After Descent, Year 975
Late 975 saw Bosporus put its final seal on the affair of the Nichori riots, one of the worst student uprisings the Imbrian Empire had ever seen. Once the metaphorical letter was drafted, deciding the official word of history, and the bloody-red wax seal stamped upon it, the University moved on. Despite the deaths of hundreds of students, including targeted killings of Eloim (the status as “hate crimes” denied by the administration) that saw an entire dorm building massacred and blood running down the streets in brutal skirmishes– the curriculum called, and the year was closed out per protocol. Between expulsions and “missing students” the class of 975 was one of the smallest pools of graduates ever seen.
In that surreal atmosphere of denial and neglect, one soul carried the weight of truth.
Those were the days that indelibly altered Menahem Halevi’s life.
She remembered her dorm as a place full of life. She didn’t have many close friends, but the people in her hall, she saw them every day. She woke up with her roommates. Her hall officer berated her for coming in late a few times when there was curfew. There were a lot of Eloim in her dorm so they celebrated the Yamim Tov together. But all of that life had been chopped to pieces by Maggie the Cleaner’s saw and strewn throughout the rooms, stairs, and halls.
The University had gone to some lengths to make the dorm barely habitable again. They left no evidence of the violence that had taken place there. Menahem had been quickly moved to a room with a functioning door just down the hall. It used to house a few slightly annoying freshmen girls who were seemingly always partying and making noise.
Now they were permanently silent.
The University did not move anyone particularly far from where they were first housed.
An entire floor housed Menahem alone. She was the hall officer now, for herself alone.
Menahem herself was the evidence that Maggie the Cleaner had killed almost every Eloim in that dorm. All of those memories she had of her dorm were permanently carved in memory alone, without the bodies and the sounds and the warmth and love that used to fill them.
And just as the dying madwoman requested– Menahem now carried her story.
There was no escape from it.
Even when she refused to think about it, that story became her world.
She woke in the morning, stepped out into the hall, and attended her classes feeling like a ghost. Knowing not what power even compelled her body to move through the near-empty halls and streets. Half in and half out of the world of the living and that of the dead.
On some days, the worst days, it felt like Menahem woke up in the morning, and before she knew it, she was back in her room alone at night, with no recollection that anything had transpired in between those two points in time. Her belly was full of food of unknown provenance– sometimes she coughed it up in the toilet out of the sheer incongruity of having gone, in her mind, from an empty stomach to a full one with no recollection of the context. Her legs felt tired as if she had been walking an entire day, but she did not know where she had been. She had no friends, nobody who had seen her come or go anymore–
so there was no one to ask what had happened to her.
It was impossible to take any tests or write any essays–
Because on most days she did not even remember going to class.
Sometimes she would have a good day that would bring immense relief– she would wake up, eat, hold her food, wash up, go to class, and each moment would follow in an uninterrupted sequence that led her from morning to night. An entire day in her life, a life lived, where she was in the present and she left the past behind herself. With presence of mind she began to keep a diary of events on her tablet computer so that she could remind herself of the days.
That did not stop the frequent surreal moments where she did not even recognize herself in the mirror.
Days where Menahem would find herself in class without knowledge of how she got there.
As if another being entirely in her own body had carried her there, without her knowledge.
Straight from bed to one of her noon lectures in an auditorium only an eighth full.
Despite this she learned nothing.
Not even history, her favorite subject, stuck in her head anymore.
Sometimes, she would come to in a hot shower.
There would be blood trickling down her arms and belly and chest from scratches. Whether she or anyone else inflicted them she did not know. On other days her body itched all over and she realized she had been wearing the same clothes for many days. While this embarrassed her and she corrected it, she did not feel in command of her own senses enough to have a stable relationship to personal upkeep. She lost some weight, her hair turned duller, and she started sleeping entire days away almost without control of it.
On all of those days, the diary still had entries– but she did not remember writing them.
Slowly it felt like her life was completely unraveling.
After weeks of this she finally let herself cry again.
Menahem felt, more than anything, an overwhelming helplessness, a loss of any control and agency. Even if she had justice in mind– a word that deeply frightened her because of what it demanded– those with power over her rendered it impossible to do anything with her story.
There was nobody to talk to– the Inquisition had already wrapped up the “case” of the riots.
Anyone who was involved was summoned and questioned,
and Menahem had never been summoned.
She feared showing up to a counselor or student representative in her current state.
Would she just start babbling about Maggie the Cleaner;
would they just lock her up for being crazy?
As far as Nichori was concerned, the only criminals were the rioting students and street fighters. There were no sides, no races, no issues– only a single mass that had somehow beaten itself bloody for no apparent reason. Therefore nothing needed to be done.
Sometimes, Menahem would shut her eyes and she would be back on that awful night.
Maggie the Cleaner standing over her, looking down at her.
At the side of her bed, on the adjacent seat in a tram, in another stall in the bathroom.
Wordlessly draped in the flesh of everyone Menahem had come to know at school.
Wordlessly filled with her violence toward every Eloim on Aer.
Wordless– she had already said everything she had to– filled Menahem with her poison–
Menahem did not know what to do otherwise so she attended and failed all of her classes.
Finally, she received an order to leave the dorm.
Those last days at school, which felt like they were whirling around her as a storm of sights and sounds and impossible colors without coherence or context– once she was ordered to leave it felt like the first day where some part of her life made any sense. Menahem donned a simple jumper dress, left with a small duffel bag of the only things which were hers or would be of any use, and she made her way out of the spotless charnel house in which she had been residing almost alone for what must have been months. She had gotten one clear idea of something she wanted to do, as ephemeral and ghost-like as she felt walking around the husk of a campus left after the riots– there was someone to say goodbye to–
“Professor Livnat, ma’am–”
She had almost whimpered the name, but she stopped outside the closed door of the professor’s office. Beyond that door in that desolate little corner of the humanities campus–
There was more than one voice raised,
and neither of the two had heard Menahem approaching.
“–I want you to take over organizing. I’m not cut out for it. I’m a fighter, not a leader. I’m only in the position I am because of the Blood Bund. It was never supposed to come down to me to choose the future of anything, much less something this important. I’m not an inspirational story. I could never have planned what we did. And I couldn’t save them, Tamar. Frankly, I don’t have any idea what to do anymore. If it’s up to me now– I am at a total loss.”
“I couldn’t save anyone either. But you gave everything– I’m just a professor of theoretical history.”
“Maybe they need a little theory right now. They’re defeated– they need a new direction.”
“All I have for anyone is the past, my dear Gevurah.”
“Judging by how the future is looking, Tamar– we’ve really only got the past to comfort us.”
“Will you leave then?”
“Of course I won’t leave– it’ll be really over if I leave. But it’s the same with you.”
“Is it now?”
“Without Uria, everyone’s thinking about what you will do.”
“Uria wasn’t part of the administration– she could do whatever she wanted–”
“You’re now in that position now yourself. And you believed in the same things as her, right?”
“No– I’m not Uria. I can’t replace her.”
“You yourself know how much family means to us. How much blood does.”
“Well– I’m leaving soon. Embarking on a– on a dig. Maybe they can come. I don’t know.”
“That’s good enough for now. They’re students too, Tamar. You can still be a teacher.”
Menahem, listening at the door, heard exactly what she wanted–
That, perhaps, Tamar Livnat, the elder sister of the famous Uria Livnat–
Who paid the ultimate price for her activism and turned protests into an uprising–
Heedless of the consequences, Menahem opened that door and stepped into that office.
“Professor Livnat, please take me with you.” She said.
Inside the office were two women.
She recognized one and not the other– a girl with long, bright champagne-red hair who felt much closer to Menahem’s age, with a somewhat delinquent style– she had an oversize hooded top and short pants, with the hood down, and her hands in the pockets. Her skin was slightly pink, and she had ears that were slightly sharp. Menahem noticed that the skin on her face and the skin on her long, bare legs were slightly off in color, with her limbs much more pale and almost had a bit of a sheen. When Menahem looked at her face, she got an incongruent sense of delicate beauty, at odds with her clothing, posture and demeanor.
Her scowl indicated a lack of the regal bearing her face seemed to carry–
Menahem realized this woman, Gevurah, was an elf– or a mixed race elf at least.
Her name was a very traditional Eloim name, however.
Meanwhile, behind the desk in the cramped office was the woman Menahem sought.
Smiling warmly, with a deep, soft gaze, and an approachable demeanor. Long hair and an elegant beauty to her facial features, along with a simple style with touches of light red makeup, wearing a white button-down with a long black skirt. Menahem would have never mistaken her for anyone. Just seeing her there relieved some of her stress.
Menahem’s favorite professor, perhaps the only professor she cared for– Tamar Livnat.
“Menahem, how long were you at my door?” Tamar asked.
She did not sound bothered. Very few things ever seemed to get her to raise her voice.
“Ugh. I thought this place was supposed to be almost deserted.” Gevurah grumbled.
Menahem tried to overlook the sheer disdain Gevurah seemed to have for her–
the green and black color that began to swirl about her–
“Professor, I’m sorry– I’ve– I’ve got nowhere to go. Please let me go with you. Your classes about the ancient world are the only place where I’ve ever felt any hope for anything.” Menahem said. “Any hope that things might change– the idea that all of this awfulness wasn’t here in the past, won’t be here forever– please let me go with you–”
Desperation coursed under her skin and troubled her breathing–
“Calm down, Menahem. You’re speaking too fast. Are you alright?” Tamar asked.
“No, professor.” Menahem said. She couldn’t help it– she began to weep. “I’m not!”
She shook her head and reached up to wipe more tears than a single finger could bear.
Finding herself weeping so profusely she began to shake with embarrassment.
Gevurah’s disdain gave away to pity and she averted her eyes.
Tamar stood from behind her desk and embraced Menahem, stroking her hair.
“I’m so sorry, Menahem. It’s okay– I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you.”
Menahem wanted to offer her condolences to the professor, but could not.
Her own pain was so overwhelming, and she was so swept up in it–
Having found arms to fall into she could not countenance ever standing back up.
“I’m so scared– She just walked in, Professor– nobody stopped her– All that killing–”
“Huh?!” Gevurah shouted suddenly. “Are you talking about–?”
“Gevurah, please–” Tamar said suddenly–
“No! I won’t fucking stand here and listen to this!”
Gevurah stepped forward and pulled Menahem apart from Tamar.
She pulled back her sleeve and showed Menahem her arm–
at first Menahem did not understand–
“Nobody tried to stop her?! You fucking bitch– I did everything possible–!”
Menahem realized the skin on her arms had small segments.
Visible joins between affixed sections–
Gevurah’s arm had an artificial skin–
Both arms, both legs– that must have meant–
In her mind she recalled the grievous wounds Maggie the Cleaner suffered.
Realizing the depths of her own offense, Menahem’s knees buckled to the ground.
Clinging to Gevurah’s over-long hood and crying and sobbing against her lap.
“I’m so sorry– I’m so sorry– thank you– you killed her– thank you–”
She must have been the one– the only one who managed to do anything–
While Menahem had been cowering in her room– while everyone else died–
Gevurah averted her gaze again– perhaps disgusted at the entire situation.
Tamar sighed and crouched to Menahem’s eye level, reaching out to the crying girl.
“Menahem, all of us experienced the same pain. You are right to feel distraught– our worlds here have collapsed. You could complete your education, and I could keep teaching here– but there’s not much left to learn and it feels pointless to teach, in the face of the Blood Bund’s massacre. And it’s not just Nichori. The Imbrian Empire as a whole does not care if the Blood Bund slaughters us. And it’s not just the Blood Bund– the fact that they can kill so many of us is because the people at large hate the Eloim and enable it. It’s very bleak.”
She brushed Menahem’s hair off her face and peeled her from Gevurah once more.
“I will not abandon you– if you want to follow me, I will not turn you away. I will take care of you. But Menahem, I am not staying here. I cannot and neither can you. You have to know where you are going, if you want to follow me. Can you stand? Hold your tears for just a bit.”
“Yes– I’m sorry–”
A deeply embarrassed Menahem picked herself up from the floor, wiping her tears.
Setting her shaking jaw to choke down the sobs.
At her side, Gevurah tentatively reached out and touched her shoulder in silent support.
“There.”
Tamar looked at her with such a gentle and sympathetic expression–
Before saying some of the most insane things Menahem had ever heard.
“I am going to the Abyss of Alexandros, between Buren and the territory of the Pythian Black Legion.” Tamar said. “I received information that the Pythians successfully smuggled an ancient artifact out of the pit– I intend to lead an archeological dive, deeper than they were able to delve, in order to prevent further pillaging. I believe that the Alexandric Gorge is a possible site linked to Judea– it is a site of collapsed continental crust near Katarre.”
Menahem’s eyes went wide, her hands, where Tamar held them, shook wildly.
Her trembling lips could not form words.
“So that’s what you’re up to?” Gevurah sighed and put a hand up to her face. “Fine. Fine.”
How was she consigning herself to this so easily? When it was nothing short of suicide!
“I know what you must be thinking.” Tamar said. “But I have nothing left to lose.”
Menahem met her professor’s eyes and wept fresh tears and realized in her own madness–
“Do you–?” Tamar asked her–
Realized– she had come so undone, been so hollowed–
That she would follow Tamar to hell itself.
Those smiling lips could have told her anything and she would have done it.
On that day, alongside Gevurah, they plotted their journey down a road to certain death.
After Descent, Year 979
“Well– there they go. Doing as you requested.” Zachikova said dispassionately.
On the main screen of the Brigand, hacked cameras throughout the third tier broadcast the bloody carnage. Mycenaean numeroi, foot-soldiers in sleek nanomail bodysuits, kevlar plate vests and greaves, and tactical visors; led by Katarrans in powered armor, colored gold, wielding massive vibroaxes– tearing apart the occupying Aachen Citizen’s Guard stood in their way. Clad in cloth masks and whatever they had been wearing, armed with improvised explosive bottles and stitched carbon-fiber pistols. Cleaved in half, shot to pieces, blown apart, beaten to death, pounced on and stabbed to death with heat knives, ambusher’s heads torn bodily off their shoulders in hand to hand combat–
Scenes like this had begun to play out from the transit tier and then into the mall.
