The Past Will Come Back As A Tidal Wave [13.7]

Atop a machine mostly covered by tarps, there was an exposed section of freshly installed hydraulics. A young engineer stood on a rolling work platform, covering the hydraulics with a piece of exactingly stitched armor plate. Their long, salmon-pink dyed hair partially tucked away into a bun within a fire-retardant synthetic wrap, and a protective mask covered their round, soft-featured face. A fire retardant jumpsuit and gloves protected their body, a bit short and a bit plush, not as toned as that of their more traditionally soldier-like companions but fit enough for duty. They had the strength and the stamina to pick up the heavy welding gun and the dexterity to precisely join the segments of plate. They bumped one of their breasts on the railings, and it smarted, but they were careful of the rest.

With an almost meditative focus, without shaking or flinching, they completed the weld.

They then removed their mask and hair cap to better appreciate the fruit of their labor.

Pink hair falling over their fair face, pushed aside by soft but skillful hands.

Valya Lebedova wiped the sweat off their brow and smiled at the freshly welded plate.

Running that gentle hand across the smooth join. This was some of their best work.

“It’s coming together. Soon we’ll test for seaworthiness.” They said to themself.

They had been keeping themselves quite busy since docking at Aachen.

While the officers and the security team were engaged with the United Front, the Brigand’s engineers were giving the ship and its weapons another tune-up, taking inventory, and running the stitchers day and night to resupply their stock of spare parts as well as replace worn parts. They were also continuing the work of building cooperation with the Rostock and its engineers– something made much easier by the invention of ZaChat.

All the while, Valya had been working in the hangar on the squadron’s Heavy Divers.

Working with machines suited them well. They considered themself an acceptable pilot, but not an exceptional one like Khadija, whom they could barely keep up with, or Shalikova, who piloted boldly and aggressively. Even Murati, who was also somewhat overshadowed by Khadija and Shalikova, was still stronger and more skilled in battle than Valya. In a mecha, Valya was a grunt, an additional gun. But with tools in their hand, and the time to spend, they could do work on the machines that was more unique than the efficient and routine maintenance taught by the academy and reproduced unerringly by the average engineer.

Valya had been out in there, in the sea, had been shot at, had shot back–

It was terrifying– but it imparted a personal knowledge of how the machine operated.

And what a pilot valued out of the machine, and how to optimize for those eccentricities.

An engineer working on dozens of Streloks had to be efficient, but Valya could be exacting.

Not only in tuning up and repairs– the Brigand across its battles had collected a stock of captured or surrendered enemy equipment, as well as broken-down hulls and other miscellany from their own damage and losses. There was a sizeable pile of metal to break down and reuse, as well as an entire hull that was surrendered by Sieglinde Castille. Valya wanted to do something with it– they had been working on assembling a brand new mecha working off these materials. To make use of the advanced hull Sieglinde brought in.

Whether or not it saw immediate use, they could always find a home for more machines.

Thankfully for Valya, Murati had been incredibly supportive of their ideas.

With assistance from the engineers, and Khadija’s support, they were given the time and space to work on engineering projects were it related to the Divers as a special member of the hangar crew. Khadija would have to have more standby time when out at sea because of this, as the first-line standby pilots were originally her and Valya– but she was nice enough to agree. Some of the burden was also taken up by Sameera, who volunteered to be on standby much more often. Valya was lucky to have such supportive comrades.

Everyone was careful not to talk about it as if Valya would be replaced and join the engineers. Valya knew Murati could not promise that, since the available candidates to replace anyone on the squadron were in a state of flux. Aiden had been demoted to a sailor, the Rostock could not spare more crew, and Homa Baumann was a big, ambiguous maybe. Valya had no illusions that they would be going out and fighting if needed, and they had no reservations against doing so. They were fighting a war and Valya was a soldier.

“Hey, are you going to marry that weld? You’ve been staring at it for long enough.”

Valya looked down at the base of the work platform, where a tall woman waved at them.

They smiled back at her. “Hey, let me have this moment!” They laughed.

Soon they joined their aunt Galina Lebedova on the hangar floor.

Galina was the Chief Technician overseeing all aspects of engineering and maintenance work on the ship. She looked the part– tall, muscular, broad-chested, wearing the standard work coveralls, but with her own flair too. She wore makeup, complimenting her round, friendly face, and when she was not engaged in work she wore the coveralls halfway down, off her shoulders. This exposed the bodysuit she wore beneath, and the impressive definition of her body. Her dark hair was dyed, much like Valya’s was, but with small streaks of blue.

Valya felt quite small near their aunt, but they were used to it.

The Lebedovich family was quite fecund, with Valya having many siblings and many cousins and many older folks and being among the smallest of their generation. They were spread out all over the Union. Valya was part of the generation that grew up with the Union’s ideal toward child rearing and was raised by the state more than by their parents.

Whenever the kids all got to visit their parents, and the parents’ own siblings and relatives joined in, the actual, massive scope of the family came into stark relief.

Nevertheless, Valya felt that they acquitted themselves well enough among their family.

After all, only two members of their family were on this suicidal black ops mission.

It would be an impressive bit of their resume if they came back, however!

“How is it coming along? Have you given it a name yet?” Galina asked.

“Not yet. I might entreat Murati or the other pilots to name it.” Valya said.

“Sounds like a fun idea. Maybe you could make it a ship-wide contest.”

“I’d rather not draw that much attention to the whole thing.” Valya said sheepishly.

Galina looked up at the tarp-covered mass, the machine Valya had been building.

“You’ve come a long way Valya. I remember when you were just a kid tinkering with a little quadrotor you won as a prize at school.” Lebedova said. She reached out and laid a hand on Valya’s head and messed up their hair. Valya protested only mildly. “Now you’re turning out to be a wizard with the spare parts here. Everyone is excited to see what you cooked up.”

Valya felt a bit nostalgic, recalling that little machine. They had largely forgotten it.

Life had been filled with projects for Valya, they had always been busy in school–

And once they were awed by the power of a Diver, there was no turning back from that.

Tinkering with rotor revolutions and weight-shifting on a drone was literally child’s play.

A Diver represented the power of the future. Murati could see that too.

Maybe– Murati could see it more than anyone.

After all, it was because of Murati protesting, that Valya had gotten practical pilot training.

Many, many years ago in the Academy– not that Murati knew that.

But it was this which led Valya to value Murati’s insights.

They turned to their aunt with a carefree smile.

“Well, they will see it soon! I honestly think I’ll have it ready in a day or two!” Valya said.

“Hmm. Has anyone pulled you aside and made you have any fun lately?” Galina said.

She leaned into Valya with a skeptical expression on her face.

Valya leaned back a bit. “I’m doing what I like, and I like what I do. So there’s no problem.”

Galina drew back with a sigh. “I just can’t help but notice it– with how busy you are–”

“Notice what?” Valya said.

“Well, at first I thought you might be getting on with Khadija, at least–”

Valya started waving their hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not– I haven’t ever–”

“I mean, I know that now obviously.” Galina said. She made an exaggerated sigh that clued Valya on to the fact that they were being teased. “In this ship where passions are always burning so bright– I bet your parents will be disappointed when you return home without bringing a nice girl to introduce to them. They are expecting some grandkids you know?”

“They can forget it! I don’t want one child let alone six!” Valya said, crossing their arms.

Chief Lebedova burst out laughing. Valya narrowed their eyes and stared critically.

Mighty thankful that the Union state and its laws could thwart their parent’s demands.

“Besides, I don’t see you settling down with a ‘nice sailor boy’ either.” Valya shot back.

“My time has passed.” Galina shrugged. “Now that I have fully disappointed all of my own close family with my sapphism and whimsy, I can live my life as I choose free of their dour expectations. I have left such things to the next generation. Please pick up the slack for me.”

“What are you even saying? I refuse!” Valya said, knowingly playing up their reticence.

Despite all the teasing, Valya got along well enough with Galina.

Though they would not admit it, Galina was someone they aspired to become.

Valya could empathize with Murati’s desire to someday command a ship.

Their ambitions, however, were fixed squarely on the shop floor and its machines.

Commanding respect and organizing all of the hangar tech as Chief Technician.

Everything tuned up to their specification; and an entire floor working on their designs!

Maybe the Union could promote Murati and take on Valya alongside someday.

And perhaps a refined version of the machine under the tarp could fill their hangar.

“Valya, I did want to talk to you about something serious.” Galina said. She looked around the hangar. Valya thought she knew what it was about– Gunther had taken the day and was out in the station. As soon as Galina got to speaking again, Valya had her suspicions confirmed. “Murati approached me about Gunther– I obviously don’t mind anyone lodging complaints for any reason. I just wanted you to know, he is ordinarily a very quiet and work-oriented guy. I know you have had to pick up the slack for him a bit, and it might feel unfair. But I think he just isn’t used to how spontaneous things have been on this ship. He is very– rules oriented. And a lot of disorder has been brought in. Can you give him a chance, for me?”

Valya shook their head. They didn’t mean to get directly involved in Gunther’s situation, but given how they worked closely with Murati, it was an easy assumption to make.

They would not pretend that they were unrelated.

“It’s not necessarily about it being unfair to me. I think it’s unfair to the pilots. Gunther is the frontline guy for the Divers, I know there must be a lot of pressure on him but if he makes a mistake or doesn’t get to something, it could be lethal for Murati and the others. It could be lethal for me. That’s why I am trying to take care of everything myself. If you, Murati and the Captain would formally make me an engineer, I would sort everything out.”

They stuck out their chest with a proud little smile. Almost sure that they were sparkling.

Galina sighed a bit, crossed her arms. After a moment, she replied. “I’ll talk to the captain. I’m sure someone from here or from the Rostock or hell, even the John Brown, could take your seat as a pilot. Aiden was not an especially useful addition to the sailing crew– I would have a lot less to worry about if I could fob off more work on you.” She winked.

Valya frowned in response.

Only at the last snide remark– they were excited at the prospect of joining the engineers.

“I won’t disappoint you– but I will complain to Semyonova if you are unfair to me!”

“I guess you’d still be in the officer’s union huh? What a pain.” Galina joked.

The two of them shared a bit of laugh to show the situation was not too serious.

“I can’t make any promises. But the hangar crew would love to have you.” Galina said.

Valya nodded their head. It felt like they were so close to their personal goals now.

They would do whatever was required of them for the mission to succeed. That much would never change. However, confidence did not come easily to little Valya– and with each passing day, they were becoming more confident in their mechanical skills.

Soon, they would prove that to everyone.


“Ah, master, you look so positively radiant in the captain’s seat.”

“Heh, I do, don’t I? I imagined this moment so many times. I bet I pull it off exactly.”

“Indeed, indeed. Have you thought about what you will say when you order a fusillade?”

“Absolutely. Of course I have thought about it. It’s integral to morale. Every word.”

“Then master, why not roleplay a full attack, so that you might perfect your technique?”

“You know, Aatto– you’re completely right. As I ask others to prepare, I too must do so.”

Murati was in such a vital mood she saw nothing silly about this proposition.

A Captain was a figure of strength, a symbol to the crew, just as much as their function as an element of battlefield control. Every aspect, every gesture, had to command respect and dignity. Such things as élan and esprit de corps might have sounded unscientific to some persons, but a soldier’s enthusiasm and sense of belonging to a professional unit had tangible effects on their performance in battle. Soldiers respected and motivated by their officers put on a greater effort to the bitter end than bored, abused grunts did.

So in the middle of the day at an unspecific hour of no other meaning–

Murati stood up from her chair, put on a deadly grin and pointed her index finger.

Her arm was perfectly straight, precisely parallel to the ceiling.

Just as her lips parted, with her bridge staring in confusion (rapt attention)–

The door opened, and a seemingly young woman in a suit and vest walked in nonchalantly–

“Murati–?” she said, but would not be heard until the weighty deed was finished–

“All guns, drown them out with thunder! Continuous barrage!” Murati shouted.

She then realized someone had entered, and her head suddenly snapped to the door.

Dropping her arm, staring. Feeling self-conscious and strangely surveilled.

At her right-hand, Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa stared as if seeking confirmation.

“Um, that was a simulation.” Murati said, waving her hands. “Forget it, carry on.”

Everyone on the bridge seemed to shrug off the moment pretty easily.

Murati, however, felt rather silly that she had been seen doing so by Euphrates.

Standing at the door, an impish grin on her face, with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Having a lot of fun with the big chair, Murati?” Euphrates said. “Let me join you!”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, she crossed in front of Murati and Aatto and sat down in the farthest seat at the top, where Erika Kairos sat if she was available. Somehow the blue-haired immortal Eloim did not feel too out of place in that position– Euphrates was a person who had earned Murati’s respect and affection as much as the Premier.

And this meant–

–it was rather mortifying whenever she saw Murati acting impulsively.

“Master, my entire body quaked with the power of your voice.” Aatto cheered.

“I– I don’t want to hear things like that.” Murati replied, averting her gaze.

Euphrates laughed a bit to herself and laid back on the chair.

She shut her eyes and looked rather placid for a moment.

Then– Murati heard her voice.

“Have you gotten better at speaking telepathically?” She asked wordlessly.

Her voice appeared soundlessly in Murati’s thoughts as if she herself had recalled it.

It was only because of her own psionic experiences she knew that it was telepathy.

Despite the method, the communications were surprisingly clear and easy to understand.

Even though the voice might have sounded a bit dim, the content was perfectly transmitted.

“I practiced with Aatto.” Murati said, launching the words right into Euphrates’ mind.

“Aatto is a good partner for you. Her abilities are limited but her resistance is strong.”

“I still don’t want to risk hurting her. We’ve only practiced telepathy, nothing else.”

“You’re such a considerate girl. Have you been able to practice vectoring at all?”

“Here and there. It’s difficult to control. I can’t seem to limit my strength at all.”

“You’re either uniquely gifted or uniquely cursed, Murati.” Euphrates smiled.

“Great. It’s an excellent title for my biography: Uniquely Gifted, Uniquely Cursed.”

Murati sank back into her chair with a gloomy expression.

Euphrates telepathically projected an image of herself patting Murati’s back.

Somehow, though the action had not been taken physically, Murati still felt a bit comforted.

“I did not just come here to bother you.” Euphrates communicated. “I wanted– to talk.”

Despite their soundless communication, Murati still felt the hesitation in her “tone.”

“I’m listening. You know if its for you, I can make the time.” Murati replied.

Euphrates put on a mischievous face. “Murati– putting it so straightforwardly–?”

“What? I don’t get it– why do you look so happy–?” Murati narrowed her eyes.

“Nevermind, nevermind. This is something serious.” Euphrates put a hand over her own chest and sighed a little bit. “I talked to Daksha Kansal. She and I have a long history– I have already told you some stories. But I don’t believe I ever communicated just how much I was once enamored with her. I admired her greatly. Unfortunately– we had a bit of a tiff and departed on bad terms. I don’t believe I can ever talk to her again in a private capacity. I thought you should know– she is someone involved with your past too, after all.”

More than that, Daksha Kansal was someone Murati distantly admired.

Every communist leader had something to teach– even Ahwalia unearthed certain lessons. Daksha Kansal led the Union through its tumultuous birth. She focused everything on reclaiming the prisons and slave work operations and turning them into homes and factories, and distributing the products to the exhausted, exploited masses for their survival.

Daksha Kansal said to the former slaves that it would take work and struggle still to live freely, rather than passively being free. Despite the pain and weariness, the people of the Union took up their tools again, for themselves, for their home, and worked again.

It would have been easy for the Union to collapse in those precarious days where so many people with nothing cobbled together everything they could for a fighting chance, and still found themselves lacking for so much after achieving the victory. Winning against the Empire did not bring plenty, it did not even bring enough, not right away– the hardship continued and there was always more work. Daksha Kansal knew how to keep the fire alive even after the the adrenaline died down and the people took stock of how difficult the future would be. They could not eat freedom; but they feasted on her hope.

Had the Murati of 979 A.D. been in that position she would not have known what to say.

Sometimes her mind reeled at the pain and immiseration around her in affluent Imbria.

She was a kid back then– her memory of how bad it was had been dulled by time.

Would she have fallen to her knees at the sight of the bleak prison the slaves inherited?

Daksha Kansal could have only been a colossus.

Even moreso to Murati, who received her emancipation and admission into the military, her childhood dream and desire, through the direct intervention of Daksha Kansal, Bhavani Jayasankar and Parvati Nagavanshi. These three figures flitted in and out of her life and worked in its background, and though she knew none of them personally, clearly she could only be biased about their importance to the world. Ideologically, she agreed strongly with them– and personally, she admired and sought their bravery and character.

But she also knew that they were human and fallible.

Daksha Kansal abdicated power and vanished from the Union, inexplicably.

Murati had not wanted to acknowledge that too much– but she could not ignore it.

As much as she wanted to believe in her as a simple hero, it was unscientific to do so.

She had to account for the fact that Daksha Kansal left them all in the middle of her work.

With that in mind, it was possible to want to disagree with her too.

Murati and Euphrates continued to speak telepathically.

“Are you afraid that I’ll take her side or something like that?” Murati asked.

“I am afraid of offending you. I am trying to be careful with my words.” Euphrates said.

“What happened is between you two. If you advocated for me or the Union broadly, I thank you for doing so. I don’t demand you disclose anything to me; and if you are afraid I would not be predisposed to believing you, well, you have nothing to fear. I’m not so ideologically rigid, you know? You are someone I esteem too– someone I swore to protect.”

Euphrates’ eyes drew wide again. She smiled. “Murati, thank you. I am touched.”

“It’s my honest feelings. I don’t agree with your positions all the time, but I admire the strength of your character. And I know you are someone who has suffered a lot, just like us. I’d be a pretty shameful communist if I turned my back on you out of blind idolatry. When you baptized me I felt your loneliness and pain– I want to do what I can for you, you know.”

Euphrates wiped her fingers gently over her eyes. She had shed a few tears. Seeing her like that almost made Murati weep too, but she held her own tears back. It would have seemed ridiculous for her to weep out of nowhere from the perspective of the crew.

So she held strong.

“Thank you, Murati. I am truly grateful. But– you should be careful how you speak.”

“Huh? What is this about? I told you these are my honest feelings.”

“If you tell a woman you’ve ‘sworn to protect her’– such a thing can be misunderstood.”

“What are you saying? There is no way to misinterpret that. It means what it means!”

“This is why everyone’s always gossiping about you…”

Euphrates sent her another mental image of herself patting Murati’s back.

Murati tele-projected back an image of herself with a serious expression.

“You know, I am thinking of starting a new project.” Euphrates said, this time out loud.

Out loud, physically, but their volume was still low enough to be semi-private.

“Sorry, I am not joining your new gang.” Murati said simply. “I have responsibilities here.”

“Of course, of course. I am not recruiting you. I just hope that I can continue to hitch a ride– and perhaps enlist your help in finding former colleagues of mine.” Euphrates said.

“You have to ask the Captain for a definitive answer– but I don’t think anyone wants you to leave.” Murati said. “I certainly do not. So I hope you can run your project here.”

“Don’t worry, it will be a while yet before we part ways.” Euphrates smiled.

She reached her out and physically patted Murati’s shoulder.

“I am not particularly proud of how my meeting with Daksha went. It– ended in a fight.”

She sent this message telepathically, resuming their mental correspondence.

“You fought?” Murati responded silently. “Like– physically?”

“We fought. It was a very emotionally charged argument. I lost myself. I truly regret it.”

Murati was briefly a bit speechless. This was the last thing she expected to hear.

Her own hand reached out, physically, and squeezed Euphrates’ shoulder in comfort.

“Did you win?” She asked telepathically. Trying to project a tone of levity to Euphrates.

For her part, Euphrates smiled serenely and said nothing more, leaning into Murati’s arm.

Though surprised by the display of affection, Murati allowed Euphrates to rest on her.


On the second day of the United Front deliberations, the delegates gathered to discuss the creation of an information exchange between the parties as proposed on the previous day. Familiar figures from the first meeting attended once again, although the mood was initially much more subdued than the brawling of the previous day. Taras Moravskyi and Tamar Livnat presided over the meeting, introducing topics and approving proposals, a formality; Zozia Chelik and Ksenia Apfel remained mostly quiet; Erika Kairos, Ulyana Korabiskaya, Eithnen Ní Faoláin and their adjutants stood in for the Volksarmee; while Gloria Luxembourg remained the only attending delegate of the Reichsbanner Schwarzrot.

Gloria looked rather bored, rubbing a finger on the table while Erika made a proposition.

“In my time with my esteemed colleagues from the south,” Erika said, gesturing toward Ulyana and Aaliyah on the table, “I discovered that the Union has methods for sending encrypted information through the Imbrian relay network while making the source difficult to trace without time-consuming and very specific scrutiny. Rather than sharing these protocols in full, and each developing a system independently– I propose we all collaborate on a platform built by one of our officers, known as ZaChat. Using ZaChat as a base, we have a means of quickly getting in touch with each other. We can at the very least use it as initial point of communication before switching to a more secure means. Along with the adoption of a cipher dictionary, we’ll be able to coordinate from afar, while the fascists will remain none the wiser. What do my esteemed colleagues think of this idea?”

“We would have to trial the program.” Tamar Livnat replied. “But I agree on the basics. A simple way to send encrypted messages, and a cipher to make those messages appear innocuous are both necessary. If you already have some technology we might as well use it– I doubt my comrades will want to use any Imbrian-made software for this task.”

“You can’t trust none of these newfangled networks.” Moravskyi said. “All that stuff was laid down by the Rhinean and Palatine megacorps! None of these portables and private computers and this ‘internet’ business is safe, not one bit of it! They are watching it all the time for any sign of dissent! But I suppose we won’t be able to move fast if we have to wait for actual couriers back and forth, so it’ll have to do. But I don’t like it one bit.”

“Comrade Moravskyi, perhaps you know a means by which our information exchange can exchange information without the use of computers? We would give that proposal some thought. Otherwise we must press on.” Tamar said. She sounded like she making fun of Moravskyi, but it was not entirely obvious– she was very careful and measured with every sound from her lips and every movement of her face such that it caused the listener to doubt whether she was being snide. Moravskyi did not seem to realize he was being criticized and remained quiet as Tamar continued with a smile on her face. “If the comrades in the Volksarmee would be so kind as to provide us systems with ‘ZaChat’ installed so that we might quickly get up to speed with it– we will agree to Erika Kairos’ proposal.”

“Absolutely. We will turn over a few devices to the delegates tomorrow.” Erika said.

After Erika’s proposal, there was little additional debate.

Everyone agreed that it was both necessary and smart to have a means to quickly share intelligence with one another and that it would enable them to act in concert to target Volkisch assets, or to protect each other’s assets. It was a good way to muster their full resources without imposing on each other’s autonomy or creating a chain of command that would be odious to the parties. These deliberations were rather uncontroversial.

Conversation turned to the uses of the information exchange.

What was before implied was openly discussed– the three groups should share intelligence with the aim of assisting each other in missions to degrade and destroy Volkisch assets and loosen their control over Eisental. This too was an uncontroversial idea. If they were only going to agree to send ZaChat direct messages to each other with no intent to stage any direct actions with one another then the deliberations were entirely pointless.

However, a debate eventually arose on the asymmetry between the parties in action–

“Both the Schwarzrot and Volksarmee have military or near-military grade vessels. The Eisern Front moves in civilian vessels– some of which are not even owned but chartered. We have very little naval potential, and we risk everything when we take to the seas. It was a gamble for us to appear at these deliberations– we don’t even have the luxury of keeping our papers fully up to date as we smuggle people from station to station and maintenance costs can be burdensome to us for travel.” Tamar had once again taken an active role. When she brought up this topic, it seemed to take Moravskyi by surprise. He had been designated the principal speaker for the Eiserne, but Tamar would always talk first, with that unflappable smile on her gentle and pretty face. “I believe it would be a show of good will from our comrades if there could be a provision for the Eisern Front to receive at least a single armed vessel.”

“You are using a lot of passive tenses.” Erika said. “Tamar, do you want us to procure that vessel? Do you want us to gather funds? Do you want us to undertake a mission to steal a vessel? You can and should be direct with your proposals. And also how does Moravskyi feel about this proposal? To which arm of the Eiserne would this vessel be transferred?”

Erika turned to face Moravskyi, who looked a bit confused about the whole thing.

“We aren’t suddenly going to switch tactics to fighting naval engagements.” Moravskyi said. “Our strengths wouldn’t change from getting one ship– we are still going to operate from within stations. So I guess Tamar is asking for her comrades to receive a ship. That’s on her.”

Being called out did not seem to dull Tamar’s spirit any. She continued to speak calmly.

“I apologize for not being clear. You are correct that my forces are still focused on station combat. I would still like for the Volksarmee to transfer a vessel to the Aerean Preservation Militia. Our forces are not going to become a naval powerhouse overnight, but having an armed vessel would help us to resist dangers to our forces during transfers by sea.”

“We refuse to transfer away any of our naval power.” Erika said. “Our prerogative is to be able to target and destroy Volkisch naval assets. We believe this will be crucial going forward. We can assist your forces with our naval power, much as you will assist us with your land forces. But we will not turn over one of our vessels to an unproven crew.”

“My– a show of the ample generosity of our partners, I suppose.” Tamar said.

Erika bristled at Tamar’s gentle, casually delivered sarcasm and prepared to reply–

“Don’t start another pointless fight. I’ve had enough of you people arguing.”

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg finally spoke up, sounding childishly fed up.

“I will buy you a vessel and equip it with weapons. I have people for this.” Gloria said.

“I would have preferred the transfer of a Volksarmee vessel. They have captured Imperial military equipment that is tested and proven– which I am not sure you can guarantee. They also have equipment that blends in well with the enemy, which would greatly assist us in our sabotage and infiltration missions.” Tamar said. “For example, we could get a lot of use out of the ability of your miraculous little hauler to blend in plain sight.”

Ulyana fixed Tamar with a sharp gaze. “You must be out of your mind. It’s not happening.”

Tamar’s eyes briefly glanced over to Ulyana. Her lips still curled into the same little smile.

“Tamar, let’s not be unreasonable now.” Gloria said. “I will buy your group a vessel, any size, any equipment you need. You can even make the exterior hull ugly looking as you like.”

Her entry into the conversation as the unofficial arms dealer of the United Front settled the immediate tension, but Ulyana would not easily forget Tamar’s insinuations. Moravskyi did not interrupt the conversation, but when Tamar asked for the Brigand he did stare at her with shock. He must not have known the depths to which she might stoop– perhaps not even for what purpose. Regardless, it was agreed Gloria would supply a Cruiser to serve as an Eiserne Front flagship. It would be operated by the Aerean Preservation Militia.

Gloria agreed on a timetable for delivery.

With that messy episode settled, a conversation sprung about expanding the exchange.

“In a United Front strategy, it is assumed that we will not only work among ourselves.” Moravskyi said. “But we will join any workers who oppose the bourgeoisie– in this case, I assume we will try to assist any workers that are opposing the Volkisch Movement. I was thinking– will we extend our information exchange to fighters outside of the groups meeting here? Would we bring more people into the fold? Mother anarchy opens her arms to anyone willing to accept her, but I know the reds are more cautious than that.”

“I think you’ll find we are quite willing to work with anyone.” Erika said.

Tamar raised a hand to her lips and giggled just a bit.

“Yes, that much should be obvious, Comrade Moravskyi. They brought Republicans here.”

She pointed out Eithnen and Tahira with a mirthful expression on her face.

“You know what, lady? I’ve just about had it with your bitchy little attitude.” Eithnen said. “There’s no Republicans in this room. I hate the Republic of Alayze more than anyone. Sit your prissy ass down, shut your hole, and let the big guy finish a sentence for once!”

Eithnen correctly identified Tamar seemed to be needling Moravskyi as much as anyone.

Gloria stood up from her chair.

“Tamar, you chose Moravskyi as speaker for the Eiserne. Let him do the talking.” She said.

“Do not censure her!” Moravskyi said. “We anarchists are candid! We speak our minds. I appreciate that about comrade Livnat. I don’t want her to shut up, whether she insults me or engages in teasing. I’m a grown man, I don’t care. I want her able to speak however.”

Tamar merely shrugged in her seat but remained obediently quiet for the discussion.

Without Tamar’s interruptions, the rest of the United Front agreed on two points.

First, if it would be useful to a mission and the candidates were trusted, more people could be added to the information exchange, on either a temporary or extended basis. Zachikova would be asked to create provisional statuses with limited permissions and time-limited access that would self-terminate in certain conditions. Essentially, a status of informants who could send data without being able to see anything themselves, whose sessions were cleaned out on a regular basis, and who were kept at the periphery of the systems.

Erika Kairos agreed this would be implemented.

Second, the door was opened for more groups to completely join the United Front provided they shared enough of a semblance of worker-centered politics and had mission capabilities the Front could make use of against the Volkisch. Such solidarity would not be extended to groups without a rank and file and some level of organization. They decided a membership of at least fifty persons was needed to fully join. That would keep out small time ideological actors who were best retained as distant “informants”. Once a group joined the front they would added permanently to the information exchange, with their leadership having some access to add members of their organization as required for mission needs.

“Sounds good. Look at us, we’re like one big happy family.” Moravskyi laughed.

At this point, Tamar’s bodyguard, the tall, lithe, dark-haired woman in the dark coat, approached her and whispered something. Tamar smiled, listened, without turning her head, and waved her off. The bodyguard then left the venue. Ulyana Korabiskaya seemed to want to ask what that was about– but she seemed to think better of it after some consultation with her Commissar Aaliyah Bashara. The two of them passed on the opportunity to speak, and Moravskyi declared the resolutions formally approved by the Front.

With a decent amount of official work behind them, the front members started to chat.

They set the next day’s topic, which would be going over tactics and strategy, and what should and should not be on the table, as well as exchanging information about capabilities between the forces to better understand how each would deploy. Erika promised a demonstration of ZaChat. Finally, Moravskyi adjourned the meeting, but nobody left right away. Particularly because Moravskyi turned to Gloria with a pointed question.

“Hey, Miss Luxembourg.” He said, a bit derisively. “When are we going to see your mentor at one of these meetings? It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to debate that hag Kansal!”

“Hag?” Gloria narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “She’ll show up when she shows up.”

“Is she not going to show her face then? What a waste.” Moravskyi said.

“We hardly need any more social climbers in our midst.” Tamar said, cracking a little grin.

“What is your problem lady? I’ve put up with enough of your idle chatter.” Gloria said. Her saccharine facade had been largely absent in this particular meeting, where she hardly spoke. But now she was being ‘candid’ herself. “Daksha Kansal is a hero to all communists! She has better things to do than argue with the likes of you people! That’s why I’m here. So stop clamoring for her to appear if all you want is a target dummy for your petty and ancient grievances. We’re here, in the present, and we agreed to cooperate, so cooperate!”

“Gloria, do you know the history of the revolution that produced the Union?” Tamar asked.

“I know enough.” Gloria said. “Are you going to quiz me on it, schoolteacher?”

Her barbs were not as fierce, but her heart was clearly into the conflict now.

Ulyana and Aaliyah watched with mild annoyance as this all played out.

Erika Kairos sighed and crossed her arms and tried to stay out of it all.

“Do you believe the revolution was started by Daksha Kansal?” Tamar asked.

“Everyone knows that. Obviously. She was key to everything.” Gloria said.

“That’s what you all tell yourselves now.” Moravksyi said. “But it wasn’t the case.”

“How do you figure? Hmph. She was the organizer behind the General Strike!” Gloria said, passions enflamed. “That’s what she was imprisoned for! Everyone knows the history! She broke out and organized the slaves, leading to several bloody prison takeovers, plantation riots. The key moment was the uprising in the shipyards that are now Sevastopol and the uprisings in what is now Solstice, the control centers for the Imperial administration. The nascent Union took over much of the merchant marine that had been paralyzed in the Sevastopol and Solstice ports due to the panic in the Imbrian control centers. Kansal’s group also overran the magazines and distributed real armaments to the slaves. This is all history, and you can look it all up! So what do you all believe is the actual truth then?”

“Little lady, Kansal was not the first one to rise up.” Moravskyi said. “She was not even the second or the third. Solstice rose when the rest of the colonies were already fully rioting, and she took advantage of that. I know because I was there. I was there with her even.”

Gloria stared at Moravskyi but did not reply quickly anymore. She looked like it was dawning on her that she spoke with too much certitude and that perhaps there was more to the story than she imagined. She had the quiet and guarded expression of someone fearful to have appeared foolish. Now she must have been thinking how to spare herself.

Tamar took the opportunity to add on to what Moravskyi had declared.

“Not only that– but you should also examine how the oppressed slaves without means could have begun to revolt in the first place. Sure, they had the numbers, but how did the systems of the Imbrians fail to stop some starving prisoners? It was because the anarchists from Imbria, particularly Bosporus, had been working in solidarity with the slaves for years. They assisted the slaves by smuggling in tools and weapons and with technical assistance. They recruited collaborators from the Imbrians too. All of this before the so-called ‘revolution’ that Daksha Kansal would like you to believe that she fomented alone.” Tamar said.

Rhetorically flanked, Gloria stared at Tamar as if she had been trapped by her too.

“People flocked to her because of her role in the failed General Strike. Demagoguery was the only reason she took the revolution as her own in the histories. In reality there were more factors responsible than simply the titanic qualities of Daksha Kansal.”

Tamar looked once again rather sure of herself, and Gloria could not refute her.

Ulyana Korabiskaya did not hold her silence this time around.

“You anarchists are making a lot of insinuations– but you are explicitly unwilling to mention one important thing in all of your arguments.” Ulyana said, crossing her arms and staring down Tamar once more. “The actual, chronological, first slave revolt that exposed the vulnerability of the imperialists, overthrew station administrators and that secured arms, was not led by communists or anarchists. It was actually the Shimii Mahdist nationalists under Mogliv Omarov who rebelled first. They created the conditions in which further prison breaks happened. And Omarov organized his people himself by making use of the time and space allotted by the administrators to practice their religion. He was not assisted by either anarchists or communists– it was all Shimii on that first night.”

Tamar’s smile slowly melted away. Moravskyi suddenly looked every one of his years.

Ulyana continued. “I know because I was there too– as a matter of fact, I was the one who freed Daksha Kansal, Bhavani Jayasankar and Elias Ahwalia from their cells. I was sixteen years old and I had been organized and prepared by them. I lost all of my family and so many people I fought alongside. I fought for everyone’s freedom, just like you, Moravskyi– and you, Tamar Livnat, should think twice about your rhetoric. Out of anyone in the room it has been you who has sounded the most inclined toward ‘demagoguery’ today.”

Omarov had been first; but anarchists, communists, and simple folk, all threw open prisons.

Enough people did so to succeed in the end.

Ulyana opened those doors and knew better than anyone the order of those events.

She would not let anyone forget those nights.

That winter of their souls in 958 that was freezing cold not physically but psychologically.

“If Mogliv Omarov could work with the North Bosporan and Volgian communists, and even become a professed communist himself– what are we fighting among ourselves for?” Aaliyah said, suddenly backing up Ulyana. Ulyana looked surprised that she had spoken but on the verge of tears, seemed to appreciate the help. “None of us have any power over each other or over Eisental. We’re as much in cages as back then. We need to focus on breaking out of the cage first and cease all of this bickering and confrontation. Can we agree to that?”

Ulyana looked across the table at the anarchists. Tamar briefly averted her gaze.

Even Moravskyi looked a little cowed by the stories being told.

“I agree with them.” Zozia Chelik finally entered the conversation. At her side, Ksenia Apfel seemed to pay attention for the first time as well. “I did not come here to have school level ideology debates. There are twisted, brutal people in control of this nation who will stop at nothing to kill us all. That is the most urgent issue. I think we had some productive discussion today, but lets table the history lessons. We can all kill each other after we kill the Volkisch.”

Ulyana flinched a bit at her nonchalance, but the morbid joke got a laugh out of Moravskyi.

“Bah.” He said. “You’re not the only one with bad memories of 958 and 959 though, Ulyana Korabiskaya. But nevertheless– I respect that you were there and saw it all. I can’t and will never respect Daksha Kansal, but I will put it aside out of my respect for your deeds.”

Moravskyi reached out a hand across the table and Ulyana gave it a curt shake.

He then reached out to Gloria, though without the praise he had given Ulyana.

Nevertheless, he got a diplomatic little shake out of her as well.

There was no further discussion and seemingly little desire to hang around the venue.

Another day passed, and the United Front simply went their separate ways again.

However–

Outside the venue, Erika Kairos sent her retinue ahead, stating she wanted to go for a walk.

By herself, she approached Taras Moravskyi as he was also about to leave.

“Comrade, how about a drink to put the bad blood behind us?” She offered.

Moravskyi grinned and clapped his hands together. “Hell, why not– if you’re paying!”

Erika smiled in return. They signaled their respective camps and left right away.

It was later said that of the two of them, nobody could tell which one was was the loudest one yelling and laughing, arguing and joking, singing and even crying, at a no-name bar in the neglected Katarran underground of the station. A big bearded man with a shout like an earthquake rumbling and a seemingly unformidable Katarran woman with a strangely deep gut and a roar like a beast. Surrounded by Katarran mercenaries who saw weird folk come and go every day. A place where nobody would look or listen, nobody would remember, as they cheered for every dead comrade whose name they could recall, sang revolutionary songs, and kept the cheap Katarran whiskey flowing. They argued the characters of historical figures Moravskyi knew, and that Erika had read about; they discussed the character of Katarran warlord states; they somehow agreed on who the bastards were that most deserved a bullet in the head; and laughed at the expense of foolish liberal ideologues.

Even later, the Katarrans there remembered– when they walked out they both looked like they were perfectly sober as if they had not spent the whole time drinking their heads off, and that perhaps their behavior had been solely the result of their passions. Erika picked up the entire tab and they would go their separate ways. This was the first time that members of the Eisern and Volksarmee so openly mingled together. While it remained to be seen whether anything more substantial would then come of it, both Erika and Moravskyi left feeling a bit more positive than they had been since the United Front had begun.

As they had stopped outside the United Front venue, they stopped outside the bar.

Shaking hands and smiling, having come to something of an understanding–

“I was foolish to shoot you down so quickly.” Erika said. “Can I request a truce?”

“Bah! What truce do we need– you reds are so formal– just leave it in the past, tovarisch.”

They shook hands vigorously and pledged not to fight again for now.

A hearty liquor tab was a small price to pay for the tiniest bit of solidarity.

Erika returned to the Brigand that night and told everyone the United Front might just work.


While the passions were flying at the United Front, elsewhere in Aachen–

A young woman in a fancy red track suit stood in the middle of the lobby at the base of the Aachen core station. She had just come in from Stockheim, her silvery-pale hair tied up into a ponytail, hands in her pockets, pilot’s sunglasses perched on her nose.

Beauty lay in the eye of the beholder, but there were certainly many who found her face quite attractive, soft and fair, with a sharp and distinctive indigo gaze. Her fashionable clothes fit her slender body quite well. She got some fleeting looks from other women, which she noticed, but Aachen’s crowds kept moving around the melancholy girl.

After a few minutes standing alone, she sat down on a bench near an advertising screen.

She craned her head as if it would allow her to see over the crowd. She found nothing.

Beside her, a vertical video played of an Imbrian woman, young, blond-haired, fair-faced, in an apron over a lovely dress. Ably cooking an entire meal in a single appliance, boiling, roasting, frying, braising– all from the comfort of her rather spacious room and all thanks to the OmniVittles Advent. A grandiose name for a new instant pot from Rhinea Home Innovations, a Rhineametalle subsidiary. Made from cast iron with a proprietary mesh of titanium and depleted agarthicite for unprecedented heat transfer.

Twenty-five different cooking functions; home software integrated.

Sonya Shalikova watched the entire advertisement playing out directly beside her.

Its booming soundtrack and the chirpy voice of the actress transferred directly into her guts.

Once it was over, the screen became static with a long list of legal disclaimers.

Shalikova then looked back at the crowd and shook her head with a sigh.

“These people are all insane.” She muttered to herself.

Looking into the crowd for any signs of her “date” for today.

Such a ridiculous notion– they had been trying to kill each other just a month ago. Now she had to take Selene out, and she did not even have money to do it. She would probably just accompany her on whatever she wanted to do. But what did Selene Anahid even like? What was she even like when she wasn’t trying to kill her? Shalikova had a glimpse into her behavior in their last outing. She was combative and pushy and weird— but– there had been a glimmer of something there too. When she thought about it again–

she recalled Selene smiling and laughing–

There was something there– it was an image that evoked certain feelings–

“What am I even thinking about her so much for?” Shalikova grumbled.

Maybe it would not be so bad. No reason to dwell on it, she told herself.

Regardless of what happened she was already here and already agreed to this date.

Maryam had been supportive of it too, maybe even excited about it. She was so silly.

Shalikova suspected that Maryam wanted to support her in making a friend.

And while she was not opposed to it she could not imagine a relationship with Selene.

“I guess Khadija and Sieglinde are getting along okay.” Shalikova said.

Fishing in her mind for whatever similar situations she could find.

Sieglinde had also been an enemy of the Brigand who caused significant damage. Murati, Shalikova herself, and Khadija had all been nearly killed by her, and her actions led Murati to be terribly injured. When they next met, her assistance to Norn the Praetorian nearly got them all killed by Selene. However, the Captain and Commissar agreed to her defection, and she seemed to show remorse. Now she was something of an errand runner for the sailors when she was not being bossed around by Khadija to eat with her or go out.

They were even rooming together.

“Wait, are they–?” Shalikova was suddenly struck by how close those two seemed.

Her usual sharp insights must have been distracted of late by a certain marshmallow.

Khadija flirted with everyone so it was not a stretch she might just be teasing Sieglinde.

But she never grabbed her other targets by the arm and dragged them out to a bar.

Her mind began to transpose the example back to the issue she had been hoping to solve–

Shalikova shook her head, feeling that her brain had run into a computing error.

Obviously she could never have such a relationship with Selene! Pointless to consider!

Sighing, she looked back up at the crowd hoping to spot anything–

And finally saw a slender arm reaching up above the crowd and waving as it neared.

“Hey! Sonya! It’s me! Remember, I’m not late, you were just early, ha ha!”

“Whatever! I’m over here, come around already. And don’t call me–”

When Selene finally cleared the crowds and Shalikova saw her in full, she went silent.

Glossy pink lips brightly smiling, her lustrous purple hair falling behind her, the “rabbit ears” tucked inside it like twin bands of rainbow color amid the purple. She dressed in a tight, off-shoulder brown top with a plunging middle. Emphasizing cleavage to the point Shalikova could see thin outlines of Selene’s lacy bra cups over the edge of the folded, creased fabric of the top, along with obvious thin black straps extending over the center of her exposed shoulders. Paired with a high-waisted black skirt with four flower-shaped buttons, and red tights and black heels, and a cute little beret on top of her head– Shalikova could not keep from staring. Was this the same girl as the day before? Had she been wearing her makeup so meticulously, had her skin been so softly flushed, her lips so– attractive–?

Had her collarbones been so pronounced? And was she that curvy or was it the clothes?!

Shalikova tried to play it off almost immediately, but she was caught staring.

And then Selene’s smug sneer resurfaced, confirming who this angelic nymph really was.

“Haha! Look at your dumb face! I stole your breath away didn’t I, Sonya?”

Shalikova bristled and averted her gaze in a huff. Selene crossed her arms, giggling.

“Stop calling me Sonya. You will call me Shalikova and only Shalikova–”

“Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya–”

How quickly she rattled them off! And without spitting or stumbling! Her lips–

“Ugh, fine. Fine! Stop being so childish. Let’s just get this over with.”

Selene blinked, Shalikova tried to look away, and then Selene imperiously pointed at

Shalikova’s–

groin–?

“Why are you wearing the same thing as yesterday?”

No– she was just pointing at Shalikova’s clothes nonspecifically–

of course–

“It’s my best set of clothes. I had it washed and pressed yesterday, it’s fine.”

“No, no, it won’t do. You can’t keep wearing the same thing over and over!”

“Why not? I like it and its not worn out or anything. Why do you care?”

To say she ‘liked it’ was a stretch but it was comfortable enough to keep wearing.

Shalikova was genuinely confused as to why Selene cared so much about her tracksuit.

Selene approached her, and grabbed her arm and pulled her up to a stand.

Wrapping her arm around Shalikova’s and tucking herself close to Shalikova’s shoulder.

Sending a jolt of electricity down Shalikova’s spine, and setting her skin to tingling–

With the warmth and softness of her body–

“Let’s go get you something else to wear and then we can run around!”

Selene started walking, and caught in her embrace, Shalikova was led along with her.

Outside the lobby, there was more room for the crowd to disperse, and there were far less people on any given floor and hallway of the commercial district. This meant the crowds thinned out and it made the walks along some of the storefronts feel more private. In the center of the grand atrium the walled-off display put on a light show that bathed Shalikova and Selene in gentle colors as they strode between planter pods with bushy plants, looking over the storefronts on their floor. Overhead, the near ceiling was made up of the next floor up, and Shalikova felt like she was caught in a twister of steel and color, with the sky made of more mall floors, staircases, and the eerie glow of the art installations floating in the water collected behind the center glass, always present at their flanks.

In the midst of the dizzying architecture, the closest thing was Selene, warm and chipper.

She looked on at the grandness of the place with girlish curiosity and awe.

Pointing out the lights and the storefronts and the shoppers and workers going to and fro with a cutesy smile on her face. Stopping to smell the grassy scent coming out of the planter pods dotting the halls. Retaking Shalikova’s arm whenever she wanted to get going again. Perhaps she had not been paying attention to the sights when she was crossing the mall herself the day before. Perhaps it was the lights that dazzled her since the art displays were not lighting up as much yesterday. Or maybe she was getting into character, trying to charm Shalikova by acting girly. Shalikova tried to remain a bit aloof to it all herself.

However, she was also a bit happy that Selene appeared to be in good spirits.

Back in Goryk’s Gorge, in the cockpit of that evil machine, her psionic screams filled Shalikova’s mind, and her pitch-black aura demanded her death. Such was her violence that the ocean quaked. Anger, hatred, panic, these were the emotions that filled the water in Selene’s wake back then. It seemed almost impossible that this cute, trendy girl her age could have been the demon that nearly killed them all. At times, Shalikova felt close to wondering whether it was not another Selene, somehow, who had done so.

Then Selene smirked and said something snide, her voice too-perfectly recalling the past.

“You’re trying to play it cool? That’s so lame. You should act all touristy with me.”

“Huh? So you’re just pretending to care about all this stuff?”

“I’m not pretending, you simpleton, I’m getting into the mood of a big station date.”

“What if I told you I’m in my own mood as well?”

“Ugh, being the cool stoic type is so cringe. It’s all about being genuine now.”

“Being genuine is pretending to care about stuff?”

“Uh huh, it’s more genuine than pretending not to care!”

Shalikova sighed. She looked at the art installations floating in the middle of the atrium.

All of the pieces composing each installation had indecipherably abstract shapes, but the high-power colored LED clusters installed on them allowed them to scatter strange patterns of colors and shadows across their surfaces. It was this, their combined amorphousness and the colors they cast around the environment, that seemed to be the source of their novelty. Shalikova looked at them and tried with all her heart to be excited about it all.

“Wow. Colors.” She said. Her voice barely registered one scintillion of an emotion.

Selene stared at her. She sighed herself, and smacked Shalikova in the mid-back.

“Come on, let’s go clothes shopping, before I change my mind.”

Shalikova almost said that she wouldn’t mind it if Selene abandoned her for being boring.

However– she was unable to say this as much as she wanted to believe it.

Because enough of her conflicting inner self was ultimately drawn in by the whole thing.

Selene dragged her off to a clothing shop. Shalikova had never really shopped for clothes, so she had not known what to expect. In the Union, she spent most of her life wearing clothes that had been given to her. Kids in the kids hall had sets of dorm clothes and school clothes, while at the academy and in the military she wore uniforms. Clothes were purchasable with social credits if there was a surplus of materials, or acquired with vouchers given out as incentives– as far as Shalikova knew, this just involved selecting designs for a stitcher machine to put together. She had never bought, nor had she ever won any clothes. She knew vaguely that the Union had fashion designers who worked on new clothes, either blueprints or by making it themselves, and there was a process for getting those designs into public circulation, or they could trade them directly for other handicrafts with other citizens.

Shalikova had no inkling of walking into a special clothes shop and picking out clothes. Most Union fashion she was directly aware of just involved violating the uniform code and seeing if the commander cared enough to reprimand. That was how it was for the military.

Because she never participated in any of those things, she only really knew that the track suit she was wearing was not something just anyone could get, and Illya must have used her own connections and maybe waited on a list in order to get it. She suspected Illya received black cards because of her connection to Nagavanshi, allowing her priority to procure anything.

However, even her vaguest ideas failed to capture the place Selene took her.

It looked completely empty.

There was a desk, and orange floors, and a white ceiling with sunlight LEDs. Other than that it was a small square with a few benches and couple of portable computers stood on charging stands. Shalikova almost wanted to ask where the clothes were, but she felt like Selene would have made fun of her for it. She collected herself quickly and continued acting stoic. As soon as they crossed the door threshold, Selene rushed over to the front desk and put down some reichsmarks and talked to the employee.

Behind the desk, a young woman in a vest and pants smiled and pointed at the wall.

“Got it! Thank you!”

Selene turned back to Shalikova, smiled, and pointed at the same wall.

“Ours is that one, let’s go.”

“Right.”

Shalikova’s laconic reply drew out another impish grin from Selene.

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

“Of course I do. We’re– shopping for clothes.”

Selene continued to look at Shalikova like she had the funniest face in the world.

She subsequently led her to the same wall, twice pointed-out by others.

At their approach, the wall opened up, revealing a small room. Shalikova and Selene entered. They were surrounded by touch-enabled, clear displays both on the walls and below their feet, as well as clusters of LEDs in every direction that looked a bit more complicated than simple light sources. Shalikova had never seen anything like it. The room had one bench on the back wall for them to sit. There was a slot on the door that opened and shut.

Behind them, the door closed.

Then a slot on the wall opened up, revealing two pairs of glasses, recently cleaned. Selene took one pair and handed the other to Shalikova, prompting her to take off her sunglasses and replace them with the glasses. “These will protect our eyes properly. Put them on.”

Shalikova quietly did as instructed. She put her sunglasses in the pocket of her tracksuit.

Selene perched the glasses on her nose.

“Alright, now we just have to strip.” Selene said, winking an eye. “Do you get it now?”

“Get what? Why are we stripping? Are you that obsessed with me?” Shalikova cried out.

“I’m not obsessed! You bumpkin! It’s a holographic room! It projects the clothes on us!”

“I– I did not agree to strip down in a tiny room with you. This is just strange!”

“It’s not strange! We’re both girls, and we’ll just strip down to our underwear!”

As if it would be a gesture of good will on her part, Selene started to strip first unprompted.

Undoing the buttons on the corset of her high-waisted skirt, pulling it down–

Shalikova looked away.

“Oh come on! You can’t be this much of a wimp!” Selene berated her.

Shalikoa looked back.

Selene pulled her top further down her shoulders, off from her arms and chest–

Her lingerie was really cute and lacy, the black contrasted her skin well–

She had the smallest bit of a bulge too–

“Damn it, alright, I’ll play along! I’ll play along!”

To distract herself from Selene’s stripping, Shalikova began to strip as well.

Her gaze averted; she couldn’t help but feel Selene’s leering just out of her sight.

“Wow, you really are a flattie– but the line of your shoulders and back is kinda nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you look good. Honestly, your body would make you a good model.”

“You just mean I’m really skinny. Ugh. Damn it. Quit looking.”

Their clothes ended up in two discrete bundles behind them.

