EL DRAGÓN (50.1)

This scene contains violence and death.


52nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance — City of Rangda, Council District

From the steps into the Council building a fresh unit of soldiers charged down the front green, avoiding the six dead men strewn about the lawn and rushing toward the corner of Council Street and its central block. Scouting the area, their weapons up as they ran, they joined a pair of men hiding on the edge of the green, huddled behind a pair of benches.

Though the sky was black, several powerful searchlights shone from the roof and from several windows in the council building, providing targeting capability to the infantry. Every street lamp along Council Street was set again to full power, having been previously dimmed to support the curfew.

Carefully the men behind the benches and bushes on the edge of the Council lawn peered down the street, perhaps expecting gunfire. There was no retaliation against them. They assembled and prepared quietly.

“How many?” asked the squad leader, leaning out toward the road.

One man answered in a panic. “Just one sir! But she’s strong–‘

With a grin the squadron leader cut the man off.

He stood from behind the bench and held out his arm.

“You coward! Just one shooter has forced you back? Move out and–”

From farther down the street a rifle round struck the squadron sergeant’s adam’s apple as he berated his men. His head nearly came off as he fell.

There was immediate panic. Even with a tracer, it should have been nearly impossible for a shooter in the dark to kill this accurately with one shot.

An entire squadron dove and scrambled for cover around the corpse of their officer but found little they could use. In front of the large, square, u-shaped Council Building the green was wide open. There was nothing but small manicured bushes, stray benches made of widely spaced boards and a pair of flagpoles to hide behind on the lawn, and all of these were many meters apart. There were the torches on the street, but in the dark these posts immediately marked the men they covered as obvious targets.

Snipers could have hidden inside the western arm of the Council Building, but then they would not be able to see the fugitive. Even the men at the forefront of the gun battle could hardly see their target, only thirty meters away, save for a flash of movement in dim lamplight after her every kill.

Madiha Nakar had picked her position on the connecting Council Street to shield her from the sight of the Council Building. She was deep enough into the street that the arms of the building could not shine their lights on her, and she was distant enough from a torch post to hide in the gloom.

While her enemies had trouble targeting her, Madiha’s own field of view to the lawn was wide open, and she had reasonable cover from the old, thick steel mail bank box set on the side of the road. It was akin to a wall. Stray bullets bounced off the side and top of the box. Its exterior was made of fairly thick metal, and any bullets that penetrated would be slowed or diverted by the papers and boxes inside the bank. She had her pick of targets whenever she peered beyond the bank. Over the iron sights, she led her shots on the men even as they struggled to escape.

One shot through a mouth; clack went the bolt action; one shot through an eye; clack; one through a nose. Three men dropped to the ground in quick succession. Madiha retreated behind cover and felt the force of several shots transfer through the metal into vibrations against her back.

Taking a deep breath, she produced a new stripper clip from the pilfered ammunition bang slung over her shoulder and fed it into the rifle. Sensing a long delay between rifle shots at her back, she peered around the postal box. Selectively targeting the men in green uniforms she retaliated anew.

Through the space between the boards on the bench backrest she saw one of the panicked men that was shouting before. She shot him in the chest.

Tracers soared through the gloom like flaming arrows. Madiha took note of as many of the flashes and cracks as she saw and heard while shooting and before hiding, divining enemy positions and retaliating accurately.

As the exchange of gunfire continued, she saw less and less of the panicked blue-uniformed civil police in the vicinity. She had hoped they would finally break and flee after a show of force, and she had been thankfully correct. There was only a smattering of green uniforms on the Council Building front green and soon, not a single blue police uniform.

She hid behind the post box anew and worked the bolt. Mentally she prepared herself for the next volley of rifle shots launched her way.

In place of the cracking of Bundu rifles she heard a continuous noise.

Dozens of rounds struck the back of the box, many penetrating into the interior and striking against the metal directly at Madiha’s back. Chips of hot metal flew overhead like the shavings of an electric saw. Bright green tracers raked the street and the road at her sides. A spraying cone of lead showered the surroundings in hot metal, hungry for her flesh. It was an enemy Norgler. She could tell from the noise; she couldn’t risk peering out.

Soon as she heard a lull Madiha fled from cover, ducking stray rifle fire to run into an alley. She put her back to the bricks of a shop wall, and closed her eyes. Hundreds of flashing green fragments blew in toward her from the edge of the alley wall as the automatic tracer fire chipped at the bricks. Stowing her rifle she withdrew her pistol and stuck out her hand, shooting blindly back into the road and toward the green, unable to tell the effect.

Before she could even think to peek again the Norgler fire resumed.

She was trapped in an alleyway. Everything was dark owing to the distance from the street lights. There seemed to be no civilians around, not on the street, in the alley or in these buildings. Nobody there to be hit by the shots but her. It was the only comforting thought she had the entire night.

There was scarcely a pause between volleys. Automatic gunfire perfectly sited the street. Her muscles tensed and she grit her teeth, flinching from bits of brick and lead flying sharply off the corner and stinging her cheeks.

She crept farther into the alley and hid between a garbage can and a set of steps into a side door. Her original intention had been to fight until she thought she had a good chance to flee to safety. She had perhaps stuck around too long; the showers of tracers made her plans impossible.

Under the cover of the Norgler there were likely men moving in against her, combing the gloomy streets. They would find her quickly even in the dark. She would be hard-pressed to deal with a rifle squadron while cornered in an alley. All they had to do was throw grenades into the alley.

She had to take action first; she could not sit here and wait to die.

From her stolen pack she withdrew a flare gun and fired it into the sky.

A canister launched heavensward and exploded with a red flash.

Under the moonless sky the flash was enough to light the entire alley.

It was a signal for help. But it also exposed her location to the enemy.

On the street six men rushed past and stacked on both sides of the alley.

Madiha crouched behind the garbage can with her head almost in her legs.

As she feared she heard a shout. Grenades came flying into the alleyway.

Over the shouting of the men Madiha heard a high-pitched roaring.

As she hoped, the grenades flew right out as a stiff gust blew into the alleyway from above. Three grenades bounced back out into the street along the ground and detonated simultaneously on top of their owners.

Madiha felt the detonations and huddled in place until she heard the last of the spraying fragments settle. When she lifted her head again, she found Kali beside her, having descended from the heavens. Even in the dark her scales seemed to glint with their own dim luminescence.

Her little dragon looked worse for wear.

Bullets had become lodged in its scales in various locations, cracking “plates” of armor but seemingly not drawing blood. Where blood had been drawn was its underbelly and wings, where shards of glass had become embedded, and bruises and blood spots had formed wherever Brass Face had managed to strike in their combat. She was clearly quite wounded.

Kali did not seem disturbed by her wounds. It sat on all fours like a cat, with its head raised, staring blankly at Madiha in the same way as usual.

“Kali, you’re hurt!” Madiha said sadly.

No response from the little dragon. It stared expectantly.

Madiha reached out and petted it on the head as Parinita had taught her.

Kali purred and closed its eyes.

Madiha felt foolish; what she said before was obvious, but she felt strongly compelled to acknowledge it to herself. Kali had been hurt. Her actions and decisions had not just affected herself or the enemy. Her little friend had been badly beaten around. She did not even know how much Kali really understood things. Though it had the aptitude to fight, and some apparent knowledge of how its enemies were fighting her (what shooting was, and how to deflect big projectiles) she felt strange attributing that much agency to it. Madiha still thought of her as a pet that needed care.

And as far as caring for Kali went, Madiha had failed miserably.

She was about to punctuate her failure even further.

From her bag she withdrew a thick bundle of grenades.

“Kali, can you understand me?”

Kali stared at her, craning its head to one side.

Madiha reached out her hand to pet her head again.

She settled her palm over Kali’s head and projected an image.

“Can you see this man too?”

She tried to gently push into Kali’s mind the image of a male soldier with a Norgler. She focused on the size of the weapon, on the way a man would be holding it, on the noise and visual effect of the weapon. It was akin to drawing a sketch for a trainee to help them visualize an enemy target.

There was no protest to the psychic display.

She was not trying to intrude on Kali’s mind like she did to Brass Face’s. Through the tenuous connection she conveyed her non-aggression as strongly as she could. She tried to evoke a one-way conversation, a giving of information, a telling of facts. Madiha took not even a trickle of Kali’s thoughts. In turn the dragon was calm and gentle, completely trusting.

In a few seconds she was satisfied with the picture she had projected.

Madiha removed her hand from Kali’s head and smiled at her pet.

“Kali, I need you to drop this on that man. Can you do that?”

Soon as she was done speaking the exterior alley lit up with green tracers.

Kali seized the bundle of grenades from Madiha’s hands and took off.

In the preceding days Madiha had only ever really see Kali float and glide, but today she was flying as though propelled by her own little engine. She flapped her wings once and generated enough wind to lift dust from the floor and to lift her whole body into the sky. She elevated without concern, flying directly up and down as if unburdened by the physics of aviation.

She disappeared from over the alley. Madiha crouched along the edge of the wall, hurrying toward the street. She pulled on the leg of a corpse, drawing the remains into the alley and pilfering ammunition. Just a meter overhead and scarcely a meter of brick from the street, the Norgler’s fire resumed slicing the pavement and the corner of the shop. Hundreds of bullet holes had scarred the street and the lips of the alleyway walls.

Madiha sat against the wall, pistol in hand, waiting for a sign.

There came another volley of Norgler fire, chipping at the walls anew.

Then a loud blast quieted the gun mid-spray.

Madiha charged out of the alleyway, firing her pistol up the street. She found a trio of men running from the lawn and attacked them, shooting two before ducking back behind the mail bank. She spotted several more men that had been assembling on the green, and were now stumbling around wounded and dazed from the explosion. Amid a circle of burnt grass and running blood were a pair of bodies lying on a mangled pile of metal tubing and cooked ammo that had once been an automatic weapon.

Overhead Kali circled like a vulture smelling carrion in the air.

With the Norgler suppressed and the men scattered, now was the time to flee. Madiha withdrew her flare gun, popped a new canister into the weapon and aimed further down the street. She unloaded a flare, set her sights on Ocean Road at the end of the block, perhaps a kilometer away, and took off under the red flash, hoping that Kali would see it and follow.

As she left cover and ran Madiha felt a closer, hotter flash behind her.

Chunks of metal flew past her as the box exploded a dozen meters back.

Eyes drawn wide with terror, Madiha looked over her shoulder mid-run.

She found herself suddenly turning gold under a pair of bright lights.

Blinded at first, she caught a glimpse of her aggressor when the lights moved from over her body and instead illuminated the road ahead.

Moving into the green from beyond Council Street was a Goblin light tank, the ubiquitous main tank of the Territorial Army. Characteristically angled tracks bore it forward, its three-section glacis with a flat front plate facing Madiha. Atop its thinly armored, riveted hull was an off-center turret with a thin gun and a linked machine gun, and atop that was a pintle-mounted anti-aircraft machine gun, rarely seen equipped.

One 45mm high-explosive shell was all it took to smash the mail bank.

Against other tanks it was lacking, but a Goblin was deadly to infantry.

Madiha saw the gun barrel light up as she glanced again over her shoulder.

In an instant a second shell flew past, infinitely faster than she could run.

Had it deviated a meter toward her it would have struck Madiha directly.

Instead thirty meters ahead it exploded on the road, scattering fragments.

Madiha shielded her face with her arms, turned on her heels and dove blindly into the nearest alleyway. She felt a sting on her flank; a fragment must have bitten into the back of her ribs somewhere. Flinching from the new pain, she found herself scarcely a few dozen meters from where she had started, stranded in a wide alley mostly adjacent to her last refuge.

Behind her she heard the loud whining of the tracks as the Goblin neared.

The Cisseans must have cried out for help to the rogue 8th Division.

Or perhaps they had just pressed a captured Goblin into their own service.

Regardless Madiha now had to contend with a tank.

She cast wild eyes around the alley and found a large dumpster belonging to the shops on this block. She put down the lid and climbed atop, and leaped up. Her hands barely seized a second-story windowsill, and she pulled herself up. Over the smaller building at her other side she could see the tank coming closer. It thankfully could not see her, not with its optics.

Pressed precariously against the shop window, Madiha withdrew her pistol and shot the glass, creating an opening. Using her knife she smashed off as much of the sharp glass as she could from the bottom half of the window and slid herself inside. She found herself in a dark storage room that seemed empty, dusty and cobwebbed. There were windows on the other end of the room, and she rushed toward them and crouched.