Murati stared at the screen in a cold sweat, shaking from the pain and disgust with herself.
She had made such a brash decision without knowing all of the details.
Those were not Judean forces– why were they even there?!
Captured by the chaos she had brought about she almost forgot her own predicament.
“Look at the aura on your hand, Murati.” Euphrates counseled her suddenly.
She was holding on to that hand to see what she could do about– what had transpired–
When Murati laid a mental finger on the trigger of her psionics, she saw–
Her hand was wreathed in white aura, where none of the rest of her body had any.
Somehow she knew– it was sublimity– perhaps even divinity– the world’s own will–
“Give me a moment here, Murati. Don’t be alarmed.” Euphrates said. “You must trust me.”
She held Murati’s cursed hand by the wrist, and she raised her remaining hand to cover it.
Saint’s Skin: Annoint.
King’s Gaze: Aetherstitch.
Murati focused on trusting Euphrates, filling her mind with feelings of comfort toward her.
Trying to lower her psionic defenses to allow Euphrates to work.
Euphrates’ hand took on a thick cloud of white and black aura. From the palm that she held over Murati’s own, the aura seemed to extend into appendages that resembled arthropod legs as well as scalpels. They extended to her flesh like blades scraped over Murati’s hand. Gaseous cutting ends sliced phantasmal through Murati’s hand and the aura over it. Tufts and ribbons and streaks of white aura dispersed from over the wound, looking like cotton candy being spun or like soap suds or bubbles being blown away from their source. Murati felt a tingling in her mind to accompany the pain in her hand, knowing that this attack on her aura constituted also an invasion of her mind. She did everything she could to think openly toward Euphrates, to be permissive and supportive of her actions.
Moments later, Euphrates’ aura dispelled, returning to its ordinary blue and green colors.
She sighed, a bit of blood beginning to drip from her nostril.
“Euphrates–” She whispered.
“It’s okay.” Euphrates said. They were whispering with a conspiratorial air.
She produced a handkerchief from her vest pocket and wiped her nose.
On Murati’s hand, the aura that had been hacked apart simply collected itself anew.
Euphrates sent her a mental message accompanied by an image of herself with a stern face.
“Murati, I am not able to remove or dispel whatever you just did to yourself– it’s almost like you executed a conceptual attack on yourself. And unfortunately, I am having more and more trouble trying to disbelieve what has transpired. That belief will prevent me from countering it. I am afraid this Oath will actually have force. I am not sure what will happen if you break it– we both know psionics can hurt their own users quite badly. Please be careful.”
“I guess for now I will avoid upsetting Astra Palaiologos.” Murati sighed deeply.
Despite what Astra was now doing– at her request–
At Murati’s other side, Aatto brought up a roll of bandages and showed it to her.
Euphrates waved away Murati’s hand, and so she gave Aatto custody of it.
While bandaging the still-bleeding wound, Aatto spoke with a strange breathy inflection–
“Master– I’m afraid that I must raise an issue– pursuant to Article 15, Section 2 Union naval regulation– this oath you swore could potentially be considered an act of treason to the Union and collusion with enemy forces.” Aatto said, with a strange expression.
“Then why do you sound excited about it?!” Murati whispered with dire vehemence.
“Please stay still while I bandage your wound, master.” Aatto said, smiling crookedly.
“No one has committed treason.” Euphrates whispered, sighing more audibly than her voice. “Has this ever been a ship that followed the letter of the regulations? I would not still be here if that was the case. Murati, I know that Captain Korabiskaya will be reasonable, and she will understand that you took this action to save the lives of your officers and crew.”
“That’s if it turns out that it does. We still have to go save them.” Murati said.
Even if she did rescue them– how would Erika feel about her swearing an oath with Astra?
No matter what, it felt like their alliance had received an irreparable blow.
Everything had gone completely awry so far. Murati could hardly believe it.
In her mind she ran through her reasoning, trying to make it all seem rational.
She had known that Katarrans were superstitious– she had learned about a few of these superstitions from her friend and first lover, Hanko, back before she met Karuniya at the Academy. She had learned even more on her journey, trying to immerse herself a bit in the culture of the Volksarmee, composed of mostly ex-Pythians. She heard a few mercenary legends; she heard about their rituals and habits. But she had never imagined, even knowing about psionics, that these superstitions could have any basis to them. She had only viewed them through a cultural lens– Katarrans valued oaths and therefore treated them with reverence. They were from a war-torn place and so spilling blood became a ritualized act. Signing away one’s blood thus became a symbolic show of loyalty in their culture.
When her calculated and mercenary demeanor failed to have an effect on Astra–
Murati instead tried to tap into the romance and superstition of Katarran culture.
It worked– Astra was on her side now. Because Astra was indeed superstitious.
And because Murati had actually signed away in blood her assistance to Astra Palaiologos.
To help Katarre fall under the sway of ultranationalist Mycenae during the mythical Time of Polemos, when all of the Warlords would go to war to reunite Katarre. Polemos had been spoken about in hushed tones among Katarran mercenaries and elites alike, and for over a hundred years it had not come to pass. Now Murati could feel Polemos as all Katarrans claimed they could. A chill under her skin, the presence of something massive– she could feel it in the distance, inching nearer. She would know when it was time– what would happen?
Solceanos defend! Will I have to turn that damned Astra Palaiologos into a communist!?
Even joking about it could not lift the dread that Murati began to feel.
She had not just said some words and made a tactical gamble on this one day.
In her heart and mind she really knew and felt that she had sworn her allegiance.
Allegiance to someone now slaughtering people on this station.
“Captain, we are being hailed by Astra Palaiologos again.” Semyonova said.
Speak of the little devil herself. There was no escaping it.
Regardless of the future, in the now, she had to rescue the captain and all of their allies.
Perhaps Premier Erika might know some way to break a Pythian oath.
Murati would beg her forgiveness and hope she still wanted to see Murati’s malice.
There would be a lot of it for her to witness.
“Accept it whenever Astra calls us.” Murati said. “Put her calls through to me.”
“Yes ma’am.” Semyonova said. Murati wondered what she thought of all this.
Would her crew look at her differently now? Perhaps even as a traitor?
There was no time to think about that. She just had to trust everyone was still with her.
Around the bridge everyone appeared to be consumed in their tasks.
They had to prepare for a counter-offensive against the Judeans– and their civilian allies.
Thinking about this brought consternation to Murati’s face and it was with that expression that she greeted Astra Palaiologos, appearing on the personal monitor attached to the captain’s chair. Unlike Murati, Astra looked chipper. She had a small smile, but it was distinctly a smile, rather than the glum, nearly expressionless demeanor she previously showed. All of the little black strands interspersed in her lush and copious white hair glowed a faint purple. That smile would have looked cute were it not for all that it had wrought.
“We have begun to advance. Why are you looking so down? You were magnificently brave– I will make sure you are spoken of in Katarran legends, Murati, the foreigner who fought as a Katarran!” Astra spoke grandiosely and Murati did not know whether she was being made fun of or whether it was genuine. She surmised that Astra probably was not the type of person to joke. But perhaps her good humor had brought out some new facets.
“I hope it impressed upon you how important this is to me.” Murati said.
“We will prioritize reaching and rescuing your VIPs. I already have a plan in motion.”
“I am seeing the plan in motion.” Murati said.
For a moment she thought of asking Astra for some leniency–
It would have been pointless.
Murati herself knew– the only effective mercy was to avoid combat in the first place. Astra could have never asked her soldiers to “take it easy” on people who were shooting back and hurling petrol bombs. If Murati had been in her place she would have committing the swiftest and most effective slaughter of those rioters possible. To do otherwise was to risk her position and to risk the loss of her troops. In war, consequences just stuck much tighter.
“I’m sending an agent down to assess the situation at the Oststadt very soon.” Astra said.
“Thank you.” Murati said. “But we are also facing a tough situation out here. The white uniforms are Eloim nationalists– they intend to break into Stockheim and try to make away with our ships and probably anything else that they can get. We contacted Stockheim control tower and couldn’t get a hold of anyone. I think they had infiltrators either jamming the communications or holding the tower hostage. That being the case, we won’t be able to unclamp from the tower until we take care of the Judeans or get through to Stockheim.”
“Hmm? You can use small-scale explosives to destroy the docking clamps.” Astra said.
Murati had not thought of just destroying the clamps– because she had already implicitly decided to make her stand and to fight the Judeans instead of escaping. She felt compelled to rationalize away the option– “We can do that, but there are many more ships stuck in Stockheim that the Judeans would get their hands on anyway.”
“And you are concerned with them getting their hands on them? You want to stop them?”
When confronted with that– did she want to stop them? It was such a confusing situation.
She tried to think to herself quickly– what did she want to do? After all that happened?
Was the safer option to go mobile in the water and leave everything inside to Astra?
Perhaps–
“I want to stay here– to stop them.” Murati said. “I want to destroy their ability to fight.”
Anyone who threatened the United Front as they did– was not someone worth the pity.
Murati could not see the glint in her own eyes–
I want to crush them for harming my comrades.
“They’ve shown their colors.” Murati continued. “I won’t let them threaten us again.”
She would wipe the callous laugh from that Menahem’s face with a bullet–
“So this is the kind of person that you are? I am quite intrigued by you, Murati Nakara.”
Astra smiled a little bit brighter than even before.
It was almost cute.
“I will do what I can to support you in this endeavor. My means are not unlimited, but I have some tricks up my sleeve depending on how things shake out.” Astra said. “You will need to prioritize defending your position over encroaching on the enemy right now. Otherwise your VIPs won’t have a place to return to if you allow yourself to get overwhelmed.”
“We’re launching a preemptive attack.” Murati said. “Pitching up a static defense would be accepting that we will be overwhelmed in the long term. It won’t work. Our best chance is to attack them. If you don’t believe in me, Astra Palaiologos, watch closely and learn.”
She had become ever so slightly irritated when getting Astra’s tactical advice.
Her tone toward Astra was rougher than she had intended.
But Astra was not offended.
In fact she continued to smile with a curious, almost girlish delight.
“Perhaps I will learn something. Keep the line open. I will be back, my Merarch.”
Astra disappeared from the screen and Murati pushed away the monitor in a huff.
At her side, Euphrates reached out a hand to pat her shoulder reassuringly.
“She is a level-headed girl.” She said. “I expected different from a Katarran princess.”
Murati held her silence for a moment, working out her irritation with everything.
“Captain,” Zachikova turned over her shoulder again with a strange grin, her tawny spiral ponytail slightly frayed and her eye bags looking just a bit darker despite her good humor, “I’ve been looking and finally turned up the deets on the local shit-stirrers in Mycenae’s way. Turns out they’ve got group chats, they’ve got BBS threads, manifestos, there are guys doing homebrew broadcasts. They are practically having a party up on the net.”
On the main screen Zachikova displayed columns of quickly scrolling messages drawn from popular direct messaging platforms and BBSes documenting the current events. There were hundreds of names in each, perhaps thousands altogether, though it was unlikely the vocal online support reflected how many people were on the ground and armed. Some of these chats had been operating for some time, since before even the election of Adam Lehner, but all had renamed to some variation of “Aachen Citizen’s Guard” whether “Supporters Of,” “Friends Of,” “Comrades United With” or even “The Knights Of.” The Aachen Citizen’s Guard appeared to be the popular umbrella term for the local rioters and activists.
There were so many posts– a veritable infinity of text.
It was difficult to keep up with and to read– Murati withdrew her glasses and put them on.
Only barely improving the readability of this massive scrawl.
“There’s too much activity.” Murati said, still barely able to read individual messages.
Some of the chatters posted pictures. Dead Uhlans, the uniformed Judeans, the barricades.
There were a lot of pictographs being shared. Skull faces, thumbs up, guns and fireworks.
It appeared events online had yet to capture the grim reality being faced at the very front.
“I had the computer try to parse through it.” Zachikova said. “It’s too much for any one person to keep up with. I’ve noticed a few trends and throughlines. Quite a few of the chatters are actually on the ground to some degree, so we do have some real info. It looks like the rioters set up some roadblocks and checkpoints and have a lot of people at the third tier mall. They have access to guns, improvised explosives, and a lot of carbon-fiber extensible barriers– I have to assume looted from the Uhlan. Among the people posting actual receipts, we have some indie journalists, some anarchist ideologues, a few total cranks, and a lot of enthusiastic riders. There’s apparently backing from activist figures that were organizing against Lehner’s election campaign and the Volkisch in general even since last year. There are a lot of people just posting, but I think the turnout at those barricades is pretty significant. It seems like a bonafide spontaneous political movement in the works– apparently united by the politics of wanting to blow some shit up.”
Murati had not considered there was such untapped zeal for a riot in Aachen.
She assumed most people living there were too disconnected from each other and too exhausted for such a thing to transpire on its own. There was not enough organization, she thought. The United Front was composed of long-standing clandestine groups with tight membership. Even the anarchists affiliated with Moravskyi, a firebrand with revolutionary experience, were not plotting to stir up chaos and arm civilians for an uprising in Aachen– as much as they talked about wanting something like it, they were not ready to do it.
However– these people had risen up at the first sign of a spark. They had been waiting!
Tragically, that spark had been lit by Menahem and her group. It was they who were ready.
Menahem had outmaneuvered the Volksarmee– had they let themselves succumb to elitism?
Their disconnection from the locals as clandestine outsiders had made them vulnerable.
Promising these people the Uhlan arsenal made them into fresh bodies for her own plot.
In the euphoria of finally fighting back against the authorities that they despised, they likely did not even imagine that Menahem and her gang were just using them, and that they would be riding out with far more loot if they were successful– leaving this Aachen Citizen’s Guard behind as nothing but bait for the pursuing Volkisch forces. With the entry of Mycenae into the scene, they would also have an immediate threat to rally together against.