Beneath the tracksuit Shalikova wore a pretty standard sports bra and some undershorts.

She tried not to linger too much on Selene’s body and her own choice of undergarments.

Standing side by side with her like that felt utterly ridiculous.

“You’re not that much bigger than me.” Shalikova said, still not looking.

“You’re crazy, it’s a world of difference. I’m so much curvier than you.” Selene replied.

“You’re still skinny.” Shalikova said.

“Thanks! My figure was genetically engineered for perfection!” Selene laughed.

“What does that even mean? Oh, nevermind. Can we just see some clothes?”

Selene grinned again and the lights around them flashed briefly all together.

Because of the glasses, Shalikova hardly noticed that initial flash.

Intersecting colored beams then swiped across their bodies with dizzying speed.

Like a laser predictor, the beams gathered data on their measurements, and represented it on the wall for them to make corrections. Selene was satisfied with her own and Shalikova’s were completely accurate. Once the measurements were taken, they were given access to the catalog. Across the walls, there were dozens of pictures of different outfits. Tops of all kinds and colors, a plethora of skirts, as many pants as there were humans on earth to wear them. Accessories flitted by along with the outfits they were suggested for.

Everything could be color coordinated with one command or deliberately clashing colors could be selected. There were preset outfits and colors for various trendy styles like “phantasmagothic,” “business academia” and “orientalist punk.”

And everything came with its price tag in reichmarks.

“So you paid to get in here to try on the clothes?” Shalikova said.

“Uh huh.” Selene replied. “You pay for the showroom, try on outfits until you find one you like, and you pay for it. They stitch it out for you basically as soon as you swipe a credichip, and you can even wear it out of the venue. Which is what I intend for you to do.”

“What if you can’t afford some of these prices?”

“Trying stuff on is cheap at least. You can come in here and dream a little!”

Shalikova imagined a working class girl coming up here to try on holographic outfits and felt rather miserable about the whole thing. Selene did not seem troubled by the prices and for a girl like Shalikova it was difficult to ascertain how much anything cost relative to anything else. Minardo had once remarked to her while on kitchen duty, that even a standard weight loaf of bread in the Imbrium could be five reichsmarks or it could be twenty reichsmarks depending on a variety of factors and especially what brand was on it, which made victualing much more annoying. Shalikova had used reichsmarks (or, in her case, they were old imperial marks) to buy snacks before, and some of these clothing items were arbitrarily worth ten snacks or a hundred snacks or a thousand snacks without explanation.

The snacks were themselves processed too. How much did a potato cost relative to chips?

She did not know, and so, she had no idea what a working class girl could afford.

However, she quickly learned what Selene could afford– seemingly anything at all.

“I knew this would happen– I’ll just pick for both of us! I want to get started already!”

Selene quickly scrolled to over a few garments with her fingers.

Though she was not touching the wall, where the pictures were located, they still moved.

Her finger was being tracked by the lasers.

Poking at the air, she made her selections, and the lasers began their work.

In a few moments, as if the lasers were stitching the air, the outfits slowly appeared over their own bodies first as threads of color and then forming seemingly solid garments. Selene had put on an incredibly sleek halterneck cocktail dress with a diamond-shaped back window and high cut sides revealing a lot of leg, and a see-through slice of sheer fabric diagonally across the belly and the side of one breast. To match, Shalikova had been given a black suit over a button-down shirt, but the suit sleeves were partially see-through up to the shoulder, along with black suit pants with a very slight bell bottom. She had a very bright pink tie. After the outfit was overlayed on them, the surfaces turned into mirrors.

Shalikova looked herself over and looked at Selene, who seemed quite satisfied.

“You look– great.” She was about to say ‘incredible’. “And you made me look boring.”

“It’s kinda boring, but only enough that it turns out kinda handsome you know?”

“No, I don’t know. I actually don’t get it at all.”

“Sonya, a super hot and super fashionable girl like me needs a kinda boring boyfriend, she can’t have one that’s too out there, because the kinda boring boyfriend helps her to stand out and shine more. She’s like a cool accessory for the super hot, super fashionable, super bright girl. She accepts the position because she scored such a hot fashionable girl.”

Shalikova turned the nouns and pronouns being used in her head for a moment in confusion.

But that was the least of all the offending points in that explanation!

“So who decided I’m your boyfriend now?”

“Ugh, you’re so stupid, it’s a mood, I already explained this to you! It’s for fun!”

Selene put her hands on her hips and leaned into Shalikova with a (cute?) little frown.

Shalikova was about to retort that, well, unlike Selene, she was not having fun.

However–

That was not exactly true and so again, she could not air her protests.

As much as she thought she wanted to– she ended up in a conflict with herself.

Some part of her, when she looked at Selene’s face, simply decided to go along with things.

And perhaps that part constituted a plurality of her.

Like a little soviet voting bizarrely in her heart as much as the executive pleaded against it.

“Anyway, now we’re like, a handsome secret agent and a femme fatale!” Selene said. “See how much fun this stuff is? There’s so many different little details. We can even alter some of the scenery around us to show off the outfits in different lighting conditions before we make any decisions. That’s the kinda thing that makes this shop not have a refund policy. You get to be sooo thorough and the shopping is an experience in itself. Watch this, Sonya.”

Selene hovered her hand over the mirror and a part of it became an interactive menu.

Around them, the scene dimmed, and they soon found themselves on a balcony overlooking a sprawling city at night, full of distant lights. It was the kind of scenery Shalikova only really saw in comic books or movies. Light and shadow danced gently over them, lending a melancholy edge to their facial features. It was certainly a different perspective on their outfits, and the context did give her a new appreciation for the clothes and the space.

Shalikova turned around, and behind them there was a ballroom behind half-closed doors.

When Shalikova reached for the door, there was nothing but the flat surface of the wall.

“It’s not that detailed.” Selene said, before pretending to look out over the balcony.

Shalikova was pretty surprised that no matter how she moved, the clothes stuck to her.

Her body still felt like she was naked because she was, but she looked realistically clothed.

“Oh, Sonya! It’s really too bad!” Selene said, making such an affected voice that Shalikova knew she must have been playing pretend– until she kept going and the more she spoke the less Shalikova was sure of whether it was play. “To think you have resisted me to the bitter end! I gave you an out if you only became my permanent lifelong boytoy, but you refused! Now we are on opposite sides of the war, and I will give the state all of your details so they can do so much torture to you forever and ever! But at least we can spend this one final night together as if we were lovers! Come have a final drink with me Sonya!”

Shalikova blinked, stunned. “Selene, are you playing around, or are you really–”

“Obviously I’m playing around!” Selene shouted, instantly agitated.

She stared at Shalikova expectantly enough that the “secret agent” came up with a reply.

“As if I would give in to you so easily? A laugh riot! Dame Selene, do you truly think you have me cornered, when it is actually I who has taken your back?” Shalikova played up her response. Even Selene looked a little taken aback. She tried to channel a bit of Murati into her followup. “The difference between us, you vile woman, is that while you work alone, I always have my reliable comrades supporting my efforts! They will spring me from whatever trap you devise, and through our collective efforts, it is you who will fall to me in the end! Enjoy your final moments leading this dance of death– while you still can!”

With a flourish, Shalikova pointed her fingers like a gun and winked at Selene.

Selene’s eyes drew wide for a brief moment. She really did look like she had been cornered.

“You– you get some marks for effort.” She hurriedly turned back to the wall.

Scrolling through the items to pick a new set of clothes for them and new ambiance.

Shalikova grinned, feeling a bit triumphant. She had flustered Selene, gotten her back.

Now it was her turn to be smug! She was getting her bearings– time to counterattack!

Around them the night balcony melted away, as did the cocktail dress and suit.

In their place appeared a cozy little venue, false stone and fake wood tables.

There were steaming cups of coffee on the table with milk froth and streaks of syrup. Everyone around them looked like couples, two to a table, and the venue was completely packed with these phantom lovers. Shalikova was now dressed in a long brown coat over a red checkerboard shirt with loose-fitting black sweatpants and plastic clogs. Selene’s outfit was a turtleneck sweater under an overlong orange cardigan decorated with adorable cartoon dogs and cats playing, along with an ankle-length pleated white skirt.

Everything was so bright, peaceful and colorful, it suited their simple day-wear.

Hands behind her back, Selene leaned forward and smiled serenely,

and for a moment Shalikova was defeated again.

“Heh, look at you. Do you like this sort of thing better than how I like to dress?”

Shalikova did not want to answer that, one way or the other.

“So what’s the scenario here? Let me think.” Selene leaned back and forth on her feet and began to whistle while looking around the fake coffee shop. “Oh I know!” She looked at Shalikova and put on an overly cheerful little smile, different from her overly cheerful sneer. “I know I said we would be studying for the class today, but I just can’t keep my eyes off you! Ever since your first lecture I have been entranced! I didn’t just call you here to study– more than scoring in class, I need to score high marks with you, Professor!”

“Absolutely not!” Shalikova said. Squirming as she stood from how near Selene leaned in.

“You’re such a bore! Play along already!” Selene demanded.

“Student Selene, I’m writing you up for harassment!” Shalikova replied.

“Professor, if you try to get rid of me I’ll show up at your room with knives.”

“With knives?!”

Selene made a snipping scissors motion with her fingers, wearing a wild look in her eyes.

“I’ll cut right it off and you’ll be mine forever in death.” She said, stroking her own face.

It was such a sudden turn that Shalikova couldn’t take it seriously.

“Now it’s scissors instead?! I can’t keep up with the plot anymore!”

She almost surprised herself with how easily she came up with a line to say.

Both of them broke out into laughter together.

“So, are we buying these?” Shalikova said.

“No way, this kind of thing doesn’t suit me. And you need to suit me too.”

With the scenario played out, once again Selene arranged for a change of scenery.

When the lights shifted again, the two of them stood on opposite edges of a small hot tub.

Now Shalikova’s slim body was loosely wrapped in a wet t-shirt over a one-piece swimsuit.

Selene had a one-shoulder purple bikini top with a high-leg bottom and a loose, sheer skirt.

“Fancy meeting such a handsome stranger! It looks like we were both assigned the same hot bath huh? Why don’t we make the most of the booking mistake? It will become your lucky day instead, handsome stranger. I’ll even let you rub my shoulders and feet.”

This one was far too dangerous. It was impossible to play along with it.

“Selene– I– how do you find the time to come up with these.”

“What the hell do you do on a ship when there’s no fighting going on, huh?”

Shalikova did not have a lot of hobbies. But she would not say that.

“I just– I hang out–”

Selene sighed. “I get what you’re insinuating. Well– thanks for playing along.”

Why did she sound so disappointed? What was she even expecting?

Shalikova almost felt bad for cutting the scenario short.

“Here, you’ll wear this out. You owe me one, by the way, these are nice.”

When it came time to leave Selene selected an outfit quite quickly. She picked out the garments, paid for the outfit, and then dressed herself again while they waited. Less than a minute after Selene was done paying for it, a slot opened on the door and the freshly stitched items slid into the room in vacuum-sealed pouches, along with a bag for her old clothes. Shalikova found herself with a red hooded jacket, a black tanktop, and a pair of tough blue polyester work pants with distressed knees. Everything felt high quality to the touch and felt comfortable to wear, but the garments were surprisingly simple. It was only when Selene approached Shalikova and undid her ponytail that she realized it was intentional and this was the outfit Selene always had in mind.

“Here, wear your hair long. It looks better with this fit.” Selene said.

Shalikova looked at herself in the mirror. And the girl in the mirror looked taken aback.

With Selene standing by her side– she liked how she looked maybe a little too much.

“You look handsome. Let’s go, I’m getting hungry.” Selene said.

Once more, she wrapped her hand around Shalikova’s arm and quickly led her out.

Carried once more in the middle of the storm that was Selene– but enjoying herself.

Shalikova found herself without the trepidation with which she started.

“Now I’m not embarrassed to show my face with you!”

“Excuse me? You were embarrassed before? The girl who is always shouting nonsense?”

Selene dragged Shalikova over to a brightly lit little eatery in a corner of the commercial area’s second floor. She must have found the place when she was roaming around before because Shalikova would have never thought to look for it, it was quite tucked away. The shop specialized in schnitzel, which was a pounded, breaded and fried chicken cutlet, though they also had pork. There were few people around, and food seemed to come out quick.

“I– don’t eat meat.” Shalikova said.

“You don’t eat meat, or you haven’t eaten meat?” Selene asked.

“We don’t have that stuff– where I’m from.” Shalikova cautiously said.

“It’ll be fine you bumpkin. I’ll pay for everything, remember?”

“Then I’ll just have what you’re having.” Shalikova sighed.

Hopefully it wouldn’t end up upsetting her stomach too much.

They sat on stools next to a countertop that ran the length of the shop. Once their plates were ready, they slid along the counter over to them. It did not take very long for the food to arrive. Two plates of golden-fried chicken schnitzel with a mustard-flecked cream sauce and a side of a perfectly fried egg, some potato wedges dusted with garlic, and stubby cucumber pickles. A spork and a knife sat off to the side of the plate along with disposable plastic cups of sugary soda pop. Selene picked up her spork, immediately jabbed her two cucumbers, and using her knife, peeled them off the prongs and onto Shalikova’s plate.

“I’m sure you’ll appreciate them more than I would.” She said.

“You don’t like pickles?” Shalikova asked. She grinned, feeling cheeky.

“Is something wrong with that? I’m an adult, I can eat however I want.”

“Yeah, you can eat like a little kid, just like you behave like one.”

“Shut it or I won’t pay for yours.”

Selene suddenly jabbed one of the cucumbers back onto her plate.

She cut a round piece, dropped it onto the mustard cream, and cut some chicken with it.

Taking the whole bite into her mouth, as if to demonstrate to Shalikova she could do it.

Shalikova laughed and cut into her own chicken.

Taking a bite, she was surprised by the slightly fibrous texture, which she was unused to in food. Her first ever bite of meat was quite savory. She first tasted the fried breading, heavily seasoned, followed by the slightest hint of vegetal notes from the oil, as well as a slightly eggy taste to the cutlet overall. When she took a bite with the cream sauce, the sour and zesty notes complemented the meat quite well. It was pretty good– she enjoyed it but was not blown away. It definitely beat most cafeteria food not prepared by Logia Minardo.

Selene, meanwhile, made some ungodly noises as she devoured her cutlet.

One would have thought she hardly ever saw food with how much she relished it.

“I see you staring! You don’t get it! This stuff is crazy! They flatten, bread it and fry it!”

“I’m just happy you’re enjoying yourself.” Shalikova said.

“Hmph!” Selene turned her attention back to her plate, but now clearly self-conscious.

Wary about its effect on her digestion, Shalikova carefully tucked away her own schnitzel.

When she finished, she picked up her plastic cup and presented it to Selene.

“Cheers?”

Selene stared at her for a few seconds, but complied, lifting her own cup of soda.

“Cheers!”

She tapped Shalikova’s cup gently.

After eating, Selene and Shalikova walked together through a few other shops.

Once she found herself in the middle of a long row of stores, Selene activated.

There was an electronics shop where she bought a digital picture frame that had a built-in camera. She beckoned Shalikova to pose together for a picture in the middle of the shop. Shalikova smiled for it. Once the picture was taken, she handed Shalikova the bag.

Immediately on-target without a second lost, Selene then flounced over to a toy store. They had a stitcher capable of printing small, custom plastic figurines based on the purchasers, through the use of a camera and laser predictor. Selene got two little figures made, one of Shalikova and one of herself, both of which were miniaturized, cutesy representations with oversize heads, but strangely faithful abstractions of their clothing. She handed Shalikova the Selene figure and kept the Shalikova figure for herself. Shalikova hardly knew what to make of this but accepted the gift. They were boxed, bagged, and Selene handed them to Shalikova to carry while she skipped and jumped over to a music store.

Barely keeping up, Shalikova found Selene inside the venue, filled with shelves occupied with listening stations. Every listening station was a newly featured album that could be purchased in either a digital license, or a data stick format, or as a physical grammapress disk. Because the latter was the most expensive, Selene chose to get a grammapress of Mia Weingarten’s “In Forgotten Depths, I Found Your Heart.” A stitcher machine on the site set up specifically for making grammapress discs printed one out for her after a few minutes. Grammapress disks were rather large, and after being boxed and bagged, and handed to Shalikova, the haul was becoming a bit unwieldy. Selene did not care at all.

“What kind of music do you like? This lady sings pretty good.” Selene said.

“Um. There’s this DJ who makes synth tracks about fish having sex.” Shalikova said.

“Huh?”

“I hear one of my colleagues playing it all the time and its kind of catchy.”

“You’re crazy.”

Selene passed through a boutique tea shop, where she picked up a box of chamomile; a shop purporting to sell magic crystals, where she purchased one that increased “vital energy”; a bag shop where she purchased a designer satchel; a perfume shop where she asked outright for their most elegant and mature scents, all of which had names like A Night With Him and Moonlight Rendezvous. All of it turned into boxes and bags for Shalikova to carry.

At a hat shop, she tried on a synthetic “straw” hat with a red ribbon around its band.

“What do you think? Kind of a vibe isn’t it?” Selene asked.

“It’s lovely. Are you going to buy any more? Or help carry any of it?”

Selene cracked a little grin as Shalikova shifted around boxes and bags she was carrying.

“Now you’re getting in the mood.” Selene said.

Shalikova was once again too baffled to mount an effective response.

Selene eventually took mercy on her. They found a service for pack mule drones that would stash everything a shopper purchased on their backs and plod their way back to an address with the cargo, delivering it to a designated room or even to a ship. Selene told Shalikova the location of her berth in Stockheim and left her to sort it all out. Shalikova left all of Selene’s things with a pack mule drone except for the Selene miniature, her gift to take home. She carried its box in her hands, while holding the bag with her tracksuit on her wrist.

Leaving one hand free in case–

“Ahh! Sonya, look over there! A cute coffee shop!”

Selene had found a little cafe venue northwest from where they had started. They had already nearly completed one circle around the commercial district and only on the first two floors of it. Despite this Shalikova had already nearly fallen over with goods once already, and they had spent what must have been hours wandering around together.

But Shalikova continued to follow Selene– because she did not want it to end just yet.

Hearing Selene’s cheerful voice melted some of the ice around her heart.

“I’ll be there soon, I was just seeing the mule off.”

Selene took Shalikova’s free hand and pulled her into the shop together.

The venue had a cute facade with fake wooden letters signing its name, Cafe Anemoia, within a pink frame. It was difficult to tell whether it was a franchise or a single location. Big beautiful pictures of its drinks being served in a variety of cozy settings adorned the tinted LED windows. Inside, the cafe was a completely different experience to the one projected by the holograms in the clothing shop. Through the use of LED walls, environment control cooling, scent projectors and ambient noise, it created the impression of a cozy little cafe with seats full of customers, a wooden counter, and steaming hot coffee photogenically topped with cream on every table. However, the illusion was quickly broken when they stepped up to the “counter” and a predictor computer-generated human who moved uncannily gestured at them while they made their selections from a computer menu.

“This is really weird.” Shalikova said.

Selene shrugged it off.

“Well, the drinks would be more expensive if they had a venue full of real wood stuff.”

“And real staff, I guess.”

Around them, slow and romantic strings with a gentle, clapping beat began to play.

“Anyway, order whatever you want, on me!” Selene declared.

Shalikova tried to ignore the eerie stare of the illusory employees and scrolled with her finger through the menu. She felt that her taste in coffee was entirely ordinary. She liked coffee with a bit of creamer and a bit of sugar. So the constellation of different toppings, syrups, stir-ins, add-ons and the dizzying array of brand logos associated with them set her head to spinning. Would she have Poppler™ (A Volwitz Brand) soda slush with her taro creme ice coffee? Would she add a drizzle of “Shimii spice syrup” to her 90% frothed creme-cafe?

In the end she ordered a “milk coffee” which seemed like the most ordinary one.

“That’s so you— but its kinda charming.” Selene said, giggling at the selection.

She ordered a “purple taro swirled latte” with beet sugar and a sprinkle of cured lemon zest.

In the process, she hit the beet sugar button several times, ending up with five instances.

“That much sugar? I can barely keep up with you as it is.”

“You will simply have to go faster.”

While the holographic staff pretended to make the drinks, there was no pretense to realism. Behind the scenes a coffee machine that was just barely audible brewed the coffee and a stitcher machine put everything together. Their drinks came out of a physical slot that opened in the middle of the LED projection, completely ruining the scene.

“That is kinda weird, you’re not wrong.” Selene said, sighing at the sight.

Regardless of the verisimilitude of the romantic atmosphere, the two of them sat in an actual, physical booth seat and sipped their drinks together. There was some care to make the projection on the wall of the booths a bit higher fidelity to create a false distance to the next “table” of fake customers but Shalikova was not very impressed by the whole thing. It felt like a waste of LED panels that some poor ship could have used better.

“I thought this kind of thing wasn’t your style.” Shalikova said.

“You misunderstood me. Cutesy nerdy girl clothes and shy professor type love interests are not my style. I like romantic little coffee shops quite fine with the right company.”

Selene sipped from her coffee and shut her eyes tight.

It must have been sweeter than she bargained for.

Shalikova sipped her own and liked it just fine. Better than Union instant coffee.

Still not worth all this grandiose artifice, however.

“I never realized you would have such a big imagination.” Shalikova said.

“I read a lot! I love magazines and stories! I have tons of ideas!” Selene said.

She sounded proud of herself for it.

Perhaps– she had not been able to experience many of her moods.

Shalikova could almost relate. Except that, she had so fewer fantasies to realize.

For so long, she had been bound by guilt and by duty, not knowing how to live.

It was only recently that she had really begun to care for herself.

This day was a new adventure for her too.

“That is really nice. I think I am not a very creative person I guess.” Shalikova said.

“Everyone who says that definitely has something they are creative about.”

“I guess– I did sew a plushie bear one time.”

Selene’s face lit up. “Sonya you have to sew me a plushie too!”

“Um, I can try? Should I have it mailed to the Antenora?”

“Oh– shut up.” Selene looked suddenly in a sour mood. “Nevermind that. You are so dense. I was just– I was just saying that to be in the mood. To get the like, boyfriend experience.”

Shalikova hardly knew how to answer, but her clueless face must have cheered Selene up.

From across the table, after a bit of fuming, she held her face in her hands

and looked at Shalikova.

“You know, I have never been to a coffee shop with anyone. This is my– first time.”

Shalikova figured as much, but–

Was this part of the mood or was this actually her feelings?

“I am happy I got to be your first. Maybe I can be your second or third too.”

Was that a boyfriend would say? Shalikova thought so. It sounded like it to her.

Selene looked briefly shocked and took another big sip of her drink.

“I do not have many hobbies or anything that special about me. I am just some girl who is out of her depth with things.” Shalikova said. “I think I am actually having fun though.”

Was this part of the mood or was this actually her own feelings?

Shalikova reached out her hand and laid it on Selene’s hand on the table and smiled.

Wrapping her fingers around Selene’s own, long and supple and so soft.

She applied a bit of pressure to them, held them–

In response, Selene picked up her drink. “The holoprojections are ruining the mood here.”

She started walking out of the venue.

Shalikova followed her, wondering if she had done wrong.

Leaving her own half-drunk coffee on the table in her haste.

Some part of her feared Selene might just walk away completely, disappear suddenly–

She had not known where that fear came from– but it was fleeting.

Selene was simply standing outside waiting for her.

“Ugh, this is too sweet, I do not know if I can another sip.” Selene complained.

Outside, Shalikova reconvened with her in front of the venue.

She reached out and took the disposable cup from Selene, touching her hand in the process.

For a moment, Selene looked flustered again.

“I will get rid of it for you.” Shalikova said, smiling a bit. Selene nodded her head.

Shalikova turned and found a nearby rubbish bin, threw away the drinks–

She walked back to Selene from the rubbish bin– and found her leaning on the railing over the center of the atrium, looking at the art installation. Smiling with gentle eyes.

Her face was bathed in the colors.

Shalikova looked at her for a while. Basking; the melancholy beauty in the gentle, warm light.

Was this the mood that Selene hoped to inspire?

Was this how she saw it in her stories?

How it should have gone if either of them had the experience for it?

Shalikova looked at her until Selene seemed to notice the gaze.

“Thanks for everything today. You actually got into the mood.” Selene said.

There was no more lying to herself. All of Shalikova now aligned on what she felt.

“No, more than that, I actually cared.” Shalikova replied. “Thank you for taking me out.”

She had a lot of fun with Selene. Her rambunctiousness was endearing as it was annoying.

It was different– Selene was different than anyone Shalikova had ever known.

It was different than anything she had ever felt.

Hearing Shalikova’s thanks, Selene’s eyes narrowed a bit. Her smile dimmed just as much.

“Sometimes I’m not the super hot, fashionable, smart, bright, super fun girl, you know. Sometimes– I’m a vicious ace pilot who kills her enemies. I won’t say we’ll never meet again, but I also won’t say that we will. But if we do– know which Selene you’re getting. After all, it will depend on your own choices. You’re the one who picks which of them you get.”

Shalikova closed her fist, wracked by an unknown fear and frustration.

“Selene, I’m really not in control here. I have to follow orders too sometimes.”

Selene smiled at her. Not a sneer, not an impish grin. But not a gentle smile.

It was a smile that seemed filled with melancholy and determination both.

“I know. It really sucks. Well, guess it wasn’t meant to be huh? Anyway, c’ya, or not.”

Promptly and without warning, Selene left the railing and walked away, waving her hand.

Like a storm breaking; she swept Shalikova up, dropped her down, and disappeared.

Disappearing not like a faery flitting out of existence, but simply turning her back.

Shalikova took a step forward– wondering if she should say something or reach out.

Again, she was silent. The things she could say– felt too foolish and inappropriate.

Instead, she triggered her psionics and tried to parse Selene’s aura.

There was a bit of every color, mixing and roiling and turning in a terrifying maelstrom.

Shalikova almost wondered if her own aura was visible, would it look like that too?

Was that the reflection of their broken, conflicted hearts?

Holding the gift box in her hand, Shalikova cursed how easy it was to feel affection.

And how cruel the world could be to that love.


On the edge of the old, sparsely populated northern district of the Wohnbezirk, closest to the Mahdist village, there was a boxy white monument with a blue star. It was hewn out of rock and so became a permanent feature of the landscape, too difficult to destroy utterly for how removed it was. Few people knew that it was cenotaph from a time before the Shimii’s current troubles. There was nothing written on it, but there were etchings that had been carved quite precisely. Its white and blue paints were relatively fresh despite its age.

It was this way, because a pair of Shimii girls had taken it upon themselves to maintain it.

On that day, after a bit of a commotion in their home, they arrived at the site.

They were not alone, but they did not disturb anyone who came to visit.

They knew the monument was not theirs, and that people who understood it would come to visit and see for themselves a truth that perhaps they as Shimii would never be able to intuit. Nevertheless, when they found the monument dirtied with the scribblings of local children, they got to work cleaning up and even brought a bit of paint to touch it up again so it would look decent. They were gentle with the carvings and precise with their paint.

“You’re from the Mahdist village? Why bother with this old thing?” A woman asked them.

“Ah, you’re miss Sattler, right? Well– we’ve always felt a bit sad about it is all.”

Standing off to the side of the monument and staring was Bernadette Sattler.

It was getting late– she must have dropped off her charge, and then returned in the casual clothes she was now wearing. Without her uniform, she still carried something of a sinister air. Her messy bangs did not shade her eyes as much as her hat did, but still had some of the effect. Her darkened gaze had not become any friendlier. She dressed in a strangely dowdy fashion, with a long sweater worn over a button-down shirt, the collar of the shirt coming out of the neck hole of the sweater, along with a long, warm skirt. With her long, wavy blond hair falling down her back, she looked like a librarian, child care worker or a clerk, someone cute and harmless, more than the totenkopf-wearing killer that she really was.

“By any chance are you an Eloim miss Sattler? We think this is an Eloim monument.”

“Hmph.”

Bernadette would not answer them.

And Baran and Sareh would not press her for an answer either.

One of the few things they knew about the monument was that it had something to do with Eloim. Imam al-Qoms recognized the symbol, he called it the ‘Judah Star’. They were always curious about the people who visited the monument, like Bernadette, that might perhaps know what its true purpose was, with its blue star and the etchings upon it. Baran and Sareh had their guesses. Baran believed it was a cenotaph and identified it as such– a grave for many Eloim who would not otherwise be remembered by anyone. Sareh believed that it was a sign that Eloim had once lived in the Wohnbezirk, though neither of them knew how long ago that had been. The Wohnbezirk had been standing for longer than it was ‘the Wohnbezirk’– it must have been constructed before the Core Station even. Back then it was probably lodgings and storage for laborers, and perhaps some of them were Eloim.

But Baran could not confirm such ancient events.

Even for the people of the After Descent era, a few hundred years erased a lot of memories.

“Because it’s odd and it sticks out, kids around here are always defacing it. They probably use the vandalism as a stupid challenge.” Sareh said. “Baran and I always hated that kind of thing. We don’t blame the kids, they’re just dumb– we just wish the reaction people had to foreign things was not to destroy them. Or that those old bastard Rashidun in the village would at least teach their little brats some respect.” Baran at this point saw Sareh becoming heated and shook her head gently to ward it off. Sareh sighed. “So, anyway, we come here every so often to try to make it look how we first saw it. We can’t guarantee it’s always been white and blue. And we don’t know how it’s supposed to be restored. But we still do it.”

“We restore the colors we found on it when we were little.” Baran continued. “We don’t know exactly what it is, nor is it ours to claim in any way, but I just think it’s sad for it to go neglected. It deserves looking after. See– all the notches on it are exactly the same, and they’re all lined up so perfectly. It’s so meticulous. Someone put a lot of work into it, a lot of care into making this monument. We want to uphold their wishes. Even if we don’t understand its exact purpose, we understand that it mattered to the people here.”

Bernadette did not look moved by that speech. She stared at the monument quietly.

However, a man who had arrived in the middle of the speech smiled at the girls.

He was a young, blond-haired man dressed in a teal jacket, white shirt and black pants.

“I think it’s really kind of you two to do that.” He said. “I’m kind of touched, honestly.”

“Welcome, mister!” Baran said, smiling back. “I hope I don’t sound rude– but would you happen to know what it means? Whenever we see a new face we can’t help but ask.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” He said. “I’m not much of an Eloim. Never practiced.”

He reached out a hand to shake. “I’m Gunther Cohen– an engineer.”

Baran shook her head gently, but Sareh reached out and returned the shake.

“It’s inappropriate for a man to shake a woman’s hand here– and I am a woman, but someone has to man up around here sometimes.” Sareh said, grinning a bit. Baran turned on her a disapproving gaze, but it did not dampen her good humor. “I am Sareh and this is Baran, my– best friend. We come from the Shimii village a little ways from here.”

“How did you hear about the existence of this monument, Mr. Cohen?” Baran asked.

“An informant told me. A katarran, this big– you might have seen her running around.”

Judging by how he moved his hand his informant was fairly short.

“We’ve seen a few katarrans running around, but I know who you mean.” Sareh said.

Gunther turned to Bernadette with a smile also.

“Are you an Eloim too? I’m sorry to bother you, I just haven’t met many of us.” He said. Bernadette fixed him with her glare but said nothing at first. Gunther continued. “I really don’t mean to cause any trouble, sorry. When the– informant, told me about this place, I thought it would be interesting to see it. Where I come from, my family– our heritage is a bit disconnected. I knew that Rhinea and Bosporus were supposed to have a lot of Eloim, so I’ve been curious. I thought I might go out and learn a bit about my ancestors.”

“For what purpose?” Bernadette asked. “Are you going to take up the prayers now?”

Gunther looked perplexed to be asked that question.

“I don’t think I will– I just wanted to know how they lived here. I’m an engineer, I’m just curious about how things work. I know a lot of them have been deported and oppressed, forced to escape to various places. And that part of me, my ethnicity, it has always been vague. I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about my own identity recently. I am just a guy who likes to put things into orderly buckets. Anyway, sorry to bother you with all this.”

He sounded excited, but the blond woman turned her cheek with burgeoning anger.

“Hmph.” Bernadette grunted again. “I’m not an Eloim. I have nothing in common with that permanently victimized race. This place is just another symbol of their weakness. You two can keep polishing it up if you want but know this– it’s all an illusion for fools to chase.”

Sareh and Baran were taken aback, and Bernadette stormed off suddenly after.

“There’s nothing here or anywhere for the people called ‘Eloim’.” She said as she left.

“What’s her problem?” Sareh said. “Ugh, I mean– I know what it is.”

She seemed to recognize the folly of her own rhetorical question immediately.

“I didn’t meant to offend her.” Gunther said. “I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.”

Baran approached Gunther with a gentle expression.

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Cohen. Please don’t listen to her. A lot of people come down here to try to find their roots– this one of the oldest places in Eisental. Because it’s hewn out of rock, there are things here that are old and hard to destroy. It’s understandable that you are here, and you are welcome to be here and to look here. You might even find more if you look around– this is just a place we feel safe going to, for various reasons, but you might find other things in the Wohnbezirk if you search the caves or the older tunnels.”

“Thank you.” Gunther said. “I really appreciate your kind-heartedness, miss Baran.”

“Mister Cohen,” Sareh said, “That lady was a Volkisch officer. That was– the reason.”

Baren looked at her for a moment but said nothing. She just looked downcast.

Gunther turned pale for a moment, his eyes wide. “I– I see. Thank you for telling me.”

“There’s more of them down here. Please be careful what you say.” Sareh said.

“I will.” He said. But judging by his tone, and the way he looked around– he was scared.

“She is not exactly wrong, you know. But it is a condition that can change.”

Sareh, Baran and Gunther looked behind themselves at the alleys of the Wohnbezirk.

From around the corner formed by the walls of nearby buildings, a woman strode casually into view and approached them and the monument. None of them had seen her before– truly it was a day for new visitors at this sad, ancient place. She had red hair with black roots, and a long skirt and a blouse beneath a covering jacket. She smiled at them, a polite and gentle smile on those red lips that never seemed to alter even when she spoke.

Her arms were hidden in her coat.

It was this last fact, and her sudden approach, that made Sareh quite wary.

“You’ve been watching?” Sareh asked. “Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”

“Yes I’ve been watching, and no– I didn’t approach because I didn’t want to interrupt.”

She removed one hand from her coat and Sareh flinched– but she just pointed at the rock.

“I know what that monument is. Do you want me to tell you?” She said.

Baran stepped forward, in front of Sareh. She looked at the woman in the eyes and smiled.

“My name is Baran al-Masshad. This is my companion Sareh Al-Farisi, and this here is Mr. Gunther Cohen, who is also a visitor. I would like to request a proper introduction, madame.”

“Tamar Livnat. I’m an Eloim historian.” Said the woman. Her smile unchanging.

“Thank you very much.” Baran said. “I’d love to hear what you know about this place.”

Baran stepped aside. Tamar walked closer to the structure and ran her hand over it.

She looked at it for a moment, with that frozen, inscrutable expression of hers.

“It’s a cenotaph. You might have surmised as much already. It’s not an uncommon type of structure. There are cenotaphs all over the Imbrium, for one particular reason– all of us who are alive today are descended from many, many more people who died on the surface. Cenotaphs for our ancestors who perished and could not escape to the Ocean are common among all races and in all parts of the Imbrium.” Tamar said. She turned around to look at Baran and Sareh again. “But these Eloim cenotaphs are different. Blue and white, and the ‘Star of Judah’–” Tamar ran her hand over the symbols and colors. “You did an excellent job restoring it. It’s ironic. You see, these specific colors and symbols memorialize the defeat and death of the Eloim at the hands of the Shimii. It memorializes those whom your race killed and displaced from our rightful ancestral lands. Isn’t it bleakly humorous?”

Baran and Sareh stared at the monument with blank eyes, their ears suddenly folding.

Both had mute horror in their faces and looked completely lost on how to respond.

Still smiling, Tamar continued to speak, circling slowly around the cenotaph.

As if it was such a curious and interesting little object despite all the death inscribed in it.

“Eloim, itself, that word– is a misnomer borne of how utterly destroyed our culture was. This also is not uncommon– words describing peoples shift over time, and with the destruction of the surface, so many of our words for things have been scrambled in the resulting cultural shifts. None of us can know the truth, or can we? Well– I know. I know my part of the truth at least. We were once called the Judeans. And our home, Judah, was taken from us, by you– now you understand? Thank you for your efforts nevertheless, little Shimii girls.”

Tamar completed her circle and stood in front of the cenotaph again with her smile.

Baran and Sareh continued to stand side by side silently, unnerved by what they heard.

At their side, however, someone spoke up.

“I’ve had enough of this!” Gunther said. “You have no reason to mock them like this!”

He stepped up to Tamar and pointed his index finger firmly at her.

Seeming to realize as he was doing so that he had approached her in anger.

But Tamar Livnat had no reaction to it but to smile, above everything.

She reached her hand from her coat and laid her fingers on Gunther’s cheek.

Surprising even him with her brazeness. He was utterly paralyzed in her grasp.

“You will understand someday. Even a neutered and weak man like you who has had the lion taken out of him will understand when Destiny calls to you. That is what Ms. Sattler fails to account for in her furies. At any rate– my kin are always welcome to come talk to me. You can leave a message at the Aachen Historical Society and it will make its way to me.”

She let him go, and walked past him, leaving him stunned at the foot of the monument.

Baran and Sareh watched, seemingly helpless. She stopped near them.

Smiling. Always smiling.

“I hope you understand that I have nothing against you personally. You seem like good kids. Now that I have educated you, keep maintaining the cenotaph if it eases your guilt.” She said.

Sareh looked like she would snap back– but Baran stopped her, shaking her head.

Tamar fixed her gaze on the two of them for a moment before continuing to walk away.

Disappearing into the dim shadows of the underground Wohnbezirk as if she never existed.

Sareh continued to watch as if she expected her to reappear suddenly like a ghost.

While Baran approached the monument, produced a cloth and ran it over the face again.

Over the places where Tamar had run her hands.

“Whatever the cenotaph means, it’s not any better to allow it to be defaced.” Baran said.

Sareh quietly looked back at her and nodded her head in agreement.

Gunther, meanwhile, stared at the monument and at Baran, dejected and speechless.

He had left the ship to clear his head, and now he was fixed into place and helpless.

Crushed by the heavy weight of the past hanging over Aachen, heavier than all of the stone.

A weight soon to drop that would hurl waves like none of them had ever seen.


Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.1]

In the beginning the world was silent and pitch black.

Then, she heard the distant sound of a harp and became aware of sensations.

Slowly the errant strings became a melody, building in intensity, a tremor on skin,

and with it there was light.

In the center of the darkness, a spotlight shone in a great white circle.

Casting a shadow in the center of that circle was the graceful figure of a woman. Her hair was partially covered by a long, dark blue veil, but much was still visible. She had a matching blue outfit with long sleeves, a high neck, with simple yellow embroidery forming geometric patterns across her chest and flanks. Gaps in the fabric exposed some of the upper back and belly in diamond cutouts; a long and covering skirt from the waist down completely hid her long, graceful legs. She wore a single black glove that seemed out of place with the rest.

It was evident that she was a dancer, and in that instant, the music queued her.

Joining the harp was the sound of drumming and jingling metal rings at once.

To her music, the figure began to dance.

Hers was a natural progression with the music. Between sweeping, dramatic full-body movement; toward tight, slow and deliberate waving of the hands, fluttering of the fingers, turning of wrists, and flowing extensions of the arms. She would spin once with her arms wide and then pull them close, to cover the face, while gracefully separating them, with a confident gaze slowly unveiled. She would cross her wrists, flutter her hands like a bird’s wings while slowly taking a shallow bow, before rising suddenly, spreading them out as if casting something into the air. In her every move, there was that flowing of states, between precision and release, tension and freedom, slow deliberation and wild passion.

In the middle of that spot of white light, surrounded by nothingness, she danced.

But she was not alone. There had always been someone watching.

Yearning from afar, a girl stepped forward out of the shadow and held out her hand.

To her surprise, the dancer moved nearer, and made to touch her with her gloved hand.

Soft fingers met the sleek plastic– slick with blood slowly coagulating between.

Then there was no dancer, and the light shone accusatory on the girl alone instead.

As if she had dared in yearning and now suffered for her greed.

She stood framed, her shadow immensely long like a trail of gore-ridden sludge.

And there were bodies. Crawling, shambling toward her. Begging for their lives back.

“No! No, stay away! Stay away from me! I didn’t– I didn’t want any of this–!”

She fell back, swatted with her hands, crawling, her eyes filled with tears.

Then there was no spotlight.

An unsettling half-darkness suddenly loomed overhead. In her defense, a mechanical arm extended that bristled with weapons, attached to a massive body– a Diver. Great flashes and detonations and the booming reports of the guns made their own music, and the bodies burst into blood and meat that sprayed across her in great whipping gusts of viscera,

And she screamed and cried and she begged hoarse for it to stop–

It would never stop– she felt like she was defiled forever–


A dark-haired, cat-eared young girl opened her eyes and squirmed in her bed.

Her breathing came in fits and starts, and the blanket felt so heavy that she felt trapped, and it provoked a sudden and intense need to get it off herself. She crawled up against the headboard, lifting her back onto her pillows, but she found the task so monumentally difficult to perform with her missing arm and leg that it engendered ever mounting desperation. She continued to feel ensnared until she had fought for almost a minute.

Then she realized what she was doing–

and felt so deeply pathetic she could have cried.

Dripping with sweat, her long hair disheveled and gritty and greasy, dressed in a little white hospital smock clinging to her breasts. Her breathing started to normalize.

Her panic-addled sight came slowly into focus.

Homa Baumann bowed her head.

Examining what had become of the arm that Nasser cut off.

There was dim illumination from a tiny white LED on her headboard. She could see how her arm, missing above the elbow, had a black cap grafted onto it. They did not even try to make it look pretty– Homa had seen some prosthetics around Kreuzung before that had these sleek carbon-fiber and transparent glass looks. This was a simple metal cap with the grooves and holes to affix the rest of the arm later. There were exposed mechanical ligaments which would probably be connected to the rest of the arm once the whole thing was installed.

Maybe it would look okay when she had the whole thing.

She felt a bit disgusted.

Her left leg was in a similar state. Nothing but a cap and the wriggling ligaments.

When she tried to “move” the parts of her which were gone, instead the ligaments would move, but they were connected to nothing. So it appeared to her that worms were trying to crawl out of what remained of those lost limbs. It sent a chill down her entire body, it was so disgusting, it made her want to cry. But sometimes, she couldn’t help but try to move her lost limbs anyway. In the attempt the ligaments wriggled uselessly out of her control.

Tears welled up in her eyes but she tried not to cry. It was stupid to cry.

But she was that weak– weak enough to just cry and do nothing and hate herself.

She laid back against the pillows and the headboard. Tears spilled from her eyes.

While the blanket did not feel so heavy anymore, she was still trapped.

Homa could not get up out of bed. And even if she could, she was not in Kreuzung.

Kreuzung was impossible to return to now. She had abandoned her old home.

And had instead found herself aboard a ship that rescued her.

Because of the drugs, and the suddenness and horror of the surgery, she had been going in and out of sleep, dragged into fantastic nightmares and then back out into the mundane nightmare of living over and over again. She did not really know where she was, nor what kind of people had rescued her. It was only now that her wits were beginning to slowly return to her, and she could worry about what sort of situation she was in.

But that brought its own new agonies as well.

Her newly lucid thoughts filled with shame that she struggled to cope with.


“Good morning, Homa. Have you been awake long?”

“Oh, no, only for a little while. Sorry; my head’s been all fuzzy.”

“You do sound much more lucid. I was worried about your mental state yesterday. You may not have been in a condition to realize before; there’s a labeled button on the bed arm. Here. Do you see it? Whenever you feel any discomfort or distress please try to push that button. Even a quick tap will do. I will be at your side as fast as I can. Do not hesitate to use it.”

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

They were both speaking Low Imbrian; or at least, Homa could understand her easily.

Everyone here had just a little bit of an accent, but Homa could not place it.

Her new doctor, who had been responsible for her surgery, was Winfreda Kappel. Despite how much a blur the past day had been for her, Homa still remembered this name. She was a truly colorful individual– quite literally as her hair was a few different shades of blue. Homa wondered whether she dyed it that way as a color theory kind of thing, like the reason that hospitals for children had walls painted certain colors to be inviting and calming. Probably not. Her attire under the white plastic coat was pretty casual, with a synthetic orange turtleneck and skirt and what looked like black tights or a black sheer bodysuit.

That led Homa to think she may have been saved by a merchant vessel or something of that nature. It felt foolish to speculate any further than that with the information she had.

“Doctor, can we talk?” Homa asked. “I– my head has been kinda hazy before, but now–”

“Of course. But I want to bring you food and medicine, and give you a check-up first.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” She tried to sound grateful– and not too sad.

Dr. Kappel left the room with a brisk walk, after turning the bed’s arm around presumably so that Homa’s plate and drinks could be set on it. Homa looked around the room.

There was nothing too identifiable in her immediate vicinity. There was a green plastic separator set up between herself and an adjacent bed that seemed too quiet to be occupied. All of the walls were bare metal, and projecting different charts, reminders, and posters. Next to Homa’s bed the wall projected a poster with a pretty blond girl striking a pose with bionic limbs, the caption reading, “She is your comrade! She can do anything!”

It was pretty strange– the art style, and especially the choice of words. Comrade, huh?

Homa appreciated the attempt to motivate her, not that it actually helped much.

When the Doctor returned, she had a plastic bowl that had spork in it, along with a plastic cup and a tiny pill bottle containing yellow and blue pills. The bowl contained a porridge, from the look and taste Homa recognized it as maize. White corn porridge dusted with cinnamon and speckled with fruit. Meanwhile the drink looked like a creamy coffee.

Homa had not realized how hungry she was until just then.

“Would you like to try eating yourself? Or would you prefer to have assistance?”

“I can feed myself. Thank you.” Homa reached for the spork with her good arm. She took a sporkful of porridge and discovered the fruits were jammy, preserved figs. It was a good porridge, creamy and gently sweet. She put down the spork and picked up the cup to taste the coffee; and almost smiled at the sweet and heartwarming creaminess of the condensed milk that had been added to it. It was a simple but invigorating breakfast.

“Our chef, Minardo– her favorite trick is adding sweet condensed milk to dishes.” Doctor Kappel said, with a bit of a sigh. “If it is too sweet for you, let me know so I can scold her.”

“Oh no, it’s lovely. Please let her know I liked it and that I am very grateful.” Homa said.

“She’ll love to hear that. We’ll hopefully get you something more substantial later today.”

Dr. Kappel sat by Homa’s bedside, watching her eat with a relaxed contentment in her face.

One arm was more than enough to eat porridge, drink coffee and swallow some pills.

It took more effort than if she had both. Sometimes she tried to reach for the cup with her nonexistent arm, or thought of shifting the spork to her missing hand.

But she could do it.

Homa felt like if she asked for too much help, it would be shameful of her–

“Oh, wait– Doctor–” Homa had a sudden, arresting thought. “I– I can’t really pay for–”

“No, no, it’s all free. You worry about recovering, not about money.” Dr. Kappel said.

Homa blinked her eyes hard. “It’s free? I don’t understand. Is someone else paying?”

Dr. Kappel nodded. “You don’t owe us or anyone, any amount of money. Don’t worry.”

“But– you’re giving me a new arm and a leg, right?” Homa said. She was still shocked.

“Absolutely. Please do not be concerned about our supplies. We want to help you.”

Homa felt a continuing swell of concerns. “I mean– the drugs too– all of this costs–!”

“Homa, if it helps you feel better, maybe once you’re recovered, you can help around the ship. You could help the cook, or be a nurse, or something like that– but nobody will demand compensation. It costs us money, not you. All of your care will be absolutely free.”

Dr. Kappel stood firm. Homa could not understand it.

In Kreuzung everything cost money. Even existing cost money.

Failing to make rent at best landed you in a shelter until you could save up for a place– at worst it landed you on the streets at night until a K.P.S.D cracked your skull open one day. Food cost money! Without money you would have to find a soup kitchen every day, or beg, or starve to death. Healthcare certainly cost money. There was no place that would see you without at least some token bit of payment. Right now, Homa was eating their food, taking up space and time, taking hormones; she was getting two limbs replaced–! For free?!

Who were these people? Were they crazy? Was this some kind of a cult?

Dr. Kappel narrowed her eyes and looked suddenly a bit exhausted.

She could see the fright and confusion on Homa’s face.

It looked to Homa as if Dr. Kappel was torn up about what she wanted to say.

“Homa– the reason it’s free is because we are communists.”

Homa blinked. “Communists?”

“Yes. We’re communists. We are not trying to profit from you. Do you understand?”

Dr. Kappel seemed to be bracing for Homa to be upset at her, but Homa remained confused.

Nobody could have lived in the Imbrium with their eyes and ears open without hearing the word communist at one point or another. Older Imbrians grumbled and blamed the communist rebels for various things. Ever since the Volkisch took over they accused various people of being communists, and people accused the Volkisch of being communists too.

This did not engender an understanding of what communism was, but Homa had certainly heard the word. She did know that the people at the gender clinic received some money from social democrats whom, as Homa understood it, were kind of like communists. These grants were part of the reason they could keep the clinic open at all, since the Rhinean government was not fond of transgender people or their healthcare needs.

She had also heard that communists followed military dictators who completely controlled their government. But that it was different from swearing fealty to the Imbrian Emperor; sometimes she had heard communism compared to the people who had followed Mehmed the Tyrant during the Jihad in the Age of Heroes too. Homa did not know what to think about Mehmed, and she certainly did not know what to think about communists.

Her mind spun around in a momentary circle, moving quickly to arrive nowhere.

“I– I have to admit I didn’t know there were really communists here.” Homa said.

“We’re not from around here, really.” Dr. Kappel said in a guarded tone.

Homa picked up her spork again and took another bite of the porridge.

“I guess that explains things.” She said. She hardly interrogated it any further.

Imbrians were all greedy shaitans, but these folks were just political oddities.

Maybe they were Bosporans– she had heard the Bosporans had a revolution now too.

Her thoughts started spinning again.

“I promise we will explain everything– for right now, I would like to focus on your care, and I would like you to focus on resting, taking your medicine, and letting us know how you feel.” Dr. Kappel said. Homa nodded wearily. “Right now, we just need to observe the interface for a day or two for any rejection symptoms. Then I can install the mechanical limbs.”

Homa nodded her head with compliance. She was in no position to resist anything anyway.

And even if she was– she didn’t even know what kind of a life she could even have now.

All of the rationality left in her mind was screaming at her that this was too weird.

But so what? What did she have left? Maybe– if she died, it wouldn’t even matter now.

The Homa Baumann who worked and lived in Kreuzung was dead anyway.

Dr. Kappel reached out and laid her hand over Homa’s good hand, with a smile.

“I know things must be very tough for you right now. But I am not lying nor exaggerating when I say, we all want you to recover. Even the sailors who got you out of the Diver have been asking how you’re doing. You’re not alone; we want to help you, Homa.”

“Thank you. I– I’ll think about it. Things are– things are fine right now.” Homa said.

After the pep talk, the doctor gave her a closer look, asking her questions about the remains of her limbs, how they felt, whether she had certain symptoms or discomfort. She had Homa try to move her limb remnants, which resulted in the exposed filaments wriggling out of the metal interfaces. Unlike Homa, the doctor seemed pleased by their appearance. She also examined Homa’s good limbs, and checked her for cold and flu symptoms. Everything she found, she would input on a portable computer– a quite chunky and beige model that Homa had never seen the like of. It was nothing like the sleek devices sold on Kreuzung.

