The Fallen Front (39.1)

This scene contains descriptions of burning and violence.

35th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Ayvarta, Adjar Dominance — Bada Aso, Matumaini Street

Far in the distance, the spiraling pillar of fire and smoke reached out to the heavens, piercing the skies like a javelin hurled from hell. At the epicenter everything burned in moments, and then the fire crept through everything flammable, bursting through every gas line, every petrol tank, through cracks in the streets and roads, over roofs.

It was the most visible thing to the fleeing grenadier. There was nothing but that hellish edifice at his back, and the whistling fires that swarmed over every available surface.

In the heat the flames took the shape of demon’s hands, hungry and greedy.

He ran with all of his might as the red fingers snatched at him from all sides.

Whenever they closed he felt the burning, the agonizing, all-encompassing heat.

There was no part of his body that did not go white-hot, that did not hurt as if bubbling and warping within his skin. He felt that he would melt, even in the open street. He felt the agonizing pressure of the fires everywhere, building over his skin and inside his guts.

His helmet became hot a a frying pan and he threw it away before it cooked his brains.

His vision swam and he could only barely tell he was running by his own clumsy footfalls.

Everything around him raged and thrashed, everything tore and shook and warped.

Angry red tongues slithered from windows in a burst of glass and concrete.

Creeping orange-blue claws reached from the cracking earth to seize him.

Where there was not red fire there was black smoke that made him choke and cry.

Mid-run he searched desperately in every pouch, every pocket. He threw away everything but his gas mask, casting aside his smoking coat and his belts, and donned the object. It was hot, and it hurt, but it cleared his head, allowing him to breathe. Behind him his ammunition cooked off in its pouches. His coat slowly disintegrated in the oven.

Everything hurt. His heart pounded, his teeth chattered, and he screamed.

He screamed for release, for some measure of relief. But he found no respite.

No street numbers, no landmarks; everything wavered within the inferno.

Every second that passed, he felt, as if time was slowed around him. He felt every minute instant of pain, every touch of hurt over his flesh, a horrifying depth of pain.

Layers and layers of agony washed over him but he would not allow himself to stop.

He ran with all of his might, knowing he would be consumed if he did not take each step.

With every step he found the fires staying farther and farther behind. Sweet release!

Gathering the last of his strength, he hurled himself past the fire and into smoke.

He found his body slowly freed from the burning grip of the demons.

In front of him, wavering in the haze, was the hole in the center of Matumaini.

That hole that had been blown in by the artillery; it was the only form of cover.

He dashed for the hole, hearing laughter in his head coming from all sides.

Bada Aso’s burning demons hungered for him, hungered for everything.

“Help! Help me!”

That voice was not the demons and was not his own. It was his mother tongue, almost forgotten in the scramble. He stopped at the edge of the aperture, and a greater human instinct overtook him. His stressed body, outside the flame, found some equilibrium, enough to pause, to take stock, to gather breath, and to scan the surroundings.

He turned his head over his shoulder and gazed into the creeping wall of fire.

How had he escaped such a thing? He did not know.

“Help me!”

Over the strange crackling sound of the flames, he heard the voice again.

Dashing away from the hole, the grenadier hurried to a nearby ruin, and pushed through the half-collapsed doorway into the rubble. The building had become a skeleton of rebar and concrete that held inside it a mound of gently smoking wood and stone from its ceilings.

There was another scream, and it was much closer. Quickly pushing away rubble, the grenadier found a comrade, trapped under a chunk of board and filler that had fallen.

“I’m here to help you! Try to slide out when I pull it up!” He shouted.

Below him, the trapped person, his face also covered by a gas mask, nodded his head. His screams subsided into gasping, quavering cries between sharp, panicked breaths.

The grenadier seized the slab of debris and lifted it with all of his strength.

From beneath the rubble the trapped soldier slipped out and dashed to the door without another word. The grenadier dropped the slab, and was about to go after him, but the trapped soldier stopped at the door. He was framed suddenly in a bright light.

In front of them, a column of fire and smoke blew skyward from the Matumaini crater.

Black smoke belched from the street and into their building, sucking out the air.

Once more the heat began to permeate their environment.

Their remaining clothes smoked.

While the trapped man stood transfixed at the door, the grenadier slowly and gently settled behind the mound of rubble, nestled into the bowels of the ruin with his arms around his knees and his legs against his chest. All of his energy had left him.

Outside the fires crept and crept, until they overtook them, and everything.

36th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Ayvarta, Adjar Occupation Zone — Kalu Hilltops, Bada Aso Outskirts

Bada Aso, jewel of the Adjar Dominance, became a ruin choked in smoke and bursting with flames. Although the fires had long since reached their peak, having risen so far that people swore to have seen them from the sea or beyond the mountains, in their place they left a pillar of smoke, a black tower that descended slowly overnight until it covered the area in a choking gloom. Inside the cloud seething red bursts flashed every other hour, whenever something new erupted, snapping like lightning contained in an earthbound sky.

There were still things to burn, and so the unseen demons unleashed from beneath Bada Aso’s earth continued to feed. Some untouched gas line, some discarded petrol container, some hidden pocket of the monstrous gas still dormant below the red-hot earth; whatever the red claws of this monster grasped, instantly and violently exploded and burned.

Von Sturm stood dumbfounded atop a hill in the outskirts of the city. His blonde, slightly wavy hair was disheveled, sticking up; he had not had the presence of mind to gel it back into the smart style he usually wore. He was a short, soft-faced man who looked as if too boyish, too unripe for war, and facing the devastated city, his youth seemed all the more pernicious. It made him seem smaller, helpless, easier to break where he stood.

Through his tear-swollen, reddened eyes and through the foggy lenses of his binoculars, the General watched silently as the fire and smoke carried on its implacable course.

One night’s fitful sleep was not enough to make sense of the scale of the carnage. Yesterday he was leading a triumphant assault; today he was thoroughly beaten, his forces, his battlefield, everything blasted to pieces too dramatically for even the wildest imgination. For once, he had a sense of fear so strong that it stifled his passion and a sense of confusion and helplessness that overwhelmed his pride. He had no idea what to do.

It was as if his mind had burnt away with the city, and there was only the holy awe left.

He was staring into the billowing black face of a god as it ate his city, the city out of which he was destined to lead a glorious campaign that would cement his name in history. Matumaini, the Umaiha Riverside, Penance, the central districts, the open, grassy north of the city upon which he had intended to blitz through with his tanks, all of it was buried under that black cloud and the red bursts that periodically raged enough to be seen through it.

Just after the explosion, much of the city could still be seen, in the midst of its destruction. As the survivors retreated from it, and the smoke slowly descended, everything was obscured. At the edges of the city he could see fires spreading as if fed by invisible magma.

Any farther and the cloud became too thick to really see through. He could see outlines, sometimes, when something exploded violently enough. Outlines of ruined buildings that jutted at alien angles and seemed like architecture from hell. Faces, he saw them too; groaning, hurting faces in the cloud; cheerful, mad-driven grimaces in the fires–

That might have been his own head. He was afraid to confirm these sights with others.

Nobody came to fetch him, but the movement of the sun overhead indicated to Von Sturm that a long time had passed. He had been transfixed with the flames and smoke, drawn as if out of his own body to watch the devastation unfold in a dull, quiet panic.

Slowly he pried himself from the grip of Bada Aso. He scanned the surroundings with his binoculars. He watched the road. A line of water-tank equipped Sd.Kfz B Squire half-tracks wound their way toward the city, carrying a platoon of fire-fighters armed with everything they could muster to fight the fires and look for survivors in the black poison. Water guns, shovels, asbestos suits with oxygen masks; they were diving into hell now.

In a time that felt like another world away, Bada Aso and its port were critical to the supply line running through Adjar and aiding in the push to Tambwe. Putting out the burning city was necessary, but seeing it from the hill, Von Sturm found it a hopeless task.

He felt a strange desire to reach out with his hands and stop them. To tell them to stop. To tell them that it was futile, that it couldn’t be fought, that nobody would be in there. That there was nothing here for them, on this continent, that they should’ve never–

But he stopped. Stopping them, stopping this, meant the final death of him.

What else could one call rendering irrelevant nearly a decade of one’s life?

Von Sturm felt the fear of a God much closer to him; the peril of his own existence.

There was too much inertia here to stop. Too much inertia in the wheels of those armored carriers, in the solemn hearts of those men, and in the angry, desperate need of the man with the violent, noble surname who could not now stop. There was a weight of history behind them that would– no, must, carry them all forward. In a fraction of a second, the doubt was dispelled from him, and buried, and forgotten. Because it had to be.

Von Sturm left the holy awe behind and turned his back on Bada Aso as he turned his back on all other useless things. For his simple ambitions, no introspection was necessary. His heart hardened again, encased so that it could neither breathe nor bleed in this war.

But It wouldn’t be the same as before. His hands were still shaking. His eyes were still red.

There was a chain-link in him that had been inexorably severed, just as the 1st Vorkampfer had been inexorably destroyed and Bada Aso inexorably burnt to the ground.

He returned to his command post to await his demotion, and to seize back control of his weary staff from the panic of the moment. Yelling at others would at least distract him.

Far in the background, another explosion raged within the cloud. Its sound shook him.

It was like laughter.

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The 1st Day Of Training (38.1)

46th of the Aster’s Gloom 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance — Rangda City, 8th Division Garrison, Training Field

“Welcome, noble and brave soldiers of the Bada Aso Regiment! I am Inspector General Chinedu Kimani, and henceforth I will personally oversee your training!”

Underneath the searing eye of Rangda’s noon sky there was a mass movement of people in the 8th Division Garrison, the likes of which the empty plots of land on the base’s northern side had not seen since before the Demilitarization act. Assembled between foundation outlines hidden in sparsely grassy land, standing unknowingly over floor plans that had been smashed, and now reclaimed by the soft brown dirt, several hundreds of soldiers stood in rapt attention as a tall woman in a flashy red and black uniform hailed them.

“The Battle of Bada Aso is over! We were victorious; my precious comrades, you have accomplished many feats! However, we must wipe that slate clean! There are new, greater victories to reap, and to do so, we must all take hard steps beyond Adjar’s border.”

Many a fighter had glanced at or heard of Kimani in the past, but for most this was their first time coming face to face with one of the major commanding voices in their unit. She was an impressive sight — taller than any of them, black skinned, with dark, curly hair to mid-neck level and sleek, striking features. A hint of crow’s feet around her eyes was rendered visible only by the glistening of sweat crawling down her forehead, cheek and jaw under the hot Rangdan sun. She had an air of strength and exuded professionalism; a real soldier.

“Doubtless many of you have received basic training in your firearms and grenades, in first aid, in rudimentary battle tactics. Doubtless, all of you survived Bada Aso, and have seen and fought our enemy first-hand. Yet, regardless of your ranks, and your merits, for the next week, every man and woman in front of me is once more a green Private!” She said.

Behind her a fleet of nurses, construction workers, and computers labored to set up examination tents, establish medical stations and assemble tables behind which documents of all kinds would be handed out and filled for the records staff to archive. Preliminary tests would be conducted, and information collated to help Colonel Nakar and Inspector General Kimani understand just who it was that they would lead to battle.

“Nobody can diminish your struggles, nor the sacrifices you and your comrades have made. Your past has honed you into a blade. That you stand before me, means you have been drawn from your sheathe to do battle. But right now, though you desire to cut the enemy, your edge must labor to draw their blood. It is my duty to start sharpening you, so the same cuts you dealt in Bada Aso will do more than draw blood. They will slice Nocht to pieces!”

She spoke in a strong and serious voice, and even when she raised her pitch, her affect was subtle. The Inspector General always seemed to speak in a tone both calm and intense.

Her declarations moved through the hundreds of men and women in the crowd like a wave. Everyone stood straighter and tighter when they felt her eyes over them and quivered when they heard her her voice. In their green uniforms, stripped of whatever rank markings they earned in Bada Aso, the troops of the 1st Battalion of the Askari Motor Rifle Regiment “Bada Aso” watched her every move with tense attention, and a brimming of unused energy.

In the same field where the 8th Division would perform marching drills before the war, the troops of the Bada Aso Regiment prepared for a week of short training courses.

Though the Regimental command couldn’t offer them extensive training quite yet, they would not allow them to sit around. Everyone had already lounged too much at sea. Bada Aso felt distant; but the war wasn’t over. Command wanted to keep them on their feet.

Kimani explained. “From now to the month’s end, with a break for the festival on the 48th, you will clock in 100 hours of training in infantry combat, tank-infantry cooperation, signals discipline, and much more. My staff will give you a crash course on modern combat to give you an idea of the multifaceted duties, skills and responsibilities of a soldier in maneuver warfare! I hope that you enjoyed the peaceful voyage here — because I will make you sweat here in Rangda, comrades! And it will be an inkling of what awaits you in Solstice!”

For an instant, the Inspector General flashed a little smile at the crowd of soldiers.

There was a collective gulp in response. That was a lot of hours worth of training. It appeared command counted their days at sea as a vacation, but they had not had much of an opportunity to de-stress while crammed into a troopship or a cruiser. In whispers, the crowd started to lament being driven so hard after the chaos in Bada Aso. At least some of them, however, were excited for an opportunity to learn some new fighting skills.

One such person was Gulab Kajari, standing off to the side and back of the crowd with stars in her eyes. She looked around the field and through the fence to the base, catching glimpses of tanks and guns and other equipment being brought in or serviced, perhaps to participate in the exercises. She fantasized about this training both as an opportunity to show off her energetic strengths, and to be able to brag about her elite skills later on.