On the street below she heard the tracks and the engine come closer.

She heard the road wheels, characteristically slamming in protest as the Goblin tank tried to navigate the ten centimeter step up from the flat road to the alley street. Goblin road wheels were quite poorly arranged and any change in elevation caused them to lift violently and issue a harsh noise.

It was likely trying to turn into the alleyway below to corner her.

Giving chase in such a way was quite an amateurish mistake.

In such a tight melee the tank was under as much danger as its prey.

Madiha stood up against the corner of the room, between windows.

She peeked outside and confirmed her suspicions.

The Goblin had turned into the alley to search for her.

Madiha withdrew a lone anti-tank grenade from her ammunition bag.

She cracked open the window, primed the grenade and threw it.

Landing atop the engine compartment, the grenade’s cylindrical explosive head detonated violently. A cloud of smoke billowed from the back of the tank as the roof of the rear hull practically melted. Immediately the Goblin’s tracks ceased to whine and the engine ceased to rumble.

Fires burst from within the ruined grates once covering the engine.

There was no movement from within the tank. Had anyone survived they would have bolted out of the hatches. But judging by the detonation and the fires, and the slag that had become of the rear hull roof, it was likely that a shower of metal spall had killed everyone inside, if not the heat of the initial detonation. The Goblin tank was completely paralyzed.

Soon the fire would reach the ammunition and explode a final time.

Madiha pulled the window open the whole way. Enduring the stinging at her side, she gingerly leaped onto the Goblin’s turret. She misjudged the jump; she hit the turret roof hard, and nearly slid off with her momentum. Groaning, she sat up and began to pull free her prize. Madiha took the Danava machine gun from the simple mounting atop the turret.

Now she had a real weapon on her hands.

Faint and distant, she heard the trampling of boots over the hissing fires from the tank’s engine. Madiha cast a quick glance overhead, making sure that Kali was still airborne. Finding her dragon flying over the alleys, Madiha signaled to her, leaped down from the tank and ran further into the dark alleys and around the backs of the shops on Council Street.

She had a good weapon, a head start and the night.

She was sure she could get away now.


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LORD OF BRASS (49.1)

This scene contains violence, graphic violence, graphic descriptions of injury, death, body horror and disfigurement. Reader discretion is advised.


52nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — Council Building

“You employed the foul timbre. I do not understand.”

Standing before Madiha and Von Drachen, the Brass Mask turned its four gore-strewn snouts toward the hole left on the ground by Mansa’s trinket. Madiha’s mind was slowed by the weight of the creature’s presence. She tried to think of where this creature could have come from and what its relation was to the Majini that she knew. Those beings were just bodies with masks and cloaks, or so she had thought. Were they all like this?

She felt the monster’s every move like a throb within her head.

“We did nothing. Mansa unearthed you.” Madiha said.

At her side, Von Drachen glanced at her with a startled look.

“Are you talking to it? What on Aer do you hope to accomplish with that?”

“To escape with my life, perhaps?” Madiha snapped back.

“I can assure you that thing is unlikely to respond diplomatically!”

Judging by his attitude, Madiha intimated that Von Drachen could not understand the Majini. It was either speaking only to her or she was the only one present who could hear. Perhaps only those with “ESP” could hear it. Madiha would operate with this idea in mind; she did not desire to ask Von Drachen whether he could or not. He was still her enemy and any information she could withhold from him might have a later use.

In the moment this discovery provided no succor or advantage. Madiha, in fact, felt ever more alone and trapped. Though she had Von Drachen’s tenuous support during this standoff, in reality it was only she and the Majini who could affect the ultimate outcome. Her exhausted mind and weary body shook with indecision. Nobody dared move and possibly prompt an attack. The Majini continued to ramble to the air, unvoiced, unheard.

Ayvarta enslaved me. Did he use me to rekindle the human flame– no! He already had power! Even as I stood, a wall casting shadow o’er man, man created sparks. Four sparks on the four corners. And yet you employ the timbre too?”

She saw the eyes within the Majini’s slimy, fleshy face spinning every which way. Its black and purple, slimy gums and teeth seemed to expand and contract, as if taking in breaths of air without any visible nostrils.

Madiha glanced over her shoulder very briefly. Chakrani was still dormant in the far corner of the room. She had thankfully survived the shooting and the strange detonation that killed Mansa, and though unconscious she was unharmed. She was at least presently removed from the standoff.

It was imperative to keep Brass Face occupied and away from her.

I do not understand. Too much time has passed. But my purpose remains.

In a flash the Majini made the first move.

Madiha saw an inkling of its movement, like a glint in the air and a shuddering in her spine that warned her of danger, but her body could never react as fast as her mind. In the next instant the Majini had shifted its entire bulk behind them and with one massive hand seized Von Drachen’s companion and lifted him by his head. Frost-covered claws clamped down over the man’s face and neck. He kicked his legs and screamed and pulled on the digits but could not get free of the beast.

Von Drachen calmly raised his pistol and opened fire on the monster, squeezing rounds into its abdomen and legs and face, at every bit of its figure not blocked by the body of his own flailing man. Madiha’s reflex was to join him, but she lowered her pistol right after first raising it. Every shot seemed to go through the Majini without any effect except raising wisps of vapor that dissipated into the air after a second or two.

Unflinching amid gunfire, the creature tightened its grip on the man.

I will borrow this flesh.

Trails of white vapor blew from the man’s skin as the claw bit into him.

Madiha found herself paralyzed with fear at the sight.

Von Drachen stopped shooting and stared, mouth agape.

The Cazador screamed and wailed in desperate agony as his flesh sloughed.

Through the transformation his voice distorted and eventually muted.

They were spared much of the sight, but between digits of the gruesome claw Madiha could see an eye moving wildly within its socket, turning a copper color and becoming slitted as the lids fused together save for a thin line in the middle. Around the socket the skin discolored, liquefied, shed, bubbled and then set anew, bleached white, smooth, and solid. The man’s limbs turned black, indistinct and gelatinous. The Army uniform over his body began to sink in places as his muscles rapidly emaciated. He became too thin, too long, unrecognizable as human. Rags of slimy skin over bone.

From behind the Majini’s back its second arm reached for the window and ripped a curtain from its bars. In an unnatural flurry of movement, it draped the cloth over the man and wrapped him in it before the changes to his body had fully set, and then it released the corpse on the floor.

It should have hit the floor, limp and dead from the horrors done to it.

Defying all natural logic, it fell onto unseen feet and stood solid.

Hard all-white faceless head, like a mask, and a thin, tall cylindrical body in drapes. Long limbs that seemed to protrude and retract when needed.

The Brass Face had made something that frighteningly resembled a Majini.

And somewhere beneath all of that was the tormented remains of a man.

All who cannot be turned will be killed. Until the timbre is forgotten anew.

Von Drachen stared at the monster, and then at the monster that had once been a man. He raised his hand to his mouth, his teeth chattering.

“Shooting that cube was a mistake.” He mumbled to himself.

Madiha swallowed and it felt like she was forcing a stone down her throat.

Though the “newborn” Majini presented a problem, it also gave her an idea. Her overwhelming fear did not completely smother her tactical mind. Indeed, only in the desperate rush of emotion did she find her way.

There was something bundled deep within that cloak that she could use.

“Hit the dirt!” Madiha shouted.

She had no time to confirm whether or not Von Drachen was following her order, and she could only pray that Chakrani would be spared the violence.

There was no other choice.

Madiha set her feet and drew in a deep breath.

Both the monster and its master recognized the danger.

Madiha was an instant quicker than them.

She thrust out her least injured arm and her mind flashed the image of an old Territorial Army stick grenade, hanging from the belt of the disfigured man. Thinking faster than the enemy could move she lit a spark within the high-explosive blasting cap and ignited the TNT inside.

Unthinking, the new Majini reared back for a charge.

It made it two running steps from Brass Face before detonating.

In a burst of violent light the Majini disappeared, and a wave of heat and pressure tore suddenly across the room. Madiha had less than seconds to act. Out of pure defensive reflex her mind pushed against the blast, deflecting the concussive force screaming toward her. Her arm flared with intense pain, and she fell onto her back, the wind knocked out of her instead of the viscera. Brass Face recoiled violently from the blast and struck the nearby wall, smashing through the cement and falling under a heap of rubble.

Madiha could not tell whether it had tried to flee or whether the blast flung it away. She struggled to force herself upright, both of her arms functional but sounding a painful alarm with every movement. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she made it up onto her knees to find the vicinity caked in wet black and purple viscera and ashen jelly. This filth had spread across the room, save for a clean halo around her where she had pushed the blast and its byproducts and blocked their effects.

With Brass Face’s bulk removed from her sight, Madiha could again see Chakrani tied to her chair against the corner of the room. She could run for her– but there was no telling whether she had the advantage yet.

As she stood from the floor she scanned the room for Von Drachen.

Near the collapsed wall, she found him lying under the corpse of the soldier Jota took from him. He looked scuffed but relatively unharmed for the events that transpired. Von Drachen had hidden under the corpse; mutilated and burnt, the body had shielded him from the brunt of the blast. Luckily for him, he had managed to take the man’s grenade and flung it across the room before the violence erupted around him.

Soon as Madiha made eye contact with Von Drachen, he pushed the body off himself and stood on unsteady legs, dusting some of the alien jelly from his shoulders and arms. An enthusiastic smile played about his lips.

“I commend you on surviving to the end of this madness, Colonel Nakar!” Von Drachen said. “Now, allow me a few words about the dissolution of our truce.”

Madiha felt a fresh jolt of stress in her chest. “No! You idiot, it’s not–”

“Now, now, madam, I’m talking.” He raised his pistol to her.

Before Madiha could shout, a soundless roar psychically drowned her out.

Behind them the rubble shifted, and Brass Face stood from the mound.

Dust and masonry sifted off its shoulders. It appeared almost unharmed.

Rotating as if independent of its neck, the creature’s head stared at them.

Its grotesque snouts and teeth reformed into a mask.

Along its clean brass center, the wave-form symbols furiously oscillated.

With its grotesque head hidden again, Madiha felt the weight of its presence lessen. A burden lifted from her mind. She could almost think straight again. Her breathing still quick with stress, she took a guarded stance and waited. Running away in a panic would only get her killed.

And it would abandon Chakrani to an unimaginable fate.

“Truce?” Von Drachen asked in a strained, sickened voice.

“Move only in reaction to it.” She warned. “It’ll take advantage of any mistake.”

Von Drachen frowned. “I suppose that precludes running away?”

Brass Face turned to face them, slow and deliberate. It did not pounce or charge or blink behind them as she had seen it do in the past. On its lower body she saw trails of chill air seeping through a frayed, burnt patch of cloak. There was a wound there but it was as if her eyes refused to recognize it. Blurry flesh seemed to roil and bubble and shift upon this surface.

Von Drachen’s lower lip quivered. He raised his hand to his mouth to gag.

Perhaps he had seen it; maybe even more of it than she.

Madiha said nothing, too transfixed by the monster to speak.

Once its head fully turned to meet them, the rest of its body began to twist to match, turning thin and long like a snake but with the suggestion of shoulders atop its upper section. From the midsection pieces of cloak rustled and separated. An arm lifted as the upper body twisted into the room; Brass Face suddenly raised its gnarled claw as if aiming for Madiha.

Madiha felt the air in the room turning very cold and dense.

It became suddenly hard to breathe.

When she gasped for air her breath was visible, white as snow.

“Outside, now!” She shouted, her voice dwindling.

“I thought you said–”

“Forget it! Now!”

Von Drachen quickly turned and ran for the door to the meeting room.

Between the fingers of Brass Face’s claws, frost and ice started to form.

Crackling and crunching like falling glass, the frost swirling around its fingers compacted and lengthened into a long shaft in less than seconds.

Madiha tore herself from the sight and ran out behind Von Drachen.

She felt a force strong as a hurricane gust and cold as a blizzard sweep past.

Behind her the lance of ice shattered and thundered like an explosive.

Over her shoulder Madiha caught a glimpse of the wall turned mirror-like with ice.