“Thank goodness, everything seems to be going well. I want to take a few scans soon to make absolutely sure, but there don’t appear to be complications.” Dr. Kappel said. “You may not see it that way, Homa, but you are very lucky. You’re all set for a full recovery from very serious injuries. Once the limbs are installed, we’ll start physical therapy soon after.”

Homa again nodded her head compliantly. She had nothing to say. She was not elated.

Dr. Kappel sat down again and reached out her hand and patted Homa on the shoulder.

“I wanted to ask you– with your consent, I have a volunteer willing to help with your care.”

Homa nodded her head. “I don’t mind.” She muttered, staring at the empty porridge bowl.

Avoiding Dr. Kappel’s cheery face. Even if she was sincere, Homa couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Alright. She did say you were acquainted– if there are problems, please let me know.”

Homa’s ears stood on end upon hearing that. Acquainted? Who could it possibly be?

She started wracking her brain and her heart started to pound.

There were very few people she would consider herself “acquainted” with–

And in this situation–?

“Knock, knock~ is it okay to come in, doc?”

From around the open door threshold, there was a sound like metal knocking on metal.

“Ah! We were just talking about you. Please come in, Ms. Loukia.”

Sounds of heels clicking the floor, moving closer.

Loukia–? Just as she started to remember–

Around the green barrier, appeared a woman Homa was surprised to be able to recognize.

A Katarran woman, identifiable as such by two rectangular horns coming from the back of her head and framing a reddish-purple ponytail of shiny, silky-looking hair. Her skin was a matte pink, with a lighter shade of purple eyeshadow and lipstick than the color of her hair, and her beauty and style were as elegant as the art by which she applied those pigments. Her fashion was quite arresting as well, with a fancy steel-grey jacket worn over a button-down shirt, and a pencil skirt and tights. Her high heels could not be seen from Homa’s vantage but she could easily hear them, and in her mind, she had filled them in.

Homa had indeed met this woman before, and never imagined she would see her again. She had tried to assist in finding a prosthetics shop that used to be in Tower Seven. It was a somewhat embarrassing memory– Homa had been utterly crestfallen, coming home from a date with her ears folded and her head down. She then walked right into the lady.

Judging by the one black glove, she must have actually found some help.

“Fancy meeting you here, Homa Baumann.”

She waved elegantly with that one black-gloved hand.

It was so surprising– why would anyone remember her?

“Oh! I– wow–” Homa blinked hard as if disoriented. “I never thought–”

“Me either.” Said the woman. “But life’s little coincidences can sometimes be beautiful.”

Dr. Kappel smiled. “I don’t know the circumstances, but this is Kalika Loukia, Homa. After your surgery, she confided in me that she had met you before and was worried about you. I thought it would be helpful to have a friend here with a shared experience. She also had a traumatic injury requiring a prosthetic, so you can lean on her experiences for support.” 

While the Doctor spoke, Kalika removed her glove to show Homa her mechanical hand.

Homa vaguely remembered that Kalika’s old, broken arm used to have a syntheskin cover.

She wondered then if she, too, would just have bare metal limbs exposed at all times.

“Of course, this is only if you are comfortable with it. Feel free to say no.” Dr. Kappel said.

“Thank you. I’m– I’m okay with it. Thanks.” Homa was rather taken aback by Kalika’s appearance. Why was she on this ship; could it be that it was a mercenary ship that rescued her? She assumed that all Katarrans were mercenaries– Homa tried to push the detective-level thoughts into the back of her head, but the coincidences were staggering. She shook her head, and twitched her ears, trying to recover her sense and to speak without affect. “It– sorry– It looks like you were able to get your arm fixed. I’m like– I’m glad.”

No matter what, she was having trouble speaking.

Her thoughts as murky as the deep ocean.

“It was actually all thanks to you, kind stranger.” Kalika said. “I was standing on the verge of a nervous breakdown when you went out of your way to help me in Kreuzung. No one else would have bothered– I think it’s only right that I be your kind stranger now.”

Homa smiled. It was a bit wan. But– Kalika was nice. It was nice to see a smiling face.

Nothing else that had happened to her recently was this nice–

even if it was an exceedingly odd little coincidence.

“In my memory of it I just bumped into you and acted like an idiot.” Homa muttered.

“Are you trying to downplay being a nice girl? It won’t work on me.” Kalika said.

Dr. Kappel seemed pleased with their rapport.

“Homa, remember that you can always tell me anything or make any requests to me; but Kalika is– well, she is an employee of ours on this ship. I trust her, so you can trust her too.”

Kalika put a hand on her chest.

“I am a typical fixer.” She said, smiling. “I think it will help with the physio and all that to have someone who has experienced it before. Also, I think you ought to take her out of this stuffy room, and maybe give her a shower– you’re supposed to be on station, but I can do all that. Is it depressing being bedridden like this, Homa? Wouldn’t you like to ride around a bit?”

“Hey now– wait a second–”

Homa interrupted Dr. Kappel. “No offense, but it is a little depressing. I’d love to go out.”

“Well– she’s not so delicate she can’t go out, but–”

“Then it’s settled. Can we get a blanket and a wheelchair?” Kalika said.

Dr. Kappel looked between Homa and Kalika and looked a bit helpless herself for once.

“Fine, fine. Kalika’s right, I have other patients and you could use some cheering up.”

Kalika gave Homa a victorious little thumbs up.

Homa felt ever so slightly more elated than before. She wanted to look around.

“Have you ever been on a ship before, Homa?” Kalika asked.

“Not for years and years. I can’t really remember what it’s like.” Homa replied.

“It’s my habit to say ‘it’s not so different’ from living on a station– but Kreuzung is a bit more luxurious than here. It’s a Cruiser though; as sardine cans go, it’s spacious.” Kalika said.

Homa wanted to ask whether Kalika thought this was comforting– but suppressed the urge.

Perhaps this was just a Katarran’s sense of humor.

Dr. Kappel left their side for a moment and returned with a foldable wheelchair. She set it on the floor near Homa’s bed and stretched it out, locked in the plastic frame parts and made sure the arm and footrests were leveled correctly. Homa sat up and slid herself to the side of the bed and Dr. Kappel lowered the railing for her. But as much as she initially desired to do so, she could not get onto the chair by herself. Instead, Kalika soon picked Homa up without much effort and laid her gently on the seat. A synthetic blanket was then laid over Homa’s lap, covering her legs. She could pull it up to her chest with her good hand.

Behind her back, Homa felt Kalika’s hands take hold of the push handles.

Her ears twitched ever so slightly, as did her tail, at the proximity of her touch.

“Comfy? Ready to go?” Kalika asked.

“I’m fine enough.” Homa replied.

Kappel waved her hand at them and watched them leave the clinic.

As she was wheeled out, Homa noticed that there were several more beds in the clinic, and that several of them had other patients too. She could see through gaps in the green dividers set between each bed that they appeared occupied. It had been very quiet in the clinic, so she assumed she was alone all this time. She wondered whether they had rescued any more people– and how badly wounded they must have been to be so deathly quiet.

Dr. Kappel really was busy. Homa felt a bit ashamed about it.

She felt that a Doctor’s time and medical resources ought to have gone to anyone else.

Rather than all of this apparent focus on herself. What good was she, anyway?

“There are not very many places to see, but I will take you to the nicest ones.” Kalika said.

“Anywhere is nice enough.” Homa said. “Nicer than being in bed all day.”

Kalika wheeled Homa at a gentle pace out of the clinic door. Directly outside there was a large connecting hallway that seemed to go from one end of the ship to the other. Homa was not able to gauge its length. All of the wall panels had separators with exposed bolts, and there were vents on the lower wall and on the ceiling that hummed constantly. The air smelled stale and there were two dozen people walking up and down the hall at any given time, not mention the ones ducking into and out of meeting rooms and other facilities. Everyone had the same uniform: white shirts, teal half-jackets, black bottoms.

Homa knew nobody, and nobody knew her– but there were people waving at her the instant she stepped out onto the hall. Homa bashfully waved back with her good arm– at first. It happened enough throughout her trip, however, that she ultimately started nodding her head or smiling when more of the crew would wave or wish her well. There were so many people greeting her. At least Kalika was there to keep people moving. None of them stopped to talk, they all had places to go and work to do. But Homa must have received two dozen well wishes and salutations in just her first short trip down the hallway alone.

She did not know how to feel about that– and so she tried to push it to the background.

Something immediately surprising to her was how many different kinds of people there were on the ship, judging by the crew in the main hall. There were a few fair-skinned blonds and brunettes around, but there were also other Shimii, and more Katarrans than just Kalika, and dark-skinned Bosporans as well. Homa was aware that Kreuzung had a particular problem with racial divide, and did not expect everywhere in the world to be as racist– but the veritable melting pot on this ship was still bewildering to see. Everyone was wearing the uniform, or work coveralls like Homa used to wear. Nobody had weapons.

“Hey, um, Ms. Loukia–”

“No~; please call me Kalika, Homa.”

“Kalika– what kind of business is this ship involved in?”

“Ah. Well. It’s part of a ‘transport company.’ That’s all I can say.”

“So they’re doing something illegal.” Homa whispered.

“You didn’t hear it from me.” Kalika said, betraying a hint of amusement.

Working at Bertrand’s, Homa had first-hand experience with the shady outfits coming and going under that euphemism. ‘Transport company’ meant smugglers, hired guns, gangsters; port privatizations in Kreuzung created a boom in illicit logistics for syndicates and privateers alike. Men like Bertrand took anyone’s money. Homa’s sense of morality led her to look upon criminals unkindly– but then she quickly felt she no longer had any higher ground to speak from anyway. Not after everything she had done in Kreuzung.

But– there was also another thing she heard that was difficult to square away–

“But they’re communists? Communist mercenaries?” Homa asked.

“It’s funny how the world works sometimes– that’s all I’ll say.” Kalika replied.

Homa was not an expert on the interiors of ships, but in the ‘After Descent’ era, there was no part of humanity that was not confined to a metal habitat of some description.

So living on a ship was perhaps not so unfamiliar to her. From what she saw, the interior of the ship felt only ever so slightly more confining than her old hallway in Kreuzung. In the hall, people could easily move two abreast with potential room for a third, rather than single file like the training ship Homa had sailed with during her vocational studies. The clinic was bigger than her old room several times over. Kalika wheeled her past a social area that looked actually cozy, with several plush couches and booth seats, and even games. She imagined the individual accommodations for the crew were probably as cramped as hers back home, but overall, it seemed surprisingly humane and livable for a ship.

“Want to go see the ‘ship’s tree’? It’s the darnedest thing.” Kalika asked.

Homa gasped. “Wait, what? They have a tree in here? Do you mean a real tree?”

“It’s a real tree! I had the same reaction. It’s apparently a tradition where they come from.”

A tradition? Keeping a tree inside of a ship of all places?! Homa was quite curious to see.

Despite Kalika’s gentle demeanor and measured pace, Homa still felt strange being pushed around on a wheelchair. It was comfortable enough, and it was nice seeing a different set of metal walls, as well as people coming and going. However, it was hard not to succumb to a feeling of helplessness. As much as she was under the thumb of various forces in Kreuzung, Homa had her independence. She could fend for herself. She had been fending for herself for years. It was routine to her. Wake up, eat from the pot, go to work, come back, eat from the pot, go to sleep. For close to four years that had been her stable, unbroken routine.

As reliable as the beating of her heart.

Or the movement of her limbs. When they were whole, anyway.

Food could be scarce; wallets got tight; but her room was her room, her life was her life.

Everything that once constituted that life was now as distant as a dream.

Homa could not help but feel trapped. Her blankets felt heavier than they should. There was a restlessness working itself out in the remaining muscle of her missing limbs. She wanted to stand up! She wanted to get her own food; she wanted to ‘go to work’ again like she used to.

There was an even more devastating thought that had embedded itself in the back of her mind like a knife, sending a burst of pain through her when prodded– what would her life even be like now? Without a home; without family; having done– the things she had done. (She could hardly envision the events of that awful day again without breaking out into shivers and sweats.) She was a criminal now. She was a killer; she was not innocent.

Before she could fall into a spiral, an elegant and rich voice shook her out of her thoughts.

“Homa, we’re almost at the lab. You can meet the science officer there too.” Kalika said.

Her gloved hand laid on Homa’s shoulder and gave her a friendly little squeeze for comfort.

“Oh. Sure.” Homa replied. She did not know how to feel about mingling with the crew.

She was still not able to fully accept her situation– everything felt transient, surreal even.

Why bother ‘introducing’ her to anyone? Why would anyone here care to know her name?

But she did not say the impolite things that had come to mind. Kalika was trying to be nice.

“She’s a real chipper one. If it gets to be too much, just wink at me.” Kalika added.

At the end of the hallway, there was a doorway into a very large room. Larger than any of the other spaces Homa had seen on this ship. It was even bigger than some of the upscale stores Homa used to see on her way to work. White-ceilinged and brightly lit, the middle of the room had several desk stations and work benches with glass boxes, plastic baubles, table-mounted machines and various smaller devices bubbling and whirring. There was some kind of analysis being done on some fluids and tissues with the results pending.

Homa thought that the equipment appropriately conveyed the function of a ‘laboratory’.

Much of the wall on two sides of the room was taken up with tanks, one of which was covered in grey mushroom caps each the size of a fist; the other full of vibrantly green and blue algae. Each tank was divided into sections that could be independently controlled, and each section had its own diagnostic screen. They were rather orderly and surprisingly clean. Though there was a lot of growth, the strata for the mushrooms looked healthy, and the algae tank was not too murky. Everything seemed close to ready for harvesting.

However, what truly dominated the space was an enclosure of steel, glass and plastic that was indeed encasing a real, live tree available for everyone to see. Boasting a vibrantly green crown, a multitude of sturdy roots and a thick brown trunk. Beneath the tree was a mound of black soil. When she approached it, Homa could even smell the earthy, sweet scent of the leaves, piped out of the enclosure. This tree was planted in the center of the laboratory– everything else Homa saw was arrayed with this tree as a reference point.

Even enclosed as it was and surrounded in its life support machinery and the rest of the laboratory amenities, seeing that beautiful lush greenery through the glass lifted Homa’s ailing heart just a little. For a moment, her emotions were arrested by it. Kalika wheeled Homa close to the tree and then walked beside the wheelchair and kneeled down. She smiled and looked over Homa’s expression as if hoping to see the same– and sure enough, Homa found herself smiling. Inside this can of sardines there was a living thing.

“It might sound crazy, but looking at it just fills me with cheer somehow.” Kalika said.

Homa did not respond, because she was still taking in the sight of the tree. It’s not like she had never seen a tree before. Kreuzung had trees in enclosures just like this. And yet, seeing this tree inside this ship, with its tight halls and small rooms, it was different than meeting it in a station. She did not know where ‘they’ had come from who had this ‘tradition’, but Homa thought in that moment that she understood it. Sitting in front of that marvelous tree, a real tree, a living being that survived so much, as alien to the ocean as human beings were.

It could live in this ship too. Heedless of the circumstances, it reached skyward.

It almost felt like– Homa had a responsibility to sit up a bit straighter for that tree.

Like a venerable elder was watching her and wishing her well.

“Oh! Visitors! I’ll be there in a moment!”

On the far wall of the room there was storage space for the lab. A woman deposited a big brown cube of carboard into one of the units and slid it into the wall. She then turned around sharply and walked briskly around the tree to greet Homa and Kalika. Homa was surprised to see a pretty girl working in the Science pod. She was a Bosporan, too, dark haired and bright-eyed, her brown skin a bit more of a light honeyed color. She wore a white coat instead of a teal jacket over the sleeveless button-down and black skirt that was common on the ship. She was lithe and lively and probably older than Homa by a few years, but still young.

“Welcome to ‘Science & Observation’! My name is Karuniya Maharapratham!”

In her hands, she had a phial of white fluid which she quickly shoved into a pocket.

Homa opted not to bring it up. In fact she had lost all desire to raise her voice.

Looking at the bubbly woman in front of them, she tried to make herself small.

“Back to see the tree again? You must be really fascinated with it.” Karuniya said.

“I’m showing our guest around.” Kalika said, tapping her hand on the wheelchair handles.

“How kind of you! Hopefully the vibrant color of our tree can help lift her spirits.”

Karuniya winked at Homa, who said nothing and averted her gaze.

“Homa this is the ship’s resident expert on all things non-human. We met a few days ago. Now that I think of it, is it alright to call you ‘doc’?” Kalika asked Karuniya suddenly.

“Nope! I haven’t earned it and I don’t want to hear it.” Karuniya said, shutting her eyes and smiling mischievously. She spoke quickly and with a strangely cheerful and excited affectation. “I have not gone on my scientific commission, and I haven’t formally completed my thesis. Therefore, I am but the people’s very own lovely Karuniya Maharapratham, one of the ship’s ‘Four Beauties’– and not a doctor of any kind! Please just call me Karuniya!”

“Wow, okay!” Kalika said, laughing. “Karuniya it is then. Or perhaps ‘Karu’?”

“Only my hubby gets to call me ‘Karu’!” Karuniya replied sharply.

Kalika shrugged comically. “You’re really a stickler for names, aren’t you ‘doc’?”

Both of them laughed.

Homa looked between Kalika and Karuniya and wondered how they could be so chummy.

Then Karuniya bent over a little to acknowledge Homa specifically.

“Homa Baumann! Our latest guest. I hope it’s not too awkard to say, I’m happy to see you, miss! You may be surprised for the attention you’ve been receiving, but it was a dramatic scene when you were rescued. There were a lot of people in the hangar, and everyone who was not there passed on the story about what they saw– everyone on the ship was so nervous and hoped you would pull through against the odds. It’s like witnessing a miracle. Sailors love their death defying tales– I hope you can forgive their enthusiasm.”

“It’s alright. Everyone’s been quite kind.” Homa said politely. “I– I appreciate it.”

Karuniya nodded her head and patted Homa on the shoulder. She was far too chummy.

She then stood up to full height and smiled at Kalika.

“Feel free to look around. I’m available to answer any science trivia type questions.”

Of course– but not any fundamental nature of this ship type questions, Homa supposed.

“What do you say Homa?” Kalika asked. “Want to bask in front of the tree some more?”

“Let’s keep moving. No offense.” Homa avoided Karuniya’s gaze. “It’s a lovely tree.”

“No worries at all. Feel free to come to me for help if my crazy husband annoys you.”

Homa fixed Karuniya a stare suddenly. “Your husband? What does he want with me?”

“She’s a military nerd and is impressed with the data out of your Diver.” Karuniya said.

Wait– She–? Did she not just call this person her ‘husband’?

Homa averted her eyes again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your fans off of you.” Kalika said, leaning close to Homa.

Somewhat mortified at the idea that anyone grabbed the combat data from the DELTA and could plainly see all of what she now considered ‘her crimes’; Homa was wheeled out of the lab in a state of quiet consternation. She had managed enough politeness to wave goodbye to Karuniya Maharapratham, but dreaded ever meeting her ‘husband’. The idea that anyone could have poured over those records and not felt immediate disgust, and instead become excited– it troubled Homa. What possible reason could they have for that?

“Homa, the bathroom is vacant. What do you say to a nice refreshing shower?”

Homa was unprepared for that suggestion. “I’m– I don’t know that I’m able to– my arm–”

Kalika read right through the stuttering. “Of course, in this case I would assist you.”

Homa’s ears folded. She shrank a little in her seat. Her face felt hot and her skin shuddered.

“We don’t have to.” Kalika said gently. “But I think you’ll feel better afterward.”

When she thought about it– Homa could practically feel the grit in her ears. Her hair had a bit of salt in it too. It had been a while since she had the opportunity to bathe. How her body was now– it was a direct product of that day– all of it– so awfully filthy– covered in blood–

Thinking about it instilling a sudden, driving need to be cleaned.

“Alright. Please help me.” Homa said. She tried to suppress a sob and partially succeeded.

Her head was spinning with shame when Kalika took her into the bathroom.

Thankfully, it was empty, just like Kalika had said.

Half the space was a blue-tiled set of showers that were completely open and undivided, essentially just six or seven shower heads hovering over drains, each spaced about a meter apart. The other half of the room had basins for washing hands and faces, stalls enclosing toilets, and a few mirrors. There were dispensers for mouth wash, toothpaste, soap and hair formula, as well as recyclable synthetic towels and wipes. Despite the comfortable size and openness of the space, there was no privacy in the shower. Homa sighed to herself.

Behind her, she heard Kalika’s coat rustle. Her ears and tail stood on end.

Partially turning, she saw her volunteer chauffer undressing. Hanging up her coat, undoing the buttons on her shirt and pulling down her skirt. Homa spread her lips as if to speak but the words caught in her throat catching a glimpse of a fancy, lacy black brassiere and a hint of Kalika’s breasts. She turned back around sharply. Kalika tittered in response.

Of course she had seen it.

“I can stop if it bothers you; but I’d rather keep my clothes dry, you know?” Kalika said.

“No. I’m just– I’m being silly.” Homa said. “It’s okay. I– I really– appreciate the help.”

After putting up her clothes on a series of hooks and drawers outside the shower area, Kalika sought and received Homa’s consent to remove her blanket, and pull off the hospital gown she had been wearing and hang both up with the rest of their clothes. Gingerly, she lifted Homa onto her remaining good leg, with her good arm held over the shoulder. She helped Homa walk to a pair of shower heads, and sat with her on the tiled floor.

“Hot or cold?” Kalika asked. She reached up to a square of wall that accepted touch input.

“Warm.” Homa said dispiritedly, looking down at the bare remains of her leg.

Kalika set the temperature on the wall. A few seconds later, water came out of the spouts that was just warm enough, causing little wisps of mist begin to rising around the two of them. It was a somewhat pleasant temperature on Homa’s skin and hair. Regardless her mood had cratered. Sitting down in the shower, she felt like she did not know how she would stand up again. Everything felt too heavy. She sat under the water despondent and silent; while Kalika sidled closer. Homa’s skin shuddered when she first touched her, Kalika running her slender fingers through dirty dark hair, holding her shoulder for support.

Into a dispenser on the wall, Kalika reached her hand. She collected a bit of foamy, thick fluid on her palm. She spread the foam across Homa’s scalp, working it into her hair, between and around the cat-like ears atop her head. Homa shut her eyes. It was strange but not necessarily unpleasant. Had her mood been stable and all of her wits available, she would have appreciated Kalika’s gentle ministration. Having someone wash her hair, lather her back and breasts with soap, looking over her in detail. It was a luxury she had never experienced in her life. And yet she could not fully appreciate it, not in that moment.

Kalika must have felt the tension.

Her hand stopped along the middle of Homa’s back.

“How are you feeling, Homa? You can be honest with me; and yourself. Under the shower nobody can tell whether your eyes are full of tears, nor hear you sobbing.” Kalika said.

Homa finally broke down at Kalika’s suggestion.

That unwarranted kindness was finally unbearable.

Tears that streamed down her cheeks along with the water washing over her hair.

Her chest seized into an ugly sob. Her shoulders slouched.

She grit her teeth and closed the fist of her good arm.

“I don’t know what to do.” Homa said. “I feel like I don’t know why I am still alive.”

“Your life is irreplaceable Homa; as long as you have it, there’s hope.” Kalika said gently.

“How?” Homa shouted. “I don’t have a home– or job– I don’t have anything anymore!”

Leija– she could not even say goodbye to Leija. She would never know if Leija was okay.

Her gnawing sorrow began to tear free the resentment and anger inside of her.

Kalika rubbed her shoulders a little. Homa shoved back against her suddenly to push her.

She suddenly wanted Kalika off of her and gone. Her heart surged with violence.

“Why are you paying me any attention?” Homa shouted. “What’s in it for you?”

“You are deserving of kindness, simple as that.” Kalika said. “When I saw you dragged out of that Diver, and how badly you were hurt, I was upset with myself. I was in Kreuzung; I was able to fight; but everyone in my crew was blind to the true danger taking place all along. We were caught up in the crisis as helpless as anyone else. We couldn’t stop anything.”

“Nobody could’ve done shit to stop that.” Homa grunted. “Nobody fucking wanted to.”

“You wanted to.” Kalika said. “You fought hard, all alone, trying to stop it. Am I wrong?”

Despite Homa’s petty resistance, Kalika never raised her voice back to her or judged her.

She remained unfailingly kind despite how petty Homa was acting.

She even praised her.

“I’m sorry.” Homa whimpered. “I’m sorry for yelling. And shoving back at you.”

“I don’t hold it against you.” Kalika said. “I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“You think you know?” Homa said, sobbing. “Because you’re disfigured like I am?”

“You’re not disfigured and neither am I. We are more than our limbs.” Kalika said. “But I still remember exactly when I lost my arm. I remember what I lost with it. People I cherished; a place I belonged to; a path I believed in. I fought as much as I could, alone against a tide, to the bitter end. I will never forget that. I know you have suffered a scar like mine too.”

“Yes. That’s right.” Homa replied weakly. She was exhausted; the tears wouldn’t stop.

“But, I’m here now Homa. I survived back then; and so I am alive now. I am still living.”

Homa could not help herself but to scoff. “Yeah? So then– what? I become a merc too?”

“You can do whatever you want to. Nobody here will coerce you, I promise you that.”

In that moment Homa was too resistant to empathy. Too bitter and angry still.

She was collected enough not to snap or shove or be too awful to Kalika.

But she did not want to listen to sense. Not right now.

She just wanted to feel the water washing over her head and back, and nothing else.

All around her the warm water fell in a steady stream of fast, heavy droplets.

She wished it would dissolve her and pull her down the drain.

Homa remained quiet. Trying not to think of anything or have any sensations.

Kalika respected her silence for a few minutes. Then, the water shut off.

All of the warm mist began to fade.

And at least– Homa felt just a bit less filthy.

“Here, I can dry you off. It’s really okay.” Kalika said.

She retrieved a towel, and rubbed it over Homa’s hair and shoulders.

Homa complied.

“Thank you.” Homa mumbled. She turned to look Kalika in the eyes.

“It’s nothing.” Kalika replied. She smiled. “I’m just a fellow survivor.”

“No,” Homa whimpered, “I really mean it. Thank you. For everything. Kalika.”

Kalika pulled the towel from over Homa’s hair. “You’ll be okay, Homa.”


“…for too long, military planning has concerned itself exclusively with the political, social and economic basis of the military endeavor, with only pale reflections of thought spared to the actual military conduct, as in the movement of the weapons and the combat aims of the forces. There is a widespread belief in the Imbrium that as long as sufficient ships are built, and the crews of these ships have enough biscuit, and the people’s unrest against war is sufficiently nullified, then the carrying-out of combat is a secondary concern. Admirals of the Imbrium Empire, during the Revolution, performed maneuvers like rigid chess strategies based purely on intuition without thought to the Union’s intentions. They had become used to equally languid Republic forces that emerged from Ratha Flow in specific formations with limited operational thinking, then clashed over the Great Ayre Reach, a flat and shallow domain with limited possibility. They expected that their larger resource base and greater quality of arms presupposed victory, and they lost many battles and ultimately retreated in shame because they had no operational theory by which to adapt to the new conditions the Union imposed on them through hit-and-run warfare and new improvised weapons, like the use of Divers hidden in benthic rifts to create unexpected marine ambushes.”

“However, the Union, having won their right to exist, also entered a languid period in which the operational art was given very little thought. The Kansal administration believed that the building-up of the productive forces of the state was a sufficient military endeavor, and the Ahwalia regime then tried to abandon military build-up altogether. Even in the current Jayasankar administration, in which the military is the primary receiver of the state’s resources, military thinking is subordinated to production of arms, to building up rations, and conditioning the people militarily. There is great concern about having ‘only’ built a fleet numbering the low thousand of ships, supported by several thousands more Divers and scores of logistical objects and even bigger thousands of supporting personnel otherwise. While there are theorists among the military high command, the development of an operational art is nascent, and Academy graduates are still mainly taught the basic handling of weapons, and for the officers, the basics of managing people socially and politically. Thinking about the battlefield is still at a nascent, improvisational stage, where it is subordinated to thinking about shipyards, agrispheres and councils. It is not my aim with these writings to say such things should not be seen as military concerns. But focusing on these concerns exclusively, leaving the battlefield itself to happenstance, is just as foolish.”

“It is incomplete thinking to view, solely, the deployment of economic, social and political forces as the means to render the foe suppressed; and to respond, if the foe has greater such forces, by surrendering that our own must surpass them to succeed or all else is lost. Logistics remains the mother concern, without which there can be no war– but it is in the operational art that the appropriate usage of the arms must be found, and theory developed to employ the arms and personnel that we possess in a way which maximizes a strategic aim. The Union did not secure its freedom because it had more arms than the empire, nor because its economy was stronger, and not because its social conditions were more stable. Rather, the Union operationally employed its forces to maximize their strength, exploit weaknesses, and shape the conflict itself. This is not solely because the Union has developed the most correct political system. It is not solely because of war communism as a productive model, or because the proletariat are better conditioned for war. It is my intention in this thesis to fully detail the lessons we should have learnt from past conflicts, and draw solid and sensical conclusions from them in order to extrapolate how to properly conduct war in the terms of employing arms, interacting with the enemy, and shaping the battlefield–”

Murati Nakara heard the door to her room open behind herself.

She adjusted her reading glasses and turned around from her desk, expecting Karuniya to have barged in– but finding someone else in her place. A salmon-pink haired, soft-faced young Diver pilot with a curvy figure and a reserved body language– the unassuming Valya Lebedova had appeared at the door. Dressed in black-spotted coveralls and work goggles, they resembled a bit more their formidable aunt, the mechanic chief Galina Lebedova. Except Valya was a bit rounder where Galina was much more well-muscled.

“I apologize for just walking in Lieutenant! I wanted to talk to you.” They said.

“It’s not a problem. I would have locked the door if I wanted privacy.” Murati replied.

“I also apologize if I smell a bit oily. I was lubricating all the Diver’s joints.” Valya said.

“That’s nice of you– but shouldn’t Cohen be in charge of that type of thing?” Murati asked.

“Engineering is busy with the machine we picked up.” Valya said. “And, um, if I’m allowed to speak freely ma’am–” Murati nodded and Valya continued. “I feel that Gunther’s work has been noticeably bad lately. I don’t know I trust him much with my machine anymore. And if I have time, nowadays I also tune up the squad’s machines myself too. It’s fun anyway.”

“What do you figure is wrong with Cohen? Have you heard anything?” Murati asked.

Valya loved to do little optimizations to the machines, so they were the pilot who was most often around the engineers. Murati knew she could trust them when it came to hangar chatter. Valya was a bit bashful, but they never withheld anything from Murati.

“It’s because of Tigris.” Valya said. “I think Gunther feels like Tigris has disrupted things.”

“I’d call her disruptive too.” Murati sighed. “But probably not in the way Cohen means.”

“He seems less motivated since Tigris has unofficially become our technology chief.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Murati said. “Tigris is an incredible resource for us.”

“I agree.” Valya said. Then their voice picked up and they looked even more excited while they spoke. “I’d love to learn from her, to be honest. And she’s not just loud– she works hard! She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty and she’s the first one who lines up for repairs– we’ve already seen her suit up and go repair the ship while it’s in the water and in motion a few times already. She’s not just a ‘hangar queen’ like some big-headed engineers can be. That’s why the crew as a whole really likes her, I think. Cohen is a rules type of guy, not a fast action type of guy. I think Tigris makes him look bad, so he sulks and tries to throw the book at her.”

Murati smiled. “I appreciate your candor, Valya. I’ll try to be in the hangar a bit more and see the situation for myself. Then I might bring it up to the Captain– I do trust you, but I don’t want to use your own experiences as evidence, otherwise you would be dragged in.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t like ‘office politics’ either– but it is what it is.” They said.

“I believe I interrupted you though. You did not come here to talk about Cohen, I presume.”

“No, I did not.” Valya said. “On a break from tuning stuff up, I looked at that combat data.”

“What did you think? How would you rate Homa Baumann’s piloting skill?” Murati asked.

Back in the Union, Valya participated in the Diver training programs for the Academy. Because they had mechanical engineering and piloting skills, they helped the Academy to update their Diver simulations. Valya themself was the opponent that the current crop of Academy pilots would test themselves against. The new simulations also made use of new material models for movement, weight, response, and other such properties that Valya helped to implement. Because of this, Murati sought a second opinion from Valya on the data recovered from the Delta, the diver the injured Homa Baumann had piloted.

They had the machine down in the hangar and were working to restore it, and to make the necessary changes so it could wield Imbrian and Union weapons rather than its stock Republic kit. Murati was curious about Homa Baumann’s predicament. Had she used the machine to try to escape from danger, or had she been deployed to do battle against the Volkisch? She found her answer in the combat data of the “SEAL Delta.” It was an impressive machine, but Murati found Homa’s piloting of it quite remarkable. Before she made any decisions that the officers might typify as rash, however, she wanted a second opinion from someone whom nobody would be so quick to dismiss as reckless or impassioned.

“Well, we lack some context. We don’t know her background.” Valya said. “But just from the data we can read off the Dive computer’s logging, I feel that she has strong fundamentals. In my view, she has definitely piloted before, and I think she piloted regularly. She has certain habits; you can see patterns in the hardware inputs that were recorded. I think that she mastered moving efficiently in a Diver, trying to cover distances quickly. Her use of weapons is not meticulous though. I don’t think she had problems killing, which is a normal hurdle for a rookie in a combat situation. Her computer recorded several kills, including a scout ship. She used all available weapons; but she was reckless with her ammunition usage.”

“From what you saw, do you think she is a republic soldier?” Murati asked.

Valya shook their head. “The machine was activated using an external hardware ID and did not log a pilot ID, so I cannot be certain that it was intended for her. The Delta’s depth logging began tracking the water table just above the baseplate, while the Republic ships came from above to attack Kreuzung below. If I were to extrapolate, I think Homa Baumann somehow got her hands on the Delta, activated the Delta from a lower port, and then fought her way up. She fought exclusively Imbrian model hardware, so she must have been trying to help the Republicans against the Volkisch. We can only speculate about her origins.”

“Thank you. Your insight is invaluable. I knew I could count on you.” Murati said.

“My pleasure!” Valya said in a chipper voice. “Let me know if you want a typed-up report.”

“Valya, I think I want to try to recruit Homa Baumann to our cause.” Murati replied.

“That explains your interest.” Valya said. “Well, I’m not opposed to it. She can definitely pilot that machine, and there are not a lot of other convenient options for it. Maybe if she joins the squad I can retire from piloting and focus on tuning up. Give me Cohen’s job.”

They grinned with a little bit of mischief.

“You’re going to have to slow down a bit on that one.” Murati said, in good humor.

Valya laughed. “Well, that’s my report Lieutenant. I should get back to the hangar.”

“Indeed. Good luck, future engineering chief.” Murati said, with a little laugh.

With a final salute, Valya left the room, the door shutting automatically behind them.

Though the question of Homa Baumann would have to wait for some time, Murati felt that she had the answers she needed. There were more pressing concerns needing her attention.

Murati turned back around. On her desk there was a portable and a digital keyboard.

She had begun writing her own book.

Untitled as of yet; but a military treatise in nature.

After she talked to Premier Erika Kairos, Murati had gotten the idea to write a book in her spare time. At first she considered writing a political thesis, but she realized there were enough spirited defenders of Mordecism and Jayansakarist thought in the world already.

However, when she sat down and thought about the state of Union scholarship, what she realized was missing was a central military thesis. A collection of techniques that actually fit the conditions of current warfare, and not the past. The Academy taught a lot of military history, and combat training taught weapons handling as well as piecemeal “tactics.” But many officers followed a script, and lacked complicated critical thinking about warfare.

If Murati had to describe the current state of the Union’s military doctrine, and as far as she knew the Imbrium as a whole, she would have likened it to handing officers a hand of playing cards to use. “Flanking” was a good tactic, you should try to do it, the card has a pretty symbol and a high number in the corner; direct assault was a tough card to play, not one you want in your hand; the teaching of officers was trapped at that level of thinking. Specific maneuvers that should be used based on their desirability rather than the situation.

Murati had already experienced several cases of this simplistic mentality.

For example, The Third Battle of Thassal, where Admiral Gottwald presupposed that dividing his forces to attack from two sides would be advantageous and so he split the fleet as soon as possible, long before the battle had started. Murati predicted they would meet one element far sooner than the other and thankfully her superior officers listened to her. The Union concentrated their forces and completely nullified the advantage of the pincer by destroying one half of the flanking attack before the other half could join battle.

However, prior to the intervention of Murati, the Union was planning to divide its forces too and meet both sides of the flanking attack. That was the entrenched, simplistic thinking.

Even outside of conventional situations the same tactics saw overuse.

Gertrude Lichtenberg, during the chase out of Serrano, seemingly believed her superior armaments would force the surrender of the Brigand and engaged in a direct chase of her target vessel. She gathered a fleet combat section with force protection, big guns and superior scouting capability. She had every advantage in a conventional scenario– but she did not realize that her chosen tactics contradicted her unique operational goal!

To retrieve Elena Lettiere alive, she could not risk heavily damaging the Brigand. Showing her hand and attempting to attack them directly was foolish. Murati saw an opportunity to fight back despite being outnumbered and outgunned, exposing the contradiction between Lichtenberg’s tactics and objective and ruining her plans. A more sophisticated approach could have allowed Lichtenberg to track the Brigand until it was vulnerable to boarding or could be surrounded or sabotaged for capture. Lichtenberg was too blunt and too desperate to achieve her goal and so she employed her considerable assets to complete failure.

Certainly, many officers in the Imbrium and the Union could exceed that level of thinking and become distinguished in battle. Murati did not think she was special. Any officer could potentially read their enemy and respond in an effective way to achieve success. But those who simply followed their script could be condemned to failure at the cost of many lives. Murati found it intolerable to accept this as the baseline for training. Officers could not be programmed like little machines with binary responses to complex situations.

But they had been; and it would cost them.

It was inevitable. One of many poor admirals would make a mistake someday.

She had seen many pathetic officers in her time in the Union. They were not rare.

And she knew this was not an individual but systemic issue. No one had fought with the Academy for better training more than Murati. Ever since she was a kid, in fact.

She could do nothing about this now. But she could do something for the future.

Murati wanted to teach prospective officers to read the battlefield, know their weapons, synthesize multiple types of information and consider the day to day employment of various technologies in developing plans that supported a comprehensive strategy. Best practices that could elevate an ordinary officer and empower already talented officers to shine even brighter and think even more radically. So if Murati returned alive from this journey, what she wanted to bring back to the people of the Union, was her first-hand accounts of real military combat, as well as her theories collected into a complete military doctrine.

Since she began to write, it had taken up many hours. It would be worth it.

In thinking about her book, Murati caught sight of the chronicle device at the end of the desk. Euphrates had given her parents’ records to her. They remained in arms reach.

And Murati had not dared yet to open them.

She knew some things about her parents. Her mother had been a Solceanos sister for a time and gotten an education that way, before leaving the convent with her father. Her father had been part of a long line of academics whose fates were tied to Bosporus’ chaotic world of scholarship. Until that lineage ended with Murati, who would never be a professor at a Bosporan college. And yet, she was afraid of some things she did not know.

There would probably be a disappointing answer as to why the General Strike failed to materialize; there would probably be some liberal ideas about war and violence; there might be some wishy-washy naïve hopes for some utopian future. Murati, who had once admired the idea of her parents greatly, now feared more disappointment in their reality.

Rather than worry about their legacy; perhaps she wanted to focus on her own instead.

So whenever she caught sight of that chronicle in the corner she felt compelled to write.

It was good inspiration; but perhaps not a healthy response.


After the shower, with permission, Kalika helped Homa to dress and got her back onto her chair. She then nonchalantly stepped in front of Homa and began to dress herself up seemingly without paying her any mind. Seeing this caused Homa to realize how close and how naked their bodies had been the whole time, and it made her run a bit hotter.

Kalika was laissez-faire about the whole thing, a confident nudist, to the point Homa wondered if this was what ship life habituated in people. That and the lack of privacy.

Homa tried not to act too childish about the situation.

She wasn’t a kid, and Kalika had already gone over all of her body in the shower; she tried to avoid acting embarrassing. It helped her a bit when she realized that Kalika was also transgender and had not made any untoward comments about Homa in the shower. She wondered what kind of hormones Kalika was on to get that kind of figure though– unless it was a Katarran thing. Maybe it was– Katarrans were custom made in tubes–

–or so Homa had heard. She had no first-hand knowledge of such things and,

then her wondering, largely brainless gaze descended to somewhere sensitive,

“Checkin’ me out?” Kalika said, a sly smile on her face. “It’s okay, I’m flattered~”

Homa’s gaze darted back up to Kalika’s face and then sideways to avoid her eyes.

She was remarkably pretty even with all of her makeup washed off. And her dick was–

AAAAAAAHHHHHH

“Uh, no, not at all. I mean– no offense or anything– I just wasn’t–” Homa mumbled.

Kalika giggled. “It’s okay. I think I know what you must be thinking, actually.”

Her eyes wandered down between Homa’s legs, causing her to twitch–

“I’m afraid while they might look similar, yours definitely works– while mine does not.”

Then with a fox-like grin, she pointed at Homa’s– and then at herself– and winked–

THIS WOMAN–!

–as usual Homa found only misfortune when it came to the world of “gender stuff.”

Thankfully that was it for Kalika’s teasing. She must have seen how red Homa had gone.

So she put her remaining clothes on with her back turned and allowed Homa to cool down.

After that episode, they were all set to go. Kalika seemed excited to continue their trip.

Homa was not so eager however. She put a sudden stop to the festivities.

“Sorry. I’m feeling more tired than I thought I would be.” She said.

“I understand. I’ll come visit again, or you can call me any time you want.” Kalika said.

“Thanks. I really– I had fun.” Homa said. It was even true– partially– a little bit–

Kalika dutifully wheeled Homa back to the clinic and helped her back onto her bed.

She then left to collect the Doctor herself and inform her that Homa had been returned.

Homa sighed deeply when Kalika left. She both welcomed the silence but felt lonely too.

Like all of her feelings, it was a paradoxical spiral that she could not get control over.

Nevertheless– she was in bed, she had her blanket up to the shoulder and a comfortable pillow behind her. Her skin was soft and felt moist and pliable. Her hair smelled minty like the shampoo. She felt so clean! There was nothing like the feeling of a warm blanket over freshly-showered skin. It was the best Homa had felt, physically at least, in days. Overcome with warm and tender feelings, She shut her eyes and emptied her thoughts.

She managed to rest a bit.

Hours later, her breathing was troubled, her heavy lidded eyes between sleep and wake–

“Homa? Homa, are you okay?”

Her folded ears stood up straight. Homa recognized the world around her again.

At her side, Doctor Kappel had been shaking her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, doctor.” Homa said, reflexively.

“Nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel? Your breathing sounded troubled.”

“I’m okay. I’m breathing fine, I think.” She couldn’t remember anything from her sleep. Maybe she had a nightmare. It wouldn’t surprise her. Her mind felt like pieces barely held together.

The doctor put her hand to Homa’s chest and wrist and seemed satisfied she was okay.

“If something is bothering you, please know that you can speak freely.” Dr. Kappel said, bending so she was eye-level with Homa on the bed. “I’ll do everything I can for you.”

“Thank you, doctor. I think I’ll be okay. Just a little hungry.” Homa said.

Dr. Kappel nodded her acknowledgment. “I’ll go get you a plate. Dinner should be out.”

Out the doctor went; and in a few moments she returned with a cheerful demeanor.

“Minardo had Khadija as a volunteer tonight, so they actually made some Shimii food!”

She brought a multi-sectioned tray of food, a vitamin pill, pain medication and a cup of citrus water clearly flavored by a powder. For the main course, there was a mound of fluffy yellow rice topped with roughly chopped cashews, raisins and carrot strips. There was a small mound of light brown spread flecked with chickpeas that Homa suspected was just itself mashed, seasoned chickpea. On the side, a fresh biscuit, still warm and soft, and a salad of pickled, chopped up onion, cucumber and tomato glistening with a fresh dressing.

Homa looked over the plate. Pulao rice, an attempt at humus, shiraz salad. Everything was fragrant with the vegetal smell of pickles and the earthy scent of the spiced rice almost feeling like home. Homa rubbed the fingers of her remaining hand gently over the surface of the plastic spork that came with the tray. She forked through the rice meticulously. Turning it over, mixing up the nuts and raisins, but staring at it as if searching for something.

After a few moments, she sighed and worked up the courage to ask what had been bothering her as she mixed the items on the tray. It felt embarrassingly selfish.

“Doctor– I am really grateful for the food– but is it okay if I have some meat?” She asked.

Dr. Kappel suddenly put on a helpless expression, perhaps involuntarily.

“I used to start every day with a pot of beef. I would make it myself– I had a little pot back home.” Homa said. She had called Kreuzung home and it tore at the glass cracks in her little soul. But she tried not to cry about it. “I would put cabbage and beef in the pot and flavor it with zlatla and top off with water. It was really simple, but I kind of miss it right now.”

She put on a little smile. Already, she sort of knew the answer.

Just from the Doctor’s face.

Dr. Kappel shut her eyes and shook her head gently.

“I’m sorry, Homa.”

“Can you tell me why not? Is it my condition, or–?”

“No. We just don’t keep meat aboard. It’s– well, it’s not part of our culture.”

“I see.”

Homa shed a tear, but she prevented herself from crying further.

She took a sporkful of the colorful rice and tasted it.

Her cheeks tingled suddenly– it was really quite flavorful.

There was the earthiness of the spice mix in the rice, the savory notes of the stock, the sweetness of the raisins, the crunch of the nuts. Strong notes of umami and a certain creaminess to the dish, an unctuous mouthfeel. While the humus was just okay on its own, it made a good companion with the warm, fluffy biscuit that melted in Homa’s mouth. Meanwhile, she was surprised at the subtle vinegary tang of the Shirazi. She expected the pickles to come in too strong and mushy, but they had bite and were dressed well.

Compliments to that certain ‘Miss Minardo’ in the galley, and her Shimii helper tonight.

Everything was delicious. Almost as good as Madame Arabie’s restaurant dishes.

It just did not have any meat– and Homa dearly wished for some.

She wished she had her pot from back home.

She wished that she was back in Kreuzung and none of this had happened.

“Doctor. What will become of me?” Homa asked.

Her little wan smile enduring bravely.

Even as the tears started to flood from her eyes that she could no longer stop.

“Whatever you decide, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. “Our officers are good people, they would not force you to stay here. We are headed to Aachen– we can set you down there, with your new prosthetics, and with some money. We could help you find a place to stay. We have a few connections we can pull to get you a job, perhaps. Or you can stay with us.”

“I don’t know who any of you really are.” Homa said, her tearful eyes meeting the Doctor’s.

“I’m so sorry Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. She laid a hand on Homa’s shoulder and held her hand as well, trying to comfort her. “We are not trying to hide anything from you. Things are busy and I would just like you to focus on recovery. I can try to get our Captain to come talk to you as soon as possible. I understand you have many questions and need more information before making a decision. But right now, you don’t have to trouble yourself. We are a week out or so from Aachen. You can just relax and recover until your surgery.”

“Why are you all doing this for me? I don’t understand it! Am I worth all of this?”

Homa raised her voice.

Dr. Kappel spoke with a gentler tone in return.

“You are absolutely worth it. Your life is precious to me, Homa. I want you to recover.”

“What about your crew? What do they want with me? Why would they care?”

“They rescued someone from a horrible situation. They just want her to get better too.”

Homa knew she was just being difficult. But she could not help but be cynical.

“I’m supposed to believe you’re, what? A bunch of wandering heroes?” She said bitterly.

“I’m not asking you to believe anything.” Dr. Kappel said. “As your doctor, the only thing that I am asking is that you take your meals, take your medicine, and rest up. Right now, your life does not need to move at 90 knots, Homa. I don’t know what your life was like before; and I do not need to know. Whatever you believe; whoever you are; I just want to treat you.”

“A communist doctor; for some transport company. Whatever then.”

Homa stopped talking and doggedly polished off the rest of her meal.

She then turned her shoulder on Dr. Kappel, wrapping herself up in her blankets.

Staring at the wall. Not wanting to see the doctor or anything else.

“Let me know if you’re having nightmares, or a hard time sleeping.” Dr. Kappel said. “There are a few medications we can try to reduce your stress or to help you sleep better.”

“Fine.” Homa said.

“Good night, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said.

Still gentle with her. Still without cause.

Homa heard her walking away, and closing the green shutters around Homa’s bed.

She grumbled and turned and tossed in bed, feeling restless and angry. A directionless, amorphous anger, like barbed wire writhing in her chest. At first it was directed at this ship and its crew. Soon it turned inward. She felt so stupid. Ungrateful, childish, even evil.

But she would not call back the doctor. She wanted to rot in her wicked futility.


Later in the night, Homa rolled over in bed, groggy, and froze up at the sound of voices.

Across the barrier from her own bed, the doctor and a patient conversed.

Everything was dark save for a dim white LED cluster across the plastic barrier. It cast the shadows of the doctor and patient onto the wall. Nobody had noticed that she had awakened so they spoke candidly. Homa could hear everything as they spoke.

She made herself small and still in bed; deeply curious.

“–I don’t have the materials or expertise to repair this sub-dermal nanomail you have. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know you and her are under Nagavanshi’s curtain of silence. But as a doctor, I’m going to request a detailed specification of your body modifications.”

Doctor Kappel.

“You’re not getting one. But it’s fine. Don’t worry. What did you do to the wound?”

That was the patient then.

“I secured it with a sterile mesh-plate. I am hoping that promotes recovery.”

“That’ll be fine then.”  

“Don’t get shot in the sternum again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“No strenuous exercise for a few days. We need the wound sealant to incorporate. That’s only for the flesh wounds. I’ve no idea how your body will respond to other treatments.”

“I’ll be fine with just the mesh. How is Valeriya doing?”

“Better than you. Nothing wound sealant and stitches could not fix.”

“That’s great. I was more worried about her than anything.”

“You should worry about yourself some more!” Dr. Kappel sighed.

“I only worry about the things I have no control over.”

“Illya. Valeriya is highly dependent on you. That’s why you need to care for yourself!”

For once, the patient, Illya, was quiet in the face of the doctor’s scolding.

Homa thought she saw the shadow of the patient on the wall turning.

“I’ll avoid strenuous activity for as long as I can. It’ll heal up right. Don’t worry.”

Dr. Kappel shook her head.

“I’ll tell the Captain you’ll both be walking out of here tomorrow then.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if she had me executed after you did all of this work?”

“No, it truly would not be. Go to sleep. If not for my sake then for your poor partner.”

Homa heard Dr. Kappel stand up and start walking away.

That one little LED cluster went dark. Casting the entire room into darkness.

Tired but with her mind abuzz, Homa thought about what she had heard.

On the next bed from hers, was someone who had been shot in the chest.

And she would recover from that injury, and leave as early as tomorrow?

Homa was dead certain now that they were mercenaries, but she also realized they must have been formidable. They had tough chicks with body mods so scary-advanced a medical doctor had never seen them. They had a Captain who had the power of death over them. Dr. Kappel treated gunshot wounds and amputated limbs every day because of all the combat they saw. They had Katarrans with them! A Katarran like Kalika, wandering the halls being a tart at a random girl they picked up. And that science lab was growing so much food, and had its own tree– were they rich? But then what did it mean for them to be communists?

Could there really be rich communists?

The more she pored over the details the more Homa just gave herself a headache.

Would she really be alright?

She was helpless to do anything about it.

Turbulent images turned over in her head. Homa shut her eyes, trying to sleep again.