Already she was a military hero! Now she could rise to the level of a battlefield legend!

“Charvi, do you know anything about this? Do you know what we’ll be doing?”

Gulab nudged her constant companion, Charvi Chadgura, but the Sergeant was nearly inanimate. On a good day, Charvi was still emotionless, but at least a little sprightly. Yesterday the two of them had helped out at the headquarters, walked around the whole base, and been yelled at by a variety of guards about where they should and shouldn’t be. Through all of that, Charvi had the same face, but her demeanor at least felt lively.

Today she slumped forward, mumbling to herself in that dry, affect-less voice of hers.

She barely seemed to pay Kimani any attention. She was mostly staring at her feet.

Acknowledging Gulab, she clapped her hands twice, softly, in quick succession, but she said nothing. Her eyes seemed fixed on her own feet, and her shoulders drooped low.

“Are you ok? Do you have heatstroke?” Gulab asked. Charvi clapped to relieve stress.

“I want to go to the post office.” Charvi replied in a barely audible voice.

Gulab crooked an eyebrow. She had not seen a post office anywhere, but she had also not seen much of the city in general — she and Charvi were bused in on the 44th along with fifty other soldiers from the port, and dropped off at the base. All they had time for (and all they were allowed to do) was registration, two meals, equipment check-in, and bunking. The day after that, on the 45th, they still weren’t allowed off-base, and took a tour of the facilities.

That must have been it; after yesterday’s tour, Charvi must have realized that the base had no available post office, and it must have made her a little depressed. Her precious hobby was stamp collecting, and being in Rangda there was an opportunity to collect new pieces. Putting all of this together, Gulab thought she had an idea of how to cheer Charvi on.

“Hey, look, we have the festival day off! You can go to the post office then.” She said.

Charvi bolted upright suddenly. She stood at attention, staring forward inexpressively.

Her head turned stiffly toward Gulab. “Are you sure? Will we really be allowed out?”

“Positive!” Gulab replied. “She said we had a break on the festival day, right? Obviously that break is for the soldiers to go out and join the festivities, otherwise what’s the point?”

Charvi pressed her hands against her cheeks. “You’re correct. You must be.”

“Trust me! We’ll have a party at the post office on that day. Just cheer up a bit, ok?”

“Yes. I admit that I felt and still feel restless, but I will be fine now. Thank you.”

When it came to Charvi, emotion was never written on her face, but it could be evident in the air around her. Her words hinted at a renewed intensity of feeling. Charvi turned her head again, and stood straighter, her legs set, her back erect, her chest out.

“I must live until that precious day.” She said.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t live until then, but ok.”

“You never know. I must try extra hard to live until then.”

Her deadpan expression made Gulab smile. She raised a thumbs-up.

“As long as you’re feeling chipper! I’ll help out.”

Gulab petted Charvi on the shoulders and turned back around with a grin on her face.

At the conclusion of the Inspector General’s motivational speech, the soldiers were divided into several groups and pointed toward the newly-raised tents far behind them. They were big green field tents. Many of them had the telephone symbol, a handset in a black circle. A soldier who saw it was supposed to interpret that as a communications, liaison or headquarters tent, but there were a dozen strung up. So then, what did it mean?

“What the heck are those?” Gulab asked in whispers.

Charvi shrugged. “I think they’re conducting some sort of test there.”

Gulab soon found herself in a line stretching out from one of these impromptu offices.

She felt her heart thumping as everyone started to move forward into it. She could not see anyone inside, but she could see a light shining briefly through the canvas as someone exited out the back of the tent and let in sunlight. There was a little bit of chatter inside. Gulab could make out words like “official” and “documentation” and felt anxious.

“I think they’re checking papers in there.” Gulab said, looking behind herself at Charvi, who had been a step behind Gulab in the press of bodies that formed their waiting line.

“Well, they’re out of luck, because I don’t have mine.” Charvi said.

It was easy to see how those could have been lost given the events of the month.

As someone from the Kucha, where Solstice’s reach was weak, Gulab had no official papers to begin with. Her only documentation was her army sign-up forms from years ago, which she was told would be, cryptically, “good enough for anything.” She had no birth documents. This was a blessing, because it meant nobody could contradict her on anything about her identity but her family, who were far away; but might become a curse. She didn’t know.

Her mind filled with nightmares in miniature, playing and replaying before her eyes as the line pushed her toward the tent flaps under the muggy heat of a Rangdan morning.

Soon Gulab stood in front of the tent flaps and heard a female clerk calling out, “Next!”

Looking over her shoulder at Charvi, Gulab wiggled her fingers in the air as a little wave. Swallowing with a gulp, she closed her eyes briefly and stepped through the tent flaps.

When she opened her eyes, the place was a little gloomy, but uncrowded and neat.

Gulab took seat at a little table, one of six. Across from her sat a dark-skinned clerk in a pristine uniform. Her frizzy hair was styled big and round, and her friendly blue eyes were heavily magnified by the lenses on her thick glasses. With a big smile on her lips, the clerk pulled a form letter from a box and set it in front of Gulab along with a loaded ink pen.

“Good morning, comrade! I’m Warrant Officer Keisha Tamsi, and I just need a little moment of your time to insure we get a good form we can file for the Regiment.” She said.

Her tone of voice was pleasantly deep. Gulab’s anxiety at being seated in such an official-looking tent, with such official-looking person, very slightly diminished. She felt less scared and more sheepish at being in front of a nice stranger on this strange errand.

“Now, before we begin, I’d just like to know your home region. Can you tell me?”

“I come from the Kucha mountains.” Gulab said.

“I see! So that means you have no official papers. Am I right?”

Gulab felt an icy stiffness going through her chest. “Yes, sorry. I have none.”

“No birth certificate or anything like that, right?”

“My birth was handled fairly sloppily. I don’t even know my exact age.”

Gulab’s voice trembled. She expected to be told to pack her bags and leave the army.

Comrade Tamsi nodded her head in response and smiled.

“I understand. It’s perfectly fine, comrade. Your army sign-up forms, and any forms we fill today, can be used as your official papers henceforth. So don’t worry about it!”

“Oh, good.” Gulab sighed with relief. That had been easy; she had worried over nothing.

“There are many villages and unincorporated territories that have less than stellar documentation. So over time, we’ve learned not to be sticklers for stamped papers.”

From the box, Tamsi withdrew a few additional forms, stacked them neatly together, and pushed the stack forward. Gulab picked up the top form. It had basic things like name, date of birth, gender. That last one gave her a fresh shot of little anxieties, but she figured she could put anything on it and that nobody would check it or care. She was right.

“Answer with anything you want for any of the fields and we will consider it wholly official with the state’s blessing — if you want to change your name even, go for it! As far as The Socialist Dominances of Solstice is concerned, everything you write there today is your official paper information as valid as anything a doctor writes at the side of a birth table.”

Comrade Tamsi sounded almost excited for Gulab to invent herself in this little tent.

Gulab, however, was not feeling terribly creative. Though she could have chosen a more feminine name, perhaps, she was rather fond of Gulab. And while she hated her father and brother, her beloved grandfather had been a Kajari, and her fun and helpful cousins were all Kajaris too, so she had nothing against her maiden name either. Thus she made her decision.

Atop the form, she proudly wrote “Gulab Kajari” and beside it, “24”, her best guess for her age, and “M” for “Mwanamke” or woman. Her hand shook a little after that. She set her birthday as the 23rd of the Lilac’s Bloom, the date she came down from the mountain.

There were other fields, such as any conditions she had, or any levels of schooling earned.

“I don’t remember exactly what I wrote on my army sign-up forms. Is that ok?”

She knew back then she had signed up as a woman too. She had made the decision to live that way a long time before she came down from the mountain. However, she still felt a little scared that the two forms would be cross-referenced in other ways. Again she overestimated the importance of the forms and the bureaucracy’s level of efforts here.

“Not at all! As a matter of fact we don’t even have access to those! They were probably burnt in Adjar to keep them from Nocht. Write anything with confidence.” Tamsi replied.

Gulab realized how perfunctory all of this was, and her heart and stomach finally settled.

No one was trying to kick her out of the army. In fact they seemed to be making every effort to keep her, and everyone in the regiment, in the army. That was reassuring. She had nowhere else to go — though she could have settled down anywhere, that meant she would not have been able to fight alongside her comrades. Alongside Charvi; she was glad to stay.

Smiling, she started scribbling down whatever came to mind for the rest of the papers.

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Salva’s Taboo Exchanges VII

This chapter contains themes of abandonment, emotional and social distress, and manipulation.

36th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Kingdom of Lubon, Province of Palladi — Pallas Academy

A timer rang in the kitchen. Sweet smells drifted into the apartment’s main space. Cinnamon and mint tingled Salvatrice’s nose but did not draw her attention away from the paper in her hands. Canelle returned; when she set down the sweet rolls and mint tea on the table in front of Salvatrice’s couch, the princess began to read the short letter for the umpteenth time as if there was some hidden meaning she could divine from it.

Her servant sat in the couch across from her and took a delighted sip of tea.

“Yum! Certainly the best cup I’ve ever made. You should give it a taste, Princess.”

She extended the cup as if to bewitch the princess with the smell of it.

Salvatrice lifted her own cup, blew on it and then set it slowly back down.

A perfunctory, distracted action from a woman with more on her mind.

She had the letter in her hands still. Turning over the words, the green ink.

Rubbing her chin, scratching her hair; nothing, she could not make sense of it. Why her; why now? Salvatrice threw down the letter in frustration. She covered her face with her hands, rubbing her fingers against her forehead, burying her thumbs into her temples. Canelle reached out a hand and laid it down on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Were this a truly dire circumstance I’m sure Her Highness would have spared more than eight words for you, Princess. Please calm down and eat. Take your medicine. Relax yourself. I’m sure you’ll go to Palladi and back without consequence.”

“My mother never spares words. She just gives commands.” Salvatrice replied. She gave Canelle a sharp glance that forced the latter to cower and withdraw her gaze. “My mother considers me such a lowly creature she needn’t explain what she requires of me, she calls me to her like a dog or a horse and knows I must blindly obey the whistle!”

Staring at the couch cushions at her side, Canelle replied in a conciliatory, almost frightened tone of voice, “I’m sure Her Highness has her reasons. A mother would not–”

Furiously, Salvatrice interrupted. “She has already jailed one of her daughters! My mother is mother last, Canelle, and above that she is a tyrant, a gaoler, a murderer!”

“No, Princess, stop, that is wrong, please.” Canelle pleaded in distressed whispers, her voice choppy. “Do not say these wrong things, Princess. You do not under–”

Salvatrice crossed her arms and breathed harshly. “I’m sorry. You’re not to blame nor to suffer for any of this. But please see it from my perspective, Canelle. For years I’ve had such limited contact with mother. She extends her arms to me to tell me she has jailed my sister and given me her position. Then she abandons me again; now this! Tell me, were you in my position could you see this as anything but another incoming betrayal?”

“Your circumstances are of an extraordinary nature Princess.” Canelle said gently.

“So you cannot speak of it? You cannot relate to it at all?” Salvatrice said.

“I am an un-extraordinary person.” Canelle replied, casting glances at the floor.

Salvatrice turned her cheek at this answer. It was frustrating, but wherever the Queen was concerned Canelle would become uselessly demure in an instant. Whether she feared or respected her or a twisted combination of the two, Salvatrice did not know.

Canelle kept all of her secrets, and took care of her, and Salvatrice wanted to think her loyalty resulted from warm feelings, from friendship and empathy and a relationship.

But whenever discussion shifted to the Queen, it brought to Salvatrice’s mind the ugly thought that perhaps Canelle just did it out of an antiquated sense of a peasant’s obligation to royalty. She kept her secrets because a peasant girl did not betray a noble-born woman; she helped Salvatrice because a peasant girl did not refuse aid to a noble-born woman. And she treated the Queen’s name as if that of a God because peasants did not take the liege’s name in vain. Perhaps it was not love at all, just awe of her.

It made Salvatrice feel lonely and isolated. She turned her head and wiped Canelle from her sight. In so doing all she had was walls; just a room bereft of anyone’s sentiment.

As she scanned around the room Salvatrice saw the door open abruptly as if by itself.

Centurion Byanca Geta casually let herself into the room, dangling a keyring in her index finger and whistling a little song as she went. She closed and locked the door behind herself, and ambled toward the couches, coming to a stop near the princess.

“Where did you get that?” Salvatrice said. Her voice rose to an aggressive tone.

“Good morning to you too, Your Majesty.” Byanca had on an apathetic expression.

“I categorically refuse to allow you to let yourself in here. Give me those keys.”

Salvatrice extended her hand at almost the same time as Byanca withdrew her own.

“They’re the old custodian set. I was allowed to have them for security reasons.”

She was being cheeky lately; much more than Salvatrice was comfortable with. The Princess tried not to lose herself in front of the Centurion, but she could not help it. When she next spoke her demeanor had devolved from imperious to rancorous.

“Give me your copy of my key then! Keep the rest if you need them so badly!”

Salvatrice thrust her hands out again and swiped at Byanca in passing.

The Centurion stepped away from her reach, walking around the table.

“They are a security asset now and I cannot release them to a civilian. Apologies.”

Byanca gave a little mocking bow. Salvatrice gripped the skirt of her dress in anger.

