accept her, but they would bow before her sheer strength. She would make them. That was ultimately the glue binding the Volkisch Movement. Adam Lehner took over power formally, he got the votes– but he executed that power to legitimize arbitrary violence, and in the terror was his real strength. Idiotic niche ideological groups only followed him because of this violence.

Rightists would cower and fall in line; leftist dissidents would be exterminated.

Soon their opinion on Violet’s lifestyle would not matter.

Endsieg was close at hand.

Violet was a slave to this future. She would not exist without that vision.

For now, however, she had to play within the rules of the game so she could break them.

“Has Imani set sail for Aachen yet, Magdalena?” Violet asked, returning to business.

Her subordinate was not so keen to step away from the desk, however.

With the way she bent, exposing so much through undone buttons– quite lascivious.

And that gaze– it almost gave Violet pause from the hunger in it.

Exuding the aura of a predator.

Sizing Violet up as if for an attack.

“Treckow, business? Now? Get a hold of yourself. I am not joking.”

Violet snapped her fingers. Magdalena grunted a bit.

Looking offput by the response.

“Hadžić just got out; it will be a while yet before the fireworks start.” She said. Her eyes wandered as if the subject bored her, but she continued to hover in the personal space of her Reichskommissar. “Sawyer’s militia was slow to muster. Apparently the main command of the militia in Bremen sent her a very large gaggle of underage soldiers as reinforcements.”

“Fine by me,” Violet replied, “I was hoping the casualties would fall as much on the militia as possible. Wiping out a generation of Blud Bund morons in the process is a bonus.”

Magdalena smiled and began to rub the fingers on one hand over the surface desk.

“The Uhlankorp’s involvement is being discussed as well. Rhineametalle is agreeing to supply everything en route. I am not sure Hadžić will sort it all out, this feels a bit messy.”

“Hadžić will indeed work it all out. She’s one of Nasser’s inner circle.” Violet said.

“And that’s all it takes for you? So easily impressed by wagging tails?” Magdalena said.

Violet fixed her eyes on Magdalena, again meeting the woman’s own cryptic gaze.

There was an ardor in that expression that Violet continually met with apathy.

“It’s too late for you to bring that sort of agenda into this. You know how I am.” She said.

“Oh, Reichskommissar, that is not it at all. Race aside– I’m simply wary of their commitment. They are unproven. I am skeptical; because I have killed a lot more for this movement.”

“I’m not skeptical and only my opinion matters. So be at ease. Shimii have done dirty work for the Lehner family for years now. I trust Nasser more than anyone.” Violet said.

“More than me? I’m hurt. I’ve done so much for you, your grace.” Magdalena whimpered.

“I’ve done quite a bit for you too. Enough that you still owe me more than I owe you.”

“How cold. You reject me so easily. If you wanted, I would protect you from anything. I would relieve you of every burden and give you any comfort you wanted. We are all alone here, nobody would have to know. As the supreme leader, you could easily have me.”

“If you are done reporting, you are dismissed.” Violet said.

Magdalena leaned even closer over the desk.

Falling over it like a misbehaving cat.

“Violet– In Bosporus I was a wild animal– it was you who gave me back a human soul.”

Suddenly, Magdalena laid her hand like a claw on Violet’s own.

Her fingers pinched Violet across three knuckles. There was an instant of pain.

Violet jerked her own hand back.

This prompted Magdalena to burst out laughing.

“Very funny, Treckow.” Violet said. “Whether or not you are sincere, you are dismissed.”

Not angry, there was no point in it; just mildly annoyed at this amorousness.

She returned to her work, expecting Magdalena to see herself out.

“I am just playing my role. This play needs a chaste heroine,” Magdalena gestured to Violet, “a courtly, heroic romance,” she gestured toward the walls, at no one in particular (Nasser), “but also a devilish rake, whose temptation might steal away a tender heart.”

Finally Magdalena gestured to herself, laying a hand on her chest and bowing slightly.

Violet finally looked up from her work again with a sudden smile.

“Treckow, you don’t understand the genre. I am not a chaste heroine– I am a Valkyrie descended to make humanity pay for its sins with blood and iron. So who are you?”

For a moment, Magdalena simply smiled. Looking entirely too satisfied with herself.

With a final, silent bow, she took her leave from the stage. Casting one last look at Violet.

Violet almost heard the applause following in her wake, before returning quietly to work.

On the upper story of the John Brown’s interior pods, the hall was wide enough for two (somewhat short, somewhat thin) people to walk abreast. Ulyana and Eithnen were almost scraping the ceiling with their heads. While the wall plates were bare metal, the floor and roof were green. There were removable panels with obvious bolts everywhere. Flanked by doors on either side, the hallway was shorter than the Brigand’s upper hallway by half.

Eithnen and Tahira led them down those crowded halls and ducked into a small room.

Ulyana and Aaliyah followed.

There was no empty space in the room that they entered.

There was a table in the center and two long booth seats made up the walls. There was a monitor on the wall opposing the door they entered through. When closed, that door formed the final wall of the room in its near totality. So they had all the amenities to hold a productive meeting, with the table itself serving as a digital pad for writing or displaying graphs and documents. But they had to do it without room to stand.

“One more is joining us. He’ll be here shortly.” Tahira said.

“Will he fit?” Ulyana asked, smiling to show she was not serious.

Eithnen grinned in response. “Beats standing out in the hall.”

“Good point– I can see why you laid the sick men in the hangar.”

“I had to! Our infirmary is like a god-damn morgue. Only room enough to die in.”

“Are all Republic frigates this tight?” Aaliyah asked.

“I’ve never served in anything smaller than a Cruiser until now.” Eithnen said.

“To be clear, the layout of the John Brown is not in itself designed as a punitive measure.” Tahira said from Eithnen’s side. “This is indeed the layout that is standard to all In-Line-2 class Frigates as designed by StanDy Innovations– it is a deliberate design. There are many advantages to it– it’s easier to run maintenance as all systems are tidy and accessible. It’s also cheaper to manufacture. But our doctrine relies on a fleet support system.”

“Like having access to a fleet hospital ship.” Eithnen said.

“In the Union it would be seen as inhumane to not have a stocked infirmary.” Ulyana said.

“Wish I’d been born on your side of the planet.” Eithnen said, smiling a bit.

At that moment the door slid open again.

Eithnen waved at the entrant while Tahira sidled up closer to Eithnen to give him room.

Owing to his height, he had to slouch. He was taller than Ulyana or Eithnen certainly, and fit too, with strong arms and a wide back. His skin was dark brown, and his black hair was tied into a multitude of long braids which themselves were collected into a ponytail with a fluffy yellow hair scrunchie. His uniform consisted of a blue jacket worn over a white shirt and long pants. He was probably older than Ulyana– more signs of aging on his face.

From the moment he sat down, he had a big smile on his face.

“Burke Zepp. G.I.A.– or, well, ex-G.I.A. I guess. Pleasure to make your acquaintances.”

He reached across the table and gave a firm handshake to both Ulyana and Aaliyah.

“Pleased to meet you as well.” Ulyana said. “I’m Ulyana Korabiskaya.”

“Aaliyah Bashara.” Said the Commissar.

Ulyana noticed her infrequent glancing at Tahira. Aaliyah was wary.

“So, everyone’s here.” Eithnen said. “Let’s talk, Ulyana. I’m sure you have questions.”

“How in-depth are you ready to go, Aaliyah?” Ulyana asked.

At her side Aaliyah looked surprised by the question. “I trust your judgment, Captain.”

“In that case, I’m curious to know how you came to be in this predicament, Eithnen. I would also like to know what your status is with regard to the Republic. It will not change any of my judgments as to how we could cooperate, it will just help guide my interactions with Republic personnel– for example, if the G.I.A. could re-arrest you, I need to know.”

Tahira seemed to want to interrupt, but Eithnen noticed and prevented her from doing so.

“It’s fine Tahira. None of us are bound by the regulations anymore. We abandoned that.” Eithnen said. Tahira still looked quietly offput by the notion, but Eithnen continued speaking, meeting Ulyana’s eyes. “I’ll give you the short version Captain. Everyone here has their own story of how they were confined here. At the root of it all is that we were all convicted of felonies in our respective home regions in Alayze. If you’re a felon in Alayze, you basically have no rights even if you serve your sentence. Can’t vote; undesirable for jobs; and it’s tough to even get a bed to sleep in. In that situation, there’s only one thing you can really do: if you ‘volunteer’ to a penal unit you can get your record cleaned. That’s why we are here.”

“That is why most of us are here.” Burke said, interrupting. “Do they know about Kitty?”

Eithnen nodded. “They’re pretty well-informed. And they saw her handiwork first-hand.”

Burke nodded back. He turned to Ulyana with a conflicted expression.

“I was a G.I.A. agent in perfectly good standing, but my mission failed. I laid low for years, moving in the underworld, cautious not to attract the attention of the Imbrians– until I heard about Kitty’s operation. I was all ready to go back to fighting for my country like a fucking clown– and then for all my trouble as soon as I met Kitty she immediately cast suspicion on me as a traitor and saboteur and had me trapped here. Unfortunately for her, the bombs they strap to the reactors on these penal ships aren’t a match for my skills. So I helped Eithnen and her crew get something of their freedom back in Kreuzung.”

“Those are the nobler stories. I– I was– just was one of the jailers.” Tahira said suddenly.

Ulyana and Aaliyah both stared at her. Eithnen shook her head and sighed.

“She’s being dramatic. She has helped us immensely, we wouldn’t be alive without her.”

“Regardless– up until recently, I fully participated in their incarceration.” Tahira said.

“Tahira, stop it.” Eithnen said. “I trust you; don’t give them the wrong impression.”

“That does not change the facts of what happened Eithnen, or who I am.” Tahira said. She turned a pensive expression on their communist guests and paused for a moment before speaking. “Captain Korabiskaya, you want to know our probable standing with the Republic? Most people on this ship are criminals. I am a traitor, having aided and abetted their escape. Should the Republic catch up to us, they will take the ship, which is the valuable asset– and exterminate the rest of us. Shot and thrown out to sea like trash. We represent dissent among worthless people who should only be able to fall in line for our masters.”

“Tahira was a Republic intelligence agent before.” Burke said. “Like me, she’s better aware than most people here how the Republic operates. She’s also being way too hard on herself.”

“She is.” Eithnen said, holding a hand on Tahira’s shoulder and squeezing gently.

Tahira reached up her own hand to touch the Captain’s. She nearly broke into tears.

Ulyana had assumed a few things about the condition of the ship as they spoke.

She noticed Eithnen was fair-skinned, but most of the crew were darker-skinned like Tahira.

Imbrian racism was more complicated than that– they could hate fair-skinned Eloim and Volgians quite dearly– but this was still a signifier that Ulyana well understood. Tahira must have been someone who made it within Republic intelligence despite her ethnicity.