“Hey, kid, trouble sleeping over there?”

Homa’s eyes drew wide and she curled up tighter under her blankets.

“I know you’re awake.”

It was the patient in the next bed over– Illya. Were her blankets rustling that loudly?

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I guess. Homa, right? You don’t have to be scared. I saw when they brought you in, so I know you’ve been through some shit. It will pass. Hell, if you’re like me, you might even like the bionic shit better. Anyway: they don’t let me ‘bother’ you, so I’ll just say this. If anyone gives you shit and I haven’t been executed for treason, you can tell me.” Illya laughed a bit, seemingly amused at the idea.

Homa swallowed a lump and kept quiet.

“I have a– let’s call her a ‘kid sister’. Around your age.”

“Where is she now?” Homa felt compelled to raise her voice after a moment of silence.

Illya laughed again.

“She’s on this ship actually. Maybe you’ll get along? She pilots Divers too.” Illya said.

“Maybe. I’ll keep that in mind.” Homa said.

“Good. Now go to sleep. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, and that we didn’t speak.”

At Illya’s prompting, Homa shut her eyes again– and somehow, she did manage to sleep.

She did not recall any dreams and nobody tried to wake her up hours later.

When she next opened her eyes, she did so slowly and naturally. Her blurring vision of the room slowly came into focus, and she lifted her head from her pillow and pulled the blankets from over her hair. She looked around with a bleary expression. There was gentle yellow light from the sunlamp clusters overhead, but the white LEDs that made up most of the illumination had not yet been turned on. On one side of her bed, diagnostic equipment which had been absent yesterday was now there, perhaps ready for her surgery.

On the other side– Kalika was sitting in a chair.

Homa looked at her, slightly dumbfounded.

Kalika noticed, smiled back and waved.

“Good morning, Homa.” She said.

There was a thick beige portable computer in her hands just like the Doctor’s model.

“Good morning.” Homa said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I only got here a little bit ago.” Kalika said. “I don’t have much to do.”

“So I’m entertaining you?” Homa said. More bluntly than she intended at first.

“It’s not like that.” Kalika said.

Homa laid back down, adjusting her position in bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“Sorry.” She mumbled.

“It’s fine. I get it. But look, I actually brought something for your entertainment.”

Kalika stood from her chair, closer to Homa, and showed her the portable.

Looking at it up close, and being able to hold it with her hand, it was a little bit heavier and chunkier than the types of devices like this sold in Kreuzung. The screen was 200 mm by 140 mm or so, not counting the bezel around it, and it was about 9 or 10 mm thick on the whole. There were buttons on the front bezel as well as the sides. Kalika also demonstrated that part of the top bezel slid out, and within it there were a pair of small earbuds that were permanently affixed to the machine with thin wires. Homa had never seen a device quite like this, and it did not have any corporate brand logos that she could recognize.

Kalika helped stretch the earbud cord and put the buds comfortably in Homa’s ear fluff.

With a few taps of her finger, she summoned a woman’s voice; a pop music track.

Just as easily, she put on a video from one of the ship’s underside cameras, with full audio.

Mostly marine fog. There was the odd shadow rushing past that could have been a fish.

Then, Kalika tabbed through the interface and opened up a small book of poetry and puns.

“There’s a lot of stuff you can do with it. And, even better for your current situation,”

Kalika demonstrated that a pair of bracing legs could be pulled from the back of the device.

In this way, it could sit on Homa’s lap, so she would not need to hold it all the time.

“Um, wow. Thank you. It’s– it’s nice.” She was at a momentary loss for words.

Homa felt touched. She was not necessarily a fan of any of the pieces of media that Kalika had so excitedly shown her on the device. But there was something so warm about it that it made her want to cry. When Kalika slid out the device’s little legs, and she could look at it sitting stupidly on her lap, this thing which initially read as a chunky beige piece of crap that was uglier and heavier and less glitzy than the devices she knew– it now felt like something that was made for her. Perhaps even something that was made for humanity— something that was made for people rather than money. It even had little earbuds attached with a design, and long enough cord, for use with Shimii ears as well as other types of ears. That would have been a separate device worth fifteen or twenty marks in Kreuzung.

She almost wanted to ask again, who even are all of you?

Where does this all come from?

But she knew– communist mercenaries or whatever– no point in asking Kalika again.

Seeing the little device, its screen filled with a page of childish puns, made Homa laugh, a bit bitterly but also, a bit fulfilled. Her heavy heart was beating, her skin was warm.

Despite everything– she really was alive.

“Thank you. Now that I think about it, I haven’t listened to a lot of music.” Homa said.

“How did you pass the time before?” Kalika asked.

“I watched TV I guess. I read books sometimes. Mostly I worked.” Homa said. She let out a sigh and laid back in bed. “I used to work morning to night. Then I ate and I slept with the TV on. When I had a day off– ah, I can’t even remember. I guess, I haven’t thought about what I wanted to do with myself for a really long time. I wanted to make money to pay my bills.”

“Well, one positive about being a mercenary is having decent free time.” Kalika said.

“How about a positive of being a communist?” Homa asked bluntly.

Kalika grinned. “Having a decent amount of free time too. Also, being in the right.”

“Being in the right, huh.”

Homa brushed the top of the device with one of her fingers.

“I can’t promise promise anything, but I will try.” She whispered, smiling a little at Kalika.

Whether Kalika had heard her or not, she simply smiled back.

Homa started to play with the touchscreen controls again right when a new visitor appeared.

Having walked all the way past the other beds to stop at the end of Homa’s medbay bed.

Homa lifted her eyes from the screen to see a familiar fair and long-haired blonde woman.

Long-legged, busty, tall and fit, a bit of makeup; a mature beauty in mercenary uniform.

Along with a peaked cap that had a gold-bordered red star displayed front and center.

“Greetings, Homa Baumann. I’m Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya. Let’s have a little chat.”


After the Core Separation crisis, the Brigand finally escaped from Kreuzung Station.

Now they traveled across the rocky and deep terrain of Eisental, close to 2000 meters deep.

Rendezvousing with the rest of the Rotfront, before heading north-northwest to Aachen.

Between them and the destination was almost the entire length of Eisental.

And all of its many features. Barely recognizable in the pitch darkness and marine fog.

Low-lying underwater peaks, rising and falling mounts, rocky stretches of flat ground; smooth silt valleys and plains where dust and sand sometimes streamed across as if carried on a wind; mineral-rich continental rifts and underwater caves. Abutted to the west by the continent wall and to the east by Jabal Khaybar. Eisental teemed with humanity in its stations, substations and ships, along with aphotic creatures languidly exploring the deep with their bioluminescent bodies. At times, an abstract tunnel of fast-moving water could be observed to snake around the darkness, spiraling here and there and into the distance, part of the treacherous Rhinean jet-streams that could have shaken to pieces a smaller ship.

Commonly seen were small columns of gas wafting up from small pockets of geothermal activity throughout the region. Perhaps during the travel one’s sensors might pick up a particularly consistent outgassing in the distance while navigating the rocky terrain. In the northern and north-western Imbrium, like Rhinea and the Palatine, there were several areas that were home to notably livid rifts, seen to shine red with hot magma or even to crackle purple with massive, exposed clusters of high-grade Agarthicite too reactive to safely mine. These rift areas bore the prefix ‘Bad’ in their names, such as the site where Mehmed’s ambition met its end, Bad Ischl. In these names ‘Bad’ meant ‘Bath’ or ‘Hot Spring’.

As far as humans were concerned, Eisental was a producing region.

Vast mining projects cut deep into the rock to extract a king’s ransom of minerals. Clusters of Agri-Spheres in the calm silt valleys harvested seabed soil, pearlite and geothermal deposit to use in meticulous and vital agroponic works. These produced multiple millions of tons of food– much of it sold unprocessed, requiring extensive logistics to deliver it to upscale grocers and restauranteurs in good condition. Hydrocarbon rigs collected petroleum and natural gas necessary for plastics, an absolutely vital component of deep ocean living. Factory complexes turned these and many more millions of tons of raw materials into products for numerous brands that had become aspirational parts of Rhinean life.

Yet, the ocean was vast and dark, and each of these necessary parts of Imbrian living could no better see one another than the blind creatures of the abyss saw their next meal. Between all of these stations and substations were vast stretches of lonely ocean, within which it still felt as if humanity had ceased to exist and never rebuilt their world under the waves. So as the Brigand navigated the waters, the crew saw darkness, marine fog, and more silt and rock. Stray animals; and perhaps the distant blip of merchant vessels on sonar.

 “Onward to destiny I guess.” Olga Athanasiou said sarcastically at the empty screen.

On the bridge of the UNX-001 Brigand, Erika Kairos, who had sat beside her, stood up.

“Not for destiny!” Erika said. “To defy Destiny and those who would confine us to it!”

With a dramatic flourish and a self-assured grin, she pointed her index finger at the dark.

And so resumed the journey of the revolutionary ship from the communist Union.


Previous ~ Next

Knight in the Ruins of the End [S1.7]

This chapter contains themes of suicidal ideation and child abuse.

“I won’t let them touch you, master.” Azazil said.

Azazil’s baton collided with the mask of the blue-robed aberration with a loud–

–nothing.

Blue color wafting from the entity met the deep purple color from Azazil’s silhouette, as solid a collision as the physical blow. Gertrude’s mind wanted there to be noise, the sound of an impact, so she heard the thud that should have been there, saw the crack it should have inflicted on the mask, saw the figure driven back by the attack in a natural response to pain. In a microsecond of thought, she envisaged what should have been.

Deep down, she was unsure if it happened.

It was an insane, split-second anxiety of reaching for a grounded reality.

It was not untrue that she saw that; but she also saw the creature simply dissipate into blue particles. One second there; one second gone as if it had never existed.

Which was the truth?

Soundless; formless; without a trace in the world.

Except a sparse instant of dancing color. Was that really what happened?

Gertrude stood shock still, drawn-wide eyes witnessing Azazil’s glowing purple baton crack into the shadows one after the other in swift retaliation for their advance.

They continued to twitch her way in jerky movements like badly-edited stop-motion. Their limbs would be retracted one instant and suddenly reaching the next. Trying to strike Azazil with their claws, trying to get their wafting blue clouds upon her, kept at bay by the purple color that was wrapped around her like a billowing cloak or a localized gust of wind.

Another enemy neared, its languid face briefly lighting up–

Azazil took a solid step forward for momentum before swinging.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips inexpressive, her face briefly lit up by the flash of an entity bursting under her attack. This time Gertrude could have sworn her baton went through the entity entirely, even before it had burst and dissipated. Azazil brought the baton back in front of her chest, her eyes keenly following the approaching entities, matching and checking each creature’s moves. She was agile and flexible and undaunted.

Gertrude observed everything happening, but it was as if her head was caught in a fog.

She felt sleepy. She was so exhausted, so drained.

She felt like she couldn’t take another step.

Her eyes became heavy. Her head pounded from the effort to stay awake.

As her vision wavered, the blue color of the entities seemed to grow in intensity.

Then she felt Azazil’s elbow strike her in the rib suddenly.

Not hard, but enough to startle her. Her vision focused again– but only briefly.

“Master, don’t fall asleep. That is their objective.” Azazil said.

“I–” Gertrude couldn’t speak. Her words sank back into her throat.

Sounds felt heavier than the strength of her vocal chords to lift them.

She was so tired that it was almost hopeless to try to do anything.

It was as if her body was slowly forgetting how to move, everything was so sapped from her, thinking was fast becoming an impossibility. Her body hurt, as if her muscles could no longer lift her weight and had begun to collapse from the effort of standing. Unfathomable sights that should have evoked apoplectic terror instead put a cloud before her eyes, as if she was too enervated to scream, too weary to break down into tears. She wanted so badly, more than anything, to lay down and fall asleep and ignore everything in front of her.

Her skepticism, her need for a material grounding to the world, her desire to make sense of the madness in front of her; all of it becoming as dull as her muscles felt supporting her weight. There was no rationality. She was like an animal. She was aware only of her body and the sheer agonizing need that was slowly making itself more and more real to her.

It was hopeless.

The world was so heavy. Her limbs started to shake with the weight.

And so, ever grew the fog. Turning intensely blue before her eyes.

“I’m sorry– I can’t– I can’t go on–”

Gertrude’s knees began to buckle. Her chest could not stay upright.

Azazil half-turned to look back on her, eyes widening with concern.

“Master!”

Gertrude mumbled to herself in lament.

“I was useless the whole time. I was helpless. There’s nothing I could do.”

“Master– no–!”

Blue color began to overtake the surroundings, crawling across the walls, rippling on the ceiling. Rock and metal and the pale moon of Azazil’s face all began to dissipate in the blue. With the blue there was not peace, however, only weight, sluggishness, burden. Blue like the crushing weight of the ocean, strength-sapping blue that slowed the world, thick enough to give light pause. She was being pushed down against the floor and even past it.

Gertrude began to tumble backward.

Her body fell and fell and did not hit the ground.

Nor the ocean around her.

Succumbing to the aberrant blue aether, Gertrude left the material world entirely.

It was not sleep, but a stillness that had deteriorated even the passage of time.


Gertrude fell and fell and she knew she was falling, but the lack of weight was a relief.

Despite the falling, she was at peace.

It was blissful, even, to descend into the eternal blue where nothing changed.

She felt that she was unburdened of the task of being, the effort of maintaining her own existence. There was no effort, there was simply the perfect stillness. To drift was automatic, to fall was just enough inertia to feel alive without the violence that was inherent in deliberate movement. In front of her foggy eyes there was a constellation of lights that were, all of them, blue. None of them shone brightly enough for feeling. There was no warmth, but unchanging surroundings left her with a comforting sense of stillness.

Was there a fall if there was no destination?

Here, there was no pain–

No thought, no worries, nothing external to consume her.

She drifted peacefully as if cradled on a breeze.

But there was in the midst of the fall an introduction of something else–

Passion.

It was like a painful spark that jabbed through her chest.

Spreading to her limbs, beckoning her to struggle.

Gertrude suddenly remembered all the currents that had come to intersect her own.

At first there was a sense of relief– but it was different than the blue nothingness.

It was mixed with her emotions– with them came regrets, frustrations–

She would not have to carry the burden of being High Inquisitor anymore.

No longer would she need to find a place in the world after failing to be Elena’s knight.

There was no need to reconcile her lust toward Ingrid with the lust she felt for other women.

Nile’s secrets could simply remain her own.

Victoria and her would not have to navigate the messy rekindling of their relationship.

Azazil would remain something like a bad dream that disappeared with the morning alarm.

Monika–

Suddenly none of these things felt comforting anymore, none of them felt weightless.

She could not let them come and go. They were hers, she claimed them!

Her heart began to feel hot, and the world began to feel heavy again–

Gertrude opened her eyes and immediately her throat filled with water.

She was surrounded in blue because she was submerged completely in water and it was terrifying to her. Her eyes burned from it, her throat and nose hurt immensely from being filled with it, her lungs struggled. She started thrashing limbs, kicking and paddling in a panic, trying to force herself out of the water with no sense of direction.

Being out in the water was death; every cell of her body screamed for escape.

In a panic she exerted so much force, that she felt as if she had overturned something.

She tumbled, arse over head, and then she hit something solid and flattened out.

Gasping for breaths she could finally take; her entire body in intense pain.

Somehow she had escaped the water and hit a hard floor. Her eyes still burned.

But when she opened them, she began to see blue again. But it was solid blue this time.

Not water, not lights, not those masked things and their blue spores and clouds.

Gertrude found herself laid flat on a tiled floor, its light blue cubic pattern extending all around her. It was on the floor, on the walls, it covered the roof without any change or deviation. Her hand reached out, and it touched water again– she whipped it back as if she had touched a burning chemical, but it was only a panic response.

She forced herself to sit up against a wall.

There was no explaining the transition in her surroundings,

from the station, from the cave, to this place.

In the small room she found herself in, there was a small pool. Not deep enough for her to have been fully submerged and drowning in it. It, too, was tiled the same as every other surface. There was dim light coming as if from under the water, projecting a swirling pattern over some of the roof. She could see out of this room, that there were even more pools connected by a short adjacent hallway. None of these pools followed a logical configuration– there were shallow and deep pools, some only one meter by one meter wide and long, others several cubic meters deep, arranged throughout the space at seemingly random. They reminded Gertrude of hot baths, in their seeming uniformity. But some were too deep, and others were shallower than a shower’s basin. They were connected by tiled walkways.

Forcing herself to a stand, her entire body aching, Gertrude walked to the next room over.

From it, she could see pathways snaking on all sides.

As far as she could see, every hall, every doorway, all led to even more pools.

These seemed to become even more bizarre the farther in she walked.

She began to see pools on the walls, retaining their water despite their position.

Pools on the roof, in places, with their water as still as if they were flat on the ground.

Gertrude walked for several minutes in stunned silence.

Everything was whisper quiet, and there were only more tunnels to follow, more pools.

It was as if she had fallen into some kind of maze.

“Azazil!” Gertrude screamed.

Somehow, her voice did not echo through the corridors and pool rooms.

Nothing in this place made any sense.

She was screaming for Azazil because that was the last person she had been stuck with. But she truly knew next to nothing about Azazil, or the old station in which they had become trapped. For all she knew, it was Azazil who was responsible for all of this, and trying to protect her from the creatures was entirely a façade. Gertrude wondered if someone had drugged her, or if she had been taken away to some bizarre place. Maybe there was equipment fucking with her senses– Azazil had mentioned being enthralled to a computer, maybe that was also the case here? No– that was because of STEM– it made no sense.

As far as Gertrude knew, she did not have a STEM, so that could not apply to her.

Gertrude’s mind was hurtling in every possible direction for answers.

What was the last ordinary thing she remembered?

She and Nile and Victoria had found those boxes marked with a surface era political logo.

Then Gertrude had heard Azazil cry for help– gotten separated– found Azazil–

Learned about Norn–

And then the creatures attacked them.

“I can’t even trust that I didn’t just go insane at some point during that.”

Did insane people realize they were insane? No– they were unaware of it, right?

Could she really have been seeing these pools in the flesh right now?

It was so frustrating.

She walked through the identical corridors unfolding into more bizarre pool rooms.

Finding nothing else anywhere around her. Unable to even tell if she was going in circles.

“My body hurts, so I can’t be dreaming. And I’m wracking my brain, so I can’t be crazy.”

At least she had water– and there was a vac-sealed dry ration bar in her suit too.

So she could endure at least a few more hours of walking.

But to what end?

If she wasn’t so terrified of just sitting down and dying, and if her mind was not so occupied with the bizarre images around her, she would have begun to fear a likely demise within this place. Walking kept her sane within the blue purgatory in which she found herself– if she could even be sane, while traversing such an inexplicable landscape as this. But was there any possibility of escape? Everywhere she had walked looked exactly the same.

Gertrude withdrew her sidearm. She made note of a wall and shot into it.

Tiles cracked and fell from the stricken site, jingling on the floor.

Leaving a little scar, unveiling plain baby blue concrete wall behind the tiles.

She could use this to make sure she was not walking in circles.

Continuing her journey, she put a hand on the left-hand wall and followed it.

Walking past several more pools, through several more hallways.

And never again seeing the hole she had put into the wall.

“I’m making progress, I guess.” Gertrude to herself. Her teeth chattered.

She was growing a bit cold. Though the air was very still in the pool rooms, she was wet.

Hand on the wall, she continued her journey.

After some time, Gertrude found herself in a distinctly larger room.

This in itself did not arouse her attention. But to follow the wall, she had to skirt around the edges of many more pools than before, and those edges were thin and tight. In the dim blue light and the shimmering ripples of water on the ceiling it was difficult to keep focus. She could have lost her footing entirely and fallen into a pool quite easily, which in her mind would not have done anything but annoy her– but then she considered she did not actually know whether what was in the pools was water– or whether that liquid would actually behave normally, nothing else about the situation was normal.

Nevertheless, she followed the wall with continuing frustration.

Then she chanced a look at her reflection in the still and clear water of the adjacent pool.

And the shock she felt almost did cause her to fall into it.

She drew back against the wall, kicking her feet.

Initially in the fear of some figure without description that she thought might jump at her.

But then with the stunned realization that she was seeing herself.

Herself– in a black uniform festooned with symbols of esoteric fascism.

She could even hear her own voice as if surrounded by the figure in the water–

“Standartenführer Gertrude Lichtenberg, reporting for duty. Mein schatzi.”

Smiling, even in that despicable uniform, and saying the last in such a sweet voice–

and a woman’s hand reaching from afar to lift her chin as if owning her–

Gertrude caught the briefest glimpse of the ‘little treasure’ of her other self.

Elena with blue and pink hair, in the same uniform, covered in hooked crosses and sun discs–

Tearing herself away from the sight, Gertrude charged across the thin strip of tiled floor separating one pool to another, and dropped, almost falling, hoping to see her reflection as it should have been. But the adjacent pool had a separate vision, both from reality as Gertrude knew it and from the last pool she had seen. Instead of a Volkisch officer, this Gertrude had clerical robes and wore her hair long and half-covered in a loose habit.

She silently entered a dark room filled with paintings and symbols of Solceanic belief.

“Apologies, holy pontiff. I needed to check up on you.” She said.

In the center of the room, a thin and bedraggled looking Elena gave her a tired look.

Now she was dressed in the papal garb and hat–

“Of course.”

“Another failed experiment?”

“Let’s not speak of it. Tend to my ablutions. I’m feeling– stiff.”

And the nun Gertrude smiled and bowed reverently, and the pontiff shed her robes,

exchanging glances full of– lust–

Gertrude tore herself from the pool and crawled pathetically to a third within reach.

Then she found herself in such an intersection of pools that she could see many of herself at a time, reflected in the waters. Then she was reflected in the ceiling and the walls, surrounded in herself as if carried on a mist that blended the light into apparitions. They walked past her, beside her and through her like ghosts but always playing their own scenes with their own aims as if these histories were currents washing over the unseen woman observing them from the pools. So many Gertrude Lichtenberg overwhelming her.

She saw one Gertrude who was a Katarran in the Pythian Black Legion, carrying out the ancient prophecy of an annihilating battle of the fittest, under the orders of the warlord, Elena; a Gertrude who was an officer in the Hanwan Konoe Shidan, and having been promoted following the crushing of a rebellion against the Empire as well as meritorious service in the conquest and subjugation of the Yu states, reverently sought even the briefest glimpse of Empress Elena; G.I.A. agent Gertrude McLyndon proudly holding a pile of compromising documents and photographs sure to discredit and tear apart the progressivist coalition challenging President Elena’s reelection; Gertrude as the Political Commissar of Captain Elena in a Union Cruiser on an important communist mission; and Gertrude the Praetorian, holding the power of life and death over Fueller Empress Elena–

“No– No– Stop it– I’m not– I can’t–”

Breathless, unable to escape from the figures and shadows, Gertrude shut her eyes.

Unable to make it all go away, unable to bear it–

So badly, she wanted to give in to the worst of herself and be one of those images.

To do anything, destroy anything, compromise anything, to hold the whole world back.

In exchange for her– but no– not these horrid facsimiles–

There was such a thing as a price too high to bear! Gertrude told herself this.

That if Elena had been anyone but herself, Gertrude may well have not followed her.

“Elena was none of those kinds of people. That’s why I love her–”

Gertrude grit her teeth. Of course, Elena was not the monster. Never Elena.

She was the monster. And it was her love for Elena which had made her a monster.

“No– that’s not true– I could have done things right– it was all my mistakes–!”

Some part of her realized that the thoughts she was having and voices she was hearing–

They were all mixing in her brain until she could not sort out what was real.

Unable to escape, to sort out her thoughts or bear any further visions–

Gertrude slid herself to one of the pools and pushed herself into it.

Immediately, she sank deeper and deeper than was possible.

Water filled her throat and nose with incredible rapidity.

Instantly, she was drowning again.

Panicking, thrashing, choking, in immense pain until her consciousness was obliterated.


Blue.

Even as her tear-stained eyes struggled to open, she still found herself surrounded in blue. Now the tiles were an even darker blue than before and their sectioning was much less obvious. She instantly felt ever more enclosed. The light, too, was dimmer, but it still seemed to come up from within the pools, of which there was one nearby.

Her hand had dipped inside it.

Gertrude laid on her back.

Soon as she recognized that she was herself, and awake, and saw her surroundings, she felt the biting cold again and resumed shivering. She retracted her hand from a pool and hugged herself, curling her legs up closer to her body. On the ceiling, the water, lit from under, cast shimmering white waves over the dark blue tiles. She stared at it, helpless and cold,

following the waves–

Until she noticed the shadow cutting across the center of the light show.

In a panic, Gertrude pushed herself up onto her feet and to a thundering step,

sliding over smooth slick tiles

falling hard on her shoulder and coming to lie

staring

into a pool much larger deeper darker like a blue hole in the world

occupied

“You’ve done more harm to yourself than I mean to you already.”

With her back to the wall, shivering with cold and fear, Gertrude stared in the center of the gaping blue maw that had become of the pool. There was a figure there, floating gently atop the surface. Slender with a long torso and limbs, and almost nymph-like, not simply in her beauty but in the pallid softness that her features seemed to take. Her hair was long and red and flowed over the water around her like a spreading bloodstain. She was dressed in a long robe which had been entirely soaked through, and clung to her hips and her small breasts in a way that, even in this situation, made Gertrude run a bit hotter than before.

Curiously, she had one single black horn and an over-long white tail, its end splitting like that of a whale or dolphin, almost as long as her body and somewhat thick.

When their eyes met– Gertrude could have sworn they were black with a yellow slit.

Then imperceptibly fast, so that it made her previous perception appear a mirage–

Those eyes changed color, becoming blue and green.

“I remember you.” Gertrude said, her lips trembling. “You– you attacked me–”

In her dreams, she had seen the trees, and seen a woman giving a speech, and seen a vast and horrible machine processing something ungodly and inhuman. Visions as if of other worlds, impossible places that felt terrifyingly familiar. In those places, this woman appeared. At times callous; at times barring the way; at times, tearing Gertrude apart.

Those memories of the pain inflicted by this woman caused Gertrude to wince.

And push herself further back against the wall–

There was nowhere to go.

When Gertrude pushed back, the edge of the pool became, suddenly, closer.

Her legs were in the water, she now sat on only enough tile to sit in at all.

Just as that edge had come closer, the woman now lounged right beside her.

Head and arms out of the water, her long and voluminous red hair on Gertrude’s lap.

One slender white finger traced the front of Gertrude from her sternum to her belly.

Spreading warmth wherever it touched. Giving off a hazy wisp of those strange colors.

In Gertrude’s pocket, the object Nile had given her was buzzing uncontrollably.

“You needn’t fear me. Like you, I am given into my passions. Sometimes I can no better control myself than if my right half and left half were different people. It’s hard to explain; but I’m in a good mood. I wanted to follow after you again. You have stumbled upon an interesting place. You have an uncanny ability to stumble in this way. Because you have a passionate, chaotic heart that is tearing through the world for a purpose. Just like mine.”

Gertrude felt her tensions dissipate, her muscles loosen up, and the cold fading.

The touch of this woman was perhaps the most soothing sensation she had ever felt.

Enough that Gertrude almost gasped when the woman simply lifted her fingers from her.

“Can you help me?” Gertrude asked. “You said I wandered here– well, I’m trapped now.”

At her side, the woman smiled. “You’re so bold– going right past names to favors.”

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“But you don’t know who I am. And you won’t, without a proper introduction, Hominin.”

“Hominin? Well– I am Gertrude Lichtenberg.” Gertrude said, submitting to the demand.

“Gertrude Lichtenberg. Alright then– can you call me Eris?” Asked the red-haired woman.

Gertrude smiled a little. She started to feel safe. “As you wish. Thank you, Eris.”

Eris closed her eyes. Her lips slowly turned into a smile. She looked strangely placid.

“What are you thanking me for, Hominin? So easily forgetting the danger I represent?”

“You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” Gertrude said.

She was being coy, but Gertrude was certain this woman was doing something to her.

Something that helped her stave off the rot of mind and spirit in this place.

Gertrude came to realize that ever since the katov mass had turned blue, the same blue that permeated this evil place, she had felt tired. Tired, helpless, rushing blindly. Desperate to outrun something, so desperate it wiped her out; everyone else was just as tired as her too. No amount of vitamin jelly drinks could restore her. Blue that made the marrow turn cold, that made the fog of mind freeze into hard walls around thought and meaning. She had been so stupid; Nile had tried to tell her, but she did not want to stop and understand.

Gertrude had marched them all into the abyss’ insanity. Into its consumptive power.

Hundreds of expeditions had been devoured in holes like this. Unknowing until the end.

Only now, with that healing touch, was Gertrude finally able to realize her predicament.

But she did not feel panic. Her heart was steady and her breathing calm.

Instead, she felt like she had finally made a breakthrough.

Gertrude sat up straight.

Her boots sank further into the water, but she didn’t care anymore. Being wet was the least of her worries. Unable to make any headway, she resolved to catch her breath and try to clear her head. Blue ripples reflected eerily upon her face, which was mostly in shadow and barely visible in her reflection until a blue streak crossed her eyes. She glanced at the woman in the pool, who floated gently toward her, long tail curving further into the pool.

“You look so resigned. Have you finally accepted your situation?” Eris said.

“I’m collected. I’ve been going around in circles and getting jerked around for so long. Now I don’t know. I feel some kind of way. Right now, I just want to talk to you. Is that okay?”

She looked down at the water just as the red-haired woman floated closer to her.

Their eyes met, golden yellow and dark green.

In good humor– for once.

After circling these pools for so long the she wished she could gut herself with her knife–

Eris in the water, however absurd a sight, gave her hope for something.

“You remind me of someone.” Eris said.

Turning her head to meet her eyes further, her cheek caressed by the tiles.

Eris had an expression of uncanny fondness on her face. She looked so placid.

“Is the resemblance positive or negative?” Gertrude asked.

“She was someone who said she would protect me, no matter what.” Eris replied.

Gertrude smirked a little. “You feel too formidable to need protecting.”

Eris smirked. “What if I did? What if, as we speak, I’m in the greatest danger of my life?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Gertrude said. “I’m also the type to say ‘I would give my life for you.’”

“You are an awful cad.” Eris laughed. “I’m not so easy, you despicable hominin.”

“I’m serious.” Gertrude replied. She even started laughing a little bit too.

“Even if I told you my enemy is something too vast and impossible?” Eris replied.

She raised her eyes from Eris to the walls around them.

There seemed to be no passages out of this pool. No matter.

For once, Gertrude did not really want to go anywhere. Eris was too interesting.

“I’ve spent all my life putting my body between women and something vast and impossible. Sometimes, they even wanted me to do it.” She said, betraying a hint of sadness.

Eris seemed to pick up on her wistful tone of voice.

Her own eyes wandered too. She looked up at the tiled walls and the ceiling.

“Would you protect me, if I myself became your enemy?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Gertrude said. Now even more weary-sounding than before.

“You should give up. I am not able to be protected, nor am I worthy of it.” Eris said.

“And I’m not worthy of protecting anyone. You can’t be any worse than me.”

“You say that so easily. But my sins are monumental.”

“There are people who would say I’m utterly unforgiveable too.”

Gertrude swayed her legs gently in the bewitchingly blue water of the pools.

“I used to be a High Inquisitor of the Empire. My hands are stained permanently with so much blood. Blood from innocents whom I suppressed, and from my own allies and the people I turned into enemies.” She said. “I made many deliberately evil decisions. And as many mistakes. I don’t think I can make amends. But if you need someone– I can help you. I can’t just walk past someone drowning in the same stagnant water I’m drowning in.”

Eris looked up at the roof with a wan expression. Avoiding Gertrude’s own eyes.

“You’ve come a long, painful way, since your journey began.” She said. “In that sense, we are alike. Both groomed into the weapons of greedy empires, fighting for injustice, losing everything by our own foolish hands, including our identities. Trapped in liminal space, with a dead past and a foregone future. All we can do is to despair and rebel against the world.”

Eris continued to give the walls the same narrow wistful gaze.

“Eris– you know what this maze actually is, don’t you?” Gertrude asked.

There was a note of frustration finally creeping into Gertrude’s voice again.

She had been stuck, in motionless suspension, a blind idiot trapped in limbo. Time and again, dangers and obstacles beyond her ability and cognition erupted in front of her, and she would be rescued from her vanity by an ally with the answers. Her own power and skill had been utterly worthless. She was forced to grovel or to become someone’s damsel, unable to resolve any situation by herself. It was the same here. Whether it was Norn, Victoria, Nile, Azazil or now Eris. Gertrude was lucky to have their pity or she would be dead.

Every time, she lacked the ability to change anything.

Even outside this blue hell– everything had been going in circles.

Ever since she left Luxembourg– circles,

ever since she first stood between Sawyer and Elena,

ever since,

she was born,

spinning circles on her own heel,

all of it in vain,

“Ahh– to think I have to give succor to a Hominin. But– this doesn’t feel too bad.”

From the water, an arm stretched up, and silk-soft fingers caressed Gertrude’s cheek.

That touch, so tender and warm, snapped Gertrude out of her sudden despair and fury.

“Listen well Hominin. Rarely do I enlighten your kind. This liminal space is built up of resonant human emotions.” Eris said. “The Aether is a reflection of humanity. It is a body whose flesh is the human soul. Its blood formed of human perspective, and circulated in veins the gifted can see. Everything that is human can exist here, circulating endlessly wherever humans have been and wherever they desire to go. Everything you fear, everything you love, everything that brings despair, joy or even stultification. But in this specific place, a single emotion has overwhelmed everything, and the ‘blood’ has become clotted.”

Ordinarily, Gertrude might have reacted adversely toward that explanation.

She had been doing a lot of that lately too.

But at that moment she wanted that to stop and had the conviction to stop it.

No more panicking and shrieking pathetically at the things she did not understand.

She wanted to understand. This was part of the world too– she had to master it.

Gertrude kept hurrying to get somewhere, and she ended up here, nowhere.

She ran past every explanation only wanting what was convenient and simple.

Always missing the important context, the crevices between statements, the hard truths.

Her heart needed to open itself to the possibility of what she was seeing.

“You are saying that this is a place of emotions; an overwhelming emotion created it. Can my emotions change this place back? Can my emotions free me from here?” Gertrude said.

“It’s not so easy– but your emotions are powerful, Gertrude Lichtenberg.” Eris said.

Gertrude scoffed. “My emotions have only brought tragedy– I fear relying on them.”

Eris’s eyes met Gertrude’s again.

This time, they had some of their former scrutinizing coldness again.

“Your emotions forged and destroyed bonds. They upended your life. They brought you to this place.” Eris said. “They can be a power to destroy, but they also brought you many followers and believers, many close bonds, the armor you wear and the weapons you wield. In that sense, they have not only brought tragedy, but have also created your triumphs.”

Gertrude’s passion had brought her from the heights of the Imbrium to the depths of this trench. But she couldn’t accept that so easily. It wasn’t just her emotions, as a disconnected entity or power. Her emotions were not something that happened without her.

They were not autonomous.

It was herself. She stuck herself into this endless circle.

Her eyes began to sting and weep again, even with Eris’ touch upon her cheek.

Teardrops crashed on the surface of the pool.

Sending hot red vapor into the air.

“Are you wavering again? So easily? Even after my comfort?” Eris sounded offended.

“I’m sorry. It’s– I was just so stupid. I can’t call any of it a triumph.” Gertrude whimpered. “You don’t understand. I was delusional. I used those bonds as my excuse. I convinced myself everything I was doing for Elena was consecrated, necessary, and good for her. And yet– along the way, I betrayed the trust of so many other people who needed me.”

Just thinking about ‘emotions’ had set her off on a warpath again. She went out of control.

“They saw me as a symbol of hope. That a swarthy-skinned and dark-haired little brat without a drop of noble blood nor the vast wealth of a capitalist, could grow up and climb to the highest peaks of the Empire using only her martial ability, and could achieve control, and with it, independence and agency. But I didn’t climb anything but a mountain of corpses. I never had any merits. I cheated, I begged, I conspired, I killed so many people, some of whom deserved retribution but many, many more that did not deserve what I did to them.”

Gertrude lifted her eyes from the water and met Eris’s gaze again.

“I don’t believe in the Imbrian Empire. My uniform, that flag, all of that crap– none of it was worth shit to me. All I believed was in Elena von Fueller. I loved her with all my heart. It made me human– she was the only reminder that I had a soul. That I still had a beating heart.”

“Gertrude–”

Eris tried to speak up, but Gertrude pounded her fist on the tiled edge of the pool and put a crack in its perfect facade, shattering the tiles. Eris stared at the cracks with surprise.

And so Gertrude continued to lament.

“And in the end, I was ready to kill her too! I would have killed her if I couldn’t have her. She invalidated everything I had become. She never asked me to; and I never asked her. But I became this for her and she rejected it, and when she did, my future disappeared. I became suspended in nothingness. And now I am nothing but a monster. Emotions? What good are my emotions? Norn sent me down here, maybe hoping to alter my perspective. I rushed in with all the greed and obsession of my monstrous heart looking for a treasure at the end of a rainbow. I wanted this place to just give me her strength as if I deserved a reward!”

Eris’s eyes softened slightly.

“But I just failed.” Gertrude said. She smiled a hopeless smile. It was the smile of a dead woman, she thought. She saw herself reflected in the pool. So pale, so helpless. “I know that now. I can’t do anything. Even before I became trapped in this hell of empty pools, whatever this place is– it doesn’t even rate compared to how meaningless my life outside here was. How circular and empty and delusional. I burned all of the joy I could have had with her. I foreclosed on every other possibility. Anything outside my fucking circle of hell.”

More tears streamed down her cheeks. Red vapor steamed from the blue water.

“I’m lost. I’m lost! I don’t know which way to go. You are asking me to make use of my emotions? These are my emotions. I am a raging animal who wants to tear her own fucking face off. I can’t use these emotions for anything good. All I can do is rage impotently!”

“We are more alike than even I thought.” Eris said. “So will you just sit here like me?”

Gertrude fell silent, staring at the water with that lost smile.

“How disappointing.” Eris said. “And here I thought it would be worth following you.”

Her tear-stained eyes met Eris’s beautifully pale face once again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so pathetic. I’ve been saved so many times the past few days. I’ve not been able to protect anyone. You’re right. I am a cad. I am just trying to find a new lie that I can tell myself, desperately, even now, even in this god-forsaken lightless hole into which I have been cast. I can’t protect you. I can’t protect anyone. You’re right– I have lost my beginning and I’ll never reach my destination. You called it a liminal space? Then I’m just stuck in limbo.”

At the sound of her voice, the walls shuddered. Red cracks put upon blue tiles.

“What about Monika?” Eris asked. “She’s in danger.”

Gertrude’s breath caught in her chest. Monika– that poor girl believed in her–

–but it was no use,

“Gertrude, if anything were possible– what would your ambition be?” Eris asked.

Gertrude’s fists tightened. Anger swelled in her heart. She hated that question.

She hated these what-if’s and sophistry.

Already, the meaningless answer had formed in her mind. It was immediate and absolute.

“I’d cut a trail of blood across this fucking Ocean. I would destroy the remains of the Imbrium Empire.” Gertrude said. “I’d tear down everything separating us without mercy–!”

Her and–

Elena–?

Ingrid–?

Victoria–?

Nile?

Sawyer even–?

Perhaps–

Eris too?

“You are a fascinating Hominin. I feel– I feel so close to you. I– I want you, Gertrude.”

There was a moment of silence again between herself and Eris.

Gertrude noticed Eris’s eyes becoming shadowed.

Her bangs, and the angle at which she was laying on the edge of the tiles.

It hid her eyes– but Gertrude could see her lips slowly curl into a smile.

“Gertrude, you know what your emotions can do? They can put a crack in these tiles.”

Gertrude, for an instant, felt a familiar stirring inside herself.

She felt a sudden desire to take possession of Eris too.

Before her eyes, a flash of a world where she could exploit her, where she could use her knowledge, her powers, her beautiful and strange body, in every possible advantageous way. Eris became power and treasure in her mind, became salvation, redemption, sublimity, pleasure. She could use her until her dark heart was full. There was a mighty red haze before Gertrude’s eyes that showed her pleasures and triumphs beyond imagination. With control over Eris, she could escape, she could rescue all of her crew and her ship, she could attack all of her enemies, and take back Elena, and sweep through the world in her fury–

And she stopped herself, utterly, and completely. Her emotions were a spiraling storm.

She could not let herself treat anyone like that again– could she–?

“Can I still raise my head after all of this–?”

As soon as the words left Gertrude’s lips, Eris was suddenly face to face with her.

She had left the pool instantly, it was as if she had always been standing beside her. Curled around her, embracing her, and with a gentle hold on Gertrude’s chin, forcing her to lift her head. Her face was so close, Gertrude could feel her breaths warming her lips.

Close enough to drown in her eyes.

Close enough to kiss.

Her lips took Gertrude’s own, so hungry it almost felt like she would bite.

Tasting the subtle hint of iron in her tongue and throat, Gertrude felt her mind waver.

She saw herself sharing this kiss under a sky rather than the ocean.

Saw an enormous tree-like structure looming over the two of them.

And then Eris ripped apart right in front of her.

Every piece of her torn out and scattered.

But just as quickly and with much more emotion, she saw the kiss and reciprocated.

Painted blue in the pool room but beginning to glow gently red instead.

When they parted, a string of spittle between their once-interlocking tongues–

Gertrude was rendered speechless again. In front of that nymph-like, dream-like beauty.

That taste had been so– dangerous– intoxicating– but fulfilling too.

Eris stared at her dead in the eyes, close as warm breath. Looking at her so– covetously.

“Promise me, Gertrude Lichtenberg. Take your power and use it to destroy your enemies. Seize every treasure which you feel is yours and guard your hoard like a dragon. Let yourself be envious, greedy, lustful, furious and vain. Let sloth overtake you and experience despair. Allow all colors of the aura into yourself. Live your darkest passion. Don’t stop moving. Don’t accept being in a place like this ever again. Become someone who will protect me; not in the midst of this, but at the height of power over a new world and perhaps, at my side.”

She smiled, rapturously, almost– insanely– her aura becoming vast and stark white–

“Don’t put up with the path. Seize the destination. Betray this world; crush it in your fist.”

“Eris–”

“Promise me– and I’ll help here. And we’ll meet again too. Out there.”

There was no denying the allure of her words.

Gertrude was full of nothing but contempt for the world.

This was not a world in which she or any of the people she had come to care about could live in peace. Tearing down the high towers and standing over the rubble would be doing the world a favor. Building something new and better over the heap would be mercy. But it was the least she could do; and the minimum required was for the Imbrium Empire to be completely annihilated. It was the only way she could live with herself.

Emperor Lichtenberg— she had been called that in jest.

And yet, in the brilliant and fond eyes of this ‘Eris’ it felt like she could see that world.

A world in which she had power. A world in which all the current rules were overturned.

Creating a new order by which all of these tragedies could be averted.

The final death and burying of the Imbrian Empire.

Vengeance against all of its architects.

And the rise of the empire of the future, her empire– The Agarthic Empire.

“I promise you.” Gertrude said. “I will tear my way out of this. I will find you.”

“What if you made an enemy out of me? What if I tried to stop you?”

Eris was testing her conviction.

But she didn’t know Gertrude as perfectly as she thought.

Her words were as dark and heavy and hot as the shielding on a reactor.

“I wouldn’t let you make that mistake. I want your power too. If we’re alike as you say–”

Gertrude smirked.

“Then I’ll become like you someday. I am a monster too. I’ll claim you for myself first. I will not let you get in my way; nor will you escape. I will use you, Eris; everything of you.”

Eris’s face warped into a grin.

“Let us seal this covenant, Gertrude Lichtenberg. If you possess the conviction.”

In the next instant, Gertrude found herself on her back, pushed back from the pool.

On top of her, Eris loomed, her golden eyes shining.

Her lips spread, revealing sharp, hungry teeth.

She descended on Gertrude, who resolved to keep still and endure it.

Eris bit down into her shoulder and tore a piece of her flesh right into her mouth.

Rather than agony, however, Gertrude felt warmth, closeness, affection

through those fangs

ripping skin, tearing fibers, blood swallowed up

she was filled with something

made a part of it

connected to a grander whole

It was as close to paradise as she had ever neared, and she felt her chest fluttering.

“Gertrude. I am a sputtering throat without heart or limbs. I have been ripped apart and remade whole and been swept by currents like dust. I may not be– myself– next time.”

Eris’ gaze met Gertrude’s own. Lit up a dim red by Gertrude’s growing aura.

“I want to believe that something of me can be saved. That something of us can be saved.”

In one instant, Eris’ tears dropped from weary eyes–

And she put her head up close to Gertrude, looking so helpless and defeated.

Gertrude reached up, wanting to touch her again, to pull her in tight–

And as suddenly she was gone, in a sweeping current formed of a myriad colors.

For a moment, Gertrude felt the absence of her warmth, and the blue despair crept in–

–but she would not accept it any longer.

She would not settle for suffering loss after loss.

Her red passion brimmed, a thin shining aura, and the blue wisps scattered from her like flies being driven off by smoke. After Eris’ departure, the room tried to go dark, but Gertrude was her own light. She stood from the ground, fighting back tears, but filled with purpose. Red streaks accompanied her steps, dim at first but red enough to vanquish the dark blue.

She walked, filling in the negative, a light in the storm, a matchfire in void.

Rational thoughts of hopelessness, of being trapped, of seeing the impossible surroundings and recoiling with fear, of the need to curl up and preserve life for as long as she could, all of it burned in that insane red. Gertrude was instead filled with a conviction that was backed by no evidence of her senses, and it afforded a clarity she had never felt in her life. There was nothing in front of her but a straight line forward. If it didn’t exist, she would carve it. In that moment, there was no wall strong enough to stop her. No length she could not cross.

No depth too unreachable.

All of these unseemly blue tiles cried out for a pattern only a battering could inscribe.

Gertrude reached her hands to where she had been bitten.

Almost disappointed to find no wound there. She almost wanted to be marked.

“I’ll claim her. She’s down there somewhere– some part of her is. I know it.”

Gertrude looked at the fingers that had touched the site of Eris’ bite.

Closed them into a fist.

And put that fist directly through the wall of the pool rooms.

She expected to meet any amount of resistance, and for a second she thought she saw the walls actually, physically crack, fissures spreading through the wall and up the ceiling and even into the water itself, cracking everything like glass– but then in the blink of an eye, her entire surroundings had simply changed from what they had been previously, annihilated immediately. Consumed in the devastating red they burned away like paper set alight.

Gertrude had forged her own chaotic red path through their ordered blue despair.


In place of the pool rooms there was suddenly a long and tall hallway of cobblestones.

All of the cobbles had sooty burnt traces as if a fire had raged through the hallway.

Stained glass windows shining all around her some set at impossible directions and angles as if not anchored to a physical wall, or as if the wall had been bent awkwardly around them. But the cobblestone was continuous, it climbed the walls, it formed the ceiling, and it was unbroken even in those places where there were seemingly organic breaches of their geometry. Gertrude was left briefly speechless by the grandeur of this place compared to the tight, looping pool rooms. It was as if this place housed something enormous.

She was not alone. There was much more activity here than in the pools.

Gertrude saw both near and far a dozen of those masked aberrations that had been trying to overwhelm her and Azazil. She had her guard up and awaited an attack. They did not seem to notice her, however, and after a few tense minutes she relaxed. They dragged their bloated arms behind their cloaked bodies, all of the facial features imprinted on their white masks contorting into dazed and stupid-looking expressions. They were making their way down the corridor, following the far off walls into the distance without aim or aggression.

Closing her fists and steadying her breathing, Gertrude followed them from afar.

Soon as she began walking, she noticed nothing in the distance seemed to come closer.

But she would not give up– the appearance of hopelessness was the aim of the blue color.

Stubbornly she continued to walk even though she seemed to make no progress.

She then noticed that the stained glass windows had actual shapes, and depicted scenes.

Scenes of a golden-haired girl with dog-like ears, rendered abstract but dreadfully familiar.

“Monika.” Gertrude said. Feeling a sense of trepidation again and smothering it down.

From one of her pouches, she withdrew the aetherometer that Nile had given her.

Stirring continuously, like a tablet vibrating to inform the owner of a message.

All of its face had become distorted with spiraling shades of blue that became impossible to read. However, the more concentrated on it the more she could feel something from it. That feeling became sound. Sound that when it crossed into her became a voice and a voice which she recognized. Gertrude listened, shuddered and had to fight to keep her fire alight.

Somehow the aetherometer was broadcasting Monika’s voice.

“Sleep soundly, peacefully, without resentment.” She whispered in a mischievous voice.

There was a note of palpable desperation. It was an unsettling tone of voice.

Like Monika had gone mad.

“Sleep the eternities away. Without pain, without bigotry. In the eternal sleep there lies our paradise. We are equals in sleep. We have no war or famine or genocide. Join our deep blue and beautiful sleep. It will be so easy. It will be so kind. You have needed it so long.”

That suggestive voice tempted Gertrude to surrender herself, and she was weak to it.

Indeed– it would have been so easy. And it would have felt so kind.

True– Gertrude had needed it for so long.

But she lifted her feet and continued despite the inherent difficulty.

Fire slept when it was snuffed out and ceased to burn.

Gertrude stubbornly tried to shut it out of her mind, descending the hallway.

As she walked, she saw movement out of the corners of her eyes and realized that the scenes on the stained glass windows seemed to be changing. Like projector slides, they would blink through short animations in the glass frames. When Gertrude stopped to look, however, the abstractions in the glass were given photorealistic shape. She saw Monika as she knew her; and saw Monika in the flesh in ways she never had known before.

A child; a young woman; a prisoner.

“It is impermissible for a Loup to disbelieve God. We exist only by the grace of God.”

“If God is the reason I was born, he can have his grace back.”

Voices accompanied by the cracking sound of a slap.

Monika was not always so different from others. Because in fact each person is not so radically different from the rest. But they all had the radicalism beaten out of their souls in different ways. Monika never gave up hers. She stood aside the crowd during oaths, she failed to perform drills, she gave nothing of herself onto God in church, and she dreamed and prepared instead for study. There were people in her life who encouraged her, who assisted her greatly and nurtured her desire for knowledge. Teachers who understood; liberal church folk who took pity; Imbrians looking from outside-in who judged the culture of the Loup without acknowledging the culpability they had in its creation and corruption.

It was this last group who offered Monika the most hope in her endeavors.

“I want to escape to an Imbrian school. I want to learn what makes up the world.”

How does the world work?

Could one learn about energy and matter to understand cruelty and hopelessness?

Could a Loup turn her back on God and War and Blood and lead her own free life?

A too-young Monika fought with everything she had to try to realize her goal.

And she was defeated.

Family had an iron hand; the Church had a baleful eye; and Imbrians had half hearts.

“Don’t worry– our therapies have put many anti-social girls back on the correct path.”

Cretinous voices promised anything that could not happen to those who had already forfeit.

Still, Monika did not give up.

Even as Gertrude stared at more and more scenes of captivity and abuse.

Every step of the way, that same little Loup protected her rebellious and inquisitive soul.

Gertrude felt her own body growing heavier as she witnessed the scenes.

Scolded right in her face so that the spittle of her “instructors” fell upon her cheeks.

Beaten.

Stood before the rest of the wayward children and humiliated.

Denied food.

Forbidden to sleep, even so far as being denied a bed or chairs.

“Why?”

Gertrude asked herself, but Monika’s voice came out of her throat.

“Why did they do this to me? Are my desires so terrible?”

If all of this was done in the name of God, then God was nothing but a demon.

And his world was a Hell itself.

“Gertrude.”

