The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.13]

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.


Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.12]

After Descent, Year 935

Through the enormous archway gate strode a lone figure, dwarfed by her surroundings. A blond ponytail billowed in her wake as the artificial wind blew past her. Her lithe figure clad in armor, her stark red eyes unblinking, fair pink skin sweat-slick with bangs that stuck to her forehead. Small, insignificant wounds failed to mar her striking beauty. At any other time she would have been a majestic warrior striding proudly into the Holy Land.

On that day, she was the malefactor who had come to bury it.

Her powered armor was covered in so much blood that it began to stick in the segment gaps as if she herself were sweating or extruding gore. Her vibrosword’s blade had begun to chip from the amount of clashes it had endured. Her exertions were clear in her shaking hands and the slight limp with which she walked. She was not deterred. She had forced open the double doors on the archway gate and slipped through, grinning throughout.

At the top of Augusta’s Core Station, the remaining Royal Guard held the high courtyard.

Three figures in imposing suits of Knight-class powered armor, each a relic of the most masterful stitchcraft found in Imbria. Standing a few heads clear of an ordinary soldier.

Surrounded by the chattering birds, false winds, an artificial sunset and beautiful gardens.

Norn Tauscherer walked with her sword in hand, dragging that slight limp along.

Dripping her victim’s blood onto the pristine white tiles and masonry.

She stopped halfway to the inner courtyard.

Where the last of the knights stood guard atop the Nocht mausoleum.

Beneath that beautiful park, through a circular access-way, an entire dynasty was buried.

Perhaps in Norn’s wake they would be exumed and destroyed.

Such a thought must have been in the minds of the figures as they turned fully to face her.

In turn with their movements, she shifted her grip on her sword to hold it with two hands.

Holding it in front of her, a shaking, quivering threat.

“So this is the ‘Holy Land of Augusta’? I find it a bit morbid for knights to take their leisure over the corpses of the Emperors– but ultimately fitting!” Norn burst out laughing. “You will have your final rest here with them! Come, remnants of the Royal Knights! By decree of Emperor Fueller, your forces in the Guard will cease to exist entirely!”

Her mad, cackling face reflected on the glass visors built into the Knights’ helmets.

Then a thrum, sliding metal–

One of the knights engaged the vibromotor on his sword, drew it from its sheathe–

He practically leaped the half-length of the entire courtyard to meet Norn’s blade.

Suspended in mid-air, bringing his entire weight to bare on the woman.

A sharp sound rang out as steel met steel.

For a moment the air stilled.

From the perspective of the knights, there was no transition between the clash of blades and their comrade Knight’s arm completely sliding to the floor in a waterfall of blood. Sliced clean through the thin aperture between the under-arm and the shoulder. His sword fell to the ground along with the limb. He stumbled back, in shock– fell to his knees, at first– and then laid on his back. Speaking not one word. Staring at Norn the entire time.

Norn saw her own smile reflected back at her, on the dark visor emptied of the life within.

She turned to the remaining two Knights, as if taunting them to join the attack.

Instead, one of the Knights took off her helmet. Copious red hair streamed down her back.

“Loup volshebstvo, like Daybringer’s power.” She said.

Norn shifted the grip on her sword back to one hand.

“Daybringer was felled by a common man. I am the true strength of Imbria.”

Her remaining hand was visibly shaking.

Not with the fear of anyone, nor even with the anger oft attributed to her demeanor.

Rather, her nerves were completely frayed from all of the slaughter.

Her sword took its toll on her with every person killed, and so many had been.

Muscles screaming with every limb shorn, with every throat cut, chest plunged through.

She had never killed so many people in a single day of her entire life.

However– she had known that it was possible.

After all, she had killed Mehmed the Tyrant and ended the Shimii’s Age of Heroes.

And now– it was time to put an end to another age. One much more deserving to die.

With those shaking hands and tear-stained eyes and her vacant, mad grin.

That grin that her face seemed to have frozen into.

“Tell me– bannerman Tauscherer, what do you see in Konstantin? In the Fueller family?”

The Knight woman stood at the edge of the inner courtyard, a few paces from Norn.

Leaving her enough room to move, in case a traditional fight broke out. Rather than one in which Norn used her abilities to batter them around ignorant of how they died. Norn appreciated the gesture, however. She was running on so much adrenaline and nobody had even tried to talk to her. Not that it would help– the order was to purge all of the Royal Guards for refusing to acknowledge Fueller control over Heitzing and the Empire.

Norn’s breathing had grown so heavy that she found it difficult to speak.

“What– I see in them?” Norn asked.

Her body began to feel so heavy. Her head was swimming.

“Who even are you?” She hated that she had paused to speak.

“I am Amaryllis Skoll.” Said the Knight. “In vain I have commanded hundreds of my brothers and sisters in arms to use any available means to put a stop to you. You have cleaved through everything that has been thrown in front of you. It was a hopeless battle for us, but you fought even more desperately. Before I throw myself in front of the storm of savagery you represent, I need to know– what drives you to execute us with such fury?”

“Out with the old, in with the new.” Norn said.

She barely thought about what she would say. She felt like her brain was shaking.

“A mere disdain of tradition spurs you on this strongly?”

Norn paused, put her free hand to her chest– feeling nothing but armor.

Foolish– she had almost forgotten how laden she was with metal.

She wanted to hold her own pounding chest, but it was impossible.

Instead, the pause gave her time to gather her breath and straighten out her posture.

In her armor, Amaryllis Skoll was over two heads taller than Norn.

“Konstantin is different than all of you.” Norn said. She drew in more breath, steadied herself further, enough to think of what to say. “He’s a cowardly tinkerer whose entire life was destroyed by your traditions. Your ineffable systems of power crumpled him like paper and threw him away. He lost his father, most of his family, and any chance of the privileged life he once led. Everything you believe in dictated that he should fold before his God-made-King and feel lucky to be alive, living his days in shame. But instead, he fought back. He spat in the divinity of your Emperor. Konstantin– is a hope for change. His fear, banality and greed has destroyed your ancient rules. Perhaps he will destroy even more. And in that destruction, amid all these tragedies, there is the possibility of change and a form of equality. Even you pompous Royal Guard are now struggling in the tide with the rest of us wretches.”

Amaryllis Skoll dropped her sword. It was so sudden that Norn brought up hers.

There was no danger.

The Knight pressed a catch in her armor and the plates began to slide apart.

In the middle of all that metal, a much smaller woman stepped out.

Still taller than Norn but by nowhere near as much.

Standing amid the sacred ground of the Nocht mausoleum, she kneeled.

Clasping her hands in prayer.

“Very well. I am moved by your words. I will die here as an equal to you, Norn Tauscherer. May you find your liberty and equality in slaughtering this wretch. May all these tragedies and the tragedies to come, forge a better Imbria by your brutal blade.” She said.

There was no bitterness in her voice. She spoke with a strange dignity.

Behind her, the remaining knight, incredulous at first, resigned himself to the same.

Leaving his armor, kneeling on the floor, and clasping his hands.

Shaking and weeping but completely faithful, just as Knight Skoll.

Norn had no good humor toward this display of submission.

She wished she had never talked to this woman and admitted anything she felt.

Her own feelings toward everything she was doing became suddenly so conflicted.

Killing all of them because they were in the way was simple and possible.

Now– killing these two because they had given up their hope to her–

An action that urged her to realize the lofty ideals which she had spoken–

That felt impossible.

There was nothing she could say to them in return.

There was also no turning back.

Norn held her breath, and the world stopped while her chest contracted with pain.

Ignoring the slow death she was inflicting upon herself, she walked closer.

Plunging her sword into each of their chests, making sure to rend their hearts.

Pulling it out completely clean.

And then, with her next breath, watching the blood erupt from them onto the floor.

Staining with gore the green grasses and flowers planted atop the Nocht emperors.

Their bodies dropped onto the soil face down as if to behold their masters.

Leaving Norn the sole living, thinking being left in Augusta Station.

Afraid to put down her sword, she dragged it, and her worsening limp, away from the scene.

Breaking out into both laughter and sobs.


After Descent, Year 979

Tick tock, tick tock, tick, tock–

Norn struck herself on the head–

“Where the hell is that racket coming from–?”

She paused in front of the people conveyor and grit her teeth.

Aachen station lay dead ahead. She had to save Adelheid at any cost.

Her momentary pause was just long enough for someone to catch up–

A nasally voice echoed through the empty corridors out of Stockheim.

“Norn! Norn stop! I’m comin’ with ya! Wait for me!”

Norn sighed. “No you won’t. You’ll just slow me down.”

“Norn, look at me– I’m goin’. For you and for Addie!”

Behind her, Hunter III had outfitted herself a bit differently. She had pilfered a nanomail bodysuit and stuck a few haphazard plates on it, clearly not knowing where they ought to go. It clung to her skinny frame so tightly, and without her cloak, it showed how thin and nearly insubstantial she always seemed– despite her appetite. Her tail, however, had grown fatter and longer, and stretched to the floor behind her. Her pale hair with its little blue stripe, her pale complexion, and that girlish appearance, her confident, bloodthirsty little grin–

“If you come along I won’t be able to use Temporal Control to make up time.” Norn said.

Even if her heart exploded in the process, it would slow down Mycenae considerably–

“Ya don’t need to! Amur and me, we’ll all help ya find Addie way faster!” Hunter III said.

Norn hesitated. She didn’t want to endanger anyone else– she worked better alone–

“She’s right, Norn. You’re already making a mistake. Don’t cross out of Stockheim.”

In Norn’s earpiece, sounded Amur’s voice, from the bridge of the Antenora.

She briefly saw the woman on her glass visor, her purple sportcoat and kepi hat, her silky blueish hair. Tipping her hat, she disappeared and a map of the station replaced her.

“Tell me where the fuck to go.” Norn said, gripping the handle of her sword with anger.

On the map, the route Amur had chosen appeared for her to peruse.

“Stockheim meets the Aachen Massif through an old cargo tunnel that leads to an industrial elevator. This elevator was never managed by the central CPU and has direct access plugs. It’s really old, but it’s built to last and still running. Take the electronic warfare gear I gave you and head to the elevator. We can take it the top and another cargo tunnel will connect you to the top of the station. As far as I can tell Mycenae has not yet realized this is a giant backdoor to them. If we can use an elevator and our enemies can’t, we’ll outpace the whole charade and take them by surprise. We just have to watch out for enemies along the way.”

“Amur, we can’t unclamp, so the enemy is already here somewhere.” Norn said. “If Hunter III is tagging along with me, then I want you to send Yurii and Petra out and find out what’s happening with the Stockheim authority in the control tower. Tell Yurii she’s free to kill anyone hostile. We need to take action right now to get on top of this mess.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll also monitor the naval situation and send Selene out if needed.”

“Good. Urge her to be patient for now. I’ll bring Adelheid back.”

Norn looked at Hunter III who had been waiting expectantly throughout that conversation.

We’ll bring her back.” Hunter III said. “I’ll be so useful and cool Norn, ya don’ even know–”

“Don’t make me regret this already. Follow me. Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to.”

Hunter III saluted with a big, toothy smile on her face.

As she ran back deeper into Stockheim with Hunter III at her side, Norn could not help but burn into her mind the sight of the Aachen core across the way from the people conveyor. She grit her teeth with anger, hoping and praying that Amur had the right idea and hating herself for not seeing something like this on the horizon. She felt like a fool for not realizing how dangerous it was for them to rub shoulders with Herta Kleyn. At any second, whether it was the Volkisch or Mycenae or someone else– she and her family had the sword of damocles hanging over their heads, and Norn simply allowed Adelheid to stand under it with them! She should have forbidden her these tea parties and should not have allowed the Antenora to have any leisure. This was war– and she had been caught sleeping!

Now everyone was twitching in random directions like their heads had been cut off.

Likely their neighbors in the docks were reacting to the crisis in some way as well.

Hopefully the Pandora’s Box would become involved and at least slow down the chaos.

Amur’s arrival had been timely– without her, Norn would have been lost.

Not that she would admit it to the flamboyant little immortal.

Without the hacker to support and ground her, she would have let her anger take control.

“Norn, I’ve been monitoring the station through the use of unsecured cameras and devices,” Amur said, “I believe that the enemy used optical stealth technology to sneak their forces and gear into the station to wipe out the Uhlans. I’ve seen them appearing and disappearing on cameras– I think they are using shields with something similar to active camouflage tarp material. But the visual effect has a higher fidelity with regards to the surroundings. It’s like they can become completely invisible, but it must have some kind of defect we can use.”

Active camouflage tarps could make it appear as though the object they were laid upon was not there, and they adapted and blended in with the surroundings– however, on closer inspection, the colors the tarp adopted were greatly distorted and made it seem like there was a “melted” spot where they stood. It worked decently in areas with false foliage, or facilities with long sightlines. It could also fool cameras employing algorithmic surveillance. A human staring closely at a spot with an active camouflage tarp would be able to pick out that something was wrong. Patrols retained some importance for the military due to the possibility of such technologies to target and fool predictor computers.

Norn would not be fooled by a camouflage tarp– but it did color the situation in further.

These invaders had come prepared and given their scenario some thought.

“I’ll keep an out. They are probably laying traps and ambushes.” Norn said.

“Be especially careful in the cargo tunnels.” Amur said. “If my hypothesis is correct, then the militia that took over Tier Two must have come in from the abandoned parts of the Aachen Massif– it’s the only place where they could have concentrated forces. Even with optical stealth, someone would have seen them if they massed hundreds of gunmen and dozens of drones in the station itself. That means you might run into either their rear guard or possibly their main force within the Aachen Massif itself. Be wary of optical stealth, Norn.”

“Got it. I have a few tricks up my sleeve too, as you very well know.”

“Yes– but I also know the toll those ‘tricks’ take on you. Please come back safely.”

Amur’s voice had the tone of someone who did not only care about the mission or her pay.

Norn hated her sympathy– but she would accept it to avoid a stupid argument.

“Just keep me posted, Old Engineer. I want your support, not your tears.”

“Acknowledged. I’m sorry.”

While they ran down the steps back into the lower docks, Norn turned to Hunter III. She was keeping up effortlessly, smiling as she ran. There was hardly any doubt that she was physically strong. But Norn still felt a bit of angst over the limitations a companion set on her abilities– if she used temporal control, Hunter III would also be stopped or slowed down. Only Norn could move in the bubble of time. The rest of the world waited only for her.

She would have to be mindful of how her ability affected Hunter III.

However– the skinny little lady had her uses too.

“Norn–” Hunter III shouted, “I heard all ah’ that! I can sniff ‘em out!”

No amount of optical stealth could hide from Hunter III’s hunger for meat.

“Keep your nose up then! If you smell something off, pounce!” Norn said.

Back down in the berths, Norn arrived in time to see Yurii setting off the opposite direction, to investigate the Stockheim control area. Norn waved her off and she saluted, and they ran their separate ways. Thankfully the Pandora’s Box had not yet deployed any personnel outside. Norn had hoped to avoid any awkward meetings with them, though she could not help but be curious about their situation in Aachen’s most chaotic day. Some part of her wished Korabiskaya and all of them whatever little luck her spiteful heart could muster.

“North along the berths, and into the storage area. From there, the cargo tunnel.” Amur said.

Norn saw the map in her visor update to show the way.

Nodding to Hunter III, they took off running along the vast wall of ships berthed at their flank. Each representing dozens to hundreds of people caught up in this chaos despite themselves. If the militia had taken over Stockheim’s control tower they could cause massive damage and loss of life by simply unclamping every ship at once and letting the natural currents just smash them into the walls and tear away the connecting chutes to the dock. That they were not doing this suggested something of their agenda. Their forces did not pose a credible threat to Volkisch power writ large, but they had the strength to crush the Uhlan– and that was the strength needed to plunder the station of anything valuable.

And perhaps live to fight another day after that.

Not merely chaos, but a calculated plot with risks and profits.

Good luck with that.

Norn had no grudge with them except that which they had with her.

And the same applied to Mycenae– if Adelheid came back to her, that was that.

Anyone in the way of her rescue effort would die.

Beneath the well-tended landing halls, the glitzy lobbies for frequent travelers, far out of sight of the people conveyors and the offices staffed with processing personnel– Norn and Hunter III descended into the bare metal guts of Stockheim. On the other side of the tower from the berths, attached in staggered square modules, were storage rooms occupied and traveled mostly by shipping containers awaiting either exit or entry into a ship, or the distribution of their contents to businesses and entities within the station. As the volume of commercial traffic reduced owing to the Imbrian political crisis, the lowest of the storage levels became disused, and the home of discarded, overturned, broken-down and scrapped containers strewn about, a labyrinth of wrought-iron corpses with ribbed rectangular shells.

With Amur’s assistance, getting through the upper storage levels was a simple affair.

Amur could do nothing about the mess found further below.

“There are no functioning cameras from here to the elevator. I’m sorry.”

“Got it. Radio silence. We’ll contact you.”

No spoken voice. If there’s any place for an ambush it would be here.

Norn sent Hunter III a psychic missive as they approached the maze-like environment.

Got it. Hey– watch this!

Hunter III approached one of the walls near them.

She reached out her arm, outstretched every digit, and laid her palm on the wall.

Then she showed Norn that her feet were bare. She wiggled her toes.

One foot on the wall– the second hand on the wall–

Quietly, she began to clamber up the walls and even onto the ceiling above.

Don’ see nothin’ yet. But if there’s any snacks out there, ol’ Hunter III has ‘em!

Norn was beginning to reconsider how useful Hunter III could prove.

With Hunter III on literal overwatch, Norn withdrew her sidearm and stepped forward. Ahead of her there was a wall of overturned containers, with one open on both ends and serving as a sort of tunnel through the rest. All others appeared to have been dumped around it at haphazard angles. Some were whole, but many of them had plates out of place, rust eating at their structures or were completely shattered. There was one particularly volatile-looking stack to the right of the tunnel that she did not want to attempt to climb. The other end of the tunnel was too dark– the lights that still worked were distant and intermittent. She resolved to move through it, with her weapon at the ready. It was the quickest and safest way to avoid the obstacle without making too much noise in the process.

I smell somethin’. Hominin. Dunno where. Close.

Norn nodded her head to no one who could see her.

Wary, she stepped gingerly into the open container. Minding the noises she made.

At her sides, the ribs on the walls of the container gave her a sense of progress.

Three ribs in, six ribs in, nine ribs in, eighteen ribs in total–

A distant thud– she paused, aiming her pistol forward.

Her head pierced by a sharp pain. Dust suspended in the air around her.

She had held her breath out of habit and invoked Temporal Control.

Norn let out and sucked in a quick breath, as quiet as she could to dispel the effect.

It was not often that a situation made her nervous–

It was not often that a situation was so out of her control.

Setting her jaw, she advanced to the square aperture across from her.

Step by step, eyes set on the intermittent dimness ahead.

Still smellin’ it– maybe hidin’ in one of the boxes.

What does it look like ahead of me?

The boxes make a lil path– it bends like an L sorta.

Norn was re-reconsidering the usefulness of Hunter III’s reconnaissance.

At the far edge of the container, Norn stepped outside decisively.

Turning her weapon to one corner, and then the next–

Finding nothing.

There were more containers scattered about, and they indeed formed a bend.

Then–

Another thud–!

Norn turned her gun on the direction of the sound.

She could not see anything.

Was she sure there was no optical stealth at play?

An idea formed in her mind.

Norn, her weapon up and her gaze scanning the surroundings, approached one of the containers forming the “wall” in front of her. Up above, she could see Hunter III hanging from the ceiling. Hunter III had smelled something, and Norn continued to hear these low noises, thudding on the metal– she found a container door that was structurally sound and also locked, with a piece of steel bar jammed through where a lock would go.

She pulled it out, stacked to the side of the door, and pulled it open.

With a quick movement, she stepped in the container and brought her weapon to bear.

Muffled cries in response.

As the lights above flashed with brief power, Norn saw faces in the container.

Found your ‘hominin’. Looks like they took prisoners.

Norn holstered her pistol briefly.

“Quit crying. I’m not going to hurt you.”

With the lights dimming again, she found it difficult to make out the right shape.

Fumbling her fingers against someone’s face she finally released the gag on their mouth.

“Solceanos defend, thank you, thank you.” They cried out.

Norn waited for the lights to flash up again and made note of where they were bound.

Using a heat knife, she cut through their restraints.

The captives were dock workers. Hands bound, mouths gagged, stuffed into a crate.

“I can’t thank you enough. It was these guys with white uniforms. They showed up out of nowhere, waving guns! We didn’t see them coming, none of us did! They took over the control tower– some of them drove us down here and stuffed us into this crate. It all happened so fast. We heard there was a commotion in the Core, but this is just insane.”

“How many?” Norn asked, a grim feeling in her chest.

“I don’t know– I didn’t see many. I surrendered to maybe five or six guys?”

Only five or six? She expected twenty or thirty!

“And that many took over the tower, and captured all of you?”

“We didn’t have any weapons! And we couldn’t reach any security!”

How weak– but she supposed this group couldn’t hijack any ships themselves.

Their situation was especially hopeless against a certain mercenary band.

And against Yurii– she at least had faith they could take the tower back now.

“A diversionary recon group.” Norn said. “Ahead of their main force.”

The lights flashed again. She could see the confusion in the worker’s eyes.

Norn sighed. She handed them the heat knife.

“Free everyone here and get back to the docks. I came and went unmolested.”

The worker nodded their head, took the knife, and turned to their comrades.

Norn left the mound of tied bodies and muffled cries.

She tapped her ear to get Amur’s attention again.

“An enemy scouting group has taken over the Stockheim Tower.” Norn said.

“I’ll let Yurii know. She is about begin clearing the control tower.” Amur said.

Move toward the next container lot. Norn sent a psionic missive to Hunter III.

Gotcha.

Up above, Hunter III crawled on all fours across the ceiling.

Norn followed her through the containers, trying to pick up the pace.

Ahead, there was a small set of steps descending into another container room. Hunter III continued to crawl along the roof while Norn ran under her. To her relief, the next room over looked clearer of storage containers, without the kind of mess she was leaving behind. The lights were also more consistent, though several clusters were broken, and the place was still rather dim overall. From a distance, however, she could see figures in the room.

Hiding near the bottom of the steps, angled away from the pair, Norn observed.

One figure, a bit plump, pink hair, her voice a little more nasally– a girl perhaps?

Wearing a familiar teal jacket–

Across from her, what looked like a lean, long-haired, slightly masculine lass in a brown jacket that reminded her of what smugglers or Katarran tough-guys tended to wear.

And around them both

Two Kolibri-class drones armed with light weapons circling menacingly.

Hunter III, do you see this?

Yep, yep, yep. They talkin’– sounds like you and Addie do sometimes. Lover’s spat.

Shut up. Pay attention. I’m going to move in– once the drones are destroyed, pounce on the one with the brown jacket. And don’t rip her throat out– just knock her out. Are we clear?

Ye–

Norn did not await further confirmation.

She felt almost a brief instant of dizziness as time slowed and her life seized up.

Across the container storage, the couple framed in the light noticed her.

Moving a quarter of the speed but– moving–!

Turning around to meet her gaze, to meet her charge–

Ever-so-slightly quicker turned the nimble little drones around them–

Swinging their bases, guns circling– slow but agonizingly mobile–

Norn moved in nearly face to face with a floating gun barrel,

when she heard the slowed click that presaged its attack,

and saw the glow within the barrel–

Sword swing quicker still, unburdened by the temporal control.

Slicing one drone in half, she flowed gracefully into her attack on the second.

Ducked under the barrel, a shot rang out in her ear, over her shoulder–

Striking with the flat of her blade she sent the drone crashing to the floor.

A heap of metal debris as Norn took a deep breath and nearly seized up with chest pain.

Behind her, she heard a loud thud and a sharp cry and felt the weight of something drop.

Hunter III had pounced with precision, taking down the Katarran.

“Oh my god!” cried the girl in the teal jacket, nearly falling over from shock.

“Thank me later!” Norn said, gasping for breath.

She signaled for Hunter III to follow her and took off in sudden run.

Leaving behind the “lovers” and their spat for the Pandora’s Box to clean up.

Norn felt herself wavering. Her heart pounding, her lungs fighting for breath–

Feeling the urgency of the situation weighing her down with every passing moment. Even the drones had been able to move under Temporal Control– they were slowed down, but they should have been prevented entirely. Norn felt her vulnerability far too acutely. If this hooligan and these toys could move under it, a Mycenean Merarch or worse–

She hardly wanted to even entertain the notion.

Nor did she even understand why her powers were waning at a time like this.

Back in Sverland, everything had been working, right–?

No– even back then– some of the guards had been moving–

Her mind raced to try to put it all together in a way where she still won–

“Norn! Ya can’t jus’ take off like that!” Hunter III shouted, trying to keep up.

Norn hit the next set of steps and ran so hard that she felt her legs scream.

Her vision became foggy and distorted, metal corridors warping around her.

Mouth dry, throat burning, chest painful and tight–

At the top of the steps, she saw the bridge between Stockheim and the Aachen Massif.

A cylinder of metal with several layers, surrounding a steel path to a bulkhead door.

“Norn!” Hunter III shouted, rushing up the steps.

“Norn!”

That second cry was in her ear–

Norn stopped at the top of the steps. Her body felt cold. Sweating profusely.

There was a sudden, frightening recognition– had she just had a panic attack?

Her jaw hung. Her eyes teared up. She was shaking–

“Norn, we’ve got a Mycenean Trojan Horse-class Assault ship on sonar.” Amur said. “It’s still making its way over, but if it reaches Aachen, the Myceneans can likely dock it to the top of the core and get some reinforcements in that way– do we respond to it? If their position gets too strong, I worry they won’t give up any captives too easily.”

It took a moment to process what was being said– as if Amur was speaking to someone else.

Or as if Norn was listening in on a conversation meant for her as a third person–

She struck herself in the side of her head. The pain brought her a bit of focus.

“Tell Selene to deploy. No cartridges.” Norn said tersely, doubling over.

Thankfully Amur could not see the state that Norn had put herself in.

“Is she free to open fire on it?” Amur asked, voice a bit tremulous.

For a moment, Norn gathered her breath, staring at the floor with hazy eyes.

Up until that moment, Norn had left open the possibility of snatching Adelheid out from under Mycenae and that they might have simply abandoned holding her. She was not feeling diplomatic, but it was doable. Adelheid likely held little value to them, and if they knew anything about the Imbrium in the past few years, they knew it would upset Norn to hold her adjutant. It was possible they were only holding her because they were holding everybody in the government tier until the Volkisch sorted things out, to avoid complicating the situation for themselves. If Norn and the Palaiologoi did not come to blows until she could demand Adelheid back, perhaps they could have gotten away without firing a shot at one another.

Firing on their ships would be a slight too far for a Katarran warlord–

Astra– that creature with her name entered her mind–

I can’t protect that girl. Adelheid is everything to me. I guess we were fated to fight.

“She’s free to open fire. Aim for weapon systems. But I repeat– no cartridges.”

She could hope Selene might be able to ward them off with minimal violence.

“Got it. I’ll send her out. Hopefully she cares them off.”

It was a dim hope.

The die was cast– Norn could not let Mycenae build their position any further.

She had chosen to escalate the situation, but on her own terms.

Better this than to let them have a few hundred more Numeroi worth of confidence.

Norn felt a soft pressure on her back, pushing on the power cells.

At that moment, Hunter III caught back up. She leaned on her a bit.

She could feel the flexible neck and face of the little Hunter close to her own.

“Norn, ya ran like a demon! What the heck got into you?!” Hunter III asked.

Though she did not sound like keeping up was tiring for her–

She sounded so concerned– Norn did not even want to meet her eyes.

Much less acknowledge her embrace.

“I needed to jolt myself awake.” Norn said. “Hunter III– I’ll be relying on you.”

“I ‘ave been waitin’ for this! Just let Hunter III deal with it!”

Hunter III smacked her chest, presumably to punctuate her sense of pride.

Norn stood to her full height, prompting Hunter III to step back.

Years and years ago, she stood across a room from a bulkhead just like this one. On the other side of it, Mehmed the Tyrant awaited Norn and her then-allies for their annihilating confrontation. Back then, when Norn felt the weight of his power almost seizing her in place, so palpable even hundreds of meters away– there was a woman at her side, her lithe stature and girlish expression belying a long life of uncountable tragic experiences.

“Norn, if you count yourself out here, then you’ll eventually fail.” She said.

She pointed at her own head, as if to say, it was there that the battle had begun.

To remember Euphrates of all people– but she was so brave back then.

Now, Norn stared down a closed bulkhead once again–

Behind which, she could feel no great power, no god-like threat.

Breathing deep, she slid her sword into its sheathe to recharge the vibromotor.

In its place, she withdrew her assault rifle.

She made herself grin and tried to think of how exciting it would all be.

When the bullets started flying, and swords started scraping metal-on-metal.

Norn was capable of more than just Temporal Control.

“Follow me. Eat one of your fruits and stay nimble. They won’t expect it.”

“Hehehe, the hunt begins.” She rubbed her hands together greedily.

Norn took her first steps toward the entrance to the Aachen Massif–

When she heard it again–

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

She grinned, maintained her stride, and she bore with the noise.

Soon enough it would be drowned out by the din of battle.


After Descent, Year 978

Katarre would have been the second largest polity in the After Descent Aer. At its height it was larger than the Imbrian Empire’s greatest extent, and it was almost as large as the Republic of Alayze that dominated most of the much larger Mare Cogitum. Owing to the flooding and collapse of large parts of the continents of Nobilis and Extremis, the Mare Crisium was exceedingly rich in resources. Once upon a time, this wealth led to a golden age of culture and technology for the Katarran Kingdom that spanned the Crisium and what would come to be known as the territory of the Warlord States. During the Golden age, Katarrans used biotechnology to obtain powerful bodies, and built unmatched weapons to protect their prosperity, such as the Golden Age power armors and the 800 mm cannons.

After the fall of the Golden Age Kingdom, the surrounding political powers took advantage of the weakness of Katarran authority. The Empire of Hanwa expanded further between Cogitum and Crisium and gained the resources and might it would need to challenge both Imbria and Alayze, as well as to sweep away the states of the Yu and Yan peoples. It helped establish the traitor warlord state of Argos in the central-eastern portion of Katarre while Alayze helped prop up the Republic of Rodos in the far eastern reaches. After the formation of the traitor states it became impossible to reunite the Kingdom as it once was, and the first generation of Warlords settled into the first Warlord territories, collectively representing a bulkwark that to this day Hanwa and Alayze have not dared to further attack.

The Mycenae Military Commission, warlord power of the Southwestern Katarre, bordering Imbria through the Vekan duchy, is not a geography traditionally associated with the centralized power of the old Kingdom. The Kingdom ruled from North-Central Katarre in what is now Thracia and its tributary states, bordering Pythia from the east. Nevertheless, Mycenae is notable as the only warlord state that still claims not only true succession to the Katarran Kingdom, but recently they even claim to host the remnants of the monarchy. Even Thracia, who hold the ruins of the primary Palace of the Palaiologoi, have long since ceased to claim they were the Katarran Kingdom or the true monarchy as a bid for legitimacy–

“Enjoying your reading, milord?”

“Yes, quite so. I am studying Katarran history and geography from an outside perspective. This a book from Imbria but written by a Katarran writer for Imbrian education.”

She lifted and turned the tablet to show the cover– “Orphans of the Earth and Sky.”

“A Katarran published in Imbria? That is rare indeed.”

Astra Palaiologos’s study in Mycenae’s Tyrin station was full of books. Whenever missing, the Warlord was easily found, a small presence surrounded by books. Sitting by the false porthole outside which abyssal fish danced their alien, bio-luminescent rhythms like murky stars in an inky sky. Always in uniform, her horns glowing dimly, copious white hair falling down her back and almost reaching the floor. She looked up from the book as if she would not have to put it down, though almost always duty compelled her to do so when visited.

Her accommodations were spartan for the supreme authority of a nation. She had a fold-out triple-wide bed with plain white sheets and plain white pillows. The walls were purple but so covered in things that the regal paint job was easy to overlook. She had a desk that was quite tidy as all of her work was computerized and arrived on the monitor and input devices sitting on its surface, so she could regard her duties at any particular hour. Overhead, she had a fancy array of lights removed and replaced with LED clusters with high-fidelity luminosity controls. She always kept her room a bit dim except for the lights by which she read.

Three of the walls contained storage for tablets, each of which held either a volume of a large book or an entire collection of related books, such as the tablet with all of the works of the Eloim political economist Levi Mordecai, or the writings of the Elven fascist Mikola Spiritus. Besides this there was a coveted little treasure chest in one corner, containing a handful of actual stone paper books, bound in plastic. These books were random curiosities– an agricultural almanac from a long-gone agrisphere, a book about Shimii fortune-telling, the hand-written chronicle of a Hanwan vessel during their war to subjugate the Western Yu and the Koryo. Astra cherished their tactility. Turning real pages, smelling musty paper, reading without the glow of a screen. Her little treasures that digital tablets could not replace.

When her servant entered the study, Astra looked up from her book impassively.

At the door, a beautiful Shimii with multiple silvery tails watched with a knowing smile.

“Oh! Raiza, come in! You should have let me know it was you!”

Astra put her book down and stood up excitedly to meet Raiza Sakaraeva.

“Milord should avoid treating me differently than others.” Raiza said.

“Let anyone who is brave enough object.” Astra said calmly.

They sat down together near the false porthole. This was Astra’s preferred little nook. She had cushions to sit and lay upon and could project anything she wanted on the false porthole. Her preferred backdrop was one of the wildlife cameras set up around the station. By projecting the camera feed on her false porthole it was as if the window at her back had an actual view into the ocean outside. Tyrin was deep, but rich in abyssal sea-life due to a deliberate cultivation of aphotic fish species. There was such bioluminescence outside the station it looked like what Astra imagined the night skies of the old world might have been. Human culture had kept alive the image of the black firmament resplendent with stars. The murky Crisium and the floating, glowing fish were tantalizingly close to this image.

“Tagmarch Agamemnon inquired about your health. After responding appropriately and dismissing her, I thought I would pay a visit to confirm milord’s health for myself.” Raiza said.

She smiled fondly at Astra.

“A cheeky excuse. But I am always happy to see you.” Astra smiled back just as brightly.

“You have been quite zealous in your studies of late.” Raiza said. “Is there any occasion?”

Astra nodded her head. She then leaned in, so that she would come to rest on Raiza’s chest.

The two had grown up together and were rather familiar with each other. Though Raiza had crossed her puberty quite taller and more shapely than Astra, they were almost the same age– Raiza was only a few years her senior. Both were young for what was thrust upon them.

“I’m planning to visit Imbria. I need to be prepared for the journey. I want to leave the impression of an erudite and studied ruler, rather than a backwater tyrant. If our relationship with Imbria improves, we’ll have an advantage on Pythia and the rest.” Astra said.

Mycenae and Pythia were the two warlord states closest to the Imbrium Empire. Pythia was a font of utter chaos for Imbria, taking the form of seemingly random cross-border conflict, the spillage of Pythian internal conflict across the border, and frequent refugees and illegal immigrants fleeing from Pythia and its brutal culture. As large and resource rich as Pythia was, the chaotic and violent nature of the Black Legion and the Witch Queen held it back as a polity. Mycenae had an opportunity to appear as a civilized and worthy neighbor by comparison– perhaps even one who could solve Imbrian’s Pythian problem for them.

Provided that adequate services and supply were rendered to pay for the favor.

“They will not find any warlord so dignified as you, milord.” Raiza said.

“Thank you. But more than dignity– I also want to convey capability.” Astra said.

Not just to the Imbrians– but to Tagmarch Labrys Agamemnon as well.

Serving as Astra’s mentor had served to integrate her warband with Mycenae.

As Astra grew older, she realized that Labrys benefited too greatly from her esteem.

“The Tagmarch is getting a little too conceited.” Astra said.

“There are many who would agree with you.” Raiza said.

“Not enough.” Astra said. “For one– I don’t know that I agree with myself. I esteem Labrys for what she has taught me, and for the times she has protected me. I have a naïve hope that I can show her that I have my own will and do not simply follow her and act to her advantage. Our causes aligned too closely in the purging of the legislators and judiciars. As I’ve been fated to rise, I’ve carried this remora with me. It’s vexing. At the same time, Mycenae has enjoyed stability and is building its power. I am afraid of making the wrong choice.”

“Milord– if the time ever comes. For you, I would–”

Astra raised her hand and placed a finger over Raiza’s lips to quiet her.

She shook her head. It was not yet time for such sentiments.

“Raiza, you too– I want to show you I have the power to protect myself. And to protect you.”

Raiza raised her own hand and took Astra’s fingers into her own.

Her tails curled around Astra for further comfort.

“I have the utmost confidence, milord. I am yours always. In victory or death.”

Astra smiled. “In victory, Raiza. I promise you.”

Perhaps it was naïve of her to hope, and even more naïve to believe it could happen.

And yet, it was Astra’s determination to achieve a grand, overwhelming power.

A power so almighty that it might even rule bloodlessly.

As if the stars in the dark sky of old, undeniable to all rhetoric, unkillable by men.

“The ancients who could see the sky. I wonder if they would even consider me human.”

Astra spoke up, with a sudden concern on her face.

Raiza simply held her closer. Astra knew she was being unfair to her.

Nobody could challenge such rhetoric. At least, if she wasn’t human–

Then the best she could do was to wield her inhuman power magnificently.

The power to silence critics, to repel conspirators, to overturn the world as she knew it.

The Mare Crisium was destined for upheaval.

She would set for Imbria and work diligently to become equal to the coming storm.

Hoping that at the end of it, she might still be alive, as none of her predecessors could be.

That she might still enjoy Raiza’s sweet embrace, even in the bleakest of battles.

And that, perhaps, she and her people might overcome their curse someday.


After Descent, Year 979

Atop the staircase, an axe-blade’s swing tore a man in two.

Blood cascaded down the steps.

Gory offal rode all the way to the floor below.

One swing. She swung, he died, and then she brought the blade back in front of her.

Looking down at the half of him atop the stairs, guts astrewn.

Watching the top half descend with its final incredulous expression down the steps, leaving a streak that vanished once the rest of the blood caught up with it. Step after step turning a slick crimson. Standing in silence, when the remains left her sight down the spiral of the stairs, she could hear the thudding, even over the distant crack of rifle fire. Sometimes punctuated by a scream. Moments later, the offal reached its final resting place below.

She grinned and laughed a bit at the whole banal scene.

Kicking down the top half hoping to reproduce some of the same humor.

No luck, however. It had already lost its novelty.

“Decarch Dellis here, we’ve forced the rabble down on the left wing.”

“Copy, we’ve cleared them out of the transit level, right wing.”

“How much resistance? Any casualties?”

“Very little and none. Stay sharp though– it might get worse.”

They had good information that this mob was being armed from the Uhlan barracks.

However, so far, Dellis had only encountered handguns and poorly improvised explosives. Nothing but bottles full of petrol or even balloons full of paint. One of her numeroi had gotten splashed with green paint, and to revenge the indignity of it she chopped someone in half. That was what gave Dellis the idea– she could also just not bother with her rifle and try to chop someone in half too. They didn’t have nanomail to resist the blows!

Dellis looked over her shoulder. Her numeroi were combing the surroundings.

Instead of a helmet, she had a bulletproof glass shield, so everyone could see her face.

She liked for the numeroi to be able to see her face.

Brown-skinned with silvery mottles and patches and dyed golden blond hair.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and substantial in her suit of powered armor.

A woman like that, her grin– it gave them important context.

“I know you’re all doing what you’re told, but there’s clearly nothing to recon here, right?”

She gestured for the staircase, thrusting her index finger toward it twice.

Her troops acknowledged and formed up on the staircase. Two of them went down first, and two others watched from above as best they could. Two more prepared to go down after the first group, with several paces between. Once the first group cleared the bottom, the two on overwatch followed them down. Dellis watched them with some incredulity– they were reproducing their training without fault, and it almost irked her to see it.

Once they were all moving, she followed them down the blood-slick steps.

Numeroi, Mycenaean footsoldiers– dressed in nanomail bodysuits with thin, segmented ballistic plates covering certain vitals, each had a hint of individuality. Some had their hair short, some long, some tied up, some let loose– most of them had grey skin but some had mottles or scales. Mycenae encouraged them to display small degrees of individuality in their personal grooming. Overwhelmingly, Katarrans were made and not necessarily “born.” Therefore they had sympathy for one another’s need for identity and personality.

Nobody had a concealing helmet, because nobody wanted to look too “faceless.”

They had so many advantages otherwise that it hardly made a difference to them.

“Proceeding from the transit level into the upper level of the mall.” Dellis said.

“There’s four floors– the strongest resistance will probably be in the second.”

“Are you moving down as well?”

“Yes, we’re keeping pace. Nobody here is as fast as you of course.”

“A compliment? Want to meet up after this is all over?”

“I wasn’t trying to get in your pants. But if you’ll have me–”

“I’ll be waiting ‘in my tent’ after this mess.”

In her ear was her counterpart, Decarch Inonu.

They were communicating directly via wireless and could be fairly certain nobody was listening that would care overmuch. Each of them led a Vanguard and a Rear Guard. Dellis was currently following six numeroi and she had twelve additional numeroi bringing up the rear. Inonu had an inverted arrangement, moving with twelve numeroi and keeping six in the rear. They themselves composed the tactical Vanguard, and behind them there would be a tactical Rear Guard deploying soon with two Decarchs and their own personal Vanguard and Rear Guard. This was the staple infantry unit of the Tagmata, Mycenae’s military.

Dellis and Inonu had a simple mission– kill everything between the fourth tier and the bottom of the third tier and then hold position. Then, Decarchs Cosmatos and Synadenos in the Rear Guard would overtake them and recover some VIPs at the bottom, inverting the Vanguard and Rear Guard positions. They had their own orders for what to do about the VIPs once recovered– Dellis’ mission was to enable Cosmatos to move as soon as possible.

That meant Dellis had to do what she did best.

There was no better enabler of movement than a swift and brutal attack on the defenses.

At the bottom of the stairs, the numeroi assessed the surroundings.

Two of them took cover and prepared for possible attack.

Four covered each cardinal direction.

Every staircase on the third tier mall’s floor plan landed in the same sort of rest and floor traffic junction. There were non-working elevator banks, public telephones, and a row of vending machines. There were benches and glass bubble planters were flowers growing inside. Guardrails and decorative pillars broke up the right flank, dividing up their view of the atrium. The next unbroken series of store fronts began a few meters in either direction. Nothing had been broken into or vandalized and everything seemed eerily empty. Farther south, there was something in the way which was not a natural part of the design–

a barricade.

Overthrown furniture and various other items interlocked deliberately to form cover.

“Follow me, we’re advancing! Take up positions along the advance!” Dellis cried out.

Her cry alerted the rioters at the barricade.

Small rounds impacted her chestplate shortly after– she felt nothing.

Dellis brought up her axe and broke into a sprint toward the barricade.

She let out a battle cry, practically a roar, and readied her axe for a swing as she ran.

In front of her, the rioters responded with sporadic small arms fire.

There were one or two people with arms, and several with improvised weapons.

Dellis made a bombastic show of throwing herself at the barricade–

Her numeroi followed–

Along the way, one peeled into a piece of cover.

One behind a vending machine, another behind a planter, a third ducking into a shop–

While her wild charge drew all the attention, she ‘seeded’ the path with numeroi.

Four or five meters away from the barricade, Dellis ducked behind a video ad screen.

She lifted her fist–

From six different points behind her, assault rifle fire from the numeroi fell on the barricade like a storm of bullets. Exposed rioters at the moment of Dellis’ signal were picked off, and anyone not in cover would have lost a limb if not their head. The remaining rioters were suppressed, and then Dellis opened her fist, closed it, and opened it where the numeroi could see. Suddenly, all of the fire stopped, and the numeroi hid in their positions.

Inviting attention from the enemy–

Before opening fire again in erratic sequences.

One position fired, quieted– two other positions fired, quieted–

This erratic rhythm gave Dellis her opening.

Between the numeroi’s suppressing attacks, she ran back into the middle of the street.

Charging the barricade itself, clearing the remaining distance.

She ducked under its shadow while gunfire blazed around her.

Taking two grenades from her belt, priming them with her thumbs.

Throwing them up and over the barricade.

And diving away on her back, facing the barricade with her face shield down.

Twin clouds of smoke, and hundreds of splinters into the air.

Vexingly, the numeroi continued to suppress the position by firing over her–

Until she made enough fist signals to catch their attention.

In a textbook advance, the numeroi began to move, methodically “tagging” each other out of cover and back into the squad formation through each staggered firing position. Dellis grunted while she stood up from the ground and walked to the barricade. She thought if they were this stiff someone might be able to trick them into shooting by just throwing out stuff out into the road and triggering flashbacks of their target acquisition training.

At least it meant they remembered the tactics at all.

Looking out behind the barricade with her axe raised up–

She was greeted by nothing but deformed meat, amorphous formerly-living things.

Nobody even writhing in pain. Everyone was dead and in pieces.

“Position clear! Hold the ground and wait for the rear guard. Then get ready to move again!”

She was a little bit happy seeing the effect of the grenades.

Throwing two was a little overkill but– damn it, she needed the motivation!

Though she was a Mycenaean soldier now, in good standing– she still liked killing.

She was stuffy about it now– she followed her orders– respected her training–

But she still maintained some of that quixotic Pythian character.

Dellis might have to come up with something else creative for these poor rioters.

Or maybe she could shake out all her boredom with Inonu when they decided who topped.


Outside the storefront, she heard footsteps, and a scream.

She held her breath and tried to calm the shaking in her hands and shoulders.

There would be no point to anything if she went out now.

No matter who was dying out there she had to wait for the perfect opportunity.

All she had was one shot. She had to take out someone valuable.

Or at the very least, she had to buy time.

Make them scared. Scared of the people’s will for liberation.

Out of all the shops, she decided to hide in the Raylight shop. The front glass façade was completely shattered but Raylight shops always had steel segmented displays right on the window. These could not be knocked down or moved by looters, though the shop hadn’t even been vandalized by them. She did all the damage herself. That way she could look through the gaps, and with the glass gone she could shoot or throw through them, while hiding in the corner and remaining mostly in cover because of the display frames.

She recalled a few good tips on street fighting she picked up in Thurin.

What did she have on her? Handgun, petrol bombs, a heat knife.

It would have to be enough.

(Was it enough back then? In Hertha Park when the fascists advanced?)

She grit her teeth.

Distant gunfire, punctuated by loud sharp sounds that could have been blasts. She heard battle cries she attributed to the Katarrans, beastly roars accompanying savage charges– she heard screams she attributed to the helpless victims. Her mind had already frozen at these scenes before, and she was determined not to make the same mistake twice. She told herself she felt nothing about it now. This was nothing like the night their dream failed.

No– rather than fail, it was betrayed.

Now even among colleagues she felt alone– all of them still believed with all their hearts–

“This will be the night that frees us.”

Though she would fight dearly for it, it was hard to believe that was the case.

In the presence of the gunfire and the screams.

The passing shadows of foreign killers purging the uprising.

As much as she did not want to be brought back to that moment, as much as she wanted to bury that person and pretend like she existed solely for this night, that this was well and truly the final night– alone and waiting in the middle of the enemy, waiting for death– she remembered Thurin. Not just on that final night, but in the years that led up to it. She remembered falling in with the wrong crowd, dropping out of school, disappointing her parents, thinking for the first time of the possibility of a different life.

She remembered listening to the lectures.

How good it sounded–

“Nobody’s the boss, nobody’s the father, nobody’s the teacher, nobody’s the governor– nobody coerces anybody. We are all in voluntary association for our shared benefit.”

Bosses, fathers, teachers, governors, had all failed her so many times.

All of her life had been lived under coercion–

Anarchism gave her a real definition of freedom.

With the anarchists, she felt alive. Like a person again. Like she had her life, and it was hers.

The anarchist meetings were the wildest time.

They were so irreverent, so liberated, so much their own persons. They weren’t like anyone else. It captivated her. She was a child of privilege, and these people broke every assumption she had about the world, and she loved them for it. She was swept in the energy, in their joy for the world. She learned to fight. Learned to sneak around the station. Learned the literature and what to say to people. Learned to make bombs. Learned first-aid and resuscitation. Fucked three different people across the station and realized not one of them owned her or owed each other. Everyone learned everything. They shared everything.

They were true about it– nobody was the boss. Everyone just did everything.

It wasn’t long until the wild times ended–

Because she learned about the enemy that hated their dreams and ambitions.

Not in an abstract sense: not the bosses, not the governors. Not an Emperor or God.

She learned about guys on the same street who wanted them all dead.

Guys who were doing the same training, the same marching, to kill them.

At first, they would hire Katarran thugs to disrupt meetings, intimidate members, steal shit.

That wasn’t too tough to deal with at first. It was just annoying.

Only the leftists spoke out to defend the foreigners in Rhinea and they acted like this?!

But she shut her mouth and fought and shouted the slogans like her comrades did.

Soon, however, the “nascent” right-wing started coming out with a whole paramilitary.

They had killers on the streets like the Blood Bund, and support in politics from the Libertarians, and from loudmouth stone age fuckers like the Traditional Fatherhood Front who raised millions of marks from the vilest little men and women in Imbria. Knowing how depraved the “little people” like her could be shook her back then. But she stuck with the anarchists. She felt like she belonged. She felt fired up. She wanted to fight– it all felt worth fighting for. It was her life, her love. Every Blood Bund crony whose head they smashed in. Every cop they kicked off someone at the park or in the back streets. Every rightist stenographer at the Thurin Times who got their camera smashed and their tablet broken over their head. It felt like they were stepping stones to making a truly human world.

When she was out on the street with the whole gang, surrounded by people– that was living.

In the middle of the shouting and the fighting it felt like they could heal the world.

Her grey world was given color because it felt like it was finally hers.

Then on that night in Hertha Park,

the jet-black tide of National Socialism rendered all their actions a blur.

She had thought it was too stupid to go out trying to defend that coward Heidemann who wouldn’t stand for anything except businesses and going back to brunch. But there were other people there who mattered. The liberals turned up on that night, the feminists turned up, the pro-immigration guys turned up. So the anarchists turned up. Because they had to show the fascists that they didn’t own the streets in Thurin. They had to put up resistance. So they fought like hell in Hertha Park like they always did. Then the results came in, and everyone stopped fighting. A giant billboard officially declared their cause lost.

It made her feel insane, watching everyone give up when they saw Lehner’s shitty little grin.

People giving the rightists hell just stopping to stare at a monitor with a stupid vote tally.

That night, watching her friends get surrounded and beaten and killed

and forced to run away–

While the liberals all sulked and went back to live their lives under these fascist maniacs–

While the Shimii and the Katarrans and the Loup just switched masters to whoever won–

She thought she would never see another night like that.

Because she thought she was broken and would never come back the same.

Herself fleeing to Aachen, taking up some shitty job, demobilized, beaten down.

Dead.

And yet– here was another night.

She was still here. She still wanted the people who fucked up her life to pay.

Anarchy was still here too. Still struggling to make it into the light.

So she turned up to fight again.

When the chatrooms started blowing up she could not believe the fervor.

She had skills– she remembered the wild times–

So she went up to the barricades and joined everyone.

A tiny part of her felt alive again. In their faces she saw the faces she had lost.

That part that believed they deserved to be free of all this shit was alive again.

Now–

A noise–

Her mind returned from wandering when she heard footsteps coming her way.

Hooded folks, no uniforms, no armor–

Those faces–

As soon as they entered her vision they were gunned down from out of sight.

Chests pumped forward by the impacts of the rifle bullets, splashing red on the floor.

Toppling over mid-run like she saw the moment their souls left them.

She hid again and calmed her breathing and stilled her rage.

Katarrans– always on the wrong side.

It was now or never. She had to ambush them and run.

At least it would slow them down until the main barricades got proper organized.

Two figures rushed forward, examined the bodies–

Those were just grunts, she thought– she knew there were some in powered armor–

Then someone barked orders. The two figures ran ahead.

Another took their place. A tall, imposing brunette, armored, with a vibroaxe.

If she could destroy that powered armor– or even steal the gear–

The anarchist watched in hiding, as the armored figure strode forward.

Stopping for a moment to check the bodies.

“Hmph. What are they even doing? This is ridiculous.”

That evil creature had stopped to think to herself, to say something, shake her head.

Even laugh a little at the folly of it–

White-hot rage burned in the anarchist’s chest.

That was the moment where everything would be determined.

She forced herself not to freeze up– not to give up the fight and run–

Like how things ended at Hertha Park.

No– she did not step back. This time the anarchist rushed forward.

Lighting the match, rearing up–

Zeroing in on that bulky figure in the dark, her petrol bomb shining in the dark.

She threw– and the bottle soared–

Crashing onto the power armor and bursting and setting the creature ablaze.

In that moment, in that instant, she felt alive.

She felt like she had taken one more step forward against the monsters–

Any second now she would hear the screams, see it fall, the fascist wall toppled–

Then the power armored figure turned to face the door.

Flames danced upon the metal striding undaunted toward her.

Burning petrol slid down the shoulders, across the chest, onto the legs.

Illuminating the abandoned store and casting the cornered anarchist in a fierce red glow.

She saw the face of the monster, untouched by the flames.

Behind the faceshield. Blueish skin, mottles and scales, strange eyes and a fierce grin.

Could they even feel pain?!

The anarchist was paralyzed, stepping back from the door.

Not even one– she couldn’t even kill one–?

She tripped and fell back and crawled– the beast was nearly on top of her–

Looking down at her with that mocking grin–

“You fucking Katarrans! You fucking monsters!” She cried out helplessly. “Wherever there’s something to be taken from decent folk, there you fucking are! That’s the only place we find you! God damn your entire fucking race! It’s not enough to rob people?! Not enough to kill ’em for your own greed, now you do it for the fascists too?! We fought for all of you! We fought for everybody! Why did you all fucking betray us–?! Why did everyone–?!”

Her cries turned to whimpers, to begging– she was the farthest thing from alive–

Behind the glass face-shield, amid all the fierce fiery tongues–

a white grin untouched by the burning.

“If you knew what ‘Katarran’ even means you would already have your satisfaction.”

Speaking calmly, her voice barely above a whisper despite the flames burning on her armor.

The Katarran, the ‘cursed one’, raised her axe overhead never ceasing to grin.

“Us Katarrans, our golden age is coming. We are the ones who have suffered enough.”

She brought down her axe and cleaved into the chest of the anarchist.

Crushing her sternum and ribs, splitting her spine, puncturing even the floor.

Gore smashed out of the corpse fell upon the fires and burned atop the armor.

“Decarch Inonu! Decarch Inonu!”

Behind the Decarch, a frightened Numeroi appeared and sprayed her with smothering gel.

When the fires were put out, the abandoned Raylight shop was cast into shadow.

It was only the Decarch left, and her numeroi standing outside in mild confusion.

Inonu looked down at the body.

Now that it was dead she could no longer muster any grinning or shouting for it.

She thought– thankfully, my face is not burned, nor my hair.

Dellis would have made fun of it all. They still might have fucked, at least.

Maybe she would have tenderly nursed her burns.

Her nanomail suit insulated her from most of the heat– there was only a bit of irritation.

It could have all gone much worse, however. Numeroi would have certainly died.

She had to report everything. Something was going on.

“Dellis, Cosmatos, Synadenos– I was just ambushed from an abandoned shop. Someone threw an incendiary device. They waited for the vanguards to pass and went for me. We’ll need to be extra careful. There are rioters now exhibiting more organization and tactics and targeting leadership. We don’t know what else they are capable of.”

“We will test their mettle then, brave Decarch.” Cosmatos replied.

“C’mon Inonu, being all smart isn’t sexy– get riled up and charge them!” Dellis chimed in.

“We’ll send part of our forces forward.” Synadenos said. “Clear everything methodically.”

In death, the anarchist accomplished the objective she had given herself.

Mycenae’s charge slowed down ever just so.

Now it was up to her comrades to do what they could, with the love that she had for liberty.

And the life she had given up for anarchy.


She put the pillar to her back– between herself and death.

An oppressive din of gunfire near and far and caused her to hesitate. She saw the next pillar in front of her– but there was so much just behind. They could see her. Almost as soon as she thought of moving she saw wisps of plaster dust and stucco whipped up into the air at her side. She felt dimly the impact of bullets into the column and froze up once more.

There were at least three ahead and however many behind.

Her eyes darted from the wall to the floor, and forward.

Tentatively shifting her weight, forward, back, as if she could gain momentum from zero.

“Damn it, damn it,”

She put her hands to the column as if to push herself–

Loud sharp cracking sounds–

Green tracers flew past the column and struck the floor just ahead of her.

Paralyzing her again just as she was building her courage.

She began to weep.

Peeling one hand from the hard grip on her pistol, to check the magazine.

Three in the mag, one in the chamber. Useless.

There had be some way to escape– through her tears she begged for any opportunity.

Looking down at her belt for anything–

No grenades, nothing but a spare mag and–

Her fingers gripped a tiny cylinder close to her lower back.

Thinking quickly, she threw the pepper spray bottle over her shoulder, out of cover.

In the instant it was riddled with bullets and burst into its foul red mist,

she was gone.

Taking off running to the next column, just a few meters ahead.

Her pursuers quickly raised their weapons from the canister to her position–

Striking the decorative plaster smeared over the column.

One more piece of cover, one more foothold– but so much more ahead.

Too much.