Murati had really messed up– she had completely misread and overlooked everything.
She tried to push down her shame– to tell herself there was no use drowning in it–
“Are there any demands? Or calls for specific actions?” Murati asked.
Zachikova looked back at her station. She had the computer run the parsers again.
“Uh. They want to like– kill cops? Throw the politicians out on the street? Vandalize corporate storefronts and steal things–? Some of them are like– talking about ‘marching on Stockheim and emptying out all the corpo freight.’ It just sounds like a bunch of guys going wild and talking shit. I don’t think they’ve drafted a platform, Captain.”
She shrugged with an amused and helpless little grin.
“It also means we can’t negotiate with them in any meaningful way.” Murati said.
“With these guys? Probably not. They’re not anybody.” Zachikova said.
But that was also the broader, darker point– there was not anybody else to parlay with.
Menahem was not going to represent these people, they were just meat to her.
From within the ranks of this A.C.G group, was there anyone else they could talk to?
They were running on a roaring high after years of hopeless exhaustion finally broken.
With the coercive power of the Uhlan thrown aside, they were activated like fired neurons.
Even among themselves, there were likely disagreements only barely papered over in the moment. Those barricades, on this day, represented the only thing that truly held them together. If they “won,” whatever that meant, they would fracture; and as they moved in the present, there was purpose but not leadership. Spontaneous energy had demonstrable power here, but eventually the veil of violence would give away to lucidity. There would have to be more days after this one for the Aachen Citizen’s Guard. What would they do in the future of their own making? Murati had certain beliefs about politics and force– she did not see this faction lasting without a chain of command. Without proper education, leadership, planning– without technical skills and their tight direction toward a clear purpose.
Poring over the situation, she felt like a fool.
She wanted desperately to have understood this before it transpired.
To have done anything.
For a moment it consumed her with an almost obsessive self-loathing.
How had she not seen this as a possibility? But there was no time– no time for anything.
“Zachikova, keep an eye on these chats every so often and keep parsing the text.” Murati asked. “Extract any names or handles that come up frequently and try to match them to any specific content, like any pictures or any outside identifying information. Make an account, get attention, and talk to people. I want to see if we can contact any representatives.”
“I’ll try. It’s a lot of data so hopefully the computer won’t fuck everything up.”
Her tone was becoming a bit more casual and carefree, but Murati would not scold her.
Captain Korabiskaya allowed plenty of liberty in expression on her bridge, after all.
“If you’re able to get in touch with someone, I need to talk to them.”
Murati breathed heavy and sat back in her chair. She was doing everything she could.
She had to tell herself that and not succumb to any self-destructive thoughts.
“Captain,” Semyonova spoke up– “What is our posture toward the Citizen Guard now?”
There was only one possible answer. Murati wished dearly that she didn’t have to give it.
“They are enemy combatants, along with the Judeans. Until such a time as we secure our VIPs we will engage any Citizen Guard with lethal force. We will support the operations of the Mycenae Military Commission to break through the Citizen Guard and the Judeans, to whatever degree we are able, and our mission will also be to break through their ranks until we find our VIPs and secure an extraction route. This will be our posture until we can either negotiate the withdrawal of the Citizen Guard or they are otherwise suppressed.”
Would she be remembered negatively by her crew for this decision?
Or would everyone on the bridge forget in the feverish haze of their own activity?
Murati felt utterly defeated in that moment.
But she could not allow herself to be defeated materially as she felt in spirit.
Captain Korabiskaya, Commissar Bashara, Premier Kairos, and their allies–
Everyone was depending on her. It was all on her; even if her soul might break.
All she was doing was giving orders. Someone else was pulling the trigger this time.
She couldn’t give in to too much self pity. Harden that heart, Murati Nakara.
Captain Korabiskaya had told her before that she would eventually have to.
This was war. She was responsible for the safety of her comrades.
That had to be more important to her than her responsibility to the civilians.
Otherwise she would really lose everything she had.
“As dramatic as all of this looks, it would never be useful to us.” Murati said. She was speaking out loud but to nobody in particular, just thinking. Aatto and Euphrates could certainly hear her, and they were paying attention. “For Menahem it’s convenient because it can help her to abscond with our equipment. The A.C.G. can serve as a temporary distraction and keep us mired. But in terms of Aachen Station and its revolutionary potential long-term, the Volkisch navy can show up and retake it at any time– this rioting will be short lived.”
“Master, it would not surprise me if Violet Lehner’s clique was already prepared for this.” Aatto said. “They may be watching from the sidelines and allowing the chaos to unfold. It has already led to the exposure of long time activists and militants out into the open. This rioting is also damaging to the liberal government of Aachen. Once everyone is exhausted, they might be able to pounce on any survivors and blame everything on the Kleyn family.”
“You’re right Aatto. We have to be ready for anything.” Murati said.
“Speaking of– Master, the entry team is almost ready. Illya Rostova wishes to speak.”
“Put her through to me. Thank you, Aatto.”
“At your service always.”
Murati pulled back into position the arm-mounted monitor she had shoved away.
On the display, a silver-haired woman appeared, clad in armor.
Illya had olive-colored segmented armored plates over her shoulders, and similar plates were layered over her chest. Her neck had a small plate guard but was mostly covered only by her nanomail bodysuit, while her head had a bulletproof visor and communicator earguards. Her hair was worn in a ponytail that hung over her back. She was wearing one of their few suits of Union-spec powered armor, similar to the Imperial type but a little bulkier.
As with everything Union, ease of manufacture was prioritized over total comfort.
She pulled the visor’s glass shield up from over her face. While Murati could see her through the glass, it was harder to hear her speaking naturally unless they tapped directly into the communicator. She was not speaking through her communicator– instead she appeared to be locked inside a private communication booth, one of the couple installed in the hangar for the use of officers to speak discreetly. Murati began to feel slightly uneasy.
“Captain, my preparations are almost ready. There is something I need to discuss with you, but it must be in private. We have an ace in the hole you might not be aware of. But I need you to isolate the upper bridge, encrypt this call internally and then delete all records of it after the fact. If you will consent to that, then I can elaborate.”
Two words surfaced in Murati’s mind, in response to this request:
Ashura secrets. Deniable operations.
Illya and Valeriya formerly worked as special operatives under Nagavanshi herself.
“Yes, I can do it.” Murati turned to Semyonova. “Semyonova, encrypt the call between myself and Illya and raise the separation shield for the upper bridge. We’ll be brief, don’t worry.”
“Acknowledged.” Semyonova said.
On the side of her station, she popped open a button panel rarely ever used.
She tapped one of the buttons in it.
From between the bridge’s highest tier and the officer’s station, a glass shield rose from a small gap in the floor and connected to the ceiling completely blocking off the top of the bridge. There was no shield separating the Commissar’s position from the Captain’s, however, because they were both meant to be equal in stature among the crew and within naval affairs. As such Illya would have to speak where Aatto would hear it– but she did not seem to mind this. While the shield was up, the door to the bridge was locked, and the call between Illya and Murati was now encrypted and marked as classified information. Nobody in the stations below the Captain’s, nor the gas gunners farthest below, could hear them.
“We have as much privacy as we can give you. I’ll delete the records after.” Murati said.
“Thank you. You will understand my precautions shortly.”
She drew in a deep breath, looked Murati in the eyes, and began to speak.
“Murati,” Illya addressed her by name and not as Captain, “I know that you’re not like Korabiskaya– you’re less experienced, but more flexible. You understand there are risks worth taking with people’s lives. Sacrifices that might be necessary in order to accomplish the objectives of a mission. You understand our material position quite well. Communists are the world’s underdogs, and we need to have every advantage. I don’t want Korabiskaya or anyone else to know about this, because I want Valeriya to be able to lead a normal life on the ship– but I think you will understand the value of what I am about to tell you. Valeriya was the subject of a form of psychological conditioning that can amplify her combat abilities to an incredible degree. She can become stronger physically, more resilient to pain, more focused, with far keener reflexes than a normal person. Outfitting her in powered armor and with lethal weapons– we might just be able to even the odds against the mob coming down.”
Valeriya– a lethal weapon that could equal hundreds of people bearing down on them?
It was almost difficult to square that quiet, sweet girl being their “ace in the hole.”
She was a highly qualified special forces operative– but this was still surprising.
Murati had seen a lot of things in the Ocean in the past few months.
While she could open her mind to this also, something about it still felt unnerving.
“Do you have any questions Captain? I must have your full consent to do this.”
“Forget my consent. Illya– what about Valeriya’s consent?” Murati asked.
“Valeriya is completely willing, and she always has been.” Illya said. “I understand you might have doubts. Her conditioning was years ago now and we were young, but we were not stupid, we had agency in everything. Look– Sonya’s sister– a good friend of ours, had just died in the line of duty. I was injured in the Raja hostage crisis. Ahwalia and Jayasankar’s split was becoming more obvious and more dangerous. To top it all off, we were trying to be there for Sonya as much as we could and we could see her hurting. For Valeriya it must have seemed like her world was toppling over. It was a chaotic time, and I was confined to bed and she was alone. I needed a lot of medical care to get me back up– including some stuff Nagavanshi wouldn’t want me to tell you. Murati, it was in that climate that Valeriya volunteered for the experiment. She wanted to avoid losing more people– and she was afraid that she was too weak to protect her loved ones. After I came back, Nagavanshi told me what happened and gave me operant codes for Valeriya– she was the biggest success.”
“And what happened to the other people tested?” Murati asked, making a grim expression.
Illya fixed Murati with a serious gaze. She crossed her arms.
“Everyone who entered that program alongside Valeriya was someone who would give up everything to protect the Union. But a lot of them didn’t have it in them. That’s it. You need to understand the mentality of Ashura special forces Murati. It’s brutal– I know you must be able to imagine what it’s like. No reinforcements, no room for mistakes; wiretapping, blackmail, kidnapping, wetwork; you might cut it– because you’re a little bit of a sociopath just like us. But you have to be perfect. If you fuck up, you stop being a hero and become a criminal. Everyone will be a potential enemy. Unless Nagavanshi really likes you, that is the end of any career aspirations. And if you’re good, you’ll never be acknowledged. Special forces are ‘special’ not just because the rules don’t apply to us. But because the rights and protections of a common citizen also don’t apply to us. We all know what that means.”
Murati felt partially indignant at being referred to as a sociopath in the midst of all that.
But she couldn’t deny that if it meant safeguarding the Union there was a lot she would do.
She understood the desire to protect everything the Union stood for.
To be ready to do anything for the way of life the Union promised to uphold.
In that sense, she understood Illya and perhaps they were a bit alike. She would not judge her– nor bother to ask about all the dirty deeds she may have done. The Union lived under total siege from the Imbrium. They did not always have the luxury to choose the kindest and least harmful decision. The desperation of being surrounded by enemies could compel terrible things. Murati knew she had a bit of that madness in herself as well.
Protecting their little world from a vast enemy– wasn’t always pretty.
Murati was pragmatic enough to understand Illya– and not as a “fellow sociopath.”
“I understand. However, Illya– there is a lot coming down on us right now.”
“Zachikova is keeping us appraised of the threat. I understand what we are dealing with, and I think if we activate Valeriya at the right moment we can still turn the tide in here. Those civilians from the A.C.G. haven’t been in a war. We’ll see how much their gear avails them when blood is spraying, and bodies are hitting the floor. If you’ll let me handle the ground war and give me every tool I need– I can make at least one miracle for you.”
Murati’s plans had been described before as “miracles” and “sorcery” by the crew.
She found it disquieting in a way– to her, these were not supernatural feats.
Everything she had done had simply made sense to her as what needed to be done.
In this situation, she was not so sure anymore. It was far more complicated than ever.
“I’ll trust you. Use everything. But please keep Valeriya’s safety in mind.” Murati said.
However– she could trust that her officers and comrades knew what they were doing.
“I always am. I know it might sound like I am treating her as a tool– but I love her.”
Illya bid farewell and dropped the communication. Murati got to work on her end.
She used the captain’s master code, recently refreshed, to access the classified call data.
Then she requested irretrievable deletion of this data from both ends of the call.
All related timestamps and other metadata and log entries were deleted as well.
“I heard and know nothing.” Euphrates said, smiling to herself with her arms crossed.
Murati turned to Aatto. She smiled also. “Master, I am as deaf and dumb as you need.”
It would have to do. She trusted both of them. She would have to trust them.
Once everything was complete Murati signaled for Semyonova to lower the shields again.
Slowly, the glass separating them came all the way down again.
“I apologize for that, Semyonova.” Murati said. “Thank you for acquiescing.”
“Oh! No problem at all, Captain. It’s the most extenuating circumstances we can have.”
Because the shield blocked the way out of the bridge for the officers, it was a safety hazard and should not have been raised outside of specific emergencies. Semyonova as the representative of the officer’s union would have likely had objections on the basis of the safety regulations– but it seemed that everything was fine from her perspective. It was only Murati who was becoming somewhat high-strung about the course of this entire situation.
Things would be out of her hands soon– all she could do was leave it to Illya.
“Zachikova, keep in touch with Illya’s group throughout the operation.”
“Already on it, Captain.” Zachikova said.
At her side, Arabella peeked her head over the station and then peeked back down.
“Captain,” Fatima turned from the sonar station– Murati had a sudden fright thinking she might have heard something out in the water– “Speaking candidly! You’ve been under so much stress. I’m sorry if I come off as patronizing, but I think there is enough of a lull now for you to catch a breather. All of us have had our duties on and off– but you’ve been active this entire time. Please take care of yourself. We are all counting on you. These circumstances are absolutely extraordinary– I want you to know that I understand you, Captain!”
As she spoke the concern in her expression grew more pronounced.
Murati had to speak up before she broke out into profuse apologies.
“Thank you, Fatima. You don’t sound patronizing at all. I appreciate it.”
Everyone could see how much the tension had begun to wear on her.
As much as Murati detested the idea of affording any comfort for herself right then–
If it got any worse, she might make a mistake– she needed to catch her breath.