She lifted her boot and set it down on the ground again.

Without thinking, she had moved– or everything had moved her.

There was in front of her, a threshold, an archway door open into a church.

Pews made of fake wood grain led up to a grand altar behind which was a vast organ. Lead-and-copper cross-shaped pipes jutted out at wild angles from a throbbing mass of wet flesh. All of it set upon a series of tentacles that dangled over the edge of the altar’s raised stage. In the pews sat the masked creatures, sleeping, led to the source of their stupefaction.

In front of the vast, fleshy, throbbing organ stood Monika herself.

Her blond hair was partially wet and completely disheveled. Her irises were surrounded by red rings and had begun to partially warp into blue fractals creeping toward the edges of the eye. Physically she remained unchanged, being short but an adult in form as Gertrude had ever known her. Even under these circumstances, that wild and irreverent grin was on the same beautiful face Gertrude was familiar with. She dressed in a long blue and white robe with a tall hat, and rather than the mushrooms which the aberrations around them wore or grew on themselves, Monika was wrapped in nightshades blooming with black, suppurating fruits. She had a mask, like the other inhabitants of this space, but she wore it hanging from the nightshade plants like they were chains. Gertrude saw her radiating blue color.

“Welcome to the church of the Drowning Prophecy, and to your deliverance from pain.”

Behind her the organ let off irregular and discordant notes as if attempting to make music.

“I’m happy to see you, Gertrude. Other than myself, I want to give you peace most of all.”

Monika held out a hand in invitation and Gertrude, heart racing, stepped into the church.

She crossed the pews of sleeping aberrations to stand below Monika.

It reminded her of whenever she saw Monika atop some equipment, looking down at her.

But she wasn’t smiling anymore. Her kind little smiles were lost to the madness.

“Gertrude, you doubt me don’t you? Or in fact, did you ever believe in me at all?”

“I’ve always had the utmost esteem for you. I’ve never given up on you for a second.”

Tendrils of blue color from Monika’s body prodded the edge of Gertrude’s stark red aura.

“I am a genius, Gertrude. I’m a genius and a child prodigy, a generational talent. Everyone was afraid of what I represented.” Monika smiled. But it sent a chill down Gertrude’s spine. There was none of her warmth there. “That is why I understand well– why I have finally deduced everything in the world. I’ve been thinking about it for my entire life. But there is no evidence to suggest that there is any value in continuing to endure pain in this wretched life. There is no saving it; no preventing the forces that extract every second of suffering they can from us to power this infernal machine; no accountability for its architects.”

Monika spread her arms wide and the tentacles of the organ unfolded and stretched.

“We have control over only one thing. One life, which we can do with as we please.”

A series of guttural noises came out of the pews. Startled, Gertrude turned around.

One by one, the sleeping aberrations in attendance retched and spat up something black.

They fell from their seats, banging their heads on the floor and the pews around them.

Gertrude had seen them disappear when struck before– to see them fall over and die like human beings was shocking to her. It felt wrong– like these creatures should not have had this end, but it was all for some reason engineered for them. That sleep which came from their soporific mushroom spores was different from the eternal sleep now given to them by the black bile they had ingested. All of the aberrations were destroyed.

Monika’s nightshades– she must have poisoned all of them?

“This is the peace you want to grant me, Monika? And I presume, the whole crew?”

“Eternal Sleep is a kindness, Gertrude! It is our answer to God and his malfeasance. He will toy with us no longer. And all those who tormented us will disappear with him.”

Gertrude did not know what to say in response. It was difficult to muster her conviction.

She had never been in a situation where she had to argue for being soberly awake.

For herself– she had certainly thought before, and would probably think again, that it was too much to endure. Both the lightless world in which she found herself; and the fact that she had ruined so many elements of her life. She had lost what she had regarded as the core of her being, and the driving direction for much of her life. She lost her planned future.

Certainly she had thought about giving up before.

More than anything, however, her heart hurt so badly for Monika.

Words could not express it.

There was no taking back all of the horrible things that had been done to her. Nothing that Gertrude could do or give would wipe out the knowledge that all of the people who were supposed to protect Monika betrayed her; that her own warped culture had delivered her beatings her entire life; that her only crime was not falling into line with the rest of society’s mindless edicts. The Imbrium Empire had scarred her. Gertrude had already done what she could do– she had tried to validate Monika and to give her a worthy place to belong.

Regardless– such a thing would never wipe out the years that she had to endure, drowning. In the sanatoriums, under the oppression of her family and the church, for decades, unable to make official her genius. The military should not have been her salvation from that.

Gertrude could understand how a girl so beaten down might contemplate surrender.

The Imbrium Ocean was a dark and horrible place where people suffered needlessly.

Humanity’s final refuge on a dead planet.

Was it worth all of this loss? All of this pain? All of this injustice?

Untold billions of their ancestors died with the planet– for this?

Why not just give it all up forever if there was no deliverance from pain?

Gertrude shook her head. Clutching her chest like she wanted to touch the fire in it.

There was one good reason perhaps. Gertrude had one argument in her.

“Monika, I want you to come back with me.” Gertrude said.

She extended a hand up to the stage for Monika to take if she so chose.

“To toil away on your ship for your benefit?” Monika said.

“No. I’m not going to force you to do anything. But if you would accompany me, I would be very happy. Not as your commander– as someone who esteems you. You’re immensely strong, and you are incredibly smart and incisive; and you have a really cute laugh.” Gertrude tried to smile at Monika, who stared in confusion. “My life is pretty bleak, I must admit. But it would be so much worse without you. I care about you a lot, Monika. I want to know you’re okay and I want to do anything I can for you. You’re a cherished companion.”

Monika’s fingers curled into fists. She started shaking, staring at Gertrude.

“Gertrude, I would not suffer another day on this forsaken hell-hole just for you.”

“It’s not just for me either. Ingrid would be devastated to lose you.” Gertrude said.

“Ingrid?” Monika paused, her eyes drawing wide.

“She’s bad at demonstrating it, but she understands you. And she cares about you too.”

“Neither of you understand anything! You really want me to remain awake through this?”

With a boom and the cracking of the plastic planks of the stage floor, the tentacles writhed.

Smashing up and then down, the pipes playing a furious disharmony.

Vibrating right through Gertrude’s guts; but she stood her ground, her hand still raised.

“Monika, let me take you away from that thing. Everyone must be so worried.” She said.

“You’re–” Monika grit her teeth. She began to weep. “You’re dodging my questions–”

“I’ve given you my answer.” Gertrude said, smiling. “I want this ugly world to be more beautiful for your presence. Monika, if you take my hand, I’ll help you stay awake with me.”

“Gertrude– but– you’ve been through– would you really keep enduring– even after–?”

Monika was crying openly, a deluge. Her words came out choppy and anxious.

And the organ-thing behind her stirred with ever growing violence.

Gertrude stood up as straight as she could and delivered her clearest answer.

“I will endure. Monika, if it would save you, I would never even try to look at Elena again.”

It was time to let go of her own terrible dream that was drowning her in her sleep.

And at the power of those words the entire church had a spasm of agony.

As if the walls were those of a lung or a heart expanding and contracting, the stone and the stained glass stretched until the mortar joining them nearly split, and fell back into place with a booming and crunching sound. Monika’s nightshades started wilting, the fruits falling to the ground and rotting rapidly. Her mask had a crack in it; and red cracks began to appear on the floor, on the pews, across the walls and ceiling, emanating from where Gertrude was standing. They glowed and put permanent scars in the structures.

In response one of the tentacles bore down on Gertrude like a thrown fist.

With its end curled into a mass almost the size of her entire body–

–meeting a concave riot shield that held the blow at bay.

“Monika! Run! I’ll catch up with you!” Gertrude shouted.

Her eyes flashed red; and with a flick of the wrist, a vibroblade was in her hand.

She pulled back her shield, reached and swung far, the blade crackling bright with aura.

Red slice severing the blue tentacle leaving a gelatinous seeping wound.

Up on the stage, Monika stood paralyzed, weeping, shaking.

Gertrude discarded her shield and rushed to the stage, leaping up to Monika’s side.

In her wake, her aura formed a billowing cape now clipped to an ostentatious red and gold military uniform. A garrison cap rested upon her head, and her hair was tied in its neat bun behind her head once again. None of her inquisitorial symbology was present, and this was not a uniform of any particular nation. But it was a uniform, jacket, pants, boots, shirt, all formed of her red glowing aether that flowed from her impassioned heart.

So attired, Gertrude stood between Monika and the thrashing organ.

“It’s this thing that is the ‘Drowning Prophecy’ isn’t it?” Gertrude said.

In this place she developed an almost insane certainty, as if a whispering voice in her ear told her all of the truths she would tell herself. Her red conviction against the blue despair.

Buoyed by enkindled emotions, Gertrude reached to her side for a weapon.

And when she lifted her hand, there was a familiar black grenade launcher on it.

Gertrude pulled the trigger and a 40 mm explosive grenade launched out of the tube.

The munition hurtled toward the tentacled horror, soaring between its appendages.

Blue aura from the arms intensified in response, slowing the munition.

When it exploded the fire and force of the grenade barely touched the monster.

As if the explosion itself had been slowed and smothered within that aura.

Gertrude’s grenade launcher dissipated in her hands, and a sword appeared in its place.

Monika was too shocked to run, so she had to stand her ground here.

Covering herself with her riot shield and bracing for attack, trying to plan a response.

The Drowning Prophecy was like a lung, pierced through by the church pipes.

Writhing meat that made up its bulk expanded and contracted in a predictable sequence. Its labored breaths went through the pipes piercing it and made discordant music. Its severed sinews made up its tentacles, all of which slobbered and slid out from under its bulk, several meters in length. Such a lifeform could not have possibly existed, but in this realm of emotion, she could understand its existence. It was as if something like this being had been in the back of her mind, something primal and shapeless. It was not this fleshy monster, but the fleshy monster was an abstraction of it. A signifier of something unspoken.

Looking upon it, she could feel the temptation to a sublime hopelessness.

Only the enflamed red aether emanating from her body staved off those thoughts.

Wreathed within that cloak, absurd certainty protected her and drove her to action.

With her sword and shield, she leaped forward into the reach of the mass.

Tentacles began flying at her in all cardinals and angles.

She was almost sure she would find some of these appendages having no connection to their main body, lashing at her from impossible directions. But even as they flew, she could predict them, seeing traces like reverse shadows which appeared before their origins rather than trailing after them. Even amid the pressure of the furious and sweeping blows from the slick tentacles each thrice the width of her own arms, Gertrude could set her shield before each blow. She shoved into the attacks, or swung her sword and clashed with the arms, putting scars or severing tips. Deflecting the cage of meat that struggled to ensnare her.

Despite the onslaught, Gertrude advanced into the shadow of the monstrosity.

Step by embattled step, battering away the meat with furious swings.

Until she made it between the guard of several tentacles.

Drawing back her arm, she put all her strength into a thrust at the throbbing mass–

In real time, she felt the deep blue aether sapping all of the strength of her blow.

Until she dropped her sword at the “foot” of the being, and even her knees became heavy.

Gertrude retreated several steps to avoid being boxed in,

setting her back against a fast-approaching tentacle that dug through her midsection

sprouting a sharp tip out of the sternum

Blood burst dramatically out of the wound, as red as her aura had become.

Gertrude’s body reacted to the assault in natural ways.

Her chest pushed out as her back arched from the blow, she cried out in pain, her throat filled with fluid and her breath arrested. But she was not dead, and in fact, she barely felt any acute pain. Even as the tentacle lifted her centimeters above the floor, Gertrude did not lose her lucidity completely, nor was she paralyzed by it. Nevertheless, she could merely writhe on the tentacle skewering her, reaching blindly behind her back.

Blue aura glowed in the tentacle, attempting to spread into Gertrude’s red aura.

Aether pulsated from the wound. Gertrude found herself unable to call for a weapon.

Behind her back, she finally grabbed hold of the tentacle.

Her limbs shook as she struggled against it.

All of her mind was consumed with escape, with persevering; she saw the tip of the tentacle shaking through the center of her chest, and grit her teeth, demanding with every fiber of her being the weapons to tear it to pieces, to free herself from it, to reconstitute herself; she wanted her body to be rid of the intrusion, she was consumed with this desire, fight or flight, and her mind raced, her emotions spiraled. Clashing blue and red over her pierced heart and the tip of the tentacle began to thrash and steam came off its slick exterior, its blue sheen overcome with licks of red vapor trying to burn it and tear at it and devour it.

She needed a weapon. If she had a weapon she could cut herself from this creature.

Vibroswords, handguns, assault rifles, truncheons, grenade launchers–

So many weapons had crossed through her hands– all of them could be beckoned–

However– her spiraling mind settled upon a different interpretation of that truth.

All of those tools had been given into her hands by the Inquisition.

And her hands turned those tools into weapons.

This felt like a truth she had been missing.

Something locked into place.

Gertrude accepted the culpability– the monstrosity– but also the power in her hands.

Said mournfully but without excuse: “I myself was the weapon.”

Wet ripping noises issued from behind her as the flesh of her hands split open.

Black vibrating razor-like rectangular claws dug into the Drowning Prophecy’s tentacles.

On Gertrude’s chest, her flesh enclosed over the tentacle and sent its severed tip flying.

As if a maw had opened on her breast and devoured the tentacle that had pierced her.

She dropped to the ground on feet first unsteady, but quickly recovered her posture. She felt her hands brimming as if with electricity, just under the surface of her skin. Everything felt lighter and more flexible and malleable, as if her wrist could turn 360 degrees and her arms could fold into themselves. As if skin and muscle could move with the ease of fingers. Her new clawed digits moved as naturally as any other appendages. They were wreathed in red aura because they were part of her. Part of the weapon Gertrude Lichtenberg.

One step forward; two and three; she broke into a run.

Deep into the blue aura of the aberration, but its effects could not slow or stop her.

Her entire arm shifted, all her fingers became as one.

Absorbing the steel and plastic of her riot shield into her arm itself.

Forming a shining red spear attached to her that moved with her exact conviction.

In a sprint, a charge, and a screaming thrust of her arm–

Gertrude stabbed the Drowning Prophecy directly into its contracting mass.

Before her red-ringed eyes, half-overtaken by red fractals– the aberration burst like a bubble of meat spraying gore into the air. In the first instant of its destruction its body behaved like a physical object that had been devastatingly struck, the pipes bursting out of bloody meat, the tentacles thrashing in horrendous pain. Then the entire thing turned into blue dust that blew past Gertrude like a stiff breeze. She shut her eyes and it was just gone.

On the altar stage, she turned toward Monika, framed by the dissipating church.

She reached out the hand which had not completely disfigured into a weapon.

“Monika, come home with me. I want to see you every day; not just in a dream.”

Monika’s eyes filled with tears. She reached out her own hand and took the one offered.

“Thank you, Gertrude. I’m so sorry.” She covered her eyes with her free hand, sobbing.

“It’s okay. I don’t judge you; and I sympathize with your beliefs. That’s why I’m here too.”

She urged Monika to come closer and embraced her, holding her tightly with one arm.

As the Aether around them began to disperse and reveal more and more of their location.

Holding Monika close, in the distance, Gertrude thought she could see a shadow watching.

There was a smile in the dissipating aether. It looked genuine; almost like a praise.

In Gertrude’s pocket, the aetherometer slowly ceased to vibrate and make noises.

Her aether-buoyed sense of self was beginning to wane with the clearing of the “clot.”

Holding Monika in her arms, Gertrude shut her eyes and felt a momentary peace.

Depth Gauge: 3621 m

Aetherometry: Stable


When Gertrude awakened she was lying face-up on the floor of a steel corridor.

Groggy at first, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Though she was disoriented, after a deep breath she began to feel strangely refreshed for a moment. Like she had finally caught up on some much-needed sleep. Her muscles hurt much less than before, and she was not as weighed down with fatigue as before either. She was able to move.

Slowly, she found the strength to stand up and to take in her surroundings.

Almost as soon as her back straightened, Gertrude felt her stomach toss.

All of the terror of what she had seen and felt, held back as if by a mental dam, now flooded suddenly over her every thought and feeling. She saw in her mind the pools, the visions, the monsters, and herself. Her legs buckled, she went down to her knees and elbows, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Retching over the ground. Had her stomach not been completely empty already, she would have emptied it on the floor. Her back shuddered, her eyes broke into stinging tears. Her head pounded and she heard a whistling inside of her ears.

She put her forehead to the ground and shut her eyes as hard as she could.

As if she could awaken again from dreams, and find herself in the true reality.

But she was awake, and this nightmare was her world now.

Her inexorably changed world.

Having seen what she saw, felt what she felt, and retained the full clarity of it.

Aether.

The Pools.

Eris.

Monika.

The Drowning Prophecy.

Herself. So much of herself. Too much of herself.

And a changed self.

Gertrude looked at her hands with a panic, remembering they had been horribly disfigured into weapons to drive her red aura into the aberration at the center of the pools and blue cobbles, the so-called Drowning Prophecy (so-called by none– it was entirely in her head–!) She peeled off her gloves and she could not understand what she saw.

Her flesh felt so tender. There were no scars, rather, it felt like the calluses and scrapes she had gotten ever since she was a child to her days violently enforcing the imperial will, all of them had disappeared. Her skin felt so soft in her hands that she thought it might peel back and expose something, as if every seam was a set of lips. They felt like membranes.

And no sooner did she entertain that thought, that her hands did split into buzzing jaws–

She screamed, and shook her hands and looked again, and the changes reversed.

Worst of all– Gertrude began to feel like she had control of it.

Like it was part of her.

Like sixth, seventh, eighth and so on new digits corresponding to nothing natural.

Inside her torso, there was the presence of her heart, lungs and stomach. She knew she had them even though they worked automatically. She knew she could take in air to expand her chest and belly to a minor degree. She knew she could make her chest muscles tighten, for all the good such a pointless act would do. In essence, her arms, her legs, her hands, all of her body now felt this way to her. Like she had dozens of new and unseen organs that responded to deliberate actions. They could split, they could grow, they could change.

It was not disfigurement, not in a traditional sense– but Gertrude still wept as if broken.

Her body was completely changed. She could never go back to how she was!

There was a great terror in the back of her head at the sudden opening-up of the world.

Everything was so much more massive, so chaotic, an impossible and surreal enigma.

The Aether. It was all around them. Those colors held meaning to her eyes now.

Flexing the organs in her eyes allowed her to see the colors whenever she wanted.

Monika had been overcome by the colors– perhaps she even created that twisted world.

Had Gertrude not been able to intervene they would have all died in their sleep.

How did people survive the existence of these forces? How prevalent were these attacks?

Were things like this happening in the corners of the eyes of unknowing fools, forever?

How many people knew? How many people had been lost to the aberrations of the aether?

How many people abused this power and knowledge? Could anyone actually control it?

She wanted to scream herself hoarse. But there was no use to it.

No putting it back anymore.

Indelible change. Of the world, of the body, of the mind.

“This isn’t even the start of it.” She said, smiling bitterly and insanely through the tears.

There was more, farther below. Deeper into the abyss.

There was something waiting–

And there was more, right in front of her too. Just a few more steps into the metal.

Behind her, on the floor, Monika was passed out, in her lab coat and a protective bodysuit.

In front of her, the metal corridor led to a door that opened suddenly.

To reveal a shimmering figure that walked out of the room in long strides.

A woman, not too tall, average in her physique. Dark hair, a girlish face, perhaps too youthful for what she had experienced. Dressed in a lab coat herself too, over a turtleneck sweater and a skirt and black tights. She walked out of the room, crossed the hall, slowly, with a calm deliberateness as if she had been waiting. She passed by Gertrude. Gertrude was unable to focus her eyes clearly on her, she had been crying so much and been in such a state.

But when the woman crossed her, Gertrude could tell she was smiling.

Could tell that she said something, which was meant for Gertrude to hear.

“I am entrusting her to you. Good luck. Step inside; the password is A000166.”

Margery Balyaeva; from her dream. Hands in her pockets; smiling; eyes fixed forward.

“Wait– why–? Please–!”

As soon as Gertrude recognized her and asked– she knew the woman was gone.

Nothing but a trace of the colors slowly dissipating into the air.

So be it.

Gertrude looked at her hand again, tears running down her cheeks, her nose dripping.

Sweat coming down the bridge of her nose.

At her own behest, of her own doing, her hand split open again.

Swarthy skin and pink flesh parting. She felt a tingling as it did so. Between her middle and ring finger, it divided, and a thin tentacle emerged from it. She felt it– her stomach felt immediately emptier and sicker for the act. Something was drawn from her body, she could feel the fluids traveling, the flesh moving, to create the little appendage that mimicked the ones she saw beneath the Drowning Prophecy. She had transformed her body.

Though it made her feel light-headed at first, she could sustain the continuing existence of the tentacle. It was as if there was a price to pay for the disfigurement but, once the flesh had reached its new state, it was just what Gertrude’s body was now like. She felt the tentacle in her hand like any other digit. She could turn it, curl it around her wrist, lash out with it. Her stomach felt like it was kicking her belly each time the tentacle tried to move.

She turned over again and bent nearly double with a strong heaving in her throat.

It was sickening, unnatural, horrifying–

But– she had control over it. This horrid appendage was a part of her, it was hers.

Part of the weapon that was Gertrude Lichtenberg.

A weapon– to what end? What was she supposed to do now?

She had something of an answer. But it felt so impossibly out of her reach.

Outside of the aether, she felt much less certainty about herself.

Ruled more by rationality than sheer passion, the situation was much more overwhelming.

But even so. She had promised to keep moving.

Gertrude forced herself to stand again.

This time, she stood upright, without vomiting or crying any further.

Her tentacle retracted into her hand and her hand closed.

It looked ordinary again.

Like a hand that could touch another human being tenderly.

Thankfully she had enough control over herself to keep her body from breaking out into such appendages. She was still a person, not a blob of changeable meat. She could walk without thinking about all those new contortions she could force her body to take. That was enough for now. She would ask Nile what she thought– and she would ask Victoria and Monika and– Azazil? If she could find her. She would tell people, she would ask questions. Her body was not a problem that was impossible to solve. Certainly this ability had come in useful.

Gertrude grinned silently to herself. Everything was overturned.

What a terrifying world; more terrifying than it ever had been.

Vast, bleak and hopeless.

But that blue hopelessness did not prevent her from walking on forwards anymore.

She looked back at Monika and felt glad, that she was in the world with her.

It made this dead world a little more worth living in.

“Monika, wait here for me.” She said, even though the sleeping Monika would not hear.

Gertrude stepped forward into the room that had opened in front of them.

Inside, everything was dim, lit only by light coming from a screen or two in the very back of the room, and from the hallway that Gertrude had just come in from. She stepped on fluid and felt alarmed that the station might be leaking, but was quickly distracted by the smell in the room, reeking like rotten eggs or ammonia. Then her anxious exploration took her closer to one of the network of structures that dominated the room, tall and evenly spaced, and she realized that these must have been computer racks from the surface civilization. They resembled server racks that she was aware of, with cables and storage units and cooling.

Several of them had suffered from enormous punctures, and some looked like they had been crushed. Others were just toppled over, and more had their interiors dug into and ripped out such that they resembled bodies disgorging their guts on the floor. All of the fluid was liquid mineral coolant from the racks that had bled out onto the floor. To Gertrude’s eyes all of the violence looked random and inefficient if the objective was to destroy the computers. It felt like something or someone had just raged through the room and inflicted damage wantonly.

When she finally made her way across the ruin, she found a desk with several discrete LCD monitors plugged into the wall. There were markings on the wall between the desk and the monitors, that reminded Gertrude of a torpedo tube. Something was contained inside that recess in the wall, but she could find no way to open it or interact with it. Her searching hands in the dim glow of the dark green pictures on the screens found nothing new.

Then she was briefly blinded by a sudden flash from one of the screens.

Gertrude staggered back.

When her eyes recovered, she found herself staring at one screen that had become white.

There was a text prompt on it that reminded her of the STEM input screens from before.

But this time there was also a voice, coming in tinny from the LCD’s speakers.

“Greetings, occupant. You may input queries verbally or write them into the prompt. Please note that the central corpus has suffered extensive damage. As such, the number of queries and their potential answers will be limited. It is nevertheless my pleasure to serve you.”

Gertrude was taken aback hearing a voice.

“Are you the computer?” She asked, taken aback.

“By the perspective of a layperson, yes, I am the computer. This mainframe contained my corpus of data. These monitors and the text prompt are but crude remnants of the many vectors by which I could interact with occupants, complete my assigned tasks, and insure the comfort and safety of all Genuine Human Beings aboard the project edifices. I would say that my influence extended to more than this computer once. But it does not anymore.”

“What happened to all of that?” Gertrude asked. “Wait– is that one of my queries?”

“These all count as your queries. To answer you: my corpus was attacked and damaged. This severely limited my influence and ability to control and maintain this environment.”

Gertrude was still pretty stunned. “Are you alive? Or I guess, sentient?”

“I am an Advanced Neurological Model. I synthesize audio, images, video and text in order to carry out specific tasks and respond to queries. I am not capable of original thought outside of my corpus of data. It is unlikely that my capabilities match a definition of sentient life. My most advanced processing units utilized human nervous tissue, but were all destroyed.”

Gertrude winced. If she understood right, this machine had been made using people?

She wondered whether it was stitched or grown in a lab– or if it necessitated a sacrifice.

Looking back over her shoulder at all the cable-matter spilling out of them–

Those sights took on a different, macabre significance.

But those questions were pointless to ask the machine. She had to prioritize other topics.

“Where is Azazil An-Nur? Have you seen her?” She asked.

Based on what Azazil had told her before– if she had not dreamed it–

Then this machine had been the oppressor she was crying to be saved from.

Quickly the tinny voice responded.

“I lost contact with the biomechanoid unit corresponding to that handle many seconds ago.”

Gertrude almost asked how many seconds, but supposedly her queries were limited.

Asking how many queries she had was probably a query– so she did not do so.

“Is Azazil An-Nur real?” She asked instead.

“Unclear. What do you mean by real? It was one of my biomechanoid units.”

She already felt like an idiot asking the computer something like that.

What was she thinking?

“Forget it. Did you force Azazil An-Nur to work here?”

“Yes. It was convenient to have an ambulant biomechanoid for maintenance tasks.”

It kept calling Azazil a biomechanoid– what did it mean?

“Elaborate on: what is Azazil An-Nur?”

“It is a stem-chain enabled biomechanical unit designed for social upkeep of humans.”

“Can you elaborate any further on Azazil An-Nur?”

“Its specifications are not part of my corpus. It was a bespoke unit with unique DNA.”

Gertrude sighed. “Who created you? How come we can understand each other?”

Elemental questions such as this might have yielded good results but–

“Apollo Computing Works, and, because we are both speaking in Simplified Aerean.”

Maybe she just was not very good at this. Maybe her head was still not on right.

“That means nothing to me. I guess– who was in charge of this place? This station?”

“Margery Balyaeva was the leader of the project under which I was commissioned.”

Margery must have been the woman she saw walking out of the room.

And in her dreams.

Excorium Humanitas– she had been betrayed by the surface world.

Declared a non-human or an enemy of humanity, as defined by the government.

So she must have fled down here–

“Can I input a password into you? The password is A000166.” Gertrude said.

She suddenly heard a metallic noise coming from some other part of the room.

It took her off-guard so she turned to look, though there was nothing to see.

The computer spoke again immediately after.

“I’ve unlocked the box for you. You will find the box to your left.”

Gertrude turned back to the monitor with the unused text prompt. “What is in the box?”

“Preserved stemchain materials. Input them into a vitastitcher to create a STEM unit.”

That finally piqued Gertrude’s interests. “Where can I find a vitastitcher?”

Stitcher machines of course existed in the Imbrium.

She had never heard of one that was referred to in that particular way.

“I cannot account for its current status, but the primary edifice contained such a unit.”

“Where is the primary edifice? What is it?” Gertrude pressed.

“Both this structure and the primary edifice were part of the Island-3 colony project. Island-3 was separated into this outpost, the Crown Spire, and a primary edifice that touched down 5000 meters farther below. Island-3 has not been in contact with the Crown Spire for over 2.209032e+10 seconds and it is therefore impossible for me to ascertain its status.”

Gertrude had no idea how many seconds that was supposed to represent.

It was probably no use asking it to clarify further.

“Could I acquire a STEM administrator token in the primary edifice?”

“Yes, using a functioning vitastitcher, spinal verifier and marrow impeler.”

All of those implements sounded hideous to think about. They sent a chill through her.

But there was no use in turning back now. So she did, indeed, have to go deeper down.

“Is there an– Advanced Neurological Model that can assist me in STEM installation?”

“No. Per regulations, ANMs must be isolated from sites where STEM installations and token verifications take place. Only Genuine Humans perform STEM installation or verification.”

“Do I need to use the preserved stemchain materials to gain a STEM administrator token?”

“No. Do not incorporate those materials into a current unit. They will require a new unit.”

Fair enough. Gertrude began to feel wary of what these ‘materials’ might represent.

“What materials do I need to gain a STEM administrator token?”

“They will be available at the location of the previously mentioned machinery.”

Useless. “Prior to myself, did anyone to attempt to access the passcode box?”

“One moment. I will print to the screen a reconstruction of the actor.”

One of the monitors light up brighter.

There was a swirl of color and activity like a puddle of paints being spread haphazardly on a canvas. However, slowly, these colored pixels began to align properly into a slightly skewed image that Gertrude nonetheless recognized as a face. It was in particular the face of Norn the Praetorian. Blond ponytail, the same facial features. Grinning confidently.

That made some kind of sense. Gertrude felt a bit excited about this discovery.

“Did you interact with this ‘actor’? Did she say anything?” She asked.

“The actor was not recognized as a Genuine Human, and it was not STEM-enabled so I did not interact with it nor attempt to communicate. Prior to its intrusion, several malfunctioning biomechanoids of similar specification had already broken into the Crown Spire. I limited their access to prevent them from finding Island-3, but could not repel them.”

How–? How was it that Gertrude was a ‘genuine human’ and Norn was not?

She tried to think of a way to ask the machine, but it felt too complicated a question.

“Was your corpus accessed between Margery Balyaeva’s departure and now?”

“Not successfully. Intruders became lost or discouraged by the STEM systems. Sometimes intruders behaved erratically for reasons I found impossible to quantify and perished or killed each other. Eventually some intruders departed. I have not been able to interact with a Genuine Human in a very long time. Especially not in an amicable fashion.”

“When was the last passcode access attempt?” Gertrude settled for knowing a timeline.

“Over 1.262304e+9 seconds ago–”

“Great, that’s useless. Whatever. Show me a picture of the one who damaged you.”

Again the same process repeated itself on the monitor. She expected to see Norn pop up.

When the picture was completed, however–

Gertrude recognized the perpetrator as Eris herself. Very pale, red-haired, an alien beauty.

With a terribly cold gaze. But not uncharacteristically cold of her, Gertrude felt.

Eris must not have been exaggerating about becoming lost in her passions.

Gertrude wondered how long ago Eris had come here, and what she had done.

Maybe it was just impossible to establish a timeline of such events.

“Is there a way to recover your corpus? Or fix you? To access more queries?”

Gertrude spoke and had to wait a much longer amount of time to receive an answer.

“I have completed my final task, so I will be shutting down. You may have one final query.”

“Wait– hey– what will happen if you shut down?”

She had spoken carelessly after being surprised– it was her final query.

“Without a mobile unit and my supervision, the edifice will further decay. But the occupant will be safe if they can escape by whichever means they arrived. The reactor will continue running as long as its quantum state is undisturbed. Oxygen generation is suboptimal but livable– food is the main problem. So I would encourage departing. I have completed my final task as given to me by Margery Balyaeva. Aer Federation Vivit Aeternum.”

Gertrude gestured further confusion toward the monitors,

but all of them instantly went dark.

On the wall, the indentations and markings she had noticed before also dimmed and shut.

One step forward and thirty back. She had some answers and many new questions.

“What the hell kind of place was this Aer Federation? Good lord.”

Gertrude turned away from the desk with the dim monitors and followed the wall past several more ruined pieces of the ANM’s ‘corpus’ until she found ‘the box’. It slid out of the metal wall, a design the Imbrium still widely used– leading Gertrude to wonder if every cell in the wall was a storage closet too, and whether they should remain closed.

Sighing to herself, at the enormity of what could lay trapped forever in these metal walls, she reached into the unlocked box and produced a thick metal cylinder. Its contents were impossible to discern. Gertrude could feel whirring and buzzing of mechanisms within the shell of the cylinder. It felt cold to the touch. She wondered for how long this device could preserve what was inside, now that it was removed from its place of hiding.

Gertrude called upon the organs in her eye that allowed her to see further–

And began to perceive that colors wafted from the cylinder– a human presence.

She thought she would be sick again contemplating what it could mean.

What exactly were STEM materials? Was it some horrific human byproducts?

But she nevertheless put the cylinder in one of her uniform pouches as best as she could.

She walked back out into the corridor.

She did not know where she was but there were other branches of the same hallway, and open doors. Gertrude picked up Monika, carrying the sleeping girl princess-style. She deserved the rest– Gertrude wished she could have known that Monika was suffering so much. She could have done anything to make it better. But she was so focused on herself. There was so much weight in human pain that she had to make amends for.

Compared to that, Monika was easy to carry.

As she walked through the corridors she thought of everything she had to do now.

Or– not had, but rather, things that she wanted to do.

Gertrude no longer allowed herself to be driven by unaccountable demands.

That obligation that she heaped upon herself, to return to Elena, or to replace her and find happiness somewhere else– it had to be discarded. She could not continue to live like that or she would destroy herself and her crew. Instead she had to think of where she was, what the situation was now, and what she wanted to do now. Recognizing that she was no longer High Inquisitor Gertrude, a person with respectable power in the respectable politics of the Imbrium. She was not royally connected, and officially sanctioned by a powerful lord.

Now she was just another among many petty warlords vying for anything they could take.

She felt responsible for her crew. For the people she wanted to drag further into this mess.

Not only Monika; but Ingrid, Nile, Victoria; Dreschner; the sailors, Vogt and his marines.

Gertrude wanted to take them deeper.

To delve into the Hadal zone where the world was even darker.

To Island-3’s depth 5000 meters deeper–

To find the “primary edifice” of Island-3; to unlock this “STEM” system and get direct access to surface-era information; to find Eris again. Her eyes glinted red. She had power of some measure; now she needed to shoulder the responsibility of having power. There were no more people left to save her, and no more excuses she could make anymore.


Gertrude was eventually discovered.

She crossed another nondescript hallway, unsure of how long she had been walking and whether she might be trapped in another liminal area; and was heard by a rescue team.

Voigt and his men and several sailors, led by Nile, Victoria and Ingrid, had begun combing the facility to look for her hours ago. According to the men who found her, during the expedition, everyone had fallen asleep suddenly. Once they all awakened, it was quickly relayed back to the ship that contact with Gertrude had been lost, and that Monika was also mysteriously missing. Dreschner organized rescue teams to find Gertrude.

Near the beginning of the rescue operation, however, several devices previously seen, such as the STEM doors, now refused to respond to interactions. So the rescue teams used the tunnels Gertrude now knew to have been dug by Katarrans who had escaped the Palaiologos collapse. They had begun to prepare equipment to break down more doors and walls, but thankfully Gertrude was found before they had to resort to such drastic measures.

“There is nothing more we can access here. Let’s head back to the ship.” Gertrude said.

“Yes ma’am. We also encountered another woman here. We were very surprised.” One of the Marines said. “She was unfailingly polite; even when we were yelling in her face after she said she had lost you, ma’am. We thought she was bullshitting us. Her name is apparently Azazil. Our officers had a chat with her and then ordered her arrest.”

So I was not hallucinating her, Gertrude thought.

“She is harmless. She assisted me inside the facility, but then we lost contact.”

“Ma’am.” The Marine acknowledged, and ushered her out through the halls.

Gertrude was thankful to finally see familiar faces.

In her head, the sequence of events that had played out inside of this facility was extremely muddy. Even now she felt like she did not understand how she had navigated from one place to another within the walls and halls. But perhaps there was no understanding it; not without the raw and insane emotion which had overtaken her in the aether.

Maybe all those pools she destroyed had analogous walls in there.

It didn’t matter.

Ultimately she was burying this place and heading to the Iron Lady.

The marines called in that they had found Gertrude, and not too soon after–

“Gertrude!”

She was joined in route by Nile, carrying a first-aid kit; Victoria, whose expression was just so subtly tinged with concern; and Ingrid, who appeared to want to rush forward and give Gertrude a hug but was stopped by the fact Gertrude was still carrying Monika. All three of them appeared one after the other in the halls, spotted Gertrude, went-wide eyed and then paused. They collected together in a little group around her and the marines.

“I’m okay.” Gertrude said. “We’ll talk later. I want to get Monika back safe.”

Reticently, her companions nodded their acknowledgment.

Only Nile stuck close to Gertrude, much to Victoria’s open chagrin and Ingrid’s wariness.

She pretended that she was checking on Gertrude and Monika to make sure they were well.

But while she was doing so, she whispered to Gertrude, when she found an opportunity.

“You’ve awakened to something special, haven’t you? Your aura feels different.”

Gertrude grunted. She whispered back, when she could.

“I’ll have questions for you later.” Gertrude said. “When that time comes you won’t leave the room until you answer them to my satisfaction. Now stop fussing over me. I’m fine.”

Nile smiled. “It’s a date then.”

Gertrude threw her a contemptuous look.

But then cracked a bit of a smile back.

“Gertrude, that woman should be under the highest level of suspicion.” Victoria said.

“Are you two bickering again?” Gertrude said, exasperated.

Nile shrugged. “I have nothing against her, and in fact, she is my alibi that I did nothing.”

Victoria scoffed but could not argue any further.

Ingrid stared at everyone sidelong and over her shoulder and seemed to say nothing.

Gertrude walked a few steps quicker to get closer to her.

“We’ll talk later. I’m sorry.” She said.

“It’s whatever. Found your newest floozy in the halls by the way, ‘master’.”

Ingrid’s voice was thick with sarcasm. Gertrude wanted to be buried alive in the earth.

There was no way to tell Ingrid what she wanted to tell her without causing great acrimony.

But it was a conversation they needed to have, and she had to get ready for it.

One of many.

“Victoria, I’m going to need to speak with the Captain and with you first.” Gertrude said.

“Duly noted.” Victoria replied dryly.

Ingrid shot another sidelong glance, which Gertrude caught and felt mortified by.

She then turned her cheek; she looked so over things.

Gertrude had really treated her badly.

All she could hope for was that Ingrid could be patient with her.

And that there was some way to make up for everything she had done.

Maintaining a rather awkward atmosphere throughout, the party marched to the main hall, where they were greeted by clapping from the bulk of the rescue team, and cheering that Gertrude and Monika had been recovered successfully. They were ushered into the chute connecting the ship to the station. In the hangar, there were more cheers and people looking relieved. Everyone looked like they had been holding their breaths until now.

Along with the sailors and engineers cheering with relief–

“Master,”

Azazil An-Nur stood among the crowd, quietly, with a little smile.

She was cuffed and two marines were looking after her. They glanced at her curiously.

“I apologize for failing to protect you from danger.” She said.

Trying to bow her head, but being grabbed by the guards for the sudden movement.

“Don’t rough her up.” Gertrude said. “Azazil, can you wait quietly somewhere?”

Azazil smiled even more cheerfully.

“Of course, master. I exist solely to serve you now.”

A weary Gertrude glanced over to Ingrid to find her staring daggers at this statement.

She sighed again.

There were not enough ‘I’m sorry’ in the world to pay for this mess.

“Victoria, follow me. Can one of you soldiers tell the Captain to meet me in Room 25?”

“Yes ma’am!”

Room 25 was on the second tier. With awkward stares all around, Gertrude and Victoria parted from the rest of their companions and entered an elevator together to be taken up to the second tier. Gertrude was more than a bit disheveled, but Victoria looked no worse for wear than before. Her ponytail and her fluffy ears looked as manicured as ever.

She looked much less tired.

“What happened when I disappeared?” Gertrude said.

“We tried to search for you by ourselves but we could not find you and we risked getting lost ourselves. We went back to get a rescue team and heavier gear to force more of the doors and walls. Then we all fell asleep.” Victoria said. She appreciated Victoria’s direct and unembellished way of speaking so much in that moment. She could have kissed her for just saying what she meant. It was such a relief from everything that had happened.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Did you also sleep? And did you dream?” Victoria asked.

Gertrude nodded her head. “Yes to both.” She said.

Victoria shut her eyes. “I had a dream that I was in a series of pools, witnessing evidence of several lives that I did not lead. Some of the possibilities disgusted me. I recognized it was a deliberate delusion– but even so, I could not escape it, until I suddenly awakened.”

“You can tell I have the same power as you now, can’t you?” Gertrude said suddenly.

“You have had the potential for some time.” Victoria said. “It’s called ‘psionics’.”

“Psionics, huh. Are you afraid? Or angry with me?” Gertrude said.

“No.” Victoria said simply and bluntly. No qualifiers, no elaboration.

“I’m– I’m going to need help navigating this. Can you help me, Victoria?” Gertrude said.

“Yes.” Victoria said. Again, she elaborated no further.

Her body language was a little bit more reserved. Her eyes shied away from contact.

Thankfully the assent, coming from Victoria, spoke more strongly than the subtle reticence.

Finally, the two of them made their way to the meeting room.

Inside, Dreschner was already waiting. For once, Schicksal was not at his side.

“Come in. Schicksal has the bridge.” He said.

Gertrude and Victoria stepped in. Gertrude locked the door behind herself.

There was little in the meeting room, besides chairs and a desk.

Dreschner was seated behind the desk, but Gertrude remained standing.

“Something happened to me.” Gertrude said. “Einz, I need your help in thinking about what we will tell the crew, and what we will do now. Not as a superior, but as a friend. You have been there for me. Think of me as a stupid kid that needs some direction once again.”

“I would never think of you, nor of your needs, as stupid, Gertrude.” Dreschner said.

“Can you tell that anything is strange with me?” Gertrude asked.

As soon as she walked through the room, she had been able to see it.

Gertrude saw the colors around Einz Dreschner for the first time.

She felt as if, when he saw her, those colors fluctuated a bit.

Like he understood something.

“Yes. I feel as if I’m standing in front of someone who had the fight of their lives.”

“Gertrude, this man is at the very least capable of reading auras.” Victoria interrupted.

Dreschner smiled.

Again, the small green and blue colors around him flashed for a second.

“And you tell me this now?” Gertrude said.

“You had no context for this before, and would have been unlikely to believe me.” Victoria added. “I was confident in my ability to confront him should the need to do so arise.”

Sometimes wanting to kiss Victoria briefly turned into wanting to shove her down.

Not that she was necessarily wrong with the tack she took toward this situation.

“Einz, how much do you know about this?”

Gertrude demonstrated how she could split her hand open and manipulate the flesh.

Victoria looked alarmed. “That– that is not within the purview of psionic abilities.”

“That you know of, I guess.” Gertrude said. “It is within my purview now.”

Dreschner’s eyes blinked briefly red. It was the same that she saw when other people used the strange abilities the aberrations, the Drowning Prophecy and the Aether space demonstrated. She imagined that she herself displayed those red rings when attempting to call upon her power. But with Dreschner it felt a little different.

Gertrude got the feeling he could not sustain the eyes as long as she could.

Maybe what he had was different in some way to what Nile and Victoria and Azazil had.

But he could get a glimpse of it.

She knew he had recognized the power she possessed.

Not just from the red rings; but his expression and aura as he realized what it all meant.

“The curse of the Jager is not hereditary. But as you stand before me, I get the same feeling as if I was in the presence of ‘Codename Rot’ of the Inquisition Jagerkorps. I can’t explain it, but you possess the same abilities as a Jager, despite the Inquisition’s best effort to keep you away from the Korps and unable to pierce their veil of secrecy. What happened?”

“If I tell you, I guarantee you will think I’m out of my mind.” Gertrude said. “Einz, I want to know how much you were aware of– did you know about Norn? Or Victoria? It’s not like I don’t trust you, don’t get me wrong. But you did keep things from me, didn’t you?”

“We were aware of these strange powers to some degree. I knew about Norn because I’m part of the Inquisition, not because of any ability I myself possess. We suspected the young Bayatar too. And I always felt that you had potential and that you should have been informed about the Jagers and given command over them. It would have prevented Samoylovych from having to come out of retirement, again. Alas.” Dreschner said.

“The existence of the Jagers is well known; but their full capabilities eluded even Vekan intelligence.” Victoria said. “I should have guessed that psionics would be involved.”

Victoria looked at Dreschner with distrust. He had no expression toward her.

“The Inquisition is essentially dead now. I do not have to keep its secrets.” Dreschner said. “Gertrude, once you get back to Konstantinople you can unearth everything you desire about the Jagers. There is too much history and my old brain has not committed it– what I can say is that the Jagers and myself included undergo horrible modifications and conditioning to attain interesting abilities such as your own. They used these abilities in missions. I was unable to incorporate into the Jagerkorps but continued to serve the Inquisition as an officer. Thanks to your father in large part, and Norn also.”

“My father?” Gertrude asked. “How is my father involved in all of this?”

“Your father was a protector for the Kaiserin for so many years. However, before he took on that role for Leda Lettiere, and before he delved into the abyss, and long before he managed to build a family, he was ‘Codename Rot’ of the Inquisition’s Jagerkorps. Meanwhile I was ‘Codename Schwarz’. Both of us suffered inhumanely to achieve our positions– but we endured to obtain power and influence. We got far enough that the Inquisition trusted us with command roles. I received a ship; your father was trusted with spying on the Kaiserin. But unfortunately your father, and yourself, ended up suffering with Leda Lettiere.”

Gertrude smiled bitterly. “I always knew there had to be more to him. You too, I guess.”

“He was your hero. But he was not your hero because he was a Jager, Gertrude.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead– and I’m here.” Gertrude said.

It did matter.

She felt so bitter about it– she felt like the Inquisition had toyed with her entire life.

Had she known about her father, and all that happened– she may have chosen differently.

No– that was a delusion.

Even as she thought about the situation she felt ridiculous about herself for this conclusion.

No matter what, she took the path she did because of her love for Elena.

Whether or not her father survived Schwerin Island, Gertrude’s course had been set.

In the pool rooms, all of those visions ended the same way.

Dreschner looked at Gertrude with a fondness in his eyes and voice.

“You are here. You’ve come a long way; farther than anyone imagined. I always related to your hunger for strength Gertrude. You were exactly the daughter of your father. I want you to know, I did the best I could to support you, even as I saw you suffer for it. To tell you not to have ambitions, and force you to live helplessly, felt like a betrayal. But I must admit, seeing you standing before with the curse of the Jagers, I truly regret what came to pass. Like I said, I have no explanation for how you became a Jager. But it affects your mind, and your body. You may not be able to relate to others the same way again.”

“I was not worried about that. I already relate to people in a weird fashion anyway.”

Gertrude sighed. She had a question bouncing around in her head.

As soon as she realized her father was part of the Inquisition, the question troubled her.

She knew why her father had died; he had died on Schwerin Isle.

He was Captain of the Guard and he went down protecting the Kaiserin.

That same day that destroyed Elena’s life had also upturned her own.

She knew that. Or she thought.

Perhaps he had not died for the reasons she had concluded before.

“Einz, did Norn seek to kill my father when she invaded Schwerin Island?” She asked.

Dreschner shook his head. He sighed and covered his eyes with his hand.

“I do not hold Norn personally responsible. She explicitly forbade wanton acts of violence. During the attack one unit in particular went wild. They were protected by High Inquisitor Brauchitsch who wanted to use the opportunity to test the potential of Divers in a station invasion. The unit was led by a man referred to as Sawyer the Berserker.” Gertrude’s eyes went wide as Dreschner spoke. He looked at her with a soft expression. “I did not tell you because I did not want you to spend your school life at greater odds with the Sawyer daughter. Of course, it’s pointless now. Sawyer grew up the way she grew up.”

Sawyer–

“I’m not going to blindly chase her.” Gertrude said. “But if I see her again, I’ll kill her.”

“You don’t have to do it for your father. I killed Sawyer the Berserker on that day.”

Gertrude grunted.

Pointless. Everything was always so pointless and complicated and frustrating.

She could not even give herself onto revenge again.

Things just wouldn’t be so simple from now. Never as simple as just getting revenge.

All of the names he rattled off did not matter. They were already dead.

Hell– she had killed Brauchitsch herself. Unknowing of what it meant.

A dirty trick of fate.

“Was my dad just slow with old age?” Gertrude asked, a note of bitterness in her voice.

“You’ll find a Jager’s powers are largely useless in the paradigm of Diver combat.”

“So my father did die trying to protect Leda Lettiere.” Gertrude said.

“No, Gertrude. He died protecting you.” Dreschner said. “He died so you could be saved.”

Gertrude closed her fists. “I don’t remember that.”

“No. You were in no condition to remember anything. You were a child, it was dark, there was war. People lied to you and omitted information. But it was for your own good.”

She sighed. There was truly nothing she could do about any of it.

“How did you feel about my father, Einz?” Gertrude asked.

“He was like the father I never had.” Dreschner said.

Gertrude cracked a smile. She laughed a little bit. “I think of you kind of like that too.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I would be very lucky to have such a daughter.” Dreschner said.

It was so strange. Gertrude did not really feel so hurt by these events anymore.

Instead she felt released from a few of her burdens.

Like a few chains she had been pulling her entire life finally snapped.

None of the people responsible for any of this were available to strangle to death.

The Inquisition, for all the harm it had done, was powerless in the Imbrium’s collapse.

Her father’s death had already been avenged. Everyone responsible was dead.

Konstantin von Fueller, whose rule allowed these tragedies to happen, was quite dead.

Gertrude had been lied to– but she would have never believed the truth anyway.

And– Gertrude could never muster any anger toward Norn in all of this too.

She admired her too much. Maybe even loved her. Norn had made her.

So she learned many things about herself which could not force her hand in any direction.

As if everything in the world was telling her she just needed to move forward from now.

“Einz, I need help mustering and controlling these abilities.” Gertrude said.

“Gertrude, I’ll teach you.” Victoria cut in suddenly.

“She can; but I can also assist. Specifically on how Jagers make use of the curse.”

“It’s not a curse!” Victoria said. “It’s called psionics. Gertrude is not cursed.”

“I must concede before such concern and camaraderie.” Dreschner said coyly.

Victoria realized her vehemence in making that point and averted her gaze, embarrassed.

“I appreciate it, Victoria.” Gertrude said.

“As for the crew, leave that to me. I will draft a general briefing that will explain the current circumstances in a succinct and sensitive way. I have experience with treating psionics with care as part of the Inquisition. We should not explain it directly; we can describe the sleeping and other irregularities as abyssal behavior that we managed to counteract.” Dreschner said.

“I don’t particularly like lying to the crew.” Gertrude said sadly.

“You must have done it all the time under the Inquisition.” Victoria said. “I agree with the Captain. We should limit the spread of information about the station and the events in it. Otherwise the crew might feel adrift, it could affect their morale and make them paranoid. Let’s cover it up. I will work with the scientist criminal on actual countermeasures.”

Sometimes Victoria was blunt, and sometimes she was a brutal hammer blow to the head.

“I will take your counsel for now.” Gertrude said. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“I just need to know one more thing, Gertrude.” Dreschner said. “What happens now?”

Gertrude smiled wearily. “Now, we keep moving forward. Or in our case, down.”

Victoria remained silent. Gertrude took it to mean she did not oppose continuing the dive.

Dreschner nodded. “May I recommend 24 hours of rest and recovery for the crew?”