How unbelievably cruel to make her the boot on the necks of her kin.

Ulyana could not imagine what she was feeling.

“Ulyana Korabiskaya, this ship is still sailing, but its crew is not alive. We have no future.”

Tahira pulled down her glasses and wept into her glove.

“Tahira–”

Eithnen spoke up to try to stop her adjutant from further breaking down.

Ulyana spoke first, however.

“Tahira, this is not the Republic of Alayze. It is time you stopped thinking like it is. You are in the Imbrium Ocean, and we are officers with the Labor Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice. Right now, you are speaking as if the Republic can do anything about your situation– but the Republic’s presence in this ocean has been utterly destroyed and furthermore, I would argue the Union would not want the Republic to have a strong say in what is done militarily this deep in the Imbrium. So it’s not up to Alayze to dictate your fate any longer.”

“Are you offering to give us shelter? That is unrealistic, Ulyana Korabiskaya. You are allied with the Republic. Your country will have to comply with their laws.” Tahira said.

“Not necessarily. In the future, the Union and Republic may well go to war.” Aaliyah said.

Just as Tahira had spoken suddenly, and surprised the room; now Aaliyah did the same.

“Aaliyah!” Ulyana said, more amused and surprised than she was angry or annoyed.

“It’s the obvious truth.” Aaliyah said. “Right now, we are talking as if the Union is a state with sovereignty on par with the Republic, so let us examine that scenario in detail. Should the Imbrian Civil War end in a position where the Union’s continued existence means anything at all, the Republic will demand the Union open itself to the Republic’s economic sphere, which we’ll resist. Furthermore, say that in theory the Union ultimately declares itself to be the successor state of the Imbrian Empire, and guarantees the territorial integrity of the Imbrium– then the Republic might even seek war reparations for hundreds of years of battles with the Imbrian Empire. The Republic is a capitalist state. Its ideology, just as much as that of the Imbrian Empire, assists in the extraction of wealth, nothing more than that. Eventually they will desire to have an extractive relationship to us as well.”

Ulyana did not want to enter into the topic of total war with the Cogitum ocean.

However, the topic had been opened, like the Pandora’s Box that she had come out of.

She sighed deeply and could not stop herself from putting a hand over her face.

Eithnen looked somewhat amused at the behavior of her guests.

“That’s uh, pretty grim, to consider.” Burke said. “Though, not wrong, I suppose.”

Tahira wiped her tears and readjusted her glasses.

Eithnen continued to squeeze her shoulder.

“So, Aaliyah Bashara– what you are suggesting is that, since you believe Solstice will go to war with Alayze, and that this is an inevitability, you will give us asylum as defectors to the Union. In return, we can assist in your future conflict with the Republic.”

“No ‘in the future’ is necessary. I was never going to demand that you submit to military service in perpetuity. However, you can join us in our current battle, right now.”

“Absolutely!” Ulyana interjected, finally recovering. “Help us fight the Volkisch!”

Her sudden enthusiasm seemed to bring a smile to the face of her Commissar.

Burke crossed his arms and smiled a little too. Eithnen put on a warm grin.

“Tahira might have reservations; but I have no problem saying: to hell with Alayze!”

“Then our soldiers will never see their homeland again.” Tahira said.

“From what you said, they have no future there any way.” Aaliyah replied.

“I would not have put it so bluntly– but there is truth to it.” Ulyana said.

“I understand Tahira’s concerns.” Burke said. “For some of the crew here, they did truly believe there was a chance of getting their records cleaned and seeing their families again. Even now, they might not understand that the law is rigged against them because they love their home. They might not take kindly to being told we’re all joining the commies.”

“Then that’s my responsibility as their Captain to give them all the information and the choice to leave or stay. However much of a bad joke that might sound to some of them.” Eithnen said. “I’ve let everyone else speak up, so now it’s my turn. In my eyes, the Republic betrayed me and all of the people on this ship. None of this should have happened. In a just world, none of us would be on this ship. We were abandoned! I blame that squarely on the Republic of Alayze. I am on this ship at all, because I dared to speak out against this very policy. They court martialed me on spurious grounds and then made me responsible for the lives of this crew. Ulyana– when a Captain of a penal ship refuses to serve, she goes back to jail, but the crew are almost always people with long sentences or a stay of execution. They would have been buried and never given another chance– that is why I am here now.”

Ulyana was unsurprised but only by the degree of malice the Republic employed.

It was the specifics of the malice that continued to shock her.

Not even Nagavanshi would do something like this. It was so cruel for so little gain.

“Ulyana, I want asylum to the Union.” Eithnen said. “And I will take it upon myself to talk to the crew. If enough of them want to leave, would you agree to give them the ship and let them go? They don’t stand a chance– but I can’t keep coercing them to follow me even if I think my decision is the correct one. They’ve been fighting under duress for too long.”

“I agree.” Ulyana said, near immediately.

Aaliyah glanced at her but said nothing to the contrary.

Ultimately, Aaliyah would defer to whatever decision Ulyana made.

However, from her expression– it didn’t seem like she disagreed much with Ulyana.

“We should inform Premier Erika Kairos about this.” Aaliyah said.

“I will. I think she will agree with my decision.” Ulyana said. “Eithnen is right– ethically, I refuse to press gang the people of this ship. From a practical perspective, it would be disruptive to drag them along unwilling. So I will leave it to the officers here,” she gestured toward the other side of the table, “to organize your crew, and make your decisions. However it goes, we will do our best to see you off with food and medicine.”

Ulyana and Eithnen shook hands on it, both wearing a very similarly jovial smile.

“Captain, I want to apologize to you.”

Tahira spoke up again and extended her hand toward Ulyana as well.

“I misjudged all of you. I thought communists would be more severe to us.”

“Honestly, what do they teach all of you intelligence people about us?”

Ulyana smiled and shook Tahira’s hand, accepting her apology.

“Thank you so much, Captain.” Tahira said. “I– all of us really care about the people here.”

“We’ve been through a lot together.” Burke said. “This is the first ray of light we’ve seen.”

“We’re happy to help.” Ulyana said. “Say, Burke– do you know a ‘Marina McKennedy’?”

Aaliyah glanced suddenly at Ulyana and then averted her gaze entirely.

Burke shook his head. “Never heard that one. I assume she’s G.I.A.?”

“Yes. She’s on our ship– it’s a long story, but she might like to meet you.” Ulyana said.

“Long story huh? Well, now I’m real curious.” Burke said.

“We’ll have more chances to talk. Long stories are perhaps best left to text.” Aaliyah said.

“Yes, we will get everything squared away here as soon as possible.” Tahira said. “After that we can formally sit down and develop our communications if we decide to join your group. No use starting that process right away if we might not get crew consensus in place.”

“Quite sensible. Well, I am hoping we get a chance to work with you all.”

Aaliyah reached out a hand and shook with Tahira.

Neither gave the other any further suspicious looks.

Ulyana felt satisfied with the result.

“Fuckin’ commies.”

Marina swore at the walls of her cell, knowing it could have been much worse.

Knowing she was in the wrong but still wanting to resist.

That had been entire life in a nutshell, she thought. Being wrong; struggling uselessly.

“At least Elena is doing okay, I hope. I didn’t get to teach her much.”

The Union’s solitary confinement cells had a bit of gradient to their level of torment. Depending on the settings that the jailers allowed the prisoner to access, it could be made more or less stressful. It seemed the commies did not have the heart to torture Marina psychologically for weeks, so the cell bed was out and the cushioning was adjusted to actually be comfortable to sleep on. There was a small device on the wall that played a selection of Union songs– most of them annoyed Marina and at first she thought this was one of the punishment rather than comfort settings. Every song had some kind of risible commie seasoning to it. “Love like proletarians,” “the rhythm of the factory floor,” “the collective farm worker’s song,” Marina was quickly sick of it. She did find a few songs that did not have lyrics and manually put these on repeat every so often for stimulation.

Befitting its function, the cell was very small. There was room for her body on the bed, and a bit more room next to it where she could walk up and down along the bed. It made the rooms on the ship feel like luxurious suites in a Stralsund pleasure hotel. While the lights were dim by default her jailers had engaged the cell-mode that allowed Marina to select the color. This was an exercise in doing their work for them and driving herself insane– she could make the interior of the cell a dim purple, a dim green, a dim blue or have it cycle through the rainbow. She would not bother with those settings for too long.

Three meals a day were guaranteed to Marina. Each of them was some kind of reconstituted mush. Buckwheat and oatmeal porridge with apples; potato salad that was more like a vinegary mashed potato; hummus with dried tomatoes, mercifully served with a fresh soft biscuit. Out of everything the biscuit was the most healing thing– Marina had really come to enjoy Minardo’s fresh cooking despite the commie vegetarian food ethos.

A particular source of amusement for Marina was the tool she was given to eat with. All of the commies normally ate using sporks. But Marina was handed a disposable, very thin plastic scoop thing that looked like a tiny coaster. When she asked about the utensil, the Yu girl (as Marina mentally nicknamed Zhu Lian) told her it was an Absolute Safety Utensil. Marina could not cut herself with it, fashion it into a weapon, or even use it to take her own life, since it was easily swallowable by an adult. She could only eat with it.

“Kinda overkill isn’t it? I’m not trying to break out or resist or anything.” Marina said.

“We’re just following protocol.” Zhu Lian said.

Her meals came in through a slot and the plastic safety tray went out through the same slot.

So went her first day of solitary confinement.

Marina had been locked up in the Escatulum for over a decade.

She could handle this much.

Probably the commies also knew this. They just had to do something.

She did not blame them, so she complied with her punishment as much as possible.

Even if she tried anything, those two psychos Ulyana kept around would easily kill her.

Just as Marina was thinking about them, time had passed, and she requested a shower–

And at her door, appeared the autistic blond psycho with the mask, in a security bodysuit.

Along with a full-size AK-pattern assault rifle over her chest, on a shoulder sling.

Marina raised her hands. “Whoa! What the hell are you doing with that?”

Valeriya Peterburg looked down at her rifle as if it was nothing interesting.

“It’s protocol for high security prisoners.”

“Protocol?! It’s protocol that you’ll dome me if I request a shower?!” Marina shouted.

“Lower your voice.” Valeriya said.

It was impossible to gauge emotion from her voice.

She lifted the rifle to show Marina that it had a bright blue colored magazine and barrel.

Indicating that it was a rubber pellet rifle– a less lethal option.

Marina was still incensed.

“Why did they send you? I formally request the Yu girl or the Gallian girl to help me.”

“I am unsure of who you mean.”

Valeriya was nearly whispering and it drove Marina up the wall.

“The other security girls! Don’t act like you don’t know!” She shouted.

Valeriya narrowed her eyes slightly.