She ran out into the broad, enclosed hallway connecting the meeting room and felt both trepidation and relief when she found it deserted, save for Von Drachen. Any more people around could have become new Majini. She put her back to the empty hall behind them and aimed her pistol at the hole in the wall. She saw some of Brass Face’s cloak trailing from it.

“Come out of there and fight us seriously, you animal!” She shouted.

“What are you doing?” cried Von Drachen.

She hoped the monster could understand her at all. It never seemed to reply to her; it only spoke at her. She had to taunt it away from Chakrani and out into the hall, where she had more room to avoid its projectiles.

Her worry was short-lived. Brass Face understood.

It slowly turned itself back around to face them anew in the hall.

Incarnation of Ayvarta, without the prism you are vermin to me.”

It shambled farther out of the meeting room through the hole in the wall.

Von Drachen hurried from the middle of the hall to Madiha’s side.

He raised his pistol alongside hers and gulped hard, shaking.

“Why isn’t it charging anymore? It was awful quick a second ago!” He asked.

“I must have hurt its feet.” Madiha replied. Her breath was quick, her heart struggling and her lungs raw, but she managed to keep a strong front.

“It isn’t even moving closer.”

“It must be focused on defense now that it can’t charge us.”

“God. At least you’re still thinking. Do you have a plan of attack, Nakar?”

“Do you?”

“Out of respect for your great intellect, I shall allow you to lead us.”

Von Drachen cracked a nervous grin without looking at her.

Madiha would have rolled her eyes in any other situation but this.

Meanwhile their enemy waited, clicking its claws together.

Brass Face’s mask waveforms gently rose and fell as it stared them down.

Incarnation of Ayvarta.” It mumbled soundlessly.

Was it sizing her up? Comparing her to the old Emperor before striking?

Madiha felt a chill whenever it spoke those words. It treated her like an extension of the Warlord that it had encountered, and not as her own person. The First Emperor, Ayvarta I, who set out to conquer the four corners of Ayvarta and unite its disparate ethnicities and civilizations. He accomplished this task using the power that she had been cursed to hold.

Had Ayvarta been the first, the original? Or just the one Brass Face knew?

It was eerie. To Brass Face, she was nothing but an Incarnation of Ayvarta.

Another in a long line of half-lives tainted by the man’s conquests.

Perhaps even linked to the ancient tyrant by blood.

Incarnation of Ayvarta.

There was power behind that statement, the unknowable intellect of something that was ancient to an extreme Madiha could not imagine. Was it right in the way that it thought of her? She felt as if all of her fears about herself, all of the existential suffering she felt, was confirmed in the words of this beast. Maybe she was nothing but an Incarnation of Ayvarta.

Maybe Mansa was right and Madiha Nakar was nothing at all.

Von Drachen glanced at her nervously. “Colonel, are you–”

“I’m thinking.”

She could not dwell on that. Madiha might not exist; but she could die.

For Solstice’s sake she had to survive to make something of Madiha Nakar.

For Parinita’s sake the most. She wanted desperately to see her again.

Her mind quickly refocused.

In the monster’s own words, Ayvarta once had control over it.

Did Ayvarta capture Brass Face to use it; or because he couldn’t kill it?

Could she kill Brass Face in modernity, if Ayvarta failed in antiquity?

She had to believe he wanted to use it; and that the prism was a way to contain its powers without having to kill it. And therefore that it could be killed and that Ayvarta could have killed it. She had killed Majini using the flame before. Once lit on fire their parched bodies went up like torches.

From a distance, they could avoid the darts. But if she got close enough–

She started to visualize a way forward.

Hopefully she had inherited more from Ayvarta than just his powers.

“Are you ready?” She whispered.

“Of course not. Nonetheless: how do we stop it?” Von Drachen asked.

“I need to get close to it.” Madiha said.

“And then what?”

“That’s classified information.”

Von Drachen raised an eyebrow. Madiha made no expression whatsoever.


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Salva’s Taboo Exchanges XII

This chapter contains non-graphic sexual content.


42nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E, Night

Under the calm autumn night, a school guardsman patroled the streets of the Academy’s northern campus. He walked down the middle of the road, avoiding the dim light of the decades old, flickering street lamps. He was hardly visible in the dark, save for the light of his hand-held torch that seemed to sway in rhythm with the swinging of his club, dangling from his hands by a noisy chain loop. His footsteps and a whistling ditty were audible a block away, and alerted would-be hooligans to a presence in the lonely streets.

Hearing him from afar, Salvatrice ducked behind a long hedge and deftly avoided the torchlight. She crouched and carefully followed the man. Overhead a white beam periodically scanned the landscape, brushing over the flat green surface of the hedges, settling for several seconds at a time on the empty space between hedges, and briefly inspecting each garbage can and fire hydrant installed on the street corners.

Salvatrice held on to her cap with one hand, knelt down, and carefully scuttled behind the hedge. On both sides of the street there were long green stretches leading to small parks, benches, kiosks abandoned in the night, and old, distant buildings, their facades like melting faces in the deep dark. There was plenty to hide behind and plenty more to draw away the attention of anybody. She kept hoping the guard would turn a different corner, but he seemed keen on patrolling the exact path she planned to take that night.

Nobody was around that could see her but him. He was the only visible obstacle.

His obstinacy was frustrating given the emptiness of the Academy on that night.

Pallas Messianic Academy had instituted a strict curfew due to recent events. Facilities emptied out at eight o’ clock, on the hour. Streets were to be clear by nine o’ clock. Doors were to be locked by ten. Nearing midnight nobody was allowed on the street save the guards that delivered a swift beating to anyone caught. Curfew was both a blessing and curse. There were no prying eyes, no crowds heading for the bars in town, no drunkards. She felt safe. But she was alone with the guards. They grew more alert.

She could not wait for a better night to escape. She had to get away. It had to be then.

At a distant corner near the chemistry building, the guard’s light hovered over a fence and then trailed up the road. Salvatrice dashed for the fence and ducked behind a metal garbage bin, careful not to upset the chain links in the fence and cause noise. She waited for the guard to wander farther down the road, and then cut toward the building. Though the doors into the building had been locked tight, there was an open-air hallway lined with pillar supports. She hid behind each of them, moving progressively closer to the side of the building and an adjoining road leading out of campus. She closed in on it.

Salvatrice heard a rustling noise and stood with her back tight against the pillar.

There was a waist-tall hedgerow on the edge of the street, a few meters away.

In the space between her pillar and the next she saw a white glow.

She watched as the beam moved into the hallway and up a wall, and heard steps.

Swallowing hard, she pressed tighter and tighter against the wall as if trying to shrink.

Suddenly the beam slashed across the wall.

It repositioned out of the hallway and across the adjacent green.

“Halt! Stop right there you hooligan!”

Harsh and fast steps; the guard took off shouting, probably after someone else.

Salvatrice breathed a deep, troubled sigh. She peered out of the pillar and watched the guard go. Building a mental map of her location, she thought about where the guard would go, and how long it would take him to return to his route if he failed to catch anyone. She was sure this was her best chance to make a final escape for the night.

Feeling a shiver throughout her body as she committed herself, Salvatrice ran out of cover and into the street, heading north toward the edge of the campus grounds. She ran as fast as her legs would allow, and felt a deep fatigue as she rushed into the woods. She saw no other guards and nobody following her. From the edge of the wood she made for the old campgrounds, at the edge of which she hid her personal carriage.

From inside a bush, she pulled a sleek black bicycle, with curled handlebars and thick, sturdy wheels. It was this humble vehicle that would carry her the rest of the way to the town of Palladi, and which was responsible for many of her previous escapades. She arrived rather tired after riding it anywhere; but walking to Palladi would have killed her instead, never mind how late she would have been to any party she dared to attend.

Her health had been relatively stable of late, so she did not fear the thirty minute ride.

There were several paths between the Messianic Academy and the Town of Palladi. Most people took the train. Though it went on a relatively circuitous path through the countryside, its speed meant that it reached the town in a few minutes. Cars usually took the Palladium road that circled from the eastern part of the Academy, avoided the wood entirely and led them on level, well-paved ground to the town. Any reasonable car or even a carriage could arrive at the town in ten to fifteen minutes via the Palladium.

Neither of these routes could be walked, however, at least not without hassle and waste.

Cutting through the Pallas woods was the more direct route, and the only route that was easily accessible under human power, taking a person perhaps two hours on foot, or a half-hour of furious cycling. But the old dirt roads through the wood were imposing, especially in the dark. There was a lot of superstition about them, and the Academy dissuaded guests and students from venturing into the wood. Salvatrice was well acquainted with this route, however. She had pedaled through it many times before, hurtling downhill under the thick forest canopy, her wheels rolling over uneven ground.

She felt every shock as she pedaled down the old roads. Muscle memory corrected every hit to the wheels, and she lost little speed and traction to the shocks and holes. Many early escapades had been aborted by a bad fall, but each failure to meet with her beloved Carmela built a frustration and desire that made her next ride much more efficient. Salvatrice now had her downhill ride through the woods down to a science. Her brow broke out in sweat, and her lungs and legs felt raw with the effort, but she maintained 20 km/h and the thick green and brown around her flew by in the dark.

She bowed her head against the handlebars and focused on her pedaling.

It was a stark transition, from thick forest out into a broad green field open on all sides. Ahead and down a gentle slope she saw the distant lights of the town of Palladi, spread out like a wedge driven between a small lake and the broad hilly countryside. Large stretches of terraced town-houses were broken up by the square plots of land belonging to larger, solitary estates, and both were surrounded by small, humble village houses. The Palladium road and the main Pallas train tracks split the town in pieces, and the more affluent neighborhoods boasted cobblestone streets and electric street-lamps.

However, the first several blocks that Salvatrice had to bike through were those closest to the wood, and they were connected by dirt roads with nary a streetlight or power pole in sight. There were lights coming out from the houses that partially lit the street, and on cloudy nights Salvatrice navigated by their dim illumination. She assumed these townies had electricity from somewhere, but in truth she had no idea. She always biked quickly through the outer edges of town and into the denser, richer interior past the train station.

The Sabbadin estate was not on the lakefront, but Salvatrice thought she could see water far downhill over the shoulder of the property. It was a cube-like house with a complicated facade and arch windows, three stories tall. Though the property was flanked by terraced houses, the Sabbadin’s was detached, occupying its own plot of several acres atop a gentle hill. Brick walls separated the Sabbadin’s land from the rest of Palladi, topped with spear tips of black steel that prevented climbing over. An imposing gate barred the way into the pearl-tiled gardens of bright, round rose and lilly bushes leading to the door.

Salvatrice walked her bicycle to the gate, panting heavily for breath. Riding to Palladi always sapped her strength. She had to admit, however, that she felt less drained tonight than on most nights. When her body became particularly rebellious she would become nauseous and dizzy after an activity. Tonight she felt merely exhausted from it.

Having arrived at the Sabbadin’s townhouse, Salvatrice briefly dropped her guard, but she quickly stood on tiptoes and erect when she found someone waiting for her at the gate.

Behind the metal bars, humming a little tune, stood a dowdy-looking maid with a heavy shawl over her apron and dress, and a rather large white cap over her hair. She kept a lazy watch over the estate driveway, frequently turning her back on the road and leaning on the wall or crouching near the flowers or pacing along the front of the town-house.

Salvatrice hid behind the wall at first, but she did not have much time to waste.

And she refused to turn back. Not on this night; not at the peak of her longing.

“Excuse me ma’am, I’m here about your subscription!” Salvatrice murmured, coming as close to the gate as she dared. This was the best she could come with to approach. She did look like a courier or newspaper boy. She at least possessed the hat for the job.

Behind the gate the maid took note of her and her request and stared at her.

Salvatrice’s heart practically stopped for a moment. Then the maid burst out laughing.

Oh ho ho ho! We’re going to have to work out a better system than this one!”

She raised a delicate hand to her lips. Salvatrice’s mouth hung open.

“Don’t just stand there! Come in, Salva!”

Carmela approached and opened the gate and allowed Salvatrice through the irons.

Covered so heavily in the maid’s clothes, she had seemed a stranger.

But her eyes and face were so radiant on closer inspection that they gave her away.

Salvatrice hid her bicycle from the sight of the gate behind one of the rose bushes.

“I thought something had gone wrong.” Salvatrice said. Carmela’s cheerful demeanor and laugh and the humorously burdensome look of her maid’s clothes brought a great warmth to her heart. She had missed so much being in physical proximity to her lover.