“Semyonova, contact Daphne in the Rostock, and see if she can get those Biene drones into the air to support our attack.” Murati said. “And– I’ll step outside for a moment and see if Minardo has some sandwiches. I’ll bring some food and drinks up for everyone if I can as well. Aatto has the bridge until I return. All of you have performed splendidly and I am eternally grateful for your work and your trust in me. You are fighting like naval elite. The pivotal moment is almost near. I am nothing without this crew– let’s get our comrades back.”
She stood up from her chair, feeling weary as she rose, and saluted her crew members.
“Acknowledged, comrade Captain!”
Around the bridge, the officers saluted back– even Zachikova took the time to do so.
As tired as Murati felt, and as much as they could see it– they still supported her.
Maybe only because they had to– but it was enough for now that they did at all.
Despite her bloodied hands, they were all marching into the muck with her.
On the communication station’s LCD screen, Daphne Triantafallos appeared, dark blue hair tied up in a quick ponytail, a bit of sweat on her orange-mottled pink skin. It was evident to Semyonova that Daphne was under the same amount of pressure as Murati, though she perhaps had the benefit of experience to temper any sense of desperation. She was quick to answer when called and always professional, polite and collected in her speech.
Semyonova passed on Murati’s request for Daphne’s Biene class drones to fly out.
“Thank you for the information and for conveying her wishes.” Daphne said. “Murati hardly needs to ask– of course we will do everything in our power. I’ll have Nomia fly the drones. She has experience with them. She can maintain contact with Rostova during the operation. We have a few tricks of our own that can help even the odds for our brave infantry.”
“Thank you kindly, Captain Triantafallos.” Semyonova said.
“You can call me Daphne.” She said. “If I can ask– how is the crew holding up?”
Semyonova glanced at her side for a moment.
In a second or two she knew what she would say.
“It’s been a shock– but we are ready to fight. We are throwing ourselves into our work.”
“Having seen that work before, I have the utmost confidence. How is Murati doing?”
“She has stepped out to get food. She’s under a lot of stress.”
“I’m glad she’s finally taking care of herself. When I last saw her I was afraid she was running herself down. If I don’t get a chance to call her again soon, please let her know– it’s more important to be awake when it matters, than to sleeplessly await the pivotal moment.”
Semyonova smiled. It was reassuring to have such understanding allies.
“I will pass on the message.” Semyonova said.
Daphne nodded her head. “The combat group will move out soon. I have to go prepare.”
She saluted Semyonova affectionately, and Semyonova saluted back.
Then the screen on her station went dark.
Semyonova wanted to double over on top of the station.
Having constant communications work to do was all that kept her from bursting into tears.
Nothing prepared her for a situation such as this. In the kind of missions she undertook in the Union, there were sometimes threats to the ship, like Katarran smugglers or Imbrian spy drones or stray Leviathans. There was always the small chance that the ship itself would fail and kill them all. The Ocean was uncaring and cruel. There was always the fear that she would die along with her ship. She was used to it. It was an ultimately simple fear– compared to the threat of losing her captain and several comrades after a failed operation, and having to carry on with a foreign campaign that was at a glance almost suicidal.
That was a much more complex fear than her previous experiences.
She did not even want to think about what would happen if they failed– especially to Murati.
It was very clear that Murati was taking all of this much, much harder than everyone else.
All of the bridge officers were buoyed by the tasks required of them.
It was enough to keep their minds in check. All they had to do was follow orders.
Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa were running extensive maintenance and checks on the weapons systems while awaiting any further orders that involved them; Kamarik was also running checks and keeping in touch with core engineering to insure the ship was ready to retreat into the sea if and when it was necessary; Zachikova was perhaps the most hard-working member of the bridge, having a million things to keep track of, but she did so with a grin and seemed satisfied with herself, and she had Arabella to help buoy her morale as well; Fatima kept a close watch on the seas, and despite her sensitive and emotional demeanor her gaze was locked to her station and she was determined. They officers were all engaged and though they shot the occassional quizzical look at the Captain, they had cohesion.
Despite the turns the situation had taken, they were still functioning normally.
Semyonova turned to Aatto, who had the bridge while Murati was away.
She had not known Aatto long, so she had no idea how Aatto was taking things.
“Acting Commissar, ma’am ,” Semyonova said, a title the bridge had essentially made up since they did not usually have to answer to a trial adjutant, but Murati expected them to answer to Aatto, “I have just contacted Captain Triantafallos about the drones and relayed the Captain’s instructions as I was ordered. Do you have any further orders for me?”
Aatto looked up from her station and smiled at Semyonova.
“Not at this moment– you have been most splendid, Madam Semyonova, and all communications work has been taken care of for now. In the spirit of the same kindness that was offered to our esteemed Captain– I will oversee the hangar. Unless there are further hails to the bridge, you should take a break. Rest your voice for the moment.”
Semyonova was surprised. She thought Aatto might have been more bossy.
“Thank you ma’am.” Semyonova said. She paused, nursing a small curiosity about the other officer. “Acting Commissar, would you mind answering a personal question?”
“I am happy to answer any question.” Aatto said, speaking without hesitation.
She started looking down at her station again, returning to her work.
“You seem like an– ardent– supporter of the acting captain. What drew you to her?”
“I believe that she can change the world. And that belief gives me hope.” Aatto said.
Straightforward, immediate and without any stumbling. Almost automatic perhaps.
“Thank you, Acting Commissar.” Semyonova said.
Aatto was a bit strange, but her simpering loyalty to Murati was almost endearing. Even if they found her annoying, nobody on the bridge questioned her commitment and that was enough for the bridge to run properly even in such a difficult scenario. Trusting someone was much more important than liking them personally. It helped that Aatto also clearly demonstrated the skills to support Murati, having come from a military background herself. She had impressed everyone when she led Murati into and out of the Volkisch Gau office.
Semyonova glanced at Fatima on her side and reached out to touch her shoulder.
Fatima glanced at her and withdrew her earphones from the white fluff of her ears.
“How are you holding up? It was kind of you to address Murati like that.” Semyonova said.
“Ah– thank you for your kindness, Natalia. I felt rather sorry to have put Murati in a spot– but she seemed so very distressed.” Fatima said. “I could hear her heart hammering when I removed my earphones. Her breath was also terribly erratic. I was scared for her.”
Golden ears. Semyonova shouldn’t have been so surprised by Fatima’s keen hearing.
“I can take over your station while you pray, if you want.” Semyonova said.
Fatima shook her head. “I will make up my prayers later. I must uphold my duties.”
Semyonova smiled at her.
If they failed– nobody could blame a lack of commitment for it.
Seeing everyone around her focused and engaged made her want to keep at it.
She would rest her voice– but in the meantime, there had to be other work to do.
“Where could they be? Damn it, Valya– if anything happened to you–”
Down in the hangar, Galina Lebedova oversaw the work of the sailors even in the midst of her own internal turmoil. Because the ship was at port, maintenance and preparatory work had been continuous but relaxed in terms of its depth and specificity. Now when she least expected it there were suddenly a lot of things that urgently needed doing. More stringent checks on everything to make sure they could go out to sea at a moment’s notice; running the cyclers and stitchers to break down and reconstitute worn-down tools they had been using for far too long; setting up medical and food stations. Engineers and mechanics got the Diver weapons ready; sailors in protective equipment dug around the ship’s innards to load the missile magazines, and to check the condition of the exterior hull layers.
Between all the sailors running around, security had come down to hand out weapons.
On the screens around the hangar, the situation had been spelled out clearly– all of the sailors knew that the bridge was missing some officers, including the Captain and Commissar. They knew it was possible these officers had been taken in captivity by an armed group that was also now bearing down on the first tier of Aachen’s core station, intending to cross the lower shopping malls and enter Stockheim to seize their ship.
What the sailors did not know first-hand was that Murati Nakara was handling the situation with aplomb in Ulyana Korabiskaya’s stead– as such, the distance from the bridge became a catalyst for a plethora of demoralizing gossip among the sailors in the hangar.
Galina had her hands full quelling that too.
“Murati Nakara is doing exactly what Captain Korabiskaya would have done in this mess! You lot have no idea what being on that bridge is like! That is why you work with machines and not people! Quit yapping and get back to work, there’s plenty to do around here!”
Galina was firm enough with her subordinates that none of them could be offended now.
It would come as no surprise to them to be yelled at for standing around.
So they resumed their work with no wounded feelings toward her.
Nevertheless, it was evident that everyone’s nerves were on edge.
In previous emergencies, at the very least they had the assurances of their veteran staff.
Everyone on the ship knew, or learned very quickly, that Captain Korabiskaya was an elite.
As far as Murati was concerned, they knew she was a good pilot and a bit of a weird nerd.
Endearing and cool to have around– but not necessarily a figure of ironclad authority.
Galina trusted Murati well enough– she knew Murati was a bit of a wunderkind.
That was not her fear.
Right now her foremost concern should have been the exterior flood mitigation systems, which had taken a continuous beating since the battle with the Iron Lady and were supposed to be on an intensified maintenance schedule because of this– however, what was foremost on her mind was her nibling Valya Lebedova. In her worry all of her most troubling thoughts rose to the surface. It was difficult to see Valya as an adult who could care for themself and not as a kid that Galina had failed to protect from a cruel world. She should have seen it– she had thought Valya was acting differently the past few days! Maybe they were in some kind of trouble, and she never knew– never did anything– and now they were god-knew-where–!
“Chief, is everything alright? You’re glaring daggers at that wall.”
A clean-cut blond boy approached and waved his hand– Gunther Cohen.
Galina blinked. She really had just been staring at the hangar wall for a few minutes.
“We’re all a little loopy today.” She said. She put a hand on her forehead. “I’m fine.”
“Forgive me for the assumption but: is this because Valya has not returned?”
She felt miserable at how she was exposing her own vulnerability.
Her pride as a section Chief was in making herself a rock of stability for her crews. Sailors were perpetually new people– they’d join her, carry out their duties, learn the ropes, and ultimately go on to bigger things. She would always be getting newer, young, untried people who needed to be built up into specialist, NCO and even officer material. That was her– she was the one who was supposed to do that. She couldn’t get caught in her own shit.
“It’ll be fine. They can take care of themself.” Galina said.
Something perhaps said much more for herself than directly answering Gunther.
“Ma’am,” Gunther said, “I can handle things here, if you want to look for them.”
Galina looked at Gunther critically– feeling both a need to defend herself as someone who was strict with her own duties, but also, as someone whose facade had been peered through. She thought for a split second of what she would say– she had to say something to ward this suspicion off– but her hesitation seemed to draw more words out of Gunther.
“I know I haven’t been excelling in my work lately.” Gunther continued, before Galina could say her own part, “I’ve been distracted, and I’ve had my grievances with the way the hangar has been run. I’ve been trying to reevaluate things. I know that I don’t thrive in chaos, and that nothing here has been orderly. But I’m still a human being and a comrade and I don’t want anyone to suffer. Ma’am, could you trust at least that about me for now?”
“You haven’t done that bad at all. I’ve never written you up for anything.” Galina said. She felt forced to say it. She never felt that Gunther deserved to be sidelined at all. “Don’t prostrate yourself, Gunther, it’s not necessary.” She sighed. She did want to take him up on it. She did want to go search for Valya. “I’ll talk to the Acting Captain. If she gives the okay, then I’ll put you in charge. You’ve got the schedule; you know what to do in my absence.”
She smiled. It felt like a load off her shoulders to admit that was what she wanted.
Gunther nodded his head. “I’m sure they’ll be okay; you’ll find them.”
Valya had been badmouthing him behind his back a bit– but he still cared.
After all this mess, maybe she needed to have a heart to heart with the whole team.
Maybe she had been focused too much on work and too little on camaraderie.
Galina reached a hand and laid it heavy on Gunther’s shoulder, smiling at him back.
Without a word more, she turned and headed for a monitor, silently thanking him.
“Valya, wherever you are, just hang on for a bit, okay?” Galina murmured to herself.
That kid was brave and had a tough, determined heart– but they hadn’t stood up for themselves enough yet. They were not old enough to have been really challenged. Maybe it was wrong of her to believe so, maybe it was antiquated, but she still felt that she had to be responsible for them. Maybe one last time– maybe as much as it took.
“Hmm. You didn’t cut it quite down the very middle but that’s okay.”
Elena Lettiere groaned looking down at her sandwich with grim disappointment.
“Ah, it’s fine, it’s just sandwiches! Look, I’m cutting mine all over the place.”
At her side, a brightly beaming Maryam Karahailos patted her back reassuringly.
“Maryam, you have to put care into the food you make. People can taste the difference.”
Between the two, Logia Minardo looked more amused than annoyed by her young charges.
With the auxiliary pods locked down for security reasons, Minardo had set up a sandwich station in a meeting room, which they could quickly evacuate and lock down once actual combat began. On the meeting room table, they assembled sandwich boxes to hand out. They had a lot of brown bread that had been baked and cut on that day, and a few simple sandwich fixings– packages of biostitched green vegetables and containers of spreadable egg salad with celery, or a white cheese spread with roast red pepper, or a kidney bean spread flavored with corn. Along with the sandwich fixings they also had soft plastic squeeze bottles of flavored vitamin drink. Her experiences with the Brigand suggested this was typical working food for the Union, something that was served aboard any given ship.
Each sandwich had one square sheet of biostitched greens, which Elena found somewhat disconcerting in appearance but could not knock for its proletarian character; a layer of spread, either the egg, cheese, or bean type; and finally, they were cut down the middle, the two halves stacked up together, and placed in reusable containers with a belt loop so anyone with a TBT uniform could tot one around. The juice containers also had a similar belt loop for that purpose. Elena carefully laid down the first slice of bread, used a blunt knife to smear a thin layer of spread, topped with a sheet of greens and the second slice of bread. She laid her sharp knife across the top of the bread, judging the angle as best as she could. She cut gently from corner to corner with the sharp knife. She looked down at her handiwork and again found that one slice of the sandwich was simply wider than the other.