When she threw away her uniform, she thought she would be able to cheat a certain death by joining with the protesters. Nobody recognized her as an Uhlan even with her boots, the one effect she had no opportunity to discard for lack of a substitute. Throwing it all away was her first reaction to the news. She hated the job anyway– her coworkers were all dead? Fuck them. She wouldn’t die a mall cop for any size paycheck. She told herself– all you have to do is stay quiet, go along with the riot, sneak out through third tier residential. She had friends there, with condos and locked doors. Someone would hide her–

Until the Volkisch cleaned this place up!

But her bleak fortune saw fit to introduce her to the Mycenae Military Commission.

Now her lot was exactly the same as the rioters.

Mere instants confirmed every horror story ever told about Katarrans.

Everyone who ran ahead of the mob, who took initiative and was gung-ho about tearing stuff down– slaughtered. When she took off running there was nobody else who could. The Katarrans had the overwhelming advantage. The best the rioters could do against powered armor was to throw paint balloons at them and muck up the visors. She saw one kid do this and get split in half by a Katarran vanguard officer in a literal blind rage. It was hopeless up there. All of the smaller barricades that had been thrown up in the top of the tier, blocking the stairs to the government sector and into the mall, they had been systematically leveled. Meanwhile the main body of the rioters, the more organized people bringing up the guns from the second tier, they had set up their main barricades and rally points in the mall itself. These were a bit more substantial– if she could get to one of those points, she would be able to run with something quite distracting between herself and the Katarrans.

If she could get to one.

Gunfire behind her– small bursts, into the column. Trying to flush her out.

She counted the shots as best as she could.

Unfortunately, she had seen how they fought. They weren’t idiots. When they fired from cover, they varied the timing of their bursts to tempt their prey to shoot back at the exact time a second shooter had the cover sited. She had seen enough rioters getting perforated around corners and poking out of chest-high barriers to know that counting the bullets wasn’t going to be the end of it. There were at least three Katarrans on her tail right now.

Nanomail bodysuits with additional plates affixed; middle-caliber assault rifles.

Not that the caliber mattered, she had no nanomail on her anymore. It was all deadly.

If they had grenades on them, they did not deem her enough of a threat to deploy them.

Gunfire resumed, lulled, resumed. It was closer now.

They had stacked at the pillar she had just left behind.

Had they known she had four bullets in this gun they would have just charged.

Gutted her with their heat knives– she would prefer getting shot up to that.

She had to answer, to buy any amount of time–

Careful not to expose her hand, she turned the pistol sideways around her cover.

Firing off every shot. Four trigger pulls, four loud cracks.

Successive bursts of gunfire pounded the column.

Feeling the vibrations transfer to her back, she looked at her surroundings.

There was a chest-high barrier at her side with guard rails made to keep people from falling off to the ground floor. The aperture of the atrium had glass walls, floating adverts and art pieces that prevented her from seeing the opposite side of the mall. She was on the third floor of the mall, the upper floor– above her was certain death in the transit level to the fourth tier, completely taken over by Mycenae. Below her was salvation in the form of the main base of the rioters. There were columns spaced a few meters apart all along this level. There were probably at least a dozen more between her and a staircase down.

That was a dozen more games of cat and mouse that she was about to lose.

She emptied the magazine from her pistol, picked up the spare,

and threw both out one after the other.

Disciplined gunfire cut each of them to carbon fiber ribbons on the floor.

“Hey– is surrendering off the table?” She shouted out.

Nothing but more gunfire in response.

Gritting her teeth, weeping, her whole body shaking, she threw the pistol out.

And threw herself over the barrier.

Gripping the edge for an instant, just enough to see–

Letting go and praying for the strength to grab onto anything below.

The Uhlans were finished– but this officer was going on her own terms.

Her own story merely one among many in the confusion of Aachen’s longest day.


“I’ve arrived at the transit level, milord.”

“Excellent. Let’s see if we can’t give our new friends some good news.”

“It is possible I will be out of communication, if the area is being jammed.”

“I trust you more than anyone. You will be back.”

“I am elated to hear that, milord. I will return to you as soon as I can.”

Raiza Sakaraeva looked over the edge of the guardrails on the transit level between the third and fourth tier, down into the enormous mall below. Before her an ostentatious apparatus of glass, color and advertisements connected the floor and ceiling of the third tier. Around the atrium pylon with its art pieces, lighting systems and floating displays putting on a show for no one– the three levels of the mall had been arrayed, with the transit floor above them. The stores were all set into the walls of the station at each level. The second, third and fourth levels featured guard-rails and pillars separating the traffic lanes across the storefronts from the possibility of falling down the length of the glass leviathan dominating the space.

Circumventing the guardrails and falling was what Raiza had come to do.

Her silvery hair tied up in a ponytail with bands at different lengths; body wrapped tightly in nanomail, the taut bodysuit lacking any additional ballistic plates, wearing only a nylon gliding cloak with it; on her legs, a pair of labor-enhancing devices, like oversize retracting heels covering her calves that could touch the floor; on her arms, gauntlets with picks attached such that the forearm assisted the stability of the titanium piercing points. On her lower back she had a satchel with explosives, medical supplies and other helpful gear.

Behind her, her tails billowed, swaying calmly like thick, fluffy scarves floating on a wind.

She surveyed the fall below.

Somewhere directly beneath her, was the bar Oststadt, on the first floor of the mall.

All of the streets on the first floor were raised over a false pond– too shallow to catch her.

Numeroi collected near her who had escorted her from the government tier.

“Madam, you’re not thinking of–?”

Before they could ask, Raiza sprang over the guard rail and dove toward the glass.

Screams of surprise behind her were drowned out by a surge in gunfire, flashing from behind her as she descended to the third level, the top of the mall, where there was still sporadic fighting. But that battle did not exist for her. She saw only the means with which to execute Astra’s directives. Ahead of her, the many-colored, brightly lit glass became a horizon into which everything else disappeared. It was a dizzying landmark to meet head-on.

Despite this she intuitively gauged the distance between herself and the glass.

Raiza turned mid-dive, batting with her tails, employing her cloak to catch some air.

Her picks engaged and she struck the wall with both, arresting her remaining momentum.

Preventing herself from smashing into the wall. Her strength softening the collission.

A bit of pain was nothing to her– she was not even slowed.

She knew that the glass was thick enough that her own strength could not break it.

Despite this she knew it was urgent to keep moving.

Her picks started to slide down the glass seconds later. And this was not the only danger.

Raiza looked down from her tenuous perch, retracted her picks and kicked off.

Her jump boosters sent her toward an advert board floating near the second floor.

Too flimsy to stick to for long–

Instead she used her picks to hook onto the top of the board, briefly hanging.

She then kicked off before she brought the whole thing down.

Leaping down with the central pond below, gleaming blue between the steel walkways.

She heard shouting behind her–

Up overhead, behind her back, along the railings, rioters had seen her fall.

Using her cloak and tails she altered directions mid-drop to confuse anyone aiming.

And managed to land on her feet unmolested. Not even a shot fired from above.

Perhaps her enemy was too perplexed to have painted her as a target.

Landing on one of the walkways over the central pond, near the base of the glass atrium dividers and the water they contained, she gathered her surroundings warily.

Judging by the model that Murati Nakara had shared–

Still clear in her mind–

Raiza ran from the atrium center on the ground floor and into the lower north thoroughfare.

Clearing a line of vending machines and a spiral staircase, turning a corner–

Hearing guns going off, close and specifically.

Realizing that it was not just the background din of the Mycenaean clearing operations.

She saw the ostentatious signage of the bar Oststadt, and a mess of broken glass scattered across the floor. There were bodies. Dead white uniforms strewn about on the way to the bar, some against the façade, some farther, some at the front door, all shot. An injured body propped up against a wall adjacent the doors. A shooter on the blind spot of the door periodically shooting into the bar. Presumably someone shooting back from inside the bar.

“Ra–z–”

Astra’s voice in her ear was beginning to break up– the jamming was localized–

“Stealth–”

She was warning her–

Ahead of her, the one remaining shooter found herself engaged with fire from inside.

That was her chance–

Raiza turned mid-run to face the spiral staircase rising behind her.

Against the rainbow of light flooding the surroundings from the atrium sculpture–

Her sharp eyes picked up the visual anomalies.

Someone sneaking downstairs.

She quickly picked up and threw an explosive grenade toward the staircase.

And leaped back-first toward the shooter at the Oststadt.

An explosion powerful enough to turn the thin staircase to slag scattered pieces of once-hidden soldiers into the air like a shower of partially camouflaged meat. Splitting apart their connection between floors. Raiza had engaged her jump boosters and threw herself on a flat trajectory, barely lifting off the ground. Behind her, she heard the shooter turn, but it was too late. She shoulder-checked the assailant into the wall at speed enough to break bone.

Beating the breath out of her own body–

Turning with a hazy head and lungs punched empty, she drove her pick with all her strength.

Piercing the shooter’s head through the temple and striking part of the brick texture.

Blood spattered on her face and hair. Bits of dust and fragments flew from the wall.

Taking in breath, she withdrew a small pistol from her hip and shot the injured Judean.

Confirming the kill for the folks inside.

For a moment, she assumed the same position as the shooter she had just killed.

Back to the wall, pinning up the dead body, out of sight of the bar interior.

Catching her breath, scanning her surroundings.

No other visual anomalies.

She was lucky Astra managed to alert her before she got too close to the bar.

Her communications were completely cut out at the doorway.

Astra must have been warned by Murati Nakara– she had the cameras tapped.

Now, Raiza would be without that resource or anything other than what she carried.

Someone was inside– someone she needed to bring back.

To signal the change in the situation, Raiza let the white uniformed corpse fall.

It thudded on the doorway, into sight from the bar.

Provoking an immediate response–

“Who the fuck is out there? You think I’m gonna fall for that shit so easy? I am giving you one warning. All us Alayzeans are good for is shooting and killing motherfuckers! You see the results don’t you? The massacre’s resuming in 15 seconds if I don’t see your ass on that fucking door! Come to the door frame and tell me why you shouldn’t join them huh?!”

A woman’s irascible voice–

An interesting accent, that reminded Raiza of certain rare breeds of Alayzean.

Every ‘I’ sounded more like an ‘Oy’. A colorful bunch, these mercs.

“As politely as possible, God does not intend us to shoot each other.” Raiza called back out.

Putting considerable trust in the people inside the bar, she stepped slowly inside.

Holding her hands up with her picks disengaged.

Her ears twitched, and her tails continued to sway, framed in the light of the door.

Across the way, behind a long counter with a register and digital check-in–

There was a woman, also stepping out. Putting down her own pistol.

Breathing heavy.

Red-haired, her clothes disheveled, a bit of blood on her shoulder and head.

“I am assisting Murati Nakara.” Raiza said. Opening with the important details.

At the mention of the name, the woman’s eyes lit up. She heaved a loud, cathartic sigh.

“God damn it, this better not be some trick.”

“We’ll need tricks to get you all out. Raiza Sakaraeva.” Raiza put a hand over her chest.

For the first time the woman looked truly relieved. She was letting herself believe it.

“Eithnen. Eithnen Ni Faoláin.”

Eithnen looked behind herself briefly, still breathing heavy. Perhaps breathing even heavier.

“Raiza– We’ve got wounded and– and worse.” Eithnen said.

Raiza nodded. “Rescue is coming. Let’s assess and figure out what we can do from here.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Eithnen said. She nearly doubled over– the adrenaline was leaving her.

Having just a taste of the carnage that had erupted in front of Eithnen,

Raiza wondered how much worse it was behind her.


After Descent, Year 975

Artificial rain and wind had been scheduled over Nichori University.

Carried on the gusts created by the storm generators, the droplets of water drummed across the doors, walls and windows like thousands of crawling, tapping fingers. The power draw from the storm generators, along with the deliberate siphoning of power, meant that within the university the lights flashed intermittently, automatic services were curtailed, and even the air started to grow thin. It was an intimidation tactic against the rioting students.

It did little to allay the horrors unfolding.

For the woman cutting her way through the corridors, the rain was a welcome friend.

For the teenage girl hiding in the closet, the rain seemed to drown out every other sound and in its place to slot in her own imagination of what was happening– such that she could not tell her own imaginings apart from the screaming, crying, the gushing sounds of people ripped apart. Intermittent thunders masked the whirring of a motor roaring too rapaciously to be attached to a vibrosword. She heard stun batons clash metal blades. She heard fast steps amid the din of the storm that were at once silenced. Her fleeting sense of the space told her that there was something just around the corner of her own hall.

Moving closer.

She heard the loudest screams and the heaviest dancing of steps–

Then, silence.

Peering through a hole in the plastic closet, from where the knob had fallen off.

Tied with a wire to keep it shut.

Between the wires, through the empty knob–

Bright yellow sunlamp light flashed in her eye–

There was a great shattering crash as her thin plastic door fell over.

Again the lights dimmed and cast the figure into shadow.

Leaving only the suggestion of the corpses behind her, the gore on the walls.

She took uneven steps into the room as if she might fall.

Pulling something massive across the floor with her.

Jagged teeth chewing on the plastic and carbon fiber as it dragged.

Amid the sound of the rain, the buffeting wind–

There was the tiny sound of dribbling fluid from the figure’s cape and pants.

When the lights flashed again, the stain the figure left wherever she moved was cast in a muddy red color, and it was thick, and tiny fragments of something unmentionable floated on the surface of the slick. More of the figure was painted in– her black uniform smeared with blood and red and pink and brown and even black bits of fibrous and smooth and sharp and sinewy scraps of– people it was people she was covered in them–

Her eyes met those of the girl hiding in the closet, and she smiled.

Inside the closet the girl backed away but met the wall directly at her back.

There was nowhere to go–

While the killer lifted the enormous sawblade she was lugging with her.

Setting it against the wires, against the missing knob, and pounding the engine starter.

A defeaning roar– the vibrations went straight into the girl’s gut–

Centimeters between her face and the ripping blade–

Feeling the air disturbed and the metallic power thrumming right before her eyes–

Eyes that she never shut as she–

“Hey– come out. Come out right now you little beast.”

Before it could cut her face open the blade completely stopped.

Delivering nothing but the tiniest red graze on the girl’s cheek.

Once it stopped moving, the stench of iron and bile on its surface drifted into the girl’s nostrils like poison gas. Her legs gave out as soon as the blade retreated, and she fell to the floor of the closet. Shaking, hugging herself, gagging. She felt her stomach turn hot and kick up into her throat. But her eyes remained fixed on the figure of the killer who stood in front of the open closet, looking down at her. An indescribable expression on her face.

“Tell me your name. Or I kick this back on.”

She lifted the saw a little off the floor– the girl recoiled from the subtle movement.

Recognizing barely, that the figure must have had monstrous strength to lift that enormous weapon. To lift that weapon and to swing it and to fight with it.

To kick down her door so easily–

to slaughter however many people all the meat in the hallway

once constituted–

“Menahem.” The girl mumbled through the panic. “Halevi.”

Her name was a tiny noise barely comprehensible to herself.

“Menahem. You can call me Maggie. I’m someone very special.”

With another flash of the lights, Menahem saw Magdalena’s face. Her long, dark hair caked in blood and gore that had spattered off her spinning blade, her soft lips painted red whether with makeup or blood, unknown. Her eyes staring down at Menahem with a strange humor. Her body which would have been beautiful and voluptuous, coveted in any other setting, clad under in black layered red with the detritus of uncountable lives.

Perhaps recognizing Menahem’s scrutiny she tipped her peaked cap.

Rendering visible the hooked crosses symbolizing her allegiance.

“They call me Maggie the Cleaner– do you know why?”

She suddenly revved the diamond sabre with a smile.

Menahem crawled back against the closet, making herself small in it.

“I use this saw to clean up filthy places. Cut out necrotic tissue.” Magdalena said. “Any space occupied by Juzni, or Turuks or even worse, by Eloim– once this saw has cleansed it, Imbrian lives can resume in there. Imbria is a sick, sick man, Menahem– it needs me–”

She kneeled closer to Menahem in the closet, lifting her hand from her saw.

Spreading open her jacket with that shaking hand. Lips quivering as she spoke.

“Menahem, little Menahem– you see– I have killed so much– but I am dying.”

She showed Menahem her open stomach, and the hanging sleeve on her coat–

The missing part of her head under her hat–

Menahem recoiled in even greater horror, covering her mouth, kicking her legs.

Magdelena smiled, forcing herself to her full height using her handle of her saw.

Her mad eyes fixed on Menahem who could not look away–

“I am dying– and you have to tell your kind my story. You have to carry my story– to the future. Tell the tale of how I scoured you all. That the Blood Bund will continue to do everything to rid Imbria of the poison in its veins. If any of your kin are alive, tell them of my hatred, and of your weakness. And live to hate me as well– hate me with all of your feeble power. I don’t want your respect and I already know how to get your fear– what I covet more than anything is your hatred. That’s how I will be immortalized after I die– nobody will be able to say Magdalena von Treckow did not live– nobody will be able to say that the Blood Bund did not fight– we were the foremost healers of Imbria’s defects–”

Half the words in those mad ramblings had begun to slur and quaver by the end.

There was nothing Menahem could do in reponse but to nod her head.

Shaking, and silently begging and hoping that she would be left alive.

She saw Magdalena’s hand lift from her saw.

In that instant she imagined any of a thousand things that hand could do to kill her.

Any of a million ways it would move next–

Every one of a billion refracting possibilities made real within the mind–

Its colors moved away from the saw and never returned, however.

Menahem saw an odorless black mass trail out the door, and out the door Magdalena went.

Like a nightmare she had woken up from, except–

For the saw weapon left in the room, stuck into the floor, encrusted in gore.

And giving off a vibrant, lightless red glow like gaseous blood.

Too weak and wracked with every imaginable agony, Menahem fell forward.

Occupying the floor next to the weapon, weeping in its overwhelming stench.

Pulling up her legs against her chest, cold and shaking and alone, so essentially alone.

More alone than anyone in the world could be among corpses.

The only survivor– the keeper of this grim story.


After Descent, Year 979

While the rest of the Dibuqim scouted ahead, finished picking through the barracks and armory, and advised the rioters they had silently impressed into service– under a tree in the park, away from prying eyes, Menahem Halevi and Tiphereth Hadžić met for a debrief on the present situation and their next steps. In the distance, the most eager of the ‘Aachen Citizen’s Guard’ were descending the long stairways down to the first tier of Aachen’s Core Station or ascending to third tier where the rioters had begun to concentrate. Dibuqim scouts with stealth shields and heavy pistols accompanied them in either direction.

Dibuqim with assault weapons held back for the moment.

Despite the dire nature of their predicament–

Tiphereth got the distinctive impression that Menahem was not listening to her.

She was looking out somewhere– perhaps that doll of hers had hidden in that direction.

Absentmindedly Tiphereth lifted her index finger into her mouth.

“Are you paying attention?” She said through the finger.

Only then noticing she had put it through her lips and taking it back out.

Menahem suddenly turned an aggressive expression on her.

Her tail and ears stood on end, and she almost thought Menahem might lunge.

It was only a brief lapse in her emotional control of course.

Much like Tiphereth’s finger biting, Menahem realized quickly her habit. Her expression softened, she sighed and shook her head and made some kind of show, like she had a headache or was tired. Tiphereth humored her and waited for a verbal response, pretending to be understanding in this moment of difficulty. Even though time was of the essence– this was not some friendly sport they were undertaking, but a brutal, unforgiveable slaughter.

“I’m trying to think, Tiphereth. I’m being pulled in a dozen directions. Please repeat yourself.”

“Of course– say, we could have a more democratic and decentralized style of command, and it might help with the great burden which has been placed on your shoulders. Have you ever heard of anarchism? It is this anti-hierarchical social theory of voluntary association–”

“Tiphereth. Your report.” Menahem pressed.

Tiphereth bowed her head slightly, stifling a laugh.

“There are no working elevators, so our scouts are accompanying the rioters through the transit levels. We managed to advise them to separate into groups going coming down on the top of the first level and bottom of the third level from different directions using the available stairways. Otherwise they would have happily stampeded through one stairway. The ‘Aachen Citizen’s Guard’ is mobilizing in the third tier and can serve as a speedbump for Mycenae, but no more. Without our help they will be slaughtered to the last.”

Menahem crossed her arms. “They may be slaughtered even with our help. How is our rear?”

“A few of Moravskyi’s men got away, we have scouts chasing them. It’s under control.”

“And Stockheim?”

“We took over the Control Tower, but it’s pretty tenuous. We were not able to plant a lot of guys and gear there. I don’t know how long the scouts can hold out if the Pandora’s Box or someone else decides to go see why the docking clamps are locked up with no answer. There’s only so much advantage the stealth shields can confer when they are defending a tight static position. So if you want to succeed, we’ll need your doll down there fast. We have a wall in front of us and a rolling boulder at our back. We spread out too far and too thinly. If we wanted the Pandora’s Box we should’ve just concentrated everything on it.”

“Why are you calling it the Pandora’s Box?”

“I mean– that’s it’s registered name.”

Tiphereth absentmindedly raised her finger to her lips. Not sucking on it.

Menahem stared at her.

“I’m going to say something else controversial.” Tiphereth added.

“I can’t wait.” Menahem said, grinning with condescension.

Tiphereth’s cat-like ears folded slightly. “Going after the Wohnbezirk is a waste of time. We need everything we can throw at the communists. With the elevators down, it will take thirty or forty minutes to get up through the transit level stairways from the Wohnbezirk and back into Aachen’s Core Station, and we can block them off easily with a small amount of scouts and some gear. Our forces are already separated in too many directions as it is.”

Menahem reached out and grabbed Tiphereth by her shirt.

“You’re saying this because you want to protect the Shimii. To protect your kind.”

Her voice oozed with menace. Tiphereth stood unmoved in her grasp.

“I’m not a Shimii. I’m an Eloim. So I know our quite tenuous conditions very well.”

Of course, Menahem would never let her just be an Eloim.

That hatred in her eyes burned so bright as she met Tiphereth’s own.

Those eyes saw a Shimii and would perhaps never see otherwise.

“The only thing we need to win is David and myself.”

“Tamar did not think so.”

Menahem shook Tiphereth with anger, now grabbing her with both hands.

“Call her Manhig you lowlife! She might esteem you, but I know better!”

She shoved Tiphereth, who nearly fell to the ground, but caught herself in time.

Menahem seemed almost surprised she could not push Tiphereth down completely.

When the mixed-race Eloim stood back up to full height with her–

She put on an apathetic expression and began to suck her index finger again.

“I’m not here to satisfy your personal mythology. I am trying to reach our objectives. Vesna Nasser and Maggie the Cleaner are not here. The Wohnbezirk is useless.” Tiphereth said.

“Very well.” Menahem said. “Then join me in the charge! That will give us a bit more power against the communists in the first tier of the station– otherwise, you can go to your harmless Wohnbezirk and make sure your fascist brethren are slaughtered fast enough for you to double back. It is not mythology that the bulk of the fascist forces in this station are down there, not up here. We need to head them off– and we want to kill them all.”

Tiphereth made no different expression and simply nodded her head in response.

“More importantly– I noticed you did not mention anything about the Oststadt.”

Menahem locked eyes with Tiphereth again.

“Nothing to mention. Venue is being jammed from inside. I can’t unjam it and look.”

Tiphereth’s gaze did not waver but held no more emotion.

“Send more scouts. We need to make sure everyone in there is buried.” Menahem said.

Her voice was as intense and restrained as that hateful gaze.

Again, Tiphereth bowed her head, but continued sucking her index finger.

“Not feeling confident, Aluf Halevi? I thought ambushes were our forte.”

“–Take that damn thing out of your mouth already.”

“Don’t you have so many dozens of things to attend to, Aluf Halevi?”

“If it wouldn’t attract more undue attention, I’d sock you right here.”

Tiphereth winked at Menahem in response to threat.

Menahem could not retaliate without compromising her emotions again.

“I’ll be expecting you in ten minutes.” She said in a low voice.

She left Tiphereth’s side in the direction of the descending stairways.

Tiphereth watched her leave with a small smile on her face. Her bobtail swaying habitually despite lacking the length to truly sway, like the tails of full-blooded Shimii did. She stood under the trees swaying on a false wind, watching the white uniforms begin the march to the tightly plotted slaughter now coming unraveled. Though she would soon join them, she thought with both bitterness and amusement that everything was still up in the air.

“We’ll see which gambler gets all the gold.” Tiphereth said, index finger on her lips.

Of course– she said this while having a strong bet on the outcome.


Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.11]

“…interconnectivity between stations has never been more stable and the throughput on wired connections is fantastic. Software has gotten really sophisticated too, so we no longer have to fear dropping transaction information midway nor having it intercepted. Because of this, I think it would only be a net benefit to completely, not partially, but completely digitalize– homph, excuse me– completely digitalize all transactions– slurp, sorry– and bring the financial infrastructure entirely out of the exchanging of credichips and polymer notes. What’s more, we can then implement decentralized, public ledgers that are citizen-auditable– mrrup, oh dear, sorry– and that’s how we can finally get out from under the heel of Eloim banking cartels and have fully party-controlled, volk finances.”

Once again, the tea table resounded with a singular clamor of national socialist eccentricity.

Hannah Schach devoured herb cream steak, expounding on racial theories of banking–

Adelheid van Mueller filled with a desire to dig fingers like knives into Hannah’s ribs–

Mia Weingarten silently shook her head, signaling a firm ‘no’ to Adelheid’s death glaring.

Her third guest, however, took an interest in the topic of conversation.

“Am I to understand then that the Eloim somehow clawed control of finances away from the Imbrians in the Imbrian Empire?” Astra Palaiologos said. Her face was completely impassive while Hannah Schach seemed genuinely surprised to have been spoken to at all. “Aren’t the Eloim mainly service and office workers? Are they strongly represented in the upper class? Do they have so many bureaucratic positions that allow them to enact policy?”

“Well, the management of the Central Bank of Rhinea has been influenced by the Eloim for some time. There are many Eloim politicians and activists. They favor tight monetary controls and conservative spending and have hampered our efforts to mobilize all resources.”

“What do you mean, influenced by Eloim? Do Eloim hold so much political power?”

“You might not understand, madam Palaiologos, but the untermenschen are aligned in their subterfuge against the racially superior– this is the biological basis for leftist ideology, you see. This is part of why the Blood Bund is so active near Hesse station– it is not a coincidence that the Reichsbank is based around the most demographically Eloim area in Rhinea!”

“And how large is this demography?”

“Ten percent of the Hesse station complex.” Hannah said, before forking a big piece of beef.

“Is there solid evidence of this faction’s control over Rhinean financial policy? I studied up before heading here, using the best available information– and I know that none of the heads of the major corporations of Rhinea are Eloim, except for monsieur Heidemann, now dead, who also does not count, because Eloim have matrilineal ties. So what do you mean?”

“Ah– but the matrilineality does not matter– all it takes is for the very base biology–”

Utterly caught off-guard Hannah seemed to babble in response–

Astra narrowed her eyes.

“I am no longer interested in this. Your analysis is groundless and useless to me.”

Hannah wilted in front of Astra and shrank away and stuffed more beef into her mouth.

Adelheid could have cheered for that gloomy, dressed-up shrimp. But she stayed quiet.

Mia averted her eyes, seemingly disconcerted whenever Astra spoke about anything.

Likely she was made to host her by Herta Kleyn and not of her own accord.

From what Adelheid had learned, Astra was an adult of eighteen or nineteen years.

Despite her stature, she was a young lady who had already debuted in her world.

More than that– she was a national leader, sitting at their table so nonchalantly.

“Miss Astra, have you been able to see much of the station during your trip?”

Adelheid asked– Mia still seemed too demoralized and anxious to do much hosting.

She didn’t want to ask what was going on, so she tried to help instead.

“I’m afraid not.” Astra said. “Our access is restricted. However I have looked at a variety of published material about the station and its commercial venues. It has been possible for me to order goods and have them delivered. There is a dizzying variety– it can be overwhelming. I must admit that while the arrangement of such an economy intrigues me intellectually, I genuinely prefer to study quietly in my quarters than to go out and gamble or shop.”

“I see!” Adelheid tried to smile, but this Warlord felt like an utter twerp. Not romantic in the slightest. “Well– how are you enjoying the sweets? Any treats from home you are missing?”

“The cakes are delicious.” Astra quickly replied, idly tapping her spoon on her plate. There were two kinds of cake on the table, a strawberry cream roll cake and a cheesecake. Astra had already devoured a slice of each and had a second slice of cheesecake. “Our sweets back home are never so– fluffy. We tend to have harder or pastier candies and confections.”

“Can you tell me about Katarran candy? I am intrigued.” Adelheid asked.

“Not Katarran candy, Viscountess.” Astra corrected. “Mycenaean candy. While we have a common heritage, the Warlord territories have had many unique cultural developments from one another– we have been separated for over a hundred years now.” Her tone of voice was direct but not harsh. She reminded Adelheid almost of Norn, at times– which might have made some sense considering her supposed lineage. Astra continued. “For example, the Pythian Black Legion of Northern Katarre and Mycenae both share a somewhat hard, flaky pastry known as Bougatsa. In Mycenae, it is eaten with a vanilla and cheese custard– Pythians omit the vanilla and fill it with melted salty cheese. Because the pastry is still buttery and sweet, the Pythian version is rustic and conflicting, but its also simpler and filling. The Mycenaean version is more luxurious. Meanwhile, the Hagian geniocrats fill their Bougatsa with mechanically whipped custard that makes it very airy, moist, almost foaming.”

“Wow! Thank you kindly, milord, I truly know so little about Katarre!” Adelheid said.

Her suck-up voice was thankfully extensively practiced.

Astra nodded her head and took another bite of her cake.

Adelheid could have sworn she saw her horn’s veins light up a bit purple, perhaps with joy.

“Imbrian manufacturing techniques avail themselves time and again it seems.” Astra said.

“I am glad you are enjoying it.” Mia said, finally speaking up.

It was an odd assortment at the table.

Hannah in her deplorable black uniform, Astra in her flashy and heavily decorated military coat, and Adelheid and Mia in more formal dresses. Adelheid wore a black dress with a sheer red half-length cardigan; Mia had on a quarter-length mauve cape over what Adelhed assumed to be a similarly cut dress, perhaps with a halter loop judging by her neck. Her dress was white and just a bit more modest than Adelheid’s high-fashion cocktail wear.

“May I call my servant to the table?” Astra asked.

Mia’s eyes darted to Astra upon hearing her voice. “Hmm? I mean– Yes– of course.”

“Raiza,” Astra called out to the door, for her servant, “come and try some of the cake.”

“Your majesty is far too kind.”

Through the open threshold into the estate, Astra’s Shimii servant and bodyguard crossed onto the balcony in measured, leisurely steps, pausing at the table to stand at her mistress’ side. She was taller than any woman seated at the table and looked almost humorously tall compared to Astra specifically. Yet she had such a demure manner and such a soft and sensual appearance, with her incredible figure, her two fluffy tails, fair skin, and long silvery hair. Adelheid could imagine her bending lustily in some lingerie advertisement.

Adelheid made note of the Mycenaean Shimii woman’s bold and exotic attire.

That gold choker seemed the only thing anchoring that flimsy white dress to her curves.

She thought of acquiring such a dress for herself and wearing it for Norn. Perhaps donning the provocative garb of Norn’s secret homeland would light a fire in her that simple Imbrian aesthetics could not. She might even dare to say, ‘take me like they do in the orient’? Would Norn’s animalistic side awaken then? Even if it did not, it would be fun to see her angry.

“Here. Tell me what you think of it.”

Raiza Sakaraeva bent close and spread her lips. Her ears folded slightly.

Astra brought a piece of cake to her mouth on a spoon and fed her.

“Exquisitely soft and moist. A refined sweetness– not too overpowering. Magnificent.”

A few crumbs were left on Raiza’s lips– Astra wiped them gently with her own fingers.

Raiza then stood back up to her full height. Her tails swayed majestically behind her.

“Do you think you could create something like this?” Astra asked.

“After having a taste– it should not be too difficult with the right ingredients.” Raiza said.

“We will see to it. Thank you Raiza.”

Raiza bowed her head and returned to her position a step inside the estate.

Astra turned to her host. “Thank you for understanding. Raiza is very important to me.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Mia said. “It does not bother us at all. She could come in–”

“No, Raiza is more comfortable guarding the doorway. She should not join us here permanently.” Astra said. “My safety is her most important charge, moreso than any temporary pleasures. She takes it very seriously, and I trust her with my life. I should not make her task any more difficult by continuously distracting her. My selfish moment with the cake was just that– a selfish moment. But thank you for considering her feelings.”

“No problem.” Mia said. She glanced at Adelheid.

Adelheid wracked her brain for something to talk about–

When suddenly, Hannah dropped her phone into the middle of the table.

“Let’s play a game!” Hannah said. Her mouth uncharacteristically bereft of meat or candy and therefore once again capable of speech. Regrettably. “My portable has a game with random icebreaker questions. We can catch up and get to know each other a little better!”

Hannah reached out and touched the screen of her portable to generate the first question.

She smiled and looked expectantly at Mia.

“That is– well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. Madam Astra, do you feel up to it?”

Mia began to speak, cut herself off, and then resumed–

Adelheid wondered what she was about to say before she gave up.

“Depending on the question I will have to refuse, but I am otherwise interested.”

“We’ll go in name order!” Hannah said. “Addy first, then Astra, myself, and Mia.”

Shrugging, Adelheid picked up the portable to see the first question that had popped up.

“‘If you could be an animal, which would you be’? Hannah, is this for twelve year olds?”

“C’mon Addy! Lighten up and play the game!” Hannah said, grinning wide.

Adelheid tried to throw out an answer without thinking about it much–

“I’d be a dog.” She said. She only realized directly after what that might imply.

“That’s kind of cute– though, isn’t it a bit too common?” Mia said, playful yet naïve.

Hannah looked surprised at the answer but also a bit conflicted suddenly.

A woman who called herself another woman’s prize pig could not possibly throw stones!

Astra started openly musing.

“An interesting answer. Looking beneath the surface of such a response, a dog is commonly positioned as servile, but all of its needs are supposed to be met by its owner– the dog gives herself up to the administration of the master in exchange for care and fulfillment without responsibilities. It does seem an idyllic life for the dog, does it not?”

Adelheid shot her a glance and felt embarrassment like roots creeping under her skin.

Did she switch pronouns in the middle of that sentence deliberately?!

“Anyway.” Adelheid said. “Your turn, Astra, please generate a question.”

Astra picked up Hannah’s portable and touched the screen where instructed.

“The question is: ‘If there were 25 hours in a day, how would you spend the extra time?’ One extra hour. I would likely spend it reading, after I had retired to my quarters for the day. Maybe I would spend it with Raiza sometimes– walking through the palace gardens perhaps. An extra hour is honestly more of a burden to think about than a blessing to enjoy.”

A truly droll and dispiriting girl– she had nothing of Norn in her after all.

Astra handed the portable over to Hannah.

“Tappity-tap! ‘What fashion trend would you bring back’? Tunics! We should all throw a toga party sometime– seeing miss Raiza’s dress made me want to look like that too.” Hannah said, tossing her hair and blowing a sultry kiss. Adelheid instinctively turned her head aside.

To think that revolting woman and her had the same idea!

“These questions are very silly.” Astra said.

Her tone of voice betrayed neither anger nor joy.

“That’s what’s fun about it!” Hannah said. She handed her portable to Mia.

Mia tapped on the screen and frozen when the question appeared.

Her gaze became even more evasive than before and she put her fists on her lap.

Hannah laughed. “That’s the face of a girl who’s gotta answer a juicy question!”

“She doesn’t have to do anything. Mia, you don’t have to.” Adelheid said.

“Is it fun for you to pressure others in this way?” Astra asked, staring at Hannah.

“Are you like being rhetorical or what? Of course it’s fun.” Hannah said, shrugging.

“I’ll answer it.” Mia said. She sighed deeply and shut her eyes before explaining. “Okay. ‘Who was your crush in secondary school?’ I don’t want to cause any offense. It was Adelheid– I had a huge crush on Adelheid. I knew it wasn’t okay– but she is just so confident and stylish.”

Hannah burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.

Adelheid was so surprised her mind went completely blank.

“Why is this funny? Childhood friends develop romantic interest all the time.” Astra said. “Raiza, if you will indulge me one final time, could I ask you a question for a game?”

Hannah started to recover from the laughter, and turned her attention to her steaks again–

However, her attention shot from the plate to the door, exactly as Raiza entered through–

With her hands raised and an agitated expression to her face.

And a gun to the nape of the neck.

Astra turned to face her, as did Adelheid, both frozen at the tea table.

Three white-uniformed soldiers with blue star armbands passed through the door, each armed with a large pistol, two with captives. Raiza and a barefoot woman in a hoodie were brought to the balcony at gunpoint. Both were cooperating with their attackers. Alongside the third soldier was Isaiah, who was very clearly not a captive. He walked casually to the table, and the gunman alongside him raised his pistol at Hannah Schach.

“Isaiah!” Mia cried out. “Who are these people? What are you doing to Orlan?”

She stood up suddenly, and for an instant the gunman aimed at her.

Isaiah condescendingly moved the man’s arm to make him aim at Hannah Schach again.

Adelheid caught sight of the gunman’s lips as Isaiah intervened. He seemed aggrieved.

Isaiah was not fully in control of this situation– these were not necessarily his people.

“Mia, come stand over here.” Isaiah said.

“No.” Mia said. In tears, her lips trembling. She stood by Adelheid and did not move. “You’re going to explain this to me. You’re not going to dismiss me again. Explain all of this. Does Madam Kleyn know what you are doing? That you are threatening her diplomatic guests?”

“You and my mother, both, are irrelevant to this.” Isaiah said.

“Irrelevant to what! Talk to me for goodness’ sake! Talk to me for once!” Mia cried out.

Despite the outburst from his fiance, not once did Isaiah look more than mildly annoyed.

“It isn’t necessary for you to know anything. Nor for you to leave that table.” Isaiah said.

The captive girl in the hoodie spoke up– “Mia– do what he says–”

Isaiah waved his hand and the white uniform holding the girl struck her in the head.

Bashing her against her ear with the fist holding the gun and then putting it to her neck.

She bent forward a bit in the captor’s grip, teeth grit and eyes weeping.

“Mind your own business, Orlan.” Isaiah said dismissively.

“Isaiah, no! Stop this!” Mia cried out–

“Mia, just be quiet. Don’t make things more tedious than they have to be.”

That was the last time Isaiah directly addressed his broken-hearted fiance.

Mia stayed by the table, struck dumb by the callousness and cruelty of her fiance.

Throughout this sorry scene, Astra Palaiologos had remained completely composed.

More stone-faced than Isaiah– perhaps as stone-faced as Isaiah wished he could be.

He turned to her next. Speaking to her in more detail than he ever spoke to Mia.

“Madam Palaiologos. The Katarrans are a young race in the lifespan of the world. They have done the Eloim no historical harm that needs to be redressed. I do believe our confrontation on the world stage will arrive someday– but not now. You and your forces may depart peacefully. I only have quarrel with the Volkisch Movement and the Shimii. I apologize for the trouble and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive this offense for now.”

Astra narrowed her eyes at him. She glanced at the captive Raiza with clear discontent.

“Madam Palaiologos–” Hannah Schach spoke up. The gunman’s arm twitched.

Isaiah stared at him as if forbidding the soldier to fire. “Only on my command, damn it.”

“Madam Palaiologos. Five million Reichsmarks. For you to solve this problem for me.”

Hannah Schach spoke simply, smiled anxiously. Hands raised, a gun to her face.

Astra Palaiologos shut her eyes and sighed.

“That price is about right, Madam Schach.”


Murati and Karuniya did not usually awaken together.

Karuniya almost always awakened before Murati and was out of the room by the time she awakened– unless they had sex the night before. In such a case they fell asleep together in the same bed, and in the morning Karuniya extracted herself from Murati’s arms, waking her in the process. She would give the drowsy Murati a kiss, dress herself and go on her way. Murati would lay in bed for a few minutes more, grumbling, and then rise.

“Love you, Murati. Good luck with today! I’ll be in the lab as usual!”

“Love you too. I’ll see you later.”

It was 0700 and her go-getter wife was out the door to work.

It took until 0730 for Murati to finally rise out of bed.

She grabbed hold of her plastic bath robe from the wall closet and walked out wearing it.

In the shower, Murati hung up her robe and found a pair of robes already on the hooks. Her gaze wandered slowly to her left, and she saw Semyonova and Fatima standing under the hot misty water in adjacent showers. Judging by the ambient temperature of the shower area they must have begun recently. Murati took her place beside them and turned on the hot water herself, kicking up a bit more mist. The pair greeted her, and she smiled back warmly.

“Good morning, Murati!” Semyonova said. “Ready for another day as Captain?”

“Good morning! Ah– this will be her last day as Acting Captain, won’t it?” Fatima asked.

“It’s the final day of the United Front’s deliberations, so I believe so!” Semyonova said.

“Ah– sorry to be so nosy, Acting Captain.” Fatima said, ears folding a bit.

“Good morning! No need to apologize Fatima, as far as I know you are completely right.” Murati said. “Captain Korabiskaya should not be indisposed again after today.”

“Would you like a horoscope for your last day as Acting Captain?” Semyonova said.

“I would rather find out for myself what the future holds.” Murati replied.

Semyonova reached for one of the dispensers of soap on the wall and a splash of gel landed on her palm which she began to run through her blond hair. Fatima washed her face, while her ears periodically flicked rapidly and cast a spray of droplets. Due to all the new guests, Semyonova and Fatima had been roomed together. Murati thought them an unlikely pair– Semyonova was the bubbly and beloved idol of the Brigand, like their own pretty pop star on the comms, while Fatima was seen as a bit reserved and kept to herself. Fatima was notably pious even among the Shimii crew, and Semyonova had a fixation with the occult, ghost stories, astrology, fortune telling and magic tricks, all of which a Shimii should not get involved with. However they worked together well on the bridge at least–

“Fatima, do you need help washing your tail?”

“Not today. Thank you. I’m sorry for seeking your assistance with it.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine. I have trouble washing my back, I can’t imagine having to reach for the base of a tail in addition to that. Maybe I’ll lobby the captain for some bathroom brushes.”

“Ah– but if we get brushes, Natalia, then I won’t get to ask you to clean my tail!”

Fatima and Semyonova exchanged smiles and laughed together under the water.

Murati glanced aside at them quizzically.

They seemed to be getting along.

For the most part, Murati tended to not interact with whoever she was bathing with.

She spoke if spoken to, but otherwise she just spaced out in the shower.

However, it was rare for her to find herself in the same bathroom as the women considered the prettiest on the Brigand. It brought to mind how Murati was considered a ‘prince’ by the gossipy sailors and her thoughts and gaze began to wander about. Compared to the two of them, particularly Semyonova’s quite curvy and plump frame, Murati could not help but consider whether she was perhaps a bit too thin. Minardo did get on her case for not eating well enough. Was this the reason she was ‘prince-like’ perhaps? Fatima’s hair was really long too– would Murati become a ‘princess’ if she grew her hair out? Her mind drifted around in such directions during the largely automatic actions involved in bathing herself.

“Ah, Murati, before I forget–”

Semyonova called her attention again and Murati turned a bit sluggishly to face her again.

Her mind unwound itself from its travels and returned to the present.

“You’re doing a fantastic job as Captain!” Semyonova said suddenly. Murati, at first stone-faced, smiled in return. “I know it must be stressful having to manage that much stuff Murati– I used to work communications on a Frigate that had half the crew and space as the Brigand and even that frayed the captain’s nerves a lot of the time. But you have been cool as a cucumber the whole time! I think everyone is happy with the job you’ve done.”

Since she had been complimented, Murati’s mind fished for a compliment in return–

“Thank you kindly. I can’t praise myself much since we haven’t been out at sea, but I appreciate the vote of confidence. I wanted to say also, it seems like you are getting up much earlier now! Your initiative is not unseen, and we all appreciate the extra effort you put in!”

Semyonova turned a bit red and froze up. She looked surprised at Murati.

Was this that effect Minardo had said she had on others?

She started mumbling and Murati could barely hear nor understand what she was saying.

“Ah, yes, well– Thank you I’ve– I’m not oversleeping– Actually I’ve never overslept– nor have I ever ran out in my pajamas in a panic– I have a great handle on my sleep nowadays–”

“Hmm?” Murati did not know whether she had offended her in some way–

“Ah– sorry, I’m an early riser, so she oriented her schedule around me.” Fatima said.

Semyonova turned to Fatima with a helpless expression.

Fatima giggled and splashed some water at her.

Murati still did not quite understand. “That is quite comradely. I am glad for you two.”

Eventually, Semyonova recomposed herself but did not speak for the rest of the shower.

“I’ll see you all on the Bridge. I have to do a few rounds first and find Aatto.” Murati said.

“Aye aye, Acting Captain!” both Semyonova and Fatima saluted, splashing water.

Murati transitioned from the shower to her room, and from her robe to her uniform.

She looked herself in the mirror. Her hair really was starting to dip below the shoulder.

Maybe she would let it grow longer and see what people thought about it.

Once she was ready, Murati laid her hand on the wall to engage the ship computer.

Scanning the ship access logs she knew that Aatto had left her room. She was probably in the hangar, as she did not usually take to the bridge alone unless ordered to do so. Murati left her room and took the hall to the elevator, in order to take the elevator down into the hangar. Along the way, she looked into the cafeteria, feeling peckish.

Breakfast was already served– Minardo was usually up in the early shift. By 0800 she already had the first batch of bread baked and the morning entrée already served.

When Murati peeked in, Minardo spotted her and waved from the counter.

“Murati! Good morning! We’ve got a bit of fusion today– gazpacho with dippable blini!”

“Can I get some to go?” Murati said, approaching. There were few people in the cafeteria.

“Of course! Rising with the sun today, Acting Captain? Head start on all the work?”

She was acting like Murati was never around in the mornings.

0900 was not so long after 0800! She took a minor umbrage at the insinuation.

“It’s not that much earlier than usual.” Murati said.

Minardo had a bit of a laugh at her expense while passing her a cup of gazpacho and a warm blin folded into a tube and wrapped in plastic foil. Murati thanked her and got back on her way. She ate on the way to the hangar, and was surprised by the gazpacho. The kick of the pulsed raw aliums was almost as powerful as having chilis in the mix. It was deliciously savory for a bunch of blended-up vegetables– truly Minardo had done it again.

She dipped the blin in the soup and ate that way to reduce the pungency.

Out in the hangar, the mechanics were already working, running the morning inspections.

Even though none of the machines had been used, and all repairs were completed, they still inspected them every morning without fail. When it came to the equipment and maintenance, any amount of neglience could mean certain death. Murati waved at the hangar mechanics and crew and found Aatto in her black Commissar-like uniform standing under the Agni. Tigris was with her, and Murati felt a pang of anxiety.

She hoped that Aatto was not bothering the mechanics.

However, Tigris was all smiles and Aatto looked to be entirely calm.

Only becoming excited and wagging her tail rapidly at the sight of Murati.

“Good morning, Master!” Aatto said. “How did you sleep?”

Murati sighed internally– it was a lost cause. She would have to get used to being ‘master’.

“Good morning Aatto. I slept quite well, thank you. Good morning, Tigris.”

Tigris put her hands on her hips, puffed out her chest and grinned.

“Good morning! Feast your eyes! At my latest masterpiece!”

She pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the Agni.

Murati raised her eyes up.

When they acquired the Agni it was just a bit taller than their other Divers and thickly armored, which made it slower but more resilient. It had been designed to operate in the Deep Abyss, within the Gorges, and to engage in the collection of scientific data and samples. It was equipped with a variety of gear but was less capable as a weapon– its greatest virtue was the HELIOS drone-based imaging network developed in part by her parents. Tigris had obliquely hinted at a “Tigris Pack 1” to up-arm the Agni– Murati had not known what to expect and been too busy to keep up with Tigris’ work.

However–

“Why is it blue and yellow? The blue is so dark– and the yellow stripe is really gaudy.”

“What do you mean? It’s a super cool shade of blue and a super cool yellow stripe!”

“Uh huh.”

“I think it suits Master quite well!”

Despite her slight misgivings about it aesthetically, there had been noticeable changes that intrigued Murati. The chassis had been very slightly widened, which might improve the weight balance with the shoulder-mounted drone nests. Some of the armor had been omitted, giving the machine a slightly svelte appearance, but the cockpit had been redesigned to have sharper front angles. This made it much less likely that a round would detonate on a flat surface. On the rear, two of the backpack jets had been moved out, lengthened, and anchored to the upper back, just below where the “nape” of an actual human being was located. They could not swivel as much as the backpack, but at first glance seemed able to process much more water through the turbines.

“Don’t those stick out a bit much?” Murati asked, pointing her soup cup at the hydrojets.

“It’s a risk, but I think it’s a worthwhile risk!” Tigris said. “Everyone has been too conservative with the jets, hiding them in the backpack, both the Union and the Empire. But you will run out of room for small jets, we can’t have eight or ten back there–the design space has to move into bigger jets. I’ve been thinking for a while about machines moved by two large jets– like the pictures of the surface era ‘jet fighter’ that Yangtze used to obsess about.”

Due to the extraction of the bigger jets from the backpack to a direct back-mount, there was some loss of fine maneuverability that Tigris compensated for adding a few additional fin surfaces including a middle of the packpack “shark fin” control surface. She pointed out that all of the fins were now fully retractable into the hull when moving forward at full speed, reducing water drag. Due to the installation of Union-style hands, the Agni was completely compatible with all Union Diver weapons, while retaining the arm-mounted grenade launcher and its jet anchors. Overall it looked potent and aggressive.

“Well– I can only praise it, I think. Praise it and hope not to have to use it.” Murati said.

Tigris began twirling a pen in her hand with a smug grin. “Haha!”

Aatto clapped her hands thrice. “With this weapon, Master will surely defeat any enemy!”

“Aatto, what do you think? You were here before me– did you inspect it?” Murati asked.

“I did inspect it!” Aatto said cheerfully. “I think the combat performance has improved on all fronts. The previous model needed its armor density to enhance durability in the depths– but for our purposes, the current armor package is much better optimized. Higher speed performance matters much more to us. Now it’s using more Union parts too, so it’ll be easier to maintain. All of its weaponry is already known to Master– madam Tigris did well!”

“Thank you Aatto.” Murati said. “I appreciate you getting ahead of that for me.”

“Thanks, but stop with the madam already, I am just Tigris. By the way, while this gal was here, I let her into the cockpit.” Tigris said. She pointed at Aatto with the pen she was holding. Aatto continued smiling plainly. “And I was surprised because the homunculus was tuned to your brainwaves, Murati– but she actually got a reaction out of it.”

“What does all of that mean?” Murati said, dreading the answer.

“It means she can pilot the Agni with you if Maharapratham is indisposed.” Tigris said.

Aatto’s ears perked up, but her expression did not change.

“Okay. I’ll– take it under advisement.” Murati said.

She looked at Aatto, and Aatto wiggled her ears a bit. Remarkably self-controlled.

Then Murati noticed some motion off to the side of the Agni’s leg.

When she looked, there was a disc-shaped figure about the size of a coffee table standing on multiple silvery steel legs. There were intakes on its body for two small hydrojets and fins on its upper surface. On the LCD panel in front of the disc, there were digits that seemed to suggest a pictograph, like the smileys sent in BBSes. In this case, the face was rendered as “>w<” and made the object look mildly distressed. The fins looked like its ears– it resembled a moderate-size creature with a disc-like but somewhat cute body. Murati stared at it, and it seemed to hide just a bit further behind the Agni’s leg as a result of the attention.

It was one of the HELIOS drones– outside of its enclosure.

“What are you staring at?” Tigris looked behind herself and frowned at the sight of the drone. In turn the drone made a “O_O” face on its display when spotted. “God damn it. I tweaked their survival programming to make them get out of the way of battle more efficiently– but now this one’s roaming around the hangar terrified and being a nuisance. But none of the other ones do it! So what the hell is wrong with this one?!”

“I don’t know what to say to that. Just get them under control.” Murati replied dryly.

“Perhaps this little guy has a different prompt. All of our computing is based on predictive programming, so maybe each member of the formation was uniquely trained.” Aatto said.

“Well– I didn’t do the initial programming, so I have no idea about that. This thing is just part of the HELIOS network– so that was all Murati’s parents and Ganges. But the tweaks I made, I made to the network and its routines, not to any one of these stupid little things!”

“I’ll ask Zachikova to access it and send it back to the nest when she gets on.” Murati said.

Tigris sighed. She shot an angry glare back at the HELIOS drone. It then took off running.

After that episode, Murati and Aatto left the side of the Agni and made their way back up.

“Master, just so you know, we are a bit low on personnel.” Aatto said. “Yesterday half of the pilots participated in a Shimii festival in the Wohnbezirk and received permission to stay the night from the captain. They have yet to return. Also, before she left, Captain Korabiskaya gave permission for Valya Lebedova to temporarily leave the ship as well for a walk.”

“Then our only pilot is Shalikova? Can we get her woken up and on standby?” Murati said.

“Absolutely. I will have the security team knock on her door.” Aatto said.

“Thank you.” Murati said.

She felt an initial moment of disquiet at being largely deprived of her Diver squad– however, she expected this would be an ordinary and peaceful day like all of the ones before. It was highly unlikely for anything to happen that might involve them. And even if there was an issue, it was unlikely to be so urgent as to obviate simply recalling their pilots to the Brigand. They were docked and protected in a major commercial port with the dock workers on their side, an official alibi, and no reason for anyone to come looking for them specifically.

“Aatto, I don’t like that so much of the team is gone.” Murati confessed.

“I agree.” Aatto said. “We should always have at least a two-man unit available.”

“I’ll talk to Semyonova about putting that rule before the Officer’s Union.” Murati said.

It would probably annoy the pilots, but this should not have been acceptable.

“That being said, I am sure they will awaken and return soon. Those were the terms given to them by the captain.” Aatto said. “So in an hour or two everything will be well.”

“How much can go wrong in an hour or two?” Murati said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Everything– but for us, probably nothing.” Aatto said, mimicking the shoulder shrug.

When they stepped back into the bridge, they found Evgenya Akulantova in the Captain’s chair, clearly a bit uncomfortable with the amount of legroom at the station. It was a rare pitiable moment for the formidable “Chief Shark” of the security team, who was in line for command behind Murati. Nevertheless, Akulantova smiled, waved, and vacated the chair readily as if she had been waiting for anyone to take it off her hands. Murati and Aatto let her through to the threshold and reassigned her to her usual duty.

“Should we get that adjusted?” Murati asked her, pointing at the chair.

Akulantova shook her head. “If it ever falls to me permanently, I’ll just disband the unit.”

Murati did not appreciate the humor of that but said nothing and let the Chief on her way.

She knew the Chief did not mean such a thing.

Murati had known quite a few Union-born Pelagis as well as Katarrans in the Union and they all seemed to enjoy a somewhat sarcastic demeanor. But in each case their commitment to communism was some of the strongest she had ever seen. Murati greatly respected them– and Katarrans fascinated her a bit– so she tempered her petty automatic responses.

When she took her seat, she found only Semyonova and Fatima at their stations.

Of course, it was only around 0850 or so– too early for the late shifters to come back.

“Captain on bridge!” Semyonova declared playfully to the empty bridge.

“That’s my line.” Aatto said, sounding just a little bit defensive.

Semyonova giggled and Fatima shook her head a bit as if to note her disapproval.

They were not alone for long.

At around 0915 Zachikova walked in through the door and Arabella followed behind her. Zachikova sat down at her station beside Fatima and put down a portable computer she had been carrying on the desk surface. Arabella walked a few more steps to the side of the electronic warfare station and sat down on the floor with her back to it. This was against the safety regulations, but it was a common allowance that Captain Korabiskaya let the two of them have. So despite Murati’s own misgivings she allowed Arabella to sit there.

After all, Zachikova was one of the most important members of the bridge crew.

In terms of mission value and efficiency, her skills were unique and irreplaceable.

“Good morning, Acting Captain.” Zachikova said. “Any tasks for me?”

Turning a gloomy expression on Murati, waving half-heartedly, black bags under her eyes.

“Yes, there’s a HELIOS drone making a scene in the hangar. Coax it back into the Agni.”

“Huh. That’s pretty weird. I guess I’ll give the naughty guy a spank then.”

Zachikova laid her hands on the desk surface and took in a breath.

Her eyes became cloudy, and the LEDs on her ear equipment began to blink rapidly.

An empty gaze fixed on her station, a vacant body sitting slightly limp.

“Semyonova, main screen hangar camera nine.” Murati ordered.

“Right away!” Semyonova said cheerfully.

In front of them the large main screen filled with live video from a camera situated near the middle section of the ship’s lower deck. On the video, the HELIOS drone which had been previously running wantonly about suddenly stopped. A few mechanics who had been chasing it paused around it. On its front LCD, the pixels once used to form smileys now formed the word “PWNED” and the drone wandered hazily back to the Agni. It climbed onto the leg, hopped on the shoulder and slotted itself dutifully inside the drone housing.

Once the shoulder slot was shut tight behind the drone, Zachikova’s eyes regained color.

Half-turning on her seat, she grinned and gave a thumbs up.

Murati gave her a thumbs up back.

With the excitement now over, they resumed the routine for these ‘Acting Captain’ days.

“Semyonova, main screen interactive station model, and captive cameras 110, 205, 315.”