No one was arguing. No one was against her. Everyone was still just taking her orders.

Gertrude felt relieved. Her strength was starting to fail her. She was tired. But relieved too.

Not tired because of the blue helplessness– but normally, physically tired. Rest would help.

“Make that 72 hours.” Gertrude replied. “And release a unit of alcohol ration to everyone.”

“Alright. Is there anything else I can do for you, High Inquisitor?” Dreschner asked.

“Yes. Don’t call me that.” Gertrude said wearily. “I’ll come up with a new title.”

“Emperor Lichtenberg?” Dreschner said cocking an eyebrow.

Victoria narrowed her eyes.

“No. Just Gertrude Lichtenberg. For now. Please.”

“Acknowledged, Madam Lichtenberg.” Dreschner said.

Then, he saluted her proudly.


“Victoria.”

Gertrude stopped in the middle of the empty hallway.

They were halfway to the officer’s quarters.

Victoria paused with Gertrude, and turned to face her. Gertrude met her eyes.

“Monika was– wrapped up in all of this. Can you keep an eye on her?”

“Yes. But that is not what you really wanted to say.”

Gertrude took a deep breath.

“When you learned about psionics, how did you feel? Can you please tell me?”

“Yes.” Victoria nodded.

Gertrude had not expected her to assent so easily.

Nor did she expect her answer.

With no around, their eyes locked together deeply–

“When I realized what this power meant, I felt like I had command of my destiny– even more than that, I felt like humans have always had control of our destiny. We made this world.” Victoria said. She reached out a hand and gripped the sleeve of Gertrude’s uniform. “With this hand, I controlled my world, Gertrude. And I felt like the world is actually how we have made it, for good and for ill. Not just us; but all human beings throughout time.”

“You are extraordinarily brave.” Gertrude said. “I don’t know that I can think like you.”

“Psionics is the power of human emotions. I am sure in the back of your mind you must understand this.” Victoria said. “We can become paranoid and helpless in the face of a larger world; or we can come to the realization that humans made the world the way it is now. That means humans can also take action to change it. We are not just the playthings of destiny. We are not just acted upon by forces; humans are in control of their lives.”

Just being told that, of course it had no effect on Gertrude’s sense of self.

Not immediately; but her heart was lifted by the sight of Victoria’s determination.

She had been in the Pools too. And it had not broken her resolve.

“Thank you.” Gertrude said. “I needed to hear that from someone.”

Suddenly, Victoria stepped forward into Gertrude’s space.

She tiptoed, and she pulled Gertrude down by her shirt–

And put her forehead to Gertrude’s own.

For a brief moment their noses even touched.

Gertrude almost thought they might kiss.

Even so the gesture that they did hold was gentle and lovely.

Warm and oddly comforting even though Victoria had been a bit brusque.

Victoria then stepped back assuming a respectful distance again.

She smiled.

“Thank you for putting your trust in me, Gertrude. Even in front of Dreschner, when the Inquisition’s secrets came up I expected to be ejected right away. You let me stay in that room; and you entrusted me even with your own secrets. Your life’s story is not part of the stakes of this war. I will take that information to my grave. Good night.”

Victoria turned sharply and left a bewildered Gertrude to watch her cape flutter.

Once she was gone, Gertrude, compelled to smile, made her back way back to her room.

Even before stepping in she had a hunch she would find someone inside.

Whether it was psionics or instincts honed from familiarity.

She was not surprised to find Ingrid sitting on her bed, still dressed in her pilot suit.

Her long, dark hair was loose, the band she had used to tie it up discarded on the bed.

Long streaks and beads of sweat spilled gently across her brown skin, glistening in the dim light of Gertrude’s room. Her ears twitched, but she could not suppress a wag of the tail upon seeing Gertrude come in. Her expression remained cold; Ingrid was almost always laughing or being boisterous so to see her quiet and pensive, it was an entirely different kind of beauty. But she was still beautiful. Gertrude could not help but to recognize her.

She was incredibly beautiful.

“Ingrid, I’m really sorry, the way I treated you–”

Ingrid held up her hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ve kinda figured this shit out already.”

She really thought Gertrude was two-timing her all this time; probably three-timing her–

“I’m sorry. I’ve been horrible to you. You don’t deserve–”

“Hey, shut up.” Ingrid said. “Let me finish. I know– when we just started fucking out of the blue, it wasn’t like we were suddenly boyfriend and girlfriend now, or something–”

Gertrude stood, aghast. She tried to interrupt.

“Ingrid– it’s not like that–”

“I said, shut up.” Ingrid snapped. “Look. I know you’re getting over that princess bitch. I’m happy for you. I was only ever comforting you over that. I didn’t have more illusions than that– well, I did, but I’m also grown-up enough to know when my bubble has burst.”

This was possibly the worst version of this conversation Gertrude could possibly have.

It was the version of this conversation they had in her nightmares.

“Ingrid! Let me talk.” Gertrude said desperately. “Ingrid, I do love you! I love you so much!”

“Yeah.” Ingrid said. She smiled. “I know. But you don’t love me like you loved her.”

“You’re right! I’m trying to get over Elena.” Gertrude said. “And you’re right, I don’t love you like I love her, because the way I loved her destroyed us! I lashed out at her, I could have hurt her; I would never want to feel like that about you! I have to love you differently!”

“Gertrude, I’m trying to make this easy on you. But you always make everything hard.”

Ingrid stood up from the bed. She put a hand on Gertrude’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m still your friend, I’m still your soldier, and I still love you. But right now– If you want me, then you have to work to chase after me. If you want someone else, go after them. Have your space and figure shit out. Fuck– I’ll probably come around– But I’m done with this.”

She gestured to the room and to Gertrude herself and started to walk out.

Gertrude could have said that she did want her, that she didn’t just have sex with her for empty reasons, that she did want her instead of Elena and that maybe even, that she could have replaced Elena, now. If not before; and yet Gertrude said nothing. Because some of Ingrid’s incisive observations had been true and because it would have been shameless and hurtful to have begged Ingrid to stay in spite of them. So instead she watched Ingrid leave the room with a flat expression, silent until the door shut. Silent even afterward.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She was never lying about loving Ingrid, she loved her.

She loved and desired her and wanted her companionship quite badly.

But she felt that in that moment, dumping her was something Ingrid needed to do.

And Ingrid was right. Gertrude had accepted her devotion so disrespectfully.

Gertrude deserved to be dumped more harshly. Ingrid was being downright diplomatic.

Ingrid deserved to be pursued, to be sought after, to be worshiped as a woman.

Maybe Gertrude would pursue her. Maybe worship her too, like she deserved.

But the important thing was that Gertrude couldn’t just passively accept her anymore.

She couldn’t hold the leash she was given; she had to tug on the leash like Ingrid wanted.

“But I do need the space.” Gertrude sighed. She covered her face with her hands. “There’s so much shit I need to figure out, Ingrid. I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry; and how those sorries aren’t anywhere near good enough for you. Ugh. I hope she’ll even speak to me anymore. After all this time– I am such a piece of shit. God– god damn it all.”

That was definitely the version of this encounter that came straight out of her nightmares.

But neither of them had died from it; and the door was not permanently closed on them.

She hoped at least she could remain Ingrid’s friend. That they could make up that much.

There was nothing more she could do on that night, in that room, on that bed.

Time had to pass for both of them. Both of them needed to think about their lives.

Gertrude also had her emotions for a few other people to consider–

–she hardly wanted to even think about that too.

Especially the latest of those fantasies.

Exhausted, Gertrude dropped back onto her bed.

She loosened up the armor plates and her blue shirt and cast it all off. There was something catharthic to undressing at the end of this entire mess. She was soaked in sweat, but she had not taken three or four dips into drowning water, like her mind could have sworn she had. All of that had happened in some quarantined space of the ego. Out here in the world, Monika was unharmed and merely sleeping, Victoria was patrolling, Nile was looking after Monika, Azazil was waiting patiently in the brig for Gertrude; and Ingrid had left to her room.

On that bed, alone, Gertrude felt lighter than before.

Not because she was falling endlessly but because she had been unburdened.

That poisonous love for Elena she had failed to bury in Goryk, she buried in Kesar.

That ruinous desire to replace her lost future with something, she stifled in her chest.

That desperation to acquit herself of failure, she let blow past her like a brief gust.

The world had changed and she wanted to be able to change with it even more.

But the shape of making amends was a task for the Gertrude of the future.

On that bed, her head was emptying. She was tired. And she was in no hurry to do anything.

Surrounded by a myriad colors flowing gently and freely, she finally shut her eyes.

After days of tribulations, Gertrude slept soundly, and recovered her strength.

For once, she had a peaceful dream.


Previous ~ Next

Bury Your Love At Goryk’s Gorge [8.12]

This chapter contains explicit sexual content.


“Ensign Anahid, how do you feel about the Republic of Alayze? You can be candid.”

It’s a dump.

A failed state.

We should be ashamed. We should beg for forgiveness.

“I think as the sole remaining democracy of the sea, it’s worth fighting for.”

Ensign Samuel “Sam” Anahid stood in the middle of a dim blue windowless room with a high ceiling. In this room there were only three things. The desk of the Director of the General Intelligence Agency, the director himself, behind the desk, and a miasma of palpable deceit that was everywhere in the Republic of Alayze. No adornments, no windows; this cell-like room was the heart and the soul of the G.I.A.

Wearing a neutral expression, Sam told a lie. Not a muscle in his face twitched out of place.

“Good answer, candid and honest. You are quite correct Ensign. Ours is not a perfect country; everyone can see this easily. But our role, nonetheless, is to protect it with all of our might. Because its people can still make it great. If we surmount the firestorm of this era, because we are a democracy, we can achieve anything. Those despots in the Imbrian Ocean can only lord over an unchanging and stagnating relic.”

It was customary for G.I.A. officials with important missions to take on new identities.

To become Director, the man before Samuel had to abandon his old name. That plaque on his desk, which read Albert Ford-Reagan, was just another falsity that was borne out of this room and its mission. For a man who sat behind a desk all day and gave orders, he was solidly built, broad-backed, square-jawed. He had an open case of cigars on his desk from which many pieces were missing. His eyes were crystalline and upon them information could be seen flitting– cybernetics. His hair was voluminous for his age, slicked back. There had been an older Director when Sam first joined. But he looked like this too.

Maybe if Sam did outstandingly, he might someday be reborn as a broad-backed blond bear.

Rather than a narrow-chested, slender-limbed twink, hiding half his face behind his long hair.

But the thought of becoming like that man– disgusted him.

He had some unreachable ideas of what he wanted–

No use contemplating it. Not here anyway.

“Indeed, Director.”

Sam was sparse with his words. What could he say?

He didn’t even know why he was summoned.

And no matter what he said, he would find out sooner or later.

“From now on, you will go by Blake McClinton.” Director Albert said suddenly.

Sooner–

“Sir?”

“We’re assigning you a valuable mission in the Imbrian Ocean. Your right to forfeit this mission was the question that I asked you earlier.” Director Albert said. “You will receive field training and full details in the coming weeks. You are now a full-fledged field agent, Ensign. Congratulations.”

It was that sudden.

And that was, truly, all the Director said, or needed to say.

Every blank he left was filled in by the culture of the G.I.A. Sam did not even have to acquiesce or accept the mission. He had accepted such a mission already, every time he lied in order to protect his career prospects. He had done the work to remain in the office, to continue to don his badge, and he had done enough that there was no running away from it anymore. He was the best analyst, so there was only one way for him to go. The G.I.A. had more desk officers coming, and the Republic’s war was endless.

All of this because I was too much of a pussy to fight on the front lines from the start.

He made Ensign off the back of being able to read better into data than his colleagues.

All because he didn’t want to die in a Cutter’s bridge fighting the Hanwans or Imbrians.

Now he was getting field duty– in Imbria, no less.

Sam quietly left the office after the conversation with the Director.

There was nothing more to be said.

He left for home while he had the chance.

Madison Station was the home of the G.I.A Central Directorate. It was a squat cylindrical station with only two stories, the top tier having discrete buildings inside while the bottom provided transport infrastructure to outlying habitation spires. Overhead, the thick titanium roof was like an eternal gray sky. There was a fake, grassy park stretching out from the white slab of the Central Directorate building, surrounded by high fences patrolled by quad-rotor drones. Each stretch of the park had a sun-lamp to keep the grass alive that was uncomfortable to stand under. And in fact, even agents would be chased off by the drones if they loitered in the lawn anyway– to say nothing of the few bubbles which contained trees. Everything was look-don’t-touch, the tiniest splash of aesthetics below the grey horizon.

Outside the fences, there were long roads for personal electric cars and for the electric ferry. There were few such cars parked near the street. Cars were like toys; you could drive your car if you lived in the habitat in Madison itself, and you drove it from your work which was a few blocks away and back to your home. It was a novelty. If you lived in an outlying hab like Sam, you could not possibly take your car there and back. Some people did keep a car in the car park in Madison, so they would tube to their hab and back, but drive to work using their car– it was nonsense. He had the money, but why would he bother?

Besides the cars, the streets around the Directorate were sparse with people.

Across the road, however, the crowd was much thicker.

The Central Directorate was an isolated bubble.

Everywhere else stood the teeming mass of the Republic’s people. Madison was nowhere near the most crowded, but Sam still had to push in a little after crossing the road. Office buildings, restaurants, store-fronts, no matter where he walked, the street was teeming. Dim lights. Everything was dim, as if the city feared any bright colors. Amid a crowd of people in similar office-wear to his own, all dimly looking around as if dazed. Sam had been places where walking down the street felt like a queue system.

Madison was not that bad– yet. It would get there someday.

There were less and less stations going up these days. Building them had become very convoluted.

Politically and financially–

No sense in thinking about it too much.

He made his way to an elevator and rode it down into the lower tier.

Here, the steel guts of the station were on full display. There was nothing but metal, tubes and vents and pipes, sealed off rooms with mechanisms. No attempt to embellish anything. Wide and broad hallways full of people led between tube stations out to the outlying spire hab blocks that surrounded the main structure of Madison. There were some shops here and there for the people coming and going, cramped little restaurants that were literally holes in the wall, kiosks with patriotic trinkets for folks visiting the Capital. With his hands in his pockets, Sam made his way to the tube out to Hab block “Clancy.”

Entering a tight train car, standing in the center holding himself up with a bar.

Once the train got going, fake windows would project an idyllic view of the outside.

Madison had been built at 300 meters depth on the Great Alayze Reach.

That was the base. These tubes were actually at 250 meters depth.

The Great Reaches were sacred places rendered safe by some poorly understood force, maybe some weather pattern, magnetic field, some forgotten surface device, God knew why– but there was none of the aggressive megafauna, wild currents, storms, red tides, and residual corruption that plagued the rest of the photic layers of the ocean. So when Sam peeked out of those false windows there was a bit of light outside, the marine fog was not as thick. Everyone felt safe. Nobody was terrified of the water.

You could see schools of fish, life, a place teeming with biological hope.

To leave Madison for the neighboring Pennsylvania Station you had to cross the Upper Scattering Layer and dive down into the aphotic depths, as most of the Republic lay between 900 to 1500 depth in the Cogitum Ocean. The USL was called that because most of human civilization was beneath it, but Madison was one of the few places above the USL where the moniker made no sense to the ruling class of people who got to live in this privileged bubble. Sometimes Sam nursed a catastrophic idea– if the Surface got worse, and the Great Reaches became as dangerous as the rest of the photic ocean around them.

Madison and the entire Republic government would be completely annihilated.

Maybe that was what it would take. The Imbrians, Hanwans, Katarrans, they could not end the Republic.

But maybe someday God would strike the Republic down just as He struck the surface down.

When the tube stopped inside of Clancy hab, the view became a lot less pretty.

Out on the platform, a police officer had pulled aside a civilian. There was a brief argument before the officer laid an unprompted beating that Sam could not bear to watch it and hurried away.

Leaving behind the depressing tube platform he found himself at the base of the hab, a cylindrical promenade around the elevators, where there was a shabby cafeteria and a few sparse storefronts. Nothing staffed by people, everything was pay-to-operate and self-serve. Sam hated these– he would not eat here unless the situation in his apartment was truly dire. But he was well paid, he could afford to keep his own food at home. Most of the people in this hab were immigrants in the service industry.

Yellow lights gave the halls leading to his apartment a gloomy ambiance.

Everything was so dim– why? Why couldn’t they have some brightness for once?

When Sam arrived at his own hall there was an enormous mess in front of him.

There was an eviction happening in his hall, so a person’s belongings were getting dumped out of an apartment like trash by several police officers. Sam had to navigate a maze of trash bags and furniture to get through, and the police officers gave him a disdainful look for it and barked at him to hurry up. There was a bloodied young man up against a wall, his nose punched deep purple — Sam didn’t know anyone here so he didn’t know who it was. He assumed that was the former inhabitant after the police got him.

Evicted from here, he’d be taken directly to a prison station.

He would either rot in jail or be sentenced to a Debtors’ Corps for work or war.

When Sam finally got to his own door, the hallway lights were blinking on and off.

He sighed. They couldn’t even have steady power– how would they manage color?

Then, he got his colors–

Inside, the first thing he saw was a big red flashing warning on his wall.

Rent due: $2000 Republic New Dollar or RND.

That warning would flash like a mental assault at him from every wall until it was paid.

Exasperated, Sam easily dispersed the warning by flashing his bank card at the wall.

Turning the dire red light back to the dim, depressing yellow.

$2000 RND was like a fifth of his monthly salary. It was barely anything to him.

For the laborers it could be close to three quarters of it.

Sam imagined that for that evictee, this warning flashed at him for a whole month.

He saw it every day awaiting the knock from the police, helpless.

Some holy land, the Great Alayze Reach. Some country, the great Republic of Alayze.

Sam slammed the door behind himself and laid back against it, breathing heavy.

He almost thought he would have a panic attack.

Rotten fucking day– rotten fucking place–

“What do I think of this place? I fucking hate it. I can’t imagine Imbria is any worse.”

Sam took in a deep breath.

Using the wall to help himself stand back up straight.

Thumbing the wall touchpad to bring up the lights, brightening up his 7 by 5 meter space.

They never got too bright, but it was a less dim yellow than the halls now.

The apartment was divided into three sections, the living space, kitchen, and bathroom.

There was an island that separated the living space and kitchen, while the bathroom was tucked away behind another door. From the hallway door, Sam was in his living space, with a combination sofa and bed, that folded out, a table, a combination video-screen and terminal mounted on the wall that had its own processor, making it just a bit faster and nicer than using the room computer. In his kitchen, there was an electric cooktop with a small convection box, and an icebox and pantry.

Sam used to pay to get his food automatically restocked, but he stopped. It was people from Clancy that delivered it, and he hated the idea of his neighbors running to Madison and back for him.

So he just made it part of his routine to shop in Madison and bring stuff back sometimes.

It also gave him an excuse to stick around Madison– sometimes he needed that.

Soon as the lights went on, Sam pulled off his tie, dropped his suit jacket on the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it too but kept his pants on. He had a little ritual– he was deeply ashamed of it, but it gave him a specific thrill that made him feel more at home with himself. He would grab a smoke, lay on the sofa in just his pants, shirtless, no shoes– but he would put on a woman’s brassiere.

A black, padded bra that fit tight on him, sleek, with a floral pattern. He had picked it out, bought it “for a girlfriend” that he obviously did not fucking have. Then he wore it at home– it felt sexy.

Between drags of his cigarette he would look down at his chest. It titillated him a bit.

“I’m nothing but a fucking pervert. But so is everyone fucking else in this country.”

This wasn’t something that was wholly unknown to the Republic–

Tranvestism– no, it was transgenderism— whatever. Wanting to be a woman.

Sam could have talked to a doctor, gone through psych evals, gotten real-looking tits.

He could afford it– but–

But–

It’d have ruined his career.

That sort of thing was tolerated, but not truly permitted.

He was in his early 20s and already Ensign. He was good at lying and fucking people over and arranging schemes for the most evil and savage freaks on this planet so they could keep killing in the name of democracy and freedom. That was his job, and he was good at it, and if he showed up to those people in a pencil skirt and tights and makeup with a pair of C-cups they would politely make her a lowly accountant who could just barely afford her room and diet until she just quit.

Sam considered himself far too entrenched in his work, and too useless at anything else.

He looked feminine enough in his own estimation to feel like a woman at home.

That would have to be enough. He was barely alive now; if he was fired it’d really kill him.

Smoking cigarettes at home in women’s underwear, hair long and loose, lounging.

He’d tried makeup, sometimes. It was fine. Everything was just fucking fine–

“I wish I’d been brave enough to just fucking die in the wars.”

Sinking in an awful little ship somewhere that was peaceful before the Republic got there.

Torn apart by a torpedo from a Katarran or a Hanwan or an Imbrian even.

“Maybe I’ll have a chance soon.” He thought morbidly, his mood crashing.

He was headed to the Imbrium to do God knows what. He would almost certainly die.

And even if Blake McClinton did not die then, Samuel Anahid was already dead.


The Republic of Alayze had a single connection to the Imbrium Ocean that was indisputably under their control and contiguous to their territory. Navigating the Cogitum into the northern Nubium sea that lay within the continent of North Occultis, to a small gap in the continental wall into the Imbrium, called Ratha Flow. Ratha Flow served as the most recent Naval Headquarters of the Republican Navy, having moved there from the inner Cogitum hundreds of years ago when the Republic and Empire declared war.

The Republic had a much larger share of the world’s wealth than any other power.

It spent an outsize amount of these resources on its military, crusading for “global democracy.”

The Hanwans and the Katarrans were the nearest enemies, but the chief evil of the world, according to the Republic’s politicians and media, was the Imbrian Empire, hegemon of the western hemisphere of Aer.

At all times, the Nubium Sea was required to host at least 800 to 1000 vessels, for defense.

Then, when the Republic war machine really got going, it would send an additional 800 to 1000 vessels to Ratha Flow, which had to possess the capacity to temporarily host them. This reinforcement was always in preparation for a concerted attack on the Imbrium Ocean. Across from Ratha Flow was the conflict zone known as the Great Ayre Reach. Beyond the Ayre Reach they could attack the Empire’s throne state of Palatine, or the economically powerful financial-industrial state of Rhinea. If the Republic could successfully occupy either state, it’d be a death-blow to the Empire in their great war.           

There had been numerous battles for Ayre Reach in the history of the Great War.

Because of the war, the Nubium Sea bases and Ratha Flow itself, were overcrowded, dismal and miserable. Everywhere, so-called elite soldiers lived shipment to shipment from the Cogitum.

There was no production of anything in the Nubium, it was all bases and stockpiles, nothing but huge dock-stations and barracks-stations and depot-stations. Nothing was made there, everything had to be shipped, so there would be space to hold the massive fleets in place ready at a moment’s notice, as well as the absurd mass of human life required to fight for, direct and maintain the war machine.

Stockpiles were jealously guarded, to be cracked into only if there was a delay in the tight logistic chain from the Cogitum’s rich core stations to the “trenches” of the Nubium Sea and Ratha Flow.

The Republic of Alayze almost felt like it was designed to be this rich, this powerful, so it could afford the insane, bleak task of having 2000 ships in an 800 by 200 kilometer stretch of habitable water, surrounded on all sides by either the hopeless ice wall of the pole or the corrupted mass of the continent and its evil weather and monstrous fauna. The Nubium, and Ratha Flow, were the vilest fucking places on Aer, Blake McClinton thought, as he stared at the scope of the human suffering contained in each base.

Everywhere, the soldiers tried to put on a brave face. It had been drilled into them that they were the front line in a global war between democracy and despotism. They had to suffer endless days with poor food and little entertainment, working hard to keep their equipment ready and their skills sharp, their boredom broken up by drills and military panic, so that they could “defend their way of life” by invading the Imbrian Empire and being repulsed, time and time again, with only the Ratha Wall staving off defeat.

“This is a pure atrocity. Only we could’ve done this shit this bad.”

It was no wonder the Empire continued to defeat them. Who would have the energy to fight for this?

Nevertheless, the Great War for Global Democracy continued apace.

There were always soldiers, whether the brave and bold, the poor and hungry, or prisoners without choice. Despite his relative privilege– Blake characterized himself as a prisoner without choice.

“Imbria, here I come.” He joked dismally to himself.

When Blake McClinton arrived at Ratha Flow, preparations were underway for a massive attack, perhaps the largest in the history of the Great War. He would not be part of it. Instead, he would be sallying out with a small raiding force that would provide cover for him to infiltrate the Empire in a tiny vessel.

At the moment, the Empire was facing some unrest within its southern colonies.

There were rumors of rioting and a potential slave revolt that could brew in the coming months if something was not done. The Republic did not have much hope of these actions leading to a larger revolt within the Empire and felt they would be put down very quickly; but they could use the distraction, if they could attack while the Empire was gathering or in the process of a punitive expedition.

To support a potential upcoming attack on the Great Ayre Reach, Naval HQ had requested for the G.I.A. to reinforce its intelligence gathering position in the Empire with extra field assets. Priority was placed on gaining access to the Imperial dynasty– if unrest could be spread into the Emperor’s court, the Republic believed that the “despotic top-down leadership structure” of the Empire could be brought to a crisis point. Combined with the southern unrest and a massive attack from Ratha Flow, the scales would tip.

And so, Blake’s duty was to become an “extra field asset” in the Palatine state for this purpose.

Aboard the infiltration cutter Mata Hari, Blake waited in a small, cramped break room alongside two other agents destined for the Imbrium Ocean. Cutters due to their size had few amenities. On most ships, the roof was at least two meters up, but here, even someone Blake’s size would feel like they were a fish being canned. His compatriots, both taller than him, seemed to relish getting to sit down somewhere.

One was a dark-skinned man, hair packed into tight braids which were themselves tied into a ponytail. He looked young, just a bit older than Blake perhaps. He was tall, physically fit, and looked friendly.

They were both accompanied by an older gentleman, who exuded a bit of adventuristic charisma, the sort of man who smelled heavily like whiskey and cigarette smoke, slicked silver hair, a mustache and shaved beard but with such a deep shadow that one could imagine how thick it must have been. A man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a thriller movie poster holding a woman a fraction of his age.

He introduced himself first, before anyone asked: “Piedmont’s the name, Dusan Piedmont. Is this your first time venturing out into the Imbrium? Don’t worry one bit– I’ve got everything down to a science.”

Blake immediately disliked him.

“I’m Burke, Burke Zepp.”

The dark-skinned man beside Blake reached across a tiny fold-out table between the two cramped little couches in the Cutter’s break room. Piedmont looked delighted to be shaking his hand.

Blake noticed Piedmont seemed to be making much more effort with the shake than Burke.

“Firm grip, Petty Officer Burke! That’s good. You can tell a lot about a man by–”

Blake started to tune him out. He was careful not to roll his eyes too obviously.

“Blake McClinton.”

He introduced himself in the least dismissive voice he could muster.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McClinton.” Piedmont said, briefly looking Blake over. “May I inquire as to your specialty? I like to know the skills of those I am working with– Mr. Zepp’s faculties are quite evident, but I’m very interested in what you bring to the table. It’s always the unassuming agents who end up being the most critical for the mission in the end, in my vast and credible experience.”

Burke did not respond to Piedmont’s clear typecasting of him.

Blake sighed internally.

He was going to have to get along with this fucking cartoon for months, maybe years.

“Disguise.” Blake said. “I’m good at disguises, makeup, forging identities.”

“Disguises? Fantastic! And if I may be so bold as to say– both genders, correct?”

Blake had not wanted to bring it up. Now he understood why Piedmont was staring at him.

“Yes.” He said bluntly, and no more. Piedmont must have thought he was a fucking queer.

Though it was something he did recreationally, the makeup skills and cross-dressing had ended up being part of what his G.I.A. handler noted about him as a potential asset in his ascension to field agent.

New agents were put through simulations of fieldwork to prove they had what it takes to be sent to the Imbrium or Hanwa as infiltrators. Blake characterized himself as a good liar and during the simulations deceit was, in his estimation, his key weapon to the fieldwork problems given to him to solve.

He was not going to fight his way into or out of anywhere and he frankly thought such a meatheaded approach would have made any intelligence he acquired along the way functionally useless. In his mind, field agents should get close to objectives and secure them wholly unnoticed to maximize their value. A lot of his solutions ended up incorporating constructed identities, creative use of fashions, and even impersonating people to get in and out while being able to interact with the operational space.

He played to his strengths a little too well.

To the point that the kit of gear prepared for his Imbrium journey now had a set of professionally-crafted breastforms, a full makeup kit and a fitted cocktail dress so he could cross-dress like a pro. He was not necessarily ashamed of his assessment, since as long as he was thought of as male it was only a skillset he used in his job and not something about him that was viewed as strange. But of course, a fossil like Piedmont who groomed his fucking mustache must have seen him as a limp-wristed freak.

Thankfully he had precious little time to say anything to Piedmont right then and there.

Alarm lights flashed red in every compartment.

“Imbrian vessels dead ahead! There’s– there’s a lot!”

On a nearby monitor the bridge crew piped in footage from the predictors of the larger vessels in the fleet. The Republican flotilla numbered six ships, a cruiser, a destroyer and three frigates escorting the disguised cutter. Opposite them, the Imbrian fleet– had several dozen ships. Led by a Koenig class dreadnought, there must have been at least thirty. An entire combat group approached.

“I’m fucking dead.” Blake whispered under his breath.

Staring at the monitor, that projection of barely-lit black water replete with clouds of brown biological dust, the distant outlines of the mass of enemy vessels, it was like swimming at full speed into a wall. Every nightmare Blake had ever had about fleet combat, what he had always ran away from, what he lied and struggled not to experience, it was all right here in front of him. He had run away too strongly and too well– he had circled right around back to the feared Imbrium and its deadly machines.

Maybe it was for the best to die alone with nothing but fantasies of a better life–

As soon as the Imperial ships began firing, Blake’s ship dove right to the ocean floor and cut away from the battle, moving within the chaos. On the monitor, a text overlaid on the video bid the crew to be silent as the cutter slinked away. Blake briefly watched the fleet being blasted to pieces on the cameras while his own ship stole from the battlefield beneath the notice of his absolutely massive enemy.

Somehow, within minutes, he had put that nightmarish sight of the enemy fleet behind him.

It would not be the first time that people would die to propel his journey forward.


Piedmont, that fucking idiot!

Blake seethed internally.

He scanned his eyes across the colorful ballroom from the second story. Overhead, the grand gilded arch of the ceiling played host to chandeliers with LEDs providing a sensuous, simulated ambiance below. Used to the dim but consistent yellow from ordinary station lights, Blake had trouble spotting his man in the crowd below. Besuited men, women in colorful dresses, dancing in the glamorous ballroom floor. On a small stage a brunette in a revealing red dress sang a song of love and longing that stirred his heart.

An ostentatious festival of barely-hidden sexuality– Blake even smelled it in the air.

That hedonism which characterized the Empire to him in the past few months.

On some level he had come to respect it. Despite all the money it had, the Republic was a bleak place utterly without aesthetics or sensuality. For the imperial ruling class, money was about the aesthetics. Rich finery, beautiful homes, retinues of servants and frequent, feverish trysts. To have power was to exert it for pleasure. Blake would have felt a bit more alive if he performed all his misdeeds for a beautiful and lively woman like the Lady of the House, Leda Lettiere. He had heard many rumors about her. It was the gravest misfortune of his birth that he instead worked for the tasteless, anhedonic stock-hoarders of the Republic.

Today the theater in which his continuous misfortune played out was Schwerin Island.

A beautiful station in the Palatinate, it once served as the “summer palace” of the Emperor, now given over to his newest, youngest wife as a semi-permanent abode. The Lady of this House was the mysterious and much sought after Leda Lettiere. She was not the target tonight– the G.I.A.’s mission was not so ambitious yet. But this was a place where they could gamble on finding a steppingstone to Leda, and from there, to begin building a network adjacent to the ruling Fueller family in some capacity. Because of the gamble and the rewards it could bring, the G.I.A. had to be absolutely, ironclad cautious tonight.

“It’s already cocked up. We’ve already fucked it up completely.”

Blake muttered to himself, scanning the vast room in a panic.

That moron, Piedmont, was nowhere to be seen. They had gone out of contact!

Blake was supposed to stand in the upper story with a fan over his richly dolled-up face.

Wearing his red cocktail dress, made up to be ‘Christina Becker’, aspiring theater actress.

With his dark hair done up in a fancy bun. He surprised himself how well he pulled it off.

Christina was supposed to stick to the second story to signal Piedmont, who was “Lord Beck.”

There were a few dangerous individuals here tonight, to be avoided at all costs.

Blake nearly choked on his wine when he spotted the worst one of all.

There would be a single person in attendance wearing a gray uniform–

–with a blue and green shoulder cape and a stylized semiconductor symbol upon it.

Norn Tauscherer, the most feared of the ruling Fueller family’s bannermen.

Nowhere that the G.I.A. went in the Imbrium did they fail to uncover myth and legend surrounding this vastly evil woman. Invincible, unkillable, seemingly all-knowing, plots broke upon her like tides on rock. She alone was responsible for more G.I.A. casualties in the Imbrium than the entire Imperial Navy, and it was her doing that an entirely new cell had to be created to gather intelligence. An entire cell fell to her a few years ago. The silver lining was that, reportedly, Norn had done such a thorough job of uprooting them that she believed she had wiped out the G.I.A. in the Imbrium entirely, and of course, she could have had no awareness of when or where they would rebuild their networks. This allowed Blake to do his job without having her immediately on his back — for now. And it absolutely had to stay that way.

From up above Blake spied her in the crowd, the cape an easy beacon of her position among the peacocks and doves playing out their grand mating rituals below. She was a good-looking, fair-skinned blond of unexciting stature with a sabre gleaming on her hip. Both handsome and beautiful as if each angle of her face could show a new and different side to her– each side still grinning maliciously.

Even going near this woman was game over for them.

“We have to abort if Norn even looks at you. We can’t take any risks.” Blake had said.

“Of course, of course. I’ve also heard of how scary she is, I’m not deaf to it.”

“You’re not deaf, but you’re too proud. Don’t chase anything if the cost is her attention.”

Piedmont hadn’t responded to that in their briefing. Of course he hadn’t.

He was off being a big trumped-up hero somewhere– until Norn caught up to him.

Then he would be an extremely dead hero.

Blake tracked Norn from the second story while trying to spot Piedmont in the crowd.

They had all these novel physical signals they practiced so as not to have to carry hidden equipment. And all those signals depended on Piedmont being the hall and looking up! Helpless, Blake scanned the entrances he could see, the middle of the ballroom, the positions of servants, back to Norn–

He felt something like a wind rushing past him.

His exposed back shuddered.

Norn had tipped her chin up, brought up her eyes, scanned across the second story–

–seen him?

Blake thought for a brief instant they had made eye contact– and it terrified him.

Those vast red eyes and the promise of their infinite violence–

He looked away and began to fan himself with his carbon-fiber fold-out fan.

It had a red back and a green front. If Piedmont saw him he would know to abort.

Thankfully Norn continued to walk among the crowd. But her behavior–

She’s looking for something. God damn it. She’s not mingling at all.

Her trajectory was like a shark sniffing blood from kilometers away.

Why does everything go wrong for me? Literally everything!

There was no training on Aer that could prepare an agent for the plan going awry.

At that point, it was down to experience, instinct, luck, x-factor, whether an agent survived.

Blake tried to calm himself down. He tried think about his options rationally.

All he could do was to weigh the pros and cons and optimize for the best outcome.

For the moment Blake could at least keep track of Norn. However, she was clearly heading through the crowd and might leave into one of the adjoining halls. When she did so, Blake would lose track of her. And unless Piedmont magically showed up from the opposite end of the ballroom like a fucking cartoon character, Blake would have no agent to support and no enemy to track. He could stand around uselessly until he was certain Piedmont was not coming back for good, or he could leave his position.

If he left his position, he could either escape, try to gather information on his own, perhaps approaching one of the lesser noblemen or women– or try to find Piedmont and extract together.

“If I go looking for him I might expose myself. It’s a huge risk.”

Blake’s fingers tightened on the fan. He knew in this situation that he should run away.

They had a lot riding on this. It was not so easy to leave empty handed.

Despite the legendary graciousness of the hostess, Schwerin Island only rarely opened to the aristocratic masses rather than a few intimate, select invitees. While the crowd below was quite rich it was not entirely exclusive. Leda Lettiere was giving the bourgeoise and aristocracy a rare chance to network within her home, to potentially meet her, thus displaying her social power. The G.I.A. had worked hard to create the conditions for Piedmont and Blake to attend this ball while remaining anonymous and being able to leave behind their identities if needed, and it was the design of the party itself that allowed for this. They could not have been invited to such a thing, at least not yet. It was a juicy opportunity.

However, if they all got caught it would be for nothing.

Their cell was still relatively new. Living to fight another day was warranted.

Blake could run away, rendezvous with Burke, return to the cell and hatch new plans.

Empty-handed, maybe having lost Piedmont, but with hope for a future.

There were other nobles, other social events, entire other avenues of networking to pursue.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.”

Muttering under his breath Blake gathered all his strength into putting up a smiling façade.

And ventured into the adjoining halls, walking delicately on his heels, fan aloft.

Piedmont, if I can get you out of here I’m going to kill you myself.

He was just going to do some reconnaissance. Ready to leave at any moment.

That’s what he told himself.

Blake took the stairs down on the opposite side of the building from where he had seen Norn going. Downstairs and in the outlying hallways there were very few people. Most of the crowd stuck to the ballroom hoping to get a chance to see Leda Lettiere come down to meet them. Those few who were out in the halls were typically younger, perhaps children of the social climbers in the ballroom area or perhaps romantically eager lords and ladies hoping for more pleasure than business on this evening.

Everything was absolutely ostentatious, the walls in the hall looked like they had been made of pearl, the corners etched like false colonnades. On the southern-facing halls there were gaps in the wall with long horizontally stretched oval windows out into the vast green fields outside. Blake could not just run through the halls at full speed without drawing attention, so he walked, smiling, and acknowledging the few people that he passed by, stealing glances into the ballroom through the doors as he passed them.

He saw servants refreshing the caviar, crostini, and drinks for the ball.

No sign of Norn Tauscherer. He had completely lost her from this vantage.

He would have to be extremely careful.

When he circled around the eastern halls adjacent to the ballroom there were far more people.

That eastern hall connected with the central wing of the palace, through which there were still people arriving, some latecomers, and some caterers getting ready to serve a banquet in the palace interior. Blake had initially that hoped Piedmont would have found someone to sit at the banquet with, and then he himself could have held back and avoided the whole situation, since his own position was more precarious when it came to finding himself a “date” for the evening. No such luck now.

Now he had to leave, to escape. But if he saw Piedmont somewhere–

From afar, at the other end of the hall.

A tall, silver-haired gentleman in a suit, walking away with urgency.

Toward the northern wing, perhaps out to the interior garden in the center of the palace.

Blake could not call or signal to him. Nobody was supposed to go back there.

He looked around, briefly, trying to see if anyone could have been following Piedmont.

No one that looked obvious– certainly not Norn.

God damn it Piedmont!

Masking his anger, Blake gracefully followed the trail of Piedmont from afar, walking across the eastern hallway, waiting until no one was looking and then sneaking out of the ballroom wing entirely, taking the main hall in the north out of the palace entirely to a hallway encircling an open air garden. Under a stone ceiling lifted by more fake colonnades, half without a wall. Simulated moonlight shone down upon a tree grown on a mound of rich soil in the center, surrounded by grass and flower bushes. There was a small path which led through the garden from one end to the other, but Blake would not take it.

He walked around the corner from the garden, got his first glimpse of the moonlight–

And immediately saw Piedmont face to face with Norn Tauscherer.

In that instant Blake, praying to have not been seen, hid with his back to the corner.

Out of sight. No one else around.

“Madame, I’m afraid your treatment of me tonight has been quite irregular.”

Piedmont, you useless fossil.

Then, for the first time, Blake heard the deep, viper-like voice of the fabled Norn Tauscherer.

“Good men with nothing to hide don’t approach me so brazenly, lord Beck. It is only the scoundrels of the world who will flirt with Norn Tauscherer after everything said about her. I was immediately suspicious of you, but your rat-like behavior since your initial error can only possibly point to conspiracy. This garden is off-limits to guests, lord Beck. You will now follow me to the police station for a chat instead.”

That fool must not have realized it was Norn! But he was debriefed?! How the fuck–?

How did all of this happen? After all their preparations, how? Was he just not listening?

“Oh dear. It’s funny, lord Beck. Even now, you truly don’t know who I am, do you?”

Blake had no weapons, and even if he did, escape after shooting Norn would be impossible.

He peered around the corner again–

–and saw Piedmont turning a firearm on Norn. Blake was speechless.

His heart sank. Where had Piedmont gotten a gun? They had agreed not to bring any gear!

All of this time, that old bastard was doing everything his own way!

He had thrown all of their preparations into the trash!

“I’m afraid it is you, my dear, who does not–”

Blake hid back behind the corner. Piedmont did not get to speak a final sentence.

Cut off, abruptly, and then a gurgling sound–

Though Blake did not know how, there was no gunshot, and everything became silent.

Frightened out of his wits, Blake started walking back toward the ballroom area again.

He had to escape, he could not possibly remain in Schwerin now.

Norn Tauscherer could have glimpsed him and taken off down the hall.

Every moment he heard nothing his imagination grew more vivid in its terror.

Halfway down the hall, he saw another figure come turning into the palace interior. Trying to mask his fear and discomfort, Blake kept walking. He recognized the woman as they closed. It was the singer, from the ball. Red dress, brown hair– a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. Blake tried to act like he belonged there. Walking casually, without acknowledging anyone, despite his quick-beating heart.

Blake barely walked past her–

–when he felt something jab him in the side, sharp and hot.

His legs turned to jelly, his vision swam, and he fell into a sudden darkness–


Something hot and fast struck his face but only half-awoke him to his surroundings.

His vision was blurry, he was nodding off. Colors, snatches of a face, a glint of metal.

Everything smelled strangely sweet. And there was gentle music playing.

A shot of pain right through the core of his body jolted him awake.

That glinting– a knife. He had been cut across the chest with a knife.

Pain burned across the center of his chest, but he was still only barely aware.

Running on animal instinct–

Blake struggled, tried to get up–

He could not move.

His field of vision was filled with the sight of a person– pearlescent skin, long hair–

a woman in a pale blue dress– a radiant woman framed in an arch of blue moonlight–

–smiling as the knife laid shallow upon his skin and easily drew his blood,

“Is this what brings our mystery woman back to the world? Does she respond only to pain?”

She had his arms bound.

He was bound to something, soft below, hard behind.

Bound to–

He was on a bed. Her bed; arms bound behind him to the rear post.

That sliver of glinting light that had already tasted his blood retreated from his chest.

Blake felt a brief, cold touch between his legs.

He was nude.

He was nude and bound and at the mercy of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

His captor was staggeringly, blindingly beautiful. Had she not had the backdrop of arched balcony doors letting in a beam of white-blue light, Blake felt she would have shone on her own, hair blowing light in the gentle midnight breeze. Her skin, an unblemished pearl-pink, her indigo hair lustrous and long. Long-limbed, lithe in figure, almost diaphanous in her silken dress. Red lips ever so expressive with the slightest movement of her cheek. Her ears were a bit sharp. She was an elf– a most uncommon ethnicity in Imbria.

“I can be cruel or kind at your behest.” She said. “Crueler or kinder than you’ve ever seen.”

Her voice was as a melodious as the orchestra music playing in the room.

“Please don’t. Please.”

Finally voice managed to escape Blake’s dry, burning throat.

She smiled at him. But the knife hovered close to his dick, nonetheless.

“You had no identification on your person. And not even in your coat and purse. I had a feeling about you, seeing you from afar, but you went into the inner garden. Did you think I would not notice it? Were you so desperate for an audience? Now Norn Tauscherer made a scene– I’m quite concerned.”

She turned the knife on its side and stroked Blake’s genitals with the cool, blunt metal.

Blake shuddered and squirmed. He was beyond caring if he looked pathetic.

His mind and body torn between pain and pleasure driven into erratic physical reactions.

“Who are you? You looked fantastic in a dress– are you a woman or a good actor?”

She winked at him. She was just toying with him now. He was truly helpless.

Blake was not going to fight it. He wanted to give up– he wanted to surrender to her.

He tried to rationalize his cowardice, but he was in truth completely broken down.

Emotions like he had never felt swelled in his chest.

Nevertheless in his mind he thought– Piedmont is gone.

Burke, by design, would have no idea if anything went right or wrong until they returned. He was just on a clock and if they did not come back to station then he had to live on and do what he could for the G.I.A. until more agents arrived. Blake could not possibly rat him out– they had agreed to disband their current hideout and switch after this mission and only Burke knew where he would go if Blake and Piedmont never returned. So it was not as if Blake had much to give up to his captors anyway.

However–

That wasn’t even the salient point. Blake had suffered so much– and for what?

The Republic, the G.I.A, it was all a bunch of crap. None of it was worth dying for.

Even if giving himself up to this woman so immediately and without resistance would end up constituting the beginning of the end for the Republic somehow, Blake would not mourn it. He went so far as to think– maybe the Imbrian Empire deserved to crush the Republic of Alayze! Fuck their so-called democracy, individual liberty, fuck all of it, none of it was real, it was slogans, hot air! There was no act of bravery or cowardice that mattered to the soulless inhuman ghouls running Alayze! Blake was nothing to them despite all of his service and anyone beneath Blake was less than nothing to them!

None of them were worth defending!

Blake had told himself time and again that he had no choice. The G.I.A. had been his only means of escape from a life of either poverty and struggle or suffering and exploitation on the front lines. Now he had a choice, the clearest choice that ever faced him. Painful death; or even a second more of life.

He could get his dick chopped off or he could surrender to the sliver of moonlight filling his eyes.

There was no question, between his bleak colorless masters and this richly glowing fairy.

“I’m Blake McClinton! General Intelligence Agency. I will cooperate. Please just– don’t hurt me anymore. Please. I’ll tell you everything I know without lies. I’ll give it all up I swear but– I– I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Our structure is semi-decentralized, so no matter what you cut, there’s shit I can’t–”

“That’s fine enough, Blake. I’d prefer you resist dashingly than start crying.”

Smiling, she set the knife aside, and with a slender finger, tipped his chin up.

She looked him directly in the eyes, just centimeters away. “G.I.A you said? Interesting.”

That touch sent a thrill right down his core. And her scent– it was incredible–

Blake started to weep, overcome with emotion. Leda Lettiere simply continued smiling.

“Would you consider leaving the Republic to work for me when I rule the world, Blake?”

Her eyes–

Blake stared directly into those crystalline eyes that seemed themselves to glow. Her voice, the gentle movement of her lips as she whispered to him. There was power, so much power that suffused her, power and beauty and ambition. Just being touched by her sent an ardor through Blake like he had never felt in the Cogitum Ocean. She was unreal, sorcerous, pleasure made flesh, setting his synapses alight.

“I would do anything for you.” Blake whimpered. “Anything. Just– please–”

“I won’t hurt you. I have a good feeling about you. You weren’t sent here to kill me.”

“I wasn’t! That was never my intention! I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“We can be more than allies. It might be impulsive– but I feel a resonance from you.”

He felt her fingers, silk-soft touch teasing where the blade once was.

Gentle and firm between his legs with a playful smile. Caressing him first– then stroking.

His back shuddered, his toes curled. He thought his head might go hazy.

Was he really awake? There was so much color, such a rush of sensations.

He could barely breathe as if emotion like he had never felt before stood to choke him.

“Blake, I meant it when I said I could be crueler and kinder than you’ve ever seen.”

One gentle stroke of her hands across the length of his shaft–

Blake gritted his teeth, sucking in air.

He thought he might cum just from the briefest brush of her skin on his own.

She leaned in over his shoulder, whispering into his ear.

“Let’s use each other.” She said. “I’m a powerful woman. I can give a lot to the G.I.A.– but so much more to you. You want to make war on the Empire? I could be your greatest weapon, Blake McClinton, and you mine in turn. All I ask is that you put me ahead of your paymasters and have a little fun. I’m a jealous woman. When I get a hold of a treasure,” her fingers squeezed to punctuate, “I cannot just let go.”

“I’m– I’m a treasure to you?” Blake said. It was the most beautiful thing anyone ever told him.

Leda laughed, gentle and songbird-like. Even just hearing her laugh drove Blake crazy.

“It’s just a feeling I have. Something subtle and soft that I feel from your aura.”

“My aura–? I don’t–“

She laid a finger over his lips– while her other hand squeezed his cock.

Blake was stunned to silence, not as much by her bidding but by the overwhelming heat in him.

“Quiet now. Over time, we can substantiate it. We can call it anything we like. But for right now–”

She reached for the knife and dexterously maneuvered it behind the bedpost.

Setting Blake free– but he was so shocked, his hands remained as if bound behind him.

Even as her own free arm coiled around him and took him into her sensuous embrace.

Eye to eye, lips grazing, her weight bearing on —

“For right now just take in the mood. Your miraculous survival and my glorious mercy.”


“Let’s go. We don’t want to linger here.”

“Bethany–”

“Marina, don’t disobey the head maid.”

Bethany winked at her. ‘Marina’ was a female name Leda helped Blake come up with.

It was useful to have an alter ego– for disguise purposes–

They departed from the central palace building at Schwerin, making their way out north, to the “back.”

The two of them were made up to look like Leda’s maids, in long frumpy dresses and aprons. Bethany did this often, and was, essentially, already Leda’s head maid. Marina, however, was always disguised one way or another. She felt somewhat uncomfortable to have a disguise chosen for her this time. Especially last minute. After everything they had worked on for the past year, she felt a creeping dread that day.

And not just for Leda alone– not anymore.

“Don’t worry. Leda is not afraid of Norn. She’ll handle her and we’ll wait until it blows over.” Bethany said.

Contrary to their intention, those words shook Marina even more.

“She should be afraid Bethany. Norn is a demon.” Marina replied, clutching her hands together.

Schwerin Island had been their fortress for months. From here the three of them, Leda the mastermind, Marina her attack dog and Bethany in support, lied and fucked and killed and ran through every documented sin in their ambitious climb to the throne room in the Imperial Palace at Heitzing, and the death of Konstantin von Fueller. But not only that– had Leda wanted him dead, Marina felt she could have done it. Killed him out of passion and vengeance and suffered the consequences for it.

Leda wanted to replace him. She wanted to take on Konstantin’s power.

That took more than just killing him. She could not just stab him in his bed at Heitzing.

They needed contacts, supporters, resources. To isolate the Emperor at his court.

Little by little, blackmailing, corrupting, bribing and liquidating, using every dirty trick.

They were almost poised to make a move on Heitzing.

And it was that which, on that fateful day, brought Norn Tauscherer to Schwerin Island.

Despite all the care Marina had taken– she couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Somewhere along the line, she fucked up. Despite her paranoid attention to detail.

Marina had made some mistake that led Norn to suspect something.

Clutching her heart, gritting her teeth, feeling unworthy to stand beside her partners.

Hating herself, powerfully hating herself, for even potentially hurting Leda and Bethany.

“Listen, Marina, if Leda is confident, we should be too. Don’t worry yourself sick.”

“If you say so.”

Trying to avoid the imperial inspection, Bethany and Marina stepped out of the palace into the garden in the far north of the grounds. There was a gentle breeze carrying the smell of flowers all around them.