She sighed– such a simple task, and yet–
“You’re giving it your best and that’s what matters.” Minardo said, smiling at Elena.
She glanced over at Maryam, who cleaved her sandwiches in half in one wanton blow.
Of course, hers were not symmetrical– she wasn’t even trying to make them like that.
“Maryam, you’ll be handing out only the sandwiches you pack, okay?” Minardo sighed.
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Maryam said happily, seemingly untroubled by the implications.
Not only were they cut wrong– Maryam’s sandwiches also had slightly sloppy spreading.
Minardo’s sandwiches had just the right amount of spread that stayed just short of the crusts so that it would have room when the sandwich was bitten. She cut hers symmetrically, and they looked neater and more photogenic. They went into the boxes perfectly, so they could be picked out of them without mess. Elena knew it was silly to fret over sandwiches, but she once again felt keenly her immaturity compared to a woman of Minardo’s caliber. It was not only sandwiches in which she felt inadequate– she felt like a child in so many ways.
With a bit of personal disappointment, Elena stuffed her sandwiches into the boxes.
They carried on in this way while outside the meeting room, by all accounts, the world had fallen into complete bedlam. Aachen station was in an uproar; they had several officers and pilots missing; and they were preparing to fight a ground battle. Elena had learned and even seen the differences between such battles. In the water, people died in an instant. A pierced diver cockpit would decompress and kill before you could feel pain. While under pressure, people could be cut, perforated, burned, maimed. She hardly knew what was scarier.
“Minardo, will everything be okay?” Elena asked. She felt childish doing so.
However, the tension was beginning to boil over inside her chest.
“Right now, a ship full of professionals is doing everything they can to get the situation under control.” Minardo replied. She put down her sandwich and gave Elena a sympathetic look, reaching out and caressing her cheek. “All we can do is to trust and support everyone. Food is not a trivial matter, you know. It’s especially important to eat in a crisis.”
She withdrew her hand, tossing Elena’s hair a bit as she did so to tease her.
Elena recoiled slightly out of surprise. Her face went hot, and she averted her gaze.
“Sonya will protect all of us, I know it.” Maryam said. “And that young miss Murati too!”
“Murati is almost certainly coming up with something as we speak.” Minardo said.
As much as she wished that was satisfying, Elena had something else on her mind.
“Minardo– what if I had the power to fight– and–” She started mumbling–
At that moment, the door to the meeting room opened behind them.
A tall, brown-skinned young woman in uniform, with shoulder-length, messy black hair–
Minardo immediately smiled and clapped her hands.
“Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour herself! What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Ah– don’t say that– I’m getting some food the bridge while we still can.”
“How many folks you got up there? I can get you a trolley filled up.”
Murati looked down at her fingers.
“Zachikova, Semyonova, al-Suhar–” She mumbled.
Minardo laughed, teased her about it, and began to pack from the sandwiches and vitamin drinks she herself had boxed up, stacking everything on a trolley for Murati to take to the bridge. Exactly as many as needed. She knew everyone on the bridge who needed one.
“Do bring the trolley back! We’ll need it again later.” Minardo said.
Elena thought for a moment about interrupting them– asking Murati if she could fight.
Even after all that had happened, it took another crisis for the worst of her to come out.
She had some sort of power now but– she was still uncertain and frightened–
What if she was killed–? Or perhaps worse– what if she killed someone?
Already, she had used her powers before to harm someone–!
Recalling that regret caused her head to swim.
In her guts, the shame surged overwhelmingly hot, and she could not bear to speak.
Murati came and went without hearing from her– she hesitated the whole time.
Perhaps it was for the best. Elena packed her sandwiches unable to say another word.
Another fight that she would spend praying for everyone.
I am not helpless anymore– what am I now is worse– a coward– she chided herself.
Sometimes she could still hear that chiding in Bethany’s voice as that creature wore it.
“Wouldn’t things be easy if I had some weird power too? Man. God fucking damn it.”
Marina chided herself for even mentioning such damnable things.
She had made a promise both to herself and implicitly in her behavior to Elena to just forget all the hurtful things that had happened during their escape from the Serrano region and try to be there for her no matter what. Elena seemed to be trying her best to forget all of those things also, from Marina’s perspective. She was burying herself in her little books and frolicking about the ship so happily. Uninvolved in all of that mess– a new person.
Part of that unpleasantness was– what she had done to Marina.
Therefore, Marina buried all of that too.
Psionics— that bewildering thing that Elena’s Shimii friend had demonstrated to them.
Just as she had said, Elena had those talents too.
It wasn’t as if Marina was completely shocked by the existence of these things– Alayze had always known about the superstitions of their neighbors, like Hanwan mysticism and the shocking rituals of some of the Katarrans. There were always people willing to believe in the supernatural. However, it was simply pointless to spend energy practicing esoterica.
Guns and governments changed the world. Psionics wasn’t going to stop Vogelheim from collapsing; it wasn’t going to bring Bethany back; it wasn’t going to spare Elena from all of the pain her position entailed. That Shimii girl could push on everything but the world.
Because it was useless– Marina did not care and was as uninvolved in it as she could be.
Neither Elena nor that cat– no young girl could change what was happening.
Useless things a GIA agent heard went in one ear and out the other frequently.
Haunting only them while having no bearing on the mission.
That was what Psionics represented to her.
Throughout her life she had seen many fantastical things happen before her eyes–
And she had been fantastic at burying those things deep down.
Despite this, Marina could not help but feel in that moment that–
If she had some magic on her side–
Then maybe it would have been a little easier to get around at least.
She stalked through the eerily quiet halls of the first tier shopping centers, ducking behind vending machines, stalking past shopfronts. Only a few had been broken into– and it seemed the people looting them had not stuck around. Almost everyone appeared to have made a beeline for the trams to get back to the detached residential habitat blocks. Away from the mess Marina headed towards in the core station. Advertising still flashed from the signage and the screens; the vending machines still exhorted her to try all seven delicious flavors of Adventia canned pop. However, without a crowd of shoppers, the glitzy storefronts and the inviting fake tiled hall floors and the gaudy ad monitors and the planter domes, all of it looked hollowed out, like the bleached bones of a picked-through skeleton laid bare.
Spotlights on the corpse of something that all manner of bottom-feeders had come to pick.
Marina could feel the tension in the air. There was nothing to blunt it.
All the power she had was the gun in her hand and the training scarred into her being.
On the model that the Brigand had developed, there was an interstice accessway that ran through the rear walls of the shops in the corners of the tier structure. If she could sneak her way in there she would just need to climb a ladder to make it up to the second tier, and then to the third. It would be a long climb, and there was always the chance someone had the same idea as her– in which case she’d have to be ready to kill in quarters tighter than the rooms on the Brigand. She moved across the storefronts with a sense of paranoia.
Moving out of cover gun first, her eyes quickly clearing every obstacle, every glass pane, every door, seeking any sign of activity. As empty as everything seemed, it would only take a moment for something to kill her. Those white-uniformed Eloim could be bearing down on her from any corner, from down any set of spiraling stairs, from any ramp between the mall’s floors. Or worse– she would truly hate herself in the grave if some rioter scum took her out. That would have been the absolute capstone to her utterly pathetic life, wouldn’t it?
“Korabiskaya– If you die and I can never get you back for all your pity– damn it–”
Everyone else was doing everything she could. She would damned if she sat out of it.
As she stalked closer to the shops in the northern corner–
“Over here, Ms. McKennedy! Over here!”
Marina turned her weapon on the shattered glass storefront of a custom stitch-shop.
Behind a window display, a short Katarran girl raised her hands with a nervous smile.
“It’s me, Chloe!” The girl said. “Chloe Kouri! From the Volksarmee!”
Marina kept her weapon trained. “I– I don’t know who the hell you’re supposed to be.”
She almost felt embarrassed about it. Almost.
“Oh c’mon, you’re not going to hold me up like this! We have to go save everyone!”
They clarified the misunderstanding quickly when Chloe showed off her Treasure Box ID.
It meant she could come and go on and off the Brigand– she was a friend of the commies.
Marina had hardly even gone near the Rostock– she was not the biggest fan of Katarrans.
“So what the hell are you doing out here?”
For the moment, Marina hid in the store with Chloe to avoid potentially being seen outside.
“I’m always running around in stations! It turned into my job over time.” Chloe said. “I hate being stuffed inside a ship all day every day. So I learn the interior layouts, I get in touch with the Katarrans if there are any, and I learn about what’s going on to report back.”
Chloe really looked a bit compact for a Katarran. In an overlong black coat, hood pulled up with her grey hair spilling out, and those big golden eyes. Marina couldn’t imagine the brute strength of a Katarran coming out of this girl who was huddled almost into a ball next to her.
Though– she was kinda cute– looked and felt soft for a Katarran– nice hips–
“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked. “Is there something on me? Is it a rat?”
“What? No? There’s no rats.” Marina sighed. Chiding herself internally for her reaction.
Not the time, Marina—
“Too bad– I’m getting a little hungry.” Chloe whined.
Marina cleared her throat. “Kid, I have to get going. Like you said– I have people to save.”
“I know! I can help you! And I’m not a kid!” Chloe insisted.
“I don’t need your help. Don’t follow me.”
“Hmph! I dealt with a bunch of the white uniforms up ahead, you know.”
Marina could not contain the surprise on her face.
Looking a little too full of herself, Chloe led her out into the thoroughfare to confirm.
However, as unimpressive as she looked, she moved very keenly.
Marina could tell from watching her dart from cover to cover.
Her timings for moving, surveying, hiding, and when she decided to peer out–
Everything was almost exactly as Marina herself would have done, like she was trained.
And with her “fun size” stature, and weirdly flexible limbs, she was able to hide very effectively. Chloe clung closer and tighter to any surface than Marina had ever seen. When she moved, she was stunningly purposeful, making it to the next spot whisper quiet and fast. It was evident even from a relatively quick jaunt that she was in her own league.
The pair quickly and quietly made it to the exact corner store Marina had been aiming for.
A schnitzel shop with back panel access into the station interstice.
Following Chloe inside, Marina found a pair of white uniforms knocked out behind the counter. Their berets were on the ground. Both had bruises and a bit of bleeding in the back of their heads. Their hands had been fastened with two pairs of plastic cuffs each, behind their backs. Their gear had been laid out on the floor in the ingredients storage room in the back. Two heavy pistols, a few mags, radios, flashbangs, smoke grenades, heavy binoculars with predictive functions. In addition, Chloe had propped up two riot shields near the gear.
“You knocked these guys out?” Marina said.
Chloe nodded her head.
“Yeah. I watched them for a bit and caught ‘em by themselves. I found that these guys wander around in groups of two or four. I think the groups of four eventually split into two units of two. They can cover more ground that way, and faster, but it leaves them open if anyone catches them. They don’t keep in close contact. Minimal radio usage, probably following a prescribed set of plans. I assume they spread out really far to do like, recon and sabotage stuff. In the Volksarmee we call this kinda unit ‘diversion-reconnaissance groups.’”
“Similar to how you run around by yourself?” Marina asked.
“Nope, I’m special. I can easily wipe out like three or four DRGs if I apply myself.”
How scary, Marina thought to herself, rolling her eyes.
“But– this here is how they survive those kinds of risky operations.”
Chloe walked over to the shield. It was taller than her– a full size riot shield.
On the front face, it was nice and shiny, very well-polished. It was flatter than a typical shield.
When Chloe turned it around, Marina saw the handle and a few spaces for extra mags–
And a lot of electronics she did not recognize in affixed box mounts, connected by wires.
“This shield can project a really high-fidelity optical-camouflage field. Watch.”
To demonstrate, Chloe flicked a switch on the back side, and then turned it over again. There was a very brief flicker of light over the surface of the object. In Marina’s vision, it soon looked like the shield had completely blended into its surroundings. Chloe could step behind the shield and completely disappear. Because the object was between herself and Marina, and the object was completely camouflaged, it also hid Chloe from anyone’s sight. That explained how the Judeans were so confident moving around in these small units. Nobody would catch them if they were smart, so the small size of these units wouldn’t matter. In fact, the units had to be small because the shields themselves were bulky– too many guys wondering around in close proximity would have limited movement.
“These motherfuckers are hiding all over the place.” Marina said.
“They’re pretty dangerous. But– I can sniff them out. They can’t hide their odor.”
Chloe sniffed the air and smiled.
Marina averted her gaze. Were Katarrans really so animalistic?
Though she supposed Loup could also sniff things out like that– what a world–
“I suppose you’ll come in handy after all, kid.” Marina said.
“Don’t call me a kid.” Chloe frowned. “I can even drink alcohol you know.”
“Come on, we’re wasting time.”
Marina wanted to take those shields so badly. But there was no way to make it work.
Their destination was several very tall and tight ladders away from them.
She would avail herself of one of their 10 mm heavy pistols, however.
“You see these in crime movies in Alayze all the time. It’s so fuckin’ hefty.”
Holding it in her hand, feeling the power and weight.
Maybe she could make her own magic with gear like this.
“Good idea. I’ll take their grenades.” Chloe said.
“Not good with guns?” Marina asked, a bit snidely, as she continued inspecting her trophy.
Chloe formed a fist. “This hits way harder than any gun I would carry. I like to travel light.”
No argument there. Maybe this girl was a full-fledged Katarran after all.
In the rear of the Brigand’s hangar, near the deployment chute, the strike team organized.
Illya and Valeriya stood at the head of the squad, outfitted in two of the Brigand’s scant few suits of powered armor. These suits were layered over the shoulders, chest, arms and legs, consisting mainly of a body and back plate, arm guards and greaves with muscle enhancement, and angled plates on the shoulders, knees and elbows. All of the platework consisted of two layers, a titanium alloy layer and a complex ceramics layer.
On the back, there was a small electric motor with an agarthic battery that provided energy to muscle-enhancing elements whose main components were located behind the upper arm and shoulder and along the back of the legs to support the body with extra power.