Zachikova had managed to find hundreds of unsecured cameras throughout the station that had fallen prey to her uniquely gifted cyber sleuthing. They were able to watch those video feeds at any time and most were live at all hours, including some very useful ceiling cameras operated by the station climate control service. These were the cameras Murati requested, along with the interactive model of the entire station. Murati liked to have the model on the main screen, as the wealth of live-updating data gave her some comfort.

As soon as the model appeared on screen and fully updated with the live data, Murati could see at any time how many people were moving about the station, where traffic was flowing, as heat maps and path predictions. They had marked the positions and rotations of Uhlan guards, and could track their activity near the Volkisch Gau, and the Oststadt where the United Front was meeting, and other locations of interest. With the model up, the heat maps displaying and everything up to the minute, Murati finally laid back in her chair.

Her eyes briefly glanced over the model every so often out of curiosity, but her anxiety was stabilized by the knowledge that she had so much data at her fingertips. Information was power, and intelligence positions defined so many battles that she had directly experienced and many that she had only read about. With the model, she was confident in her ability to respond to anything that might happen. She had an informational coup on the Uhlans.

In one of her glances, however, she noticed a lot of heat mapped in the second tier.

“Zachikova, can you find any information on why the Uhlan are gathering so tightly?”

They were practically leaving every post on the first and third tier unguarded.

This was unprecedented in terms of the patrol routes they had mapped.

Zachikova began to type into her station keyboard, looking for information manually.

“Aside from a few scouts and technicians here and there,” Zachikova began, having found information on the open web, “it seems the Uhlan are being called to their HQ for a snap audit. There was a clause for this set in their contract negotiation apparently– the station wants to review their budget. So they have to assemble and turn in their gear. Rhineametalle apparently instructed them to comply with all of the provisions of the audit.”

“Is the station’s business that important to them?” Murati asked.

“As a matter of fact, Master, it is invaluable.” Aatto said. “Shall I expound?”

“Please do.” Murati said.

“You see, the Imbrium’s military development has gone through certain stages– it was all founded on the personal armies of the nobles who followed Emperor Nocht, but over time, these shrank into essentially personal and property guards.” Aatto said.

Murati knew some of this history, but she wanted to see where Aatto took the story.

“After that, Ducal forces acting as divisions of a combined Imbrium-spanning Imperial Navy force rose to prominence, nominally obedient to the Naval HQ. Then there was the liberalization within the Fueller Reformation that allowed the Duchies to organize some of their own defenses. Since the liberalization, Rhinea stressed its independence. They had more trust in for-profit, private sector entities than in Imperial officials.” Aatto said.

That makes sense, Murati thought.

Rhinean stations were immediately different than Serrano in how much the corporations and their goods were sold, advertised and relied on in every inch of the stations. Everything in Rhinea was different– they had handheld computers and screens flashing at them in every direction. It made sense that their defense would also be different– and for-profit.

Aatto continued. “Corporations and stations in Rhinea began employing Katarrans, or Loup Grey Wolves, or some other private security forces, and using them in place of Imperial police. This is where Kreuzung’s K.P.S.D arose, for example. It is also where Rhineametalle founded its three security divisions– one division guarded Rhineametalle structures, the second guarded the corporation’s raw materials logistics, and the third division was the Uhlans, who were meant to be a for-profit security venture contracted to other Stations. Rhineametalle wanted to build and keep a large personal security force to both test its weapons and to insure its self-sufficiency if another Imperial crisis arose.”

“But they don’t want to pay too much for it.” Murati said, predicting what Aatto might say next. “So the Uhlankorp have to secure external profits, and the other two divisions are just doing jobs that Rhineametalle would have had to pay a third party to do anyway.”

“Exactly, master. But there is more– the rise of the Volkisch Movement to power in Rhinea upset the stage for these private forces. You must have read about how the K.P.S.D. treated the Stabswache in Kreuzung– they came to blows over security concerns frequently. The K.P.S.D had to continue to assert their value to protect their pfennigs even as the world changed. The Volkisch are immensely far removed from the liberal promises of the Fueller Reformation. They want complete security control over every square centimeter of Rhinea. Now, the Uhlans are part of Rhineametalle, who in turn are in bed with the Volkisch through Violet Lehner. So they do not have to worry about bodily harm coming from the Stabswache– but they must still worry about being made redundant.”

“This sounds ridiculous. How much money could all of this possibly make?” Murati asked.

“Security forces are incredibly overvalued in the Imbrium master!” Aatto said. “With all of the chaos and all the violent ideological actors at play– it’s an extension of why there is such a culture of mercenary and militia work in the Imbrium. The Uhlans make great money for their parent corporation. Crime in Rhinea had been at record lows, but the demand for security forces is irrational– it doesn’t matter what the statistics say. Rhineametalle got to set the price, and even after this audit, they can expect to make a great profit, or they would not be bothering with the whole thing. So the Uhlans just have to go along with it.”

Murati crossed her arms. It made perfect sense, and it was eloquently described.

“Imbria is a bizarre place. Thank you, Aatto. I’ve truly learned something today.”

Aatto beamed with unbridled joy, her tail thumping rapidly against the seat.

“Any time, Master! I live only to improve the quality of my service to you!”

“Let’s– not get too carried away–” Murati said, trying to shush her down.

Semyonova snickered in the background of this display of servile affection.

Fatima shook her head.

Zachikova groaned audibly, not caring if Murati heard her displeasure.

“All of this means the Uhlans will be out of our way today.” Murati said, settling back down against her chair. “Let’s keep an eye on the second tier just to be sure we see when they start streaming back to their posts. We can inform the captain to avoid them.”

“Will do.” Zachikova said, turning a bored expression back to her station.

Murati brought the arm-mounted monitor on the captain’s chair to the front and closer to her, with a mind to check the maintenance logs and make sure nothing was neglected– however, mere minutes later Zachikova called for her attention.

Mildly startled, Murati pushed away the monitor and stood.

“Acting Captain, I found something quite strange.” Zachikova said.

“Anything you can display on the model?” Murati said.

“I’m trying to find a working camera of some kind around there.” Zachikova said. “There was a shock in the second tier maintenance hull, near where the core station meets the Aachen Massif. Flood mitigation went off and that section of the hull was completely sealed off.”

“How serious is it? Is the station taking any kind of action about it?” Murati asked.

“The station computer reported it, but there’s been no acknowledgment.” Zachikova said.

“Perhaps it’s not dangerous. Have you found a camera out there?” Murati said.

As callous as it would sound to say out loud, the health of Aachen station was not their particular concern. Anything that threatened the lives of their personnel was their problem, but if the station underwent a failure, that was up to the station to respond to– they could not risk their mission to intervene in a search-and-rescue mission. They were a combat vessel, too, not equipped for heavy-duty engineering. If the maintenance hull was failing, Murati’s concern was whether they needed to evacuate and when.

Zachikova’s far-gone eyes stared into the middle distance for a moment.

Her consciousness was fully committed to a different “device” than her own body.

When she began to speak, she was still half-slumped over her station, eyes glassy.

“I found a salinity buoy with a camera. It doesn’t look too good, but we can use it.”

Her voice sounded distant and a bit weak, when her mind was committed as it was.

“Put it on the screen.”

Overlayed over the model of the station and the other camera feeds, a temporary square window appeared with a brand new camera feed. Drifting up and down on a line along with the vagaries of the deep currents, the buoy had a rotating camera with a limited angle and a few different visualization modes. It was difficult to tell what it was looking at in the moment– Murati could just barely make out the rock wall of the Aachen massif, and the edge of a steel structure. Everything else was marine fog. Nothing seemed to be happening.

“I was able to access previously recorded images and I found something interesting.”

Zachikova cut the live video feed and replaced it with a few static images.

Mini Zachikova appeared on the screen, pointing her little club hand at one of them.

“Oh! It’s the cute little Braya!” Arabella said, pointing at the screen cheerfully.

“This buoy saves still images for backup as a trio, with a spectograph and a thermograph along with a normal picture. Acting Captain, look at these snaps and compare the two.” The cute little Zachikova on the screen smacked her little hands on the images and they zoomed in further. Her voice was much sharper when it came out of the sound system.

On the live image there was a white flash captured in the corner.

In the thermographic image, the source of this flash was intensely hot.

“An explosion?” Murati said. “Did someone try to breach the station?”

“Judging from the station blueprint, this location has an emergency hatch.” Zachikova said. “Someone might have tried to blow open the hatch to enter the maintenance hull. But it’s a stupid plan– blowing open the hatch will just set off the flood mitigation. If you want to break into the station this way, you need a ship to prevent a pressure incident.”

“Zachikova, run those two images through the predictor and tell it to look for more steel structures within the image.” Murati said. “We might just find our ship inside the mess.”

Sure enough– once the computer processed the images, there was an outline of a ship.

Or at least– there was a large steel structure now adjacent to the station.

“It could be hallucinating.” Zachikova said. “However, it fits pretty well.”

She sharpened the outlines on the processed image manually.

To Murati it truly looked as if the explosion happened at the end of a boarding chute.

“How often does the buoy take pictures?”

“It takes more when there is activity– one second and I will run them as a sequence.”

Once the computer was through processing the sequence of snaps from the buoy–

There was an indication of an explosion, and then a violent scattering of metal.

“Can you query the station supercomputer? Is the station responding at all?” Murati asked.

“One moment.”

On the screen, the mini-Zachikova crossed her arms.

“Arabella, could you adjust my body, so I am up against the desk? I’m uncomfortable.”

“Of course Braya!”

Arabelle got up from the floor and laid Zachikova’s head on her arms, leaned over the desk.

There was something a bit strange about watching her tenderly relocating Zachikova’s half-limp and dead-eyed body– knowing that the mind meant for it was active elsewhere.

“Thank you.” Mini Zachikova turned to face Murati. “Murati, something is wrong here. The Station supercomputer has not acknowledged any responses to this breach. Aside from the automatic deployment of flood mitigation, it’s like the computer doesn’t have permission to do anything about it. No alarms, no emergency services sent to the maintenance hull. Even if the flood mitigation managed to take care of everything, the breach cannot be left like that forever. Either everyone is sleeping on this problem, or the computer’s lost authority.”

Murati felt her heart begin to pound. Something was wrong– and she was missing crew.

“Can you explain the loss of authority? Is this like the Core Separation?” She asked.

“No, the computer is still functioning. Anything it was already monitoring, or anything that is set up to happen automatically, will continue to work. The Station systems will not suddenly stop working. But any new authorizations to the computer are not being answered. So for example, if someone in the government sector noticed these events, they can’t declare an alarm state now. They also cannot open any new communications channels.”

“Who has authority then?” Murati asked. “Can we find out what is really happening?”

“I’m not sure. There are a few ways– It is possible to delegate computing authority to an emergency unit working as a decentralized processor.” Zachikova said. “It is used in case of emergencies or disasters or if the station needs to reprogram the supercomputer’s security processor, which is the main thing handling requests at the station-level. Essentially, a smaller supercomputer with all the security programming handles the requests using the supercomputer’s memory banks and subordinate cores– like a brain moving someone else’s muscles. Other than that, I guess you could subvert the security processor, but this is very difficult. If authority isn’t delegated cleanly it locks down and sounds an alarm. To avoid this you would need both physical access and current leadership credentials.”

Murati felt fear like an infinite spiraling chain wrapping around her skull and heart.

“And if someone has everything they need, they can just silently take over the station.”

She had heard enough now– with the timing of the Uhlan audit, something was going on.

Panic was unproductive, but her hands had begun shaking as she gripped the seat.

“Semyonova, alert code Semyon! I want everyone in positions right now!” Murati said.

“Yes, Captain!” Semyonova said, with none of the cheer she had previously shown. She opened a channel and in a calm, speaking voice, called all of the crew to duty “Semyon.” This was the highest level of alert, indicating that combat was inevitable and imminent. Everyone had to rush to their duties and begin work immediately. While the current situation did not entail combat yet, Murati would rather have everyone rush to alert Semyon just in case.

“Aatto, is Shalikova ready?” Murati asked.

“She is in the hangar and awaiting orders, master.” Aatto said.

Unlike everyone else, there was no sign of anxiety on her face. She was eerily calm.

Perhaps the one strength a person with no regard for her own life could have.

She had been working diligently and without distraction this entire time.

“Have the Cheka prepared. If I give the order, I want Shalikova ready to launch!” Murati said.

“Acknowledged! Leave the hangar to me.” Aatto said.

Overhead, the red flashing alarm lights soundlessly indicated the alert state.

Within five minutes, every sailor on the ship was up and had taken their respective positions. Unnecessary pods were sealed off. Vitamin drinks and energy bar rations were handed to each sailor and pilot. Doctor Kappel had set up her medical station, and security unlocked their weapons. Alex Geninov and Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa rushed to their stations, and they were even fully dressed. Helmsman Kamarik took his position quickly after.

“Zachikova, send all information and our conclusions to the Rostock and John Brown. Tell the Rostock to get in touch with Kalika Loukia to bring all personnel back from the Wohnbezirk.” Murati ordered. “Semyonova, contact the Captain, Commissar and Premier and inform them about the situation. Tell them to begin to retreat along the predetermined route.”

“Yes, Acting Captain!” Both Zachikova and Semyonova set to work immediately.

Everything was in motion. Murati tried to calm her pounding chest.

Regardless of the outcome, she was doing everything she could do now.

She was meeting the task head-on– all she had to do was keep a cool head and–

“Murati,” Semyonova spoke suddenly in a low whisper, broken by her ragged breathing, calling her by name, “Murati, I’m afraid– I’m– no response. The Captain and Commissar are not responding, Murati. I will keep trying– but nobody is picking up at the Oststadt–!”

Murati’s heart sank.

Her eyes and head grew hazy– and her hands shook all the worse.

For seconds that felt like years she sat frozen still until the cameras caught something–


One attempt to take advantage of the Uhlan’s audit failed before it even started.

However, its engineered failure assured the success of a parallel attempt.

Throughout the morning the Uhlan guards filed into the second tier of the station.

Across the park, their barracks were divided by a wire fence from the street. A meager defense that was largely unnecessary since the bulkheads into the barracks buildings and armory would prevent any casual incursion by themselves. Behind this fence, the Uhlans stood in their sandy yard in their orderly ranks, turning over their personal weapons for inspection, stripping off their body armor and nanomail hats, their vibrobatons and sabres, their grenades. Standing at attention along with their officers. Auditors called the roll, meticulously accounting for each person, their identification and their gear.

Inside the armory building there was a similar accounting. Every locker was opened, every storage container exposed, each individual item down to the last rifle, the last ammunition belt, disposable rocket tubes and each of the rockets contained inside. Manually hand counted and double checked by a second hand. Aachen’s administration wanted a thorough audit and they would receive one. Every last pfennig of what they paid and got away with would be tabulated. Every last hand of the Uhlan would be engaged in the work.

All of this activity played into the hands of those who had been watching.

Mid-morning, across the park from the Uhlan barracks–

Multiple individuals in fireproof hooded jackets rushed to the edge of the trees.

Each carrying a large backpack perhaps at one point meant for a musical instrument.

They dropped to their knees for a second set of individuals to unzip their cargo.

Supported on their backs were launch rails concealed in the packs.

As soon as they were unzipped, and the rails were raised, drones already hooked onto each unfurled their wings. Before the audiences in the cafes and sitting around the trees could barely gasp at what they saw, they were quieted by a series of loud hissing launches. Hot gray contrails filled the air over the beautiful canopies of the second tier’s trees.

Suicide drones sailed over the park and within moments they had flown over the fence–

and crashed among the assembled Uhlans.

Each drone was relatively small– each warhead was improvised from one or two grenades.

Dozens hurtled into the Uhlan yard causing immediate pandemonium.

Striking in and around and between every column of the assembled personnel.

Successive detonations sent torsos flying from limbs, turned standing men and women into thick mist and thin fluid, blew apart pistols and ripped up long lines of body armor set on the floor. Flying and falling and rushing bodies struck each other dumb. Thin grey smoke and upturned clouds of sand blew up from the yard and hid the carnage from the eyes of anyone outside. There was screaming and the reek of iron and steel and passersby ran in every direction from the attack unknowing of whether there would be a second one for them.

Hundreds of Uhlan guards and officers were killed or cast among the gore awaiting death.

For the attackers, there was no pause. Drawing handguns and grenades, they rushed in.

Those hooded operatives soon joined by pristine white uniforms disciplined in execution.


The bridge crew of the Brigand caught sight of the attack immediately as it happened.

Watching the sheer bedlam unfold as perhaps the first to understand the magnitude of it. From ceiling camera 205, they saw the drones rushing over the trees in their dozens and saw the Uhlan yard, once filled with people, disappear in a curtain of smoke, sand and blood. They saw the civilians fleeing without direction and saw gunmen begin to approach and probe the fences. The remaining living Uhlan could hardly resist their executioners.

For a moment, the carnage almost caused Murati Nakara to feel a faint hope.

Was this an uprising of the People (her People, communist People) in Aachen?

Who else would kill the Uhlan but a revolutionary force?

However– if it was that, she might have heard of something of it before–

And might have heard back from her superiors–

“That wasn’t all of the Uhlan.” Zachikova said. “There are still a few scouts and technicians scattered around the station. I’m seeing signs of them trying to report in. But it was most of them. Whoever has this capability, they won’t have any trouble finishing the job.”

Those sudden scenes of raging battle had distracted Murati from Semyonova’s ominous discovery– as much as she tried, she could not get ahold of the Premier, Captain or Commissar. All of whom should have had encrypted communicators.

All of whom should have been reachable.

There was no holding her breath on that any longer.

Already, she had faltered by hesitating and felt ashamed for her weakness.

Through her thundering heart and throbbing sinews she had to remain in command.

“Zachikova, run a spectrum analysis when Semyonova tries to reach out to our officers. We need to know if there’s even the slightest evidence of jamming.” Murati said. “And– get a camera up that has a good look at the bar Oststadt. This situation is our utmost priority right now. We can forget what about what the Uhlans are going through for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Zachikova said.

For a moment the mini-Zachikova sat on the edge of the screen looked deep in thought.

Zachikova’s physical body twitched slightly with the effort.

“Wait, what’s happening– to what officers–?” Geninov asked from the torpedo station.

“Be quiet, Geninov, please.” Murati said, almost pained to have to say so.

Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa exchanged a worried glance with her station-neighbor.

Both seemed to understand the urgency of the moment and did not push back.

“Semyonova, tell Illya and Valeriya to gear up and come to the bridge.” Murati said.

“Yes, Acting– Yes, Captain.” Semyonova said. Replying to her through tears.

Murati almost wished she hadn’t corrected herself.

On the main screen there was a brief flash as camera 205 swapped with camera 328.

From a high angle, looking down from the right, the camera had a view of some of the glass façade of the “oriental bar” the United Front has chosen as its venue. Murati’s unblinking eyes caught motion and everyone on the bridge turned to see– there was shattered glass spilled on the floor outside of the Oststadt and someone was dragging a body with them. There was distant, tinny sound being caught by camera 328–

“Gunshots! Sharpen the image! Identify those people!” Murati called out.

“I’m trying! The camera is shit and the computer is being slow!” Zachikova said.

On the screen the image sharpened, losing some fine detail but filling out the figures better.

Both the woman dragging, and the woman being dragged out of the venue–

Had white uniforms and handguns.

Someone from inside the venue was shooting at them!

The dragging woman desperately shot back as she pulled the other out of the door.

Sporadic gunfire struck the floor near her. She ducked around the corner of the facade.

Her companion was bleeding heavily– her white uniform was stained dark.

With the computer prediction of what the video feed should look like, their uniform details went in and out of focus, but in some parts of the footage they had armbands with an indiscernible symbol on them. Neither of them had cat’s ears, or horns, or tails, and they were clearly not dressed like anyone they knew. This was an unknown faction.

Had there been an attack on the venue? Was the Captain fighting back?

“Can’t identify. It’s not anyone we’ve ever seen.” Zachikova said, sighing with relief.

Murati felt twisted between elation and terror. Her eye developed a small spasm.

She did not see Captain Korabiskaya dying in front of her on video–

but it was yet to be determined whether she would see her alive–

“Spectrum analysis– the computer is seeing some spurious signals.” Zachikova said.

“Would you say it constitutes an attempt at jamming?” Murati asked.

“If I had to call a shot, yeah.” Zachikova said. “Clearly the venue is under attack.”

“We know there’s someone in there fighting these white uniformed figures.” Murati said. “I need to know what we can do to help, or what we might have access to. Zachikova, recheck station statuses– I want to know the state of the elevators and other automated services.”

“If I had to guess it must all be locked down. I will take a whack at it though.”

At their side, the door to the bridge opened, and Illya and Valeriya entered.

Dressed in their nanomail bodysuits, assault rifles affixed to their tactical harnesses.

Along with a variety of other gear– grenades, additional magazines.

Valeriya had a diamond sword strapped to her back; Illya had a missile tube with spares.

“We’re ready to move on your call. What’s the situation?” Illya asked.

Murati wished she was as confident as she would have to sound about the situation. In the back of her mind she wasn’t even sure the captain and commissar were alive! And– thinking about that almost made her want to burst into tears with Semyonova! Her emotions were evident in the dismal little shakes that wrung through her hands periodically.

That was all that she could allow herself to feel. To shake, to keep the fear inside.

Aatto reached out and laid her hand on Murati’s forearm. They shared a brief glance.

In that moment, she recovered more of her composure. She appreciated the sympathy.

However, as soon as Murati was about to speak, the situation changed once again.

Semyonova called out to Murati again with a haunted look on her face.

“Captain– someone is trying to contact us directly. From the second tier.”


Adelheid glanced between each of the faces of the assailants on the balcony.

Wild eyes, shaking hands, ragged breathing.

Their oversize pistols weighing on their hands.

They held their captives as if they could lose control of the situation at any second.

These were not career soldiers– but they would not choke pulling that trigger.

Certainly they had enough of a mix of shamelessness and terror to kill someone.

Then– Hannah Schach’s words in the midst of the situation shook her.

At first, Isaiah seemed to treat the whole thing as a joke.

“Five million? Well, why don’t we bid? How about six?” He looked at Astra.

In his arrogance he seemed to seek a shared understanding that this was ridiculous.

However, Astra appeared to be taking it quite seriously.

“Monsieur Kleyn, out of respect for your mother and fiance, who have been gracious hosts. I would advise that you unhand my servant and turn your weapons away from Madam Schach. I am only tolerating this level of mistreatment of my servant and client in an attempt to deescalate. Should this situation continue you will be suppressed with force.”

“Your client?” Isaiah looked at Hannah Schach with a scoff. “This woman is not–”

“The ‘Volkisch Movement for the National Awakening.’” Astra said.

Adelheid could feel her own heartbeat accelerate in her neck and chest.

“Madam Waldeck will absolutely pay anything for my safe return–”

“Shut up.” Isaiah interrupted Hannah as she began to speak. “Madam Palaiologos–”

“This is your final warning.” Astra said. “Are you making an enemy of Mycenae?”

Mia sat throughout this debacle frozen, her face a rictus of heartbreak and despair.

Looking down at her hands on her lap, rivulets falling from reddened eyes.

Isaiah had not looked at her since he last put her down. As if she did not exist to him.

It was this charade of power that he valued over her.

Of course– so-called high-class men were always this way toward their high-class women.

“I’m afraid that even if I wanted to relent, you are in my house, and I can’t see a way for you to leave here having threatened me. It is you who made an enemy of me– you two–”

“Odyssia.”

One word to answer Isaiah’s near stuttered threats–

All that Adelheid heard next was the sound of two loud footsteps.

In the midst of the assailants and the captives appeared a silver-haired woman with a knife.

First step–

Her blade entered the neck of the gunman holding Raiza and tore through the adam’s apple.

All it had taken was the flick of a wrist, blade in, blade out–

As soon as the knife left the man’s neck Raiza jerked aside and disarmed the corpse.

Second step–

Odyssia flipped the knife in her grip in the middle of a swing.

Angling the blade to the wrist of the gunman turning away from Hannah Schach.

Steel met flesh without pause.

Severing the hand with the gun and sending the man reeling with agony.

Odyssia planted her feet as blood dribbled from the man’s gored limb.

Raiza, now armed, fired over Odyssia’s shoulder and struck the remaining assailant.

Smearing half of the woman’s cranium on the doorway.

Releasing the hooded girl from her grasp. She tumbled to the floor.

It had been seconds. Adelheid felt like it hadn’t even happened in front of her.

She felt as if her mind was backfilling motion to explain the bloody scene in front of her.

Raiza aimed her stolen gun at Isaiah’s head with a furious expression.

At the back of the table, Hannah Schach cracked a grin and sat back.

“Kill him.” She said calmly.

Astra nodded her head once.

Mia stood up and screamed, reaching out a hand.

Raiza shot Isaiah through the forehead before he could even speak.

Perhaps before he could even acknowledge the sudden loss of his power.

Blood and gristle and bits of bone and brain sprayed on everyone around the table.

“Mia!”

Adelheid rushed to her side, took her in her arms. But there was no comforting her.

Covered in her husband-to-be’s blood, inconsolable, screaming, gripping Adelheid tight.

Both of them nearly jumped as Raiza executed the remaining assailant.

“Oh god! Please! Please no!” Mia cried, pushing tight as she could against Adelheid.

Adelheid stroked her hair, and tried to whisper to her that it would be okay.

Unsure of whether any of them would be next in Hannah’s horrific spectacle.

Holding onto Mia as tightly and as helplessly as Mia held on to her.

“Err– who’s that anyway? Who are you?”

Hannah Schach, comfortable at the back of the bloody table, pointed at the hooded girl.

She had been brought in as a captive too– Mia had called her ‘Orlan’ had she not?

Adelheid did not know anyone by that name, however.

Though she had been friends with Mia in school, their circles didn’t always overlap.

Adelheid could hardly see over the table and around Mia but–

It looked like Orlan had been kneeling near Isaiah’s body while Hannah harangued her.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Why did those white uniforms have you captive huh?”

No response.

“Are you a burglar or something? Look, I don’t care– just get out of here.”

No response.

Meanwhile, Astra finally stood from her chair.

She walked up to Raiza and held her hand and used a handkerchief to clean her cheek.

“Milord–”

“Thank you as always.” Astra said simply.

Raiza tipped her head in a slight bow, smiling.

“Milord, we should prepare. There may be more of them coming.”

Odyssia sheathed her knife behind her back.

Astra nodded. She then reached into her pocket for her own portable computer.

“Everything’s been wired over!” Hannah said. Astra seemed to confirm it with her portable.

“Yes. Thank you for the additional donative.” Astra said. “What shall we do next?”

“Err,” Hannah crossed her arms. “Figure out what happened. Find Madam Kleyn.”

“We will establish a defensive perimeter in this sector. Is that permissible?” Astra asked.

Hannah looked thoroughly aggrieved to be making any decisions.

She pouted at Astra.

“Do anything you need to, to insure my safety, and so things can go back to normal!”

“Splendid.” Astra put on a little smile.

She picked a glass from the table, cleaned it, and produced a flask from her coat.

Filling the glass with a clear blueish liquid.

“It is customary to toast on the commencement of a business venture.” Astra said.

“Oh, thank you. You’re really too good for mercenaries. I don’t drink much– but I’m curious about Mycenaean stuff. I’ll just take a little sip and you can have the rest, how’s that?”

Hannah Schach reached out, accepted the glass, took a sip.

She started the motion to return it, but her fingers slackened, and her upper body followed.

Astra moved forward and caught the glass– but she left the rest to fall.

With a slight groan, Hannah collapsed forward onto the table.

Mia gasped with renewed fear– but Hannah began rather quickly to snore.

Only the size of her breasts kept her head from planting face-first over her cream steaks.

Astra had knocked her to sleep.

“Troublesome client. Wouldn’t want her trying to micromanage.” Astra said.

With some measure of contempt, she splashed the remaining liquor on Hannah’s face.

She turned to Adelheid and Mia. Her impassive expression unnerved Adelheid.

“I am not going to hurt you. I can’t let you leave, but you will not be hurt.” Astra said.

“Why the hell?” Adelheid cried out. “What do you stand to gain from this?”

Mia descended into fresh sobbing, shaking even harder than before.

“I am entreated to reduce any risk. You two represent possible operational risks. That is all. Once the situation is under control, we can perhaps discuss further. For now–”

In front of the table, the strange hooded girl quietly rose to a stand.

Her makeup running, breathing disturbed.

Shaking hands slowly found their way into her hoodie’s pockets.

Astra and her servants watched her. Odyssia’s hand reached behind her own back.

“Who exactly are you?” Astra asked. Her voice still sounded untroubled.

The girl took a long breath. “Inquisition Jagerkorps. Codename Grun. Grun the Verdure.”

“You haven’t left after my client dismissed you. So then– what do you want?”

Between irritated breaths. “Let Mia go. Or I’ll make this shit not worth the wire transfer.”


No third party should have known about the Brigand enough to have an interest in hailing them specifically. Murati figured that the hail from the second tier must have had something to do with the overarching situation– which was perhaps engineered to include them. However, she was not about to play into someone’s game that easily.

Offering a bit of resistance might mask her current status.

“Semyonova, patch the hail through to me, but set it to audio only.” Murati said.

“Yes ma’am.” Semyonova replied.

She had looked quite frayed throughout the events of the morning.

However, she was beginning to regain her composure.

She had never failed them.

None of them had ever failed– Murati trusted every single one in this moment.

Murati wished she could offer sympathy– but there wasn’t the time.

Trust would have to do.

When the audio waveform appeared on her monitor, Murati spoke first.

Trying her best to sound confident and untroubled.

To sound like Captain Korabiskaya did when dealing with troublesome persons.

She had listened to those calls with Lichtenberg and Norn von Fueller before–

“I don’t know who this is, but we are currently occupied. Call again later.” She said.

Semyonova and Fatima glanced nervously at Murati. But she knew what she was doing.

On the other end, the voice immediately responded–

“Now, now! Don’t leave me on audio and don’t hang up! I know all about your situation, UNX-001 Brigand! I know about your Captain Korabiskaya and your Commissar Bashara and your puffed up Katarran pretending she is a politician. Put me on video and put me in the main screen! Or I won’t be responsible for what might happen to these individuals.”

A woman’s voice, a bit on the low side, and betraying a jocular demeanor.

This was a rather conceited person with access to inside information.

Murati muted her own audio, and quickly unmuted it again.

In between, she said, “Leave Camera 328.”

Upon unmuting, she address the hail directly. “Very well. Main screen our guest.”

Mini-Zachikova stepped aside, and the screen was taken-up by a video feed.

One that was slightly shaking– it originated from a handheld portable computer.

Off to the side of it, Camera 328 documented the white uniforms in front of the Oststadt.

Injured, pinned down outside the venue, exchanging gunfire blindly–

Still without reinforcements–

“Ah, there you all are! Greetings, communists! My name is Menahem Halevi!”

On the main screen, the handheld camera turned–

from the destruction wreaked in the Uhlan barracks,

to the face of a young woman.

Fair skinned, red-eyed, smooth dark hair falling long and neat, in straight locks and bangs. Grinning to the camera. Her makeup was still immaculate. Shoulderboards and the collar of a white coat, a white shirt, a blue tie. She had a badge that was the shape of a blue star, hair clips the shape of that same star, and a blue armband– likely festooned with this star-shaped symbol as well. Not a speck of blood or dirt on her clothes despite everything.

Behind her, Murati got the impression of moving figures.

Rushing into the Uhlan yard– more fighters? Was she an officer in this group?

“You must be Murati Nakara, right?” Menahem asked.

“Stop wasting my time. What do you want?” Murati said.

Menahem looked delighted with her response. She raised her free hand to her chest.

“You should be much nicer to me, you know. I have a lot of lives you value in my hands.”

“You also like to hear yourself talk. What do you want?” Murati asked again.

“Tch.” Menahem made a little noise. “Very well. It’s quite simple, really. We have all of your officers hostage right now. I’m going to trade you the lives and safe return of your Captain Korabiskaya, Commissar Bashara, and your so-called Premier Erika Kairos– in exchange for your little fleet of ships. I want your Cruisers and I want the little Frigates you claim you have swimming around in the periphery. That’s the deal. The only deal we will give you.”

“Cut her off now.” Murati said.

“HUH?!”

Menahem’s face instantly disappeared from the main screen.

In her place, Camera 328 took over the entire screen, showing the front of the Oststadt.

With the white-uniformed troops still struggling to even breach the entranceway.

“She’s bluffing.” Murati said. She pointed at the screen as if to demonstrate to the crew.

Murati nearly doubled over on her chair, breathing heavily. Chest thundering with fear.

Aatto reached out and patted her on the back. “Master, you are doing magnificently.”

“Thank you– Aatto–” Murati struggled to speak. She raised her hands to gesticulate–

But she stopped herself from doing so. “Thank you. Thank you.” She tried to speak.

“Master?” Aatto asked. Everyone on the bridge was looking at her with concern.

She could not lose her voice now. Menahem would call again soon, any second now.

“Zachi– Camera 215– please–” Murati called out, shutting her eyes, breathing hard.

To steel herself, she tried to focus on what she had learned and what she knew.

There was a force of white-uniformed paramilitiaries with the capability to strike the Uhlan at their base with overwhelming firepower. They were likely attempting to breach the Armory, in the background of Menahem’s video call– as well as on Camera 215, which showed the force prowling around the Uhlan barracks. Menahem had inside information on the United Front– since the Anarchists were already compromised by the Omenseers, it was perhaps not a stretch to think they had also been compromised by this “white force.”

It was either the anarchists or the social democrats.

The Volksarmee was not perfect– but it was much harder to infiltrate them.

As a force of Union communists and Katarrans, anything “out of place” would stick out.

Since all of them were, already, themselves, “out of place.”

Menahem’s stated goal was to hijack their ships. She must have been hungry for weapons.

For this, she had the United Front “hostage.” However, Menahem was not able to carry out the fullness of her threat. Murati had a camera on the Oststadt bar that showed that, at the very least, it was a struggle. She did not have everyone inside clapped in chains. Menahem’s forces seemed not to be kept at bay– and in all this time they had yet to receive any reinforcements. That could happen any moment, on camera– but it was not. Instead, they had a man down and another barely able to trade shots with the interior of the bar.

“She has limited weaponry. She needs the Armory to be confident in pushing on us.”

Not only that– but it was also likely her forces were concentrated on the second tier.

She might have had scouts or infiltrators in other areas, but not a mass.

Otherwise, surrounding either the Oststadt or the Brigand completely and overwhelmingly would have been among her first priorities, rather than trying to call Murati to scare her off and unwittingly revealing her own position. Trying to bluff meant that her position was weaker. She must not have had complete information– she did not know that Murati had access to camera feeds, and perhaps she did not even know the status of the Oststadt. Perhaps the Captain and her allies had killed the moles– leaving Menahem blind.

She had learned certain facts about them, some confidential information–

But was she up to date? How had she gotten her information? How current was it?

Perhaps–

Menahem needed Murati to either surrender or slip up and reveal her own desperation.

That call– they were trying to read through each other, but Murati had more information.

All of this was conjecture– but it left Murati in a position to speak confidently again.

“Captain,” Semyonova said, “Menahem Halevi is hailing us again. It’s her portable again.”

“She’s even using a consumer device to hail us. She’s got nothing. Put her through.”

Semyonova looked surprised at Murati’s confidence– she even cracked a tiny smile.

When Menahem reappeared on the main screen, she looked livid–

And Murati was seated upright and smiling at her with her fear purged from her face.

Menahem grunted. “Murati Nakara. You do that to me again–”

“We’re not turning over anything.” Murati said. “Surrender to us and end this peacefully.”

Menahem narrowed her eyes, predictably scoffing at this notion.

“Do you not care about your dear comrades then? Are you so cold-hearted?”

“Yes. You are absolutely correct. And I may yet show you exactly how cold-hearted.”

“Hmm. I see.” Menahem’s expression relaxed. She surveyed Murati’s reaction. “You can take your chances if you want, Murati Nakara. Right now I have more than enough resources to just come and take your ships for myself. Choosing to confront me is choosing to put your people in danger, including your precious officers. You will also risk the civilians of this station if you engage my troops in open warfare in these walls. Feel free to surrender at any time– my offer remains open. Some of you just might not be alive enough to take it.”

“It seems we have nothing to discuss then. I’ll see you here then– if you survive that is.”

Menahem’s expression briefly soured before her video feed cut out again.

“Heh, good show, Acting Captain.” Illya said, crossing her arms with a grin.

Murati raised a hand to her chest and breathed a sigh. She was not so proud of it.

However, she was certain it had the effect she intended.

Menahem had probably not extracted too much new information from Murati.

“Keep a few of the second tier cameras up. Zachikova, are the elevators operational?”

Zachikova’s physical body finally rose from its slumber.

She shook her head drowsily, regaining her senses as her mind “unplugged.”

“No, I’ve been checking. They’ve gone into lockdown mode.” She said.

At her side, Arabella reached up a hand to stroke Zachikova’s arm for comfort.

“I thought so or Menahem would just attack. But — who locked them down?” Murati said.

“At this point I am sure it was not the Kleyn government.” Zachikova said.

“I agree,” Murati replied, “it’s someone who is profiting from this chaos.”

Could the Volkisch Movement be taking advantage of Menahem’s assault somehow?

Perhaps– were Menahem and her forces an affiliate fascist group?

All of this business was simply too convenient. The audit, the computer failing, Menahem.

There was too much that they did not know or only had vague conjectures about.

She should have goaded Menahem into speaking more about her beliefs–

but there was no time, everything was simply moving too fast–

“Semyonova, set up a conference with Daphne and Marina.” Murati said. Semyonova nodded her acknowledgment. “Illya, Valeriya, I will be advising you on what we will do soon enough. Retrieve Chief Akulantova and begin the process of distributing light caliber weapons among the crew. If the worst happens I want everyone ready to fight.” Illya and Valeriya saluted and departed promptly with their orders. Murati turned to the rest of the bridge and addressed them. “Events have been moving too quickly to properly brief everyone. Right now there is an emergency threatening the life of the Captain, Commissar, Premier, and other comrades. I refuse to leave anyone behind– and I am confident we can rescue them all. Remain at your stations, see to your tasks– I believe in all of you and I have plans. Let’s get to work.”

Across the bridge, the officers responded as one:

“Acknowledged, Captain Nakara!”

Though each of their faces showed their own teetering between hope and despair–

It was enough that they acknowledged her and retained the determination to fight.


Blood had gotten on her tunic and shoes– as usual, but still annoying.

Odyssia looked down at her legs, a bit disgruntled.

Bending down a bit and swiping at the hem of her dress, catching glances of the empty eyes of the corpses she had left behind. The young lord of the Kleyn estate had been completely disfigured, his head a gory mass barely clinging to the remains of his jawbones. At his side on the floor, a strange girl knelt, stared at the remains and wept silently. She had been a captive of the white uniforms along with Raiza but seemed distraught over the younger Kleyn.

None of that bothered Odyssia– rather, she had expected to cut a bit cleaner.

Then again, she had not gotten to flex her muscles in quite a while.

Thank you for waking me, milord.

Odyssia sent a mental missive to Astra.

In response, Astra sent a mental image of herself giving an unsmiling thumbs up.

A silly expression that she was too dignified to make physically but could make in secret.

Odyssia smiled.

She had been hiding downstairs, nodding off behind the estate in secret.

To head off just such a possibility of assassination, Odyssia had snuck into the tier.

Even when uninvited she had a duty (and a desire) to protect Astra from harm.

To think anyone would try such a thing on the Warlord of Mycenae.

Though she was not dressed for combat, she never went anywhere without her kopis.

And a Katarran who couldn’t kill with their bare hands was a sorry sight anyway.

Once Hannah Schach was put to sleep and the hostages were properly informed of their state, Odyssia had half a mind to simply walk away and call up the troops and find someone more organized to relieve her. Herta Kleyn had allowed for Astra’s Varangian Guard to accompany her. Several of the officers and numeroi were allowed to stay in the special accommodations Astra had been given in the top tier– the Kleyn “guest house.” She needed to inquire about their status– but she pitied any white coats that tried to attack them. It would be far messier than her knife cuts on the poor salps lying about the Kleyn balcony.

But Odyssia hardly got to take a step from Astra’s side.

She reached for her knife. The girl weeping beside Isaiah Kleyn’s corpse stood up.

Her aura as she put her hands in her pockets flared a vivid red and black.

Its texture erratic, like thorns wrapping around flesh.

This “Grun the Verdure” was not in her right mind.

Eyes unblinking, a red gaze fixed on Astra. Colorful hair tousled, makeup running.

“Let Mia go. Or I’ll make this shit not worth the wire transfer.”

“Madam–” Astra began to speak–

Monsieur.” Grun hissed at her, interrupting her, a discourtesy she was unused to.

Astra stared impassively. “Monsieur Grun. I am uninterested in the Inquisition’s business. I am familiar with all the whispers surrounding your Jagerkorps. If I squandered your mission I will take responsibility for it when necessary. For now, I will ask that you be on your way.”

Grun put on a grin Odyssia recognized, having made that face herself.

That last hopeless laugh as if to ask oneself: “Am I really doing all of this?”

“It’s actually personal.” Grun said. “It’s actually a matter of love, is the thing.”

“I see.” Astra replied. Voice monotone, expression unchanging.

Grun laughed so hard that he coughed.

“Isn’t it stupid? God, I’m so stupid. I’m just– fuck. I hate this fucking guy.”

Odyssia stepped in front of Astra and withdrew her knife, holding it front of herself.

“Sorry pal. But you really ought to just get out of here.” She whispered.

“The thing is– I intend to.”

Grun removed both of his hands from the pockets of his hoodie–

Palms red with bloody flowers blooming oozing sticky flesh

and covered in a chalky bony pollen–

petals flapped once like horrid wings and released a cloud sweeping through the balcony

“Katarran constitution is tougher than that!”

Odyssia charged forward, but her eyes had been stung, not because the cloud had irritants but because of its thick texture and the fact that she had been so close when it blew out. She thought she would be poisoned but it was not Grun’s intention. Everything was red and sticky and dense troubling her vision– she heard the tableware clatter and realized–

Grun had moved past her.

She swiped at the table on pure instinct and felt the wake of Grun running off it.

“Take her, go!”

Adelheid van Mueller shouted–

Next thing Odyssia saw through her tearful eyes was Grun leaping off the balcony.

With Mia Weingarten safely in his arms.

“Hmph.” Amid the dirty pollen a small, stoic figure stood undaunted.

In the next instant, Astra flexed the strands that hung within her hair.

Emanating a wave of invisible force that dispersed the cloud.

All that power contained in that short frame–

“Send Antandre after them, to delay or capture alive; she will appreciate the fulfillment.”

Odyssia nodded her acknowledgment. She looked over the balcony.

Grun was really moving, running pell-mell– but he had nowhere to go.

Astra approached Adelheid van Mueller, standing against the balcony railings herself.

“I’ll jump too. I’m starting to like my chances.” Adelheid said.

“I’ve already said I am not going to hurt you. I am not keeping you here for my own personal enjoyment, you know.” Astra said. “I can’t stop you from hurting yourself, but I intend to do what I can to secure your release– once all of this is over and I am sure you won’t either leak something, cooperate with an enemy or otherwise compromise my position.”

Adelheid cracked a grin. “You’re already compromising your position. Norn is going to come after me no matter what. You really should release me before she comes get me herself. She is not known for her level-headedness. She is going to tear all of you, limb from limb.”

“I am not afraid.” Astra said. “If she does invite a confrontation then we will have to meet it. Right now I am beholden to the Volkisch. The situation is complex, and I cannot brooke any missteps. If I were in any other position, I would have just let you go, madam. Convey these thoughts and my sincere apology to Norn the Praetorian when you next meet.”

“Hmph. Fine. But she will come. Mark my words.” Adelheid said.

Despite her threats, Adelheid van Mueller was compliant enough to follow the Mycenaeans as they re-entered the estate, leaving the corpses on the balcony. She was unarmed and alone and had already seen what Raiza and Odyssia were capable of– and she might have even felt Astra’s own power when she dispelled Grun’s smokescreen. If she tried anything too clever, Odyssia would sense it immediately and put a stop to her.

There was nothing to worry about from her.

Odyssia was still worried about the rest of their circumstances.

They had no idea who the white coats were or where Madam Kleyn had gone. Isaiah had not been after Astra’s life– he was trying to kill Hannah Schach. And Hannah Schach was just a rich racist– which meant, he was probably after the Volkisch generally.

Was this an open rebellion?

In the middle of the connecting hall to the balcony, Odyssia stopped abruptly.

“Milord– are we perhaps getting in over our heads here?” She asked.

Astra and Raiza stopped when they realized she had done so, and they turned to look.

What could she have expected? Her master was stoic and toneless as always.

“No.” Astra said. “It’s an opportunity. I want to show Labrys something unnerving.”

That toneless unwavering voice that nevertheless delivered such a handsome conviction.

Odyssia bowed her head. At least this was a dramatic decision if nothing else.

“I apologize for holding things up. I shall get the troops in order, milord.”

This girl– this woman, was the future of Katarre.


On the captain’s seat, the arm-mounted monitor was split by two video feeds.

On one half, Marina McKennedy represented the John Brown, to which she had recently been assigned. On the other half, Daphne Triantafalos represented the Rostock. Murati had called both ships to a conference to discuss the ongoing situation. All three ships had lost their highest ranking officers, with Eithnen Ni Faoláin, Erika Kairos and Ulyana Korabiskaya all out of contact. They had inherited leadership of the Volksarmee in this predicament.

Murati wanted to talk to Daphne most. She was an experienced Captain in her own right.

“Did everyone get a chance to review our findings and conclusions?” Aatto asked them.

“I did, thank you, and thanks to Captain Nakara.” Daphne said.

“Yep, took a look. How are you holding up, by the way? Must be rough.” Marina said.

Marina was not someone Murati particularly liked, but she wouldn’t let that affect her.

“We’re still working effectively.” Murati said. She reached a hand out to pat Aatto’s back.

“Murati, I followed up with Kalika,” Daphne said, “the Wohnbezirk went under lockdown and there is a situation at the village– she is doing what she can, but we may not be able to count on your pilots or Kalika for the time being. I instructed her to attempt a breakout when feasible. Chloe is mobile, so I am having her head upstairs. Dimmitra is available as a pilot.”

Valya was still missing too– Murati crossed her arms and sat back on her chair, sighing.

They could not spend time flipping through every camera trying to find them.

“Zachikova set us up with the goods.” Marina said. “I regret to say it, but I actually have intelligence on who this enemy force is if you are interested. I recognize the armbands.”

Murati leaned forward again. “Tell me. Anything you have is invaluable right now.”

Marina looked almost ashamed to have this information. She spoke with some reticence.

“These are Eloim terrorists. That star they wear is called the Star of Judea. They believe that the Eloim were like the fucking rulers of the world in antiquity and have grievances against the Imbrians and Shimii for supposedly stealing their lands and destroying their true culture and language. It is not the first time a group like this popped up. But this one was armed by Kitty McRoosevelt. See those huge handguns they are using? Those are 10 mm McCarthy pistols– huge fuckin’ things, if one plugs you in the shoulder your heart explodes. They are popular with gangs, that’s how Kitty got them. Released from police custody, pushed from Ratha Flow, to Trelleborg, and out to wherever they can do the most damage.”

There was no reason for Murati to get mad at this and yet she could not help but be angry.

From the position of Alayze it made sense to assist any group that might harm the Imbrium.

Murati herself had a mission to foment unrest in Imbria.

She should not have had qualms about the method. However, it had been too many times already that they ended up haunted by the ghost of some Republican misdeed. And too many times that Marina McKennedy was connected to the problem in some way. Because she could not rationally criticize anything Murati remained quiet– but she could hardly hide the anger in her body language except by averting her gaze from the screen.

“That makes sense as to why they are as well armed as they seem.” Daphne said.

Marina crossed her arms and averted her own gaze. Perhaps stricken with some shame.

“Kitty would have given them plenty of handguns and explosives, the lightest and most transportable stuff that she could have gotten her hands on. Grenades, maybe some body armor. Probably not any bigger stuff. Some of what they have their hands on baffles me.”

“Yes, those folding drones are the Imperial reconnaissace model Biene. We have some in here– but ours don’t explode.” Daphne said. “They have launched a great many of this type today. To have modified those Biene means they had a source of chassis, parts and explosive, and enough technical know-how to put together the modification and deploy it.”

“We don’t know how long they have been preparing.” Murati said.

However, if today was a long time coming, they had few big guns to show for it.

Maybe they only acquired those Biene drones and modified them recently.

If there was some kind of supply ship hijacking– or if they had security connections–

“Daphne, I wanted to ask your opinion about our next move.” Murati said.

Daphne sat back on her own captain’s chair.

“If you are correct Murati, and the Judeans are concentrated on the second tier, then they could possibly split their forces to go after the Oststadt and confront us as well– but if they like their chances enough, they could try to overwhelm us instead and ignore our VIPs. Especially if they are mainly after the ships in Stockheim. I do not believe for a moment they will only try to hijack ours.” Daphne looked off to the side– perhaps at her own main screen and the camera feeds there. “I’m worried about the situation at the venue. The Judeans have two people there, and they are only trading sporadic fire, but the people inside the Oststadt are not trying to escape either. They could have wounded in there or there might be close quarters fighting inside that we cannot see. We need to mount a rescue operation.”

Murati feared the same but had not wanted to admit it to herself or to the crew.

She had wanted to operate under the assumption that the captain might still be fighting.

It was still possible– but Daphne was not wrong in her assessment.

They could not know what was truly happening– they needed to act quickly.

“Since the elevators are not running, everyone still needs to climb to tier three manually.” Marina said. “You lot might want to try to break through the Judeans, but I think it would be worthwhile to send someone to sneak out to the Oststadt and see what’s really up.”

Daphne grinned in response. “Are you perhaps volunteering, madam G.I.A.?”

“Yup. If you’ll excuse me, I gotta get geared up and get going– and don’t say no.”

Marina shot Murati a look. Murati in turn shut her eyes. “It’s incredibly dangerous.”

“I owe Korabiskaya and Bashara too much. I’m going. Just keep the Judeans off me.”

Suddenly Marina shut off her screen and left the call.

Murati laid a hand over her face.

There was simply no keeping that woman out of trouble nor keeping her in line.

“Don’t worry about her. She probably has more experience sneaking in and out of places than any of us. Burke Zepp can handle the John Brown– unless he goes with her. I can send Chloe to back them up– Chloe also has a knack for getting around.” Daphne said.

“Do it. Can you also keep an eye on the John Brown for me?” Murati asked.

“Of course.”

Murati was eternally grateful for Daphne not making a fuss about seniority.

Technically as an Acting Captain, Murati should have been deferential to her instead.

She had not once questioned where command lay– Murati respected her temperance.

“Aatto, do you know much about the Judeans?” Murati asked.

Aatto folded her ears and shook her head.

“I know that Eloim terrorists have been active in Bosporus for generations, but since I’ve been working in intelligence, I have been working primarily in Rhinea. I do not recognize the symbol and I cannot speculate as to their predilections. Their open hostility did not extend to this region until now– though I can confirm we have always had a problem with arms smuggling in Rhinea. It would not surprise me if arms from around here made their way to Bosporus and then back here. I’m sorry Master, I wish there was more I could say.”

“You’ve been magnificent Aatto. I would go insane without you.” Murati said.

While Murati had been shouting orders and answering calls Aatto had been working quietly and efficiently. She monitored compliance with Alert Semyon, sought out the status of missing crew members, and insured the readiness of the hangar for battle. She had worked with Semyonova on communications and helped disseminate information to their allies in the Volksarmee fleet, and collected any information they sent in return.

Murati felt that without Aatto she would have been acting as half a person in this situation.

“Daphne, we should make preparations for a land incursion through Aachen.” Murati said.

Daphne nodded her head. She reached out and touched something on her monitor.

Some dossiers appeared on Murati’s screen after that.

“The Rostock has our own team of special forces, the Ekdromoi. Only three, and they don’t have as much experience, but they’re Katarrans, and Katarrans are good in a fight or they’re nothing.” Daphne said. She was smiling at Murati with a calm demeanor. In turn Murati felt a little bit more centered. In this fight, she would rather have Katarrans than anyone else. Daphne continued. “Every sailor on this ship is a hot-blooded Katarran who is good in a pinch– but just like you, I hesitate to send maintenance and engineers into the fight.”

“I agree– we don’t want to invite mass casualties. Unless we become absolutely desperate I do not approve of sending out a human wave of sailors. We should pool our veterans and special forces and come up with a small team that can fight smart and quick on their feet. Aside from Illya and Valeriya I have a few more people I am willing to call up for this.”

“You have a lot of war veterans with you. Judging by the two terrified white coats outside the Oststadt, the Judeans might be working through a deficit of experience. I agree with this course of action, Captain Nakara.” Daphne winked at Murati who felt just a bit affected by the teasing. “I will get the Ekdromoi to transfer over to the Brigand and inform them to work under your BEAST unit. I trust that you have one of those miracle plans of yours in the works– so I will leave the fighting to you and focus on administration here.”

“Thank you, Daphne. You have no idea how grateful I am for you right now.” Murati said.

Daphne laughed. “You’ll make a woman blush with that kind of talk, Murati. Take care.”

She disconnected shortly thereafter. Leaving silence in her wake.

Murati looked over to Aatto and she reached out and briefly squeezed her hand.

Both for sympathy and for her own comfort. “Thank you too.” Murati whispered.

Aatto smiled back. Wagging her tail. “It is my pleasure to serve.” She said.

“Captain, while you were socializing, I caught something that might interest you.”

Zachikova called on Murati in the middle of her exchanging soft eyes with Aatto.

She had a smug little smile. Murati hoped she wasn’t getting any lurid ideas.

“What is it?” Murati asked, gesturing for Aatto to resume her work.

“Someone is speaking through the presidential address system.” Zachikova said.

“Isn’t the station computer compromised right now?” Murati asked.

“It’s a radio system, so they can always use it.” Zachikova replied. “I captured the audio.”

Zachikova swiped a finger on her station touchscreen and sent the audio to the main screen.

A waveform appeared and began to play for the entire bridge.

It was a woman’s voice– or perhaps’ a girl’s voice. Inexpressive but somewhat young?

“–This is Astra Palaiologos of Mycenae. In accordance with established private security practice, the Mycenae Military Commission of Southern Katarre has gone into action around the Presidential Estate. We will defend the Government Tier of the station on the authority of the Volkisch Gau until the end of the current emergency. Any unidentified persons attempting to enter the fourth tier will be fired upon. Remain in a safe place away from tier four and await the reestablishment of public order in the station.”

Murati felt the voice reverberate inside her head– her mind was racing suddenly–

“Zachikova, can you try to contact the presidential estate somehow?” Murati said.

Zachikova looked at Murati with narrowed eyes. She then sighed out loud.

“Ugh, maybe. You’ve got that real troublesome look on your face again.”

Murati had not even realized she was smiling like a demon. “What look?”


After the fires in which the Uhlan perished, a white boot trod on the ashes.

During and after the attack, the word among civilians began to spread, through posts on Rhinean public messaging services and in terrified texts and group chats, but no official sources were forthcoming with information or directives. No alarm sounded; no civil servants guided the civilians away. Government web pages failed to update. The government sector in tier four went completely silent except for, as if a final judgment on their civilian charges, imposing a lockdown that forced civilians to crowd through the long stairways or the emergency insterstice accessways between the station’s massive tiers.

For most of the civilians, they were running from their workplaces or leisure activites and rushing to their homes in either the third sector or the residential tower adjacent to the Aachen core station. Because the tram was not running, people took their chances running physically across the long emergency accessway between the two colossal station structures. There was nobody to supervise them– there was pushing, trampling, even fights as tensions frayed and people taught to distrust rather than rely on each other saw everyone around as a possible enemy. Anyone could have been wearing one of those white coats and blue stars that were fast becoming mythical symbols of terror.

That enemy– looked too much like the rest of them for comfort–

Not Shimii, not Katarrans, not “communist barbarians”–

However, the Dibuqim did not deter anyone’s escape, nor did they attack any civilians.

Anyone who ran past them managed to escape.

Anyone who stayed to watch was encouraged to follow them and “see justice done”.

And enough people stayed behind whom, rather than run away, ran toward them.

Not in fear or anger, but with excitement.

For some it was mere hooliganism that spurred them–

A significant portion of the stragglers had loftier ideas.

Those ideas began to spread until hundreds of people believed them in an instant.

For years they had heard meaningless promises and seen little change. Wages were stagnant while prices rose; food products became more packaging than contents; a wealth of high tech, expensive gadgets became increasingly necessary to find good jobs; all this amid a rising current of fascist violence that at first felt confined to ghettos and back alleys but became more and more public, until its organizers were legitimated by the political system. Now those thugs wore uniforms stitched on the public dime to deliver official beatings.

Enough was enough; they felt the explosions like a new heartbeat.

In their minds they were sure this was the moment– the spontaneous uprising against the Volkisch that many of them had dreamed of since Heidemann lost the presidency to that despicable Adam Lehner. The election of 979 ended the previous era of activism with an uncertain future for the next. When the drones exploded in the Uhlan barracks it activated in the onlookers scenes that they thought they would have to bury in their brains forever to continue living. Ambitions that they thought lost since the fateful night. Images of the coalition of activists trying to hold Herth Park against the fascist mob in the days leading up to election night, and in that same night, fighting to survive its surging tide. To them the conflict in front of them was the simplest call to action that they had ever been given.