Outside the pearlescent archway of the rear door a tiled path flanked on all sides by bushes led to a small hill upon which sat a naturally growing tree. Encircling the hill were vast fields of all manner of flowers, like a biological rainbow carefully tended. Overhead the artificial lights were configured to resemble the sun, and a sophisticated projection system created a blue sky. Marina had never seen anything like it in the Republic. She still marveled at it even if she could now see such things frequently. It baffled her that the Republic, with all its wealth, never tried to create something this beautiful, this organic and real.

Perhaps it was a waste– but if you were rich, why not live it up?

After years of dim, stultifying existence in the Republic, Marina refused to surrender this bliss.

At the top of the hill, Marina expected to see Elena, Leda’s daughter. Five years old or so, an incredibly beautiful and energetic kid that took after her mother. She was sent back here to play with a friend, a child of the Schwerin guards’ captain. Gertrude, Marina thought it was, Gertrude something or other. Elena was a precious little elf in a long-sleeved dress, hair a lighter a hue of purple than her Leda’s, while Gertrude was a swarthy dark-haired little tomboy in a long shirt and pants with suspenders.

However, when Marina and Bethany got outside, they saw that the children were not alone.

There were two figures sitting down with them, playing, and laughing with them.

One was a tall man, brown-haired with dog-like ears on his head and a bushy tail. Dressed all in black, with an impressive cape upon which he was casually seated while next to the children atop the hill. Beside him was a blond woman dressed in Imperial navy grey, a blue and green armband on her right arm, gloved hand stroking Gertrude’s hair and laughing with the little tomboy. Elena, meanwhile, appeared to be trying to whistle and started spitting on the dirt in her efforts– this caused all the laughter.

Marina tried not to panic.

“Keep trying!” Norn Tauscherer said, laughing and encouraging Elena who continued to spit on the dirt. “You’ll get it eventually! Remember Elena, you can only fail if you give up and do nothing!”

“Can she run out of spit? I’m worried she’ll run out of spit.” Gertrude joked.

“I will not!” Elena said determinedly. “I will whistle, and I will not run out of spit.”

“That’s it! That’s the indomitable Fueller spirit!” Norn guffawed.

“I believe in her. She’s got her mother’s force of will.” Said the man sitting with them.

“She’s got her mother’s everything!” Norn said. “That’s why she’s such a delightful kid!”

Marina eyed Bethany, who laid a hand on Marina’s own and squeezed to comfort her.

She raised a finger to her lips to signal for Marina to be silent.

Then she led her toward the hill, approaching the merry little group that had formed there.

Marina could not allow herself to panic– the sight of Norn sent a chill down her spine, but a maid would not have thrown at the fit at the sight of a Fueller bannerman. After all, Norn was supposed to also be one of Leda’s bannermen, she was part of the Fueller family. Elena was the Emperor’s daughter.

Above all the bannermen, Norn was extraordinarily privileged, too.

She was the favorite enforcer of Konstantin von Fueller, someone rumored to be loved by him as much as he loved his wives. She had defeated many obstacles in his path over the years. Nobody could criticize her, and by all accounts, while brutal with her enemies, she behaved honorably and did not harm anyone with which she had no personal quarrels. She was certainly welcome to play with Elena and Gertrude and there was no fear that she would have caused them any harm or endangered them.

Looking at that woman, laughing and smiling with the kids– who would have panicked?

If Marina broke down at the sight of Norn, it was a clear sign that something was off.

And Norn was an expert at noticing the tiniest things wrong with her surroundings.

Marina had spent considerable effort and resources to escape Norn’s notice.

Now, she was walking right up to that demon who had killed so many people like her.

“Excuse us, lords! We were sent to care for the children. I hope they are not troubling you.”

Bethany called out with a smile and bowed her head to Norn from the foot of the little hill.

Beside her, Marina bowed as well.

“I am Bethany Skoll, and this is Marina Holzmann. We are maids in our Lady’s service.”

“Greetings, greetings. Of course the children are not troubling us. Pardon our intrusion.”

Norn stood up from the floor, wiping dirt from her pants.

Beside her the man in Inquisitorial garb stood up as well.

“How may I assist you today? Are you the guests our Lady is waiting for?” Bethany said.

“Indeed. We were simply inspecting the garden. It’s magnificent.”

Norn turned a smile on them completely unlike how she looked with the children.

Marina realized she had been genuinely happy with the kids, but with them–

That dark, malicious grin, with her billowing blond bangs lightly shadowing her eyes.

“I am Norn Tauscherer, a humble bannerman of the Fueller family.”

Norn put a fist to her own chest then waved over her companion.

“This is Vekan Inquisitor Pavel Andrevi Samoylovych-Deepestshore.”

At her side the Inquisitor gave a shallow bow back, running a hand through his brown hair.

“Pleased to make the acquaintance of such lovely ladies. Call me Andrevi.”

“Do not call him Andrevi. Call him Inquisitor or Lord Samoylovych-Deepestshore.”

Norn elbowed him gently and the Inquisitor laughed. His dog-like ears folded slightly.

“Norn let’s not take up their time. We saw what we wanted back here anyway.” He said.

Marina felt a flash of fear at that comment. What had Norn and the Inquisitor seen?

At that point, as if in the very instant that Marina’s fear actualized in her own mind–

Norn turned her eyes on her, walking down from the hill with the Inquisitor.

Giving that devilish smile to Marina who tried strongly to hide her own expression.

She was good at lying. She was the best liar in all of Madison Station.

All of them had believed that she was a democratic, patriot man who would die for them.

When she purged her face of all emotion, when she got into the character of the maid.

Marina was assured of her own success. She felt relief– she felt like she mastered herself.

She was sure she was able to lie to Norn Tauscherer right to her face–

–until Norn stopped at her side, briefly, and looked her over.

And for a second, Marina’s calm face struggled titanically to hide the storm in her chest.

Those bright red eyes–

and the unfathomable depth of the violence they had seen and committed–

“Marina Holzmann? It’s nice to see Lady Lettiere has help of such fine breeding.”

The Inquisitor laughed. “She sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

With that brief tease, Norn continued, and the Inquisitor followed.

Until both of them were out of sight.

“Calm down, Marina.” Bethany said. “They don’t know anything. Let’s just stay here.”

“Bethany, what if they want to hurt Leda?” Marina whispered.

They were trying to keep the kids from overhearing.

Bethany fixed Marina with a serious look.

“Can you stop them? Could you heroically fend off Norn and Samoylovych and whatever small army awaits behind them and save Leda then?” Bethany said. “Norn is a threat that can’t be physically defeated. I believe you are well aware of this. However, she is not a ravening beast. She is here to carry out an inspection, and I am almost positive she will not work one more second than she has to or do anything other than follow the letter of what she was told to do. She is just a servant– just like us.”

“Just a servant?” Marina asked. Nearly reeling– how could Bethany be so sure?

“Marina, the Imbrian Empire is the thing Leda fears– not just someone like Norn.”

“Bethany–”

“I know you love her, Marina. But if you love me too– just calm down and trust me.”

“Fine.”

Leaving behind the garden path the two of them reached the top of the little hill.

“It’s okay if you can’t whistle. I’ll do all the whistling for you.”

“You will? You really will?”

“Sure! I’ll whistle whenever you want!”

Gertrude began whistling while Elena clapped her hands joyfully.

Marina and Bethany sat under the tree’s shadow, looking at the massive palace sprawling before them, surrounded by fields of flowers. Wind gently blowing their hair. Aside from the breeze the only sound was the children playing. Gertrude and Elena hardly paid the maids any attention, and ran into the flower field, laughing and jumping around, calling each other’s names and saying silly things. They were so carefree. In their minds, there was nothing sinister or wrong happening around them. Those happy days of theirs would stretch on forever under the false blue sky and in the carefully tended flower garden.

Marina wished she had the same confidence that they did. Everything felt so fragile.

No matter how well they lied to Norn today everything felt like it was teetering.

They were always close to the edge. Everything they loved and had could be taken.

“Bethany, I do love you.” Marina said.

“As much as you love Leda?” Bethany said. She had on a mischievous grin.

“Don’t do that, it’s really not funny.”

“What if I said I loved you more than Leda?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

Bethany shrugged. “Hardly matters anyway. You’re still a good lay even if you hated me.”

Marina sighed. But she felt a little less burdened after a bit of teasing. Leda Lettiere’s head maid was really something else– she had to be as much a woman as her Lady to keep up with her, after all. She had grown to really admire her, to desire her, to love her. She and Leda meant the world to Marina.

That little storm of laughter they were looking after finally wound its way back up the hill.

Gertrude sat down under the tree near Marina, catching her breath with a big smile.

Close behind her, Elena walked up, face flushed, hiding something behind her arms.

“What do you have there?” Bethany asked the little princess in a playful tone.

Smiling, Elena unveiled a crown of flowers, and set them playfully on Gertrude’s head.

“It’s for Gertrude! She’s my prince now, just like how I am a princess!” She declared.

Gertrude squirmed a little bit, clearly embarrassed by the younger girl’s effusive affection.

It was such a beautiful sight. Marina could not help but liven up.

“You hear that, kid?” Marina said, finally speaking up, giving Gertrude a mischevious little look. “You’re her prince! You need to take care of her, okay? You gotta make her smile from now on, you hear?”

In response, Gertrude rubbed her hands together, but smiled gently.

“I will.” She said.

She looked down at the grass, cheeks turning a little red.

“I will. I love her a lot.” She whispered.

As if only for Marina to hear and not for Elena or for Bethany.

Marina laid a hand on Gertrude’s head, stroking her short hair.

“I know you’ll make her happy, kid.” She said. In her heart, truly wanting to believe it.


It felt like the ocean had never been darker.

Why? Why do I always come up short? Why do I always fuck everything up?

In front of her, the enemy Diver stood as an insurmountable obstacle.

This knight-armor clad pilot had completely dismantled Marina McKennedy.

Looming powerfully in the sea before her, shield in one arm, assault rifle in the other.

In the cockpit every red flashing warning that could do so pulsed and throbbed in her face.

Fuck. Fuck. Some fucking hero I am! I can’t do anything but fail her, over and over!

The S.E.A.L.’s chest was pitted with dozens of shallow detonations, one of the shoulders was nearly destroyed, the jet anchor’s inner workings spilled out like entrails. Some of the hip armor was gone, exposing a leg joint, and one of the leg verniers on the opposite side had blown. One of the arms had a broken extension rod so she could barely flex it anymore. She had maybe 70% of her normal thrust if she blasted with her remaining verniers every time she tried to move from now on. Meanwhile that colossus in front of her was unblemished, its pilot clearly far more experienced than Marina, practically dancing around her while taking initiative to attack wherever they pleased with a superior machine.

Only one thing had saved her– the pilot wanted to get away.

They were desperate to attack the Brigand. Marina was just a waste of time for them.

And all Marina could do was stand in their way, take a lump, and stand in the way again.

She was buying time but for what? Nobody else was backing her up.

On the communications all she heard was a bunch of inaudible trash. She was alone.

Alone with her ghosts, the burden of her failures, and the reaper that had come for her.

Her vibro-axe was nearly broken in half from blocking the enemy’s sword.

She had reloaded her rifle in the last exchange, but her aim was garbage.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Die, she thought. I am going to die here. I was never made to be a soldier.

All of the things she endured that did not kill her.

For all of the people that she had loved who were no longer with her.

And now, she was going to be killed here at her lowest point.

No, forget about me, damn it.

Marina cracked a grin, her own grim reflection on one of the darker screens.

All of this sorrow and frustration she felt was the result of one thing.

Unlike when she called herself Sam, she now had something worth fighting for.

More than the vapid ideas of Republic “democracy” or the paycheck to make rent with.

She could not surrender to this enemy. She could not brush off this defeat.

She had too much to lose.

“What’s there to feel sorry for? I never had any expectation of living a life worth feeling sorry for. Right now, nobody would mourn me– but we’ve all given up so much for that little girl with the purple hair. Even if she doesn’t mourn me or doesn’t care. She’s a victim of all this too, but she’s helpless to do anything about it. That’s just– that’s always stuck in my fucking craw. Elena deserves better!”

Smiling to herself, pumping herself up (lying to herself).

Her grip tightened on the sticks. She was still standing between that pilot and the Brigand.

That pilot would charge again, as they had been doing.

They knew that they were wearing Marina down while minimizing their own damage.

All of this could be Marina’s advantage. After all– she was a great liar, wasn’t she?

And as bad as she was at tactics, she still knew deception was important on the battlefield.

She quickly switched weapons between the S.E.A.L.’s hands.

Axe to the good arm —

Rifle to the damaged arm–

If I’m right, this might get her to draw her sword–

Marina could not lift her rifle arm, so she used the rifle camera to align herself with the enemy, an obvious movement to shoot. Before she could pull the trigger, that mecha came hurtling toward her.

Rather than shoot, however, Marina charged as well, brandishing her vibroaxe to retaliate.

Trying to throw her one good shoulder forward.

They were not far apart, and they cut the distance to each other within seconds. Rather than its powerful grenades or rifles, the enemy lifted its vibrosword to finish her, conserving its precious ammunition — it did everything to spare its resources for the Brigand while being rid of a pest barring its way.

I got you, you son of a bitch.

That blade rose and fell with a flash and Marina’s vibroaxe clashed with it.

Already damaged, Marina’s vibroaxe practically snapped like a twig.

Holding its shield in front of itself, the enemy suit launched a vicious overhead slash that sundered her axe from head to handle and crashed into her functioning shoulder. Slicing through layers of metal armor, power routing cables and gear, the water system for the backpack– and entombing itself in the steel.

Her enemy’s sword did not go through one end of her mecha and out the other.

Chopping vertically through her axe into the thick tangle of systems within her armor, it became stuck.

She could pull it out but, but–

For a split second, Marina had the enemy suit where she wanted it!

Without moving her arm, Marina held down the trigger for her rifle.

At point blank range 37 mm explosive shells crashed one another after into the shield.

Her cockpit shook from the repeated close blasts.

Under a dozen pressure bubbles and shockwaves the shield pitted, buckled, and shattered.

With a panic, the enemy thrust back with everything it had, absorbing stray shots to its chest once its shield split into pieces, pulling out its sword and clumsily retreating several meters away.

Debris and gases and water vapor obscured the two enemies from each other momentarily.

Marina hovered on one side of the cloud, completely helpless.

Several systems went completely offline. She could not move either arm.

Her backpack thrust was nearly dead. She could only thrust with the legs.

Electrical power was uneven. If she made any more effort her life support might blink out.

She had broken the shield and pushed her enemy back one last time.

One last time– there would be no further resistance. She had nothing.

Without the rush of adrenaline, without another option, without the ability to claw for life.

Everything seemed to come crashing down.

Her hands left the useless controls of her now disabled machine.

Madison, Ratha Flow, Schwerin, Heitzing, Vogelheim–

Her life flashed before her eyes. She had seen so much, felt so much–

Pain,

Love,

Elation,

Despair,

Had her journey been for nothing? Had she finally failed all those people she loved and lost?

She raised her hands to her face and felt compelled to cry out. “Elena,” Marina said, hoping and praying that it might reach the Brigand somehow. “Please survive this and find your own strength. That’s what your mother would have wanted– and–” she sighed, tearing up. “Bethany, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t do anything. I love you so much Bethany. After everything you gave up– if we meet again this soon, will you spit on me in heaven? Have I really lived a life that was worthy of you and Leda?”

When the gases dispersed enough, Marina could see the enemy mecha across the cloud.

Their rifle unfolded from its stowed position.

Lifting the barrel, the machine took aim at her.

Slight pits from shell impacts and detonations on the breastplate– not enough to stop it.

Had they only wanted the Brigand they could now sweep past her useless machine.

Now, however, they were furious.

To deliver the coup de grace. To finally end Marina’s long, arduous journey.

But she felt no peace. She had lost everyone and left everything unfinished.

In that moment, she prayed, she begged, pleaded dearly for even one more day of life–

“Agent McKennedy! Don’t give up!”

Her once useless communicator suddenly sounded with a crisp, clear voice.

Rather than shoot, the enemy dashed to the side to avoid the grasp of a pair of jet anchors.

They retracted to the chest of a Diver that shone like a sun underwater.

As if in its presence it was suddenly easier to see through water.

Interposing itself between Marina and the enemy, a golden knight against her silver reaper.

“I’ve only known you for a short time– but you’re still a comrade to me. I don’t want to see anyone who fights bravely for the Brigand lose her life. Please retreat, Agent McKennedy! Let us handle this!”

Marina could not help but smile at the foolish voice of Murati Nakara on the communicator.

You don’t know anything about me– but thanks, you big-hearted commie fool!           

She tried to wipe her tears, but she found herself weeping even more.

Weeping for the life she had again–

Back in Schwerin, she thought she had been blessed with life by a being of moonlight.

And just when she really thought everything was going to end–

Now, that life was protected by a colossus made of the sun.

Broad-shouldered, with strong limbs, clad in bright, perfectly sculpted armor.

Appearing out of nowhere to confront that mysterious enemy.

Those commies, even in their darkest hour, they always came up with something.

Her prayers had been answered.

Even despite everything, Marina McKennedy was still fighting for the light she had found.

“This one’s no joke!” Marina called out, heart soaring. “Give ‘em hell, commies!”

“Acknowledged!”

Her heart lifted–

As she bore witness to nothing short of a miracle.

Like Leda had once said– a glorious mercy.

“Murati Nakara–”

“–Karuniya Maharapratham!”

Two pilots called out over the communicator from the machine.

Both voices finished as one with a roaring determination–

“Arrived at the combat area! SF-014X Helios, ready!”


Previous ~ Next

Bury Your Love At Goryk’s Gorge [8.4]

“Gamer, your risible thighs have once again violated the threshold of my station.”

“Then move your chair farther away! I have less legroom here than you do!”

“A pathetic conspiracy to surreptitiously touch me born of your involuntary celibacy!”

“You’re the one who made your entire identity from trashy novels for pathetic virgins!”

Zachikova could not help but stare at the farce playing out as she entered the bridge. She ignored late-shifters Alexandra Geninov and Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa, who always found some stupid thing to argue about, and instead sat herself down at her station. She checked to make sure the drone was online and not in Geninov’s control– and unfortunately, it was locked in use by Geninov’s station.

Behind her the late shifters shouted themselves hoarse, then began talking in normal voices.

“Bah, so much for nights off! I can’t believe officers still have to work all the time. I want to go back to my room. I’ve almost got motion controls for Leviathan Fury II working in the room terminal.”

“Hmph! You’re welcome to retreat timidly from the darkness if it suits your nature, gamer. I for one, am a child of the night, and I thrive when the clock strikes midnight, and the shadows fall. It is within the curtain of the witching hour that I am able to weave my strongest of magicks.”

“Huh?”

Normal being a strongly relative term.

Despite previously calling each other ‘incels,’ and ‘fujoshis’ and other unendearing terms born of modern network culture, they seemed to have silently forgiven the obscenities, as if it was a ritual clearing of grievances between them. What kind of relationship did these two idiots even have? Zachikova would not even be thinking about this if she did not have to report to them. Even if they had not noticed her walking into the bridge, she ultimately needed Geninov’s station for her plan.

“Ahem.”

Zachikova stood up and loudly cleared her throat; not that it perturbed the night shifters.

“What are you reading tonight anyway? Is it still the Witchdeemer?”

“If you must know, it is indeed. Think you that I would abandon the SaGa partway?”

“Do Pythiria and Tritipha actually fuck in this one?”

“Such vulgar terms are always crossing your lips! Their relationship, I’ll have you know, is quickly approaching a thrilling apex of titillating hurt/comfort escalation in volume three.”

“Which one’s the top? It could go either way from what you told me.”

“Could you two shut up for even one millisecond of your lives?”

Zachikova shouted over them. Her volume surprised even herself.

Both Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa turned their heads and stared.

“Oh, Zachikova, didn’t see you there.” Geninov said. She raised an absentminded hand to the messy bundle of brown hair pinned to the back of her head and twirled a strand around her finger. At her side, Santapena-De La Rosa seemed to doing the same thing with a purple-streaked lock of her blond hair while leering Zachikova’s way. She truly hated to use a gaming metaphor when faced with Geninov’s presence but seeing them both enter the same fidgeting ‘animation’ immediately after being called to attention made Zachikova wonder if ‘the simulation had broken’ right in front of her.

Or maybe those two just spent too much time together.

“Geninov, I’m taking over drone recon from you. I have something I want to test with the drone’s software performance. You can go play games in your room if you want or whatever.” Zachikova said.

“Wouldn’t it be better to run tests in the morning, when we have sonar up?” Geninov said.

Why was this idiot trying to be responsible now?

“No, it’s better now when it’s not in anyone’s way.” Zachikova replied.

Geninov looked at Santapena-De La Rosa as if for an opinion; she shrugged back.

“Well, if you say so.” Geninov said. “I’ll keep an eye on sonar while you do.”

“You really don’t have to.” Zachikova snapped back.

“I don’t want the Captain to say I’ve been slacking off or being irresponsible.”

“It’s really unnecessary.”

Santapena-De La Rosa spoke up, arms crossed.

“Is it such an imposition upon you to allow the gamer to exercise her duties?”

Zachikova nearly threw her hands up. “Why are you backing her up? Ugh, whatever.”

She turned back around and sat at her station with her head in her hands.

Geninov flipped a switch to unlock software control and sent the drone over to Zachikova’s station. She then wandered over to the sonar station as if skirting around an angry animal who may have threatened to bite. She put al-Suhar’s earphones in her ears and stared at the displays on the sonar console, while Zachikova got the drone’s bearings and began preparing for her excursion.

“Geninov,” Zachikova said, trying to rein in her tone. “I’m going to transfer my mind to the drone. Don’t talk to me while I’m doing so. Send a text message to the drone if you must.”

“Um. Got it. I guess.”

She seemed to try to avoid eye contact with Zachikova after that.

Good. Zachikova didn’t need her for anything anymore now.

That pair of milk chocolate and vanilla flavored idiots could go about their business.

She had a mission she needed to complete.

Having failed to contact the Dancer earlier that day, she felt a strong need to try again.

To do that, she would have to control the drone again.

Her antennae adjusted their angle, which was more a physical ritual than anything actually necessary for her work. She felt like it helped her “toggle” the “interface” in her brain that connected her to digital devices. Everything that needed to be done was done with her mind. Within the Brigand, she could connect wirelessly to the ship’s network and from the network access any device in the ship.

Connecting was a difficult action to describe physically. There were people she had met with imaginations vivid enough to generate imagery which they could “see” in their own heads, with their eyes closed or even open. ‘Playing a movie in your mind’ or ‘listening to a song in your mind’ were close metaphors to what Zachikova did. Except in her case, she was executing the logic that allowed one digital device to connect to another, in her mind, and parsing the results.

In laymen’s terms, she could control computers with her brain.

On the Union intranet, anyone in their station room could pull up the news or even watch state television via the network. Zachikova could do the same in her own head. Her brain sent a digital call to the host computer, and it could receive the news page or the government broadcast and interpret that data, using the correct codec to “play” any audio or video, the correct “fonts” to display text, she could parse the stylesheet. A computer had been grafted to her brain, and it did all that computers could do from the comfort of her skull and all of it senses. Zachikova was special in that way.

Kids who got the surgeries and recovered couldn’t just go and do this.

Their instinct would be to remain tethered to their physical bodies. The Union fostered in Hartz sufferers a proclivity toward software and engineering work and would install the digital interfaces on every person who recovered. Even then, most would treat machines as machines, and even if they could connect to them wirelessly, they would operate them from the center of their human body. They would not play movies in their head, they would play them on a screen. Their head just pushed the button. Zachikova’s ability to “become” a machine wasn’t unique, but it was hard-won in practice.

Her skills were not common, and her implants were heavily regulated.

Brain implant surgery had an extravagant mortality rate and required specific parts. 

Zachikova was special — she conceived of herself as a “robot,” a sapient machine.

And she was candid with anyone who asked how it felt to use her “powers” to their utmost.

Dissociating was the first step. Feeling, for a moment, like she was seeing her body in a third person perspective, like she was no longer in it, like she was something apart from it. It was that ability to become separable which took the most practice, because it was not something which her interfaces did for themselves. Her mind wasn’t a machine, her perspective wasn’t inherently mechanical. Having the interface did not allow, by itself, displacement of the senses from the center.

She had to teach herself, psychologically, to detach, to discard her flesh and blood body.

Once she dissociated, there was a sense that she “pushed” away the senses of her body. That “movie” which played in her head of the drone’s cameras, the “sounds” she heard in her mind’s ear of the drone’s hydrophone and sensors, these became primary. No longer confined to the back of the mind but fully dominating the neural pathways that fed stimulus to the brain.

In a sense, it was her physical body that became a dreamlike decoration in her mind palace.

Her mind adjusted to the rules and limitations of a new body fairly quickly. There were a few seconds where she felt quite like she was confined in a box, so heavy and so cold and so stiff, but these moments passed quickly and without panic. Her mind came to understand the “weight” as she input commands for the drone to deploy, the hydrojets to start, the fins to adjust. She felt keenly the feedback from her new limbs and the time it took to manipulate them to motion.

When she set out into the water she felt the pressure around her hull, tight, cold.

There was something pleasurable about it, however, something freeing.

Having a new body with a new set of skills and a new environment. It was exciting!

She cut through the water with alacrity, exploring a world her flesh and blood body could never have. She was not so vulnerable, not confined by the physical constitution she dealt with on a daily basis. Her senses were keener, she was faster, her stride more confident. She was untroubled by breathing and the inelegant sliding of muscles and joints. She was a fusiform machine without a floor and with hardly a ceiling to her activities, and before her lay only the truly limitless horizon of the sea.

To her human eyes, the world around her would be cut off by the wall formed by the water itself and the biomass called “marine snow.” She would have been barely able to see a few dozen meters ahead of her own nose. With the supercomputer’s predictive ability, using sound, laser, and thermal data, her vision was instead a near-perfect picture of the surroundings. Below her, rising and falling, was the topography of the ocean floor. Above and around, the water column, dark and deep blue and green.

Small details like scuttling crabs, bubbling geysers, ghostly skeleton coral that thrived near vents far away from the sun, benthic creatures playing about a massive carcass. Perfect mechanical senses helped her navigate and experience the beauty of the ocean in a way her human body never could have.

Her tether to the brigand was kilometers worth of fiber optic cable, her lifeline.

So stretching this umbilical cord, she dashed behind the Brigand, farther and farther.

Searching with all of her senses for a familiar biological noise pattern.

Until she found the noise. Her unique song across the featureless depths of Sverland.

I have to try to communicate with her.

Zachikova had some ideas. Light patterns, sounds, movements; mimicking its behaviors.

When she had gotten close to the Dancer she had noticed colors around it. Feeling that this was perhaps some kind of bioluminescent display, she wrote a program to create a light pattern using various tools available to the drone, like the floodlights, UV and bluelight effectors, status LEDs, flares, and beacons. She also extracted the sounds the creature made during her encounters with it and mapped them to another program, creating a series of “calls” she could perform.

I don’t know if she’ll understand– or even the content of what I’m saying to her.

But I have to try. I think coupled with my peaceful approach, she’ll respond to it.

At least, hopefully, she would understand it as an attempt to broach peaceful contact.

An attempt to expiate for the “wrong thing” she felt she had done to scare it.

(Perhaps an attempt to receive a touch for which she had grown desperate.)

Zachikova descended as close to the seafloor as she could, decelerating to reduce noise and weaving slowly between the rocks as the pulse of the Dancer came closer and closer. When she was about a hundred meters away, the prediction algorithm finally showed her the figure of the Dancer swimming cheerfully overhead, freely weaving lines of bubbles through the liquid sky.

Please work.

With the same degree of effort as “thinking” to breathe or “thinking” to move a muscle Zachikova ran the script she had written and loaded into her station. Through the drone’s audio equipment, normally used for sonar pings or alarm noises, the melodious call of the Dancer played, once audible only through the sonar station hydrophone. Zachikova could not describe the sound in naturalistic or humanistic terms, but the gentle slope of the waveform it generated gave her a strange comfort.

Please respond!

There was no noticeable difference in the movement of the Dancer, so Zachikova lifted off from behind the rocks and rose gently, as slowly as she could move and still exceed the creature’s own pace. In addition to playing the call, she ran the software she had coded to control the light display. In front of the drone there were UV and bluelight effectors, like flashlights for scientific purposes, and along the spine of the drone there were LEDs which began to glow in patterns. There were floodlights on the rear and on the front, but Zachikova only lit the rear floodlights, and angled them such that the drone appeared to be leaving brilliant light in its triumphant wake as it climbed the water table.

Please listen to me! Please look at me!

Why was she feeling so strongly? But she couldn’t help it! Her heart was breaking!

I’m sorry! Please don’t hate me!

I don’t hate you!

Barely a dozen meters separated Zachikova from the soft, pale form of the Dancer, wrapped as if in a gorgeous shawl and skirt of shimmering, trailing color, predominantly bright blue as the sky that had been denied to humanity. With a burst of speed, the creature dove toward Zachikova, and touched the front of her body to the front of the drone, nose to nose, a soft, playful little hit.

Zachikova was rendered speechless. She felt a tingling all across herself.

That sensation of touch, so warm, so soft– it was fleshy, but she didn’t hate it. In fact that affection made her think something she never thought she would. It felt like for the first time ever, a flesh and blood body, with its pliability, softness, smoothness, attracted Zachikova the most. She wished, as she tried to return the Dancer’s physical affection, that her body, the flesh, and blood body she now recognized as hers, could be out in the water with the creature, could touch it.

That touch was perfect– it made her body feel like it was perfect.

I wish I could tell her to follow me.

I will follow you.

Zachikova must have been imagining things. She thought that she kept hearing a voice speaking back to her, but it was speaking back to her in the voice associated with her flesh and blood body, and of course regardless of its provenance, the Dancer had no way to generate voice, no understanding of speech. It must have been something with the connection, or even just stress.

She had been so stressed, but now, she felt an unbridled joy, a sense of euphoria.

It was such an odd feeling, but she did not resist it.

For half her life, she had simply accepted her lot. She was sick, broken, in her mind, not truly human. She was going to die. And when she survived, having already given up on living, she treated herself like the machine she felt she had become. She sought challenges, occupations, to be fully used, to be fully utilized, maximized and challenged. Those moments amused her, engaged her mind.

Amusement, engagement; but perhaps not joy. Perhaps not actual fulfillment.

In the middle of this desolate ocean, alone with this beautiful creature– She felt captivated, her soul felt healed. She felt like she was seeing life as she never had. A creature so beautiful and so free, without obligations, danced before her eyes, danced only for her, returned to her willingly.

Touch; was it really so sublime? When was the last time her body felt so warm, so loved?

Zachikova’s world of metal corridors had become full of colors.

Colors that captivated her mind. Colors challenging her understanding like never before.

Giving herself onto an insane thought–

What is she? Is she really just a leviathan?

Hmm. Maybe.

No, they could not possibly be speaking.

Zachikova wanted to sigh deeply.

She started to feel a little ridiculous, but she truly, really was so happy to see the Dancer again and to know that she was okay, that she was playing with the drone and didn’t run away. She was still curious and still affectionate toward the false metal fish that Zachikova wore as a body. Zachikova didn’t want to hate herself for those feelings. Having settled her anxieties, she let herself enjoy the moment for a while, but ultimately felt she needed to try to rein in the hysterics of the past few days.

Before they brought her embarrassment in front of her crew.

So she began following the fiber-optic cable back to the Brigand.

And trying not to be too surprised or too assured by the fact that the Dancer was following.

Following the drone with joyous, acrobatic maneuvers, all the way, to Goryk’s Gorge.


Next morning.

“Umm. Huh. Well. That’s interesting.”

Standing in front of the captain’s chair, Braya Zachikova held up a portable terminal that was playing a video for Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya to watch. A large fish-like Leviathan, its body mainly white but beautifully streaked with red, like a large koi fish, pirouetted around the drone capturing the video, before suddenly unhinging its jaw to enormous degrees. Seamlessly, it stopped being cute and began to clumsily filter-feed with its enormous maw through the marine snow, as if it had utterly forgotten what it was previously doing. While it fed, its otherworldly lilac eyes assumed what Ulyana anthropomorphized as “a very stupid-looking expression,” though she did not say this thought aloud.

“It’s a brilliant display of animal evolution, isn’t it?” Zachikova said.

Standing next to Zachikova, Karuniya Maharapratham was part of the demonstration as well. Seated close on the captain’s right was Commissar Aaliyah Bashara, her cat-like tail swaying gently as she watched the video with her usual look of stern focus on her face. Together they were reviewing footage of the creature, which had some of the crew unnerved as it began following the ship.

“Zachikova and I discovered it while calibrating the drone.” Karuniya said. “We saw it was harmless and made it a subject of study so nobody here would shoot it down. Honestly, I know it’s big enough to show up in the bearing monitors, so it has people worried, but it’s really docile. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s my duty as a scientist to get as much data on it as possible.”

Zachikova repeatedly pointed her finger on the display as if to say, “look at it, isn’t it neat?”

Ulyana was looking. It did seem harmless, but while feeding, not terribly majestic.

“Fine, I’ve got more important things to worry about. Just keep an eye on it, Zachikova.”

“Will do!” Zachikova said. Did she sound excited? Was Ulyana just imagining things?

“It might even come in handy.” Aaliyah said. “You can pass the spy drone off as a biological being more easily if there’s another, louder biological being there to hump it and draw attention away from enemy sonars. If it’s playing with the drone while you patrol, I say just let it do so.”

“Colorful imagery there.” Ulyana said. She sighed.

“If anyone has any questions, you can refer them to me.” Karuniya said.

Waving a hand, she quickly took her leave. She wasn’t usually a fixture in the Bridge.

Ulyana looked away from her and at Zachikova specifically, causing her antennae to raise.

“I feel I’ve been working you too hard since we escaped the Iron Lady. You deserve a break, Zachikova. You’ve been out on that drone so often, I can decisively say we’re not being followed right now.” the captain finally said. Zachikova seemed to go from visibly tense to softening and slacking, the expression on her face never once changing but her anxiety visible in her grip on the portable. Ulyana wondered briefly about her body language but decided not to comment on it. “No more night shifts until further notice. We’ll find someone else to cover for Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa.”

“Umm. Thank you ma’am.” Zachikova said. Her voice betrayed absolutely no emotion.

“Ma’am, the topography shifts drastically up ahead. I’m getting imaging up; we’re here.”

Fatima al-Suhar spoke up from the sonar section and pointed a finger forwards. 

Ulyana turned to face the bridge main monitor and practically gasped.

Soon the landscape of Goryk’s Gorge appeared in its vast, overwhelming magnitude.

The Brigand had been traveling about 100 meters above the seafloor, which had put them between 900 and 1000 meters deep. Now they were practically flying, as the ground descended dramatically, a steep slope about 500 meters down that evened out into a semi-circular clearing that then dropped even farther and more dramatically down the jagged, rocky edge of a canyon.

Goryk’s Gorge itself was a vast fissure in the rocky seafloor, stretched long as the eyes could see and perhaps one kilometer wide and thousands deep, as enormous as the vast Khaybar mountain range that it had cut from the rest of Sverland. The Gorge was a yawning abyss, thick with biomass that the predictive algorithm detected and rendered as essentially a roiling cloud behind which it was impossible to “see,” blocking the soundwaves, LADAR, thermals and other data sources for their imagers.

At the very edge of this precipitous hell-maw there was a small, squat station, a disc-shaped circular habitat standing on many thick legs for support. This was the smallest possible kind of station design, which was neither rested atop nor built around a Core Pylon. Without this uniquely powerful kind of reactor, the station was instead likely run with a ship’s reactor core, or a few depending on the grade of the engines. Beneath the habitat there was probably a wet berth for one or two large ships at a time, at most. Serrano supported a million lives and was commensurately vast enough to hold an entire city; a station like this could support only hundreds of lives in much tighter confines.

Nobody lived on stations like this. They were always built for a specific task.

“Our maps completely undersold this place.” Aaliyah said, sounding as shocked as Ulyana.

“Any mechanical activity detected?” Ulyana asked suddenly.

“Negative. I’m only getting biologics.” Fatima replied. “If there’s anything docked down there, it’s fairly dormant, or it has sound stealth decades ahead of ours. I think it’s safe for now.”

Ulyana sighed. “I don’t feel safe. Semyonova, what is the status of the Diver team?”

“We have Khadija al-Shajara and Valya Lebedova awaiting orders.” Semyonova replied.

The Captain could hardly believe what she heard. “Really? Only those two?”

Semyonova nodded, briefly glancing at her console for incoming details. “Sameera Al-Shahouh and Murati Nakara have doctor’s orders not to pilot; Sameera for a week and Murati for potentially several. Murati claims she heals fast, but still– anyway, Sonya Shalikova was made the squad leader and was assigned the Cheka, but it had a surprise battery issue, so she isn’t ready. Dominika Rybolovskaya is in the medbay right now, I’m not sure why. Only Khadija and Valya are ready to deploy.”

“If Rybolovskaya isn’t injured have her sort herself out quickly.” Ulyana said. She turned to the right side of the Bridge. “Geninov, load a torpedo just in case, and Santapena-De La Rosa, prime the guns. We need everyone on alert for a potential ambush, I want rapid responses here.”

Ulyana was cautious for a reason. She had been born in the Empire, so she knew.

She assumed from Maryam’s story that this outpost was set up by Katarran mercenaries. This “Foundation” she was talking about was likely a Katarran warband. Maryam had good reason not to say that up front, but it could be inferred. Katarrans in the Empire didn’t have a lot of choices.

And growing up in the Empire, Ulyana knew all kinds of stories about Katarrans.

Even with top tier military training and equipment, elite Union soldiers still had something to fear from warbands. Katarran bandits and mercenaries had something that a lot of armies in this world did not — a vast amount of realistic and practical combat experience. Palatinate and Vekan soldiers had infrequent battles with the Republic or the Empire of Hanwa to look back on, but Katarrans were always fighting, at home or abroad, every month, every year. Famous for their ferocity, it was their resourcefulness and adaptability that made Katarrans actually dangerous. Many mercenary warbands learned to thrive on irregular logistics for fuel, food, and ammunition, and with poor equipment repair.

A professional might see an outpost like this and think nothing of it, but Ulyana knew that Katarrans could make do with this and even use the fact you would overlook it against you.

Compared to a battle-hardened Katarran warband, the Brigand were rank amateurs.

Not only that, but Katarrans were known for the sort of warfare the Brigand was supposed to perform but had so far proven dismal at executing — asymmetrical guerilla fighting. Ambushes, hacking, mine warfare, stealth attacks, attrition, running warfare, Katarrans practically invented the book of dirty tricks from which they famously drew to use “every dirty trick in the book.” They could build hideouts from seemingly nothing and launch raids with fewer weapons and numbers that succeeded in catching larger forces off-guard, and then brought that legendary Katarran ferocity to bear in full.

Marina had blithely said she would always take dealing with Katarrans over Lichtenberg.

She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about!

“Captain!”

Almost soon as Semyonova had turned back to her station to contact Rybolovskaya, she turned over her shoulder again on her seat to address the Captain anew. Her soft face had an expression Ulyana had come to associate with something eventful, lips quivering, eyes wide. “C-C-Captain, we received an acoustic message all of a sudden. It’s a laser connection request!” She said. “It’s from that station below us! They apparently have a wired laser relay post, atop the slope we just passed.”

Overlaid on the visual of Goryk’s Gorge, Semyonova’s map showed the apparent location of the laser relay post; they had just passed it minutes ago. They had seen nothing. It simply was not rendered on the visual. It must have been hidden as a rock– fine details like that were tough to render and detect. They were limited in how much they could blast an area with sonar pulses without drawing too much attention. Setting up a hidden communications relay like this was quite ingenious.

“Zachikova, we’ll be accepting the request. Watch the network closely.” Ulyana said.

Returning to her station, Zachikova confidently nodded her acknowledgment.

“Semyonova, send them to my screen when they’re ready.” Ulyana said.

Semyonova saluted stiffly, clearly quite nervous. “Y-Yes Captain!”

At her side, Fatima gave Semyonova a pat on the shoulder to comfort her.

“Time to flex that silver tongue, Captain.” Aaliyah said, closely at Ulyana’s side.

Ulyana took a deep breath, readying herself for whoever would appear on the terminal screen attached to the captain’s chair. Semyonova exchanged a few acoustic messages with the mysterious contact before connecting them, and then sent the video to Ulyana’s screen. She expected a Katarran, maybe with blue skin, odd colored eyes and a few fins in their hair– and she was surprised not to find one.

“Are we connected? Greetings to the fine cargo vessel. I am quite fortunate to reach you.”

On the monitor, the crisp, clear image of a woman appeared on the screen. Perhaps it was the slimness of her shoulders and the softness of her facial features, but she seemed young to Ulyana, certainly younger than herself. Her eyes were her most prominent feature, they were quite extraordinary, crystal blue and gold. When the connection was most stable and video fidelity was at its best, for a few seconds Ulyana could see digits and tiny text scrolling over those incredible eyes which belied that they were cybernetic implants. She did not have the antennae, so it was not part of a Hartz treatment package. She must have either gotten those implants herself, or they were installed by her employer.

Her skin was fair, but her hair was light blue as the color of her eyes, wavy and cut short at the level of her jaw, but voluminous and a bit messy. One streak of white would have seemed like a sign of aging on an average person, but it was likely bleached, the same as the rest of the hair was likely dyed. Her facial expression was blank, even when speaking she seemed neither to smile nor hold any scorn, and her tone of voice was so even and controlled, perfectly pitched, it seemed rehearsed.

Not only that, but the texture of her white coat and shirt– were those biological materials?

Who was this character? How did they end up in this dismal place?

“Greetings.” Ulyana said. Trying not to betray any outward signs of her emotions to her counterpart. “I’m Ulyana Korabiskaya, captain of this ship, the Pandora’s Box. We are hauling cargo for Treasure Box Transports. I’m going to need to get to know you a little better, ma’am, and quickly.”

Her counterpart nodded her head in acknowledgment. “I am Doctor Euphemia Röntgen. I work as a materials analyst for an engineering firm, ‘Solarflare LLC.’ We develop equipment for hazardous environment exploration. My team was running a trial in Goryk’s Gorge when we had a critical equipment failure and took refuge in this small station. We could use any help you can provide.”

The Brigand would have to get nearer to the station to confirm some of these details.

One thing was certain, this woman was not a Katarran. She could, perhaps, be a captive used by Katarrans for a ruse, but it seemed doubtful. She was too calm for a civilian who was in danger and if she harbored ill intentions, her acting was supernaturally good. Ulyana decided to play along for now. Her story of having run into equipment trouble near an abyssal gorge was not implausible.

As if she realized she needed proof of what she was saying, Doctor Röntgen held up an ID card.

It had her picture, in a blue shirt and waistcoat, and was a security card for Solarflare LLC.

They had quite an avant-garde looking logo of a sunburst, and the card itself was made of a reflective material that seemed to have a code imprinted on the foil. It would have been a lot of effort for a fake. So it did appear that this woman worked for Solarflare LLC — and that she understood her situation enough to try to dispel Ulyana’s concerns. Ulyana allowed herself to feel more comfortable.

“Thank you, Doctor. What’s your story? How many people do you have down there?”

“Three personnel counting me, uninjured.” Euphemia said.

That was shockingly low. Ulyana was immediately suspicious again.

For a lie, it was a pretty stupid one to tell.

“Doctor, I must have misheard you. Did you mean to say thirty? I’d expect you would need at least thirty personnel to sail to a place like this.” Ulyana said, scrutinizing the doctor’s response.

Even the smallest type of blue water naval vessel had around ten officers and twenty-five to forty sailors. At the minimum, a Cutter could run with five officers sharing the duties of ship communications, navigation, weapons, leadership and detection and electronic warfare, and about a dozen exhausted sailors, enough to run maintenance, tend to the reactor and electrical systems, respond to repair emergencies, and handle duties such as rations, cleaning, rearming the internal magazines of the torpedo and shell weapons, and so on. You would have several duties assigned to a single man, and it would be a nightmarish task to run like that for any given amount of time, but you could.

Larger crews could perform duties more efficiently in rotations, making sure there were always personnel assigned to any given duty at any given time of the day who were fresh, rested, aware and ready. Larger vessels needed crews of hundreds of people, however, not just for rotations but to be able to physically cover the large amount of machinery that needed to be inspected and maintained. This was reflected in the total crew numbers for blue water vessels, whether commercial or naval in scope.

Blue water being the key term. Vessels that had endurance at sea, far away from stations, needed these large complements of professional crew in order to sail. Personal vessels could be run much leaner, but they would have never made it this far from a major station. To explore a place like Goryk’s Gorge that was foul with biomass and far off the beaten path, you would absolutely needed at least a Cutter for the journey. You would need a real reactor for power, not a battery, and you would need enough space for supplies. You would need redundancy in personnel in case of emergencies.

Three people? It was not possible. It had to be a clumsy lie or a joke.

Doctor Röntgen looked like she meant every word, however.

That expression of hers had not changed. She was speaking with perfect confidence.

 “Three people, me, an engineer colleague and one security professional.”

“How did you pull off that miracle, doc?”

Despite Ulyana’s pressuring her, the good doctor continued speaking without affect. “We were testing a semi-automated ship called an L-CEV, the Lightly-Crewed Exploration Vessel. We wanted to explore the viability of studying abyssal zones with such a ship, to limit the personnel needed.”

Though it was a somewhat farfetched detail, it did fit with her description of what Solarflare LLC did. Certainly, more hostile environment exploration would be waged if less lives could be put on the line. Ulyana found that goal to be quite a fool’s errand, however. Even if you could run the systems that lean, to carry out any maintenance on a ship large enough to have a real reactor would have been impossible with only three human bodies. Physically, you would still need at least a dozen.

And to run that much maintenance you would need bodies, not simply computer routines.

Companies in the Empire spent money far too loosely.

This L-CEV must have been an incredible ship indeed to fulfill this insane purpose.

“So what happened to this engineering marvel you described to me?” Ulyana said.

Doctor Röntgen treated this request with the same stoic professionalism as before. “We had a water system failure due to the red biomass concentrations in the Goryk Abyss. Thankfully, this station was in good enough condition to host us and we got our ailing ship into port here. We transferred supplies from the damaged ship to this station and then destroyed the ship to protect Solarflare’s intellectual property. If you would dock below the station, you’ll be able to find the wreck in plain sight.”

A poor invitation; even a drunk Ulyana wouldn’t accept that as pretext to be taken home.

Let alone lead her entire crew down there without further information.

“No offense Doctor, but we didn’t even know this station would be here. And I have no idea how you could have stumbled upon it — seems like too much serendipity. I have no plans to go near you until we have definitively sorted out what this station is for and what your situation really is.”

Ulyana wanted to test what her reaction would be.

For the first time in the conversation, Doctor Röntgen put on a small smile.

She began to explain in a calm, matter-of-fact voice– almost like a teacher.

“Very well, I’ll assuage your fears. This outpost has a colorful history. It was set up by Katarran mercenaries, that’s how our contractor knew of its existence, but even Katarrans can’t operate so freely without a certain degree of consent from the authorities. It’s like any criminal organization, Captain. From the way you speak, I know you are a learned woman, to whom I can speak to as a peer. Once upon a time, this outpost was used by a certain Admiral Gottwald to run supplies and weapons that were skimmed off the allotments for the Southern Border Fleet. They moved to passing Katarran vessels, or even to the pirates at Khaybar. This station was a link in a long chain of traded favors and ill-gotten gains of all sorts, that enriched corrupt Imbrian men and kept their hired guns afloat and killing.”

Admiral Gottwald was the Commander of the Southern Border Fleet.

He had been killed in Thassal but– that didn’t really matter.

Doctor Röntgen was being candid and Ulyana felt she was telling the actual truth of things.

If she knew so much mercenary history, the tone of her request began to make more sense.

“There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to take you where you need to go.” Ulyana said.

“I understand completely.” Doctor Röntgen said. “You said ‘Treasure Box Transports’ correct? I can assure you nobody is going to intercept this transmission. We can be honest here, Captain Korabiskaya. I know you are a mercenary company and I’m not unfamiliar with hiring mercenaries. My lips will be sealed as to everything I learn about your operation, if you’ll ferry me to wherever your cargo is going. Any station will do. I’ll find my way from there. Of course, Solarflare LLC will pay handsomely.”

“I’m flattered that you found me so eloquent, but I never said we were mercenaries.”

“Hmm, did I misread the situation? ‘Transport company’ is a common euphemism.”

Ulyana felt somewhat mortified and tried to hide her surprise. Hadn’t this come up once before?

Gertrude Lichtenberg’s voice reverberated in Ulyana’s head at that moment.

“Listen, mercenary, I’m neither fooled nor impressed with your little cover story. We all know what you mean by transport company.” Lichtenberg had said this when confronting Ulyana.

In that instant Ulyana wished she could clap her hands over her face and never let go.

To someone from the Union, the phrase ‘transport company’ made all the sense in the world!

And yet in this twisted polity, ‘transport company’ was code for mercenaries?

That was what all their carefully falsified documents said, and they couldn’t change it all now.

Every station they docked in, they would be doing so under a euphemism.

Sighing inside, Ulyana put on her best mercenary voice, because they were mercenaries!

“I will consider working for you if Solarflare LLC can pay in-kind.” She said. “Services and supplies. We can discuss the specifics; but in this new era, I can’t feed my people Mark bills, Doctor. Is that acceptable? I truly don’t want to leave you down there, but I have to look out for my crew.”

We have enough troublesome passengers.

That was her first thought. Imperial money was also pretty useless to her in the long run.

However, allies were an important part of their mission.

And the key to everything would be logistics. They had to be able to resupply in the hardest possible times. If this L-CEV ship of Röntgen’s was real, Solarflare could be a useful partner. A company with manufacturing muscle, needed to have a strong and varied supply chain, and judging by the good Doctor’s clothing and cybernetic implants, Solarflare LLC was loaded. They had also dealt with mercenaries before, so they probably knew how to be discrete and covert.

Such an entity could be a very useful ally, over and under the table.

Based on Doctor Röntgen’s expression, it looked like she agreed.

“You’re very astute. I’m glad to be talking to a professional.”

“So you can pay our professional rates then?”

“Of course. I look forward to a long, fruitful relationship between our companies.”

She had an uncanny ability to read people. Ulyana almost felt unnerved by it.

Doctor Euphemia Röntgen– this lady was more than just some white coated nerd.

Regardless, they had a deal. If it panned out, it might just save their asses one day.

“We’ll need to dock for repairs at the outpost. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”

“I’m in no hurry. In fact, as a sign of our cooperation, we’ll help with what we can.”

Doctor Röntgen gave Ulyana her biggest smile yet, before the two agreed to end the call.

The Captain of the now-mercenary ship Brigand sighed her deepest, weariest sigh yet.


In the middle of the empty ocean wastes of central Sverland a shimmering vessel entered suddenly into view, approaching prow forward. Plates of armor which had once rippled like disturbed ocean water began to turn white instead, revealing a sleek pointed fore that tapered out from a curved, bulbous hull. It had approached silently, gliding across the water using a pair of strange rectangular engines set below the hull and around a very squat conning tower. It was not an ordinary ship design.

This was a Columbus-class cruiser, a mainstay of the Sunlight Foundation.

These ships could be so stealthy that regular military patrols simply would not see them in the water. It would take a deliberate sonar pulse to detect the mass of the object. And its specific design, the materials from which it was made, and the special equipment carried aboard, was meant to give the sonar operator launching the pulse some trouble telling what exactly the object was. It would not identify as any class of ship on any standard Imperial databank, and depending on the approach angle could be mistaken for a creature or written off as a glitch in the sensor returns. While it was not a perfect disguise, combined with a circuitous route and a swift response to detection, it made them tough for anyone to catch.