On Imbrian power armor, the muscle enhancement was built into the suit components themselves, which made each part thicker and protected the entire body better but also meant the entire thing could become nearly unusuable after any penetration. One leg or arm shot through and suddenly the soldier would find themselves unable to maintain their balance with the weight of the suit. Katarrans mostly dispensed with the muscle enhancing and instead focused on making the armor legendary in its protection and durability. The Union focused on ease of manufacture and in the realities of war– if someone got a clean shot from behind, it was unlikely that any armor in the world would save you. Protection was forward heavy and the entry seam in the back remained something of a weak spot, as well as the exposed enhancing complexes in the backs of the limbs. Overall, the suit was lighter.
Despite the design, for Illya, it felt just like wearing the nanomail bodysuit she still had on beneath all the metal parts. She barely felt like she was moving in something bulky, and even fighting hand to hand in the suit felt completely natural. The muscle enhancement helped with carrying additional gear and heavy weapons, and offset the recoil of Union AKs, which generally maximized lethality per bullet over pinpoint accuracy. While she would never trust her protection completely to any suit of armor, she knew these powered armors could ablate automatic fire and light explosives that would have shredded nanomail.
It was the perfect protection for an assault team.
They were not the only ones dressed in such a high-tech fashion, either.
“Daphne’s already briefed us on everything. We’re ready for your orders, Rostova.”
Women in power armor with somewhat dour expressions and guarded mannerisms.
Illya felt just a bit better seeing for herself what Daphne Triantafallos had sent over.
The Rostock had its own special forces squadron, nicknamed the “Ekdromoi.”
Apparently this was a little joke among the Katarrans– Ekdromoi in the chaotic early Warlord period were unarmored, often teenaged soldiers sent into the fray with heat knives and grenades to support boarding actions or station attacks as fodder. Erika Kairos seemed to know her history and decided this would be a cute nickname for a trio of women in full suits of steel-grey power armor. Given the typical Katarran prospensity for strength and endurance, the usual drawbacks of Imbrian power armor hardly applied to them. They had similar weapons as Illya and Valeriya too, with well-maintained G63 assault rifles, vibroknives, and grenades clipped on magnetic strips.
“Let’s do some quick introductions. I need to know what to shout when we’re in the shit.”
“Ah ha! You’ve got a real sly grin on you, madam Rostova– I like that! Alright, ladies!”
The woman in the center of the formation gestured to her two companions.
Both of them looked at her with a certain disinterest, silently entreating her to go first.
“Bah! You two need to look livelier. You give us a bad rep.” She pointed a thumb at herself. Out of the group, she was the tallest, and broadest, with shoulder-length blond hair and brown skin with orange mottles. Big ladies were not Illya’s type particularly, but she could see the appeal. “I’m Kyra Stravidis. I lead this outfit because I’m the only extrovert!”
She looked at her side to a much shorter woman with skin a shade of blue-ish-purple, nearly black. She had long white hair that was very fluffy and from within it extended a pair of fin-like protrusions standing in for her ears. Her suit of armor had a few clearly homebrewed joins intended to take material out and make it smaller for her. Illya was aware that there were Katarrans of all shapes and sizes, including ones that looked a bit too short.
Nevertheless, Illya knew she had to watch out for even a 150 cm shortie like this.
“Aylin Karatasos.” She said, averting her gaze slightly.
Glancing at her own side as if passing the burning embers to the next poor sap.
Those embers, Illya’s gaze, fell upon a woman taller than Aylin and shorter than Kyra, and a bit rounder and curvier than both, evident in the slight outward curve of her abdominal armor plates. She had a rather cheerful face with a strong nose, and shiny brown hair that fell over her shoulders in waves just barely contained by a few different colors of hair clips. Her skin was almost the same color of her hair but with intermittent glowing spots, and a pair of small horn-like protrusions just above her brows. Despite her friendly smile and the pleasant look in her eyes she said nothing for a moment when Illya looked her way.
Illya then looked down at her hands– she was signing.
“Thekla Vasiliou. Pleasure. Looking forward to a glorious battle!” Her fingers said.
It had been a while since Illya had to read Low Imbrian sign language, but she understood it.
“If you’re worried about her not being able to talk, don’t.” Aylin said suddenly.
“I’m not worried about anything.” Illya said. “I’m treating everyone here seriously.”
“Don’t be so sensitive Aylin!” Kyra said. “Trust in our Union comrades like Erika does!”
“Sorry.” Aylin looked down at her own armored boots, making her seem even smaller.
At her side, Thekla patted her in the shoulders for support.
“Well– alright.” Illya said. “I’m Illya Rostova, and this is Valeriya Peterburg.”
At her side, Valeriya had been staring at the wall with her mask up.
“And over there, we have Zhu Lian and Klara Van Der Smidse.”
On Illya’s other side stood two girls who saluted when their names were called.
Both were somewhat slight and lean looking girls dressed in suits of powered armor just like the one Illya and Valeriya had. The pair had interesting contrasts. Zhu Lian was taller and a bit leaner than Klara, with dark hair tied into a ponytail and slightly angular eyes; while the slightly curvier Klara had an almost comically cheerful expression with her AK in her hands, her long pale hair tied up into a braided tail that was much more well groomed than usual. Illya suspected Zhu Lian had braided it– she had more deft hands than Klara did.
If there was one thing she could count on it was that those two would at least have each other’s backs. They had trained in the infantry together and were also definitely a thing.
“Anything to say, you two?” Illya asked them.
Zhu Lian and Klara exchanged glances then saluted the Ekdromoi.
“It will be an honor to fight alongside you.” Zhu Lian said.
“I wanna pick up some techniques! Get crazy out there!” Klara said.
Illya glared at both of them, causing Klara to raise her hands defensively and grin.
Kyra laughed heartily and seemed pleased with them. Aylin said nothing. Thekla smiled.
“Now that everyone’s acquainted–” Illya began to lay out the upcoming plan. She withdrew a tablet from a nearby equipment trolley and held it up for everyone to see. There was a map of the first tier mall on it. “As you can see, the shops form two half-square rings with three floors that meet around the back of the atrium. The atrium is walled off with glass and full of water– it’s sturdy enough to take a few good hits, and it is not open to the ocean. If it breaks, it breaks– but then we’ll get swept up in rushing water, so don’t push our luck. The enemy is coming from up above us and trying to come down,” Illya pointed a pen at the transit tier at the top of the mall, consisting of the large rectangular stairwells connecting them to the second tier, “with the elevators out they have to take the stairwells. We will not try to block the transit tier. The enemy coming down will be too concentrated and will overwhelm us.” She drew a line from the transit tier, down three spiraling staircases through the mall’s floors. “We will attack the enemy in the covered halls of the mall ground floor. That will give them room to spread out– there’ll be guys on every floor, and we can pick them off as they come. Because of the atrium structure, they won’t be able to deploy snipers–”
The ladies of the Ekdromoi nodded their heads as Illya developed the battle plan.
Zhu Lian chided Klara for covering her mouth to yawn.
Valeriya peeked every so often, knowing more intimately than anyone what she had to do.
In this way, the special forces group prepared their crucial attack.
They were what the Volksarmee had to work with, and though not a ground army,
it’d have to be enough.
When Murati returned to the bridge, she had a lunch box for everyone, and distributed them all herself out of the stock she had brought in her trolley. Receiving a thank you and a smile from her officers as she handed each of them food. It was a fleeting moment of levity that she greatly cherished. She had set aside a bean spread sandwich for herself and when she sat back down in the Captain’s chair she took a few silent bites of it. She drank from the vitamin drink pouch and felt relief wash over her. Having food going through her system made her feel just a bit less crazy and desperate than she had in the past few hours.
Not that eating would have really helped her with any of those predicaments.
Nor any of the ones to come.
“Aatto, how are you doing?” Murati whispered, leaning back on her seat.
Aatto looked at her with a glowing expression. Her ears raised up high.
“Master, you needn’t concern yourself with me. Your Aatto is tireless when you require her.”
Her tail thumped against the seat.
She looked too cheerful– Murati would let her have this one.
“I want to see you eat something and take a bit of a break. What tasks do you have now?”
“I’ve been working with Illya Rostova, keeping appraised of mission needs.”
“She can’t ask for much more can she? She’s about to move out. Let that sit for a bit.”
“You are too kind, master.”
Aatto pushed away her own chair’s computer screen and opened her lunchbox.
Murati reached out and patted her on the shoulder.
She watched her eat for a moment in silence. Her own worries began to bubble up again.
“Aatto,” Murati said in a whisper, “Tell me honestly– would you have done what I’ve done?”
“Yes, but you must understand, I think we are equally ruthless sorts of people.”
“Is that so?”
“I think both of us put the requirements of success ahead of the costs.”
A lot of people seemed to be telling Murati that she was ruthless or bloodthirsty lately.
Was she really? She had wanted to believe she was just doing what was “correct.”
Then again– when she thought of the Judeans she burned with an anger to fight them.
When she sunk Imperial ships and executed strategies she felt a sort of adrenaline.
“When you smuggled all of those liberals away from the Volkisch, were you ‘ruthless’ then?”
“Oh yes. I couldn’t save everyone. I had to be practical. Sometimes I had to weigh whether it was worth saving someone or not. There was a famous union organizer who was being hunted down– and on the other hand, there were a few people who had been identified while protesting the Blood Bund. Who would I save? I had to weigh my own capability as well– if I was exposed, then I couldn’t ever smuggle anyone out again. So I let all of them be caught. The organizer just went to jail– but the Blood Bund demanded the protesters be turned over. I can only imagine their fates. Then the next opportunity I got was a politician with a lot of contacts. She put me in touch with people who made the smuggling a bit easier to arrange. It was perhaps inhuman of me to consign certain people over others. A parade of suffering wandered in front of my eyes. But by giving up a few people short term I managed to extend the length of the overall scheme and help more people out in the long run.”
Hearing Aatto speak of her former experiences, Murati always had to push down her reflexive disgust. There must have been so many people cursing her by name by proxy, cursing the people and system who damned them– but even though Aatto had condemned people for the Volkisch she was also one of the few cracks in that iron wall through which any light could shine through. For that light to shine on anyone, to save anyone at all, Aatto also had to play the role of assistant executioner that was expected of her.
Murati neither wanted to hate her nor wanted to forgive her such a thing.
As much as she wanted to, she could not answer how she felt about this.
Was Aatto trying to atone now? Perhaps– perhaps not–
“The requirements of success ahead of the costs– I see.”
“In that situation, master, would you have done as I did?”
Aatto’s eyes wandered a bit. Murati could tell that she really wanted her approval.
Murati answered honestly, out of her convictions and not simply to please Aatto.
In that situation–
“I understand that to be able to continue defying the Volkisch you had to protect your own cover sometimes. Aatto– it was brave of you to take those risks. I don’t want to judge you for what happened. I can’t imagine what I would have done. It’s so far from any decision I’ve had to make. Your answer was as good as any. I suppose I would do the same.”
Perhaps in that moment, Murati was making a similar decision herself.
Choosing for her comrades to live– and consigning someone else’s comrades to death.
Those people would curse her name by proxy, for damning them for her own ends.
Sitting with Murati’s response for a moment, Aatto looked strangely wistful.
“Ultimately– it was misguided effort. I wanted the liberals to fight back, and they did not.”
“That doesn’t make what you did any less brave.” Murati said.
“Ah– master, I appreciate your praise. You are trying to comfort me. But it is unearned. I joined the Volkisch in the first place. I think to have been truly commendable I should have, when the intelligence departments fully cooperated with the Lehner government– I should have pulled out my pistol and shot everyone in the office and myself. Even before– I also did nothing to resist the Imbrian Empire, my former employer. It took so much and so long for me to offer the merest resistance– compared to anyone on this ship I am an utter coward. I want to earn your esteem by assisting you in something worthwhile.”
Aatto– I wish I could have done something before all this horror dug its claws into you.
There was no use saying that to her–
It was also presumptuous to try to tell her that she was expiating for her past now.
Everyone on this ship had something Aatto never did.
The Union’s alternative vision for the world.
Without that– God only knew how any of them would have turned out.
Maybe Murati would have been Reichskommissar of Eisental if she never developed as a communist. If all she had was her desire to fight against some nebulous evil.
Evil could take any convenient form, after all.
“Aatto, I think your heart’s in the right place. I believe in you completely.”
Words she could have never imagined saying mere weeks ago.
Aatto smiled a little bit. It lacked her usual effusiveness, but it was better than before.
“Thank you, master. If it’s okay, I want to resume my tasks.”
Murati nodded. When Aatto returned to her monitor, she glanced at her other side.
Euphrates quietly tucked into her egg salad sandwich and vitamin drink.
Likely she had heard something or other, but she had enough sense not to interject.
She smiled at Murati when she noticed her looking.
“It’s quite a nice egg salad. I was surprised to find dill in there.” Euphrates said.
Her comment struck the entirely wrong note.
“We grow all kinds of things in the Union. Our agriculture is fantastic.” Murati said.
Euphrates burst out laughing.
“You’re incomparable, Murati.” She said.
Of course, she was teasing her– she would have found a way to tease her for anything.
Frowning, Murati leaned back on her chair again feigning disinterest in further banter.
“How’s your hand?” Euphrates whispered.
Murati felt prompted to look at it. There was not much to see.
Bandages with strips of medigel wrapped around the wound, enclosing it. Slowly the medigel in the bandage would seep into the wound and assist in the process of healing. It hurt. It was not agony; it did not hurt bad enough to occupy her thoughts. Flexing her fingers, closing her fist, it did cause pain in a way that reminded her it was all real.
Not just her strange psychic feelings but the very present-ness of this moment.
None of it was a bad dream. All of it was happening right in front of her.
The wound on her hand, because it hurt–
it confirmed all the other devilry that happened was real.
In that sense, Murati hated and almost wanted to chop off her own hand completely.
“It’s fine.” Murati said.
She was lying about her feelings, and she hoped everyone was just used to it by now.
Euphrates nodded her head.
“Whatever happens, Murati, you’ll have me. I promise you that.” Euphrates said.