In their minds history had an inexorable arc toward justice moving invisibly, automatically.

Evil tried to bend the elastic bar that Good represented until it rebounded, struck back.

It was these people, and the people watching them on video streams, and the people whom they contacted via messaging, and the people with secret whisper networks that stretched back to the ambitions of the activists in Hertha Park– it was they who would form the barricades and loot stores for supplies and extract personal weapons long ago hidden along with their hope– it was they who formed that very morning the tragic instrument that would come to be known as the Aachen Citizen’s Guard. Under the watchful eyes of Menahem Halevi, a self-described anarchist, the crowds watching in front of them the burning corpses of the police who had beaten them, and the shattering of the fences and doors that had barred them from power, the knocking-down of everything that had set them up– it was they who would form the greatest mass of the Dibuqim’s fighting power within Aachen.

Unknowing of the agendas that had spurred them to action.

But without anything to animate them but that sudden spark through their frozen bodies.

And nobody to stop them with the bodies of their oppressors going cold in front of them.

If anything, it was better that it was spontaneous— it gave them no time to doubt.

“We are working on breaching the armory!” Menahem said cheerfully. “Once we are in, everyone who wants to join the uprising will receive weapons! And then we will storm upward and bring down the government tier, and we will rush into that vile structure of the Volkisch Gau, and we will head to the Wohnbezirk where the fascists’ closest collaborators are now hiding! Justice is spreading its fire through this place! Rejoice comrades!”

Nobody asked who ‘we’ was– everybody cheered for the white-uniformed benefactors.

“Please wait out here, and we will begin distribution shortly!” Menahem said.

Urging the groups away from the Uhlan barracks as her forces worked.

As something invisible to their eyes trundled closer to assist in the effort.

From the forces assembled in the Uhlan yard, stepping over the mass of blood and shredded flesh, a woman approached Menahem Halevi, waving a hand to catch her attention. For a moment, Menahem briefly lost her little grin at the sight of the woman. She was the only woman in a white uniform also sporting a set of rounded cat’s ears on her head, and with a thick, bushy bobtail sprouting through a gap in her pants. Her cape was even cut halfway to allow her to sport her tail openly despite the implications of such biology.

She had slightly narrow eyes, and a strong nose, a tanned face with light green makeup, and long shiny blue hair on head and similarly colored fur on her ears and tail– she was a looker and done up well despite the smoke in the air and the gore tracking on her boots. Her green eyes scanned the surroundings with the sort of mirth that Menahem wore on her lips instead. Menahem turned to face her and waited for her to speak first.

She held the superior position.

Menahem was Aluf, “Champion.” Aside from the Manhig she was the highest ranked.

This woman, Tiferet Hadžić, was ranked only Seren, a “Lord.”

Not only that– but she was also a half-breed, and what a breed her lesser half was–

“Our little stunt triggered the Uhlan’s automated defenses. We have cleared the yard and have eyes on the remaining Uhlan in the station.” Tiferet reported. “The armory is sealed off by triple-deep bulkheads, military-grade. We do not have powerful enough explosives to breach, nor access to appropriate breaching tools for the job. You should let that doll of yours take a crack at it or we might never get anywhere– at least on time.”

“Already thought of that– but thank you for your keen eyes as always.” Menahem said.

Tiferet grinned, lifting her index finger to her lips. “You are welcome. Where should I go?”

“Take care of this for now– you’ll be sticking close to me for today.”

“I look forward to it. Got any more tests of loyalty in mind?”

Tiferet casually, perhaps thoughtlessly, sucked on the index finger she had raised.

“Perhaps.” Menahem said.

Menahem left the tending of the crowd to Tiferet and waded through the Uhlan courtyard herself, fidgeting with a star-shaped badge. Across a pockmarked sandy field, still littered with bodies and parts of bodies kicked about and trampled a dozen times over, stood an enormous titanium armory building, perhaps as thickly armored as the station hull. Behind its ludicrous bulkheads were the heavy weapons of the Uhlans. While the pile of surviving pistols and rifles outside was a decent haul, the true prizes lay past those doors. Weapons with which they could force their way into a military ship– or destroy it.

If a prize could not be theirs it would be nobody’s– such it was with gold, land or weapons.

That was the bitter way that extermination had to be fought against, and survival won.

“David, my doll, you can show yourself. Open this door for your beloved Menahem.”

Upon hearing the name ‘David’, every one of the Dibuqim soldiers around the Armory kept their distance and made space in front of the bulkhead. Several of them withdrew cloaking shields, took up formation and set them in front of themselves– creating an optical illusion that made the front of the Armory appear empty of what Menahem had summoned.

Lifting a more sophisticated optical cloaking from herself, David became visible.

In front of the armory, raising a mechanical hand against the door.

At first, David appeared to the world as a power armored soldier, but there were some clear visual discrepancies that dispelled this notion. Two and a half meters tall, David stood higher than any of the Dibuqim. Much of that height was a result of the armor’s long, slender and reversed-jointed legs made up of several parts, into which no human anatomy could have fit. The upper torso was sleek and angled forward, with a pivot point in the center that was another curious sight. High, strong shoulders supported a pair of strong arms. Both of these arms bore weapons, one the housing of a long blade, the other some kind of projectile launcher with a rectangular, wide opening and internals integrated into the arm.

Atop the slope of the torso there was a helmet– or perhaps, a head.

So angular it looked like a beak, with a wide and round glass visor.

A voice emanated from the armor. It sounded like a young girl’s voice.

On the glass, there was the impression of a similarly young, pretty face–

“Menahem, I’m opening the door.” She said.

In an instant, David put her arm to the door and forced her blade through the bulkheads.

Tongues of purple energy consumed the material in the way of the blade as surely as the kinetic force of the attack bent and deformed the metal. This symbiosis of technology and brutality punched a hole through the armory doors, through which David’s hands could fit and push apart the bulkheads. Forcing open the triple-depth doors, a third at a time.

Unveiling the terrified remnants of the Uhlan auditors huddling with the weapon crates.

Too shaken by the monster in front of them to even employ any of their bounty.

“Menahem. The task is complete. Was I good?”

“You are such a good girl, David. My beautiful doll.”

Menahem laid her hands on the steel armor, caressing her gently.

Her fingers running over a hexagonal symbol that had been defaced with a Judean star.

While they shared this moment, Dibuqim soldiers opened fire into the building.

Soon, the white uniforms emerged from the Uhlan barracks, bringing with them crates of weapons which they cracked open and thrust into the crowd. People cheered and picked at the caches with a fervor, seizing submachine guns, hand grenades, encryption-enabled radios– but the Dibuqim held back their own spoils of machine guns, ATGMs and plastic explosive. Everyone clamored for justice as Menahem wanted them to; and Menahem watched them run off with glee. Organized into their little impromptu squadrons, different levels of training and experience, but all of them clearly believing in their own justice.

A great opportunity! Let them all believe without direction!

“Will you shoot these Imbrians, Murati Nakara? Because I can get them to shoot at you.”

Unlike the disparate and meagre culture struggling amid the Imbrians, tending to the ashes of the little rituals that remained of their former unity, Menahem was not a simple Eloim. Under the blue star, she would steal anything, kill anyone, destroy anything, for their Nation, their race, for their single, overriding Destiny. Murati Nakara was nothing but a little speedbump– Aachen was but one destination in the journey they had begun. First a brigade, then a fleet, then a navy, and soon, a Power in the chaos of Imbrian dissolution.

“I hope you have something defiant to say when my boot is on your head.”

All would acknowledge the Eloim, not as a quaint bygone superstition, but as the object of their greatest fears– as a united race in charge of a mighty, ruling Judean nation.

“David, let us move out. Grander things– the grandest things, await!”

Walking away from the fires she set, with her great armored shadow at her back–

Menahem smiled and flexed her fingers in anticipation of the war unfolding.


“Well, I did my best!”

Zachikova turned over her shoulder and shrugged.

Murati sighed in return.

On the main screen was a scrawled message, crudely drawn in a paint program, that Zachikova had overlayed on the screens of every appliance LCD in the presidential estate after cracking several of them. The image asked Astra Palaiologos to “please contact” the Pandora’s Box at their berth terminal address so they could “hook up.” According to Zachikova, she had found no means to access the presidential address system remotely, and the best she could do was compromise some of the smart home features of the presidential estate after finding that many appliances still had a default vendor password. The Mycenaeans would have to become interested and then call the Brigand themselves.

“It’s about the best we can hope for. Thank you, Zachikova. You can take a break.”

Zachikova laid her head down on her station. Arabella reached out and patted her back.

At Murati’s side, the doors into the bridge opened.

Two familiar, comforting faces: Karuniya and Euphrates had arrived.

Murati stood promptly and nearly leaped at her wife, taking her into her arms.

Karuniya, so swept up, embraced her as well, and laughed a bit.

However, when they separated, Murati looked down at what she was wearing–

–a pilot’s bodysuit, the one set aside for her use when piloting the Agni.

“We came to offer moral support.” Euphrates said.

“I’m quite grateful.” Murati said. She looked at Karuniya again, a bit confused. “Karu–”

“Looks good, doesn’t it? It always makes my ass look so amazing.” Karuniya said.

“Karu–” Murati tried to smile and follow up the joke, but her words were failing her.

“She has made a determination, Murati.” Euphrates interrupted to get the two on task.

“Murati,” Karuniya’s voice took a softer but serious tone suddenly, “Tigris told me about Aatto and the Agni,” while Murati’s heart sank hearing those words the ensuing was not at all what she initially imagined. “I know you might have figured this out already, but it also means that Aatto and I can pilot the Agni. You must consider that an option as well.”

Murati wanted dearly to be able to say something like–

I won’t endanger you like that–

However, she knew that she would. If it came to it, if the worst happened.

She would use anyone available to her– any option to succeed.

“Thank you, Karuniya. If it comes to that, I’ll trust you and give the order.”

So she answered her wife’s conviction with equal determination.

Karuniya smiled at her and held her hands gently. She glanced past Murati.

“Aatto, I hope you’re good with a Diver, because I’m certainly not.” She said.

“I will strive to be a magnificent charioteer, my Queen.” Aatto replied.

“She always knows what to say.” Karuniya said.

“You’re just incredibly easy to flatter.” Murati replied.

“Maybe so.” She let go of Murati’s hands and patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll be waiting downstairs with the Agni. Please keep in mind what I just told you, okay? I’m also a tool in your toolbox. I know you can be conflicted about this sort of thing– but I don’t want to sit around in the lab during an emergency where our comrades need everything we have.”

“I won’t belittle your conviction.” Murati said. “Go, and I’ll support you however I can.”

Karuniya tiptoed slightly and kissed Murati.

Winking and smiling, she left the bridge with a steady, fearless stride.

Murati could only taste her lips for an instant. This burgeoning war called to her.

“Aatto, be ready to run downstairs if I give the order.” Murati said.

Aatto wagged her tail. “Absolutely, master.”

“And– are you actually a pilot?”

“All Northern Loup receive combat training.” Aatto said. “I would not endanger your Queen, and myself as your proud servant, purely to serve my own hubris. Should it become necessary, you will witness the ferocity bred into us in the northern host.”

Murati nodded.

Just as she would not belittle Karuniya’s resolve, she would trust Aatto’s.

“Well, let me scoot over to the side here.”

Euphrates walked past Aatto’s and Murati’s chairs and sat adjacent the wall.

A space usually reserved for Premier Erika Kairos, who was sadly among the missing.

“I’ve availed myself of the available information. Things seem rather dire.” She said.

“Your guidance and assistance will be appreciated.” Murati said.

“Of course. I will do everything I can.” Euphrates said. “I have come to esteem Ulyana Korabiskaya, Aaliyah Bashara and Erika Kairos quite dearly since I had the pleasure of meeting them all. To that effect, I also have something a little dire to say, much like your wife– remember that I am much more durable than I seem, Murati.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to intervene, but please value your life in the moment.”

“I value my life, Murati– but it is a thing I am completely certain that I cannot lose.”

She whispered the last words– few people knew of the extent of her immortality.

Murati feared she might be treated as a science experiment again if anyone discovered it.

Though people had seen Euphrates survive horrible wounds, conjecture was all they had.

Even Murati, who knew the truth, still did not want to treat her as someone immortal.

“Captain, you have a call!” Semyonova said excitedly. “It is the presidential estate!”

“Send it to my monitor. I don’t want to scare them off by exposing them too much.”

Murati felt her pulse in her fingertips, under her skin, as she brought her monitor closer.

Every second before the Mycenaean appeared on her screen was sheer torment.

Continuing to force herself upright with so much burden on her back was becoming painful.

Her head pounded with dim weariness as her heart thrashed with anxiety.

“Who am I speaking to? What is the meaning of this childish defacement?”

“Madam Palaiologos, I deeply apologize. I had no other way of getting your attention.”

When the time came, her voice managed to leave her lips despite the trembling in her chest.

Directly in front of Murati appeared a rather slight young woman in a rather ornate yellow military uniform. Her features were gentle and her face was soft and beautiful, pale with stark red eyes, an austere dignity in her expression, and voluminous white hair with an orderly part. Multiple dark horns with purple veins around her head seemed almost to form a crown. Similar but softer forms of these horns fell like reedy strands interpersed within her hair. Despite her petite appearance, Murati felt that she was dealing with someone formidable. An unwavering gaze, a confident voice– and a sensation of power that caused Murati unease even though she had not dared to use psionics to read her.

Murati, this is the Warlord of Mycenae– her name harkens back to an ancient princess.

Euphrates’ psionic counsel in her head. Thankfully, Euphrates was off-screen from Astra.

Astra’s expression was completely impassive, as if she had no emotions whatsoever.

“Your offensive stunt has taken my attention solely because your hubris intrigues me.”

Murati opened. “My name is Murati Nakara. I am– a businesswoman, with a proposition.”

“Your hubris continues to intrigue me, Madam Nakara, but it will not impress for long.”

Murati wondered how many times someone had “called out” to Astra in any way.

She learned a lot about Katarrans and their varied cultures from many cherished comrades.

She tried to situate herself in the mind of a Katarran warlord.

What was Astra’s life like? She looked like a beautiful doll someone dressed as a soldier.

What did she crave? Did she want to be taken seriously? Did she invite a challenge?

Keeping such things in mind would be crucial to Murati’s next few exchanges.

“I am an information broker.” Murati said. It was as good a cover as any for her plan. “But more than that, I am an investor, and I am part of a group of stakeholders who have a lot to lose financially from this current spate of chaos. Right now, madam, there is a lot of property and a lot of people in Aachen’s upper tiers that lies poorly guarded– but a watchman has appeared that can protect them, and I desire the watchman to begin a patrol.”

Murati tried to keep in mind the various dealings the Brigand had with Imbrium cultures.

Whenever they approached something altruistically it would be seen as suspicious.

However, everyone could understand a purely mercenary motive.

So Murati tried to couch her requests in the language of transactions and self-interest.

“I knew eventually someone like you would turn up.” Astra said. “I’m already being paid.”

Yes– being paid in figures on a bank account, on a ledger–

–but not in what Katarrans held to be legendary, to be utmost among riches!

“There is something you stand to gain that no amount of Reichsmarks can buy.”

Astra cocked one eyebrow. It was the most expressive she had looked in a while.

“Everything in this part of the world is purchasable, madam.” Astra replied.

“Reichsmarks can buy a lot; but there are things only violence can purchase.”

Murati smiled and Astra blinked at her. She crossed her arms.

“Milord Astra Palaiologos,” Murati began, trying to look and sound confident, “I humbly request that you expand Mycenae’s cordon to the third tier of Aachen station. You will come into contact with an organized military force that is looking to commit acts of violence and looting within Aachen, and you will have to fight– but in so doing, you will make a show of force to everyone in Eisental and in Imbria’s state of chaos. You will back up your words of Mycenaean power and prestige with deeds, and the station’s elite will indebted to you. And they will know two things: you are worth the money, and nobody can fuck with you.”

For a brief moment, Astra’s eyes drew a little wider.

That recognition of what was possible flashed in her blood-red gaze.

Murati saw it.

“Doing so puts me at risk of interfering with Volkisch business.” Astra said.

“I am prepared to offer you a hedge against any such problems.” Murati said.

“Oh? In your capacity as an information broker, perhaps?”

“Indeed. Accept a direct data transfer from us and you will see.”

“Why should I trust you? You might hack the estate again and then flee.”

“I am responsible for the safety of several V.I.P’s in the third tier. I cannot flee, milord.”

Murati compromised some of her position in the hopes Astra might do the same.

Perhaps with a more hardened operator this may not have worked–

But she was young, and bright-eyed and hungry–

In the next instant, there was a request for transfer from the Mycenaeans at the estate.

“Zachikova, send them a copy of our station model.” Murati said.

Zachikova bolted up in her chair, looking baffled. “Captain?! That’s–!”

“It’s an order, is what it is.” Murati said.

Sighing and grumbling, Zachikova initiated the transfer.

Within moments, Astra had the model of the station at her own fingertips.

“What is this?” She asked. On Murati’s screen, she was clearly looking at a subordinate monitor in whatever lavish room she had taken as an office. She reached out and touched that screen and quickly found that she could manipulate the model. “This is rather sophisticated. An information broker you say. Sounds a bit too humble.”

“I am a humble person and it is within my humble capabilities. I sent you a predictive model of the station, based on up to the minute data.” Murati said. “Let’s just say that it is not strictly speaking a legal venture, so perhaps you should be rid of it once you no longer need it. But for now, it will give you an intelligence advantage. Cameras, traffic, station status– using this, you are no longer blind as to what is going on. Now you are in charge of it.”

“It is a– partial, solution– to my concerns.” Astra began choosing her words. With such deliberation and care that the pauses became rather evident. She began to look conflicted– these expressions made her look even younger. Almost immature. “I am concerned about you, Murati Nakara. It seems clear to me that you have skills and resources, but I am not sure they match who you say you are, and I am not sure that I understand your stakes. Nor do I feel like I understand your ambition. It is difficult to maintain a partnership like this.”

“That station model is a few million Reichsmarks worth of my sort of work.” Murati said.

“It is not money that I am interested in now.” Astra said. “It is you. Who really are you?”

Was she losing her? But why? What was she missing? Murati didn’t understand.

Perhaps she needed to be a bit more honest. She could not panic at this juncture.

“I am somebody who needs what you have– and you might yet need what I have. You have ground forces; I have intelligence and some naval assets. We can’t be seen openly working with each other, but we can assist each other under the table, and overcome this situation together. Both of us are in a tight spot right now. You appear to require my business.”

“I remain unconvinced that I need the business of some unknown character.” Astra said.

“Mycenae has words in this ocean, but not deeds. This will be quite a deed for you.”

“Quite a deed– one that advantages the Volkisch Movement. How do you feel about that?”

Why did she care? “I am more in need of work done than moral affirmation, right now.”

“You are lying to me, Murati Nakara. And that– somehow, it disappoints me.”

Could she see through Murati? Was she using psionics? Murati had not seen the gleam.

Certainly Murati was withholding information, but how did she know? Why did she care?

Mycenaeans were ultranationalists with a thirst for gold and glory!

“You stand to make so much money as a security enterprise in the Imbrium.” Murati said. Astra looked uninterested still. “I will do everything in my power to make you whole if you lose any money. We need your cooperation right now, Warlord Palaiologos.”

“Hmph. Good day, Murati Nakara.”

Why was she not accepting these conditions?!

Financially everything only made sense!

Murati grew instantly desperate. Her nerves were frayed to their last fiber.

“I’m a communist! I’m a communist agent. I need your assistance for my mission.”

Astra had been in the middle of turning away and looked back the screen.

“At this point– how can I trust anything you say? How do I know what you truly want?”

She had lost. She had completely lost everything. She had fucked everything up.

Murati felt like she was drowning. She suddenly felt herself losing the Captain, and the Commissar and Premier, and their allies from the John Brown, and Gloria Innocence Luxembourg and everyone at the venue– without this gamble it would be almost impossible to reach them. They would die abandoned in there! Menahem Halevi and her white uniforms were able to step up from the second tier to the third in force at any time and raze the Oststadt and completely eliminate their comrades. Murati could not think of any way now that she could get there in time to stop them. She had lost; Menahem had won.

Mentally she had staked everything on her ability to coax the Mycenaeans to attack.

She had given up her hand too quickly to Astra Palaiologos. She pored over her mistakes.

But she was not even sure what she did wrong. All her analytics went up in smoke.

Murati was no Ulyana Korabiskaya. She had failed.

She was unfit to be Captain– she was not ready for a real fight, not like her.

A romantic fool with nothing but her ideas and convictions, with no real experience.

How can I trust anything you say?

Murati lifted her head up with her eyes filled with tears, looking at Astra on the screen.

You can trust that I am a romantic fool with too many ideas.

Suddenly, Murati reached for Aatto’s hip holster.

Captains were not issued weapons and Aatto was not issued a firearm like Aaliyah Bashara.

However, she was issued a knife, because she earned the trust to protect Murati’s life.

And a Commissar’s knife was exactly what Murati needed in that moment.

“Master?” Aatto cried out in confusion but dared not interrupt.

Murati, what are you doing? Euphrates called out psionically, but she trusted her.

Nobody moved to stop her in that insane and crucial moment–

Even as Murati unsheathed the knife, and in front of Astra Pailaologos,

carved a slick vertical line of blood and pain down her palm

revealing glistening hot-black blood that shone

and quivered with the words of power–

Astra watched, shaken, rapt, almost trembling– “Her blood– like a Katarran–?”

“I, Murati Nakara, knowing the legacy of the darkest seas and the dreaded deeds, swear the Pythian black blood oath. I swear the fearsome oath from which no Katarran can escape. When the Time of Polemos comes, Astra Palaiologos, I will lead your forces to victory. I will do everything in my power to see you reunite Katarre under the banner of Mycenae and restore Katarre to your rule. Until the Time of Polemos I beseech you to take me under your protection, and on this dark day, to assist me in rescuing my comrades. I beseech you.”

Murati grinned, tearful, shaking with pain, barely able to hold her hand up to the screen.

Euphrates and Aatto looked at her with horror, and the rest of the crew watched, confused.

Astra watched too, speechless for a moment. She then shut her eyes.

Had she lost her again? Could she even live with herself if none of this worked out–?

“I, Astra Palaiologos, spill my blood and complete the oath. Knowing the legacy of the darkest seas and the dreaded deeds. I complete the fearsome oath from which no Katarran can escape. I vow to abide by the oath and I lend my protection in exchange for service.”

Astra reached down and withdrew a small sabre, and cut her own hand.

Raising it up to the screen. Her own cut, across the palm, perpendicular to Murati’s cut.

Their blood was both black but glimmering– droplets fell forward onto the screen.

Floating in mid-air without a physical reason–

Attracted to one another– connected by the legendary Mageia of Pythian dark arts.

In that moment, Murati knew– it was not a trick, it was real. It had always been real.

All the stories, all the merc legends and Katarran superstition– there was something there.

They had been doing psionics– maybe without knowing it as such–

It was all real–

“Murati Nakara, the oath you swore you will not easily escape from. Nor will I– we are bound together by those words now.” Astra said. “However I must dearly apologize to you. I failed to read the strength of your convictions and the lengths you would go. You are worth trusting– and you might make an admirable Merarch. I want to understand you more– for now, consider us partners in crime. Keep a line open. We will talk again very soon.”

Astra disconnected from the feed, openly smiling, clearly quite pleased.

All of the conviction that had been propping Murati up seemed to leave her body then.

Her hand burned with a horrendous inner knowledge– she could feel the Time of Polemos.

Far, far away, yet– but someday nearer, someday sooner.

Murati collapsed forward on the monitor, Euphrates and Aatto standing to check on her.

She secured her gamble, but what had it truly cost?


“This is going to be so fucking huge. This is it. This is it!”

Like the first tier, the third tier was divided into platforms surrounding a grand atrium. Each platform was connected by staircases. On the top platform, a barricade had gone up in front of the stairways and elevator banks leading up to the government sector. Since the word went out from the Aachen Citizen’s Guard, similar barricades had begun to be erected around the tier. At first, they were manned exclusively by unarmed activists, by small time journalists with a cause, by local literati– and sympathizers who were not prepared to turn back an assault. Then, more people began to filter in with personal weapons, illegally stitched handguns, petrol bottles, homemade tear gas bombs. These people feverishly read up on every detail in the messaging services. They were ready for the moment.

All of them bypassed Menahem’s foremost goal in the third tier.

None of them even looked at the bar Oststadt even as they broke into stores nearby.

Menahem did not want them to know. They were not useful in that way.

Particularly, because she herself did not know as much as she wanted about the Oststadt.

So the barricades went up around the tier, made up of stolen kevlar shields and fancy steel furniture, overturned containers, captured cleaning drones. More plainsclothes, armed anarchists began to gather at them, fortifying the station. They had wild dreams of the demands they would make of both the Volkisch and the liberal government of Aachen, both of which had begun to blend together in the imagination. Those barricades were their chokehold on the power which had been choking them for long enough.

Freedom and agency was what they would wring out of them.

Anarchism was all of their disparate wants, the height of freedom that Bosporus achieved.

And it would happen, overnight, by serendipity–

Until, a cold voice resounded throughout the tier, and it began–

“Due to the alarming incidence of looting, property destruction and assaults on citizens, the Mycenae Military Commission has extended our cordon sanitaire to the third tier of Aachen’s core station. We will deter all unlawful actions. Return to your homes. Failure to comply, as well as any threats to Mycenaean forces, will be answered by prompt suppression.”

At the uppermost barricade, the assembled, self-described A.C.G. militia watched in disbelief and growing alarm as the elevator banks in front of them began to blow open one after the other, pouring out smoke. From the empty shafts, rapelling figures hit the solid steel floor of the third tier with weapons in hand, nanomail and power armor, grenades, vibroaxes and AR-80 assault rifles. One individual in golden power armor stood a head taller than the rest, and she strode to within sight of the barricade, facing them without fear of reprisal.

“Out of the way. Dismantle this thing and surrender your weapons now.”

To which the moment responded–

“Fuck you! Kiss my ass, Katarran cop!”

But before a petrol bomb could even be thrown the rifles already hissed with power.

The Optimatoi of the Mycenaean guard began their charge with that first barricade.

And within moments, it seemed, overturned it with unquestioned strength.

Murati hardly knew what she had unleashed and upon whom she had unleashed it.


On the Antenora, a silent alarm of blaring red lights colored the halls.

When the deployment chute opened, a single woman walked through.

Clad in a suit of imperial power armor, armed with a vibrosword and an assault rifle.

Slightly shaking hands checked the magazine. Reaffixed it, pulled the charging handle.

Shaking hands– not with fear, but with immense anger.

An anger deep and dark enough to hide the fear, to drown it, to bathe it in red–

“Milord, I’ll find you a path of least resistance– but every path has something right now.”

A trembling voice, Amur, who had urged caution–

“Guide me to the fastest route, Amur,”

Norn stepped onto the landing at Stockheim, amid panicking dockworkers invisible to her.

“Irrespective of dangers. I’ll kill anyone and destroy anything. Get me there fast.”

She cracked a grin as she stared up at the hundreds of meters of station barring her way.

Because if she did not grin at the sheer bleakness of her fate, she would weep instead.

“Wait for me.” She whispered to herself alone. “Come back to me. Adelheid.”

Gear checked and secured, Norn breathed deep and charged headfirst into Aachen.


Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.9]

A splash of water arced gracefully in the air and struck the earth at Sareh’s feet.

Children with ladles and small cans of water laughed riotously.

Cognizant of the power they had been given that day.

“Ugh, you kids always lose your minds with that!” Sareh complained.

“We were like them too once, hayati.” Baran said, softly and with a smile on her face.

Hearing such a strong term of endearment, even Sareh could not be gloomy anymore.

So empowered, the children ran throughout the festival grounds, scooping water from their cans using the ladles they had been given, and sending splashes of water hurtling at any adult in the vicinity. Casting these bolts like the arrows loosed by the Mahdi himself in the stories; but also paying respect to the lifegiving water and reminding the festivalgoers of the long lost rain of the surface. For the children this was just a fun game that they played, but it was one of the cornerstones of Tishtar, a festival of water, of survival, of heroes. The great heroes of the Shimii, the companions that bore the Shimii to the sea with the surface in its death throes. They were the reason that Mehmed, Nasser the Elder, and Radu the Marzban and others bore the title of “hero” to their respective followers.

The Rashidun Kingdom, the “rightly guided” era, was ancient history.

The Time of Ignorance, when humanity brushed with extinction, faded entirely.

The fire of the Age of Heroes, when Shimii warred for clashing ideals, had sputtered out.

Now was the time without name when the next era would be forged by their decisions.

It was perhaps the darkest era in history to be a Shimii–

But on Tishtar, the children splashing the water still smiled for the future.

That dire texture of the great weight of their history that could not be said to them, was communicated in the nature of their play. On Tishtar they splashed water, they listened to songs, they ate and played and were led in prayer by the adults around them. Baran and Sareh were once those children running around, carrying on the history of their people. Now it was their turn to watch, to be splashed by water, and to mourn with the adults.

“It’s a bit different looking at it now that I have to supervise.” Sareh said, sighing.

“We don’t have to be so strict today.” Baran said. “Let them have fun. Within reason.”

She reached out and took Sareh’s hands. “In fact, they should not be the only ones.”

“You want to splash water too?” Sareh asked, laughing.

Wearing a conspiratorial smile, Baran whispered.

“Sareh, will you swear a nikah mut’ah with me for today?” She said.

Sareh’s face turned a bit redder, she smiled, and held Baran’s hands tightly.


Tishtar swept through the Mahdist village like wave of light and energy.

Homa stood in the middle of the transformation almost in awe of the changes.

Colored streamers had been stretched on wires across the main thoroughfare of the village, from the old shops to the stage and to the stray light posts, criss-crossing colors hanging overhead. They were wrapped around the water barrels from which children refilled their green and blue pots to let loose projectiles from their little ladles. Amid the streamers and their wires the village no longer looked brown and dull in color but like a whirlwind of brightness that lifted the mood. Wider banners with moons and geometrical patterns accompanied the streamers, denoting the different areas of the village.

Most of the festivities orbited the front of the town. The Tazia monument on the stage had been put back together so well it almost constituted a miracle. Paint and putty had covered up the damage and made the plastic pieces looked as if they were always meant to be that way. In turn the new Tazia was much more colorful than the initial one by necessity. Like a green and blue and purple house set up on the stage for an equally colorful person to step into or out. It almost perfectly matched the colored partial veils the aunties wore.

It was easy to forget it was meant to bring to mind the grave of a beloved religious figure.

Tables had been set up along the thoroughfare with a variety of snacks and drinks as well as the means to prepare more. Each station had been equipped with an auntie whose powerful stare cowed the children from splashing water on the food and drink made ready for the festival. Homa made an immediate beeline for a station from which smoke, aroma and licks of flame arose. One of the aunties prepared long metal sticks covered in meat which glazed in its own fat as it cooked. Homa watched with such a longing stare that a smiling auntie immediately gave her the first morsel of the day without asking her.

“Here you go! First of many, I hope!” the auntie said.

Homa nodded her head quietly and bit into the kebab.

Her ears flapped, her tiny tail fluttered, and she shut her eyes with pleasure.

Delicately spiced and incredibly savory flavor made her cheeks contract.

A splash of water fell just short of her feet– followed by two more, none striking her.

Homa looked up at the children laughing and running away.

They must have been instructed not to strike her directly.

While every child had a pot and ladle for splashing water, there were other peaceful pursuits for those that got tired out or were uninterested in running around. There were children blowing up balloons, and the smaller children hung around the aunties and listened to stories. A few were given small wind instruments which they tried to play– it was annoying but rather cute. Homa certainly preferred it to being splashed with water. She spotted a few other children engaging in handicrafts. They were given disposable sheets of corn plastic or stone paper, which they cut up into stars and moons and other shapes. Some of the more ambitious kids tried to make the Tazia in miniature using cut pieces and glue and coloring it with paints. They compared each other and loudly debated the merits of certain colors– almost all agreeing the Tazia should be more purple than it was now.

Homa wondered whether she had been so boisterous and silly as a little kid.

Her memories of her childhood were incredibly fragmentary.

Perhaps if something so beautiful had actually happened to her– she would remember it.

Most of the adults not directly participating in the festival watched the children play while eating and chatting, exchanging small gifts, and reciting copious dua’s for friends and neighbors. While there were a few activities planned — including at some point whatever event would coincide with Kalika’s big dance — much of the festival was just unstructured time for the villagers to relax, eat good food and meet with their neighbors. As such there was not so much spectacle and whimsy as there was warmth and companionship.

As Homa explored she felt a bit strange about the festival– though not in a bad way.

Homa did not have high expectations for what kind of festival the poor villagers could put on. Even with the intercession of Kamma supplying them with food, that only meant there would be a feast at the end or snacks throughout. In Homa’s imaginary, festivals had games and musical events and toys and they were grand sprawling affairs. However, walking the main thoroughfare of the Mahdist village, she felt that what they lacked in spectacle they made up for with friendliness. Seeing so many close-knit people out on the street sharing the moment, faces that would have been invisible to her in any other place but that she was just barely starting to recognize during her stay in the village– it had a certain magic all its own. She almost felt like she was a part of everything– almost, but not entirely so.

In the back of her mind, she still felt like a stranger observing something from afar.

However, seeing the kids running around splashing people and houses, the older folk sitting down having kebabs and glazed figs, the auntie with the long flute leading a few kids with smaller flutes in an ensemble that almost sounded harmonious, hearing recitation of long song-like prayers and the aroma of flowers and sweets and sizzling meat– Homa felt like she was, if not a part of something, at least in the middle of something. Not entirely apart from it, not an invisible body in a crowd, not a lonely figure amid the living of lives. Yes, she did not let herself believe she was one of the villagers, but she was present.

They could see her; she saw them too. She was not lost in a crowd.

And it brought a smile to her face. She let herself be swept up into the fun.

Back in Kreuzung, Homa would have fled from something like this, from the gazes. She would have felt judged by the people around her, like she had something to live up to that she had failed to achieve. She would have welcomed disappearing in a crowd. But it was different in the Mahdist village. Nobody who looked at her seemed to demand anything from her. Nobody whose gaze she crossed had anything other than a smile for her even if they said nothing at all. They were approachable even when they were not approaching. In that way, she felt included by virtue of a lack of exclusion. Maybe it was all just in her head–

But if it was a change in her, then she was glad for the transformation.

“Homa! Over here! How are you liking the festival so far?”

When Homa wandered closer to the stage, she met with Baran and Sareh.

“I had a really good kebab.” Homa said. “And my feet are getting soaked.”

She tried to smile.

Baran and Sareh had a laugh and patted her on the shoulders.

Both of them were dressed up for the festival. Sareh had worn a coat and pants that looked almost brand new, dark blue and brown, working well with the rich dark shade of her own skin. Her dark, long hair was tied up into a ponytail with slightly messy bangs that made her look rather dashing but still wild and a bit unruly. Baran meanwhile looked radiant, wearing a long, bright blue dress with a dark blue part-veil decorated with gold stars, accentuating the otherwise subdued redness of her hair. She looked like a pleasantly, formally girlish beauty, a lovely counterpart to Sareh’s somewhat casual tomboy handsomeness.

Though she was starting to heal up, Baran retained her cane for the day.

“You know– I thought you two would be really busy today.” Homa said, smiling.

“We’ve already prepared everything we had to and planned all of the rest.” Baran said.

“We worked hard these past few days so we could enjoy the moment now.” Sareh said.

Homa looked fondly at them, and her tail fluttered a bit with embarrassment–

“Well– I’m happy to have some company. I am sad to admit I only really know you two.”

She did not even know the name of the auntie making the kebabs she had eaten.

“It’s okay, Homa. We’re your friends and hosts. We’ll help you have fun!” Baran said.

“I already figured if we left you alone, you would end up moping somewhere.” Sareh said.

“You have that little confidence in me?!” Homa replied, only somewhat offended.

She was mainly playing along and all three of them shared a bit of a chuckle.

“Speaking of what people you know and don’t–” Sareh began, glancing at Baran.

“You are forbidden from seeing Kalika until her big moment.” Baran said mischievously.

“So is she going to miss out on the festival?” Homa asked.

“She’s coming out in a few hours, it’s fine. She’ll get to have plenty of fun.” Sareh said.

“Until we can hand you off to her, we’ll be borrowing you.” Baran said.

“I’m not some toy for you.” Homa said with mock consternation.

Baran and Sareh laughed again and led Homa away by the shoulder.

They walked back the way Homa had come, retracing her steps through the thoroughfare. Taking their time so Baran could keep up with her cane. When she was with Baran and Sareh her festival took on a new character altogether, as everyone loved the two of them and would invite them to try a snack, or hold hands with them, or pray for their health and safety. Children would spray water at their feet and avoid splashing anyone with them perhaps for fear of collateral splashing on the two. They were quite special to the villagers and given how much they worried and worked on the village, Homa thought they deserved it.

Particularly, as Homa walked with them, it became clearer to her that there was nobody in the village that was Baran and Sareh’s age. There were young teenage girls, small girls and boys, and there were the older aunties and elderly folk– but no younger adults other than the two of them. That made them a unique sight among all of the village folk.

“We told them not to splash you. We didn’t know if you’d be bothered by it.” Baran said.

“It would annoy me, to be honest– but I am glad they are having fun.” Homa said.

“As adults, we should let the kids have a little bit of leeway, like how we got.” Sareh said.

“Don’t pretend like you aren’t annoyed with them also.” Baran said, grinning at Sareh.

“I’m trying to set a good example for Homa.” Sareh said, averting her gaze slightly.

“I’m exactly your age, I don’t need your example.” Homa grumbled. Baran laughed.

“I know, I know!” Sareh said, laughing too. “I’m just too used to taking care of kids.”

“You’ve gotten much better at it. You’d make a good parent now Sareh.” Baran said.

Homa looked at the two of them and felt even more of their lovey-dovey energy than usual.

She said nothing about it– despite appearances they probably weren’t out to the village.

Even for Mahdists she had to assume their relationship was something private for them.

While they were walking, Homa recalled the short explanation Sareh had given her for Tishtar. She grew more curious as they went about, seeing the villagers enjoying the day.

“Can you tell me more about the story of Tishtar?” Homa asked.

Her tone of voice lowered to a bashful whisper.

“I know you mentioned that it has to do with Ali Ibn Al-Wahran. I– I grew up in a kinda secular household, so I was never told a lot about the old stories. I picked up some thing from people here and there– random visits to the masjid when my uh– guardian felt like it.” Even calling Leija her mother in passing felt somewhat wrong, so she avoided using the word.

“We understand, you don’t have to be ashamed, Homa.” Baran said.

“Yeah, we’re not about to start judging you now for something like that.” Sareh said. She looked at Baran. “Which of us should speak? And how far back do we go?”

“I can start and we can trade off every so often.” Baran said. “Homa, we Shimii, like everyone else, came from the surface world. On the surface, the stories tell that our people went through horrible times. Our culture was dying, our religion was twisted, our people leaderless. Many of our kin were killed in wars, against others and among ourselves, and the other peoples of the surface finally left us for dead when the calamity started ravaging the land. But then the Mahdi revealed himself, and gathered his companions and united the remaining Shimii. The heroes brought our kin to the sea to survive the catastrophe.”

Baran looked to Sareh expectantly. Sareh’s ears stood on end, as did her tail.

“You really think I would forget? Homa, their names were Ali Ibn Al-Wahran, Shirin Dilaram, Faiyad Ayari, Banu Emiroğlu, and Mu’awiya Ibn al-Assad.” Sareh said, rattling off the names quickly– she did know them by memory. “Out of all of them, of course, Ali is now known as the legendary Mahdi, kind-hearted and strong, and Shirin was his closest companion, who helped sway the people with her words; but all of them together pooled their strengths and journeyed underwater. They led people to a mountain– a lot of people think that Khaybar in the modern day is where that mountain was. In the stories it was a mountain that formed in the ocean when a destructive serpent sunk a chunk of the surface world.”

That was a wild detail– Homa had never heard about the mountain or the serpent.

“Blessed Ali and Shirin were very important, yes– but each companion played a part.” Baran said. She seemed both amused by the way Sareh told the story but also spoke in a tone as if correcting her embellishment. “Ali split the ocean, and Shirin returned the faith to the people so that they believed in him as the Mahdi and followed him, despite their concerns. Mu’awiya carved out a city in the mountain, and Banu separated the salt from the water so the people could drink and use it to grow food. Faiyad gave them air to breathe, and he and Ali together spread warmth through the mountain kingdom that was naturally cold.”

“The Ummah were saved, hooray!” Sareh said, with a bit of a mocking tone to it that Baran did not seem to appreciate but let go with just a sigh. “However, Tishtar is not just the story of the journey into the ocean. Part of is it also mourning what we lost. We put up streamers and colored stuff overhead to remind us of the light and sky of the surface that we lost. We splash water to remember the ancient rain. But also– we build the Tazia to remember and mourn the death of Ali. We place much more importance on the Mahdi than others do.”

“Here is where old stories will differ the most, Homa.” Baran said. “Rashidun believe that all of the companions were divinely inspired and infallible people. They believe the second king of the Shimii, Mua’wiya, had an obvious, legitimate claim over the Shimii kingdom in antiquity. They emphasize the continuing legacy of the companions rather than any particular moment of miracle-making. They don’t celebrate Tishtar or any festival of mourning like we do. They have nothing to mourn. However, Mahdists tell the story of the Shimii founding quite differently– our ancestors did not simply accept the passing of the Mahdi, nor that his successors are Mua’wiya and Faiyad. The Mahdi is uniquely special to us– we celebrate his incredible miracle as the defining moment of our history. Because of that, we believe the Mahdi, Ali, was paramount– and thus we believe that the Rashidun took illegitimate control over the ummah. The story of the betrayal varies with the telling– in our village it is said that Ali, blessed be he, sailed from the mountain to protect the kingdom and was betrayed by Mu’awiya and Faiyad, coveting power over the early ummah.”

Sareh seemed to become more stern and serious as they reached the darker stories.

“Mu’awiya was accepted by the Shimii that became the Rashidun, who valued stability and continuity and got to write the canon. While Mahdists valued the miracle of Ali the Mahdi and thus insisted on his centrality in our faith. Mu’awiya brought the Shimii some stability, but he laid the foundations of the Time of Ignorance where our people killed each other in power struggles again and the Imbrians took over everything.” Sareh said. “Regardless of the details all Mahdists object to the death of Ali, Homa– Mahdists are the descendants of the historical mourners of Ali the Mahdi, who sought answers and retribution for his death. We survived persecution– Banu, the last companion, who represented the waters, spirited us away to save us. So– that is why Tishtar, the festival of water, is important.”

Homa looked at Baran and Sareh, as they walked and talked, with a heavy heart.

She tried to hide how upset hearing that story had made her.

She had wanted to know, and she asked, and she listened– and it was upsetting. Upset– because all of this violence, the blood feuds, all of this hate, was fomented by some ancient stories she did not even know she could believe. For all she knew, none of these characters might have even existed. But their names and stories were now an indelible part of the reason why her people were torn asunder. She did not want to accept that. It was even more painful to her than when the reason for the Mahdist and Rashidun sectarianism was in her mind just a vague difference of “religion.” Knowing the details only made it worse. Ali and Mu’awiya– why fight over this? All of the Rashidun even agreed that Ali was the great Mahdi and respected him– so then, why–? Why did they persecute his staunchest followers?

“Rashidun interpret the companions differently than us. We each have our own accounts and the Rashidun focus away from the descent story and from the miracles. Our folklore is why the Rashidun call us illusionists and idolaters.” Sareh said. “When I came of age, I began to think the Rashidun might actually be afraid of those stories because if the mountain kingdom is actually Khaybar, then the Mahdist Khaybari clan took that land in their blood feud against Nasser the Elder and could lay claim to a Mahdist Caliphate someday.”

Within that dizzying mixture of modern geopolitics and ancient myth, a word stood out–

Nasser.

She suppressed the anger that had immediately begun to stir in her heart.

Even more prudent– that mention of Khaybar piqued her interest.

“I thought Khaybar was just– full of pirates or something.” Homa asked.

She learned that particular detail from Kalika. The Volksarmee had intelligence on this.

However, they did not place the same importance that Sareh did.

“They are only pirates because they have no other means, Homa.” Baran said.

Her tone of voice sounded stern. Homa raised her hands defensively, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry, I completely understand, believe me– I wasn’t judging them.” She said.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Sareh said, patting Baran’s shoulder. “Sorry all of this got so heavy.”

“I know you’re a good person Homa. I’m– I’m just being oversensitive.” Baran said.

She smiled, but her gaze still looked heavy, as if it had seen years more worth of pain.

There was probably no way to talk about Shimii history that wasn’t sensitive and heavy.

Hated on the surface and left to die; fighting among themselves; under the yoke of the Imbrians; thinking about it all Homa had an intrusive and cruel thought appear in her mind. It was unbidden and she pushed it aside and tried not to acknowledge it. But for an instant, she thought that the Shimii were a hopeless people whom all hated, and none would save.

Not even themselves.

Her heart was already doing some of the mourning associated with Tishtar.

“The real miracle of Tishtar is that the little kids can smile through all this.” Sareh said.

Trying still to pick up Baran’s mood– this comment did finally make her smile more.

She also shed a tear as she did so– and wiped it off.

Around them, the children continued to be rambunctious and throw water on folks.

Everyone stricken by such a bolt, however, simply smiled and laughed about it.

It was as if the children and their running about became part of the lifeblood of the festival.

Homa felt like she wanted to outrun the choking past, like a frolicking child.

However– it was sadly just not her place to do so.

“So– what do we do for fun? Until Kalika’s big moment?” Homa asked, a bit awkwardly.

Baran and Sareh glanced at each other, back at Homa, and smiled.

“We have a few ideas. First– we think you should look special for the occasion.”

Sareh gestured toward Baran’s house, which they had been moving toward.

Homa narrowed her eyes at them.

She was wearing her brown coat and button-down shirt and blue worker’s pants still. She had not been able to change, but she had washed up every day, and she had been careful not to get them too dirty. They represented a weird bit of stability that she still had in her times in the village– so she was a bit hesitant to take them off for no apparent reason.

When they arrived at Baran’s house, she was given a reason not to want them off.

“No way.” Homa said. “You shouldn’t have– because I’m not–”

Smiling, Baran picked up what looked like stray cloth on her living room table.

It was not stray cloth, however. It was a beautiful hand-sewn dress, long and colorful.

“On Tishtar everyone wears their best clothes. We wanted you to have nice clothes too.”

Baran seemingly ignored Homa’s stammering and hesitant attempts to form words.

She waved the dress in front of Homa as if she was urging a child, mischief on her lips.

“C’mon, Homa, no reason to be embarrassed. I am sure you will look fantastic in that.” Sareh said. “You are in a remote village where no one knows you! Nobody can judge you! It’s a chance to try something new! We both saw how you reacted when we talked about Kalika’s dress and all that. Will you really give up a chance to be prettied up for Tishtar?”

“Why don’t you also wear a dress?” Homa said, in a more accusing tone than intended.

Sareh crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “It’s not my style.”

“Homa, I worked really hard on it– but it’s okay. I can make Sareh wear it.” Baran said.

“Hmm?” Sareh glanced at Baran, who stared at her with continued, unbroken mischief.

Grumbling, Homa looked at the dress in Baran’s hands more closely.

Baran was definitely skilled– it was a long-sleeved dress blue up top with a brown center that bore a geometric yellow pattern over it and an intermittently blue and green skirt all the way to the ankles. It might have looked gaudy, but the colors of the fabric were somewhat muted, such that everything worked together in a strangely earthy way. All of the seams and stitches were made with precision and the garment flowed well as one piece with a flattering cut. Homa narrowed her eyes and felt both her resistance begin to fade but her consternation continue to increase. She did not want to appear ungrateful to her hosts, especially not on the big festival day– but she was deeply embarrassed.

It was a beautiful dress– and Homa deeply wanted to be viewed as a girl too–

Recalling how she felt about the prospect of wearing one of Leija’s costumes–

It was embarrassing, it was so embarrassing to even think about–

Despite herself it was indeed an opportunity that she could not pass!

And besides, Sareh was right, nobody in the village knew her enough to laugh at it.

Folding her ears and fluttering her tail Homa sighed deeply and deflated in front of Baran.

“Fine.” She said, her shoulders slouching. “Fine. I’ll wear it. Please get out while I change.”

Nodding rapidly, Baran took Sareh’s hand and with a gleeful skip, pulled her outside.

Homa looked down at the dress she had been left, sighed, and began to undress herself.

A few minutes later, she peeked outside of Baran’s door curtain, her face feeling hot.

Just outside the door, Baran had her hands together and a euphoric look on her face.

Sareh stood beside her with a little grin and her arms crossed.

For a moment, Homa felt that those two were far too gleeful about all of this.

When she stepped out, the two of them cheered and held each other’s hands and laughed.

Their tails entwined, so delighted were they at the predicament they led Homa into.

“Mashallah! You look stunning Homa!” Baran said. “You are a true mother’s daughter!”

What was that supposed to mean?! Was it some Mahdist saying that didn’t parse?!

“You look so good you might miraculously walk out of here with a husband!” Sareh said.

And what was that supposed to mean?! Especially coming from Sareh of all people?!

Both of them stepped forward and patted Homa on the head and shoulders.

Homa, in her long-sleeved, long-skirted, blue and green and brown dress– felt exposed.

Not only did the fabric of the dress feel a bit thin, but it also felt a bit tight in the chest.

Had her breasts grown since she last took notice? Could people see them under the top?

“It works well with the ponytail too.” Baran said. “Or would you like me to do your hair?”

“No, this is quite enough.” Homa said, looking down at the ground. “Thank you.”

“Aww, don’t hide your face!” Sareh said. “We’re not bullying you, you’re really pretty!”

“I can furnish you with a matching partial hijab if you would like.” Baran said cheerfully.

“No, no,” Homa said, sighing and lifting her eyes from the ground. “It’s– it’s fine.”

Baran and Sareh glanced at each other again and smiled together at their handiwork.

“Now you are truly experiencing Tishtar!” Baran said, clapping her hands.

Each of them took one of Homa’s hands and led her back toward the village fore.

Sure enough, nobody said a thing– but the aunties were looking.


While they had been away, on the stage, a small ensemble had formed that was putting on a show for the rest of their neighbors. There was a quite older gentleman with a string instrument, and a middle aged woman who was singing. They were singing in Low Imbrian rather than Fusha, so it was actually possible for Homa to understand it– the song they had walked into when they reached stage was about a woman who while struggling to feed her children in a time of famine, was provided with everything needed by God, and day by day she held onto hope and gave thanks until the tribulations were behind her.

Homa almost wanted to ask if they could play something a bit cheerier.

But when she looked around nobody seemed to be treating it like a sad song.

Baran was even singing a long a bit– and tapping her foot, tenderly, minding her injury.

The woman’s voice was so sweet and the man’s strings so skilled that all the aunties seemed to be clapping and singing along and in good spirits, almost drowning out the stage. It must have been a classic. The next song was about a warrior fighting a hundred men to a standstill and being martyred and the mood did not once dampen. Homa began to get used to letting the content of the lyrics slide off her brain and just tried to enjoy the mood.

“Everyone’s gathering in front of the village, so it’s my time to shine. Come on, Homa!”

Sareh led Homa over to a little table that had set up next to the stage.

Baran followed the two of them with a small smile, occasionally looking back at the stage.

Perhaps wistful about not being able to perform as she originally desired due to her injury.

She seemed to not be letting it get to her– she sat down across from Sareh.

There was an area off to the side of the stage that had been prepared for the festivities.

Aside from their table, there was space for the eventual feast too.

However, Sareh had set up this table with a very specific purpose in mind.

“Are you going to give me one too?” Baran asked.

“Of course, of course.” Sareh said.

She pulled out something from under the table– a series of small sealed basins and containers, and some strange little picks. When Sareh popped the lid off one of the containers, there was a reddish-brown substance. To demonstrate, she drew Homa’s attention to it, dipped the pick in it, and gently took Baran’s outstretched arm with her other hand. She laid a small flower-like pattern starting from Baran’s fingertip to her knuckle– it was a mehndi, a temporary tattoo. Homa had seen newlywed girls wearing it on their hands before. She followed Sareh’s fingertips as she very carefully painted on Baran’s hand.

“See? I run a mehndi table every time we can have a Tishtar.” Sareh said.

“She’s very good at it. And these days the dyes are safe.” Baran said, showing off the mehndi.

Starting from her index finger, Sareh had drawn an intricate web of flowers that fit Baran’s hand like a thin, sheer glove. Spreading down the rest of her fingers, over the knuckle, to the wrist. It took her just a few minutes to get it done. Homa was quite surprised. She had always thought of Sareh as a blunt sort of person and did not conceive of her having the patience for handicrafts. Of course, she would not say such a thing to her.

Instead she smiled with wonderment at the body art.

“I already knew what kind of pattern Baran likes– but what would you like, Homa?”

Sareh held up her pick and seemed to gesture as if over Homa’s arm.

Homa almost brought up her gloved, mechanical hand– which would have been useless.

She had gotten so used to it by now that she forgot sometimes about its deficiencies.

Sareh would not have been able to paint over such a thing– probably.

“Um.” Homa looked down at the table. “One of my arms– it’s– it’s actually a prosthetic.”

Even as she spoke– she felt her voice strain to form the shameful words.

“Is the metal just plain colored? Or is it black or something? I should be able to paint on it– I got a bunch of differently colored engineered dyes we can use for it. If not I can just paint on your other arm, it’s fine. It’s not weird to get only one arm done.” Sareh said reassuringly.

Homa thought she was dropping a grenade– but neither she nor Baran seemed to care.

They did not judge her for having lost an arm or had any sort of reaction to it.

“Let her try, Homa. Trust me, she’s quite crafty when it comes to mehndi.” Baran said.

“You’ll have to take your gloves off obviously.” Sareh said, jabbing the pick in the air.

Homa looked down at her hands.

Using her biological hand she pulled the glove off of her prosthetic hand. She showed Sareh what it was like– its black metal sheen, the visible articulation of the mechanical digits. Her eyes averted from it and from Sareh’s face. She felt a certain shame to be exposing it to others, she felt that it was unsightly and that it might shock people to see it–

Such a thing could not possibly be beautiful– nor be made beautiful–

“Oh, that’s not a problem! I can use a green dye or a redder dye– it’ll be visible.”

Because Homa could not feel with her prosthetic, it took her a moment to see that Sareh had taken hold of her hand. She spread the digits and dipped her pick in a second basin which had green dye– and drew upon one of Homa’s metal digits a green flower pattern that was a little thicker than that which she drew on Baran’s hand and had a tighter weave.

With her pick she gestured for Homa to look at her work.

The green die contrasted the black metal well and was indeed quite visible.

“What do you think? Should I keep going?” Sareh asked, smiling gently.

Looking at the sight of her metallic arm being decorated so kindly made Homa tear up.

“Oh no, I’m sorry.” Sareh said. “I shouldn’t have insisted–”

“No, no,” Homa said, wiping her tears with her free hand, “it’s okay. I’m happy.”

Sareh looked at her for a moment and sighed with relief. “Should I keep going then?”

“Please do.” Homa said.

Baren smiled at the two of them, watching Sareh’s pattern spread across Homa’s prosthetic.

Her pick glided as easily over the metal as it did on Homa’s flesh, weaving beauty.

Soon Homa had matching mehndi on both of her hands, vividly green floral patterns.

Looking at them together– it was the first time she had thought of them as her hands.

Not as a remnant of her body and a mismatched intrusion– just her two hands.

Capable of comfort and beauty and love and warmth– her natural hands.

“It’s really pretty Sareh. I really like this. Thank you so much.” Homa said.

Sareh smiled and nodded, clearly proud of her handiwork.

“Great!” She said. “Homa, just remember you’re part of the festival today. All of you is.”

Baran nodded in acknowledgment. She reached out to touch Homa’s shoulder for comfort.

Homa wanted to cry again from all the unearned kindness she had received–

Instead, however, she smiled a vibrant smile– with a joy a long, long time coming.


After receiving her mehndi and once her emotions cooled, Homa left Sareh and Baran’s side momentarily. She wanted to see more of the snacks that had been arrayed in the kiosks and tables around the front of the village. When the children saw Homa’s mehndi, all of them hurried to Sareh’s table near the stage. They wanted to have one done just like Homa, and ceased to splash water, creating a small island of peace in the middle of Tishtar.

Smiling, Homa brought up her prosthetic hand to her face, to look at it as she walked.

She flexed the metallic skeletal digits adorned with bright green color.

This was the first time since the prosthetic was installed that it was not covered up.

That hand, those digits, held another kebab, and a glass of watery pomegranate juice, and a spoonful of sweet rice pudding, and the aunties serving the food saw it, and they commented on how pretty the mehndi was and knew immediately that Sareh had set up her table. They made no comment about it being a prosthetic. They wanted to get mehndi as well, but they were busy tending to all the snacks. Homa reassured them that surely they would be able to get some done later, the day was young. It was stress-free chit-chat.

At no point did anyone say anything about Homa that was anything less than flattering.

Her dress got more compliments than her prosthetic hand even got any attention.