“You underestimate me! I have everything well in hand. All of my servants have today and tomorrow off. No one would mind if I borrowed their clothes and guarded the gate.”

“I suppose it would be unseemly and dangerous for a lady to wait outside her home.”

“Especially wearing the luxurious dress I set aside for tonight. Wait until you see it!”

Both of them giggled with delight. Slowly it dawned on them that they were together.

Together in the flesh; and alone, deliciously alone! No prying eyes to judge them.

For a moment they merely stared at one another, apart by the length of an arm.

Slowly, Carmela spread her arms open, wearing an inviting smile.

Salvatrice practically jumped atop her.

Under the moonless night the two of them tightly embraced.

Arms entwined and with eyes locked together, protected in public by their disguises and the locked gate keeping out the world, they hovered closer with lips parted by warm breaths, and gently kissed. At first their mouths merely touched, but then their lips parted, seized, pulled. Such passion began to build that their hands started to travel.

Realizing where this rhythm was leading them, the two abruptly paused.

When their lips drew apart they instead touched their foreheads together.

“I’m so glad to see you.” Salvatrice said, her face warm and flushed.

“It almost feels like a dream. May I have you before the dawn, milady?”

Carmela parted from their embrace and offered her hand instead.

Fingers twined, she and Carmela then proceeded through the path, up to the front door and into the foyer of the Sabbadin’s Palladi estate. The interior of the townhouse was clean and modern. Beneath their feet the floor was composed of polished tiles of a naturally murky off-white color. These tiles also seemed to compose the roof. Around them the smooth walls were painted a rich, dense, and mysterious shade of jet-blue.

Though she had visited some other properties belonging to the Sabbadins before, this was Salvatrice’s first visit to the headquarters, so to speak. It was quite impressive.

Carmela’s foyer was modest and sparsely furnished for the overall size and luxury of the townhouse. There were no enormous chandeliers of gold and silver like those found in the Previte estate, and no gilded doorknobs and hand-rails and busts. On the walls hung paintings of cats and horses in various settings. Freshly-picked flowers rested on resplendent vases boasting futuristic blended colors and geometric shapes. There were a pair of coat-racks that looked like spires with sharp arms, and bench seats like cubes of several subdued shades melted together. Carmela hung her shawl and cap on one of the spires. Salvatrice dispensed with her jacket and paused to admire the surroundings.

When they spoke their voices seemed to slightly echo. There was clearly nobody home.

“So, what do you think?”

Carmela pulled her long, luxurious blond hair free of a bun, and shook her head. Salva wondered whether she was asking about herself or the house. The Princess was quite taken with her lover’s bouncy mane, the subtle waves that curled at the ends, the locks over her ears, the casual but orderly bangs, and the rich yellow-gold color of it all.

“It’s a feast for the eyes.” She replied, more about her lover than her home.

“Why, thank you. My parents are almost never home so I’ve taken some liberties with it. It used to be such a boring place, you know; all bright and showy and flat. I like stark angles and dark colors better. I especially like colors that blend together with different shades, like you see on the vases and the walls. It’s a coloring technique that’s catching on. It’s more modern. There’s more character to it. It’s not cheap, pearly fairy tale crap.”

When she wanted to, Carmela could be quite a cutting personality.

“Such a bourgeois disdain for the whimsical.” Salvatrice chuckled.

“Better to aspire to that than to the fluffery of the royals.” Carmela cheekily replied.

Directly before the women two long sets of staircases curled up toward the next story, and beneath them two hallways led further into the ground floor. Carmela led Salva by the arm with a smile on her face, urging her to get excited for a big surprise that she had for them. Upstairs the hallways were tight compared to the royal palace and the Previte estate — it was after all a town-house — and there were many doors leading to rooms and closets. Salvatrice felt that they were rounding the exterior of the house, and she realized this was so when she saw the lake out of a hallway window. Right across from the glass, Carmela threw open a pair of somber wooden doors into her own bedroom.

This one room could almost make up the space in Salvatrice’s whole apartment. Like the rest of the house, it was furnished to Carmela’s modern tastes. There was a tea table of pentagonal glass that sat atop a cube, and the chairs around it were also cubes. Off on a corner of the room Carmela had a personal piano that had the typical shape, but the chair in front of the instrument was an inverted black step pyramid, chunky and angular.

Her small bed-side dresser was a semi-circular black shape with curved shelves, and her tall clothes chest was a similar object, standing like a strange giant off to one side of the room. Her bed was a rather flat-looking black mattress on a polished wooden frame that emphasized the angles of its corners and seemed almost to hold the mattress aloft without touching it. There were no columns and no awning unlike most grandiose royal beds. Salvatrice hoped it was not some fancy water bed. She heard sex was awful on those.

“Wait right there, I’ll fetch tonight’s first surprise. I hope I got your measurements right.”

Salvatrice could not risk carrying around a fancy dress while she snuck out, so she usually relied on Carmela to acquire something proper for her to wear and to sneak it to her during her escapades. She had found her lover’s sense of her princessly taste to be quite trustworthy, and waited with bated breath to see what she brought today. Carmela disappeared into a door on the side of the room, probably a closet like the one set aside for her at the royal palace. When she returned, the heiress was suddenly well dressed, having shed her costume. She came out in a gown, herding a spire-like rack on wheels, while holding two matching pairs of heels in her fingers, to replace their work shoes.

“Tell me about mine in a moment, but for now, take a look at yours!”

She shoved the rack toward Salvatrice. It came to a stop just in front of her.

“I sprung for something regal but form-fitting for you. What do you think?”

As always she had impeccable taste; Salvatrice’s dress was a wine-red, silver-trimmed gown, high-necked and short-sleeved, with a long skirt angled tight against the hips and split at the thighs and a form-fitting bodice that accented the chest — what little of it Salvatrice had to offer the gown, anyway. Her arms, back, hips and shoulders and some of her upper chest was open to the air by angular cuts in the fabric that resembled arrowheads. It gave what was otherwise a simple form-fitting dress a more modern and daring touch. A pair of matching elbow gloves and stockings formed a set with the gown.

However, she could hardly remained stunned with her dress with Carmela in the room.

Her lover was absolutely gorgeous, and Salvatrice could not peel her eyes from her.

Carmela’s own dress was bolder than what she picked for the princess. She had worn a purple and gold gown cut off just over her breasts. Her shoulders and much of her chest were bared by the design. When she turned around the ribbed bodice seemed extra tight around the back to account for Carmela’s endowments in front. A white line with crossed gold laces along its length stretched from between her breasts all the way down to the hem.

Her skirt was like a work of art, a matching purple on gold with layers of sharp, angular twists around sections of smooth fabric, flowing around Carmela’s curves like waves broken on stone. Sections of the dress were diaphanous, made up of sheer black fabric in a pattern of squares, flashing a suggestion of olive skin beneath. There were see-through cuts in the dress like this along her flanks, over her hips, and behind her back.

Like Salva’s dress, Carmela’s had a pair of matching long gloves and stockings. She had a gold choker around her neck that almost reached up to her jaw and down to her collarbones. She had applied a modest layer of cosmetics. Just a touch of powder on her cheeks, a bit of shadow over her eyes and a dab of red on her lips. She had not brushed her hair but after its release from the bun it had already settled into a long, casual look that suited her well.

She was a beauty between the classical and modern.

Salvatrice would’ve called her a princess.

“Absolutely stunning.” Salvatrice replied, standing entranced.

“Mine or yours? You’re staring so intently.” Carmela replied, smiling bashfully.

“Both.” Salvatrice said. Her own dress was lovely; but Carmela was so perfect.

“I’m glad you like it. Come here and let me help you into it!” Carmela said.

“How did you change so quickly?” Salvatrice interjected.

“Oh ho! How did I? Perhaps I was wearing it all along?”

“Oh. So you only applied the cosmetics? You had on two dresses?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not! Some of it must remain a trade secret.”

Carmela took Salvatrice by the hand again and sat her on one of the geometric chairs. She was practically skipping on her tip-toes with excitement as she descended upon the princess and unbuttoned her vest and shirt and helped pull down her long pants.

Despite her typically coquettish, lusty attitude in private, Carmela was quick and efficient about this endeavor. She stripped Salva, leaving only her bottom undergarments, and then practically swept her into the gown without a moment’s pause. It tied at the back, lacing up just over her buttocks and under her neck with an arrow gap between — without a servant or lover at her back the Princess could never have gotten into the dress.

“You look gorgeous, Salvatrice! Your face is film star material!” Carmela said.

Pulling a wheeled mirror close, Carmela showed Salvatrice her appearance.

She looked at the woman in the mirror and it was not the beauty that she focused on immediately, but the glow of health and comfort that she exuded. In light of everything that had transpired the past few weeks, it was hard for Salva to believe she was staring at her own smiling face in the mirror. She was beautiful, perhaps; but more than that, she was happy. She did not fear an attack, and she did not feel shame or worry about her body or her identity. Tonight she could put her worries aside and simply exist in the world.

It had been so long since Salvatrice had truly experienced comfort. It was healing.


Dressed for an indulgent evening, Salvatrice and Carmela returned downstairs and crossed a hallway under one of the staircases in the foyer. There were many doors at their sides, most of them closed. All were nondescript, unlabeled, inscrutable. Carmela strode confidently past all of them, her head held up high, her heels clicking on the floor.

“Where are we headed?” Salvatrice asked.

“You’ll see!”

Ahead there was one pair of doors that was open and through which shone dim light. Salvatrice thought it was their destination, but Carmela walked right past it as she had every other door. The Princess glanced through the doors and saw a long, table lit by lamps that seemed like black, square kites surrounding small torches. But she had to keep pace with her lover, and crossed the doors too quickly to tell if food was served.

Exacerbating matters, she was unused to walking in heels. Carmela had thankfully picked somewhat low heels, but Salvatrice was nonetheless perpetually behind her lover, who walked gracefully and with her head held up high despite the impediment.

Devoid of servants or any guests but the two of them, the town-house felt cavernous, and there was an eerie atmosphere about the place. Salvatrice felt this most acutely within the long connecting halls lined with closed doors. There were so many rooms and she was tempted to visualize what was behind each locked door. Did the Sabbadins have a few dozen empty rooms in their house? Were some of those doors closets and game rooms and libraries, or just beautifully tiled floors bereft of objects or occupants?

Her own apartment was small but aggressively lived-in. She had to use every corner!

“Carmela, how many servants do you employ? You’ve said a couple names in your letters, but this house seems like it would require a fleet of maids to maintain it.”

“Oh it’s no great number. I have two personal maids, and there’s a small grounds staff on payroll. Cleaning is the only taxing issue, and we try to keep on top of it. When I want to do renovations I hire people for any one job and then they’re gone. Anyone I’ve mentioned by name has most likely gone, I’m afraid; we have turnover each season.”

“Turnover? How odd. I can’t imagine my dear Cannelle leaving me.”

“Ah, well, you have a relationship with her, Salva! My maids are just employees. Those come and go with the times, especially in these particular times. I’ve had women leave here to become teachers or nurses, or to get married. Better than dealing with me, I suppose, and institutional pay is likely better, though the accommodations are worse.”

“To be honest, I never learned how exactly Cannelle is compensated.”

“Well, she works for the Queen.” Carmela said.

Her lover was ignorant of how little that meant; Salvatrice held her tongue then.

“Carmela, without the help, who is going to prepare our evening?”

“Oh my; so that is your worry? You ought to relax. You’re under my care, darling.”

Carmela looked over her shoulder with a wry little smile.

They finally arrived at a pristine white kitchen, fully stocked with luxurious appliances.

One half of the room consisted of sprawling countertops with wall-mounted racks, cupboards and cabinets hovering over. A dozen chefs could have operated comfortably in such a space. In place of wood-fired stoves or grills was a very large electric cooker set, comprising a steel box on legs with a broad flat top and three sets of doors, its burners and ovens white and silver, polished like mirrors. Across the room from this appliance there was a big white box with a locking door. Salvatrice felt a chill coming from it.

“It’s an electric ice box. We had all our old appliances replaced, you see.” Carmela said. She patted her hand on the box like it was a lovable family pet. “These electric ones are so much safer, Salva. You won’t ever be burned trying to fire up an electric oven! And you don’t need to cart heavy ice into the electric box. It has a tank of freezing gas.”