“Well– alright. Thank you.”
The indestructibility of her dear immortal was not particularly comforting in that moment.
Her thoughts were growing darker by the second. It was time to return to work too.
“Zachikova, any news?” Murati asked, looking to her left.
“Nope. Workin’ on it. I might have something soon.” Zachikova said, munching on an egg salad sandwich. She could not be faulted– Murati had given her so many tasks.
At her side, Arabella ate a bit of the sandwich and made a face.
“Geninov, how are you all doing over there?” Murati looked to her right.
“Ma’am! Our weapons are not just hot– they are downright spicy!” Geninov said.
She turned and saluted with a big grin.
At her side, Santapena-De La Rosa joined her in saluting with a more reserved expression.
In a strange coincidence, both of them had gotten matching cheese sandwiches.
“All projectiles are on the cusp of climax and await ignition.” Santapena-De La Rosa reported.
Murati decided to overlook the terminology she used and avoid clarification.
“Good work you two. I might route some drone functions to you, Geninov.” Murati said.
“Yessir!”
Wasn’t she ma’am before–? Not that it mattered in that moment.
At least both halves of the officer’s stations looked lively.
For a moment, the bridge was relatively calm. Quiet clattering on keyboards, tapping on screens. Circulating air with a slightly plastic smell. There was enough of a hush that the circulators themselves were just barely audible. While the main screen was filled with a silent cacophony of information that blended into imperceptible nothingness, itself becoming quiet by virtue of its chaos. This was Murati’s reprieve before the violence certain to come.
Murati cast a glance at her close left, just beyond Aatto–
“Semyonova–”
“Ah, sorry Captain– I will have to interrupt. It’s Astra Palaiologos, ma’am.”
Semyonova turned to Murati with a sympathetic little smile.
“Put her through.” Murati said.
On the screen–
That pale, soft, girlish face that looked so incongruent with the power and violence she commanded. Her golden uniform, heavily decorated, and the crown-like horns.
Once more, red eyes fixed auburn.
Astra smiled and beheld Murati with an imperious demeanor.
“Murati, I have a task for you and your crew. I have summoned one of my personal vessels to rendezvous here. It is roughly equivalent to one of your Frigates, though laid out differently– there are additional troops inside that will assist us.” Astra said.
“I was unaware you had any naval assets here.” Murati asked.
Murati had passively assumed Astra had a ship somewhere, though this was not the case.
It made sense– if she had a ship in Stockheim she could have had the crew assist Murati.
Astra had never acted as though that was possible.
“It is not particularly suited to naval combat. That is my reason for calling you.” Astra said.
“Wait a moment. Can you tell me how you arrived at Aachen then? How are you deployed?”
Astra crossed her arms– her facial expression returned to neutral, making her look a bit annoyed compared to the smile she previously wore. Her tone remained dispassionate.
“At the request of Herta Kleyn, only my personal guard is currently present in Aachen itself, while the rest of my troops awaited in a sparsely populated substation just outside of the Aachen hydrospace. I and my guards booked private transport instead.”
That battalion slicing through the rioters was only her bodyguards?
“You wouldn’t happen to have any troops in another part of the station?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I assumed as much– but I wanted to confirm it.”
Better to clear the air than to continue making assumptions.
She already felt foolish enough for having overlooked other small details.
“Given what you’ve said– you want us to protect your vessel?” Murati asked.
Astra nodded. “For now, use your sonar to keep track of it. I’ll give you an acoustic key. I don’t suspect there will be any issues and I don’t want to waste your time and equipment. However, if something happens– you must deploy to assist my vessel. Blow up the docking clamps if you have to. I’m relying on you to see that ship here safe.”
Murati felt that she should clarify something– “My ship won’t be going anywhere.”
“Are you outright refusing my request?” Astra said, her tone of voice sharpening a touch.
Was that a note of petulance she detected? It made her face look more childish.
Murati had wanted to try pushing Astra’s buttons and managed just enough for now.
“No I am not. We have Divers– I’ll send a Diver to protect your ship if needed.”
“I don’t care about the method, as long as that ship docks with this station safely.”
The Warlord’s voice calmed down as if she had never shown the slightest emotion.
Astra really was more results oriented than Murati had given her credit for.
Someone inflexibly tyrannical would have demanded respect and made more of a scene.
Murati’s lack of deference did not seem to bother her too much.
“Contact your vessel and tell them to hold their fire if a Diver approaches–”
“What profile? Send me an acoustic key– our enemies might field Imbrian class Divers too.”
As much as Murati hated giving up information like this– there was no avoiding it.
Keeping Astra completely in the dark could endanger Shalikova if she had to deploy.
It would be an absolute disaster if her partnership with Astra ended that way.
“We will send it to you shortly.” Murati said. An instant of silence then lingered between herself and Astra Palaiologos. In place of their speech there was a nagging voice in the back of Murati’s head that compelled her to speak out further. “Madam Palaiologos– I have been monitoring your attack against the rioters in the third tier through my sources.”
She immediately felt too foolish to continue that statement with any kind of request.
Who was she to tell Mycenae to take a lighter hand in the middle of battle?
And– when it was she who begged them to undertake this slaughter to begin with?
“How do you feel about it, Murati Nakara?” Astra asked her.
Her expression remained impassive.
“I pity the rioters.” Murati said. “And acknowledge your troops’ strength.”
Astra smiled a little bit.
“This is a highly complicated situation for me. You must understand. Though I am being paid by the Volkisch I have extended my operations well beyond what was necessary to accomplish my commission– for your sake. And against a variety of local actors that will not look upon me kindly. I have done this because I believe you will have value for me.”
She gestured with her hand toward the screen, toward Murati.
Those bewitching, jewel-like red eyes beheld her curiously.
“Were you in my position, what would you do? What would seem ethical?” Astra asked.
Murati knew that she could not really lie to Astra– she had lost her that way before.
Somehow, it felt like she saw through Murati’s lies and dissimulation very easily.
“It’s not a matter of ethicality. If I had the same task as you I would not go out of my way to preserve the mall’s property by fighting using mainly close quarters attacks with small arms. I would use more high explosives, flamethrowers, anything shocking and demoralizing– if I had to clear out a bunch of barricades.” Murati said. “But I would not have made myself beholden to the Volkisch and their creditors in the first place. That’s a key difference.”
“Murati– why did you swear that oath to me?”
Perhaps she truly believed there was no use in lying– perhaps she was compelled not to lie.
At this point she could hardly tell the difference.
“I wanted to manipulate your emotions.” Murati said bluntly.
Astra’s lips curled into a wide, eerie smile. Her eyes narrowed with a strange mirth.
This was the most unreservedly joyful Murati had ever seen her–
again she would have described it as “cute.”
“You are truly so fascinating. I truly made the right choice. I just wish we had more time. I want to get to know you! In a better world we could be discussing books.”
“I’m not very fun for that– I mainly read history and politics.”
“That’s precisely what I’d love to talk to you about.”
“I’ve been told I’m rather partisan.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Strong beliefs are worth shouting about.”
Perhaps the most tragic result– seeing Astra’s smiling face did make Murati wish–
For that world in which they could have just talked about books together.
“I have to go oversee operations, madam.” Murati said.
“We’ll talk again.”
Astra winked at her and cut off her side of the call.
Murati was left with a twisted feeling in her heart. Even more pain heaped upon the rest.
She pushed the video screen out of her way again and made herself available to the bridge.
In the very instant of this gesture, the next issue arose.
“Murati,” Zachikova always spoke her name in a certain tone when it was something serious, so hearing it from her caused Murati’s guts to constrict, “I just noticed– I think that someone else is hacking all the cameras that I hacked. They are not trying to lock me out, just to watch alongside. There’s an additional connection on every one, with crazy high bandwidth. I am going to live and let live with this other hacker for now. But I wanted you to know.”
“I trust your judgment.” Murati said.
“Also, I think I’m narrowing some leads.” Zachikova said. “I’ll let you know if I get something.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day.”
Zachikova grinned and turned back to her station.
Murati let out her breath and tried to center herself.
With any luck they might be able to get the Aachen Citizen’s Guard to–
Back down? Surrender? Murati almost let herself have such wild and impossible dreams.
Almost.
Inside Stockheim, the bulkhead into the Brigand’s deployment chute finally slid open.
Eight women stepped out onto the landing hall.
Brandishing assault rifles; wearing disposable tube launchers on their backs with anti-armor missiles; with belts laden with grenades and close combat weapons. One woman had a full-size diamond sword carried in a large recharging sheathe for its motor. Two of the women, the youngest and least experienced but carried by an excitable demeanor, were entrusted with grenade launchers and shotguns in addition to their assault rifles.
One woman stayed at the bulkhead while allowing the others out.
Illya and Valeriya, Lian and Klara, and the Ekdromoi of the Rostock were ready to move out.
Chief of Security Evgenya Akulantova watched them go.
“I trust you know what you’re going out there to do.” Akulantova said.
Illya smiled a little bit, catching the Chief’s gaze on the corner of her eyes.
“I think of it as repaying you for rescuing us last time.”
“What I mean is– you’re responsible for a lot of people. Bring them back.”
“I know you think of me as a reckless, arrogant bastard– but I have feelings too.”
“I know– you have feelings for her.” Akulantova sighed. “I’m trusting you as a leader.”
“I come highly rated– just ask Nagavanshi. But if anything gets through– I’m concerned.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“You’d better kill them, Chief Shark.”
“It’ll be fine. Just go.”
Akulantova waved Illya off with a sour look on her face.
Smiling, Illya caught up with her team walking past and into the halls toward the Aachen core station. Setting off together with an eerie enthusiasm for a journey toward a massacre.
The Chief watched them go with a twisted feeling in her own chest.
Then– behind her, she sensed the presence of someone else.
She knew immediately who it was.
“Not going with them?” asked the familiar voice, with a note of derision.
“I’m the last line of defense.” Akulantova answered.
It was the Brigand’s security team medic, Syracuse Chernova.
“And should the worst come to pass– will you still only defend your comrades?”
Akulantova shut her eyes and grunted. She did not want to answer.
She did not want to acknowledge the conflict she still felt.
And how much her own contradictions came into sharp focus each time they entered battle.
“You’re incredibly frustrating, Evgenya Akulantova.”
Syracuse turned and re-entered the Brigand first, leaving Akulantova outside.
Her hand formed into a fist and shaking– perhaps with that same frustration her ex-wife felt.
“Murati, I’ve got someone!”
Zachikova turned over in her seat to look up at the captain’s chair.
Though she could hardly believe it, if anyone could have created this modern miracle, it was Zachikova. True to her word and to her task, she had set up a meeting with an activist.
After making accounts in several chats, Zachikova curried favor by sharing sometimes wildly exaggerated disinformation backed up with meticulously edited screenshots she took via the cameras she was hacking. In this way she appeared to be someone with insider information while also not revealing anything that could compromise the Brigand or Mycenae, since almost everything was a fabrication. As much as Murati did not approve of any of that, which to her had gone far beyond the honor among thieves of typical BBS trolling, it did lead Zachikova to quickly make a lot of new friends that she just as quickly discarded after reviewing their personal information. As she and the computer churned through posts, and got a few accounts banned and spun up new ones for the same purpose, she was eventually contacted by an administrator of one of the chats who took an interest.
“She’s an older lady and a teacher who actually believes in correcting people’s thinking in BBS arguments.” Zachikova shrugged her shoulders. “Her information and story check out– she teaches at the technical college in the underground part of the habitat in the supporting tower. It’s affiliated with Kreuzung’s own university. Apparently she’s been running this chat since Lehner began to campaign a few years ago. I told her I could give her real, valuable information by connecting her to a friend of mine, and she accepted it. How silly!”
Zachikova seemed endlessly amused by the idea of acting in good faith on the network.
Was the Union’s trans-national network that toxic?
She felt a bit disgruntled with Zachikova’s indulgently antagonistic behavior.
Nevertheless, she had exceeded Murati’s expectations in carrying out her mission.
It did not take much more effort to get this lady on a video call– she really did believe Zachikova. Her particular site, now called “Mutual Aid Aachen Citizen Guard” was indeed the oldest one existing. It was one of the most popular and boasted having vetted information.
“Madam, thank you for accepting our hails. And– I apologize for my subordinate’s behavior.”
“As long as she stops trolling and becomes a kindly netizen she can come back in the chat, madam–?”
“Captain Murati Nakara. I know this must come as a surprise– I do have information for you.”
“I see. I’m Sidonie Sigberg. If I may inquire– what is it that you are a captain of, madam?”
Murati felt a momentary relief. This woman looked like somebody serious and responsible.
She was an older lady with long brown hair with a lot of white mixed in. She had thick black glasses wore a cardigan over a long sweater. She wore a lot of makeup and looked the part of a technical college teacher. Her muted and simple style along with her clear and confident manner of speaking gave her quite an air of reliability and respectability.
It felt like she had finally found someone to talk to within this chaos.
“Ma’am, I work for a private military company, we’re currently stuck in the port of Stockheim, tower control is unresponsive, and ships aren’t allowed to leave. I apologize again for what we had to do to get your attention– but this is a very urgent matter concerning us all. I have intelligence about the situation today that you and your fellows should hear. It concerns one of the groups involved in the riots. I am hoping it can help– keep people safe.”
She couldn’t outright say she hoped the rioters would turn around and go home.
In her heart of hearts she still felt so conflicted– she was sympathetic to their desire to fight!
Unfortunately too much of that fight was being turned her way.
“Private military company? I think you had best remain uninvolved, Murati.” Sidonie said.
“We’re unable to ma’am. Please give me a moment to explain. Right now, some of our colleagues are trapped in a bar on the lower level of tier three, in the middle of the rioting. My goal is to get them out of there, and that’s why I contacted you– but there is a complicating factor. The white-uniformed militants who stirred up this whole event are Judeans, ultranationalist eloim militia– they are trying to hijack the ships docked in Stockheim to flee from here with a king’s ransom, and that includes my ship. I have evidence of their intentions that I will send to you. Right now I am preparing to defend my ship against the Judeans– they made it clear I have no peaceful solution here.”