Canelle raised her tea cup. “Joining us for tea and cinnamon rolls, Centurion?”

Salvatrice cried out in a suddenly petulant voice. “Canelle! Don’t offer her tea!”

Almost at the same time Byanca bowed her head. “I would love to be your guest.”

“Geta! Don’t accept her tea!” Salvatrice whined. Nobody listened to a word of it.

Canelle smiled and sidled toward the couch armrest to make room at her side.

Byanca dropped brusquely on the couch beside Canelle and snatched a roll from the table. She took a bite out of it, and took a sip of the tea shortly after. Cup in one hand, roll in the other; not much in the way of tea table manners at all. Something about that sloppy display resonated with Salvatrice. She felt an odd sense of nostalgia from it.

In the face of her current frustration she found no comfort in those pangs of feeling.

Grunting a little, Salvatrice thrust the letter over the table to hand it to her Centurion.

“I take it since you’re here, you know what this is about. So explain yourself.”

Byanca cast a few deliberate glances between the letter and Salvatrice’s eyes.

She paused and pushed the remainder of the roll into her mouth.

“I have no idea.” She said through a mouthful of half-chewed food.

She swallowed, and sucked the slick sugary glaze left on each of her fingers. Once cleaned she extended her hand and plucked the letterhead from Salvatrice’s fingers. After a quick glance she slid the letter down the table toward the princess, and pushed her teacup up against her face, tipping down the rest of the tea in one big gulp.

Canelle and Salvatrice watched her as one would a misbehaving child. Salvatrice almost expected ructus and flatulence to follow after the rest of this slovenly show.

Thankfully Byanca merely set down her cup outside her saucer and sat back.

“I came to inform you that all Rossa surveillance measures have been revoked. Phone wiretapping, mail interception, transaction controls; it’s all done henceforth. From now on your security, and any accountability for your movements, begins and ends with me.”

Salvatrice was taken aback. At the mention of all of this spying she felt anger rising in her chest. She had suspected that she was being watched, in the discrete ways that the Legion could watch her. Hearing the extent of it spoken so casually stoked the embers already lit by her present circumstances. There was no relief in knowing that these violations had been curtailed. She was sure now that the future held much worse.

Meanwhile Canelle beamed, ecstatic, and clapped her hands together several times.

“You hear that, Princess? I told you that your mother had your interests in mind!”

“This is all part of a scheme.” Salvatrice said. She sighed. “She’s plotting something.”

“I agree. Her Royal Highness would not tear down the collar she’s got around your neck just to be a good mother. She has something planned for you.” Byanca replied.

Canelle glared at Byanca with sudden disdain. Her mouth hung slightly open.

“Do not fill the Princess’ head with evil ideas, Centurion!” She shouted.

Salvatrice crossed her arms and grinned cheekily. “Finally someone in this land of the blind sees things my way; and ironically of all people it is the Blackshirt Centurion.”

“I told you before, but I am on your side, Princess. No one else’s.” Byanca said.

“Yes, so you say. I don’t know why a Blackshirt would say it, but you do.”

“In any case,” the centurion began, at a lower, deflated tone of voice, “you should prepare to leave for the palace soon. I’ll be accompanying you on the journey.”

Salvatrice leaned forward toward Byanca, holding her head on her hands.

There were so many faces over the years. Salvatrice had stayed in a Messianic monastery, she certainly remembered that. It was dedicated to trying to revive divine magic. But she had stayed in the duke’s vineyard until the duke mysteriously passed, and she had stayed in a girl’s school for a time, and she had stayed with a General of the army Regolare until his own passing; and in each of those places there had been children, whom she played with and grew up around for certain short periods of her life. Save for one, for whom she reserved all of her feeling, she had forgotten all of these acquaintances. In her mind they were so transitory they were not worth recalling.

In front of her this Centurion insisted that she and Salvatrice had a connection.

And her presence was starting to insist remembrance from Salvatrice’s mind.

Was she worth remembering? Was that memory valuable enough to become trust?

“Why did you become a Blackshirt?” Salvatrice asked. “Did you really do such a thing to try to be ‘on my side’? You must understand how implausible that sounds to me.”

Byanca breathed out a sigh. She rubbed her hands down her face, and clapped them together as they slid off her chin. She stared at the ceiling, flicking her wrists.

This was a question that hurt to answer. This was a hurt person in front of her; that was the impression Salvatrice got. It made her uncomfortable to think she was causing her such hardship, but several little voices continued to assure her that she was justified.

Canelle looked between the two of them, discomforted by the sudden silence.

“I wanted to become a Knight.” Byanca finally said. She continued to speak, pausing from time to time, staring at her hands to avoid eye contact. “Knights who ascend to the rank of Maggiore can present themselves before a Lady of noble blood to ask for a wish from her, anything desired. This was a rule that passed down from the time of Magic, where miracles were real. He needed only swear his loyalty in the eyes of God, and she would indulge him in order to strengthen her family’s position. Ever since the rule of Passionale Vittoria began, women have been able to become Knights too. So a woman Knight can still ask a wish from a Lady. I wanted to make use of this ancient law.”

Her face sank again into her hands after she was done speaking. She didn’t look up for a time. Salvatrice did not know what to make of the shame with which she admitted this. This was something she desired so much; why would she speak of it with such trepidation? She looked almost disgusted with herself. Salva didn’t understand it at all. She didn’t understand why Byanca would seek after wishes in a time where Magic was now dead; and she did not understand why this dream tore her up so much now.

“What was your wish?” Salvatrice asked. “And whom would you present it to?”

Byanca raised her head. She had on a bitter, cynical grin, quite different in tone from the cheeky expression she bore when flipping the keyring in her fingers minutes ago. A little laughter escaped her as she spoke; to whom it was directed, Salvatrice didn’t know.

“I staked everything on it, Princess, but I failed to become a Knight. I became a Blackshirt to avoid the depths of my failure. That is the undramatic truth of the matter, whether you believe it or not. I was sent to Borelia, where I trudged through miserable wilderness to kill men who threw grenades from bushes and laid mines along the roads. What was my wish? I don’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter. I’m not that girl anymore.”

Now it was Salvatrice’s turn to avert her eyes. She did not want to lock with that sudden, mournful gaze cast toward her by the Centurion. She was afraid and felt guilty.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried into this. I’m just being nosy, and it’s unbecoming.”

“You deserve to know. I wanted to sit down and explain all of this sooner anyway.”

Salvatrice plotted something eloquent to say, but her lips moved before her mind.

“Byanca, I have no power to grant any wish to anyone.” Salvatrice said to her.

“Blackshirts do not get wishes. We’re unworthy of them.” Byanca replied quickly.

“Then what do you want? Why did you accept this mission? Why are you on my side?”

The Princess and the Centurion locked gazes again. Byanca smiled softly.

“You deserve to have someone on your side. That answers all those questions.”

Salvatrice stood up from the couch and turned her back. She walked out toward the bookshelves surrounding the door to her room, pacing them with her hands behind her back. She looked wistfully around, seeking anything to grab her attention and break the tension that she felt around the room. But her mind was so scrambled that she saw the letters on the books shifting and warping before her eyes. Everything was twisted now. She ran an idle hand through her hair and sucked her lips in, tasting the red pigment.

Without turning back to the couches, stifling a groan, Salvatrice gave her answer.

“Centurion Geta, the one thing the 1st Princess of Lubon can grant you is trust, so she will grant you trust. Treasure it, for nothing will replace that gift should you squander it.”

Salvatrice pulled a book from the shelf, taking an object she had hidden behind it.

Her head held high, she returned to the couch and held out Byanca’s Picea pistol.

Their hands briefly brushed as the Centurion took back her weapon.

“God save our gracious Queen. Long live our noble Queen.” Byanca sang softly.

She returned the weapon to its holster with a demure little smile on her face.

Salvatrice shook her head, exasperated. “To hell with the Queen.”

37th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Before, when the Queen summoned Salvatrice, a private car appeared out of the blue in front of the Aquinas building. Canelle urged her to dress nicely and slide into the back seat without question. A driver behind bulletproof tinted glass, likely sworn to have no interaction with her, drove her wordlessly to wherever the Queen wished to meet her. That was the expected procedure, the control that the Queen had over her life before.

But there was no private car, even two days after Salvatrice received the letter. In fact it was the first time that a royal summons had been delivered to her like this. She knew that she could not tempt fate for much longer. One or two days could be chalked up to the whims of the postal system. Any more might draw the Queen’s ire. So on the morning of the 37th, Salvatrice made preparations to leave for the royal capital.

Canelle was practically jumping off the walls with enthusiasm. She picked out a regal green dress, that had been designed to match one the Queen had worn several months prior at an important function. It was form-fitting, though Salvatrice felt she had precious little form for the dress to fit, as she was a fairly slight lady; the tight, long skirt evoked petals curling around with her body as the flower’s core, and the high neck and long sleeves gave it a sleek modesty. There was a green gemstone shining on her chest.

“You are the image of your mother; I wish others would see that!” Canelle said.

Salvatrice posed in front of the mirror as Canelle fussed with her hair. Aside from a green and red ribbon, her straight, shoulder-length, evenly-distributed red-yellow hair remained the same. A touch of red lipstick accentuated her thin lips, and a dab of purple shadow lent a bit of complexity to her face and complimented her green eyes. Powders and blush gave her slightly brown skin a somewhat lighter look than it normally had.

Two pieces of wing-like jewelry extended the size of her ears by a few millimeters.

Canelle turned her around before the mirror, admiring her handiwork. “You look beautiful, Salvatrice! Of course, you always do, but you look your best when your clothes shine as bright as the rest of you, I think! Artifice accentuates nature.”

“In my case I think the medicine is more to thank than nature.” Salvatrice said.

“Oh come now, don’t say that, your beauty is inherent,” Canelle said awkwardly.

Salvatrice felt a little thrill running through her body as she looked in the mirror. She was dressed up now, in costume. There was a strange, elated, perhaps even somewhat arousing sensation to it. In the same way that she felt she became a man, Sylvano D’Amore, with the proper preparations, now she had become a woman to the world. It was comforting, like a mask, it covered up the bare, naked Salvatrice within it.

Whatever that was; at times Salvatrice felt there was nothing underneath one costume or the other. She didn’t even know which one was the more natural form for her. She loved both; she loved being both. But she felt there was something apart from them too.

With her “costume” done up, and a little luggage prepared, Salvatrice took a light, careful breakfast, pumped a little estrogen into her system, and made ready to depart.

Outside the apartment door she found Byanca waiting in her dress uniform.

She looked at Salvatrice and appeared momentarily shocked. Salvatrice was a little taken aback in turn, but she had much more practice with holding her composure.

“What, Centurion; do I not ordinarily look like this to your eyes?” Salvatrice said.

“N-No, Princess, just, you look,” Byanca tripped over her words, “gorgeous.”

Salvatrice grinned. “And then I ask again, am I not gorgeous all of the time?”

“Well this is a different kind of gorgeous! There are gradients!” Byanca replied.

Byanca was looking rather more polished than normal. She had no makeup, for the service allowed her none, but her pure black uniform was rather dashing, her jacket decorated with all of her medals and patches, including the centurion’s armband, and a thin blue sash across her chest and waist. She wore her hair collected in a bun, very professional, and donned her feathered bersaglieri cap, black with a silver emblem. Her uniform accentuated the trained, toned slimness of her. She looked martial and strong. Knightly, one could even say. Though the Princess restrained her compliments.

“You look exceptionally fit to guard me, Geta.” Salvatrice said in a haughty tone.

The Centurion took those words as Salvatrice meant them and blushed immediately.

“Don’t stand there looking bashful, Geta! Lead the way for your charge. Escort me.”

“Y-Yes, Princess.” Byanca nodded her head, took the Princess’ luggage in her hands, and then started down the stairs. Salvatrice delicately followed the Blackshirt down. Canelle trailed behind them with an ecstatic look, bouncing as she went along.

Outside the Aquinas building, Byanca hailed a fancy black town car with a long sloping nose and a leather-covered interior with two sets of windows on either side. She opened the door for Salvatrice, who gave her a quizzical look before accepting the invitation. Tinted glass separated the cab from the passenger’s roomy black leather seating. Everything smelled strangely fresh inside as if the car was new from the factory.

The Centurion loaded her luggage in the back, tapped on the front glass and alerted the driver, and got inside, seated beside the Salvatrice — with a healthy bit of room between them. Together they bid Canelle farewell while she stood off the side of the road in amazement. Once the car was started and pulling away, Salvatrice turned to Byanca.

“What is this supposed to be? Where is my ordinary driver?” She asked.

“He’s fine; we’re just using this today. It is Legatus Tarkus’ staff car.” Byanca said.

“Staff car? He drives this? For work purposes?” Salvatrice whispered in surprise.

“No, it has practically never left the garage. But it’s bulletproof and safe. There’s a machine gun under the seat and everything. He vigorously approved of its use.”

Salvatrice grunted. “Who is the driver? Someone you know? Can you truly trust him?”

Byanca cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “He can’t hear you!”

“Alright, fine, he can’t, answer the question.” Salvatrice said aloud. She looked at the tinted glass and could make out an outline of a fairly tall man in a newsboy hat.

“You can trust him about as far as you can throw him. I can throw him a meter I think.” Byanca grinned. She laid back. “There is no way that he will interfere with anything.”

Salvatrice crossed her arms. She looked out the window at the scrolling landscape.

“Fine then. I trust you. How long will it take until we reach the Royal Territory?”