“That doesn’t sound much safer, to be honest.” Salvatrice said, giggling.

Following the countertops and islands to the very end of the kitchen, Carmela opened a nondescript door and bowed, ushering Salvatrice outside. There was a path of stones, lit by a line of covered candles, that led from the back of the house out to a gazebo surrounded by red lily bushes. There was a gentle perfume in the air, perhaps coming from the candles. Under the gazebo Carmela had prepared a round wooden table for two. This was perhaps the only traditional piece of furniture Salvatrice had seen all night.

There was a candle in the middle of the table, but nothing else.

“Wait here a moment Salva. I will be right back!” Carmela said.

She took Salvatrice’s hand and sat her at the table, and quickly departed.

Salvatrice waited calmly, looking around the Sabbadin’s back yard. Such a simple word ill suited the space. There was a green almost the size of a few tennis courts between the townhouse and the rear wall. On a small hill near the edge of the wall an apple tree grew atop a bump in the terrain, with its surface roots like gnarled fingers crawling out of the dirt. There was a wreath strung around it — it was an imitation of the Father-Tree.

There was no sound but that of distant insects and the whispered fuming of the wicks.

Taking a deep breath, Salvatrice felt strangely at peace with the night. She did not feel unsafe or vulnerable. She did not feel watched or pursued. Her heart was so at ease.

Not even the sound of whining wheels behind her could startle the Princess.

Looking over her shoulder, she watched Carmelaa pushing a wheeled cart up to the Gazebo. Atop the cart there was yet another scented, shielded candle, along with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a plate of snacks. Carmela wheeled the cart closer, and Salvatrice admired the food. There was a vast array of cheeses in a tasting spread on an oak board, surrounded cured meats, tomato slices, honey and figs, a handful of truffles, and caviar on a series of smaller plates suspended from the oak board by various wooden arms. On the label, the wine bottle boasted proudly of its 1975 vintage.

“I may not be learned in haute cuisine, but I can set a tasting platter without a maid.”

Carmela popped the cork on the bottle and served Salvatrice the first glass.

Raising the glass to her lover, Salvatrice took a sip. It was quite strong and rich.

“Does it suit you?”

“It is lovely. Was 1975 a good year?”

“I wouldn’t know! Too far before my time.”

For a moment, it almost stung not to know. Salva thought herself a good student.

She would not allow such concerns to upset her, however, not on this night.

Instead she focused on her lover. It was almost magical, to see her, to watch her move independently, to stare into her honey-colored eyes and realize that she was real, that they were together, that they could touch and talk without pen and paper between. At times it almost felt like the magic of cinema, a puppet or an automaton or a model.

Then she caught a scent, and she felt the warmth as they brushed close or held hands.

Carmela was there. She poured herself a glass and lifted the snack set to the table.

“Take anything you want! You’ve never expressed a preference, so I brought a lot.”

Salvatrice procured a toothpick and speared a bit of prosciutto and a bit of Parmigiano.

She delicately brought the food between her painted lips and slid the toothpick off.

“A classic pairing, isn’t it?” Carmela asked.

Salvatrice nodded her head silently. It was delicious, practically melting on her tongue.

“You must try the truffles, they cost me quite a pence!” Carmela said.

On their own little bowl were a few rotund chunks of black truffle. Salvatrice delicately picked one and popped it into her mouth. They had a musky scent and tasted of nuts and garlic, quite heavily earthen in texture and flavor. Out of all the delights in Carmela’s platter, Salvatrice was the least fond of the truffle. But it was indeed very expensive.

She tried not to show her distaste on her face, and forced the mushroom down.

“It’s also an aphrodisiac, I’m told.” Carmela said. She turned bedroom eyes on Salva.

“Oh my.”

Both of them reared back with laughter, and a touch of embarrassment.

Carmela started picking her own snacks, and quickly emptied her glass of wine and poured a second. She began to chat, and Salvatrice listened and interjected, and they carried on like gabbing friends did. There was a lot of casual energy between them and it felt great for Salvatrice to just talk to her. Because of their letter-writing, the two of them had little catching-up to do. It did not feel as if they had been apart for weeks; they could pick up from wherever they desired. Salvatrice felt comfortable speaking with Carmela, without preparation, without formality. They simply glided from topic to topic as they ate.

“Say, how have your clandestine endeavors been?” Carmela said, half-jokingly.

“I’ve been learning to shoot.” Salvatrice casually replied.

“Oh ho! My big strong princess, ready to put a bullet in any who threatens me?”

“I would put a bullet in the wall near them, at least.”

“It is the thought that counts.”

“Not in that situation. We would probably die, Carmela.”

“In that case, you tried, and I admire that.”

Both of them chuckled together.

“What kind of gun do you have?” Carmela asked, sounding fascinated with the subject.

“It’s an old zwitscherer pistol from Nocht.”

“Does it make a dreadful noise when it shoots? How does it feel in your hands?”

“It is very noisy, and it does kick back a little.”

“I’ve never shot a gun. I did a little fencing, but never a fox hunt or any such sport.”

“I participated in a fox hunt once, but I shot nothing then. I never really thought much about guns until recently. I figure I am physically weak, but a pistol evens the odds.”

“And you truly bought one?”

“Yes, but on the sly. I know someone who knows someone.”

“Was this sold to Salvatrice or to Sylvano?”

“Sylvano, obviously.”

“Well. I feel some peace of mind knowing you can defend yourself.”

“Let’s not get carried away here.”

Both of them chuckled again.

“At least if some anarchist had run up to us in the Previte estate, you could have shot them point blank.” Carmela said, making a gesture with her fingers like a gun shooting.

“You know, I never asked what happened after I left the dance that night.”

“Nothing much at all. Police came. Launched an investigation, supposedly, but they hardly talked to anyone or held anyone for questioning. It was feeble.” Carmela said.

“Did you stay with the Previte sisters for long?”

“Until dawn. They insisted, for my safety. My father was none too pleased.”

“How are the Previte sisters doing now?” Salvatrice asked.

“They have a new gate. Fancier too. They will be fine. They’re already planning another party. Normally they frequent other person’s homes, but my scheme lit a fire in them.”

“They seemed like delicate girls. I hope the shock does not linger in them.”

Carmela lifted fingers to her lips and giggled.

“Delicate? Those two are animals, Salvatrice. Were you paying attention to them?”

Salvatrice had felt an inkling of that. “I suppose you’re right.”

“They’re a two-girl pack of hyenas. Nothing can keep them from debauchery for long.”

“Well then. Do you know if the police told them anything after what happened?”

“Nothing at all. They are very sour about it.”

Salvatrice supposed if there was no investigation then the Queen might have already been plotting to give the anarchists a false victory even back then. She dimly wondered just how far back and far ahead in time her Mother’s mind was operating. But she pushed those thoughts aside. This was her night with Carmela. To hell with the Queen.

“Given that result, they ultimately took matters into their own hands.” Carmela said.

“In what way?”

“They furnished weapons for their guards. Hired some ex-military types. Now they have round-the-clock security on their premises, and at least one bodyguard. They found a retired lady knight, for propriety’s sake. So they’re doing fine for themselves right now.”

“I see.”

Carmela picked up the spoon from the bowl of caviar and stared idly at it.

“Say, what do you think of the caviar? I sprung for the most expensive bottle.”

“It is rather briny.”

Carmela stared at it.”I suppose price does not always equal quality.”

“Oh no!” Salvatrice quickly replied. “It tastes fine enough. Caviar is just, briny.”

“True. To be honest, I’m not fond of the stuff. I’m not fond of the sea at all lately.”

Salvatrice blinked fast and stared at her.

“Not fond of the sea?”

Carmela nodded. She spoke in a bombastic tone of voice suddenly.

“I used to love it, but lately, I’ve had it with the ocean. It is a dreadful place!”

“Dreadful?” Salvatrice feigned being taken aback, playing along.

“Dreadful! Full of fish and salt, eternally battering against the soil! Just dreadful!”

“Oh my; will I never see you in one of those daring two-piece swimsuits then?”

Salvatrice made her own bedroom eyes at her lover, who laughed mischievously.

Carmela responded in kind, giving her own lewd stare and bending a little too forward.

Her gown’s low chest cut was not quite meant for the maneuver.

“Ah, but remember the lakeside, Salvatrice Vittoria! Lakes are not the sea at all. We can meet in the lake for a freshwater rendezvous — I can wear whatever you desire then.”

“Interesting proposition, but I must say, I think the beach is more romantic!”

“Romantic? How so?” Carmela drew back from her lewd pose, crossing her arms.

“Lakes are enclosed and private, while a beach is open and free. You are unbound at the beach, while you are hidden around the lake. It is bolder to kiss on the beach.”

“That is quite a bold mentality. Too bold for this country, I’m afraid!”

Carmela covered her mouth to delicately stifle a laugh. Salvatrice had a dark chuckle.

“Ah.” Carmela sighed fondly and stared sidelong at the caviar. “My father is obsessed with drawing fuel from the sea, Salvatrice. I’ve heard so much about the ocean lately that I would never want to see it. All of his letters, his phone calls, any time we briefly meet, it is always the ocean this year. Papa sincerely believes there are massive fuel deposits off-shore. He has this plan for a man-made island to drill them up from.” Carmela said.

“Can he do it? What would you even use to make a false island?” Salvatrice asked.

“I am not sure. He has rambled about it before, but my mind has been elsewhere.”

“Does he intend to do this in a time of war? Surely the sea will become dangerous.”

Salvatrice recalled that during the Unification War, Frank and Nocht submarines destroyed each other’s ships indiscriminately at sea to support the land war. Elven vessels were caught in the crossfire, and inspired national outrage. Whether Ayvarta had a fleet of submarines, Salvatrice did not know. She had to assume they did, and that they would use them in a similar fashion. Carmela’s father could well be in danger.

“Papa will not be dissuaded. He believes the Regia Marina will support him.”

“What would you do in his stead?”

She was curious; Carmela often talked of the company as if it was a problem outside of her hands. But she was the heiress to Antioch Fuels. It would someday be hers to run.

“I would probably sell the damned company. It is such a pain.” Carmela said bluntly.

Salvatrice was taken by surprise. That was the last answer she expected.

“Oh, truly?”

“Truly. One less obstacle between you and me. I’d definitely give up the sea for you.”

Carmela beamed with a radiant passion. She really did love her. It was evident in her voice, in her expression. She was so visibly happy to be here and to be with her.

Salvatrice turned bashful in response. She partially averted her eyes.

“You shouldn’t. You need something more than me.” She said suddenly.

“Oh, come now Salva. I do not at all. I would be happy just being with you.”

“Carmela, I am plotting to do something very dangerous.” Salvatrice confessed.

She expected Carmela to balk at this, but the heiress took it in stride, smiling fondly.

“Are you going to cross-dress and sneak out at night for a homosexual tryst?”

That quip forced a chuckle out of Salvatrice, much as she wanted to avoid laughing.

When she next spoke her expression was slightly smiling but her words were bitter.

“I’m headed down an ugly road, Carmela. When I went to the palace, my mother essentially conscripted me into helping her draw out the anarchists in Palladi. I don’t want to play the part of the bait for her schemes. I want to do something under my own power. Whether or not I want to fight them, there will be people targeting me for who I am. And whether or not I consent, my mother is willing to use me against them. So I decided to make the first move. I’ve acquired some personnel and I am hatching a plot.”

“Will you tell me what it is?” Carmela asked.

Salvatrice knew the question was coming but it still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“I don’t want you to be endangered on my account.” She said.

“What if I told you I do not care about that danger?”

“I am still compelled to protect you from it.”

“How thick-headed.”

“You’re being thick-headed too.”

Carmela smiled again at her.

She reached out over the table and brushed Salvatrice’s cheek with her hand.

“I love you, Salvatrice. I was living a shell of a life until you came into it. I was such a cold person, so removed from everyone. I had few friends and no desire to love. Until I meet the lonely girl overlooked by everyone; until that girl noticed me and I her.”

Salvatrice raised a hand to Carmela’s and felt the smoothness of her glove on her skin.

“I realized that I was not meant to lead a sham life until I could become the wealth of some powdered-up nobleman. I found the doors to a new world of love thrown open.”

“Carmela–”

Across the table her lover raised a finger to her lips and urged quiet.