“I am required to perform routine security tasks now. I will take you to your shower.”

“I won’t be part of your sensitivity training! I want to talk to the Captain!”

Marina was well aware that this dead-eyed freak and that Illya were both loose cannons.

She wanted nothing to do with either of them. They were dangerous!

Valeriya audibly sighed and stepped back from the door to the cell.

Laying a hand on the underbarrel and trigger guard as prelude to a shooting stance.

“Please follow my instructions or I will have to use force to secure compliance.”

“God damn it! Fine! I will be filing a complaint!”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Valeriya walked Marina to the showers, and waited at the door while Marina doused herself in cold water and grumbled, shooting her venomous looks every so often. She had been secretly hoping she might meet Minardo or Kappel in the showers, but there were only two other occupants: a loud waifish blond girl with a purple dye job and a brown-haired mixed chick with a huge dick arguing about something incomprehensible with her.

Annoyed, Marina showered, got dressed and got out of there as fast as she could.

“I appreciate your cooperation.” Valeriya said on the walk back.

“Fuck you.” Marina replied.

Valeriya silently returned her to her cell, locked her in there and left just the same.

Marina pounded her fist on the wall in a fit of anger.

She immediately regretted doing so.

Then she sat on the bed, holding her hand, and listening to the Union anthem instrumental.

Until some indeterminate amount of time later, there was a knock on the door.

Because the food slot opened, Marina thought it was just meal time.

She sat on the bed waiting. She then saw an eye peeking in through the slot.

“Marina, it’s me, Ulyana. Is it okay to open the door?”

“You’re the boss. You open it whenever you want.” Marina said, surprised to see her.

“Alright. Sorry about Valeriya– Anyway. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

That was unexpected. Wary, Marina said nothing as she stood from her bed.

When the door opened, Ulyana was accompanied by a tall, dark-skinned man.

Someone she had not seen in decades– but across that time she still knew him instantly.

“Burke?!” Marina shouted with surprise. One of her first G.I.A. field agent partners!

“Wait– that voice? Blake McClinton? Is that really you?” Burke responded.

Marina started smiling and the tears just came out without warning.

“It’s Marina McKennedy now. But yeah.” She said. She sniffled. She couldn’t believe it.

“Oh my god! Man– I mean, girl! Holy shit!” Burke was just as taken aback.

Burke and Marina both stepped forward and embraced tightly, laughing together.

“Holy shit! I thought you were gone off the face of Aer!” Burke said.

Running his hands through Marina’s hair and squeezing her closer.

He was tearing up as much as he was laughing. Marina had the same uncontrollable joy.

She pushed herself into him with all her might. Her heart was soaring.

“I thought I was too! Look at you! You look so hard, but you’re still a big softie!”

“That was my charm! You know I can’t afford to lose it! But oh my god! You’re alive!”

They were practically jumping in place. Burke! He was alive! Marina wept profusely.

“Wow! I had no idea you two knew each other closely.” Ulyana said, laughing with them.

“This guy right here was one of the best! One of the fucking best!” Marina shouted.

“Aww come on, I don’t deserve that! God damn though– I’ll accept it!” Burke replied.

Aaliyah stepped in from outside the room, staring at the scene with the tiniest smile.

“Marina, we rescued a Republic ship from the Patrol.” Aaliyah said, into the happy cacophony of Burke and Marina’s reunion. She was barely listening at first, but gradually she and Burke stopped laughing and cheering and let Aaliyah continue speaking. “Since you two are good friends, this might go more smoothly– we are offering to transfer you to Burke’s ship.”

“That’s right.” Burke said. “After you were gone,” he paused for a second, “Marina,” and smiled at getting the name right, “I got caught up in all kinds of mess trying to survive out there. I ended up back on a Republic ship and got caught up in Kitty’s insane plan– similar to you, I hear. It’s a frigate, the ‘John Brown.’ Penal ship actually– but we’re free of that now. We could use your help, Marina. We have a good Captain over there, but she’s seen way less of the Imbrium than us. We need more people to get the crew in order.”

Marina averted her gaze. She stepped back from Burke’s arms. She was conflicted.

She did not know the whole story, but if Burke and this crew were trapped by Kitty–

That was also something Marina was partially responsible for.

After all, she had supported Kitty in doing all of this.

She never even considered that Kitty might be dragging penal ships into this fight too.

All she thought about was rushing to help a fellow G.I.A. agent, despite her lack of merits.

“Burke, I don’t know what they’ve told you.” Marina said. “But it wasn’t the same for me as it was for you. I decided to get wrapped up in Kitty’s plan. I did that, I made that choice myself, nobody coerced me. I helped her to find mercenaries, to get gear, and to refine her plan of attack– that Core Separation would not have happened without me. Or it might have happened, and then Kitty and the entry team would’ve been killed quickly. I don’t know– it’s useless to imagine worlds where I’m not culpable. I was an accomplice to Kitty.”

“Hey, Marina, it’s– I get it– I get it,” Burke said, “G.I.A business is always murky.”

Marina could not meet his eyes again. “Burke, I appreciate it, but this is more than that.”

“Marina, this is a way you can make up for becoming embroiled with Kitty.” Ulyana said.

“We’ve turned over several relevant files to Captain Eithnen Ní Faoláin of the ‘John Brown’ concerning this matter.” Aaliyah said. “And we informed her briefly of what we know of your involvement so she could make her own decision. She was not against taking you on regardless. We’ll amend your sentence here in return for your involvement with the John Brown. They are understaffed, and they lack the real world experience that you have.”

Marina looked at the Captain, Commissar and at Burke. She felt strangely conflicted.

She was never going to be a communist nor agree with their worldviews completely.

Despite how much she hated the Republic for what it did to her, that hate within Marina was a hate for political ideology broadly. Anyone who was proselytizing for any cause made Marina wary. Hell– in her head there was not that much of a difference between the Volkisch Movement and the Union itself except for who was the target of the rhetoric and the resulting violence. Whether or not she was wrong, Marina had fallen into an apolitical centrism she did not want to make any effort to disabuse herself of. Rhetoric was too meaningless for her, she had no hope that any political theory would lead to peace.

Liberty; National Awakening; the Revolution of the Proletariat. It was all the same to her.

Pablum. Excuses for conflicts and power grabs. Liquidating some people, elevating others.

Nevertheless, Marina had come to develop a respect for the commies as people.

Out of everyone she had met, they seemed to actually give a damn about other people.

That core of ethicality, particularly expressed by Ulyana Korabiskaya, gave her some hope.

Whatever she thought of communism, the crew of the Brigand were good folks.

She knew she had burned a bridge with them– and knowing that hurt.

Had she not been so dismissive and truculent she could have befriended them.

There was another way to have done everything she had done– but she fucked it all up.

Nevertheless, they were still here now, offering her more than a bullet to the head.

Staying on the Brigand and ‘serving her sentence’ wouldn’t repair that between them.

However, she was also conflicted about going on a Republic ship too.

As much as she claimed to disdain the ‘commies,’ she did not miss her people much.

No matter what, it would not be easy to leave behind this dumb little ship full of dreams.

“Could I visit Elena every once in a while?” Marina asked suddenly.

“Elena can visit you, Marina.” Ulyana said. “She’s her own person, you know?”

Marina grinned and crossed her arms.

She ran the fingers of one hand through her hair.

Thinking.

“Heh. Right. Ah– whatever. Sure. Send me over there. I’ll straighten them out.” She said.

“Maybe they’ll straighten you out instead. I would strongly prefer that.” Aaliyah said.

Both she and the Captain were smiling in such a surprisingly friendly fashion.

“Welcome aboard, miss. We’re glad to have you. It’ll be like old times, huh?”

Burke extended a hand and he and Marina had a big shake.

Then they knocked elbows together, both grinning.

For Marina, who never believed she would get a second chance let alone a third or fourth, this was an unexpected but happy outcome. She wanted to try to make the best of it; maybe she could do everything over and do it right now on the John Brown. If Burke and his crew also saw something in these people too, then maybe it wasn’t her delusion.

Maybe the commies were actually alright.

After the battle, the first several hours were tense.

It was entirely possible that they could be detected again and pursued.

However, the response from the patrol fleet was surprisingly sluggish and noncommittal.

Once Fatima began to detect the use of active sonar pulse scanning from the enemy, it was far enough away that they could easily disguise themselves as ordinary ocean-going traffic. By forming the John Brown up between the Brigand and Rostock, and towing a camouflage sail to distort the detection picture of the John Brown, they could pretend to be a Cruiser and her support vessels and the patrol fleet was none the wiser– they never picked up the trail and the Volksarmee’s journey to Aachen therefore resumed in earnest.

They were only one day out, so the crew began to think about what they would do there.

Some of the sailors admitted they were sad to only have been sailing for a week. They preferred the rhythms of everyday work at sea and did not want to be stationary.

Most of them were excited about going to another station, however, particularly one that was not so strict as Kreuzung. Brigand sailors had heard stories about Aachen from the Volksarmee sailors on the Rostock. It was a city that had both a rich history and tradition but also had become a hub of modern and idealistic dreams. As far as they knew, Aachen had no enforced racial segregation within the station, so the Shimii, Bosporan and Katarran crew could go out and eat, enjoy the sights and be merry– within the means of their limited stipends. After the Kreuzung adventure, the Brigand was not as rich in its supplies of Imperial Marks as it once was– and Erika Kairos did not have infinite pockets.

Nevertheless, it was the next leg of an adventure that had already proven quite eventful.

“Proven quite eventful,” they could say– because the dangers had been surmounted.

There was still a chance for tragedy, in the back of everyone’s minds.

And one girl who had often been preoccupied with tragedy was Sonya Shalikova.

However, even she was starting to think about what she would do in Aachen.

She started to think she should ask Murati out for drinks or something like that.

That’s how adult coworkers socialized, right? They could go to a bar or a restaurant.

Shalikova felt that she had been silly to avoid Murati. She wanted to get more familiar.

Illya scolded her about building a confident rapport– she needed to overcome that anxiety.

Her plans depended on what the Captain needed them to do in Aachen, of course.

But if they had some free time– maybe she could get Murati alone and have a chat.

Thinking idly this way, Shalikova took the elevator back up to the upper tier. She had been in the hangar, helping to put the simulators back up. They had been uninstalled during the retrofit and they left putting them up for last. After the ship left Kreuzung, they were extremely busy integrating with the Volksarmee, running the protocol and inventory rationalizations, and in addition, the hangar was messy with additional Divers and parts.

With everything cleaned up and sorted out after the last battle, the sailors wanted to reinstall the simulators again as a token of their appreciation for the pilots. Valya and Shalikova assisted in getting the default scenarios and features set up again.

Now she was returning to her room– where there was a curious lack of cuttlefish.

“That’s weird. Maryam usually waits right here, or follows me around.”