Byanca looked suddenly peppy. “A few hours; hey, let us sing a road song!”

“Don’t push your luck.” Salvatrice replied imperiously, keeping her gaze from Geta.

Once the car got going in earnest, the driver first circled around the Aquinas building and took a circuitous route out of the Academy, moving through neighboring vineyards and greenhouses. Clear of the campus, he rounded the rural roads, where there was nary another motor vehicle in their way. He skipped the nearby town of Juth; Salvatrice watched it pass them by, a kilometer out at their side as they advanced into the country. Over and around several green hills the car traveled with ease, the ride smooth and relatively noiseless. Palladi, a central Province of Lubon, was ringed by mountainous terrain. Complex, hilly turf was common to it, woodland thick and sparse dotted the landscape.

North of Palladi the hills opened into an expanse of broad, flat descending terrain sliced through by the vacillating Radice river and its branches. As the car glided down the hills Salvatrice could see the white palace in the distance, its walls extending around a dense, red-roofed town like protecting arms. She could almost see the crown of the Father Tree behind the gleaming towers of the castle. Vittoria’s Palazzo, the ancient town of Pallas, and the surrounding farmland was the nation-within-a-nation known as the Royal Territory of Pallas. Fifteen miles across and ten long, Pallas, farmlands and all, was the size of a city and much less densely populated than Torto or Cartha or other modern elven holdings. But the town itself was only a fraction of the territory’s total size.

Over a series of bridges, the car crossed the many arms of the Radice river that traced through the land at irregular intervals like the roots of the First Tree dug into the soil. Everything between the hills and the palace was farmland and homesteads that served the White Palace. They passed by orchards and vineyards, fields of purple Cyrn that gave bountiful cereals in the spring. Peasant families shepherded the farmlands and plucked nature’s fruits both for themselves and to present to the Queen each season.

“Ten green bottles of wine on the wall, ten green bottles hanging on the wall–”

Byanca sang and sang various drinking songs, mostly to herself, but loud enough to hear. She had already counted bottles several times, and sang Bevilo Tutto. It seemed all the songs she knew or at least the ones she felt like singing were drinking songs.

Salvatrice was quiet as the Queen’s lands scrolled past her eyes. She had frozen into a casual pose, with a hand on her cheek and another on her lap, staring out the closed window.

At first they were content to sit beside each other with a healthy gap between them, but after a few minutes inside the Royal Territory, Byanca started glancing Salvatrice’s way.

“Something wrong, Princess?” She asked. Her enthusiasm was mildly off-putting.

“Do soldiers only sing drinking songs?” Salvatrice said, glancing sidelong at Byanca.

“I used to be in choir, but you’d just get laughed at singing religious songs in a tank.”

“I suppose so.” Salvatrice looked out the window again, counting the electric poles.

“Let’s get this open, Princess! Take a whiff of the country air. It’ll cheer you up.”

From her side, Byanca leaned clumsily over, laying hands on the window lever. Salvatrice raised her hands in surprise. Byanca turned the lever and rolled down the window, then retreated with her own hands raised to mirror Salvatrice’s pose.

A gentle breeze blew into the passenger compartment, blowing Salvatrice’s hair.

She took in a deep breath; there was a sweet smell that she could not place.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it smells great. I feel so at ease here.” Byanca said. Her ponytail swayed gently and she looked so girlishly delighted with everything.

Salvatrice smiled a little. She did not want to be the one to ruin the mood for now.

Byanca was happy because she saw nothing but the surface of the elven holy land.

For the First Princess, who would take up the mantle of Queen Vittoria, Pallas represented a birth-right, its people and lands owned absolutely by the Queen, to the point that the statutes of the Parliament did not matter within its limits. But Salvatrice had not grown in Pallas, groomed to succeed the throne. Clarissa had been the face of the Vittoria lineage up until recently. The streets of Pallas, the walls of the Palazzo, all of it was her childhood home. Clarissa was the one known and loved in the Royal Territory.

Salvatrice was like an invader; a foreign presence made to force her way inside.

This was the position that her mother had thrust her into. Salvatrice would have been content with obscurity. She had never wanted to rule. She had no aspirations to power or influence. Seclusion had nurtured modest goals. Peaceful tea-times, an education, a semblance of a social life, love; as ordinary a life as a royal-born girl could dream of.

She was not welcome here. Her trajectory in life was not meant to intersect with this.

Past several kilometers of farmland the car stopped before the green gates in the middle of the forward wall. Blackshirt guards wordlessly checked Byanca’s credentials. They offered no words for Salvatrice; they barely even glanced her way. It was as if she did not exist. In her situation, Salvatrice couldn’t tell if this was out of duty or disdain.

As quietly as they approached and as silently as they deliberated the guards returned Byanca’s papers and the vehicle’s registration, and ushered them through the gate.

Inside the green gates they found themselves on the perfectly flat, spotless grey roads of Pallas town, flanked on either side by rows of buildings with quaint-looking gabled red roofs. They traveled the main thoroughfare, under curling green street-lights like drooping flowers, their car trailing behind trolleys and work buses. Throngs of people in suits and uniforms crowded both sides of the street, coming and going from their work. Pallas was old but under Vittoria it was never antiquated. Fashionable clothing hung on trendy storefronts; modern restaurants catered to the middle class workers that now inhabited the town. Telephone lines and electric cabling hung high over every street.

At the end of the thoroughfare the middle wall divided the town of Pallas and the Mound of the Father-Tree — a beautiful, gently rising green hill walled in on all sides with polished white rock, and bearing at its peak the palace of Passionale Vittoria. A richly decorated structure, its corners were four equidistant towers surrounding a thick, central spire. Its walls projected backward beyond the living space and enclosed the plot of land that bore the Father-Tree. One could not see it through the height of Vittoria’s central tower. It had been built hundreds of years ago precisely to obscure the Father-Tree from commoners.

There were no paved roads outside of the town, and no telephone or electric poles projecting out from the earth. Their car was stopped beyond the gate by blackshirt guards and they were directed to park in a garage at the foot of the Mound alongside a dozen other liaison cars. Once the car parked, Byanca rushed out of her own door, swung around the back and opened the right-side passenger door for Salvatrice.

She ushered the Princess out onto the gravel with a gentlemanly bow of the head.

“Don’t push your luck.” Salvatrice said again. Byanca chuckled a little to herself.

“Shall I take your luggage?” the Centurion asked.

“No. He can do it.” Salvatrice pointed at the driver, who looked her way in confusion.

Nearly swallowing his cigarette, the man rushed to his work while the women left.

The Mound was gentle enough a climb for most people, and the climb was required for anyone who wanted to visit the Palazzo. No vehicles or horses were allowed to climb the Mound — only the feet of human beings. Salvatrice and Byanca followed a makeshift path up the slope, delineated by perfectly-trimmed bushes with gilded sashes around them. It was a ten minute walk under the noon sun, and Salvatrice felt herself sweat a little.

Before the palace doors they were again stopped, and again it was only Byanca whom the guards seemed concerned with. For the third time she displayed her rank before them; once again she was allowed forward, while Salvatrice received no word from anyone. Through the double doors of reinforced glass they entered a vast lobby with four large fountains, an indoor garden filled with lilies of all manner of colors, like a rainbow grown from the soil, and couches beside tables full of brochures for visitors.

Salvatrice was ready to be insulted that her mother would leave her at the reception.

Then a set of doors opened at the end of the lobby and a woman approached, flanked by a pair of guards. She wore an afternoon uniform, a conservative black dress worn under a white apron, with long black sleeves and hands covered in white gloves. Her half-white, half-blond hair was pulled up into a bun, and she wore an elaborate cap.

Salvatrice took note of her because she had seen her before, though they had not formally met, not that Salvatrice remembered. But this must have been her mother’s maid — Canelle’s counterpart in the castle. Unlike Canelle, this maid had a foxy, canny sort of expression, a slight grin with piercing blue eyes behind a pair of thin spectacles. Hers was not a gentle expression. Salvatrice would’ve even called it a violent one.

“Princess, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Lillith Mariel.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mariel.” Salvatrice said. She forced a softer, girlish sounding tone of voice and a graceful smile. Her cheeks already tingled from the effort.

Lillith bowed her head, and she reached out her hands, palms up. Salvatrice touched her with both of her own, palm against palm, and the servant had room again to speak. And speak she did; in a dulcet tone of voice she indulged in a lengthy introduction.

“You would not remember me, but long have I been keeper of your mother’s skin and silk. I have been with your mother since before you were born — in fact, I helped her through labor with you. I was the first to hold you aloft, and to wipe your mother’s blood from your body. I was, even, the first to breast-feed you; I had to take a drug for it.”

“Well; it appears I came to meet one mother and found a second.” Salvatrice said.

Lillith giggled girlishly; at her side the guards looked visibly uncomfortable with this.

Through her affable facade Salvatrice felt a sudden surge of hatred for Mrs. Mariel.

There was no reason for her to say anything; like the guards, she could have just led her where she needed to go without undue words. She could not have been sentimentally attached to the Princess — this was a reason Salvatrice always threw out immediately where it concerned her mother’s people. She knew that none of them cared. By process of elimination Salvatrice realized that this was Lillith either taunting her or flaunting her freedom of speech. Unlike the other servants she had a measure of status in Pallas.

“History aside; your true mother awaits, Princess. Follow the guards up to the peak of the central spire. I shall take your dashing companion on a tour of the Palace, and your driver will be given instructions on what to do with your lullage. Worry not.” Lillith said.

After one additional bow, Lillith whipped around and marched down the hall, perhaps expecting that Byanca would immediately follow. Likewise, the guards turned around and started away from Salvatrice, and stood in front of an elevator door waiting for it.

“Princess, be careful.” Byanca said. Out of sight of the guards, she took Salva’s hand and squeezed it. It was definitely an overreach on her part — but it didn’t feel awful.

Salvatrice cocked a little grin at her and let her go. “Like I said, don’t push your luck.”

Royal Territory of Pallas — Palazzo Di Vittoria

At the top of the tower the guards opened the door to the spire’s main chamber and ushered Salvatrice in. They then turned around, shut the doors behind her and left the spire without setting foot inside. Salvatrice heard their footsteps, growing distant.

Inside the chamber there was nothing material on display, no obvious purpose. It was empty of furnishings, enclosed by unadorned walls, and there were no treasures on display. On the floor, a spiral green and brown pattern resembled vines or roots crawling along the tile. Overhead, the rising pyramidal shape of the roof, and its visible supports, untouched. At her side there was a wide open balcony with a commanding view of the green-glowing foliage of the Father-Free. A cool breeze blew into the chamber from several arch-shaped windows in the corners — they were standing high above Pallas.

In the center of the room, looking out to the balcony, stood Queen Regnant Passionale Vittoria. Her stoic beauty still struck the Princess; every time she saw her, those imperious green eyes, her fair skin, perfectly flowing locks of blond hair and features untouched by time, her figure, ample but also sleek, wrapped exquisitely in a sleeveless, ornate silk dress with a large green emerald set between her breasts. Salvatrice had scarcely seen her mother in the flesh, and every time she seemed more like a figure crafted, as though given life through the artifice of a legend like a Galathea statue.

She turned her head to her daughter, framed by the door several meters away.

She smiled; very slightly, a mere tipping of the lips, but her mother smiled at her.

“You look ravishing, Salvatrice. You have a beauty hitherto unknown to this land.”

“Thank you, Mother. You are as stunning as the Goddesses of our myths.”

Salvatrice replied graciously, and curtsied before her mother. Her compliments grated on the princess, however. Salvatrice was not “a beauty akin” to her mother, or even simply a “beauty.” She was a foreign, alien beauty; reddish hair, light brown skin, blunt ears. All of her features that were different from the norm seemed drawn into stark relief.

They each stood in their places. Vittoria turned fully to greet her, skirts trailing on the floor. Salvatrice remained at the edge of the room, standing with her hands clapped before her and set against her skirt. Neither made a move to draw near, to link hands or hug or even, in their places, to show any undue affections. Just smiles and distance.

“Did I ever tell you the story of how I became Queen, Salvatrice?” Vittoria said.

“No.”

What a ridiculous question; of course you didn’t, Salvatrice’s mind screamed. You were never there! When on Aer would you have had time to tell me a story? It took all her moderation to continue smiling neutrally when her mind and soul seethed so strongly.

To Vittoria there was no contradiction in this, no acknowledgment of the absurdity of it. In all earnestness, she stretched her arms, gesturing to the breadth of the chamber around them. She looked up, at the roof, and around herself. She turned around.

“This room is quite nostalgic. It is here where my journey as a Queen truly began.”

Salvatrice looked around. This was alarming; there was significance in the air here. If this room meant anything to Vittoria then it was ominous that Salvatrice now stood in it.

“Was it empty at that time, Mother? Were you made to view the Father-Tree?”

Vittoria paced; Salvatrice heard the tapping of her heels under her voluminous skirt.

“I was a mere twenty years of age. This room was very different. It was surrounded by mirrors. You could not escape the sight of yourself in this room. It was known as the Chamber of Selection. All truths were laid bare before the Chamber of Selection.”

At her mother’s words the princess found her gaze wandering, scrolling across the walls, lingering on the floors. She saw the bolt-holes, where the mirrors would have once been screwed into place. A room full of mirrors, where one could not evade oneself — Salvatrice could imagine it. In her mind it was a macabre place. The way her Mother stared at the walls almost seemed to mirror this. Salvatrice could have sworn she saw a hint of disgust or trepidation in her mother’s countenance as she recalled the surroundings.