“Listen: I love you and I trust you Salvatrice. I respect your decision. But I want to be part of your life. Queen be damned, Antioch Fuels be damned. Please. I do not ask that you bring me to wherever your journey takes you. But at least allow me to do something. So I can feel that I was at your side when you needed me. Even if it is only in banknotes.”

Her hand trailed down Salvatrice’s cheek, shoulder, and to her arm.

She held Salvatrice’s opposite hand quite tightly, a gentle smile on her face.

“I want to support you. You can decide how. Just let me do this.”

Salvatrice nodded her head. “I will consider it.”

“No; tell me you will do it. Please. Anything at all.”

Salvatrice felt the anxiety and tension of the previous moment washing away.

She felt a little coy toward her lover once more. Carmela’s gentle demeanor helped.

“Does it count if I just say, ‘let me be by your side tonight’?” Salvatrice cheekily said.

“No, because I was planning on doing that.” Carmela replied.

“Then I will have you write a bank note. Would you accept that?”

“Finally, something I am good at. Perhaps we can retire to my room, where I left my bank-book, and we can talk about this note of yours, and a proposition of my own.”

Carmela took her own turn to be coy.

Salvatrice did not have to ponder whether to accept.

Leaving the food out for the birds and the stoats, Salvatrice and Carmela quickly retreated to Carmela’s bedroom. They locked the doors to the outside, and shuffled barefoot through the house, back the way they came, holding up their skirts and heels and snatching glances at each other between bouts of girlish giggling. It was like a race.

Carmela easily beat Salvatrice to the bedroom. The Princess offered no competition.

“Go lie down. I’ll climb atop in a moment.” Carmela said. She winked.

Salvatrice felt a delightful little shiver down her back.

She supposed taking the lead was the prize for her little victory.

There was a conspiratorial air about them, and the thought of what they both wanted to do caused them some mild embarrassment. It was not the first time they had been intimate, though it was the first time they had this much liberty to do what they pleased. They had kissed and touched in many places, but never in a bed in a bedroom that was theirs and would be theirs for as long as they desired it. Much of this was new to them.

Salvatrice sat on the edge of Carmela’s bed, while her lover poured wine into their cups, taken in from outside. She felt the bed under her, firm and plush and comfortable. It was thankfully not a water bed. She shuddered to think of how that would have held up to them. She jumped up and down a little, and reached behind her back for the gown’s laces.

“Have a drink first.” Carmela said, offering a cup.

Salvatrice had already had a few cups of wine, but the alcohol did not quite pull on her brain just yet, so she happily obliged her lover. She took the cup, and as if to make Carmela certain of her intent, she drank all of it in one continuous sip. With a grin on her face, Carmela raised her cup, swirled the wine inside it, and emptied it in one draught.

Taken in by the moment, she hurled the cup over her shoulder.

It shattered on a wall and startled both of them.

“Oh no!” Salvatrice laughed. There was glass all over the top of the dresser.

Hurtling forward without comment, Carmela pounced on Salvatrice. She drove the princess onto the bed, her hips between the heiress’ legs, and leaned over. A heated breath that smelled of grapes wafted over Salva’s face as Carmela loomed over her.

“Are you comfortable?” Carmela asked.

Salvatrice nodded.

“What do you want to do?”

“Everything.”

“Can I touch down there too? Would you be okay with that?”

Salvatrice felt a brief moment of concern.

“You already know that I’m different–”

“And you know that I’m fine with it, Salvatrice.”

She cut her off so fast that all her worries evaporated.

In fact, her desire to be touched flared in response.

“Then It’s all yours.” Salvatrice smiled.

“Thank you.”

Her grip immediately tightened.

Carmela descended and hungrily seized Salva’s lips into her own, pulling and sucking.

Salvatrice’s hands struggled with the laces at her back, giving in completely to the passion. Carmela’s own hands traveled over her shoulders, under her arms, and over her chest, squeezing into her palms what pliable flesh Salvatrice had to offer. Once she had her handful, she withdrew abruptly from Salvatrice’s face. Her hands went behind her own back. Down came half her gown; Salvatrice pulled off the top of her own.

“Stay the morning with me.” Carmela said, coming back down atop Salvatrice.

Now the princess’ own hands were free to explore. She lifted Carmela’s skirt.

She had not intended to stay so long. She had wanted to disappear before dawn.

As her hands gripped Carmela’s flesh, as their lips joined and split, as their bodies pressed together and their dresses fell away, Salvatrice knew she could not leave.

It was so intense, so comforting, so emotional. She felt like she was becoming one flesh with Carmela, like all of her burdens, all of her passions, all of her worries and injuries and sins, all of it was being passed between beings, diluted, ameliorated. She had never felt so safe, so free. Carmela accepted her so fully and powerfully, accepted every part of her without hesitation. This, too, had to be part of her healing, she decided. She would regret every second she did not spend on this bed with this incredible woman. Especially if everything after this went wrong. She wanted– no, she needed this so badly now.

“I will stay to noon.” Salvatrice moaned, before Carmela’s lips silenced her anew.


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Coup De Cœur (47.1)

This scene contains mild sexual content and social coercion.


51st of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — Council Building

At the turn of midnight the Rangdan Council building was abuzz with activity.

The Governor’s Office was particularly busy. There were civil servants elbow to elbow on the carpet and along the walls, and so much chatter that no one voice seemed to rise over the rest. There were drinks on hand, and many toasts called to seemingly nothing in particular. Arthur Mansa presided over the extravagant gathering, seated as if on a throne, behind the governor’s desk that should have belonged to his then-missing son.

Despite the chatter, the thrust of this spirited discussion felt impossible to follow.

As far as Chakrani Walters knew she was in a meeting to decide a course of action following the flagrant abuses of military power exhibited by the 1st Regiment during the events of the preceding days. It was very late at night, but Chakrani was not tired. She was accustomed to the night life, and indeed night was when she was most active. As a hostess, as a dedicated party-goer and as a lover, she was at her most vivid and alert in the night.

And yet, the tone of the conversation in Mansa’s office was inscrutable to her.

She felt drowsy trying to read the mood and to follow the discussion. There was nothing concrete being said. Mansa was laughing, drinking and carrying himself as if hosting a party. His closest officials were acting more like room decor. These men gained life only when prompted and only for the barest hint of agreement, a nodding of the head, a quick clap of the hands. There was no mention of Madiha or Solstice for the longest time.

Not that Chakrani was especially keen to think about Madiha these days, but it was necessary to put aside grudges for the good of the people, and she had to be ready.

Whether anyone else even cared about her feelings was another story entirely.

The scene reminded Chakrani of exoticized portraits of the old Imperial court. Had Mansa’s fingers been covered in golden rings and a crown been set upon his scalp, he could have been a king surrounded by smiling courtiers immortalized in acrylics.

Chakrani felt isolated. She sat on a padded chair, one in a line of several extending along a corner of the room parallel to Mansa’s desk, at once too near and too apart from his court. Everyone was dressed too well for the occasion, she thought. Though she had her ringlets done as pretty as ever, her attire was a drab skirt suit, her only good one, which had received quite a workout over the week. Meanwhile there were men in tuxes and fine coats and shiny shoes, and the occasional lady in a bright dress come to bring drinks.

Every other tongue was flapping, but she did not speak, for she knew not what she could say. Though she had prepared some notes, they felt irrelevant in the current climate. Nobody here seemed interested in the summary from her discussion with a trio of Adjar’s remaining Council members — three only because the rest had given up their posts. It did not seem like the time or place to talk about refugees, about food and work assistance.

“Ms. Walters.”

She heard Mansa’s commanding voice and turned on her chair to address him.

“Yes sir?”

“How do you like your wine? Red, white– palm, perhaps?”

Several sets of eyes turned at once to face her.

Chakrani contained a scoff. What a ridiculous question to be asked! She was not much of a wine drinker. She preferred mixed local drinks with a fleeting edge of hard liquor to them. Ayvarta was not a country of grapes. And what did it have to do with anything?

“I drink palm wine, but not often.” Chakrani wearily replied.

Mansa smiled, and beckoned someone close.

Through the doorway, a woman in a bright, elegant dress approached. She was tall and dark and very pretty, with a swinging figure and a heaving bosom and a large bottle of palm wine. She approached with a grin on her face and performed an almost lascivious curtsy for Chakrani, exposing some chest. Pulling up a chair, the woman sat beside her and poured her a drink. She remained at her side, laying a too-playful hand over Chakrani’s lap. Her body gave off a strong scent of mixed sweat and perfume and a hint of booze.

Once the drink was served Mansa gave Chakrani a smirk that sent her shivering.

He was as smugly satisfied as if he had done her a favor. She felt insulted.

Soon as he had brought her company, Mansa turned his attention elsewhere.

Perhaps she had been too quick to judge, but she had thought him a serious and committed person when they had met on and off the past week. Chakrani was aware of his strong track record in Solstice politics, thought of as an eternal incumbent with an invulnerable base of support and a grand diplomatic air. Not only that, but she knew him distantly through his father — the two of them had spoken and met and done business before the dire time of Akjer. She had thought of him as a man of leadership and scruples. Was this evening characteristic of how he carried out his vaunted diplomacy?

As the night went the strange procession continued. At her side the woman tried to make polite conversation. Mansa turned to her several times and asked about her days as a hostess, about her family life and upbringing; and each time he cut her off with his own tales of days past. He talked to her about his days as a patron of business. He talked about old Rangda, and he talked about the old Regional Court. It was stifling. She almost wanted to weep. She barely got a word in except to the lady he had provided for her company, who nodded and laughed and cooed at her, perhaps drunkenly.

Gradually Chakrani noticed the courtiers peeling off from the crowd and the room starting to thin out. Mansa grew more reserved; at her side, the woman in the dress, whose name Chakrani had not been able to coax out at all, clung closer to her and drank the remaining wine out of Chakrani’s glass. Chakrani thought this was her own cue to leave. But when she stood, the woman threw her arms around her and Mansa raised his hand.

“No, Ms. Walters, as a serious woman of politics, I expect you to stay.” He said.

Another ridiculous notion!

Chakrani blinked and settled back down on her chair. She peeled the drunk woman’s arms away from her waist, trying to get her to sort herself out in her own damned chair–

And doing so, she spotted a small handgun clipped to her suddenly exposed upper thigh.

She tried to show no incongruous changes in expression, but it was difficult.

Chakrani had only ever seen a gun up-close once when she took off Madiha’s belt.

She was clearly unused to the particular world of politics that she had stepped into.

“Ah, good, good!”

Preoccupied as she was with whether the woman at her side was fictionally drunk or factually capable of operating a firearm, Chakrani did not immediately notice a new set of men coming discreetly through the door. Mansa clapped his hands once for the arrivals, and this caused Chakrani to turn her head. He in turn acknowledged her once more.

“Chakrani, meet the loyal men of Rangda’s own 8th Ram Rifle Division. They will help us take care of our little Nakar problem, as well as help your people regain their strength.”

Chakrani went along with it. Mansa said something else, about confronting Madiha, about how these men would protect her from Madiha; she nodded affirmatively at his every word and said her ‘yes’es and ‘thank you’s. She was not paying him the proper attention, examining the army men and beginning to fear for her own position in this discussion.

There were several ordinary men of some rank or other; but there was one man who drew her attention the most. He was fairly tall, athletic and slim, with a rugged, handsome appearance, tanned, with a hooked nose, and a hint of slick blond hair under his cap.

His chest was decorated with many medals. He had more decorations than she had ever seen, though her only point of comparison was Madiha’s chest, years ago.

When he spoke his name at Mansa’s command, Chakrani stifled a gasp.

Brigadier General Gaul Von Drachen.

She was immediately sure no such person truly existed in Rangda’s armed forces.

And the looks of anxiety on the faces of the rest of the men seemed to confirm this.

Though they would not say it, these men were being dragged into something.

She, too, was being dragged into something.

Mansa, however, was delighted to have the man here. He welcomed him jovially.

“Our greatest asset arrives! Well, Let us speak discretely for now, General Drachen–”

Von Drachen, my good man. You see, Drachen alone, does not convey–”

General Von Drachen,” Mansa correct himself, cutting off the Brigadier, “I take it that your preparations are complete and you will be ready to assist me by the agreed date.”

“It should take my gruppen no later than the 54th to arrive. My jagers are here with me.”

Chakrani felt her face go white at the sound of Nochtish words, confirming her fears.