She had not seen Maryam in a while– but she felt immediately silly about her fear.

“Oh come on. Maryam isn’t attached to me by a chain, she can go anywhere she wants.”

Wasn’t this a good sign too? Maryam could not become too dependent on Shalikova.

At any point, Shalikova could die out at sea. Maryam had to be resilient and find her own place on the Brigand in case that happened. Whatever she was doing, in her head Shalikova now completely endorsed it. Some part of her feared that Maryam was bothering people, because she heard a story about her badgering the sandwich cart guy a few times during battles– but bothering other people was all part of a healthy social life wasn’t it?

People naturally created friction right?

“Why am I so focused on this? Who cares. Maryam sleeps here. She’ll be back.”

This must have been part of being someone’s girlfriend– missing her when she’s gone.

Rationalizing away her silly fears by talking to herself at the door to her room.

And then accepting that she will return– that was what love was, wasn’t it?

“I need to lie down. I’m starting to annoy myself now. I must be more tired than I thought.”

Shalikova shook her head and walked into the room, the door shutting behind her.

Taking off her jacket and unbuttoning her shirt, she laid down on her bed.

Immediately grabbing and hugging her bear, Comrade Fuzzy, close to her chest.

She tried to empty her head, and in the course of this, she finally fell asleep.

Dreaming of nothing but raging and swirling colors of an incomprehensible nature.

For an amount of time indeterminate to her Shalikova slept, until a ‘wah!’ sound woke her.

Slowly, she opened her eyes to her gaze meeting a certain cuttlefish woman’s own.

Green W-shape pupils close to her own. A big, delighted smile.

Shalikova raised her hand blearily and poked Maryam in her nose.

“What are you doing so close? I almost jumped.”

“You just look so cute when you’re sleepy Sonya! And you didn’t jump!”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t– that means you’re more comfy with me now!”

Shalikova grunted and pushed herself up to a sitting position.

She hugged Comrade Fuzzy tighter.

“I guess that’s true.” Shalikova smiled, just a bit, at Maryam. “What have you been up to?”

Maryam crossed hear arms, stood up straighter and wore a smug little grin.

“Sonya, I’m very important and high in demand you know. I’m a real cuttleformant–”

“You were telling the captain what you knew about Eisental. Okay. Makes sense.”

Shalikova stared inexpressively and Maryam briefly lost her haughty façade.

“Um, I mean– yeah– but I had lots of juicy info on the Katarran hot spots here!”

“I’m glad. So what’s around here anyway?”

Maryam sat down on the bed across from Shalikova’s with a disinterested expression.

“Not a lot around here precisely, actually, but there’s Trelleborg farther north. It’s like a station made out of a bunch of ships docked together.” Maryam spread her arms wide in a gesture attempting to convey the size of Trelleborg. “To get into Trelleborg, you have to get in good with a ‘Host’ who has a bigger ship connected directly to the primary tower, the Trelleborg Bazaar. Every other ship is connected to a Host’s ship. The Hosts were there first– they’re the big movers and shakers there. The Bazaar is strictly business– nobody is allowed to control it completely. There’s strict hours of business and everyone agrees to be out of the Trelleborg Bazaar and back onto a docked ship by ‘night time’.”

“Wow, that’s pretty wild. I’m sure people violate that decree a hell of a lot don’t they?”

“Yep, they call it honor among thieves. People get sent into the Bazaar at night to lay bugs or traps or try to sabotage competitors. But if you get caught, your gang must disavow you.”

“How do you get caught if nobody’s supposed to be there? Who would be watching?”

Maryam smiled. Her head fins flapped. “The underworld has a lot of complexities, Sonya.”

Shalikova grinned. “You’re making stuff up aren’t you? You fibbed yourself into a corner.”

“Hmph! Hmph!! I do know! I’ve been there you know! It was a leg on my big journey!”

Maryam puffed her cheeks up and went red, prompting Shalikova to stop teasing her.

“Alright, of course,” Shalikova laughed, mollifying her girlfriend. “Hey, Maryam, there’s a few days still to Aachen and we’ve gone down to stable alert again– is there anything you would like to do? I don’t really have any work; might not even have any work when we get there.”

“Sonya! I do!” Maryam turned purple and her skin became brighter and shinier. “I want to watch more films! I was fascinated by the one the crew put on a few days ago! I want you to show me your favorite films! Or television! We didn’t really have any of that where I was growing up! I want to know all about the pictures that Sonya really likes!”

“Not even TV? I would have thought they would at least play some propaganda stuff.”

“Screens were primarily a military tool for Athena. Maybe there were some pictures and I never got to see any– I was pretty busy with the maps and junk, you know?”

“I see.”

Shalikova thought about what her favorite movies and shows were.

Her face turned a little red. Surely she could not actually say what she was thinking.

“Sonya, you’re going all blushy and bashful! Now I’m super curious!”

Maryam leaned forward with a mischievous expression.

Shalikova leaned back against the wall.

“You know I wasn’t a big movie watcher. There’s really nothing–”

“Sonya, no fibbing from you either! You have to tell me or I will keep bugging you.”

Making good on her threat, Maryam went as far as to sit beside Shalikova and poke at her.

Rubbing her soft purple cheeks against Shalikova’s face like a needy cat.

“You have to promise not to make fun of me. You have to swear on your very soul.”

Shalikova was being completely serious when she said this.

“Of course, Sonya! If it’s important to you, I will stop teasing. I promise.”

Sighing, Shalikova brought up a computer window on the opposite wall.

Side by side in bed, she and Maryam navigated through the ship’s media library. There were many search parameters that could be employed to narrow down the films and television available for the crew. Shalikova sorted by “Union State-funded,” and then “Commissariat of Education,” then “Political Programs” (propaganda) and finally, chose–

–“Children’s Media.”

Within this category there were only a few libraries.

Maryam’s eyes lit up as Shalikova selected the library for “Comrade Company.”

“It’s a kid’s show.” Shalikova said, hiding behind Comrade Fuzzy. “It’s a kid’s show about these little animals who learn stuff about the Union. You have to promise you won’t laugh or I will never show it to you. If you laugh at me I’m going to throw stuff at you. I’m serious.”

Shalikova’s voice was practically trembling. She felt incredibly pathetic.

“No, Sonya! It’s wonderful! Please show it to me!” Maryam said.

Sighing, Shalikova played a random episode for Maryam.

Comrade Company was an eclectic mix of presentation styles– depending on the segment the Comrades could be puppets, or they could be cartoons, or they could be stop motion clay or foil papercrafts, usually in real life settings. There were three comrades– a cat, a dog, and a bird. They always went to different places in the Union and they always had a “friend” from the specific place who helped them to understand it better. When they visited the farms in Lyser, they had a hydroponics engineer with them; when they visited the Sevastopol shipyard there was a Chief Mechanic; when they visited the Academy there was a teacher.

They would sing songs, or play educational games or get quizzed on things that they learned– in such cases they would turn to the audience to ask them for assistance.

Each comrade had their own personality. Comrade Growly, the cat, was always a bit of a skeptic and know-it-all but learned valuable lessons in trusting others and being curious; Comrade Barky, the dog, had an enormous imagination and often learned about how real things differed from their exaggerated expectations; Comrade Chirpy, the bird, was usually goofing off, and learned that the work being done by the episode’s designated Friend was very important, and learned to respect the hard work they did for the country.

At the end of each episode the Comrades would be seen with a Commissar who checked up on them and made sure everything was okay and that they were happy with their adventure. Unlike the Friends who rotated in and out, the Commissar was something like the adult in their lives who was in the background taking care of them so they could have fun and learn things. They always wore an embellished Ashura uniform. A distant but loving figure, much like the parents of a lot of Union children would be. Or a facsimile of a parent, since many Union children grew up without them and did not know such a relationship.

Shalikova was one such child who had grown up without any parents.

She had her sister Zasha, and her friends Illya and Valeriya too, but they were usually busy.

In the Union, the state spent the most time with children.

Through teachers; through caretakers, pediatricians; and through storytelling.

For her and her old roommate Klob, the Comrades were invaluable friends every day.

They showed Shalikova the world and taught her to grow up to be respectful and dutiful.

“Wow! Sonya! What an amazingly cute show!” Maryam started clapping cheerfully.

Shalikova was lucky that Maryam was a bit of a kid inside still.

So she could appreciate the show even after all she had been through.

Meanwhile, Shalikova had to avert her gaze a few times as they watched the episode.

Not as much anymore because she was embarrassed to love something so cutesy.

Rather, watching something so care-free and childish hurt her adult heart a bit.

She found herself with tears in her eyes and hugging her bear ever tighter.

After all she had done with her life– was this ridiculous?

Was it a big joke for a soldier to love this cute, silly harmless thing?

“Sonya, why are you crying? I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have been so bossy!” Maryam said.

“It’s not you.” Shalikova said. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“Oh no, is the show bringing up bad childhood memories?”

“My childhood was fine.” Shalikova said. “It’s my adulthood that kind of sucks.”

“I understand.” Maryam said. “But Sonya, as an adult, you have a lot of freedoms to do things that kids don’t. One of those freedoms is you can always choose to keep feeling like a kid. It’s okay to watch cute shows and have a stuffed bear– nobody can tell you different!”

Maryam only half-understood the pain Shalikova felt at that moment.

However, the solidarity was enough to patch up Shalikova’s broken heart just a bit more.

Enough that she could stop crying, at least.

And think a bit more clearly again.

Just like Zasha– as an adult, Shalikova had chosen to fight. She had chosen it.

So some other kids could get to grow up with her favorite cartoon.

Maybe someday she could sit down and truly enjoy it again.

“Thank you, Maryam. Do you want to see any more?” Shalikova asked.

“Not if it’s going to make you cry.” Maryam said. “I don’t want you to feel bad.”

She was so gentle– Shalikova felt like she might cry again, but because of Maryam’s love.

“No, I’ll be fine. If you want, you can even tease me for it.”

“Never! Sonya liking cute things is something I deeply respect!”

Maryam looked down at Comrade Fuzzy for a moment and then back at the screen.

“You noticed?” Shalikova said. She held up Comrade Fuzzy and offered it to Maryam.

Surprised, Maryam gently picked up Comrade Fuzzy and hugged it as Shalikova had been.

“Comrade Fuzzy was my ‘Comrade’.” Shalikova said. “I learned to sew to make him.”

“That’s so cool, Sonya.” Maryam said. “What is he like? Did you give him a story?”

“I think he’s a grumpy guts like me, and he learns to lighten up.” Shalikova said.

“I want to make my own Comrade! Can you teach me sometime, Sonya?” Maryam asked.

“Of course. I don’t know when we’ll get sewing supplies, but I’m happy to teach you.”

Maryam’s smile was like the sun that Shalikova would otherwise never see.