Again the Queen began to speak, and this time her tale was longer, and Salvatrice listened without interruption, swallowing all emotion but the facade of a smiling face.

“Once upon a time, my daughter, there was a young King, whose father passed, having spent his life unsuccessfully clinging to an Empire in decline. This young King wanted little responsibility, and longed only for domesticity; he was a shy king, fond of quiet.”

“Upon the eve of his coronation, his older, proper female relatives took it upon themselves, as is the ancient custom of this land, to seek a woman who could inspire his passion and improve upon his bloodline, which was much intermixed within the close-knit circles of the high aristocrats. They settled on three candidates, but two were problematic, for one crossed the King’s bloodline several times, and the other was thought too low-born to be appropriate. Nevertheless, all were brought here, to this room, one by one.”

“Surrounded on all sides by mirrors, the women were stripped of their clothes, and thoroughly examined. Width of the hips, size of the skull, physiognomy, length of limbs, body fat, and of course, virginity. The King’s grandmothers and aunts and older sisters, this assortment of the most proper ladies; they found, after their inspection, that there was only one woman who had the character and health to support the kingdom.”

Vittoria turned her head over her shoulder, staring sidelong at Salvatrice.

“I hated what they did to me, how they saw me that day; it disgusts me to this day.”

There was vitriol in her voice. Salvatrice felt a thump in her chest as she listened.

“Our traditions, by and large, disgust and repel me. Years later I would take my bloody revenge on the King’s nonni for that slight. With these two hands, Salvatrice, I closed the circle those crones began on the eve when they selected me as wife to their King.”

She turned fully around, and wore a suddenly darkened expression. Her eyes downturned, her lips curled in a stoic displeasure, her hands held behind her back.

“When you were born, doctors took you from me and deliberated about you as if you were an anomaly or a myth. They said explicitly they did not know whether I had chosen a correct name for you. It disturbed me. It reminded of that time in the elector council. People being treated like lumps of meat.”

Vittoria stretched one of her hands back out from behind herself, and though there was nothing in it, she did it with such quickness that Salvatrice nearly jumped back with fright. She always thought Vittoria would smack her from across the room somehow.

“I purged every doctor who had anything to do with that unneeded panic at your birth, and I sought out doctors on the cutting edge of science, young and with open minds. I did not want doctors with knives who viewed you as a creature. Nobody deserves that.”

Lies, lies, lies. Salvatrice fought back the urge to shout. You killed those doctors because they hurt your ego, not because they wanted to hurt your child; though the result was the same Salvatrice knew that the origin was different. This was not love.

“Whenever we met during your childhood, I saw you growing and growing into a fine princess. And I saw your enthusiasm to be a princess. I sought every resource available to make you the best princess that you could possibly be, the healthiest, best educated, least poisoned by bureaucratic indulgence. I only wish I could have been there more for you during that time.”

Salvatrice closed her hands into fists at her side. This was all embellishment. As a child Salvatrice only called herself what other people called her; what her mother called her. She didn’t know anything back then. She didn’t really know much now. Though she was happy enough with the result of all these years, all these doctors and medicines and treatments, these examinations, all the things taboo to medicine that she was and was made to be; that chaos and confusion was not a calculated, loving decision by her mother. It was the result of neglect and receiving only what Vittoria wanted to give. She could have been Sylvano or Salvatrice. She had accepted both, in a sense. That was not Vittoria’s doing!

“But Salvatrice, I already knew it when I held you as a child. What I saw then was unambiguous. I knew who my daughter was and I knew what she truly wanted and what it was her birthright to become in the end. From the moment you were born, I knew that it was you who needed the utmost protection, who needed to be sheltered from the melee that was unfolding in these walls. Not Clarissa; you. Always you, Salvatrice.”

Her words nearly drew tears from Salvatrice’s eyes. She wished she had a broader skirt so that her knees could quiver openly. Salvatrice felt as though there was a skin under her own and a creature ready to lunge from it for the Queen’s throat. She was furious.

Vittoria was painting her own picture of Salva’s life, and all of the paint came from her own ego, her own untouchable ego. She had never done anything wrong, never abandoned her — in her own mind she was always the winner. And she said those horrible words, those erasing words, those words that spat on Salvatrice’s entire life as she had lived it; Queen Vittoria said them with such stoic ease and perfect delivery that it hammered at Salva’s mind.

She had not abandoned Salvatrice because of her dangerous illegitimacy, fathered by a foreign diplomat, and born ambiguous and unplaceable in a binary world; in Vittoria’s mind she had protected her and groomed her in a unique way! Oh how convenient for the Queen!

“One princess, grown among her people; the other, raised amid the repulsive ideological debauch of this Pallas and its squabbling, incompetent nobles and knights.” Queen Vittoria raised one hand, and then other, one palm-up, one palm-down. Salvatrice didn’t know which hand was supposed to represent her. They went up both at once.

Teeth clenched, hidden behind her lips, Salvatrice stilled her ragged breath as best as she could to deliver a short, crucial line. “Mother, how am I meant to serve on this day?”

She needed to cut her off this subject. She needed to do anything to reassert herself, to reassert that her version of the events was the real one. Salvatrice needed to be anything but this unique, uniquely loved, uniquely trained model daughter; she needed again to be the abandoned and reclaimed tool of a callous, monstrous despot. Otherwise her mother’s words would truly dig into her brain as if the unvarnished truth, erasing her own life.

“Salvatrice, I must confess to you, that I have lied, though I have done it to protect you, and I believe the lie a white one for the most part.” Vittoria said. She turned her back on Salvatrice again and paced to the end of the room, where she picked something up from a window.

“In what sense, Mother?” Salvatrice asked, her voice a little choked.

Vittoria flicked something her way — Salvatrice caught it against her chest.

It was a cardboard envelope, and inside there were photographs of a man, hair gelled back, a fine beard across his soft features, a boyishly handsome sort of person. There were also photographs of this man and a woman, a delicate little blond– Clarissa.

“It was never about Clarissa being indiscreet, for I do not care how many men she claims her own as long as she does so cautiously and uses them properly. Her indiscretion was the man she chose and what she chose to do with that man.”

Vittoria glided across the floor, and stood face to face with Salvatrice.

“That man is the leader of an anarchist cell known as New Humanity. His nom de guerre is Cesare Regal. He is connected to the attacks that have been transpiring across the country, but he is not a foreigner: he is an elf, born of this land, educated here, wealthy, and ambitious. He tapped into the ego that this environment cultivated in your sister. She plotted against me; now he plots against you in revenge for her.”

Salvatrice felt her mother’s fingers tip her chin up. They locked eyes.

Seeing deep into those callous green eyes Salvatrice could hold her tongue no longer.

“You used me as bait! All this time! To draw this man out!” Salvatrice shouted. She shouted each set of words as the revelation reverberated inside of her mind. That was why the surveillance was ended; going farther back, that was why Salvatrice was allowed to return to her studies after the trip to Nocht. Clarissa was removed, to provoke this man.

Salvatrice was promoted, and she was made vulnerable, to provoke him!

Vittoria grinned; she shook her head at her daughter, both amused and disappointed.

“No.” Vittoria said. She savored every word. “You are not bait, Salvatrice. You are the future Queen of Lubon. And you will show me the Power of a Queen by destroying this man and everything of his. You will do it because your past, present and future depend on it.”

She set her hands on Salvatrice’s shoulders and the Princess felt a sudden weight.

It was almost enough to make her collapse, and she did not know whose strength she borrowed to remain standing throughout that exchange, and to keep her eyes open. She felt like the hands of her mother were here to finally sink her into the earth where she belonged.

The Queen’s striking green eyes were no longer stoic and indifferent; they had been set ablaze by a malignant fire that illuminated a purpose reserved only for Salvatrice.

Last Chapter |~| Next Chapter

Salva’s Taboo Exchanges VI

29-AG-30

Princess,

Inspecting your suite I discovered an article of men’s clothing, the origin of which I feel entitled to know as your protector and the person in charge of your security detail.

Your servant refused to go into any detail as to the clothing except telling me that she would kill me by pouring hot frying oil over my head if I told anyone about them.

I must advise that liaisons with men at this point are very dangerous. Any man who is attempting to court you immediately becomes a suspect in my eyes. And should anything more than attempts to court you occur, very terrible things will result indeed.

I am open to other explanations for this. Do you craft these as a hobby perhaps?

I would have liked to ask these questions in person but you continuously avoid me, so to be discrete I forced this note under your door. I do not wish to die so soon.

— Centurion Geta

30-AG-30

Centurion,

DO NOT come and go into my quarters whenever you please!

You are not my guest and you do not live with me!

I forbid you from entering the suite unless I am present!

Your rank means nothing to me!

I have nothing to explain to you! Be a good guard dog and heel!

— Princess Vittoria

29th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Precious Salva,

Salva! It was such an in credible relief this morning to discover your name absent from any account of the horrors that befell the Academy. To think a Lady would be so gruesomely murdered in public! What is our society coming to? I have begun to make arrangements to procure a miniature revolver. I know now that I need to be ready!

When you write back, please lead with your current status. I need to know your health!

On to other matters — you might have noticed this envelope a little, fat, perhaps?

Enclosed you’ll find the pieces that I was able to collect. Though many of these books are forbidden to be printed nowadays, existing copies were never sought nor destroyed. Book collectors jealously guard their volumes. In your hands, hopefully you now hold the elvish translation of Lena Ulyanova’s collected writings on Mordechism-Lenanism, or as you better know it, Communism. Unfortunately, I was unable to find books about recent Ayvartan history. It is perhaps too recent and close to be History. But cheer up my darling, for I did find an account by Artanis of the history of the Ayvartan Empire.

I very lightly inspected and read the books, bits and pieces that caught my eye. I can assure you that they are in good condition and that you should find them readable.

You have queer tastes in books my sweet! Much sleuthing had to be done for this.

As for myself? I have kept quite busy with my designs. I’ve been planning our next little meeting. My father has of late been distracted with the oil fields of Borelia and even beyond. He has this ludicrous idea that his men can design and build a platform to draw oil from waters 30 meters deep. I don’t know how viable this is, but it sounds too dangerous for my tastes. Regardless, it keeps him busy. He is currently out at sea in fact. I’ve never felt freer. I believe the time has come for us to meet on my own lands.

We could have an entire indulgent weekend to ourselves. Two passionate nights, three comfortable mornings. You need this, my darling! I want so badly to take you away from your confinement in that place. I know you have never been so long away from your studies, and I know eyes are on you. Know that all of my resources are at your disposal to overcome any obstacle. I want you, Salvatrice. I will do anything to have you.

Next time you sneak out however, wear a dress. I want us to tussle fashionably.

Desperately seeking you; your beloved,

Carmela Sabbadin

33rd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E.

Beloved Carmela,

Fear not, precious Carmela! Physically I have never felt as well as I do now. Youth and womanhood surge through my veins. It is not physical health that I lack at the moment.

I am thrilled from tongue-tip to toe-tip that you continue to thirst after me, my caramel. It is with great regret however that I must quench the ambitious fire in your soul.

There is nothing in the world I want more than to sink against your breast, but my circumstances are still too difficult for a weekend retreat. I cannot promise, but I can at least attest to the possibility, of a single, very indulgent night, but not one in which I awaken beside you to bask in the afterglow. Anything more is simply too dangerous.

You will not be thrilled to hear this, but I was involved in the incident at the Academy. I saw it first hand and could’ve been in the path of the murderer had it not been for the Centurion involved in stopping the attack. My involvement in it was covered up, by my own hand. But I fear there is a violence surging under the skin of our society, my dear.

Though I received your letter on its intended date, it is only now that I write because I have pored over my words many times. I have decided that as your lover I do not wish to hide anything from you. I have told you more intimate things. So I will confide in you my worries though I know they will bring you pain and worry. I’d rather you know.

It has been made known to me that there are plots hatched against my life. In the process I have gained an asset in my struggles for self-determination, but it is a volatile one. I know not whether these plots are true. They may be attempts by my mother to curtail what little independence from her I possess at the Academy. Talk of plots allows her to hide me from enemies. All she needs is the talk. No plots are necessary.

However, judging by what I have seen and experienced, I feel that these whispers may be true. That there is a power out there seeking the demise of Lubon’s nobility, and that it seeks to strike me down with them, regardless of my innocence in the dealings of this wretched nation and its wretched partners. I am half the Queen’s blood, so I must die.

Two times now I have come too close to death. I can write these off as coincidences. But should I do that, and then a third time come directed at me, I would be unprepared.

Carrying a pistol now is wise, my beloved. I have begun to carry one as well.

I do not say this to alarm you but to comfort you. I have resolved not to lie to you, and I have resolved not to be so helpless that I must do such a thing. I am strong for you.

For now, we cannot talk of lusty meetings. But I do wish to see you more casually.

How does a picnic around the academy sound, in a few days? I’ll have a disguise.

Living and breathing your name, my treasure,

Salvatrice Vittoria

33-AG-30

Princess,

When you find this note please turn around from your door, head back down a floor, and return my side-arm to me. I cannot run around the school brandishing a rifle.

While you’re there, perhaps talk to me about the man’s shirt. Is it your size, perhaps?

— Centurion Geta

33-AG-30

Impudent gnat,

You absentmindedly left your weapon in my room and I have appropriated it.

As all things in the suite it now belongs to me.

This is what happens when you do not heed my commands.