Mansa’s expression briefly darkened. “I believe I was clear that the date was the 53rd.”

“We could potentially make the 53rd, but I am being realistic. You never know what will happen in the field of battle, especially where deception is concerned. I believe in leaving some leg-room available when making predictions.” Von Drachen replied.

“You talk much to say very little, General.” Mansa replied.

“You could stand to talk a little more, Sir.” Von Drachen said, smiling.

For a moment the two men appraised each other in silence.

Mansa steepled his fingers and proceeded with the conversation. “I believe some of us in the room share a mutual acquaintance who is noticeably absent from this discussion.”

“Hmm?” Von Drachen made a noise and stared blankly.

“Ms. Walters, I should very much like for our misguided friend Madiha Nakar to come and sit with us soon. Would it be possible for you to fetch her for us?” Mansa said.

Chakrani felt her insides constrict with dread. All throughout she had been feeling like a hostage trapped in a dangerous situation, and she had been right. This Von Drachen was a man from Nocht and Mansa was plotting something. This was what they wanted her for; they just wanted to get to Madiha and she was the way that they settled on. Her eyes glanced over to the woman at her side, who was still clinging sleepily to her.

Would acknowledging any of this put her in undue danger? Chakrani was not some soldier or spy. She was a young woman under the stars who liked to drink and carouse and make love to women. That she put together these clues was no great feat, she thought. Anyone in this situation would have thought the same. But her sense of self-preservation, more developed than that of a reckless hero, screamed for her to quiet.

In this situation her blood chilled and her heart slowed. She helplessly complied.

“I could certainly try, sir. But would not an official missive be more appropriate?”

She thought the more respectful she acted, the safer she would be.

Mansa smiled. “I’m afraid she has become too unstable for official contact. At this pivotal time in our diplomacy, we cannot afford to let her run rampant. Surely you understand. You know her, after all; she has hurt you before. She cannot be swayed by the law.”

Chakrani felt her tongue grow heavy. Just hearing others speaking about that woman set off a chain reaction of conflicting emotions in Chakrani’s head and heart that she buckled under almost as badly as she did under the anxiety she felt at this predicament.

“Madiha Nakar is difficult sir, but I think if you take a peaceable solution–”

Across the room General Von Drachen’s face lit up with child-like glee.

“Councilman, do you mean to say Sergeant Nakar of Bada Aso fame, is here?” He said.

“Colonel; but yes. She leads the 1st. Regiment her in Rangda. Though I tried to integrate her into our affairs I have found she leans too far from us to be of assistance, as she is now. But I desire to convince her; I’m sure that I can, given time and opportunity.” Mansa said. His voice was taking on a hint of disdain for the General he had so seemingly prized moments ago.

“I’m afraid convincing is out of the question.” Von Drachen clapped his hands. “If you are a man who wishes to neutralize the threat of her, I’m afraid only murder will suffice.”

Chakrani sat up tighter against the backrest of her seat in shock.

Mansa sighed. “We’re not going to murder her.”

“Oh, but you must! She will dismantle any well-laid plans you have with ruthless alacrity unless you let me dislodge her brains into a nearby wall post-haste, my good man!”

Mansa brought his hands up against his face.

“Councilman, what is he talking about?” Chakrani shouted. Some part of her brain simply could not suppress all of the scandal in this room enough to pretend that everything was still fine. In such a complicated situation even her desire to lay low and leave the room unscathed and out of bondage was overwhelmed by her sense of right.

Madiha Nakar was a killer, she had killed before, and she told herself her killing was right; that was the image Chakrani fought to hold in her mind. There were other images, some less grave, some distressingly fond, all of which battled in her mind and rendered her final perception volatile and erratic; but this unified picture was the one she thought she wanted to see. Madiha Nakar was a killer, her father’s killer. And yet, Chakrani would never agree to simply shoot her like an animal behind a shed. In any civilized world she could have been challenged and defeated and tried for her injustice.

That was what Chakrani wanted. She wanted justice! She wanted to be heard!

She wanted to have her suffering redressed! She wanted relief!

She did not want to have Madiha killed!

Every conviction she held screamed now that she had to oppose this meeting.

And yet she was the least of the powers in the room.

Her body remained frozen as the men continued to stare each other down.

Mansa remained speechless. Chakrani almost hoped he was not fully corrupted.

Meanwhile the gleeful Nochtish man seemed confident in his position.

Von Drachen ignored Chakrani’s outburst. “I will tell it to you plainly, Councilman.”

“I do not want to hear it!” Mansa shouted, standing up from his desk.

“You brought me here for a reason–”

“Yes, we have a deal and part of that deal is you listen to me, Cissean!”

Mansa was growing irate; while Von Drachen’s smirking expression never changed.

“We can do nothing about this ‘1st Regiment’ if Madiha Nakar is leading it. You brought me here to help check their power in your city, did you not? You want to remain capable of independent operation? You want to maneuver to power? Well you cannot do any of that effectively unless something is swiftly done about Madiha Nakar’s command.”

“Something will be done!” Mansa replied. “At my discretion, with my methods!”

Chakrani channeled her anxiety into a final surge of bravery. She shouted desperately.

“I have no connection to Madiha Nakar anymore, Councilman! I cannot help you!”

She stood up from her seat and started toward the door.

Click.

Chakrani felt the gun at the nape of her neck and raised her hands.

Behind her, the woman in the dress seemed almost disappointed to have to hold her up.

She was not drunk, nor sleepy; her sexualized act was replaced by cold stoicism.

Chakrani was sure that this woman would shoot. She froze completely.

Mansa sighed ever more deeply. He rubbed his hands over his face again.

“I am so upset right now. I expected all of this to transpire so much more cleanly. Mark my words, Cissean, your superiors will know my displeasure.” He calmly said.

Von Drachen shrugged childishly in response.

“It seems I am doomed never to be listened to.” He cryptically said.

After addressing the General, Mansa turned a stoic eye on Chakrani.

“Child, you will pen a missive and meet Madiha Nakar at a specified location. One of our agents will then persuade her to meet with our Council and make a peace. We will not harm either of you. I am merely answering her obstinacy with my own. A diplomat needs an opportunity to speak. I am merely seizing an opportunity to speak: with Madiha, with Rangda, and ultimately, with Solstice, and with Nocht. I am making my stage here. While the rest of the world devolves to madness, I will make Rangda a pillar of order. Alone, or not.”

Chakrani started to weep. She could not believe that she would come away unharmed from a request made at gunpoint. She had foolishly walked into something awful now. Not even Mansa’s calm and stoic words could assuage her. In fact, the calm with which he spoke made his words even more frightening. He was the most dangerous one here.

What kind of peace would he make with Madiha, when he was already preparing military force against her? What kind of peace could be made with Nocht other than giving up this city to their mercy? He might not kill anyone; but there would be blood nonetheless.

But she was helpless, and could say nothing more than “yes sir,” in a choked voice.

Mansa nodded his head, and raised his hand.

At Chakrani’s back, the woman laid down her weapon.

Mansa’s sweet, almost fatherly demeanor returned as he sat back down.

“I knew you would understand, Ms. Walters. Madiha will listen to you. I’m sure of it. Bring her here, and I will speak a truth to her that will change her outlook.” He said, smiling.


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Conspiracy City (46.1)


50th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — 8th Division Base, HQ

“Let them in.”

At the Colonel’s exasperated command, the machine gunners guarding entry into the headquarters stood aside. Kajari and Chadgura stepped away from the interior doorway and held their rifles with their bayonets and barrels staring at the ceiling. Outside, the guards inspected the arriving car while its occupants cross the threshold into the HQ.

Parinita Maharani recognized the escort, but she was more surprised at the woman.

“Please identify yourselves.” Madiha said. It was a formality. She knew both of them too.

Haughtily, the woman with the ringlets and skirt suit crossed her arms and grumbled.

“Chakrani Walters, representative of the Adjar Civil Council.” She said.

Madiha nodded her head. “Padmaja, have her sign in, please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

From a corner, Feng Padmaja quietly and meekly procured a ring-bound book and presented a page and a pen to Chakrani. Normally the junior staffer was chirpy and energetic, but the gravity in the room seemed to have tripled for her, and she moved very slowly and deliberately. Chakrani stared at her with disdain as she approached, and begrudgingly signed the book before shoving the pen brusquely back into Padmaja’s hands. Stunned by the outburst, Padmaja stowed the pen between the locks of hair at the edge of one of her covered double buns, and walked sadly and stiffly back to her table.

“Can we talk now?” Chakrani asked. Her tone was turning downright bratty.

Madiha quietly nodded her head toward the man at Chakrani’s side.

“Identify yourself.” She demanded.

“I don’t feel like it.” He said.

“I will not ask again.”

Parinita averted her gaze. She felt the tension in the room constricting her chest.

Despite their previous liaison, Chakrani did not seem touched in any way by Madiha’s visible injuries. She seemed quite ready to treat Madiha as just somebody that had to be spoken to. Her posture was intimidating — Parinita thought Chakrani looked like a cat poised to lunge. Her crossed arms shook very slightly with pent-up energy. Her tapping feet hit the ground sharply and with a quick rhythm. Her gaze was cutting as her eyes slowly looked over the room, settling on every face she found. Her smoldering stare shook Bhishma and Padmaja.

She was such a contrast to Madiha; opposites truly did attract sometimes.

Madiha’s face was void of emotion. Parinita met her eyes from across the room, trying her best to silently communicate her support in this obviously painful situation. In response the Colonel’s expression and stance were neutral. Her voice, when she first spoke, sounded tired and vulnerable. But when she questioned the arrivals, she took a sterner tone. While Chakrani had come before them with fire in her chest, Madiha just seemed hollow.

“Just do it already.” Chakrani said, elbowing her escort.

At her side, the young curly-haired man in the disheveled uniform stared at the wall.

“Private Jota, mobility support.” He said. His tone was dismissive.

“I need your full name and unit. You can sign it in.” Madiha calmly ordered.

Padmaja stood up from the floor and approached cautiously with the ring-bound book.

Jota spat on the floor in front of her. “Nah. Find it out yourself, Colonel.”

Padmaja shrank away.

“Kajari, remove him.” Madiha said.

From the doorway, Corporal Kajari approached with her rifle in her hands.

Jota, visibly taller than her, half-turned and raised his hands.

“You don’t want to do that.” He said dangerously.

Kajari turned the bayonet on his neck and left a scratch.

“You can leave by yourself or in a bag, your choice.” Kajari said.

Chadgura stepped forward as well.

Jota sighed deeply. He turned carefully and left the room, rubbing his neck.

All throughout Chakrani stared with a mix of horror and rage.

“You’re on a power trip, Colonel! He is my official escort!” She shouted.

Madiha was unmoved.

“Anyone who enters this building and shows even a shred of antagonism,” She said, her tone suddenly dangerous and deliberate, “is a threat to myself, to my staff, and to the security of highly sensitive materials in this base. I am not playing a game here.”

Parinita shuddered a little at the response, but she knew Madiha was right.

Especially in the condition she was in, and after recent events.

One’s outlook on security changes when one is nearly beaten to death in a “safe place.”

“I’m absolutely sick to death of you! Your actions from the moment you received a command have been nothing short of savage!” Chakrani shouted. “I’m filing a complaint!”

“Is this the Adjar Government-In-Exile talking still, or just you?” Madiha asked.

At the sound of the Colonel’s words, Chakrani stood suddenly quiet and still, and seemed cowed with shame. Chakrani then quickly composed herself, standing straight and to full height, taking a deep breath and clearly making an effort to calm her voice. Her hands were still shaking and Parinita thought she could see some moistness in her eyes.

“Colonel Nakar, let us cut the acrimony short — I’ll talk, and you’ll listen. Alright?”

“That is amenable. You have the floor, Councilor.”

Parinita wondered what was going in Madiha’s mind and heart at the moment too. She knew Madiha was skilled in compartmentalizing her emotions and pushing through difficult situations. She had already been put on this spot with Chakrani before in Bada Aso, and she was under greater pressure then and did not buckle. But she must have felt something, to be seeing Chakrani again, and in this kind of position and situation.

Though the thought felt childish and self-centered, Parinita wondered if Madiha felt strengthened by their affection, by their moonlit and dawnlit oaths. She wondered if the image of Parinita at her side helped to support her and drown away Chakrani’s voice.