“A dress from Baran and a mehndi from Sareh! How special indeed!” One auntie said.

“Those two are so talented. They esteem you a lot.” An old woman said, sitting on a porch.

“Homa, did you know?” Another auntie said. “Sareh learned the skill from her older sister– Allah praise her, she smiles down on us. But even as a small child Sareh was fantastic with the dye. If you want to make Sareh smile, Homa, be sure to praise her mehndi skills.”

“And tell Baran you love that dress! She will be so delighted!” A third auntie said.

“I already offered many compliments, don’t you worry! I was very impressed!” Homa said.

It was just a bit overwhelming when there was more than one auntie around.

“Very good. You are such a polite girl. I’m sure you will find your family someday.”

Homa smiled, a bit awkwardly, not wanting to say any more about that particular lie.

“By the way, not to be nosy or anything–”

Both ears folded, one of the aunties put on a strangely conspiratorial expression.

Homa braced for whatever comment might follow–

“–but I’ve seen you eating quite a few snacks. Save room for the feast later!”

“Ah, let her eat! She is so skinny! Homa you can have as many snacks as you want.”

“It is good for our village that a city girl like Homa loves our snacks. Eat more, Homa!”

For a moment the aunties had a spirited chat about the culture of eating at the festival.

Of course nobody mentioned any of the things Homa immediately stressed about.

Despite the warnings, the aunties did give Homa candied figs and sesame crackers.

In the middle of her snack journey, however–

There was a bit of friendly mortification now heading Homa’s way.

Word quickly traveled across the village that a small group of visitors had come for Tishtar.

At first Homa thought it was Rahima and she braced herself to put up with the fascist leader– but the reaction was a bit different. Because it was rare for people from outside the village to come to the festival, everyone got excited about the strangers visiting. Baran left Sareh’s mehndi table in order to welcome the new guests, and a Homa even more high-strung than usual left with her. Knowing who was likely waiting at the village gates, Homa felt her entire body brimming under the skin with tension and future embarrassment.

Sure enough, the small group that collected at the gates was mainly composed of–

“Homa! Look at you! You’re like a cute little doll! How wonderful!”

Khadija al-Shajara– with the tall, gloomy blond Sieglinde Castille at her side–

“Hey! Homa! Looking cute! I’m glad you’re loosening up a bit!”

Sameera al-Shahouh– accompanied by the shorter, gloomier Dominika Rybolovskaya–

“Ah– I’m not anyone you know– I just heard there was a festival. Call me Outis.”

And one stranger, Outis, a tall woman in a coat and pants with long, pale hair and shades.

Judging by the blue scales near her neck and her gray skin, she must have been a Katarran.

Homa stood with her gaze averted, feeling pointedly the presence of the dress once again.

She introduced the people she knew to Baran, with their names and a quick excuse–

“– these folks work on the ship that I rode in on. They’re good people.” Homa said.

Outis stood off to the side smiling. There was no one to vouch for her there.

However, Baran and the villagers seemed delighted to have even more company.

“Marhaba!” Baran said, meeting the group at the gates. “My name is Baran, I represent the villagers. We are holding Tishtar, an important festival. Homa’s friends are always welcome here– and we welcome any strangers who want to celebrate with us too! We made so much food just in case, so don’t be shy. Enjoy the music and hospitality! Just try to be sensitive about the kids running about– they will probably splash you with water.”

Everyone from the Brigand group had dressed up casually.

Due to the infiltration mission into Aachen the Brigand had invested in some common casual outfits to avoid their operatives wearing their uniforms everywhere. Khadija, blond-haired and sandy-skinned, wore a long light blue synthetic dress, while Sieglinde Castille, tall and blond and well-built, wore a long shirt and pants. Sameera had an outfit that was probably too casual for the village, with a tanktop and pants and her shoulders and arms bared, not exactly modest– but Baran seemed not to mind. Dominika, with her reedy red hair adorned with a few ribbons, had on black tights and a knee-length pink dress with a jacket over it. Again, not typically modest enough for a God-loving Shimii woman.

Homa had only briefly spoken to Sameera; and only knew Khadija as one of the terrors of the cafeteria, along with the cook Minardo, who loved to sit up at the front serving counter and endlessly tease and harangue whoever showed up that she deemed cute enough to bother. Despite this they all looked upon her in the dress with such bright wonderment, that she was curious what they thought they even knew about her to begin with.

Nevertheless, she treated them as more familiar friends than they actually were.

It would have been silly to equivocate such things in their situation.

“Please excuse any staring from my kin– they’re not used to city folk!” Baran said, while beckoning the party to cross the gate. “I assure you we welcome all guests.”

Homa felt initially responsible in some way for the visitors from the Pandora’s Box

She thought that she might have to make herself something of a host to them–

Maybe keep them out of trouble–

However as soon as they went through the gate, Khadija and Sieglinde, and Sameera and Dominika, quickly fanned out away from herself and Baran and rushed to follow their own curiosities. Baran gently signaled to Homa to leave them be– and Homa thus found herself left with madame Outis, who looked upon everything with a distant curiosity.

“Madame, if I might ask, where did you hear about our festival?” Baran asked.

Outis smiled, adjusting her shaded sunglasses. “I had a rare day off and wanted to be far from my employer for a time. Some of the people out in the town implied that as an unsavory-looking character I should make my way to the bacchanalia transpiring here.”

Baran blanched slightly in the face–

“Oh dear, I’m sorry they gave you trouble.” Baran said. “But– also, we’re not–”

“Yes, I figured there was something more to it than that.” Outis winked. “It’s fine. I am easily amused, and I must admit, a bit sheltered also– I simply want to soak up the festive spirit.”

“Homa, perhaps you can show madame Outis around a bit?” Baran said.

“Ah– sure.” Homa hesitated at first before giving in to Baran’s pleading look.

“I have something I need to take care of.” Baran said. She turned to Outis. “There will be a stage act put on in the afternoon, with a folk dance. Then after that there will be a feast, and poetry and prayer. In the meantime, my friend Homa will be as gracious a host as I would be.”

Waving her hands, Baran sped off as quickly as she could while walking with a cane.

Homa wondered whether she was embarrassed by what Outis said, or actually busy.

Regardless, Homa was stuck with hosting duty– which was as fine as anything.

She was starting to run out of novel things to do around the village.

Guiding someone around the same places she had already seen would kill some time.

“Madame–”

“You can just call me Outis.”

The woman smiled, and Homa nodded her head. She gestured toward the village.

“Have you eaten anything recently? Honestly the snacks are the best part of the festival.”

Outis put a finger to her lips. “I had a bar ration a few hours ago– I wouldn’t mind food.”

“A bar ration? You’re living too small madame. Come with me!”

Homa smiled and tried to be affable as she led Outis toward the kiosks.

While Outis marveled at everything around them as if she had never seen so much color.


A pair of children with their ladles and pans full of water ran up to a couple of strangers. On top of the world as ever– Laughing, visibly proud to give new folks the traditional Tishtar welcome, the children dipped their ladles in their pans and prepared to splash– only to meet the eyes of the woman in the blue dress, her ears tall as possible, her tail straight up.

A gaze with such intensity and sternness, perhaps unlike any they had seen.

It paralyzed them, their little mouths agape at the sight.

This was not just any woman; they might have reasoned– this was a mighty auntie.

In the next instant, the children turned and ran pell-mell away from the pair.

Khadija al-Shajara looked almost proud; Sieglinde Castille beheld the children with pity.

“You’re supposed to let them splash you– that lady said it was part of it.” Sieglinde said.

“Absolutely not.” Khadija said. “After all the effort I spent on my hair and makeup? No!”

After word had gotten out of Homa’s little festival adventure, it was reasoned that some of the Shimii crew who had no other pressing business should be allowed to attend as well. This led Khadija al-Shajara to don her wine-colored eyeshadow and lipstick, dolling herself up in her best palettes, and to put on the flattering, long-sleeved, low hemmed, high-waisted dress that she had been given as a civilian “disguise.” Her golden hair and tail fur worked well with the gentle blue, and her long legs were covered with black tights.

She thought she looked ten years younger.

Khadija had a duty to surveil Sieglinde Castille, so she dragged her along, dressed in brown dress pants and a long-sleeved button-down. The tall and broad-shouldered woman got a taste of Khadija’s skills in makeup and hair dressing, though she resisted anything but the lightest dab of concealer and requested her hair be kept in a simple ponytail. Khadija of course gave her an earful for being so boring, but there was nothing to be done.

At least she looked handsome and made a good counterpart to Khadija– if she wasn’t going to stand out, she should at least be a good accessory and she accomplished this.

Arm in arm, the pair of them walked through the village, taking in the ambiance.

To everyone there, they must have looked almost like a touristy husband and wife pair.

One made up of two women, however.

“It looks like there’s nothing for you to drink here.” Sieglinde said, with a bit of a tone.

“Are you trying to be funny with me? Do you want me to kick your shin?” Khadija said.

“I’ve just never seen you enjoy yourself without involving alcohol.” Sieglinde said.

Her voice carried a note of annoyance or perhaps bitterness Khadija did not appreciate.

“You’re still sore about that? I can’t believe you. You had plenty of fun with it.”

Sieglinde sighed. “We should buy some kind of souvenir. We shouldn’t be cheap.”

Changing subject? Khadija would graciously allow it– to move off discussion of alcohol.

“What do you mean not being cheap?” Khadija asked, crossing her arms.

“Well– at the festivals I’ve been to, there’s always local handicrafts and such things.”

“You’re concerned with supporting the local economy?”

“I’m concerned with how we look. It looks bad to show up at a festival to buy nothing.”

Khadija wanted to say her brain was poisoned by capitalism–

But there was a kernel of what she said that rung true.

Not necessarily about buying things but about making use of the local hospitality.

Shimii did not throw festivals for things to go to waste and for people to ignore them.

What was ungracious for a guest was to ignore or reject the goods on offer by the host.

Money was not necessarily a part of it– nothing around them appeared to be for sale.

Khadija agreed silently that in all things, she should look as good as possible.

Not just physically, which was already granted– but also as a personable, a fine lady.

“Then let us be good guests and partake. I’ll show you I can have some dry, chaste fun.”

As much as she preferred wetter fun, Khadija felt nostalgic among the village Shimii.

They had set up different little tables and kiosks with food and handcrafts and little games.

There was a woman giving out bracelets, a young lady drawing mehndi–

“Oh! Could it be? Sieglinde, come here, this way!”

Her voice raised with delight, and she was awash in a wave of nostalgia.

Next to the mehndi lady sat the young woman who had met them at the gates. Smiling, she had tablet in front of her that was instantly recognizable to any Shimii– al-Kitab, the book, the collection of religious knowledge around which a Shimii structured their spiritual and aerthly life. On the other side of the table from the book there was a beautiful green and blue clay basin with water. There were people reading prayers elsewhere in the village, and the most religious people were visible at the masjid in prayer–

but that was clearly not the intention of that girl, Baran.

“Khadija–?”

Sieglinde looked surprised with her sudden enthusiasm.

For Khadija, this took her back to her own girlhood among her people.

Back before the Imbrians forced them to change their names– and then enslaved them.

“Young miss, are you perhaps offering counsel here?” Khadija asked.

“Offering counsel” was the most polite way to say what she meant in Low Imbrian. Rather, what Khadija intended to say by this was the act of Istikhaara. To the Rashidun, Istikhaara was specifically a prayer beseeching God for guidance in their aerthly affairs and it was as simple as that– to the Mahdists, Istikhaara could be used to derive a binary answer called a kheera drawn from the pages of the book of wisdom. Kheera could be either auspicious or terrible and were used to ease one’s doubts about a decision they wanted to make.

Like everything with Shimii, this was a contentious practice.

However, Khadija had always grown up around people who believed that it was not only possible to seek counsel from God in this way but that it was fine to do so for important matters and perhaps even for some trivial issues. God was infinite in his mercy and wisdom, after all. Therefore she was used to people indulging their curiosity in this ritual.

Seeing the young girl behind the table truly brought back memories.

Baran immediately smiled at Khadija. “I always do this on special occassions.”

“Um.” Sieglinde looked between Khadija and Baran helplessly. “What is it that you do?”

“It is a way to ease doubts about the future by seeking God’s counsel.” Khadija said.

“Like fortune telling? I thought Shimii forbade such things.” Sieglinde said.

“There’s some nuance you are missing.” Baran said, more sheepishly than before.

“You’ve probably only ever met Rashidun.” Khadija said. “We Mahdists are different.”

“I apologize for my ignorance.” Sieglinde said. “I would love to have my fortune told.”

Baran winced a bit, still smiling. “Please do not call it fortune telling.” She whispered.

Khadija realized she was using a different, more subservient tone of voice for Sieglinde.

She sighed a bit. Sieglinde was a tall, imperious blond woman, so it made sense.

Around here they had probably grown up feeling they had to show respect to Imbrians.

Even if only pragmatically-

“There’s an important specificity you don’t understand. Shut your ignorant mouth.”

Khadija responded harshly; Baran was a little surprised. She hoped it was demonstrative.

Sieglinde frowned and averted her gaze a bit but still remained by Khadija’s side.

Normally, the person who made a prognostication had to be someone of exceptional piety and respect, religiously pure, or at least viewed as such by others– because it was not worth it to seek a kheera from any random person, only from the most pious and clean. In this village, Baran seemed to be the person closest to that status, so it made sense why she was the one offering. Khadija watched, a deepening sense of nostalgia as Baran offered prayers, first a prayer for counsel, then a blessing on the companions, and finally prayers for ritual cleansing. While reciting this last prayer, she washed her hands in the basin, and then washed some of her face, careful not to smudge the bit of makeup she had worn.

Then, it was time for the kheera to be given.

Baran’s tablet was a small, cheap computer programmed only to render the texts of al-Kitab, more affordable than having a stone paper version of such an enormous book. It was grayscale and thin and flimsy-looking, just larger than someone’s pocket. However, hers had an additional function. Turning it over, she pressed a little button on the side, and the screen scrambled for a moment before displaying a randomly selected page from the book. Baran held her hand over the tablet to prevent anyone seeing the page before her.

She smiled at Khadija and held out her other hand.

“What are you seeking counsel in, madame? Is there something you are contemplating?”

Khadija put on a grin. “Should I pursue a romance?” She asked. Sieglinde averted her gaze.

Baran’s ears wiggled slightly with excitement. She must have liked to give such advice.

She removed her hand from the tablet to view the page that had come up.

“An auspicious result!” Baran said. “It will certainly take work, but you should pursue the relationship you seek. Try to accept the challenges that will follow, for Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala will reward you greatly for your faith if you become a devoted partner.”

“Fantastic.” Khadija said, clapping her hands together, her tail swaying gently.

Sieglinde glanced at the two of them with a bit of a pout. “Can I–?”

“Of course, madame!” Baran said. “God’s knowledge and mercy are infinite.”

Politely, this meant that even for a nonbelieving Imbrian she was willing to read a kheera.

Khadija stepped aside and gestured for Sieglinde to stand in front of Baran.

Sieglinde took her place and put on a bit more cheer than she had previously shown.

Baran pressed the button on the book, covered the tablet with her hand–

“What kind of counsel do you seek madame? Perhaps a financial decision?” Baran asked.

“I am also interested in romance.” Sieglinde said. Khadija narrowed her eyes at her.

Baran looked down at the book with her usual excitement, reading the page–

For a brief moment her eyes drew wide, and her smile became a bit crooked–

She rapidly put the book back down and–

Quite clearly put on an act for Sieglinde! Khadija could tell right away what this was!

“What do you know? It is an auspicious result! Um– your pursuit of courtship will be quite successful. You should make every effort! But um– be sure to live free of sin!”

Baran had an innocent expression, and Sieglinde smiled and seemed to accept the kheera.

However, Khadija was immediately aware that this must have been an awful result.

It was only because she was dealing with an Imbrian that Baran likely lied about the kheera.

She had probably dealt with ignorant Imbrians before who argued with any bad results.

Her reading of Sieglinde was wrong– Sieglinde was taciturn-looking, but a complete wimp.

Khadija was not about to defend or enlighten the woman stuck at her side.

“Hear that? You should confess to whoever it is already, you lunk!” Khadija said, patting Sieglinde’s shoulder with a big grin and trying to distract her from Baran.

Sieglinde laughed and averted her gaze with mild embarrassment.

Baran subtly reset the book a few times while continuing to smile nervously.


“You know, as much as you complain about my company, you look happy.”

Sameera smiled smugly with a glance at her partner.

“Hmph. Other people are just much more annoying. Don’t flatter yourself too much.”

Dominika launched her riposte with minimal grumbling.

When she heard about the festival from Khadija, Sameera also asked for permission to go– and Dominika easily accepted the invitation. Neither of them had been too actively engaged of late and both welcomed something to do. Sameera was more excited to see the Mahdist village than she allowed herself to express in her face and in her mannerisms. She was guarded– she felt a bit silly about her excitement, and conflicted about whether the villagers could tell that she was mixed race, perhaps not a real Shimii. Nevertheless, she trekked down to the Shimii Wohnbezirk alongside Dominika, and entered the Mahdist village.

They looked around, taking in the ambiance and the sounds of the village.

Sounds of gentle drums and strings, and singing from the stage; the chattering of the villagers, particularly all of the aunties and the laughing children; the percussion of the steps people took on the hard ground; the sizzle of cooked snacks and the cracks of gas fires lighting in the old stoves. The spicy, savory aroma of the snacks mixed with the earthy and sweet scent of burning bakhoor incense– particularly around the masjid and the stage.

“Feeling peckish at all?” Sameera asked.

“Hmm.” Dominika met her eyes but seemed reticent to say anything.

“Say no more.” Sameera joked and left her side momentarily.

Approaching one of the kiosks where an older woman was serving food.

She thought that she recognized the snack being made and thought she would get some.

“Two kebabs, please.” Sameera said. “How much will that be?”

The auntie behind the grill smiled, raised her tail and made a dismissive hand gesture.

“I don’t want money, I want you to eat, look at you, you’re too thin.”

Sameera did not quite agree, but she knew there was no arguing with the aunties.

Behind the auntie’s plastic stand, she had a grill with meat already cooking.

With a smile, she handed Sameera two particularly plump snacks.

These were close to the type of kebabs Sameera was used to from the Union’s Shimii– ground meat mixed with spices, that was formed around a stick into a uniform and vaguely cylindrical shape before cooking. In the Union, the “meat” was vegetable or pea proteins glazed with oil, but the texture of the shaped patties of ground-up protein was very similar to the kebab snacks in this village. In the Imbrium, the popularized version of the kebab consisted of discrete bits of meat that were individually skewered on the stick and then cooked. Sameera had not tried them those– because they looked too different.

These, though they were meat, reminded her of home.

She would just have to try them.

Returning to Dominika, she handed her one of the kebabs.

Dominika took it in hand and turned over the stick in her fingers, examining the snack.

“Don’t look it over too much, it’s rude.” Sameera whispered.

“It’s actual meat, isn’t it?” Dominika said.

“When in Roma, do as the Elves do.” Sameera said gently.

She lifted her snack as if a glass to cheer with and took a bite of her kebab.

Unsurprisingly it was quite delicious, with a tender texture and a slightly firm exterior, and incredibly savory. All of the spices lent the simple snack a complex, earthy taste with a mild piquancy that was stronger in flavor than that of the meat itself. Nice and juicy from glazing in its own fluids. She was surprised that the taste was not that far off the ground proteins they served in the Union, perhaps because of the strong flavor of the spice blend.

She smiled at Dominika as if prompting her to eat, and Dominika took a tentative bite.

After that first taste, she clearly paced herself so as not to be seen devouring the snack.

“It’s good.” Dominika said, and no more than that.

“I’m glad.” Sameera said, politely leaving what was unsaid, unacknowledged.

Dominika was looking gorgeous as always on that day.

Her style of dress always surprised Sameera because Dominika was usually so withdrawn and taciturn, but her casual looks were always a bit bolder than she imagined. Everyone had chosen an outfit to requisition when they arrived in Aachen. To avoid drawing too much attention to the Treasure Box uniform while scouting the core station. Dominika had chosen and received a little pink dress with thin straps, knee-length, hugging her thin and largely angular body. She accesorized with a pair of tights and a jacket that was starting to fall off her shoulders. If she cared about its precarity she did not show it.

Her ruddy-colored hair she always wore long and loose, playing host to little reed-like black and red bioluminscent strands interspersed within.

The dim light in the village prompted her photophores to glow just a bit.

Her eyes, too, with their pink irises and blue limbal rings– they glowed gently.

Beautiful– Sameera had to try not to keep staring at her too obviously.

Meanwhile, Sameera felt her own mode of dress was quite casual.

She preferred to wear tanktops and pants as much as Dominika seemed to prefer tiny little dresses rendered modest only with jackets. She particularly liked her shoulders and arms and thought the world deserved to see them. In her own way, she was probably being immodest– but she nevertheless went through the world wearing a handsome, conceited little grin and nobody had yet to wipe it off her face (save Dominika.)

If anyone had an issue with their appearance, nobody made it known.

Everyone seemed equally pleased to have any visitors from outside the village.

Perhaps this was also because they felt kindly disposed toward “Homa’s friends.”

Sameera would have to tease that kitten sometime about how popular she was here.

“Pfennig for your thoughts, Dominika?” Sameera asked.

She had seen Dominika looking off to the side at the small, dispersed throngs of villagers.

Dominika glanced at Sameera briefly and then lowered her gaze.

“Walking around this village reminds me of living in the ice frontier.” She said.

“Cold?” Sameera asked, searching for her gaze.

“Scarce.” Dominika replied, still unable to meet her eyes.

In her own terse way, she expressed everything she felt clearly.

The Union’s southeast abutted the planet’s vast southern ice region. To expand their living space, a dedicated fleet that combined military, engineering and mining ships and gear wound their way through the ice and made way for new stations and uncovered untapped resources. It might have seemed like an insane project compared to building stations in the other territories of the Union, but the ice redoubt was also insurance against the worst case scenario. In case Ferris, Lyser and Solstice fell to the Empire in battle– then just as the Kingdom of Volgia fought the Empire to a standstill at the Northern Ice Wall, Solstice hoped to do the same in the Southern one, preserving communism for the future.

Those who picked through the ice, who lived in the slowly built-up stations and in the glacier mining works and in the subsistence tunnels– people like Dominika lived rough out there. Sameera could imagine that Dominika might have lived in a place just like this for some time. A hole in the rock in which there was oxygen and plastic shelters and dim LED clusters overhead. Where there was soup and hard work and bitter cold and always more ice sheets to cut through. Supplies were tight, local production limited, and rationing harsh.

“But–” Dominika had more to say, after a moment of silence.

She spoke in a low voice, a bit conspiratorial, between themselves and away from the villagers. “In the ice frontier, the years I spent there, I could see things getting a little better, year by year. I saw more stations go up section by section, I saw tunnel redoubts spread out and get better and more machines. Mining works became safer, warmer. There was more food stockpiled and more food served. We got better weapons and tools. More and more people came in seeking the frontier life, coming out of their own accord.”

“It was similar in Lyser.” Sameera said, matching her tone. “People didn’t want to work in the agrispheres at first, it was tough and unsafe and there was a sense that people did it just because it had to get done. But Jayasankar went through huge efforts to make agrisphere life appealing, and now it has the reputation that it has. People love to go to work in the farm communities now– they are aspirational. The government put in the effort.”

“Do you understand what I mean, Sameera?” Dominika asked, meeting her eyes again.

“Yeah– how long has it been since these folks saw their livelihoods improve?”

“Right.” Dominika said. “And– are they here of their own accord?”

Both their troubled gazes met briefly and just as quickly seemed to break apart.

In light of the hardships here, Sameera’s concerns about her mixed race felt petty.

As happy as the people looked to be holding their festival in their little village–

This was a place where they had been cast out to and trapped by others.

And worse– they had no control over it and could do very little to make it better.

Thinking about that, she felt that Homa had been the best of them–

Helping out here while the two of them sat around on the ship wasting time.

Something caught Sameera’s eye, at the edge of her vision– Dominika shook her head.

“Don’t fall into that self-sacrificing streak of yours again.” She said.

“I’ll try not to.” She said. “Do you think these folks see me as a Shimii or a Loup?”

“Ask them.” Dominika said. “But don’t judge yourself or them before you do.”

Sameera grunted a bit. It was not so easy as this hard-headed Katarran thought!

However, she also couldn’t help but laugh a bit at how blunt Dominika was.

Dominika watched her break out into unveiled laughter and grinned a little herself.

They wandered back over to the stage, besides which most of the village and the festival events seemed to be arranged. There was an enormous table being prepared that Sameera presumed was for the feast, and beside it there were tables occupied by seemingly popular figures in the village. There was the girl who met them at the gates, who seemed to be getting the most attention by far, including from Khadija and Sieglinde; and there was another girl on the table beside her who was responsible for the mehndi on the arms of seemingly everyone around them. All of the kids running around had mehndi now.

Sameera had a brief of fancy of getting one, but she hesitated for a moment.

Dominika however had no hesitation and marched up to the table, pulling her jacket off one arm. As the one Katarran in the vicinity she really stuck out among the villagers.

But she clearly acted without any such reservations.

“Can I get some green flowers?” She asked, stretching out her arm to the lady at the table.

Sameera winced a bit, expecting the mehndi girl to be offended– but she laughed instead.

“Hah, I like the enthusiasm! Comin’ right up!”

And set to work immediately, taking out a fresh container of dye with which to work.

“My name is Sareh.” Said the mehndi artist. “What do you do for a living?”

She made some small talk while preparing the dye and throughout her careful work.

“I’m Dominika. I work as a deckhand on a ship.” Dominika said.

“Ah, I see, I see. Rough work but you get to see a lot of places– right?”

“Exactly. I live for the adventure.” Her voice was so painfully emotionless saying this.

“What kind of ship do you work on, if you can say?”

“Transport ship. Moving people and things on the cheap.”

“Do deckhands have to lift heavy stuff? Can you pick up a huge crate with one hand?”

“I might be able to do it because I’m a Katarran– but deckhands just clean and fix stuff.”

“You know Homa, right? I remember Baran saying she was there to introduce you.”

Sameera briefly worried Dominika would not have the cover story straight–

“She is one of our cherished clients. We have a professional relationship.”

–she should not have been worried; Dominika was a no-nonsense kind of gal after all.

It did surprise her how politely the surly Katarran kept up the chat with Sareh.

“There, let me know what you think! You can be as critical as you want!”

Sareh looked delighted with her handiwork, the flowers and vines across Dominika’s arm.

Dominika smiled, a rare, small smile. “It’s pretty. No criticism here.”

After a moment, Sameera approached, and Sareh seemed to immediately take notice.

“You’re with her right? You’ve got a warrior’s look to you! How about I put something cool and tough on your arm huh? I’ve been wanting to try out some new designs!”

Sareh’s ears wiggled a bit, and Sameera’s raised up, briefly stunned at the proposal.

“She’s–” Dominika hesitated for a moment. “Yes, we’re together.”

Sameera was even more surprised by that than by Sareh calling to her.

Given that acknowledgment, she could not afford to be shy now– she gave Sareh her arm.

“I’m with her, yeah. My name is Sameera. Feel free to give me anything.” She said.

Sareh grinned. “You won’t be disappointed.”

For Sameera’s earthy skin, Sareh turned to her lighter dye and began the design. Around the fingers, the design was thick with lines, but became more precise behind the knuckles. Sameera watched, quiet at first. In her heart she felt a bit disquieted, because at first Sareh was not making conversation like she did with Dominika. She focused on her art instead.

Sameera wondered if this reflected on herself at all–

that maybe Sareh did not want to talk to her–

because– she was–

“–sorry I’m so quiet, the start is important. Do you also work on a ship?” Sareh asked.

–what she was, apparently, was still too foolish.

“Yes, I’m a deckhand just like my companion here.” Sameera said, a bit relieved.

“Ah– then I take it you’re also working on ships in pursuit of adventure?”

“Adventure and the paycheck.” Sameera said, trying to sound confident again.

“Tell me something interesting about you! I love keeping little stories from travelers.”

Sameera smiled outwardly but hesitated as to what she would say.

Some petty and bitter part of her spoke first, and spoke her pervasive insecurities–

“I’m actually a Loup–” She fumbled her words and restated, “Half-Loup. Half-Shimii.”

She tried to keep her tail from moving while she spoke– what if it moved like a Loup tail?

Sareh did not even look up from the strokes of her pick. “That’s interesting!” She said.

For a moment, Sameera was a bit disarmed. She had not expected such a response.

“It can be a bit tough. I don’t know anyone else like me.” Sameera said.

“Yeah– I get it.” Sareh said. “Our cultures have all these reasons to separate people out, Mahdist and Rashidun, Shimii or not. But you know, Homa is part Imbrian, but to us, she’s our kin too. I’ve never had any reason to exclude her from anything. She’s one of us too. If you want to be our kin as well, we will never demand your parentage. And I’m sure there are Loup who will feel that way too. It’s just about finding people who aren’t up their own–”

“–language.” Baran interrupted and glanced at Sareh from the next table over.

“–if you’ve been listening, you should give some encouragement.” Sareh grumbled.

“Madame Sameera, there is no Shimii who is too little Shimii to be welcome here.”

Baran and Sareh both gave Sameera the same little smile before continuing their labors.

Sameera, meanwhile, struggled to hold her composure because she wanted to weep a bit.

Her tail did begin to wag just a bit.

“Have you ever used a Diver for anything, madame Sameera?” Sareh asked. “I know on some ships the sailors are certified. It’s a really silly fantasy, but I’ve always wanted to learn to pilot one even for grunt work. They look so cool in the videos and the posters.”

So casually shifting the conversation away– Sameera felt such a strange mix of emotions.

She felt more at home here than she had for a long time in many other places.

Sameera had been running away too much– but here, home somehow caught up to her.

“Ah, no, no Divers. Our company doesn’t own anything fancy.” She said.

“Maybe someday. Anyway–” Sareh said. She lifted her pick and gestured to the arm.

On the edges of her fingers and hand, intricate swirls like flames surrounded a design shaped like an intricate curved sword in a very intricate scabbeard on the back of her hand, extending into her arm. Mehndi usually had either very feminine or very whimsical designs, since they were initially meant to be worn by brides and by girls debuting or coming of age. Sareh’s predilections came through in the design, it was a bit gaudy and a bit silly.

Sameera loved it, however. She showed it off to Dominika, who smiled at her.

“You look undoubtedly like a real Shimii warrior now.” Dominika teased.

“Give me a break.” Sameera said.

But she was smiling so widely that she nearly wept.


“Incredible! It tastes so good! This is almost hedonistic!”

Homa stared at Outis, who was enjoying a kebab so very much.

Chewing loudly, making all manner of moaning sounds, it was almost indecent to behold. She was probably not putting on an act, but the sheer joy she seemed to derive from simply eating a kebab– it made Homa want to ruin her fun by saying it was just beef and spices. There was something a bit irritating about her reaction. However, Homa was entrusted to show her around the village and had to be careful what she said. She had to suppress her own petty and cynical responses lest she misrepresent the villagers.

“Homa, is it permissible to have another? May I indulge?” She clapped her hands together.

“I mean– I don’t see why not–?” Homa was quite confused at the sudden begging.

Outis grabbed two more kebabs from the amused auntie behind the kiosk.

She handed one to Homa and watched expectanctly for a moment as Homa took a bite.

As delicious as when she ate one in the morning–

However, what she was really looking forward to now was the feast being prepared.

And the dance that seemed soon at hand judging from the preparations on the stage.

Rose petals scattered across the wood, and colored banners and streamers went up.

Baran and Sareh had left the tables with their unique diversions– maybe to fetch Kalika.

“Will there be a different type of performance soon? I see they are decorating everything more ornately and I saw people carrying more instruments to the backstage. But I like the minimalist show they have right now. The woman on the stage singing with the musicians just sitting there behind her– it reminds me of the plays that Katarrans put on.”

Outis looked at the stage with a certain fondness in her eyes.

Homa was unsure of how to read her. Her clothes were not shabby, she had a good jacket that was clearly fitted for her, and decent pants, and her shades were a simple style, and did not look expensive, but they were not trash either. Everything about her seemed to slip through the cracks of Homa’s ability to read class. She claimed to have been subsisting on rations, but she was well-dressed, and comely. Her skin was fair, and she had lipstick and perhaps concealer on, maybe even eyeshadow under those shades– her features were sleek, attractive, she was well kept and physically fit, with good shoulders.

Like most Katarrans Homa had ever met, she was probably good for a fight.

But she also just looked like any tourist and sounded like a bit of a weirdo besides.

What she said interested Homa– she felt compelled to make conversation.

“You know– I was unaware Katarrans had such traditions.” Homa said.

Outis looked at her with a sudden amusement.

“Of course we do! How do you think that we entertain each other on long voyages with nothing afforded to us? Minimalist theater. Nothing but an object to stand on, and the power of the voice and imagination. Kōmōidía! Tragōidía! The legends of warlord and mercenary alike, transmitted from crew to crew– one aspires to be spoken of in such a way!”

Flamboyant gestures and flourishes accompanied her speech. She winked at Homa.

Homa wondered whether if Outis had been the teller of any such tales herself.

She had the energy for it, certainly.

However, it made sense– and it also helped Homa to relate to her more easily.

Even with all of the Katarrans she knew, she was still fighting the stereotypes she learned.

Outis wasn’t just “some Katarran”– she was Outis, a woman who seemed to love theater.

She could imagine her huddled up in an awful Katarran ship telling stories to pass the time.

Not too dissimilar to what many villagers likely got out of holding this Tishtar.

No matter where they were or who they were, human beings needed some diversions.

This was one of many things that tied all of them together.

“Maybe someday, I’ll have a chance to see someone tell a story like that.” Homa said.

“If you ever go astray and end up with some Katarrans, certainly!” Outis laughed.

Soon enough, as Outis had realized, the festivities reached their highest stage.

First, the Tazia was lifted off the stage using a kind of palanquin– Sareh returned for the purpose of helping to haul it, and Imam Al-Qoms also assisted, along with some of the bigger aunties. Homa realized then why there were worries about its structural integrity, but it held up to being lifted, and seemed to hold up to being hauled off the stage.

From the stage, the Tazia was to be carried to the masjid.

Along the way, everyone in the village got to touch it, to pray near it, to watch it go.

It moved through the center of a growing throng. Making its way down the street.

Many of the older women were deeply affected by its passing, openly weeping.

There were loud cries in Fusha, perhaps bits of prayer Homa did not understand.

Swept up by the emotions of the adults even the children stilled and cried at its passing.

Homa understood it to be a mausoleum in effigy– so they wept for their beloved hero, Ali.

Such was the outpouring of emotions that even Homa felt like weeping suddenly.

All of the crying rippled in her guts, and the world was suddenly flooded with color. Around everyone, the color was so intense, and they imparted the color upon the Tazia, their green and yellow and red and black cries collecting in the monument– and becoming a soft, gentle white as if cleansed within the structure, which glowed– Homa saw it glow right in front of her eyes– and that maelstrom of all of their emotions was like a song of its own–

But she blinked– and these images seemed to disappear suddenly–

And she found herself holding her necklace as she had become habituated to doing.

Once the Tazia was set down in front of the masjid, Homa heard a sudden glee–

Moving like a wave from the people closest to the stage to the ones farthest.

They gestured with delight in what they saw– they prompted Homa to turn too–

Up on stage, the singer and the musicians had vanished, and there were two figures.

One was Baran, holding a harp, smiling, and gently beseeching the audience to quiet.

Doing everything that she could to stand with grace on her bad leg without flinching.

At her side– was the graceful figure of a woman, taller, leaner, gentle black on yellow eyes brushed with a touch of wine-colored pigment, inviting red lips curled into a proud little grin. Her hair was partially covered by a long, dark blue veil, but much was still visible, a purple ponytail framed by a pair of horns. Wearing blue clothes that matched her veil; long sleeves, a high neck, simple yellow embroidery forming geometric patterns across her chest and flanks. Gaps in the fabric exposed some of the upper back and belly in angled cutouts revealing starkly pink skin; a long and covering skirt from the waist down completely hid her long, graceful legs. All of the patterns and decorations brought emphasis to her limbs.

She wore a single black glove that seemed out of place with the rest.

And for her first act, she removed the glove, to reveal a mechanical prosthetic.

More intricate in its design than Homa’s, less skeletal, delicately buttressed carbon-fiber.

Nevertheless, its articulated digits, decorated with mehndi, seemed to beckon the crowd.

Beckoning Homa, who started to move closer to the stage, paying little heed to Outis as she walked in her trance. She moved through the crowd, and everyone parted to allow the awe-struck girl to move closest to the stage, some encouraging her and others smiling. Through the throng of once-mourners who now looked upon her so warmly, Homa arrived at the foot of the stage, and looked up at the woman in blue who was to begin her dance–

–of course, it was Kalika.

Kalika Loukia up on the stage–

And she was the most beautiful, captivating sight Homa felt she had ever seen.

In the center of that stage on the dim little village, a spotlight seemed to shine suddenly.

Baran retreated further into the shadows while her fingers plucked the strings of the harp.

From behind even her, came a drumming sound, a drumming on goatskin, and metal clicks.

As if carried by the melody, as if the drums were the beating of her heart–

Kalika came to life on the stage, seamlessly breaking into dance.

Building in intensity, her bare feet rose and fell on the stage in soundless piroutte, so precise and practiced her footfalls, while her arms seemed to weave the air in front of her. Her dance proceeded from full-body movements to hypnotic lifting and dropping of the hips and chest, to precise motions made with only her arms, with only her hands and fingers. It was as if the progression of the chords and the beat washed over Kalika from each step, up her torso, to her arms and seemingly carried to each digit in her gestures, off each fingertip.

Her movements captivated Homa completely–

She would spin once with her arms wide and then pull them close, to cover the face, while gracefully separating them, with a confident gaze slowly unveiled. She would cross her wrists, flutter her hands like a bird’s wings while slowly taking a shallow bow, before rising suddenly, spreading them out as if casting something into the air. In her every move, there was that flowing of states, precision and release, tension and freedom, slow deliberation and wild passion. Her body became its own instrument, joining the sound–

Homa had seen this before– she had seen this before in her dreams–

In the middle of that spotlight Kalika danced as if alone but–

Always, Homa had been watching her from right below, her heart soaring.

To her surprise–

Kalika suddenly dipped close to the edge of the stage–

And brushed the cool fingers of her prosthetic across Homa’s cheek.

With the briefest flash of a smile, she seamlessly transitioned to her next dance move.

As if it had always been intended– as if there had been no artifice–

Natural as the string-sound of the harp, natural as the beat-strikes on the drum–

Homa stood speechless and could not help but to smile.

Not just at Kalika and the beauty and skill of her dance, and at the music–

There was also a great and undeniable beauty in the fact that Kalika, a Katarran, was up on that stage perfectly performing a Shimii dance in a Mahdist festival. For the mixed race Homa there was a certain miracle in that. For a moment, so many people were captivated by that woman whom in their own arrangements they would not have had likely cause to ever see, that woman with her odd-color skin and eyes and her horns. Her beauty would have been lost on all of them and would have been lost on Homa also, but in that moment–

They were defying the prejudices that ruled the world around them.

Watching that dance, Homa felt strangely free– free of worry, free of burden–

And free to be herself, Homa Baumann, mixed race with limbs half amputated.

It was different than her dream– it was better than any of her dreams–

Up on that stage was the dream that she would have never let herself dream before.

She was the person who changed Homa’s life.

No accusing light would shine upon her yearning and no blood would spill from her hands.

Amid the spellbinding movements of Kalika’s body up on that humble festival stage–

Homa was no longer someone who viewed herself as defiled by her circumstances.


After the dance, the feast table was unveiled in all of its glories.

“Have as much as you like! There’s enough for everyone!”

A flamboyantly dressed Conny beckoned villagers and visitors alike to feast their eyes and fill their stomachs. She talked up each item on the table. It was a spread like they had never seen, and even Homa hardly ever saw so much food in one place, even in Madame Arabie’s properties. There were plates of hummus speckled with garlic and pickles; piled high with flatbread that still smelled of the oven; slices of grilled meat encrusted with a zesty paste of nuts and oil and vinegar; pots of stewed meat in a bright red tomato gravy with leek and prunes; bright green soup with spinach and leek and barley; and most captivating of all were the desserts. Plates of bright yellow halwa in the shapes of moons, stars, and a centerpiece in the shape of the tazia itself, flavored and decorated and even colored with rehydrated and dried fruits and nuts, with rose water and sugar syrups and chocolate.

Homa stood captivated by the food but only briefly.

While everyone else began to make up plates and to move aside for others–

She sidestepped the table entirely, squeezing through to the back of the stage.

There was someone she now hoped to see more than a plate of meat.

Behind the curtains in the back of the stage there was a platform where the instruments and various other acoutrements were laid out for the folks who would be performing, whether in view of the stage or hidden behind. Sitting on the edge of this platform, hidden from the sight of the villagers, her long legs and bare feet hanging off the raised structure– was Kalika, still in her dancer’s garb, save for the veil which she had taken off.

Homa found her laughing and smiling as she sat, catching her breath still.

“Kalika!” Homa called out, unable to contain her own smiling face.

Kalika glanced over to her, and her lips spread into a bright and joyous beam.

“Homa! You look so pretty! I was so surprised to see you dressed like that.”

“I was just getting into the spirit. You– you were amazing Kalika!”

Homa approached the platform. Kalika extended a hand and helped her climb up.

Then, she hooked her arm around Homa’s shoulder and pulled her cheek to cheek.

Sitting side by side behind the curtain, staring at the distant rock wall, laughing.

“It felt amazing.” Kalika said. “I had not done something like that in such a long time. I was surprising myself with some of those moves!” She made some of the motions with her hand that she did on stage, carefully lifting her hand in time with music that was no longer playing and gesturing over her own face. Carefully demonstrating the technique. “Moving so rapidly and deliberately, in such a rehearsed way– I can still feel it like there is an energy brimming under my skin that wants to get out. It was fun! I hope everyone enjoyed the show.”

“They better have enjoyed it!” Homa said. “It was incredible, Kalika. I was speechless.”

Kalika shut her eyes and smiled at Homa. Was her face perhaps blushing just a bit?

“Have you been having fun today?” Kalika asked.

Homa smiled again, perhaps more easily and casually than ever.

In that moment, she was all smiles.

“I’ve had a great time. I’ve had so many kebabs, and Sareh gave me a mehndi.”

She showed Kalika her arm, and Kalika in turn showed Homa her own in detail.

“Who knew that girl was so artistic?” Kalika asked.

“Right? Shes a bit blunt but she’s actually really creative.” Homa said.

“Everyone here is rather amazing.” Kalika said. “I almost wish I could stay.”

Homa felt like her heart caught in her chest for just a second.

Could she ever stand to lose Kalika–?

“Me too.” She said– not entirely honestly–

“But–” Kalika took Homa’s prosthetic hand with her own, entwining their fingers.

“We’re both going to the same place, aren’t we Homa?”

Implicitly, all of this time– Homa had been acting– she had already decided–

She was a communist now– along with all of the people of the Brigand.

“Yeah. We’re going to the same place.” Homa said, eyes tearing up.

Though she did not entirely understand what that meant, she knew that she had already decided to entwine her fate with that of that mysterious ship and all the strange, kind people that worked aboard it. She knew that had been the case ever since she accepted the doctor’s kindness, and the Captain’s sincerity, and most of all, Kalika’s endless, inexplicable and sometimes vexing support. As much as she pouted and rebelled– as much as she feared for her life– she felt that she both owed them, and had nowhere to go– but also–

–she felt that she wanted to be at their side because they were capable of change.

Homa, herself– she had already changed because of the opportunity they gave her–

Perhaps only a little– perhaps only the tiniest microgram of change.

She had changed enough, however, that leaving that ship was out of the question.

And leaving Kalika behind was an even more frightening prospect.

For a moment the two of them locked eyes. Tenderly– their gazes also changed–

“Homa– on the day that I met you in Kreuzung– this will sound so silly, but–”

Kalika had begun talking, but Homa moved first on her own accord, pressing on her.

Nearing her face, brushing her cheek, and taking her lips into a kiss quickly reciprocated.

In that moment their hearts entwined as tightly as their steel fingers.


Outis stood in front of the feast table, picking out small amounts of food with a smile.

She thought she had what was a normal and reasonable plate of food on her hands.

Along the way, however, another woman in line looked at her plate and got her attention.

“Madame– it’s truly okay to eat your fill here. Please don’t hold back.” She said.

When Outis looked down at the small scoop of veggies, the one piece of meat–

“Ah, thank you. I am just– used to being frugal.”

Unused to having such unrestricted access to food without the Warlord’s say-so, she had unwittingly fallen back into old habits. So with the blessing of the people in the line, she went back through the feast table until her plate was actually full. Once it was, she walked away, picking at it. Everything was delicious, but her mind became just a bit preoccupied.

These people don’t have so much that they can afford to give away.

It was a bit puzzling– when she grew up, it was not uncommon to conspire to kill another numeroi just to have at their rations for a bit. Here, these Shimii who lived in the roughly hewn rock in the outskirts of an actual town, visibly deprived of space and opportunity by the Shimii outside those gates– they still gave everything they had not just to each other but total strangers. This was a far sight from how the Imbrians had always behaved.

Nowadays it was not all bad in Mycenae– the Warlord had cleaned up a lot.

After purging the corrupt Synkletos, and killing all of their families and households–

Those were years when Odyssia– Outis– was able to eat better.

Enough to be able to make friends for less selfish reasons than cheating them out of food.

Perhaps that was why she had opted to be partisan toward Astra Palaiologos.

Where she went, plenty seemed to follow her– her people were treated well.

Would Astra ever be so charitable, however, if she were in these people’s position?

And– would any of them? If another tragedy took everything from them one more time?

If they were rendered powerless?

She grabbed a skewer and tore off a bit of meat from it with her teeth.

It was so savory that it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Well– the Warlord is the best hope we have ever had of creating a future for Katarre.

Perhaps Katarre would never look like this– perhaps they would never smile like these Shimii could even amid their wretchedness. In the wake of a thousand year history of tragedies so cyclical that they felt inescapable, they sang, they danced– and so did the Katarrans– and maybe they got ready for the next worst thing that would transpire. One could suppose that time moved on regardless, so one might as well enjoy today while it lasted–

Outis dipped the meat in sauce for the next bite.

When she stood in place, she still tapped her feet as if impatiently.

“Ah– have I become too familiar with moving on regardless?” Outis mused to herself.

Hers was a path prophecized never to end– she had to keep moving, no matter what.

Or she would become powerless herself, without question.


“It was a truly magnificent Tishtar, wasn’t it?”

“Possibly the best one this village has ever seen. We’ll need to thank everyone properly.”

Stripped bare of both their clothes and their pretensions, in the glow that followed physical affection, Sareh and Baran laid on a futon together, holding hands still slick with their pleasure and staring at the ceiling. A mechanical fan spun its endless circle, gently turning away the sweat on their faces. They shared one thin blanket decorated with the shapes of masjids and moons. It was a bit chilly but their shared warmth kept them comfortable.

“How is your leg doing? Are you in any pain?”

“You asked before we–”

“I know– but we were a bit vigorous–”

“It’s fine, Sareh. You were quite tender with me. And it’s healing up quite well.”

Sareh felt she had gotten a bit carried away– it wasn’t their first time–

–that had been clumsier and faster, directly following the change in their relationship.

Regardless, neither of them were exactly experienced, so she had been a little worried.

For Sareh, it was still difficult to think that she let Baran be injured.

Worse to imagine that she might hurt her with her greedy little lusts.

They two of them and their dalliance represented part of the future of this futureless place.

Both feared they might see its engineered dead-end. Their courtship was always framed in the triumphs and tragedies of the little village in which they had grown up, discovered their true feelings for each other, and tried to live with vast, twisted contradictions behind everything. Both the feast and famine of their material lives and the whispers and shouts of their own affections. It was difficult not to think of the village when they thought of themselves and not to think of each other when they thought about the village. Both its needs and the dangers that threatened to unravel it completely.

Like the village, their courtship might be lost forever if handled carelessly.

Their biggest fears were unsubstantiated but possible– just like with the village.

For the moment, however, they had peace.

“Someday, I’ll treat you right, Baran, like how you should be.”

“At the moment, I am your wife, and I would say you are treating me splendidly.”

“I know– but you know what I mean. I care about you more than anything.”

“I know what you mean. But– don’t put so much stock in tradition, alright?”

As if to show there was no ill feeling, Baran turned and cuddled up closer to Sareh.

Laying in the bed like the husband and wife that they, technically, were for the day.

“We have to hold another Tishtar next year. I want to see you dance.” Sareh said.

“Kalika did fantastic, didn’t she?” Baran replied, her head laid on Sareh’s chest.

“She did– but I want it to be you! Up on the stage. A bigger stage! Brighter!”

Sareh lifted the hand at her side. Her other hand stroked Baran’s hair.

“That would be quite a sight. We will do it– I’ll dance like you’ve never seen.”

“Yeah! I can’t wait. We’ll absolutely top ourselves next time.”

They became quiet, the energy of their optimism always struggling against reality.

This year they had been able to hold Tishtar– a lot of good turns transpired to enable it. Despite some trials, the village, through God’s grace, made some new friends and welcomed a few returning ones, like Conny. Despite her stated intentions, Rahima had been absent from the festivities, but the supplies she had promised them did turn up without her.

They held an incredible feast and there was more than enough for all of their friends and neighbors to fill their bellies twice over. In the evening service at the masjid everyone told of the miracles of God on the surface, and the stories of the companions, and the gardens that awaited the faithful, which were full of the purest waters and most beautiful trees.

Everything had been beautiful, and the village had been injected with life again.

Was it possible to live every day in this fashion? Could this light and life simply remain?

“Sareh, what worries you in this moment? I feel your breathing quickening.”

Baran pulled even closer and laid her head in the center of Sareh’s chest for a moment.

Sareh smiled at the cheekiness of her wife.

“I’m just thinking about how many things happened the past few days.”

“It’s been lively, hasn’t it? I believe it can be that lively again in the future too.”

“You always read me so easily. Baran– I– I’m afraid I just don’t know how to make it happen.”

“It’s not up to us alone.” Baran said, lifting her head and laying closer to Sareh’s face again.

“You’re right.” Sareh said. “I just wish I could save you and everyone, by myself.”

“That’s foolish. You must at least rely on your wife.” Baran said.

Sareh turned in bed as well– the two of them locked eyes together and held hands.

They pulled in closer for a kiss, their tails entwined, chest to chest.

“Whatever happens, the villagers will remember and cherish this Tishtar and that is good enough for me right now.” Baran said. “Sareh– I will also remember and cherish it– as I cherish every moment I spend with you. Whether as villagers, as Mahdists, as lovers– we’ll be together Sareh. I promise you. I will never leave you. That future is certain.”

Though Sareh did not mention it in that moment– she understood Baran made her choice.

And she, too, would follow Baran no matter what happened.


Night arrived over the little village, understood only as time and the dimming of lights.

For many hours still there was the feast, and the evening service, and the kids ran around until their energy was spent. The aunties ate and told stories well into the night and attended prayers that lasted for as long as there were people with piety to spend. There was so much food that everyone in the village had their fill and more and the table only emptied when it was decided to retire plates going hours-cold as leftovers for different families.

Homa and Kalika, hand in hand, joined in the feast, and everyone congratulated Kalika for her dance. She was asked to reprise a few of her moves and gladly put on little impromptu performances for anyone who asked. Homa received heaps of praise and many thanks for her assistance, which she uncharacteristically accepted without equivocating in any way. Some people went as far as to say her appearance was a God-sent omen for the Tishtar.

She was asked to come back next year, and she said that she would try.

Khadija and Sieglinde remained fixed to the feast table and to a gaggle of aunties who vaguely recognized her surname, which she had not disguised. She made conversation among women only slightly older than herself, and faced the strange situation of being treated like a girl when she was used to being the older woman in the room. Sieglinde smiled and nodded along, unable to say anything much but seemingly enjoying the company.

It was easy to catch her fixating on Khadija all throughout the party.

Sameera and Dominika kept to themselves for a while, until Sareh and Baran joined them and made some small talk. When Sareh and Baran retired to their own quarters, they welcomed Homa’s friends to stay the night if they did not feel like traveling back to their ship. All of them took her up on it, briefly calling back to their ship to report.

Tishtar thus concluded. Before retiring, everyone left at the feast table led a cheer.

Tomorrow, they would put away all of the festival items.

But they would always remember their village as it was on Tishtar, full of color.

Color that glinted off of the necklace that Homa wore, unbeknownst to her.

When she retired for the night, she and Kalika held hands and slept close together.

They knew they had become more than friends or comrades, but had not had the chance to talk over what had transpired and what their feelings and desires truly were. Regardless, Homa held Kalika’s prosthetic hand in her own and fell asleep, and as she did so, her other hand lifted to hold her necklace. That dormant sliver of a once-venerated elder–

Color drifted into it and its ancient voice, unheard, whispered affectionaly–

We are so happy for you. We are glad you are well. Homa– we love you, Homa–

In her sleep, Homa smiled and dreamed so sweetly.


In the middle of the living room in a luxury apartment, a small object flew over a couch.

Shaped like a vertical hanging cylinder on four small rotors, with visible camera lenses marked by a slight glare dotting its body. There was a demarcation at the bottom end of the cylinder as if the lower third was a separate rounded-off square module. Sleek, unpainted metal coated in a dulling glaze so as to reduce its reflectivity; the quadrotor made very little sound as it moved. It was quick, and precise, and sturdy enough for its movement.

As a demonstration of its abilities, its lower half detached and hung by a cable.

Once it touched the floor, a pair of wheels emerged from the chassis and rolled the canister around the carpet, stretching the cable. It made a few quick laps between all of the couches, and the onlookers assessed the speed with which it could reach its target, and the length of the cable. It was also demonstrated that the drone could switch to a horizontal mode to fit in smaller spaces, and tuck in the rotors closer or farther from the chassis to maneuver.

Its payload, however, could not be discharged, even for a test– it had to be taken as it is.

“Inside the canister is enough G8 to cover a room. Isn’t it a lovely little gadget?”

Rubbing her hands together and practically salivating, with a tablet in her hands controlling this specific drone. A tall, skinny woman with long, golden-brown hair that fell over her shoulders, separated over her forehead, and soft and round cheeks twisted in a wicked sneer, round glasses perched on her nose. She wore an entirely black uniform, adorned with an armband, red with a white circle containing a black sun-disc, and her lapel had a metal pin resembling a braided square net, turned to resemble a diamond shape, with hooked crosses on its ends. This symbol denoted an engineering officer for the national socialist armed forces, and Henrietta Hermann was one such officer, and quite an example.

Atop her head was a peaked cap adorned with a totenkopf— Volkisch special forces.

“G8 viciously targets the nerves, inducing a complete neurological shut-down in seconds, with little hope of an antidote being administered. Once this transpires, multiple organ failure will be absolutely certain. It is technically possible to save a G8 victim by hooking them up to complete life support– but none of our targets will have this chance.”

“How long will the gas linger around? Is there a possibility for collateral?”

A strong but confident voice, unshaken by the grim subject matter.

“Absolutely not, mein gauleiter! The wonderful thing about G8– it lingers for only a few minutes before decaying into harmless compounds that wither away in the ventilation with no one the wiser. Our target profile will be quite contained, I assure you.”

Henrietta insisted; and Rahima Jašarević smiled approvingly.

“How many drones are ready to go?” Rahima asked.

“Enough to secure your rule, Gauleiter,” answered the blond woman ever at Rahima’s side, Bernadette Sattler, “Enough to carry out the operation even in the unlikely event that we meet any resistance. I explicitly ordered Henrietta to prepare for the worst.”

“Yes, indeed! Furthermore, it is possible to deploy the G8 tactically in combat.”

“I would strongly prefer not to be discovered, or to employ chemical weapons in battle.”

Rahima reached into her coat and produced a small tablet which she handed to Henrietta.

Henrietta picked it up, switched it on, and immediately grasped the contents.

“Quite thorough! Impressive work, milord! It more than suffices!” Henrietta said.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time, Hauptscharführer Hermann.”

A perhaps casual thought that many people had, once or twice in their lives, was whether and how and whom they would kill to get whatever they desired. How many people they hated and how much. In children it was viewed as an antisocial and threatening action to generate a list of enemies, an omen of a darker intellect than prior perceived; as an adult, it might even be used as evidence of a future action if such a list was revealed and if the hand that produced it was viewed as having the means to carry out reprisals. Nevertheless, it was not so uncommon to make enemies, and therefore, to keep their foul tally.

Ever since that fateful day when her governorship was stolen from her–

Ever since her colleagues and the system she upheld betrayed her in every possible way–

Ever since the destruction of all her dreams and beliefs in one overwhelming instant–

Rahima carefully populated her list. Names, addresses, and crimes. Hundreds of them.

There was no need to single out the manner of judgment– only death would expiate.

And now the Kolibri drones represented the sheathes containing her Long Knives.

Rahima watched the drone sway in front of her, its form quietly filled with killing might.

Her head briefly flashed with images that felt as if from a different person entirely–

Arriving at Aachen– all the political work– the hope for a future ever-brightening–

Conny, smiling at her, proud and supportive of what she accomplished–

Those two kids in their little village, holding their festival amid the hatred of everyone–

“You have twelve hours to prepare. We will begin the operation on my command.”