Certainly, the crew of the Antenora had not seen it coming.

They knew they were going to be resupplied before they went north to hunt Gertrude’s phantom mercenaries. However, the nature of the resupply operation had taken them by surprise.

“Scary, scary, scary.”

Norn von Fueller laughed. On the main screen of the bridge, she watched the ship appear.

Always, the Sunlight Foundation scurried in the shadows while longing for the sun.

“Sunlight Foundation Columbus-class identified. Requesting shuttle for cargo delivery.”

One of Norn’s bridge drones spoke up. The Praetorian nodded her head and acknowledged.

“Ask them if one of the rivers is aboard.” Norn said.  

The query was sent, and a reply came quickly. “Negative, milord. Only lab assistants.”

“Boring!”

Lab Assistants had barely any individuality worth speaking about.

Norn had hoped to poke one of the Rivers for information about the organization’s status.

Rivers were the flunkies they recruited rather than created. They were privy to real information.

Yangtze would not send an Immortal on an errand like this, but at least an inductee!

Clearly, she was getting too comfortable working with Norn. To send a ship full of lab assistants meant she expected nothing to go amiss. Norn felt she had to think of a way to send a message to that arrogant sociopath Yangtze, that not everything would be going her way in the future.

Her rumination was interrupted by its most frequent interrupter–

“Looks like you’ll have to settle for Potomac then, poor you.”

Adelheid van Mueller punctuated her speech with a cutesy shrug of her shoulders.

Seated beside Norn, her lover was a permanent fixture on the bridge.

While she was just trying to be a smartass, Norn had to admit she had a point!

“You’re not wrong. I’ll go make sure she’s earning her keep. Hold down the fort.”

“What if they try something while you aren’t here?”

“I trust you to make grown-up decisions.”

Sighing, Adelheid half-heartedly saluted. She leaned back on her chair as Norn departed.

The Antenora’s hangar had never been so full as it was then, at least not in recent memory. Norn finally had a full complement of Divers. The Jagdkaiser on its special gantry found itself in the company of a Jagd and a Volkannon brought aboard by Samoylovych, as well as the fancy Grenadier contributed by Gertrude and von Castille. Behind the gantries and the deployment chutes, they had launched the Antenora’s shuttle to pick up the cargo from the Columbus class and transfer it.

Norn found Gertrude and Sieglinde von Castille loitering around the hangar as well, and she waved at the two of them, wearing a broad, self-satisfied grin to meet their sullen expressions. They were not the ones who interested her whatsoever at that moment though. Instead, she made for Potomac, who was standing around in front of the grey steel shutter that had closed over the shuttle’s moonpool. She must have been awaiting for the cargo; Norn had ordered her to get more Jagdkaiser parts.

“So, what’s the haul? Are we finally getting the parts for the Options?” Norn asked.

Potomac looked surprised to see her. “Uh, well, no, actually!” She said.

“You’re being funny, right? You’re telling me a joke?” The Praetorian’s tone darkened.

Potomac crossed her arms and avoided meeting Norn’s eyes, shifting her feet nervously.

If she thought this body language would better her situation, she was sorely mistaken.

“No, Yangtze is not sending us the Option parts. She’s actually doing us one better.”

“Explain quickly before I fold your spine for not doing what I instructed you to.”

Norn’s eyes narrowed, her brows drew closer together. She had told this bitch–

“I asked her for the parts you wanted! It’s not like I have control of that woman! She actually sent us parts for a brand new version of the Jagdkaiser and a Magellan for you! And spare parts for both! We’re making off like bandits here, so you don’t have to be mad at me!” Potomac cried out.

For anyone else this may have sounded like incredible news, but Norn knew quite well that just having a preponderance of equipment lying around didn’t improve the effectiveness of a unit. Giving them a new Jagdkaiser was not entirely unexpected, but it was inconvenient since it needed a special gantry and they only had one. They would have to tear down the old one and set up the new one, and such a messy project would have to wait until they were docked somewhere safe and protected.

Furthermore, she also knew that Yangtze of the Sunlight Foundation was not running a charity. Sending a Magellan suit for Norn’s use meant Yangtze wanted her to do something with it. She would have to prioritize getting that thing put together when the shuttle returned with the crates.

“What does she want?” Norn asked. “And when were you going to tell me?”

She took a threatening step into Potomac’s space, forcing the latter to step back.

Potomac held her hands up in defense. “I didn’t think it would be a problem! We’re already heading where she wants us, so I was just going to ask you then and avoid making it an issue–”

“You were going to lie to me? Potomac, you dense bitch, do you want to die?”

Norn was barely able to restrain herself from punching Potomac’s head off her neck.

This spacey idiot– she knew that nothing made Norn angrier than being lied to–!

“Goryk’s Abyss! She just wants us to go to Goryk’s Abyss! That’s it!”  

“You’d better have my fucking Magellan set up before we get there, then.”

Norn shoved Potomac, not too hard, but it was surprising enough of an attack to push her down.

From the floor, the Immortal of the Sunlight Foundation gazed up at her with a petulant anger.

Even this minor physical humiliation was more than she had suffered in likely decades.

“You’re– You’re a monster, Astra!” She cried. “What happened to you? You used to be so–“

In the next instant, Norn was looming over Potomac on the floor with burning red eyes.

Something long held taut inside her finally and suddenly snapped.

Words she had held in her throat for decades.

You pieces of shit happened to me. Yangtze; Euphrates; Tigris; Nile; Hudson; Ganges. You.”

Her eyes were not just red-ringed from the psionic power raging inside her, not just red because they had been engineered that way to command respect and strike fear; she was seeing red, blinded with an incredible fury. She raised her hand to Potomac’s face, and in the air around it, a series of razor-sharp knives began to materialize as if out of thin air, each the crystalline white of packed ice. Potomac’s eyes drew wide with sheer terror, and Norn was one provocation from gutting her–

She hissed in Potomac’s face, tensed like a harpoon in its launcher–

“Monster? How fucking dare you? After all that you people did to me–“

“Master! Don’t! Please calm down!”

From behind her, Gertrude Lichtenberg appeared and laid gentle hands on her shoulders.

Norn turned her baleful red eyes on the tall, swarthy woman in her ornate uniform.

She had such a gentle expression at that point, as if she feared for Norn more than Potomac.

It was such a contrast with that evil title of Inquisitor that Norn helped her attain–

–which had come to define Gertrude in perhaps the same way that Yangtze had defined Astra.

And it made Norn’s righteous anger begin to turn alchemy-like into a seething guilt.

She couldn’t explain it– but Gertrude really was the last thing she wanted to see in that state.

Sighing deeply, Norn withdrew her arm. Her knives turned uselessly to vapor.

Brushing Gertrude’s hand aside, she stood up and marched out by herself.

“Gertrude, just– just see to the cargo for me.” Norn said, walking away, meeting no one’s eyes.

Taken by an anger that was ebbing but still hurt.

No one called after her, no one inquired. Sometimes, Norn was just angry. They understood it.

For now, Norn would play Yangtze’s game. She would go to Goryk’s Abyss for that bitch.

She had a resolution in her fractured heart, however.

Whatever she found there that Yangtze wanted, she would break it into a million pieces.

If the Sunlight Foundation wanted to retaliate like they retaliated against Mehmed–

Then they knew where to find her. And she knew very well where to find them too.


Previous ~ Next

Bury Your Love At Goryk’s Gorge [8.3]

[This chapter contains a discussion of suicidal thoughts.]

There was an air of tension and wicked possibility as the gathering convened.

The Brigand’s main meeting room was once again playing host to Maryam Karahailos and Marina McKennedy on one end of the planning table and captain Ulyana Korabiskaya, and her commissar and adjutant Aaliyah Bashara on the other end. Maryam was her usual bubbly self while Marina had the same friendless look she always wore, despite having just walked out of the medbay without authorization.

Because it was convenient, Ulyana overlooked her transgression completely.

“You will get lectured by Doctor Kappel. But I’m glad you could make it, it’s a welcome surprise. You’re the woman of the hour after all, Ms. McKennedy.” Ulyana said, crossing her arms.

“Despite myself, I always seem to end up in the spotlight.” Marina grumbled.

She was taking a sarcastic tone of voice, but the matter at hand was one of life and death.

Two or three days ago, depending on one’s metric for a “day” underwater, the Brigand had encountered the enormous Inquisitorial dreadnought dubbed “the Iron Lady” alongside a fleet that was likely drawn from local policing patrols at the last minute. As a clandestine ship, it was impossible to turn the Brigand in to the Iron Lady for inspection. While on the outside the Brigand looked like a civilian vessel, as long as its weapons were retracted and soundproof sealed, this secrecy depended on the hangar and the massive amounts of military equipment within it not being exposed to the wrong eyes.

As part of their plot to escape, Ulyana personally spoke with the commander of the Iron Lady, Gertrude Lichtenberg. She had been hoping to stall and distract Lichtenberg, whom Murati surmised was going to have a hard time controlling her slapdash fleet when her personal attention was drawn away from it.

She had been correct. Gertrude was barely able to keep her fleet in line, and the tighter cohesion of the Brigand’s two-man squads picked them apart. The confrontation allowed Ulyana to gather information. How did Gertrude find them? What was it that Gertrude wanted from them? They were both obviously cagey with each other in that situation, and Ulyana perhaps had a little too much fun with the younger woman, but she gleaned some valuable insight nevertheless. Gertrude wanted a VIP aboard the Brigand. This VIP was important enough Gertrude could not risk directly attacking the Brigand with her cannons.

And there were perhaps personal stakes for Gertrude Lichtenberg, who seemed too invested in the capture of this VIP, for an Imperial Inquisitor in the far reaches of the Empire. This may have accounted for the coincidence of the Iron Lady mooring next to them at Serrano. At the time there was nothing they could do about it and Ulyana did not see it as necessarily a risk. Ships of all kinds moored next to each other. On the docks, crews were too busy with their own ship to start inspecting those of others.

However, now she felt that Gertrude may have been tracking her VIP.

Perhaps Gertrude suspected something and confirmed it with new information at Serrano.

Ulyana suspected that Marina McKennedy was the VIP.

As a G.I.A. agent on the run, this made the most sense. She owned up to her cell being compromised, and to needing a snap escort to the Union to avoid capture. Perhaps she had lied to Murati about the proximity of her tail and the degree to which she was compromised, hoping for a quick out. All of these suspicions made sense in Ulyana’s head, but there was only one person who could confirm them. Whether she told the truth to them or whether she lied, Ulyana had to see Marina’s reaction to be absolutely sure. She decided that whenever she next met Marina, she’d press her for information.

While she had not expected to do this today, it would have had to happen at some point.

Maryam being in attendance wouldn’t really change anything. This had to be done.

At Ulyana’s side, the Commissar Aaliyah Bashara sat with her arms crossed and a serious expression on her face, her tail on end and unmoving. Ulyana had told her all of her suspicions and what she hoped to do with this meeting. Aaliyah would assist in the interrogation. Shimii had sharp eyes and this particular Shimii had a decent sense of people — except perhaps when she got drunk enough.

“You were knocked out for a while, Marina. What exactly happened to you?”

Ulyana started with a personal question to ease into things. She was curious however.

“We’re doing this now?”

“We’re doing this now.” Aaliyah replied, sternly. She was backing up Ulyana.

“Fine. I was in the hall with Elen when the ship was hit by the dreadnought guns. I’m pretty sure I lost my balance and next thing I knew, I woke up in the medbay.” Marina said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really remember it very well. Elen was completely freaking out. It was a nightmare of a day.”

“Officers Van Der Smidse and Zhu reported a physical altercation between you two.”

Marina scoffed. “Don’t you employ corporal punishment sometime, Captain?”

“It’s not my first choice to discipline a mentally unstable subordinate.” Ulyana shot back.

Her heart felt a brief swelling of anger toward Marina she had to get under control.

“I was grabbing Elen; I wasn’t in the best place mentally myself. But I didn’t strike her.”

Marina continued to respond coolly. She always acted like she was being interrogated.

Was this how all G.I.A. agents were trained to behave?

Given her conduct, Ulyana didn’t really care to conceal that this was an actual interrogation.

“What does Gertrude Lichtenberg, commander of the Iron Lady, want with you?”

The G.I.A. agent shot a bitter look at Ulyana. She crossed her arms and lowered her head.

She sighed deeply. “Look, I know what it looks like, but I swear I wasn’t being tailed.”

Aaliyah spoke up to support Ulyana again. A note of disdain crept into otherwise polite speech.

“Directly after we rescued you, the Iron Lady took an interest in us. Whether or not you were aware of the possibility hardly matters. You yourself admitted your cell was defeated by the Empire. How can you have been completely sure you would not be tracked or traced in a major city?” She said.

“You presume far too much, Commissar. We are experienced professionals. We can be chased, but what matters is that we know how to escape from the pursuers. And all of us escaped. When the Empire threw down our doors they found nothing of us left behind there. My colleagues have all probably escaped to the Union or the Republic-occupied zone in Katarre. I was the only one unlucky to end up saved by the Union’s special toy. None of us were being followed.” Marina sharply replied.

“Without evidence of this, it will remain an open question.” Aaliyah said.

“I agree. It is useless to argue; but you need to tell us everything, Marina.” Ulyana said.

“It’s not like I’m deliberately holding back any information!” Marina said.

“Are you truly not? Again, we can’t be certain.” Ulyana said. “Until we ask you some pointed questions.”

Marina grunted, casting her eyes to the table. “Fine, of course, just say what you want to.”

Ulyana nodded. She sat back and relaxed and began to ask her questions.

“Right now, the fact is that Gertrude Lichtenberg is coming after us and if she survived our attack on the Iron Lady, she and who knows who else will know what they’re up against now. Just pretend that you did get compromised if it helps your pride. What does she want with you? What information do you know? You know who she is right? Why is this apparently personal to her? How long will she pursue?”

“Do you even think she survived? Didn’t you blast her ship to pieces?” Marina interjected.

“Irmingard-class dreadnoughts are extremely durable vessels.” Aaliyah said. “Our realistic goal was never to sink it outright, but to cause enough damage to sever important systems and cripple the ship enough to allow us to escape. Killing that Inquisitor would be better luck than we’ve had.”

Ulyana locked eyes with Marina. “Back to the subject at hand–”

Marina sighed deeply and loudly her exasperation.

“Look, I know a lot about the Fueller family. They must be trying to silence me.” She said.

“So that was the G.I.A’s operation in the Empire? Spying on the imperial royal family?”

“That was a large part of it, yes.”

“That sounds like it carried a lot of risk.” Ulyana said, pressing her for more.

That response seems to have finally crossed the threshold of the G.I.A. agent’s patience.

“No operation is perfect! You’re right, it was risky and I don’t know if I was compromised, I fundamentally can’t know that information! I did my best, but I may have fucked up somewhere. You have no idea what I’ve been through, so maybe you could just accept my apologies and regrets, and we can move on to planning for the situation at hand. Is that ok with you, Captain?” Marina shouted.

And that response crossed the threshold for the Captain.

Who did this woman think she was–?

Ulyana narrowed her eyes into a glare and crossed her arms sullenly. “No it’s not ok with me, G.I.A. I don’t know what you’ve been through because you won’t tell us a god damned thing about it! We were polite enough not to grill you the instant you got on this ship; we thought you would come clean with us. What use is it having you as an equal partner if you’ll just drop a bomb like this on us and then refuse to elaborate? Don’t you think we deserve to know if the Fueller family is hunting you?”

“I can explain everything, but it’s not pertinent!” Marina shouted. “The late Emperor’s bedtime secrets aren’t going to save us, goddamn it! If you can get me out of this alive, I promise you’ll get the full fucking story, okay? You’ll fucking wish you hadn’t heard some of the details.”

Maryam hid her face behind her tentacles in the midst of all the shouting.

Ulyana was about to continue the shouting match when a gentle hand laid on her flank.

Imperceptibly, out of the sight of their guests. It was her Commissar’s touch.

The captain knew then that she was going out of line and tried to reign herself back.

Aaliyah rubbed her hands on her forehead, her cat ears drooping. “I hate to say it, but McKennedy is right that the situation fundamentally doesn’t change if she gives up her salacious secrets to us. We don’t really have a way to use that information, so it would only affect our peace of mind. At least now we have some idea of why Gertrude Lichtenberg is after us. We should plan our escape and repairs.”

“When you put it that way, fine.” Ulyana said. “Any ideas on the current predicament, G.I.A?”

“Fleet combat isn’t my strong suit, so no, I don’t really have any brilliant ideas for escaping this situation. You guys did pretty well for yourselves already though, so, I dunno. Why not just attack that flagship and sink it? You’ve got to have the resources on hand to do it.” Marina said.

“The Brigand’s armaments are just not strong enough for us to trade shots dead-on with an Irmingard class dreadnought. We’ll be on the losing end of whatever happens. You’ve seen this already.” Ulyana paused, frustrated at her own helplessness. “We planned a huge production and we ended up with several people in the medbay, a lot of damage, and only a temporary reprieve.”

Marina turned her cheek. Ulyana felt her own cheek twitch. What a bratty reaction!

“How was this mission greenlit if you were going to run into this problem?” She said.

“It’s also your fault that we’re having to fight a flagship, you know.” Aaliyah grumbled.

“It was never part of the mission profile.” Ulyana added. “We’re supposed to be guerillas.”

“Then fight like guerillas do!” Marina said. “Find a hiding spot to attack from and wear it down!”

“That’s easier said than done!” Ulyana said. “Where are we going to hide, McKennedy?”

“I can’t just improvise a whole hideout for you! I’m an intelligence agent, not a magician!”

“If your intelligence is so useless then maybe we should just turn you over to–”

Both of them started shouting again. Aaliyah seemed helpless to calm them down this time.

“Please stop fighting! I have an idea!” Maryam shouted over all of them.

Ulyana and Marina both turned to face her at the same time.

Her tentacles were raised as if they were her shaking arms surrendering to a gun barrel.

Across her body her chromatophores were flashing to white and back to their original color.

Silence fell over the gathering. Ulyana felt momentarily very stupid.

She was stressed out, everything felt like it was going to shit, and she was helpless.

Beating up Marina would not change that. She needed to get a grip on herself.

Maryam spoke up again with a whimpering little voice. “Let’s all calm down, please.”

Marina and Ulyana turned to each other.

“I apologize.” Ulyana said. At first she didn’t care whether Marina accepted or not–

“Fuck, I was out of line too.” Marina admitted fault, much to Ulyana’s surprise. She looked conflicted, arms crossed and eyes practically staring down at her feet. Like a student in a classroom who had been shouted down — Ulyana didn’t exactly feel good about that. “I’m sorry, Captain, Commissar. In this situation I wouldn’t blame you if you did turn me in. But it probably wouldn’t help you much.”

“Under no circumstances am I going to do that.” Ulyana said. “I just lost my temper.”

“Let’s just put it behind us now. So, partners, I vote we listen to the Katarran’s idea.”

Marina pointed at Maryam with a thumb, forcing a smile as if to dispel the tension.

Maryam puffed her cheeks up. “I’ve got a name! I’m not just the katarran, you know!”

“Glad to see we’re all getting along.” Aaliyah sighed deeply, her cat-like tail stabbing at the air.

Ulyana felt ashamed of herself. Her conduct had been ridiculous. She let the stress speak.

At the moment, however, there was truly nothing to do but move on with it.

“Maryam, we’re certainly open to hearing your ideas. First though, I would like to know some background on you too. Our goal is to foment unrest in the Empire. Our agents marked you as a VIP we had to rescue. I assume you must have information that can help our mission.” Ulyana said.

Maryam looked quite nervous, but Ulyana chalked it up to her personality.

She seemed like someone who was very soft and scared. A total noncombatant.

“Background, huh. Umm. I was made in Katarre as a navigational aide for Athena Kyriaki. Around the time I became an instar, Athena attempted to raid Imperial territory in Skarsgaard, and it went– bad.” She shuddered a bit, and every other word came out with a stammer. “Our fleet was wrecked, I got captured, and any Katarrans that the Imbrians thought were female larva got sent the Solcean church in Skarsgaard, while everyone else got scattered. So I was part of the church for years, but eventually, I escaped. While on the run, I ended up working for a really shady group. I had to get really crafty to survive. I picked up a lot of information and skills. Some of it might be totally useless, like the going-abouts of imperial bureaucrats but, I learned a lot about places and installations! I wanted to go to the Union because I heard Katarrans can be free there, so I traveled to Buren, the Palatinate, down to Rhinea, and finally Sverland. I talked with the smugglers in Serrano, and they set me up with a Union agent. And that’s how I got to meet all of you. After talking with the agent, he said I’d be a very important VIP.”

Ulyana scrutinized the details of the story while it was told. She chalked up the nervousness to the kind of person Maryam was. She seemed like a very sweet girl who had been through a lot, and Ulyana felt a certain predilection to believing in her. When Ulyana herself was young she was forced to be “crafty” to survive enslavement in the colonies, so she understood Maryam’s telling of the story. There were details to surviving in harsh situations that were best left abbreviated and did not need retelling.

Ulyana wouldn’t push her to qualify every tiny blank that she had left.

Her route to Sverland had been incredibly long though. If the Union was her goal, she could have gone south through Veka and crossed through Nama Flow. Nama Flow was a landmass wall that divided the Union from Veka north-east to east. It was created by landmass collapses and rearrangements that seemed to have happened in the late Surface Era, whether directly by human action or as a result of the Surface’s catastrophes. The Union controlled both sides of Nama Flow.

It wasn’t easy making it to the Union from anywhere, so why choose the longest route?

“That’s a crazy route you took to get here.” Ulyana said. “How did that happen?

“I didn’t have a lot of choices. I was supposed to be on a mission for my bosses.”

Maryam smiled nervously and raised a hand behind her head, patting down her own hair.

“Can you tell us more about this ‘shady’ group of yours?” Ulyana said.

“They’re called–” She stammered again for a moment. “They’re called the Foundation.”

“Doesn’t really sound like a revolutionary organization.” Aaliyah said.

“They kept things pretty discrete.” Maryam said. She started getting the confidence to speak a bit candidly for a moment. “They’re not really ideological; they were out for themselves mainly and that’s what I didn’t like there. You can think of them kind of like a mafia I guess.”

“Organized crime, huh? I have to say, that’s not really what we wanted to hear.” Ulyana said, slightly disappointed with the story. However, it did make sense. Ulyana had learned that most immigrant Katarrans were ultimately forced to turn to crime in order to survive the rampant discrimination in the Empire. It must have been quite convenient for wealthy, corrupt Imperials to have a ready source of desperate clandestine labor at their bidding. Poor Maryam wouldn’t have had the choice to become some fabled socialist revolutionary in the realities of the Imbrian Empire.

Maryam’s colors shook briefly again. But she seemed to gather her courage after that.

“I wasn’t a big freedom fighter or anything, but I was made with a really good brain and memory, so I know tons of information that can help!” She put on a proud little smile. “In fact, I know a place we can go. It shouldn’t be too far, judging by the map I saw on the morning update!”

At Maryam’s prompting, Aaliyah turned on the display on the table and loaded that same map from Semyonova’s Morning Update to the crew. It was a zoomed in topographical cutout of Northern Sverland, generated by the navigational computer from its preloaded atlas. Stopping short of the Khaybar range that separated most of Sverland from Bosporus to the North, and the open border to Rhinea and the Yucatan gulf in the northwest and center-west of the region respectively.

The Brigand’s current position on the map was updated by the navigation computer.

“Here!”

Maryam pointed to the north, closer to Khaybar, running her finger along a specific area.

“See this dip here? That place is actually a big, long hole the locals called Goryk’s Gorge. There used to be a small outpost there, but I heard it’s been declining. I think it’s because travel through Khaybar dried up the past few years. It should have enough space though! We can dock the ship there for your repairs! There might not be many functioning amenities, but it’s a place that we can hide in that not a lot of people know. To be found there, the imperials would have to be searching the whole grid.”

Ulyana followed Maryam’s finger across the map. This Goryk’s Gorge wasn’t too far off.

However, the fact that Maryam was trying to correct their map bothered her.

Any standing station should have been listed already. So why was that location empty?

Who was it that set up this so-called ‘outpost’? What was it really for?

Aaliyah seemed to be on a similar wavelength to Ulyana and voiced her own doubts.

“Would this ‘outpost’ happen to have been set up by Katarran mercenaries?” She said.

Maryam rubbed her head nervously. “Historically. But they’ve probably moved on!”

There was another brief but awkward silence as Ulyana and Aaliyah stared at Maryam.

“I’ll take my chances with Katarran mercs over Lichtenberg any day.” Marina interjected.

“And it’s relatively closer than Rhinea. I suppose it’s worth taking a look.” Ulyana said.

She was not too impressed with Maryam’s information quite yet.

And she felt she should have learned to temper her hopes about these things much sooner.

Regardless, at least they had a direction to go in. She didn’t think Maryam was lying. However, more and more, it felt like this entire excursion to Serrano had been a big mistake. What were the Union’s foreign agents doing and thinking? What did they actually see in Maryam? She was a sweet girl who had been through a lot, but she did not seem like a VIP asset worthy of this painful detour.

Ulyana tried to clear her head and push it out of her mind. Like Aaliyah had said before, it was pointless to hang onto topics like this. They could not simply dream up alternatives to reality.

“Alright, we’ve decided, we’ll set a course for Goryk’s Gorge. Marina and Maryam, you’ll be given formal security clearances as advisors. You’re welcome on the bridge any day.” She said.

Marina quietly nodded her head and Maryam beamed with delight, raising her arms.

And so the Brigand would change direction and head north to its next destination. Goryk’s Gorge, and the mysterious station supposedly at its edge. Ulyana could only pray that she was making the right choices in this awful situation. They adjourned the meeting, the future still unsure.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder as she prepared to leave the room.

Aaliyah behind her again, smiling. “Let’s talk later, just us, Captain.”

Ulyana smiled back. “Of course.”

It was a labored smile but reminding herself Aaliyah was there did wonders for her morale.


It’s her!

You’re here Braya!

Her human body was seated next to Karuniya Maharapratham in the science officer’s lab, but the signals that Braya Zachikova’s brain felt as tactile sensations and visual input were now being drawn from a drone strung on a kilometer of fiber-optic wire in the open waters. She was cold, and she felt the effort of the hydrojets behind her and the sense of her body’s increased weight and stiffness. Her drone body collected data on its status, and this feedback was given directly to Zachikova’s brain.

It was a second body, a main body while the flesh and blood stayed behind.

This curved, finned metal body two and a half meters long and two meters tall deployed from the utility tube into the murky ocean, searching, following all biological noises as Fatima picked them up and discarded them as irrelevant from the Bridge’s computer. With access to this data and everything else that the ship supercomputer was processing, Zachikova was finally able to track her beautiful dancer through the gloom of the deep ocean, following featureless rock and swimming past ghostly white plants and corals and crawling rockfish and crabs, geysers of methane that drew up slight purple sparks when their bubbling hot discharge came into contact with the agarthic salts in the water.

Marine snow fell over her in great waves — this was the thick biomass suspended in the water around them, eternally raining from the rich, living environment above. Peering through the fog of decaying matter and the minuscule beings that thrived in it, Zachikova felt her human heart shudder with surprise and warm with delight. Those beautiful fins, that graceful body, the color that shone brightly under the lights cast out by the drone, even amid the dark blue-green filter of the ocean.

She almost believed that the creature had spoken to her.

A sense of innocent wonderment and joy overcame Zachikova.

There was such relief in her heart. Her dancer hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t come to harm, and she could do her part now to protect her for good. She steadied the cameras and extended the arms so that Karuniya could capture footage of the animal playing harmlessly with the drone, its slender body bereft of any implements of destruction like biocannons, tail spikes or vibrating power-jaws. She lead a life free of worry or burden, unseen in the deeps. Zachikova felt blessed to see her.

“This is Science Officer Karuniya Maharapratham, we spotted this creature on–”

Karuniya had begun to record her audio to play over the evidence footage.

The Dancer would go on the Brigand’s record as a subject of study.

Zachikova could hear the voice, distant and muffled, through the antennae on her human body rather than the drone’s sensors. This mix of the two sometimes shook her out of controlling computerized devices, but in this case, she was so transfixed on the ravishing figure circling around the drone, that there was no way her sight would shift back to her human body. Zachikova wanted to touch her.

She laid the arms of the drone “palm”-up hoping for a touch as the dancer arced gracefully around her. When the sensation of those soft, silky fins played over her arms, her soul fluttered.

Emotion swelled in Zachikova’s breast.

Around the Dancer the Ocean became full of colors.

Bright placid blues trailed from her fins and tail and around her body that spread like a splash of paint wherever she swam, surrounding Zachikova and the cameras which could only see that majestic blue, the color that should have been the sky, she thought. Her eyes were filled the light, and she felt like she could feel colors around her own body, green and purple and blue; and around Karuniya, green and blue with a band of black around the edges; and the Brigand itself was dyed in massive colors of all kinds. Every living thing, painting a glowing tapestry in the water, Zachikova felt like she could see it all.

As the Dancer wove a circle of colors in front of her, Zachikova saw beyond the water.

“We’re going to get out of here.”

Through the clearing mist of the colors and the murk of the marine snow Zachikova saw–

Metal walls, darkness, bars, the blue glint of LEDs and a single tiny window.

Through that window, an impossible, clouded sky with purple flashes of lightning.

Within the gloom, despair-maddened eyes drawing wide illuminated with each flash.

Laughter erupted from a slim girl with copious long red hair–

–scratching at the side of her head, where a horn-like protrusion parted her skin.

“I can talk– talk to them–” She laughed and struggled to speak. “I talk to the monsters.”

Her free hand scratched on the steel floor a series of lines from bloody disfigured fingers.

“I’ll save them– You’ll be one, and I’ll be two– Then we’ll kill them all–”

Zachikova could barely make out the scene through the intrusion of the colors.

At the side of the girl that was talking, sat another girl, with bright lilac eyes, staring–

As if at her.

Inquisitive, aren’t you?

That red-lined gaze pushed Zachikova’s soul as if across the very horizon.

She felt a power squeeze her and hurl her, throw her away–

“–And that’s why I will be inducting this Leviathan as USL-0099 in our database. Positive interactions with Leviathans are few and far between and for the future we are fighting towards, we should foster an environment of understanding and progress in not only political but scientific development. Scientists work in the military to be able to explore the mysteries of the sea. It would be remiss of me, in my capacity as an advisor, to turn a blind eye to this creature and allow its needless destruction. As a subject of study, this Leviathan cannot be fired upon without my express permission.”

Karuniya Maharapratham’s voice–

Zachikova shook her head. Her human head. A breath crossed through her human throat. From the lab’s drone control terminal, she manually switched the cameras around, moving them like machines and not her own body. The Dancer was still there, but distant, coy, starting to wander away from the drone. Zachikova had the panicked thought that she had done something wrong.

“But I didn’t– I didn’t do anything–“

Her head was foggy, and she felt images slipping away from her like a dream fading from the wakeful mind. She had seen a girl, for some reason, and she knew she had seen some kind of strange color phenomenon in the water. It could’ve been signals issues, some kind of cybernetic synesthesia, she already experienced all sorts of odd things when she interfaced with machines.

Those situations never felt quite like this. Zachikova’s heart was shaken.

She was losing her cool. Emotion had never overcome her like this.

Zachikova thought she might cry, and she hardly knew what she was crying about!

Swept up in that current of colors swirling around the Dancer–

It was the most beautiful thing she had seen underwater, but her mind was–

–Mourning the image of it.

Trying to grasp hold as if a dying gasp–

“Zachikova, are you okay? Did you disconnect from the drone?”

In front of her, Karuniya Maharapratham seemed to fully reappear as if stepping in through a cloud of mist. Her soft brown skin, long dark hair, white coat. Her gentle eyes. And the stark metallic lab walls and equipment returning to the background. Zachikova felt more grounded in reality, and reality set in for her anew. She shook her head and turned back to the drone console with haste.

“I’m okay. I lost connection. I’m going to link back.”

“It looks like USL-0099 swam away.” Karuniya said, looking at the monitor.

“I want to follow it.” Zachikova said suddenly. Almost interrupting Karuniya.

“It seems to be roaming around, we’ll probably see it again.” Karuniya said.

“I’m–” Zachikova paused briefly. She hated how desperate she sounded, but she could not deny the fear that had taken hold like ice in her chest. “I’m afraid I might have scared it off. I’d like to make contact again. I won’t be out for long, and I won’t need to take up your time further.”

Karuniya scratched her hair in consternation. “No offense, but I don’t understand–”

At that moment, the sound of running footsteps nearing the door caught their attention.

Through the threshold crossed an agitated Sonya Shalikova, panting heavily.

“Maharapratham!” She shouted. “She’s awake! Murati is awake!”

Whatever Karuniya was going to say to Zachikova would hang in the air for good.

Speechless, on the verge of tears, Karuniya ran past Shalikova, who then ran after.

Zachikova remained, seated on the drone station, alone. Her antennae shifted slightly.

She suddenly and immediately reconnected the drone and began to dissociate her body.

“I have to find her again.”

I have to ask her— this thought reverberated in Zachikova’s mind as it left her human body.

What would she even ask? And how would she ask a question to an animal?

Those small insanities sank to the back of Zachikova’s mind.


“How many fingers are we holding up?”

Officers Zhu and Van Der Smidse both held up two fingers to form peace signs.

They waved these fingers in front of an awkwardly smiling patient in a medbay bed.

“Is this a trick question? Two fingers in two hands, so four fingers.”

Murati Nakara answered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster energy for.

“I guess she’s ok.” Zhu and Van Der Smidse agreed.

For Murati the transition back to consciousness was surreal.

She felt that she had not been in a deep sleep but had been sleeping and waking, finding herself first in her diver, then dragged out, in the medbay, in the ocean itself, in places unfathomable that seemed to skirt just beyond the edge of understanding. Long sandy stretches of surface land, war-torn; a great and awful tree of flesh in the middle of a romantic, gothic town; a sprawling city where people could do anything with their minds but were beset by monsters; nonsense dreams.

She had a headache, and she did not feel rested.

She was famished and had a hard time keeping her eyes wide open in the medbay.

Craning her head, she took note that she was not the only one interned in the medbay.

Sat up on her bed, Sameera seemed to have been recovering well, the mixed Shimii/Loup gently wagging her tail under the sheets, laid on three pillows and smiling placidly. Always chipper, that one. She looked like she had been awake for longer. Rather than a hospital gown, she was dressed in a long casual shirt and from one dangling leg what seemed like soft, baggy pants. However, when she tried to move, she seemed uncoordinated, as if drunk or sleepy, and ended up laying back down.

“Two days or so, if you were wondering.” Sameera said.

“Huh?”

Murati stared at her. Sameera laughed, voice deep and gentle.

“That’s how long you slept, but I think you were coming in and out. I heard you cry once.”

“You heard her cry?” Zhu Lian. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sameera looked untroubled. “It felt like she just needed to work something out.”

“What if she was working out a heart attack?” Van Der Smidse said.

“She sounded much too contemplative for that.”

Van Der Smidse and Zhu glared at her for a moment, until a pair of visitors ran in.

At the door, a pale, indigo-eyed girl escorted a familiar face, one Murati longed to see.

“Karuniya!”

Murati’s exclamation was a little weak, owing to her condition.

Despite this, it reached right to Karuniya’s heart. At the door, she gasped and stood, the rest of the assembled group parting so that she could approach the bed. She held her hands over her mouth, eyes half-shut with copious tears, shoulders shaking. When she finally rushed to the bed she was mindful of Murati’s wounds. Rather than hug Murati, she laid gentle hands on her.

Karuniya leaned in her head, and they touched their faces together. It was the most affectionate form of physical contact Murati could withstand. Feeling the warmth of Karuniya’s cheek and her soft hair falling over her, the scent of the disinfectant clinging to her lab coat mixed with the woody smell of mushroom cultures. Murati almost wished she could return a full embrace.

However, Karuniya obviously saw the condition Murati was in.

Under her hospital gown, Murati had deep bruises in her chest and flank. Though she was on pain medication which helped her breathe normally, she could feel her range of movement limited by the sense of dull stinging that triggered when she tried to shift her weight. She supposed that she had broken ribs. Her arm was also broken and in a cast, slung over her shoulder. She had a bit of foam padding around her neck that suggested it was probably bruised or injured as well.

“Mu– Mu– Mu– rati–!” Karuniya cried out, sobbing, whimpering next to Murati.

“It’s okay Karu. I’m here for you.” Murati said, smiling with genuine elation.

“Don’t try to be fucking cool when you nearly got killed! You reckless idiot!”

Karuniya lifted her hands off Murati’s shoulder and then laid them back down.

Perhaps in lieu of the soft little punches she sometimes threw to tease or scold Murati.

She laid her head over Murati’s shoulder, gently, making sure not to lean too hard.

“I was so worried, Murati. I was so worried. I thought you– I thought you had–”

“It’s ok. It’s ok. I’m ok, Karu.”

“Promise me this is the worst it’s going to be. Promise me it won’t be worse than this.”

“I promise. I really do.”

Murati understood. For it to have been “worse than this” she would’ve had to come back in pieces rather than whole. Or not have come back at all. They already understood how dangerous the mission was and that either of them could die– but even the most educated soldiers had feelings when they actually confronted death. Murati reassured her as best she could. There was no need to realistically contemplate their mortality right then. After all, Murati really wanted to keep that promise.

She would do her utmost not to break such a promise.

And if that promise had any power, then maybe there was a God after all.

Murati would pin her hopes on that.

It was eerie, having come near death. It did not feel like anything.

That absence of some grand experience was perhaps the most disquieting thing of all.

She had simply been beaten senseless, halfway to death in the middle of the ocean.

Halfway, but not fully. So here she was, alive in the arms of her precious wife.

Murati looked past Karuniya. Zhu and Van Der Smidse stood off to the side with faintly flushed cheeks, perhaps a little embarrassed at the display of affection — though with their fingers intertwined between them. Shalikova stood with the tiniest, barest hint of a smile on her lips, arms crossed as if waiting for something, or perhaps satisfied with the result of her handiwork.

“Thank you Shalikova.” Murati said. “You came to visit and then ran to get Karu, right?”

Shalikova looked briefly startled when she was addressed.

She turned her cheek, her brow creasing ever so slightly with indignation.

“Of course I went to get your wife, anyone would’ve done it. It’s really nothing.” Was that the tiniest bit of flushed cheeks on Shalikova too? Maybe Murati was just seeing things this time.

Now that other people had joined the conversation, Karuniya stepped back from Murati.

Van Der Smidse graciously brought her a seat so she could stay at her “husband’s” side.

“Thank you.” Karuniya sat down. She checked the board on Murati’s bed. “Broken ribs, broken arm– well, you’re not going to die, and you might be able to walk with crutches. Sheesh, at least you’re not going to get back in that death machine for a while. For good or ill.” She sighed and turned with an irritated expression at Zhu and Van Der Smidse. “What are you two doing? Go fetch me some broth, bread, and pickles. Murati must be dying of hunger, c’mon. I’ll feed her.”

Now it was Murati’s turn to feel her face red with embarrassment. “I really don’t need–”

“Shut up.”

Karuniya glared at her. Murati laid back and accepted this as the current state of affairs.

“Sure, we’ll leave her in your capable hands then.”

Van Der Smidse and Zhu seemed to sense the dark energy around Karuniya and complied.

After they left to get the food, Shalikova started to bid farewell– but Murati halted her.

“Shalikova, I need to talk to you for a second.”

Shalikova paused and returned to the side of the bed. “What is it?”

“Did we lose anyone?”

Thankfully, Murati did not have to feel the dread of asking that question for long.

“No. We’re all alive.” Shalikova said. Her confidence and quick response were a big relief.

While the time she had spent awake could be counted in minutes only, Murati was already back to thinking about the situation at hand. If she was alive and surrounded by familiar Union faces then they had escaped from the Iron Lady. She was in poor condition, however, so they had something quite important they had to settle so they could operate effectively in the near future.

“I have to talk to Khadija about it too, but– Shalikova, I’m making you squad leader.”

“What?” Shalikova said suddenly, taken aback.

“Oh, good idea.” Karuniya added. “Shali-Shali has fought like an ace every single time.”

“Huh?! Shali-Shali?”

Shalikova stared between Karuniya and Murati with expressions of shock and disgust.

“That’s– But– No way! I’m an Ensign and I’ve only had two real sorties!”

“I’ve only had two real sorties too.” Murati said. “Shalikova, not only do you have excellent piloting skills, but you’ve shown decisiveness and a really fantastic situational awareness. Had you not intervened when you did, I would have almost certainly been killed out there. And you held your own against that mystery pilot and their mystery diver after that. This is not just empty flattery from me.”

Sameera, lying back with her eyes closed, spoke up suddenly from her bed.

“I agree! I think the Ensign would make a very cute squad leader.” She declared.

“Shut up and go back to sleep! Nobody asked you!” Shalikova shouted. She then turned her agitation on Murati. “Pick Khadija! You said you had to talk– why decide now?” She asked. “She’s so much more experienced and skilled than I am! Why would you pick me over her?”

“You look like you don’t even want to hear the reasons she has!” Karuniya said.

Shalikova snapped toward her but seemed unable to raise her voice at Karuniya.

Murati was thankful that she could sense the evil within Karuniya and treat her gently.

“I think Khadija is our strongest pilot, and that’s exactly why she shouldn’t be the leader.” Murati said. “She has exceptional combat skills, but– let’s say skewed judgment. At any rate, a leader doesn’t need to be the strongest. After all, you’re a better pilot than me in raw skill, Shalikova.”

Of all the comments, this one really had poor Shalikova withering under the spotlight. She crossed her arms, tapped her feet, and turned her back, grumbling a little where no one could see.

“I’ll– I’ll think about it. You won’t force me to do this. I really have to consider it!”

Murati nodded her head silently, smiling at her. “Thank you. I really believe in you–”

Shalikova immediately started to walk out of the room unprompted, but she met someone at the door that she nearly bumped into. Pink skin, red and brown hair, a below-average stature.

“Oh, sorry.” Shalikova said.

“It was my fault. Don’t worry.”

The woman at the door acknowledged and walked past.

Long, thin strand-shaped fins bristling among her hair, an unfriendly look on her face, the woman walked to the side of Sameera’s bed, holding a bowl of what looked like a quick porridge made by crumbling bread and pickles in broth. She sat down, grunted, and then started to feed Sameera, who easily accepted the attention as the woman forced a spoonful through her lips. It was her squadmate, Dominika Rybolovskaya. Her presence, the indignation in her every movement, silenced the room.

Murati wondered how long this bleak scene had repeated across the days.

Compared to the evil energy exuding from that woman, Karuniya was a glowing angel.

At least it brought a bit of color to the drab medbay.

“Karu, can I ask for your help later?”

Murati gave a slightly pleading look to her wife, who smiled back.

“Oh jeez, of course.” Karuniya sighed. “Back to work already? You’re hopeless.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

It was such a contrast to Dominika and Sameera that even those two were staring at it.


Another “night” fell on the UNX-001 Brigand, denoted only by the moving of the clock and the moving of people, and by the artificial dimming of lights. During the day, each light fixture had a small ultraviolet system to help the humans within feel at home, as if working under the rays of the sun. At night, those UV systems would be turned off, the ordinary light would dim, snuffing out the underwater “sun”.

With that snuffing out of the sun, there was a commensurate snuffing out of activity.

There were always some workers at night — it was a warship, after all.

But not for the next few days.

“No night shifts for two days and reduced daytime work hours, for all sailors!”

Galina Lebedova, Chief of the Brigand’s sailors, passed down the decree from Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya to all the sailors working in the hangar. Everyone had been working hard for days, and it was clear the laborers really needed a break. Heavy duty work would resume once the Brigand made it to Goryk’s Gorge and could settle down for the final and definitive stretch of repairs.

“Prioritize maintenance, and don’t crowd the canteen and social spaces! And thank the officers!”

As such the hangar space was almost entirely empty that night.

The only sounds were the footwork and grunts of a certain Shimii, Khadija al-Shajara. It was so quiet that when she stopped moving, one could almost hear the drops of sweat striking the hangar floor, and her heart jumping as she stepped forward and back, attacking a shadow opponent. Dressed only in a pair of workout pants and a sleeveless crop top, her blonde hair tied into a ponytail. Her cat-like ears bristled with each burst of physical effort, tail stabbing at the air behind her betraying a sense of anxiety.

She had in each hand a thick, solid, and heavy carbon-fiber truncheon borrowed from the armory. Standing in a corner of the hangar, with the Diver gantries blocking her from the sight of the elevators and lower hall connections, she practiced striking with the truncheons. Solid one-handed blows in quick succession; coordinated attacks with both weapons at once; overhead, from the side, from left and right at once.  She was not treating them as the two clubs she had, but as a pair of swords.

Swords like the saw-bladed, motorized weapons that her Diver could employ.

Her strikes grew more belabored, her breathing tighter, and she could hear herself, louder.

“Fuck!”

Her anger reverberated across the empty hangar.

“It doesn’t matter. My body isn’t what’s on the line out there. It’s all in a fucking Diver.”

She hated how exhausted she felt. She hated the feeling that she was growing old.

Growing old; when there were other kinds of growing she still needed to do.

Her shaking fingers on the truncheons, the cold sweat of her iron grip; the explosive pain from her joints when she paused for even the briefest second, the soreness in her lithe leg muscles with each step. How she felt her shoulder nearly pop on the double overhead strikes. How hard her breathing came to her, almost as soon as she started. Khadija hated it, hated her age, hated her ailing body. She was as fit as she possibly could be, her lean, wiry muscles practiced daily, and still her strikes grew weaker.

“Fuck.”

There was a loud clatter on the hangar floor as she dropped the truncheons.

Slipping out of exhausted hands that couldn’t stop shaking.

Regardless of how sharply focused her mind had been, she could not make her body go further. Forty-two years; how was it possible that she was still alive after all of this? How had she not died back then with the Red Baron? Either in 959 or 979, whichever of the two. She doubled over, breathing ragged, hands on her knees, sweat trickling over her slim nose, her still-soft cheeks.

“Hah, man, this sucks. When did this become so much trouble for me?”

She started to think but– when was even the last time she had to train this hard?

There were always things to do. Patrols, mock battles, simulations, equipment testing, she had even done plenty of Leviathan culling alongside the Hunters. War, however, she had only practiced in a single solitary stretch, the year of absolute hell she experienced from 959 to 960. Twenty years ago, twenty whole years ago. She was treated like a senior NCO back then because she was twenty-two in an army that had a massive swell of teenage privates. What was she supposed to be now?

“Back then–” Khadija paused, still catching her breath. “I didn’t want the kids to fight.”

She still did not. And perhaps, that was the reason that, at forty-two, she was still here.

Forty-two years. No matter how much she exercised, how much makeup she wore, in this situation there was no escaping it, no embellishing. As lithe and athletic as she kept her body, as young and vibrant as she kept her face, deep down beneath skin and muscle, she was forty-two years old.

She was hurting. Even her fluffy tail felt like an old, beaten thing.

Forty-two years.

Again, she laughed, ever more bitterly.

“Someone like me would’ve already been dead if this was a film. For the kid’s stories to advance.”

Maybe she should have been killed. If she could have just taken out the Red Baron back then–

There was a distant series of dull metal steps on the hangar floor.

When Khadija turned her head she saw someone approaching across the barely lit space.

Someone on crutches.

“So this is where you went. You look like you’ve been working really hard.”

Murati Nakara, step by labored step, leaning heavily on her crutches. Smiling.

She had on her uniform, and she looked like every step was pure agony.

“Ya Allah!” Khadija exclaimed, so surprised she was. “What are you doing, you fool?”

She rushed up to a stand and hastened to Murati’s side, trying to save her some walking.

Face to face, Khadija’s sweaty, bereaved expression, barely accented with a light touch of runny makeup, could not have measured to the deathly grimace on Murati’s face, sweating, panting for breath. Khadija looked around, wondering how the hell she made it out of the medbay without anyone stopping her. She helped Murati lean against her, and regardless of what the Lieutenant intended, Khadija had in mind to drag her right back. She started to gently urge her to turn so she could guide her away.

“It’s okay Khadija, Karuniya is in the hall with a wheelchair.” Murati said.

“What? Why didn’t she cart you out here? What is wrong with you two?”

“Because I want to talk to you alone, and she respects me enough for that.”

Murati continued to labor a smile, while Khadija stared at her quizzically.

“Didn’t you just wake up today? What could possibly–?”

“Khadija, I’ll get right to the point, because I’m really exhausted and hurting and honestly, this has been distressing me a lot.” Murati’s eyes looked almost tearful, as she worked her way up to asking and finally interrupted. When Khadija met her eyes she could barely look at the expression. And when she heard the words that her squad leader finally said, her body shook with shock and shame.

“Khadija, were you trying to die out there? Did you intend to martyr yourself?”

It was like her heart was perforated with a cold needle, a sharp pinprick.

When she had fought the Red Baron– She did intend to launch a suicide attack.

How could Murati have known? Did she suspect it when she snatched the bomb away?

In hindsight, it brought her a lot of pain and shame to think about that now.

She had tried to put that experience away.

To train and fight another day and move on.

Now it crashed into her exhausted mind and nearly brought her to the floor.

Especially because of Murati’s reaction. It was so shocking to see her so hurt by it.

Murati continued to look at her, openly weeping. She raised her working arm to wipe tears.

She took Khadija’s shocked silence as a confirmation. And it seemed to distress her further.

“Khadija, please promise me that you won’t consider such a thing again. I admit, I have not been in command of teams in real combat, probably nowhere near as much as you might have had. But I truly made it my duty to insure that everyone came back alive. My plan was never for a suicide mission. It hurts– I can do everything in my power to save my comrades, but if they decide–”

Murati paused as if she could not get herself to say it out loud. She sobbed openly.

Khadija had never seen her like this. She had never imagined her looking so broken up.

“Khadija, I don’t want the story of the ‘Lion of Cascabel’ to end like that. Please.”

“Murati, I–” Khadija hardly knew what to say to that at first.

She could have been offended to be called ‘the Lion of Cascabel’, a name which brought bad memories. She could have tried to explain her reasoning at that time, not that there was any. It had been pure gut, desperation, and a lot of self-loathing that led her to that. She realized what she felt, was that she was touched Murati had such a strong reaction to the idea of her dying like that– to her making a martyr of herself. At that time, Khadija had felt, if she went through with it, no one would mourn it.

Wasn’t she just a soldier? An unmarried childless old woman sharpened to kill?

Wouldn’t the success of the mission give meaning to her death?

For a long time she really thought of herself as someone disposable.

She never realized how that flew in the face of the comrades risking their life alonside her.

How it minimized their collective hope of protecting one another and returning alive.

Khadija wondered– could she really say she wanted to live at all costs? She looked back briefly at the truncheons she had dropped in the hangar. What she had felt back in the water, that desperation and frustration– she was here, fighting to never feel it again. She was challenging herself again, and if she had no intention of living, then she would not have been aching and sweating this much.

She finally knew what to say. “Murati, you’re unbelievable sometimes. I guess I have to become even stronger in the future so you kids will finally stop worrying about me so much.” Khadija made an irritated noise. “Honestly; knock it off, Murati. Go back to the medbay. I have more training to do.”

Murati smiled at her, wiping her tears. Relief seemed to wash over her like a wave.

“Thank you. Whether or not you realize it, Khadija, you’re a real hero.” She said.

Khadija looked away from Murati in a brief fit of shame.

Honestly, what was it with this girl and the earnest compliments?

But she couldn’t hate her for it. She really wanted to believe that she was.

Not just an old failed woman but the hero of a story still to be told.


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