Chakrani’s inner war was visible and plain. Madiha’s seemed completely suppressed.

Nevertheless, Chakrani took the role of Councilwoman Walters and delivered a speech so thorough that it seemed as though read out of paper on an invisible podium. Judging by her own expressions before, this dry, official language did not seem to be her words.

“Colonel Nakar, the Council of the occupied Adjar Dominance is deeply concerned about your continued independent usage of arms, armor and personnel taken from the Adjar Battlegroup Ox without any attempt at communication or information-sharing with either the Tambwe Civil Council or the Adjar Government-In-Exile here in Rangda.”

Madiha interrupted briefly. “My isolation was not wholly of my own design.”

“Information given to the Adjar Government-In-Exile says otherwise.”

Her continued insistence on referring to this “Adjar Government-In-Exile” was confusing. Parinita had not once heard of such an entity existing within Rangda, and she did her best to keep up with the political goings-on despite their limited resources. She knew the Adjar Council had evacuated to Tambwe; Madiha had ordered the move and executed it just hours after first meeting with them in Bada Aso. It made sense that they would end up in Rangda, as it was Tambwe’s most important city that was also relatively farthest from the fighting at the time. However, the concept of a continuing Adjar government baffled her.

“Let me guess: Mansa put you people up to this today.” Madiha calmly said.

“Councilman Mansa helped us organize here and informed us that you have been acting independently, including recently detaining prisoners and withholding information.”

Chakrani was starting to verge on anger again. She had a frustrated expression.

Madiha drummed her good fingers on her desk throughout Chakrani’s explanations. She spoke up in a stronger tone of voice afterward. “I am acting independently because the Adjar Dominance does not exist, and you have no authority over anything anymore.”

“I beg to differ.” Chakrani replied. “Currently we are working with local authorities to help relocate 50,000 refugees from the Adjar Dominance. We are getting them houses and food and union jobs instead of sending them to the desert. What have you done lately?”

That was it then, Parinita knew; Chakrani’s loyalty came in exchange for Mansa’s help in integrating some of her people back into normal lives. There were millions of Adjar refugees, but any number of people resettled and happy was a good number. However, most refugees were heading farther out to Solstice because Dbagbo and Tambwe were already embroiled in combat themselves. Parinita did not dare say it out loud, but in her rush to accept Tambwe’s help for these people, Chakrani was likely only endangering them.

Madiha stared at her without expression and then delivered her own quick speech.

“What we have done is destroy multiple elite corps of the invading army, delay their assault on Tambwe and their march into North Solstice by weeks instead of days, so that you can come here and berate us in the stead of your nonexistent government instead of being dragged into a camp and shot by Nocht as a ‘terrorist leader.'” She said.

On the receiving end, Chakrani grew more furious with every word spoken.

“You can be as dismissive as you like once you’re back under the stead of the government to which you belong! Listen to me before you open your trap again Colonel: rehousing refugees is not our only project. We’re aware that this country is tenuous too. So we have plans to raise a force of people from Adjar to help protect our new home in Tambwe and rebuild Ox’s strength. We need you to cooperate for everyone’s good.” Chakrani said.

“Ox has been disbanded and I do not need it to return. It is useless to everyone.”

Chakrani charged headlong into her next point, ignoring Madiha’s response.

“We’re talking past each other then so I’ll get to my main point. We’ve given to believe you have a prisoner from Nocht in your hands and are restricting access to them. You can ignore our other requests if you like; but we demand to be able to speak to them. They are not under your jurisdiction. We wish to see what information they can give us about the occupation, so we might adequately prepare for our resistance. Can you spare at least that?”

“No.” Madiha said immediately. “I have already gotten as much relevant information as can be expected from the foreigners. They are under the protection of the KVW now.”

“You can easily correct your wide overreach of your authority by simply letting us talk to the prisoner, or by sharing any information you got from them.” Chakrani said. Her tone of voice and the construction of her words sounded threatening, as if she was ready to indict them.

Parinita turned her head from the scene, and stepped closer to the desk with the original Generalplan Suden files. She should have realized that was their objective all along.

“None of it is easy or simple. Further harassment of our guests is not productive and could be downright dangerous. So no, you will not be allowed to speak with them.”

“Your unwillingness to submit to lawful authority is what’s dangerous here!”

“Lawful authority? You mean Mansa’s crooked council, and the eternally lame duck council that are using you as their puppet to retain some form of political relevance?”

“Whether you like it or not, Tambwe and Adjar have legitimate governments that–”

Madiha raised her good hand, and stood up from her desk, stopping the Councilwoman.

“I am not here for Tambwe or for Adjar, Chakrani. I am here for the Socialist Dominances of Solstice. I am here for the Ayvartan people. I am here for what will be a long war. It is disturbing to me how you stridently you fail to see the bigger picture here.”

Chakrani’s face turned chalk-white and her expression contorted with disgust.

She shouted back louder than any voice heard during the entire discussion.

“Don’t you fucking dare say my name again! I will not suffer you for a second longer you animal! Everything you do, everything you touch– You cannot save a single thing, you miserable wraith! Mark my words! hope I never see your despicable face again, Colonel, but you will hear from Adjar again. We will do whatever it takes to save our nation.”

She turned sharply around and stomped her way out of the building, pushing Kajari and Chadgura away from the door as she went. Everyone inside and outside the building seemed to have heard the outburst, and there were heads turning everywhere. Even the Hobgoblin turned its turret as if judging her. Chakrani Walters, as quickly and suddenly as she came, returned to the car with Jota and the pair sped off back out of the base.

Parinita breathed a loud sigh of relief. Everyone else was silent and still for a moment.

“She really does not like the Colonel.” Padmaja meekly said, cutting the silence.

“She has reason not to.” Madiha said, her head sinking against her desk.

Parinita shook her head. She supposed that was the answer to her previous fears.


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MAJINI (45.1)

Warning: this scene contains violence and death, including violence to a child, as well as depictions of fire and burning and disturbing imagery.


30th of the Lilac’s Bloom, 2007 D.C.E

Ayvartan Empire, Adjar Dominance — City of Bada Aso

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

Desperate panting and crying broke the silence of the midnight streets.

Hurtling through empty alleys and desolate roads, a small girl fled from phantoms.

All of her instincts screamed for her to run and hide.

Her every step was dogged by a creeping, malevolent cold and shadow.

In hurting, she had experience far beyond her years. She had a keen sense of danger.

She sought glimpses of the enemy over her shoulder, above her head, and in every clay brick wall surrounding her in the tight streets of Bada Aso’s old quarter. She could see nothing. There was almost no light. With the moon clouded over, the only illumination came from beams between cracks in old doors and dim candlelight from bedroom windows.

Despite what her eyes told her, she felt the creature’s evil presence everywhere.

Like eyes watching her, the burden of a gaze, the bearing of a hateful judgment.

Closer and closer it came and she felt the weight shaking her legs and bowing her back.

Through the nondescript streets Madiha Nakar dashed, her location and bearing unknown, clutching her satchel against her chest. Though she felt chills across her skin she knew the night to be warm and moist and without breeze. Her white beret would have flown from her head otherwise. It was the creature that made it cold. A lanky figure, all arms, covered in a tattered cloak, its face covered by an eerie mask. It wasn’t human — it wasn’t anything.

Taking a blind corner she found a trash bin in an alley leading to the old plaza. Mustering all of her strength, she seized it by one of its handles and pushed it, spilling the contents behind her in a crashing of bottles, a rustling of old paper. She resumed her flight; moments later she heard, briefly, the crunching of glass and the stirring of paper once more.

It was still there.

A spectre made half-substantial, or perhaps, flesh trapped between worlds.

Majini.

Madiha charged out of the alley and ran toward the center of the old plaza. A wide, empty green field housing the skeletal remains of a stone temple, it was said the plaza had been the site of the first brick laid on the first building made by the ancient Adjar culture. Now it was utterly forgotten — there was not even a plaque to commemorate the deteriorating rock. Madiha rushed behind a crude waist-high rock wall and crouched.

She was surrounded by ranks of rocky pillars in varying states of decay.

More importantly, there was an old torch affixed to one of the stones.

Holding her breath and fighting back her tears, she laid down her satchel.

From it she withdrew the revolver Daksha had given her.

Five rounds; she hadn’t looked in some time, but she just knew.

A cold and airless breeze blew her way, stirring nothing but the fire inside her.

She felt the ghastly presence draw nearer, clutching at her heart.

Scratching on the grass; sifting dust as the creature stepped over the old rock.

Shuffling of fabric as beast shifted its hideous, emaciated form under its cloak.

Sucking noise as the monster sniffed into what long-decayed organ passed for its nostrils.

Closer, and closer, she felt the creature’s weight in the surroundings.

Her shivering worsened, the cold was stifling, she wanted to scream.

Madiha leaped to her feet and swiped her hand at the torch.

In an instant the fire inside her lit the dead fire in the wax and rags.

Amid the old temple the shadows retreated, leaving only one in their midst.

Stunned by the torch, the Majini retched, raising its arms and drawing back, its upper body bending away from the flame directly overhead while its lower body remained abominably rooted into place. Ashes from the sudden fire fell on the creature’s cloak and burned through it leaving tiny red rings that bled finger-width columns of black gas.

Unleashing a primal, soundless roar, the creature righted its ragged sock-like body and hurled itself toward Madiha, arms thrashing around it as if attached to a spinning wheel.

She felt the scream not by any perceivable noise but by a shuddering in her chest.

Reeling, Madiha retaliated with a shot that grazed the Majini’s barely extant shoulder.

She missed; she never missed.

Leaping over the wall it swiped, one of its arms grabbing her by the neck and scooping her off the floor with primal strength. Madiha thought her head would pop off her body, and she felt an intense pain; almost reflexively, within the next instant, she used what she knew of her abilities to push herself and remain balanced in the creature’s grip, preventing her body from swinging opposite her neck. Another hand then quickly seized her waist and belly.

Like the unhinging jaws of a snake, the creature’s black, emaciated hands extended and expanded and looped around her as if custom-fit to throttle her neck and body specifically.

From under the cloak one final arm extended behind the monster’s back.

It seized her satchel, and withdrew a letter.

Its neck snapped, and its face descended to her own.

In the middle of its mask was a smaller, fist-sized depiction of a silver face.

She saw the eyes on this tiny face moving. The larger eyes on the mask did not.

She saw its nostrils flare and felt a force pulling on her.

Her arms hung limp, still holding the gun. Did it understand the danger of it?

Did it just not fear?

It surveyed her, stretching its neck to look her up and down.

She felt colder than ever, a chill penetrating through her skin wherever it touched.

Her mind was growing hazy and numb.

Bending its limbs and head in unnatural ways, the Majini raised the letter over its shoulder.

Guttural noises issued from its neck as if it was trying to read the name.

Madiha remembered the address and directions.

She heard Daksha’s voice in her head. Deliver this to Lena. It is vital for us.

Would she ever make good on that promise?

She was just a child? What could she do?

As the Majini tightened its grip, she felt as if her soul was leaking from her mouth.

Cold and alone in this abandoned place; would she die here?

It simply could not be.

More than anything she didn’t want to fail; she wasn’t just some stupid kid.

She wanted to be a Zaidi. She wanted to be a socialist. She wanted them to win.

She felt the fire spark inside her.

Madiha unleashed her own soundless, primal cry.

Thinking fast she exerted her mind’s secrets and pushed on the Majini’s hands and both of them tore to pieces that flew in every direction, as if blown from within by a grenade. The Majini’s twisted form instantly righted itself and lifted its arms and its head to the heavens, screeching, now with sound, recognizing the agony that had been inflicted upon it.

Madiha landed clumsily on the floor and drew on the fire rather than the pushing.

Red lines flashed briefly from under her clothes, and sparks flew out of her fingertips.

From the palm of her hand a long red dart flew into the center of the Majini’s cloak.

Soon as it touched the monster its entire thrashing body caught fire.

From its remaining limb, Madiha snatched the letter, grabbed her satchel, and took off.

Behind her the burning creature wailed and screamed with mortal agony.

Madiha vanished into the night, running for her life without ever looking back.

She vanished into the concealing gloom of the underworld, but she knew deep inside her quivering little heart that her war with these living shadows was only beginning.

Throughout her quest to free the Ayvartans from tyranny, they would dog her every step.


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