On not one single word did she hesitate and there was no pain in her heart or head.

A smiling Henrietta saluted with glee; and the stoic-faced Bernadette saluted with her.

Both quickly left Rahima to complete their assigned tasks.

There was nothing more that needed to be considered or to be thought or said.

Everything Rahima had ever been and ever seen would be destroyed and then remade.

“It will be ours– It will be us taking it in our hands once and for all.” She told herself.

Rahima knew– ever since she donned the black, there was no escaping from Destiny.

However– she would turn the black on all of those who debased and abused the Shimii.

Who had debased and abused– her self–

“They will suffer disgrace in this world.” Rahima murmured to herself, the beginnings of recitation. “And on the Day of Judgment, we will subject them to the torment of burning.”

And the Shimii would walk into a bloodstained future as they had many times before.


Flickering intermittent lamplight, dim, most of the diodes stricken black with age.

Casting a curtain of half-light between two support girders.

Partially illuminating the slight smile on Tamar Livnat’s face. Arms crossed in front of her, coat over her shoulders and fixed at the waist for warmth. In the deepest, oldest parts of Aachen were so many men had toiled for ores and died here forgotten. There was not even the dust of them left and so nothing to force recognition of this site as a grave. The site was chosen purely because of its advantages, but the irony was not lost on Tamar, how much this abandoned mine and its long gone corpses resembled her conception of Eloim history– the world a mass grave without evidence of what was taken from them.

Save that which she, and perhaps she alone, collected for them.

Tamar Livnat, the gravetender of the glory of Judea– until now.

“Is everything prepared? I would like the ugliness to be over before the day.”

Across the girders, in third-light if Tamar’s was only a half–

There was a jovial, euphoric grin that met Tamar’s query with an unrelenting glee.

At first appearing as if detached from a face, until the owner took a step closer.

“The goyim stand no chance, Manhig. We shall give them quite a show before their defeat.”

From the darkness approached a woman in a white military uniform, pristine despite the surroundings, decorated with a blue armband upon which there was a white star. Such stars, blue and white, adorned her uniform as well in many places, and she had two which served as earrings. Her tidy, black hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, and she had tidy bangs which framed a pretty and fair face– one that was distorted by the sheer vehemence of her sneer, which seemed to seize every facial muscle as she cackled to herself.

Tamar’s lips did not rise nor fall a bit in response.

“You are a good child; you are all good children. I believe in all of you.”

“Your praise elevates me,” replied Menahem Halevi, eyes twinkling with their own stars.

Tamar would not fool herself as to the magnitude of the task ahead.

The Eloim were a dead people who had lost even their true name–

All of them had lost the true comprehension of what their rituals and teachings even meant–

A decaying body with an empty brain.

However– this body was about to receive an injection of life, and a calling, a rallying cry.

“Next year, in Yerushalem— my dear Aluf Menahem.” Tamar said.

Tamar buried the weak part of herself when her sister was mutilated by the fascists.

Now it was time for every Eloim to bury their weakness and unearth their lost nation.

Death begot life– and the deaths of all of those that they hated would revive the Eloim.

It was only a matter of seeing it through to the end, without mercy, without hesitation–

“It will be so– the Dibuqim will finally emerge.” said Menahem, rubbing her fingers.

Only a matter– of hating everything as they themselves had been hated.


Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.8]

In a small shack in the Mahdist village, a soft-faced, indigo-haired elf turned in bed.

A voice, distant at first but growing in fidelity as she awakened.

Nipote. Nipote. I see turning you there. Wakey-wakey.”

She groggily opened an eye to find a blue-haired elf poking and shaking her gently.

A young-looking lady in a fancy tasseled bra top with an open midriff, twin-tailed hair–

Nipote, welcome back. Are you ready to talk now?”

Elena sat up, looked at Conny in the eyes, and then darted back in bed, startled.

“Stop it!” Conny said, lifting her arms in front of her in defense. “No more rocks!”

Seeing Conny pathetically waving her arms as if it would stop any summoned rocks from striking her, Elena calmed herself down. She sat back and slid down against the wall, ending up on the mattress like a discarded doll. Her sleep, this time around, had been dreamless.

No more hallways or entities pretending to be her dead loved ones.

However she was still reeling from what she had experienced. It was not just a dream world. She had some inkling that psionic powers were dangerous. She knew that it was possible to lose her mind, however briefly, into a dream or vision that felt entirely real to her.

She knew also that real pain could result from such excursions of the mind.

Norn’s echo in her memories had done as much to her.

Elena was not prepared for the sheer scope of it. Those endless, surreal green hallways and the monster that stalked her within them. Did anyone know that such a thing could happen? How many people had fallen prey to it? She couldn’t make heads nor tails of it all.

However–

There were real problems to deal with– she had to put it out of her mind for now.

“Elena, I really want to make peace! I’m truly sorry that everything was so abrupt, but once I discovered your psionics and that Norn the Praetorian had tampered with them, I felt that I had to do something! What if you were being coerced in some way?” Conny said.

“You almost damaged my mind! I was so distressed!” Elena replied.

Conny averted her gaze as if she was beginning to feel shame.

“Losing some figment of Norn the Praetorian could have only been good for you!”

“And you get to decide that for me?”

“Yes! I know better than you! And I felt responsible for a family member’s well-being!”

“I’m an adult! I don’t need you acting like you’re my guardian! You don’t know me at all!”

Conny sighed and raised a hand to her face.

For a moment she stopped talking and looked from between her fingers into the distance.

It took almost a minute for her to turn back to Elena with her shoulders heavy.

“You’re right. I was impulsive. But I was trying to protect you.” Conny said.

“Hmph. I won’t suddenly believe and trust you for the barest amount of contrition.”

Conny crossed her arms in front of herself. “Time out!”

“Time out?!” Elena shouted.

“It’s– it’s been a long time since I had to deal with family affairs. I’m really sorry. I am afraid that I messed things up. Can we just slow down– I don’t want to make another mistake.”

Now it was Elena’s turn to sigh.

She was suddenly reminded of stupid teenaged arguments with Gertrude and Sawyer.

Two block-headed people shouting past each other. One unable or unwilling to apologize and the other unable or unwilling to accept it if it happened. Neither knowing how to resolve the issue or what to do to make it up, or too stubborn to accept it. Until one or the other or both calmed down finally, and took stock, and decided to reach out and return to the status quo. Those were always the most painful nights of her teenaged years.

Elena was often the most diplomatic one.

No matter how mad she was, she hated being on bad terms with anybody.

She had never wanted to fight anyone or to hurt anyone, but things just turned out wrong.

Her current situation with Gertrude was remarkably bad on this front.

And she felt that she would rather not also have Conny hanging over her head as well.

Especially given the potential of learning about her family– of having a family at all.

“Aunt Conny–” Elena began, with a serious tone–

Conny’s face lit up with a childish smile and she interrupted. “You called me aunt?”

She did not acknowledge the interruption.

In her mind, there was a speech taking form that she wanted to deliver as best she could.

“Aunt Conny. I am Elena Lettiere. I am the daughter of Leda Lettiere and Konstantin von Fueller. Just as you suspected. That must then make us family.” Elena said. “I admit that part of myself– but I am trying to leave behind the idea that I am a princess with power over other people. I am trying to just be a person like anyone, among my peers.” She kept from her aunt the idea that she was proletarianizing, not knowing how it might go over. She explained the essence of things regardless. “I don’t want anyone to protect me. I don’t want anyone to decide things for me. I want to be my own person and make my own decisions.”

For the first time, Conny finally appeared genuinely contrite.

The angle of her sharp ears lowered significantly, and she had a downturned expression.

“Elena. I am so sorry. I made such a grave mistake with your mother. I’m truly sorry.”

Seeing the face of her niece– did it remind her of that mistake?

Had it been recalling her painful past since the moment she first saw Elena in the village?

“I don’t think you made a mistake.” Elena said.

She fixed Conny with a gaze that made Conny blink with confusion.

Her heart filled with compassion.

“When you– connected with me.” Elena said, referring to her baptism because she was not entirely certain about the terminology. “I saw memories of you and mom. I have some of my own memories of my mom– and I know what you have told me of her too. I think– if I had been in my mother’s place– I might have made her choice too. I feel that it is a choice that she made. She was not afraid to die. So I think– she must have wanted to be close to power.”

“You’re trying to say that it was not wrong for me to have let her carry on.” Conny said.

“Yes. I’m sorry if its presumptuous of me to talk about those events. I was very young for all of that and I have poor recollections of my mother, but to everyone who knew her, she was a titanic figure.” Elena said. “I can’t imagine that what she wanted from you was someone to coddle her and hide her away from danger. She seemed too independent for that.”

And it mirrored Elena’s own experiences with overprotective figures.

“I think what she wanted was a confidant, a supporter– a sister.” Elena said, smiling a bit.

“It is quite presumptuous of you.” Conny said, her face still a touch melancholy. Her ears slowly began to raise again, however. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to comfort me.”

She reached out a hand to Elena. Inviting her– to show affection as family.

Elena reached her own in response and held the tips of Conny’s fingers.

“I’m still upset with you. But– being my mother’s daughter means being your niece.”

“You’re more mature than I gave you credit for. I wish I’d been there to see you grow.”

The two of them looked each other in the eyes. Their ears wiggled slightly.

She felt safe with Conny, despite what had happened.

“I haven’t felt what it’s like to have family for a long time myself.” Elena said.

“It’s complicated, and we make mistakes. Especially us elves– o dio.” Conny said.

For a moment the two of them shared a small laugh. Conny sat beside Elena on the bed.

“Conny, I want to learn more about my family. But I also have– my own affairs that I need to look after. I have made commitments I won’t abandon.” Elena said, careful of her words.

“I understand. Will you let me meet your crew? I promise to be discrete.” Conny said.

She put on a mischievous smile that made her look so girlish and young.

Elena wondered if she herself looked that girlish when she smiled.

“I’ll talk to the captain.” Elena said. “Maybe you can escort me back to Stockheim.”

“Absolutely! And I’ll thank this captain with all of my heart for protecting my niece.”

So unused to being referred to in such a coddling fashion, Elena could not help but laugh.


“…Elves sure can be boisterous.” Ulyana sighed,

walking through the Brigand’s deployment chute out to Stockheim’s landing, running a hand over her shoulder and squeezing. She winced– her back and her shoulders were hurting from all the sitting down she had done throughout the day and then all the sitting down she did at night. She was tense and tight all over. Her knees were starting to throb. Hunching over her notes at the United Front, standing up and sitting down, yelling her lungs out. There had been too much tension and stress and not enough keeping limber in her life lately.

“At least Aaliyah will keep that Conny entertained while I do this.” She said.

Elena had somehow met her long-lost maternal aunt while on a trek to the Wohnbezirk that Ulyana had not authorized but, once it happened, she felt should have been harmless. She would have to talk to Chloe Kuri about her little “side hustles” someday– but what was done was done. Now the loudest elf Ulyana had ever met in her life thanked them profusely for saving her niece. She offered to buy them pizza, to give them money, and to hook them up with connections from her NGO work. She seemed to have heard a quite massaged version of their story and Ulyana did not want to contradict it in front of Elena.

Especially since the girl looked like she wanted to be buried throughout the conversation.

Ulyana could tell that Aaliyah was initially furious– but she seemed to soften up eventually.

Particularly when Conny promised to sign an NDA and heaped them with promises of aid.

Ulyana was glad to be out of the Brigand for now.

But she was taking a jaunt through Stockheim for business, not pleasure.

Since arriving at Aachen, the Volksarmee had contact with sympathetic dockworkers in Stockheim who helped them out from time to time. The dockworkers had factions among themselves just as the station itself did– Gloria Innocence Luxembourg had discrete connections with the labor union brass in Stockheim, but among the rank and file, the Volksarmee had met smaller cliques of more radical dockworkers who argued for worker self-management rather than just wage negotiations and health plans.

These people helped the Volksarmee more personally.

One such group who worked out of the maintenance areas allowed them access after hours.

There were no recording devices in these locations, and they were out of the way.

This made them perfect for clandestine exchanges.

Using an unmarked pass that had been programmed to work that night, Ulyana got through a security door into a quite small, uninhabited office from which dockworkers could access the maintenance interstice between tiers of the berth structures. She dropped down a ladder into a dark, damp and cold space, the walls covered with thick bundles of wires, square glass gauges, LED indicators, and junction boxes. She had to crouch a bit to fit inside, dimly lit in green, blue and red by all of the lights dotting the walls.

There, she waited, hands on her knees.

Straining her eyes to see in the dimness the figure that she had agreed to meet with.

Checking a pocket-watch that she had borrowed from the Commissar.

Such things being more common to Nagavanshi’s favored who received niche gifts.

Ulyana waited, her ears catching every drop of condensation, every shift of her own feet.

Until she thought she finally heard a counterpart deeper in the tunnel.

Advancing through the dim distance until her figure could be distinctly read as a person.

“Allow me to assist you.”

From out of the shadows a soft, small hand reached out, the skin on the palm splitting.

Yellow bio-luminescence lit up Ulyana and the visitor’s faces.

Shed by a tumorous growth she had suddenly grown, disfiguring the palm of her hand.

An action shockingly casual and seemingly painless for this creature.

It was Enforcer III: The Gluttony, or “Gula,” which seemed to be her personal name.

In her dealings with the creatures the two names were used interchangeably.

The shorter one seemed to be preferred between her and her ‘prince’.

“I thought Avaritia would come to meet me herself.” Ulyana said.

Across stood a girl short enough she did not need to crouch in the tunnels. Her bare feet were damp and dirty from walking in the tunnels, but it did not seem to bother her. She was dressed in a lacy, fancy little dress that nevertheless showed some skin in the sides, in the shoulders, a hint of her identity as a sexual being peering out from the embellishments. Her hair fell so long behind her back it almost touched the floor. When Ulyana had first met the creature her eyes were uncovered, but she was since wearing a kind of faux-feathered white winged mask over her eyes and temples. The majority of her face remained uncovered.

Ulyana could not understand the whims of her visitor.

So well-dressed, so beautifully made up, when she could change her body at any time.

What did beautiful clothes and makeup represent to this creature?

“I can understand why anyone would relish a meeting with my fair prince, but at the same time, am I not a being whose majesty is worth admiring?” Gula put on a wild and wide smile, showing off rows of vibrating saw-teeth inside of her mouth. These were located behind the facade of human-like incisors that would show if she smiled less dramatically.

“You are indeed a looker, but Avaritia needs to keep her promises more strictly. Neither side trusts each other that much at the moment. We should be more exacting.” Ulyana said.

“Oh, we trust you plenty, hominin. You aren’t a threat to us after all.” Gula said.

Maybe not now, but sometime in the future– if it came down to it, she would become one.

Especially since this creature could not read her mind or control her.

“Have you discovered anything about the anarchists?” Ulyana asked.

“Straight to the point? How boring.” Gula’s lips closed, hiding her teeth and returning the illusion of a pretty, delicate and demure ‘princess’. “Indeed, we have met with and stood among the anarchists quite recently. Their main forces are actually located within the Aachen Massif. Numbering several hundreds. They have mastered the tunnel network and have a few means of entry and egress from the Core Station. They even restored a single ship berth in one of the extraction points in the abandoned mine, and have a vessel there, but in poor condition. It seems they had some sort of incident on the way to Aachen.”

“That’s far more sophisticated than I imagined.” Ulyana said.

“They have an impressive operation, but there are flaws. Their operational security is poor, particularly that of the Volgian man’s group. Nobody suspected us even when we refused to bring our entire forces to join the rest of them. All of them wore their intentions on their sleeves– but the group led by the Eloim woman, all of their minds are much more guarded.” Gula said. “They are all hiding something. I believe that their contingent of forces must be larger than we are led to believe. I also sensed great desperation within them.”

Ulyana had thought the anarchists used commercial transportation and fake identities and that they were simply mingling about the station with the civilians, to appear in small groups when needed. She was not well informed on the history of the Aachen Massif and did not realize what a boon it could have been to their forces. This explained why Tamar Livnat was so keen to acquire another ship from them. She must have worked hard to bring all of her forces to Aachen, maybe even devised the scheme in the tunnels ahead of time.

And now she did not have a ship with which to support all her combined forces.

“Are your senses keener than Avaritia’s?” Ulyana asked.

“I am more skilled with auras.” Gula said. “But my darling is more powerful than me in all respects. I make up for what she lacks in subtle technique, and she makes up for what I lack in force. However, I have my own ways of defending myself if necessary of course.”

She opened her mouth and shut it as if miming a bite.

“You like to talk.” Ulyana said.

“I like having a hominin audience. My kin don’t appreciate my eloquence.” Gula said.

“Well, I do appreciate it. You may regale me with anything more that you desire.”

Gula smiled widely again. “You are a very cheeky hominin. I like you.”

“Speaking of your group, how are your forces holding up? Do you need any aid?”

“I’m afraid you might not understand, but many of our forces are occupied on our ship.”

Ulyana bristled a little bit. She was a ship’s captain, they knew at least that!

“Why wouldn’t I understand? I have a crew also. I completely understand.”

“No, you see, we can’t pull anyone from their duties on our ship– because they are the ship.” Gula smiled ever wider. “We had to use significant amounts of biomass to create our ship, and it has to be ready to extract us at a moment’s notice. Separating them from the ship would be a waste of the energy it took to join them. We have only a small five-body team with us. How shall I say this– we are saving them for a rainy day? Is that still an idiom?”

Once more, Gula casually said something that made Ulyana’s guts wrench.

However, she did her best to hide her displeasure and discomfort at this disclosure.

Human crew always expressed a joy at being part of a ship– but probably not like that.

With their biological powers, a living ship only made sense.

Wandering about how its constituent persons must feel in it caused her to shudder.

“Yes, it’s still an idiom. A lot of surface-based language survived to this day.”

“I’m glad. Culture should never be lost. At worst, only recontextualized.”

“So when you take us over, will our culture be preserved?” Ulyana asked suddenly.

“Of course.” Gula said, without skipping a beat. She had thought of this– and something about that disturbed Ulyana even more than if she had kept quiet. “Once you hominin are put in your proper place, you will thrive. Free of oppressing each other for goods and services, you will be able to pursue culture in its purest forms and pleasures. Your bodies will be your art, and you will make art with your bodies. You will be like beautiful dolls who find boundless joy in your flawless performances for us Omenseers. Using our biokinesis we can sculpt you into any shape you find pleasing, and allow you to do anything that you desire, and we can even make it so you feel nothing but bliss forever. Once you become unable to practice further, rather than suffer the pain of senescence, we can turn you to biomass.”

“I– I see. Well– I’m at least glad you’ve put some thought into it.”

She was not glad at all– she was being diplomatic.

Part of her mind wondered if allying with this thing was any better than with the Volkisch.

And what had led them to host such a boundless disregard for humanity.

Or even worse– a disregard in the guise of paternalism.

“We have been engineering our ideal world for a very long time. You’ll see it someday.”

Gula bared her teeth again. Smiling so easily and without worry.

“But for now, that is all that we have to report. We will keep our eyes peeled.”

Ulyana sighed. “Let us know if you need anything.” She said.

“Nothing we feel comfortable asking hominins to do, at the present.”

Gula continued to smile as she spoke.

It was as if her voice was coming from somewhere else.

Ulyana got that feeling again– that she was in a room with something larger than this girl.

“Did you have trouble making it here?” Ulyana asked. “Do you need help getting back?”

Better to be as courteous as possible at this stage of the alliance.

“Oh no, it was incredibly easy. Ah, I know– watch this closely, hominin.”

Gula closed her lips and seemed to let her jaw settle.

She then opened her mouth, snapped it shut, and suddenly vanished.

Ulyana felt something, a force, as if she was gently shoved by something invisible.

The light that disappeared from in front of her Gula then shone from behind her.

When she turned, the found the light figure of the girl standing nonchalantly at her back.

“I am able to eat anything if I understand it well enough.” Gula said, standing behind her as if she had always been standing there. “Including, say, the concept of the distance between one part of the station and another part of the station. Of course, you can’t digest a concept, it reasserts itself quickly, but the ensuing snap does place me at my destination.”

Ulyana was speechless. Gula was far, far, more powerful than she envisioned.

“With that said– ta-ta, hominin.” Gula added. With a snap of her jaws– she was gone.

Left standing alone in the dim LED lights once more, Ulyana thought–

It was not just Gula who was powerful, but psionics was capable of far more than just throwing objects or reading people’s minds. It was capable of far more even than mind control. She wondered just how much they really knew about this power. It seemed almost like psionic powers could do nearly anything at all at the hands of these bizarre creatures. Ulyana felt like her already slim chances of defeating them had begun to slip further.

Then she caught her breath and tried to steady her spiraling emotions.

She was immune to psionics. She had come to understand from Arabella and Euphrates.

That meant no matter what they could do– the Omenseers were not omnipotent.

Because at least this “hominin” could oppose them.

And with the assistance of her own psionic allies, anything could be possible.

Ulyana climbed back out of the maintenance tunnel and left the office.

One final swipe would render her card useless and lock the office.

Mentally, she thanked the dockworkers for their continuing aid as she climbed aboard the Brigand once more. Inside the familiar, comforting steel walls, her heart eased a bit. Just as she was walking back into the hangar, she then found Aaliyah and Conny making their way to the deployment chutes. They met in the middle. Conny looked in good spirits while Aaliyah had one ear folded, the one nearest Conny, and looked a little bit bedraggled.

“Captain! I was hoping I’d see you again before the night is up!” Conny cheered.

“I’m back from a bit of business. I’m glad I got to see you on the way out.” Ulyana said.

“Isn’t all this so fun? I’m glad my niece has such reliable allies.” Conny said, gesturing to the hangar. “You will have my full confidentiality captain, I promise you, but I truly want to do something for all of you, to thank you– I want my niece to be able to be independent, and this seems like the best environment for her to get her legs under her and see the world. Let me buy you all elvish pizza– real elvish pizza and not the Imbrian junk.”

“I won’t say no to pizza.” Aaliyah said. Her voice reduced to an emotionless droning.

“We can’t have it delivered.” Ulyana said softly.

“I’ll bring it here myself.” Conny said. “That ties into my other request.”

Aaliyah folded her other ear as if in preparation. Ulyana narrowed her eyes a bit.

“Captain, let me join you all aboard. I want to observe my niece’s journey.” Conny said.

Ulyana wished she could fold her ears like Aaliyah could and ignore this.

“We’ll have to talk about it.” Ulyana said, her voice too now an emotionless droning.

Conny smiled and winked and leaned forward a little with her chest out.

“Captain, I can be soooo useful! NGO Kamma will be at your service as well!”

Despite everything, it seemed there would be another night over a desk in store for Ulyana.

Sometimes having allies could be a bit burdensome as well.


Upon Captain Korabiskaya and Commissar Bashara’s return from the United Front, Murati was relieved of her temporary command, to be restored again the next day.

She left the bridge to the late-shifters Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa and Alexandra Geninov and departed with Aatto into the halls of the Brigand. While the days were very busy for everyone, the sailors had temporarily been relieved of night shift, as it was reasoned that if they needed them they could sound an alarm. Therefore when Murati stepped out onto the halls, though it was the early evening, there were few people around.

“Master, how did I do? Was I the image of Union gallantry?” Aatto said.

Murati thought that it was a miracle that the Commissar had not thrown her overboard.

“You’re learning fast.” Murati said, diplomatically.

She was warming up to Aatto– though hardly anyone else was, a fact that troubled her.

(Except Karuniya, whom Murati did not want to count.)

“Do you have any evening plans?” Aatto asked. Her tail wagged behind her.

Aatto was asking because she wanted to be included in them–

But it did remind Murati that she missed her wife dearly.

Both she and Karuniya had been busy since they departed Kreuzung.

They shared a room, so they always saw something of each other every day.

When they were dating in Solstice and Thassal they saw each other much less than they did now. They made a promise back then to go on a date once a week, come hell or high water, and it was an indication of how little time they had for each other that this promise mattered as much as it did to them. That was also when, though they did not necessarily call each other partners yet, they stopped seeing other people and became sexually exclusive. And yet, despite objectively being closer than ever nowadays, Murati still feared that she was, as Karu sometimes joked, a frigid and neglectful “husband” to her poor wife.

She thought they ought to at least stay up a bit late in their room and chat today.

“Private time.” Murati said simply, with a small smile borne of thinking about her wife.

“Ah! Enjoy it, master, you’ve earned your relaxation.” Aatto said, smiling pleasantly.

“Thanks, Aatto.”

“Should you require me, I will be in my quarters. Feel free to contact me at any time–”

“Thanks, Aatto. Good night.”

Murati said the second one a bit more firmly.

Aatto smiled, waved, wiggled her ears a bit, turned and left down the hall first.

Fatima and Semyonova had been roomed together to give Aatto her own place, with the Captain and Commissar reasoning she may be a troublesome roommate. Though with Marina having boarded the John Brown, there was also talk of having her move in with Elena to free up another room in case of additional guests, and to have them learn theory together.

That particular point was a headache for another day’s Murati to deal with, however.

At first Murati headed in the opposite direction from Aatto.

She walked toward the cafeteria. She had in mind to bring her wife a coffee.

Then they could stay up a bit with a warm drink and chat.

In her mind this was all perfectly romantic. Of course, no plan survived contact with–

–well, not “the enemy” this time.

The conditions of the operation, Murati corrected herself.

Walking into the cafeteria, past the chairs and the long row tables.

“Murati! Good evening! Feeling peckish? I’ve got a couple fixin’s leftover!”

Behind the counter sat Logia Minardo in her apron, leaning forward and waving with her fingers. She had a tray with a few leftovers from the dinner service. Though she was normally very meticulous about the amount of food prepared each day, the Brigand had been testing her with the amount of guests that would come and go. Sometimes a person was sick and changed their mind about dinner at the last second too– all these things meant there was sometimes food left over. It would not go to waste, however. Either Minardo would find someone to eat it or she would eat it herself– or find a way to reuse it later.

“I’ve already sent Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa some stuff. Want to help me out?”

Murati normally did not stick around for such things much.

She was always a pretty goal-oriented person who did not meander the ship.

But– as the Captain, she should strive to become accessible to her subordinates.

Hiding away in her room ill suited a communist, a people’s Captain!

“I have a few minutes, but no more than that.” Murati replied.

Minardo’s face lit up with a smile. “I’d love even a few minutes of your company!”

Murati first got the automatic coffee machine going. It would keep her drinks warm.

After, she joined Minardo at the counter.

On the big tray there were three discrete smaller trays with leftover meals. Each of the trays had a dish of corn chips that had been fried in a pan along with a red sauce, making them a bit soggier and yet still crisped up, and topped with cheese and beans. Minardo made the chips herself using corn flour, of which they still had plenty of from the Union– a taste of home. Murati picked up a spork and dig into a corner of chips from the tray, one with beans and cheese, a bit of everything. She lifted the morsel to her mouth and tasted.

Though the outcome had never been in doubt– it was delicious.

Savory-sweet corn chips with a slightly piquant and fruity sauce, with a distinctive hint of red sweet pepper. Creamy beans, with fatty cheese that added richness. The reheated leftovers lost only a bit of the aroma that the sauce and spices would have had when fresh out of the saucepan, and there was a pleasant variety of textures with the chips still having some body to them. Murati could not help but to be impressed by this simple yet fulfilling dish.

She also could not help but make an expression of girlish joy while eating.

Minardo looked at her fondly in return.

“I feel like you enjoy the corn dishes a lot. What do you think?” She said.

“Hmm? I do. It’s an immensely important crop. Its economic value is truly second to none.”

Minardo’s smile seemed to widen upon hearing that. Murati did not understand why.

Corn was one of the things the Union produced an incredible amount of, and it was an invaluable partner in the miracle that was the Union as a functioning state. Corn was processed into grains, sugars, alcohol, oils, and starches. Grains could be further refined– ground into corn flour, or boiled and canned for whole corn, or dried into corn snacks, that sort of thing. The true miracle was in the rest of the items. Corn starches could be used in food but had a variety of industrial purposes. Corn oil could be used for cooking or processed further into resins. “Synthetic” was a common word for clothing and other items manufactured in the A.D. era, but the Union made many daily things out of corn plastics too, preserving petroleum for its more valuable, specialized chemical purposes. Corn was used in chemical productions too, it had novel enzymatic reactions– it was so multifaceted.

Murati continued to tuck into the corn chip dish, thinking about the miracle that was corn.

She then realized the cook had been watching her space out the whole time.

“It’s fantastic, Minardo. Thank you for sharing it with me.” Murati said.

“Of course! Kitchens are for feeding people.” Minardo said. Murati continued to eat, and she noticed Minardo looking at her while she did so, but she did not say anything. Once Murati was about halfway through the dish, eating silently and unreservedly enjoying every bite, Minardo finally spoke up again. “You know, it is true what they say about you, Murati.”

“Hmm? What are they saying? And who is saying it?”

“You have a certain intensity about you. You don’t even seem to realize it. You might even fade into the background without that spark of yours. But even when you’re just standing in front of me eating chilaquiles after saying one sentence to me about their economic value– I can’t help but be charmed, girl. You capture the eye without even meaning to.”

Murati frowned a bit. “I feel like people are just making fun of me when they say that.”

“They’re really not! It’s just different, but it attracts people to you. You have gravity.”

“It attracts sailor girls to gossip about me.”

“That too. But that’s because your intensity makes you so electric!”

That was a lot of adjectives being slung around that made Murati feel embarrassed.

“Thanks, Minardo.” Murati said, hoping to change the subject, her eyes wandering.

She took a peek at the third tray, which neither she nor Minardo had touched.

“You want to take it?” Minardo said. “Go right ahead. You don’t eat enough anyway.”

“I eat as much as I need.” Murati said in protest. “But yes, I’d like to take the third one.”

Minardo beamed at Murati as she wrapped the third tray in a bit of plastic wrap.

“She’s such a lucky gal. You’re both really cute together. Hurry up; don’t make her wait.”

Were her intentions that easy to read? Or was Minardo just that experienced?

Murati thanked her again, sheepishly took her tray and her small coffees, and left the scene.

She felt self-conscious about being told about her “intensity”– she wondered if maybe other people were as odd about their feelings toward her as Aatto was. Once framed in that particular way, the thought of a whole ship full of Aatto and Aatto-adjacent gazes made her quiver with terror, but she also laughed a bit to herself at the absurdity of it all. Eventually it was completely out of her mind. Regardless of what anyone saw in her, she was only going to be herself and she wouldn’t even know how to change if she wanted to do so.

She tried to imagine this gravity of hers in terms of her goals. Murati supposed being found attractive was a useful asset to a ship’s captain. After all, she found Ulyana Korabiskaya very attractive. It inspired her to follow in her footsteps. To sit more upright, to speak more precisely, to memorize everyone’s names on the bridge. To wear her own uniform more sharply, comb her hair more often. She hoped to inspire the same in the future.

In the present– she had an appointment with a certain ‘lucky gal’.

Without stopping at the door or saying anything, Murati walked into her own room.

At the pull-out desk on the wall, she found her wife, swiping at a little portable computer.

When the door opened, she looked over her shoulder.

“Welcome home!” Karuniya exclaimed with a smile.

Indeed– Murati was home– Karuniya was her home.

Murati smiled quietly and presented Karuniya with the coffee and the food.

“Oh! What’s this? Such a thoughtful hubby– perhaps trying to bribe me?”

She put on a mock skeptical face and stared at Murati for a moment, rubbing her chin.

“Maybe.” Murati replied.

Karuniya laughed. “Come on.” She made space on the table for the dish and the sporks.

Every time she saw her, Karuniya was the most beautiful woman on the planet. However, there was something extra charming about her that night. She looked like she had come in from the shower. Her hair had dried a bit, but still fell messily down her back and had a moist sheen. Dressed in only the plastic robes they were issued for bathing use, whenever she turned around she flashed a bit of her gorgeous skin and the contours of her belly, her hips, her breasts. However she was not self conscious at all, and never guarded herself.

For a moment, Murati forgot about the food and the coffees and stood behind Karuniya.

At first she just laid her hands on Karuniya’s shoulders.

Then her fingers worked their way between the halves of the robe, pulling it farther apart. Bare skin on bare skin; Murati rubbed her wife’s shoulders, and gently worked them between her fingers. Karuniya realized what she was doing. Murati could feel her relaxing in her grip. There was nothing like the immediate response of a body to touch– it was so satisfying.

“How was your day?” Murati asked, whispering near her face.

“I grew mushrooms~” Karuniya replied.

She waved her hand. Her voice had a strangely dismissive affectation to it.

Murati circled with her thumbs, enjoying the pliability of her wife’s soft, round shoulders.

“Are you still sore about the mushroom lady stuff?” Murati said.

“Yes~ I will resent it~ until the end of the time~” Karuniya said in a song-like voice.

Despite her spoken complaints, Karuniya looked rather delighted. She even made a short murring noise when Murati applied a bit more pressure in the middle of her shoulders and settled back into her chair when she eased on her. Sensing an opportunity, Murati leaned forward. She tipped her head and kissed Karuniya in the neck, close to her jaw, nuzzling her. She could feel Karu start to melt into her, heartbeat beginning to quicken.

“You’re so clumsy about everything else, but you’re fantastic at reading me.” Karuniya said.

“I’ve had been blessed with many opportunities to practice.” Murati replied.

Karu leaned back in her chair and stared up. Murati leaned forward to enter her sight.

For a moment it felt like, to a third party, this must have looked quite intense.

But to the two of them–

“Craning my neck this far is not comfortable.” Karuniya said.

“It’s a little awkward, yes.”

Both of them laughed.

Murati let go of Karuniya, eliciting a little ‘aww’ from her wife.

She reached for and raised one of the pull-up seats from the floor and sat beside Karuniya.

“Try it, it’s really good.” Murati said, pointing with one spork at the chilaquiles.

Karuniya took her own spork, pulled away the plastic wrap from the tray, and took a bite.

Her eyes shut and the corners of her mouth rose steadily as she tasted the dish.

“Minardo’s devilry at work again! How can I ever settle for another cook?!” Karuniya said.

Murati laughed. Together, they prodded the dish, catching glances of each other’s eyes, between bites, and talked around the table. Karuniya gradually talked more about her own day. She had been processing biological samples from the Omenseers and collecting data all day, and she would have to comb over everything and create plans for each sample tomorrow. She had ideas for what kind of tests she wanted to run on the samples, but she had to make sure everything she was trying to do was safe and viable.

“I’m not a little kid mixing colored oils and different fluids just to see the different colors stacking in a beaker. Though– I kinda feel like that little kid experimenting here.”

A water density experiment– every Union kid did science-y stuff like that in school.

Though, Murati had never really associated Karuniya with test tubes and centrifuges.

She had a limited knowledge of what the practice of oceanography entailed.

For a moment she felt self conscious about not knowing her wife’s work very well–

But Karuniya seemed to realize her head was being occupied and reached her arm out.

Taking Murati’s shoulder and pulling her in close, laughing gently.

An effective way to dispel Murati’s little doubts about their relationship.

“Are you excited?” Murati asked.

“This could be ground-breaking stuff, or it could be nothing.” Karuniya said. “There’s always the chance I won’t be adequate to the task. I even talked to Euphrates, and she never experimented with Omenseer tissue. Or maybe she just said that to avoid getting involved.”

“Both are equally possible. But don’t hold it against her.” Murati said.

“Oh, I won’t. I’m excited to be a pioneer in Omenseer-‘Hominin’ relations.”

“I think you’re incredibly qualified Karu. I don’t know anyone else our age working on multiple degrees. Even if you don’t know something now, you will make the effort to learn, and you’ll develop a process. You’re amazingly driven when something catches your eye.”

“Yeah– like when I was amazingly driven to jump on your dick, and I went and did it.”

Murati cracked up at the sudden bawdy joke. “Karu– I’m being serious–”

Karuniya giggled in response. “I know. Thank you, Murati. It means a lot to me.”

“You’ll always have one stalwart supporter.” Murati said.

“Can I ask my most die-hard fan to hold me more? It was nice.”

“Any time.”

After finishing their meal and coffees, they relocated together to one of the beds.

Murati tossed away her half-jacket and tie, pulled off her pants. Wearing nothing but an unbuttoned shirt, a sports bra and undershorts, she sat with her back to the wall and Karuniya sat in front of her. She pulled down her robe to bare more of her back for Murati to admire and feel. Down the spine to the small of the back, almost to her bare rear.

Murati promptly and dutifully pressed her hands over her.

One on the shoulder, one closer to the hip.

“Not your usual massage form.” Karuniya said with a cheeky tone.

“I just want you to feel your skin for a bit. Is that okay?” Murati said.

“It’s always okay. I’m yours, completely and forever, Murati Nakara.”

Karuniya backed into her.

Murati pulled with her, bringing her closer, tighter.

Her hands just wanted to feel contours of her wife more, the pronounced curve of her hip, the soft, pliable flesh of her back, the tiny, near imperceptible bumps of her spine. The elevation caused by the shoulder blade and the gentle bend of her back. She wanted to lay her chin on Karuniya’s shoulder and feel the smoothness of her skin against her lips, to smell the scents left over on her from her time in the lab, sometimes strangely sweet, sometimes a bit plastic, but always her. She wanted to feel the quake of her heart under her flesh.

“From how you’re holding me– it feels like you had a tough day.” Karuniya said.

“I wouldn’t say it was hard.” Murati replied. “It was long. I had no time to myself.”

Karuniya reached up and stroked Murati’s hair, while Murati kissed her shoulders.

“You know what else is getting a bit long?” She said, fingers twining through strands.

Murati had not really noticed until Karuniya pointed it out.

Her hair was starting to grow past her shoulder. Normally she had it trimmed at this point.

She was not in a position to take time off just for that though.

“It’ll be fine.” She said. Maybe she would look good with long hair.

Karuniya laughed. She tipped her head to nuzzle up to Murati’s cheek.

“We should go somewhere. And not dressed up as fascists. You need proper relaxation.”

“Who would I leave the bridge to?” Murati asked, nuzzling Karuniya’s neck again.

Karuniya giggled, wriggling in Murati’s hands. “Aatto would absolutely not mind.”

“Solceanos defend.”

“Oh, I got a Solceanos oath out of you. That bad huh?”

It had happened almost automatically at the thought of Aatto commanding the bridge.

“I’ve been talking with her a bit. She really admires you. What did you do to her?”

“I held her hostage. I truly have no idea how any of this turned out this way.”

“She’s a good girl. You ought to trust her a bit. She really wants your approval.”

“I do trust her, but I don’t want to overwhelm her. Maybe I’ll ask Daphne to cover for me.”

“Whatever helps– I just think we should have some time for ourselves. Like before.”

Murati was quiet for a few minutes. Trying to shut out everything else.

Losing herself in the sense of Karuniya’s skin. As close as they could be without sex.

“Am I being neglectful?” Murati asked.

She felt Karuniya briefly tense up a bit in her grasp. Surprised, perhaps.

“Oh, Murati, absolutely not. You’re fantastic. I hope my jokes didn’t get to you.”

“No. I just recognize we’re both so busy. So I felt a bit self conscious.”

“Murati, I think when you have a better head on, you know this is a weird situation for both of us to have a relationship in. We are messing around in a possibly suicidal combat mission that Nagavanshi went out of her way to force us to go on– promptly being really nice about all our relationship papers when we agreed.” Karuniya said, nuzzling up to Murati again. “We have to tend to our duties first. But we’ve always been able to live our lives as best we can in addition to that. That’s all I ever ask from you. I cherish the good nights and the good mornings. I’m really happy. Despite everything that’s going on, I’m so happy.”

“Thank you, Karu. You’ve made me the happiest woman on Aer.” Murati said.

She could have cried from how happy she felt holding Karuniya.

It felt like everything terrible in the ocean was briefly dispelled when she held her.

There had been so much that had happened so far. So much still to do.

All the crashing of ordnance in her ears, the smell of ozone and plastic, the feeling of her breaking ribs inside her chest as she crashed into the side of her diver, the sight of agarthic orbs after the deaths of ships, the exploding red mist when a diver burst under the pressure. All of the terrors imparted onto her mind, into her hearing, carved in her eyes, the invisible weights on her shoulders– Karuniya could dispel them all with a word and with a touch.

“Besides, Murati, it’s not like it’s been that long since we did something special.”

Karuniya reached behind herself, her fingers probing across Murati’s belly–

and gripping for Murati’s bulge between her legs, and seizing on it firmly.

Murati stiffed up a bit. Not quite enough to get hard. But she felt the thrill.

Holding her hubby’s weakly stiffening shaft through the fabric, Karuniya grinned cheekily.

“I recall it’s only been like a week and a bit since you gave me the second-best dicking of my life back in Kreuzung. If we can just fuck like that every so often I’ll be singing.” She said.

“Hang on. Second-best?” Murati said, picking up and playing into her wife’s mischief.

“Oh ho, curious? My best lay was this hot upperclassman at the Academy– Murati Nakara.”

For a moment she really had her in suspense. “I must have done better since then.”

“You were absolutely feral when we started messing around, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Karuniya continued to stroke her while grinning in such an insolent fashion.

It really made Murati want to teach her a lesson. Her appetite was reaching a peak.

“You have one coming, Karuniya Maharapratham.” She said sternly.

“Oh? Coming when? Ten days from now? Mu~ra~ti~? ” Karuniya said teasingly.

Murati reached out a hand to the wall and expertly summoned some loud DJ Hard Roe.

“M-M-Murati–?” Karuniya whimpered as Murati took her down on the bed.

As always, the synths would protect her modesty.


“Here you go miss! One big beautiful rainbow swirl coffee for a beautiful girl!”

A hand reached out gingerly from inside the little coffee shop’s window.

Upon that hand was a plastic, see-through coffee cup.

A rainbow-colored swirl, creamer and sweetener all at once, spiraled through the black coffee, a neat effect soon to be disturbed by the mixing of the drink. It was a limited-time specialty advertised by the little store on a corner of Aachen’s second tier. Quite a few people were waiting in line for their own “taste of the rainbow.”

Opposite the hand holding the coffee–

stood an embarrassed-looking, salmon-pink haired person in a hooded jacket, hood down.

“Ah, thank you.” Valya said, smiling sheepishly.

They did not want to draw any attention or argue, not under these circumstances.

So they put up with it– as they had become something of a champion in doing so.

They took the coffee into their hands, parted with some polymer reichsmark notes, and left.

Torn on whether to be flattered that they made a ‘beautiful girl.’

Aer had seen the turning of another cycle in its day and night, perceptible to humans mainly via timekeeping that aligned with their ancient biological rites. Another day in the 300-day Imbrian year decreed by Emperor Nocht so long ago. Valya had woken up in the morning ready to get back to work. The Captain and Commissar had departed for the third day of the United Front deliberations. As they stopped at the cafeteria, Galina pulled them aside, handed them reichsmarks, and decreed that today, they would have to go outside.

“Everyone has had at least a little goofing off time. You’ve earned some too.”

“I’m fine– I’m okay just working–”

“I will remind Semyonova that officers cannot accumulate too much unused leisure time.”

Scolded by Galina and threatened with a future scolding by Semyonova–

Valya could only agree. They donned a hoodie over their uniform and left the ship.

They made their way through the commercial district on the first tier. Crossing the lanes of storefronts and the platforms suspending them to the walls of the enclosure, with the massive atrium and its installations flanking them at all times. They were uninterested in shopping, however and even off-peak, the crowds unnerved them. They saw a black uniform in one of the crowds and began to walk more quickly to one of the elevator banks. From the briefing, they knew the second tier had a park with real trees.

They felt warmer toward spending the day at the park instead.

So they went up to a little café in a corner of the park.

Enjoying a coffee under the trees– if they had to relax, that would do just fine.

However, as they sipped their coffee, they couldn’t help but think about what was said.

How did they feel about being a “beautiful girl?” It was a pivotal question in their life.

It was the first time in a long time they realized that they had left the Union.

One of the reasons they preferred the ship and the company of machines.

Valya was in a strange place with regards to their presentation and identity. They felt that they were neither a “man” or a “woman”, social constructions that hardly mattered in the Union by law but were still carried on casually by individuals. While Valya did not want to legislate how anyone else saw or referred to themselves, the prevailing culture was a bit annoying for them specifically– to achieve their desired presentation they used feminizing hormones and had been for years now. This led uninformed people to read them as a woman; and they feared it might lead lovers to read them as a man in bed, and not as what they wanted to be read, as neither one nor the other but just themself.

One of the things that influenced them was the traditionalist attitude of their parents and some of their close family. All of them believed strictly that the family should continue as pairs of uncomplicated men and women having as many children as possible. Such people were not extinct overnight just because the Union extended the rights of bodily autonomy to everyone under its jurisdiction. When Valya came out, the ensuing argument with their parents was so virulent that on a high of emotions they ran to a local branch of the internal security forces to inform on their parents as right-wing elements to the Ashura.

Sitting in a chair in the middle of that office, barely out of their teens, they asked–

“Say that I put down a statement– theoretically, what would happen?”

Across from them, a stoic Ashura officer in their black uniform and green armband.

She looked up from a portable she had taken out of a drawer.

Valya recalled it was a Commissar-Sergeant Yulia Sinilova, a short-haired young lady.

Handsome in uniform and with a polite demeanor behind the desk, she answered–

“We will investigate and if we agree there is a seditious element it will be eliminated.”

“Isn’t that– a bit harsh–?”

Yulia looked at Valya with a strange intensity.

“Misc Lebedova.” She began, using the approved gender-neutral honorific. “So-called traditionalism begins with denying their family members bodily autonomy. It begins there– but it won’t stay there. It will lead to strife along religious lines, racial and ethnic lines; it will become about whether the subject matter in educational courses is too novel, about the makeup of the Party being too foreign, about having strange neighbors and ethnic foods in the cafeteria. It will become about the political system, about the centralized production of goods. But it can all be stopped by a bullet. It is the duty of the Ashura, the mission of our service– to stop this chain of events even if it takes a bullet to do it.”

Receiving that response, Valya apologized profusely and left shortly thereafter.

Without their statement, Yulia did not even record their visit.

As severe as she was, she must have understood.

Though they were angry at their parents, they did not want them to be eliminated.

Thankfully in addition to the Ashura, the Union also had the neighborhood guards and their local shelters where someone with a bit more empathy nursed Valya’s broken heart throughout that night. That night, with the encouragement of the guards, they began the process to transfer out of their home and journeyed to the military academy at Solstice. Unlike the wider world, the secondary society of the military had a rigidly enforced egalitarianism, and Valya found comradeship to be better than citizenship in that regard. It even bore out to the Brigand, where most of the pilot squadron was transgender.

Their parents were proud of them for serving, despite everything that had happened.

And tried to be accommodating– by referring to them as a woman now.

Truly the world was such a mess everywhere.

Whether in the Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice; or in the Reichskommissariat Eisental.

But– the hope of things getting better in the latter was infinitely dimmer.

At least, it was at that moment. They hoped to be able to change that.

Under the trees, they sipped their coffee, wandering how anyone found themselves.

Perhaps taking time for themselves was a start. Perhaps dealing with people.

Even if it hurt sometimes; even if they disappointed you; even if they abandoned you.

“Ugh, whenever I’m not working on something I get the stupidest thoughts.”

They had no one to talk to but themselves but still vocalized their frustrations.

When they were done with their coffee they took a stroll around the park.

Marveling at the engineering miracle that allowed all of these trees to thrive. It was a challenge to have a park such as this. Trees expected sunlight, and they expected powerful, permeating sunlight, and if any park of the tree was not receiving the right amount, it would look duller and deader, and the growth of the young tree might even be warped, as it would grow to maximize sunlight exposure– so not necessarily straight up as these trees were.

Not only that, but trees also expected soil, with a composition of nutrients, and they expected rainfall to sustain them. The composite soil in which it was planted was chemically engineered, the sunlamps were strategically placed, and rain-making devices had been installed, with digital calendars of rain days available around the park for all guests to see.

So much more care had been taken to engineer for these trees, than for any human beings.

In terms of engineering, Aachen, like Kreuzung, was hostile to people.

Were Valya to design a very typical station, their foremost concern would have been to maximize living space. To give everyone a place to stay, with enough space and privacy that they did not feel too caged but were not in conflict with others, but contained enough that within the allotted construction area they could make as many units as possible. While also allowing for cafeterias and for distribution centers for goods, and social spaces like the plazas and community centers, each with a calculated amount of occupancy. There should be transportation, childcare and maintenance capability, supported by some level of local industry. These were incredible challenges and there was no one solution that solved every problem. However, Aachen and Kreuzung had not been designed with people in mind– people were coincidental here. Instead, they were designed for commerce.

Imbrian stations seemed to require a plurality of grand, sweeping storefronts full of goods to buy, and all adorned with the slogans for the many businesses competing for the polymer banknotes in the hands of those coincidental people. Valya found the designs pretty and the engineering to be rather astonishing. It was beautiful and immersive, it arrested one’s breath– but it was also depressing. There were so many crowds of people in vast, open spaces that needed a separate station to live in, and among them, there were people who did not even have a room and only the cold, steel floors comforted them.

Something like that went against everything that Valya felt about engineering.

They made weapons because the Union needed them to protect communism.

That was what they staunchly believed– but engineering should, generally, help people.

Things should be constructed, foremost, because people needed them.

Kreuzung and Aachen did not need more shops– but more shops seemed to be the aim.

Thinking about their surroundings made Valya want to return to the ship and never leave.

Especially as their walk seemed to inexorably draw them closer to a building flying a flag with a black sun disc, encased in white, surrounded by red. It was impossible to miss it, seated as if on a hill in the distance, the concrete and glass monument to the rot festering within Aachen. Under its watchful eye all of this took place. Every pathway in the park seemed to funnel toward that building, and in any event, Valya’s own morbid curiosity led them to want to see it up close. They had been afraid and intimidated of the prospect of patrolling Volkisch officers– but surely they could at least metaphorically stare the Volkisch in the eye by approaching the Gau office. They could at least pass by the front of it.

It seemed then, that fate had other plans for Valya that day.

As they crossed the front of the Gau office they briefly stopped to stare at the facade.

Enough so that the door opened, causing their heart to leap.

Not because an evil Volkisch officer had walked out to arrest them promptly.

But because the person that nonchalantly walked out with their hands in their pockets–

Looked astonishingly familiar.

Familiar enough– to recall youthful memories long discarded.

Walking down the steps as Valya stopped before them; looking down as they looked up.

Slightly taller than Valya, but not by much, still lithe, guarded, unsmiling. Long, dark, blueish hair tied up into a braided ponytail, a soft, fair face with a small nose and eyes. Dressed in a brown jacket, black pants and a white plunging shirt that exposed a few bio-luminescent nodes on their flat, slightly narrow chest. Soft-shouldered with lean limbs and yet despite the years and despite them leaving home they hardly looked any more rugged than when they left, when they were both teenagers with foolish ideas.

Ideas about freedom that perhaps this person realized after Valya rejected them.

“Mysia?” Valya said, at the foot of the steps.

“Valya?” Mysia said, looking down from them.

Both of them were stunned for a moment at the presence of the other.

It should have been impossible for them to meet.

Each read the immediate response of the other and knew for certain whom they had met.

Valya was not prepared today to have such hope in something so impossible.

They felt that if they did not do something, the world might evaporate as if a dream.

Shutting their eyes, they ran up the steps and threw their arms around Mysia.

Throwing their head into the chest of their long-lost friend, holding them tight–

“V-Valya? We– We can’t stay here. We need to go, come on.”

Mysia did not embrace them back.

At their urging, they left the steps of the Gau office and walked.

Valya followed Mysia, barely knowing whether their feet were moving, whether they were tethered to the ground, or whether the environment scrolled automatically past them like they were hovering forward off the ground. Not knowing where they were going or what to do. Not able to speak; aborting every sentence that formed in their head out of astonishment, out of anxiety. Mysia might have been feeling the same. They stole glances at each other, awkwardly, and broke eye contact just as suddenly while walking.

“Mysia, are you in trouble?” Valya asked, finally allowing themself to speak.

“No. It was nothing. They– they tried to get me but had nothing to pin on me.”

Valya never conceived of the Volkisch as people who let anyone off with a warning.

Nevertheless, they were glad Mysia was not hurt.

After some wandering, the two left the trees and walked across grey concrete into one of the office complexes. They stood in an alley between two office buildings on the edge of the second tier’s facilities. At their backs, one of the station walls, and a capped duct giving off a small amount of visibly moving air. Mysia put their back to one of the buildings and Valya put their back to the other, standing with their eyes locked together but still silent.

Mysia reached out suddenly– taking Valya’s chin and lifting their face.

Grinning with a too-familiar mischief.

“It is you.” Mysia said. “It’s like I never left. You’re still the same softie.”

Valya pulled off Mysia’s hands from themself. “Hey! I can’t believe you, after all this time.”

“What else am I supposed to do or say? I wasn’t holding out hope of ever seeing you again.”

“Me neither!” Valya said. They smiled a bit. “But I’m– I’m really happy to see you!”

Mysia did not smile back. It was hard for Valya to read their expression.

“You look so– healthy. Grown up. You finally left the Union yourself.” Mysia said.

Looking Valya up and down in a way that embarrassed them to recognize.

“Yeah, I decided to leave. I am working as a mechanic in Stockheim now.” They said.

Of course, Valya could not admit to the truth of why they were able to meet like this.

“Stockheim’s good. Nice pay, and the people are friendly. I’m glad you’re alright.”

It was so awkward. Valya could hardly stand it. They should have been so happy.

Instead, they were standing in a tiny gap framed by concrete, staring at each other.

“Mysia– why did you leave the Union?”

And the fatal words simply left Valya’s lips though they barely realized it.

When they did– even they were surprised at themself.

Thankfully, Mysia took it in stride. Letting out a bit of a sigh, tossing their hair a bit.

“Chasing the myth of the Katarran mercenary. I told you as much when I left.”

That can’t have been the only reason. Valya always thought they had done something.

It was not beyond their will or capability to have done something.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Valya asked.

Mysia did not answer. Rather, they asked a question by way of response–

“Valya, do you still believe the stuff they taught us in the Union?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I see.” Mysia said. Valya thought they looked disappointed with that answer.

“How are you getting along these days? You’re really not in trouble, right?” Valya asked.

Both of them seemed to know that there was an impassable wall between them.

“I’m working for a rich woman now, Gloria Innocence Luxembourg.” Mysia said.

Valya froze for a moment. Surprised, perhaps elated– were they on the same side–?

Foolishly, they were almost ready to say anything– but– Mysia talked so fast–

Mysia spoke first and made a gesture as to bid Valya to be quiet for a moment.

“Valya, I am really sorry but we don’t have all the time we need to catch up now. I have something going on. But– we can still go on an adventure together, just like we wanted.” They said. “It’s really incredible that I found you. It’s– It’s something I’ve only ever dreamed of. I think it’s a sign that everything is going to go how I want. I’ve got plans, Valya. I’m going to get a ship, and a crew. You can come. We’ll go anywhere we want, and we can do anything. Nobody can boss us around anymore. I just need a few more days to get ready.”

At this, Valya’s heart sank– but a part of them, a foolish, stupid, childish part, wanted–

“You don’t have to answer.” Mysia said. “In two days, meet me in Stockheim at noon.”

“Mysia– I don’t know–” Valya felt like they were letting them slip away again–

That mane of blue hair swaying in the air as they turned their back like before–

“Even if you don’t want to leave, I’ll have time to catch up then. To really catch up. I want to know everything that happened to you. I promise I won’t leave you with regrets. I will tell you everything and then you can decide. But right now, I really have to leave. I especially don’t want to linger around this place too much.” Mysia gestured around themself. Perhaps meaning the second tier of Aachen. Perhaps meaning Aachen itself?

Then the most shameful and impossible words of them all spilled out of Valya’s lips.

“Mysia– do you still–?”

Care about me? Care about me like our doomed teenage love?

They would have said it–

But there was no opportunity.

As if in answer to the unspoken plea about to spill deadly into the air–

Mysia took a step forward into Valya’s personal space and

kissed them.

On the lips, with a bit of force, a bit of tongue. A hand on their hip, gripping the fabric.

Heat, touch, passion– a desire they hardly ever felt–

Obliterating Valya’s better judgment as easily as when they first saw them at the Gau.

As easily as when they first saw them at school in Sevastopol.

And as easily as when they almost, so close, stole them away from home.

Easy as a stolen kiss; easy as a quick turn of the feet to leave.

“Stockheim, at noon. Valya, I still want to make you mine. Please consider it.”

Rapid as the current that must have swept them away that day.

Mysia turned, showing Valya their back, and walked away with unconcerned alacrity.

With that confidence and power that imagined a world Valya could only dream of.

Their knees buckled in the alleyway; their breath stolen away with the kiss.

Tears in their eyes and not knowing what to do or what to think.

Had it all been a hallucination? But their lips were still warm with their touch.

All these years, and Valya was still so easily shaped by Mysia in mere instants.

Could they really do as Mysia asked? Did they– want to–?


UNX-001 “Brigand” Official Chronicle

Chronicle Date Code (FROM-1): 293906

Chronicler: Commissar Aaliyah Bashara

Mood

Aboard: Busy, but spirits are high.

Myself: Contemplative.

We set out on this journey long enough now that 980 is near. We left close to mid-year so it should not be surprising. But it feels like an entire year has passed. I am appreciative of my reliable counterpart. I would have broken down if I was shouldering this alone.

Meals

Breakfast: Blins with mushrooms, and a choice of sour cream, cottage cheese or both.