Sidonie’s expression softened with surprise.
“They introduced themselves as the Aerean Preservation Militia– as a group of anarchists.”
“They are something else entirely happening ma’am– they are using you.” Murati said.
By you, of course, she meant all the people out on the street– the ‘real’ anarchists.
Sidonie looked conflicted. She crossed her arms, her expression darkened.
“You understand such accusations are often used to sow distrust within anarchist groups?”
“I understand that ma’am. But I have evidence of Menahem Halevi’s intentions.”
Murati nodded at Semyonova, who began a transfer.
She had been preparing an edited version of Menahem’s communications with them.
Muting any sensitive words but letting the recordings run their course otherwise.
“I had to censor some personal information for my own security and again I must apologize for how that might look. But this is the leader of this group, threatening us and making clear her intentions. Even in this state, it must be clear that she has ulterior motives, right?”
On the other end of the video call, Sidonie was clearly reviewing what Murati had sent her.
At times she did look perturbed. Menahem’s bearing had been quite vicious in that video call.
“Murati– is it your intention to implore me to stop the rioting?” Sidonie asked.
“I would hope disseminating this information would raise some concerns in your group.”
Sidonie shut her eyes and breathed out a sigh.
“That’s just the thing Murati– this is not ‘my’ group. This revolution belongs to us all.”
“You organized the biggest chat room for this– surely you can pass this information around?”
Murati could feel it again– her fingers brimmed with nervous energy. Was she losing her?
“Murati– yes, I can do that. I plan to do that. This information concerns me greatly. However, that will not stop the rioting and I’m afraid it will not even slow it down. Some people will believe this, some will have concerns, and some might leave entirely– but the people here are not going to go home for you or for me. All I can do is raise the issue.”
Of course it could have never been that easy. Obviously it could never be so.
But for a moment she had fooled herself. She wanted to believe in an alternative.
“But– Sidonie– they will see that the Judeans–”
Sidonie shook her head.
“It’s just as I said– many people will believe this is a disinformation campaign to break us up.”
“But– is there anyone who could be convinced– that might be able to–”
“No, Murati. That is the nature of a decentralized movement– that is the beauty of it, in fact.”
She started to smile.
She was clearly nervous, maybe just as nervous as Murati, but she smiled.
Her seemingly carefree demeanor gave Murati chills.
“Madam, they are going to be slaughtered. If this continues– it won’t lead to your victory.”
Sidonie reached out a hand as if trying to touch Murati through the screen.
“Captain, even if I could talk them all into stopping what they are doing I would not do so. I do not want to do so. It goes against everything that I believe. I want each of these persons, and this group as a whole, to make for themselves what decisions they think are justified. That is the freedom that I want them to have. That is the freedom they are fighting for. Whether or not it is safe, or helpful for us, or whether it is a doomed endeavor– they should make that decision, not us. Anarchism for me, holds above all else this level of agency– it is not convenient, it is not easy to explain, but it is right, Murati. You won’t find our ‘Captain’ whom you can talk to into marching all his troops back home. I hope you understand.”
Murati was on the verge of tears. This was pure madness to her. She needed it to stop.
“I’m going to open fire on them, madam. If they come here, or if they harm my comrades.”
“That is your decision, Captain, and I would not interfere with it either. My standard for you is no different.” The elderly teacher smiled at Murati. “Thank you for what you have provided for us. I will talk with my own trusted comrades. At the very least, they should know that these folks might have ulterior motives. But they will decide what to do after that.”
“I suppose that’s all I can ask. Thank you.” Murati said.
When the video call disconnected, Murati practically collapsed on her chair.
She wanted to scream.
There was no avoiding it then– they would have to slaughter the Aachen Citizen’s Guard.
Murati would never forgive Menahem Halevi– if she got her hands on that witch–
“Captain!”
Fatima turned over her shoulder with wide eyes.
This was it– Murati shared the same terror that she saw in those eyes.
“Something just launched from the Antenora! I think it’s that Diver again!” Fatima said.
Murati’s heart sank. She hadn’t a moment’s reprieve. She had to jump back into action.
“Semyonova, Shalikova has to launch now! Right now!” Murati shouted.
This was completely insane– everything was out of control.
On the main screen, one of the Brigand’s cameras caught sight of something superficially quite similar to the Jagdkaiser launching from the adjacent berth. The computer analyzed its bearing and their data suggested– it was heading right in the direction of the Mycenaean assault carrier that Astra had called them about. That meant the situation had acquired a new, ugly layer of complexity– Murati would also have to defy Norn in defense of Astra.
“Send this information to Astra!” Murati said. “Can we launch anyone else?”
“The Rostock can launch Dimmitra in a Jagd.” Aatto said. “And I can launch in the Agni.”
Murati felt a sharp pain in her head. It wasn’t just Aatto– Karuniya would have to launch too.
The conditions for success ahead of the costs–
She had already promised Karuniya not to patronize or coddle her.
And for their ocean-going drones to work properly the Agni had to be in the water.
“Aatto, go to Karuniya and prepare to launch the Agni. We need the HELIOS network up.”
Aatto nodded her head and smiled at Murati. Was she pleased with this choice?
She dashed out of the bridge as soon as ordered, leaving the Commissar’s chair empty.
Without another word said. Of course– she was her loyal adjutant.
“Euphrates, can you assist me in Aatto’s place for now?” Murati said.
“Absolutely.”
Euphrates practically threw back her own chair as she quickly took Aatto’s.
Nodding to Murati and patting her on the shoulder for support.
She quickly got herself acquainted with Aatto’s instruments.
“Captain,” Semyonova said, “We’re receiving a priority call from the Rostock.”
“Damn it. Explain to Astra if she calls us– I’ll take the Rostock in my monitor.” Murati said.
Now what?!
On the captain’s monitor where Sidonie had been, Daphne Triantafallos appeared instead.
Her expression was controlled but her voice betrayed her nerves.
“Murati, I’ve got bad news.” She said. “Dora and Magdeburg just detected the Greater Imbria bearing for Aachen from northern Rhein-Sieg-Kries, accompanied by a small fleet. They’re making a full-ahead dash, and they have the speed to make it a threat. The Volkisch will have forces in Aachen within hours, maybe as soon as one or two if they don’t mind replacing a few pumps. I’ve ordered our frigates to skirmish, but they may not even slow them down.”
“Thank you, Daphne. I will see if the John Brown can join the skirmish.” Murati said.
Maybe Burke had some GIA trick for getting the docking clamps off without making a mess.
Not that Murati had faith in anything going right at this juncture.
“Tell them to be very careful. I’ve got a bad feeling about this Murati.” Daphne said.
She left the call.
Enough was happening at once now that Murati started feeling somewhat numb.
Even this was nowhere near the end of her troubles.
“Murati, sorry to pile on!” Zachikova shouted. “We’ve got something on the upper floors!”
Murati almost wanted to throw herself from her chair.
“What something?” She asked.
Then she noticed that Zachikova did not look like her typical, amused self with the situation.
Her eyes were turning a little red, her hands were shaking.
She looked small– too small.
“We’ve got sensors going off. In the government sector. Hazard sensors.” Zachikova said.
Everyone on the bridge, who had once been taken by a cacophonous activity, went suddenly quiet. Hazard sensors meant chemical or biological– fire and flooding had their own types.
“How many sensors? Can you tell what’s happening?” Murati asked, her own voice faltering.
Zachikova looked at her with a haunted expression. “Like– all of them. A lot of them.”
She mapped the sensors being tripped to probable positions in the government sector–
And on the wireframe map of Aachen–
It appeared as though everything in the station’s peak was flashing warnings–
except the Kleyn estate.
Council Assembly, the Station Citizen Center, the Government Habitat, Central CPU Control–
Flashing red everywhere–
Alongside the cameras filled with brutal images of dying rioters–
and the sonar tracking the divers–
“Murati I think– I think someone just gassed everyone in the government module.”
All of the lights, all of the sounds, washing over the bridge with a pure madness.
After Descent, Year 976
Aetherometry: Purple (ABERRANT)
“We shouldn’t have come here.”
Menahem’s lip trembled as she spoke. Bubbles escaped from her nose and mouth.
Traveling slowly up the fluid in which she was completely submerged.
Fluid that had filled her lungs and yet not drowned her.
Sickly-sweet with an aftertaste like iron. A strangely glossy mouthfeel.
Her tears traveled down her cheek and did not join the fluid, like oil separated from water.
On her knees out of sheer terror in the middle of the vast temple of flesh–
Temple– that was the only way she could describe it–
Ridged walls like the flesh of a vast throat bent into a ceiling supported by rib-like structures. Beneath her there was no ground but soft almost postulant flesh like a membrane she feared piercing through. Irregular in its makeup, rising and falling, with red and blue sinews spreading through it. More alarming was the seeming infestation of purple crystals that seemed to spear the flesh in every direction, growing out of the ground and diving through the ceiling, the bases of each stalactite and stalagmite surrounded in scarred flesh. Casting off irregular bolts of power that drew bubbling blood from the surrounding flesh. Menahem could only like it to a malignancy, cancerous growth, burdening the flesh, and yet the intermittent pulses of purple light only heightened the feeling of divinity.
Outside the temple, through the gaps in its ribs and through the ventral opening,
a vast fleshy landscape stretched out in all directions.
Long fields of strange pale reeds growing out of the rolling hills of bone, sinew and flesh, blood and mucus, with strange clouds of purple color blowing in and out of the surroundings like a luscent storm. Dancing in the strange waters she saw pale, eyeless leviathans and strange protoplasmic floating creatures and long-forgotten extinct animals in a perversion of nature– or perhaps in its truest, untouched form, preserved in this sweet bloody amber that troubled Menahem’s eyes and filled her body. All of them moving in the water despite what should have been immense pressure, what should have been crushing, hopeless death in the very bottom of the world. Her nervous breathing and the shaking under her skin felt like too simple a response to the unfathomable place she found herself marooned in.
An alien paradise littered with steel debris, sunken hulks.
Some rusted, partially absorbed into the flesh.
Others freshly deposited, the sediment of humanity in this great uncaring beast whose life transpired enormously around them to a degree that they could never understand.
Whose breadth had supported them throughout their existence.
Menahem’s mind struggled to cope with the insane feeling that this was Aer.
This was Aer— it was Aer herself–
Then, within the mistifying flesh temple in which she found herself–
A group of ray-like animals that had been resting on some structure became fearful of her approach. She must have been the first human they had seen in an eternity.
With a strange bellow the animals lifted off like a swarm of bats and blew past her.
Their departing biomasses unveiling something that had been buried in this place by happenstance– that had fallen from perhaps a swallowed-up continent–
There was a statue that they had all been perching on.
A statue of a woman– a Shimii woman at that. Cast eternal in untarnished metal.
On a plaque at its base,
Menahem found a name in large type and a deed of unknown enormity.
Writing which, against all odds, she could perfectly read as if in Low Imbrian–
Solamund Dunyanin
Venerated founder of the Aer Federation
Through war, famine, and collapse, she traveled the Terra Fracta,
Each step in blood and track of mud, an Aerean hope for Humanity
And the promise of a Human future in this and every world
Year One, Aera Invicta
Menahem could see her.
She stood before Menahem not as a statue out of time but as a woman frozen in it, her light brown skin and tall cat-like ears and her small fluffy tail and shiny mane of golden brown hair billowing as if stood before an eternal wind. Her regal bearing, the sleek brass dress wrapped tight around her body. Solamund Dunyanin stood before her a titan amid this landscape of flesh. Menahem looked up at her and her eternally mourning eyes looked back in silent pain. Menahem could see the audience around her under an open sky, the millions and billions cheering her from every corner of the world as she became the symbol that brought them out of chaos, death, mutual self-destruction and hopelessness–
Revered to the point of inhumanity– elevated beyond the point of agency–
A God who could have only failed.
A world that could have only broken again.
And tears that could have never taken it all back.
Mistakes– all of the mistakes– singed into her skin until it was hard as this statue–
Menahem’s mind reeled, shuddered, faced with the enormity of this presence–
she could hear–
Voices,
whispering in her ears as if their lips were pressed close to her–
and she felt dead hands grasping
tearing and peeling and caressing every inch of this woman they could grab in reverence–
dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions, wept at her back and tried to comfort and sway her–
She was betrayed, she never stood a chance–
Her creation was perverted–
Forgive her, her resolve was for humanity–
Without her there would none of us left–
She’s innocent–
Forgive her failures, forgive her crimes–
An infinitude of voices and an infinitude of hands grasped at Menahem,
gentle and pleading with her–
It felt as if entire generations of people wanted her to consider their lamentation–
In that moment, however, she chose to listen to Tamar Livnat.
Stepping forward through the flesh as if confronting the statue, as if piercing its majesty–
Raising a hand to the plaque and curling her fingers like claws as if she wished to scratch it off. Unlike Menahem, the professor had no moment of sublimity with this fallen icon.
No empathy.
“This proves it.” Tamar said, staring at the statue with a wild gaze.
“The Shimii were responsible.” She said. Wreathed in a bright purple cloak of colors.
Menahem looked upon the Professor as she found the final piece of her grand work.
In that moment of vulnerability, pliability, her words rang loudest–
“This Shimii, and the polity she founded– it was the Shimii who damned us Judeans.”
And Menahem chose, in the hour of this gargantuan madness, to believe utterly in her.
“Menahem, are you seeing it–? This is the answer I’ve been waiting for–”
She stood upon the fleshy earth and joined her professor before the profane monument.
Despite the whispering voices begging and trying to pry open her mind and heart–
Menahem chose to believe Tamar Livnat and to close herself off from this place of sublimity.
Just as she followed her to this hell at the end of the world–
she followed her to the hell of their own making.
“It was always true. It was the Shimii who condemned us all.”
Menahem chose to forever discard the maddening, inexplicable empathy of that moment,
and embrace a white uniform and black steel against all thought of mercy.
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