She raised her arms and threw them around Maryam, pulling her in close.

Perhaps they made an odd pair, and the circumstances of their romance were tenuous.

But Shalikova loved her so much. She truly loved every second of her presence.

Without Maryam, Shalikova felt that perhaps, her life would have ended in Goryk.

Selene Anahid would have crushed her, because she had not learned how to live.

Maryam helped her to see the value in her own life. She had been through so much hardship and abandoned everything she once knew– but she continued to smile and laugh.

Shalikova wanted to live, just like her.

Not as a martyr making up for her own existence– but as a person who wanted to exist.

A person who could live and be happy.

Even when it hurt.

“Maryam, if something were to happen to me– take care of Comrade Fuzzy.”

She had been wanting to say something different– but that was what came out of her lips.

Maryam seemed to get the message even in code.

Returning Shalikova’s embrace as tightly as it had been given.

“Of course, Sonya. But I know you’re much more resilient than you think.”

“Thank you Maryam. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Shalikova started weeping into Maryam’s shoulder.

While Maryam continued to smile and shower her in her kind and gentle affection.

“There we go. You’re so much more stable now!”

Homa held Kalika’s hands tightly as they walked together up and down the medbay.

Without fanfare, after a few rounds, Kalika softened her hold on Homa’s hands.

“I will let go until the wall, okay? But I’m still here, and I can still support you.”

Homa watched Kalika’s fingers slowly let go of her hands.

She did not fall and tumble forward; nor did Kalika disappear from her sight instantly.

For several paces, Homa walked unassisted.

Her gait was not the most collected and elegant, but she was stable and steady.

At the far end of the medbay, Kalika gave Homa room to walk to the wall.

Homa walked past, put her hand on the wall, and turned herself around on her own power.

She started walking by herself back to Kalika’s side.

“Are you feeling okay? No soreness in your legs? Feet don’t feel slippery?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Want to take my hands again?”

Homa shook her head.

“Let me see if I can get to the other end.” She said.

Kalika nodded her acknowledgment and let her walk past.

Watching cautiously, shadowing Homa as she tried to walk to the opposite wall.

Step by careful step, still dealing with the slight difference in weight of her new limb.

With the wall coming closer and closer in sight, Homa felt her heart rise.

She stretched out her arm to touch the opposing wall–

and inadvertently crossed one foot with the other.

Before she could fall, a pair of hands took hold of her and kept her up.

“You’re doing amazing, Homa!” Kalika cheered, ignoring the fall.

Homa did not grumble or get depressed at the fall.

She sighed to herself and felt a little embarrassed but she recognized her own progress.

A week ago she thought she might never move under her own power again.

Now she was so close to walking by herself. Dr. Kappel and Kalika had been right.

Making progress with walking buoyed her heart, even though she still had a lot to think about. All the things she had been through felt easier to stomach if at the end of it she could still walk and feed herself and regain some kind of power over her own life.

She could eat with utensils in both hands now, or hold a drink while she had a spork in the other; when she went to shower, she could walk along with Kalika, balancing herself on the wall or holding Kalika’s hand if she got too unbalanced; and she had gotten to know a bit more of the ship. Kalika took her to the cafeteria and the social space.

Now as she sat on the edge of her bed in the medbay, everything felt closer to a resolution.

Or at least, to the next step in her journey.

Nobody forced her to do anything; but Homa felt a mounting pressure to make a choice.

A pressure she exerted upon herself. Wary of her caretakers; unsure of her future.

“Kalika, you’re a mercenary, right?” Homa asked.

“Oh? What’s this about?” Kalika looked amused. “Well. It’s more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s more complicated’? Are they paying you or not?”

Kalika laughed a bit. “Theoretically. Perhaps I’m more of a consultant on retainer.”

Homa frowned. “Don’t be coy with me! Is someone paying you to take care of me?”

“I feel like you’ve concocted ten different ways to ask this by now.” Kalika said. “Technically I am supposed to be paid for everything I am doing. But if I asked Erika for every pfennig she would become insolvent. Having a self-sufficient crew who looks out for each other is its own reward. As for you, I already told you a million times, I am just being nice to you.”

“I’m sorry you’re so fed up of me asking questions. Maybe I’ll stop.” Homa grumbled.

“What if I said you’ve really helped me work on my patience? Would you accept that?”

Kalika smiled. Homa averted her gaze, not appreciating the humor one bit.

“Are you afraid that if they stop paying me I’ll just ditch you immediately?” Kalika asked.

Homa continued looking the other way and did not answer her immediately.

“Haven’t I earned a little bit more trust than that?” Kalika asked again.

“Kalika, I don’t know anything about you other than you’re nice to me for no reason.”

“But I already told you my reasons so many times.”

“Okay?”

“It’s because you’re so cute, you know?”

“Stop it. I’m being serious.”

“Alright. Let’s talk about me then. Are you curious about the mercenary life?”

Kalika moved from the wall to take a seat right beside Homa on the bed.

Homa’s small tail stood on end and her ears lifted with surprise.

She mustered the willpower not to meet Kalika’s eyes.

“Maybe I am. I don’t know what’s going to become of me with all of you scoundrels.”

“Weighing your options?”

“Maybe I am!”

“Then I can be your career counselor for the mercenary life. How about it?”

No answer from Homa.

“If you’re curious about being a Volkisch informant, I can find a counselor for that too.”

Homa snapped right around to lock eyes with Kalika in a sudden outburst.

“Kalika! I was just mad that day– I didn’t actually mean that, come on!”

Kalika poked Homa’s nose with a long index finger of her biological hand.

“Ugh! Don’t treat me like a little kid! You’re just pissing me off!”

“I’m just substantiating my claim– I’m helping you because you’re so cute.”

“Kalika!”

THIS WOMAN–!

Perhaps knowing she was pushing her luck, Kalika allowed Homa to stew a few minutes. Homa was annoyed, but she was also experiencing a conflicting emotion. She wanted to actually believe Kalika’s teasing because she truly did not want Kalika to abandon her as soon as she job was done and Homa was able to be independent again.

Homa felt that it was stupid to feel so attached to Kalika, whom she did not know and who was assisting her on a condition of pity for her health. In the dire situation she found herself in, where she was on a fighting ship that was antagonizing the governing faction in Rhinea, Homa had to think carefully about whether to leave or stay aboard. However, even knowing this rationally, she still wanted to stay with Kalika. She was– curious– about her.

She also knew all of her fantasies would be difficult to fulfill.

Could she even keep up with Kalika at all? If she stayed, wouldn’t they still be separated?

Homa was useless in a fight and only barely an adult.

Kalika was a dashing mercenary.

She was older, more experienced, and lived for danger.

Their worlds had briefly collided– but staying on the ship did not guarantee anything.

However, leaving the ship meant leaving her behind for good.

Never seeing her again. Foreclosing on the possibility.

Not only Kalika either. Dr. Kappel, to whom she owed so much for her care.

Captain Korabiskaya too, who had taken her aboard without reservation.

And the pilots who saved her after Nasser had parried her childish retaliation so easily.

When she thought about it, she owed the entire crew so much.

Even if she had selfish reasons to stay; she also had accepted too many people’s kindness.

Homa did not believe in free things and charity– she felt pressured to repay them.

“I’m leaning toward staying aboard.” Homa said suddenly.

“Oh! I’m happy to hear that. I was worried you wouldn’t be safe by yourself.”

“I can take care of myself– I’ve always lived alone. I just want to repay all of you.”

“I understand. Look, it’s not that I don’t have faith in you. I want you to know that.” Kalika said. She looked at the wall and seemed to turn suddenly wistful. “But it’s so difficult to be turned out without a home. Especially in a tumultuous era like this. I kept thinking: could you have found a job to sustain yourself? Could you have formed a new support system so you wouldn’t be lonely and could turn to someone for help if you were hurt or exploited? Being ripped from everything you knew is terrifying. I know what that is like. But the people on this ship are good-natured. Having this community might be good for you.”

Kalika reached out and rubbed Homa’s shoulder.

“Community, huh?” Homa said, in a low voice meant mostly for herself.

“Something you can lose; but also something that spurs you to protect it.”

She sounded melancholy. Homa recalled that Kalika felt kinship with Homa’s struggles.

That she had fought for something with all her strength and lost it.

Kalika told her in the shower, when she was vulnerable. She had not forgotten it.

“Kalika, can you tell me more about yourself? How did you end up here?” Homa asked.

“I did say I would talk about myself.” Kalika said.

Then she dropped back onto the same bed as Homa, lying with her hands behind her head.

Crossing one leg over the other knee. Homa tried not to gaze in an untoward fashion.

After a few moments, Homa decided to just lay down next to Kalika too.

“You know how Katarrans come into the world, Homa? Most Katarrans are actually infertile.” Kalika began. Homa vaguely knew about this but stayed silent and let Kalika speak. “We are grown in artificial wombs. Katarran sperm and eggs are often incapable of conceiving even when collected and manipulated under the strictest conditions– but there is a technique that introduces outside material from a fertile animal, and uses chemicals to create a life in the vat. That’s how Katarrans come to be, overwhelmingly. I was no different.”

Gazing up at the ceiling as if to a place very far away.

“Kalika Loukia– was made in an Embryo Farm in Northeastern Katarre, territory of the Pythian Black Legion. Most Katarran warlord states barely have structure. They consist of armies that commandeer a region for their own benefit. Pythia was exactly that. A bunch of might-makes-right nihilists who declare their extortionism to be survival of the fittest playing out. They believe the world is drawing closer to an apocalyptic conflict between all nations and peoples, and that they must amass strength to win this battle.”

“That sounds horrifying.” Homa said. “How did you escape from there?”

“Like a lot of Katarrans in the border with the Imbrium: I was part of a raiding ship and it got knocked out in the Imbrium. I was lucky to be captured by Bureni nationalist insurgents.”

“I don’t know that I’d call sinking and being caught lucky.” Homa said.

Kalika laughed. “If I had been caught by the Imperial Navy, I would have been killed or jailed, Homa. But the Bureni insurgents were just defending one of their hideouts– they knew that Katarran youth had a hard time and did not blame the survivors for the incursion. They killed our officers and set us free. Some of the other crew joined the Bureni nationalists even. I trained there for a time, but I went my own way after that– that’s how I started my career. In the Imbrium you hear all kinds of stories abouts Katarrans who make their own way in the underworld. Amassing riches, building their own crew, and forging their legend. Even among the outcasts in Buren I could not escape the allure of the Katarran fantasy.”

She turned her head aside to try to meet Homa’s eyes, but Homa was staring at the ceiling.

When she realized it, Homa tried to suppress her embarrassment and turned to look at her.

Meeting her eyes and trying not to feel nervous as her glossy red lips moved.

“Can you predict how that went, Homa?” Kalika said.