Lunch: Gloria had “Shimii-style” wraps delivered. Hummus, ta’miya, salad, tahini.

Dinner: “Serrano noodles” egg noodles with beans, salsa, hot pepper, avocado and cheese.

Events

Today’s entry will be one of the lengthy ones.

Ulyana slept poorly. I heard her throughout the night, making nonspecific noises in her sleep. This also affected my sleep but to a lesser degree. She was obviously struggling to get out of bed. On my own initiative I brought her a coffee and tried to comfort her. I offered to take some work off of her hands and she claimed it would not be fair to me. There was no point in arguing against this. I instead offered to get her Corvalol for sleep from Doctor Kappel.

She confided in me that she felt everyone in the United Front was hiding something. I tried to both agree and mollify her while also pointing out we were also hiding things. To calm her nerves, I reassured her that I would be at her side to support her no matter what transpired.

We set out for the United Front venue at 11:00.

Before leaving, I gave Murati a goal to frequent the hangar and get acquainted with the sailors’ work more intimately by talking to Galina and the workgroup managers, instead of bothering the bridge crew all day. Murati apologized profusely and claimed that she was ashamed of her “lack of investigation” and that she would correct herself. She volunteered to write a self-critique and I told her not to and that I would be angry if she still decided to write one and that I would not read it if she did. She seemed to finally acquiesce then.

I also gave Aatto a reading and learning goal for the day, enough to keep her occupied between her activities with Murati. It would be remiss of me to turn down a desire to become a Union commissar, which is rare even among committed communists in the Union. Aatto is experienced and highly educated but ideologically suspect and sexually troubled. Setting aside my personal feelings, I am using this as an avenue to correct her. A commissar embodies high standards for conduct. I would be glad to see her achieve this.

Along the way to the venue, Ulyana’s spirits seemed to return enough to ask if we could stop for a spell somewhere along the way. I regretted having to keep her on task, because I enjoyed our brief noontime drink together the other day. I then had an epiphany and suggested we could stop somewhere for a quick drink after the delegations adjourned. Murati would only be happy to have the ship for an hour or two more.

This more than any of my other suggestions seemed to brighten Ulyana up.

Just as we were getting to the venue, we received a message from Eithnen Ní Faoláin that she would not be attending the day’s meeting and that she would defer any decisions that would be needed from her to Ulyana and Erika. She had to talk to Burke and Marina about what they had turned up about the Uhlans and the station’s security situation overall– she figured her time was better spent helping package their intelligence for us than listening to Tamar Livnat’s “grating voice” for another day. While I mildly disagreed, I understood Captain Ní Faoláin’s disdain for politicking and did not argue with her about it. I could take a more active role to support Ulyana and make up for the lack of personnel at the venue.

But the day’s topic would be a simple one.

As agreed the day before, on the third day of deliberations each side would disclose the status and distribution of their forces. It was a simple topic that left little room for the grandiose political disagreements that had been seen in the previous days. Ulyana and I both understood that on this day, it was likely that every side would lie one way or another. The anarchists had reasons to lowball their forces as they did not trust anyone; Gloria had reasons to self-aggrandize as she wanted to take control of the United Front’s agenda generally. We had certain assets that we would never disclose, such as our Omenseer friends and the existence of psionics, as well as the Brigand’s agarthic shielding lattice. However, in terms of our conventional firepower, we laid everything out on the table, and we were frank about our number of troops. We were up front that aside from our special forces contingents we lacked infantry potential. The Volksarmee was primarily naval.

I expected Gloria Innocence Luxembourg to engage in some amount of attention seeking behavior. I did not expect the degree to which she would do so. Gloria concocted an entire “presentation” about the Reichbanner Schwarzrot. It was clearly a propaganda film! She was using us as a test audience! I was too confused to object for most of it, with each passing minute believing that the film must soon end, and some actual information must appear.

Sweeping shots of the repurposed cruise ship she used as a personal flagship. Schwarzrot troops in red and black uniforms marching with the eponymous reichbanner flag in hand, clearly shot in the spacious hangar or cargo hold of that same cruise ship. There were myriad slogans on the screen, such as “Justice, liberty, social democracy” and “fair taxes where everyone pays their share.” For whatever reason there were examples of “socialist” policies that “were already in place” like emergency services. A song that she commissioned about herself, its lyrics finally awakening me from my intellectual stupor and prompting me to ask if she disclosed to an artist any sensitive information. She claimed the artist was a zealous member of the Schwarzrot. Finally there was a Diver, clearly a rebadged Rhineametalle Sturmvolker with a slightly rounder headpiece, that had a pinup of Gloria in what looked like a skimpy halterneck robe with a rose in her hair and a golden belt.

I pointed at the screen. In my mind I was screaming righteously. But I was utterly silent.

Ulyana rarely looked every one of her 36 years– but she was haggard at that moment.

Moravskyi began to complain at the twenty minute mark how much longer it would take, but thankfully the film was only twenty two minutes long, with the final few frames having some actual organizational charts with details about the Schwarzrot. These details were about as useless as the rest of the film was. I did not for a second believe that Gloria had a fleet of 100 ships unless she was counting every escape pod or shuttle as a ship.

And, furthermore, knowing she was going to do this, I had actually researched how many employees Raylight Beauty had, and the exact number of those employees were listed in her chart as “reserve manpower” for the Schwarzrot. It was a complete farce!

Tamar Livnat called it unserious which got Gloria flared up all over again.

Erika clapped and praised Gloria’s spirit but asked if she could pull the charts back up.

They had scrolled too fast– she had missed them.

She was either untroubled by the rest or did not want to make a fuss anymore.

I was glad Murati was not here to fight these people; but some of them needed it.

Moravskyi and Tamar disclosed small numbers of infantry but with highly specialized skills. They had saboteurs, hackers, bomb-makers; they had people who could knock off supplies at ports or processing facilities; they had solidarity with some commercial transit personnel who could smuggle them places. They disclosed that most of their manpower were discrete cells waiting for a chance to strike in many stations around the Imbrium. Ulyana had learned the night before that Tamar Livnat had a ship– she did not disclose this today.

She reiterated her need for ships.

The Omenseers Avaritia and Gula, posing as the anarchists Zozia Chelik and Ksenia Apfel, made up a cover story that their cell had been uprooted by the Volkisch and they only had about five additional personnel. Moravskyi was shocked to hear this as he believed them to have an operation with thousands of people. Tamar looked suspicious of them. Neither would comment further. It was unconvincing, and their act was wearing thin, but in this stage, where everyone had lied, the indiscretion was more easily accepted.

It was at this point that things did get confrontational again.

Tamar Livnat suggested that our problems with troops and recruiting would be over if we could open up the Khaybar Pass for Bosporus. She confirmed that the Khaybar Pass is being held by a group of Shimii “pirates” (her words) that Bosporus has failed to break through. In her mind, if the Pass is cleared, we would receive a veritable flood of reinforcements from Bosporus. She had contacts in Bosporus and could reach them to coordinate.

History might judge us for our decision, but we had good reason to be against this:

1. The Union as a state with a foreign policy, has one very important and pragmatic reason to reject the displacement of Shimii by the Juzni and Eloim actors of Bosporus, which is: the Union was founded by Volgians, Shimii and Bosporans. Milana Omarova, the “Vozhd” of the Shimii in the Union, is being groomed to become Premier Jayasankar’s likely successor. Any action against Shimii on an Imbria-wide scale is likely to have repercussions “at home.” It would be seen as a betrayal and shake the trust of the Shimii. As an agent of the Union, as a Commissar, and as a Shimii, I must reject any such actions in line with the national policy.

2. It has historically borne out that “pirates” are usually downtrodden people trying to secure a livelihood. This has always been the case in Imbria. Shimii, Katarrans, North Bosporans, Campos, and even Eloim, have had famous commerce raiders who ultimately “stole from the rich to give to the poor.” It would be odious to me on not just a personal but an ethical-ideological level to become the party stealing from these people instead of helping them and meeting their needs. For a self-described anarchist, Tamar can be rather cruel.

3. Should we succeed in the odious task of evicting the Shimii from whatever home they have in Khaybar, the “flood of troops” that would constitute anarchist forces from Bosporus. While I would very much regret to see violence between our groups, an anarchist Eisental would not be as friendly to the Union as the regime of Erika Kairos and her Volksarmee. I am a soldier and commissar of the Union before I am anything else. It would be against not only my duty but also my beliefs to put solidarity or convenience before the safety of the nation which I have sworn an oath to serve. I believe that only the Union, and only a militarily powerful Union, can safeguard communism. It is terrible to me to have to now weigh the idea of allowing the Reichskommissariat to entrench itself further when there is a possibility to challenge it sooner, with the future that an anarchist Eisental might bring.

Ultimately, none of this did I speak to Tamar Livnat. I simply and efficiently stood against the proposal on the grounds that it would be a waste of our forces and incur the (rightful) anger of some of the very people we are trying to organize against the Volkisch. At any rate, Moravskyi agreed with me on the grounds that if the Bosporus militia which had the backing of many stations failed to penetrate Khaybar, our armada would likely fail as well.

Tamar quietly and serenely dropped the subject as she had done with many other subjects. Her demeanor continued to unnerve me, but I had no cause to accuse her of anything except being personally odious to me. All of us were withholding information and all of us had bitter ideological disagreements. We would certainly continue to be cautious of her and her faction. But to do any more than be personally cautious was out of the question.

She would remain at this table for now.

We set the agenda for the next day that we would talk about funds, logistics, requisition and asset-sharing within the United Front. We would permanently address the question of our individual and shared resources, as some members of the Front had more, and some members had less, but we all had needs to meet. Gloria seemed excited at this prospect– of course, being the member with the most resources. Tamar being the member with the least resources, was also glad the topic would get more attention.

After we adjourned, we called Murati and told her our plans, which she supported.

Ulyana and I stopped at a small café that served pastries, simple fare, coffee and alcohol.

We ordered coffees and Ulyana insisted we get them with a shot of honey liqueur. There were complimentary sweet crisps at the table to snack on. We talked for about a half hour after receiving our drinks. Ulyana asked what I thought of Aachen. I had not had much time to think about Aachen as a place, as much as a container for various vexations. I told her that it reminded me too much of Kreuzung. That despite its official policies being more “liberal” on paper it was still an unwelcoming and highly stratified place.

I told her I saw people’s gazes on me at times.

Ulyana agreed and whispered that the café owner had been a bit taken aback by her accent.

For the Captain, it must have been difficult to hide her accent to try to blend in.

Quite a pity too because I found her voice, accent and all, to be very charming. I told her as much and got a laugh out of her. It was fun getting to chat. We couldn’t be very honest with each other in such a setting, for someone might hear. But nevertheless, I am growing accustomed to the presence of the captain and growing accostumed to being by her side. I assume that as I have been writing the past several months my assessments must have become more glowing. I will always criticize her when she deserves it.

But more and more, I do so out of a deep respect for her.

As I wrote before– I am feeling contemplative.

Chronicles are meant to be an honest recollection of the feelings of the chronicler.

They are meant to recount feelings which the chronicler would regret losing forever.

It is the final chance of the sailing dead to ever be properly understood by the still-living.

While it is important to recollect the day-to-day, the chronicler has the privilige of having her feelings the most apparent. She can only guess what others are feeling, and she must do so in order to paint a picture of the crew. I have done my best to describe personages like Murati Nakara and Sonya Shalikova, so that it is possible for posterity to recall not just their deeds but perhaps an inkling of who they were as persons. However, one person that can actually be described to her fullness in this chronicle, is Aaliyah Bashara, the writer.

With that said, it would be remiss of me to obscure my feelings too much.

I must admit that Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya has been on my mind more and more.

Perhaps because, more and more, we rely on each other, and have worked very long nights.

The United Front has led to us staying up late together and working closer than ever before.

More than when we set off, certainly; more than in Serrano or in Goryk’s Gorge.

So I have seen many more faces of her– she has been challenged in ways nobody has been.

Ulyana Korabiskaya is one of the few Captains I have served with. She is the only Captain I have ever accompanied into serious, life-threatening combat. She and I did not get on initially. I did not respect her. I was on the lookout for her to cause problems and perhaps even abuse her power over others. However, she has proven herself to me time and again, as not only a capable and professional officer, but one that is outstandingly conscientious. She tries not just to do what is efficient or pragmatic, but what is right, even at great cost. She regrets being forced to take any action which is punitive or brutal, but she wields her powers as she must, and does not shy away from those difficult decisions. My caution around her has gradually melted away. Now I strive to give her perspective, constructive criticism, a second half to herself to help her make decisions, and yes, at times, a bit of necessary scolding. We have a very amicable relationship. She has won my support. And much more–

I find myself trusting her above anyone that I have ever trusted.

I would kill for Ulyana Korabiskaya; of this I am certain. I would protect her to my last.

Being honest– I am not sure how I could end this mission and leave this woman behind.

It is a frightening thing to admit when one’s feelings seem to verge on the unprofessional.


After another turning of the day and night, the Mahdist village buzzed with activity.

On the stage, the Tazia monument was completed and covered with a tarp.

Around the village, banners were hung up with blue, green and gold patterns.

Children were taken aside and instructed on the etiquette of the occasion.

Behind closed doors, Sareh and Baran continued to teach Kalika her moves.

Homa, meanwhile, watched the village gradually come alive around her.

Helping where she could, putting decorations up, helping to fill and move water barrels.

Despite the events of the past few days, the villagers continued to prepare, undaunted.

Feeling their energy, Homa could not help but be swept up out of her gloominess.

Tomorrow,

on the fourth day of the United Front’s deliberations,

while great forces moved in the shadows, and

as Aachen drew nearer to Destiny,

the mahdist Shimii of the little village would forget their pains and celebrate Tishtar.

A festival of water, of the great heroes, of mourning, and of the Mahdist’s will.

Homa’s heart began to beat steadily faster as she looked forward to Kalika’s dance.

And hopefully to a hard-earned plate of cooked meat.


Previous ~ Next

The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.4]

After Descent, Year 958

In the middle of the Luxembourg School for Girls campus there was a grand square that represented one of the main social areas for the students. Gentle hills served as excellent picnic spots for the girls, and marble-tiled squares with fountains and gazebos offered a variety of backdrops for the cheerful blossoming of the Empire’s up and coming prizes, wives and mothers. At the center of the plaza there was an enormous tree, one of the largest trees in the entire Imbrium. Its wide green crown provided the best shade from the sun lamps.

One fateful day, as war loomed, and internal security worsened–

There was a crowd gathered around the tree–

Watching a dozen girls chain themselves to it, holding hands, standing their ground.

“No more wars! No more slavery! No more trading in blood!”

Hands linked together, old brown-tinged chains around their midsections, dirtying the white and yellow uniforms. Imbrian girls of surpassing tidiness, model students, blond-haired, blue-eyed, it was such an incongruous sight, and such incongruous words came out of their lips, that it felt like the whole school gathered to watch them out of sheer confusion and curiosity. Though they were not particularly famous girls, everyone at Luxembourg was the child of someone with at least some money and influence. If not born to someone like that, then sponsored by someone worthy of the school’s pedigree for a scholarship.

Until that day, those girls had fit into these molds perfectly.

Then they became new creatures entirely.

Around that tree, the girls had organized a protest– they were protesting at the school.

Such things had been easy to ignore in the changing times of the Fueller Reformation. For a time, the new, young Emperor tolerated a new, young culture of free discourse and critique. It was out of this leniency that Mordecai wrote his much-hated words about wealth and power, that the final rhetorical nails drove into the inviolability of increasingly sidelined aristocrats, and that the spectre of Imbrian fascism began to take its purest form.

In those times, even young girls were allowed the occasional foray into counterculture.

In A.D. 958 protest was no longer viewed as a plaything of fiery, modern girls, however.

With the colonies in revolt, Alayze preparing to invade, and conspiracies abounding–

School security ushered away and curfewed all the girls who gathered to watch the protest.

Formed a cordon around the tree and the hill that contained it and raised sound-dampeners.

And dispensed with the rod, opting instead for the full-powered vibrotruncheon.

Hiding on the sidelines of the protest, eyes filled with tears, watching the girls being violently and bodily removed from around the tree with her own eyes– was Gloria Innocence Luxembourg, a waifish, dark-haired, bespectacled young girl for whom everything under and around that tree was meant. Her own little white uniform dirtied with a bit of mud she turned up as she scampered through the park out of sight, wanting with all her heart to see– what she had failed to participate in. To see the consequences of her cowardice.

Yesterday’s bold promises of support for the members of her secret political reading group,

Whom, on that day, she watched the destruction of from afar,

understanding all too keenly it would have been different had she joined the protest–

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, as if in time with the beatings.


After Descent, Year 979

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg raised her hand to look into the screen of her high-end computerized watch. Its beveled white and pink chassis was fully customized to her own needs, with a cute, rabbit-like design and little hearts and wings on the wristband. She flicked her finger across the screen, scrolling past several pre-installed, discrete programs and bringing up her favorite and most useful feature of the watch–

“Just got out of bed and made myself up for the day. Feeling wistful. Uncertain.”

Her watch had already logged her mood for 426 prior days at various times of the day.

On the watch display, an analysis appeared–

“Have you had breakfast yet? Hunger brings vulnerability.” It said.

Beaming brightly, Gloria felt a weight off her shoulders. “Of course! Breakfast!”

Of course, breakfast– she was just hungry. No need to trouble herself further.

Once she had breakfast she could simply go about her day without troublesome thoughts.

And it was a big day indeed. She would need all of her faculties in order.

Supposedly, she was on vacation to Aachen, renting out modest lodgings for a quiet retreat.

Aachen was not known as a vacation destination, but nobody could question the boss.

Though Gloria hardly ever boasted about her wealth openly, as it would have been quite a faux pas to her leftist contemporaries, she was a member of an ultra-elite club of recently minted millionaires, and one of the most valuable people in Rhinea, if not the Imbrium.

Raylight Beauty seized a massive untapped market by treating women in all strata of society as customers who to whom they could advertise a wide range of products. Such that anyone could and would want to purchase cosmetics, handbags, underwear, personal care products and even certain supplements, from them, with their logo. Raylight Beauty could hardly be called a megacorporation. Its wealth and influence was a shadow of monopolies like Volwitz and Rhineametalle who wielded political connections in addition to their finances.

However, they had successfully swept away nearly all of their old-fashioned competitors in the women’s goods industry by spending big on modern, chic, female-centric and empowering marketing. They expanded aggressively, capitalizing on initial success in cosmetics to become a juggernaut of women’s and girls’ culture in the Mare Imbrium.

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg became valued in the hundreds of millions of Reichsmarks.

A certain small ship from a certain unnamed country had about three million marks to spend, a tidy sum which allowed them to make up the servicing of a large, complex ship at several stations, pay out hush money, and create walking-around funds for its employees to go on little dates. This amount likely represented a significant percentage of their country’s Imperial Marks holdings, which they held in credichips for various uses. That little ship would soon run out of funds in their adventures; meanwhile Gloria was unlikely to ever run out of money. Her wealth could only grow– so long as her current exploits remained on the low.

Despite all of this, she held herself to a humble standard.

She hired the stingiest and most old-fashioned aristocratic accountant she could find, rather than hiring some noveau riche money management company that might then encourage her to live a millionaire rockstar life of excessive spending. Her spending was modest, with infrequent travel, only a handful of private properties or station investments, relatively few and affordable vices, and few parties outside of luxurious corporate events for her employees. Much of her spending was in lavish donations to worthy causes and agreeable politicians, personal gifts to struggling girls whose stories moved her, and her biggest side-project of the past few years– the Reichsbanner Schwarzrot paramilitary.

Her lodgings in Aachen were located off to the side of the third tier’s high-end commercial facilities, which themselves lay a tier below the government palace. Unlike the offices and small apartments in the external layers of the first and second tiers, the third tier’s spaces for rent were a bit more luxurious, with many triple-wide and quadruple-wide suites.

For her stay in Aachen, Gloria had rented a triple-wide that was about five minutes walk to the commercial district. It was a winged design, with a central room that served as a lobby and entertainment area with couches, tea tables, synthetic carpeting, and a big, dedicated screen; off to the right were a bedroom with a king-size bed and ample storage for clothes and effects, and a bathroom with a large combination shower and bath; off the left there was a large kitchen and dining area as well as a mini laundry room adjoining.

In terms of aesthetics, it was acceptably modern.

Because of the LCD screen-walls and the square LED strips overhead, it was possible to change the room by altering the dominant colors projected, and the couches and other furniture was designed to gently reflect and distort the light to achieve different moods. That morning, Gloria had everything as it was formerly set, a moody, icy blue– as she left the bedroom she quickly shifted the color to a soothing, muted green. The mechanism was well-designed. It varied the shades and strokes of the green to avoid looking too uniform and constructed, preventing the entire room from looking like a continuous colored sheet.

Dressed in a thin white nightgown, her unbrushed pink hair spilling messy down her back and over her shoulders, and looking, in her own estimation, a bit plain without her makeup, Gloria ambled over to the kitchen. Thankfully with her second skin applied, she looked roughly how she wanted to no matter how much or how little effort she put into herself: she appeared to be in her early 20s rather than her mid-30s. Raylight’s cosmetics could do wonders, but there was nothing as effective as a full-body treatment– which Raylight also offered.

She opened touched one of the far walls of the kitchen and a refrigerator door slid open, releasing a cool mist. She shivered a bit. When she rented the place she had requested the kitchen be stocked as she did not wish to shop for food herself. So she found several items inside the fridge already. There were not enough prepared meals for her liking, and she would have liked more greens among her meals. Nevertheless, she procured a milk bag, punctured it with a straw and began to drink from it without reservation, while pushing items around, thumbing through the full inventory to decide what to eat.

Finding a package of cucumber cream salad and another package of chicken breast with cured egg yolk sauce, Gloria had her meal plan for the first half of the day. She took out both packages, unwrapped the chicken from the plastic, and touched the wall beside the refrigerator. A panel slid open to reveal an auto-cooker, entirely set into the wall and controlled digitally. She let it judge how best to cook the packaged chicken meal and it chose to bake, quickly coming up to temperature. It would cook in ten minutes.

Watching the chicken in the auto-cooker, Gloria drank the last of her milk bag and peeled the plastic off the creamy cucumber salad, stirring it around with a fork to redistribute some of the dill and parsley and to spread the mayonnaise and sour cream more evenly. She knew how to cook. Every student at the Luxembourg School for Girls was taught basic living and household skills for their eventual futures. However, like many graduates of the school, she also preferred to have help with this task, and she could afford it.

She nibbled on the cucumber. In the middle of the kitchen, in her night gown, she had not even washed her face, crunching on watery cucumber with creamy dressing. Her mind wandering. It was easy to entertain the cliché– that she was far from home. Far from where she should be. And yet even in this alien city, alone, she could bring with her almost any luxury. Even the luxury of simply doing nothing, but standing in her kitchen, food already cared for, and other affairs soon to be. Gloria was blessed in that way.

Some small part of that felt shameful, but when she thought about all she read in her life–

In her mind, in the socialist world, there would be people who loved to cook and would therefore cook for others. Alongside people like her who disliked this activity and could spend their time more productively if someone else cooked. Everyone would benefit in the end. There were people who were forced to do what they were not meant to, who lacked the opportunity to be what they truly wanted. Such a thing could be abolished, so that the thinkers could think and the cooks could cook. It was such a thing that she was struggling and working for ever since she started her little book club at school. She was not just an idle rich woman. She was well read, and she thought she knew the painful truth of the world.

Yes– she wasn’t just some idle rich woman.

At that moment, there was a buzzing on her wrist.

“I know, I’m letting my mood spiral again–”

When she looked down, it was actually a voice call.

She took it on her watch.

It was one of her security personnel– Orlan Aries. She had been expecting him.

“Ma’am, I am coming up now. The Pandora’s Box is done with their security stuff.” He said.

Gloria, unsmiling on the call, played up her typical affect with her speech.

“Orley! I am sooo happy to hear from you! Did your new friends treat you right?”

“I’d love to complain, but I would not be here without them.”

“That is worth more than a pfenig! So– what’s your voice-call appropriate take on them?”

Orlan sighed a bit on the call.

“I don’t know, ma’am. Let me see. I wish their ship had a smoking area. I don’t really understand why they are all vegetarians. Some of them drink too much and they always drink hard liquor when they do, which is insane to me because they are otherwise really buttoned up about other things. Almost every time when a Shimii is doing something and it’s prayer time they will just stop on the spot and pray even if it is inconvenient. All of them give me more of the vibe of Katarran mercenaries than, you know, people of their persuasions. However, they have an uncanny ability to accomplish the impossible.”

Despite his reticence, he gave a fantastic assessment and performed his role well.

Gloria finally smiled. The ability to accomplish the impossible, huh?

Of course– after all, they had already done something impossible to many people.

They were communists, in this awful world that contradicted them at every turn.

“Did any of them suspect you of anything?” She asked.

Orlan paused for a moment, grumbling a bit.

“I’m sure they must have realized anything I heard and saw would ultimately reach you, but they don’t care. They are not really given into paranoia and it is not like I had access to any classified records. Mostly I stuck to myself and out of their way, just observing. I was fiending for a cigarette the whole time, so I was a bit low energy. I did make friends with one of them– Murati Nakara. A really fascinating lady– she has lots of presence.”

Gloria would have to demand specifics later. “Very well. I can meet you in the early afternoon– the Tier 3 office, Location Karl. All of us will be there to chat, and then we we will move on. I trust you will not be late, Orley, or I will be quite pouty when I see you again. You can meet your own friends and take care of your own business later.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to get pouty ma’am. I’ll see you there.”

Gloria squeezed her wrist to end the call.

Her chicken was ready.

She took the half-eaten cucumber salad and the cured egg yolk chicken to the dining table and sat down to eat. Without Orlan’s voice there was a void of sound in the apartment that felt suddenly eerie. Gloria quickly summoned a bit of light jazz to help buoy her mood and thoughts as she ate. Thinking about what she would do next, what she would say.

She had to decide what she would do about her erstwhile allies.

More than the Eisern Front, it was Erika’s Nationale Volksarmee that worried her, a bit.

Gloria wanted full control of the United Front and everything that happened after.

In her mind, it should be hers because she had real infrastructure and money.

She had ships, she had soldiers, she had hideouts, she had accounts and paid informants, hush money, corporate spies, connections with Rhein-Sieg-Kries union leaders, Stockheim yards and Agri-Sphere activists. While Erika was doing petty banditry, she had been building something in Rhinea, something secret, but big, powerful, usable– Erika was a speck of dust to the Volkisch. But if the Volkisch knew how much power Gloria had, their hearts would have chilled to a stop. All she needed was a bit more to take the fight to them.

But Erika was the fighter, the real fighter. She had killed for the cause. More than once.

In her mind, Erika’s true place, her best place, was as a military leader for the Front.

Gloria wanted Erika to marshal the socialist forces, while she led them politically.

To do this, she had to gently convince Erika of where she was most useful.

And thus gently disabuse her of the little title of Premier she granted herself.

Both the communists and anarchists would be presenting opposing views on organization.

It would not be easy, but she might be able to convince everyone of a third way out of their current predicament– communist officers, leading experienced troops with on-the-ground support from the anarchist rabble, and the social democrats in a council crafting the policy that would win the heart of Eisental. An integrated command playing to their strengths. Each in their place, with their own specialty. In her mind it was the only way the United Front could ever work. In so doing, she might be able to convince Erika to accept the military position, to avoid any further infighting, and thereby temper her ambition.

Gloria would bring the matter up to her mentor, Kansal, who had experience in such things.

She would not carry herself exactly as Kansal wanted– but her experience was valuable.

Everything started to feel a bit more possible as she puzzled it out by herself on the table.

At that moment, her wrist began to buzz again.

There were not many people who could have bothered her then.

She suspected Orlan or Kremina and felt a bit irritated, lifting her watch–

To find the call was instead from Mia Weingarten.

Gloria picked up immediately after.

Grinning ear to ear.

“The pop princess herself! Mia I’m ecstatic you called!” Gloria assumed her perky persona.

“H-Hello, Ms. Luxembourg.” Mia said, her voice a bit hesitant and muted in response.

“No, no! Not Ms. Luxembourg– you can call me Gloria, darling, you know you can!”

“Thank you Ms.– Gloria. I– I’ve been– considering something– if it’s not too much–”

“My dear, don’t be so nervous– my door is always open to you. Always! I can tell you’re frazzled and in need. I’m here for you. How many times have we collabed? Your songs and your image have done so much for me and Raylight. We’re practically a little family by now.”

“Right. Gloria, this time– it could stir up a lot of trouble.” Mia’s voice went near whisper.

“Dear, nothing in the world is trouble to me. Why don’t you come over? We can talk.”

Gloria lifted her long, pale legs onto the table, leaning back on her chair, smiling like a fox.

Mia Weingarten hesitated on the call. Gloria could hear her delicious little voice tremble.

“Yes– I will, ma’am.” She finally said. “I mean– I’ll come by tonight. So we can– talk.”

“Fantastic! Marvelous! My schedule tonight is officially empty. I can’t wait to see you again. Don’t worry your pretty face over anything doll, Gloria Luxembourg will fix it all for you.”

“Yes. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see you.” Mia Weingarten sheepishly hung up.

Gloria brimmed with anticipation.

Money was the devil; but a good deal was a good deal, and there was no better investment in the world than a pretty girl and whatever made her happy.


Euphrates’ path was an endless desert, each grain of sand the detritus of her experiences.

In her mind, in her dreams, she walked through the desert. It was vast, cold, and dark.

From shutting her eyes to reopening them, the desert was there to welcome her.

Memories, people, events, formed mounds in the sand that she crossed.

Dim recollections serving only as obstacles to her finding peace.

Ever blowing in a distant wind that never stopped, a current rushing perpetually.

Euphrates was a person, a woman, a lesbian, a former subject of the Federation of Northern States and then the hegemonic Aer Federation, and a Jew– but she was so ancient that these words had lost all meaning in themselves. Many of them were buried in time, and nobody whom she told could understand them. But even the ones that remained were eroded in her person. Sometimes she felt that nobody actually saw her as a human, but as a being. She walked, talked, had physical touch, but she could not be truly seen. Nobody existed who could see all of her– though one person tried her very best.

Euphrates hardly understood herself anymore. Were her recollections accurate?

People and locations, ancient scents and sounds, dust kicked off the dunes into her face.

Out of reach, only the barest scraps remaining. So close but still impossible to grasp.

Was this dementia? But her recall of fact and theory did not suffer for this.

Though it frightened her, some part of it also gave her comfort.

Maybe she could die. Maybe one day she would just become unable to think.

But– she had too much to keep living for. So she kept walking her desert, day after day.

It was not just her inner world that was so full and yet so empty either.

In the past, she had viewed the Aether as a predominantly empty place too.

Colorful, and filled with the vague presence of humanity, but without the substance of humanity. There was no sight, and they made no sound, there was nothing to touch. Endless drifting color suggestive of life but without the fullness of it. Perhaps everything was as illusory and devoid of complete truth as that empty world of colors.

Soometimes she even suspected humanity itself to be an empty shell of what it was.

However, something had shifted since Goryk’s Gorge– when she reconnected with people.

Slowly, she began to hear human speech occupying the Aether.

At first, it was the speech of people that she had come to know and perhaps cherish.

Tigris’ words, yes.

But also those of Murati Nakara, Ulyana Korabiskaya, Aaliyah Bashara.

People whose presence made time move for her again.

Perhaps it was because time was moving for her– she soon began to hear new voices.

Voices speaking all at once, from lips she could not see, people she did not know.

Uncaring but not kind– they all spoke at once and never cared for the impropriety.

But what they spoke of, in their voice, one and many, had themes of unity, connection.

Her desert, too, began to feature strange new voices and their singing.

And soon, it even featured more of the past, as if her memory was fertilized by the present.

Her memories, her inner self, became like a forest of enormous trees with silver crowns.

Euphrates walked upon moistened earth, through carbon puddles brimming with life.

Enormous roots framed her path and the trees looked down upon her with the great arms and all-encompassing crowns as if merged with the sky itself. “Looked down upon” but only due to their positions– there was no sense of contempt from the trees. They were filled with love and acceptance; she felt peaceful near them. They wanted her to know–

That they had always loved humanity, despite everything that happened.

That they still believed that humanity deserved to live, deserved to thrive and be free.

Hearing their song, she wanted to curl up at their roots.

It was not to be. Like so much dust, the vision, and its meanings, blew easily away.

Her eyes opened– she saw the olive-brown skin on Tigris’ bare shoulder and back.

Long red hair falling between them. Sound asleep, her breasts barely covered by the sheet.

She was in their shared bed, in their room on the UNX-001 Brigand, docked in Aachen.

Everything was dim, quiet. There was only a thin strip of light from under the door.

Because both of them were fairly thin and fairly short, they fit into one bed comfortably when they wanted. Euphrates’ eyes traced the lines of her companion’s figure in the shadows. They fit perfectly together. Tigris was taller, with her long, red hair and lithe limbs, more driven to physical activity. Euphrates was just a bit more compact and hermitic, a bit softer. Her own shorter blue hair, slightly wavy and swept evenly to the sides of her forehead. Both their faces were rather young-looking and much younger than they truly were. Tigris was perfectly frozen in her early twenties and Euphrates never changed much past twenty or so. Tigris was hundreds of years old now–

Euphrates was over a thousand years old, though the specifics escaped her.

The oldest year she remembered was D.C.E. 2035, when the Ayvartan Union defeated the Federation of Northern States in the War of the Great Continents.

During The Common Era– D.C.E. A long-gone calendar.

After D.C.E. came the Aer Federation reckoning of the years, A.I.

Aera Invicta, the indomitable epoch of a humanity fated to triumph over the stars.

Euphrates did not recall exactly when D.C.E. transitioned to A.I., however.

And now, the reckoning was A.D. — After Descent.

Now– the present was ever more taking prominence over the distant past.

There were no more stars for humanity. Only the merciful firmament of the ocean.

Nevertheless, they lived on.

Scarcely a day had passed since the Brigand had arrived at Aachen.

A sudden mood had taken Euphrates and her partner.

Euphrates had her arms around Tigris. One hooked under her chest, another over the hip.

Her fingers had been reaching between Tigris’ legs. They felt tempted to do so again, even.

The two of them worked up the mood and had sex– not too boisterously, but they did.

Enough to satisfy an urge for physical fulfillment that became rarer as the years passed.

Though perhaps they did not have that appearance to others, the two of them were a couple. Tigris was frequently critical of her, but Euphrates loved her like no one else in the world. Sometimes, Tigris was the sole proof Euphrates still had a body and emotions.

Long, long weeks and months and even years studying and theorizing and building and exploring in the darkest holes on Aer, inconclusive journeys in a frozen world that suffered nothing new to arise. Even in their stays in the labs they were cloistered. They were each other’s only source of stimulus, and yet, it was a rare occasion for them to share a bed, to touch, to hold each other, and even to muster the desire for sexual activity.

Perhaps, because their time was moving again, their bodies recalled their desires.

Euphrates pulled closer to Tigris again, who shifted slightly but remained asleep.

She kissed her gently on her nape. She felt her body heat, so close, so comforting.

Sometimes it didn’t feel real.

When Euphrates was a child, the world was locked in a hellish war.

Federation of Northern States troops, retreating from the invasion of their hated Ayvartan enemy, found her in a puddle of poisoned water in the aftermath of a scorched-earth chemical bombardment by heavy aircraft hoping deny the Ayvartans a minor village full of displaced people– including a few desperate jews in hiding. Perplexed at her ability to survive such a condition, they took her, and so began her confinement of innumerable years. Studied, used, a nameless subject from which information was extracted. Off her literal back, off her literal flesh, revolutionary biological research flourished around the world.

Her greatest fear was that she was still actually back in the laboratory, lost in delusions.

Sometimes she lacked any evidence to the contrary.

It was something she could tell nobody. Nobody would ever understand it.

Recently, she had found some evidence, however, that did much to put her mind at ease.

Norn’s mutilation that inflicted a terrifying agony upon her, like no pain she had ever felt.

Murati’s connection to her, which shared with her such warmth and determination.

Tigris’ heat and the cute little noises she made when they had sex that night.

Such things were not experiences she had as a little girl locked away forever in the dark.

She could only have these experiences because she was free, and her time was moving.

Her stultifying years in a glass cell could have never realized this vivid world.

“Mm. You’re doing stuff back there. Go back to sleep.”

Tigris mumbled, and slowly nestled her back closer to Euphrates’ chest.

Euphrates held her tight again. Whispered in her ear. “I love you.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Tigris muttered. “I love you too. Go to sleep already.”

Nestled together as they were, Euphrates found that sleep soon came into reach.

Next morning, the two of them slowly peeled away from each other and got dressed.

They had somewhere to be that day, and so they were both dressed similarly for once.

Euphrates was often the one wearing a vest, blazer, button-down and tie. Her basic state of being was formal, so she dressed formally, sometimes jokingly called a young master by the sailors; Tigris meanwhile was more used to work attire and made a face the entire time as Euphrates helped her button her old brown checkerboard sportcoat and properly set her tie. While Euphrates wore pants, Tigris opted for a knee-length skirt and bright red tights.

“We’re Ganges’ peers, do we really have to dress up like this?” Tigris asked.

“She’s in charge of an organization, so we should show her some respect.” Euphrates said.

“And what if she’s been a bastard this whole time? Will you still respect her in the end?”

“Let me be the one to show disrespect when the time comes. Can you promise me that?”

“Ugh. Fine. Whatever. You do the talking– but then why are you dragging me along?”

Euphrates smiled. “Because you are my inseparable partner-in-crime, obviously.”

Tigris averted her gaze and sighed and allowed her tie to be adjusted.

Euphrates felt a disquiet about her meeting with Daksha Kansal–

But it briefly dissipated when she stepped out of her room.

Instantly they were greeted by the main hall of the Brigand. Even when the ship was docked, there were still dozens of souls in the hall at any given time, smiling and waving to and from their business. Always courteous, driven by the animus afforded by their work and their overarching objective. Sailors undid panels to get at wires and junction boxes; logistics and managerial troops took up meeting rooms and discussed planning, supplies and efficiencies; Aiden Ahwalia cleaned the halls with a sour look on his face, recently demoted.

Euphrates sometimes stood for a moment and simply watched the people of the Brigand move about the hall, independently of her, each their own life so little and so vast.

She had been away from people just living their lives, for far too long.

“Hey, snap out of it, we’re going to be late. I’ve got stuff to do around here you know?”

Tigris put her hands on her lips and grumbled. Euphrates snapped out of her reverie.

“I’m sure Galina and Valya can survive a day without you.” She said.

“It’s not about that. Doesn’t seeing how hard these people work make you feel something?”

Euphrates smiled. “It does.” She said– and got started walking down the hall.

Tigris stared at her for a moment before following closely behind.

Everyone on the Brigand revitalized her outlook on life.

Or perhaps, they reminded her of an outlook she had, long ago when she treasured time.

On the Brigand, everyone believed in something unimaginable to most of the world.

That they could fight to liberate people from violence and deprivation.

Not just that they could throw away their lives against enormous, massive foes–

–but that they could possibly win.

Murati Nakara in particularly believed this with such fervor it made Euphrates feel shame.

How could anyone stand to be around that woman, who believed any less than her?

Slowly, her determination became too infectious. Who was the pupil, and who the teacher?

Now Euphrates could not help but to believe anew in possibility. In a hope for change.

So she had to do her own part to contribute. She could no longer simply observe.

There were people she had to take responsibility for– one ahead, specifically.

Down in the hangar, Euphrates and Tigris went through the boarding chute, checking out with Van Der Smidse and Zhu Lian, who were keeping track of everyone who was out and their destinations. They stepped through the boarding chute, and out the other end, entered the Stockheim port infrastructure. Behind them there were enormous projections on the walls, false windows revealing the dozens of ships docked in the berths around them.

Ships of various shapes and sizes, classes and purposes, all occupying this one interstitial piece of mechanical connective tissue. Their neighbors even included the Antenora, flagship of a certain Norn von Fueller. Euphrates looked at the vessel and resisted the idea that she could talk to Norn about what happened and convince her of anything.

Euphrates had hurt her– even more than hurt her, Euphrates exposed her to completely life-altering circumstances. She had saved her, perhaps, but she had also exposed her to ruin. Though there was inside her a voice that felt it was cowardly to turn her back on Norn, at the moment, Norn was stable enough not to pointlessly attack the Brigand. That was enough. Euphrates felt that the best thing she could do for her was to stay way from her.

And to avoid making the same mistake and having the same regrets now.

For example– with Murati Nakara.

“So where are we meeting Ganges?” Tigris asked.

Euphrates stopped in front of a nearby map board and pointed at their destination.

“A fundraising office for a Rhinean NGO, Kamma. She has some kind of ties to it.”

“Huh. I wonder if she completely gave up on the College of Neurosurgeons?”

“I think that Ganges had already given up on our projects for a very, very long time.”

Given what Euphrates knew about Ganges’ trajectory after leaving them; and that Kremina, who always lavished her with attention, was the only remnant of the Sunlight Foundation who remained at Ganges’ side; it was safe to assume she had divested herself of her old projects within the Foundation’s umbrella. Not that it mattered much– at this point, Solarflare LLC was not going to play any part in the Sunlight Foundation’s future, whatever that might be. If the only hard assets the Foundation retained were those that belonged to Yangtze and Potomac, then the organization was essentially a shell of itself. She had heard nothing from Nile or Hudson for many months now, so that, too, felt like a safe assumption. All that remained in the hands of Yangtze was the Indigo Research Institute.

That which Euphrates had built, and then carelessly handed to Yangtze, had turned to dust.

Part of her felt relief, though she did not know what Hudson and Nile were doing.

Nile, at least, was always disinterested in power, though she could also be overzealous when something other than power managed to capture her interest. Euphrates did not want to absolve her of suspicions without any evidence, much like she did not wish to suspect too much about Yangtze. But it was a rather safe bet that Nile was not carrying out some megalomaniacal ambition. Hudson, on the other hand, had always been a much less kind and caring individual, and could be downright callous in her pursuit of her own obsessions. It was easier to say Nile was harmless than to say the same for Hudson.

Regardless, if the Sunlight Foundation was utterly broken up, so be it.

At least its individual members had much less power to damage the world when separated.

“Euphrates, what will you even say to Ganges?” Tigris asked, as they made their way.

“I want to hear it from her what she has done and what she intends to do.” Euphrates said.

“We know enough, don’t we? She’s gallivanting around starting leftist movements.”

“I’m worried because of Kremina’s behavior– but also, the fact that she founded the Union and then left it, and has now founded a new group, it is concerning to me. Especially because I know what her immortality entails. I need to hear it from her– to see her intentions for myself. I need to judge her for myself. Only then can I be sure of what I will do.”

Tigris sighed. “Will you flip out if you detect some incongruity then?”

“I do not flip out. I will take responsibility for her, simple as that.” Euphrates said.

“Responsibility, huh?” Tigris said, letting out an even more exasperated sigh.

From Stockheim, the pair traveled up to the commercial district, past the second tier with its workplace buildings and the Volkisch Gau office, and up to the third tier. The center of the third tier resembled the first tier, with a grand atrium surrounded by circling paths that traversed several storefronts. Everything was higher end however; the restaurants had formal dress codes; the bars were not playing any sports or catering to the lunch crowd; even the corporate shops were populated only by the most expensive and exclusive subsidiaries of the megacorporations, such as Raylight’s Lucent Frau accessory shops and Rhineametalle’s Rare Earth electronics boutiques. Their destination was not any of the shops, however. Much like in the first tier, the surrounding areas beyond the walls of the shops were individual office and apartment units that were leased and rented privately.

Rather than climb the steps, Euphrates and Tigris took a long hallway to the leftmost wing of the station’s third tier. Here, space contracted, the ceiling was no longer almost a hundred meters above, and there were no grand and open landings and lobbies. Though the halls were well lit and projecting a bright paint job that made them look more inviting, they were still just steel halls and anything of note within them was behind a door. There were many doors, some labeled, some not. Euphrates wondered whether anyone minded that their lux triple-wide shared the same hall as a publicity agency for classic musicians, or other assorted private venues. She supposed not, if the walls were soundproof.

Every door was its own fortress. After a dozen turns, Euphrates found hers.

On the door, there was a logo, a half-white, half-black diamond made of knotted lines.

“I wonder where they got this from?” Tigris said.

“It’s a very ancient religious symbol, representing karma.” Euphrates said.

“How ancient are we talking?”

“Like everything down here, it’s so far removed now that its origin is meaningless.”

“Damn it, if you’re going to mention it’s so ancient, you should be ready with a number!”

Past the door, the same symbol was on every wall, as well as on boxes of pins and shirts and flags, likely for distribution to potential donors. This was a fundraising office for Kamma, an NGO that mainly distributed food and necessities to the needy– and also served as a front for some of the officers and advisors of the Reichbanner Schwarzrot.

Aside from the boxes of promotional goods stacked around the lobby, there were a few perfunctory chairs and a front desk attended by a young woman.

“Hello. Euphemia Rontgen. I have an appointment with Ms. Bhose.”

Ganges’ cover identity had put a meeting on the books with Euphrates’ cover identity.

“Thank you kindly, Ms. Rontgen. She is waiting for you. Left-hand door in the back.”

“Thank you.”

Euphrates and Tigris passed the desk and took the door they were instructed to take.

Inside was a small landing leading into the meeting room proper.

The larger portion of the room sat behind a sealable bulletproof and soundproof glass door. There was a long table and a presentation space adjacent, with enough empty floor space for a podium or a small stage to be erected. However, there was only a whiteboard on the wall instead. On the landing, just past the door, there was a minibar with a minifridge, disposable cups and a coffee machine, and a few unopened champagne bottles.

At the far end, Ganges, Daksha Kansal, stood alone, writing on the whiteboard.

“Come in and close the door behind you.” She said.

Tigris looked to Euphrates, silently requesting instruction.

Euphrates simply nodded and squeezed her hand briefly.

Together, they crossed into the meeting room proper and closed the glass behind them.

They joined Ganges at the head of room, looking at her scribbles on the white board.

“It’s nothing. I’m just messing around.” Ganges said.

She turned around from the board to meet them.

There were names on the board, some of which Euphrates recognized.

“Trying to remember the names of the United Front delegates?” Euphrates asked.

“I’m not that good with names.” Ganges said.

Euphrates was not sure if Ganges had aged or if she herself just never paid attention to how Ganges looked originally or whether her constitution ever changed across the years. In her mind, Ganges looked how she always had. Long, brown hair falling down her back, straight and a little bit stiff, but nicely glossy; dressed in a coat and turtleneck with comfortable pants and dress shoes, looking like a different flavor of ‘professor’ than Euphrates’ own buttoned-up appearance. Her face had some slight wrinkling, particularly around the eyes, but she still looked infinitely younger than she was, still radiating an earthy, strong beauty, a modern sort of handsomeness for a woman. She looked like a revolutionary.

Unlike Euphrates, whose time had frozen as an unformidable young adult, and who despite her years remained so, Ganges always looked like Euphrates wanted her to, perhaps. Like a mature woman who had drives and ambitions and solutions, who had shoulders that could bear weight. Ganges had been the first injection of hot, living blood into the Sunlight Foundation. She was the third member– after Euphrates and Yangtze formally began to toy with fate. Tigris was almost a hundred years later. Potomac, Nile and Hudson were relatively recent. The full roster of Immortals that Euphrates had become comfortable with– they had assembled– when was it–? Some time in 600 or perhaps 700 A.D.?

Maybe even 856 when the Nocht Dynasty truly began its spectacular collapse?

Obviously, the full membership had to have been in place before the 930s.

The Fueller Reformation– Mehmed’s Jihad– Norn– Project Deicide–

For those events, Nile, Hudson and Potomac were obviously very well established.

Amur was a full Immortal also. And they were trialing Tarim and Dniepr.

Euphrates could not properly remember the exact date– it ceased to matter to her.

“Greetings. I wish I could say I was looking forward to this but I have a pit in my stomach. Euphrates, I do not wish to be discourteous, but I do not want to have a debate with you. When Kremina suggested I tap Solarflare for help, I did not know that your position had become so complicated. Especially your relations with some troublesome company from my old country. I know you did not have a hand in their treatment of Kremina, and that it was mostly her own fault what happened, but I am still quite displeased by the affair. Union folks owe the two of us more respect than that.” Ganges said, hands in her coat pockets.

She then turned and waved to Tigris with a small smile. “Tigris, pleasure to see you again.”

Tigris waved half-heartedly; clearly annoyed Ganges addressed her so casually.

“I don’t feel the same way.” Euphrates said, smiling. “I want to be glad to see you again.”

“You want to be, but you’re not. You are just like me in that regard and you know it. I also wish I could be happy seeing my old friends, but then again, in my heart of hearts, as any woman does, I also wish for a pony, and for faeries to be real. Alas, none of those things are true or available in the real world. Living in reality, I solely want to placate you so that I might carry on my business unmolested. So, let’s do it. Grill me and then go away.”

“Fine. Do you know what Yangtze has been up to?” Euphrates asked suddenly.

Ganges breathed out, sounding slightly disgruntled.

“No, and I do not care. Yangtze is dead to me. I do not care about the Sunlight Foundation, Euphrates, which is why I left it over thirty years ago. It is you who cannot let it go. I tolerated your continued attempts to insert yourself into my affairs after I left out of fondness for you– I thank you for what little assistance you rendered to the Nakaras, by the way, and for trying to keep their memory alive even despite your principled inaction.”

“You’re welcome.” Euphrates said calmly.

“I can’t even believe you sometimes.” Ganges said.

“You’re not the only one.” Tigris grumbled.

“My vexatious presence aside. What have you been up to, Ganges?” Euphrates said.

“Trying to make the world a better place after untold years of twiddling my thumbs. Trying to make up for everything I did. Trying to find solutions. You would not understand.”

“I can hardly imagine letting Kremina go wild with conspiracies is helping. You said Union folks owe you more respect than my associates have shown.” Euphrates said. “That elides a foul level of conceit that I knew you possessed toward such things as physical contests, in the past. But I had hoped your affairs as a leader would be free of such arrogance.”

“No, Euphrates, I’ll never change on the inside, I’m too old, just like you.” Ganges said. “And setting Kremina aside, where do you get off on accusing me of being arrogant, or criticizing my approaches, when you have been taken by the most colossal arrogance on Aer yourself? Professor ‘I want to return the world to the surface’ over here? Compared to your arrogance in that project, my arrogance in founding movements and nations is minuscule.”

“You got me there. Nevertheless, if I don’t criticize you, nobody will. So here I am.”

Euphrates put on a collected front, but she was growing quite worried.

Ganges was always a bit rough around the edges.

She always liked to boast and wanted to challenge herself, and made rash decisions.

But she was not as self-centered before as she seemed now.

Ganges sighed openly, crossed her arms, and addressed Euphrates more seriously.

“My handiwork is beyond your criticism, Euphrates. There is an entire boat of people you have been rubbing shoulders with who would not be alive now without my Union. You want to know the truth? The Union was supposed to be the home of the freest people on Aer and the vessel for my redemption of humanity, for the prevention of our near extinction; but after four years of rulership, much like you, Euphrates, I stepped away from what I created and handed it to the stewardship of my pupils. I thought that was just and that it was necessary. But on my last day in the Union, my outlook changed. Like you have Yangtze, I’m afraid I have Bhavani Jayasankar. So just as you must be thinking of a solution to the problems you have created, I, too, am trying to find solutions. To atone for everything I have done in life, I have to make sure that the Imbrium achieves lasting freedom.”

“May I ask you to elaborate about this problem and its solution?” Euphrates asked.

Ganges grunted, annoyed at the continued interrogation. “You can ask, and I suppose I will humor you. I used to think a single, Imbria-wide left-wing entity could solve the inequality and violence of the Imbrian Empire and thereby preserve humanity, creating a long-lasting shelter and building our resilience. But after seeing the sort of personalities that abounded in the Union, and the difficulties it would have developing right, I decided that the Imbrium needs multiple sovereign leftist states acting in coalition. Something to check the power of people like Bhavani Jayansankar while still pursuing a broadly leftist agenda.”

“Bhavani Jayasankar was your student, Ganges.” Euphrates said. “She is a communist just like you. Now you are traveling the Imbrium to find someone who can ‘check her’?”

“You do not understand, Euphrates. Bhavani can say she is a communist all she wants. I have seen the depths of her actual heart and I know she is a demented securocrat. I never taught her to be this way, but the seed of her wanton militancy grew regardless. She is exactly the problem that humanity is facing, the avatar of our extinction. Free food, housing, education; she gives these things to people because she sees them as her barracked soldiers, not out of her sense of justice. I did not teach her well, that is evident: and just like you, Euphrates, who have decided to interfere with the affairs of your ‘students’ if you are sufficiently dissatisfied with them– I will do everything I can to prevent her wasteful forever-war on the world from occurring. That is part of my atonement to the world. Are you any different from me?”

Euphrates bristled. They were not the same. Because the scale was quite different.

However much Ganges personally disliked Jayasankar, the Union was a sovereign nation.

Daksha Kansal had founded a state that people relied upon for their lives.

While Yangtze, and the Sunlight Foundation, were a clique of scientific gatekeepers.

Lives and the stability of the world were not at stake purely in their decisions.

It was this separation that Euphrates hoped to maintain by preventing their interference in politics. But she failed, nonetheless. Yangtze was doing God-only-knew-what with all of the resources Euphrates abdicated to her– and here was Ganges, founding and abandoning her own political movements. Declaring them failures, setting them against each other like game pieces. They had taken their manipulation of scientific study and applied it to politics.

Worse, Ganges had convinced herself that she was saving humanity.

Just as Euphrates once had–

“Ganges, have you interfered with the Union’s politics since you left them?”

“Not as much as you might think. Whatever happens– it will be mostly Bhavani’s fault.”

“You must feel betrayed, then, that Buren is happily joining the Union.”

Now it was Ganges’ turn to bristle at Euphrates’ words, and what she had come to learn.

“Whatever you want to accuse me of, you yourself should see– the fact that Buren is developing according to erroneous principles, is because I let them choose. They are still their own sovereign nation, as you so put it, and their nationalism is strong enough that Bhavani cannot subvert them. So I am perfectly fine with what happened in Buren.”

There was no rhetoric that could hide the unseemly fact– Euphrates was having her worst fears confirmed before her very eyes. She wished that Ganges’ activism was something that was wholly altruistic, that she was seeding leftist movements across the Imbrium like a folk tale character, planting trees of liberation without agenda. And perhaps, she was doing so– the Union folks certainly still believed this to be the case. Her rhetoric that she was preventing human extinction elided to some selflessness. However, Euphrates feared that Ganges’ personal vitriol and arrogance would color the ultimate outcome. Systems had the results that they were designed for. If the Union became an ultramilitant and destabilizing power, it was because Ganges’ designs led to such destabilizing outcomes.

Much like Euphrates had to accept her failure for the Sunlight Foundation’s design.

Could Ganges herself see that? Or was she too close to the matter?

Ganges kept comparing the two of them, but Ganges looked too much like Yangtze.

Pursuing an obsession while claiming to be exclusively rational every step of the way.

Others might have fallen for her rhetoric, like Kremina– Euphrates could not.

She clenched her fists. The more she thought about it the angrier she became.

“The people of the Union still trust you. Respect you. Admire you, even.”

Ganges grunted. She spoke with a distant tone.

“They are entirely separable from Bhavani Jayasankar. I truly cherish how they feel about me. I still have contact with another of my students, Parvati Nagavanshi, from time to time, to coordinate certain useful things. She has been a fantastic help to me. But I also think she is a wasteful, violent lunatic and an egotist. If Bhavani ever falls she will fall with her. Do not overvalue their respect. It does not change that they developed incorrectly and that the course must be corrected in order for the Imbrium to last any further than this crisis.”

Euphrates held the cold gaze of her counterpart.

“Do you not feel that you might owe something more than that to Murati Nakara, Ganges?”

Bringing up that name brought up so much emotion in Euphrates.

Across from her, Ganges had no reaction to it. It was stark how neutral her expression was.

“No Euphrates, I saw to Murati Nakara a long time ago. I am sure that Bhavani and Parvati have indulged her fantasies of being a little soldier and she is doing fine. Do you want me to personally apologize to every dead revolutionary? This is ridiculous.”

Not even Murati–? Not even the girl whose parents she radicalized?

Euphrates had had enough of it. She could not tolerate this conversation anymore.

It hurt– it hurt, and it made her mad. All of this was her own fault, and it was mortifying.

Perhaps this is how Ganges felt toward Bhavani Jayasankar too. Hurt and angry.

Despite the irrationality behind it, the emotion, Euphrates could not help herself.

It had been so long since her heart beat so hot and so aggravated, so full of vinegar.

“Ganges. Do you still think you could win in a fight against me?”

Tigris glanced sideways at Euphrates in clear confusion.

“Euphrates, what is this about? Of course I can– but that’s besides the point.” Ganges said.

Without elucidating, Euphrates raised her hands up in a fighting stance.

“You’re joking.” Ganges said, incredulous, mouth slightly agape.

No word from Euphrates. Her eyes fixed Ganges’ own. Her hands did not move down.

Ganges grunted. She shut her eyes and looked at the ground. Frustrated.

“Is this what you came all this way for? To insult, accuse and then challenge me?”