Find a new side-arm and care for it better.

Stay out of my quarters and stay out of my personal life, legionnaire.

— Your superior

34th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E.

Radiant Salva,

Above everything in the world Salva, I treasure you, and I treasure the confidence that you have in me. When we first met, you casually confided in me your rank. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe I could be friends with a princess; nor that a princess could be so easy to be friends with. So easy to seek comfort in. So easy to fall in love with.

At first I didn’t believe that the only friend you had in the world was that girl Beatrice.

I didn’t believe how other people treated you. How they disdained and abused you in that way unique to polite society, where honeyed words must always sing over those most deep and lashing gestures of hatred. Back then what I wanted more than anything was to take you protect you from all of this, but I could not. I still cannot. All I can do is try to comfort you, and it hurts. I hope only that if you must hurt that I can hurt with you.

You have confided in me many things. All of them I do more than accept: I treasure. I treasure everything I know about those truly unique depths of your heart and soul.

In turn I have confided in you so much and I know you feel the same. Just as I love your secrets you love my own. It is our secrets that have defined our love so much.

You are right that this news distresses me. Of course it would. But I want to be distressed. It cannot compare with what you must be feeling. Today as I drink my tea, read my stories, chat idly with guests and girls, take walks, and have so many options available to me — I know that you are rigidly caged, and now I know that you are hunted too. I want to do so much for you but I know that I cannot. For all we have are these letters and the secrets, our feelings secret, our true selves secret. It does hurt.

I wish that we could have been born in a world that allowed us to love without secrets.

Absent that, I can only say, that my thoughts are always with you, and that should you think of anything I can do to support you, I will do it. Even if it would kill me, I would.

Please protect yourself Salvatrice. Use everything at your disposal and mine.

I cannot think of losing you. I would be well and truly alone with my secrets then.

Your desperate, eternal soulmate,

Carmela Sabbadin

34-AG-30

Princess,

Please arrange a time where we can meet that does not disturb your affairs.

I am done making initial preparations. We need to discuss where to go from here.

Life cannot simply go back to peace while you are endangered.

It is my hope that we can be proactive in rooting out this threat to you.

Then perhaps we can forget it ever happened and return to our lives.

— Centurion Geta

35-AG-30

Centurion,

I can hear your footsteps stomping up my stairs when you deliver these puerile missives to my door. Are you a child suddenly? You need only knock like a normal person.

Next time you compose one of your stupid notes, and decide to bring it to my door, I advice this: swallow the damnable thing and knock. Then you can speak to me.

Should your words please me enough I might deign to discuss some sensitive issues with you. I am willing to give you a chance here. Waste it and you will suffer.

— Princess Vittoria

POSTAL INTERCEPT RECORD, 17TH BLACKSHIRT LEGION

35-AG-30

[report text is slashed across by several lines from an ink pen]

At the Praetor’s request, Rossa interception is to be put on hold. Centurion Geta will take care of any offending material at the point of contact. This is effective immediately and will last until the royal order is reinstated, if it is. Divert all units. — Legatus Marcel

35-AG-30

Salvatrice,

I require your presence. Make your preparations immediately.

Her Highness The Queen Regnant, Empress Of Elvenkind, Guiding Light Of The First Born, Defender Of The Messianic Faithful, Keeper Of The Father-Tree, The Emerald Lady,

Passionale Vittoria II

Last Chapter |~| Next Chapter

Lehner’s Greed (23.4)

This story segment contains sexual content.

44th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Nocht Federation, Republic of Rhinea — City of Junzien

Chocolate prices were becoming outrageous these days; Cecilia Foss grumbled silently to herself as the sweet shop owner fussed with her gift wrap behind the counter.

She couldn’t believe it was fifteen marks just for chocolate hearts in a gift box.

“It’s because you import it, right?” Cecilia asked. “From Kabau. So it jacks up the price.”

Her Frankish accent was noticeable regardless of how much played it down, and it drew the man’s attention for a moment. But he made no point of it except perhaps in his own mind.

“Yes ma’am. Shipping’s bad, you know? With the war and all.” He replied.

“I’m sorry, fifteen marks is just a lot more than I had intended to spend.” Cecilia said.

“It’ll be worth it once you and your gentleman crack this open.” He said cheekily.

Cecilia had no response for that. She drew the paper marks from her wallet and laid them on the counter, and the man pushed her red, heart-shaped, gift-wrapped box toward her.

“Come back after we’ve beaten the communists; Ayvarta’s prime chocolate-growing land. I bet you prices’ll go down and business will boom once we win, yessiree ma’am.”

The secretary deposited her chocolates in a paper bag and left the shop to wait for the trolley.

She dropped a 5-mark into a homeless man’s hat before boarding; he waved; she didn’t see.

Gentle snowfall dusted over the trolley as it descended the hill down Constitution street, toward the Hotel Reich. Cecilia held on to a bar overhead, standing between several commuters. She slipped the brown bag into her coat, and dropped off into the street while the trolley was still going, joining the crowds. Around the corner, the Hotel Reich extended into the gray sky.

In the lobby, Cecilia stopped by a pair of men in black suits and hats who were making full use of a refreshments table set out for potential guests. She showed them her government ID.

“She’s up on the Presidential.” One said. “Y’can’t miss it Miss F.”

“I’ll be staying for a while as we have business we need to hash out.”

“Don’t concern me none, Miss F. You take your time.”

Cecilia waved with the tips of her fingers and left their side, taking the elevator. Reich was a fancy locale, but it didn’t make any impression on her now. Gilded handles and knobs, glossy wood floors, silk curtains, every surface intricately tiled and carved and etched; she had seen this before. Ostentatious decoration lost its effect the hundredth time; or far earlier.

The Presidential Suite was its own floor. From the elevator, there was a landing hall with a bench and a water dispenser, where two Schwartzkopf sat around reading and listening to a baseball game on the radio. She approached them, and they waved; they were familiar faces. Eintz and Schapel did not require anything from her, they knew her to be trustworthy.

“By the way, do not disturb; I’ve some important work with the first lady.” Cecilia said.

“S’already done Miss F.” Eintz said. “Mrs. A told us she’d throw us out the window if we set foot in the room without her explicit permission. We know good ’nuff to believe ‘er.”

Cecilia smiled and nodded, and did the same little finger wave for the men before departing.

Past the little hall, a set of wooden double doors lead into a large foyer with a chandelier, flanked by fish tanks. There was a tea room, a living room, a kitchen, a hot indoor bath, all in their own branches of the suite. Cecilia produced her chocolates, held them behind her back and cut straight to the bedroom door. She knocked on it exactly six times before waiting.

It unlocked; the knob turned and the door opened. Behind it appeared a buxom woman in a bathrobe with a bored-looking expression. Her robe was out of order, exposing some of a breast, some of her pleasantly curved hip, a bit of belly, a plump thigh; her bouncy, wavy, golden hair was collected behind her head, and her lips sported a recent coat of crimson.

“Ta-dah!” Cecilia thrust out the chocolate gift box toward the woman with a smile.

“Chocolates?” Agatha Lehner said dimly. “Are you a teenage boy or a grown woman?”

Cecilia chucked the box over Agatha. It landed on her drawer, knocking things off it.

“Teenage boy then.” Agatha turned her back, marched back to bed, and dropped face-down.

“Tu m’as démasqué.” Cecilia said. She was mildly amused, mildly aggravated.

“Why are you here, Cece?” She moaned. “Doesn’t my husband have a big speech to give?”

“Mary Trueday is returning from Ayvarta, so I am a third wheel.” Cecilia said.

“And you weren’t a third wheel before that? You’re more of a fourth wheel now.”

Cecilia approached the bed, and delivered a firm slap on Agatha’s exposed buttocks.

Agatha jerked forward and groaned softly. She slowly turned herself over in bed, lying on her back and facing the secretary, her face flushing, her robe spread almost completely open.

“Mary is special; the way I see it, I’ve collected both the Lehners now, so it doesn’t count when it’s just us around. It’s different when I’m around her and Achim though.” Cecilia said.

Cecilia threw off her coat and started to pull off her bow tie with one hand while crawling onto the bed. She loomed over the actress, unbuttoning her own vest and shirt with one hand and tracing Agatha’s thigh and up to her belly with the other. In a fit of emotion she descended, sucked the woman’s lips greedily into her own, and then pulled back, whipping her ponytail.

“Don’t do that hair thing, you look ridiculous.” Agatha said softly. “It turns me off.”

Cecilia moved her hand down Agatha’s belly and clutched between her legs.

Agatha moaned, her hips bucked, her back straightened out. She gripped the bedsheets.

“Subtle enough? Cecilia said, grinning, nose to nose with the President’s wife.

“Enough to make me feel a little guilty.” Agatha said, between soft moans and gasps.

Cecilia licked her lips, glancing across the woman with an impish, hungry grin.

“Don’t be. Take it from me; we’re all sinners in this circle, but none more than he.”

* * *

Lehner checked his watch and then the tracks. Despite the old Junzien station expanding its services, that familiar scene, standing on the platform with bated breath, always seemed to recur. There were many trains coming and going, but it was never quite the train he was waiting for — the train that was carrying her to the city for one of those rare visits.

He was flanked by two of his black-hatted Schwartzkopf agents, keeping an eye out.

When the train finally pulled up to the station, they opened the door for him, and ushered him into the silver car, just like when he was a kid. They departed to their own train and left him to his devices. Inside the Presidential car, it was the same as before: the kitchenette, the couches, the table for four. But Sultzer wasn’t there and neither was Nore this time. They couldn’t be, anymore. Instead a lovely woman with earth-tone skin and bright green eyes awaited him.

Kaiserin Mary Trueday; known as Sarahastra Ayvarta II before her conversion.

She looked absolutely stunning — her long, green dress had a sleek silhouette, boasting a complex, bustled skirt and a form-fitting bodice shaped like numerous fronds over her breasts, and delicately baring her slim, brown shoulders. Her black hair had been collected on the sides of her head into braids that met at the back. A dab of pigments on her lean, striking face and lips accentuated her features. She smiled placidly when he arrived and waved at him.

Lehner sat across the table from her. “Hey, is that thing here? Tell her to go.”

He waved dismissively toward Mary’s solid black shadow on the couch.

In an instant it became noticeably thinner. He didn’t catch where it went exactly.

“She’s out now.” Mary said. “She’s got better things to be doing anyway.”

“Good. Creeps me out. I prefer good old fashioned, solid, fleshy murderous goons.”

Mary performed an exaggerated shrug. “You must admit she’s been useful.”

Lehner shrugged too. “Didn’t see her around two years ago when I needed knees capped!”

Mary smiled. “How disrespectful. You should think of her as a mother to us.”

“Ugh. Nobody wants their mother in the room when they’re fooling around.”

He leaned over the table and kissed her, briefly but passionately. Theirs was a long courting, and these brief tastes were enough to sate them until greater privacy could be afforded. They had gotten it down to a science over years of scarce meetings. Things had escalated when the old man and the old woman finally left the picture — but they didn’t want to push it too much. After all, Mary had a reputation to maintain; and Lehner had a lovely wife to placate.

“So, how was home?” Lehner asked. “Everything you thought it’d be?”

“I’m afraid Mamlakha is not exactly what I consider home.” Mary said.

“I’m glad, because we promised that bit of the continent its independence and all.”

Mary laughed delicately. “You look energetic Achim. I’m glad to see you.”

“I can’t be anything but energetic with you.” He said. He dropped the act, for her. He didn’t need to affect his voice. He didn’t need to be snappy and quick with her. She would see through it. She saw through a lot of things. For her, he was happy to drop every pretense.

“I’m glad. I don’t want a partner in crime who is anything less than energetic.”

She was dropping her own act too. She was a lot more wicked than people thought — almost as much as he. Put together, their corrupting influence on each other was simply delightful.

He reached out his hand and took hers over the table, stroking her gently.

“Is your speech prepared for tomorrow?” She said.

“Yeah. Cecilia helped write it. That woman is incredible.” Lehner said.

“In more than one way?” Mary giggled.

Lehner laughed. This was not a shameful thing to them. It was casual. They barely had to comment on it. Both of them lived rather lively existences. They were the hungry sort.

“Hard to believe this is really happening though.” He said. “We used to fantasize about being prince and princess in the South; we’re finally returning to the beginning.”

“I like to see it more in terms of the future, but I agree.” She replied. “I knew my throne would be returned to me eventually. So far I have seen nothing to contradict this.

“Good. Both of us get to have what we want; the big chair, your gold vaults, everything.”

Mary cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, is the big chair really all you want?”

“I could settle for it.” Lehner said teasingly.

“That’s not the wanton man I know.” Mary said sternly.

She sidled across the semi-circular couch surrounding the table, until she was right next to Lehner, and she climbed on him, and pressed her forehead to his. He rubbed against her.

“Mary, I love you. I want you to know that. You’re– you’re really important to me.”

Lehner put his arms around her and pulled her into a mutual embrace, arm over back, cheek to cheek, chest to chest. He felt her presence on him, felt her weight, her warmth.

“There is nobody else with whom I would commit these sins.” Mary said, stroking his hair.

It made everything stand on end, but he controlled it. From her, he just wanted this touch.

He was wanton and hedonistic. He hoarded life’s pleasures, he consumed and devoured. Sex was fine; but in a way, it was being able to hold her like this that he truly desired. To hold her without the judgment of Nore or Makemba between them; to walk hand in hand with her regardless of status, of morality or ethics. Money was great; power was delectable; there was certainly an allure to his status. But he told himself, this was what he wanted.