“I assume it went fine, since you’re here?” Homa said.

“Well, I am alive, but did I forge a legend? The reality is that mercenaries don’t become legendary, Homa. A legend is just a tall tale– Katarrans just get used and abused. Whether we exploit each other, or get used by the Imbrians, it makes no difference. A mercenary doesn’t actually work for herself. She is just a vagrant with a story she tells to herself. She is a slave whose chains are invisible. We are inexorably outlawed from decent society. From town to town, job to job, all that changes is how bad the racism gets, and how developed the parallel structures of the underworld are. I learned that the hard way.”

“Kreuzung was particularly racist.” Homa said. “I barely ever saw Katarrans around.”

“Right. In Kreuzung, I could dare to walk around the same streets as Imbrians, getting dirty looks– but if a cop saw me they might ask for an ID I don’t have and can’t get, so I have to be careful. Businesses will reject my patronage arbitrarily. Sometimes a place will take my money, sometimes it won’t. I could never get a legitimate room, and I could only work a job under the table, without legal protections. If I do not relish being an undocumented migrant worker my only alternative is the underworld, in the darkest corners of a station that have not seen civil use in forever. Down there if we learn the ropes nobody will teach us, we can smuggle goods, play the black market, push drugs, or kill people. Maybe you can open a shop or a bar for other bastards to enjoy, if you can pay protection money and get goods. Most Katarrans will just die– never taught how to live, and then exploited and killed.”

A grim story, but one that made sense to Homa, once it was laid out in detail.

Homa figured that Kalika must have somehow learned how to survive in the underworld.

All the specifics she did not go into– were the things she had to do to live.

She wondered how many Katarrans fled to the Imbrium only to find this kind of life there.

And then to die without being known by anyone, or missed by anyone.

“Again, I was pretty lucky– before I could get into too much shit, I was rescued again.”

Lying on their sides on the bed, facing each other– Homa could barely meet Kalika’s eyes.

She was too embarrassed to see her smile. Kalika was just– too pretty–

“My path crossed that of a Shimii legend– Radu the Marzban.” Kalika said.

Homa tried to hide the surprise that came over her upon hearing that name.

Her heart skipped a beat. All manner of emotions began to flutter in her chest and gut.

Homa in that moment was so afraid she might have to talk about her own connection.

Had Kalika seen it in her? She did not change her expression nor how she told the story.

“I became part of a Shimii village for years. It was a Mahdist group, actually, at the bottom of one of the towers of Holstein.” Kalika continued. “I learned to do all kinds of things there– things other than killing. I also got to refine my craft as a fighter too– I picked things up here and there from every place. There are too many stories to tell from there. How do you sum it up? That place– it’s where I learned what a community was. People taking care of each other. Grocers who saw you were hungry would give you a snack. You could go to the Masjid and learn to read. They had so much hospitality even for unruly Katarran teenagers.”

Kalika shut her eyes and sighed. Her expression darkened.

“Eventually, though– well, I think you’ve heard my insinuations about it already.”

“That community was destroyed, wasn’t it? And you couldn’t save it.”

Homa said it bluntly, but she was repeating what Kalika had said in the shower.

Kalika did not look offended by it.

“That’s right.” She said. “You understand– that is why I relate to you a lot.”

Homa felt a sudden swell of shame and embarrassment and she wanted to say–

“I am not like you. You fought for something real– I was just being stupid and naive.”

But she remained quiet. She did not want to sound so pathetic in front of Kalika.

And it was Kalika’s story to tell– if she thought it sounded like Homa’s, so be it.

“Anyway, I used what I learned and became a real mercenary in Rhinea. I knew the rules and I told myself I knew how the world worked. For a while, I had no hope in anything anymore. I’d take any job, no matter how bad. I developed a reputation for being particularly professional, because I had no pretensions anymore. I was fully immersed in the life. It was a dark time for me. To this day– it still feels weird that I’m alive, after all of that. I can still feel that hopelessness and listlessness. That kind of thing will keep haunting you, I’m afraid.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. You’ve been really kind to me.” Homa said.

“You’ve been seeing a particularly nice side of me.” Kalika winked. “I can be kinda awful. I know that my crew thinks I am cynical and faithless and pretentious. I probably am.”

Kalika turned on the bed again, lying on her back once more and staring at the ceiling.

She reached her mechanical hand up and flexed her fingers, blocking out the ceiling LEDs.

“I ended up here– because I took on a contract to kill a foolish merc named Erika Kairos.”

Homa blinked. She was confused. That was the big boss everyone here worked for.

“So perhaps they have reason to be wary. But– I’m here because despite all the things I stopped believing in, I started believing that woman.” Kalika added, laughing a bit.

She then outstretched a hand and laid it on Homa’s ears, stroking them suddenly.

“Now that you know– I hope you’ll excuse my rougher edges if you see them.”

Even before hearing all that– Homa could have never stayed mad at Kalika too long.

Now that she knew though, her heart positively fluttered with admiration for her.

To have survived so much, gotten stronger and continued smiling.

Could Homa do something like that? How alike were the two of them really?

As she lay beside her in that bed, staring up at the ceiling together.

Homa wondered. Whether she could follow her.

“It’s so disgraceful how you will come all the way here to be able to drink.”

There was a voice coming from behind her that she did not want to acknowledge.

So Khadija simply lifted the can of corn beer to her lips and took a deep drink from it.

“It’s not illegal here, that’s why I came here to drink. It’s not grape wine, so who cares?”

“Yes, the selective readings of fringe scholars are very convenient to you, I know.”

“What’s one mortal man’s reading of scripture over another’s worth?”

“You become such a philosopher exclusively when it’s time to justify your vices.”

Khadija looked over her shoulder. It was impossible not to identify her accuser already.

There was a blond woman behind her, with a stern expression, and a very bushy tail.

Younger than her. Less makeup. Fluffy ears. Still pretty, in an annoying fashion.

And all the pretentious little ornaments on her uniform. Her stupid little beret.

Milana Omarova, the vozhd of the Shimii troops in the Union.

She had followed Khadija all the way from New Karach to a neighboring sub-station some thirty kilometers away, Sarai sub-station. A dock for patrol frigates, housing a search and rescue team and a few repair facilities, responsible for supporting the endurance of patrol missions on the southern border. It also had an officer’s lounge that was stocked with beer and every so often a cute younger officer would show up for her to wink at and tease.

Owing to the vozhd’s reign of moral terror in New Karach, alcohol was banned there.

However, Sarai was secular, run by nice communist Volgians who liked to drink.

Thankfully for Khadija’s vibe as the friendly, mature beauty of Sarai, the station was usually somewhat empty and so while she was sitting down at the lounge, there was nobody to see her get scolded by Milana Omarova. It was just her, the machine that spat out beer cans, and four baby-blue walls and a couple of tables. She had been hoping some sweetie would come in from a patrol frigate but instead, it was her “younger sister” Milana being a nag.

An utter waste!

“I don’t want to argue with you. What do you want?” Khadija said.

At that point, Milana sat down next to her.

Khadija did not meet her eyes. She continued drinking.

“You’re wasting your life here, elder sister, when our kin need you.” Milana said.

“I’m doing perfectly fine. I recently won a big battle even– what did you do then, hmm?”

“I did as I was ordered. You didn’t waste a second going back to drink, rather than see me.”

“Oh I wonder why that is. I wonder why I tarried in receiving my weekly scolding.”

Milana narrowed her eyes. “Come to New Karach and train my troops. I need you there.”

Khadija burst out laughing. She almost spat out her beer at her idiot sister’s face.

“Are you insane? I’d rather fight battles of Thassal for a year. No! Fuck no!”

Milana put on a more serious expression– a differently serious expression.

Even nearly drunk, Khadija could see the shift in her eyes and lips.

“Nagavanshi is summoning you back to Thassal, to send you to the Imbrium.” Milana said.

“Indeed. A glorious mission isn’t it? I’m a very important person.” Khadija said.

“You’re a big-headed person.” Milana said. “Say no. I’ll protect you. Khadija, it’s suicide.”

“Again, you must be out of your damn mind. I’d truly rather die than work for you.”

“Khadija, you’re clearly at a dead end in life and trying to destroy yourself. I can see it.”

Khadija put down the can of beer. Her chest constricted. The tips of her fingers tensed.

“You’re getting far too free with your criticisms, little sister. You should know your place.”

To Khadija she was just a bitchy little sister– she was not the vozhd of shit to her.

Despite this, Milana did not act offended at the discourtesy, like she did to her underlings.

“I’m not wrong.” Milana said. “It was a stroke of luck for you that you were even near Thassal to be deployed to our first battle in decades. Otherwise, you would have kept drinking and debasing yourself in whatever hole, doing nothing with yourself. I can’t accept that.”

“I repeat. I don’t care what you think. But I am not tolerating your disrespect any longer.”

“Come back with me.” Milana insisted. “Train our people to survive like you did! Don’t just let Nagavanshi throw you out like garbage! And don’t treat yourself like garbage either!”

Khadija practically pounced on Milana right there and then.

Both falling from their chairs, Khadija on top of Milana, squeezing the collar of her clothes.

Before she could even think of striking, however, she felt the air go out of her.

Milana struck her in the stomach, and got out from under her in a quick, fluid motion.

Now suddenly, Khadija had her face to the ground and Milana on top of her back.

There was no arm twist, no knee to her neck, no kicks– just as quickly, Milana let her go. Stepping back from her quickly, in case she retaliated, as their father trained them. Except Khadija did not keep fighting. She remained on the floor, out of breath and utterly ashamed.

“Do whatever you want.” Milana said. “On father’s birthday, I’ll visit him for you too.”

Her voice sounded so mournful. Stupid girl; if only she understood Khadija at all.

Maybe then they wouldn’t stubbornly hate each other so much despite everything–

Suddenly, the walls of the lounge stretched and warped– Milana’s voice reverberated–

Khadija opened her eyes. Light became as if particulate matter viewed through the thin film of tears that had formed between her eyelids as she slept. She wiped her eyes vigorously, casting troubled glances across her space. She was not back in the Union. She was on the Brigand. She had just been taking a nap. Her emotions were turbulent as she rose. Khadija was fed up with the past. And of all the things to remember– but she had already proven wrong Milana’s disdainful appraisal. Her story was still being written.

She was living her own way. Her life was not wasted.

Whether Milana respected that or not was her own prerogative.

Nothing to do with Khadija.

Just as she began to look around the dim room, everything lit up a sudden blue.

On the door, a picture of a soft-faced, tall woman with a lot of long, blond hair appeared.

She was requesting entry into the room, and the blue computer window was rather bright.

“Khadija, are you decent? Can I come in?” asked Sieglinde Castille.

Khadija averted her gaze. “We’re not children, just come in.”