“To teach you a lesson? You made me realize I owed you this.” Euphrates finally said.

“You are starting to really, truly, piss me off Euphrates.” Ganges said.

Tigris looked between the two of them, nervous, but not intervening.

Keeping her promise– whatever happened, she was letting Euphrates have it out.

“You’re pissed, you say? Then try to take it out on me. You’ve threatened to do it before.”

“I was joking. I never meant it like that. God damn it, I have never wanted to hurt you!”

Euphrates held her steel-like gaze on Ganges. “You won’t, don’t worry.”

“You’re really irritating. You’re so irritating. No matter what– you always find a way–”

“I realize I’ve been very selfish, all of my life. It’s high time I gave you something back.”

Ganges shifted her narrowed gaze. “Tigris, get her to stop, before I knock her down.”

Tigris said nothing. She crossed her arms and stepped aside as if to give them both space.

Her face was full of mournfulness and fear– Euphrates felt regret only for that much.

So many people had gotten stuck in the middle of her failures, for so long. For too long.

“Prove to me everything will go as you plan. Put your pride on the line.” Euphrates said.

“This is– I’m– Fine.” Ganges sighed. “You know what? Fine. Alright. You wanted this.”

Ganges slowly brought her fists up.

One dyed blue, one dyed red, both easily imbued with her flickering aura, still her natural stance after so long. With her red fist, her striking power was augmented by her wrathful aura, while her blue fist could weaken any blows with its languid, peaceful aura.

Tigris looked quite frustrated with the two of them but said nothing.

Standing beside two women in dowdy, collegiate attire with their fists up.

Sizing each other up.

Ganges, of course, moved first. Perhaps knowing Euphrates was not the type.

Perhaps wanting to decide the contest with the first move, as always.

Just like when she left the Sunlight Foundation, one day, without warning, without word.

Euphrates watched the red fist hurtling her way.

In that instant her own power swelled in response to Ganges’ attack.

Her mind lit afire with a wave of memories, cold and warm, sweet and harsh. Her biological family in a war-torn world, hated and persecuted but trying to cherish every day until a chemical bomb took all their days from them; then the confines of institutes and research sites and medical facilities, unbearable pain, and the naïve elation when the first of the doctors to ever speak to the ‘test subject’ told her that her life would save so many people; and then, under the rotting purple sky, striking the earth with hateful thunderbolts that erased whatever they struck, freed at last and smelling the air outside, with so few possessions but the clothes on her back and her ticket out of one world and into the next. Witnessing humanity’s final sin as one of the few who would live.

Then– Yangtze, the age of ignorance, trying to save the little knowledge that they could.

Azazel’s Empire, and the dark stability of its time. Ganges, the conspiracy, renewed hope.

Tigris– the love of her life. Her first reminder after many years– that she was still human.

Euphrates felt her heart swell and tear, bleed and weep, with emotions like she never felt.

Hearing, in her ears, in that instant, whispers of dozens of human voices together in song.

Something enormous watched her. It whispered to her the inscrutable echoes of humanity.

One small, weak, pure white hand met the furious red fist and turned it aside in an instant.

And a wave of pure white sublimity threw back Ganges and slammed her to the ground.

Her aura that should have blunted such strikes shredded like paper, scattering about her.

Euphrates practically leaped forward, suddenly overcome by her own insatiable grief.

Falling on top of Ganges, laying hands on her, holding her to the ground and weeping.

“What did you even learn from me, Ganges? Tell me! All those years! What was it for?”

Ganges tried to take Euphrates’ wrist but could not budge her, could not escape her.

“You’re condemning me without even seeing the results!” Ganges cried. “You are basing everything on your useless ethicality! I’ve accomplished more than you ever have! You do not understand anything! I am atoning for hundreds of years of inaction! I am desperate!”

“Do you really think you have atoned for anything, referring to oppressed people who admired you, followed you, trusted you– like they were undercooked experiments in a beaker?” Euphrates’ voice raised, higher than she had ever spoken, it had been so long since she shouted, that it broke– nevertheless she continued to shout. “Atonement, your atonement– is it all about you then, Ganges? Are all our fates only in your hands? I was so blind– not just about Yangtze, but about you. This wasn’t just about Mehmed or Norn– I created a machine that desensitized all of you to the human world. That’s what the Sunlight Foundation ultimately became. I can’t believe it’s only just now I realize how insane we all were– the surface was as full of horrors as the civilization here is full of its own dignity and beauty! What were we hoping to achieve? What are you, Ganges, hoping to achieve here? Will you abandon Gloria Luxembourg like you abandoned Bhavani Jayasankar if you deem her to develop wrong? Will she also become nothing to you but a failed experiment?!”

Euphrates shouted, putting her hands on Ganges’ shoulders and squeezing the fabric of her sweater, lifting her, banging her against the floor once with an anger she had not felt in hundreds of years, maybe thousands of years. How long ago had she given up on herself, given up banging the glass of her enclosure even after she was released from it? How long ago had she consigned herself to watching through the glass and doing nothing?

How long ago had she cut herself off from everything?

“I cannot afford to fail!” Ganges screamed back. “If she is not cut out for it then yes! I will find a more suitable candidate! I must do this, Euphrates, because nobody else is willing! You and I cannot save this world but someone must! We have to create the conditions for that! We have to do this ruthlessly! Otherwise humanity is as good as dead on our account!”

Euphrates could hardly stand to listen to her.

“Whatever happened to your ideas about human connection? About the aether? About the psychic connections between our brains? About the current that was becoming stronger between all of us, connecting us? What happened to us, Ganges? Why did we cause so much harm when we knew, demonstrably– we discovered something so beautiful.”

“Reality happened to us!” Ganges shouted. “Material reality! Not just our little fantasies!”

Hearing her shout back so loudly, Euphrates paused in her hopeless assault.

Ganges, laying on the floor, shut her eyes and breathed in ragged. Defeated– hurt.

“Euphrates, please stop knocking me about. You’re hurting me. I’m not young anymore. You do not understand. You cannot. Because you will be fine no matter what happens. You will live to see all of our mistakes. I pity you– I really do. But I have to use my time wisely.”

Euphrates drew her eyes wide. Her heart sank suddenly. “You gave up your immortality?”

“Yes. Do you see then? Do you understand I’m sacrificing everything for this? Do you understand why the personal feelings of Gloria Luxembourg or Bhavani Jayasankar do not matter? I gave up my immortality because I needed to understand that time is running out. I needed to humble myself and I needed to pay a price for my inaction.”

That was not enough. It was not enough as much as Euphrates wished she could accept it.

One of her few precious people who could have shared the eras with her–

Someday her friend would die– but she would die a person Euphrates could no longer love.

No matter how desperate she was, it did not atone for anything.

“Ganges, it doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t redeem it, that you’ve made yourself suffer personally for it, that you’ve inconvenienced yourself. That doesn’t set right what you are trying to do to these people and the lengths you say you are willing to go. Ganges, I’ve been with those people you claim did not develop correctly. The people that you discarded. They are sacrificing everything too even if you do not care about their ends. It is not about sacrifice– it’s about what we did with that sacrifice. I don’t have faith in you. Whatever you were scheming to do with Gloria, and with them– I won’t allow it to pass easily.”

Euphrates lifted her hands from Ganges. Eyes filled with tears– pathetic, helpless tears.

“I don’t need your faith. I get the message. You’ll crush me like a bug if I interfere too much. There is nothing I can do about that. You have me in your grasp now, the only true immortal. Fine. I’ll tell you this: I will stay out of Gloria’s way– she will succeed or fail on her own merits, and so will the United Front. Perhaps Kremina and I were not so different. Damn it all.”

Ganges looked so tired and so weary of it all. Drained from all the shouting.

Euphrates was in so much pain, such consuming pain. She had loved them all so much.

None of these events had transpired how she wanted. None of it had been fair.

Loved them too much, became too blinded by her love, and now lashed out because of it.

This awful scene she had caused was worthless. It would do nothing. It was irrational.

All of this was her fault. She had been so ignorant. She had been so self-deluded.

Willfully, convincing herself every step of the way. Everything is fine, everything is correct.

What we are doing, nobody can do, and it is necessary. Everything is necessary.

Because it is us– because it is these people whom we love and trust– therefore it is right?!

Because I like to work with them– because I want them to succeed– it was all fine then?!

It was all crashing continuously over her shoulders, heavy water beating her to the floor.

Her fantasy of ‘saving the world’ was completely at an end. She was just another human.

And the people she loved sharing every moment of that cruel fantasy would be gone too.

Because they had become just like her– pursuing their own delusions.

“Euphrates, please get off me and leave. You got your way. It’s done. I am done.”

Ganges was practically mumbling, unable to meet Euphrates’ eyes.

Finally, Tigris stepped forward and gently took Euphrates’s arms, urging her to move.

Euphrates raised her sleeve to wipe her own tears.

Allowing Tigris to help her to a stand, she turned her back and kept walking.

Out of the meeting room door, Ganges disappearing behind her–

Through the front door–

Out into the third tier commercial district–

“Euphrates, where are we going now?” Tigris asked.

Euphrates did not answer.

In her mind, she was just walking through more of the dust of something once dear.

Climbing those dunes over and over again, that desert of her infinite unreachable memories.

Every grain of sand was sharpened into deadly glass. Scraping, cutting, bleeding her.

Her heart hurt and she did not want to talk, and she did not want to stop walking.

Until, in some nondescript meaningless hallway where she had no right to be–

Euphrates simply broke down crying against a wall, letting all the ugliness out.

And Tigris, at her side, simply watched, and consoled her, held her– and cried with her.


“Bah! What we have here is the finest fighting force for liberation in this damned Imbrium Ocean! If the statists just can’t see that for themselves, then that’s their problem! I am not expecting much here, but maybe we can convince some of them to see reason, ha ha!”

An old rusty barrel belched fire and smoke toward the rocky ceiling, where it was promptly sucked up by old struggling oxycyclers that allowed the old shafts to remain semi-habitable. Aside from the smell of burning in the thin air, there was the rattling sound of the oxycyclers, and the rough floor and walls, and a biting cold. Unwelcoming sensations.

Oil and combustible pellets had been set ablaze in the barrel to confer some warmth, and there were many such barrels. Arrayed around them were bedrolls and tents and boxes of food and equipment. A multitude of figures huddled around them, hidden in black hoodies with thick work gloves to protect their hands from the chill. Most of them were masked up and wore shaded glasses or visors and those who were not, stuck out immediately.

Of the anarchist movement’s visible faces, the most obvious was Taras Moravskyi.

Loudly shouting and boasting without filter even under these dim circumstances.

He was the leader of the “Anti-Authoritarian Volunteer Brigade,” one of the arrows of the Eisern Front. Out of everyone assembled, Moravskyi certainly looked the most warlike. He was a tall and wide individual, with an enormous chest and shoulders and a strong back, thick arms, a square jaw warped by a scar. His laugh was sonorous and deep. He wore a heavy beard, cropped his hair, and wore a thick black trenchcoat that he modified with strips of red synthetic fabric, as if his own political armbands. Nobody in the Eisern Front wore any uniforms, but Moravskyi’s trenchcoat came the closest to representing them.

“Of course, we have some fine cadre assembled here, Comrade Moravskyi. But you see, I still don’t ascribe any particular importance to this event. It is likely to be dominated by the statists as any such event. Whether or not it succeeds, we know that the struggle will continue. So I believe there is little need to compromise or accept odious ideas, nor to proselytize overmuch. Of course, I will still support your endeavors as our delegate.”

Sitting on a bedroll on the floor next to the barrel, across from Moravskyi, was a woman with a soft smile and a gentle face who seemed out of place amid all the hooded heads. She too wore a long black coat, but she wore it over a long dress, its blue skirt section and white button-down top with a black and red ribbon giving her the silhouette of a modest school teacher, perhaps from Luxembourg itself. Her only visible sign of an anarchist’s typical unruliness was her long hair, which had been died a dark, glossy red but had clear black roots, and the uneven dye job left black bands scattered that elided the truth.

Her meticulous makeup and seemingly delicate beauty drew quite a few eyes at the camp.

Her name was Tamar Livnat, leader of the “Anti-Civilization” Aerean Preservation Militia.

And she viewed Moravskyi with a bit of contempt, as one might view a screaming child that was not one’s own. She could not wave away his accomplishments, having been fighting longer than the rest of them. His history was also in its own way somewhat pathetic– Tamar had accomplished in a few years what Moravskyi had in twenty, and she had contributed to Bosporus’ revolution while Moravskyi failed to do anything to respond to the Volkisch Movement in Rhinea. Never even mind his previous failure– in the Union.

Of course, she would not say such a thing to her dear “comrade.”

After all, it was convenient that he volunteer to speak to the United Front.

Let the loudest man labor audibly while the quietest man labored in secret.

“We should get ready to meet them soon.” Tamar said. “I sent my bodyguard ahead to scout the venue. Once I hear from her I’ll be glad to accompany you, comrade Moravskyi.”

“Livnat, the thing I hate most is breaking camp to go talk to the vatnyks.” Moravskyi said.

Despite his sighing, he would do it. Because behind the bluster, he needed the help.

At the moment, the two militias were stationed in the deep, disused passages of the Aachen Massif, the enormous mountain located behind and partially connected to the Aachen stations proper. Each group had about two dozen of their fighters huddled around burning barrels, forming a vanguard, with the vague suggestion to one another that they could summon more if more were necessary. They had been awaiting a third group, the Anti-Fascist militias, but this group had failed to check in with them at the eleventh hour.

She still hoped they would show up at the United Front.

There was nothing they could do– such was the nature of mother anarchy’s children.

The Eisern Front was always a loose assemblage of anti-state forces, in solidarity with each other’s actions but hardly communicating, fearing ever consolidating any of their forces or taking major joint actions. Coming together en masse increased the chance that they would draw unwanted attention. For what they were doing– leaving improvised explosives in government offices, hitting supply ships, assassinating specific people — it made little sense to have an army that moved as a visible collection. It was deleterious, even.

At first the Eisern Front was strongest in Bosporus, recruiting in the student revolts and protests, and in the edges of the Palatine, Buren and Rhinea. When the Bosporus revolution succeeded and took on the anarchist rhetoric that now characterized it, the Eisern Front, who participated in a disjointed fashion, gained a friendly rear area, with some ability to supply. The Buren “red fascists” as they called them, expelled the anarchists from their borders, but they still had connections in the Palatine, who did not undertake such active clearing actions. With the Palatine as a porous road, they could make a move into Rhinea– a worthy endeavor for the Eisern Front and for their Bosporan supporters.

The Palatine had the strength to completely crush the anarchists but were not exercising that ability. Something was happening there. Waking the giant prematurely was impermissible, but Rhinea was a much softer target. The Volkisch were not only more fractious and undisciplined than the imperials, but also far more odious than the staid and lethargic remnants of the Imbrian Empire. A victory over them would be a beautiful symbol of the righteousness of anarchism. Furthermore, infiltrating forces in Eisental allowed for the possibility of encircling Khaybar and finally evicting the Shimii from the pass.

With a free and anarchist Eisental, Bosporus’ revolution would have access to the world.

However, the Eisern Front by itself lacked the ability to carry out any of this.

It would have been different if they could have opened the Khaybar Pass themselves, but that was impossible, as the loathsome Saraya al-Khaybari group occupying the area was far too entrenched for the anarchist insurgency to displace. The United Front presented an opportunity to gain some common allies against common foes. But they could not tip their hand quickly. Their first order of business was to resource– if they could walk away with more weapons or funds from the ill-gotten gains of that bitch Gloria Luxembourg, then it was worth dealing with her bullshit. Secondly, they hoped to infiltrate some of these organizations and maybe turn their fighters and officers away from their statist causes.

Finally, they might hope to secure assistance against Khaybar, with the promise of vast reinforcements from the anarchist militias of Bosporus lying just beyond the pass. While the Union refused to cooperate in breaking the pass, it was possible that their agents would be more pragmatic if the end result was the destruction of the Volkisch Movement. Moravskyi was far too proud to make such a bold request, but it was an item Tamar kept in her pocket, turning with her fingers until such a time as it might be advantageous to play.

Secretly, there was also the possibility that they might seize the ships of the statists.

The Eisern Front lacked the grand warships and military arms of their erstwhile allies.

If the talks completely broke down, then the statists were easier targets than the Volkisch.

Moravskyi supported this option and Tamar pretended to find it distasteful.

“It’ll be hellishly tough, but it might be worth the gamble.” He said, of this plan.

Should such a thing transpire, Tamar would happily sit back and watch Moravskyi try.

And maybe she would join if the odds seemed right to her.

After all, she had more up her sleeve than she let on– but only if the timing was right. Her visit here was all about the timing and circumstances. If the timing remained inappropriate, then she was just Tamar Livnat of a small, humble militia and nobody would be any wiser. She supposed that Moravskyi must have been the same as her in that regard. If he was not, then he truly boasted for nothing, and she would hate him even more in the end.

“Moravskyi, I have a question for you, if you would not mind.” Tamar asked.

“Comrade, you must dispense with the formalities. Anarchists speak their mind openly. Social conventions are just the fascist in your brain holding you back. Say anything you want!”

“I shall endeavor to do so.” Tamar said, smiling. “There is a rumor about the slave revolts in the southern colonies, what became the Union’s revolution. With your history you might be able to clarify it. The rumor that there was a secret agreement between Daksha Kansal and the then-young Duchess of Veka in the east– that she would delay participation in the hostilities in exchange for limiting the Union’s territory at Nama Flow. It is history that Veka failed to open a second front, and the Union succeeded in defending its place.”

“Pfeh!” Moravskyi made a spit-like noise. “The Union– I do not know for certain but I wouldn’t put it past that goddamn bunch of red fascists to have done it! Me and my boys, we wanted to go all the way. Having little duels in the Serrano border and stopping like two gentlemen, when the Imperials had killed our guys, and we had killed theirs– it didn’t sit right with me. And letting the Vekan savages off too– yeah, that Kansal absolutely rejected trying to extend the revolution beyond the three colonies. That’s when I knew the Union wouldn’t ever be righteous. I tried to mutiny; you know? But– it wasn’t to be.”

Tamar smiled a little.

It wasn’t to be– what a funny way to say that he completely failed.

“Thank you, comrade. We will value your historical perspective in the coming days.”

“I wish you had not reminded me of it, to be honest.”

It was useful for Moravskyi to have the Union fresh in his mind going into the talks.

Getting his mood nice and sour would make things take longer and be more interesting.


On the edge of the plaza in the middle of Aachen’s second tier, there was a café and deli that served the office workers coming out for breaks and lunches from the surrounding complexes, and the Volkisch Gau; and for visitors looking to relax in the presence of the park’s lush flora. All seating at Fae Folk was outside the café, on tables and chairs under the crowns of several trees, with the small, plastic café building serving only as a kitchen and counter, with a display for the deli sandwiches showcasing the stacks of meats and pickles between fresh baked bread. A simple but popular place in a strategic location.

At a particularly slow and unconventional time, mid-morning, a pair of women arrived.

Ordering a plate of shredded beef, meat broth, blood sausage, without pickles or bread.

Their beautiful countenances, animated voices and showy attire drew in the workers, who slowly began to cede their initial argument on the specificity of the order, which was like no platter that they offered. It went beyond the customer simply being right– they felt a strange sense that they had to go the extra mile for these particular customers.

They felt they had no other choice.

However, they did provide excellent service in the end, with smiles on their faces.

Of the two women, the most assertive was a princely, tall, pale woman with an almost faery-like beauty. Her fair face had a grin on it that did not falter even at the first denials from the workers, and once she had convinced them to serve her specific order, she laughed gently, gesturing to her companion. Handsome and orderly, she wore her hair down to her neck, intermittently white, black and red, with swept bangs parted on the left. She was sleek and lean, with broad shoulders and a slender chest, dressed in a sportcoat and pants over a provocative, deeply plunging ruffled shirt exposing some of her chest.

At her side was a princess-like girl, smaller and daintier, adorned in lace and ribbons. While the taller woman had slightly more angular facial features, the shorter one had a soft and gentle, almost angelic beauty. Her dress was pure white with the hem at her ankles, interleaved diaphanous portions and cut-out loops along the sleeves and flanks exposing gaps of unblemished white skin. Her very long hair fell behind her back, dyed with similar red and black strands as that of her companion, decorated in a large ribbon that was almost like a pair of wings growing out of the back of her head. She carried herself in a whimsical fashion, giggling and smiling, deferential and girlishly receptive to the endless flattery and attempts to impress with which her companion showered her.

“Darling, they were so rude to us before, but look at them go now!” She giggled.

“Of course– but do not view them too harshly, my love. They simply required instruction on how to meet the needs of more high-end clientele. Proper conditioning made all the difference. Let us understand this is all part of the hominin experience.”

The taller woman invited the shorter one to take seat under the trees.

Taking up a four-seat table by themselves, rearranging the chairs so theirs were closer.

Watching with mild amusement as the workers dropped everything they were doing to ready their orders. Though everything was already prepared, the pair requested a large amount of each item, and particular arrangements. They wanted the broth in a kettle with cups to serve, and the sausages cut into bites, and the beef cuts arranged like flowers, and for no item to have touched brine or sat under a lamp. It took a few minutes, but three workers soon had everything laid out on the table to the pair’s liking and stood before them.

All bowing, and thanking them, and letting them know everything would be free.

“See how obedient they are now? Thank you dearly, little hominins. You may carry on.”

That tall and graceful visitor with the cruel grin was Syzygy Enforcer I: Avaritia.

“My prince, so graceful and merciful toward such rabble! Ahh! I am falling in love again!”

And the delicate, hyperfeminine beauty with a callous smile was Syzygy Enforcer III: Gula.

“Would you like a cup, my sweet little morsel?” Avaritia gestured to the kettle.

“My lips will accept anything of yours, my prince.” Gula said, winking coquettishly.

Avaritia took the kettle, stood from her seat, bowed near Gula, and began to fill her cup.

Gula giggled, clapping her hands together at her lover’s graceful mannerisms.

Once the cups were filled, Avaritia sat anew, and offered Gula a blood sausage.

Taking a piece with her fork and holding it up in the air.

“You’re too kind, my guardian, knight of my heart.” Gula said.

Her lips had barely spread when the sausage seemed to simply disappear from the fork.

In a split second, Gula was chewing delicately, as if the movement of the fork to her mouth had been edited out of video footage, such was the speed and abruptness of the transition. Avaritia watched in rapt attention, throwing amorous smiles and whispering sweet nothings as the smaller woman poked at every item of food on the table.

Many morsels consumed without even a touch.

Avaritia ate almost nothing– nearly all of the food was going to Gula.

While the two were captivated with one another, in their own island of public affection–

There was a sudden, rhythmic clapping of heels on floor tiles.

Suddenly, a shadow stretched over them and just as suddenly dipped below them.

Across from the pair, an uninvited guest, a woman, took up one of the remaining seats.

She leaned forward, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses, setting black-gloved hands on the table with a smile as if to show she was not holding anything. Dressed boldly in a dark blue suit jacket without a shirt beneath, perfectly fit to her strong shoulders, buttoned just low enough to expose cleavage and a black bra with an ornate trim. She had matching dress pants and high heels worn without socks or tights. Elegant waves of glossy, silky blond hair she wore to the shoulder, lusciously red lips, perfectly fair skin, and a knockout body– and she walked like she owned the entire station, and this table with it too.

Such daring attire did not look out of place in the same table as the pair.

However, the glances that they gave the visitor did not suggest familiarity.

“Don’t mind me.” She said, with a bit of a Volgian accent. “Keep the good times going.”

“Darling, were we expecting such a modern visitor?” Gula asked, bearing sharp teeth.

“No dear; but do not fret. Stranger– to whom do we owe the pleasure?” Avaritia asked.

In response to the inquiry, their visitor pulled down her sunglasses and winked at them.

Avaritia’s lips curled up into a grin. She recognized her. Of course–

“Korabiskaya.” She said, a hint of danger in her voice.

Across the table, Ulyana Korabiskaya smiled, fingers delicately pulling the glasses off her nose and into the pocket of her jacket in one elegant motion. Her heart was beating fast, but she relished being able to surprise these two demons. Her performance of confidence in this moment was ironclad, she was giving everything with the utmost focus.

Everything for a femme fatale’s red lips and cool gaze.

“Indeed. But what should I call you? Something shorter than ‘the fake Zozia’?”

Ulyana leaned back on her chair, putting one of her heels up on the table.

Gula stared at Ulyana’s long legs in the fitted dress pants.

Personally, Ulyana thought her legs looked spectacular, but Gula looked, finally, annoyed.

“Darling, perhaps we ought to show her–?”

Avaritia raised a hand as if to call a halt. Gula’s eyes lost some of their icy focus.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. Enjoy the spread and leave the talking to me.”

“Yay,” Gula smiled placidly, turning her attention back to the food.

“Did you brainwash her too?” Ulyana asked.

“No, she’s just like that. Now get your feet off the table or I’ll cut them off. It’s rude.”

Ulyana acquiesced. From that woman, the false Zozia, “Avaritia,” it was not an idle threat.

In terms of their respective combat abilities, Ulyana was outclassed.

Outclassed by sheer magnitudes— completely, exponentially unable to defend herself.

Avaritia could have swatted her into a smear if it came to a physical brawl.

But not in these circumstances.

Not in public, not in the middle of tier two of Aachen, not in some café at the park.

Not with the Volkisch Gau and the Uhlan barracks a stone’s throw away.

Not against Ulyana, whose willpower she could not break as easily as she did to others.

Thanks to the reports from Euphrates and Arabella, Ulyana knew her advantages.

So far, they had cleared the first hurdle. Avaritia was not jumping the gun to attack her.

Therefore, the two of them, commanders on opposing sides, could finally talk honestly.

“You are not Zozia Chelik and Ksenia Apfel. I know that much. You are Omenseers.” Ulyana said the last in a tone slightly more hushed than the rest. “I’m at your table today to talk business, and this time, to talk business to you, to the Omenseers, not the personas you adopted. I want to talk honestly, about your motives and about my own.”

Gula reached across the table suddenly, drawing Ulyana’s eyes toward her hands.

She picked up a piece of blood sausage, took it to her mouth, and chewed happily.

Avaritia grinned. “Just to talk? Or did you also feel like sweating a little?”

God damn it– Ulyana was letting some of her nervousness get through.

“After what happened in Kreuzung, we’re all sweating a little, aren’t we?”

“I’m mostly untroubled.” Avaritia said.

“Mostly untroubled that three of my subordinates killed a dozen of yours?” Ulyana asked.

Avaritia’s eyes fixed Ulyana’s directly. She was still grinning, but the barb had struck.

“A free lesson in our positions: death is less of an obstacle for us than it is for you.”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, I want to officially apologize for what happened.”

For the first time Avaritia looked surprised. She kept grinning, but her eyes opened wider.

“You want to apologize? Interesting. Do go on. Apologize to me.”

Ulyana smiled back. “Consider this my official apology. One of my subordinates violated my trust and ignored orders, leaving our protection to attack you. It is my understanding that she heavily injured you, and I am glad that you were not killed– it would have made reconciliation much harder.” She spied the face of her opponent as she described what happened and thought she saw faint irritation creeping across that handsome face of hers. She continued when Avaritia offered no response. “Three more of my subordinates joined her, again without orders, starting a skirmish with your troops, resulting in disproportionate loss of life. I deeply regret this incident and I am here to make amends for this. None of this was my intention and I have disciplined all of my subordinates involved.”

Avaritia made a low noise, like a single cut-down breath of a longer laugh.

“You are referring to my attacker as your subordinate.” She said. “You can’t be speaking to me today and fail to understand the significance that she and that body of hers have. She is someone fit to lord over you. Frankly, it’s even a bit insulting for you to address her so.”

“I describe the situation as I understand it. I apologize if I had caused offense– I am not fully conversant in your culture. That aside, I want to hear your thoughts in response.”

“I find it ridiculous that you would come to me to apologize.” Avaritia said. “But it’s also very interesting, and I like you hominins best when you are being interesting. For better or worse you have such a depth, such a capacity, to do things that are strange and whimsical.”

“Will you accept my official apology, Avaritia?” Ulyana said, finally using her name.

Avaritia bristled. “Of course not. What can you even do for me to compensate for it?”

“Let me reach into my coat, without a violent reaction– I have something for you.”

Ulyana lifted her her gloved hand and gestured just over her partially exposed breasts.

“Go ahead then.” Avaritia said, a curious look in her eyes.

From an inside pocket of her jacket, Ulyana withdrew a vial filled with a thick red fluid.

Blood. Human blood.

Her own blood, slick in the vial as she turned it. Treated to slow coagulation.

Inside the vial, within the blood, also floated a sliver of slightly more solid matter.

Avaritia’s face lit up. She laughed.

“You have no idea what you are offering, do you?” She said.

“My blood, skin scrapings, and a bit of my flesh, taken from a harmless place.” She said.

Ulyana set the vial on the table, tapping on the plastic cap. She slid it over to Avaritia.

Avaritia looked down at the vial. She picked it up, looked into it, shook it.

Anyone else in this situation might have considered the possible threat posed by an enemy bearing a gift. Whether poison or something more high-tech like a swallowable tracker, a human would have had doubts and suspected some kind of trick. Avaritia did not seem at all troubled by such possibilities. She simply and elegantly uncapped the vial and took Ulyana’s flesh into herself without questioning the contents or Ulyana’s character. Swallowing it swiftly like a shot of liquor and seeming to enjoy the taste. Ulyana thought, perhaps there was no meaningful way for a human to poison this creature.

In fact she had not even bothered. She was being quite honest in her approach.

There was nothing else that she had and was willing to give that Avaritia might accept.

But if Omenseers liked the taste of humans, perhaps Ulyana might turn out to be a delicacy.

Avaritia set the empty vial down on the table, rolled it back to Ulyana.

Grinning ear to ear.

“You have no idea how close you came to destruction with that gesture.” Avaritia said.

“I have some idea.” Ulyana said, trying to sound calm.

Beside a vague desire to find out whether she was tasty, Ulyana also knew, from Arabella’s distressed account of the events in Kreuzung, that there was a possibility Avaritia was actually a walking and talking DNA-based computer. In that case, Avaritia, who possibly consumed Zozia Chelik and Ksenia Apfel in order to impersonate them, could potentially gather information from human DNA that she consumed and store it in herself. That taste of Ulyana would tell her– whether Ulyana was worth killing or not.

All of these were conjectures, but Ulyana liked her chances, and was notably still alive.

“Ulyana Korabiskaya,” Avaritia said, an amused note in her tone of voice.

“Indeed. What say you?” Ulyana asked, meeting Avaritia’s eyes with an iron focus.

“Apology accepted.”

In the next instant–

the grinning demon reared and lifted her arm and thrust forward with abandon,

to offer a handshake.

“What say you?” Avaritia said, her hand awaiting.

Ulyana, initially startled by the sudden movement, soon returned the gesture.

Sighing deeply, her chest pounding, feeling the sweat beads dribble down her collarbones.

“I am glad we can put this behind us. I have something else I wish to discuss.” Ulyana said.

Still holding Avaritia’s hand in her own.

Unsurprisingly, the monster in human skin had a gentle and unpretentitious handshake.

She had nothing to prove to a lesser being like Ulyana, whom Omenseers lorded over.

“I want to ask you for a favor, and in turn, I will owe you a favor.” Ulyana said.

“Interesting. I am slowly warming to this possibility.” Avaritia said. “It is rare for hominin to pay me tribute as you have. I believe you are a rare hominin who is close to a true understanding of the world and its correct order. I will not go out of my way to protect you, but I’d hate for you to die unspectacularly. So, tell me how I can help you.”

Avaritia sounded flattered, full of herself. What had she gleaned from that blood?

Ulyana gently and with respect, unwound her fingers from Avaritia’s own.

Her touch was warm, like that of any human. Not that she was expecting much different.

“I understand that you do not truly care about the anarchist cause. You are infiltrating them for another matter. I won’t pry into your motives unless you wish to disclose them, nor will I protect the Eisern Front from your activities. But I want your cooperation– share confidential information from the anarchists with me. In exchange, I will assist you in achieving your aim, in accordance with the value of the service you provided for me.”

“I’m curious how you found us. We haven’t joined the anarchists just yet.” Avaritia said.

“Unsecured CCTV. We have a good hacker, and you stick out in public.” Ulyana said.

Whether or not Avaritia even understood the response, she did not further pursue the topic.

“Very well. You, again, truly have no idea what you are offering, Ulyana Korabiskaya.”

“No, I don’t. Nor do I expect you to explain. But present matters are worth future risk.”

Avaritia slowly worked up a laugh in front of Ulyana, lowering her eyes to the table.

“Incredible! What an incredible Hominin! Your soul is truly bright.”

“So they tell me.”

“I will accept your offer.” Avaritia said. “I will even courteously explain what I will demand from you. Right now, I am looking for certain individuals. I will not disclose the criteria– but in the future I might seek your assistance in finding them, and when I do, you will help me devour them. That is what you signed up for. In exchange, I will play the best anarchist I can, and I will become your asset within their organization. We have a deal.”

Ulyana did not feel particularly proud to have agreed to kidnap people to feed this beast.

But it was all incumbent on the assistance Avaritia provided, and when she cashed it in.

Perhaps by then, Karuniya Maharapratham might have made a crucial breakthrough.

Unsavory as it was, this was not the worst concession Avaritia could have demanded.

The Brigand had killed plenty of people too, with families, hopes and dreams of their own.

At any rate, all of that was a problem for the future Ulyana Korabiskaya, that poor bitch.

In the present, she would hope that there was a benefit to doing all of this.

Especially since the rear of her thigh quite stung where it was incised and then stitched.

“Tell me– what made you so sure I would not simply devour you here?” Avaritia said.

She still wanted to talk– fine, Ulyana could humor her and thus, maintain her good humor.

“With your power, you’ve had ample opportunity to pursue your grievances with me. You could have followed Arabella to the ship, and we could have killed each other in fruitless struggle. You did not; you sent your subordinates first and ultimately you let the matter go entirely.” Ulyana said. “So, I began to understand you care about resources and have a specific agenda. There are people worth killing for you, worth devouring. From what we have learned, and also the fact you were impersonating Zozia Chelik, I realized you were there to kill Zozia and infiltrate the anarchists. It was within your means. You have proven me correct. You are only targeting specific people and won’t go out of your way for others.”

“Interesting. So, armed with that deduction, you then risked coming to meet me?”

“Is it so odd to you? My life is always on the line here. I’m not on a pleasure cruise.”

Ulyana put on a smile a bit more elegantly cold than Avaritia’s grin.

“You’re quite crafty. It will be quite convenient when I get to use you.” Avaritia said.

“You’ll get as much as you give. Work hard, okay?” Ulyana replied.

She stood up unceremoniously, turned her back on Avaritia and Gula, and left the table.

Anything could have happened in that split second–

And nothing at all did. Avaritia and Gula remained seated, returning to their meal.

Ulyana walked away, with her deal struck and a burden off of her shoulders.

They could find each other again easily– they’d see each other at the United Front.

There was nothing more that needed to be said, and Avaritia did nothing more.

However, there was a takeaway from the encounter the Omenseer may not have foreseen.

“You’re not all-powerful. You don’t have the resources to stop us.”

Ulyana smiled to herself. Every enemy in front of her had some kind of weakness.

Leaving that particular corner of the wooded park, Ulyana walked to the diametrically opposite corner, to a second café that was also taking advantage of the same business model as Fae Folk was. There, under a tree, she spotted a Shimii woman, skin a rich olive-tan with bright orange eyes, her dark-furred ears fluffed up and upright. Dressed in a cute yellow cardigan over a warm brown dress, modest and timeless, her long, dark hair worn freely.

Along with a conspicuous looking pair of sunglasses perched on her soft nose.

“Mind if I join you?” Ulyana asked, looming over the girl’s table with a rakish smile.

Pushing down her sunglasses, her Commissar, Aaliyah Bashara, looked up at the Captain.

“How did it go? I’m glad to see you well.” She said, a small smile playing on her lips.

She would not say it outright, but she looked like she could finally breathe easy.

“Everything went as I hoped it would. We’re all set for now.” Ulyana said.

“I was against attempting this– but I am glad to have been wrong this time.” Aaliyah said.

“I appreciate your discretion as always.” Ulyana said. She pulled her glasses down her nose slightly, to expose her eyes. “Aaliyah, we went to some lengths to get these clothes and dress up, and we’ll have to change again soon– would you mind having a drink with me? I would like to indulge the fantasy of a charming executive and a vibrant girl.”

Her gloved finger slid playfully across the drink menu projected on the table.

Aaliyah glanced at the menu and back at Ulyana, meeting her eyes.

She smiled and let out a little sigh, perhaps more fond than frustrated.

“I will let your charms overcome me this one time, Yana.” Aaliyah said.

Ulyana smiled, and took her seat, not across Aaliyah’s table, but close beside.

She reached and took Aaliyah’s hand, gently gliding a thumb over her fingers.

“How does a Radler sound?” Ulyana said, her free hand tapping on the menu.

Aaliyah smiled, her lightly flushed face again mixing exasperation and endearment.

“I’ll have whatever you are having. Just don’t take advantage, you cad.” She said softly.


“Social fascists and red nationalists, the lot of you! Going to send me to your gulags?”

“Worthless blowhard! You anarchists can’t even organize your wardrobes!”

“Ahh– everyone’s so energetic– can we perhaps take a breather to look at this chart–?”

At the bar and restaurant Oststadt, the private VIP back area resounded with the screams of its occupants. Thankfully, the front of the bar had also been completely bought out and buttoned up, the glass doors shut and a sign out in front, and it looked to the world as if the place had mostly just closed for the week. Discretely, the venue was actually rented in its entirety for a week of events hosted by a wealthy heiress. No activity spilled out onto the raised street adjacent establishment’s plot on the third tier commercial district.

The décor for the Oststadt was rather unique among Aachen’s restaurant culture. Completely white walls faked the black veins of real marble, while decorative white plastic columns with gold-painted rings on their bases and ends framed the bar, the doorways, and the divisions between booth seats in the restaurant area. Fake laurel wreathes, biostitched, perfumed daily, and set high up on the walls, added pops of green to the decoration. The Oststadt evoked an eastern aesthetic, which to the Imbrian mind was usually Veka, but in this case, was meant to be even farther east, recalling old Katarran decadence. It was likely this classic, romantic aesthetic that drew Gloria Innocence Luxembourg to host in it.

It served as an almost ridiculous backdrop to the farce that its fake marble walls contained.

Where the Oststadt was old and stately, its inhabitants were for better or worse quite new.

“Do you remember what even started this argument?” Ulyana asked, shoulders sagging.

“No.” Aaliyah replied, the fur standing up on her folded ears, her tail curled into a spiral.

There had been so many exchanges of barbs and the retorts had become so circular that it was nearly impossible to entangle what had set them off. Taras Moravskyi had entered into the meeting full of bluster, greeting no one, never introducing himself, and immediately demanding that the meeting begin even though some of his own colleagues had not even assembled yet. Erika Kairos had been watching him the whole time and seemed, perhaps, to know about him, enough that she shouted back with a mind to put him in his place and establish order over the proceedings. Moravskyi shouted back about the ‘fascist in her brain’ and the two of them were off. There had not been a moment’s peace since then. It was only by some miracle that Erika did not reach out and tear Moravskyi’s head off.

“You red-fascists were never serious about reconciliation! You were always here to try to get us to show up and impose your rules on us! But Taras Moravskyi is here to tell you we are indomitable! We will take you to task for your crimes against the people!”

“Taras Moravskyi is here to act like a babbling drunk! Much like he is at any other place! Barking about imaginary crimes to a people he has not served in years! We are here to talk about more than squatting and detonating fireworks in public parks!”

Ulyana could hardly believe that Erika would stoop to such–

No. She paused and realized that she could believe this scene completely and utterly.

She could believe it, because–

Murati.

It was just like the disciplinary records of Murati’s previous behavior.

Erika was just like Murati– she just had more responsibilities to keep her occupied.

Those two–

“Could Murati blow up like this in the middle of the ship someday?” Ulyana mumbled.

“Captain– We have more pressing concerns.” Aaliyah said, sighing deeply.

Besides Moravskyi and Erika, whose presences monopolized the “proceedings,” there were a few other people waiting and watching at the table. Avaritia and Gula eventually took their places, sitting at the far end of the table removed from the cacophony. Avaritia shot Ulyana a wink, which Ulyana did not terribly appreciate at the time. In the midst of the sound and fury, Gloria Innocence Luxembourg struggled to get through to her counterparts. As always she represented an overly-precious and sunny presence. Dressed in a long, angelic white dress with a figure-hugging bodice, transparent sleeves, and a slightly wide skirt, her long, pink hair flowing in glossy, subtle waves. She had a portable with some kind of plan on it that she wanted Erika and Moravskyi to stop fighting long enough to actually look at.

In addition, there were two other figures of the anarchists.

A young woman, rather pretty, dressed a bit conservatively, that Ulyana did not know; and standing against the wall directly behind her, an unarmed bodyguard with her arms crossed and her head bowed. From their positions she surmised the woman at the table was one of the Eisern representatives, but she had not even had a chance to introduce herself. She made no fuss about it and simply watched as it was all mildly amusing to her. Meanwhile the woman behind her shot contemptuous looks at the table every so often before turning her gaze back down to the floor. She was a broad-shouldered and broad-backed woman, tall and dexterous of figure. Her hair, long and black and straight, and the small features of her face, reminded Ulyana somewhat of far easterners like her security officer Zhu Lian.

For Ulyana, that was a rare sight– but there were plenty of Hanwans and Yunese in Veka and it stood to reason they could have made it to any part of the Empire from there.

While their passivity was curious to Ulyana, she could not blame them for keeping clear.

Meanwhile Daksha Kansal and Kremina were mysteriously absent despite their supposed involvement. Gloria had excused them to Erika prior to the meeting. It was this more than anything that made Ulyana a bit disappointed– she had wanted to see Daksha Kansal again after all these years and perhaps ask her a few questions that had been troubling her. For Ulyana, as a Union officer, it was difficult not to think of Kansal as a negligent parent in an admittedly petty way. Especially because of Kremina and her arrogance back in Kreuzung.

No use dwelling on it; seated closer to Ulyana were Erika’s guests for the deliberations.

“Hey, can we just tell them to shut up? This is getting ridiculous. I’m about to blow too!”

Ulyana was seated the closest to the leadership trio– unfortunately– and Aaliyah sat directly beside her. On Aaliyah’s right, Eithnen Ní Faoláin sat with her arms crossed and her head bowed, looking mighty annoyed at what was transpiring and making it known. Rather than her Republican uniform, she was dressed the same as Aaliyah and Ulyana in a Treasure Box Transports uniform. She had her red hair up in a bun, and the uniform looked good on her. On her right, sat her adjutant Tahira Agyie, a slight woman, dark-skinned with braided hair, the braids collected into a ponytail. She pushed up her glasses. Eithnen’s shirt was half unbuttoned and her tie hung undone. Tahira was meticulously dressed in comparison, and she sat almost stiffly straight beside the looser and more relaxed Eithnen.

“Captain, I’m afraid it would only give them another target.” Tahira advised Eithnen.

“I suppose so. Ugh. I barely even understand some of what they’re saying.” Eithnen said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Aaliyah said. “I’m sure they must be running out of steam.”

In the next instant, a sharp and sudden wail rose over the cacophony–

“BOTH OF YOU BE QUIET! LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW!”

So shrill was this cry that it might have rent armor and set agarthicite to bursting.

Erika and Moravskyi both stopped in their tracks, breathlessly staring at

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg.

Teeth clenched, shaking hands on her portable, reddened eyes, troubled breathing.

“Excuse me, friends, comrades, even,” Gloria said, with Erika and Moravskyi finally under control, however briefly, and barely able to maintain her dainty affect “I did not organize this little shindig to inflame tensions between us. We are here because we have a common enemy, and greater responsibilities– so if the esteemed members here do not have a proposal to make, then allow me to put forward a framework that we can discuss.”

She held her portable computer with both hands, showing Erika and Moravskyi the screen.

At the precise moment that Gloria was showing off the screen, Ulyana could not see it. She would later learn that there was an excruciatingly detailed organizational chart with more twisting lines than a noodle dish. In this chart, Gloria herself sat at the very top, Erika directly below, and all military forces under Erika’s control with the anarchist irregulars subordinated under this umbrella as if they did not have an officer class which– technically they did not. In the specific moment of the unveiling, what Ulyana could actually see were the confused expressions on Moravskyi’s and Erika’s faces as they looked at the screen. After a moment they squinted their eyes as if it would make something else appear on it.

Gloria smiled brightly and proudly, like a child showing off a graded test to her parents.

Increasingly, Erika’s and Moravskyi’s expressions showed very similar consternation to that which they began the meeting with. Neither could contain their level of offense.

“You want me to order around this chaotic rabble?”

“You want me to take orders from this authoritarian harpy?”

Immediately, Erika and Moravskyi’s rage-filled gazes met one another again.

Before they could start another shouting match, however–

Tahira Agyie raised her hand from beside Eithnen, surprising even her Captain.

“Excuse me! Might I have a word before any– further debate?” She asked.

Gloria and Moravskyi turned to look at her with a mild confusion.

Erika seemed to silently urge her to speak.

Gloria acquiesced to the interruption.

None of them seemed prepared for anyone outside their bubble to have spoken up.

“Thank you.” Tahira said. She stood up from her seat. Her voice surprisingly calm. “From what I was able to draw from our– spirited debate– it appears we have a bit of an impasse on the topic of integrating our forces. I would like to propose an initial solution to this issue. In the Republic forces, there is an instrument known as a Joint Information Exchange Center or J.I.E.C. that acts as an official intermediary between the Republic Navy and useful militant groups, such as the Rhodos Republic in Katarre or the Restoration Society in the Yu states. When one group finds intelligence noteworthy to another group, they share it through the J.I.E.C. and are able to coordinate and support each other, while retaining their individual autonomy of action. Since there are obstacles to an integrated command, why don’t we instead begin with a Joint Information Exchange for the United Front? Captain Eithnen Ní Faoláin could perhaps assist– she served with distinction in J.I.E.C South.”

Eithnen looked startled to have been addressed at all in the middle of that description.

“Huh? Oh, I mean– yeah I was in charge of J.I.E.C. South for a bit– before I got demoted and sent to jail that is.” Eithnen did not look very happy to be remembering it, or to be speaking at all, but she stood up beside Tahira to address the room promptly now that she was drafted into the conversation. She managed a professional tone of voice. “I worked with a militia in Hanwa– the Patriot Society or something like that– and well, I definitely did not have even a little bit of control over how they carried themselves. But I did get intelligence from them on Hanwan actions, and I did contribute intelligence back. So it does stand to reason we could put together a similar thing for the forces here and make it work.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Tahira said, taking over again with a rare smile on her face. “I believe that a J.I.E.C of our own could be a coherent framework for our future cooperation while preserving our multiplicity of opinions and types of actions. In the coming meetings, we could further refine and discuss how we would organize and use this system– but for now, I believe it serves as a good guarantee that no group shall control the others, in part or in totality, and should allay the concerns of Mr. Moravskyi as to his group’s autonomy, as well as Premier Kairos’ concerns toward organizational discipline. While also allowing us to make concerted use of our resources toward a common goal. I yield the floor.”

Tahira saluted the three leaders, Luxembourg, Kairos and Moravskyi in turn.

She then sat back down, quietly and calmly, and Eithnen quickly sat down beside her.

Ulyana and Aaliyah were stunned– none of this was anything Erika rehearsed with them.

Erika in fact had kept what she would say and do in this opening meeting close to the chest. Before devolving into communist schoolgirl debate club arguments– which Ulyana assumed out of respect for her was not what she intended to do and she was just caught in a passion.

But Tahira had just stood up and potentially saved the entire meeting more wasted time.

Purely improsivational. Such was the prowess of Eithnen Ní Faoláin’s adjutant.

Mashallah,” Aaliyah whispered, sighing deeply. “I’m really glad we rescued them.”

Ulyana turned to face the three group leaders, who remained a bit stunned for a moment.

Perhaps ashamed of their previous antics compared to Tahira’s reasonable proposition.

To her credit, from among the three Erika recomposed herself and spoke first.

“Though she is one of my subordinates, independently of that I find it a most excellent proposition from adjutant Agiey.” Erika said. “The Nationale Volksarmee does not wish, and does not currently possess the capacity, to lead all of the forces of the Front as the esteemed Ms. Luxembourg proposes. We recognize Mr. Moravskyi’s concerns over his autonomy also. At this juncture I agree a framework for coordination makes more sense than an integrated command structure. I am in favor– what say my colleagues?”

“Ah– Yes, indeed, indeed.” Gloria said. “It sounds a most appealing idea. I worry that it might be too unambitious for what we could accomplish? Perhaps we can even expand it into an instrument to share policy ideas and even pool supplies? I think all of us can benefit from a deep but individual cooperation. We’ll discuss it– for now, I vote in favor.”

“I–” Moravskyi still looked a bit taken aback. “Yeah– I guess that sounds good for now.”

Meet with reason, even Moravskyi seemed cowed into silence.

With the rousing debate concluded, the United Front ratified its first agreement– they would establish an instrument for coordination and decide its character and contents another day. And so, everyone adjourned, and agreed to reconvene throughout the week to continue discussions on how best to cooperate, what their objectives might be, and on resourcing.

“Don’t you love it when things come together?” Erika said, tossing her hair on the way out.

Ulyana and Aaliyah stared at her but said nothing, and glanced at one another with a sigh.

In that moment they perhaps shared a single simultaneous thought:

Murati, please do not develop this sort of temper!!

Eisental United Front Status

Nationale Volksarmee (Presiding)

Reichsbanner Schwarzrot (At The Table)

Eisern Front (At The Table)


That night, Gloria Innocence Luxembourg was consumed in a fury.

“I can’t believe it! I just choked in the middle of all that! God fucking damn it!”

She stomped her feet and threw her plushies and bit the pads of her thumbs.

Her first setback transpired before the meeting, when Daksha Kansal told her she would be limiting her presence to the United Front and would not attend the first several meetings. Her stated reason was that she did not want to monopolize the initial character of the United Front with her presence, and instead wanted to serve as an advisor to whatever form the United Front took after the initial discussions in order to preserve their spontainety and dynamism. Effectively, she would participate in the final events of the week as Gloria had planned them. Gloria almost wanted to tell her to her face that she knew this was bullshit– but she held her tongue and controlled her temper in front of her mentor.

Then, in the United Front’s first meeting, she ended up the meekest of all the leaders.

Erika and Moravskyi were always going to come to blows, there was no doubt about that. They were natural opposites. Erika herself must have planned to try to cow Moravskyi, or at least to come out of the first meeting with her independence and strength demonstrated and preserved. She had something to prove. Moravskyi was a blowhard by nature– he was always attending just to shout and bluster about his autonomy and moral rectitude. He was the established old soldier who now had to deal with the up-and-comers.

Knowing this, it was up to a third party to create any balance. Gloria had hoped to either mediate between them or to get them to calm down– giving them the way out of their predicaments. She knew it was a long shot, but they barely even read the charts.

Then that one Republican defector threw a massive spanner in the works.

While she was tongue-tied in the face of Erika and Moravskyi, Tahira Agyie proposed a thoroughly reasonable idea that everyone could get on board with. The fact that a guest from the Volksarmee camp was the one to finally deflate the tensions was galling– Gloria should have brought some of her own people, but she was so focused on her own self and her own image. But of course, nobody else in Schwarzrot had any ideas anyway.

She was the one with the ideas here!

Not only that, but the rest of the Eisern delegates were quiet the entire time.

They did not even attempt to reel in Moravskyi! They made no proposals of their own!

Almost as if they wanted him to derail everything! They were far too passive.

She could point fingers all day. One fact remained clear.

Gloria had blown her first shot at taking control of the United Front.

It was not the last shot she would have– but it was the best one.

Fuming alone in her apartment, she dropped on the couch, and wrung a cushion in her hands.

Beginning then to think about her next move.

In order to make up for this setback, Gloria had to find some way to expand this “instrument of coordination” to include the ability to influence her partners. Money was her first idea, and the easiest one that came to her. Money was something she had in spades, and that everyone else sorely needed. Erika was likely low on funds and Moravskyi likely had nothing to his name. Gloria would have enormous soft power within the United Front and its organizations if she could wave money around within the agreed framework.

In theory, she still held all of the most important cards.

The Reichsbanner Schwarzot had the money, it had ships, it had divers, everything.

On her whim she could have summoned a force strong enough to take Aachen.

Possibly.

Once these meetings were over and they had to fight the Volkisch, it was unconscionable that the likes of the Eisern Front could get anything done without Gloria’s money and manpower. The Nationale Volksarmee was a different story, but not that different. They had hardware and experience, but they had no influence or wealth, and would need to establish better supply. She could still exert some control over them too.

Gloria started to calm herself down.

Even in the worst case scenario, she was still the best positioned out of the three to become the leader of a leftist Eisental. Her vision of the world had the most appeal to normal people, and she had the most resources. Even if the United Front ended up with Erika at the fore, Gloria would never be far behind. She was already monumentally ahead of the game. Would the people of Eisental care who was the most eloquent and influential in the United Front? It would be nothing but an anecdote in the history books. Gloria could still win.

Then she would shape Eisental in her image– and maybe even the Imbrium.

President of a Social-Democratic Republic. Carefully managed markets, exemplary labor relations, strong wages and plentiful goods, freedom of the press and speech, full gender and sexual equality, a flourishing of the arts, a professional army of liberated and educated men and women. It would dispense with the bleak totalitarianism of both the Fueller Reformation and the Union Revolution but preserve enough of the Imbrian character to allow for a smooth, peaceful transition toward socialism. Her people would learn to love socialism, from the crudest laborer up to the managerial and business class. In her imagination, even the steel and glass of this world was brighter, even the water would shine, and all of it under her graceful and beautiful countenance, like an angel.

“There is no need to fear, Gloria Innocence Luxembourg.” She told herself.

Yes– she had an immutable advantage. Power born into power, instituted into her flesh.

Those girls protesting the war just didn’t understand how futile their struggle was.

Some hierarchies, some injustices, were burned into the flesh of the Imbrian permanently.

Identifying where things would change, and where they would stay the same–

Understanding that only power could topple power– noblesse oblige–

That was the difference between the mighty Gloria Innocence Luxembourg and

the poor girls who founded a book club she attended only to have it beaten out of them–

Gloria’s eyes drew wide. “No– Don’t– don’t think like that! Why that–? No– I’m not–”

In a sudden panic she scrolled through the functions of her watch for her mood manager–

When suddenly there was a ring on the digital doorbell.

Catching her off-guard, as she lay nearly in tears on her couch.

“Ah! One little second please! Still prepping my makeup!” She cried out.

Just barely falsifying her tone of voice to fit the character she wanted to play.

From the door, a voice message played.

“Ma’am, it’s me, Mia. Please take your time. Thank you for having me.”

Gloria had almost forgotten–

She bolted to a stand and ran into her bedroom. This she could not afford to mess up.

Looking herself over, the wall over her vanity cabinet becoming a mirror.

Her hair was a bit messy. She brushed it quickly. Her dress looked– acceptable.

For something she had been wearing for hours it was practically pristine.

She touched up her makeup. Applying a bit more eyeshadow to mask the puffiness.

It would not do for Mia to know that she was crying and screaming.

“Coming~!” She said, her voice returning with ease to its saccharine register. “I am so sorry! My day has been soooo busy, Mia, dear! Your presence is a breath of fresh air!”

Before Mia could send another message through the door, Gloria had bolted back to it.

When the door opened, there was no evidence she had been hyperventilating.

And on the other side, stood a truly ravishing girl, the real prize of the day.

Mia Weingarten was a shot of adrenaline to the constitution of a weary Gloria. Just looking at her sent electricity running throughout the heiress’ body. Wearing a large and lacy black hat with a black coat and sunglasses to try to disguise her appearance, but beneath, her delicate frame stood lightly draped in a tight little synthetic dress, exposing her shapely legs, her thin and elegant arms, the slim collarbones and small shoulders. Framing her narrow waist, curving over small, supple breasts. Her girlish face with its youthful features.

Bashful, perhaps ashamed. So beautiful, so tantalizing.

Gloria reached out and took Mia’s hat in a playful act, unveiling her sky-blue ponytail.

“Come in, come in! Make yourself at home, Mia dearest.”

For a moment, Mia stood on the edge of that threshold after being invited.

Perhaps realizing that if that door closed behind her, she had made a certain decision.

And indeed, once she worked up the courage to cross into Gloria’s apartment–

It took the merest instance for the door to close and lock behind her.

Her timid expression did not change. Nor did Gloria’s irrepressible excitement.

Gloria led Mia to the couch, urging her to get comfortable.

From the kitchen she returned with drinks, slim glasses held between thumb and forefinger.

Set them down on the table and sat next to her guest, who smiled a bit, accepted it politely.

Mia reached out, drank, put the glass back, in a quick, almost desperate motion.

While Gloria’s hand wandered to Mia’s lap, stroking the soft, silky skin of her plush thighs.

Crawling tentatively beneath the hem of her short skirt–

Mia’s eyes wandered away in shame–

Until Gloria’s hand reached out and gently guided her chin so that their eyes met again.

To where Mia could not escape the irrepressible hunger in that gaze.

“So, Mia, my sweet, what is on your mind? No request is too great for what we share.”


Previous ~ Next