He wanted this; he wanted her. He wanted it all. Nothing was stopping him now.

45th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Nocht Federation, Republic of Rhinea — City of Junzien, Audible Hall

President Lehner’s State of the Northern Federation Address

Free peoples of the Federation of Northern States.

I am honored to speak with you today.

The State of the Northern Federation is strong, and growing stronger. Through swift, judicious action we have averted the economic gloom that seemed inevitable four years ago.

When I took office, I promised I would revolutionize the way our government works. No more abstractions; no more guesswork; no more arcana. My administration faced reality: we gathered data, conducted inquiries, performed scientific research. We didn’t look at a cloudy sky and pray for rain. We went to the source, found the water, and brought it to the field.

That’s what we promised and what we delivered, economically, militarily, and socially.

Today, our prospects as a nation have never looked brighter.

Financial and regulatory reforms have made available money and material to industries that are creating thousands of new jobs and turning out absolutely necessary equipment.

I am proud to say that Nocht is home to the most advanced industries on the planet. Our medicine, our machinery, our transportation, are second to none, and growing.

Our focus on our heavy industry has paid off, with new factories sprouting all across the Federation, linked by rail and ports and roads that facilitate the flow of our nation’s lifeblood.

Our military is stronger than ever. Two years ago, I foresaw how dangerous the world was becoming and I committed to improving our military, opening more military jobs, improving military industry. We now have one of the largest, and definitely the strongest, army in the world. Our air force is not too far behind, and the Bundesmarine is rapidly improving.

Growing our military is a commitment to protecting our future. I am proud of our men in uniform, and I am proud of the civilians who support and supply them.

All of them keep us safe. They keep the prosperity of the Federation well guarded.

Prosperity that we can expect to last for a long time.

We have made it easier than ever to access all the fine things in life. Record numbers of people are owning homes, buying cars, taking out loans to start their own businesses. Never before have so many opportunities been given to hard-working men and women to get an education, a job, and reap the rewards. You put in the sweat, Jack, and I’ll always have your back.

I talk often about mathematics: here the mathematics are simple. By cutting red tape, lowering taxes, expanding private industries and giving them incentives to conduct efficient work, we have reached new levels of production and economic prosperity.

The numbers are there. You can even go look at them.

And yet, despite our internal prosperity, we are still part of a wider world, and we cannot look at ourselves alone. We have been blessed with resources that make us a leader among nations, and those resources are now being called to complete a crucial task.

There are events transpiring in the world that deserve your attention. Until now my lips were sealed on these events overseas, to protect our men in uniform. It was never my intention to mislead you, but when you sit in the big chair, well, there are considerations.

Here are the facts you’ve been waiting for as to the events of the past three weeks.

On the 18th of the Aster’s Gloom we coordinated with our allies to launch a series of military actions against the Socialist Dominances of Solstice with an aim to liberate its territories and establish a new popular government with Mary Trueday as one of the heads of state.

We started the fight with a limited deployment. Reinforcements are now on the way.

We hit the communists hard with new techniques and new equipment that has helped to minimize our casualties while rapidly advancing and overwhelming the enemy.

Over the course of the next two weeks we liberated vast swathes of territory.

I dare say, folks, we’ll be sweeping the place up in a year.

Already we have liberated the massive lands of Adjar and Shaila in the south of Ayvarta.

There is dancing on the streets in Bada Aso, in Knyskna, in Dori Dobo!

Freedom reigns in Ayvarta for the first time in decades!

Even as we speak, the White Army of civil war fame reassembles in the liberated lands to take back their homeland from the communists. In the territories freed from the tyranny of the communists, a fervor for freedom rises that will sweep the red despots well away! People are organizing freely, finally able to exercise freedom of speech, assembly, expression!

They are grateful to us, and they are willing to join our fight. It is a fight for their very lives.

Just like we back our own people when they are hurting, we must support the people of this once-great nation, who have been suffering under the yoke of totalitarian communism.

Over the course of the Ayvartan Great Terror of 2008 to 2014, these men and women; young professionals, clergy, politicians, scientists, even children, were driven from their homes for resisting the communist encroachment on their lives and livelihoods. Those who remained did so under a dogmatic government that threatened their liberties if they dared oppose it.

Tyrants like Daksha Kansal killed millions for their crooked ideology!

Communism has the blood of untold millions on its hands!

We committed, during the civil war, to fighting this! To backing a legitimate government!

We did not fulfill this commitment at the time, when we well should have.

When we hosted Empress Mary Trueday, and thousands of refugees during those heinous events over twenty years ago, I believe we also committed to doing right by them when the opportunity asserted itself. As Ayvarta grew more militant against its neighbors, operations in Cissea and Mamlakha were launched in 2026 through 2029, first by President Kantor, and then finished by myself. Ayvarta proved itself a threat to peace and freedom.

We recognized the Socialist Dominances of Solstice under President Kieselman. This was nothing less than a mistake, a grave mistake. The Socialist Dominances of Solstice is a rogue state. We should not have negotiated with these terrorists. We should have isolated them. President Kantor began to take measures; and I greatly accelerated them.

We let people come to harm by our inaction; and I refuse to allow that to happen again.

The Federation of Northern States is done biding its time in the face of terror!

The Hydras are a massive destabilizing force in our world. They have launched cowardly terror attacks on us and on our allies. They condemn our form of government and laugh at our civil liberties. They hate us for the fact that we are free and thriving without their ideology.

And they subject their own unwilling people to their cruel and inhuman discipline.

We’re putting the brakes on that nonsense.

We will not fear the Ayvartan terror any more.

The Nocht Federation is a force for good in the world. We will take a multifaceted approach to isolating, overrunning, and ultimately defeating Ayvarta. Nothing less will do.

You may feel trepidation at the thought of another war, when our country had hit such a high point in this brief period of peace. I understand your fears. In the coming week, we will launch a campaign in the home front to build trust and support, and friendship with our allies.

It is my hope that once you have all the information in your hands, you will understand my position. You will understand that the time has come to rid the world of a great evil.

There are sacrifices that will have to be made to succeed. But I promise you that this deployment is being handled with the utmost care. We have our best troops, armed with the latest equipment, and meticulously planned strategy. Not a single mark will go to waste.

Militarily, we will defeat the Red Terrorism that has taken root in Ayvarta; and in the diplomatic, humanitarian realm, we will support and carry out the repatriation of all of the proud people that were displaced by the communists, so that their country may once again flourish in the international stage under their guidance, as it well should.

We have allies from two major nations who have committed to joining the fight.

We do not stand alone! Praise the Allied Powers of Hanwa and Lubon!

They are our brothers and sisters in this fight! They see the justice in our cause!

We are committed to the independence of Mamlakha, and the membership of Cissea into our Federation. We will fight today, so that we can reap the benefits of a more stable world tomorrow. We will fight today, so that tomorrow our children do not have to fear that they will be killed on the streets by anarchists and reds. We will fight today, so that all of the nations of the world can look to tomorrow in a spirit of cooperation and not animosity.

We will fight today, for a victory tomorrow! For a freer, more peaceful world!

Victory for Nocht! Put your fist to your heart, my patriots, and shout it with me!

Sieg für Nocht! Sieg für Nocht! SIEG FÜR NOCHT!

* * *

The Secretary smiled at her handiwork. “Ohh, it sent shivers down my spine, Achim.”

The Television was an enormous wooden apparatus on the opposite side of the room from the bed, just beside the doorway. It was as big as a jukebox, though the screen was about the size of an adult’s head. In its somewhat foggy cathode-ray tube they watched Lehner deliver his big speech in one of the three programming channels available, and the only one with regular programming, running communiques produced by the government. Neither of them had slept over for this, but it was a nice touch to wake up in time for the noon address.

It certainly beat watching optical illusions and other nonsense on the experimental channels run by the electric company, while they waited to cool off between their sessions.

Cecilia stretched her arm and smacked a wired panel on the wall, shutting the set off.

She sat up in bed, breasts bared, rubbing her eyes; she was naked, but there was nobody to see save for Agatha, lying beside her with her back to a pillow and a cigarette in her lips. She was just as naked. They had spent over twenty hours sharing this state of being.

“I wrote almost all of that myself.” Cecilia bragged. “Achim’s delivery completed it.”

“Congratulations.” Agatha said sarcastically.

“God, is there any time you’re not giving cheek? What did you think of it?”

“I’m not convinced by a word my husband says anymore, but I’m not the average voter.” Agatha said, blowing a little cloud. “I might be bias in that regard, you could say.”

Despite the air conditioning Cecilia was covered in cold sweat. Her blond ponytail had been ripped free, and her hair now hung long, and messy. She shook her head to clear the fog.

“I should go downstairs or something. I stayed overnight. It might look weird to them.”

“Who cares?” Agatha said. “Achim knows about this, doesn’t he? What can they do?”

Cecilia smiled. “I’ve not exactly made an effort to let him know. He probably doesn’t care.”

Agatha sighed deeply. “You and I are both the third wheels here. He already has his love.”

Cecilia snatched the cigarette from Agatha’s finger and took a drag herself.

“Don’t let it mortify you, Agatha. You were always more my type than him anyway.”

She made to stand up from the bed, but barely turned over the side when Agatha nearly jumped at her, pulling her back, marking her neck with a kiss. “Stay with me a little, Cece.”

“If you insist, Aggie.” replied the secretary. Agatha’s hands interlocked just over her chest. She raised her own hands, and squeezed Agatha’s fingers. She smiled. “Achim can wait a bit.”

* * *

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Lehner’s Greed (23.3)

This story segment contains death and some strong language.

23rd of the Postill’s Dew, 2014 D.C.E

Nocht Federation — Republic of Rhinea, City of Junzien

16 years before the Solstice War.

It was a new year at the Seminary of Saint Romagna, but the same old intrusions.

His father and Makemba had sent Sarahastra to a Messianic seminary to complete her education. They tried to be diplomatic about it, telling them they could see each other on holidays. Over time both their guardians had grown weary of the orchestrated rendezvous that the two teenagers had every few weeks or months or whenever an opportunity arose. Really this course of action had been taken entirely because they thought it would limit them further.

They were utterly mistaken. Nore had clearly forgotten two things 1) the Von Fiegelman inheritance from his wife’s side of the family had all gone to Achim, by her own wishes, and 2) that marks could solve any problem. Achim dropped a few notes at the seminary gate and he had the run of the place. It was a dismal little college on the southern countryside of Junzien.

A broad open field split the campus. A few gabled dormitory buildings stood to one side, and the square school buildings stood to the other. At the end of a long trail downhill there was a barnyard, stacks of hay, grazing cows and clucking hens near a rushing little brook.

It felt confining. It was apart from civilization. It was like a little prison for young girls.

That was part of it too; a prison. Because President Kieselman and the Congress had recognized the Socialist Dominances of Solstice. Nore wanted Sarahastra to give up on her claims now.

But Achim knew she was not giving up on that, and she was not giving up on him either.

Just before the dawn they met near one of the barns, the gate guard having agreed to look the other way. Achim took Sarahastra in his arms and kissed her, briefly but passionately.

Sarahastra smiled at him charmingly. If he knew her, then that preternatural intuition of hers had prepared her for this. Who knows; perhaps she could even taste the kiss ahead of time.

“You naughty boy; you’ll never be president if you sneak around like this.” She said.

“I’m sure plenty of presidents have done worse than this.” Achim replied.

They both laughed together. Standing behind the barn wall, they held each other closely. This is what they had to do; theirs was a secret love. It felt romantic, and there was never a dearth of excitement — every time they saw each other’s faces after a few weeks or months, the ensuing kiss felt like the very first. They had greater impulses, sometimes; but they were patient.

They walked around the side of the barn, down a little hill toward the brook, watching the chickens and cows. Sarahastra was modestly dressed, with a cream-colored shawl and a long blouse and skirt. Her hair was tied into a simple braid. He jokingly compared her to a nun.

“You say that, but there are women here looking to become nuns.” She said.

“By their own will?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Have you given it any thought, my virtuous maiden?” Achim asked teasingly.

“I’m too much of a sinner for that.” Sarahastra replied, waving her hand dismissively. “But I might change my name. It might help my prospects in the future.”

Achim promptly changed the subject. “So what are you studying here?”

“General things. Arithmetic, literature appropriate for girls. Poetry. Bird-watching.”

“Bird-watching?”

“Bird-watching.”

They looked at each other and chuckled at the absurdity of it.

“This is really more of a place to seclude your rebellious daughter until you’re ready to cart her off to some rich boy, than it is a school. Some girls here have very sad stories.”

Achim shook his head. Had he been able to knock down the walls and take her out he would have. He couldn’t, not right now, but he would someday. He knew that he would.

“So that’s what Makemba wants you to do now? Give up the throne, find a husband?”

“Perhaps. She’s got a storm coming if she thinks that will happen.” Sarahastra said.

“My father keeps pushing me to go into law. I have barely any motivation to do it.” Achim said. “This is all his ideas; I don’t really care about it. I don’t know what to do, to be honest.”

“Didn’t you want to be President, like him?”

“That’s just the dreaming of a foolish boy. How does one even become President?”

“From what I’ve studied so far, it’s a combination of charm and money.”

Achim chuckled, a bit bitterly. “I guess I’m set then.”

“Also a little ruthlessness.”

“That’s more Dietrich than me.”

“You could stand to have a little more. It’s appealing in a way.”