Sieglinde walked inside, briefly looked at Khadija’s bed and quickly looked away.

Lounging in a tanktop and briefs, Khadija smiled wryly at the eros she had provoked.

“Another productive day of being a sailor?” Khadija asked.

Two meters away, Sieglinde zipped down a gray jumpsuit she had been wearing.

She pulled it off her wide shoulders and laid it on her bed.

“I’m just pushing things and picking things up. Their job is so complex, I had no idea what they go through.” Sieglinde said. She sat down on her bed, facing Khadija. For the first time since she walked in Khadija could see the smile on her face. “I don’t have any of the skills they do, but I’m glad I can do anything to help. Have you ever thought about it, Khadija? All the while, a hundred sailors are doing so much for all of us, and we barely interact with them.”

“No, I’ve never concerned myself with it. They have their role to play and I have mine.” Khadija said. “Some of them will work in the navy for years, rack up a ton of promotions, and end up running a whole supply depot or managing a shipyard team or doing all kinds of things that are more stimulating than this. And some of them do just want to fix leaks for a while, leave the army, and go do something else with the skills they picked up. They’ll work on a nice station, show up for labor union meetings, all that. None of them are just going to do manual labor on this ship forever. They’ll be fine– as for me, I have a different set of expectations. I can rest up here because I’ll be going out to die someday.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Sieglinde said. “How did you get this wise?”

“I’m not wise.” Khadija grumbled. “I’ve just been around a while.”

“I haven’t been around as long as you, but I still feel like just a stupid kid at 36.”

“Your problem is you’re a brooding wreck with zero confidence in yourself.”

“I can’t deny that. But it’s hard not to second-guess myself. I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“Quit navelgazing already. It’s so fucking boring.”

“Fine.” Sieglinde sighed.

“Do you want to become a sailor?” Khadija asked.

Sieglinde paused for a moment. “I don’t see a future for myself in that.”

“Well, what do you see in your future? Anything?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Tell me.”

“I will keep it to myself for now.”

“I see. Thinking about becoming a Reform National Socialist?”

“What is that supposed to mean? Don’t even joke about that.” Sieglinde said seriously.

Khadija cracked a little grin, laid back with her hands behind her head.

“The Imbrian Empire was corrupt and oppressive, of that there is no doubt.” Sieglinde said, speaking over the silence that Khadija had left. “But the Volkisch Movement have no pretense that they even want to institute a rule of law. All they want is the power to kill with impunity. I’ve see first-hand what that unholy mob wants to do to the Imbrium.”

“I appreciate your candor, but you’re looking at a victim of slavery.” Khadija said. Sieglinde’s eyes drew wide and she went quiet. She looked immediately ashamed of herself. Khadija turned in bed, shifting her body to look at Sieglinde directly. “It was not any part of the Volkisch Movement who rounded up hundreds of thousands of Shimii to put to hard labor in the colonies. Scores of us died before we had an opportunity to rebel. Those of us who survived did so watching the sick and old fall around us. That was before the time of these Lehners that run Rhinea now. Perhaps they picked this up from somewhere?”

“I’m sorry.” Sieglinde said.

“Ugh. Stop that. I don’t want you to be sorry.”

Khadija turned around her again, this time putting her back and her tail to Sieglinde.

There was a long and awkward silence between them.

Such was its length, Khadija thought she would fall asleep again waiting.

“Khadija, I’ll tell you something about myself if you’ll allow me to ask you a question.”

“Finally you’re done moping? Sure. Whatever. Tell me about the Volkisch and you.”

“Alright.” Sieglinde said. “Six years ago, a student movement broke out in Bosporus duchy over censored works. However, a loose-cannon High Inquisitor, Brauchitsch ended up escalating the conflict. It soon spread across three stations, and outside of just students.”

“That sounds about right for Bosporus.” Khadija said, laughing a little again.

Sieglinde continued. “Brauchitsch thought he could just beat everyone into submission. For all her faults even Lichtenberg was not such a meathead as he was. He fanned the flames of the violence and then retreated like a coward, giving poor direction to the police who just continued fighting like fools. It started turning into a full-on revolt very quickly. Protestors fashioned improvised weapons and shields to defend themselves. There was bleeding and bruises and a few vehicles got torched but nobody had been killed– yet.”

Khadija turned back around, to see Sieglinde’s sullen face. She looked– haunted.

“But then– there was a sudden turn in the street violence. Within the riot, a group of the Volkisch’s militia had begun to go after activists. They were armed with military weapons and were organizing raids on places where activists took shelter. Even Brauchitsch did not sanction assassinations to deal with the mess. But the Volkisch were. They went after Južni and Eloim groups first, and then went after Vekans, and then the anarchist-leaning groups. For them the breakdown in order was an opportunity to kill undesirables.”

“Obviously I agree with you that the fascists are bastards.” Khadija said. “But have you considered how convenient that situation must have been for the police? The Volkisch volunteered to suppress the activists. Tell me– did the authorities do anything?”

“There were arrests.” Sieglinde said. “But you’re right– certainly not enough.”

“Arrests in that scenario are totally meaningless, the murders already had their effect.”

“You’re right.” Sieglinde said, a note of helplessness in her voice.

“Don’t just yield that I’m right like that–” Khadija sighed. “What was your involvement?”

“There was a change in tactics. The Inquisition was drawn back and relegated to investigative duties. Norn the Praetorian took command of a Rapid Response Force and then set up heavily armed checkpoints all over the affected stations to separate the groups and ‘choke out’ the rioting. I don’t think it worked– I just think by that point the rioters didn’t have a second wind. Anyway. I was part of the forces involved. One of the checkpoints under my management responded to a Volkisch-led massacre. This was one of the few raids of theirs fully documented, responded to in progress, and yielding arrests.”

“So you had to see them in action.” Khadija said. “You got to hate them that way.”

“Yes.” Sieglinde said. “I was a fool. I didn’t realize the actual nerve-center of Volkisch activity was Rhinea until years after. I was blind-sided that the Volkisch won the elections here. But we never went after them when we could. So they got to infest this entire place.”

“From my perspective every Imbrian has a bit of that fascism in them.” Khadija said.

Sieglinde averted her gaze with a pained expression.

“You’re not actually an Imbrian right?” Khadija said. “So I’m not talking about you.”

“I mean, I guess– but I was raised like an Imbrian. Not Campos, Eloim or Južni or Volgian. And I did plenty of evil. So I really can’t dispute about myself what you claimed about them.”

“Stop it. Look– I’m sorry about painting you with such a broad brush.” Khadija said.

Sieglinde did not respond.

Khadija immediately lost the little patience that had allowed her to apologize.

“Do I have to assuage your fucking feelings about everything? All the time?”

“No.” Sieglinde’s voice trembled a little. “I’ll ask a question. Are you really a communist?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Khadija said, arranging locks of hair away from her face.

“I’m just a bit confused. You’re a Shimii, but you drink and you don’t pray–”

“Are you my younger sister all of a sudden? C’mon I pray sometimes!”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to understand you better. I’d just never met a Shimii communist. I thought Shimii communities were bound primarily on a shared religion. And I thought communists hated religion and would not tolerate such things.”

“Hah! Shimii in the Imbrium barely share a religion at all.”

“If it’s a touchy subject, I can–”

“Oh shut up. Have some spine for once. Stop needling me and then retreating.”

Sieglinde frowned and seemed to finally lose her temper. “Fine then. Khadija, where do you come from? Who even are you? I want to know on what grounds do you always judge me!”

Almost as soon as she raised her voice Sieglinde seemed to look horrified with herself.

Hearing the shouting almost in her chest was a strangely satisfying feeling for Khadija.

She smiled, utterly unoffended by this display. “That’s better. Sure. I’ll tell you.”

Leaving Sieglinde briefly perplexed as to her expression, Khadija sat up in her bed. She pulled her blankets around herself, such that her face, framed by her hair, and her unbrushed ears, were all that stuck out of the little mound of blankets. Getting comfortable.

She laid back against the wall and thought about where to start.

Or really, how to abbreviate her life enough for this fraught conversation.

“I was born in the Imbrium, just after Mehmed’s Jihad. During the Jihad, several prominent Shimii families supported Mehmed. He had accumulated enormous wealth and had prestige as an effective fighter against the Imbrians. Mahdists sided with Mehmed in far greater numbers than Rashidun. We wanted to believe he could free us all. My family, the Al-Shajara family, were prominent in Shimii ethnic politics, and staunchly backed Mehmed. After he was assassinated, the Jihad was over– his lieutenants and supporters scattered. During this time, many Mahdist clans were targeted for reprisals, as punishment for the Jihad. The Nasser family led many such reprisals; to mutual destruction. They lost elders and children, and we lost them too. Eye for an eye. It was then that the Mahdists were truly driven out– first out of Rhinea and soon out of everywhere in the Imbrium. The Imbrians came up with a much more effective solution for us than the Nasser family declaring blood feuds.”

Khadija looked over Sieglinde’s face to find her brief flicker of fury had sputtered out.

She listened quietly to what Khadija had to say and had no interjections.

“I survived a bit longer in the Imbrium though. I wasn’t old enough to understand a damn thing when my family sent me away. I was taken in by the Omarov family in Bosporus, at first. They did not become involved with Mehmed directly, but they had connections to the Mahdist families both through religion and through clandestine business. Even after the first punitive enslavements of Mahdists, the Omarov family stayed bold. The Omarovs back then were smugglers and mercenaries and just generally mafiosi. But if the Imbrians fucked with us, we fucked with them right back. My adoptive father, Mogliv Omarov was viewed one of the last heroes of the Shimii for this. Back then, if you resisted the Imbrians or committed reprisals on them, you would make a legend for yourself. We all wanted to cheer for every Imbrian we might see dead. We really thought that was making a difference.”

“Eventually, though, Mogliv Omarov started getting ideas.” Khadija continued. “He was not much of a theory reader, but he made some odd acquaintances and had some odd conversations. Daksha Kansal; Elias Ahwalia; Bhavani Jayasankar; these people started coming and going in the underworld for more than money. They were planning something big– and they all failed. Mogliv Omarov failed with them. I and everyone I knew, we were all enslaved and sent to the colonies if we were not killed. But the funny thing is– the Imbrians enslaved all the weird people, like the Bosporans and Shimii. They executed Imbrian communists– those were the people they saw as dangerous. Someone like me was a commodity, not a threat. Without an Imbrian to lead me, I could not have been dangerous to the regime right? But they were dead wrong, about everything. So here I am now. To answer your question: yes, I am a communist. I read the books my father did not, and just like him, I came to agree with their view of how the world could be better. But I will always be my father’s inferior, because he did not have to read a damn thing to have that hope.”

Khadija took in a deep breath. It almost felt good to have been able to say all of that.

Perhaps, she herself had been needing to recontextualize all of that, for her own mind.

“So that’s who I am, Sieglinde Castille. I am a Shimii communist. No, I do not follow Shimii religious doctrine to the letter. I’ve already said it before that if God pulls me down to hell for not having prayed enough after everything I’ve been through then I will accept my lot. But until then, I’ll live my life the way I want. Does that satisfy you?”

There was a creaking from the opposite bed. Its occupant had stood suddenly.

Sieglinde bowed her head deeply in response to Khadija’s story.

Tears from her eyes falling copiously onto the cold metal floor.

She did not say those hated words, ‘I’m sorry,’ that Khadija did not want to hear.

But her whole body was saying such things without her voice.

Khadija lacked the conviction to try to move her from it again.

This time she simply, quietly, accepted the apology from the once-Red Baron.

Even though Shimii did not tolerate bowing– this time, she would just let it pass.

Even though– she had some tears in her own eyes after recalling that heavy past.

On the night before their arrival at Aachen, just as Ulyana felt like she might doze off–

There arrived a message. Picked up over ultra-low frequency– a message from the Union.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it!” Semyonova said cheerfully.

She and Fatima cooperated to compile such messages and deliver them to the Captain. An enormous underground facility created these messages by sending data through shockwaves in Aer’s crust that could be picked up thousands of kilometers away. Only ships with specialized equipment could even detect that such messages were being sent. And to any ship other than the Brigand, it was impossible to make sense of them, since the messages were encrypted for software only the specific recipient would possess.

“Captain, it appears this message is intended for you and the Commissar’s eyes only.”

Semyonova folded a stone-paper printout with the message and handed it to Ulyana.

After being printed, all traces of the message were deleted automatically by the computer.

A top-secret message– it was already stressing Ulyana and she had not even read it.

“Commissar, let’s retreat to our quarters. It’s late. We can read the message in privacy.”

“Good idea. I’m reaching my limit.” Aaliyah said, stretching out her arms and tail.

“I can handle the change in shift.” Erika said, waving goodbye. “Have a good rest.”

Ulyana and Aaliyah took their leave from the bridge.

In Ulyana’s hand that piece of stone-paper folded up felt like it would take her arm down.

She felt its weight all the way down the hall. She was silent.

As if she had to concentrate on carrying it.

Nagavanshi had not messaged them in so long. Last time, it was a VIP mission.

One that led to all manner of difficulties, and resulted in an inconclusive reward.

(Except perhaps to a certain Sonya Shalikova.)

But it was not bitterness toward potential meddling that bothered Ulyana then.

Rather– the fact that this message was for her eyes and the Commissar’s only.

When Nagavanshi had something to conceal, it was never good.

“Captain, you’re looking terribly nervous.” Aaliyah said.

“You can tell?”

“Anyone can. Please relax. Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it together.”

Aaliyah reached out and squeezed the hand carrying the paper message.

With that touch, it felt like Aaliyah was single-handedly helping her lift a mountain.

Once they arrived at their room, they huddled in the center between bed and desk.

Ulyana spread open the folded paper and read the message:

REMEMBER THE YOUNG AND SIMPLE MAIDEN

LET THEM HEAR HOW SHE NOW SINGS

–SWAN, IGNORE MISSIVES WITHOUT LOVE

–BEWARE THE HERON AND HAWK

“What does this mean? Are you supposed to be the swan?” Aaliyah asked.

Ulyana was briefly speechless reading the message.

It had been so long–

“It’s full of old codes between Nagavanshi and I.” Ulyana hesitated to explain, but she needed Aaliyah to understand more than she needed to uphold the privacy between herself and Nagavanshi. “When Nagavanshi wants to send something only to me, she sends lyrics from a folk song, and refers to them as ‘missives with love’. That’s how I know it is from her and that it is not someone else. We also refer to people as birds– I’m the swan.”

Aaliyah blinked with confusion. “Then who are the Heron and Hawk?”

“Heron is Admiral Andreeva Vlasovskaya, of the 26^th Fleet.”

“I can’t believe this. So there is some conspiracy within the 26^th again?”

“And the Hawk is Admiral Geranium Zvereva of the 18^th Fleet.”

Aaliyah raised a hand to her forehead like she had a sudden headache.

“What is this supposed to mean? How could these people contact us?”

Ulyana sighed. “I don’t know. I think Nagavanshi wants me to be aware that there is some kind of plot. I don’t think it’s something she thinks she’ll gain anything from. We’re not going to be turning around– I think she just wants me to be aware as a friend, perhaps.”

“Thinking about how the time has passed, it’s almost Bhavani Jayasankar’s reappraisal by the Council.” Aaliyah said. “Could it be the Ahwalians are going to try something then?”

Ulyana felt if she heard any more of this speculation she would explode.

“There’s nothing we can do about it but lose sleep over it.” Ulyana said. “Damn it.”

She crumpled the note in her hands, feeling helpless.

“You’re right.” Aaliyah said. “What we can do is continue our mission. That’s it.”

Ulyana sighed. “That always seems to be our only answer to any problem.”

Aaliyah reached out again and held Ulyana’s hands. She met her eyes.

“You’re not alone, Ulyana. We can deal with this together as it unfolds.” She said.

Hard as it was to breathe calmly in the face of what she could be facing–

Well, if more unexpected blows fell upon her, at least Aaliyah was on her side.

All they could do was keep fighting the war they were given, in the now.

And pray that the situation at home would not escalate.

“Final approach!” Helmsman Kamarik called out. “Take in the beautiful scenery!”

“E.T.A. 30 minutes at reduced speed! Contacting the Stockheide tower!” Semyonova said.

“We’re finally here, huh.” Ulyana said, laying back on her chair and deflating.

“It’ll only get more complicated from now on Captain.” Aaliyah reminded her.

In the distance, the station complex of Aachen finally came into view.

After over a week of travel, the Brigand had finally arrived at its next fated destination. Accompanied as before by the Rostock; and the John Brown, its crew unanimous in joining the Volksarmee against the Volkisch. In Aachen, the fleet would take part in the final deliberations of the United Front, and plot the shape of their anti-fascist campaign.

Within the fleet, there was excitement and trepidation in equal measure.

Aachen was much humbler in size than the massive Kreuzung and its enormous towers, and it had a simpler layout. However, that did not make its architecture any less striking. Aachen had a central tower with an interesting design– a central spire abutted by two supporting wings that enveloped the main tower at different heights. This made the central spire appear as if an art piece, the middle of a curling wave of metal. In addition to the central complex, there was also the Stockheide seaport, a squat and very wide tower attached to the main spire by trams. It was situated in the near southwest of the central complex. On the opposite side of Aachen was a habitation tower also connected by tram tubes.

All of this architecture was framed by the enormous underwater mount against which the Aachen complex was set. In the distant past the mountain was mined for precious minerals, and there was still some mining that transpired within, though dwarfed in volume by the richer veins of Rhein-Sieg-Kries in the central southwest. This access to precious minerals, including some rare metals and even agarthicite, made the Aachen Massif a source of early wealth for the Imbrian Empire’s historical development. It also led to the development of Aachen’s shipbuilding tradition and in turn, to the growth in influence of the Stockheide Shipbuilder’s Guild, a strong labor union within the shipyard and drydocks.

“Gloria and I have contacts in Stockheide.” Erika said, waving a hand toward the main screen on the Brigand’s bridge. “We can dock the Rostock and have its presence concealed by the Guild. The John Brown is not a problem– the Republic fleet docked in there for weeks before they rejected Gloria’s offer to join a United Front. However, the Rostock will not be able to take part in any commercial dealings or pick up any supplies, because it will have to dock in a Guild workspace and stay there in hiding. So we will depend on all of you to run some errands for us. Hopefully that will not be much of an issue. I am sorry to trouble you.”

“Of course it won’t be a problem.” Ulyana said. “We pledged to follow your orders.”

“You can leave the restocking to us– we’ll need funds, however.” Aaliyah added.

“Funds I can help with.” Erika said, smiling. “I’ll also see if Gloria might assist as well.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Olga added, crossing her arms and lowering her head.

“It’s fine nevertheless. I amassed quite a tidy sum through the years.” Erika said.

Ulyana and Aaliyah smiled and sat back, watching the final approach.

Traffic to Aachen was sparser than the traffic at Kreuzung.

There were less ships coming and going from the shipyard. However, these ships were usually larger supply ships that resembled the Brigand outwardly. There was also a beautiful luxury cruise ship that began departing the main seaport and moved close to the Brigand on its exit from Stockheide. And for a moment, Semyonova and Fatima had a twinkle in their eyes as they vocally fantasized about going on a pleasure cruise together.

Moving closer to the Stockheide tower, the delineations between the hundreds of berths on the outer hull of the tower became visible. The Brigand and its flotilla coordinated with Stockheide tower to descend into the Guild’s berths on the eastern side of the seaport complex. Enormous steel doors opened to allow each ship in the fleet into a Berth just large enough for a Cruiser. The Brigand and Rostock were next to each other and the John Brown was situated one tier below. All of them could access the Guild facilities.

Docking clamps held the Brigand anchored to the berth and lifted it aloft as the water drained. A boarding chute attached the ship to the port. Past the outer steel doors and frameworks, the interior walls were made of thick glass, allowing the crew to look through the cameras and see long lines of ships to either side and even below. It was an interesting visual effect. All of the seaport facilities were deeper inside the complex– it was all berths across the exterior. So the Brigand would largely be resting within its berth while the crew took care of business with the Guild while on foot inside of the complex.

“Alright. We’ve got a lot to do.” Ulyana said. “Let’s convene a planning meeting–”

On the main screen, the predictor computer suddenly started flashing a yellow box.

That was usually painted over targets that could pose a threat, based on prediction data.

“What’s the computer’s problem?” Ulyana asked. “Did it spot some Imperial ship classes?”

Zachikova shook her head. “I reprogrammed it after the false positives on the Rostock.”

“So then what is it seeing? Pull up the camera feeds and let it complete the target paint.”

On the main screen, the camera picture of the seaport wall disappeared.

Instead, the yellow target was being painted by one of the starboard-side cameras.

On a Ritter-class– but it was triggering because this Ritter-class had been seen before.

It was not a false positive– it was a known enemy.

Ulyana blinked as the target designation appeared. “Wait– oh no. No fucking way.”

Aaliyah lifted her hands to her face and kicked her feet on her seat.

“Hmm. This might complicate things. I’ll disembark first, Captain.” Erika said.

“I’ll disembark with.” Olga said, with a deep, troubled sigh.

Everyone on the bridge watched the screen with dumbstruck horror.

Their neighboring berth was occupied by a ship known by the computer and the crew.

Long and ‘sword-shaped’, the Ritter-class Antenora— flagship of Norn the Praetorian.

Unbeknownst to either until the very last moment, their paths had crossed once again.