“Unlike him, I’ve got nothing to be ruthless about.”

Sarahastra stepped out in front of him suddenly and they almost bumped their faces together. She had her hands behind her back and a solemn look on her face. She stared directly into her eyes. He could see himself in the green, they were so close. His golden hair, pink-pale skin, sharp and angular features — he was almost like the opposite of her in form.

“I had a vision again, Achim.” She said solemnly.

He blinked. “What did you see?”

She leaned in and kissed him, taking his lips into her own.

He felt her tongue enter his mouth, and he stood transfixed, holding her by the waist.

They kissed until the breath left them, and they parted.

She raised her hands to his shoulders, and stared deep into his eyes.

“I saw a great hunger in you, Achim. Ambition and power and strength. You’ll be surrounded, beloved, revered even. You might not see this in yourself now. But you will.”

Achim smiled at her, staring fondly into her eyes. To him those voracious portents sounded sweet and affirming. Sarahastra had a way with abstractions and metaphor.

“What about you, Sarahastra? Did you see anything about yourself?”

“I did. I’ll be right there with you, Achim. Just as voracious and indomitable.”

He would not foresee the chain of casual events that would spawn from that point; of growth, of change, each instant natural by itself but secretly interlocking in a wrought iron chain lashed across the entire world. He could not foresee in just the way those words would unfold.

To him, it was just her encouragement, the words that gave him the courage to climb that tree as a child, the words that gave him the courage to go against his father’s wishes.

45th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2025 D.C.E

Nocht Federation — Republic of Rhinea, City of Junzien

5 Years Before The Solstice War

“Whoa, jeez, now I know why they call you people movie stars!” He said excitedly.

Agatha looked him over, an eyebrow raised. “Oh, and why do you say that?”

Achim Lehner smiled at her. “You’re shining so bright I’m going blind over here.”

Agatha burst out laughing. Everything from his delivery to the way his lips curled into a little grin after speaking, suggested that he was deadly serious. This was him turning up the charm. She giggled girlishly in his presence, and he was thoroughly unfazed by it. He continued to smile and his eyes were looking her over confidently. None of his facade was shaken.

“Thanks, thank you! I only play big venues; but I’d do your birthday, doll.” He continued.

“You have quite a poker face.” Agatha replied. She raised her hand delicately over her lips.

“Not too shabby about the cards part either; I tend to win.” He replied.

“And do you think you’ve won here yet, Mr. Lehner?” She pressed him.

“Well, I don’t consider this a game, not with my eyesight on the line.”

Agatha nearly burst into laughter again. “I see. You’re persistent.”

“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea, you want me gone, I’ll leave. I don’t want to burn up; I’ve got long term plans for these peepers, let me tell ya. Would be mighty inconvenient.”

She giggled again. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted him around at the moment.

Perhaps he was that good; or perhaps he was just lucky. They were at a social to celebrate a new film, and he was the only interesting face in the crowd. Her fellow actresses and some of the crew were the only other young faces in a small crowd composed mostly of investors and industry big-shots with grey hair. Lehner was the youngest-looking man in the crowd. She knew him a little; he was one of the financiers for the film, because he was interested in talkies. He was interested in the technology behind it, being able to have a movie with voices.

So he dropped a lot of money; enough money he got to walk on the set and look at the cameras, and he got to shake everyone’s hands, including her own, and talk to them briefly.

Now the film was done, and everyone was celebrating. Of course he would be here too. He had a lot of money to his name, and he had put that money, and his name, on this film.

When she started to notice him, she realized that, silly lines aside, she found him handsome. Slicked-back golden hair, interesting and angular features, bright eyes, and a dimpled smile. He had a lean and attractive build. He didn’t look athletic, but he took care of himself. He was older than her, maybe by five or six years, and she was barely twenty-five herself. She thought him kind of slippery, like a gangster in a movie, a flashy smile and a covered knife. His name vaguely reminded her of something, but she didn’t know; she started filling in blanks.

Perhaps he was that good; or perhaps it was just her fancy. But she didn’t recoil from him.

Agatha smiled at him. “I will contain my incandescence near you, Mr. Lehner.”

Lehner mockingly wiped sweat from his forehead and chuckled lightly at himself.

She rolled her eyes visibly at him, but she didn’t ditch him quite yet.

“So what brings you into my orbit, Enyalio?” Agatha said. She was smarter and better read than the girls he tried his stupid lines on — and she wanted him to know that up front.

“Well, I noticed you’re both alone and not drinking, and I can relate.” Lehner replied.

Again, he was thoroughly unfazed. He treated her very casually still.

“Well, I am unafraid of being by myself; and my family wasn’t the drinking type.”

“Ha ha! My family were like goddamn monks; it was exhausting.”

Agatha prodded his chest with her index finger. “Are you an obedient boy then?”

“I’ve done my dad so many behind his back, I figure I should be good sometimes.”

“Indeed. My whole career is like that; so I have a lot to make up for.” Agatha said.

More people started to arrive, but compared to Lehner they felt like the same old. Hand-in-hand they navigated the party, soaking in all the jokes, the boasts from the financiers and the actresses, the declarations that this film would practically shake the theater-goers for their extra pennies. They navigated it all right out of the apartment the party was held in and to a balcony, under a light snowfall, overlooking the streets of Junzien. At night, the world below them was a succession of tiny, colored lights, and shadows flitting about beneath them.

Unprompted, Lehner removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She shot him a look, but he was already staring over the guard rails and smiling at nothing in the distance.

He looked dreamily out into the distance, as if entranced by something. “It looks perfect, like you carved it out of a rock. It looks powerful; brutal. Look at how it’s grown, goddamn. Makes you wonder about yourself. How have the buildings gotten so huge, and you haven’t?”

“Probably because I don’t have a crew of burly men putting cement around me.”

“Hah! True, too true! People are built up a lot more haphazardly than a skyscraper.”

“I can see what you’re saying, however.” She searched the coat he had dropped over her, and hit the jackpot, as she expected — his lighter and his cigarettes. They were even mint-flavored. “A distance like this evokes feelings in the extreme. So I try to keep from staring too hard.”

“Indeed.” Lehner looked sobered up, brought down from his imaginings. “And behind that dark beauty, the city’s not doing so well these days. Neither is the country for that matter.”

Agatha looked on. She was pretty connected with the news on most days. She always read the paper and listened to the radio when she could, just to have something to talk to with all the people she was expected to meet with. Though she wanted to disagree with Lehner, she couldn’t find a way to make the outlook sunnier. There had been bombings, and big union strikes and lockouts, and there was tension with Ayvarta over the independence of Cissea and Mamlakha, wherever those countries were. Outside the world of film, things looked dark.

Still, her natural instinct with people like Lehner was to be charmingly disagreeable.

“Have you room to talk, hun? What have you done for the world lately?” She said.

Lehner laughed. “You’re right, I haven’t done much. But I’ve got big dreams.”

She grinned. “I hope your ambitions are loftier than just producer credits.”

“You like your men ambitious?” Lehner asked, grinning back like a fox.

“I think men are a waste if they aren’t.” Agatha said saucily, admitting to nothing.

Lehner laughed. “Good call; hey, how’s this sound. I’m gonna run for President.”

Agatha burst out laughing. “Will you woo the nation with your pick-up lines?”

He faced her and looked her seriously in the eyes. She raised her head defiantly to meet his.

“I’ve got a trade secret; but you can stick around and find out, doll.” He said.

His fingers tapped on her shoulder childishly. She thought he might lean in to a steal a kiss, but he did nothing. Nothing but lock with her eyes and grin right in her face. She grinned back in retaliation, broke off from him, and settled against the guard-rail on the balcony.

Lighting one of his cigarettes, blowing a cloud into the cold, Agatha Lubitsch smirked.

“I just might take you up on that, Lehner. I feel a little more rebellious than normal.”

Maybe everyone else was too boring that night; or maybe she really believed him somehow.

She accompanied him to his door and then his bed. There was certainly something there.

10th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2027 D.C.E

Nocht Federation — Republic of Rhinea, City of Junzien, Hotel Reich

2 Weeks Before 2027 Federal Elections

3 Years Before The Solstice War

“I’m begging you pops, don’t do this to him. Don’t do this now for messiah’s sakes.”

“I’m doing what I should have done and instilling a tougher discipline on a wanton child.”

Dietrich stood on the far end of the room. He was dressed in his grey jacket, his peaked cap, his iron eagle, ring cross and General’s pins prominently on his chest. Around him the suite was very dimly lit, and the seemingly perpetual snowdrift of Rhinea battered against the windows and darkened the night sky. Though unbowed, Dietrich’s had a grim expression; his hands were closed into helpless fists at his sides; drops of melted snow shook off his heavy shoulders.

At the window, Nore Lehner gazed down at the snowy streets, packed with people. Taxi cabs came and went to the Reich, dropping men and women of high society who had come to hear the elder statesman give his presidential endorsement. Nore remained where he stood; the only thing he deigned to show Dietrich was the bald spot on the back of his head, ringed by thinning gray hair. He was only half-ready for the big night ahead, his tie still discarded, his shoes on the floor, his shirt and vest unbuttoned and wrinkled. Dietrich had practically ambushed him.

“Why did you even come here Dietrich? Shouldn’t you be in the islands?” Nore casually asked.

“I returned because I got wind of what you were going to do.” Dietrich said.

Nore shook his head. He lifted a cigar to his lips and lit it up. His reflection flashed briefly in the darkened window. When he spoke he seemed to muse to himself. “Ah yes, Mary, betraying me again. Despite all that I have done for her, that girl has never respected my wishes. Was Achim with her when she told you this? By any chance did you catch them in bed?”

“You’re going way too fucking far with this.” Dietrich said. “They might be afraid of standing up to you but I’m not. I’m not your child. I’ve watched you disrespect them enough already.”

Nore scoffed. Respect? His aimless and disgraceful child deserved no such thing. He had gone behind his back in every possible way. He had betrayed every confidence that had been given to him and now he expected everyone to be silent about his behavior? He could use his mother’s inheritance and his movie stocks to bludgeon others. Not his own father. He had forsaken his career in law, he had married some floozy actress on a whim, all the while taking Mary as well against his wishes. Every disgrace he could think of, that boy had committed.

“Stand up to me how, Dietrich? Will you beat me up like Achim’s men beat up Schlegger for digging too deep? Will you dig up dirt on me like he did to the bishop so he could have him by the sleeve? Will you try to buy my endorsement like Achim’s so-called organizers do in churches and colleges? I’m just an old man now, Dietrich. Your tricks don’t work on me.”

Dietrich’s fists started to shake. “God damn it pops, you can’t do this! After all this time you want to be the first one to put a dagger behind his back? What do you think this solves?”

“I feel death coming, Dietrich. My child needs to be taught a lesson before I am taken.”

“Taught a lesson in what? How much he failed to become exactly like you? That’s the problem, isn’t it? You kept barring him from everything he wanted; now that he’s realizing it–”

“Achim’s ambitions are a disgrace to this country.” Nore said, raising his voice. He sounded sore, but his sore voice was ready to carry his justice forward. He was not turning around. He did not deign to give Dietrich a look at his wizened, weather-beaten face. “Dietrich, you are blind to him because you love him, but he is my son. I know his barbarism. Achim is a wanton beast with no respect, nothing but naked greed. He is not fit for this office and he never has been. I will not let him ride my surname to power to satisfy his frivolous desires.”

“Then I hope part of your speech involves taking responsibility for him.” Dietrich said coldly.

“He strayed from being my son of his own will just as he has strayed from this country’s ideals of his own will. All he believes in are marks and guns. He is a thief, a liar and a gangster. Our country will never recover from the poison he is seeping into our politics unless he is–”

“Look around you.” Dietrich said. He hadn’t moved a step from door of the hotel suite. “None of this happened overnight you old fool. You think Achim is only doing this to piss you off? He smells the blood in the water, everyone does. Our country is falling. We are dragging out wars, throwing away money and losing respect in the world. Achim knows it is because of men like Kantor who have no ambition, who think everything will resolve itself if you close your eyes–”

“Do not speak this disrespect, boy.” Nore shouted, interrupting Dietritch. He finally turned around, and he raised his arm and pointed sharply at the younger man as though his jabbing index finger would fly across the room and stab him. “You serve under President Kantor. Or did you just join the army in the hopes of being Achim’s dog one day? Has he brainwashed you so thoroughly that you cannot see the blind, deathly hunger behind his every action?”

Dietrich smiled suddenly. He laughed. He shook his head. “He has what you never did; ambition. And that’s what scares you. You always rolled over. Achim claws at his cage.”

“You are hopeless.” Nore said. “I do not wish to speak you, now, or ever again. Soon I will leave the world behind and I will never have to consider how great my failures here have been.”

Dietrich shook his head. “Then I only hope you leave the world soon.”

Nore narrowed his eyes at him. Dietrich turned around and promptly left the room.

Then came a wrenching pain, almost as soon as the door swung shut.

Around the room the shadows deepened. His vision swam. He felt as if something was burrowing through his chest. Heaving for breath, unable to stand, the ex-President fell to the ground. He flailed his arms and tried to crawl, clawing at the carpet while gasping for air.

Click.

From the outside the door locked. As his senses left him, Nore heard several pairs of footsteps. Were Eintz and Schapel in on this too? Everything was fading. Shadows everywhere.

Achim, he thought, as the shadows overcame him.

When did you stop listening? Why?

* * *

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